Applegate, the murder victim.
It all fit. The circumstantial evidence, the timeline, and most of all the personalities involved.
Brand the lecher.
Applegate the potential sex offender.
Julia Merrow, the object they both desired, the woman with too much of her mother’s pride to be taken advantage of.
And Emily Henderson, the rival.
Whether Julia acted alone on that one or had help from Carver, he could see her taking drastic measures to eliminate her competition. Girl like that, her mom taken from her at such a young age, raised in a dreary house by her grandma, never finding a man worthy of her.
Until she fell for Carver.
That was what cinched it. Julia’s similarity to her mother. A wonderful, tenderhearted girl with one besetting sin: a dark stream of lust pulsing through her that attracted the worst kind of man.
Even if Sam had nothing else to go on, he had this.
With both hands, Barlow held the strand of long black hair up to the western sun.
The hair he found in Ted Brand’s BMW was Barbara Merrow’s as much as the green eyes in Julia’s face. He’d recognize that hair anywhere. Thick. Black and shiny like a serpent.
He’d arrest her tonight if it killed him.
Barlow wrapped the strand around his thumbs, drew them apart until it snapped.
Damn it all to hell, he thought.
He’d do it tonight.
To clear his head Paul decided to run longer than usual. When he’d doubled his usual distance, he decided to continue on, explore paths he’d never traversed. He checked his watch as he emerged onto the gravel road that formed the western perimeter of his land. He’d been running for over an hour. Over rugged terrain in the febrile August heat, he’d been running the entire time and hadn’t even begun to tire. As he crossed to the mailbox he wished he had a mirror nearby to see himself. He imagined his body a machine, lathered in sweat, his muscles surcharged with boundless energy. He’d never felt so good, couldn’t believe he’d lived so much of his life so lazily. Now that he’d found himself, now that he’d found Julia, he’d never fall prey to indolence and self-doubt again. He’d ask her to marry him tonight, to move into Watermere with him. She could leave the old Hargrove place behind. It was surrounded by his land—soon their land—and he saw no reason to sell it off. Their children could use it in some future time. It would be their playhouse, somewhere they could go with their friends at night to tell ghost stories.
Paul opened the mailbox, found a single letter inside. The sender, Seizure Press.
Paul held his breath and ripped open the letter.
He read it, folded it and placed it in the envelope. Clutching it, he recrossed the gravel road and sprinted toward home. Paul laughed as he ran.
Now they had another reason to celebrate.
August, 1996
Sam Barlow saw the smoke rising from the forest.
Hands tightening on the wheel, he made a left off the gravel road and guided the cruiser down the lane. He came out here regularly, but for one reason or another it had been a couple of weeks since his last visit. Sam cut the headlights.
The first thing he saw, other than the smoke, was a car he didn’t recognize. Then he saw an upstairs light was on and grew angry. Take it easy, he reminded himself. If a few teenagers came out here to get their kicks, they didn’t mean any harm. They don’t know what the place means to you. Probably a few of them smoking pot upstairs, the rest down in the yard having a bonfire. But how did they get the electricity turned on? Stopping behind the car, he climbed out and moved around the edge of the house. He’d been right about the bonfire, but not the teenagers.
It was like seeing Barbara again. The girl was tall and gangly, all bones and wild energy, but he knew right away it was Julia Merrow. An older woman he recognized as her grandmother was standing across the bonfire from her, both of them holding sticks with hot dogs impaled on their blackened tips. He felt suddenly embarrassed for intruding, wished he could drive away before they spotted him.
But Julia was staring at him over the fire, the flames dancing on her young face, and instead of apprehension he saw recognition, happiness. She dropped the stick, the hot dog landing on the burning logs, and raced around to give him a bear hug. He was amazed she remembered him. Of course, he had been the only man around in those early years, the guy that showed up with groceries now and then and ventured to make her mother laugh. He remembered walking on hands and knees while a four-year-old Julia sat on his back and called him Horsey.
It made him tear up, thinking about it. If only Barbara had felt the things for him he felt for her…if only she’d let him take them to town with him so they could get away from Myles…Barbara would still be alive, and this precious young woman he was holding would still have a mother.
“Hello, Mr. Barlow,” Julia’s grandmother said.
He nodded at her. “Evening.”
Then, patting Julia on the shoulder he wiped his eyes, looked down at her and saw she’d been crying too.
“What I can’t figure out,” he said, grinning, “is who this pretty lady is.”
Julia laughed, and he could have adopted her right there. But not wanting to make anyone uncomfortable, he led her back to the bonfire to stand next to her grandma.
“You coming back here to stay?” he asked.
Julia started to say something, but her grandmother overrode her: “Just a visit.”
He tried not to let his disappointment show.
“That’s great. How long will you be staying?”
“Not long, I hope. We’ll be gone by month’s end,” the grandmother said.
“You got the electricity on, I see.” Sam nodded toward the house.
“Not that we need it. All this girl does is play the piano and read books.”
“That true?” he asked Julia.
“What’s wrong with that?” she asked. God, she was like her mother. Feisty, good-humored.
“Not a thing.”
The grandmother pointed at his badge. “When did you become a trooper?”
Sam grinned. “Sheriff, actually. About six years ago. Less than a year after…” he trailed off, wishing he weren’t such a clumsy lout. Why not tell them the rest? a voice in his head asked. Tell them how Sheriff Hartman nearly went nuts trying to solve Barbara Merrow’s murder and how he finally resigned because of the stress of it. How you took the job hoping you could bring down the Carvers, Myles most of all. Tell them all that. It’ll make nice conversation.
“Less than a year after Julia moved away,” he finished.
The silence spread around them.
To break it, he said, “Could I have you two over for dinner while you’re here?” Looking at the older woman but really asking Julia, hoping she still wanted a father figure. The grandma was divorced, he knew. Probably married some unworthy son of a bitch, same as her daughter did.
It was Julia who answered. “We’d love that.”
“Wonderful.” Sam grinned, gave her a one-armed hug, and said, “Saturday evening work for you two?”
The old woman was staring at him with an expression he couldn’t read. “Saturday would be fine,” she said.
He said goodbye and walked to the car, wondering what he’d cook.
As it turned out, he didn’t cook anything Saturday night.
Because on Friday there was a murder.
Barlow showed up around nine, just as the sunlight was dying in the yard. Paul didn’t look up, kept chopping wood on a stump beside the weathered gray shed. Determined to let the sheriff speak first, Paul lifted the axe, slammed it down on the squat section of log he’d chainsawed earlier. He loved the way it split neatly in half, the fresh white wood inside smelling green and reminding him of how little he’d known when he first came, how naïve and pathetic he’d been. Barlow had bullied him then, he now saw. Paul had been flabby and self-conscious, and even though he’d done nothing wrong, the bigger, stronger man h
ad treated him like his whipping boy, judging him for things Paul’s ancestors had done.
He swung the axe, teeth bared, the green scent of fresh wood filling his lungs. He felt the sheriff’s eyes on his back, standing ten or fifteen feet behind him.
Let him look, Paul thought. Let him see my new muscles, bigger than Myles’s, harder than David’s. Paul took a deep breath, stifled the grin that threatened to spread over his face. He’d taken the best parts of both of them and done them one better. Paul was the next stage in the evolution. He and Julia. Their children would be beautiful. Her stunning green eyes and his literary mind. He positioned another log on the chopping stump and as he did he felt the acceptance letter in his hip pocket, thought of how Julia would react to it. They’d make love to his success, to their future.
Paul swung the axe.
Barlow said, “I’m not going to let you do it.”
Paul wiped sweat from his brow. “Do what, Sheriff?”
“Corrupt her.”
Paul swung. The wood split and fell. He muttered, “You’re being absurd,” and raised the axe again.
“Put that down,” Barlow said.
Paul smirked and glanced over his shoulder at Barlow, whose right hand rested on the holstered gun. “Or else what? You gonna shoot me?”
“If you don’t put the axe down.”
“Aren’t threats like that against the rules?” he said. He placed another fat block of wood on the stump.
“What do you know about rules?” Barlow asked. “What do any of you care about them?”
Paul hammered the log, left the axe in the stump. “What are you talking about, Sam?” he asked, turning. “I’m the only one here.”
“You and Julia,” Barlow said.
“Let me tell you something.” Paul approached. “You’ve got some serious issues that need worked out. All this stuff you’re hung up on. My uncle—my great uncle, actually—the business with the Hargroves, my corrupting Julia. It’s all in your mind.”
“Think about the way she’s acting now and tell me that’s all in my mind.”
Paul moved closer and Barlow tensed. “Don’t take another step,” the sheriff said.
“Like now,” Paul said. “You’re about to draw your gun for no reason at all. As though I’ve killed someone.” He grinned slyly. “Or stolen your girl.”
Barlow swung and Paul felt fire erupt in his jaw. Staggering back, he stared up at the larger man.
The sheriff said, “I told you not to come any closer and you did. Now I’m telling you to walk over to my car and put your hands on the roof with your feet apart.”
“Hit a nerve, did I? Is it because you haven’t gotten over Julia’s mother screwing another guy, or is it you want Julia for yourself?”
“You son of a bitch,” Barlow said, advancing.
Eyes on the gun—still holstered—Paul backpedaled. “That’s what it is, isn’t it? Lost another girl to a Carver. First Barbara, now Julia.” He laughed, seeing the tears in the big man’s eyes. “You should really be ashamed, Sam. A girl that young, she could be your daughter.”
That did it. Barlow leapt forward with a roar and swung at Paul’s head.
Dodging, Paul avoided the punch but caught a powerful shoulder in the chest. Barlow drove him down, knocking out his wind and crushing him with his weight. Somehow the sheriff had gotten handcuffs out. A gleaming steel loop was open, yearning to imprison him. Paul clutched Barlow’s wrist and squeezed, and the sheriff sucked in surprised breath. The cuffs dropped from his hand and landed in the grass beside them. With his free hand Barlow smashed Paul in the chin. Paul bucked, lifted the sheriff off him long enough to plant a knee in the big man’s groin. Grunting, Barlow rolled off and pawed for his holster. Paul lunged for it then realized he was too late. As the gun came up Paul scrambled toward the woods.
Barlow shouted at him but he was off and running. For a horrible moment Paul was certain he’d be killed, but for whatever reason, Barlow didn’t pull the trigger.
Why didn’t he?
No matter. With Paul’s new speed the sheriff no longer had a chance to gun him down. He pumped his arms in a sprint, reveled in the way the trees flashed past him.
The work boots and jeans weren’t suited to running, but at least he wore no shirt. He knew the man following him was in shape, but the sheriff hadn’t a chance in this race.
Barlow called his name, but the voice sounded a mile away, as if the sheriff had already given up or taken a wrong turn. Paul would make for the northern edge of the forest, head into town.
To do what? a cynical voice asked.
His forehead creased. What could he do? The authorities would never take his side instead of the sheriff’s. Barlow was the authority. No matter what Paul did, he would catch the blame.
Then, he got an idea.
Veering back toward the house, he called to Barlow, led him where he wanted him to go.
Sam heard Carver calling his name.
The bastard.
He’d show the guy. He might not have the speed of the younger man, but he was in better shape than Carver knew. He could run all night. Eventually, the guy would get tired, take a rest somewhere.
He followed the sound of Carver’s voice. The bastard taunting him, calling him all sorts of names. Saying things about Barbara, goddammit. He’d throttle the son of a bitch until there was nothing left of him.
Hearing Carver’s voice, closer now, he slowed. Was the guy doubling back on him, trying a sneak attack?
Sam halted and knelt. He gripped the .45 Smith & Wesson and scanned the woods.
No sign of him.
He had to be careful now. If the guy was anything he was cagey. Sam had made the mistake of underestimating him earlier, letting him get away. Carver wouldn’t get away twice.
The voice again. Closer this time. Less than fifty feet away.
Sam noticed the other sound then. The bubbling trickle of water. Carver was straight ahead of him, near the brook. As he moved on hands and knees toward the sound of Carver’s voice, he thought of Julia, Julia as a child as she wept at her mother’s funeral. Julia as an adolescent needing a dad.
She was his reason for doing this. With a little work he could make Carver for all three murders, if murders they were. He had to get the bastard to confess. He’d get a confession the honest way or he’d beat it out of him. Regardless, once he found out where the bodies were stashed he could make up anything he wanted to and he’d be a hero for it.
Julia would have to choose, then. Either go along with it, pick up the pieces and start a new life, or refuse to accept it, in which case he’d have to make public her role in the crimes too.
It would be up to her, though. He’d wait for her tonight at Watermere. She’d no doubt be coming there after getting done at the library. Her boss said she’d be working late, until midnight maybe, to get ready for the book sale. Nice old woman, Julia’s boss. Able to keep a secret, holding off telling Julia about their conversations until everything was sorted out.
He came to the clearing.
The bluegrass beside the brook was soft and matted, as though someone had been there recently. Sam searched the elms around the clearing, looking for movement.
Pain exploded at the base of his skull and starbursts popped in his eyes. Sam fell forward, scrambled for his gun, but before he could grab it, a boot shot out, sent it skittering toward the water’s edge. He made a dive for it, but the gun went over, the clear water swallowing it up with a plop. Sam rolled onto his back, stared up at the man holding a rock the size of a grapefruit in his hand.
“Let’s end this,” Carver said.
Paul stared down at Barlow, who lay on the ground blinking at him. The sun was almost dead and they were only silhouettes in the twilight. Paul became aware that Barlow was grinning.
“Something about this amuse you?” Paul asked.
The sheriff said that it did.
Paul shot out a workboot, tattooed the older man between the eyes.
Watching the pain in the sheriff’s face was heartening. He tossed the smooth rock into the water.
Rolling over, Barlow coughed and rubbed at his face, but beneath the coughing Paul heard the sheriff chuckle.
“What’s so funny?” Paul asked.
“You’re not very smart, are you?”
That brought the boot out again, catching Barlow in the gut this time. Bunched up, the sheriff spat and moaned. It was Paul’s turn to laugh. The big man looked pitiful doubled up that way. Through the coughing he heard the sheriff say something, but he couldn’t make it out. He knelt over him, smacked him in the face to let him know he was still there. Barlow eyed him.
“You’re not much, are you?” Paul asked.
The sheriff spoke, his voice hoarse: “Have you gone to your uncle’s grave yet?”
It stopped him. “What?”
“You even know where it is?” Barlow was smiling again.
“Of course I do,” Paul said, nodding toward the graveyard. “It’s over there with his wife’s.”
“No it isn’t,” Barlow said. “It’s in Greenview Cemetery, next to the city park.”
“I don’t understand,” Paul said.
“That’s right. You don’t. So ask yourself why a husband would want to be buried separate from his wife.”
“I don’t have the first clue.”
“Because he was afraid of her. Because in the end he understood what she was.”
“You’re a fool,” Paul said.
The sheriff laughed. It infuriated him. He made to slap Barlow again, but the sheriff surprised him by feinting the blow and smashing a meaty fist into his ear. Head ringing, Paul stumbled and tried to remain standing, but the larger man was on him too swiftly, dragging him down like a lion. The sheriff on his back, weighing him down, Paul shot out a desperate elbow. It caught Barlow in the kidney. Bellowing, the sheriff went down again, his big body mere feet from the edge of the brook.
He jumped on Barlow’s chest, pounded him with his fists. The sheriff tried to fend him off but Paul was too quick, his advantage too great. Again and again he snapped jabs at the sheriff’s face, aiming for and connecting with his eyes, his bloody mouth. Not wanting Barlow to lose consciousness, wishing the older man to feel every possible scrap of pain, he grasped him by the chin and shouted into his face: “It doesn’t matter where Myles is buried, don’t you understand that? He’s gone, you lousy old piece of shit!”
House of Skin Page 28
