The Bears of Blackrock, Books 1 - 3: The Fenn Clan

by Michaela Wright

  Despite knowing he wouldn’t answer, she pressed the call button. She wanted to hear his voice.

  The rhythm of the ringing phone made her stomach turn. God, please – if you could just make him answer, still this panic I feel, she thought. Yet, with the third ring, that blind hope was receding fast.

  She glanced back at the door. There was a strange tinny sound coming from behind her. Bennett wasn’t at the door to explain the melodic noise; there was nothing behind her save for the shed. She took her phone away from her ear just as the sound stopped. John’s voice spoke on the other end of her phone then – “Leave a message. I’ll call you right back.”

  Catherine’s brow furrowed. She’d missed the first half of the message trying to decipher whatever the noise was. She hung up the phone and pressed send a second time, holding it to her ear.

  The sound returned, but this time she recognized it – the Canteen jingle from Star Wars. Catherine spun around, slamming her hands to the wall of the shed as she pressed her ear against it, letting her phone drop to the ground.

  The sound was coming from inside.

  John’s cell phone was inside the shed.

  She left her phone on the ground, coming around the shed to the padlock. Why would his phone be in Bodie’s shed? Did he drop it last night when he left? Maybe someone called it since he went missing, someone who knows where he is.

  She inspected the lock quickly, then turned for the house. Hammer? Sledgehammer? If it took a fucking chainsaw, she was getting in that shed.

  Catherine barreled through the front door of the house and past the kitchen, half running down the hall to Bennett’s bedroom. She blew through the door, scanning the room for her cousin.

  “We have to get into the sh -”

  She stopped, cold. Bennett was frozen by his dresser. On the wooden surface of his bureau were a roll of twine, a long stretch of black fabric, torn into strips, and bundles of sticks, fashioned into stick dolls.

  The dolls from the woods. Catherine turned her eyes to his, and his expression betrayed him.

  “What the fuck are those, Bennett?”

  “Nothing! They’re nothing!”

  “You’re the one leaving the dolls on the Fenn property? There’s no fucking hermit, is there?”

  “No! I don’t know anything about that,” he said, his hands up as though he half expected her to hit him. He was guilty of something, she could see it as clearly as if he’d been made of glass, and it wasn’t just dolls.

  “You were there! Night before last, you were there!” She yelled, pointing at him.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”

  With that, she lunged for him and she did hit him. “Red t-shirt! The little man was made with the red fabric from my t-shirt, you asshole! Fess up and tell me what the hell you’re up to!”

  Bennett cowered from her, and the sight of it almost hurt to see. Bennett was a big, broad man, but in the wake of her anger, he seemed to shrink like a child. What was Bennett so afraid of?

  “Nothing! It’s just a stupid prank, that’s all!”

  “You made one with my t-shirt! Did you see him? Did you see him turn?”

  “I didn’t know it was your t-shirt, I swe -”

  He stopped, staring at her a moment with his mouth open.

  He swallowed. “You’ve seen it, too?”

  They both stood there in silence a moment, staring at one another. She wanted to unburden herself then, to share this knowledge with another person and acknowledge the madness – and the magic of what she now knew about the man she loved. Yet, she stopped herself, unwilling to betray his secrets. If Bennett knew - or thought he knew - fine, but she would not be his proof.

  “Come on,” she said, turning and striding out of the room.

  “Where are we going?” He asked as they stepped outside, and she glanced back to see that he’d grabbed the three little stick men. She nearly turned on him, grabbing them and snapping them in front of his face, but she had more important shit to worry about.

  “We need to get into the shed.”

  Bennett stopped in the doorway, shaking his head. “No way. Dad would fucking kill me.”

  “I’m going to kill you, Bennett, if you don’t fucking help me!”

  The sound of her voice shattered the peace of the Maine woods, birds and critters squalling in response in the dark trees overhead.

  “Catherine, calm down.”

  She was back at the padlock, jamming the screwdriver into the anchor and yanking the handle down, over and over in an instant.

  “Catherine! Stop! If my dad comes home and sees you broke into the shed, I promise you, you won’t have a place to stay anymore.”

  “You help me right now, or we’re done, Benny. We’re fucking done.”

  “Why?! The ATV if gone, Catie! There’s nothing in there!”

  She roared at him, disappearing around the shed a moment. She returned, her cell phone in her hand. She dialed the familiar number, and waited.

  The jolly canteen jingle echoed from inside the locked space. Bennett’s face fell, and she hauled off and chucked her iPhone directly at his head. He just barely dodged it.

  “Catherine. You don’t understand. We can’t open the shed. He will fucking kill me.”

  Yet, Catherine had lost the ability to hear anything Bennett said. She was distracted by the firewood piled at the corner of the house. She marched across the driveway ignoring Bennett’s diatribe, and returned to the shed doors, hefting up an axe her Uncle and cousin used to chop wood. She hoisted it over her shoulder, ready to swing away.

  “Catherine!” Bennett yelled, just as the axe made its first pass, splintering the planks of the shed doors. She wound up for a second pass.

  “Stop! Stop!! Here!”

  Bennett moved toward her, his keys jingling in his hand. She stepped aside just so, glaring at him as he brandished his keys and took the padlock in his other hand.

  “You had the keys to the shed the entire time.”

  It wasn’t a question. It was a statement, and the words dripped with disgust.

  “I’m sorry, Catie. I’m so sorry. You don’t know how he gets. I’m sorry.”

  The padlock clicked open and Bennett stepped back, letting her pull it from its anchor. She flipped open the latch as Bennett kept glancing back at the driveway, as though it might burn him.

  The inside of the shed was pitch black, save for the cracks around a piece of black tarp taped over the single window.

  “Where’s the light switch?”

  Bennett stood aside, glancing into the dark, then down the driveway.

  She took a step into the shed, feeling along the wall. “Bennett! God damn it, you useless -”

  Her foot kicked into something solid and massive on the ground and she toppled over it, her shoulder slamming into the cement floor of the shed. She opened her mouth to yell or cry out in pain, but no sound would come. The wind was knocked out of her. The object she’d tripped over groaned for her instead.

  Bennett called in after her. “Shit. You alright?”

  She forced an inhale, filling her lungs as she moved along the shed floor, breathing in the fumes of motor oil and gunpowder. She reached out in the dark, feeling warmth and mass. She lunged forward, letting her hands explore the shape as she began chanting. “John! John, are you alright?”

  Bennett moved in the doorway, and the shed light came on, forcing her to squint as she squeezed and soothed the figure on the floor.

  “John, oh my God, I was so worrie -”

  The light haired man rolled onto his back, and Deacon Fenn lifted an arm to cover his eyes from the light overhead.

  “Holy shit, Deacon!” Bennett whispered, dropping to his knees beside his friend.

  Deacon’s lip was split, and his eyes refused to stay open as his head lolled from side to side. Bennett gave his shoulder a shake, leaning down to look in his eyes.

  Catherine scolded herself silently, grateful neither man coul
d read her thoughts. Why did it have to be Deacon? Why couldn’t it be John?

  Catherine swallowed her thoughts and leaned over the groggy Fenn brother. “Deacon, honey. Can you hear me? Where’s John? - Deacon! Where’s John?”

  Deacon was out of it, his eyes barely able to focus on her face as she held his head in her hands. “Come on, honey. Talk to me.”

  Deacon shook his head, shutting his eyes tight a moment. “They took him.”

  “Who took him? Deacon, honey. Where did they take him?”

  He frowned, his chin pinching as he grew emotional. “I don’t know. He made them take him instead of me.”

  Bennett slumped back onto the ground, his eyes wide. His own expression was growing pained as Catherine called his name, waiting for him to look at her.

  The world was imploding around her. John was gone – taken, and Deacon was beaten, and clearly drugged, curled up on the floor of her Uncle’s shed with his hands tied. Catherine snapped her fingers at Bennett, gesturing to him for a knife. He pulled his hunting knife from his pocket and handed it to her. Though Deacon’s hands were free a moment later, he could do little more than lie there, shielding his eyes.

  “Help me get him in the truck,” she said, fighting with the solid shape of the man on the floor. Bennett seemed almost distracted, but did as he was told, hoisting Deacon to his feet and holding him aloft as the groggy man made his way to the truck. She scanned the floor of the shed, then the work benches, searching for John’s phone. She finally found it, its screen shattered, tucked behind the bullet press.

  Bennett was piling Deacon into the back seat as Catherine climbed in the front, checking John’s phone for any messages or calls that might help them find him. She knew well enough there would be nothing there. How could a phone call to his phone tell her where someone took him?

  My god, she thought – where my Uncle Bodie took him.

  Her face contorted in an exaggerated frown as she fought against tears. She turned back to check on Deacon, squeezing his hand as Bennett climbed in the front and started the truck. They were down the driveway and onto the main road a moment later.

  Bennett seemed wrong. He glared at the road, rocking his jaw like a strung out junkie as the truck barreled down the quiet roads at dangerous speeds. He slammed his hand on the steering wheel, mumbling to himself as Deacon slumped down across the seat in the back. She wanted him to stop. His strangeness, his violent outburst – they were frightening her. Everything about that moment felt terrifying and wrong, but instead she listened, hoping to make sense out of her cousin’s momentary madness.

  “I’ve been trying for so long. It was for fucking nothing!”

  “Bennett. What are you saying?”

  His face contorted and he stuck his hand in his pocket, retrieving one of the little stick men and tossing it toward her. Deacon managed to sit up of his own accord behind her, his palm planted flat to his forehead.

  “I’ve been hanging those fucking things for years.”

  Catherine held the little effigy, feeling the chill that went down her spine the first time she’d felt one brush against her shoulder in the dark.

  “Why?”

  “To keep them away. To warn them that they could get hurt. That people were ignoring the ban and hunting there. I hung them anywhere that fucker went, anywhere I knew he liked to go.”

  “That fucker?”

  Bennett blew out through pursed lips. “…Dad.”

  Catherine stared at Bennett. She curled her fingers around the stick figure. What was Uncle Bodie doing hunting on Fenn property?

  “But apparently it does no good.”

  “Why? Bennett, you’re not making any sense -”

  “I loved her too, you know? Mrs. Fenn? She was the only teacher I had growing up that told me I was worth a shit!”

  Catherine’s eyes welled with tears as Bennett pressed his knuckles to his eyes.

  “She didn’t deserve that. To be dumped in the fucking lake like that. I don’t care what she turnt into!”

  Deacon began to shift in the seat behind her, slowly getting his wits about him. He leaned forward and grabbed Bennett’s shoulder, squeezing it.

  Bennett shook his head. “I saw her one night. When I was out smoking weed with Paul in High School? We went down the water just outside the rez – and I saw her.”

  “Saw her what?” Deacon asked, his eyes wholly open now.

  Bennett swallowed, shaking his head as though he might loose the memory. “She was out walkin, like she was on some evening stroll along the water. Then she just – god fucking damn it…” He straightened his arms, bracing himself. “I saw her turn into something.”

  Deacon’s face dropped, but Catherine just watched her cousin, clearly struggling with the memory, as though he knew it to be complete madness. She reached for him, squeezing his leg. “It’s ok, Bennett. I’ve seen it, too.”

  Bennett turned to meet her gaze, his eyes wide and wet, pouring over at this sudden revelation that he wasn’t the only one – that he wasn’t crazy. He exhaled, blowing out hard through pursed lips. “Can John do it, too?”

  Catherine took a breath.

  “Yes,” Deacon said from the backseat. “We all can.”

  Bennett punched the steering wheel. “I knew it. I knew it. Ever since Greg died – ever since I’ve been trying to warn em. I didn’t know for sure, but when they found him like that – the same way they found her, I thought that must be why. Somebody’s killing them when they’re – when they’re like that.”

  Catherine fought to settle her mind. Too many images were flying through – of Alison Fenn, of Deacon tied up in her Uncle’s shed – of John out there somewhere in danger.

  Catherine inhaled, suddenly. “Does anyone know what you all are, Deacon?”

  He shook his head. “Only the people on the rez, and if we decide to show someone – like John showed you, I’m guessing?”

  Catherine nodded. “But if Bennett saw Mrs. Fenn turn, then maybe others have seen. Others who might be afraid of it?”

  “I think everyone is afraid of it. At least at first,” Deacon said, sadly.

  She closed her eyes and the truck fell silent a moment. “What if that’s why they died?”

  Bennett and Deacon both spoke in unison. “What?”

  Catherine remembered the phone ringing in her Uncle’s shed, thinking it must be some coincidence, some explainable accident – “What if they weren’t hunting accidents? What if someone was hunting them because of what they were?”

  Bennett shook his head, unwilling to accept such a notion.

  Deacon frowned. “It wouldn’t be the first time.”

  Catherine stared back at him as Bennett’s truck pulled up to the metal gate at the Fenn property.

  “Do you remember what happened to you last night? How you ended up in my Uncle’s shed?”

  Deacon frowned. “No. I got called to the shore down by the rez and when I got there, nothing. I do remember John in the shed after, though.”

  “When?” She asked, and the hopeful panic was clear in her tone.

  “It was dark. I think it was the middle of the night. I heard him calling me through the doors. Then I heard him drop, and a minute later, he was piled on top of me and they put me back to sleep.”

  “How did he know you were in there?” Catherine asked, trying to imagine when he’d come back to the house – why he hadn’t come to get her first.

  “He must’ve smelled me in there.”

  She sighed, realization hitting.

  “Then someone came today, and they were trying to move me, but I was still too tired. John made them take him instead. Saw him get up and go with them.”

  Catherine fought to still the lump in her throat, pulling and tightening there, demanding release.

  “Was it my Uncle? My grandfather?”

  “Dunno. All I saw of anyone else was they had big hands when they were grabbing a box off the workbench.”

  Bennett hopped out
of the truck, trying to maneuver the mechanism of the massive metal gate. It made a screeching sound as he pushed it fully open, then he returned to the truck.

  “Bennett,” she said.

  “Yes?”

  “What does Bodie keep in boxes on that workbench?”

  Bennett glanced back at Deacon, then at her. “It’s a bullet making station. It’s all just bullets.”

  Catherine frowned and her words came with a strange calm. It was the calm of certainty. “They’re hunting him. We have to find them now.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Bennett took a moment. He wanted to protest and argue against the idea that the Calhoun men – his own family would ever be capable of that kind of darkness. Yet, Catherine could see it in his eyes that he knew it to be true.

  “I don’t want to think that my blood is what ended Mrs. Fenn. I just can’t.”

  Bennett pressed his palms against his eyes, as though he might push the tears back in.

  Catherine reached for him, rubbing his arm. “Ben. Come on, Benny. I need you to get your head on straight and help me.”

  “What can I do? I’m the son of the guy who had Deacon in his fucking shed and I didn’t know!”

  “Yes, but you’re also the person in the world who knows your dad best. Come on, where would he take John?”

  “What?”

  Bennett’s mind was frazzled. She could see something cracking every time he mentioned his father, something dark there. She recognized the behavior well. Her mother behaved like that when she mentioned Charlie. It was the behavior of the abused.

  “Did he ever take you hunting? Does he have a camp somewhere? A place he likes to go?”

  “What? I don’t know! I’m not like him, I don’t know.”

  Catherine swallowed, fearing that panic and the ripples of a lifetime of trauma were going to block him from being of any use. The need to stay calm steadied her, but with each lost moment she spent trying to calm her cousin, John was alone somewhere, and in danger.

  “Just think. Just take a deep brea -”