Serpent's Kiss (13 page)

    "You were put into Hastings House as a patient and one night while you were half asleep you felt this compulsion to go to the tower that was a part of the hospital's first building. You had to go through the air conditioning ductwork but you made it. And then upstairs in the tower-"

    Emily Lindstrom then described to Richard Dobyns how he stood in the centre of the dusty tower room and watched the snake come out of the crack in the wall and how the snake then entered his body.

    She then described the peculiar amber light of the snake's eyes.

    He just sat across from her in the small, shadowy apartment, staring.

    And then she told him about the killings.

    "My brother didn't understand why he killed those women," she said gently. "And it wasn't his fault. But he didn't believe that. He just thought that the snake and the way it controlled him was illusory."

    They sat for a time in silence.

    She said, "Are you thirsty?"

    "No."

    "Hungry?"

    "No."

    "Is there somebody you'd like me to call for you?"

    "How did you know about this apartment?"

    "I've spent every day since my brother's death-as you may remember, he was shot and killed by a policeman-trying to find out what happened. This apartment is part of it."

    He fell into silence once more.

    Traffic noise. Children being called in for dinner. A subtle drop in the temperature; the dusk chill now despite the blooming day.

    She said, "I want to help you."

    "You're going to the police, I suppose."

    "The police won't help us. They won't believe us."

    He shook his head again.

    And now he did start sobbing.

    He put his hand to his stomach. "I want to cut this goddamn thing out of me."

    And then he just cried.

    She lit a cigarette. She was down to six a day now but she couldn't quit completely. Times like these drove her to light up.

    "I'm going to see a TV reporter in a little while," she said.

    Slowly, he quit crying and looked up at her. "A TV reporter?"

    "A woman named Chris Holland."

    "How can she help?"

    "I don't know if she can, but I at least want to try. She's covered a lot of murders in this city, including the ones my brother supposedly committed. She'll at least listen, I think."

    "I'm afraid of tonight."

    "Afraid?"

    "There was a girl's name in the manila envelope."

    "I saw it. Marie Fane."

    He touched his stomach.

    She was slowly becoming aware of the odour; the uncleanness.

    "I want you to help me."

    "How?" she said.

    He reached in the pocket of his sport coat. "I stopped by a hock shop this afternoon. I got these."

    In the shadows, he held up a pair of handcuffs.

    "While you're gone visiting the reporter, I want you to handcuff me to the bedpost. And you take the key." He looked at her through his teary eyes. "I don't want to hurt this Fane girl. I don't want to hurt anybody at all."

    She sighed. She couldn't go to the police but maybe Chris Holland could. She might at least listen to her.

    "I'll be glad to help you," she said. Then, "Do you know there's some bourbon in the kitchen? Would you like a shot?"

    "Yes. Please."

    "I'll be right back"

    While she was pouring them two drinks, he said, "You know there's an old man at Hastings House who knows all about the tower."

    "There is?"

    "His name's Gus."

    She brought the drinks in. "Really?"

    "Yes, but whenever he tells people about the tower and the snake, people just smile at him. Think he's crazy."

    "I wonder how long he's known."

    "Years probably. He's been there since the fifties."

    "My God."

    Richard Dobyns sipped his whiskey. "That's why I'm afraid to tell anybody about what's happened to me. They'll start looking at me the way they look at Gus."

    "There's also a janitor named Telfair who knows about the tower." She sighed. "My brother tried to get back to Hastings House. After he killed those women, I mean. So did the other men."

    "Other men?"

    She nodded, sipped at her own whiskey. "Since 1891 there've been six escapees who committed murder and were then killed- either by police or by suicide. Every one of them tried to get back to the tower. One of the men committed suicide by climbing up on the turret next to the tower and jumping."

    He stared at her, miserable again. "I know why those men committed suicide, believe me."

    "The thing inside you," she said.

    He smiled bitterly. "The devil made me do it?"

    "Something like that, yes."

    He bowed his head and ran a shaky hand through his hair. He looked up at Emily again. "I called my wife today. I couldn't explain to her, either."

    "I know."

    "I just wanted to see her one more time before-" He paused. "You'll help me with the handcuffs?"

    "Of course." She glanced at her wristwatch. She had to turn it so she could get the light of the dying day through the edges of the curtain. Nearly 5:45. She had to get going if she was going to be on time meeting Chris Holland.

    She stood up and walked over to the chair.

    This close, the odour was stomach turning.

    She recalled the same smell on her brother.

    His eyes had looked like Dobyns's, too. So sad; so sad.

    "Come on," she said softly, taking the handcuffs from him.

    She led him into the bedroom.

    He sat on the soft double sized mattress, the springs squeaking beneath his weight.

    She'd never held handcuffs before. Not real ones; only play ones that Rob and she used to use when they were cowboys and Indians. These cuffs were heavy and rough.

    She snapped one cuff on his wrist and one cuff to the brass bedpost.

    "Too tight?" she said.

    "No. Fine."

    "I'll be back here after I see Chris Holland."

    He reached out and touched her hand. "I can't tell you what this means to me. I don't want to get-overwhelmed again and-kill anybody. You know?"

    She touched his forehead gently. "I know." She smiled and touched his cheek now. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

    "Would you call my wife when you come back?"

    "Really?"

    "Yes. It'll all sound less-insane-coming from you. Then maybe afterward I could talk to my daughter. For just a few minutes. Before we go to the police, I mean."

    
He was a decent and honourable man,
she thought. And now she wanted to cry, too.

    Her brother had also been a decent and honourable man.

    She left him there, handcuffed to the bed.

    

    

    Chris Holland had once been picked up by a Prudential insurance salesman in a dark, chilly bar very much like this one. This was not an achievement she talked about much-especially considering the fact that afterward the insurance salesman had confessed that he didn't find the Ku Klux Klan "all bad, I mean they're just doing what they believe in." He then said that he'd kind of lied to her and that he was, in fact, ahem, married and was now feeling kind of shitty about going to bed with her, nothing personal you understand. And that he'd be shoving off (what was he, a goddamn sailor?). And getting home to that wife and kids. All of which left Chris feeling just great, of course, and wondering if she shouldn't give up her career, find a nice fat bald guy, and retreat to suburbia and raise some kids.

    She sat in the bar now, waiting for the woman who'd called her about the murders, and realised that in the eight years since the Prudential guy her love life had not improved a whole hell of a lot. She just had lousy instincts where men were concerned. She could not seem to understand on any gut level the truth all her friends understood-that damaged men, of the type Chris liked to help put back together, inevitably dragged you down with them. Hell, even the Pru guy had had that air about him-vulnerable, hurt, lonely.

    The waitress in the cute little handmaiden's costume (though Chris doubted that handmaidens had worn hot pants) brought the day's second beer, picked up her tip, and started away.

    And that was when she saw the tall, very Nordic woman in the tailored grey suit standing just inside the entrance door staring at her.

    The woman was sombre and beautiful and regal and, now that she was walking, quite graceful, too.

    Chris had been secretly dreading that her informant would turn out to be some obviously crazed attention starved lunatic who was going to help 'solve' a murder that took place in 1903 or something. TV reporters were always getting calls from such folks.

    But if this one was a lunatic, she was a lunatic with great breeding.

    The woman came over to Chris's table and put out a long, strong dry hand. "I'm Emily Lindstrom."

    "Nice to meet you, Emily. Why don't you sit down?"

    So Emily Lindstrom sat down.

    The first thing she did was glance around the place. The walls were all got up like the interior of a pirate's sailing vessel. On each table tiny red encased candles burned fervently. In the darkness, Frank Sinatra sang Laura, from the era when he still had a voice. In one corner two salesmen types, all grins and
gimme-gimme
eyes, were huddled over their table talking about Chris and the Lindstrom woman, obviously trying to figure out how to make their moves.
Hell,
Chris thought sourly,
maybe they work for Prudential.

    The waitress came. Emily Lindstrom ordered a small glass of dry white wine. The two salesmen were both grinning at them openly now.

    "I'll get right to it if you don't mind," Emily said.

    In the flickering shadows, the Lindstrom woman was even more impressive looking. There was the clarity of a young girl about her beauty, yet there was pain in her blue eyes, a pain that suggested dignity and perhaps even wisdom.
If she was a crackpot,
Chris thought,
she sure wasn't your garden variety crackpot.

    "Fine," Chris said.

    "Several years ago my brother, Rob, was accused of murdering three women. When the police moved in to capture him, he was killed."

    "I'm sorry."

    "He didn't kill those women. Some-force had taken him over."

    "I see." Chris couldn't keep the scepticism from her tone.

    Emily smiled. "I'm sure you've heard stories like this many times. An innocent relative and all that."

    Chris was just about to respond when she saw Emily Lindstrom's upward glance.

    There, right next to their table, stood the two salesmen.

    "Hi, gals," the taller of the two said. "I'm Arnie."

    "And I'm Cliff."

    "You're the TV reporter if I'm not mistaken," Arnie said.

    They both wore three-piece suits. They both wore Aqua Velva. And they both wore lounge lizard smiles.

    "That would be me, yes," Chris said.

    "I'd consider it an honour to buy you a drink," Amie said. He nodded to the two unoccupied chairs gathered at the table. "You know?"

    "I know, Arnie, I know. But believe it or not, this is a business meeting for me."

    "Really?"

    "True facts, Arnie," she said. She always had to remember that she had a public image to worry about. Even while spuming hit artists like these two bozos, she had to maintain a certain decorum. "I'm sorry but I really am busy."

    Across the table, Emily Lindstrom kept her head down, her eyes almost closed, as if she were trying to will these two out of existence.

    "You may not have noticed," Cliff said, "But they've got a dance floor in the back"

    Emily Lindstrom's head shot up suddenly. She glared regally at Cliff. "Then why don't you and Arnie go show us how nice you look dancing together?"

    Arnie lost it. "Hey, just because you're sitting here with some TV reporter doesn't give you the right to get shitty."

    But Cliff, obviously the more sensible of the two, had his hand on Arnie's elbow and was gently tugging him away. "Come on, Arnie. Screw 'em."

    Arnie, still angry, and a little drunker than Chris had realised, said, "Screw 'em? Hey, I wouldn't touch 'em. Either one of 'em. I don't think they're the type who go for guys-if you know what I mean."

    Now Cliff's hand was more insistent on Arnie's elbow.

    "You think you're some goddamn queen just because you're on the tube," Arnie said. "Well, you're no queen in my book"

    
Well
, Chris thought uncharitably,
in my book you’re a queen
.

    But then the bartender was there and when he took Arnie's elbow, it was in a manner far rougher than Cliff had done.

    The half filled bar was alive now with curiosity about the scene in the corner involving the TV lady and the drunk. This was a lot more interesting than most of the conversations running, as they did, to politics and baseball and routine sexual propositions.

    Watching some clown making a fool of himself over a TV lady. That was pretty good.

    "Sorry," the bartender said, after getting Arnie and Cliff out the front door. "I'd like you to spend the entire evening drinking on the house."

    "That's nice of you," Chris said, "but not necessary. You didn't make him a jerk."

    The bartender obviously appreciated her kindness. Then he took a small white pad from his back pocket. He handed her a yellow Bic along with it. "Would you mind? For my daughter, I mean. She'd get a kick out of it."