'Doris!' Miles was appalled. 'You hush up that kind of talk. Don't you know who you're talking to?'
'I'm talking to Sam Balon the same way I always talked to Sam Balon. And I'll speak the same way when we get to … wherever it is we're going.'
'I never heard of such disrespect for the … excuse me, Sam … dead,' Miles said. 'Sam—why? Why did they pull back?'
'Because Satan knows he is beaten here.'
'But people are still being raped and tortured and tormented and dying,' Wade said.
'That is true.'
'Why?'
'I do not question the will of God.'
'Will we get a chance to ask Him?' Wade persisted.
The hollow voice that was Balon chuckled, then projected: 'I think you're in for a surprise, Wade.'
'What do you mean, preacher?'
'You'll see.'
'Janey?' Anita asked.
'She is well.'
'That's not what I meant.'
'I know. She has an ordeal ahead of her. A terrible one. But she will endure.'
'You can't know that for certain, Sam,' Doris said.
'I know.'
Then the voice faded and the house was still.
Sam's head hurt, throbbing with pain. The side of his head was sticky. He put his fingertips to his head and gingerly touched the aching. His fingers came away sticky. He touched his head again, exploring the wetness, finding a small cut just above his ear.
Groaning, he attempted to sit up in the darkness. He made it on the second attempt, rested for a moment, then got slowly to his feet, swaying in the darkness of the … he looked around him … of the what? Where was he?
As his eyes began to penetrate some of the gloom ground him, he could tell he was in a large room. A damp basement, he concluded. He stood very still, attempting to get his bearings. He was confused: Roma had assured them no physical action would be taken until Thursday night.
'And of course you believed her.' The mysterious voice ripped into his aching head. 'Words from the Devil's whore? How typically mortal.'
Sam's temper flared. 'Sermons I don't need. If you knew she wasn't to be trusted, why didn't you tell me?'
'You are your father's son.'
'I'm getting a little tired of hearing that, too, Mr. whoever-you-are.'
The powerful, awesome voice chuckled, and Sam could hear the rumblings of nearby thunder.
'Nydia!' He remembered her screaming. 'Where is she?'
'Never take anything for granted,' the voice said.
'What!'
'Do not trust them further. For as it is written: he knoweth that he hath but a short time.'
'All I asked was a reasonably simple question. Why are you giving me such a bad time with all these riddles?'
'Oh, but I don't speak in riddles. It is only that you interpret my words as puzzles. But bear this in mind: remember your father's words at the airport.'
Sam's sigh was more exasperation than frustration or anger. 'What words?' he asked wearily. 'More riddles?'
' 'I cannot guarantee she will not be hurt. If anything, it was blessed by the Dark One.' Now go to her.'
A wind blew cold through the darkness; a door banged open, dim light beyond it.
'Through that door, huh?'
'You have reservations?'
'Yeah. How do I know you're one of the good guys and not Old Scratch pulling my leg?'
And again the powerful voice chuckled. Once more, thunder rumbled overhead. 'You are learning, young warrior.'
Sam felt the mysterious force move away. He was alone.
He looked toward the dim light of the open door. 'Oh, what the hell … heck. No! I meant hell!' He walked out of the dampness into the cold of the Canadian night. And it struck him: night! How long was I out? Hours, at least. That had to have come from more than a knock on my head.
