House of Skin (6 page)

Tommy didn’t argue, just nodded again and went out. Sam sat down next to the lawyer’s wife on the green vinyl couch.

“I’m Sam Barlow,” he said, shaking the woman’s hand. “Patti and Tommy tell me you’re worried about your husband.”

“Yes,” she said. “This has never happened before.”

Careful to keep anything insinuating from his voice, Sam asked, “He ever come home late?”
 

“He works late sometimes, but that’s normal,” she said. “Lawyers have to do that.”

“What’s the latest he’s ever been?”

“Eleven,” she answered. “Eleven-thirty at the latest.”

Sam checked his watch. Seven-thirty.

“Does he know anyone in this part of Indiana?”

She drew back a little. “Why do you want to know that?”
 

“I’m just wondering if he might have stopped off somewhere.”
 

“Why would he have stopped anywhere?”
 

It was the first time the woman’s control slipped, and experience told him three things: Brand’s wife was a nice lady, he treated her like dirt and though she knew deep down that he was cheating on her she’d never heard the possibility verbalized. She was staring at him now above a crumpled Kleenex. Sam felt for her, for the fact that there had to be women like her, as well as men like her husband.

“No one’s saying he did stop, Mrs. Brand,” he said in a gentler voice. “We’re just talking hypotheticals here.”
 

“Hypotheticals.”

“That’s right.” He reached over and grabbed a box of tissues from the end table. Handing it to her, he asked, “Is there someone back at your house who will call if Mr. Brand comes home while you’re gone?”

Her eyes held his. “Yes. My mother’s there. With our two sons.”

“What are your boys’ names?”
 

“Majors and Macky,” she answered.

Sam tried not to cringe.

“Those are good names, Mrs. Brand.” He leaned forward. “And the best thing for you right now is to be home with them. They’ll be worried enough if they wake up without their father home.”

“But I don’t want to go home,” she said without much conviction.

“I know that. And I know you’re worried about your husband. I appreciate your feelings, Mrs. Brand, but what good will come of you sitting around this office?”

“You think Ted’s cheating on me, don’t you?”

“No one said that, Mrs. Brand. In fact, I’d guess there’s a perfectly reasonable answer to this thing.” He forced himself to make eye contact. “How can you be sure he didn’t check into a hotel here or somewhere else on the way home? People get tired when they drive at night.”

She was shaking her head before he’d even finished. “No, Ted never does that. He can drive all night. On trips or wherever. He never gets tired.”

“Isn’t it possible?”

“I’m sorry, but no, it’s not.” She stared up at him, her eyes appealing.

“Okay, Mrs. Brand. Can I call you by your first name?”

“It’s Linda.”
 

“Alright, Linda,” he said. “Let’s talk a little more about your husband.”
 

As Linda Brand began to talk, Sam thought more and more about the lawyer stepping out on her. Granted, it was possible he had crashed his car somewhere or gotten mugged. But Sam’s money was on the guy screwing another woman.

“Tell me what Ted looks like.”

“He’s very handsome. Tall, athletic. He was a pitcher in high school…”
 

And as Linda Brand went on, Sam began to nod.

Ted’s first thought upon waking was that his face itched. He moved his hand to scratch it, but the rope caught and reopened the cut on his wrist.

His head began to pound. What time was it? he wondered. He remembered his days as an undergrad, a psych class he’d taken. They studied a lot of boring shit in that course, but there had been one interesting lesson about prisoners in solitary confinement, how darkness and time deprivation led to panic. Now Ted could see why. Down here in this fucking dungeon it could be noon or midnight. He had no idea how much time had passed, but he was certain by now that Linda would be looking for him.

He tried to remain calm but felt himself slipping. He was trapped, would soon be dead if he didn’t escape. But what the hell could he do?
 

That fucking stupid cunt, she had no right to do this to him, had no right to behave like a Spanish inquisitor, and why did his face itch like it was full of bugs and what was that crap tickling his lips and getting in his mouth? What the hell, had the iced tea transformed into a cadre of flesh-eating bugs bent on driving him insane?

“Let me out of this fucking hole!”
he bellowed.

She must have been upstairs, waiting for him to call to her because seconds after he’d screamed, the light flicked on, blinding him. He heard footsteps on the stairs. His eyes adjusted to the light, and he was about to demand she release him when he realized why his face was itching and what it was he’d been spitting out.

Ants.

He was acrawl with them. They teemed over his face and body, and through his writhing and spitting he glimpsed her standing there with huge eyes and knew she was as surprised as he was, and he didn’t give a good god damn whether or not she’d meant for this to happen, it had, and the moment she let him out of the ropes he’d make her pay for it.

Then his voice was rising because she was backing away, her hand on her mouth, climbing the steps, saying something about a needle, and his teeth clenched savagely as he blinked away the ants, and the last thing he said to her before she reached the doorway above was that he’d peel her skin off and let the ants eat her raw flesh.

Then she was gone, and Ted was alone with his agony.

The ballroom was grand.

A floor laid with white hexagonal tiles and sprinkled with smaller black ones spread out before him, magnifying the size of the great hall. The curved staircase beside the ballroom led to a long balcony. Beyond the wooden balusters, the rooms that overlooked the dance floor reminded him of an upscale hotel.

He decided to investigate the bar. Pushing a stool out of the way, he hopped onto the dusty wooden surface, swung his legs over the edge and landed on the other side. Squatting, he inspected the cache of liquor.

Paul smiled.

The cherry-wood shelves were fully stocked. There were three kinds of everything. Gin, vodka, scotch, bourbon. Everything. He peered to his left and found two full fifths of Jim Beam, his favorite. The varied bottles of alcohol faced him with bright smiles, eager school children ready to participate in the day’s lesson.

It was wonderful. And terrible.

Emerging from behind the bar, he trailed a hand over one of the burgundy crushed velvet couches and moved toward the curved staircase. It was like being on a movie set. Pausing at the top of the stairs, he grasped the wooden banister of the balcony and gazed down, marveling at his good fortune.

It was all his.

He couldn’t believe it.

A week ago he’d lived in a tenement. This was a palace.

He opened a door and gazed at the old-fashioned wallpaper, the canopied bed. Moving to the next room, he found the same thing, except the wallpaper was different.

Eight thousand square feet, he remembered as he moved to the third door. What the hell was he going to do with eight thousand square feet? Maybe turn the ballroom into a basketball court, the upstairs into a brothel.

Exploring the rest of the hallway, he discovered a sitting room, two bathrooms, another bedroom. At the end of the hall he mounted the back staircase and felt the temperature warm.

He scanned the third floor corridor. There were fewer doors here, which meant larger rooms.

He opened the first door, flipped on the light. To his right sat a sewing table and an old black Singer that looked like a miniature oil derrick. Paul glanced at a cabinet festooned with enamel animals and other curios and decided he’d not be spending much time here. He moved on.

Behind the next door sat a large mahogany desk and a Tiffany reading lamp. The study. Leaving the door ajar, he moved to the window and raised the blind. The view was majestic. The grassy backyard was the size of a city block.

This, he decided, would be his writing room.

The next door was some distance away, and as his hands found the switch inside the door, a multitude of lamps flared into brilliance.

As impressive as the ballroom had been, the library was the copestone of Watermere. The walls of the rectangular room were a deep crimson, the built-in shelves a pristine white. As copious as the bookcases were, no space on them was left unfilled. Paul had no idea how many books were here, but judged they numbered in the tens of thousands. The books imbued the room with a faintly musty smell that Paul found pleasing. In the center of the library were two segmented islands of furniture, each set containing a pair of chairs and a pair of couches, multiple end tables and reading lamps. Dual chandeliers hung illuminated over the reading islands. Tall floor lamps blended into the walls and spilled light on the ceiling. On and around the three walls of bookcases were paintings and sculptures, most of which were unfamiliar to Paul. One painting he recognized as a Bosch. As he glanced about, he realized that all the artwork depicted demons and gargoyles and other malign creatures. In one painting a woman was being ravished by a grinning, simian-looking demon and a white-eyed horse.

The outer wall faced the expansive back yard. Multiple windows, now shuttered, promised another fabulous view. He was, he judged, in the middle of the house. From here, he would be able to gaze out on the maple trees as their leaves changed to red and yellow and fell to earth. Savoring the feel of the room and the thought that every single volume in this library belonged to him, he imagined how the place would feel in the winter. The fireplace that bisected the outer wall was covered with large stones of many colors. Come December he’d sit before this hearth with a book in hand, his eyes occasionally taking in the snow falling on the treetops fringing the yard.

He frowned. The bare space above the fireplace was strange, incongruous with the rest of the room, which was covered from floor to ceiling with books and art.

He stood before the fireplace. He saw now that there had once been a painting or a mirror hung here. The red paint in the empty rectangle of wall was sharper than the paint around it. It seemed to leer at him, daring him to venture closer. Paul stared back at it, musing.

A knock sounded downstairs. Loud, insistent.

He left the library and wondered what could be this urgent at—he checked his watch—eight-thirty in the morning.

He turned the corner, moving down the stairs, and the pounding accelerated. Whoever was hammering on the door was double-fisting it, as if he were trying to bust out of somewhere rather than get in.

Maybe, he thought as he puffed around another turn, he’d invest in an elevator. How the hell had a man in his eighties gotten around in a place with all these stairs?
 

Wondering if someone was hurt out on the road, Paul crossed the foyer, opened the door.

A policeman stared back at him.

Though the pale morning light was just beginning to filter over the eastern forest, Paul could see the cop fairly clearly. The man was large, powerfully-built. Though his face was kindly, the cop wore a neutral expression. He took off his hat and said, “I’m Sheriff Barlow. You rather talk inside or out here?”
 

Paul’s throat went dry. “Out here, I guess.”
 

Paul followed the sheriff onto the porch. Staring out at the yard, Barlow said, “Is Ted Brand still here?”
 

The name rang a bell, but for a moment, it eluded him.

Barlow glanced at him, impatient.

Paul started. “The lawyer, right. I haven’t seen him.”
 

“That’s not what I asked.”
 

“What I mean is I never saw him. We talked on the phone, and he dropped off the key to the house, but we never actually met.”

“Can you explain why his car is on your property?”

Paul glanced down the lane.

“You can’t see it from here. It’s about halfway to the road.”

Paul opened his mouth, closed it.

“You’re telling me you didn’t see it on the way in?” The set of Barlow’s mouth said
You gotta be kidding me
, but his eyes were deadly serious.

“It couldn’t have been,” Paul said. “I would have seen it.”
 

“That’s what I’d have thought.”
 

Paul stared at Barlow. Was the sheriff mocking him?
 

“Has something happened?” Paul asked.

“I don’t know,” Barlow answered. “Has it?”
 

And with that the sheriff turned, went back to his car and drove away.