by Gregory Kay
Fiona nodded; she knew the proper translation would be drunk or crazy or stoned off their asses.
He continued, “Of course, if they’d happened back when the sightings were at their height, back in the sixties, we’d have paid more attention to them. Still, after the bridge, we suddenly had more important things to think about.” Shaking his head, he added, “Maybe we’re like little kids hiding under a blanket when we’re afraid; after what happened the last time he was here, maybe we just don’t want to see him.”
“So you believe this ‘Mothman’ was real?”
He looked directly at her when he answered.
“Yes, he was real; all too real. Too many people – good, solid people – saw him for him not to be real. Just don’t ask me exactly what he was, though.”
“Why not?”
The mayor shrugged, and his smile returned.
“Because I really have no earthly idea.”
Now, she thought.
“Do you think it’s possible he could have been a hoax?”
“Then or now?”
Surprised at having the ball knocked back into her court that way, it was her turn to shrug.
“Either...both.”
“This newest one...I really don’t know. Only two people have seen it – both at the same time – and there’s a lot of evidence backing them up, mainly in the form of their damaged car. Still, with modern special effects and all this new computer stuff, who can say, really? The first time though, back then? No way. The technology didn’t exist to pull off some of that stuff, and besides, someone I trusted saw it; she wouldn’t have lied about it.”
“Who was that?”
“My oldest sister, Donna.”
This revelation made Fiona sit up straighter.
“Is there anyway I can interview her?”
The mayor’s smile went away.
“No; she was one of those who died on the Silver Bridge.”
Simms’ cell phone picked that time to ring before Fiona could offer a comment or condolences, making her jump, and he looked at her and said, “Do you mind?”
“By all means,” she assured him, waving a hand, “Go ahead.”
He glanced at the LED screen to see who his caller was before putting it to his ear, and, although Fiona was privy to only one side of the conversation, it didn’t take long to realize she was the subject of it.
“Paul, how are you...Yes, I’ve heard; in fact, I’m with her right now...yes, she’s interviewing me about Mothman at the library...okay, that’s a great idea; I’ll ask her.” Putting a palm over the receiver, he looked at her and said, “That’s Paul Lowell, the County Commissioner; he’s wondering if you’d like to have lunch with us today. Our treat.”
Fiona couldn’t believe her luck; her interviewees were seeking her out, instead of the other way around.
“I’d love to, thanks!”
“Great!” Turning back to the phone, he told the as-of-yet unseen commissioner, “We’ll be there. Okay, thanks; I’m sure she’ll appreciate that!”
Disconnecting the phone and dropping it in his jacket pocket, he informed her that Paul had already dropped by the garage this morning to take a look at her car, and, in his opinion as well as that of the mechanic on duty, it was repairable. He’d also told them to take special care of her, and that, as a fellow Jaguar owner, he’d have a list of parts sources ready in case the local suppliers didn’t have what she needed in stock.
“Are you this nice to every reporter who comes to town?” Fiona asked before she could stop herself, and the mayor winked, trying to look lecherous and failing miserably, coming off instead like someone’s friendly uncle.
“Only the pretty ones. See you at the Iron Gate at noon!”
Then he was gone, and she heard him greeting someone else in the hall before she could even get up.
She smiled like a shark at his words, ‘only the pretty ones.’
You mean just the ones from a giant national newspaper you think you can use to bring more money into this town. Well, we’ll see about that!
CHAPTER 8
“So, Fiona, how do you like our little town so far?”
She paused to swallow a mouthful of prime rib before responding to the Mayor; if the food at the establishment wasn’t quite New York five star, it was still very good, and far better than she had expected or usually ate at home, but then she had already inquired and found out that the place had the reputation as one of the best restaurants in the area. Certainly it was the most upscale establishment she had seen so far.
“I like it,” she assured him, and, really, so far she had to admit that wasn’t a total lie, “but it’s quite different from what I’m used to.”
“I’m sure it is!” the Commissioner said. Paul Lowell was the perfect counterpoint to the Mayor Frank Simms, his polar opposite; tall and skinny, with a full head of white hair and a much more cautious, reserved personality. He was still feeling her out, but insisted, as the mayor had, on Fiona calling him by his first name. She had quickly invited him to do the same with her; obviously that sort of informality was just the way things were done ‘down here,’ even if certain New York officials would have been aghast at the ‘little people’ taking such liberties. Even though it would take some getting used to, she had to admit she rather liked it; not that she thought for one minute it meant they weren’t trying to pull a fast one on her, however. After all, politicians were politicians, regardless of where they happened to be located. “It might not look like much compared to the Big Apple, but we’re pretty proud of it.”
“I’m surprised it’s not much bigger; I mean, here you are, at an ideal location where two major rivers intersect. I’d think this would be a business hub for industry and transportation.”
The Mayor shrugged, grinned ruefully, and said, “It’s Cornstalk’s curse.”
“Oh, good grief, Frank!” Lowell snorted with disgust, “That’s all crap and you know it!” and Simms spread his hands palm up in response before pointing toward his head with his index finger.
“Up here, sure, I know it.” Then the finger moved, indicating the center of his chest. “But in here, I do have to wonder about it.”
“What is Cornstalk’s curse?” Fiona asked, and the Commissioner shot his counterpart a glare that plainly said look what you got started! but Simms ignored him.
“It’s an old legend. You haven’t been down to Tu-Endie-wei yet, I take it?” Seeing her blank expression, he said, “It’s an Indian word, meaning ‘where two rivers meet; it’s the name of the state park down at the end of Main Street, right on the point where the Kanawha flows into the Ohio.” He indicated the direction with his finger, and proudly announced, “It’s the site of the first battle of the Revolutionary War.”
Fiona’s eyes widened; she couldn’t let that one pass.
“Now wait a minute. No disrespect, but I think there might be a few people up in Lexington and Concord who would argue with you about that.”
“No doubt they would,” Lowell chimed in, “but that’s just because they got better press; history is on our side on this one.” He tapped the table. “The battle of Point Pleasant was the first battle ever fought by the American Colonists in defense of the Colonies against British allies, a federation of Native American tribes led by the Shawnee Chief Cornstalk, hence it is technically the first battle of the Revolution.”
“Ooookay,” Fiona said carefully, thinking they were on very shaky ground with that assertion, but not wanting to offend them...at least not yet, “So, who won the battle?”
The Mayor told her, “We did, of course...the Colonists, I mean; Virginia militia forces under Colonel Andrew Lewis. Many of their descendants still live right here in Point Pleasant and the surrounding area.”
“And this Chief Cornstalk cursed you because you beat him?” She could easily see how losing your homeland would be enough to make anyone swear a little.
“There’s no historical evidence for any curse!” Lowell dec
lared around a mouthful of baked potato, but Simms ignored him.
“No, that was later, after he was murdered. After being at peace with the Whites for a time, he entered Fort Randolph, just up the river – there’s a replica of it out to Krodel Park; have you seen it? No? You really should; it’s very nice – with a small party of his people to notify them he was withdrawing from the treaty, and the militia figured, if he was going to war with them again, there was no point in letting him leave, so they took him prisoner along with his entourage. Not long afterwards, two militiamen were ambushed outside the Fort by a war party led by another Indian Chief, a Cayuga named John Logan; one man escaped, but the other was killed and scalped, and most likely...well, mutilated in other ways, as was the Indian custom. When they brought in the mangled body, their comrades were so enraged that they formed an impromptu lynch mob, overpowered their officers, and shot Cornstalk and his men to death inside their cell.
“Legend has it that, as he lay dying, the Chief cursed Point Pleasant, declaring that nothing there would ever prosper.”
“The man had eight .75 caliber Brown Bess musket balls fired into him at point-blank range,” the Commissioner observed dryly, “I doubt there was much left of him to say anything at all.”
Mayor Simms spread his hands again.
“Who really knows? Anyway, that’s the story, and anytime things don’t work out like we hoped, everyone around here blames it on Cornstalk’s curse. As you pointed out a moment ago, we’re in an ideal location, so we don’t know what else to blame it on.”
That was one excuse Fiona had never heard before; she wondered in passing what Sidney’s reaction would be if she tried to use it to cover a missed deadline when another idea came to her.
“So I take it the bridge collapse was blamed on...”
“The curse, yes,” Lowell admitted to her even while he glared at Simms, “even by people who should know better.”
“What about the original Mothman sightings back in...1966, you said; was Cornstalk’s curse ever mentioned in connection with that?”
“By some; I know a few people even thought Mothman might be his ghost, or some kind of avenging Indian demon called up by it. The curse idea really took hold after the Silver Bridge disaster; however, a lot of folks came to the slightly different occult conclusion, that the Mothman was an omen of some sort, meant to warn us of the disaster that was coming.”
“What about you, Commi...er, sorry; Paul? Do you think the Mothman was an omen?”
It was apparently his turn to shrug.
“That makes about as much sense as anything else, but to be honest with you, I really don’t know.”
“What I want to know, Fiona,” the mayor broke in, “is if there’s anything you need that we – the Commissioner and I – can provide for you: anything at all.”
She thought about it for a second, then admitted, “Yes, there is something.” Seeing both men leaning forward in anticipation, she asked, “Is there any way I can get someone to give me a ride to where this latest sighting happened?”
The two men looked at each other, then back at her.
“We forgot to tell you!” Simms said with a sheepish smile, “Since your car is being repaired, we’ve already made the arrangements. We’re assigning an officer to you full-time to drive you around while you’re here; anywhere you need to go at any time, he’ll be at your disposal, 24/7.” He shrugged apologetically. “I know a police cruiser isn’t exactly a limo, but it’s the best we can do.”
Lowell glanced at his watch and said, “I’ve already talked to the Sheriff, and he’ll have a man for you in a couple of hours; just stop by the courthouse annex, right there across the street, whenever you’re ready.”
“Thank you, but I’m going to be here for a week.”
“Not a problem; we’re happy to help.”
She cocked an eyebrow. It didn’t pay to look a gift horse in the mouth, but neither did she want to have to come back here as a witness in a misappropriation of funds trial.
“Paying a cop to drive me around isn’t going to cause you” – meaning me! – “any trouble with the voters, is it?”
“No, not at all; we’ve agreed that Mason County and the City of Point Pleasant will split the costs, using the discretionary funds in our tourism promotion budgets, because an article in a nationally syndicated publication like The Straight Arrow would give us a lot of ‘bang for our buck,’ so to speak. Anymore, with the economy being what it is, tourism is vital here, and, ever since that movie with Richard Gere came out,” Fiona didn’t miss the fact that it was Mayor Simms who made the disgusted face at that, and she made a mental note of it, “Mothman, along with related paranormal stuff, is our number one draw.”
She smiled sweetly, never letting her true thoughts show.
I’ll just bet it is!
Bang-bang-bang!
Luke stirred slightly in his sleep, pulled out of the REM stage by the sound, but didn’t fully wake.
Bang-bang-bang!
His eyes cracked open, blinked once, decided one of his neighbors must be doing some remodeling, and had just closed them once more when the noise repeated itself.
Bang-bang-bang!
Belatedly, he realized someone was knocking on his front door. Murmuring curses under his breath, he threw his blanket aside.
Bang-bang-bang!
“I’m coming! Hang on!”
Luke rose to his feet, blinking and trying his best to get his eyes to focus, with limited success. He glanced at the clock, and the fuzzy LED numbers coldly informed him it wasn’t even 1:00 in the afternoon yet.
“Shit!”
Bang-bang-bang!
“I said I’m coming!” he shouted, “Hold your horses!”
He paused to pull on a pair of plaid flannel lounge pants, and saw Rosemary regarding him sleepily from her place on the pillow.
“Sucks, doesn’t it?” Luke asked her, and she blinked once and instantly went back to sleep. Envying her, he picked up his Glock from the nightstand and stumbled out of the bedroom toward the door. He wasn’t paranoid, but it was a reflex action, a learned survival instinct; even if you were the nicest guy in the world, being a cop meant you were bound to make some enemies. Ninety-nine out of a hundred of them would do no more than eyeball you, but it only took one who was drunk or stoned or angry enough to decide to kill you.
Pulling the curtain over the small window in the center of the door aside, Luke saw the smiling state trooper on his front porch.
“Son of a bitch!” he growled as he turned the lock and opened up.
Trooper Harry Donaldson’s smile grew even bigger. Harry almost always had an unusually pleasant expression on his round face, whether he thought something was funny or he was getting ready to seriously kick somebody’s ass. The only time he didn’t was when somebody died, and even then, it was just toned-down rather than actually gone. He couldn’t help it; the space between his turned-up nose and his upper lip was convex rather than concave, making the groove of his philtrum little more than a hint, and giving him a strong resemblance to one of Dr. Seuss’ Whos. It always made him look mischievous, like he was up to something...which he usually was.
“Now is that anyway to greet your buddy, especially when he’s bringing you good news?”
“I ought to shoot you.”
“You weren’t answering your phone.”
“It’s turned off; you do know I’m on midnights, right?”
“Not anymore! Since nobody could reach you and I’m your only friend who’s not in jail, the Sheriff asked me to swing by and tell you.” Glancing at the Glock the deputy was holding down beside his thigh, he added, “He probably figured you’d come to the door with a gun in your hand if it was anybody else.”
Luke blinked, not sure he had heard him quite right, then smiled sleepily himself.
“Well, in that case, come on in.”
Harry did, then went to the kitchen and started rooting around until he found the coffee make
r, and, unasked, put a new filter in it. Luke finally had the presence of mind to ask the obvious question.
“If I’m not on midnights, then what am I going to be doing?”
Shaking the coffee from the can, Harry eye-balled its volume instead of using the scoop. Dissatisfied, he added a little more before answering.
“You lucked out. You’ve got a gravy assignment: VIP escort duty. All you’ve got to do for the rest of the week is chauffeur a special guest around when she needs to go somewhere.”
Luke’s brows rose in surprise; he didn’t expect this. A week or so of day shift doing nothing but putting on a little dog and pony show for some out-of-towner wouldn’t be bad at all.
“Back in a minute.”
He got up and went to the john, then came back with his bladder empty, his face washed, his teeth brushed, and his mind a bit clearer to find Harry pouring the coffee. Gratefully taking a cup, he sipped, smiled, and asked, “So, who’s the high muckety-muck who’s going to be privileged to experience my professional driving skills?”
The trooper waited until Luke had the cup to his lips, then, with deliberate casualness, he replied, “Oh, just some reporter doing a story on Mothman: a cute little thing from New York named Fiona Pelligatti.”
Just as Harry was counting on, Luke sprayed the coffee out of his mouth. Ha! Score one for me!
“Fiona Pelligatti?!”
“Yep,” Harry confirmed with a nod, “Know her, do you?”
“You know damned well I know her! I told you about my run in with that little Yankee smart-ass and her superior attitude this morning when I was getting off work!”
“Yankee? Hell, the Civil War’s over, bubba.”
“It might be just getting started! Give me my damned phone!”
Picking the cell phone up off the counter, Harry tossed it to him.
“You might want to turn it on first.”
Luke glared at him and stormed back to his room for some privacy. As it turned out, he could have saved the effort, because the dispatcher answered and told him the Sheriff was unavailable, and he glumly returned to the living room and to Harry, who was grinning like a possum and enjoying the situation immensely.