by Terry Brooks
Nest stared at him, horrified.
His face knotted. “Told them why, too. Took great delight in it. I was there. Your mother went off the cliffs shortly afterward. I think maybe she did it on purpose, but nobody saw it happen, so I can’t be sure.”
His frustration with her attitude seemed to dissipate. His voice softened. “The thing that concerns me is that the demon wanted to hurt your grandmother, to get even with her for what she’d done to him, and that was why he destroyed your mother, but I think he’s after you for a different reason. I think he believes you belong to him, that you’re his child, his flesh and blood, and that’s why he’s come back—to claim what’s his.”
Nest hugged her knees to her chest, listening to the soft rustle of spruce and pine boughs as a breeze passed through the shadowed grove. “Why does he think I would go with him? Or stay with him if he took me? I’m nothing like him.”
But even as she said it, she wondered if it was so. She looked and talked and acted like a human being, but so did the demon, in his human guise, when it suited him. Underneath was that core of magic that defined them both. She did not know its source in her. But if she had inherited it from her father, then perhaps there was more of him in her than she wished.
Pick pointed a finger at her. “Don’t be doubting yourself, Nest. Having him for your father is an accident of birth, nothing more. Having his magic doesn’t mean anything. Whatever human part of him went into the making of you is long since dead and gone, swallowed up by the thing he’s become. Don’t look for something that isn’t there.”
She tightened her lips stubbornly. “I’m not.”
“Then what are you thinking, girl?”
“That I’m not going with him. That I hate him for what he’s done.”
Pick looked doubtful. “He must know that, don’t you expect? And it mustn’t matter to him. He must think he can make you come, whether you want to go with him or not. Think it through. You have to be very careful. You have to be smart.”
He put his chin in his hands and rested his elbows on his knees. “This whole business is very confusing, if you ask me. I keep wondering what John Ross is doing in Hopewell, of all places. Why would a Knight of the Word choose to fight this particular battle? To save you? Why, when there’s dozens of others being lost everywhere you turn? You’re my best friend, Nest, and I’d do anything to help you. But John Ross doesn’t have that connection. There’s a war being waged out there between the Word and the Void, and what’s going on here in Sinnissippi Park seems like an awfully small skirmish, the presence of your father notwithstanding. I think there must be something more to all this, something we don’t know about.”
“Do you think Gran knew?” she asked hesitantly.
“Maybe. Maybe that’s why the demon killed her. But I don’t think so. I think he killed your grandmother because he was afraid of her, afraid that she would get in his way and spoil his plans. And because he wanted to get even with her. No, I think John Ross is the one who knows. I think that’s what he’s doing here. Maybe it was your grandmother’s death that prompted him to tell you about your father—because of what he knows that we don’t.”
Nest shook her head doubtfully. “Why wouldn’t he just tell me what it is?”
“I don’t know.” Pick tugged hard on his beard. “I wish I did.”
She gave him a wry, sad grin. “That’s not very comforting.”
They were silent for a moment, staring at each other through the growing shadows, the sounds of the park distant and muffled. A few stray raindrops fell on Nest’s face, and she reached up to brush them away. A dark cloud was passing overhead, but the sky behind it showed patches of brightness. Perhaps there wouldn’t be a thunderstorm after all.
“That note your grandmother left you reminds me of something,” Pick said suddenly, straightening. “Remember that story you told me about your grandmother seeing Wraith for the very first time? You were in the park, just the two of you, and she went right up to him. Remember that? He was standing just within the shadows, you said, not moving, and they stared at each other for a long time, like they were communicating somehow. Then she came back and told you he was there to protect you.” He paused. “Doesn’t it make you wonder just exactly where Wraith came from?”
Nest stared at him, her mind racing as she considered where he was going with this. “You think it was Gran?”
“Your grandmother had magic of her own, Nest, and she learned some things from your father before she found out who he was and quit having anything to do with him. Wraith appeared after your mother died, after your father revealed himself, after it was clear that you could be in danger. More to the point, maybe, he appeared about the same time your grandmother quit using her magic, the magic she no longer had to defend herself with when your father came for her last night.”
“You think Gran made Wraith?”
“I think it’s possible. Hasn’t Wraith been there to protect you from the time you were old enough to walk?” Pick’s brow furrowed deeply. “He’s a creature of magic, not of flesh and blood. Who else could have put him there?”
Disbelief and confusion reflected on Nest’s face. “But why wouldn’t Gran tell me? Why would she pretend she wasn’t sure?”
Pick shrugged. “I don’t know the answer to that any more than I know why John Ross won’t tell you what he’s really doing here. But if I’m right, and Wraith was made to protect you, then that would explain the note, wouldn’t it?”
“And if you’re wrong?”
Pick didn’t answer; he just stared at her, his eyes fierce. He didn’t think for a moment he was wrong, she realized. He was absolutely certain he was right. Good old Pick.
“Think about this, while you’re at it,” he continued, leaning forward. “Say John Ross is right. Say your father has come back for you. Look at how he’s going about it. He didn’t just snatch you up and cart you off. He’s taking his time, playing games with you, wearing you down. He found you in the park and teased you about not being able to rely on anyone. He came to your church and confronted you. He used his magic on that poor woman to demonstrate what could happen to you. He had that Abbott boy kidnap you and take you down into the caves, then teased you some more, telling you how helpless you were. He killed your grandmother, and sidetracked John Ross and your grandfather and me as well. Where do you think I was all night? I was out trying to keep the maentwrog locked up in that tree, and it took everything I had to get the job done. But you see, don’t you? Your father’s gone to an awful lot of trouble to make you think that he can do anything he wants, hasn’t he?”
She nodded, studying his wizened face intently. “And you think you know why?”
“I do. I think he’s afraid of you.”
He let the words hang in the silence, his sharp eyes fixed on her, waiting for her response. “That doesn’t make any sense,” she said finally.
“Doesn’t it?” Pick cocked one bushy eyebrow. “I know you’re scared about what’s happened and you think you don’t have any way of protecting yourself, but maybe you do. Your grandmother told you what to do. She told you to use your magic and trust Wraith. Maybe you ought to listen to her.”
Nest thought it over without saying anything, sitting face-to-face with the sylvan, alone in the shadows of the grove. Beyond her momentary shelter, the world went about its business without concern for her absence. But it would not let her forget where she belonged. Its sounds beckoned to her, reminding her that she must go back. She thought of how much had changed in a single day. Gran was dead. Jared might die. Her father had come back into her life with a vengeance. Her magic had become the sword and shield she must rely upon.
“I guess I have to do something, don’t I?” she said quietly. “Something besides running away and hiding.” She tightened her jaw. “I guess I don’t have much choice.”
Pick shrugged. “Well, whatever you decide to do, I’ll be right there with you. Daniel and me. Maybe John Ross, too. Whateve
r his reasons, I think he intends to see this through.”
She gave him a skeptical look. “I hope that’s good news.”
The little man nodded soberly. “Me, too.”
* * *
Derry Howe was standing at the window of his tiny apartment in a T-shirt and jeans, looking out at the clouded sky and wondering if the weather would interfere with the night’s fireworks, when Junior Elway pulled up in his Jeep Cherokee. Junior drove over the curb trying to parallel park and then straightened the wheels awkwardly as the Jeep bumped back down into the street. Derry took a long pull on his Bud and shook his head in disgust. The guy couldn’t drive for spit.
The window fan squeaked and rattled in front of him, blowing a thin wash of lukewarm air on his stomach and chest. The apartment felt hot and close. Derry tried to ignore his discomfort, but his tolerance level was shot. A headache that four Excedrin hadn’t eased one bit throbbed steadily behind his temples. His hand ached from where he had cut himself the day before splicing wires with a kitchen knife. Worst of all, there was a persistent buzzing in his ears that had been there on waking and refused to fade. He thought at first that he was losing his hearing, then changed his mind and wrote it off to drinking too much the night before and got out a fresh Bud to take the edge off. Three beers later, the buzzing was undiminished. Like a million bees inside his head. Like dozens of those weed eaters.
He closed his eyes momentarily and worked his jaws from side to side, trying to gain a little relief. Damn, but the noise was aggravating!
Seated comfortably in the rocker that had belonged to Derry’s mother, the demon, an invisible presence, cranked up the volume another notch and smiled.
Derry finished off his Bud and walked to the front door. He kept watch through the peephole until Junior was on the steps, then swung open the door and popped out at him like a jack-in-the-box.
Junior jumped a foot. “Damn you, don’t do that!” he snapped angrily, pushing his way inside.
Derry laughed, an edgy chuckle. “What, you nervous or something?”
Junior ignored him, looked quickly about to see that they were alone, decided they were, glanced at Derry’s beer, and went into the kitchen to get one of his own. “I’m here, ain’t I?”
Derry rolled his eyes. “Nothing gets by you, does it?” He lifted his voice a notch. “Bring me a cold one, too, long as you’re helping yourself!”
He waited impatiently for Junior to reappear, took the beer out of his hands without asking, and motioned him over to the couch. They sat down together, hands cupped about the chilled cans, and stared at the remains of a pizza that sat congealing in an open cardboard box on the battered coffee table.
“You hungry?” Derry asked, not caring one way or the other, anxious to get on with it.
Junior shook his head and took a long drink of his beer, refusing to be hurried. “So. Everything set?”
“You tell me. Are you scheduled for tonight’s shift?”
Junior nodded. “Like we planned. I went in yesterday, told them I was sick of the strike, that I wanted back on the line, asked to be put on the schedule soon as possible. You should have seen them. They were grinning fools. Said I could start right away. I did like you told me, said I’d like the four to midnight shift. I go on in …” He checked his watch. “Little over an hour. All dressed and ready. See?”
He pointed down to his steel-toed work boots. Derry gave him a grudging nod of approval. “We got ‘em by the short hairs, and they don’t even know it.”
“Yeah, well, let’s hope.” Junior didn’t look convinced.
Derry tried to keep the irritation out of his voice. “Hope ain’t got nothing to do with it. We got us a plan, bub, and the plan is what’s gonna get this particular job done.” He gave Junior a look. “You wait here.”
He got up and left the room. The demon watched Junior fidget on the couch, playing with his beer, taking a cold piece of sausage off the top of the pizza and popping it in his mouth, staring at the ancient window fan as if he’d never seen anything like it.
Derry came back carrying a metal lunch box with clips and a handle. He passed it to Junior, who took it gingerly and held it at arm’s length.
“Relax,” Derry sneered, reseating himself, taking another pull on his Bud. “Ain’t nothing gonna happen until you set the switch. You can drop it, kick it around, do almost anything, it’s safe until you set it. See the metal slide on the back, underneath the hinge? That’s the switch. Move it off the green button and over the red and you got five minutes—plenty of time. Take it in with you, leave it in your locker when you start your shift, carry it out on your break like you’re having a snack, then slip it under the main gear housing and walk away. When it goes off, it’ll look like the roller motors overheated and blew. Got it?”
Junior nodded. “Got it.”
“Just remember. Five minutes. It’s preprogrammed.”
Junior set the lunch box back on the coffee table next to the pizza. “Where’s yours?”
Derry shrugged. “Back in the bedroom. Want to see it?”
They got up and went through the bedroom door, finishing off their beers, relaxed now, joking about what it was going to be like come tomorrow. The demon watched them leave the room, then rose from the rocker, walked over to the coffee table, and opened the lid to the lunch box. Sandwiches, a chip bag, a cookie pack, and a thermos hid what was underneath. The demon lifted them away. Derry was exactly right; he had set the clock to trigger the explosives five minutes after the slide was pushed.
The demon shook his head in disapproval and reset it from five minutes to five seconds.
Derry and Junior came back out, sat on the couch, drank another beer, and went over the plan one more time, Derry making sure his buddy had it all down straight. Then Junior picked up the lunch box and left, heading for the steel mill. When he was gone, Derry massaged his temples, then went into the bathroom to get a couple more Excedrin, which he washed down with a fresh beer.
Better go easy on this stuff, he admonished himself, and set the can aside. Want to be sharp for tonight. Want to be cool.
He dumped the pizza in the trash and brought out the second device, this one fashioned a little differently than the other to accomplish its intended purpose, and finished wiring it. When he was done, he placed it inside a plastic picnic cooler, fastened it in place, and closed the lid. He leaned back and studied it with pride. This baby will do the job and then some, he thought.
The demon came over and sat down next to him. Derry couldn’t see him, didn’t know he was there. “Better take your gun,” the demon whispered, a voice inside Derry’s head.
Derry looked at the rattling old window fan, matching its tired cadence to the buzzing in his head. “Better take my gun,” he repeated absently.
“In case anyone tries to stop you.”
“Ain’t no one gonna stop me.”
The demon laughed softly. “Robert Freemark might.”
Derry Howe stared off into space. “Might try, anyway.” His jaw was slack. “Be too bad for him if he did.”
When he got up to go into his bedroom to collect his forty-five from the back of his closet, the demon opened the picnic cooler and reset that clock, too.
Nest walked back through the park to her home, Pick riding on her shoulder, both of them quiet. It was nearing four o’clock, and the park was filled with people. She skirted the families occupying picnic tables and blankets in the open areas and followed the line of trees that bordered Sinnissippi Road on the north. It wasn’t that she was trying to hide now; it was just that she didn’t feel like talking to anyone. Even Pick understood that much and was leaving her alone.
Feeders shadowed her, flashes of dark movement at the corners of her eyes, and she struggled unsuccessfully to ignore them.
She passed the park entrance and started down the service road behind her house. Overhead, clouds drifted in thick clusters, and the sun played hide-and-seek through the rifts. Bright, sunny strea
mers mixed with gray shadows, dappling the earth, and to the west, dark thunderheads massed. Rain was on the way for sure. She glanced skyward and away again without interest, thinking about what she had to do to protect herself. She had assumed right up until last night that the demon and John Ross and the madness they had brought to Hopewell had nothing to do with her personally, that she stood on the periphery of what was happening, more observer than participant. Now she understood that she was not just a participant, but the central player, and she had decided she would be better off not counting on anyone’s help but her own. Maybe Pick and Daniel would be able to do something. Maybe John Ross would be there for her. Maybe Wraith would defend her when it mattered. But maybe, too, she would be on her own. There was good reason to think so. The demon had managed to isolate her every time he had appeared, and she had to assume he would manage it again.
Her father.
But she could not think of him that way, she knew. He was a demon, and he was her enemy.
She pondered Gran’s note. Should she rely on it? Was Pick right in his assumption that Gran had made Wraith and given up her magic to do so? Was that why she was defenseless against the demon? Trust Wraith. She remembered Gran telling her over and over again that the feeders would never hurt her, that she was special, that she was protected. She had never questioned it, never doubted it. But the demon was not a feeder, and perhaps this time Gran was wrong. Why hadn’t Gran told her more when she’d had the chance? Why hadn’t she given Nest something she could rely upon?