The Sign of Seven Trilogy (93 page)

And the view from the steps of Fox's office building was one of the best in the house.

“I love a parade,” Quinn said beside her.

“Main Street, U.S.A. Hard to resist.”

“Aw, look, there's some of the Little League guys.” Quinn bounced on her toes while the pickup carting kids in the back inched by. “Those are the Blazers, proudly sponsored by the Bowl-a-Rama. Cal's dad coaches, too. They're on a three-game streak.”

“You're really into all this. I mean, seriously into small-town mode.”

“Who knew?” With a laugh, Quinn snaked an arm around Cybil's waist. “I'm thinking of joining a committee, and I'm going to do a discussion and signing at the bookstore. Cal's mom offered to teach me how to make pie, but I'm dodging that. There are limits.”

“You're in love with this place,” Cybil observed. “Not just Cal, but the town.”

“I am. Writing this book changed my life, I guess. Bringing me here, realizing I was part of the lore I was researching. It brought me to Cal. But the process of writing it—beyond the hard stuff, the ugly stuff we've faced and have to face—it pulled me in, Cyb. The people, the community, the traditions, the pride. It's just exactly what I want. Not your style, I know.”

“I've got nothing against it. In fact, I like it very much.”

She looked out over the crowds lining the sidewalks, the fathers with kids riding their shoulders, long-legged teenage girls moving in their colorful packs, families and friends hunkered down in their folding chairs at the curbs. The air was ripe with hot dogs and candy, spicy with the heliotrope from the pots Fox had stacked on his steps. Everything was bright and clear—the blue sky, the yellow sun, the patriotic bunting flying over the streets, the red and white petunias spilling out of baskets hanging on every lamppost along Main.

Young girls in their spangles tossed batons, executed cartwheels on their way toward the Square. In the distance she heard the sound of trumpets and drums from an approaching marching band.

Most days she might prefer the pace of New York, the style of Paris, the romance of Florence, but on a sunny Saturday afternoon while May readied to give over to June, Hawkins Hollow was the perfect place to be.

She glanced over when Fox held out a glass. “Sun tea,” he told her. “There's beer inside if you'd rather.”

“This is great.” Looking over his shoulder, she lifted an eyebrow at Gage as she sipped. “Not a parade fan?”

“I've seen my share.”

“Here comes the highlight,” Cal announced. “The Hawkins Hollow High School Marching Band.”

Majorettes and honor guards twirled and tossed silver batons and glossy white rifles. The squad of cheerleaders danced and shook pom-poms. Crowd favorites, Cybil thought as cheers and applause erupted. And with the pair of drum majors high-stepping, the band rocked into “Twist and Shout.”

“Bueller?” Cal said from behind her, and Cybil laughed.

“It's perfect, isn't it? Just absolutely.”

The sweetness of it made her eyes sting. All those young faces, the bold blue and pure white of the uniforms, the tall hats, the spinning batons all moving, moving to the sheer fun of the music. People on the sidewalk began to dance, to call out the lyrics, and the sun bounced cheerfully over the bright, bright brass of instruments.

Blood gushed out of trumpets to splash over the bold blue and pure white, the fresh young faces, the high hats. It splat-ted from piccolos, dripped from flutes, rained up from the beat of sticks on drums.

“Oh God,” Cybil breathed.

The boy swooped over the street, dropped to it to dance. She wanted to cringe back, to cower away when its awful eyes latched on to hers. But she stood, fighting off the quaking and grateful when Gage's hand dropped firmly onto her shoulder.

Overhead the bunting burst into flame. And the band played to the cheers of the crowd.

“Wait.” Fox gripped Layla's hand. “Some of them see it or feel it. Look.”

Cybil tore her gaze away from the demon. She saw shock and fear on some of the faces in the crowd, paleness or puzzlement on others. Here and there parents grabbed young children, pushed through the onlookers to drag them away while others only stood clapping hands to the beat.

“Bad boy! Bad boy!” A toddler screamed from her perch on her father's shoulders. And began to cry in harsh, horrible sobs. Batons flamed as they spiraled in the air. The street ran with blood. Some of the band broke ranks and ran.

Beside her, Quinn coolly, efficiently snapped pictures.

Cybil watched the boy, and as she stared, its head turned, turned, turned impossibly on its neck until its eyes met hers again. It grinned madly, baring sharp and glistening teeth.

“I'll save you for last, keep you for a pet. I'll plant my seed in you. When it ripens, when it blooms, I'll cut it from you so it can drink your blood like mother's milk.”

Then it leaped, springing high into the air on a plate of fire. Riding it, it shot toward her.

She might have run, she might have stood. She'd never know. Gage yanked her back so violently she fell. Even as she shoved to her feet, he was planted in front of her. She saw the thing burst into a mass of bloody black, and vanish with the horrible echo of a boy's laughter.

Her ears rang with it, and with the brass and drums as the band continued its march up Main Street. When she pushed Gage aside to see, the buntings waved red, white, and blue. The sun bounced cheerfully off the instruments.

Cybil stepped back again. “I think I've had enough of parades for one day.”

 

IN FOX'S OFFICE, QUINN USED HIS COMPUTER TO load and display the photographs. “What we saw doesn't come through.” She tapped the screen.

“Because it wasn't real. Not all the way real,” Layla said.

“Blurs and smears,” Quinn noted. “And this cloudy area on each where the little bastard was. There, but not there.”

“There are opposing schools of thought on paranormal photography.” Calm now with something tangible to study, Cybil pushed her hair back as she leaned closer to the screen. “Some claim that digital cameras have the advantage, able to record light spectrums not visible to the human eye. Others discount them, as they can pick up refractions and reflections, dust motes and so on that cloud the issue. So a good thirty-five millimeter is recommended. But . . .”

“It's not light, but dark,” Quinn finished, following the line. “An infrared lens might do better. I should've gotten my recorder out of my purse,” she added, scrolling slowly through the series of photos. “It happened so fast, and I was thinking pictures not sound until . . .”

“We heard what it said,” Cybil stated.

“Yeah.” Quinn laid a hand over hers. “I'd like to see if and how its voice records.”

“Isn't it more to the point that we weren't the only ones to see something?”

Quinn looked up at Gage. “You're right. You're right. Does it mean it's strong enough now to push through to the edges of reality, or that those who saw something, even just felt something, are more sensitive? More connected?”

“Some of both gets my vote.” Fox ran a hand up and down Layla's back as they watched the photos scroll. “What Layla said about it not being completely real? That's how it felt to me. And that means it wasn't completely
not
real. I didn't see everyone who reacted, but those I noticed were part of families that've been in the Hollow for generations.”

“Exactly,” Cal confirmed. “I caught that, too.”

“If we're able to move people out, that would be where we'd start,” Fox said.

“My dad's talked to a few people, felt some of them out.” Cal nodded. “We'll make it work.” He glanced at his watch. “We're supposed to be heading over to my parents' pretty soon. Big backyard holiday cookout, remember? If anybody's not up for it, I'll explain.”

“We should all go.” Straightening, Cybil looked away from the photos. “We should all go, drink beer, eat burgers and potato salad. We've said it before. Living, doing, being normal, especially after something like this, it's saying: Up yours.”

“I'm with Cybil on that. I need to run back to the house, file this memory card. Then Cal and I can head over.”

“We'll lock up and ride with you.” Fox looked at Gage. “Cool?”

“Yeah, we'll follow.”

“Why don't you go ahead?” Cybil suggested. “We'll lock up.”

“Good enough.”

Gage waited until he and Cybil were alone. “What do you need to say you didn't want to say in front of them?”

“Reading people that well must come in handy, professionally. Despite the optimistic possibilities we saw, we've seen the other side of that. There are two things, actually. I realize that the last time out you tried to fight this at the Pagan Stone and it didn't work. People died. But—”

“But we have to finish this at the Pagan Stone,” he interrupted. “I know it. There's no way around it. We've seen it enough times, you and I, to understand it. Cal and Fox know it, too. It's harder for them. This is their town, these are their people.”

“Yours, too. At the base of it, Gage,” she said before he could disagree. “It's where you come from. Whether or not it's where you end up, it's where you started. So it's yours.”

“Maybe. What's the second thing?”

“I need to ask you for a favor.”

He lifted his eyebrows in question. “What's the favor?”

She smiled a little. “I knew you weren't the type to just say: Name it. If things don't go the way we hope, and if you're sure we wouldn't be able to turn it around—and one more if, if I'm not able to do it myself, which would be my first choice—”

“You're going to stand there and ask me to kill you.”

“You do read well. I've seen you do just that in other dreams, other visions. The other side of the coin. I'm telling you, Gage, standing here with clear mind, cool blood, that I'd rather die than live through what that thing just promised me. I need you to know that, understand that, and I'm asking you not to let it take me, whatever has to be done.”

“I won't let it take you. That's all you get, Cybil,” he added when she started to speak. “I won't let it take you.”

She stared into his eyes—green and direct—until she saw what she needed to see. “Okay. Let's go eat potato salad.”

 

BECAUSE HE FELT HE NEEDED A DISTRACTION, Gage hunted up a poker game just outside of D.C. The stakes weren't as rich as he might have liked, but the game itself served. So, he could admit, did the temporary distance from Hawkins Hollow and from Cybil. Couldn't escape the first, he thought as he drove back on a soft June morning. But he'd let himself get much too involved with the woman.

It was stepping-back time.

When a woman looked to you to take her life to save her from worse, it was past stepping-back time. Too much responsibility, he thought as he traveled the familiar road. Too intense. Too damn real. And why the hell had he promised he'd take care of her—because that's just what he'd done. Something in the way she'd looked at him, he decided. Steady, calm as she'd asked him to end her life. She'd meant what she'd said, flat-out meant it. More, she'd trusted him to know she meant it.

Time for a conversation, he decided. Time to make sure they both understood exactly what was on the table, and what wasn't. He didn't want anyone depending on him.

He could ask himself why he hadn't stayed over after the game, used the hotel room he'd booked. Why he hadn't moved on the signals sent by the very appealing redhead who'd given him a good run for his money at the table. All things being equal, he should be enjoying a post-sex room-service breakfast with the redhead right about now. Instead he was, again, heading for the Hollow.

So he wouldn't ask himself why. No point in asking when he didn't want the answer.

He glanced in the rearview at the sound of the sirens, then took a casual glance down at the speedometer. Only about five over the posted limit, he noted, as he wasn't in any hurry. He pulled over to the shoulder. He wasn't surprised that the view in his side mirror showed him Derrick Napper climbing out of the cruiser.

Fucking Napper, who'd hated him, Cal, and Fox since childhood. And had made it his life's work, so it seemed, to cause them trouble. Fox, particularly, Gage mused. But none of the three of them were immune.

Asshole likes to strut, Gage thought, as Napper did just that to cover the distance from the cruiser to Gage's Ferrari. How the hell did they allow such a complete bastard to strap on a weapon and pin on a badge?

Cocking a hip, Napper leaned down, gave Gage a wide, white smile. “Some people think having a fancy machine gives them the right to break the law.”

“Some might.”

“You were speeding, boy.”

“Maybe.” Without being asked, Gage offered license and registration.

“What'd this thing set you back?”

“Just write the ticket, Napper.”

Napper's eyes narrowed to slits. “You were weaving.”

“No,” Gage said with the same dead calm, “I wasn't.”

“Driving erratically, speeding. You been drinking?”

Gage tapped the to-go cup in its holder. “Coffee.”

“I believe I smell alcohol on your breath. We take driving drunk serious around here, fuckhead.” He smiled when he said it. “I need you to step out of the car, take a test.”

“No.”

Napper's hand dropped to the butt of his sidearm. “I said step out of the car, fucker.”