Running with the Demon - Terry Brooks [38]
“Any news on the strike?” Nest asked her grandfather after they had finished talking about fishing, mostly in an effort to hold up her end of the conversation.
He shook his white head, swallowed the last bite of his dinner, and pushed his plate back. His big shoulders shrugged. “Naw, they can’t even agree on what day of the week it is, Nest.” He reached for his newspaper and scanned the headlines. “Won’t be a resolution any time soon, I don’t expect.”
Nest glanced at Gran, but her grandmother was staring out the window with a blank expression, a lighted cigarette burning to ash between her fingers.
“Not my problem anymore,” Old Bob declared firmly. “At least I got that to be thankful for. Someone else’s problem now.”
Nest finished her dinner and began thinking about Pick and the park. She glanced outside at the failing light.
“Look at this,” Old Bob muttered, shaking out the paper as if it contained fleas. “Just look at this. Two boys dropped a five-year-old out a window hi a Chicago apartment. Fifteen stories up, and they just dropped him out. No reason for it, they just decided to do it. The boys were ten and eleven. Ten and eleven! What in the hell is the world coming to?”
“Robert.” Gran looked at him reprovingly over the rim of her glass.
“Well, you have to wonder.” Old Bob lowered the paper and glanced at Nest. “Excuse my language.” He was silent for a moment, reading. Then he opened the inside page. “Oh, my.” He sighed and shook his head, eyes bright with anger. “Here’s another, this one quite a bit closer to home. One of those Anderson girls used to live out on Route Thirty shot and killed her father last night. She claims he’s been molesting all of the girls since they were little. Says she forgot about it until it came to her in a dream.” He read on a bit, fuming. “Also says she has a history of mental problems and that the family hasn’t had anything to do with her for some time.”
He read for a little while longer, then tossed the paper aside. “The news isn’t worth the paper it’s printed on anymore.” He studied the table a moment, then glanced at Gran, waiting for a response. Gran was silent, looking out the window once more. Her hand lowered in a mechanical motion to the ashtray to stub out the cigarette.
Old Bob’s eyes turned sad and distant. He looked at Nest. “You going out to play again?” he asked quietly.
Nest nodded, already beginning to push back from the table.
“That’s all right,” her grandfather said. “But you be back by dark. No excuses.”
The way he said it made it plain that, even though he hadn’t brought the subject up at dinner, he hadn’t forgotten about last night. Nest nodded again, letting him know she understood.
Her grandfather rose and left the table, taking the newspaper with him, retiring to the seclusion of his den. Nest sat for a moment staring after him, then started to get up as well.
“Nest,” her grandmother said softly, looking directly at her now. She waited until she had the girl’s attention. “What happened this afternoon?”
Nest hesitated, trying to decide what to say. She shrugged. “Nothing, Gran.”
Her grandmother gave her a long, hard look. “Carry your dishes to the sink before you go,” she said finally. “And remember what your grandfather told you.”
Two minutes later, Nest was out the back door and down the porch steps. Mr. Scratch had