Hard Eight (Stephanie Plum 8)

“You look familiar,” he said. “Aren't you a bounty hunter?”

“Yes, and I'm very brave. Except for spiders.” And except for Eddie Abruzzi. Abruzzi knew how to frighten a woman. He knew all the creepy crawly things that were demoralizing and irrationally frightening. Snakes and spiders and ghosts on fire escapes.

The cops exchanged a glance that said girls . . . and swaggered off to the CR-V. They poked their heads inside and a moment later there was a double shriek, and the car door was slammed shut.

“Jesus freaking Christ,” one of them yelled. “Holy crap!”

After a brief discussion it was decided this was beyond the ability of a simple exterminator and, once again, Animal Control was called. An hour later, the CR-V was pronounced spider-free, I possessed a ticket for reckless driving, and I'd exchanged insurance information with the owner of the parked car.

I drove the remaining couple blocks, parked the CR-V, and stumbled into my building. Mr. Kleinschmidt was in the lobby.

“You look terrible,” Mr. Kleinschmidt said. “What happened to you? Are those goose feathers stuck to your shirt? And how'd your shirt get all ripped and grass stained?”

“You don't want to know,” I told him. “It's really ugly.”

“I bet you were feeding the geese at the park,” he said. “You never want to do that. Those geese are animals.”

I gave up a sigh and stepped into the elevator. When I let myself into my apartment I realized something was different. My message light was blinking. Yes. Finally! I punched the button and leaned forward to listen.

“Did you like the spiders?” the voice asked.

I was still standing in the kitchen, sort of dumbstruck by the day, when Morelli showed up. He rapped once on the front door, and the unlocked door swung open. Bob bounded in and began running around, investigating.

“I understand you had a spider problem,” Morelli said.

“That's an understatement.”

“I saw your CR-V in the lot. You trashed the whole right side.”

I played the phone message for him.

“It's Abruzzi,” I said. “It's not his voice on the tape, but he's behind this. He thinks this is some war game. And someone must have followed me to the park. Then they unlocked my car and dumped a load of spiders into it while I was running.”

“How many spiders?”

“Five large tarantulas.”

“I could talk to Abruzzi.”

“Thanks, but I can handle it.” Yeah, right. That's why I ripped the door off a parked car. Truth is, I'd love to have Morelli step in and make Abruzzi go away. Unfortunately, it would send a bad message: Dopey, helpless female needs big strong man to get her out of unfortunate mess.

Morelli gave me the once-over, taking in the grass stains, goose feathers, and rips in my shirt. “I got Bob a hot dog after we walked around the lake, and there was a lot of talk at the concession stand about a woman who'd been attacked by a flock of geese.”

“Hmm. Imagine that.”

“They said she provoked the attack by feeding one of the geese a Cracker Jack.”

“It wasn't my fault,” I said. “Damn stupid geese.”

Bob had been roaming the apartment. He came into the kitchen and smiled up at us. A piece of toilet paper dangled from his lips. He opened his mouth and stuck his tongue out. “Kack!” His mouth opened wider, and he horked up a hot dog, a bunch of grass, a lot of slime, and a wad of toilet paper.

We both stared at the steaming pile of dog barf.

“Well, I guess I should be going now,” Morelli said, looking to the door. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

“Wait a minute. Who's going to clean this up?”

“I'd like to help, but . . . oh man, that smells really bad.” He had his hand over his nose and mouth. “Gotta go,” he said. “Late. Something to do.” He was in the hall. “Maybe you should just leave and rent a new apartment.”