A force, Sam thought. A very evil force. "You keep guns at your house, Chester?"
The man smiled. "Sam, I run a sports shop; the only one in town. Sure, I keep guns at my home. I'd hate for the Treasury people to check me."
"Will you do something for me?"
"Of course, Sam."
"Go home. Make sure your guns are loaded—check them. Bolt the doors and secure the windows. And after dark, don't leave the house."
He received a curious look from his friend. "You feel all right, Sam? Did you have a good lunch? You did eat?"
"I had a very good breakfast at Jane Ann's. I threw it up later. No lunch, and I'm not hungry. I feel fine.
Correction: I am in control of my senses: that's what you're really asking. Please don't argue, Ches. Humor me for a time. Maybe I'm wrong—I hope I am. But for now, go on home and look after things. I'll be in touch."
Chester nodded, rising to his feet. "All right, Sam. I won't question you about it. But you will tell me what's going on—soon?"
"Yes."
Sam drove out to the local Ford dealership. It was pure impulse on his part. He liked the feel of the Mercury he drove, but he felt it was not the vehicle he needed—for whatever lay ahead of him—and he was growing more certain in his suspicions. He might regret his actions later; he might feel like the biggest fool in two states—he hoped he would—but for now, he felt he was doing the right thing.
As he drove the short distance, Sam noticed one thing that only compounded his suspicions and dread: there was no one on the streets. The town was silent at four o'clock in the afternoon. A shiver of fear touched him.
"Friday," he muttered. "They're preparing for this evening's worship."
You're letting your imagination run away with your common sense, he told himself. Be logical.
But his words did little to calm him.
As he pulled into the dealership, he knew he was doing the right thing.
How do you know? he questioned his mind.
And the answer came back: I know.
Peter Canford walked out of the dealer showroom to greet him. "Preacher," the young man said. "Glad to see you." They shook hands. "I was beginning to think the town had forgotten us. You're the first customer today."
"That's odd."
"Sure is. It's kind of spooky, really. What can I help you with?"
"I—uh—want to trade cars, Jimmy. I'd like to have a pickup truck. Preferably one that is already broken in. I want to trade this Mercury in for it. My car's paid for."
The young salesman scratched his head. "Well, I'm told never to argue with the customer, Reverend Balon—"
"Sam," he corrected, smiling. "And my mind's made up. I want to buy a pickup truck. One that will take some rough driving over some bad terrain."
"Right," Peter grinned. "Sam. I forgot. Okay, I have one you might be interested in. It's a year old. Only has a few thousand miles on it. We got it from a fellow over at Ridgewood. Or rather, we got it from his wife—they split up. It's a fancy one, Sam; got all the equipment and more. Extra gas cans, if you want them. Big tank, winch. I mean, it's got it all. Let's go look at it."
Sam sat in the pickup, feeling less a fool as time ticked past. He inspected the engine, kicked the tires.
"I like it, Peter."
"Going to do some fishing this summer?"
"Might have to," Sam said. "Put some food on the table. What with us being cut off for a week."
"What?"
Sam told him about the bridges, suggesting it was only a rumor, unfounded.
Peter shook his head. "I haven't heard a word about it. Probably just a rumor, like you said. You want to drive this truck?"
Sam did, around the lot, then said, "Make me a deal, Peter."
The salesman had looked at Sam's Mercury while the minister was driving the truck. He figured for a moment, then handed Sam a piece of paper. "That's the best I can do, Sam."
Sam glanced at the figures. "Fine, I'll take it." And the pickup was his. He smiled as the words "for better or for worse" entered his mind.
Jimmy was thinking: it's a shame. A nice man like Sam Balon, with a wife that's running around on him. With an elder in his own church, too. He almost told Sam to go out and get a big stick, go home, and beat his wife's butt.
Instead, he said, "Sure is something about John Benton. How old was he?"
"Fifty, I think. Have you heard when the funeral will be?"
"Two o'clock Sunday. I heard the council just appointed Jimmy chief of police. Tough way to get a promotion. It's odd, though."
"What is?"
"Well—it's a small town, Sam. News travels fast. I heard about the trouble at Jane Ann's last night, and about John firing George Best."
"So?"
"Walter Addison just hired George this afternoon. Made him a county deputy. John wouldn't have liked that."
Everything is beginning to add up. "Let's sign the papers, Peter."
Fifteen minutes later, the men stood by Sam's newly acquired pickup, chatting. The reception inside the dealership had been cool. None of the other employees had bothered speaking to Sam, and their looks were sullen.
"What's wrong with those people in there?" Sam asked.
"I don't know, Sam, but it's sure embarrassing. They've been acting funny for a couple of weeks. Now they treat me as if I'm not around. I'm just ignored. It's getting worse each day."
Sam knew Peter was a devout Catholic, but he wasn't sure about his fellow workers. He didn't know how to ask without being obvious about it.
"Maybe they resent your church work, Peter?"
Peter's look was thoughtful. "It's funny you should say that, Sam. A lot of those guys in there—the women, too—used to be good church workers. Different churches, of course, but they all went to church. Then, I guess, oh, maybe two-three months ago, one by one they started drifting away from their church. Now none of them attend services. As a matter of fact, they belittle religion; make fun of it. I don't like that, Sam. I've noticed something else, too, for the past few weeks or so, everyone of them show up for work on Friday wearing those funny-looking medallions around their necks. You've seen them? Fad, I suppose. Probably started out in California with all this rock and roll music."
Don't count on that, Sam thought, remembering the medallion his wife wore about her neck—every day. "Memphis," he said.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Oh, I'm sorry," Sam smiled. "I said Memphis. I think rock and roll began in Memphis, Tennessee. But I believe it was a New York City disc jockey who coined the term rock and roll."
"You like rock and roll, Sam?" doubt in his voice.
"No," Sam laughed. "Not very much of it. You have a cigarette, Peter?"
"Sure. I didn't know you smoked, Sam." He held out a package of Lucky Strikes.
"I don't very often," Sam bent his head to take the light from Peter's Zippo. "Habit I picked up in Korea."
"Hey! You were in Korea? I was in the service, too, but not in Korea. I was Navy. You?"
"Army. Special troops. We were known as UNPIK."
Peter whistled. "Yeah, I heard about you guys. Guerrilla fighters. Rough outfit. How long were you in Korea?"
"Too long. 'Bout sixteen months."
"You saw your share. It's like I always say, don't judge what a person is by what he does for a living."
Sam smiled in memory, glad for a moment to talk and think about something other than whatever it was that was wrong in Whitfield. "Right. We had a former ballet dancer in our outfit. Some guys from another unit—football types—thought he was a pansy. One night they came right out and called Jon a queer. Very bad mistake on their part. Jon invited them both outside. He put both of them in the hospital; almost killed one of them. After that, people walked light around Jon. He was probably the most in-shape person I've ever seen. He could stand flat-footed and jump over a jeep."
Peter chuckled. "What's the old saying about having to get some people's attention? The mule and th
e 2 by 4?"
"Right!" Sam laughed.
Peter looked at the minister's rugged profile in the light of afternoon, thinking: I'd hate to have you come down on me, preacher. You look like you could chew nails and spit out tacks. Guerrilla fighter. Never would have guessed it.
Sam climbed into the truck, cranking the powerful engine. "See you, Peter. Tell you what, maybe we'll get together next week. Talk about the service."
"Hey! I'd like that. Sure, we'll do that."
Sam drove away, lurching and bucking for a couple of blocks, until he got the feel of the manual transmission. He drove out of town for a few miles, then cut off onto a gravel road, putting the pickup through its paces, liking the feel of it.
At the dealership, Peter looked behind him, sensing eyes on him. The shop foreman stood a few yards away, staring at him. "Artie," Peter said.
The shop foreman turned his back, the sun catching the medallion about his neck, the rays bouncing off the metal. The foreman looked around, then spat contemptuously on the gravel. He stalked back into the garage.
"Something sure is weird around here," Peter said, as a tremor of fear touched him with light fingers. He shivered in the warm afternoon. "I wish I knew what was wrong with these people."
Sam drove back into town, once again observing the absence of human traffic on the streets and sidewalks. Walter Addison drove past. Sam waved a greeting. The sheriff did not return the salute. George Best sat beside him in the car. The ex-city cop turned deputy laughed at Sam.
"Laugh, punk!" Sam muttered through gritted teeth. "But you're the one who tipped me off."
Punk? Sam thought. How long since you used that word? And how very unpreacherly of you to use it now. Or is it?
Sam parked beside Michelle's car as she came out of the house, standing on the back porch, looking at the pickup with disapproving eyes.
"You going to call on shut-in's in that thing, Sam?"
Her words irritated him. "Some preachers ride motorcycles," he countered, getting out of the truck.
"Your—congregation," she stumbled over the word, "should be thankful for small favors, I suppose." She walked back into the house, banging the screen door behind her.
Wonder where she went this afternoon? Sam mused, as the image of his wife and Dalton Revere crawled through his brain, creeping like a slug. This time, though, the vision did not disturb him, as the memory of his wife's filthy room assailed his brain, bringing back the odor of evil.
She'll be leaving this evening, Sam thought, as he leaned against the truck. If what I suspect is true—and God, I'm praying to You that it isn't—she'll be leaving at sundown.
And if it's true, God, what do I do? Whom can I trust?
In the kitchen, Sam looked at the stove. Cold.
Nothing had been fixed for dinner. So what else is new? We used to have dinner at seven—when she was cooking. Then, a few months back, she began fixing sandwiches. Then she stopped doing even that much.
Sam fixed a sandwich, poured a glass of milk, and walked into the living room, snapping on the radio to listen to the news.
The evening news held no interest. President Eisenhower played a round of golf. The Russians rattled more verbal sabers. Castro condemned the U.S. Guerilla fighting in Africa.
Sam turned off the radio, then sat listening to his wife moving about in her bedroom. She'll be carrying a small overnight bag when she leaves, he guessed. In it will be the black robe and the necklace, and only God knows what else.
Devil worship! My own wife. How she must hate me.
He chewed the last of his sandwich, drained his milk, put his head back, and closed his eyes. What can I do? he questioned his mind. Could I—can I—help her? Do I want to help her?
The silent reply came as no surprise to him. No! No, he really did not wish to help her. For she is as in Job: One who rebels against the light.
What are you doing to me, God—testing me? If so, you've picked a poor, weak man, for here I sit like a hypocrite, lusting after a member of my congregation and refusing to help my wife in her moment of need.
A line from Psalms entered his mind, shaming him. The Lord knoweth the thoughts of man.
Sam rose from the chair, walking through the house to Michelle's bedroom. She was just coming out, closing and locking the door behind her. The medallion about her neck caught Sam's eye.
"Michelle-"
"I really don't have time to talk, Sam. I'm playing bridge and I'm running a bit late. Do you mind? Excuse me."
"Michelle, I'd like to help you. Talk to me."
"Help me, Sam? I don't know what you're talking about."
"What's in the bag, Michelle? Decks of cards?"
She smiled at him. "Gifts for the winners, Sam. That's all."
He fought back an impulse to scream at her: Don't lie to me! He resisted another impulse to strike her; to turn her over his knee like a child and spank her butt.
Yet another thought came to him: But I don't want to touch her. She's evil.
"Bridge, Michelle? Gifts? I thought your club met on Tuesday nights?"
Her gaze was cool, tinged with black hate. It was now very easy for Sam to read her. For months she had been making up one excuse after the other to leave the house on Friday nights, and he had believed her. Sucked the bait in like a big bass.
"This is another club, dear. Tonight I play partners with Pat, in a tournament in Atwood. I have to pick up Pat and Ethel and do a few things before we leave. I won't be in 'till very late, so don't wait up. Now, are we all through playing twenty questions—?"
Only one, he thought, looking down at her, as sudden wild rage filled him: when will the restraint leave me and I smash your lying face?
"No, Michelle—no more questions."
"Good. Bye, now." She walked out the back door, the overnight bag swinging at her side.
He listened to her back out of the drive, then he walked swiftly through the house to stand at the open front door, watching her drive away. He stepped out on the porch, in the quiet of late afternoon. The sun was blood-red, beginning its descent in the west.
Sam's eyes swept the neighborhood, suddenly honing in on the Steiner house across the street. A shade was quickly pulled down, but not so quickly that Sam did not see Mrs. Steiner staring at him, her face pale. Again, he felt that aura of evil hanging around him. He tried to shake it away, but the feeling persisted, hanging to him, refusing to leave.
He looked again at the Steiner house, thinking: there is a perfect example of why I believe—No! I know something is dreadfully wrong in this town. Max and Irene Steiner had always been good friends with Sam and Michelle. Then abruptly, all socializing had ceased. No explanation, and Sam had tried many times to find out why. The Steiners would not speak to him.
Would not speak to me, he thought, still staring at the house across the street, but I've seen them carry on lengthy conversations with Michelle. It's all beginning to fit, each piece forming the outline of the puzzle.
He walked back into the house to sit on the edge of his easy chair, his mind busy assimilating the facts—and he liked none of them. Atwood was almost sixty miles away, and he could recall no time that Michelle had ever played cards there. The only cards that Pat ever played was stud poker with the boys at her father's ranch. Not a bridge player—like most enlisted men in the service—Sam had played pinochle; bridge was the officer's game—nevertheless, he knew it took a certain degree of intelligence to master the game, and Pat didn't have enough sense to come in out of the rain. She was a spoiled, arrogant, round-heeled brat. Thirty years old, going on fifteen. Sam disliked her intensely, able to see through her facade the first time he'd met her. He had often wondered why his wife liked her.
Now he knew.
Sam was wary of people who fought the natural aging process; who refused to act their age; who followed the dictates of fashion with all the harsh discipline of a monk.
He had had friends in this town who, when he first met them, were rational,
thinking adults, enjoying the comforts of approaching middle age, who were neither trend-setters nor trend-followers. Sam had watched them make fools of themselves, in his opinion, emulating each new whim of youth—in music, in dance, in dress, in behavior.
Sam was no follower of fashion. He marched to his own drummer.
He rose from his chair, walking through the house to the kitchen, late afternoon sunlight dancing weakly on tiny dust particles stirred by his movements. He was angry, impatient, irritable, restless.
Sam slammed the screen door on his way out, got into his truck, and drove downtown. Big hands resting lightly on the wheel, the left window open, his arm propped there, the wind ruffling his unruly hair. His square jaw was set in resolution. He would follow his wife—or Pat—if he could find either of them, and see for himself just what was going on.
He drove the town streets without catching sight of either of them.
He headed out of town. There was only one way to Atwood, and Sam drove that route, finally pulling off onto a dirt road, driving up a small hill into a clump of cottonwoods. Here, he had a full view of the road, and unless someone looked directly at him, he could not be seen through the stand of trees. He waited.
This was the way to the Dig site, some miles down this road, if one bore to the left at the next crossroads. To the right, was the way to Tyson's Lake.
He waited for a half hour, until the first shadows thickened and day began melting into evening. The first car down the road belonged to Dalton Revere, but Sam's knowing smile faded when he saw Dalton's wife sitting beside her husband, another couple he could not make out in the back seat. Then it was a steady flow of cars and trucks, his wife's Chevy and Pat's Cadillac among them, all the vehicles filled with people. Addison and his deputies—their wives. The Steiners and the Conways and the Pipers. Hundreds of people, adults and teenagers and young kids. Chester's kids, Jack and Ruby. But no old people. He saw the Barlows and the Vaughns—dozens of people he once called friends. Several ministers among the flow of people.
"Going to church," he muttered. "But not the church they were brought up in." He sighed, sitting behind the wheel of his truck. "Okay, Balon—now what do you do?"
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