Nora Roberts - Blood Brothers

“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.

QUINN 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.