Spider Legs (7 page)

CHAPTER 12

Pilot

A
T THE SAME
time Natalie Sheppard was leaving the library, June Holland was piloting a low-flying Hercules HC-130B above a monstrous hook of ice which protruded from an iceberg floating in the sea. In the distance she saw a vast herd of caribou thunder past the shoreline. After a few minutes, she brought the plane lower and cut two of the four engines. 700 feet . . . 600 . . . 500 . . . ever closer to the ceiling of the mammoth iceberg below. Holland radioed that she was descending to 300 feet.

“OK, drop it,” she shouted to her crewman.

On her signal, a young ensign hurled a soft-drink-can-sized jar full of dye down on the ice. “Got it!” he screamed to Holland.

The jar hit silently. Looking back she saw a crimson stain spreading down the canyons of the berg. To June Holland this was just another routine operation by the United States Coast Guard. They were marking the icebergs for rapid identification in studies of their drifting patterns. The dye, a mixture of calcium chloride for penetration and rhodamine-B for the crimson hue, spread a swath of color several yards in diameter across the cliffs of the ice.

Reports of all the icebergs’ positions were radioed to nearby vessels at sea to help prevent collisions. Ice patrols like this dated back to 1912.The United States and 16 other maritime nations
shared the cost of the ice patrol. The United Kingdom paid the largest share, but the responsibility for carrying out the assignment rested with the U.S. Coast Guard alone.

“Let's get back,” Holland said. “Our fuel is low.” Her gazed shifted to a small stereo system resting on the short-nap gray carpet of the cockpit's floor where there were stacks of Suzanne Vega and Peter Gabriel CDs, just the right mix of background music for a pilot flying over the sparkling ice landscapes. As she gazed out of her cockpit window at the sea and ice, her eye was caught by a motion on the windshield: a tiny brown spider crawled along the bottom of the glass and began to spin a web.

The ensign offered her a cup of hot chocolate, and she gulped down its warming contents. “Thanks,” she said. “Do we have anything to eat?”

“How about a hot dog?”

“OK, slip it into the microwave oven.” The small brown spider stopped for a few seconds and then began to crawl all the way to the top of the cockpit window. It raised its front legs as a thin, shiny web strand poured from the spider's bulbous abdomen. Holland saw that the spider's legs had dozens of fine hairs and that its multiple eyes never winked. It gave her the creeps.

A minute later the ensign returned with a hot dog with the works—relish, onions, mustard, ketchup, and chili. She wolfed it down. The airplane meandered back and forth over the patrol zone. It was now lighter by 4,000 gallons of fuel. The ensign made a final tabulation of iceberg sightings for dispatch by radio to the Coast Guard ships.

Holland was humming to the haunting tunes of Suzanne Vega and thinking about her dinner plans. She hadn't seen any movement outside, but the jerk of the ensign's head and the look of concern on his face was warning enough.

“What's wrong?” Holland said as she turned in her seat and looked out the left window.

“I thought I saw something moving,” the ensign said. His eyes were small pools of light set in a field of dark flesh.

“Where?”

“On the iceberg.”

“An animal?”

“Yes.”

“How big?” She squinted through the smeared windshield.

“The size of a man.”

Suddenly Holland looked down at the ocean, which was now covered by a moving crust of ice. The salt-water ice reflected the sunlight back in her eyes. Then out of the corner of her eyes she caught a movement on an iceberg. An almost-naked bleeding man was crawling on the iceberg. At least she thought he was moving. It was too far away to be sure. At first it seemed only a dream image without real substance. Something cold crawled up her back.

“What in the world?” she said to herself. Her heart beat fast as she threw herself back against her seat. The snowflake-caked windshield wiper blades left streaks of moisture on the glass through which she was trying to see.

She got out her field glasses and trained them on the ice below. She gasped, took the microphone from its mounting, and called to a nearby Coast Guard ship. She adjusted the focus of her field glasses. Was this possible? She had to make an accurate report.

Below on the ice lay a body which looked as if it were very stiff with rigor mortis. She guessed that he'd been dead for at least a day. The odd angle of his arm suggested he'd died a painful death. She brought the plane lower, keeping her eye on the fuel gauge of the plane. Moisture had accumulated on the plane's window, which she wiped away with a gloved hand, and then she looked again.

“Can't see,” she whispered to herself as tendrils of ice formed on the windows of the plane. She leaned forward and let a trickle of de-icing fluid swish the frost away from the glass. She squinted and took a last look at the unpleasant sight on the ice.

The naked man moved. From the palms of each of his hands protruded a large bony spike.

June Holland swallowed deeply in a mixture of horror and a little fear. She pressed her feet to the floor of the planes’ cockpit and gripped the steering lever as if she were trying to fuse her flesh with the metal alloy, because she felt as if she would fall out, straight down on the man if she did not will her body to stop trembling. She felt as if she were being dragged down a long, dark tunnel, and only now was beginning to see the horrible things at the end.

Who could he be, and how could he have gotten there? What had happened to him on the way? She doubted that the answers would be pleasant.

CHAPTER 13

Date

N
ATHAN SMALLWOOD TOURED
Newfoundland on a rented sport-touring motorcycle. He loved the reduced nosedive and lower center of gravity. The cycle's front end transmitted braking force straight back through its massive suspension arm into a C-shaped frame near the engine. This made the bike exceptionally quiet and easy to stop, even on wet or snowy roads. As he guided the vehicle in and out of the small winding streets and coast roads, he listened to K-Newfoundland 92.1 FM from Bonavista though headphones in his helmet. He smiled, singing along with golden oldies like “California Dreaming” and “Time of the Season.” It reminded him of his days in a college rock band, when he played organ for similar songs.

He arrived on Main Street at about 6:00 in the evening. Main Street was not too hard to find, and he soon guided the cycle to a small parking space. He was early, but that was fine. Because, as it turned out, so was she.

Natalie Sheppard and Nathan met on Main Street in a town with a yawning pace. A storm had passed by recently, and now the sun was breaking through the clouds with a thousand beams of golden light. The sky was amber and shimmering with a tangle of reflections like a painting by van Gogh.

“Hello, Miss Sheppard.” She was wearing an orange twill dress, just about the way he had imagined her.

“Natalie.” She smiled. “Good to see you again.” She glanced at him with the hint of a question.

“Nathan,” he said immediately.

The single traffic signal on Main Street splintered in liquid reflections beneath their feet. Martha Samules, the lady who ran the tropical fish store, was standing out on the sidewalk with hands on her large hips, looking at the couple with an expression that seemed to be equally puzzled and admiring. Nathan was aware that he and Natalie, both tall and slender, made an unusual pair. Martha's pale complexion and sharp features were enlivened by large eyes, full of interest and intelligence as she gazed at them.

“Seems like a nice town,” he said. “Reminds me of that Henry Wadsworth Longfellow poem:

"Often I think of the beautiful town

That is seated by the sea;

Often in thought go up and down

The pleasant streets of that dear old town.”

“I know that one,” Natalie said. “I think he wrote that in 1855 and called it ‘My Lost Youth.’ The town used to be like the poem, although the economy has suffered a lot in recent years. But there are still many beautiful parts of town.”

They walked down the wide, cobblestone street lined on both sides with a curious amalgam of restaurants, and tourist and antique shops. From somewhere in the distance came the sweet sounds of the romantic melody “Before the Next Teardrop Falls.”

“Watch your step,” Nathan pointed to a deep puddle. As if on cue, brief winds started to churn the puddles between the cobblestones, so they appeared to be frothing like miniature oceans,
as if a subterranean volcano were melting the cobblestones from underneath.

Nathan could hear drips of water coming through nearby aluminum downspouts. “The air feels so fresh here,” he said. He looked all around him, smiling. An occasional ancient evergreen poked its tall branches from the backyards of some of the stores. Large brown wooden mailboxes were conveniently nailed to the side of each shop. Many of the shops had short flagstone walks leading to their front doors.

As they walked, his thoughts turned to himself. This wasn't narcissism, but his spot self appraisal: how would he seem to this delightful woman? If she knew him better, would she be interested? He did have some assets, yet wasn't sure they were worth mentioning. Such as his writing.

He had been amazingly prolific, over the years writing over a hundred books and papers on his favorite subject: the invertebrates. His most famous papers described the shallow-water pycnogonida from the Izu Peninsula of Japan. Invertebrates, animals without backbones like worms and crabs and insects, were everywhere. He always marveled over the fact that more than 90 percent of the animal species on earth belonged to the invertebrates.

But others had quickly been bored or even repelled when he had gotten into this in the past, so maybe he had better let her ask directly for what she wanted. She had said that she wanted to know more about sea spiders, but her interest might be far more limited than his.

So what about his personal history?

Nathan's boyhood had not been an easy one, although he showed signs of genius at an early age. He was born in 1957 in the Soviet Union near Smolensk. At the age of three, he was brought to the United States by his parents and was naturalized a few years later. He taught himself to read before he was six years old, using the signs on his Brooklyn street. A couple of years later, with a little help from his mother, he taught himself
to read Yiddish. When he was 8 he taught his younger sister to read. Nathan was never content to stay with his peers, and he skipped several grades, receiving a high-school diploma when he was 16.

Nathan's interest in invertebrates could be traced to his discovery of science fiction on the magazine rack at his father's store. All those wild images of huge octopi and killer squids from Planet X! At first Nathan's father objected to his interest in this fanciful subject matter, but when Nathan sold his first story at the age of 18, his father was proud. In 1982 he graduated from Harvard University with a Ph.D. in biology. And the next year he accepted a position to teach invertebrate zoology from Yale University's School of Medicine.

No she wouldn't be interested in any of that! So he would keep his mouth shut, unless he was sure she wanted information on some specific thing. That way maybe he could avoid turning her off before the hour was out.

“I understand you're interested in aquaria,” Natalie said.

“Sure am.”
Keep it simple, keep it safe.
"Want to get a big one for my home.”

“Let's take a look in Martha's Tropical Fish Store. It's back where we started from.” Natalie had a quiet air of authority and yet a rare warmth. Nathan noticed how nicely she dressed—she could have been a fashion model, he thought. He supressed his urge to take her hand as they walked.

“Great idea.”

The sign hanging on the door read
OPEN.
They entered the store with its bubbling tanks and brightly colored fishes. A small bell jingled over their heads as they closed the door behind them. Soft light spilled in through curtains across the store front. Nathan saw a large woman was bending over one of the aquaria filled with suckermouth catfish. She looked up when the bell jingled and smiled at Natalie and Nathan. Yes, that was Martha, who had stood outside her store before.

The store was divided into four main sections: cold fresh
water, tropical fresh water, cold marine, and tropical marine. They meandered down row upon row of tanks containing bleeding heart tetras and honey gouramis. Martha came up to them.

“May I help you?” she asked. A few of her teeth were missing and the ones that were left looked rather brown in the dim light, but Nathan found the smile entirely charming. On her blouse was pinned a large blue button with red letters proclaiming: “FISH ARE FUN.”

“We're just browsing, thanks,” Nathan said. “We—”

Martha raised her hand to silence him. “Let me show you the latest in fish tanks. Ever hear of the super-thin tank craze?”

“Can't say that I have,” Nathan replied.

“Follow me,” Martha said. They came to the area of the store which had the super-thin tanks.

The aquaria reminded Nathan of the ant farm he had as a child. The colony of ants tunneled within the sand contained between two plates of plastic about a quarter inch apart from one another. The super-thin fish tanks were similar. They consisted of two plates of glass separated by a half-inch space for the water. The narrow region of water in which the fish swam essentially limited them to a two-dimensional world in which they could not turn around. The tanks were hung on the wall like a picture. Little bubbles of air were forced through the tank by a small air pump powered by what Martha assured them was an exceptionally long-lasting zinc-air battery.

“Gaah,” Nathan choked. “How can they live in there like that?” He had seen many, many fish tanks during his career, but this struck him as on the verge of barbaric. Fish needed some freedom, just as people did. Many of these fish were congregating toward the right and left of the tanks because it was not so easy to swim backward.

“I agree,” said Martha. “I think that once I sell these tanks I won't restock them. However, if you want to buy one of these tanks remember to place about half of the fish facing right, the others facing left. The swimming patterns look strange when all the fish face in the same direction.”

“I think I would fashion turning circles at either side,” he said, and was rewarded by Natalie's smile of agreement.

In one of the super-thin tanks were three-inch-long tin foil barbs. Their shiny silver bodies reflected the store lights producing a living wall of little mirrors. Natalie sighed with compassion for the confined creatures.

“OK, even if you don't want these tanks, surely there must be something for you?” Martha said. “A few discus fish?” Nathan noticed that Martha's fingers were extremely fat yet not short. He also noticed that all of the fingers were of the same length, except for the ring finger which jutted out longer than the rest. Just like Elmo's. “Are you looking at my hand?” she asked. Before Nathan could respond, Martha answered, “Don't worry, I don't shake hands. I have a condition known as ambidactyl syndrome. Nothing fatal.”

“Glad to hear that. I mean I'm glad to hear it's not fatal.” Suddenly his curiosity about Elmo's hands had been satisfied, and he had avoided the embarrassment of inquiring.

“I'm glad you're glad. Interested in buying a few new fighting fish?” She smiled again and this time revealed inch-long teeth in a scary grin. Her long teeth reminded Nathan of a story he had read as a child in a book called
In a Dark, Dark Room.
The old illustrated tale had scared him. He still remembered the opening lines:
I
was hurrying home in the dark when I saw a man walking toward me. . . . He grinned at me. His teeth were three inches long. When I saw them, I ran.
Nathan felt a shiver run through him now as he gazed at her teeth, as long as a beaver's, but his outward countenance was cool and collected.

“Thanks again. We're just browsing. I'm thinking of starting an aquarium at home, but unfortunately any fish I bought here wouldn't survive the long trip back to Massachusetts.”

“Massachusetts?” Martha's eyes seemed to grow to the size of Ping-Pong balls. “What's your occupation, if you don't mind me asking?”

“I teach at Harvard.”

“A Harvard man? Oooh, policewoman, you picked a good
one this time.” Martha's chuckles had a hyenalike quality—her face now had all the charm of a sawfish. Nathan suspected that she was considered by the ladies of St. John to be more than a little eccentric, and she was proving this to be the case.

“It must be difficult to run a fish store with your hand condition,” Nathan said, clumsily trying to change the subject. He tried to discipline his voice, to maintain complete control.

“Not at all. I'm quite agile.” With the swiftness of a great buck she plucked a hair from Nathan's head. “See?” Natalie and Nathan blinked in astonished silence.

“Good to see the inside of your store, Martha,” Natalie said, evidently trying to end the conversation. She then grabbed Nathan's hand and led him away down the aisle of aquaria.

“Interesting woman,” Nathan smiled slightly, not sure what to make of the situation.

“Very. I've seen her only passingly before, but I know about her reputation. It's hard to believe she has a doctorate in molecular biophysics and biochemistry. She always had tropical fish as a hobby, and after she got her Ph.D. she decided to open an aquarium store rather than go into the competitive world of academic science.”

“Can she make a good living with this store?”

“I think so. They say her mail order business is thriving.”

“Come on. Let's look at what else she has in her store.”

“What would be your ‘dream’ fish tank?” Natalie asked. “Would you like to have a tank with a few large fish? Hundreds of small fish?”

“My favorites are the elephantnose fish, with their long trunk-like snouts. They're from Africa. I'd like to have a huge tribe of a hundred or more in my dream tank. That would be quite an impressive sight.”

“Ah, I know those weird fish well.
Ganathonemus petersi.
You have rather bizarre tastes. They come from the Niger and Congo Rivers. Their snouts are adapted to grubbing in the bottom for worms.”

They wandered over to the salt-water section of the store. Bubbles were forced through airstones to circulate the sea water. In some of the tanks were little tiny men who walked around the sand as if they were alive. “Here's a nice undulant triggerfish,” Nathan said. The green body was covered with wavy orange lines. Its pelvic fins were absent, being reduced to primitive stumps. “Triggerfishes can lock their dorsal fins straight up to avoid capture. They have strong jaws and will eat invertebrates. At rest they point their heads down or lie in the sand.”

He stopped, realizing that he was doing what he had resolved not to: going off the deep end about his interests. He feared that Natalie felt a bit confused as he rattled off the chain of facts, showing off his knowledge about the fish. Something special about the fish intrigued him, however.

I've encountered these fish before,
was the first clear thought to come through Nathan's mind. It was déjà vu, he supposed, that false feeling that this had all happened before in his past.

He turned and looked in the next tank and saw something which was enough to give anyone the screaming meemies. His whole body tightened as he felt a whisper of terror run through him. In the tank were seven small pycnogonids resembling daddy long legs spiders. They were feeding on a severed human hand which rested on the bottom of the aquarium. One pale finger still had a gold wedding ring on it.