The Sign of Seven Trilogy (3 page)

“No shit. Old man was trashed. He'll never know the difference. I got something else, too. Last month's
Penthouse
magazine.”

“No way.”

“He keeps them buried under a bunch of crap in the bathroom.”

“Lemme see.”

“Later. With the beer.”

They both looked over as Cal dragged his bike down the rough path. “Hey, jerkwad,” Fox greeted him.

“Hey, dickheads.”

That said with the affection of brothers, they walked their bikes deeper into the trees, then off the narrow path.

Once the bikes were deemed secure, supplies were untied and divvied up.

“Jesus, Hawkins, what'd your mom put in here?”

“You won't complain when you're eating it.” Cal's arms were already protesting the weight as he scowled at Gage. “Why don't you put your pack on, and give me a hand?”

“Because I'm carrying it.” But he flipped the top on the basket and after hooting at the Tupperware, shoved a couple of the containers into his pack. “Put something in yours, O'Dell, or it'll take us all day just to get to Hester's Pool.”

“Shit.” Fox pulled out a thermos, wedged it in his pack. “Light enough now, Sally?”

“Screw you. I got the basket and my pack.”

“I got the supplies from the market and my pack.” Fox pulled his prized possession from his bike. “You carry the boom box, Turner.”

Gage shrugged, took the radio. “Then I pick the tunes.”

“No rap,” Cal and Fox said together, but Gage only grinned as he walked and tuned until he found some Run-DMC.

With a lot of bitching and moaning, they started the hike.

The leaves, thick and green, cut the sun's glare and summer heat. Through the thick poplars and towering oaks, slices and dabs of milky blue sky peeked. They aimed for the wind of the creek while the rapper and Aero-smith urged them to walk this way.

“Gage has a
Penthouse
,” Fox announced. “The skin magazine, numbnut,” he said at Cal's blank stare.

“Uh-uh.”

“Uh-huh. Come on, Turner, break it out.”

“Not until we're camped and pop the beer.”

“Beer!”
Instinctively, Cal sent a look over his shoulder, just in case his mother had magically appeared. “You got beer?”

“Three cans of suds,” Gage confirmed, strutting. “Smokes, too.”

“Is this far-out or what?” Fox gave Cal a punch in the arm. “It's the best birthday ever.”

“Ever,” Cal agreed, secretly terrified. Beer, cigarettes, and pictures of naked women. If his mother ever found out, he'd be grounded until he was thirty. That didn't even count the fact he'd lied. Or that he was hiking his way through Hawkins Wood to camp out at the expressly forbidden Pagan Stone.

He'd be grounded until he died of old age.

“Stop worrying.” Gage shifted his pack from one arm to the other, with a wicked glint of what-the-hell in his eyes. “It's all cool.”

“I'm not worried.” Still, Cal jolted when a fat jay zoomed out of the trees and let out an irritated call.

H
ESTER'S POOL WAS ALSO FORBIDDEN IN CAL'S
world, which was only one of the reasons it was irresistible.

The scoop of brown water, fed by the winding Antietam Creek and hidden in the thick woods, was supposed to be haunted by some weird Pilgrim girl who'd drowned in it way back whenever.

He'd heard his mother talk about a boy who'd drowned there when she'd been a kid, which in Mom Logic was the number one reason Cal was
never allowed
to swim there. The kid's ghost was supposed to be there, too, lurking under the water, just waiting to grab another kid's ankle and drag him down to the bottom so he'd have somebody to hang out with.

Cal had swum there twice that summer, giddy with fear and excitement. And both times he'd
sworn
he'd felt bony fingers brush over his ankle.

A dense army of cattails trooped along the edges, and around the slippery bank grew bunches of the wild orange lilies his mother liked. Fans of ferns climbed up the rocky slope, along with brambles of wild berries, which when ripe would stain the fingers a kind of reddish purple that looked a little like blood.

The last time they'd come, he'd seen a black snake slither its way up the slope, barely stirring the ferns.

Fox let out a shout, dumped his pack. In seconds he'd dragged off his shoes, his shirt, his jeans and was sailing over the water in a cannonball without a thought for snakes or ghosts or whatever else might be under that murky brown surface.

“Come on, you pussies!” After a slick surface dive, Fox bobbed around the pool like a seal.

Cal sat, untied his Converse All Stars, carefully tucked his socks inside them. While Fox continued to whoop and splash, he glanced over where Gage simply stood looking out over the water.

“You going in?”

“I dunno.”

Cal pulled off his shirt, folded it out of habit. “It's on the agenda. We can't cross it off unless we all do it.”

“Yeah, yeah.” But Gage only stood as Cal stripped down to his Fruit of the Looms.

“We have to all go in, dare the gods and stuff.”

With a shrug, Gage toed off his shoes. “Go on, what are you, a homo? Want to watch me take my clothes off?”

“Gross.” And slipping his glasses inside his left shoe, Cal sucked in breath, gave thanks his vision blurred, and jumped.

The water was a quick, cold shock.

Fox immediately spewed water in his face, fully blinding him, then stroked off toward the cattails before retaliation. Just when he'd managed to clear his myopic eyes, Gage jumped in and blinded him all over again.

“Sheesh, you guys!”

Gage's choppy dog paddle worked up the water, so Cal swam clear of the storm. Of the three, he was the best swimmer. Fox was fast, but he ran out of steam. And Gage, well, Gage sort of attacked the water like he was in a fight with it.

Cal worried—even as part of him thrilled at the idea—that he'd one day have to use the lifesaving techniques his dad had taught him in their aboveground pool to save Gage from drowning.

He was picturing it, and how Gage and Fox would stare at him with gratitude and admiration, when a hand grabbed his ankle and yanked him underwater.

Even though he
knew
it was Fox who pulled him down, Cal's heart slammed into his throat as the water closed over his head. He floundered, forgetting all his training in that first instant of panic. Even as he managed to kick off the hold on his ankle and gather himself to push to the surface, he saw a movement to the left.

It—she—seemed to glide through the water toward him. Her hair streamed back from her white face, and her eyes were cave black. As her hand reached out, Cal opened his mouth to scream. Gulping in water, he clawed his way to the surface.

He could hear laughter all around him, tinny and echoing like the music out of the old transistor radio his father sometimes used. With terror biting inside his throat, he slapped and clawed his way to the edge of the pool.

“I saw her, I saw her, in the water, I saw her.” He choked out the words while fighting to climb out.

She was coming for him, fast as a shark in his mind, and in his mind he saw her mouth open, and the teeth gleam sharp as knives.

“Get out! Get out of the water!” Panting, he crawled through the slippery weeds and rolling, saw his friends treading water. “She's in the water.” He almost sobbed it, bellying over to fumble his glasses out of his shoe. “I
saw
her. Get out. Hurry up!”

“Oooh, the ghost! Help me, help me!” With a mock gurgle, Fox sank underwater.

Cal lurched to his feet, balled his hands into fists at his sides. Fury tangled with terror to have his voice lashing through the still summer air. “Get the fuck out.”

The grin on Gage's face faded. Eyes narrowed on Cal, he gripped Fox by the arm when Fox surfaced laughing.

“We're getting out.”

“Come
on
. He's just being spaz because I dunked him.”

“He's not bullshitting.”

The tone got through, or when he bothered to look, the expression on Cal's face tripped a chord. Fox shot off toward the edge, spooked enough to send a couple of wary looks over his shoulder.

Gage followed, a careless dog paddle that made Cal think he was daring something to happen.

When his friends hauled themselves out, Cal sank back down to the ground. Drawing his knees up, he pressed his forehead to them and began to shake.

“Man.” Dripping in his underwear, Fox shifted from foot to foot. “I just gave you a tug, and you freak out. We were just fooling around.”

“I saw her.”

Crouching, Fox shoved his sopping hair back from his face. “Dude, you can't see squat without those Coke bottles.”

“Shut up, O'Dell.” Gage squatted down. “What did you see, Cal?”

“
Her
. She had all this hair swimming around her, and her eyes, oh man, her eyes were black like the shark in
Jaws
. She had this long dress on, long sleeves and all, and she reached out like she was going to grab me—”

“With her bony fingers,” Fox put in, falling well short of his target of disdain.

“They weren't bony.” Cal lifted his head now, and behind the lenses his eyes were fierce and frightened. “I thought they would be, but she looked, all of her, looked just…real. Not like a ghost or a skeleton. Oh man, oh God, I saw her. I'm not making it up.”

“Well Jee-sus.” Fox crab-walked another foot away from the pond, then cursed breathlessly when he tore his forearm on berry thorns. “Shit, now I'm bleeding.” Fox yanked a handful of weedy grass, swiped at the blood seeping from the scratches.

“Don't even think about it.” Cal saw the way Gage was studying the water—that thoughtful, wonder-what'll-happen gleam in his eye. “Nobody's going in there. You don't swim well enough to try it anyway.”

“How come you're the only one who saw her?”

“I don't know and I don't care. I just want to get away from here.”

Cal leaped up, grabbed his pants. Before he could wiggle into them, he saw Gage from behind. “Holy cow. Your back is messed up bad.”

“The old man got wasted last night. It's no big deal.”

“Dude.” Fox walked around to get a look. “That's gotta hurt.”

“The water cooled it off.”

“I've got my first aid kit—” Cal began, but Gage cut him off.

“I said no big deal.” He grabbed his shirt, pulled it on. “If you two don't have the balls to go back in and see what happens, we might as well move on.”

“I don't have the balls,” Cal said in such a deadpan, Gage snorted out a laugh.

“Then put your pants on so I don't have to wonder what that is hanging between your legs.”

Fox broke out the Little Debbies, and one of the six-pack of Coke he'd bought at the market. Because the incident in the pond and the welts on Gage's back were too important, they didn't speak of them. Instead, hair still dripping, they resumed the hike, gobbling snack cakes and sharing a can of warm soda.

But with Bon Jovi claiming they were halfway there, Cal thought of what he'd seen. Why had he been the only one? How had her face been so clear in the murky water, and with his glasses tucked in his shoe? How could he have seen her? With every step he took away from the pond, it was easier to convince himself he'd just imagined it.

Not that he'd ever,
ever
admit that maybe he'd just freaked out.

The heat dried his damp skin and brought on the sweat. It made him wonder how Gage could stand having his shirt clinging to his sore back. Because, man, those marks were all red and bumpy, and really had to hurt. He'd seen Gage after Old Man Turner had gone after him before, and it hadn't ever, ever been as bad as this. He wished Gage had let him put some salve on his back.

What if it got infected? What if he got blood poisoning, got all delirious or something when they were all the way to the Pagan Stone?

He'd have to send Fox for help, yeah, that's what he'd do—send Fox for help while he stayed with Gage and treated the wounds, got him to drink something so he didn't—what was it?—dehydrate.

Of course, all their butts would be in the sling when his dad had to come get them, but Gage would get better.

Maybe they'd put Gage's father in jail. Then what would happen? Would Gage have to go to an orphanage?

It was almost as scary to think about as the woman in the pond.

They stopped to rest, then sat in the shade to share one of Gage's stolen Marlboros. They always made Cal dizzy, but it was kind of nice to sit there in the trees with the water sliding over rocks behind them and a bunch of crazy birds calling out to each other.

“We could camp right here,” Cal said half to himself.

“No way.” Fox punched his shoulder. “We're turning ten at the Pagan Stone. No changing the plan. We'll be there in under an hour. Right, Gage?”

Gage stared up through the trees. “Yeah. We'd be moving faster if you guys hadn't brought so much shit with you.”

“Didn't see you turn down a Little Debbie,” Fox reminded him.

“Nobody turns down Little Debbies. Well…” He crushed out the cigarette, then planted a rock over the butt. “Saddle up, troops.”

Nobody came here. Cal knew it wasn't true, knew when deer was in season these woods were hunted.

But it
felt
like nobody came here. The two other times he'd been talked into hiking all the way to the Pagan Stone he'd felt exactly the same. And both those times they'd started out early in the morning instead of afternoon. They'd been back out before two.

Now, according to his Timex, it was nearly four. Despite the snack cake, his stomach wanted to rumble. He wanted to stop again, to dig into what his mother had packed in the stupid basket.

But Gage was pushing on, anxious to get to the Pagan Stone.

The earth in the clearing had a scorched look about it, as if a fire had blown through the trees there and turned them all to ash. It was almost a perfect circle, ringed by oaks and locus and the bramble of wild berries. In its center was a single rock that jutted two feet out of the burned earth and flattened at the top like a small table.

Some said altar.

People, when they spoke of it at all, said the Pagan Stone was just a big rock that pushed out of the ground. Ground so colored because of minerals, or an underground stream, or maybe caves.

But others, who were usually more happy to talk about it, pointed to the original settlement of Hawkins Hollow and the night thirteen people met their doom, burned alive in that very clearing.

Witchcraft, some said, and others devil worship.

Another theory was that an inhospitable band of Indians had killed them, then burned the bodies.

But whatever the theory, the pale gray stone rose out of the soot-colored earth like a monument.

“We made it!” Fox dumped his pack and his bag to dash forward and do a dancing run around the rock. “Is this cool? Is this cool? Nobody knows where we are. And we've got
all
night to do anything we want.”

“Anything we want in the middle of the woods,” Cal added. Without a TV, or a refrigerator.

Fox threw back his head and let out a shout that echoed away. “See that? Nobody can hear us. We could be attacked by mutants or ninjas or space aliens, and nobody would hear us.”

That, Cal realized, didn't make his stomach feel any steadier. “We need to get wood for a campfire.”

“The Boy Scout's right,” Gage decided. “You guys find some wood. I'll go put the beer and the Coke in the stream. Cool off the cans.”

In his tidy way, Cal organized the campsite first. Food in one area, clothes in another, tools in another still. With his Scout knife and compass in his pocket, he set off to gather twigs and small branches. The brambles nipped and scratched as he picked his way through them. With his arms loaded, he didn't notice a few drops of his blood drip onto the ground at the edge of the circle.

Or the way the blood sizzled, smoked, then was sucked into that scarred earth.

Fox set the boom box on the rock, so they set up camp with Madonna and U2 and the Boss. Following Cal's advice, they built the fire, but didn't set it to light while they had the sun.

Sweaty and filthy, they sat on the ground and tore into the picnic basket with grubby hands and huge appetites. As the food, the familiar flavors filled his belly and soothed his system, Cal decided it had been worth hauling the basket for a couple of hours.

Replete, they stretched out on their backs, faces to the sky.

“Do you really think all those people died right here?” Gage wondered.

“There are books about it in the library,” Cal told him. “About a fire of, like, ‘unknown origin' breaking out and these people burned up.”

“Kind of a weird place for them to be.”