Running with the Demon - Terry Brooks [169]
The window fan squeaked and rattled in front of him, blowing a thin wash of lukewarm air on his stomach and chest. The apartment felt hot and close. Derry tried to ignore his discomfort, but his tolerance level was shot. A headache that four Excedrin hadn’t eased one bit throbbed steadily behind his temples. His hand ached from where he had cut himself the day before splicing wires with a kitchen knife. Worst of all, there was a persistent buzzing in his ears that had been there on waking and refused to fade. He thought at first that he was losing his hearing, then changed his mind and wrote it off to drinking too much the night before and got out a fresh Bud to take the edge off. Three beers later, the buzzing was undiminished. Like a million bees inside his head. Like dozens of those weed eaters.
He closed his eyes momentarily and worked his jaws from side to side, trying to gain a little relief. Damn, but the noise was aggravating!
Seated comfortably in the rocker that had belonged to Derry’s mother, the demon, an invisible presence, cranked up the volume another notch and smiled.
Derry finished off his Bud and walked to the front door. He kept watch through the peephole until Junior was on the steps, then swung open the door and popped out at him like a jack-in-the-box.
Junior jumped a foot. “Damn you, don’t do that!” he snapped angrily, pushing his way inside.
Derry laughed, an edgy chuckle. “What, you nervous or something?”
Junior ignored him, looked quickly about to see that they were alone, decided they were, glanced at Derry’s beer, and went into the kitchen to get one of his own. “I’m here, ain’t I?”
Derry rolled his eyes. “Nothing gets by you, does it?” He lifted his voice a notch. “Bring me a cold one, too, long as you’re helping yourself!”
He waited impatiently for Junior to reappear, took the beer out of his hands without asking, and motioned him over to the couch. They sat down together, hands cupped about the chilled cans, and stared at the remains of a pizza that sat congealing in an open cardboard box on the battered coffee table.
“You hungry?” Derry asked, not caring one way or the other, anxious to get on with it.
Junior shook his head and took a long drink of his beer, refusing to be hurried. “So. Everything set?”
“You tell me. Are you scheduled for tonight’s shift?”
Junior nodded. “Like we planned. I went in yesterday, told them I was sick of the strike, that I wanted back on the line, asked to be put on the schedule soon as possible. You should have seen them. They were grinning fools. Said I could start right away. I did like you told me, said I’d like the four to midnight shift. I go on in...” He checked his watch. “Little over an hour. All dressed and ready. See?”
He pointed down to his steel-toed work boots. Derry gave him a grudging nod of approval. “We got ‘em by the short hairs, and they don’t even know it.”
“Yeah, well, let’s hope.” Junior didn’t look convinced.
Derry tried to keep the irritation out of his voice. “Hope ain’t got nothing to do with it. We got us a plan, bub, and the plan is what’s gonna get this particular job done.” He gave Junior a look. “You wait here.”
He got up and left the room. The demon watched Junior fidget on the couch, playing with his beer, taking a cold piece of sausage off the top of the pizza and popping it in his mouth, staring at the ancient window fan as if he’d never seen anything like it.
Derry came back carrying a metal lunch box with clips and a handle. He passed it to Junior, who took it gingerly and held it at arm’s length.
“Relax,” Deny sneered, reseating himself, taking another pull on his Bud. “Ain’t nothing gonna happen until you set the switch: You can drop it, kick it around, do almost anything, it’s safe until you set it. See the metal slide on the back, underneath the hinge? That’s the switch. Move it off the green button and over the red and