The Good House Page 30

  “You like fishing, Tommy?” Angela said, trying to distract the boy.

  Tommy didn’t open his eyes. “Iused to,” he said mournfully.

  Gunnar glared at Angela in the rearview mirror, so she didn’t say anything else to the child.

  Spruce Street was shared by six houses, three on each side with five-acre land tracts, so it was not usually a busy place. But Angela saw the cars waiting as soon as Rob turned the corner from the Four, three of them parked along the road, in addition to another sheriff’s unit. Marlene Odell from the grocery store stood leaning against her car, fumbling with a cigarette while she waited. Logan Prescott and Tom Brock were there, too, arms crossed. A neighbor family stood in the front yard across the street, keeping a polite distance but determined to see what they could. The sight of the waiting crowd made Angela feel queasy with dread.

  Angela saw Rob touch his holster before he opened his car door, feeling his gun. What the hell was going on? “I thought Liza said everything was fine, Rob,” she whispered.

  “That is what she said. Just keep clear, Angie. I mean it this time.”

  When Rob told Gunnar and Tommy to wait in the car, the boy squirmed. “Can you ask if Glenn can come outside?” Tommy said urgently.

  “I’ll do that,” Rob said, and gave Tommy a small smile before walking away.

  A lean, broad-shouldered black dog guarded the house from the backyard, heaving himself against the fence as he barked angrily. Art’s two-story house was white with forest-green trim, and a cheerful wooden country mailbox waited on a post at the roadside.BRUNELL , it said above the freshly carved jack-o’-lantern grinning out jaggedly on the ground beneath it. For the first time, Angela remembered that Halloween was in two weeks. She’d forgotten all about it. In Sacajawea, holidays were celebrated early, with painstaking decorations, as if it were the law.

  Angela followed Rob as far as she thought she could without a warning. Then, she stopped and stood posted like the others, a dozen steps from the front porch. The porch was draped with orange and black streamers, but what stole Angela’s gaze was the mock graveyard beside the porch steps, a small patch of soil planted with three gray headstones in diminishing size; mama bear, papa bear, and baby bear. The joke was lost on her. It didn’t seem the least bit funny.

  The doorbell chimed inside the house. Another long, silent wait. When Liza flung the door open, Angela’s sense of normalcy swiftly returned. “What thehell ’s into Miko? He’s making a racket,” Liza said, then she shined a smile at Rob. “Hey, Rob. That was quick.”

  Liza’s smile died, however, when she looked beyond Rob and saw the people watching at a distance. Angela had never seen Liza blanch like that. “What’s wrong?”

  “Probably nothing, darlin’. I just need to have a quick word with you and Art.”

  Liza’s face relaxed some, but she wasn’t satisfied with that answer. She turned her gaze to Angela, pleading. “Angie, what’s going on?”

  Angela lost her last bit of resolve to stay out of Rob’s way. She would hear about this later, she knew, but Liza was scared. “Everything’s fine, Liza,” Angela said, walking to the porch. “Something happened downtown.”

  “Liza, I know this looks funny,” Rob said. “But there was a little problem at the river earlier today, and I need to talk to Art. He might have seen something.”

  Liza took Angela’s hand, squeezing hard, not letting go. Liza’s eyes gazed hard at Rob, questioning, and she looked back out at the gathered onlookers. “That’s why two sheriff’s rigs and half the town are camped out in front of my house? I believe that.”

  “We should talk inside, Liza,” Rob said quietly.

  Liza gave Rob a thinly masked glare, then moved out of the doorway. “Okay, Rob, yeah, both of you can come on in. Art’s upstairs watching the news, like I told you on the phone. He just got back from fishing, him and Glenn and Tommy Michaelsen.”

  “Angie has to stay put, Liza. This is private.”

  Liza’s eyes sparked. “Last I checked, this was stillmy house.”

  “All right,” Rob said, giving in. He knew it was best not to rile Liza; as Angela remembered it, when he and Liza had dated their junior year, he’d riled her a lot. Rob pressed his hand against Angela’s back, guiding her into the house. He closed the door behind them. The foyer felt steamy, scented with tomato sauce and garlic from cooking food. “Where’s Glenn now?”

  “Art said he wanted a nap. He’s in his room.”

  “Have you talked to Glenn since he’s been back?”

  “Well, no, Rob,” Liza said, annoyed. “I’ve been in the kitchen. They came in about fifteen minutes ago, and Glenn had tired himself out. Did Glenn…dosomething?”

  Art appeared above them on the stairs to the left of the foyer, tucking a plaid shirt into his blue jeans. “Well, hey, Rob. Angie. What’s going on?”

  “Rob is here asking about Glenn,” Liza told him.

  “Glenn?” The joviality left Art’s face. “Something we can help you with?”

  “I’d just like to talk to him, if that’s all right. There was a problem out at the river, and we think he might have some information for us.”

  “Hell, Rob, I was just out there with him not a half hour ago,” Art said. “We were fishing. I’m sure Glenn didn’t see anything I didn’t see. He couldn’t have. What’s going on? There’s something you’re not saying.” There was a coarseness to Art’s voice. His feelings were hurt.

  “Art, I’m sorry, but I have to ask you to take me to see Glenn. Once I’ve talked to him, I’ll explain everything. It’s a whopper of a story, and it’s worth the wait. I promise.”

  “Rob Graybold, this is some twisted kind of joke, right?” Liza said.

  “No, Liza. It’s not a joke, darlin’. Can you take me to Glenn’s room?”

  Liza and Art gave each other a look of mutual confoundment, then Liza joined her husband on the carpeted stairs. “Come on then, if you’re coming,” Liza said curtly, waving them up.

  At the foot of the stairs, Rob nudged his index finger gently against Angela’s collarbone. His whisper might as well have been a shout, from the look in his eyes. “You stay downstairs. If you don’t, you’ll go back outside. Say ‘Yes, Rob, I understand.’ ”

  “Sorry, Rob,” she said quickly, embarrassed.

  Rob followed Art and Liza, keeping a careful distance behind them on the stairs. Angela watched their procession, suddenly uncomfortable being in their house. She didn’t belong here. Whatever was going on with Art and Liza had nothing to do with her. The best thing would be to quietly go back outside, she thought. But she didn’t. She stayed at the foot of the stairs, her palm wrapped tightly around the wooden globe crowning the bannister, waiting. She felt physically rooted in place, the way she had after the tree fell. And the tingling was there, too. The tingling hadn’t stopped, this time.

  An instant later, she knew why. Angela whiffed an odor so rank from above her that her nostrils stung. Her throat shut itself tight as her hand flew to her face to cover her nose. She stepped back. “Jesus, do you smell that?”

  The three of them stopped to look around at her. Art and Liza had vacant faces, but Rob was coiled like a spring. “Smell what?” Rob said.

  How could theynot smell it? It smelled like the slaughterhouses she drove past on Interstate 5 in northern California, a stew of cow feces and endless acres of crowded, doomed meat. The odor was so thick, Angela felt as if she were wading through a cattle pen, up to her ankles in rotting waste. She shook her head, and the smell weakened, but it was still there, drifting from the stairs. From very close to her. “You don’t smell anything?” she said.

  By the expressions on their faces, the answer was no.

  “What do you smell?” Rob said.

  “It’s…something…”Dead, Angela wanted to say. Rotten. Liza looked exasperated, giving Angela a look that begged her not to complicate the visit. For her friend’s sake, Angela faltered. “I don’t know. I thought it was something, but
…”

  Rob sighed, giving up. He followed Art and Liza around the corner of the staircase, and all three of them vanished. At the foot of the stairs, Angela sniffed the air again. Her arms tingled painfully, as if they were irritated by the scent; absently, Angela scratched herself, crossing her arms. The smell was more faint now, but still putrid. What in the world could be up there?

  And why couldn’t the others smell it, too? It was impossiblenot to.

  Angelawanted to follow Rob’s instructions. He was already pissed at her, and she didn’t want to end up in real trouble. But despite that, her foot rose instinctively, and she rested her weight on the first step. As her shoe sank into the plush carpeting, the scent was sharper, closer. Angela took another step. Once again, a stronger version of the smell waited for her. Her stomach quivered. Fetid filth. Stinking dead flesh.Inside Liza’s house?

  “Glenn, you’ve got company!” Angela heard Liza call as she knocked on the door closest to the stairs. As Angela’s head rose to the second floor, she sawSpider-Man posters decorating the closed door. The bone-colored carpeting upstairs was smudged with mud, from the stairs to the door that belonged to Glenn, and Liza noticed it the same time she did. “Art, look at this! Which one of you tracked all this crap into the house?”

  “Aw, geez, I didn’t see that. Sorry, munchkin. I’ll clean that up.”

  Angela inched closer, sniffing the air. It was closer now, upon her. When its full strength assailed her, she couldn’t mistake the source because it was right in front of her nose: The stench was wafting from Art. He couldn’t smell any worse if he’d spent his afternoon rolling in cowshit and decomposing meat. Angela felt her throat throb as she leaned closer to Art and smelled his shoulder.Ugh . What in the world would make anyone smell like that? The smell wasn’t…

  “We’re coming in, honey,” Liza said, opening the door.

  Too late, Angela realized that she did not want to be here. She should have waited outside. She should have stayed at the pier. She should have stayed at Sean Leahy’s gate. Her tingling arms had tried to warn her all along that this was not somewhere she would want to be. But shewas here, and the motions of the three people around her took on a surreal quality. As the three of them went into Glenn’s room, Angela stood in the doorway feeling as if she were watching their actions through a smoky glass.

  The bed had been stripped down to the plastic-covered mattress. A four-foot form was wrapped tightly in sheets atop the mattress, prone. Precisely in the center, vertical. Not moving. That might be Glenn, but he was not taking a nap.

  “What the hell are you doing? You can’t breathe like that! That isnot funny, Glenn Brunell!” Liza shouted, both furious and alarmed. She clawed at the sheets wrapped around the figure’s head, or where the head should have been. After a few skillful yanks, a pale foot flopped into view, falling to rest on the mattress, limp. Angela’s mouth fell open. For a moment, she forgot even the smell.

  Liza shrieked, panicked. “Help me unwrap him!”

  Angela, still feeling as if she were witnessing someone else’s bad dream, couldn’t make herself move. But Art joined Liza, picking wildly at the sheets’ folds, trying to free Glenn. Angela heard Rob say something into his radio, his words in machine-gun bursts, but she couldn’t understand him. He was speaking in codes, she realized. He also pulled out his gun, a black Glock. Angela knew a Glock when she saw one.

  “Art, go stand by the window.Get away from the bed,” Rob said.

  Art either didn’t hear Rob’s instructions or pretended not to, because he gathered the bundled lump from the bed into his arms. “No, no, Liza, letme do it,” Art said, and while Liza stared in horror, Art tossed the heavy bundle onto the bed, until Glenn nearly fell from the mattress to the floor. As the sheets loosened, Angela saw a glimpse of Glenn’s red hair. Her blood turned to lead.

  “Art,stop it!” Liza wailed. She’d grabbed Art’s arm, clinging to him.

  Art grabbed the bundle again, his knuckles ivory-white. With a grunt, he pulled Glenn back toward him, then heaved him away, trying to unfurl the sheets. This time, a flap of fabric fell away from the head, and Angela saw Glenn’s mud-stained face. The tip of Glenn’s tongue lolled from his mouth, fat and purple. The boy’s clouded eyes were wide open. His neck hung loosely as Art lifted the bundle into his arms with another grunt. The dead boy’s face staring squarely at Angela was upside down, dangling over Art’s arm.

  “He’s up now,” Art said, beaming with unabashed good nature. “What did you want to ask him about, Rob? If you’ve got a question, just come out with it. Liza has dinner waiting, and my appetite’s come back, so I’m ready to eat. Glenn and I just got back from fishing.”

  Angela’s eardrum popped in pain when Liza began to scream.

  Seventeen

  OAKLAND

  WEDNESDAY NIGHT

  TARIQ WAS AWAKENEDfrom the most wonderful dream by incessant barking.

  The dream had been this: He’d been fishing, having some quality time with his son. He wasn’t himself in the dream, nor had the boy been his real son. But it had felt good nonetheless, watching the boy and his little friend cast out their lines, pointing out when their bait was too loose on their hooks, urging them not to pull their lines away too quickly from the mouths of the hungry fish.

  In the dream’s most memorable instant, he had surprised his son by plunging his head into the muddy water at the shoreline. He’d seen air bubbles race to the water’s surface as the boy tried to yell.Didn’t he know better? Had no one taught him to HOLD HIS BREATH under the water? It had been a sweet struggle. A valiant struggle, for such a small person. Writhing, kicking, clawing. Tariq had wondered for an instant if he shouldn’t release the boy, let him chalk it up to experience. Let him get a good laugh over it, because it was so silly, really, for someone so weak to struggle against someone so strong. Once he truly grasped that, the boy might have laughed until he choked.

  But Tariq had been the one doing the choking in the dream, because he’d understood that the purest pleasure in the experience would be when the struggle stopped, a parental symmetry of sorts. What had the comedian said?I brought you into this world, and I can take you out.

  Besides, he had to kill the boy.Had to, because the boy’s death had been decided. The boy’s mother had to be punished, because That Bitch had been using her, communicating through her. In the dream, Tariq had explained this to the boy beforehand—it was best to deal with people straight, even the littlest people, and even the people who lived in dreams. He’d said,I have to kill you now, Glenn. Yes, he remembered—the boy in the dream was named Glenn. And the best part? When he’d said it, the boy had only grinned at him, ready to take his new circumstance like a man.

  When Tariq woke up, he was sad to be cast out of his dream. He was aroused, a delicious feeling of physical longing he would have loved to explore, but he couldn’t tend to his erection at the moment because of the barking. That yappy, annoying barking was outside his front door, bringing attention with it. Tariq didn’t want any attention brought to his door.

  The house was dark, the light dying through his windows. He must have slept through the day, he realized. He sat up and blinked, staring with surprise at the unholy mess before him. He seemed to recall a time not too long ago—perhaps it had only beenyesterday —when this had been a very nice place to live. There had been some order to it, some organization. Furniture standing upright, magazines and mail stacked, large-screen television uncracked, unbothered.

  The next time he needed to beat someone’s ass, he decided, he’d do it with more composure. Why destroy an expensive television set by heaving someone into it? Was it more important to make a point by throwing a coffee table or having a bit of order in the room? He’d like to be able to walk in the room without stumbling over broken things. He’d enjoyed having a tidy living space. It gave him peace of mind. He should have asked that sanctimonious prick DuShaun to step outside with him, the way western gunslingers and courteous bar-brawlers
did.

  Losing his temper had been childish. If he’d been mad because DuShaun walked away from the fight instead of finishing it like a man, he should have gone after him. He should have run him down in his Land Cruiser, grinding him against the wall. Shit, he had a baseball bat in his closet—why hadn’t he run after DuShaun and knocked the back of his head into the cheap seats? What point had been served by going from room to room, breaking things as he went?

  Tariq felt silly for that. He had to learn to control his temper. He had yet to master the concept of taking a deep breath and counting to ten. Wasn’t that what Angie had always said?

  More barking, this time with whining and frantic scratching at his door.