Free House of Skin by Tim Curran Page B

same thing night after night after night. I’m losing my mind just like Soames.
    Yet he knew it wasn’t true. He wasn’t going mad and the dream didn’t happen every night. Maybe once or twice a week. But that was up from one or twice a month as it had been in the past. When had he last had it? Two nights ago. It was happening with greater frequency now. There was no denying it. And when things happen with frequency you can believe there is a reason for it.
    Take it easy, he told himself. You’re under a lot of stress right now what with Eddy fucking Zero and Lisa Lochmere. You’re okay. Just keep a lid on it.
    Keep a lid on it?
    Sure, sure. Keep that lid screwed down tight until the pressure gets to be too much and it pops open. That’s why they call it flipping your lid.
    He reached over for the glass of water he’d left on the nightstand. He drank down what was left of it. Then he lit a cigarette.
    The eyes, he thought, those goddamned eyes. And that voice. What the hell did it all mean?
    Dreams were symbolic weren’t they? Some said that. Others said they were just the mind’s way of cleaning out the trash, sweeping the cellar of the subconscious clean for the day. If that was true, then he needed a bigger broom, because something in there wasn’t moving. It was snagged like a nail in a wall.
    He thought, for not the first time, of talking to Lisa about it. But he couldn’t and he wouldn’t. He didn’t want her thinking he was some nut.
    She wouldn’t think that.
    But maybe his greatest fear was that if he talked about it, he’d lose it completely and end up spending his days strapped to a cot like Soames.
    He butted his smoke and closed his eyes.
    There were no dreams.

LAIR OF THE SPIDER
----
    It was late and Spider was still in bed.
    Like a mountain moonflower, he rarely bloomed before darkness. There was nothing supernatural about this, he simply hated daylight. He hated the noise and the confusion and the crowds and most particularly, the people themselves. Staring at him. Always staring at him.
    It was like he was freak or something.
    The night was better. There were plenty of shadows to hide in, plenty of dark cubbyholes to lose yourself in. His particular eccentricities were well masked by the gloom. And in the seamy night world of San Francisco, he fit right in.
    He pulled himself out of bed and went to the window. The moon was rising in the sky.
    Out there, somewhere, he knew, the police were probably scurrying about like worrisome ants, trying to restore law and order. There was a killer in their midst, they probably thought. And they were right, or nearly so. But they didn’t understand anything but the feeble evidence their near-sighted eyes gave them. And it was precious little of the big picture. They knew a murder had been committed, a young woman had been butchered, her life taken. But they didn’t know why. They and their attendant psychiatrists probably thought the motive was lust or dementia. But it was neither. The reasons were far beyond what their limited mentalities could grasp.
    It brought Spider no end of amusement to think of them and the reasons they pinned on the crime. They were idiots as all lawmakers and freedom takers were. They saw nothing but the most obvious.
    Spider checked the time. Before long he had to meet Eddy and begin the night’s work. It was time to get ready. He pulled out his battered leather case of knives and examined them one by one. He sharpened their blades and polished them with oil and a soft cloth. You could always tell the level of a craftsman by how he cared for his tools. And Spider’s were gleaming.
    He dressed before a full-length mirror, choosing the proper leathers and denims. It was important to look your best. When he took another life this night, he wanted said victim to realize that he or she wasn’t merely dealing with some drug-crazed maniac. He wanted them to know they were being killed by a professional, a specialist. He wanted them