by Brian Hodge
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 suffer 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.
Down he went, bounding into the seemingly bottomless chasm at dizzying, insane speed, somehow maintaining control, veering in and out of the trees without even thinking of the consequences should he crash. Limbs slashed at his face, threatening to dislodge him, but his fingers clutched the handlebars with desperate str
ength, and his feet worked the pedals automatically, hitting and releasing the brakes at strategic moments to keep from smashing into a tree or tangling himself in undergrowth. He couldn’t even think of looking back to see if he had lost his enraged shadow; one wrong move and he would end up plastered against a huge trunk or dashed to pieces on the rocks that occasionally jutted from the ground. Every now and then, he thought he detected a faint clicking sound behind him, but he mostly heard only the rush of wind in his ears as his bike carried him farther and farther from the trail—the one thing out here that looked even halfway familiar.
As he rode on, the light grew constantly dimmer, and tears began to stream from his eyes, blurring the trees that flashed out of the darkness like onrushing columns of troops. He needed to slow down before the bike got away from him—but if he did, that thing would catch him and butcher him, as it had his friend. The thought sent cold, tingling tendrils into his groin. Trapped between terrors fore and aft, he kept going, always descending, farther and farther into the deepening, seemingly endless gloom.
Finally, he jammed on the brakes, twisted the handlebars, and dug one foot into the ground, which didn’t quite stop him but slowed his progress enough to take stock of the situation. A few seconds later, he heard a loud, distinctive click-click-clack, click-click-clack, more distant than before but undeniably still behind him.
With a cry, he shoved his weight onto the pedals, and down he went again, deeper into the great gulf, his eyes no longer registering the obstacles that lay in front of him, his mind no longer an even remotely rational thing.
Chapter 4
“Will you be all right if I leave you alone for a while?”
“Of course I will,” Lynette said, giving Copeland a look that said she was tired of being coddled. “The house is a mess after all the company. I’ve got plenty of work to do.”
“You know I’ll be happy to take care of anything you need.”
She shook her head. “It’ll give me something to occupy my mind. I’m serious. Sitting around here doing nothing is the worst thing for me. Where are you off to?”
“I thought I’d drive through town, maybe visit the old neighborhood. I barely remember what it looks like.”
“Well, whatever you might remember, it’s not the same anymore. It’s mostly Hispanics now. Nothing against them, except that they cram all their relatives into every house, and then the neighborhood goes to seed. It’s a shame.”
“Everybody’s gotta live somewhere.”
“I guess. I forget you’re from Chicago. English-speaking WASPs like you are probably a minority.”
“Pretty much.”
“Well, have fun. For God’s sake, don’t worry about me. I’ll be fine.”
“Okay then.”
Copeland patted his pocket to make sure he had his keys and went out the front door into the bright afternoon. Lynette was right—keeping herself busy was the best thing she could do. She had taken a nap after the funeral and now seemed almost a changed person. The service had provided her with some sense of closure, at least spiritually, for her faith in God was firm. But he also knew that as long as her son’s murder remained unsolved, the peace she felt was transitory; she needed to know that whoever or whatever had killed Rodney was not still out there. He was not about to tell her that, rather than pay a visit to the old neighborhood, he intended to drive out to Yew Line Road to take a closer look at the scene of her son’s death. Not that he expected to uncover dramatic evidence the police had somehow overlooked, but he did feel drawn to explore, to view firsthand the site where Rodney had died.
As he pressed his remote key button to unlock the door, he noticed Debra Harrington collecting the mail from her box at the end of her driveway. She looked like a young, dark-haired Eva Marie Saint, he decided. He gave her a little wave, expecting that to be the end of it; but instead of walking back toward her house, she detoured toward him.
“Afternoon,” he said as she approached, his pulse increasing a tad. “Anything for me?”
She thumbed through the envelopes. “Are you Resident?”
“No.”
“Then you’re out of luck. Going out and about?”
“Thought I’d take a drive, see what I’ve been missing over the last two and a half decades.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Is that all?”
“Isn’t that enough?”
“How’s Lynette?”
“Much improved—at least until something triggers her memories. Then she may fall to pieces again. But for now, I think she’s all right.”
Debra nodded. “She’s going to be fragile for some time.”
“I’m glad you two are close. She’ll be very lonely once things calm down.”
“It takes time for such a loss to sink in. The pain dulls, but the emptiness doesn’t change.” She gave him another appraising look. “I’d guess you’re going out to see where Rodney got killed. Am I right?”
“You’re quick.”
She shrugged. “It’s what I would do.”
On a whim, he decided to chance it. “I don’t suppose you’d care to ride along?”
“Why would I?”
“Because you would hate to see me get hopelessly lost out there. Anyway, you’d make a better guide than my failing memory.”
She glanced at her watch, at her house, and then at him. She shrugged. “Why not? Let me put the mail away and lock up.”
As she headed for her door, he slid into the driver’s seat, smiling to himself at the prospect of her company. The more he saw of her, the more he appreciated that wry little gleam in her eyes, her way of addressing him so familiarly while remaining aloof. And, he thought, as he watched her disappear into her house, her walk really wasn’t half-bad.
At any rate, he could see why she and Lynette would have hit it off. They were both intelligent, near the same age, and bore a hundred or so of the same burdens, at least during the school year.
She reappeared moments later and walked toward him with her eyes on the ground; only when she had opened the door and slid into the passenger seat did she lift her head and give him a somber smile. “You know how to get to Yew Line Road?”
“I think so. Just not sure what to look for once I do.”
“I can show you. Rodney and his friends have been riding their bikes out that way ever since they could get up on two wheels. This town has always been so safe; no one’s ever given a second thought to letting their kids ride around on their own. This is such a far cry from the big city.”
“It certainly is that,” Copeland said as he backed out of the driveway and headed north on Greenhill toward Cheat Mountain Road, the same route they had taken to the church. “I used to enjoy riding my bike too, but I never went out to Yew Line. It’s a long way off, and I never cared for the uphill part.”
“There’s a lot of that. But I’ve seen those kids ride. They’d push their bikes up the Matterhorn if they could speed back down. I’m sure those trails are a thrill.”
“I take it you grew up around here?”
“I did, but until recently, I’ve been living in Charleston. My ex-husband’s home town.”
“How come he’s an ex—if you don’t mind me asking?”
“He did a lot of traveling for business. Turned out he was one of those men who need a woman in every port of call. After a while he did a lot more traveling than business, if you get my meaning.”
“I’m glad you’re not bitter.”
“Like hell I’m not.” She smiled ruefully. “Anyway, after we split up, I couldn’t stand the idea of staying in the city. Never liked it there anyway, so I came back here. Dad helped me get a job at the school.”
“Thank God for Dad,” he said, again failing to think very far ahead.
Without defensiveness, she said, “I’m a hell of a teacher. I have to tell you, the schools here are one up on Charleston’s. How shall I put it? They suck.”
He chuckled. “I’m sure you did the right thing. Anyway, I
’m certainly glad you’re here now.” When she raised an eyebrow, he added, “For Lynette’s sake.”
“Ah.”
Ahead, Cheat Mountain Road veered to the left, and he soon saw the familiar church on the right. A short distance beyond it, another left turn bore them onto Yew Line, which immediately began to climb and wind into very dense forest. With the windows down, the temperature felt as if it had plummeted ten degrees.
“Real wilderness,” he said, noting the thick oaks, maples, poplars, and sycamores, which pressed so close to the road that low-hanging branches swept the roof of his car. “Back home, the biggest hills we have are the bridges over the expressways. I’ve always preferred the city to the country, but I have to admit it’s beautiful out here.”
“I never cared for the city. I guess this place has spoiled me. I’m sure Charleston is nothing compared to Chicago, but as far as I’m concerned, it’s got too many people, it’s too hard to breathe, and too much of life is wasted just trying to get from one place to another. In this town, there’s never been a traffic jam that lasted more than two minutes.”
He nodded in understanding. “To think I once lived around here. Of course, I spent all my school days up at Byston Hill, and when I was a kid, our neighborhood was ‘exclusive.’ I have very few memories of the town in general.”
“From your perspective, that’s probably just as well. Don’t you ever get out of Chicago?”
“I do a lot of traveling, but it’s almost always to other cities. The most ‘country’ I’ve seen in the last few years is the Wisconsin Dells, and it gets so crowded you need an appointment to see the trees.”
“No chance of that here.”
After a minute or so of silence, Copeland said, “How far is it?”
“Not far. Just before we get to the Barrow property.”
“Ah, the Barrows. You know, you made a good show, but I get the feeling that Levi Barrow showing up this morning upset you.”
