by Brian Hodge
It opened just as he reached for the doorbell, and a slouching figure materialized out of the shadows, dimly seen eyes regarding him curiously. After a moment, Lynette Lawson heaved a sigh, drew herself up, and patted her disheveled blonde hair almost back into place.
“I’m so glad it’s you. I wasn’t sure you were ever going to get here.”
Except for the obvious signs of grief, his sister had hardly changed in the seven years since he had last seen her—at their own mother’s funeral. Copeland opened his arms and she fell into his embrace, her body so slight that he hesitated to hug her firmly. However, her slim arms were well-toned, and she gave him a surprisingly strong squeeze before releasing him.
“Long drive,” he said. “How you holding up?”
“Just barely.” She started to usher him inside, then paused and said, “Wanna bring in your bags?”
“Later.” He followed her into a cool, deeply shadowed foyer that smelled of cigarette smoke and lilies. “Visitors all gone, I take it?”
“Yeah. They’ve been coming and going all day. I have enough food to last a month.”
She led him into the living room, the windows of which faced the wall of pines. Flowers of all varieties occupied every corner of the room, their vibrant colors brightening the naturally dim chamber. But their sweet, heady aroma seemed to remind Lynette of her pain, for her shoulders slumped again, and her eyes melted into a shining pool of tears. From an ornate cherry table that had belonged to their parents, she lifted a framed portrait, gazed longingly at it for several moments, and finally handed it to him.
It was a fairly recent photo, for Rodney Lawson had been only eleven years old at the time of his death. The smiling, blue-eyed, sandy-haired lad closely resembled his mother—and even his Uncle Russ to a slight degree. In his Little League uniform, with a bat propped on his shoulder, he was the picture of carefree innocence but for a faraway, almost haunted look in his eyes. At the time the portrait was made, he was still grieving for his father, who had been killed in Iraq the previous year.
With her husband and now her only son gone, Lynette was entirely alone.
Copeland had met Rodney only once, when he was four; of course, he felt terrible about the boy’s untimely death, but the grief that came pouring out now was entirely for his sister. He took her in his arms again and held her, as he could shelter her from any further blows life saw fit to deal. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered. “I know how much you loved him.”
Lynette’s gray eyes slowly rose to meet his. “The funeral is at eleven tomorrow morning. Closed casket. He was...oh God.” She broke down then, and he felt her legs give way. He held her tenderly and let her weep for several minutes; when she finally regained her composure, he led her to the couch and gently lowered her to a sitting position. She took several deep breaths and offered him a faint smile. “Thank you.”
He sat down and slid an arm around her shoulders. Hesitantly, he asked, “Have the police...?”
She shook her head. “No. They took his body to Charleston to...autopsy. They have no idea who—or what—could have killed him.”
“You’re the one who found him?”
She nodded. “Out on Yew Line Road, a couple of miles from here. He was so late, I went looking for him, and I saw his bike, and he was lying there, just off the road. He was...oh God, oh God.” Tears started to flow again, but she wiped them away in frustration. “All I’ve done is cry. I’m spent, Russ, I’m just wiped out.”
“I know,” he said, squeezing her shoulder reassuringly and then falling silent. Though hardly lacking compassion, finding consoling words had never been his strong suit. “I’m sure you’ve had a long, miserable day,” he finally said. “You should probably get some sleep. Don’t worry about me, I can manage just fine. We’ll have plenty of time later.”
“How long can you stay?”
“A week, at least. Maybe ten days. I want you to count on me for anything you need.”
“I will,” she said gratefully. Some of her energy seemed to snap back, and she stood up with an abashed frown. “What am I thinking? You’ve been driving all day; you’re exhausted too. What is it, ten hours?”
“More like twelve. But I’m fine, really.”
“You need a drink, something to eat. Don’t worry, I don’t have to fix anything. The fridge is bursting at the seams.”
“I’m sure I wouldn’t mind a drink.”
“Still scotch on the rocks?”
“Yeah.”
She went to a small sideboard, stocked for the benefit of her apparently plentiful callers, dropped a few cubes into a tumbler, and poured him a generous measure from a crystal decanter. She swirled the ice in the glass before handing it to him. “It’s the good stuff. Enjoy.”
“You’re still not drinking?”
“Not for ten years. Not when Roger died. And not now.”
“That’s good.”
She gestured at the sideboard. “Feel free to have at it whenever you want. It doesn’t bother me for people to drink around me.”
“You’re still smoking, though.”
She nodded. “Guess you can’t miss the smell, can you?”
“Not to mention an ash tray in every corner.”
With a weak smile, she motioned for him to follow and led him into a small kitchen, as abundant with flowers as it was with food. Sure enough, the refrigerator practically overflowed with meats, casseroles, vegetable trays, cakes, and other assorted dishes—all very simple, very southern, he thought. He selected a couple of pieces of fried chicken (briefly wondering if this bird had been fed on the finest yellow corn) and some coleslaw, figuring that this and the scotch would hold him for the night. Lynette sat with him at the table and sipped bottled water, eating nothing and saying little while he worked on his supper. Her eyes were far away, and he knew that, for the moment, his presence barely registered.
Only when he had finished and carried his plate to the sink did she look him in the eye again. When she did, her expression nearly chilled him. Behind her sadness, he saw a disturbing mélange of anger and terror.
“When I found Rodney,” she said slowly, “I thought he must have been hit by a car and dragged. His body was so terribly mangled, his arms and legs almost...gone. But then I saw it wasn’t like a car accident. He had been burned. And it looked like some animal had...gnawed on him.”
He sucked in a sharp breath. “Maybe dogs or something...after he was dead.”
She shook her head. “That’s what the coroner thought at first, but then he concluded the wounds had been made while Rodney was still alive.” Her voice trailed away and she stared vacantly into space for a time, her tears exhausted. Finally, she said, “The bite marks did not come from a dog. Or a wildcat. Or a bear. Or anything else that lives around here. No one knows what it could have been.”
“So it wasn’t a person who killed him.”
“We don’t know for sure. The burns. What could have caused the burns? Everyone’s baffled.”
“Are the state police involved?”
She shook her head. “The sheriff has no interest in calling them in unless…”
“Unless something else happens?”
“Pretty much.”
Copeland downed the last of his scotch, and Lynette started to take his glass to get him another, but he waved her away. “You’re shot, my dear. Get some rest. I’ll fetch my bag, unpack, and hold the fort. Tomorrow’s not going to be easy.”
“I know. The wake last night was bad enough.” She shot him a questioning look. “Oh, by the way. I didn’t ask you to be a pallbearer since you and Rodney never really knew each other. I’ve got some adults he knew well from school and from church. I hope you don’t feel slighted or anything.”
“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 mounta
inside 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. Sure 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 troub
le 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.”
