Nora Roberts - Blood Brothers

“Do you think it’s haunted?”

“I know there’s something in it. I saw it myself. We’ll talk about that once we get to the pool. No point in going into it now.”

“All right. Is this the way the three of you came in on your birthday twenty-one years ago?”

“We came in from the east.” He gestured. “Track closest to town. This way’s shorter, but it would’ve been a longer ride around for us from town. There wasn’t anything…off about it, until we got to the pool.”

“Have the three of you been back together since that night?”

“Yeah, we went back. More than once.” He glanced toward her. “I can tell you that going back anytime near the Seven isn’t an experience I look forward to repeating.”

“The Seven?”

“That’s what we call the week in July.”

“Tell me more about what happens during the Seven.”

It was time to do just that, he thought. To say it straight-out to someone who wanted to know. To someone, maybe, who was part of the answer.

“People in the Hollow get mean, violent, even murderous. They do things they’d never do at any other time. Destroy property, beat the hell out of each other, start fires. Worse.”

“Murders, suicides.”

“Yeah. After the week’s up, they don’t remember clearly. It’s like watching someone come out of a trance, or a long illness. Some of them are never the same. Some of them leave town. And some fix up their shop or their house, and just go on. It doesn’t hit everyone, and it doesn’t hit those it does all in the same way. The best I can explain is it’s like a mass psychotic episode, and it gets stronger each time.”

“What about the police?”

Out of habit, Cal reached down, picked up a stick. There was no point in tossing it for Lump, that would only embarrass them both. So he held it down so Lump could take it into his mouth and plod contentedly along.

“Chief Larson was in charge last time. He was a good man, went to school with my father. They were friends. The third night, he locked himself in his office. I think he, some part of him anyway, knew what was happening to him, and didn’t want to risk going home to his wife and kids. One of the deputies, guy named Wayne Hawbaker, nephew to Fox’s secretary, came in looking for him, needed help. He heard Larson crying in the office. Couldn’t get him to come out. By the time Wayne knocked down the door, Larson had shot himself. Wayne’s chief of police now. He’s a good man, too.”

How much loss had he seen? Quinn wondered. How many losses had he suffered since his tenth birthday? And yet he was walking back into these woods, back where it all began for him. She didn’t think she’d ever known a braver stand.

“What about the county cops, the state cops?”

“It’s like we’re cut off for that week.” A cardinal winged by, boldly red, carelessly free. “Sometimes people get out, sometimes they get in, but by and large, we’re on our own. It’s like…” He groped for words. “It’s like this veil comes down, and nobody sees, not clearly. Help doesn’t come, and after, nobody questions it too closely. Nobody looks straight on at what happened, or why. So it ends up being lore, or Blair Witch stuff. Then it fades off until it happens again.”

“You stay, and you look at it straight on.”

“It’s my town,” he said simply.

No, Quinn thought, that was the bravest stand she’d ever known.

“How’d you sleep last night?” he asked her.

“Dreamlessly. So did Layla. You?”

“The same. Always before, once it started, it didn’t stop. But then, things are different this time around.”

“Because I saw something, and so did Layla.”

“That’s the big one. And it’s never started this early, or this strong.” As they walked, he studied her face. “Have you ever had a genealogy done?”

“No. You think we’re related back when, or I’m related to someone who was involved in whatever happened at the Pagan Stone way back when?”

“I think, we’ve always thought, this was about blood.” Absently, he glanced at the scar on his wrist. “So far, knowing or sensing that hasn’t done any good. Where are your ancestors from?”

“England primarily, some Irish tossed in.”

“Mine, too. But then a lot of Americans have English ancestry.”

“Maybe I should start researching and find out if there are any Dents or Twisses in my lineage?” She shrugged when he frowned at her. “Your great-grandmother sent me down that path. Have you tried to trace them? Giles Dent and Lazarus Twisse?”

“Yeah. Dent may be an ancestor, if he did indeed father the three sons of Ann Hawkins. There’s no record of him. And other than accounts from the time, some old family letters and diaries, no Giles Dent on anything we’ve dug up. No record of birth, death. Same for Twisse. They could’ve dropped down from Pluto as far as we’ve been able to prove.”

“I have a friend who’s a whiz on research. I sent her a heads-up. And don’t get that look on your face again. I’ve known her for years, and we’ve worked together on other projects. I don’t know as yet if she can or will come in on this, but trust me, if she does, you’ll be grateful. She’s brilliant.”

Rather than respond, he chewed on it. How much of his resistance was due to this feeling of losing control over the situation? And had he ever had any control to begin with? Some, he knew, was due to the fact that the more people who became involved, the more people he felt responsible for.

And maybe most of all, how much was all this exposure going to affect the town?

“The Hollow’s gotten some publicity over the years, focused on this whole thing. That’s how you found out about us to begin with. But it’s been mild, and for the most part, hasn’t done much more than bring interested tourists through. With your involvement, and now potentially two others, it could turn the Hollow into some sort of lurid or ridiculous caption in the tourist guides.”

“You knew that was a risk when you agreed to talk to me.”

She was keeping pace with him, stride-by-stride on the sloppy ground. And, she was striding into the unknown without a quake or a quiver. “You’d have come whether or not I agreed.”

“So part of your cooperation is damage control.” She nodded. “Can’t blame you. But maybe you should be thinking bigger picture, Cal. More people invested means more brains and more chance of figuring out how to stop what’s been happening. Do you want to stop it?”

“More than I can possibly tell you.”

“I want a story. There’s no point in bullshitting you about that. But I want to stop it, too. Because despite my famous guts, this thing scares me. Better shot at that, it seems to me, if we work together and utilize all our resources. Cybil’s one of mine, and she’s a damn good one.”

“I’ll think about it.” For now, he thought, he’d given her enough. “Why don’t you tell me what made you head down the woo-woo trail, writing-wise.”

“That’s easy. I always liked spooky stuff. When I was a kid and had a choice between, say, Sweet Valley High or Stephen King, King was always going to win. I used to write my own horror stories and give my friends nightmares. Good times,” she said and made him laugh. “Then, the turning point, I suppose, was when I went into this reputed haunted house with a group of friends. Halloween. I was twelve. Big dare. Place was falling down and due to be demolished. We were probably lucky we didn’t fall through floorboards. So we poked around, squealed, scared ourselves, and had some laughs. Then I saw her.”

“Who?”

“The ghost, of course.” She gave him a friendly elbow poke. “Keep up. None of the others did. But I saw her, walking down the stairs. There was blood all over her. She looked at me,” Quinn said quietly now. “It seemed like she looked right at me, and walked right by. I felt the cold she carried with her.”