Lisa Gardner - Say Goodbye

Sal turned to her now. “Did Delilah give you something good? Mention any of these names? Because depending on what she said, maybe we could make it a multijurisdictional task force. My supervisor might finally green-light me if the case came from the feds.”

“Sorry, neither of us is that lucky. Story I got from Delilah Rose reads more like a Mad Lib than a three-oh-two. She was vague on all relevant details, including her own name.”

“Gosh darn, she’s not really Delilah? Didn’t Sandy Springs at least run her prints?”

“Oh, I’m sure they’ll call me with the results. Maybe in five to six weeks.”

“So what’d she say? You were there an hour. I gotta assume you discussed more than just the weather.”

Kimberly considered the GBI special agent again, hand in her pocket now, feeling the weight of Ginny Jones’s ring. Information was a game. With informants. With fellow law enforcement officers. Even with husbands and wives. For all his talk of cooperation, Sal clearly felt he owned this case. And if Delilah had opened up to him earlier this evening, like hell Kimberly would’ve been called.

“Delilah didn’t mention any of the names from your photo IDs,” Kimberly told him honestly. “She didn’t mention a pattern of multiple girls disappearing, or anything like that. She does, however, fall into your first category of one working girl looking for a friend. Virginia ‘Ginny’ Jones. Went missing about three months ago. Name ring any bells?”

Sal shook his head, taking out a piece of paper, jotting the name down. “No, hasn’t come up yet. But I’ve found three more names of missing girls that don’t match the known driver’s licenses. Can’t decide what that means yet. Maybe these girls simply left town, or maybe the wife hasn’t cleaned out the T-shirt drawer, you know.”

“How long have you been working this, Sal?”

“Year,” he said absently. “More since getting the second envelope.”

“Your supe must love that.”

“Hey, guy’s gotta have a hobby.”

“Tracking missing hookers?”

“Tracking missing girls,” he said sharply. “Sisters, daughters, mothers. You know what it’s like for their families to go to bed every night not knowing if their loved one is alive or dead. Everyone, anyone, deserves better than that.”

Kimberly didn’t have anything to add to that, which was just as well, since she’d noticed the time. She swung open the door, hand still clutching the ring. “Gotta go!”

“Hey, where was this Virginia last seen?”

“Club scene, Sandy Springs.”

“Name of the club? Description of Ginny?”

“Told you Delilah was vague.”

“You gonna call Delilah?”

“In theory, she’ll call me. Thanks for the pudding, Sal. Bye.”

HENRIETTA WAS NOT DOING WELL. SHE HAD BEEN ON her back for nearly three days, but wasn’t showing any sign of progress. He was careful not to touch her, understanding that even the most delicate examination could lead to disaster at a time like this.

She was old, nearly fifteen, which of course exacerbated the situation. At the first signs of pre-molt, he’d taken preemptive action, moving her to the ICU, where she could rest in dark, humid conditions. Using a small artist’s brush, he’d even dabbed her legs with glycerin, paying special attention to the femur-patellar and the patella-tibial joints. In theory, the glycerin would help soften the rings of the exoskeleton, making it easier for Henrietta to pull free.

Unfortunately, it didn’t do the trick. Now he stood in front of her, contemplating more drastic action. Perhaps it was time to sacrifice a leg.

Molting was an extremely dangerous time for a tarantula. Once a year, in order for the tarantula to grow, the old exoskeleton had to be shed, the tarantula climbing free from its outgrown exuvium with a fresh, larger suit of armor ready to go. For most of the year, in fact, the tarantula was in a state of inter-molt, slowly growing a new exoskeleton beneath the old. At around the twelve-month mark, in preparation for the transition, the spider entered pre-molt, excreting exuvium fluid between the old and new exoskeletons. This digestive juice began dissolving one layer of the old exoskeleton, the endocuticle, while bristles grown on the new exoskeleton started pushing the old covering away.

The bald patch on the tarantula changed from tan to black, signaling the pre-molt state. Shortly thereafter, the tarantula would roll over on her back to begin the molting process. And anywhere from twenty minutes to two or three days later, the molting process would be complete.

Unless the spider died.

Already he could see signs of distress. In Henrietta’s age-weakened condition, she hadn’t the strength to pull her legs free. As hours passed, her new exoskeleton started hardening inside her old exuvium, making it impossible for her to pull free from her shedding skin.

He either did something soon, or she would die trapped inside a prison of her own making.

He could amputate a leg or two. Quick tug and twist of the femur, and that would be that. It didn’t sound pleasant, but a spider could lose a leg with relatively little harm.

Or, he could operate.

He’d never done it before, just read about it in various collectors’ chat rooms. Little was understood about medical care for tarantulas. After all, dead spiders were rarely autopsied or studied for cause of death. A true enthusiast buried or mounted his or her pet. The vast majority of collectors, however, tossed the carcass away.

Some basics had been established over the years. For the ICU, he used a plastic yogurt container he’d thoroughly cleaned with a bleach solution, then lined with a paper towel he had sterilized in the oven, then soaked in cooled boiled water. He let both container and wet paper towel achieve room temperature before placing Henrietta on the paper towel and sealing the ICU with the original yogurt lid, now punched with three airholes.

He hated the plastic containers, preferring to watch his pets, but tarantulas-like most spiders-were shy by nature. They preferred the dark, particularly when in distress.

Even now, he worked upstairs in the gloomy master bath, room-darkening shades pulled, the air musty with the scent of fresh earth and faint decay. A nightlight offered a subdued glow, just enough for him to see Henrietta, without further traumatizing her system.

She wasn’t moving anymore. Not even trying to pull her legs free. Dead?

He didn’t think so. Not yet. But it was coming and the thought of losing her was nearly unbearable. She was his very first pet and while he had collected many more specimens in the years since-rarer spiders, more exotic colors-she would always be special. After all, once, a long time ago, she had set him free.

No doubt about it, he would operate.

He started by gathering supplies. A stiff piece of cardboard to serve as the operating table. Tweezers, magnifying glass, eyedropper, Q-tip. He returned downstairs to boil the tweezers and soak another piece of sterilized paper towel.

Boy was on the couch. He didn’t make eye contact when the man appeared, but kept his eyes resolutely fixed on the TV. Smart boy.

While the tweezers cooled, the man set another damp paper towel on top of the back panel of a Cheerios box. Next, he dissolved two drops of Ivory dish soap in one cup of boiled water, cooled to room temperature.

He headed back upstairs, once more passing by the living room. This time, at the sound of his approaching footsteps, the boy flinched.

The man smiled.