Page 5 of The Chain House

In less than twenty-four hours, he’d be sitting face-to-face with a bona fide monster, the man who, upon his arrest at his Freedom Ranch, had taken the time as the authorities drove down the meandering gravel driveway of his wooded property to spray paint in red the words The Kentucky Cannibal Was Here above the stove, where a certain and now infamous “stew” was cooking in an old Teflon pot.

Sam’s hands started shaking. His heart raced. He was no longer nervous about telling his father the news but terrified of what might happen tomorrow, on the very day Sal was set to be killed, at midnight. Sal was anything but predictable; he’d grown up early, on the streets, and whether or not he’d been born with hints of it, his life had helped turn him into a well-seasoned psychopath by his midtwenties, which was Sam’s age now.

Twenty-six years old and a late bloomer at every stage of his life.

Sam forced his feet to uproot from the carpeted living room floor. His reasons for hurrying over were multipronged, with the I-told-you-so being the least of them. And it had nothing to do with his father not believing in him; his father had always supported him, even his filmmaking, but as more of a hobby, something to do on the side while he pursued a more stable career. But it was news of this current project, a documentary Sam had been working on for nearly a year now because of his infatuation with Sal Batise and his cult, that had Sam on the verge of throwing up. He’d only decided on a title for the doc on the drive over: The Last Interview. It was perfect, right? He knew what his father would say.

But do I tell him right away? Do I wait until we’re eating? Wait until we clear the table?

“Hey, Sam, I didn’t hear you come in.”

Sam looked up from the Mallard Malone novels.

Trevor Harper stood in the threshold to the kitchen, wiping his hand on a dish towel, dressed like he always did, a button-down shirt rolled to the elbows and tucked into jeans, a worn belt cinched to a hole he’d had to add to the leather with a knife.

“Hey, Dad.” Sam gave him a quick hug and let go. Unlike Sam, who stood close to six feet tall and 180 pounds, his father was a small man at five foot five, thin-framed, and a 150 pounds fully dressed. “Smells good.”

“You sounded excited over the phone,” Trevor said, “and I thought, better make his favorite. It’s been a while, right?” Sam couldn’t tell if that was a jab at him and instantly got him wondering how many days it had been since he’d visited. The guilt came fast when his father patted his shoulder and said, “I know how busy you are, son.”

And it dawned on Sam that it hadn’t been days, but longer. “Yeah, still no excuse.” He followed his father into the kitchen and sat in one of the four chairs positioned around the square wooden table at the bay window, where Trevor ate all his meals, overlooking a small vegetable garden he tended to daily. The dining room had been used maybe five times since Annie Harper had passed away, not so much because the three of them often ate there, but more so, at least from what Sam could remember from his early childhood, that they’d had more parties when his mom was alive. He could vividly remember the dining room filled with music and drinks and laughter, all ghost swirls of memory, but as readily there as the dust bunnies now coating the baseboards.

His father put a full plate of pasta in front of him, poured two glasses of red wine, and joined him across the table. “Cheers.”

They didn’t clink glasses, but his father made eye contact before digging in.

Sam watched him eat. For a small man, he could put the food away, eating with gusto to perhaps mask the elephant in the room, which made Sam think his father already had an idea what the news might be. Or, at least, what the news was about—the hated documentary.

For the same reason, Sam had lost his appetite. He took periodic bites and engaged in awkward small talk. “Grass looks good.”

“Cut it yesterday.” His father wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin and took a swig of wine. God love him. But his father was a man of such monotonous routine and simplicity that Sam often couldn’t help thinking of him as anything but boring. Trevor Harper continued, “Got a new mower. Self-propelled. Practically runs itself.”

“Where was that when I used to cut it?” Sam asked jokingly.

To which Trevor shrugged, dug back into his plate of pasta, and continued the small talk—about their hot, rainless August, about the addition he wanted to put on a deck Sam already thought was too big, about the stack of Mallard Malone novels next to his recliner, about which his father said, “I finally caved, just wanted to see what all the hype is about.” Which Sam didn’t believe for a minute. And then in a quick subject change, his father asked about Sam’s latest online date that, to Sam’s chagrin, didn’t lead to a second, before telling Sam about a new course he was teaching in the fall on how Nazi Germany turned ordinary men and women into murderers.

Sam wondered if that was his father’s way of segueing into whatever his news was. Of casting the line and trying to hook him with the passive-aggressive bait Sam was accustomed to. His father had, more than once, drawn the correlation between how Hitler had brainwashed so many to murder, just as Charles Manson had done with his cult, albeit on a much smaller scale, culminating in the Tate-LaBianca murders. Just as Sal Batise had done with the even more gruesome Hawthorne murders decades later.

His father stood from the table and carried his empty plate to the sink.

Sam stared at his father’s back as he rinsed the plate under the tall swan-necked faucet. This was another way he had of opening the door, turning away so two introverts wouldn’t have to look at each other at the start of what Sam knew could be an uncomfortable conversation.

And Sam went for it. “I reached out to the Tree House, Dad. I entered that contest, for the interview.” His father, the last time they’d spoken over the phone, had called that contest the dumbest fucking thing I’ve ever heard of. Proof that Sal Batise, even behind bars, was still pulling strings. When Trevor Harper didn’t answer, Sam felt the need to explain. “The Tree House. That’s the nickname for the State Peni—”

“I know what it is,” Trevor said abruptly.

“In Twisted Tree,” Sam finished, deflated. His father added Dawn to the running water, making suds, and busied himself with the dishes. Sam said, “I didn’t think I’d hear back. It was such a long shot. But I did.” When his father didn’t respond, he added, “He picked me.” Sam let out a nervous laugh. “They gave me permission to interview him, Dad. Sal Batise. One last interview, on the day he’s to die. I know you don’t approve of the doc—”

“Are you going to do it?” his father asked, interrupting him.

Sam saw the tension in his father’s shoulders, heard the anxiety and anger in his voice as suds grew in the sink. “Yeah … tomorrow morning.”

Sam watched his father, waited as his old man said nothing and instead continued with the dishes, even though they had a perfectly fine dishwashing machine right next to him.

Even during his teen years, when the two of them standing side by side at the sink might have been construed by his classmates as dorky or uncool or whatever, for them, it was always a time of meaningful conversation. Doing the dishes was something they’d done together since Sam was a little boy. He had only been ten when his mother passed away, but one of his more indelible memories was seeing his parents at the kitchen sink, the glow from the evening’s twilight framing them like a painting as his father washed and his mother rinsed, as their post-dinner ritual, the two of them talking, laughing, occasionally flicking suds on each other—what Sam, in hindsight, would later realize was flirting. Sam recalled a morning in the weeks after his mother’s funeral, after the dishes had been piling up for days, when he’d entered the kitchen to find his father quietly sobbing at the sink, the spot beside him vacant. Sam had grabbed a stepping stool from the pantry, placed it beside his father, and without preamble stepped up and started handing him the dirty plates and bowls and cups they’d neglected for days. His father, as if by rote, wordlessly began stacking the dirty dishes to his left while Sam squirted liquid soap into the sink and billowy suds started to form, and soon doing the dishes also became their thing too.

Sam stood from the table, carried his plate to the counter, and made as if to take his spot beside his father at the sink, but before he could get into position, his father said, “I think you should leave.”

“Dad? Really?”