The Web by Jonathan Kellerman

quicker than I
believed possible, the mulch heaved, as if in the grip of a
tiny earthquake, and something shot up.
    A second later, the food was gone.
    Robin pressed herself against me.
    Moreland hadn’t moved. Whatever had taken the pellet
had disappeared.
    “Australian garden wolf,” said Moreland, securing the
top. “Cousin of your Italian friend. Like
tarantula,
they
burrow and wait.”
    “Looks as if you know what it likes,” said Robin. I
heard the difference in her voice, but a stranger might not
have.
    “What
she
likes—this one’s quite the
lady—is animal protein. Preferably in liquid form. Spiders
always liquefy their food. I combine insects, worms, mice, whatever,
and create a broth that I freeze and defrost. This is the same
stuff, compressed and freeze-dried. I did it to see if
they’d adapt to solids. Luckily, many of them did.”
    He smiled. “Strange avocation for a vegetarian, right?
But what’s the choice? She’s my responsibility. .   .   . Come
with me, perhaps we can bring back some memories.”
    He opened another aquarium at the end of the row, but
this time he shoved his arm in, drew out something, and
placed it on his forearm. One of the vertical bulbs was
close enough to highlight its form on his pale flesh.
A spider, dark, hairy, just over an inch long. It crawled
slowly up toward his shoulder.
    “Does this resemble what your mother found, dear?”
    Robin licked her lips. “Yes.”
    “Her name is Gina.” To the spider, now at his collar:
“Good evening, señora.” Then to Robin: “Would you like to
hold her?”
    “I guess.”
    “A new friend, Gina.” As if understanding, the spider
stopped. Moreland lifted it tenderly and placed it in Robin’s
palm.
    It didn’t budge, then it lifted its head and seemed to
study her. Its mouth moved, an eerie lip sync.
    “You’re cute, Gina.”
    “We can send one to your mother,” I said.
“For old times’ sake.”
    She laughed and the spider stopped again. Then, moving
with mechanical precision, it walked to the edge of her palm
and peered over the edge.
    “Nothing down there but floor,” said Robin. “Guess
you’d like to go back to Daddy.”
    Moreland removed it, stroked its belly, placed it back
in its home, walked on.
    Pulling out his doctor’s penlight, he pointed out
specimens.
    Colorless spiders the size of ants. Spiders that
looked
like ants. A delicate green thing with translucent,
lime-colored legs. A sticklike Australian
hygropoda.
(“Marvel of energy conservation. The slender build prevents it from
overheating.”) A huge-fanged arachnid whose brick-red
carapace and lemon-yellow abdomen were so vivid they
resembled costume jewelry. A Bornean jumper whose big black
eyes and hairy face gave it the look of a wise old man.
    “Look at this,” he said. “I’m sure you’ve never seen a
web like this.”
    Pointing to a zigzag construction, like crimped paper.
    “
Argiope,
an orb spinner. Custom-tailored to attract
the bee it loves to eat. That central “X’ reflects ultraviolet
light in a manner that brings the bees to it. All webs are
highly specific, with incredible tensile strength. Many use
several types of silk; many are pigmented with an eye toward
particular prey. Most are modified daily to adapt to varying
circumstances. Some are used as mating beds. All in all, a
beautiful deceit.”
    His hands flew and his head bobbed. With each sentence,
he grew more animated. I knew I was
anthropomorphizing, but the creatures seemed excited, too.
Emerging from the shadows to show themselves.
    Not the panic I’d heard before. Smooth, almost
leisurely motions. A dance of mutual interest?
    “.   .   .   why I concentrate on predators,” Moreland
was saying. “Why I’m so concerned with keeping them fit.”
    A brilliant pink, crablike thing rested atop his bony
hand. “Of course, natural predation is nothing new. Back in
nineteen twenty-five,
levuana
moths threatened the entire
coconut crop on Fiji.