Homecoming (A Finn McCoy Paranormal Thriller Book 1)

by Scott Langrel

  “Do you think these Sluagh are responsible for the all missing people?” she asked.

  “I don’t see how they could be. They travel in packs, and they have a pack mentality. There’s no definitive leadership, though. No alphas strong enough to dominate the others. They fight amongst themselves more often than not. When they attack, it’s more of a crime of opportunity. They happen upon someone, or someone happens upon them.”

  “And you think whatever’s going on now is more coordinated?”

  “It seems to be,” McCoy agreed. “Besides, the Sluagh tend to stick to the more isolated areas. I’ve never heard of them coming in close to town.”

  Amanda studied her empty plate. “What about the little girl? Are you sure you didn’t recognize her? She has to fit into all of this somehow.”

  “Maybe, maybe not. Like I said, demons are deceivers. They like to mess with you. It’s possible that the little girl has nothing at all to do with this. She may not even exist. Still…”

  “What?”

  McCoy shrugged. “Just for a second, I thought that maybe I had seen her before. A long time ago, perhaps.” He started to pick up the remains of his eggroll, then decided against it and pushed his plate away. His appetite was gone. “At any rate, I don’t see what she could have to do with anything, unless she’s one of the recent disappearances.”

  “Well,” Amanda said, “you’ll find out tomorrow. You ready to blow this joint?”

  “Yep. Wanna come back to my place for a nightcap?”

  “Is that what they’re calling it nowadays?”

  “You can call it whatever you want,” he said, flashing his best wolfish grin. “As long as you show up.”

  “Ah, Finn McCoy. You do have a way of charming the pants off a lady.”

  “Exactly my intention,” McCoy smiled.

  Their waitress, seeing that they had finished their meal, brought their check and two fortune cookies. Amanda tossed her cookie into her purse for later and went to get her car. McCoy took the check to the cashier and paid. While he was waiting for Amanda to bring the car around, he unwrapped his fortune cookie, broke it open, and popped the cookie in his mouth. Absently, he unfolded the small piece of paper with the message on it. He glanced at it, did a double take, and reread the message again.

  Soon everything will make perfect sense.

  Amanda arrived with the car and McCoy hopped in, wishing fervently that fortune cookies would be a little more damned specific.

  ***

  Bob Lyle was in a foul mood. Lately, he stayed in a foul mood, and that fact served only to piss him off even more. Lyle had held the position of sheriff for more than two decades, and during that time he had come to the conclusion that ninety percent of the people in Meade County were idiots. Out of the remaining ten percent, at least nine percent more were slobbering idiots. That left one percent (of which he counted himself one) who had more brains than God gave a mule.

  Whatever brains Ben Rollins had possessed were now scattered about the interior of his car. Judging from the looks of it, and from what Lyle knew of the man, the sheriff felt justified grouping Rollins into the slobbering idiot category. The loser hadn’t even been able to keep a job with the town crew, and that was saying something. The mess in the car was merely a product of natural selection. Thinning the herd, so to speak.

  The problem was that Lyle’s herd was being thinned at an alarming rate recently. This tended to make the rest of the herd extremely skittish, and a skittish herd wasn’t likely to re-elect its shepherd. Lyle had been sheriff for so long that he wasn’t sure if he could do anything else, and he wasn’t in any hurry to find out.

  Lyle looked up from the gory mess inside the car and saw two of his deputies emerge from the woods beyond the edge of the roadway, each carrying a flashlight. The smaller one, Paul Kenner, was a little rat of a man who definitely fell into the ninety percent. Personally, Lyle wouldn’t trust the man to guard a pile of rocks, but Kenner’s uncle was on the town council.

  The big one, John Talbot, was a good guy. Lyle actually liked John, and that was saying a lot because Lyle hardly liked anyone at all. Big John was a good deputy. He was serious about his job and followed orders well. Best of all, Big John knew when to keep his trap shut. That was a valuable commodity in the world of law enforcement. Sadly, it was also a commodity in very short supply among Lyle’s deputies.

  “Find any more of him?” asked Lyle.

  Big John shook his head. “Nothing. No blood, no pieces of clothing. Wherever the rest of him is, it isn’t here.”

  Lyle had figured as much, but he was still disappointed. He had hoped beyond hope that this wouldn’t be connected to the others, but he should have known better. Something had set those damn fairies on a rampage, and now his only hope of controlling the situation was Finn McCoy, the King of the Slobbering Idiots. Lyle disliked McCoy with a passion. The man was reckless and cocky, two attributes Lyle despised in a person. McCoy was also the luckiest son of a bitch ever to walk the face of the Earth, by Lyle’s estimation. By rights, something should have had the fool’s ass on a platter years ago. But McCoy was blessed; he could fall in a tub of shit and come out smelling like a rose.

  “You want us to look around some more?” Kenner asked.

  “No. I do not want you to look around some more. I want you to get someone out here to clean this mess up. And be quick about it. When word gets out we’ll be up to our armpits in rubbernecks driving by here to see what’s up.”

  “Sure thing, Chief.” Kenner hurried to his cruiser to radio dispatch. Lyle watched the moron go with open contempt. He hoped to God Carl Kenner lost his seat on the council come next election.

  “So, what do you think?” Big John asked when Kenner was safely out of earshot.

  Lyle rubbed at his forehead. “I don’t know. Some wild animal, I guess. Maybe a bear or mountain lion.”

  Big John’s look told Lyle that he knew he was being fed a bunch of bullshit, but he was professional enough not to call the sheriff on it. There were very few people in Shallow Springs who knew the whole story. McCoy knew more than anyone, Lyle guessed, but so far he’d had enough common sense to keep fairly quiet about it. Besides, most people viewed McCoy as a kook—eccentric but harmless. And though most of them liked him, they weren’t likely to listen if he started running off at the mouth about killer fairies.

  “People are starting to get scared,” Big John said. “Bunch of people missing, and now this. I know how you feel about calling in the state boys, but…”

  “We’re not calling anyone, least of all those idiots.”

  “But…”

  “But nothing, John. We handle this in-house. There’s no evidence here of anything other than an animal attack. As for the others, some of them will probably turn up. Even if some of them don’t, it’s not that unusual for this area. People turn up missing all the time. Most of it’s probably tied to drugs.”

  “How could we tie Bessie Peterson to a drug deal gone bad?” Big John asked. “The woman is seventy-four and plays the organ in church every Sunday.”

  “She’s also on every medication known to mankind,” Lyle said gruffly. “For all we know, somebody whacked her and made off with her pills. It happens every day.”

  Big John had no answer for that, so he said nothing more. Lyle turned his attention back to the car. In the darkness, even with the flashing blue lights illuminating it, it didn’t look all that bad. But looks were deceiving. It was that bad; the whole situation was bad. And now that even Big John was beginning to question Lyle, the window of opportunity to put a lid on this thing was starting to close.

  As bad as Lyle hated to admit it, everything now hinged on McCoy. Lyle was not about to go fairy hunting, and he couldn’t very well send his men without telling them what they were looking for. Not only would he land himself in a rubber room, but on the off chance that someone believed him, he would face numerous questions concerning cover-ups and blatant misdirection of certain past
events. He could not answer those questions without ensuring the sudden and final end to his career as a law enforcement officer. He might also go to jail, and Lyle would rather face the Queen Fairy herself than to be put behind bars.

  So, once again, he found himself in the position of having to kiss Finn McCoy’s ass. As unpleasant as that thought was, it sure beat the aforementioned alternatives. As much as Lyle would like to see McCoy fail, or even better, get eaten by some big, hairy monster, McCoy’s success was the only way Lyle would make it through this unscathed. He would be polite. He would offer McCoy whatever limited assistance he could. Then he would sit back and let McCoy do his thing, whatever that might be, and hope that everything worked out to his advantage in the end.

  It was getting late, and Lyle was tired. It was going to be a long night. McCoy would be arriving in the morning, and Lyle would be able to pass the buck. Until then, he had a few matters to take care of, the first being to ensure that the little rat Kenner would keep his mouth shut about what he’d seen here. There wasn’t much to tell, really, but it would be best to keep everything close to the vest until the whole matter was resolved.

  Lyle spat at Ben Rollins’ blood-soaked car, motioned for Big John to follow, and walked over to talk to the rat.

  Chapter Four

  The drive to Shallow Springs wasn’t as pleasant as the one McCoy had taken six months prior. Instead of a bright spring day, he now faced a dreary October morning. A cold drizzle forced him to keep Boo’s wipers arcing noisily across the windshield.

  He wanted to find out what was going on, but he wasn’t looking forward to seeing Bob Lyle. The sheriff was usually pleasant enough, but McCoy could see through the man’s false front. He knew that Lyle couldn’t stand him, and the only time the sheriff had anything to do with him was when there was a problem with the Fey.

  Lyle had been re-elected consistently over the past twenty years, despite the fact that the only person that he actually cared about was Bob Lyle. Or, to be more specific, Bob Lyle’s career. He had covered up more deaths and disappearances than the CIA. Due to the tireless efforts of the sheriff, the citizens of Shallow Springs were blissfully unaware that they shared their town with monsters.

  It would have done no good for McCoy to have tried to enlighten them. Just as he was aware of Lyle’s true feelings about him, he knew that people considered him to be a flake at best and a carnival sideshow freak at worst. He was okay with this, mostly because he didn’t give a shit what people thought of him, but also because it allowed him to enjoy his privacy. Having no close friends allowed him to spend his time as he pleased, and there was no one he felt he had to take care of.

  At least there hadn’t been before Amanda. McCoy hadn’t expected to fall in love with her, but it had happened anyway. He had been quite the womanizer before they had met and had assumed those habits would continue until he died in his sleep or something nasty got him.

  But Amanda was different. She was intelligent. She was strong. And she was sexy as hell. When she’d found out the truth about the Fey and other creatures that lurk in the night, it had shaken her to her core, but she had refused to succumb to fear. She had accepted and adapted. McCoy had never before seen anyone deal with that knowledge as well as Amanda had, and she had gained his instant respect.

  He had not, however, foreseen that she might want to become involved in his work, and he was not sure how to handle this unhappy development. He cared too much for her to risk seeing her get hurt, but he risked alienating her if he shut her out completely from his work. It seemed to be a no-win situation.

  It was a little after nine when he passed the town limits sign. Returning to Shallow Springs was always bittersweet; he had been born and raised in the town, and he had also barely escaped it with his life. That had been fifteen years ago, and he could probably count on one hand the times he’d been back since. Lately, he’d felt increasingly guilty over that fact. He was likely the only one who had a chance in hell of helping the people of the town, and he had all but turned his back on them. Like Bob Lyle, he had been more worried about his own skin than stopping the loss of innocent life.

  His last trip to the Springs, when he’d come to help Amanda, had marked a change in him. While battling a water hound, an ancient Celtic monster associated with the Fey, he had become increasingly resentful of the fairies for the torture they had inflicted on him and the people of the town. A burning rage had been ignited within him, and he was determined to somehow end the Fey’s reign of terror.

  To do this, though, he would have to find the portal. The Fey were extra-dimensional beings, not from this dimension but able to exist here as they pleased. Travel back and forth, however, required a portal, similar to the ones demons used to materialize in this reality. Obviously, there was a portal located in or around Shallow Springs, but McCoy had never been able to locate it.

  The rain began in earnest as he pulled in front of the sheriff’s office. A streak of lightning lit up the gray and swollen sky, followed closely by a window-rattling clap of thunder. If the weather didn’t break soon, it would be useless to stick around after meeting with Lyle.

  McCoy hopped out of the truck and ran to the front door, getting thoroughly soaked in the process. He opened the door and went into the front lobby. His wet shoes squeaked as he walked across the tiled floor. A female deputy sat behind the front desk, and McCoy struggled to remember her name. Debbie? Diane? No. Deidre. He was pretty sure that was it. He walked over to the desk and stood there dripping and smiling.

  The deputy glanced up at him, was apparently not impressed, and went back to whatever she was doing on her computer. McCoy stood there a moment longer, and when she failed to look up again, he cleared his throat. With an annoyed expression, she looked at him again, eyebrows arched.

  “Deidre, is it?” he asked, and her expression softened just a little. Apparently she was mildly impressed that he had remembered her name. It was a start, anyway.

  “Yes, Mr. McCoy. How can I help you?”

  “Got an appointment with the sheriff. Is he in?”

  Deidre picked up the phone, hit a button, and informed Lyle that McCoy was waiting. After a brief pause, she hung up the phone and motioned McCoy towards the sheriff’s office. He tipped his hat and smiled. Deidre snorted and returned to work.

  McCoy stopped at the sheriff’s door and knocked. He might as well be on his best behavior; he was going to have to work with Lyle, like it or not.

  “Come in,” the sheriff’s voice boomed from the other side of the door.

  McCoy opened the door and stepped inside. As a token of respect, he removed his hat. He was pleased to see the gesture wasn’t lost on Lyle.

  “Finn,” the sheriff said, rising from his desk. “Long time, no see.” He offered his hand and the two men shook.

  “Yeah. Don’t make it up this way too often.” said McCoy.

  “Well, it’s good to see you, anyway.” Lyle was laying it on thick. McCoy figured the situation was even worse than he’d thought. “Sorry it has to be under these circumstances. Have a seat.”

  McCoy sat down in one of the chairs which faced the sheriff’s desk. He glanced around the office. Lyle was an avid fisherman, and the walls of his office were decorated with angling memorabilia and several stuffed fish. There was even one of the plastic fish that moved and sang a song when you pushed a button. McCoy imagined Lyle, alone in his office, pushing that button repeatedly and grinning as the fish sang.

  “So what’s the score?” McCoy asked.

  Lyle sighed. “One more than when we talked yesterday. Kid named Ben Rollins. We found his car out on Duncan Road last night. Most of his innards were still in it.”

  McCoy was surprised. “That’s eight in all. When did the first one go missing?”

  “Two months ago, give or take.”

  “Damn. That’s averaging two a week. They’ve never been this bold before.”

  “Not by half,” Lyle agreed.

  Though he d
readed it, McCoy asked, “Anybody I know?”

  Lyle shrugged. “First was Evert Adams. He went ginseng hunting on Miller’s Ridge and never came back home. Next was Bessie Peterson. They must’ve taken her out of her house. The place was a wreck. After that was Dennis Yates.”

  “I know Dennis,” McCoy said. “Drives a tow truck for Green’s Towing.”

  “He did. Went out on a call around ten at night. We found the truck in a ditch the next day.”

  “Where was that?”

  “Just the other side of the Mill Dam. Barb Hutchins went two days later, about a two miles out of town on 719.”

  McCoy was mentally mapping the locations, and he was starting to see a pattern.

  “It was quiet for almost a week, then Harv Stanley went out on Wednesday for his poker night with the boys. Found his car on Monster Road the next morning.”

  “The next one was near Drover Mountain too, wasn’t it?”

  Lyle seemed impressed. “Yep. Alvin Hobbs was coon hunting there. Never made it back.”

  “Okay,” McCoy said. “You said the Rollins fella bought it on Duncan Road. If the pattern I’m seeing holds, the seventh one was somewhere around Cane Creek Road.”

  “You win the kewpie doll. Missy Newton left for work Tuesday morning. She works—or worked—at the hospital. She never made it there.”

  “You see the pattern?” McCoy asked.

  Lyle nodded. “They started on Miller’s Ridge, came down the mountain to the dam, came close to town, then headed across Drover Mountain and down Monster Road. From there, they crossed Cane Creek and ended up on Duncan Road.”

  “They? Do you have any idea which ones we’re talking about?”

  “Not exactly,” Lyle shook his head. “Of course, I don’t know ‘em like you do. We found some tracks, though. There were a lot of ‘em, and they were small buggers.”

  McCoy winced. He hadn’t believed that the Sluagh could be responsible for all of the disappearances, but the evidence was sure pointing that way. But if it were the Sluagh, then there was something else curious about the whole thing.