Why—" the man hesitated, "come to think of it, it's down. Yes, down by quite a bit."
Sam looked at Jane Ann. "I don't want you to press charges, Janey. Just let this incident drop. I think it would be best. John has cautioned Jimmy not to say anything about it. Best won't mention it. But I've got a hunch Best will be behind another badge by this time tomorrow."
"Not on my department, he won't!" John said.
"No," Sam agreed. "He'll be working for the Sheriffs Department."
"Walter?" John was startled. "Why would Walter hire Best after I've fired him?"
Sam toyed with his empty coffee cup for a moment. "I'd like to ask you a few questions, John—if you don't mind. You have a few minutes to spare?"
"Fire away, Sam. I'd like to hear what's on your mind."
"The sheriff is telling everyone that the FBI came in here, investigating the disappearance of Larry and Joan. Did they talk to you?"
The Chief shook his head. "No, Sam, they did not."
"Don't you think that strange?"
"Very. But I've kept my mouth shut about it."
"Why?"
"Because—well," his face tightened for a moment. "You ask your questions, Sam, then I'll tell you my opinions, okay?"
"Deal. Now then, Bill Mathis says the FBI talked with him, at length, in his office at school. But Jane Ann knows that to be a lie. Mathis was clear across the state, at a meeting. So that makes him a liar. Why would he lie? Add this up, John: Joan was a student of Jane Ann's, yet the FBI didn't question her. Joan was a member of my church, but they didn't talk to me. Larry worked part-time for Chester, yet they didn't speak to Chester about it. Larry was a member of your church, but they didn't question Father Haskell or you. Your addition is as good as mine, John. The FBI didn't come in because they weren't notified."
For a time, the Chief kept his eyes downcast, looking at the coffee table. He was deep in thought. Finally, he nodded his head. "Yes, you're right, Sam—it stinks! It's bothered me for weeks; things I just can't seem to get hold of. And it's not just the kids. It's all these grave robbings, too. And nothing is being done about it. Then there is the general mood of this town. I've got a very bad feeling that something awful is going to happen. Call it a cop's hunch, if you will."
"I know, John."
"There's something else, too," the Chief said. "Walter told me a barefaced lie the morning the kids were reported missing. He told me he'd been to a sheriff s meeting the night before, just got in that morning. That's not the truth, Sam. There was no sheriff's meeting—I checked."
"What made you check, John?"
"Because he volunteered the information to me, Sam—for no reason. His answers were too pat, and too quick. I never asked for any of them. It was as if he was trying to convince me of his innocence. But why should I even suspect he'd done anything wrong?"
"There's something else," Chester spoke. "I overheard Walter talking to one of his deputies yesterday. I was standing by my door at the store, just behind that display to the right of the front door. They were walking past, stopped, and didn't see me. I didn't catch all the conversation, but what I did hear froze me. Walter said, 'Does the Coven meet tomorrow night?' The deputy, Harris, said, 'Yes, at full dark, as always.' Excuse me, ladies, Sam, but Walter said, 'Joan had some good pussy.' The deputy laughed and said, 'Prime gash.' Then they walked on. I didn't know what to do, or even if they were talking about the missing Joan. I didn't sleep much last night. Tossed and turned. I'm glad I've got it off my chest. But Sam, what's a Coven?"
Jane Ann's eyes darkened as she stared at the book on devil worship and possession. She said nothing.
"You're sure they said Coven?" Sam asked.
"I think so, Sam."
"And now you believe they were talking about young Joan?" John asked, ignoring the question about the Coven.
"Yes, I do, John."
Sam made no more mention of the Coven, hoping that question would die. He wanted more time to think and act before answering that. Coven!
Jane Ann sat wringing her hands nervously.
John sighed. "I've never seen such a dramatic change in a man as has occurred with Walter. All in the past six months. Never been one iota of gossip about him—until recently." He shook his head. "Call it a cop's intuition if you will, but I've suspected for some time that Walter knew more about those kids than he was letting on. Now, this."
"Black Wilder," Jane Ann said.
All eyes turned to her. "What?" John asked.
"Nothing happened until he came in, bringing his dig crews. As soon as Wilder came in, things began happening. Strange things."
"I agree with her," Sam said. "We talked about this a couple of hours ago. John, can you run a check on this Wilder?"
"I already have, Sam," Benton replied. "Weeks ago, as a matter of fact. I ran them all out at the Dig—just as soon as those kids were reported missing."
"And?" Chester asked.
The Chief shrugged. "Nothing. They're all clean. Oh, one thing did crop up: most of them belong to one of those kooky cults based in New York."
"What kind of cult?" Sam asked.
"It's a church, or a religion, they claim. But I've never heard of it. It's called the Church of the Fifteen. Some kind of French words after that. What was it? Oh, yeah, Le Diable. That's probably the wrong pronunciation, my French is not very good. You ever heard of that church, Sam?"
"Yes, I have." But he would not elaborate. Chester looked at him curiously. Jane Ann stirred, but said nothing.
The Chief rose to his feet. "Well, I have a suggestion, folks. We've thrown a lot of assumptions around here this morning. A lot of hearsay, some gossip. But we haven't proven a thing, so let's just keep all this to ourselves. I'm going to call the FBI just as soon as I get back to my office. I'll find out if Walter notified them as he claims he did. Then I'll get back to you all."
"One more thing, John," Sam said. "Did you listen to the radio station much—while it was still operating?"
The Chief shook his head. "No, can't say as I did. Don't like hill-billy music and can't stand this new rock and roll. Why?"
"Just curious, that's all."
When the door closed behind the Chief, Chester asked, "What's all this about the radio station, Sam?"
"Just a hunch, Ches. Forget it. It's probably nothing."
"Sam?" Jane Ann said. "The Church of the Fifteen. Remember what Best said to me?"
"Yes, I do."
"Le Diable?" Faye said. "What does that mean?"
Sam's gaze touched them all. "The Church of the Devil."
Six
After being assured that Jane Ann was, of course, welcome to stay with the Stokes as long as she liked—they wouldn't have it any other way—Sam left, heading for home. He felt... evil around him, and knew, somehow, it was not his imagination. Not after hearing what Chester said.
Coven.
He reminded himself he was a minister before he began cursing in frustration.
This was Friday, and Sam had been more than an avid student of the occult and devil worship. Black Masses were always held on a Friday.
"Come on, Sam!" he hit the steering wheel in anger. "Knock off the jumping to conclusions."
There was a book somewhere in his attic at the parsonage—a very authoritative study on devil worship. The best ever written, some experts said. He would dig it out, read it.
He heard the sirens coming his way and a chill touched him; a feeling of deep despair. Something awful had happened. And for some reason, Sam had the gut feeling that whatever it was would touch him personally.
Another block, and Sam saw Benton's car nosed against the curb, the Chief stretched out on the sidewalk, people standing around him. Sam pulled to the side of the road, parked his car, and got out, walking up to the knot of people just as Doctor King arrived. The young doctor jumped out of his car and ran toward the men kneeling by John Benton.
No hurry, Sam thought—he's dead.
How do I know
that? he questioned silently.
The sheriff slid to a tire-squalling halt, blocking the street with his patrol car, jumping out of the car. Sam nodded a greeting. Addison ignored him. Sam leaned against a tree, watching Tony minister to Benton.
"Terrible thing," a voice spoke from behind him. Miles Lansky.
"Yes," Sam turned, the Jew and the Gentile locking eyes. "A terrible thing."
"When you get time," Miles spoke softly, so only Sam could hear, "I'd like to talk to you. This afternoon, maybe. If not, tomorrow will do. It's important, Sam."
Miles knows, Sam thought. He knows. The minister took a chance. "You feel it, too, Miles?" he kept his voice low.
"Yes," Miles whispered. "Whatever it is."
"We'll get together."
"Good."
The two men stood silently, watching Doctor King work on Benton. Tony stood up, shaking his head. "Cover him," he said. "He's dead."
"Awful!" Addison said. "Just awful! What caused this, Tony?"
The doctor shrugged, wanting very much to reply: How in the hell should I know? Instead, "Heart attack, perhaps. Stroke. We'll do an autopsy."
"Cut up the body?!" the sheriff seemed unduly alarmed at the suggestion. "What purpose would that solve?"
"To find out what killed him! What else?" Tony did not like stupid questions from people he felt should know better.
The sheriff put his hand on the young doctor's shoulder. "I didn't mean to be so snappish, Tony. I'm sorry. Forgive me. I've known John for so long, that's all."
"I understand, Walter." But his tone indicated something else. He looked squarely at Sam, just for a few seconds cutting his eyes down the street, toward town.
Sam nodded his head.
Tony walked away from the scene, walking toward Sam and Miles. Only a few curious spectators had gathered to rubberneck at the dead man. Only a few. That, to Sam, was unusual. He looked up and down the street. Almost no one stood on their porches, gawking, as is usually the case with tragedy. Odd.
"Strange, isn't it?" Miles said softly.
"Yes," was all Sam had time to say before Tony reached their side, shaking hands with both men.
Tony clasped the minister on the shoulder. When he spoke, it was loud enough for Walter to hear. "Sam? You haven't forgotten your appointment this afternoon, have you? Two o'clock, now. You're overdue for that physical."
Sam had just had a physical in June. Tony knew that perfectly well—he had given it to Sam. "I haven't forgotten, Tony. I'll be there."
Addison was no longer paying attention to them.
As Tony walked away, Miles said, "I thought you just had a physical? Didn't you tell me that a few weeks ago?"
"Yes, I did. Tony wants to talk about something."
"Probably the same thing I want to talk about. See you later, Sam."
Sam drove toward home, looking at the town of Whitfield in the hot light of summer. A Friday. Very few adults walked the streets. Those that did were elderly. No young people played on the sidewalks. No bike riders. No teenagers walking along, holding hands and listening to portable radios, savoring young love in the summer. The town seemed—to Sam—to be almost dead.
Or undead, the thought jumped into his mind.
How could I have missed what was happening?
Come on, Balon, he urged his mind to relax. Knock it off.
Sam did not park in the drive as he usually did. He pulled to the curb in front of the house, very quietly getting out of the car, closing the door softly. He slipped up the front steps, easing into the living room. He didn't know why he was doing this, and he felt a little like a fool. Sam Spade in preacher's clothes.
The record player was blaring, but it was not the music that caught and held Sam as if in a vise. Michelle was on the phone in the kitchen.
"Do we meet tonight?" she asked. "Good! Will it soon be time?"
A moment of silence.
Sam froze, unintentionally hidden by the partition separating dining room from kitchen. He did not like hearing this in such a manner, preferring to confront his wife openly, but his legs felt like lead.
"I'll be ready, Dalton," she said.
DALTON? Dalton Revere? The man was a close friend. Or so Sam had believed. But, Sam grimaced, that's so often the case. A friend. Dalton was an elder in his church, and twenty years older than Michelle.
Sam felt sick.
He slipped quietly out the front door, closing it softly behind him, stepping out on the porch. He waited for a ten count, then opened the door, walking back into the house, shutting the door hard behind him. He hoped he had given his wife—and the word wife disgusted him—time to compose herself from her verbal fornication.
She stood by the dining room table, smiling, looking at him. "How has your day been, Sam?"
"Interesting," he forced himself to return the smile. "And very informative."
"Oh?"
He did not elaborate, merely stood looking at the woman, his wife. A tall, very beautiful woman. Who—the thought twisted out of his mind—was screwing an elder in his church.
Not very preacherly of you, Sam. But, he bitterly reflected, I don't feel very preacherly at this moment.
For a few seconds, he allowed himself the erotic pleasure/pain of imagining Michelle and Dalton together. He forced those images from him. Before he could stop his brain, that mass of marvelous recall conjured a picture of Sam and Jane Ann together. The minister felt shame wash over him at the eroticism of his thoughts. He pushed the image from him.
"What was the reason for all those sirens a few minutes ago?" she asked.
Bluntly, he told her about John Benton.
She gasped, putting a hand to her throat. "How awful!"
But it was an act, Sam realized. What a marvelous actress she was, had become, or had always been, Sam reflected sourly. How many men, he questioned his mind, has she entertained while I was out spreading the word of the Lord?
The medallion about her neck seemed to sparkle at him, casting flashes that were almost hypnotic in their radiance. He lifted his eyes from the gold, meeting her dark eyes. They flared with anger and lust, a curious combination shining at him.
Careful, he warned his heart, the message shooting fom his brain: That medallion is dangerous.
But, why?
The man and woman stood glaring at each other.
Help me, Lord, Sam silently prayed.
Her eyes fell away from his.
Michelle said, looking down at the carpet, "Sometime, Sam, soon, we've got to talk. About us."
"Yes. I think we should." The medallion shone with a greater intensity, and Sam had to force himself not to look at it.
Michelle touched a breast; a light touch, a sensuous half-caress. "I haven't been very nice to you lately, have I?"
DANGER flashed through Sam's mind. But, why? His thoughts shot silently into space. Why? "No, Michelle, I guess you haven't."
She licked her lips, her tongue snaking out, wetting the lipstick. "Perhaps—?" the one word invitation was left hanging, for Sam to pick up.
The picture of Michelle and Dalton entered his brain. When he spoke, his words were harsher than he intended. "Thanks, Michelle, but I think I'll pass."
Her face turned ugly with hate, the lips pulling back in a half-snarl.
I've won a battle, Sam thought. I don't know how, or really, why, but I've won. However, he recalled, a woman scorned can be a dangerous thing.
"Yes, Sam," she said, the words tight with anger, "we'll talk someday. I can promise you that."
"What's wrong with now?"
She shook her head, slowly regaining her composure after his harsh rejection. "No. No, I don't believe so. The time is not yet right." She laughed at him.
Sudden anger swept over Sam. "The time? What are you talking about?"
She shrugged, her eyes dark with mystery. "I'm going out. I'll see you later."
"Where are you going?"
Her smiled mocked him. "None of your business," she
said. Her bedroom door slammed, punctuating the bluntness of her reply.
Sam walked into the living room, to stand with his back to her bedroom door, arms folded across his massive chest. A few minutes later, he heard the back door slam, then the sound of her car starting, backing out of the drive, the sound dying as she drove away.
The minister stood in the silent house. So, he thought, this is how it feels when love dies. Or has been murdered. What an empty feeling. But was there ever any love between us? On my part, yes. On her part, no—I think not. But if I did love her, where is the sense of loss I'm supposed to be experiencing? Should I be ashamed of my feelings of relief that it's over?
He shook himself like a big bear and suddenly felt better. He glanced toward her bedroom, then walked to the closed door, trying the knob. She had forgotten to lock the door. Slowly, he pushed the door open, his nostrils offended at the odor. The room stank! He flipped on the lights.
The room was in total disarray; clothing flung carelessly about, the floor littered. A filthy black robe hung on a closet door. Sam did not recognize the robe, and he did not, for some reason, want to touch it. The room itself, not just the odor, offended him. The closed space seemed to radiate—he struggled for the word—evil! It sprang into his mind.
A necklace made of bones and feathers lay on the dresser. A painting of a—what in the world was it? Sam took a closer look. The painting on the wall seemed to glare at him. It was a scene of a not-quite-human thing, but not really an animal. The thing was part ram, part bird, part woman. It was overall disgusting!
The minister had known fear; known it on an intimate basis while in combat in Korea. When he made his first jump from a plane. But what he now experienced was something new to him; something more than fear. He realized, suddenly, where he had seen this painting. It was during a course on devil worship when he was in seminary.
He struggled with his memory until he found what he was searching for. When the witches dance naked, the devil will sometimes make an appearance as a horned goat—a ram. The devil, a master of metamorphosis, moves silently between the world of animal and human, transforming himself into whatever form he chooses.
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