Running with the Demon (36 page)

In his hand, the black staff pulsed faintly in response to the nearness of the beast, a warning of the danger. He stared upward into the branches of the ancient tree, trying to see something that would help him decide what to do.

“I lack any magic that would help,” he said quietly. “I’m not skilled in that way.”

“It’s the demon’s work, isn’t it?” Pick demanded heatedly.

Ross nodded. “I expect it is.”

The sylvan’s narrow face screwed into a knot. “I knew it, I just knew it! That’s why none of our efforts have been successful! He’s counteracting them!”

Ross looked away. It made sense. The maentwrog would be another distraction, another source of confusion. It was the way the demon liked to work, throwing up smoke and mirrors to mask what he was really about.

Nest was telling Pick about the encounter with the demon in church that morning, and the sylvan was jumping up and down on her shoulder and telling her he’d warned her, he’d told her. Nest looked appalled. They began to argue. Ross glanced over at them, then walked forward alone and stood directly before
the tree. The staff was throbbing in his hand, alive with the magic, hot with anticipation for what waited.
Not yet
. He reached forward with his free hand and touched the damaged bark gently. The tree felt slick and cold beneath his fingers, as if its sickness had come to the surface, coated its rough skin. A maentwrog, he thought grimly. A raver.

Ross studied the ground about him, and everywhere the earth was damp and pitted, revealing long stretches of the tree’s exposed roots. No ants or beetles crawled upon its surface. There was no movement anywhere. The tree and its soil had become anathema to living things.

Ross sighed deeply. His inadequacy appalled him. He should be able to do something. He should have magic to employ. But he was a knight, and the magic he had been given to use could only destroy.

He turned back again. Nest and Pick had stopped arguing and were watching him silently. He could read the question in their eyes. What should they do now? They were waiting on him to provide them with an answer.

There was only one answer he could give. They would have to find the demon.

Which was, of course, like so many things, much easier said than done.

A
fter John Ross and Nest departed, Old Bob helped Evelyn clean up the remains of the picnic lunch. While his wife packed away the dishes and leftovers, he gathered together the used paper plates, cups, and napkins and carried them to a trash bin over by one of the cook stations. When they were done, they sat together on the blanket and looked out through the heat to where the sunlight sparkled off the blue waters of the Rock River in brilliant, diamond bursts.

She liked it when I called her Dark Eyes, he thought as he sat with his hand covering hers, remembering the sudden, warm look she had given him. It took him back to when they were much younger, when Caitlin was still a baby, before the booze and the cigarettes and all the hurt. He remembered how funny she had been, how bright and gay and filled with life. He glanced over at her, seeing the young girl locked deep inside her aging body. His throat tightened. If she would just let me get close again.

On the river, boats were drifting with the current, slow and aimless. Some carried fishermen, poles extended over the water, bodies hunched forward on wooden seats in silent meditation. Some carried sunbathers and swimmers on their way to the smattering of scrub islands that dotted the waters where they widened just west of the park and the bayou. There were a few large cruisers, their motors throbbing faint and distant like aimless bumblebees. Flags and pennants flew from their masts. A single sailboat struggled to catch a breeze with its limp triangular sail. In the sunlight, birds soared from tree to
tree, out over the waters and back again, small flickers of light and shadow.

After a time, he said, “I’m going to take a walk up to the horseshoe tournament, talk to a couple of the boys. Would you like to come along?”

She surprised him. “Matter of fact, Robert, I would.”

They rose and began the walk up the hill, leaving the blanket, the picnic basket, and the cooler behind. No one would steal them; this was Hopewell. Old Bob was already thinking ahead to what he was about to do. He had promised Mel Riorden he would speak with Derry Howe, and he tried hard to keep the promises he made. He had no idea what he was going to say to the boy. This wasn’t his business, after all. He no longer worked at MidCon; he was not an active member of the union. His connection with the mill and those who worked there was rooted mainly in the past, a part of a history that was forever behind him. What happened now would probably not affect him directly, not in the time he had left in this life. It might affect Nest, of course, but he thought she would leave when she was grown, move on to some other life. She was too talented to stay in Hopewell. He might argue that he had a lot of himself invested in the mill, but the truth was he had never been a man in search of a legacy, and he didn’t believe much in carrying the past forward.

Still, there were other people to be considered, and it was not in his nature to disregard their needs. If Derry was planning something foolish, something that would affect unfavorably those who had been his friends and neighbors, he owed it to them to try to do something about it.

But what should he say? What, that would make any difference to a boy like Derry, who had little respect for anyone, who had no reason to listen to him, to give him so much as the time of day?

But Mel thought the boy would listen to him, had respect for him. So he would try.

Evelyn’s arm linked with his, and he felt her lean into him. There was nothing to her anymore—bird bones held together by old skin and iron determination. He drew her along easily,
liking the feel of her against him, the closeness of her. He loved her still, wished he could bring her back to the way she had been, but knew he never could. He smiled down at her, and the sharp, old eyes glanced briefly at him, then away.
Love you forever
, he thought.

They crested the rise and were back among the crowds. Children ran everywhere, trailing balloons and crepe-paper streamers, laughing and shrieking. People stood three and four deep in front of the refreshments, loading up on cans of pop, bags of popcorn, and cones of cotton candy. Old Bob steered a path behind them and veered toward the horseshoe tournament, which was set up out in the flats south of the pavilion. He could see Derry Howe already, standing easily in a crowd of other young men, tall and angular in his jeans, T-shirt, and old tennis shoes, a can of beer in his hand.

Old Bob caught sight of Mike Michaelson and his wife, waved hello, and led Evelyn over to talk to them. Mike wanted to know if Old Bob had heard anything from Richie Stoudt. Richie’s landlord had called, said Richie was supposed to do some work for him and hadn’t shown up. There was no answer at his apartment either. Old Bob shook his head. Al Garcia wandered over, eager to show his latest pictures of the new grandbaby. After a few minutes, Mel Riorden appeared, touting the lemonade they were selling, giving Old Bob a meaningful glance. His wife Carol joined him, a warm and embracing woman, cooing over the grandbaby and joshing Al Garcia about his camera work. Laughter and warm feelings laced the conversation, but Old Bob felt locked away from it, distanced by the task he had agreed to undertake and the implications it bore. His mind struggled with the problem of how to approach Derry Howe. Was it really necessary? Maybe Mel was mistaken. Wouldn’t be the first time. Sure wouldn’t be the last.

Penny Williamson strode up, his black skin glistening with sweat, his massive arms streaked with dust. Wasn’t anyone going to beat him this year in the horseshoe tournament, he announced. He was on, baby, he was dead on. Four ringers already. He clapped Old Bob on the back and bent to look at the pictures, asking Al Garcia whose grandbaby that was,
wasn’t Al’s for sure, didn’t look ugly like Al, must be a ringer. There was more laughter, kidding.

Old Bob took a deep breath, whispered to Evelyn, asking her to wait for him a moment, excused himself, and moved away. He eased through the knots of people, tasting dust and sweat in the air, smelling the popcorn and cotton candy. People said hello, greeted him as he passed. He moved toward Derry Howe, thinking he should probably just let it go. Howe saw him coming, watched him, took a long swig of his beer, shook his head. In his eyes, Old Bob saw suspicion, wariness, and a wealth of impatience.

He walked up to Derry, nodded, said, “Got a moment?”

Howe looked at him, debating whether to give him the moment or not. Then he smiled, the soul of equanimity, sauntered forward to join him, said, “Sure, Robert. What’s up?”

Old Bob swung into step with him and they walked slowly past the participants in the horseshoe tournament. He nodded toward the field. “Having any luck?”

Derry Howe shrugged, looked at him, waiting.

“Heard a rumor that you were planning something special for the Fourth.”

Derry’s expression did not change. “Where’d you hear that?”

“Heard you were planning an accident, maybe.” Old Bob ignored him, did not look at him. “Something to persuade the MidCon people they ought to work a little harder at settling this strike.”

“Man, the things you hear.” Derry tossed the beer can into a metal trash bin and shoved his hands in his jeans pockets. He was smiling, being cool. “You planning on coming out for the fireworks, Robert? Celebrating our independence?”

Old Bob stopped now, faced him, eyes hard. “Listen to me. If I know about it, others know about it, too. You’re not being very smart, son.”

Derry Howe’s smile froze, disappeared. “Maybe certain people ought to mind their own business.”

Old Bob nodded. “I’ll assume you’re not talking about me, because we’ve both got the same business interests where MidCon is concerned.”

There was a long pause as Derry studied him. He had misread the comment. “You saying you want in on this?”

“No.”

“Then what are you saying?”

Old Bob sighed. “I’m saying that maybe you ought to think this through a little further before you act on it. I’m saying it doesn’t sound like a very good idea. If you do something to the company, something that gets people hurt, it might rebound on you. You might get hurt, too.”

Derry Howe sneered. “I ain’t afraid of taking a chance. Not like Mel and the rest of you, sitting around talking all day while your lives go right down the toilet. I said it before, I’ll say it again. This ain’t going to get settled unless we do something to help it along. The company’s just going to wait us out. They’re starting up the fourteen-inch—hell, already started it up, I expect. They’ll have it up and running Tuesday morning, bright and early. They’re bringing in scabs and company men to run it. Some of the strikers are talking about going back, giving in because they’re scared. You know how it goes. When that happens, we’re done, Robert Roosevelt Freemark. And you know it.”

“Maybe. But blowing things up isn’t the answer either.”

Derry pulled a face. “Who said anything about blowing something up? Did I say anything like that? That what you heard?”

“You were a demolitions man in Vietnam. I can put two and two together.”

Howe laughed. “Yeah? Well, your addition stinks. That explosives stuff is all ancient history. I barely remember any of that. Time marches on, right?”

Old Bob nodded, patient the way you were with a child. “So it wouldn’t be your fault if there was an accident, would it?”

“Not hardly.”

“An accident that would make MidCon look like a bunch of clowns, trying to reopen the mill without the union?”

“Sort of like kids playing with matches in a pile of fireworks?”

“Like that.”

Derry nodded thoughtfully. “You know, Robert, the thing about fireworks is that they’re touchy, unpredictable. Sometimes they don’t behave like you think they should. That’s how all those accidents happen, people getting their hands blown off and such. They play with explosives they aren’t trained to handle. They take foolish chances.”

Old Bob shook his head. “We’re not talking about fireworks here. We’re talking about MidCon and people getting killed!”

Derry Howe’s eyes were bright and hard. “You got that right.”

Old Bob looked off into the trees, into the cool shade. “I don’t like what I’m hearing.”

“Then don’t listen.” Derry smiled disdainfully. “Do yourself a favor, Robert. Sit this one out. It ain’t right for you anyway. You or Mel or any of the others. You had your day. Time to step aside. Stay home on the Fourth. Watch a movie or something. Keep away from the fireworks—all of them.”

He paused, and a dark, wild look came into his eyes. “It’s settled with me, Robert Roosevelt. I know what I’m about. I’m going to put an end to this strike. I’m going to give MidCon a Fourth of July to remember, and when it’s over they won’t be able to get to the bargaining table quick enough. That’s the way it’s going to be, and there ain’t nothing they can do about it.” He ran his fingers through his short-cropped hair, a quick, dismissive movement. “Or you either. You stay out of my way. Be better for you if you did.”

He gave Old Bob a wink and walked back to his friends.

Robert Freemark stood watching after him angrily for a moment, then turned away. He moved back through the crowds toward Evelyn, his anger turning to disappointment. He supposed he hadn’t really expected to change Derry Howe’s mind. He supposed he hadn’t really expected to accomplish much of anything. Maybe he was hoping it would turn out Mel Riorden was mistaken, that Derry wasn’t really planning something foolish. Whatever the case, his failure to achieve anything left him feeling empty and disgruntled. He should have made a
stronger argument, been more persuasive. He should have found a way to get through.

He worked his way back to Evelyn, burdened by both the weight of the July heat and his anger. Somewhere deep inside, where he hid the things he didn’t want other people to see, he felt a darkness rise up and begin to take shape. Something bad was going to happen. Maybe Derry intended to damage the machinery at the mill. Maybe he intended to put a serious dent in the company’s pocketbook or its image. But for some reason Old Bob felt like it might be even worse than that. He felt it might be catastrophic.