Point Pleasant (24 page)

“No,” Ben sighed. “We’re fine.”

“In my head,” Nicholas said, “when I thought of seeing you again, I never thought it would be this hard.”

“What, you didn’t factor in the supernatural creature living on the edge of town as the ultimate cockblock? I’m surprised, Sheriff.”

Nicholas huffed a laugh and glanced up at the clock. “I should go. I’m on duty in an hour, and I need to shower.”

“Yeah, okay.”

Nicholas stood, and Ben followed him to the front door.

“I am glad you’re here,” Nicholas said, turning. “I’m glad you came back. You belong here for as long as you want to belong here. And speaking selfishly, I hope you want to. For as long a while as you can stand.”

Ben regarded the other man with uncertainty, but Nicholas stepped closer and took Ben’s face into his hands. His eyes shone with an affection that was both beautiful and terrifying.

“I love you,” Nicholas said. “I’ve loved you for years. You don’t belong anywhere else because I think you belong here with me.”

Ben’s stilled at the familiar words.
His words
.

“Don’t go again, Ben.”

Ben smiled despite the ache in his heart and the throb of his head. “Let’s live through this,” he said. “Then we’ll see.”

Nicholas’ thumb brushed against the stubble on Ben’s cheek. “May I kiss you?”

Ben tilted his head and leaned forward. He did not speak his permission, but he gave it freely as he pressed his lips to Nicholas’.

Nicholas cradled Ben’s head in his hands. His eyes fluttered shut, and he leaned closer and kissed with a gentle intensity that caused Ben’s knees to tremble. With a final caress of his lips, Nicholas receded a few inches.

“I’ll talk to Harper,” he said.

“I’ll talk to Lewis and Warren.”

“Be careful,” Nicholas said. “Don’t answer your phone if it’s—you know.”

“You too, Nic.”

Ben watched the sheriff stride out to his cruiser. They smiled to one another from a distance before Nicholas got into the car and drove away.

A fresh copy of the
Gazette
rested on the doormat. Ben grabbed the newspaper and closed the door, entertaining the idea of another coffee. A quick skim of the morning’s headline halted his steps.

“
Point Pleasant’s Prodigal Son and His Stunning Tale of Success
.” Ben studied the decade-old photograph of himself on the front page and skimmed the first few lines of the story written,
of course
, by Elizabeth Collins.

“
Reputable local business man Lionel Dawson has informed
The
Gazette
of a celebrity in our midst: Ben Wisehart—son of Lieutenant Andrew Wisehart, who died tragically yesterday in the accident on New Silver Bridge—is none other than esteemed author Preston James. James, Wisehart’s pseudonym, has received critical acclaim from the New York Times for his writing…
”

“Asshole,” Ben said and tightened his grip on the edges of the paper. “You sold me out.”

He scanned the rest of the article, and his eyes narrowed at the final paragraph. “
Wisehart’s return precedes next week’s annual Harvest Festival. The author will be available for book signings and a discussion of his work and life in Point Pleasant
.”

They were using him to garner more attendees for the festival.

Fuck all.

Ben dressed in his best suit and pulled the Camaro into town around eight o’clock. He strode into the office of the
Gazette,
which was still quiet given the early hour. There were a few groggy staff members present who were sipping on their coffees as if the cups were filled with liquid life support.

“This is bullshit,” Ben announced to the newsroom as he held up his crinkled copy of the morning paper.

Lizzie shot up from her desk, and the intense scarlet of her lipstick grated against Ben’s nerves.

“Ben!” Lizzie cried out. She sounded almost giddy. “I’m sorry about yesterday,” she said as she strode to his side and put out a hand to shake. “I
get it
now. You were protecting your identity!”

Ben ignored the gesture. “Yeah and then you put it all over the front page!”

Lizzie waved this away as if it was an unimportant detail. “Look, it was either that or the tragedy on the bridge, and Stewart insisted we keep that off the front page because of the festival next week. I’m so sorry about your dad, by the way.”

“Are you
actually
fucking kidding me right now?”

Lizzie faltered at his anger. “I’m sorry, Ben. I shouldn’t have gone off on you in the café.”

“You had
no right
to publish this. I’m not some tourist attraction for you to use to lure in extra visitors for your fucking festival.”

“But I thought you’d want everyone in town to know,” Lizzie said, shrinking back a step. “How well you’ve done, I mean. I always knew you’d do well, I told you yesterday.”

“Where’s Richard?”

Lizzie shrunk away a few more steps. “He doesn’t come in until ten o’clock on Fridays.”

Ben clutched the newspaper in his fist. “Well, when he gets in, you tell him Kate,
my lawyer
, is in town in a few days. And we’ll speak then.”

“Ben, please,” Lizzie started, but he pivoted on his heel and headed out of the building before she could finish.

There was a waste bin with a cheery sign on the side that read, ‘Help Us Keep Point Pleasant
Pleasant!’
Ben threw his copy of the paper into the bin as he stalked down the sidewalk. He paused as he approached Duvall’s.

The bell over the door chimed when he entered.

The diner was filled with old men in flannel shirts drinking coffee and eating plates of pancakes and bacon to prepare for their days at work. Behind the counter, Mae whispered something to Keith before she came around to the front to greet Ben.

“Ben,” Mae said and took his hands in her own. “I’m so sorry, honey.”

“Morning, Mae.”

Mae shook her head and sat down with him in a booth by the window. Ben was aware that everyone in the diner had turned to watch them, though he did not know if this was because of the article in the morning’s paper or for sympathy over Andrew. Maybe it was both. He ebbed under the attention either way.

Mae noticed, and she twisted around with a wild, defiant edge to her demeanor. “Go back to your business!”

Ben slid down in the booth and sighed. Mae continued to hold his hand over the table.

“Honey, what can I do?”

Ben gave a weak shrug of his shoulders. “There’s nothing to do, Mae. Thanks, though.”

“You look like hell. You eaten yet?”

Ben struggled to recall his last meal and realized he had not eaten since the previous morning. “I’m okay, Mae.”

“Balls,” she said, and waved Keith over. “Get Ben a stack of flapjacks,” she said. “And bacon and coffee.”

“Mae, I’m fine,” Ben insisted, but she shushed him as Keith disappeared to the kitchen.

Ben grappled with the sudden, uncomfortable urge to walk out of the diner. Mae gripped his hand again.

“You made the morning paper,” she said.

“I’m not happy about that,” Ben replied.

“But honey, we’re proud of you. It’s not everyday we make someone as special as you.”

“We?”

“The town,” Mae said. “Everybody’s talking about you. You’re our first and only author as far as I know.”

“It’s no big deal, Mae.”

“It is, Ben. What was that line about a magazine the other night? And everything your daddy’s been saying all these years?”

“Dad didn’t approve of my career choice,” Ben said with a sigh.

Mae finally let go of Ben’s hand when Keith brought over two cups of coffee and resumed his place behind the counter. “Your daddy,” she said as she took the sugar shaker and poured a good measure of its contents into her cup. “He was a good man, but he was as proud and stubborn as a damn mule. God rest his soul.”

Ben could not help a caustic chuckle as he sugared his own coffee. “Truer words never spoken.”

Mae held up her mug. “To your daddy. A stubborn fool, but one of the best men this town has ever known.”

Ben raised his mug as well, and he tried to smile. “Hell of a pool player too.”

“I’ll drink to that,” Mae said.

The coffee was acrid and made Ben feel queasy, so he left the mug on the table. Mae stood after Ben’s pancakes arrived.

“I gotta get back to work,” Mae said. “Breakfast’s on me, don’t worry about it.”

“Thanks, Mae.”

“I’d better see you for lunch, Ben Wisehart,” she said and shot him a stern expression. “Or I’ll hunt you down and drag you in. You need to eat.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Ben ate in silence and tried to ignore the gawping customers who jangled the bell over the diner’s front door as they came and went.

Sugar Maple Lane was a ten-minute drive from Main Street. Ben parked in front of a small blue house with messy rose bushes in the front yard. His quick search of the phone book in Andrew’s office that morning had informed him that Evelyn Lewis, retired veterinarian, lived here.

Ben knocked on the white door and scrubbed a hand through his hair as he waited for an answer. After a moment, a woman with cropped blonde hair opened the door. She wore sunglasses to cover the dark holes where her eyes had once been.

“Yes?” She tilted her head as if to sense who was there.

“Dr. Lewis? My name is Ben Wisehart, I don’t know if you rem—”

“You brought that dead turtle to my practice,” she said with a laugh.

And it was true. He and Nicholas had been about ten or eleven when they found the turtle on its carapace by the side of the road. They had both been convinced it was just hiding in its shell. On the walk to Dr. Lewis’ office, Ben had decided to call it Raphael with Nicholas’ approval. Lewis had given them a smile laced with regret and said, “Sorry, boys. This one’s gone home to his maker.”

Ben smiled at the memory. “Yes, ma’am.”

Lewis laughed again and moved aside. “Come on in,” she said. “Leave any dead turtles on the porch, though.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Ben repeated and stepped inside.

“Want a cup of coffee? I just made a pot,” she said as she closed the door.

“Only if you’re having one.”

She nodded and walked toward the kitchen, trailing her right hand against the walls as she went. Ben followed a few steps behind and took in the bright, open expanse of her living room.

“Thought you moved away?”

“I did. I came back a few days ago to visit.”

“That’s nice. You enjoying yourself?”

Ben paused and considered the question. “Not really, ma’am.”

“Town treating you different?” she asked. Her movements were graceful as she reached for cups and spoons with practiced familiarity.

“You could say that.”

“I can relate,” she said and shot him a sardonic smirk. “They don’t much like outsiders.”

Ben frowned to himself. Their situations were hardly a valid comparison.

Lewis gestured toward the kitchen table. “Have a seat, I can
hear
you loitering. Tell me what you’re doing with your life, Ben Wisehart.”

“I’m a writer,” Ben said, sliding into one of the chairs by the table. An invisible weight seemed to tumble from his shoulders as he spoke even though he had wanted to keep his career a secret for Andrew’s sake.

Oh well.

“How nice! You write books, or—?”

Ben took the cup of coffee she placed on the table on front of him. “Thanks. And yeah, a few novels.”

“Published?” she asked with another tilt of her head.

“Yeah.”

“Well, good for you,” she said, dropping down into the chair opposite him.

Ben sipped his coffee, and his taste buds delighted at the rich body of the brew. “Oh, that’s a damn fine cuppa.”

“None of that Maxwell House shit in here,” Lewis said with a grin. “So what can I do for you? I don’t suppose you came out here to talk about turtles.”

“No, ma’am,” Ben said. “I was doing some research into the town’s history.”

“Uh huh,” she said and drank her coffee.

“I found a diary written by Emily Lewis in the library archives. I was wondering if there was a relation?”

“She was my great, great, however many times removed aunt.”

“And her father was Colonel Lewis, who led the charge in the Battle of Point Pleasant?”

“That’s right. I guess that’s the Lewis family’s only real claim to fame.”

“I was wondering if you knew more about her,” Ben said, toying with the handle on his mug.

“Like what?” Lewis asked. Her easy demeanor stiffened like the hard backing of the wooden chair she shifted against.

“Well,” Ben started, “I don’t wanna beat around the bush. And if you want me to get the hell out after I ask this, I understand.”

Lewis seemed to brace herself.

“In her account, Emily talked about how she saw a creature with red eyes in the woods. And before the battle, it started to appear to all the men in the camp. Some of them heard it too.”

Lewis put her coffee cup down on the table. “And you thought you’d come ask the crazy old vet about the monster that took her eyes out?”

“I don’t think you’re crazy,” Ben said. “I saw it once. When I was twelve. It chased me and my friend through the woods for miles. It was the scariest damn thing that ever happened to me. I
saw
it. I felt one of its wings brush against the back of my neck. I know it’s out there.”

A thoughtful expression settled over Lewis’ features as she listened. “You know what’s good about being blind?”

“No, ma’am,” Ben said, straightening his shoulders.

“You can hear it when people bullshit you.” She crossed her legs and leaned back in her chair. “And I don’t hear bullshit from you. What do you wanna know?”

“A couple of things, I guess. What happened to you that night on River Bend Road? If you don’t mind talking about it, of course.”

“I got out of my car. It just up and died. No reason for it, either. When the tow truck went for it the next morning, it started up fine as you like. Nothing wrong with it at all.”