A Desolate Hour

by Mae Clair

  “Let’s hope we catch him in a decent mood,” Ryan commented as they headed up the front walk.

  Caden knocked on the door then took a moment to glance around. Had Suzanne still been living there, the porch would have been decorated with glazed pottery and baskets of flowers. Now the only accessory was a lounge chair, folded up and shoved to the side. The sight reminded Caden of Shawn’s life, a string of highs that had steadily nose-dived. If the guy laid off the booze, he could still regain the celebrity recognition he seemed to crave.

  He knocked again, patiently counting seconds until the door was wrenched open. Shawn hovered on the threshold, his expression snagged somewhere between shock and terror. It wasn’t every day two sergeants in full uniform appeared on the doorstep.

  “Caden. Ryan.” His expression settled into one of curiosity. “What are you doing here?”

  “Can we come in?” Ryan spoke for both of them.

  “Um…sure thing.” Rifling a hand through his hair, Shawn stepped back to allow them inside.

  Caden did a quick visual sweep of the room. The place smelled of pizza, beer, and cigarettes. A crumpled bag of chips along with a bag of Doritos and a can of peanuts sat on the coffee table. The TV broadcast The Price is Right, but the volume was muted. Newspapers were strewn on the floor by the couch, and an old transistor radio sat propped on an end table. “We weren’t sure if we’d catch you here. Thought maybe you’d be at work.”

  He measured Shawn’s reaction, noting a tremor in his hands that might have been caused by a hangover or something worse. There were scratches on his face that looked to be a few days old.

  “I haven’t been in for a few days.” Shawn traipsed to the couch and sprawled in the corner. “Stomach bug or something.”

  Now that he thought about it, Shawn had been missing from his regular spot at the River. At least Eve hadn’t mentioned that he’d been there. “Sorry to hear that.” He took a leisurely stroll around the room, soaking up the surroundings, conscious that Shawn’s gaze tracked his every movement. “I guess it didn’t last long.”

  Shawn blinked stupidly. “Huh?”

  “The stomach bug.” Caden pointed to the junk food on the table. “Interesting cure you’ve got there.”

  “Oh.” More blinking. “Yeah…well…I got to feeling better.”

  “How were you feeling on Sunday?” Ryan asked.

  Shawn swiveled his head around like a turtle. “Sunday?”

  “We came by to ask you about Will Hanley.” Ryan hooked his thumbs over the top of his belt. “Not sure if you heard, but Will’s dead.”

  Shawn licked his lips but didn’t say anything.

  Caden dropped into a seat across from him. “Looks like someone knifed him.”

  “Bad way to go.” Shawn’s eyes were bloodshot. He wiped his hands on his jeans. “Poor Will.”

  Caden let him digest the idea for a few minutes. “We heard you were out that way on Sunday morning and thought you might have seen something. From what we can tell, Hanley was killed somewhere between eight and noon.”

  “Yeah.” Shawn tugged at his chin. “I was out that way, I guess.”

  “Any specific reason?”

  “Mostly blowin’ off steam. I was ticked about Saturday night.”

  “Saturday night?”

  “You remember—Duncan and Donnie dragging me out of the River like I needed babysitting. I woke up miffed and took a drive to clear my head.” Shawn bounced a knee up and down, the heel of his sneaker pitter-pattering against the floor. “Is there a reason you’re asking me all this stuff?”

  “We hoped you might have seen someone around Hanley’s place.” Ryan moved in front of the TV, blocking the view of contestants eagerly debating the price of a Hoover vacuum. “Maybe you passed a strange car on the road.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Well, if you think of anything, give us a call.” Caden stood.

  “I’ll do that.” Shawn stood too, managing to look helpful and remorseful at the same time. “Damn shame about Will.”

  “Sure is.” Ryan stepped closer. “By the way, what happened to your face?”

  “My face?”

  “Yeah.” Ryan pointed. “Those scratches.”

  “Oh, uh…” Shawn fingered the gashes. “I, uh, took a tumble in the bushes after Duncan and Donnie dropped me off. Guess I was messed up more than I thought.” He offered a sheepish grin.

  “Guess so.” Caden opened the door. “Take it easy, Shawn.”

  Once in the car, he started the ignition and backed out of the driveway. After a few seconds of silence, he cast his brother a sideways glance. “What do you think?”

  Ryan shrugged. “I think if he did see something, he wouldn’t have remembered anyway.”

  “Do you believe him about the scratches?”

  “Why not? You’re the one who said he was drunk that night.”

  “Yeah, but he seemed nervous. Did you notice how he was sweating?”

  “He could be drying out from another binge.” Ryan frowned. “Although I’m not sure I buy the stomach bug story.”

  “He hasn’t been at the River. At least not that I’ve heard.”

  “Doesn’t mean he couldn’t tie one on at home.”

  Caden considered as a string of trees and houses funneled past. The morning was gray, the sky overcast and threatening rain again. He wished the damn storm would break, a cleansing cloudburst to wash away the ugly dirt of the last few days. “He didn’t have much of a reaction when we told him Will was dead.”

  “I noticed that too,” Ryan agreed. “But he probably already knew. He had a newspaper and a radio. The guy looked plain hung over to me.”

  Shawn had the classic signs. Jittery, bloodshot eyes, yet Caden wasn’t convinced. Maybe he wouldn’t have thought twice if not for Lach Evening and the mention of Obadiah Preech. His alien friend had his mind spinning in several directions, most of which he didn’t want to contemplate.

  And damn, if his gut didn’t back up that intuition.

  * * * *

  Shawn waited until he heard the car back out of the drive before moving to the window to peer outside. Sweat soaked the back of his neck and his heart triple-timed with each jagged inhale of breath. Someone had seen him driving near Will’s place. His own stupid fault for not being more attentive. Now he had to deal with the Flynn brothers sniffing around, asking questions that made him nervous.

  He gnawed on a thumbnail. Did they suspect him or had they really hoped he could help finger Will’s killer? Maybe they’d questioned other people too.

  Yeah, that was it. Had to be. Murder in a small town shook people to the bones. The mayor, town council, especially the sheriff—they were all probably shitting their pants, rushing to assure the populace they didn’t have a sick, sadistic killer on the loose.

  But the Flynn boys hadn’t mentioned the Mothman.

  They do not believe the creature killed him. You should have done better.

  Bullshit to that. He was the one who’d been in Hanley’s kitchen, hacking away with a black knife. Just because Caden and Ryan didn’t mention the damn bird didn’t mean other people weren’t talking about it.

  Turning from the window, Shawn let the curtain fall shut. Time to pull his act together. He’d go to the River tonight. Poke around and see what people were saying, maybe even toss around the word Mothman if no one else did. It was amazing the thoughts you could plant with a little effort.

  But first he needed to eat again. Hosting a dead ancestor in his body had given him the appetite from hell.

  * * * *

  It was shortly after noon when Eve hurried from the café into the hotel lobby, drawn by the sound of the front door. Katie had the afternoon off and Eve’s part-time clerk, Sharon, wouldn’t arrive until two. The River was exceptionally busy with friends gathering over lunch to mourn Will Hanley and share hushed fears about a killer stalking their streets. She’d popped in to make su
re everything was running smoothly, fully aware the nighttime crowd would probably be twice as large.

  Rounding the corner into the lobby, Eve drew up short. A breath of surprise whistled between her teeth at the sight of the man who waited by the check-in counter.

  “Mr. Evening.” Caden had told her he was in town, but he looked so different from the last time she’d seen him, dressed casually rather than wearing his customary tailored black suit.

  He offered her a smile. “It is good to see you, Mrs. Flynn.”

  “Eve,” she corrected.

  “Then you must call me Lach.” A single suitcase rested at his feet.

  She loved listening to him speak, his words flavored with a strange and unidentifiable accent. “Gladly.” She stepped behind the registration desk. “Are you in need of a room?”

  “Yes.” He folded his hands on the wooden counter. “Although I am uncertain how long I will be staying.”

  “I’m sure we can accommodate you.” Registrations were down, leaving several openings.

  “If possible, I prefer a room that faces the street.”

  “Of course.” Probably so he could monitor the activity outside. Talking to Lach, it was easy to forget he was an extraterrestrial being.

  At least until he signed the guest register, displaying his fan-topped fingers.

  “I suppose your husband told you why I am here.” Setting the pen down, he measured her with onyx black eyes.

  Nodding, Eve passed him a key. She hadn’t wanted to think about the collision of forces Evening said was brewing in Point Pleasant. The ominous warning made her think of curses and long-ago tragedies. Uneasy, she wet her lips. “Do you really think our town is cursed?”

  “Curses are often what we make of them.” Lach tucked the key into his pocket. “When you believe in something, it is far easier for that force to become powerful.” His gaze traveled across the lobby, up the broad staircase to the second floor. “This hotel has withstood the testament of time. Even curses.”

  “Not without tragedy.”

  “You’re referring to the death of your great-grandparents and your grandparents?”

  She nodded, no longer questioning how he knew matters of the past. Experience had taught her he was just as versed in events of the future.

  “Would it bring any measure of comfort if I told you their deaths were not the result of a curse? The fire was caused by a hidden short within the walls of a third-floor room. The wiring was old.”

  “How do you know that?” He was the son of Indrid Cold, the oracle-like being in the TNT that had led her and Katie to the remains of Katie’s missing sister. If Cold could do that, then his son would surely have the same capacity to see past events. “Never mind.” She shook her head, realizing the folly of asking. “It’s not important that you know, only that you do. Thank you for telling me. Many people are focused on curses right now, especially after what happened to Will Hanley.”

  “I was sorry to hear about Mr. Hanley’s demise.” Lach picked up his suitcase. “I fear your husband and his brother will have their hands full in the coming days. Curses are often found where we least expect them.” He nodded to her politely. “Good afternoon, Eve.”

  She frowned as she walked up the steps. The last time he’d visited Point Pleasant the town had been plagued by multiple troubles, the same as now.

  Coincidence?

  Who was to say he wasn’t part of the curse? If unknown forces were destined to collide, Lach Evening would surely be at the center of that supernatural clash.

  * * * *

  The River was packed when Shawn walked through the front door. He’d lost track of time but guessed it was somewhere after eight in the evening. Outside, wind chased thunder from the sky. The weather had been weird as shit lately but tonight’s spectacle took the cake. Lightning trailed him into town, thunder rolling over the rooftops with a sound like hollow bones. Not a single speck of rain had landed on his windshield, the street dirt-covered and drought dry. Inside the café, a group of old-timers reminisced about storms and flooding.

  Ignoring them, Shawn elbowed into a corner at the bar. He flagged Tucker down, then rattled off an order for a Budweiser, bacon cheeseburger, cheddar fries, and a basket of wings. Just thinking about the feast made his stomach growl. Tucker slid him the draft, then left to fill the food order.

  Shawn sucked the head off the beer, turning to eye the crowd. The place was packed tonight, every table filled. People spoke in hushed groups, a few others gossiping chatty and loud. He spied several familiar faces and debated about wandering over. Beside him, a heavyset guy sat with his back turned. Shawn had seen him around a few times, and thought his name was Mitch or Mike. Fidgeting, he gulped a draft of beer. Someone had to be talking about Hanley.

  Do not appear eager.

  The only thing he was eager for was food. Hunger dug a hole in his gut. He polished off his draft and signaled Tucker for another.

  The bartender frowned as he set the fresh ale in front of him. “No problems tonight. Huh, Shawn?”

  The bastard. Like he was going to have to flag him or something. Another candidate for the pointy end of his knife. He forced a grin. “No problems, Tucker.” He’d strapped the knife to his right leg underneath his jeans. The weight of the weapon bolstered his confidence. Now that Hanley’s death was several days behind him, he’d started to look at it differently. Small details came back at the oddest moments—the wet sucking sound the blade made when he’d ripped it from Hanley’s flesh; the way the old man’s mouth had twisted, elongating his chin like that freaky painting The Scream. Daisy-yellow wallpaper dripping with blood, the bounce and clatter of the phone when Will dropped the handset, the cuckoo clock above the table chirping the hour.

  “Crowded tonight,” Shawn said to Tucker. He got a nod for his troubles.

  “Guess you heard about Will Hanley.” Tucker wiped a rag across the bar.

  “Yeah. Bad doings.” Shawn kept his voice suitably low key. “I heard someone say the Mothman did it.”

  “What?” The heavyset guy swiveled on his stool and eyed Shawn from beneath stodgy black brows. “Hanley was killed in his house. That’s what I heard.”

  Mitch. Shawn was pretty sure the guy’s name was Mitch. Bracing his elbows on the bar, he shrugged. “Could of ran in from outside. I don’t know. It just don’t sit right otherwise. Who’d kill a decent guy like Will?”

  “Couldn’t be robbery. Nothing taken.” The guy on Mitch’s left slid off his stool and joined them. He kept his hand clutched around a bottle of Bud. Shawn had seen him around too. A skinny guy with a shock of red hair who went by the name of Painter.

  “If the Mothman wasn’t at fault, I bet the guy who did it was some kind of cultist. The damn bird probably made him do it.” Painter looked like he’d had a few and was pliable for talking. Undoubtedly pliable for spreading rumors too.

  Shawn sucked beer, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Know what I think? That damn creature is part of Cornstalk’s curse and as long as it’s here, the curse isn’t going anywhere. How much you wanna bet Hanley’s just the first?”

  “Shawn, what the hell are you talking about?” Scowling, Tucker toweled out the inside of a beer glass. His mouth crimped into a frown, but Shawn ignored the grimace. The bartender had always been a thorn in his side.

  “I was here last Saturday when someone said they saw the bird near Windmill Road.”

  Painter slurped beer. “So?”

  “So, Windmill isn’t far from Will’s place on Butterman. And he was killed the next day. Sunday morning, right?” He let them digest the connection, the link all but visible in Mitch’s wide-set eyes. “The Mothman shows up, and in less than twenty-four hours Hanley’s dead.”

  “Yeah.” Mitch scratched a stubby finger over his jaw. “I see what you mean. Can’t be coincidental.”

  “Damn right.”

  Over in the corner, a woman with teased b
lond hair and drippy gold jewelry keyed “I Love a Rainy Night” into the jukebox. Doreen Sue Lynch, Katie’s mom. If she weren’t hanging off the arm of Martin Ward he’d stroll over and proposition her. Fifty-something years old, and she was still a fox. The rush he got from the knife stoked his confidence. If he wasn’t careful that same barrage of power would lead him to distraction. Learning to control the heightened edge the weapon gave him was like riding the crest of a monster wave, reckless and exhilarating. Chomping down on the inside of his mouth, he refocused.

  “Last fall we had all those weird lights in the sky.”

  Mitch nodded. “I remember.”

  “And those freak guys in black roaming through town.” The words came easier as he paved the way from point A to point B. “Then crazy Parker Kline breaks out of the nuthouse and disappears. We had Mothman sightings then, too.”

  “And don’t forget the Silver Bridge,” Painter chimed in.

  The wheels appeared to be spinning in Mitch’s head. “They never did find that Kline kid and he killed before. Put a bullet point blank in Hank Jeffries’ skull.”

  “Shawn, your food’s up.” Tucker plopped a plate containing a burger and fries onto the bar. A basket of wings swimming in hot sauce, a few sticks of celery, and a paper cup of blue cheese dressing followed.

  Shawn was practically salivating. The combined odor of pepper and grease from the deep fryer hit him in the face, making his stomach contract. Hunching over on his stool, he greedily tucked into the burger.

  “Maybe the Kline kid came back.” Painter was focused on where the conversation had lagged. “Maybe he’s the one who slashed up poor Will.”

  “Kline’s messed up in the head because of the Mothman.” Shawn slopped ketchup onto his fries. He clumped four together, and shoved them into his mouth. The gooey mass went down easy with a swig of beer. “Remember, Jeffries killed Parker’s twin brother because he thought Tim was the Mothman.”

  “Damn shame about that.” Tucker moved away when someone hailed him for another beer.

  Shawn licked cheese from his fingers. The burger dripped mayo and tomato onto his plate when he bit into it. “Fucking starving.” He dragged the back of his hand across his mouth.