Mothman's Curse (24 page)

Most of them had made picket signs like we'd asked, so they could blend in with the groups of protesters and keep an eye on things from the outside. I recognized a few key phrases I'd requested, including
MOTHMAN
=
MURDERER
and
EDGAR, KISS YOUR SOUL GOODBYE
.

They were all there, even though it was early and cold, a drizzling rain clinging to our clothes. I looked into their faces—some we barely knew, others who'd known us our whole lives—and felt a rush of gratitude.

Carl stood holding a small cage with a towel draped over it. “Your bats, madam.”

I peeked under the towel to see three sleeping bats dangling from a long, thin branch.

“Thank you.”

Fox handed him a walkie-talkie in return and designated him point man for the group outside. “Channel three.”

“What if we run into somebody we know?” someone asked.

“Just tell them you're a basketball fan. Or an anti-Mothman activist. Just make something up,” Fox said.

“Some of us aren't as good at it as you,” Carl said.

Over the next hour, the crowd swelled as fans and protesters arrived by the carload. The number of police and security guards grew, too. But there was no sign of Mothman.

We kept a close eye on the lower-level entrance. It took a while, but finally the door opened. A janitor wheeled out a cart piled with bags of trash. The door swung shut behind him. Fox and I hurried down a concrete ramp and hid behind a corner thirty feet from the door. Fox crouched down like a runner at the starting blocks. The janitor returned from dumping the trash, opened the door with his ring of keys, and maneuvered his cart through. Fox took off running, catching the door with his toe just before it slammed shut.

I trotted after him, and together we slipped inside the Field House. We found ourselves in a maze of gloomy concrete tunnels beneath the arena.

Our first stop was the announcer's booth on the second level, so we could get a look at the audio system.

“You remember the way?” Fox said.

I nodded and started walking. We came to a T intersection, and I had to pause to get my bearings. Was it right or left? I closed my eyes and pictured the map we'd memorized.

“Left,” I said, and took off walking again.

We found a bank of elevators but decided it would be safer to use the stairs. We expected security to be light so early in the morning, but you could never be too careful.

Since Fox's lock picks were mostly just for show, I was glad that when we arrived at the announcer's booth, it was unlocked and empty.

We looked down at the stands and the court below. Fox whistled. “This place is a lot bigger in person.”

We stared at the dizzying number of buttons and knobs on the media console. “Don't touch anything,” I warned.

“Don't worry,” Fox said.

“We just need a microphone, right? How hard can that be?”

We climbed beneath the console, following various power cords back to their source. Once we found one attached to a microphone, we marked it with a red
X
.

“With the power out, you'll have to plug this into the portable battery.”

“Got it.”

“Can you get up here fast enough after you cut the power? How are you going to get past the announcers when the time comes?”

“Quit worrying. I'll be fine,” Fox said.

“Hiding spot next?” I said.

“Yep. Storage closet fourteen-B on the main level.”

We'd picked a central location where Fox could get to the lower level within a minute or two. But when we got to the closet, the door was locked.

“They lock up the toilet paper but not the media equipment? Weird.”

“Why don't we just go knock out the power right now?” I said. “Get it over with.”

“We talked about this,” Fox said. “We have to wait for Mothman to show so you can get him to break the curse. If we stop the disaster too soon…”

“I know. It won't end well for me. Mothman has to break the curse before we do.”

“The timing's going to be tricky,” Fox said. “At the first sign of Mothman, we have to be ready to move.” Fox jiggled the doorknob once more. “Lock picks?” he said.

I shrugged. “I'd love to see you try.”

I kept watch for security guards and random passersby while Fox tried his best, but after ten minutes, he'd gotten nowhere. “Looks like we'll have to choose a new hiding spot.”

“Can I try?” I said.

“Knock yourself out.”

I hefted the tools to get a feel for them, running my fingers over each delicate tip. Sometimes I used a tiny set of tools to repair pieces of jewelry Dad gave me; these didn't feel too different. I stuck one into the keyhole, closed my eyes, and threaded the tool by touch and sound. I felt one tumbler move, then another, and then, with a gentle click, the lock released and the door opened.

I smiled. “Beginner's luck,” I said with only a hint of smugness.

Fox walked past without a word, though I caught him stealing curious glances my way.

We made ourselves comfortable in the tiny space. I set the cage down in one corner.

Around 10:00 a.m., Fox checked in with Carl. “How's it going out there?”

“My feet hurt,” Carl said. “And I'm tired of getting into arguments with people over Mothman.”

“You're doing great,” Fox told him. “Hang in there.”

Hours passed with no sign of Mothman. The pin remained dormant. We kept track of how many people walked past by the number of feet we saw through the crack beneath the door. We snacked. We watched the bats sleep.

Carl radioed us around three o'clock to say: “Team buses just pulled up.”

“Thanks, Carl.”

We blew through all our snacks and water by late afternoon. After a bathroom break at six thirty, Fox returned to tell me the teams were warming up on the court. The number of feet milling past the door was mounting by the minute.

We started arguing about the timing of our plan.

“I'm worried. It's getting late,” I said. “Where is he? If we wait too long, we won't have enough time to get everyone out. Maybe John was wrong. Maybe Mothman isn't going to show.”

“It's all a guessing game at this point,” Fox said. “We could always forget the power and just pull the fire alarm as soon as he shows.”

“Then people will have two reasons to panic. They'll trample each other.”

“What do you suggest, then?”

“I think you should go ahead and cut the power now.”

“Josie…”

I risked a peek out the door. “We have to. Look at all these people, Fox! We have to.”

He clenched his jaw but switched on his radio. “What's the chatter, Carl?”

“No Mothman. The rain's picking up, but the crowd hasn't thinned much.”

“You're a rock. Looks like we're ready for Joe. Have him meet us at the north entrance, okay?”

“You sure?”

“Yeah,” Fox said.

“Okay, then. He's on his way.”

Fox turned to me. “Are you sure this is going to work, Josie?”

I swallowed around a sudden lump in my throat. “No.”

“What? You promised me you had it all worked out.”

“I'm scared, Fox.”

“Yeah, me too.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “So, have you picked the next person to be cursed? In case we fail, I mean? There's not much time left.”

“Not yet,” I said.

“If you don't…”

I swallowed. “I know. Mothman will probably pick someone I love.”

“Pick me,” Fox blurted.

“No! I can't do that, Fox.”

“But we're practically experts at this now. I can handle it.”

I wanted to slap the pretend-cocky smile off his face. “I won't pick someone, especially not you. Don't ask me to.”

“If we fail, he'll pick Dad, or Uncle Bill, or Aunt Barb.
Or Mason.
”

“Shut up!” I shouted, clenching my fists. “I don't intend to fail. Are you coming?”

We gathered our stuff. I grabbed the cage and we abandoned our hiding spot for good. It was crowded enough that we could slip out into the concourse without attracting more than a few curious glances.

We met up with Joe, who had insisted on being present for any tampering with the power. We ducked into a nearby stairwell, down a flight of stairs, and through a winding maze of corridors, pausing every few minutes to listen for footsteps. At last we came to a set of double doors with the hum of heavy machinery behind them. The doors were painted bright red with a sign that read:
WARNING: AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY. ALARM WILL SOUND
.

I pulled some glow sticks from my backpack and handed them out.

“Give us about ten minutes, huh?” Fox said. “Then I'll hustle upstairs to the media booth.”

I checked my phone for the time. “That should be right before tipoff. I'll go back upstairs and watch for Mothman.”

Fox caught my arm, met my eye. “We'll see you soon.”

I nodded.

I made my way back out to the main concourse, my footsteps heavy. Hundreds of people were milling around, smiling, laughing, buying souvenirs or food, checking their tickets against the signs overhead.

I felt the pin with my fingers for any trace of cold, but nothing had changed. As the tide of people flowed around me, I felt like I was stuck in slow motion, underwater, as if time itself had shifted. Someone jostled my arm; two people bumped into the cage as they passed. I ducked out of the path of several rowdy teenagers and collided with a huge man carrying nachos and a sixty-four-ounce soda.

“Josie?”

It was Mitch.

He stared down at me. “What are you doing here?” His gaze traveled to my backpack, his eyes narrowing. “Please tell me you're not still carrying on with this Mothman stuff.”

“I don't have time for this,” I said, pushing past him.

Mitch followed me, tossing his nachos and drink in the nearest trash can. “What are you planning?” His voice was getting too loud for comfort.

I pulled him aside, into a stairwell marked
AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY
.

“Look, we did the graffiti, okay? I admit it, but it was for a reason. Something bad really is going to happen tonight. Haven't you seen the news? Mothman is all over the place. This is real.”

He shook his head. “I can't let you do this.”

Helpless anger surged through me. “Haven't you done enough? I won't let you sabotage us when we've made it this far.”

Mitch studied my face. “You really believe all these people are in danger, don't you?”

“Why else would we
be
here? Do you have any idea what I've been through this week, the things I've seen? I never wanted this, never wanted my family to get hurt. Now a lot of people are about to die, and I have a chance to change that.
Why would I lie?
Please, Mitch.
Please.
”

“If I can't change your mind…”

I held my breath, ready to bolt if I had to.

His expression changed, softened. “Then you'd better let me help you.”

I eyed him suspiciously. “You can tag along if you want to, but you won't stop me.”

“I guess I can live with that,” he said.

Carl clicked through on the radio: “Weather's getting bad out here.”

“Still no sign of Mothman?” I said.

“Nope. Nothing.”

I checked my phone. Three minutes until Fox cut the power. “We need to get out in the open,” I said to Mitch.

We crossed from the stairwell back into the main concourse. I could hear a booming voice announcing the teams' starting lineups to wild cheers of the crowd.

Mitch kept glancing around with a guilty look on his face.

“Quit it,” I told him. “Just act natural. First thing I learned from Fox, like a decade ago, is that nobody will stop you if you act like you belong there. If you act shifty, people will know you're up to something.”

“Excuse me.”

I stopped short.

A security guard stood in front of us, arms folded across his chest.

 

19

“Did I just see you come out of a restricted area?”

I glanced over my shoulder and pointed at the door behind us. “What, in there? Were we not supposed to be in there?” My efforts to look innocent were completely ruined by Mitch's bright red ears and fidgeting.

The guard ignored me. “And who are you, sir?”

“Um…”

“Are you aware that you were in an area that's off-limits? That I'll need to hold you for questioning? We've had a lot of weird stuff going on here this week—pranks, threats, you name it. We don't take that lightly.”

Mitch opened his mouth to answer, and the lights went out.

The crowd went from cheers to hushed murmurs and gasps. It was pitch-dark for maybe ten seconds, then the exit signs winked back on, followed by emergency track lighting every ten feet or so along the base of the walls.