Running with the Demon Part 7

Sat.u.r.day, JULY 2

Chapter Nine.

The Knight of the Word rode into Hopewell on the nine-fifteen out of Chicago and not one of the pa.s.sengers who rode with him had any idea who he was. He wore no armor and carried no sword, and the only charger he could afford was this Greyhound bus. He looked to be an ordinary man save for the p.r.o.nounced limp and the strange, haunted look that reflected in his pale green eyes. He was a bit stooped for thirty-eight years of age, a little weathered for being not yet forty. He was of average height and weight, rather lean, almost gaunt when seen from certain angles. His face was unremarkable. He was the kid who cut your lawn all through high school grown up and approaching middle age. His lank brown hair was combed straight back from his high forehead, cut shoulder-length and tied back with a rolled bandanna. He wore jeans, a blue denim work shirt, and high-top walking shoes that were scuffed and worn, the laces knotted in more than one place.

He had left his duffel bag for storage in the luggage compartment, and when the bus pulled to a stop in front of the Lincoln Hotel he moved to retrieve it. He leaned heavily on a gnarled black walnut staff for support as he made his way to the front of the bus, his knapsack slung loosely across one shoulder. He did not meet anyone's gaze. He appeared to those traveling with him, those whose journey would take them farther west to the Quad Cities and Des Moines, as if he might be drifting, and their a.s.sessment was not entirely wrong.

But for as much as he might appear otherwise, he was still a knight, the best that the people of the world were going to get and better perhaps than they deserved. For ten long years he had sought to protect them, a paladin in their cause. There were demons loose in the world, things of such evil that if they were not destroyed they would destroy mankind. Already the feeders were responding to them, coming out of their hiding places, daring to appear even in daylight, feeding on the dark emotions that the demons fostered in humans everywhere. The demons were skillful at their work, and the humans they preyed upon were all too eager to be made victims. The demons could be all things to all people just long enough to blacken their hearts, and by the time the people realized what had happened to them, it was too late. By then the feeders were devouring them.

The Knight of the Word had been sent to put an end to the demons. His quest had taken him from one end of the country to the other countless times over, and still he journeyed on. Sometimes, in his darker moments, he thought his quest would never end. Sometimes he wondered why he had accepted it at all. He had given up everything in its cause, his life irrevocably changed. The dangers it presented were more formidable than any faced by those who had ridden under Arthur's banner. Nor did he have a Round Table and fellow knights awaiting his return - no king to honor him or lady to comfort him. He was all alone, and when his quest was finished, he would still be so.

His name was John Ross.

He retrieved his duffel bag from the driver, thanked him for his trouble, then leaned on his staff and looked about as the bus door closed, the air brakes released, and his silver charger slowly pulled away. He was at the corner of Fourth Street and Avenue A, the hotel before him, a paint store across one street and a library across the other. Kitty-corner was a gas station and tire shop. All of the buildings were run-down and bleached by the sun, washed of every color but beige and sand, their bricks crumbling and dry, their painted wood sidings peeling and splintered with the heat. The concrete of the sidewalks and streets radiated with the sun's glare, and where the street had been patched with asphalt it reflected a damp, shimmering black.

He found himself staring down Fourth Street to its junction with First Avenue, remembering what he had seen in his dream. His eyes closed against the memory.

He picked up his duffel, limped up the steps to the front door of the hotel, and pushed his way inside. A blast of cool air from the air conditioner welcomed him, then quickly turned him cold. He checked himself in at the desk, taking the cheapest room they had, booking it for a week because the rate was less than for the three days he required. He was frugal with his money, for he lived mostly on the little his parents had left him when they died. Leaving his duffel and his knapsack with the desk clerk, who offered to carry them to his room, he picked up one of the slim pamphlets ent.i.tled "Hopewell - We're Growing Your Way" that were stacked next to the register, moved over to the tiny lobby sitting area, and lowered himself into one of the worn wing-back chairs.

The cover of the pamphlet was a collage of pictures - a cornfield, a park, a swimming pool, the downtown, and one of the plants at MidCon Steel. Inside was a rudimentary map. He read briefly that Hopewell had a population of fifteen thousand, was situated in the heart of Reagan country (both the town where Ronald Reagan was born and the one in which he grew up were within twenty miles), boasted more than seventy churches, offered easy freeway access to major cities in all directions, and was the home of Midwest Continental Steel, once the largest independently owned steel company in America. The pamphlet went on to say that while more than twenty percent of the working force of Hopewell was employed at MidCon Steel, the community was a source of employment for others as a result of a diverse and thriving agricultural and business economy.

The desk man returned with his room key. Not another soul had pa.s.sed through the lobby in the time he had been gone. He seemed grateful when John Ross gave him a dollar for his trouble. Ross finished with the pamphlet and tucked it into the pocket of his jeans with his room key. He sat for a moment in the cool of the lobby, listening to the hum of the air-conditioning, looking down at his hands. He did not have much time to do what was needed. He knew enough from his dreams to make a start, but the dreams were sometimes deceptive and so could not be trusted completely. Nor were the dream memories of his future more than rudimentary. Nor were they stable; they tended to shift with the pa.s.sing of events and the changing of circ.u.mstances. It was like trying to build with water and sand. Sometimes he could not tell which part of his life he was remembering or even at which point of time the events had occurred or would occur. Sometimes he thought it would drive him mad.

He hoisted himself out of the armchair, an abrupt, decisive movement. Leaning on his staff, he went out the front door into the heat and turned up Fourth Street toward the heart of the downtown. He walked slowly and methodically along the gauntlet of burning concrete, the sidewalks baking in the already near one-hundred-degree heat. The buildings had a flattened feel to them, as if weighted by the heat, as if compressed. The people he pa.s.sed on the streets looked drained of energy, squinting into the glare from behind sungla.s.ses, , walking with their heads lowered and their shoulders hunched. He crossed Locust Street, the north-south thoroughfare that became State Route 88 beyond the town limits, continued on to Second Avenue, and turned down Second toward Third Street. Already he could see the red plastic sign on the building ahead that read JOSIE'S.

A church loomed over him, providing a momentary patch of shade. He slowed and looked up at it, studying its rust-colored stone, its stained gla.s.s, its arched wooden doors, and its open bell tower. A gla.s.s-enclosed sign situated on the patch of lawn at the corner said it was the First Congregational Church. Ralph Emery was the minister. Services were Sunday at 10:30 A.M. with Christian Education cla.s.ses at 9:15. This Sunday's message was ent.i.tled, "Whither Thou Goest." John Ross knew it would be cool and silent inside, a haven from the heat and the world. It had been a long time since he had been in church. He found himself wanting to see how it would feel, wondering if he could still say his prayers in a slow, quiet way and not in a rush of desperation. He wondered if his G.o.d still believed in him.

He stood staring at the church for a moment more, then turned away. His relationship with G.o.d would have to wait. It was the demon he hunted who demanded his attention now, the one he had come to Hopewell to destroy. He limped on through the midmorning heat, thinking on the nature of his adversary. In a direct confrontation, he was certain he would prevail. But the demon was clever and elusive; it could conceal its ident.i.ty utterly. It was careful never to permit itself to be fully engaged. Time and again John Ross had thought to trap it, to unmask it and force it to face him, and every time the demon had escaped. Like a sickness that pa.s.sed itself from person to person, the demon first infected them with its madness, then gave them over to the feeders to devour. Until now Ross had searched in vain for a way to stop it. It had been difficult even to find it, virtually impossible to lay hands on it. But that was about to change. The dreams had finally revealed something useful to him, something beyond the haunting rain of the future that awaited should he fail, something so crucial to the demon's survival that it might prove its undoing.

John Ross reached the comer of Second Avenue and Third Street and waited for the WALK sign. When it flashed on, he crossed over to Josie's, limped to the front door, and pushed his way inside.

The cafe was busy, the Sat.u.r.day morning crowd filling all but one of the tables and booths, the air pungent with the smell of coffee and doughnuts. Ross glanced about, taking in the faces of the customers, noting in particular the large table of men at the back, then moved to the counter. The stools were mostly vacant. He took one at the far end and lowered himself comfortably in place. The air-conditioning hummed, and the sweat dried on his face and hands. He leaned the black walking stick between the counter and his knee, bracing it there. Talk and laughter drifted about him in the mingling of voices. He did not look around. He did not need to. The man he had come to find was present.

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 c.o.ke."

She c.o.c.ked 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 c.o.ke. If she could sense the truth, she didn't show it. She set the c.o.ke on a napkin in front of him and folded her arms under her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. 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 gla.s.s, 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 c.o.ke, and when the hash arrived he ordered a gla.s.s 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 pa.s.sed 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 h.e.l.lo."

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 h.e.l.lo."

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 h.e.l.lo 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 hi 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? 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 compa.s.sion. None of them mattered. No' one mattered, in truth, besides Nest Freemark. Ross let the words wash off him and did not look around. He felt sad and old. He felt bereft of compa.s.sion. 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, unembarra.s.sed. "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 cafe with Old Bob and the others, an invisible presence in their midst, the demon watched him go.

Chapter Ten.

It is night. The sky is clear, and the full moon hangs above the eastern horizon in brilliant opalescence. Stars fill the dark firmament with pinp.r.i.c.ks 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 pa.s.ses, 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 area 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 s.p.a.ce and encouragement, they would destroy everything.