The Viper

Gerry’s eyes lit up. “Oh, yes, indeed. But more by reputation than direct contact. Emma was always a bit of an outsider when it came to the clinical community. I recall an incident at a conference in Aspen. A famous psychiatrist had just presented the details of a study he claimed established the relative impacts of nature and nurture on human behavior. You could have heard a pin drop—until Emma burst out laughing and proceeded to demolish the underlying structure of the research. Academic pretension was one thing she could never stomach.”

That brought on a silence that lasted while the dishes were cleared away. Madeleine got coffee going and brought a pumpkin pie to the table.

“While we’re waiting for the coffee,” she said, “I’m going to make a quick call to Christine to thank her for the jam basket, before I forget.” She started to leave the room, then stopped. “If anyone is fond of jams, jellies, et cetera, please go over and take whatever you want. Don’t be shy. My phone’s in the den—be back in a sec.”

“Shyness has never been my problem,” said Gerry, standing up and heading for the open carton on the sideboard. Kim followed her, and they began tentatively removing a jar at a time and studying the fancy labels with polite admiration. They took their time, as if instinctively relating speed to greed. Proceeding this way, it took them a good three or four minutes to remove, admire, and comment on half a dozen items.

“Well,” said Gerry with a grin, “those goodies only filled the top section of the carton. Must be a lot more under this divider.”

She reached into the carton and tugged for several seconds at the cardboard insert. Glancing around the top of the sideboard, she picked up a spare serving fork and pushed it down under the edge of the insert—just as Madeleine was returning from the den, looking puzzled.

“I spoke to Christine. She said she had no idea what I was talking about. She didn’t send us anything.”

Suddenly the insert flew up out of the carton, followed by a flash of something bright green. The serving fork was knocked from Gerry’s hand and clattered to the floor as she staggered back, uttering a sharp cry.

Kim stood frozen in place, mouth agape.

Madeleine approached tentatively and looked into the carton. Her eyes widened and she screamed, tripping backward. Her body collided with the kitchen wall, and she slid to the floor.

“What the hell is it?” cried Gurney, leaping to his feet, knocking his chair over, stumbling toward Madeleine. “Are you alright? What the hell . . . ?”

She pointed. “Look! For God’s sake, look!”

A coiled green snake with curved needle-sharp fangs and malevolent eyes the color of red-hot coals was rising from the carton, its triangular head rocking ever so slightly from side to side.

PART IV OBSESSION

50

“ARE YOU STILL AWAKE?” GURNEY ASKED SOFTLY.

He was pretty sure that she was. He could tell by the way she was breathing, lying next to him in the moonlight from the bedroom window, but she didn’t answer. In fact, she’d hardly said a word in the many hours that had passed since the sight of the hideous thing in the jam basket sent her reeling against the kitchen wall.

When the state police came, it was he who answered all their questions. And when Gerry, Kyle, and Kim were leaving, it was he who assured them that he and Madeleine would be okay; no, there was nothing they could do; yes, he would definitely keep them abreast of developments.

Once he and Madeleine had the house to themselves, she’d begun cleaning with a tight-lipped obsessiveness, beginning with the kitchen sideboard where the “gift” carton had been opened and then proceeding to scrub the kitchen floor and the hallway floor between the kitchen and the mudroom with a sponge mop. Finally, with a pail of soapy water and a brush—down on her knees—she scoured the outside step where the delivery person had left the carton. She did all this with a fierceness that closed the door to any offer of assistance. He’d watched with apprehension, hoping that her exertion would diminish the lingering shock of what she’d seen.

When the cleaning fit passed—and there was nothing left to scrub—she’d gone to the sitting area at the far end of the room, wrapped herself in an afghan that had been lying unused for months on one of the armchairs, and settled down, staring into the fireplace. The afternoon’s blaze had long since died out and only cold ashes remained. He asked several times if there was anything he could do, but she showed no signs of having heard him. Eventually, she’d gotten up from the chair and gone to bed.

Now, as they lay there next to each other, Gurney was feeling the first stabs of panic.

“Are you awake?” he asked again.

She said nothing.

“You’re frightening me.”

Still nothing.

He felt a desperate need to do something. But what? Bring her to the nearest emergency room? Would that help? Or would the dislocation drive her deeper into whatever she was experiencing? Or would she just refuse to go?