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 Branford 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 graph 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.”
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 the 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.
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