A pulse beat, then two. Slowly, deliberately, Evening twisted to face him. “Where did you hear that name?” Three brusque strides brought him face-to-face with Caden. His expression, frequently bordering on bland or disinterested, had turned icy with resolve. “How do you know Cold?”
The sudden crispness of his accent set off a red flag in Caden’s mind. The inflection wasn’t an exact match for the being in the igloo, but with an edge of anger coloring Evening’s voice, the nuance was close. He narrowed his eyes. “Who the hell are you? Really.”
Evening stiffened, then drew back slightly. “I asked you a question.”
“And I did the same. Do you want to talk about Parker Kline? Jerome Kelly? Deputy Brown? Do any of those names ring a bell?” The anger and frustration he’d harbored for weeks bulldozed to the surface. He was sick of games, sick of spitting out questions and getting nowhere. “What about the Mothman?” Fisting his hand in the pristine fabric of Evening’s shirt, he yanked him closer. “You aren’t getting shit out of me, until you deliver something in return.”
Evening’s gaze dropped.
The sleeve of Caden’s jacket had been wrenched backward by his aggression, exposing the brands on his forearm. Evening remained perfectly still, his face impassive. It took several seconds for him to find his voice. When he spoke, his tone had lost its terseness.
“Those are interesting marks you carry, Sergeant.” He glanced up, his dark eyes probing. “I believe it’s time you and I had a serious discussion.”
Chapter 15
Caden wished Evening would sit. It wasn’t that he paced. Rather, he walked a short distance, stopped to examine a knick-knack or photograph as if discovering a new peculiarity, then moved on to another trinket in Eve’s living room and repeated the procedure over again. Unsure where to hold a frank discussion, Caden ended up bringing him home. The sheriff’s office was out of the question with too many people on duty, and the River Café would only draw attention. Fortunately, Katie and Ryan had coerced Eve into joining them for dinner and drinks with Jerome so the guy wouldn’t feel like a third wheel. His fiancée’s absence gave Caden the opportunity to talk to Evening alone.
“You appear to like plants.” Evening fingered the browning leaves of Eve’s latest acquisition. Caden had no idea what the potted lump was called, only that it had been added to her growing collection near the end of summer. She’d fussed, watered, fed, and talked to it, but unlike the rest of the jungle scattered through the house, the sickly looking thing had withered to a few twigs with shrunken leaves. Caden wanted her to toss it, but she wouldn’t hear of parting with the plant.
“They belong to my fiancée. Eve.”
“Yes. I met her at the hotel.” Evening strolled to another plant, this one much healthier. He stroked a finger over the leaves in a light caress. The hint of a smile touched his lips.
Damn, the guy was strange.
“Look, I’ve had enough of the niceties.” Caden sat on the couch, his legs braced apart, hands locked between them. “We both know there’s a lot more to you than you’ve told us. Shit has hit the fan in Point Pleasant. Lyle’s running around with a screwed up head, I’ve got a kid who escaped from a mental institution, dead dogs and cows, UFOs, the Mothman wreaking havoc, and some disembodied oracle in a World War II bunker. If you know anything about anything, now’s the time to tell me.”
Evening straightened his cufflinks. “So, you’ve met Indrid Cold?”
“Huh?” Caden felt the floor shift beneath him.
“In the bunker.” Evening spoke as if the connection should be obvious. “If you spoke to the being inside, then you spoke with Cold.”
“Are you telling me that Indrid Cold—an alien from Lanulos, according to Parker Kline—is the thing…the oracle, or whatever it is, inside that igloo? The legend of that thing is as old as the original Mothman sightings.”
Evening clasped his hands behind his back. “Cold has been here longer. Much longer, though not in the physical sense. Corporeal occurrences are structured for certain moments in time. You might say Indrid Cold is a Watchman, much as I, though his obligation is driven by regret more than duty. On that plane we are different.”
Caden stood, trying to follow the twisting logic of the conversation. It was absurd to put stock in mind-blowing revelations, yet difficult to scoff after all he’d experienced. “You have the same accent.” Did that mean Evening was from Lanulos too?
“Similar, but separated by a generation.” Evening tilted his head to acknowledge the observation. “My race doesn’t age in the same manner as yours. The names we take on your planet are a means of accommodating your native languages. You would be unable to pronounce my name or that of my father.”
“Father?”
Evening’s smile was sharp. “Indrid Cold.”
Caden was suddenly conscious of the quiet. A grandfather’s clock in the corner ticked the hour, but other than the steady tock-tock, a heavy pall settled over the room. Nothing looked out of place, Eve’s latest mystery novel resting on the coffee table, his guitar case standing upright in the corner by the TV. A collection of plants sprouted from containers on the floor and ceramic crocks positioned on end tables. It could have been any family living room, an average setting for an average home, yet he was talking to an alien.
Swearing softly, he dragged a hand over his face. “Cold is your father?” He needed a beer, would have sunk back to the sofa, but was too wired to sit.
“Does that surprise you?”
“Nothing surprises me anymore. Are you going to abduct me or something?”
Evening grinned. “I assure you, Sergeant, you are safe. So is your town. My purpose here isn’t one of hostility.”
“Thank God for that.” Caden started for the kitchen. “I need a Coors. Want one?”