Point Pleasant (11 page)

“So what did you want to talk to me about?” Lizzie asked before she took a bite of the cranberry and brie on rye.

“Oh, just the festival, I guess,” Ben replied and tried to sound casual. “But then I read this morning’s paper. Is it true they might cancel the whole thing?”

“I hope not,” Lizzie said, and Ben could tell she was sincere. “But you know how this town operates. Shoves its head in the sand. Your friend worst of all, I think. No offense.”

“None taken,” Ben said, realizing she meant Nicholas. “Haven’t spoken to him in years, so I wouldn’t call us friends anymore.”

“Yeah, what happened with that anyway? You guys were always inseparable,” Lizzie asked and then blushed. “Sorry, I’m still nosy.”

“Just grew up different, I guess,” Ben said with a shrug as he looked off at the fountain and the Sheriff’s Department on the other side of the square. “But I know what you mean. Head in the sand. Coyotes and raccoons and all.”

Lizzie rolled her eyes and sipped her coffee. Ben expected to see traces of scarlet on the lip of the cup, but he noted that the paper remained a pristine white.

“I mean, I am
not
the type to buy into the whole ‘Mothman’ thing,” she said, and Ben believed her. Lizzie had never been one for flights of fancy. In high school, he had been certain she lacked an imagination entirely. “But at some point, the town officials need to really take a minute and own up to all the
weird
stuff that happens around here.”

“Like the cattle disappearances…” Ben started, and Lizzie nodded.

“That’s not even the half of it.”

“Oh?”

Lizzie took another bite of her sandwich. “It’s probably not something I should talk about,” she said. “I don’t believe half the stories I hear. I didn’t even want to write about the Moth in the paper, but you know Richard. Everything’s an
opportunity
. He figures if we stir up enough intrigue, we’ll pull in more people for the festival next week. More people means more revenue for the town.”

Richard Fulwell was the grumpy asshole who had run the
Gazette
for the last twenty years. Ben had worked under Fulwell for two years during his brief stint on the paper, and it had been an
experience,
but Ben supposed most editors were as batshit crazy as old Richard, and Ben had definitely improved as a writer under Fulwell’s punitive red pen.

“Which, of course,” Lizzie continued, “is the kind of thing the mayor and the Sheriff’s Department hate. We’re spinning the side of the story the town officials want us to bury deep in that sandpit of theirs.”

“Guess it’s a good thing Fulwell owns the paper, then,” Ben replied with a sardonic smile.

Lizzie laughed and sipped her coffee. “Right. He publishes what he wants.”

“So what are the other things?” Ben asked. “I mean, aside from cattle disappearances?”

“I thought you wanted to know about the festival?”

“I do,” Ben said. “We can talk about that too. I guess I still like a good scary story.”

Lizzie glanced at her watch again. “I’m sure you do. Look, I have to get back to work. But if you want a scary story, you should talk to Jack Freemont. He’s an old drunk, but the things he could tell you would make you sleep with the lights on. Says he hears all kinds of noises coming from the forest. Screeching howls that sound like children screaming.”

Ben’s throat pinched, but he eyed Lizzie with controlled placidity. “Children screaming?”

Lizzie stood and dusted a few crumbs off her skirt. “Yeah, crazy, right? Especially if you think about that whole disappearance with the Harper kid back in the day. It’s no wonder people are so protective of their children around here.”

“True,” Ben said. He walked with her as she crossed through the square to the
Gazette’s
office. “Listen, we should talk again. I’ll ask about the festival next time, I promise.”

“Yeah, you do that. You had better feature me in your story. I want a quote and everything.”

“You got it,” Ben said, but he felt a pang of guilt over the lie. He could name a character in his next book after her. “See you later, Liz.”

“Bye, Ben.” Lizzie waved and disappeared into the building.

Ben strolled down Main Street and shoved his hands into his coat pockets. He paused outside Abernathy’s Antiques; the shop was dark, and there was a hand-lettered sign on the door. “
Open Tuesday, Thursday, Saturday. 10-4. For private sessions with Marietta Abernathy, please redirect yourself to The Purple House on Main
.”

As it was Wednesday, Ben supposed he could forget the idea of a browse. He snickered to himself, wondering if the business of fortune-telling was more lucrative than antiquing, and continued on his way.

He considered driving out to the Freemont farm; it was a bit further than Tucker’s, but if Ben were honest, he was unsure if he would be able to stand the silence.

There was a steady set of vibrations against his hip, and Ben pulled his phone from his coat pocket. The phone continued to vibrate to alert him to a call, but there was no number listed on the caller ID, not even the usual ‘Unknown Caller’ message.

Ben slid his finger across the touchscreen and held the phone up to his ear.

“Hello?”

The sound of static greeted him from the other end of the line.

“Hello?” he repeated, and he nearly dropped the phone as a whining, electronic screech blasted into his ear. When he listened again, the line was dead.

A black and white Dodge Charger pulled into the empty parking space Ben had stopped by to answer his phone. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed the LED light bar atop the Charger’s roof and froze. Ben cast a furtive glance to the side and saw the word SHERIFF written across the driver’s side of the vehicle. He focused on his phone and moved to walk away.

“Ben,” Nicholas said, stepping out of the car.

Goddamnit
.

Ben paused and peered up from his touchscreen. “Sheriff.”

Nicholas lifted an eyebrow and shut the cruiser’s door. He said nothing in response as he joined Ben on the sidewalk. Ben returned his attention to his call log and hoped Nicholas would carry on his own course.

When Nicholas did not budge, Ben faced him. “Can I help you with something, Sheriff?”

His question was met with an unflinching stare from the other man. Ben knew this was undoubtedly because of his frosty reception and the way he kept saying ‘Sheriff’ rather than Nicholas’ name.

“Have a nice drive this morning?” Nicholas asked.

“I did, thanks.”

“Couldn’t help but notice you were coming from River Bend Road,” Nicholas said.

“That’s right,” Ben said. “Thought I’d go sightseeing.”

“See what you wanted to see, then?” Nicholas asked, regarding Ben through narrowed eyes.

“For now.”

“It would be a good idea for you to keep your adventuring to a minimum, Ben.”

“I’m just visiting old friends. I didn’t realize that was against the law, Officer.”

“Who might those friends be exactly?” Nicholas asked, and Ben could tell the other man was trying to ascertain whether Ben had gone to speak with Tucker or perhaps Freemont.
Probably so he can assess which line of damage control to use
. Ben could almost hear Nicholas’ voice in his head, logical and cutting in its rationality.
Tucker’s old and reclusive, Ben. Freemont’s the town drunk. You can’t believe anything they say.

“Anyone. Just not you,” Ben replied.

Nicholas’ eyes shuttered. For a flutter of a second, it looked like someone had punched him in the gut. “Ben,” he said after a beat of silence, and Ben puzzled over the shifting emotions he could read on the sheriff’s face. “I know things ended badly between us,” he went on, but Ben held up a hand.

“It’s ancient history at this point, Sheriff,” Ben said, and even he was startled by his complete inability to call Nicholas by his name. “We’re not friends anymore. We haven’t been for a very long time. We’re not going to grab a beer or shoot the shit like the old days. Let’s just leave it at that.”

“Very well,” Nicholas said, squaring his shoulders. “Then allow me to speak candidly. Not as a friend but as the chief law enforcement officer of Mason County. Rumor has it you are writing something about the Harvest Festival. That’s fine. But see to it you don’t stick your nose where it doesn’t belong. This town doesn’t need you fanning its flames.”

“Don’t know what you mean,” Ben replied with an easy smile. “I’m just here to write a story.” This was the truth, of course. Ben
was
there to write a story, but it was none of Nicholas’ concern what that story was about.

“I’m serious, Ben,” Nicholas said. “Consider this a warning between old friends. If I find out you’ve been poking your nose around the farmers’ business or pestering townsfolk about anything—and I mean
anything
—other than what kind of jam their grandmas are entering as a prize for the church raffle, I will personally throw you into a holding cell at the station and keep you for the forty-eight hours the law allows. Do you understand me?”

Ben’s lips twitched upward. “Freedom of the press, Sheriff,” he replied. “I do believe the law states that I am free to talk to whomever I please about
whatever
I please. Is this power trip of yours recent or did it start the second they pinned that badge to your chest?”

“Watch it, Wisehart,” Nicholas said, looming closer. Ben took a moment to appreciate that his former friend had grown into an intimidating bastard.

They stood with only inches of empty air separating them, and the sheriff’s closeness afforded the familiar scent of a cologne that inspired thoughts of low-hanging Spanish moss. Ben’s throat tightened.

“You done?” he asked, taking a step back.

Something unreadable passed through Nicholas’ eyes, but it was gone before Ben could discern its meaning. “Goodbye, Ben.”

Fuck you, Nic
.

Nicholas turned back to the cruiser. Ben did not intend to watch him go.
Again
. With a brisk pace, Ben walked around the corner to where he had parked the Camaro and slid into the driver’s seat. He wondered when Nicholas had become such a bully and if he always got his way when he barked orders at the normal townspeople.

Ben fumed as he reversed out of the parking space. The idea of taking orders—first from Andrew, now from the sheriff of Mason
fucking
County
—
grated on Ben’s nerves like a scratchy wool blanket against bare skin
.

Fuck it,
Ben thought as he revved the Camaro’s engine and set off down Main Street
. Looks like I’m going to have a chat with old Jack Freemont.

When Ben reached the Freemont farm, it was after two o’clock. He navigated the dirt driveway, and his skin prickled from a swell of foreboding as he neared the house. The shutters were falling off the windows, and the exterior looked like it had not seen a new coat of paint in thirty years.

Ben parked, got out, and walked up to the front porch. The rotted wood of the steps shifted and creaked beneath his feet with an alarming shrillness that echoed throughout the quiet property.

He knocked on the front door and waited. No sound came from inside the house, but Ben knocked again. There was no response, so Ben returned to the safety of solid ground and cringed at every creak and groan of the porch as he descended the stairs. He checked the windows for signs of movement, but all was still.

A whinny rose from the rear of the house. Ben recognized the sound of hooves thundering over earth. A black mare raced past, and Ben stepped out of the way just as it bolted by him and took off across the open field to the west of Freemont’s property.

Ben investigated the direction from which the horse had emerged and spotted an open barn a few hundred feet away from the house. Freemont was probably in there and most likely raging over the escaped horse.

As Ben headed to the barn, he mused that Freemont’s accounts of missing animals perhaps had less to do with a supernatural creature and more to do with him being an old drunk who left the barn door wide open.

“Hello?” Ben called out when he was a few feet from the barn. “Mr. Freemont?” He took a few cautious steps inside and squinted into the darkness. The scent of horse manure was noxious. “Mr. Freemont, my name is Ben Wisehart. I grew up around here. I was hoping I could talk to you.”

Once more, Ben was met with silence. The wind blew outside, and the building seemed to shift and shake, causing a few of the doors to the empty stalls to slam open and shut.

Another gale slammed against the side of the barn, and the small voice in the corner of his mind whispered,
You’re not in Boston anymore, Benji.
A heavy overhead support beam fell, and Ben had only a fleeting second to wonder if the wind had really blown
that
hard before he saw the body dangling from the rickety woodwork.

Jack Freemont swung back and forth while suspended from the broken beam by a noose around his neck.

The laces of Freemont’s dirty boots hung as limp as the man himself. When Ben’s gaze finally fell on the dead man’s sunken blue face, he forced himself into action. He spun and strode out of the barn.

Cold wind whipped against Ben’s cheeks, and he blinked several times to clear his vision as he stumbled outside. The sky was blanketed in gray clouds, so the light was dim, but Ben was thankful for its meager presence.

Ben peered into the darkness of the gaping mouth of the barn doors as if to confirm that the figure hanging from the rotten beam like a pair of battered tonsils at the back of some cavernous throat was really there. Freemont swung idly in the breeze. Ben reached into his pocket and fumbled for his phone. He dialed 911 and walked further away from the barn to focus on something other than Freemont’s bloated body.

The line went dead after he dialed, but he tried again. This time, the call seemed to go through. Ben heard a click from the other end of the connection, and he prepared to give the necessary information to the emergency operator. There was another clicking sound, and the loud static screeching from earlier flooded his eardrum at an almost deafening level.