The Space Between (6 page)

Isaac's face flushed a bit; he felt caught for his previous self-amusement regarding his visitors' need for news.

"Merle Blackwood is serving up his famous barbeque in the square today, free of charge. Phil Milton is celebrating his recent victory as county sheriff."

"
Hmph
," Harold grunted, obviously not a Milton supporter. "Not much of a victory when the other guy dies."

Albert chuckled at his grumpy friend. "Harry here don't care much for our new sheriff, whereas I'm not losing sleep since Earl Douglas swallowed one of his own bullets last month. I never did trust that guy."

The two men looked at each other, obviously stepping around a sore spot that had been discussed before. Isaac decided to intervene before he ended up hurting his back even worse trying to pull the two apart.

"Either of you know Walt?" Isaac asked, alternating his attention between the two men and pointed across the road. "That's his driveway there. Number 90."

Albert followed his finger and looked off into the woods across the road. Harold, however, stared at him with eyes that hinted at surprise or fear, possibly both. Isaac was tempted to turn around, thinking he might catch a glimpse of some horrible creature creeping up from behind, ready to sink its obnoxiously large fangs into his shoulder. But Albert's response seemed to break the spell, and Harold looked away toward the woods this time, a tremor now evident in his stance.

"I didn't even know someone lived back in here. Did you, Harry?"

Harold shook his head and kept it turned away toward the road. Isaac turned to look at Albert, hoping his face didn't show how the strange reaction from Harold had affected him.

"I don't recall his last name," Isaac said, trying to keep his eyes on Albert. "I don't think he told me, actually. He just said his name was Walter and that he lived up the hill a bit."

Albert rubbed at his chin, the sandpaper sound too loud in the suddenly quiet morning. He looked about to speak when Harold coughed and took a few steps away.

"We
gotta
get back, Al."

"What for? You got an appointment somewhere?" Albert asked, laughing and looking at Isaac to share in the humor. But Isaac was watching Harold again, curious as to why his mention of Walt had elicited such a reaction.

Albert fell silent for a moment, and Isaac could see him shuffling his gaze back and forth between Harold and himself. The silence felt like a heavy curtain dropping upon the three men, one that would prove difficult to crawl out from under if something wasn't done quickly.

"So Merle's barbeque is going to be worth my trip into town?"

Albert smiled, obviously relieved to be distracted from Harold's and Isaac's behavior. "You bet. It starts at one, but if you
ain't
there by one you're
gonna
miss out. Trust me on that."

"I'll try to make it then," Isaac said, returning Albert's smile.

It was difficult to hold that smile when Isaac noticed Harold was already at the truck, waiting. Albert was standing and watching Harold as well, his features hardening with annoyance.

"Okay, Ike." Albert's voice now reflected his frustration with Harold. "Hope we see you there."

His shoes clomped across the porch and down the stairs. Harold had taken to looking back out across the yard, most likely trying to avoid a good scolding from Albert. Isaac wondered what would be said between the two men on the way back to town, and if he'd hear about it later. Maybe he would make it a point to join them in the town square for a quick lunch.

As the Ford turned around and lumbered up the driveway, Isaac could already tell by Albert's flailing right hand that he was laying into poor Harold with some choice words. He also noticed how Harold peered through the back window at him until the trees separated the truck from view.

§

Isaac let his sore muscles rest only a few minutes more once his curious new friends left. The day seemed to be warming up nicely, the dew having steamed away not long ago. He hoped the temperature would reach at least fifty; anything below that and he'd be kicking himself for not bringing a heavier jacket while out moving in the open yard. Every once in a while he heard a gust of wind blow down from the east side of the valley, the house protecting him from its bite. He imagined he sat in the belly of a large beast, deep in the comfortable hold of hibernation.

The coffee was still working in his system, holding his hunger at bay for the moment. Isaac stood, grateful his body didn't resist as much as he'd feared it might. The pain was still present, but not nearly strong enough to keep him from walking the grounds of his new "country estate." He checked his jacket pockets for his car keys and the set for the house and barn, then descended the steps. After standing for a moment to take in the view of the sunlit front yard, Isaac walked around the north side of the house, making his way to the back where he believed he had seen the barn.

The area just to the rear of the house was much like the front: a wide expanse of lawn, dotted here and there by large trees under which the grass grew thicker and greener from the shade. Roughly a hundred yards back there was a denser gathering of trees running out from the woods on either side, almost meeting in the middle. Through that narrow passage stood the barn. To Isaac, the outcropping of trees looked like two arms reaching out in an attempt to welcome him, or possibly prevent him from passing. He shivered as he approached, blaming it on another chilly burst of wind.

As he crossed the yard, he let his gaze wander around the property. A certain excitement was building in him as he considered that it was all his: the grass, the trees, and probably a good bit of the hills, which served as a frame worthy of such beauty. Perhaps it was the nostalgia for his youth or simply his own affinity for nature that came through in so many of his songs. Regardless of the reason, Isaac found himself cultivating a bit of pride for what he had here. He knew it was silly; he'd only been in the right place at the right time, and never lifted a finger to tame the land or nail a single board on the house. Still, he realized that selling the place might not be as easy as he'd thought.

"Don't get ahead of yourself," Isaac said aloud, enjoying the puff of steam from his mouth and how the sound of his voice seemed to hang with him, pressed close by the surrounding solitude.

It wasn't hard to see himself settled here. Even though Atlanta was a few hours away, it wasn't as if he couldn't get most of his business done via phone, online, and FedEx. And with a house that large, a few of the rooms upstairs could easily be converted into recording space. Of course, convincing Emily that—

And so he did it again.

Isaac stopped. The sun had cleared the hill to the east, shooting beams of harsh light against the two peninsulas of trees to either side of him. They cast cold shadows at his feet like the greedy hands of the dead. He suddenly felt colder, his stomach emptier and uneasy.

It had been much worse at first. He'd caught himself dialing her cell number in the middle of the night, wondering why she wasn't lying beside him. He'd hear a song in the car and start to ask her to turn it up before realizing he was driving alone. He would laugh at something on television, glancing to the other side of the couch in hopes of seeing her smile. The last time Isaac went to a movie he spent fifteen minutes staring at the posters along the front of the theater. He had been unable to decide what to see, wanting to see nothing Emily might have enjoyed, but incapable of buying a ticket for something that would cut that tie with her.

Standing there in the back yard, Isaac squeezed his eyes shut, angry with himself for not being able to let go. Angrier still that he could only stand there and scold himself for being so affected by a simple slip in his thoughts, a hiccup of habit.

It was true that Emily would have fought against such a move. She had grown up in the country, much like Isaac. But since the age of eighteen she had been a city girl, moving to Nashville to attend college. It hadn't taken long for her to realize her temperament and need for stability was not conducive to building a career in music, and she had changed her major to business during her first year at Vanderbilt. Not long after adjusting her career goals, she'd met Isaac and he'd filled that lingering need for her to be involved in music professionally. She grew attached to the nightlife of the Nashville scene, and the hustle of the daytime corporate types. The city soon became her second lover, and her passion for it was just one of the reasons Isaac had been drawn to her.

Getting her to move to a place like Holden would have been impossible; Isaac had no doubt. The thought saddened him at first, and he tried to reason away the gloom by reminding himself (again) that she was never coming back. Of course, that was always easier to consider than accomplish. If he could only forget her or at least get used to the pangs of regret and loss that came out of nowhere like silent bombs. But then another thought occurred to him, as slowly as the shadows creeping further from his feet.

Doesn't that make an even stronger argument for staying?

Isaac realized he was getting ahead of himself again, that the allure of the place (minus his first few hours in residence) was fresh and new, but liable to fade before long. It was no surprise he was ready to jump in with both boots. But it was still a good argument, a more direct, no-nonsense approach to his sister's method of redecorating Emily out of his life. It was starting over from scratch, and what better way to do it than out of reach of the daily reminders he had back in Nashville. Everything from her favorite coffee shop around the corner to the sunset they'd watch together most nights. Isaac doubted he'd find anything resembling a coffee shop in Holden other than Mama's Kitchen, which was pushing it. And here the sunset would belong only to him.

Promising himself to give it further consideration later, Isaac started walking toward the barn again, passing through the narrow break in the trees.

It was like standing before a pyramid or Stonehenge. Isaac marveled at how much work went into its construction. The barn was built from rocks, held together with plenty of mortar and probably just as much sweat and blood. It was at least fifteen feet at the peak. The roof looked to be made with long, thick planks of wood covered in corrugated metal similar to the roof of the house, though a thick layer of rust had colored the surface a rich brown long ago. From the peak of the roof, each side sloped down at roughly a forty-five degree angle for ten or more feet, then dropped into a steeper slide for another fifteen feet. On the right side of the barn the roof kept going, leveling out almost parallel to the ground and covering what looked like an outbuilding running the length of the main structure. There was a large double door here, which looked easily wide and tall enough to allow access for a car or horse-drawn wagon.

A small window was set in the face of the barn, near the peak of the roof. Closer to the ground and directly under the first was another. To the left of this window stood a single door, no larger than that of a regular house door. A steel chimney rose from the left-center of the roof, rusted to the same color. A small lean-to sat against the left side of the barn, under which was a stack of split firewood the color of ash. Another door stood near.

Isaac tried to imagine the endless stacking of the stones, the strength required to haul the planks up into the roof. He'd only seen one building like it in his life, on the farm of his grandfather's neighbor. That barn was half this size and supposedly built more than eighty years ago over the course of two years by his great-grandfather and the neighbor's father. It must have taken at least three times as many men to build what stood before him now in as much time.

Fumbling for the keys in his jacket, Isaac stepped up to the door. He placed the palm of his free hand against the barn, flinching from the cold bite of the stone surface. He pulled the keys from his pocket, found the one labeled "Barn" and slipped it into the deadbolt. Isaac briefly wondered how a lock as exposed to the elements as this one surely was would accept the key so willingly. But then he remembered the new kitchen appliances and the newly furnished bedroom back at the house, and he shook his head in wonder at how much thought had gone into his arrival here.

He unlocked the deadbolt, then turned the doorknob, pushing the door open. There was a small step up onto a wooden floor, no more than four inches. The weak strip of daylight falling in behind Isaac showed how scarred and blackened the surface had become over the years. He looked up and couldn't help but notice the two immense supports rising up to meet the ceiling. Each support was set halfway down the length of the room and centered between the wall and the peak. Near the top of each were two braces the diameter of telephone poles, stretched out like the arms of a man reaching for salvation but barred access by the ceiling. Even with what little light the few windows permitted in the dank barn, the two supports stood out like twin Goliaths, ready to pounce upon unwelcome visitors.

Isaac turned his head to the right. Just inside the door and against the front wall was a small table, made of roughly hewn wood and only a few shades lighter than the floor. Instinctively, he checked the wall space next to the door, but there was no light switch. Looking back at the table with eyes a bit more adjusted to the darkness, he could see a lantern, a plastic jug of lamp oil, and a box of kitchen matches, all of which looked brand new. He stepped closer and rubbed a finger across the lantern's globe. His skin squeaked against the dust-free glass.

By the weight of the lamp and the look of the jug, Isaac could tell it had already been filled. He pushed the small lever down and the globe rose high enough so that he could light the wick. Once he had the height of the wick adjusted, he turned back to the large interior, now cast in jittery yellow light.

The twin supports revealed themselves to be made from large trees, stripped of their branches and skinned like fresh game. His respect for whoever had built the barn doubled as he shook his head in awe, wondering how they had lifted those large trunks into place. Looking up at the ceiling, he was also impressed by the size of the crossbeams dispersed throughout the structure.

Just behind the massive supports was a loft. It was enclosed by a half-wall no more than four feet high, interrupted only by a single door set on hinges and currently open. A set of pulleys and ropes hung from the ceiling, directly above the door. No doubt they were once used to haul bales of hay; Isaac could make out a few in the shadows up there. A staircase hugged the rear left corner of the barn.

A few feet in front of the staircase were four horse stalls. Only one still had a door, and it was hanging lopsided by the top hinge. To the left of the stalls was the door he had seen outside next to the woodshed. Taking up the rest of the wall was a trough, running all the way to the front, ending not far from the door. On the other side of the barn Isaac could see a wide opening leading to the area of the building fronted by the double-doors. Hanging along the remaining area of wall were various farm accoutrements of steel and leather he vaguely recognized but would hardly know what to do with.

Isaac stepped toward that section of the barn, holding the lantern out in front of him like a talisman, warding off the darkness and whatever might dwell there. Poking his head past the opening, he could see the outline of the double doors to his right, the daylight squeezing around the edges. The rest of the space was empty, and the floor there was hard, packed dirt.

Turning around, Isaac let his eyes follow the lamplight until they landed on the staircase leading to the loft. He walked toward it, listening to the solid thumps of his boots across the floor and watching the shadows lean and stretch around him. The barn had an earthy smell and just a hint of freshly cut wood: an echo of the sweet, pungent smell he imagined had lingered in the barn for years after it was first built.

As he drew closer to the stairs, he heard the sound of his steps change from a dull, muted knock to one that carried like a drum. He looked down at his feet, then to the floor behind him, but couldn't see any difference in the appearance of the planks he'd just crossed and the ones upon which he currently stood. Lifting one foot, Isaac rapped the floor three times with the heel of his boot. Then, stepping back a few feet the way he'd come, he did the same. There was definitely a difference, and it didn't take much to figure out what it was.

"Where are you," Isaac whispered, his gaze now scouring the floor for the outline of a door or an accompanying handle. He began making larger sweeps of the area that seemed to be directly above whatever space the floor covered. It was roughly a ten-by-ten foot space and set in the same corner as the stairs, but he could still not see anything that indicated a way in.

As interesting as it was, Isaac didn't want to spend his entire morning driving himself crazy and wishing he had an axe or chainsaw to force his way under the floor. He relented and approached the stairs. After only a few steps up, he paused before stepping back down to the floor. He walked around the staircase, under which was a plain wooden bench, built like a long, rectangular box. It ran from the corner of the barn until it was almost touching the slope of the staircase. The bench was flush against the wall, possibly constructed as a part of it, and was just as wide as the steps.

Isaac leaned down for a better look, setting the lantern on the floor where the bench ended. There were two
semicirclular
holes in the left side of the box and flush against the barn wall, each big enough to get a decent grip. Trying to ignore the image of a large, hairy spider just waiting for someone like him to invade its lair, he reached in with a few fingers from each hand and pulled at the bench.

The angry groan of wood against wood mocked him as he fell backward, momentarily positive he'd pissed something off and was about to pay for it. Fortunately his fear was fleeting, and he rolled back up onto his haunches, forcing out a laugh to lighten his mood. It was enough to put him right back at it, this time with one foot braced against the wall, just to the left of the bench.

He pulled, using his leg for leverage against whatever was holding the box in place. The end came away from the wall as old nails were torn from their resting places of who knew how many years, sounding like a pack of hounds baying in his ears. The bench was still attached at the other end, so after getting a bit of his breath back, Isaac pulled until the entire thing came free, sliding with him a few feet from the wall.

Not waiting to catch his breath again, Isaac jumped to his feet and grabbed the lantern. The floor that had been hidden under the bench was a few shades lighter than the rest. Lying dead center where the bench had been, and only an inch or two from the north wall, was the square outline of a door: two hinges on the left, a thick metal ring fastened to the center on the right. Isaac scooted closer, taking the ring in his free hand.

As the muscles tightened in his arm, preparing to lift, his thoughts flashed back to the events the night before. It was not lost on him that the whole fiasco centered on another door.
A hallucination of a door
, he insisted. And, of course, he had to wonder if this wasn't just another hallucination.
No, it's right there, really there.
If it was, he thought it was a damn good one and at least deserved a little investigation.

Isaac pulled, the heavy door following his grip up and over to the left where it slipped from his hand and banged against the floor, sounding off like a gunshot in a car. With the lamp held over the hole, he could see a wooden ladder leading down to a dirt floor. He lay on his stomach and lowered the light into the opening, his head following. Now he could make out the size, roughly the ten-by-ten he'd measured off by sound on the floor. The walls were made from planks of wood, about six inches wide and running vertically from floor to ceiling. Three horizontal strips of wood ran across the wall: at the top, the bottom, and the middle.

Bending his neck further down, Isaac looked toward the only corner of the room that didn't butt up against the perimeter of the barn. Though his view was upside-down, he could make out an old wooden bed. There was no mattress; only brittle pine slats running from one side to the other. Taking another glance around the subterranean space he confirmed that the bed was the only item present.

Isaac pushed up from the floor and swung his legs around, letting them hang down through the opening, then maneuvering them onto the first rung. He set the lamp on the barn floor while he stepped down the next few rungs. As his face passed below the planks, he reached up and grabbed the lantern.

Standing on the dirt floor, Isaac held the lantern high. The ceiling, which was the underside of the barn floor, was at least a foot higher than his hand. Isaac spun in a slow circle, examining the room but still seeing nothing beyond what he had from the entrance. He stopped to face the corner with the lone bed pressed against the wall, then began walking toward it. As he closed the distance, Isaac felt his right boot kick something small but solid, and he glanced down in time to see it slide under the bed.

When he reached the corner, he attempted to find what he had kicked, but the slats on the bed cast too many shadows that swayed and rocked with the movement of his hand. Isaac reached down to remove one of the slats, but found it had been nailed to the frame. He checked the others and saw that they had also been fastened in place in the same manner: three nails on each end. Isaac was no carpenter, but he knew that even if someone had a reason to nail the pine boards down — and he couldn't think of one offhand — then one nail should be sufficient. Two nails would be more than enough.

But three? Whoever did this didn't want these boards coming off.

Isaac looked at the bed, this new curiosity putting him in a wary state of mind. He wondered why there would be a bed here to begin with. It was possible that this was actually a tornado shelter, but that still didn't explain the bed. Tornados pass through quickly. Perhaps a farmhand once stayed down here. It might be a good place to sit and wait for livestock thieves.

Isaac laughed, the sound falling flat in the underground dwelling. He was letting his imagination get away from him once again, though he had to admit it was easy in such a setting. There was the old, deserted barn with a hidden room under the floor, lit by a single oil lamp. The only thing left to complete the B-movie tone would be if the lamp went out, especially since the matches were all the way back by the front door.

His smile disappeared at this thought, and he quietly cursed himself, hoping he hadn't tempted whatever tricky little spirits might be swooping around just above his head.

"You're killing me, Isaac," he chided, and reached down to give the bed slat another tug.

This time the entire bed moved a fraction of an inch across the dirt floor, its legs knocking loose fat chips of dirt. Isaac set the lantern behind him on the floor and used both hands to pull the bed a few feet from the wall. Picking the light back up, he walked around the bed to look at the floor over which it had sat. Lying there, a few inches from the wall, was a very old padlock. It was so old that Isaac imagined it weighed close to a pound.

He bent over, plucking the lock from the floor. It was as heavy as it looked and appeared to be brass, though tarnished beyond the help of any polish. The keyhole — actually in the classic keyhole shape — was clogged with dirt and grime. The latch was open, and though he tried, Isaac could not get it to budge in any direction. It was obvious the lock had been down here quite a while. It didn't take long for his imagination to get rolling again, and he wondered if the lock had been used to keep someone in or out of this hole.