Cusp of Night, page 5
He looked away. “We are late starting your lessons today.”
Damn him.
Standing, she tossed her napkin on the table. “When you are ready to consider marriage, I will be ready to consider my lessons.”
* * * *
Present Day
Collin Hode strode into the Hode’s Hill Police Department and made a beeline for David Gregg’s desk. Proper protocol meant he should have been announced, but the desk clerk had taken one look at his face and let him pass. Gregg and the others had seen him enough times over the past few weeks to know he wasn’t there to cause problems. DeLuca and Kovack had both pushed his boundaries, but he’d kept to diplomatic channels, letting the police intervene where necessary. DeLuca had been removed from Hode Development grounds more than once, even fined for trespassing, but the guy kept coming back, pushing his luck.
Enough was enough. After the attack on his father, Collin wanted answers.
David Gregg looked up from typing something into his computer, his mouth set in a flat line. He immediately clicked a button on his keyboard, dimming the information on the screen.
“No news.” Gregg’s reply was short, a sign he didn’t appreciate the interruption. He was probably as sick of seeing Collin as Collin was of being there.
The hell with that. Collin plunked down in the nearest chair. “I just came from the hospital.”
That earned an interested glance. “How’s your father?”
“No change.” Collin looked around the room, noting two plainclothes detectives engrossed in computer work. A uniformed officer stood near the entrance of a short hallway, talking to a file clerk. Why weren’t they out on the street tracking down the attacker of Leland Hode? “The doctor says it’s nothing critical, mostly shock.” He and his mother could be thankful for that. “My father was fortunate and should regain consciousness soon.”
“We’ll want to talk to him when he does.”
“I’m aware of that.” Collin rubbed the back of his neck, pressing on a knot of tension rooted at the base. Since the attack, he’d spent most of his time at the hospital, interceding between his mother, doctors, and the nursing staff. Typical of Althea Hode, she’d spent the hours dissolving into tears or barking commands at anyone who came within earshot. The woman lived for drama, a habit that put Collin in the position of constantly smoothing ruffled feathers.
He’d spent the night quaffing black coffee and downing Excedrin. Somewhere around six in the morning, having expended her supply of tears and theatrics, his mother had asked him to drive her home so she could get some sleep. He’d yet to grab any himself and was certain the long night showed on his face. “What did the girl say? The witness?”
Gregg exhaled as if he’d expected the question. “You’ve heard the rumors, haven’t you? The Fiend’s back in Hode’s Hill.”
A stalling tactic. “You don’t believe that.”
“No. But the girl who witnessed what happened…the way she gave her report…”
“Someone in a cape and mask.” Collin leaned forward, resting his elbow on the edge of Gregg’s desk. A folder on the corner caught his eye. The name HODE was stamped on the tab in block letters. “I’d like her name. I’d like to talk to her.”
“We don’t give out the names of witnesses.” Gregg’s tone was stiff. “Even to someone named Hode.”
Collin fought the urge to scowl. He nodded toward the folder. “Is her name in there? Her statement?” Within fingers’ reach. “All you have to do is get a cup of coffee and give me a few minutes alone.”
Gregg snorted. “I’m going to forget you said that.”
“Look, I need something. If it’s not DeLuca or Kovack—” He stopped abruptly as a new thought slipped into place. “Have you talked to them?”
“No need. I’ve got an eyewitness who provided a physical description that doesn’t match either DeLuca or Kovack.” Gregg started to turn to his computer, then hesitated. “If you want to find your father’s attacker, figure out what he was doing in that alley in the first place.”
“I told you before. He’d been working late.” Collin had answered as many questions as he could, but the alley remained a blank. When he’d left the Fiend Festival following DeLuca’s rant, he’d dropped by Hode Development expecting to find his father. Leland’s office had been empty despite an earlier assertion he’d be there most of the night. He’d been preoccupied lately, secretive at times, something Collin hadn’t shared with the Hode’s Hill PD.
Three days ago, Collin had wandered into his father’s den at Amethyst Hall in time to catch the tail end of his phone conversation. Leland had been in the process of berating the caller, demanding the person never contact him at home. When he’d realized Collin had overheard, he’d exploded and thrown him out of the room.
His father’s den had never been taboo before. The outburst raised suspicions of something shady—an illicit business deal? Bribery? An affair? The last thought made Collin’s gut clench. His mother was a difficult woman, but she was still his mother.
The tension in his neck leeched across his shoulders. If only he could see the name in that damn file, talk to the witness, he might be able to pick up something Gregg had missed. If it took calling the mayor or the police chief to get what he wanted, he was prepared to go the extra mile. Ready to launch into a heated tirade, he abruptly realized it wasn’t necessary.
During their conversation, David Gregg had inadvertently brushed against his keyboard, making the information on his computer screen visible. The detective was turned away from the monitor, but Collin could see it clearly. Gregg had been working on his father’s case, the name of the witness spelled out clearly in twelve-point text.
MAYA SINCLAIR.
* * * *
Maya stepped outside shortly before Ivy was due to pick her up for the Fiend Festival. She’d been cooped up most of the day, sorting through boxes, and looked forward to a few minutes of fresh air. As she walked down the steps to the sidewalk, a white van stopped in front of her brownstone. An orange triangle framed in black decorated the side, bold script proclaiming TV-42, Your source for up to the minute news! Within seconds, a woman in a fitted navy skirt and pinstriped blouse slid from the passenger’s side.
“Ms. Sinclair? Maya Sinclair?” She hurried toward Maya.
Maya hesitated at the bottom of the steps. “Yes?”
“I’m Christy Catterman.” The woman beamed a smile and held out her hand. “I’m with Channel 42 News. Are you familiar with us?”
A red flag of warning sprang awake in Maya’s mind. She’d thought the woman looked familiar. “Yes.” A note of reservation slipped into her voice as she shook the reporter’s hand.
“I understand you were the one who found Leland Hode last night.”
“I…” Maya shifted her attention from Christy Catterman to the van. The driver had rounded the side and opened the sliding door. The interior was crammed with cases, wires, and camera equipment. Stunned, she turned back to the reporter. “How did you know it was me?”
Catterman dismissed the question with a flip of her hand. “Our source doesn’t matter, but the importance of this can’t be downplayed. You were there. You were the one who found Hode when he was unconscious. He was unconscious, correct?” She motioned to her driver, who apparently doubled as her cameraman. Before Maya could answer, he hefted a large camera onto his shoulder and adjusted the lens. She’d never been so thankful to see Ivy’s car pull to a stop in front of the curb.
“Sorry. I have to run.” Without waiting for an acknowledgement, she dashed to Ivy’s Civic, opened the door, and slid inside. “Go. Fast.”
Ivy craned her neck for a view of the sidewalk and Christy Catterman. “What’s with the news crew?”
“Just go. I’ll tell you later.” Maya refused to turn her head but sensed the reporter approaching the car. In the next second, Ivy veered onto the street, and the van fell away behind them.
“Whew!” Maya sank lower. “Somehow word leaked that I was the one who found Leland Hode. Channel 42 showed up a few minutes before you did, expecting an interview. I was blindsided.”
“You might want to get used to it.”
Sitting straighter, Maya looked at her friend. “What do you mean?”
“Leland Hode wasn’t the only one attacked last night.” Ivy turned her attention from the road, her expression solemn. “People are saying the Fiend has come back to Hode’s Hill.”
* * * *
Maya took a bite of her grilled chicken wrap, then dusted her hands with a napkin. The Arch Street Café was small but inviting, finished with an open beamed ceiling, wide-plank wood floor, and a herringbone brick accent wall. The narrow space sported a dozen wooden tables flanked by booths on either side. Black and white photos in silver frames decorated the walls, and artificial greens cascaded from the overhead beams.
“I’m surprised Mayor Rossi didn’t cancel the festival,” Maya said to Ivy. They’d been discussing the newest rumors about the Fiend, a topic commanding attention based on the conversations wafting Maya’s way. Most everyone in the tiny café seemed to be focused on the town’s notorious legend. How she’d missed the second attack, she wasn’t sure. She hadn’t had her TV on all day but thought something would have come up on her cell.
Ivy shook her head. “Too many local merchants count on the income. I heard there will be increased security tonight.” Poking her salad with a fork, she speared a black olive. “I don’t know if it’s true, but I heard Leland’s in a coma. I’m not sure about the kid who was attacked.”
“The kid” as Maya had since learned, was a seventeen-year-old who’d been found unconscious a half mile from the festival grounds. He’d later told police he’d been headed home when someone grabbed him from behind. He hadn’t gotten a good look at his attacker but said the guy was wearing a blue mask, and that he was huge. “Like the Hulk, or something.”
“I heard a few people talking when we came in,” Maya said. “The boy’s okay, just shaken up. He and a friend competed in the Fiend contest, and apparently whoever attacked him took his mask and cape.”
Ivy leaned away from the aisle as a waitress carrying a tray loaded with drinks hurried past. “So, the attacker could have put on the costume before he assaulted Leland.”
Maya had been thinking the same thing. “The size is a solid match. Whoever I saw in the alley was huge. But what about the blue mask?” She thought it odd no one had picked up on that. “I thought the Fiend had a devil face. Why would someone be wearing a blue mask?”
Ivy shrugged. “It would be really sick if someone’s doing this as a promotional gimmick for the festival.”
“No one could be that low.” The idea was appalling. “That boy was hurt and Leland is still in the hospital. I sure hope everything goes okay tonight.” Maya picked up her wrap, a sense of uneasiness washing over her.
If there were someone—or something—prowling the streets of Hode’s Hill, the cover of night was the perfect time to attack.
* * * *
Graham Kingston knew he wasn’t a prime catch. Tall and skinny, he’d earned the name “bird-legs” in high school. Despite several failed attempts to beef himself up with weightlifting, his metabolism refused to cooperate. He’d developed a quirky intellect to compensate, his peculiar personality paving the way to a longstanding friendship with Ivy McDowell—she’d never see him as anything other than a brother—and occasional flings with girls who enjoyed free rides in his Dodge Charger.
Earlier that night, he’d bumbled his way through inviting Brook Tyler to a movie. After going back for his third helping of barbeque, he’d made the stupid mistake of stammering out how much he liked her cooking. Stupid, because the sloppy joe recipe wasn’t even hers. She was simply a volunteer at the festival, something he would have remembered if he hadn’t been so nervous. To cover his blunder, he’d made it worse by impulsively asking her out. Two teenage girls in line behind him had overheard the whole wretched invitation, and giggled into their hands.
Bitches.
He wasn’t normally so bitter, but Brook had said no, a politely worded refusal that still stung. What else could the girl do? She was a goddess. He’d been stupid to think she’d want to be seen with him.
Face burning, he’d paid for his barbeque, walked a few feet away, then choked down the messy sandwich. Afterward, he’d pulled out his cell phone and rung up Tina Sanford. He couldn’t have been happier that she’d shown up with a Thermos of cinnamon schnapps. He’d drunk most of it himself. When the Fiend Festival ended, they’d wandered farther down the riverbank, away from the city lights.
Tina raced ahead of him, her long blond hair bouncing coin-bright in the dark.
“Hey, wait up!” Head spinning, he staggered down a path of flattened weeds.
“Catch me, and I might give you a reward.” Tina’s voice drifted back, slurred by alcohol and laughter.
Graham tripped and giggled.
Shit. Guys didn’t giggle. He needed to get his act together or Tina would think he couldn’t handle booze. “Slow down!” The buzz made him clumsy, a bird-legs geek who stumbled over his own feet. “Hey, Tina.”
He caught a flash of her hair as she vanished into the darkness under the arch of the Old Orchard Truss Bridge where it butted the shore. Confident she’d wait for him, he slowed to a walk. “Give me a minute. I’m coming.”
Somewhere off to the right, the water rippled with a loud splash. Probably carp judging from the noise it made. Those things could get huge.
“Graham! Help!”
“Now what?”
She let out a shriek that would have made his hair stand on end if he wasn’t so drunk. Stopping, he sucked down a breath, certain she was messing with him. She’d probably tripped over a water snake or a toad. His gut rolled over, the three BBQs he’d wolfed earlier taking exception to the schnapps. Shitty sweet liquor. He would have been fine with tequila or Jack.
“Hang on, I’m coming.”
The queasiness passed, but the ground wobbled. The eastern span of the bridge beckoned like a metal finger snapped off in the center. An ice floe, riding high waters during the Thaw of 1993, had buckled the middle section like an accordion. He’d watched an amateur video of the destruction on Channel 42 shortly after it happened. Kids hung out under the decaying spans now. He’d never think of making out with Brook there, but Tina had no qualms, still splashing around in the water by the sound of it.
Trying to hold a straight line, he trotted ahead. His path meandered off course and he ventured into shallow, murky water where high weeds and cattails yielded to the Chinkwe. Backpedaling, he dropped to a seat on the grassy bank, barely conscious of his sopping sneakers. As messed up as he was, he couldn’t afford a spill into the drink.
“Give me a minute.” The arch of the truss bridge gaped a few feet away, black as pitch where it angled into the bank, but he couldn’t summon the energy to move. Let her come to him.
Another burble of water. Closer this time, like a swell mushrooming against the shore. What the hell was the girl doing?
He squinted but couldn’t make out anything in the darkness. His stomach contracted. “Shit. I…I think that schnapps might be talking back.” What a dick. Ivy would lecture him for being so dumbass stupid. Too drunk to care, he slumped backward and folded an arm over his eyes. His head threatened to roll from his neck, but the press of night-cooled grass against his T-shirt eased the acid in his gut.
More sloshing where loose stones and weeds yielded to the Chinkwe. Either the big mother carp was back or Tina had decided to wade downriver. No way was he trudging back into that soupy muck.
“Hey, just so you know…I was guzzling tequila earlier tonight.” He lied through his teeth, but it was the only way to live down getting drunk on cinnamon-crappy-schnapps. If only his head would stop spinning.
Her footsteps came closer. Damn. The girl walked like a horse. Like she’d packed on two hundred extra pounds.
A drop of water splattered his forehead. She loomed over him, the night charged with sudden, palpable anger. So, she was ticked. Big fucking deal. She was the one who’d brought the schnapps in the first place.
“Just give me a minute.” Pulling his arm away, he blinked up at her. “I’m not—holy shit!”
Graham crab-scrambled backward, pushing with his butt to escape the nightmare-thing hunched over him. His hands and heels carved out chunks of earth. Desperate to get his feet under him, he pitched to the side, gaining a single step before flopping on his face. His teeth sank into his bottom lip. He tasted dirt and blood, choked on fear, but couldn’t summon the breath to scream.
Let it be a dream. Oh, God, let it be a dream!
Fingers fisted in his hair and wrenched his head back.
“No! No, please!” He dug his nails into the soil, grasped at stones. Anything to stay anchored. The monstrosity behind him—fuck, what the hell was it?—hauled him backward as if he weighed no more than an onion sack. Terror built in his throat, dispensed in a gurgle when the contents of his stomach spewed from his gut.
The thing gripped him around the waist. Through the haze of his horror, he glimpsed a muscular blue arm, the hand tipped with yellow claws. Choking on vomit, Graham flailed at the imprisoning limb.
“No!” Dragged toward the river, he wailed his head off. A closed fist clubbed his ear, driving his chin to his chest. The stench of vomit and river water clotted his nostrils. Sobbing, he struggled frantically. “Please, please, no!”
The thing dropped him. Huddled on hands and knees, he gasped for breath. Was he safe? Was it really going to leave him alone? Turning his head, he chanced a glance, gazing upward at his attacker.
