A Cold Tomorrow

by Mae Clair

  “No.” His brother stood, his expression tight. “Even if you don’t give a rat’s ass about Katie’s welfare, I do.” He headed for the door.

  “Where are you going?” Caden called.

  “Where I should have gone in the first place.” Ryan wrenched open the door. “To the TNT.”

  * * * *

  “Maybe we should try someplace else,” Duncan Bradley suggested to his brother.

  Donnie stopped hiking and craned his neck to study the sky. At thirty-two, he was younger by a full year, but Duncan deferred to him when it came to trudging through the woods. They’d both grown up in Point Pleasant and had spent years exploring the TNT. Even so, Duncan tended to get turned around in the labyrinth of trees, ponds, and abandoned weapons igloos. Donnie had a sharper sense of location and the ability to pick out trails.

  “Maybe.” He tugged down on the brim of his fluorescent orange cap.

  Duncan rubbed his jaw, wondering if they were wasting their time. They’d been driving around for over two hours, parking their truck in random pull-off spots, then hiking back through the trees. They’d started with the spot where they’d seen the Mothman last June, but only succeeded in rousing a couple of archery hunters who grew irked at having their territory invaded.

  Duncan had originally been keyed up about looking for “the bird,” but he was starting to think there were better ways of spending a Sunday afternoon. At home he’d be sprawled in front of the TV, watching the game and downing a cold one. He was getting hungry too. He and Donnie shared an apartment, but their mom invited them home for Sunday dinner each week. In another hour, she’d be serving up pot roast with brown gravy and whipped potatoes.

  “Let’s pack it in for the day. Mom will have dinner ready soon, and we shouldn’t show up at the last minute.”

  “Yeah, you’re right.” Donnie scuffed a work boot against a gnarled root sticking up from the ground. “Looks like today’s a bust. We can always pick it up again some other time. I still say the creature’s out here.”

  Duncan breathed a sigh of relief, already anticipating a Rolling Rock and debating football plays with his dad. Not that he wasn’t gung ho about the Mothman—he wanted him and Donnie to find the god-awful thing—just that sometimes football, food, and beer took priority. But as he turned back on the path, a strange whimpering sound drew him up short.

  “Hey, did you hear that?”

  “Hear what?” Donnie stopped beside him and shook his head. “I didn’t hear anything.”

  “Listen.” A slight breeze rustled the orange and yellow leaves of the trees clustered around them. Somewhere in the distance a crow called and another answered. Five seconds of silence followed. He frowned. “I thought—wait. There it is again.” A whimper, like an animal in pain. “Do you hear it?”

  “Yeah.” Donnie took off in the direction of the sound, racing ahead where the path narrowed and the trees twined together.

  After a few feet, the trail disappeared completely. Duncan had to wend his way through a maze of interlocked branches and roots, his brother’s fluorescent orange cap bobbing ahead. The ruckus they made trampling through the woods overpowered any other noise. If there were an animal up ahead, Mothman or whatever, it had probably gone into hiding. He was about to yell for his brother to slow down when Donnie stopped and Duncan plowed into him.

  “Hey, why’d you—” His mouth dropped open. “Holy shit!”

  Donnie stood frozen, his face a tight mask. “What do you think happened?”

  Duncan could only stare. Several dead dogs lay in a small clearing, each with a puddle of blood around its head. Fluid had pooled from their ears, noses, and mouths. Scattered nearby, globs of a white mucous-like substance gleamed in the fading sunlight.

  Duncan’s gut roiled. “Isn’t that the Bateman’s collie?” He pointed to the nearest dog.

  “Yeah…Peony Girl.” Donnie lifted his arm, breathing into the crook of his elbow. “What the hell happened here? We gotta tell someone, Duncan.”

  The whimper came again. Duncan glanced to the right, catching a faint movement among the trees. “Hey,” he called. Then more gentle, as he bent his knees and extended his hand. “Hey, there. Come on out. We won’t hurt you.” He recognized the dog at first glance, even though it huddled in a thicket of ferns and thistle. Martin Ward had been searching for Rex for several days. “Come out here.” He whistled softly.

  Cautiously, the dog inched forward, head lowered, tail between its legs. It didn’t appear to be hurt, just dirty and unkempt with briars and bits of leaves snagged in its coat. Another pathetic whine issued from its throat.

  “That’s it. Come on,” Duncan encouraged, fearful of moving lest he frighten the skittish animal. Finally, the dog lifted its nose to his hand, and Duncan grabbed its collar. He did a quick visual inspection, running his hands over the animal’s fur as he spoke soothingly.

  “I got a bad feeling about this,” Donnie said beside him. “What kind of sicko goes around butchering dogs?” He glanced about nervously as if suspecting a madman lurked among the trees. “Maybe it was some kind of satanic ritual.”

  “I don’t think so.” Satisfied Rex wasn’t hurt, Duncan rubbed the dog’s neck, hoping to calm him. He’d never known Martin’s pet to be overly passive, but something had put a terrible fright into the animal. The same something that had killed four less-fortunate canines and left their bodies strewn in the clearing.

  “Hey, I’m serious, Duncan.” Donnie sounded spooked, his voice carrying a tremor. “I feel exposed out here. Like something’s watching us.”

  “Something probably is. The same thing that killed all these dogs.” He stood, and Rex pressed against his legs. The terrified animal would probably cling to his side the entire way back to the truck. Duncan narrowed his eyes. He sensed it too…something hidden, something watching. “Let’s get out of here before we end up like those mutts.”

  Donnie needed no prodding, hustling to retrace their steps. “We come out here again, I’m bringing a gun with me.”

  Duncan nodded grimly, dinner and football forgotten. “Let’s report this to the sheriff, give Martin back his dog, and reconnoiter. I wanna nail the sonofabitch who did this.”

  A few steps ahead, Donnie glanced over his shoulder, breathing hard. “So you think it’s some psycho Satanist?”

  “Hell, no.” Duncan snorted his contempt. “Ain’t it obvious? The Mothman killed ’em.”

  Chapter 6

  Ryan was ten miles into the TNT on Potter Creek Road when he spied Duncan Bradley’s truck coming from the opposite direction. Off duty, he drove his regular vehicle, a bright blue Camaro. Despite the smaller size of the sporty car, the lane was too narrow to pass Duncan’s big Ford side by side. Ryan dipped his right wheels into the grass, and motioned for the other man to pass. Instead Duncan hit the brakes and hopped from his vehicle.

  “Ryan! Ryan!” He waved a hand over his head as he raced for the Camaro. Almost simultaneously, Donnie burst from the passenger’s side of the truck and hurried to join his brother. Martin Wade’s dog, Rex, paced in the bed of the pick-up. Ryan knew from Katie the dog had been missing for several days.

  He wound his window down. “What’s going on?”

  “You ain’t gonna believe this.” In a breathless rush, Duncan told him of the grisly discovery he and Donnie had made in the woods.

  “Never seen anything like it.” Donnie flapped his arms, using animated gestures. “Dead dogs with their heads all effed up. It looks like something out of a horror movie. We found poor Rex hiding in the trees.”

  Both brothers were plainly shaken, their expressions a mixture of grim excitement and fear. If what they said was true, the dogs had died in a manner similar to Chester Wilson’s cow. But the Wilson farm was miles away, meaning someone—or something—had expanded their hunting territory. If he didn’t get a handle on the situation soon, new rumors would fly with everything from the Mothman to satanic cults and UFO
s blamed for the killings.

  “Where’d you find the dogs?”

  “Two to three miles east.” Duncan pointed the way. “Trail on the right. It cuts back to bottomland, then a small clearing.”

  “I know the place.” It wouldn’t be long before predators set to work on the carcasses.

  Donnie whirled toward the truck. “We’ll show you.”

  “No. That’s all right.” The last thing he needed was two overeager civilians with a reputation for exaggeration. “I’ll check it out. You two head into town and report what you found at the sheriff’s office. Be clear with the facts.” His gaze traveled to Rex in the back of the truck. “And let Martin know about his dog. I’m sure he’ll want to get him checked over.”

  “Yeah, all right.” Donnie spoke for both of them but neither seemed happy with the order. Noticeably sulking, they shuffled back to the Ford.

  “It was the Mothman,” Duncan grumbled. “I’m sure of it.”

  Fifteen minutes later, Ryan squatted to examine the remains of a mid-sized collie. Like the other animals nearby, fluids and blood had disgorged from every orifice in its head. He’d have to contact the county vet again, but could tell the results would likely mirror the findings of Wilson’s cow—a concussive impact resulting in a massive rupture of the brain. It made no sense. He recognized two of the other dogs, pets that came from different areas around Point Pleasant. What were the odds all four would end up here, subject to the same macabre manner of death? Something or someone had lured them.

  Looking for a stick, Ryan retrieved a broken branch from the ground. Over a dozen puddles of silvery goo were scattered between the carcasses. He prodded the nearest glob. A few, thinner than the others, were in the process of melting and dissolving into the soil. He didn’t need a lab sample or test tube to identify the same gelatinous sludge strewn through Wilson’s pasture.

  Star shit.

  Tilting his head, he glanced up at the sky. In another few hours it would be dark. Good thing too, because the less people who knew about these dogs, the better. When word spread, he had a feeling the TNT would be swarming with hunters. But unlike those licensed and armed with bows, they wouldn’t be stalking small game or deer.

  They’d be hunting the Mothman.

  * * * *

  Early shift at the sheriff’s department was usually quiet, but the same couldn’t be said for Monday morning when Caden arrived. Two clerks buzzed about the main room delivering mail and file folders while three deputies banged out reports on antiquated typewriters. Several phones kept up a continuous jangling until snatched up by a harried clerk or deputy. Wayne Rosling, a senior officer in the department, was busy taking a report from Fran Bateman and her husband, Clay. Seated in front of Rosling’s desk, Fran sniffled into a lace handkerchief while Clay held her hand.

  Caden didn’t see Ryan, though he’d spied his brother’s Camaro in the parking lot. Shrugging from his jacket, he eyed the message slips waiting on his desk. He’d caught up on calls before leaving Saturday, but several new notes had accumulated.

  Easing into his chair, he picked up the assortment and rifled through. Two were from Nurse Brenner at the West Central Mental Health Institute, one from Martin Ward about a part for his car, and one from Floyd Kline, Parker’s father. The message said simply “Stay away from my kid.”

  No surprise there. Floyd must have found out he’d been to see Parker. Easing back in his chair, Caden picked up the phone and punched out the number on the message slip for Nurse Brenner. “This is Sergeant Caden Flynn of the Mason County Sheriff’s Office,” he said when she answered. “You called yesterday.”

  “I did.” Brenner sounded every bit as no-nonsense over the phone as she did in person. “You’ve probably already heard from Floyd Kline, but I thought you should know he was in to see his son yesterday. Parker told him you and your brother were here, and Mr. Kline went ballistic. I don’t say that lightly, Sergeant. You’d think he was the one who needed incarcerating.”

  Picturing the commotion, Caden rubbed his temple. “We don’t have a good history together.” That was putting it mildly. What had Floyd told him at Parker’s competency hearing? I never want to see your sorry ass again, unless it’s when they put you in the ground. “I’m sorry he disrupted your hospital.”

  “He did more than that. We’re still trying to calm half the patients. Beau Hardy is convinced the south is rising and has been screaming retaliation against Lincoln and Grant since yesterday. For the safety and well-being of our residents, I’m going to have to ask you stay away in the future.”

  Not in the mood to argue legalities with her, he let the comment slide. “Is that why you called?”

  “No.” Bluntly. “I have a message for you.”

  “From Floyd?” Not a promising way to start the morning.

  “From Parker.”

  That brought him up short. Across from him, a blond-haired woman stepped into the room and glanced nervously about.

  “Parker says to tell you that ‘evening will come soon.’” Nurse Brenner spoke crisply. “I have no idea what it means, and I wouldn’t normally bother telling you except he was so insistent. Good day, Sergeant.”

  The phone clicked in his ear followed by the drone of a dial tone.

  Evening will come soon. He dropped the phone into its cradle.

  Cold must return. Evening will follow.

  Damn Parker and his crazy riddles.

  “Can I help you?” he asked, approaching the woman in the doorway. Something about her seemed familiar. Her long hair was poufy and teased, and though she wore a good deal of makeup, it appeared expertly applied.

  “Yes, I…” She glanced hesitantly around the bustling room. “Is Ryan here? Ryan Flynn?”

  Caden was about to tell her no when his brother appeared from a hallway on the opposite side of the room. Coffee cup in one hand, he held a magazine-sized hardcover book in the other, his concentration on the book.

  “Ryan,” Caden called. “Someone to see you.”

  Stopping by his desk, Ryan set his coffee down. “Suzanne?” A frown crossed his face. “Everything okay?” He tucked the book beneath his arm and joined her.

  The woman flushed. “Yes. It’s… It’s not Shawn this time. I got a call about our dog, Duke.”

  Now Caden understood why she looked familiar. She’d been involved in a domestic dispute he’d responded to last August. Of course she would ask for Ryan. Suzanne Flemish had gone to school with Caden’s brother, married young, and regretted it almost immediately. He still wasn’t sure why she remained with Shawn Preech, a rough-around-the-edges motorhead who’d gained local celebrity status for his skill at dirt-track racing. Preech might be good behind the wheel of a winged sprint, but he was clueless when it came to maintaining a healthy marriage. When he’d cheated on Suzanne over the summer, she’d taken a baseball bat to his restored 1970 Dodge Charger, then tried to follow that up with a crack to his head. Caden and Ryan had arrived on the scene to find the couple screaming at each other across the damaged Charger, Suzanne clutching the bat and threatening to shatter the windshield. He was surprised she wasn’t mortified to see him, but had a feeling Suzanne Preech didn’t do mortification. She got even. Word had it Shawn had ditched his fling and bought Suzanne a pricey ring to patch things up.

  “Oh.” Ryan grimaced. “You need to see Deputy Rosling about that. He’s been handling most of those calls.” He motioned toward Rosling’s desk where Fran and Clay Bateman were in the process of withdrawing. Fran still sniffled into her handkerchief, but Clay shook Rosling’s hand as the two men exchanged a few parting words.

  Suzanne’s eyes grew owlishly wide. “Do you know what happened to Duke? He’s been missing for two days.”

  If Caden hadn’t seen the damage she’d done with a baseball bat, he might have believed the beseeching expression she turned on his brother.

  Ryan cleared his throat and shifted the book from beneath his arm, bri
efly exposing the cover. “I’m sorry, Suzanne, but we found Duke along with a few other missing dogs.” Ryan touched her elbow tentatively, steering her toward Rosling’s desk as the Batemans departed. “Wayne will tell you about it and get some information from you.”

  Caden snatched the book from Ryan as his brother helped Suzanne to a seat. The cover was unmistakable.

  “What are you doing with my high school yearbook?” He shot Ryan a questioning look as his brother returned to his desk. “You got this from Mom, didn’t you?”

  “I did.” Ryan retrieved his coffee. “I was curious about Lyle Mason.”

  “Well, you’re not going to find any dirt on him in here.” Sinking into his chair, Caden flipped through the pages, reminded of friends and faces he hadn’t seen since 1968. The photographs were terribly dated, taken in a time when the Beatles and the Doors ruled the airwaves and Haight-Ashbury was the city of love. He flipped to his yearbook photo and was shocked by how young he looked, his black hair cut in a cross between Paul McCartney and RFK. A few more pages and he found Lyle Mason, his sister, Lottie, directly beside him. Lyle’s thick brows were drawn tightly over his eyes, his expression challenging. It was exactly how Caden remembered him. An outsider with a chip on his shoulder, Lyle had done his best to set himself apart from the rest of the class.

  By contrast, Lottie was pleasant but awkward. Shy and plump, she’d only had a handful of friends, and was often a target of ridicule from the more popular girls in his class.

  An ugly memory.

  Caden snapped the book shut and tossed it on his desk. “You could have asked me to borrow it. There are a lot of personal messages in there.”

  “Don’t worry.” Grinning, Ryan shook his head. “I skipped the love letters from your throng of admirers.”

  “My throng of—” Caden stopped, knowing his brother wanted to yank his chain. He’d had more than a few girlfriends back in the day thanks to his skill at vocals and playing guitar, but wasn’t going to let Ryan poke through his teen exploits. “Forget it. I want to know what’s going on around here. This place is buzzing.” He gave a nod for the commotion around them. “What did I miss?”