The Serpent's Kiss

22

Ferndale was a suburb north of Detroit. It called itself “Fashionable Ferndale,” and maybe the alliteration was appropriate. Ferndale was where the twenty-somethings who couldn’t afford the considerably more fashionable neighboring suburb of Royal Oak lived, at least those for whom shopping, night life and overpriced upscale living relatively close to Detroit were a priority.

Derek had Rebecca Harrington’s address, but it was proving to be a little harder than expected to actually find her house. Ferndale appeared to be a tidy little suburb with scads of cottages and bungalows, all nearly identical — small two-story houses on small lots with a concrete porch, shrubs, sidewalks, and white aluminum siding. There were very few garages or car ports. It was like every house had been built in the 1940s, which, he reflected, they probably had been.

Finally he found her house on a cul-de-sac. It was a pleasant enough neighborhood, not unlike all the others he had driven through. Mature oak, sycamore and willow trees. Small, fenced-in yards. There was an elementary school two blocks away. He parked on the street, considered his options, then hunted through his GO Packs. While he was at it, he knocked back some Tylenol with tepid water from a bottle. Then he retrieved an electronic lock pick from his GO Pack with an additional set of small tools, as well as a small but powerful Mag-lite flashlight.

He strode up the walkway, onto the front porch and punched the doorbell. As he expected, nobody answered. Nonetheless, he hit the doorbell again, then knocked with a good solid rap. Still no answer. Yet there was a car in the driveway, a maroon Jeep Cherokee.

He took out the electronic lock pick, inserted the thin rods into the keyhole and tapped the activator button. Within seconds the door was unlocked and he stepped into the house.

Immediately in front of him was a carpeted staircase rising to the second floor. Off to his right was the living area. Blue carpeting, a sofa, rocking chair, love seat, maple coffee table and TV. The wall decorations were framed quilts that he suspected Rebecca Harrington had done herself. They looked great.

He moved through the living room into a dining room and kitchen. There was an odd vibe in the house, one he didn’t like. It didn’t feel quite empty. He took his Colt out of its holster and held it down by his side, moving more cautiously than before.

“Hello?” he called out. “Anybody home?”

He listened. Was there a sound? Something from above? A muffled rattle or thump?

On the far side of the kitchen was a back door and a landing and a staircase leading to the basement. Instead of searching the basement, he turned back to the front stairs and moved upwards to the second floor, Colt held in both hands pointing upward. He took each step slowly.

At the top of the stairs, his nose twitched. Whatever was setting off his Bad Vibe Alarm was up here. There were three bedrooms and a bathroom off a short hallway. He quickly entered the bathroom. Nothing.

The first bedroom he entered was the master bedroom and that’s where he found Rebecca Harrington. Her ankles and wrists had been bound with silver duct tape. And worse, so had her nose and mouth.

She had suffocated to death.