He could not believe what she was saying. "Honey, I'm the chief of police here. The law. The man. I've—I took an oath to uphold the law. I can't just cut and run. I won't cut and run."
"I felt it last night, Monty," she blurted. "1 know it's real, now."
"Felt what, Viv?"
"Evil."
"Now just hang on, baby. Just—"
"Don't go out there!"
He took his hand off the doorknob. "All right," he told her. "If it will make you feel better, I won't go outside. But we're going to have to face this—thing— whatever in the hell it is, sooner or later."
"Let it be later. Hell with it."
Something thumped on the back porch. A subhuman shriek came to the man and woman. Viv paled and backed against the wall for support. Monty found his pistol and walked down the hall, into the kitchen, and paused at the back door. He jacked back the hammer of his .357 and jerked open the door. He almost puked up his breakfast.
"No," Joe said. "I'm so keyed up I wouldn't be able to sleep none. Let's go on over to the chiefs house and hash this thing out. We got to do something. This standin' around without a plan is gettin' to me."
Sam glanced at Mille. "You must be exhausted, Mille."
"I'm tired, but like Joe, I want to find out just what is going on around here." She shook her head, then brushed back a lock of dark hair. "Too much is coming at me all at once. All this business about the Devil and cults and covens—I—I'm just confused and don't know what to think or believe. I don't know whether to be scared or think this entire thing is one great big joke. Then I think about Marie Fowler and those horrible things that were done to her. Judith disappears. Joe tells me he and Chief Draper lost radio contact with Will when he went down in that hole after Judith. The rope is untied—by somebody—and Joe and Monty believe Will is dead. Then he reappears and Ginny tells me he was acting strange."
"Ginny?" Sam asked. "Who is Ginny and what's this about Will acting strange?"
"Ginny Potter. She's a friend of mine; we share an apartment. Yeah. She saw Will late yesterday afternoon. He was walking kind of—well, funny. Ginny said he lurched, kind of. He was pale, and something was the matter with the way he talked. Ginny said his tongue was—all swollen and real red."
Sam knew what the problem was. The walking dead.
Joe shrugged. "I don't know what's goin' on neither. Look, let's go on over to the chiefs house. I got something to tell you all."
Will and Judy slept under a blanket in the woods where Will had attacked her. The blanket was not to protect them from the cool air but to keep the sunlight from touching them. They had found they could not tolerate the light.
Marie and Dan and Jerry slept in the loft of a barn. Like Will and Judy, they waited for the night.
Logandale lay quiet under the Sunday sun.
Waiting for night.
"Oh, my God!" Viv hissed the words as she stood in the kitchen looking over her husband's shoulder.
A dog lay on the back porch. The animal had been skinned and strange markings cut into its skin. It had been completely disemboweled, the intestines and organs scattered all over the floor of the porch.
Monty heard his wife making choking sounds. He turned in time to see her race toward the half bath just off the kitchen. The sounds of her sickness came to him. Monty fought back his own nausea and used the tablecloth from the nook to cover the animal and the intestines, after he had kicked those into a pile. He stepped back into the kitchen and closed the door.
"You going to be all right?" he called through the closed bathroom door.
"Just fucking dandy," came her acid reply.
Despite the gravity of the situation, Monty grinned. When Viv got mad, she got stubborn, and she became very profane. Monty felt that Viv wouldn't leave now if someone held a gun to her head.
He heard cars pull into the drive and he walked to the door. Looking out, he saw the two men who had been watching the house were gone. Sam Balon, Joe, and Mille were walking up the sidewalk. He waved them in and briefly told them what had just happened.
"I'll take care of the dog," Joe said. He left the den.
Monty asked Mille, "Who's minding the store?"
"No one. I locked the place up."
"Why not?" Monty said, directing the question at no one in particular.
Viv entered the den. Her face was pale but there was a new set to her chin that silently told Monty she was going to see this thing through. He smiled at her.
"I'll make some coffee," she said. "I think we could all use some." She looked at Sam. "Have you had breakfast—any of you?"
"No, ma'am."
"I'll make some breakfast, too."
Joe walked back into the den. "Son-of-a-bitch do that to a dog oughta be horsewhipped. I wrapped the poor animal in a garbage bag and stuck that in another garbage bag. Put it in the trunk of the patrol car. I'll get rid of it later. Monty—I think—whatever it is we're facing has got to my wife," he blurted.
The others stood quietly, frozen in place, looking at Joe. Viv came out of the kitchen to stand in the archway, listening, a spatula in her hand.
Joe told them about Nellie.
"You can't know for sure, Joe," Viv said. "You just can't be."
"No, ma'am," he replied. "I can't. But all I got to go on is my feelin's. And I know damn well something ain't right in that house. Don't nobody recover that quickly. And the house was stinkin' like sulphur Put it all together for me, folks. Add it all up and tell me what you think."
Sam looked at Mille. The young woman looked tired, her face drawn with fatigue. But she was tough; Sam sensed that. She would stand firm. He cut his eyes to Viv. She, too, appeared to be filled with a new resolve. Joe would stand tough; no backup in him. And Sam felt sure Monty wouldn't back up for anything or anybody.
Monty blew out a long breath. "I think we better start drawing up some battle plans."
"Against what, Chief?" Mille asked. "And with what? None of us have been physically threatened. What crimes have been committed? Is it against the law to worship Satan? Not to my knowledge. Me and Joe saw a bunch of people leaving the Giddon place last night, but that sure isn't against the law. While we were patrolling last night, we talked about this thing. I still don't quite believe everything that you all have said, but even if it's all true, what can we do until someone actually breaks a law. The answer is, obviously, nothing."
"Come on, everybody," Viv called from the kitchen. "Let's have some breakfast."
As they all trouped to the kitchen, the phone rang. Monty jerked it up. He listened for several moments. His face first grew red with anger, and then pale with shock. He said, "Very well, if that is your final word."
Monty slowly replaced the receiver. He seemed to have aged considerably.
Viv came to his side. "Monty? What is it? Why are you so pale?"
"That was Mayor Kowolski," Monty said slowly. "The board met last night. Called a special meeting. I have been relieved of duty—"
"Oh, Monty," his wife said.
"Drop the other shoe, Monty," Joe said. "I got a feelin' there's more."
"Yes," Monty said. "And it's coming together, all the pieces fitting, finally." He cleared his throat. "Well, Bert Sakall has been named interim chief until a permanent replacement is named. You've been fired, Mille. You, too, Joe. The board is giving us all a month's pay. But the clincher was this: He told me to inform both of you that the best thing we could do was get the hell out of this community and don't come back."
Mille LaMeade summed up the feelings of all present when she stuck out her chin and said, "Well—fuck the board!"
THREE
Father Daniel Le Moyne stood in the center aisle of his church. He experienced a dozen distinct and different emotions in the span of a few seconds. None of them pleasant. He looked at the silent, empty church. He clenched his hands into fists of rage, momentarily enjoying the emotion before mentally driving it from him and calming himself.
Not one
person had come to mass. No one.
Now the priest knew what he must face. Again. And he was not looking forward to the task.
He cocked his head. Was that a car driving up, stopping? Yes. The priest listened for a moment. The front door of the church opened. Noah Crisp stood silhouetted in the brilliant sunlight that poured from the heavens.
"This time you've got to face him and beat him," Noah said, his voice slightly hoarse. "I know he's here, and so do you. We've both known for a long time. I know what people think about us, Daniel. I know people think I'm a borderline basket case. Maybe I am. But I have met him, seen him face to face, and lived to tell of it. That is something few people have ever managed to do. But so much for that. Tell me, how badly outnumbered are we?"
Father Le Moyne shook his graying head. "Probably five or six hundred to one."
"That many. Well—we will still have no choice."
"None."
"We should have done this years ago, Daniel. Even if it meant—and it would have—taking the law into our own hands."
"I didn't have the courage. I don't know if I have the courage to do it now."
Noah walked down the aisle to face the priest. "We both sinned, Daniel. But sins can be forgiven. What happened is past, and it has not and will not occur again." He looked around him at the empty church. "No one came to mass?"
"Not one person."
"So it's really, finally begun?"
"It appears that way."
"Let's drive around town. See if the same is or has occurred at other churches."
Father Le Moyne noticed, for the first time, the pistol stuck in Noah's belt. "I had heard you had forsaken your gentle beliefs for those of a more savage nature, Noah."
"I've changed a lot over the past four or five years, Daniel. And yes, it's been that long since we've talked."
"Almost five years," the priest muttered. "Where has the time gone?"
"To the Devil," the writer said flatly. "Quite literally."
Le Moyne had to smile at that.
"Get yourself armed with holy water, Daniel," Noah urged him.
But the priest shook his head. "Not yet. It isn't time for that."
The writer looked dubious … and somewhat ludicrous, dressed in cowboy boots, jeans, a painter's smock, and beret cocked jauntily on his head. But the gun in his waistband was real, and his determination was strong. "Are you certain, Daniel?"
"As certain as I can be." He put a hand on his friend's arm. "Noah, I don't know if I have the faith to go through with this thing. I don't know if I have the strength. I don't know if God has any faith in me. Not in years. I—"
Noah slapped the priest. Backhanded the man of God across the face, rocking his head.
"Don't you ever say anything like that again, Daniel. Not at this juncture of our lives, and the lives of a small band of Christians out there. If I have to, Daniel, I'll use my fists to pound the faith back in you; or to bring it to the surface, as the case may be. Probably is. Do you understand all that, old friend?"
Through watery eyes caused by the abrupt and totally unexpected pop across the face, Father Le Moyne looked through a mist at the man. Physically, Le Moyne could have broken the writer in half. The priest was a big shambling bear of a man. But he was a gentle, loving type of man who abhorred any type of violence.
"You do have a way of getting your point across, Noah," Father Le Moyne said.
"I felt it quite necessary. And we'll speak no more of your supposedly 'lost faith.' Come on. We have a lot of work to do. His work, Father Le Moyne. We've got to salvage as many lost souls as possible. If it isn't too late."
"Yes. For us, as well," the priest reminded the man.
"We don't matter, Daniel. Not any longer. Not in the overall scheme of things. We were adults and fully aware of what we were doing." He shook his head. "No matter. There are young people out there," he said waving his hand, "who are lost, stumbling about in the evil darkness created by the Master of Night. We have to try to help them. One way or the other," he added, a grimness to his tone.
Father Le Moyne smiled. "You always did have a way with the English language, Noah."
"I used to, Daniel. I really did. I could have been a great writer. Well," he said grimacing, "perhaps not great, but a selling author, let us say. All that changed in the few hours before midnight, long ago. But I can still make a contribution to this world—we can, Daniel, you and I. So let's stop dillydallying about and get on with it."
"One moment," the priest said, holding up a hand. He went to his living quarters and returned carrying a cross. It looked to be about ten inches long and perhaps seven or eight inches across. "Cardinal Greiner blessed this cross, many years ago. I think this might be a better weapon—at this time—than anything else."
Noah smiled. "You're probably right, Daniel. But I'll keep my .357 for a backup. After you, Father."
While Daniel Le Moyne and Noah Crisp rode through the small town, each of them experiencing a sinking feeling at the sight of empty churches, Nydia was working herself into a monumental black rage—helped by darker forces, who chuckled with mirth at what was going on.
How dare Sam pull something like that! How could he do it?
She picked up a metal ashtray and hurled it across the room. The ashtray bounced off the wall and hit the floor with a clatter.
"Shit!" she yelled.
Little Sam began crying in his room. His outburst of fright at the sudden noise momentarily calmed Nydia. She went into the bedroom and picked him up, talking to him, soothing him.
"Why is it grown men—responsible men—go ape over a young girl? I wish I knew. I just do not understand it."
"Ape?" Little Sam said. "Go to zoo?"
"That's where he belongs," Nydia said. "Behind bars for a time. Maybe that would calm him down. The son-of-a—" She caught herself just in time. For Little Sam was very bright and very quick to pick up on words.
She calmed Little Sam and had him laughing by the time she put him on the floor of the den. She sat on the couch and quietly allowed her mood to worsen, not aware of the forces from the nether world influencing her mental machinations, and doing so with dark humor.
So Sam parted the teenage legs of Janet, she darkly mused. I wonder how many women he's screwed since we've been married? One? Ten? More than that? And how many lies has he told me? How many times has he said he was going to the college for research and actually been fucking someone else?
"Bastard!" she whispered.
Yes, the thought came to her. At least ten women. Haven't I seen him flirt more than once, when he thought I wasn't looking? Yes. Yes, I have.
Voices began playing in her head as her mind and abilities to reason became clouded.
"And what about that Flaubert girl? You don't suppose—"
Yes, Nydia thought. Yes. She would be a prime candidate.
"And why do you suppose Sam insisted, when you two were talking about buying a satellite dish, upon having that filthy channel?"
I'm beginning to understand now.
"He's had other women here, hasn't he? Come on, admit it. Those nights you went out with the girls— sometimes several nights a week—did Sam ever object?"
No.
"Don't you find that rather odd?"
I do now.
"And many times, when you were tired and wanted to go to bed, didn't he sit up and watch that fuck film channel?"
Yes.
"It's all adding up, isn't it?"
Reluctantly, she agreed. Yes, it was.
"Would a Christian watch such a channel?"
No. Not the way Sam does.
"Then perhaps—"
The silent voice faded, leaving the rest of it to Nydia's fertile imagination.
Nydia alternately felt like crying, screaming, jumping up and down, and, the thought came screaming into her brain: making it with another man.
Sure, why not? Sam has been sleeping around, so why the hell not? What was that old saying?
> "What's good for the goose is good for the gander," the dark voice whispered obscenely.
She would just, by God, give that some thought; some serious thought.
She gave no thought to what was taking place around her, in the small town of Logandale. All that had been blocked by the dark forces. And they urged her on.
She wrote Sam a short note, telling him that she was going for a drive and might not be back for some time. Little Sam would be at Janet's.
"Let him stew about that for awhile," she muttered. "He's probably out screwing somebody right this minute."
She dressed Little Sam, put a change into a small bag, and locked up the house. Her eyes were flashing angry sparks as she pulled out of the drive and headed into town.
"So Jon Le Moyne and I are having an affair, are we?" she muttered. "Well, we'll just see about that."
And the demons and witches and warlocks and creatures who worship the Dark Prince howled with laughter.
Father Le Moyne pulled over to the curb and looked at the pastor of the Methodist church. The man was sitting on the steps of his church, a confused and dejected look on his face.
"Come on," the priest said to Noah. "Let's find out what's wrong."
"You know what's wrong."
"Let's be certain." They walked over to the man, Father Le Moyne asking, "What's wrong, Byron?"
Byron Price, the minister, looked at the two men. "I—am troubled, Daniel. And I feel a little bit lost. Confused. What is happening? My entire congregation seems to be boycotting me."
"Well, Byron, don't feel like a lost sheep. Richard Hasseling over at First Baptist just told us the same thing, in almost the same words."
Methodist eyes met Catholic eyes. "And how about you, Daniel?"
"The same thing. No one came to mass. Not one person."
"What's happening, Daniel?"
Father Le Moyne hedged that for a moment. "John Morton at the Episcopal church told us," he indicated Noah, "not more than ten minutes ago, that he spoke by phone with several of his older members—elderly. They told him they had been bullied into not attending church this morning. Some of them had actually been physically shoved around, and worse."
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