by Mae Clair
“You live in Point Pleasant and can ask that?” Caden began pulling out drawers, rummaging through the contents of each. “There’s a whole faction of people who think our town is located on some sort of doorway between worlds or dimensions.”
“A ley line.” Ryan nodded to one of the papers Caden had left lying on the desk. “I’m not totally ignorant about this stuff. Once I found out you had a few powwows with the Mothman, I did some reading.”
Caden’s mouth twisted into a frown. “They were hardly powwows. But I guess I’m impressed by the effort, since you were always a skeptic.” He returned to the search, opening another drawer. “Some people think the Mothman is from another world. An alien.”
“Looks like Jerome agrees.” Ryan flipped through the paperback. Handwritten notes lined the margins, several sections underscored. “Why else the overkill with UFOs and the Mothman? The guy probably moved here hoping to have an encounter. I remember hearing he bought this place because of its history.”
Caden stiffened abruptly. “Hank?” he whispered.
“Not that.” Ryan winced at the blunder, sensitive to his brother’s role in Hank’s death and Parker’s incarceration. “Don’t you remember Hank talking about the strange shit that took place here? Seeing the Mothman…lights in the skies, noises in the woods.”
“Yeah.” Caden relaxed marginally. “Everyone thought he was blowing smoke.”
“Well, something tells me Hank and Jerome would have gotten along. Hey, look at this.” Ryan pulled a slip of paper from the center of the paperback. “Jerome might have been connected to Hank in more ways than one.” He passed the note to Caden.
“October 14, seven-thirty, P. Kline.” Caden read the scribbled handwriting aloud. “Has to be Parker, but what would Jerome want with a guy in a mental ward?”
“The fourteenth was Thursday,” Ryan observed. “When Katie found Jerome off the road.”
Caden’s glance was sharp. “You think he went to see Parker at the hospital?”
His brother wouldn’t like the answer, but there really was only one way to find out. “How do you feel about a drive?”
“To see Parker?” Caden hesitated, the fingers of his right hand straying to the welts on his forearm.
Ryan’s gaze followed the movement. For years he’d believed the marks were the result of an injury Caden sustained when the Silver Bridge fell. The night of the collapse, his brother had been trapped under water, his arm pinned in the wreckage of his car. But the disfigurement had never faded. To this day, the odd marks remained every bit as vivid and red as when Caden had been eighteen, dragged from the icy waters of the Ohio River. It was only recently Ryan learned the Mothman had made the gashes. A wound that never healed, the marks were a branded reminder of the bond between the creature and Caden.
“I haven’t seen Parker since his trial two years ago,” Caden said at last. “He was out of his head then.”
“Probably still is.” If Caden was going to face the kid, it was best to state the ugly truth. “He might be a howling lunatic for all we know. But it would be worth learning if he’s connected to Jerome.”
“You’re right.” Caden nodded and headed for the door. “Let’s go. The sooner we talk to him, the sooner I can forget I’m the reason he’s there.”
* * * *
Located forty minutes outside of Point Pleasant, the West Central Mental Health Institute was an unappealing five-story structure with rectangular windows and an austere-looking entrance recessed under a brick arch. Caden parked in small lot marked Visitors and killed the ignition.
“You sure you’re up for this?” Ryan asked.
Caden nodded but didn’t move. Odd how memories floundered awake when he preferred they remain dormant.
Parker Kline’s eyes had been oddly vacant the night he killed Hank, the whites glazed, the surrounding skin red and puffy as though he’d suffered some kind of burn. Caden had imagined the kid drunk or high on something, but toxicology reports later came back negative. It was the clearest memory he had of Parker, his face caught in the lamplight from Hank’s porch. A prank, the kid had mumbled over and over. It was just a stupid prank.
“Let’s get this over with.” He popped the door and stepped from the car.
Inside the hospital, he and Ryan went through several secure check-ins before arriving on Parker’s floor. The station nurse remembered Jerome and dug up the sign-in register for verification. According to the time sheet, he’d arrived at 7:33 and left at 7:47, staying just fourteen minutes.
“We don’t allow visits beyond a half hour,” the blond-haired woman explained. Short and muscular with a no-nonsense attitude and plain features, she wore a nametag that read L. Brenner. “With Parker, it’s sometimes better people don’t visit at all.”
“What does that mean?” Caden asked.
“Most of our patients—we prefer not to call them inmates—exist in their own worlds.” She led them to a set of double doors inset with square windows. The glass of each was double paned, reinforced with wire mesh between panels. Tugging a retractable cord hooked to her belt, she thumbed through several keys until she located the one she wanted. The action was mechanical as if performed routinely throughout the day. “Understand, Sergeant, a lot of our patients have given up on reality. We work to return them to competency, but remaining in a fantasy helps them stay ignorant of their crimes. Our worst offenders are on the upper levels.”
Motioning them forward, she led them down a bleak hallway, her rubber-soled shoes screeching against squares of black-speckled vinyl tile. Doors flanked each side of the corridor, some opened, others closed. All had the same double-paned glass windows inset with wire mesh. Caden spied a middle-aged man in a wheelchair, head tilted to the side as he stared blankly into space. In another room, a man rocked back and forth in a vinyl-padded chair, arms hugged to his chest as he hummed “Dixie” over and over.
“That’s Beau Hardy,” Nurse Brenner said when she noted Caden’s glance. “He’s convinced he’s a Confederate general, held in a Union prison during the Civil War. Most of these people aren’t violent—not on this floor—but they have their ups and downs. Some days they’re like children, others as disagreeable as billy goats.”
“What about Parker?” Caden asked.
“He pretends to listen to the radio.”
“Pretends?”
“No batteries,” Nurse Brenner said. “Who knows what trouble he might get up to with those.”
“Then why does he listen?”
“Because that’s how they talk to him.”
Ryan frowned. “Who?”
“See for yourself.” Drawing to a stop before an open doorway, she indicated they should enter. “We have closed-circuit monitors at the desk. I’ll be able to spot trouble and send an orderly to assist, though Parker rarely gives us problems. You’ll find a lounge at the end of the hall if he wants to stretch his legs.” She glanced at her watch. “Thirty minutes, gentlemen. Although, I suppose I could extend that limit for the sheriff’s office.”
Caden nodded, hoping a half hour would be plenty. He wanted to wrap the visit and get the hell out of the place. Vaguely conscious of Nurse Brenner’s shoes making the same squeaking sound as she moved off down the hall, he stepped into the room.
The space was small and somber with the same off-white walls and black-speckled flooring as the hallway. Three narrow windows, each plated with heavy wire mesh, allowed light into the room. A single bed with a nightstand and a small dresser occupied the space nearest the door, a square table and padded chair closer to the window. Parker sat at the table, a transistor radio and a roll of Scotch tape at his elbow. His fingers clenched the worn-down nub of a pencil, several other well-used nubs scattered nearby. Head bowed, he worked at shading an image on a piece of loose-leaf paper.
Ryan nudged Caden in the ribs. “Look.” A nod indicated the wall beside the window.
Caden followed his glance.
Similar squares of paper covered the blank wall, each block randomly shaded. The “drawings” had been taped in a disorganized fashion, some high, some low, some with only a fraction of coloring. Others were blacked end to end, not a speck of white visible on the page.
A sensation of cold trickled down Caden’s back. It had been two years since he’d last seen Parker. The boy was twenty now, much leaner than before, his hair cropped close to his head. He didn’t seem to notice them, his only focus the piece of paper on which he furiously scribbled. The fingernails of his right hand, chewed to a quick, were tinted black with the lead from his pencil.
Caden cleared his throat. “Parker?”
No reaction.
“Parker, it’s Caden Flynn.” His gut tightened. “Do you remember me?” I put you here.
The pencil nub continued to move back and forth, faster and faster. A half dozen other sheets of shaded squares littered the top of the table. Like those taped to the wall, they had no pattern.
“Parker, my brother Ryan is with me. We want to ask you about Jerome Kelly. He came to see you Thursday evening. Do you remember that?”
The pencil stopped abruptly, poised on the page. Parker’s head remained bowed, but Caden sensed he was listening.
He took a tentative step closer. “Jerome’s sick. In the hospital. We’re hoping you can help us discover what happened to him.”
Parker raised his head, his eyes oddly bright, a deep blue lit from within. There was something unnatural about his gaze. As if he looked but didn’t see, his sight turned inward to a spot Caden couldn’t reach.
“This hospital?” The whisper-thin quality of his voice was unnerving. Brittle, it made him sound years older.
“No. He’s in Point Pleasant. He’s very ill.”
“A coma.”
Caden reacted with a start. Parker couldn’t possibly know. Even if someone on staff at West Central had learned about Jerome, they wouldn’t share the news with an inmate-patient. “Who told you?”
Parker tore a fresh sheet of paper from his notebook. “They did.”
“Who?”
“Cold.” He rolled the pencil between his fingers.
Caden shifted. Talking to Parker was like having a one-sided conversation in a foreign language. Equally as frustrating. “I can ask the nurse to adjust the heat.”
“Cold must return. Evening will follow.” Parker started shading the new page.
Ryan shook his head. “Caden, we’re not getting anywhere.” Turning his back on Parker, he lowered his voice. “The kid’s obviously in his own world. I don’t think he understands what you’re asking.”
“Maybe.” He glanced to the pieces of paper taped to the wall. Newspaper clippings and drawings had plastered the walls in Jerome’s office, but the shaded squares Parker was so intent on producing made no sense. Judging from the collection of pencil nubs at Parker’s elbow, he’d worn down several while creating his masterpieces.
Caden picked up two of the sheets. “These are important to you.” Half question, half statement. Something niggled at the back of his mind. Why the drawings? Why now?
“The radio talks to me.” Parker reached for a new pencil, the tip of the one he’d been using whittled to a pinhead. “Mostly at night.”
Nurse Brenner had mentioned Parker’s attachment to the radio. The small transistor box stood silent at his elbow. No batteries.
“How does it talk to you?”
Parker ignored the question. “Jerome knew. Jerome understood the puzzle. That’s why he came to see me.”
Caden rubbed his temple. It was hard to believe this boy, a fractured shell who spoke in riddles, had once been a rambunctious teenager, his only cares related to running track and girls.
“Was Jerome sick?” Ryan persisted.
Parker stayed silent.
Caden blew out a frustrated breath. “Parker this is important. What did Jerome want?”
The hint of a smile tugged the boy’s lips at the corners. Slowly, he raised his head. “The Mothman knows.”
Chapter 5
Saturday unraveled slowly for Katie. Sam fussed when she checked his eyes in the morning, but at least the swelling had gone down. Her headache departed around noon, and by evening when she and Sam joined her mom for dinner, her spirits were improved.
“Rex still hasn’t come back,” her mother told her as they washed dishes after the meal. Plopping a dirty plate in a sink full of sudsy water, she sniffled slightly. “Martin thinks he might have got hit by a car.”
Poor Rex. “Oh, I hope not.” Katie worked at drying a glass with a blue terry towel. Sam would be devastated.
“That’s not all.” Her mom hadn’t bothered to remove her chunky bangle bracelets, and the bright plastic clacked together as she rinsed the plate. “I heard the Batemans can’t find their collie. And Stu Fletcher’s shepherd disappeared. It’s creepy.”
“Don’t tell Sam.” It was bad enough Rex vanished, but Katie didn’t want him hearing about the other animals. He was already having bad dreams. Last night he’d woken up screaming, insisting someone had been looming over his bed. She’d gone over every inch of the room in an effort to placate his fears, even checking doors and windows so he could see each was securely locked.
Since he hadn’t been troubled by his visit to the ER, she was certain the dream had to do with Rex’s disappearance and the eerie rumors circulating town. Today, there’d been new gossip about peculiar lights in the sky near the TNT and renewed whispers of the Mothman. Duncan and Donnie Bradley, brothers who insisted they’d seen the giant winged creature in June, had begun to scour the old munitions site in search of the monster.
She’d tuned out the talk, but didn’t doubt there would be a number of locals hacking through the overgrowth for clues. If nothing else, it made good fodder for Halloween.
Shortly after finishing the dishes, she took Sam home to get him settled for the night. They normally attended an early church service on Sundays, but given Sam’s conjunctivitis, the doctor recommended she limit his contact for the next several days. If he was going to be stuck inside, she’d have to find something for him to do.
Other than draw.
When the night wound down, she curled into the corner of the couch with a cup of tea. The house was quiet, the television off, now that Sam was in bed. Stillness settled around her like the comforting folds of an old blanket. She closed her eyes, contentedly soaking in the peace. Within seconds, a loud clatter jarred her to her feet, the abrupt movement jostling hot tea onto her lap.
“Crap.” Hastily setting the cup aside, she brushed at her jeans.
A loud thud-bump-thud made her freeze in mid motion. Her heart lodged in her throat as her gaze darted to the ceiling, tracking the noise. Something thumped across the roof.
“Mom?” Looking worried, Sam appeared in the hallway. “That man who was in my room must have come back. I think he’s on the roof.”
“No, Sam.” She hurried across the room to hug him. “That was a bad dream.” But she needed to make sure. The rational part of her insisted no sane person was shuffling around overhead. A tree branch must have fallen and gotten battered about in the wind. But the other part whispered the wind wasn’t strong enough to send something banging against the shingles.
“Stay here.” She headed for the closet, then snagged her jacket. A quick rummage through a box on the floor turned up a flashlight.
“Where are you going?” Sam appeared at her side as she tested the batteries. “You can’t go out there.” Her peered up at her, anxiety front and center as he twisted his hands together.
“Sam—”
Another thump-thump like something—or someone—heavy tramped about overhead. Katie swallowed her fear, refusing to let Sam see her growing alarm.
“What’s that noise?” he cried.
“Listen to me.” Bending, she gripped his shoulders. “It’s probably just a squirrel or a raccoon that got up
on the roof.”
“But you don’t know that.” His voice cracked and his bottom lip quivered. “It’s the man again. You should call the police.”
“Sam, there is no man. You had a bad dream.”
“What about now?”
Standing, she zipped her jacket. “I’m going outside to look, just like I looked in your room last night. I want you to lock the door behind me and don’t open it until you hear me say everything’s okay.” She took his hand. “Can you do that?”
Wordlessly, he nodded.
“Good.” Katie smiled, hoping to put him at ease. Flicking on the flashlight, she opened the door and stepped outside. Sam immediately closed it behind her and snapped the lock into place.
The air was crisp, a cold wind rattling the trees closest to the house. As she walked into the yard, Katie spied a van parked several hundred feet down the street. Odd, but not alarming. Instead, she focused on the black, sloped shingles of the house. The trees were clustered close enough that any small animal could have scaled the branches and dropped onto the roof. By the same token, a man could too. The clatter she’d heard had been too heavy for a cat or squirrel but not a human.
As she stood debating the matter, the headlights on the van flared to life. Startled by the bright intrusion, she glanced over her shoulder. The van remained parked where it was, motor idling. A slug of foreboding oozed into her stomach. She knew most of her neighbors’ vehicles by sight, but this looked more like a work truck. A plain panel job like a utility company might use. In the darkness, she couldn’t see past the windshield and imagined the driver watching her.
Quickly, she switched off the flashlight and ducked beneath the trees, secreting herself in shadow. Cold sweat broke out on the back of her neck. She looked from the van to the roof. Did the driver have an accomplice who prowled around, waiting to signal an all clear?
The vehicle rolled slowly forward, small stones popping and crunching beneath its tires. Katie shivered, riveted to the spot by its sluggish advance. She should have listened to Sam and called the sheriff’s office.