Point Pleasant (9 page)

When he realized how far he had driven, Ben pulled the Camaro over to the shoulder of the road and put the car into park.

“Fuck,” he whispered and slammed his fist on the dashboard. The outburst felt like relief; it hurt his hand, but the pain was almost cathartic.

“Fuck,” he said again but louder. “FUCK!” he outright screamed as he beat his fist on the side of the steering wheel.

Ben stumbled out of the car. “Fucking
fuck!
” he called out into the forest that surrounded the empty stretch of road. He kicked at the front left tire before he spun on his heel and paced around the car. He ran a hand through his hair and gripped it tight at the roots as if trying to wake himself up from a bad dream.

Without thought, Ben tugged at the leather cord around his neck, yanking it hard enough to break the material. He had worn the arrowhead every day since Nicholas had given it to him almost nine years prior, but he wanted it gone even though he immediately grieved the loss of its familiar weight. He stared down at the carved stone attached to the center and clutched it hard in the palm of his hand for a long moment before he reared back and threw the necklace as far as he could. It disappeared into the woods by the roadside, and he did not bother to watch where it landed.

Ben slumped against the trunk of the Camaro and let it support his weight while his knees shook. He felt hollow inside despite the pounding of the broken heart in his chest, which was evidence of the fact that he was anything but empty.

He doubled over, put his hands over his face, and stayed like that for several minutes before he sank into the car and drove home.

Andrew was preparing dinner in the kitchen. Ben waved at his father’s welcome and stood by the kitchen sink to look out the window at the apple tree in the backyard.

“Thought we’d have steak tonight,” Andrew said.

“I’m gonna go away for a while,” Ben replied.

“Okay, we can have burgers,” Andrew said with a laugh. “No need to throw a fit.”

“I need to work some stuff out. On my own.”

Andrew faced his son, but Ben continued to peer out the window despite his father’s concerned gaze. “Did something happen?”

“No,” Ben replied, keeping his voice level and controlled. “I just need some time. Since Mom and everything, I just need some time on my own.” He met his father’s eyes finally. “Just for a while.”

Andrew’s sharp features softened considerably. He looked like he understood. And he probably did; he escaped to the sterile respite of the hospital often enough, after all.

“Where do you want to go?”

Ben exhaled a breath he did not know he had been holding while his father assessed him. Andrew was looking at him not as a son but as a man who could—and
should
—leave home.

“I don’t know yet,” Ben replied. “I just think a drive could help. A long drive. Maybe I’ll go see Katie.”

“She’d like that,” Andrew said. He let out a sigh and wiped his hands on a dish towel. “The Camaro is yours. She’s good on the open road.”

Ben nodded in agreement. He knew she was.

“When do you want to go?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

“Then wash your hands and help me with the steak so we can have dinner together.”

Ben drove out of Point Pleasant before his father woke the next morning, but he left a note: “
Put coffee on for you. See you soon. Ben
.”

October 2012

Ben was unsurprised to find his father seated at the table with a cup of coffee and the morning paper. Thanks to his time in the service, Andrew had always been an early riser, and Ben knew that even though the clock had only just ticked past six o’clock, Andrew had most likely been awake for hours.

“Morning,” Andrew said, his voice gruff from sleep-induced disuse.

“Morning,” Ben replied.

“Coffee’s on.”

Ben poured himself a cup, and he could not help the small smile on his lips at the sight of the old Mr. Coffee machine that he had put on to brew the morning he left thirteen years ago.

If it ain’t broke
, Ben thought and mused over the formality of the machine’s name. He imagined it in a suit and tie not unlike the one he had donned before coming downstairs. Perhaps Mr. Coffee even carried a ragged briefcase that was as worn as his filter basket.

“Anything exciting?” Ben asked, gesturing to the paper as he sat down across from his father.

“Nothing.”

Andrew folded the
Gazette
and put it to the side. Ben took a long sip of coffee. It was sharp and acrid on his taste buds like the shock of the first swig of orange juice after brushing teeth.

“Bitter as hell,” Ben started.

“And twice as hot,” Andrew finished, bestowing his son with a grin. The tension from their awkward dinner seemed to have broken over night. “I should go. Early surgery.” He stood and ruffled Ben’s hair. “Spare key is on the table in the hall. Don’t cause any trouble today.”

“I won’t.”

“See you later,” Andrew replied before he disappeared to the entry hall. A few minutes later, Ben relaxed at the sound of the front door opening and closing, signaling Andrew’s departure.

Ben took his mug and headed to the living room. For the first time since he arrived, he allowed himself to take in the familiarity of the space. The mint green walls still bore the framed prints of his mother’s favorite Picasso paintings from the artist’s blue period.

He smiled to see that the brown leather Eames sofa and its matching lounge chair and ottoman were still present, as was the walnut coffee table he had once left a glass of sweet tea on, sans coaster, which had earned him a lecture on carelessness from his father. The ghost of the water ring lingered, and Ben remembered Caroline had merely shrugged and said, “It adds character.”

He shuffled to the fireplace and examined the framed photographs on the mantle. There was a picture of his parents on their wedding day, one of his then ten-year-old sister dressed as Princess Leia while eight-year-old Ben had donned a modified karate uniform to resemble Luke Skywalker, one of the two of them when they were both teenagers, one of Kate in her graduation robes, and one of Caroline cradling a baby Ben in her arms.

Ben lingered on the last image of his mother. Caroline looked resplendent as she smiled at something out of shot. A print of the same photograph was tucked away in his tattered copy of
Slapstick
back in Boston like a secret bookmark meant for Ben’s sole reference.

The silence of the empty house was a strange comfort, and Ben returned to the kitchen for a refill of coffee. He sat down again and opened the newspaper. The front page of the
Gazette
made him straighten. “
Mysterious Mothman Sightings Reported for First Time in Twenty Years
.”

Ben scanned the headline and then the section below. Jack Freemont—
always Jack Freemont
—reported that he had seen the creature perched on the roof of a house during his drive into town the previous morning. It had flown off into the tree line not too far from the elementary school where teachers later reported mysterious scratching sounds from the roof. Some of the school children witnessed a tall, dark shape at the edge of the playground. The principle sent them home for the rest of the day.

Sheriff Nolan had assured the
Gazette
that raccoons were the likely culprits behind the scratching noises. Animal control would be brought in to investigate the situation.

Coyotes, raccoons, and giant moths, oh my!

A quick skim of the sub story on the front page revealed that townsfolk were questioning the timing of the Harvest Festival and if it should be put off until the Mothman issue had been resolved. The article went on to discuss the amount of revenue the festival raked in each year.

Mayor Silas Stewart had spoken as the voice of apparent reason; the annual Harvest Festival would go off without a hitch, but he was happy to issue an increased police presence if it made the townspeople feel safer.

Ben’s thoughts wandered to Nicholas. He knew he had been frosty in front of the diner, but he also knew that it was for the best. Ben’s only regret was the way the sight of his former friend made his lungs falter.

None of that, Benji.
Nicholas probably had a couple of kids by now. It would do Ben no good at all to fixate over the image of his first love, no matter how casual the fantasy.

Ben washed his and Andrew’s cups and went upstairs to retrieve his notes. He took the paper with him and jotted down the names of all the people he wanted to interview, provided they still lived in town. Bill Tucker was at the top of the list.

The clock read half past six. If he drove out now, Ben could be at Tucker’s by seven. He was certain that the old man would be up and active. Tucker was a farmer, after all.

The cold morning air tasted clean when Ben breathed in a lungful. He pulled his black wool pea coat close around his frame and unlocked the Camaro. His messenger bag hung from his left shoulder and bore the morning paper, his notes, and his laptop.

He cut through to Main Street so that he could drive by the Sheriff’s Department, though he would never admit this to anyone, especially himself. There were six police cruisers parked in front of the building, and Ben wondered which one Nicholas drove.

Fucking stop it
,
Benij
.

As he turned onto the long stretch of River Bend Road that led to Tucker’s farm, Ben reflected on how the surrounding forest seemed to swallow up the asphalt. The atmosphere grew heavy and dark despite the presence of the risen sun. The forest seemed ominous. It was smaller than Ben had remembered from his childhood nightmare, but the expanse of the woodland overwhelmed just the same.

Ben rolled into the driveway of Tucker’s farm just after seven o’clock. He parked and got out of the car. The lights were on inside the house.

His shoes crunched on gravel. Something niggled at the back of Ben’s mind. His footsteps clung to the morning air like the layer of dew that covered the grass on either side of the drive. He stilled, realizing that the scattering of pebbles sounded so prominent because the rest of the area was silent. There was no morning birdsong, no chirp of crickets, no bellowing moo of milk cows; the entire farmland was
quiet
.

Before Ben reached the porch, the rusted screen door swung open. Bill Tucker appeared. His brown skin sagged with age, particularly around his mouth, which tattled on too many years spent dragging on the ends of Marlboros. A sprawling tattoo of the name ‘Shirley’ peaked out from underneath the rolled-up right sleeve of Tucker’s flannel shirt, and a faded red baseball cap hid the evidence of his graying hair. Ben recalled the image of his childhood hero perched on the hood of his Ford truck and wondered if the cap was the same one Tucker had donned that morning so many years ago.

“Mr. Tucker,” Ben said, and his polite smile faded when he noticed the Remington 1100 in the other man’s grip. Ben lifted his hands with caution, showing that he had no weapon of his own. “Don’t shoot.”

“What do you want?” Tucker’s heavy West Virginian accent was like the strum of a rusty banjo. He clutched the stock and forend of the shotgun, but he did not raise its barrel past Ben’s feet.

“I’m Ben Wisehart, I don’t know if you remember me,” he said, keeping his hands elevated.

Tucker tilted his head, and recognition bloomed in his eyes. “Wisehart,” he replied, his tone considering.

“Yes, sir. You saved me once.”

“Bit early for reminiscing, ain’t it, son?”

Ben dropped his hands to his sides when Tucker lowered the shotgun and leaned it against the wall beside the door inside the house.

“I took a chance,” Ben said. “Thought you’d be awake.”

“I don’t sleep much these days,” Tucker replied.

“It’s awful quiet out here,” Ben said, and he studied Tucker for a reaction.

“You want a coffee? Tastes like tar, but it’ll light a fire up your ass.”

“That’d be great.”

Ben entered the house when Tucker waved him inside. The older man closed the door then locked it with both the deadbolt and the chain. Ben followed Tucker to the kitchen where he was told to take a seat at the table. Mounds of loose papers covered its surface, and Ben was careful not to disturb the tenuous structures as he pulled out a chair. Tucker shuffled to the stove and poured two cups of black coffee while Ben regarded the space.

Piles of newspapers and books littered the room, which bore the ghost of a female presence under all of the clutter. Anyone else would think Tucker belonged on an episode of
Hoarders
, but a skim of the headlines featured in the collected newspapers, and even the titles of some of the books, revealed that the old man was no closet packrat: he was a researcher. Ben recognized the disarray from his own scattered practices of investigating background material for his books.

“I don’t want to keep you long,” Ben said. “Or disturb your wife.”

“No wife to disturb,” Tucker replied, his tone curt. He slid a mug over to Ben and sat down. “What are you doing here?”

“I read about your cows disappearing,” Ben said.

“You here to offer condolences?” Tucker asked. “You coulda just sent flowers.”

Ben snickered, took a sip of his coffee, and stifled the urge to flinch at the acrid singe of it against his tongue. “I did a little investigating,” he started. “Found that there have been over thirty cases of cattle theft in the area over the last decade. I’m sure there are more. I’m going to Town Hall to check through the hardcopy files later today.”

“Forty-three.”

“Pardon?”

“I’m saving you the trouble. I’ve been through the records. There’s been forty-three filed reports over the last ten years, not counting the five that I personally know of that weren’t filed. Almost two hundred, give or take, since the sixties when…” Tucker started, but he seemed to hold himself back.

“When
it
was first sighted,” Ben finished.

Tucker gave a quick nod. Even though neither one of them had said the name ‘Mothman,’ their thoughts were aligned.