Hawk turned back to stare, his mind still somewhere headed toward the door.

"Not Sandy. Me," said Joby. "I never knew until today." He hung his head. "I'm sorry. If there's some gentler way to tell you that, I don't know what it is."

Hawk's mind finally finished the turn his body had already made. "You can't be my father," he whispered. "How could you be my father?"

"Your mother and I were in love," Joby said without looking up. "We were together just one time, a few months before we graduated from high school." He looked up at last, his eyes like some Hawk had seen in photographs of concentration camp inmates. "I didn't know she was pregnant. She never told me."

Hawk came back and dropped onto the bed again, feeling like a sleepwalker. "So what was Sandy?"

"He was the man your mother married so that you would have a father." Joby's face was one big grimace of contrition now, which, Hawk would later surmise, might have been what put the idea in his head that all of this was Joby's fault. Whatever its genesis, the idea stuck and bloomed like napalm in Hawk's soul.

"So we spent thirteen years getting yanked around by that fucking, drunken prick because you had a nice one-nighter with my mother and walked away without asking how it all turned out?" Such a surge of anger welled within him that Hawk had to gouge his hands into the bedspread to keep himself from getting up and giving Joby what he'd so often dreamed of giving GB.

"No," Joby protested urgently. "The next night, someone died. A friend. I felt responsible; everything went to pieces then. Your mother . . . I thought she didn't want to see me anymore. I thought she'd gone to Ben. It never crossed my mind that-"

"It never crossed your mind!" Hawk cut him off, enraged. "Well, it sure crossed mine, Dad! Every time my father . . . no, that strange man you left me with, every time he took a whack at me. Every time he raged around the house on some stinking bender. It crossed my mind that this was my father! What I got! What I came from! My friends had fathers who played ball with them, Dad! Their fathers took them camping and came to school on parent night smelling of aftershave, not barley hops. Their dads were proud of them. But I got Sandy, and you know what? I figured that there had to be a reason-that someone must have chosen him for me instead of all those other dads because maybe, somehow, he was all that I deserved!" The fury was spilling out of Hawk now like some huge volcanic tapeworm. It felt like throwing up a bad meal. He had no desire to stop; for all that he was clearly tearing Joby to pieces. "Do you have any idea how much time I've spent working all that out?" Hawk demanded. "And now it turns out, oops! That was all for nothing! He never was my father to begin with. My real father was the good, the kind, the universally admired, Joby Peterson, who'd have been the best damn father in the whole wide world if only it had crossed his mind to inquire about my existence!"

Surging to his feet, Hawk said, "Well, it sure has been a treat to finally meet you, Dad, but I've got to go now," he turned and stalked toward the door, "before I beat the fucking crap out of you!"

"Hawk," Joby pleaded in what rags of voice his tears allowed him, "please wait."

Hawk turned back once more at the door. "You stay away from my mom," he rasped. "She's been hurt enough. You stay away from me too. You did without us all these years. No point in complicating your life now!"

Ignoring Joby's further pleas, Hawk stormed from the house and slammed himself into his car. Then he drove, far too fast and with no thought of destination, until he slid into a ditch somewhere well north of town. Without pausing to reflect on his condition or that of his car, he shoved his way out from behind the wheel, and began to walk up the hill, then hopped the fence and headed for the woods, always up, along the path of maximum exertion, trying to burn off all the fury that still pounded through him like the flumes of some huge booster rocket. But his supply of anger seemed inexhaustible. He stopped at last atop a bald grass hill with no "up" left to travel, threw back his head to face the sky, and screamed and screamed and kept on screaming, a solid stream of mindless rage. And somewhere in that timeless span, he found himself aloft, soaring high above the wooded hills, screeching out the angry hunting songs a wounded hawk carries in its heart. Unlocked by rage, he'd finally found the power, after all those years, to change. He was an equal now-as fully of the blood as any of his peers, and he could think of no good reason to come down to earth again.

"Follow him," Lucifer told Kallaystra as they watched Hawk soar away from Taubolt. "Seeing to his reeducation should be much easier out there. You've done sufficiently so far," he said, turning to pierce her with his eyes, "but remember that I hold you personally responsible for completing his transformation swiftly. I need that boy ready, and I need it yesterday! Fail to keep pace for an instant, and I'll take him from you and give Basquel his chance while you regain your strength cleaning toilets in Hell."

"Bright One," Kallaystra said sullenly, "Basquel is-"

"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."

32.

( Spring Break ) 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.

"Hawk!" Rose screamed joyfully, lunging through the door to wrap him in her arms. "You came!"

"Rule one," he said, tentatively returning her embrace. "Never miss a party."

"Oh, I'm so glad to see you!" she said, stepping back to take him in. He wore a long gray overcoat, slacks, and dress shoes, which she thought awfully heavy for the season, though it did make him look sophisticated and more handsome than ever. It seemed he'd even gotten taller, though she doubted that was possible in just five months. "Come in! My folks'll be so glad to see you." As she grabbed his hand to drag him through the door, she saw the small red sports car at the curb.

"You like it?" Hawk asked coolly when he saw her looking. "Rule two. Image counts." He punched her shoulder lightly, as if she were his little sister. "I'll take you for a ride in it. You won't believe the way it corners."

Rose was spared having to respond by her mother's arrival. "Hawk? I thought I heard your voice!" She came out and hugged him almost as fiercely as Rose had. "Tom's up in his office." She smiled. "I'll go up and tell him that you're-" She stopped, staring at the red Miata. "Is that yours?" Hawk nodded, and she gasped, "How beautiful! Did you win the lottery or something?"

"No," Hawk sighed wistfully, "I'm making payments, but someday I'll write even better cars off as business expenses." He offered Rose another self-congratulatory smile.

"Well, do come in, Hawk," said Rose's mother, glancing one more time at Hawk's new car. "I hope you're staying for dinner. I've just started fixing it, and we've got chicken coming out our ears."

"Sounds painful," Hawk laughed, grabbing Rose by the hand. "Come on," he said, as if inviting her to dinner too.

"Are you sure?" Joby asked, handing Franklin the contents of his wallet without even checking to see how much it was.

"Had to take a second look." Franklin nodded. "Got a shiny red sports car now, and clothes like a TV star, but it was Hawk, all right. I figured you knew he was comin'."

"No," Joby said, suddenly ashamed to look Franklin in the eyes. "Hawk doesn't . . . we're not on close terms these days." His son had been back in town for at least two days, if Franklin was correct. That Hawk had not let Joby know he was coming was painful enough, if not surprising, but that no one else had told him either hurt even more. "Did you talk to him?" Joby asked.

"I waved, and he waved back, but we didn't talk."

"Well, thanks, Franklin," Joby said, taking his bag of nails and turning to leave.

"Got some change here," Franklin said. " 'Less this is a tip," he added wryly.

"Oh," Joby replied quietly, taking the twenty-plus dollars and change from Franklin's outstretched hand. "Thanks. I'm easily distracted lately."

"Big money, Rose," Hawk said in grim, paternal tones. "That's what ruined Taubolt. And the only way to fight big money is with bigger money. I'm going to make more money than God and use it to smash people like Ferristaff and Hamilton."

Somehow Rose had imagined that if Hawk would just come home, she'd find a way to fix whatever had taken him from her. Now she saw that only his absence had made such thoughts possible.

"You make it sound so easy." She smiled as best she could.

"Nothing mysterious about money," Hawk said. "It's all just math and attitude. You learn the right equations, make the right acquaintances, the rest will follow. I've already got my foot in several very useful doors back east." He turned to give her one of his new soulless smiles-the ones that never touched his eyes. "I'm a very charming fellow, Rose. And thanks to Solomon, I know how to talk without sounding like a hick. That's all you really need, besides a magic trick or two, and the willingness to say 'money' without blushing."

It hardly even seemed like his voice, Rose thought bleakly.

"Too bad the old guy's never gonna see me do it." Hawk shrugged. "He was always big on justice."

"You mean Solomon?" Rose said, appalled at the callousness of Hawk's remark. He'd loved that man once! "Maybe he will. While he's alive there's still room for hope."

"Hope," Hawk said tonelessly. "That's one idea I may never be able to afford." He turned to her with something in his eyes at last; sadness, which was better than the vacancy. "Maybe I should hire you to hope for me. Want the job, Rose?"

On the verge of telling him off, she saw the longing in his eyes and realized that he was asking her in earnest, the only way he could allow himself to do so. It was the only time he'd asked for her help in any way since coming home, and her intended retort dissolved unspoken. "If that's what you need, Hawk," she said quietly, "I'll try."

The day had dawned bright and breezy; perfect weather for an outdoor party. Taubolt needed something joyful now, Rose had argued, something to bring the whole community together and remind them what it felt like to celebrate life as friends. As Ian Kellerman and his band set up their platform, and coolers full of food and drink began to trickle down the stairway to the beach, Michael watched from the bluff tops in his guise as Jake. He was not alone in questioning the wisdom of so conspicuous an event. But the fact that everyone, even tourists, were invited might make it less suspicious to the ever-present enemy, and, in her determination to organize this fete, Rose had pointed out that, precisely because the threat was "ever present," there would be no better time. In the end, Michael had been unable to dissuade her or fault her motives, so it was going forward, with all the mundane and mystical protections they could muster.

Since Merlin's so-called stroke, the fine line Michael had been trying to walk between protecting Taubolt and staying out of Joby's trial had become almost too fine to find at all. Only recently had the angel admitted to himself how much he had depended on the old man's willingness to rush in where obedience forced Michael to refrain. Merlin's courage, however ill fated, no longer merely troubled Michael, it shamed him.

There were at least two hundred people on the beach, laughing around the barbecues, flying kites, throwing Frisbees, chasing dogs, wading in the small spring surf with children by the hand, and dancing on the sun-warmed sand to the raucous music produced by Kellerman's Celts. It was everything Rose had hoped for, and more. She'd been moving around the beach for hours, saying hello to friends and strangers, and meeting friends of theirs, receiving kudos, and enjoying the celebration, when she saw her parents standing hand in hand beside a cooler full of beers and sodas, smiling and laughing like young lovers. She hadn't seen them look so happy and relaxed for . . . well, maybe years. She smiled and went to join them.

"Hey there, honey!" her father enthused as she arrived. "Finally got a moment for your old man, huh?"

"You don't look so neglected." Rose grinned, glancing at her mom.

"We're having a wonderful time, Rose!" her mother said. "And we're both so proud of you. What a marvelous thing you've put together, dear."

"Thank you," Rose replied, leaning in to hug her mother, "for all your help and for supporting the idea." She smiled at her father. "I know you weren't so sure about it."

"Rose," he said, joyfully embracing her in turn, "the older you get, the more I learn from you. I've decided that when I grow up, I want to be just like you."

Rose had hardly ever felt so happy. "I love you both so much," she said. "I can't tell you how grateful I am-for everything you've always been and done for me."

"You tell us all the time," her mother said, "just by being you."

"Okay," Rose laughed, feeling tears gather in her eyes. "Let's not get all sticky right here on the beach."

"There you go," her father said, winking at her mother. "We've embarrassed her now. It'll be three more hours before she comes to talk with us again."

"No it won't!" Rose protested playfully, then looked around them at the crowd, and teased, "But there must be someone here I haven't talked to yet."

That's when she saw Hawk coming down the beach path, and her smile faded. He'd come for thirty minutes that morning, then disappeared for hours. She had begun to wonder if he meant to come back at all. Following her gaze, her parents saw him too and seemed to understand. They smiled their farewells as she hugged them each again before rushing up to keep Hawk from going off a second time.

Hawk saw her coming well before he reached the beach, and almost turned to flee again. No doubt she'd think he didn't understand how much this shindig meant to her, or just didn't care, or even wanted to avoid her. But none of those was why he'd fled the first time. A beach full of people from his maudlin past, half of whom he'd probably offended before going east, had been uncomfortable enough. Then he'd seen Joby walk from underneath the bridge and hurried back up into town as fast as dignity allowed, wanting nothing less than to come face-to-face with his-that man.