Grayson grinned. “You said almost. I must be making progress.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
“WHERE TO NOW, DETECTIVE Drex?” Grayson joked as we drove back toward Point Paradise.
“Well, I need to stop by the A&P.”
“Let me guess. To check if Mothman’s flitting around Woolworth’s? Get it?”
“Ugh. Unfortunately, yes, I get it. And no. I need groceries. I’m out of coffee, milk, and pretty much everything else. I didn’t think you’d want to go.”
“Sure. Why not? But before we do that, I’ve got another idea.”
“What?”
“Seeing as how we’ve got a stakeout coming up tonight, I thought we might work on your P.I. training some more.”
“How?”
“I think it’s high time you learned how to shoot a gun.”
I raised an eyebrow. “That’s not a bad idea, actually. I know a place we can fire off a few rounds. Why don’t we swing by the garage and get your gun?”
“No need.” Grayson patted his side. “I’ve got my trusty Glock right here.”
“You’ve had it on you the whole time?”
“Of course. Never leave home without it. Don’t worry. I’ve got a concealed carry license.”
That wasn’t exactly what I was concerned about. I’d been driving around with an armed stranger. Whether Grayson was a friend or a fiend, the jury inside my brain was still in hot deliberation. If I was going to unload rounds with this guy, I needed to let someone else know, in case the guy turned out to be Dahmer and I turned out to be his next Happy Meal.
“Sure,” I said. “Just going to check in with Earl. See if he needs anything.”
I pulled the Mustang over and punched Earl on speed dial. I pasted on a smile and tried to sound casual. “Hey. I’m going with Grayson to do some target shooting. You need anything at the A&P?”
“Target shooting?” Earl laughed. “Is that what they’re calling it nowadays? I thought it was ‘Netflix and chill.’”
“Earl, we’re going to test-fire his Glock. That’s all.”
“Here I am, gunning an engine, and you’re gunning to get laid.”
“Earl, you’re fired.”
I hung up the phone and looked over at Grayson. “Did you hear any of that?”
“Not a word. But since someone’s expecting a ‘happy ending,’ I think it’s only proper to buy you lunch first. What else has Waldo got to offer besides El Molino’s?”
“Why?”
Grayson thumped his chest lightly with his fist. “I haven’t quite fully recovered from last night’s tacos yet.”
FROM A PICNIC TABLE outside a small roadside attraction known as Randy’s Rib Shack, I watched Grayson lick barbeque sauce off his fingers. Suddenly, I had a ghastly vision of it being blood instead of tomato sauce.
“How do you like Randy’s special recipe?” I asked, trying to tame my willies.
“Not bad. Why aren’t you eating?”
“I kind of lost my appetite.”
“Is it me?” Grayson waggled his saucy fingers and grinned at me like a deranged demon. “Still think I might be after your lucky charms?”
“No. I’ve seen inside Randy’s kitchen.”
Grayson stopped mid-bite, grimaced, and set the pork rib back down on his plate.
I smirked. “You know, you keep mentioning this Mothman creature. What’s the deal with that?”
Grayson wiped his fingers with a napkin. “It’s supposed to be a true story. Like I said before, I’m here investigating reports of a red-eyed creature. Well, that could be any number of cryptids—Bigfoot, the Boggy Creek Monster, even a wayward chupacabra. But since I’ve hooked up with you, I’m leaning more toward Mothman.”
“Why?”
Grayson shrugged. “Sightings of a red-eyed, flying creature. Strange lights in the sky. And now, thanks to you and Vanderhoff, I know people are getting the same kind of weird phone calls the folks did back in the 1960s in Point Pleasant.”
My nose crinkled at the prospect of a monster lurking nearby. “Did they ever catch this Mothman guy?”
“No. And after the tragedy, reported sightings of him dwindled to nothing.”
“Tragedy?”
“The Silver Bridge collapse. You never heard of it? The bridge spanning the Ohio River. It collapsed on December 15, 1967. It was full of rush-hour traffic. Forty-six people died.”
“And they blamed that on Mothman?”
“Not exactly. They thought Mothman was some kind of omen. A sign. Haven’t you ever heard of The Mothman Prophecies?”
“That movie with Richard Gere?”
“Yes. But also the book. It was a New York Times bestseller. It gives a sort of blow-by-blow diary of what happened in the town of Point Pleasant from 1966 to 67. The year of the Garuda.”
Grayson picked up a little paper cup of barbeque sauce and downed it like a shot.
I grimaced. “Garuda?”
“That’s what John Keel, the author of the book called it. The Garuda’s a bird-like creature from Hindu and Buddhist mythology. People in Point Pleasant reported sightings of it all over the place. To some, it looked like a winged man. Others thought it was a giant bird. Some even thought it was a monster—a demon with bat wings. But they all agreed on two things. It had glowing red eyes, and it could fly.”
A chill went down my spine. Maybe that was what I’d seen on the roof of the Stop & Shoppe the other night. “Did it kill people?”
“No. None that got reported, anyway. But it did seem to have a penchant for chasing people around and scaring the daylights out of them. Its favorite M.O. was to buzz people in cars. But it never actually caught anybody. Not that I know of, anyway. So it’s hard to say what would have happened if it had.”
“Well, I don’t want to be the first one to find out.”
Grayson arched an eyebrow. “Me either.”
“So what exactly do you hope to achieve with your investigation?”
“I’m hoping to find hard evidence to substantiate the creature’s existence.”
“Like what? A feather?”
“I don’t think Mothman has feathers. Maybe a talon. Hair sample. Blood. I’d like to catch it, actually. But at this point, I’d even settle for scat.”
My nose crinkled. “Moth poop? Who’d want that?”
“You’d be surprised. Lots of people think there’s power in paranormal relics.”
“Power for what?”
“For good or evil. Buddhists think the Garuda might hold the key to levitation and enlightenment. Others, well, who knows? Maybe they think it can turn them into Batman.”
My eyebrows inched closer together. “So you really think it’s a living creature? That it’s still alive?”
“I hope so. But nobody knows. After the bridge collapse, the creature pretty much disappeared from West Virginia. The sightings around Waldo are the first reported in over fifty years.”
“Are you offering any kind of ... reward?”
Grayson threw his sticky hands up. “Whoa. I answered your questions. Now it’s your turn to answer one of mine.”
I shrugged. “Okay. What do you want to know?”
“Are you dating Paulson?”
I nearly choked on my iced tea. “That’s none of your business,” I hacked.
“I know. But he seemed a bit ... hmm ... overzealous yesterday at El Molino’s.”
“He’s being protective. You are a stranger in town, after all.”
“We’re all strangers where we aren’t known.”
Okaay ....
“Speaking of Paulson, I need to stop by his office. I promised him a report on Vanderhoff, but he didn’t answer his phone. Are you done eating?”
Grayson nodded. “Almost.” He picked up the salt shaker, shook a generous portion of salt into his palm, and licked it.
I pretended not to notice.
“His office is here in Waldo,” I said. “We might as well get it over with while we’re h
ere.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
“ACCORDING TO THE ADDRESS, Paulson’s office is a few miles on the other side of town,” I said as we cruised down US 301 through the tiny, crumbling heart of Waldo.
“This place looked a lot better in the dark last night,” Grayson said. “Oh. I take that back,” he deadpanned. “I didn’t see the big white horsey before.”
He pointed to the sign for the Waldo Farmer’s & Flea Market. Atop it stood a life-sized replica of a white horse. The stallion’s jaunty expression seemed too dignified for the hodge-podge collection of nondescript buildings that made up Waldo Antiques Village.
“Let’s stop,” Grayson said. “I wonder what other curiosities they might have.”
“They’re closed on Mondays. Besides, there’s nothing there but junk disguised as antiques. After fifteen years in the business, I know the difference.”
“I’ll take your word on that.” Grayson watched the tiny town click by. “They like to stick close to the road here.”
Waldo’s buildings stood not much more than a sidewalk’s breadth away from the steaming asphalt.
“Yeah. When they widened US 301 to four lanes, they didn’t leave the town much breathing room.”
As we hit the center of town, we passed City Hall, a white, boxy little structure no bigger than a coffee shop. Then, in quick succession, we passed the Waldo barber shop, Dixieland Music RV park, a junky place selling cypress-wood souvenirs, an Amtrak station, the Tropix Inn motel, and a knot of dilapidated, corrugated-metal buildings tacked together with rusty nails and faded hopes.
As the scenery on both sides of US301 was reclaimed by pinewoods and swamp, Grayson asked, “That’s it? Where’s Paulson’s office?”
“He said it was out near Alto Lake Preserve. As you could see from your deluxe tour of Waldo, downtown office space is at a premium. Oh! There it is.”
I pulled onto Alto Road. About a hundred yards up the rutted dirt lane, we came to a mailbox. A dirt driveway maybe twenty yards long led to a rustic wooden cabin.
“That must be it,” I said.
The mailbox next to the road had no name on it. It was mounted on an L-shaped post. A wooden, hand-painted sign with peeling white paint hung below the mailbox. It read, “One nation under God.” That may have been so, but this place looked as godforsaken as any I’d ever seen.
“The place looks abandoned,” Grayson said.
“Half the town looks that way. I don’t see a car. He must be out on patrol.”
“What kind of car does he drive?”
I frowned. “I dunno. A blue one?”
Grayson shook his head. “Blue? That’s all you’ve got?”
“I don’t pay much attention to that kind of thing anymore. Today’s cars all look alike to me.”
“Drex, if you’re going to be a P.I., you need to acquaint yourself with makes and models. Let me tell you right now. You’ll spend half your time either tailing vehicles or trying to spot them. That’s how people get around nowadays. You know, since that whole horse and buggy thing went by the wayside.”
I blew out a breath. This “whole P.I. thing” was sounding like more work than I’d imagined it would be. My cellphone buzzed, saving me from having to come up with something snarky to say. I looked at the display and groaned.
“You gonna get that?” Grayson asked.
“No. It’s the hospital again. They keep calling. I don’t know how I’m going to pay the bill.”
Grayson shot me a devious grin. “I know just the thing to take your mind off thoughts of impending poverty. Let’s do something fun.”
“Like what?”
He waggled his eyebrows at me. “Let’s go shoot something.”
WITH NO DETECTIVE PAULSON to be found, we left the cabin and drove back through Waldo. I turned onto Obsidian Road, then, a mile later, onto an unmarked dirt road. A quarter mile in, we reached the unofficial target-shooting spot known to gun-toting locals as Bullet Point.
I slowed down, but kept driving until I saw the fence posts, then shifted into park. Grayson pulled out his Glock. A tinge of panic shot through me. If Grayson shot me, would Earl even bother to come find me? And if he did, would the vultures beat him to my remains?
I eyed Grayson’s gun and forced a smile. “It won’t take long to go through that clip.”
Grayson reached under the seat and pulled out a carton of bullets. “Good thing I brought more.”
My eyes met my wig-line. “When did you put those there?”
Grayson grinned. “When you weren’t looking, obviously. You know you have a tendency to close your eyes when you’re nervous?”
“Arggh!” I flung open the car door and stomped over to the fence line. Amongst the heap of battered tin cans and broken beer bottles, I found a few cans that weren’t completely shot through with bullet holes. I set them up on the fence posts and marched back over to Grayson.
“You go first,” I said.
“No. Ladies first,” he insisted. “Let me show you how to hold the gun.”
“I know how!”
“Judging by your performance in my bedroom yesterday, I think I can give you some pointers.”
My mouth ached to deliver a devastating comeback, but my mind came up empty.
Grayson grinned, handed me the gun, and stood close behind me, his chest nearly touching my back. As I inserted the earplugs he gave me, his arms encircled me.
My back arched from the electric twinge of his body heat. His forearms paralleled mine, and his hands enveloped my fingers. As I held the polymer grip of the Glock, I could smell the musky maleness of him. I trembled.
“Hold your arms steady,” he whispered.
I set my jaw. “You mean like this?”
I fired off five rounds in rapid succession. Five empty Green Giant vegetable cans went flying off in all directions.
Grayson let go of me and stepped back. “Whoa.”
“Beginner’s luck,” I quipped, and headed over to the fence to reset the cans.
Grayson followed me over. He picked up a freshly shot can. “Not bad,” he said, holding it out for me to see. “But you’re a little off center.”
“Look closer. I was aiming for the giant’s face.”
Grayson examined the bullet hole above the Green Giant’s neck. His mouth dropped open. “How’d you learn to shoot like that?”
“You forget. I was a boy until I was eleven. I got pretty good with a BB gun. I don’t mean to brag or anything, but I can shoot the eyes out of a baby doll at a hundred yards.”
Grayson whistled. “With one hand tied behind your back, I’m sure.”
I grinned. “Should we set them up for you?”
Grayson smirked. “Sure.”
I slapped smug on my face and handed Grayson the Glock. Then I bent over and reached down for a can.
My heart nearly fell into my throat.
Staring back at me from the weeds was the empty eye socket of a bloody skull.
I shot to standing, my eardrums clogged with a strange, underwater-thumping sound. Something warm trickled down my leg. Blood?
Grayson’s shot me! He’s lured me here and shot me! This is his freaking killing field!
I screamed and ran for the car. I could hear his footsteps behind me, gaining on me! Would he rip my throat out, like he had the others? Was I really going to die in this crappy hellhole of a place after all?
Chapter Twenty-Four
“DREX!” GRAYSON’S VOICE called out behind me. “Wait!”
I was in the Mustang, my hands shaking like I was holding onto a jackhammer.
Please, key! Please! Get in the freaking ignition!
I looked up. Grayson was ten feet from the car, his face wild. “What are you doing?” he yelled.
“Stay away from me!”
Grayson stopped in his tracks, panting like a wolf. “What’s going on?”
The key clicked into the ignition. I turned it. The Mustang roared to life.
“I
saw it. I know what you did!” I screamed as I shifted into drive.
“What did I do?”
“The skull!”
“Skull? Where?”
“You know where!”
“What? Wait! You think I killed someone?” He took another step toward the car. “Drex, I—”
“Don’t come any closer!” I gunned the engine. The Mustang lurched forward and stalled.
Damned air filter!
Grayson pulled out his Glock. My heart nearly stopped.
“Let me talk to you! Look, I’m dropping the weapon,” he said. “It’s not even loaded.”
He pulled the trigger and shot out the left front tire.
I screamed again and turned the ignition. It caught. I slammed the Mustang into first and hit the gas. As I shifted into second, clouds of dust billowed behind the squealing tires, and the muscle car took off, fishtailing down the dirt road.
Fifty yards out, I hit a huge pothole. The driver’s side window fell into the door with a crash of glass, and the rubber on the blown tire peeled away like a strip of black alligator hide. The Mustang shuddered as it hobbled along on the rim. Losing its grip in the sand, the car slowed to barely as fast as I could run.
I dared a glance in the rearview mirror. Grayson was only around thirty feet behind me, running at me like a raging bull.
Shit!
I scanned the car for a weapon. Nothing. In the rearview mirror, Grayson was almost to the back of the car. I grabbed the only thing I could find to hurl at him. When he jogged up to my open window, I threw it with all my might.
My target hit home. I’d beaned Grayson right in the eye with the sticky end of a half-licked green Tootsie Pop.
“Ow!” he yelled, and grabbed for his eye. “What’d you do that for? Why are you running away?”
“You shot at me!” I screeched.
“It was an accident! I swear!”
“You’re trying to kill me!”
“I am not!”
“You are! How do I know you’re not some serial killer living in an RV in the woods? What about that skull!”
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