by Mae Clair
Alarm shot through Caden. He couldn’t believe Ryan hadn’t called, knowing his connection to the Mothman. Maybe his brother had decided it was best he stay out of it. Who the hell knew what Pete was doing out there with that many patrols.
“Shit.” Caden strode for the door. “If my brother’s out there, tell him I’m on my way.” He rounded the hall to the exit and nearly plowed over Roy Baxter in the process.
“Caden.” Roy backpedaled two steps then stopped. “You’re just the person I need.”
“Not now, Roy, I’m on my way to the TNT.”
“But those fingerprints you wanted.” Roy waved a folder in his face.
Even focused on the Mothman, Caden quelled his urge to fly out the door. “What is it?”
“You were right. They had Shawn Preech’s fingerprints on file at the dock.”
“And?”
“They don’t match.”
He’d suspected as much after his discussion with Evening. “Roy, Preech’s fingerprints were all over that cup.”
“I’m telling you, they don’t match his employment records.”
“Is that all?” His expression must have conveyed he expected more.
Roy’s gaze was stark, like he’d stumbled over something incomprehensible. He wet his lips. “The fingerprints didn’t tally up with Shawn’s, but they were a perfect match for the latents we lifted from Hanley’s place. Those fingerprints belong to Will’s killer.”
Caden’s heart thudded to his throat. He stepped closer. “Are you sure?”
“Positive.” Roy handed him the file.
He flipped it open and scanned the contents. He should have known whatever hints Lach tossed his way would prove solid in the end. Between the prints, the knife, and Shawn’s erratic behavior there was more than enough to have him brought in for questioning.
Caden shoved the folder back at Roy. “Hang onto this and don’t say anything to anyone about the findings.”
Lips pursed to the side, Roy clutched the folder. “What are you going to do?”
“Have Shawn brought in for questioning. Right now I’m headed for the TNT, and until I can get to Preech, I don’t want anything tipping him off.”
“You think he’s a flight risk?”
“Hell.” Caden shook his head. “At this point, I don’t even know who he is.”
* * * *
The two main arteries into the TNT—Potters Creek Road and Fairgrounds Road—were both blocked by patrol cars when Caden arrived. Flickering strobes of red light swiveled through the darkness, defining the chaotic scene. Flares sputtered on the road and traffic cones wrapped with bands of reflective tape kept vehicles at bay. After a quick update from Deputy Morris, Caden headed for the hub of activity six miles into the derelict munitions site.
He parked behind several patrol cars then jogged to the front of the string where he found Pete Weston and Wayne Rosling conferring over a map similar to the one Gardner had used. Weston hunched over the hood of his vehicle, one broad palm pinning the map in place. Behind him, Rosling angled a flashlight over his shoulder.
“…last report places it here.” Caden caught the tail end of Weston’s words as he approached. Across the road, three patrol cars lined the grass, flashing lights painting Weston’s face a garish shade of red. “Caden, what are you doing here? Did Ryan call you?”
“No.” When he caught up with his brother, he’d have a few choice words for the oversight. “I couldn’t sleep so I went into the station. Gardner brought me up to speed.” Jamming his hands in his pockets, Caden stepped closer to the map. Lightning sputtered overhead. “What’s the latest?”
“Two sightings within the last fifteen minutes. Here and here.” Pete tapped the map indicating one of the area’s thirty-four ponds, followed by a location harboring the shell of a crumbling building. “I’ve got three patrols out there. Ryan’s heading up one.”
Rosling lowered his flashlight. “The thing’s toying with us.”
“I heard it was cornered,” Caden said.
Weston shook his head. “No dice. We thought we had it at the old north power plant, but the thing…hell.” Sweating abruptly, Weston yanked a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped it over his face. “Nearly forty years in law enforcement and I’ve never backed down like that. All that thing had to do was turn those demon eyes on me and I froze.”
“We all froze.” Rosling’s expression said he wasn’t proud of his actions either. “I went from being stalker to prey in a matter of seconds. I used to think the whole thing was some kind of hoax, but now that I’ve seen it…” He shook his head.
“It uses fear as a weapon.” Caden wasn’t sure if he was relieved or apprehensive to learn the creature had escaped. If Weston and the others were going to track the Mothman, they needed to know what they were up against. “It feeds on emotion. The more terrified the victim, the more it’s able to broadcast that terror back.”
Pete’s skepticism showed on his face. “How would you know that?”
Caden hedged. He couldn’t afford to let his fellow law enforcement officers blunder around in the woods. The creature’s aggression appeared to be mounting, and shooting the thing would only serve to make it angrier. People no longer questioned if the Mothman existed. There were enough recent eye witnesses for over a dozen reports. Even Pete and Rosling had seen the thing firsthand. If he told them the truth, they might actually believe him.
“I’ve got…” He swallowed, trying to explain without sounding like he had a screw loose. “A sort of connection to the thing.”
“Huh?” Rosling’s mouth gaped. His radio crackled, but he ignored it.
“These marks.” Caden raised his arm to reveal the three gashes angled over his skin. “You’ve seen them before.”
“Sure.” Pete frowned. “You’ve had them ever since the Silver Bridge went down.”
“Exactly. The Mothman made them.” He didn’t give the statement long to sink in. “I’ve encountered the creature before. More than once.”
Pete leaned back, shooting a long look from under his brows. The air was heavy and charged, lightning now a steady flicker on the horizon. “You never said anything about this before.” His tone carried criticism, a match for the reprimand in his gaze.
“Yeah, well…” Caden flashed a hard smile. “It’s not like I expected anyone to believe me.”
Rosling’s radio squawked again. Raising the microphone to his lips, he walked away, talking in a low voice.
“Here’s the thing, Pete.” Caden forced the sheriff’s attention back to him. “If the creature’s turned aggressive, this could get ugly. The more guys you’ve got tramping around in the woods, the more chance for injury.”
“So you think you’re going to stroll up and have a chat with it?” Pete gave a disgusted snort and kicked a stone clear. “Damn, Caden, we’ve been chasing this phantom for how long and now I’m supposed to buy you know more about it than any of us? It could rip you to shreds.”
“Not likely. It’s had that chance multiple times.” Even if he got Weston to pull everyone back, then what? The standing order for the creature was shoot to kill. How was he going to reconcile hunting the thing down with the promise he’d made Indrid Cold?
Before he could say anything further, Rosling returned at a fast clip. “Pete, that was Ryan. He and Oates just saw the thing. He said—” His voice was cut off by a rapid report of gunfire. Three sharp cracks echoed through the darkness not more than several hundred yards distant, judging by the sound.
“Ryan.” Tearing the flashlight from Rosling’s hand, Caden bolted for the woods.
“Caden!” Pete’s voice boomed behind him. “Sergeant Flynn, get back here. You’re not even armed.”
No, but his brother was. And Ryan wouldn’t shoot unless his life was in danger.
* * * *
Shawn shoved another handful of potato chips in his mouth and paced the length of Suzanne’s driveway. H
er car was gone and the house was dark, not that he’d expected to see any lights at 1:20 a.m. He normally wouldn’t bother with her, but he was bored and edgy. He’d been looking forward to a tumble in the sack, willing partner or not. All the better if she wasn’t willing. The bitch could use another lesson. They were still married on paper, even if she planned to divorce him.
Cursing, he leaned against the trunk of his Charger. Suzanne must have hooked up with one of her friends. Probably crying her eyes out about how he’d smacked her around. All he needed was for one of her slutty pals to convince her to go whining to the sheriff.
Digging into the bag of Lays, he fished for crumbs. Even as he licked the salty residue off his fingers, his stomach rumbled. It was getting harder to eat enough, and sleep had become elusive no matter how much he tossed and turned. If he didn’t show up at work tomorrow he was probably going to be out of a job, but so what? Why work when he could take what he needed? He should have robbed Hanley instead of trying to make the old man’s killing look like the Mothman had been involved.
Shawn wadded the used chip bag into a ball and shot it into Suzanne’s yard. She was probably with Sarah Sherman. The two had always been chummy, but they’d gotten closer ever since Suzanne gave Sarah those moldy family papers to look through. As if she could have discovered shit about Obadiah anyway.
He fished a cigarette from the pack in his T-shirt, then cupped his hands to strike a match. Exhaling a long stream of smoke, he tilted his head back to study the sky. A few stars gleamed overhead, the moon a thin sliver behind a thread-thin net of clouds. Lightning danced to the west, a rapid flicker he barely registered, it had grown so common.
No thunder, no wind. He could almost believe that breakneck flash was heat lightning if not for the restlessness gnawing at his gut.
The storm was growing nearer.
His storm.
In the meantime, he had every intention of showing Suzanne who was in charge. And if that meant visiting Sarah Sherman and convincing her of the dangers in meddling, he wouldn’t say no to a round of extra fun.
* * * *
Quentin rolled over, conscious of the flicker of lightning through the blinds. Almost one-thirty in the morning and he couldn’t sleep. The story Caden Flynn had spun earlier that evening rattled through his head with the clatter of a freight train. He’d always known his family was cursed even when he’d mentally attempted to deny it, but hearing the reason behind that blight sickened him. Nobody wanted to be the descendant of a murderer, especially one who had taken the life of a prominent and peaceful leader. Ladle in his frustration over not knowing how to break the curse, and Sarah’s innocent question about playing the piano, and he’d opened the door for several mental demons to romp through his head.
Rubbing his scarred hand, he massaged the points between the knuckles. Why did Sarah have to go and ask about his playing, resurrecting all he was missing? His position as vice president in his family’s business was something he should be grateful for, even proud of. He’d accomplished a lot in the last two years. And if his hand was the worst of Cornstalk’s curse, he’d gotten off lucky compared to some of the other tragedies in his family.
A rumble of thunder drew his attention to the windows. The storm felt nearer this time, the air oppressive, dancing with charged ions. Probably part of why he couldn’t sleep. Or maybe he was worried about Sarah, alone in her trailer with the storm squatting on the horizon. He should have stayed and camped out on her couch. Kissing her had been one of the only pleasures of the night. He hadn’t dated anyone since the injury, but she had his mind going in directions he hadn’t contemplated for a while. When he was finished in Point Pleasant he wouldn’t mind coming back and seeing her again. Knowing that their ancestors had been engaged made him feel a connection to her as well as the town. He’d been attracted to her before, but now there was a tie he hadn’t expected.
When lightning forked behind the blinds, illuminating the inside of the room in a bright flash, Quentin sat up in bed.
Maybe Sarah was sleeping instead of pacing and worrying herself sick. If the storm broke with the pent-up fury that had been feeding it for days, it would turn into a deluge.
He scrubbed a hand over his face and swung his feet to the floor. There was no sense in calling her. If she was asleep, he’d only wake her up. Since he couldn’t sleep, he might as well go for a drive. Standing, he reached for his jeans, then pulled them on and walked to the window. He opened the blinds wide, and stood staring down on the street.
A tingle against his leg made him reach into his pocket and withdraw the amulet. A hiss of air passed between his lips at the soft blue light radiating from the stone. The only other time it glowed like that was when he’d conversed with Indrid Cold—an alien and dimension traveler if he was to believe local folklore.
Quentin’s gaze tracked back to the street.
Lach Evening walked from the porch and headed for a black Cadillac parked beneath the window.
* * * *
“Ryan!” Caden’s pulse throbbed in his temple as he raced through the night-blackened woods. The beam of his flashlight bobbed erratically. He knew the TNT, had hiked the area countless times, yet in his panicked state the trees tangled together in a bewildering labyrinth. To his left, a gaping dark patch told him he’d come dangerously close to blundering into a pond. He needed to keep a clear head, not go hurtling into a muck of water and bulrushes. “Ryan,” he called again.
“Over here.” Ryan’s voice came from somewhere up ahead and to the right, his tone uneven, bordering on tremulous.
Caden burst through a clump of trees in time to see him struggle up from the ground. Ryan groaned, his left arm hanging at an awkward angle. The sleeve of his uniform dangled in tatters, his arm wet and glistening with blood.
“Shit.” Cornstalk’s curse at work. He sprinted to Ryan’s side, then quickly gripped him under the good arm. One look at his brother’s face had him worrying Ryan might black out. “What happened?”
“It was here.” Ryan’s skin was pale, his lips drawn in a tight line.
“The Mothman?”
Ryan nodded. “I don’t think it recognized me.” He’d been subject to the creature’s scrutiny once before, but spared the mental bombardment it meted out. Judging by the pallor of his skin, he hadn’t been as fortunate this time. “Oates saw it first and shot at it.”
Caden glanced around for the deputy. “Where is he? Where’s Oates?”
Ryan shook his head. “Shit, Caden. It…”
“What?”
“It dragged him into the woods.” Exhaling audibly, he webbed his free hand over his face. “We were both frozen. I never felt fear like that.”
“I know. Take it easy.” He lowered his voice, speaking calmly. “How bad are you hurt?”
“My arm’s ripped up. Once I got past the fear, I tried to get Oates away from it. Hell, I should have shot it.”
“Damn right. Why didn’t you?” Anger made his voice hard. He was ticked, alarmed at the same time. Infuriated that Ryan hadn’t done a better job of protecting himself, and panicked at how quickly the Mothman’s aggression spiked out of control. From this point forward the thing would be hunted relentlessly. “I’ll get you back to Pete. You need a ride to the hospital, probably stitches.” As he talked, he steered Ryan in the direction of the road. “I’ll go after Oates.”
“And do what?” Ryan looked him up and down. “You don’t have a gun.”
“Give me yours.”
Ryan handed over his rifle. “Use it if you have to. Don’t try to reason with the thing.”
Caden overlooked the comment. “You should have told me what was going down.” Using the flashlight, he guided Ryan through the woods as swiftly as his brother’s injury would allow. Once he knew Ryan was safe, he’d search for Oates. He needed to find the missing deputy before the night got any uglier.
Angling a glance to the sky, he caught a flash of lightning. The
witch weather, as he’d heard people call it, had been brewing for the last week. Sooner or later the storm had to boil over. He prayed it would hold off another day. At least until he found Oates.
“Don’t be stupid, Caden. Don’t take chances with it.” As the choke hold of terror lessened, Ryan’s voice grew firm with warning.
“Drop it.”
“Can’t do that. It’s changed. I don’t know what it was before, or what kind of connection it had with you, but it’s bloodthirsty now. If I’d realized that sooner, I would have shot it.”
“Caden. Ryan.” A man called from somewhere ahead of them.
“That’s Rosling,” Caden said.
“I can make it from here.” Ryan pulled away from him, wincing at the jar to his wounded arm. “Find Oates and come back in one piece.”
Caden nodded. Without another word, he faded into the trees.
* * * *
Suzanne’s car wasn’t there.
Shawn sat staring through the Charger’s windshield, his thumbs beating out a clumsy rhythm on the steering wheel. Obadiah’s knife rested on the seat beside him. He hadn’t intended to cut Suzanne—well, maybe just a small slice where no one would see it. Something to remind her to keep her mouth shut and not blab to her friends about what had happened. He’d rolled the entire thing through his head on the drive here, imagining how it would play out. She’d sob and plead, probably even beg him to take her back, but the whole scheme was shot to hell now.
No car. No Suzanne. He scowled and scratched his crotch.
What a waste to leave without having a little fun. Sarah was a self-righteous backbiter, like most of the women in Point Pleasant. Just because she worked at the courthouse, she thought she was a notch above other people. It wouldn’t hurt to take her down a peg, especially after she’d dissed him at the River Café.
His hand strayed to the knife and he fingered the blade.
Obadiah was set on offing the Mothman, but there was no reason Shawn couldn’t have a little fun on the side. Sarah probably knew exactly where he’d find Suzanne. His ex must have gone into seclusion somewhere, worried he’d come back and mess her up again.
