Geena called Tina Whitewall’s parents and left shortly after to talk to them. Luke was still standing in front of the whiteboard, his nervousness creating a stir among the silverfish. Andi didn’t have the time or patience to deal with the man’s bad conscience and hoped George would take over for him. His partner sighed. Yellow mixed with a muddy brown. Exasperation and wariness.
“Is there anything you haven’t told us, Luke?”
“Concerning the case? No. I think we have all bases covered.”
George just lifted a brow. Luke threw his hands in the air, the marker still clutched between his fingers.
“I’m sorry, okay? I know things are far from ideal, and I’m working hard to make it right, which would be easier if you wouldn’t give me the feeling you’re this close”—he indicated a hair’s breadth with his thumb and forefinger—“to murdering me. I fucked up, because I misjudged the situation. I can’t do more than apologize and try to correct my mistake.”
Andi felt George’s gaze on him. He looked up, conveying with his body language that he was way too exhausted to spare the energy to have emotions regarding Luke that went beyond a low-simmering anger he couldn’t stop without using strength he desperately needed for other things—like staying awake.
“We get it, Luke. And we’re not out for your blood. Too much hassle. We just want this done and over with. You gave us a choice between your way and ours, and we let ourselves be convinced, which is on us, I give you that. I don’t mean to be cruel, but I’m sure you can see how it’s hard for us to trust you at the moment. Let’s try and focus on the case, put everything else on the back burner.”
Luke’s shoulders slumped. Andi could taste his disappointment in the air, sharp as his nail polish, unpleasant not just for the senses of the silverfish and spiders, but also for Andi on a level that went beyond pheromones and electric charges, into territory where these charges meant something more than just what the arthropods felt. They acquired a meaning Andi had never been good with, something he knew triggered a certain response in most socialized blobs, the urge to smooth things over, because discord in the clan meant fewer chances at survival. Back then, when humans had been little more than apes with attitude, the instinct was there, buried under civilization, another concept he had no use for; still he caught the currents, he was part of the world of blobs, however fleeting. Sometimes he felt like he was sitting in a watercolor picture after somebody had tossed an entire glass of liquid over it, all the colors blurring, no shapes, no borders, no sense. He knew the colors, could even deduce their meaning, but it never meant anything to him beyond a theoretical concept. Luke’s discomfort was like an itch Andi could never hope to scratch. He really hated his life sometimes.
George must have picked up on whatever Andi was broadcasting—he was sensitive like that—because he managed to send Luke away under the pretense of preparing for the interview with LeClerk.
17. Square One?
THE DRIVEto House Cusabo was silent. They both needed time to think, time to recharge what energy they could get. Whatever would come of this interview, George was determined to call it a day afterward and head home. A nice hot bath was in order, perhaps after some workout to get rid of part of the tension. Andi had a very nice tub, more like a jacuzzi, which they could use together. Yes, a bath, some soothing tea, chamomile or lavender, a few hours of forgetting everything. Sounded heavenly.
“You’re feeling—better, hopeful.”
“What does that look like to you?”
“A mix of purple and indigo, some blue. All muted, not in a bad way. Not oppressed. Tastes like apples after the first frost, pinecones, and resin.”
“Resin tastes good?” George steered the Escalade toward the gates of House Cusabo. Only one news van remained, as far as he could see from the distance. The others had probably gone to Chief Norris’s house.
“It’s…. not bad. The scent, mainly. An appealing combination.”
“For you or them?”
Andi shuffled in his seat. He always did that when he didn’t know the answer to something.
“I don’t know. Hope is something good, so the taste must be good? Also, resin is antibacterial. Ants use it to keep their nests free of fungi and bacteria. It’s positive, I guess.”
“You won’t see me eating pinecones anytime soon. Too crunchy, for one.”
“I guess. The taste is linked to the colors and the emotion. I have no way of… of deciphering it. To them, you taste good and—”
“Wait a moment. We’re in the car. How do you—”
“There’s a spider under my seat, close to the back, must have gotten there yesterday, I think, plus some ants. Don’t worry, they’re almost dead. No food here.”
“Do you know where they are? So we can throw them out?” George was already setting the blinker. He didn’t want arthropods in his beautiful car. It was an arthropod-free zone. There had to be boundaries. He looked expectantly at Andi.
“The ants are in the trunk. I’ll try to get the spider.”
The gate to House Cusabo wasn’t far, half a mile perhaps, but this couldn’t wait. George got out, watched Andi climbing back to lay down flat on the back seat and reach under the passenger seat. After a short moment, he pulled it back out with a brownish spider half the size of his palm. George could clearly see the eyes and the black pattern on the back. He shuddered. Andi got up from the seat and crawled backward out of the car, holding the spider carefully. It sat there, on his palm, judging George with its eight eyes. Andi’s eyes were glassy.
“Warm, air, too bright, don’t forget, you have two legs, not eight, thump, thump, thump, fsss, don’t move, high up, need to hide, crcht, click, click—”
The spider’s mandibles moved in time with Andi’s clicking sounds. This was a first, Andi dealing with a single arthropod in front of him, sucked into its senses. George quickly decided that he liked this even less than when his partner was buried under an avalanche of thousands of them. This felt personal, direct, not like a thin web with so many connections, it didn’t matter when some ripped because there were always others to take their place. No, this reminded George of the dreams Andi sometimes had, when his subconscious was dragged into one arthropod mind. It was almost always a nightmare with the animal in question dying and Andi waking covered in sweat. The spider seemed to directly communicate with Andi, forcing him into an endless hall of mirrors, without the slightest chance to find the exit because he was the spider (was he was the spider? was he?) George could see it clearly, how Andi’s legs twitched when the spider made a slight move, the barriers thinning, the frontiers vanishing, and at the heart of it all, George’s greatest fear, that one day, Andi might decide it wasn’t worth the fight, that staying in this other world was preferable to dealing with whatever madness humans could come up with.
He stepped forward, ignored the spider, suppressed his natural aversion, a reaction triggered by his lizard brain, not conscious thought, and put a hand on Andi’s arm, the one with the spider. A shudder ran through his partner and the spider stirred, backtracking to Andi’s fingertips, where it clung for a moment, dangling over the edge of the void, until it fell, down into the grass, where it scurried away. Andi let his hand fall to his side, his body stiff.
“Are you okay, Andi?”
