Nora Roberts - Blood Brothers

“I believe she left to protect the lives growing inside her.”

“From?”

“Lazarus Twisse. Twisse and those who followed him came to Hawkins Hollow in sixteen fifty-one. He was a powerful force, and soon the settlement was under his rule. His rule decreed there would be no dancing, no singing, no music, no books but the Bible. No church but his church, no god but his god.”

“So much for freedom of religion.”

“Freedom was never Twisse’s goal. In the way of those thirsty for power above all else, he intimidated, terrorized, punished, banished, and used as his visible weapon, the wrath of his chosen god. As Twisse’s power grew, so did his punishments and penalties. Stocks, lashings, the shearing of a woman’s hair if she was deemed ungodly, the branding of a man should he be accused of a crime. And finally, the burning of those he judged to be witches. On the night of July the seventh, sixteen fifty-two, on the accusation of a young woman, Hester Deale, Twisse led a mob from the settlement to the Pagan Stone, and to Giles Dent. What happened there…”

Quinn leaned forward. But Estelle sighed and shook her head. “Well, there are many accounts. As there were many deaths. Seeds planted long before stirred in the ground. Some may have sprouted, only to die in the blaze that scorched the clearing.

“There are…fewer reports of what immediately followed, or followed over the next days and weeks. But in time, Ann Hawkins returned to the settlement with her three sons. And Hester Deale gave birth to a daughter eight months after the killing blaze at the Pagan Stone. Shortly, very shortly after her child, whom she claimed was sired by the devil, was born, Hester drowned herself in a small pond in Hawkins Wood.”

Loading her pockets with stones, Quinn thought with a suppressed shudder. “Do you know what happened to her child? Or the children of Ann Hawkins?”

“There are some letters, some journals, family Bibles. But most concrete information has been lost, or has never come to light. It will take considerable time and effort to dig out the truth. I can tell you this, those seeds stayed dormant until a night twenty-one years ago this July. They were awakened, and what sowed them awakened. They bloom for seven nights every seven years, and they strangle Hawkins Hollow. I’m sorry, I tire so quickly these days. It’s irritating.”

“Can I get you something? Or drive you home?”

“You’re a good girl. My grandson will be coming along to pick me up. You’ll have spoken, I imagine, to his son by now. To Caleb.”

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.

CAL 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-”