Serpent's Kiss (8 page)

    "Thanks," she said.

    Then it was time to walk back across the space between table and door where everybody interested could watch her walk. The nice thing about the end of the hour was the congestion. You didn't stand out in a crowd when you had people on all sides of you pushing toward the EXIT door.

    When she was out of the cafeteria and heading down the long phalanx of lockers, she started thinking again of Richie, and a wildness filled her-a wildness that was one part joy and one part terror.

    She had no confidence where boys were concerned. She did not want to hope for too much with Richie because she might end up getting nothing at all.

    

    

    For a time, he put his head back and closed his eyes and let the apple blossom breeze through the open window balm him.

    It was almost possible to forget that he was on a city bus, and that he did not know who he was, and that he was going to see-3567 Fairlawn Terrace.

    
Who lived there?
he wondered.

    Every few minutes the bus stopped and the big doors whooshed open and people got on and off.

    And then the bus started up again. He liked the lunge of power. It was relaxing somehow; made him feel he was being mercifully carried away from trouble.

    With his eyes closed, he smelled the pieces of the day: grass and sun, warmth and wind, diesel fuel and cigarette smoke.

    And the sounds: children, car horns, radios, black people, white people, Mexican people, aeroplanes, motorcycles.

    The whole human jumble of it made him feel safe again, hiding once more in his own humanity.

    Unlikely as it was, he slept.

    When he woke, he made a tiny frightened sound.

    An old lady in a faded head scarf turned to look at him with accusing blue eyes.

    
Drunk, and sleeping it off
, her gaze said.

    He sat up straight, looking desperately now at the scene surrounding the bus.

    Again, he sensed that this was an area he was familiar with but his mind offered no objective proof Neat ranch houses, neither cheap nor expensive, lined the low grassy green hills on either side of the street.

    
I live in one of these houses.

    The bus pulled over to the kerb.

    The old lady, overburdened with K-Mart and Wal-Mart shopping bags, got off. She still glared at him.

    The bus pulled away once more, the forward rhythm relaxing him immediately.

    If only he could ride forever…

    Two blocks later, he saw the street sign that read FAIRLAWN TERRACE.

    He reached up and grasped the cord that would signal the driver to stop.

    And then he saw the police car. It wasn't marked, of course-the police were not stupid-but it was one of those bulky dark Ford sedans whose very plainness announced it as an 'official' car and 'official' in this case meant police.

    
They're waiting for me.

    The driver pulled over to the kerb.

    He sat down again and said, self conscious because he had to speak so loudly in order to be heard, "I made a mistake. Just drive on, all right?"

    
Mistake? What a stupid story. I reached all the way up there and yanked on the cord. And it was a mistake?

    He saw 3567 then.

    It was a particularly nice ranch style, one made of both lumber and natural stone. He put his face to the bus window like a small lonely boy peering into a house.

    Why was 3567 so special to him? Who lived there?

    But of course he knew the answer to that one.

    He lived there.

    He rode the bus for the next hour and a hall. During this time he fell asleep and when he woke, he was disoriented. Not only was his name vague now; so was his purpose.

    
I'm on a bus. Why? Where am I going?

    And then he felt the shift in his stomach.

    He touched his hand to the slight swell of his belly, felt something thick and round curving across the arc beneath his sternum.

    He recalled something that had happened to him once as a boy.

    On the back porch, autumn winds blowing dead colourful leaves scratching across the screened in windows, he saw something move in a gunny sack his father kept on the back porch for storing walnuts. He had never forgotten what happened next. He knelt down and touched the palm of his hand to the top of the gunny sack He was sure he'd seen the sack move -and then he knew why. Beneath his hand, just under the fabric of the sack, uncoiled a fat writhing snake. He jerked back in panic. He had never been able to forget that odd sensation-the unseen reptile slithering beneath the rough material of the sack

    Just as something slithered inside his belly just now. He could feel it coil and uncoil, coil and uncoil.

    The image of something inside him made him sick suddenly and he wanted to vomit. But he knew he would have to hold it as long as he was on the bus. Which was why he got off.

    Fortunately, the stop at which he left the bus was a forlorn section of taverns and Laundromats and large empty fields filled with rusting deserted cars and hundreds of jagged busted pop bottles and heel-crunched beer cans.

    There was an alley between two rotting taverns that seemed to be having a war of country and western jukeboxes.

    He ran into the alley just as a Hank Williams, Jr., song came on and he vomited so long he was half afraid he would start seeing blood.

    As he stood up, he saw that a skinny, bald guy in a dirty white apron and holding a broom in one hand was watching him.

    "Only three o'clock," the bald, skinny guy said. He was obviously the owner of the tavern.

    "What?" he said, pulling the back of his hand across his mouth.

    "Only three o'clock. Too goddamned early to start puking."

    And with that, the guy hefted his broom and went back inside.

    

    

    Twenty minutes later he came to a phone booth. This was on a corner loud with semis and thick with diesel fumes. Faces were mostly black; clothes mostly bright and cheap. The people moved as if they were dragging chains behind them. Somebody had recently pissed in the phone booth. It reeked. And somebody had also smashed his head against the glass of the booth. In a circle of shattered safety glass, you could see splotches of blood and hair. A starved dog, all ribs and crazed brown eyes, stood at his feet smelling the rancid piss.

    He called a phone number.

    He had no idea what number it was.

    A woman answered, "Hello."

    He said nothing for a time.

    "Hello?"

    He was afraid to speak.

    "It's you, isn't it?"

    "I-I don't know your name."

    "They said you might be confused, honey. The electroshock you've had recently and everything."

    "Who are you?"

    "You really don't know?"

    "No."

    "I'm your wife. Karen."

    "Who am I?"

    She paused again. "Honey, I'm afraid. For you, I mean. You can't walk around in this condition."

    "A while ago I rode by in a bus… I saw a police car there."

    "Two of the detectives came back."

    "They're looking for me."

    "Yes. But you haven't done anything really. Nobody's been hurt. They'd just like to get you back into Hastings House."

    The thing in his stomach shifted again.

    "I'm afraid," he said. "There's something in my stomach."

    "In your stomach?"

    "Yes. Some
thing
. There's no other way to describe it."

    "There's something in your stomach?"

    "Yes. I know how that must sound but-there is."

    She sighed. "Honey, can't you see that you really need to go back to Hastings House? They want to help you. They really do."

    "I can't."

    "But why not?"

    "I'm not sure."

    A pause again. "This morning Cindy heard about your escape. While I was in the bathroom, she went into the living room and turned on the set. She saw your picture."

    "Cindy?"

    "Our daughter. She's six."

    "My God."

    "She's afraid she'll never see you again. She's been crying all day."

    "I'm sorry. I-I'm just so confused."

    "Won't you let me help you, Richard?"

    Richard. So that was his name.

    "What's my last name?"

    "Oh, darling."

    And then she started to cry.

    He couldn't stand the sound of it, her tears. He'd made her cry. And made his daughter cry. Why couldn't he help them, stop running the way she wanted him to, turn himself in?

    "I'm sorry," he said again.

    He hung up and left the booth, pushing the dog out on the sidewalk as he did so.

    The dog barked at him.

    Richard just shook his head and walked away.

    

    

    

    

    THE THIRD MURDER was not so easy.

    A) The police were looking for him and moving around in the city was dangerous. B) The confusion was getting very bad now. Sometimes he had no idea who or where he was, almost as if he were phasing in and out of a fever dream. C) The thing in his stomach was making him nauseous till the time.

    In the bureau he found the same manila envelope with the same photos he had come to dread seeing. They reminded him too much of what he'd done to the two women.

    Now there was a new name in the envelope.

    
Doreen Jackson.

    He crumpled it up and threw it in the corner.

    He went into the bathroom and barfed.

    When he came out he went into the living room and collapsed into the chair.

    Sweat beaded his forehead. His teeth were chattering. He was hot and cold. He couldn't decide which.

    He kept clamping his hand on his stomach.

    The thing inside him kept coiling and uncoiling. He slammed his fist against it.

    For a moment it stopped writhing.

    He lay back in the chair.

    He had brought something with him from his last pass through the kitchen. Now, in the half light of night, streetlights and car lights framing the paper blinds, he raised the butcher knife up to his eyes and looked at it.

    He eased the point of it down to his belly.

    The thing was writhing again.

    
You sonofabitch. You! Fucking sonofabitch,
he thought.

    He pressed the butcher knife against his belly.

    An abortion was what he needed.

    He tried to find the humour in this, in a man needing an abortion.

    It would be so easy-

    
Just plunge the knife straight in. An abortion.

    He tried. Several times.

    He couldn't do it.

    He started sobbing and he couldn't stop and he ended up puking instead.

    Now the thing was working its way up from his stomach into his oesophagus-

    

    

    Two hours later he dialled information and got the name of an outcall massage parlour.

    An hour after that there was a knock on his door.

    "Yes?" he said, not getting up.

  "You called me. I'm from Pussycats."

    "Come in."

    He heard the doorknob being turned, the apartment door slowly creaking open.

    She stood in silhouette. She was tall, at least six feet, and chunky. She wore hot pants and a halter and a big floppy hat. A huge purse was slung over her shoulder. She smelled of heat and sweat and cigarette smoke and sex and night and cheap wine.

    "How come the light ain't on?"

    "I prefer the darkness."

    "I ain't into no weird shit, babe. I want you to know that up front."

    "Just please come in and close the door."

    "You don't turn on the light, I'm puttin' an extra five on the tab."

    "Fine."

    "Wear and tear on the nerves, you know?"

    "Please. Just come in and close the door." So she did.

    He sat in the chair and smelled her. He found her various aromas erotic.

    "You want just a BJ?"

    "BJ?"

    "Blow job."

    "Oh."

    "We've got a special on them tonight is why I asked."

    "I see." Despite himself, he smiled.
My God the world made no sense at all.
Prostitution was demeaning enough; now they were selling it at discount prices.

    "Can we turn on a light?"

    "Not yet."

    "It's kind of spooky."

    "I know."

    "I can see you in the chair there."

    "Right."

    "You want me to come over and mount you?"

    "No, thanks."

    "What kind of thing you into, then?"

    "I want you to do me a favour."

    "What kind of favour?"

    "I'll get to that in a minute."

    "Will this favour hurt me?"

    "No. It'll hurt me."

    "Oh," she said, sounding suddenly knowledgeable. "You're one of those guys, huh?"

    He laughed. "You really do have a one track mind, don't you?"