the recoil, and sighted in the bell. 'Ring my bell,' he muttered, then gently squeezed the trigger, allowing the weapon to fire itself.
The bell clanged, then jumped from its bracings, blown from the brackets by the force of the heavy slug. But the men and women of the Coven, trapped inside the mansion, were ready for Sam this time. From every window came an answering volley of shots, forcing Sam to scamper back below the lip of the ridge. He crawled to the slight protection of a small clump of trees and carefully eased his way forward, until he could see the house. He sighted in one man, firing from the third floor, and eased the trigger back. The butt pounded his shoulder. But Sam had been shooting downhill, the scope adjusted for that angle, and his shot was high, not catching the man in the chest, but in the throat, almost decapitating the Coven. The .460 slug flung the man backward, his bubbling scream cut off before it could reach his lips.
Sliding backward, Sam changed positions, running several hundred feet before dropping to the earth and easing his way up to the crest of the ridge.
He spent the morning harassing those in the mansion, but taking no great personal risk in doing so. He knew he would have to go inside the mansion, and he was not looking forward to that, for that would put him on Falcon's territory, and the warlock would then have the advantage. But as long as he could, Sam intended to cut the odds … down, at least make it fifty/fifty, even-up, the scales tilting in no one's direction.
Jane Ann heard the clock chime its chilling message. Noon. Odd, she thought, I've always loved that old clock. Now, I hate it. Then from the outside, she heard a low chanting coming from the center of the small, doomed town, growing stronger and louder with each heartbeat. 5he listened until she could make out the words.
'Praise him that is our Master,' they chanted. 'Now the Christian whore dies. Praise the Hooved One.'
The chant was repeated, over and over, until it became a maddened drone in Jane Ann's head. She looked for the mist that was Balon, and was not surprised to find him gone. He had warned her she would have to face some of he ordeal alone. She stood up, moving to the front door. She had taken a long hot bath, fixed her hair, and done her nails. She had put on her best dress, her best jewelry, and now stood facing the door, her Bible in her hand.
Waiting.
'Why does this have to be?' Miles asked the misty face of Balon.
The mist stirred but projected no reply. 'I will, if not gladly, certainly willingly take her place,' Wade said. 'And I know I speak for all here, we've all talked about it.'
'That cannot be.'
'Why, for God's sake?' Anita asked.
'Precisely the reason.'
'Sam, you're speaking in riddles,' Miles accused him.
'No. You are perceiving them as puzzles, that's all.'
'She's dying for us, isn't she, Sam?' Doris asked.
'Yes.'
'But there is more to it than that, isn't there, Sam?' Wade asked.
'Yes.'
'She's dying for you, isn't she, Sam?' Miles' words were softly spoken, and not accusatory.
When Balon thrust his reply, the one word was charged with emotion: 'Yes!'
The long filthy line of Satanists stopped in front of the house. The chanting ceased. The town grew quiet.
'Hey, bitch!' a man's husky voice called. 'Get your ass out of that house. It's your time.'
'Yeah,' another called. 'And you might as well step out of them panties 'fore you do, 'cause you gonna be out of them damn quick.'
Ugly laughter rang in Jane Ann's ears.
The petite lady stepped out of her house, onto the porch, facing the ugly crowd. She was jerked from the porch, seized by dirty, rough hands, manhandled profanely. As if envious of her neat appearance, a woman reached out and quickly mussed her hair. Hard male hands roamed over her body.
'Take her to the circle of stones,' Jean Zagone commanded. 'The Digging.' She stood in front of Jane Ann, hate shining from her dark eyes. She spat in Jane Ann's face, the spittle dripping from the smaller woman's cheek. 'It's going to be fun listening to you beg, Christian cunt.'
Jane Ann's reply was calm. 'That will never happen. I can't say I won't scream. But I can assure you, with the Love of God in my heart, I will never beg.'
Jean slapped her, her hard hand rocking the woman backward. 'Take her.'
Laying on the ridge facing the house, something very cold touched Sam's heart. His big hands gripped the rifle until his fingers ached from the strain. 'Mother,' he whispered.
The scene in Whitfield was suddenly played before his eves, a five-second burst of reality. Then it vanished as quickly as it had appeared.
Sam put his forehead on the ground and allowed himself the denied luxury of tears.
A rifle shot from the house, spitting dirt onto his face, brought him back to his own reality.
The young man cut his eyes upward. 'I guess You have Your reasons.'
