“Bale’s delivered. Two of your boys stored it in the shed out back. It’s locked up. And they did it without getting bit. They did it very carefully.”
Wroten and Victoria laughed.
“Doc Anderson will have a look at it tomorrow. He’ll probably do some scientific mumbo-jumbo and prove without a shadow of a doubt that the residue of venom in Johansson’s blood and in the wound on his leg came from that very same sidewinder and no other.” Wroten was in a John-Wayne testifying before a jury of his peers mode but no one cared. We were just glad that everything was settled.
Except, of course, that young Eric Johansson was dead.
Some things can be explained but never changed.
“Richard, dear,” Victoria said after a long moment in which we all wanted to laugh but none of us quite dared, “would you mind driving me home? The Behemoth is in the shop and Lynn dear has been a wonder in traipsing all over the countryside with me, but I’m sure that she is tired of hearing my voice by now. Time to give her a break, I think.”
“Uh...sure, Miz Sears.” It was more than just us chickens now, so he was back to being a law officer.
“And I believe that there must be some paperwork you will need me to fill out. An affidavit or some such so that you can proceed with the charges against Mr. Snake.”
Oh, no. It was Helen Hayes again. What was she up to now?
Wroten looked slightly flummoxed but rose to the occasion like a gentleman.
“There’s no need to rush, of course, but now would be fine if you have the time. I can get Sandy”—Sandy was the receptionist at the substation—“to pull out the necessary papers.”
“Good to see you again, Mr. Tom Neilson,” Victoria said, extending her hand to him. “Hope to see you again soon. And give my very best to your mother.”
“Ma’am,” Neilson said, shaking her hand.
“And thank you, Lynn dear, for being so patient. I truly didn’t have any idea when I called you this morning that I would keep you out and about so late.” She gave me a quick hug, then glanced rather ostentatiously at her watch. “Why, it’s nearly five o’clock. Almost dinner time. I am so sorry. But thanks again, Lynn dear.”
With that, she slipped her arm through Deputy Wroten’s and steered him down the street toward the substation, already chattering to him about the details of her “case.”
I stared.
She didn’t just do what I was afraid she had done.
She couldn’t have.
I felt my ears turning red.
Okay, she had done it all right.
The old...sweetie.
“Ma’am, Mrs. Hanson,” Tom Neilson said after a moment, drawing my attention away from the pair that was just disappearing into the substation.
“Please, it’s Lynn. Only strangers call me Mrs. Hanson, and after sharing a...what was it, not a ‘crime scene’ but at least a place-of-the-cause-of-death scene, we are hardly strangers.”
“Okay, Lynn, then. It’s been good meeting you. I’d heard a little about you being in town, and Victoria has told me a little about...your family. I’m sorry for your loss.”
He dropped his eyes to the ground.
Oh, ‘Victoria dear’, I’m going to figure out a way to get even with you for this.
“I enjoyed meeting you too, Mr..., Tom. Even, or perhaps especially, under such unforgettable circumstances.”
There was a long silence.
Then Tom Neilson nattered on for a few minutes about nothing in particular, and I nattered back.
And then he invited me to dinner at the Timberline Place, the best restaurant we could boast of in Fox Creek.
And to my surprise, I accepted.
When I called Victoria later—much later—that evening to express my total and complete displeasure at what she had done, I also made certain to point out in no uncertain terms one more thing.
Dinner with Tom Neilson had been really quite lovely.
AUTHOR’S AFTERWORD
Serpent’s Tooth is the ninth novel I have written but the first to contain continuing characters.
I’ve explored the possibilities of stories linked by a common settings with the science-fictional landscape of Wordsmith (2009) and Three Tales of Omne (2010); and more explicitly in my Tamarind Valley horror novels, The House Beyond the Hill (2007), The Slab (2010), and Static! (2011)—and there are at least two additional Tamarind Valley stories in the works, Fast Foods and Hungry, the latter of which began life some years ago as an exercise in collaboration with my son Michaelbrent (who has gone on to write eight superb novels on his own).
But Serpent’s Tooth picks up roughly two months after the action of Devil’s Plague concludes, and almost immediately the reader is once again thrust into the lives of Victoria Sears, Lynn Hanson, Carver Ellis, Richard Wroten, and other denizens of Fox Creek.
This presented several interesting challenges.
The first, of course, was trying to construct relationships that would be true to the state of the characters at the end of the first book as well as to the time that had passed. Not to mention keeping the characters consistent. That was something I’d not tried before.
The second was to create a narrative that would continue the tone and feeling—the sense of an Americanized British cozy mystery—that I had attempted in the earlier novel. That meant, among other things, that any deaths had to happen before the action of Serpent’s Tooth, that violence and bloodshed for the most part be reported not re-created, and that the conclusion in certain elemental ways skirt the entire issue of “murder.” That would require a specific kind of plot, developed through specific kinds of scenes and episodes.
When the impetus to write Serpent’s Tooth actually came, I had already worked out most of the plot in the back of my mind. The projected book—title and all—was intended to be the fourth or fifth in a list of half a dozen prospective projects; I would get to it when the opportunity arose, but in the meantime there were several more immediate tasks, including the two Tamarind Valley novels. After all, I had nearly fifty manuscript pages of Fast Foods waiting for me after a false start some years before; and two chapters and a complete plot outline for Hungry.
It was a no-brainer.
Finish the ones I had a good start on, then work with the new kid on the block.
That made perfectly good sense until I received a call from Robert Reginald, my friend and publisher at Borgo Press. In addition to overseeing more than thirty of my books into print (or reprint), Rob has also been on the lookout for new opportunities for me and his other writers.
And one had been spotted.
A British publisher was looking for shortish books—romances, adventures, mysteries—for a series of hardcover, large-print books directed primarily at libraries.
Devil’s Plague, although erring perhaps a bit on the short side, seemed otherwise to fit their requirements perfectly; would I object to his submitting it to a British agent?
Another no-brainer.
Of course not.
Then he continued. They were quite interested in series novels, in interesting characters and continuing narrative frameworks...in a word, in sequels.
Then came the challenge: A word to the wise—if I were you, I would consider a sequel to Devil’s Plague. And soon.
Suddenly, number four or five shot up to number one.
By the evening of the first day, the book was nearly 5,000 words long.
By the afternoon of the seventh, the first draft was complete at just over 40,000.
In many ways, the novel simply wrote itself. I merely provided the physical action of entering it into the computer.
I’ve had similar experiences before in my writing. When I first got it into my mind to write a long, narrative poem in the epic mode (which resulted some thirty years and four complete revisions later in the 6,500-line Miltonic epic, The Nephiad [2010]), several times I would come out of a kind of writing-trance to discover that I had composed several hundred lines of st
rict blank verse in a single sitting. Another time, some years before that, the result was a single long poem of over 260 lines that (except for one glaring error of fact that somehow crept in) I’ve not been able to alter in nearly thirty-five years.
But a full novel?
The task was made possible, in part at least, by the fact that for over half of that week, my wife was in California visiting children and grandchildren—with her gone, I literally had nothing to do except write. And I could write anytime I wanted to...early morning, late afternoon, in the middle of the night. No boundaries, no restrictions.
So I would write for several hours, then lie down and close my eyes. Pretty soon, new scenes would begin playing in the movie-theater of the mind, and after thirty minutes, or forty minutes, or an hour, I would get up and begin hammering at the keyboard again, taking a break in the morning and the afternoon to go to the neighborhood Subway, order a sandwich and a refillable diet cola, and either read on my Kindle or play a word game for an hour or so. Then back to work.
I don’t know yet whether or not the deal with the British publisher will go through.
I don’t know yet—not quite—what the next book will be.
But I suspect that there is more to tell about Fox Creek and Victoria and Lynn. I think that Lynn will decide to live there permanently. I think that Victoria will continue to keep a watch over the comings and goings of people around her. And—since Judi and I just published a book of whole-wheat recipes, Whole Wheat for Food Storage (2011)—I think that one of those people just might be a particularly obnoxious old food-hoarder who is thoroughly and righteously despised by everyone who knows him; and there might also be a mysterious, home-cooked dish delivered by person or persons unknown; and a horrifyingly serious, and final, episode of wheat allergy.
Until it gets written, who knows.
—Michael R. Collings
Meridian, Idaho
May 3-9, 2011
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
MICHAEL R. COLLINGS is a Professor Emeritus at Seaver College, Pepperdine University, where he directed the Creative Writing Program for over two decades. He has published over 100 volumes of poetry, novels, short fiction, and scholarly studies of such contemporary writers as Stephen King, Orson Scott Card, Dean R. Koontz, and Piers Anthony. Recent works include The Art and Craft of Poetry (1996, 2009); Toward Other Worlds: Perspectives on John Milton, C. S. Lewis, Stephen King, Orson Scott Card, and Others (2010); In Endless Morn of Light: Moral Agency in Milton’s Universe (2010); Perspectives: Views, Reviews, and Interviews (2011), a collection of literary reviews and other materials covering over a quarter of a century; and Milton’s Century (in press, 2011).
His poetry includes In the Void: Poems of Science Fiction, Myth and Fantasy, and Horror (2009); Matrix: Growing Up West—Autobiographical Poems (2010); a Book of Mormon epic, The Nephiad (1996, 2010); BlueRose: Selected Chapbooks (in press, 2011); Tales Through Time (2010); and Som Certaine Sonets (2011).
He has been a frequent participant at literary, science fiction, fantasy, and horror conferences and symposia over the past quarter-century, and has served as Academic Guest of Honor at the World Horror Convention (2008); Special Guest of Honor at ConDuit (2008); Guest Scholar at EnderCon (2002); Academic Guest of Honor at MythCon XXVI (1994); Author Guest of Honor at HorrorCon ’89 (1989); Poetry Guest at LosCon XXVII (1989); and Guest of Honor, Poetry Guest of Honor, Academic Guest of Honor, and Special Guest at various meetings of the Life, the Universe & Everything Marion K. “Doc” Smith Symposium on Science Fiction and Fantasy (1992-2010).
His fiction, also published through Wildside Press, includes: The House Beyond the Hill: A Novel of Fear (2007); Wordsmith, Volume One: The Thousand Eyes of Flame (2009) and Wordsmith, Volume Two: The Veil of Heaven (2009 [combined into one volume for ebook publication]); Singer of Lies: A Science-Fantasy Novel (2009); Wer Means Man, and Other Tales of Wonder and Terror (2010); Three Tales of Omne: A Companion to Wordsmith (2010); Devil’s Plague: A Mystery Novel (2011); and The Slab (2010), the story of a haunted tract house in Southern California...that consumes people. His fiction is available in both print and e-book editions. Two additional horror novels are scheduled to appear in 2011: A Pound of Chocolates on St. Valentine’s Day and Static!
With his wife Judith, he has also published Whole Wheat for Food Storage: Recipes for Unground Wheat (2011).
He is now retired and lives in his native state of Idaho.
AND WATCH FOR...
THE FIRST VOLUME IN THIS SERIES...
Devil’s Plague
Chapter One
Redbud Creek eddied around a curving alder branch that drooped low enough for the endmost leaves to spread fan-like across the water. Even though it was midsummer and the leaves were still vivid green, the water’s ceaseless flow tugged and worried and pulled until one leaf finally released its hold and floated lazily into the current.
Like a miniature boat, it dipped and swirled its way along the rock-strewn riverbed. For nearly a quarter of a mile, it followed its meandering course. At the top of Porcupine Falls, it caught momentarily against a rock. It caught and trembled, once almost submerged, then broke away, only to tumble down and down and down, into the froth below.
Somehow it avoided the black, ragged bones of dead branches and cutting edges of granite that threatened to rip its delicate surface. Somehow, it managed to remain afloat. Still whirling—but slower now, slower, with the July sun glinting off water trapped in its shallow cup—it spun through the whirlpool currents of the deep pool at the base of the falls and into the shallows beyond.
For a while, it rested against an algae-draped stone worn smooth and polished by the timeless flow of water. Then it pulled free again, once more slipping back into the current. It moved sluggishly now, weighed down by the moisture inside. It wallowed along the sedges and reeds that bordered the river until it stopped a final time. Half submerged, its cells began to blacken and to die where they lay wedged between the slightly curving, outstretched fingers of a bloodless hand.
* * * *
It sometimes takes me a while to get used to the absolute stillness of early morning here, high in the mountains.
In the city, especially in the LA basin where I’ve spent most of my twenty-nine years, it never really gets quiet. Trucks thunder down highways. Airplanes crisscross in landing patterns over airport approaches. Dogs cooped up in postage-stamp back yards howl all hours of the day and night. Ten-year-old kids rapping at full volume to mystic music spinning through thin wires from iPods to half-deafened ears boogie down sidewalks. Older, even less courteous kids equip low-slung cars with speakers so monstrous that you can feel the deep thrumming vibrations of the bass long before you hear the music, even with the car windows closed tight. Mothers yell, kids yell, everybody makes noise.
It’s not even quiet at night. There’s still the traffic, the ever present sounds of Southern California transience that seems to clog the freeways almost at much at two a.m. as at noon.
In the early morning, there is the angry whine and clatter of garbage trucks making rounds, the muted roar of cars revving up in preparation for hour-long commutes from distant suburbs to the noise-clogged business core downtown, the subtle intrusion of joggers’ hundred-dollar-a-pair Nike’s making soft slap-slap-slap sounds on asphalt or concrete.
But in Fox Creek—a four-hour’s flight from L.A. on a raucous turbo-jet, followed by another four hours by car, the last two twining along a narrow, often-rutted, two-lane road—it is quiet in the morning.
That day, I lay in bed, only half awake, consciously relaxing. Part of me clung sleepily to faint, rapidly fading, but sweet memories of a dream that had, for the moment at least, filled an emptiness I had carried inside for the past year. Another part of me reveled in a stillness broken only occasionally by a barely audible thump that might have been a pine cone dropping on the far side of the roof, or a distant crack that might have been a branch falling somewhere in the surrounding forest.
/> Without opening my eyes, I stretched my arms over my head, luxuriating in the sense of muscles loosening, of blood warming my body, of a dream that, while increasingly distant and hazy, lingered on, refusing to die away completely.
Then I froze.
A year ago today.
Lulled by the quiet and the dream, I had almost managed to forget.
A year ago today.
I threw back the hand-stitched quilt that a moment before had seemed a welcome cocoon. Naked feet pressing against the cold plank floor, I stumbled to the rustic bathroom, collapsed against the water-stained sink, and vomited.
Afterward, staring at sparkling water as it swirled the sink clean and flushed away the bitter bile that was all I had managed to bring up, I felt angry at myself. My reaction had been silly and stereotypically female and unconscionably weak. At least, those were all the things that Terry would have said, smiling all the while to let me know he was only joking. Imagining his smile hurt, but at the same time it seemed to help. I filled the glass next to the sink and rinsed my mouth to get rid of the aftertaste.
Still trembling inside, I took a long, hot shower that helped even more. As I stood beneath the spray, eyes closed, head tilted back to let the water finger through my hair, I mentally thanked Estelle and Edgar for their foresight in installing a new, larger water heater earlier that spring. Even so, the water was distinctly cooler when I finally roused myself enough to turn the faucets off, step out, and pat myself dry with one of the soft, monogrammed “E&E” towels hanging on the oak rack.
Wrapped in the worn folds of the quilted satin robe Terry and Shawn had given me on my birthday a year and a half before—six months before they died—I walked to the kitchen. My legs felt weak and my stomach hurt. I needed to eat something, even if I had to force it down.
Perhaps it was the crisp mountain air or the lingering effects of the hot showers, but the hot whole-wheat toast spread with fresh honey and the mug of hot chocolate made the chore of living through the day seem almost bearable.
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