Charnel House (6 page)

He broke through the growth and went sprawling in the weedy yard. His knee came down hard on a rock hidden in the tall grass and he screamed. Jesus, it felt like a knife had been slipped in under his kneecap. Garraty struggled to his feet and staggered toward the car. Some dim part of his mind registered silence from the direction of the house. Nothing was coming through the thicket, but that didn’t mean nothing was coming at all. He lurched through the weeds, holding the tire iron in a white-knuckled grip, ready to fight for his life but not willing to wait around for whatever the house had vomited up to catch him. When he finally rounded the end of the house and saw the Prius gleaming in the moonlight, so perfectly
ordinary
, he almost wept.

He jammed the Mag into his pocket and pulled out his keys as he limped to the car. Fresh blood soaked the sock tied around his left hand. The cut must have reopened when he fell. With the pain in his knee, he probably wouldn’t have noticed if he’d cut a finger off. Garraty yanked the door open and fell into the seat. The solid
thunk
as he pulled the door closed behind him as beautiful a sound as the first time he heard one of the twins say
da da
. He jammed the key into the ignition and started the Prius so he could get the windows up. As they rose, sealing him in, he thumbed the button to lock the doors. Only then did he allow himself to relax a little.

The headlights speared the old house when he started the car. Nothing was coming for him. Garraty leaned forward and peered up at the two windows that flanked the old chimney, half-expecting to see a ghostly Jeremiah Barlowe looking down at him through dark hollows of eyes, a malicious grin showing his black teeth, one ashen hand raised in farewell.

There was nothing up there.

With the windows up, Garraty could smell the stink of shit again. Great.
You’re the gift that keeps on giving, kid.
He dropped the shifter into reverse and backed away from the house. As he started down the hill to the road and the lights swept up the weathered structure he turned them off. He’d come too far to do himself in by drawing unwanted attention. It wasn’t over yet, not by a long shot. And now that he thought about it, he realized it would probably
never
be over. Not really.

The eastern sky had begun to lighten by the time Garraty neared the River Bend trailer park. The trip home had been nerve-wracking but uneventful. He hadn’t seen a single trooper or sheriff’s patrol, though he’d been watching for them with an almost obsessive fervor. In his haste to get the hell away from the Barlowe house he hadn’t thought to check the front of the Prius for blood or other damning evidence, and paranoia ate at him the whole way. Guilt did that to you. He didn’t dare stop anywhere for fear that he’d draw attention to himself. All he needed was some well-meaning deputy to pull over behind him, thinking he’d broken down, and that would be the end of it. There was no way the car was undamaged. He’d hit the kid
hard
. That first loud bang was permanently etched into his memory. There was probably blood all over the front bumper, not visible in this early morning light but painfully obvious in the bright beam of a cop flashlight. Not to mention his red-rimmed eyes and the bloodied sock tied around his hand, or the dirty, cobweb-laced clothes. He’d be in lockup faster than you could say
lethal injection
.

The entire trip, the beer had whispered to him from the passenger seat, trying to convince him that cracking one open would make them both feel better, but he had resisted. Now, as he turned off the highway onto the lane that wound among the forty or so trailers to the single-wide in the back he called home, he reached over and pulled a can from the box. Lights were on in a few of the trailers Garraty passed, people up for another day at the grind or who had never gone to bed the night before. As he popped the tab on the Pabst and took a long pull, he wondered what his neighbors would do if they knew
a child killer walked among them. People could forgive an accident as long as they didn’t know he’d been drinking, he thought, but hiding the body under the house was going a little too far.

Never mind what you did with the ice scraper
.

Never mind that, indeed. He’d like to pretend that part hadn’t happened, that he’d imagined it just like he imagined all the sounds and the ghoulish grinning thing scrabbling around in the darkened crawlspace. But it
had
happened, and he had to live with himself. It wasn’t as simple as a momentary lapse of judgment, either. The whole fucking night had been a royal screwup. What he’d done with the ice scraper was just the crowning achievement. Things would have gone a lot differently if he’d simply gone home from Titsville and slept off his buzz, but he wasn’t ever content with just a buzz, was he?

Tina had known that.

Maybe it really was time to lay off the beer. He couldn’t afford it now, anyway. Not if he wanted to eat and pay the rent. Not until he found another job. Garraty lowered the window and held the half-empty can of Pabst out, then upended it as he coasted down the bumpy lane. It felt kind of good. Empowering. Sure, this night had been a fuckarow, but that didn’t mean it was too late for him to turn things around. Pour the rest of the beer down the sink and try to get a good night’s sleep—but with the help of some Tylenol PM, because he had a feeling if he didn’t get at least a
little
nudge for the next few nights there would be a lot of tossing and turning and remembering and reliving as soon as his head hit the pillow. Tomorrow was another day, as the saying went, and instead of dwelling on the stupid thing he’d done, he could focus on getting his resumé up to date and checking employment web sites to see what was out there. And maybe one day soon he could put this hell behind him. Hell, he might even try an AA meeting, even though he wouldn’t need to stand up and say
my name is Joe and I’m an alcoholic
because he wasn’t.

He pulled onto the narrow concrete pad in front of his trailer, parking the Prius as far forward as he could. The old bat across the street was the nosiest person Garraty had ever seen, always sitting on her stoop in a white plastic rocking chair watching the goings-on in this part of the trailer park. Luis Mendoza, the man who managed the place for the property owners, had told Garraty she was a widow one night as they sprawled in flimsy lawn chairs in the laundromat, drinking beer while Garraty’s clothes dried.
At least she say she a widow, esse,
Luis had proffered,
you axe me, she too damn mean for any man I ever know.
The two had shared a laugh and several more beers that night before Garraty had staggered home with his basket of warm clothes tucked under his arm and a numbing fog in his head. The smell of smoke had drawn his gaze across the way and he saw her rocking slowly in her chair, watching his approach. The orange glow of a cigarette revealed a disapproving scowl on her face. He’d raised a tipsily happy hand to her and she looked away without responding, although he guessed that was a response in itself.

Now, as he swung his legs out of the car and stood, wincing from the flare of pain in his knee, he cast a glance over toward her place. Sure as shit, she was already out there, cigarette jutting from between her lips and a mug of coffee in one bony hand. Goddamnit. He couldn’t very well check the Prius for damage with her sitting there like a modern-day Gladys Kravitz, watching every move he made. The last thing he wanted to do was raise her suspicions. He could practically hear her on the phone with one of her old biddy friends.
And then he came back outside with a bucket of soapy water and dishtowels and a flashlight, Mabel, and started washing his damn car before the sun was even up good!
And since she was apparently on regular speaking terms with Luis, how long would it take her to ask him about his drinking buddy’s weird habits? Luis would eventually mention it, and though he could blame it on too much beer, the seed would have been planted. Shit had a tendency to unravel in ways you didn’t expect, when a single odd behavior coupled with a news story about a missing boy tripped some switch inside someone’s head, and before you knew it someone in a uniform was knocking on your door to ask you a few questions.

Paranoid much, Joe?

Maybe. Probably. Either way, the Prius could wait for a few hours. No one could see the front end where it was, and the bitch had to go in sometime. If she didn’t, he could just take care of the car later, when it looked less out of place. Nothing wrong with a man washing his car on a fine May afternoon, was there? People did that all the time, nosy neighbors be damned. Maybe he’d ask her to give him a hand. The shape his left one was in, he could use it.

Garraty got the case of beer and climbed the steps—which weren’t really steps at all but pieces of two-by-twelve on stacked cinderblocks—to his trailer. As he worked the key in the deadbolt in the cheap aluminum door he wondered why he even bothered locking it. A simple kick would probably knock the thing off its hinges. The bolt receded and Garraty pushed the door open. Home sweet home, such as it was. The threadbare carpet was a drab brown—the better to hide stains, my dear—and at least twenty years old. Water stains marred the ceiling, yellow like piss. There had been no new leaks since he moved in, but the patchwork overhead indicated a hard fought battle between the roof and the elements. No pictures adorned the off-white walls. It had seen better days, for sure—probably when Clinton was busy getting his dick sucked in the Oval Office—but there were worse places one could live. The trailer was clean and reasonably well kept. Tina had trained him well.

He limped into the kitchen and set the case of beer on the counter. The cheap Formica surface was rippled where water had leaked under the lip of the sink and soaked into the pressboard underneath. Garraty had first tried caulk, then silicone, to no avail. The goddamn water had a mind of its own, and always found a way in, just like through the roof.
Better get used to it, bubba, because you’re stuck here in paradise until you can find a job and maybe make up with Tina
. His left hand needed attention, but first he wanted to take care of the beer while his will was strong. Strike while the iron was hot, you might say. He took a beer from the box, popped the tab, and poured it down the drain. As the golden liquid foamed across the bottom of the sink it sent up a pleasant, yeasty smell. The smell of forgetfulness.

Of forgiveness.

Garraty crumpled the empty and pitched it across the tiny room to the trash.
Two points
. He pulled out a second beer and opened it. The glubbing sound from the can directed his attention to his bladder, which he had forgotten in his haste to get away from the old house. His kidneys were going to thank him just as much as his liver. He set the can on the counter next to the case and hobbled down the narrow dark hall to the bathroom, bumping into the wall twice as he walked. Jesus, he was tired. He’d been up for nearly twenty-four hours straight.
And what a fun-filled day it’s been!
As he relieved himself, he realized he was swaying like a man in a strong breeze and put one hand against the wall to steady himself. It felt like everything had caught up with him all at once, the way a big scare and rush of adrenaline will do. One minute you’re hopped up like a methhead bouncing off the walls and the next you’re weak and shaky as a newborn fawn.
Fuck the beer
, he thought, zipping his pants.
I need to rest.

But first, the hand.

The medicine cabinet, which was just a drawer under the sink, was woefully lacking. Right after Tina banished him from the house and he’d rented the trailer, one of the first things he did was make a run to Walmart for a load of all the little things he’d taken for granted. Things he never bought while Tina was around to do it, but were just
there
in the house. Shaving stuff, soap, deodorant, toothpaste, and his idea of medical supplies: a bottle of rubbing alcohol, aspirin and Tylenol PM, and a box of Band-aids. He set the alcohol and bandages next to the sink, then pried the cap off the Tylenol PM and took three of them with a swig of water from the tap.

When he pulled gingerly at the stiffened sock he discovered it had glued itself to the skin of his palm, using his own fluids as an adhesive. Fuck. He turned on the warm water, then gritted his teeth and stuck his hand under the stream. It wasn’t as bad as he expected. Not
pleasant
by any stretch, but tolerable. Working the sock between his fingers until it became first pliable, then soft as the water ran pink, Garraty peeled the fabric off his hand and got his first look at the gash across his palm. God. The thing looked like a gaping mouth stretching from side to side. The skin at the edges was dead and white, and reminded him of the lips of a cadaver pulled from the river. Thick clots of nearly black blood filled the gap, and the surrounding skin was an angry shade of red.

Garraty let the water flow directly into the wound—this time it hurt like a motherfucker and he bit his tongue to keep from crying out—to flush out the dirt he knew had to be in there. Dirt and God knew what else. How many years had the piece of roofing been covering the entrance to the crawlspace? He’d be lucky if he didn’t get lockjaw. As the chunks of gore washed out of the cut and gathered around the drain, too big to fit under the stopper, he realized the sheet metal had sliced his lifeline almost in half.
Good thing I’m not superstitious
.

Once the wound was cleaned, he turned off the water and held his hand close to get a good look. Beneath the skin he saw a yellow pad of fat, then the pale red of muscle. He tried to make a fist and thought he saw something moving down in the opening, thick and rubbery and bulging, but couldn’t be sure. God knew his imagination had been in overdrive already, and he was working on no sleep. His eyes couldn’t be trusted right now, that was for sure. He was happy to find that he could close his fist a little tighter than when he’d tried right after the metal cut him. Maybe he wouldn’t need surgery, though without stitches he was going to have a hell of a scar.

It’ll just add to my charm.

Time for the bad part. Garraty spun the top off the bottle of alcohol and before he allowed himself to think about it and chicken out, upended the bottle over his hand. The pain bit him like a beast, burrowing into his bones and sending electric bolts of agony halfway up his arm. He spat a few invectives through his gritted teeth, and that made him feel a little better. Leaning against the washstand for support, he squeezed his eyes shut and waited for the burning to subside. After several seconds that felt like a lifetime, it did. The cut looked a lot better when he was done. Less angry. Fresh blood welled thickly in its depths as his body prepared a scab.

It became obvious as soon as he pulled one of the wax-papered Band-aids from the box that they were going to be pretty much useless for his needs. For a moment he considered trying to attempt it anyway, maybe line the damn things up in a row, side to side, until the whole cut was covered, but he knew they wouldn’t stay. The thin plastic strips never seemed to stick worth a shit on moving parts, and would simply peel off in a big tan sheet. He needed gauze and medical tape, neither of which he had on hand, no pun intended. Something else would have to do until he could get to a drugstore later in the day. After he slept.

Garraty went back to the kitchen and opened the door to the utility closet, where the breaker box and water heater lived. From a shelf above the water heater he took a plastic basket and carried it over to the counter. His toolbox, as it were. The real one was at the house with Tina and the kids, left in what had so far been vain hope that he’d be welcomed back one day. The basket held an assortment of home repair items he’d needed since moving in. Luis was there to take care of the big things, like the appliances and electrical problems, but he’d found plenty of minor stuff it was easier to fix himself. A fat roll of black Gorilla duct tape sat among the items in the basket, and he took it out. Pulling a few paper towels from the roll hanging under the cabinet next to the fridge, he fashioned himself a bandage of sorts, securing it with a few small pieces of the duct tape carefully arranged to minimize hair pulling when he removed them later.