Homecoming, page 6
Her career had taken her all over the world, but she'd never laid down roots anywhere before; she had never bought property, only rented on short-term leases, always willing to pick up her bag and head out on the next assignment. Now, as she looked around the bar, she saw happy faces sitting next to each other. Newcomer locals were greeted into the bar upon arrival, and everyone seemed to be at ease.
“So..., the Herald?” Nathan finally asked.
She could feel his reluctance and wondered if it was to do with her quick exit from town. Did he want her to stay? Did she want him to want her to?
“What about it?” she replied nonchalantly.
“Well, what are your plans?”
“Oh, I haven't really thought about it.”
“The hell you haven’t.” He smiled gently back. “I'd imagine, and feel free to tell me where to get off if you like, but I'd imagine it couldn't have been easy walking back in there. I mean, it must positively reek of your father.”
“What was he like?” she suddenly asked, picking absently at the paper label on her beer bottle, unable to stop herself as the alcohol lowered her defences.
“You didn't have any contact with him after you left?”
“After he sent us away!” she spat, hard enough to make a couple of nearby heads turn her way. “Sorry,” she added quickly, regretting the loss of control.
“I guess that’s a no then,” he said softly as he reached over and took her hand.
“I never heard from him, and my mother never told me exactly what happened. You got any idea what that's like? To know that your own father didn't want you but never told you why? Let me tell you, Nathan, it eats at you from the inside until there’s nothing left.”
Her words were falling out quickly now along with her emotions. It was the sort of thing that she usually kept under wraps, but now it was all coming tumbling out and she felt helpless to stop it.
“He threw us out, chased us off. My mother had to drive me away in the middle of the night because I think he couldn't stand to look at me another day in his life. That’s how much I repulsed him!”
She slammed her fist down hard enough on the table to send an empty beer bottle tumbling over the side. Nathan moved fast and caught it before it hit the floor, and suddenly, she wanted him with such a savage passion that she would have thrown him on the table there and then if it wasn’t for the watching audience.
“Let’s get you home,” he said, standing up.
“That sounds like the best idea I've heard in a long time,” she slurred as she allowed him to help her up and lead her out of the bar.
The winter air hit her hard and threatened to sober her up, but fortunately, it wasn't quite enough to allow reason to force its ugly way back into her mind.
“How close is your place?” she asked as she walked under his arm for support.
“Just round the corner. Do you not want to go back to... I'm assuming your father’s place? I guess that’s where you’re staying?”
“Take me home, Nathan. Your home,” she reiterated, hoping that she was making her somewhat clumsy intentions clear.
Together they hobbled along. Nathan was supporting her weight, and she was wondering just how much of a lightweight she must be if she was flying and he wasn't even buzzed.
They reached his home, a spacious-looking townhouse that oozed class from the delicate and tasteful facade and manicured trees that were currently sitting under a blanket of snow.
She was huddled against him for the warmth that was now spreading to all kinds of fun places while he dug in his pocket for his keys. His face was only inches from hers when she couldn't wait any longer and kissed him hard, squirming up against his body at the same time. A light then suddenly came on overhead on the porch and he pulled away; in fact, she only just realised that he'd been trying to pull away from the kiss the whole time.
“Belle..., I... I... I didn't mean to lead you on,” he stammered. “I thought we just... you know... friends,” he offered awkwardly.
“Oh shit, I’m sorry. I... it's my fault. I've had too much to drink, and I’m not used to it. You’ve probably already got someone, right? I just saw no wedding ring and thought...”
“No, it’s my fault. I should have made myself clear,” he replied gallantly as she prayed for the ground to open up and swallow her whole.
“No, no, it's me. Of course you’d be with someone.”
“Engaged actually.”
Just then, the front door opened, and a woman stood there with a welcoming grin on her face.
“Hey, guys. Did you have a nice time?” Tara greeted them. “Sorry I couldn't make it. Work has just been crazy today... what’d I miss?” she asked, suddenly seeing their twin blushing faces.
----------
Patrick Jennings hung up the phone and pondered what he’d just been told. Apparently, Travis McNichol was released on his recognisance, ‘pending further enquiries’ as the constable had put it, and his somewhat youthful boss was now drowning his sorrows at The Amber Acorn.
The bar catered to a niche market in Wellspring and was the sort of place that Jennings, and other good-minded people like himself as far as he was concerned, stayed well away from.
The place had a reputation for entertaining those of dubious morals, and as much as Travis had tried to hide his deviant predilections, Jennings knew what the man was, just as he knew how ashamed his father would be if he ever found out.
The McNichol farm had stood for generations, but it would soon fall, thanks to Travis; after all, how could such a degenerate produce an heir to carry on the good name?
There were two secrets in Travis’s life, and Jennings knew about both of them – the second being the use of the old barn. While he didn't know exactly what the mysterious tenant was storing there, he imagined it was something that Constable Wagner would be very interested in.
He'd worked here for more years than he could remember, ever since he’d been old enough for his father to expect him to help provide for the family.
He’d helped Travis’s father to build the place up on the back of their hard work, but now he was going to have to watch it fall apart… or maybe not. He had a plan to assume control of the place. After all, he could very well be the last man standing now that Tommy O’Reilly was dead, and Travis was responsible.
Of course, Travis had assured him that it was an accident, but he didn't trust the man, given his lifestyle choice. How could he? Just because Constable Wagner had released him, that didn't mean he was innocent. It was more likely that the woman cop was simply more amenable to the man’s choices; she was probably just as depraved as he was. Even a fat sow like her should still have had offers to marry and procreate and yet had chosen not to by the time she was in her mid-thirties; she was practically a spinster as far as he was concerned.
He knew that Travis’s heart had never been in the land like his father’s and his father before him. But if Travis didn't want the farm, then Jennings sure as hell did; after all, hadn't he earned it? Hadn't he been carrying the place while the kid merely played at being a farmer?
He was sitting now in Travis’s farmhouse with a small glass of whisky. The sun had set, and he allowed himself the small vice. He was trying to figure out how to turn this all to his own advantage.
While the night had closed in around him, the lack of light mattered little. He had grown up in and around the place and had owned a set of keys for the main house for some time, not that Travis knew about that, of course.
The fact that he was technically trespassing now gave him a shudder of anger as it rippled through his very being. He should have been installed to live here and run the place. That was what Travis’s father had promised him all those years ago. Instead, he was expected to take orders from a godless heathen.
He gripped the whisky glass tight enough to whiten his knuckles as the familiar wave of frustration washed over him. But perhaps God was shining a light on him now. Perhaps finally, after his decades of toil, he had at last proved his worth. If Travis’s sordid lifestyle had caught up with him, then surely Patrick Jennings was about to receive his due reward.
Something suddenly awoke him from his musings. He knew every inch of the farm and every creak and groan from its old bones. Whatever had just spooked his subconscious ear was new.
He wasn't a man prone to flights of fanciful imagination, and even now, sitting in the dark and hearing an unrecognised sound, he automatically assumed that it had a rational explanation.
There wasn't much in the way of wildlife predators out here save for the occasional fox that might raid a henhouse. He listened now to the night and heard the telltale scared clucking of the poultry outside.
He stood up and walked across to the far side of the room where a shotgun was stored on a rack on the wall. Strictly speaking, the firearm should be under lock and key, but when the law was being imposed by a woman, he had little respect for her ability to enforce it.
The hunting rifle was presumably at the police station, but the farm held several more weapons that weren't registered, and Jennings had little intention of rectifying that. He did wonder, however, if now that Travis had shot a man whether or not Constable Wagner might look to tighten the rules.
He snapped the shotgun open and checked that it was loaded before he headed out into the cold night.
Even for a local farmhand like himself, the outside felt wickedly cold to the point that the low icy wind stabbed painfully into his face as it greeted him without welcome.
He headed around to the large barn that housed the fowl. He was sure that the place was locked down tight. It was one of his duties at the end of the day, and he'd never shirked his chores in thirty-odd years, so he certainly hadn't started tonight. But now, as he reached the door, he was surprised to find it hanging open; even more concerning was that it appeared to have been forced. As far as he knew, there wasn't a fox alive that could jimmy a lock off its moorings.
While crime wasn't completely unheard of in Wellspring, it was exceedingly rare, so much so that the, presumably, lesbian cop was able to keep it under control.
He’d spoken to Ralf Tiller earlier, and the feedstore owner had told him that the rumour spreading around town was that the cause of the much-maligned power outage a few months back had apparently been a break-in at the Institute, which was a surprise. Also, the man had told him that it had been Isaiah King’s boys that had done the deed, which he found all too easy to believe.
Saul and Jeremy were renowned throughout town as a couple of petty criminals but going after the Institute seemed stupid even for them. Perhaps, he thought, the boys had thought the McNichol farm a softer touch now that they were on a crime spree. More fool them, he nodded to himself as he hoisted the shotgun and pushed the barn door open before stepping inside.
He resisted the temptation to call out. He didn't want the trespassers to catch wind of him and run away. No, this was his land, or at least it would be soon, and he fully intended to defend it just as the good Lord would expect him to.
With the shotgun cocked and loaded, he crept into the barn keeping low and in the shadows. The poultry were still making a racket which made it hard for him to hear anything over their clucking din, but something had them spooked badly, and he trusted the primal instincts of the animals over any modern-day security devices.
Something large moved off to the side, and he tracked the movement carefully as he moved, ducking low, shotgun out and ready to fire. The sound and shadow had both been big enough to convince him that it was no animal in here. Somebody had broken into the farm, and they were going to be very sorry that they had done so. He was an old-fashioned man who believed firmly in defending your own castle; intruders lost all of their rights the second that they broke into a man’s home.
He followed down between a row of pens, unable to stop himself from shaking his head again at the waste of space from when Travis had insisted on getting rid of the battery cages, something that Jennings fully intended to roll back the second he had control over the place.
The shadow was closer now but moving quickly, a little too quickly for him to be certain that this was a man. No man he knew could move that quickly or silently, not to mention the fact that now he was closer, he caught a whiff of foul scent in the air, something wet and earthy and far from human.
For the first time, he felt a tickle of unease creep its way up his spine, but his mind was too old and too stubborn to listen to the nervous ramblings of his inner child. A picture rose up in his mind of Travis no doubt becoming a jabbering child when he’d panicked in the woods and shot O’Reilly. That image was more than enough to make him continue to press onwards.
Something heavy was moved as the shadow crashed into it, and Jennings kept low as he changed direction towards the sound, darting along various rows between the large open pens. His body was sweating profusely despite the cold. Some rational sense was trying to warn him that something was very wrong here, but he ignored it and pushed on, picking up his pace as the shadow moved again, only this time to his left instead of his right.
Changing direction again, he darted along the row, his fingers gripping the shotgun that now felt heavier in his hands. Somehow, whoever was in here with him was s managing to keep darting around in the darkness, confusing him by popping up all over the place.
He caught sight of it again, inexplicably back on his right-hand side again, and he stood up taller and started to run full pelt towards it, giving up his own element of surprise in the chase.
The primal fear in his mind suddenly evaporated as it dawned on him that if it was the Institute burglars, then there were two of them; the King boys were in here playing silly beggars, and they were about to be the sorriest sods in the town.
He knew Isaiah and the man's reputation as a mean drunk. He had no desire to get on the man's wrong side, but his boys needed to be taught a lesson here, and he was more than willing to be the teacher to set them straight.
Looking around frantically, he finally caught sight of one of the shapes. He raised the shotgun high enough to not hit the boy but low enough to scare. The explosion was violent and deafening in the barn as buckshot flew and landed on the far wall, but the result was satisfying as the shape seemed to throw itself to the ground in terror.
“THAT’S RIGHT!” Jennings bellowed. “YOU RUN ON HOME TO YOUR DADDY!”
But the shape didn't run, it didn't yell out in fear; it simply stood up and started to walk very deliberately towards him.
Jennings’ hands trembled as he cracked open the shotgun and started to reach for more shells before remembering that he hadn't thought to bring any with him.
“YOU STAY BACK NOW!” he yelled out in warning. “YOU STAY BACK OR YOU’LL BE SORRY BECAUSE THERE’S PLENTY MORE WHERE THAT CAME FROM!”
He snapped the shotgun closed and raised it again, hoping that the subterfuge would take, but the silhouette just kept on walking towards him. Even in the low light, he could see that it was a man, but it seemed to be hunched somehow, and despite its obvious speed earlier, it now seemed to shuffle up the pen aisle. He couldn't take his eyes off the shape, nor his nose off the smell it was giving out, like something had been dead and buried in the forest for months before clawing its way out of its grave.
Uncharacteristically, Jennings took a backwards step but sensed something behind him. The King boys were a double act, but there suddenly seemed to be movement all around him as shapes came out of the shadows.
The group ran the gamut of shuffling to confident strides, but all gave off the same stomach-churning stench of rotting death as they encircled him.
To his credit, he turned the shotgun around in his hands and wielded it like a club, ready to swing and fight, but it did him little good. As if by some kind of silent command, his uninvited guests all rushed forward and then his world ended. With a flash of tearing hands and ripping teeth, his blood quickly began to spurt, which only mercifully sped up his attackers and ended his pain quickly without him even managing to do the one thing that his soul demanded: scream.
----------
CHAPTER 5
Closer Looks
Belle sat squirming on the sofa in Nathan and, apparently, Tara’s house as they went out of their collective way to brush off her embarrassment, which of course only made it worse.
She was nursing a big mug of coffee, but in truth, she'd sobered up pretty damn quickly when Tara had opened the door and seen her blushing face.
Tara had laughed it off good-naturedly, while Nathan had apologised profusely to the both of them in a very sweet way, but right now she felt like the world’s biggest idiot.
“You're not, you know,” Tara said to her.
“Excuse me?”
“The world’s biggest idiot,” the other woman replied as if reading her mind. “I'm sure that this whole day has been a real...”
“Mind fuck?” Belle offered.
“That's probably as good a phrase for it as anything.” Tara grinned back.
Nathan was currently making up the spare room for her to stay in, something that both he and Tara had insisted upon, and together they hadn't been prepared to take no for an answer.
In truth, Belle was kind of glad for the offer in spite of her embarrassment. The last thing she'd wanted to do was to go to her father’s house, her childhood home, at this time of night in the dark all alone. It was why she’d gotten drunk at the bar before making a clumsy pass at Nathan – all to avoid going home. As far as she understood, she’d only returned to Wellspring; she'd yet to truly return home.
“All set,” Nathan said, calling her over.
“Maybe I really shouldn't...,” Belle started to protest again.
“Nonsense,” he replied quickly. “You’re home with friends now. Let us look after you. Now, there’s your en-suite, and there are clean towels and toiletries.” He pointed. “We’re not quite The Ritz, but it’ll do for waifs and strays.”
“He's right,” Tara offered. “This whole thing is..., well, awkward for all of us, you coming back after so long away. We’ve all changed so much, and yet somehow, sitting here together, it oddly feels like...”
