LITMIR.BIZ

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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.

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