The blast of a gunshot sounded from outside the cabin. The porch light shattered. The room dissolved to black.
I ducked down beside the fallen FBI agent. In the darkness, someone grabbed my hand and tugged it. I hoped it wasn’t Paulson. Whoever it was, he was yanking me along with the strength of a bear.
We stumbled out the cabin door. In the faint starlight, I saw it was Grayson. Relief flooded through me. “Let’s get the hell out of here!”
“You read my mind,” Grayson quipped sourly. “I knew you were talented, but really ....”
I punched his arm and laughed maniacally, on the verge of hysteria.
A twig snapped behind us. A shot whizzed by my head. Grayson grabbed my arm again, and we took off running for the Mustang.
We were about thirty feet from it when a car’s headlights flashed on us like twin laser beams.
“Crap. He’s gotten to his car first,” Grayson said. “We’ve got to make a run for it.”
“No shit. Who’s driving?” I panted, out of breath.
“I call shotgun. Get in, Drex, and drive like hell!”
I cranked the engine, lurched into first, and sideswiped the parked sedan as I made a wild attempt to turn the Mustang around. Grayson grabbed my phone. He tried to call 9-1-1, but there was no signal.
“I need to report that injured FBI agent,” he said.
“Try again when we get nearer to Waldo.”
“You may have to slow down when we get there. I’ll need a minute to make the call.”
I nodded. “I’ll try to get some distance between us.”
I stomped on the gas. The tires spun dirt like a buzz saw until I reached the pavement of US 301. I took the turn on two wheels, and soon the blinking, pink-and-green neon of the Tropix Inn motel sign came into view. I let my foot off the gas while Grayson dialed 9-1-1.
“FBI agent down at the Alto Park Preserve,” he said. “Send an ambulance, quick.”
“Could you repeat that, sir?” I heard the operator say. I looked in the rearview mirror. Paulson’s headlights were barreling toward us.
“FBI agent. Shot. Alto Park Preserve,” Grayson repeated as he flailed his arm at me, signaling me to get going.
I hit the gas, but not soon enough. Paulson’s blue Toyota slammed into the back of the Mustang with a sickening crunch. Grayson groaned as his already cracked clavicle hit the dashboard. I stomped the gas, blew through the rest of Waldo, and hooked a sharp right onto Obsidian Road.
I’d hoped Paulson would miss the poorly marked turn, but the Mustang’s back bumper had come loose and was dragging on the road, spewing a shower of sparks like a homing beacon for him to follow.
We were about three miles from Point Paradise when the Mustang coughed and skipped a beat. The tank was on empty. I looked back. Paulson was about thirty yards away and gaining on us. I swore I could see his eyes glowing red behind the windshield like two evil brake lights.
The Mustang’s engine sputtered and died.
“Shit!” I screamed as we began to roll silently along in the darkness. “We’re out of gas!”
Grayson looked back. “Oh, shit. Brace yourself—”
Paulson rammed the back of us again. The rear of the Mustang tilted up like a bucking bronco. I tried to steer, but with no power steering, the wheel was locked down tight. The muscle car jackknifed and rammed into the metal guardrail of the small bridge over Wimbly Creek.
Paulson’s Toyota buzzed by us. Twenty yards past, his brake lights flared and his brakes squealed. He was coming back for us.
I reached for my seatbelt. A blinding beam of white light shot out of the woods and honed in on the Mustang. I squinted against the piercing glare.
Saved by alien abduction? Never saw that one coming.
I watched, dumbfounded, as the blazing white light separated into two beams that bore down on us like huge, twin lasers.
I bit my lip and chanced a glance down the road for Paulson. To my surprise, he’d turned his car around again and was hightailing it out of there. His taillights flashed, then grew fainter as the white lights surrounding the Mustang overpowered us. My sphincter puckered involuntarily in anticipation of being probed ....
“What in blue blazes are you two doing out here?” Earl’s voice thundered from somewhere behind the twin laser beams. They cut off, and the parking lights of Bessie, his big, black monster truck, came into view.
My sphincter relaxed a notch.
I never thought I’d be this glad to see Earl.
“You won’t believe this,” Grayson began, but I poked an elbow in his ribs to silence him.
“We had a little car trouble,” I said. “Earl, give us a tow back home.”
Earl gave the Mustang a once-over. “Geez Louise. Looks like you backed over the Loch Ness Monster, Bobbie.”
“Women drivers,” Grayson said, leaving me with nothing to do but slap on a sheepish smile and plot my revenge for another day.
“Lemme hook her up. Good thing I was out coon hunting tonight.” Earl backed up and began turning Bessie around.
While my cousin set Bessie’s tow on the Mustang, I climbed into the cab of the monster truck and whispered to Grayson. “Do me a favor. Keep quiet about this whole Mothman business? Earl already thinks I’m an idiot, and I just don’t feel like getting into it with him tonight. We’ll tell him everything tomorrow.”
“Tell who what?” Earl’s head poked in the window. “Wait a minute. Are y’all engaged?”
Grayson grinned. “Well, it’s a funny story ....”
“No!” I yelled. “Are we ready to go?”
Earl got in, hit the gas, and started grilling us over our honeymoon plans. We were about half a mile from home when we spotted taillights in a ditch off to the right side of the road.
“Look at that,” Earl said, slowing Bessie to a crawl. “Another careless driver. Must be something in the air tonight.”
From our vantage six feet up in the air, we could see the undamaged back end of Paulson’s vehicle. It was still running, but Paulson was nowhere to be seen.
“That looks like Paulson’s car,” Earl said. “Why in tarnation would he go off and leave his vehicle running like that?”
Before I could stop him, Grayson cracked, “Like I keep telling Drex here, Mothman doesn’t need wheels. He prefers to fly.”
I shot Grayson a dirty look. “I asked you not to mention ‘the M-man.’”
“I think it’s time Earl knew,” Grayson said. “Because if my hunch is right, we haven’t seen the last of the M-man tonight.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
“YOU DON’T HAVE ANY proof that the guy pretending to be Paulson is the Mothman,” I said to Grayson as Earl maneuvered Bessie around and backed the wrecked Mustang into the service bay.
“You don’t have any proof he’s not,” Grayson argued.
“Is that what this is about?” Earl laughed. “I thought y’all was having a lover’s quarrel.” He waggled his eyebrows at me. “You afraid the little ol’ Mothman’s gonna get you, Bobbie?”
“Or maybe the Feds,” Grayson cracked.
Earl winked at me. “The men in blue are after you!”
“Argh! You guys suck!” I clambered over Grayson’s lap, yanked open the truck door, and tumbled onto my knees in the parking lot.
I got up and dusted myself off. “While you two joke around like a couple of jerks, whoever’s after us could be hiding in the bushes getting ready to blow our heads off! The stupid Mothman has nothing to do with this!”
“But why’d the FBI show up if they wasn’t chasing Mothman?” Earl asked.
I adjusted my wig. “The guy pretending to be Paulson called them.”
Earl climbed out of the cab. “But if he’s the killer, Bobbie, why would he do that?”
For lack of a better answer, I scowled. “How the hell should I know?”
“The FBI doesn’t usually get involved in simple homicide cases,” Grayson said.
“I don’t think ripp
ing people’s throats out is simple homicide,” I argued. “But Earl’s got a point. If this fake Paulson guy was guilty, why would he call the FBI? Why would he call me for backup?”
“Wait!” Earl’s eyes grew wide—probably from the unaccustomed strain of using his noodle. “Maybe this fake Paulson’s working undercover with the FBI, and he thinks one of you is the Mothman.”
“Why would he shoot his own team?” I asked.
Grayson shut the cab door behind him. “Maybe this fake Paulson guy didn’t call the FBI at all. He might’ve gotten a heads up somehow that the FBI was on the way, so he used it to his advantage. He could’ve been monitoring Terry Paulson’s phone or radio or something. When he found out the FBI was coming, he played you along, Drex.”
I grimaced. Grayson could be right. “He told me two prisoners escaped from Starke prison ten days ago.”
“He might’ve known that because he was one of them,” Grayson said.
I shook my head. “He didn’t seem like the criminal type to me.”
“Too good looking?” Grayson asked.
He struck a nerve. “No! The guy was crying at the scene of Vanderhoff’s murder. He seemed genuinely unnerved. And he told me not to trust you, Grayson. Maybe when he saw us at his cabin, he thought you were holding me hostage. You did have a gun on me.”
Grayson lost it. “This guy is an imposter, Drex! He made us drop our weapons. He held us at gunpoint. He fired at us and tried to run us off the road! What more proof do you need that he’s the bad guy here?”
I shrunk back. “Okay, okay. He’s not who he says he is. I’ll give you that. But that doesn’t prove the guy’s some ridiculous Mothman from outer space!” I stomped my father’s boots over to the office and flipped on the service bay lights for Earl. Grayson trailed after me.
“What about all those spider webs in his cabin?” Grayson argued. “They could’ve been the makings of a cocoon.”
I made a sour face. “He doesn’t clean up after himself. If that were a crime, every guy on the planet would be in jail.”
“Okay. But if he’s human, why did he abandon his vehicle? It was still running when we drove by.”
I shrugged angrily. “Maybe he was afraid of being spotted, Grayson. He could’ve seen you on the phone. He might’ve thought you were calling the cops to report him.”
Grayson grabbed my arm. “I don’t think so, Drex. He left his car in the ditch because he didn’t need it. He can fly.”
I looked Grayson in the eye. “Don’t you see how crazy that sounds?”
Grayson looked indignant. “No. Not really.”
“Look. Whether Paulson’s the Mothman or not, he’s out there on the loose. We need to get inside and lock the doors. And call the Sheriff’s Department.”
Grayson’s face lost its tension. “You’re right, Drex. He’s nearby. And he’s after us. We need to prepare ourselves.”
A cold streak made my back arch. My senses heightened, I suddenly became aware again of an uncomfortable dampness in my coveralls. For the second time since ditching diapers, I’d peed my pants.
“Listen,” I said. “I need a hot shower and a stiff drink. Stay here with Earl, Grayson. He’s exposed out here in the service bay. When he’s done unhooking the Mustang, both of you come upstairs and lock the door behind you.”
Grayson looked me over as if to ascertain not only my plan, but my state of mind as well. He nodded. “Okay.”
I turned and headed up the stairs to my apartment, each step harder and heavier than the last. Inside my bedroom, I kicked my father’s burdensome old boots off into a corner. They seemed to stare at me accusingly as I unzipped my soiled coveralls. I dropped them on top of the boots and stared at the crumpled heap.
Is that what I’ve become? The empty shell of my dead father?
I peeled off my urine-soaked panties. Getting shot at had scared the piss out of me. Did that prove I wasn’t fit to be a private eye? I added the wet panties to the heap in the corner, along with my sweaty bra. I put my wig on the bureau and padded to the bathroom, as bald and naked and vulnerable as a newborn chick.
As I stepped into the shower and the hot water trickled over my shaved head, I wondered how, in just under a week, my life could have gotten so far off track. One lousy, unlucky shot from some bike-thieving punk at the mall had changed the trajectory of my entire life. A week ago, my daily routine had been simple. Mundane. Predictable. Now, it felt as if I’d been yanked out of the crowd and picked to star in a low-budget horror flick. Mothman’s Revenge.
At least, I hoped I was the star. Otherwise, I was the sidekick. And those poor saps always got it in the end ....
I stepped out of the shower, dried off, and wrapped myself in a towel. It was going to be a long night. I padded over to the closet to get a clean T-shirt. As I opened the closet door, my mouth fell open. My hairbrush dropped from my hand.
Staring at me, eyeball-to-eyeball, was the same creature I’d seen outside my bedroom window last night. The same hairy, human-like face. The same glowing, red eyes.
I screamed, and the creature known as Mothman pounced on top of me.
Chapter Forty
I WAS IN A STRUGGLE for my life.
Mothman was real.
The creature came at me from its hiding place inside my closet. The sound of my own scream broke my paralytic shock, and I instinctually smashed my right fist into the monster’s ugly, insectoid face.
He flew backward into my hanging clothes, then bounced back like a ricocheting bullet. I grimaced as his horrible, hairy face head-butted into mine. As his stiff, nasty whiskers scratched at my cheeks, I grabbed him by the torso and tried to throw him off balance. But I tripped on a flip-flop, lost my footing, and took him with me as I fell sideways to the floor.
With the air nearly knocked out of me, we wrestled around on the shag carpet. In the struggle, Mothman ripped the towel from my body. Naked as a jaybird, I scrambled on top of him, straddled him, and walloped him good in the face. He tried to roll over onto his stomach, but I pinned him with my thighs and punched the jerk in the kidneys until he let out a weird, squeaky, fart-like sound.
Just when I had Mothman subdued under my body weight, the bedroom door flew open. Grayson burst in, holding Earl’s shotgun. As he scrambled to my rescue, his face broke into a grin. Then the jerk burst out laughing.
“Uh ... a little help here?” I hissed.
“What are you doing, Drex?”
I stared at Grayson, then down at my assailant. My thumping heart nearly stopped. Mothman wasn’t real after all. It was a blow-up sex doll wearing a cheap monster mask.
My vision went red.
“Very funny, you smartass!” I shrieked at Grayson. I yanked Grandma Selma’s blanket off the inflatable doll’s back and hastily covered myself with it.
Grayson pursed his lips in a poor attempt to hide his amusement. “Drex, I promise, I had nothing to do with this.”
“Sure you didn’t! Tell me, jackass. How’d you get this stupid thing to fly outside my bedroom window last night?”
“With one of them drones,” Earl said, appearing in the doorway. He shot me a sadistic wink. “Ha ha, Bobbie! Looks like I got you good!”
IT WAS NEARLY MIDNIGHT. The three of us were sitting vigil around the kitchen table, waiting for who-knew-what to come dragging out of the darkness. I was pouring Grayson and Earl cups of coffee because I didn’t have any arsenic on hand.
“How could you do this to me?” I muttered angrily.
“Aww, don’t take it so hard,” Earl said. “Beth-Ann told me about how you and Grayson was gonna do a stakeout by the Stop & Shoppe. I figured I’d have me a little fun.”
I shot Earl a scathing look. My whole life was nothing but a joke to him. “So Mothman was you the whole time.”
“Yep.”
“No.” Grayson shook his head. “It couldn’t have been Earl in the woods the night of my accident. I didn’t even know you then.”
Earl looked over a
t Grayson. “What you talking about?”
“The night my RV broke down. I saw it. Oculi rubere.”
“The red octopus,” Earl whispered, his eyes as big as plums.
“Red eyes,” Grayson corrected. “The night I broke down. I saw glowing red eyes in the woods. I tried to roll up the window, then I felt this pain in my shoulder. I passed out. I couldn’t remember anything else.”
“That’s when the Mothman bit you,” Earl said.
“It was his seatbelt!” I hissed.
Grayson scooted his chair away from the table. “I can’t say for sure if it was Mothman or not. But if it was, it wouldn’t be the first time something like this has happened to me. I guess it’s time I showed you two something.”
“What?” Earl asked.
“Not here. Follow me.”
We tromped down the stairs behind Grayson and out to the parking lot. Since we’d lost our guns at Alto Lake, Earl kept a wary watch for fake Paulson with his trusty Mossberg shotgun. After ascertaining the coast was clear, the three of us climbed inside Grayson’s RV.
“You might’ve noticed I’ve got padlocks on the cabinets and bedroom door.” Grayson pointed them out.
“Nope,” Earl said. “Hadn’t noticed at all.”
I shot my cousin a dirty look.
“Well, there’s a good reason for it.”
Grayson took out a jumble of keys and opened the padlock on one of the cabinets. It was full of brown bottles with eyedropper lids.
“You must really be into aromatherapy,” I said dryly.
“Something like that.” Grayson padlocked the cabinet again and stepped down the small hallway past the tiny bathroom to the bedroom. He fiddled with the keys again and unlocked deadbolt after deadbolt on the bedroom door. After unlocking the last one, he opened the door and stepped aside for Earl and me to have a look inside.
Cautiously, we peered into the room. The walls were padded with a thick, gray, quilted fabric that reminded me of the back of an insulated potholder. Heavy-gauge wire mesh covered the windows. It was the perfect lair for a psycho killer to keep his hostages.
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