Silk - Caitlin R. Kiernan [133]
“I can’t do this,” she said, and Spyder only shrugged.
“Then go back to the house. I can carry him in alone.”
She almost did, almost left Spyder to do this crazy, awful thing herself, almost left her to deal with that face, the hollows where his eyes had been. Spyder squatted beside him, brushed black hair from his face.
“No,” Niki said. “I can’t let you do this by yourself. Let’s do it, now, before someone sees us up here.”
“Oh, Byron,” Spyder whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
When she was ready, they carried the dead boy across the plank bridge and down to the house.
Spyder laid him on the kitchen table, asked Niki to get a washcloth from the bathroom, please, something to clean his hands and face with, to scrub away the dirt, the gore on his gray cheeks. His legs hung off the end, deadweight pendulums, but Spyder carefully arranged his arms at his sides so they wouldn’t flop over the edge. Niki obediently brought her a washcloth, glad for something so simple to do, for those few moments filled with the imperfect illusion of sanity; Spyder soaked the cloth with warm water from the kitchen sink, wrung it out and started to clean his face.
“We have to call the police now,” and Niki was standing right by the phone, only had to lift the receiver and dial 911, but Spyder shook her head and wiped at a rust-colored stain on the side of his nose.
“No police, Niki. Didn’t I already say no police?”
Niki looked at the phone, sick of the flat, helpless feeling, sick of walking on eggshells for Spyder, crazy Spyder, and this was going too far, humoring her this time. This was where she had to do something.
“I’m not asking your permission,” she said as she reached for the telephone, “I’m just telling you what I have to do. You’re not thinking straight right now.”
And for an answer, Spyder set the washcloth down and picked up the big carving knife still lying on the counter where she’d sliced the onion the night before, stepped past Niki and made a loop of the bandaged phone cord, slipped the knife inside, electrical tape pulled tight around the blade.
“Put it down,” she said, no malice in her voice, nothing but promise, and Niki understood the rest, put it down or there won’t be a goddamned telephone to discuss, and the knife aimed straight at her heart.
“Spyder,” and the cord pulled tighter, then, only a little more pressure and the blade would cut them off from the world again.
“When do I ever ‘think straight,’ huh? I’m taking my meds, and aren’t they supposed to make me ‘think straight’?”
“That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” but she hung the phone up, stepped back, more distance between her and the knife, and Spyder glanced down at it. “Jesus, Niki, is that what you think? That I would ever hurt you?”
“Sometimes I don’t know what to think anymore.”
“If that’s what you think of me, you don’t understand any of this. If that’s what you think, you should just get the hell out of here now,” words pushed out hard and fast, indifferent cold melting away, and she dropped the cord, hurled the knife at the sink, and plates, dirty glasses and coffee cups shattered there.
“Everything got messed up, Niki. You weren’t here so I don’t expect you to know what I’m talking about. I tried to make it right again, but I couldn’t. This is all I can do for him. It’s the last thing left, and I have to do it.”
“How am I supposed to understand when you won’t tell me anything, Spyder? Am I just supposed to stand around and watch you mess your life up worse? Screw mine