Ed Gorman: Serpent's kiss

The camera pushed in now for a close-up of Chris's face.

"I've spent the last six months doing an intensive investigation of my own into all these questions. In fact, I should be a little bit grateful to the whole thing. The Dobyns murders saved my job. And even got me a modest promotion."

She shook her head fetchingly. "But I'm not here to talk about myself. I'm here to talk about nineteen murders that have taken place in this city over the past one hundred years. Murders that may not be as commonplace as once seemed."

And with that, they were into another commercial.

The TV show lasted sixty minutes, and during it the trouble in Kathleen's stomach began again.

Ever since her stay at Hastings House and her strange dreams of visiting the tower late one night, she had felt a curious pressure in her belly. Just lately there was movement down there, too, as if something were moving around inside.

She wished she'd never gone to stay at Hastings House. But following the night when Richard Dobyns raped and nearly killed Marie right here in the apartment, Kathleen had gone into a depression so deep that no amount of outpatient counselling seemed to help. So the psychologist she saw recommended a brief stay in Hastings House. Marie had visited her every day. That was the only thing that had made Kathleen's stay tolerable.

"I really like her, don't you?"

"Hmm? I'm sorry, hon. I guess my mind was drifting off."

"Chris Holland. Don't you think she's doing a good job?" Marie said.

"Oh, yes, hon. A very good job."

And just then, Kathleen felt it again, the sensation of something heavy in her stomach shifting position.

What could it be?

FOUR NIGHTS LATER

In the alley, behind the tavern, you could hear it all, the cursing and the laughter, the sudden bursts of excitement over the game on the television and the equally sudden anger as chairs were thrown back and men started throwing punches at each other. It was this way every night-month in, month out; year in, year out. The only things that changed were the country and western tunes on the jukebox and even they had a certain dead sameness in melody and lyrics alike.

The woman waited in the alley. The night wind chafed her face and legs. Sundown, a quick brilliant red and gold, had died like a guttering fire along the horizon and now there was only darkness and the cold steady chill of the wind.

She had been here, in the shadows of a large, ancient garage directly across from the back door of the tavern, for twenty minutes.

Certainly the man would come along soon enough.

And just then the door opened to a rush of music and laughter and the stink of beer and cigarette smoke and then he was there.

He was probably in his early thirties, chunky, balding, sort of cute in a chipmunk kind of way, dressed in a heavily lined zipper jacket, faded blue jeans and work boots, and dangling a steel lunch pail from the thick fingers of his right hand.

He stood in the wind, teetering as if he were so drunk he would pitch over on his side, finishing his cigarette and looking up the alley to the parking lot. He was driving, of course. American roads were filled with people at least as drunk as he was.

It was a narrow little alley, almost a cul-de-sac, and so when she took three steps out of the shadows of the garage, he saw her at once.

He took his cigarette from his lips and flicked it to the ground. "You look like you're lost, lady."

It was easy enough to see on his suddenly smiling face that he was quite appreciative of her good looks, even if she was ten years older than him.

She shrugged. "Just kind of lonely, I guess."

The only real light in the alley was the soft blue neon reading TAVERN above the back door. You could see he was trying to get a better look at her but that there wasn't enough light.

"You with somebody inside?" he said. He was still weaving a bit but lust had given him an edge now. At least he didn't look as if he were going to fall over any longer.

"No. I'm alone."

She let her words sink in.

"Now that's a real shame."

For the first time, she smiled. She had a good smile and she knew it.

He got excited and put his hand out to take her shoulder. "I got a car."

"You got somewhere in mind to go?"

"Uh, sure." She could tell by his hesitation that he was married. He was trying to make some quick plans. "This other little tavern I know. You can get real cosy in the back."

He pulled her closer now, just the way she wanted him to.

She brought the straight razor up from her coat, flicked open the blade, and slashed it quick and deep across his throat.

He was so disoriented from shock and liquor that all he could do was stand there and gape at her. He didn't even seem to notice a pain yet.

She helped him appreciate the moment better by slashing the razor back across his throat.

This time he tried to scream.

But it was too late for that, of course.

She watched as he grasped at his throat, then as his legs collapsed under him, then as he clutched at the air for help.

All the time he was making gagging noises; all the time his chest was becoming soaked with his own blood.

In less than a minute he was dead.

The woman folded the razor, slid it back into her pocket, and started walking away.

In moments she was out of the blue glow of the neon above the back door. Then there was just the hard clear winter light of distant stars.

Her feet crunched ice as she walked down the alley.

Kathleen wanted to make some sense of it, of course, but there was no sense to be made. She had just killed a man and would like to kill others.

In her stomach, the snake shifted position once more, and again she thought of what it had been like carrying a baby to term.

But this was a far different thing she was giving birth to now. A far different thing.

She walked through the night to a bus stop where a bus that reminded her of a huge glowing insect picked her up and took her home.