"What are you two talking about?" Wade asked, irritation in his tone.
He was ignored.
"Do you really believe the Book of Job is fiction?" Dubois asked.
Miles shrugged. "I've drifted away from my faith, Michael," he said, calling the priest by his first name. "So I suppose I'm open to real proof."
"But you're here."
"Yes. I can't deny that, can I?"
"But you won't admit Satan is real?"
Miles smiled. "Whatever is happening here in Whitfield may or may not be real. Why doesn't each of us deal with . . . it in our own way and leave religious dogma for some other time?"
Only Wade did not join in the laughter. Sam said, "That's a nice, safe answer, Miles."
"That's all you're going to get out of me. So be happy with that much."
"Jokes!" Wade muttered. "They're making jokes."
Miles glanced around the small room. "I take it save for Chester, Faye and Jane Ann, this is it?"
"And Peter Canford, yes," Sam said. "This is it."
"And the old people, Haskell reminded them all.
"They are gone and don't know it," Dubois said, and all eyes swung toward him. "The strong must survive. That's a very un-Christian thing to say, and I'll pay for it, but it's the truth."
Miles shifted his feet restlessly. He glanced at Wade. "I take it Sam convinced you where I could not?"
"I didn't say I was convinced," the newspaperman stubbornly held on, "but I'm here."
"But the old people?" Sam said. "They—"
"Drop the subject, son," Lucas spoke gently. "Flagellation won't solve a thing. You'll see what we mean, I promise you."
"Poppycock and balderdash and twaddle," Wade said, folding his arms across his chest.
"Doubting Thomas," Sam said.
"I can't relate to that," Miles smiled, his always good humor breaking through.
"I think," Wade said, "you're all overreacting. And I include myself in that."
"You're very wrong, old friend," Miles said, his grin fading. "And you'll never know what that statement does to me."
"I was shocked at what Sam told me a few minutes ago," the editor admitted. "In my office. But I've had time to think on it. I'm sorry, Sam, but—are you sure Michelle did those things? Or did you put too much into an innocent gesture?"
Father Dubois held up a hand, stilling Wade. "We don't have much time. And we certainly don't have time for bickering among ourselves. Let's tell our stories—compare notes, if you will. Then I'll tell you all the real story." He glanced at Sam. "If you'll begin, Sam."
For the second time that day, Sam told his story, leaving nothing out. When he finished, he felt drained. All the men—including Wade—sat quietly.
Sam glanced at Dubois. The old priest sat quietly, his hands clasped in his lap, a smile on his lips. A sad, knowing smile. His eyes were dark with secrets.
He knows, Sam realized. He knows more than all of us.
Sam shifted his gaze to the Methodist. Lucas wore a worried look, and Sam knew it had nothing to do with his losing battle with cancer. The Episcopal priest sat very still, holding an empty coffee cup in his hands. Miles slowly shook his head, his lips forming a silent aahhh. Wade shifted his feet on the carpet, not convinced.
Lucas said, "I know perfectly well what is happening in this town. I know the evil that surrounds us all. I know it personally, and it frightens me."
"I told you twenty years ago, Lucas," Dubois said. "I warned you then you couldn't outrun your past. Neither can I."
"Yes," the Methodist whispered. "I know. But it's too late for me—I'm dying. But not for you."
"I've got to meet him again," Dubois said.
"What are you two talking about?" Wade asked, exasperation in his voice, his actions, as he waved his hands in the air. "Who is it you've got to meet?" He smiled. "Or is it whom? I never can get that straight."
But no one laughed.
"The antisemitism has begun," Miles spoke. "In earnest."
"In what way?" Sam asked.
"The phone calls began about two months ago, becoming more vicious as time passed. Now they're really bad. Doris is frightened half out of her wits. The calls—callers—have become extremely abusive."
"Is that why you abruptly sent your kids to Colorado?" Sam asked.
"One of the reasons," Miles said gently.
"Will somebody please get back to my question?" Wade said. "Who is it you people have to meet? And why?"
The expression on Father Dubois's face was a mixture of amusement, fear, and sadness. "The devil," he said.
"THE DEVIL!" Wade jumped to his feet. "Oh, come on, gentlemen, now look here. I'll admit there is something going on in this town; I conceded that much to Miles and Sam. But the devil? No! I absolutely refuse to believe any—"
"SIT DOWN!" Dubois shouted. It was the first time Sam had ever heard the priest raise his voice. "Listen to me, Wade. Listen to me very carefully.
"I'm seventy years old, son. I've been a priest for a long, long time. This has been my parish for more than thirty-five years. I remember you as a little boy. Son, I've written volumes on the happenings in Fork County. I have your father's journals as well."
"My father's writings! I want them! I've searched everywhere—"
"Hush," Dubois commanded gently. "Listen to me. Your father knew—sensed—something evil about this area. But he spoke not a word of it—to anyone. Except, finally, to me. We talked at length until he was certain I knew what I was talking about, and he could trust me, and I him. I warned him not to go too far, to be careful in his prying. But," the old priest shrugged, "he was a good newspaper man. I wish I could have known him longer." He smiled. "Your father did not take kindly to my warnings. Oh, he believed me—your father was a good Christian man. Also a very brave man. His bravery got him killed that day."
"You know who killed my father?"
"Of course, I know who killed him."
"Well, who?"
"The devil," Dubois replied calmly, with no more emotion than if he were discussing the price of eggs.
Miles suddenly looked very uncomfortable.
Lucas and Father Haskell nodded in agreement.
Sam sat stunned.
Wade was unhappy, unconvinced, irritable, and becoming even more skeptical of Dubois. "I want my dad's journals," he said.
Dubois rose, left the room, and returned with several thick ledgers. Wade took them, holding them almost reverently. He stared at the priest. "You know—you're convinced the devil—is out there?" he waved his arm.
"Yes, son."
"You've known this for—umpteen years?"
"Yes, I have. So did your father, as you will see when you read those journals."
"Well, why didn't you do something about it? Why didn't you do something about it—before now, I mean! If you're so convinced the devil is lurking about Whitfield—do something!"
Dubois smiled. "What would you have me do, son?"
"Well—I—you—oh, crap!" Wade said, sitting down. "This is all just too fantastic for words."
"A grown man is pouting," Miles smiled.
"Miles," Wade looked at his friend, "if this . .. whatever it is is as serious as you obviously believe it is, why are you making jokes about it?"
"Because I don't know what else to do," he admitted, unhappily. "I told you the last time we spoke—I'm frightened. I don't know what to believe, except that something awful is happening here, and something even worse is about to happen. If you think you're in a bind, think about the situation I'm in! To a Jew, Satan is considered not much more than a figure of speech. No play on words, friend, but this puts me in a hell of a spot." He grinned.
"Well, I'm a reporter," Wade clung stubbornly to his profession. "I deal in facts, not superstition."
"Then I'll give you some more grist for your mill," Dubois said. "Loup-garou," he spoke the words softly.
"What?" Haskell's head jerked up. "What was that?"
"French f
or werewolf," Sam said. "Fellow in my outfit was from South Louisiana—bayou country. He told me many of the old people still believe quite strongly in them."
"With good reason," Dubois said. "There are several places in the deep bayou country where Beasts have been sighted over the past couple of centuries. As civilization closes in on them, they will be seen more and more in the years to come."
"WEREWOLVES!" Wade blurted. "Oh, come on, people. Now, really!"
Sam ignored him, speaking to Dubois. "Yeti? Sasquash?"
"Quite possibly, as well as the Skunk Ape. I'm sure they are descendants of the Beasts, possibly more advanced mentally."
"WEREWOLVES?" Wade appeared stuck on the word.
"I've heard them," Dubois said. "Not often, but I've heard them. Howling, snapping, snarling—the stink of them. And I'm not alone. Your father heard them, too, Wade. They killed him, or caused him to kill himself, as the case may be. You're too young to remember the events of that night and following day, but I do, very well. The blood of the Beasts is very infectious. Those people were transformed in a matter of minutes, from human to animal, and worse. No, Wade, they re not werewolves in the classic book or movie sense, but I'm sure that's where the original idea sprang. They are the devil's servants. Believe it."
"Werewolves," Wade nodded his head. "Sure! Well, that's just wonderful! Great! First we have the devil, now we have werewolves lurking about. Where are the witches and the warlocks. Surely this scenario can't be complete without them."
"They are all present, Wade," Lucas said. "Believe it."
"But you're all men of God!" Wade cried out as if in pure anguish. "How can any of you believe this—crap?"
"Because I've seen him," Dubois said. "I've seen him, and I have beaten him—once."
Doubt in the editor's eyes. "Then beat him again," he said sarcastically.
Dubois ignored the cynicism. "I can't."
"Why?" Wade challenged him.
The priest sighed. "Because I'm too old. I'm tired. I beat him almost forty-five years ago, in Montreal. I was a young man. But I was sick for weeks afterward. Drained—very close to death." He shuddered in mental recall. "I shall never forget the smell of him. Afterward, I was too weak to even feed myself. The Sisters took care of me. I was months recovering. The Devil knows I'm too old, now. It's a game to him. He knows I'm here, though. He's known all along. Ask Lucas, he'll tell you the same thing."
"How did you beat him?" Wade asked.
"I drove him out."
"Exorcism?"
"Yes."
"I don't believe in that!"
Dubois smiled his sad, patient smile. "Do you believe in the supernatural, Wade? In any form of it?"
"I believe there are things man cannot satisfactorily explain."
"Join the club," Miles muttered under his breath. Only Sam heard him, and he smiled.
"Nice, safe answer," Dubois said. "I can but assume you believe in God?"
"Of course, I believe in God!"
"Well, then, if you believe in God, then you must believe in the devil."
Miles sighed, a pained look on his face.
"I never said I didn't believe in the devil, Father Dubois. I just don't believe the devil is responsible for all that is happening in Whitfield."
"Then who, or what, is?"
"I don't know. But none of you has convinced me the devil is behind it, or that he's here. If he's here, gentlemen—and no offense to any of you—I want to see him."
"Son, I pray God you never get your wish," Dubois said.
"Wade," Sam said, "where, then, were all those people going last night? Hundreds of them?"
The editor shook his head, refusing to answer.
Sam turned to Lucas Monroe. "A moment ago, Lucas, Father Dubois said to ask you about something. What did he mean?"
The Methodist sighed, a faint smile on his lips. He glanced at Dubois. "There is never any escaping it, is there, Michael?"
"I told you, Lucas. Years ago."
"Yes. Well, so you did. Sam, many years ago I had a church in—well, never mind where. That would serve no useful purpose, not now. A young girl became, well—possessed. I was not convinced of her possession. It didn't take me long to become convinced, though. There is no need to go into great detail. You will all, I'm afraid, soon learn the power of that . . . creature! I sat with the girl, working with her, praying, for a long time—days. I exorcised the . . . thing from her."
"A MethodistP" Wade blurted.
"Shut up, Wade! Sam warned him.
The editor shut his mouth.
"I emerged from the ordeal," Lucas spoke softly, "looking like a man three times my age. My hair was snow-white; the color it is now. At the time, I was twenty-eight years old.
"Things began happening to me—and my family. Both my children were killed in separate, horrible accidents. My wife became suddenly, and to the medical profession, mysteriously ill. She lingered in great agony for months, and then died—horribly. Many unexplained things happened. Finally, I suffered a mental breakdown, knowing that everything that had happened to my family was my fault. After I was released from the sanitarium, I asked for a church far away from that city. I've been here ever since, living quietly."
Lucas smiled gently. "It's really quite a joke, isn't it, Michael? To get away from . . . him, I came to one of his strongholds. I felt his presence as soon as I arrived, but it was a feeble signal. A few months ago, it became quite intense. Then it began building, getting stronger and stronger. I knew—sensed—he would soon surface. Of course, Father Dubois and I knew of each other; there is a small circle of men who have done what we performed. Word gets around. I spoke with Michael about my feelings of alarm. He said he, too, felt it. He knew the devil was closing in, gathering his forces of evil, building another Coven. We discussed talking with you people, but we didn't know who to trust. We did agree that if you—I'm talking about you, Sam—did not come to us today, we were going to take a chance and call you. To form a battle plan, so to speak. For those of us who are left."
"If it isn't too late," Dubois added.
"What do you mean?" Wade asked, unbelieving but still fascinated by the talk from the men of God. "Too late?"
"He's called out the Beasts," Father Haskell spoke. He sat holding a cross in his hands, fingering the silver crucifix, thinking of his wife, dead five years, and wondering if he would soon join her—and in what way?
"The Beasts? Don't tell me you believe in all this mumbo jumbo, too, Glen?" Wade looked at the Episcopalian. "Next you'll be telling me you performed one of these exorcisms."
"It isn't mumbo jumbo, Wade. It's very real, and it's happening to our town. And, yes, I assisted in an exorcism shortly after I got out of school. It was not very pleasant."
Father Dubois said, "He's found the tablet that was hidden here by the trapper Duhon, and his agent is drawing power from it."
"I know the name," Wade said. "I discussed Duhon with Sam not an hour ago. But what tablet?"
"He walks among you," Sam said. The mark of the Beast is plain. Believe in him. Once touched, forever his. The kiss of life and death.
Dubois and Haskell crossed themselves as sudden remembrance came lurching into Sam's mind. "Now I know what happened to Tim."
"Tim?" Dubois asked.
"Tim Bennett. A young archaeologist who came to see me back in early spring. He disappeared soon after that."
"What happened to him?" Miles asked.
"I remember thinking how strange it was that Michelle walked him to his car that day. I believe she kissed him. I'm sure of it."
"She marked him," Haskell said. "Unless he joined them—or became a Beast, he's dead."
Wade stood up. "I think you people are all crazy/"
He was ignored. Feeling like a fool standing in the center of the room with no one paying any attention to him, he sat down.
Dubois said, "Duhon came here from a small village in France that had just thrown out the devil's agent, a man who had
come there as a Forgeron."
"A what?" Miles looked up.
"A blacksmith."
"Black Wilder," Sam said.
"Yes, I believe that is true," Dubois agreed. "Duhon had the tablet with him. He'd been commissioned by his government to get the tablet far away from France—off the continent. He, along with Father Dubois, a distant relative of mine, brought the tablet to America. To what would eventually become Whitfield; to an area the Beasts occupied."
Father Haskell held up a hand for silence, putting a finger to his lips.
"What's wrong, Glen?" Miles whispered.
"We are not alone," the Episcopal priest said.
Sam walked to a window, glancing outside. A young man stood by the side of the rectory, just a few feet away. Sam felt Dubois by his side.
"Sonny Moore," he said. "He left the church several months ago—quite profanely."
"There's someone in the back," Wade said. He stood in the small kitchen, looking out the window. "John Petterson. He was listening to us talk, listening through this open window." He jerked open the door. "What the hell are you doing out here?"
"Just takin' a shortcut, Thomas," the young man said, open challenge in his eyes, his speech. "No law against that—it's a free country, ain't it?"
But the challenge vanished when the bulk of Sam stepped into the door. The ex-warrior, ex-boxer turned preacher with the tattoo on his arm kept the conversation short. "Haul your ashes, boy!" he told him.
Petterson hauled his ashes.
Sam pulled Wade back into the kitchen. "Paul Smiley was standing by the west side of the house," he told him. "We had men all around the rectory, watching and listening."
"Sam?" Wade asked. "What would you have done if Petterson had stood up to you?"
"Knocked him on his butt," the preacher said.
"The ranks are narrowing," Haskell said, pointing to a tree in the front yard. "Look."
Someone had written 666 on the trunk of the tree, using white paint. Just below the numbers they had traced an upside-down cross.
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