Serpent's Kiss (22 page)

    After twenty minutes, O'Sullivan went over and dropped a quarter into the change by the coffee-pot. It was like dropping money in the votive candle slot. Not unlike God, Marge demanded her due.

    Then O'Sullivan got down to real work. And odd as it sounded, some of the things the Lindstrom woman said didn't sound half as crazy as they had over the phone earlier tonight. Not half as crazy at all.

    By the time he was finished, O'Sullivan had deposited more than a dollar in the change box, and emptied his bladder three times.

    

    

    During her fifth cup of coffee, Emily Lindstrom said, "Sometimes I wonder if it's just my vanity."

    "Your vanity?"

    "Ummm. With Rob. You know, the family honour and all that. Just not wanting people to think my brother's a killer."

    "I'm sure it's more than that."

    Emily sighed and looked around Denny's. A nearby sporting event must have let out within the past half-hour because the restaurant had suddenly filled up with what looked like father-and-son night.

    Emily sipped her coffee and said, "After we talk to Marie Fane, I want to try and find Dobyns."

    "Oh?"

    "I told you about the incantation."

    "Yes."

    "I want to see if it works."

    Chris's gaze dropped to her own coffee.

    "I appreciate you not smiling."

    "Why would I smile?"

    "Incantation. It's not a word you hear very often in modem day society."

    "I suppose not."

    Emily leaned forward with more urgency than she intended. "There really was a cult, Chris. And there really is a serpent. As unlikely as it sounds."

    Chris wasn't exactly sure what to say but then the sweaty, overworked waitress leaned in and gave Chris the bill and saved her from saying anything at all.

    Five minutes later they were out in the parking lot. The nice spring night was suddenly as cold as early November.

    

    

    Abbott was saying to Costello, "They ain't gonna cook our goose. They're gonna cook somethin' else." And then he pointed to his rather formidable posterior.

    They were standing outside this big metal pot that was boiling over as a group of natives (Africans, supposedly, and cannibals to boot) were licking their chops at the prospect of eating up two white boys dumb enough to give them trouble.

    The movie was
Africa Screams
and it was made long after Bud and Lou were hot and that was pretty obvious because of all the cheap sets and nowhere actors. Kathleen Fane had seen this movie when she was about Marie's age, a time of her life she was resolutely sentimental about (how shiny and fine most things are remembered or anticipated) and God knew she needed something to put up against the horrors of tonight, of her dear sweet precious daughter Marie who'd nearly been murdered a few hours ago.

    
Murdered. My God! What must that boy's family be going through right now?

    The Chief now goosed Lou with a spear.

    Lou looked into the big boiling pot and made a face.

    Kathleen giggled.

    It wasn't all that funny, of course-Bud and Lou were sort of like Jerry Lewis, once you got past fifteen they kind of lost their magic-but the face he made was so clean and childish and wholesome, so redolent of her innocence, that she giggled out loud.

    And then immediately felt guilty.

    What if she woke Marie up?

    Kathleen was in the small room they used as a combination sewing room and den. There was a nice big bookcase filled with all the Doubleday Book Club editions she'd taken over the years (Book of the Month Club and Literary Guild were too expensive) and a wall full of photos of when there'd been three of them. Now, she got up and went to the door and looked out into the living room, at the frosty moonlight that fell through the window onto the couch. Marie was still asleep. Kathleen sighed gratefully.

    She went back into the den and turned the sound even lower, pulling the rocking chair even closer to the screen.

    As she settled back into the movie, she started thinking again about the anonymous caller. She was glad she'd called 911. Talking to the police officer had made her feel reassured. When she told him what had happened to Marie tonight, he got very sympathetic (even over the phone he had a bedside manner that many doctors would envy) and said that it was better to be safe than sorry (which actually sounded kind of cute coming from him, a manly cop) and that he'd have a car immediately begin cruising past her house and checking for anything untoward. That was the word he'd used. Untoward. It was a nice, strong word and helped reassure her even more.

    Lou now started making his famous chittering noises (he only chattered when he was afraid) and shaking his head
NO!
when the Chief suggested he step into the pot and become the dinner for all these hungry natives.

    She set her head back, feeling the blanket she'd knitted cosy and warm against her spine.

    Everything had changed tonight. What Marie had witnessed would alter her in some irrevocable way forever. Every other event in her life would be measured-good or bad-against this one.

    Thinking this, Kathleen felt a mother's fury pounding through her bloodstream.

    She wanted to take the man who'd done this and-

    The phone rang, startling her.

    For a moment she had to gather herself. It was like coming up through water, the sunlight and sounds almost harsh on the senses.

    She'd been so engrossed in imagining what she'd like to do to the man that-

    The phone rang again. The fourth time.

    She rose from the rocker and went to answer it.

    "Hello," she said.

    A pause. A hesitation.

    
My God, it was the same caller who'd earlier-

    "Mrs. Fane?"

    "Yes."

    "It's me. Sergeant Milford. You called me earlier."

    A sigh so profound she felt her knees weaken. "Oh, hello, Sergeant."

    "I just wanted to check and see how things are going."

    "He hasn't called back"

    "Good. We're going to have a patrol car posted outside the apartment house the rest of the night."

    "Thank you. I appreciate that."

    "How's your daughter?"

    "Sleeping."

    "That's the best medicine. For right now, anyway."

    "I suppose that's right." She hesitated. "Is it natural for me to be angry at a time like this?"

    "Very natural."

    "I've never felt like this before."

    "I've got kids, too. I can't imagine what I'd be like."

    "I always thought I was against the death penalty. But that was just because murder had never touched me personally. After tonight-"

    "People can get their minds changed about a lot of things, sometimes." He coughed. "If you'd like, I could try you again in a half hour or so."

    "Oh, that's all right. I'll probably be asleep by then. But I really do appreciate your interest."

    "Take care of yourself, Mrs. Fane. I'll check in with you tomorrow."

    "Thank you, Sergeant."

    She hung up and went back to her rocker. The call had the same effect on her as a glass of warm milk. She was very sleepy.

    She had just settled into the last part of Bud and Lou's unlikely adventure when her daughter screamed.

    

    

    IT TOOK KATHLEEN FANE ten minutes to calm Marie. The screaming that had summoned mother to daughter was enough to awaken neighbours. Kathleen wanted to walk through the corridors apologising to everybody. A very properly raised middle aged woman, she felt that the worst thing a human being could do was make a scene. But then, holding a trembling Marie in her arms, she decided she was being silly. There wasn't a single thing to apologise for-not given the circumstances.

    They sat in the living room, on the rocker, Marie in her mother's lap as if she were a small child. The only sound was that of the rocker squeaking comfortably back and forth. Kathleen held her daughter tightly, and every few minutes pressed a handkerchief to the girl's forehead. Marie was sticky with sweat.

    "I'm afraid he'll get me, Mom," Marie said.

    Kathleen felt momentary relief when Marie spoke. She'd secretly feared that Marie's shock was so deep, the girl wouldn't speak for a long time. Kathleen was a worrier-neurotic was the more precise word-and she tended to extrapolate the worst possible outcome of every problem.

    "They've probably caught him already."

    Kathleen knew instantly it had been the wrong thing to say. False hopes that would only make the situation worse.

    "You mean they have caught him?"

    "Not yet. Not right this minute. But soon-I'm sure they will, honey."

    Marie stared up at her mother. She did not seem the least self-conscious about sitting in the chair with Kathleen, which pleased Kathleen greatly. Sometimes she wished she had a time machine and could go back to the days when their family had numbered three. Back when a pre-car-accident Marie had been a small, happy child of four, concerned mostly with pretty butterflies and old Woody Woodpecker cartoons on TV (she'd always liked to imitate Woody's laugh).

    "You should have seen him," Marie said. "In the store-and in my nightmare. That's why I was screaming when you came in here."

    "I assumed that was why, darling."

    "His eyes-" She swallowed hard and shook her head. "I can't describe them." She looked at the bed. And smiled. Kathleen couldn't believe it. "Are your legs asleep yet, Mom?"

    "My legs?"

    "Having your sixteen-year-old daughter on your lap can't be real comfortable."

    "It's a pleasure."

    Marie leaned forward and kissed her mother tenderly on the cheek. "It's a pleasure for me, too, Mom. You've done so much for me."

    Kathleen hugged her daughter to her and started rocking again gently.

    "You sure I'm not killing you?" Marie laughed.

    "Well, if you are, then it's a very pleasurable death."

    But Marie stood up anyway. "I'd like to lie down, I think." Kathleen saw how pale and shaky Marie had suddenly become. For months, maybe years after, Marie would be subject to seismic shocks like this.

    Kathleen helped Marie to the couch. Marie lay down. Kathleen drew the covers up to Marie's chest and turned up the electric blanket a notch. Then she felt something small and hard on the mattress next to Marie. "What's this, hon?"

    For a moment Marie seemed embarrassed. "Oh, nothing, Mom, just-"

    But by now Kathleen had already pulled the object from beneath the covers.

    "I remembered where you kept it," Marie said, her voice almost plaintive. "With Daddy's other things."

    What Kathleen held was a.38 revolver with walnut grips that her late husband had used for target practice. A gentle man, he'd never been one for hunting, for taking the lives of fellow creatures even if they were lower on the so called intelligence scale. But he had been a fanatical target shooter, several times winning various state meets.

    "Is it loaded?" Kathleen said.

    "Yes."

    "You knew how to do it?"

    "From a show I watched on PBS. I watched it because of things you told me about Daddy. I thought it was a show he might have liked. You know?"

    "Oh, honey," Kathleen said, and took her daughter's hand. Kathleen felt again that sharp sense of loss that had been hers ever since the death of her husband. And she could see now that Marie still felt it, too. "Are you sure you feel comfortable with this?"

    "A lot more comfortable with it than without it, Mom."

    Kathleen looked down at the weapon, traced her fingers over the blued steel and the chambers for bullets. How could she deny her daughter the sense of security the.38 obviously gave her? "You sure you want to sleep with it under the covers? Maybe it could go off and-"

    Marie leaned up and kissed her. For a fleeting moment the girl's face was clear of all pain and something like a smile played on her mouth. "Mom, it'll be all right. I'm sure I won't have to use it. But it'll make me feel a lot better, all right?" She nodded toward the den where the TV played bright and low in the shadows across the room. "Why don't we watch David Letterman?"

    "I didn't think you liked David Letterman."

    Marie laughed. There was an undertone of bitterness in the laugh, as if all evidence of youth had suddenly gone from her. "Tonight David Letterman sounds wonderful, Mom."

    Kathleen nodded. She switched on the TV in the living room and then went to turn off the one in the den.

    They had been watching the show ten minutes when the phone rang.

    Kathleen got up too quickly to get it. She hoped Marie didn't notice the anxious way she'd half leapt to the phone.

    "Hello."

    "Mrs. Fane. This is Sergeant Knowles. I'm downstairs at the door."

    "Oh. Yes, Sergeant."

    "There are two people here who'd like to talk to Marie."

    "I'm afraid that's impossible, Sergeant. Marie is resting."

    "They said they wouldn't need more than a few minutes."

    "I'm afraid not."

    "Who is it, Mom?" Marie said.

    "Excuse me a moment, Sergeant."

    "Yes, ma'am."

    Kathleen cupped the phone. "Two people are here to see you."

    "Who?"