Scar Tissue

by William G. Tapply

  A few days later, Gloria began complaining about an odor in the pantry. At first, I couldn’t smell it. But it kept getting stronger, and after a week it was unbearable.

  I eventually found the dead mouse up under the heating unit, where he’d dragged himself to die, along with the trap that had snapped down across his back.

  This odor in Ed Sprague’s barn reminded me of that dead mouse. Except this was worse.

  I covered my mouth and nose with my handkerchief and started shining my flashlight into the stalls.

  I found the body in the second stall from the front.

  FIFTEEN

  I stood there shining my flashlight into the horse stall in Ed Sprague’s barn. I kept one hand pressed tightly over my mouth and nose.

  It was a man’s body, and it was hard to look at.

  He’d been dead for a while.

  He wore pants but no shirt. His skin was bloated and grayish green. He was sitting in a wooden armchair. His ankles were tied to the legs and his wrists were bound to the arms. A rope around his chest held him upright. His chin was slumped down on his chest so that I couldn’t see his face, but I recognized him by his thick thatch of curly gray hair.

  Sour bile rose in my throat. I swallowed it back and forced myself to kneel in front of him and shine my light on his face.

  Jake Gold’s cheeks, throat, neck, and chest were covered with round black scabs. His left eye was gone, leaving a socket full of crusty dried blood. The blood had run down his face, off his chin, and onto his shoulder and chest.

  His wrists, where they were tied to the arms of the chair, had swollen around the baling wire that held them there. It looked like his hands would explode if you poked a needle into them.

  I turned my head and puked on the floor.

  I shined my flashlight away from Jake and knelt in front of him. I felt that I should say something comforting to him, but no words came to me.

  After a minute or two, I stood up and got the hell out of there. I went back down the ladder, and when I got to the bottom I took a deep breath. The musky smell of old manure cleansed my lungs and throat. It was a relief.

  I went over to the house and sat on the front steps. I hung my head between my knees and took several long, deep breaths. I didn’t want to puke again.

  After a few minutes I thought I had it under control.

  I smoked a cigarette before I retrieved the key from under the cushion and went into the house.

  Sprague’s kitchen phone had not been disconnected. I called Horowitz’s office at state police headquarters in Framingham.

  “I am reporting a murder,” I told the woman who answered. “I’ve got to speak to Lieutenant Horowitz.”

  “What’s your name, sir, and where are you calling from?”

  “My name is Brady Coyne. I’m an attorney. Find Horowitz and patch me through to him. I’ll wait.”

  “Tell me where you are, sir.”

  “I know you can trace this call and figure it out eventually. But please trust me, Horowitz will have your ass if you don’t find him and put him on.”

  “Just a minute.”

  I waited nearly five minutes before Horowitz said, “Okay, Coyne. What’s this about a murder?”

  “I’m at Ed Sprague’s house in Reddington. Jake Gold’s dead body is in the barn. Not only that, but—”

  “Sit tight.”

  “Wait a minute—”

  But he’d disconnected. Typical.

  I sat on the front steps, and ten minutes later I heard sirens. Then a squad car crested the rise and came down the long driveway with its blue lights flashing. It crunched to a stop in front of the house, and a uniformed officer climbed out. The cruiser was one of the Reddington PD Explorers. The cop was Tory Whyte.

  I wondered if I should pretend we hadn’t met, but she came over to where I was sitting, looked down at me, and said, “Hello, Mr. Coyne.”

  I smiled up at her. “Hi, Tory.”

  Then another uniformed officer got out of the cruiser and came over. It was the big redheaded guy. McCaffrey. “You know this man?” he said to Tory.

  She nodded. “It’s okay,” she said. “He’s a lawyer.”

  “That makes it okay?” McCaffrey looked at me and smiled. Then he wandered back to the cruiser.

  “We’re just supposed to baby-sit you until the state police arrive,” said Tory. “Make sure you don’t get away.”

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Feel like talking about it?”

  “No,” I said. “Thank you.”

  She sat on the steps beside me. I smoked another cigarette, and we both stared down toward the pond. A few minutes later another Reddington PD cruiser pulled in, and Gus Nash got out from the passenger side. He came over to where we were sitting and jerked his head at Tory. “I want to talk to him,” he said.

  Tory stood up, flashed me a quick frown—a reminder of my promise to her—and went over to her cruiser.

  Nash stood in front of me with his arms folded over his chest. He looked down at me and shook his head. “So what in hell are you doing here?”

  “Snooping.”

  He smiled. “I was under the impression you’d given up snooping.”

  “Once a snooper, always a snooper. It’s a kind of addiction.”

  “Yes,” Nash said. “I can see that. So what’ve we got here?”

  “I found you a murder victim,” I said. “Feather in your cap.”

  “Murders are never feathers in my cap,” he said. “Who is it?”

  “Jake Gold. Kinda screws up the case, huh?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well,” I said, “unless Jake killed Sprague and then was feeling so distraught that he came out here, tied himself to a chair in the barn, shot himself in the eye, and then went and hid his gun, it looks to me like we’ve got another murderer running around.”

  Nash nodded and blew out a breath. “It looks that way to me, too,” he said. He sat beside me on the steps. “Let’s talk about it.”

  “No,” I said. “I’m gonna wait for Horowitz to show up. I don’t want to go through the whole thing twice.”

  He squinted at me for a moment, then shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  Within fifteen minutes, four or five more vehicles had pulled into the dooryard. Among them was the gray Taurus that Horowitz and Marcia Benetti drive. Nash went over and started talking with Horowitz. After a few minutes, the two of them headed over to the barn.

  Benetti came over and sat with me on the porch steps. “The lieutenant and the DA are getting things organized,” she said. “We’ll wait for them before we talk.”

  For the next hour or so, men and women trooped back and forth between the dooryard and the barn. By then, darkness had settled over Ed Sprague’s farmyard. The flashing blue and red lights from all the vehicles and the swooping yellow beams from all the flashlights reminded me of something out of Close Encounters of the Third Kind.

  After a while, an emergency wagon bumped over to the barn, and a few minutes later it returned and headed on up the driveway. It had its red lights flashing, but it seemed to be in no hurry.

  One by one, people climbed back into their vehicles and drove away. Marcia Benetti and I sat on the steps and watched.

  Finally Horowitz and Gus Nash came over. They both stood in front of us.

  Horowitz crossed his arms and let out a long breath. “I damn near puked,” he said.

  “I did puke,” I said.

  He gave me his Jack Nicholson grin. “I saw it. Don’t feel bad. The ME himself was gagging.”

  “You want to tell us why you came here, decided to break into the house and barn?” said Nash.

  “I didn’t break in,” I said. “I used a key.”

  “Just tell us your story,” said Horowitz.

  It wasn’t much of a story. I’d come out here, poked around, and found Sprague’s red Cherokee and Jake’s body.

  “What exactly were you looking for?” said Nas
h.

  “I don’t know. I had this idea that Jake had blamed Sprague for Brian’s accident, and that’s why he killed him.”

  “Why?” said Nash. “Why would Gold blame Ed?”

  I shook my head. I wasn’t going to mention Tory Whyte’s witness to him. “It struck me as a logical connection, that’s all. Between that accident and Sprague’s murder.”

  “Then you found Sprague’s car,” said Nash.

  “Right. That seemed to clinch it.”

  “The question is,” said Horowitz, “if Gold killed Sprague, who killed Gold?”

  “You asking me?” I said. “Hey, you guys’re the cops. I haven’t got the slightest idea.”

  Horowitz was standing there with his arms folded, rocking back and forth on his heels. “He’d been tortured,” he said.

  I looked up at him. “Who? Jake?”

  He nodded. “Looked like cigar burns all over him.”

  “Jesus,” I whispered.

  I followed Horowitz and Benetti in my car to Sharon’s house. They parked in front, and by the time I’d pulled up behind their Taurus and got out, the two of them were standing on the sidewalk in the middle of an argument.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Horowitz was saying. “It’s my job.”

  “There’s no sense upsetting her any more than necessary.” Marcia said. She stepped close to him, planted her forefinger in the middle of his chest, and glared up at him. “You scare her. She doesn’t like you. If she sees you at her door, she’ll burst into tears. And you know how sensitively you handle weeping women. So, for once in your life, listen to me. You are not going in there. Mr. Coyne and I will do it. You wait here. Got that?”

  He shrugged. “Yeah, fine, okay. Whatever.”

  Marcia turned to me and gave me a quick smile. “Come on, Mr. Coyne,” she said, and started for the door.

  I glanced at Horowitz. He rolled his eyes.

  When Sharon opened the front door and saw Marcia and me standing there, her eyes widened, and she put her hand over her mouth and began shaking her head.

  “We found Jake,” I said.

  I put my arm around her shoulder, led her to the sofa, and sat beside her. She clutched my hand with both of hers while Marcia squatted in front of her and told her that Jake had been murdered.

  Sharon hugged herself and swayed back and forth. Her eyes filled with tears, and she let them run down her face without trying to wipe them away. “Why?” she whispered. “Who?”

  “We don’t know yet,” Marcia said.

  Marcia asked the necessary questions. Sharon’s voice was soft but clear, and she answered them fully. No, she hadn’t heard from Jake since he’d left on Sunday. She didn’t know why he’d left or what he was doing or what he’d been thinking. She’d had no idea who’d want to kill him. She’d had no unusual phone calls or conversations since Jake disappeared.

  Then Marcia put her hand on Sharon’s knee, looked up into her face, and told her that she’d have to identify Jake’s body and they’d probably want to ask her some more questions, but it could wait until tomorrow.

  Sharon nodded and said she understood.

  Marcia asked her who could come and spend the night with her, but Sharon said she didn’t want anybody, she’d be okay. Marcia suggested there must be a neighbor or a relative. Sharon just shook her head. Really, she was all right, she’d half expected this, she was prepared for it, it was almost a relief to know and not to have to imagine it, and all she wanted was to be alone for a while.

  “Call your mother, at least,” I said. “Have her come back and stay with you.”

  Sharon smiled. “Oh, God. My mother. Just what I need.” Then she nodded. “Yes, well, I’ll have to call her, of course. Not tonight, though. I’m not up to it tonight.”

  “I could call her for you.”

  Sharon shook her head. “Please, Brady. No.”

  Finally Marcia looked at me. “Why don’t you go ahead, Mr. Coyne,” she said. “Leave us girls alone, okay?”

  I nodded. I gave Sharon a hug and turned for the door.

  As I opened it, I heard Marcia say to Sharon, “How about a pot of tea?” and Sharon said, “Tea. That sounds nice.”

  I played a Bob Seger CD on the drive back to Boston. I turned up the volume so that the music filled my car, and it helped me not to think about Jake and Sharon and Brian Gold.

  “Wish I didn’t know now what I didn’t know then,” Seger sang, and I sang along with him.

  SIXTEEN

  I got back to my apartment around nine-thirty. I immediately poured myself a shot of Rebel Yell, gulped it down, poured another, and took it into the bedroom.

  My machine was blinking, as I’d hoped it would be.

  I hit the button, it whirred and clicked, and then Evie’s voice said, “Hello, dear man. It’s me. It’s about six o’clock in the afternoon, and I just walked in the door. Where are you? You better call me so I’ll know you’re not mad. I missed you horribly all day, and …”

  I started dialing her number while the machine was still replaying her message.

  She answered on the second ring with her usual cautious, “Yes?”

  “Hi, babe. It’s me.”

  She laughed. “Oh, geez. Thank God. I figured you were totally pissed at me and had decided to never talk to me again.”

  “I’m not pissed, honey.”

  “Are you home now? What time is it? Is it too late to—?”

  “It’s not even ten,” I said. Certainly not too late on a Saturday night.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  “I’ll go there if you’d rather.”

  “You sit tight,” she said. “See you soon.”

  “Don’t forget your nightie.”

  After we hung up, I sat on the edge of the bed, raised my glass, and drained it. Then I went to the kitchen, splashed in another few fingers of Rebel Yell, took a couple glugs straight from the bottle for good measure, and took the glass out to my balcony. My aim was to sit and relax and not think about Jake and wait calmly for Evie to arrive.

  I knew it would be a while. When Evie says she’s on her way, it means that she’s only going to take a shower, wash and dry her hair, reapply her makeup, try on a few blouses and sweaters, and agonize over which lipsticks and items of lingerie to pack in her overnight bag.

  Sometimes she says it’s going to take her a little while, which means that before she showers and packs she intends to run the vacuum around her place, unload the dishwasher, call a few friends, and set her VCR to record something from the Discovery Channel.

  I tried to focus on Evie. But in spite of my best efforts, the image of Jake Gold’s bloated, tortured body kept flashing in my mind.

  I finished my drink out on the balcony, went inside, took another big swig out of the bottle, and poured some more into my glass. Then I put on a Beach Boys CD. I played it loud. When Evie arrived, maybe we’d dance.

  I practiced dancing. I hadn’t rocked or rolled for many years, but I was groovin’, man. “Little Deuce Coupe.” “California Girls.” “Good Vibrations.” Happy, carefree music. Love those Beach Boys.

  One of them drowned. A Beach Boy drowning, for Christ’s sake. Imagine that.

  Ironic, dude.

  Catch a wave, you’ll be sitting on top of the world.

  My glass was empty. I had another drink.

  Are you drunk?”

  I opened my eyes. I was slouched in my armchair, and Evie was standing between my sprawled legs, leaning over me with her hands braced on my shoulders.

  “Yes,” I said, “I believe I am.”

  “I’ve never seen you drunk.”

  “Not a pretty sight, huh?”

  She smiled. “It’s a different side of you.”

  “I’m sorry, baby.”

  She leaned down and kissed me softly on the lips. I reached up and held her hips, and when she started to push herself away, I pulled her down onto my lap.

  She sat there stiffly with one arm around my neck
.

  I stroked her leg. She picked up my hand and held on to it. I twisted my head around and kissed her throat. She didn’t move.

  “This was the worst fucking day of my life,” I said.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Are you?”

  She turned her head to look at me. “Huh?”

  “Honey—?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” she said.

  I nodded. “Did you have a nice day?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Yes, I did. I had a lot of fun.”

  “Good,” I said. “That’s nice. I’m glad.”

  “Are you?”

  “Am I what?”

  “Glad I had fun.”

  “No.”

  She smiled. “So tell me about your day.”

  I shrugged. “Typical Saturday. Read the paper. Did some laundry. You disappeared. Found Jake Gold. His dead old body. Poor guy got murdered. Came home. Listened to the Beach Boys. Got a little drunk.”

  “What?”

  “The Beach Boys,” I said. “You wanna dance?”

  “What’d you say about Jake Gold?”

  “I found his body in Ed Sprague’s barn. He’d been dead for a while. Very smelly. He’d been tortured. Went and broke the news to Sharon. Then I came home and got drunk. Now aren’t you sorry you didn’t spend the day with me?”

  Evie slumped against me. She tucked her face into the hollow of my shoulder, snaked her arms around me, and held me tight. “Talk to me,” she whispered.

  “You want the long version or the short one?”

  “The long one.”

  “Then I think I need another drink.”

  “You better get me one, too,” she said.

  It was nearly two in the morning when Evie and I staggered into the bedroom. By then I was beyond drunk, and I passed out before my head hit the pillow.

  A dream woke me up. I was sweating. I forgot the dream instantly, but the weird, disorienting panic of it stayed with me. I slipped out of bed, stumbled into the bathroom, peed, splashed cold water on my face, and swallowed four aspirins.