A Desolate Hour

by Mae Clair

  He spread his hands. “What other choice do I have?”

  She nodded. “You’re right. Maybe I’ll go with you if that’s okay.”

  “Sure.” He stepped closer and gazed down, grasping her arms. “I’m sorry I dragged you into this.”

  “It’s okay. I think I was already involved without knowing it.” She thought of the wooden case with the odd markings, of the letter touting Jonathan’s death. The author of that message had lost her fiancé to a brutal attack, and was left to face a bleak future alone. Just imagining the woman’s grief made Sarah’s heart constrict.

  For the first time she grew conscious of how close Quentin was standing, of the care and concern in his eyes as he gazed down at her. Heat warmed her face and she stepped away to set the book on the table. “What time were you planning on seeing Caden?”

  “I guess it depends on his schedule, but if you’d like to go along, I can wait until you’re off work.”

  “That sounds great.”

  Quentin hovered at her back, his presence filling the room in a manner she hadn’t noted before. She moved slightly and her arm brushed his, a tempest of electricity flaring between them. She turned to face him, her mouth suddenly dry. “I should call it a night. I’ve to get up for work tomorrow morning.”

  He nodded, still looking down on her, his gaze too intent to be mistaken for casual. Without speaking, he slipped a finger under her chin, then tipped her head up and kissed her softly. When he stepped back, the hint of a smile flitted over his lips. “I think I can end the night with that memory.” His smile faded within seconds as his gaze shifted over her shoulder. “Looks like you found your spider.”

  “What?” Sarah was still digesting the kiss.

  Quentin pointed and she turned. On the table, the book had fallen open, splayed on its spine to a random page. Sarah’s eyes skimmed the text, landing on the symbol of a spider. A perfect match for the crude etching on the wooden case. “That’s it.”

  Leaning closer, Quentin swept his finger down the page. His mouth tightened. “Nice symbol. It signifies treachery and death.”

  * * * *

  Caden examined the file on his desk then scrubbed his eyes. Thursday morning, four days after Will Hanley had been killed and the case was going nowhere. Ryan had left earlier to track down several members of Hanley’s church in the hopes of unearthing buried information—someone who remembered Will mentioning anyone who might hold a grudge against him, issues with his farm, or anything else that might throw up a red flag. In the meantime, Caden slogged through old phone records and mail, contacting vendors who’d had business contracts with Will, while looking for any unusual numbers on the list of calls. So far all he’d managed to learn was that Will had been highly respected in the community. No one had anything but praise for the deceased farmer.

  “Sergeant Flynn?”

  Caden glanced up to find Lach Evening standing in front of his desk. He hadn’t heard the man enter but that didn’t necessarily mean anything where Evening was concerned. Joy, their resident clerk, had vanished, off delivering mail, which explained why Caden was alone in the room. With Ryan and Rosling both working the Hanley case from the field, it had left him juggling paperwork for a change.

  Caden tossed a pencil on the file folder and sat back in his chair. “Lach, what are you doing here?”

  “I need to speak with you.”

  Caden waved to a chair. “Have a seat.”

  “Privately.”

  “The room’s empty.”

  Lach didn’t move. “This will take some time.”

  “Meaning?” Caden arched a brow, then sighed when he received no answer. Pushing back his chair, he stood and motioned Lach to follow. “This way.” A turn took them down a short hallway to a room with a small table and chairs. It served for holding, questioning suspects, and even the occasional conference when needed. Caden sat down then indicated a chair across from him. “I’m kind of tied up in a murder case right now.”

  “I am aware of that. But there is something darker in Point Pleasant than a killer.”

  There were times Evening could be as obtuse as his father. Knowing it wouldn’t do any good to rush the man, he waited for Evening to get to the point.

  “Do you believe in curses, Caden?”

  The rare use of his first name sharpened his attention. Evening seldom called him anything other than “Sergeant” or “Sergeant Flynn.” “I’m going to take a wild stab and guess you’re referring to Cornstalk’s curse.” Exhaling, he leaned forward and braced an arm on the table. “I don’t have time for moldy folklore. Will Hanley’s killer is still out there, and—”

  “Did you get a match on the fingerprints?”

  The interruption stopped him cold. Drawing back slightly, he shook his head. “No match in the system, but it just means the killer isn’t on record.”

  “Of course not. He doesn’t exist. Not in this century.”

  Irritation twisted Caden’s mouth. “What are you talking about? I don’t have time for games.”

  “Neither do I.” Evening leaned forward and motioned him closer. “That brand on your wrist—the marks from the Mothman—may I see them?”

  Suspicious, Caden narrowed his eyes. “Why?”

  “It is easier if I show you rather than trying to explain.”

  Still uncertain where he was headed, Caden unbuttoned his sleeve and extended his arm. The lines wrapped around his forearm were black. If he didn’t know better, he might have mistaken the gashes for a tattoo. His mouth tightened at the sight.

  “They don’t normally look like that.” Not a question.

  “No.” It had been several days since the color mutated. In the past he’d always been conscious of the marks, a slight pressure on his skin as if a hand gripped him. Often they tingled or warmed with heat. Sometimes when the Mothman was close they even burned. Now there was nothing to suggest a connection. “It’s like something has been severed.”

  “Your link to the creature.”

  He’d guessed as much himself. “Because I shot it?”

  “Perhaps. Or perhaps something happened earlier.” Gripping Caden by the wrist, Evening splayed his bulb-topped fingers over the marks. The wide tips fused to Caden’s skin, each fleshy pad locking in place with the power of a suction cup. Instinctively, Caden tried to jerk free.

  Evening held fast, his eyes jet-black stones beneath the fluorescent glare of overhead lights. “This is what I came to show you.”

  As his voice faded, the room twirled away in a kaleidoscope of dizzying motion. The floor heaved upright then contracted, hurling Caden into empty space. Light was devoured by darkness, darkness consumed by light. His sense of direction and time bled into a weightless void. Seconds later, order restored, he found himself standing in a sparsely furnished room with roughhewn walls.

  A slender girl sat with her back turned. Seated at a small desk, she gazed through an open window overlooking a vista of green grass and rolling hills. Dressed in an old-fashioned gown with a full skirt, she couldn’t have been more than eighteen. Strands of blue ribbon adorned her light brown hair, which was wound into loose ringlets and curls. A piece of parchment rested on the desk in front of her. As Caden watched, the girl dipped a feather quill into an ink well, then began to write.

  I thought the weeks would become easier, but I find each day harder to bear, Mama. I often wake thinking Jonathan will be waiting for me in the next room, only to realize the foolishness of my desires. I have tried to talk to Sutton about everything that has happened but he is remote. He’s closed himself off since his brother’s death, and now with the passing of his poor infant…

  His dear wife, Lenore, tends to the daughter that survived, but I feel the death of his son has robbed his heart of gladness. The birth of twins is difficult at best, but already there are those who whisper the baby’s death was the result of Chief Cornstalk’s curse. Did I tell you Sutton killed the Shawnee? Given
that atrocity, I can’t help wondering if the rumors are true.

  Mr. Obadiah Preech returned to the fort with Jonathan’s mutilated body. I thank our dear Lord that I was not present to witness his arrival, but I have heard the tales. How he came upon Jonathan in the woods, a savage bent over my beloved, ready to scalp him. Mr. Preech shot the Indian, but the redskin was only wounded and escaped, fleeing into the woods. There are strange things among the trees, Mama. Unusual lights in the nighttime sky and sounds that make a brave man’s blood run cold. I pray the savage met his own untimely end.

  As for Jonathan, my beloved’s soul had already departed for the next world by the time Mr. Preech found him. I was not present when that good man returned to the fort and told his tale—I learned of Jonathan’s demise later that evening—but Sutton was with the crowd that greeted him. I shudder to imagine the scene, for I have no doubt that Mr. Preech’s tale filled Sutton with fury. Is it any wonder he incited the soldiers to turn on Cornstalk? I am told Mr. Preech prodded him toward it, but that gentleman was surely filled with rage after witnessing my beloved’s brutal demise. The sin of the savages is beyond my comprehension. We are under a treaty that calls for peace, yet they have taken Jonathan from me. How can I forgive such wickedness? I should feel remorse for Cornstalk and the others, but my heart is too heavy, laden with grief for Jonathan.

  I am told a group of soldiers stormed the guardhouse, slaying the Shawnee chief, his son, and the other native who was with them. Jonathan’s friend, Private Charles Younger, told me he saw a corporal shoot Cornstalk’s son in the head, but that Sutton killed the chief with a knife. Charles said the blade was coal black, dark as the night sky. How very odd is that?

  Alton was incensed by the violence but it was too late for him to do anything. I am sickened to confirm there was celebrating after Cornstalk’s death. I wish I could report a higher level of conduct among the men sworn to protect us, but you must understand the threat under which we’ve lived. For months, we have heard rumors of Indians massing in number. I’m afraid Jonathan’s death was equivalent to the bursting of a dam.

  Charles later told me Chief Cornstalk cursed the land as he lay dying. He placed a hex on the people and on Sutton’s descendants. Perhaps that is why Sutton’s wife delivered prematurely only a month later, and why one of her twins died. It grieves my heart to think of that poor innocent baby. Already Sutton is talking about returning to Philadelphia with his family. I do not think he will stay here, especially now that Jonathan is gone.

  I would be grateful for your visit, Mama. Charlotte and Alton have been most kind to me, but I cannot impose upon my dear sister and her husband forever. I am undone since losing my beloved. Even this rugged colony of Virginia, with its towering mountains and majestic trees, leaves me feeling empty.

  Mama, despite all I have said, I beg you not to worry about me and Charlotte. We are well protected by the soldiers of Fort Randolph. Charlotte’s brave husband, Alton, is a highly capable and respected Captain, and all of the settlers are well guarded. Without Jonathan, I suffer bouts of homesickness, but I feel I must stay. For my beloved and the life we would have led together.

  Sometimes, I am taken aback by the strangeness of this new land.

  The other day I strolled by the river and saw a most unusual thing. I was a good distance away, so I question my vision, but it appeared to be a man with wings crouched upon the bank. I encountered Mr. Preech shortly thereafter. When I told him about what I saw, he grew very pale and said I must never speak of it again. He was so stricken by my tale, I continued to prod him until he confessed that he too had seen the winged man in the past. He said it was a fiend with glowing red eyes, an abomination conceived of the devil—forgive me, Mama—and that it had claimed the soul of his wife.

  I shudder to imagine such a thing. Can demons walk in flesh upon the land? Am I marked too, as Mr. Preech’s late wife, for having seen the creature? Oh, Mama, come quickly. Despite all the beauty of this place, I fear there is evil here.

  Your faithful daughter,

  Etta Sherman

  Caden jerked, wrenched from the scene. He blinked the interrogation room into focus, the sights and sounds of a bygone era fading into memory. For a moment, he was certain he’d been dreaming. Somewhere down the hall a phone rang and a door banged shut. The smell of burnt coffee and vinyl floor wax assailed his nose, grounding him in the twentieth century. Lach Evening regarded him steadily.

  Releasing Caden’s wrist, he sat back in his chair. “Quentin Marsh is descended from Jonathan and Sutton, the men referenced in this vision.”

  Caden dragged a hand over his face. Vision, hell. He felt like he’d been on a carnival ride. He was used to Evening working an occasional trick, but getting tossed through time topped the Richter scale for nerve-wracking. He latched onto the table to make sure it was real. “Don’t do that again.”

  “What?”

  “Toss me through time.”

  “My apologies.” Evening didn’t sound the least bit remorseful. “Now you understand why I needed to speak with you in private.”

  Caden grunted. There was a certain sadistic logic in the observation. He tried to wrap his mind around what he’d seen. “Where does Etta Sherman fit in?”

  “As you have no doubt already surmised, she is Sarah’s ancestor.” Evening seemed disappointed Caden hadn’t picked up on the obvious.

  He might have reached the conclusion if he could piece his mind together. “So, Jonathan and Etta were engaged?” And the descendant of the man who’d killed Cornstalk had surfaced in Point Pleasant. Nothing was ever commonplace in a town beset by interdimensional travel, cryptids, and curses. But what were the odds of Quentin turning up now? Coincidentally, around the same time Will was killed? Two murders—one centuries ago, one in the present. Gut instinct told him he’d overlooked a connection.

  Caden scowled openly. “How do you know all this?”

  Lach smoothed the fabric of one crisp black sleeve. “Because I was there. You forget how old I am.”

  As ancient as the Mothman, or close to it. “Are you telling me you were at Fort Randolph?”

  “Precisely. I knew Jonathan, Sutton, and Etta personally. It is why I can vouch for the letter you saw.”

  Resting an elbow on the table, Caden pressed two fingertips to his temple. He should be focused on Hanley, not caught up in ancient distractions. Yet, somehow the two were joined or Evening wouldn’t be sitting across from him, showing him these things.

  “Jonathan was not killed by a Shawnee,” Lach said into the silence.

  Caden wet his lips. “Obadiah Preech found the body.”

  “Preech killed him.” A flat statement with no room for doubt.

  Caden shifted in his chair. According to Shawn, his ancestor was a hero. Someone who’d fought in Lord Dunmore’s War then stood fast at Fort Randolph when the settlers were in need. But Shawn had never mentioned anything about Willa Preech or how she’d died.

  Evening seemed to read his thoughts. “Three months prior to Jonathan’s death, Willa Preech was drawing water by the river when she spied the creature. It gave her a horrible fright. Two days later, she came down with a fever and passed in the middle of the night. Obadiah became convinced the creature was at fault. I tried to tell him his wife’s sickness was not supernatural in origin, but he refused to listen. Within time his grief transitioned to hatred, and he vowed to kill the cryptid.”

  Caden cupped the brand on his forearm. If Obadiah’s wife had succumbed to fever, it was likely she’d babbled about the creature in her delirium. No wonder Preech had set off to kill it.

  “He failed.”

  “Precisely.” In a seemingly absent gesture, Evening rubbed his thumb against his fingertips. “I believe the creature’s net of fear was too great for him to withstand. Obadiah returned to the fort shamed by his failure. He believed the creature was a demon summoned by the Indians through sorcery, and that a knife stained with the blood of Co
rnstalk—leader of his People—would banish the demon back to hell.”

  Caden frowned, trying to follow. “But Sutton killed Cornstalk.”

  Lach nodded. “Obadiah turned to dark magic in his efforts to destroy the Mothman. I believe Jonathan came upon him in the woods when he was performing a ritual. Obadiah killed him in order to silence him. When he returned to the fort with Jonathan’s body, he concocted a false story, placing the blame on the Shawnee. After that, it was easy to incite the soldiers, particularly Sutton, against Cornstalk.” Evening paused briefly, allowing Caden to absorb the information, before continuing. “In a final cowardly act, he goaded Sutton into killing Cornstalk. The Marsh family has carried the Indian’s curse ever since.”

  Caden’s head pounded. If anyone else had spun the outlandish tale he would have passed the ramblings off as drivel, but Lach Evening didn’t do gibberish. Standing, he flattened his palms on the table. “I’m still trying to grasp why you’re telling me this.”

  Lach studied him openly. “Events have been set in motion. Sarah Sherman is here, Shawn Preech is here. Quentin Marsh is here. All descendants of the original players. Do you think the Mothman is oblivious to that? The creature hates Obadiah with the same zeal Obadiah harbored.”

  “Obadiah is dead.”

  “Was.” Lach’s gaze narrowed in a concentrated stare. “You will not find matches for your fingerprints, Sergeant.”

  A surge of incredulity made Caden draw back. “Are you trying to tell me Obadiah Preech killed Will Hanley? The ghost of an eighteenth-century warlock?” Raising his hand to deflect the absurd suggestion, he shook his head. “Look, I’ve seen a lot of strange stuff go down around here, but I’m drawing the line on this. Even if I believed you—which I don’t—there’s no motive.”