Fire And Steel (The Merryweather Chronicles Book 2)

by Lesley Woodral

  Brandon shrugged. "If you think I'm ready?"

  Gerrick nodded. "You're more than ready."

  CHAPTER 2

  The town of Matheson was quiet on October 29th, the streets mostly empty of people, despite it being only a couple of days until Halloween. Like a wounded animal, pulling back in on itself after an attack. Normally, kids would be scattered across town, roaming the streets in preparation for the holiday. Decorating yards and laughing as they tried on their costumes. But now the streets were devoid of merriment. The people that did move about did so with worried glances at the town around them. Matheson had changed over the last few months, as summer gave way to fall and slid inexorably toward winter. People had disappeared. Children, as well as adults, had vanished from the woods and parks that were so much a part of Matheson's charm. Now those quiet and shadowed corners were something to be feared. Not sought out.

  There was nobody on main street to see the short caravan of vehicles cruise past the empty police station parking lot without slowing. The three vehicles were black and shiny, with multiple antenna bristling from the heavily tinted back glass. Down Main Street, past the Central Bank and Goldman's Antiques and Curiosity shop, the parade picked up speed as it reached the High School and began to leave the more populated neighborhoods. The road curved where it turned into Bachman Rd, leading up to a place called Highgarden and two people who knew more about what was currently going on in the town of Matheson than anybody else. If only the right people knew enough to ask the right questions.

  The Black S.U.V.s sped past the turn, and the answers that might've greeted them at that old fortress, and moved further from the center of town. When they finally turned off of the main road, it was onto the washed out dirt and gravel road leading to the Old Kirkman Mill. They reached the cracked and broken parking lot and came to a halt. The big rusted out silos were stark against the late afternoon sky when Special Agent Darius Faux climbed out of the lead vehicle and surveyed the crime scene. Faux was a big man, dressed in a standard issue black suit and wearing dark glasses. His gaze was immediately drawn to the cluster of parked vehicles at the back of the lot. A mixture of cars and trucks, they had an empty and abandoned look to them, not helped by the yellow police tape that stretched around them. Their owners were nowhere to be seen.

  A Matheson Police cruiser was parked about twenty feet off from the other vehicles, the engine running and its lights flashing. There were two other cruisers, parked at an angle behind the first. A handful of officers stood next to the car, watching as the arriving vehicles unloaded their passengers. Seven officers of the Oklahoma Bureau of Investigation, not including Faux. Four men and three women. Each of them highly trained and motivated, with about a hundred years experience between them. They were in street clothes, badges and guns on their hips, not quite hidden by their coats.

  Faux was the odd man out. He was FBI. His current assignment had him teaching advanced investigative techniques to the O.S.B.I. while working closely with their own forensics specialists and field agents as an example of inter agency cooperation.

  That's what his official assignment was according to his Bureau Chief.

  Faux stood beside the other agents and stuffed his hands into his coat pockets. There was a bite to the morning air, misting his breath. He tried to ignore the looks that the others gave him. Tried and failed. It wasn't the one or two distrustful glances that got to him, he was more than used to people's opinion of the Federal Government by now, but the looks of sympathy and outright pity that he caught on some of his new companion's faces. They knew, as well as he did, that he wasn't really in Oklahoma to teach them anything. He was there as punishment for stepping on the wrong set of toes during his last investigation, something he tended to do when he was on the trail of his query. Political considerations never came into his thinking when it came to hunting bad guys, which oft times put him at odds with very powerful people. As well as his superiors.

  Which was why he was in Matheson, Oklahoma. The drive from McAlester, where the O.S.B.I. forensics lab was based, took around two hours. During which time, Faux was impressed by how much the countryside differed from what he'd expected to find. In his head, Faux had always pictured Oklahoma as being made up of rolling fields of pastureland and open stretches of flat land. What he found in Matheson was far from what he expected. Beautiful mountains and forests, a lush river valley that jarred with his Broadway inspired vision of Oklahoma.

  At first glance, Matheson was the perfect postcard image of a small resort town, built around a central lake, with surrounding mountains and deep forests. Lots of restaurants and stores. Parks and playgrounds. Mini golf. A bowling alley. All the little things that make life worth living in America, according to the car commercials.

  It was the second glance that gave pause. That was when you noticed that the parks and playgrounds were deserted, despite it being a beautiful fall morning. The few people out and about wore the haunted look of refugees, faces drawn, eyes wary. There was a pulse to every town and city, a feel that any lawman worth his badge could feel deep in his bones. Something was wrong in this town. Something bad had come to visit and even the people untouched by its darkness could feel the shadow's breath on their neck.

  The forensic team leader was a man named Baker, a big lanky man with unruly hair and a wide toothy smile. Faux had worked with men like Baker before. They lead by being the first one in and the last one out, inspiring loyalty and tenacity in the people working for them. The others all instinctively looked to Baker for direction, even when they already knew their jobs by heart.

  Baker took the lead, walking across the cracked pavement and greeting one of the officers with a tight grimace and a handshake. They obviously knew one another, so Faux stood apart, waiting to be introduced. To look less conspicuous, he walked over to where the team was already setting up shop. Baker's team was every bit as efficient as what Faux was used to, pulling on protective clothing and plastic booties before approaching the taped off vehicles with their cameras and test tubes. They moved gingerly. Faux stayed back, studying the scene, and felt a chill work its way up his spine.

  The dampness of the morning couldn't disguise the blood that covered the broken concrete. Long stringy splashes and massive pools decorated the ground, black and sticky where it had splattered on the parked vehicles. Bits of meat and muscle and torn strips of flesh were everywhere. Faux's stomach flip flopped and he swallowed bile. He'd seen worse crime scenes, but nothing ever of such animal brutality. Human on human violence had a feel to it, almost a bouquet, that Faux understood. But this was something different. Again, he was struck with the sense that there was something very wrong with this picturesque town.

  Baker walked over, gesturing from Faux to the man he'd been speaking to. "Agent Darius Faux. This is Chief Derek Teague."

  "Acting chief." Teague said, taking Faux's hand in a strong grip. He was a medium sized man, with heavy shoulders and a neatly trimmed goatee. A slanting scar made a pale line through the goatee and up onto his left cheek. He looked around the parking lot, his eyes resting on the abandoned trucks, then shook his head. "That truck over there belongs to Chief Wyntrop. The one next to it is Sgt Golph's." He stared at the blood spattered vehicles of his fellow officers and his expression became grim. "The others also belonged to officers. Besides myself, there are only four more full time deputies." He turned and gave Faux a level look. "The rest of the Matheson police force is somewhere out there." He said, gesturing at the woods beyond the four silos.

  Faux looked at the thick wall of trees that Teague indicated. This forest was wild and untamed compared to the manicured parks and woods that decorated the rest of Matheson. As he studied the tree line, he couldn't shake the feeling of being watched. He said. "How far out does it go? How many square miles?"

  "Around thirty or forty square miles, maybe." Teague said, rubbing a hand across his face. He met Baker's gaze for a moment, before saying to both of them. "It's rough country, but not impo
ssible. We've still got a lot of daylight left and we plan on using every bit of it."

  Baker was nodding even as Teague spoke. He looked at Faux and said. "My team will lock down the crime scene, while Faux and I help you search."

  Teague said. "We appreciate the help." He gestured for his men to move in closer and began doling out instructions. He knew what he was about, that was clear as he began organizing a search formation that would make use of every man there. Faux moved a step closer to Baker and nodded towards the acting chief. "How do you know the man?"

  Baker gave quick directions to one of his lab techs before answering Faux's question. Glancing toward Teague, he said. "He used to be with the State Police, worked with him on more than a few cases. A damn good investigator. And a good man in a fight."

  Faux glanced over at the man, watching as he finished positioning his men. Teague glanced their way and gave a tight nod, indicating that they were ready. Faux decided to re-evaluate his opinions about the town and its police force. He'd assumed he would be dealing with simple country people. It was a pleasant surprise to find professionalism and skill in a town Matheson's size. Faux said. "Why did he leave the State Police to work here? In the Bureau, he'd have been marked for promotion quickly enough? I doubt the State's that much different?"

  Baker grunted. "No clue." He looked at the wild wood they were about to enter and shook his head. "Matheson is his hometown. He could've just been homesick, I suppose?"

  Faux pursed his lips and glanced at Baker, but he let the lie stand. He hadn't known Baker long enough to call him out on it without possibly harming their work relationship. And his time for brooding about it was shortened by a shout from Teague.

  "We're ready when your are."

  Baker gave Teague a quick smile and said. "Let's go hunting."

  Claire Moody looked up from her tablet and smiled at the playing children. She was sitting on a park bench, reading a book on her tablet. Her tablet was her new favorite thing, replacing even her phone as her primary way of listening to music and watching videos. But it was being able to carry her library with her wherever she went that made it the neatest gadget she owned. She shifted against the wooden seat, the cold biting at the backs of her legs through her jeans, and watched the two little boys at play.

  Blue's Park was her favorite of the many playgrounds situated around the Lake, the area surrounding it peaceful and lovely. It was just off of Main Street, across from her favorite coffee shop and a row of antique stores and tourist attractions. Some of the seasonal places were closed for the fall and winter months, but Goldman's was open all year round. As was The Coffee Nook. It was an easy walk across the street and down to the first small playground, where one could usually find groups of children at play on any given day, even during the school year. But today, there were only two small boys, under the watchful gaze of their mother. She stood close to the shining steel slide, nervously smoking a cigarette as she watched her kids playing. The boys were laughing and chasing one another, seemingly unaware of their mother's jittery fear. But, every so often, they stopped their laughing and looked at their mom, their eyes matching ovals of worry.

  It struck Claire that the children in Matheson seemed to be far more aware of what was happening in town than their parents knew or even suspected. Her parents were unsettled and maybe even terrified of the disappearances, but they seemed to take it in stride as something that could happen anywhere these days. It said something about the mentality of the world around them all that put Claire's teeth on edge. As if everybody in the world were becoming de-sensitized to the terrible things that happened everyday.

  Nothing supernatural about that at all, in their minds.

  But Claire knew better.

  And it seemed like other people did, as well.

  "What are you doing out here all by yourself, Miss Moody?" Said a gruff voice, from just behind her.

  Claire jumped and turned, nearly dropping her tablet and knocking over her coffee. Mr. Underhill, one of her teachers, caught the cup before it could overturn and steadied the tablet in her hand. The grizzled, yet kindly, old man smiled at her and she couldn't help but smile back. It might have been because of the crooked scar on his face, every bit as discouraging and obvious as her own handicap, but there was something that made her trust the old teacher. He frowned and said. "I'm surprised at you, Claire."

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Underhill?" Claire looked up, using her free hand to push some stray hairs away from her face. Her eyepatch today was purple, made to look like the most intricate lace. Tiny geometric symbols and runes stitched into the fabric. On top of her head, she wore a soft wool cap that matched the eyepatch.

  Underhill said. "I would've thought you had sense enough to stay inside, with the curfew and the disappearances?" His tone was fatherly and too overprotective by a good margin. She already had a mom and dad, and wasn't interested in adopting an extra parent to watch over her.

  Claire said. "I'm waiting for Bran, actually. He's meeting me for lunch." She kept her voice level and friendly, despite the strong urge to bite the older man's nose off. She took a dainty sip of her coffee to punctuate her words.

  Underhill gave a soft laugh and slid onto the bench beside her, not close enough to invade her space though. He sighed and looked at the two playing children and their terrified mother. The young woman now watched Claire and Underhill almost as much as she had watched her little ones. "How is young Merryweather? Is he still having trouble with those Krueger boys?"

  Claire shrugged, glancing at the woman and her children. The woman was gathering up her boys, shooting dark suspicious looks at Underhill, and Claire suddenly felt bad for the old man beside her. She looked at her teacher and said. "I'm sorry about that."

  Underhill looked at her, eyebrow raised. "Don't be foolish, Claire. You can no more apologize for that woman's fear than you can make that fear vanish. It's good that she was afraid. If I could scare every child into their homes with my ugly old face, I would. Safer for them to be home and scared, then out and about during these dark times." The last was said with a very pointed look at her.

  Claire couldn't help but laugh. His smile returned, easy and natural despite how it tugged at the scar across his cheek. Claire spoke without thinking, otherwise she might have never found the nerve. "Mr. Underhill, how did you get your scar?" This was a question that had nagged at her ever since her first class with him, but she would never have considered asking it at school. But they weren't at school now and, after his not so subtle comments about her foolishness, she wasn't feeling subtle at all.

  Instead of being offended, Underhill laughed and said. "You've got grit, girl. I'll give you that." He went quiet for a moment, studying the now empty playground for a long time, before answering. "It happened a long time ago. In a war."

  "I'm sorry." She said, unable to stop herself.

  He gave her a mock frown, then smiled sadly. "You've got nothing to be sorry for, girl. It was ages ago. I was a different man then. And it was a different world." Shaking his head, he met her gaze for a long time, peering hard into her single green eye. Then he surprised her by asking. "Turnabout being fair play and all, would you show me what lies beneath all of your colorful eye-patches?"

  Claire hesitated, but only for a moment. It was only fair. She pulled the eyepatch aside, exposing the smooth unblemished skin underneath. He stared at it a long time, his face expressionless, before making a small gesture to show that she could replace the patch. He didn't apologize or offer weak platitudes and she loved him for it.

  Instead, he looked at her and said. "When I was a boy, my father told me many stories of fantastic places and magical peoples. It was said that once, long ago, there lived Seers, beautiful girls gifted in prophecy. They saw the future and could look into the hearts of every living creature and see what dwelt within. They were revered as goddesses and as rare as precious jewels." When he stopped speaking, he cleared his throat and looked out over the lake, watching the wind spread ripp
les out across the broad expanse of water.

  Claire was speechless. She looked at the old man's grizzled features, teased by the thought that she could somehow see the young man he once was. The ghost of a handsome young man seemed to shimmer beneath his tough scarred exterior. Before she could formulate a response, Underhill glanced past her and smiled. "There's your young man now, I think."

  Claire turned, immediately spotting Brandon, ambling toward her from across the street. When he saw that she had noticed him, his face broke into a broad smile. He was holding a coffee with one hand and waving with the other. Her heart swelled at the sight of him. She turned back to Underhill, to thank him for the story and for sitting with her, but he was already gone.

  She caught sight of him, crossing the street and going into Goldman's Bookstore. For an old man, he moved silently and swiftly. She was still watching the store across the street when Brandon walked up and said. "Was that Mr. Underhill?"

  Turning, she smiled up at Brandon and pushed the odd conversation from her mind. He was so beautiful, with his strong features and wavy brown hair. She slipped her arms around his waist and lay her head on his chest, losing herself in the feel of his strong arms around her. Once upon a time, she might've worried about who might've seen her out with a boy, but those days were long past. Now, she could simply take comfort in the arms of the boy she loved. Turning her face up, their lips met and the rest of the world vanished in a blast of heat. No more thoughts of darkness or missing children. No daydreams of fantastic beasts and magical Seers. Nothing existed but the feel of Brandon's lips on hers.

  Across the street from the park, standing in the cool shadows of the dimly lit old bookstore, two old men watched the young lovers through dusty window glass. While Underhill was a grizzled old specimen, every bit as tough as he looked, the other was a horse of a different color. Archibald Goldman, Arch to his friends, was a slight man with a wisp of white hair on top of a mostly bald and wrinkled old skull. Whereas Underhill was what anybody would rightly call an old man, having already lived years longer than he ever expected in his former life, Arch was something far more ancient. The aura surrounding the wizened little man was of something of tremendous age and frailty, but that was bellied by the steel in his gaze and the spryness to his step as he turned from the window and walked across the shadowed main room of the bookstore. He spoke to the air as he walked, his voice tight. "Well?"