Sam felt sick as he stood in the room. Sicker still when he looked at the plate on the bottom of the frame. THE CHURCH OF THE FIFTEEN. He knew what that meant. His own wife.
Could it be—? NO! He refused to believe it. Not that.
Sam backed out of the room, closed the door, and ran to the bathroom. Holding his head over the sink, he vomited.
"You look a little pale, Sam," Doctor King said. "You feel all right?"
"I'm okay, Tony. Just haven't been sleeping well lately, that's all."
The young doctor's look was of a man who had heard that story too many times and had not believed it the first time he'd heard it.
Sam sat quietly in Tony's office, his big hands in his lap, his mind still a little numb. After recovering from his sudden sickness, Sam had showered, vigorously soaping and scrubbing himself, as if that alone would remove the stink of his wife's room from his body and the ugly scar from his mind.
The stink was gone; the scar remained.
THE CHURCH OF THE FIFTEEN. If what he suspected was true . . .
When Sam had entered Tony's office, he had been amazed to find the waiting room empty. With only two doctors in Whitfield, both of them were always busy, working long hours.
Sam looked up. "No patients, Tony?"
"A lot of it going around. The strangeness, I mean."
Tony leaned forward, elbows on his desk. Although the office was empty, he kept his voice low. "Sam, John Benton just had a physical last month—the full treatment. Blood work, urinalysis, EKG, X-rays, everything. John was fifty years old, but his blood pressure was that of a healthy thirty-year-old man. He kept himself in excellent shape: running, calisthenics, the whole bit. He didn't smoke, and never had. Didn't drink, either. His heart was in great shape. Now, I'm not saying he couldn't have had a heart attack, but I will say it's highly unlikely."
"Stroke?"
Tony shrugged. "I sent him to Rock Point for an encephalogram and other tests I can't do here. They all came back triple-A great! John told me he never had headaches. He ate the right foods, he got enough rest. It just doesn't add up, Sam."
"But it isn't just John, though, is it, Tony?"
The doctor shook his head. "No. Sam, in four weeks—and I checked my records to be sure—ninety-five percent of my patients have canceled out on me. Only the elderly keep their appointments with me. It's as if the others either don't care if they get sick, or they know they're not going to."
Sam's numbness returned. He fought it away. "How would they know that?"
"You tell me, I'm just a doctor of the body. I've got—had—friends in this town who won't speak to me. Both my receptionist and nurse jumped up one day, cursed me, then quit. I've never seen such a personality change. I'm worried, Sam. This whole town seems to have changed overnight, and I don't like it. I'm suddenly scared, and I don't know why."
"What about Doctor Matthews?"
"He's one of those who won't speak to me. I have never seen such a change in a man.'
"Tony, how's the attendance at your church?"
The doctor was thoughtful for a few seconds. "Interesting question, Sam. It's steadily declining. I know Father Dubois is concerned about it, and I sense he would like to talk about it, but it's as if—well, this is just a guess—it's—perhaps he doesn't know who to trust! Sam, the feeling I have about this town is . . . eerie."
"How can you be sure you can trust me?"
The doctor smiled for the first time since Sam entered his office. "I guess we all have to take a chance, Sam."
"Yes. Well, you're right, Tony. Something is going on in Whitfield. I have suspicions, nothing else."
He told Tony of his dreams, of the trouble at Jane Ann's, of the conversation overheard by Chester, of the sheriff's lying, of Bill Mathis's lying, and of his feeling of something evil hanging in the air. He spoke of Doctor Wilder, and the Church of the Fifteen. He did not mention his wife.
"Sam, what is the Church of the Fifteen? I never heard of it."
"My memory is a little hazy on this, but I'll tell you what I can remember. The Church of the Fifteen is the oldest form of Satan worship—oldest known form that can be proven, that is. It dates back to about the fifth century and has to do with the Tarot."
"There are twenty-two cards in the major arcana of the Tarot. The fifteenth card is the Devil. The unnumbered card is the Fool. When read upright, the fifteenth card represents bondage; subordination; black magic; devil worship. The card also means suffering, violence, punishment. But there is more to the Church of the Fifteen that I can't recall—much more. I've got a book on the subject at the house; I'll have to bone up on it."
"Devil worship!" Tony's face twisted in shock. "Sam, do you really believe in that?"
"Yes, I do, Tony. And I think it's been going on around Whitfield for a long time; very quietly going on. And I also believe there is a great deal more to it than we know. This is mere speculation, Tony, but I believe Karl Sorenson is in this up to his ears."
"Nothing would surprise me about that man. My father despised him."
"Why?"
"He—my dad, told me he'd treated several people after some of Sorenson's parties—debaucheries, really. Whip marks on their bodies, and a lot more, Sam. Really sick, twisted stuff. There's been rumors for years about that man."
"You know how Jane Ann's mother died?"
"Yes. Awful! Sam, let's count up what we have. Five minutes after leaving the Stokes' house, a healthy man drops dead of a heart attack—we'll call it that for now. The sheriff is lying; Bill Mathis is lying; officer Perkins can't remember why he was with Best or helping to tear down Jane Ann's back door; bodies are disappearing from the cemetery; there are rumors of strange goings-on at Glowers Funeral Home; rumors of incest in this town, and Chester says he overheard the sheriff saying that Joan had some—ah—pretty good stuff."
Sam laughed. "It's interesting how people lock up around a preacher."
The doctor grinned, making him appear much younger. Only his eyes remained old before their time.
"Tony, tell me about the 'goings-on at the funeral home."
"It's just whispered rumors among the elderly, Sam. That bodies are not being embalmed. Being buried whole."
"Interesting," Sam said. "But there is more?"
"Yes. Necrophilia and necromancy."
"Necromancy, Tony? You've lost me."
"Black magic; communication with the dead. It's just rumor, Sam."
"But—?"
The doctor shrugged his shoulders. "Added to what you've just told me—I don't know. So we have suspicions, what do we do with them?"
"Keep calm. Say nothing. Just let things develop. How about that autopsy on John?"
Tony shook his head. "No. Mrs. Benton refused to allow it. Oh, I could force it, but—" He sighed in defeat. "Doctor Matthews is the coroner. Dead end there." He lifted his eyes to Sam's. "You're not telling me all you know, are you?"
"No, I'm not, Tony. Not yet."
"Oh! I meant to ask you, have you stocked up on supplies? Milk and so forth?"
"Why? What do you mean?"
"You haven't heard? I just heard this morning. Next Thursday," he glanced at his calendar, "the state is closing highway 72, north and south. We're going to be cut off, for all practical purposes, for a week. You know those old bridges are in bad need of repair."
Sam's smile was both grim and knowing. "Cut off for a week? Now that is interesting, yes indeed."
"Yeah," Tony said. "The National Guard will have helicopters ready to come in if we need anyone medivaced out. But we're really going to be cut off. For a week."
Seven
"Five days," Sam muttered, driving away from the doctor's office. "Five days until we're completely isolated—for a week. And the public was not told until today; and not even officially told. Interesting. And a little sad," he concluded, driving slowly through the small town.
Pedestrian traffic was light. Almost all were elderly. Sam saw no young people playing
on the sidewalks and streets; no young people walking. Only the elderly.
An eerie feeling overcame the minister, leaving him slightly bewildered and a little shaken with his thoughts and conclusions.
Sam drove to his church, pausing in the stillness of the silent auditorium. The coolness of the empty sanctuary was comforting to him; the hush calming. He always felt much closer to God in here, as if the glass and brick and wood had all combined to form a place of safety, not unlike the hollow of His hand.
Sam sat in a pew. He sat for a long time, his head bowed, submitting to the weariness for a few moments. He was not praying, just allowing his thoughts to drift out and up, in the hope God would somehow hear, and give him instruction. Seated in the pew, Sam fell into a semidoze, his memories working, taking him back in time. Then sleep, brought on by nights of tossing and turning and dreaming, closed his eyes, deepening his breathing. Reminiscences skipped through the preacher's mind, touching different times and places, moving him backward through the years.
"Get 'em! Get 'em!" the lieutenant screamed. "There's four of 'em—right there! They ducked into that ravine."
Corporal Balon and the others sprayed the area with automatic weapon fire. Screaming from the ravine bounced to them. Sam stilled the wailing with a grenade.
"Mean lookin' little fuckers, ain't they?" a soldier said. He stood by Sam's side, looking down at what was left of the four North Koreans. And not that much was left. Bloody guts and shattered bodies, scattered over the dirt and rocks of the ravine.
"Move it out!" the lieutenant said. "We're in deep shit this far north."
Moving out, the UNPIK guerrilla fighters headed south, toward the thirty-eighth parallel, some miles away. The point man stepped on a mine, blowing him into eternity, shrapnel from the mine knocking the lieutenant down, mangling his right leg.
"We can't call in a chopper," the sergeant said. "Radio's busted—took a round. We'll have to carry him out."
"You guys are all crazy!" the lieutenant said, his face pale, lips bloodless in pain. "We're miles over the line. We're so close you can hear the Chicoms fart! You know we've all got bounties on our head. Get out of here!"
"Shut up, Matt," Sam told him. "We got in this together—we'll get out together."
"We'll go out, all right," the officer gritted his teeth against the pain. "It's miles back to a friendly—"
"You sure talk a lot," Sam said, picking up the smaller man, slinging him onto his back. "Hold on. We'll take turns carrying you until we can rig a litter."
"Crazy bastards!" the lieutenant said.
Only four of the eight-man patrol made it back to their own lines. It took four days, traveling at night. The lieutenant's leg swelled up, turning black with gangrene. Sam cut off the infected leg with a heavy knife, cauterizing the stump. Sam Balon was awarded the Silver Star and promoted to sergeant.
In the cool silence of the church, Sam's head slumped forward. He was deep in sleep.
"Oh, Sam!" the cheerleader moaned in the back seat of the 1940 Ford. Her fingers dug at his back, her legs spread wide. "Will you love me forever and ever?"
Stardust played softly on the radio.
"You know I will," he lied, touching the wetness of her, moving forward, sinking into the damp velvet.
She cried out, biting his bare shoulder in passion.
Sam stirred in his sleep. He remembered the moment, but could not remember her name or her face. Her face—in his dream—was that of Jane Ann.
"HIT THE CHARGES!!" someone yelled. "They're on top of us."
The Americans stood between the enemy and retreating UN forces, in an area that would be known later as Pissed-Off Pass. The UNPIK guerrilla fighters, who would later be known as Special Forces, strong in name but weak in number, fought back wave after wave of North Koreans, until they were finally overpowered by the sheer numbers of the enemy.
When Sam regained consciousness, he was in a hospital in Japan, a doctor smiling down at him.
"The war's over for you, Sergeant. You're going home."
"How many made it out alive?" Sam asked, his voice no more than a whisper.
The doctor shook his head, hesitated, then said, "Not very many."
"What a waste," Sam said.
"Yes," he heard the doctor say.
Someone touched him on the shoulder and Sam came up fighting.
"Whoa, Sam! It's me—Chester. Take it easy, preacher."
Despite the coolness of the church, Sam was sweating. He opened his fists. He had almost hit Chester Stokes. He was not in Korea; he was in Whitfield, in his church, on the corner of Bran-ford and Elm. Sam steadied his breathing, wiping away the sweat with the back of his hand.
"You were moaning in your sleep, Sam," the older man told him. "Nightmare?"
Sam nodded. "I suppose you could call it that."
"You were calling out a name, Sam."
"What name?"
"Does it really matter, now?"
"It might if anyone but you heard it."
"She's a good girl, Sam, and she loves you."
"I happen to be married, Chester."
"To a woman who is running around on you. And I know with whom. You do, too, probably. Come on, Sam! You're human. Just because you're a minister doesn't make you a rock, void of feelings."
I have feelings, Sam wanted to tell him. I have feelings a minister should not have.
"Let's go into the study, Chester."
While Chester sat reading a pamphlet, Sam washed his face in the small bathroom just off the study. He glanced at his watch. Three-thirty. Friday afternoon.
"Jane Ann's still pretty shaken up," Chester said, watching Sam sit down behind his desk. "But she's tough, she'll recover quickly."
"I hope you and Faye don't mind her staying for a while."
"You know we don't, Sam."
The minister drummed his fingertips on the desk top. "Chester, what do you know about highway 72 being closed for a week, beginning next Thursday?"
"What!?"
"That was my reaction. Yes, Tony just told me."
"First I've heard of it. Closed? Sam, we'd be cut off except for a few county roads, half of which don't lead anywhere. Tony must be mistaken."
"No, I don't believe so, Ches."
Chester reached across the desk toward the phone. Sam stopped his hand. "If you're calling the highway department, play it like you've known all along, but you just want a verification of the date."
The older man arched one eyebrow. "You know something I don't, Sam; something maybe I should know?"
"Could be. Humor me."
Sam received an odd look, then Chester dialed the number of the District Headquarters of the State Highway Department, located in the eastern part of Fork County. He talked for several minutes, then hung up, a puzzled look on his face.
"We were notified back in March, according to Wayne. The county board requested the closing to repair the bridges. They were supposed to notify the citizens. Wayne says the mail will be picked up by the sheriff's department and taken by patrol car to the north bridge, then transferred to a regular mail truck. The deputy will bring back any mail for Whitfield. It's all been okayed by the post office."
"And the board is composed of—?"
"Karl Sorenson, Dalton Revere, Paul Merlin, Otto Stockman, and Max Steiner. Wayne says he has a public notice from the Crusader on his desk. The notice ran for six weeks. Excuse me, Sam, but it's damn funny I didn't see it!"
"It never ran in the paper," Sam said glumly, an idea of what might be happening taking better shape in his brain. He did not like what he was thinking, but for now, kept his ideas to himself.
"He has the notice on his desk," Chester objected.
"He has a notice. It could have been printed anywhere, and probably was."
"But why, Sam?"
The minister shook his head. He fumbled in a desk drawer until he found attendance records—a graph he'd been keeping since March. "Look here, Chester," he laid the gra
ph on the desk. "December through the middle of February we had a two percent increase in church attendance. The last two weeks of February we began to slide a bit. By the first of April, that slide had increased to a five percent loss, then a ten percent loss by the last of April. May, it was down to twenty-five percent. Last month, almost fifty percent. I'll predict that by this Sunday, there won't be forty people in church, and most of them will be elderly."
"I thought it was just a fluke," Chester said, sighing. "Summer's here, vacation time. But that's not it, is it, Sam?"
"No, Chester, it isn't." Sam put his hand on the phone to call an old friend and pastor of the largest Christian church in the state.
"My kids," Chester said, then let the words trail off into silence.
"What about your kids?"
The church elder shook his head. "Nothing, Sam. Forget it. Who are you calling?"
"Chris Farmer up in North Platte. You know him—he held our revival last year. As soon as I dial, you pick up the extension in the nursery. I want you to hear this."
Popping noises for a few seconds, then the ringing. The two ministers chattered for a few minutes, then Sam asked the man about his church attendance.
"Couldn't be better, Samuel. I'm up nine percent from this time last year. People are coming back to Jesus. Going to be a great year for religion, my boy—a great year. I can feel it in my bones, and loving every minute of it."
Sam congratulated the minister, chatted for a few more minutes, then hung up. He called to Chester, "Stay in the nursery, I want you to hear all these calls."
Sam called the Christian church in four directions, two states. He got the same reply: business was booming! Religion was pulling the folks in the front door. Great!
Chester came in, sat down. "You called in all directions, Sam, and you got the same answer. Religion is not just doing well, it's wonderful. But why isn't it wonderful here in Whitfield? I know from talking to people it's down in all the churches in town. Why?"
Sam slowly shook his head. "Who is minding the store?" he asked abruptly.
"I closed it. Only had one customer all day, and that is really strange for this time of year. Wish I could figure out what's keeping people out of town."
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