Afternoon passed into evening, a gradual fading away of minutes and hours measured by changes in the light and a lengthening of shadows. The rain did not come, but the clouds continued to build in the west. Old Bob wandered through the house like a restless ghost, looking at things he hadn’t looked at in years, remembering old friends from other times, and conjuring up memories of his distant past. Visitors came and went, bringing casseroles and condolences. Fresh-cut flowers and potted plants arrived, small white cards tucked carefully inside their plain white envelopes, words of regret neatly penned. The news of Evelyn Freemark’s death had spread by radio and word of mouth; the newspaper article would not appear until tomorrow. Phone calls asked for details, and Old Bob dutifully provided them. Arrangements for the funeral, memorial service, and burial were completed. A fund that would accept monetary donations was established in Evelyn’s name by the local Heart Association. Old Bob went through the motions with resigned determination, taking care of the details because it was necessary, trying to come to grips with the fact that she was really gone.
Nest stayed in her room with the door closed and did not reappear until Old Bob called her to dinner. They ate at the kitchen table without speaking. Afterward, as the light began to fail and the dusk to descend, her friends called and asked if she wanted to meet them in the park to watch the fireworks. She asked him if she could, and while he was inclined to say no, to keep her safe in the house and close to him, he realized the foolishness of taking that particular course of action. He might shelter her for a day or even a week, but then what? At some point he would have to let her go off on her own, and there was no reason that he could see to postpone the inevitable. Nest was smart and careful; she would not take chances, especially after last night. In any case, was her father really out there? No one besides John Ross had actually seen him, and he was not sure he trusted Ross anymore. Gran had worried that Nest’s father might return, but she had never actually said he was back. Old Bob had thought at first that he should call the police and warn them of his concerns, but on reflection he realized he didn’t have anything concrete to offer, only a bunch of vague suspicions, most of them based on John Ross’ word.
In the end, he let the matter slide, giving Nest his permission to go, extracting in exchange her firm promise that she would sit with her friends in a crowded place and would not go off alone. The park was safe for her, he believed. She had lived in it all her life, wandered it from end to end, played her childhood games in it, adopted it as her own backyard. He could not see forbidding her to go into it now, especially while she was still dealing with the shock of her grandmother’s death.
After she was gone, he began cleaning up the kitchen by putting away the food gifts. The refrigerator and the freezer were soon filled to capacity, and there were still dozens of containers sitting out. He picked up the phone and called Ralph Emery’s house, and when the minister answered he asked him if he would mind sending someone around first thing in the morning to take all this food down to the church for distribution to those who could make better use of it. The minister said he would take care of it, thanked him for his generosity, spoke with him about Evelyn for a few minutes, and said good night.
The shadows in the house had melted together in a black mass, and Old Bob walked through the empty rooms and turned on the lights before coming back into the kitchen to finish up. The shotgun was gone, taken by the police for reasons he failed to comprehend, part of their investigation, they told him, and he felt strangely uneasy in its absence. You’d think it would be the other way around, he kept telling himself. He washed some dishes by hand, something he hadn’t done in a long time, finding that it helped him relax. He thought always of Evelyn. He glanced over at the kitchen table more than once, picturing her there, her bourbon and water in front of her, her cigarette in hand, her face turned away from the light, her eyes distant. What had she been thinking, all those times she’d sat there? Had she been remembering her childhood in the little cottage several houses down? Had she been thinking of Nest? Of Caitlin? Of him? Had she been wishing that her life had turned out differently, that she had done more with it? Had she been thinking of missed chances and lost dreams? His smile was sad. He regretted now that he had never asked.
He finished the dishes, dried them, and put them away. He glanced around, suddenly lost. The house was alive with memories of his life with Evelyn. He walked into the living room and stood looking at the fireplace, at the pictures on the mantel, at the place in the corner by the bowed window where the Christmas tree always sat. The memories swirled around him, some distant and faded, some as new and sharp as the grief from her loss. He moved to the couch and sat down. Tomorrow his friends would gather at Josie’s for coffee and doughnuts, and in his absence they would talk of Evelyn in the same way they had talked of that postal worker in the gorilla suit or the fellow who killed all those children. They would not do so maliciously, but because they had thought her curious and now found her death somehow threatening. After all, she had died here, in Hopewell-not in some other town in some other state. She had died here, where they lived, and she was someone they knew. Yes, she was odd, and it wasn’t really any surprise that she had died of a heart attack blasting away at shadows with a shotgun, because Evelyn Freemark had done stranger things. But in the back of their minds was the conviction that she really wasn’t so different than they were, and that if it could happen to her, it could happen to them. Truth was, you shared an uneasy sense of kinship with even the most unfortunate, disaffected souls; you felt you had known at least a few of them during your life. You had all been children together, with children’s hopes and dreams. The dark future that had claimed those few was never more than an arm’s length away from everyone else. You knew that. You knew that a single misfortune could change your life forever, that you were vulnerable, and to protect yourself you wanted to know everything you could about why it had touched another and passed you by.
Old Bob listened to the silence and let the parade of memories march away into the darkness. My God, he was going to miss her.
After a time his thoughts wandered to the call he had received earlier from Mel Riorden. Mel and Carol had been by that morning to offer condolences, promising they would have him over for dinner after the funeral, when he was feeling up to it. Old Bob had taken their hands, an awkward ritual between long-standing friends where something profound had changed their lives and left them insufficient words to convey their understanding of what it meant. Later Mel had called on the phone, keeping his voice down, telling Old Bob that there was something he ought to know. Seemed that Derry had called him up out of the blue and apologized for scaring him with his talk about MidCon. Said he really hadn’t meant anything by it. i Said he was just blowing off steam, and that whatever the union decided was good enough for him. Said he wanted to know if he could go to the fireworks with Mel and Carol and some of the others and sit with them. Mel paused every so often to make sure Old Bob was still listening, his voice sounding hopeful. Maybe he was mistaken about his nephew, he concluded tentatively. Maybe the boy was showing some common sense after all. He just wanted Old Bob to know.
When Mel hung up, Old Bob stood looking at the phone, wondering if he believed any of it and if it made any difference if he did. Then he dropped the matter, going about the business of his own life, of finishing the funeral preparations and worrying about Nest. But now the matter surfaced anew in his thoughts, and he found himself taking a fresh look at it. Truth was, it just didn’t feel right. It didn’t sound like Derry Howe. He didn’t think that boy would change in a million years, let alone in twenty-four hours. But maybe he was being unfair. People did change-even people you didn’t think would ever be any different from what they’d been all their lives. It happened.
He drummed his fingers on the arm of the couch, staring off into space. Going to the fireworks with Mel and Carol, was he? That was a first. Where was his buddy, Junior El way, that he’d opted for an evening out with the old folks?
He got up from the sofa and went into the kitchen to fish around in the packed-out refrigerator for a can of root beer. When he found it, he popped the top and carried it back into the living room and sat down again.
Fireworks. The word kept digging at him, suggesting something different from the obvious, something he couldn’t quite grasp. Hadn’t he and Deny talked about fireworks yesterday, when he had approached the boy about what sort of mischief he might be planning? Deny Howe, the Vietnam vet, the demolitions expert, talking about playing with matches in a pile of fireworks, about how fireworks were touchy if you didn’t know what you were doing, that they could cause accidents...
He sat up straight. What was it Deny had said? I’m going to give MidCon a Fourth of July to remember. But more, something else, something personal. A warning. Stay home on the Fourth. Keep away from the fireworks.
Old Bob set the can of root beer down on the coffee table, barely aware of What he was doing, his mind racing. What he was thinking was ridiculous. It didn’t make any sense. What would Deny Howe gain by sabotaging the Fourth of July fireworks? How would that have any effect on MidCon Steel? He looked the possibilities over without finding anything new. There didn’t seem to be any connection.
Then something occurred to him, and he got to his feet quickly and walked out onto the screened porch where he kept the old newspapers. He bent down and began to go through them. Most were old Chicago Tribunes, but there were a few Hopewell Gazettes among them. Friday’s had gone out with the trash, he remembered, used to wrap the garbage. He found the one from Thursday, pulled it out, and went through it quickly, searching. There was nothing on the Fourth of July.
But he seemed to remember seeing something, a big ad of some kind. He wished he had paid better attention, but it had been years since he had concerned himself with what went on in the park over the Fourth. The fireworks were all Evelyn and he had ever cared about, and you knew without having to ask when to be there for them.
He tossed the Thursday paper aside, wondering what had become of the Saturday-morning edition. He went down the hall to his den and looked for it there, but couldn’t find it. He stood motionless for a moment, trying to think what he had done with it. Then he walked back to the kitchen. He found the Saturday paper sitting on the counter under several of the casseroles he had set aside for the church. He extracted it gingerly, spread it out on the table, and began to scan its pages.
He found what he was looking for right away. The Jaycees had inserted a flyer for the Sunday-Monday events in Sinnis-sippi Park, admission free, everyone welcome. Games, food, and fun. The events culminated on Monday, the Fourth, with fireworks at sunset. This year, the flyer proclaimed in bold letters, the fireworks were being sponsored and paid for by MidCon Steel.
For long moments, Old Bob just stared at the flyer, not quite trusting himself. He must be wrong about this, he kept thinking. But it was the way a guy like Deny Howe thought, wasn’t it? Sabotage the fireworks sponsored by MidCon, maybe blow up a few people watching, cause a lot of hard feelings. But then what? Everybody blames MidCon? MidCon has to do something to regain favor, so it settles the strike? It was such a stretch that for a few seconds he dismissed his reasoning altogether. It was ludicrous! But Deny Howe wouldn’t think so, would he? Old Bob felt a cold spot settling deep in his chest. No, not Deny.
He looked at his watch. After nine o’clock. He glanced out the window. It was growing dark. They would start the fireworks soon now. He thought suddenly of Nest. She would be sitting with everyone else, at risk. He could hear Evelyn saying to him, as she had on the last night of her life, “Robert, you get right out there and find that girl and bring her home.”
He grabbed his flashlight off the counter and went out the door in a rush.
By now, the largest part of the Fourth of July crowd had abandoned the playgrounds, ball diamonds, and picnic tables to gather on the grassy slopes that flanked the toboggan slide and ran down to the river’s edge. The fireworks would be set off over the bayou from a staging area located on a flat, open stretch of the riverbank below. A line had been strung midway up the slope to cordon off the crowd from the danger zone. Strips of fluorescent tape dangled from the line, and volunteers with flashlights patrolled the perimeter. The spectators were bunched forward on the hillside to the line’s edge, settled on blankets and in lawn chairs, laughing and talking as the darkness descended. Children ran everywhere, sparklers leaving bright comet tails in the wake of their passing. Now and again a forbidden firecracker would explode off in the trees to either side, causing old people to jump and parents to frown. Shadows deepened and the outlines of the park and its occupants grew fuzzy. By the blackness of the river, a trio of flashlights wove erratic patterns as the staging crew completed their preparations for the big event.
Nest Freemark sat with her friends on a blanket, eating watermelon slices and drinking pop. They were situated high on the slope to the west of the slide where the darkness was deepest and the park lights didn’t penetrate. There were families around them, but Nest couldn’t see their faces or recognize their voices. The gloom made everyone anonymous, and Nest felt comfortable in that environment. Aside from her friends, she was anxious to avoid everyone.
She had come into the park late, when dusk had begun to edge toward nightfall and it was already getting hard to see. She had crossed her backyard with a watchful eye, half expecting the demon to leap out at her from the shadows. When Pick had dropped onto her shoulder as she pushed her way through the bushes, she had jumped in spite of herself. He was there to escort her into the park, he had informed her in his best no-nonsense voice. He had been patrolling the park since sunset, riding the windless heat atop Daniel, crisscrossing the woods and ballparks and playgrounds in search of trouble. As soon as Nest was safely settled with her friends, he would resume his vigil. For the moment, everything was peaceful. There was no sign of the demon. There was no sign of John Ross. The maentwrog, still imprisoned in its ravaged tree, was quiet. Even the feeders were staying out of sight. Pick shrugged. Maybe nothing was going to happen after all.
Nest gave him a look.
When Pick left her on nearing the crowded pavilion with its cotton-candy, popcorn, hot-dog, and soft-drink stands, she moved quickly toward the rendezvous point she had settled on with her friends. One or two people glanced her way, but no one called out to her. She was stopped only once, by Gran’s friend Mildred Walker, who happened to be standing right in front of her as she passed and couldn’t be avoided. Mrs. Walker told her she was sorry about Gran and about her young friend Jared Scott, and that she wasn’t to worry, that the Social Services people were going to see to it that nothing further happened to any of those children. She said it with such feeling and such obvious concern that it made Nest want to cry.
Later, Brianna confided to all of them that her mother had told her the Social Services people were already looking for temporary homes for the Scott kids. Her mother also told her that Jared was still in a coma and that wasn’t good.
Now Nest sat in the darkness sipping at her can of pop and reflecting on how unfair life could be. Out on the river, in a sea of blackness, the running lights of powerboats shone red and green, motionless on the becalmed waters. There was no wind; the air had gone back to being hot and sticky, and the taste of dust and old leaves had returned. But the sky was thick with clouds, which screened away the moon and stars, and rain was on the way. Nest wished it would hurry up and get here. Maybe it would help cool things down, clean stuff up, and give everyone a fresh attitude. Maybe it would help wash away some of the madness.
A stray firefly blinked momentarily in front of her face and disappeared in the darkness. Somebody in a lawn chair sneezed, and the sneeze sounded like a dog’s bark. A ripple of laughter rose. Robert made a comment about the nature of germs in people’s mouths, and Brianna told him he was gross and disgusting. Robert stood up and announced he was off to buy some popcorn and would anybody like some? Nobody would, he was informed, and Brianna said he should take his time coming back, maybe even think about going home and checking his mouth in the mirror. Robert walked off whistling.
Nest smiled, at ease with herself. She was thinking how comfortable she felt, sitting here in the darkness, surrounded by all these people. She felt sheltered and safe, as if nothing could touch her here, nothing could threaten. How deceptive that was. She wished she could disappear into the gloom and become one with the night, invisible and substanceless, impervious to harm. She wondered if Pick was having any luck. She tried to picture what the sylvan would do to defend her if the need arose, and couldn’t. She wondered if the demon was out there, waiting for her. She wondered if John Ross was waiting, too.
After a time, she began to think of Two Bears, wishing that he was still there and could help her. There was such strength in him, a strength she didn’t feel in herself, even though he had told her it was there. They had names of power, he said. But hers was the stronger, the one with true magic. He had given her what he could; the rest must come from her.
But what was it he had given her? That brief vision of her grandmother as a young girl, running wild in the park with the feeders and the demon? An insight into her convoluted and tragic family history? She didn’t know. Something more, she believed. Something deeper, more personal. Think. It was his desire to commune with the spirits of his people, the Sinnis-sippi, that had brought him to Hopewell, but it was her ties to the magic that had drawn him to her. Your people risk the fate of mine, he had warned, wanting her to know, to understand. No one knows who my people were. No one knows how they perished. It can happen to your people, too. It is happening now, without their knowledge and with their considerable help. Your people are destroying themselves.
We do not always recognize the thing that comes to destroy us. That is the lesson of the Sinnissippi.
But he might have been speaking of her father as well.
She stared into the darkness, lost in thought. It was all tied together. She could feel it in her bones. The fate of her friends and family and neighbors and of people she didn’t even know. Her own fate. The fates of the demon and John Ross. Of O’olish Amaneh, too, perhaps. They were all bound up by a single cord. lam not strong enough for this.
I am afraid.
She stared at nothing, the words frozen in her mind, immutable. Then she heard Two Bears’ clear response, the one he had given her two nights earlier.
Fear is afire to temper courage and resolve. Use it so.
She sat alone in the darkness, no longer comfortable with pretending at invisibility, and tried to determine if she could do as Two Bears expected.
Twenty feet away, a shadowy figure in the deepening gloom, John Ross kept watch over her.
After Old Bob had dismissed him, he had walked into the park in search of the demon, determined to hunt him down. He went to the caves where the feeders made their lair, followed the riverbank east toward the toboggan slide and the deep woods beyond, and climbed to the prison of the maentwrog, that aging, ravaged oak that held the monster bound, but the demon was nowhere to be found.
He debated returning to Nest Freemark then, but did not. What could he say to her that he hadn’t already said-or decided against saying? It was sufficient that he had told her the truth about her father. Telling her more would risk undermining what courage and resolve she could still muster. The best he could do was to watch over her, to wait for the demon to come to her, to be there when it appeared, and to do what he could to save her then.
He left the park and walked out to Lincoln Highway to have dinner at a McDonald’s, then walked back again. Sitting in a crowd of spectators on the bleachers at the ball diamond closest to the Freemark house, he watched the sun move west toward the horizon. When dusk approached and the game began to break up, he walked to a stand of pine bordering the service road. Using magic to make certain they could not see him, he stood for a time in the shelter of the trees, watching Pick and Daniel as they wheeled overhead. When Nest went into the park, he followed.
Now he stood waiting, close enough to make certain he could act when the demon appeared, close enough to go to her aid if the need arose. All about him, the Fourth of July spectators were shrouded in gloom, vague and featureless in the night. Shouts and laughter rose from the crowded hillside amid the bang of firecrackers and the whistle of small rockets. The air was humid and still, filled with the erratic buzzing of insects and the raw smell of pine needles and wood smoke. He gripped his staff tightly in his hand, feeling anxious and uncertain. He needed only one chance at the demon, but would he get even that? How strong would Nest Freemark be then? He edged his way east toward the woods behind the pavilion, changing his location yet again, trying to avoid notice from the people gathered, concentrating on Nest. He could just make her out, sitting with her friends near the back of the crowd.
Then he caught sight of a familiar face and turned his head aside quickly as Robert Heppler walked past on his way back from the popcorn stand.
“So, did I miss anything?” Robert asked the girls as he plopped back down comfortably on the blanket, his bag of popcorn firmly in hand. “Want some?” he asked Brianna Brown. “I only breathed on it a little. Or did you pig out on the rest of the watermelon while I was gone?”
Brianna grimaced. “I leave the pigging out in life to you, Robert. You’re so good at it.”
Nest was staring off into space, barely aware of the conversation. Robert glanced over. “Hey, Nest, guess who I just saw standing...”
A child flew out of the darkness and into their midst, a little boy running blindly through the night, sparklers waving in both hands. He saw them too late, veering aside when he was already on top of them, nearly losing his balance and toppling onto Robert. Robert yelled angrily at him, and sparks showered everywhere. Cass and Brianna leaped to their feet, stamping at the embers that had tumbled onto the blanket.
Nest rose with them, stepping back, distracted, and as she did so she heard Pick scream. He was screaming inside her head, throwing his voice so that only she could hear, throwing it from somewhere far away so that it was faint and fragmented. But it was terror-stricken, too.
Nest, Nest... quick, run ... here, the oak collapsing ... demon... knows you are . .. the maentwrog breaking...
Then the screaming stopped, abruptly, completely, leaving an echo that rang in her ears as she stood shocked and frozen amid the crowd and her friends.
“Pick?” she whispered into the silence he had left behind. Her hand groped blindly at the air before her. “Pick?”
Her friends were staring at her, eyes filled with uncertainty. “Nest, what’s wrong?” Cass asked urgently.
But Nest was already turning from her, beginning to run. “I have to go,” she shouted over her shoulder, and raced away into the night.
It was an act of instinct rather than of reason, a response to an overwhelming, terrifying fear .that another life precious to her was about to be lost. Nest did not hesitate as she bolted through the crowd. Of course the demon was drawing her out. Of course it was a trap. She didn’t have to think twice about it to know it was true. If she stayed where she was, safe within the crowd gathered on the slopes of Sinnissippi Park, he could not reach her so easily. But it was Pick who was at risk, her best friend in the whole world, and she would not abandon him even to save her own life.
She darted through the crowd as if become one of the wild children who waved their sparklers, dodging lawn chairs and coolers, avoiding blankets filled with people, seeking the open blackness of the woods beyond. She knew where to go, where the demon would be waiting, where Pick could be found; the sylvan’s frantic words had told her that much. The deep woods. The maentwrog’s prison. The aging oak from which, it seemed, the monster was threatening to break free. She thought she heard shouts trailing after her, calling her name, but she ignored them, burying them in her determination not to be slowed. She vaulted the last of the coolers that obstructed her passage and broke for the trees.
In the open, beyond the scattering of flashlights and sparklers, she slowed just enough to let her vision adjust to the change of light. Ahead, the trees rose in dark, vertical lines against the softer black of the night. She angled past picnic tables and cook stations, running toward the rolling hills that fronted the deep woods. The sounds of the crowd faded behind her, receding into the distance, leaving her alone with the huff of her breathing and the beat of her heart. She heard her name called clearly then, but she forced herself to go on, trying to ignore the unwelcome summons, trying to outdistance it. When it continued, and she determined with certainty its source, she slowed reluctantly and turned to face a hard-charging Robert Heppler,
“Wait up, Nest!” he shouted as he rushed up to her from out of the darkness, blond hair swept back from his angular face.
She shook her head in disbelief. “Robert, what are you doing? Go back!”
“Not a chance.” He came to a ragged halt before her, breathing hard. “I’m going with you.”
“You don’t even know what I’m doing!”
“Doesn’t matter. You’re not doing it alone.”
“Robert...”
“The last time I let you wander off by yourself,” he interrupted heatedly, “you ended up in the caves and I had to get your grandfather to come find you! I’m not going through that again!”
He brushed at his tousled hair, his mouth set, his eyes determined. He looked pugnacious and challenging. “You’re going out to that big oak, aren’t you? This has something to do with that tree, doesn’t it? What’s going on?”
“Robert!” she snapped at him, suddenly angry. “Get out of here!”
He stared back at her defiantly. “No way. I’m going with you. You’re stuck with me.”
“Robert, don’t argue with me! This is too dangerous! You don’t know what you’re ...” She stopped in exasperation. “Turn around, Robert! Right now!”
But he refused to budge. She came toward him menacingly. “I’m not afraid of you, Nest,” he said quickly, clenching his fists. “I’m not Danny Abbott, either. You can’t make me do anything I don’t want to do. I don’t know what’s going on, but I...”
She locked his eyes with hers and struck out at him with her magic in a swift, hard attack. Robert Heppler went down like a stone, his muscles turned to jelly and his words became mush. He jerked once where he lay in the thinning forest grass, gave a long sigh, and blacked out.
She blocked the feelings of guilt that immediately assailed her and turned away, racing on. It was better this way. She knew Robert; he would not turn back. She would attempt an explanation later. If there was a later. Desperation and anger swept aside her attempts at forming an apology. She had done what she had to do. It didn’t matter that she had promised not to use the magic, that she hated to use it, that it left her feeling sullied and drained. Gran was gone, and in moments she would face her killer, and all she had to rely qn was the magic she had just used on Robert.
A fierce glee rocked her, a strange sense of chains being cast aside and freedom being gained. The defiance she felt at having done something forbidden lent her a certain satisfaction. The magic was a part of her. Why should it ever be wrong to use it?
She charged down the slope into the ravine that separated the picnic grounds from the deep woods, feeling her feet beginning to slide on the loose earth and long grasses. She caught herself with her hands to keep from falling, straightened up again as she reached the base of the ravine, and ran on. The bridge that spanned the little creek appeared through the gloom, and she thundered onto it, tennis shoes pounding as she crossed to the far side and began to climb the slope into the woods.
When she reached the top of the rise, she slowed again. Ahead, a wicked green light pulsed faintly within the trees, like the heartbeat of something alive. She pushed the thought aside and went on, jogging now, her breathing slowing, her eyes flicking from side to side watchfully, trying to penetrate the wall of shadows. The trail had narrowed, choked with brush and hemmed by the trees, a twisting serpent’s spine. It was black there, so dark that only the greenish light gave any illumination against the night. She was being drawn to it; she could not pretend otherwise. She repeated the words of Gran’s note over and over in her mind, a litany to lend her courage.
She brushed at the insects that buzzed at her, thick clouds of them that flew at her eyes and mouth. Her fear returned in a sudden wave as she pictured what waited ahead. But she did not turn back. She could not. It was no different now than it had been when she had gone to save Bennett Scott from the feeders. No different at all.
Please, Pick, don’t give up. I’m coming.
Moments later, she stepped from the woods into the clearing where the big oak stood. The tree was a vast, crooked monster within the darkness, its bark wet-looking and ravaged, as if skin split from the bones and muscles of a corpse. The wicked green light emanated from here, given off by the trunk of the old tree, pulsing slowly, steadily against the darkness. Nest stared in dismay. The tree was still intact, but it had the look of a dying creature. It reminded her of pictures she had seen of animals caught in steel traps, their limbs snared, their eyes glazed with fear and pain.
The demon stood next to the tree, his calm eyes fixed on her. He seemed to think nothing was out of place, nothing awry. It was all she could do to make herself meet his gaze.
“Where is Pick?” she demanded.
Her voice sounded impossibly childish and small, and she saw herself as the demon must see her, a young girl, weaponless and desperate in the face of power she could not even begin to comprehend.
The demon smiled at her. “He’s right over there,” he replied, and pointed.
Five feet or so off the ground, a small metal cage hung from the branches of a cherry. Within its shadowed interior, Nest could just make out a crumpled form.
“Safely tucked away,” the demon said. “To keep him from meddling where he shouldn’t. He was flying about on that owl, trying to see what I was up to, but he wasn’t very smart about it.” He paused. “A cage wasn’t necessary for the owl.”
A feathered heap lay at the edge of the trees, wings splayed wide. Daniel. “He came right at me when I knocked the sylvan off his back,” the demon mused. “Can you imagine?”
He motioned vaguely at the cage. “You do know about syl-vans and cages, don’t you? Well, perhaps not. Sylvans can’t stand being caged. It drains away their spirit. Happens rather swiftly, as a matter of fact. A few hours, and that’s it. That will be the fate of your friend if someone doesn’t release him.”
Nest! Pick gasped in a frantic attempt to signal her. Then he went silent again, his voice choked off.
“Your little friend would like to say something to you about his condition, I’m sure,” the demon breathed softly, “but I think it best he save his strength. Don’t you?”
Nest felt alone and vulnerable, felt as if everything was being stripped from her. But that was the plan, wasn’t it? “Let him go!” she ordered, staring at the demon as if to melt him with the heat of her anger.
The demon nodded. “After you do what I tell you.” He paused. “Child of mine.”
Her skin crawled at the sound of his words, and a new wave of rage swept through her. “Don’t call me that!”
The demon smiled, satisfaction reflecting in his eyes. “You’ know then, don’t you? Who told you? Evelyn, before she died? The sylvan?” He shrugged. “I guess it doesn’t matter. That you know is what matters. That you appreciate the special nature of our relationship. Who you are will determine what you become, and that is what we are here to decide.”
He looked past her, suddenly startled. A hint of irritation flashed across his strange empty features. “Ah, it’s the bad penny. He’s turned up after all.”
John Ross emerged from the trees, sweat-streaked and hard-eyed. He seemed taller and broader than she remembered, and the black staff gleamed and shimmered with silver light. “Get behind me,” he said at once, his green eyes fixed on the demon.
“Oh, she doesn’t want to do that!” the demon sneered, and threw something dark and glittering at the ravaged oak.
Instantly the tree exploded in a shower of bark and wood splinters, and the green light trapped within burst forth.
Old Bob crossed to the fireworks from his home as the crow flies, not bothering with the service road or any of the pathways, the beam of his flashlight scanning the darkness before him-as he went. The weariness he had felt earlier fell away in the face of his fear, and a rush of adrenaline surged through him, infusing him with new strength. The sounds of laughter and conversation and the momentary flare of sparklers guided him through the broad expanse of the grassy flats, and in moments he had reached the rear edge of the crowd.
He began to ask at once if anyone had seen Mel Riorden. He knew most of the people gathered, and once he got close enough to make out their faces, he simply offered a perfunctory greeting and inquired about Mel. He was a big man with a no-nonsense way about him, a man who had just suffered a terrible loss, and those he spoke with were quick to reply. He moved swiftly in response, easing forward through the crowd toward the cordoned perimeter west of the slide. He was sweating freely, his underarms and back damp, his face flushed from his efforts. He did not have a definite plan. He was not even certain that he needed one. He might be mistaken about Deny Howe. He might be overreacting. If he was, fine. He would feel foolish, but relieved. He could live with that. He would find Derry, talk to him, possibly confront him with his suspicions, and deal with his feelings later.
He wove his way through knots of people sprawled on blankets and seated in lawn chairs, through darting children and ambling teens. The viewing area was packed. Some looked at him with recognition, and a few spoke. Some he stopped to talk with took time to offer condolences on his loss, but most simply answered his questions about Mel and let him go his way. His eyes flicked left and right as he proceeded, searching the darkness. He could no longer see the riverbank clearly, and the trees had faded into a black wall. The fireworks would begin any moment.
Finally, he found Mel and Carol seated together on a blanket at the very edge of the crowd with a handful of family and friends. Mel’s sister was among them, but not her son. Old Bob said hello to everyone, then drew Mel aside where they could talk privately.
“Did Deny come to the fireworks with you?” he asked quietly, trying to keep his voice calm, to keep his fear hidden.
“Sure, you just missed him,” his friend answered. “Been here with us all evening. Something wrong?”
“No, no, I just wanted to talk with him a moment. Where is he?”
“He took some drinks down to the guys shooting off the fireworks. Guess he knows one of them.” Mel glanced over his shoulder. “I told him I didn’t know if they’d let him go down there, but he seemed to think they would.”
Old Bob nodded patiently. “He took them some drinks?”
“Yeah, beer and pop, like that. He had this cooler he brought with him. Hey, what’s this about, Robert?”
Old Bob felt the calm drain away in a sudden rush, and the fears that had been teasing and whispering at him from the shadows suddenly emerged like predators. “Nothing,” he said. He looked toward the river and the movement of flashlights. “He’s still down there?”
“Yeah, he just left.” Mel cocked his head and his eyes blinked rapidly. “What’s the matter?”
Old Bob shook his head and began to move away. “I’ll tell you when I get back.”
He moved more quickly now, following the line that cordoned off the staging area as it looped down toward the river’s edge. He passed several of the Jaycees responsible for patrolling it, younger men he did not know well or at all, and he asked each of them in turn if he had seen Deny Howe. The third man he passed told him Deny had just gone inside the line, that he had been permitted inside only after identifying a member of the staging crew who he claimed was a friend. Old Bob nodded, told him that this was a violation of the agreement the Jaycees had signed with the park district in order to be allowed to sponsor this event, but that he would forget about reporting it if he could go down there right now and bring Deny back before anything happened. He gave the impression without saying so that he was with the park service, and the younger man was intimidated sufficiently by his words and the look on his face to stand aside and let him pass.
Seconds later, Old Bob was inside the line and working his way down the slope toward the moving flashlights of the men preparing to set off the fireworks. He had to hurry now. The fireworks were scheduled to begin at ten o’clock sharp, and it was almost nine-fifty. He turned off his own flashlight, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness. As he neared, he could make out the figures of the staging crew moving through the firing platforms to make their last-minute preparations.
He saw Deny Howe then, his tall, lank figure unmistakable, even in the darkness, standing with one of the crew, talking. As Old Bob swerved toward them, the crewman started to move away. Old Bob waited a few heartbeats, then flicked on the flashlight.
“Deny!” he called out boldly. Deny Howe turned into the light, squinting. Old Bob slowed. “Been looking all over for you.”
Derry’s eyes flicked right and left. He was holding a small cooler in his left hand. His grin was weak and forced. “What are you doing down here, Robert? You’re not supposed to be here.”
“Neither are you.” Old Bob gave him an indulgent smile. He was less than fifteen feet away now and closing. “You done here? Give everyone a drink yet? Got one left for me?”
Deny held up his hand quickly. “Stop right there. Right there, Bob Freemark.”
Old Bob stopped, and gave him a calm, steady look. “What’s in the cooler, Deny?”
Deny Howe’s face flushed and tightened with sudden anger. “Get out of here!” he spat angrily. “Get away from me!”
Old Bob shook his head. “I can’t do that. Not unless you come with me.”
Deny took a quick step back from him. “I’m not going anywhere with you! Get the hell out of my face!”
“What are you doing down here, Deny?” Old Bob pressed, starting forward again.
He could see the desperation in the younger man’s eyes as they fixed on him. He looked trapped, frustrated. Suddenly, he laughed. “You want too know what I’m doing?” He was backing off as he spoke, edging down the line of platforms and scaffolding, away from the flashlight’s steady beam. Abruptly he stopped. “All right, I’ll show you.”
He turned away a moment, his movements concealed by the darkness. When he turned back again, he was holding a gun.
The buzzing inside Derry’s head had become a dull roar, a Niagara Falls of pounding white noise. He leveled the gun at Robert Freemark and his finger tightened on the trigger.
“Turn off the flashlight, old man.”
Old Bob glanced to his left where the staging crew was gathered around the framework that supported the flag display. But they were too far away to see what was happening. No help was coming from there. Old Bob looked back at Deny and the flashlight went dark.
Deny nodded. “First smart thing you’ve done yet.” He licked at his dry lips. “Walk toward me. Stop, that’s far enough. You want to know what I’m up to? Fine, I’ll tell you. Tellyou everything. You know why? No, don’t say anything, damn you, just listen! I’ll tell you because you got a right to know. See, I knew you were coming. I knew it. Even though I told you to stay away, I knew you’d be here. Big mistake, old man.”
“Deny, listen-“ Old Bob began.
“Shut up!” Derry’s face contorted with rage. “I told you not to say anything, and I damn well mean it! You listen to me! While you and those other old farts have been sitting around waiting for a miracle to end this damn strike, I’ve found a way to make the miracle happen!”
He edged back toward a grouping of rocket launchers, the cooler dangling from Ms hand, his eyes on Old Bob, ten feet away. He held the gun level on the old man, making sure it didn’t waver, not wanting Old Bob to do something stupid, force him to fire the gun now, before he was ready, ruin everything. Oh, sure, he was going to shoot Mr. Robert Freemark, no question about that. But not quite yet. Not until he was somewhere no one could hear or see. He glanced over to where the staging crew shone their flashlights on the flag display, making sure they were still busy with their work. He grinned. Everything was working out just right.
He knelt in the shadows and set the cooler behind him, close to the launching platform. “Don’t you move,” he told Old Bob softly. “Just stand there. You ain’t carrying a gun, are you?”
Old Bob shook his head. His big hands hung limply at his sides, and his body slumped. “Don’t do this, Deny. There are women and children up there. They could be hurt.”
“Ain’t nobody going to be hurt, old man. What do you think I am, stupid?”
He kept the gun leveled as he lifted the cooler onto the platform and shoved it back into the shadows between the fireworks cases where it couldn’t be seen if you weren’t looking. Well, okay, maybe a few people would end up getting hurt, hit by debris or something. After all, that was part of the plan, wasn’t it? Someone gets hurt, MidCon looks even worse. Derry gave a mental shrug. Point is, the strike will be over and in the long run everyone’11 be happy.
He reached behind the cooler to where he had placed the timer switch and activated it. He had five minutes. He stood up, feeling good. “See, easy as pie. Now you turn around and walk down along the riverbank, Robert Freemark, nice and slow. I’ll be right behind ...”
Then everything flared white hot about him, and it felt as if a giant fist had slammed into his back.
The force of the bomb’s blast blew Derry Howe forward into Old Bob and carried both of them fifteen feet through the air before it dumped them in a tangled heap. Old Bob lay crumpled in the grass, one arm twisted awkwardly, Derry sprawled half on top of him. His ears rang and his head throbbed, and after a minute he felt the pain begin. I’m dying, he thought. Fireworks were exploding all around him, rockets going off in their launcher tubes or spinning wildly off into the darkness or streaming fire into the trees and sky and out over the river. The launching platform was in flames, and the frameworks for the flag display and others hung in ragged, half-burned tatters. The spectators were running and screaming in all directions, blankets scattered, lawn chairs dumped, coolers abandoned. Deep booms and ear-piercing whistles marked the detonation of explosive after explosive from within the white-hot inferno below. Old Bob felt blood on his chest and face and could not tell if it was his or Derry’s. He could feel blood leaking inside his mouth and down his throat. When he tried to free himself from Deny, he found he could not move.
He closed his eyes against his pain and weariness.
Well, that’s it, that’s all she wrote.
He had just enough time left to wonder about Nest, and then everything went black.