The Nightmare Frontier

by Stephen Mark Rainey

  “I hope I can be of help.”

  “I’m the school principal, by the way, and I’m sure she’s going to need some time away. She’s one of the most dedicated teachers I know, and I don’t want her to worry about her job.”

  “I appreciate that. I know it will ease her mind.”

  “Nice meeting you. Or I should say seeing you again. Must’ve been nearly thirty years ago.”

  “I have gotten a little bigger, haven’t I?”

  Martin smiled. “Take care.”

  Lynette was speaking softly to an elderly woman, so the principal turned his attention to Debra. The two of them stepped out of Copeland’s earshot and spoke in hushed tones; a couple of times, Debra glanced his way, her expression unreadable. But something about the way they huddled together gave Copeland the distinct impression that secrets were passing between them.

  “Excuse me—are you Russ?”

  Copeland turned to regard a man about his age, with curly, bronze hair just turning silver at the temples. His eyes were narrow and violet blue, his nose long and straight, his chin goateed.

  “I’ll be damned. Candle! Candle McAllister!”

  “You’re good. Very good.”

  “How could I forget that hair of yours?”

  “Lynette said you’d be coming.”

  Copeland clasped his old friend’s hand. As kids, hardly anyone knew McAllister’s Christian name was Doug.

  “Byston Hill’s most degenerate degenerate. You’re still living here?”

  “They didn’t dare set me loose on the world.” McAllister’s face darkened. “I’m very sorry about your sister’s boy. So tragic, young as he was.”

  “Thanks. You and Lynette friends?”

  “She and my wife, really. That’s her over there. Carolyn.” He pointed to an attractive, slim blonde engaged in conversation with another woman. “I heard you gave up on marriage a while back.”

  “Didn’t have much choice in the matter. But believe me, I prefer it this way.”

  “I guess that’s good.” McAllister smiled wryly. “How long you gonna be here?”

  “Maybe a week.” He glanced half-discreetly over the other’s shoulder and saw that Debra and Martin were still talking. “Depends on how Lynette gets along.”

  “I know you’ll be busy, but if you get any free time, give me a call and let’s have a drink. I wasn’t the only degenerate at Byston Hill, if I remember right. We should catch up and see who has fallen the farthest.”

  Copeland cut a thin smile. “At least they let me leave town. So what’s your lot in life?”

  “I own the Toro dealership in town. You would have passed it on your way in.”

  “Didn’t notice.”

  “Need a mower?”

  “Nope. Doesn’t everyone in this town own goats?”

  McAllister grinned. “Damn, it’s good to see you after all these years. Pity about the circumstances.”

  He swatted his old friend’s shoulder. “I’ll call.”

  “I hope so.”

  Debra and Martin parted just as McAllister went to rejoin his wife. The aging principal went to offer his condolences to Lynette, and Debra remained where she stood, her eyes subtly wandering through the crowd. Copeland pretended to stroll casually to her side.

  “I gather a lot of these people are from the school.”

  She nodded, inspecting the nearby trees before turning to face him. “Lynette’s very popular. She’s an excellent teacher.”

  “What do you teach?”

  “Social studies.”

  “Never my strongest subject.”

  “You didn’t go to the public schools here, did you?”

  “Nope. Byston Hill, up near Elkins. Lynette too, as I’m sure you know.”

  “The local schools have made great strides since we were kids. Even with our limited budgets, we’ve got great programs and faculties. My dad has worked wonders here. If I had kids, I wouldn’t think twice about sending them to the public schools.”

  “Your dad is Glenn Martin?”

  She nodded and raised an eyebrow. “Oh, you didn’t know?”

  “No one bothered to mention it. Hell, I never even knew he had a daughter.” He chuckled wryly and started to make a wise remark about nepotism, but then thought better of it. “So. Since your last name is different, I gather that you’re married.”

  She smiled wistfully. “Tried it for a while. It didn’t work out.”

  “Likewise.”

  “So I’m told.” She then gave him a long, thoughtful look. “You asked me about that man this morning. You said he was outside my house?”

  “Yes.”

  “His name is Levi Barrow. His son, Malachi, is in my class. Neither of them is very good news.”

  “I got that impression.”

  “I had some trouble with Malachi last week. What am I saying? I’ve had trouble with that boy every day of every week.”

  “You think his father is on the warpath?”

  She shrugged. “Wouldn’t surprise me. He dotes on that kid as if he were God’s gift. Malachi’s never done anything wrong, and all the problems he has are everyone else’s fault.”

  “You think the man’s dangerous?”

  After a long pause, she said, “I doubt it.”

  “You don’t sound very sure.”

  “Let’s put it this way. He’s never killed anyone, at least that I know of. But everyone around here avoids the Barrows like plague. They live out on Yew Line Road, a few miles out of town. They make moonshine and grow pot for their livelihood. Those are their respectable endeavors. Levi’s been known to get into fights from time to time.”

  “Yew Line Road...that’s where Rodney was killed, wasn’t it?”

  Debra nodded.

  “You don’t think there’s any connection, do you?”

  “Neither Lynette nor Rodney ever had any trouble with them. They’re a strange brood, though. Three men and the boy, all under one roof. There’s Levi, his brother Joshua, and their grandfather Amos. Their father, Samuel, got killed in Vietnam. Levi’s wife—maybe Malachi’s mother, maybe not—died several years ago, supposedly of cancer.”

  “Supposedly?”

  “When she died, they just up and buried her. Didn’t notify the police, hospital, anyone. The sheriff threatened to charge them with a host of crimes, turn it over to the state, maybe the feds. But not one thing ever came of it. You think any ‘reputable’ family could have gotten away with something like that?”

  “They sound charming. If Levi Barrow were hanging around my house, I might just decide to give the sheriff a ring.”

  Debra rolled her eyes. “He’s a distant relative of theirs, which is the only reason they aren’t all in prison. You know, if you look at the crime statistics for this county, you’d think there isn’t any. That doesn’t mean we don’t have our share. Somehow, it just never manages to find its way into the record.”

  “Interesting. For a lot with Biblical names, the Barrows seem anything but saintly.”

  “Levi likes to boast that the family is related to Clyde Barrow—you know, the male half of Bonnie and Clyde. That’s a load of rubbish, though. In a way, I feel sorry for Malachi, coming from that background. The kids call him ‘Malarkey,’ and some of the older ones have beaten him pretty severely. Make no mistake, though. He’s a bully, a liar, and a thief, so he comes by trouble honestly. Given the choice between showing him sympathy or the way to juvenile detention, I’d go with detention any day.”

  Before his brain had fully engaged, Copeland heard from his own lips, “Well, if Mr. Barrow comes around looking for trouble, give me a call. He may not be so brazen when he’s up against someone other than a single woman.”

  Debra gazed at him coolly, but then a tiny glimmer of humor appeared in her eyes. “I’m not asking for anyone’s help, Mr. Copeland. I can handle my own affairs.”

  “I didn’t mean to imply you couldn’t. I’ve just never taken kindly to…people like that.”
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  Now her smile was a little warmer. “You sound as if you’ve known your share.”

  “Maybe not quite like the Barrows. But I’ve dealt with some very ugly people in my time. I admit I get some satisfaction when I see them reap what they’ve sowed.”

  A hand touched his shoulder, and he turned to see Lynette looking at him with weary eyes. “Catching up on Silver Ridge gossip?”

  He smiled at her. “Just a social studies lesson. Your friend is a good teacher.”

  Debra rolled her eyes again and turned to Lynette. “Are you ready to go home?”

  She nodded. “Yes. They’re having lunch in the social hall, but I don’t think anyone will be offended if I skip it.”

  “I’m sure they won’t.”

  They started back toward the limousine, where the driver stood dutifully. He opened the door for them and then slid behind the wheel once they were all in.

  As the car started off, Copeland glanced at Debra, whose attention was all on Lynette now. The woman really was quite attractive, especially her eyes. They were narrow and dark brown, yet at the same time very bright, as if lit from within by an energetic flame. She was several years younger than he, probably early thirties. He enjoyed her frank manner of speaking and the youthful lilt of her voice; but she also had a measured, sagacious demeanor, probably a result of having taught children for a long time.

  He felt glad yet leery of the fact that she was single, for it meant that the only thing to stop him pursuing her was his own good sense.

  As they drove away from the church, on a lark, he glanced back through the rear glass and was only slightly surprised to see an unkempt, stringy-haired figure wearing denim jeans and jacket step out from a stand of trees to watch after the retreating vehicle.

  Again, Levi Barrow seemed to focus specifically on him, rather than Debra. And though there was hardly any rational basis for it, he suddenly felt a soul-deep tremor of fear, as if he had been marked for something awful; perhaps the same fate that his nephew Rodney, for whatever reason, had tragically—and horribly—suffered.

  Chapter 3

  Hard to accept that Rodney was gone, laid underground until the end of forever. God rest your soul, bud, and all that.

  Zack Baird had never been to a funeral before Rodney Lawson’s, and he hoped it was the last, for he could not have imagined a more depressing, tearful event. He had nearly bawled like a baby, and crying in public was not something his friends should ever see. Fortunately, most of them had been sitting behind him, so he doubted they could have glimpsed the tears that had leaked down his cheeks.

  On the good side, he could not complain about school being called off for the memorial service, and since it was a beautiful afternoon, going riding on his bike seemed just the thing to turn the whole day around. He had called Sammy and Chuck, but their parents wouldn’t let them leave the house. Since Rodney’s death, his own mom and dad had forbidden him to ride up the mountain, but unlike his friends, his parents had jobs to return to after the funeral; he could easily be back home watching TV and looking bored by the time they got in from work.

  But damn! Rodney would never be out here again, hauling ass through the woods and hitting the jump ramps they had built off Yew Line Road. For a “little kid,” Rodney had sure held his own with the best of the 13- and 14-year-olds. He could ride faster than any of them, and he performed stunts that none of the others could hope to match. Old Sammy was even hoping he could talk Ms. Lawson into giving him Rodney’s bike, though Zack had warned him not to go begging too soon; all they needed was a pissed-off math teacher with a long memory waiting for them when they got old enough to go to high school.

  Yew Line Road was a long, very steep and winding road that went up into the mountains, but numerous trails through the woods shaved off much of the distance. Still, many stretches of trail were so steep that he had to push his bike, and the late April sun had turned the afternoon quite warm; by the time he reached Greasy Bend—a long curve so named because it was hard to negotiate without slipping over the edge—sweat had begun to sting his eyes and dampen his T-shirt. Anyway, this was almost as far as he could go before reaching Barrow land, upon which no soul dared trespass. Barbed wire blocked the trail at the property line, and the boys had once seen old Joshua Barrow standing near the barricade, brandishing his shotgun and looking as if he wanted to use it on them. They always halted well short of that boundary before beginning the long, exhilarating ride back down through the woods.

  As he started up and around Greasy Bend, Zack felt, before he saw, that something seemed different about the place. Beneath the freshly bloomed trees, little sunlight reached the trail, but he knew the ridge as well as his own driveway. As many times as he had ridden the curve, he should not have had to draw up short to avoid running into a huge, rough-barked tree that grew right in the middle of the trail. Nor should he have found his bike sliding out from under him as seemingly solid earth gave way to a pit roughly the size and shape of a shallow grave, swallowing him before he realized what was happening.

  He automatically let go of the handlebars and threw out his hands to break his fall, just in time to keep his head from striking the rocky edge of the opening. The bike went tumbling away, and he landed with a heavy thud, his breath whooshing out of his lungs. For second, the lights went out, and he was afraid he had gone blind. Finally, the trees, lit by murky daylight, slowly swam back into focus.

  “Shit!” he gasped as he struggled to his feet. The walls of the pit were cold and slick, but with an effort, he managed to reach an exposed tree root and gradually pull himself up to firmer ground. The first thing he saw was his new pants covered with mud and the knees ripped. Jeez, that wasn’t good! At least he had escaped being injured. The clothes he might be able to explain away to his mom, but if he had gotten hurt, he could say goodbye forever to riding on the mountain. The second thing was that his bike lay thirty feet or more down the hill, and getting to it—not to mention back up to the trail again—posed a pretty hairy problem.

  But how had he managed to blunder into a tree and then fall into a pit? He had come this way only a few days ago. No way could a huge tree like that have grown in such a short time!

  He glanced up the trail in the direction of the Barrow property. The whole place seemed wrong somehow. All the trees seemed too tall, too luxuriant, even though foliage had started popping out in earnest over the last few days. And the curve, up near the top—it was supposed to bend to the right, not to the left! Could he have somehow strayed onto some side path that was similar, but not identical to the main one? How could he? He and Sammy and Chuck rode here all the time, rain or shine, heat of summer or bleak midwinter; he knew every inch of this trail, every fork, every twist and turn.

  Well, whatever, he had to retrieve his bike. He just hoped it hadn’t been damaged going over the edge like that. With a sigh of reluctant resolve, he started down the sheer hillside, using the smaller tree trunks as handholds and making short, controlled slides into the larger boles to keep from careening to the bottom and ending up a pile of broken bones. With some relief, he saw that his bike looked okay; no bent handlebars, and the chain wasn’t broken.

  When he reached it, he carefully lifted it from the ground and brushed off the clinging dirt and leaves. So far, so good. But now came the real bitch—getting back up to the trail with his burden. The bike was light, but not that light.

  Then he made his biggest mistake: glancing down the hill into the deep woods. His breath froze in his lungs because, only a few moments ago, the bottom had been perhaps sixty or seventy feet below; not hundreds and hundreds, as it now appeared. And there was supposed to be a small clearing down there where daylight always shined—not a thick knot of tar-black foliage that swallowed every ray of sunlight that filtered through the canopy.

  “Jee-zus!” he whispered, utterly disbelieving and, for the first time in his twelve years, afraid that the world might not be a stable, familiar place…that a child really could su
ffer an awful, unthinkable death—a fact that Rodney Lawson’s funeral had almost, but not totally, driven home. Rodney had been found not far from here. Was this what he had seen in his last moments—a world turned topsy-turvy right before his eyes?

  Then, somewhere above, he heard a loud, very strange clicking sound—almost like somebody smacking a number of sticks together at once. A rustling sound crept down from the trail, its source just beyond his range of vision, but obviously getting nearer. He craned his neck, trying to detect a trace of movement, some sign of an animal or—God forbid—a human being making its way toward him. So far, nada.

  “Hello?” he called, immediately wishing he had not. If someone was up there, it would almost certainly be one of the Barrows, and a member of that lowlife clan was the last person anyone would want to meet out here. For all he knew, one of them could have even killed Rodney.

  Click-click-clack, click-click-clack.

  The sounds grew steadily louder and more agitated, almost but not quite insect-like. The rustling, too, became more violent; but he felt certain that no human was causing it. Not a steady, regular pace like something on two feet, but an erratic and rapid shuffling—maybe an injured fox or a coon. If it was just a critter, he probably didn’t have anything to worry about—not from it, anyway. His main concern now was how to get off this bizarre, once-familiar mountainside, both with his bicycle and in one piece.

  The rustling stopped on the trail just above, and Zack realized that the woods had fallen deathly silent, leaving the atmosphere heavy and horrible, its weight pressing insistently upon him. This felt like one of his nightmares, in which terror seeped like infection from every aspect of his surroundings—the dark trees, the patchwork sky, the cold earth beneath his feet.

  Then the rustling began anew, and something lurched over the edge of the trail and started toward him beneath the thick underbrush—something he couldn’t see, something that raced toward him like a fast-moving snake, thrashing and clicking with palpable rage. He had only seconds before it reached him, so in that panicked instant, he opted for the only plan his terrified brain could concoct: he shoved his bike straight down the hill and leaped onto its seat, praying he could keep it upright and put enough distance between him and his pursuer to get out of this tight spot alive.