The Sign of Seven Trilogy (10 page)

Something in the smile turned a switch in Quinn's brain. “Caleb would be your—”

“Great-grandson. Honorary, you could say. My brother Franklin and his wife, my dearest friend, Maybelle, were killed in an accident just before Jim—Caleb's father was born. My Johnnie and I stood as grandparents to my brother's grandchildren. I'd have counted them and theirs in that long list of progeny before.”

“You're a Hawkins by birth then.”

“I am, and our line goes back, in the Hollow, to Richard Hawkins, the founder—and through him to Ann.” She paused a moment as if to let Quinn absorb, analyze. “He's a good boy, my Caleb, and he carries more than his share of weight on his shoulders.”

“From what I've seen, he carries it well.”

“He's a good boy,” Estelle repeated, then rose. “We'll talk again, soon.”

“I'll walk you downstairs.”

“Don't trouble. They'll have tea and cookies for me in the staff lounge. I'm a pet here—in the nicest sense of the word. Tell Caleb we spoke, and that I'd like to speak with you again. Don't spend all this pretty day inside a book. As much as I love them, there's life to be lived.”

“Mrs. Abbott?”

“Yes?”

“Who do you think planted the seeds at the Pagan Stone?”

“Gods and demons.” Estelle's eyes were tired, but clear. “Gods and demons, and there's such a thin line between the two, isn't there?”

Alone, Quinn sat again. Gods and demons. Those were a big, giant step up from ghosts and spirits, and other bump-in-the-night residents. But didn't it fit, didn't it click right together with the words she remembered from her dreams?

Words she'd looked up that morning.

Bestia
, Latin for beast.

Beatus
, Latin for blessed.

Devoveo
, Latin for sacrifice.

Okay, okay, she thought, if we're heading down that track, it might be a good time to call in the reserves.

She pulled out her phone. When she was greeted by voice mail, Quinn pushed down impatience and waited for her cue to leave a message.

“Cyb, it's Q. I'm in Hawkins Hollow, Maryland. And, wow, I've hooked a big one. Can you come? Let me know if you can come. Let me know if you can't come so I can talk you into it.”

She closed the phone, and for the moment she ignored the stack of books she'd selected. Instead, she began to busily type up notes from Estelle Hawkins Abbott's recitation.

C
AL DID WHAT HE THOUGHT OF AS THE PASS-OFF
to his father. Since the meetings and the morning and afternoon league games were over and there was no party or event scheduled, the lanes were empty but for a couple of old-timers having a practice game on lane one.

The arcade was buzzing, as it tended to between the last school bell and the dinner hour. But Cy Hudson was running herd there, and Holly Lappins manned the front desk. Jake and Sara worked the grill and fountain, which would start hopping in another hour.

Everything, everyone was in its place, so Cal could sit with his father at the end of the counter over a cup of coffee before he headed for home, and his dad took over the center for the night.

They could sit quietly for a while, too. Quiet was his father's way. Not that Jim Hawkins didn't like to socialize. He seemed to like crowds as much as his alone time, remembered names, faces, and could and would converse on any subject, including politics and religion. The fact that he could do so without pissing anyone off was, in Cal's opinion, one of his finest skills.

His sandy-colored hair had gone a pure and bright silver over the last few years, and was trimmed every two weeks at the local barbershop. He rarely altered his uniform of khakis, Rockports, and oxford shirts on workdays.

Some would have called Jim Hawkins habitual, even boring. Cal called him reliable.

“Having a good month so far,” Jim said in his take-your-time drawl. He took his coffee sweet and light, and by his wife's decree, cut off the caffeine at six p.m. sharp. “Kind of weather we've been having, you never know if people are going to burrow in, or get cabin fever so bad they want to be anywhere but home.”

“It was a good idea, running the three-game special for February.”

“I get one now and again.” Jim smiled, lines fanning out and deepening around his eyes. “So do you. Your mom's wishing you'd come by, have dinner some night soon.”

“Sure. I'll give her a call.”

“Heard from Jen yesterday.”

“How's she doing?”

“Fine enough to flaunt that it was seventy-four in San Diego. Rosie's learning to write her letters, and the baby's getting another tooth. Jen said she'd send us pictures.”

Cal heard the wistfulness. “You and Mom should take another trip out there.”

“Maybe, maybe in a month or two. We're heading to Baltimore on Sunday to see Marly and her brood. I saw your great-gran today. She told me she had a nice chat with that writer who's in town.”

“Gran talked with Quinn?”

“In the library. She liked the girl. Likes the idea of this book, too.”

“And how about you?”

Jim shook his head, contemplated as Sara drew off Cokes for a couple of teenagers taking a break from the arcade. “I don't know what I think, Cal, that's the plain truth. I ask myself what good's it going to do to have somebody—and an outsider at that—write all this down so people can read about it. I tell myself that what happened before won't happen again—”

“Dad.”

“I know that's not true, or most likely not true.”

For a moment Jim just listened to the voices from the boys at the other end of the counter, the way they joked and poked at each other. He knew those boys, he thought. He knew their parents. If life worked as it ought to work, he'd know their wives and kids one day.

Hadn't he joked and poked at his own friends here once upon a time, over fountain Cokes and fries? Hadn't his own children run tame through this place? Now his girls were married and gone, with families of their own. And his boy was a man, sitting with worry in his eyes over problems too big to be understood.

“You have to prepare for it to happen again,” Jim continued. “But for most of us, it all hazes up, it just hazes up so you can barely remember what did happen. Not you, I know. It's clear for you, and I wish that wasn't so. I guess if you believe this writer can help find the answers, I'm behind you on that.”

“I don't know what I believe. I haven't worked it out yet.”

“You will. Well. I'm going to go check on Cy. Some of the evening rollers'll be coming in before long, wanting a bite before they suit up.”

He pushed away from the counter, took a long look around. He heard the echoes of his boyhood, and the shouts of his children. He saw his son, gangly with youth, sitting at the counter with the two boys Jim knew were the same as brothers to him.

“We've got a good place here, Cal. It's worth working for. Worth fighting to hold it steady.”

Jim gave Cal a pat on the shoulder, then strolled away.

Not just the center, Cal thought. His father had meant the town. And Cal was afraid that holding it steady this time was going to be one hell of a battle.

He went straight home where most of the snow had melted off the shrubs and stones. Part of him had wanted to hunt Quinn down, pump out of her what she and his great-grandmother had talked about. Better to wait, he thought as he jingled his keys, better to wait then ease it out of her the next day. When they went to the Pagan Stone.

He glanced toward the woods where trees and shadows held pockets and rivers of snow, where he knew the path would be muddy from the melt.

Was it in there now, gathering itself? Had it somehow found a way to strike outside the Seven? Maybe, maybe, but not tonight. He didn't feel it tonight. And he always did.

Still, he couldn't deny he felt less exposed when he was inside the house, after he'd put on lights to push away the gloom.

He went through to the back door, opened it, and gave a whistle.

Lump took his time as Lump was wont to do. But the dog eased his way out of the doghouse and even stirred up the energy for a couple of tail wags before he moseyed across the backyard to the bottom of the deck stairs.

He gave a doggie sigh before clumping up the short flight. Then he leaned his whole body against Cal.

And that, Cal thought, was love. That was welcome home, how ya doing, in Lump's world.

He crouched down to stroke and ruffle the fur, to scratch between the floppy ears while Lump gazed at him soulfully. “How's it going? Get all your work done? What do you say we have a beer?”

They went inside together. Cal filled the dog bowl from the bin of chow while Lump sat politely, though Cal assumed a large portion of his dog's manners was sheer laziness. When the bowl was set in front of him, Lump ate slowly, and with absolute focus on the task at hand.

Cal pulled a beer out of the fridge and popped the top. Leaning back on the counter he took that first long swallow that signaled the end of the workday.

“Got some serious shit on my mind, Lump. Don't know what to do about it, think about it. Should I have found a way to stop Quinn from coming here? Not sure that would've worked since she seems to go where the hell she wants, but I could've played it different. Laughed it off, or pushed it higher, so the whole thing came off as bogus. Played it straight, so far, and I don't know where that's going to lead.”

He heard the front door open, then Fox shouted, “Yo!” Fox came in carrying a bucket of chicken and a large white takeout bag. “Got tub-o-cluck, got fries. Want beer.”

After dumping the food on the table, Fox pulled out a beer. “Your summons was pretty abrupt, son. I might've had a hot date tonight.”

“You haven't had a hot date in two months.”

“I'm storing it up.” After the first swig, Fox shrugged off his coat, tossed it over a chair. “What's the deal?”

“Tell you while we eat.”

As he'd been too brainwashed by his mother to fall back on the single-man's friend of paper plates, Cal set out two of stoneware in dull blue. They sat down to fried chicken and potatoes with Lump—as the only thing that lured the dog from food was more food—caging fries by leaning against Cal's knee or Fox's.

He told Fox everything, from the wall of fire, through Quinn's dream, and up to the conversation she'd had with his great-grandmother.

“Seeing an awful lot of the fucker for February,” Fox mused. “That's never happened before. Did you dream last night?”

“Yeah.”

“Me, too. Mine was a replay of the first time, the first summer. Only we didn't get to the school in time, and it wasn't just Miss Lister inside. It was everybody.” He scrubbed a hand over his face before taking a long pull of beer. “Everybody in town, my family, yours, all inside. Trapped, beating on the windows, screaming, their faces at the windows while the place burned.” He offered Lump another fry, and his eyes were as dark and soulful as the dog's. “Didn't happen that way, thank Christ. But it felt like it did. You know how that goes.”

“Yeah.” Cal let out a breath. “Yeah, I know how that goes. Mine was from that same summer, and we were all riding our bikes through town the way we did. Buildings were burned out, windows broken, cars wrecked and smoking. Bodies everywhere.”

“It didn't happen that way,” Fox repeated. “We're not ten anymore, and we're not going to let it happen that way.”

“I've been asking myself how long we can do this, Fox. How long can we hold it back as much as we do? This time, the next. Three more times? How many more times are we going to watch people we know, people we see most every day turn? Go crazy, go mean. Hurt each other, hurt themselves?”

“As long as it takes.”

Cal shoved his plate aside. “Not good enough.”

“It's all we've got, for now.”

“It's like a virus, an infection, passing from one person to another. Where's the goddamn antidote?”

“Not everyone's affected,” Fox reminded him. “There has to be a reason for that.”

“We've never found it.”

“No, so maybe you were right. Maybe we do need fresh eyes, an outsider, objectivity we just don't have. Are you still planning to take Quinn to the stone tomorrow?”

“If I don't, she'll go anyway. So yeah, it's better I'm there.”

“You want me? I can cancel some stuff.”

“I can handle it.” Had to handle it.

 

Q
UINN STUDIED THE MENU IN THE HOTEL'S ALMOST
empty dining room. She'd considered getting some takeout and eating in her room over her laptop, but she fell too easily into that habit, she knew. And to write about a town, she had to experience the town, and couldn't do that closed up in her pretty room eating a cold-cut sub.

She wanted a glass of wine, something chilly with a subtle zip. The hotel's cellar was more extensive than she'd expected, but she didn't want a whole bottle. She was frowning over the selections offered by the glass when Miss Fabulous Red Bag stepped in.

She'd changed into black pants, Quinn noted, and a cashmere sweater in two tissue-thin layers of deep blue under pale. The hair was great, she decided, pin straight with those jagged ends just past chin length. What Quinn knew would look messy on her came off fresh and stylish on the brunette.

Quinn debated catching her eye, trying a wave. She could ask Red Purse to join her for dinner. After all, who didn't hate to eat alone? Then she could pump her dinner companion for the really important details. Like where she got that bag.

Even as she charged up her smile, Quinn saw it.

It
slithered
across the glossy planks of the oak floor, leaving a hideous trail of bloody ooze behind it. At first she thought snake, then slug, then could barely think at all as she watched it slide up the legs of a table where an attractive young couple were enjoying cocktails by candlelight.

Its body, thick as a truck tire, mottled red over black, wound its way over the table, leaving that ugly smear on the snowy linen while the couple laughed and flirted.

A waitress walked briskly in, stepped in and through the sludge on the floor, to serve the couple their appetizers.

Quinn swore she could hear the table creak under its weight.

And its eyes when they met hers were the eyes of the boy, the red gleam in them bright and somehow
amused
. Then it began to wiggle wetly down the skirt of the tablecloth, and toward the brunette.

The woman stood frozen in place, her face bone white. Quinn pushed to her feet and, ignoring the surprised look from the waitress, leaped over the ugly path. She gripped the brunette's arm, pulled her out of the dining room.

“You saw it, too,” Quinn said in a whisper. “You saw that thing. Let's get out of here.”

“What? What?” The brunette cast shocked glances over her shoulder as she and Quinn stumbled for the door. “You saw it?”

“Sluggy, red-eyed, very nasty wake. Jesus. Jesus.” She gulped in the raw February air on the hotel's porch. “They didn't see it, but you did. I did. Why is that? Fuck if I know, but I have an idea who might. That's my car right there. Let's go. Let's just go.”

The brunette didn't say another word until they were in the car and Quinn was squealing away from the curb. “Who the hell are you?”

“Quinn. Quinn Black. I'm a writer, mostly on the spooky. Of which there is a surplus in this town. Who are you?”

“Layla Darnell. What
is
this place?”

“That's what I want to find out. I don't know if it's nice to meet you or not, Layla, under the circumstances.”

“Same here. Where are we going?”

“To the source, or one of them.” Quinn glanced over, saw Layla was still pale, still shaky. Who could blame her? “What are you doing in Hawkins Hollow?”

“I'm damned if I know, but I think I've decided to cut my visit short.”

“Understandable. Nice bag, by the way.”

Layla worked up a wan smile. “Thanks.”

“Nearly there. Okay, you don't know why you're here, so where did you come from?”

“New York.”

“I knew it. It's the polish. Do you love it?”