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.