Running with the Demon (15 page)

The woman working the counter came over to him. She was pretty, with long, tousled blondish hair tied back in a ponytail, expressive dark eyes, and sun-browned skin. White cotton
shorts and a collared blouse hugged the soft curves of her body. But it was her smile that captivated him. It was big and open and dazzling. It had been a long time since anyone had smiled at him like that.

“Good morning,” she greeted. “Would you like some coffee?”

He stared at her without answering, feeling something stir inside that had lain dormant for a long time. Then he caught himself and shook his head quickly. “No, thank you, miss.”

“Miss?” Her grin widened. “Been quite a while since anyone called me that. Do I know you?”

Ross shook his head a second time. “No. I’m not from around here.”

“I didn’t think so. I’m pretty good with faces, and I don’t remember yours. Would you like some breakfast?”

He thought about it a moment, studying the menu board posted on the wall behind her. “You know, what I’d really like is a Cherry Coke.”

She cocked an eyebrow at him. “I think we can fix you up.”

She walked away, and he watched her go, wondering at the unexpected attraction he felt for her, trying to remember when he had last felt that way about anyone. He looked down at his hands where they rested on the counter. His hands were shaking. His life, he knew, was a shambles.

A man and a boy came into the coffee shop, approached the counter, glanced at the available seats, and then squeezed themselves in between two men farther down the way. Ross could feel their eyes on him. He did not react. It was always like this, as if somehow people could sense the truth of what he was.

The woman with the smile returned carrying his Cherry Coke. If she could sense the truth, she didn’t show it. She set the Coke on a napkin in front of him and folded her arms under her breasts. She was probably somewhere in her thirties, but she looked younger than that.

“Sure you wouldn’t like a Danish or maybe some coffee cake? You look hungry.”

He smiled in spite of himself, forgetting for a moment his
weariness. “I must be made of glass, the way you see right through me. As a matter of fact, I’m starved. I was just trying to decide what to order.”

“Now we’re getting somewhere,” she declared, smiling back. “Since this is your first visit, let me make a suggestion. Order the hash. It’s my own recipe. You won’t be sorry.”

“All right. Your own recipe, is it?”

“Yep. This is my place.” She stuck out her hand. “I’m Josie Jackson.”

“John Ross.” He took her hand in his own and held it. Her hand was cool. “Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you, too. Nice to meet anyone who still calls me ‘miss’ and means it.” She laughed and walked away.

He finished the Cherry Coke, and when the hash arrived he ordered a glass of milk to go with it. He ate the hash and drank the milk without looking up. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Josie Jackson looking at him as she passed down the counter.

When he was finished, she came back and stood in front of him. There were freckles on her nose underneath the tan. Her arms were smooth and brown. He found himself wanting to touch her skin.

“You were right,” he said. “The hash was good.”

She beamed, her smile dazzling. “Do you want some more? I think the house can spare seconds.”

“No, thank you anyway.”

“Can I get you anything else?”

“No, that’s fine.” He glanced over one shoulder as if checking something, then looked back at her. “Can I ask you a question?”

Her mouth quirked at the corners. “That depends on the question.”

He glanced over his shoulder again. “Is that Robert Freemark sitting back there with those men?”

She followed his gaze, then nodded. “You know Old Bob?”

Ross levered himself off the stool with the help of his walking stick. “No, but I was a friend of his daughter.” The lie burned in his throat as he said it. “Will you hold my bill for a minute, Josie? I want to go say hello.”

He limped from the counter toward the table in back, steeling himself against what he must do. The men sitting around it were telling stories and laughing, eating doughnuts and pastries, and drinking coffee. It looked like they felt at home here, as if they came often. Bob Freemark had his back turned and didn’t see him until some of the others looked up at his approach. Then Old Bob looked around as well, his big, white head lifting, his piercing blue eyes fixing Ross with a thoughtful look.

“Are you Robert Freemark, sir?” John Ross asked him.

The big man nodded. “I am.”

“My name is John Ross. We haven’t met before, but your daughter and I were friends.” The lie went down easier this time. “I just wanted to come over and say hello.”

Old Bob stared at him. The table went silent. “Caitlin?” the other man asked softly.

“Yes, sir, a long time ago, when we were both in college. I knew her then.” Ross kept his face expressionless.

Old Bob seemed to recover himself. “Sit down, Mr. Ross,” he urged, pulling over an empty chair from one of the adjoining tables. Ross seated himself gingerly, extending his leg away from the table so that he was facing Robert Freemark but not the others. The conversations at the table resumed, but Ross could tell that the other men were listening in on them nevertheless.

“You knew Caitlin, you say?” Old Bob repeated.

“In Ohio, sir, when we were both in college. She was at Oberlin, so was I, a year ahead. We met at a social function, a mixer. We dated on and off, but it was nothing serious. We were mostly just friends. She talked about you and Mrs. Freemark often. She told me quite a lot about you. When she left school, I never saw her again. I understand she was killed. I’m sorry.”

Old Bob nodded. “Almost fourteen years ago, Mr. Ross. It’s all in the past.”

He didn’t sound as if that were so, Ross thought. “I promised myself that if I was ever out this way, I would try to stop by and say hello to you and Mrs. Freemark. I thought a lot of Caitlin.”

The other man nodded, but didn’t look as if he quite understood. “How did you find us here in Hopewell, Mr. Ross?”

“Please, sir, call me John.” He eased his bad leg to a new position. The men at the table were losing interest in what he had to say. A fourteen-year-old friendship with a dead girl was not important to them. “I knew where Caitlin was from,” he explained. “I took a chance that you and Mrs. Freemark were still living here. I asked about you at the hotel where I’m staying. Then I came here. Josie told me who you were.”

“Well,” Old Bob said softly. “Isn’t that something?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Where are you from, John?”

“New York City.” He lied again.

“Is that so? New York City? What brings you out this way?”

“I’m traveling through by bus to see friends in Seattle. I don’t have a schedule to keep to, so I took a small detour here. I suppose I decided it was time to keep my promise.”

He paused, as if considering something he had almost forgotten. “I understand that Caitlin has a daughter.”

“Yes, that would be Nest,” Old Bob acknowledged, smiling. “She lives with us. She’s quite a young lady.”

John Ross nodded. “Well, that’s good to hear.” He tried not to think of the dreams. “Does she look at all like her mother?”

“Very much so.” Old Bob’s smile broadened. “Having Nest helps in some small way to make up for losing Caitlin.”

Ross looked at the floor. “I expect it does. I wish I could see her. I think often of Caitlin.” He went silent, as if unable to think of anything else to say. “Well, thank you, sir. I appreciate having had the opportunity of meeting you.”

He started to rise, levering himself up with the aid of his staff. “Please give my regards to Mrs. Freemark and your granddaughter.”

He was already moving away when Old Bob caught up with him. The big man’s hand touched his arm. “Wait a minute, Mr. Ross. John. I don’t think it’s right that you’ve come all this way and don’t get to talk about Caitlin more than this. Why don’t you come to dinner tonight? You can meet Evelyn—Mrs.
Freemark—and Nest as well. We’d like to hear more about what you remember. Would you like to come?”

John Ross took a long, deep breath. “Very much, sir.”

“Good. That’s good. Come about six, then.” Old Bob brushed at his thick white hair with one hand. “Can you find a ride or shall I pick you up?”

“I’ll manage to get there.” Ross smiled.

Robert Freemark extended his hand and Ross took it. The old man’s grip was powerful. “It was good of you to come, John. We’ll be looking forward to seeing you this evening.”

“Thank you, sir,” Ross replied, meaning it.

He moved away then, back toward the counter, listening to the conversation of the other men at the table trail after him.
Knew Caitlin, did he? At college? What’s his name again? You think he’s one of those hippies? He looks a little frayed around the edges. What do you think he did to his leg?
Ross let the words wash off him and did not look around. He felt sad and old. He felt bereft of compassion. None of them mattered. No one mattered, in truth, besides Nest Freemark.

He came back to the counter and Josie Jackson. She handed him his bill and stood waiting while he pried loose several dollars from his jeans pocket.

“You knew Caitlin, did you?” she asked, studying him.

“A long time ago, yes.” He held her gaze with his own, wanting to find a way to take something of her with him when he went.

“Is that what brought you to Hopewell? Because the fact of the matter is you don’t look like a salesman or a truck driver or a bail bondsman or anything.”

He gave her a quick, tight smile. “That’s what brought me.”

“So where are you off to now?” She took the money he handed her without looking at it. “If you don’t mind my asking.”

He shook his head. “I don’t mind. To tell you the truth, I thought I’d go back to my room for a bit. I’m a little tired. I just came in on the bus, and I didn’t sleep much.” The word “sleep” sent an involuntary chill through his body.

“Are you staying at the Lincoln Hotel?” she asked.

“For a few days.”

“So maybe we’ll see some more of you while you’re here?”

He smiled anew, liking the way she looked at him. “I don’t see how you can avoid it if everything at Josie’s is as good as the hash.”

She smiled back. “Some things are even better.” She kept her gaze level, unembarrassed. “See you later, John.”

The Knight of the Word turned and walked out the door into the midday heat, riddled with shards of confusion and hope.

Seated at the table in the back of the café with Old Bob and the others, an invisible presence in their midst, the demon watched him go.

I
t is night. The sky is clear, and the full moon hangs above the eastern horizon in brilliant opalescence. Stars fill the dark firmament with pinpricks of silver, and the breeze that wafts across his heated skin is cool and soft. He stands looking upward for a moment, thinking that nothing of the madness of the world in which he stands reflects in the heavens he views. He wishes he could find a way to smother the madness with the tranquillity and peace he finds there. He remembers for a moment the way things were
.

Then he is moving again, jogging steadily down the concrete highway into the city, hearing already the screams and cries of the captives. The pens are two miles farther in, but the number of prisoners they contain is so vast that the sounds travel all the way to the farmlands. The city is not familiar to him. It lies in what was Kansas or perhaps Nebraska. The country about is flat and empty. Once it grew crops, but now it grows only dust. Nothing lives in the country. All of the fields have dried away. All of the animals have been killed. All of the people have been hunted down and herded into the pens by those who were once like them. In the silence of the night, there is only the buzzing and chirping of insects and the dry, papery whisper of old leaves being blown across stone
.

Feeders peer out from the shadows as he passes, but they keep their distance. He is a Knight of the Word, and they have no power over him. They sense this, and they do not offer challenge. They are creatures of instinct and habit, and they react to what they find in humans in the way that predators react to the smell of blood. John Ross knows this about them. He
understands what they are, a lesson imparted to him long ago when there was still hope, when there was still reason to believe he could make a difference. The feeders are a force of nature, and they respond to instinct rather than to reason. They do not think, because thinking is not required of them. They do not exist to think, but to react. The Word made them for reasons that John Ross does not understand. They are a part of the balance of life, but their particular place in the balance remains a mystery to him. They are attracted by the darker emotions that plague human beings. They appear when those emotions can no longer be contained. They feed on those emotions and in so doing drive mad the humans who are their victims. Given enough time and space and encouragement, they would destroy everything
.

The Knight of the Word has tried hard to determine why this must be, but it requires a deeper understanding of human behavior than he possesses. So he has come to accept the feeders simply as a force of nature. He can see them, as most cannot, so he knows they are real. Few others understand this. Few have any idea at all that the feeders even exist. If they knew, they would be reminded of Biblical references and cautionary tales from childhood and be quick to describe the feeders as Satan’s creatures or the Devil’s imps. But the feeders belong to the Word. They are neither good nor evil, and their purpose is far too complex to be explained away in such simplistic terms
.

He passes through what was once an industrial storage area of the city, and the amber eyes follow him, flat and expressionless. The feeders feel nothing, reveal nothing. The feeders have no concern for him one way or the other. That is not their function. The Knight of the Word has to remind himself of this, for the glimmer of their eyes seems a challenge and a danger to him. But the feeders, as he has learned, are as impervious to emotion as fate is to prayers. They are like the wind and the rain; when conditions warrant, they will appear. Look for them as you would a change in the weather, for they respond in no less impersonal and arbitrary a way
.