The Black Widow (7 page)

“Come on, I know you’re hungry.”

He is. But that’s the least of his worries. Sometimes he does manage to choke down what she brings him, but only when he’s utterly weak with hunger or so overcome by thirst that he’s willing to take a chance.

So far she hasn’t poisoned him.

Not since that first night, anyway.

He should have been suspicious when she handed him that Maker’s Mark.

Why, oh why, wasn’t he suspicious?

It was because he was so damned appreciative at how the tables had turned, that’s why. For a change a woman was buying him a drink! He stupidly guzzled it down without hesitation.

He felt woozy before he’d finished it, but what did he know about good whiskey? He figured it was just the normal effect.

A few more sips, and he decided he’d better stick with the cheap stuff from now on.

That’s the last coherent thought he remembers having, along with a vague recollection of stepping outside with her to get some air.

When he came to, it was hours later. Well past midnight. He was in her car, parked in a garage with the door closed.

They were at her place, she said. His idea.

That made sense. That, after all, had been the master plan—to get her wasted and go back to her place. It’s always been the plan, with everyone he’s dated since the divorce.

Maker’s Mark aside, there was no reason for him to be suspicious, or think Sofia—if that’s even her real name—was different from any of the others.

She seemed so normal, so appealing. She was such an attractive woman, capable of holding an ordinary conversation just like anyone else. Better, even.

Some women you meet just offer a running monologue about themselves. Not her. In the bar, and then again later in her car that night, both before and after they had sex right there in the backseat, she asked him question after question. She seemed genuinely interested in finding out more about him.

At the time, he thought she was just into him.

It’s agonizing to realize that he could have—
should
have—gotten the hell away from her the second she handed him that drink.

He woke up in her bed—with no memory of having gotten there—and stumbled downstairs to find her making him a nice hot breakfast with coffee, black and strong, just the way he likes it. Still . . .

“You have a cat?” he asked her, sickened and irritated by the sight of pet bowls on the floor.

“I do, but I let him out.”

“I’m allergic to cats.”

“I know you are. I read it in your profile. That’s why I let him out.”

“What about kids?” he asked, seeing the crayoned art gallery that all but hid the refrigerator.

“No, no kids.”

Yeah
, he thought.
Sure
.

“Do you take milk in your coffee?”

“No!” he said quickly, though he does. “I don’t want coffee.”

“Of course you do.”

“I have to go.” He’s not the neatest person in the world, but the thought of eating anything in that house, permeated with the fetid smell of cat food and sour milk, made him sick.

“I know you do. After breakfast. Have a seat.”

He tried to beat a hasty retreat—said thanks but no thanks to breakfast and told her he’d find his way to the train station—but then he realized he didn’t even have his wallet or phone. She told him he must have lost it at Tequila Sam’s.

“They won’t be open now, but you should call later and check,” she said blandly, cracking eggs into a bowl. “Just relax and get something into your stomach, and after you eat, I’ll take you to the train station. I can lend you money for a ticket back to the city.”

That seemed reasonable at the time. But as he sat there at her kitchen table sipping the coffee she handed him, watching her fry up an omelet, he began to feel woozy again.

He shouldn’t have accepted the coffee. But he was exhausted, needed the caffeine, and it seemed safe enough. Coffee is only hot water strained through ground coffee beans, right? How terrible could it be?

It tasted off to him, but he drank it anyway, telling himself it was simply because it was black. He was used to coffee
con leche
.

But that wasn’t it. His head was spinning; the room was spinning. He should have grasped sooner that something was seriously wrong with the coffee. With
her
.

When Carlos came to, he was here, alone in a dark, silent dungeon with shackles around his ankles, chained to the wall.

He has no way of knowing for sure how long he’s been held prisoner here. There are no windows allowing him to keep track of the rhythm of days passing: sunrise, sunset.

There’s only pitch-blackness—unless, of course, she’s here. She carries a flashlight when she comes, and the bright beam hurts his eyes. It’s better to be in the dark; better to be alone.

Then he can lie here and fantasize about the police breaking down the door.

By now someone must have reported him missing.

If only he’d told someone where he was going.

But the divorce hadn’t been easy. He had never been so isolated in his life. He hadn’t just lost money—not to mention most of his worthwhile possessions, plus his dignity: he’d also lost his closest friends. His social circle in recent years consisted mainly of a group of couples he and his ex had gotten to know while they were married. When she left him, the wives sided with her, and the husbands—
pendejos,
all of them—went along with the wives.

His other closest pals, in recent years, had been his wife’s brothers and cousins. Naturally, those ties were also cut when she dumped him.

His father had died years ago and his mother has been living in Costa Rica with her gentleman friend, Pasqual. His only brother, Roberto, is in Florida. They’re all used to not hearing from him for weeks or even months at a time, and he’d been in touch just recently.

Still—when he didn’t show up at work on Monday, someone there would have known something was wrong. Ivy would have tried to reach him, and when she couldn’t get in touch, she’d have been concerned.

Surely she would have called the police. But . . .

How are they going to find me here? How are they going to trace me here, to this crazy person?

Once, early on, he tried to overpower Sofia when she came to bring him a meal.

He lay very still as she came into the room, forcing her to come closer, closer, bending over him, calling his name . . .

Then he lunged at her, got his hands around her neck.

She fought back like a tiger, though. She wasn’t just tall, she was strong—freakishly strong.

“Don’t you ever try that again,” she snarled, having freed herself from his grasp and retreated to the doorway again. “If you do, you’ll be sorry. You’re chained to the wall, remember? And if you think I carry the keys to those shackles when I come in here, you’re wrong. They’re tucked away where you’ll never get to them. No one knows you’re here. If anything happens to me, no one is going to show up looking for me, believe me. And if you scream for help, no one will hear you. You’ll lie here wasting away until you die of hunger and thirst. Is that what you want?”

No. Jesus, no. That’s not what he wants. None of this is what he wants.

That time, apparently to teach him a lesson, she let days go by before she returned with food and water. He was convinced she’d abandoned him to die.

Maybe he wishes she would have. Just get it over with, instead of keeping him alive . . . for what?

“I thought you’d like to know,” she tells him now, “that last night’s test was negative.”

Test. She’s talking about pregnancy tests again. She’s been doing that, the last few times he’s seen her—telling him that the tests are negative but it might be too soon and she’ll try again tomorrow.

“You have one more chance,” she tells him now.

One more chance . . .

“I’ll take another test tonight.”

“You’re crazy! You can’t—”

“If it goes well,” she talks over him, raising her voice, “then you’ll be the first to know. And if it doesn’t . . .”

She trails off ominously.

He doesn’t prompt her to continue. Gut twisting, he forces himself to remain calm and still, trying to figure a way out of here. There must be something, some way to slip out of these chains that don’t allow him to venture past the bed, the chair, and the portable toilet . . .

She turns off the flashlight with a click and he hears her moving across the room.

Silhouetted in the doorway, she tells him, “I’ll leave the tray. If I were you, I’d eat that. You have to keep up your strength. Just in case the test is negative again.”

With that, she’s gone.

Locked into the dank black cell once more, Carlos lets out a breath of relief. Anything is better than lying here listening to her talk about what she wants from him; what she
needs
from him.

A baby.

No—not
a
baby.

“My baby,” she’s told him, over and over. “I just need my baby. I need you to give me my baby.”

My
baby. It’s strange.

She’s
strange; she’s freaking
loco
.

And the thought of a baby—
his
baby—growing inside of her is enough to make him vomit.

But it’s possible, he knows. He slept with her willingly that first night; didn’t even stop to think to use protection. Who cared? That, he figured, was her problem.

Little did he know that pregnancy wouldn’t be a problem for her. On the contrary: it was her goal.

She told him—after she cornered him here—how she’d hand-selected him; how she’d timed their date to coincide with the most fertile day in her—cycle.

“Why couldn’t you just let me go after that?” he’d been naive enough to ask.

The answer sent chills down his spine.

“In case it didn’t work. We’ll need to try again.”

“Over my dead body.”

“Oh, Carlos, don’t talk like that.” Her tone had been eerily calm.

“If you think I’m ever going to touch you again, then you’re—”

“If I can’t have you one way,” she cut in, “then trust me, I’ll have you another.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You’ll see. Or maybe you won’t. Let’s just hope the first time was the charm.”

Okay,
he thought,
what if it was?

What would happen to him after she got what she wanted?

And . . . what would happen to him if she didn’t?

Now, common sense tells him that either way, she’s not going to simply unchain him, open the door, and let him walk back out into the world, back to his life.

“Gabriela.”

He watches her open her mouth and close again, wide-eyed. Finally, she manages, “Hi, Ben.”

“What are you doing here? Wait. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

“How did it sound?”

“Like . . . I don’t know. You know.”

She doesn’t say anything, just stands there looking as startled to see him as he was to see her—even though he’s had a good forty-five minutes to get used to the idea.

It was Luis who first spotted her sitting about twenty rows ahead of them. He grabbed Ben’s arm during the second inning and pointed. “Oh my God, look.”

Ben looked. Thinking his brother was referring to a belligerent standoff between opposing fans in the aisle below, he shook his head. “That’s crazy.”

“It is. I mean, I thought I saw her when we first got here and I was going to say something to you then, but I wasn’t sure it was her, and I didn’t want to ruin your night by bringing her up.”

“Who? What are you talking about?”

“Your ex-wife—Gaby.”

“What? What about her?”

“She’s right there.” Luis pointed again, just as Ben saw her for himself.

It was Gaby all right. Her long hair was down and wavy, the way it always looked in sticky summer weather. He used to love to watch her run her fingers through it, twisting it into a bun and holding it there to get it off her neck; loved how it would be even more tousled when she let go and it cascaded down her back again.

She was doing that tonight. He watched her, aching for the old days, aching to be right there with her instead of perched above like a voyeuristic stranger.

But she was with someone else.

Ben had never seen him before. He wore a dress shirt with the sleeves rolled up. Was he someone she met on InTune? If so, it couldn’t be a first date. Even from a distance he could tell there was a connection between Gaby and the stranger. They laughed with their heads tilted together, shared a hot pretzel, and his arm rested across the back of her seat for a while, even in this heat.

Ben watched them for the rest of that inning and into the next, so distracted he lost track of the score and wasn’t even properly thrilled when he and his brother were shown on the Jumbotron, a longtime ambition.

Luis was proud enough for both of them. “I wonder if we were on TV?”

Who knows? Who cares?

Gaby is here. She’s here, with some guy.

“Try to ignore it,” Luis advised him, but he found that impossible to do.

It’s been so long since he’d seen her.

He couldn’t help but fixate on her, remembering old times, wondering how the hell they’d come to this. Wondering how the hell he’d become the stranger, on the outside looking in, as some guy he’d never seen before fed his wife a pretzel.

Ex-wife.

Intellectually, he’s well aware of their marital status. It’s easy enough to remember with Gaby conspicuously absent from his day-to-day life.

But now, seeing her again, he was suddenly second-guessing everything.

Then Gaby was on her feet, pushing her way determinedly up the aisle. He impulsively leapt out of his seat. So did everyone else, but it was because they were watching the batter hit a pop-up.

Ben tried to chase her, but he lost sight of her in the cheering crowd as an outfielder caught the ball.