Point Pleasant by Jen Archer Wood Page B

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