The Road Home Read online

  Books by Michael Thomas Ford

  LAST SUMMER

  LOOKING FOR IT

  TANGLED SHEETS

  FULL CIRCLE

  CHANGING TIDES

  WHAT WE REMEMBER

  THE ROAD HOME

  THE PATH OF THE GREEN MAN

  MASTERS OF MIDNIGHT

  (with William J. Mann, Sean Wolfe, and Jeff Mann)

  MIDNIGHT THIRSTS

  (with Timothy Ridge, Greg Herren, and Sean Wolfe)

  Published by Kensington Publishing Corporation

  THE ROAD HOME

  MICHAEL THOMAS FORD

  KENSINGTON BOOKS

  www.kensingtonbooks.com

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  Books by Michael Thomas Ford

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Author’s Note

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  CHAPTER 33

  Copyright Page

  For

  Michael Joseph McGuire,

  who sent it in a new direction

  Author’s Note

  Although this is a work of fiction, several real-life locations and people appear in the story.

  There is a real Radical Faerie sanctuary in Vermont called Faerie Camp Destiny. It is a wonderful place. In this novel I have used it in name only, to honor the many Faeries and kindred spirits who have devoted their energy to bringing Destiny to fruition. The details of the camp, the names and descriptions of participants, and the rituals as they appear in this book are of my own invention. For more information on the real Faerie Camp Destiny, you may visit www.faeriecampdestiny.org.

  Sarah Higdon, whose work hangs in the fictional Colton Beresford Gallery in the novel, is a real artist. You may visit her at www.sarahhigdon.com.

  The story “Midsummer,” which is included in Sam Guffrey’s fictional book In the Wood of the Holly King, first appeared in my own book The Path of the Green Man (Citadel Press, 2005) as “A Night in Maeve’s Wood.”

  CHAPTER 1

  And there were in the same country shepherds abiding in the field, keeping watch over their flock by night. And, lo, the angel of the Lord came upon them, and the glory of the Lord shone round about them; and they were sore afraid. And the angel said unto them, Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy. . . .

  Burke couldn’t remember the rest. It was something about peace and singing. That much he knew. But the exact words escaped him. He closed his eyes and pictured himself standing at the front of the church, just as Mrs. Throckton had told him to do. He was wearing a long brown robe and holding a staff made from a mop handle. Two other shepherds stood near him, while a couple of little kids dressed as sheep wandered around looking lost.

  The problem was his beard. Made of cotton balls glued to construction paper and attached to his face with pieces of string that hooked around his ears, it made it difficult for him to speak. He felt himself growing anxious as he cleared his throat and tried again. But the words seemed to be stuck. He couldn’t get them to come out of his mouth. All he could do was look out at the pews filled with people waiting for him to deliver his speech—the most important part of the whole pageant.

  He opened his eyes. His heart was beating fast in his chest, and for a moment he couldn’t breathe. Then he looked around, saw that he was standing on top of the hill, and he began to calm down. It’s okay, he reassured himself. It’s okay.

  He moved his feet, his boots crunching in the snow. It had gotten colder since he’d come out an hour ago. He looked up at the sky and saw that it was darkening. Night was coming. Soon he would have dinner with his parents, and then his father would drive them to church, where Burke would play his part in the Nativity pageant. If he could say his lines.

  He tried not to think about it, concentrating instead on the hill, and specifically on the path he’d made for the toboggan. It was a good path. He’d planned it carefully, first tamping the snow down with his feet and then dragging the toboggan up and down the hill several times, until the path was exactly wide enough and deep enough to keep the sled on track. It had been a lot of work, and he was tired. But the anticipation of a spectacular ride energized him. As he looked down the hill, he could already feel the shaking of the toboggan as it slid over the hard-packed snow.

  The best part, of course, was the jump. Admittedly, it wasn’t exactly a jump, more of a very large bump. But it would do the trick. He’d chosen the route precisely because it took him over a mound that stuck out of the hill about halfway down. If he could get up enough speed, the toboggan would hit the bump and lift up enough to create the sensation of flying. This was assuming that he’d planned correctly. Toboggans were tricky things and didn’t always do what one wanted them to.

  He’d waxed the bottom of his, rubbing the paraffin into the wood until the boards were shiny and slick. So far it had performed admirably, sliding over the snow with a satisfying shushing sound. True, it had once or twice attempted to go sideways or break free from the path, but that was the nature of toboggans, and Burke admired its refusal to be entirely tamed.

  It had begun to snow again. Thick flakes tumbled from the sky. Although he loved snow, he wished it would stop, at least until he was finished. New snow filled in the path and slowed the toboggan’s pace. A clean, almost icy surface was preferable. Still, he had time before the new snow accumulated enough to affect things too badly.

  Get going, he told himself. This is what you’ve been waiting for.

  Still he held back, scanning the track for any imperfections, moving the toboggan back and forth across the snow to make sure its underside was still slippery. He knew that he was hesitating because now that the long-awaited moment had arrived, he was afraid of failure. His mind flashed suddenly to the image of himself standing onstage, unable to remember the words of the angel of the Lord.

  He pulled the toboggan to the crest of the hill and the start of the track. Positioning it so that the front extended just over the hill’s peak, he sat down and took hold of the guide rope. Tucking his feet into the hollow made by the upward curve of the wood, he used his hands to push the toboggan forward until he felt the front tip. Then, giving one final push, he leaned forward and let the weight of his body propel the toboggan into the fall.

  Cold air buffeted his face, making his eyes tear up. He blinked, clearing them, and looked straight ahead. The toboggan was gathering speed, and the snow whispered excitedly as Burke sailed over it. Everything was working perfectly. It’s going to fly, he told himself.

  The mound was coming up. Only a few more yards. He pushed against the wind, trying to use as much of his weight as he could to help the toboggan accelerate. Come on, he urged. You can do it.

  The front of the toboggan began to rise. Burke held his breath, praying that it wouldn’t bog down in the snow. It didn’t, and a moment later he was lifted into the air. He seemed to ris
e above the toboggan. Below him the snow spread out like a frozen sea, and he appeared to be flying over the tops of the pine trees that lined the edge of the field. Exultant, he threw his arms out wide and shouted with joy.

  This spontaneous expression of happiness was his undoing. The toboggan, its balance upset, veered from its intended trajectory and lurched to the left as it descended. The prow struck the edge of the track at an angle, and the toboggan tipped sideways. Burke, clutching the guide rope, managed to remain seated, but the toboggan itself spun so that it was now moving backward down the hill. It was also picking up speed.

  Disoriented and unable to control the toboggan, Burke could only hold on and wait for the ride to end. He had no idea where the toboggan was going, but eventually it had to stop. If he could just hang on, he would be fine.

  And then there came another lurch. The toboggan, catching in a bit of frozen snow, upended. Burke once again rose into the air, but this time he could not hang on. His body was thrown from the sled. He somehow turned so that he was facing the sky, and for a moment he thought everything would be fine. Then he struck something with great force, and all went black.

  When he next opened his eyes, it was dark and he was cold. Snow was falling on his face, and he lifted his hand to wipe it away. The fingers of his gloves were stiff and scratched his skin. When he breathed, a sharp pain exploded in his chest. He couldn’t feel his legs.

  He was lying beside a tree, but he couldn’t recall how he had gotten there. His mind filled with jumbled images—snow, flying, a toboggan. It all began to come together. Then, all of a sudden, a blinding light filled the sky above him. He shielded his eyes with his hand. The light burned like fire and turned the world gold. Then a voice came from within it.

  Fear not: for, behold, I bring you good tidings of great joy, which shall be to all people. For unto you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, which is Christ the Lord. And this shall be a sign unto you; Ye shall find the babe wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.

  The voice ceased, and Burke heard himself speak. “And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host praising God, and saying, Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will toward men.”

  The air was filled with an unearthly sound—high-pitched cries that hurt his ears and shattered the tranquility. The light around him changed, becoming colder. He was racked with pain and heard himself cry out for help.

  “Mr. Crenshaw,” a voice said. “Mr. Crenshaw, can you hear me?”

  He tried to answer, but his throat was filled with something. Snow, he thought vaguely. He was choking on snow. He coughed, trying to clear it.

  “Just lie still, Mr. Crenshaw,” the voice ordered. “You’re going to be fine.”

  The light lessened, and he looked up into the face of a stranger. From somewhere to the side of him came flashes of red, like fireworks. The strange wailing sounds continued to fill his ears.

  “I have to get to church,” he told the man who was looking down at him. “I have to be in the pageant. I remember my lines now.” He tried to sit up and found that he couldn’t.

  “Lie still,” the man said again. “We’re going to get you out of here.”

  “The toboggan,” Burke said. “The snow. There’s no snow now. Where did it go?”

  A second face—a woman’s—came into view above him. “How’s he doing?” she said.

  “He’s pretty banged up,” the man answered. “But he’s alive.”

  “He’s lucky,” said the woman. “The way that car looks, he shouldn’t be here.”

  Burke wondered who they were talking about. He started to ask, but then the light came again. This time it refused to be blotted out by the closing of his eyes. It filled his head, exploding as a chorus of voices rang out.

  And once more the world went black.

  CHAPTER 2

  “Ithought you said you were okay with turning forty.”

  Burke opened his eyes. He had been sleeping off and on for most of the morning. His head was still fuzzy from the pain medication the nurse had injected into his IV when, at dawn, he had woken up screaming. He was no longer convinced that he was dying, but his whole body ached, despite the numbing effects of the Demerol. He looked at the face hovering over him and blinked several times, trying to place it.

  “Gregg?” he asked, fishing a name from the depths of his foggy memory. He coughed, clearing his throat, and a glass of water found its way into his hand.

  “Here,” said Gregg. “Drink up.”

  Burke drained most of the glass, then handed it back to his friend. “How did you know?” he asked Gregg.

  “Apparently, I’m still listed as your emergency contact with your insurance company,” Gregg replied.

  Burke tried to laugh, but it hurt his chest, and he ended up coughing instead. He and Gregg had been broken up for almost three years, yet it had never occurred to him to change his insurance information. Now he was glad he hadn’t.

  “I always thought the three-in-the-morning phone call would be about my mother dropping dead,” said Gregg as he pulled a chair up beside the bed and sat down. “Frankly, I was a little disappointed that it wasn’t.”

  “Did they say what happened?” Burke asked. “All I remember is driving home after the party.”

  “Raccoon,” said Gregg. “Or maybe a dog. You swerved to avoid hitting it and ran off the road. Lucky for you, the guy behind you saw the whole thing and stopped. You should send him a thank-you card.”

  “My leg’s busted,” said Burke.

  “I noticed,” Gregg replied. He nodded at the pulley system that elevated Burke’s right leg—which was wrapped in a cast—above the bed. “Your arm doesn’t look too good, either.”

  Burke glanced down and saw the cast that covered his left forearm. “Not the left one,” he said. “Fuck me.”

  “What else did you manage to break?” Gregg asked.

  Burke shook his head. “I’m not sure,” he said. “I kind of just got here.”

  Gregg laughed. “Well, we’ll find out,” he said. He reached behind Burke. “Sit up if you can,” he ordered.

  Burke tried, wincing at the pain. Gregg adjusted the pillows behind Burke, and Burke lay back against them. “Thanks,” he said.

  “Yeah, well, I know what a baby you are when you’re sick,” said Gregg.

  Burke nodded. It was true, he hated not feeling well. It made him feel out of control and, worse, dependent on someone else. He’d never been good at being taken care of.

  Gregg went to the window and opened the curtains, letting in the bright morning light. Watching him, Burke was reminded of how much of a nester Gregg was. He loved taking care of things—houses, animals, people. Ironically, it had been the thing that had ended their relationship. Gregg had wanted them to move in together; Burke had been afraid the closeness would be smothering. After a year of waiting for Burke to change his mind, Gregg had moved on.

  “That’s better,” Gregg said, looking around the room. “I hear hospital chic is in this year. Martha Stewart just did a segment on decorating with catheters and speculums.”

  “I understand they make great Christmas ornaments,” said a voice from the doorway. A woman in a long white jacket walked in and extended her hand to Gregg. “I’m Dr. Liu,” she said. “I assume you’re the husband?”

  “No,” Gregg said. “The ex-husband.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry,” the doctor said.

  “Don’t be,” Gregg assured her. “He was a lousy husband.”

  Dr. Liu smiled and turned to Burke. “And how are you feeling today?”

  “Not as good as I did yesterday,” said Burke.

  “I wouldn’t think so,” the doctor replied. “You knocked yourself around pretty thoroughly.”

  “My leg and my arm,” Burke said vaguely.

  “Among other things,” Dr. Liu told him. “You also broke a couple of ribs and came this close to shattering your pelvis.” She held her finge
rs an inch apart to emphasize how fortunate Burke was not to have done that. “But the leg is the big thing,” she continued. “It took a lot to put it back together. Lucky for you, I’m good at puzzles.”

  “I like her,” said Gregg, grinning at Burke.

  Burke ignored him. “When can I get out of here?” he asked.

  “Let’s talk about that,” said Dr. Liu. “I want you here for at least a week.”

  “A week!” Burke exclaimed. “But I’ve got work lined up. I’m supposed to shoot Angelina Jolie for Boston magazine on Tuesday.”

  “Not going to happen,” said Dr. Liu. “You’re not walking on that leg for a while.”

  “What’s a while?” Burke demanded.

  “Six weeks minimum,” the doctor answered. “Maybe longer.”

  “No,” said Burke, shaking his head. “I can’t be laid up for six weeks. No way.”

  “What did I say?” Gregg said, wagging a finger at him. “You. Sick. Big baby.”

  Burke groaned. “I have to get out of here,” he said.

  “You’re going to need help,” said Dr. Liu. “Do you have someone who can stay with you?”

  “I don’t know,” said Burke. He was irritated now and couldn’t think. The pain was coming back, and he wanted more Demerol. “Maybe.”

  “Well, think about it,” said the doctor. “As I said, I want you here for the next week. You can make arrangements for when you’re released. But I won’t let you out of here until you do.”

  Dr. Liu excused herself to see other patients and left Burke and Gregg alone again. Burke, thinking about what she’d said, stared at the ceiling. After a few minutes he realized that Gregg had grown oddly quiet. He looked over at his former lover, who was sitting in the chair, looking at his hands.

  “Hey,” said Burke, “could I . . .”

  “No,” Gregg said quickly.

  “How do you know what I’m going to ask?” said Burke.

  “You can’t stay with me,” said Gregg. “I’m sorry, but it’s just a bad idea. Besides, Rick wouldn’t go for it.”