Along Came a Spider

“It’s the key picture here, the central one. He wants to be the star of all this.”
    Sampson was leaning against a wall of photos and news clippings. “Why no fingerprints, Dr. Freud?”
    “He must know we have his fingerprints on file somewhere. Makes me think he may have been wearing some kind of disguise at the school. Maybe he put on makeup right here before he went off to school. He could be a stage actor. I don’t think we’ve seen his face yet.”
    “I think the boy has big plans. He definitely wants to be a star,” Sampson said.
    I want to be somebody!

CHAPTER 13

    MAGGIE ROSE DUNNE had awoken from the strangest sleep of her life. Horrible and indescribable bad dreams.
    She felt as if everything around her were moving in slow motion. She was thirsty. She needed to pee awfully bad.
    I’m too tired this morning, Mom. Please! I don’t want to get up. Don’t want to go to school today. Please, Mom. I don’t feel so good. Honest, I really don’t, Mommy
.
    Maggie Rose opened her eyes. At least she thought she had opened her eyes, but she couldn’t see anything. Nothing at all.
    “
Mommy! Mommy! Mommy
!” Maggie finally screamed, and couldn’t stop screaming.
    For an hour after that, at least that long, she floated in and out of consciousness. She felt weak all over. She floated like a leaf on the hugest river. The currents just took her wherever they wanted.
    She thought about her mom. Did she know Maggie was gone? Was she looking for her now? She had to be looking for her.
    Maybe someone took her arms and legs off. She couldn’t feel them. It must have been long ago.
    It was black. She must be buried in the ground. She must be rotting and becoming a skeleton. Was that why she couldn’t feel her arms and legs?
    Am I going to be like this forever? She couldn’t stand that, and she was crying again. She was so confused. She couldn’t think at all.
    Maggie Rose
could
open and close her eyes, though. At least she
thought
she could. But there was just no difference with her eyes open or closed. Everything was darkness. Either way.
    If she did it over and over, opened and closed her eyes real fast, she saw color.
    Now, inside the blackness, she saw streaks and tears of color. Mostly red and bright yellow.
    Maggie wondered if she might be strapped or tied down. Was that what they really did to you inside a casket? Did they strap you down? Why would they do that? To stop you from getting out of the ground? To keep your spirit under the earth forever and ever?
    Suddenly, she remembered something. Mr. Soneji. A little of the fog that swirled around her cleared away for a second.
    Mr. Soneji had taken her out of school. When had it happened? Why? Where was Mr. Soneji now?
    And Michael! What had happened to Michael? They had left school together. She remembered that much.
    She moved then, and the most amazing thing happened. She discovered that
she could roll herself over
.
    That’s what Maggie Rose did. She rolled over, and was suddenly up against something.
    She could feel her whole body again. She still had a body to feel. She was absolutely certain she had her body and that she wasn’t a skeleton.
    And Maggie screamed!
    She had rolled into
someone
or
something
.
    Someone else
was there in the dark with her.
    Michael?
    It had to be Michael.
    “
Michael
?” Maggie’s voice was so low it was barely a whisper. “Michael? Is that you?”
    She waited for an answer.
    “Michael?” she whispered louder.
    “Michael, c’mon. Please talk to me.”
    Whoever it was wouldn’t answer. It was more terrifying than being alone.
    “Michael… It’s me… Don’t be afraid… It’s Maggie… Michael, please wake up.
    “Oh, Michael, please… Please, Shrimpie. I was just kidding about your dopey school shoes. C’mon, Michael. Talk to me, Shrimpie. It’s Dweebo Dido.”

CHAPTER 14

    THE DUNNE HOUSE was what local real-estate mavens might call Lutyens-style neo-Elizabethan. Neither Sampson nor I had seen too many of those in Southeast D.C.
    Inside, the house had the serenity and diversity I guess might be common among the rich. There were a lot of expensive “things.” Art Deco plaques, and oriental screens, a French sundial, a Turkestan rug, what looked like a Chinese or Japanese altar table. I remembered something Picasso had once said: “Give me a museum, and I’ll fill it.”
    There was a small bathroom off one of the formal sitting rooms. Chief of Detectives George Pittman grabbed me and pulled