There was a long silence when he finished as she digested the implications of his admonition. He stood rigid in her hand, arms folded across his wooden chest, mouth set in a tight line, eyes bright with challenge. He was trying to tell her something, she realized suddenly. His words had more than one meaning; his warning was about something else. A sense of uneasiness crept through her, a shadow of deep uncertainty. She found herself thinking back on the past few days, on Ben–nett Scott's rescue from the cliffs, on the maentwrog's emergence from its prison, and on the increased presence and boldness of the feeders. Did it have to do with these?
What was Pick trying to say?
She knew she would not find out today. She had seen that look on his face before, stubborn and irascible. He was done talking.
She felt suddenly drained and worn. She lowered Pick to the ground, waited impatiently for him to step out of her hand, and then stood up again. "I'm going home after all," she told him. "I'll see you tonight."
Without waiting for his reply, she turned and walked off into the trees.
She didn't go home, however. Instead, she walked through the park, angling down off the heights to the bayou's edge and following the riverbank west. She took her time, letting her emotions settle, giving herself a chance to think through the things that were bothering her. She could put a voice to some of them, but not yet to all. What troubled her was a combination of what had already come about and what she sensed was yet to happen. The latter was not a premonition exactly–more an unpleasant whisper of possibility. The day was hot and still, and the sun beat down out of the cloudless sky on its slow passage west. The park was silent and empty–feeling, and even the voices of the picnickers seemed distant and subdued. As if everyone was waiting for what she anticipated. As if everyone knew it was coming.
She passed below the toboggan slide and above a pair of young boys fishing off the bank by the skating shelter. She glanced up the long, straight, wooden sluice to the tower where the sledders began their runs in winter, remembering the feeling of shooting down toward the frozen river, gathering speed for the launch onto the ice. Inside she felt as if it were happening to her now in another way, as if she were racing toward something vast and broad and slick, and that once she, reached it she would be out of control.
The afternoon wore on. She looked for feeders, but did not see any. She looked for Daniel and did not see him either. She remembered that she had forgotten to ask Pick if he was making any progress in the search for Bennett Scott's cat, Spook. Leaves threw dappled shadows on the ground she walked across, and she imagined faces and shapes in their patterns. She found herself wondering about her father and her mother, both such mysterious figures in her life, so removed in time, almost mythical. She thought of Gran and her stubborn refusal to speak of them in any concrete way. A cold, hard determination grew inside her. She would make Gran tell her, she promised herself. She would force her to speak.
She walked to the base of the cliffs, staying back from where the caves tunneled into the rock. Pick had told her never to go there. He had made her promise. It wasn't safe for her, he insisted. It didn't matter that other kids explored the caves regularly and no harm came to them. Other kids couldn't see the feeders. Other kids didn't have use of the magic. She was at risk, and she must keep away.
She shook her head as she turned and began to walk up the roadway that led to the bluff. There it was again, she thought. The realization that she was different. Always different.
She reached the heights and turned toward the cemetery. She thought she might visit her mother's grave. She had a sudden need to do so, a need to connect in some small way with her lost past. She crossed the road in front of the Indian mounds and turned in to the trees. The sun burned white–hot in the afternoon sky, its glare blinding her as she walked into it. She squinted and shaded her eyes with her hand.
Ahead, someone moved in the blaze of light.
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, anyway?"