Chapter Ten
“Pull closer to the mailbox,” Amanda said. “I can’t quite make out the name.”
McCoy eased the truck closer to the rusty mailbox. It would have been difficult to read the faded paint in the middle of the day, but they could make out the last four letters: heck.
“This has to be it,” McCoy said. He angled into the gravel driveway and headed for the house. No lights shown through any of the windows. He pulled up to the house and left the lights and motor running.
“Should I take the shotgun?” Amanda asked.
“No, better leave it in the truck. Around here, someone comes banging on your door at four AM holding a gun, you shoot first and ask questions later. If worse comes to worst, I’ve got the nine in my pants.”
“Remind me to make a joke about that later.” Amanda opened the door and hopped out.
McCoy climbed from the driver’s seat and they walked toward the house. It was a cozy ranch-style, with cedar siding to give it a rustic, cabin-like appearance. The front lawn was spacious, though somewhat neglected.
“What are those?” Amanda asked as they reached the front door. Hanging from nails which had been hammered in above the door frame were several small figures. They appeared to be made of grass or straw.
“Poppets,” McCoy said. “Folk magic dolls, used for protection. Obviously, Baracheck has some idea of what happened to his daughter.”
“They’re hanging over all of the windows, too. There must be forty or fifty of those little buggers.”
McCoy fondled one of the poppets. He was beginning to get an idea. But first things first. They needed to rouse Baracheck. McCoy searched for a doorbell, found none, and instead rapped sharply on the front door.
No sound came from inside the house, and no lights flickered on. McCoy knocked again, harder.
“Whoever you are, you’d better have a damned good reason for banging on my door at this time of night.”
The voice hadn’t come from within the house. It had come from directly behind them. Amanda jumped and gave an involuntary squeal. McCoy turned slowly and saw just what he’d expected to see: a shotgun barrel stuck in his face. Baracheck was a few feet behind them, standing in the yard.
“If you’re David Baracheck, then yes, we have a good reason. It’s about your daughter, Cynthia.”
Baracheck stiffened, and he let the gun drop slightly, but he didn’t go as far as pointing it away from McCoy. “Cynthie?’ he asked.
“Yes sir,” McCoy said. “If you’d be so kind as to point that scattergun someplace else, we need to talk.”
Baracheck’s expression was conflicted. He didn’t know these people, but they apparently knew about him and his missing daughter. Suspicion and curiosity waged a war within him. In the end, of course, the need to know won out. He lowered the gun.
“Is she dead?” Baracheck cut straight to the chase. McCoy realized that the man had spent years preparing himself for this very moment. Looking at the man’s face, he wished he had happier news. While Cynthia was very much alive, she was , in all likelihood, dead to her father. She had, after all, been abducted at a very young age. McCoy didn’t see how she would have anything but a few vague memories of her life before the Sluagh. The head-knocking option was looking better all the time.
“No, she’s alive. That’s why we’re here in the middle of the night. We need you to come back with us, to the Springs.”
Whatever reaction McCoy had been expecting, Dave Baracheck didn’t give. He simply nodded slowly, as if trying to understand McCoy’s words. Then he began to sway on his feet, and McCoy realized that the man was on the verge of fainting. He caught Baracheck by the arm just as the man began to sink to his knees.
“Help me,” McCoy grunted to Amanda. “Let’s get him on the porch.”
Amanda rushed over and took Baracheck by the other arm. Together, they managed to walk the stricken man up the small flight of steps and onto the porch. They lowered him into a padded rocker, where he sat, looking confused and unbelieving.
“Mr. Baracheck,” McCoy said, “I know this is unexpected, and probably overwhelming, but we really need to get back to town as quickly as possible.”
“All these years,” Baracheck mumbled. “I didn’t think I’d given up hope, but I guess I had.” His eyes cleared somewhat, and he looked at McCoy. “Someone took her, didn’t they? All this time I’ve been thinking that it was those things in the woods. But she must have been with someone, right? I mean, how else could she have survived?”
“Mr. Baracheck…”
“Did they get the son of a bitch? Please tell me they got him. And Cynthie, is she all right?”
“The sooner we get back to Shallow Springs,” Amanda said in a calm, soothing voice, “the sooner your questions will be answered, Mr. Baracheck.”
Baracheck looked at Amanda, seeming to notice her for the first time. “Dave,” he said. “Call me Dave.”
McCoy gave Amanda a look of gratitude. She had been able to get though to Baracheck.
“Do you need to get anything before we go?” Amanda asked.
“No. I just want to see my girl. I guess I’d better grab my keys and lock up, though.”
“Mr. Baracheck, would you happen to have a few large trash bags?” McCoy asked.
Baracheck gave McCoy a puzzled look. “I guess so. Why do you want them?”
“It won’t take long, I promise,” McCoy said. “But we do actually have to pack a few things before we go.”
Amanda looked questioningly at McCoy. All she got in return was a wink and a smile.