Page 26 of Sins of the Fathers
Dawson nodded. “Yeah. This stretch of road isn’t a superhighway, but it’s still got traffic. Too much for a creature—normal or not—to rip three men to shreds.”
The EMF reader remained silent, ruling out ghosts. They searched the tall grass and nearby ditch for nearly an hour, but if any clues had been there, they were gone now.
“Feel like a hike?” Dawson asked.
They had come prepared to walk the nearby woods. Dawson found a side road where he pulled the Mustang off onto the shoulder, and they grabbed their weapons and a gear bag, then headed into the forest.
“Been a long time since we’ve gone hiking when we weren’t looking for bodies or monsters,” Grady mused.
“We do so much of this for the cases, I didn’t think you’d want to hike in our free time. What’s Uncle Denny call it—a ‘busman’s holiday’?”
Grady shrugged. “We could always go somewhere that we haven’t worked cases. There are some really pretty spots.”
“With our luck, we’d still find ghosts and monsters. But maybe if we went to one of the more touristy parks, we’d be less likely to run into trouble,” Dawson agreed. “We could make an overnight out of it, see a movie, try out a local steakhouse.”
Grady smiled. “That sounds nice. I’d like that. Once things slow down.” He felt grateful that Dawson didn’t point out that it didn’t seem like thingseversettled for them.
“Some of the guys at the garage hike. I can ask which trails—and restaurants—are their favorites,” Dawson volunteered. “Since you’ve been doing all the honeymoon research,” he added. His teasing tone didn’t hide the fond smile.
Grady had always found it soothing to be out in nature—when they weren’t in the middle of a hunt. The mountains and forest were beautiful, and he could almost imagine hearing a faint, far-off song coming from the hills themselves.
“Still think the mountains sing to you?” Dawson teased, guessing Grady’s thoughts. Grady had confided that image years ago, and Dawson remembered with fond skepticism.
“You’re just jealous because you can’t hear them,” he joked. “And for your information, it’s not all the mountains. The feeling’s stronger some places than others. And not all of the songs are nice.” He shuddered. “I try to avoid those spots.”
Dawson ruffled Grady’s hair. “You are such a geek. Are you going to start twirling in a meadow like that old Julie Andrews movie?”
Grady gave him a look. “No. And I’m not going to burst into song either. In case you wondered.”
They fell back into hunting mode, alert to everything around them. The EMF reader in Grady’s pocket stayed silent, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that settled over him the deeper they went into this stretch of woods.
Usually, he felt peaceful in the forest. Now, restlessness had him on high alert, and despite the bright sun, the area had an ominous presence.
Places have spirits,Grady thought.Genius loci. Daemons. Most of them are good. But some…Grady knew that the tribes that first settled these mountains considered certain areas to be places of good fortune and safety and that other locations were avoided as unlucky or cursed.
Privately, Grady had always wondered whether those spirits had anything to do with the “songs” he heard. He’d tried more than once to look up that sort of psychic phenomenon and hadn’t found much. Nothing as well-documented as the kind of visions Dawson got.I’m a Richardson by blood, so any abilities in the King line wouldn’t apply to me.
Grady was just fine with chalking the songs up to his imagination. Now, he wondered if his jitters had anything to do with its violent history.
All those people the Bushwhackers killed left a resonance behind. Even if the ghosts didn’t stick around, violence leaves a stain on the land.
Dawson bumped his shoulder and motioned for Grady to follow. They used hand signals on hunts to avoid revealing their location or plans, and the gestures had become a second language.
Grady drew his gun and checked for threats while Dawson led the way up a rocky incline. Near the top, Grady saw what Dawson had spotted—a shallow cave that looked like it might have been the lair of some creature.
“Doesn’t look recent.” Grady peered inside. “Doesn’t smell like something’s just been here, either.”
Dawson shook his head. “I thought maybe if the bikers really were attacked by some sort of cryptid it might have a den somewhere, but this isn’t it.”
They hiked for another hour, covering the area close to where the bodies were found. Both men had been raised to have good outdoor skills and trained to be trackers—essentials given the thickly wooded territory in Western North Carolina where the Kings made their home.
Grady didn’t see any evidence of a large predator—no tracks, tufts of fur, or droppings.A normal animal kills to eat or to protect itself or its young. It doesn’t just leave torn up bodies next to a road.
“Might as well head back,” Dawson said, and they trekked to the car in silence. Remaining vigilant had kept them from enjoying the walk for its own sake. Not finding evidence made the effort feel like a waste of time.
“Uh-oh,” Grady murmured as they neared the Mustang. A black pickup had pulled in front of the sports car, and four large men appeared to be waiting for them.
“Shit.” Dawson’s gun was already in hand from prowling the woods.
