The Writings of Mary Lewys

“Good Evening, Mister Smith.” He touched the brim of his top hat as he bowed his head. In the light of the abandoned warehouse, his black tank top and black faded black jeans stood out against the faded and stained white drywall. He didn’t sweat despite their run. His eyes were too close together, but his smile was perfect. “And how may I help you this evening?”

“Where is she?” Matt took one step closer, one step into the light to show how serious he was. His pressed, dark suit coat was unbuttoned and his red, silk tie dangled free. He wasn’t close enough for the .45 semi-automatic handgun from both his hands. It was trained on the stranger’s heart.

“Who?”

“You know who.”

“Your little friend? The little bit of trouble?” He cleared his throat and took a few steps out of the light and away from the wall. A wall of paned windows was only a quick run away. His black sneakers crunched on the gritted cement floor.

Matt took a step. Like a chess board, he moved one square to keep the Black King from making an escape. “Yes. Where is she?”

“That’s the game, isn’t it? You both wanted to save the girl. Well, you’re too late for her.”

“You son of a bitch.” Through gritted teeth, Matt raised the gun. His finger tightened on the trigger. Sweat beaded on his brow.

“But that’s not the game now, Mr. Smith. Or is it Detective Smith? Special Agent Smith? The game now is finding your friend in time.”

“What does that – ”

“It’s the first thing he thinks of before – you know.”

Matt slouched in the simple, wooden chair of the Japanese eatery. He reached for the tall glass of beer. The condensation was gone from the outside, but he sipped from the amber ale anyway. “Right. So, is he the spider or is the victim the spider?”

“I think he is because the web is elaborate. It’s amazingly huge, but I can’t see what it hangs from. Green tea,” she told the waitress to send her on the way. “And I think that’s what he does. He watches them and gets to know the people around them and then they’re trapped in his web.”

“You think or you know?” He folded his arms again over his chest. His tie had been loosened right around the last shot of sake. His cheeks and nose had a cheery glow, but his eyes remained sharp and trained on Zee.

“Okay, all I see is the spider.”

“That’s it?”

“No, but that’s where the vision starts.” It was one of Zee’s smiles that made the creases in Matt’s face deepen.

“Believe it or not, he left it in a parking lot.” Matt sat with his legs apart and his arms folded. He did not smile. His brow creased over his dark, brown eyes.

“Which parking lot?” She pushed the items on the table around into a certain order. The chopsticks folded in her white, cloth napkin were placed above the bamboo mat. Her napkin shifted from right to left. The small, shallow dish for soy sauce was lifted and placed above the corner of her place mat and her napkin.

“I can’t tell you that.” He watched her push things around with a subdued curiosity.

“Yes, you can.”

“Fine. From the latest abduction.” His lips thinned about as thin as she had ever seen. Zee stopped straightening her dinner setting and reached over to pat his forearm.

“It’s a break, Matt. It’s a real break.”

He frowned hard enough for the corners of his mouth to reach his square jaw. “Yeah, provided he follows his standard routine. We have seventy-two hours. But whatever you tell me can’t be used in court. Hell, if the guys even knew – ”

“May I take your order?” The waitress was pert wrapped in her silken, pink kimono. Her make-up was western as was her hairstyle, pinned up with matching barrettes. She held her pad and pencil at chest level with a company approved smile.

“Yeah, may I have the edomae chirashizushi special, please?” Zee smiled to show teeth at the waitress. Her pronunciation of the Japanese words were perfect. A few scribbles on the pad later, the waitress turned her eyes to the gentleman.

“Nothing for me.” Matt lifted a hand to accent the fact that he would not be having anything to eat.

“Are you sure? California roll?”

He stared at her until she went away. Zee bit her upper lip and didn’t laugh.

“So,” Matt rested his elbows on the table without unfolding his arms. He stared hard at his guest. “What did you read, Zee?”

“Yeah, but you don’t have any choice, do you?” Zee allowed herself to be dragged. Her big, black, eight-eyelet boots stomped along the floor. Her black dyed hair glistened under the lights. Her smile was red lipstick smugness. “You need me.”

He half-heartedly flung her in the direction of the object under the big light. An old, dusty, not to mention dingy, VW bug rusted in the police’s evidence lock-up. She stumbled to a stop with her knees locked together. Her gray eyes grew wide. “Oh my God! Is this…?”

“It could be. I can’t say.” He folded his arms over his chest to stretch his suit tight. “You tell me.”

With one deep breath, she walked towards the car. Her fingers with black painted fingernails trembled. She touched the car. “Ooo. Aaah. Wow. I mean, all kinds of Wow.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means exactly what you think it means.” Zee turned to stare at Matt. She looked scared. “This is the car. This is his car.”

The dry grass crunched on her thick heeled boots. She was careful not to walk on anyone’s grave as she wove her way amongst the old, family headstones. She touched the large Celtic cross of the O’Brien’s. She smiled enough to show her white teeth beneath her ruby red lips. Tears welled in the bottom of her eyes, held in place by thick lashes and black eyeliner.

“I got’em, baby.” She leaned over to put the flowers against the smallest marker. It was an arching stone with only a name: Amelia. She ran her fingers over the carved letters.

Her hand dug into her leather coat pocket to pull out an old six-shooter. She tossed it onto the grave without pause. Her tears spilled down her face and dragged the eyeliner with it. “I got’em all. I got’em good.”

Thunder rolled through the valley. She inhaled to smell the rain on the wind. The first drops hit her forehead. Her arms spread wide as she closed her eyes. The rain came down.

It took her time to work out her travel. She searched online and reviewed as many pictures as she could. She practiced by making sure the coffee was always fresh in her office (TICK, at Starbucks picking up a large carrier and TOCK, filling the coffee maker’s glass pot). But before long, she was TICK in the car with the man who slid on the ice and careened over the overpass barrier and TOCK on the sidewalk of the overpass. Together, the man and she watched his car smash into the pavement below.

And every time she moved, every time she saved a life or stopped crime, she had one thought. Every time she moved, she thought, “If I only had this power when my baby died.”

As she crossed over the junction that led to the nuclear power plant and federal prison, she smiled at the miles to go sign. It wasn’t far now. She rubbed her tummy pooch. “Not long now, baby.”

She turned the radio on as she drove the rental car over the first causeway. The bridge spanned the first of two rivers that surrounded the barrier islands. It rose high in the air, giving a wide view of the lush island dotted with expensive housing. She cranked the beach music louder as she drove over the second causeway.

At the first street, she turned off the highway. Driving down a quiet lane lined with 1950 TV sitcom houses, she stopped at the intersection. She looked left and right. Without a car in sight, she steered her car towards public parking. Hers was the only car in the lot.

She pressed the button on her keyring to lock the doors of the car. She climbed the wood stairs to the walkway that crossed over the State protected dunes. At the first step of sand, she kicked off her shoes and buried her toes in the beach. She inhaled deep and smiled.

“You know, I don’t think we need your father.” She patted her belly as she watched the sunrise. “And he won’t find us here. Don’t worry, little one. We’re safe.”

Between steps, she would look up at the high shelves. To someone so small, the shelves looked like giant metal trees that housed books rather than leaves, birds and bugs. When she slowed to reach out her hand to try to touch a tome on her level, her mother would pull her along. She would focus on her feet again and forget the books. She marched along until her mother reached the check-in desk.

All she could see was cheap, wood paneling. The blue, industrial carpeting had been swept clean before opening, so nothing interesting to put in her mouth there. Her mother pulled her fingers away to lift her purse to the counter top she could see. She raised her arms for a moment and fused to be picked up. When her mother didn’t respond immediately, she wrapped an arm around her mother’s polyester pant leg.

She looked back at the book shelves, bigger than trees. Bigger than the special tree Daddy lets her climb in the back yard. She stuck her thumb in her mouth to suck. Her fingers rubbed the material of her mother’s pants. The words over her head were nothing more than garbled gibber-gabber. Unable to resist the pull any longer, she released her mother’s leg, removed the thumb from her mouth (two arms meant better balance) and wobbled her way back towards the books.

Only my ears hear the sound. Munching – small teeth gnawing against some nut. As I become perfectly still, sinking a bit deeper in the snow, I inhale slow so I don’t draw attention of myself. I smell it. Yes, only a few paces away.

I scrunch down low. My feet pad fast and silent over the surface of the snow until I see it. Just over the curve of the hill, I spot the little, brown fuzzy thing small enough to be a suitable meal. He holds a small nut. Its paws clutch it tight as it trying to break the hard shell.

I stop. I watch. The little, brown fuzzy thing works on that nut over with its teeth until I sure he’s going to pitch it away in frustration. When the small black eyes blink, I move. I pounce.

“Mr. Mufasta!” The elderly woman claps her hand against on the wooden deck attached to the back of her house. Still in her bathrobe and slippers, she zips her down, wooden coat up with her knotted and gnarled hand. “Mr. Mufasta! Here, kitty, kitty, kitty!”

I answer her call, not because she’s calling. I’m full and want to curl up on that big soft sleeping place of hers for a long, long nap. I leap up on to the wood rail and pick my way through the branches to her. She scratches my head, which I love and cannot resist, and petted my back.

“There you are. Where have you been, bad kitty? You know you shouldn’t leave the house.” She picks me up in her arms. I twist so I can see over her shoulder. “You know you can’t handle yourself outside. You could get hurt or worse. Come on. I have a nice bowl of milk with your name on it.”

He took another puff. The sins of the Earth will follow you into heaven, he thought. He had no intention of going back, so he took another long drag. The tobacco and paper burned down to the filter. He pushed the past cigarettes out of the way so he could stubbed the current one out. No, he wouldn’t be going back anytime soon.

Through the café doors walked a middle-aged man in a very fine, grey suit. It matched his grey hair and contrasted his blue eyes. He was surrounded by young men in dark suits and very dark glasses, but that didn’t matter. No, all that mattered was the envelope being delivered to the local police precinct. It outlined the middle-aged man in a very fine suit’s violations of earthly laws – the ones that coincided with his duties. It carried evidence to be used in court as well. Also, it had instructions on which hospital to find the middle-aged man in a very fine suit. It was sealed with an angel’s kiss.

He stood. From his shoulder holsters, he pulled two shiny semi-automatic pistols. The woman with her new boyfriend at the table next to his gasped but not loud enough to alert anyone. He straightened his arms and inhaled deep. He held the unnecessary breath as he squeezed the triggers. No, he wouldn’t be going back anytime soon.

“Yup.” He rocked back on his heels. His sneakers were worn to keep him from falling back. He smiled and rubbed her back. Her arms were folded over her chest. She shivered.

The sky was gray with thick ,light clouds. It caused the green grass to appear darker than it was. The limestone rock that peeked up in patches looked black without the sun. In a dell amongst this vast isle, a cylinder of stone rose to hold a shiny, blue sphere. It made no noise. It didn’t have a sign.

“No, really. This is it?” She sounded a little more annoyed as she took a step closer. The heels on her dress shoes caused her ankles to wobble. She managed to keep from toppling with a shift of her ample hips.

He nodded and stuffed his hand back in his pocket. “It’s the quantum modulator for this planet. It’s perfectly aligned with the magnetic fields and lunar cycles. It’s quite amazing.”

“So, what would happen if I did this – ” She reached out with one finger for the shiny, blue ball.

“NO!”

The planet the humans called Earth, and the rest of the Universe referred to as Sol 345, flipped its axis and spun out of orbit. Skipping by Venus, its atmosphere burned off within a matter of minutes. Its seas boiled away to leave a little water to freeze under the layers of soil. It started its new life in its new orbit.

Now, its moon is a whole different story.

With a finger on the touchpad button of her laptop, she clicked the "Randomizer" link on the stock photograph website. She sat on her worn couch, arms scratched down to the foam, in her woven pajama bottoms and overly large tee shirt. Her hair matted to her head with a day’s worth of natural grease. She rubbed her nose and sniffed. She clicked her built-in mouse again.

Picture after picture popped up after the website reloaded in her browser window. She sighed at the third or fourth picture. She frowned after twelve. Click. Click. Click.

The small, black cat walked behind her on the back of the couch. He paused to glance over her shoulder to look at the screen. But with a blink of his large, yellow eyes, the cat continued along his way to the opposite arm. She ignored his claws sinking deep and pulling up foam.

She pushed the dirty plate, half full bowel of cereal, and an empty glass out of the way to place her laptop on the coffee table. Behind the screen, a tall stack of books and magazines threatened to topple and take the computer out. She pushed her knitting, a thin scarf from a cheap spool of yarn, to the side of the books. The woven basket of potpourri couldn’t compete with the dried, stuck-on food on the dishes.

She clicked on her mouse once more. She sat up once the picture appeared. She tilted her head to the right as if voices could be heard from places other than her television. With another mouse click, she opened her word processor and began to type.