Running with the Demon (49 page)

He closed his eyes momentarily and worked his jaws from side to side, trying to gain a little relief. Damn, but the noise was aggravating!

Seated comfortably in the rocker that had belonged to Derry’s mother, the demon, an invisible presence, cranked up the volume another notch and smiled.

Derry finished off his Bud and walked to the front door. He kept watch through the peephole until Junior was on the steps, then swung open the door and popped out at him like a jack-in-the-box.

Junior jumped a foot. “Damn you, don’t do that!” he snapped angrily, pushing his way inside.

Derry laughed, an edgy chuckle. “What, you nervous or something?”

Junior ignored him, looked quickly about to see that they
were alone, decided they were, glanced at Derry’s beer, and went into the kitchen to get one of his own. “I’m here, ain’t I?”

Derry rolled his eyes. “Nothing gets by you, does it?” He lifted his voice a notch. “Bring me a cold one, too, long as you’re helping yourself!”

He waited impatiently for Junior to reappear, took the beer out of his hands without asking, and motioned him over to the couch. They sat down together, hands cupped about the chilled cans, and stared at the remains of a pizza that sat congealing in an open cardboard box on the battered coffee table.

“You hungry?” Derry asked, not caring one way or the other, anxious to get on with it.

Junior shook his head and took a long drink of his beer, refusing to be hurried. “So. Everything set?”

“You tell me. Are you scheduled for tonight’s shift?”

Junior nodded. “Like we planned. I went in yesterday, told them I was sick of the strike, that I wanted back on the line, asked to be put on the schedule soon as possible. You should have seen them. They were grinning fools. Said I could start right away. I did like you told me, said I’d like the four to midnight shift. I go on in …” He checked his watch. “Little over an hour. All dressed and ready. See?”

He pointed down to his steel-toed work boots. Derry gave him a grudging nod of approval. “We got ‘em by the short hairs, and they don’t even know it.”

“Yeah, well, let’s hope.” Junior didn’t look convinced.

Derry tried to keep the irritation out of his voice. “Hope ain’t got nothing to do with it. We got us a plan, bub, and the plan is what’s gonna get this particular job done.” He gave Junior a look. “You wait here.”

He got up and left the room. The demon watched Junior fidget on the couch, playing with his beer, taking a cold piece of sausage off the top of the pizza and popping it in his mouth, staring at the ancient window fan as if he’d never seen anything like it.

Derry came back carrying a metal lunch box with clips and a handle. He passed it to Junior, who took it gingerly and held it at arm’s length.

“Relax,” Derry sneered, reseating himself, taking another pull on his Bud. “Ain’t nothing gonna happen until you set the switch. You can drop it, kick it around, do almost anything, it’s safe until you set it. See the metal slide on the back, underneath the hinge? That’s the switch. Move it off the green button and over the red and you got five minutes—plenty of time. Take it in with you, leave it in your locker when you start your shift, carry it out on your break like you’re having a snack, then slip it under the main gear housing and walk away. When it goes off, it’ll look like the roller motors overheated and blew. Got it?”

Junior nodded. “Got it.”

“Just remember. Five minutes. It’s preprogrammed.”

Junior set the lunch box back on the coffee table next to the pizza. “Where’s yours?”

Derry shrugged. “Back in the bedroom. Want to see it?”

They got up and went through the bedroom door, finishing off their beers, relaxed now, joking about what it was going to be like come tomorrow. The demon watched them leave the room, then rose from the rocker, walked over to the coffee table, and opened the lid to the lunch box. Sandwiches, a chip bag, a cookie pack, and a thermos hid what was underneath. The demon lifted them away. Derry was exactly right; he had set the clock to trigger the explosives five minutes after the slide was pushed.

The demon shook his head in disapproval and reset it from five minutes to five seconds.

Derry and Junior came back out, sat on the couch, drank another beer, and went over the plan one more time, Derry making sure his buddy had it all down straight. Then Junior picked up the lunch box and left, heading for the steel mill. When he was gone, Derry massaged his temples, then went into the bathroom to get a couple more Excedrin, which he washed down with a fresh beer.

Better go easy on this stuff, he admonished himself, and set the can aside. Want to be sharp for tonight. Want to be cool.

He dumped the pizza in the trash and brought out the second device, this one fashioned a little differently than the other to accomplish its intended purpose, and finished wiring it. When
he was done, he placed it inside a plastic picnic cooler, fastened it in place, and closed the lid. He leaned back and studied it with pride. This baby will do the job and then some, he thought.

The demon came over and sat down next to him. Derry couldn’t see him, didn’t know he was there. “Better take your gun,” the demon whispered, a voice inside Derry’s head.

Derry looked at the rattling old window fan, matching its tired cadence to the buzzing in his head. “Better take my gun,” he repeated absently.

“In case anyone tries to stop you.”

“Ain’t no one gonna stop me.”

The demon laughed softly. “Robert Freemark might.”

Derry Howe stared off into space. “Might try, anyway.” His jaw was slack. “Be too bad for him if he did.”

When he got up to go into his bedroom to collect his forty-five from the back of his closet, the demon opened the picnic cooler and reset that clock, too.

Nest walked back through the park to her home, Pick riding on her shoulder, both of them quiet. It was nearing four o’clock, and the park was filled with people. She skirted the families occupying picnic tables and blankets in the open areas and followed the line of trees that bordered Sinnissippi Road on the north. It wasn’t that she was trying to hide now; it was just that she didn’t feel like talking to anyone. Even Pick understood that much and was leaving her alone.

Feeders shadowed her, flashes of dark movement at the corners of her eyes, and she struggled unsuccessfully to ignore them.

She passed the park entrance and started down the service road behind her house. Overhead, clouds drifted in thick clusters, and the sun played hide-and-seek through the rifts. Bright, sunny streamers mixed with gray shadows, dappling the earth, and to the west, dark thunderheads massed. Rain was on the way for sure. She glanced skyward and away again without interest, thinking about what she had to do to protect herself. She had assumed right up until last night that the demon and John Ross and the madness they had brought to Hopewell had
nothing to do with her personally, that she stood on the periphery of what was happening, more observer than participant. Now she understood that she was not just a participant, but the central player, and she had decided she would be better off not counting on anyone’s help but her own. Maybe Pick and Daniel would be able to do something. Maybe John Ross would be there for her. Maybe Wraith would defend her when it mattered. But maybe, too, she would be on her own. There was good reason to think so. The demon had managed to isolate her every time he had appeared, and she had to assume he would manage it again.

Her father
.

But she could not think of him that way, she knew. He was a demon, and he was her enemy.

She pondered Gran’s note. Should she rely on it? Was Pick right in his assumption that Gran had made Wraith and given up her magic to do so? Was that why she was defenseless against the demon?
Trust Wraith
. She remembered Gran telling her over and over again that the feeders would never hurt her, that she was special, that she was protected. She had never questioned it, never doubted it. But the demon was not a feeder, and perhaps this time Gran was wrong. Why hadn’t Gran told her more when she’d had the chance? Why hadn’t she given Nest something she could rely upon?

I’m so afraid, she thought.

She pushed through the gap in the hedgerow and entered her backyard. The house loomed dark and gloomy before her, and she was reluctant to enter it. Pick had disappeared from her shoulder, gone back into the trees. She hesitated a moment, then walked up to the back door, half expecting the demon to jump out at her.

But it was her grandfather who appeared, stepping from the shadow of the porch entry. “Are you all right, Nest?” he asked quietly, standing there on the steps, his big hands hanging awkwardly at his sides. He looked gaunt and tired.

She nodded. “I’m okay.”

“It was a terrible shock, hearing something like that about
your father,” he said, testing her with the words. He shook his head. “I’m still not sure I believe it.”

She felt suddenly sad for him, this strong man who had lost so much. She gave him a faint smile and a look that said,
Me either
.

“I sent John away,” he said. “I told him I didn’t appreciate him coming to my house under false pretenses, whatever his reason for it, and I felt it would be better if he didn’t come back. I’m sorry if that upsets you.”

Nest stared, uncomprehending. She wanted to ask him if he had lost his mind, but she held her tongue. Her grandfather didn’t know what she did about John Ross, so it wasn’t fair for her to judge him. It was clear he had acted out of concern for her. Would she have acted any differently in his place?

“I’m going to lie down for a little while, Grandpa,” she said, and went past him up the steps and into the house.

She went down the hall to her room and closed the door behind her. Shadows dappled the walls and ceiling, and the air was still and close. She felt suddenly trapped and alone.

Would John Ross abandon her? Would he give up on her in the face of her grandfather’s antagonism? Even worse, was it possible there was nothing more he could do?

As she lay down on her bed, she found herself praying fervently, desperately that when the demon appeared next, she would not have to face him alone.

A
fternoon passed into evening, a gradual fading away of minutes and hours measured by changes in the light and a lengthening of shadows. The rain did not come, but the clouds continued to build in the west. Old Bob wandered through the house like a restless ghost, looking at things he hadn’t looked at in years, remembering old friends from other times, and conjuring up memories of his distant past. Visitors came and went, bringing casseroles and condolences. Fresh-cut flowers and potted plants arrived, small white cards tucked carefully inside their plain white envelopes, words of regret neatly penned. The news of Evelyn Freemark’s death had spread by radio and word of mouth; the newspaper article would not appear until tomorrow. Phone calls asked for details, and Old Bob dutifully provided them. Arrangements for the funeral, memorial service, and burial were completed. A fund that would accept monetary donations was established in Evelyn’s name by the local Heart Association. Old Bob went through the motions with resigned determination, taking care of the details because it was necessary, trying to come to grips with the fact that she was really gone.

Nest stayed in her room with the door closed and did not reappear until Old Bob called her to dinner. They ate at the kitchen table without speaking. Afterward, as the light began to fail and the dusk to descend, her friends called and asked if she wanted to meet them in the park to watch the fireworks. She asked him if she could, and while he was inclined to say no, to keep her safe in the house and close to him, he realized the foolishness of taking that particular course of action. He might
shelter her for a day or even a week, but then what? At some point he would have to let her go off on her own, and there was no reason that he could see to postpone the inevitable. Nest was smart and careful; she would not take chances, especially after last night. In any case, was her father really out there? No one besides John Ross had actually seen him, and he was not sure he trusted Ross anymore. Gran had worried that Nest’s father might return, but she had never actually said he was back. Old Bob had thought at first that he should call the police and warn them of his concerns, but on reflection he realized he didn’t have anything concrete to offer, only a bunch of vague suspicions, most of them based on John Ross’ word.

In the end, he let the matter slide, giving Nest his permission to go, extracting in exchange her firm promise that she would sit with her friends in a crowded place and would not go off alone. The park was safe for her, he believed. She had lived in it all her life, wandered it from end to end, played her childhood games in it, adopted it as her own backyard. He could not see forbidding her to go into it now, especially while she was still dealing with the shock of her grandmother’s death.

After she was gone, he began cleaning up the kitchen by putting away the food gifts. The refrigerator and the freezer were soon filled to capacity, and there were still dozens of containers sitting out. He picked up the phone and called Ralph Emery’s house, and when the minister answered he asked him if he would mind sending someone around first thing in the morning to take all this food down to the church for distribution to those who could make better use of it. The minister said he would take care of it, thanked him for his generosity, spoke with him about Evelyn for a few minutes, and said good night.

The shadows in the house had melted together in a black mass, and Old Bob walked through the empty rooms and turned on the lights before coming back into the kitchen to finish up. The shotgun was gone, taken by the police for reasons he failed to comprehend, part of their investigation, they told him, and he felt strangely uneasy in its absence. You’d think it would be the other way around, he kept telling himself. He washed some dishes by hand, something he hadn’t done in
a long time, finding that it helped him relax. He thought always of Evelyn. He glanced over at the kitchen table more than once, picturing her there, her bourbon and water in front of her, her cigarette in hand, her face turned away from the light, her eyes distant. What had she been thinking, all those times she’d sat there? Had she been remembering her childhood in the little cottage several houses down? Had she been thinking of Nest? Of Caitlin? Of him? Had she been wishing that her life had turned out differently, that she had done more with it? Had she been thinking of missed chances and lost dreams? His smile was sad. He regretted now that he had never asked.