Serpent's Tooth. Michael R. Collings

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      “Carver, focus, dear.”

      “Yeah. Anyway I told him last night I would wake him up because he was...well, he was pretty drunk and, I don’t know, maybe wasted, I’m not sure.”

      He caught a glance from Victoria and swallowed hard, visibly pulling himself back on track.

      “So I went over this morning and the side door was unlocked like he said it would be, like it always is, you know, because out here we don’t usually have any trouble with.... The door was unlocked, and I didn’t knock because I knew that his grand...that Miz Johansson sometimes didn’t get to sleep until really late and wouldn’t want to be waked this early. So I went on in.

      “He was still in bed. He was just sprawled there, no quilt, no sheet, just like he had been last night when I brought him home. He hadn’t even taken his clothes off. He was just there. And I could tell that he was...that he was dead.” The boy almost broke into tears. As it was he had to blink rapidly several times to clear his vision.

      “So I went right downstairs and woke Miz Johansson and helped her get dressed...and I didn’t see anything I shouldn’t, you know I wouldn’t do anything like that, don’t you....” The overt plea for understanding on even this one small point was heart-breaking.

      “Of course, Carver dear. But you must concentrate. You woke Eric’s grandmother and....”

      “I woke her up and helped her dress and helped her get over here and by then Mom was up and I told her what had happened and she took Miz Johansson in with her and set her down on the couch and told me to call for help, so I called for you because I knew that you would know what we should do.”

      “You did fine. That couldn’t have been easy for you.”

      Carver nodded again, whether in agreement with the latter statement or gratitude for the former I couldn’t tell.

      “What did Deputy Wroten say when you called the substation?”

      “I didn’t call him.”

      For the first time, Victoria’s sense of command faltered.

      “He wasn’t at the substation? Was Deputy Allen there instead?”

      Carver blanched even further at the mention of the younger deputy’s name; they did not get along well at all. Too much past history.

      “I didn’t call him, either. I didn’t call the cops at all.”

      Normally Victoria might have corrected Carver’s usage, since she herself insisted on deputy or police officer, but she let the smaller infraction slide and zeroed in on the larger.

      “Carver, did you even call the substation?”

      “No. I didn’t think of it at first, all I could think of was that Miz Victoria would know what to do, and then later, while I was waiting for you to get here, I...I didn’t want to call them. I didn’t want to talk to them.”

      “I suppose you didn’t call the coroner’s office, either.” It was not a question.

      Carver shook his head.

      “Or Doc Anderson’s?”

      Again, the silent answer.

      “Good Lord,” Victoria murmured almost under her breath—it was as close as she would come to a profanity...and obscenities were utterly beneath her dignity.

      “Well, it can’t be helped now. Carver, you come with me. And you too, Lynn dear, if you don’t mind.”

      “Sure,” I said, not quite knowing what I was getting myself in for.

      “Janet, while we’re gone, do you think you could call the substation and let them know? Someone should get out here as quickly as possible.”

      Janet Ellis looked up from the couch. The older woman didn’t move. She seemed almost asleep.

      “I’ll help Greta into the guest room and then call. Where will you be? Over there?”

      “Yes.”

      And then, for the first time, I had a clear inkling of what was going to happen.

      CHAPTER THREE

      We drove to the house next door.

      Turning down the long gravel-strewn driveway felt eerily familiar...the same crunch of tires on dirty grey stone, the same beds of roses bordering both sides of the drive, differing from those along the Ellises’ driveway only in color—Janet’s, which I had barely noticed earlier that morning, had been white, while Greta’s were pink shaded with yellow, what used to be called Peace roses.

      Otherwise the two places seemed almost identical.

      When we approached closer, however, I could see signs that things were not quite the same. The clapboard panels on Greta’s house were beginning to peel and splinter, as if they had not been tended for some years. The house needed a new coat of paint and the windows were dusty, suggesting that they hadn’t been washed since the last rainstorm some time before.

      The kitchen door was just as dilapidated as the rest of the house. Where Janet’s had opened silently, mute testimony to Carver’s carpentering skill and his resolute concern for keeping his mother’s house in good shape, Greta’s door squealed and balked. The noise grated on our ears, especially in the quiet of the early morning.

      “I tried to come by when I could and take care of things,” Carver muttered as if in apology, “but I haven’t had much time lately.”

      “Didn’t Eric...,” I began.

      “Most people called him ‘Rick,’” Carver said. “Except for his grandmother. And Miz Sears. They always called him ‘Eric.’ And he wasn’t much...he didn’t....” Carver faltered.

      “He was not much into manual labor,” Victoria completed. “Unless he was paid for it.” She glanced quickly around the place, taking in the shaggy grass, the scraggly appearance of the un-pruned roses. “Greta thought that he might learn to like working with his hands, but he never did.”

      I had more questions but now didn’t seem like the right time.

      The kitchen smelled.

      It wasn’t rank or anything like that. There was just a trace of unpleasant odors—the garbage can by the door was covered and clean, but it smelled like it should have been taken out a day or two before. There were several pots and pans stacked on the counter, their contents crusted and dried. They should have been long since washed and put away.

      And the place smelled old.

      You know what I mean. It’s really nothing quite identifiable. Just an occasional whiff of something slightly medicinal, something nearly like talc or baby powder, mixed with the slightest suggestion of staleness.

      Victoria’s house would never smell old, no matter how many more years she spent there.

      Greta’s house had probably smelled that way for decades. СКАЧАТЬ