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 unmask it and force it to face him, and every time the demon had escaped. Like a sickness that passed itself from person to person, the demon first infected them with its madness, then gave them over to the feeders to devour. Until now Ross had searched in vain for a way to stop it. It had been difficult even to find it, virtually impossible to lay hands on it. But that was about to change. The dreams had finally revealed something useful to him, something beyond the haunting rain of the future that awaited should he fail, something so crucial to the demon's survival that it might prove its undoing.
John Ross reached the comer of Second Avenue and Third Street and waited for the WALK sign. When it flashed on, he crossed over to Josie's, limped to the front door, and pushed his way inside.
The cafe was busy, the Saturday–morning crowd filling all but one of the tables and booths, the air pungent with the smell of coffee and doughnuts. Ross glanced about, taking in the faces of the customers, noting in particular the large table of men at the back, then moved to the counter. The stools were mostly vacant. He took one at the far end and lowered himself comfortably in place. The air–conditioning hummed, and the sweat dried on his face and hands. He leaned the black walking stick between the counter and his knee, bracing it there. Talk and laughter drifted about him in the mingling of voices. He did not look around. He did not need to. The man he had come to find was present.
The woman working the counter came over to him. She was pretty, with long, tousled blondish hair tied back in a ponytail, expressive dark eyes, and sun–browned skin. White cotton shorts and a collared blouse hugged the soft curves of her body. But it was her smile that captivated him. It was big and open and dazzling. It had been a long time since anyone had smiled at him like that.
"Good morning," she greeted. "Would you like some coffee?"
He stared at her without answering, feeling something stir inside that had lain dormant for a long time. Then he caught himself and shook his head quickly. "No, thank you, miss."
"Miss?" Her grin widened. "Been quite a while since anyone called me that. Do I know you?"
Ross shook his head a second time. "No. I'm not from around here."
"I didn't think so. I'm pretty good with faces, and I don't remember yours. Would you like some breakfast?"
He thought about it a moment, studying the menu board posted on the wall behind her. "You know, what I'd really like is a Cherry Coke."
She cocked an eyebrow at him. "I think we can fix you up." She walked away, and he watched her go, wondering at the unexpected attraction he felt for her, trying to remember when he had last felt that way about anyone. He looked down at his hands where they rested on the counter. His hands were shaking. His life, he knew, was a shambles.
A man and a boy came into the coffee shop, approached the counter, glanced at the available seats, and then squeezed themselves in between two men farther down the way. Ross could feel their eyes on him. He did not react. It was always like this, as if somehow people could sense the truth of what he was.
The woman with the smile returned carrying his Cherry Coke. If she could sense the truth, she didn't show it. She set the Coke on a napkin in front of him and folded her arms under her breasts. She was probably somewhere in her thirties, but she looked younger than that.
"Sure you wouldn't like a Danish or maybe some coffee cake? You look hungry."
He smiled in spite of himself, forgetting for a moment his weariness. "I must be made of glass, the way you see right through me. As a matter of fact, I'm starved. I was just trying to decide what to order."
"Now we're getting somewhere," she declared, smiling back. "Since this is your first visit, let me make a suggestion. Order the hash. It's my own recipe. You won't be sorry."
"All right. Your own recipe, is it?"
"Yep. This is my place." She stuck out her hand. "I'm Josie Jackson."
"John Ross." He took her hand in his own and held it. Her hand was cool. "Nice to meet you."
"Nice to meet you, too. Nice to meet anyone who still calls me 'miss' and means it." She laughed and walked away.
He finished the Cherry Coke, and when the hash arrived he ordered a glass of milk to go with it. He ate the hash and drank the milk without looking up. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Josie Jackson looking at him as she passed down the counter.
When he was finished, she came back and stood in front of him. There were freckles on her nose underneath the tan. Her arms were smooth and brown. He found himself wanting to touch her skin.
"You were right," he said. "The hash was good."
She beamed, her smile dazzling. "Do you want some more? I think the house can spare seconds."
"No, thank you anyway."
"Can I get you anything else?"
"No, that's fine." He glanced over one shoulder as if checking something, then looked back at her. "Can I ask you a question?"
Her mouth quirked at the corners. "That depends on the question."
He glanced over his shoulder again. "Is that Robert Freemark sitting back there with those men?"