Serpent's Kiss (27 page)

    "Hi," he said. He was watching the last body bag and shaking his head. "I'm kinda busy, Chrissie." He always called her that. He'd told her he had a daughter that name.

    "I know you're looking for Dobyns, Hal."

    "No shit, we're looking for Dobyns. You should see what he did to those three guys in the garage down there." He shook his head again.

    "I think I know where he is."

    And right then Detective Hal Staley did a double take that Shemp would have been proud of. "You know where Dobyns is?"

    "Yeah," she said, sorry now she hadn't told him ten minutes ago. "Yeah, I do."

    She went back to O'Sullivan who was shouting instructions to two young reporters who'd clearly got their Ph D's in hair spray.

    "So you tell 'em?"

    "So I told them," she said.

    She pointed to two uniformed cops pushing the big searchlight rightward, toward the tower.

    "They're going to go looking for him," she said.

    O'Sullivan smiled at her. "I don't know whether to give you a kiss or pat you on the ass."

    She smiled back. "Later on, why don't you try a little of both?"
Goddamn, could she get corny about this guy,
she thought.

    And then, moments after the searchlight splashed acrdss the top of the stone medieval tower, somebody shouted, "Look, there's a woman in the window."

    Chris turned to see and immediately got her first good look at Emily Lindstrom up there in the lonely tower window, the same kind probably that Rapunzel used to let her hair down.

    And Chris screamed because this wasn't the Emily Lindstrom she knew at all.

    Not with blood pouring out of her mouth and her hands fluttering wildly about her blood-splashed hair.

    "Oh, God," Chris said, "Oh, God."

    

    

    ON THE WAY to Marie Fane's, Dobyns several times saw police cruisers. One in particular, parked at a kerb, the patrolman obviously bored and looking for some action, studied Dobyns carefully. Dobyns felt the man's eyes on him, trying to find anything that could justify turning on the red light and pulling Dobyns over. Dobyns sat perfectly still at the stoplight, foot on the brake, hands held low on the steering wheel so the patrolman couldn't see the blood. There had been no time to clean himself.

    The light changed to green.

    Dobyns pulled slowly away, his stomach knotting, sweat glazing his face. His right leg was twitching.

    He just wanted to kill Marie Fane and then he didn't care what happened to him.

    He watched the patrol car in his rear-view mirror.

    The patrolman sat up straight suddenly, as if he might clip on the headlights and come after Dobyns.

    Dobyns's stomach was in such misery, he was afraid he might vomit.

    A gentle curve in the road, and the patrol car was out of sight. For the next two blocks, Dobyns continued to glance anxiously in his rear-view but the patrol car was nowhere to be seen.

    After three blocks Dobyns quit glancing backward entirely and concentrated on his driving.

    The night was black and suddenly wet. Fat silver drops of rain splashed against his windshield. On either side of the street the spring trees bent under a hard, steady wind. An electric DX sign supported on a tall, thin pole looked as if it might be knocked off its base under the onslaught.

    Dobyns passed through three distinctly different types of neighbourhood-a working class neighbourhood of small, orderly houses; a mixed ghetto where blacks and Mexicans lived out an armed and very tenuous truce; and a small boutique shopping district that did its best to resemble a Midwestern Rodeo Drive.

    Then he was into the hilly, woodsy area known as the Highlands and it was here he found the redbrick apartment complex where the Fanes lived.

    Dobyns parked a block away, on a dark side street. When he got out of the car, he took his jacket, shrugged into it, and the knife, which he stuck in his belt. Wind and rain invigorated him and he was appreciative of it. The car ride had made him dozy. He felt single minded, tough again.

    He touched the wooden handle of the knife, almost for luck

    He had no trouble spotting the police patrol car.

    It sat almost directly beneath a mercury vapour light. Surrounded by older, drab vehicles, the patrol car shone like a beacon.

    Dobyns paused at the edge of the parking lot, moving behind the corner of a garage so he could gather himself and decide what to do.

    His heart hammered and even given the rain, his face felt oily with sweat. He sensed great danger, enormous risk. He was enjoying himself.

    His first thought was to sneak up on the patrol car and kill the patrolman when he was unaware. But would he really be unaware? Sneaking up on a trained, alert police officer would not be easy. And more, it would probably not work

    Abruptly, and making no attempt whatsoever to be hidden from view, Dobyns strolled boldly out into the parking lot. Unless the police officer was asleep, the man would spot Dobyns right away.

    Dobyns started weaving.

    Doing a drunk impression was difficult. The tendency was to overdo it and not be believable.

    Dobyns effected a small, swaying rhythm, almost like a rumba. And every fourth step or so, he came down very hard, as if he'd tripped and were about to pitch forward.

    He was halfway into the parking lot, wind and rain slapping his face, when he saw the dome light go on inside the patrol car.

    A tall, chunky officer in a dark uniform got out of the car, closing the door behind him. He wore a green rain jacket.

    Dobyns pretended not to see him, just continued his weaving, hesitant way across the parking lot.

    The officer reached him in no time, a looming, imposing figure who smelled of aftershave and cigarettes.

    "Good evening, sir," the officer said. He was the new breed, better educated, better trained. Even intercepting a drunk, he was polite and by-the-book. "I'd like to ask you where you're going."

    Dobyns stopped. Aware of the blood, he kept his hands shoved into his jacket pockets. He managed to get a single syllable out: "Home."

    "Mind telling me where home is?"

    Dobyns, continuing his drunk performance, rolled his head on his neck and sort of pointed with his nose to the apartment complex next to this one. "Down there."

    "Would you like me to walk with you, sir?" the officer said.

    Dobyns almost smiled. The cop was making it so easy. Sure Dobyns would like him to walk with him. Out of the light, into the shadows.

    Dobyns, as if he were so drunk he hadn't even heard any of the exchange, started walking again.

    The officer, sighing, fell into step beside him.

    Then Dobyns made a stupid mistake. He forgot about keeping his hands in his pockets. He brought his right hand up to his face to wipe away rain.

    The cop, who had been watching Dobyns carefully, spotted the bloody hand immediately.

    "I'd like you to stop here, sir."

    The officer's tone had changed. He had gone from helpful public servant to suspicious policeman.

    Dobyns kept walking, as if he hadn't heard. He'd realised his mistake, of course, and was terrified that he would now not be able to get to Marie Fane.

    "Sir, I'd like you to stop," the officer repeated. His voice had an edge now.

    In moments, Dobyns knew, the man would be going for his service revolver.

    Dobyns did two things simultaneously: he lunged for the cop and he jerked the knife free from his belt.

    The officer, who had obviously not expected this abrupt change of behaviour, started to crouch and pull out his weapon but by then it was too late.

    Dobyns put the knife deep into the officer's chest.

    And then for good measure, as the officer was starting to fall backward, Dobyns ripped the knife out and plunged it into the man's forehead.

    Before the man could scream, Dobyns kicked him skilfully in the throat.

    The officer pitched over backward, sprawling in the parking lot shadows as if he'd been crucified.

    Blood now discoloured the front of his green rain jacket. He made tiny bubbling sounds and then tiny whimpering sounds and then, as Dobyns stood there watching him in the wind and the rain, the police officer made no sounds at all.

    Dobyns raised his head, eyes scanning the dark apartment house before him.

    
Soon now, Marie
, he thought.
Soon now.

    He dragged the policeman's body over under a nearby parked car so that nobody could see it, and then he set to work exchanging clothes with the dead officer.

    

    

    Marie's eyes came open to darkness. Soaked in sweat, unable to completely separate herself from the nightmare but unable to quite recall it either, she lay on the couch listening to the cold wind screech branches across the windows and rain pelt the roof.

    He was in the apartment house.

    When she had this thought, she sat straight up, her eyes searching the shadows of the living room, her ears animal- alert to the myriad of late-night sounds.

    He was in the apartment house.

    Pushing back the covers, she put her good foot and then her crippled foot to the floor, grabbing her robe as she did so. Belting her robe, she moved to the window that overlooked the parking lot and the patrol car below.

    The wind was strong enough that the black-and-white police car was being buffeted about. She narrowed her eyes for a glimpse of the officer inside the car. For some reason, she could not make out the man behind the wheel. Was it just her eyesight?

    She scanned the rest of the parking lot. It still looked eerie and cold in the faint purple mercury vapour light. The cars filling it looked lonely and solitary, as if they'd been abandoned rather than simply parked.

    Her gaze returned to the police car.

    Was the officer out of his car and patrolling the grounds? For a moment she allowed herself this high good hope-yes, that was it, he was out of his car and checking the doors and ground floor windows, making certain that everything was all right. And when he was done, he'd be back in his car and Marie would be able to see him and everything would be fine. Just fine.

    He was in the apartment house.

    Letting the curtain fall back in place, Marie turned around and looked at the hallway. Dark. Silent. As was her mother's room. It sounded as if her mother had finally got to sleep. She certainly didn't want to wake her on the basis of some paranoid notion that the killer had somehow got past the policeman and was now in the house.

    But somehow, no amount of rational thinking could rid her mind of the thought that the killer was nearby.

    She went back to the bed and picked up the gun that was snuggled beneath the covers. She held the weapon tight to her chest, speaking silently to her father as she did so.
Be with me, Dad. See that Mom and I are all right and that the killer doesn't get in here. Pray for us, Dad
.

    It was then she heard the rasping of something being inserted into the doorknob.

    The sound of the tumbling locks was very loud. And then he was there, a silhouette against the yellow light in the hallway. The butcher knife was dark and long in his right hand.

    Stumbling over an ottoman, she plunged for the phone, wishing now she'd turned on the light as soon as she'd left the couch.

    She had to crawl to reach the stand on which the phone rested.

    Behind her, the killer quietly closed the door and came into the living room.

    He said nothing. Just kept walking slowly, purposefully, closer, closer.

    At last her hand found the cold receiver and lifted it to her ear.

    And heard nothing.

    And then she heard him laugh: "You stupid little bitch. I cut the wires."

    His laugh grew so loud and so hideous, she had to clamp her hand over her ears.

    

    

    "Honey, honey!" her mother said.

    Her mother seemed very far away. Miles away. Her voice very faint. Gradually, the way her mother was shaking her began to affect Marie.

    "You were only dreaming, Marie. Please wake up."

    
Dreaming. Nightmare. The police car empty. The killer jimmying the lock. Coming in. The phone lines cut. The killer coming closer, closer-

    Marie's eyes opened, finally. The living room was bathed in the soft glow of the table lamp.

    In her blue robe, her mother looked both familiar and pretty. And reassuring. "Are you all right now, honey?"

    Marie nodded. "It was a pretty bad dream."

    "I know, hon."

    "He came in and-"

    Her mother took Marie gently by the shoulders and said, "It's over, hon. Why don't we talk about something else?"

    Marie nodded. "You're probably right. I think I'll go wash my face and maybe brush my teeth." Marie was an inveterate brusher. She liked the clean cool taste of toothpaste.

    "And being lazy," her mother said, "I'll wait right here."

    Marie smiled at the notion of her mother being lazy, and padded into the bathroom.

    She sat briefly on the chill toilet seat, peeing, and then stood over the sink. She ran hot water until it steamed and then took a fresh washcloth and let it soak in the hot water. Marie liked to apply a hot cloth to her face like a compress. Afterward, her flesh always tingled and felt alive.