Or perhaps it was because I recalled this man eating an ice cream on a cool morning, his lips sucking busily away like a spider draining a fly, watching me as I drove down Portland Street.
He stopped ten feet from me, the fingers of his right hand unwrapping something held in the palm of his left, until two cubes of sugar were revealed. He popped them into his mouth and began to suck, then folded the wrapper carefully and placed it in the pocket of his jacket. He wore brown polyester trousers held up with a cheap leather belt, a once bright yellow shirt that had now faded to the color of a jaundice victim's face, a vile brown-and-yellow tie, and a brown check polyester jacket. A brown hat shaded his face, and now, as he paused, he removed it and held it loosely in his left hand, patting it against his thigh in a slow, deliberate rhythm.
He was of medium height, five-ten or so, and almost emaciated, his clothes hanging loosely on his body. He walked slowly and carefully, as if he were so fragile that a misstep might cause his leg to snap. His hair was wiry, a combination of red and gray through which patches of pink skin showed. His eyebrows were also red, as were the lashes. Dark brown eyes that were far too small for his face peered out from beneath strange hoods of flesh, as if the skin had been pulled down from his forehead and up from his cheeks, then stitched in place by the corners of his eyes. Blue red bags swelled up from below, so that his vision appeared to be entirely dependent on two narrow triangles of white and brown by the bridge of his nose. That nose was long and elongated at the tip, hanging almost to his upper lip. His mouth was very thin and his chin was slightly cleft. He was probably in his fifties, I thought, but I sensed that his apparent fragility was deceptive. His eyes were not those of a man who fears for his safety with every footstep.
“Warm today,” he said, the hat still slapping softly against his leg.
I nodded but didn't reply.
He inclined his head back in the direction of the road. “I see you had an accident with your mailbox.” He smiled, revealing uneven yellow teeth with a pronounced gap at the front, and I knew immediately that he had been responsible for the recluses.
“Spiders,” I replied. “I burned them all.”
The smile died. “That's unfortunate.”
“You seem to be taking it kind of personally.”
His mouth worked at the sugar lumps while his eyes locked on mine. “I like spiders,” he said.
“They certainly burn well,” I replied. “Now, can I help you?”
“I do hope so,” he said. “Or perhaps I can help you. Yes sir, I feel certain that I can help you.”
His voice had an odd nasal quality that flattened his vowels and made his accent difficult to place, a task complicated further by the formal locutions of his speech. The smile gradually reappeared but those hooded eyes failed to alter in response. Instead, they maintained a watchful, vaguely malevolent quality, as if some entity had taken over the body of this odd, dated-looking man, hollowing out his form and controlling his progress by looking through the empty sockets in his head.
“I don't think I need your help.”
He waggled a finger at me in disagreement, and for the first time, I got a good look at his hands. They were thin, absurdly so, and there was something insectlike about them as they emerged from the sleeves of his jacket. The middle finger seemed to be about five inches long and, in common with the rest of his digits, tapered to a point at the tip: not only the nail but the entire finger appeared to grow narrower and narrower. The fingernails themselves looked to be a quarter of an inch at their widest point and were stained a kind of yellow-black. There were patches of short red hair below each of the knuckles, gradually expanding to cover most of the back of his hand and disappearing in tufts beneath his sleeve. They gave him a strange, feral quality.
“Now, now, sir,” he said, his fingers waving the way an arachnid-will sometimes raise its legs when it finds itself cornered. Their movements appeared to be unrelated to his words or to the language of the rest of the body. They were like separate creatures that had somehow managed to attach themselves to a host, constantly probing gently at the world around them.
“Don't be hasty,” he continued. “I admire independence as much as the next man, indeed I do. It is a laudable attribute in a man, sir, a laudable attribute, make no mistake about that, but it can lead him to do reckless things. Worse, sir, worse; it can cause him to interfere with the rights of those around him, sometimes without him even knowing.” His voice assumed a tone of awe at the ways of such men, and he shook his head slowly. “There you are, living your own life as you see fit, and you are causing pain and embarrassment to others by doing so. It's a sin, sir, that's what it is, a sin.”
He folded his slim fingers across his stomach, still smiling, and waited for a response.
“Who are you?” I said. There was an element of awe in my own voice as well. He was comical yet sinister, like a bad clown.
“Permit me to introduce myself,” he said. “My name is Pudd, Mr. Pudd. At your service, sir.” He extended his right hand in greeting, but I didn't reach out to take it. I couldn't. It revolted me. A friend of my grandfather's had once kept a wolf spider in a glass tank and one day, on a dare from the man's son, I had touched its leg. The spider had shot away almost instantly, but not before I had felt the hairy, jointed nature of the thing. It was not an experience I wanted to repeat.
The hand hung in midair for a moment, and once again the smile faltered briefly. Then Mr. Pudd took back his hand, and his fingers scuttled inside his jacket. I eased my right hand a few inches to the left and took hold of the gun beneath the newspapers, my thumb flicking the safety off. Mr. Pudd didn't appear to notice the movement. At least, he gave no indication that he had, but I felt something change in his attitude toward me, like a black widow that believes it has cornered a beetle only to find itself staring into the eyes of a wasp. His jacket tightened around him as his hand searched and I saw the telltale bulge of his gun.
“I think I'd prefer it if you left,” I said quietly.
“Sadly, Mr. Parker, personal preference has nothing to do with this.” The smile faded, and Mr. Pudd's mouth assumed an expression of exaggerated sorrow. “If the truth be known, sir, I would prefer not to be here at all. This is an unpleasant duty, but one that I am afraid you have brought upon yourself by your inconsiderate actions.”
“I don't know what you're talking about.”
“I am talking about your harassment of Mr. Carter Paragon, your disregard for the work of the organization that he represents, and your insistence on attempting to connect the unfortunate death of a young woman with that same organization. The Fellowship is a religious body, Mr. Parker, with the rights accruing to such bodies under our fine Constitution. You are aware of the Constitution, are you not, Mr. Parker? You have heard of the First Amendment, have you not?”
Throughout this speech, Mr. Pudd's tone did not vary from one of quiet reasonableness. He spoke to me the way a parent speaks to an errant child. I made a note to add “patronizing” to “creepy” and “insectlike” where Mr. Pudd was concerned.
“That, and the Second Amendment,” I said. “It seems like you've heard of that one too.” I removed my hand from beneath the newspaper and pointed the gun at him. I was glad to see that my hand didn't shake.
“This is most unfortunate, Mr. Parker,” he said in an aggrieved tone.
“I agree, Mr. Pudd. I don't like people coming onto my property carrying guns, or watching me while I conduct my business. It's bad manners, and it makes me nervous.”