Scar Tissue by William G. Tapply

Author:William G. Tapply [Tapply, William G.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Mystery
ISBN: 9780312991005
Publisher: Macmillan
Published: 2000-01-01T05:00:00+00:00

FIFTEEN

I stood there shining my flashlight into the horse stall in Ed Sprague’s barn. I kept one hand pressed tightly over my mouth and nose.

It was a man’s body, and it was hard to look at.

He’d been dead for a while.

He wore pants but no shirt. His skin was bloated and grayish green. He was sitting in a wooden armchair. His ankles were tied to the legs and his wrists were bound to the arms. A rope around his chest held him upright. His chin was slumped down on his chest so that I couldn’t see his face, but I recognized him by his thick thatch of curly gray hair.

Sour bile rose in my throat. I swallowed it back and forced myself to kneel in front of him and shine my light on his face.

Jake Gold’s cheeks, throat, neck, and chest were covered with round black scabs. His left eye was gone, leaving a socket full of crusty dried blood. The blood had run down his face, off his chin, and onto his shoulder and chest.

His wrists, where they were tied to the arms of the chair, had swollen around the baling wire that held them there. It looked like his hands would explode if you poked a needle into them.

I turned my head and puked on the floor.

I shined my flashlight away from Jake and knelt in front of him. I felt that I should say something comforting to him, but no words came to me.

After a minute or two, I stood up and got the hell out of there. I went back down the ladder, and when I got to the bottom I took a deep breath. The musky smell of old manure cleansed my lungs and throat. It was a relief.

I went over to the house and sat on the front steps. I hung my head between my knees and took several long, deep breaths. I didn’t want to puke again.

After a few minutes I thought I had it under control.

I smoked a cigarette before I retrieved the key from under the cushion and went into the house.

Sprague’s kitchen phone had not been disconnected. I called Horowitz’s office at state police headquarters in Framingham.

“I am reporting a murder,” I told the woman who answered. “I’ve got to speak to Lieutenant Horowitz.”

“What’s your name, sir, and where are you calling from?”

“My name is Brady Coyne. I’m an attorney. Find Horowitz and patch me through to him. I’ll wait.”

“Tell me where you are, sir.”

“I know you can trace this call and figure it out eventually. But please trust me, Horowitz will have your ass if you don’t find him and put him on.”

“Just a minute.”

I waited nearly five minutes before Horowitz said, “Okay, Coyne. What’s this about a murder?”

“I’m at Ed Sprague’s house in Reddington. Jake Gold’s dead body is in the barn. Not only that, but—”

“Sit tight.”

“Wait a minute—”

But he’d disconnected. Typical.

I sat on the front steps, and ten minutes later I heard sirens. Then a squad car crested the rise and came down the long driveway with its blue lights flashing.

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