House of Skin

by Jonathan Janz

  Keep your guard up, a voice cautioned.

  “We don’t know what’s happened, Julia.” He glanced up at her, chin down. “Have you heard of a man named Ted Brand?”

  She shook her head, forced her hands not to fidget. “No, that name’s not familiar.”

  He watched her a moment longer. Then, he seemed to dismiss something and stared at his hat again. “You wouldn’t have, unless you have a police scanner you listen to.”

  She waited, her heart sledgehammering in her chest.

  He smiled at her. “But you’re not really the police scanner type.”

  She allowed herself a sheepish grin. “I’m a bit out of touch.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I guess I’m just a homebody.”

  His sigh said it was a shame she never married. She got that sigh a lot, from Bea mostly.

  “What I’m wondering about,” he said, coming to it, “is whether you walked home from work Thursday night or caught a ride.”

  “I always walk home from work.”

  He grinned. “I know you do. I finally stopped offering you rides even though I hate to see you all alone on the shoulder.”

  She shrugged. “I like walking.”

  “So the other night, did you see a black BMW pass by, heading south?”

  Not wanting to answer too fast, she paused, frowning at the wall beside her. “Not that I remember. It’s possible one went by, but if it did I don’t remember it.”

  “Think hard now,” Barlow said. “Did a man maybe stop and offer you a ride?”

  “No,” she said, “I would have remembered that.”

  Barlow looked disappointed but unsurprised. “If you remember anything, will you call me?” He wrote down his number on a temporary library card.

  She took it.

  “That’s my cell phone,” he said. “I hate the damn thing, but everybody’s got one now and my secretary says I have to keep up with the times.”

  “How is Patti?” Julia asked.

  “She’s fine,” Barlow said, straightening. “I better get going.”

  “I hope everything works out.”

  The sheriff put his hat on. “Me too.”

  And with that, he left.

  Staring after him she let out a long, fluttery breath. She shut her eyes and pushed herself up in her chair. She’d done well, she knew. Barlow didn’t suspect her. She was just another neighbor, a formality to be gotten through. He no more suspected her of Brand’s murder than the Kennedy assassination.

  All that was left now was the body.

  Chapter Nine

  July, 1950

  After the murder of her child, the only restraint on Maria’s wantonness was removed. She bedded a new man each week, often on consecutive days. More than once in the same night.

  Myles observed this with detached interest, caring little for his former girlfriend, caring less for the marriages she ruined, the homes she destroyed. Sleeping with men from all stations, politicians and policemen, idlers and drifters, she cut a lecherous swath through the fabric of the town and became anathema to any woman whose man had a wandering eye.

  Then, she made her play for David Carver.

  Myles knew nothing of the affair, save the lingering stares Maria leveled his brother’s way. He could never tell whether or not the interest was mutual, for David was difficult to read. Myles couldn’t imagine his brother wanting any woman but Annabel.

  One sleepless night Myles arose from bed and went outside.

  The night was warm and bright, the gardens redolent with jasmine and sage. Through the dewy lawn and into the hollow Myles went, a slight breeze worrying his thick black hair, caressing his bare chest.

  He was upon the lovers before he noticed them.

  In a bright patch of moonlit bluegrass, Maria sat astraddle his brother, back arched, hands behind her gripping David’s hard calves. Her upturned nipples shone like gems, her entire body rose and fell, a fleshy arch, as David thrust up into her from below.

  Unaccountably, Myles felt a pang of jealousy. The satisfied, dreamy smile on her face infuriated him. For as active a lover as she was, she’d never shown much pleasure in having sex with Myles, treating it instead like a pleasant but forgettable diversion.

  Maria moaned as his brother drilled up into her splayed legs, his large forearms rippling as he kneaded her hips, her breasts.

  Shaking, Myles turned and strode away. All he could think of was Annabel home in bed, her husband in the woods banging the town slut. The thought of Annabel, her icy blue eyes lidded in sleep, the covers pulled down to reveal her pale skin, her sinuous body clad only in a satiny nightgown, lent speed to his steps. He rocketed through the hollow, bare feet padding the smooth earth. Myles hadn’t the strength of his brother, but what there was of him was hard and lean, and as the image of Annabel became clearer in his mind, his strides lengthened, his thin body become a white wraith darting around the trail’s bends in the moonlight.

  When he entered the house he took care to keep the screen door from slamming. If Annabel awoke, he’d have to explain himself, and his opportunity to take her would be lost. When she found out what was happening she’d be eager to confront the pair. Though she feigned unconcern Myles knew deep down that beneath the aloof exterior lurked unfathomable darkness. He’d seen it on the night of the boy’s death, again when she heard of the second child slaying in Shadeland, less than a year later.

  The sweat dripped from his hair, which hung in lank sheathes over his temples. He twisted the doorknob and let himself in. Though the night was preternaturally brilliant, the thick oak tree outside the bedroom window partially stifled the moonglow, leaving Myles illuminated and Annabel in shadow. The bedclothes were twisted and bunched around her still form.

  He crossed the room, the shadows swallowing him. A starling lit on the sill and stared incuriously through the window. Myles reached out, grasped the bedclothes, drew them down and beheld the empty place where her body had been, where he’d watched her from the keyhole many a night, looking past the muscular mound of his brother and gazing upon the one thing life had denied him, the only thing he wanted.

  But she was gone. His head swam with longing and rage as he returned to his room. Shutting the door he turned and saw Annabel lying on her side, nude, in his bed. Her back to him, her long blond hair tied up so that her creamy neck glowed, she lay there, waiting, on the white sheet. Myles stepped over the covers, which were pooled at the foot of the bed, and slipped off his boxer shorts. She bent forward, extending her buttocks, her elbow sliding down the sheet toward her knees. Lying on his side behind her, he slid down low enough to enter her, and as he felt her warmth slide around him, he heard her whisper one word, “Mine,” and knew it to be true.

  Chapter Ten

  When the phone rang, Sam hoped it would be good news. Then he heard Daryl Applegate say, “Howdy, Sheriff,” and his hopes were dashed.

  “Yeah?” Sam asked, making no attempt to conceal his irritation. It was six in the morning. He’d planned on sleeping until seven.

  “They’re searching Brand’s car.”

  Sam switched the phone to his good ear, sat up. “Any prints?”

  “We haven’t heard anything else, just that they’re going through the car,” Daryl said.

  Sam scraped a hand over his whiskers.

  “Hey, Sheriff?”

  “Go ahead,” Sam said. He stood and walked across the lightless room to his closet. He guessed he’d dress without showering today, though doing so always made him feel dirty.

  “What I was wondering,” Daryl said as Sam zipped up, buttoned his brown shirt, “is whether or not you wanted me to interview Brand’s girlfriends.”

  Sam pulled on his socks. “Deputy McLaughlin will be in charge of that. Plus we only need to see if one of them heard from Brand around the time he disappeared.”

  Daryl’s voice grew plaintive. “But Tommy gets to do everything. Why do I get stuck being your secretary when Patti’s not
around?”

  “We all have to man the desk sometimes,” Sam went on, by rote now. It was the same old crap. Applegate wanted none of the responsibility, all of the glory. Sam didn’t have the heart to tell the dumb bastard he wouldn’t have a job if it weren’t for his father pulling strings. Guy wasn’t qualified to scoop shit in a henhouse.

  “But Tommy’s the youngest. He should have to pay his dues like the rest of us.”

  Sam felt himself growing agitated, glared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. Now he was up, he wanted to brush his teeth, get on with his day.

  “Age has nothing to do with it,” he said. “And Deputy McLaughlin does just as much grunt work as you do.” He couldn’t stop from adding, “And he doesn’t bitch about it either.”

  “I’m not bitching,” Daryl said, but his voice was sullen. “I just want out of the office.”

  Squeezing paste on his vibrating toothbrush, Sam said, “Patti’s coming in at eight, when your shift ends. You can get out of the office then.”

  By telling Bea she’d gotten a doctor to come to the farmhouse, Julia had bought herself a few days. If Barlow came to the library looking for her, it would look bad, but what else could she do? If he noticed how red her eyes were, how her nerves had degenerated over the past few days, and started asking questions, she might as well kill herself, save the state the trouble.

  In the five days since she’d killed Brand and disposed of his body, she’d spent most of her time reading or playing piano. But neither of those things took her mind off of what she’d done, what could happen to her if she were found out. Barlow could roll down the lane at any moment, knock on her door. Your boss says you’ve been home sick this week. How come? And what are those blisters there, the ones on your hands? You been digging holes?

  The only thing she found to take her mind off it was to walk in the woods. After she got used to it, the rain didn’t bother her. With May right around the corner the air was warmer, the denseness of the forest helping to hold the heat in. Julia watched as a sparrow flitted into view, zigzagged through the boughs of a maple tree, then vanished as abruptly as it had appeared. The bird made her aware of the forest life around her, inchoate now but rapidly gaining fresh vitality. As if to confirm this idea a chipmunk darted out of an uprooted oak trunk and crossed the sodden trail mere inches from where she stood. The smell of the soil, fecund and redolent with budding vegetation, permeated her nostrils.

  As she continued on she thought about the Carver House, about Watermere. When she first heard someone was moving in she was disappointed. She’d pictured the place uninhabited, herself the lady of the house by default.

  The more she thought about it, though, the more she wondered what kind of man Myles’s nephew would be. She was thinking about this man she’d never met as the clearing came up on her left.

  She risked a glance that way, at the break in the trees and the large oval space within, and despite the warmth of the woods, what was buried there made her shiver.

  He was sitting under a sycamore tree near the edge of the woods, thinking, when he heard a car roll up the lane. It was Barlow, in plain clothes this time, looking like a regular guy. Larger than average maybe, but otherwise normal. His black tee shirt was tight around his thick biceps, his jeans old and faded. As Barlow approached, Paul tried to reconcile this new man with the sheriff he’d walked the forest with last week, the man who was all business.

  Paul got up and approached Barlow.

  “Howdy,” the sheriff said, meeting him at the edge of the lawn.

  “Afternoon,” Paul said.

  “How are you adjusting to your new surroundings?”

  “Pretty well, I think.” Paul glanced about the yard, wishing he’d done more to it. It was strewn with weeds, and he hadn’t mowed yet.

  Barlow nodded at the house. “Looks like you’ve got a shutter missing.”

  “That one and two on the other side,” Paul answered without looking. He’d thought of doing something about the state of disrepair the house was in but had no idea where to begin. The thought of paying someone to fix the place up seemed wasteful, but he couldn’t rouse himself to do the work.

  “You’ve got some holes in your screens too.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  The sheriff stared at the house. “Lotta work keeping up a place like this.”

  Paul glanced at him. “I’m getting around to it.”

  Barlow grunted and knelt on the grass, forearms resting on one knee. “I wanted you to know your story checked out.”

  Paul spoke to the crown of the sheriff’s head. “That’s good to hear.”

  “So unless something new comes up, you’re in the clear.”

  “That’s why you came?”

  “It’s been awhile since I talked to you last,” Barlow said. “I just wanted to check in.”

  “I see.”

  Barlow remained kneeling. His fingers spread out and caressed the tips of the grass. Paul watched the thick, strong hand whisper gently over the lawn, saw the man’s blue eyes follow his hand as it moved.

  When the sheriff spoke his voice was softer. “You’ve heard of women’s intuition, I’m sure, but I believe men can have intuition too. Especially cops who’ve been at it a long time ”

  Paul watched the hand, waited.

  “I don’t like it,” Barlow went on, “but I believe something bad happened to Ted Brand. What’s worse, I believe it’s just the start of more badness to come.”

  Paul watched the sheriff guardedly. “Like what?”

  “Who knows? The last murder I had to deal with was a long time ago. Things have been good in Shadeland since then, but things never stay good forever.”

  Against his better judgment, Paul said what had been on his mind since the first time he’d met Barlow. “My coming here is what started it. That’s what you think.”

  The sheriff’s silence was all the confirmation he needed. Barlow rose and strode toward his car.

  “I’m not my uncle, you know,” Paul said to the man’s broad back.

  The sheriff turned slowly and regarded him, the deep cobalt eyes penetrating Paul’s.

  “No, you’re not,” Barlow replied. “But you do favor him.”

  The sheriff was right. In the pictures Paul pulled from the office shelves, his uncle appeared to be a better-groomed, healthier version of himself. Of course, if the stories were true, that couldn’t be right. Myles Carver had been a debauched ghoul who drank to excess and indulged in every sin imaginable.

  So why were the man’s features sharper than his?

  Looking at his uncle, whose face exuded confidence and virility, was depressing. The man’s suave appearance made Paul feel inept. There were pictures of Myles everywhere in the albums, yet none of his wife, whatever her name was.

  Paul thought of Barlow, of how he’d omitted all mention of the woman, the same way she’d been omitted from the albums. Flipping back through the browning pictures, Paul was amazed to see many of them had been doctored, cut in half. In one photo, taken at some beach when Myles was in his thirties, the effect of her excision was dramatic. His uncle lay on the sand, propped up on an elbow and mooning for the camera. She’d been lying behind him, pushing herself up so as to be included in the shot, but all around his uncle’s shoulder and face, the picture had been trimmed, and the arm she’d let dangle over his stomach was replaced by a white stripe where the pale background of the photo album showed through.

  Was the pain of her death so bad as to make the sight of her unbearable? Paul thought of his ex-girlfriend, of the regret he felt when thinking of Emily, and could imagine throwing out her letters, her pictures. But he couldn’t envision going so far as to cut around his own image to rid himself of her. It bespoke of narcissism. If not, why not toss out the entire picture? Wasn’t the white stripe across his uncle’s stomach a reminder of her as surely as her picture had been? Paul couldn’t imagine sorrow driving a man to do that. Now hatred…hatred was another matter entirely
.

  Pushing the albums back inside the roll top desk, Paul strode to the bathroom. The sight of his full jowls made him flip off the light switch. He leaned over the pot, one hand bracing himself on the wall, and voided his bladder. When he finished he found the effort to push away from the wall had worn him out. Jesus Christ, he thought. I get winded taking a leak.

  To cheer himself up he ambled down to the library and cast about for something diverting. The rain pelting the windows soothed his jangled nerves. As he moved through the library and breathed the fragrance of aged paper, he searched for something scary, something as creepy as this house often felt.

  Titles like A History of Hell, The Book of Werewolves, Astral Projection, and Secret Voices: A Guide to Automatic Writing jumped out at him. He shook his head. His uncle had been into some weird stuff.

  He came to a novel that looked good—Peter Straub’s Ghost Story—and began reading.

  He’d read a hundred pages before he realized his stomach was rumbling. There was no working clock in the library so he’d no way to tell, but he was sure it was close to noon. Rising, his knees and back popping, Paul carried the book with him down to the kitchen.

  He read more as he ate his bologna sandwich.

  The horror story, he was finding, was doing something to him, stirring some long-dormant part of him. Reading it reminded him of why he’d wanted to write in the first place. He wanted to do to people what this book was doing to him.

  Determined now, he retrieved a paper grocery sack from under the sink and marched grimly into the ballroom. The bottles of whiskey clanking inside the sack, he made his way out to the garage and deposited the sack in a cubbyhole next to the large rubber trash container. That done, he mounted the porch steps, trotted up the stairs, made for the library. On his way by the office he traded the novel in his back pocket for a spiral-bound notebook and a pen. Holy crap, he thought, I’m actually going to do it.