Running with the Demon (26 page)

“Drat!” exclaimed Pick suddenly, springing to his feet on her shoulder. “I forgot to tell him about the maentwrog! Criminy sakes! I’ll bet the demon has something to do with weakening the magic that imprisons it! Maybe that’s what the demon has come here to do—to set the maentwrog free!”

“He said he was here to see about the feeders,” Nest replied thoughtfully.

“Well, of course! But the feeders respond to human behavior, and certainly setting free the maentwrog would stir up a few emotions in the good citizens of Hopewell, don’t you think?”

Maybe, maybe not, Nest thought, but she kept her opinion to herself. Why, she wondered once again, were there suddenly so many feeders in Sinnissippi Park? If they were attracted by human emotion, if they responded to what was dark and scary and terrible, why were so many gathered here? What had drawn them to this time and place? Was it whatever John Ross had come to prevent? If so, if it was that, then what were they doing here already, clustered thick as fall leaves even before whatever it was that was going to happen had happened?

She leaned back in the swing, letting her head and shoulders hang down and her legs tilt up. Dislodged from his perch, Pick gave a sharp exclamation, jumped down, and was gone. Nest let him go, weary of talking. She swung slowly in the humid night air, looking up at the stars, wishing suddenly that she could go fishing or hiking or maybe run far out on the roadways that led through the surrounding farmland, wishing that she could be someplace else or maybe even be some other person. She felt a sudden need to escape her present and flee back into her past. She could feel her childhood slipping away, and she despaired suddenly of losing it. She did not want to grow up, even after having struggled so hard to do so. She wanted to go back, just for a little while, just long enough to remember what it was like to have the world be no bigger than your backyard. Then she would be all right. If she could just have one more chance to see things the way they were, she would be all right.

Behind her, Miss Minx strolled out of the shadows, eyes gleaming, paused for a long look, and disappeared back into the dark. Nest watched her go, hanging upside down in the swing, and wondered where she went at night and what she did.

Then her ruminations drifted once more to John Ross, to the mystery that surrounded his coming, and she had a strange, unsettling thought.

Was it possible that he …?

That he was …?

She could not finish the thought, could not put it into words. She held it before her, suspended, a fragile piece of glass. She
felt her heart stop and her stomach go cold. No, it was silly. It was foolish and impossible. No.

She closed her eyes and breathed the night air. Then she opened them again and let the thought complete itself.

Could John Ross be her father?

Robert Heppler was sitting alone in his room at his computer, pecking idly at the keys while he talked on the phone with Brianna Brown. “So, what do you think?”

“I think you’re making something out of nothing as usual, Robert.”

“Well, what does Cass think?”

“Ask her yourself.”

He heard the phone being handed off to Cass Minter. He had called Cass first, thinking her the better choice for this conversation, but Mrs. Minter had said she was staying overnight at Brianna’s. Now he was stuck with talking to both of them.

“Ask me what?” Cass growled into his ear.

“About Nest. Don’t you think she’s acting weird? I mean, weirder than usual?”

“Weirder than you, you mean?”

“Sure. Weirder than me. If it makes you happy.”

Cass thought it over. “I don’t like the word ‘weird.’ She’s got something on her mind, that’s all.”

Robert sighed heavily. “Look. She comes to my house and practically drags me through the door, collects a bunch of dirt and salt, commandeers you and Brianna and your sister’s red wagon, then hauls the bunch of us out to the park to do some voodoo magic stuff on a sick tree. Then, when we’re done, she tells us to go on home, she’s too tired to go swimming. Just like that. Miss Aqua-Lung, who’s never turned down a chance to go swimming in her life. You don’t think that’s weird?”

“Look, Robert. People do things that other people find strange. That’s the way it is. Look at Cher. Look at Madonna. Look at you. Don’t be so judgmental!”

“I’m not being judgmental!” Robert was growing exasperated. “I’m worried, that’s all. There’s a difference, you know. I
just wonder if there’s something wrong that she’s not telling us about. I just wonder if there’s something we ought to be doing! We’re supposed to be her friends, aren’t we?”

Cass paused again. In the background, Robert could hear Brianna arguing with her mother. It had something to do with spending too much time on the phone. Robert rolled his eyes. “Someone ought to tell that woman to get a life,” he muttered.

“What?” Cass asked, confused.

“Nothing. So what do you think? Should one of us call her up and ask her if she’s all right?”

“One of us?”

“Okay, you. You’re her best friend. She’d talk with you. She probably wouldn’t tell me if her socks were on fire.”

“She might, though, if yours were.”

“Big yuck.”

He heard the phone being passed again. “Hello? Who is this, please?”

It was Brianna’s mother talking. Robert recognized the nasal whine laced with suspicion. “Hello, Mrs. Brown,” he answered, trying to sound cheerful. “It’s Robert Heppler.”

“Robert, don’t you have something better to do than call up girls?”

Matter of fact, yes, Robert thought. But he would never admit it to her. “Hmmm, well, I had a question and I was hoping Brianna or Cass could help me with it.”

“What sort of question?” Mrs. Brown snapped. “Something a mother shouldn’t hear?”

“Mother!” Robert heard Brianna gasp in the background, which gave him a certain sense of satisfaction.

A huge fight broke out, with shouting and screaming, and even the muffling of the receiver by someone’s hand couldn’t hide what was happening. Robert took the phone away from his ear and looked at it with helpless resignation.

Then Cass came back on the line. “Time to say good night, Robert. We’ll see you at the park tomorrow.”

Robert sighed. “Okay. Tell Brianna I’m sorry.”

“I will.”

“Parents are a load sometimes.”

“Keep that in mind for when you’re one. I’ll have a talk with Nest, okay?”

“Okay.” Robert hesitated. “Tell her I went back out this evening to see how her tree was coming along. Tell her it looks worse than before. Maybe she should call someone.”

There was renewed shrieking. “Good-bye, Robert.”

The phone went dead.

Jared Scott came down from his room for a snack to find his mother and George Paulsen drinking beer in front of the television. The other kids were asleep, all of them crammed into a tiny pair of hot, airless bedrooms. Jared had been reading about Stanley and Livingstone, using a tiny night-light that his mother had given him for Christmas. He liked reading stories about exploring faraway places. He thought that this was something he would like to do one day, visit strange lands, see who lived there. He saw the light from the television as he made the bend in the stairs and knew his mother and George were still up, so he crept the rest of the way on cat’s paws and was turning in to the kitchen when George called to him.

“Hey, kid, what are you doing?”

He turned back reluctantly, trying not to look at either of them. His mother had been dozing, a Bud Light gripped in her hand. She looked around in a daze at the sound of George’s voice. At thirty-two, she was slender still, but beginning to thicken about the waist. Her long dark hair was lank and uncombed, her skin pale, and her eyes dull and lifeless. She had been pretty once, but she looked old and worn-out now, even to Jared. She had five children, all of them by different men. Most of the fathers had long since moved on; Enid was only sure of two of them.

“Jared, why aren’t you asleep?” she asked, blinking doubtfully.

“I asked you a question,” George pressed him. He was a short, thickset man with dark features and a balding head. He worked part-time at a garage as a mechanic and there was always grease on his hands and clothing.

“I was getting something to eat,” Jared answered, keeping his tone of voice neutral. George had hit him several times just for sounding smart-mouthed. George liked hitting him.

“You get what you need, sweetie,” his mother said. “Let him be, George.”

George belched loudly. “That’s your trouble, Enid—you baby him.” Jared hurried into the kitchen, George’s voice trailing after him. “He needs a firm hand, don’t you see? My father would have beat me black and blue if I’d come down from my room after hours. Not to mention thinking about getting something else to eat. You ate your dinner at the table and that was it until breakfast.”

His voice was rough-edged and belligerent; it was the same voice he always used around Enid Scott and her children. Jared rummaged through the refrigerator for an apple, then headed back toward the stairs.

“Hey!” George’s voice stopped him cold. “Just hold on a minute. What do you have there?”

“An apple.” Jared held it up for him to see.

“That all?”

Jared nodded.

“I don’t want to catch you drinking any beer around here, kid. You want to do that with your friends, away from home, fine. But not here. You got that?”

Jared felt a flush creep into his cheeks. “I don’t drink beer.”

George Paulsen’s chin jerked up. “Don’t get smart with me!”

“George, he can’t!” His mother glanced hurriedly at Jared. “He can’t drink alcohol of any kind. You know that. His medication doesn’t mix with alcohol.”

“Hell, you think for one minute that would stop him, Enid? You think it would stop any kid?” George drank from his own can, draining the last of its contents. “Medication, hell! Just another word for drugs. Kids do drugs and drink beer everywhere. Always have, always will. And you think your kid won’t? Where’d you check your brain at, anyway? Christ almighty! You better let me do the thinking around here, okay? You just stick to cooking the meals and doing the laundry.” He
gave her a long look and shook his head. “Change the channel; I want to watch Leno. You can do that, can’t you?”

Enid Scott looked down at her hands and didn’t say anything. After a moment she picked up the remote and began to flick through the channels. Jared stared at her, stone-faced. He wanted her to tell George to get out of their house and stay out, but he knew she would never do that, that she couldn’t make herself. He stood there feeling foolish, watching his mother be humiliated.

“Get on upstairs and stay there,” George told him finally, waving him off with one hand. “Take your goddamn apple and get out of here. And don’t be coming down here and bothering us again!”

Jared turned away, biting at his lip. Why did his mother stay with him? Sure, he gave her money and bought her stuff, and sometimes he was even halfway nice. But mostly he was bad-tempered and mean-spirited. Mostly he just hung out and mooched off them and found ways to make their lives miserable.

“You remember one thing, buster!” George called after him. “You don’t ever get smart with me. You hear? Not ever!”

He kept going, not looking back, until he reached the top of the stairs, then stood breathing heavily in the hallway outside his room, rage and frustration boiling through him. He listened to the guttural sound of George Paulsen’s voice, then to the silence that followed. His fists clenched. After a moment, tears flooded his eyes, and he stood crying silently in the dark.

Saturday night at Scrubby’s was wild and raucous, the crowd standing three-deep at the bar, all the booths and tables filled, the dance floor packed, and the jukebox blaring. Boots were stomping, hands clapping, and voices lifting in song with Garth Brooks, Shania Twain, Travis Tritt, Wynonna Judd, and several dozen more of country-and-western’s favorite sons and daughters. The mingled smells of sweat and cologne and beer permeated the air and smoke hung over everything in a hazy shroud, but at least the air-conditioning was keeping the heat at bay and no one seemed to mind. The workweek was done, the
long awaited Fourth of July weekend was under way, and all was right with the world.

Seated in the small, two-person booth crammed into a niche between the storeroom door and the back wall, Derry Howe sat talking to Junior Elway, oblivious of all of it. He was telling Junior what he was going to do, how he had worked it all out the night before. He was explaining to Junior why it would take two of them, that Junior had to be a part of it. He was burning with the heat of his conviction; he was on fire with the certainty that when it was all said and done, the union could dictate its own terms to high-and-mighty MidCon. But his patience with Junior, who had the attention span of a gnat, was wearing thin. He hunched forward over the narrow table, trying to keep his voice down in case anyone should think to listen in, trying as well to keep Junior’s mind on the business at hand instead of on Wanda Applegate, seated up at the bar, whom he’d been looking to hit on for the past two hours. Over and over he kept drawing Junior’s eyes away from Wanda and back to him. Each time the eyes stayed focused for, oh, maybe thirty seconds before they wandered off again like cats in heat.

Finally he seized the front of Junior’s shirt and dragged him halfway across the table, spilling beer and sending ashtrays and napkins flying. “You listen to me, goddamn it!” he screamed. “You listen to me when I talk to you!”

A few people turned to see what was happening, but when they saw the look on Derry Howe’s face, they quickly went back to their own conversations. The music boomed out, the dancers yelled and clapped, and the confrontation in the tiny corner booth went mostly unnoticed.

“Okay, okay, I’m listening!” Junior snapped, jerking free. He was twenty pounds heavier and two inches taller, but there was fear in his eyes as he spoke the words. Damn well ought to be, Derry Howe thought with satisfaction.

“You heard anything I said so far, porkypine?” he sneered. “Anything at all?”

Junior ran his hand over his head, feeling the soft bristles of hair that were the product of this afternoon’s visit to the Clip Joint, where he’d impulsively decided on a brush cut. He’d
thought it would make him look tougher, he’d told Derry afterward. He’d thought it would make him look like a lean, mean cat. What it did was make him look like a jerk. Derry had begun ragging on him right away, calling him names. Porkypine. Cactus head. Nazi brain. Like that.