The Nightmare Frontier

by Stephen Mark Rainey

  Chapter 12

  “Mom? Dad?”

  Debra’s voice echoed eerily through the dead stillness of the Martin house. The moment Copeland had seen the door hanging partway open, he could only fear the worst.

  “Major Martin?” he called. “Anyone here?”

  “Dad’s car is gone. Maybe they’re just out somewhere,” she said, unable to keep the tremor out of her voice.

  Copeland glanced into the living room, the dining room, and then started back toward the kitchen. Debra rushed upstairs. The hideous sense of déjà-vu nearly made him swoon.

  The moment he stepped through the door, he stopped in his tracks, and his gorge rose.

  “Jesus,” he whispered. He heard Debra’s footsteps on the stairs, and though knowing it was futile, he forced himself to say, “Debra, don’t come in here. Please.”.

  Her sharp intake of breath broke his heart.

  “No,” she whispered. “Not them. Please not them.”

  Glass from the shattered window glittered like jewels on the kitchen floor, on the countertops, on the table. Whatever had come inside had done so with terrific force.

  The sharp, acid smell was the same as at Lynette’s house.

  “There’s no blood,” she whispered. “They weren’t here. They just weren’t here.”

  He wished he could share her hope, but his heart told him otherwise. He saw one dirty dinner dish in the sink and several food containers still on the countertop. If one or both of her parents had escaped, it would be a miracle, he thought. Better to let her keep hoping.

  But he saw that, as Debra scanned the room, her own hope fled. Her lower lip began to quiver, and before he knew it, she had fallen into his arms, weeping bitterly, her back arching with every wracking sob. He crushed her body to his and felt his own tears beginning to well as his grief for Lynette boiled to the surface again.

  He was barely aware of finally taking her by the hand and all but dragging her to the car. His breath came out in ragged gasps as the Lexus sprang to life, reversed out of the driveway, and screamed into the night, the streetlamps and the lights from the houses blending into a swirling, brilliant blur outside the windows.

  When time seemed to return to normal, the headlights were cutting a ghostly path through the darkness, and gnarled, gray trees on either side of the narrow road were bending down to peer curiously, menacingly, into the windows as they sped past.

  “What are we going to do, Russ? What are we going to do?”

  His hands throttled the steering wheel as his foot pinned the accelerator to the floor. “I’m thinking murder, perhaps.”

  Debra dug her nails into his right thigh. In a flat, artificially calm voice, she said, “Russ, you don’t know that Levi Barrow—or any of them—is responsible. Not for certain.”

  “Certain enough. Everything goes back to them, doesn’t it? Rodney and Zack Baird—up by Barrows. What you saw on their land yesterday. Levi stalking you, and going after your father—just a little while ago.”

  “It’s all circumstantial, at best. What happened tonight wasn’t on their land. And that thing you saw on the highway—that wasn’t on their land either.”

  “What—are you defending them? There’s nothing circumstantial about Levi being after you. Your father told you as much. You’ve seen him for yourself.”

  “Do you have a gun?”

  Copeland shook his head. “Not on me. I came here for a funeral.”

  “A knife? A slingshot?”

  He took a deep breath, trying to suppress his rising ire, but the attempt failed. So for a full minute, he refused to speak for fear of losing his last vestige of restraint. He knew she was in shock, trying to cling to reason, but her parents’ unknown fate had sent her emotions over a cliff. That much he understood. Finally, he said, “You want to just hand this over to the sheriff?”

  She swallowed hard and shook her head. “No. He’s too close to…those people.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  She said nothing for a while, but watched the trees flash past the windows. “Your mind’s made up, isn’t it?”

  “You know it would be best for me to do this alone.”

  “Like hell. If you think I’d go home, or anywhere else alone, you’re out of your mind.”

  “Then don’t try to stop me.”

  “I’m just trying to think rationally. Not that it’s really working.” Her breath caught in her throat.

  “I know, I know. But we’re running out of alternatives.”

  “What Lynette had in mind—to get people together. At the church, or maybe the school. Hell, get the mayor involved. He’s a friend of Dad’s.”

  “All that will take time. And I don’t think we have time. I don’t think we have time at all.”

  They had reached the crest of Yew Line Ridge, and now as they started down the long, curving incline that led through a long, tunnel-like passage of black pines, the reality of where he was going and what he was doing began to temper the heat of his emotions. Beneath the thick boughs, the darkness gathered like an enclave of malevolent ghosts, swallowing his headlights, and Copeland felt as if he were driving into one of his most terrifying juvenile nightmares.

  Ahead, he could see a break in the trees, beyond which the Barrow property lay in wait. Not a fleck of light marred the solid black landscape, and anyone watching from the house would soon see his headlights. He slowed down, pulled to the left side of the road, into a half-obscured opening in the trees, and shut off the lights. His hand hovered on the key as a little voice in his ear begged him to reconsider and turn back.

  Turn back to what?

  He switched off the engine and watched the darkness beyond the windshield for a few seconds to allow his eyes to adjust. When he finally turned to Debra, he saw only the vaguest impression of her face, her features unreadable. But her hand came to rest in his, and he squeezed it with what he hoped was more than empty reassurance. Then he reached into the glove compartment, withdrew his flashlight, and opened the car door. The inside lights blazed like captured daylight; he quickly slid out of his seat, pulled himself to his feet, and closed the door, immediately restoring the darkness, which he hoped would favor him should any searching eyes turn his way. The night air licked at him like a cool, questing tongue, and the profound, unnatural absence of sound set the hair at the back of his scalp to prickling. A few seconds later, with a sharp click, the passenger door opened, and again, briefly, light burst in the abyss like a fireball. Then Debra was at his side, the night again as black as the depths of outer space, their breathing and their own heartbeats the only intruders in the endless well of silence.

  His one concession to his fear was to open the trunk, dig into the spare tire well, and grab the tire iron, which he slipped into his belt. Hardly the weapon of choice when marching into the enemy’s keep, but it beat going empty-handed.

  He pushed his way through the low-hanging boughs and stepped onto asphalt, now feeling exposed and vulnerable beneath the glaring onyx sky. No stars, no moon, no clouds—no reflected light. Debra fell in close at his side, and they started walking slowly along the side of the road, his eyes on the coal-black pavement ahead, hers darting back and forth among the trees, their senses almost preternaturally alert for any sign that they were not alone. As they advanced, the trees soon ended, and now they could see a broad, black expanse, which Copeland took to be the grassy meadow that girded the Barrow property. Beyond this dark gulf, an angular silhouette gradually took form, a shade paler than its surroundings; as they drew nearer, he could see that Levi Barrow’s truck was gone, and not a glimmer of light shone from any of the windows.

  “Russ,” Debra whispered pleadingly, “we do not want to go down there.”

  He nodded, but they walked on, and as they approached the pitted gravel driveway, he led them into the tall grass, picking his steps carefully to avoid any hidden obstacles. Now on Barrow land, he felt cold, nauseating worms squirming in his stomach, and his legs turned m
ore rubbery with every step nearer to the house. He half-expected some lurking guardian to accost them at any second—and he had no doubt that if they were caught they would be promptly murdered. Yet even that dreadful prospect could not deter him from creeping close to the house, finding the nearest window, and pausing beside it to listen for any hint of movement inside. A faint, repulsive odor wafted from the old wooden structure, a noisome mélange of mothballs, mold, and raw sewage. Moving toward the back of the house, he found all manner of trash and unidentifiable debris in the grass, and his foot dislodged something that clattered noisily as it rolled away. Debra hissed in fright, and he halted until he was certain no one was coming to investigate.

  A rickety staircase led to the half-rotted back door, and as he mounted it, his mind zoomed out of his body to view the scene from some distance above. His hand reached out and closed on the rusty doorknob, which rattled hideously, but the door did not budge. Locked, of course. Again he froze, waiting for telltale footfalls inside the structure; none came, and he began to breathe a little easier. Unwilling to be thwarted, he sharply thrust an elbow against one of the dingy glass panes, which popped whole from its frame and splashed into fragments somewhere on the other side. He heard Debra whimper, but he reached in through the new portal, found the handle, and wrestled with the lock. The door sang like a grieving whale as it opened, and as Copeland stepped into the dark entryway, he thought, you pathetic, arrogant bastards, you would never expect anyone to actually break into your little castle, would you?

  The fact that anyone could actually inhabit such a fetid rat hole only inflamed his contempt for them. He took a few halting steps into the void and then decided to chance his flashlight. He flicked it on for a second—just long enough to get his bearings. He stood in the family’s kitchen: a tiny, cluttered room with a wooden table and chairs to his right, the refrigerator, sink, and cabinets to his left. In that moment of illumination, he had glimpsed a number of filthy dishes piled in the sink and on the countertop next to it, and he quickly realized that the sewer-like taint of the air originated in here. Pocketing his flashlight, he reached back and took Debra’s hand as she tiptoed in and pressed close to him; then he started walking again, toward the open door he had seen a short distance ahead.

  The planks beneath the ratty carpet groaned wearily with each step they took. No one could possibly be home, or someone would have come to check out the sound of the break-in—and who would willfully immerse themselves in such complete darkness as this? Once Copeland passed through the doorway into the next room, he reached for his flashlight again, and this time he let it rove freely and thoroughly along the walls and over the furniture. He wanted to know: just who was this degenerate, mysterious family whom he suspected of harboring bizarre, probably deadly secrets?

  His light revealed a dingy couch with several springs popping through the cushions; a couple of end tables covered with papers, ash trays, and empty bottles of various spirits; a curio cabinet filled with framed photographs, documents, and assorted, unidentifiable objects; a couple of cobweb-laced lamps; and a precariously leaning dining table covered with cast-off clothing, several stacks of unopened mail, and even a few books. A trio of stuffed deer heads and a few cheap-looking landscape paintings adorned the walls. It was the curio cabinet that most intrigued Copeland, so he made his way toward it and shone the light in through the grimy glass. When Debra came up beside him and peered in, she gasped audibly.

  Several of the framed photographs pictured a homely young man in an army uniform—some solitary, others with a group. The one that had caught Debra’s attention showed a number of men in combat fatigues standing around a tall, hawk-nosed figure with raven hair and narrow, wary-looking eyes.

  “My God, it’s Dad,” she whispered. “This must be Samuel Barrow.”

  “What is that?” Copeland said, pointing to a tall, ceramic object that almost resembled a crudely molded candle. Then it struck him.

  “Oh, no,” Debra whispered, before he could utter a word. Do you realize what that is?”

  “The tower we’ve seen. It’s that damned tower!”

  He focused his light on the object, and his heart began to race again. The miniature pillar stood about 18 inches tall, its dark surface rough and faceted, like carved graphite. At its apex, several small, narrow stems sprouted toward the heavens almost like the arms of an octopus. It rested on a base shaped like a cluster of boulders, which, at actual size, would have to be gigantic. Copeland noticed a bunch of tiny, etched lines in the ceramic base, which he soon identified as the initials “AHB.”

  “Amos Hosea Barrow,” Debra said. “Levi and Joshua’s father. He must have made this.”

  “Well, well. A nice bit of hard evidence.”

  Debra nodded and closed her eyes, as if by shutting out the sight of the thing she could deny its existence. But she pressed close to Copeland again as he started up the steep, creaking staircase to the second floor, and here, the narrow, mildewed walls and a thick, almost stomach-turning cloud of masculine body odor made him feel claustrophobic and slightly nauseous. The first door on the left hung open, and after shining his light inside to ascertain it was empty, he reluctantly stepped inside.

  They stood in a small room occupied by an unmade single bed, a wooden desk covered with papers, and—of all things—many shelves of books. On closer inspection, Copeland saw that the volumes consisted of everything from high school textbooks to literature of all varieties. Several of the spines bore no titles or author names; when he pulled one from a shelf and opened it, he found it to be a handwritten journal, its pages yellowed and crumbling. On the frontispiece, he discovered the name of the author: Samuel H. Barrow.

  “Not quite the illiterate bunch I would have expected,” he said softly, contemplating carrying it with him so he could study it more thoroughly.

  “I’m not sure about that,” Debra said, pointing to the desk—atop which lay a number of yellow stained magazines of questionable literary merit. “I wouldn’t be surprised if there’s more porn tucked between the covers of the classics on the shelves.”

  “I wonder which of the deviants belongs to this room.”

  “Levi, I believe,” Debra said. She held up a small photo in a cracked glass frame. “Here he is with Malachi’s mother. Dottie, I think she went by.”

  The woman in the picture looked like a typical redneck, Copeland thought, caring little about casting aspersions on the Barrow dead. Short, a bit heavy, and definitely homely, wearing threadbare overalls and a ragged-looking checkered shirt, her thin, dark hair pulled back in an untidy bun. Her smile looked almost genuine, and for a second he found himself wondering if that poor creature had ever known a moment of real happiness in her life. He placed the photograph back on the bedside table, and it was then that he noticed something poking out from beneath the mattress on Levi’s bed.

  The spine of a book.

  He slipped the battered-looking, leather-bound volume from its not-so-clever hiding place and aimed his light at its pages. Another journal, this one belonging to Levi Barrow himself.

  “Hard to believe the bastard actually knows how to write.” Copeland held the book so Debra could see and began to skim the entries, which Levi apparently recorded only sporadically, in an atrocious, barely legible hand. The first entry went back almost four years and recounted the brutal beating of a county taxman who had audaciously attempted to collect his due. As Copeland turned the pages, he found that fights featured prominently in Levi’s daily activities—and in none of the accounts did Levi end up for the worst. In situations where the outcome appeared questionable, Joshua generally joined in to shore up the odds. Copeland judged significant the fact that none of their exploits resulted in a run-in between the Barrows and the law.

  Even Malachi occasionally bore the brunt of Levi’s wrath.

  “Jesus, that poor kid,” Debra said. “It’s no wonder he’s ended up the way he is.”

  Copeland nodded and skipped to the later pages.
Then his heart briefly stopped.

  The entry upon which his light shone, some eight months old, read:

  “I seen her at the school with Malachi, and she treates him kind, not like them teachers hes had all so many years. Major Martin did himself proud with her, cause shes mighty beutiful, and must have a good heart. To see her makes me sad for my own heart, what slipped away from me so long ago its beyond hope. Malachi likes her, not knowing shes the old majors daughter. I cant think of no better mother for Malachi because the boy needs one, not like that hag piece of shit bich I made gone.”

  Copeland looked at Debra’s face. Even in the warm glow of the flashlight beam, it had turned stark white.

  He swallowed hard and advanced farther into the book.

  “Watched her again through the windows of her class, seen her call on Malachi, obvusly he done wrong because she looked sad with him, but not angry and no kids laghed like them all used to. I reckon it sounds funy but shes like a angel.”

  Another one, only a month old, read:

  “I dont care what the old major done for this family, yeah, I got respect enough for someone whoed help my daddy, and even grandaddy the way he done, but I know hed try and stop me from taken his daughter like I want. Ill have her if I have to kill him, which maybe grandaddy says yes, because Major Martin is up to something but we dont know what. Grandaddy has that keen sight, and hes making it so that soon anything and everthing we want well have, and hes working on it right now. I know he woud be might pleased for me to bring Debra Harington into this family, it would just be she couldnt never know what happen to her daddy.

  Itll be an ajustmet for all us when grandaddy makes the change happen, so I guest first things come first.”

  From two weeks past: