Clark didn't even realize that he had placed his hand back over his thudding heart.
"I don't know what visceral means," Clark whispered, "but you sure as hell got the fear thing down cold."
Pulling his trench coat collar higher, he hunched farther behind the wheel.
THE FLIGHT Stewart McQueen had taken from Maine to Florida had been as pleasant as it could be for the most famous novelist in America. Only ten people in the first-class cabin approached him to say they were interested in becoming writers, too. A miraculously small number considering how many usually pestered him.
It never failed to amaze McQueen. Young, old, educated, morons. Everyone he ever met swore that they could be writers just because they knew a few English words and could-when pressed-actually spell some of them. None of them realized that few professional writers stumbled into the job as a lark or a second career. Writing was an obsession that started young and, more than likely, never panned out.
On his way off the plane, the pilot bounded from the cockpit to pitch him an idea. McQueen brushed him off. The same went for three hopeful flight attendants.
As he walked through the airport, McQueen pulled his Red Sox baseball cap low over his eyes. Even so a handful of people spied him as he made his way through the terminal. Some asked him questions about agents and publishers. Most were autograph seekers who shoved dog-eared copies of some of his own thick paperbacks under his sharp nose.
McQueen dodged them all and hightailed it outside. The woman who rented him his car made him autograph her copy of The Gas Mileage, a terrifying sixteen-part serial thriller he'd written a few years before. It was all about prison inmates, supernatural powers and an evil cadre of killer cars that got only eight miles to the gallon.
In the farthest airport parking lot, McQueen stopped his rental car. Fishing in his luggage, he pulled out a police scanner he'd brought from home. Hooking it up, he latched it to the dashboard with a pair of roach clips.
Most of the sightings of the creature had taken place east of Orlando. He struck off in that direction. By the time he began prowling the streets, night had long taken hold of the Florida peninsula.
McQueen didn't believe in God. Satan, however, was another story. Given the content of his books, the Prince of Darkness buttered his daily bread.
As he rode along through the enveloping black night, eyes peeled for signs of strange movement, ears alert to the staticky squawk of the scanner, Stewart McQueen found himself uttering a soft prayer to the king of all that was unholy.
"Dear Angel of the Bottomless Pit, your Satanic Majesty and Father of Lies. Hi. It's me again. I know there's not much left of my eternal soul, but whatever's there is yours. Just give an old pal a break here, would you?"
Hoping that would be enough to kick start Old Bendy into lending a scaly hand in ending his current bout of writer's block, McQueen raised his penitent head. The instant he did so, a horrifying thought suddenly occurred to him.
His head snapped back down so fast, he smacked it off the steering wheel.
"But when I finally do die, just don't stick me in the same pit as John Grisham," he pleaded. "I know he has to have the same deal with you as me. Hail Satan, and amen."
THROUGH THE SLIDING peephole in the storage room behind the bar, Juan Jiminez peered at the shadowy figure.
The stranger had picked the darkest booth in the Roadkill. According to the bartender, he'd been there for more than two hours. Just sitting and staring.
As he studied the mysterious figure, Juan felt a puff of hot breath on his neck.
"You think he's a cop?" an anxious voice whispered.
Juan pulled his eyes away from the peephole. Ronnie Marzano was standing on his tiptoes trying to see through the opening. His black-rimmed eyes were worried.
"I don't know what he is, but he ain't no cop," Juan said with snide confidence. Without another glance out into the bar, he slid the cardboard shutter back over the opening.
Ronnie blinked hard as he turned his anxious gaze back to the storage room. "Yeah?" he said. "I hope you're right. I got a lot riding on this."
At that, Juan snorted. "You do?" he mocked. There were five more men arranged around the room. Each joined in the derisive laughter.
Ronnie felt like the odd man out. The other five were Cubans, like Jiminez. All six had come to the U.S. ten years ago, floating on a waterlogged boat made from rotted wooden planks lashed to four rusty oil drums.
There was a camaraderie derived from shared hardship among those six that Ronnie could never be a part of. Not that their friendship was anything he really needed. All Ronnie really wanted out of this deal was some free blow and a couple of bucks for his trouble.
A stack of corrugated cardboard boxes lined one wall of the big storage room. Each box was filled with two dozen tightly wrapped plastic bundles. More than a million dollars' worth of cocaine, smuggled by Juan Jiminez into the United States from South America. Ronnie had done his part by setting up the meeting between Jiminez and a local distributor out of Miami.
As Jiminez walked back across the room and plopped into a wooden office chair, Ronnie tracked him with his eyes.
"I'm the one who sets up the meetings here," Ronnie reminded the Cuban. "I'm the one whose neck's on the line."
He left out the fact that his brother-in-law owned the bar. Ronnie also neglected to mention that the heat had been threatening to turn up on the Roadkill lately. Word had begun to filter out into the surrounding neighborhood about what was really going on at the dingy little bar.
Ronnie rubbed his tired, bloodshot eyes. "I gotta go to the can," he mumbled.
Leaving the group of armed Cuban expatriates, he ducked through an ancient door that led into a short hallway. Down at one end was the main bar area. In the other direction were the rest rooms and an emergency exit.
Ronnie headed for the bathrooms. He was pushing open the men's-room door when he noticed that the exit at the end of the hall was open a crack. Through the opening bugs flitted around a tired parking-lot light.
"Someone skipped out on their tab," he muttered as he walked over to close the door.
An ancient cloakroom was next to the door. As he passed by the deep alcove, Ronnie saw a hint of movement from the shadowy interior.
Suddenly cautious, he stopped before the room. "Who's in there?" Ronnie asked.
It was quiet for a moment. So quiet that Ronnie thought he had imagined the movement. He was ready to chalk it all up to jangled nerves when a face appeared from the darkness.
The man was short. Had to be, since the face was only about five feet off the floor. The rest of his body remained obscured in shadow.
"Where is the money?" the stranger asked. His voice was flat, without any intonation at all. Almost mechanical.
"Huh?" Ronnie asked, his brow furrowing.
And in the moment he uttered that single, confused syllable, the rest of the man appeared.
Ronnie sucked in a shocked gasp.
The human head was grafted onto the most frightening creature Ronnie Marzano had ever seen. Spiky black hair covered the bulbous body. Four of eight legs had carried the beast out into the hallway. The rest were still hidden somewhere in the shadows beyond. The monster had to be huge.
Ronnie had seen the news reports of the giant spider on TV all day. Until now he'd assumed it was a hoax.
He wanted to run. Fear kept him from fleeing. Ronnie fell dumbly back against the wall.
"I have been sent to collect money," the spider said. "According to the human who sent me here, this drinking establishment is utilized as a secret exchange by elements of the subculture that traffics in illegal narcotics. Yet, despite this fact I am unable to detect particulates in the air that would indicate a large quantity of cash. Therefore, I ask again, where is the money?"