Beverly Barton - Dead By Midnight

There it was again, that odd sound. It must be the wind. What else could it be? Possibly a wild animal, a raccoon or possum or even a stray dog. Bears are in hibernation this time of year.

Get hold of yourself. Youre imagining things. Nobodys out there. Nobody is going to show up here in the middle of the woods in the dead of winter just to frighten you.

Deans bone-thin hands trembled as he pulled back the gingham curtain from the dirty window and peered out into the darkness. The quarter-moon winked mockingly at him through a thin veil of clouds, as if it knew something he didnt. The cold wind whispered menacingly. Was it issuing him a warning?

Releasing the curtain, he rubbed his hands together, as much to warm them as to control the quivering. He sure as hell could use a drink about now. Or something stronger, quicker. But he had learned to settle for strong coffee. A caffeine fix was better than no fix at all. He had been clean and sober for three years and he had no intention of allowing a few stupid letters to destroy his hard-won freedom from drugs and alcohol.

Forget the damn letters. Theyre just somebodys idea of a sick joke.

There were things he should be doingstoking the fire hed built in the fireplace, checking supplies, preparing the coffeemaker for morning coffee, bringing in more firewood, putting fresh linens on the twin beds. Dean wanted everything to be in order before his brother got here. Jared, who was driving in from Knoxville where he taught biology at the University of Tennessee, would arrive sometime in the morning, and if all went as planned, theyd spend the weekend here. This was the first time theyd been together at their familys cabin in the Smoky Mountains since they were teenagers.

God, that had been a lifetime ago. Jared was forty-eight now, widowed, the father to two adult sons. His brother was successful in a way he would never be. Jared lived a normal life, always had and always would. Dean was a failure. Always had been and probably always would be. Hed been married and divorced four times. But hed done one thing rightto his knowledge he had never fathered a child.

As he lifted the poker from where it was propped against the rock wall surrounding the fireplace, he glanced at the old mantel clock that had belonged to his grandparents. Eleven forty-seven. He should be sleepy, but he wasnt. He had flown in from LA earlier today and had rented a car at the airport.

Jared had sent him the airline ticket. His brother didnt trust him enough to send him the money. In the past, he would have used the money to buy drugs. He couldnt blame Jared. Dean had done nothing to earn anybodys trust. He might be clean and sober, but even he knew that it wouldnt take much to push him over the edge. If something happened, something he couldnt handle, he just might take the easy way out. He always had in the past.

Was receiving death threats something he couldnt handle?

Dean stoked the fire and replaced the poker, then headed toward the kitchen to prepare the coffeemaker. Halfway across the cabins great room, he heard that pesky noise again. It sounded like footsteps crunching over dried leaves. He stopped dead still and listened.

Silence.

With his heart racing, his palms perspiration-damp and a shiver of uncertainty rippling along his nerve endings, he wondered if he should get his granddads shotgun out of the closet. His dad had always kept a box of shells on the overhead shelf in the closet, well out of reach, when he and Jared had been kids. But what were the odds that hed actually find an old box of shells?

He should have gone to the police after he received that first letter, but hed waited, telling himself that each letter would be the last one. Over the past few months, he had received a total of four succinct typed notes. Each one had begun the same way.

Midnight is coming.

What the hell did that mean? Midnight came every twenty-four hours, didnt it?

Dean went into the larger of the two bedrooms, the room his parents had shared on their visits here, turned on the overhead light, and opened the closet door. The closet was empty except for a few wire clothes hangers; and there in the very far left corner was his granddads shotgun. He reached out and grabbed it. Just holding the weapon made him feel safe.

Idiot. The things not loaded.

To make sure, he snapped it open and checked. Empty. No shells. He raked his hand across the narrow shelf at the top of the closet and found nothing except dust. Had he really expected to find a box of shells?

Dean sighed. But he took the shotgun with him when he returned to the great room and laid it on the kitchen table. He rinsed out the coffeepot, filled it with fresh water, and emptied the water into the reservoir. After measuring the ground coffee into the filter, he set the timer for seven oclock.

He still needed to bring in more firewood and put clean sheets on the beds. When hed set his suitcase down on the floor in the second bedroom, the one he and Jared had always shared, he had noticed that the mattresses were bare. He had found the pillows and blankets in the hall linen closet, along with a stack of bed linens. He dreaded the thought of going outside, of getting chilled to the bone and facing his own fears. What if it wasnt an animal walking around out there?

Wait until morning to bring in the firewood.

But was there enough wood to keep the fire going all night?

There are a couple of kerosene heaters in the shed out back, Jared had told him. Just dont use them at night. Its safer to keep a fire going in the fireplace.

Why havent you put in some other kind of heat? Dean had asked him.

Because we hardly ever use the place in the winter. Besides, the boys and I enjoy roughing it, just like you and I did with Dad.

Dad.

Dean didnt think about his father all that often. Remembering how completely he had disappointed his father wasnt a pleasant memory. His parents had loved him, had given him every advantage, and he had screwed up time and time again.

Dean put on his heavy winter coatthe one he had bought for a little of nothing at the Salvation Army thrift store. It was foolish of him to be afraid of the dark, scared to face a raccoon or a possum, or to think that whoever had written those crazy letters had actually followed him from California to Tennessee and was waiting outside the cabin to kill him.