by Gregory Kay
“What?” he asked, surprised, but not entirely innocent, or at least Fiona didn’t think so. He’d been watching her, just like before. Still, he obviously hadn’t moved, and his hands were already full, but...I picked up his vibes, she realized, he was thinking about touching me and I sensed it, that’s all. It just felt so real!
Seeing him still looking at her, his left brow curled up in question, she shook her head. What did they say in Star Wars? The force is strong with this one!
What really bugged her, though, was that Fiona wasn’t sure how much of it was him, and how much may have been a little wishful thinking on her part too.
“Nothing,” she declared, squatting to see the lower books.
The volumes may have only taken up the single shelf, but it was a specific and intensive selection.
“Wow! She had quite a collection; I think everything I’m looking for is right here.”
Fiona mentally slapped herself on the head. Another accidental double-entendre...or was it a Freudian slip? She didn’t know, but it was frustrating, because part of her wanted it to be the latter, and it didn’t help that she suddenly knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that Luke was thinking and feeling the exact same thing she was.
She had trouble suppressing a sigh and pushing those thoughts to the back of her mind as she sorted out what she needed.
As opposed to what we both actually want.
That was an even more depressing thought, because she wasn’t at all sure they weren’t both one and the same thing in this case.
“What’s up?”
Sergeant Windsor, as usual, didn’t look up from his computer screen, but instead pointed to it, where a security video from the high school parking lot was playing.
“It’s the male witness, Colonel, Jonathan Robinson; he was interviewed by Deputy Carter at school this morning.”
Colonel Davis took a sip of coffee from his Styrofoam cup.
“The same one who took the original report?”
“Yes sir, but this time he had the reporter – Pelligatti – with him. They examined the vehicle’s damage pretty closely.”
“Did they take casts, DNA scrapings, anything like that?”
“Just pictures.”
“Good; pictures we can deal with, but we need to make sure that’s as far as it goes. We got rid of the other evidence, and we evidently need to dispose of this too.”
“We have audio,” Windsor helpfully pointed out, “and, according to what they spoke about, the Robinson subject will be out here this afternoon, right after school, and he will almost certainly be alone, at least for a brief period of time.”
At the sound of the third voice chiming in, both the men looked at the figure in the black suit, who smiled his disturbing smile before speaking again.
“Would you like for me to take care of it for you? My masters do not mind, and I certainly do not.”
The officer pursed his lips for a moment, considering the offer, then shook his head.
“No, not this time, at least not yet; like I told you before, we’ve already handled four disappearances, and if there are any more, it’ll draw unwanted attention, especially in a place this size. You and your people just keep an eye on them for now, and we’ll take care of this.”
“Like you, we do not want anything to happen that will draw the wrong kind of attention.”
“Not to worry; this will look like something completely unrelated, and actually draw attention away, pointing it in a completely different and more mundane direction.”
The man stared at him for a moment, then nodded, once.
“That will be acceptable for now, provided it works. However, this project is too important to both our peoples to allow it to be compromised. If there is a threat of that, we will act in our best interests.”
“Understood, but it won’t be necessary. Just keep an eye on them, take care of those things, and leave the rest to us.”
The smile never left the black-clad man’s face as he asked, completely without inflection, “Are you giving us orders now, Colonel?”
Colonel Davis managed to feel ice cold and to break out in a sweat at the same time.
“No sir, we would never presume to do that; that was merely a request.”
“Good; we needed to have that point clarified, I think.”
CHAPTER 13
“This is the place?” Fiona asked, the trepidation plain in her voice, and Luke smiled and nodded.
“Don’t let the outside fool you,” he assured her, “Harris' is a local institution; been here forever and has always had some killer food, some of the best in town. Don’t you have little unpretentious places like this back in New York?”
Looking at the aging building, the plastic sign overhanging the Main Street sidewalk, and the dark interior she reluctantly agreed that they did, “…but I try to stay out of them, since I’m not really big on food poisoning.”
“Trust me.”
She did, and, while the forty-something waitress behind the counter called Luke by name, she looked around at the nearly-empty restaurant. The place was obviously very old, and dimly-lit, furnished with plain and somewhat worse-for-the-wear booths, tables, and a big, ancient gas heater against the rear wall that kept everything warm. It was decorated with the usual bizarre assortment of bric-a-brac that local eating establishments everywhere tended to accumulate over the years for no apparent reason: posters, signs, ceramic knick-knacks, but the decorations that caught Fiona’s attention were the ones for sale under the glass of the front counter. Being only half a block from the statue and the museum, she guessed she should have expected plenty of Mothman souvenirs.
“Looking for something in particular, honey?”
Without glancing up at the woman, Fiona broke out her camera and said, “No, just looking. Mind if I take a picture? You’ve got quite a bit of Mothman stuff here.”
The waitress laughed.
“Go ahead. Mothman is the main attraction around here; why else would anyone want to come to Point Pleasant?”
Luke began counting on his fingers.
“Oh, I don’t know; for the parks, the museums, the river walk, the festivals, the hunting, the fishing...”
“There are museums and parks and such everywhere, but this is the only place you can find Mothman.” With a shake of her head, she added, “People sure love all this paranormal stuff.”
Fiona looked at her sharply.
“Paranormal stuff? You mean there’s more than just this Mothman and Cornstalk’s curse everyone keeps telling me about?”
“More? Oh, honey,” the woman declared, briefly touching the back of the reporter’s hand with her fingertips, “You’re just scratching the surface.” She nodded at Luke. “Your boyfriend can tell all about it while I get you a couple of menus. Mothman ain’t the half of it!”
Fiona opened her mouth to say, He’s not my boyfriend, but had to shut it when she couldn’t seem to get past the he part for some reason, even after stammering it twice. It didn’t help that her sudden bout of hesitation turned the ever-present grin on Luke’s face into a broad, open smile, but, before she could comment, his hand was resting on the small of her back, gently ushering her toward the back of the restaurant.
“Which booth do you like?”
The first two in front were occupied, one by a fortyish man in a camouflage jacket single-mindedly stuffing his face with a hamburger, and the other by an elderly gentleman with a cane propped up beside him as he picked absently picked at the remaining French fries on his plate while working a crossword in the local paper, so she chose the one in the rear by the heater, where they could have a bit of privacy. She wasn’t surprised when Luke chose the seat facing the door; she was a cop’s daughter, after all, and knew how it worked. If her father couldn’t get a seat facing the door, he took his business elsewhere.
“You piss off a lot of people in police work,” he’d told her once, when she’d asked why, “You can’t help it; it’s just par
t of the job, but that doesn’t mean I want one of them walking up behind me when I’m not looking and putting my brains in the clam sauce.”
That memory brought a little smile, followed by Luke sliding a penny across the table toward her with his right index finger. Surprised, she asked, “What’s this for?”
“Penny for your thoughts,” he replied, with the best cherubic expression on his face he could muster, which would have worked if the cherub in question wasn’t ever-so-slightly but still very obviously lecherous. Pursing her lips to stifle a giggle, she reached out and took the coin, unconsciously rubbing it between her finger and thumb, feeling its warmth.
“I was just thinking; just now, you reminded me a little of my dad.”
“Wow – thanks!” The sincerity was plain in his voice, and that surprised her a little.
“How do you know that’s a compliment?”
A shrug and then, “He must be a pretty good man to raise up a daughter like you.”
Fiona abruptly noticed what was playing on the radio. It was a classic country station, and Hank Locklin was crooning, “Please help me, I’m faaaaalling in love again...” and she had to drop her eyes as her cheeks reddened.
No shit, Hank; no shit!
Determined not to walk down that path, she said, “It’s really funny, though, because you’re nothing like him. I mean, you’re so tall and he’s short and stocky, built like a refrigerator with a head. You’re quiet and well-mannered, and Dad is coarse and loud...”
“And he’s a cop who cares for you very much, right?”
“Yeah, exactly, and...” Abruptly what he’d just said hit her and hit her hard, but she was forced to wait to respond until the waitress, who picked that time to return, took their order.
“Luke,” she said quietly, once the woman was gone and she’d found her voice again, “You know I’m only going to be her for a few more days before I have to go back to New York. We can’t...” She was going to calmly explain the illogic and inevitable hurt surrounding what they were both thinking, about the improbability of a long-distance relationship ever working, when she realized he was no longer listening. Instead, his eyes had shifted suddenly from hers, looking past her with a flick like an opening switchblade, even as she heard the opening door creak behind her. Never taking his stare off the the portal, he raised his hand briefly, said, “Excuse me,” and stood up with tension plain in his posture. She didn’t miss the fact that, when he stepped out of the booth, he moved his left foot forward while leaving his right in place so he wasn’t squarely facing whoever was entering, but instead was ready to instantly assume a fighting stance like a boxer.
Fiona quickly turned her head to look as well, wondering if she needed to get ready to dive under the table.
The man who had just walked in was probably about Luke’s age, but it was hard to tell; a much harder life had carved its scars into deep lines on his face. He was a few inches shorter than her escort, but much broader, naturally stocky even without the twenty or thirty pounds of extra flesh he carried. Above the brown desert camouflage jacket, his beard, slightly shaggy hair, and even his eyebrows and lashes were blond, so pale as to be almost white. It was obvious he’d had the hell beaten out of him fairly recently; his left eye was black and swollen nearly shut, and his nose and lips were puffy and scabbed.
As the two men eyed each other, what startled Fiona the most was when the newcomer started crying.
Well, maybe he isn’t out and out bawling yet, but he’s not far from it!
The man was shaking, trying to hold it together, and couldn’t stop the tears that slid down his prematurely weathered face. With a jerky motion, he spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness.
“Luke...I’m sorry, man!”
The deputy’s grin instantly reappeared, and he stepped toward the interloper, saying, “It’s alright, Whitey.”
A couple of seconds later, they were hugging and pounding one another’s backs. Whitey kept repeating, “I’m sorry!” and Luke kept responding with, “Don’t worry about it, buddy; it’s okay!” before finally breaking it off with, “Come on, now; we’d better quit or people are going to start wondering.”
Whitey managed a smile and wiped at his eyes as he let go.
“Yeah, but...you’re my best friend! At least, you were...”
“And I still am. We’ve been buddies since junior high; that’s got to be fifteen years, and you don’t let that go just because of a little misunderstanding.”
“Thanks.” He glanced at Fiona, noticing her for the first time, and his eyes widened with surprise. “Oh, man, I’m sorry! I never thought...I mean, I didn’t know you were with somebody! I’m always screwing things up! I’ll get out of here and leave you two alone...”
“Please; sit with us.”
Fiona spoke before Luke could. Not only did she rationalize that Whitey’s presence would keep the conversation off things that it could only hurt to talk about, and not only did she feel sorry for the man, but her curiosity was driving her nuts. Some of it was over what was going on, but she was also interested to learn what Luke’s best friend was like. You can tell a lot about a man from his friends.
“Are you sure, ma’am? I don’t want to interrupt.”
“On one condition; you don’t call me ma’am. It makes me sound like somebody’s grandmother!”
Whitey smiled and Luke gestured from one to the other.
“Fiona, this is my best friend, Whitey Walker; Whitey, this is Fiona Pelligatti, from New York.”
“Pleased to meet you, ma...er, Fiona. I’ve heard a lot about you. Everybody at the jail has been talking about you.”
“At the jail? Oh, are you a police officer too?” Not a regular cop, of course, but with the beard, hair and general shabbiness, she figured he might be a narc.
It was Whitey’s turn to blush.
“No; I just got out.”
“Oh.” Well, that was awkward! “I’m sorry,” she added lamely.
He shrugged.
“It wasn’t your fault. I was the one who got drunk and stupid. Worst part of it was that I almost lost my best friend.”
“It’ll take a lot more than that,” Luke assured him, slapping him on the shoulder, “Now quit worrying about it; it’s over and done with.”
“More than what?” she asked, “I’m sorry for being nosy, but you two are killing me with curiosity! If you don’t want to tell me, it’s alright, but, if not, please stop talking about it, whatever it is.”
Luke looked at her levelly but his lips remained tightly sealed, and Whitey flopped down in the deputy’s vacated seat and answered her as Luke ushered her toward the wall before sitting down beside her himself.
He’s not facing the door; he’s either slipping or else he trusts this guy to keep an eye out for him. Probably the latter, if I had to guess.
“I got behind the wheel drunk off my ass a few nights ago, and it was Luke who pulled me over, and...well, one thing led to another, and I took a swing at him, hit him in the face.” Whitey looked away, shaking his head in disbelief at his own actions. “I can’t believe I did that! I just lost it! I’m so freaking stupid sometimes!”
“You’re not stupid!” Luke told him firmly, almost angrily, “You were just drunk – “
“You never hit me in the face when you were drunk!”
“Yeah, and I’ve never been through half the shit you’ve been through, either! Good God, Whitey! Stuff happens to a man like happened to you, it’s going take him a while to get over it, that’s all.” Reaching over the table, the deputy grabbed him by the shoulder again and shook him affectionately. “Hell, buddy, me and you slugged it out a couple of times in school when we were both sober, and we got over that, didn’t we? We’ll get past this too; I’m already past it. Water under the bridge.”
“But you didn’t even charge me with resisting.”
“No, and I’m not going to, either.” Luke looked down at the table and looked thoughtful for a moment as he ca
me to a decision. “I’m also going to drop that DUI down to reckless operation and public intoxication, as long as you promise to keep going to your doctor and to the AA meetings. You need to be able to drive to get to your therapy and find a job, right?” His tight lips spread in a grin. “I’d drop it altogether, if it wasn’t for the sheriff.”
“No, man, don’t even think about that! Pete told me when they cut me loose that he wasn’t very happy with you now, and that I’m on his shit-list big time. Don’t risk your job anymore than you already have, Luke; I ain’t worth that.”
“Yeah…you are.”
Whitey turned his tear-filled eyes to Fiona, who was feeling a bit misty herself over the exchange, and pointed at Luke.
“It’s gonna be a damned lucky woman that ends up with this one; you’d better hang onto him.”
The reporter’s eyes widened.
Why does everyone think we’re an item?
She opened her mouth to set the record straight, and Luke spoke before she could deny it.
“You've always been into weird goings-on, so you might be interested in this. Fiona is doing a story on Mothman, but she’s also interested in any other paranormal activity in the area that might be related.”
“Hell, I reckon it’s all related, in one way or another.”
“That’s interesting,” Fiona told him truthfully, “Why do you say that?”
“Because things like this tend to happen in localized clusters, especially here. This whole area is a sort of paranormal hub.” Whitey paused so the waitress could set their food down, then ordered a burger for himself, and went on. “Look at it like this; let’s say Mason County is this table, alright? It’s where it happens. Now this here – may I? – thanks.” He pointed in turn at Fiona’s glass, the edge of her plate, and the napkin her silverware rested on, one after the other. “Food, dishes, glasses, spoons and forks: all these are all different things, but they all go together. And, without the table – pffffft! – they’re nothing, just a pile of stuff on the floor. The table is what makes it all happen.”
Fiona made an effort to keep her face carefully blank. He’s either a genius or he’s nuts...or both!