never heard of an ambush by spiders.
“ Retreat!” he yelled, pushing Chang toward the front of the hall, but Chang merely fell, eight-legged shapes whispering across his face. In his flashlight’s glow Tanner saw one of the shapes scuttle inside Chang’s collar and vanish beneath his clothes.
Instinctively he checked his arms, the front of his flak jacket. He saw one spider clinging to his utility belt and flicked it away. Another one, larger-a tarantula?-had landed on his trouser leg and was curling up in a defensive posture, threatening no harm, but Tanner kicked it loose anyway, not wanting the goddamned thing on his person.
He couldn’t force a retreat-his men, who had been bunched up at the midpoint of the hall and had received the brunt of the downpour, were incapable of withdrawing, incapable of anything except slapping at the spiders that plastered them in quivering bunches.
All right, go forward.
He grabbed the shotgun out of Weldham’s hands, jammed it into the door beside the dead bolt, and fired point-blank, the Magnum slug cratering the metal. Still the door didn’t give. He fired twice more-the Benelli’s standard load this time, 00 buckshot shells-the reports thunderous in the confined space.
One side of the door was a scorched, smoking ruin. The lock had been torn apart. Tanner gave the door his shoulder, and Chang, recovering sufficiently to assist, rammed it at the same time. The door heaved open, tilting on its hinges.
Tanner rushed through-he had no time to slice the pie, and no patience for it either. Dimly he knew that Treat would be counting on him to make the kind of stupid mistake he’d just made.
Well, come on, asshole, Tanner thought. Give me your best shot.
His flashlight swept a large bedroom. Table lamps on nightstands flanking a neatly made bed. Some kind of aquarium in the corner-no, a terrarium, housing another spider, this one behind glass. TV against one wall. A few other items of furniture, none big enough to hide behind.
No C.J.
No Gavin Treat.
Where was he? Bathroom?
Tanner ducked inside. No one there.
The closet, then.
He kicked open the closet door and stepped back, expecting a volley of shots. Nothing happened. He risked a look inside and saw shirts and trousers meticulously arrayed on wooden hangers, several pairs of shoes, a tie rack-and a hole in the wall.
It was a neat rectangular hole, obviously cut with care some time ago. The panel of cutout drywall leaned beside it.
Tanner reviewed the apartment’s layout in his mind and saw that this closet was adjacent to the stairwell.
“Fuck.” Into his radio mike: “He’s taking the stairs, repeat, taking the stairs. Could be going up or down. Watch the lobby and the roof. Control the perimeter. And we’ve got officers down-send an RA.” Rescue ambulance.
He turned to look at Chang and found him leaning on the bed, a sick look on his face. “Itches,” he managed to say.
“Where’d it bite you?”
Chang touched his breastbone. “Here.”
Tanner remembered the spider that had skittered under Chang’s collar. He tried to remember if any spiders injected enough venom to prove fatal to a healthy adult. The black widow, maybe. And the brown recluse? He wasn’t sure. “You’re not gonna die on me, are you?” he asked with a strained smile.
“I’m okay. Just get that cocksucker.”
Chang rarely swore. Tanner liked hearing it. It showed he had some fight left.
“Count on it,” he promised, and he went into the closet again.
The crawlway in the wall was narrow. This Treat must be as thin-shouldered as a girl. With an effort Tanner forced his way through. Then he was on the stairwell landing.
Treat could have gone up or down. The lobby ought to be secured by the unit on the ground.
Tanner went up, wishing they had a helicopter to cover the roof. Treat couldn’t get anywhere if he was pinned in a chopper’s searchlight. But Captain Garcia hadn’t wanted to call in an air unit-afraid the beat of the rotors would tip off the suspect.
He ascended the metal staircase at a run, pausing on the fourth-floor landing to visually clear the hallway. No sign of Treat, so he pounded up the last flight of stairs to the roof access door. Opened it and retreated a step, scanning the roof by degrees, then emerged into the open air and turned instantly to put his back against the stairwell door.
He had an unobstructed view of the entire roof-yards of black tar under the moon and stars.
On the north side, five yards away, lay a dark, prone shape.
Treat? Lying on his belly, armed, sighting his quarry?
Tanner knelt, making a smaller target, then unhooked a smoke grenade from his utility belt. Pulled the pin, lobbed the weapon. It traveled in a high arc and dropped near the shape, releasing a cloud of gray smoke.
The shape didn’t move.
Tanner waited for the smoke to clear, then cautiously approached the shape. As he drew near, he saw that it wasn’t a man. It was a ladder. “Shit.”
The ladder had been fully extended and stretched horizontally between the roof of this building and the one behind it-another apartment complex, as Tanner recalled from his briefing.
Treat must have scrambled across like a monkey on a branch. The other roof was empty. He was already gone.
Tanner used his radio again, telling the deputies on the ground that Treat had escaped via the building to the rear. Garcia’s voice came back to him over his earphone. “We’re sending two units to reconnoiter. He won’t get away that easily.”
He already has, Tanner thought.
Then another voice, which Tanner didn’t recognize, said, “Jesus, what the hell happened in here?”
Backup had reached the apartment, found the four SWAT commandos. Even over his headset Tanner could hear moans of pain. He pictured his men writhing.
“They need antivenin,” Tanner said. “They’ve been bitten by spiders.”
“What kind of spiders?” Garcia snapped.
“All kinds.”
It was true. They had come in every shape and size, even in different hues-some lithe and small like puffballs with threadlike legs, others large and hairy, some jet-black, others brown or reddish.
Tanner took a moment to inspect himself. He found a spider entangled in the laces of his boot and smashed it with his fist. Another one was making its way slowly up his sleeve like a determined climber attacking Everest. He wiped off that one on the stairwell door, leaving a brown smudge.
No others. And none-he patted himself, front and back-none under his clothes, against his skin.
He’d been lucky. As team leader he was supposed to be in front of his men, in a position of maximum exposure, but in this case it had been the safest position to occupy. The rain of spiders had been concentrated in the middle of the hall.
Another minute passed while the units on the ground reconnoitered the second building. Then Garcia reported, “There’s a fire escape from the roof to the ground. Grass near the fire escape has been trampled.”
Tanner sighed. “He’s booked.”
“Roger that. We’re calling in other units to sweep the streets.”
“They won’t find him.”
Garcia’s voice was a dry crackle. “I know.”
“Any sign of the victim?”
“No. Maybe he never had her.”
“Of course he had her,” Tanner snapped.
