Point Pleasant (16 page)

Ben’s dream was dark and gray. There were sounds of swirling static and the image of Jack Freemont hanging from a broken beam. The dead farmer’s eyes shot open to reveal wide, red orbs just as a loud, repetitive squawking heaved Ben out of unconsciousness.

The digital din of Nicholas’ alarm clock startled Ben into full awareness. He sat straight up in the foreign bed, forgetting where he was.

“Ugh,” came a voice from beside him, and Ben blinked over at Nicholas as he swatted at the snooze button.

Nicholas’ other arm was sprawled out across Ben’s lap, and Ben shifted with care, slipping out from underneath its weight. Nicholas jerked upright in surprise.

“Oh. Hi,” Nicholas said, his voice groggy and laced with confusion. He winced as he moved and pushed the palm of his right hand to his ear.

“Good morning,” Ben replied, keeping his tone even. He felt sure that the previous night had been an alcohol-induced haze that Nicholas regretted. “How’s your ear?”

“I’ll live,” Nicholas said, sounding gruffer. “I think I need some Advil, though.”

Ben gave a slow, uncertain nod. He peered around the bedroom and took in its orderly perfection in the light of morning.

“Hey,” Nicholas said, leaning closer.

Ben turned and laughed as his nose brushed against the other man’s. “Hey.”

Nicholas pressed his lips to Ben’s in a caress that was so full of tenderness, Ben’s caution slipped away. Ben reveled in the contact, but he forced himself to retreat.

“You should get that Advil.”

Nicholas hummed in agreement and stood to stretch. Beams of sunlight danced an Adagio across his strong shoulders as they flexed.

“I owe you a breakfast,” Nicholas said. “Bathroom’s across the hall. Stay in bed if you like, I don’t mind.”

Nicholas disappeared into the hallway, and Ben listened to the sound of the other man’s feet on the stairs. He stood, stretched, and pulled on his pants. As his fingers fastened the buttons of his shirt, he glanced around the room again. It felt entirely too intimate to be left alone in Nicholas’ bedroom.

Unlike the living room, the bedroom had a single framed photograph on the desk by the window. When Ben stepped closer to inspect it, he could only stare at the familiar image.

The photo was of the two of them standing on a dock holding up a fish they had caught together during a trip to the local lake when they were seven.
No, eight
, Ben thought as he regarded the younger version of himself, who happened to be missing a number of teeth; he had lost quite a few that year. Ben smiled and headed to the bathroom.

Downstairs, Ben found Nicholas inspecting the contents of his fridge. The smell of coffee filled the room.

A sheepish expression darted across the sheriff’s face. “I may have overstated my promise of breakfast.”

“I’m good with coffee.”

Nicholas shook his head. “No, we missed dinner. How about we head over to Duvall’s?”

“Aren’t you on duty today?”

“Not until eight o’clock.”

“Okay,” Ben said. “Duvall’s, then. Shouldn’t you get your ear checked out, though?”

“I just left a message. Gloria will give me a call and let me know when Cartwright is available,” Nicholas replied as he poured two cups of coffee and spooned an ungodly amount of sugar into one of the mugs.

Ben watched with fascination and could not help a smile when Nicholas offered him the sweetened coffee.

Nicholas raised an eyebrow at Ben’s attention. “What?”  

“Nothing,” Ben said, but he thought Nicholas definitely got points for remembering how he liked his coffee.

Nicholas gave a bemused smile and sipped from his own mug, which was devoid of sugar and milk just as Ben had anticipated. “I’m just going to shower and get dressed,” he said after he checked the clock on the same wall that he had held Ben against several hours before. “Then we can go?”

“Sure.”

“Make yourself at home,” Nicholas said with a warm grin before he left the kitchen.

Ben sipped his bitter but perfectly sweetened coffee and was convinced he had stumbled into some glorious alternate reality.

Nicholas returned fifteen minutes later. He was freshly showered and wearing a cheerful smile with his well-pressed uniform when he walked back into the kitchen. His happiness was infectious.

“Can I say something?” Ben asked, and Nicholas’ smile faltered at Ben’s serious tone.

“Of course,” Nicholas said.

Ben maintained an intentionally grave demeanor while he peered up and down Nicholas’ tall frame. “You in a sheriff’s uniform is quite possibly the most attractive thing I’ve ever seen. Ever.
In my life
.”

Nicholas laughed and seemed almost bashful as his hands came to a rest on his duty belt.

“See,
that
,” Ben said. “Right there.”

Nicholas rolled his eyes. “And you complained about me arresting you,” he said and stepped closer to press his lips to Ben’s. Ben felt unburdened by his earlier caution and returned the kiss. He tangled his fingertips through Nicholas’ still-damp hair, though he was careful to avoid Nicholas’ injured ear. He could not stifle a sigh when Nicholas’ tongue breached his lips. The touch was tentative at first, then more insistent.

“Ben,” Nicholas murmured as his lips traced across Ben’s jaw.

A sudden burst of static rose from Nicholas’ radio and killed the moment.

“Sheriff, 10-33,” said the grainy voice of a dispatcher.

“Fuck,” Nicholas said. “Fuck all.”

Ben receded a few paces as Nicholas yanked the radio from his belt.

“It’s the station,” Nicholas said, and an apologetic grimace darkened his features.

Ben waved a hand as if to say he was not bothered. Truthfully, he was happy to regain his personal space. Kissing Nicholas felt like being swallowed by the sky.

The sheriff strode into the next room to answer the radio in private, but Ben heard the loud crackle of the frequency as the dispatcher recited a string of scanner codes that Ben could not decipher.

For a moment, Ben considered sticking his head into the freezer. He adjusted the front of his shirt and straightened his back when Nicholas reemerged.

“I have to go in now,” Nicholas said. “I’m sorry, Ben.”

“Oh. Okay.”

“Let me make it up to you,” Nicholas offered. “Dinner tonight? Eight o’clock?”

“Yeah, sure,” Ben said. “That should be fine. I’ll call you if not.”

“Yeah, okay,” Nicholas said. He pulled a pen and a pad of yellow Post-it notes out of one of the kitchen drawers. He scrawled something onto the top sheet. “Here’s my number.”

“Do you want mine?” Ben asked, taking the note.

A slight smile crept across Nicholas’ face. “I got it already. From your paperwork.”

“I’m
sure
that’s an abuse of power,” Ben replied with a snort.

“You can make a citizen’s arrest tonight, I promise,” Nicholas said. “I’ll see you later. Stay as long as you want. Just lock the door on your way out.”

“You got it,” Ben said. “See you later.”

Nicholas darted out of the room. Ben heard the front door close, and he pocketed the Post-it. He turned to the sink and washed his and Nicholas’ cups before he headed to the front entry hall to put on his shoes and coat. It felt odd to be alone in someone else’s house, and he needed to shower and change anyway.

The sound of sirens greeted him when he left the house; they echoed from the south side of Main Street and seemed to be heading toward River Bend Road. Ben wondered what had happened to send the sheriff out so early.

He ensured the door was locked behind him before he walked up Dunmore and cut through the square to where he had parked the Camaro the day before.

The driveway was bereft of the Expedition when Ben reached Cardinal Lane. Andrew had probably already headed to work hours before and would have noticed Ben’s absence. Ben berated himself for having neglected to check in. The pleasant familiarity of the entry hall greeted him when he entered the empty house.

Before he showered, Ben stared at his reflection in the bathroom mirror and noted the slight smile that tugged at his lips.

And they say you can’t go home again.

Illustration, Chapter One. “
Acherontia atropos
.”

Illustration, Chapter Two. “
Saturnia pavonia
.”

Chapter Two

“W
elcome to Small Town USA, where your neighbors are so trustworthy they won’t even steal your wireless,” Ben mumbled. He had showered, shaved, and dressed in a clean suit before he partook in a modest breakfast of toast covered in strawberry jam. He was on his second coffee of the morning as he sat with his laptop at the kitchen table. The Wi-Fi settings for his father’s connection were unlocked.

A quick scan of the
Gazette’s
website revealed nothing out of the ordinary, but there was a small story about the suicide of Jack Freemont.

Ben rifled through his messenger bag and pulled out one of Tucker’s journals before he flipped to the pages concerning the incident at Silver Bridge. Ben opened a new tab and searched for additional information on the bridge’s collapse, but he found nothing of relevance.

He took out the copy of Chapman’s photograph of the bridge, complete with the apparent Mothman perched atop a support tower, and stared at it for a long moment.

Ben propped the photograph against the laptop’s screen and returned to Google where he entered ‘
death omen
’ into the search box. Paranormal websites by the dozen came up in the results. Ben skimmed over the first few entries, but he lingered over one in particular.

“
Death omens exist throughout all cultures of the world
.”

Ben thought that was perhaps overstating the facts, but he was captivated by a short list of popular omens. “
A picture that inexplicably drops off the wall, a clock that ceases to tick, a bird that pecks at a window, the sounds of mournful howls and screams that seem to come from nowhere, and the appearance of animals with glowing eyes (sometimes reported as glowing red like blood, the worst possible omen of all)
.”

Jack Freemont had heard the creature’s screams and likened them to that of children’s. Ben knew from firsthand experience that these sounds came directly from the creature. He could also vouch for its glowing red eyes, as could Tucker’s depiction of the thing in his final journal entry.

Ben returned to the search results and followed a link to a page on Native American omens. He scanned through the list of animal-related portents, but he thought they all seemed pretty standard or sensible. A butterfly was representative of transformation and eternal life, while a bat was symbolic of the night and considered its guardian. The other animals were irrelevant as none of them matched the appearance of the Mothman closely enough.

The website featured a navigation bar that pointed to other pages of interest, and Ben raised an eyebrow at one of the links: cursed land. Half an hour—
and a whole lotta crazy
—later, Ben had read enough of the website to know that Native American ‘curses’ were a rather hairy area of research, and he was not sure they were relevant for his work, especially as the majority of the field seemed unnecessarily offensive to Native cultures and drawn straight out of scenes from
Poltergeist
.