It was then that he glanced across the heads of the congregation and saw Nest Freemark looking at him. He met her gaze squarely, letting her know he understood what she was seeing and that he was seeing it, too. He saw the fear and horror in her eyes, saw how deep it tunneled, and he understood far better than she what it was that motivated it. He fixed her with his gaze and slowly shook his head. Do nothing, he was warning her. Stay where you are. Keep your head.

He saw in her eyes that she understood. He saw as well that she did not know if she could do what he was asking. He thought to go to her, but there was no way to do that without drawing attention to himself. The hymn was finished, and the congregation was sitting down again. He cast a quick eye over the a.s.semblage on the off chance he might find the demon. The minister was giving the Scripture lesson. The feeders crawled over the dais at his feet, dark shadows that made the scarlet carpet of the sanctuary appear as if it had been stained by ink. The minister finished the Scripture reading and went on to give the church announcements. John Ross felt his skin turn hot as he sat nailed in place in the pew, unable to act. I should not be here, he kept thinking. I should leave now.

The choir rose to sing, and John Ross looked back at Nest Freemark. Nest was sitting right on the edge of her seat beside her grandfather, her face pale and drawn, her body rigid. Her eyes were shifting right and left, following the movements of the feeders closest to her. Several were almost on top of her, slithering between the legs of the parishioners like snakes. One drew itself right up in front of her, as if taunting her, as if daring her to do something about it. Ross saw the desperation mirrored in her face. She was on the verge of panic, ready to bolt. He knew he had to do something. The choir finished, and the congregation rose to join the minister in a responsive prayer.

When that happened, something caused Nest Freemark to glance suddenly toward the back of the sanctuary, and Ross saw her expression mirror her shock.

Then he saw it, too.

Wraith stood in the doorway, thick fur bristling, tiger-striped face lowered, ears laid back, green eyes narrowed and glittering. He was so ma.s.sive that he filled the entire opening, a monstrous apparition stalking out of the gloom. His big head swung left and right with slow deliberation, and his muzzle drew back, revealing all of his considerable teeth. He made no sound as he stood there, surveying the unwary a.s.semblage, but his intent was unmistakable. Nest's fear had drawn him, summoned him to a place he had never been, brought him out of the deep woods and into this unfamiliar setting. His deliberate stare was filled with hunger.

Nest felt her stomach lurch. No, Wraith, no, go away, go away! No, Wraith, no, go away, go away! Feeders scattered everywhere, crawling under pews, skittering down the aisles, and climbing the wood-paneled walls, their dark forms bleeding into the shadows. Their scrambling was so frantic that it stirred the air in the chamber, and among the congregation several heads lifted in surprise. Feeders scattered everywhere, crawling under pews, skittering down the aisles, and climbing the wood-paneled walls, their dark forms bleeding into the shadows. Their scrambling was so frantic that it stirred the air in the chamber, and among the congregation several heads lifted in surprise.

Wraith took a moment to consider his options, then started forward in that familiar, stiff-legged walk.

Nest was out of her seat and striding up the aisle to intercept him instantly. She did not stop to think about what she was doing. She did not stop to consider that she had never even thought to approach him before, that she had no idea whether she could control him. She did not say anything to her grandfather as she wheeled out of the pew; she did not even look at him. All she could think about was what would happen if Wraith managed to get hold of one of the feeders - here, in her church, among her family and friends and neighbors. She did not know what it would do to the fabric that separated the human and nonhuman worlds, and she did not want to find out.

The responsive reading concluded, and the congregation reseated itself. Heads turned to look at her as she closed on Wraith - on the ghost wolf they could not see - but she ignored them. Wraith seemed to grow even larger as she approached him, and his predatory gaze fixed on her. She felt small and vulnerable in his presence, a fragile bit of life that he could snuff out with barely a thought. But still she came on, fixed of purpose, steeled by her determination to turn him back.

And as she reached him, as it seemed she must come right up against him, right onto the tips of those gleaming teeth and that bristling fur, he simply faded away and was gone.

She continued without slowing through the s.p.a.ce he had occupied, eyes closing against the rush of cold that washed over her, until she pa.s.sed through the doorway and into the hall beyond. She stood there shaking, taking deep breaths to steady herself, leaning against the Christian-literature table, out of sight of those gathered within.

She jumped as a hand touched her shoulder. "Nest?"

John Ross was standing next to her, leaning on his black, rune-scrolled staff, his pale green eyes intense. He must have followed her out, she realized, and done so quickly.

"Are you all right?" he asked.

She nodded. "Did you see?"

He glanced about the deserted hall as if someone might be listening: Within the sanctuary, Reverend Emery was beginning his sermon, "Whither Thou Goest."

"I saw," he answered. He bent close. "What was that creature? How does it know you?"

She swallowed against the dryness in her throat. "That was Wraith." She shook her head, refusing to offer any further explanation. "Where did all these feeders come from? What's happening?"

Ross shifted uneasily. "I think the demon is here. I think that's what's drawing them."

"Here? Why?"

Ross shook his head. "Because of me." He looked suddenly tired. "I don't know. I'm only guessing."

She felt a deep cold settle in the pit of her stomach. "What should we do?"

"Go back inside. Stay with your grandfather. I'll wait out here until after the service. Maybe the demon will show himself. Maybe I'll catch sight of him." His green eyes fixed on her.

She nodded uncertainly. "I have to go to the bathroom first. I'll be right back."

She hurried off down the hall to the Christian Education wing, Reverend Emery's deep, compelling voice trailing after her, floating over the hush of the congregation. She did not feel very good; her stomach was rolling and her head pounding. She glanced through the open doors into the cavernous gloom of the sanctuary; the feeders had disappeared. She frowned in surprise, then shook her head and went on. It didn't matter why they were gone, she told herself, only that they were. Her footsteps echoed softly on the wooden floor as she crossed the lower foyer. She pushed through the doors leading into the reception room, feeling worn and harried. Mrs. Browning, who had been her fifth-grade teacher, was arranging cups and napkins on several long tables in preparation for the fellowship to be held after the service. The bathrooms lay beyond. Nest slipped past Mrs. Browning without being noticed, went into the kitchen, and disappeared into the women's bathroom.

When she came out, a man was standing there, surveying rows of cookies and cakes arranged on serving trays. He looked up expectantly as she entered.

"Ah, there you are," he greeted, smiling. "Good morning."

"Good morning," she replied automatically, and then stopped in surprise. It was the maintenance man who had spoken with her the previous day when she had wandered through the park after working on the injured tree. She recognized his strange, pale eyes. He was wearing a suit now, rather than his working clothes, but she was certain it was the same man.

"Not feeling so good?" he asked.

She shook her head.

He nodded. "Well, that's too bad. You don't want to miss out on all these treats. Missing out on the sermon is one thing, but missing out on these cookies and brownies and cakes? No, sir!"

She started past him.

"Say, you know," he said suddenly, stepping in front of her, blocking her way, "there's a little something I want to share with you. A private fellowship, you might say. It's this. I remember when sermons meant something. It's been a while, but the old-time evangelists had a way of communicating that made you sit up and take notice. Now there's the televangelists with their high-profile ministries, their colleges and their retreats, but they don't talk about what matters. None of them do. Because they're afraid. You know why? Because what matters is how the world will end."

Nest stared at him, openmouthed.

"Sure, that's what really matters. Because we might all be here to see it happen, you know. There's every reason to think so. Just take a look around you. What do you see? The seeds of destruction, that's what." A comfortable smile creased his bland features. "But you know something? The destruction of the world isn't going to happen in the way people think. Nope. It isn't going to happen in a flood or a fire. It isn't going to happen all at once, brought about by some unexpected catastrophe. It won't be any one thing you can point to. That's not how it works. The Bible had it wrong. It will happen because of a lot of little things, an acc.u.mulation of seemingly insignificant events. Like dominoes tipped over, one against the other - that's how it will happen. One thing here, another there, next thing you know it all comes tumbling down." He paused. "Of course, someone has to topple that first domino. It all has to start with someone, doesn't it? Tell me. Does any of this sound familiar to you?"

Nest stood speechless before him, her mind screaming at her to run, her body paralyzed.

"Sure it does," he continued, inclining his head conspiratorially. His strange eyes narrowed, burning with a fire she could not bear to look upon. "Tell you something else. The destruction of the world depends on the willingness of the people in it to harm each other in any way necessary to achieve their own ends and to further their own causes. And we got that part down pat, don't we? We know how to hurt each other and how to think up whatever excuses we need to justify it. We're victims and executioners both. We're just like those dominoes I mentioned, arranged in a line, ready to tip. All of us. Even you."

"No," she whispered.

His smile had turned chilly. "You think you know yourself pretty well, don't you? But you don't. Not yet."

She took a step backward, trying to gauge whether or not she could reach the door before he grabbed her. As she did so, the door swung inward, and Mrs. Browning pushed through.

"Oh, h.e.l.lo, Nest," she greeted. "How are you, dear?" She seemed surprised to see the man standing there, but she smiled at him cheerfully and moved to pick up another tray of brownies.

As she did so, the man said to Nest, "No, I'm afraid you don't know yourself at all."

He gestured swiftly toward Mrs. Browning, who gasped as if she had been struck by a fist. She dropped the tray of brownies and clutched at her chest, sinking toward the floor.

Mrs. Browning was on her knees, her head lowered, her face white, her throat working rapidly as she tried to swallow. Blood spurted from her nose and mouth. Nest's scream froze in her throat, locked away by the man's hard eyes.

Then Mrs. Browning slid forward onto her face and lay still, her eyes open and staring.

The man turned to Nest and c.o.c.ked one eyebrow quizzically. "You see what I mean? There wasn't a thing you could do, was there?" Then he laughed. "Maybe I won't stay for the fellowship after all. Like I said, church isn't what it used to be. Ministers are all just voices in the wind, and congregations are just marking time." He walked to the back door, stopped with his hand on the k.n.o.b, and glanced over his shoulder at her. "Be good."

He opened the door and closed it softly behind him. Nest stood alone in the kitchen, looking down at Mrs. Browning, waiting for the shaking to stop.

Chapter Eighteen.

When she could make herself do so, Nest left the kitchen and walked back through the reception room. She was still shaking, the image of Mrs. Browning's final moments burned into her mind. She found one of the ushers and told him to call for an ambulance right away. Then she continued on. She found John Ross standing in the deserted narthex outside the sanctuary. She drew him down the long corridor to where they could not be seen or heard and related what had happened. Was it the demon? He nodded solemnly, asked if she was all right, and did not look or sound nearly as surprised as she thought he should. After all, if the demon had come looking for him, and that was what had drawn all those feeders into the church, what was it doing talking to her, threatening her, and making an object lesson of poor Mrs. Browning? Why was it talking to her about people destroying themselves, parroting in part, at least, much of what she had heard from Two Bears? What in the world was going on?

"What did the demon want with me?" she blurted out.

"I don't know," John Ross answered, giving her a steady, rea.s.suring look, and she knew at once that he was lying.

But Reverend Emery had finished his sermon and the congregation had risen to sing the closing hymn, so her chance to ask anything further came and went. Ross sent her back inside to be with her grandfather, telling her they would talk later. She did as she was told, dissatisfied with his evasiveness, suspicious of his motives, but thinking at the same time she must tread carefully if she was to learn the truth of things. She slipped back down the aisle and into the pew beside her grandfather, giving him a rueful smile as the voices of the congregation rose all around her. She was starting the third verse of the hymn when it struck her that the demon might be trying to get to John Ross through her, and that was why he had cornered her in the church kitchen. That, in turn, wopld explain why Ross claimed he didn 't know what was going on. It made sense, if he was her father, she thought. It made perfect sense.

Mrs. Browning had been taken away by the time the fellowship began, but all the talk was of her sudden, unexpected demise. Nest thought she would be able to speak further with John Ross, but she could not manage to get him alone. First there was her grandfather, greeting Ross in a solemn, subdued voice, telling him how sorry he was that he had been introduced to the church under such tragic circ.u.mstances, pleased nevertheless that Ross had come to the worship service, reminding him of the afternoon's picnic and eliciting his promise that he would be there. Then there was Reverend Emery, greeting Ross with a sad face, a firm handshake, and a cautious inquiry into his needs while visiting in Hopewell. Then there was Robert Heppler, who latched on to Nest with such persistence that she finally told him they were breathing the same air and to back off. Robert seemed convinced she was suffering from some hidden malady, and while he was not entirely mistaken, he was annoying enough in his determination to uncover the source of her discontent that she wouldn't have told him the truth if her life had depended on it.

When she finally managed to get free of Robert and all the parishioners who stopped to remark on how awful it was about Mrs. Browning and to inquire after Gran's health, John Ross was gone.

She rode home with her grandfather in a dark mood, staring out the window at nothing, mulling over the events of the past few days and particularly the past few hours, struggling to untangle the web of confusion and contradiction that surrounded her. When her grandfather asked why she had run out of the sanctuary, she told him that she had felt sick and gone to the bathroom. When he asked if she was all right now, she said she was still upset about Mrs. Browning and didn't want to talk about it. It was close enough to the truth that he left her alone. She was getting good at making people believe things that weren't true, but she had an unpleasant feeling that she was nowhere near as good as John Ross.

He knew something about her that he was keeping to himself, she thought darkly. He knew something important, and it had much to do with his coming to Hopewell. It was tied to the demon and tied to her mother. It was at the heart of everything that was happening, and she was determined to find out what it was.

She believed, though she refused as yet to let herself accept it fully and unconditionally, that it had to do with the fact that he was her father.

By the time her grandfather pulled the old pickup down the drive and next to the house, she had made up her mind to confront Gran. She stepped out into the heat, the midday temperature already approaching one hundred, the air thick with dampness and the pungent smell of scorched gra.s.ses and weeds, the wide-spread limbs of the big shade trees languid and motionless beneath the sun's relentless a.s.sault. Nest walked to the porch, stooped to give Mr. Scratch an ear rub, then went inside. Gran was sitting at the kitchen table in a flowered house-dress and slippers, sipping a bourbon and water and smoking a cigarette. She looked up as Nest pa.s.sed by on her way to her bedroom, but didn't say anything. Nest went into her room, slipped off the dress, slip, shoes, and stockings, and put on her running shorts, a T-shirt that said Never Grow Up, and tennis shoes and socks. She could hear her grandparents talking down the hall. Gran was asking about John Ross, and she didn't seem happy with what she was hearing. Old Bob was telling her to keep her voice down. Nest took a moment to brush her hair while they finished the hottest portion of their conversation, then went back down the hall to the kitchen.

They stopped talking as she entered, but she pretended she didn't notice. She walked to the refrigerator and looked inside. The smell of fried chicken still lingered in the air, so she wasn't surprised to find a container of it sitting on the top shelf. There was also a container of potato salad, one of raw vegetables soaking in water, and a bowl of Jell-O. When had Gran done all this? Had she done it while they were in church?

She glanced over her shoulder at the old woman. "I'm amazed," she said, smiling. "It looks great."

Gran nodded. "I had help from the wood fairies." She shot Old Bob a pointed look.

Old Bob responded with a strangely sweet, lopsided grin. "You've never needed any help from wood fairies, Evelyn. Why, you could teach them a thing or two."

Gran actually blushed. "Old man," she muttered, smiling back at him. Then the smile fell away, and she reached down for her drink. "Nest, I'm sorry about Mrs. Browning. She was a good woman."

Nest nodded. "Thanks, Gran."

"Are you feeling all right now?"

"I'm fine."

"Good. You both had phone calls while you were in church. Ca.s.s Minter called for you, Nest. And Mel Riorden wants you to call him right away, Robert. He said it was urgent."

Old Bob watched wordlessly as she took a long pull on her drink. He was still wearing his suit coat, and he took time now to slip it off. He looked suddenly rumpled and tired. "All right. I'll take care of it. Excuse me, please."

He turned and disappeared down the hallway. Nest took a deep breath, walked over to the kitchen table, and sat down across from her grandmother. Sunlight spilled through the south window and streaked the tabletop, its brightness diffused by the limbs of the shade trees and the lace curtains so that intricate patterns formed on the laminated surface. It fell across Gran's hands as they lay resting beside her ashtray and drink and made them look mottled and scaly. The tabletop felt warm, and Nest pressed her palms against it, edging her fingers into one of the more decorative markings of shadows and light, disrupting its symmetry.

"Gran," she said, then waited for the old woman to look at her. "I was in the park last night."

Gran nodded. "I know. I was up and looked in on you. You weren't there, so I knew where you'd gone. What were you doing?"

Nest told her. "I know it sounds a little weird, but it wasn't. It was interesting." She paused. "Actually, it was scary, too. At least, part of it was. I saw something I don't understand. I had this... vision, I guess. A sort of daydream - except it was night, of course. It was about you."

She watched her grandmother's eyes turn cloudy and unfocused. Gran reached for her cigarette and drew the smoke deep into her lungs. "About me?"

Nest held her gaze. "You were much younger, and you were in the park at night, just like me. But you weren't alone. You were surrounded by feeders. You were running with them. You were part of them."

The silence that followed was palpable.

Old Bob closed the door to his den and stood looking into s.p.a.ce. His den was on the north side of the house and shaded by a ma.s.sive old s.h.a.gbark hickory, but the July heat penetrated even here. Old Bob didn't notice. He laid his suit coat on his leather easy chair and put his hands on his hips, He loved Evelyn, but he was losing her. It was the drinking and the cigarettes, but it was mostly Caitlin and all the things the two of them had shared and kept from him. There was a secret history between them, one that went all the way back to the time of Caitlin's birth - maybe even further than that. It involved this nonsense about feeders and magic. It involved Nest's father. It went way beyond anything reasonable, and it imprisoned Evelyn behind a wall he could not scale, a wall that had become impenetrable since Caitlin had killed herself.

There. He had said the words. Since Caitlin had killed herself. Since Caitlin had killed herself.

He closed his eyes to stop the tears from coming. It might have been an accident, of course. She might have gone into the park that night, just as she had done as a child, and slipped and fallen from the cliffs. But he didn't believe it for a minute. Caitlin knew the park like she knew the back of her hand. Like Nest did. Like Evelyn. It had always been a part of their lives. Even Evelyn had grown up in a house that adjoined the park. They were a part of it in the same way as the trees and the burial mounds and the squirrels and birds and all the rest. No, Caitlin didn't slip and fall. She killed herself.

And he still didn't know why.

He stared out the window at the drive leading up to Sinnissippi Road. It was hard losing Caitlin, but he thought it would be unbearable if he lost Evelyn. Their time together spanned almost fifty years; he couldn't remember what his life had been like before her. There really wasn't anything without her. He hated the drinking and the smoking, hated the way she had retired to the kitchen table and taken up residence, and hated the hard way she had come to view her life. But he would rather have her that way than not have her at all.

But what was he going to do to keep her? She was slipping away from him, one day at a time, as if she were sitting in a raft with the mooring lines slipped, drifting slowly out to sea while he stood helplessly on the sh.o.r.e and watched. He clasped h'is big hands before him and shrugged his shoulders. He was strong and smart and his life was marked by his accomplishments, but he did not know what to do to save her.

He reached up and loosened his tie. What could he do, after all, that would make a difference? Was there anyone who could tell him? He had spoken with Ralph Emery, but the minister had told him that Evelyn had to want to be helped before anyone could reach her. He had come out to the house to talk with her once or twice, but Evelyn had shown no interest in reaching out. Nest was the only one she cared about, and he thought sometimes that maybe Nest made a small difference in Evelyn just by being there. But Nest was still a child, and there was only so much a child could do.

Besides, he thought uneasily, Nest was too much like her grandmother for comfort.

He pulled off his tie, draped it over the easy chair with his coat, and walked to the phone to call Mel Riorden. He dialed, and the phone rang only once before Mel picked up.

"Riorden."

"Mel? It's Bob Freemark."

"Yeah, thanks for calling back. I appreciate it."

Old Bob smiled to himself. "What were you doing, standing by the phone waiting for me?"

"Something like that. This isn't funny. I've got a problem." Mel Riorden's tone of voice made that abundantly apparent, but Old Bob said nothing, waiting Mel out. "You have to keep this to yourself, Bob, if I tell you. You have to promise me that. I wouldn't involve you if I didn't have to, but I can't let this thing slide and I don't know how to deal with it. I've already tried and been told to go to h.e.l.l."

Old Bob pulled back the desk chair and seated himself. "Well, this doesn't have to go beyond you and me if you don't want it to, Mel. Why don't you just tell me what it is?"

Mel Riorden gave a worried sigh. "It's Deny. The kid's more trouble than a dozen alligators in the laundry chute and stupid to boot. If he wasn't my sister's kid ..." He trailed off. "Well, you've heard it all before. Anyway, I'm in church for the early ma.s.s with Carol and a couple of the grandkids. Al Garcia's there, too. With Angie and their kids. So afterward, I go in for a coffee and a cookie like everyone else. I say h.e.l.lo to Al and Angie, to a couple of others. Everyone's having a nice visit. I'm standing there, munching my cookie, sipping my coffee, Carol's off with the grandkids, all's right with the world, and up comes my sister. She looks really bad, worried as can be, all bent out of shape. First off, I think she's been drinking. But then I see it's something else. She says to me, 'Mel, you got to talk to him. You got to find out what's going on and put a stop to it.' "

"Put a stop to. what?"

"I'm coming to that." Mel Riorden paused, arranging his thoughts in the silence. "See, I keep thinking of those newspaper stories we joke about over coffee at Josie's. The ones about the people who suddenly go berserk. Their minds snap and they go crazy, insane, for no real reason. You wonder how it could happen, how the people who know them could let it. It's like that. Like that schoolteacher walking in and killing all those kindergarten kids in Mississippi because he'd lost his job. You read about that in today's paper?"

Old Bob shook his head at the phone. "I haven't read the paper yet. I just got back from church myself."

"Yeah, well, that's one good reason for being Catholic. You get church out of the way early and have the rest of the day to yourself. Al and I talked it over once, the advantages of being Catholic over being Protestant..."

"Mel." Old Bob stopped him midsentence. "What about Deny? Are you saying he's planning to kill someone?"