Ink and Bone (13 page)

TWELVE

F
inley rode her motorcycle to Agatha’s big old house, not knowing where else to go. Eloise had been clear that Finley must find her way, that she was more or less on her own with the
squeak-clink.
But Finley felt lost. So she wound her way out of town to see Agatha. The vision was receding to the point of being inaccessible, like a dream that had just slipped away, and the few remaining pieces seemed disjointed and nonsensical.

She looped the town center and then took the small highway away from The Hollows. The farther she got, the better she felt, as if her lungs could take in more air, her shoulders straighten.

The negative energy of The Hollows could not be denied. It was no secret to Finley, who felt it constantly. The Hollows boasted an anomalous number of missing persons, of miscarriages, of accidents and unexplained events. Throughout its history, there had been brutal murders, witch burnings, and horrible mining accidents.
There’s a powerful energy here
, Eloise had said more than once.
It’s not always positive, it’s not always negative,
but it always demands something of people like us.
Though to look at its bustling, precious town center, you’d think it was the prettiest, most idyllic place on earth. People moved their families here to get away from the crime and chaos of the big city, vacationed here for its natural beauty and places like the Old Mill and the apple orchards and the famous pumpkin patch in autumn. The Hollows didn’t mind visitors; it put on its Sunday best for those folks.

“It’s a hell mouth,” Amanda was famous for saying. But Finley’s
mother was the ultimate drama queen. It wasn’t enough just to say that she didn’t like The Hollows, that the town where she grew up was full of bad memories. She had to
hate
it, to disavow it completely. But Amanda was like that about everything—restaurants, fashion trends, Finley’s friends. It wasn’t enough to just say that something was not for her; she had to declare it unfit for others as well.

As soon as she was able, Amanda had gotten as far away from The Hollows as she could without leaving the country, as far away from Eloise and her abilities as national boundaries would allow. Finley’s childhood visits to the place were brief and tense. Any mention Finley made of liking it there or of missing Eloise was met with a very particular kind of ashen-faced silence from Amanda.

When Finley decided to come to The Hollows to be with Eloise, to understand herself better, Amanda took it as a personal affront. “You’re doing this just to hurt me,” her mother had said, holding back tears. Finley denied it. But in moments in which she was being honest with herself, she had to admit that it was a little bit true. Her move to The Hollows was proof positive that Amanda couldn’t control Finley, as hard as she tried. The Hollows, the motorcycle, Rainer, the people who weren’t there. There was nothing Amanda could do about any of it.

Now, as Finley sat in front of Agatha’s house for a moment, head aching, hands shaking, she wondered if her mother had been right after all to try to keep her away. And if she’d been right about that, what else might she be right about? Finley tried to keep from going down the rabbit hole into a universe where Amanda might actually know what she was talking about.

Finley climbed off her bike and jogged up the porch steps, knocked on the big white door.

She’d gone home first, to Eloise. But Eloise was not there, which was surprising because Eloise seemed always to be at home lately. Finley had walked through the house and in the kitchen checked the calendar. There was a single entry for the day. Eloise had scribbled: Dr. A. Finley made a mental note to ask about it.

After another knock, she pushed through the open door. Agatha’s house was as big and white, as still and curated as a museum. The triple-height foyer, with its gigantic entry table and towering vase of flowers, made Finley feel tiny as she walked down the long hallway that led to Agatha’s big sitting room.

Agatha got up from her seat by the fire and met Finley with a warm embrace in the center of an enormous oriental carpet. Finley’s nerves immediately calmed as they sat on the plush white sofa.

Over in front of a row of windows that looked out onto a pool surrounded by a beautiful garden of trees and flowers was a long glass table. Agatha used it as a desk, and there were two large silver computers sitting there, as well as a laptop. Finley knew Agatha monitored the world news obsessively, always in tune with what was going on—she was a wellspring of facts and knowledge.
Education only makes us better at what we do. The more we know, the more we can understand. The more we can understand, the more we can help
them
and
each other.

“Tell me,” Agatha said. They sat on the couch facing each other, Finley kicked off her boots and pulled her feet up beneath her to sit cross-legged.

Finley told her about
squeak-clink,
the little bird, the boy with the train, the reappearance of Abigail. She recounted her visit with Jones and what happened at the lake house. When she was done, they sat a moment, looking into the fire.

“You’re shaken by your experiences,” Agatha said finally.

“I thought you said there was time,” said Finley. “That I could set boundaries and choose how I use my gifts.”

Agatha nodded slowly, her face serene. She was ageless—might be sixty years old, though Finley and Eloise surmised she was in her nineties. She wore her white hair long, adorned herself with bangles and big necklaces and wide rings studded with gems. Finley thought of her as a big woman, always draped in tunics in long skirts, but lately she seemed thinner, more frail. Today, Agatha wore a pendant with a sky-blue gem, and Finley found she couldn’t take her eyes from its glittering depth, its layers of color.

“I told you that you could
learn
to set boundaries and choose how to use your gifts,” said Agatha. “I didn’t say it would be easy.”

“I’ve never had a vision like the one I had today,” said Finley. “Where I’ve been taken out of myself.”

“Like your grandmother,” said Agatha. “That’s hard. What I do is not exactly like what you and your grandmother do; you’re far more tapped in to frequencies than I am.”

Finley had suspected that she would be more like Agatha than Eloise. That she would connect the living with the dead, that she might use that in work as a psychologist or therapist to counsel the living. She had imagined herself possibly as a grief therapist, when she imagined herself as anything at all. Which was rarely. She hadn’t really projected herself into the future.

The truth was she didn’t know what she wanted at all, except that she wanted to be the exact opposite of her parents, especially her mother. And she really didn’t want to be like Eloise, either, though she loved her grandmother, maybe more than anyone on earth other than her brother Alfie. But anyone could see that Eloise had let her abilities drain her. Finley wasn’t prepared to live like that.

“What is this place?” Finley asked. She grabbed a cushion and hugged it to her middle. The trees outside were wild in the strong wind.

“The Hollows?” said Agatha. She looked around the room, offered a shrug. “I don’t know. If I had to hazard a guess, I’d say it was an energy vortex.”

“What does that mean?”

“There are certain places on earth that are spiritual centers, where the energy has particular characteristics,” said Agatha. “Like Red Rocks in Arizona is supposed to be a place of healing energy. I have lived here all my life, and my ancestors before me, and I still don’t quite know what The Hollows is and what it wants. I know I am less powerful when I’m not close to it. I don’t have all the answers.”

Agatha was the most powerful person Finley had ever met.
She just likes to downplay it
, Eloise had told her.
It might be a way she has
of protecting herself.
Though Agatha claimed not to have dreams and visions at all, she always seemed to know everything that was going on before you said a word.

“I tried to put it aside and go to class,” said Finley. “Instead, I wound up at Jones Cooper’s place, and the next thing I knew we were heading to the lake house. And then I was
there
—seeing everything. I felt hijacked. I
couldn’t
have avoided it.”

Agatha reached out and Finley took her hand.

“I wasn’t with
her
,” said Finley.

“Who were you with?” asked Agatha.

“I don’t know,” said Finley. “A boy, I think. Someone
with
the abductor.”

This had happened to Eloise, as well. She had inhabited rapists, pedophiles, kidnappers, murderers. Her grandmother didn’t like to talk about those experiences, except to say that you could learn to turn away, to “draw back.”

“You have to honor that,” said Agatha. “And try not to judge. You were where you were supposed to be. And maybe the girl can’t help you.”

“Maybe she’s already gone,” said Finley. The thought had come to her on the ride over, and it made her sick, physically nauseous. When she thought about herself doing “the work,” she only ever imagined herself helping people, saving people, finding the lost.

“Not everybody can be saved or is even meant to be saved,” Agatha said, giving Finley’s hand a squeeze. “You know that, don’t you?”

“Then
what
am I supposed to do?”

“What do you think?” asked Agatha. “No. What do you
fee
l
?”

“I don’t know,” said Finley. “I truly don’t.”

“Be patient,” said Agatha. “Follow your instincts. That’s all you can do.”

Finley got up quickly and paced the room, from the window to the door. Agatha was unperturbed, looking at her a moment, then back to the flames. She was a rock, and Finley was the wave, crashing against her.

“Is
this
what I do?” asked Finley, coming to stand in front of Agatha.

“I think it’s too soon to tell,” said the old woman. “But I’ll tell you one thing and you might not like it. The Hollows doesn’t like a void.”

Finley shook her head, then wrapped her arms tight around her middle. She was freezing suddenly. Agatha always kept the house so cold.

“What does that mean?” Finley asked.

“It means that Eloise wants to leave,” said Agatha. “And if she does, there will be a space to fill.”

We are chosen
, Eloise had warned.
We don’t choose
.

“And if I don’t want to
fill it
?”

Agatha gave her a wide, beautiful smile. But she offered only a shrug and a light shake of the head. “Too soon to tell.”

“What if I
can’t
help?” Finley said. “I mean, I didn’t get anything out of that vision. I don’t know any more than I did before. Well, not much.”

“Are you quite sure about that?”

Finley had to admit that she wasn’t totally sure about anything really.

She sat on the hearth and buried her eyes in her hands. The tattoo on her back burned; it was really uncomfortable, beyond normal levels. Maybe it was getting infected. That happened sometimes. In the dark of her palms, she saw the girl being dragged up the path.

“I was certain that they went north, deeper into the woods,” Finley said. “But Jones Cooper says that the whole area was searched, and nothing was found.”

“They’re wrong so often,” Agatha said indulgently, as if she were talking about children at play. “That’s why they need us. Don’t let anyone talk you out of what you have seen. Don’t let other people make you doubt yourself, even those who are good and well meaning. They simply don’t see what we see.”

Finley blew out a breath.

“So what do I do?” Finley said.

“Sleep on it,” said Agatha. “You’ll know what to do when it’s time.”

“That’s it?” said Finley.

Agatha chuckled a little. “Did you think I was going to hand you a rule book? The good news and the bad news is that no one knows better than you how to find your way with your abilities.”

She’d said this before, and it never failed to remind her of Glinda, the Good Witch and Dorothy. You always had the power, or whatever it was Glinda had said. Finley was always so annoyed by that. If Glinda could have spared Dorothy from the beginning, why didn’t she? All she had to do was tell her that those slippers were magic and that she could go home. But she didn’t.
Nobody can give you the power over your destiny
, her mom had tried to explain.
You have to claim it, sometimes through trial. Otherwise you never know it
’s yours.

To Finley, it just sounded like a crock, something grown-ups said to cover up their own failings.

“You’re more powerful than you know,” said Agatha.

Finley looked over at Agatha, who was pouring them each some tea from a set Finley hadn’t even noticed, looking peaceful and unconcerned. She was embarrassed by how much faith Agatha and Eloise had in her. They thought she was some kind of prodigy, and they were clearly wrong. As Finley rose to help Agatha (the teapot was shaking in the old woman’s hand), she wondered which of the three of them was going to be the most disappointed when they figured out that Finley’s abilities were middling at best.

THIRTEEN

P
enny had promised herself that tonight was going to be the night. But now that it was time, the woods were whispering, solemn with warning.
Don’t go. Not yet.
She heard it and she didn’t hear it.

After the house went dark, she’d lain in bed, wide awake, vibrating. Waiting for the right time. She couldn’t stay here. Whatever was out there, even if the woods were alive with ghosts and monsters, witches and ghouls, screaming and wailing and chasing—it couldn’t be worse. Could it?

Don’t go. Not yet.

Her daddy had told her that if she ever got lost in the woods, to find a river and follow it downstream. At least she thought that was what he said. He was always talking about things like that: what to do if.

If we get separated on the subway, get off at the next stop and find the token booth clerk. Ask her to call the police.

If there’s a fire, get out of the house. Don’t stop to get any of your toys.

Never talk to strangers. If someone ever tries to take you, fight with everything you have. Scream as loud as you can. (He’d never told her what to do if the man was too strong and there was no one to hear her screaming.)

She knew there was a river; she’d seen one on the way when Poppa first brought her here. She told herself that she’d find her way back to it by going downhill, and then she’d follow it like her
daddy said. But now that she was really about to do it, she couldn’t remember how far it was, or exactly how to get there, or what she might encounter on her way. She was shaking, from cold, from fear.

Outside the moon was full again, just a sliver less than full, and high like a platter. She could see it through a wide gap in the planks that comprised the walls of her room.

“When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie,” her daddy used to sing. “That’s
amore
!”

He’d sing it loud and goofy, dance her around. Mommy used to roll her eyes, but in that funny, happy way she did when Daddy was being silly. When Mommy was
really
mad at him, her face went very still, and she got very quiet. Penny pushed the thought of them away. She didn’t like to think about her mom and dad, and how angry they must be with her. She hadn’t
listened
; she’d broken the rules. They didn’t love her anymore because she’d been bad. That’s what Momma had told her. Even though it didn’t seem right, she thought it must be true because no one ever came to get her.

Don’t go. Not yet.

The whispering was loud tonight. When she first heard it, she thought it was just the wind in the leaves. But night after night as she listened, she realized that it was voices, a million voices saying she didn’t know what. She listened now, with the moon shining through that gap, falling on the dirty floor. Her blanket was itchy. Her back screamed from the lashes of the belt she’d received from Poppa. She’d stopped crying, though.

*  *  *

The day after the clean man came, Momma and Poppa took the truck into town. Momma was wearing her uniform, the yellow-and-white dress and shoes that looked like sneakers but weren’t. She went into town dressed like that a few days a week.

Or had it been longer ago that they’d left? Two days? Three? Penny was wobbly with hunger; she was being punished and hadn’t been fed. Still, as soon as she was sure they were gone, she managed to get down on the floor and work on the circle. It was screwed hard
into the ground, but she kept trying to unscrew it. She imagined that it was loosening a little. The shackle on her ankle was so tight that it rubbed the skin raw until it was bleeding. She’d tried to slide her foot out, but she couldn’t.

A little while after she heard them pull down the drive, Bobo came into her barn room. She hadn’t heard him and didn’t see him until he cleared his throat, startling her.

“That won’t come loose.”

“It might.”
If you want something bad enough and you work hard enough at it, you can usually get it.
That’s what her daddy had always told her.

Bobo didn’t hurt her like Poppa did; he didn’t do the same kind of horrible, not understandable things. But he
did
hurt her. Once he slapped her so hard across the face that she saw stars. Once he took Baby, who was her only thing, the one thing she held and told her secret thoughts, the one thing she cuddled at night. He ripped Baby’s arm off, held her over Poppa’s fire pit. But when she’d cried, Bobo gave Baby and her arm back. He even returned the next day and sewed Baby’s arm back on.

She didn’t understand Bobo, who was tall like a man but spoke like a boy, who was pale, with straw hair and misty blue, blue eyes that sometimes looked sweet and sad, but more often just empty, blank like Baby’s button eyes.

He walked up closer, held up a shiny silver key. Then he leaned down and unlocked her ankle.

She sat, rubbing her ankle, which was black under the broken skin. Her foot was swollen, an odd grayish blue color and painful to the touch.

“Come on,” he said, stepping to the door. She got up and limped after him.

Bobo walked up the porch of the big house and in through the front door. It was the first time she’d been unchained since the clean man came, and she thought hard about running. There was a moment when Bobo was in the house, and she was still outside about to step in.

Is it time now?
she asked the voice.

But there was no answer.

From where she stood, she could see the rocky road down which the truck had driven. She saw the tracks etched there in the soft dirt. How far could she get before he caught her? Could she hide herself in the woods and then sneak away?

But then she thought about how big Bobo was and how fast, and she imagined Poppa’s weight on top of her pressing all the breath out of her body, and the belt on her flesh. And she was so hungry and thirsty. Maybe Bobo was going to give her something to eat. And she didn’t have any shoes. Poppa took the boots he’d given her. And her ankle hurt so bad. So she followed Bobo inside.

Bobo was smiling at her, a strange, not nice smile from the top of the stairs.

She was surprised to see what a pretty house it was and how clean. She thought it would be like a horror movie house with cobwebs and locked doors, creaking floorboards. She thought it would be filled with dark corners and mysterious passageways leading to ugly hidden rooms. But it was bright, free from dust with old but nice furniture—dark woods, flower prints, sparkly lampshades.

There was a ticking grandfather clock in the living room. Sunlight washed in through a stained-glass window beside it, casting a confetti spray of rainbows on the wood floor. There were pictures of a happy young couple on a rickety old piano. Two china dogs sat pretty on the fireplace hearth.

On the candy-striped walls, there were portraits of children—a boy playing baseball, riding a tricycle, opening Christmas presents. There was a pretty girl on horseback, a chubby blond toddler on the beach, a young woman with a baby wrapped in pink. Family pictures, like the million pictures her parents had—except the photos at home were on phones, computers, digital picture frames. Different people, different places, but the same
energy
(her mommy’s favorite word)—happy, beautiful, look at us and all the little pictures of our life.

Penny followed Bobo to the upstairs landing and down a wide, carpeted hall, where he pushed open a door. Warm sunlight washed
bright and yellow, spilling onto the rug. Penny blinked against the brightness as she walked inside.

It was a princess room, pink and lace with a four-poster bed and plush carpet. Tiny roses on white wallpaper. Shelves of dolls and teddy bears, rows of 4H trophies for riding horses and raising chickens—and not the small plastic ones that everyone gets. Tall, glittering towers with horse and rider on top, emblazed with First Place. Little golden horses jumped or stood regal beside the little gold rider. Ribbons in blue and green, red and white. Looking closely she saw that they were from long ago—1979, 1981. A million years ago. The room
did
look old-fashioned—no posters of rock stars, no computer, no iPad. Just a desk with shelves of books above—books about horses:
Black Beauty
,
The Black Stallion
,
National Velvet
. And lots more—who knew there were so many.

She sat on the bed, bouncing a little. It was so soft; she wanted to climb beneath the covers and sleep and sleep. On the bedside table was a picture, the young woman from the portraits downstairs. Familiar.

“Is that Momma?” she asked.

Bobo nodded, still wearing that same smile. What did he want? Why had he brought her here? The girl in the picture pressed her cheek against Momma’s. They smiled bright and happy, but didn’t it look a little strange, a little tense—like all the pictures of Mommy when she and Daddy went white water rafting (
before we had kids
) in New Mexico and she was actually terrified the whole time.

“She looks like you,” said Bobo. “But prettier.”

Penny knew she was pretty. His words didn’t bother her. “Who is she?” she asked.

“She’s the one they loved best,” he said. And his smile was gone, replaced with a kind of still anger that caused Penny to avert her eyes. He hadn’t meant to, but Bobo had given her something. Now she knew how to hurt
him
.

*  *  *

Afterwards, he made her a peanut butter sandwich, then another. He let her drink two glasses of milk. Then he brought her back to
her room and locked her up again. The sun sank down, and Poppa and Momma still didn’t come back. She lay still, thinking. Thinking about the clean man, and what Poppa had told him. Thinking about the princess bedroom and all the pictures. Thinking about the other girl who had been here and wondering where she’d gone. Thinking about the pair of riding boots she saw in the closet full of pretty clothes.

Her mother always said that when you were sad or worried or angry, that you had to do something. Anything. Go for a walk. Make cookies. Draw a picture. Clean your room. Never just lie there and feel sad or mad, because those feelings become like weights, holding you down, and they only get heavier, and you only get less likely to move them. As the sky went dark and the stars started to shine, Penny decided that she was going to do something.