did. Then I'll get back to you all.'
'One more thing, John,' Sam said. 'Did you listen to the radio station much—while it was still operating?'
The Chief shook his head. 'No, can't say as I did. Don't like hill-billy music and can't stand this new rock and roll. Why?'
'Just curious, that's all.'
When the door closed behind the Chief, Chester asked, 'What's all this about the radio station, Sam?'
'Just a hunch, Ches. Forget it. It's probably nothing.'
'Sam?' Jane Ann said. 'The Church of the Fifteen. Remember what Best said to me?'
'Yes, I do.'
'Le Diable?' Faye said. 'What does that mean?'
Sam's gaze touched them all. 'The Church of the Devil.'
After being assured that Jane Ann was, of course, welcome to stay with the Stokes as long as she liked— they wouldn't have it any other way—Sam left, heading for home. He felt... evil around him, and knew, somehow, it was not his imagination. Not after hearing what Chester said.
Coven.
He reminded himself he was a minister before he began cursing in frustration.
This was Friday, and Sam had been more than an avid student of the occult and devil worship. Black Masses were always held on a Friday.
'Come on, Sam!' he hit the steering wheel in anger. 'Knock off the jumping to conclusions.'
There was a book somewhere in his attic at the parsonage—a very authoritative study on devil worship. The best ever written, some experts said. He would dig it out, read it.
He heard the sirens coming his way and a chill touched him; a feeling of deep despair. Something awful had happened. And for some reason, Sam had the gut feeling that whatever it was would touch him personally.
Another block, and Sam saw Benton's car nosed against the curb, the Chief stretched out on the sidewalk, people standing around him. Sam pulled to the side of the road, parked his car, and got out, walking up to the knot of people just as Doctor King arrived. The young doctor jumped out of his car and ran toward the men kneeling by John Benton.
No hurry, Sam thought—he's dead.
How do I know that? he questioned silently.
The sheriff slid to a tire-squalling halt, blocking the street with his patrol car, jumping out of the car. Sam nodded a greeting. Addison ignored him. Sam leaned against a tree, watching Tony minister to Benton.
'Terrible thing,' a voice spoke from behind him. Miles Lansky.
'Yes,' Sam turned, the Jew and the Gentile locking eyes. 'A terrible thing.'
'When you get time,' Miles spoke softly, so only Sam could hear, 'I'd like to talk to you. This afternoon, maybe. If not, tomorrow will do. It's important, Sam.'
Miles knows, Sam thought. He knows. The minister took a chance. 'You feel it, too, Miles?' he kept his voice low.
'Yes,' Miles whispered. 'Whatever
'We'll get together.'
'Good.'
The two men stood silently, watching Doctor King work on Benton. Tony stood up, shaking his head. 'Cover him,' he said. 'He's dead.'
'Awful!' Addison said. 'Just awful! What caused this, Tony?'
The doctor shrugged, wanting very much to reply: How in the hell should I know? Instead, 'Heart attack, perhaps. Stroke. We'll do an autopsy.'
'Cut up the body?!' the sheriff seemed unduly alarmed at the suggestion. 'What purpose would that solve?'
'To find out what killed him! What else?' Tony did not like stupid questions from people he felt should know better.
The sheriff put his hand on the young doctor's shoulder. 'I didn't mean to be so snappish, Tony. I'm sorry. Forgive me. I've known John for so long, that's all.'
'I understand, Walter.' But his tone indicated something else. He looked squarely at Sam, just for a few seconds cutting his eyes down the street, toward town.
Sam nodded his head.
Tony walked away from the scene, walking toward Sam and Miles. Only a few curious spectators had gathered to rubberneck at the dead man. Only a few. That, to Sam, was unusual. He looked up and down the street. Almost no one stood on their porches, gawking, as is usually the case with tragedy. Odd.
'Strange, isn't it?' Miles said softly.
'Yes,' was all Sam had time to say before Tony reached their side, shaking hands with both men.
Tony clasped the minister on the shoulder. When he spoke, it was loud enough for Walter to hear. 'Sam? You haven't forgotten your appointment this afternoon, have you? Two o'clock, now. You're overdue for that physical.'
Sam had just had a physical in June. Tony knew that perfectly well—he had given it to Sam. 'I haven't forgotten, Tony. I'll be there.'
Addison was no longer paying attention to them.
As Tony walked away, Miles said, 'I thought you just had a physical? Didn't you tell me that a few weeks ago?'
'Yes, I did. Tony wants to talk about something.'
'Probably the same thing I want to talk about. See you later, Sam.'
Sam drove toward home, looking at the town of Whitfield in the hot light of summer. A Friday. Very few adults walked the streets. Those that did were elderly. No young people played on the sidewalks. No bike riders. No teenagers walking along, holding hands and listening to portable radios, savoring young love in the summer. The town seemed—to Sam—to be almost dead.
Or undead, the thought jumped into his mind.
How could I have missed what was happening?
Come on, Balon, he urged his mind to relax. Knock it off.
Sam did not park in the drive as he usually did. He pulled to the curb in front of the house, very quietly getting out of the car, closing the door softly. He slipped up the front steps, easing into the living room. He didn't know why he was doing this, and he felt a little like a fool. Sam Spade in preacher's clothes.
The record player was blaring, but it was not the music that caught and held Sam as if in a vise. Michelle was on the phone in the kitchen.
'Do we meet tonight?' she asked. 'Good! Will it soon be time?'
A moment of silence.
Sam froze, unintentionally hidden by the partition separating dining room from kitchen. He did not like hearing this in such a manner, preferring to confront his wife openly, but his legs felt like lead.
'I'll be ready, Dalton,' she said.
DALTON? Dalton Revere? The man was a close friend. Or so Sam had believed. But, Sam grimaced, that's so often the case. A friend. Dalton was an elder in his church, and twenty years older than Michelle.
Sam felt sick.
He slipped quietly out the front door, closing it softly behind him, stepping out on the porch. He waited for a ten count, then opened the door, walking back into the house, shutting the door hard behind him. He hoped he had given his wife—and the word wife disgusted him—time to compose herself from her verbal fornication.
She stood by the dining room table, smiling, looking at him. 'How has your day been, Sam?'
'Interesting,' he forced himself to return the smile. 'And very informative.'
'Oh?'
He did not elaborate, merely stood looking at the woman, his wife. A tall, very beautiful woman. Who—the
