Terry Brooks - Running With The Demon

gave her a long look and shook his head. "Change the channel; I want to watch Leno. You can do that, can't you?"

Enid Scott looked down at her hands and didn't say anything. After a moment she picked up the remote and began to flick through the channels. Jared stared at her, stone–faced. He wanted her to tell George to get out of their house and stay out, but he knew she would never do that, that she couldn't make herself. He stood there feeling foolish, watching his mother be humiliated.

"Get on upstairs and stay there," George told him finally, waving him off with one hand. "Take your goddamn apple and get out of here. And don't be coming down here and bothering us again!"

Jared turned away, biting at his lip. Why did his mother stay with him? Sure, he gave her money and bought her stuff, and sometimes he was even halfway nice. But mostly he was bad–tempered and mean–spirited. Mostly he just hung out and mooched off them and found ways to make their lives miserable.

"You remember one thing, buster!" George called after him. "You don't ever get smart with me. You hear? Not ever!"

He kept going, not looking back, until he reached the top of the stairs, then stood breathing heavily in the hallway outside his room, rage and frustration boiling through him. He listened to the guttural sound of George Paulsen's voice, then to the silence that followed. His fists clenched. After a moment, tears flooded his eyes, and he stood crying silently in the dark.

Saturday night at Scrubby's was wild and raucous, the crowd standing three–deep at the bar, all the booths and tables filled, the dance floor packed, and the jukebox blaring. Boots were stomping, hands clapping, and voices lifting in song with Garth Brooks, Shania Twain, Travis Tritt, Wynonna Judd, and several dozen more of country–and–western's favorite sons and daughters. The mingled smells of sweat and cologne and beer permeated the air and smoke hung over everything in a hazy shroud, but at least the air–conditioning was keeping the heat at bay and no one seemed to mind. The workweek was done, the long awaited Fourth of July weekend was under way, and all was right with the world.

Seated in the small, two–person booth crammed into a niche between the storeroom door and the back wall, Derry Howe sat talking to Junior Elway, oblivious of all of it. He was telling Junior what he was going to do, how he had worked it all out the night before. He was explaining to Junior why it would take two of them, that Junior had to be a part of it. He was burning with the heat of his conviction; he was on fire with the certainty that when it was all said and done, the union could dictate its own terms to high–and–mighty MidCon. But his patience with Junior, who had the attention span of a gnat, was wearing thin. He hunched forward over the narrow table, trying to keep his voice down in case anyone should think to listen in, trying as well to keep Junior's mind on the business at hand instead of on Wanda Applegate, seated up at the bar, whom he'd been looking to hit on for the past two hours. Over and over he kept drawing Junior's eyes away from Wanda and back to him. Each time the eyes stayed focused for, oh, maybe thirty seconds before they wandered off again like cats in heat.

Finally he seized the front of Junior's shirt and dragged him halfway across the table, spilling beer and sending ashtrays and napkins flying. "You listen to me, goddamn it!" he screamed. "You listen to me when I talk to you!"

A few people turned to see what was happening, but when they saw the look on Deny Howe's face, they quickly went back to their own conversations. The music boomed out, the dancers yelled and clapped, and the confrontation in the tiny corner booth went mostly unnoticed.

"Okay, okay, I'm listening!" Junior snapped, jerking free. He was twenty pounds heavier and two inches taller, but there was fear in his eyes as he spoke the words. Damn well ought to be, Derry Howe thought with satisfaction.

"You heard anything I said so far, porkypine?" he sneered. "Anything at all?"

Junior ran his hand over his head, feeling the soft bristles of hair that were the product of this afternoon's visit to the Clip Joint, where he'd impulsively decided on a brush cut. He'd

thought it would make him look tougher, he'd told Derry afterward. He'd thought it would make him look like a lean, mean cat. What it did was make him look like a jerk. Derry had begun ragging on him right away, calling him names. Porky–pine. Cactus head. Nazi brain. Like that.

"I heard every damn thing you said!" Junior snapped furiously, sick and tired of Derry's attitude. "You want me to repeat it, smartass? Want to hear me stand up and shout it out loud maybe?"

If Derry Howe had been angry before, he was positively livid now. His expression changed, his eyes went flat and cold, and all the color drained out of his face. He looked at Junior as if a line had been crossed and Junior were no longer among the living.

Junior's mouth worked against the sudden dryness in his throat. "Look, I just meant…"

"Shut up," Derry Howe said softly. Even in the din, Junior heard the words plainly. "You just shut your mouth and listen. I ever hear you say something like that again, and you're history, bub. You believe me? Do you?"

Junior nodded, sitting there as still as stone, staring into the eyes of the man across from him, the man who had been his best friend until just a moment ago and who now was someone else entirely.

"This is too important for me to let you screw it up, you understand?" Derry Howe's voice was a soft hiss. "There's too much at stake for you to be making stupid statements or wiseass remarks. You with me on this or not? Answer me, damn it!"

Junior nodded. He'd never seen Derry like this. "Yeah, sure, course I am."

Derry Howe gave him a long, hard look. "All right, then. Here's the rest of it. Don't say nothing till I'm finished. Just listen. This is for keeps, Junior. We can't go pussyfooting about and hope the company will just come to their senses all on their own. My uncle and those other old farts might think that'll work, but they're whistling down a rat hole. They're old and they're worn–out and the company knows it. The company ain't about to negotiate. Never was. There's just you and me, bub. It's up to us. We have to bring them to the table, kicking and screaming if that's what it takes, but with them understanding they got to reopen the mill. Right? Okay. So we've got to have some leverage."

He leaned so close to Junior that his friend could smell the beer on his breath. "When this thing happens, it's got to be big enough that it will bring the national in. It ain't enough if it looks like an accident. It ain't enough, even if it looks like it's the company's fault. That won't do it. There's got to be casualties. Someone's got to be hurt, maybe even killed."

Junior stared openmouthed, then quickly shook his head. "Man, this is crazy …"

"Crazy because it gets the job done?" Derry snapped. "Crazy because it just might work? Hell, because it will work? Every war has its sacrifices, Junior. And this is a war, don't kid yourself. It's a war we're going to win. But that won't happen if the company isn't held accountable for something they can't talk their way out of. It won't happen if it don't draw the national's attention."

"But you can't just… You can't…"

"Go on, say it, Junior," Derry hissed derisively.

"Kill someone, damn it!"

"No? Why not? Why the hell not?"

He could, of course. He'd already decided it, in fact. He would do it because it was necessary. He would do it because it was a war, just like he'd said, and in a war, people got killed. He'd talked it over with himself the day before, after he'd come up with the accident idea. It was almost like having someone sitting there with him, having a conversation with a trusted friend, talking it through, reasoning it out. It all made perfect sense. He was certain of it. He was positive.