Serpent's Kiss

by Ed Gorman

  Until now, he had not confronted the unspoken reason he was going into the bookstore.

  The reason the knife was lashed to his leg.

  The bookstore.

  Inside.

  Marie Fane.

  Now.

  He went inside.

  Even from the threshold, he could see how neatly- lovingly-the store was laid out. Tidily categorised, all the books fitted perfectly into their pockets.

  "May I help you?"

  She was no great beauty but she was very pretty. One of those attractive, earnest looking girls boys actually seem to prefer to great beauties.

  "Just looking for some old John Steinbeck novels, I guess," Dobyns said casually.

  She had a nice body, the right combination of roundness and leanness.

  "You'll find that to your right behind you in American literature."

  He watched her carefully. He could see that his gaze upset her slightly, that she didn't know how to interpret it.

  "Do you sell a lot of him?"

  "Not a lot," Marie Fane said. "Mostly The Red Pony, The Grapes of Wrath and Of Mice and Men."

  "That's my favourite."

  "Of Mice and Men?"

  "Right. You ever read it?"

  "Yes. I loved it. Especially the ending. It was so sad."

  He saw her earnestness again. The simple but almost moving way she talked about the novel. The fact that she found it so sad told him a lot about her. She was a sensitive and intelligent girl.

  Now, she seemed even prettier to him.

  "When he puts the mouse in his pocket," Dobyns said. "That's the part I always remember."

  The girl nodded. "He was a great writer."

  "I guess one of the novels I'm looking for is In Dubious Battle. You think you have that?"

  "It'd be in the Steinbeck section if we did."

  He'd been trying to lure her out from behind the cash register. He didn't want to grab her up front. Too near the door. Too close to somebody walking in on them. Or seeing them struggle through the glass front door.

  "Thanks," he said, and walked back to the American literature section.

  ***

  Richie ended up walking around the block to smoke his cigarette. Even in a run down neighbourhood such as this one, spring was meant to be enjoyed.

  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.

  8

  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.

  When she screamed, he brought his hand up as if by magic and struck her with terrible fury across the mouth.

  She felt blood fill the inside of her mouth immediately. She knew she would not scream anymore. She was too afraid of getting hit again.

  Where was Richie?

  A cigarette and a quick trip to the Dairy Queen couldn't possibly have-

  "Now you listen, you little cunt. I want to enjoy you. Do you understand me?"

  He had his face pushed right up against hers. His features were huge, grotesque. "I want to get inside you and have a good time. If you try to stop me, I'll kill you."

  And then he reached down as if he were going to pick up something from the floor-there was the sound of something being unclasped-and then a small butcher knife filled his hand.

  He brought the gleaming blade not to her face, not to her throat, but to her left breast.

  "You know what this knife could do to that?" The tip of the blade tweaked her pink nipple. "You want to find out what it could do to that?"

  She heard herself whimpering, pleading: "No, no."

  "Then you do what I tell you, you understand? You do what I tell you or I'm going to take you apart piece by piece." He seized her breast with such force that she felt her knees buckle. "And I'm going to start with your nice little tit here. All right?"

  Something like a scream started up her throat and through the bubbling blood in her mouth but the back of his hand smashed across her lips once again, killing the sound utterly.

  "Now let's have some fun," he said.

  ***

  The woman ahead of him in line wore tight white stretch pants. She must have been at least one hundred pounds overweight. Easily. She ordered three Buster Bars, two Dillies, a ninety-five-cent cone, and two large Blizzards. She wore no wedding ring and she had no kids with her. Richie had the depressing feeling that maybe all the goodies were just for her. He was depressed because he had an aunt like that. Ever since her husband-an Amway distributor who called everybody 'Chief' and 'Ace'-had left her, all she seemed capable of was pigging out. She'd even had surgery to waylay her incredible eating binges. But so far anyway it was no use. She still ate like a Roman legion.

  The woman's goodies fitted into three big white bags. She kept her eyes down as she left the fluorescent haven of the DQ to return to the dark and mean streets surrounding the place. Her skin-tight pants and a cherry coloured tank top only emphasised her enormous size. That's why her eyes were downcast, of course. Shame that others could see her addiction and feel superior to her because of it. Maybe even hate her a little. Watching her-seeing others stare at her-Richie felt sorry for her. He could tell you all about being stared at and whispered about.

  He stepped up to the window and gave the cute young girl in the chocolate spattered white uniform his order.

  ***

  Marie managed to bring her knee straight up between the man's legs and catch him squarely in the groin. He went tumbling backward, his arms flailing out, the knife skittering across the ancient linoleum floor.

  Her first impulse was to leap for the door, get it open, and run out to the sidewalk.

  Sobbing, she started running around the counter. Running as best she could, anyway, with her crippled foot. Behind her, she heard a noise. She wasn't sure what it was but she wasn't going to stop to find out either.

  She had just put her hand out to the safety lock when he clamped his arm on her shoulder and spun her around.

  "You shouldn't have done that, bitch."

  This time he slapped her so hard she was lifted half a foot off the floor and slammed into the counter, the back of her head cracking against the telephone.

  He came at her again, raking the fingers of one hand into her tender sex, and grabbing her neck with the other hand.

  He jerked her to him and started kissing her.

  His tongue was hot and wet and foul in her mouth. She could hear him groaning with pleasure and feel his penis rubbing against her vagina.

  She bit his tongue so hard she could taste blood. This time it wasn't hers, it was his.

  He was in such pain that he picked her up like a lawn chair and hurled her into a wire display rack of paperbacks.

  She felt the wire biting into her naked back as her weight brought the whole display down. She saw a blur of colourful paperback covers flying past her eyes as the books flew in various directions.

  "You fucking cunt," he said.

  She could see the blood she'd drawn. His whole mouth was ugly with soaking red blood.

  He bent down and grabbed the knife by the hilt.

  Chest heaving, wiping off the blood with the back of his hand, he came over to stand above her.

  She tried to scramble backward but there was no place to go. She was flush up against the head of a lane. It was at least two feet wide and six feet tall.

  He stood over her, his genitals still exposed, blood oozing from his mouth, the knife held ready in his right hand.

  "I wasn't going to kill you, cunt. At least not right away. But now I've changed my mind."

  He reached down and grabbed a handful of her hair and snapped her to her feet.

  ***

  "Mrs. Kathleen Fane?"

  "Yes."

  "Mrs. Fane. This is Chris Holland from Channel 3 News."

  "Oh. Yes."

  "I'm trying to reach a Marie Fane."

  "Marie. Why she's my daughter."

  "Do you know where I can reach her?"

  "I-suppose. But can you tell me why you need to talk to her?"

  "There really isn't time now, Mrs. Fane. You'll just have to trust me."

  "Well, she works in a bookstore."

  "Do you know the name of it?"

  "The Alice B. Toklas Bookstore. It's ov
er in the university district."

  "And she's there now?"

  "She should be."

  "Thank you very much, Mrs. Fane."

  "But-"

  Knowing she was scaring the hell out of the woman, Chris hung up. She didn't always like the things she had to do as a reporter.

  She looked through the phone book, found the Alice B. Toklas Bookstore, and dialled.

  The phone rang ten times.

  "Shit," Chris said. This time she didn't say pardon my French.

  "What's wrong?"

  "No answer at the bookstore where Marie is supposed to be working tonight." She hung up and started dialling again immediately.

  "Who're you calling?" Emily Lindstrom asked.

  "O'Sullivan. He's got a car phone and he should be able to-"

  And then there he was.

  "Walter?"

  "Just the person I want to talk to, Holland. Do you know he has a pet rat that rides around on his shoulder?"

  "Things are more serious than that. Do you know where the Alice B. Toklas Bookstore is?"

  "Sure. Over by the university. It's where I get my copy of the New York Review of Books every week."

  "I need to meet you there as soon as possible. All right?"

  "This is all pretty crazy shit, Holland. I hope you know that by now."

  "Maybe not as crazy as you think, Walter," she said, and hung up.

  ***

  This time, Marie managed to duck the slap the man aimed right at her mouth.

  He had pushed her flat back against the chest-high counter again, and Marie tried to think of some way to reach the gun Brewster had left under the cash register for her.

  The man waved the knife closer, closer to her chest.

  He lunged.

  Marie jumped sideways two steps.

  The knife went deep into the varnished wood of the counter. The man made a grunting sound, almost as if he'd been wounded.

  Marie moved backward now. She knew she could never reach the door and get it open before he grabbed her again so she tried to position herself for jumping behind the counter. If she could work her way leftward, she knew she could dive beneath the cash register and get the.38.