The Hollow (28 page)

Now he felt stupid. Stupid, tired, beleaguered, and a little pissed off. Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he started back to his office and jolted when the door opened. Relief came when he saw Shelley walk in rather than Layla.

“Hi. I was hoping I could talk to you for a minute. I just saw Layla outside, and she said you were in, probably not real busy.”

“Sure. You want to come back?”

“No.” She walked to him, and just put her arms around him. “Thanks. I just wanted to say thanks.”

“You're welcome. What for?”

“Block and I had our first counseling session last night.” She gave a sigh, stepped back. “It was kind of intense and it got pretty emotional, I guess. I don't know how it's all going to end up, but I think it helped. I think it's better to try, to talk, even if we're yelling, than to just say screw you, you bastard. If I end up saying that, at least I'll know I gave it a good shot first. I don't know if I would have if you hadn't been looking out for me.”

“I want you to get what you want, whatever that is. And to be happy when you get it.”

She nodded, dabbed at her eyes with a tissue. “I know Block went after you, and you didn't press charges. He's feeling, I guess the word's
chastised
. I wanted to thank you for that, too, for not pressing charges.”

“It wasn't all his fault.”

“Oh, it was, too.” But she laughed a little. “He's got some making up to do, but he knows it. He's got a black eye. I don't give a rat's ass if it's small of me, but I appreciate that, too.”

“No charge.”

She laughed a little. “Anyway. We're going to keep going, see what happens. I get to go alone next, and I am
so
unloading.” Now she grinned. “Already feels good. I gotta get back to work.”

He went back to his office, worked and brooded. He heard Layla come back in. Closet, coat, desk, drawer, purse. He went out the kitchen door, making just enough noise to let her know he'd headed out.

The sun was brilliant in a ripe blue sky. Though the air was warm enough to keep him comfortable in his light jacket, the chill shot up his spine.

The afternoon mirrored his dream.

He forced himself to round the building to Main. Pansies rioted in the tub in front of the flower shop. People strolled, some in shirtsleeves, as if sucking down this taste of spring after the last gulp of winter. He curled his hands into fists, and followed the steps.

He waited for a break in traffic, crossed the street.

Amy came out of the back of the flower shop. “Hey, Fox. How you doing? Fabulous day, isn't it? About time, too.”

Close enough, he thought, keeping his eyes on her face. “Yeah. How've you been?”

“No complaints. Are you looking for something for the office? Mrs. Hawbaker usually picked out an arrangement on Mondays. You don't want to buy office flowers on a Friday, Fox.”

“No.” Though some of the knots in his belly loosened— not the same—they tightened again when he glanced over and saw the daffodils. “It's personal. Those are what I'm after.”

“Aren't they sweet? All cheerful and hopeful.” She turned, and he stared at the faint reflection of her face in the glass. She smiled, but it was Amy's smile, as cheerful as the flowers.

She chattered as she prepared them, wrapped them, but the words slipped in and out of his mind as he searched the air for the scent of something rotting. And found nothing but fresh and floral.

“Are they for your girl?”

He gave her a quick, sharp look. “Yeah. Yeah, they're for my girl.”

Her smile only went brighter as they exchanged money for blooms. “She'll love them. If you want something for the office, I'll have a nice arrangement for you Monday.”

“Okay, thanks.” He turned to go.

“Say hi to Layla for me.”

He closed his eyes, relief, guilt, gratitude rushing through him. “I will. See you later.”

Maybe he was a little dizzy when he stepped outside, a little shaky in the knees, but when he made himself look, the door of the old library was closed. His gaze traveled up, up, but no one he loved stood poised for death on the narrow ledge of the turret.

He crossed the street again. She was at her desk when he came in the front door. She flicked him a glance, then looked deliberately away.

“There are messages on your desk. Your two o'clock called to reschedule for next week.”

He walked to her, held out the flowers. “I'm sorry.”

“They're very nice. I'll go put them in water.”

“I'm sorry,” he repeated when she rose and made to brush by him.

She paused, just two beats. “All right.” And taking the flowers, walked away.

He wanted to let it go. What was the point in dredging it all up? What could possibly be the point? It wasn't about trust, it was about pain. Wasn't he entitled to his own pain? Hurting, he strode back to the kitchen where she filled a vase with water.

“Listen, are we supposed to turn ourselves inside out, show off our guts? Is that what it takes?”

“No.”

"We don't have to know every damn detail about each other.”

“No, we don't.” She began to slip the tender green stems into the water, one by one.

“I had a nightmare. I've had nightmares almost as long as I can remember. We've all had them now.”

“I know.”

“Is that your way of dragging it out of me? To agree with everything I say?”

“It's my way of controlling myself so I don't kick your ass and step over it on my way out.”

“I don't want to fight.”

“Yes, you do. That's exactly what you want, and I'm not going to give you what you want. You don't deserve it.”

“Jesus Christ.” He stormed around the little room and in a rare show of violence kicked at the cabinets. “She's dead. Carly's dead. I didn't save her, and she died.”

Layla turned away from the sunbeams in the bright blue vase. “I'm so sorry, Fox.”

“Don't.” He pressed his fingers to his eyes. “Just don't.”

“Don't be sorry because you lost someone who must have mattered a great deal to you? Don't be sorry because you're hurting? What do you expect from me?”

“Right now, I don't have the first clue.” He dropped his hands. “We met the spring before my twenty-third birthday, when I was in New York, in law school. She was a medical student. She wanted to work in emergency medicine. We met at a party. We started seeing each other. Casually. Casually at first, for a while. We were both studying, crazy schedules. She stayed in New York during the summer break, and I came home. But I went up a few times because things were getting more serious.”

When he sat at the kitchen table, Layla opened the refrigerator. Instead of his usual Coke, she brought him a bottle of water, and one for herself.

“We moved in together that fall. Crappy place, the kind of crappy place you expect a couple of students to be able to afford in New York. We loved it. She loved it,” he corrected. “I was always a little out of step in New York, a little on edge. But she loved it, so I did because I loved her. I loved her, Layla.”

“I know. I can hear it in your voice.”

“We made plans. Long-range, colorful plans, the way you do. I never told her about the Hollow, not what was under it. I told myself we'd stopped it, during the last Seven. We'd ended it, so I didn't need to tell her. I knew it was a lie. I was sure it was a lie when the dreams came back. Cal called. I still had weeks to go in the semester, my job as a law clerk. I had Carly. But I had to come back. So I lied to her, made excuses that were lies. Family emergency.”

Not really a lie, he told himself now, as he'd told himself then. The Hollow was his family.

“I went back and forth, back and forth, for those weeks between New York and the Hollow. And I piled lie on top of lie. And I used my
gift
to read her so I could tell what sort of lie would work best.”

“Why didn't you tell her, Fox?”

“She'd never have believed me. There wasn't a fanciful bone in her body. Carly was all about science. Maybe that was part of the attraction. None of this would or could be real for her, I told myself. But that was only part of the reason, maybe that was just another lie.”

He paused, pinching the bridge of his nose to relieve tension. “I wanted something that wasn't part of this. I wanted the reality of her, of what we had away from here. So when summer came and I knew I had to be here, I made more excuses, told more lies. I picked fights with her. It was better if she was pissed at me than that any part of this touch her. I told her we needed to take a break, that I was going home for a few weeks. Needed some space. I hurt her, and justified it as protecting her.”

He took a long, slow drink of water. “Things got ugly before the seventh day of the seventh month. Fights and fires, vandalism. We were busy, me and Cal and Gage. I called her. I shouldn't have called her, but I did, to tell her I missed her, that I'd be back in a couple of weeks. If I hadn't wanted to hear her voice . . .”

“She came,” Layla said. “She came to Hawkins Hollow.”

“The day before our birthday, she drove down from New York. She got directions to the farm, and showed up on the doorstep. I wasn't there. Cal had an apartment in town back then, and we were staying there. Carly called from the kitchen of the farmhouse. Didn't think she'd miss my birthday, did I?

“I was terrified. She didn't belong here, wasn't supposed to come here. When I got to the farm, nothing I said would budge her. We were going to have this out, that was her stand. Whatever was wrong, we were going to have it out. What could I tell her?”

“What did you tell her?”

“Too much, not enough. She didn't believe me. Why would she? She thought I was overstressed. She wanted me to come back to New York for tests. I walked over, turned on the burner on the stove, and stuck my hand on it.”

He did the same now, in the little office kitchen, but stopped short of holding his hand to the burner. What would be the point now? “She had the expected reaction, human and medical,” he added, switching the burner off. “Then she saw my hand healing. She was full of questions then, more insistent that I go in for tests. I agreed to everything, anything, on the condition that she go back to New York. She wouldn't, not unless I went with her, so we compromised. She promised she'd stay at the farm, day and night, until I could go with her.

“She stayed that night, the next day, the next night. But the night after . . .”

He walked to the sink, leaned against it as he looked out the window to the neighboring houses and lawns beyond. “Things were insane in town, and in the middle of it, my mother called. She woke up when a car started outside, and she'd gone running. Carly was gone. She'd driven off in the car she'd borrowed from a friend to drive down from New York. I was frantic, more frantic when Mom told me she'd been gone twenty minutes, maybe a little more. She hadn't been able to reach me, just got static when she tried.”

When he broke off, when he came back to sit, Layla simply reached across the table to take his hand.

“There was a house on fire over on Mill. Cal got burned pretty bad when we got the kids out. Three kids. Jack Proctor, he ran the hardware store, had a shotgun. He was just walking along, shooting at anything that moved. One barrel, second barrel, reload. A couple of teenagers were raping a woman right on Main Street, right in front of the Methodist Church. There was more. No point going into it. I couldn't find her. I tried to find her thoughts, but there was so much interference. Like the static on the line. Then I heard her calling for me.”

He didn't see the houses and lawns now. He saw the fire and the blood. “I ran, and Napper was there, blocking the sidewalk. He had his car pulled across it. Had a ball bat, and came at me with it, swinging. I wouldn't have gotten past him if Gage hadn't taken him down, and Cal right behind with his burns still healing. I climbed over the car and kept running, because I heard her calling me. The door to the library, the old library, was open. I could feel her now, how afraid she was. I went up the steps, yelling for her, so she'd know I was coming. Carts hurtling at me, books flying.”

Because it was as real as yesterday, he squeezed his eyes shut, scrubbed his hands over his face. “I went down a couple of times, maybe more. I don't know, it's a blur. I got out on the roof. It was like a hurricane out there. Carly was on the ledge above, standing on that spit of stone. Her hands were bleeding; the stone was stained with it. I told her not to move. Don't move. Oh God, don't move. I'm coming up to get you. She looked at me, and she was in there, for an instant it let her come all the way out so she could look at me with all that fear. She said, ‘Help me. Please, God, help me.' Then she went off.”

Layla moved her chair beside his, and as she had the night before, drew his head down to her breast.

“I didn't get there in time.”

“Not your fault.”

“Every choice I made with her was the wrong one. All those wrong choices killed her.”

“No. It killed her.”

“She wasn't part of this. She'd never have been part of this except for me.” He drew back, drew away so he could finish. “Last night, I dreamed,” he began, and told her.

“I don't know what to say to you,” Layla told him. “I don't know what I should say to you. But . . .” She took his hand, pressed it between her breasts. “My heart aches. I can't imagine what you feel if my heart aches. Others who know what happened, who know you, have told you it wasn't your fault. You'll accept that or you won't. If Carly loved you, she'd want you to accept it. I don't know if you were wrong to lie to her. And I don't know if I could accept as truth everything I know if I hadn't seen and experienced it myself. You wanted to keep her separate from this, to keep what you had, who you were, who she was apart from what you have, who you are here. I know what that's like, the wanting to keep everything in its proper place. But your worlds collided, Fox, and it was out of your control.”