A Desolate Hour

by Mae Clair

  Mitch snorted and helped himself to a fry. “Imagine the kind of roast you’d get from the bird.”

  Shawn tensed, irked that someone would pilfer his food. Another time he might gut the guy for the infraction, but there was no sense making a scene when he had his two new buddies playing along so well. “You’d have to kill it first. Hunt it down.”

  “Should have done that long ago.” Painter polished off the last of his beer and set the bottle on the bar.

  “Hey, Tucker.” Shawn flagged for service. “I’ll take another. Give a round to my friends here, too.”

  “That’s generous of you.” Mitch clapped him on the shoulder. “Thanks.”

  “Yeah, from me too.” Painter’s smile was all teeth. “I used to think you were a jerk when I saw you on the sprint circuit, but you ain’t so bad.”

  Shawn forced a smile, biting back another wave of anger. He shoved the wings toward the two guys. “Help yourselves. I can order more.”

  “Next round’s on me. Wings and beer.” Mitch pulled a wing from the basket and took a healthy bite. He licked hot sauce from his fingers. “Talking about the Mothman, I’ve gone looking for it before.”

  Shawn grabbed one of the wings. “Who hasn’t?”

  “Never had any luck though.” Mitch dragged a napkin across his mouth then crumbled it into a ball. “The TNT is a fucking maze. Too many places for the thing to hide.”

  “That’s always been the problem.” Painter nibbled a wing like he wasn’t sure the taste agreed with him.

  “You’d have to get enough guys to flush it out.” Shawn swept his gaze over the group at the bar. A few appeared to be listening to their conversation. “The sheriff’s department sucks at the job. If you ask me I don’t think they’re interested in finding it.”

  Tucker returned with three beers and set them on the bar. “Why not?”

  “Think about it.” Shawn snagged another handful of fries. More people were listening, a group at the nearest table openly staring. “It gives them a reason to feel important. Like they’re doing their job. Protecting the town.”

  Tucker shook his head. “They are protecting the town. You want to talk crap about the Flynn brothers, Sheriff Weston, or anyone else in that department, don’t do it in here.”

  You have pushed too far.

  No shit. He could see he’d crossed a line. He didn’t need the fucking voice telling him the obvious. Shawn held up a hand signaling retreat. “I’m just saying maybe they’re a bit overtaxed.”

  “It didn’t sound like that.” Tucker wasn’t ready to back down.

  “It came out wrong.” He couldn’t afford to lose his audience. “With Hanley’s murder, Pete, Caden, Ryan, and the others have their hands full. They shouldn’t have to focus on some flying freak when one of our own has been ripped up in his home.”

  A murmur of agreement from those nearest him.

  “And if the Mothman is connected to Will’s death, don’t we owe it to our friend to see the damn thing doesn’t hurt anyone again?”

  “What are you suggesting?” Painter finished his wing and sucked the bone clean. He wiped his sticky fingers on his jeans.

  Shawn spread his hands. “Maybe it’s time we got organized and went into the TNT together. That’s how they did it before the bridge went down. They piled into cars and went out there with shotguns.”

  “And didn’t find a damn thing.” Tucker shook his head. “I’m old enough to remember sixty-six when the woods were full of flashlights and guns. I was one of the idiots roaming around in the dark. We were damn lucky no one got killed by accident.”

  Shawn grit his teeth. No matter how hard he tried, he was unable to quell the heat in the glare he leveled on Tucker. The bartender didn’t seem to notice. Glancing to the side, he addressed the group at large.

  “Will’s dead. I don’t know if the Mothman was involved, but going out there on some fool’s mission armed with guns isn’t going to do anyone any good. Especially Will.”

  Murmurs of agreement, louder this time. Unseen below the bar, Shawn clenched his hand into a fist. He longed to draw the knife and put an end to Tucker’s righteous tirade. The guy droned on, talking about leaving matters in the hands of the sheriff’s department. A lot of responsible drivel that made Shawn’s gut twist. His mouth curled downward, the nails of his right hand digging into his palm.

  Someone nudged him in the ribs. He jerked his head to the side to find Mitch watching him. The heavyset man’s gaze was direct. “We don’t need an army,” he said in a low voice so that only Shawn and Painter heard. “It only takes one good shot to kill the thing and there are three of us.”

  Shawn grinned.

  Not exactly what he’d planned, but he’d run with what he had.

  * * * *

  Quentin popped the top on a beer and eased into a rocker on the hotel porch. Earlier, he’d grabbed dinner at the café, but the place was too crowded tonight. He’d felt out of his element with so many locals gathered to remember one of their own. His waitress had told him about Will Hanley’s murder. Afterward, he’d found a copy of the Point Pleasant Herald in the lobby and read the account firsthand. The details left him uneasy.

  Sadly, people were killed every day even in small rural communities, but he couldn’t help feeling Cornstalk’s curse was connected. He’d overheard a few patrons in the café muttering the same thing. People talked in hushed whispers about mutated creatures in the TNT, red water seepage, and Mothman sightings.

  A blight hung over the town.

  Lightning framed the buildings across the street, the air ripe with ozone. The night felt alien, something that existed on the fringe of colliding worlds. Every now and then a rumble of thunder shattered the stillness. Main Street was empty, not a single car trolling its length or a lone pedestrian haunting the sidewalks. Quentin imagined everyone tucked inside, safe behind glass storefronts ablaze with light.

  “May I join you?”

  He jerked at the intrusion of a lightly accented voice. A glance over his shoulder revealed Lach Evening regarding him expectantly. He shrugged. “Why not?”

  Evening settled into a rocker, his dark eyes trained on the street. Two blocks down, a man appeared at the door of the dry cleaner and flipped a hanging sign to Closed. A few seconds later the lights went out. “I am curious if you ever discovered anything about your ancestor, Jonathan Marsh.”

  Quentin shook his head. “You told me I wouldn’t find his grave in Pioneer Cemetery.” He studied Evening openly. “And, incidentally, I never mentioned his last name or mine. Interesting how you just seemed to know it.”

  Evening was unfazed. “I make it a habit to know certain things.”

  “Sounds to me like you know more about Jonathan than I do.”

  “Perhaps.” Evening tapped a bubble-topped finger against his lips. “He lived during the days of Chief Cornstalk.” A calculating sideways glance. “Tell me, Mr. Marsh, do you believe in curses?”

  A harsh bark of laughter escaped Quentin. “Curses.” He lifted his right hand. “What do you think this is? I used to be a concert pianist, now I sell advertising.” Bitterness burbled awake in his gut and rooted like a rancid seed. “If you know something about Jonathan, spit it out.” Mention of the injury soured his mood. He downed the last of his beer and thought about getting another.

  “Alcohol does not help.” Evening seemed to read his thoughts.

  “I know. I tried that route before.” It had only taken getting rip-roaring drunk once to make him realize he wasn’t the type to drown his misery in booze. “I’m here because of my sister.” Might as well get the whole thing said. Leaning forward, he braced his knees apart and cupped the empty can between his palms. “She thinks my family is cursed.”

  “It is.”

  Quentin balked. “That’s a bold statement.”

  “I wish it were otherwise. You might say I am a historian, Mr. Marsh. I know a bit about your family, includin
g the man you came to learn about.”

  “Jonathan?”

  “Yes.”

  “What about this?” Quentin dug the amulet from his pocket. In the pewter veil of twilight, the blue stone appeared darker than normal. “Do you know about this, too?”

  Evening’s mouth tightened as his gaze settled on the trinket. “It belonged to him.”

  “To Jonathan?”

  “Sutton kept it upon his death.”

  The name caught Quentin off guard. “Who?”

  “Jonathan’s brother.” A sudden gust of wind scattered the hair on Evening’s forehead. “Sutton is responsible for unleashing Cornstalk’s curse.”

  Neither Penelope nor Madam Olga had mentioned Jonathan had a brother. “If you know so much about this, why not say so? Why these bits and pieces?”

  “It is not easily explained.”

  Quentin’s irritation ratcheted higher. Across the street, lightning silhouetted the rooftops of the dry cleaner and a bookstore. A gust of wind drove a stray piece of paper down the sidewalk. Electricity danced down Quentin’s arm, fanning over his scarred hand and tingling the length of his fingers. “Start by using words.”

  Evening’s mouth thinned in amusement. “I suggest you talk to Caden Flynn.”

  “Flynn?” Quentin drew back. “What’s he have to do with this?”

  “Nothing now, but by tomorrow everything will be clear.”

  More riddles.

  Evening stood. “If you will excuse me, I have other matters to attend.”

  Quentin would have blocked his path but saw little sense in the childish bullying. Evening had said all he was going to say. At least now Quentin had a new name to focus on. He didn’t recall seeing Sutton referenced in the archival records, but after a while the lists had blurred together.

  With the threat of a storm brewing on the horizon, he turned back to the hotel. Someone in the bar was sure to know Sarah, and right now, he wanted to find out where she lived.

  Chapter 7

  Sarah stood rooted to the floor staring out the kitchen window. Flashes of lightning illuminated a heavy blanket of clouds; the treetops in her rear yard tossed about by a strong wind. Every now and then thunder rumbled in menace, jarring her nerves. Why was it so hard to outgrow her ridiculous fear of storms?

  Nibbling on a fingernail, she paced to the table. The top was covered by several books she’d taken from the public library. Quentin’s interest in Cornstalk’s curse had prompted her to reacquaint herself with the details leading up to his death. On a whim, she’d also checked out a book on witchcraft. Leafing through the tome made her uneasy, but her mind kept tracking back to the strange symbols on the wooden case belonging to Shawn. The cyphers could be nothing more than idle scratching, but she was curious enough to try to establish their meaning, especially in light of the letter she’d discovered. There was a slim possibility the Jonathan mentioned in that short missive could be Quentin’s ancestor.

  A knock at the front door made her jump.

  The clock above the sink indicated it was after nine. Tomorrow was a workday, making it unusual for anyone to call on her so late. Slightly uneasy, she moved to the front window and flicked the curtain aside. In the glow from the porch light she spied a maroon Monte Carlo parked in her driveway.

  “Quentin?” Sarah tugged the door open. “What are you doing here?”

  His mouth curled in a lopsided grin. He raised a bottle of wine. “I come bearing gifts.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  Lightning flickered, wrenching an involuntary gasp from her lips. Hastily, she motioned him inside. “Come in.”

  He stepped through the doorway with a glance for her tiny living room.

  Her face grew warm as she recalled he came from an affluent family. Someone who’d attended Juilliard and played concert halls probably found her trailer rustic. Biting her lip, she took in the simple decorations—a tufted sofa and rocking chair, her grandmother’s pitcher and bowl, a brass table lamp with a beaded shade her mother had loved. Many of the furnishings were antiques, cherished pieces she couldn’t bear to part with. Did he see them as simple and backward?

  “Nice place.”

  “Thank you.” She wished she knew if he was sincere. “Is it raining yet?”

  He shook his head. “Just a lot of thunder, lightning, and wind. There’s been a lot of that lately.”

  She’d noticed it too. People in town discussed the weather over coffee or when they stopped to pick up the mail at the post office. Only yesterday, Sarah had overheard Mrs. Quiggly prattling about the strange weather at the library. The old woman said it was an omen of bad things to come.

  “Sorry I showed up unannounced, but I didn’t have your phone number.” Quentin dragged fingers through his tousled hair, taming it in place. The wind had left him disheveled with high color on his cheeks. “I found the name of an ancestor I wanted to run by you. And I thought you could use a glass of wine after what happened with the Mothman.”

  “I have to work tomorrow.” A stupid thing to say.

  “I won’t stay long.”

  “No…it’s fine.” She motioned him to the kitchen. “I was doing some research anyway.”

  He walked to the table and gave a once-over to the array of books. “More stuff on Cornstalk?”

  “Witchcraft too.”

  His gaze flashed to her face. “Should I ask why?”

  “Let me get some glasses for the wine and I’ll explain.”

  Five minutes later, seated at the table together, Sarah told him about the odd wooden case she’d discovered among Shawn’s possessions and the etchings on top.

  “Do you remember what they looked like?” Quentin asked.

  “Not really. Mostly runes or hieroglyphs. I do remember a spider. That seemed to be the prominent marking.” Thoughtfully, she sipped her wine. “I hoped if I saw something similar in the book it might jar my memory.”

  Quentin pulled the tome toward him. “What was in the case?”

  “I don’t know. It was locked, but it gave me a creepy feeling.” A bolt of lightning flared beyond the window and she tensed involuntarily. “Kind of like all this bizarre weather.”

  “We’re safe in here.” Quentin seemed to hone in on her unease. “Maybe it’s just heat lightning.”

  Flashes from a storm too far away to affect them. She knew different and guessed he did too. The streaks were too vivid, the thunder too loud. “Mrs. Quiggly calls it a witch storm.”

  He shot her a sideways glance. “A what?”

  “Witch storm. She said it’s an omen of bad tidings.” A shiver skittered down her spine. Wetting her lips, she rolled the stem of the wine glass between her fingers. “After encountering the Mothman I’m starting to believe her. Everywhere I go, people are on edge. Like they’re waiting for something horrible to happen.”

  “Maybe it already has.” Quentin flipped through the book. “You heard about Will Hanley?”

  She nodded, morose. “He was a good man.” Her voice cracked when she thought of how he’d died. “His wife passed away a few years ago. She was my teacher in grade school. When I think of Will and what happened to him—” She pressed a hand to her lips. “I heard rumors the Mothman was involved.”

  Quentin’s mouth thinned. “Not to make light, but isn’t the creature at the root of everything?”

  “Cornstalk’s curse is at the root of everything.”

  “Yeah.” Exhaling, he slumped in his chair. “Everything goes back to that, doesn’t it?” He took a long swallow of wine and set the glass down. A domed lamp suspended from the ceiling cast shadows over his face, changing the color of his eyes from whiskey to bark. “You remember the man who showed up at the TNT when we were there? The one with blond hair?”

  “Lach Evening?” Sarah fidgeted. In the living room, her grandmother’s mantel clock chimed the quarter hour.

  “He seems to know a lot about my fami
ly. He told me Jonathan had a brother named Sutton. I think he’s the one I need to research.”

  “A brother?” Shock seeped into her voice. Fiddling with her necklace, she began to pace.

  Quentin eyed her critically. “Sarah, what’s wrong? Do you know who Sutton is?”

  “No.” She never heard the name before. Never came across it in any record she could recall. “It’s just…Lach Evening is different. He knows things.”

  “What do you mean?”

  She knotted her fingers. She didn’t fully understand who or what Evening was, only that he was connected to Indrid Cold. If she believed the stories Eve and Katie had told her about the being in the igloo, then she had to accept Evening was as alien as Cold. There was no sense trying to convince Quentin of something so inexplicable. Believing in the Mothman was one thing. Accepting that otherworldly beings existed in a cross reality was entirely different.

  Folding her arms, she gripped her elbows and turned to face him. “Lach is a little bit like your Madam Olga. He has knowledge of past and future events.” Comparing Evening to the psychic seemed a good way to explain his abilities. “If he said Sutton is your ancestor, then it’s probably true.”

  “Great.” Quentin finished his wine and stood. “But there’s no record of Sutton or Jonathan—”

  “Unless Jonathan is the same Jonathan mentioned in the letter I found.” Sarah moved closer and gripped the back of the nearest chair. “That would have put him at Fort Randolph around the same time Cornstalk was there. And from the letter, we know he was killed by Indians.”

  Quentin seemed to consider that. “Before or after Cornstalk was murdered?”

  The wind battered a tree limb against the window. Sarah jumped then instantly flushed at her jittery nerves. To cover, she picked up the book and hugged it to her chest. “There has to be a way to find out.”

  “Evening is the way to find out.” Quentin shook his head. He paced a short distance away. “Although, according to him, I’m supposed to talk to Caden Flynn.”

  “Caden?” The name tumbled from her lips with a distinctive note of worry. Eve didn’t need to have her husband dragged into something that didn’t concern him. This was Quentin’s issue to resolve, not Caden’s. She exhaled a defeated breath. “I wish Lach would have explained and left Caden out of it. He and Eve have only been married a little over a month. My friends have enough to worry about, and now with Will Hanley’s death…” She raised her head to meet his gaze. “Are you going to talk to Caden?”