Authors: Edward Lee
The House (24 page)
"But it doesn't appear that anyone's there now."
"Oh, no. It was actually kind of strange. They disbanded and were never seen again. The property's been unoccupied ever since."
"Where did they go?"
"No one knows."
"When did they disband?"
"1977 as a matter of fact, same time as the murders, but there's no way that the two are related." Suddenly Sheriff Funk's gaze dragged off into another direction, to the side of the house. "Wow, my hat's off to you, Mr. Paraday. That's a...
mighty
attractive woman."
mighty
attractive woman."
Melvin glanced beyond the Sheriff.
What's wrong with her? She looks—
He wasn't sure. But Gwyneth stood in the yard on the side of the house. She wasn't walking or doing anything. She was just standing there, looking at them, her face drained of expression.
What's wrong with her? She looks—
He wasn't sure. But Gwyneth stood in the yard on the side of the house. She wasn't walking or doing anything. She was just standing there, looking at them, her face drained of expression.
"Hi, Gwyneth!" Melvin called over. "This is Sheriff Funk. He just stopped by to see how we were doing."
Sheriff Funk nodded, tipped his hat.
But Gwyneth's expression—or lack of expression—didn't change. She remained standing there in the grass, barefoot, the lightest breeze ruffling the sun-dress about her preposterously perfect body. Dusk dragged the sun down behind her, against the contours of her physique to bezel-sharp crispness. Even through the dress, Melvin's strangely zooming eyesight could make out details of her pubic tuft in that precious gap which existed at the joist of her thighs.
Her eyes were looking at them but...not really seeing them. That's the impression Melvin received.
"The, uh, the Chinese carry-out food's in the kitchen," Melvin called back to her. "I'll be right in to heat it back up."
Funk seemed less aware of Gwyneth's behavior and more centered merely on her body. His eyes flicked to Melvin, then to Gwyneth, then to Melvin, then back to Gwyneth.
"I congratulate you, Mr. Paraday. That is about the best-looking woman I have ever seen in my life, if you don't mind my saying so."
"Uh, no, not at all," Melvin replied.
God, why is she just standing there? Why can't she say something, or just walk away? She looks like she's in a trance!
"She's, um, she doesn't talk much. The artsy type, always into her own thoughts."
God, why is she just standing there? Why can't she say something, or just walk away? She looks like she's in a trance!
"She's, um, she doesn't talk much. The artsy type, always into her own thoughts."
Funk came close to chuckling. "Any woman who looks
that
good and doesn't talk much? That's the ultimate woman. Your wife or girlfriend?"
that
good and doesn't talk much? That's the ultimate woman. Your wife or girlfriend?"
Jeez...
"Neither. She's my stepmother."
"Neither. She's my stepmother."
If Funk had been sipping coffee at that moment, he surely would've spat it across the yard.
"My father married her a few weeks ago," Melvin hastened, "and had her come up here with me because he's out of town. Plus, this area seemed like a good place for her to work on her art."
Finally, Gwyneth turned, her erect breasts excruciatingly defined by the descending sun. In her hand she limply held one of her bottles of Hershey's Syrup, the straw sticking out.
Then, very slowly, she walked away, almost as if she were drifting.
"An artist? You mean, like, a painter?" the Sheriff asked.
"She does mosaic work and mounts it on wooden plaques. Crosses, crucifixes, Christian symbols, that sort of thing."
"Really? My wife collects religious mosaics. Maybe I can...have a look at some of it sometime."
The conversation was degrading. Melvin suspected that the Sheriff's wife had no such interest at all. He was simply fishing for an excuse to see Gwyneth's bodacious body again. "Oh, sure. Stop by anytime," he said, unable to think of anything else. But then something
did
occur to him. The voice he'd heard. "Oh, Sheriff, by the way. Do you have anyone on your department named Nixon?"
did
occur to him. The voice he'd heard. "Oh, Sheriff, by the way. Do you have anyone on your department named Nixon?"
Funk's brow flexed. "Nixon. No, I sure don't. Why do you ask?"
"It sounds silly, but just when you were pulling up, I thought I heard someone say the name. I thought maybe it was someone on your police radio."
Sheriff Funk shook his head, arms still crossed. "There hasn't been any radio traffic for the last hour." Funk raised a finger. "Of course, out here in the hills, voices can carry a long ways." He looked off the hill. "Might be someone down at the compound. I think I'll check now that I'm out here."
"I thought you said it was unoccupied."
"Well, what I mean is there's no
authorized
tenants. Every now and then, though, we'll get a few transients shacking up there. Low-lifes, you know? Bikers, fugitives. Might be someone like that down there whooping it up, and the voices carried up here."
authorized
tenants. Every now and then, though, we'll get a few transients shacking up there. Low-lifes, you know? Bikers, fugitives. Might be someone like that down there whooping it up, and the voices carried up here."
Melvin doubted it but at least it was a consideration. "Yeah, I'll bet that was it." If anything, it had sounded more like the voice had issued from inside the house.
But how could that be?
"Oh, and I guess you already know that this deep in the county rural zone there's not much in the way of entertainment or stores," Funk informed him. He was clearly making small-talk now, clearly hoping that Gwyneth might reappear, give him a last gander at her wares. "But I guess you already found Herbster's Shopping Center down by the junction. You mentioned Chinese food, and that's the only place you could've gotten it this side of Rochester."
"Oh, right, the little strip mall," Melvin said. "So there's nothing closer going north?"
"No, sir, I'm afraid not. But there's a little grocery store there too, and a tavern, and a video rental. Oh, and a great little pizza place. Pretty much all you'll need if you're only staying a week or two."
"That's good to know, Sheriff," Melvin remarked, "thanks." He couldn't wipe the image of Gwyneth's nipples from his mind. Even when she was out of view, he could still see those nipples down to their last pores.
Jeez, I'm going to have to go jerk off again. This is crazy!
Jeez, I'm going to have to go jerk off again. This is crazy!
Funk squinted past the side of the house again, disappointed. "Well, I best be on my way, Mr. Paraday. I hope you and your w—...er, your stepmother enjoy the scenic beauty and fresh air we've got to offer up here. I'm going to go check the old Epiphanite compound now, but if you need anything, or if you have any problems, give the sheriff's department a call and ask for me."
"I sure will, Sheriff. Thank you, and have a nice day," Melvin bid.
But just as Funk was turning to leave, a final question ignited. "Oh, Sheriff? Can I ask you something?"
"What's that, Mr. Paraday?"
"The murders you mentioned in 1977... Was the killer apprehended?"
Funk sternly shook his head. "Nope. He disappeared and never resurfaced. We have APB flags for him in every police-index computer in the country. We were able to ID him from his fingerprints left on a carving knife he used to cut...parts off a body on the kitchen table. His prints were previously on file because he did time in Maryland for grand larceny. He stole a bunch of camera equipment from a public broadcasting station, of all things."
Camera equipment,
the words, for no apparent reason, impacted Melvin's mind.
the words, for no apparent reason, impacted Melvin's mind.
"I'll never forget it," Funk went on. "I'd only been on the force a year then, and I was first on the scene. I
personally
lifted those prints off that knife, too, I'll tell you."
personally
lifted those prints off that knife, too, I'll tell you."
If they ID'd him,
Melvin reasoned,
they must know his name.
"What was his name?"
Melvin reasoned,
they must know his name.
"What was his name?"
"No, sir, I'll
never
forget that name. The worst murderer in the history of this fine county. Um-hmm. Something I want more than anything in the world would be to nab that sick psycho after all these years."
never
forget that name. The worst murderer in the history of this fine county. Um-hmm. Something I want more than anything in the world would be to nab that sick psycho after all these years."
Melvin tried not to roll his eyes. "I'm sure, Sheriff.
What
did you say his name was?"
What
did you say his name was?"
"D'arava was his name. D'arava."
Melvin looked at him blankly. "What was his first name?"
"Leonard."
The sun crept down on Sheriff Funk's back when he retreated to his cruiser and drove away.
"Leonard," Melvin whispered to himself. The cruiser's tires were crunching down the hill. His curiosity was what dismayed him more than anything else. What difference did the killer's name make? It was almost thirty years ago. Why had he felt so compelled to ask?
The oddity had impacted him as well. Yes, Leonard.
Gwyneth called me that name by mistake earlier today,
he couldn't help but remember.
Gwyneth called me that name by mistake earlier today,
he couldn't help but remember.
But...so what? Lots of people were named Leonard. Leonard Nimoy. Elmore Leonard. Sugar Ray Leonard. It was just a coincidence.
Melvin went back in the house. He was actually getting hungry. "Gwyneth?" he called out. "I'm heating the food up now." He set the proverbial cardboard containers in the oven and turned up the heat. "Gwyneth?" A smirk felt sealed on his face.
Where is she now?
He looked in her bedroom, then checked the rest of the house.
Where is she now?
He looked in her bedroom, then checked the rest of the house.
No Gwyneth.
The floozy must still be outside, and it'll be dark soon,
he thought. His aggravation climbed. How embarrassing!
Silly space cadet standing out there and not even saying hello to the cop! She looked like she was on drugs or something! That's just what we need the chief of the county sheriff's department to think!
he thought. His aggravation climbed. How embarrassing!
Silly space cadet standing out there and not even saying hello to the cop! She looked like she was on drugs or something! That's just what we need the chief of the county sheriff's department to think!
Before he forgot, though, he needed to jot down some more notes. Sheriff Funk had corroborated still more of the history of the house.
And now I even know the ax-murderer's name...
And now I even know the ax-murderer's name...
But Melvin just stared when he sat down at the laptop, about to type in the data. There, at the bottom of the note file just under the last line he'd previously written, were these words typed cleanly in good old 12-point Arial type:
GIVE US OUR JUNK, LEONARD!
The screen stared back at him. Leonard rubbed his face, then shook his head.
"Leonard," he muttered. "What the hell is going on?"
He knew he didn't type that himself.
How did it get there?
How did it get there?
Next, he muttered, "Gwyneth..."
If I didn't type it, she did...and I KNOW I didn't type it, and today she even CALLED me Leonard...
He stood up quickly, grinding his teeth. He felt very, very determined and even a little mad, and these were rare emotions for Melvin.
Was she playing some kind of a joke on him?
Melvin had been the brunt of jokes his entire life, and he was getting
damn
tired of it.
damn
tired of it.
"Gwyneth!" he bellowed. "Where are you...
damn it!
I want to know why you wrote this crap on my computer!"
damn it!
I want to know why you wrote this crap on my computer!"
His uncharacteristic bellow shuddered through the house. There was no response, of course, and when he searched every room again, there was no sign of her.
Of course.
Back in the kitchen, he turned his head, looked out the window. The old dog-pen could be seen, and the blades of grass appeared a fiery, shimmering orange from the sinking sun.
And there was Gwyneth, too, right there in the yard in front of the pens.
Suddenly the most abstract—as well as absurd—thought occurred to him.
Every time I look at Gwyneth, my mind sees her differently
.
It's like I'm looking through the eye of a film director...
Every time I look at Gwyneth, my mind sees her differently
.
It's like I'm looking through the eye of a film director...
More macro-vision. Every detail came into the most severe focus, the molten light of the minute before dusk sweeping the grassy yard and caressing Gwyneth. He could see the diminutive veins in her feet, the costal groove of each rib beneath the dress fabric, the convolutions of her ears. He could see each individual cilia of her eyelashes, and he could even detect the imperceptible prominence of her cornea and the separate flecks of her emerald-and-ice-blue irises.
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