Brooks, Terry - Word 1 - Running with the Demon

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RUNNING WITH THE DEMON
RUNNING
WITH THE
DEMON
Terry Brooks
PROLOGUE
He stands alone in the center of another of America's burned-out towns, but he has been to this
one before. Even in their ruined, blackened condition, the buildings that surround him are
recognizable. The streets of the intersection in which he finds himself stretch away in windswept
concrete ribbons that dwindle and fade into the horizon-south to thg bridge that spans the river,
north to the parched flats of what were once cornfields, east toward the remains of Reagan's
hometown, and west to the Mississippi and the Great Plains. A street sign, bent and weathered,
confirms that he stands at the corner of First Avenue and Third Street. The town is eight blocks
square, two blocks in any direction from where he stands, petering out afterward in dribs and
drabs of homes that have been converted to real-estate offices and repair shops or simply leveled
to provide parking. Farther out lie the abandoned ruins of two supermarkets and the mall, and down
along the riverbank he can see the broken-down stacks and rusted-out corrugated roofs of what is
left of the steel mill.
He looks around slowly, making sure he is in the right place, because it has been a long time. The
sky is clouded and dark. Rain threatens and will probably fall before night. Although it is noon,
the light is so pale that it seems more like dusk. The air and the earth are washed clean of
color. Buildings, streets, abandoned vehicles, trash, and sky are a uniform shade of gray, the
paint running from one into the other until nothing remains but shadows and light to differentiate
any of it In the silence, the wind moans softly as it rises off the river and whips down the empty
streets. Twigs, leaves, and debris skitter along the concrete. Windows gape dark and hollow where
the plate glass has been broken out. Doors hang open and sag. Smears of black ash and soot stain
the walls where fires have burned away the wood and plastic veneer of the offices and shops. Cars
hunker down on flattened tires and bare axles, stripped of everything useful, abandoned shells
turning slowly to rust.
The man looks the town over as he would a corpse, remembering when it was still vital.
A pack of dogs comes out of one of the buildings. There are maybe ten of them, lean and hungry,
quick-eyed and suspicious. They study him momentarily before moving on. They want nothing to do
with him. He watches them disappear around the corner of a building, and he begins to walk. He
moves east toward the park, even though he knows what he will find. He passes the bank, the paint
store, the fabric shop, Al's Bar, and a parking lot, and stops at Josie 's. The sign still hangs
over the entry; the enamel is faded and broken, but the name is recognizable. He walks over and
peers inside. The furniture and pastry cases are all smashed, the cooking equipment broken, and
the leather banquettes ripped to shreds. Dust coats the countertop, trash litters the ruined
floor, and weeds poke out of cracks in the tile.
He turns away in time to catch sight of two children slipping from the alleyway across the street.
They carry canvas bags stuffed with items they have scavenged. They wear knives strapped to their
waists. The girl is in her teens, the boy younger. Their hair is long and unkempt, their clothes
shabby, and their eyes hard and feral. They slow to consider him, taking his measure. He waits on
them, turns to face them, lets them see that he is not afraid. They glance at each other, whisper
something punctuated by furtive gestures, then move away. Like the dogs, they want nothing to do
with him.
He continues up the street, the sound of his boots a hollow echo in the midday silence. Office
buildings and shops give way to homes. The homes are empty as well, those that are still intact.
Many are burned out and sagging, settling slowly back into the earth. Weeds grow everywhere, even
through cracks in the concrete of the streets. He wonders how long it has been since anyone has
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lived here. Counting the strays, the dogs and the children and the one or two others that linger
because they have no place else to go, how many are left? In some towns, there is no one. Only the
cities continue to provide refuge, walled camps in which survivors have banded together in a
desperate effort to keep the madness at bay. Chicago is one such city. He has been there and seen
what it has to offer. He already knows its fate.
A woman emerges from the shadows of a doorway in one of the residences, a frail, hollow-eyed
creature, dark hair tangled and streaked with purple dye, arms hanging loose and bare, the skin
dotted with needle marks. Got anything for me? she asks dully. He shakes his head. She comes down
to the foot-of the porch steps and stops. She trots out a smile. Where 'd you come from? He does
not respond. She moves a couple of steps' closer, hugging herself with her thin arms. Want to come
in and party with me? He stops her with a look. In the shadows of the house from which she has
come, he can see movement. Eyes, yellow and flat, study him with cold intent. He knows who they
belong to. Get away from me, he tells the woman. Her face crumples. She turns back without a word.
He walks to the edge of the town, a mile farther on, out where the park waits. He knows he
shouldn't, but he cannot help himself. Nothing of what he remembers remains, but he wants to see
anyway. Old Bob and Gran are gone. Pick is gone. Daniel and Wraith are gone. The park is overgrown
with weeds and scrub. The cemetery is a cluster of ruined headstones. The townhomes and apartments
and houses are all empty. What lives in the park now can be found only in the caves and is his
implacable enemy.
And what of Nest Freemark ?
He knows that, too. It is a nightmare that haunts him, unrelenting and pitiless.
He stops at the edge of the cemetery and looks off info the shadows beyond. He is here, he
supposes, because he has no better place to go. He is here because he is reduced to retracing
the steps of his life as a form of penance for his failures. He is hunted at every turn, and so he
is drawn to the places that once provided refuge. He searches in the vain hope that something of
what was good in his life will resurface, even when he knows the impossibility of that happening.
He takes a long, slow breath. His pursuers will find him again soon enough, but perhaps not this
day. So he will walk the park once more and try to recapture some small pan of what is lost to him
forever.
Across the roadway from where he stands, a billboard hangs in tatters. He can just make out its
wording.
WELCOME TO HOPEWELL, ILLINOIS! WE'RE GROWING YOUR WAY!
John Ross woke with a start, jerking upright so sharply that he sent his walking staff clattering
to the. floor of the bus. For a moment, he didn't know where he was. It was night, and most of his
fellow passengers were asleep. He took a moment to collect himself, to remember which journey he
was on, which world he was in. Then he maneuvered his bad leg stiffly into the aisle, jockeying
himself about on the seat until he was able to reach down and retrieve the staff.
He had fallen asleep in spite of himself, he realized. In spite of what that meant.
He placed the walking stick beside him, leaning it carefully against his knapsack, bracing it in
place so that it would not slide away again. An old woman several seats in front of him was still
awake. She glanced back at him briefly, her look one of reproof and suspicion. She was the only
one who sat close to him. He was alone at the very back of the bus; the other passengers, all save
the old woman, had been careful to take seats near the front. Perhaps it was the leg. Or the
shabby clothes. Or the mantle of weariness he wore like the ghost of Marley did his chains.
Perhaps it was the eyes, the way they seemed to look beyond what everyone else could see, at once
cool and discerning, yet distant and lost, an unsettling contradiction.
But no. He looked down at his hands, studying them. In the manner of one who has come-to terms
with being shunned, he could ignore the pain of his banishment. Subconsciously, his fellow
passengers had made a perfectly understandable decision.
You leave as many empty seats as possible between yourself and Death.
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FRIDAY, JULY 1
CHAPTER 1
"Hssst! Nest!"
His voice cut through the cottony layers of her sleep with the sharpness of a cat's claw. Her head
jerked off the pillow and her sleep-fogged eyes snapped open.
"Pick?"
"Wake up, girl!" The sylvan's voice squeaked with urgency. "The feeders are at it again! I need
you!"
Nest Freemark pushed the sheet away and forced herself into an upright position, legs dangling off
the side of the bed. The night air was hot and sticky in spite of the efforts of the big floor fan
that sat just inside her doorway. She rubbed at her eyes to clear them and swallowed against the
dryness in her throat. Outside, she could hear the steady buzz of the locusts in the trees.
"Who is it this tune?" she asked, yawning.
"The little Scott girl."
"Bennett?" Oh, God! She was fully awake now. "What happened?"
Pick was standing on the window ledge just outside the screen, silhouetted in the moonlight. He
might be only six inches tall from the tips of his twiggy feet to the peak of his leafy head, but
she could read the disgust hi his gnarled wooden features as clearly as if he were six feet.
"The mother's out with her worthless boyfriend again, shutting down bars. That boy you fancy,
young Jared, was left in charge of the other kids, but he had one of his attacks, Bennett was
still up-you know how she is when her mother's not there, though goodness knows why. She became
scared and wandered off. By the time the boy recovered, she was gone. Now the feeders have her. Do
you need this in writing or are you going to get dressed and come help?"
Nest jumped out of the bed without answering, slipped off her nightshirt, and pulled on her Grunge
Lives T-shirt, running shorts, socks, and tennis shoes. Her face peeked out at her from the
dresser mirror: roundish with a wide forehead and broad cheekbones, pug nose with a scattering of
freckles, green eyes that tended to squint, a mouth that quirked upward at the corners as if to
suggest perpetual amusement, and a complexion that was starting to break out. Passably attractive,
but no stunner. Pick was pacing back and forth on the sill. He looked like twigs and leaves bound
together into a child's tiny stick man. His hands were making nervous gestures, the same ones they
always made when he was agitated-pulling at his silky moss beard and slapping at his bark-
encrusted thighs. He couldn't help himself. He was like one of those cartoon characters that
charges around running into walls. He claimed he was a hundred and fifty, but for being as old as
he was, it didn't seem he had learned very much about staying calm.
She arranged a few pillows under the sheet to give the impression that she was still in the bed,
sleeping. The ruse would work if no one looked too closely. She glanced at the clock. It was two
in the morning, but her grandparents no longer slept soundly and were apt to be up at all hours of
the night, poking about. She glanced at the open door and sighed. There was no help for it.
She nudged the screen through the window and climbed out after it. Her bedroom was on the first
floor, so slipping away unnoticed was easy. In the summer anyway, she amended, when it was warm
and the windows were all open. In the winter, she had to find her coat and go down the hallway and
out the back door, which was a bit more chancy. But she had gotten pretty good at it.
"Where is she?" she asked Pick, holding out her hand, palm up, so he could step into it.
"Headed for the cliffs, last I saw." He moved off the sill gingerly. "Daniel's tracking her, but
we'd better hurry." Nest placed Pick on her shoulder where he could get a firm grip on her T-
shirt, fitted the screen back in place, and took off at a run. She sped across the back lawn
toward the hedgerow that bordered the park, the Midwest night air whipping across her face, fresh
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and welcoming after the stale closeness of her bedroom. She passed beneath the canopies of
solitary oaks and hickories that shaded the yard, their great limbs branching and dividing
overhead in intricate patterns, their leaves reflecting dully in the mix of light from moon and
stars. The skies were clear and the world still as she ran, the houses about her dark and silent,
the people asleep. She found the gap in the hedgerow on the first try, ducked to clear the low
opening, and was through.
Ahead, Sinnissippi Park opened before her, softball diamonds and picnic areas bright with
moonlight, woods and burial grounds laced with shadows.
She angled right, toward the roadway that led into the park, settling into a smooth, even pace.
She was a strong runner, a natural athlete. Her cross-country coach said she was the best he had
ever seen, although in the same breath he said she needed to develop better training habits. At
five feet eight inches and a hundred twenty pounds, she was lean and rangy and tough as nails. She
didn't know why she was that way; certainly she had never worked at it. She had always been agile,
though, even when she was twelve and her friends were bumping into coffee tables and tripping over
their own feet, all of them trying to figure out what their bodies were going to do next. (Now
they were fourteen, and they pretty much knew.) Nest was blessed with a runner's body, and it was
clear from her efforts the past spring that her talent was prodigious. She had already broken
every cross-country record in the state of Illinois for girls fourteen and under. She had done
that when she was thirteen. But five weeks ago she had entered the Rock River Invitational against
runners eighteen and under, girls and boys. She had swept the field in the ten-thousand-meter
race, posting a time that shattered the state high school record by almost three minutes. Everyone
had begun to look at her a little differently after that.
Of course, they had been looking at Nest Freemark differently for one reason or another for most
of her life, so she was less impressed by the attention now than she might have been earlier.
Just think, she reflected ruefully, how they would look at me if I told them about Pick. Or about
the magic.
She crossed the ball diamond closest to her house, reached the park entrance, and swept past the
crossbar that was lowered to block the road after sunset. She felt rested and strong; her
breathing was smooth and her heartbeat steady. She followed the pavement for a short distance,
then turned onto the grassy picnic area that led to the Sinnissippi burial mounds and the cliffs.
She could see the lights of the Sinnissippi Townhomes off to the right, low-income housing with a
fancy name. That was where the Scotts lived. Enid Scott was a single mother with five kids, very
few life options, and a drinking problem. Nest didn't think much of her; nobody did. But Jared was
a sweetheart, her friend since grade school, and Bennett, at five the youngest of the Scott
children, was a peanut who deserved a lot better than she had been getting of late.
Nest scanned the darkness ahead for some sign of the little girl, but there was nothing to see.
She looked for Wraith as well, but there was no sign of him either. Just thinking of Wraith sent a
shiver down her spine. The park stretched away before her, vast, silent, and empty of movement.
She picked up her pace, the urgency of Bennett's situation spurring her on. Pick rode easily on
her shoulder, attached in the manner of a clamp, arms and legs locked on her sleeve. He was still
muttering to himself, that annoyingly incessant chatter in which he indulged ad nauseam hi times
of stress. But Nest let him be. Pick had a lot of responsibility to exercise, and it was not being
made any easier by the increasingly bold behavior of the feeders. It was bad enough that they
occupied the caves below the cliffs in ever-expanding numbers, their population grown so large
that it was no longer possible to take an accurate count. But where before they had confined their
activities to nighttime appearances in the park, now all of a sudden they were starting to surface
everywhere in Hopewell, sometimes even in daylight. It was all due to a shifting in the balance of
things, Pick advised. And if the balance was not righted, soon the feeders would be everywhere.
Then what was he supposed to do?
The trees ahead thickened, trunks tightening in a dark wall, limbs closing out the night sky. Nest
angled through the maze, her eyes adjusting to the change in light, seeing everything, picking out
all the details. She dodged through a series of park toys, spring-mounted rides for the smallest
children, jumped a low chain divider, and raced back across the roadway and into the burial
mounds. There was still no sign of Bennett Scott. The air was cooler here, rising off the Rock
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River where it flowed west below the cliffs in a broad swath toward the Mississippi. In the
distance, a freight train wailed as it made its way east through the farmland. The summer night
was thick with heat, and the whistle seemed muted and lost. It died away slowly, and in the
ensuing silence the sounds of the insects resurfaced, a steady, insistent hum.
Nest caught sight of Daniel then, a dark shadow as he swooped down from the trees just long enough
to catch her attention before wheeling away again.
"There, girl!" Pick shouted needlessly in her ear.
She raced in pursuit of the barn owl, following his lead, heading for the cliffs. She ran through
the burial mounds, low, grassy hummocks clustered at the edge of the roadway. Ahead, the road
ended in a turnaround at the park's highest point. That was where she would find Bennett. Unless
... She brushed the word aside, refusing to concede that it applied. A rush of bitterness toward
Enid Scott tightened her throat. It wasn't fair that she left Jared alone to watch his brothers
and sisters. Enid knew about his condition; she just found it convenient now and then to pretend
it didn't matter. A mild form of epilepsy, the attacks could last for as long as five minutes.
When they came, Jared would just "go away" for a bit, staring off into space, not seeing or
hearing, not being aware of anything. Even the medicine he took couldn't always prevent the
attacks. His mother knew that. She knew.
The trees opened before her, and Daniel dove out of the shadows, streaking for the cliffs. Nest
put on a new burst of speed, nearly unseating Pick. She could see Bennett Scott now, standing at
the very edge of the cliffs, just beyond the turnaround, a small, solitary figure against the
night sky, all hunched over and crying. Nest could hear her sobs. The feeders were cajoling her,
enticing her, trying to cloud her thinking further so that she would take those last few steps.
Nest was angry. Bennett made the seventh child hi a month. She had saved them all, but how long
could her luck hold?
Daniel started down, then arced away soundlessly. It was too dangerous for him to go in; his
unexpected presence might startle the little girl and cause her to lose her balance. That was why
Pick relied on Nest. A young girl's appearance was apt to prove far less unsettling than his own
or Daniel's.
She slowed to a walk, dropping Pick off in the grass. No point in taking chances; Pick preferred
to remain invisible anyway. The scent of pine trees wafted on the humid night air, carried out of
the cemetery beyond, where the trees grew in thick clumps along the chain-link fence. In the
moonlight, the headstones and monuments were just visible, the granite and marble reflecting with
a shimmery cast. She took several deep breaths as she came up to Bennett, moving slowly, carefully
into the light. The feeders saw her coming and their lantern eyes narrowed. She ignored them,
focusing her attention on the little girl.
"Hey, tiny Ben Ben!" She kept her voice casual, relaxed. "It's me, Nest."
Bennett Scott's tear-filled eyes blinked rapidly. "I know."
"What are you doing out here, Ben Ben?"
"Looking for my mommy."
"Well, I don't think she's out here, sweetie." Nest moved a few steps closer, glancing about as if
looking for Enid.
"She's lost," Bennett sobbed.
A few of the feeders edged menacingly toward Nest, but she ignored them. They knew better than to
mess with her while Wraith was around-which she fervently hoped he was. A lot of them were
gathered here, though. Flat-faced and featureless, squat caricatures of humans, they were as much
a mystery to her now as ever, even after all she had learned about them from Pick. She didn't
really even know what they were made of. When she had asked Pick about it once, he had told her
with a sardonic grin that as a rule you are mostly what you eat, so the feeders could be almost
anything.
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"I'll bet your mommy is back home by now, Ben Ben," she offered, infusing her voice with
enthusiasm. "Why don't we go have a look?"
The little girl sniffled. "I don't want to go home. I don't like it there anymore."
"Sure you do. I'll bet Jared wonders where you are."
"Jared's sick. He had an attack."
"Well, he'll be better by now. The attacks don't last long, sweetie. You know that. Come on, let's
go see."
Bennett's head lowered into shadow. She hugged herself, her head shaking. "George doesn't like me.
He told me so."
George Paulsen, Enid's latest mistake in the man department. Even though she was only fourteen,
Nest knew a loser when she saw one. George Paulsen was a scary loser, though. She came a step
closer, looking for a way to make physical contact with Bennett so that she could draw the little
girl away from the cliff. The river was a dark, silver shimmer far below the cliffs, flat and
still within the confines of the bayou, where the railroad tracks were elevated on the levy,
wilder and swifter beyond where the main channel flowed. The darkness made the drop seem even
longer than it was, and Bennett was only a step or two away.
"George needs to get an attitude adjustment," Nest offered. "Everybody likes you, Ben Ben. Come
on, let's go find your mommy and talk to her about it. I'll go with you. Hey, what about Spook?
I'll bet your kitty misses you."
Bennett Scott's moppet head shook quickly, scattering her lank, dark hair in tangles. "George took
Spook away. He doesn't like cats."
Nest wanted to spit. That worthless creep! Spook was just about the only thing Bennett Scott had.
She felt her grip on the situation beginning to loosen. The feeders were weaving about Bennett
like snakes, and the little girl was cringing and hugging herself in fear. Bennett couldn't see
them, of course. She wouldn't see them until it was too late. But she could hear them somewhere in
the back of her mind, an invisible presence, insidious voices, taunting and teasing. They were
hungry for her, and the balance was beginning to shift in their favor.
"I'll help you find Spook," Nest said quickly. "And I'll make sure that George doesn't take him
away again either. What do you say to that?"
Bennett Scott hugged herself some more and looked fixedly at her feet, thinking it over. Her thin
body went still. "Do you promise, Nest? Really?"
Nest Freemark gave her a reassuring smile. "I do, sweetie. Now walk over here and take my hand so
we can go home."
The feeders moved to intervene, but Nest glared at them and they flinched away. They wouldn't meet
her gaze, of course. They knew what would happen if they did. Nevertheless, they were bolder than
usual tonight, more ready to challenge her. That was not a good sign.
"Bennett," she said quietly. The little girl's head lifted and her eyes came into the light. "Look
at me, Bennett. Don't look anywhere else, okay? Just look right at me. Now walk over here and take
my hand."
Bennett Scott started forward, one small step at a time. Nest waited patiently, holding her gaze.
The night air had turned hot and still again, the breeze off the river dying away. Insects buzzed
and flew in erratic sweeps, and, not wanting to do anything that would startle the little girl,
Nest fought down the impulse to brush at them.
"Come on, Ben Ben," she cajoled softly.
As Bennett Scott advanced, the feeders gave way grudgingly, dropping down on all fours in a
guarded crouch and skittering next to her like crabs. Nest took a deep breath.
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One of the feeders broke away from the others and made a grab for Bennett. Nest hissed at it
furiously, caught its eye, and stripped it of its life with a single, chilling glance. That was
all it took-one instant in which their eyes met and her magic took control. The feeder collapsed
in a heap and melted into the earth in a black stain. The others backed off watchfully.
Nest took a deep, calming breath. "Come on, Bennett," she urged in a tight whisper. "It's all
right, sweetie."
The little girl had almost reached her when the headlight of the freight train swept across the
bayou as the lead engine lurched out of the night. Bennett Scott hesitated, her eyes suddenly wide
and uncertain. Then the train whistle sounded its shrill, piercing wail, and she cried out in
fear.
Nest didn't hesitate. She grabbed Bennett Scott's arm, snatched the little girl from her feet, and
pressed her close. For a moment she held her ground, facing down the feeders. But she saw at once
that there were too many to stand against, so she wheeled from the cliffs and began to run. Behind
her, the feeders bounded in pursuit. Already Pick was astride Daniel, and the barn owl swooped
down on the foremost pursuers, talons extended. The feeders veered away, giving Nest an extra few
yards head start.
"Faster, Nest!" Pick cried, but she was already in full stride, running as hard as she could. She
clutched Bennett Scott tightly against her, feeling the child shake. She weighed almost nothing,
but it was awkward running with her. Nest cleared the turnaround and streaked past the burial
mounds for the picnic ground. She would turn and face the feeders there, where she could maneuver,
safely away from the cliffs. Her magic would give her some protection. And Pick would be there.
And Daniel. But there were so many of them tonight! Her heart thumped wildly. From the corner of
her eye, she saw shadows closing on her, bounding through the park, yellow eyes narrowed. Daniel
screeched, and she felt the whoosh of his wings as he sped past her, banking away into the dark.
"I'm sorry, Mommy, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," Bennett Scott sobbed, a prayer of forgiveness for some
imagined wrong. Nest gritted her teeth and ran faster.
Then suddenly she went down, arms and legs flying as she tripped over a road chain she had missed
vaulting. She lost her grip on Bennett Scott and the little girl cried out in terror. Then the air
was knocked from Bennett's lungs as she struck the ground.
Nest rolled to her feet at once, but the feeders were everywhere, dark, shadowy forms closing on
her with wicked intent. She turned to mush the handful that were closest, the ones that were
foolish enough to meet her gaze, ripping apart their dark forms with a glance. But the remainder
converged in a dark wave.
Then Wraith materialized next to her, a massive presence, fur all stiff and bristling, the hairs
raised like tiny spikes off his body. At first glance, he might have been a dog, a demonic German
shepherd perhaps, colored an odd brindle. But he was deep-chested like a Rottweiler, and tall at
the shoulders like a boxer, and his eyes were a peculiar amber within a mass of black facial
markings that suggested tiger stripes. Then you recognized the sloped forehead and the narrow
muzzle as a wolf's. And if you looked even closer, which if you were one of the few who could see
him you were not apt to do, you realized he was something else altogether.
Scrambling over each other in an effort to escape, the feeders scattered like leaves in a strong
wind. Wraith advanced on them in a stiff-legged walk, his head lowered, his teeth bared, but the
feeders disappeared as swiftly as shadows at the coming of full sun, bounding back into the night.
When the last of them had gone, Wraith wheeled back momentarily to give Nest a dark, purposeful
glance, almost as if to take the measure of her resolve in the face of his somewhat belated
appearance, and then he faded away.
Nest exhaled sharply, the chill that had settled in the pit of her stomach melting, the tightness
in her chest giving way. Her breath came in rapid bursts, and blood throbbed in her ears. She
looked quickly to find Bennett. The little girl was curled into a ball, hiding her face in her
hands, crying so hard she was hiccuping. Had she seen Wraith? Nest didn't think so. Few people
ever saw Wraith. She brushed at the grass embedded in the cuts and scrapes on her knees and
elbows, and went to collect her frightened charge. She scooped Bennett up and cradled her gently.
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"There, there, Ben Ben," she cooed, kissing the little girl's face. "Don't be frightened now. It's
all right. Everything's all right." She shivered in spite of herself. "It was just a little fall.
Time to be going home now, sweetie. Look, there's your house, right over there. Can you see the
lights?"
Daniel winged past one final time and disappeared into the dark, bearing Pick with him. The
feeders were scattered, so the owl and the sylvan were leaving, entrusting the return of Bennett
Scott to her. She sighed wearily and began to walk through the park. Her breathing steadied and
her heartbeat slowed. She was sweating, and the air felt hot and damp against her face. It was
silent in the park, hushed and tender in the blanket of the dark. She hugged Bennett possessively,
feeling the little girl's sobs slowly fade.
"Oh, Ben Ben," she said, "we'll have you home in bed before you know it. You want to get right to
sleep, little girl, because Monday's the Fourth of July and you don't want to miss the fireworks.
All those colors, all those pretty colors! What if you fell asleep and missed them?"
Bennett Scott curled into her shoulder. "Will you come home with me, Nest? Will you stay with me?"
The words were so poignant that Nest felt tears spring to her eyes. She stared off into the night,
to the stars and the half-moon in the cloudless sky, to the shadows of the trees where they loomed
against the horizon, to the lights of the buildings ahead where the residences and the apartments
began and the park came to an end. The world was a scary place for little girls, but the scariest
things in it weren't always feeders and they didn't live only in the dark. In the morning she
would talk with Gran about Enid Scott. Maybe together they could come up with something. She would
look for Spook, too. Pick would help.
"I'll come home with you, Ben Ben," she whispered. "I'll stay for a little while, anyway."
Her arms were tired and aching, but she refused to put the little girl down. By the time she
reached the crossbar blocking the entrance to the park and turned left toward the Sinnissippi
Townhomes, Bennett Scott was fast asleep.
CHAPTER 2
Robert Roosevelt Freemark-"Old Bob" to everyone but his wife, granddaughter, and minister-came
down to breakfast the next morning in something of a funk. He was a big man, three inches over six
feet, with broad shoulders, large hands, and a solidity that belied his sixty-five years of age.
His face was square, his features prominent, and his snow white hair thick and wavy and combed
straight back from his high forehead. He looked like a politician-or at least like a politician
ought to look. But Old Bob was a workingman, had been all his life, and now, in retirement after
thirty years on the line at Midwest Continental Steel, he still dressed in jeans and blue work
shirts and thought of himself as being just like everyone else.
Old Bob had been Old Bob for as long as anyone could remember. Not in his boyhood, of course, but
shortly after that, and certainly by the time he came back from the Korean War. He wasn't called
Old Bob to his face, of course, but only when he was being referred to in the third person. Like,
"Old Bob sure knows his business." He wasn't Good Old Bob either, in the sense that he was a good
old boy. And the "old" had never been a reference to age. It was more a designation of status or
durability or dependability. Bob Freemark had been a rock-solid citizen of Hopewell and a friend
to everyone living there for his entire life, the sort of man you could call upon when you needed
help. He'd worked for the Jaycees, the United Way, the Cancer Fund, and the Red Cross at one time
or another, spearheading their campaign efforts. He'd been a member of Kiwanis, the Moose, and the
VFW. (He'd kept clear of Rotary because he couldn't abide that phony "Hi, Robert" malarkey.) He'd
been a member of the First Congregational Church, been a deacon and a trustee until after Caitlin
died. He'd worked at the steel mill as a foreman his last ten years on the job, and there were
more than a few in the union who said he was the best they'd ever known.
But this morning as he slouched into the kitchen he was dark-browed and weary-hearted and felt not
in the least as if his life had amounted to anything. Evelyn was already up, sitting at the
kitchen table with her glass of orange juice laced with vodka, her cigarette, her coffee, and her
magazine. Sometimes he thought she simply didn't go to bed anymore, although she'd been sleeping
last night when he'd gotten up to look in on Nest. They'd kept separate bedrooms for almost ten
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years, and more and more it felt like they kept separate lives as well, all since Caitlin ...
He caught himself, stopped himself from even thinking the words. Caitlin. Everything went back to
Caitlin. Everything bad.
"Morning," he greeted perfunctorily.
Evelyn nodded, eyes lifting and lowering like window shades.
He poured himself a bowl of Cheerios, a glass of juice, and a cup of coffee and sat down across
from her at the table. He attacked the cereal with single-minded intensity, devouring it in huge
gulps, his head lowered to the bowl, stewing in wordless solitude. Evelyn sipped at her vodka and
orange juice and took long drags on her cigarette. The length of the silence between them implied
accurately the vastness of the gulf that separated their lives.
Finally Evelyn looked up, frowning in reproof. "What's bothering you, Robert?"
Old Bob looked at her. She had always called him Robert, not Old Bob, not even just Bob, as if
some semblance of formality were requked in their relationship. She was a small, intense woman
with sharp eyes, soft features, gray hair, and a no-nonsense attitude. She had been beautiful
once, but she was only old now. Time and life's vicissitudes and her own stubborn refusal to look
after herself had done her in. She smoked and drank all the time, and when he called her on it,
she told him it was her life and she could lead it any way she wanted and besides, she didn't
really give a damn.
"I couldn't sleep, so I got up during the night and looked in on Nest," he told her. "She wasn't
there. She'd tucked some pillows under the covers to make me think she was, but she wasn't." He
paused. "She was out in the park again, wasn't she?"
Evelyn looked back at her magazine. "You leave the girl alone. She's doing what she has to do."
He shook his head stubbornly, even though he knew what was coming. "There's nothing she has to be
doing out there at two in the morning."
Evelyn stubbed out her cigarette and promptly lit another one. "There's everything, and you know
it."
"You know it, Evelyn. I don't."
"You want me to say it for you, Robert? You seem to be having trouble finding the right words.
Nest was out minding the feeders. You can accept it or not-it doesn't change the fact of it."
"Out minding the feeders ..."
"The ones you can't see, Robert, because your belief in things doesn't extend beyond the tip of
your nose. Nest and I aren't like that, thank the good Lord."
He shoved back his cereal bowl and glared at her. "Neither was Caitlin."
Her sharp eyes fixed on him through a haze of cigarette smoke. "Don't start, Robert."
He hesitated, then shook his head hopelessly. "I'm going to have a talk with Nest about this,
Evelyn," he declared softly. "I don't want her out there at night. I don't care what the reason
is."
His wife stared at him a moment longer, as if measuring the strength of his words. Then her eyes
returned to the magazine. "You leave Nest alone."
He looked out the window into the backyard and the park beyond. The day was bright and sunny, the
skies clear, the temperature in the eighties, and the heat rising off the grass in a damp shimmer.
It was only the first of July, and already they were seeing record temperatures. There'd been good
rain in the spring, so the crops were doing all right, especially the early corn and soybeans, but
if the heat continued there would be problems. The farmers were complaining already that they
would have to irrigate and even that wouldn't be enough without some rain. Old Bob stared into the
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park and thought about the hardships of farming, remembering his father's struggle when he'd owned
the farm up at Yorktbwn years ago. Old Bob didn't understand farming; he didn't understand why
anyone would want to do it. Of course, that was the way farmers felt about fellows who worked in a
steel mill.
"Is Nest still in bed?" he asked after a moment.
Evelyn got up to pour herself another drink. Bob watched the measure of vodka she added to the
orange juice. Way too much. "Why don't you lighten up on that stuff, Evelyn? It's not even nine
o'clock in the morning."
She gave him a hard look, her face pinched and her mouth set. "I notice you weren't in any hurry
to get home last night from telling war stories with your pals. And I don't suppose you were
drinking tea and playing shuffleboard down there at the hall, were you?" She took a long pull on
the drink, walked back to her chair, sat down, and picked up the magazine. "Leave me alone,
Robert. And leave Nest alone, too."
Old Bob nodded slowly and looked off again out the window. They had lived in this house for almost
the whole of their married life. It was a big, sprawling rambler on two acres of wooded land
abutting the park; he'd supervised the building of it himself, back in the late fifties. He'd
bought the land for two hundred dollars an acre. It was worth a hundred times that now, even
without the house. Caitlin had grown up under this roof, and now Nest. Everything that had meaning
in his life had happened while he was living here.
His eyes traveled over the aged wood of the kitchen cabinets to the molding and kickboards and
down the hall to the paneled entry. He had even been happy here once.
He stood up, weary, resigned, still in a funk. He felt emasculated by Evelyn, helpless in the face
of her fortress mentality, adrift in his life, unable to change things in any way that mattered.
It had been bad between them for years and it was getting worse. What was going to become of them?
Nest was all that bound them together now. Once she was gone, as she would be in a few years, what
would be left for them?
He brushed at his thick white hair with his hand, smoothing it back. "I'm going downtown, see if
there's anything new with the strike," he said. "I'll be back in a few hours."
She nodded without looking up. "Lunch will be on the table at noon if you want it."
He studied her a moment longer, then went down the hall and out the front door into the summer
heat.
It was another hour before Nest appeared in the kitchen. She stretched and yawned as she entered
and helped herself to the orange juice. Her grandmother was still sitting at the kitchen table,
smoking and drinking and reading her magazine. She looked up as Nest appeared and gave her a wan
smile. "Good morning, Nest."
"Morning, Gran," Nest replied. She took out the bread and stuck a couple of slices in the toaster.
Thinking of Bennett Scott, she stood at the counter and rolled her shoulders inside her sleep
shirt to relieve the lingering ache in her muscles. "Grandpa around?"
Her grandmother put down the magazine. "He's gone out. But he wants to talk with you. He says you
went into the park last night."
Nest hunched her shoulders one final time, then slouched against the counter, her eyes on the
toaster. "Yep, he's right. I did."
"What happened?"
"Same as usual. The feeders got Bennett Scott this time." She told her grandmother what had
happened. "I walked her to the front door and handed her over to Jared. You should have seen his
face. He was so scared. He'd looked everywhere for her. He was about to call the police. His mom
still wasn't home. She's a dead loss, Gran. Can't we do something about her? It isn't fair the way
she saddles Jared with all the responsibility. Did you know he has to make all the meals for those
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file:///G|/rah/Terry%20Brooks/Brooks,%20Terry%20-%20Word%2001%20-%20Runn\ing%20With%20The%20Demon.txtRUNNINGWITHTHEDEMONRUNNINGWITHTHEDEMONTerryBrooksPROLOGUEHestandsaloneinthecenterofanotherofAmerica'sburned-outtowns,\buthehasbeentothisonebefore.Evenintheirruined,blackenedcondition,thebuildingstha\...

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