by Nora Roberts
“I’m fine. You’ve got a busy schedule today. Plus, with my two investors, I’m not applying for a big, fat loan. More of a slim, efficient one.”
So they segued, Gage thought, from ghosts to interest rates. He tuned them out, started to scan the headlines in the paper he’d stolen back from Fox. Then caught a stray comment.
“Cybil and Quinn are investing in your shop?”
“Yeah.” Layla’s smile radiated like sunlight. “It’s great. I hope it’s great for them—I’m going to make it great for them. It’s just wonderful, and staggering, that they’d have that kind of faith in me. You know what that’s like. You and Fox and Cal have always had that.”
He supposed he did, just as he supposed this was one more tangible aspect of how the six of them were entwined. Ann had said he wasn’t alone. None of them were, he realized. Maybe it was that, just that, that would weigh the odds in their favor.
When he had the house to himself, he spent an hour answering and composing e-mails. He had a contact in Europe, a Professor Linz, whose expertise was demonology and lore. He was full of theories and a lot of verbose rhetoric, but he had come through with what Gage considered salient information.
And the more data you tossed into the hat, the better the chance the winning ticket was in there. It wouldn’t hurt to get Linz’s take on Cybil’s newest hypothesis. Was the bloodstone—their bloodstone—a fragment of some larger whole, some mythical, magickal power source?
Even as he wrote the post, he shook his head. If anyone outside of his tight circle of friends knew he spent a great deal of his time searching out information on demons, they’d laugh their asses off. Then again, those outside that circle who knew him, only saw what he let them see. Not one of them reached the level he’d call friend.
Acquaintances, players, bedmates. Sometimes they won his money, sometimes he won theirs. Maybe he’d buy them a drink, or they’d stand him a round or two. And the women—away from the tables—they’d give each other a few hours, maybe a few days if it suited both of them.
Easy come, easy go.
And why did that suddenly seem more pathetic than a grown man wanting a Pop-Tart for breakfast?
Annoyed with himself, he combed his hands through his hair, tipped back in the chair. He did as he pleased, and lived as he wanted. Even coming here, facing this, was a choice he’d made. If he didn’t make it past the first week of July, that would be too damn bad. But he couldn’t complain. He’d had thirty-one years, and he’d seen the world on his own terms. From time to time, he’d lived pretty damn high. He’d rather live, and work his way back up to that high a few more times. A few more rolls of the dice, a few more hands dealt. But if not, he’d take his losses.
He’d already accomplished the most important goal of his life. He’d gotten out of the Hollow. And for fifteen years and counting, when someone raised a fist to him, he hit back, harder.
The old man had been drunk that night, Gage remembered. Filthy drunk after falling face-first off the shaky wagon he’d managed to ride for a handful of months. The old man was always worse when he fell off than when he waved that wagon on and kept stumbling down the road.
Summer, Gage thought. The kind of August night where even the air sweated. The place was clean, because the old man had been since April. But being up on the third floor of the bowling center meant that sweaty air just rose and rose until it squatted there, laughing at the constant whirl of the window AC. Even after midnight, the whole place felt wet, so the minute he stepped in, he wished he’d crashed at Cal’s or Fox’s.
But he’d had a sort of a date, the sort where a guy had to peel off from his pals if he wanted any kind of a chance to score.
He figured his father was in bed, sleeping or trying to, so he toed off his shoes before heading into the kitchen. There was a pitcher half full of iced tea, the instant crap that always tasted too sweet or too bitter no matter how you doctored it up. But he drank down two glasses before looking for something to kill the aftertaste.
He wished he had pizza. The alley and the grill were closed, so no chance there. He found a half a meatball sub, surely several days old. But small matters such as these didn’t concern teenage boys.
He ate it cold, standing over the sink.
He cleaned up after himself. He remembered too clearly what the apartment smelled like when his father was drinking heavily. Bad food, old garbage, sweat, stale whiskey and smoke. It was nice that, despite the heat, the place smelled normal. Not as good as Cal’s house or Fox’s. There were always candles or flowers or those girly dishes of petals and scent there. And the female aroma he guessed was just skin touched with lotions and sprayed with perfume.
This place was a dump compared, not the kind of place he’d want to bring a date, he thought with a glance around. But it was good enough, for now. The furniture was old and tired, and the walls could use some new paint. Maybe when it cooled off in the fall, he and the old man could slap some on.
Maybe they could swing a new TV, one that had been manufactured in the last decade. Things were pretty solid right now with them both working full-time for the summer. He was squirreling away some of his take for a new headset, but he could kick in half. He had a couple more weeks before school started up, a couple more paychecks. A new TV would be good.
He put his glass away, closed the cupboard. He heard his father’s step on the stairs. And he knew.
The optimism drained out of him like water. What was left in him hardened like stone. Stupid, he thought, stupid of him to let himself believe the old man would stay sober. Stupid to believe there’d ever be anything decent in this rat trap of an apartment.
He started to cross to his room, go inside, shut the door. Then he thought the hell with it. He’d see what the drunken son of a bitch had to say for himself.
So he stood, hip-shot, thumbs in the front pockets of his jeans, a defiant red flag eager to wave at the bull. His father pushed open the door.
Weaving, Bill Turner gripped the jamb. His face was red from the climb, from the heat, from the liquor. Even across the room, Gage could smell the whiskey sweat seeping out of his pores. His T-shirt was stained with it under the arms, down the front in a sodden vee. The look in his eyes when they met Gage’s was blurry and mean.
“’Fuck you looking at?”
“A drunk.”
“Had a couple beers with some friends, don’t make me a drunk.”
“I guess I was wrong. I’m looking at a drunken liar.”
The meanness intensified. It was like watching a snake coil. “You watch your fucking mouth, boy.”
“I should’ve known you couldn’t do it.” But he had done it, for nearly five months. He’d stayed sober through Gage’s birthday, and that, Gage knew, had been when he’d started to believe. For the first time since his father had stumbled down the drunken path, he’d stayed on that wagon over Gage’s birthday.
This disappointment, this betrayal was a sharper slash than any lash of the belt had ever been. This killed every small drop of his hope.
“None of your goddamn business,” Bill shot back. “This is my house. You don’t tell me what’s what under my own roof.”
“This is Jim Hawkins’s roof, and I pay rent on it just like you. You drink your paycheck again?”
“I don’t answer to you. Shut your mouth, or—”
“What?” Gage challenged. “You’re so drunk you can barely stand. What the hell are you going to do? And what the hell do I care,” he finished in disgust. Turning, he started toward his room. “I wish you’d drink yourself dead and finish the job.”
He was drunk, but he was fast. Bill lunged across the room, slammed Gage back against the wall. “You’re no good, never been any damn good. Never should’ve been born.”
“That makes two of us. Now take your hands off me.”
Two quick slaps, front and back, set Gage’s ears ringing, split his bottom lip. “Time you learned some goddamn respect .”
Gage remembe
red the first punch, remembered plowing his fist into his father’s face, and the shock that fired in his father’s eyes. Something crashed—the old pole lamp—and someone cursed viciously over and over. Had that been him?
The next clear memory was standing over his father as the old man sprawled on the floor, his face bruised and bleeding. His own fists had screamed from the pounding, and the healing of his swollen, bloody knuckles. His breath wheezed in and out of his lungs, and sweat soaked him like water.
How long had he beaten on the old man with his fists? It was a hot red haze. But it cleared now, and behind it was ice cold.
“If you ever touch me again, if you ever lay a fucking hand on me again in your life, I’ll kill you.” He crouched down to make sure the old man heard him. “I swear an oath on it. In three years, I’m gone. I don’t care if you drink yourself to death in the meantime. I’m past caring. I’ve got to live here at least most of the time the next three years. I’ll give my share of the rent straight to Mr. Hawkins. You don’t get a dime. I’ll buy my own food, my own clothes. I don’t want anything from you. But however drunk you are, you’d better be able to think this one thought. Hit me again, you motherfucker, you’re a dead man.”
He rose, walked into his room, shut the door. He’d buy a lock for it the next day, he thought. Keep the bastard out.
He could go. Exhausted, he sat on the side of the bed and dropped his head in his hands. He could pack up what was his and if he showed up on Cal’s doorstep or at Fox’s farm, they’d take him in.
That’s the kind of people they were.
But he needed to stick this out, needed to show the old man and, more, show himself, that he could stick it out. Three years till his eighteenth birthday, he thought, then he’d be free.
Not quite accurate, Gage thought now. He’d stuck it out, and the old man had never raised a hand to him again. And he’d taken off when his three years were up. But freedom? That was another story.
You carried the past with you, he thought, dragging it behind you on a thick, unbreakable chain no matter how far you looked ahead. You could ignore it for good long stretches of time, but you couldn’t escape it. He could drag that chain ten thousand miles, but the Hollow, the people he loved in it, and his goddamn destiny just kept pulling him back.
He pushed away from the computer, went down to get himself more coffee. Sitting at the counter, he dealt out a hand of solitaire. It calmed him, the feel of the cards, the sound of them, their colors and shapes. When he heard the knock on the door, he glanced at his watch. It appeared Cybil was early. He left the cards where they were, grateful the simple game had kept his mind off the past, and off the woman as well.
When he pulled open the door, it was Joanne Barry on the front deck. “Well, hey.”
She only looked at him for a moment. Her dark hair was braided back, as she often wore it. Her eyes were clear in her pretty face, her body slim in jeans and a cotton shirt. Then she touched his face, laid her lips on his forehead, his cheeks, his lips in her traditional greeting when there was love.
“Thank you for the orchid.”
“You’re welcome. Sorry I missed you when I dropped it off. Do you want to come in? Do you have time?”
“Yes, I’d like to come in, for a few minutes.”
“Probably something to drink back here.” He led the way back toward the kitchen.
“Cal’s got a nice place here. It’s always a surprise.”
“Really?”
“That he—all of you—are grown men. That Cal’s a grown man with this very nice home of his own, with its beautiful gardens. Sometimes still, just every so often, I wake up in the morning and think: I’ve got to get those kids up and off to school. Then I remember, the kids are grown and gone. It’s both a relief and a punch in the heart. I miss my little guys.”
“You’ll never be rid of us.” Knowing Jo, he skipped right over all the sodas, whittled her choices down to juice or bottled water. “I can offer you water or what I think might be grapefruit juice.”
“I’m fine, Gage. Don’t bother.”
“Could make some tea—or you could. I’d probably—” He broke off when he turned and saw a tear sliding down her cheek. “What is it? What’s wrong?”
“The note you left me, with the plant.”
“I’d hoped to be able to talk to you. I stopped by Cal’s mom’s, but—”
“I know. Frannie told me. You wrote: ‘Because you were always there for me. Because I know you always will be.’”
“You were. I do.”
With a sigh, she put her arms around him, laid her head on his shoulder. “All of your life, as a parent, you wonder and you worry. Did I do that right? Should I have done that, said this? Then, suddenly, in a fingersnap it seems, your children are grown. And still you wonder and you worry. Could I have done this, did I remember to say that? If you’re very lucky, one day one of your children . . .” She leaned back to look into his eyes. “Because you’re mine and Frannie’s, too. One of your children writes you a note that arrows straight into your heart. All that worry goes away.” She gave him a watery smile. “For a moment anyway. Thank you for the moment, baby.”
“I wouldn’t have gotten through without you and Frannie.”
“I think you’re wrong about that. But we damn sure helped.” She laughed now, gave him a hard squeeze. “I have to go. Come and see me soon.”
“I will. I’ll walk you out.”
“Don’t be silly. I know the way.” She started out, turned. “I pray for you. Being me, I cover my bases. God, the Goddess, Buddha, Allah, and so on. I pretty much tap on them all. I just want you to know that a day doesn’t go by that I don’t have all of you in my prayers. I’m nagging the hell out of every higher power there is. You’re going to come through this, all of you. I’m not taking no for an answer.”
Six
HE SHOULD HAVE KNOWN SHE’D BE EXACTLY ON time. Not late, not early, but on the button. Cybil had that preciseness about her. She wore a shirt the color of ripe, juicy peaches with bark brown pants that cropped off a couple inches above her ankles, and sandals with a couple of thin straps that showed off those intriguing narrow feet with their toes painted to match the shirt. She’d scooped that mass of curling hair back at the temples so he could see the trio of tiny hoops on her left ear, the duet of them on her right.
She carried a brown handbag the size of a bull terrier.
“I heard you had a visitor. I’ll need you to tell me about it so we’re sure nothing gets lost in translation.”
And right to business, he thought. “Fine.” He started back toward the kitchen. If he had to run through it again, he wanted his coffee.
“Mind if I get something cold?”
“Help yourself.”
She did. He watched as she pulled out the grapefruit juice and the diet ginger ale. “I’m a little put out she hasn’t talked to me yet,” Cybil said as she filled a glass with ice then proceeded to mix the two liquids in the glass. “But I’m trying to be big about it.” She glanced over, cocked an eyebrow as she lifted the glass. “Do you want some?”
“Absolutely not.”
“If I drank coffee all day the way you do, I’d be doing cartwheels off the ceiling.” She glanced at the cards spread out on the counter. “I interrupted your game.”
“Just passing the time.”
“Hmm.” She studied his card layout. “It’s often called Réussite—or Success—in France, where some historians believe it originated. In Britain, it’s Patience, which I suppose you have to have to play it. The most interesting theory I’ve come across is that in its early origins the outcome was a form of fortune-telling. Mind?” she asked, tapping the deck, and he shrugged his go-ahead.
She turned up the card, continued the play. “Computer play’s given the game a major boost in the last couple decades. Do you play online?”
“Rarely.”
“Online poker?”
“Never. I like to be in the same roo
m as my opponents. Winning’s no fun if it’s anonymous.”
“I tried it once. I like to try most everything once.”
His mind took a sidetrip into the possibilities of “most everything.” “How’d you do?”
“Not bad. But, like you, I found it lacked the zip of the real thing. Well, where should we do this?” She set her drink down to pull a notebook from the massive area of her purse. “We can start with you giving me the details of this morning’s visitation, then—”
“I had a dream about you.”
Her head angled slightly. “Oh?”
“Given the X rating, you can have the option of sharing it with the others, if you think it applies, or keeping it to yourself.”
“I’d have to hear it first.” Her lips curved. “In minute detail.”
“You came to my bedroom upstairs. Naked.”
She flipped open the notebook, began to write. “That was brazen of me.”
“There was some moonlight; it gave the room a blue wash. Very sexy, very black-and-white movie. It didn’t feel like the first time; there was a sense of familiarity when I touched you. The kind that said, maybe the moves would be a bit different, maybe we’d change up the rhythm, but we’d danced before.”
“Did we speak?”
“Not then.” There was interest in her eyes, he noted, and amusement—both on the cool side. And no pretense of embarrassment. “I knew how you’d taste, knew the sounds you’d make when I put my hands on you. I knew where you like to be touched, and how. When I was inside you, when we were . . . locked, taking each other, the room began to bleed, and burn.” The interest sharpened; the amusement died. “It rolled over us, that fire, that blood. Then you spoke. Right as it took us, right as you came, you said bestia.”
“Sex and death. It sounds more like an erotic or stress dream than foresight.”
“Probably. But I thought I should pass it on.” He tapped a finger on her book. “For your notes.”
“It would be hard not to have sex and death on the brain, considering. But—”