The Spider Bites by Medora Sale Page B

a little smaller than my old ones.
    â€œThose trousers are going to be too large for you, sir,” said the salesman. “Try these.” He handed me an impossibly small pair.
    â€œI won’t get into those,” I said.
    â€œTry them on, sir,” he insisted.
    I came out of the dressing room and looked in the mirror. A bearded stranger looked back at me. I hadn’t been that thin for fifteen years. Not since I was twenty. The sun had turned my face into leather. But the pants fit.
    â€œI’m in a hurry,” I said. “I need these right away.”
    â€œCan you give us an hour to do the cuffs?”
    â€œI can if you can find me a pair of jeans to wear right now,” I said. “And I’ll come back for these after lunch.”
    I needed to look good enough to buy a decent lunch. And maybe even go and see my lawyer. I was hungry, dammit. I wanted food. I wanted a place to live and a job. And my good name back. Maybe that would even give me…What? What else had I lost?
    My wife. She wasn’t going to be as easy to replace as a pair of pants.
    * * *
    It was four o’clock before I was walking back down the street toward my apartment. I was ready to have a talk with Cheryl.
    A siren screamed behind me. Then another one. First a fire truck tore past, then an ambulance and two police cars. Another fire truck followed them. Not a routine call, I thought automatically. Something big had happened.
    Then I saw the flashing lights. There were already cars parked down the street. The vehicles that had passed me were second and third backup units. There were too many emergency vehicles to fit on the street. The air was full of smoke.
    There was a crowd on the sidewalk ahead of me. Two men in uniform were trying to hold it back. I crossed the street to the park and stood beside a tree. The air stank of burning furniture and water on charred wood. And worse things.
    The wind rose and blew some of the smoke away. I could see what was going on. Across the street was my old house. I’d lived there for three happy years. Then I’d gone back to it in December, when Angela threw me out. To hide and lick my wounds. It was the closest thing I had to a home.
    Two paramedics were carrying a body bag on a stretcher. Someone had died in the fire.

CHAPTER THREE

SUSANNA
    T he paramedics pushed the stretcher into an ambulance. The driver yelled at someone. I could see his problem. He was stuck. There was a fire truck in front of him and three police cars beside him. Men in uniform were standing around, doing nothing. He walked from group to group. At each one he pointed at his vehicle. It was almost funny, but it wasn’t.
    Five minutes later the fire truck left. The cops in uniform climbed into their cars. They turned around and left. Things were winding down.
    The ambulance made its way around the remaining vehicles. It drove off at a slow, steady pace. Its emergency lights and siren were off. There was no need to hurry. It was going to the morgue, not the hospital. The streetlights came on. It was beginning to get dark. The crowd started drifting away. Only a handful of curiosity seekers were left. What were they hoping to see? More bodies?
    A woman came running up the street toward the house. Her black coat flapped behind her in the wind. Her hair was blowing across her face, getting in her eyes. She saw the little crowd of people and slowed down, gasping for breath. She pushed back her hair and bent over. Someone from the emergency team walked over to her and patted her shoulder. She straightened up and said something. He shook his head.
    The streetlight was shining full on her face now. It was Susanna, Cheryl’s daughter. But where was Cheryl? I hadn’t seen her in the crowd. She should have been home by now. Maybe she was next door. Susanna buried her face in her hands. The man patted her shoulder again. She moved away from his touch and reached into her pocket for a tissue.