Mothman's Curse (23 page)

Brothers Carl and Joe, who lived a half mile down the road, got there first. We set up chairs on the auction floor and sat people down to wait, figuring it made more sense to explain everything once instead of over and over as they trickled in. We hoped it would also make them less likely to storm off in a huff when they heard what we had to say.

We gave everyone an hour; after thirty minutes, we already had thirty-seven people sitting there looking antsy. Mason served sodas and lemonade to keep them happy.

Carl shuffled over to where Fox and I were greeting people at the door. “They come to their senses and let your uncle out yet?”

“Not yet,” I said.

He looked around. “Where's your aunt? She did authorize all this, right?”

“She's at the police station trying to get Uncle Bill released,” Fox said.

“Then who the heck is running this thing?”

“I am.” Fox glanced at me and quickly corrected himself. “We are.”

“Your dad know about this?”

“Of course. It was his idea.”

Carl stared at Fox a long while. He clicked his tongue. “Uh-huh,” he said at last. But he didn't go home. He found a chair front and center and sat himself down to wait. We had roughly the same conversation a dozen more times with many of the new arrivals.

At last it was 3:00 p.m. Fox stepped up to the podium microphone and cleared his throat.

“Uh, hello and thank you for coming.”

“What, no sideshow today? Where's the moth?” someone called out, causing a wave of laughter to ripple across the crowd.

“I promise all of you we will honor our word to give you first preview of the new Goodrich items.”

“That's why we're here, kid,” another person said.

“But
first
, we need you to listen to us for five minutes.”

Grumbles started up immediately.

I stepped forward. “Just five minutes. Please. Most of you have been coming to Fletcher Auctions since before we were born. You know our family; you know we're honest and fair. Maybe you believe that our uncle faked those Mothman sightings to help business. Hopefully you know he would never do such a thing. But right now the most important thing you need to know is that a lot of people are in danger, and we need your help to save them.”

“What kind of danger?”

“We're, uh, not totally sure, but it's going to happen tomorrow at the Field House,” I said.

“You mean those threats painted on the side of the building? It was vandalism, pure and simple.”

Someone else stood. “Unless you're trying to tell us your family had something to do with that.”

“No.
Listen
,” I begged. “We have a reliable tip that something's going to happen to the building, putting hundreds or even thousands of people in danger!”

A couple of people stood up to leave.

“Hear them out,” someone shouted.

“Why? They're obviously behind this whole mess. They got their uncle thrown in jail. I want no part of it.” The man plus three others left without looking back.

“You have to believe us,” Fox insisted. “Why would we lie about something like this?”

“Come on now, Fox,” Carl said. “Everyone knows you got to have all eyes on you whenever possible.”

“There are no cameras here—just us,” Fox said. “All we want to do is save lives.”

Mr. Leonard from the drugstore spoke up. “Tell the police.”

“They already think this is all a big scam. You're all we have left,” I said.

“So we're supposed to put ourselves in danger, too, smack in the middle of some mysterious disaster?” Mr. Leonard said. “No, thank you.”

Five more people got up and left.

One of the few women there spoke up. “If what you say is really true, why should we risk ourselves? We have our own families to think of.”

“Okay,” I said. “Think about your families, then. What if your kids or grandbabies or wife or husband were in there, unsuspecting? Wouldn't you want someone to help them if they could?”

“How do you know something's going to happen? Did Mothman tell you?”

“John Goodrich did,” I said.

That got them quiet.

“His wife was supposed to stop the Clark landslide, or at least warn people to leave,” Fox said. “Now he's trying to help us stop another awful disaster.”

Chairs slid back, scraping against the concrete floor. Half the room stood up to leave. Then Carl stood, his bulk and height and steely gray stare shaming them into sitting back down.

“We lived in Clark,” he said. “I remember, Goodrich and his wife, they said things, did things—crazy things, telling people they were in danger. These were respectable people and one day they just went off the rails. Then the moth started showing up.”

We heard several gasps.

“We listened. Me and Joe and our wives and kids—we left town and we're all alive because of it. I owe the Goodrich family my life. A lot of folks chose not to listen and died as a result. If people in Athens are in danger, I owe them my help. What do you need us to do?”

We looked around the room. Eight people remained—including Carl and Joe. My heart unclenched just a tiny bit knowing we had a few allies on our side.

“Here's the plan.”

 

18

The customers left one by one, pledging their help. I asked Carl and Joe to stay behind for a minute.

“Do either of you know where I can get some bats?”

“Bats?” Carl echoed.

“You know, bats? They're fuzzy and they fly around at night, and they make these ultrasonic sounds to help them catch bugs. Do you know where I can get some? I called animal control, but apparently they don't just give bats to anyone who wants them.”

“You looking to keep a pet? You're better off with a parakeet,” Carl said.

Joe clapped his brother on the back. “She doesn't want them for pets, you thickheaded half-wit.”

Carl lifted his trucker hat to scratch his head. “Matter of fact, my neighbor works for animal control. Been there twenty years. Got the scars to prove it.”

“Really? Wow, that's a stroke of good luck right there,” I said. “Dad always says you and Joe are our very best customers, and good people besides. Always willing to do a favor for someone in need.”

“I'd like to think so.”

“So this neighbor, he's a close friend? He might be able to pull a few strings if you asked him? One quick phone call would sure be a big help to us, if it's not too much trouble, of course.”

Joe chuckled. “Been taking lessons from your brother, have you? He'd be happy to make a call for you, Josie. Wouldn't you, Carl?”

He huffed and grumbled. “I suppose you need me to bring them in the morning?”

“Yes, that would be perfect! Thank you!”

We walked them out to the lot where Joe's truck was parked. I couldn't believe what I saw stenciled on the driver's side door. “Joe, you're an electrician?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Would you mind if Fox asked you a few questions?”

*   *   *

Aunt Barb came home alone around six o'clock. She didn't say much, but her eyes were red from crying. We helped with dinner, brought her coziest slippers, and put her favorite movie in the DVD player before sneaking back to Dad's study. When I peeked in on her an hour later, she was fast asleep.

Fox and I didn't sleep that night.

We pored over maps and schedules, walked through our current plan, and tossed around a few new ones. We read up on security systems and fire alarms and public PA systems.

Each of us loaded up a backpack with supplies. One of the perks of Dad's business was that we had access to pretty much anything we could possibly need. Fox packed wire cutters, fireworks, two sets of walkie-talkies with extra batteries, and a set of lock picks he'd scrounged from who-knows-where. “Do you even know how to use those?” I asked him.

“It can't be that hard,” he answered.

I brought a tool kit, a portable power source the size of a loaf of bread, trail mix and bottles of water, my cell phone, a photograph of Elsie I'd printed from the Internet—and my picture of Momma, for courage.

Around five in the morning, I wrote a note for Aunt Barb, hating to add to her stress but knowing it was better than just leaving without a word. It said,
We had something really important to take care of today. We'll be fine. Try not to worry.

Next I kissed Mason goodbye. Luckily he was still asleep, sprawled across his bed clutching his stuffed alligator.

Fox ruffled his hair and left an old handheld electronic football game on his nightstand as a peace offering.

A quick check of the morning news showed that plenty of people were still milling around outside the Field House. But we also got an unexpected piece of good news.

“Quilt show's been canceled,” Fox announced, checking the Field House website for confirmation. “With all the crazies camped out there and the threats flying around, the organizers decided to reschedule.”

“That's great,” I breathed.

“The building will be mostly empty until this afternoon,” Fox said.

“Let's still go over this morning like we planned, just to make sure we're ready.”

Fox told me he'd taken care of our transportation, but I was still surprised when a cab pulled up out front.

“When did you have time to call a cab?”

“Last night.”

“I'm surprised you didn't get a limo.”

“Have to keep a low profile,” he said, voice colored with regret. “Plus the limo couldn't come on such short notice. You have the pin?”

I patted the moth pin on my collar and nodded.

As we stepped outside, the wind whipped our hair and stung our faces. A bank of steely gray clouds hovered off to the west. Most of the cow pasture crowd had thinned, but enough people remained to notice our presence. A man with a microphone stood in front of a news truck giving a report. As soon as he saw us come out, he rushed over, microphone first.

“It's Fox Fletcher with his little sister! Tell us, how do you feel about your uncle being arrested? Did he ask you to fake Mothman sightings for him? Did your father fake breaking his leg in order to gain sympathy?”

Fox paused on his way to the taxi, ready to serve up some sharp-tongued reply, but I opened the back door of the taxi, shoved him in, and turned to face the camera just long enough to shout, “
I'm older!
And it's Josie Fletcher, J-O-S-I-E.” I got in the car and slammed the door.

“Go!” Fox told the driver as more people started to surround the car.

The driver spun the tires in the gravel as we shot out of the driveway. He grinned over the seat at us. “I've always wanted to do that,” he said. “This place, your family, you're all over the news. You think I'll be on TV, too?” His grin faltered when he saw that it was just the two of us. “Wait, there's no adult with you? I don't want to get in trouble for taking you somewhere you're not supposed to be.”

“We paid in advance,” Fox said calmly. “Our dad arranged it.”

“From the hospital?”

“Yep.”

The driver checked his invoice and nodded. “Okay. You going to visit him, then?”

“Nope. The Field House, please.”

“A little early to be going to the game, isn't it?” We glanced sidelong at each other, scrambling to come up with a decent answer, but it turned out we didn't need one.

“Should be a good one,” the guy rambled. “My brother's kid plays point guard for the Bulldogs. Which team are you cheering for?”

“The Bulldogs, definitely,” Fox said. They talked on and on about basketball and about sports in general. Fox wasn't much of a jock; he preferred “intellectual pursuits,” as he liked to say. But he also seemed to know just enough to carry on a conversation about almost anything, so he and the driver talked the whole way about pick and rolls and zone defense.

I let it all wash over me as I thought again about the ways the people at the Field House might be in danger. Short of someone planning something intentional, I could only think it would have to be some sort of fire or gas explosion. Fox's idea of a stampede didn't sound impossible, either. I still couldn't shake the worry that we might end up causing the disaster instead of preventing it. I gazed out at the surly sky, mind racing.

Fox tipped the driver ten dollars when we got there.

“Where are you getting all this money?” I whispered. “Have you been stashing it on the side?” The look on his face said it all. “You have!”

Fox shrugged. “Good thing I did, don't you think?”

“I'm still mad,” I told him.

We found a quiet corner not far from where I'd spray-painted
BEWARE
on the wall just two days before. It was still there.

The spot gave us a good view of the tunnel entrance for players, performers, and employees. That's where we met up with Carl, Joe, and the other customers who'd agreed to help.