by Nora Roberts
QUINN BLACK EASED HER MINI COOPER OFF THE exit ramp and hit the usual barrage at the interchange. Pancake House, Wendy’s, McDonald’s, KFC.
With great affection, she thought of a Quarter Pounder, with a side of really salty fries, and—natch—a Diet Coke to ease the guilt. But since that would be breaking her vow to eat fast food no more than once a month, she wasn’t going to indulge.
“There now, don’t you feel righteous?” she asked herself with only one wistful glance in the rearview at the lovely Golden Arches.
Her love of the quick and the greasy had sent her on an odyssey of fad diets, unsatisfying supplements, and miracle workout tapes through her late teens and early twenties. Until she’d finally slapped herself silly, tossed out all her diet books, her diet articles, her I LOST TWENTY POUNDS IN TWO WEEKS—AND YOU CAN, TOO! ads, and put herself on the path to sensible eating and exercising.
Lifestyle change, she reminded herself. She’d made a lifestyle change.
But boy, she missed those Quarter Pounders more than she missed her ex-fiancé.
Then again, who wouldn’t?
She glanced at the GPS hooked to her dashboard, then over at the directions she’d printed out from Caleb Hawkins’s e-mail. So far, they were in tandem.
She reached down for the apple serving as her midmorning snack. Apples were filling, Quinn thought as she bit in. They were good for you, and they were tasty.
And they were no Quarter Pounder.
In order to keep her mind off the devil, she considered what she hoped to accomplish on this first face-to-face interview with one of the main players in the odd little town of Hawkins Hollow.
No, not fair to call it odd, she reminded herself. Objectivity first. Maybe her research leaned her toward the odd label, but there would be no making up her mind until she’d seen for herself, done her interviews, taken her notes, scoped out the local library. And, maybe most important, seen the Pagan Stone in person.
She loved poking at all the corners and cobwebs of small towns, digging down under the floorboards for secrets and surprises, listening to the gossip, the local lore and legend.
She’d made a tiny name for herself doing a series of articles on quirky, off-the-mainstream towns for a small press magazine called Detours. And since her professional appetite was as well-developed as her bodily one, she’d taken a risky leap and written a book, following the same theme, but focusing on a single town in Maine reputed to be haunted by the ghosts of twin sisters who’d been murdered in a boardinghouse in 1843.
The critics had called the result “engaging” and “good, spooky fun,” except for the ones who’d deemed it “preposterous” and “convoluted.”
She’d followed it up with a book highlighting a small town in Louisiana where the descendent of a voodoo priestess served as mayor and faith healer. And, Quinn had discovered, had been running a very successful prostitution ring.
But Hawkins Hollow—she could just feel it—was going to be bigger, better, meatier.
She couldn’t wait to sink her teeth in.
The fast-food joints, the businesses, the ass-to-elbow houses gave way to bigger lawns, bigger homes, and to fields sleeping under the dreary sky.
The road wound, dipped and lifted, then veered straight again. She saw a sign for the Antietam Battlefield, something else she meant to investigate and research firsthand. She’d found little snippets about incidents during the Civil War in and around Hawkins Hollow.
She wanted to know more.
When her GPS and Caleb’s directions told her to turn, she turned, following the next road past a grove of naked trees, a scatter of houses, and the farms that always made her smile with their barns and silos and fenced paddocks.
She’d have to find a small town to explore in the Midwest next time. A haunted farm, or the weeping spirit of a milkmaid.
She nearly ignored the directions to turn when she saw the sign for Hawkins Hollow (est. 1648). As with the Quarter Pounder, her heart longed to indulge, to drive into town rather than turn off toward Caleb Hawkins’s place. But she hated to be late, and if she got caught up exploring the streets, the corners, the look of the town, she certainly would be late for her first appointment.
“Soon,” she promised, and turned to take the road winding by the woods she knew held the Pagan Stone at their heart.
It gave her a quick shiver, and that was strange. Strange to realize that shiver had been fear and not the anticipation she always felt with a new project.
As she followed the twists of the road, she glanced with some unease toward the dark and denuded trees. And hit the brakes hard when she shifted her eyes back to the road and saw something rush out in front of her.
She thought she saw a child—oh God, oh God—then thought it was a dog. And then…it was nothing. Nothing at all on the road, nothing rushing to the field beyond. Nothing there but herself and her wildly beating heart in the little red car.
“Trick of the eye,” she told herself, and didn’t believe it. “Just one of those things.”
But she restarted the car that had stalled when she’d slammed the brakes, then eased to the strip of dirt that served as the shoulder of the road. She pulled out her notebook, noted the time, and wrote down exactly what she thought she’d seen.
Young boy, abt ten. Lng blck hair, red eyes. He LOOKED right at me. Did I blink? Shut my eyes? Opened, & saw lrg blck dog, not boy. Then poof. Nothing there.
Cars passed her without incident as she sat a few moments more, waited for the trembling to stop.
Intrepid writer balks at first possible phenom, she thought, turns around, and drives her adorable red car to the nearest Mickey D’s for a fat-filled antidote to nerves.
She could do that, she considered. Nobody could charge her with a felony and throw her into prison. And if she did that, she wouldn’t have her next book, or any self-respect.
“Man up, Quinn,” she ordered. “You’ve seen spooks before.”
Steadier, she swung back out on the road, and made the next turn. The road was narrow and twisty with trees looming on both sides. She imagined it would be lovely in the spring and summer, with the green dappling, or after a snowfall with all those trees ermine drenched. But under a dull gray sky the woods seemed to crowd the road, bare branches just waiting to reach out and strike, as if they and only they were allowed to live there.
As if to enforce the sensation, no other car passed, and when she turned off her radio as the music seemed too loud, the only sound was the keening curse of the wind.
Should’ve called it Spooky Hollow, she decided, and nearly missed the turn into the gravel lane.
Why, she wondered, would anyone choose to live here? Amid all those dense, thrusting trees where bleak pools of snow huddled to hide from the sun? Where the only sound was the warning growl of Nature. Everything was brown and gray and moody.
She bumped over a little bridge spanning a curve of a creek, followed the slight rise of the stingy lane.
There was the house, exactly as advertised.
It sat on what she would have termed a knoll rather than a hill, with the front slope tamed into step-down terraces decked with shrubs she imagined put on a hell of a show in the spring and summer.
There wasn’t a lawn, so to speak, and she thought Hawkins had been smart to go with the thick mulch and shrubs and trees skirting the front instead of the traditional grass that would probably be a pain in the ass to mow and keep clear of weeds.
She approved of the deck that wrapped around the front and sides, and she’d bet the rear as well. She liked the earthy tones of the stone and the generous windows.
It sat like it belonged there, content and well-settled in the woods.
She pulled up beside an aging Chevy pickup, got out of her car to stand and take a long view.
And understood why someone would choose this spot. There was, unquestionably, an aura of spookiness, especially for one who was inclined to see and feel such things. But there was considerab
le charm as well, and a sense of solitude that was far from lonely. She could imagine very well sitting on that front deck some summer evening, drinking a cold one, and wallowing in the silence.
Before she could move toward the house, the front door opened.
The sense of déjà vu was vivid, almost dizzying. He stood there at the door of the cabin, the blood like red flowers on his shirt.
We can stay no longer.
The words sounded in her head, clear, and in a voice she somehow knew.
“Miss Black?”
She snapped back. There was no cabin, and the man standing on the lovely deck of his charming house had no blood blooming on him. There was no force of great love and great grief shining in his eyes.
And still, she had to lean back against her car for a minute and catch her breath. “Yeah, hi. I was just…admiring the house. Great spot.”
“Thanks. Any trouble finding it?”
“No, no. Your directions were perfect.” And, of course, it was ridiculous to be having this conversation outside in the freezing wind. From the quizzical look on his face, he obviously felt the same.
She pushed off the car, worked up what she hoped was a sane and pleasant expression as she walked to the trio of wooden steps.
And wasn’t he a serious cutie? she realized as she finally focused on the reality. All that windblown hair and those strong gray eyes. Add the crooked smile, the long, lean body in jeans and flannel, and a woman might be tempted to hang a SOLD! sign around his neck.
She stepped up, held out a hand. “Quinn Black, thanks for meeting with me, Mr. Hawkins.”
“Cal.” He took her hand, shook it, then held it as he gestured to the door. “Let’s get you out of the wind.”
They stepped directly into a living room that managed to be cozy and male at the same time. The generous sofa faced the big front windows, and the chairs looked as though they’d allow an ass to sink right in. Tables and lamps probably weren’t antiques, but looked to be something a grandmother might have passed down when she got the urge to redecorate her own place.
There was even a little stone fireplace with the requisite large mutt sprawled sleeping in front of it.
“Let me take your coat.”
“Is your dog in a coma?” Quinn asked when the dog didn’t move a muscle.
“No. Lump leads an active and demanding internal life that requires long periods of rest.”
“I see.”
“Want some coffee?”
“That’d be great. So would the bathroom. Long drive.”
“First right.”
“Thanks.”
She closed herself into a small, spotlessly clean powder room as much to pull herself back together from a couple of psychic shocks as to pee.
“Okay, Quinn,” she whispered. “Here we go.”
Four
HE’D READ HER WORK; HE’D STUDIED HER AUTHOR photos and used Google to get some background, to read her interviews. Cal wasn’t one to agree to talk to any sort of writer, journalist, reporter, Internet blogger about the Hollow, himself, or much of anything else without doing a thorough check.
He’d found her books and articles entertaining. He’d enjoyed her obvious affection for small towns, had been intrigued by her interest and treatment of lore, legend, and things that went bump in the night.
He liked the fact that she still wrote the occasional article for the magazine that had given her a break when she’d still been in college. It spoke of loyalty.
He hadn’t been disappointed that her author photo had shown her to be a looker, with a sexy tumble of honey blond hair, bright blue eyes, and the hint of a fairly adorable overbite.
The photo hadn’t come close.
She probably wasn’t beautiful, he thought as he poured coffee. He’d have to get another look when, hopefully, his brain wouldn’t go to fuzz, then decide about that.
What he did know, unquestionably, was she just plain radiated energy and—to his fuzzed brain—sex.
But maybe that was because she was built, another thing the photo hadn’t gotten across. The lady had some truly excellent curves.
And it wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen curves on a woman before or, in fact, seen his share of naked female curves alive and in person. So why was he standing in his own kitchen frazzled because an attractive, fully dressed woman was in his house? For professional purposes.
“Jesus, grow up, Hawkins.”
“Sorry?”
He actually jumped. She was in the kitchen, a few steps behind him, smiling that million-watt smile.
“Were you talking to yourself? I do that, too. Why do people think we’re crazy?”
“Because they want to suck us into talking to them.”
“You’re probably right.” Quinn shoved back that long spill of blond.
Cal saw he was right. She wasn’t beautiful. The top-heavy mouth, the slightly crooked nose, the oversized eyes weren’t elements of traditional beauty. He couldn’t label her pretty, either. It was too simple and sweet a word. Cute didn’t do it.
All he could think of was hot, but that might have been his brain blurring again.
“I didn’t ask how you take your coffee.”
“Oh. I don’t suppose you have two percent milk.”
“I often wonder why anybody does.”
With an easy laugh that shot straight to his bloodstream, she wandered over to study the view outside the glass doors that led—as she’d suspected—to the rear portion of the circling deck. “Which also means you probably don’t have any fake sugar. Those little pink, blue, or yellow packets?”
“Fresh out. I could offer you actual milk and actual sugar.”
“You could.” And hadn’t she eaten an apple like a good girl? “And I could accept. Let me ask you something else, just to satisfy my curiosity. Is your house always so clean and tidy, or did you do all this just for me?”
He got out the milk. “Tidy’s a girlie word. I prefer the term organized. I like organization. Besides.” He offered her a spoon for the sugar bowl. “My mother could—and does—drop by unexpectedly. If my house wasn’t clean, she’d ground me.”
“If I don’t call my mother once a week, she assumes I’ve been hacked to death by an ax murderer.” Quinn held herself to one scant spoon of sugar. “It’s nice, isn’t it? Those long and elastic family ties.”
“I like them. Why don’t we go sit in the living room by the fire?”
“Perfect. So, how long have you lived here? In this particular house,” she added as they carried their mugs out of the kitchen.
“A couple of years.”
“Not much for neighbors?”
“Neighbors are fine, and I spend a lot of time in town. I like the quiet now and then.”
“People do. I do myself, now and again.” She took one of the living room chairs, settled back. “I guess I’m surprised other people haven’t had the same idea as you, and plugged in a few more houses around here.”
“There was talk of it a couple of times. Never panned out.”
He’s being cagey, Quinn decided. “Because?”
“Didn’t turn out to be financially attractive, I guess.”
“Yet here you are.”
“My grandfather owned the property, some acres of Hawkins Wood. He left it to me.”
“So you had this house built.”
“More or less. I’d liked the spot.” Private when he needed to be private. Close to the woods where everything had changed. “I know some people in the trade, and we put the house up. How’s the coffee?”
“It’s terrific. You cook, too?”
“Coffee’s my specialty. I read your books.”
“How were they?”
“I liked them. You probably know you wouldn’t be here if I hadn’t.”
“Which would’ve made it a lot tougher to write the book I want to write. You’re a Hawkins, a descendent of the founder of the settlement that became the village that became the town. And one of the m
ain players in the more recent unexplained incidents related to the town. I’ve done a lot of research on the history, the lore, the legends, and the various explanations,” she said, and reached in the bag that served as her purse and her briefcase. Taking out a minirecorder, she switched it on, set it on the table between them.
Her smile was full of energy and interest when she set her notebook on her lap, flipped pages to a clear one. “So, tell me, Cal, about what happened the week of July seventh, nineteen eighty-seven, ninety-four, and two thousand one.”
The tape recorder made him…itchy. “Dive right in, don’t you?”
“I love knowing things. July seventh is your birthday. It’s also the birthday of Fox O’Dell and Gage Turner—born the same year as you, who grew up in Hawkins Hollow with you. I read articles that reported you, O’Dell, and Turner were responsible for alerting the fire department on July eleventh, nineteen eighty-seven, when the elementary school was set on fire, and also responsible for saving the life of one Marian Lister who was inside the school at the time.”
She continued to look straight into his eyes as she spoke. He found it interesting she didn’t need to refer to notes, and that she didn’t appear to need the little breaks from direct eye contact.
“Initial reports indicated the three of you were originally suspected of starting the fire, but it was proven Miss Lister herself was responsible. She suffered second-degree burns on nearly thirty percent of her body as well as a concussion. You and your friends, three ten-year-old boys, dragged her out and called the fire department. Miss Lister was, at that time, a twenty-five-year-old fourth-grade teacher with no history of criminal behavior or mental illness. Is that all correct information?”
She got her facts in order, Cal noted. Such as the facts were known. They fell far short of the abject terror of entering that burning school, of finding the pretty Miss Lister cackling madly as she ran through the flames. Of how it felt to chase her through those hallways as her clothes burned.
“She had a breakdown.”
“Obviously.” Smile in place, Quinn lifted her eyebrows. “There were also over a dozen nine-one-one calls on domestic abuse during that single week, more than previously had been reported in Hawkins Hollow in the six preceding months. There were two suicides and four attempted suicides, numerous accounts of assault, three reported rapes, and a hit-and-run. Several homes and businesses were vandalized. None—virtually none—of the people involved in any of the reported crimes or incidents has a clear memory of the events. Some speculate the town suffered from mass hysteria or hallucinations or an unknown infection taken through food or water. What do you think?”
