Sparring Partners(69)

The snake cooperated and stayed put. Bolton managed to peel off the gloves before she came out of the bathroom, griping about the temperature. As she was preparing to pull back the covers, Bolton yanked them and screamed at the monstrous black, spotted snake lying on their beautiful white linen sheets. Tillie was so stricken that her vocal cords froze in terror and she could not utter a sound. She recoiled and fainted as she fell back and landed hard against a wall.

For a moment no one moved. Bolton kept one eye on the snake and glanced at his wife, who appeared to be unconscious. The snake raised his head slightly and looked down at Tillie, then turned to check on Bolton. Suddenly, he’d had enough and quickly weaved his way off the bed and onto the floor. When Bolton gave chase, the snake picked up speed and slid faster over the pine flooring. It was imperative to get the damned thing back in its crate, and out of desperation Bolton grabbed its tail, which caused the snake to immediately coil and strike. Bolton yelled as the tiny, razor-like teeth sunk into his left hand. Of course the snake was nonpoisonous—Bolton wasn’t that stupid—but he could still bite and it hurt like hell. Bolton backed away holding his hand and noticing blood. He went to the kitchen, each step careful now that the snake was on the loose, and put some ice in a bowl for his hand. He sat at the table and tried to collect himself. His breathing was labored and he was still sweating. He had to think clearly. Think of it as a crime scene, which in effect it was.

The bleeding stopped but the swelling did not. He wrapped his hand tightly with a dish towel and went to check on his dear wife. She hadn’t moved but had a faint pulse, much to his chagrin. Almost dead presented several scenarios, all of which he had walked through a thousand times. None, though, involved a damned snakebite that would be impossible to hide. He splashed some cold water in her face but she did not respond. The pulse grew fainter but wouldn’t go away. He circled wide to avoid another encounter with the snake, who when last seen was disappearing under the sofa.

Bolton’s future depended on the next few decisions. He would get only one chance to make things work. He checked his wristwatch. 9:44. She had been out for maybe ten minutes. What was the snake doing under the sofa, or had he moved on to another hiding place?

Bolton knew from his careful research that the nearest EMT unit was in the town of Eminence, the county seat, population 600, and it was a volunteer outfit. A prompt response by a well-trained team of medics was unlikely. However, failure to call 911 would only raise suspicions.

He really wanted a shot of bourbon but fought the temptation. There was a decent chance he would be talking to doctors and nurses and he did not want alcohol on his breath.

Her pulse grew weaker.

He opened the doors and with a broom tried to sweep under the sofa. No sign of the snake and it was important to find the damned thing.

At 11:00 p.m., Bolton finally called 911 and reported that his wife was having breathing problems and complaining of chest pains. He thought she might be having a heart attack. The dispatcher sounded as though she had walked in off the street and was taking her first call. Bolton gave his name and the address of his cabin, which, like many in the area, was hard to find in broad daylight. He intentionally neglected to mention a crucial left turn at an intersection, thus guaranteeing the ambulance would take forever.

He loaded the snake’s empty crate into the trunk of his car, to dispose of later. He spoke to Tillie again as he squeezed her wrist. She wasn’t making this easier. Because of her dedication to fitness she weighed only 110 pounds, and for this he was grateful. He managed to fling her over his shoulder, stagger down the front steps, and toss her into the rear seat. She did not make a sound.

Poplar Bluff was an hour away and had a nice regional hospital. He planned to arrive well after midnight and hopefully the A-team would be gone. He drove as slowly as possible and took several wrong turns. Not a sound from the back seat. At the edge of town, he stopped at an all-night convenience store for a coffee to go. With no one looking because there was no one else to be seen, he reached into the rear and checked her pulse again. He breathed a sigh of relief.

Tilda Malloy, his quarrelsome wife of forty-seven long and unhappy years, was finally dead.

Bolton hurried on to the hospital and wheeled into the emergency entrance.





(22)


The snake had not fled the house. He was coiled on the kitchen floor having a snooze when the crew arrived and saw him. They kept their distance as they searched the house and found no one. Oddly, all doors were open, all lights were on.

The dispatch log would reveal that the call from Mr. Malloy came in at 11:02. The EMTs reported arriving at 11:55, after several wrong turns. They secured the house, closed the doors, and checked out at 12:20.

And they took the snake with them. The unit chief had a thing for reptiles, enjoyed collecting them, and often did a Serpent Safety routine at area schools. He had never seen such a beautiful, and rare, speckled king snake and had no trouble capturing him. He assumed he was not a pet, but would readily bring him back if so requested. No request would ever be made.

The ER records would show that Mr. Malloy arrived at 1:18 a.m., with his nonresponsive wife in the rear seat. She was put on a stretcher, rushed into an exam room, and promptly declared dead.

A nurse quizzed Mr. Malloy and got the basics. She noticed his swollen and bandaged hand. He waved her off and said he had injured himself working on the deck the previous afternoon. A doctor insisted on looking at his hand and was intrigued by the odd semicircle of bite marks. Mr. Malloy insisted he had not been bitten by anyone or anything, and became uncooperative. The nurse noticed blood on the deceased’s nightshirt and asked Mr. Malloy about it. Of course it was his. His hand was bleeding when he had no choice but to haul her from the bedroom to the car. The doctor asked if they could take photos of his wound and he refused.