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Prologue
One Hawkins HollowMarylandJuly 6, 1987 I NSIDE THE PRETTY KITCHEN OF THE PRETTY house on Pleasant Avenue, Caleb Hawkins struggled not to squirm as his mother packed her version of campout provisions. In his mother’s world, ten-year-old boys required fresh fruit, homemade oatmeal cookies (they weren’t so bad), half a dozen hard-boiled eggs, a bag of Ritz crackers made into sandwiches with Jif peanut butter for filling, some celery and carrot sticks (yuck!), and hearty ham-and-cheese sandwiches. Then there was the thermos of lemonade, the stack of paper napkins, and the two boxes of Pop-Tarts she wedged into the basket for breakfast. “Mom, we’re not going to starve to death,” he complained as she stood deliberating in front of an open cupboard. “We’re going to be right in Fox’s backyard.” Which was a lie, and kinda hurt his tongue. But she’d never let him go if he told her the truth. And, sheesh, he was ten. Or would be the very next day. Frannie Hawkins put her hands on her hips. She wa
Two H ESTER’S POOL WAS ALSO FORBIDDEN IN CAL’S world, which was only one of the reasons it was irresistible. The scoop of brown water, fed by the winding Antietam Creek and hidden in the thick woods, was supposed to be haunted by some weird Pilgrim girl who’d drowned in it way back whenever. He’d heard his mother talk about a boy who’d drowned there when she’d been a kid, which in Mom Logic was the number one reason Cal was never allowed to swim there. The kid’s ghost was supposed to be there, too, lurking under the water, just waiting to grab another kid’s ankle and drag him down to the bottom so he’d have somebody to hang out with. Cal had swum there twice that summer, giddy with fear and excitement. And both times he’d sworn he’d felt bony fingers brush over his ankle. A dense army of cattails trooped along the edges, and around the slippery bank grew bunches of the wild orange lilies his mother liked. Fans of ferns climbed up the rocky slope, along with brambles of wild berries, wh
Three Hawkins HollowFebruary 2008 I T WAS COLDER IN HAWKINS HOLLOW, MARYLAND, than it was in Juno, Alaska. Cal liked to know little bits like that, even though at the moment he was in the Hollow where the damp, cold wind blew like a mother and froze his eyeballs. His eyeballs were about the only things exposed as he zipped across Main Street from Coffee Talk, with a to-go cup of mochaccino in one gloved hand, to the Bowl-a-Rama. Three days a week, he tried for a counter breakfast at Ma’s Pantry a couple doors down, and at least once a week he hit Gino’s for dinner. His father believed in supporting the community, the other merchants. Now that his dad was semiretired and Cal oversaw most of the businesses, he tried to follow that Hawkins tradition. He shopped the local market even though the chain supermarket a couple miles outside town was cheaper. If he wanted to send a woman flowers, he resisted doing so with a couple of clicks on his computer and hauled himself down to the Flower Po
Four H E’D READ HER WORK; HE’D STUDIED HER AUTHOR photos and used Google to get some background, to read her interviews. Cal wasn’t one to agree to talk to any sort of writer, journalist, reporter, Internet blogger about the Hollow, himself, or much of anything else without doing a thorough check. He’d found her books and articles entertaining. He’d enjoyed her obvious affection for small towns, had been intrigued by her interest and treatment of lore, legend, and things that went bump in the night. He liked the fact that she still wrote the occasional article for the magazine that had given her a break when she’d still been in college. It spoke of loyalty. He hadn’t been disappointed that her author photo had shown her to be a looker, with a sexy tumble of honey blond hair, bright blue eyes, and the hint of a fairly adorable overbite. The photo hadn’t come close. She probably wasn’t beautiful, he thought as he poured coffee. He’d have to get another look when, hopefully, his brain wou
Five I T WASN’T AS RIDICULOUS AS SHE’D ASSUMED IT would be. Silly, yes, but she had plenty of room for silly. The balls were mottled black—the small ones without the three holes. The job was to heave it down the long polished alley toward the red-necked pins he called Duck Pins. He watched as she walked up to the foul line, swung back, and did the heave. The ball bounced a couple of times before it toppled into the gutter. “Okay.” She turned, tossed back her hair. “Your turn.” “You get two more balls per frame.” “Woo-hoo.” He shot her the quick grin. “Let’s work on your delivery and follow-through, then we’ll tackle approach.” He walked toward her with another ball as he spoke. He handed her the ball. “Hold it with both hands,” he instructed as he turned her around to face the pins. “Now you want to take a step forward with your left foot, bend your knees like you were doing a squat, but bend over from the waist.” He was snuggled up right behind her now, his front sort of bowing over h
Six C AL SAW HER COME IN WHILE HE CUT INTO HIS short stack at the counter. She had on those high, sharp-heeled boots, faded jeans, and a watch cap, bright as a cardinal, pulled over her hair. She’d wound on a scarf that made him think of Joseph’s coat of many colors, which added a jauntiness with her coat opened. Under it was a sweater the color of ripe blueberries. There was something about her, he mused, that would have been bright and eye-catching even in mud brown. He watched her eyes track around the diner area, and decided she was weighing where to sit, whom to approach. Already working, he concluded. Maybe she always was. He was damn sure, even on short acquaintance, that her mind was always working. She spotted him. She aimed that sunbeam smile of hers, started over. He felt a little like the kid in the pickup game of ball, who got plucked from all the others waving their arms and shouting: Me! Me! Pick me! “Morning, Caleb.” “Morning, Quinn. Buy you breakfast?” “Absolutely.” Sh
Seven 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 t
Eight I N THE MORNING, QUINN PRESSED AN EAR AGAINST the door to Layla’s room. Since she heard the muted sounds of the Today show, she gave the door a knuckle rap. “It’s Quinn,” she added, in case Layla was still jumpy. Layla opened the door in a pretty damn cute pair of purple-and-white-striped pajama pants and a purple sleep tank. There was color in her cheeks, and her quiet green eyes had the clarity that told Quinn she’d been awake awhile. “I’m about to head out to Cal’s. Mind if I come in a minute?” “No.” She stepped back. “I was trying to figure out what I’m supposed to do with myself today.” “You can come with me if you want.” “Into the woods? Not quite ready for that, thanks. You know…” Layla switched off the TV before dropping into a chair. “I was thinking about the wimp statement you made last night. I’ve never been a wimp, but it occurred to me as I was huddled in bed with the shades drawn and this stupid chair under the doorknob that I’ve never had anything happen that teste
Nine S HE SPENT A LOT OF TIME, TO CAL’S MIND, WANDERING around, taking what appeared to be copious notes and a mammoth number of photographs with her tiny little digital, and muttering to herself. He didn’t see how any of that was particularly helpful, but since she seemed to be absorbed in it all, he sat under a tree with the snoring Lump and let her work. There was no more howling, no more sense of anything stalking the clearing, or them. Maybe the demon had something else to do, Cal thought. Or maybe it was just hanging back, watching. Waiting. Well, he was doing the same, he supposed. He didn’t mind waiting, especially when the view was good. It was interesting to watch her, to watch the way she moved. Brisk and direct one minute, slow and wandering the next. As if she couldn’t quite make up her mind which approach to take. “Have you ever had this analyzed?” she called out. “The stone itself? A scientific analysis?” “Yeah. We took scrapings when we were teenagers, and took them to
Ten T HE HOUSE WHERE CAL HAD GROWN UP WAS, IN his opinion, in a constant state of evolution. Every few years his mother would decide the walls needed “freshening,” which meant painting—or often in his mother’s vocabulary a new “paint treatment.” There was ragging, there was sponging, there was combing, and a variety of other terms he did his best to tune out. Naturally, new paint led to new upholstery or window treatments, certainly to new bed linens when she worked her way to bedrooms. Which invariably led to new “arrangements.” He couldn’t count the number of times he’d hauled furniture around to match the grafts his mother routinely generated. His father liked to say that as soon as Frannie had the house the way she wanted, it was time for her to shake it all up again. At one time, Cal had assumed his mother had fiddled, fooled, painted, sewed, arranged, and re-arranged out of boredom. Although she volunteered, served on various committees, or stuck her oar in countless organization
Eleven C AL SENT A DOZEN PINK ROSES TO HIS MOTHER. She liked the traditional flower for Valentine’s Day, and he knew his father always went for the red. If he hadn’t known, Amy Yost in the flower shop would have reminded him, as she did every blessed year. “Your dad ordered a dozen red last week, for delivery today, potted geranium to his grandma, and he sent the Valentine’s Day Sweetheart Special to your sisters.” “That suck-up,” Cal said, knowing it would make Amy gasp and giggle. “How about a dozen yellow for my gran. In a vase, Amy. I don’t want her to have to fool with them.” “Aw, that’s sweet. I’ve got Essie’s address on file, you just fill out the card.” He picked one out of the slot, gave it a minute’s thought before writing: Hearts are red, these roses are yellow. Happy Valentine’s Day from your best fellow. Corny, sure, he decided, but Gran would love it. He reached for his wallet to pay when he noticed the red-and-white-striped tulips behind the glass doors of the refrigerat
Twelve Q UINN BARELY MANAGED TO MUFFLE A SCREAM, and would have danced back as the spiders skittered over the floor if Cal hadn’t gripped her. “Not real.” He said it with absolute and icy calm. “It’s not real.” Someone laughed, and the sound spiked wildly. There were shouts of approval as the music changed tempo to hip-grinding rock. “Great party, Cal!” Amy from the flower shop danced by with a wide, blood-splattered grin. With his arm still tight around Quinn, Cal began to back off the floor. He needed to see his family, needed to see…And there was Fox, gripping Layla’s hand as he wound his way through the oblivious crowd. “We need to go,” Fox shouted. “My parents—” Fox shook his head. “It’s only happening because we’re here. I think it only can happen because we’re here. Let’s move out. Let’s move.” As they pushed between tables, the tiny tea lights in the centerpieces flashed like torches, belching a volcanic spew of smoke. Cal felt it in his throat, stinging, even as his foot crunc
Thirteen F OX MADE A RUN TO THE BANK. IT WAS COMPLETELY unnecessary since the papers in his briefcase could have been dropped off at any time—or more efficiently, the client could have come into his office to ink them. But he’d wanted to get out, get some air, walk off his frustration. It was time to admit that he’d still held on to the hope that Alice Hawbaker would change her mind, or that he could change it for her. Maybe it was selfish, and so what? He depended on her, he was used to her. And he loved her. The love meant he had no choice but to let her go. The love meant if he could take back the last twenty minutes he’d spent with her, he would. She’d nearly broken down, he remembered as he strode along in his worn-down hiking boots (no court today). She never broke. She never even cracked, but he’d pushed her hard enough to cause fissures. He’d always regret it. If we stay, we’ll die. She’d said that with tears in her voice, with tears glimmering in her eyes. He’d only wanted to
Fourteen C AL WASN’T PARTICULARLY SURPRISED TO SEE Fox’s truck in his driveway, despite the hour. Nor was he particularly surprised when he walked in to see Fox blinking sleepily on the couch in front of the TV, with Lump stretched out and snoring beside him. On the coffee table were a can of Coke, the last of Cal’s barbecue potato chips, and a box of Milk Bones. The remains, he assumed, of a guy-dog party. “Whatcha doing here?” Fox asked groggily. “I live here.” “She kick you out?” “No, she didn’t kick me out. I came home.” Because they were there, Cal dug into the bag of chips and managed to pull out a handful of crumbs. “How many of those did you give him?” Fox glanced at the box of dog biscuits. “A couple. Maybe five. What’re you so edgy about?” Cal picked up the Coke and gulped down the couple of warm, flat swallows that were left. “I got a feeling, a…thing. You haven’t felt anything tonight?” “I’ve had feelings and things pretty much steady the last couple weeks.” Fox scrubbed hi
Fifteen I T WAS HARD FOR CAL TO SEE BILL TURNER AND say nothing about Gage being in town. But Cal knew his friend. When and if Gage wanted his father to know, Gage would tell him. So Cal did his best to avoid Bill by closing himself in his office. He dealt with orders, bills, reservations, contacted their arcade guy to discuss changing out one of their pinball machines for something jazzier. Checking the time, he judged if Gage wasn’t awake by now, he should be. And so picked up the phone. Not awake, Cal decided, hearing the irritation in Gage’s voice, hasn’t had coffee. Ignoring all that, Cal launched into an explanation of what happened that morning, relayed the dinner plans, and hung up. Now, rolling his eyes, Cal called Fox to run over the same information, and to tell Fox that Layla needed a job and he should hire her to replace Mrs. Hawbaker. Fox said, “Huh?” Cal said, “Gotta go,” and hung up. There, duty done, he considered. Satisfied, he turned to his computer and brought up th
Sixteen I T HAD TO BE IMPORTANT. IT HAD TO MATTER. Cal rolled it over and over and over, carving time out of his workday and his off time to research the Hawkins-Black lineage himself. Here was something new, he thought, some door they hadn’t known existed, much less tried to break down. He told himself it was vital, and time-consuming work, and that was why he and Quinn hadn’t managed to really connect for the last couple of days. He was busy; she was busy. Couldn’t be helped. Besides, it was probably a good time for them to have this break from each other. Let things just simmer down a little. As he’d told his mother, this wasn’t the time to get serious, to think about falling in love. Because big, life-altering things were supposed to happen after people fell seriously in love. And he had enough, big, life-altering things to worry about. He dumped food in Lump’s bowl as his dog waited for breakfast with his usual unruffled patience. Because it was Thursday, he’d tossed a load of lau
Seventeen I T WASN’T THE TIME, CAL DETERMINED, TO TALK about a broken stone or property searches when Quinn was buzzed about her trip to the past with Ann Hawkins. In any case, the bowling center wasn’t the place for that kind of exchange of information. He considered bringing it up after closing when she dragged him into her home office to show him the new chart Layla had generated that listed the time, place, approximate duration, and involved parties in all known incidents since Quinn’s arrival. He forgot about it when he was in bed with her, when she was moving with him, when everything felt right again. Then he told himself it was too late to bring it up, to give the topics the proper time when she was curled up warm with him. Maybe it was avoidance, but he opted for the likelihood it was just his tendency to prefer things at the right time, in the right place. He’d arranged to take Sunday off so the entire group could hike to the Pagan Stone. That, to his mind, was the right time
Eighteen C AL DIDN’T KNOW WHAT TIME THEY’D FALLEN into bed. But when he opened his eyes the thin winter light eked through the window. Through it, he saw the snow was still falling in the perfect, fat, white flakes of a Hollywood Christmas movie. In the hush only a snowfall could create was steady and somehow satisfied snoring. It came from Lump, who was stretched over the foot of the bed like a canine blanket. That was something Cal generally discouraged, but right now, the sound, the weight, the warmth were exactly right. From now on, he determined, the damn dog was going everywhere with him. Because his foot and ankle were currently under the bulk of the dog, Cal shifted to pull free. The movement had Quinn stirring, giving a little sigh as she wiggled closer and managed to wedge her leg between his. She wore flannel, which shouldn’t have been remotely sexy, and she’d managed to pin his arm during the night so it was now alive with needles and pins. And that should’ve been, at least
Nineteen I N THE DINING ROOM, QUINN SET COPIES OF THE printouts in front of everyone. There were bowls of popcorn on the table, she noted, a bottle of wine, glasses, and paper towels folded into triangles. Which would all be Cybil’s doing, she knew. Just as she knew Cybil had made the popcorn for her. Not a peace offering; they didn’t need peace offerings between them. It was just because. She touched a hand to Cybil’s shoulder before she took her seat. “Apologies for big drama,” Quinn began. “If you think that was drama, you need to come over to my parents’ house during one of the family gatherings.” Fox gave her a smile as he took a handful of popcorn. “The Barry-O’Dells don’t need demon blood to raise hell.” “We’ll all accept the demon thing is going to be a running gag from now on.” Quinn poured a glass of wine. “I don’t know how much all this will tell everyone, but it’s more than we had before. It shows a direct line from the other side.” “Are you sure Twisse is the one who raped
Twenty C AL HOPED FOR A WEEK, TWO IF HE COULD MANAGE it. And got three days. Nature screwed his plans again, this time shooting temperatures up into the fifties. Mountains of snow melted into hills while the February thaw brought the fun of flash flooding, swollen creeks, and black ice when the thermometer dropped to freezing each night. But three days after he’d had his lane plowed and the women were back in the house on High Street, the weather stabilized. Creeks ran high, but the ground sucked up most of the runoff. And he was coming up short on excuses to put off the hike to the Pagan Stone. At his desk, with Lump contentedly sprawled on his back in the doorway, feet in the air, Cal put his mind into work. The winter leagues were winding up, and the spring groups would go into gear shortly. He knew he was on the edge of convincing his father the center would profit from the automatic scoring systems, and wanted to give it one more solid push. If they moved on it soon, they could ha
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