Terry Brooks - Running With The Demon

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

The woman working the counter came over to him. She was pretty, with long, tousled blondish hair tied back in a ponytail, expressive dark eyes, and sun–browned skin. White cotton shorts and a collared blouse hugged the soft curves of her body. But it was her smile that captivated him. It was big and open and dazzling. It had been a long time since anyone had smiled at him like that.

"Good morning," she greeted. "Would you like some coffee?"

He stared at her without answering, feeling something stir inside that had lain dormant for a long time. Then he caught himself and shook his head quickly. "No, thank you, miss."

"Miss?" Her grin widened. "Been quite a while since anyone called me that. Do I know you?"

Ross shook his head a second time. "No. I'm not from around here."

"I didn't think so. I'm pretty good with faces, and I don't remember yours. Would you like some breakfast?"

He thought about it a moment, studying the menu board posted on the wall behind her. "You know, what I'd really like is a Cherry Coke."

She cocked an eyebrow at him. "I think we can fix you up." She walked away, and he watched her go, wondering at the unexpected attraction he felt for her, trying to remember when he had last felt that way about anyone. He looked down at his hands where they rested on the counter. His hands were shaking. His life, he knew, was a shambles.

A man and a boy came into the coffee shop, approached the counter, glanced at the available seats, and then squeezed themselves in between two men farther down the way. Ross could feel their eyes on him. He did not react. It was always like this, as if somehow people could sense the truth of what he was.

The woman with the smile returned carrying his Cherry Coke. If she could sense the truth, she didn't show it. She set the Coke on a napkin in front of him and folded her arms under her breasts. She was probably somewhere in her thirties, but she looked younger than that.

"Sure you wouldn't like a Danish or maybe some coffee cake? You look hungry."

He smiled in spite of himself, forgetting for a moment his weariness. "I must be made of glass, the way you see right through me. As a matter of fact, I'm starved. I was just trying to decide what to order."

"Now we're getting somewhere," she declared, smiling back. "Since this is your first visit, let me make a suggestion. Order the hash. It's my own recipe. You won't be sorry."

"All right. Your own recipe, is it?"

"Yep. This is my place." She stuck out her hand. "I'm Josie Jackson."

"John Ross." He took her hand in his own and held it. Her hand was cool. "Nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you, too. Nice to meet anyone who still calls me 'miss' and means it." She laughed and walked away.

He finished the Cherry Coke, and when the hash arrived he ordered a glass of milk to go with it. He ate the hash and drank the milk without looking up. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Josie Jackson looking at him as she passed down the counter.

When he was finished, she came back and stood in front of him. There were freckles on her nose underneath the tan. Her arms were smooth and brown. He found himself wanting to touch her skin.

"You were right," he said. "The hash was good."

She beamed, her smile dazzling. "Do you want some more? I think the house can spare seconds."

"No, thank you anyway."

"Can I get you anything else?"

"No, that's fine." He glanced over one shoulder as if checking something, then looked back at her. "Can I ask you a question?"

Her mouth quirked at the corners. "That depends on the question."

He glanced over his shoulder again. "Is that Robert Freemark sitting back there with those men?"

She followed his gaze, then nodded. "You know Old Bob?"

Ross levered himself off the stool with the help of his walking stick. "No, but I was a friend of his daughter." The lie burned in his throat as he said it. "Will you hold my bill for a minute, Josie? I want to go say hello."

He limped from the counter toward the table in back, steeling himself against what he must do. The men sitting around it were telling stories and laughing, eating doughnuts and pastries, and drinking coffee. It looked like they felt at home here, as if they came often. Bob Freemark had his back turned and didn't see him until some of the others looked up at his approach. Then Old Bob looked around as well, his big, white head lifting, his piercing blue eyes fixing Ross with a thoughtful look.

"Are you Robert Freemark, sir?" John Ross asked him. The big man nodded. "I am."

"My name is John Ross. We haven't met before, but your daughter and I were friends." The lie went down easier this time. "I just wanted to come over and say hello."

Old Bob stared at him. The table went silent. "Caitlin?" the other man asked softly.

"Yes, sir, a long time ago, when we were both in college.' I knew her then." Ross kept his face expressionless.

Old Bob seemed to recover himself. "Sit down, Mr. Ross," he urged, pulling over an empty chair from one of the adjoining tables. Ross seated himself gingerly, extending his leg away from the table so that he was facing Robert Freemark but not the others. The conversations at the table resumed, but Ross could tell that the other men were listening in on them nevertheless. "You knew Caitlin, you say?" Old Bob repeated. "In Ohio, sir, when we were both in college. She was at Oberlin, so was I, a year ahead. We met at a social function, a mixer. We dated on and off, but it was nothing serious. We were mostly just friends. She talked about you and Mrs. Freemark often. She told me quite a lot about you. When she left school, I never saw her again. I understand she was killed. I'm sorry."

Old Bob nodded. "Almost fourteen years ago, Mr. Ross. It's all in the past."

He didn't sound as if that were so, Ross thought. "I promised myself that if I was ever out this way, I would try to stop by and say hello to you and Mrs. Freemark. I thought a lot of Caitlin."

The other man nodded, but didn't look as if he quite understood. "How did you find us here hi Hopewell, Mr. Ross?"

"Please, sir, call me John." He eased his bad leg to a new position. The men at the table were losing interest in what he had to say. A fourteen–year–old friendship with a dead girl was not important to them. "I knew where Caitlin was from," he explained. "I took a chance that you and Mrs. Freemark were still living here. I asked about you at the hotel where I'm staying. Then I came here. Josie told me who you were."

"Well," Old Bob said softly. "Isn't that something?"

"Yes, sir."

"Where are you from, John?"

"New York City." He lied again.

"Is that so? New York City? What brings you out this way?"

"I'm traveling through by bus to see friends in Seattle. I don't have a schedule to keep to, so I took a small detour here. I suppose I decided it was time to keep my promise."

He paused, as if considering something he had almost forgotten. "I understand that Caitlin has a daughter."

"Yes, that would be Nest," Old Bob acknowledged, smiling. "She lives with us. She's quite a young lady."