Beneath Her Skin

  Copyright © C. S. Porter, 2021

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means without the prior written permission from the publisher, or, in the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, permission from Access Copyright, 1 Yonge Street, Suite 1900, Toronto, Ontario M5E 1E5.

  Vagrant Press is an imprint of

  Nimbus Publishing Limited

  3660 Strawberry Hill Street, Halifax, NS, B3K 5A9

  (902) 455-4286 nimbus.ca

  Printed and bound in Canada

  nb1588

  Editor: Whitney Moran

  Design: Jenn Embree

  This story is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and places, including organizations and institutions, are used fictitiously.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Title: Beneath her skin : a Kes Morris file / C.S. Porter.

  Names: Porter, C. S. (Author of Beneath her skin), author.

  Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20210216794

  Canadiana (ebook) 20210216832 | ISBN 9781771089814 (softcover)

  ISBN 9781771089999 (EPUB)

  Classification: LCC PS8631.O7325 B46 2021 | DDC C813/.6—dc23

  Nimbus Publishing acknowledges the financial support for its publishing activities from the Government of Canada, the Canada Council for the Arts, and from the Province of Nova Scotia. We are pleased to work in partnership with the Province of Nova Scotia to develop and promote our creative industries for the benefit of all Nova Scotians.

  One

  Harrison hollered upstairs, “If you’re not down in two minutes I’m leaving without you—and I bloody well mean it.” It wasn’t getting any easier with that kid. Fourteen and all the attitude. He slapped two sausages between a folded waffle and headed to the truck.

  It was a perfect Sunday. The long, dismal trudge of winter was over and a true spring day had arrived. It smelled green and alive. Maybe this summer he’d get the house painted. A good project for him and Mac. Get him out of his room.

  He fired up the old pickup and it grumbled to a start. He could smell burning oil. He should trade it in, but he’d had it since before Mac was born, and it had never failed him.

  He wasn’t good at waiting and started to count. He made it to twelve before his son came through the front door pulling a hoodie over his head and almost tripped down the steps. Mac got in and slammed the door.

  “Not so hard.” Harrison could hear the badgering in his voice. He just wanted them to have a good day. “Here, eat something.” He handed over the waffle sandwich.

  “Dad, it’s not even fucking eight yet.”

  “You don’t have to swear all the time,” Harrison said as he backed out of the driveway.

  “Like you and Mom?”

  Harrison took the swipe. He got it: Mac was angry and wanted his father to hurt as much as he did. As if he wasn’t. Divorce left a wide swath of collateral damage. This whole morning was about making time for them to hang out and forget the hard stuff. He tried to restart: “Look at the day. Perfect. Remember how it poured last year?”

  Mac swallowed a yawn. “I don’t even like shooting.”

  “Since when? You begged me for a .22 when you were six. You constantly play that video game and it’s shooting all the time.”

  Harrison looked out to the first warming sun of the season. Soon the trees would bud. Spring always felt hopeful to him, like another chance. “It’s good for us to get out, Mac. Do something physical, something real. Could be we win it this year. How great would that be?”

  Mac slumped down in his seat and chewed on the waffle like it was cardboard. He rolled down his window and, when he thought his father wasn’t looking, dropped it onto the road. Harrison decided to let it go. He was the same at that age.

  “Remember to keep the butt tight to your shoulder, take a breath, aim, then gently exhale while you take the shot. Try to imagine yourself and the rifle as one, and you’re the foundation holding it solid to the earth. And when you squeeze the trigger, don't jerk or flinch. One fluid motion. Right?”

  “Yeah. I remember.”

  They pulled onto a dirt track that lead to the Rod and Gun Club. Dust flew up behind them and gravel popped under the vehicle. Mac stared out the window watching the trees stream by and squinted his eyes until they blurred into one continuous, shapeless movement.

  They parked by the members’ club, which was really just a cabin, and headed to the back of the truck. Other father-and-son teams were already milling about, making their way towards the wooden tables set up along the front of the shooting range. Harrison clapped Mac on the back as he lowered the tailgate exposing their rifle, clad in a deep brown leather sheath. “Let’s show ’em what we got.”

  “A family falling to shit?”

  Harrison’s shoulders slumped; that one hurt. “I'm trying, Mac. I really am.”

  “Sorry.” And Harrison knew he was.

  He handed Mac the rifle. “It’s all yours.” It was the first time he had let him carry it to the line, and he could see the flush of pride in his son. His boy would soon be a young man. A thought that baffled Harrison.

  Large, round hay bales had been placed between the firing line and the permanent targets to shorten the distance for the kids—not by much, just enough to give them a chance at a bull’s eye. Harrison would love to see Mac outshoot the private-school brats, decked out in their camo pants and open-fingered leather gloves. Being a cop’s kid made him an outsider. That, and money.

  “Harrison!”

  Mac looked at his dad and they gave each other an Oh, crap look.

  “What a morning, hey? Got that goin’ for us.”

  Harrison faked a smile, “Hey, John. Quite a change from last year, that’s for sure.” John Howzer was a big man, not just in size, but arrogant and rich. He had a “summer cottage” in the area. Harrison’s entire house could fit in its living room. He’d had to call him twice about his kid’s underage drinking. “You remember Mac?”

  “Of course. Grown a hell of a lot since last year. Wow.” He made a fake punch at Mac’s abs and Mac’s fist clenched. The guy’s laugh was as artificial as his tan. “You ready to shoot?”

  “Yes, sir. I’m going to go get set up, Dad.” Behind Howzer’s back, Mac grinned and flashed a middle finger.

  Little shit, Harrison thought, and gave his son a thumbs-up. “I’ll be right with you.” He hurriedly gathered the rest of their gear.

  “They grow up fast,” Howzer said. “Mine’s going to be outshooting me soon.”

  Harrison slung the strap of his binoculars over his neck and slammed the tailgate shut. He’d had enough of Howzer.

  “You’re still using those? I just invested in a new pair.” Howzer lifted the military-grade binoculars from his chest. “10x56 with the most amazing image stabilizers. Bought them for the boat this summer, but thought I’d try them out today. Have a look.”

  Howzer had been fondling the binoculars since he approached, waiting to be asked about his latest toy. Harrison hated to engage, but he was curious. The binoculars were light and perfectly balanced. Harrison focused on Mac, who appeared close enough to touch. He could see the loose stitches around the shoulder of his shirt. He didn’t want to be impressed, but he was.

  “Expensive?”

  “You don’t want to know.”

  Their team would have a decided advantage. Harrison handed back the binoculars, leaving a thumbprint on the eyepiece. “Well, good luck, John.”

  “No luck needed.” He headed off, n
odding at everyone he passed. Lord of the Range. That guy got under Harrison’s skin. He shook it off. He wasn’t going to let that asshole ruin their day. He joined Mac at the lineup.

  Mac had drawn the first lot. The four boys wrote their names on their targets, and a judge headed to the bales to pin them up. Two other judges in white coats placed boxes of shells on the chalk line. Mac was starting in lane three.

  The mic crackled and the announcer welcomed the crowd and thanked their sponsors. He called out the names of the shooters on line and there was a smattering of applause. “All right. Fathers, stand behind your sons while you spot. You will be allowed to talk to your boys. Do not touch them or their rifle. You have ten shells in front of you. When I say ‘make ready,’ you will load. Always point your muzzle to the ground until you are ready to fire. Do not fire until you hear the buzzer.”

  Harrison winked encouragement when Mac turned around. “You got this.”

  They both put on their earmuffs and safety glasses.

  “All right, lads. Make ready.”

  The four boys loaded their guns and stared down the range in anticipation.

  “Take aim.”

  Their rifles raised. Harrison glanced to the other fathers coaching their sons. Beside him, John had his high-end binoculars up and was barking orders: “Spread your legs. Stop squeezing the grip…” Harrison merely leaned in close to his son’s earmuff and whispered, “Don’t forget to breathe.”

  Mac took a breath and grounded himself. The buzzer sounded and loud reports and smoke filled the bright sky. Harrison glanced to John, who was not pleased with his kid’s first volley. Mac was doing just fine, calmly reloading and taking steady aim.

  Harrison checked his son’s target through his scratched binoculars’ lenses, which blurred and marred the focus. “Half a degree up, a degree left.” Mac pulled the trigger. Bull’s eye. Harrison suppressed his excitement and kept his voice calm. “Perfect. That’s the line.”

  When the pressure was on, Mac always rose to the occasion. He was smart and calm, a thinker, and he could shoot. Maybe someday he would join the force. Nothing would make Harrison prouder.

  He noticed something on his lens obscuring the corner of Mac’s target. He panned over, but the smudge remained. He tried to focus on it, but his crappy binoculars couldn’t manage the distance. He shifted back to the bull’s eye to vaguely catch Mac’s next shot find dead centre. Harrison checked the bottom edge again. There was definitely something on the paper. Something red.

  “John. I need your binoculars for a second.”

  “Screw you,” Howzer shouted back over the gunfire. “Work with what you have.”

  “I’m not asking.” Harrison yanked the strap over John’s neck, snagging his earmuffs. “Sorry, mate.”

  “Interference! Judge!” Howzer hollered and his hand shot up in protest.

  Harrison zoomed in on the target and the image snapped into focus: a widening bloom, bright as fresh blood. “Hold your fire! Stop shooting!” He waved to a judge. “Stop the competition!”

  John’s kid’s shot went wide and his father was mouthing off: “That last shot shouldn’t count!” The buzzer sounded and the boys put their rifles in safe position.

  Mac turned on his father. “What the hell, Dad?”

  “Stay there.” Harrison strode into the range towards the hay bales, ignoring the parents’ outcries and his son’s embarrassment. One of the judges ran after him, an older man whom Harrison didn’t know. Harrison pulled out his badge from under his shirt. “Give me a minute.”

  He went directly to Mac’s bale. Wet, red patches were widening across the paper target. He looked to the other targets. One other was stained. He moved cautiously to the back of the bale and saw a series of thin sticks stuck in the hay, barely noticeable. They reminded him of nailheads. When he stepped back, he could see a woven seam. He extracted a stick from the bottom corner and the hay unhitched. A hand flopped out.

  Straw pricked Harrison’s fingernails and scratched his wrists as he ripped away the rest of the skewers and tore at the plug of hay. It fell to the ground intact. Inside, crammed in the cavity, was an older man. Naked. On his knees. Hands behind his back. Wrists bound. The soles of his feet blistered and caked with dirt. There weren’t any exit wounds on his back. A trickle of blood was seeping around his contorted legs. He had been stuffed in to face the firing line. It almost looked like he was praying.

  Harrison checked the man’s wrist. The flesh was warm. He couldn’t find a pulse, but he already knew the man was dead by the stillness of the ribs and the three bull’s-eye shots lined up with his head.

  He looked down the range to his fourteen-year-old son, still a boy, not even in high school yet.

  His heart beating fear, Harrison ran to the next bale.

  Two

  Kes tossed her overnight bag on the passenger seat and started her old Jaguar XJ6. It purred awake. The car was the only thing her father had left her in his will, but that was just fine with her; it was a thing of beauty. She pulled out of her driveway and headed for the quickest route to the highway south.

  Wincing, she pulled her shoulders back and arched her neck side to side. Early morning Pilates had been rough, like the instructor had been angry about something. But here she was at thirty-eight, confident she was in the best shape of her life. There had been a man at the studio, a friend of her instructor, who’d asked her if she’d be interested in modelling a new line of women’s exercise clothing.

  “I’m a police detective,” she’d told him.

  “And I’m one of the Pope’s cardinals,” he’d replied. He offered her two thousand dollars a day, but Kes was not, nor had she ever been, the sort of girl who could be bought. She had smiled her brightest smile and told him to fuck off.

  So now here she was, Kes Morris, Special Investigations Unit—Homicide Detective, driving to a small town at the behest of her captain to investigate a murder, earning far less than two thousand dollars a day. But she was doing what she was good at, something she had earned.

  She was thankful it was Sunday morning. The road was wide open and she shifted up a gear. She reached into her coat pocket, found the vial of pills, popped the lid, and shook one into her palm. Down the hatch, she thought as she swallowed. She no longer needed them for pain; her dislocated shoulder had healed. She just liked how they made her feel. They quieted her mind from the chatter of other cases. One pill seemed to filter the constant barrage of details that others didn’t seem to notice—like the twenty-two highway signs she had passed, two flattened porcupines, and seven coffee cups in the ditch—so she could focus on what was actually important. Her father said it was a gift to remember everything. She wasn’t so sure. There were so many things she’d like to forget. She checked her watch. The pill would kick in about when she arrived.

  She rolled down her window and breathed in the salt air. She nudged the speedometer higher. The bird’s-eye maple dash and interior chrome gleamed. Kes’s father had been a bit like this car. Tough, solid, and could take the sharpest corners but still stay on the road. And both had an unusual, attractive look about them. Classic, is how she would describe them. The car had been his best self—his indulgence, his escape. His happiness.

  He’d always wanted a son, another detective in the family. He hadn’t imagined that his daughter could fulfill his dream. Old school, that way. Yet he told her his stories, wanting her to know who he was and what he had seen. Or maybe he just needed to speak it and she was the only one there. He died before she made the force.

  Growing up, she’d sit with him by the firepit listening to him explain his secrets to becoming a great investigator. Not just a good one, a great one. Night was when he talked more. He’d tell her about how you had to put on the skin of your suspect. Think like them. Taste what they desired. But after you caught your prey, he warned, you had to tear off that skin and find the
beauty of things again. That was one of the secrets. She was six when she first heard that lesson.

  There were things her father hadn’t told her. He didn’t tell her how much it would hurt. Or that there would always be bits left behind that couldn’t be shed, embedded under nails and burrowed into pores. He hadn’t told her that sometimes, she would want to keep a piece for herself. But maybe that was just her. She wished she could ask him. She shifted to fifth and could feel the worn leather of the gear stick shaped by her father’s palm. She wondered about the skin she would be putting on today and felt the chafe of those she had worn before.

  Unlike her father she didn’t carry a weapon, preferring to trust her instincts rather than rely on a bullet to save her. Increasingly though, she was being pressured by her captain to arm herself. But she worried she’d reach for it in fear, overriding all her other senses.

  The highway slipped by quickly. Long drives were always faster when she was thinking. She took the exit and hit Route 323, pushing the speed limit on the secondary road until she saw the sign for the gun club. She geared down and drove slowly along the gravel road that led to the range. She didn’t want to ding her car after the new paint job. It had cost a small fortune to find someone who could match its original British Racing Green, but she wasn’t one to compromise.

  She turned the last corner and saw a group of men clustered around a muddied truck by the clubhouse. Some were smoking, others were eating sandwiches. It looked like a friggin’ social gathering. She parked and crossed the field, making note of the starting-line tables, abandoned clipboards, and earplugs littering the ground. She headed directly to the men.

  “What the hell’s going on here? This is a crime scene.”

  An older, hawkish man with an odd, stilted gait stepped forward. He reminded her of a heron, except for the paunch of his belly. “Yeah it is, and I’m a detective,” he said.

  “Why isn’t this scene secured?” Kes was fuming and a bit edgy from the pill, the way she liked it. But her voice was even and commanding.