Point Pleasant (29 page)

A gentle knock arose from the front door, jarring Ben from his thoughts, and he stifled a knee-jerk desire to scream. He approached the door and peered through the peephole with caution.

No one there.

Ben pressed against the wood frame as he checked for signs of movement. He reached down and tried to ignore the way his hand trembled as he slid the lock out of place and twisted the knob to open the door. The air in his lungs caught as he surveyed the front yard for a threat.

Ben stepped onto the porch. He checked the salt line to ensure he was not going to step over it before he gazed down the street. He looked to the left, then to the right. Cardinal Lane was quiet and empty.

He spun around to go inside but stilled when he caught sight of the door knocker and what dangled from it. Marietta’s words echoed in his head.

A familiar face will return.

An arrowhead with the carved likeness of a Native American chief hung from a worn leather cord.

It was the arrowhead Nicholas had given Ben on their eleventh birthday; the arrowhead that Ben had thrown into the forest beside River Bend Road in a fit of self-loathing and despair; the arrowhead that had no business on the front door of his childhood home.

Ben reached out to touch the carved face with the tip of his index finger as if to confirm it was actually there. He slipped the cord off the knocker and held the arrowhead in the palm of his right hand.

A sign of trust
.

Ben glanced skyward as if he half-expected to see the winged creature that had protected him on River Bend Road hovering there in the air, but the gray sky was devoid of any supernatural creatures, winged or otherwise.

“Okay,” he said to something—
someone
—who was not there, but Ben knew
it
was probably listening just the same. “I’ll help you.”

Ben stood unmoving for a long moment as he waited for a response that never came. The hum of an engine captured his attention, and Ben saw Bill Tucker’s pickup truck pull to a stop in front of the house.

Tucker had his Remington in one hand and appeared unsettled. He approached the house and stopped outside of the salt line. He nodded in approval and then stepped inside its protection.

Ben tied the leather cord with the arrowhead around his neck and led Tucker inside. Neither spoke until the door was closed and locked behind them.

“I don’t know what you saw,” Tucker said, “but River Bend Road’s like a tornado went through then caught fire.”

“Are you serious? Literal fire?”

“Why do you think it took me so long to get here? There were so many cop cars and fire trucks, I couldn’t get out of my drive.”

Ben realized Nicholas had not returned his call. He must have gone to River Bend Road and was dealing with whatever had happened after Ben’s escape.

“Fuck,” Ben cursed and grabbed for his phone and waved Tucker into the living room. “Just a second. I gotta make a call.”

Nicholas’ number went straight to voicemail. Ben grumbled after the beep. “Nic, listen, do
not
go into the forest. I can’t explain right now. Just don’t go into the forest, whatever you do.”

Ben pocketed his phone and ran a hand through his hair. Tucker’s observation from the day before resonated with new meaning.

It called twice.

Half an hour later, Ben had told Tucker everything from the visits to Lewis, Warren, and Abernathy to the scrambled voicemail that led him out to River Bend Road. Tucker listened to Ben recount his conversation with the voice, but he seemed wary until Ben played him the recording. When it ended, Tucker’s face had taken on an ashen quality as if he might become physically ill.

“Holy Jesus,” Tucker whispered.

Ben poured two glasses of the whiskey from Andrew’s desk and offered one to Tucker. They downed the alcohol in single shots, and Ben savored the burn. He checked his phone; Nicholas had yet to call back.

“I don’t know what we’re supposed to do,” Tucker said. “Except maybe pray.”

“I’m not really the praying type,” Ben said as he toyed with his empty glass. “Abernathy said I have to break it.”

“Break
what
, though?”

“I have no idea,” Ben said, shaking his head. “But it—the first one, it needs help.”

“That don’t make a lick of sense. Why would it need anyone’s help?”

Ben offered the man another two fingers of whiskey. His gaze settled over the photographs on the mantle. He thought of the picture of Caroline in his copy of
Slapstick
back in Boston.

“It said it wants to go home. Maybe it’s stuck here somehow. Maybe there’s something keeping it.”

Tucker drank in silence.

“Maybe whatever that something is, that’s what has to be broken,” Ben mused.

“Yeah, but let’s say that’s the case. Let’s say we find whatever needs breaking, break it, and Glinda the Good Witch just flutters home to Oz. Which leaves us to deal with the other one.”

“No, I don’t think it would,” Ben replied while he eyed the bottle of whiskey and considered another shot for himself.

“Why’s that?”

“Because it warns us,” Ben said. “All the times it shows up before something bad happens, it’s trying to
warn
us. To let us know the other one is coming. I don’t think it’d just leave us if it got free.”

“I don’t know if I would put all my gasoline in that tank, son,” Tucker advised. “Just in case you’re wrong.”

“But you heard them.” Ben rubbed the nape of his neck when he felt goosebumps rise once again at the thought of the
other
voice. “They sounded pretty hostile with one another. What if it’s the
other
one keeping the
good
one here? Maybe the good one wants revenge anyway if it’s been trapped here since—hell, since at least 1744.”

“That’d be something,” Tucker said, seeming to consider the idea.

“I guess we just need to figure out how to protect ourselves until we find out what the good one needs.”

“I’ve got a box of ammo in the bed of my truck,” Tucker started. “I think filling up the shells with rock salt would be a smart start.”

Ben turned to Tucker and grinned. “That’s genius.”

“Well, it might at least slow down the other one.”

“Maybe we should drive out to St. Luke’s,” Ben said. “Get as much holy water as we can get our hands on.”

Tucker stared off at the empty fireplace, his dark brown eyes were narrowed and glazed. A moment passed, and Ben shifted under the weight of the other man’s silence.

“What? What is it?”

“It’s just,” Tucker started, but he paused to swallow with what looked like considerable effort. “Salt, sage, holy water, iron…” The old farmer’s attention fell to the fireplace, and he kept quiet for a long moment before he whispered, “
What are they?
”

The question that Ben had been asking himself for the last hour hung on the air like wafts of smoke from one of Andrew’s cigarettes. Ben was struck by the sudden desire to open all the windows and let the breeze carry it away.

“I was reading last night,” Tucker said, and he hesitated for a moment with the same uncertainty that had once led him to lie to Deputy Nate Nolan out of fear of being thrown into the drunk tank. “I was trying to find something useful, something that might help us figure out what was going on. One of my books, it had a whole section on omens. Mostly demonic ones.”

“A
demon?
You think it’s a demon?”

“I don’t know what I think,” Tucker replied. “All I know is you pick up any book on this kinda thing, and it’ll tell you salt, holy water, and a good old-fashioned copy of the King James is near about all that’ll protect you from something like this. If that’s what it is, we ain’t got a snowball’s chance, son. Not in saving ourselves, and certainly not in saving anybody else from whatever’s about to happen.”

Ben stood and started to pace.

“I’ve got a computer back at home,” Tucker said. “You mind making me a copy of that file? I wanna try and see if I can figure out what they’re saying when they’re both talking in those other languages. I’ve got an old book of Latin somewhere.”

“You know Latin?”

“Not really. But Catholic school might have been good for something after all.”

“You’re Catholic?”

“Lapsed.” Tucker shrugged. “I still got some books.”

Ben rifled through his messenger bag until he found the small key drive he always kept stowed in its front pocket. He plugged it into his laptop and copied the audio file across.

“That town meeting, didn’t you say it’s in an hour?”

“Yeah,” Ben confirmed. “You going?”

Tucker nodded. “I’ll drive you over.”

“Yeah, okay.”

“I’ve got an extra shotgun stowed in my truck,” Tucker said as he rose to his feet. “You want it?”

Ben raised an eyebrow. He had not held a gun in years, not since he was seventeen and went on an uneventful hunting trip with Andrew. “I’ll take it.”

“Be back in a tick,” Tucker said. “You can help me fill the shells.”

Forty minutes later, they divvied up the prepared 12-gauge salt rounds and sage bundles. Tucker would drive out to St. Luke’s first thing the following morning to retrieve the holy water. He seemed uneasy about returning home now that he was aware of what occupied the forest, but his books were there, and he was intent to “not be a delicate fucking flower” about the situation.

Ben left the spare Remington by the front door, grabbed his laptop and bag, and joined Tucker in his pickup truck. The worn seats were a comforting sight.

Tucker parked outside Town Hall. There were a few other vehicles present, and relief trickled through Ben when he saw the Sheriff’s cruiser was parked in front of the Department across the square.

Main Street was desolate. Despite the fact that Ben’s watch read just shy of four o’clock, almost every business on the street had closed for the day. As Ben observed the empty square, a shock of unease jolted him into alertness.

“Listen,” he said.

Tucker paused on his way around the Ford and frowned. “I don’t hear anything.” He shifted with discomfort, realizing that was Ben’s point. “Let’s get inside.”

The meeting had already started, though unofficially. There were less than fifty people present in the chairs set up for the event, which seemed like a shockingly small turnout for a town with over 4,000 residents.

Mae stood near the front of the auditorium with the mayor. Silas Stewart wore a well-tailored blue suit that stretched elegantly across his tall, thin frame. The overhead fluorescent lights reflected off his shiny, bald head as Mae waved her arms and yelled at him in apparent outrage.

Nicholas stood nearby and observed while they argued back and forth about something, but he glanced up when Ben entered with Tucker. The sheriff looked somber, but his expression changed when he caught sight of Ben. Nicholas excused himself from the argument.

“Ben, Bill,” he said as he approached.

“Sheriff,” Tucker greeted, and Ben noted the especially gruff intonation the other man put on the word. “Get your head outta your ass yet?”

Ben raised an eyebrow at the exchange.

Nicholas seemed unfazed, and he extended his hand to Tucker.

Tucker regarded the sheriff’s gesture for a few seconds before he extended his own hand and shook. “You get that fire under control?”

“Longino got it out in no time,” Nicholas confirmed.

“Good.”

Nicholas looked between the two of them before he settled on Ben. “How are you?”

Ben gave an exaggerated thumbs-up.

“Ain’t nothing a bottle of something hard and bitter can’t fix,” Tucker said and moved away to find a seat.

“What happened?” Nicholas asked.

“Tell you later,” Ben said. “But you could have called back,” he added, sounding colder than he intended.

“I was
working
, Ben.”

“It was important,” Ben replied. “Never mind. We’ll talk later.”

Ben joined Tucker and slumped against his chair. Nicholas returned to the front of the auditorium where Mae was still yelling at Stewart.

“All right, Mae,” Nicholas said with ease. “You can finish this after the meeting. We need to get started so you folks can get home for curfew.”

“Curfew?” Ben whispered, and Tucker grunted.

“There’s always a curfew. Like hiding inside will make it go away.” Tucker’s words were laced with bitterness to convey his awareness that he was just as guilty of such cowardice.

Mae flumped into a chair on the third row as Nicholas stepped behind the podium. If the circumstances were different, Ben might have been able to appreciate the respect his childhood best friend now seemed to command.

“Afternoon, folks,” Nicholas said. “We’re gonna try and make this fast so you can all get home. For those who might not have heard, curfew has been instated for six P.M. This means you and yours should make all arrangements to be inside, in your homes, by that time until we lift said curfew. It’s incredibly important that you adhere to this.”

“You can’t just keep us locked up!” Mae yelled. “I got a business to run!”

Nicholas held up a hand. “Mae, I know that. A lot of people do. But what is most important right now is everyone’s safety.”

Lizzie sat on the front row and hunched over a notebook. She raised an arm in the air, and Ben watched as Nicholas did his best to hold in a sigh.

“Ms. Collins?”

“This is for the mayor, Sheriff,” she said when she peered up from her notes. “If you don’t mind, of course. Mayor Stewart, are there any immediate plans to cancel next week’s festival?”

Stewart shook his head to Nicholas, who remained at the podium. They shared a silent exchange for a few seconds before the sheriff turned his attention to Lizzie. “Ms. Collins, I’ll be answering the questions today. Please direct them to me. At the moment, there is no plan to cancel the festival. If there is, it will be announced tomorrow.”

Lizzie resumed her note-taking. Nicholas looked out over the small crowd as if to continue, but she waved her hand again.

“And can you confirm, Sheriff, that your department is finally recognizing the problem of the creature in the woods? The so-called ‘Moth-Man?’” Lizzie asked, and she flexed her fingers to make air quotes when she pronounced the creature’s moniker with intentional stress on each syllable.