Dance with the Devil

situation was trying her optimism as badly as the descent down the other side of the valley had. Perhaps this was another omen, a warning to turn back, go home, find another job in a more conventional atmosphere.

“The people who did that thing — the people who tortured and hung that cat are not sane, Katherine.”

“I realize that,” she said.

“Well, you should have gotten away from there as soon as you realized what had taken place.”

“Someone had to bury the cat,” she insisted.

“What if one of them — one of these Satanists had come back?”

“I thought, once they'd used a place, they wouldn't be too open about returning to it. I didn't think those kind of people would show themselves in public, in daylight. They can't be proud of it, after all.”

He nodded, still handling the wheel expertly as the Land Rover crawled laboriously along the snowy track toward the dark, towering mass of Owlsden above. “Perhaps that's true,” he said. “Especially considering the public outcry that goes up every time someone uncovers a trace of these Satanic goings on in Roxburgh.”

“You mean that people around here find this sort of thing regularly?” she asked, her attention finally diverted from the road altogether, for the first time.

“Not every day, mind you.”

“But often.”

“Yes. Every month or so for the last year, year and a half. Sometimes the ceremonies are done in dilapidated buildings, sometimes in open forest clearings. I imagine more are performed and go unnoticed than those we find clue to.”

“It's hard to believe,” Katherine said.

Terrifying her by the gesture and drawing her attention back to the danger of the storm and the road, he raised a hand from the wheel and waved it to indicate the craggy mountains, the great forests, the thickly grown and yet somehow barren landscape. “Considering this place, this land, it wouldn't seem so strange to me.”

“Please use both hands to drive,” she said.

He laughed. “We're nearly three-fourths of the way up now, and you've not come close to death yet.”

“Close enough,” Katherine said.

The windshield wipers thumped faster as he turned them up, hollow and heavy like the rapid beat of a panicked animal's heart as it escapes the hunter's line of sight Ice had formed in the corners of the windshield shortly after they left the cafe and now began to send tentative crystal fingers toward the center. He also turned up the blast from the heater, melting the hazy barrier that had started to form on the glass.

To get her mind off the road again, and because she was curious, she asked, “Hasn't anything been done to find out who these — these devil worshipers are?”

“Oh, in a town as small as Roxburgh, there has been a lot of spying on each other, neighbor watching neighbor.”

“Nothing more?”

“What would you do?” he asked.

“The police—”

“Have no jurisdiction. Aside from the fact that they kill someone's pet now and again — usually a cat— they don't break any laws. Christianity is the preferred religion in the area, but not codified by law.”

“Well, then,” she said, “even with neighbor spying on neighbor, someone ought to have aroused suspicion.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” he said. “Besides, it's equally likely that the Satanists are from another town. Within a thirty mile radius, there are a dozen villages ranging anywhere from five hundred to a thousand in population. It could be someone from one of those, leaving their hometown to perform the rituals and thus keep the heat off their own neck of the woods.”

“I see.”

“Are you frightened by the notion of devil worshipers?” Harrison asked, a touch of humor in his voice.

“Not really,” she said.

“You should be.”

“Oh?”

The Rover shuddered as it bumped over some obstruction in the road that was hidden by snow, sidled toward the ravine, came under his control again and ground relentlessly toward the final curve before they crested the top of the road.

“You don't believe in black magic and the power of evil, do you?” she asked, teasing him.

“Of course not,” he said. “But you've got to be wary of people who do believe in things like that, because they aren't exactly right in the head.”

“I suppose so.”

He frowned, his mind clearly on more than his driving. After a moment, he said, “Everyone in Roxburgh is afraid of them; everyone is waiting for something to break because of them, something bad. Only the Boland family poohpoohs the notion that they're dangerous.”

“They do?”

“Yes. The subject has been brought up at the town meeting a number of times. Lydia always attends— and Alex, her son, usually does. They always make light of the subject, joke about it. The other townspeople respect them so much that the subject is usually dropped.”

“Maybe they've got the right idea — treat it lightly and let it evaporate eventually.”

“Maybe. But I have the feeling that it is the same as finding yourself in a pit with a tiger and turning away from it hoping it will disappear.”

“Aren't you being melodramatic?” Katherine asked.

“Perhaps I am. But I can't help but wonder if these Satanists will ever reach the point where they're tired of sacrificing things like cats and dogs and an occasional rabbit.”

“I don't understand,” Katherine said.

He did not look away from the road now, for they were entering the sharp turn at the top of the rise, where the right-of-way humped, creating a natural spillage toward either the rock wall on his side or the crevasse on hers. He drove on the wrong side, taking the risk of striking the wall rather than of toppling over the precipice. In a moment, they were up and over, striking directly along the driveway to the mammoth oak doors that fronted Owlsden.

He said, “What I mean is: suppose they get bold enough to try a human sacrifice?”

Relieved that the trip was behind her, Katherine's urge to be happy soared again. “Oh, for heaven's sake, Mr. Harrison, you really are into cheap movie plots now!”

“Mike,” he said. “Don't call me Mr. Harrison; I'm not that much older than you.” He wheeled around in front of the great doors and braked the Rover. “And its surprising how often old movie plots have parallels in real life.”

The twelve-foot doors of the house swung open, spilling yellow light across the snowfield, making iced points on the giant pine needles gleam like jewels on the end of miniature spears.

“I'll get your things,” he said, opening the door and stepping out.

She stood next to him as he placed the luggage in the snow and closed the rear door of the Land Rover, and she was aware that his attitude of jolly adventurism was gone. Instead, he seemed anxious to be away from Owlsden, as if he feared the place. He kept glancing up at the dark windows, at the slate roof, at the squat, dark figure that stood in the open doorway, watching them.

“I'd like to pay you,” she said.

“Not necessary.”

“I really think—”

“My father is a millionaire, and I'll be a millionaire one day too,” he said. “Now, if you can tell me what earthly good it would do me to take cab fare from you, I might accept it.” He smiled as he spoke, his face as incredibly handsome as it had seemed the first moment she'd seen him in the restaurant in town.

“Well, then I don't know how to thank you,” Katherine said.

“Your company was thanks enough, the sight of a new face and someone with a fresh outlook.”

“You flatter me,” she said. “I really don't know what I'd have done without your help, and I don't think any