The Nightmare Frontier Read online

  “No, not at all. It’s better this way.”

  She nodded, satisfied. “There’s a room for you upstairs. Get your bags, and I’ll take you up.”

  When he went back out to the car, the sun had fallen beyond the steep mountainside that pressed close to the back of the house and the air had grown noticeably cooler. He had to admit that Lynette lived in a beautiful place, for he had never a seen a violet sky so clear. A light, clean breeze whispered appealingly through the trees that surrounded the house. No sounds of traffic infringed on the quiet evening; only soft, musical birdsongs and the melancholy chirping of crickets from the woods. For a brief moment, his mind zoomed back to his nearly forgotten childhood, when he could take for granted sweet, peaceful nights such as this in his mom and dad’s comfortable, country home. So different from his present suburban dwelling, which, even though separated from the worst of city bustle and clamor, scarcely served as a retreat from the rigors of metropolitan life.

  And since he and crazy Megan had split up a couple of years ago, “home” felt too big and too empty, required too much effort to maintain, and bit too deeply into his finances. He had been threatening to downsize his domicile for a long time but simply hadn’t; inertia, he supposed. After this trip, he would buckle down and deal with the situation.

  But now was not the time to think about his personal issues; not with the tragedy that had befallen his sister, leaving a host of unanswered questions. In comparison, his own troubles were trifling. He removed his two suitcases from the trunk and started toward the front door, only to pause in mid-stride as the world around him suddenly stopped.

  For several uncomfortable moments, he wondered if he had actually lost his hearing, for the birds, the insects, the breeze, all had gone abruptly silent as if cut off by a switch. Then a rustling sound crept from the bushes that lined the porch on the left side of the house—an animal, no doubt, but something larger than a squirrel or rabbit or a raccoon. A dog, perhaps. Then he recalled his sister’s remark about something having gnawed on her son’s body, and an urgent, unfamiliar sense of paranoia suddenly compelled him to hurry back to the safety of the indoors. When he pushed his way through the front door, he was already chiding himself for having succumbed to a ridiculous, childish, and inappropriate impulse, but at the same time, he realized how far out of his element he felt in this remote quarter, which he had left by design so many years before.

  However, the atmosphere of impending threat remained even when he was again standing inside the little foyer, the door securely closed. The stillness seemed strangely exaggerated, overbearing, and even his awareness of being far safer here than on any given Chicago street failed to dispel his anxiety. Only when the grandmother clock in the living room began to chime eight o’clock did his surroundings seemed to return to normal. He realized he was holding his breath.

  “Anything wrong?”

  Lynette stood in the kitchen doorway eyeing him with concern. He absently shook his head and lifted one of his bags. “Wanna show me where to stow these?”

  She gestured for him to follow and headed up the stairs. At the top, she turned right and led him to a small bedroom with two windows, one facing the dark pines at the northern end of the house, the other facing the night-shrouded back yard. The décor was neutral, so he knew this had not been Rodney’s room, for which he felt a moment of sincere relief.

  “Well, make yourself at home. The booze and anything in the kitchen are yours for the taking. There’s clean towels and stuff in the bathroom—second door down on the right. If you’re okay, I’m going to try to get some sleep. Anything else you need?”

  “Not a thing,” he said. “You sleep. I’ll probably crash before long.” He gave her another hug and kissed her on the forehead. She smiled weakly, said goodnight, and softly closed the door behind her.

  The window hung open, admitting a pleasantly cool draft. Copeland opened his bags and began stowing his clothes in empty dresser drawers and in the closet. Outside, birds and insects chattered blithely, and he now found some reassurance in their energetic voices. He made up his mind to forget his momentary attack of paranoia; the whole thing seemed stupid anyway.

  Still, when for one brief moment the crickets ceased to chirp, he stiffened involuntarily.

  As he was putting away the last of his clothes, he noticed a light snap on outside his window. Through a gap in the evergreen boughs that pressed close to the house, he saw an illuminated window of the adjacent house, and someone moving inside. At first, he paid the figure scant attention, but when he realized it was a woman—a very attractive one, at that—he knew there was nothing to do but take a closer look.

  She was a slim, well-proportioned brunette, her hair barely shoulder-length, her face rather angular, her eyes dark and narrow. She also appeared to be putting clothes in drawers, perhaps having finished a load of laundry. She wore jeans and a light-colored sweater—thank God! Had she been wearing less, the will to turn away might well have eluded him. Voyeurism was far from one of his usual tendencies, but under the circumstances, he felt in no hurry to draw the curtains. The young woman was probably so accustomed to the room across the property line being empty that the prospect of someone watching her from it never occurred to her. If she should look up, though, she would quickly notice his spying eyes. With a sigh, he moved away from the window, wondering if it was in time to salvage at least a shred of his decency.

  Still, he felt a little thrill at the unexpected encounter. Certainly, the time was not right for indulging in amorous fantasies; yet he could not deny the fact that, since Megan had ripped out a fair chunk of his soul and pulverized it with a jackhammer, loneliness had been a worrisome bedfellow. Okay. What if he did meet this woman? He lived 700 miles away and had no interest in a mere fling. For all he knew, she was married, with a redneck husband who would as happily kick his ass to China as shake him by the hand.

  Before he undressed, he closed the curtains. And as he began to get out of his clothes, he gave himself a thorough mental flogging for having not only seriously contemplated getting acquainted with this woman, but also for making the unrealistic—and possibly disastrous—assumption that, if they did meet, she would be single and willing to give him more than a passing glance.

  Foolishness, he thought and decided that, before he took off his pants, he would go downstairs and pour himself a nightcap. That, at least, was an emotional investment he could still afford to make.

  Day Two

  Chapter 2

  Copeland awoke to a faint sound tickling his eardrums, not at all unpleasant, even appealing, since the dreams he was leaving behind had been forays into dark, troubling territory—most having to do with his bitter divorce from the wacko Megan. Warm rays of early morning sunlight sifted through the branches of the white pines to shimmer on the bedspread, just missing his face. The soft, melodic chiming of bells, perhaps from the church he had passed yesterday, drifted in through the open window, as mellow and relaxing as a woman’s fingers caressing his brow. For several minutes, he lay there basking in the satisfying warmth of his blanket and the gentle music on the cool breeze, until he realized that, more than likely, the bells were tolling for his sister’s lost son.

  After reluctantly dragging himself out from the covers, the first thing he did was go to the window and peer through the foliage at the house next door. Hardly unexpectedly, he saw nothing and no one in the now-darkened window, but after the little thrill of glimpsing Lynette’s neighbor the night before, he felt a little pang of disappointment. Then, as he started to turn away, he noticed someone moving beyond the neighboring house, so he stood fast and craned his neck hopefully.

  Alas, it wasn’t her. The big tree largely obscured his view, but through a small opening in the branches, he could see a squat figure standing belligerently in the middle of the road, heedless of any traffic that might come around the curve. It was a man: white, mid-forties, stringy-looking black hair, heavy brow, tattered jeans, dirty denim jacket. Su
re enough, he seemed to be glaring intently at the house next door, which made Copeland’s hackles rise. Even if he couldn’t claim to know Lynette’s attractive neighbor, he trusted his instincts—and right now they told him that this was some local redneck aiming to make trouble for someone who didn’t deserve it.

  He got dressed quickly and went down the stairs, gingerly in case Lynette was still asleep. At the bottom, he heard her moving in the kitchen, but rather than detour to greet her first, he went directly outside and up the driveway to the road, figuring that by making himself visible, he might discourage the interloper from doing something he would regret. But his effort proved futile, for by the time he reached a point where he could see around the trees, the unkempt man had vanished.

  “Taking in the air?” Lynette asked as he stepped back inside. He just nodded and gave her a good-morning hug. “Coffee’s ready,” she said. “I assume you want a cup.”

  “Give me.”

  She poured him a large mug from the steaming pot—an ancient, stainless steel percolator with a long, curved spout—and asked if he wanted breakfast. He declined, generally accustomed to having his first meal around noon. For the moment, Lynette appeared to be in relatively good spirits, though he doubted she could sustain them for very long.

  Sure enough, as the morning crept by and she went upstairs to dress for the funeral, she fell deeper and deeper into gloom. By ten, she would not even utter a word; she just sat and smoked cigarette after cigarette. Now more than ever, Copeland wanted to comfort her, but in apparent proportion to her grief, the means to ease her pain eluded him. Finally, he took away her smokes and held her for a while, rocking her gently back and forth the way their dad had when she was small. He wasn’t entirely sure she was even aware of his presence.

  A few minutes before they were due to depart, the doorbell chimed, and Copeland left Lynette on the living room couch and went to answer it. When he opened the door, he barely kept his jaw from hitting the floor, and his cheeks began to warm before the woman from next door even spoke a word.

  “Hello,” she said, offering him a pleasant but rather sad smile. She was dressed for the funeral and held a small black purse in one hand. “I’m Debra Harrington. You must be Lynette’s brother.”

  He nodded and took her extended hand, hoping she didn’t notice his face flushing. “Russ Copeland. Please come in.”

  “Thanks. I live next door. We’re supposed to ride together, I believe.”

  “Ah. Lynette didn’t mention it. She’s not doing so well, I’m afraid.”

  “She loved that boy so much,” the young woman said with a distressed shake of her head, heading for the living room as if she knew just where to find his sister. “We’ve known each other a long time. We both teach at the high school.”

  He nodded, withholding his surprise, and watched silently as Debra gave Lynette’s shoulder an affectionate squeeze. “Hey, honey. It’s me. I guess we’re all about ready to go?”

  Lynette looked up at her friend and nodded. “Time to say goodbye?” she whispered.

  “Yes.”

  No sooner had she spoken than another knock came at the door, and Copeland opened it to reveal a tall, balding man wearing a crisp, black suit and a somber, sympathetic face. The limousine was parked in the driveway behind Copeland’s Lexus.

  “Lynette Lawson?” the man asked in a low, mellifluous voice.

  “One moment.”

  Copeland went back to his sister and offered her his hand. She gripped it tightly as he led her toward the door; and he could feel her trembling. Debra took her other hand to offer extra support.

  “Take her on to the limo,” he told Debra. “I’ll lock up behind us.”

  “Sure.”

  They rode in silence to the church, which was not the one he had passed on the way in, but the Cheat Mountain Church of Christ, which lay in the opposite direction. The small, white building nestled in a wooded grove at the base of a steep ridge, and Copeland could see a few gravestones peeking out from the trees on the far side of the tiny parking lot. One grave was open and surrounded by a cordon of white cloth. A small crowd had already gathered at the front of the building, and the minister stood at the door, greeting the mourners as they made their way inside.

  Copeland and Debra assisted Lynette as she got out of the limo, a bit shaky, but maintaining herself without faltering. The minister, a middle-aged, rotund, bespectacled fellow named Reverend Lee, greeted them warmly and personally led them to the pews at the front of the sanctuary, directly before the casket, which was closed and—most distressingly—little more than half the standard size. Before taking her seat, Lynette went to the casket, leaned over it, and softly wept for several minutes. Copeland and Debra remained a respectful step behind her, but close enough to catch her in case she suddenly went faint.

  As they turned to take their seats, Copeland froze, rather rudely jolting his sister. He mumbled an apology and assisted her into the pew, but as Debra started to sit down, he touched her shoulder and whispered in her ear, “Take a look at the back pew and tell me if you know that man.”

  When Debra looked around, her dark brown eyes widened briefly and, unless Copeland was very much mistaken, her face lost some of its color. But when her eyes turned back to his, she appeared unshaken. “He’s familiar. Why do you ask?”

  “I saw him out in front of your house this morning. He doesn’t strike me as a particularly fine human specimen.”

  He hadn’t meant to speak quite so candidly, but there it was. He almost expected her to give him a reproving glare, but she merely shrugged. “No, he doesn’t look like much, does he?”

  Then she touched the back of his hand, a subtle but clear signal of gratitude for his concern, and a pleasurable tremor passed through his body. Trivial though the gesture might be, he couldn’t help but feel that something had passed between them; perhaps the beginning of a bond, however tenuous. Then guilt for his self-centeredness, so inappropriate under the circumstances, nudged him briefly, and he took his seat next to Lynette, who reached for his hand and squeezed it, as if he were the rock she needed to cling to. Better he should be one now than allow his attention to wander errantly; but before bringing his focus back to the sad affair before him, he glanced quickly back at the shabbily dressed, conspicuously out-of-place mourner and found the man’s black, unblinking eyes staring, not at Debra, but at him.

  The service was a poignant, if brief, tribute to Rodney Lawson, delivered eloquently by Reverend Lee, who had obviously known the boy well. There was no shortage of tears, but for her part, Lynette held up well enough, her spirit bolstered by the pastor’s message of hope for both the departed and those left behind. After his eulogy, he directed the mourners to the cemetery on the hillside, and as the small crowd gathered, four men bore the small casket to the grave.

  Copeland took the opportunity to search the faces for the strange interloper, but he had seemingly vanished. On at least a couple of occasions, Debra also surreptitiously scanned the crowd, and when she determined that the object of her search was no longer present, her demeanor relaxed noticeably. She remained close to Lynette as they stood at the graveside and took her arm when Reverend Lee stepped forward to say his final words before the earth claimed Rodney’s body.

  “Father, please look with compassion upon the mother of your servant, Rodney Allen Lawson, and support her in this time of deep personal loss. To you, Lynette, I say rejoice in the knowledge that your beloved son is now in arms of our heavenly father, where he shall know eternal peace and joy, looking forward to the day when he is permanently reunited with his loved ones. And now his body is consigned to the earth whence it sprang, until that day when corruption shall be no more, and all who are one in Christ shall rise and walk in the new Jerusalem. Lord, we humbly pray for your blessing, in the name of your son, Jesus Christ. Amen.”

  Lynette’s tears had begun to flow anew, and Copeland slid a supportive arm around her waist, hoping now that this business would en
d quickly so they could get out of here; the assembly of caring friends was important, but maintaining her composure in front of them was wearing her out. He had always hated funerals, and having to endure the interment of a child who had barely lived at all was particularly excruciating—especially in view of the effect it had on those closest to the boy.

  The four pallbearers had laid the casket onto the lowering device—a stretcher suspended from a steel frame above the open grave—and now, one of the men pulled a lever at one end, and Rodney Lawson’s remains slowly descended into the dark pit without fanfare; no heavenly chorus, no wails of anguish, no cries of rapture. Then the preacher turned and slowly, solemnly made his way back to the church, signaling that the service had ended.

  The caretaker would seal the dead within the earth after the mourners had left.

  Finally, a few voices rose to a soft murmur, and people began to migrate slowly away from the gravesite. Lynette continued to stare into the dark opening, but her tears had all dried.

  “Be at rest, my dear boy,” she finally said. “I love you so much.” Then, gently removing Copeland’s hand from her arm, she turned and slowly walked back toward the church building, her gait steady, her expression sober. Several people came forward to speak to her.

  One of them, an older, white-haired man with tanned leather skin and a hawk nose, stepped up and extended a hand to Copeland. “You’re Russell, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “I doubt you remember me. I used to play golf with your dad, back in the dark ages. I’m Glenn Martin.”

  “Ah, yes, I think I recall. Good to see you.”

  Martin gave Lynette a concerned glance. “Your sister’s had such a rough time. First Roger, and now her boy. It’s good you could be here for her.”