"Michael, there are many things I do not understand," Sam confessed, wanting, seeking answers to questions filling his head.
"There are many things / don't understand," Dubois smiled. "When I was a young priest in Montreal, I thought I knew it all. But, of course, I did not. About the Beasts, Sam—did Lucas call them God's mistakes?"
"Yes."
"I've always felt it best not to question God. The Beasts might be His mistake. I don't know. If they are—" The old priest shrugged, his eyes cloudy.
Sam realized he would not get much more from Dubois concerning the Beasts' survival or creation. The priest felt very close to death; perhaps he did not wish to antagonize God this close to meeting Him.
Sam said, "Lucas told me—he said the devil calls out the Beasts when he needs them. Why, then, have people around here been seeing them for years? Or so they claim. Seeing them, and smelling them?"
"I argued with Lucas many times over the years, Sam. We did not agree on the Beasts. I—I believe the people heard and smelled the guardian of the Beasts. The Sentry, if you will. I believe Duhon and my ancestor, Father Dubois, saw the Sentry. He killed them."
"But the tablet remained hidden until recently?"
"Yes. I'll say this much, Sam, it was Lucas's belief that over the past hundred and fifty years, God and Satan fought out near the Dig site. I disagreed in part with him. I've been out there hundreds of times over the past thirty years. I used to go out there and spend entire afternoons, just feeling the powers move silently around me. No, Sam, I believe God and Satan have fought out there for thousands of years. Obviously, if one studies the ancient carvings and drawings on the stones at the Dig, I will not be alone in my belief. Why they fought there?" he shrugged. "I don't know. I don't believe any mortal will ever know."
"Until death?"
"Perhaps."
"Answer this, Michael, why has there not been some reputable archaeological teams in here to study the site?"
"I can't answer that, Sam, other than to say the people in this part of Fork County never speak of the site. I never heard of it until I went prowling one day. It was—I suppose, that night of terror after Wade's father was killed that closed people's mouths around here."
Sam nodded, rising to his feet. He would get no more from Dubois. "I'll go home, now." The exhaustion in him was visible.
"Will you attend John's funeral tomorrow?" Haskell asked.
"Such as it will be, yes. Is there nothing we can do about John's condition?" he directed the question at Dubois.
"Not yet," the priest replied. He glanced at the towel-covered heads. "I'll dispose of those."
But Sam did not drive straight home. Instead, he drove the streets of Whitfield—looking. For what, he didn't know. Just looking. Then it came to him while he drove: not one person was out this night. No one. And for a Saturday night, that was odd.
He drove by Margie's Cafe. Closed and dark. Normally, it would have been far too early for that. The theatre was closed. The drive-in, where the kids usually congregated, was shut down tight. Homes were dark, foreboding, but Sam could feel eyes on him as he slowly prowled the streets.
"Strange," he muttered. "It's as if the town has died, and I'm the only one left alive."
He knew that was not true, but he had to fight down the panic that suddenly grew in him.
He drove past the town's taverns. All dark.
Dark. Matching the night.
As Sam slept that night, he dreamed of Jane Ann. He tried to push her from his dreams, but her presence was too strong. He dreamed of making love to her, awakening with a guilty conscience.
From the pulpit, the church appeared cavernous to Sam. Only a handful of people sat in the auditorium. With the exception of Wade and Anita, Chester and Faye, and Jane Ann, all others were elderly. Michelle was not present. She had not returned to the parsonage when Sam had left for church, and he had no idea where she might be.
He really didn't care.
He looked out and down at Jane Ann. Their eyes met. Sam smiled, more to himself than at her. So, this is love? he thought. How ludicrous! The town is facing destruction from forces so evil as to be unspeakable; I'm not sure what can be done about it; and yet here I stand, grinning like a schoolboy with his first infatuation.
Sam began speaking extemporaneously, for he had prepared no text. He spoke calmly and firmly, trying to soothe the old people, for they were afraid, he could see it and sense it. They were facing an unknown, and Sam really did not know how to calm them. He did know he could not tell them of the evil that was near—they would either go into a panic or think him a fool.
He did not know what to do about them, and he had given it much thought. They were going to suffer, and there was nothing he could do about it.
That thought shamed Sam, but he had to face it. In the fight he knew was coming, the strong— as many as possible—had to survive, even Father Dubois admitted that. The strong faithful had to survive; they could not face the threat of extinction protecting those lives that had very nearly run their course.
It was a cruel and ugly choice, but Sam knew it had to be. He hoped God would forgive him his ugly decision.
Some of them might survive, but—
Sam spoke of the glory of God; His love for mankind, and of the peace that awaited them all when they finally reached the safety of His arms.
But it was not enough; not really what they wanted to hear; not really what Sam passionately wanted to tell them. The elderly wanted their fears allayed, and Sam could not do that. He felt sick because of it. His close friends, Chester, Faye, Jane Ann, Wade, and Anita; they felt his vocal inadequacies, and their hearts went out to their minister.
Sam thought of the agony Miles and Doris must be experiencing.
Somehow, he struggled through the sermon, cutting it short. Finally, he stood at the door, shaking each hand, pitifully few of them. His heart was sad as he shook the old, withered hands. They work all their lives, he thought, believing in God, and their minister deserts them in their most grave time of need.
Dear God, forgive me!
"It's all this rock and roll music," an elderly lady told him. "That's what's driving the young people away from God."
"I'm sure that has something to do with it, Mrs. Findley," Sam smiled. Tell the old people what they want to hear, Sam. Lie! Stand here in the House of God and lie.
"It's just a shame and disgrace!" Mr. Woodward said, taking Sam's hand.
"What is, sir?"
"Someone killed off every one of my chickens last night. Tore the heads off of 'um. Shame and disgrace to do that to an old man like me."
"Did you report it to the police?"
"Uh! I called the sheriff, all right. Said he'd come right out. Never did show up."
"I'm sorry, Mr. Woodward. Is there anything I can do?" You can tell the truth, Sam. But he knew he could not do that.
"Don't expect so, preacher. 'Less you got the power to bring all my hens to life."
"Just the hens?"
"That's what so funny 'bout it. They never touched a one of my roosters."
Because the devil is afraid of a crowing cock. "Call me if there is anything I can do, sir."
"Where is Michelle this morning?" an elderly lady asked, in a not-too-subtle stage whisper. Twenty heads swung around, forty ears straining.
In normal times, Sam would have told a small fib. Today, though, he didn't care. "I haven't the faintest idea, Mrs. Hardison." He wanted to add: and really, I don't give a hoot where she is.
Mrs. Hardison nodded, then marched out of the church, chin up, head high, all her suspicions confirmed. The Balons were, indeed, having marital problems.
"Gossipin' old biddy!" Mr. Word muttered, shaking Sam's hand. The elderly retired rancher met Sam's eyes. "Something .. . nasty happenin' in this town, Brother Balon. I'd like to comfort some of these old ladies, but I don't know how to go about it without scarin' 'em half out of their wits."
Sam looked in the auditor
ium. Chester, Faye, Wade, Anita, and Jane Ann all stood in a group, waiting for Sam to finish.
"How do you mean, Mr. Word? Nasty?"
"Don't try kiddin' me, Sam—I'm too old a bird. Ninety-nine percent of the church-goin' population of Whitfield has stopped goin.' People ain't friendly toward one another anymore. Lot's of other things, too."
Sam felt a glimmer of hope. Perhaps Mr. Word could gather up the old people, hide them in the Bad Lands. But who would protect them? Sam and his little group would be spread too thin.
"And what do you think it is, Mr. Word?"
The elderly gentleman plopped his hat on his head, and said, "Khrushchev and those damned Russians. Put something in the water!"
Sam felt his slight hope drift away. "Perhaps it is the devil, Mr. Word?"
The old man laughed. "That's a good one, Sam. The devil! No, son, the devil don't want Whitfield. Don't nobody want Whitfield." He walked away, chuckling.
I tried, Sam thought. I tried.
Mr. Word gathered a half dozen or more elderly outside the church and they all had a good laugh, at Sam's expense.
Sam sighed. I wish it was the Russians. They would be a lot easier to deal with.
Jane Ann touched his arm. "Sam? You want to ride with us this afternoon. To John's funeral?"
He had not told them about John.
He agreed. "I'll be at Chester's about one-thirty. I don't believe there'll be much of a crowd at the funeral, though."
Her hand was warm on his arm. "I'm frightened, Sam. Why can't we just run? Just get out?"
"And do what once we got there? Besides, it's too late for that, I think. We're being watched." He glanced across the street. "Look."
Vanderwerf and Moore lounged across the street, watching the church. Vanderwerf saw Jane Ann looking at him and arrogantly scratched his crotch, grinning at her. He feigned masturbation with one hand, motioning for her to come on over with the other hand.
"Not the most subtle gesture I've ever seen," she said, her face flushing.
Sam didn't help matters any by saying, "It's going to get much, much worse before it gets any better, Janey."
"You're supposed to comfort me, Sam," she looked at him.
And the minister came very close to saying, I'd like to do just that, dear—in a variety of ways.
He remembered where he was and was embarrassed for his thoughts.
"Twenty people!" Chester shook his head. "Twenty people showed up for the funeral. Disgraceful!"
"John's wife wasn't even there," Jane Ann said, her tone indicating disapproval, even a primness that brought a smile from Sam.
"She was with the sheriff and George Best," Wade said. "The two of them were at her house. You all saw the cars when we drove by."
"Doing what, I wonder?" Anita questioned.
"Don't be such a klupper," Doris raised an eyebrow.
"While her husband was being buried!" Anita could not believe it.
"She no longer has any control over herself," Sam spoke quietly, then grimaced. "Besides, she's been seeing Walter for at least a month— maybe longer."
Sam had told them of John on the way to the services, and they had, to a person, looked at him with horror in their eyes as he spoke of the Undead. None of them wanted to believe him, but they knew Sam would not lie about this.
"Sam? Sam!" Jane Ann brought him out of his musings. "Are you certain about Mrs. Benton?"
"Yes, he's sure," Miles said. "So am I. I saw them coming out of a motel in Atwood, about two months ago."
"I don't think any of this matters anymore," Chester rose from his chair, stretching. "I think what matters now is this: everything is out in the open—at least as far as I'm concerned. You might say battle lines have been drawn. We know who is with us, and who is against us." His glance swept each person. "And the odds aren't very good."
"Did you speak with Peter?" Sam asked.
"Yes. But I didn't tell him of my suspicions; he told me of his. He said he'd meet us here about four this afternoon. After we all talk with him, we'll do what we talked about."
Anita looked up, alarm on her face. "What are you men going to do?"
"Go for a drive," Sam said.
"You're not going to leave us here alone?"
"No," Sam shook his head. "Miles will stay with you."
Doris looked at her husband, a twinkle in her eyes. "Miles, I love you dearly, you know that. But when you came home yesterday, wobbling in with that huge shotgun, you looked like the original Sad Sack."
The tension in the room broke under the sounds of laughter. Miles grinned shyly. "I know how to load it, point it, and pull the trigger. Besides, let them," he indicated the other men, "go traipsing out in the wilderness. I'd much rather stay here, surrounded by all you beautiful women." He grinned rakishly.
His wife rolled her eyes. "Casanova didn't have—to the best of my knowledge—hemorrhoids, dear."
"Doris!"
The ringing of the phone stilled the laughter. Chester held the phone out to Sam. "Tony."
"Sam? I've just been called out to Sorenson's ranch. I don't like it, Sam. I'm not his doctor, Sam—he dislikes me, always has. I think something's up. I don't know what, I just sense it,"
"Then don't go."
"I—ah—don't have much choice in the matter. The sheriff is coming by to pick me up."
"Tony, don't go! Tell them you're sick— anything. No! Better yet, tell Walter I'll take you out there. Let's see what happens when he hears that."
"Come on over, Sam. Right now. Please?"
"Five minutes, Tony." He turned, looking at Wade. "You stay here with Miles. Come on, Ches. Get a pistol and let's go. I'll explain on the way. We'll take that drive tomorrow."
"Balon," the sheriff glared at him. "Just what do you want here? This is none of your affair."
The men stood on the sidewalk outside Tony's house. Sam did his best to remain calm. "What I'm saying, Walter, is this, I'll drive Tony out to the K/S. It's no big deal; nothing to get all worked up about. Tony asked me to come along, and I'll do just that. By the way, who is sick? Can I help?"
Sam received a look of pure hatred from the sheriff. While Addison was glaring at Sam, Tony took a closer look at Walter. The man was filthy. His clothing dirty, his face unshaven, and his body odor fierce. The doctor was glad he wasn't standing downwind.
Walter shifted his glare to Sam's truck. "What's Stokes doing here?"
"Just along for the ride, Walter. Any harm in that? Oh, by the way, we missed you at John's services this afternoon."
The sheriff wheeled about without speaking. He stalked to his car, burning rubber as he peeled away from the curb.
"Sam?" Tony said. "What in the world is going on in this town?"
"What did Mrs. Norman die of, Tony?"
"Presumably the same thing John died of. But I don't believe it. I had just examined her about a month ago. Her heart was strong, blood pressure fine. You didn't answer my question, Sam."
"Then what killed her?"
The young doctor sighed as he met Sam's gaze. "Oh, one guess would be fright, maybe—producing a heart attack. When I saw her she'd been dead for hours. I think the old woman saw something in her back yard that scared her to death. That big German shepherd was still standing guard beside her. I guess he frightened off whatever it was."
"You went to her house, then?"
"Oh, yes. Jimmy called me first, then Father Dubois."
"Was there anything . . . unusual that you noticed?"
"What do you mean, Sam?"
"An odor, perhaps?"
Tony slowly shook his head. "Yes, now that you mention it, there was an odor. A very bad odor. Faint, but still present. I—uh—can't describe it; I've never smelled anything quite like it."
"I was afraid of this. They've begun coming into town."
"I beg your pardon, Sam?"
"Get your car, Tony—follow us to Chester's. There's something you'd better hear."
A very stunned and pa
le young doctor sat on the couch in Chester's den, his coffee cold and forgotten on the table. He lifted his eyes to Sam's. "You're kidding, of course?" There was a hopeful tone in his voice.
"No, Tony," Father Dubois said. "It's all true."
The priest had been called, as had Father Haskell. Peter Canford stood beside Jimmy Perkins.
"Reverend Monroe is dead!" Jimmy said. "And you killed him, Sam? My God!"
Peter spoke for the first time, other than the greetings when he entered the house. His voice was dead, almost void of emotion. "When I got home from John's funeral, there was a note. Pat said she'd had enough of my so-called Christian ways. The note was very profane." He put his face in his hands and wept.
Dubois walked to his side, putting an arm around his shoulders. He did not try to verbally comfort him, just patted him on the shoulder, letting the young man know he was there, ready to help in any way he could.
"I'll make some coffee," Faye said.
"And some sandwiches," Anita said, getting up from her chair. "I'll help you."
"Have you had time to read the journals?" Sam asked Wade.
"Yes," the editor said, "some of them. Dad suspected all along what is—" he stumbled for a moment, "happening here now. But he couldn't come up with any concrete proof. None to take to the law. I know the feeling," he said, biting at his words. "Dad wrote that he felt the devil was after him, but he wasn't going to get him."
"That's why he shot himself?" Sam asked.
Chester looked up. "Your father shot himself?"
Slowly, Wade told the story, filling in the gaps that for years had puzzled many residents of Whitfield, himself included. "But pieces still don't fit," he mused aloud. "There are things that just don't quite jell in my mind. About us, I mean."
"Yes," his wife said. "We were just talking about that in the kitchen. Why us? Why were we—spared?"
Jane Ann put her coffee cup carefully on the table, in the saucer, her face a study in concentration. "Sam? Did you ever listen to the local radio station?"
"Rarely, but I think I know what you're getting at. I've had the same suspicions of late. Go ahead, though, let me hear your thoughts."
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