Page 2 of The Children of Eve

Curiously, while the spiders were climbing the walls and crawling over the floor, they showed no interest in Elizalde and were leaving a clear area around his shoes, such that his clothing might have been treated with repellent. As he progressed toward the inner door, they continued to avoid him, perhaps having learned from the fate of their brothers and sisters crushed upon his return. Elizalde slipped his mini revolver from his jacket pocket. He’d had the gun for years and rarely went anywhere without it, as an aging merchant operating out of a small town might offer a tempting target for somepinche narcowith a habit to feed. The NAA weighed only eight ounces, but it held five .22 rounds that would leave holes not easily filled.

Elizalde didn’t announce himself before entering, since that was an excellent way to get killed. The door was slightly ajar, and the hinges were well-oiled, so he made no sound as he opened it wider. The office nook beyond was empty—unless one counted the spiders and insects. The glow from the lamp, combined with the moonlight filtering throughthe muddle of stock in the window, served to render regions of the store semi-visible while leaving others in shadow. The lamp was angled away from the door, and Elizalde stayed behind it to avoid making himself too much of a target. However, he could pick up no trace of an intruder and heard no further movement.

His attention was distracted by an object on the floor, gilded by the lamplight. It was a figurine: the representation of the Great Goddess to whom he had intended to make an offering before going to bed. He kept it on a shelf in his office, hidden by files, pens, and stationery because he didn’t want prospective customers with the proper knowledge to espy it and begin making offers. The Great Goddess had been handed down from his great-grandfather, who found it at Teotihuacan long before the city became a UNESCO site. The beautifully preserved statue, which had been wrapped in cloth and placed in a stony hollow, more correctly belonged in a museum. But Elizalde, like his forebears, took the view that its heritage was as much familial as national, and as long as it was looked after and did not leave the country, he was doing his duty toward it. It could even be argued that the statue was performing its designated function as a household deity to be respected and worshipped, not trapped behind glass to be gawped at for a few seconds by the ignorant before quickly being forgotten. The Great Goddess wore a feathered headdress and her face was masked. From her nosepiece hung three fangs, while she held seeds in one hand and a pitcher of water in the other. Traces of red and yellow pigment were still visible on her.

And all around the Great Goddess spiders scuttled, these ones larger than the rest, but they gave her a wide berth. Now Elizalde began to understand, even if it was an understanding born of a recognition of the numinous. The Great Goddess was frequently depicted in the company of night creatures—jaguars or owls, but oftentimes spiders, because they, like her, preferred the dark. Was it a sign, an augury on the eve ofthe commencement of his treatment? If so, did it mean he was blessed or cursed? And how had the statue come to be on the floor? It might have transported itself—if it could summon spiders, who could say what else it was capable of?—but Elizalde was more inclined to believe that someone had placed it there. This was confirmed when a throat was cleared and a man’s voice spoke from the shadows.

“That’s quite the show with those spiders,” he said. “She’s calling them for protection, the ones that haven’t tried to get away out of fear. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t witnessed it for myself.”

The accent was Anglo-American, but Elizalde couldn’t place it precisely. He’d dealt with gringos from across the United States and Canada, and this man sounded like all of them rolled into one; not neutral, but an assemblage of cadences, as of one who had traveled much, absorbing into his speech elements of what he heard along the way. Elizalde squinted into the ordered clutter of the store and thought he could pick out a shape seated on one of a pair of early twentieth-century hacienda armchairs in cocobolo wood, their glossy finish apparent even in the dimness. It struck him that the man was small for an adult, more like aduendeor an imp.

“What are you doing here?” Elizalde asked, adding: “I have a gun.”

“Oh, I’m sure you do,” came the reply. “You’d be unwise not to, what with all the valuables that pass through your hands. I don’t see much sign of them here, though. I’m no expert, but a lot of this looks like junk to me, and junk won’t keep a man in gravy. By the way, you can tilt that lamp some in my direction if it makes you feel better. I’d appreciate your keeping it more down than up, though. I don’t care to be blinded.”

Elizalde moved the light, but he stayed to one side of the lamp and made sure that the frame of the office nook offered him cover. The beam revealed a slight man, possibly no more than five feet in height, wearing a red-and-white-spotted shirt with its top button undone and a blue tieat half-mast. His navy trousers were held in place by suspenders, and he wore red-and-white two-tone shoes. He looked, to Elizalde, like a character who had strayed from anorteamericanoFourth of July parade and never found his way back again. His hands were folded in his lap, and Elizalde saw no gun within his reach. Relaxing slightly, Elizalde stepped from the nook. The man smiled encouragingly.

“That’s it, I won’t bite. I can’t swear to these little critters on the floor, but they’ve behaved themselves so far.”

“They’re house spiders,” said Elizalde. “If they bit you, you’d barely notice.”

“I might, if all of them took a nibble at the same time, but I’ll accept your word on them as individuals. And in answer to your question—and those to come, like who I am—let’s begin with the first two, the what and the who, which may be the easiest to answer. I’m here, naturally enough, to speak with you, Mr. Elizalde. Forgive me for not addressing you as ‘Señor,’ but I don’t speak Spanish very well and wouldn’t want to set up any false expectations in that regard. But from my inquiries, I guessed that you’d have good English, considering the business you’ve conducted with speakers of that tongue over the years.

“As for who I am, my name is Seeley, and I’m a fixer. I help solve problems.” He crossed his legs and leaned back. “I have to say, this is one comfortable armchair. It’s nice and low but not too deep. I’ve been known to struggle with chairs because of my stature—beds and tables also. I always thought Goldilocks erred on the smaller side, which may be why I like that story so much. The world takes the path of least resistance, or so I find. To those of us who deviate from the average, it’s unforgiving.”

Seeley caught the look of bewilderment on Elizalde’s face.

“There I go again,” said Seeley. “I’ve been advised that I have a predilection for garrulity. I used to think it made people relax, but I appreciate that’s not always the case. Call my loquaciousness a trick of the trade. I come out of sales, and the only quiet salesman is a dead one.”

Elizalde was happy he had a gun. The more he heard from Seeley, the more convinced he became that the man meant him ill.

“And what are you trying to sell here, Mr. Seeley?”

Seeley smiled sadly.

“Why, Mr. Elizalde, I’m trying to sell you an easy death.”

CHAPTERII

To the north now: cold, and bitter to boot because of the wind, but with an end to winter in sight at last. A thaw promised in the week ahead, and spring to advance gingerly in its wake, sidestepping puddles of foul water, all dark and oily, and mounds of compacted snow and ice, more black than white, that might linger until April, like the vestiges of some defeated army skulking in the aftermath of capitulation.

But that was to come. For the present, the dying season was making its final stand: a fresh freeze, with black ice on the minor roads, thin skeins of it on the water where the Nonesuch skirted the banks, and a mist obscuring the Scarborough marshes, as of the smoke of musket and cannon after a fusillade. Such stillness, broken only by a car driving along Black Point Road, its driver taking the curves carefully, the beams of the headlights lent solidity by the vapor, so that it would not have been so surprising had they shattered upon encountering some obstacle in their path. Two figures in the car, were anyone present to observe: a man and woman, the latter driving, the former snoring. They were both middle-aged and long married, for better or—periodically (whisper it)—worse. Music was playing, and the car was cooler than was comfortable; the woman was afraid of joining the man in sleep, and the nip kept her alert. They were almost home, though, and she droveby instinct, as though the car were not powered by an engine but pulled by horses familiar with the route, the scent of the stable in their nostrils.

“Jesus!”

The woman slammed hard on the brakes. Had her companion not been wearing his seat belt, he might already have been bleeding.

“What is it?”

Now he was wide awake, and about time too, in her opinion. He’d slept since Kittery, aided by three beers, a pizza, and exposure to the conversation of friends who’d interested her more than him.

“A child,” she said, “a little girl. She ran across the road in front of me.”

The woman opened the car door and stepped into the night.

“What are you doing?” her husband asked. “It’s freezing out there.”

“I’m telling you, I saw a child.”

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