caution. Finally, he said, 'Yes. I have.'
The chief of police seemed to relax. 'Care to elaborate, Father?'
'Are you asking if there is such a thing as varying degrees of evil?' The priest smiled.
'I was raised in the church, Father.' Monty's response was dryly spoken.
'Your question about evil concerns the man I found this evening, correct?'
'Yes.'
'The poor man had strange, bizarre markings cut into his flesh, Chief Draper.'
Strange and bizarre, Monty thought. Those words keep cropping up. First from Noah, now from the priest. 'Describe them, Father. We only touched on that.'
The priest closed his eyes. When he spoke, his words were slow as he brought back the tortured man's condition. 'Stars, moons, upside down crosses. Other symbols I—am not that familiar with. Some I have never seen at all. It looked as though the man had been tortured for several days. Some of the cuttings appeared to be crusted over; others were fresh. There were numbers cut into the poor man's flesh. Sixes and nines. 1 believe part of his tongue had been cut out. His words were so slurred. And as I told you previously, he had been castrated.'
Le Moyne opened his eyes. Monty thought them to contain a haunting expression.
'What did the symbols mean to you, Father?'
Did the priest shudder? Monty thought so. 'I— would rather not venture an opinion at this time, Chief. If you don't mind.'
He knows, Monty thought. Knows more than he is telling me. Without warning, Monty opened the center drawer of his desk and removed the prints of Noah's dog. He flipped them to the priest. Father Le Moyne took one look and covered his mouth in shock.
'What's the matter, Father?'
'That's obvious, isn't it? The poor animal. That's Noah's dog, Victor.'
'I wasn't aware you two knew each other.'
'The dog or Noah?' Le Moyne asked, with a sense of humor that surprised Monty.
'Go on, Father. But I am glad to see you have a sense of humor. It helps in times like these.'
'Quite true,' the priest responded, lighting another cigarette from the smoked-down butt of his first. 'I have been in Logandale for a great many years, Monty, more than twenty-five. I know practically everyone within a ten mile radius of the town: Protestant, Catholic, Jew. I came here when I was barely thirty years of age. Been here ever since.
'You see, Monty, I am one of the few people who remember the real Noah Crisp. The man who could have been a truly great author. But that was before— well, his breakdown, to put it as kindly as possible.'
This was something Monty had never heard. 'I always thought Noah was—well, just a little on the strange side.' That word again. Strange.
'No. That isn't a fair or accurate portrayal of the real man. Noah was brilliant when I first met him. A deeply religious man, and, I think, perhaps on the edge of great literary success. Then one night—no, it was early evening—he came to me with this idea for a manuscript. He was going to write a book about the occult. The Devil. A fiction book. In it, he was going to kill Satan.
'I'm not saying there haven't been writers who wrote of killing Satan, but 1 can't recall ever reading one of their books. You see, Monty, Satan, like God, is immortal—no human can kill either. I told Noah that; begged him not to write the manuscript. Warned him of the danger of his project. He waved my objections aside. Then Noah became obsessed with his work. He stopped coming to Mass; broke all ties with God. He practically barricaded himself in his house—his parents were killed when he was just a little boy—and Noah seldom came out of the house during this period of— Devil research. He conducted all sorts of Black Masses and the calling out of witches and warlocks. He conducted lone seances. He became quite the expert on Satan.'
The priest's gentle features hardened for a moment. 'Then—one night, just after midnight, I believe it was, my phone rang. To this day I do not know who the caller was, but it was about Noah. Noah was running around on his property, stark naked, shouting that he had seen the face of Satan; that he had talked with the Dark One. It is written, Monty, by men much more versed in the subject than I, that if one sees the face of the Prince of Darkness, that person dies. Noah was very lucky—in a manner of speaking. He's alive. But he was a broken man, mentally and physically. He spent two years in a mental institution, another five years in deep analysis. Noah will never write another worthwhile book—about anything.'
Monty was silent for a moment, mentally digesting all the priest had said. 'You believe he saw the devil?'
'I—believe he saw something. Yes. Yes, I believe Noah Crisp met with the Dark One.'
'Then you really, truly believe in the supernatural?'
'Yes, Monty. I do.'
'You really believe the devil has—followers, covens, if you will; people who are really, actually in touch with the forces of the—well, beyond?'
'With all my heart and faith.'
'Jesus!' Monty muttered. 'Father Le Moyne, have you ever performed or been a witness to an exorcism?'
Without hesitation, the priest said, 'Yes. To both your questions.'
'Here in Logandale?'
The priest struggled with that for a moment. 'I—can't answer that, Monty. I'm sorry.'
The cop surfaced in Monty, and he knew the priest had performed the rite of exorcism in Logandale. But out of respect for the man—and, he would readily admit, fear stemming from his early teachings in the church—he would
