The Repenting Serpent

by Wes Markin

  … The air stank of sweat.

  His eyes flicked open and he saw that the ends of his fingers bled from scratching. The gap in the wooden door was now the size of a letterbox. He heard his father shouting and peered out the gap.

  Tears immediately filled his eyes; it was getting worse.

  His mother’s yellow silk dress was ripped and blood stained. The bastard gnashed his teeth and sucked air in through his nostrils like a hound scenting blood. His mother’s face turned to the door under the stairs. Her nose was crooked and one of her cheeks seemed to reach further up her face than the other one. He couldn’t help but think of that snowman and how its face looked peculiar as it melted away.

  Tomorrow, while his father, or Douglas — because he no longer wished to think of him as his father — slept with an empty bottle of whisky, he would sketch a line across his throat with a kitchen knife, which would open and bloom like a glorious new rose.

  He stared into his mother’s eyes; they looked like dead animals buried and fossilized in the mud. Emotions flooded him: anger, love, guilt, sympathy. Too many to count. His father kept him locked inside, forced him to submit, to watch. He cursed these emotions. Every single one of them. He would one day be rid of them.

  After taking a deep breath, his mother smiled. It was the most beautiful smile he had ever seen. If he hadn’t have been frozen, he would have smiled back.

  When she breathed out, she smiled and her expression solidified. He could tell that she was no longer looking out through those eyes. All he had left was that smile. She had left it for him. Everything else could go to hell, including Douglas. He took hold of this feeling, let it liberate and unleash him. He dug his fingernails into the wood and scraped; he bashed the door with his fists; and he pounced to his feet to bury his shoulder into the door until his body could take no more. Then he lay back on the floor with his fingernails hanging lose, his fingers crushed, and his shoulder hanging out of its socket …

  … Tezcacoatl rubbed his eyes and glanced around the van. He held his hand up to his face. It was still again. ‘What is happening to me?’

  He stood up, grateful that his legs were strong again.

  So much preparation and training! Why, now, was he experiencing these debilitating flashbacks?

  He walked over to his mother and picked the penknife up off the floor. He cut the wristband off and read her name again:

  Michelle Miller.

  12

  FOR ALMOST THREE sleepless days, DCI Michael Yorke had been watching a blender that was loaded with death, violence and hideous motive; and, for the first time, he genuinely felt that he had a finger on the stop button. Yet, even as he charged, alone, through the ice rink that was the carpark of Mary Chapman to the entrance, he knew that the end mixture would be vile.

  Gardner met him at the entrance; she looked worn out.

  ‘Tomorrow, when this is finished,’ Yorke said, ‘because it will be finished, my first stop is your place. Actually, first stop is the town centre to buy that little princess a mountain of toys.’

  ‘Tomorrow, when this is over, we’ll all be sleeping, but the day after should be fine.’

  ‘I’m so glad you came back, Emma.’

  She looked at him for a few moments, clearly seeing someone as worn out as herself. ‘I am too.’

  On the journey down here, he’d briefed her by phone on everything that had happened in her absence, and she had briefed him on some equally important information – Anabelle, his goddaughter, was on the mend.

  ‘We go in here, and we throw Dr Reiner off guard,’ Yorke said.

  At the reception, they asked for Dr Reiner, and within seconds he was there; his suntanned face looked completely out of place in the dead of winter.

  ‘Are you okay Detective? I wasn’t expecting anyone—’

  ‘I wasn’t expecting to be here until several minutes ago.’

  He looked taken aback. ‘So how can I help you?’

  ‘Let’s go through to your office.’

  They sat in an office decorated with pictures of Reiner, shaking hands with a variety of famous and influential people.

  ‘Lots of recognisable faces up here,’ Yorke said.

  ‘We’ve served the local community for a long time.’

  And charged them an incredible amount of money for it, Yorke thought. ‘Let’s start with Karen Firth, how long was she in your care, Dr Reiner?’

  ‘Off the top of my head, I can only give you a rough estimation. Three years perhaps? I can head to the files now if that would be of use?’

  ‘No, that’s fine,’ Yorke said.

  ‘And how would you describe the relationship you had with her?’ Gardner said.

  Reiner leaned back in his chair with raised eyebrows. ‘Sorry … what?’

  ‘The question was clear, Dr Reiner, how would you describe the relationship?’ Gardner said.

  ‘The same as any other relationship with a patient. I care for them and treat them with respect and I try to make what little time they have left as rewarding as possible.’

  ‘And when one has died,’ Yorke said, ‘do you eat a sandwich and leave the plastic container on the body?’

  Reiner’s eyes widened. ‘That was an unfortunate incident, which I’ve already spoken to Detective Brookes about. It was completely accidental, and I was mortified by my actions.’

  Yorke didn’t respond, just stared long and hard at him, trying to figure him out. ‘Did you ever take Karen Firth out of this home?’

  ‘That’s ridiculous. Why would I do that? Where would I take her?’

  ‘We will ask the questions,’ Gardner said.

  ‘No, I did not. The suggestion is absurd.’

  Yorke made notes. He gave Reiner the date and time Jessica Brookes was murdered. ‘And where were you, Dr Reiner?’

  ‘At that time? At home, of course!’

  ‘Who with?’

  ‘My wife and my eighteen-year-old daughter.’

  ‘Asleep?’

  ‘Yes, of course, but they would know if I’d left the house. My wife, in particular, is a very light sleeper. Both of them would be willing to give you a statement to that effect.’

  ‘And where was Mrs Firth?’

  ‘I don’t know without checking with admin. It is possible she could have gone to the hospital? This happens regularly, of course. Testing and emergencies. You met Dr Page the day you were in here with Detective Brookes. You know that he also takes certain patients away for testing.’

  Yorke looked at Gardner who was already looking at him. Were they thinking the same thing? He thought. ‘Michelle Miller?’

  Reiner raised his eyebrows. ‘Yes, I know the resident, why?’

  Gillian Arnold’s experience was not common knowledge at this point.

  ‘Was she here yesterday?’ Yorke said.

  Reiner considered. ‘Well, I know she was out yesterday evening, because she was absent on my final rounds.’

  ‘Where did she go?’ Yorke said.

  ‘Let me contact admin,’ Reiner said.

  Yorke and Gardner watched Reiner ring through to his admin department and ask the relevant questions; he also asked about Karen Firth’s whereabouts several days before.

  He hung up. ‘Both of them were at the hospital with Dr Raymond Page undergoing tests. Michelle was also part of his research project.’

  Yorke could see the blender he’d been staring into for almost three days churning and churning … Was this it? Was this where it stopped?

  Was Dr Raymond Page, Tezcacoatl, the Repenting Serpent?

  ‘Excuse me, Dr Reiner.’ He looked at Gardner. ‘DI Gardner, could you stay here a moment please?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Outside the room, he phoned Jake.

  ‘Listen, get me the location of Dr Raymond Page now and then phone me straight back.’

  Less than three minutes later, Jake rang back. ‘He left the hospital thirty minutes ago and we have his home address. He lives fifteen m
inutes from the hospital and should be home by now. Are you sure it’s him?’

  ‘No, but he was with Karen Firth on the evening of Jessica’s murder; he was also with Michelle Miller last night when Gillian was almost abducted.’

  ‘So, he is taking them to watch? As he kills? That’s crazy,’ Jake said.

  ‘Maybe Utter was right. Maybe this is how he repents; and how he gets his mother to forgive him. Except if his mother is dead, then what? Maybe he is sick enough that a stand-in will offer some form of satisfaction.’

  ‘I’m struggling with this—’

  ‘Well, consider the facts again. Karen Firth issued a warning about things she couldn’t have known about. Either there’s something supernatural happening here, or she was there, watching and listening when Jessica died; the murderer somehow communicated all this mumbo-jumbo about smoking mirrors and having a jaguar as a familiar. Did he maybe get into Jessica’s house easier because he had her mother with him? There was no forced entry after all. And do you remember the urine on the sofa? Could that have been Karen as she watched her daughter …’ He couldn’t even finish the sentence. ‘And then Gillian? If that was her mother, no wonder she was stamping. The poor woman was trying to warn her.’

  Yorke waited a moment for the stunned silence to pass.

  ‘I’ll get whoever I can, sir, and we’ll go and get him,’ Jake said.

  ‘Yes. I’m minutes away, so I’ll be there before you. I’m going to leave Gardner to continue interviewing Reiner.’

  On the way out of the station, Gillian Arnold stepped in front of Jake. ‘You can’t just do that to me! The way DCI Yorke walked out like that. What is going on? Why the interest in my mother?’

  Jake looked down at her. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Arnold, you’re going to have to trust us. We don’t know anything for sure yet anyway—’

  ‘Oh God.’ She stumbled backwards, away from Jake. She supported herself against the wall. ‘She was there, wasn’t she?’

  Jake didn’t respond.

  ‘That was my mother in the back of the van. She was stamping her feet. She was trying to warn me.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Arnold, but I’m really going to have to go now.’

  ‘Is she dead? Has he killed my mother?’

  ‘There is no evidence of that. We really don’t know anything—’

  ‘This is my fucking mother!’ Tears rolled down her face.

  Jake took her by her shoulders. ‘She is probably fine.’

  ‘But she isn’t, is she? Whatever happens, she’s still sick. And the worst thing is I’ve betrayed her. I didn’t even think she knew me anymore, and she was warning me … communicating with me …’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Arnold, we’ve really got to go. I’ll try my best. I promise.’

  Not even a handful of crabs could tease Matlalihuitl, his precious blue-green feather, from the rock it was slumped on. It had wandered far, performed its tasks admirably, but its three hearts were slowing. Tezcacoatl knew that there could be no sadness in its death though; it had lived well and shone brightly. Now, he needed to send Billy, or Tepiltzin as he would now be referred to, an email request for another octopus. He would name its successor Matlalihuitl also, in honour of this one.

  Naked, he rose from the chair stationed at Matlalihuitl’s tank and slipped into his living room by the front door. The cold clawed him as he moved from the hearth, but still, he felt much better after his steam bath; cleansed both spiritually and physically, his failings from last night and the events with Rachel, from next door, were already fading memories.

  His living room was as sterile as the rest of the modern world. White sofas, curtains and a black 32-inch widescreen television. This room disguised him as an ordinary person with an ordinary life; and if Rachel had not been so impetuous and charged all the way down to see Matlalihuitl, he could have taken her in here and their encounter may have ended very differently.

  He sat down on the sofa and opened his laptop and connected straight to his email account. He was surprised to see an email reply from Tepiltzin because it usually took him days to get back to him. He opened it and read it.

  And then read it again.

  Afterwards, he deleted the five spam emails in his inbox, because clutter had a nasty habit of interfering with his thoughts.

  This email is not from the man I have taken under my wing, he thought.

  Tepiltzin was a man attracted to hedonism and had been using Mesoamerican beliefs for his own gain. Tezcacoatl had been certain that he would pose a problem when the festival finally arrived and he would be offered as a sacrifice. No, this email definitely was not from the boy he had been keeping a close eye on.

  So Tezcacoatl was content. The email clearly demonstrated that Tepiltzin was finally changing for the better and adapting to his new responsibilities. He shouldn’t have come to Wiltshire without Tezcacoatl’s permission, but the fact that he wished to join the worship this evening, demonstrated an attractive burst of enthusiasm.

  He composed a reply, providing the location of Tezcatlipoca’s new temple. Tepiltzin may struggle to find it, but it would be good for him to use his brain. He decided not to request Matlalihuitl’s replacement just yet; he could now leave that until later when he saw him.

  The mouse cursor hovered over SEND, but then something bothered Tezcacoatl and he took his hand away from the mouse. Did Tepiltzin think that by acting more interested, he would be rewarded financially?

  Undoubtedly.

  But was this really such a problem? After all, Tezcacoatl was financially secure, and maybe it was best to keep rewarding Tepiltzin in order to strengthen his hold over him.

  So, if this was his only concern, why could he still not press SEND?

  It had spelling mistakes, punctuation mistakes and no paragraphs. But it felt structured somehow. His letters had never possessed structure before. This one seemed to offer an argument.

  Had someone helped him?

  He dismissed the idea. Tepiltzin wasn’t intelligent, but he certainly wasn’t an idiot; he would not have told anyone about this and risked losing what he had gained.

  There was a knock at the door. Abandoning the email before it was sent, he jumped to his feet and ran upstairs. His ankles throbbed from a night of relentless auto sacrifice. He threw on his dressing gown and tied it tight; then, he grabbed his knife from his bedside table and slipped it under the dressing gown belt at the back. As he came down the stairs, the impatient person at the door started to knock harder.

  Yorke knocked at the door.

  He felt as if his brain was actually drowning in the vile poison the blender had coughed up.

  Karen Firth and Jessica Brookes had both been incapacitated, but aware. Together they had watched death rushing onto them like a tsunami, and neither of them had been able to do a thing about it.

  He knocked harder now.

  Jake and his team were minutes away; he’d just gotten off the phone to Topham, who’d provided another burst of information: Page has no record … 43 years old … unmarried, no kids … well-educated … countless publications concerning Alzheimer’s and several awards.

  There had been nothing about him being a violent, murdering bastard.

  The door opened. The tall, pale doctor stood there in his dressing gown. His long, damp hair hung loosely down to his shoulders.

  ‘Detective Yorke?’ Page said. ‘I remember you from the hospital.’

  Yorke glanced around the wide hallway. Art lined the walls. The curtains were drawn, and the light was dim. The scent of incense was strong in the air and an illuminated fish tank stood at the end of the hallway.

  ‘What are you doing this evening, Dr Page?’

  ‘That is rather a peculiar question,’ he said, linking his arms behind his back.

  ‘Still … could you answer it please?’

  ‘Well, I finished work less than an hour ago and I’ve just had a shower … look … why don’t you just come in?’

  ‘One momen
t, Dr Page. I will wait for my colleagues to arrive.’

  ‘There’s going to be more of you, now why is that Detective Yorke?’

  ‘Because of Michelle Miller.’ Yorke said and paused for a reaction.

  He did look surprised. ‘Why? What is wrong with Michelle? I saw her yesterday, at the hospital, I haven’t heard anything …’

  ‘Did you check her out from Mary Chapman?’

  ‘Yes, that’s correct, and we took her to the hospital for some tests, and then we returned her.’

  ‘And what time was that, Dr Page?’

  The time he provided did not fit with the time that Gillian Arnold was abducted, and almost killed.

  ‘The problem is that she was not returned at that time.’

  ‘Well, that’s ridiculous, because she was taken from the hospital at that time and returned to Mary Chapman.’

  His phone rang. He saw that it was Gardner. ‘Excuse me.’ He took a few steps back and turned around to take the call. ‘Yes, Emma?’

  ‘Sir, Dr Reiner has just told me that Michelle Miller was checked out from here again today.’

  ‘Why didn’t he say anything when I was there?’

  ‘He didn’t know while you were here; admin just informed him …’

  ‘Jesus! When was she checked out?’

  ‘Quarter past four.’

  ‘By Page?’

  ‘Yes?’

  He turned, Page was no longer standing in the doorway. He walked towards the house. Was Michelle Miller here?

  He couldn’t wait. He hung up and went through the front door and marched several metres down the corridor towards the illuminated fish tank. There was a closed door on his right.

  ‘Excuse me, but what are you doing?’ Page said from behind him.