Running with the Demon - Terry Brooks [70]
She slowed in a patch of shade and tried to see who it was. At first she thought it was Two Bears, returned early for tonight’s visit. But then she saw it was a man in forest green coveralls, a maintenance employee of the park. He was picking up trash with a metal-tipped stick and depositing it into a canvas bag. She hesitated, then continued on. As she approached, he turned and looked at her.
“Hot one, isn’t it?” His bland face was smooth and expressionless, and his blue eyes were so pale they seemed almost devoid of color.
She nodded and smiled uncertainly.
“Off for a visit to the cemetery?” he asked.
“My mother is buried there,” she told him, stopping now.
The man placed the sharp tip of the stick against the ground and rested his hands on the butt. “Hard thing to lose a mother. She been gone a long time?”
“Since I was a baby.”
“Yeah, that’s a long time, all right. You know, I hardly remember mine anymore.”
Nest thought momentarily to tell him about the big oak, but then decided there was nothing he could do in any case, that it was better off in Pick’s capable hands.
“You still got your father?” the man asked suddenly.
Nest shook her head. “I live with my grandparents.”
The man looked sad. “Not the same as having a father, is it? Old folks like that aren’t likely to be around for too much longer, so you got to start learning to depend pretty much on yourself. But then you start to wonder if you’re up to the job. Think about one of these trees. It’s old and rugged. It hasn’t really ever had to depend on anyone. But then along comes a logger and cuts it down in minutes. What can it do? You catch my drift?”
She looked at him, confused.
The man glanced at the sky. “The weather’s not going to change for a while yet. Are you coming out for the fireworks Monday?”
She nodded.
“Good. Should be something. Fourth of July is always something.” His smile was vaguely mocking. “Maybe I’ll see you there.”
She was suddenly uneasy. Something about the man upset her. She wanted to move away from him. She was thinking that it was getting close to dinnertime anyway and she should be getting home. She would visit her mother’s grave that evening instead, when it was cool and quiet.
“I’ve got to be going,” she said perfunctorily.
The man looked at her some more, saying nothing. She forced herself to smile at him and turned away. Already the shadows of the big trees were lengthening. She went quickly, impelled by her discomfort.
She did not look back, and so she did not see the man’s strange eyes turn hard and cold and fixed of purpose as he watched her go.
When Nest Freemark was safely out of sight, the demon hoisted the canvas sack and stick over his shoulder and began walking. He crossed the roadway to the Indian mounds and angled down toward the river, whistling softly to himself. Keeping within the shelter of the trees, he worked his way steadily east through the park. The light was pale and gray where the hillside blocked the sun, the shadows deep and pooled. Afternoon ball games were winding down and picnickers were heading home. The demon smiled and continued on.
Richie Stoudt was waiting at the toboggan slide, seated at one of the picnic tables, staring out at the river. The demon was almost on top of him before Richie realized he was there. Richie leaped up then, grinning foolishly, shaking his head.
“Hey, how’s it going?” he sputtered. “Didn’t hear you come up. Been waiting though, just like you said to do. Got your message all right. Finished up at the Prestons’ and came right over.”
The demon nodded, smiled, and kept walking. “Let’s get started then.”
“Sure, sure.” Richie was right on his heels. He was small and wiry, and his thin face peeked out from under a mop of unruly dark hair. He was wearing coveralls over a blue denim shirt and high-top work boots, everything looking ragged and worn. “Didn’t know you worked for the park, I guess,” he said, trying to make conversation. “Pretty steady hours and all, I suppose. You sure this is all right, this late in the day and all? What is it we’re doing,