House of Skin

by Jonathan Janz

His eyes moved back to the portrait.

  The woman’s blond hair, done up in a complex network of braids and ringlets, had little hints of strawberry in it. The set of the mouth was hard to read but the eyes were laughing and that made him think she was smiling too. The nose was small. Her earrings were tiny pendants with pearls on the ends. Her chin was slightly lowered, as if she were daring him to approach. The alabaster throat, too, was inviting. Paul was a little embarrassed to find himself aroused at the sight of the cleavage pushing up out of her light blue dress. The low neckline—Paul hunted for the word—the décolletage, displayed her perfectly shaped breasts to dizzying effect. He stared at the gloved hands, the thin waist made thinner by a corset, the bare forearms resting on her lap.

  Was this woman, then, the woman in the graveyard, the woman who was so loathed that her tombstone was a scarred ruin?

  Was this Annabel?

  Thunder rumbled through the woods, vibrated the foundations of Watermere as Paul stared at the portrait, the heat of arousal returning, shame attending it because this woman was dead, might have been his relative. And that didn’t even take into account that the woman he was falling in love with was in the next room.

  The rain came hard then, battering the house until the sound became a continuous roar. He fancied he could smell the rain through the window. It comforted him. He was staring at the window when lightning strobed, three quick flashes followed by a fourth, this one sustained, and in the pane’s reflection he saw he was not alone in the library. He cried out, whirling, and saw the dead woman glaring in the silver light. He stumbled backward, and as thunder shook the house he saw it was Julia, only Julia, holding the manuscript and watching him strangely.

  He blew out ragged breath and braced himself on a chair. He giggled and wiped a hand over his forehead, which was clammy, iced with sweat.

  “You scared me,” he said.

  As Julia approached, Paul moved the painting behind a chair so she wouldn’t see it.

  His gaze went from the manuscript in her hands to her watchful green eyes, back to the manuscript again.

  “Well?” he asked.

  She threw the pile of pages in his face.

  The storm grew severe.

  More than once the lights dimmed, threatened to go out. Paul wished they would. That way he wouldn’t be able to see the way Julia was staring at him, as if she were seeing him for the first time and not liking what she saw.

  They sat across from one another in the library. Her eyes were hard as she watched him. He wanted to go to a different room to speak, get away from the painting, but Julia insisted on having it out here, now.

  At first he’d been grateful she’d sat with her back to the painting. He could keep an eye on it that way, keep both women in sight so he could keep the two separate.

  What scared him most was how Julia still looked to him like his deceased aunt. Physically they were different; Julia with the fuller figure, the green eyes instead of blue, the dark hair and skin that made her look exotic, like a maiden from some remote Pacific island. She looked nothing like the woman in the painting, not really. It was the way they both watched him, relishing secret knowledge about him, knowing how weak and insecure he felt around their beauty, that bound them in his mind.

  “Paul?”

  He jumped, realized he’d been staring beyond Julia, into the face of the dead woman, her pale throat, her round breasts.

  “Sorry. I’ve been a little off today.”

  She waited.

  He cleared his throat, sat forward. “I guess you didn’t like The Monkey Killer.”

  “It’s not right,” she said.

  “Could you expand on that?” he said and regretted his smartass tone.

  “Is this why you came here?”

  The look on her face, which he now recognized as suspicion, stunned him into silence.

  “There are things in there,” she said, pointing to the spray of papers on the floor, “that you can’t possibly know.”

  When he only stared dumbly back at her, she went on, “Things about your uncle—uncles—that might not even be true.”

  Paul felt his heartbeat in his throat.

  “So what happened? You went through your grandfather’s stuff in Memphis, came here to dig up more dirt, get the rest of the story, and made up the rest? Then you sent out your lies to get rich?”

  “Julia—”

  “Did you expect to impress me with this trash?”

  “Wait a second.”

  “Because that’s what it is, Paul. Garbage.”

  “It’s only a story,” he said thinly. He saw their relationship near the edge of some black abyss, ready to tumble over.

  Her voice grew louder. “It’s slander.”

  Paul sat forward, mind frozen like the gears of some unoiled machine. “Julia, please don’t overreact. For one thing, I don’t even know those people,” he said and glanced at the pages for help, as though they’d verify his story. “I mean, let’s say for a moment it’s true. Even if it is, everyone in that book is dead now.”

  “I was afraid you’d say that,” she said, her voice flat. She stood, walked toward the door.

  “Wait,” he called. He moved toward her. “Why do you care so much about the people in the story?” He allowed himself to say it. “They’re my relatives, not yours.”

  She turned then, and as she did he was afraid she’d see the portrait leaning against the chair. She shook her head, eyes down, chin trembling. When Paul reached out to touch her shoulder her hand shot out, slapped him hard across the cheekbone. Pain exploded and he staggered, just managing to keep his balance.

  “Go to hell, Paul.”

  Holding his cheek with one hand, he was reaching out for her again when he saw her eyes flare, her face contort.

  Withdrawing his hand, he asked, “Can’t we talk about this?”

  Julia’s jaw flexed. “No, we cannot talk about this, Paul. You sent this out to publishers, right?”

  “One of whom already rejected it,” he said.

  “He was right to,” she said, going.

  “Please don’t leave.”

  She faced him from the doorway, the skin around her mouth drawn tight.

  “I never want to see you again.”

  “What’s wrong with you? I’d understand if you hated my book, but you act as though I killed someone.”

  She was watching him with an expression he couldn’t read.

  He went on, “Hitting me in the face? You’d think Myles was your father or something.”

  Her eyes widened.

  “Oh my God,” he said.

  He took a step toward her, but she was already turning away.

  “I’m so sorry, Julia.”

  He started after her, but by the time he’d gotten to the back staircase the front door was slamming shut.

  She was gone.

  Halfway home, the rain ceased. When she emerged from the woods and trudged through the yard to the farmhouse, her clothes damp and clingy on her skin, the stars shone so brightly that she could not only make out the lightning bugs as they flashed but could see their wings keeping them afloat, their pill-shaped bodies hovering above the grass. They were mating, she thought, celebrating the end of the thunderstorm. In another frame of mind she might have appreciated the lightshow, but all she could think of as she watched them signal to one another was how sorely she’d misjudged Paul.

  He was airing people’s dirty laundry for a profit, which was one thing. It was another thing entirely that he was doing it to his own uncle, whether he knew the man or not.

  The one saving grace was the likelihood the trashy novel would never be published. It flowed easily enough; she’d give him that much. But the subject matter was lurid, and the offhanded way he dealt with it was nothing short of ghoulish.

  Maybe that was the real Paul, she thought as she got rid of her soaked shoes and walked through the dark house. A human buzzard feasting on the carrion of his family’s skeletons.<
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  The moon was so bright there was no need to mess with the living room lamp. Knowing nothing would take away the sick betrayal she felt, she sat at the Steinway and played a somber Bach sonata she knew by heart. The song choice was a bad one, she realized, and she once again dissolved into tears. She hated herself for wallowing in self-pity, but reasoning with it was no use. She’d really thought she and Paul had something meaningful.

  A voice said, “Are those tears of remorse?”

  She whirled, falling against the piano, her elbows crashing discordant notes.

  “Who’s there?” she asked.

  “Just relax,” the man in the rocking chair said. A wide-brimmed hat made his head huge in the shadows.

  She rose from the bench. In the lurid moonlight bleeding in through the window she watched an arm reach slowly out and twist on the lamp.

  Daryl Applegate sat staring at her.

  “You can sit down,” he said.

  Julia opened her mouth uncertainly.

  “I said sit down.”

  Reluctantly, she did.

  He sat rocking in her mother’s chair. She felt her anger return.

  “You have no right to be here, badge or not. Where’s Sheriff Barlow?”

  “Home. Or he might have gone over to Redman’s after the fireworks.”

  “Who do you think you are, breaking in here?”

  “Cut the crap, Julia.”

  She laughed once, harshly. Then she stood and walked over to the phone.

  “You wiped your prints off Brand’s car.”

  She stopped, depressed the receiver.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “What I’m talking about is that bullshit story you told Barlow at the library. I know you were in Brand’s car the night of his death.”

  “Sheriff Barlow said Brand might still be alive.”

  Applegate snickered softly and shook his head. “Barlow might think that but we know better, don’t we?”

  She tried to brush it off. “I don’t know wh—”

  “Like I said,” he interrupted, “let’s cut the crap, alright?”

  She watched him. In the dim glow of the lamp his eyes looked black.

  Applegate stared at her breasts. The deputy’s belly sagged over his belt, a hint of hairy white skin peeking out at her from between buttons. He rocked slowly in the wooden chair, serene, his hat brim bobbing up and down.

  “What do you want?” she asked.

  “How about you tell me what you got planted in your garden.”

  “Nothing yet.”

  “Tomatoes?”

  “Not this year.”

  “Cukes?”

  “No.”

  “My grandma always plants cukes. Makes them into this creamy salad stuff. Tastes great with corn on the cob. What else you got in there?”

  “I told you nothing.”

  “What about dead lawyers?”

  Julia met his stare. “I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about, and I don’t care for the accusation, either.”

  “You shouldn’t have killed him, you don’t care for the accusation.”

  The way the chair groaned when he rocked in it, she was afraid his fat ass would bust through the wood.

  “Come on, Julia. Help me out here.” It was the first time he’d spoken her name. She didn’t care for it.

  “Other than the fact that I’m innocent, don’t you need a search warrant to break in here?”

  “Door was unlocked.”

  “You know what I mean, damn it. I have rights.”

  He stopped rocking. “You really want me to get a search warrant? Tell Sheriff Barlow about this?”

  Her lips thinned but her eyes held his.

  “Maybe I won’t tell Barlow what I find out there,” Applegate said, nodding toward the backyard. “Maybe I don’t give a shit about some hot shot from the city. Maybe that lawyer got what was coming to him.”

  She allowed herself a smile. A small one.

  Applegate smiled too. “So. Are we gonna be friendly about this?”

  Julia crossed her legs. “I still don’t know what you’re talking about, Deputy, but you’re welcome to stay for some coffee if you’d like. I was just about to brew some.”

  “Sure you were,” he said. “That’s fine then. I’d love a cup of coffee. Haven’t had one since breakfast.”

  He followed her into the kitchen. She could feel his eyes on her ass. Underneath, her panties were soaked through with rain, uncomfortable in the muggy kitchen.

  She rounded the table, her fingernails skating over the Byron collection she’d been reading, and glanced back at him. He’d taken off his hat, revealing a dented pelt of thick black hair, the kind that rejected water completely, made it bead and run off like canvas. Julia set the coffee to brew.

  She made to excuse herself as Applegate sat down, but before she made it past him, he barred her way with a long arm. “I don’t think so,” he said.

  “I’m going to change clothes. Where do you think I’m going to go?”

  “To get your gun maybe.”

  “I don’t have one.”

  He eyed her, thinking. Then, he grinned magnanimously. “Okay, then. You want to slip into something more comfortable, I’ll let you.”

  She moved past him and disappeared up the stairs.

  When she returned in her white sports bra and her low rise gray running shorts, Applegate was sitting at the table, scowling over one of her books, Mansfield Park. When he looked up, his face reddened. His eyes flitted from her bare stomach to her breasts.

  “Enjoying the book?” she asked. As she poured the coffee, she could feel him staring.

  “It’s real nice.”

  “I’m glad you like it.”

  Setting down the cups, she sat across from him. He put the book down and sipped at his coffee. Other than the sound of his stertorous breathing, the house was silent.

  “Cream?” she asked.

  He set the mug down and examined it. “How’d you do it?”

  “Do what?”

  “How’d you do it?” he repeated, still watching the mug.

  “I have no idea what you mean.”

  He looked at her then, but before long his eyes sank to her cleavage. She had an urge to cover herself but instead allowed her shoulders to glide back and touch the chair, felt her breasts push against the stretchy material.

  “Let’s try this another way,” he said to her tits. “Why did you do it?”

  Her thumb went up and down the handle of her cup, her eyes willing his to meet hers.

  “He try something on you? Make you act in self-defense? If he did, you’re not gonna get in trouble for it.”

  She spoke slowly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, why you’re here, or what you want from me. If you don’t have any more questions, I’m going for a run.”

  He met her eyes. “You do, you’ll regret it.”

  She stared at him, waited for him to look away first.

  He did. “Damn it,” he said. He leaned back in his chair, licked his lips. “Come here.”

  Her shoulders leaned against the seatback, her breasts teasing him.

  “Now, Goddammit,” he said.

  She set her cup on the table and stood. The kitchen was too warm. Sweat glistened on her bare stomach. She moved around the table and stood next to him. The front legs of his chair hung a foot off the ground, the back of his seat resting on the edge of the counter.

  Applegate motioned her closer.

  She took another step, her hip brushing his shoulder.

  Applegate scratched his matted hair, licked his lips. He reached out with a tremulous hand. His large fingers touched her stomach just above the navel. She watched his fingers pressing her dark skin, the fine blond hair on her stomach tickling at his touch. His mouth was open, his breathing very loud in the kitchen. The withering odor boiling out of his mouth made her gorge clench, but she did her best not to show it. He traced an index finger
along the muscle over her hip, toward her abdomen. When his finger reached her waistband, it glided there, back and forth, pushing down the elastic band of her shorts, probing lower.

  His eyes came up as the sizzling coffee pot swung toward his face. An arm flew up and blocked her wrist, the burning pot spinning loose and shattering against the cabinet behind him. Steaming jets of coffee scalded the back of his neck. Hissing, he caught her wrist, twisted it savagely, while his other hand gripped his blistered neck. With her free hand Julia raked his cheekbone, four deep trenches blooming in his flesh. He screamed and twisted her arm. She felt a wrist bone crack. Desperately, she kicked at the back legs of his chair and felt him release her as the chair started to fall.

  Before he could prevent it, the chair toppled backward, the base of his skull smashing the hard counter edge. His body followed, landing in a heap.

  She kicked at his face. He surprised her by dodging and snagging her other foot. He pulled it toward him. Both her legs went airborne, the hard wooden floor rising up to meet her back. Her head followed, whacking the floor with a sick thud.

  Dazed, she saw him gaining his feet and reaching toward her. Feebly, she batted at his hand. He slapped her hand aside, stepped on her injured wrist. She cried out. He dropped a knee into her ribs and let his weight follow, laughing at her agonized cry.

  “Innocent, huh?” He seized a handful of her hair. “Then why’d you attack me? Trying to kill me too? Fucking cunt!” he roared, jerking her head up and slamming it on the floor. She lay semi-conscious, a thin rill of blood trickling out of one nostril.

  Daryl wrestled her onto his shoulder and carried her into the backyard. By the time they reached the garden he was ready to faint. He dropped her on the moist garden bed.

  She landed with a thump. She rocked over on her side, trying to regain her feet. She reminded him of a turtle rolled over on its shell. He measured, reared and planted a kick in her kidneys. She moaned and bent backward, holding her lower back.

  “Think you can get away, huh?” Daryl reached down and grabbed the shovel lying in the grass. She was on her back, face squeezed tight in agony, her arm pinned beneath her holding her side. He’d gotten her good.

  “What’s wrong, honey? You got a pain?” He straddled her, brought the edge of the shovel up, cupped her chin with the blade. She cried out as he pressed the dirty shovel tip into her throat. She tried to lift her chin to get away from the pressing tip, but he followed her, kept the steel point pressed in her flesh.