The Viper

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HE WAS AFRAID TO GO NEAR THE BIG HOUSE AT THE END of the quiet, tree-lined street.

The stories whispered about the man who lived there kept people at a respectful distance. There was no doubt that he’d had men killed. The number was guessed at in hushed tones, as was the number he’d executed with his own hands. It was a known fact that people entered that house and were never seen again. But such was the man’s power—and the dread he inspired in potential witnesses—that he’d never been convicted of any crime at all.

Walking up the man’s driveway that day in the autumn chill would have been unthinkable a short time ago, but everything was different now. As the heavy front door swung open and an ageless, stone-faced woman led him down an unlit hall into a windowless den, his trepidation was suppressed by a desperate hope.

The man sat in semi-darkness behind an ebony desk, massaging his temples. It was rumored that he suffered from migraines. He wore tinted glasses, a sign of his sensitivity to light. His hair was gray and thinning, his skin sallow. The air in the room was humid with a faint odor of tropical decay. There was only one object on the ebony desk—a small gold sculpture of a coiled snake, head raised, fangs exposed.

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