Terry Brooks - Running With The Demon

Then her ruminations drifted once more to John Ross, to the mystery that surrounded his coming, and she had a strange, unsettling thought.

Was it possible that he?

That he was?

She could not finish the thought, could not put it into words. She held it before her, suspended, a fragile piece of glass. She felt her heart stop and her stomach go cold. No, it was silly. It was foolish and impossible. No.

She closed her eyes and breathed the night air. Then she opened them again and let the thought complete itself.

Could John Ross be her father?

Robert Heppler was sitting alone in his room at his computer, pecking idly at the keys while he talked on the phone with Bri–anna Brown. "So, what do you think?"

"I think you're making something out of nothing as usual, Robert."

"Well, what does Cass think?" "Ask her yourself."

He heard the phone being handed off to Cass Minter. He had called Cass first, thinking her the better choice for this conversation, but Mrs. Minter had said she was staying overnight at Brianna's. Now he was stuck with talking to both of them. "Ask me what?" Cass growled into his ear. "About Nest. Don't you think she's acting weird? I mean, weirder than usual?"

"Weirder than you, you mean?" "Sure. Weirder than me. If it makes you happy." Cass thought it over. "I don't like the word 'weird.' She's got something on her mind, that's all."

Robert sighed heavily. "Look. She comes to my house and practically drags me through the door, collects a bunch of dirt and salt, commandeers you and Brianna and your sister's red wagon, then hauls the bunch of us out to the park to do some voodoo magic stuff on a sick tree. Then, when we're done, she tells us to go on home, she's too tired to go swimming. Just like that. Miss Aqua‑Lung, who's never turned down a chance to go swimming in her life. You don't think that's weird?"

"Look, Robert. People do things that other people find strange. That's the way it is. Look at Cher. Look at Madonna. Look at you. Don't be so judgmental!"

"I'm not being judgmental!" Robert was growing exasperated. "I'm worried, that's all. There's a difference, you know. I just wonder if there's something wrong that she's not telling us about. I just wonder if there's something we ought to be doing! We're supposed to be her friends, aren't we?"

Cass paused again. In the background, Robert could hear Brianna arguing with her mother. It had something to do with spending too much time on the phone. Robert rolled his eyes. "Someone ought to tell that woman to get a life," he muttered.

"What?" Cass asked, confused.

"Nothing. So what do you think? Should one of us call her up and ask her if she's all right?"

"One of us?"

"Okay, you. You're her best friend. She'd talk with you. She probably wouldn't tell me if her socks were on fire."

"She might, though, if yours were."

"Big yuck."

He heard the phone being passed again. "Hello? Who is this, please?"

It was Brianna's mother talking. Robert recognized the nasal whine laced with suspicion. "Hello, Mrs. Brown," he answered, trying to sound cheerful. "It's Robert Heppler."

"Robert, don't you have something better to do than call up girls?"

Matter of fact, yes, Robert thought. But he would never admit it to her. "Hmmm, well, I had a question and I was hoping Brianna or Cass could help me with it."

"What sort of question?" Mrs. Brown snapped. "Something a mother shouldn't hear?"

"Mother!" Robert heard Brianna gasp in Jhe background, which gave him a certain sense of satisfaction.

A huge fight broke out, with shouting and screaming, and even the muffling of the receiver by someone's hand couldn't hide what was happening. Robert took the phone away from his ear and looked at it with helpless resignation.

Then Cass came back on the line. "Time to say good night, Robert. We'll see you at the park tomorrow."

Robert sighed. "Okay. Tell Brianna I'm sorry."

"I will."

"Parents are a load sometimes."

"Keep that in mind for when you're one. I'll have a talk with Nest, okay?"

"Okay." Robert hesitated. "Tell her I went back out this evening to see how her tree was coming along. Tell her it looks worse than before. Maybe she should call someone."

There was renewed shrieking. "Good–bye, Robert."

The phone went dead.

Jared Scott came down from his room for a snack to find his mother and George Paulsen drinking beer in front of the television. The other kids were asleep, all of them crammed into a tiny pair of hot, airless bedrooms. Jared had been reading about Stanley and Livingstone, using a tiny night–light that his mother had given him for Christmas. He liked reading stories about exploring faraway places. He thought that this was something he would like to do one day, visit strange lands, see who lived there. He saw the light from the television as he made the bend in the stairs and knew his mother and George were still up, so he crept the rest of the way on cat's paws and was turning in to the kitchen when George called to him. "Hey, kid, what are you doing?"

He turned back reluctantly, trying not to look at either of them. His mother had been dozing, a Bud Light gripped in her hand. She looked around in a daze at the sound of George's voice. At thirty–two, she was slender still, but beginning to thicken about the waist. Her long dark hair was lank and uncombed, her skin pale, and her eyes dull and lifeless. She had been pretty once, but she looked old and worn–out now, even to Jared. She had five children, all of them by different men. Most of the fathers had long since moved on; Enid was only sure of two of them.

"Jared, why aren't you asleep?" she asked, blinking doubtfully.

"I asked you a question," George pressed him. He was a short, thickset man with dark features and a balding head. He worked part–time at a garage as a mechanic and there was always grease on his hands and clothing.

"I was getting something to eat," Jared answered, keeping his tone of voice neutral. George had hit him several times just for sounding smart–mouthed. George liked hitting him.

"You get what you need, sweetie," his mother said. "Let him be, George."

George belched loudly. "That's your trouble, Enid–you baby him." Jared hurried into the kitchen, George's voice trailing after him. "He needs a firm hand, don't you see? My father would have beat me black and blue if I'd come down from my room after hours. Not to mention thinking about getting something else to eat. You ate your dinner at the table and that was it until breakfast."

His voice was rough–edged and belligerent; it was the same voice he always used around Enid Scott and her children. Jared rummaged through the refrigerator for an apple, then headed back toward the stairs.

"Hey!" George's voice stopped him cold. "Just hold on a minute. What do you have there?"

"An apple." Jared held it up for him to see. "That all?" Jared nodded.

"I don't want to catch you drinking any beer around here, kid. You want to do that with your friends, away from home, fine. But not here. You got that?"

Jared felt a flush creep into his cheeks. "I don't drink beer." George Paulsen's chin jerked up. "Don't get smart with me!" "George, he can't!" His mother glanced hurriedly at Jared. "He can't drink alcohol of any kind. You know that. His medication doesn't mix with alcohol."

"Hell, you think for one minute that would stop him, Enid? You think it would stop any kid?" George drank from his own can, draining the last of its contents. "Medication, hell! Just another word for drugs. Kids do drugs and drink beer everywhere. Always have, always will. And you think your kid won't? Where'd you check your brain at, anyway? Christ almighty! You better let me do the thinking around here, okay? You just stick to cooking the meals and doing the laundry." He