Chapter 18

18

Voss

Iglance down at the address Jackson gave me, then back to the shithole bungalow, located on the shady side of town. The white van is nowhere in sight, so I slide out of my vehicle, parked two houses down, and make my way across the street. I should be watching the house where Nola is, but I need to check out Harv and Beth’s place first.

Something about this couple just isn’t sitting right with me. For whatever reason, Carl has targeted Nola, and although Beth is a more likely target than my landlord, from what I remember of Carl’s tastes, I’m guessing she’s simply a means to get to Nola. A vehicle he’s used to give him a way in.

Whether that’s unwitting, or intentional, is still a mystery to me. Carl doesn’t take up with accomplices. Even the few times he tried to drag me along on his little escapades when we were kids, he found me to be a nuisance—always getting in his way.

Consequently, I learned to get in his way as much as possible.

From what I’ve gathered, Beth and Harv are two personalities who would surely bug the shit out of him, so their involvement is likely inadvertent.

Perhaps even deadly, at this point.

The knob on the front door turns easily, and with a gloved hand, I enter the quiet house, gun leading the way. An arc of light cuts through the room when I click on the flashlight and sweep it over the surrounding darkness. Fast food bags and dirty dishes litter the living room, creating a stench of French fries that makes me want to gag. I keep on toward the kitchen, noting the same unkempt condition as the living room, with dishes cluttering the counter, food scattered about. It’s a wonder the mice haven’t taken over this shithole.

Down the hallway, two rooms stand at either side of the corridor—a bathroom to the left and a bedroom to the right. Entering the one on the right, I take careful steps, so as not to disturb anything, always scanning for movement. Clothes lay about the floor and the bed, but most notable to me are the two pills lying on the mattress, and a glass lying on the floor beside the bed.

Feels hasty and unfinished.

I angle my flashlight up to a chair beside the bed, and when I swing to the right, I see a mirror propped directly across from it.

Must be where Harv sits watching himself jack off, while some dude fucks his wife. I try to imagine my uncle having any part of that, but the idea he’d do anything for the gratification of someone else isn’t fitting. He’d only allow someone to watch, if he thought it’d bring them mental anguish. Torment was always his main objective. That’s how sadists operate.

The half-opened closet draws my curiosity, and I approach carefully, expecting to find what happened to the couple hanging from the ceiling inside. Instead, I find a collection of BDSM props and gadgets. Some, I recognize from my own arsenal at home—cat-o-nines, paddle, riding crop. I lift a latex suit from where it’s crumpled on the floor beside it’s packaging, which looks like something sold in a Halloween store, and find an uneven cut along the neck of it.

Weird.

When shadows move across the wall, I flick off the flashlight, dropping the garment to the floor. Slinking along the wall, I duck low and move toward the front of the house, where I peer through the front window.

A car’s parked in the driveway. A guy clambers out of the unfamiliar vehicle, a Ford pickup truck, from the looks of it, gun at his hip. I don’t recognize him, but then, it’s been almost twenty years since I’ve seen Carl.

Not sure I could point him out from a lineup these days.

As the stranger makes his way toward the front door, I sneak toward the back, looking for a way out. Through the laundry room, there’s a backdoor, but it’s got so much shit packed against it, there’s no way I’d get through without making a bunch of noise. At the first knock, I slip across the hallway back toward the bedroom and attempt to open the window. The window that’s been painted shut.

Fuck.

“Hello? Beth? Harv?”

The stranger is inside the house.

As I didn’t plan on killing anyone here, I use the butt of my gun to bust out the window.

“Hey!” the stranger shouts from the other room.

I slip through the bashed-out glass, but a streak of pain across my arm leaves me gritting my teeth as I hit the dirt in the backyard. Pushing to my feet, I just make it around the corner, when I see the guy peeking through the busted hole. Hand clamped over my arm, from where blood trails down toward my wrist, I hobble off.

“Stop! Police!”

I don’t stop for anything, not even police, and I book it down the street to my vehicle. Once inside, I fire it up and hit the gas, taking off past the house. A quick glance shows the guy dashing out the front door to his truck, but I’m already to the end of the block before I see him hop in the driver’s seat through the rearview mirror. After squealing around the corner, I take off up two blocks to the next street and pull into the first empty driveway. I back the car up to the garage and cut the engine, along with the headlights, before ducking down into my seat.

The truck whizzes past me.

With a shaky breath, I exhale and twist my arm, find a nasty gash there that’ll undoubtedly need stitches. Hopefully, I didn’t leave my fucking DNA all over the glass back there.

Once minutes tick by and the truck seems to be long gone, I drive back out on the street, careful to follow the speed limit, and head back home.

When I arrive, I cut the lights, so as not to draw Nola’s attention, and creep up the driveway, slipping past the Explorer, and park in front of the garage. Via the stairs, I enter my apartment, petting Vince on the way to the sink.

From the drawer beside me, I lift a black leather case, one I’ve learned never to leave home without, filled with first aid items. The sting intensifies when I scrub the wound on the back of my bicep with soap, and I fish through my first-aid bag for a suture kit. Wish I could say this was my first rodeo, sewing up a nasty wound, but it’s become something akin to sewing on a goddamn button a few times a year.

I twist the cap off a fifth of whiskey and kick back a nice swill of it, before pouring it over the wound. Teeth grinding inside my skull, I wait for the alcohol to work its magic, then nab a pre-threaded suture. Using the mirror, I try for straight lines with every thread of the needle, but the reflection adds just enough confusion to space them wrong. Thirty minutes later, I’m closing the last stitch, and I snip off the thread and run an alcohol swab over the sutures. A square of gauze fits perfectly over the length of the gash, and I tape it in place.

I’ve, personally, sewed half the scars on my body. Easier than messing with docs, who ask too many questions.

Bottle in hand, I walk over to the window and kick back another swig, staring down at the breezeway, below where Nola goes to work at her potter’s wheel. With the back of my hand, I wipe the excess whiskey from my lips, keeping my eyes locked on her.

Vince brushes past my pants, and I bend down and lift him with one hand, letting him nuzzle himself into my neck. He purrs, when I brush my stubbled face against him and kiss the top of his head.

But my stare remains fixed on the woman.

The longer I spend here, the more I can understand Carl’s obsession with her.

With each passing day, I’m finding it harder and harder to look away.