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Authors: Laurence MacNaughton
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rationale, aren’t you worried he’ll die, too, if he hangs around you?”
“I’ve warned him. But he doesn’t believe in the curse. Not any more than you do.”
She gave him a sharp look. “Ash, you really think some kind of curse is the only possible explanation?”
“I don’t know. Why don’t we ask my parents?” He regretted saying it the moment it came out of his mouth. Her father had died in that fire, too. It wasn’t just his pain alone. But if he’d hurt her, she didn’t show it.
“Andres set that fire,” she said quietly.
“The same Andres? No. That’s impossible.”
“He was here. That night. Years ago.”
Her words were plain enough, but Ash struggled to sift the meaning out of them. “Wait. Are you honestly trying to tell me that Andres was behind all that, that he set the fire that killed them?”
“No. The bullets killed them. Andres just set the fire to cover his tracks.”
Ash couldn’t find a way to make sense of that. How could Andres have been here, all those years ago? How could Andres have even known about the spider back then?
You are so much like your father , Andres had said. You have no respect for what does not belong to you.
Ash gripped the sides of his head, fingers tangled in his damp hair, trying to put the pieces together. If Cleo was right, then Andres was there looking for the spider, even back then. Had he homed in on it after Ash had woken it up? Had the preacher, in his attempt to break the curse, somehow made it even more powerful? What kind of spiritual connection did the spider have to those who touched it?
What kind of connection was there between his parents, the spider, and Andres?
“Oh, God,” Cleo breathed, “you didn’t know.” She slid off the couch and came over to sit next to him on the arm of the chair. Tentatively, she put her arms around his shoulders. “I didn’t mean to drop that on you. I thought you knew. There was an investigation.”
Nobody had told him anything. He’d left town the night after the funerals, swearing he’d never come back, thinking he was a curse to everyone around him. “The fire was an accident,” he heard himself saying, distantly. “A freak accident. They said it might’ve been an electrical short.”
“No,” she whispered. “No, Ash. They were murdered.”
“How?”
“I have a copy of the coroner’s report.” After a moment, she added, “The rounds were nine-millimeter subsonic. A silenced pistol.”
Like the one Andres had used to kill his own man. Ash’s eyes stung, and he blinked back tears. In Cleo’s efforts to break his belief in the curse, she’d only convinced him more. He’d found the spider as a kid and woken it up, setting this all in motion. And eventually Andres had come looking for it.
Everyone had died because of Ash.
“I was the only one who saw Andres that night,” Cleo whispered. “I saw him driving through town. I didn’t find out who he was until much later. I can’t prove it was him. But I saw him.”
Ash closed his burning eyes.
“We’ll catch him, Ash, you and me. We will.”
Chapter Ten
Lens
Mauricio had never liked guns. So it felt like a Dante-ish sort of purgatory, having to sit there in DMT’s dingy apartment in the early hours of the morning, choking on cigarette smoke and watching complete idiots play with loaded weapons.
The music thumped so loud between the cracked plaster walls that it felt like a living creature beating on his skull. Crammed into one corner of a smelly blue couch with split seams and a wobbly arm, Mauricio watched DMT’s friends Sweet and Jermain get louder and more stupid with each new six-pack.
Both of them were black, armed, and worked for Prez, just like DMT. The difference was, whatever quality it was in DMT that clicked with Mauricio, these two didn’t have it.
Sweet was the skinny nervous one. His brother Jermain was bigger and louder. The two wore matching shirts and ties. And pistols, giant stainless
“I’ve warned him. But he doesn’t believe in the curse. Not any more than you do.”
She gave him a sharp look. “Ash, you really think some kind of curse is the only possible explanation?”
“I don’t know. Why don’t we ask my parents?” He regretted saying it the moment it came out of his mouth. Her father had died in that fire, too. It wasn’t just his pain alone. But if he’d hurt her, she didn’t show it.
“Andres set that fire,” she said quietly.
“The same Andres? No. That’s impossible.”
“He was here. That night. Years ago.”
Her words were plain enough, but Ash struggled to sift the meaning out of them. “Wait. Are you honestly trying to tell me that Andres was behind all that, that he set the fire that killed them?”
“No. The bullets killed them. Andres just set the fire to cover his tracks.”
Ash couldn’t find a way to make sense of that. How could Andres have been here, all those years ago? How could Andres have even known about the spider back then?
You are so much like your father , Andres had said. You have no respect for what does not belong to you.
Ash gripped the sides of his head, fingers tangled in his damp hair, trying to put the pieces together. If Cleo was right, then Andres was there looking for the spider, even back then. Had he homed in on it after Ash had woken it up? Had the preacher, in his attempt to break the curse, somehow made it even more powerful? What kind of spiritual connection did the spider have to those who touched it?
What kind of connection was there between his parents, the spider, and Andres?
“Oh, God,” Cleo breathed, “you didn’t know.” She slid off the couch and came over to sit next to him on the arm of the chair. Tentatively, she put her arms around his shoulders. “I didn’t mean to drop that on you. I thought you knew. There was an investigation.”
Nobody had told him anything. He’d left town the night after the funerals, swearing he’d never come back, thinking he was a curse to everyone around him. “The fire was an accident,” he heard himself saying, distantly. “A freak accident. They said it might’ve been an electrical short.”
“No,” she whispered. “No, Ash. They were murdered.”
“How?”
“I have a copy of the coroner’s report.” After a moment, she added, “The rounds were nine-millimeter subsonic. A silenced pistol.”
Like the one Andres had used to kill his own man. Ash’s eyes stung, and he blinked back tears. In Cleo’s efforts to break his belief in the curse, she’d only convinced him more. He’d found the spider as a kid and woken it up, setting this all in motion. And eventually Andres had come looking for it.
Everyone had died because of Ash.
“I was the only one who saw Andres that night,” Cleo whispered. “I saw him driving through town. I didn’t find out who he was until much later. I can’t prove it was him. But I saw him.”
Ash closed his burning eyes.
“We’ll catch him, Ash, you and me. We will.”
Chapter Ten
Lens
Mauricio had never liked guns. So it felt like a Dante-ish sort of purgatory, having to sit there in DMT’s dingy apartment in the early hours of the morning, choking on cigarette smoke and watching complete idiots play with loaded weapons.
The music thumped so loud between the cracked plaster walls that it felt like a living creature beating on his skull. Crammed into one corner of a smelly blue couch with split seams and a wobbly arm, Mauricio watched DMT’s friends Sweet and Jermain get louder and more stupid with each new six-pack.
Both of them were black, armed, and worked for Prez, just like DMT. The difference was, whatever quality it was in DMT that clicked with Mauricio, these two didn’t have it.
Sweet was the skinny nervous one. His brother Jermain was bigger and louder. The two wore matching shirts and ties. And pistols, giant stainless
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