it.'
Sam congratulated the minister, chatted for a few more minutes, then hung up. He called to Chester, 'Stay in the nursery, I want you to hear all these calls.'
Sam called the Christian church in four directions, two states. He got the same reply: business was booming! Religion was pulling the folks in the front door. Great!
Chester came in, sat down. 'You called in all directions, Sam, and you got the same answer. Religion is not just doing well, it's wonderful. But why isn't it wonderful here in Whitfield? I know from talking to people it's down in all the churches in town. Why?'
Sam slowly shook his head. 'Who is minding the store?' he asked abruptly.
'I closed it. Only had one customer all day, and that is really strange for this time of year. Wish I could figure out what's keeping people out of town.'
A force, Sam thought. A very evil force. 'You keep guns at your house, Chester?'
The man smiled. 'Sam, I run a sports shop; the only one in town. Sure, I keep guns at my home. I'd hate for the Treasury people to check me.'
'Will you do something for me?'
'Of course, Sam.'
'Go home. Make sure your guns are loaded—check them. Bolt the doors and secure the windows. And after dark, don't leave the house.'
He received a curious look from his friend. 'You feel all right, Sam? Did you have a good lunch? You did eat?'
'I had a very good breakfast at Jane Ann's. I threw it up later. No lunch, and I'm not hungry. I feel fine.
Correction: I am in control of my senses: that's what you're really asking. Please don't argue, Ches. Humor me for a time. Maybe I'm wrong—I hope I am. But for now, go on home and look after things. I'll be in touch.'
Chester nodded, rising to his feet. 'All right, Sam. I won't question you about it. But you will tell me what's going on—soon?'
'Yes.'
Sam drove out to the local Ford dealership. It was pure impulse on his part. He liked the feel of the Mercury he drove, but he felt it was not the vehicle he needed—for whatever lay ahead of him—and he was growing more certain in his suspicions. He might regret his actions later; he might feel like the biggest fool in two states—he hoped he would—but for now, he felt he was doing the right thing.
As he drove the short distance, Sam noticed one thing that only compounded his suspicions and dread: there was no one on the streets. The town was silent at four o'clock in the afternoon. A shiver of fear touched him.
'Friday,' he muttered. 'They're preparing for this evening's worship.'
You're letting your imagination run away with your common sense, he told himself. Be logical.
But his words did little to calm him.
As he pulled into the dealership, he knew he was doing the right thing.
How do you know? he questioned his mind.
And the answer came back: I know.
Peter Canford walked out of the dealer showroom to greet him. 'Preacher,' the young man said. 'Glad to see you.' They shook hands. 'I was beginning to think the town had forgotten us. You're the first customer today.'
'That's odd.'
'Sure is. It's kind of spooky, really. What can I help you with?'
'I—uh—want to trade cars, Jimmy. I'd like to have a pickup truck. Preferably one that is already broken in. I want to trade this Mercury in for it. My car's paid for.'
The young salesman scratched his head. 'Well, I'm told never to argue with the customer, Reverend Balon —'
'Sam,' he corrected, smiling. 'And my mind's made up. I want to buy a pickup truck. One that will take some rough driving over some bad terrain.'
'Right,' Peter grinned. 'Sam. I forgot. Okay, I have one you might be interested in. It's a year old. Only has a few thousand miles on it. We got it from a fellow over at Ridgewood. Or rather, we got it from his wife—they split up. It's a fancy one, Sam; got all the equipment and more. Extra gas cans, if you want them. Big tank, winch. I mean, it's got it all. Let's go look at it.'
Sam sat in the pickup, feeling less a fool as time ticked past. He inspected the engine, kicked the tires.
'I like it, Peter.'
'Going to do some fishing this summer?'
'Might have to,' Sam said. 'Put some food on the table. What with us being cut off for a week.'
'What?'
Sam told him about the bridges, suggesting it was only a rumor, unfounded.
Peter shook his head. 'I haven't heard a word about it. Probably just a rumor, like you said. You want to drive this truck?'
Sam did, around the lot, then said, 'Make me a deal, Peter.'
The salesman had looked at Sam's Mercury while the minister was driving the truck. He figured for a moment, then handed Sam a piece of paper. 'That's the best I can do, Sam.'
Sam glanced at the figures. 'Fine, I'll take it.' And the pickup was his. He smiled as the words 'for better or for worse' entered his mind.
Jimmy was thinking: it's a shame. A nice man like Sam Balon, with a wife that's running around on him. With an elder in his own church, too. He almost told Sam to go out and get a big stick, go home, and beat his wife's butt.
Instead, he said, 'Sure is something about John Benton. How old was he?'
'Fifty, I think. Have you heard when the funeral will be?'
'Two o'clock Sunday. I heard the council just appointed Jimmy chief of police. Tough way to get a promotion. It's odd, though.'
'What is?'
'Well—it's a small town, Sam. News travels fast. I heard about the trouble at Jane Ann's last night, and about John firing George Best.'
'So?'
'Walter Addison just hired George this afternoon. Made him a county deputy. John wouldn't have liked that.'
Everything is beginning to add up. 'Let's sign the papers, Peter.'
Fifteen minutes later, the men stood by Sam's newly acquired pickup, chatting. The reception inside the dealership had been cool. None of the other employees had bothered speaking to Sam, and their looks were sullen.
'What's wrong with those people in there?' Sam asked.
'I don't know, Sam, but it's sure embarrassing. They've been acting funny for a couple of weeks. Now they treat me as if I'm not around. I'm just ignored. It's getting worse each day.'
Sam knew Peter was a devout Catholic, but he wasn't sure about his fellow workers. He didn't know how to ask without being obvious about it.
'Maybe they resent your church work, Peter?'
Peter's look was thoughtful. 'It's funny you should say that, Sam. A lot of those guys in there—the women, too—used to be good church workers. Different churches, of course, but they all went to church. Then, I guess, oh, maybe two-three months ago, one by one they started drifting away from their church. Now none of them attend services. As a matter of fact, they belittle religion; make fun of it. I don't like that, Sam. I've noticed something else, too, for the past few weeks or so, everyone of them show up for work on Friday wearing those funny-looking medallions around their necks. You've seen them? Fad, I suppose. Probably started out in California with all this rock and roll music.'
Don't count on that, Sam thought, remembering the medallion his wife wore about her neck—every day. 'Memphis,' he said.
'I beg your pardon?'
'Oh, I'm sorry,' Sam smiled. 'I said Memphis. I think rock and roll began in Memphis, Tennessee. But I believe
