Blind Sight

by Nicole Storey

  She held the door open, motioning for them to come in. “Hurry – before the whole thing collapses.”

  Ed laughed. He and the sheriff made their way inside, avoiding catastrophe. After Jordan introduced her family, the sheriff shook all of their hands.

  “I’m Jerry Tillson. I sure do appreciate any help you folks can give us. Being such a small town, my police force ain’t the biggest.” He removed his cap and scratched his head. “Of course, we ain’t used to dealing with much more than drunks and cow-tipping. Don’t need more than a few deputies for that.”

  Uncle Case nodded sympathetically. “What about the local game wardens? Have they been any help?”

  “Oh yeah,” Jerry nodded,” they’ve been a big help at runnin’ their mouths and giving orders. I guess they aren’t too concerned, seeing as how they searched around and didn’t find a sign of any animal that could’ve done such damage.”

  “So what do they think did it?” Nathan asked.

  The sheriff face took on a reddish hue. He clinched his teeth, clearly angry. “Not a what – who. Those idiots think a person did this! I’ve never claimed to be the sharpest tool in the shed, but I’ve been involved in police work for twenty-five years and I know a murder scene when I see one.” He rested his hand on the gleaming service revolver hanging on his side, as if daring them to question his experience. “What happened to those poor people…it was much more grisly than anything a human is capable of.”

  Jordan, Case, and the twins exchanged looks. Quinn, who was eating Ruthy’s blackberry jam straight from the jar with a spoon, spoke up. “We’re more than happy to help, but we work alone when we hunt.” Sheriff Tillson raised an eyebrow in question. “We sort of have a system,” Quinn quickly explained, turning back to the jam.

  Uncle Case cleared his throat. “What my nephew means is that we’re used to working together.” He frowned at the back of Quinn’s head. “We’re really good at tracking at night. We can take the graveyard shift while you and your men hunt during the day.”

  A silent conversation seemed to pass between Ed and Jerry. “But, all the attacks are happening at night. I don’t think it’s such a good idea to be out in those woods after dark.” The sheriff looked pointedly at Jordan.

  Fantastic, she thought. Mayberry’s finest might have no idea what she was capable of, but Ed did. Jordan turned to him for help. Her new friend shrugged his shoulders, as if to say this wasn’t his call.

  Everyone in the room was staring at her. Nathan was sympathetic. He knew she hated to be treated like a helpless girl. The stiffness of Quinn’s shoulders -- that stone-statue stillness of his body -- told her that if she didn’t agree to stay behind, he’d be royally pissed. He hadn’t wanted her to come on his hunt to begin with. Not having to worry about stepping on any local toes would go a long way in accomplishing their goal of killing the creature. If she didn’t agree to the sheriff’s terms, the whole deal could be blown. Uncle Case’s face was impassive. He wouldn’t order her to stay, but he sure as hell wasn’t arguing for her participation, either.

  Jordan threw up her hands in surrender. “Fine! I’ll stay here and bake cookies or sew a dress.”

  The sheriff was gracious enough to appear embarrassed, but held his ground. “I didn’t mean to upset you—“

  “Too damn late,” Jordan grumbled.

  “--but it’s my way or no way,” he continued. “Three people are missing and presumed dead – one of them a teenaged girl about your age. I have a daughter who just turned sixteen, so you’ll have to excuse me if I’m a bit over-cautious.”

  Jordan suppressed the urge to argue with him. The sheriff’s eyes were wide and she realized he was more frightened than he was letting on. He wore a brave mask, but there were cracks in the veneer. He’d seen the destruction of Bradley Short’s campsite – the blood and ripped tent. He’d seen what was left of Amy’s shirt found deep in the woods, far from the trail she’d been hiking on. God only knew what was running through his mind. These were people he knew and swore to protect. Even though it went against her nature, Jordan backed off. The sheriff was under enough stress.

  Uncle Case gave Sheriff Tillson the number to Sheriff Brigg’s office in Dixon’s Bluff. When called, Sheriff Briggs would know who Tillson was referring to when he used their first names, even though the last name they’d given was a fake. It wouldn’t be the first time (or last) that their local sheriff was called to corroborate false information for them. He did it all the time. What came out of his mouth (when referring to Jordan and her family) was usually as twisted as a knotted corkscrew, and bore as much relation to the truth as a slug does to an elephant, but it worked.

  The men ironed out the details and Tillson made the call to Sheriff Briggs. Jordan felt uncomfortably out of place – especially when she saw the smug look Quinn wore after she backed down. She flipped him off before stomping to the glass sliding doors that led out to the deck. She changed her mind about going out there when she realized the “deck” was no more than termites holding hands and took refuge in the bathroom instead. Her thoughts were temporarily diverted as she battled a huge cockroach that (she could have sworn) wore a World War II uniform. Sheesh, this place was a dump! By the time she flushed the bug down the toilet while humming Taps, Ed and Jerry Tillson were gone.

  “We’re gonna grab a few hours of sleep,” Uncle Case informed her. “What do you have planned for today?”

  Jordan flashed a June Cleaver smile. “Well, Ward, I thought I’d make a scrumptious dinner and dessert for all of you. I know that big, strong men need nourishment before they head out to the woods to hunt down monsters.” She batted her eyelashes, smoothed her hair, and brushed imaginary wrinkles out of her shorts. “Then, I thought I’d iron your clothes, sew a quilt for Quinn’s bed, and whip up a batch of brownies for the PTA bake sale tomorrow.” She dropped the fake smile and crossed her arms defensively.

  Nathan, who was sipping his coffee, began to choke with laughter and the brew shot out his nose. Case, however, was not amused.

  “Jordan, I know you’re upset about being singled out but there was no way around it. Tillson wouldn’t budge on his ideals.” He suddenly looked older than his fifty-two years. “You know, sometimes it’s better to swallow pride than blood.”

  Quietly, she asked, “Do you think I can’t handle myself?” She could put up with Quinn’s bitching and hatred. She could stay behind if it meant they got the job done. But the thought of Uncle Case losing faith in her was more than she could handle.

  Case sighed, rubbing a hand down his scruff of beard. “What I think is that I’m your uncle. I know you can handle yourself, but I’ll always worry, Jordan. There’s something about this hunt that bothers me. You said you think this beast has been summoned by a guy you had a run-in with this morning. There’s too much at play here.” He pulled her into a hug, which was uncommon for him. Case wasn’t known for outward displays of affection, not even with her. “I’d just feel a lot better if I knew you were working in the shadows on this one. Be a doll and humor a foolish old man…just this once?”

  She hugged him tight and nodded around the lump in her throat, knowing there was no way she could say no after that.

  Case pulled away, clearing his throat and rubbing his watery eyes. He smiled at her, nodded to the boys – who were staring, transfixed by his behavior – and shuffled to his bedroom.

  “Well, that was…awkward.” Quinn stuffed the last biscuit in his mouth. She ignored him, turning to Nathan instead.

  “Can I borrow your car today?”

  He reached into his pocket and pulled the key ring out before his eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Why?”

  “I wanna check out Corbett – find out what he’s been up to.” Before her brother could go all Mother Hen on her, she promised, “I won’t go anywhere near him. I just want to question the local kids and get their opinions.”

  Nathan jiggled the keys in his hands. His stern expression reminded her so much of their fathe
r that Jordan had to look away. Finally, he relented.

  “Heads up,” he said, tossing her the keys. “I’m only doing this because I know you wouldn’t lie to me.” He cracked a smile. With those words, he assured she wouldn’t sneak off to Corbett’s house alone. There was no way she could break her promise to him after he put his trust in her and he knew it. Damn, that was low.

  After freshening up, Jordan decided to take a walk around the campgrounds first. It was the first week of July and the holiday weekend was coming up. Maybe Buck would have more business and she would have a better chance of chatting up the locals.

  She wasn’t disappointed. At least half the empty cabins they’d passed the night before were buzzing with activity. Families laden down with lawn chairs, brightly colored floats, and coolers unpacked their Suburbans and mini-vans while yelling at their kids not to wander off. Teenagers dressed in bikinis, flip flops, and designer sunglasses marched past her towards the lake, carefree and laughing. Their only worries were if their iPods were fully charged and who would supply the booze. They sure as hell weren’t shedding any tears over the ones who were attacked. It might streak their mascara. Not for the first time in her teen years, Jordan was grateful that she wasn’t so shallow. Her social life sucked, and she faced down horrors that would reduce most to blubbering piles of psychotic mush, but growing up the way she did taught her how precious and short life was. She had more respect and empathy than many adults did. She didn’t spend her time mooning over guys with inflated egos, popping pills, puking over toilets, or bed-hopping. There was always a silver lining somewhere, no matter the situation.

  A small building just off the gravel car path caught her attention. The sign hanging on the outside wall informed her that she’d found Buck’s Country Store. The pastoral yet attractive mart was tucked into the pines and surrounding forest. With its rock walls and timber embellishments, the building looked as if it grew out of the soil itself. It was no wonder she missed seeing it the night before. An OPEN sign hanging from the glass insert of the wooden door beckoned her inside.

  A hissing sound escaped when she passed the threshold and Jordan spun around instinctively, hand on her knife. She shook her head when she realized it was only a wall-mounted air freshener – the type that was motion activated. The scent of baked apples and cinnamon was out of place amongst the shelves of fishing tackle and snack foods. Coolers filled with live bait, sodas, and beer moaned and chugged asthmatically, providing a horror-movie soundtrack to the otherwise silent store.

  Jordan looked around the small space for Buck or another employee. Her eyes landed on a revolving rack of the most amazing, hand-painted postcards she’d had ever seen. They stood out against the harsh, fluorescent lighting and dirty shelves like flowers blooming in a graveyard. Jordan moved for a closer look.

  Delicate brush strokes told stories of undiscovered beauty at the Elk Ridge Campground. The pictures were so life-like, so stunning in their execution, she felt as if she could step into them and become a part of the scenery. One particular card stood out among the rest. It was a painting of the lake at sunset. Foliage-filled trees were illuminated in a backdrop of oranges, reds, and golds as the sun slipped behind the horizon. Dying sunbeams touched gently upon the waves of the lake, caressing the dock like an old friend saying its last goodbyes. On the shore, a lone deer stared off into the distance, head tilted as if listening to whispers on the wind.

  Jordan picked up another. It was a bird’s eye view of the lake at night. A full moon cast a bright streak upon the water. The black wing of a bird, perhaps a raven, cut against the star-filled sky. For some reason, she thought of Gabe.

  “They’re beautiful, aren’t they?”

  Jordan heard the words but, transfixed as she was by the images on the postcards, it took a moment for them to register in her mind. Reluctantly, she turned away, giving her full attention to the girl standing beside her.

  A cherub face framed by a mass of chestnut curls and almond-colored eyes stared back. She looked to be about Jordan’s age, slightly over-weight, with a brilliant smile, gorgeous tan, and flawless skin. She was beautiful in a natural, I-Don’t-Need-Makeup kind of way.

  Jordan returned her smile, answering, “Yes, they certainly are. Is the artist local?”

  The girl’s hand skimmed over the cards, giving the rack half a turn and then plucking one from its holder. She handed it to Jordan. “This one is my favorite.” Jordan studied the picture. A barn owl’s sweet face peeked out from behind a tree trunk, its big, amber eyes curious, yet soulful.

  “Oh, and to answer your question, the artist is local. It’s Mrs. Janus – Mr. Buck’s wife. She used to teach art at the high school and gave private lessons, but that was before she got sick. She still paints on her good days, just on a smaller scale.” She held out her hand. “I’m Wendy Jones. I work here for Mr. Buck.”

  Jordan grasped her hand. “I’m Jordan. My family and I are staying here for a few days.”

  Wendy took a last, longing look at the owl postcard and sighed before slipping it back into the rack. She noticed Jordan staring and blushed, running a hand over her faded t-shirt and capri pants. Her shoes were tattered but clean. Jordan felt pretty sure Wendy wasn’t working here for pocket money.

  A loud, obnoxious noise caused both girls to look towards the front of the store. Through the windows, Corbett’s muddy truck rumbled and shook as he gunned the gas. He pulled into the miniscule parking lot, taking up the entire thing. The silence in the wake of the 350 engine was deafening.

  “Damn,” Wendy whispered. “I can’t stand this guy.” She wrinkled her nose as the lummox jumped down from the truck.

  Jordan touched her shoulder. “Is there a bathroom I can use?”

  Either recognizing the urgency in her voice or the fact that Jordan was now squeezing her arm, Wendy turned away from the windows, giving her full attention. “Sure…all the way to the back of the store.” She frowned. “Is something wrong?”

  Jordan was already moving towards the bathroom. Calling over her shoulder, she said, “Just don’t let on that I’m here. I’ll explain when he leaves.” She managed to get inside, pulling the door almost shut as Corbett swaggered into the store. Jordan listened through the crack.

  “What’s up, Wendy?” He drawled. From a security mirror hanging high in a corner of the store, Jordan could see him hitch up his jeans and head for the coolers of drinks. Wendy shrank away from him as he passed -- no love lost there.

  “Um…hi, Corbett.” A soon as his back was turned, she moved quickly to get behind the counter, putting a barrier between them. Corbett chose a soda, twisted the cap, and took a long drink. He belched long and loud before ambling up towards the counter.

  “Buck around?” Jordan heard him ask. She could no longer see him unless she opened the door wider to search for another mirror and she wasn’t about to do that.

  “N-no. I haven’t seen him since this morning.” Wendy squeaked.

  There was a pause. Jordan pictured Corbett scrutinizing Wendy, searching for any sign that she wasn’t telling him the truth. In her experience, people who dabbled in witchcraft were extremely mistrustful and uptight. There are different types of witchcraft and most fell into the categories of Good or Bad. Witches who practice bad magic – used for personal gain or to harm others – usually have no idea the power they tap into comes straight from demons…and the price isn’t cheap. Every time they call on a favor, they lose a piece of their soul. Some demons take it right away; others wait and let it add up. Either way, it ends up driving the witch insane. Like powders kegs, the slightest little nudge can be their undoing and whoever happens to be around them at the time gets caught in the blast. Corbett’s mental state depended on how long he’d been at this.

  He must have decided Wendy was being straight with him. “I need to talk to Buck – see if he’s changed his mind about hiring me. You know, now that Bradley’s… gone.” He let out a guffaw. “Old bastard should’ve hired me to begin wi
th; might’ve caused a lot less drama around here if he had.”

  Another pause, and then Wendy whispered. Jordan was barely able to make out the words. “You didn’t do anything to Bradley, did you?”

  “Don’t you worry about it.” Anger replaced arrogance in Corbett’s voice. “What I do is none of your business. Got it?”

  Jordan stood still, straining to hear any sound, one hand gripping the doorknob tight enough to leave impressions in the metal, the other on the handle of her knife. After several interminable minutes, she heard the roar of his truck engine as he cranked it up. Seconds later, Wendy tapped on the door.

  “He’s gone,” she stated, crossing her arms and shivering, even though the temperature in the store was comfortable.

  Jordan stepped out, closing the door behind her. She walked back to the postcard rack, Wendy on her heels like a bloodhound.

  “Why did you hide? Do you know Corbett? Did he do something to you?” She fired one question after another, barely taking a breath.

  Jordan held up a finger. “First of all, I wasn’t hiding. I’ve reached my ass-kicking quota for the day.”

  Wendy’s eyebrows shot up into her hairline. “O-M-G! That was you? You’re the one who took out Corbett and his two buddies this morning at The Broken Yolk?”

  Jordan shrugged her shoulders. “I didn’t take them out – embarrassed ‘em more than anything, although Deliverance will need a nose and jewel adjustment.”

  Wendy frowned. “What?”

  Jordan shook her head. “Never mind. So, are you and Corbett friends?”

  Wendy slipped the owl postcard from the rack again, rubbing her fingers lightly over the surface. “We used to be until about a year ago…Before he got all weird.”

  “What do you mean by ‘weird’?”

  Instead of answering, she glanced up at a cuckoo clock on the wall. “Look; it’s time for my break. It’s been real nice talking to you, but I need to get out of here for a bit.”