Sam's numbness returned. He fought it away. 'How would they know that?'
'You tell me, I'm just a doctor of the body. I've got—had—friends in this town who won't speak to me. Both my receptionist and nurse jumped up one day, cursed me, then quit. I've never seen such a personality change. I'm worried, Sam. This whole town seems to have changed overnight, and I don't like it. I'm suddenly scared, and I don't know why.'
'What about Doctor Matthews?'
'He's one of those who won't speak to me. I have
'Tony, how's the attendance at your church?'
The doctor was thoughtful for a few seconds. 'Interesting question, Sam. It's steadily declining. I know Father Dubois is concerned about it, and I sense he would like to talk about it, but it's as if—well, this is just a guess—it's—perhaps he doesn't know who to trust! Sam, the feeling I have about this town is . . . eerie.'
'How can you be sure you can trust me?'
The doctor smiled for the first time since Sam entered his office. 'I guess we all have to take a chance, Sam.'
'Yes. Well, you're right, Tony. Something is going on in Whitfield. I have suspicions, nothing else.'
He told Tony of his dreams, of the trouble at Jane Ann's, of the conversation overheard by Chester, of the sheriff's lying, of Bill Mathis's lying, and of his feeling of something evil hanging in the air. He spoke of Doctor Wilder, and the Church of the Fifteen. He did not mention his wife.
'Sam, what is the Church of the Fifteen? I never heard of it.'
'My memory is a little hazy on this, but I'll tell you what I can remember. The Church of the Fifteen is the oldest form of Satan worship—oldest known form that can be proven, that is. It dates back to about the fifth century and has to do with the Tarot.'
'There are twenty-two cards in the major arcana of the Tarot. The fifteenth card is the Devil. The unnumbered card is the Fool. When read upright, the fifteenth card represents bondage; subordination; black magic; devil worship. The card also means suffering, violence, punishment. But there is more to the Church of the Fifteen that I can't recall—much more. I've got a book on the subject at the house; I'll have to bone up on it.'
'Devil worship!' Tony's face twisted in shock. 'Sam, do you really believe in that?'
'Yes, I do, Tony. And I think it's been going on around Whitfield for a long time; very quietly going on. And I also believe there is a great deal more to it than we know. This is mere speculation, Tony, but I believe Karl Sorenson is in this up to his ears.'
'Nothing would surprise me about that man. My father despised him.'
'Why?'
'He—my dad, told me he'd treated several people after some of Sorenson's parties—debaucheries, really. Whip marks on their bodies, and a lot more, Sam. Really sick, twisted stuff. There's been rumors for years about that man.'
'You know how Jane Ann's mother died?'
'Yes. Awful! Sam, let's count up what we have. Five minutes after leaving the Stokes' house, a healthy man drops dead of a heart attack—we'll call it that for now. The sheriff is lying; Bill Mathis is lying; officer Perkins can't remember why he was with Best or helping to tear down Jane Ann's back door; bodies are disappearing from the cemetery; there are rumors of strange goings-on at Glowers Funeral Home; rumors of incest in this town, and Chester says he overheard the sheriff saying that Joan had some—ah—pretty good stuff.'
Sam laughed. 'It's interesting how people lock up around a preacher.'
The doctor grinned, making him appear much younger. Only his eyes remained old before their time.
'Tony, tell me about the 'goings-on at the funeral home.'
'It's just whispered rumors among the elderly, Sam. That bodies are not being embalmed. Being buried whole.'
'Interesting,' Sam said. 'But there is more?'
'Yes. Necrophilia and necromancy.'
'Necromancy, Tony? You've lost me.'
'Black magic; communication with the dead. It's just rumor, Sam.'
'But—?'
The doctor shrugged his shoulders. 'Added to what you've just told me—I don't know. So we have suspicions, what do we do with them?'
'Keep calm. Say nothing. Just let things develop. How about that autopsy on John?'
Tony shook his head. 'No. Mrs. Benton refused to allow it. Oh, I could force it, but—' He sighed in defeat. 'Doctor Matthews is the coroner. Dead end there.' He lifted his eyes to Sam's. 'You're not telling me all you know, are you?'
'No, I'm not, Tony. Not yet.'
'Oh! I meant to ask you, have you stocked up on supplies? Milk and so forth?'
'Why? What do you mean?'
'You haven't heard? I just heard this morning. Next Thursday,' he glanced at his calendar, 'the state is closing highway 72, north and south. We're going to be cut off, for all practical purposes, for a week. You know those old bridges are in bad need of repair.'
Sam's smile was both grim and knowing. 'Cut off for a week? Now that is interesting, yes indeed.'
'Yeah,' Tony said. 'The National Guard will have helicopters ready to come in if we need anyone medivaced out. But we're really going to be cut off. For a week.'
'Five days,' Sam muttered, driving away from the doctor's office. 'Five days until we're completely isolated— for a week. And the public was not told until today; and not even officially told. Interesting. And a little sad,' he concluded, driving slowly through the small town.
Pedestrian traffic was light. Almost all were elderly. Sam saw no young people playing on the sidewalks and streets; no young people walking. Only the elderly.
An eerie feeling overcame the minister, leaving him slightly bewildered and a little shaken with his thoughts and conclusions.
Sam drove to his church, pausing in the stillness of the silent auditorium. The coolness of the empty sanctuary was comforting to him; the hush calming. He always felt much closer to God in here, as if the glass and brick and wood had all combined to form a place of safety, not unlike the hollow of His hand.
Sam sat in a pew. He sat for a long time, his head bowed, submitting to the weariness for a few moments. He was not praying, just allowing his thoughts to drift out and up, in the hope God would somehow hear, and give him instruction. Seated in the pew, Sam fell into a semidoze, his memories working, taking him back in time. Then sleep, brought on by nights of tossing and turning and dreaming, closed his eyes, deepening his breathing. Reminiscences skipped through the preacher's mind, touching different times and places, moving him backward through the years.
'Get 'em! Get 'em!' the lieutenant screamed. 'There's four of 'em—right there! They ducked into that ravine.'
Corporal Balon and the others sprayed the area with automatic weapon fire. Screaming from the ravine bounced to them. Sam stilled the wailing with a grenade.
'Mean lookin' little fuckers, ain't they?' a soldier said. He stood by Sam's side, looking down at what was left of the four North Koreans. And not that much was left. Bloody guts and shattered bodies, scattered over the dirt and rocks of the ravine.
'Move it out!' the lieutenant said. 'We're in deep shit this far north.'
Moving out, the UNPIK guerrilla fighters headed south, toward the thirty-eighth parallel, some miles away. The point man stepped on a mine, blowing him into eternity, shrapnel from the mine knocking the lieutenant down, mangling his right leg.
'We can't call in a chopper,' the sergeant said. 'Radio's busted—took a round. We'll have to carry him out.'
