Blind Shadows: A Griffin & Price Novel

by James A. Moore

“This is starting to make my head hurt,” said Griffin. “What will stop them?”

  Decamp said, “These creatures use what we would term sorcery or witchcraft. They’re susceptible to it as well. The key is finding their weakness and to do that, you need to know your enemy. I suspect the answers lie close to where this started.”

  “Meaning Brennert County.”

  “Yes. You need to do some investigating. Whatever is happening there now probably started a long time ago. You need to do some digging.”

  “That’s my specialty,” Charon said.

  “Indeed it is. I’ll offer you any help I can of course. Call me at any hour.”

  Griffin stood up and extended his hand. “Can’t ask for more than that.”

  Decamp rose and shook hands. “I’m going to do some digging myself. We’ll talk again soon.”

  Charon said goodbye and she and Griffin saw themselves out. The day had turned cold and the wind was still blowing hard. Griffin bumped the heater on when they reached the truck, more for Charon’s sake than his own.

  “Do you think we can swing by my shop?” Charon said. “I’d like to get some things. Actually I need some clothes and stuff too if we’re going back to the hotel.”

  “Should be safe enough in broad daylight,” Griffin said. “I’m going to stay clear of my place until I find out if the cops are watching it. We won’t be going back to the hotel though. We’re heading to Brennert. We’ll stop at Baba Yaga’s and then your place. I’ll buy anything I need when we get to Wellman.”

  Griffin pulled out onto Church Street and headed for downtown. Church was a one way street and he’d need to find someplace to cut over to Cherokee Street to be northbound again. As he drove he played back the conversation with Decamp in his head. Something in the way Decamp had calmly ticked off the ways to fight the things from the other side made Griffin reasonably sure that the older man wasn’t speaking theoretically. Decamp had met these creatures himself.

  ***

  The trails leading up to Mooney’s Bluff were as angled and treacherous as the ones leading down to Crawford’s Hollow. Carl took them carefully as he traveled them a lot less often. The Hollow was filled with meth-heads, rednecks, the impoverished and the forgotten╤depending on which census you looked at the population of the area was only around fifty or could be closer to eight hundred╤Carl expected the latter was closer to the truth╤and the Bluff was home to a few very nice mansions.

  The fact that he was heading to the Bluff to meet up with the man who owned the Hollow was not lost on Carl. Neal Crawford was an old man, but he was crafty in mind and sound in body. He was also very old money. Back in the Prohibition days his great grandfather had been a very successful moonshiner. The family managed to keep the money even after the laws changed. They invested; they sent their kids to universities. The rest as they say was history.

  Carl cut the last corner in the winding road and saw the roof of the Crawford place as it came into view. The building was designed to look like a log cabin, but only if the average log cabin was two stories tall and came with around twenty extra guest rooms. Back in the fifties the Crawfords had built the home with the intention of making it an artists’ retreat. They’d even had a little success until the first serious drought came along and then the first bad winter. After that most of the guests opted to go elsewhere for their artistic contemplations. That, or the Crawfords just annoyed them half to death. It was hard to say with any certainty. In any event the huge old place was kept well and Carl climbed out of his truck with a half smile playing around his lips. He’d been here a few times when he was younger and his grandfather had been tight with the Crawfords. It was the right time of year for visiting, too; the trees were changing over, an explosion of fiery colors that could be best appreciated from the bluff. To the south was Wellman, with its three church spires sticking up toward the heavens. To the west of that was the Hollow, which looked half lost in early morning mists. If a person didn’t know better the dark area could almost be confused for a lake from this height, especially with the fog still creeping over the entire thing. You couldn’t properly call the area mountainous, but the hills were steep and rolled away in waves of frozen autumn colors. The air was cold and crisp. He promised himself that he’d swing by the Crow’s Haven Orchard on his way back and grab some apples. A treat to take the suck off the rest of the day.

  “I haven’t seen you in almost two years, boy. You pick the strangest times to show up here.” He recognized Crawford’s voice immediately, and smiled a bit as he saw the man.

  Neal Crawford was a tall, lean drink of water, almost four inches taller than Carl, but easily forty pound lighter as well. He always looked like a strong wind would blow him away. Despite that fact, he gave off an air of good health and good cheer that never seemed to fade. This year he was sporting sideburns and his hair was a little longer than was fashionable. He looked like he was practicing to be a county-western singer. Clothes, hair, the whole nine yards looked like it had come from a catalogue of Travis Tritt fashions. And it might well have for all he knew.

  Crawford was well into his sixties, possibly even his seventies, but he was vibrant and he was friendly. His face broke into a happy smile when he saw Carl and his handshake was as firm as steel. As always, when he shook Carl’s hand, the sheriff could almost sense that the man was taking it easy with his grip. The hair was a bit grayer this time around, but other than that, Neal Crawford looked the same as he had when Carl was ten.

  “How are you, Mr. Crawford?”

  “Son, how many times do I have to tell you to call me Neal?” Crawford sported a strong southern accent, but it was more of a soft drawl, and though he’d been born in Brennert County, he almost sounded like an old timer from North Carolina.

  He grinned. “Old habits die hard.”

  “Oh, that they do.” The man’s hazel eyes regarded him with sharp curiosity and warmth at the same time. “What’s bringing you all the way up here? I don’t for a second believe you’re paying me a social visit.”

  “Well, I’d have called, but you don’t have a phone.”

  “Can’t stand those damned things. Someone needs to talk to me, there’s a perfectly good road.”

  “As I just drove it, can’t say as I disagree with you.”

  The wind whipped the old man’s hair into a frenzy and Carl felt the cold bite at him. The temperature was pleasantly cool down in Wellman, but up here where the winds were a bit more brutal, the cold tended to want to sink into flesh. “Why don’t you come on in? I just made a pot of coffee. Or if you’d like, Mildred can set you up with a cup of cocoa.”

  “Coffee’d be great.” They moved inside as the winds picked up even more and by the time Carl had taken off his coat, Mildred, the woman who tended to Neal Crawford’s needs, had brought in a tray of coffee and cookies. He smiled warmly at her as she set it down. He had no idea how old Mildred was, only that she, like Crawford, seemed nearly timeless. She looked like she was in her forties. She’d always looked like she was in her forties. Maybe it was the mountain air.

  After they’d each carefully chosen from the cookies and fixed up their coffees, Crawford looked at Carl with those sharp eyes and got to business. “Tell me what’s on your mind, Carl.”

  “You own Crawford’s Hollow.”

  The man nodded. “That I do. I certainly pay enough in taxes on the land.”

  “You know, I’m just curious. I know that the Crawfords are responsible for naming Crawford’s Hollow. I know the town of Wellman got its name from William Wellman. Robert Brennert and Brennert County. Was there ever a Mooney I don’t know about to give this place it’s name?”

  Crawford smiled. “You’re being too literal. You ever hear of Buckhead in Atlanta?” Buckhead was the place where, if you had money, you went to spend it in Atlanta. Shops and more shops, with a side of restaurants and boutiques. “Of course.”

  “Go look it up on a map from the Civil War era. The name has changed. It use
d to be Buck’s Head.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Oh yes. But I’m pretty sure you aren’t here about the name of this bluff. What’s really on your mind?”

  “You charge anyone living there rent?”

  “No. You know I don’t. Why are you asking?”

  “The Blackbournes. How well do you know them?”

  Neal Crawford leaned back in his comfortable chair and looked at Carl for a long moment, his eyes half hooded. “They’re my kin, Carl. We’re not close, but I know them.”

  “They’re your kinfolk?”

  “Carl, if you look far enough back there’s a chance they’re your kin, too. My family just pays attention to that sort of nonsense.” He waved a dismissive hand. “You know all about the moonshining nonsense. It’s local history and local color. My great-grandfather was a man who liked to know a few mistresses.” He leaned forward, an ornery smile on his face. “Have you seen Siobhan Blackbourne?”

  “Oh yes.” Carl had to nod his understanding on that one.

  “The apple didn’t fall far from the tree. As homely as most of the men folk are in the Blackbournes’ the women often make up for it.” He shrugged. “Few generations back my folks and theirs got together and had a few bastards. So it’s always been a simple rule: leave the Hollow to the Blackbournes. Stopped a lot of troubles in the past and these days it’s just the way things have always been.”

  “I never would have guessed, Mister╤Neal.”

  “Well now, that’s the idea, isn’t it?” he chuckled. “I’d just as soon you keep that to yourself, by the way. I would rather not stir that particular pot of gossip if you see my point.”

  “Not a word,” Carl promised.

  “So what do you want to know about the black sheep side of my family?” The old man smiled as he spoke.

  “What can you tell me about Frank Blackbourne?”

  “Frank?” Crawford frowned. “About the size of this house?”

  “That would be the one.”

  “Well, I know he died a long while back. I think it was in a bar fight or some such.”

  “Somebody beat him in a bar fight?”

  “No,” Crawford smiled tolerantly. “No. If you’d ever seen the man in person you’d know better. No, Frank was a little addled in the head, but mostly harmless. The thing about Frank was that he also took it personally when people talked poorly about the family. His grandmother, well, she had a reputation for being a little crazy. When she died Frank tried to behave himself, but one night at one of the little joints along, a honky tonk that’s long gone and good riddance, some damned fool started spouting off about old Abigail Blackbourne and Frank heard the man going on about the crazy old lady who finally got what she deserved.”

  He paused for a moment and took a bite of his cookie. Carl could seem him trying to work out exactly how to say what he wanted to say. “You ever try to fight off a grizzly bear?”

  “Can’t say as I have, no.”

  “I said before Frank was a big man. You seemed to know that so I’ll guess you’ve seen pictures. But Frank was barely human. I mean he was that big, Carl. Probably close to four hundred pounds and all of it muscle.” He paused again. “Let me put it into perspective. You ever see what a grown man can do to a ten-year-old boy if he decides to put a serious beating on him?”

  Carl felt his jaw clench. Albert Burnside was currently in prison for what he’d done to his son. Albert came home drunk, started hitting his wife, and when his boy, Toby, tried to stop him, Alvin demonstrated exactly how much difference there was between a two-hundred pound man and a sixty-five pound preadolescent. Five years later and Toby was still in a coma.

  “Yeah. I have.”

  Crawford nodded. “It was like that. I don’t much care what sort of fighting skills a man has, some people are just too damned big. I understand the man Frank beat down had been a Golden Gloves contender in his time. You know the sort, big, drunk, bitter and mouthy.” Carl nodded. “Well, Frank made him looked like a little boy. Frank broke most of the bones in the man’s body with a couple of punches. Then he got mean.” Neal Crawford was deadly serious when he spoke, not a hint of his earlier amusement remained. “Frank beat the man to death. He didn’t stop until three other men tried to stop him and all of them wound up regretting it. He let them live, but it was a long time before they were mended.”

  “What happened to Frank?”

  “The sheriff at the time tried to restrain him and in the end he had to put Frank down. Shot him several times before he’d stop.” His eyes said what Carl had already guessed. Carl wasn’t the first man in his family to be a part of the Brennert County Sheriff’s Department. He was fourth generation.

  Before the conversation could go any further, someone knocked on the front door of the house loudly enough that both men were startled by the sudden noise.

  Mildred moved toward the door and at the same moment, Carl felt the hairs on his neck and arms raise themselves up. There was an old saying that was ringing in his head as the woman reached for the doorknob: Speak of the Devil and he will surely show himself.

  Carl was halfway out of his seat when the door was opening.

  Frank Blackbourne opened the door with surprising gentleness, careful not to brush against Mildred as he entered the house. Mildred, for her part, was quick to get out of the mountainous man’s way.

  There was evidence that said Frank had been shot. Looking at him now, there was no sign of that, though his clothes had definitely seen better days.

  Once he was past Mildred the man moved faster, his body filling the hallway before he reached the sitting area. Carl had enough time to draw his weapon before the man reached the room.

  Neither of them bothered with trying to speak.

  ***

  The symbols were gone. Griffin stood just inside the door of Baba Yaga’s with gun drawn. The symbols had been eradicated from the floor as if they had never been there. Griffin checked the rest of the storefront and the backroom before motioning for Charon to come in. She locked the door behind her. It was Sunday and the store was normally closed but someone might wander in.

  “Now why would they come back and clean up after themselves?” Charon said.

  Griffin shook his head. “Either covering their tracks or just messing with us. Saying look, I can come in any time I want.”

  “Well it’s just creepy.”

  “It is. Get your stuff together. I want to look at those locks again.”

  Griffin crouched by the door and examined the locks in the hard autumn sunlight. No scratches. No sign of anyone tampering with the lock at all, and this time the visitor had not only let himself in, he had locked the doors behind him when he left. Even with Decamp’s talk of extra-dimensional creatures, Griffin still wondered how someone was getting past doors so easily. It was going to make defending against them pretty damned difficult if you couldn’t even sleep behind locked doors.

  “Charon,” Griffin called toward the back.

  “This is going to sound really stupid, but do you know any spells to keep supernatural beings from entering a building?”

  Charon stuck her head through the beaded curtain. “That’s not stupid at all, Griffin. In fact it’s brilliant. Decamp mentioned that we have to find these things’ weaknesses and that they were susceptible to witchcraft.”

  “Yeah, but he also mentioned that they’re creatures from another dimension, so it’s more science than magic.”

  “Magic is what people called science before they figured out how things work. There may be rational explanations of how these things function, but the rules they follow are ancient. I’ll bring along some of my grimoires and do some searching.”

  “Grimoires?” said Griffin. “Spell books.”

  “Ah. Of course. Silly me.”

  ***

  There are moments in your life where a simple decision can change everything. Go left, you avoid the heavy traffic problems on the interstate and you arrive home fifteen
minutes early, just in time to see your best friend leaving your lover’s bedroom. Go right and the traffic jam keeps you stuck for an extra hour, but you remain oblivious to the infidelity. Stop at the liquor store for a six pack just in time to meet the man holding the place up or head for home and get hit by the man in the SUV who was trying to read the text that tells him what he was supposed to pick up at the grocery store on his way home.

  Pull, aim and fire at the behemoth coming your way, or dodge to the left and let the old man standing behind you deal with the charging giant. Really, sometimes it’s not even a choice.

  Carl fired four times, each bullet hitting his target in the chest. Frank Blackbourne stopped charging and fell to his knees a good ten feet from where Carl was standing. Carl smelled burnt cordite and the stench that came from Frank. The man reeked of body odor and something worse. As he watched, Frank fell forward and caught himself on his oversized hands. He coughed hard and moaned weakly and then vomited a thick slew across the hardwood floors.

  Neal Crawford was a good man. He reached for the wounded man, an expression of deep concern written on his aging features. Carl managed to catch his shoulder before he made it completely to where he wanted to be.

  Frank, on his hands and knees and gagging, looked up and snarled. Blood fell in a dribble from his lips and he stood back up, shaking his head like maybe he’d gotten his ass handed to him in a fight instead of getting fatally shot four times. All in all, not really the result Carl was looking for at that moment.

  “Good God.” Neal stepped back of his own volition as Frank got back up. “Frank? Is that really you?”

  Cold blue eyes regarded the old man from under a deeply furrowed brow. The mottled flesh of his face looked worse than usual╤and in his defense, he had just been shot repeatedly╤and Frank coughed, violently leaning against the wall for support. The wall obligingly stayed in place but it let out a groan of protest.

  “Meemaw’s...hunfff...Meemaw’s necklace. Gimme it.” Frank ignored Neal and looked at Carl. The expression on his face brooked remarkably little argument and under a lot of circumstances, Carl might have obliged without hesitation. In this case, however, he was still holding a serious grudge.