The Return. Dinah McCall

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      Turner was in tears by the time he reached the cave. From the fading sounds ahead, he guessed he was a good five minutes behind. And from the appearance of the interior, he knew that she’d been found. The place was in a shambles, but what frightened him most was the bloody dress on the floor and the fact that everyone was gone. Had they taken Fancy hostage, or had she, by some miracle, escaped ahead of them? And why the blood? Had they killed her already and were trying to hide the body? And the baby—what about the baby? Fear threatened to swallow him whole, but there was no time to panic. His only option was to follow the pack and pray that he got there in time to stop a tragedy before it happened. He dashed out of the cave, saying a prayer as he went.

      He ran with his flashlight in one hand and his rifle in the other, dodging low-hanging limbs and jumping over exposed roots that might cause him to fall. Once he thought he saw a light a few hundred yards ahead and yelled out his father’s name, but no one answered. He kept on moving, running until the stitch in his side had spread to his belly, and his lungs were weak and burning, refusing to admit that his legs felt like rubber and his boots felt as if they were made of lead.

      Just when he thought he could go no farther, he got a second wind. Desperately, he increased his speed, ignoring the stinging slaps of tree limbs against his face and body, unaware that his clothes were being ripped into shreds by the tentacles of dry limbs and brush. Nothing mattered except Fancy.

      It seemed the sound of the dogs and the run would never end when, up ahead, he saw a trio of lights. It was them! Wanting to yell for them to wait, he found he had no breath left to speak. Spurred on by the fact that they were so near, he flipped the safety off the gun and fired, praying that they would hear the shot and stop.

      

      Fancy jerked, coming back to consciousness as a shot rang out. She moaned and opened her eyes, only to realize she could no longer see the stars—only a spreading darkness that was coming closer and closer to where she lay. In the distance, she could hear the flurry of rustling leaves as the hounds traversed the forest floor. Their barking had turned into bays and howls, but it no longer mattered. The darkness was closer than the hounds. Within it would be shelter and salvation. She welcomed it with her last breath.

      She never knew when the hounds burst into the clearing and raced toward Pulpit Rock. What they did to her earthbound body no longer mattered. She was soaring toward the light.

      

      As the sound of Turner’s gunshot was still echoing within the trees, he saw a hesitation in the lights and almost cried with relief. But the relief was short-lived. The growls and yips of snarling dogs struck fear in his heart—it was the sound they made as they fell upon their prey. All he could think was, No, Daddy, no.

      Seconds later, he ran into the circle of lights, shouting at Jubal Blair like a man gone mad.

      “Where is she?” he screamed. “What have you done with Fancy?”

      Taken aback by his behavior and appearance, their hesitation in answering was to become their last mistake.

      Turner groaned, then pushed past them, following the sound of the pack. Seconds later, he burst out of the trees into the clearing to find himself below Pulpit Rock—the moonlight casting harsh, ugly shadows onto the carnage below it. In the blue-silver glow, he could see a bit of leg and the fabric of a woman’s dress beneath the pack, and he began to come undone, shooting dogs as he ran.

      The silence that came after was as horrifying as the hounds had been. With choking sobs, he dragged the carcass of a dog off of her body, then dropped his gun, frantically gathering her up in his arms.

      At first the wounds upon her body didn’t register. He kept stroking her arms and her face, begging her to move, to call out his name. But she was too still—too silent. He laid a hand on her stomach, trying to shake her awake. As he did, it hit him that her belly was almost flat. The baby! My God…the baby!

      A new fear shafted through him as he looked around the clearing and saw nothing but dogs. The coppery scent of blood was everywhere, but he wouldn’t give in to the truth. Choking back sobs, he laid his cheek against her face, cradling her close.

      “Fancy…honey…it’s me, Turner. Wake up now, sweetheart, I’ve come to take you home.”

      She didn’t answer. Instead, her head rolled to one side, revealing pale, sightless eyes. He exhaled on a moan. Too late. He’d come too late.

      A sense of loss washed over him, so profound that it took the breath from his body. At that moment, he didn’t think his next breath would come. Yet when it did, it was a roar of such grief that the echo of it spilled out in the night, then filtered down into the valley below.

      It stopped his brothers in their tracks, but not his father.

      “What the hell are you doin’?” Jubal yelled, and yanked Turner roughly to his feet. “Have you gone crazy—comin’ in here and killin’ your brothers’ dogs like some madman?”

      For once the ugly accusations in his father’s voice passed through his mind without connecting. He picked up his gun, then pointed it directly into his father’s face. The quiet, noncommittal tone in his voice was deadly deceptive.

      “You killed her.”

      Jubal hid his shock as he struggled to answer. “We didn’t touch her, but even if we had, she’s just a damn Joslin. What the hell would it matter?”

      Turner shifted his aim until the barrel was pointing straight at his father’s belly.

      “Fancy was my wife. You set the dogs on my wife.”

      His brothers were stunned into silence, but not Jubal. “What the hell did you say?”

      Turner took a step forward. Now the barrel of the gun was firmly against his father’s belly.

      “Where’s the baby?” he asked, his gaze slowly shifting from Hank, to Charles, to John. “What did you do with my child? Did you feed it to the dogs, too?”

      “Jesus Christ,” John whispered, and took a step forward. “We didn’t know, Turner, we didn’t know.”

      Turner shifted the barrel of the gun from Jubal to John. His voice was flat, completely devoid of emotion.

      “Don’t touch me,” he warned them. “You’re all evil to the core. Now where’s my child?”

      Hank was getting scared. They’d crossed a line that not even he could excuse.

      “We didn’t know,” he said. “But you can’t blame us…after all, she was a Joslin.”

      Turner’s finger twitched as the gun swung sideways. The shock on Hank’s face spread as swiftly as the blood in the middle of his chest. Seconds later, he dropped to the ground without uttering a sound.

      Jubal lunged toward Turner. “God almighty!” he roared. “You shot your brother, your own flesh and blood, over a piece of filth.”

      Turner fired again, this time at his father. Jubal dropped to the ground, screaming in pain, his kneecap gone.

      Within seconds, Charles was taking aim. John held up his hand, begging for the killing to stop, and stepped in front of the bullet meant for Turner.

      Turner СКАЧАТЬ