House of Skin (3 page)

“Shit,” he muttered as he fought the fishtailing back end. He turned into the skid, but that meant staying in the middle of the damn road rather than returning to his own lane. There were no headlights racing toward him, but he was approaching a hill, and if a car suddenly appeared from the other side he wouldn’t have to worry about moving into his new house, he’d become a roadside cross instead.

The Civic overcorrected again, thrusting him so far into the left lane that his tires swished over the soft grass shoulder.

“Come on,” he growled through clenched teeth.

A dim glow spilled over the trees flanking the road. A car was coming.

For one delirious moment the wheels on his side of the Civic descended the grassy shoulder. Then, without allowing himself to think about the vehicle barreling toward the hill, Paul hit the gas and arrowed toward the double-yellow center of the road. The Civic hopped agilely off the shoulder and rocketed toward the yellow lines, while from the impending rise Paul watched the glow increase with exponential rapidity.

The right front bumper of the Civic crossed yellow, the driver’s side momentarily fixed in the lights that splashed over the hill and drowned him in a freezing white sea of panic. A horn blasted deafeningly but Paul hadn’t the energy to jerk the wheel. His car continued an almost leisurely diagonal into the right lane, and just when he had closed his eyes, certain the other vehicle—a dark-colored SUV, he noted distantly—would smash him broadside, he heard the screech of swinging tires and felt a stunning whoosh of air sweep the Civic as the vehicles passed within inches of a terrible crash. In his own lane now, he risked a glance in the rearview mirror and saw how well the other driver had managed it, the SUV hardly shimmying as it resumed a normal path, its receding horn now hammering out a staccato goodbye.

At least, Paul hoped it was a goodbye. He could only imagine how livid the other driver was, how irate he himself would have been had the situation been reversed, the sort of anger only possible when one has been dealt a mortal scare.

The cell phone vibrated on the floorboard between his shoes. He’d apparently dropped the damn thing during his near-death experience.

Paul knew who it would be even before he raised the phone to eye level—no losing sight of the road again, not after what had just happened—and saw the name on the phone’s illuminated exterior window.

Emily.

He could ignore it again, but she’d keep calling. Even if he shut the damn thing off she’d find a way to get through. Telepathically, perhaps. With a palsied hand, he opened the cell, put it to his ear. “Hey.”
 

“Took you long enough.”
 

Christ
.

“I was trying not to have an accident.”
 

A pause. “You’re on the road?”

“Yeah.”
 

“So you’re going through with it,” she said.

“We’re not doing this again.”

“It’s that easy for you?”

“I never said it was easy. You’re just saying that to make me feel guilty.”

“You’re right, Paul. You’re only throwing away three years of time together. Three years of memories and emotional deposits. Why should you feel guilty?”

He knew he shouldn’t argue with her, knew it would only rip the fresh scab off their relationship, but he couldn’t help himself. “I told you the move isn’t about us, it’s about me hating my life. Doesn’t that matter to you?”
 

Her voice grew plaintive. “Won’t you miss Memphis?”
 

“I’ll miss certain things, sure. I’ll miss seeing you, some of the guys. I always loved Barbecue Fest.”
 

“I’d say you loved it a little too much.”

Paul restrained an urge to chuck the phone out the window. They’d had half a dozen good experiences at Barbecue Fest, yet all she remembered was the time he’d drunk too much beer and ended up sleeping it off at a friend’s while Emily called every official agency in Shelby County convinced Paul had been killed or abducted. He thought she’d let it go after a while, but here they were two years later still talking about it.

“Nothing to say?”
 

He blew out weary breath. “I’m just ready for a change.”
 

“Running away isn’t really a change for you,” she said. When he opened his mouth to respond, she added, “So tell me more about Waterworld.”
 

Paul’s jaw clenched. “Watermere,” he said. “The house’s name is Watermere.”
 

“Explain to me why it’s called that when it’s not on the water.”
 

He opened his mouth to tell her, for the third time, about the creek running through the grounds, that there was indeed water near the house if not exactly beside it, but he decided not to take the bait. She knew the answer, she was just finding another way to mock the place without even seeing it.

“You’re awfully quiet,” she said.

“That’s because there’s no point in arguing,” he said, glancing in the rearview mirror to make sure the SUV hadn’t turned around to exact revenge on him. “We’ve said all there is to say about my leaving.”
Which is why
, he wanted to add,
I haven’t returned your calls the last couple days
.

“Everything except the real reason you’re running away.”

“Please stop saying that.”
 

“Or what?” she said, and for a moment he could almost see her on the other end, hand poised on cocked hip, mouth open in a defiant sneer. God, he was glad to be rid of her.

He heard her sigh tremulously, the fight going out of her. When she spoke again, her voice was almost free of spite and derision. “I don’t understand you.”
 

He waited.

“Don’t you think what you’re doing is a bit weird? Your whole family agrees your uncle was a lunatic.”
 

Keeping his eyes on the road, Paul opened his second bottle of Mountain Dew and took a long swig. Replacing the cap, he asked, “What would you do, refuse the inheritance? Say ‘Hell no, I don’t want money or a free house’?”

“I didn’t say that. Keep the money—of course you should keep the money. But why not sell the house? You said it was falling apart.”

“I said it needed work.”

“How would you know, Paul? You’ve never even been there.”

“I’ll be there in a few hours.”
 

Her voice went small. “Do you enjoy hurting me?”

“Emily,” he began, but then fell quiet. What could he say? That any life was better than the life he had? That his relationship with her had become an emotional undertow that only worsened his drinking problem. That the bank—Jesus, how amazing it felt to tell his father he was quitting—was a maelstrom of ringing phones and coughing workers, his apartment building a sarcophagus of noise. That nothing about city life felt good to him. That he wanted to be alone, without another soul in the world, where he could shout at the top of his lungs and not worry about being heard. Where Emily could no longer make him feel like a failure, even if he was.

“Paul?”

“I don’t enjoy hurting you,” he said, “but I’ve gotta go now.”
 

Her voice went hard. “You’ll regret it.”
 

“Maybe.”
 

“You’ll be back by year’s end.”
 

Don’t count on it
.

“We’ll see, Emily.”
 

“But I won’t be waiting for you.”
 

Paul held his tongue.

She hung up on him.

“That went well,” he said and shut off the cell. He glanced at the mirror again and saw the road behind was clear. The SUV hadn’t followed him.

With luck, Emily wouldn’t either.

Through the heavy stein Julia felt his cheekbone collapse and heard the sound of mashing cartilage. A gout of iced tea splattered over his face, his chest, her shoulder and arm. Even before her hand fell his body crumpled and twisted, his knees buckling. He landed in a sitting position before his head lolled back, his eyes showing white and his tongue resting on his bottom lip like a dog’s. His shoulder blades rushed the floor. The back of his skull bounced on the hard wood.

She watched him closely. He didn’t move.

A tide of horror washed over her.
My God
, she thought.
I’m going to get the electric chair
.

He moaned, a faint, pleading sound.

It startled her. His brow knitted and his hands circled like he was swimming. Then, he was still.

Julia began to shake in huge, rolling tremors that undulated through her body like waterbed waves, and when she thought she’d lose consciousness, succumb to the nausea and the awful guilt for what she’d just done, she let her knees buckle and plopped down a few feet from where he lay.

She’d only inflicted violence one other time in her life, and then, just as she’d felt a moment ago, it was as though another person had inhabited her body and controlled her limbs. It couldn’t have been her arm that brained Ted Brand with a drinking receptacle.

Yet she knew it was. And she knew if she sat here and did nothing, he’d eventually awaken and then she’d be in jail awaiting an attempted murder charge with a team full of city lawyers pushing for the harshest sentence possible.

The thought of a relentless cross-examination got her up, got her body working again.

She had to get him out of the living room.

Julia set the stein on the bookcase, hooked Brand under the armpits and dragged him to the open basement door. She shot a glance at Shakespeare’s image on the stein, but looked away when she noticed how accusatory the Bard’s stare had become. She nearly slipped on the lake of tea slicking the wood floor. Her feet squelched in it, and the smell of the liquid, normally pleasing to her, now conjured thoughts of some nauseating sugary confection. The feel of Brand’s large, limp body appalled her. It was as though she were dragging a cow carcass through a blood-soaked meat locker. She shivered at the thought, and for a moment she forgot what she was doing and covered her face in her trembling hands and his head, unsupported, crashed to the wood floor again, bouncing heavy as a bowling ball.

The panic gripped her. She knew there was no stopping it now. All she could do was get him as far away from her as she could. She hurried around to his feet. Lifting his legs so they were at a right angle to the floor, she reared back and shoved, using her right foot to push his lower back as it came up from the floor. Then she caught herself in the doorway to ensure that she too didn’t go toppling end over end down the long stairway the way Ted’s boneless body was. His large form somersaulted a third time, a fourth, and then sprawled in a heap at the bottom of the stairs.

She slammed the basement door and began to cry.

She wished she’d never met Ted Brand. Thinking how close she’d come to sleeping with him, to losing her virginity to him, made her feel ill, yet what right did that give her to attack him, to smash his face? What the hell was wrong with her? Yes, it was self-defense, but still…

She hadn’t meant to hurt him, not as badly as she had, but that didn’t matter now. Intent meant nothing to people like Brand, and now that it was done, she knew her options were few. Let him go, he’d tell on her, lie about what happened. The jury would believe whatever he told them. He was a lawyer, after all.

As terrible as it was, she knew Ted could never leave her basement alive, and it was this thought more than anything that sent her to the kitchen sink to vomit.

Paul’s head jerked up, his lungs sucking in frightened breath. He gripped the steering wheel, shook the sleep out of his head. Stifling a yawn, he checked the digital clock.

2:14.

He’d sue the pill makers. Who the hell heard of a guy falling asleep after a handful of caffeine pills?
 

He thought of checking the map, though he knew he was nowhere near his destination. He’d be lucky to make Shadeland by dawn. What had possessed him to drive at night? In retrospect, didn’t it make far more sense to leave early in the morning and arrive in the afternoon?
 

Too late now. He was already most of the way there and he wasn’t about to turn around. It occurred to him to pull over and catch some shut-eye, but that would be conceding defeat. He’d finish what he’d started if that meant driving all night.

He jolted. He’d been dreaming again. Good lord, what was the matter with him? How long had he been out? Ten seconds? Thirty? He imagined himself cruising along at sixty-five miles per hour with his mouth open and his hands dozing on the wheel, a rolling missile careening toward whatever poor son of a bitch happened to be in the other lane.

He had to keep awake. If stimulants couldn’t do it, maybe music would. He opened up the storage box under his armrest and plucked out his CD case. Most of what he had was either country or classical, and Paul trusted neither to keep him alert. Finally, he flipped to Metallica’s
Ride the Lightning.
If that wouldn’t do it, nothing would. He thumbed in the disc and fast-forwarded to “Creeping Death.”