“Isaid, I’d be better off if I was still in bed.”
“Aye,”he agreed. “I feel that in my soul.”
Wettingmy hands tomake an attemptat taming the wild ends ofmy hair, I asked, “Was there a reason for this call, or were ye just eager tohear my beautiful voice?”
Finleysighed into the phone, and during his hesitation to reply, I listened to thesound of thunder rolling through the speaker, accompanied by the rustling ofleaves. I narrowed my eyes, as I smoothed my hair along my crown, and asked,“Finley, are you outside?”
Anothersigh, and then, he said, “I’mgonnaneed ye to meetme at the entrance ofCoilleFeannag.”
“Lookin’ for a romantic walk through the woods, are ye?” Ijoked, chuckling gruffly, as I left the bathroom with mobile in hand. “Because,as much as I love ye, Finley, you’re a wee bit hairy for my tastes.”
“Brodie,I’mbein’ serious here. And make it quick.”
Mybrow furrowed, as I grabbed my shirt and trousers, hanging from the back of mybedroom door. “What’sgoin’ on?”
“Ye’llsee when ye get here. Just … hurry, okay?”
***
CoilleFeannag, appropriately named for its geographic likeness toa sitting crow, bordered the northern most part of town. It was a thick forestwith gnarled oaks, tall grass, treacherous walking trails, and a few steepdrops that’ll likely crack your skull open if you’re not watching your step.Tourists took one look at the place and turned around, while locals used itsharrowing appearance as fodder for ghost stories and bragging rights. Idespised everything about it.
Idrove the winding road to the entrance car park, a rough clearing with a dirtfloor, and spotted Finley’s blue Mazda parked beside a patrol car. Beyond thetwo vehicles wasCoilleFeannag,looking as ominous as ever, with its tall, twisted branches, reaching outtoward the stormy grey sky, like the bent, broken fingers of the damned.
Theplace gave me the willies. Always had.
“Brodie,”Finley greeted somberly, tipping his cigarette-smoking fingers in my direction,as I stepped out of my Volkswagen. He then gestured toward the Constablestanding beside him. “Constable Abernathy answered the call thismornin’.”
Tippingmy head toward theportlycop, I asked, “And what callwould that be?” Finley shared a morose look with Abernathy. “Anothermissin’ cat, I presume?” I joked, making light of thetypical Fort Crow emergency. I grinned and expected a laugh from the twomen, butreceived none.
“Howabout we just show ye?” Finley said gravely.
Igestured for the men to lead the way, admittedly not wanting to be the first tostep over the forest threshold, and once inside its overbearing depth, Ispotted another man. A shabby looking dog sat at his feet.
“Who’sthis?” I asked, nodding my chin toward the elderly bloke, white as a sheet andgripping the leash in a tight grasp.
“InspectorBrodie, may I introduce ye to Angus Bard,” Finley said, standing beside the oldman with a crooked back.
“Goodmornin’ to ye, sir,” I greeted, tipping my head.
Theman’s jaw chattered momentarily, as if he were freezing despite the heavy coathe wore. When he opened his mouth, he revealed a collection of broken ormissing teeth.
“Nothin’ g-g-good to be found in-in-in thismornin’, l-l-l-laddie,” he spat,as what was left of his teeth clattered together with every stutter.
Olddrunken eejit, I thought, as I stood still as stone with myhands tucked deep into the pockets of my trench coat. “Can’t say I’m much of afan of the rain myself,” I replied, wishing Finley would get on with it andtell me what in Jesus’s name I was doing in this hellish place and wantingterribly to leave before the forest had another chance to steal my soul.
Finleycleared his throat. “Detective Brodie. Angus was out takin’ol’Rupert here out for a wee stroll thismornin’ andmade a … discovery. If ye would just follow me, I’ll take ye to it.”
So,after taking another good, long look at Angus and the way he chewed nervouslyon his knuckles, clearly terrified by whatever he had seen, I nodded at mypartner. In silence, the lot of us walked along the dirt trail, crunching overdried leaves as we moved deeper into the forest. Crows overhead cackled withghastly delight, and a shiver trickled down my spine.
Ilooked up to watch one black-winged bird soar above me as I said to Finley, “Y’know, they say crows are a bad omen, or a symbol ofdeath. I never really thought so. My uncle had a pet raven. Smartest damn thingI’d ever seen.Nothin’ bad about that bird.”
“That’sa raven, not a crow,” Finley muttered, peering up through the shattered screenof branches above us.
“Aye,but they represent the same thing,” I replied, listening to the beat of theirblack wings. “Y’know, in the Bible and mythology andall of that rubbish.”
“So,y’thinkit’s rubbish, then?”
Ishrugged, watching as another passed. “Idunno. Isuppose all stories stem from some truth. How much truth though, is anotherthing entirely.”
