Chapter Fifteen.

With twilight deepening to night and the park emptying of its last visitors, John Ross walked Nest Freemark home again. He had finished his tale, or as much of it as he wished to confide in her, and they were speaking now of what had brought him to Hope well. Pick had joined them, come out of nowhere to sit all fidgety and wide-eyed on the girl's shoulder, trying his best not to appear awestruck in the presence of a vaunted Knight of the Word, but failing miserably. Pick knew of the Word's champions - knew as well what having one come to Hopewell meant. It was vindication, of a sort, for his frequently expressed suspicions.

"I told you so!" he declared triumphantly, over and over again, tugging at his mossy beard as if to rid himself of fleas. "I knew it all along! A shift in the balance this extreme could only be the work of something purposefully evil and deliberately ill-intentioned! A demon in the park! Criminy!"

He was the guardian of Sinnissippi Park, and therefore ent.i.tled to a certain amount of respect, even from a Knight of the Word, so John Ross indulged his incessant chatter while struggling to complete his explanation to Nest. He had been tracking this particular demon for months, he continued, momentarily silencing Pick, He had sought to bring him to bay on countless occasions, had thought he had done so more than once, but each time had failed. Now he had tracked him here, to Hope - well, where the demon meant to precipitate an event of such far-reaching consequence that it would affect the entire country for years to come. The event itself would not necessarily be dramatic or spectacular enough to draw national attention; that was not how things worked. The event would be the culmination of many other events, all leading to the proverbial last straw that would tip the scales in the demon's favor. Of small events are great catastrophes constructed, and it would be so here.

"The demon will attempt something this weekend that will shift the balance in a way that will make it difficult, if not impossible, to right." John Ross kept his voice calm and detached, taking care not to reveal the rest of what he knew. "What we must do is discover what he intends and put a stop to it."

"How are we supposed to do that?" Pick interrupted for the twentieth time. "Demons can disguise themselves so thoroughly that even a forest creature can't recognize them! If we don't know who he is, how are we supposed to disrupt his plans?"

John Ross was silent for a moment. They were pa.s.sing down the service road now, the lights of the Freemark house shining ahead through the trees. He had not told them of his dreams. He had not told them of the future he had seen, the future that had revealed to him the truth about what the demon intended to accomplish by coming to Hopewell. He could not tell them that, of course. He could never tell them that.

"The demon is not perfect," he said, choosing his words carefully. "He makes mistakes, just like humans. He was human once; he cannot free himself of his mortal coil completely. If we keep close watch, we will find him out. He will do something to reveal himself. One of us will learn something that will help."

"How much time do we have?" Nest asked quickly.

Ross took a deep breath. "Until Monday. July fourth."

"July fourth?" She looked over at him curiously. "How do you know that?"

Ross slowed and stopped, leaning heavily on his staff, suddenly weary. He had slipped up. "Sometimes the Lady tells me things," he said quietly. "She confides in me."

The lie burned in his mouth, but there was no help for it. He had told her as much as he could, as much as he dared. He would tell her more tomorrow, after she had been given time to consider what she had already learned. He must be careful about this. He must not give away too much too soon.

He said good night to her in her backyard, out by the tire swing, where she said she would remain to talk a bit with Pick. He told her he would see her again tomorrow and they would talk some more. He asked her to keep her eyes open and be careful. Pick was quick to declare that he would keep his eyes open for both of them and if the demon was out there he would find him quickly enough. It was bold talk, but it felt rea.s.suring to hear.

John Ross went inside the house then to thank Nest's grandparents once more for the dinner, moving slowly through the shadows, the staff providing him support and guidance where the light was dimmest. He was conscious of the girl's eyes following after him, aware that already her doubts about him were starting to surface. She was too smart to be fooled easily. He could not expect to do much more than delay giving out the truths she would all too soon demand to know.

He felt the weight of his task settle over him like lead. He wished he had known sooner and been given more time. But his dreams did not work like that. Time was not a luxury permitted him, but a quixotic variable that seemed to thwart him at every turn. He thought again of all the things he had not told her. Of the secret of the staff he bore. Of the reason for his limp. Of the price he paid for the magic he had been given.

Of what would become of Nest Freemark if the future were not changed by his coming.

Nest sat in the tire swing with Pick on her shoulder and told him all of what she had learned about John Ross. As she repeated the tale, she found herself beset by questions she had ; not thought to ask earlier. She was surprised at how many things Ross had failed to address, and she wished now that she I could call him back again. He had come to Hopewell to see her grandparents, to visit her mother's grave, to keep a promise to f himself, and to revive old memories. But he had come to stand against the demon as well. It seemed a rather large coincidence that he was there to do both. Were the two connected in some way? What was the demon doing here in the first place, in this tiny town, in the middle of Reagan country? Wasn't there some other, larger place where his efforts might have a more far-reaching result? What was so special about Hopewell?

There was something even more disturbing to her, something that had not been addressed at all. Apparently John Ross had known nothing of her before coming to Hopewell, for he had not seen or spoken with her mother since college. If that was so, then why did she feel that he knew so much about her? He hadn't said anything specific, but the feeling was inescapable. He had recognized her ability to see the feeders. He had known about her relationship with Pick without ever having met the sylvan. He had opened up to her about himself as if this was necessary, as if she was akeady his ally. Yet what exactly did he expect from her? Was it only that he needed another pair of eyes to help look for the demon? Was it just that if Pick were to know of his coming, so necessarily must she? Or was there something more?

"What do you think?" she asked Pick impulsively.

The sylvan scowled. "What do I think about what?"

"About him. About John Ross."

"I think we are fortunate he is here! What else would I think?" The sylvan looked indignant. "He's a Knight of the Word, Nest - one of the Word's anointed champions! He's come because there's a demon on the loose and that means we're in a lot of trouble! You don't know about demons; I do. A demon is the worst sort of creature. If this one accomplishes whatever it is he's set out to do, the result will be something that none of us wants even to consider! Criminy!"

Nest found herself thinking about Two Bears and his warning of the previous night. There is reason to think that your people will destroy themselves. There is reason to think that your people will destroy themselves. Perhaps, she surmised, they would do so a little more quickly with the help of a demon. Perhaps, she surmised, they would do so a little more quickly with the help of a demon.

"How do you know he is a Knight of the Word?" she pressed.

"John Ross? Because he is!" Pick snapped irritably. "Why are you being so difficult, Nest?"

She shrugged. "I'm just asking, that's all."

The sylvan sighed laboriously. "I know because of the staff. A staff like that is given only to a Knight of the Word. Been so for centuries. No one else can carry them; no one else is allowed. Every sylvan knows what they look like, how they're marked. The runes - did you notice them? Do they seem familiar to you?"

They did, of course, and now she realized why. Pick had drawn those same runes in the park's earth on several occasions when working his healing magic. That was where she had seen them before.

"He seems very tired," she observed, still musing on what he had revealed about himself, still working it through in her mind.

"You would be tired, too," he sniffed, "if you spent all your time tracking demons. Maybe if you and I do what he's asked of us and spot the demon, then he can get some rest!"

Unperturbed by the rebuke, she looked off into the trees. The shadows had melted into a black wall, and only the faint, silvery streamers of light from moon and stars and the harsher yellow glare of house lamps penetrated the darkness. Mosquitoes buzzed at her, but she ignored them, swinging idly, lazily in the tire, still thinking about John Ross. Something wasn't right. Something about him was different from what he wanted her to believe. What was it?

"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, cl.u.s.tered 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 ran 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 hi 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 gla.s.s. 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 Ca.s.s think?"

"Ask her yourself."

He heard the phone being handed off to Ca.s.s Minter. He had called Ca.s.s 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?" Ca.s.s 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." Ca.s.s 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?"

Ca.s.s 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?" Ca.s.s 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 pa.s.sed again. "h.e.l.lo? Who is this, please?"

It was Brianna's mother talking. Robert recognized the nasal whine laced with suspicion. "h.e.l.lo, 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 Ca.s.s 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 m.u.f.fling 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 Ca.s.s 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."

"h.e.l.l, 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, h.e.l.l! 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 G.o.dd.a.m.n 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.

Sat.u.r.day 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.