Wiretaps & Whiskers (The Faerie Files Book 1)

by Emigh Cannaday

  McKinney’s eyes lit up. “How ‘bout you, Boy Scout?”

  It took me a second to realize he was talking to me. My palms immediately began to sweat.

  “You want me to speak to them?”

  “Well, who else am I looking at right now? Yes, you! You’ve got the looks, the rank, the suit. People will trust you.”

  I raised a brow at my partner, who was clearly not interested in the job. Even if I refused, she was the last person who should be in front of a camera. Aside from her less than professional wardrobe, her long, tangled bright pink hair, the smeared makeup from crying, and the whiskey on her breath, she’d probably tell the reporter to fuck off on live television.

  Not exactly a great look for the bureau.

  “Go on then, Hawthorne,” she huffed, crossing her arms. “Charm the cameras. I’m sure you’ve been briefed on how to deal with the press.”

  I never was good in front of a camera. Even on picture day in high school, I somehow managed to get sweaty palms before I sat down in front of the photographer. And despite the rise of YouTube stars and social media influences, there was just something I found so unnatural about appearing on camera. It felt like every inch of your appearance and behavior was being scrutinized and immortalized. I understood why the Amish weren’t fans of having their picture taken. One of my worst fears was to become a meme.

  And as for giving a statement or being interviewed, I felt grossly unqualified. I’d only spoken on camera once in my entire life when I was interviewed by one of the media students in college. My tongue had turned into a brick in my mouth and I suddenly forgot how to speak a word of English. My classmates called me Cottonmouth for a while, but luckily the nickname didn’t stick.

  But here I was, heart racing, palms sweating. More than anything, I wanted to channel Elena’s fiery attitude and tell the news crew to fuck off. But I also knew I didn’t have an option. Plus, it wasn’t fair to the community. The media had every right to ask about the sudden uptick in kidnappings. And parents needed to know to avoid bringing their kids to remote trails until we had a better idea of what was going on. So, even though it felt like my stomach was about to fall out, I gritted my teeth and said, “Fine. I’ll do it.”

  “Get your ass out there, Hawthorne,” said Elena, slapping me on the back. “And don’t tell them shit. The last thing we want is widespread panic in the whole state.”

  “Don’t tell them shit? What am I supposed to say exactly?”

  But McKinney was already pushing me towards the door.

  I stumbled out onto the police station steps, I was immediately honed in on by a platinum blonde news anchor whose face looked like it had been coated with a thick layer of Cheeto dust.

  “Hi there, I’m Melanie Brittle with WBR-Three News,” she announced, shoving a microphone in my face. “And who am I speaking with this evening?”

  “Uh . . . Senior Special Agent Logan Hawthorne, ma’am,” I said, unsure of whether to look at her or the camera. The lights were blinding me, so I tried to focus on her instead.

  “Can you confirm another child has gone missing in Yarbrough this evening?”

  “Yes. I can confirm that.”

  “Can you also confirm that she is one of hundreds that has vanished in the region over the last few months?”

  “Well, it’s an ongoing investigation, so I can’t speculate if this incident is related to the others.”

  Her eyes were like ice chips inside her orange face. As she looked up at me, her manicured hand clutching the microphone, she spread her red lips into a smile that didn’t quite reach those chilled eyes. She may have been asking about missing kids, but the look on her face told me she could’ve been talking about anything from horse racing to pumpkin pie recipes.

  Elena was right. She didn’t give a shit about the kids. She was only here for her career.

  “You said you’re a special agent. Are you a detective working on the case?” she asked.

  “FBI,” I told her and her eyes lit up.

  “So the FBI is on this now?” she smiled before turning to her cameraman. “Johnny, are you getting this?”

  I’d had enough already and stepped back towards the door, but she was clearly not going to let me leave so easily. Pushing the microphone closer towards me, she stepped in so close that I could smell her sweet, sickly perfume.

  “Why is the FBI handling the disappearances?” she asked. “Is it because the Yarbrough police department isn’t capable of handling the case.”

  “Not at all. It’s that—”

  “So they’re not capable of handling the case.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “So what are you saying, Agent . . . Harmon?”

  “Hawthorne.”

  “Agent Hawthorne, can you tell us your involvement in the cases? Is the FBI involved because of the esoteric nature of the disappearances?”

  Shit, what does she mean by esoteric? She can’t possibly know about Rylee’s drawing or dark faeries, can she?

  “I’m not sure what you mean by esoteric,” I said, looking over my shoulder into the station.

  I could just about see the faces of Elena and McKinney through the glare of the glass and longed for them to come out and rescue me.

  “Esoteric,” she repeated louder, as though being loud and repetitive would suddenly make her question make sense. “I’m talking about the rumors around the disappearances that have been circulating for years.”

  I was filled with a sinking feeling. Now I knew why she had really turned up. It wasn’t just the missing children she was here for, it was the accompanying X-Files-esque storyline that she was really on the lookout for.

  “The FBI is routinely called in to help with missing persons cases,” I said. “And we don’t comment on active investigations, but I do want to clarify that rumors aren’t evidence. Now if you don’t mind, I have to get back inside. There’s a family who needs to find their daughter.”

  “One of hundreds of families,” she continued, stepping in front of the door.

  Fuck, she’s really not letting go of this.

  “Yes, a number of families,” I agreed.

  “Do you have an exact number of families? How about an exact number of missing children?”

  “As I said, this is an ongoing investigation. I can’t give precise details,” I told her firmly. “But there will be a press conference at some time in the near future where you can ask more questions. Now please, I have a job to—”

  “The rumors,” Melanie Brittle interrupted, circling back to the subject. “What can you tell us about them?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Agent Hawthorne, come on now.” Ugh, again with that fake smile. “The public deserves to know what’s happening to their children.”

  “I agree.”

  “So you must also agree that the rumors are shocking.”

  “I don’t concern myself with rumors. I deal with facts.”

  Maneuvering my way even closer towards the door, I grappled for the handle, but she was still intent on discussing these rumors that were so damn entertaining.

  “You can ask about them at the press conference,” I told her.

  “And when will that be held?”

  “Soon.”

  “And Secret Agent Hawthorne . . . ”

  “I’m not a secret agent.”

  “You’ll discuss the rumors then? For example, the Bigfoot theory, the alien abductions, or the Satanic child sacrifices?”

  That last one made me do a double-take.

  “Satanic child sacrifices?”

  The genuine look of shock on my face must have made an impression on her because she lowered the microphone slightly and softened her determined expression.

  “Satanic sacrifices,” she repeated, this time softer than before. “It’s what the locals have are talking about the most.”

  “I haven’t been made aware of any theories involving Satan, let alone human sacrifices.”

 
“But there have been sightings of men in the woods wearing robes. What about rumors of chanting being heard in the surrounding forest? Or reports of a cult that operates on the outskirts of Yarbrough. Do you think there’s something demonic taking place in this town?”

  “No, I don’t.”

  “And what about the rumors of a cover-up?”

  “I think we’re done here.”

  I pushed past her, yet she was relentless.

  “How do you explain the fact that so many children have gone missing with so little media attention? Why hasn’t the National Guard been brought in to search for the children?”

  “No comment. Now, please, let me get back to work.”

  At last, I made my escape and shoehorned myself through the door, locking it in the camera’s crew’s faces.

  “Fuck me . . . ” I sighed as I stepped back into the station reception. It wasn’t until I returned that I realized how much I’d been sweating.

  “That sounded like it went well,” said Elena sarcastically. She still had her arms folded and an exhausted look in her eyes.

  “Please tell me you heard some of that,” I said to McKinney.

  “Satanic sacrifice,” he said, closing his eyes for a second. “That’s a new one.”

  “One we can’t let the public fixate on,” said Elena. “If anyone from the press gets an actual lead on that, there’ll be a statewide panic. It’s a miracle there hasn’t been one already, given how many kids are missing.”

  “That’s true,” agreed McKinney. “Nobody cares when it happens in a backwater town like ours. I’m surprised Melanie Brittle came all the way from Nashville.”

  “There’ll be more,” I said, looking out the window towards Melanie, who was now speaking into her camera. “They’re like flies. As soon as one turns up, twenty come to join it.”

  McKinney’s face turned a sickly shade of gray as he pondered on this.

  “I can’t handle all of this as it is, let alone with the media showing up to complicate things,” he muttered. “The last thing we need is some stuck-up bitch with a microphone traipsing around the neighborhood asking for local folks’ opinions.”

  “Opinions that include Satan, aliens, and Bigfoot,” I said. “Fuck, this is a nightmare.”

  Once again, our conversation was interrupted by the sound of loud sobbing coming from down the hall.

  “Why haven’t you found her yet?” Rylee’s mom cried, her voice bouncing off the walls. “Why are you not doing anything?”

  “We’re doing all we can,” came the soft but nervous voice of the detective interviewing her.

  “It doesn’t fucking look like it!”

  I turned to Elena and McKinney, the three of us staring at each other, feeling useless.

  “We have to do something,” McKinney said. “You guys are the experts. What should be our next step?”

  What could I tell him? My best witness was a seven-year-old kid who’d only seen the suspect in a dream. My current police sketch was literally drawn in crayons. Right then, I felt like the furthest thing from an expert.

  Elena, on the other hand, looked deep in thought, tapping her foot against the floor as the cogs in her mind cranked into action.

  “Sacrifice . . . ” she thought out loud. “I think I have an idea, but I’m gonna need Sylvia’s address.”

  “Sylvia’s?” asked McKinney, incredulously. “Why on Earth would you want to speak to her?”

  “I’ll tell you later,” she said. “Just tell me where she lives.”

  “The last house on the road out east,” said McKinney, pointing into the distance. “You can’t miss it. It’s the most ramshackle piece of shit house in the whole town. Looks like it’ll fall down if you lean on it.”

  “I take it I’m driving?” I asked, fishing the car keys out of my pocket.

  “Need me to come with you guys?” asked McKinney.

  “No,” Elena replied a little too firmly. “I mean, thanks Sheriff, but we’ll be fine.”

  He eyed her closely as she hurried to the front door.

  “Are you sure you wanna talk to Sylvia? She’s a real nut job.”

  “I’m sure.” Elena nodded at me to get a move on. “Come on, Hawthorne. If we slip out the back door, I don’t think that reporter will notice us.”

  “Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” the sheriff called behind us. “Make sure you watch her driveway for cats. She has about a thousand of them.”

  15

  Elena

  McKinney wasn’t joking about Sylvia being a crazy cat lady. When we turned the corner into her driveway, dozens of cats appeared from the shadows, snaking their way in and out of the overgrown grass. Their reflective eyes shone through the darkness at us, reflecting tiny glints of green, yellow, and gold.

  “What . . . the . . . hell? There’s like, an army of them,” Hawthorne said through his clenched teeth. He was squinting through the darkness as he wound the car down the narrow path. “And how long is this fucking driveway? Feels like we’ve been driving for miles.”

  “McKinney did say it was on the edge of town.”

  “Edge of the world, more like. Good god—I almost hit another cat! I swear these little assholes are trying to throw themselves under the wheels on purpose.”

  “Obviously. How else are they going to file an insurance claim?”

  He laughed, and it was good to see him smile despite the night we were having. Looking out into the darkness, I started to wonder if we’d taken a wrong turn.

  Then I saw the house.

  “Holy shitballs,” I gasped. “What century is this thing from?”

  “It looks like an old plantation,” Logan said, slowing down as we approached the front door. “How is it still standing?”

  Logan hit the brakes and we both gawped up at the building that looked like an illustration from The Fall of the House of Usher. Slanted at a precarious angle, the wooden siding looked ready to buckle and pop off at any second. All around it, thick brambles grew, creeping up the decaying walls so the branches looked as though they were tapping on the windows that weren’t already cracked or broken. It was probably the thick vines keeping the house from collapsing on itself.

  “I swear I saw this place on Scooby-Doo,” said Logan, unbuckling his seat belt. “Or in my nightmares.”

  “Aww, it’s not that bad. It’s just . . . full of character.”

  He shot me an icy stare.

  “Or hantavirus.”

  I grinned wide.

  “Fine. It’s sketchy as hell. Maybe it’s better inside.”

  “Doubt it. Besides, you still haven’t told me what we’re doing here.”

  I wriggled in my seat and freed myself from the safety belt, eager to speak with the owner of the house.

  “And you haven’t told me what happened in that interview room with Sylvia. You went in there with a smile on your face and came out all dazed.”

  “She was a lot more interesting than McKinney wants us to believe,” I tried to explain as I headed for the porch. “Now are you gonna help me find the doorbell?”

  “Can’t you just call her?” Logan said as he stepped out of the Navigator.

  “I don’t think she has a phone,” I replied, and climbed up the narrow porch steps. I scanned through the darkness for signs of life. All I saw were the blinking eyes of the cats surrounding me. Maybe it was past Sylvia’s bedtime? Old people usually went to bed early, although I hoped Sylvia was different. This looked like prime party time for her cats. I could barely hear the crickets and bullfrogs over their constant gentle meowing as they watched us poke around the wrap-around porch. I’d never seen anything like it.

  “How many of those furballs do you think there are?” I asked.

  “I dunno. Fifty? A hundred? It’s too many damn cats, I can tell you that.” He wrinkled his nose, shaking his head in disapproval. “McKinney should get animal control out here. There’s no way Sylvia’s looking after them all properly.”

  “I th
ink they’re the ones looking after her,” I said, holding back a smile. “Look at them guarding the house.”

  Sure enough, they were acting as little sentries patrolling the doors and windows. Cats of all sizes and colors stalked back and forth, back and forth, shooting us wary glances as their tails twitched. An orange Tom with one eye and a broken tail looked especially menacing, while a cluster of calico kittens had climbed onto the porch swing to see what all the fuss was about. And then there were the tabby cats in every imaginable combination of spots, swirls, and stripes. If the orange cat was their one-eyed general, this was his army.

  “Elena, is this normal?”

  More cats were jumping onto the porch from the overgrown shrubs around the property, while other cats crept out of an open window. They slowly formed a circle around Logan, surrounding him as they continued to meow. I was beginning to wonder just how averse he was to felines.

  “I don’t like this. What if they’re planning to maul us when we step outside?” he asked, glancing around at them. “I’ve heard stories about cats eating people.”

  “Pfft. Whatever. They only eat people after they’re dead.”

  “Oh, I suppose that makes it okay then,” he scoffed.

  Opening the screen door, I expected the cats to run at my ankles, but they didn’t appear bothered by me. Keeping their distance, they watched me with wide eyes, twitching their whiskers as I knocked on the heavy main door.

  “They’re actually kinda cute,” I pointed at a chubby white cat with a black mustache. “Look at this guy. Don’t you think he looks a bit like Salvador Dali?”

  “How can a cat look like Salvador Da—Oh.” Logan actually stopped complaining long enough to look at the cat. “Yeah, he does look like Salvador Dali. Imagine that.”

  The cat meowed in response and flicked its tail from side to side. Bending down to pat its head, I felt the rumble of its purrs drift up through its body.

  “Aw, he’s a lover,” I said. “What a cute little guy.”

  Logan, deciding he wasn’t too freaked out by the cat after all, leaned down and put his hand up to its face for it to sniff. The result was that the cat screeched and hissed, batting his font paws at his hand before darting away into the long grass.