Angel Fire East

by Brooks, Terry

  Yeah, right. She shook her head angrily. Like there was any chance at all for someone like her. Who was she kidding? She cried a little, at how messed up her life was and how little chance she had of ever getting it straightened out again.

  "It's cold out here, girlfriend," Penny Dreadful said, materializing next to her out of nowhere. "Hey, my car's right over there. Come on. Let me give you a ride."

  Bennett looked at her dully, as if she were an inevitability, a constant in her life that refused to change or disappear. She suddenly felt tired and worn and alone. The cold numbed and deadened her, but that wasn't how she wanted to feel. She wanted to feel good about something. Just for a little while. Just for a bit.

  Dropping her cigarette into the snow, she allowed Penny to take her by the arm and lead her away.

  * * *

  Deputy Sheriff Larry Spence sat alone in his living room at one end of the big couch, staring at the television set across the way. He was watching it without paying attention to what he was seeing, his mind trying to focus on the voice speaking to him through the telephone receiver he held against his ear. His kids were in bed, asleep or pretending to be, getting ready for a final day and a half of school before the Christmas break, anticipating what Santa was going to bring them. Billy was sleeping better again, not having those nightmares about severed fingers, but he still had a haunted look in his eyes that was troublesome.

  "You have to go back out there in the morning and check on him," Special Agent Robinson was saying through the phone, the words resonating inside Spence's confused and distracted mind. "You have to be sure he doesn't hurt her."

  "Why would he do that?" Spence asked, staring at nothing. "He doesn't have any reason to."

  Robinson paused thoughtfully. "He's dangerous, and dangerous men will do anything. He uses her to give himself a place to hide. He is a drug dealer, and he is here to do business. If she discovers this, what do you think he will do?"

  "But she doesn't want me to come there. She practically threw me out. What am I supposed to do?"

  "You visit officially, just like you did today. You have every right to conduct an investigation."

  "Into what? What am I supposed to be investigating?"

  "What do you think, Deputy? What seems possible to you?"

  Larry Spence blinked and shook his head. "He's a dealer. So he's here to make a sale. There must be something going down in the park, right?"

  "Seems like a good place to start."

  "I can say someone saw something, try that out and see if I get a reaction."

  "Maybe someone did see something. Someone usually does."

  Spence shifted on the couch, his big frame leaning forward. "I can't let that girl be hurt. She doesn't understand how people are. She believes the best about everyone, but she doesn't know."

  "Someone has to open her eyes to the truth," Robinson agreed. "She would be very grateful to anyone who did, don't you think?"

  Larry Spence nodded slowly. "I could do that for her. I could help her see how things really are. All I have to do is get him to slip up, say the wrong thing. I just have to keep after him, that's all. Yeah, just stay on it."

  He didn't know that Findo Gask was listening to him with the same amount of interest that young children evidence when they watch ants before stepping on them. He didn't know that he was just another wild card in a game being played by others, ready to be used when needed. If nothing else, the demon thought, the good deputy sheriff will help distract the troublesome Miss Freemark. The young lady was proving to be a much larger obstacle than he had anticipated.

  But all that would change in the next twenty-four hours. Tonight's events had dictated the need for that.

  "It's the right thing to do," Larry Spence was mumbling to himself, nodding for emphasis.

  The demon yawned. Bored, he sent a fresh nightmare into the head of the young boy sleeping in the deputy sheriff's back bedroom, then listened idly through the phone as the boy woke, screaming, to run for his father's reassuring arms.

  * * *

  Scattered snowflakes swirled on cold night winds across the mostly darkened expanse of Sinnissippi Park. Like white moths drawn by the incandescent brightness of the pole lights bracketing the roadways, they spun and twisted in small explosions of white. Elsewhere, moonlight peeked through breaking clouds to sparkle off frosted iron stanchions and crusted patches of road ice. Snowdrifts climbed tree trunks and hedges, a soft white draping against the velvet black.

  Ray Childress finished locking down the toboggan slide, placing chains across steps and loading ramps, hooking warning signs in place, and closing up the storage shed with its equipment and parts. It was quiet in the park, the last of the cars dispersed, the last of the people gone home. Trail lights still burned down the length of the slide and out along the bayou's edge where the ice had been cleared for skating, but only shadows shifted in the glare.

  Ray paused in the act of padlocking the shed and stared out at the darkness below. Damned odd, he was thinking, ice breaking apart like that, all at once. He'd tested it himself earlier in the afternoon. He'd gotten four inches, solid, on several bores and no indication at all of a weakening on the run.

  Damned odd.

  He had been a park employee for a lot of years, and he'd run this slide during the winter months for most of them. He had seen a lot of strange things in that time, some of them of the head-scratching variety, but never anything like this.

  A hole in the ice for no reason.

  Standing there, thinking it over, he heard the unmistakable sound, sharp and penetrating in the stillness of the night, of ice tightening—a slow, almost leisurely crackling, like glass crunching underfoot.

  He turned and looked. Twenty years, and this had never happened before.

  He was a thorough, methodical man, one who followed through on what he started and made sure the job was done right. When something difficult arose in his work, he made it a point to understand the nature of the problem so that it wouldn't happen again, or so that if it did, he would be ready.

  Impulsively, almost stubbornly, he snatched up his four-cell flashlight and started down the slope. He took his time, picking his way carefully over the icy spots, finding solid footing with each step. He just couldn't help himself—he had to have a look. He was being silly, doing it now, when it was so dark, instead of waiting for morning. But he wanted to see what had happened before someone else did so he could have a chance to think about it. It wouldn't take long, after all, just to take a look.

  Myriad pairs of lantern eyes followed his descent toward the bayou, peering out from the gloom of the surrounding trees, tracking his movements, but he didn't see them.

  His breath clouded the air before him as he eased down along the toboggan slide to the river bank and made his way past the chute where it opened onto the ice. Carol was off with the church guild and wouldn't be back anytime soon, so there was no hurry about getting home. He shuffled his way across the ice with slow, steady steps, keeping to the edges of the shoveled area so that his boots could find purchase. The beam of his flashlight stabbed the darkness, reflecting off the hard, black surface of the frozen river.

  It's so quiet, he was thinking. Not even the wind was—

  He stopped abruptly, several hundred feet out, and stared at the tombstone shape of the Heppler toboggan where it jutted from the ice, cocked slightly to one side, its curled nose pointing skyward, its lower half trapped in the frigid waters. Parts of the sled were splintered and cracked, slats sticking out in jagged relief, bindings torn and shredded.

  Ray shook his head. He had never seen anything like it. A hole opening and then closing again, crushing a toboggan into kindling. Damn, this was weird!

  He started forward, intending to go only another few steps, but the ice gave way beneath him all at once, breaking and snapping apart as if formed of the thinnest crust. Ray threw himself backward toward safety, but he was already sliding down into the freezing waters, the shock
of the cold taking his breath away. He went all the way under, then fought his way back to the surface, gasping for breath. His heavy boots and coat dragged at him, and he kicked his way out of them, shucking off his gloves as well, all the while groping desperately for a solid piece of ice on which to find a grip.

  "Help!" he screamed, his voice thin and high-pitched. "Help! For God's sake!"

  Thrashing wildly in the freezing waters, he tried to reach the edge of the ice. But his flashlight was lost, its light gone out, and he could not find the edge of the hole.

  "Help me!" he cried in a long, desperate wail.

  Then he saw the eyes, yellow and bright and all around, slipping through the darkness just at the edge of his vision, watching him struggle.

  Waiting.

  The ice began to shift. He heard it crack and snap, then felt the water about him lift in a slow wave. The crunching that followed was deep and resonant and filled the whole of the night's silence. He screamed anew, but something was dragging at his legs, pulling him under. He went down, then flailed back to the surface, gasping for air. No! he was screaming inside his head. Oh, please, no!

  He went down again, and this time when he came back to the surface, the ice was in his face, closing over him. He groped for the edge of the hole and managed to get one arm out before the ice locked about his wrist, trapping everything but his hand beneath the surface. He kicked and lunged frantically from beneath, but the ice would not give way.

  From above, just where he could see them, the strange yellow eyes peered down at him hungrily. For a few moments longer, his bare hand groped and twitched in the night air. When it finally quit moving, frost began to form on the skin until it looked as if the hand wore a white glove.

  The eyes watched a little while longer, then disappeared.

  TUESDAY, DECEMBER 23

  Chapter 15

  It was dark the next morning when Nest rose to go running. Light from streetlamps pooled on the snow outside, and the luminous crystals of her bedside clock told her it wasn't yet five. She dressed in the dark, pulling on tights and running shoes, adding sweats, then tiptoed down the hall to the back entry where she picked out a rolled watch cap, gloves, and a scarf. A glance at the coatrack revealed no sign of Bennett's parka. Apparently, she hadn't come home.

  The early morning air was so cold it took her breath away. She jogged up the drive, highstepping through drifts to the road, and began to run. The snowplows had been out early, and Woodlawn was already scraped down to the blacktop in a broad swath that cut like a river through the snow. Somewhere in the distance, the plows were still working, the growl of the big engines and the harsh scrape of the metal blades clearly audible in the windless silence. Nothing moved on the road ahead, and she ran alone down its center, picking her way along the cleanest sections, avoiding patches of ice and frozen snow, breathing deep and slow as she moved out toward the country.

  Out where, in the solitude and silence, in the deep midwinter calm, she could be at peace.

  Streetlights illuminated her path until she was past Hope-well's residences and into the farmland beyond. By then, the eastern sky was showing the first traces of brightness, and the black of night was lightening to deep gray. Stars glimmered in small, distant patches through breaking clouds, and the snow-covered fields reflected their silvery sheen.

  She picked up her pace, the adrenaline surging through her body, a humming in her ears, the warmth of her blood pushing past the night chill until she didn't feel it anymore. Her mind worked in response to her body's energy, and her thoughts whirled this way and that, like kids waving their hands in a classroom, eager to ask questions. She wrestled with them in silence as she listened to the pounding of her shoes on the pavement, working through the mix of emotions the thoughts triggered. She should have been smarter about last night, taking them all to the toboggan run and putting them at risk. She should have been smarter about Bennett and not let her go out alone afterward. She probably should have been smarter about a lot of things—like running alone in the early morning hours when she was vulnerable to an attack by the demons stalking John Ross and the gypsy morph, almost as if daring them to try something.

  And perhaps, she thought darkly, she was. Let them try contending with Wraith.

  She shook off her bravado quickly, recognizing it for what it was, knowing where it led. Reason and caution would serve her better. But it was anger that drove her thinking. She had not asked to be put in this position, she kept telling herself. She had not wanted Ross to come back into her life, bringing trouble in the form of a four-year-old boy who wouldn't communicate with anyone. That he had spoken her name, bringing them to her, was bad enough. But that her name alone seemed to be the extent of his ability to respond to her, a boundary beyond which he could not go, was infuriating.

  * * *

  Last night, when Ross and Harper were asleep and she was waiting up for Bennett, just beginning to worry that perhaps everything was not as it should be, he had come out of his room to sit with her. As soundless and fluid as a shadow, he had taken a place on the couch next to her. He had looked at her for just a moment, his blue eyes sweeping her face, and then he had turned his attention to the darkness that lay outside, staring once more through the window into the park. She had watched in silence for a time, then turned around to kneel next to him. The lights were all off, save for a nightlight in the hallway, so there was no reflection in the window, and the snowy sweep of the park, its broad expanse white and shimmering, lay revealed beyond the jagged wall of the hedgerow.

  "What are you thinking, Little John?" she had asked, again trying out Two Bears' advice. Then added, "What do you see?"

  No answer. The boy's features were delicate and fragile, his body slender. His mop of dusky blond hair hung over his forehead and about his ears in ragged wisps. He needed a haircut, she thought, wondering if she should give him one. He needed food and love and a sense of belonging. He was too frail, in danger of fading away.

  "Can't you say something, Little John?" she pressed. "Can't you talk to me just a little? You spoke my name once. John told me so. You said 'Nest.' That's my name. Did you know about me? Tell me if you did, Little John. Tell me what you need, and I will try to give it to you."

  No answer. The boy's eyes remained fixed on the park.

  "I have magic, too," she said finally, easing so close they were touching. She half expected him to flinch or move away, but he stayed perfectly still. "I was born with magic, just like you. It isn't easy having magic, is it? Magic does things to you that you don't always like. It makes you be something you don't necessarily want to be. Has that happened with you?"

  She waited, then continued. "I have a magic living inside me that I don't want there. It's my father's magic, and he gave it to me when I was very little. I didn't know it for a long time. I found out when I was fourteen. This magic is a ghost wolf called Wraith. Wraith is very big and scary. When I was little, he followed me everywhere, watching over me. Now he lives inside me. I don't really know how it happened…"

  She trailed off, not liking how it made her feel to think about Wraith and magic. Flashes of Seattle and her battle with the demon who was trying to subvert John Ross roiled through her mind. It was her confrontation with the demon that had brought Wraith out of her, had revealed his presence. In her memories she felt him rise anew, taking who and what she was with him, sealing them together, so that she felt a part of his dark rage, his terrible power.

  He had appeared again, unbidden and unwelcome, at the last race she had ever run…

  She closed her eyes for a moment and then opened them to the window-framed night. "If you could tell me about your magic, Little John, maybe we could help each other. Maybe we could make each other understand something about what's happened to us. I don't like living with myself like this. Do you?" She placed her hand gently on his thin wrist, feeling his warmth and the beat of his pulse beneath her fingertips. "Maybe we could make each other feel a little better if we ta
lked about it."

  But the gypsy morph did not answer, and although she stayed next to him talking for a long time afterward, there was no response, and at last she went to bed, leading him down the hall to his own room. She was tired and dejected, her perceived failures magnified by the lateness of the hour and her inability to make even the smallest progress in unlocking his voice.

  * * *

  She was running smoothly now, the roadway straight and open ahead, leading her on toward Moonlight Bay and the river. Her worries disappeared into the rhythm of her pace, fading away as she ran, left behind as surely as the place she had started from. When she returned, of course, they would be waiting. But they wouldn't seem so bad then; they would be more manageable. That was how running worked.

  At the five-mile mark, she turned around and started back again, feeling loose and easy and clearheaded. Her breath clouded the air before her, and her arms and legs pumped smoothly in the cold. She ran almost every day the weather allowed her to, ran because running was what she had done all her life to make herself feel better. It was what had given her strength when she needed it as a girl. It was what had led her to the Olympics and her eight-year professional career as a runner. It was what had, on more than one occasion, saved her life.

  Sometimes, she wondered what she would have done without it. It was hard to imagine; running defined who she was, defined her approach to life. It wasn't that she ran from life, but all through it and around it to gain perspective and to find the answers she needed to deal with it. Mostly, she believed, she ran toward it. She was direct in her approach to things, a lesson she had learned from Gran years ago. Nest didn't mind. She thought, on balance, that Gran's way was probably best.

  But, at the moment, she was having trouble making that approach to life work.

  As she turned up the drive, she saw a fresh set of footprints in the snow. Bennett had returned. She came in the back door quietly, not knowing if anyone was awake yet, and heard voices from the living room. Shucking off her cap, scarf, gloves, and running shoes, she eased quietly down the hallway and peeked around the corner.