The Web

Robin smiled. "Hey, fuzzy one. You feel a little like Spike."

As if encouraged, the spider continued up Robin's forearm and came to rest on her upper sleeve, its weight pulling down at the fabric.

"My, Emma, you've been eating well."

The spider curled around Robin's bicep, hugging the arm, then inched forward, like a steeplejack scaling a pole.

Coming to a stop on Robin's shoulder.

Nuzzling the side of Robin's neck.

Stopping right near the jugular. All the while, Robin talked and stroked.

"See, Alex, we're buddies. Why don't you see if there's anything in the tank?"

I started to put my hand in, then stopped- was there another one in there? Mr. Emma?

Oh hell, hadn't I read somewhere that the females were the tough ones? Removing the glass lid completely, I peered down, saw nothing, and plunged in. My hand groped leaves and soil and branches. Then something hard and grainy- lava rock.

Something underneath. Paper.

I pulled it out. Another folded card.

Too dark to read. I found a tank whose blue light was strong enough.

Impressive though Emma may be at first sight,

Everything's relative- size as well as time.

Relative.

Something bigger than the tarantula?

My eyes drifted to the last row of tanks.

One aquarium, larger than the others.

Twice as large.

A big piece of slate resting atop the lid.

What lived there was twice Emma's length.

My brontosaurus… significantly more venomous.

Over a foot of flat-bodied leather whip. Spiked tail, ante

Scores of legs… I remembered how the front ones had pawed the air furiously as we approached.

The flat, cold hostility.

I haven't quite trained it to love me.

Sadistic old bastard.

Robin was reading over my shoulder, Emma still resting on hers.

"Oh," she said.

Before she could get brave again, I ran to the back of the zoo.

The centipede was just where it had been the first time, half out of its cave, the rear quarters concealed.

It saw me before I got there, ante

All the front legs pawing this time.

Battling the air.

Everything's relative.

Including my willingness to go along with his little game.

I was about to leave when I noticed another difference about the large aquarium.

The entire tank was raised off the table.

Resting on something. More pieces of slate.

When I'd seen it a few nights ago, it had sat flush.

I ran my hand along the surface of the table. Dust and chips.

Moreland remodeling.

Creating a miniature crawlspace- it looked just wide enough to accommodate my hand.

As I extended my arm, the centipede coiled. As my fingers touched the edge of the slate platform, the creature attacked the glass. A cracking sound made me jump back.

The pane was intact, but I could swear I heard the glass hum.

Robin behind me now.

I tried again, and once more the monster lunged.

Kept lunging.

Using its knobby head to butt the glass while snapping its body into foot-long curlicues.

Something oily oozed down the glass.

Like that rattler-in-a-jar game in old Westerns; I knew I was safe, but each blow sent a jolt to my heart.

Robin made a small, high, wordless sound. I turned to see the spider doing push-ups on her shoulder.

Jammed my hand under the slate and kept it there.

The centipede kept hurling itself. More cracking sounds. More venomous exudate.

Then something coarse and throaty I could have sworn was a growl came from inside the aquarium, rising above the rain.

I groped hyperactively. Touched something waxy and yanked back.

The centipede stopped attacking.

Tired, finally?

It glared and started again.

Crack, crack, crack… I was back in. The waxy thing felt inert, but God knew… predators… pull it out. Stuck.

Crack.

Right angles… more paper? Thicker than the card.

The centipede continued to tantrum and secrete.

I clawed the wax thing, got a purchase with my nails and pulled hard enough to feel it in my shoulder.

The wax thing slipped out of reach and I fell back, kept my balance, and crouched, eye to eye with the centipede.

Separated from its maniacal thrusts by a quarter inch of glass that trembled with each impact.

Its primitive face dead as rock. Then an infusion of rage turned it nearly human.

Human like a death-row resident.

The tank rocked.

I found the corner of the wax thing again, pinched, clawed, scraped… crack… missed, tried again- it moved, then resisted.

Stuck to the tabletop? Taped. The bastard.

Hooking a nail under the tape, I tugged upward, felt it give.

One more yank and the damned thing came out.

Thick wad of waxy paper, the edges crumbling between my fingers as I stepped away as fast as I could.

Robin followed me. So did Emma's black eyes.

Crack, crack… the beast reared up against the lid, trying to force it off. Noble in its own way, I supposed. A hundred-legged Atlas, fighting for liberation. I could smell its fury, bitter, steaming, hormonally charged.

Another push. The slate atop the lid bounced and I worried it would break the glass.

Spotting a flowerpot at the end of the aisle, filled with dirt, I used it for ballast.

The centipede continued lunging. The entire front of the aquarium was filmy with slime.

Crack.

"Nighty-night, you prick."

Taking Robin by the hand, I hurried back to the front of the insectarium, stopping at a spot where the light through one of the broken windows was strongest. Then I realized Emma was still with us- why had I ever worried about her?

Everything's relative… time, too.

Moreland's point: nothing was what it seemed… I unfolded the wax paper. More pieces flaked off.

Dry. Old. Dark paper- black or deep blue, oversized, scored with light lines.

Blueprints.

Squares and circles, semicircles and rectangles. Symbols I couldn't understand.

Lines tipped with arrow points. Directional angles?

An aerial layout. The rectangles and squares were probably buildings.

The largest structure on the south side. Nearby a round thing- water waves within.

The front fountain.

The main house.

Oriented, I located the insectarium with its thirteen steps and central spine, lots of small rectangles angling off like vertebrae.

The baths…

I found my office, Moreland's, the other outbuildings.

To the east, a mass of overlapping amorphous shapes that had to be treetops. The edges of the banyan forest.

A map of the estate's center.

But what did he want me to see?

The longer I studied the sheet, the more confusing it got. Networks of lines, as dense as the streets on an urban map. Shapes that had no meaning.

Words.

In Japanese.