Wild Blood Page 2

  Enos had a reputation as something of an eccentric, which is to say he was the town loon. But his family had once been powerful—if not omnipotent—in the years before the Civil War, and some of that glamour still clung to its debased heir. He lived alone in the rotting remains of his great-grandfather’s old plantation house on the outskirts of town, his only company a collection of rabbits he kept as both pets and food in ramshackle hutches. When he was a boy the half-mad hermit had held a strange fascination for Skinner. Enos rarely bathed, never brushed his teeth and had allowed his ancestral home to fall into such a state of disrepair that the only things holding the walls together were the weeds growing up through the floorboards and the termites holding hands. Perhaps what intrigued Skinner the most about the old coot was the fact he didn’t seem to care—or notice—that the rest of Seven Devils spurned him.

  Enos grinned suddenly, displaying unnaturally white and even teeth. For a moment Skinner was certain that the old man was going to bite him before he regained control of the ill-fitting dentures and cleared his throat.

  “I was the one that found your Pa! Bet you didn’t know that!”

  Skinner swallowed. No, he hadn’t known that. But then Skinner doubted Enos knew that he’d once seen him masturbating with the freshly peeled pelt of a dead rabbit.

  “Yeah, I was the one that come up on him.” Enos’ voice had taken on a nostalgic tinge, as if reminiscing about the good old days. “I was out grubbin’ for roots when I seen him lyin’ there, all chewed-up like. He was sprawled alongside this here deer carcass. I figured he must have brought it down himself, because it was already slit open. Then I hear this sound in the woods, off to one side. I was scared mebbe that whatever it was that chomped on ole Will was still hangin’ around, and with me with just a walkin’ stick! But do you know what it was?”

  Skinner shook his head, too astounded by the old hermit’s utter absence of tack to reply.

  “It was your Ma! She looks at me an’ points at what’s left of your pappy and says ‘You best call the sheriff, Enos. Looks like a bear got hold of my Will. I’m gonna try and find Skinner ’fore it’s too late.’ Then she picks up Will’s deer rifle and walks off into th’ woods.”

  “You must be mistaken,” Skinner said firmly. “I wasn’t in the woods that day. I was home sick with the flu.”

  Enos scowled, his over-magnified eyes making him look like a deranged owl. “Don’t go tellin’ me what I do an’ don’t know you damned cuckoo’s egg!”

  Suddenly Luke was looming over the old man. “Enos, why don’t you help yourself to that roast Cousin Phelan brought by?” He suggested helpfully. “There’s more’n we can possibly eat. I’m sure Mrs. Cakebread will be happy to wrap some up for you.”

  Enos grunted and shuffled off in the direction of the kitchen, his outrage forgotten with the mention of free eats.

  “Hope I didn’t interrupt anything, but you looked like you could use some rescuing,” Luke said solicitously.

  “Thanks. I’d almost forgotten about Old Enos.”

  “He ain’t one to pass up a feed, even if he’s got to get slicked up for it,” Luke said with a chuckle. He then fixed Skinner with an appraising look. “What did he say to you?”

  “He was going on about Mama being in the woods looking for me the day Daddy got—the day Daddy died.”

  “I wouldn’t pay much heed to anything Enos Stackpole says, son. The old fool’s been out of his head since Eisenhower was in office.”

  “Luke?”

  “Yes, son?”

  Skinner shook his head. “Nothing.”

  He was being paranoid. He was underfed and missing sleep, that’s all. Why would Luke have a reason to keep Enos from talking about his father’s death, except concern for his feelings?

  It was well into late afternoon by the time the last mourners picked up their umbrellas and raincoats and left the survivors alone with their grief. Enos was among the last to go, his coat pockets bulging with roast beef wrapped in aluminum foil.

  Luke sat and drank a cup of coffee in the kitchen, his good tie draped over the back of his chair like an empty snake skin, staring at where his wife used to sit. He was still sitting there when Skinner went upstairs to bed. He shucked himself free of his good jacket and tossed it in the general direction of the bed. It missed and fell on the hooked rug instead. As he bent to retrieve it, his hand closed on the envelope tucked inside its pocket. Upon opening it, he found several pages of neatly folded loose-leaf paper and what looked like a Xeroxed legal document. The writing was shaky and rushed, but he recognized his mother’s hand.

  Son,

  If you’re reading this, I’m gone. I wanted to tell you this in person, like I should have years ago, but I kept putting things off and now there’s no more time. The Good Lord’s calling me home to be with your father. I wish there was a better way for me to say this, but at this stage all I can do is give it to you point-blank: I am not your mother. Leastwise, not the one who birthed you. Will wasn’t your natural father, either. We adopted you when you were still a little baby.

  You were such a beautiful child! Your father and I fell in love with you the moment we saw you. We were almost too old to qualify for adoption, and we were scared we wouldn’t be allowed to take you. I was forty-four and Will forty-six at the time, but the lady at the foundling home was so nice. She could tell how much we really loved you, bless her. Your father and I always meant to tell you the truth someday. Please believe that. But after you daddy was gone, I guess I was afraid you’d try and find your biological parents and abandon me. I should have known better, but I was afraid of losing your love. I know that sounds silly, but when it comes to the heart, common sense doesn’t have much power. I’ve loved you as much—if not more—than the woman who gave birth to you. She didn’t want you, but we did. You’re our son, even if we didn’t make you ourselves. Nothing can ever change that.

  I don’t know anything about your birth parents except that your natural mother was a Native American. We had to go all the way to Arizona to find you—

  There was more but he couldn’t read it. The words kept blurring and jumping around. He carefully refolded his mother’s letter, wiping his eyes with the back of his hand.

  Luke looked up from his coffee and nodded at his stepson as Skinner returned to the kitchen. “So, you read it?”

  “Yeah.” The inside of his mouth felt like it was lined with sandpaper. He shuffled over to the percolator and poured the last of Mrs. Cakebread’s coffee.

  “She really did mean to tell you before it was too late,” Luke sighed.

  “I know.” Skinner took a sip of the dark, bitter brew and leaned against the counter. “When did she tell you I was adopted?”

  “She never had to,” Luke admitted with a shrug. “I always knew. So did everyone else in town. Will and Edna went out West for awhile. When they came back, they had a baby with ’em. What with your coloration, folks figured you for some wetback’s kid they bought. One thing’s for sure: no Cade ever had eyes like yours.”

  “That explains why I never felt welcome here,” Skinner grunted.

  Luke sighed and turned his coffee mug idly between his big, rough hands. “Folks hereabouts are suspicious of outsiders and them that’s different. It pained your mama to see you treated like that, but she knew you were strong enough to take it without gettin’ twisted up inside. She had faith in you, Skinner. She was convinced you’d make something of yourself one day.”

  Skinner unfolded the copy of his adoption papers on the kitchen table. “Daddy used to say that if a man wants to know where he’s going, he has to know where he’s been.”

  “Skinner—” Luke frowned at his coffee, as if by staring into its depths he could read the future. “Your mama was convinced that what happened to your father had something to do with your natural parents. I’m not sure what it was—she never would talk to me about it—but she saw something in the woods that day that convinced her of it.”

  �
�What are you getting at?” Skinner frowned. “My daddy was killed by a bear while he was out hunting. How could that have anything to do with my birth parents?”

  “I’m just sayin’ that before you go runnin’ off lookin’ for answers, maybe you better give some thought to the questions first.”

  Later that night, William Cade came to visit his son.

  He entered Skinner’s dreams as he usually did, emerging from the closet as if its door was directly connected to the afterlife. He was dressed, as always, in the clothes he died in: a red plaid hunting jacket, khaki pants, lace-up boots, a heavy flannel shirt and a fluorescent orange hunter’s cap. He stood at the foot of Skinner’s bed, pausing to light his pipe. Skinner wasn’t surprised by his father’s appearance in his bedroom, as Will Cade had made frequent visits to Skinner’s dreams in the seven years since his death.

  “Evening, son. I see your mother finally got around to telling you the truth.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

  “Does it make any difference? Would you have loved us any less?”

  “No. I’ll always love you—both of you—no matter what.”

  “We know that now. But the fear of losing love makes cowards of us all.” Will Cade puffed a cloud of aromatic smoke into the air. “You’re going to try and find your natural parents.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Yes.”

  “Do yourself a favor, son. Leave it alone. Your mother and I were the only real parents you had. Leave it at that.”

  “I can’t, Daddy. You know that.”

  William Cade nodded and lifted a hand to his face. As he did so, blood as dark and thick as maple syrup ran down his arm and splattered against the bare floor boards. “Just be careful, boy. The journey you’re about to undertake will be a dark one. Seeing how I’m dead, I’m not allowed to go into specifics. All I can do is warn you and give some advice. Whether you’ll remember it once you wake up is another thing, though. But pay heed: whatever happens, whoever the father of your flesh proves to be, always remember whose son you are at heart.”

  Skinner wanted to ask his dead father what he meant by that, but Will Cade turned back to the closet. The door was open and Skinner could see his mother, wearing the same dress they’d buried her in that afternoon. She smiled at her husband. It was the happiest Skinner had seen her since his father set off on his hunting trip, all those years ago.

  Edna Cade opened her arms to welcome her long-lost groom, her wrinkles and gray hair disappearing as his arms encircled her waist. The last Skinner Cade saw of his parents, before the closet door shut itself, they were younger than he was and locked in a lovers’ embrace.

  Chapter Three

  The night was warm and sticky—hardly unusual in New Orleans, even in spring. Johnny paused to check out his reflection in a nearby storefront. He was wearing an appropriately ironic t-shirt with a keffiyeh-like scarf loosely looped about his neck, along with skinny jeans and leather Chuck Taylors. He noticed with some dismay that his carefully mussed coif was degenerating into the real thing, thanks to the humidity. As he leaned against a parked car to retie his high-tops, he caught sight of graffiti on the wall across the street: VARGR RULE.

  Arcane messages were hardly uncommon in that part of town, though the word ‘vargr’ was new to him. It looked like it was missing a vowel or two. He shrugged and walked on.

  The bar was located in the old commercial district near the Tulane and Loyola campuses. After dark the street became the province of students and other citizens out for a good time. The building to the right had long since been demolished, providing the neighborhood with an impromptu parking lot and graffiti gallery. The bar had changed names and owners numerous times over the year, but it always managed to remain a live-music venue. The evening was already well underway. A handful of Tulane students dressed in Calvin Kleins and polo shirts stood on the street corner, eyeing a gaggle of skate punks with elaborately decorated boards loitering in the parking lot, smoking unfiltered cigarettes.

  Johnny glanced at the graffiti encrusted wall more out of reflex than genuine interest. Twice a year the landlord whitewashed the exposed firewall under the impression it foiled the spray-can artists when all it did was provide a fresh canvas for creative vandalism. As far as he could tell it was the same old scrawled depositions of teenage love, the inevitable “Class Of” bullshit, the handful of local bands making use of all the free publicity they could get, and a spray-stencil of a grinning man with a pipe clenched in his teeth. Among the overlapping conglomeration of slogans, names and insults, he spotted the words VARGR RULE written in paint the color of blood.

  Two surly young men flanked the front door. One sporting a bicycle-spoke Mohawk and muscular arms wreathed in cobras and thorns, the other sporting a white forelock that hung down over one eye. Both wore battered leather jackets with sleeves that looked as if they’d been chewed on by a rather large, unfriendly animal, the tattered remnants of leather and silk lining dangling like strands of flesh from a gnawed bone.

  The one with the white forelock thumped the flat of his palm against Johnny’s shoulder, halting him in midstride. “Five dollars,” he said.

  “Whassamatta, Sunder?” rumbled the spike-haired giant. “This dude tryin’ t’ skip the cover?”

  “Naw, I don’t think he got th’ cojones for that, Hew,” the other replied, daring Johnny to challenge the assessment.

  He flushed as he handed over a sweat-dampened five-dollar bill. The one called Sunder grunted and transferred it to his compatriot, who held a welter of crumpled paper money in his massive tattooed fist. They then stepped aside, allowing Johnny entrance, but he could still feel their eyes on him.

  The only lighting in the place was provided by the neon beer signs hanging over the bar and a half dozen stage lights suspended over the cramped stage like metal bats. Although the establishment was supposedly air conditioned, the press of bodies and the propped-open front door effectively cancelled it out.

  The band was already into its first set by the time he arrived, not that Johnny cared. The throb of the bass and the drums threatened to rattle the fillings out of his teeth. His ear drums reflexively sealed themselves in self-defense.

  The three musicians on stage wore the same ragged leather jackets as the brutes taking cover. The lead guitarist was medium height, with long, cream-colored hair and a wolf’s head tattooed onto the top of his left hand. The bass player’s head was shaved close on both sides, while his reddish hair hung down his back like a horse’s mane. The drummer was bald as an egg, giving him a vulnerable, almost babyish appearance and flailed at his kit like a wife-beater. The bass drum was decorated with a wolf’s head, its mouth open in a snarl, and had bicycle reflectors in place of eyes. Under its slavering jaws was the word VARGR in dripping red letters.

  Johnny headed toward the bar. All he wanted to do was get himself a beer and bide his time until a suitable candidate for debauchery showed up. The rail was crowded and it took a good deal of elbowing to get his beer. As he lifted his drink to his lips, he was jostled from behind, slopping PBR onto his shirtfront. He turned to curse the person behind him and found himself looking into his own eyes. The illusion was brief but distracting enough for the girl wearing mirrored sunglasses and a black leather jacket with chewed-off sleeves to slide past him and breach the bar.

  Johnny forgot his drink. He forgot his place at the bar. Even with the mirrored lenses obscuring her eyes, she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Her hair was platinum blonde and looked like it had been styled with a Cuissinart. Her lips and fingernails were the color of fresh blood and she wore a low cut leopard print T-shirt and a pair of leather fetish pants with enough zippers for a motorcycle gang. Although her feet were encased in a pair of red stiletto pumps, she moved like quicksilver on a plate, not even disturbing the head on her beer as she wove through the crowded dance floor.

  She was the One. The Target For Tonight. No other woman would satisfy him. It had to be her. J
ohnny licked his lips in anticipation. He’d screwed punk sluts before. Despite their cultivated decadence, they all proved to be middle-class Catholic school girls at heart.

  He watched the girl as she retreated to a table in the corner, parking her tightly trussed rear on a battered leatherette barstool. She sipped her beer and stared in the general direction of the stage without really looking at it.

  Johnny walked over and smiled at her. She turned to look at him, reflecting twinned images of his lusting features back at him. “I just wanted you to know that I can die happy, coz I’ve just seen a piece of heaven,” he said, in his most sincere pick-up voice.

  Her painted mouth bowed into a smile. It was impossible to tell if she was genuinely receptive or simply mocking him. She pursed her lips and lifted a hand to stroke his face, the tip of her forefinger resting on his jaw. Still smiling her eyeless smile, she tapped the cleft of his chin as if dotting an “i.”

  Johnny lifted his hand to his face. When he drew his palm away, it was smeared with blood.

  Johnny leaned against the lavatory in the men’s room, squinting at the smeared mirror as he dabbed at his chin with a wad of wet toilet paper. The amplified roar of the band made the sink rattle in time with the music.

  Normally he would have written off the girl in the leopard print shirt as a head-case and set his sights on far more predictable prey. But he could not get her out of his mind. He could still smell her and feel the feather-light touch of her hand on his face. Crazy bitch or not, he was going to make another try.

  The punk chick was weird, but he was certain he could bring her down. It was just a question of when. It had been so long since any of his weekend conquests had proven a challenge. He had almost forgotten what it was like to pursue a woman worth the effort. He smiled at his smudged reflection, his self-confidence restored. He would make her his. And the consummation of the evening’s chase would be the fuck to end all fucks, of that he had no doubt.