The Serpent's Kiss

3

Jill Church stood just outside the bathroom door, hands on hips. “Michael! You’re going to be late.”

The water in the shower was running and running and running. She couldn’t understand why her sixteen-year-old son took such long showers. She had timed him once at thirty minutes.

No answer. She banged on the door, glancing at her watch. “Michael!”

The water shut off. “Okay, okay.”

“Hurry—”

Her cell phone rang somewhere in the house. “Damn,” she muttered, and turned, trying to arrow in on the loud chiming of Bach’s “Toccatta and Fugue” that she had chosen for her cellular ring. She checked her purse first, but that wasn’t where the phone was. She paused for a moment, looking across the island into the living room. Where had she left it?

Jill, pulse quickening, chased the sound down into her bedroom. The phone was on her rolltop desk, the one in the corner where she paid the bills and sometimes read files she brought home from her office in the Federal Building in downtown Detroit.

She snatched up the phone and flipped it open. “Church here.”

“Jesus Christ, Jill! We’ve got a situation here.” It was Matt Gray, the FBI’s Detroit Field Office Special Agent in Charge. “What took you so long?”

“What’s up?” she said, ignoring the question.

“Probable terror attack in the New Center Area. West Grand Boulevard just across from Ford Hospital. All hands.”

Jill’s stomach clenched. Her worst nightmare, a terror attack on her turf. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Michael saunter out of the bathroom in only his underpants. He was almost six-feet tall, his shoulders broad, his hips narrow. For a moment she was caught off guard. Her son, her baby boy, was a man. He glanced over his shoulder at her, eyes narrowing, then he disappeared into his bedroom, the door slamming behind him. She refocused on what Gray was saying.

“…the Bureau’s HMRU will be called in. Right now the DFD and DPD are first responders, but we expect to lead as soon as things are underway.”

She listened to a few more details, then clicked off. She rushed out of her bedroom and pushed open Michael’s bedroom door without knocking. He was pulling a black tee-shirt with the rapper J Slim on the front, Slim’s sneering white face framed by two hands flipping the bird.

“You’re not wearing that shirt to school,” she said.

“Mom, I’m going to the concert tonight.” Even though his voice had deepened into that of a man’s, it still had a child’s petulance to it.

Her jaw set. “We went over that. Not on a school night. You’ve got school tomorrow.”

“Mom, it’s the only show and Ray’s got tickets.”

“I don’t have time to argue with you right now. We’ve got a crisis—”

”Everything’s a fucking crisis,” he muttered, and turned away. Michael grabbed his black nylon backpack and brushed past her.

“Michael—”

He spun, his face twisted in an ugly grimace. Jill’s heart nearly broke. The resemblance to his father was so strong. The high cheekbones, dark hair, snapping blue eyes the color of cobalt. But mostly it was the set of his mouth. How she hated to see that angry, hurt look on her son’s face. Just the teen years, she thought, but knew it wasn’t quite right. Michael was falling out of her protective orbit, and that was natural. That was good, normally, but he was being pulled into the orbit of a world that she knew wasn’t good for him. It was dangerous, and she was a little scared when she thought about it.

She stepped forward and gave him a quick hug, feeling a tug on her heart again as he flinched from her touch. She kissed him on the cheek. “Have a good day. I’ll see you tonight.”

Their eyes met. There was something there, something she couldn’t read. Had she surprised him by not rebuking him about the profanity? Was it the kiss? What was going on inside his head?

“Bye,” he said, and loped past her and out the door. She heard the roar of his eight-year-old Honda Civic and then he was gone.

Grabbing her purse, she made sure her Glock 9mm was in the clip on her belt, snagged her briefcase and cell phone, and hurried after him, heading for her crisis. It was only when she was firing up the engine of her Honda Accord that she realized he was still wearing the offensive J Slim tee-shirt.