All in the Family

All in the Family

By
Taft Sowder

Damnation Books, LLC.
P.O. Box 3931
Santa Rosa, CA 95402-9998

www.damnationbooks.com

All in the Family
by Taft Sowder

Digital ISBN: 978-1-61572-387-4

Print ISBN: 978-1-61572-388-1

Cover art by: Matt Truiano
Edited by: April Duncan

Copyright 2011 Taft Sowder

Printed in the United States of America
Worldwide Electronic & Digital Rights
1st North American, Australian and UK Print Rights

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any form, including digital and electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the prior written consent of the Publisher, except for brief quotes for use in reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

After careful consideration, I’d like to dedicate this to my late friend, Richard Carmack, who supported me and my dreams. He waited for it and was taken before he could read it. This is for him and I hope God gets him a copy.

I’d like to thank my wife, Rolanda, for believing in me and her encouragement…and for reading everything that I write and toss in her lap.

Chapter One

He was eating his supper when the telephone rang. He knew who it was, but he did not want to answer. He continued to chew his food and swallowed the mass of meat and gristle. The phone stopped ringing; she had answered it. He placed his knife and fork neatly beside his plate and hung his head in his hands. The call was important, but he really wished that she had not answered.

She sauntered into the dining room, which was always kept as one of the neatest rooms in the house; everything had its place. Her husband sat at the end of the rectangular oak table; he had shoved one of the three candle sticks away that adorned the table as a center piece. He eyed her slim figure. Her round, perky breasts stretched the fabric of her red nightgown taut; her milky, white skin so silky and smooth. Her raven hair flowed gently down the open back of her garment. Her green eyes met his, piercing right through him.

“Herman,” she said, “your brother is on the phone. He wants to speak to you.”

Herman hesitated, but then lifted his hand to grasp the receiver of the cordless telephone.

“Hello?” he said into the phone.

On the other end he heard static.

“Good evening, Mister Adams,” the voice said. It was his brother.

“So it is business, then?” Herman asked.

“Is that really such a surprise?” his brother asked.

“No, Bob, it isn’t.”

“I am calling in regards to our meeting tomorrow. Is noon alright with you?” His brother’s voice was light and business like.

“No, Bob, I already told you that I’m supposed to be at the mortuary tomorrow. I work a real—” Herman was cut off, mid-sentence.

“Great, so, I’ll see you at noon,” Bob said, obviously ignoring what Herman had said.

The line clicked, and then after a moment Herman heard the tell-tale buzzing. He angrily gripped the phone and punched the button with his finger. He laid the handset on the table beside his plate and pushed his plate away.

“Finished already, darling?” his wife asked.

“Loretta, I just know that Bob is up to no good,” he said and then excused himself from the table.

He walked into the living room, eyeballing the old faux leather couch that sat across from his favorite recliner. As he sunk into the cushions of the easy chair, he could feel that they were old and did not hold up like they used to, but regardless, it was still comfortable. He glanced at the cheap plastic clock that hung on the wall. He had always dreamed of owning an old style grandfather clock, but gave up on that dream years ago. Time had no relevance to him anymore, but it was nearing eleven at night.

The mortuary demanded a lot of his time, always being on call as the town undertaker; he basically ran the place alone. It had been the family business until his brother, Francis Robert Adams, his older brother, made business the family business.

Loretta entered the scene, her flowing hair drifting lightly behind her. She glanced at her husband, today’s paper spread wide-out in front of him. His long legs were propped on a red, suede footstool. His black suit clung to his form; she admired his always lean figure. He lightly licked his long, thin fingers and turned the page.

“Well, my dear, I am going to retire for the night,” Loretta said. “Unless, you need anything else.”

“That will be all, dear,” Herman said, without even a glance up from his paper.

Loretta turned and walked up the dark steps, disappearing into the inky blackness to the guest room, where she spent time when she wanted peace and quiet, or if she wanted to
read
. She heard a faint whine, the sound of the bathroom door shutting. Herman continued to read, and then his pager began to vibrate. He did not even have to look at it; he knew what it was. It was the call center. Someone had died.

Upstairs, Loretta heard the car door slam and then the faint purr of the engine as it backed out of the driveway. Herman was on his way. The hearse never slept.

She lay awake in the darkness, her mind wandering the vast expanse of torrid thought. Her hands began to wander. Oh, how she missed her husband. How his job had consumed him.

As the night went on, she found herself in the throes of self induced ecstasy.

* * * *

Herman stood over the corpse of an elderly man that lay on the floor before him. That was mostly what he was called out for, elderly people from whom time escaped.

As he stood in the foyer of the huge mansion, the remains of what was once a wealthy man lay before him. The hardwood floor beneath him soaked up the pool of blood that seeped from the skull. This seemed no ordinary death, as a fancy, pearl grip handgun lay beside him. A bullet had kissed the man goodnight.

His young, blonde wife sat in the other room with the crime scene investigators, bawling; her sobs so loud that Herman had to concentrate on his removal of the body. Herman thought to himself about the vast wealth that would befall the newly widowed beauty. He knew that she and her lover would have nothing to worry about, their money woes now a thing of the past. That was how it always was; the young wife and her secret lover plotted the murder of the wealthy older husband. He of course had her in his will to inherit his empire. With the
help
of the crime scene investigators, Herman would be asked, or rather forced, to rule the death a suicide.

Herman walked out the door into the crisp night air. He inhaled; even the air outside the house tasted of blood and reeked of death. What else could there be? Death was his life; death was how Herman Adams made money.

A few moments later, the lead crime scene investigator came outside and stood beside him. The short man’s neatly trimmed mustache was barely visible above his lip. The man pulled off his rubber gloves, and with his still lightly powder coated hands, slicked back his greasy dark hair, removing his hair net at the same time.

“I believe,” he said as he lit a cigarette, “that we can rule this one a suicide.”

Herman shook his head. The man did not seem to notice.

“I think that it’s a staged suicide. I believe that the woman and a possible third party are trying to get their hands on this man’s money.” Herman turned to the man, who in turn blew smoke almost directly into his face.

“You believe that the poor, shaken woman in there shot her husband only to get his money?” The man’s eyes looked small and beady now. “I cannot and will not put that into my report! This is a suicide, cut and dry.” He dropped his half smoked cigarette and stamped it out. “You listen to me. You put a suicide in your report or you’ll be number one on our list of suspects!” He turned and left Herman standing alone.

Herman looked up at the full moon staring down at him from high in space, reflecting on what just happened. He choked back an urge to walk inside and tell the man off. Tell him that he was not going to be pushed around; he was not going to lie about this death.

After several minutes, he stepped over to the hearse and retrieved the gurney and body bag. He took another minute to stare at the full moon, its peculiar ambiance radiating down to the earth. He felt another urge to tell the man off, but he held back.

This time, he held back.

* * * *

Morning came to Ramsey Street, a quiet, dead end street in Towering Hills. The black hearse sat in the driveway near the old, rickety garage. Herman should have torn it down years ago, but it seemed far too troubling a project to start only to have to stop before he could finish because someone had died.

A bird sang a sad song from a tree branch hidden away from sight. It was the only bird that sang on that street that day, and may well have been the only bird in the neighborhood that day. The ushering in of a crisp Kentucky Autumn had called away all the other birds. Perhaps this little one had lost his way, or perhaps he had chosen to stay. Either way, a nearby cat heard the song and began its search for the bird, the savageness of nature shining through. Predator and prey, the hunt had begun. The world was savage and raw; nature knew no bounds and when pushed to the edge, pushed to extremes, even the most civil of societies reverted to the savage, primal ways of old.

Inside the house, Bobby, Herman’s son, readied himself for school. Twelve years old seemed an awkward time for the child; he teetered on the edge of puberty and his voice was already beginning to crackle. Perhaps he was a little early, but nonetheless, it was happening.

He combed his hair as he looked at his reflection in the mirror. His stick straight blonde hair had not fared well during the restless night before. It stuck out in all directions. The nightmares had kept him tossing and turning, not nightmares of monsters or demons, for Bobby knew that monster’s were only figments of imagination. These were nightmares about the real monsters in his own life; those boys at school who tormented him by day and beat on him every evening. They were the real monsters.

They called him names like fag and cocksucker and pussy, but he tried to shrug it off. He stared at his reflection again. Maybe he was a fag. He did have half the look of a fag. His shirts were always neatly tucked in, his hair neatly parted and combed to the side; a fag in denial, but still a fag. He pulled his shirt loose from his pants and unbuttoned the first few buttons of his shirt. Without a second thought, he ran a damp hand over his hair and messed the neat part. Now he looked more like one of them. Now he looked ... well, now he looked like a fag with messy hair.

He slammed his hands on the sink, frustration taking hold of him, a strong force that he could not reckon with. He stared again into the mirror, his eyes tearing into his own flesh, anger showing through his gauche appearance.

“Honey, come on down and have some breakfast.” He heard his mother saying from the kitchen downstairs. What if he didn’t want breakfast? What if he only wanted something to drink? What if he wanted blood to drink? What if he wanted those boys to pay for what they had done to him, to spill their blood and to take a cup of it, savor the flavor?

Bobby shook his head to clear his mind.
I’ve been watching too much television,
he thought.

Without another thought, he tucked his shirt back in and combed his hair back in place. He would go to school looking like he usually did, even if he looked like a fag.

* * * *

Breakfast for him had been bland, the usual bacon and eggs, a side of toast and some orange juice. His mother always tried her best to feed him well. Though, she never claimed to be the best of cooks. His father, now he was a chef. He could whip up a feast with nearly nothing, and no matter what it was, it always tasted like it was prepared by gods.

In the distance, he saw Tommy Halbrucker coming his way, running, his chunky belly bouncing in front of him. Tommy had been Bobby’s friend since his family had moved into the neighborhood, but Bobby sometimes wondered why they were friends. They had very little in common. Tommy liked comic books and worlds of fantasy and make believe. Bobby had always been more into realistic stories and tales of the macabre. Maybe it was because his dad was a mortician, but Bobby had always had a thing for the strange and the demented.

“Wait up, man,” Tommy cried out, running at full speed, dragging his backpack along the ground. Bobby stopped.

Tommy was panting for breath when he arrived.

“Why are you always late? Every day, I have to wait for you, or hold the bus for you.”

Tommy held up a finger, still trying to catch his breath.

Tommy never really answered, but within moments, the two were on their way to the bus stop. Tommy’s shirt buttoned wrong, his shirt tail hanging out and his hair awry, that was Tommy.

“So how’s that hot sister of yours?” Tommy looked at Bobby, his eyes wild and wandering. He always had a thing for Jessica, Bobby’s older sister. Lately his fascination had gone beyond the realm of normal and into a near pornographic obsession. “I mean, I haven’t seen her in a while. When can I come see her again, I mean come over again? God, what I wouldn’t give to get my hands on her tits! I mean, she’s so hot, I bet even you have fantasies about her, don’t you? Even though she’s your sister. If I had a sister that hot, I’d sneak into her room and watch her change clothes.”

Bobby stopped walking and glared at Tommy. He had almost had enough, always hearing about how his sister was hot and had great tits and how much Tommy wanted to fuck her. Tommy was thirteen, but Bobby knew that the only thing he knew about fucking he had learned from his father’s video collection. Tommy had invited him over once to look at it. He had popped in a video tape and on the screen two middle-aged adults appeared, the man wildly thrusting at the woman. She made a lot of noise, but even Bobby could tell that she faked every noise.

“Dude, that’s my sister, and I’m tired of you talking like that about her,” Bobby finally said. “I’m sick of hearing about her tits and her ass and ...” Bobby suddenly realized that he was talking out loud. “Just don’t talk about her anymore.”

Tommy looked confused, but nodded anyway.

On the corner, a yellow-orange bus waited, picking up a large group of children; the lights flashed, as if counting down for departure.

“Come on,” Bobby began to run. Tommy had slowed him down. He paid no attention to Tommy falling further and further behind.

The bus ride to school was uneventful; Tommy ran his mouth as usual. They were the oldest on the bus and had been since the start of the school year. A new student may change that, but for now, they were the oldest, and Tommy took full advantage of that. He hustled younger children, taking their lunch money in fixed games of chance that he made up.