"We have often wondered," Tom continued when the laughter ended, "if that's why Rose was like she was; because she had been conceived so much closer to Heaven than other people, or in such a wild, lovely place." Clara nodded and leaned her head on her husband's shoulder as he continued. "All we knew for sure, was that from the very beginning she was way out in front of us in so many ways."

He smiled at Clara, who said, "I see it especially in her poems. You heard some of them in that beautiful song Ander just played." She turned to smile at Ander, then unfolded a sheet of paper she'd been holding, while Joby continued to marvel at their self-possession. "She wrote this one when she was only eight."

"Above the ponds,

the marshes glazed with ice,

there is a cavern.

It is eternal,

everlasting.

Those who live there

are beautiful.

They never die."

"Eight years old," Clara said again, wiping quickly at her eyes, "and she was already seeing further than I think most of us do at many times her age." Beside her, Tom nodded, his sad half smile stolidly fixed. "Tom and I are grateful to have had her for as long as we did. We wouldn't give away a day of it. And we're grateful for all this community has done for her, and for us, through the years. We are very grateful that we were able to be with our daughter just before she died. She came by and told us how much she loved us, and we got to tell her the same."

"We've both noticed how many people she went out of her way to talk with that day," Tom agreed, his voice grown rougher, "how much . . . business she took care of, just before she died, almost as if she threw that whole party to say good-bye to all of us. It may be just our imagination, but we're grateful for that too."

As Tom took a moment to steady himself, Joby wondered how many others shared the wave of fury he felt remembering how her party had ended.

Tom looked at Clara, who nodded, then he turned back to face the gathering and said, "That's really all we have to say."

"We love you all," said Clara. "And we're really very grateful."

When the Connollys had sat down, Bridget stood to speak again, but stopped abruptly, interrupted by some kind of disturbance at the back of the room. Joby turned with all the others, and saw people near the doorway making way for Jake, behind whom, looking pale and abashed, came Hawk.

Joby leapt to his feet, pushing down the row of chairs to get to his son who, to Joby's overwhelming gratitude, began to press his way through the crowd to meet him. They came together sobbing unreservedly, as people murmured all around them.

"Thank God you're safe!" Joby groaned into his son's shoulder as they hugged. "I was so frightened!"

"I'm sorry," Hawk replied, holding him as tightly. "I'm sorry for everything-the way I've treated everybody."

"I'm just glad you're here. Where have you been?"

"I'll tell you later," Hawk said, pulling reluctantly away. "This is Rose's time."

Joby looked past his son to see Jake still standing at a distance. "Thank you," he rasped, still raw with emotion. "For bringing me my son."

Jake only nodded and stepped back into the standing crowd, as Hawk turned to look at Rose's parents. They were standing now as well, and Joby realized how this must be for them, watching his son returned, while no such hope remained for them.

"I'm sorry to disturb you all like this," Hawk said to them with obvious contrition. "But when there's time, may I say something to everyone?"

"Of course!" Clara said, smiling through fresh tears and coming to embrace him. "Hawk, we're all so glad to see you!"

"Thank you." Hawk wept, returning her embrace as Tom came to wrap his arms around them both. "I loved her. I loved her so much, and I'm so sorry she's gone."

"I know," Clara murmured. "She loved you too, and so do we, Hawk. I'm very grateful that she knew what love was like before she died."

Hawk nodded and pulled away, drawing a long shuddering breath, then went to stand at the center of the room and face the gathered crowd.

"If you don't know me," he said quietly, "my name is Hawk . . . Peterson." He looked at Joby, who bowed his head to hide another sudden flood of tears. "Rose was the first girl I ever loved, and because she loved me back, I've never tried to love another." He pursed his lips and struggled for composure. "In the years I knew her, she gave me too many gifts to list, but she gave me one the day she died that I think I'm meant to share with all of you."

Hawk reached into his pocket, and drew out a badly damaged little book, its cover smudged with dirt, its pages torn and wrinkled. He opened it and began to read a poem about a Blackthorn bush blooming at the end of winter. When he'd finished, he looked up and said, "This was Rose's book. She told me that this poem was her favorite. For . . . a while, after she died, I couldn't see the flowers it talks about, just the thorny branches. But now I've seen them, and I want . . . I want to say . . ."

He looked down at the book again, and Joby saw his hands were shaking. Shoving the book back into his pocket, Hawk looked up again. "A lot of you know I've been . . . treating people badly for a while. I've probably offended some of you deeply, especially Joby, and the Connollys." He hung his head again. "I treated Rose worst of all, right up to the end." He looked up, and said, "I've been . . . sick inside. With anger. Very sick. After Sky and Jupiter died, I couldn't feel grief, or happiness, or hope, or love for anyone, not even Rose. I just felt dead, like I was watching everyone through thick glass . . . not a part of anything. I didn't know why. I just shoved everyone away. By the time I last saw Rose, there was nothing but a hole where my heart was supposed to be, and . . . and that was how I treated her . . . heartlessly.

"But Rose just kept saying that she loved me, and . . . and she gave me this book." His tears began at last, but he didn't stop. "Rose gave me back my heart," he wept. "She broke it open when she died. . . . And all the things I couldn't feel before came rushing out, and it was worse than I can tell you, and I wished that I could die, but I didn't, and then Jake found me in the woods, and showed me . . ." Hawk looked down and pointed at his chest. "They're here . . . the flowers . . . growing in the heart that Rose gave back to me." Hawk looked up, struggling to rein in his grief. "I know I'm not the only one. She did so many things for so many people. Those things live on, and I know that someday, you'll be able to look out and see all those small white flowers Rose planted, growing for as far as anyone can see in all directions from the spot where she lived."

Streaming tears, Joby stood, gazing straight at Hawk, and said, "He's right. Because of Rose, I have my son again."

Across the room, Nacho stood as well. "Rose helped drag me away from that dog that tried to kill me. Because of her, I'm still alive."

Bellindi was the next to stand. "Rose taught me to love the forest. Because of her, I know what I want to do with my life."

Behind them, old Mr. Templer wobbled to his feet, leaning heavily on his cane. "When she was younger," he quavered, "Rose kept dragging me over to help Amanda Farley with her garden." He turned to gaze down at the white-haired woman smiling up at him from the chair next to his own. "You all know what came of that." There were tatters of laughter from around the room. "Because of Rose, I have a wife."

The laughter only grew as one by one by one others stood to tell of some small thing Rose had done to change their lives, while Joby watched in wonder as more and more of the flowers Hawk had promised burst into bloom before their eyes.

Merlin reached up to touch the window between himself and what he'd seen. "You are a true bard now, my boy," he said. "My great-grandson. I'm so proud of you."

Merlin stepped back to look around the empty mall. "Having trouble keeping all your balls in the air, Beelzebub?" he called happily into the air above him. "Hawk is playing a very different tune than the one you called for, is he not?" Merlin did a little jig into the center of the plaza-his first merry moment in so very long-then sighed and sat back down to focus once again on the endless task of winning his freedom.

34.

( Throwing Down the Gauntlet ) Hawk had dinner going on the stove when Joby trudged into the small rental cottage they now shared, collapsed into a chair, and stared up at the ceiling for a while before scrubbing at his bloodshot eyes. Hawk turned back to his cooking with a frown. Two months of crusading for "justice" had taken a heavy toll on his father.

The very morning after Rose's memorial, Donaldson had issued a warrant for Nacho's arrest, apparently eager to justify his use of pepper spray by claiming Nacho had attacked him as Ander was being cuffed. Joby had gone off like a bomb, visiting every community leader he knew to point out that lots of boys had been arrested that night for nothing more than shouting at a distance, while Nacho had sat bleeding into a bucket for half an hour surrounded by cops who hadn't even mentioned his even more serious supposed offense, much less arrested him for it. By the following day, Donaldson's warrant had been quietly rescinded. By week's end there'd been a huge town meeting at which Donaldson and his faction had faced hundreds of unhappy residents. Donaldson might still have stopped it there just by conceding there'd been errors made and dropping charges against Ander and the others, but he hadn't, so the fire had spread.

"Smells good," said Joby, opening his eyes to smile wearily at Hawk.

"Ready in about five minutes," Hawk replied, stirring what was in the frying pan one more time before going to set the table.

"I can do that," Joby said, starting to rise.

"No, just rest," Hawk insisted. "I'm already on it."

Joby leaned back again with a grateful sigh.

The county sheriff had called Joby personally to tell him what a divisive, conniving, dangerous, possibly criminal element he was for stirring up all this trouble against his sterling men. But Joby had been harder to intimidate than Mansfield had expected. An internal investigator had been sent out to grill everyone involved, then investigators from the state capital. Even the regional senator's office had made inquiries, until Joby's life had become just one long parade of official inquisitions and media interviews, not to mention all the politicking required to keep pressure up and people reassured while the ponderous wheels of inquiry and deliberation had rolled on.

By now, Donaldson's story had sprung more leaks than a rubber raft full of porcupines. There'd been hundreds of kids on the beach, he claimed, though nowhere near that many could be accounted for now. Coulson's men had seen forty bongs around those fires, and beers in every minor's hand, though not one of these illicit items had been seized that night. Nor had Donaldson shown any proven cause yet regarding those he'd pepper-sprayed. It had been a riot, Donaldson kept insisting; but no one else who'd been there had seen it that way, except his fellow officers, of course, and Hamilton, who hadn't been there. Ander had been known for years around the village as a quiet, well-liked boy, a good student and hard-working employee. Donaldson could hardly have picked a worse "criminal" to haul away in cuffs. As week had followed tumultuous week, Hawk had begun to feel almost sorry for the embattled man, who, by now, seemed desperate for peace, but still refused to drop his charges against Ander and the others.

"You want juice or milk?" Hawk asked, going to dish the stir-fry into their plates.

"Juice," said Joby, climbing to his feet. "Thanks for cooking, son."

"Just felt like something edible tonight." Hawk grinned as Joby joined him at the table. "You only get to cook when I'm not hungry, remember?"

"You're just jealous of my skill with Tupperware," Joby parried as he sat down.

Unsurprisingly, Joby had been pulled over twice this month for "fix-it" tickets, but he hadn't wasted any of his precious energy protesting such petty aggravations. He'd just told Hawk it was a fair price to pay for the greater satisfaction of discovering that people of goodwill could still make a difference against corrupt power. The proverbial fat lady hadn't sung yet, but things were looking more promising for Taubolt's kids and less for Donaldson all the time, and Joby was clearly more proud of his community than ever.

Nonetheless, the lengthy campaign had not been good for Hawk's father. Not only was he tired all the time now, he seemed angry too. His whole life revolved around conflict now. On several occasions when Joby had been in the shower, or outside chopping wood, Hawk had heard him muttering and yelling as if Donaldson or Hamilton had been right there accusing him of something.

"Know what day tomorrow is?" Hawk asked as they began to eat.

"Nope," said Joby, scooping food into his mouth. "What day?"

"Saturday," said Hawk.

"Oh," said Joby, looking at him quizzically. "And you're saying this because . . .?"

"I think we should go hiking tomorrow," Hawk said, "like we used to."

"God, that sounds great," Joby said. "Can't though. Got a meeting with the county mediator in the morning, and the Youth Park Committee in the afternoon. Only day they could do it," he said around another mouthful of stir-fry.

"Cancel it," Hawk said gruffly. "The youth can get their park a week later."

Joby looked up, seeming startled.

"Sorry," Hawk apologized. "It's just . . . This is all so out of hand, Joby."

Joby shrugged. "Not much I can do about it. Life goes on, Hawk."

"You've got a life?" Hawk said.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Joby, all I've seen you do for months is 'fight for justice.' Maybe if you just got on with your life, and let this thing with Donaldson go, he might too."

"You want me to give up three feet shy of the finish line? With charges still pending against all those kids, and let Donaldson off scot-free? You know me better than that, Hawk." With a wounded look, Joby added, "I'd hoped you'd be proud of me."

"Of course I'm proud of you," Hawk protested. "That doesn't mean I have to like watching you fall on your knife. You're too wrapped up in all the crap that's gone down around here, and I just think it would be good if you just took a little breather. The whole town backs you on this, Joby, and you've brought them all this way. Can't you just let them do some of the cleanup?"

"What kind of man would that make me?" Joby said almost scornfully.

"A living one," Hawk muttered. Joby could take this whole integrity thing to such ridiculous lengths sometimes. "It's not like God appointed you to save the world."

"All right," Joby said, leaning back and crossing his arms. "What, exactly, am I supposed to be doing while everyone else in Taubolt is finishing what I started?"

"You should get out of here completely," Hawk said. "Take a vacation."

"I live in one of America's premier resort towns!" Joby laughed. "Sunny beaches, magnificent forests, hiking, biking, kayaking on scenic rivers, quaint shops, and world-class restaurants overlooking the blue Pacific! Haven't you read the Chamber's new brochure? Where else would I want to go?"

Hawk stared at his food, deciding it was time to say it. "To see mom." He looked up to find the laughter gone from Joby's face.

His father dropped his gaze, and asked quietly, "Has she told you she wants that?"

"No," Hawk said. "But I know she'd like it if you did."

"No dice," Joby said without looking up.

"Dad," Hawk said, an appellation he still found strange and rarely used, but which seemed very to the point just now, "you still love her, don't you?"

"Yes, I do," Joby said. "But I've got no business bothering her unless she wants to see me, and if she did, I'm sure she'd tell me so."