House of Skin

by Jonathan Janz

  “Stay with me, Myles,” she repeated.

  He got into bed beside her, held his breath against the fetid odors of mildew and dirty diapers. The nurse did a terrible job keeping Annabel clean, but she was cheap and he was finished spending money on his dying wife. He wondered how long it had been since the last sheet change.

  “You took my portrait down.”

  He sat up on an elbow and stared down at her. Her eyes were shiny and black in the scarce light.

  “Yes,” he answered.

  “Where is it?”

  He studied the taut skin covering her cheekbones, an olive tent held in place by bony stakes.

  “Tell me something, Annabel.”

  “Mm.”

  He tried to keep his voice from shaking. “One thing about that portrait always bothered me.”

  When no reply came, he went on, “You put that painting in the library when you and David married.”

  An almost imperceptible nod. He realized she was nearly asleep.

  “Where did you say it came from?” he asked.

  She said something, but he couldn’t make it out.

  “I always wondered that,” he went on. “You said your parents commissioned the painting, that you owned the dress. But if your family was as poor as you said they were, how could they afford it? A dress like that, old-fashioned and silky, all those ruffles. It must have cost them an arm and a leg.”

  Annabel lay still.

  Myles said, “And the artist, the guy who drew you. How much did he charge your parents?”

  “My parents didn’t pay for it.”

  “But you said they did. You told David that. You told me too.”

  “Did I.” It wasn’t a question. In a voice so faint he scarcely heard her, she said, “It’s been so long I don’t remember anymore.”

  “I remember,” Myles said, lying back. “I remember you showing up at our house in those old-fashioned clothes. The other women made fun of you. At first.”

  He waited.

  “Where did you get those clothes, Annabel? Why didn’t we ever meet your parents? Not even at the weddings. It was almost as though they didn’t exist.”

  He waited for an answer, but her breathing was deep and restful.

  He lay there watching her a long time.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Their lovemaking was awkward, frustrated. As they lay there afterward, he said, “I don’t want us to act like anyone else. I want us to be us.”

  “Who says we aren’t?”

  “I don’t know.” He scratched the underside of his jaw. “But don’t you feel strange now, like we’re doing things for the wrong reasons?”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” she said, but she didn’t meet his eyes.

  He took a breath. “Julia, why did you wear that dress?”

  “Because I felt like it.”

  “Okay, but why did you feel like it.”

  She looked at him, eyes narrowed. “What are you asking me?”

  He opened his mouth and shut it. A few moments passed before he said, “I don’t think we’re in control anymore.”

  She looked away. “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me you’re acting normally.”

  “What is normal?”

  “I don’t know what normal is, but I can sure as hell tell you what normal isn’t. It isn’t losing control in a bar…”

  “Paul—” she said, but he was going on.

  “…or beating the shit out of people and enjoying it. It isn’t telling off the sheriff—”

  “So who is in control?” she demanded. “If we aren’t, who is?”

  He shook his head, unable to meet her eyes.

  He said, “Tell me you haven’t had dreams about her lately.”

  She opened her mouth. Then, she looked away.

  “Tell me you haven’t been thinking of her.”

  She would not meet his gaze.

  “Tell me she’s not getting ahold of us.”

  “You want to know why I wore her dress?”

  “If you wanna tell me.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Hell yes, I’m sure.”

  “Do you really think I don’t know where you go in the middle of the night?”

  Paul opened his mouth.

  But Julia went on, “Do you really think I don’t know about your fascination with her?”

  His stomach was a knot, and though he wished to say something, he knew that nothing would make the situation better.

  Julia said, “So I thought I’d save you your late night trips down the hallway by acting more like her myself.”

  Paul didn’t respond, instead stared down at his hands. The silence drew out. Dawn was beginning to show through the windowpanes, and the milky light slanting onto her pretty face helped undo some of the effect her dress had had on him. Her body fuller, more voluptuous than Annabel’s, she was definitely her own, not a copy of the dead woman. Julia sat in the window seat.

  “What did you and Sam talk about?” she asked.

  “The disappearances.”

  “The lawyer and the deputy,” she said.

  “And my ex-girlfriend.”

  He saw her face cloud. Something in his mind clicked.

  “Julia,” he said.

  Without looking at him, she answered, “Yes?”

  “What do you know about Emily’s disappearance?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Then why are you frowning?” he asked.

  She took a deep breath, then shuddered as she let it out. “Because I saw you two together.”

  Paul shook his head. “But there’s something else.”

  “Paul—”

  “Something else you’re not telling me.”

  She regarded him, and for a while, neither spoke.

  Then, she said, “What do you want to know?”

  He swallowed. “Everything.”

  Her gaze intense, she said, “Have you told me everything?”

  “I’m sure I haven’t,” he admitted.

  “Tell me then.”

  “I didn’t write the novels.”

  “You didn’t tell me there was a second one.”

  “You’re in it.”

  She stared.

  “You were only a child when I stopped…transcribing it, I guess.”

  “What did I do in the novel?”

  “Nothing. You were only a child.”

  “You’re serious about this.”

  “I read,” he swallowed the lump in his throat. “I read about what Annabel did to your mother.”

  He could see tears welling in her eyes.

  “I’m sorry, Julia. I didn’t really write them. I got the ideas when I was next to the grave—”

  “The grave,” Julia’s voice was thin.

  “Out there,” Paul gestured, “in the forest. I got the ideas and they just flowed out of me.” He went on, though. She got up and started pacing about the room. “I don’t even remember writing them.”

  “Where’s the second novel?” she asked. “The one I’m in?”

  “It’s gone.”

  She stopped pacing. “Where—”

  “I burned it. I didn’t want it near us.”

  She looked at him in disbelief, seemed about to say something. Then, she put her face in her hands.

  Paul rose and led her back to bed. Lying beside her he said, “I’m sorry for not telling you about it, but frankly I was ashamed. I wanted to be a writer, but I’m really… I’ve never written a thing. I can’t. I tried when I got here, but I was terrible.”

  He lay beside her in silence and wondered whether he’d lost her again. When her body stopped shaking, he cupped her chin. “Julia, I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry for not being honest about—”

  “It’s not that,” she said, “it’s something I’ve done, something I’ve got to tell you.”

  “Whatever it is, it can’t be as bad as—
”

  “Paul.”

  “—because I’ve been awful to you. I really have, and—”

  “Paul,” she said, and the flatness of her voice silenced him.

  She wiped a tear off her cheek, glanced up at the ceiling. “I’ve done things I shouldn’t have,” she said.

  “Did you see someone else while we were apart?” he asked.

  Her eyes flared. “Damn it, Paul, it’s got nothing to do with that.”

  Chastened, he waited for her to continue.

  She said, “I know where Brand is.”

  He frowned. “Yeah?”

  “I know where Daryl Applegate is too.”

  His temple began to throb. “Where are they?”

  “Which one?”

  “Either of them.” When she didn’t respond, he said, “Applegate.”

  “He’s dead.”

  “Julia.”

  “I’m sorry, Paul.”

  He edged away from her.

  “What are you telling me?”

  “He’s buried in my yard.”

  He stared at her, his heartbeat devolving into leaden thuds.

  “In the garden,” she added.

  He sprang off the bed and grabbed a pair of boxer shorts.

  “Paul, wait.”

  “For what? For you to tell me you chopped him up into little pieces? What the hell is wrong with you?”

  “I didn’t mean to. He tried to blackmail me. The rest was out of my control.”

  “You killed him.”

  “I didn’t want to kill him.”

  “Jesus,” he shouted at the wall. “I can’t believe I’m hearing this.”

  “Paul, listen.”

  “I don’t want to listen.” He put on his jeans.

  “There’s more.”

  “You tell me you killed a cop and buried him in your garden and there’s more?”

  “The lawyer,” she said.

  “Don’t tell me.”

  “Ted Brand. He came on to me and when I wouldn’t sleep with him he called me names. Later on, he tried to kill me, but that was because I tied him up to keep him from hurting me.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Paul clutched his temples.

  “He’s buried in the woods.”

  “These woods?”

  “Yes.”

  He stared at her. “You killed him and buried him on my land.”

  Her voice was choked. “Paul.”

  He gritted his teeth. “And you parked his car on my lane to make it look like I did it.”

  She looked pleadingly at him. “I didn’t know you then.”

  “No you didn’t, but you sure as hell made life fun for me when I got here, didn’t you?” He pulled on his shirt. “Interrogated by the police…”

  “I’m sorry, Paul,” she stood, started to touch his arm.

  He jerked away. “You’re sorry? For what, that I’m a suspect in a murder case because of you?”

  “Nobody knows it was a murder.”

  “Nobody but me,” he said, tapping his chest.

  She lowered her eyes. “Are you going to tell Barlow?”

  “Tell him what? That you’re a serial killer?”

  “Serial killers are different.”

  “Yeah? How?”

  “Serial killers kill people for no reason. I didn’t mean to kill anyone.”

  “You murdered two men by accident?”

  “Brand wasn’t an accident,” she said. “It was self-defense.”

  “And the deputy? What about Appleton?”

  “Applegate. Definitely self-defense.”

  “So he came to arrest you and you defended yourself by what, poisoning him?”

  “I told you. He wanted to barter sex for silence, and I wouldn’t do it.”

  “You killed him instead.”

  “I didn’t want to kill either of them,” she shouted. “All I wanted was you.”

  He chuckled mirthlessly and turned to go.

  She took him by the shoulders, brought her face up to his. “You’re all I have.”

  The naked sorrow in her voice stopped him. He said, “How can you expect me to forget this? Hell, how can you expect not to be caught?”

  “I haven’t been caught, have I?”

  “It’s only a matter of time.”

  “Why? They don’t even suspect me.”

  “That’s because they suspect me.”

  “Not anymore.”

  “How can you know that? What about the deputy’s family? What about Brand’s?”

  “Did Barlow ask you about them?”

  “He asked me about Emily.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I told him I hadn’t seen her.”

  “But you did. You kissed her.”

  “I know that,” he said, voice rising. “I lied and I have no idea why.”

  “I’m sure she’ll turn up.”

  “And if she doesn’t?” he said. “For all I know you killed her too.”

  “That isn’t fair, Paul.”

  His shoulders slumped. He regarded her in the darkness. “I’m sorry. You didn’t deserve that.”

  She took his hand. “You didn’t deserve the trouble I caused you. It was a mistake.” Her wet cheek touched his. He felt her breasts press against him. “Please don’t leave me, Paul.” She kissed his neck. “You’re all I have,” she said.

  “I can’t do this,” he said.

  “You love me.”

  “That’s not the point.”

  “What else matters?” she asked. She kissed him and he could feel her fear of losing him, her desire for him beneath it.

  “Julia,” he said, trying to recall his anger.

  “Paul,” she said with such longing that he let his hands touch her, linger over her hot bare skin.

  “You love me,” she said.

  He kissed her, his tongue finding hers. They lay back.

  “Say it,” she said.

  He kissed her again, and she climbed on top of him.

  “Say it, Paul,” she whispered, her breath hot in his ear.

  “Damn it, Julia.”

  “Say it.”

  “I love you,” he said.

  “We belong together,” Julia said.

  He made love to her, but he couldn’t shake the image of her in Annabel’s dress. In his mind’s eye, Julia looked much as she had earlier—the body, the skin, the smile—but the eyes were Annabel’s. They were red-rimmed and enraged.

  The thought of those infernal blue eyes kept him up long after Julia had fallen asleep.

  Sam Barlow sat on his screened-in porch and stared into the field behind his house. In a just world Barbara would be sitting beside him, drinking a wine to go along with his beer. It would be dusk, and their children would be visiting from out of town, maybe bringing the grandchildren with them.

  But he sat there alone instead, sucking on a bitter tasting can of warm Budweiser, the gloaming still hours away.

  He thought of his sister, Addie, killed in a drunk driving accident when her boys were in high school, of his brother-in-law Raymond, moving to West Virginia and remarrying. At that moment, Sam mused, Raymond was likely torturing his second wife with dead baby jokes and stale beer farts.

  He wondered why life turned out the way it did. Why things never worked out for some people, why the bad guys too often won.

  He looked at the lock of Julia’s hair he found when he jimmied open Brand’s car and wondered why he’d never sent it to the lab.

  He scowled at the unnaturally tall cornstalks and shook his head. Of course he knew why. She was a murderer, and he didn’t want to admit it, and though she’d probably also killed Daryl Applegate—who undoubtedly deserved what he got—Sam didn’t want to admit that either.

  And now there was this other girl, Emily Henderson. Her parents and friends were worried sick. Her bosses said she’d taken the week off, so that at least was normal.

  Yet she’d never made it to Watermere, if C
arver was to be believed.

  Sam took a swig of warm beer. Carver wasn’t to be believed.

  He’d tried to like the guy, he really had. If he listened to Paul Carver speak, joked around with him, he could forget for a while that he was related to Myles. But the more he looked at him—at the uncanny resemblance—the more he hated him.

  And then last night, that show the two put on for him.

  Julia walking right up to him naked as the day she was born, the girl he’d known since birth, the girl who should have been his own, the girl who would have been his own if only Barbara had been willing to leave, to get the hell away from that godforsaken family.

  But she hadn’t. He told Barbara he didn’t care her daughter was sired by another man. He begged her to live with him in town, but something about Myles Carver held her.

  And now look at her daughter.

  Sam glared at the cornfield, his stomach souring.

  Julia, in the space of a couple months, going from a sweet, smart girl to the kind that paraded around wearing nothing but a smile, fondling Carver right in front of Sam, daring him to say something disapproving. Christ, it really was like she was his own kid, taunting him like that.

  But she wasn’t.

  She was a killer.

  Carver was innocent of the murders, or he seemed to be. And as much as Sam cared for Julia, he knew the time had come to end it.

  He would go out there tonight, confront the two of them. If it turned out Carver had something to do with the killings, with Emily Henderson’s disappearance, Sam would enjoy locking the bastard up. That at least would heal some of the wounds festering inside him.

  He wouldn’t enjoy dragging a confession out of Julia. He wouldn’t enjoy locking her up. Fact was, it would tear him apart, which was probably why he’d been avoiding it this long.

  But it had to be done. Her boss said she’d never missed work until recently. Then, the weeks after Brand and Applegate go missing she’s absent nearly every day. He asks Julia about Brand and she says all the right things, but he knows in the deepest part of him she’s lying, the same way Paul Carver was lying when asked about the Henderson girl.

  He thought of the way Applegate had looked at Julia. Not just undressing her with his eyes but ripping off her clothes and raping her with them as well.

  Applegate goes out to accuse her. Applegate, the moron who refused to listen to anyone. Applegate, the porn addict who couldn’t get laid in a whorehouse. Applegate, with blackmail material on the most beautiful woman in town.