Ed Gorman: Serpent's kiss

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?"