William Krueger - The Devil's bed

Slicing through the sound of the storm outside came the whine of a siren approaching. Someone had called the police.

Otter opened the side door of the church and stared as if Bo were an apparition straight from a nightmare.

“Christ, Spider-Man, you look like shit. You’re soaked to the bone.”

Bo stepped in out of the night and the rain. Barefoot and dripping wet, he stood before his friend.

“What happened to your shoes?”

“I was in a hurry.”

Otter looked past him at the wet, empty street. “Where’s your car?”

“I walked.”

“From your place? Barefoot? In this rain?”

“I need to sit down,” Bo said.

Otter shut and locked the door. “Come on downstairs. We’ll get you into something dry.”

It was a big, stone church, quiet and deserted at that hour. They walked past vacant pews dimly illuminated by a single light above the altar. Otter opened a door to a stairway and they descended to the basement. They crossed through a large gathering room with a kitchen off to one side, then they snaked down a couple of hallways, past the boiler room, and through an open door that let them into Otter’s quarters.

The room, whitewashed cinder block, reminded Bo of a monk’s cell. A narrow bed, a table and two chairs, a chest of drawers straight from the Salvation Army, a small kitchen area with a compact refrigerator, a sink, and a short counter on which sat a microwave and an ancient-looking electric coffee percolator. Through a door at the other end, Bo spied a tiny shower stall and a toilet. Plants hung in every corner, Otter’s own touch that mitigated the austerity of the place. Despite what Bo knew must be a lack of direct sunlight, the plants seemed to be thriving.

“Get out of those wet things,” Otter said. “I’ll be right back.”

He left the room and Bo stripped off the sweats Ishimaru had given him. Otter came back in a few minutes with an armload of folded things that included pants, shirts, socks, tennis shoes, and even a clean pair of boxer shorts.

“You prayed up a miracle?” Bo asked.

“Donations. We’re collecting for a mission in Africa.” He took Bo’s wet clothes and hung them in the bathroom. “You look like you could use a cup of java.” Otter went to the cupboard above the sink and brought out a can of Folgers. He started coffee percolating.

“The police will be looking for me,” Bo said.

“You do something criminal, Spider-Man? Thought you’d outgrown that behavior.”

Over his second cup of coffee that night and dressed in his second ensemble of borrowed clothing, Bo laid out for Otter what had happened.

At the end, Otter shook his head. “And I thought I was the one who saw spooks everywhere.”

“I know it sounds crazy, Otter. I can imagine what the police would say.”

“You got to tell ’em, Spider-Man, no matter how crazy it sounds. You got to let somebody know.”

“Nobody’s going to listen to me. I’d end up in a locked cell, and right now I don’t want to be anyplace NOMan could find me.”

“What do you think they’re up to?”

Despite the coffee, Bo wanted to lie down. He felt weary in every muscle, his feet were bruised, and he knew his thinking was fuzzy and desperate.

“Otter, you mind if I sleep here for a while? Then I’ll figure things out.”

Otter waved toward the only bed.“Mi casaissu casa.”

“I owe you,” Bo said.

“It never worked that way, and it never will. Sleep, Spider-Man. I’ll stand watch.”

Bo laid himself out on the rumpled sheets of Otter’s bed and was asleep almost immediately.

Bo came out of his dreaming as if he’d been yanked. He grabbed the hand that had been laid on his arm.

“Take it easy, Spider-Man. It’s just me.”

Bo stared into Otter’s face.

“You were having a nightmare,” Otter said.

Bo released his grip and relaxed back down onto the mattress.

“You okay?” Otter asked.

“What time is it?”

“Almost four.”

“I didn’t sleep long.”

“Four in the afternoon.”

Bo realized that sunlight lit the opaque basement windows. Otter had put a fan on a chair, and it blew damp, basement-smelling air across the bed. The current also carried the aroma of coffee.

Otter sat down at the table and lit a cigarette. He studied Bo for a minute, then he said, “They’re looking for you. It’s all over the news.”

Bo sat up. “Have they been here?”

“Relax. You’re safe.”

“What are they saying?”

“‘Famous Secret Service agent wanted for questioning in the shooting death of his boss.’ There are reports of a fight yesterday in your field office.”

“Fight? I barely raised my voice.”

“I’m just telling you what they’re saying on the news.”

A knock at the door made them both fall silent. Otter motioned Bo toward the small bathroom. Bo slipped in and closed the door. He listened, but all he could hear was the low murmur of voices.

Otter tapped at the bathroom door. “You can come out now, Spider-Man. The coast is clear.” When Bo stepped out, Otter said, “That was Sandie Herron from the church office. She asked me to help her with a computer problem.”

“Do you know anything about computers?” Bo asked.

“Not much.” Otter smiled shyly. “I think she likes me.”

Bo came back with a grin of his own. “Well, good for you, Otter. Sandie, huh? Nice name.”

After Otter had gone, Bo put some toothpaste from the bathroom cabinet on his finger and did a quick rub of his teeth. He poured himself coffee from the electric percolator, opened one of the windows a crack, and peeked out at the sunlight. The wet smell of the earth near the window was the only evidence of the heavy rain the night before. He couldn’t see much. An old Victorian home across the empty parking lot. Patches of blue sky between big elms. Probably a lot like the small square of the world a prisoner would see from the window of his cell.

Bo turned on Otter’s radio alarm clock and tuned in KSTP, a Twin Cities all-news station. He sipped his coffee and didn’t have to wait long before a report about Ishimaru came on. It didn’t sound good. Nor did it look good, him dropping off the face of the earth while he was being sought “for questioning.”

He wondered if he should try to contact Lorna Channing. The slip of paper with her number on it was in the clothing he’d left at Ishimaru’s place. Any attempt to go through White House communications would end up with Secret Service involved. And maybe NOMan. As well informed as NOMan seemed to be, he couldn’t even be certain that using the code name Peter Parker would be safe.

He had to think, to sort everything out.

Someone had tried to kill him, probably because of his investigation into Robert Lee’s death. He was pretty sure that the someone was NOMan. But what was the broader picture? What specifically had Lee’s probing, and now Bo’s, threatened? Uncovering the connection between NOMan and Senator Dixon was too simple a reason in itself, and too simply explained if brought to light. There was something darker in the works, something that questions, any questions at this point, might jeopardize. But what was that something?

In half an hour, Otter was back. He knocked and announced himself. When he came into the room, he said, “I’ve been thinking, Spider-Man. These NOMan people, they seem to know what you’re up to. That means that they probably know who you’ve talked to, right?” Otter poured himself some coffee. “I’m wondering about Tom Jorgenson. I mean, if he knows things and talked to you, wouldn’t they want to shut him up?” Otter sipped from his cup. “He’s got Secret Service and all, but they don’t know about NOMan.”