Homecoming (A Finn McCoy Paranormal Thriller Book 1) Page 9

  “Maybe not. Hell, probably not. But there’s a chance they might, at least for a while. The Fey are evil and cruel, but they live by a different code than we do.” He turned to her and grinned. “Anyway, it was worth a shot, and I do love tormenting them.”

  “Well, if we can’t get this Baracheck to return to town with us, it’ll all be a moot point.”

  “Listen, I know this is going to sound cruel, but we can’t let Baracheck in on the whole story. For one thing, we just don’t have the time. For another, it will be too much for him to comprehend on such short notice.”

  “So what do we do?” Amanda asked. “Knock him over the head and drag him back?”

  “Nothing that drastic. I hope. We simply tell him that we’ve found his daughter.”

  “And get his hopes up, only to see them dashed when he discovers she’s now the leader of a pack of maniacal fairies? How can we do that? That poor man has been suffering for seventeen years.”

  “I told you it was going to sound bad,” McCoy said. “And I guess maybe it is bad, but what else can we do? We have to look at the big picture. If we don’t get Baracheck back into Shallow Springs before all hell breaks loose, a lot of people are going to die.”

  “I’d still rather knock him over the head,” Amanda sulked.

  “I guess it’s an option,” McCoy conceded, and went back to concentrating on the road.

  ***

  Lyle was growing impatient. It had never taken the dryad this long to show up before. He was certain that he’d used the right words. They were the same words he had uttered before, on several occasions, and always the fairy had appeared within minutes.

  Dealing with the Fey was something he had no taste for, and he would have been drawn and quartered before admitting that he had ever done so. No one knew, not even McCoy. Especially McCoy. That man already held a low opinion of him, and if McCoy ever found out that Lyle had conspired with the Fey—not once, but on several occasions—he would have done everything in his power to see to it that Lyle was removed from office, at the very least.

  He didn’t understand why this was happening. He had always worked with the Fey to ensure that conditions were favorable to both parties involved. They helped keep him in office by dissuading or removing his opposition, and he turned a blind eye when someone went missing every so often. As long as it wasn’t a friend of his—and it never was; he’d seen to that—he counted it as an acceptable loss.

  And then the little ugly ones had gone rogue. Lyle, of course, had summoned the dryad after the first two murders, only to be told that there was nothing they could do. Their hands were tied, some sort of damn fairy protocol. Bring in McCoy, the dryad had said, and like an idiot, Lyle had done so. Now, his town was about to be turned into an all-you-can-eat buffet, and McCoy wasn’t doing jack shit about it.

  On the tree closest to the sheriff, the bark began to ripple. The dryad’s face appeared, its wooden eyes regarding Lyle with condescension. Lyle would have given almost anything to slap the bark off of its ugly face.

  “It’s about time,” the sheriff said harshly. “The lambs are about to go to the slaughter, and McCoy is useless. Something has to be done.”

  “Something is being done, Good Sheriff,” the dryad said in a bored tone. “As we speak, McCoy is on his way to fetch the girl’s father.”

  “Dave Baracheck? What good is he going to do?”

  “She won’t launch an attack if he’s in harm’s way. We’ve been watching her, and she’s been watching him. She remembers.”

  “That’s it?” Lyle was beside himself. “That’s all it’s gonna take? Hell, I could have done that. Why bring McCoy in on this at all?”

  Even as he said it, Lyle began to have a bad feeling. He was certain that he’d missed something, and it had led to him making a grave error in judgment. The dryad looked at him, its wooden eyebrows arched, awaiting more.

  “There’s something more,” Lyle said slowly. “Something you aren’t telling me.”

  “You know what we see fit for you to know,” the dryad said haughtily. “Don’t make the mistake of putting us on equal ground.”

  Lyle wanted to tell the tree spirit to stick it where the sun doesn’t shine, but he sensed he was already treading on unsteady ground. If it hadn’t been critical that McCoy be involved, then that meant the fairies had wanted him involved. The question was why? Lyle disliked McCoy; the Fey hated him with a vengeance. McCoy had killed a Fey of some importance when he’d been nineteen or twenty, and the fairies had been out to get him ever since.

  “It’s a trap,” the sheriff reasoned. “You could have stopped this all along. You wanted me to bring McCoy back here so you could get at him.”

  “No. We have not lied to you about the Sluagh. They must be stopped by forces outside the Fey. That is just the way things are.”

  “Bullshit. McCoy…”

  “McCoy is going to come to no harm,” the dryad interjected, its voice threatening. “Not

  by the hands of the Fey, not just yet. Do you know the lifespan of our species, Sheriff?”

  Lyle said nothing, because he had no idea.

  “When I was young, your ancestors were using rocks and sticks and living in huts. We can afford to let McCoy live a little while longer, especially since we’ve recently found a use for him.”

  “What kind of use?” Lyle asked. He didn’t like the way the dryad was looking at him.

  “If McCoy is successful, he will be looked upon as a hero by the people of the town. He will hold influence. They will listen to his opinions.”

  Lyle was confused. “I’d think that would be the last thing you’d want. What if he decides to spill the beans about the Fey?”

  “He won’t. We have already made an agreement with Mr. McCoy.”

  “You what? Behind my back?”

  One of the trees limbs shot out and twisted itself around Lyle’s neck. Gasping for air, he grabbed his sidearm and emptied it into the tree. Since the bullets were traditional lead rounds, they had no effect.

  “You have outlived your effectiveness,” the dryad spat at him. “Before the next sun sets, there will be a new sheriff, handpicked by Finn McCoy, and born of the Fey.”

  Lyle had just enough time to wonder who that might be, and then the branch constricted violently, snapping his neck.

  Chapter Ten

  “Pull closer to the mailbox,” Amanda said. “I can’t quite make out the name.”

  McCoy eased the truck closer to the rusty mailbox. It would have been difficult to read the faded paint in the middle of the day, but they could make out the last four letters: heck.

  “This has to be it,” McCoy said. He angled into the gravel driveway and headed for the house. No lights shown through any of the windows. He pulled up to the house and left the lights and motor running.

  “Should I take the shotgun?” Amanda asked.

  “No, better leave it in the truck. Around here, someone comes banging on your door at four AM holding a gun, you shoot first and ask questions later. If worse comes to worst, I’ve got the nine in my pants.”

  “Remind me to make a joke about that later.” Amanda opened the door and hopped out.

  McCoy climbed from the driver’s seat and they walked toward the house. It was a cozy ranch-style, with cedar siding to give it a rustic, cabin-like appearance. The front lawn was spacious, though somewhat neglected.

  “What are those?” Amanda asked as they reached the front door. Hanging from nails which had been hammered in above the door frame were several small figures. They appeared to be made of grass or straw.

  “Poppets,” McCoy said. “Folk magic dolls, used for protection. Obviously, Baracheck has some idea of what happened to his daughter.”

  “They’re hanging over all of the windows, too. There must be forty or fifty of those little buggers.”

  McCoy fondled one of the poppets. He was beginning to get an idea. But first things first. They needed to rouse Baracheck. McCoy searched for
a doorbell, found none, and instead rapped sharply on the front door.

  No sound came from inside the house, and no lights flickered on. McCoy knocked again, harder.

  “Whoever you are, you’d better have a damned good reason for banging on my door at this time of night.”

  The voice hadn’t come from within the house. It had come from directly behind them. Amanda jumped and gave an involuntary squeal. McCoy turned slowly and saw just what he’d expected to see: a shotgun barrel stuck in his face. Baracheck was a few feet behind them, standing in the yard.

  “If you’re David Baracheck, then yes, we have a good reason. It’s about your daughter, Cynthia.”

  Baracheck stiffened, and he let the gun drop slightly, but he didn’t go as far as pointing it away from McCoy. “Cynthie?’ he asked.

  “Yes sir,” McCoy said. “If you’d be so kind as to point that scattergun someplace else, we need to talk.”

  Baracheck’s expression was conflicted. He didn’t know these people, but they apparently knew about him and his missing daughter. Suspicion and curiosity waged a war within him. In the end, of course, the need to know won out. He lowered the gun.

  “Is she dead?” Baracheck cut straight to the chase. McCoy realized that the man had spent years preparing himself for this very moment. Looking at the man’s face, he wished he had happier news. While Cynthia was very much alive, she was , in all likelihood, dead to her father. She had, after all, been abducted at a very young age. McCoy didn’t see how she would have anything but a few vague memories of her life before the Sluagh. The head-knocking option was looking better all the time.

  “No, she’s alive. That’s why we’re here in the middle of the night. We need you to come back with us, to the Springs.”

  Whatever reaction McCoy had been expecting, Dave Baracheck didn’t give. He simply nodded slowly, as if trying to understand McCoy’s words. Then he began to sway on his feet, and McCoy realized that the man was on the verge of fainting. He caught Baracheck by the arm just as the man began to sink to his knees.

  “Help me,” McCoy grunted to Amanda. “Let’s get him on the porch.”

  Amanda rushed over and took Baracheck by the other arm. Together, they managed to walk the stricken man up the small flight of steps and onto the porch. They lowered him into a padded rocker, where he sat, looking confused and unbelieving.

  “Mr. Baracheck,” McCoy said, “I know this is unexpected, and probably overwhelming, but we really need to get back to town as quickly as possible.”

  “All these years,” Baracheck mumbled. “I didn’t think I’d given up hope, but I guess I had.” His eyes cleared somewhat, and he looked at McCoy. “Someone took her, didn’t they? All this time I’ve been thinking that it was those things in the woods. But she must have been with someone, right? I mean, how else could she have survived?”

  “Mr. Baracheck…”

  “Did they get the son of a bitch? Please tell me they got him. And Cynthie, is she all right?”

  “The sooner we get back to Shallow Springs,” Amanda said in a calm, soothing voice, “the sooner your questions will be answered, Mr. Baracheck.”

  Baracheck looked at Amanda, seeming to notice her for the first time. “Dave,” he said. “Call me Dave.”

  McCoy gave Amanda a look of gratitude. She had been able to get though to Baracheck.

  “Do you need to get anything before we go?” Amanda asked.

  “No. I just want to see my girl. I guess I’d better grab my keys and lock up, though.”

  “Mr. Baracheck, would you happen to have a few large trash bags?” McCoy asked.

  Baracheck gave McCoy a puzzled look. “I guess so. Why do you want them?”

  “It won’t take long, I promise,” McCoy said. “But we do actually have to pack a few things before we go.”

  Amanda looked questioningly at McCoy. All she got in return was a wink and a smile.

  ***

  The woman once known as Cynthie to her doting father stood on a hill and looked over the still-sleeping town. Very soon the rest of the horde would join her. The sun would start to rise in about three hours; there was plenty of time to do what needed to be done.

  Already, some of the others were in the town, clearing the way for the main group’s advance. By the time they arrived, the police force would be either diminished or decimated. They would encounter little resistance.

  There were only two rules concerning the incursion, and she was fairly certain that they would be followed. The first was that no children would be harmed or taken. This had been law since she had first taken leadership, and it had never been violated.

  The second was that the sheriff was not to be touched. This order was puzzling to the others, but since there would be so many others to prey upon, they had not questioned it. If they had, she would not have bothered to explain herself, anyway. She had her reasons, and that was all they needed to know.

  The truth was that the sheriff was not to be harmed because the sheriff was hers. She alone would snuff out the life of the man who had allowed her to be taken, and in turn had taken everything from her.

  As for the rest of the adults, who among them was blameless? They had looked for her, but not hard enough. They had not rescued her. They had left her to fend for herself, and in that, at least, she had not failed herself. She had survived, and then thrived, and had finally dominated. But by then it had been too late. She’d thought of slipping away from the others; it would have been easy by then. She’d found, however, that she had neither the ability nor the desire to reintegrate into society. They had done nothing for her, and they had done nothing for her poor father. Both of them had been left to wither and die by the people of the town.

  But she had learned. At her direction, the others had captured an adult. They had kept the woman alive for nearly a year, and during that time Cynthia had learned the language and ways of the townspeople.

  She turned and saw the rest of the horde approaching. Down the mountain they came, ugly and malformed little creatures with nothing in their souls but hate and an insatiable appetite for blood. Watching them advance, she realized that she was just like them; maybe not outwardly, but on the inside, at least. She had become a monster. The thought occurred to her that it didn’t have to be that way, but she brushed it aside with a cold indifference. The die had been cast. Her fate was as immalleable now as it had been seventeen years ago, when she had been taken from her warm bed in the middle of the night.

  She turned her attention back to the town. Let the fools suffer. Let them know the horror she had known all those years ago. It would be justice, pure and simple.

  Justice would be coming to Shallow Springs within the hour.

  ***

  Big John Talbot checked his watch. Though the town had remained quiet after the first initial bursts of gunfire, John had the feeling that time was running out, that an avalanche was barreling down the mountain, and that soon the town would be buried underneath it. He wished McCoy would return. He wished Lyle would show up. Hell, he wished anyone would show up and take matters out of his hands.

  John had always been a good officer, but he was not accustomed to being in the position of leadership. He was good at following orders, but when it came to giving them, he was uncertain and prone to second-guessing himself. Lyle had made it look easy.

  If he were serious about his aspiration to one day become sheriff, however, he knew this was a test that he must pass. Deep down, he was certain that he had the ability to take control, but he had assumed that he would have years to hone the talent before he would actually have to use it. Now that circumstances had thrust the situation upon him, though, it was do or die.

  On the upside, Kenner’s condition seemed to be actually improving. John didn’t know how that was possible, because the man’s wound looked awful and he had obviously lost a lot of blood. Nonetheless, Kenner was up and moving around with little or no assistance at all. This was good, because if there was a battle c
oming, John would need all of the manpower he could get a hold of. To this end, he had considered trying to round up some of the citizens who lived nearby. But McCoy had told him to stay put, and so far, he had.

  McCoy seemed to have some type of plan. John sure hoped it was a good one. He really didn’t want to tangle with one of the creatures he’d seen back on Duncan Road, much less a whole slew of them. He couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that those things actually existed. John had lived in Shallow Springs all his life. He had roamed the back roads as a teenager and had hunted the mountains since he’d been old enough to carry a rifle. Never in his wildest imagination had he thought that the woods might harbor real monsters.

  The fact that Lyle had obviously known about them was even more disquieting, and it begged another question: how long had he known? John would have been deliriously happy to think that the sheriff had only recently discovered their existence, but he didn’t honestly believe that to be the case. And if Lyle had known all along that those things were out there, why hadn’t he done anything about it? Where was the National Guard? Where were the freaking Marines? Lyle hadn’t even confided in his own deputies, for Christ’s sake.

  All of this left a foul odor which smelled a lot like a conspiracy. Shallow Springs had more unsolved disappearances per capita than any other town or city in the state, with the possible exception of Richmond. If these creatures were involved in at least some of the vanishings, and if Lyle had known about it and had chosen to remain silent, then he was, at the very least, an accessory.

  John could think of only two reasons why Lyle would keep such information to himself: either the sheriff was scared, or he was getting something in return. And John didn’t think Lyle was scared of much of anything at all.

  If and when Lyle returned, John knew that he would have to confront the sheriff with his suspicions. He could not, in good conscience, continue to work for a man who had been even passively involved with the deaths of citizens he was sworn to protect. Though he hated the thought of leaving his chosen profession, he would if it came down to it. But it might not. There was a chance that John might be able to coerce Lyle into retirement, leaving the door open for John himself to seek the position.