John Godey - The Snake

The door is shut firmly. The camera holds on its polished elegance for a moment, then fades back to the studio.

"A final note, just in," the anchorman says. "Police cars will continue into the night to patrol the park with loudspeakers, urging the public to stay away." He consults a slip of paper. "We are informed that the Central Park Precinct has received over twenty calls from residents of the buildings rimming the park, on Fifth Avenue, Central Park South and Central Park West, complaining that the blaring of the loudspeakers is interfering with their sleep and, in some cases, the audibility of their television."

Frozen in that extraordinary fossil like quality of total immobility peculiar to reptiles, the snake watched the rat move along the base of the wall. The rat, which might have been intent on some prey of its own, failed to see the snake until the very last moment before it struck, and then it was too late.

The rat reacted immediately to the venom. Its brown hair stood up spikily, its body curled in on itself in an agonized spasm, and it bit frantically at the site of the bite. It turned away from the snake in terror, and with erratic movement retreated along the base of the stone wall. The snake, driven by its post-sloughing hunger, followed swiftly.

It overtook the rat, its head low to the ground now, its mouth gaped, but it did not strike again. It curled in front of the stumbling rat and faced it. The rat made an effort to retreat, but its legs gave out and it collapsed. It lay quietly, its teeth bared in a rictus, its eyes half shut. Although the snake customarily waited until its prey was dead, it did not do so now. It opened its mouth wide and took the feebly struggling rat between its teeth. With one side of its mouth hooked firmly into the rat's head, the snake pushed the teeth of the other side forward a short distance and engaged them. It did not take notice of the shudder that preceded the rat's death, but continued to push forward by alternate investment of its teeth until the rat was completely swallowed.

When Mark Converse opened his eyes, the python was in the direct line of his vision and appeared to be staring at him.

The python was under four feet long, just a baby, but lately it had taken to having notions about the cat. A few days ago it had curled down the lamp standard and begun to constrict the cat. The cat had raked a claw across its ventral area before bounding away, leaving a bloody streak on the python's body, but it could just as well have taken out an eye with the same effort. Eventually, Converse knew, one of them would have to go.

Probably the python, considering the expense involved in keeping it fed with mice and rats and small snakes. The cat could make do with a can of something off the supermarket shelf.

Wait a minute. He'd have to dispose of both of them, wouldn't he, when he went to Australia? Dunce. Better start thinking about it. He could probably farm out the cat, but who would take a python? So it would doubtless go to the zoo. Meanwhile, it had made a nice pet, and even seemed to show some affection, or at least tolerance, for him.

It was sprawled on the bottom of its glass cage, still with the appearance of staring at him, though he was sure it was asleep. The air conditioning was on, and the cold made it lethargic. Normally, out of the cage, it would have found a sunny place on the floor to bask. That was another thing: it was a nuisance having to cage it every time he had a girl around. He hadn't found a woman yet who liked snakes, and that included his ex-wife and both of his serious ex-relationships. Maybe, if he ever found a girl who liked snakes, he might marry again. Jesus, not again.

He bounded up off the pillow and looked at the clock. Quarter of seven.

In the morning, most likely, though you couldn't tell one way or another with the dark-green, light-tight window shades drawn.

The telephone rang. Must be evening. Nobody would phone him at quarter of seven in the morning. The phone rang a second time, and he reached for it across the red-gold head on the other pillow. She was buried to the nose under the blanket, and she hadn't stirred. She has earned her rest, he thought tenderly, and picked up the phone as it rang for a third time.

"This is Captain Eastman of the New York Police Department. Excuse me for calling you at this hour of the morning. I hope I didn't wake you."

Morning. Okay, morning. His heart began to thump. "Who?"

He meant who has died, which of my distant parents has had a fatal heart attack. But his caller misinterpreted his question. "Captain Eastman, NYPD. Emergency Service Unit. Remember me? That rattlesnake up in Washington Heights last year? I guess I was still a lieutenant then."

Converse breathed out in relief. "Oh, sure." He didn't remember any Eastman, captain or lieutenant, only a faceless lot of jittery, blundering cops. "Got another snake?"

There was a very long pause, during which Converse thought he heard Eastman muttering to himself. But when he spoke it was still in an apologetic tone. "I got your home number from the night man at the zoo.

He said you're not with the zoo anymore?"

"Yeah, I quit a few weeks ago. I'm supposed to be going off to Australia with an expedition, to bring back specimens… " Autobiography at seven in the morning? Forget it. The head on the other pillow was stirring. Converse said, "Where's this one?"

There was another protracted silence, and now Eastman spoke very slowly and with exaggerated clarity. "I guess I must have woken you from a pretty deep sleep. I'm sorry. I'm talking about the snake in Central Park, Mr. Converse."

"There's a snake in Central Park?" The girl was turning toward him. Her eyes were circled, She was smiling, showing her small white teeth. "On the loose? Another rattler?"

Eastman's voice became suddenly edgy. "Are you putting me on, Mr. Converse?"

Converse reacted to Eastman's tone. He said peevishly, "I don't know what the hell you're talking about."

Eastman said, "Chris sake," and then, with wonder in his voice, "Where the hell have you been since twelve noon yesterday?"

"In the sack. Is there a law against it?"

"In the sack for twenty hours? You're some hell of a sleeper."

"Well, it hasn't been all sleep." The girl's hand was moving slowly toward him under the sheet. "I mean, we got up and… I got up and had something to eat every once in a while. You know, it wasn't all sleep."

"Be damned," Eastman said. "Still, didn't you turn on the TV or the radio or see a newspaper?"

"Well, you know, there wasn't time." Converse reached under the sheet and captured the girl's hand, stopping its movement. "You mean this snake has been on the radio and TV? Honestly, I didn't know."

"Look," Eastman said, "I haven't got time to fill you in on everything you've missed, except to tell you that this particular snake has bitten two citizens and they're both dead."

"You're kidding." It wasn't at all what Converse had meant to say, or what the occasion seemed to call for, but he felt stupefied. He released the girl's hand in order to gesture. "Killed two people? Are you sure it's a snake? In Central Park? Christ-what kind of a snake is it?"

"We don't know. It's a snake, all right, and it's still at large. The reason I'm calling-I remember how quickly you found that rattlesnake, and I'd like you to help us out again."

"Christ, yes." The girl had turned toward him. The sheet had slipped down, or she had helped it slip down, baring her breasts. He faced away from her, and felt the soft warmth of her breasts against his back. "In Central Park?

That's all you know about its whereabouts?"

"We think it's in the area of the Delacorte Theatre. At least, that's where it was when it bit one of the victims. So far as I know, it could be anywhere."