The Bears of Blackrock, Books 1 - 3: The Fenn Clan (12 page)

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 could 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 -”

“For fuck’s sake! You’re the kid who used to protect me on the fucking schoolyard. Start acting like it! My brother could be dead by the time we get there if you don’t get your shit together!” Deacon was officially awake.

Catherine cringed, but felt a strange satisfaction to hear someone speak her mind so clearly.

Bennett swallowed, and took a deep breath as he was told. “Alright. I’ll bring you home -”

“The fuck you will! I’m coming with you guys. I might be busted up a bit, but there’s no way I’m leaving the search for John to two bipeds.”

“Alright. Alright,” Bennett repeated softly to himself, nodding. Then, he threw the truck into gear.

“Where you going?” Catherine asked.

Bennett rolled away from the Fenn property, no one caring that the gate was left open.

“Parkhurst Lake,” Bennett said.

She glanced back at Deacon, working to flush the image of John in the lake from her mind. From the look on Deacon’s face, he was busy doing the very same thing.

No one spoke on the drive across Blackrock, Bennett careening down the familiar roads as he always did. Yet, something had changed in him as he drove through the center of town. There was a stillness to him now, like a man with a purpose. The emotional wreck he’d been a few moments before had given way to a stone golem, only answering questions in grunts of yes and no. Catherine didn’t have the mental fortitude to worry about him. She didn’t have room for worry, at all.

She was keeping a vigil in her mind; a constant chant to summon whatever gods might be listening.

He’s fine. He’s safe. We’re going to find him in time. He’s fine. He’s safe. We’re going to find him in time.

“Stop the truck!”

Bennett slammed on the brakes as they rounded the southern end of the Parkhurst Forest. This patch of woods surrounded the lake on three sides, covering a dozen square miles of land. Deacon leaned forward from his seat, the previous groggy behavior now gone, and in its wake an almost unnerving awareness. He pushed his head past Catherine’s ear, inhaling deeply. Then he was out of the truck in a second, climbing the shoulder of the road toward the woods.

“Where are you going?” She called after him, hastening to unbuckle her seatbelt and follow suit.

“John was here. Don’t know how recent, but it’s strong enough that I’m pretty sure it was today.”

Catherine’s heart leapt. She began to look at the woods with new eyes. Every tree trunk, every leaf had the potential to be sacred. Had he touched this? Had he brushed past? Was he hurt, was he running? Was he a man, or was he -?

Bennett hopped out of the driver’s side and stopped at the truck bed, going through a built in compartment before stuffing something in his pocket. When he finally joined them on the hillside, he trudged past them, his work boots leaving gouges in the pine needles on the forest floor.

“Where are you going?” Catherine asked as she and Deacon followed him.

He jutted out his chin, gesturing ahead. “The logging road’s up here about a mile. Dad parks the truck there when he’s out hunting. If they’re here, we’ll find the truck.”

Deacon glanced at her, his brow furrowed with concern, but they both followed in silence. The flat ground cover of fallen pine needles made for fast movement, the three of them making good time through the woods. They didn’t speak, but instead moved up and down the hills, creeping through the woods, as Deacon lifted his head from time to time, breathing deeply.

Catherine listened for any sound, any movement in the trees. Yet, the forest seemed strangely quiet, as though it too was craning to listen for something.

Suddenly Bennett crouched down behind a tree, moving forward a few more feet before reaching back to her. She joined him, her face just at his shoulder, following his gaze down the hill. The chrome and black paint job of Uncle Bodie’s truck glinted in the little moonlight visible through the trees. Catherine gasped, aching to scream John’s name and hear him respond. She turned back to share this moment of hope with Deacon.

Deacon was gone.

“At least we know they’re still out there,” Bennett said before spitting on the forest floor. “Come on. Let’s go check the truck.

Catherine glanced back again, scanning the woods for a sign of Deacon. Yet, he was gone, as silent as though he’d never been there. Bennett marched right up to the truck, throwing all caution and discretion to the wind. He opened the driver’s side door, the sing song chime of the truck echoing through the quiet forest, proclaiming the door open and the keys still in the ignition. Bennett leaned in and pulled them out, tucking them into the pocket of his jeans.

“What are you doing? Sh!” Catherine hissed, coming around the truck to him. She darted her eyes down the logging road in each direction, waiting to catch a glimpse of Uncle Bodie – or John. Despite knowing Bodie her whole life, he suddenly felt like a stranger – like a dangerous thing.

Bennett slammed the truck door shut, his demeanor so strange, so apathetic that she was beginning to grow angry with him. He snapped his fingers at her, holding his hand open to her.

“What?” She asked, her frustration clear in her tone.

“Phone. I need a light.”

Catherine offered up her iPhone and Bennett quickly turned it to the ground, shining it along the road side in either direction. He walked in one direction a few feet, then back. Finally he stopped by the truck door again and handed her phone back.

“He took off that way. Single set of footprints. They didn’t chase him.”

Catherine exhaled a shaky breath. “Are you sure?”

Bennett rounded the end of the truck and glanced into the bed. “Was a scout until I was nineteen, cuz. Guns are gone, too. We need to be careful.”

She swallowed a cry, watching Bennett move with this new, strange confidence. Then a thought struck her. “They? They didn’t chase him?”

Bennett shot her an expressionless look. “Grampy wasn’t home, either.”

Oh God, she thought. I made him breakfast this morning! Please God, don’t do this to me.

“Now, the question is – do you want me to track him, or do you want me to track them?”

“Him! I want him!”

Bennett nodded. “I know, but I’m concerned that if they’re tracking him, he may have made efforts to throw them off. They’re not gonna be expecting anyone following them. Easier to find.”

Catherine nodded, following his logic. “And if we find them, we can maybe buy him time to get away?”

“Where the hell is Deacon?” Bennett asked, finally noticing his absence.

Catherine shook her head. “He’s gone.”

Bennett took a deep breath, then turned down the logging road, deeper into the forest. Catherine followed close behind, silent. She listened, trying to be everywhere, to see everything as they made their way another hundred yards down the road before turning into the brush and trudging off trail. Catherine kept pace with Bennett, handing him her phone as he made his way through the trees. He flashed the phone’s light ahead of him, suggesting it after Catherine voiced her concerns for getting shot at. The woods gave up so little of her secrets as they trudged along, Catherine keeping close to Bennett’s heels, despite glancing over her back, constantly hoping Deacon would catch up. He could smell them after all.

“God damn it, Pop! I’ve heard enough out of you!”

Bennett and Catherine dropped to the forest floor instantly, ducking so as not to be seen. They could hear the heightened voices, but could not yet see them. They were moving, Bodie’s familiar voice railing at Grampy Calhoun.

“You tired old fuck, I’ve told you again and again. I know what I saw. Now you step up the pace and shut up or he’s gonna hear us. I swear to god if we lose him because of you, it’ll be your body they find washed up tomorrow.”

“There ain’t no reason to do the fellow harm. He ain’t done no harm to us.”

Bodie’s voice seemed strange, a different nature to it. Bennett had often spoke of his father’s temper when they were younger, but Catherine had never witnessed it herself. Now, she could hear a cold edge to his words, and the sound sent shivers up her spine.

Catherine caught sight of movement between the trees; two figures moving through the woods. As her eyes focused on the shapes, the smaller one turned on the bigger one, and punched him square in the gut. Grampy Calhoun crumpled into a tree, doing all he could to hold himself up. She thought of the bruise on his back that morning when she helped him into his sweater and her blood boiled.

“Hey!” She screamed, not knowing the word was coming until it was loosed.

The figures startled around, looking into the darkness. She didn’t bother flashing her phone at them, she was too pissed to think clearly.

She took off in their direction, marching like a pissed off drill sergeant. “You think you’re some kind of tough guy, hitting an old man like that?”

“Jesus Christ, Catherine. I could’ve shot you out here,” Bodie said, and though his tone had softened, an almost syrupy sweetness to it, it was clear he wasn’t happy to see her.

“Grampy, are you alright?”

Catherine crossed the distance between them in another four strides, reaching for her grandfather. His fingers tightened around her wrist as his eyes met hers. There was urgency to the look and he spoke softly, as though for only her to hear. “I’m fine, dear. You go on home. You go on home right now, alright?”

“What the hell are you doing out here, anyway?” Bodie asked, setting his hunting rifle over his shoulder.

She wrapped an arm around her grandfather, trying to make him lean on her, but he pushed her away, holding her at arm’s length. “Go on home, Catherine. Go on now.”

“Why don’t you two take me, then?”

Grampy’s mouth fell open, but he couldn’t speak.

Bodie met her gaze, sporting a smirk she wanted desperately to knock off his face. “Well, you had to have gotten here somehow? Who are you with?”

Catherine glared him down, smiling in an expression her mother called her ‘wiseass face.’ “John Fenn brought me.”

Grampy grabbed her arm, urging her again to go home.

Bodie just chuckled to himself. “Shut up, Pop. She’s not going anywhere. Come here, girly. Let me show you how to track. Maybe you can help us catch something.”

He took hold of her arm, pulling her toward him. She fought to free herself, but he dug in his fingers, bruising her with his malicious grip. This was the Bodie Bennett told her about.

“You’re hurting me!” She cried, meeting his gaze as he glared at her, as though gaining some relish in watching her pained reaction.

“You should’ve stayed at home,” Bodie said, shoving her into a nearby tree. Her forehead slammed into the tree bark, splitting the skin there before she toppled onto her ass. She pressed her hand to her face, feeling the warmth of the blood seeping there. Despite the knowledge of what Bodie intended to do to John – to Deacon - somehow the thought that he could hurt her had never crossed her mind.

Suddenly, the woods were more terrifying than any bear.

“Enough now, Bode. She’s no trouble to you. Leave her be.”

Bodie turned on his father, pointing a finger. “Do you want another go?”

Grampy’s big hands splayed before him, he shook his head. The great goliath she’d once known was now timid and afraid, old age having made him frail and dependent on this beast of a man. Catherine felt her throat growing tight, thinking of the years since Grammy Calhoun died; years that her grandfather must’ve spent locked away in Maine with a son that abused him, and no one to know, no one to come check on him, save for a grandson just as beaten down as him. She remembered how startled she was when he beamed at her, agreeing instantly to the thought of her moving in. She’d thought he just wanted a maid, someone to cook for him – what he really wanted was to be saved.