“Painting,” Wes said.
“Hey, man,” Derek said, “no buddy of ours should be wasting his time painting. Come on with us. We’ll have a few beers, maybe chase up some pussy. How about it, Wes? You ever been laid?”
He wasn’t about to answer that. “I’ve already got stuff I’ve got to do,” he said.
In the backseat, two cans of beer were popped open. Derek said, “Come on, man. Let’s have some fun.”
“I’m sorry, but—”
“Look, we’re not just going to party. We’re going to start the evening off right. Before we do anything else, we’re going to get some religion.”
“Religion?” Wes asked, confused.
“Sure. We’re going to the revival.”
“The revival?” Wes wasn’t sure he’d heard right.
“Sure. Come on.” Again the grins.
“Yeah,” Scott Bender said. “It’ll be fun.”
“Yeah,” Ben Jones said.
“You want to be our buddy, don’t you?” Russ Dowling asked.
“Why would you guys want to go to a revival?” Wes asked.
“Everybody in town gets together,” Scott Bender said.
“You ever seen how many girls go to those things?” Derek asked. “That’s where all the pussy on the island will be. Don’t you want to get laid?”
In truth, Wes wanted very much to get laid. Getting laid was right up there with computers when it came to things that occupied his mind. However, he wasn’t at all certain that going with these guys was the way to go about it.
“If you don’t want to get laid,” Ben Jones said, “we’ll think you’re a queer. You wouldn’t want us to think you’re a queer, would you?”
The back door opened, and Scott and Russ got out, stood on each side of him. Scott was the bigger of the two, a heavyset kid with hair that was shaved to within a quarter-inch of his scalp. He looked like a Marine recruit, fresh from the base barber shop. Russ was just the opposite, thin with long dark hair and a mustache so sparse that it was nearly invisible. He looked as if he were attempting but not succeeding at looking like a hippie.
Wes wanted to run, but he didn’t because he probably wouldn’t get very far and because it would reveal how thoroughly intimidated he was.
“Come on,” Scott said. “Let’s go to the revival.” They began pulling him toward the car.
Just then, Wes’s mother stepped out of a door behind them with a load of folded bed sheets in her arms. “Everything all right here?” she asked.
No matter how much he wanted these boys to go away and leave him alone, there was one thing Wes was unwilling to do. He wasn’t going to have his mother rescue him. He would never, ever live it down. At ninety, he would still be hearing things like, Hey, Wes the Mess. I hear you’re a real mommy’s boy. I hear you cry to your mommy when someone’s mean to you.
Nothing these guys could do to him would be as bad as that.
To his mother, he said, “We’re going to the revival.”
“The revival?”
“Yeah. They asked me to go, so I thought I would.” He was not going to ask permission in front of Derek and company.
“What about your dinner?”
“We’ll have a burger or something.”
His mother gave him a disapproving look, but she didn’t try to stop him. Wes got into the back seat with Scott and Ben.
7
As he had the day before, Karl Zellner’s dog, Brute, sat up and howled, as if communicating with some primitive wolfish ancestor.
8
Below Don Farraday’s desk, in the basement of the city hall and police station, the cockroaches that lived year-round in the warmth provided by the building’s old and cantankerous boiler suddenly erupted through crevices in the walls and swarmed over the chipped cement floor like a brown wave, their numbers so great they made a low rustling sound as they moved. There was no purpose to their frenzied movement. They were neither seeking food nor escaping danger. They were moving simply because something had triggered a primitive response.
They swarmed around the floor, changing directions only because the walls or other obstacles dictated. They collided with each other and whatever was in their path. A few died, then a few more, and still they continued to run, blindly but en masse.
They ran until there were only a dozen of them left, then six, then three, then one. And the last one scurried up the hot side of the metal compartment that housed the boiler’s burner.
Tiny puffs of smoke came from the roach’s feet.
And it fell to the floor dead.
9
Ray Loubet, who oversaw the produce section of the grocery store, was heading for the cold storage locker to take a quick inventory. By the time the Split was over, a lot of fresh produce items would be unavailable on the island. He’d still have potatoes and onions and carrots, but tomatoes and zucchini and the like wouldn’t keep that long. And you never knew for sure when the Split would be declared. All of which made running the produce section a tricky business.
He walked along the meat counter, thinking how glad he was that he’d be off tomorrow. The store was closed on Sundays. Thinking about Sunday made him think about church, which made him think about his brother. Henry and Gloria had been in the store a few minutes ago. They’d walked out, leaving behind a grocery cart full of canned goods, and when he’d asked them where they were going, Henry said to the revival. Was there going to be a revival every night? What on earth were they doing at those things?
Ray Loubet pushed through the double metal doors that led to the part of the store in which deliveries were received and nonperishables were stored. He was reaching for the handle to the cold storage locker when he saw movement from the corner of his eye. What the hell? he thought, turning to look.
Something shot across the floor, disappearing behind a stack of cartons containing toilet paper.
Then something came from behind a box of Stokley’s green beans and raced across the open space to another stack of boxes. Something gray.
Then two more gray streaks came from opposite directions, nearly colliding in front of him. Then another. And another. When one came within six inches of hitting his foot, he realized what they were and began backing slowly out of the room.
They were rats. Rats that had gone totally berserk.
He backed through the metal doors, and they swung closed in front of him. Then he heard a thump as something hit the doors from the other side. There was another thump, louder. Then two more, the doors opening slightly, then closing again.
Loubet moved farther away from them. He was behind the meat counter, but there were no butchers there now.
They’d finished their work and gone for the day. From the front of the store came the familiar sound of a cash register ringing up someone’s purchases. Loubet headed for it.
From behind him came more thumps against the metal doors. Loubet moved faster.
10
Click!
Thunk!
The sounds of the ice breaking up reverberated in Hank Bergstrom’s basement. Accustomed to the vibrations these releases of energy caused in its web, a brown, fuzzy spider sat in its silken home, unconcerned. The gossamer strands ran from the cement wall to the back side of the water heater, whose warmth had enabled the spider to survive beyond its time.
Abruptly the spider twitched, and then it began frantically scrambling out of its web, responding to a signal it was unable to resist, a signal that touched a part of the spider as primitive and basic as the need for food. But having lived well beyond the few months it was allotted, the spider was too feeble to go very far. As it reached the edge of its web, it simply stopped, its legs curling beneath it as it died.
11
The message went out.
From the center of the church, it emitted the signal for all on the island to receive. It was a simple message: Come to the revival. Although that was its meaning, the message didn’t actually consist of words, for i
t was received by the human brain’s least civilized part, the part it shared with animals and even insects, the place in which the most primitive emotions lived and to which words were meaningless.
It had no idea how many people on the island would obey the command to come, although it was sure many would. Though primitive, the part of the mind that received the signal was in the subconscious and quite susceptible to suggestions; it was the part tapped by hypnotists. But then these were things it only fuzzily understood. What mattered was that the message would be received, and that it would be obeyed by many.
And it would feed.
Usually a solitary being driven entirely by its cravings, it found this a brand new experience. Never before had it arranged to have its food brought to it. Cunning and conniving were not its strong points. It took direct action, moved on. That had always been its way. But this opportunity had presented itself. And it had seen the possibilities.
It sent out the second part of the message: Think of someone you don’t like, someone you’d like to hurt. And bring that person to the church.
Many people harbored no such feelings toward anyone.
Others would not receive the message, or would not obey it.
But a few would.
Enough would.
And it would feed.
12
Don Farraday arrived home, feeling tired and defeated. He hadn’t found Irene Waggoner. He hadn’t worked up a single lead in the five murders. Looking back on the day, he concluded that he’d devoted most of his time to worrying and feeling useless as he patrolled the island. As he pulled into the driveway, Allison and Sarah came out of the house. At first he thought they were coming out to greet him, let him know that they were aware of what he was going through and were on his side.
But they didn’t. Instead, they walked to the detached garage and opened the door, as if unaware of his presence.
Puzzled, Don got out of the car. “Where you off to?” he asked.
“We’re going to the revival,” Allison said as they got into the car.
“But…” Don didn’t know what to say. Why were Allison and Sarah going to the revival? An uneasiness was rapidly swirling up from his gut, spreading throughout his body.
“There’s one every night,” Sarah said as she pulled the passenger-side door closed.
Then, as if that was all there was to say, Allison started the engine.
“Hey,” Don said, rapping on the window.
Allison rolled it down. “Is something wrong?”
“Hang on,” Don said. “I’ll go with you.”
“No!” his wife snapped.
“You can’t,” Sarah said.
Allison began backing the car down the driveway.
Confused and with a growing feeling of foreboding, Don watched as Allison backed into the street, then pulled away from the house. Neither his wife nor his daughter waved.
For about a minute, Don stood in the driveway, staring at the now-empty street. Finally he turned and walked into the house. He sat down at the kitchen table. What was going on here? Why were Allison and Sarah going to the revival? And why didn’t they want him to go with them?
Watch for people acting strangely …
“Shit,” Don said to the empty room. He rushed outside and climbed into his Cherokee.
13
It looked like Easter morning with all the cars around the church. Even the yellow curb in front of a fire hydrant was occupied by a green Isuzu. Don thought about leaving a ticket under one of its wiper blades but instantly discarded the notion. He had more important things to worry about than parking citations.
As he walked toward the building, he heard singing. A familiar hymn he was unable to name. Don opened one of the big wooden doors and stepped inside. The place was packed, people standing along the walls. He spotted Allison and Sarah sitting together in a pew to the right of the center aisle.
When the singing stopped, Reverend Pfeil said, “The Bible tells us, ‘Love thy neighbor.’ It’s especially true in times like these, when someone is murdering our neighbors. In such troubled times, we must band together and let our ties of love and respect—our greatest strengths as a community—see us through.”
Pfeil was looking toward the back of the church, and all at once his eyes seemed to find Don’s, hold them as if studying him, then move on. Don felt a peculiar sensation, like a chill, except this coldness wasn’t exactly physical. As soon as the feeling passed, Don was sure he’d imagined it.
The reverend went on, talking about pulling together, putting faith in God’s word. He said the same thing about five times, in five slightly different ways. And when he finished, he asked everyone to rise for the singing of another hymn. After about fifteen minutes, Don left. He stopped to put a citation on the windshield of the Isuzu. It was just a warning, however; tickets requiring the payment of fines were usually reserved for summer people.
As he drove home, Don considered what he’d just witnessed. It was an ordinary church service. The minister’s message had been about pulling together. Apparently Pfeil was just trying to raise everyone’s spirits, and maybe get people to keep an eye out. No harm in any of that.
And Don remembered everything that had happened. No blank spots. No mysteries.
So why couldn’t Allison remember? And why had both Allison and Sarah acted so weirdly just a little while ago? Maybe they were just scared. Having a bloodthirsty killer loose on the island was understandably terrifying. For the family of the island’s only police officer, the one who was supposed to stop the murderous lunatic, it would have to be especially frightening.
Don clung to that explanation.
When Allison and Sarah got home, perhaps he should have a long talk with them, see whether discussing the situation would make them feel better.
14
Holding the case he rarely let out of his sight, Kesselring stood in the doorway of the hardware store, watching the church across the street. He’d seen the place fill up. He’d seen Farraday arrive and go inside. He’d seen the constable come out and drive away a quarter-hour ago. He hadn’t liked seeing the policeman at the church, for it could mean Farraday was part of whatever was going on.
And what was going on? Kesselring didn’t have the vaguest idea. In all his experience with the Evil, nothing like this had ever happened before. Of course, he was only assuming this was connected with the Evil. It could be the normal reaction of a frightened community. Go to church, pray, ask God for help.
But Kesselring didn’t think so. Something, some small spot in the farthest reaches of his subconscious, a place that was apparently attuned to such things, knew for certain that the activity at the church was the work of the Evil.
The singing of hymns had stopped.
Kesselring walked across the street and up to the doors of the church. He pulled on the handle. The building was locked. Kesselring knocked, waited. Nothing happened. He knocked again, louder this time. Still no response. He knocked still more loudly. This time the door opened. Two men stepped out, closing the door behind them.
“I’d like to go to church,” Kesselring said.
“Sorry,” the bigger of the two men replied. “The church is full.” He was about thirty, tall and muscular, with curly brown hair. The other guy was middle-aged, bald, chubby, and he had blue eyes that stared at Kesselring blankly, with all the warmth of camera lenses.
“I’ll stand,” Kesselring said.
“Can’t,” the man said. “It’s a violation of the fire code.”
“So’s locking the door of a public building that’s full of people.”
The men said nothing.
“Let me in,” Kesselring said. “I need divine inspiration. Badly. My soul’s been claimed by Satan.”
“Constable was just here to warn us. No more people, or he’ll shut us down.”
The two men went back inside. Kesselring heard the door being locked again.
15
Allison and Sarah
got home about two hours after they’d left. They were unable to remember what had happened at the revival—except for right at first, when Reverend Pfeil had talked to them about pulling together as a community.
Eleven
1
Don sat at his desk the next morning, staring glumly at the pencil holder, from which a number of Bic pens protruded. He could hear Cindy Thornley making a pot of coffee, but he didn’t bother to look in her direction. He’d come to work today simply because it wouldn’t look good for him to take a day off—even a Sunday—when a crazed killer was loose on the island. In short, he was there strictly for appearances. He had nothing to do. No leads to follow. No witnesses to question. No good suspects.
Earlier he’d gone by the Waggoner house again. Kevin said Irene still hadn’t come home, and he didn’t give a shit if she never did. Don was beginning to wonder whether Kevin Waggoner had done something to his wife. That would be all he needed. A sixth murder.
And then there was the revival. His wife and daughter remembered the same portion of it he did. After that, nothing. It made no sense. Why could they remember part but not the rest? Every time he thought it through, he came up with the same bizarre possibility.
The portion he saw could have been staged for his benefit.
Pfeil had waited for him to leave before getting down to business.
But what business? What had happened that Allison and Sarah were unable to remember? And how did Pfeil prevent them from remembering? Or did Pfeil himself remember? Don shook his head. He had no idea what was going on. He was simply guessing wildly.
One thing was certain. If there was another revival tonight, he was not only going, but he was staying for the whole thing.
And if he found he was unable to remember? What then?
He didn’t know. He didn’t like to think it was possible to erase his memory, for it meant that something outside of him could take control of his mental processes. Your mind was your most personal, private, sacred place, where the real you lived. To tamper with it was tantamount to mental rape.
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