Running With The Demon

CHAPTER 24

Old Bob was finishing up the Sunday edition of the Chicago Tribune when the doorbell rang. He'd begun the paper early that morning before church and spent his free time during the course of the day working his way through its various sections. It was part of his Sunday ritual, an unhurried review of the events of the world with time enough to give some measured consideration to what they meant. He was sitting in his easy chair in the den, his feet up on the settee, and he glanced immediately at the wall clock.

Ten–forty. Late, for someone to be visiting.

He climbed to his feet and walked out into the hall, the first stirrings of anxiety roiling his stomach. Evelyn was already standing in the foyer, rooted in place six feet from the front door, as if this was as close as she dared to come. She held her cigarette in one hand, its smooth, white length burning slowly to ash, a silent measure of the promptness of his response. The look his wife gave him was unreadable. They had come home together at dusk, bidding John Ross good night and leaving Nest with her friends. They had unpacked the leftover food and eating utensils from the picnic basket, unloaded the cooler, and put away the blanket. Evelyn had barely spoken as they worked, and Old Bob had not asked what she was thinking.

"Open it, Robert," she said to him now as he came down the hall, as if he might have been considering something else.

He released the latch and swung the door wide. Four youngsters were huddled together in the halo of the porch light, staring back at him through the screen. Nest's friends. He recognized their faces and one or two of their names. Enid Scott's oldest boy. Cass Minter. John and Alice Heppler's son. That pretty little girl who always looked like she was on her way to a photo shoot.

The Heppler boy was the one who spoke. "Mr. Freemafk, can you come help us find Nest, please? We've looked everywhere, and it's like she dropped into a hole or something. And we tried to find John Ross, like she asked, but he's disappeared, too. I think Danny Abbott knows what's happened to her, but he just laughs at us."

Robert Heppler, Old Bob remembered suddenly. That was the boy's name. What had he said? "What do you mean, Nest has dropped into a hole?"

"Well, she's been gone for close to two hours," Robert continued, his concern reflected in his narrow face. He pushed his glasses up on his nose and ran a hand through his unruly blond hair. "She went off after this guy, the one who's been poisoning the trees? The one you warned her about? She thought she saw him, so she…" He bit off whatever it was he was going to say and looked at the Scott boy. "Jared, you were there; you tell it."

Jared Scott looked pale and anxious as he spoke. His words were slow and measured. "We were dancing, me and Nest, and she saw this guy, like Robert says. She gets this funny look on her face and tells me he's the one who's been poisoning the trees, and I have to find Robert and Cass and Brianna and then we have to find John Ross and tell him to go after her. Then she runs off after this guy. So we all go looking for Mr. Ross, but we can't find him."

Old Bob frowned, thinking, Someone's poisoning trees?

"So, anyway, we can't find Mr. Ross," Robert interrupted Jared impatiently, "so we start looking around for Nest on our own. We try to find where she went, going off in the same direction, and that's when we run into Danny Abbott and his friends coming toward us. They're laughing and joking about something, and when they see us, they go quiet, then really start breaking up. I ask them if they've seen Nest, and they get all cute about it, saying, 'Oh, yeah, Nest Freemark, remember her?' and stuff like that. See, we had this run–in with them just the other day, and they're still pissed off. 'Scuse me. Upset.

Anyway, I tell them this isn't funny, that there's a guy out there poisoning trees, and he might hurt Nest. Danny says something like 'What guy?' and I can tell he knows. Then he and his Neanderthal pals push me and Jared down and go right past us and back to the dance. That's when we decided to come get you."

Old Bob stood there, trying to sort the story through, trying to make some sense of it, still stuck on the part about someone poisoning trees in the park. It was Evelyn who spoke first. '

"Robert," she said, coming forward now to stand in front of r him, her eyes bright and hard in the porch light. There was no j hesitation in her voice. "You get out there right away and find i that girl and bring her home."

Old Bob responded with a quick nod, saying, "I will, ; Evelyn," then turned to Nest's friends and said, "You wait here," and went into the kitchen to find a flashlight. He was back in seconds, carrying a four–cell Eveready his walk quick and certain. He touched his wife on the shoulder as he brushed past, said, "Don't worry, I'll find her," and went out the door and into the night.

When John Ross was able to stand again, Josie Jackson helped him walk back up the hill, bypass the crowded pavilion, and maneuver his way to her car. She wanted to drive him to the hospital, but he told her it wasn't necessary, that nothing was broken, which he believed, from experience, to be so. She wanted him to file a police report, but he declined that offer as well, pointing out that neither of them had the faintest idea who had attacked him (beyond the fact that they were probably MidCon union men) and that he was a stranger in the community, which usually didn't give you much leverage with the police in a complaint against locals.

"John, damn it, we have to do something about this!" she exclaimed as she eased him into the passenger seat of her Chevy, dabbing at his bloodied face with a handkerchief. She had stopped crying by now and was flushed with anger. "We can't just pretend that nothing happened! Look what they did to you!"

"Well, it was all a mistake," he alibied, forcing a smile through his swollen lips, trying to ease her concern and indignation, knowing it was the demon who was responsible and there was nothing to be done about it now. "Just take me back to the hotel, Josie, and I'll be fine."

But she wouldn't hear of it. It was bad enough that he wouldn't go to the emergency room or file a complaint with the police, but to expect her to take him back to the hotel and leave him was unthinkable. He was going to her house and spending the night so that she could keep an eye on him. He protested that he was fine, that he just needed to wash up and get a good night's sleep (ignoring the pain in his ribs, a clear indication one or more were cracked, and the throbbing in his head from what was, in all likelihood, a concussion), but she was having none of it. She could see the deep gash in his forehead, the cuts and bruises on his face, and the blood seeping through his torn clothing, and she was determined that someone would be there for him if he needed help. Her own face and clothing were streaked with blood and dirt, and her tousled hair was full of twigs and leaves, but she seemed oblivious of that.

"If I ever find out who did this …" she swore softly, leaving the threat unfinished.

He put his head back on the seat and closed his eyes as she pulled out of the parking lot and headed toward the highway. He was upset that he had been caught off guard by the attack and forced to use his magic to defend himself, but he was encouraged as well, because it implied that the demon was worried about him. Planting a suggestion in the minds of a bunch of MidCon strikers that he was a company spy was a desperate ploy by any measure. Perhaps his chances at stopping the demon were better than he believed. He wondered if he had missed something in his analysis of the situation, in the content of the dream that had brought him here. Josie told him to open his eyes, not to go to sleep yet, because concussions were nothing to fool with. He did as she advised, turning his head so that he could look at her face. She gave him a quick, sideways smile, warming him inside where thoughts of the demon had left a chill.

She drove him to her home, an aging, two–story wood frame house overlooking the Rock River at the bottom of a dead–end street. She parked in the driveway and came around to help him out. She walked him up the steps, her arm around his waist as he leaned on his staff to support his crippled leg, then guided him through the door and down a hall to the kitchen. She seated him at the wooden breakfast table, gathered up clean cloths, hot water, antiseptic, and bandages, and went to work on his injuries. She was quiet as she repaired his damaged face, her dark eyes intense, her hands gentle and steady. The house was silent about them. Her daughter was staying at a friend's, she explained, then quickly changed the subject.

"You really should have stitches for this," she said, fitting the butterfly bandages in place over the gash in his forehead, closing the wound as best she could. Her eyes left the injury and found his. "What happened out there? That white flash- it looked like something exploded."

He gave her his best sheepish grin. "Fireworks. I had them in my pocket. They spilled out on the ground during the fight, and I guess something caused them to ignite."

Her eyes moved away, back to his damaged face, but not before he caught a glimpse of the doubt mirrored there. "I'm sorry this happened," he said, trying to ease past the moment. "I was enjoying myself."

"Me, too. Hold still."

She finished with his face and moved down to his body. She insisted he remove his shirt, against his protests, and her brow furrowed with worry when she saw the deep bruises flowering over his ribs. "This is not good, John," she said softly.

She cleaned his scrapes and cuts, noting the way he winced when she put pressure on his ribs, then applied a series of cold compresses to the more severely damaged areas. She made him hot tea, then excused herself to go wash up. He heard her climb the stairs, then heard a shower running. He sipped at the tea and looked around the kitchen. It was filled with little touches that marked it as Josie's-a series of painted teakettles set along the top of the cupboards; pictures of her daughter, tacked to a bulletin board; drawings taped to the refrigerator that she must have done at different ages, some beginning to fray about the edges; fresh flowers in a vase at the window above the sink; and a small dish with cat food in it sitting by the back door. He studied the bright print curtains and wallpaper, the mix of soft yellows, blues, and pinks that trimmed out the basic white of the plaster and woodwork. He liked it here, he decided. He felt at home.

He was beginning to grow sleepy, so he refilled his teacup and drank deeply, trying to wake himself up with the caffeine. If he went to sleep now, he would dream. If he dreamed, he would be back in the future–only this time, because he had used the staff's magic to save himself in the present, he would be bereft of any protection until he woke. He knew what that would feel like. It had happened before. It would happen again. It was the price he paid for serving as a Knight of the Word. It was the cost of staying alive.

Josie came back downstairs in fuzzy slippers and a white bathrobe, her long, light hair shiny with dampness. She gave him her best smile, radiant and embracing, and asked how he was feeling. He told her he was better, admiring the fresh–scrubbed glow of her skin and the high curve of her cheekbones. She asked him if he was hungry, laughed when he told her no, made him some toast anyway, put out butter and jam, and sat down across from him to watch him eat. She sipped at her tea, telling him about the way her grandmother always made her toast and tea late at night when neither of them could sleep. Ross listened without saying much, finding he was hungry after all. He glanced once at the clock. It was after eleven, later than he had thought.

"Are you tired, John?" she asked when he was finished eating. "You must be. I think it's safe for you to sleep now."

He smiled at the thought. "I should be going, Josie."

She shook her head vehemently. "Not a chance, buster. You're staying here tonight. I've got too much invested in you to let you wander off to that hotel room alone." She paused, realizing the implication of what she had said. She recovered with a shrug. "I thought I made it pretty clear that I would feel better if you slept here tonight. Do you mind?"

He shook his head. "No, I just don't want to be underfoot. I feel bad enough about what's happened."

She stood up, tossing back her hair. "In more ways than one, I bet. You come with me."

She put her arm around his waist to help him to his feet, then kept it there as she guided him down the hall and up the stairs. The house was mostly dark; the light from the kitchen stretched only as far as the first half–dozen steps. After that, they were left in starlit gloom. Beneath their feet, the old wooden stairs creaked softly. Ahead, from farther down the hallway that connected the second–story rooms, lamplight glimmered softly. Ross felt his way up the stairs with his staff and Josie's surefooted guidance, taking his time, leaning on her even when it wasn't necessary, liking the feel of her body against his and the smell of her hair against his face.

"Careful, John," she cautioned as they made their way, her arm tightening about his waist, trying to stay below his injured ribs.

He winced silently. "I'm fine."

At the top of the stairs they paused for a moment, still locked together. "Okay?" she asked, and he nodded. She lifted her face and kissed him on the mouth. His lips were bruised and swollen, and her kiss was gentle. "Does that hurt?" she asked, and he shook his head wordlessly.

She eased him down the hall and into a darkened bedroom, a guest room, he decided, the large bed neatly made, the cushion of the love seat smooth and undisturbed, the dresser top bare. She left him just inside the doorway, moved to the bed, and pulled back the spread and covers. Then she came back for him and walked him over. He could hear the soft throbbing of an air conditioner in the window and feel the cool air on his bare arms and torso. The room was dark and the only light came from down the hallway and from the stars that shone faintly through the curtained window. She eased him onto the bed, bending close to kiss him on the forehead.

"Wait here," she said.

She left the room and disappeared down the hall. A moment later, the hallway light went out. She reappeared soundlessly, a shadowy figure in the gloom. She crossed to the bed and stood next to him, looking down. He could just make out the sheen of her tousled hair and the curve of her hip.

"Can you take the rest of your clothes off by yourself?" she asked.

He slipped off his walking shoes, socks, and jeans, then eased himself into the cool sheets, letting his head sink into the softness of the pillows. A profound weariness settled over him, and he knew that sleep would claim him soon. There was nothing he could do about it; he would sleep and then he would dream. But perhaps the dream would not be as bad as he feared.

"John?" Josie spoke his name softly in the dark.

He took a deep breath and let it out again slowly. "Yeah, I'm still here. I'll be all right, Josie. You go on to bed. Thanks again for…"

He felt her weight settle on the bed, and then she was lying next to him, pressing close, her cool arms enfolding him, her bathrobe gone. "I think I better stay with you," she whispered, kissing his cheek.

He closed his eyes against the smooth, soft feel of her body, against the soap scent of her skin and hair. "Josie …"

"John, do me a big favor," she interrupted him, her lips brushing his cheek. The fingers of one hand stroked his arm like threads of silk. "Don't say anything for a little while. I made it this far on raw courage and faith in my instincts. If you say the wrong thing, I'll fall to pieces. I don't want anything from you that you don't want to give me. I just want you to hold me for a while. And to let me hold you. That's all I want. Okay?"

Her touch made the pain in his body ease and his fear of sleep's approach lessen. He knew the risk of what he was doing, but he couldn't help himself. "Okay."

"Put your arms around me, please."

He did as she asked, drawing her close, and all the space between them disappeared.

Old Bob crossed the grassy expanse of Sinnissippi Park, heading straight for the pavilion and the crowd, his shoulders squared, his big face intense. Nest's friends struggled to keep up with him, whispering among themselves as they marked the determination in his long strides. Someone was gonna get it now, he heard the Heppler boy declare gleefully. He ignored the remark, his brow furrowed, his eyes troubled. Something wasn't right about all this. That Nest was missing was reason enough all by itself for concern, but this business about poisoning trees suggested a depth to the matter that he knew he didn't begin to understand. Nor did he like the fact that a bunch of older boys were involved. But mostly there was the look in Evelyn's eyes. Behind the worry and fear for the safety of their granddaughter, Old Bob had seen something else. Evelyn knew something about this, something that transcended the boundaries of his own knowledge. Another secret perhaps, or maybe just a suspicion. But the look was unmistakable.

He crossed the parking lot fronting the pavilion and slowed as he approached the crowd. The band was still playing and couples still danced beneath the colored lanterns and bunting. The humid night air was filled with the bright, clear sounds of laughter and conversation. He glanced over his shoulder for Nest's friends, then waited for them to catch up.

"Which one is Danny Abbott?" he asked.

They glanced about without answering. His heart tightened in his chest. If the boy had gone home, he was in trouble.

Then Brianna Brown said, "There he is."

She was pointing at a good–looking boy with dark hair and big shoulders standing in the shadows just beyond the tables where the soft drinks and lemonade were served. Some other boys were with him, and all of them were talking and joking with a pair of young girls dressed in cutoffs and halter tops.

Old Bob took a deep breath. "Stay here," he said, and started forward.

He was right on top of Danny Abbott before the boy saw him. He smiled when Danny turned and put a friendly arm about his shoulder, drawing him close, holding him fast.

"Danny, I'm Robert Freemark, Nest's grandfather." He saw frightened recognition flood the boy's eyes. "Now, I don't want to waste any time on this, so I would appreciate a quick answer. Where is my granddaughter?"

Danny Abbott tried to back away, but Old Bob kept a tight hold on him, taking a quick measure of his friends to see if any of them meant trouble. No one looked anxious to get involved. The girls were already moving away. The boys looked eager to follow. "You gentlemen stick around a minute, please," he ordered, freezing them in their tracks.

"Mr. Freemark, I don't know what …" Danny Abbott began.

Old Bob moved his hand to the back of Danny's neck and squeezed hard enough to make the boy wince. "That's a bad beginning, son," he said quietly. "I know your father, Ed. Know your mother, too. They're good people. They wouldn't appreciate finding out that their son is a liar. Not to mention a few other things. So let's get this over with before I lose my temper. Where is Nest?"

"It was just a joke," one of the other boys mumbled, hands digging in his jeans pockets, eyes shifting away.

"Shut up, Pete!" Danny Abbott hissed furiously, the words out of his mouth before he could think better of them. Then he saw the look on Old Bob's face and went pale.

"One more chance, Danny," Old Bob told him softly. "Give me a straight answer and we'll put this behind us. No calls to your parents, nothing more between you and me. Otherwise, the next stop for both of us is the police station. And I will press charges. Are we clear on this?"

Danny Abbott nodded quickly, and his eyes dropped. "She's in the caves, taped up inside a gunnysack." His voice was sullen and afraid. "Pete's right, it was just a joke."

Old Bob studied him a moment, weighing the depth of the truth in the boy's words, then let him go. "If she's come to any harm," he said to all of them, looking deliberately from one face to the next, "you'll answer for it."

He walked back to where Nest's friends waited in a tight knot at the edge of the parking lot, their eyes bright with excitement. He surveyed the crowd, looking to see if there was anyone he could call upon to help. But none of the faces i were familiar enough that he felt comfortable involving the few he recognized. He would have to do this alone.

He came up to Nest's friends and gave them a reassuring smile. "You young people go on home now," he told them. "I believe I know what's happened, and it's nothing serious. Nest is all right. You go on. I'll have her call you when she gets home."

He moved away from them without waiting for an answer, not wanting to waste any more time. He followed the edge of the paved road toward the west end of the park and the caves. He went swiftly and deliberately, and he did not look over his shoulder until he was well away from the crowd and deep into the darkness of the trees. No one followed him. He carried the flashlight loosely in his right hand, ready to use it for any purpose it required. He didn't think he would be attacked, but he wasn't discounting the possibility. He glanced around once more, saw nothing, no one, and turned his attention to the darkness ahead.

He followed the roadway to where it looped back on itself under the bridge and turned down. The streetlamps provided sufficient light that he was able to find his way without difficulty, keeping in the open where he could see any movement about him. He was sweating now from his exertion, the j armpits and collar of his shirt damp, his forehead beaded. The park was silent about him, the big trees still, their limbs and leaves hanging limp and motionless in the heavy air, then" shadows webbing the ground in strange, intricate patterns. A car's headlights flared momentarily behind him, then swung away, following the road leading out of the park. He passed beneath the shadow of the bridge and emerged in muted starlight.

"Hang on, Nest," he whispered quietly.

He moved quickly down the road toward the black mouth of the caves. The river was a silver–tipped satin sheet on his left and the cliffs towered blackly above him on his right. His shoes crunched softly on gravel. In his mind, he saw again the

look in Evelyn's eyes, and a cold feeling reached down into his stomach. What did she know that she was hiding from him? He thought suddenly of Caitlin, falling from these same • cliffs more than a dozen years earlier to land on the rocks below, broken and lifeless. The image brought a bloodred heat to his eyes and the back of his throat. He could not stand it if he were to lose Nest, too. It would be the end of him–the end of Evelyn as well. It would be the end of everything.

He reached the entrance to the caves and flicked on the flashlight. The four–cell beam cut a bright swath through the darkness, reaching deep into the confines of the rock. He worked his way carefully forward, pausing to listen, hearing something almost immediately-a muffled sound, a movement. He scrambled ahead, plunging inside the caves now, swinging the flashlight's beam left and right with frantic movements, searching the jagged terrain.

Then abruptly the light found her. He knew at once it was Nest, even though she was trussed up inside a gunnysack with only her ankles and feet showing. He scrambled forward, calling out to her, stumbling several times on the loose rock before he reached her.

"Nest, it's me, Grandpa," he said, breathing heavily, thinking, Thank God, thank God! He reached into his pants and brought out his pocketknife to cut away the tape and burlap from her ankles. When that was done and the sack was removed, he cut the tape from her hands as well. Then, as gently as he could, he pulled the last strip off her mouth.

Her arms came around him at once. "Grandpa, Grandpa," she sobbed, shaking all over, tears running down her cheeks.

"It's all right, Nest," he whispered softly, stroking her hair the way he had when she was a little girl. "It's all right, kiddo. You're all right."

Then he picked her up, cradling her in his big arms as he would a baby, and carried her back out into the night.

Jared Scott raced across the front lawn of his apartment building, dark hair flying, T-shirt laced with sweat. He caught a glimpse of the television screen through the curtained windows of his living room and knew his mother and George were inside. He picked up his pace, anxious to tell them what had happened, all about Nest and Danny Abbott and Mr. Freemark. He burst through the screen door already yelling.

"Mom, some guys kidnapped Nest and took her down to the caves, and we told Mr. Freemark to come help us …"

He drew up short at the living–room entrance, the words freezing in his throat. His mother lay on the couch with George Paulsen next to her. Most of their clothes were on the floor. There were beer cans everywhere.

His mother tried to cover herself with her arms, smiling weakly, ashen–faced as he stared at her.

"Jared, sweetie.."

Jared backed away, averting his eyes. "Sorry, Mom, I just…"

"What the hell do you think you're doing, you little bastard!" George roared, scrambling up from the couch, lurching toward him in fury.

"George, he didn't mean anything!" His mother was trying to slip back into her blouse, her movements cumbersome and slow.

Jared tried to run, but he caught his foot on the carpet and slipped. George was on top of him instantly, hauling him back to his feet by his shirtfront, yelling at him, screaming at him. Jared tried to say he was sorry, tried to say something in his defense, but George was shaking him so hard he couldn't get the words out His mother was yelling, too, her face flushed and her eyes bright as she stumbled across the littered floor.

Then George struck him across the face with his hand, and without thinking twice, Jared struck him back. He caught George flush on the nose, and blood spurted out. George released him and stumbled back in surprise, both hands going to his face. In that instant, something raw surged through Jared Scott. He remembered the way Old Bob Freemark had walked up to Danny Abbott and his friends and confronted them. He remembered the set of the old man's shoulders and the determination in his eyes.

"You get out of here!" he shouted at George, bracing himself in a fighter's stance, raising his fists threateningly. "This isn't your home! It's mine and my brothers' and my sisters' and my mom's!"

For a moment George Paulsen just stood there, blood running down his mouth and chin, shock registering on his face. Then a wild look came into his eyes, and he threw himself on Jared, catching him by the throat and bearing him to the floor. Jared twisted and squirmed, trying to get away, but George held him down, screaming obscenities. George rose over him and began to hit him with his fists, striking him in the face with solid, vicious blows that rocked his head and brought bright lights to his eyes. He tried to cover up, but George just knocked his hands aside and kept hitting him. Then dark shapes swarmed out of the shadows, things Jared had never seen before, eyes cat–bright and wild. They fell on George with the raw hunger of predators, their supple, invasive limbs twisting about him, ensnaring him, molding to his body. Their presence seemed to drive George to an even greater frenzy. The blows quickened, and Jared's defenses began to collapse. His mother began screaming, begging George to stop. There was the sound of bones snapping, and a warm rush of blood flooded Jared's mouth and throat.

Then the pain froze him, and all sound and movement ceased, disappearing like a movie's final scene into slow, hazy blackness.

At the beginning of the roadway leading up under the bridge to the cliffs, Nest asked her grandfather to set her on her feet again. She had stopped crying, and her legs were steady enough to support her. Once righted, she stared out across the river for long moments, collecting herself, trying to blot the memory of what had happened from her mind. Her grandfather stood next to her and waited in silence.

"I'm all right," she said finally, repeating his words back to him.

They walked up the road side by side, the old man and the girl, no longer touching, saying nothing, eyes lowered to the pavement. They passed under the bridge and came out of the darkness onto the park's grassy flats. Nest glanced about surreptitiously for the feeders, for their eyes, for some small movement that would signal their presence, but found nothing. She could still feel their hands on her, feel them worming then- way beneath her skin, into her blood and her bones, past all her defenses, deep inside where her fear and rage roiled and they might feed.

She felt violated and ashamed, as if she had been stripped naked and left soiled and debased.

"How did you find me?" she asked, keeping her eyes lowered so he could not see what was reflected there.

"Your friends," her grandfather replied, not looking at her. "They came to the house, brought me out to look for you."

She nodded, thinking now of Danny Abbott and the demon, and she was about to say something more when they heard the heavy boom of a shotgun. Her grandfather's white head lifted. Both stopped where they were, staring out into the darkness. The shotgun fired again. And again. Six times, it roared.

"Evelyn," Nest heard her grandfather whisper hoarsely.

And then he was running through the park for the house.