On the way to Marie Fane's, Dobyns several times saw police cruisers. One in particular, parked at a kerb, the patrolman obviously bored and looking for some action, studied Dobyns carefully. Dobyns felt the man's eyes on him, trying to find anything that could justify turning on the red light and pulling Dobyns over. Dobyns sat perfectly still at the stoplight, foot on the brake, hands held low on the steering wheel so the patrolman couldn't see the blood. There had been no time to clean himself.
The light changed to green.
Dobyns pulled slowly away, his stomach knotting, sweat glazing his face. His right leg was twitching.
He just wanted to kill Marie Fane and then he didn't care what happened to him.
He watched the patrol car in his rear-view mirror.
The patrolman sat up straight suddenly, as if he might clip on the headlights and come after Dobyns.
Dobyns's stomach was in such misery, he was afraid he might vomit.
A gentle curve in the road, and the patrol car was out of sight. For the next two blocks, Dobyns continued to glance anxiously in his rear-view but the patrol car was nowhere to be seen.
After three blocks Dobyns quit glancing backward entirely and concentrated on his driving.
The night was black and suddenly wet. Fat silver drops of rain splashed against his windshield. On either side of the street the spring trees bent under a hard, steady wind. An electric DX sign supported on a tall, thin pole looked as if it might be knocked off its base under the onslaught.
Dobyns passed through three distinctly different types of neighbourhood-a working class neighbourhood of small, orderly houses; a mixed ghetto where blacks and Mexicans lived out an armed and very tenuous truce; and a small boutique shopping district that did its best to resemble a Midwestern Rodeo Drive.
Then he was into the hilly, woodsy area known as the Highlands and it was here he found the redbrick apartment complex where the Fanes lived.
Dobyns parked a block away, on a dark side street. When he got out of the car, he took his jacket, shrugged into it, and the knife, which he stuck in his belt. Wind and rain invigorated him and he was appreciative of it. The car ride had made him dozy. He felt single minded, tough again.
He touched the wooden handle of the knife, almost for luck
He had no trouble spotting the police patrol car.
It sat almost directly beneath a mercury vapour light. Surrounded by older, drab vehicles, the patrol car shone like a beacon.
Dobyns paused at the edge of the parking lot, moving behind the corner of a garage so he could gather himself and decide what to do.
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?"
Marie nodded. "It was a pretty bad dream."
"I know, hon."
"He came in and-"
Her mother took Marie gently by the shoulders and said, "It's over, hon. Why don't we talk about something else?"
Marie nodded. "You're probably right. I think I'll go wash my face and maybe brush my teeth." Marie was an inveterate brusher. She liked the clean cool taste of toothpaste.
"And being lazy," her mother said, "I'll wait right here."
Marie smiled at the notion of her mother being lazy, and padded into the bathroom.
She sat briefly on the chill toilet seat, peeing, and then stood over the sink. She ran hot water until it steamed and then took a fresh washcloth and let it soak in the hot water. Marie liked to apply a hot cloth to her face like a compress. Afterward, her flesh always tingled and felt alive.
Finished with the washcloth, the nightmare finally receding, she opened up the medicine cabinet, took down her toothbrush and toothpaste, and set to work developing a foamy cleansing solvent for her teeth. She was careful to brush properly to get the maximum benefits from her work.
Done brushing, she ran water over the teeth of her brush, put brush and paste back in the medicine cabinet, and then returned to the living room.
A policeman stood next to the couch. He smiled at her and said, "Good evening."
She recognised him at once for who he really was. Even in the uniform, even wearing a hat, it was clear he was the killer she'd seen earlier tonight in the bookstore. "Your mother was nice enough to let me in." He smiled again. "Women are always suckers for uniforms."
"Where is my mother?" she said.
"She's in the bedroom."
"What have you done with her?"
He stared at her. "Calm down."
"I want to go see her."
"You're really starting to lose it."
She turned, and started hobbling down the hallway to her mother's bedroom. Her crippled foot slowed her down considerably.
She heard and felt him right behind her.
Her mother was on the bed. Her clothes had been ripped off her. Her small breasts and tiny thatch of pubic hair gave her a vulnerable look that broke Marie's heart. The gag in her mother's mouth kept her from saying anything. She watched Marie come into the room.
"Did he hurt you?" Marie asked her mother.
Kathleen shook her head. Her face was pale, her eyes frightened.
"Untie her," Marie said.
He slapped her hard directly across the mouth. Marie soon tasted blood in her mouth.
On the bed, her mother made sounds of protest lost in the gag as she rocked uselessly back and forth, straining at the cloth in her mouth.
"You've got a very nice mother; very co-operative," the killer said. "But we've seen enough of her for now. I want to go back to the living room."
Marie started to complain again but her mother shook her head. Comply, the gesture said. Go along, the gesture said.
Marie stared back at the killer. "You're going to kill us, aren't you?"
"I don't want to talk right now," the man said.
He grabbed Marie's shoulder and pushed her toward the door. "C'mon, now." Then he wound her hair round his hand and put the knife to her throat. "And don't try to scream or anything foolish. Do you understand?"
Behind her, Marie heard her mother cry something plaintive behind the gag.
He pushed Marie out into the hall.
When she was halfway toward the living room, he reached for the back of her nightgown and tore it in a single violent motion.
Marie didn't have time to grab it before the two halves of the gown fell away from her entirely. She reacted instinctively by covering her breasts with her hands.
He shoved her into the living room.
He kept staring at her breasts. She could not entirely hide them behind her hands.
At knifepoint, he forced her across the room to the couch. He said nothing. He smelled of sweat and blood. His eyes were crazed. His breath made her nauseous.
He pushed her down on the couch and then dropped down himself and straddled her.
She could feel his sizeable erection pushing against her vagina.
"You're a virgin, aren't you?"
She said nothing. Beneath her shoulder, she could feel the shape of her father's gun.
There had to be some way to reach it-
He pushed his hips tighter into her. "You are, aren't you?"
"Yes," she whispered.
He smiled. "Good."
He reached down to the warmth between her legs.
His knuckles brushed against her softness.
"Do you like how that feels?"
"No," she said.
"No?" he said. "Maybe not right now. But when I'm inside you, you will. I promise you."
Again her shoulder rubbed the gun. She had to distract him some way.
He brought the point of the knife blade to her throat. "Do knives scare you?"
"Yes."
"I kind've thought they would."
"You could run. I couldn't stop you. You could get away before the police come."
His face was huge in her eyes. He had yellow, slightly crooked teeth and he needed a shave and blood spattered his nose and cheeks and he smelled oily and filthy. Now his mouth opened wide as a cavern and he laughed. "Oh, you're real concerned for my welfare, aren't you? That's just what you'd like to see, isn't it? Me get away." He laughed again, the sound rolling around the dark cave of his open mouth.
He put some pressure on the knife.
She felt the tip of it cut her skin. She felt a tiny drop of blood roll down her neck.
"I'm going to lay this knife right next to me while I'm fucking you. And if you make any noise at all, I'm going to kill you right on the spot. You understand?"
He took his knuckles again and traced them across the shape of her vagina.
"You'll want to get wet, otherwise it's going to hurt a lot." He grinned with yellow teeth. "I'm sorry there isn't time for foreplay."
It was then she brought her knee straight up between his legs and had the satisfaction of feeling her knee collide with his testicles.
He let out an almost amazing groan of pain. He jerked up off her momentarily, just enough so she could roll over on her stomach and touch the shape of the gun with her fingers.
He collapsed on her back, ripping out a handful of hair as he did so. "You cunt; you're going to pay for that."
She wanted to cry but she felt so many emotions-terror, pain, rage, uselessness-that she could do nothing but lie there.
And let her fingers gently touch the gun.
He got another handful of hair and started pulling again. Steadily, so the pain would be constant.
"You try that again, and I'll kill your mother first. You understand me, cunt?"
She nodded, sobbed.
His groping hand found her buttock. Began gliding gently over its curve. Then he started squeezing so hard it hurt.
"Maybe I'll do you back door. Maybe that's the way you'll like it," he said.
He had an erection again. He pushed it between the mounds of her buttocks.
Her hand started to tighten on the handle of the gun.
His hand shot out, grabbed hers. "What the hell you think you're doing?"
My God. Has he found the gun? If I don't have the gun then there's no hope-
"You put your hand down here when I need it."
He twisted her entire arm, yanking her hand behind her back. He set her fingers on his erection. He had somehow managed to unzip himself.
Her fingers recoiled at the touch but when he jerked on her arm, making it feel as if he'd snap it in two, she had no choice but to let him guide her hand back to him.
"You and I are going to be friends," he said as he stroked her hand up and down the shaft of his erection. "Very good friends."
Abruptly he let go of her arm and pushed himself down between her legs, his penis brushing against her vagina for the first time.
"You make any noise, cunt, and I'll kill your mother first. You hear me?"
Unable to speak, she only nodded.
"Good. Then we'll get along fine."
He jammed himself up inside her.
Her entire insides caught fire with a pain that brought swimming darkness to her eyes and a dying cry to her throat.
Any sound, and he'll kill Mom.
He started moving around inside her, finding his rhythm, taking his pleasure.
She was still completely dry. Each thrust only made her feel the drier. Each thrust only made her clench her fists and bite down on her tongue the harder.
"Oh, God, cunt, you really feel good."
The tremulous sounds of his domination were almost as bad as the actual feel of him inside.
His strokes got longer now. His breathing was obscenely loud.
She knew he'd be finished in moments. And then he'd kill her. He had no other reason to keep her alive.
She had to move now.
Sliding her hand under the blanket, she wriggled her fingers like snakes up the couch until she felt the handle of the gun.
His hand clamped her wrist!
So he'd found out about the gun after all. So now there was no hope whatsoever.
But it had only been a move of passion, his grabbing her arm. He was thrusting faster and deeper; faster and deeper. Despite herself, she was getting wet down there.
Faster and deeper.
She grabbed it then and pulled it quickly into her chest, hidden away from his sight. The gun felt huge and wonderful in her palm.
When he came, he bit her so hard on the neck that he drew blood. She started to whimper-apparently he was afraid she was going to scream-and he picked up the knife and pushed it hard against the back of her neck.
"Don't say a fucking word, bitch. Not a fucking word."
She would have to do it quickly, she knew he was much faster and stronger. There was a good chance he would see the gun before she had time to use it, and take it from her.
He withdrew from her and started to stand up. She could hear the couch springs squeak from the pressure of his knees.
She could hear his trousers rustle as he began to pull them up.
And then she rolled over and pushed the gun up, holding it tight in both hands.
His face reflected both astonishment and fear.
The first place she shot him was in the groin.
She shot his penis off. Limp, it dropped off like a piece of brittle statuary. Blood began pouring from the hole in his crotch. For good measure, she put another bullet in the bloody cleft the first bullet had left behind.
The second place she shot him was in the chest.
By this time, however, he had tapped into his rage so he was coming for her.
She scrambled backward off the couch, getting tangled up in the blankets and screaming.
He reached down and slapped her so hard that she didn't have time to get a shot off.
He grabbed the gun from her and tossed it behind him on the living room floor.
Then he picked up his knife from the couch, leaned down and grabbed her hair, and pulled her face up to his.
"I'm going to enjoy this, cunt. I'm really going to enjoy this."
Please, Dad. Please pray for me. Please help me.
Even with the gun, she had not killed him. And now he was going to kill her.
He put the cold, clean edge of the knife against her jugular and was about to draw it across her throat when the gunfire broke out.
At first, Marie had no idea what was happening.
But as the killer's knife fell from her throat, and as the killer began to pitch forward dead as the bullets slammed into his back, she saw standing there the best friend she'd ever had, her mother.
Even in the frenzy and horror of this moment, Marie took time to note wryly that Kathleen, after escaping her bonds, had first done the proper thing. She'd put on a robe before coming out into the living room and saving her daughter's life.
By now neighbours were in the hallway, thundering with words and excited exclamations.
Kathleen, composing herself, setting the empty gun on the coffee table as if she'd just finished a perfunctory round of target practice, went to the door.
Marie found her own robe and rose dazedly to her feet. The killer was sprawled face down across the couch. The peppermint stripes of the sheets were soaked red with his blood.
His face was turned in profile and he shocked her by speaking. He reached out a hand and touched her robe, streaking blood down the light blue cotton.
His face angled up toward hers. He had changed somehow-the rage was gone and in his eyes there was the sense of a different man.
He said, "I don't know what they'll do to you. Your name was on the wall. You were supposed to die. They'll punish you for this."
And then his face fell again to the couch, and he died.
Marie, shuddering, wondered what he'd meant. I don't know what they'll do to you. Your name was on the wall. You were supposed to die. They'll punish you for this.
But then neighbours were pouring through the door. And sirens were exploding on the night nearby. And best of all her mother, Kathleen, was hugging her.
The long night had ended at last.
TWO MONTHS LATER
She hardly ever left her room. The others frightened her. She was not sure why but she did not trust them.
So long into the night she stood at the window, watching, watching, not sure for what, just knowing that at some point she would understand the compulsion to stand here until her legs grew sore and tired.
And then one night it happened and for long weeks afterward, she wondered if it hadn't all been a dream.
But no, she knew better than that. It hadn't been a dream. She had indeed visited the tower that stood at midnight in the silver rain like a beckoning finger.
For a time, she was troubled and of course they gave her shots with long silver needles, and her doctors cooed and whispered and reassured, but she did not tell them of course. Not about the hole in the tower where the serpent had slithered free, nor the way the serpent had come across the floor to her and-
She just accepted their shots and slept their sleep and mouthed their words…
…and then one day at last she went home.
FOUR MONTHS LATER
As usual, Marie fixed dinner and brought it into the living room where her mother sat in her pink robe and her pink fuzzy slippers. She really was a very good looking middle aged woman.
"Program started yet?" Marie said, taking one of those long, crippled steps that she would never get used to.
"Not yet, hon."
"Good. I want to see it."
Her mother looked at her curiously. "You're sure, hon? I mean, you're sure you feel up to it?"
Marie sighed, then shrugged. "Uh, I guess so. If it gets too much I'll-I'll just go in my room and read."
Marie sat down on the couch next to her mother and watched TV. There was a station break and a dogfood commercial and a tampon commercial and a Pepsi commercial and then a familiar face and voice filled the screen.
"Good evening. This is Chris Holland of Channel 3 News." Then the camera shot widened out and in the night behind her you could see Hastings House, including the tower. "Six months ago, a man escaped from this mental hospital and went on a murderous rampage in this city that lasted thirty-six hours and claimed five lives. In the past, other people who stayed in this hospital also became murderers. There is a rumour this happened because of the strange powers to be found in the tower you're looking at now.
"Are there any truths to these allegations? Exactly what's in the tower anyway? And is it true that a hundred years ago a very powerful and sinister cult buried the bones of the children it murdered in the ground where the tower now stands?
"Some people familiar with these cases insist that the descendants of the cult still operate in this city, helping possessed individuals find their prey and kill them to satisfy a dark god that takes the form of a serpent."
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.