The Sign of Seven Trilogy (51 page)

He needed to sleep.

So he walked—felt like floating—into Layla's room. He crawled onto her bed and fell asleep with the comforting scent of her all around him.

When he woke, there was a throw tucked around him, the shades were drawn and the door shut. He sat up carefully to take fresh stock. No pain, he thought, no aches. Not even when he poked his fingers around his left eye. The dragging fatigue no longer weighed on him. And he was starving. All good signs.

He stepped out, found Layla in the office with Quinn. “I dropped out awhile.”

“Five hours.” Layla moved to him immediately, searched his face. “You look perfect. The sleep did you good.”

“
Five
hours?”

“And change,” Quinn added. “It's good to have you back.”

“Somebody should've shoved me out of bed. We were supposed to go through the rest of the first journal, at least.”

“We did. And we're putting the notes together.” Layla gestured to Quinn's laptop. “We'll have the CliffsNotes version for you later. It's enough for now, Fox.”

“I guess it has to be.”

“Give yourself a break. Isn't that what you tell me? Cybil made some amazing leek and potato soup.”

“Please tell me there's some left.”

“Plenty, even for you. Come on, I'll fix you a bowl.”

Downstairs, Gage stood at the living room window. He glanced over. “Rain stopped. I see you're back to your ugly self.”

“Still prettier than you. Where's Cal?”

“He headed over to the bowling alley a few minutes ago. He wants us to let him know when you decide to join the living again.”

“I'll get the soup.”

Gage waited until he was alone with Fox. “Fuel up, then we'll call Cal. He'll meet us at the police station. Quinn's putting the main points of today's reading session down for you.”

“Anything major?”

“It didn't answer anything for me, but you need to read it for yourself.”

He wolfed down two bowls of soup and a hunk of olive bread. By the time he finished, Quinn came down with a folder, and the journal. “I think you'll get the gist from the synopsis, but since the rest of us have read this one, you should take it for tonight. In case you want to look anything over.”

“Thanks, for the notes, the soup, the TLC.” He cupped Layla's chin, pressed his lips firmly to hers. “Thanks for the bed. I'll see you tomorrow.”

When the men left, Cybil cocked her head. “He's got very nice lips.”

“He does,” Layla agreed.

“And I think what I saw in the kitchen, when I watched him fight to heal, suffer to heal . . . I think it was the bravest thing I've ever witnessed. You're a very lucky woman. And . . .” She drew a piece of paper out of her pocket. “You're also the lucky winner of today's whose turn is it to go to the market sweepstakes.”

Layla took the list and sighed. “Woo hoo.”

CHIEF HAWBAKER STARED AT FOX'S UNMARRED face when the three of them walked into the station house. Wayne had seen that sort of thing before, Fox thought. But he supposed it wasn't something most people got used to.

The fact was, in the Hollow, most people just didn't notice, or pretended not to.

“I guess you're doing all right. I came by the house Ms. Black rented, seeing as you were hobbling off in that direction. A certain Ms. Kinski answered the door. Gave me quite a piece of her mind. But she said you were taken care of.”

“That's right. How's Block?”

“Had the paramedics come clean him up some.” Wayne scratched at his jaw. “Even so, he looks a lot worse than you. In fact, if I hadn't seen what went down, I'd tend to think you went after him instead of the other way around. I think he must have hit his head.” Hawbaker kept his eyes steady, and his voice just casual enough to let them know he was going to let Fox decide how to handle it. “He doesn't remember it all very clearly. He did admit he went for you, went hard for you, but he's a little confused as to why.”

“I'd like to talk to him.”

“I can arrange that. Should I be talking to Derrick?”

“He's your deputy. But I'd advise you to keep him clear of me. To keep him way clear.”

Wayne said nothing, only got the keys and led Fox through the offices, and into the detention area. “He hasn't asked for a lawyer, hasn't asked to make a phone call. Block? Fox wants a word with you.”

Block sat on the cot in one of the three cells, with his head in his big, raw-knuckled hands. He sat up quickly, shoved to his feet. As Block strode to the bars, Fox saw the nasty cuts where he'd clawed him. He didn't consider it petty to feel satisfaction over Block's two black eyes and split lip.

“Jesus, Fox.” Block's black-and-blue eyes were as wide and pitiful as a kid's on time-out. “I mean, Jesus H. Christ.”

“Can we have a minute, Chief?”

“That all right with you, Block?”

“Sure, yeah, sure. Jesus H. Christ, Fox, I thought I beat the hell out of you. You're not hurt.”

“You hurt me, Block. You damn near killed me, and that's what you were trying to do.”

“But—”

“You remember when I was playing second base back in our junior year, and the ball took a bad hop? It smashed right into my face. Bottom of the third, two out, runner on first. They thought maybe it broke my cheekbone. You remember how I was back on second in the bottom of the fourth?”

As both a little fear and a lot of confusion ran over his battered face, Block licked his swollen lip. “I guess I sort of do. I was thinking maybe this was a dream. I was sitting here thinking that, and that it never really happened. But I guess it did. I swear to God Almighty, Fox, I don't know what came over me. I never went at anybody like that before.”

“Did Napper tell you I'd been at Shelley?”

“Yeah.” In obvious disgust, Block kicked lightly at the bottom of the bars. “Asshole. I didn't believe him. He hates your ever-fucking guts, and always has. 'Sides, I knew Shelley hadn't been running around. But . . .”

“The idea of it gnawed at you.”

“It did. I mean, shit, Fox, she kicked me out, and she's done served me with papers, and she won't talk to me.” His fingers clamped around the bars as he hung his head. “I got to thinking that, well, maybe it was because she had you on the side. Just maybe.”

“And not because she caught you with Sami's tit in your hand?”

“I screwed up. I screwed up bad. Shelley and me, we'd been fighting some, and Sami—” He broke off, shrugged. “She'd been coming on to me awhile, and that day, she says how I should come on into the back and help her with something. Then she's rubbing against me, and she's got a lot to rub against a man. She's got her shirt undone. Hell, Fox, her tit was right
there
. I screwed up bad.”

“Yeah, you did.”

“I don't want a divorce. I wanna go home, Fox, you know?” Misery coated the man-to-man appeal. “Shelley won't even talk to me. I just wanna fix it, and she's talking around town about how you're going to skin my ass for her in court, and shit like that.”

“Pissed you off,” Fox prompted as Block frowned down at his boots.

“Jesus, Fox, it steamed me up, sure, then Napper's trash talk on top. But I've never gone after somebody like that. I've never beat on a man when he's done that way.” Block's head lifted, and the confusion covered his face again. “It was like being crazy or something. I couldn't stop. I thought maybe I'd killed you. I don't know how I'd live with that.”

“Lucky for both of us you won't have to.”

“Damn, Fox. I mean
damn
. You're a friend of mine. We go back. I don't know what . . . I guess I went crazy or something.”

Fox thought of the boy laughing, swallowing itself. “I'm not going to press charges, Block. We never had any problems, you and me.”

“We get along okay.”

“As far as I'm concerned, we don't have any problems now. As for Shelley, I'm her lawyer, and that's it. I can't tell you what to do about the state of your marriage. If you were to tell me that you want to try marriage counseling, I could pass that on to my client. I might be able to give her my opinion, as her lawyer and her friend, that she try that route before going any further with the divorce proceedings.”

“I'll do anything she wants.” Block's Adam's apple rippled as he took a hard swallow. “I owe you, Fox.”

“No, you don't. I'm Shelley's lawyer, not yours. I want you to promise me that when Chief Hawbaker lets you out, you go home. Watch some NASCAR. Gotta be a race on today.”

“Staying at my ma's. Yeah, I'll go on home. You got my word.”

Fox went back out to Wayne. “I'm not filing charges.” He ignored Gage's muttered curse. “Obviously I'm not hurt. We had an altercation that looked more serious than it was, and is now resolved to the satisfaction of both parties.”

“If that's the way you want it, Fox.”

“That's the way it is. I'm grateful you came along when you did.” Fox held out a hand.

Outside, Gage cursed again. “For a lawyer, you've sure got a bleeding heart.”

“You'd have done the same. Exactly the same,” he said before Gage could object. “He wasn't responsible.”

“We'd have done the same,” Cal affirmed. “And have. Why don't you come up to the center and watch the game?”

“Tempting, but I'll pass. I've got a lot of reading to do.”

“I'll drive you home,” Gage told him.

But for a few moments the three of them stood, just stood outside the station house looking over the town that was already under a cloud.

Eleven

FOX SPENT A LONG TIME READING, MAKING HIS own notes, checking back over specific passages Quinn had marked in the journal.

He juggled and mulled, and read more.

No precedent for whatever mumbo-jumbo Dent had used that night in the woods, Fox considered. Which meant he couldn't have been sure it would work. But he was willing to risk his life, his existence. Hell of a gamble, even considering he'd sent Ann, and the lives in her, to safety first.

Ritual magic, Fox decided, and used laundry and housekeeping chores as he had juggling. Blood magic. He glanced at the scar on his wrist. Then, and three hundred years later. Blood and fire at the Pagan Stone in Dent's time, and blood, in a boyhood ritual in theirs. A campfire, the words he and Cal and Gage had written down to say together when Cal made the cuts.

Young boys—the blood of the innocent.

He toyed with various ideas and strategies as he thought of them. He climbed into bed late, on righteously clean sheets, to let himself sleep on it.

It came to him in the morning, while he was shaving. He hated shaving, and as he did many mornings, considered growing a beard. But every time he attempted one, it itched, and it looked stupid. Talk about pagan rituals, he mused as he drew blade through lather and over skin. Every freaking morning unless a guy wanted the hairy face, he had to scrape some sharp implement over his throat until—shit.

He nicked himself, as he nearly always did, pressed a finger to the wound that would close again almost before it bled. The sting came and went, and still he scowled in disgust at his blood-smeared fingertip.

Then stared.

Life and death, he thought. Blood was life, blood was death.

Dull horror embedded in his brain, in his heart. Had to be wrong, he told himself. Yet it made terrible sense. It was a hell of a strategy, if you're willing to shed innocent blood.

What did it mean? he asked himself. What did it make Dent, if this had been his sacrifice?

What did it make all of them?

He twisted and turned it in his head as he made himself finish shaving, as he dressed and readied for the workday. He had the Town Council breakfast meeting, and as town lawyer, he couldn't get out of it. Probably for the best, he decided as he grabbed his jacket, his briefcase. It was probably best to let this stew. Probably best to wait, think, before he broached the idea to the others. Even to Cal and Gage.

He ordered himself to put his head into the meeting, and though painting Town Hall and new plantings at the Square weren't high on his current list of priorities, he thought he'd done a good job of it.

But Cal was on him the minute they walked out of Ma's. “What's going on?”

“I think Town Hall needs a new coat of paint, and damn the expense.”

“Cut it out. You left half your breakfast on your plate. When you don't eat, something's up.”

“I'm working on something, but I need to fine-tune it, to look at it some more before I talk about it. Plus, Sage is in town. I'm meeting her and the family for lunch at Sparrow's, ergo, my appetite's already dead.”

“Walk up to the center with me, run it by me.”

“Not now. I've got stuff anyway. I've got to digest this, which is an easier proposition than the lentils I'll probably get stuck with at lunch. We'll roll it over tonight.”

“All right. You know where I am if you want to roll it sooner.”