The Book of Joby (106 page)

“I know,” Lucifer cut her off impatiently. “He’s not as clever as yourself, but neither is he moody and defiant. He does what he is told without a lot of
attitude.
We’re already much too far behind schedule. My plans
hinge
on that boy, and I’m
tired
of having to
improvise
at the last minute because my support staff couldn’t cut it.”

Without further
attitude,
Kallaystra spread herself upon the wind to follow Hawk.

When she’d gone, Lucifer turned to face the Triangle standing behind him. “Now
that,
” he said more brightly, “was how proper orchestration ought to look. I trust you all took notes.”

Dear Hawk,

How’s your new job going? I’m hoping I’ll get to hear about it in person. It’s been such a hard winter for all of us that I decided drastic measures were called for, and convinced everyone that we should celebrate spring with a huge party on the beach to cheer up this whole town. Bonfires and a barbecue—just like Halloween, but with better weather. Organizing it has been a much bigger job than I expected, but Jake’s agreed to take care of security, and Kellerman’s band is going to play. I’ve been putting flyers up all around town, and people are really getting excited. It’s going to be wonderful, and I’m hoping you will come. Will you come home for my party, Hawk?

I’ve appreciated your letters more than I can say. I’m sorry things got so strange between us before you left, but I hope you know I love you, Hawk, more than ever. That’s only gotten clearer in your absence. It would mean so much to me to see you—face-to-face. Come home for the party, Hawk. Please? I’ll make you glad you did.

Whatever you decide is fine. Just let me know whenever you do.

Love,

Love,

Love,

Rose

Rose set down her pen and read the letter through, wondering if she’d said enough, or too much, or said it right. It was so hard to know. Hawk seemed even more changed in his letters than he had before he left, though she supposed that was to be expected. His entire life was different now. How could he not have changed? Still, the preoccupied and formal tone of his correspondence did little to reassure her. She didn’t want to lose him, but even more, she just didn’t want him to be lost, and it felt so much as if he were, or might be soon. A career in finance? The Hawk she’d known had
never cared for things like that. What about his writing? His stories? Where had all that gone?

She read the letter one more time, hesitating at the end. Joby had practically begged her to speak to Hawk on his behalf. She felt awkward about getting in the middle of all that but supposed she ought to try. Hoping that she wasn’t shooting herself in the foot, she put her pen back to the paper.

P.S. I know you might not want to hear this, but Joby sends his love too. He’s heartbroken about the way he mishandled everything, Hawk. If you ever felt like writing him a letter, even just to tell him how angry you are, I know it would mean the world to him. If I’ve made you mad by saying this, just erase it, and please, please come to my party anyway.

 

P.P.S. I kissed the paper here.

There were few corporeal forms the Triangle found more entertaining than those of children. As they crept through the darkness toward Hamilton’s house, they couldn’t keep from giggling and shoving at one another like the real thing.

“You’re such a slut, Eurodia!” Tique teased through whispered laughter. “I can’t believe your mother lets you wear such clothes.”

“At least
my
face isn’t covered in peach fuzz,” Eurodia parried with adolescent hauteur. “You look like a fruit stand.”

“Shut up, both of you,” Trephila grunted, a wicked grin spreading on her adolescent face. “You’ll be overheard, and someone will
see
us.”

Her two companions burst out in renewed laughter.

As they reached Hamilton’s gate, Tique produced a brown paper bag from each of the large pockets on his low-slung cargo pants, and handed them out with stealthy glee before producing two more for himself. A blue flickering in Hamilton’s living room window told them Agnes was there watching TV—the news, no doubt, nightly confirmation of all her darkest opinions about the nasty world.

“I don’t think she’s gonna like this,” Tique said with exaggerated trepidation. “Are we sure it’s such a good idea?”

Hefting her bag thoughtfully, Eurodia said, “We have been rather naughty lately.”

Trephila launched her sack at Hamilton’s front door, where it splattered
open, spewing its rank, excremental contents in a broad arc across the neatly painted porch.

“Hey, you Nazi bitch!”
Tique shouted as his arms swung back.
“Go back where you belong!”
His sacks of doggy dung burst violently on impact, one against the wall, the other in a spray of glass as it crashed through her window to rain across her living room.

“Yeah! Get outta here, you old witch!”
shrilled Eurodia, launching her bag just in time to spatter Agnes herself, as she yanked the door open in a rage.

For good measure, Tique pointed at the remnants of Trephila’s sack, still hanging by a paste of crap from the door frame, and it burst into flame, causing Hamilton’s furious expression to grow wide-eyed with alarm.

“You’ve been warned!”
Tique yodeled as they ran down the darkened road toward Shea Street, squealing with malicious delight.
“Get out of our town!”
He launched a spinning kick at the neighbor’s mailbox as they ran past, breaking its post off just above the ground. Spring always made him frisky.

Tom Connolly wondered how to slip the word “manners” into his next few answers as Ryan Garret, a young magazine reporter, concluded the second cell phone call he’d taken since their interview had started.

“Look,” Garret told his phone, “this is going nowhere.” He gave Tom another apologetic smile and rolled his eyes. “Just have Larry call me, okay? . . . Yeah, well I didn’t set it up this way either. It’s his problem; let him fix it or have him call me himself. . . . Okay. Sorry. . . . Bye.” He flipped his tiny phone shut at last, dropped it back into the pocket of his trendy black coat, then, amazingly, checked his reflection in the glass cabinet doors beside Tom’s desk, straightening his hair where the phone had disturbed its perfect shape and grain before turning to smile at Tom again. “Lots of crazy stuff happening at the office today. I appreciate your patience, Mr. Connolly.”

“No problem,” Tom said politely. “You were asking about Taubolt’s recent ‘crime wave,’ I believe.”

“Wait,” Garret said, “don’t talk yet.” He reached down to turn his miniature recorder back on. “Okay. As I was saying, Mr. Connolly, a lot of people here seem to feel that Taubolt’s become such a hotbed of unrest because of all the tourist traffic it attracts now, but others think the problem’s source is local. What’s your opinion?”

“My opinion is that until someone is arrested for any of these crimes, there’s no way of knowing who’s responsible,” Tom said. He could hardly
tell
CalTrends
magazine that most of Taubolt’s troubles stemmed from demonic invasion.

“Is that an indictment of Taubolt’s new police force, Mr. Connolly?”

“That was not my intention,” Tom said, “though I
am
of the opinion that a force of five officers is a little ridiculous for a town of something under a thousand people.”

“Yes, but as a number of others I interviewed point out, if one counts the tourists here on any given weekend, Taubolt’s population is more than triple that now.”

“Well, I guess I’d see their point better if all these new officers were investigating or arresting tourists,” Tom said. “But I’ve seen nothing to indicate they are. So far the only population that seems to be getting much attention is Taubolt’s kids.”

“It’s interesting you should say that,” Garret replied with new enthusiasm. “You’re not the first person I’ve talked with who seems to think that Taubolt’s kids are the real source of all these problems.”

“I said no such thing,” Tom replied impatiently. “Taubolt’s youth are definitely
not
the source of Taubolt’s problems, though some of this town’s newcomers seem to get a lot of mileage out of saying so. Kids make very safe scapegoats, Mr. Garret. Offending them has relatively few social or political consequences for adults frightened of tangling with their equals when there’s a problem. Please keep that in mind when you’re listening to those who vilify our children.”

Garret’s grin had grown steadily wider as Tom had spoken. “That’s really good,” he said. “I can quote that?”

“Be my guest,” Tom growled.

“Great!” the young man enthused, slipping a thin turquoise notepad and matching pen from his breast pocket to jot down a few brief notes. “This article’s going to be way better than they thought. It might even get the cover!”

Tom wasn’t sure who Garret was congratulating, but he was beginning to regret agreeing to be interviewed.

“As you’re obviously aware,” Garret said, “lots of people here applaud Sheriff Donaldson’s call to close the high school campus during lunchtimes and his efforts to keep kids from congregating in front of shops and other public places, citing some compelling examples of teen inflicted intimidation and property damage. Since you clearly disapprove of Donaldson’s current approach, what alternative would you suggest?”

“What I suggest, Mr. Garret,” Tom replied with careful courtesy, “is that the more our youth are shamed and punished by those they have no real power to confront, the more they will act like people always act when helpless and ashamed; defensive, resentful, angry, and eventually defiant. Children tend to see themselves as others see them, and if members of this community are sufficiently determined to prove our kids are all really dangerous criminals . . . Well, where there is a will, there is probably a way.”

“Mr. Connolly,” Garret said, seeming barely able to contain his elation, “you are, without a doubt, the most articulate person I have interviewed today. This sort of divergent opinion is exactly what I needed to drive this article home. I—” His cell phone burst into song again. “That’ll be Larry,” Garret sighed. He reached out and shook Tom’s hand with his right, while pulling his communicator from its pocket with his left. “I think I’ve got all I need. Thank you so much for your time,” he said, putting the phone to his ear and getting up to go. “Hello,” he said as he left the office. “Yeah, hi, Larry. I knew it would be you. Listen, I’ve got something really hot going here, so I may not be back this evening. . . . Yeah, I already told Johan that. . . . Uh-huh . . .”

Tom sat listening to the man’s receding monologue until it was finally eclipsed by the thud of his downstairs door. There’d still been no word at all from those sent in search of the Cup, but Tom prayed word would come soon. He and everyone else who’d once called Taubolt home clearly needed someplace to start over.