Serpent's kiss

He sat on the soft double sized mattress, the springs squeaking beneath his weight.

She'd never held handcuffs before. Not real ones; only play ones that Rob and she used to use when they were cowboys and Indians. These cuffs were heavy and rough.

She snapped one cuff on his wrist and one cuff to the brass bedpost.

'Too tight?' she said.

'No. Fine.'

'I'll be back here after I see Chris Holland.'

He reached out and touched her hand. 'I can't tell you what this means to me. I don't want to get- overwhelmed again and-kill anybody. You know?'

She touched his forehead gently. 'I know.' She smiled and touched his cheek now. 'I'll be back as soon as I can.'

'Would you call my wife when you come back?'

'Really?'

'Yes. It'll all sound less-insane-coming from you. Then maybe afterward I could talk to my daughter. For just a few minutes. Before we go to the police, I mean.'

He was a decent and honourable man, she thought. And now she wanted to cry, too.

Her brother had also been a decent and honourable man.

She left him there, handcuffed to the bed.

Chris Holland had once been picked up by a Prudential insurance salesman in a dark, chilly bar very much like this one. This was not an achievement she talked about much-especially considering the fact that afterward the insurance salesman had confessed that he didn't find the Ku Klux Klan 'all bad, I mean they're just doing what they believe in.' He then said that he'd kind of lied to her and that he was, in fact, ahem, married and was now feeling kind of shitty about going to bed with her, nothing personal you understand. And that he'd be shoving off (what was he, a goddamn sailor?). And getting home to that wife and kids. All of which left Chris feeling just great, of course, and wondering if she shouldn't give up her career, find a nice fat bald guy, and retreat to suburbia and raise some kids.

She sat in the bar now, waiting for the woman who'd called her about the murders, and realised that in the eight years since the Prudential guy her love life had not improved a whole hell of a lot. She just had lousy instincts where men were concerned. She could not seem to understand on any gut level the truth all her friends understood-that damaged men, of the type Chris liked to help put back together, inevitably dragged you down with them. Hell, even the Pru guy had had that air about him-vulnerable, hurt, lonely.

The waitress in the cute little handmaiden's costume (though Chris doubted that handmaidens had worn hot pants) brought the day's second beer, picked up her tip, and started away.

And that was when she saw the tall, very Nordic woman in the tailored grey suit standing just inside the entrance door staring at her.

The woman was sombre and beautiful and regal and, now that she was walking, quite graceful, too.

Chris had been secretly dreading that her informant would turn out to be some obviously crazed attention starved lunatic who was going to help 'solve' a murder that took place in 1903 or something. TV reporters were always getting calls from such folks.

But if this one was a lunatic, she was a lunatic with great breeding.

The woman came over to Chris's table and put out a long, strong dry hand. 'I'm Emily Lindstrom.'

'Nice to meet you, Emily. Why don't you sit down?'

So Emily Lindstrom sat down.

The first thing she did was glance around the place. The walls were all got up like the interior of a pirate's sailing vessel. On each table tiny red encased candles burned fervently. In the darkness, Frank Sinatra sang Laura, from the era when he still had a voice. In one corner two salesmen types, all grins and gimme- gimme eyes, were huddled over their table talking about Chris and the Lindstrom woman, obviously trying to figure out how to make their moves. Hell, Chris thought sourly, maybe they work for Prudential.

The waitress came. Emily Lindstrom ordered a small glass of dry white wine. The two salesmen were both grinning at them openly now.

'I'll get right to it if you don't mind,' Emily said.

In the flickering shadows, the Lindstrom woman was even more impressive looking. There was the clarity of a young girl about her beauty, yet there was pain in her blue eyes, a pain that suggested dignity and perhaps even wisdom. If she was a crackpot, Chris thought, she sure wasn't your garden variety crackpot.

'Fine,' Chris said.

'Several years ago my brother, Rob, was accused of murdering three women. When the police moved in to capture him, he was killed.'

'I'm sorry.'

'He didn't kill those women. Some-force had taken him over.'

'I see.' Chris couldn't keep the scepticism from her tone.

Emily smiled. 'I'm sure you've heard stories like this many times. An innocent relative and all that.'

Chris was just about to respond when she saw Emily Lindstrom's upward glance.

There, right next to their table, stood the two salesmen.

'Hi, gals,' the taller of the two said. 'I'm Arnie.'

'And I'm Cliff.'

'You're the TV reporter if I'm not mistaken,' Arnie said.

They both wore three-piece suits. They both wore Aqua Velva. And they both wore lounge lizard smiles.

'That would be me, yes,' Chris said.

'I'd consider it an honour to buy you a drink,' Amie said. He nodded to the two unoccupied chairs gathered at the table. 'You know?'

'I know, Arnie, I know. But believe it or not, this is a business meeting for me.'

'Really?'

'True facts, Arnie,' she said. She always had to remember that she had a public image to worry about. Even while spuming hit artists like these two bozos, she had to maintain a certain decorum. 'I'm sorry but I really am busy.'

Across the table, Emily Lindstrom kept her head down, her eyes almost closed, as if she were trying to will these two out of existence.

'You may not have noticed,' Cliff said, 'But they've got a dance floor in the back'

Emily Lindstrom's head shot up suddenly. She glared regally at Cliff. 'Then why don't you and Arnie go show us how nice you look dancing together?'

Arnie lost it. 'Hey, just because you're sitting here with some TV reporter doesn't give you the right to get shitty.'

But Cliff, obviously the more sensible of the two, had his hand on Arnie's elbow and was gently tugging him away. 'Come on, Arnie. Screw 'em.'

Arnie, still angry, and a little drunker than Chris had realised, said, 'Screw 'em? Hey, I wouldn't touch 'em. Either one of 'em. I don't think they're the type who go for guys-if you know what I mean.'

Now Cliff's hand was more insistent on Arnie's elbow.

'You think you're some goddamn queen just because you're on the tube,' Arnie said. 'Well, you're no queen in my book'

Well, Chris thought uncharitably, in my book you’re a queen.

But then the bartender was there and when he took Arnie's elbow, it was in a manner far rougher than Cliff had done.

The half filled bar was alive now with curiosity about the scene in the corner involving the TV lady and the drunk. This was a lot more interesting than most of the conversations running, as they did, to politics and baseball