House of Skin by Jonathan Janz Read Free Book Online Page B

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.
     
     
    Julia finished up in the basement, smashed as many of the ants as she could while Ted was still