Wiretaps & Whiskers (The Faerie Files Book 1)

by Emigh Cannaday

  “I always drive,” I hissed through my teeth.

  “There’s a first time for everything,” he said, not flinching. The two of us stared each other down for a few seconds. The last thing I wanted was him joining me on this trip, but what choice did I have?

  “Play nice, Rivera,” warned Harris. “Your job is to find kids, not act like them. Do you understand?”

  “Loud and clear, sir,” I said, and mustered up the decency to offer my hand so Hawthorne could shake it. “Let’s get to work. For the kids.”

  “For the kids,” he replied, leaning close to murmur into my ear. “But I’m still driving.”

  “I’m glad to see all that hard-working taxpayers’ money is being so well spent by this bullshit division,” Hawthorne said coolly from behind the wheel. I whipped my head in his direction.

  “Fucking excuse me? Bullshit division?”

  “C’mon. A Lincoln Navigator? For ghost hunting?” he scoffed as we rounded a bend in the road. “You know this is all bullshit. When’s the last time the OCD had an audit?”

  “Maybe you should be asking Harris. You know, your new boss.”

  It was obvious that Hawthorne had gotten a good night’s sleep. He was less dazed and had essentially taken charge of our entire operation so far, treating me like a first-year cadet instead of the expert I was. His confidence soared, which was a real pain in the ass for me since I’d been stuck with him all morning.

  He’d been making snide comments and talking shit the entire time. Most of it was like water off a duck’s back to me. But bullshit division? Threatening us with an audit? I wished more than anything that the Navigator had an ejector seat. Why in the name of all that was holy did Harris think it was okay to dump this tool into my lap? Not only was Hawthorne a cocky shit of an agent, but he was a skeptic through and through. Would it have been so hard to find someone who actually believed in what they were assigned to investigate?

  But I knew things didn’t work like that around here. Hawthorne’s dad was retired FBI upper management, and so was his father before him. This was nothing but pure favoritism among the good ol’ boys club.

  I switched on the radio before he could say another word, and I didn’t stop until I heard The Strokes playing over the speakers.

  “Dear god, change the station, will you?” he groaned.

  “Nah . . . I like this song.”

  “Fine,” he said, and tapped a button on the steering wheel. The music stopped. “We won’t listen to anything.”

  “You are literally the worst,” I replied through my teeth.

  “Aww, the feeling’s mutual, partner,” Hawthorne said, glancing at the navigation screen. “Like I wanna be stuck in the middle of bumfuck Tennessee with some emo punk alt-chick who believes in faeries. I joined the FBI to work on serious shit.”

  “And you think I didn’t? I’ve worked on things that would turn your hair gray. Things that would scare the ever-living shit out of you.”

  “My ass, you have. I don’t know how you convinced Harris that you’ve worked with exorcisms and little green men, but it’s all horseshit. You’re nothing but a scam artist.”

  I wanted to leap out of the seat and strangle him with his perfectly knotted necktie, but the SUV was cruising into a sharp descent of another mountain valley. Then the landscape gave way, revealing the small and very rural town of Yarbrough.

  Looking out the window, I saw stunning green scenery. Thick virgin forest mixed with the damp gray of the misty air. Even from all the way up here, I could sense the mystery and energy of the place. All my irritation drifted away, leaving my body and my mind within seconds.

  “The goblins are here,” I breathed. “I can feel it.”

  “The what?”

  “The goblins. They’re here. This is the perfect place for them.”

  “You’re nuts,” Hawthorne muttered under his breath. “I hope I don’t die out here. You’re actually insane.”

  5

  Logan

  The town of Yarbrough barely qualified to be called a town. It was nothing but a county highway making up the main street. There was a police station at one end, a school at the other, and a gas station-grocery store combo in the middle. A few hundred houses peppered the landscape all the way up into the foothills.

  “It’s an honor to meet y’all,” said Sheriff McKinney as he greeted us in the parking lot of the police station.

  He was everything you’d expect from a small-town sheriff, masculine with a weathered face and raspy voice, but full of country charm. I got the impression he was a darling to everyone he met, but I could sense beneath his exterior that he was capable of being one tough motherfucker when he had to be. Nobody became a sheriff in this tough-as-nails region for nothing.

  “Thank you, but the honor is all ours,” I said to him, giving him a firm handshake. “I know it’s difficult for a police department to hand over a case to the FBI. Many aren’t so willing.”

  He held my hand for a fraction of a second too long, his thin, chapped lips turning up into a boyish grin.

  “We’re here to work with you any way we can,” my partner butted in. “Our top priority is getting to the bottom of whatever’s happening to these kids.”

  “I’ll be honest, Agent . . . ”

  “Rivera. Elena Rivera.”

  “Well, Agent Rivera,” he said, giving her a goofy smile. She smiled right back, lapping it up. “I don’t mean no disrespect, but when I heard two agents were coming down from DC, I didn’t expect one of them to be so lovely as you.”

  “She’s far from lovely,” I joked. The Sheriff glanced over at me and laughed.

  “And you’re not quite what I expected either Agent . . . ”

  “Hawthorne. Or Logan. Whatever you prefer.”

  “Hawthorne. Damn, son. You’re a tall drink of water. What are you, six-six?”

  “Six-seven,” I replied. McKinney nodded.

  “Did you play basketball?”

  “Football. Wide receiver.”

  “I’ll bet that came in handy against the cornerbacks,” he chuckled.

  “Yes, sir. It sure did.”

  He took a step back and gave me a casual once-over, shaking his head.

  “I know FBI agents are known for being clean cut and slicker than snot on a doorknob, but fuck me. You look like you’re gonna audition for the next James Bond movie.”

  “That’d be one hell of a commute,” I laughed. McKinney grinned in such a way that I knew he’d already warmed up to me. Perfect.

  “Anyway,” he continued. “I guess I have a lot to learn about y’all. And you sure both have a lot to learn about what’s been happening in our town. Where would you like to go first?”

  “Could you swing by the hotel so we can drop off our bags?” I asked. After sitting on a plane and in a car all morning, my shirt was as wrinkled as a crumpled up paper bag. I wanted to change into a freshly ironed one.

  “Hotel?” chuckled the sheriff. “Aw, bless your heart. There ain’t a hotel around here for over forty miles. I didn’t think you’d much care for that commute, either.”

  Me and Rivera shared a curious glance.

  “So . . . where are we staying?” I asked, growing worried.

  “The missus and me have a little Airbnb setup,” replied McKinney, puffing out his chest with pride. “It’s our side hustle. Martha takes care of all the bookings. Her nephew just wired it up for electricity last week. Turns out people love being out in nature, but they gotta keep them phones charged.”

  I shot Rivera a thinly disguised look of concern. To my surprise, she didn’t seem the slightest bit worried about the situation. I waited until we were back in our car, following the sheriff down a long dirt road to our questionable lodgings.

  “Is it even up to code?” I wondered out loud. Rivera just pursed her lips and tossed her pink head of hair. I was half expecting the big bun on top to go flying across the room.

  “What’s the matter, Hawthorne? Were you
expecting a Nespresso every morning?”

  “No, but it would’ve been nice,” I admitted. There hadn’t been any sign of a coffee shop, and I was already wondering how I was supposed to get my caffeine fix. I had a feeling I was going to be in for a rude awakening.

  I wasn’t disappointed.

  “It ain’t the Hilton, but it’ll do nicely,” said Sheriff McKinney as he stomped his way towards his two-story log cabin . . . and subsequently walked right past it. Each of his hands held our heavy suitcases as though they were nothing but lunchboxes. At first I thought he was heading for a side entrance to the house, but he was making a beeline for the back yard. The only thing I saw was a freshly mowed lawn and a backdrop of tall trees battling an ever-encroaching wall of kudzu.

  “Are we camping in his back yard?” I whispered to Rivera. “Is that normal for you?”

  “Um . . . No. I usually get a room at the Hilton.”

  I narrowed my eyes at her, but kept my mouth shut.

  “Okay, here we are!” announced McKinney as he motioned above his head.

  We’d arrived at our dwelling, a structure cobbled together with reclaimed wood planks and secondhand windows, all resting on a perch of thick oak branches.

  “We’re staying in a treehouse?” Rivera gasped.

  “Luxury treehouse,” he corrected her. “It was my eldest’s favorite hangout spot until he flew the coop. It’s real cozy up there now that we fixed it up.”

  He began climbing the ladder while juggling our suitcases, if you could call them that. I’d brought a nice carryon with an adjustable handle and wheels that spun 360 degrees. Rivera had crammed all her shit into a worn-out army surplus duffel bag that looked older than her. Down on the ground, the two of us stared up at McKinney. It was impressive that this treehouse could support a man of his size and stature, but three adults seemed a stretch.

  “Come on up, kids,” McKinney laughed from the top. His bright, bushy beard stared down at us expectantly.

  “Ladies first,” I said, and shoved Rivera in front of me.

  Her slender limbs climbed the ladder with graceful ease. She’d reached the top in a matter of seconds.

  “Coming?” she asked me. “I’ll give you a hand if you want.”

  “I’m fine.”

  But I wasn’t fine.

  I could hear boards creaking and limbs groaning above me. I was convinced one more person up there would send the whole thing crashing down. It was also a lot higher up than I’d initially realized. It was one thing to risk life and limb while chasing down a suspect or in a life-or-death situation, but this? Please. The last thing I wanted to do was end up in a body cast from falling out of a treehouse.

  “Why aren’t you up here yet? Are you scared?” Rivera asked. The gleeful look in her eyes ignited a flame of anger in my gut. If I refused to do this, I wouldn’t hear the end of it from her. And I sure as shit wasn’t letting some emo punk faerie-loving hellion get one over on me.

  I placed one foot above the other as my palms grew sweaty around the sides of the ladder.

  “You okay?” McKinney hollered down to me. “You look a little wobbly.”

  “I’m fine.”

  Don’t look down. Don’t look down. You’re tough. You work out. You’re a senior special agent. Even if you fall, you’ll be fine. You can climb a fucking ladder.

  “Are you sure you’re okay?” McKinney called out. “You’re sweating like a whore’s tush.”

  “I said I’m fine!” I snapped a little too loudly. I could hear Rivera giggle and my anger grew.

  Get up there to prove her wrong. Imagine the look on her face if she saw you quit.

  Motivated by rage, I pushed my fears to the side and forced myself up the ladder until at last, I could see the tops of McKinney’s shoes.

  “Hope you’ll be comfortable here.”

  I was so busy focusing on the overall stability of the structure that I hadn’t put much thought into the accommodations. I took a quick glance around, noting that I’d seen walk-in closets bigger than this. It was still bigger than expected. The large windows facing the trees made it open and airy. There was even a tiled area sectioned off with a curtain, pulled back to reveal a sink, a shower head, and what looked to be a combustible toilet.

  One thing caught my eye in particular. It wasn’t the kid-sized chest of drawers, the lone wicker chair, or the single nightstand. It was that there was only one bed.

  “So . . . we’re both staying up here?” I asked.

  “Well, sure!” grinned McKinney. “If you don’t want to go top to tail, there’s plenty of room for a sleeping bag. Bedding’s in that built-in storage bench.”

  “I call dibs on the bed,” Rivera announced, dropping her duffel bag on the mattress. “Hawthorne can sleep on the floor.”

  “I’m not sure what I think about this arrangement,” I said.

  “Alright then, I’ll let y’all figure it out,” McKinney said, and started down the ladder. “Let me know when you’re ready to go back to the station. I’m sure you’re eager to have a look at our files.”

  Through the large screened window, I watched the sheriff amble across the lawn and into his house. When I turned to look at my partner, she’d already started to empty her carryon. Clothes, makeup, and hair products were strewn across the blanket, intermingled with bags of gummy worms, Snickers bars, Ding Dongs, and pink Snoballs. A six-pack of Mountain Dew sat on the floor next to a beat up pair of Chuck Taylors.

  “This can not be the only option,” I said, wrinkling my nose in disgust. “There has to be a hotel or a bed and breakfast nearby.”

  Rivera grabbed a handful of her personal items and took the four steps required to reach our bathroom . . . if it could even be called that.

  “Sounds great to me,” she said, placing her various hair products on the tiny shelf until it was completely full. “You can call Harris and ask him for another rental car while you’re at it. I’m sure he won’t mind you burning up more of his bullshit department’s budget, not to mention all the time you’re going to waste driving back and forth to wherever the hell you’re going. I’m sure your new boss will be thrilled. You should ask him for a Nespresso while you’re at it.”

  I held my tongue and took a deep breath. Rivera had dug in her heels. She wasn’t about to leave. She was barely willing to give me a spot on the floor. I briefly considered phoning headquarters to see about getting a different room somewhere else, but Rivera had a point. Another room in another location would require another vehicle, more gas, and would waste more time. I thought about the video with Haley, and the tired, distressed expression on her mom’s face. She was one of the lucky ones. How many parents were lying awake at night, worried sick about their missing children?

  I set my carryon next to the built-in storage bench, claiming my spot on the floor. And for the first time in perhaps my entire career with the FBI, I wished I could turn back time and never get this promotion.

  “I’ve seen the spreadsheet,” I said to McKinney as he handed me a cup of much needed steaming black coffee. It wasn’t good, but it was good enough. “Are these numbers right?”

  “Are these numbers right?” the sheriff grumbled. “What do you think—that us country bumpkins can’t count?”

  “I don’t think that at a—”

  “Because the numbers are right! I know because I investigated each and every case around Yarbrough myself. I’m the one who’s met the families . . . .comforted crying moms and devastated dads. I interviewed everyone who’s ever set foot in them woods. I know these numbers are right.”

  He sat down at his desk and took a defiant gulp of his coffee. Beside him, Rivera was standing at a nearby bookshelf perusing the various volumes that were stacked up in dusty piles.

  “I think . . . ” she began, running her spindly fingers down the spine of a beat-up hardback, “that my colleague here is just surprised. The numbers aren’t ordinary. Nobody has seen a phenomenon so . . . ”

  “Shoc
king,” I cut in. “It’s just a real shock to discover so many children have gone missing. And from this area alone. In such a short period of time. It’s highly unusual.”

  “Yeah, that’s why you’re here,” said McKinney, pointing his coffee up at each of us. “You’re supposed to be the experts with all this paranormal and occult stuff.”

  “Actually, when it comes to all the woo-woo stuff, she’s the expert,” I said, smirking at Rivera.

  “Yep,” she said, turning around with a book in her hand. “I’m the expert.”

  I squinted to take a closer look at the title, revealing it to be an anthology of Native American folklore. The other titles on the shelf seemed to focus on UFOs, astrology, ghosts, divination, alchemy, and witchcraft. Not exactly the sort of reading I saw floating around the libraries at the FBI.

  “This one’s a skeptic,” she added, nodding at me. “He doesn’t believe in any of it.”

  McKinney screwed up his face like he hadn’t heard her correctly. Then he turned his gaze on me.

  “Not even ghosts?”

  “No.”

  “What about demons?”

  “No.”

  “Faeries?”

  “Uh uh.”

  “Witches?”

  I shook my head.

  “You really don’t believe in any of it?” asked McKinney, horrified. “What are you? Stupid?”

  “No,” I frowned, wondering if I should be worried about this guy’s mental capacity for carrying a firearm. “I just haven’t seen any evidence befo—”

  “Evidence shmevidence.” He waved a hand in dismissal, as if having evidence for crimes was just an afterthought. “You gotta believe in the paranormal. Ain’t no other explanation for why there’s so many dead black cats in the woods after Halloween. It’s gotta be the occult.”

  Despite how serious Sheriff McKinney was, part of me still clung to the belief that I was the butt of an elaborate practical joke. There was no way in hell a salt of the earth guy like him—a county sheriff, no less—could believe in ghosts and demons and witches who sacrificed black cats on Halloween. It was an urban legend at best.