Running with the Demon (50 page)

He finished the dishes, dried them, and put them away. He glanced around, suddenly lost. The house was alive with memories of his life with Evelyn. He walked into the living room and stood looking at the fireplace, at the pictures on the mantel, at the place in the corner by the bowed window where the Christmas tree always sat. The memories swirled around him, some distant and faded, some as new and sharp as the grief from her loss. He moved to the couch and sat down. Tomorrow his friends would gather at Josie’s for coffee and doughnuts, and in his absence they would talk of Evelyn in the same way they had talked of that postal worker in the gorilla suit or the fellow who killed all those children. They would not do so maliciously, but because they had thought her curious and now found her death somehow threatening. After all, she had died here, in Hopewell—not in some other town in some other state. She had died here, where they lived, and she was someone they knew. Yes, she was odd, and it wasn’t really any surprise that she had died of a heart attack blasting away at shadows with a shotgun, because Evelyn Freemark had done stranger things. But in the back of their minds was the conviction that she really wasn’t so different than they were, and that if it could happen to her, it could happen to them. Truth was, you shared an uneasy sense of kinship with even the most unfortunate, disaffected souls; you felt you had known at least a few of them during your life. You had all been children together, with children’s hopes and dreams. The dark future that had claimed those few was never more than an arm’s
length away from everyone else. You knew that. You knew that a single misfortune could change your life forever, that you were vulnerable, and to protect yourself you wanted to know everything you could about why it had touched another and passed you by.

Old Bob listened to the silence and let the parade of memories march away into the darkness. My God, he was going to miss her.

After a time his thoughts wandered to the call he had received earlier from Mel Riorden. Mel and Carol had been by that morning to offer condolences, promising they would have him over for dinner after the funeral, when he was feeling up to it. Old Bob had taken their hands, an awkward ritual between long-standing friends where something profound had changed their lives and left them insufficient words to convey their understanding of what it meant. Later Mel had called on the phone, keeping his voice down, telling Old Bob that there was something he ought to know. Seemed that Derry had called him up out of the blue and apologized for scaring him with his talk about MidCon. Said he really hadn’t meant anything by it. Said he was just blowing off steam, and that whatever the union decided was good enough for him. Said he wanted to know if he could go to the fireworks with Mel and Carol and some of the others and sit with them. Mel paused every so often to make sure Old Bob was still listening, his voice sounding hopeful. Maybe he was mistaken about his nephew, he concluded tentatively. Maybe the boy was showing some common sense after all. He just wanted Old Bob to know.

When Mel hung up, Old Bob stood looking at the phone, wondering if he believed any of it and if it made any difference if he did. Then he dropped the matter, going about the business of his own life, of finishing the funeral preparations and worrying about Nest. But now the matter surfaced anew in his thoughts, and he found himself taking a fresh look at it. Truth was, it just didn’t feel right. It didn’t sound like Derry Howe. He didn’t think that boy would change in a million years, let alone in twenty-four hours. But maybe he was being unfair. People did change—even people you didn’t think
would ever be any different from what they’d been all their lives. It happened.

He drummed his fingers on the arm of the couch, staring off into space. Going to the fireworks with Mel and Carol, was he? That was a first. Where was his buddy, Junior Elway, that he’d opted for an evening out with the old folks?

He got up from the sofa and went into the kitchen to fish around in the packed-out refrigerator for a can of root beer. When he found it, he popped the top and carried it back into the living room and sat down again.

Fireworks
. The word kept digging at him, suggesting something different from the obvious, something he couldn’t quite grasp. Hadn’t he and Derry talked about fireworks yesterday, when he had approached the boy about what sort of mischief he might be planning? Derry Howe, the Vietnam vet, the demolitions expert, talking about playing with matches in a pile of fireworks, about how fireworks were touchy if you didn’t know what you were doing, that they could cause accidents …

He sat up straight. What was it Derry had said?
I’m going to give MidCon a Fourth of July to remember
. But more, something else, something personal. A warning.
Stay home on the Fourth. Keep away from the fireworks
.

Old Bob set the can of root beer down on the coffee table, barely aware of what he was doing, his mind racing. What he was thinking was ridiculous. It didn’t make any sense. What would Derry Howe gain by sabotaging the Fourth of July fireworks? How would that have any effect on MidCon Steel? He looked the possibilities over without finding anything new. There didn’t seem to be any connection.

Then something occurred to him, and he got to his feet quickly and walked out onto the screened porch where he kept the old newspapers. He bent down and began to go through them. Most were old
Chicago Tribunes
, but there were a few
Hopewell Gazettes
among them. Friday’s had gone out with the trash, he remembered, used to wrap the garbage. He found the one from Thursday, pulled it out, and went through it quickly, searching. There was nothing on the Fourth of July.
But he seemed to remember seeing something, a big ad of some kind. He wished he had paid better attention, but it had been years since he had concerned himself with what went on in the park over the Fourth. The fireworks were all Evelyn and he had ever cared about, and you knew without having to ask when to be there for them.

He tossed the Thursday paper aside, wondering what had become of the Saturday-morning edition. He went down the hall to his den and looked for it there, but couldn’t find it. He stood motionless for a moment, trying to think what he had done with it. Then he walked back to the kitchen. He found the Saturday paper sitting on the counter under several of the casseroles he had set aside for the church. He extracted it gingerly, spread it out on the table, and began to scan its pages.

He found what he was looking for right away. The Jaycees had inserted a flyer for the Sunday-Monday events in Sinnissippi Park, admission free, everyone welcome. Games, food, and fun. The events culminated on Monday, the Fourth, with fireworks at sunset. This year, the flyer proclaimed in bold letters, the fireworks were being sponsored and paid for by MidCon Steel.

For long moments, Old Bob just stared at the flyer, not quite trusting himself. He must be wrong about this, he kept thinking. But it was the way a guy like Derry Howe thought, wasn’t it? Sabotage the fireworks sponsored by MidCon, maybe blow up a few people watching, cause a lot of hard feelings. But then what? Everybody blames MidCon? MidCon has to do something to regain favor, so it settles the strike? It was such a stretch that for a few seconds he dismissed his reasoning altogether. It was ludicrous! But Derry Howe wouldn’t think so, would he? Old Bob felt a cold spot settling deep in his chest. No, not Derry.

He looked at his watch. After nine o’clock. He glanced out the window. It was growing dark. They would start the fireworks soon now. He thought suddenly of Nest. She would be sitting with everyone else, at risk. He could hear Evelyn saying to him, as she had on the last night of her life, “Robert, you get right out there and find that girl and bring her home.”

He grabbed his flashlight off the counter and went out the door in a rush.

By now, the largest part of the Fourth of July crowd had abandoned the playgrounds, ball diamonds, and picnic tables to gather on the grassy slopes that flanked the toboggan slide and ran down to the river’s edge. The fireworks would be set off over the bayou from a staging area located on a flat, open stretch of the riverbank below. A line had been strung midway up the slope to cordon off the crowd from the danger zone. Strips of fluorescent tape dangled from the line, and volunteers with flashlights patrolled the perimeter. The spectators were bunched forward on the hillside to the line’s edge, settled on blankets and in lawn chairs, laughing and talking as the darkness descended. Children ran everywhere, sparklers leaving bright comet tails in the wake of their passing. Now and again a forbidden firecracker would explode off in the trees to either side, causing old people to jump and parents to frown. Shadows deepened and the outlines of the park and its occupants grew fuzzy. By the blackness of the river, a trio of flashlights wove erratic patterns as the staging crew completed their preparations for the big event.

Nest Freemark sat with her friends on a blanket, eating watermelon slices and drinking pop. They were situated high on the slope to the west of the slide where the darkness was deepest and the park lights didn’t penetrate. There were families around them, but Nest couldn’t see their faces or recognize their voices. The gloom made everyone anonymous, and Nest felt comfortable in that environment. Aside from her friends, she was anxious to avoid everyone.

She had come into the park late, when dusk had begun to edge toward nightfall and it was already getting hard to see. She had crossed her backyard with a watchful eye, half expecting the demon to leap out at her from the shadows. When Pick had dropped onto her shoulder as she pushed her way through the bushes, she had jumped in spite of herself. He was there to escort her into the park, he had informed her in his best no-nonsense voice. He had been patrolling the park since
sunset, riding the windless heat atop Daniel, crisscrossing the woods and ballparks and playgrounds in search of trouble. As soon as Nest was safely settled with her friends, he would resume his vigil. For the moment, everything was peaceful. There was no sign of the demon. There was no sign of John Ross. The maentwrog, still imprisoned in its ravaged tree, was quiet. Even the feeders were staying out of sight. Pick shrugged. Maybe nothing was going to happen after all.

Nest gave him a look.

When Pick left her on nearing the crowded pavilion with its cotton-candy, popcorn, hot-dog, and soft-drink stands, she moved quickly toward the rendezvous point she had settled on with her friends. One or two people glanced her way, but no one called out to her. She was stopped only once, by Gran’s friend Mildred Walker, who happened to be standing right in front of her as she passed and couldn’t be avoided. Mrs. Walker told her she was sorry about Gran and about her young friend Jared Scott, and that she wasn’t to worry, that the Social Services people were going to see to it that nothing further happened to any of those children. She said it with such feeling and such obvious concern that it made Nest want to cry.

Later, Brianna confided to all of them that her mother had told her the Social Services people were already looking for temporary homes for the Scott kids. Her mother also told her that Jared was still in a coma and that wasn’t good.

Now Nest sat in the darkness sipping at her can of pop and reflecting on how unfair life could be. Out on the river, in a sea of blackness, the running lights of powerboats shone red and green, motionless on the becalmed waters. There was no wind; the air had gone back to being hot and sticky, and the taste of dust and old leaves had returned. But the sky was thick with clouds, which screened away the moon and stars, and rain was on the way. Nest wished it would hurry up and get here. Maybe it would help cool things down, clean stuff up, and give everyone a fresh attitude. Maybe it would help wash away some of the madness.

A stray firefly blinked momentarily in front of her face and disappeared in the darkness. Somebody in a lawn chair sneezed,
and the sneeze sounded like a dog’s bark. A ripple of laughter rose. Robert made a comment about the nature of germs in people’s mouths, and Brianna told him he was gross and disgusting. Robert stood up and announced he was off to buy some popcorn and would anybody like some? Nobody would, he was informed, and Brianna said he should take his time coming back, maybe even think about going home and checking his mouth in the mirror. Robert walked off whistling.

Nest smiled, at ease with herself. She was thinking how comfortable she felt, sitting here in the darkness, surrounded by all these people. She felt sheltered and safe, as if nothing could touch her here, nothing could threaten. How deceptive that was. She wished she could disappear into the gloom and become one with the night, invisible and substanceless, impervious to harm. She wondered if Pick was having any luck. She tried to picture what the sylvan would do to defend her if the need arose, and couldn’t. She wondered if the demon was out there, waiting for her. She wondered if John Ross was waiting, too.

After a time, she began to think of Two Bears, wishing that he was still there and could help her. There was such strength in him, a strength she didn’t feel in herself, even though he had told her it was there. They had names of power, he said. But hers was the stronger, the one with true magic. He had given her what he could; the rest must come from her.

But what was it he had given her? That brief vision of her grandmother as a young girl, running wild in the park with the feeders and the demon? An insight into her convoluted and tragic family history? She didn’t know. Something more, she believed. Something deeper, more personal.
Think
. It was his desire to commune with the spirits of his people, the Sinnissippi, that had brought him to Hopewell, but it was her ties to the magic that had drawn him to her. Your people risk the fate of mine, he had warned, wanting her to know, to understand. No one knows who my people were. No one knows how they perished. It can happen to your people, too. It is happening now, without their knowledge and with their considerable help. Your people are destroying themselves.