House of Skin

by Jonathan Janz

  Sam stopped and regarded the guy, wondering at his reaction. “Those tiny red blood vessels in your nose.” He pointed. “That’s rosacea. Often it’s from drinking too much.”

  Carver touched his nose self-consciously.

  “I’m guessing you like to toss back a few after work, take the edge off,” Sam said.

  Carver looked away. “That’s none of your business.”

  “It is if you were drinking last night. Maybe you ran Ted Brand down by accident. Maybe he was walking to his car and you didn’t see him. Eyes were too blurry.” Sam allowed himself a small grin, needling the kid.

  “I think I need to talk to a lawyer.”

  Damn, Barlow thought.

  “Come on,” he said in a lighter tone. “It’s only the guilty ones need lawyers.”

  Carver watched him, eyes narrowed. “That’s not true and you know it. A person doesn’t have to commit a crime to be blamed for it. Just look at me.”

  “How do you know a crime’s been committed, Mr. Carver?”

  “Why else would you spend two hours interrogating me? I haven’t even had breakfast yet.”

  They got moving again.

  “When’s the last time you saw Myles Carver?” Sam asked.

  “I never saw him.”

  “You never met your uncle.”

  “No.”

  “Yet he left you his entire fortune.”

  “I know it’s crazy. I can’t believe it myself.”

  “Why you, then? You his only living relative?”

  “No, there were others.” Carver’s breathing grew strained. “Like I said, I never even met him. My grandpa once told me I looked like Myles.”

  “Do you?”

  “I told you I’ve never seen the man.”

  “Not even in pictures?”

  “No.”

  The sheriff watched him a moment longer. In front of them the trail opened up and Sam saw the three cars sitting on the lane.

  Sam said, “Whatever’s going on, it started after Brand did what he came here to do. How is it you didn’t see his car on the way in?”

  “I don’t know,” Carver said. “I don’t think the car was here when I got in last night.”

  “You said that awhile ago, and it didn’t make any sense then either,” Sam said, dismissing it. “Who saw you after you left Memphis.”

  Carver sighed wearily. “I didn’t see anyone.” He snapped his fingers, remembering. “There was a man. At a gas station along the way. He was reading a porn mag with two women going at it.”

  Barlow wrote that down, asking, “You go in for that sort of stuff?”

  “Porn mags or two women?”

  “Either. What was the name of the gas station and the exit where you stopped?”

  Paul shrugged. “I don’t remember. It was a place outside Memphis.”

  “How late?”

  “Around six, I think.”

  “Describe the man and the gas station.”

  Carver paused. “Do I need a lawyer?”

  “I don’t know,” Sam said. “Do you?”

  “I haven’t done anything wrong, if that’s what you mean.”

  “You said that earlier. Descriptions?”

  “Oh man,” Paul said, and gave Barlow the details he could recall.

  The sheriff continued asking him questions as they moved toward the lane, Barlow scribbling his answers on a small notepad. Sam said he’d be in touch, climbed into the cruiser. Just as he was about to key the ignition, a thought occurred to him. He got out of the car.

  Barlow said, “The reason why you and I will never be best buddies has nothing to do with you and everything to do with things that happened years ago. You say you never met Myles Carver. Fine. You say you were told that you take after him.” He moved up close and pinned him with his eyes. The two were the same height, but Sam was much broader. He felt Carver shrink against the car.

  Sam said, “If you’re like your uncle, things aren’t going to be good for you. Not with me, not with anyone else.” He tapped Paul on the chest. “You better hope you’re nothing like that son of a bitch.”

  With that, he turned and moved back to his car. After he’d started the engine, he said out the window, “But like I said, none of that’s your fault. It’s just better that you know where you stand. Some things a person can’t forget.”

  “You seem distracted, Honey.”

  Julia glanced up from the computer screen. Below her gray hair, Bea’s face was a fretful mask. “Did something happen to you last night?” she asked.

  Julia thought of the man in her basement. Her mind flailed, grasping for something believable.

  “I was going through my old sheet music, and I happened to come across part of Beethoven’s Seventh Symphony. He was my mom’s favorite.”

  “Oh, you poor girl.” The older woman cupped her chin. Julia could smell the rosewater on the woman’s clothes. “I hate that you’re all alone.”

  Looking up at her, it wasn’t hard for Julia to despair. She had no idea what to do about Brand.

  “Thanks. You’re a good friend,” Julia said.

  “Oh,” Bea waved it off. “You don’t need a friend. What you need is a husband.” The librarian turned and recommenced her labeling of the new magazines.

  Julia said, “Can I ask you something?”

  “Of course.”

  “You kid me about turning into an old maid. Do you really mean it?”

  “Of course not.”

  “You sure?”

  “I don’t know if I feel like talking about something so serious before lunch,” Bea said, looking back at her. “Does this somehow relate to your mother?”

  “No,” Julia said and stared at her feet. “Not directly.”

  “Because you know she was quite a beauty.”

  “I know.”

  “And you’re even prettier.”

  “Come on.”

  “So the chances of your becoming an old maid are slim. Unless,” Bea glanced at her watch, “you spend all your time here with a boring old woman.”

  Julia looked at the clock. “We don’t close for another couple hours.”

  “No. But you’ve been acting strange all day. Why don’t you take off early?”

  “Bea, you really do act like my mom sometimes, you know that?”

  “Well, someone has to.” The woman grimaced, realizing her gaffe. “Anyway,” she hurried on, “you know we’re never busy on Tuesdays. And since I know you won’t let me drive you home when we get done, you should at least do me the courtesy of taking the rest of the afternoon off.”

  Julia scratched the back of her neck, debating. She was anxious to get home but mustn’t act it. “I don’t know.”

  “I insist. With the weather as clear as it is this afternoon, no one’s going to waste their time at the library.”

  Julia thought about arguing, remembered that the sedative had likely worn off hours ago. Brand could already be finding a way out of the ropes.

  “Okay, Bea. You talked me into it.”

  When Linda Brand left for home to check on her children, Sam breathed a sigh of relief. He didn’t like to admit it, but he’d avoided the station for most of the day because of her. Seeing those reddened eyes and that wan face, he felt like he was being accused by a mourner, as though the station were already haunted by the ghost of her husband.

  It was this, he knew, that lay at the heart of his unrest.

  Something was terribly wrong with Ted Brand.

  Sam had no tangible reason to believe that Brand wasn’t just playing hooky. Who was to say that a man couldn’t lock his keys in his car, walk into town with the intention of finding a locksmith, but instead find some other diversion?

  But if Brand had gone for help, he would have used the roads, not the forest paths. Sam had drawn a pretty distinct character sketch of Ted Brand, and Davy Crockett the man was not. He would have stuck to blacktop and unless he was a complete idiot, he would have made it into town.r />
  Perhaps he’d picked up a local gal at one of the bars. From the pictures Brand’s wife had shown him, Sam could see he was a good-looking guy. Maybe, figuring his car was a lost cause for the night, he’d hooked up and had himself a screw.

  Yet there were a number of facts that shot that theory to hell. For starters, none of the bartenders he’d talked to had seen a man in his late thirties or early forties last night, at least no one they weren’t used to seeing. Secondly, Brand hadn’t sought out anyone to get his car unlocked. Wouldn’t he, at some point, have called a locksmith, the fire department, someone?

  Third, well, third was the sinking feeling Sam had in his gut, and for his money, that was the strongest evidence. When he got these feelings, they usually meant something. The sinking feeling told him that Brand was in deep trouble, if he wasn’t already dead. The same feeling rendered it impossible for his eyes to linger on Brand’s wife for more than a couple of seconds.

  It was the sinking feeling more than anything that prompted him to call the state police and declare Ted Brand missing.

  Chapter Seven

  Paul sat on the front porch, fingers tapping cement.

  He knew the sheriff would be back soon, perhaps even more suspicious than before. Brand was still missing, had to be, and it was this thought that muted his excitement about his new start. The feeling he’d had on the drive up here, the feeling that all of this was too good to be true, was confirmed with each passing moment.

  He checked his watch: 6:45 p.m.

  If nothing was wrong, why didn’t they call him? If Brand had been found, wouldn’t they do him the courtesy of letting him know so he could cease brooding out here?

  These were his thoughts as the sheriff’s cruiser drifted down the lane.

  It was almost dark now. As the big man climbed out and approached him, Paul felt his insides turn to jelly.

  “Evening,” said the sheriff.

  “Hello,” he returned.

  “Any sign of Brand?” Barlow asked.

  “No. He hasn’t turned up?” Paul asked and regretted his wording.

  The sheriff didn’t reply. He glanced toward the woods, the skin around his eyes wrinkling.

  “So,” Paul said, “are you going to take me in or what?”

  Eyes still trained on the soundless woods, Barlow replied softly, “Should I?”

  “That’s up to you.”

  “You’re right,” Barlow said.

  Paul watched the man watch the woods.

  “Let’s go for a walk,” the sheriff finally said.

  “Wonderful,” Paul said. “Another walk.”

  Though the path was wide enough for both of them, Paul kept a little behind the sheriff. Barlow walked with the air of one who has nothing better to do. Moving in this direction, the woods to their left were darker than the woods to their right. Paul longed for the sheriff to veer toward the light, but when the path forked, Barlow went left.

  Gloom spread over them. Paul was unnerved by the stillness pervading the woods. May was nearing, which meant the forest should have been teeming with life. Instead, the air here had a funereal quality that reminded him of winter, of dead things.

  Moving even with the sheriff, he glanced at Barlow’s profile to read what was going on behind the man’s knitted brow.

  “What did you mean earlier?” Paul asked to break the silence.

  Barlow watched his feet stepping over packed dirt, an occasional root. He extended a big hand, his fingers brushing over tree trunks and bushes. Distantly, he heard a harsh flutter of leaves and the death cry of some small animal as a hawk snapped its backbone.

  “What did you mean when you talked about the reason for not liking me?” Paul asked.

  “I heard you the first time.”

  “Well?”

  “What do you know about your uncle?”

  Paul regarded the path. “I know my family hated him. Especially my grandparents. My grandpa left Shadeland when he was still in his twenties.”

  “Did you ever hear why?”

  “No,” he said, “not really. Nothing specific, I mean. They just treated the subject like it was taboo. We weren’t to mention it, so we didn’t.”

  “Why do you think that is?” Barlow asked, leading him.

  Feeling the branches snicking against his flannel shirt, Paul stuffed his hands in his jeans pockets. “I wouldn’t know that. That’s how my family is. They don’t talk about certain things and they don’t talk about why they don’t talk about them.”

  “If he were in my family, I wouldn’t claim him either.”

  “Are you going to tell me why, or are we going to talk in code all night?”

  The sheriff stopped and turned his back to him. Thinking they were setting off from the path, Paul moved to follow him when he heard the sound of Barlow’s zipper. Urine patted the ground, steam rising up from the muddied soil. Paul stood there, hands in pockets, and wished he had to pee as well, share in the moment. Instead, he moved down the path a couple of paces to give the sheriff room to do his thing. He heard Barlow finish, zip up.

  The sheriff said, “Your uncle was the most despicable man I’ve ever met.”

  Paul laughed, a forced sound in the quiet forest. “Isn’t that a bit extreme?”

  “If anything, it’s an understatement.”

  “What did he do that was so terrible?”

  “You name it.”

  Paul stopped. “Why didn’t you arrest him then?”

  “I wasn’t sheriff until Myles Carver was in his late sixties. By that time most of what he’d done was in the past.”

  “You haven’t even told me what he did.”

  Barlow appeared to think. Then, he said, “I’ll tell you one story I heard. One of many. Then you can decide for yourself. Some of the things I know are true because I witnessed them. Other things I only heard about, but the people who told them to me, for the most part, are people I trust. Ralph Trask, the old doctor who’s down at the nursing home now, he’s the one who told me this story. He was a couple of years younger than Myles, so he’d know.” He glanced at Paul. “And before you doubt Trask’s credibility, write him off as a crazy old coot, keep in mind he was fifteen years younger when he told me this, and he’s still perfectly lucid.”

  It was full night now. The April chill lay hard on the forest.

  The sheriff got moving and continued: “This was a long time ago, years and years before I was born. Back then, as you’re probably aware, some schools had different grades grouped together, so that the older ones sat in the same room with the younger ones. Your uncle was young, twelve or thirteen. Samantha Hargrove was four or five years his senior, but for some reason, she liked him.”

  Paul thought he heard bitterness in the sheriff’s voice as he went on: “Even in his older years, women thought Myles was a good-looking man. He wasn’t the kind of guy other guys liked. I always thought he was too pretty, like a mannequin. But the women around here, they couldn’t get enough of him. Samantha Hargrove was only the first in a long line of them.”

  Paul looked up at Barlow, but the sheriff was gazing down the trail, lost in his thoughts. The bunched shadows that hovered over the trail reminded Paul of a dead man’s gaping eye socket, the eye itself having long ago been ravaged by worms and microbes. He shivered, made himself focus on the sheriff’s tale.

  “It started with her helping Myles with his studies. As smart as he was, he couldn’t do bookwork to save his life. Or he feigned ignorance because he was lazy. Either way, he got himself a tutor, and that tutor was Samantha, the preacher’s daughter.

  “According to Trask, Samantha was a real looker. A raven-haired beauty. Before long she was disappearing from her house for hours at a time. Your uncle was, too, but according to Doc Trask, that was normal. It seems his parents—your great-grandparents—didn’t like having Myles in or even near the house most of the time. Trask told me stories about why, but I’ll save those for another time.

  “Anyway,
you can probably guess what’s coming. Within a few months of their meeting, Samantha shows up at school in tears. She cries every day but won’t say why. Then she starts to get sick, misses school. Even misses church. Finally, her mother gets wise to what’s happening and confronts Samantha with it. The two were in the kitchen at the time.

  “The next part of this story is third-hand, but I still believe it. Doc Trask was best friends with Samantha Hargrove’s little brother Billy, and Billy heard the argument from where he sat on the back porch.”

  The sheriff halted and reached into his coat pocket. He produced a bag of chewing tobacco, scooped some out and stuffed it in his cheek. In the gloom of the forest, the wad looked to Paul like a leafy turd. Despite its foul appearance, the tobacco scent reminded Paul of harvest apples and hayrides.

  Chewing a little, Barlow went on, “According to Trask, Mrs. Hargrove—Samantha and Billy’s mother—was a fierce woman. She wore the pants in the family despite her husband’s position as the only Methodist minister in town. She must have suspected it for a while because when she did bring it up, she really let her daughter have it. Samantha was already distraught, and having her mom screaming at her probably didn’t do much to calm her down. The more Mrs. Hargrove yelled, the more Samantha cried. Doc Trask said that Billy wanted to help his sister except he was afraid of their mother too.

  “Billy Hargrove said he heard the faucet turn on and then he heard Samantha screaming. Afraid his mom was killing his sister, he got up to look through the window.

  “She wasn’t killing her daughter, but she was dragging her by the hair toward the sink. The water was splashing up out of the basin, and in trying to get her under the pouring water—to cleanse her of sin, I guess—Mrs. Hargrove kept ramming Samantha’s head into the steel faucet. Billy could see that his sister was bleeding a little from the cuts she’d gotten from the faucet, but she was otherwise okay. Mrs. Hargrove had at least left the drain open so the water that wasn’t splashing out onto the floor was pouring down the drain.”

  The sheriff regarded him. “She wasn’t trying to drown Samantha anyway.”