The Hollow

THE RAIN HUNG AROUND, IRRITATINGLY, INTO the kind of gloomy, windswept morning where sleeping in was mandatory. Or would've been, Fox thought as he shut his apartment door behind him, if a guy didn't have demon research on his Sunday morning schedule.



Despite the damp, he opted to walk the handful of blocks to Layla's. Like juggling, walking was thinking time. Apparently the other residents of the Hollow didn't share his view or had nothing much to think about. Cars crammed nose to ass at the curb outside Ma's Pantry and Coffee Talk, windshields running, bumpers dripping. And inside, he mused, people would be tucking into the breakfast special, getting their coffee topped off, complaining about the windy rain.



From across the street, he eyeballed the new door on the bookstore and thought, Nice job, Dad. As Layla had done, he studied the Going Out of Business sign on the gift shop. Nothing to be done about that. Another business would move in. Jim Hawkins would find another tenant who'd slap fresh paint on the walls and fill the place with whatevers. A Grand Opening sign would go up; customers would wander in to check it all out. Through the transition, people would still be eating the breakfast special, sleeping in on a rainy Sunday morning, or nagging their kids to get dressed for church.



But things would change. This time, when the Seven came around, they'd be more than ready for the Big Evil Bastard. They'd do more than mop up the blood, put out the fires, lock up the deranged until the madness passed.



They had to do more.



Meanwhile, they'd do the work, look for answers. They'd had fun the night before, he mused. Hanging out, letting music and conversation wash away a long, hard day. Progress had been made during that day. He could feel all of them taking a step toward something.



So while he might not be sleeping in or tucking into the breakfast special at Ma's, he'd spend the day with friends, and the woman he wanted for his lover, working toward making sure others in the Hollow could keep right on doing the everyday, even during the week of July seventh, every seventh year.



He made the turn at the Square, hands in the kangaroo pockets of his hooded sweatshirt, head ducked down in the rain.



He glanced up idly as he heard the squeal of brakes on wet pavement. Fox recognized Block Kholer's truck, and thought, Shit, even before Block slammed out of it.



"You little son of a bitch."



Now, as Block strode forward, ham-sized hands fisted, size fourteen Wolverines slapping the pavement, Fox thought: Shit.



"You're going to want to step back, Block, and calm down." They'd known each other since high school, so Fox's hopes of Block doing either were slim. As tempers went, Block's was fairly mild-but once Block worked up a head of steam, somebody was going to get pounded.



Since he sincerely didn't want it to be him, Fox tuned in and managed to evade the first swing.



"Cut it out, Block. I'm Shelley's lawyer, that's reality. If I wasn't, somebody else would be."



"I heard that's not all you are." He swung again, missed again when Fox ducked. "How long you been doing my wife, you cocksucker?"



"I've never been with Shelley that way. You know me, goddamn it. If you got that tune from Napper, consider who was whistling it."



"I got kicked out of my own goddamn house." Block's blue eyes were bright with rage in a wide face stained red with more. "I gotta go into Ma's to get a decent breakfast because of you."



"I wasn't the one with my hand down my sister-in-law's shirt." Talk was his business, Fox reminded himself. Talk him down. So he kept his voice cool and even as he danced back from another punch. "Don't hang this on me, Block, and don't do something now you're going to have to pay for."



"You're going to fucking pay."



Fox was fast, but Block hadn't lost all the skill he'd owned on the football field back in his day. He didn't punch Fox as much as mow him down. Fox hit the ivy-covered slope of a lawn-and the rocks underneath the drenched ivy-and slid painfully down to the sidewalk with the enraged former defensive tackle on top of him.



Block outweighed him by a good fifty pounds, and most of that was muscle. Pinned, he couldn't avoid the short-armed, bare-knuckled punch to the face, or the punishing rabbit jabs in his kidneys. Through the vicious pain, the blurred vision, he could see a kind of madness on Block's face that had panic snaking in.



And the thoughts sparking out were every bit as mad and murderous.



Fox did the only thing left to him. He fought dirty. He clawed, going for those mad eyes. At Block's howl, he rammed his fist into the exposed throat. Block gagged, choked, and Fox had room to maneuver, to jam his knee between Block's legs. He got in a few punches, aiming for the face and throat.



Run. That single thought bloomed like blood in Fox's mind. But when he tried to roll, crawl, fight his way clear and gain his feet, Block slammed Fox's head against the sidewalk. He felt something inside him break as the steel-toed boot kicked viciously at his side. Then he fought for air as meaty hands closed around his throat.



Die here.



He didn't know if it was Block's thoughts or his own circling in his screaming head. But he knew he was slipping away. His burning lungs couldn't draw air, and his vision was dimmed and doubled. He struggled to push what he had into this man he knew, a man who loved the Red-skins and NASCAR, who was always good for a bad, dirty joke and was a genius with engines. A man stupid enough to cheat on his wife with her sister.



But he couldn't find it. He couldn't find himself or the man who was killing him on the sidewalk a few steps from the Town Square on a rainy Sunday morning.



Then all he could see was red, like a field of blood. All he could see was his own death.



The pressure on his throat released, and the horrible weight on his chest lifted. As he rolled, retching, he thought he heard shouting. But his ears rang like Klaxons, and he spat blood.



"Fox! Fox! O'Dell!"



A face swam in front of his. Fox lay across the sidewalk, the rain blessedly cool on his battered face. He saw a blurred triple image of Chief of Police Wayne Hawbaker.



"Better not move," Wayne told him. "I'll call an ambulance."



Not dead, Fox thought, though the red still swam at the edges of his vision. "No, wait." It croaked out of him, but he managed to sit up. "No ambulance."



"You're hurt pretty bad."



He knew his one eye was swollen shut, but he managed to focus the other on Wayne. "I'll be okay. Where the fuck is Block?"



"Cuffed and locked in the back of my car. Christ, Fox, I had to damn near knock him cold to get him off you. What the hell was going on here?"



Fox wiped blood from his mouth. "Ask Napper."



"What does he have to do with it?"



"He'd be the one who got Block worked up, making him think I'd been screwing around with Shelley." Fox wheezed in another breath that felt like broken glass inside his throat. "Never mind, doesn't matter. No law against lying to an idiot, is there?"



Wayne said nothing for a moment. "I'll call down to the firehouse, get the paramedics here to look you over at least."



"I don't need them." As helpless anger, helpless pain churned inside him, Fox braced a bleeding hand on the sidewalk. "I don't want them."



"I'll be taking Block in. I'll need you to come in when you're able, file formal assault charges."



Fox nodded. Attempted murder was closer to the mark, but assault would do.



"Let me help you into the front of the car. I'll take you where you want to go."



"Just go on. I can get where I'm going."



Wayne dragged a hand through his wet, graying hair. "Chrissakes, Fox, you want me to leave you on the sidewalk, bleeding?"



Once again, Fox focused his good eye. "You know me, Chief. I heal quick."



Acknowledgment and worry clouded Wayne's eyes. "Let me see you get to your feet. I'm not driving off until I know you can stand and walk."



He managed it, every inch of him screaming. Three broken ribs, Fox thought. He could already feel them trying to heal, and the pain was hideous. "Lock him up. I'll be in when I can."



He limped off, didn't stop until he heard Hawbaker drive away. Then he turned, and stared at the grinning boy standing across the street.



"I'll heal, you fucker, and when the time comes, I'll do a lot worse to you."



The demon in a child's form laughed. Then it opened its mouth, wide as a cave, and swallowed itself.



By the time Fox made it to the rental house, one of his ribs had healed, and the second was working on it. His loosened teeth were solid again; the most minor of the scrapes and cuts had closed.



Should've gone home to finish this up, he realized. But the beating and the agony of the healing left him exhausted and fuzzy-headed. The women would just have to deal with it, he told himself. They'd probably have to deal with worse before it was over.



"We're up here!" Quinn called down at the sound of the door opening, closing again. "Be down in a minute. Coffee's on the stove, Coke's in the fridge, depending on who you are."



The bruising on his windpipe was still too severe. He didn't have it in him to call back, so he made his way painfully to the kitchen.



He started to reach for the refrigerator, frowned at his broken wrist. "Come on, you bastard, finish it up." While the bones knit, he used his left hand to get out a Coke, then fought bitterly with the tab of the can.



"We're getting a late start. I guess we were- Oh my God." Layla rushed forward. "Fox! God. Quinn, Cybil, Cal! Get down here. Fox is hurt!"



She tried to get an arm around him, take his weight. "Just open this, will you? Open the stupid can."



"Sit down. You need to sit down. Your face. Your poor face. Here, sit down here."



"Just open the goddamn can." He snapped it out, but she only pulled out a chair. The fact that she could ease him down on it with little effort told him he was still in bad shape.



She opened the can, started to cup his hands around it. Her voice was thin, but steady when she spoke. "Your wrist is broken."



"Not for long."



He took his first long, desperate sip as Cal ran in. One look had Cal cursing. "Layla, get some water, some towels to clean him up some." He crouched, put a hand on Fox's thigh. "How bad?"



"Worst in a long time."



"Napper?"



"Indirectly."



"Quinn," Cal said with his eyes still on Fox. "Call Gage. If he isn't on his way, tell him to get here."



"I'm getting ice." She dragged the ice bin out of the freezer. "Cybil."



"I'll call." But first she bent over, laid her lips gently on Fox's bloody cheek. "We'll take care of you, baby."



Layla brought a basin and cloth. "It hurts. Can we give him anything for the pain?"



"You have to go through it, even use it. It helps if the three of us are together." Cal's eyes never left Fox's face. "Give me something."



"Ribs, left side. He got three, one's finished, one's working."



"Okay."



"They should go." He hissed on a fresh flood of pain. "Tell them to go."



"We're not going anywhere." Gently, efficiently, Layla began to stroke the cold damp cloth over Fox's face.



"Here, honey." Quinn held the ice bag to Fox's swollen eye.



"I got him on his cell." Cybil hurried back in. "He was already in town. He'll be here any second." She stopped, and despite her horror at Fox's condition, watched in fascination as the raw bruises on his throat began to fade.



"He messed me up inside," Fox managed. "Can't focus, can't find it, but something's bleeding. Concussion. Can't think clear through it."



Cal kept his gaze steady on Fox's face. "Focus on that first, the concussion. You have to push the rest of it back."



"Trying."



"Let me." Layla shoved the bloodied cloths at Cybil before kneeling at Fox's feet. "I can see if you let me in. But I need you to let me. Let me see the pain, Fox, so I can help you focus on it, heal it. We're connected. I can help."



"You can't help if you freak. Remember that." He closed his eyes, and opened for her. "Just the head. I can handle the rest once I clear that."



He felt her shock, her horror, then her compassion. That was warm, soft. She guided him to where he needed to go just as she'd guided him to the chair.



And there, the pain was fierce and full, a monster with jagged teeth and stiletto claws. They bit, and mauled. They tore. For an instant he shied from it, started to struggle back. But she nudged him on.



A hand gripped his sweaty fist, and he knew it was Gage.



So he opened to himself, to them, rode on the pain, on the hot, bucking back of it, as he knew he must. When it ebbed enough for him to speak again, perspiration soaked him.



"Ease back now," he said to Layla. "Ease back. It's a little too much, a little too fast."



He kept riding the pain. Bones, muscles, organs. And clung unashamed to Gage's hand, to Cal's. When the worst had passed, and he could take his first easy breath, he stopped. His own nature would do the rest.



"Okay. It's okay."



"You don't look okay."



He looked at Cybil, saw there were tears running down her cheeks. "The rest is just surface. It'll take care of itself."



When she nodded, turned away, he looked down at Layla. Her eyes were swimming, but to his relief, no tears fell. "Thanks."



"Who did this to you?"



"That's the question." His voice raw, Gage straightened, then walked to the stove for coffee. "The second being, and when are we going to go kick the shit out of him?"



"I'd like to help with that." Cybil got a mug for Gage herself, then laid a hand over his, squeezed hard.



"It was Block," Fox told them as Quinn brought fresh water to clean the healing cuts and scrapes on his face.



"Block Kholer?" Gage tore his gaze from his hand, still warm from Cybil's though she now stood two feet away. "What the hell for?"



"Napper convinced him I'd screwed his wife."



Cal shook his head. "Block might be stupid enough to believe that asshole, which makes him monumentally stupid. And if he did, I could see him looking for some pushy-shovey, maybe even taking a swing at you. But, bro, he damn near killed you. That's just not..."



Fox managed a small, slow sip of the Coke when he saw Cal understood. "It was there. The little fucker. Across the street. I had my attention on Block, since I sensed he wanted to pound me to pulp, so I missed it. I saw it in Block's face though, in his eyes. The infection. If Wayne Hawbaker hadn't come by, he wouldn't have damn near killed me. I'd be dead."



"It's stronger." Quinn gripped Cal's shoulder. "It's gotten stronger."



"We had to figure it would. Everything's accelerated this time. You said Wayne came by. What did he do?"





"I was out of it at first. When I got it together, he had Block cuffed, locked in the car. He said he had to just about knock him cold to get him there. He was fine-Wayne-he was fine. Himself. Concerned, a little pissed, a lot confused. It didn't affect him."



"Maybe it couldn't." Layla pushed to her feet. She took the bloodied water to dump because if her hands were in the sink, no one could see them shake. "I think if it could have, it would have. You said Block meant to kill you. It wouldn't want the police, wouldn't want anyone to stop that from happening."



"One at a time." Composed again, Cybil pursed her lips. "Not good news, but not all bad." She brushed at Fox's wet, tangled hair. "Your eye's healing. You're almost back to full handsome again."



"What are you going to do about Block?" Quinn asked.



"I'll go over and talk to him, and Wayne later. Right now, I could really use a shower, if you ladies don't mind."



"I'll take you up." Layla held out a hand.



"You need to sleep," Cal said.



"A shower's probably enough."



"That kind of healing empties you out. You know that."



"I'll start with the shower." He walked out with Layla. The pain still nipped, but its teeth were dull, its claws stunted.



"I'll wash your clothes while you're in there," she told him. "There are a few things of Cal's around here you can use. Those jeans are toast now anyway."



He glanced down at his torn, ripped, and bloody Levi's. "Toast? They're just broken in."



She tried for a smile as they climbed the stairs, but couldn't quite pull it off. "Does it still hurt?"



"Mostly just sore now."



"Then..." She turned at the top of the stairs, put her arms around him and held close.



"It's all right now."



"Of course it's not all right now. None of it's all right. So I'm just going to hold on to you until I can handle it again."



"You handled it just fine." He lifted a hand, stroked it down her hair. "Right down the line."



Needing to be steady for him, Layla eased back to take his face carefully in her hands. His left eye looked red and painful, but the swelling was nearly gone. She kissed it, then his cheeks, his temples. "I was scared to death."



"I know. That's what heroism is, isn't it? Doing what has to be done when you're scared to death."



"Fox." She kissed his lips now, gently. "Take off your clothes."



"I've been waiting to hear you say that for weeks."



Now she was able to smile. "And get in the shower."



"Better and better."



"If you need someone to wash your back... I'll send Cal."



"And my dreams are crushed."



In the end, she untied his shoes while he sat on the side of the tub. She helped him out of his shirt and jeans with a depressingly sisterly affection. When he stood in his boxers, and she said, "Oh, Fox," he knew by the tone it wasn't due to delight in his manly physique, but to the bruises that covered it.



"When so much is internal, it just takes longer for the outside to heal."



She only nodded, and carrying his clothes, left him to shower.



It felt like glory-the hot water, the soft spray. It felt like glory to be alive. He stayed under the water, his hands braced on the shower wall, until it ran cool, until the pain circled the drain and slid away like the water. Jeans and a sweatshirt sat neatly folded on the counter when he stepped out. He managed to get them on, forced to pause several times to rest, to wait until nasty little bouts of dizziness passed. Once he'd wiped the steam from the mirror over the sink and taken stock of his face, the still-fading bruises, the raw look of his eye, the cuts not quite healed, he had to admit Cal was right, as usual.



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.