“He knows it. They all do.”
“Well, I’ve talked to just about all of them. Alf was next on my list.”
“I think he knew that too. He told me just this morning that he did not want to talk to you. But he’s sure talking up a storm with everybody else, and he just left here with a pile of papers under his arm, heading for another hush-hush meeting with someone.”
“Any idea of what they’re going to do about me?”
“Oh, you can be sure they will do something, and I get the feeling they’re loading for bear. Consider yourself warned.”
“And I’d advise you to be the sweet, ignorant angel who knows nothing and says nothing. Things could get messy.”
“If they do, Marshall, can I come to you for answers, or at least a ticket out of town?”
“We’ll be able to deal.”
“I’ll give you anything I can find if you’ll keep me safe.”
Marshall caught it in her voice: this gal was scared. “Hey now, remember, I didn’t ask you to get involved.”
“I didn’t ask to be involved. I just am. I know Alf Brummel. I’d better pick you for my friend.”
“I’ll keep you posted. Now hang up and act normal.”
She did.
ALF BRUMMEL WAS in Juleen Langstrat’s office, and the two of them were looking over a very thick portfolio of information Brummel had brought.
“Hogan now has enough to fill a front page!” Brummel said quite unhappily. “You’ve berated me for being slow in taking care of Busche, but as far as I can see, you’ve given Hogan nothing but a clear freeway since the beginning.”
“Calm down, Alf,” Langstrat said soothingly. “Just calm down.”
“He’s going to be coming after me for an interview any day now, just like he’s gone after all the others. What do you suggest I say to him?”
Langstrat was a little shocked at his stupidity. “Don’t say anything, of course!”
Brummel paced the room, exasperated. “I don’t have to, Juleen! By this point, nothing I say or don’t say will make any difference anyway. He already has everything he needs: he knows about the property sales, he has very good leads on all the sheriff sales of the tax delinquent homes, he knows all about the Corporation and the Society, he has good information on the college embezzlements … he even has more than enough evidence to accuse me of false arrest!”
Langstrat smiled with pleasure. “Your spy has done very well.”
“She brought me a lot of this material today. He’s getting it all organized in a file now. He’s about to make his move, I’d say.”
Langstrat gathered all the material neatly, placed it back in its portfolio, and leaned back in her chair. “I love it.”
Brummel only looked at her in amazement and shook his head. “You could lose at this game someday, you know. We could all lose!”
“I love a challenge,” she exulted. “I love taking on a strong opponent. The stronger the opponent, the more exhilarating the victory! Most of all, I love winning.” She smiled at him, truly pleased. “Alf, I’ve had my doubts about you, but I think you’ve come through bountifully. I think you should be there to see Mr. Hogan step into the snare.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it.”
“Oh, you will. You will.”
THERE WAS A short lull, and it got strangely quiet around the town of Ashton. People weren’t in touch. Nothing much was said.
During the day Marshall and Bernice organized their materials and stuck close to the office. Marshall took Kate out to dinner one night. Bernice sat at home and tried to read a novel.
Alf Brummel kept regular hours, but he didn’t have much to say to Sara or anyone else about anything. Langstrat fell ill, or so the word was from her office, and her classes were canceled for a few days.
Hank and Mary thought that maybe their phone was out of order, the thing had been so silent. The Colemans visited relatives out of town. The Forsythes took the chance to do some inventory at the lumberyard. The rest of the Remnant all went about their normal business.
There was an odd stillness everywhere. The skies were hazy, the sun a blurred ball of light, the air warm and sticky. It was quiet.
But no one could relax.
High on a hill above the town, in the top of a graying, long-dead snag of an old tree, like an enormous black vulture, Rafar, the Prince of Babylon, sat. Other demons attended him, waiting to hear his next command, but Rafar was silent. Hour upon hour, a tense scowl on his face, he sat and gazed down at the town with his slowly shifting yellow eyes.
On another hill, directly across the town from Rafar’s big dead tree, Tal and his warriors concealed themselves in the woods. They also were looking out over the town, and they could feel the lull, the silence, the ominous deadness of the air.
Guilo stood at his captain’s side, and he knew this feeling. It had always been the same throughout the centuries.
“It could be any time now. Are we ready?” he asked Tal.
“No,” Tal said flatly, looking intensely over the town. “Not all the Remnant are gathered. Those who have gathered are not praying, not enough. We haven’t the numbers or the strength.”
“And the black cloud of spirits over the Strongman grows a hundredfold each day.”
Tal looked up into the sky over Ashton. “They will fill the sky from horizon to horizon.”
From their hiding place they could look across the valley, over several miles, and see their hideous opponent sitting in the big dead tree.
“His strength has not waned,” said Guilo.
“He is more than ready to do battle,” said Tal, “and he can pick his own time, his own place, and the best of his warriors. He could attack on a hundred different fronts at once.”
Guilo only shook his head. “You know we can’t defend that many.”
Just then a messenger rushed toward them, on the wing.
“Captain,” he said, alighting next to Tal, “I’ve brought word from the Strongman’s Lair. There is a stirring there. The demons are growing restless.”
“It’s beginning,” said Tal, and this word was passed back through the ranks. “Guilo!”
Guilo stepped up. “Captain!”
Tal took Guilo aside. “I have a plan. I want you to take a small contingent with you and set up watch over that valley—”
Guilo was not one to argue with the captain, but “A small contingent? To watch the Strongman?”
The two of them continued in conference, Tal mapping out his instructions, Guilo shaking his head dubiously. At length Guilo came back to the group, picked out his warriors, and said, “Let’s be off!”
With a rush of wings the two dozen weaved and zigzagged through the forest until they were far enough away to take to the open sky.
Tal summoned a strong warrior. “Replace Signa in guarding the church, and tell him to come to me.”
Then he summoned another messenger. “Tell Krioni and Triskal to rouse Hank and get him praying, and all the Remnant.”
In a short moment Signa arrived.
“Come with me,” said Tal. “Let’s talk.”
It had been a quiet afternoon for Hank and Mary. Mary spent most of it in the little garden behind the house, while Hank worked to repair a corner of the backyard fence that kids had broken a hole through. As Mary hunted for weeds among her vegetables, she noticed Hank’s hammering getting more and more sporadic until finally it stopped altogether. She looked his way and saw him sitting there, the hammer still in his hand, praying.
He seemed very disturbed, so she asked, “Are you all right?”
Hank opened his eyes, and without looking up he shook his head. “I don’t feel good at all.”
She went over to him. “What is it?”
Hank knew where the feeling came from. “The Lord, I guess. I just feel something’s really wrong. Something terrible is about to happen. I’m going to call the Forsythes.”
Just then the phone in the house rang. Hank went in
and answered it. It was Andy Forsythe.
“Sorry to bother you, Pastor, but I was just wondering if you feel a real burden of prayer right now. I know I sure do.”
“Come on over,” said Hank.
The fence would have to wait.
On into the evening the angelic host waited, while Hank, the Forsythes, and several others prayed. Rafar continued to sit up in the dead tree, his eyes beginning to glow in the steadily thickening darkness. His taloned fingers continued to drum his knee; his brow stayed crinkled with his intense scowl. Behind him a host of demons began to gather, primed with anticipation and rapt with attention, waiting to hear Rafar’s order.
The sun dipped behind the hills on the west side; the sky was washed with red fire.
Rafar sat and waited. The demonic host waited.
IN HER BEDROOM Juleen Langstrat sat on her bed, her legs crossed in the lotus position of Eastern meditation, her eyes closed, her head erect, her body perfectly still. Except for one single candle, the room was dark. There, under the shroud of the darkness, she convened her meeting with the Ascended Masters, the Spirit Guides from the higher planes. Deep within her consciousness, far within the depths of her inner being, she spoke with a messenger.
To the eyes of Langstrat’s entranced mind the messenger appeared as a young lady, all dressed in white, with flowing blonde hair that reached nearly to the ground and was constantly in motion, wafted by the breeze.
“Where is my master?” Langstrat asked the messenger.
“He waits above the town, watching over it,” came the girl’s answer. “His armies are ready for your word.”
“All is ready. He may await my signal.”
“Yes, my lady.”
The messenger departed like a beautiful gazelle, leaping gracefully away.
The messenger departed, a filthy black nightmare of a creature borne on membranous wings; he departed to take word to Rafar, who still waited.
Darkness deepened over Ashton; the candle in Langstrat’s room dwindled to one round, ebbing flame in a pool of wax, the inky blackness overtaking its weak, orange light. Langstrat stirred, opened her glazed eyes, and arose from the bed. With a very small puff of breath she extinguished the candle and moved in a half daze into the living room where another candle was burning on the coffe table, the wax flowing and hardening into macabre fingers across the photograph of Ted Harmel on which the candle sat.
Langstrat sank to her knees beside the coffee table, her head held high, her eyes half shut, her movements slow and liquid. As if floating in space, her arms rose upward over the candle, stretching out an invisible canopy over the flame, and then, so very quietly, the name of an ancient god began to form itself on her lips again and again. The name, a guttural, harsh sound, spilled forth from her like the spitting of hundreds of invisible pebbles, and with each mention of the name, her trance deepened. Steadily, steadily the name tumbled forth, louder and faster, and Langstrat’s eyes widened and remained unblinking and glaring. Her body began to quiver and tremble; her voice became an eerie wailing sound.
Rafar could hear it all from where he sat and waited. His own breathing began to deepen and chug out of his nostrils like putrid yellow steam. His eyes narrowed, his talons flexed.
Langstrat swayed and quivered, calling out the name, calling out the name, her eyes fixed on the candle’s flame, calling out the name.
And then she froze.
Rafar looked up, very still, very attentive, listening.
Time stood still. Langstrat remained motionless, her arms extended over the candle.
Rafar listened.
Air began to slowly flow into Langstrat’s mouth and nostrils, her lungs began to fill, and then, with one sudden cry from deep within, she brought her hands down like a trap, clapping them on the candle’s wick, snuffing out the flame.
“Go!” shouted Rafar, and hundreds of demons shot into the sky like a thunderous flock of bats, rushing along a straight and level trajectory northward.
“Look,” said an angelic warrior, and Tal and his host all saw what looked like a black swarm silhouetted against the night sky, an elongated puff of smoke.
“Going north,” observed Tal. “Away from Ashton.”
Rafar watched the squadron disappear at great speed and let a mocking grin bare his fangs. “I’ll keep you guessing, Captain of the Host!”
Tal shouted out his orders. “Cover Hogan and Busche! Awaken the Remnant!”
A hundred angels soared downward into the town.
Tal could still see Rafar sitting in the big dead tree.
“Just what are your plans, Prince of Babylon?” he murmured.
THE PHONE STARTLED Marshall out of a restless sleep. The clock said 3:48 A.M. Kate moaned at being awakened. He grabbed up the receiver and mumbled hello.
For a moment he didn’t have the slightest idea who was on the other end or what they were saying. The voice was wild, hysterical, high-pitched.
“Hey, simmer down and slow down or I’ll hang up!” Marshall snapped hoarsely. Suddenly he recognized the voice. “Ted? Is this Ted?”
“Hogan …” came Ted Harmel’s voice, “they’re coming for me! They’re all over the place!”
Marshall was awake now. He pressed the receiver to his ear, trying to understand what Ted was blubbering about. “I can’t hear you! What’d you say?”
“They found out I talked! They’re all over the place!”
“Who is?”
Ted started crying and screaming unintelligibly, and the sound of it was enough to make Marshall’s insides curl up. He groped around the bedside stand for his pen and pad.
“Ted!” he shouted into the phone, and Kate jerked with a start and turned over to look at him. “Where are you? Are you home?”
Kate could hear the cries and wailings squawking out of the receiver, and it unnerved her. “Marshall, who is it?” she demanded.
Marshall couldn’t answer her; he was too occupied trying to get a clear answer from Ted Harmel. “Ted, listen, tell me where you are.” Pause. Some more cries. “How do I get there? I said, how do I get there?” Marshall began scribbling hurriedly. “Try getting out of there if you can …”
Kate listened, but couldn’t make out what the party on the other end was saying.
Marshall told whoever it was, “Listen, it’s going to take me at least half an hour to get there, and that’s if I can find a station open to get some gas. No, I’ll get over there, just hang tight. All right? Ted? All right?”
“Who’s Ted?”
“All right,” said Marshall into the phone. “Give me time, I’ll get out there. Just take it easy. Good-bye.”
He hung up the phone and bolted out of bed.
“Who in the world was that?” Kate needed to know.
Marshall grabbed his clothes and began to dress hurriedly. “Ted Harmel, remember, I told you about him …”
“You’re not going over there tonight, are you?”
“The guy’s going crazy or something, I don’t know.”
“You get back in bed!”
“Kate, I have to go! I can’t afford to lose this contact.”
“No! I don’t believe this! You can’t be serious!”
Marshall was serious. He kissed Kate good-bye before she could even bring herself to believe he was really going, and then he was gone. She sat there in the bed for a few moments, stunned, then flopped down angrily on her back, staring at the ceiling as she heard the car back down the driveway and speed off into the night.
CHAPTER 24
MARSHALL DROVE ABOUT thirty miles north, through the town of Windsor and a little beyond. He was surprised to find out how close to Ashton Ted Harmel still lived, especially after they both met in the mountains over a hundred miles further up Highway 27. This guy has to be crazy, Marshall thought, and maybe I’m just as crazy to be going along with this whole routine. The guy’s paranoid, a real space case.
But he sure sounded convincing over the phone. Besides, it was a
chance to reopen communications with him after that one-time-only interview.
Marshall had to do some backtracking and groping around the maze of winding, unmarked backroads in his efforts to make sense of Harmel’s directions. When he finally located the little shake-sided house at the end of a long gravel road, a ribbon of pink light was growing on the horizon. He’d taken an hour and a half to get there. Yes, there was the old Valiant, parked in the driveway. Marshall pulled in behind it and got out of the car.
The front door of the house was open. The front window was broken. Marshall crouched just a little behind his car, taking a moment to check out the situation. He didn’t like the feelings he was getting at all; his insides had gone through this kind of a dance before, that night when Sandy had run off, and again there seemed no obvious, up-front reason for it. He hated to admit it, but he was afraid to take another step.
“Ted?” he called, not too loudly.
There was no answer.
It didn’t look good at all. Marshall forced himself to make his way around his car, up the walk, and onto the front porch very slowly, very carefully. He kept listening, looking, feeling. There was no sound except his own pounding heart. His shoes crunched just a little on the shards of broken glass from the window. The sound seemed deafening.
C’mon, Hogan, get with it. “Ted?” he called through the open door. “Ted Harmel? It’s Marshall Hogan.”
No answer, but this had to be Ted’s place. There was his coat hanging on the rack; on the wall above the dining room table was a framed front page from the Clarion.
He ventured inside.
The place was a mess. The dishes that had been in the corner hutch were now shattered all over the floor. In the living room a chair lay broken on the floor just below a large hole in the plaster wall. The bulbs were shattered out of the ceiling light fixture. Books from the shelves were thrown everywhere. The side window was also broken out.
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