Terry Brooks - Angel Fire East

The door opened, and the man who called himself Robinson was standing there, smiling. "Come in, Deputy Sheriff." He stepped back.

Careful, now, Larry Spence warned himself. Take it slow.

He entered and looked around cautiously. He stood in a large entry. A stairway climbed into darkness to one side. A door stood closed on the other. The living room opened up ahead, bright and quaint with turn-of-the-century furniture and fading wallpaper that hung from wainscoting to mop-boards in a field of yellow flowers.

"Take off your coat, Deputy Sheriff," Robinson said. It almost sounded like an order. "Sit down for a moment."

"I won't be staying that long." Larry shifted his gaze to Robinson, then back to the living room, where Penny sat with her legs curled up on the couch next to a giant, nearly hairless albino, both of them staring at a television set. Penny saw him and gave a small wave and smile. He nodded stone-faced in response.

"Where are the children, Mr. Robinson?" he asked. His head was pounding, the pain much worse, the buzzing so insistent it threatened to scramble his thoughts completely.

"Playing downstairs." The other man was watching him carefully.

"I'd like you to bring them up here, please."

"Well, things have changed a bit." Robinson seemed genuinely apologetic. "I need to ask you for one more favor."

"I think I've done enough favors for you."

Robinson smiled anew. "I'm not asking much. Just take a short ride with us in a little while. The children can go, too. Afterward you can have them back."

Larry could already feel something wrong with things, could sense a shift in attitude that signaled this was not going to go the way he wanted. He had been a sheriff's deputy for better than fifteen years, and he trusted his instincts. He needed to get the upper hand on these people right away, not take any chances.

"I've been doing some checking," he said, deciding to force the issue. "I called the FBI's Chicago field office and asked about you. They never heard of you. They don't know anything about a drug operation in this area."

Robinson shrugged. "They don't know we're here. We operate out of Washington. What is the problem, Deputy?"

"Is that one of your operatives?" Larry pressed, staying calm, pointing at the strange man on the couch.

Robinson glanced over his shoulder, then back at Spence. "Yes, he's a local—"

Larry had his .45 out and pointed at Robinson's midsection. "Stand easy," he advised. "Keep your hands where I can see them." He reached forward and patted the old man's coat pockets and sides, then stepped away. "I checked with Washington as well. No one there knows who you are, either."

The man who called himself Robinson said nothing.

"So who are you?" Larry pressed.

The other man shrugged. "It doesn't matter."

Penny looked up from the television. When she saw the gun in Larry's hand, she started to rise.

"Sit down!" Larry ordered sharply. She hesitated, then did so. But she was grinning broadly. "What's going on here?" Larry demanded of everyone in general.

Robinson smiled. "Figure it out for yourself, Deputy Sheriff. You seem pretty clever."

"Your being here doesn't have anything to do with drugs, does it?"

Robinson pursed his lips. "No, Deputy Sheriff, it doesn't. But it does have to do with addiction. I am a specialist in addictions, did you know that? Addictions that beset the human race. There are hundreds of them. Thousands. Human beings are enslaved by their addictions, and I find that by determining the nature of the addictions that rule them, I can influence the course of action they take."

He cocked an eyebrow at Spence. "Take yourself, for instance. I knew almost from the beginning that if I wanted something from you, all I had to do was link my request to your very obvious attraction to Miss Freemark. You were blinded to everything when focused on her. Silly, really, since she doesn't care the weight of a paper clip for you. But you see her as your future wife and the mother of your children and so you do the things you think will further the happening of those events."

Larry flushed angrily. "That's not an addiction. What the hell are you talking about?"

"Addictions come in all sizes and shapes," Robinson continued mildly, "and the people who have them always think they're something else. Dependencies, Deputy Sheriff. They give an illusion of control you lack. Yours is a small dependency, but deeply ingrained, and it rules you. It's why you've been so helpful to me. I give you the illusion of control over your need to influence Miss Freemark and you're ready to walk over coals."

The headache and buzzing were attacking Larry Spence with such ferocity that he could barely focus on what Robinson was saying. "Let's get those children up here right now!" he snapped, suddenly furious.

"Let's not," Robinson replied calmly.

Larry stared at him. What was he thinking? That Larry wouldn't shoot, that he wouldn't use the gun he was holding if the other man made even the slightest move to stop him? Did he think Larry wasn't in charge of this situation, that he wasn't able to do what was needed just because he had allowed himself to be tricked earlier?

Then he looked into Robinson's eyes, and he saw the truth. His gun didn't mean anything. Or his badge of office, or the weight of the law, or even Larry himself. None of it mattered. Those eyes were dead to everything. They had been dead a long time.

Larry went cold and hot in rapid sequence, and suddenly all he wanted to do was to get the hell out of there as quickly as he could. But he knew it was too late, that he couldn't, that he was trapped as surely as if Robinson was holding the gun on him.

"Oh, my God," he breathed softly.

His hand was frozen. Suddenly terrified, he tried to pull the trigger, but his fingers refused to work. Robinson came forward, took the gun out of his hand, and slipped it back into its holster. Larry couldn't do anything to stop him. Nothing. He was paralyzed by the buzzing in his ears and the throbbing in his head and by a cold certainty that he was completely helpless. He stood in front of Robinson with his hands empty and his options all used up. He wanted to scream, but he couldn't. Tears leaked from his eyes, and his big frame shook as he ., began to cry. "Please," he begged, unable to help himself. "Please."

Robinson smiled, but his smile held no warmth.

Silence.

Nest stood paralyzed in the frigid darkness at the edge of Sinnissippi Park, trying desperately to regain her scattered thoughts. The enormity of what had just happened threatened to overwhelm her. She had lost Wraith! Somehow, some way, she had lost him. She hadn't meant to do so, hadn't even suspected it was possible. It was true that he had emerged from her body only a handful of times since he had taken up residence, but there had never been any indication that he might break free. She felt empty and bereft in a way she had never expected. She saw all her hopes of saving the children from the demons drifting away on the backs of snowflakes.

What had she done?

For a long time, she just stood there, unable to move, trying to decide what she should do. She couldn't go back into the house. She had to find Wraith and get him back under her control. She had to! She stared out at the black-and-white expanse of the park and realized how hopeless her task was. Wraith could move so much faster than she could. He would never be found if he didn't wish it. She could search forever, and she wouldn't even see him. He didn't even have to outrun her. He could simply disappear, the way he did when she was little. He could vanish as completely as last summer's warmth, and she had no way to bring him out again.

Despair staggered her; it left her frantic. She held on only through sheer force of will. She could not afford to give in to what she was feeling. If she did, there would be no chance for any of them.