Читать книгу A Desolate Hour - Mae Clair - Страница 10

Quentin glanced at the clock in his room. It was late, going on ten, but not too late to hit the River Café. The place kept longer hours on Saturday nights, and he hadn’t eaten since noon. He’d spent most of the day doing a fruitless tour of the town that had netted little usable information. He also owed his sister a call with an update on his progress. A night owl, she’d be up until midnight at least.

Without bothering to turn on the lights, Quentin walked to the window and pushed the curtain aside. His room faced Main Street, an eerily deserted stretch that had little to no traffic this time of night. The hum of passing cars and the flash of headlights could be seen a block over heading for the Bartow Jones Bridge. All that traffic had once run through Main Street, but the flow had changed with the fall of the Silver Bridge. No wonder many of the businesses on Main Street saw so little trade.

He was about to turn away when a glint of movement caught his eye. A sleek black Cadillac rolled down the street, a Fleetwood if he knew anything about luxury sedans. A few of his father’s clients liked the prestige that came with the pricey vehicle, but it was an oddity in a town of midsized cars and pickups. Even more unusual, the Cadillac’s headlights were off.

The car stopped shy of the hotel and sat with its engine idling. Quentin counted off twenty-three seconds until it resumed a slow glide down the road, streetlamps reflecting off its glossy black paint. When he could no longer see it, he switched on a lamp. Whatever the driver’s reasons for prowling in the dark, it was none of his business. He had enough worries juggling Penelope and his family curse.

The thought of his sister made him move to the bedside table and the phone. While he waited for the call to go through, he glanced around the room. It wasn’t bad, all things considered, though too old-fashioned for his taste. A standing wardrobe, walnut sleigh bed, and writing desk dominated one side; a small medallion-backed sofa and oval coffee table the other. A full-length mirror with clawed wooden feet stood in the corner and a tasseled lamp occupied the edge of the desk. The décor was strictly Victorian right down to the paisley rug over the hardwood floor and the green damask wallpaper.

“Hello?” Penelope’s voice traveled over the line, tinged with a note of worry.

“Hi, Pen. It’s Quentin.”

A rush of breath echoed in his ear. “Thank God you called. I was getting so worried. Do you know what time it is?”

Time for a rum and Coke, maybe a burger, and then a crash into bed. He tempered the thought and spoke softly. For all her wacky ideas, his sister had a way of whittling under his skin. Twins did that. “Sorry. I probably should have called yesterday.”

“That would have been nice. Did you get checked in?” The reprimand left her voice as quickly as it came.

“Yeah. How’s Dad doing?”

“Grumbling that I’m spending too much time fussing over him.” Her voice deepened, mimicking their father’s gruff tone. “It was a heart attack not a death sentence. Give me some breathing room, girl.”

Quentin grinned. Their father was not one to sit idle, but he’d taken the doctor’s warnings seriously as far as Quentin could tell. It was time for lifestyle changes, and that included stepping back from the business. Quentin and his sister were more than capable of running the firm, but Prentice Marsh was reluctant to let go of the small empire he’d built. Maybe because Quentin’s heart had never been in the venture. He hadn’t gone to Juilliard to earn a living in the business world.

“Give Dad a token or two,” Quentin suggested. “Ask for his advice on the Lawford account. He needs to ease into retirement.”

“I’m already ahead of you. I shared the portfolio with him this afternoon. He grumbled about the numbers being off, but signed it anyway.”

“Did Lawford like it?”

“Sold.” There was a smile in Penelope’s voice. She was more than capable of running the whole enterprise herself. Would be, if not for the accident that left him crippled with a maimed hand. “That’s all that matters. Who would have thought advertising could be so cutthroat?”

“Our competitors.” Best not to go down that route. It would make him edgy, worrying he should get back to calling shots as vice president of Marsh Media instead of chasing moldy history and curses in a flood-prone river town. “Look, it’s getting late and I still haven’t eaten. I need to grab something before this town shuts down. I’ll check in with you again, okay?”

“Are you going to Tu Ende Wei tomorrow?”

“I did that earlier. There’s nothing to be gained there.”

“What about the courthouse? Check for records.”

“Yeah, I know. But I’ve got to wait until Monday.”

“Talk to some of the locals, too.”

“Pen.” He pinched the bridge of his nose. “I know you believe in this stuff. Maybe I do too after everything that’s happened, but if I come up blank—”

“You have to try.” Her voice hitched. “When I have my twins, I don’t want them afflicted by the same curse that’s plagued our family for generations.”

“Maybe it’s just coincidence like Dad tried to tell us.”

She huffed a breath into the phone. “If you weren’t my brother—”

“If I weren’t your brother—your twin brother—I wouldn’t be doing this for you.” A smile crept into his voice. “Good-night, Pen.”

“Good-night.” Her tone softened. “Stay safe.”

Quentin walked back to the window and flicked the curtains aside. There was no sign of the Cadillac, but the image of it niggled the back of his mind.

* * * *

The café was mostly deserted, which suited Quentin fine. A blond-haired guy sat hunched over a beer at the bar, looking like he’d been there for a while. Two others who bore a facial resemblance and might have been brothers sat adjacent to him.

Quentin got a table in the back, ordered a rum and Coke, then chose a burger from the menu. The waitress was young and perky with a name tag that read: Nancy. She asked a few questions in a chatty manner—Where was he from? How long was he staying?—but he kept his answers short and vague. Despite what Penelope said, he had no intention of becoming too chummy with the locals.

Nancy left him to savor his drink, promising to return when his food was ready. Eve Flynn came in and spoke to the bartender briefly. She was closing the lobby for the night but was expecting her husband at the café. From the deserted look of the place, Quentin wondered if he was the only guest of the hotel. The three guys at the bar all had the look of locals, people long comfortable with the setting. Outside, night blanketed the street, visible through the front windows and the cutaway in a door that exited to the sidewalk. The rum helped ease the stiffness from his muscles, especially his mangled hand. When his burger came, he asked for another drink.

He was halfway through his meal when the blond at the bar swiveled around on his stool to survey the room. He’d seen Quentin come in, but focused on him as if spying him for the first time. Drink clutched in hand, he wobbled from the stool and meandered closer.

“You gotta be staying at the hotel.” Uninvited, he plopped down in a seat across from Quentin. The glazed look in his eyes said he was already a good way to being drunk.

Perfect. Just what he didn’t need.

“Yeah.” Quentin kept eating, hoping the guy would take the hint and leave.

“Nice place, don’tcha think?”

Quentin nodded and put two fries in his mouth.

The man was quiet for a moment, a scowl tugging his lips. He seemed young, maybe twenty-five, with a scruffy look as if he hadn’t seen a razor in days. “Let me tell you about Point Pleasant.” He plunked his drink on the table and rocked his chair back on the hind legs. It was surprising he could balance. “Do you know who I am?”

Quentin wiped his mouth with a napkin, then took his time setting it on the table. “You’re the guy who’s interrupting my dinner.”

The blond guffawed. “Hey, that’s good! But I’m Shawn Preech.” He said it like Quentin should recognize the name. “You know…king of the dirt track around here.” He spread his hands wide when Quentin continued to stare at him. “Sprint cars?”

Quentin picked up his drink. “Sorry, I don’t follow racing.”

Shawn’s chair thunked to the ground. “Then what the hell are you here for?” No mistaking the belligerent edge. The last thing Quentin wanted was an argument or worse, but it looked like his drunken companion was egging for trouble.

“Hey, Shawn. Get back here,” the bartender called. “You don’t want Eve to ban you from the place again, do you?”

Shawn snorted. Draining his drink, he staggered toward the bar. “That woman can’t do nothing to me.”

“Caden’s on his way in,” the bartender warned.

“Like I give a fuck.” Shawn waved his empty glass in the air. “I’m not afraid of some sheriff’s sergeant. I’m a celebrity.”

“You mean you were,” one of the guys at the bar said.

“Huh?” Shawn rounded on the copper-haired man who’d made the observation. “What are you yapping on about, Duncan?”

“It’s true,” his companion said. Definitely brothers. They had the same inflection to their voices. “You haven’t won a race in months. Ever since Suz—”

“Don’t say that bitch’s name.” Shawn slammed his empty glass on the bar. “I’ll be glad when this shitty divorce is over.”

“Then sign the papers.” Duncan pointed out the obvious solution.

“And give her what she wants? Hell, no.” Shawn climbed unsteadily onto the nearest stool. “Give me another one, Tucker.”

“You’re flagged.” The bartender barely spared him a glance. “Get out of here. Go home and sleep it off.”

Shawn’s face grew splotchy and red. “Don’t give me shit.”

Quentin tensed, sensing a nose-dive toward ugliness. All he wanted to do was finish his dinner and go to bed, but somehow he’d gotten ensnared in small-town drama. The door to the street swung open, distracting Shawn, who looked like he was winding up for verbal tirade.

“Hey.” A dark-haired man in a brown uniform stepped inside. A badge gleamed on his chest and a radio and a gun were holstered at his hip. The hat on his head identified him as belonging to the Mason County Sheriff’s Department. “I thought Eve and I would be the only ones here this late.”

Caden Flynn. Had to be.

“Shawn was just leaving.” Tucker inclined his head in what seemed to be a private signal. The corners of Flynn’s mouth tightened perceptibly, then quickly relaxed. “Need a ride, Shawn?”

“I’m not going anywhere.” Shawn hunched over his glass.

“We’ll take him.” Duncan stood up, his brother rising beside him. “Time we got out of here, too. I promised Mom I’d give her a lift to church tomorrow.”

The other brother walked around the bar and hooked Shawn under the arm. “Come on, buddy. We’ll give you a lift home.”

Shawn muttered something Quentin couldn’t hear, but he wobbled off the stool and let himself be led to the door.

“Thanks, Donnie,” Flynn addressed the shorter of the two.

“No problem.” The man clapped Flynn on the shoulder. With a parting wave for Tucker, he followed his brother and Shawn Preech outside.

Flynn seemed to realize there was someone else in the café. Catching sight of Quentin, he rubbed his chin and approached slowly.

“Sorry you had to witness that. I hope Shawn didn’t give you any trouble.”

“No problem.” Up close, Flynn looked a few years older than Quentin, his eyes light gray. He had a strong chin and wore his black hair cropped close to the back of his neck. “I heard that guy Shawn say you were a sergeant.”

“Yeah. Caden Flynn.” The man held out his hand. “My wife, Eve, owns the hotel.”

“Quentin Marsh.” Quentin shook, surprised Flynn gave no reaction to the roadmap of scars crisscrossing his hand. “Since you’re with the sheriff’s department, any chance you can tell me where I might find records on early settlers? I’ve already been to Fort Randolph.”

It had been a bust, the same as Tu Ende Wei. While both were rich in town history, providing a wealth of information related to Point Pleasant’s founding, neither could supply the details he needed.

“The courthouse would probably be your best bet, but they’re closed until Monday.” Flynn took off his hat and ran a hand through his dark hair. “My wife’s friend, Sarah Sherman, could probably help you. She works there.”

“Sarah?” Surprise slipped into Quentin’s voice. “I met her earlier today.”

“Well, outside the staff at Fort Randolph and Tu Ende Wei, Sarah knows just about everything there is to tell about Point Pleasant history. If you’re tracing a family tree or something—”

“I am.” Quentin jumped on the idea. He wanted to settle the mess and get back home. It wasn’t that he was eager to return to the world of advertising, but he wanted the curse put to rest. For Penelope and her unborn twins. Maybe even for him.

Flynn shrugged. “I’m not sure how well you’ll do on ancestry, but check with Sarah. Some of the early records are sketchy from what I understand. In any event,” Flynn held out his hand, “welcome to Point Pleasant.”

Quentin shook again then watched the sergeant walk away. Interesting how everyone seemed to know everyone else in the small community. Strangers stood out, but were readily welcomed.

That thought led him back to the Cadillac, a car that had crawled down the street as if engaging in surveillance.

What would a vehicle like that be doing in a sleepy town like Point Pleasant?

* * * *

Shawn was ticked. “I can make it inside myself. Just leave the damn thing there.” He waved angrily at the front stoop. It was bad enough Donnie had taken his keys and driven him home while Duncan followed in their vehicle, but he wasn’t about to let the brothers tuck him in like some pathetic loser. Besides, he needed fresh air to clear the buzz he had going.

“Let me set it inside the door.” Donnie looked at him over the plastic tub in his arms. Sarah Sherman had left it at the hotel and Shawn had stashed it on the passenger’s seat in his car before he’d started drinking at the River. Since Donnie had to move it for Shawn to crawl into the Charger for the ride home, he must have felt obligated to do something with it.

“I’ll get it in the morning.” Shawn was tired of arguing, and the exhaust from Duncan’s idling car was starting to make him sick. If the two brothers didn’t leave soon he’d spew all over the yard. Pressing a palm to his throbbing forehead, he ground his teeth. “Just leave it the fuck on the stoop. Don’t make me say it again.”

“Okay. Don’t have a cow.” Donnie’s tone indicated his patience had reached an end. He dropped the thing with a thunk, and it teetered off the edge, spilling its contents onto the ground. “Shit! Now look what you made me do.”

“Just get the hell out of here. I’ll take care of it.” Shawn bent over, picking up a few papers.

Donnie moved to help then seemed to think better of it. “You know what, Shawn? You make a hell of a lousy drunk. Do yourself a favor and lay off the booze.”

“Get the hell off my property!”

“Gladly.” Donnie flipped up his middle finger in a parting salute.

“Bastard.” Shawn waited until he heard the car door slam, followed by the squeal of rubber against asphalt. The old Ford LTD rattled down the street spewing exhaust.

With a groan, Shawn clutched his stomach and dropped to a seat on the front porch. Not that long ago he’d shared the home with Suzanne. They’d argued a lot, but she was a hell of a looker. They’d made a great pair—the dirt track king and a former Miss Point Pleasant. He’d still be flaunting her around town if she hadn’t found out about Belinda. Two weeks after she’d kicked him out, the thing with Belinda had gone belly up. By then Suzanne had rented a new place and stuck him with the lease on Barnwood Street.

She pissed him off something fierce, but damn if he didn’t still want her.

That was the hell of it. All they’d done was fight when they were married. But now that the divorce was pending, he couldn’t get her out of his head. It didn’t look good for his image that she’d kicked him out. If anyone was going to get dumped, it should have been the other way around.

Muttering, he kicked the upturned tub, disgorging more of its contents over the lawn. Damn Suzanne for dragging the thing over to Sarah’s place to begin with. He collected a handful of papers and stuffed them back inside. In his inebriated state, he couldn’t see shit.

Let the stuff blow away. Who the hell cared about old documents and photos anyway?

God, his head hurt. If only the damn pounding would stop. At least his stomach wasn’t churning anymore. Maybe he should go inside and lie down. Sleep it off.

He staggered to his feet, bumped against the tub, and nearly fell. There was something heavy among all those loose papers. Curious, Shawn bent and weeded through the mess. A few stray sheets blew down the driveway. Another caught on a rosebush Suzanne had planted under the front window.

Spying a wooden case, he grabbed the thing and teetered to the side. A bark of laughter escaped him when he recognized the etchings on the top. His dad had tried to give him the case a few days before his wedding, one of the few times the old man had treated him well. He said it was some kind of family heirloom that needed safekeeping. Then his mom came along and freaked out. She’d babbled about devil magic and witchcraft, ranting like a lunatic, until he finally returned the case just to shut her up. He hadn’t needed the headache any more than her incessant Bible-thumping.

Chewing on his bottom lip, he studied the lock. His old man had told him there was a release mechanism, but no one in the family had been able to manipulate it. Generation after generation, male descendants passed the case to the next in line. Sometimes his dad could act as loony as his mom. No wonder he never bothered visiting their graves.

Turning the box over, he looked for a weakness in the wood. He could always get a hammer and smash the top, but he liked the look of the carvings and hated to ruin the case. Probably why no one else had ever bashed it to pieces. The spider was bizarre, kind of grotesque. It would make a great tattoo.

A drunken giggle burst from his throat. On a whim, he angled his fingers over the lock and pressed. Something clicked into place. The lid sprang loose in his hand.

Like freaking magic.

“No shit.” Shawn sucked down a breath, abruptly sober. Moonlight glimmered off metal, drawing his gaze to the object nestled in the box. The knife appeared to be close to eight inches long, half of that blade. It reminded him of something his dad might have used to skin a deer, only this knife was ancient looking. The blade was slightly curved, and the handle bore the same strange spider marking as the case.

Shawn licked his lips, his breath shallow. Closing his fingers over the grip, he stood and pulled the knife from the box. A tingle raced up his arm.

The blade was coal black.

* * * *

Caden read the letter through and set the paper Eve had given him on the table. Other than Tucker, who wiped down the bar, and Nancy, who’d disappeared into the kitchen, they were the only two in the café. It was too late to down a regular meal but he nursed a piece of cherry pie along with his coffee. Eve did the same with a slice of lemon meringue. “You say Sarah found this in Shawn’s stuff?” He motioned to the slip of paper lying between them.

Eve nodded. “Remember Suzanne asked Sarah to dig into Shawn’s family tree? It was in with a bunch of stuff Suzanne gave her.” She leaned forward, eyes wide. “You know what this means, don’t you? It means the Mothman had to be around as far back as the days of Fort Randolph.”

Caden didn’t mirror her surprise. “We’ve known that for a while. Lach told us his people visited Earth before the time of the dinosaurs, and Maggie—” He hesitated. It was still hard imagining his dead sister communicating with Eve and his mother, but her ghost had relayed as much to Eve last summer, telling Eve the Mothman had lived for “a thousand yesteryears.”

Eve reached across the table and touched his hand, seeming to hone in on his hesitation. Even now it was hard to talk about his sister. He’d once considered her death his fault.

“But, Caden—” Eve plowed ahead, letting the ghost of Maggie rest. “Don’t you think it’s odd the creature has been here all this time yet it wasn’t until the late sixties that people became aware of its existence?”

“We don’t know that. According to this”—he tapped the paper with a forefinger—“Preech must have seen it, and so did the author of this letter.”

Leaning back in her seat, Eve fiddled with her fork. She poked the rich meringue layer on her pie. “It’s vanished again, hasn’t it?”

She didn’t have to identify the “it” for Caden to know she referred to the Mothman. He considered telling her how the creature had reacted during their last encounter—agitated, hostile—but saw no reason in making her worry. Better she think the cryptid had simply vanished into the wooded domain of the TNT. For something so large and grotesque in appearance, the creature had an uncanny ability to disappear when desired. He wondered if it had powers he didn’t realize. Lach Evening was certainly an untapped source of supernatural abilities, and he was descended from the same alien race as the Mothman.

Caden swallowed a mouthful of coffee. “I didn’t see it.” He regretted the lie, but until he better understood why the creature had reacted the way it did, he wanted to keep everything low key. Even from his wife. The fewer people who knew, the better. Some of the townspeople had a habit of taking matters into their own hands when they thought the Mothman was on the prowl. “How about this letter?” He motioned to the paper again. “Does Shawn know about it?”

Eve shrugged. “According to Sarah, he was pretty clueless Suzanne had given her anything. Sarah dropped off a box of stuff earlier, and Shawn loaded it in his car before he started drinking.” She frowned, obviously thinking of the story she’d heard from Tucker and Caden about how Shawn had to be driven home by the Bradley brothers. “I wish he’d get his act together. He seems to be drinking more now that Suzanne left him. I really hate the fact he started to get huffy with a guest.”

“Marsh seemed okay. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

“Hmm.” Eve looked down at her plate. Another poke at the pie.

Caden laughed. “Are you going to eat that thing or not?”

Eve’s gaze flashed to his face and she smiled tightly. “I was imagining it as Shawn. That jerk could use a poke or two.”

He didn’t disagree, but Shawn was young, not quite twenty-five. Preech could be a class-A douchebag, but he still had time to pull it together and learn from his mistakes. Hopefully, he’d pass out when Duncan and Donnie got him home, and wake up tomorrow with a different outlook on life.

Assuming he didn’t have one hell of a hangover.

* * * *

Shawn clutched the knife tightly in both hands. He wandered from the porch and the plastic tub that lay open on the grass. From the papers and photographs strewn across his lawn. His sneakers scuffed against macadam as he blundered into the driveway. He licked his lips, suddenly dry, his throat tight with emotion he couldn’t explain. His thoughts had been jumbled before, muddled and fogged by alcohol, but now they were sharp, brittle like glass. He could almost taste them in the back of his throat, an acrid smoke that lodged there, whispering of a time long ago.

Of a thing that had taunted him. A creature of evil.

Hate.

Oh, yes, how he hated the demon. From that first moment he’d seen it blot the sun from the sky. His heart had faltered, his innards coiling up inside him. Unable to move, he’d gazed up at the monster, terrified beyond reason. It had bewitched Willa, brought the fever on her. His bladder had released and the warm stream of his shame trickled down his leg. He, a man who had stood before the savages in Lord Dunmore’s War, who’d faced the heathen and survived. How could a thing born of sorcery and chaos turn him into a whimpering craven?

Shawn blinked, confused by the memory. It didn’t belong to him, yet it did.

Anger warred with shame.

You are my descendant, a voice whispered in his head. Do what I could not. Kill the demon.

The spirit that possessed him, awakened by the knife, had no name for the demon it sought. But Shawn did.

Mothman.

He wrenched open the car door and dropped inside.