“Hello?” Her voice carried through hallway and up the stairs.
The soft clicking grandfather clock filled the first floor.
Rachel felt idiotic, talking to empty house. With a long creeeaaakk, she opened the basement door. Memories of flying furniture replayed in her mind. Taking one step at a time, she descended into the abyss with her hand firm around the mag light.
“I want to talk to you.” Rachel said into the darkness, bracing herself for another attack.
Nothing came.
She walked back to where rocking chair, hoping and not hoping that the doll had returned. No. Why wouldn’t they show themselves. None of this made sense. The children would know their killer, right? Couldn’t they help her or is she doomed to restless nights for eternity. Rachel felt a tugging feeling, beckoning her to the darkest corner of the basement. She took a breath and armed herself with a nearby dusty croquet mallet. Cautiously, she slipped by covered furniture and relics from the long dead Barnes family.
One moment, the feeling would stand the hairs on the back of neck and the next, she’d felt nothing. It seemed like she’d been play a sinister game of hot and cold as she navigated the dark of the basement. She reached a place at the back wall where her skin crawled like she was the host to a thousand roaches. She checked herself a few times, making sure that there were no insects on her and then studied the surrounding.
There was nothing particular unique about the drab concrete wall. Still, Rachel stared at the wall like a gallery panting, trying to decipher it’s hidden meaning. Disappointed, she trailed a few feet down, casting the flashlight to and fro until she found a fissure down the running the concrete. It ended at a fist size hole. Taking a knee, Rachel aimed the light within. Dust, dirt, cobwebs and a sort of booklet rolled up like a newspaper inside could be seen inside. Sighing, she shoved her arms inside. Her fingers brushed against dry concrete and then the old paper. It slid out without a hitch. Rachel’s hand and forearms were covered in red scratches. Gifts from the jagged concrete.
With her palm, Rachel brushed away a sheen of dust on the booklet’s face. Barnes is all it read. She flipped through the yellow pages. Numbers, names, addresses. She turned about the basement. Is this what the children wanted her to find?
Upstairs, she booted up her laptop and typed in the addresses. Lumberyards. It’s Reginald’s sales ledger, she realized. Making a few phone calls listed on certain websites and business registries, Rachel confirmed that the yards listed were purchased by Regi and then later bought back by the bank or Lilith Barnes’s parents. According the obituaries Rachel found online, the parents have been dead for over a decade. At least Hilda’s story checked out. That gave her confidence.
Taking the time to sift through the numbers and letters, she caught a detail on a final page. Regi had labeled two lumberyard Sale in Progress. The money he had estimated to purchase was considerably lower than the sales at the start of ledger. Rachel researched the two names. Strong Wood Lumber and Earth Call. Both had become lumber tyrants in the last two decades, but Strong Wood had undergone a name change in 1983 to Prime Cut Lumber. Funny. That’s the same year the Barnes family was murdered.
“I’m going to the art museum today,” Rachel told Brett via a phone call.
“Alright.” He said with hesitance. “See you for dinner.”
“You too.” Rachel hung up. She arrived at the lumber yard forty minutes later. Loud machines, yelling men in hard hats, and walls of timber encapsulated the busy yard. She paid the cabdriver extra to stay while she conducted her amateur investigation. She headed into the main building, a simple rectangle with an A-frame roof, and approached the man seated at the desk. He was of medium build with a healthy grey beard and creased forehead. His hazel eyes had crows feet and his face was long with a strong nose. The man had aged before his time. He was perhaps in his 50s. He looked up from his computer.
“Can I help you?” He asked politely despite his look of suspicion.
“I’m Rachel,” She shook his hand. “I’m authoring a book about the North Carolina lumber trade, and was wondering if you had a fifteen minutes to talk?”
The man smiled, almost flirtatiously. “Wouldn’t this have been easier to do over the phone?”
“Probably,” Rachel joked. But then I wouldn’t be able to see your face. “I like to get my hands dirty.”
The man smiled agreeably. Rachel could tell he liked her. Good.
“You must be Allen Umber,” Rachel said, recalling the name from the online business registry.
“People actually know my name? I’m honored.” The man joked.
“Only nerds like me, Mr. Umber.” A match. Now it was time to see if this was same individual who owned Strong Wood during the time of the murder.
Allen swiveled his chair and minimized the spreadsheet on his computer, revealing the desktop picture of him hovered over a dead buck. “I suppose I can kill a few minutes.”
“You hunt?” Rachel asked.
“For many years, yeah,” the man said proudly.
Rachel sat down at the chair facing the desk and pulled out her sketchpad. She flipped it to a page labeled Book Notes. In the cab ride, she jotted down some random facts about lumberyards to help support her lie. If you’re going to do something, do it right, she thought.
“Tell me about Prime Cut. What made get you into the trade?”
“Family got me into the business, as they do around these parts, and Prime Cut wasn’t always Prime Cut. Strong Woods was the name my father preferred.”
Rachel nodded. “Your father still around?”
“No. Passed in ‘78.” Allen admitted. “One minute, you’re BSing with the old man. The next, you’re thinking about his legacy and your role in that. Been running it ever since.”
“I’m sure keeping the business alive means a lot to you. Why change the name?”
Allen stared at her for a moment, trying to figure her out. “Marketing.”
Rachel jotted down a useless note. “I know in the seventies and eighties, Reginald Barnes tried to monopolize the surrounding the lumber yards.” She let the statement linger, watching the Allen’s reaction. He was still water. “I’m sure that upset you. Especially since your father had passed away only a few years prior. Almost like you finally settled in and learned the business and then some pretentious stranger comes into town to tear the rug out from underneath you.”
“It’s not a good feeling,” Allen said politely. It was obviously an understatement.
“You had to fight back,” Rachel said. “Make some real sacrifices to keep the business alive.”
“Most of us did,” Allen scratched his beard and didn’t look her in the eyes. “It was a rough time. Is this part of your book?”
“Yeah. The Barnes family massacre particularly. There wasn’t much press on it, and from the records, it seemed like they were murdered before he could finalize the agreement to buy out. Strong Wood. Seems suspicious, don’t you think?”
Allen shifted his jaw. “That was many years ago. I don’t remember much about it.”
“The Barnes family and their children were slaughtered in their own home, Mr. Umber. Almost every lumber company who’d been screwed by Reginald just got their fortunes back in a massive stroke of luck and you know nothing about it?”
“Nothing,” Allen replied. “As I said.”
Rachel felt she was losing her grip on the situation. If she ever had grip to start with it. She had to keep pressing him. “It saved your business. Seems like something you’d remember, almost like you changed your company’s name to distance yourself from the murders.”
Allen glared at her. “I don’t appreciate being accused of something I know little about.”
Rachel stared him down. “I’m only writing a book here, Mr. Umber. I didn’t mean to offend.”
“I’m afraid you did, Rachel…?”
“Harroway,” Rachel replied, using her maiden name. If he looked her up, he’d get her address from
eight years ago. Good luck tracking me to the Hadley House.
“I’d prefer if we discuss the lumber trade,” Allen said. “I only have a few minutes free.”
Rachel nodded and asked him some broad, improvised questions about timber, machinery, and his daily routine. It was boring and useless to her investigation. She needed to follow up her other clue. “Hunting is great past time,” She started. “But what do you defend yourself with at home?”
“That’s an odd question,” Allen replied.
“Many of my readers are blue collar gun owners. They like this kind of stuff. You seem like a high caliber type of guy.”
Allen chuckled. “Yes, I am.”
“Forty-five?” Rachel asked.
Allen nodded. “1911. Never let me down.”
Rachel jotted down the note. She remembered the bullet wounds on the children’s bodies. They were .45 caliber, or something similar. Was she really taking to their killer right now? The idea made her stomach churn. All things considered, the guy seemed so… normal.
Closing her notebook, Rachel exited the building and hurried to her cab. She felt a surge of adrenaline as Allen Umber waved her goodbye.
In the back seat of the cab, Rachel chewed her nail. Was she too forward with Umber? She didn’t know. She could only compare her experience to crime serials and serial killer novels. The man was defensive against her accusations. Then again, most people are to any accusation against them. This was going to be a lot more difficult than she thought.
Onward to Rachel next stop, Earth Call Lumber.
The yard’s set-up was similar but more disorganized. Instead of the massive operation Umber ran, there was a splinter team of workers sending lumber logs through massive saw blades. They were a chain smoking, catcalling, dog faced lot. Rachel paid them little mind. She found David Winsler pulling levers in a rusty red outdoor operating cab. Nearby, a shaft of lumber drifted down a loud vibrating conveyor belt into the rectangular lumber house where saws screamed in the wood dust coated the floor like Christmas morning snow.
Winsler was a short, muscular man with a bull-like upper body and a devilishly handsome face that had only gotten more attractive with age. The picture on his website was stoic and years younger.
He raised his index finger at Rachel and launched the last lumber log through the belt. Grumbling to himself, he marched out the cab and wiped sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand. Blackish grey hair curled out of the sides and back of his trucker hat. He had a sour expression on his clean-shaven, handsome face. “It appears anyone can walk into my yard uninvited these days.”
The afternoon sun beat on Rachel forehead and caused her squint. “I don’t mean to intrude. I’m writing a non-fiction book about the local lumber trade and was hoping you’d have few minutes to spare.”
“Should’ve made an appointment.” Winsler hiked back his thumb to the conveyer belt and shouted over a screaming saw. “I got at least two dozen more logs to get through here by sundown and we’re behind as is.”
“I know my visit is spontaneous. But I think you’ll be interested to hear what I have to say.”
“Probably not.” Winsler replied.
“A large portion of story follows the Barnes’s massacre in ‘83.”
Winsler gave her an evil eye. “What do you know about that?”
“I know Reginald Barnes wasn’t making many friend with his business model. And I know that his passing was only beneficial for the local lumberyard owners.”
“That’s a bold claim.”
“It’s a fact,” Rachel retorted.
The industrial shriek of saw through wood sounded behind them.
“Let me tell you about the Barnes massacre. Regi was no saint. He made enemies in the North East and they came back to collect their dues.”
“Nothing was stolen from his home,” Rachel replied. “His family was slaughtered.”
Winsler stared her down. “Some dues are only paid in blood. Some sacrifices are there to warn us.”
“You sound like you’re familiar with such practices,” Rachel stated, not realizing until a second after how bold her claim was. Her breath quickened. What if Winsler attacked her right now? How would she defend herself? She is in the middles of the woods on top of a mountain. Her only witness would be a cabdriver who doesn’t know her name. He could’ve gotten bored of touting her around and driven away. From where Rachel stood, the road was completely masked by trees.
“I had this dog once. Beautiful Golden Retriever. Loyal but stupid,” Winsler said, out of left field. “She’d go sniffing around these woods and come back home with a dirty snout and wagging tail. One day, she stuck her face into nesting hole on the ground. The kind with Yellow Jackets in it. Needless to say, she learned real quick about where to stick her nose.”
Rachel pondered the story, but to be honest, the meaning was crystal clear.
Winsler climbed back into the operating cab. “Have good day.” He flipped the switch and set another log to the saw blade.
Rachel chewed her nail and watched at the woods blur by in mix of green and brown. The cabdriver said something about the AC, but Rachel ignored it. Her thoughts stayed on the investigation. If either one or both of these men were the killers, she could try to tail them, but the massacre was thirty years ago. The chance that they’d lead her to something new was dismal at best. Also, she had zero experience tailing someone. It’s as good a time as any to learn. The prospect didn’t inspire her. Similar to her art, she needed to provoke a reaction from the audience. The easiest ways to do that… controversy and publicity. As someone who draws fictional murder victims for a living, Rachel knew how to make her art catchy. To bring that controversy and publicity to the murderers, Rachel needed another Golden Retriever.
“Police station,” She told the driver.
The Highlands’ police bullpen was tightly packed, under trafficked and smelled sterile like a hospital. Hugging the ledger to chest, Rachel approached the older man at the front desk. His glasses had a silver chain at edge of their arms and a magnet that connect the middles of bridge of the frame.
Rachel took a breath. It was her first time in a police station. “I have information regarding the Barnes Murders.”
The receptionist cocked his head.
“In 1983. At the Hadley House,” Rachel clarified.
Rolling back in his chair, the receptionist yelled to a man hunched over a desk. “Peak, you’re up!” The receptionist turned to Rachel. “Go on in.”
Rachel walked back to the desk.
“Detective Jenson Peak,” The man stood from his desk, introducing himself. Peak was a tall man with dark eyes, a long face, sunken cheeks, and pursed lips topped by a head of thick copper brown hair combed to side. A black tie hung from his ash grey collar. He looked Rachel’s age, in his thirties, and had an intensity about him that made it hard for Rachel looked him in the eyes. She did so anyway and told him about the ledger and Hilda’s story. Remembering after she had finished that this was in regards the Barnes murders.
“I read the cold case file a few months back. I don’t have the most social hobbies,” Peak said dryly.
“I draw dead people for a living,” Rachel admitted.
Peak smirked briefly and flipped through the ledger. “This won’t be enough to condemn your gunmen. But I can chase a few leads and give Hilda Kilgore a call.”
“Whatever gets us closer.”
“I don’t want to give you false hope. In cases like these, the killers get away,” Peak said nonchalantly.
“That’s kind of cynical,” Rachel replied.
Peak nodded to himself. “Yeah.”
They stood in quiet for a moment.
“Anything else I can do?” Rachel asked.
“The police will take handle the investigation. Your involvement will be problematic.”
Rachel wasn’t sure why she felt so offended by that. “If you need anything, I live in the Hadley House down--“
&n
bsp; “I know. Officer Lynchfield told me all about it.”
“Ah.” It was all Rachel could say.
After a few formalities, Rachel returned to her father’s home. She sighed and headed inside. Patters of lukewarm food set on the table. In the recliner, her father wiped his already polished bowling ball with a soft rag. He still wore his two-tone bowling polo. Brett adjusted the settings on his camera.
“I’m so sorry,” Rachel said. She smelled like sawdust. The three of them set aside their items and sat at the table. Liam said grace, and they ate. After an evening of small talk, Rachel took her shower and climbed into bed with Brett, who had been largely silent throughout the evening. They retired for the evening.
“Do your shoot go well?” Rachel asked as she pulled up the covers.
Brett put aside his glasses and stared at the ceiling. “Well enough. I went to the art gallery today to surprise you with lunch.”
“Brett, I’m sorry.”
He took a deep breath. “What’s going on, Rachel? Let’s not run in circles.”
Rachel paused to think about her response. “I… I have been looking into the murder of Reginald Barnes and his family.”
Brett rolled over to face her. His eyes had dark circles. “Who?”
“He was the previous owner of our house, and a local lumber tycoon. I believe that his competitors killed him and his children to warn to anyone wanting to monopolize the area.”
Brett scratched his head. “Why does this matter?”
“Because I literarily can’t sleep unless if the killers are found,” Rachel replied.
Brett scooted up to the bed’s backboard and turned on the lamp. “Look at me.”
Rachel did so. With a concerned look, Brett brushed his thumb down her cheek. He studied her bloodshot eyes. “When was the last time you slept?”
Rachel shrugged.
“This isn’t good for you. You’re an artist. Not a detective. That’s the police’s job.”
“I know. I turned in what little evidence I had today.”
Brett wrapped his arm around her and gently pulled her close. “I want you to stay at home for the next few days. Is that alright?”
The Haunting of Rachel Harroway: Book 0 Page 8