Ed Gorman - Serpent's kiss

At first he was a little nervous-drunks and homeless people had the most baleful eyes on the planet-but soon enough he relaxed and appreciated the soft sweet breeze and the aromatic sprays of apple blossoms and dogwood that bloomed on a nearby hill.

He felt pure exhilaration. He'd never before trusted anyone enough to tell them the story about his father. For months now he'd had this secret crush on Marie but he hadn't ever expected it to lead to the kind of relationship where you talk, really talk, to somebody.

His problems hadn't gone away. There still wasn't enough money at home. His mother still looked worse and worse each day. Attending college still seemed a dimmer and dimmer hope for him. But even given all this, the fact that he'd unburdened himself with Marie made him feel as if he now had an ally. Somebody on whom he could rely.

He had a friend.

He had walked four blocks from the bookstore without even realising it. On one corner was an adult bookstore where two winos with paper bags covering their wine bottles sat hassling customers as they came out the door, apparently trying to panhandle some cash. On another corner was a Hardee's, a brilliant glowing white against the darkness and gloom of this neighbourhood. And on the third corner sat a small stone Catholic Church. He wasn't sure why, but he felt like going over there, mounting the stairs and going inside to sit in the quiet shadows and watch the votive candles flicker green and yellow and red in the darkness. Even though he wasn't sure he even believed in a personal God anymore, the prospect of sitting in church always cheered him. He'd spent many such hours following the revelations about his father.

He decided it was time to start back, pick up the Blizzards, and head for the bookstore.

He took out another cigarette and got it going. He probably wouldn't have another one for an hour or two.

When the light turned green, he crossed the street.

There was something about the man. She wasn't sure what. The odd thing was that he should unnerve her when other types of customers didn't. He was well dressed, well spoken, and certainly friendly enough. At least outwardly. But while he physically resembled the majority of the university related customers, still there was something troubling about him.

The man remained in back, looking at Steinbeck novels. She opened the lid on the box and peered down at the.38. At least that's what Brewster had called the weapon. A.38. For all she knew it could have been a.45 or an.889 or some other crazy number. Small, silver, smelling now of cleaning solution and oil, the gun lay waiting for her to pick it up. Brewster had shown her several times how it worked. She would, she felt, have no trouble firing it.

She reached down. Touched it. Despite the fact that guns made her nervous and uncomfortable-and despite the fact that on the debate team she always wanted to take the pro gun registration side-feeling the gun now gave her a measure of self-confidence. She occasionally took out her father's gun at home and held it, felt the grip clutched in her palm, felt her finger on the trigger. Much as she might try to deny it, and despite her feelings about registration, holding a handgun gave her a certain self-confidence.

She looked down the aisles. Empty.

The man had disappeared. Her heart began to pound. Where had he gone?

"Hello," she said. "Hello."

On the dusty air of the old building, her voice sounded strained and very young.

"Hello. May I help you find something?"

Nothing.

Where had he gone?

Was he hiding?

Never before had she realised how many places there were to hide in the bookstore. Divided into four long, tall lanes with a full back wall packed with additional books, a person could easily hide behind one of the corners where the lanes ended.

Or could easily sneak down into the basement and wait.

"Hello," she called again.

She didn't really expect a response. None came.

Where was Richie?

God, it seemed as if he'd been gone an hour now.

How long could it take to get two Blizzards and smoke a cigarette? He shouldn't be smoking anyway. It was such a stupid, deadly habit-

"Found it."

The man had come as if from nowhere. She had been looking up and down the lanes on the east side of the store and he'd walked up from behind her.

He held in his hands a somewhat tattered Bantam paperback copy of In Dubious Battle .

"My lucky night, I guess," the man said. He had a very nice smile until you noticed how cold and cheerless it was. There was no warmth in his dark eyes, either.

She glanced down at the gun. Was she being dumb? What was so menacing about this man when you came right down to it? And, to be exact, she'd felt this same sort of panic working on her before in the store-some of her mother's paranoia rubbing off on her.

She took his ten-dollar bill and set it on the corner of the register, the way Brewster had shown her, to make change.

She had just got the register open when she heard him moving.

When she looked up again, he was gone.

Quickly, her eyes scanned the lanes. No sight of him-but of course she couldn't see all the lanes. She heard a clicking sound and turned around. Saw him.

At the door.

Snapping the safety lock in place.

Pulling down the white shade with the red word CLOSED on it.

"What're you doing?" she said.

"You know what I'm doing."

"This isn't funny."

"It isn't meant to be funny."

"You go unlock that door or I'll call the police."

An old fashioned black phone sat on the counter. He walked over to it. He lifted the receiver and handed it to her. "Be my guest."

"I've got a friend who's coming back. He'll know something's wrong."

"I'm not going to hurt you, you know."

"I wasn't lying about my friend. His name's Richie."

"All I want is for us to have a nice time."

"Please."

He walked around the counter.

Just when she thought she might leap free from him, he snatched her wrist in his hand. He was very strong. And very quick.

"Ow," she said.

"See, you're making me do this."

"No, I'm not. Please."

"You help me out and I'll help you out."

She was afraid to guess what he meant by that.

In disbelief, she watched him unzip his trousers. In moments, his penis was in his hand. It was longer and harder than she'd ever imagined a penis could be.

He guided her hand down to it.

"No!" she said.

He slapped her with such stunning force that she literally lost her senses-all she was aware of was darkness and coldness rushing up her sinuses and up into her head. A darkness and coldness she equated with death.

Only as she began to compose herself was she aware that he'd tom her blouse and bra away from her chest. Her small but full breasts were exposed to the drab light and drafts of the aged bookstore.

He pulled her to him. She was aware of his penis rubbing up against her own sex and of the scent of him-sharp and sweaty now, filled with desire and danger.

He got his fingers on her own zipper, got her fly open, and then crammed his hand inside her panties, finding her dry sex immediately.

"You'd better relax, honey. You don't want to be dry when I get inside you."

She tried to slap him, but it was no use. She could not find an angle from which a slap would hurt him. He had her pressed tightly to him.

With brutal force, he tore her jeans away from her hips and threw her back against the counter. He got her legs spread apart and tried to get up inside her.

This time she managed to slap him on the back of the head.

If he felt the blow, he gave no clue. Instead, he tried for a second time to get up inside her, the head of his penis brushing the lips of her vagina.