Read Online House of Skin by Jonathan Janz - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jonathan Janz
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likely worn off hours ago. Brand could already be finding a way out of the ropes.
“Okay, Bea. You talked me into it.”
When Linda Brand left for home to check on her children, Sam breathed a sigh of relief. He didn’t like to admit it, but he’d avoided the station for most of the day because of her. Seeing those reddened eyes and that wan face, he felt like he was being accused by a mourner, as though the station were already haunted by the ghost of her husband.
It was this, he knew, that lay at the heart of his unrest.
Something was terribly wrong with Ted Brand.
Sam had no tangible reason to believe that Brand wasn’t just playing hooky. Who was to say that a man couldn’t lock his keys in his car, walk into town with the intention of finding a locksmith, but instead find some other diversion?
But if Brand had gone for help, he would have used the roads, not the forest paths. Sam had drawn a pretty distinct character sketch of Ted Brand, and Davy Crockett the man was not. He would have stuck to blacktop and unless he was a complete idiot, he would have made it into town.
Perhaps he’d picked up a local gal at one of the bars. From the pictures Brand’s wife had shown him, Sam could see he was a good-looking guy. Maybe, figuring his car was a lost cause for the night, he’d hooked up and had himself a screw.
Yet there were a number of facts that shot that theory to hell. For starters, none of the bartenders he’d talked to had seen a man in his late thirties or early forties last night, at least no one they weren’t used to seeing. Secondly, Brand hadn’t sought out anyone to get his car unlocked. Wouldn’t he, at some point, have called a locksmith, the fire department, someone?
Third, well, third was the sinking feeling Sam had in his gut, and for his money, that was the strongest evidence. When he got these feelings, they usually meant something. The sinking feeling told him that Brand was in deep trouble, if he wasn’t already dead. The same feeling rendered it impossible for his eyes to linger on Brand’s wife for more than a couple of seconds.
It was the sinking feeling more than anything that prompted him to call the state police and declare Ted Brand missing.
Chapter Seven
Paul sat on the front porch, fingers tapping cement.
He knew the sheriff would be back soon, perhaps even more suspicious than before. Brand was still missing, had to be, and it was this thought that muted his excitement about his new start. The feeling he’d had on the drive up here, the feeling that all of this was too good to be true, was confirmed with each passing moment.
He checked his watch: 6:45 p.m.
If nothing was wrong, why didn’t they call him? If Brand had been found, wouldn’t they do him the courtesy of letting him know so he could cease brooding out here?
These were his thoughts as the sheriff’s cruiser drifted down the lane.
It was almost dark now. As the big man climbed out and approached him, Paul felt his insides turn to jelly.
“Evening,” said the sheriff.
“Hello,” he returned.
“Any sign of Brand?” Barlow asked.
“No. He hasn’t turned up?” Paul asked and regretted his wording.
The sheriff didn’t reply. He glanced toward the woods, the skin around his eyes wrinkling.
“So,” Paul said, “are you going to take me in or what?”
Eyes still trained on the soundless woods, Barlow replied softly, “Should I?”
“That’s up to you.”
“You’re right,” Barlow said.
Paul watched the man watch the woods.
“Let’s go for a walk,” the sheriff finally said.
“Wonderful,” Paul said. “Another walk.”
Though the path was wide enough for both of them, Paul kept a little behind the sheriff. Barlow walked with the air of one who has nothing better to do. Moving in this direction, the woods to their left were darker than the woods to their right. Paul longed for the sheriff to veer toward the light, but when the path forked,
“Okay, Bea. You talked me into it.”
When Linda Brand left for home to check on her children, Sam breathed a sigh of relief. He didn’t like to admit it, but he’d avoided the station for most of the day because of her. Seeing those reddened eyes and that wan face, he felt like he was being accused by a mourner, as though the station were already haunted by the ghost of her husband.
It was this, he knew, that lay at the heart of his unrest.
Something was terribly wrong with Ted Brand.
Sam had no tangible reason to believe that Brand wasn’t just playing hooky. Who was to say that a man couldn’t lock his keys in his car, walk into town with the intention of finding a locksmith, but instead find some other diversion?
But if Brand had gone for help, he would have used the roads, not the forest paths. Sam had drawn a pretty distinct character sketch of Ted Brand, and Davy Crockett the man was not. He would have stuck to blacktop and unless he was a complete idiot, he would have made it into town.
Perhaps he’d picked up a local gal at one of the bars. From the pictures Brand’s wife had shown him, Sam could see he was a good-looking guy. Maybe, figuring his car was a lost cause for the night, he’d hooked up and had himself a screw.
Yet there were a number of facts that shot that theory to hell. For starters, none of the bartenders he’d talked to had seen a man in his late thirties or early forties last night, at least no one they weren’t used to seeing. Secondly, Brand hadn’t sought out anyone to get his car unlocked. Wouldn’t he, at some point, have called a locksmith, the fire department, someone?
Third, well, third was the sinking feeling Sam had in his gut, and for his money, that was the strongest evidence. When he got these feelings, they usually meant something. The sinking feeling told him that Brand was in deep trouble, if he wasn’t already dead. The same feeling rendered it impossible for his eyes to linger on Brand’s wife for more than a couple of seconds.
It was the sinking feeling more than anything that prompted him to call the state police and declare Ted Brand missing.
Chapter Seven
Paul sat on the front porch, fingers tapping cement.
He knew the sheriff would be back soon, perhaps even more suspicious than before. Brand was still missing, had to be, and it was this thought that muted his excitement about his new start. The feeling he’d had on the drive up here, the feeling that all of this was too good to be true, was confirmed with each passing moment.
He checked his watch: 6:45 p.m.
If nothing was wrong, why didn’t they call him? If Brand had been found, wouldn’t they do him the courtesy of letting him know so he could cease brooding out here?
These were his thoughts as the sheriff’s cruiser drifted down the lane.
It was almost dark now. As the big man climbed out and approached him, Paul felt his insides turn to jelly.
“Evening,” said the sheriff.
“Hello,” he returned.
“Any sign of Brand?” Barlow asked.
“No. He hasn’t turned up?” Paul asked and regretted his wording.
The sheriff didn’t reply. He glanced toward the woods, the skin around his eyes wrinkling.
“So,” Paul said, “are you going to take me in or what?”
Eyes still trained on the soundless woods, Barlow replied softly, “Should I?”
“That’s up to you.”
“You’re right,” Barlow said.
Paul watched the man watch the woods.
“Let’s go for a walk,” the sheriff finally said.
“Wonderful,” Paul said. “Another walk.”
Though the path was wide enough for both of them, Paul kept a little behind the sheriff. Barlow walked with the air of one who has nothing better to do. Moving in this direction, the woods to their left were darker than the woods to their right. Paul longed for the sheriff to veer toward the light, but when the path forked,
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