Fairlane Road

by Cody Lakin

  Andrew Jean was standing on his lawn when Jezebel arrived at the house, and he was just finishing sucking on a cigarette, a troubled and curious expression darkening his features.

  “Hi Dad,” she said, coming to stand beside him.

  “Hey, Jess. Good to see you back. You’re earlier than usual.” He dropped the cigarette—what was left of it—and crushed it under his boot.

  “Yeah. You know, after what happened yesterday, I figured being home wasn’t such a bad idea.”

  He gave her a slight smile, but his gaze returned down Forest Street. “Well that’s good. Makes me feel a bit better, to be honest.”

  “Was that James?” She nodded in the direction of the street.

  “Yep.”

  “Do you know what’s going on?”

  “Nope. He came to visit no more than a half hour ago, so…” He took a deep breath, let it out slowly through his nose, and shook his head. “I don’t know. Can’t be anything good.”

  Jezebel crossed her arms over her chest as if to shelter herself from the chill on the wind, and Andrew reached out and put an arm around her, perhaps sensing her discomfort. She had always been sensitive to conflict and tension.

  “You see anything out there?” he asked.

  “No. I just visited Edgar for a few minutes on my way here, and that’s it.”

  “Mmm. How’s old Ed doing? Haven’t seen him lately.”

  “He’s good. Just the same, like he’s always been,” she said, and had it not been for the tension she felt in the air, she would have smiled, maybe suggested that he go and visit. How true it was, she also thought, that Edgar Forgael was and always had been the same. He was likely the most consistent person with his habits that Jezebel had ever known, making him unfailingly reliable—reliable, of course, except for his scattered trips down Fairlane Road—and always pleasant to see. “He and I shared a glass of wine together, actually.”

  Her father smiled. “Enjoying the spoils of society’s final initiation into adulthood, I see.”

  “If you wanna see it that way, sure,” she said. From down the street, Detective James Goode’s car became visible, heading back their way. It was no longer speeding, and the light was no longer flashing on the roof. The windshield presented a distorted reflection of the branches of trees and the blue of the sky above, rolling over the vehicle like liquid.

  Jezebel sensed strongly, then, that something was even more wrong than she had imagined. She felt it looming like dark clouds, and a shiver ran across her body.

  “I think I’m gonna head inside for a second,” she said.

  “Sounds good.”

  Jezebel made her way into the house as the car parked at the foot of their gravel driveway, and James Goode emerged, visiting for the second time today—the second time within the same hour. Sweat shone on his forehead, his face was pale, and he wore a somber expression, evidence of whatever burden he carried on him now.

  Andrew Jean approached him, equally curious and concerned. “Didn’t figure I’d be seeing you for at least a few more days, Jimmy.”

  Goode looked down at his feet and drew a long, heavy breath. “You’re gonna want to sit down for this one, Mr. Jean. In fact, so am I.”

  Once they were seated on Andrew’s front porch, in the same fashion as they had sat earlier, Goode told Andrew why he had come, and at hearing the news, Andrew’s eyes widened and he felt the blood drain from his face. Suddenly he felt small.

  “Now hold on. What do you mean disappeared?”

  “Vanished, is what I mean. I wasn’t there, and I haven’t seen the footage, but that’s what my partner told me, and even the chief backed him up. Knox was there in the holding cell, and just like that he was gone.” Goode clapped his hands together. “Like, fucking… dust.”

  Andrew noticed the young detective was trembling and on the verge of tears. “What else?”

  Goode was biting his lips inward so that his mouth was a thin whitened line. “The… the cell was still locked. It takes more than just a key to open and everything was just… just the way it always is. And he was gone. No one saw him, nothing weird happened. Just up and vanished into thin air.”

  Where Goode had expected outward shock, Andrew Jean somehow maintained a level of calm acceptance, at least on the outside. Goode watched as Andrew breathed carefully through his nose, eyes aimed toward the street as he rubbed at his chin and jawline.

  “How sure are you?” Andrew asked, turning so that he was facing the young detective directly.

  “What do you mean?”

  “How sure are you that that’s exactly what happened?”

  “Oh, well… I don’t know. My partner wouldn’t make something like that up, and like I said, the chief backed him up. No one else at the station said they saw anything strange, plus it’s not like Knox could’ve just walked out the goddamn front door. He…” Goode shook his head. “There’s no way any of this… okay, yeah. I’m sure. I’m sure that’s what happened, because nothing else could possibly make sense.”

  Andrew nodded. “That’s what I thought.” His mind began to race with the realization that all of this was true, that Charlie Knox was loose in this town, as dangerous as a plague.

  “What are you thinking, Andrew? What should we do? What should I do?”

  Again Andrew took a few seconds to think, leaving the young detective in suspense. “I don’t know. Maybe you should head back to the station, though. Help out if they’re setting up patrols and all that.”

  “Right. Shit.” Goode stood up, fumbling for his keys. “What about you?”

  “I’ll be fine. Got to do some thinking. A lot to take in.”

  “You got that right. I’ll be around. Keep an eye out.”

  “Yeah, you too,” said Andrew, though James Goode was already hurrying to his car. “You too.”

  * * *

  Jezebel turned pale when her father explained to her what was happening, especially when he mentioned the name Charlie Knox. Andrew hadn’t thought that she would remember much about the Knox family—she had been eight when it had first begun, thirteen when it ended—but the recognition which came across her face was undeniable, and it brought a sinking feeling into Andrew’s stomach. For years, especially after the Knox case and his wife’s leaving, he had intended on letting the Knox family legacy die its slow, eventual death, and it had brought him slight comfort knowing that Jezebel would never be part of it. That case had been the closest thing to evil he had ever encountered; its influence had tainted everything it touched, and Andrew had decided that the case had been the primary cause of his wife’s walking out on him and Jezebel.

  For seven years he had been content to bury that dark, poisonous legacy, had even slept better in previous years with the knowledge that the Knoxes could no longer contaminate his life. And now here he was, watching the fear—one which stretched back to her broken childhood—rise in his daughter’s purple eyes and sweet face as he relayed to her what Detective James Goode had relayed to him: that Charlie Knox was very much alive, very much the son of his parents, and very much at large in this small town.

  “He…” she spoke in a frightened, choked voice. “He was their son?”

  Andrew sat in his lounger in the living room; she sat just a few feet from him, on the loveseat. “Yes,” he said. “He was even there, at the end. When they… well, when they killed themselves, out on Fairlane Road.”

  “How old was he? When that happened, I mean?”

  “Well he was—he is—your age. Maybe a little older, but not by much.”

  “He was thirteen, and he saw his parents kill themselves right in front of him?”

&nbs
p; Andrew nodded, his eyes losing focus. “I saw it, too. In fact it’s about the only reason I remembered his name when Jimmy told me. I remember because my partner Sam and I were just pulling up to the three of them, right at the edge of the forest—you know, where the road bends into the trees—and we were out of the car, pulling our guns, when they shot themselves. Thomas and Susan Knox. They bent down to tell thirteen-year-old Charlie that they loved him, then they put the barrels of their guns into their mouths, and must’ve pulled the triggers in almost perfect unison. Like two claps of thunder at the same time.”

  Jezebel had curled her legs up against her chest. “Oh my god.”

  “And the weird thing is that this kid, barely a goddamn teenager, wasn’t even scared, or shocked… or even sad, for all I know. He just stood there, staring at his parents’ bodies, and… and he almost smiled. He was looking at them like they were something interesting, like he wanted a closer look. I didn’t know what to make of it, and eight years later, I still don’t. But I can tell you this, at least, Jess: seeing that wasn’t what made him the way he is now. He must’ve always been like them. A psychopath. And you know I don’t believe in this kind of thing, but… evil. That’s the word that comes to mind when I think of Charlie Knox, for whatever that means.”

  The two of them were silent for a few moments, both trying to comprehend to the best of their abilities all that had happened and was happening.

  “And…” Jezebel cleared her throat, “…and he’s out there, somewhere? Here, in Lamplight?”

  “Unless he’s on the run from here, then yes. But something tells me he wouldn’t leave this town. This place must have some importance to him. It’s where it all came to an end, about eight years ago.” He remembered, despite not wanting to remember, how, when Thomas and Susan Knox had come to Lamplight, they had murdered three people over the course of two weeks, and had dragged each body to Fairlane Road. It had been a ritual, of sorts. Sacrifices, maybe offerings, to whatever dark entities they had molded their lives around, worshipped, raised their glasses to. The high invisible ones, he remembered them saying, shouting even—accompanied by their many followers.

  “Dad?”

  “Hmm?”

  “You okay?” Jezebel had leaned forward, resting her elbows atop her knees, concern lining the soft features of her face. Andrew thought of how he could see a lot of her mother in her. But not in her eyes. Somehow her eyes, their unique and natural color, were entirely her own.

  “Yeah. What?” he said.

  “Nothing. It’s just… you had this look on your face just now. Maybe I’m just getting jumpy.” She managed a smile.

  He smiled back, resting back in the seat, feeling far away from himself, exhausted by the emotions that were resurfacing in the form of dusty memories.

  “I’m glad you came back early today,” he said. “I’d be worried sick by now if you were still out there, wandering about.”

  Yeah.” She looked down at the carpet, eyes seeing nothing. “Me too.”

  Chapter 3:

  So Faintly You Came Tapping

  The Tracy family had lived on Forest Street, just a few houses down from Andrew and Jezebel Jean, for almost thirty years, and even then—thirty years ago—their arrival to the town of Lamplight had been noted by almost the whole town, especially the police. Thirty years ago, Tyler Tracy had been just a college student with his equally hillbilly wife who he had married just out of high-school, and he had quickly made himself known as an obnoxious troublemaker who was never quiet about his opinions, never ashamed of his largely ignorant beliefs, and frequently up for a fight or an argument. But that had been thirty years ago. Nowadays, Tyler Tracy was a single father, and his son, Arnie, whose current determined purpose in life was to get Jezebel Jean to sleep with him, was the spitting image of his father.

  Tyler Tracy pulled his rattling pickup truck into the parking lot of Lawry’s Pub and sat for a moment, staring at the pub’s small neon sign with eagerness. His son Arnie unbuckled himself and looked over at his father.

  “What? What is it?” asked twenty-three-year-old Arnie.

  Tyler shook his head and smacked his lips. “Ah, nothin’. Nothin’ at all.” He gave his son a crooked grin, and moved to exit the truck when movement from the bar’s entrance caught his attention and caused him to freeze.

  It was slow for the bar, but that would change when evening came. All the bars in Lamplight enjoyed their prime hours after sunset. And it was exactly this midday slowness which made the man standing on the sidewalk stand out. Even Tyler Tracy, a man who had spent most of his life seeing himself as the toughest guy around, felt a cold chill ripple across his skin at sight of him.

  The stranger was dressed in a clean black button-up shirt under a simple knee-length coat, his dark hair slicked back but still ruffled and wild. Over his eyes the stranger wore round goggles which were pitch black, making his eyes look like holes in his face. And he was just standing there, admiring the entrance to the bar from the sidewalk, his expression indecipherable with his eyes impossible to see.

  “What in the hell,” said Tyler Tracy, slowly pushing his squeaky driver’s door open but staying seated. “You ever seen somebody like that fellow, Arnie?”

  Arnie, who was occupied with his phone, glanced up, then did a double-take, squinting this time to see more clearly.

  “Nope. Weird looking fucker, though.”

  As they both watched, the strange man appeared to shrug, and then walked into the bar. And without another word on the matter, as if the man’s presence had cast some spell upon them and his moving out of sight had broken it, Tyler and Arnie Tracy both climbed out of the truck and made their way into the bar together—a familiar sight to those who paid attention. Rarely was either of them seen without the other. Arnie Tracy was, for better or worse—most likely for worse—the mirror-image, both physically and disposition-wise, of his father.

  There were always at least six people in Lawry’s Pub, and today was no exception. Most of the customers today were scattered about the barstools, mostly middle-aged men who looked much older than the young women talking with them, while Roger the bartender and longtime owner idled to and fro behind the counter, his trademark half-mouth grin never leaving his face. There was soft country music playing, and a single TV behind the bar showed a sports news channel.

  The strange man with the black goggles was standing at the bar, blocking the only set of two barstools available in a row.

  Tyler Tracy made a tsk sound between his teeth and walked toward the man. He had never been the kind of person to back away from conflict, rather with him it had always been the opposite, ever since grade school. He had even started a number of fights in this very bar, avoiding being banned solely because of his friendship with Roger, and because he was a regular.

  Tyler placed a hand that resembled a paw on the strange man’s shoulder, making certain to grip intensely.

  “Hey, buddy. You mind stepping aside? You’re blocking two seats just standing there with your dick hanging out.” He gripped the shoulder tighter, but still the strange man took his time turning to face him, as though in slow motion. He still wore the black goggles even though he was inside, and once he was fully facing Tyler Tracy, the strange man grinned.

  “Truly, sir or madam,” the strange man said, his voice intimate, carefully articulating and annunciating every syllable, “your forgiveness I implore. But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,” he grinned wider in response to Tyler Tracy’s stunned silence, “and so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door, that I scarce was sure I heard you,” he pried Tyler’s fingers from his shoulder, “here I opened wide the door.” Most of the people in the bar had stopped their individual conversations in f
avor of this encounter, so that the strange man’s words, recited in a tense, fervent whisper, could be heard across the room: “Darkness there, and nothing more.”

  Time froze in the stillness that followed the strange man’s words—and those words were all the stranger to the majority of the onlookers, only a few of who were readers of poetry, specifically that of Edgar Allan Poe—and for an even longer, incalculable span of time, the man stood there, grinning at Tyler Tracy, who was just as bewildered and afraid as everyone else in the bar, and no one made any moves to break that silence.

  It was Arnie Tracy, standing just a foot behind his father, who broke the spell. “What are you, some kind of queer, talking all fancy and trying to impress?”

  The strange man’s head shifted barely to the side, and even through the solid blackness of his round goggles it was plain that his gaze had fallen upon Arnie.

  “Do you know the origin of the word queer, boy?” The man moved toward Arnie, and Tyler Tracy threw an arm out to stop him—some semblance of parental protective instincts amid growing, paralyzing fear—but the strange man swatted it away as though it were a bothersome insect, his focus never leaving Arnie. “It’s German, and is used to describe something as perverse, or oblique, or, for a more illiterate mind such as yours, strange, or weird. So, if I so chose, I could excuse the fact that you just tried to insult me—me—with your infantile mind and its infinitely more infantile vocabulary, and I could take it as an unusual kind of compliment. However,” he kept moving closer, closer, and Arnie backed away, “when I look into your eyes I can see the insulting dullness of your soul, and it makes me feel inclined not to take your words as a compliment. And I cannot help but wonder…” He set his foot down hard on his next step, making his shoe clap loudly through the bar. His grin had lost all humor and amusement, had become a tense skeletal gritting of the teeth. “I cannot help but wonder what you must be thinking, now that you’ve lost your sense of superiority that existed only in your mind because of some banal sense of entitlement and bloated self-importance, since it becomes you that your pride must be too considerable for you to apologize to me. And here’s the thing, Arnie Tracy of 612 Forest Street. I might be inclined to hurt you. I was merely minding my own business, perusing this bar’s fine collection of liquor, when you and your father decided to come in and dare try and intimidate me, and insult me. I might be inclined to visit your home in the middle of the night and use that ignorant flag of yours to burn down your house.”