Terry Brooks - Running With The Demon

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.