Wings In Darkness

by Gregory Kay

  “Hey, honey, you can come sit with us.”

  Fiona normally had little patience with flirts, but she supposed that, since all of them were at least seventy and a couple even had white Santa Claus beards, they were harmless.

  “Tempting,” she told them with a wink, making them laugh, “but I’ve got to do a little computer work.”

  “Ain’t good to work during breakfast,” one of the bearded ones assured her, “bad for the digestion; it’ll give you ulcers.”

  “Tell that to my boss!”

  “Ain’t that the truth!” A pause, then, “I don’t want to keep you from your work, but you’re not from around here, are you?”

  Fiona shook her head. Gee, Grandpa, what was your first clue?

  “No, I’m from New York.”

  “Ha!” another one exclaimed, elbowing the man beside him, “Told you I recognized her accent; you’re buying the coffee tomorrow.”

  The bearded one who’d spoken before said, “Let me guess; you must be here about Mothman, right?”

  She stopped with her pastry midway to her mouth in surprise.

  “How did you know that?”

  He shrugged and grinned.

  “I can’t think of any other reason anybody would want to come here. My grandfather told me one time, ‘Boy, if you ever find the world’s butt-hole, whittle a cork and stick in it.’ Trouble is, I ain’t never found a cork big enough to stick in Point Pleasant yet!”

  Fiona laughed politely while privately agreeing with him, and was struck with a sudden inspiration.

  “So, what do you think about the Mothman?”

  “I think it’s a big load of horse manure, if you ask me.”

  “Now doggone it,” another one broke in, “you know a lot of good people have seen him over the years!”

  “A lot of drunk people maybe, or a bunch of hop-heads!”

  As the argument continued, Fiona made a mental note to ask someone what a ‘hop-head’ was.

  “So,” she finally interrupted, raising her voice slightly in order to be heard, “You’re saying there’s no consensus on its existence, even here in Point Pleasant?”

  The first man shook his head.

  “There never has been. Then or now, you can walk down Main Street and ask ten different people about him, and you’ll get ten different answers, guaranteed.”

  “That’s because he doesn’t exist.”

  “What would you know? You voted for Obama – twice!”

  Before the recreational argument could restart, the second bearded man, who had been silent so far, suddenly put his hand on the first one’s bicep to get his attention and pointed meaningfully at the reporter, keeping his eyes fixed on her.

  “You know, I’ll bet you’re the one who had that wreck out on Route 2 last night.”

  Fiona started visibly.

  “How on earth did you hear about that?”

  “My wife doesn’t sleep much, and she listens to the police scanner a lot. She said somebody with New York plates got pulled over last night, then had a wreck right after that. That you?”

  “Yeah,” she confirmed, looking down with her face reddening, “That was me.”

  “Honey, are you okay?” another one asked, the genuine concern for a total stranger in his voice surprising her, and she managed to force a smile.

  “Nothing hurt except my car and my pride. And the deer,” added lamely.

  “There are plenty of deer, and cars can be fixed,” he told her sagely, “And from the looks of you, you’ve still got plenty to be proud of. Boy, if I was thirty years younger...”

  She blushed even harder and her smile became genuine at the unsolicited compliment, and one of the other men said, “Quit it, Jack; she’s gonna think you’re some kind of pervert!”

  “And she’d be thinking right, if you ask me!” another one chimed in, followed by, “And it would be more like about sixty years younger, not thirty!” and then she was out of the conversation as the whole table fell back into the good-natured bickering among themselves they seemed to delight in.

  Fiona turned back to her computer and hid her smile by sticking her cinnamon roll in it. The accents and clothes and hair might have been different, but otherwise these guys could have been any group of old men in any diner back in the old neighborhood.

  More important than the fact the exchange had made her feel better, it also told her plainly that belief in the Mothman was not at all universal, even here, in a town making money off the story. She began surfing the web using the restaurant’s wi-fi connection; she needed more information.

  That thought took her from the library whose daily opening she was waiting for – another hour to go – and dragged her gaze across its lawn and Viand Street to the county courthouse on the opposite corner from where she sat, and to the sheriff’s cruisers parked there. Two cops stood there chatting – a short, dumpy deputy and another cop in an olive green uniform, while a couple of prisoner trustees in orange jail coveralls who were cleaning out the interior of a police car. Thinking about Deputy what’s-his-name – Carter – and the ticket he’d given her, her lip curled in a snarl; her forgiveness didn’t extend quite that far yet.

  I hope he doesn’t get anymore sleep than I had!

  In the bedroom of his small, single-story house along Shore Street, Luke had just taken his uniform off and was settling down. He’d gotten off two hours ago, but, after his five-minute drive home, he’d fed his cat – Linda’s cat, actually – poured a glass of milk for himself, then sipped it in his recliner while he read to unwind. Not the newspaper – he’d read that online later after he got up, because he knew from experience the news would either depress him or piss him off enough to negatively affect his sleep – but a novel he had picked up on a whim on his last trip to the county’s Wal-Mart, just up the river in the town of Mason. It was supposedly science fiction, but, even though he was halfway through, so far they could have left out the science part and it would have been more accurate. Still, it made an effective sleep aid, particularly since, early in the morning on the midnight shift, his stomach wouldn’t appreciate the half-pint or so of bourbon he normally used for that purpose after getting off work on days or evenings.

  A part of him felt guilty for that. He knew Linda – a lifelong teetotaling Baptist – would have nagged him incessantly about his drinking that much, but Linda wasn’t here, not anymore. Not even her image; for now, at least, those pictures rested undisturbed in a closed drawer, and had since not long after her death. The pain was too great to look at them on a day-to-day basis, as he’d learned from hard experience. Maybe someday he’d put them back up on the walls, the end table, beside his bed...but not today.

  The house still felt empty without her; he felt empty without her.

  All I’m doing is marking time.

  Sensing his mood, the cat – Rosemary, she’d named the little beast, of all things – hopped up on his lap.

  Luke had never liked cats much, but when Linda found the tiny, half-starved calico kitten crawling around on wobbly legs on the banks of the Ohio right in front of their house, when she’d cuddled it up against her smooth cheek and said, “Oh please, Luke? Oh please-please-please!” he’d said the only thing he could, and Rosemary became the third member of their household.

  Nudging his book out of the way with her head, Rosemary looked up at him as she shifted her weight from one leg to the other, kneading his lap and purring, and he’d decided enough was enough. Scooping up the cat and getting to his feet, he muttered, “Come on, kitty; let’s go to bed.”

  As soon as he deposited her on the mattress, Rosemary promptly walked across the blanket and curled up in her accustomed spot on Linda’s pillow as Luke lay down on his side.

  The cat was small comfort, but without it, it would have been just him and his memories sharing a bed that had become way too cold and way too empty.

  “Can I help you?”

  Fiona looked at the librarian, an older, friendly-looking wom
an, and nodded.

  “Where would I find information on Mothman?”

  “The original sightings or the latest one?” From the way she said it, the reporter could tell this was definitely not the first time she'd gotten this particular request. “I think we still have the paper out front here concerning the most recent event, but the older ones and the books written about them will be there, in the rare book room.” Her pointing finger indicated an enclosure to Fiona’s right with three of the walls made of glass panes above waist height.

  Since she’d read the most recent articles from the local paper online at McDonald’s earlier, Fiona told her she’d like to see the information of the first sightings.

  “Sure; I’ll just need to see your ID, and you can sign in here. Oh, and you can take your computer in with you, but you’ll need to leave the bag here. I’ll put it under the counter, and you can pick it up when you sign out.”

  Fiona frowned.

  “Do you have a lot of thefts here?”

  “No,” the woman told her with a proud, professional smile, “and we intend to keep it that way. Some of those books are very old and valuable, and many simply can’t be replaced.”

  There was nothing at all accusatory in her tone, but she made it very clear – in a friendly way, of course – that the reporter had about the same chance of walking through the library’s brick wall as she had of entering the rare book room with anything that could be used to secrete one of those said rare books and carry it out again.

  Fiona smiled; she liked this woman already.

  Handing over the bag, she asked, “Do I need to put my name on it or anything?”

  “No, we’ve only got yours and one other back here, and we limit the number of people in the room at any given time. Oh, and if you need copies, the machine is right there. They’re twenty-five cents each; just make what you need and you can pay us here when you get through. Good luck with your research.”

  Fiona had just started to turn when she became aware of a presence behind her.

  “Pardon me, ma’am, but would you happen to be the reporter from The Straight Arrow?”

  Finishing her motion, she found herself facing a short, chubby man of about five foot-six wearing a jacket and tie. The jowly head above the knot had the small wrinkles of over sixty years, and he was sporting a half-hearted comb-over that was obviously more of a case of reflexively going through the motions than actually trying to fool anybody. He had a pair of thick glasses, and a big, anticipatory smile.

  Deciding he looked harmless enough, she smiled in return, although it was more the first step in trying to determine how in the hell he found out about her already than simply being polite.

  “Yes sir; Fiona Pelligatti. And you are?”

  “Frank Simms.” He grabbed her hand and pumped it up and down three times. “I’m the mayor here.”

  Fiona was slightly stunned. Wow! I was hoping to set up an interview with him, but now he’s come to me! This might be easier than I thought.

  “It’s nice to meet you, Your Honor...”

  He laughed out loud.

  “Pshaw! The only time anybody calls me ‘Your Honor’ is during a council meeting or when they want something that’s going to cost the city money. Just call me Frank; everybody does.”

  “Well thank you, Frank,” she said, turning on the charm, and his smile grew a bit larger. He was so personable, Fiona easily saw how he’d attained his office...and how he’d be the last one anyone would suspect of creating a hoax. Carefully not letting that last thought show on her face, she went on. “Actually, I was getting ready to stop by your office later today to see if I could set up an interview with you.”

  “Well, let’s see...I think I can fit you into my busy schedule...oh, how about right now?”

  Even though she could see right through his performance, she couldn’t help but grin at it.

  “That’s great. Um, where can we go?”

  “Use the conference room,” the librarian said behind her, “but you’ll have to be out by eleven; the Ladies Cross Stitch Group has it reserved then.”

  “We’ll be sure and be out of their way,” the mayor assured her, then touched Fiona’s arm with one hand while gesturing toward the back of the library. “This way.”

  As they walked down the short hallway, he inquired, “Have you heard back on your car?”

  “Not yet.”

  “Hmm...well, that’s an honest garage at least; they won’t rip you off. However, if you need help finding any parts or have any other problems whatsoever, please don’t hesitate to let me know and I’ll see what I can do.”

  He’s laying it on thick enough, that’s for sure! They’ll probably give me the key to the city next...at least until I serve their asses up on a plate.

  “Thanks. How did you know I was here, anyway?”

  “This is a small town, and now that it’s got the Internet, no secret is safe. By six this morning, you were already the subject of three anonymous posts on the local gossip board.”

  The room was big enough for fifty, and, once they were looking very lonely seated in folding chairs at one of the long tables, she took out her voice recorder and raised an eyebrow in question.

  “Do you mind if I record this?”

  “Oh no, not at all; help yourself.”

  She took him at his word and began.

  “How long have you lived in Point Pleasant?”

  “All my life.”

  “Were you alive during the original Mothman sightings?”

  “Oh yeah. I was just a kid then, you know; I’m not quite as old as I look,” he said, chuckling, “I was in school, but I still remember it.” He paused, and his previously happy expression softened like melting wax into something that looked melancholy, even sad. “There’s something you need to understand, Fiona. Mothman is one of the two really formative events in Point Pleasant, at least since the place was settled back around the time of the Revolution.”

  Her brows drew together in concentration.

  “You said two events; what was the other?”

  “Maybe I was wrong to call it two; a lot of people think they were part of the same event, but I’ve always considered them separate, myself. Anyway, the second event was the Silver Bridge collapse.”

  “I’m not familiar with that,” she admitted, and he nodded his understanding.

  “I’m not surprised; no reason you would be. It was in 1967, way before you were born.”

  Recalling the words on the statue’s plaque the previous night, she put two and two together.

  “That’s the same time...”

  “As the Mothman sightings, yes. The bridge fell near Christmas time, the fifteenth of December, loaded with bumper-to-bumper traffic. Did you notice that parking lot, right just one block down at the end of 6th Street?” She nodded. She'd walked by it this morning and had seen some sort of plaque there, but hadn't stopped to read it. She realized that was a fault she was going to have to correct, especially around here. “That’s where the bridge ramp was; you could turn on 6th and drive straight over to Kanauga...that’s a little town on the Ohio side, sort of suburb of Gallipolis.” Neither name meant anything to her, but she said nothing. “It was a suspension bridge, and they say an eye bolt cracked, causing a chain reaction; the entire span dropped straight into the river, from one shore to the other in just a few seconds. There were nine survivors, but forty-six people died, and two more were never found.

  “I know those numbers don’t sound like much to someone from a big place like New York, but you need to understand that we only have five thousand people living here. When you consider the size of the population, this tragedy had every bit as much impact on our city as the events of 9-11 did on yours.”

  Fiona instinctively opened her mouth to angrily deny that, to deny that any event could even be remotely compared to the destruction of the Twin Towers, but promptly shut it again when she realized he was absolutely right. Outside the individual ethnic nei
ghborhoods, New York tended to be a pretty impersonal place, while here, in a small town, everyone knew everybody, and half of them were probably related in some way. From that perspective, it might have been an even greater loss.

  In a town this size, that...that’s almost one percent of the population! One out of every hundred dead, all at once; in New York numbers, that would mean...

  Shit! That would mean over eighty thousand people!

  “God,” she whispered as the implications hit home, and he nodded.

  “I’m afraid a lot of us wondered where God was that day,” he admitted, and sounded so ashamed that she reached out and patted his hand reassuringly before she even thought about it. He gripped hers, then forced a smile and let go.

  “Thank you. I don’t know of anyone in this town who didn’t know someone that was on it, or wasn’t related to one of the victims. You’d think we’d have gotten over it by now, but some things...there’s just no getting over, you know?”

  Fighting her own sadness at the story, she settled for nodding, then decided she’d better get this interview back on track.

  “You said a lot of people consider the sightings and the bridge disaster to be part of the same event; was it because they occurred in the same year?”

  “Actually, they occurred within a few months of each other; in fact, the Mothman sightings ceased when the bridge collapsed. Some people thought he was an omen of disaster, you know, and left after his job of warning us of it was done. Others claim he actually caused the bridge to fall; someone started a rumor that he was seen flying above or even sitting on the peak of it when it went down.”

  “So that was the last Mothman sighting until now?”

  “Officially, yes. Oh, there have been occasional reports of people seeing him off and on over the years, but many of the witnesses were somewhat...less than reliable, if you know what I mean.”