by Mae Clair
Did someone like Lach even sleep? The thought made Caden realize how little he knew about the alien he’d grown so dependent on for answers and advice.
“Do you know if anyone happened to see him leave?”
Sharon shook her head, sending a ponytail of glossy hair wagging behind her. “Weird thing though…he wrote a single word on the envelope.”
Caden’s pulse quickened. Of course Lach would leave a message. “What word?”
Sharon’s face scrunched up in a puzzled expression. “Cold.”
It was all Caden needed to hear. He bolted for the door.
* * * *
Shawn’s clothing was soaked through. His T-shirt stuck to his body, plastered in place by the steady downpour, and his jeans were waterlogged. He’d only managed two hours of sleep tucked in some kid’s tree fort he’d stumbled across before dawn. Fear of discovery had kept him moving. He might be able to talk his way out of what happened at Sarah’s trailer—say he was drunk and didn’t know what he was doing—but his gut told him the clock had wound down to zero hour.
Obadiah propelled him toward the TNT. At times his ancestor ranted incessantly, garbled words that bled into Shawn’s brain like white noise. It was growing harder to separate himself from the spirit as his thoughts merged with those of Obadiah and his ancestor chained them together.
Starving, his body so hollow it felt like a strong wind would carry him away, Shawn kept to any cover available. Unable to find a car he could hotwire, he was reduced to creeping through backyards and racing across mud-splattered fields. As miserable as it was, the weather helped shield him from prying eyes, conjuring fog that hung in tattered patches above the rain-soaked ground. Eventually, he wandered far enough from town to parallel the road for an easier path. Few cars passed, but those that did sent him diving for cover. He feared the next vehicle to round the bend would have a light-bar mounted on top.
Sooner or later he’d have to flag a ride, but he wasn’t ready to risk the danger. First he needed to concoct a plausible story why he was so far from town, drenched-through, without transportation. Mechanical problems? An empty gas tank? Both had possibilities. Except he was headed away from town not toward it. In the end, he’d probably plaster a phony smile on his face and hope someone would stop.
He was still working through the dilemma when the vibration of tires on wet asphalt arose behind him. Immediately, Shawn ducked into the tree line that had paralleled his path for the last half mile. From his crouched position sheltered by a group of pines, he watched a large black vehicle roll from the fog. The Cadillac advanced slowly, the crunch of its tires over scattered stones almost as loud as the hiss of rain. Square headlights pierced the mist, flaying aside the fog. There was no mistake the driver searched for someone.
Gripping the trunk of the nearest tree with both hands, Shawn stooped lower in his hiding place. Water dripped from the end of his nose. More trickled down his back. The pines protected him from the worst of the downpour, but as soon as the car was gone he’d be back on the road trudging through the muck. How much better to be dry and warm? To have transportation that would take him where he wanted to go?
His hand strayed to the knife struck through his belt. He fingered the handle, tracing the rough outline of the spider carving.
Ten feet past his hiding place, the Cadillac came to a stop.
Shawn rose slightly, sniffing the air. There was something ominous about the way the car sat unmoving, the driver invisible through slanting sheets of rain. A second later, the passenger’s door swung open.
Shawn’s heart thudded. How could anyone know he was there? It wasn’t possible someone from the road could see him among the cluster of trees, yet the car sat unmoving, the open door a clear invitation.
The loud rumbling of his gut decided matters for him. He needed food, a place to hole up and sleep for a few hours. After that, he’d take care of business in the TNT and he’d be in the clear. The knife would give him the power he needed and he’d be a hero to everyone in Point Pleasant for killing the Mothman. If he had to off the driver of the vehicle for being a nosy bastard, it wouldn’t be the first time he’d killed.
Biting down on the inside of his cheek, Shawn slipped the knife under his T-shirt and sprinted for the Cadillac.
* * * *
Quentin took Sarah to the hotel. He needed a shower and a change of clothes, and didn’t want to leave her alone at her trailer in the event Preech returned. Shawn’s Dodge Charger had been towed earlier that morning, but there was still the chance he’d come back for the car. Sarah put up a fuss until Quentin pointed out she’d been concerned enough about Suzanne’s welfare to have her stay with Jerome and this was no different. Reluctantly, she agreed.
It was late morning by the time they arrived, Point Pleasant waking from a sleepy after-church Sunday. Quentin ushered Sarah into the lobby of the hotel, finding it deserted. He expected to see Eve or Katie but Sarah told him neither usually worked on Sunday.
“Sharon’s probably around somewhere. I don’t mind hanging out here while you shower and change clothes.”
“Ok. I won’t be long.” Quentin gave her a quick kiss, then bounded up the steps. True to his word, he was back in the lobby in a record fifteen minutes, changed into fresh jeans and a light pullover shirt.
“That was fast.” Sarah smiled up at him from her seat on the window bench. She’d been staring out the window, watching the rain. Every now and then a soft grumble of thunder added to the downpour but it was nothing like last night.
“Told you I wouldn’t be long.” Quentin glanced around the lobby. “Where’s Sharon?”
“Taking an early lunch break in the café.”
“I didn’t think it was open on Sundays.” Quentin hadn’t realized it had gotten so late.
“It’s not, but she eats her lunch in there.”
He crossed the lobby and joined her on the window seat. “Isn’t she worried about the front desk being unmanned?” Small-town business in action when you trusted your clientele to find you. Every now and then the reality of Point Pleasant’s close knit community still caught him by surprise.
Sarah shook her head. “Turns out you’re the hotel’s only guest at present.”
“What about Evening?”
“According to Sharon he left sometime during night.”
After one-thirty to be precise. Quentin recalled spying Lach from the window in the early morning as he’d walked to his car. “I was hoping to talk to him about what happened last night.” Especially in light of Sarah’s revelation that Shawn’s face had changed when he attacked her. Could Preech really be possessed by the spirit of his dead ancestor? After all the other strangeness they’d experienced, it wasn’t out of the realm of possibility.
Sarah wrapped her fingers around her blue stone pendant. “The storm?” she guessed.
“That too.”
“I’m not afraid of them anymore, you know.”
Her admission surprised him. Shifting on the seat to regard her directly, he forked a knee onto the cushion between them. Somewhere off in the distance lightning flickered behind the clouds. “Because of Jonathan and Etta?”
“Partially.” She wet her lips. “I can’t explain it, but it’s as if all of my fear came down to that single moment when I faced Shawn. I told you he looked different—that I think he’s Obadiah. That’s the storm I’ve been running from. Obadiah shattered my family centuries ago. Cornstalk’s curse made that reality so much worse. I lost my parents and my grandparents and let myself be controlled by fear, but I don’t have to be afraid anymore.” Her gaze shifted to the window and the steady beat of rain outside. “I don’t think Cornstalk’s curse is broken, but I do think whatever blight Obadiah brought to my family was washed away in last night’s storm.”
A cleansing.
He wasn’t one for symbolic thinking but recognized the logic of what she said. For her, the storm had been purifying. She’d been s
wept up in a gale of supernatural proportions and rather than being torn apart—as the storm that killed her parents had once ripped apart her family—she’d survived, emerging stronger for the experience.
Hooking his arm around her shoulder, he pulled her close and kissed her.
She smiled under his lips.
“Did Sharon say where Evening went?” he murmured.
“No.” Drawing back, Sarah laid her palm on the side of his face. “But I think I know. He wrote Cold on the envelope.”
Stunned, Quentin stared down at her. “The igloo?”
She nodded. “But don’t think you’re going alone.”
* * * *
Shawn ducked his head to look inside the open car door. The man in the driver’s seat sat faced forward, but there was no mistaking the distinctive profile of Lach Evening. Shawn hesitated only briefly, the spirit of Obadiah warning of danger. Somehow Evening had been at Fort Randolph when Cornstalk was killed. Shawn didn’t understand the wherefores and whys any more than he understood how his ancestor lived in his body. All he knew was that the dry supple leather of the car was too inviting after a night of slogging through rain and mud. He slid into the seat and latched the door. Without a word, Lach eased the car onto the road and continued ahead.
Shawn fidgeted, sweeping a hand through his drenched hair. Evening didn’t seem to mind that he dripped over the seats, or that his jeans were filthy, splattered with grime. The car looked like it had just rolled off the assembly line, the massive dash trimmed out in wood grain, the Cadillac emblem gleaming in the center of the steering wheel like a newly minted coin. Shawn was a muscle car fanatic, but experienced a twinge of envy as he took in all the buttons and knobs on the dash and doors. More than a few looked custom, setting off dollar signs in his head. The vehicle exuded a new-car smell that overrode the reek of wet denim and rain. The seat was like sinking into a cushion of air. Damn, if the car didn’t cost a fortune. He might be able to unload it somewhere for quick cash and get something less noticeable.
“Hey, uh…thanks for the ride.” Shifting sideways, Shawn unobtrusively slid the knife from beneath his shirt and concealed it in the space between the seat and the door. He kept his right arm twisted behind him, a position that would give him leverage when he lashed out with the blade.
“Uh…I really appreciate you coming along when you did. My car broke down a while back.” The lie was plausible, but sweat broke out on his forehead when it rolled from his tongue. He gave a short laugh, which came out in a burst of jittery energy. “I’ve been hoofing it in that crappy weather. Sorry I’m dripping all over your car. Must be brand new, huh?” He cursed himself for jumpy chatter, but something about Evening unnerved him. It would be a hell of a lot easier if the guy talked, even acknowledged him for crap’s sake, but he kept his gaze straight ahead and didn’t say a word. The silence ate at Shawn.
He chewed on his thumbnail. “Where are you headed?”
More silence. The only sound in the car was the repetitive snick of the wipers against the windshield. Shawn’s uneasiness spilled over into anger. “Hey, you deaf or something?” His fingers tightened around the knife.
“I would not do that, Mr. Preech.”
“Not do what?”
Without turning his gaze from the windshield, Evening extended his right hand between them. Blue flame sprang from his open palm.
Shawn recoiled. “What the hell?” It was the same insidious glow that had surrounded Sarah and Marsh last night.
“It is our life-force. One that my people are able to manipulate for protection or defense.” Evening studied him, his eyes like polished onyx. “It would not be wise to provoke me.”
Shawn folded back into the seat, his grip slackening on the knife. Obadiah was strangely quiet, leaving him to fend on his own. “What do you mean, ‘your people’?”
Evening returned his gaze to the road, his hand to the steering wheel. The flame died. “It does not matter.”
Shawn wiped sweat from his forehead. He searched for the rush he always got from the knife, but the power was silent. A fat slug of fear crawled through his gut for the first time since he’d come into possession of the weapon. “Where are you taking me?”
“To the TNT.”
“Why there?”
Evening’s lips curled in a tight smile. “The spirit of Obadiah Preech lives inside of you and still you ask?”
Shawn swallowed hard. Whatever Evening was, he was far from an ordinary guy in a black suit driving a fancy car. Not bothering to conceal the action, Shawn slid the knife through his belt. The weapon would do him no good against Evening. “How do you know about Obadiah?”
Evening palmed the wheel, rounding a bend in the road. The car banked smoothly and silently. “Because I was there when Cornstalk was murdered.”
It was true. Shawn didn’t understand how, but everything Obadiah had insinuated about the man beside him was true. His breath quickened in fear as a dozen thoughts tumbled through his head. Was Evening a spirit in the flesh? The reincarnated soul of a soldier who had witnessed the murder? No, that wasn’t impossible. Yet, Obadiah had struck a man who’d resembled Evening. More than resembled him.
Rowan Wynter.
His ancestor stirred awake in a mushroom cloud of hate. Oh, how he’d despised Wynter. Too righteous, too perfect. A man who’d almost foiled his plans of killing Cornstalk. The bastard had tried to interfere, but Obadiah had bested him with a blow to the back of his head.
That wouldn’t work this time. They were no match for Evening.
His name is Wynter.
Whatever Obadiah called him, Shawn wasn’t stupid enough to fight him.
Shawn turned his gaze out the side window. He grew quiet, increasingly uneasy around Evening. The man—if he truly was a man—was someone beyond his comprehension. If it weren’t for his need to reach the TNT, he’d abandon the car.
Finally, as the Cadillac drew closer to the old World War II munitions site, Shawn found his voice. “Why are you helping me?”
“I am not helping you, Mr. Preech. My intervention is given on behalf of the Mothman. Now I suggest you get down on the floor as there will be a roadblock ahead.”
“What?” Panic shot through Shawn. Instinctively, he reached for the door handle. “Let me out.”
A sudden click announced he was locked inside.
“What the hell are you doing?” Shawn pulled on the latch with both hands but it wouldn’t budge. Frantic, he ran his fingers along the buttons and knobs on the side panel. Nothing. Twisting, he fumbled for the lock but the metal stem had retracted into the door too deeply for him to grasp. “Evening, let me the hell out.”
The man in black said nothing, merely gazed ahead. Shawn swiveled, his heart jackhammering out his terror. Through the windshield, he spied the light bar of a Mason County cruiser. The vehicle blocked the entrance to the TNT.
Of course. They were searching for the Mothman, exactly as he’d intended. Only now that plan left him vulnerable to seizure.
Desperate, he wrenched the knife from his belt. “You’re going to get me arrested.”
“You are running out of time, Mr. Preech. Get down on the floor.”
The patrol car loomed closer. Evening was an idiot. The Cadillac was huge, but even crouched on the floor Shawn would be visible. If the man thought huddling under the dash was going to keep Shawn safe from arrest, he was insane. Any yet, what other option did he have?
Kill Wynter. Take control of the moving carriage.
Fat chance of that. Obadiah might not know what a car was, but he had to know any attempt to wrest control of the vehicle from Evening would end in disaster.
As if reading his thoughts, Evening extended his right hand. Blue light bloomed in his palm. Out of options, Shawn crouched under the dash, the knife clutched tightly. He would not go down easy.
Evening fanned his fingers from left to right in a slow, elegant wave. The motion reminded Sha
wn of a magician performing a trick. And like a feat of magic, the motion conjured a glowing turquoise net. He recoiled sharply as it settled over him, remembering the same eerie blue glow from last night. But this time there was no element of danger, only a muffling of sound and vision.
Less than a minute later the car rolled to a stop. The hum of the electric window rolled into the door panel as a deputy approached the car.
Evening rummaged up a pleasant smile. “Good morning, Deputy. How may I help you?”
* * * *
Caden didn’t bother stopping at the sheriff’s office but headed straight for the TNT. The constant rain would make the hunt for the Mothman every bit as miserable as last night, but at least the search parties wouldn’t be fumbling in the dark. A few had now been diverted to look for Shawn, a search warrant underway. Caden was convinced there had to be something in his house to tie him to Hanley’s murder. As for the TNT, the less people in the Mothman’s orbit, the better.
He slowed as he neared a barrier at the entrance of Potters Creek Road. Deputy Morris flagged him down, then crunched a cigarette beneath his foot. He sprinted for Caden’s Capri.
Caden lowered the window. “How’s it going?”
“Quiet.” Morris was decked out in rain gear, a weather resistant poncho slung over his shirt. The smell of smoke clung to his uniform.
“Anyone come by lately?”
“Like I said, quiet.” Bending lower, Morris rested an arm on the open window. “We’re good so far, but Pete’s worried about fallout when word spreads the Mothman attacked your brother and Oates.”
“Yeah.” Caden didn’t want to examine the possibilities too closely. “Could be enough to keep people away. The Mothman never attacked anyone before.” That wasn’t entirely true, but it was what people believed. Last summer, the creature had killed Roger Layton, the man responsible for Caden’s sister’s death, but only after Layton had abducted Eve. The official report said Layton had drowned, his body found in a pond in the TNT.
Speculation the Mothman had become violent would give all but the most reckless pause. It was one thing to traipse through the woods with a gun, another to slog through sheets of rain knowing the thing you hunted had a better advantage at hunting you.