Along Came A Spider (One Direction Version)

Chapter 1

Early on the morning of December 21, 2000, I was the picture of contentment on the sun porch of our house on 5th Street in Washington, D.C. The small, narrow room was cluttered with mildewing winter coats, work boots, and woonded children's toys.

I couldn't have cared less. This was home.

I was playing Gerald on our slightly out-of-tune, formerly grand piano. It was just 5 a.m., and cold as a meat locker on the porch. I was prepared to sacrifice a little for "An American in Paris."

The phone jangled in the kitchen. Maybe I'd won the D.C., or Virginia, or Maryland lottery and they'd forgotten to call the night before. I play all three games of misfortune regularly.

"Mom? Can you get that?" I called from the porch.

"It's for you. You might as well get it yourself," my testy mother called back. "No sense me gettin' up, too. No sense means nonsense in my dictionary."

That's not exactly what was said, but it went something like that. It always does.

I hobbled into the kitchen, sidestepping more toys on morning-stiff legs. I was 31 at the time. As the saying goes, if I'd known I was going to live that long, I would have taken better care of myself.

The call turned out to be from my partner in crime, Louis Tomlinson. Tomlinson knew I'd be up. He knows me better than my own kids.

"Mornin', brown sugar. You up, aren't you?" he said. No other I.D. was necessary. Louis and I have been best friend since we were nine years old and took up shoplifting at Park's Corner Variety store near the projects. At the time, we had no idea that old Park would have shot us dead over a pilfered pack of Chesterfields. Mom would have done even worse to us if she'd known about our crime spree.

"If I wasn't up, I am now," I said into the phone reciever. "Tell me something good."

"There's been another murder. Looks like our boy again," Louis said. "They're waitin' on us. Half the free world's there already."

"It's too early in the morning to see the meat wagon," I muttered. I could feel my stomach rolling. This wasn't the way I wanted the day to start. "Shit. Fuck me."

Mom looked up from her steaming tea and runny eggs. She shot me one of her sanctimonious, lady-of-the-house looks. She was already dressed for school, where she still does volunteer work. Louis continued to give me gory details about the day's first homicides.

"Watch your language, Harry," mom said. "Please watch your language so longas you're planning to live in this house."

"I'll be there in about ten minutes," I told Louis. "I own this house," I said to my mom.

She groaned as if she were hearing that terrible news for the first time.

"There's been another bad murder over in Langley Terrace. It looks like a thrill killer. I'm afraid that it is," I told her.

"That's too bad," mom said to me. Her soft brown eyes grabbed mine and held.

"That's such a bad part of what the politicians have let become a deplorable city. Sometimes I think we ought to move out of Washington, Harry."

"Sometimes I think the same thing," I said, "but we'll probably tough it out."

On the bureau, by the bed, was a picture of Sheila Styles. Three years before, my wife had been murdered in a drive-by shooting. That murder, like the majority of murders in Southeast, had never been solved.

I kissed my mom on the way out the kitchen door. We've done that since I was Seven years old. We also say good-bye, just in case we never see each other again. It's been like that for almost 25 years, ever since Mom first took me in and decided she could make something of me.

She made a homicide detective, with a doctorate in psychology, who works and lives in the ghettos of Washington, D.C.