Running with the Demon - Terry Brooks [47]
The cover of the pamphlet was a collage of pictures — a cornfield, a park, a swimming pool, the downtown, and one of the plants at MidCon Steel. Inside was a rudimentary map. He read briefly that Hopewell had a population of fifteen thousand, was situated in the heart of Reagan country (both the town where Ronald Reagan was born and the one in which he grew up were within twenty miles), boasted more than seventy churches, offered easy freeway access to major cities in all directions, and was the home of Midwest Continental Steel, once the largest independently owned steel company in America. The pamphlet went on to say that while more than twenty percent of the working force of Hopewell was employed at MidCon Steel, the community was a source of employment for others as a result of a diverse and thriving agricultural and business economy.
The desk man returned with his room key. Not another soul had passed through the lobby in the time he had been gone. He seemed grateful when John Ross gave him a dollar for his trouble. Ross finished with the pamphlet and tucked it into the pocket of his jeans with his room key. He sat for a moment in the cool of the lobby, listening to the hum of the air-conditioning, looking down at his hands. He did not have much time to do what was needed. He knew enough from his dreams to make a start, but the dreams were sometimes deceptive and so could not be trusted completely. Nor were the dream memories of his future more than rudimentary. Nor were they stable; they tended to shift with the passing of events and the changing of circumstances. It was like trying to build with water and sand. Sometimes he could not tell which part of his life he was remembering or even at which point of time the events had occurred or would occur. Sometimes he thought it would drive him mad.
He hoisted himself out of the armchair, an abrupt, decisive movement. Leaning on his staff, he went out the front door into the heat and turned up Fourth Street toward the heart of the downtown. He walked slowly and methodically along the gauntlet of burning concrete, the sidewalks baking in the already near one-hundred-degree heat. The buildings had a flattened feel to them, as if weighted by the heat, as if compressed. The people he passed on the streets looked drained of energy, squinting into the glare from behind sunglasses, , walking with their heads lowered and their shoulders hunched. He crossed Locust Street, the north-south thoroughfare that became State Route 88 beyond the town limits, continued on to Second Avenue, and turned down Second toward Third Street. Already he could see the red plastic sign on the building ahead that read JOSIE’S.
A church loomed over him, providing a momentary patch of shade. He slowed and looked up at it, studying its rust-colored stone, its stained glass, its arched wooden doors, and its open bell tower. A glass-enclosed sign situated on the patch of lawn at the corner said it was the First Congregational Church. Ralph Emery was the minister. Services were Sunday at 10:30 A.M. with Christian Education classes at 9:15. This Sunday’s message was entitled, “Whither Thou Goest.” John Ross knew it would be cool and silent inside, a haven from the heat and the world. It had been a long time since he had been in church. He found himself wanting to see how it would feel, wondering if he could still say his prayers in a slow, quiet way and not in a rush of desperation. He wondered if his God still believed in him.
He stood staring at the church for a moment more, then turned away. His relationship with God would have to wait. It was the demon he hunted who demanded his attention now, the one he had come to Hopewell to destroy. He limped on through the midmorning heat, thinking on the nature of his adversary. In a direct confrontation, he was certain he would prevail. But the demon was clever and elusive; it could conceal its identity utterly. It was careful never to permit itself to be fully engaged. Time and again John Ross had thought to trap it, to