And Sam knew than he must not allow Michelle to touch and kiss him.
He returned to his reading:
Things were beginning to fall more concisely into place.
Sam put the book aside. He had to admit, grudgingly, the devil, or his agent, certainly picked an ideal spot in Whitfield. The town was all but isolated. One airstrip, owned by Karl Sorenson. No night lights. The spur rail line was thirty miles away, and used only at roundup. No bus service. A state highway that could be easily blocked—as was going to happen very soon—and no one would notice for a week or more. One phone call to the bread and milk companies: bring in enough for a week and forget us. By that time, the deed would be done, leaving, during the day, normal-acting citizens. At night, however, they would be free to prowl, slowly taking over smaller surrounding towns.
Nice and neatly packaged, tied with a red ribbon. Red for Satan.
Communications would be easy for them; the phone company personnel would be among the first to be possessed. Calls could be easily monitored—blocked, rerouted. No one in town had the equipment of a ham operator. The radio station was closed down, all the equipment sold, including the antenna. They could not put out a signal for help.
But how, Sam mused, could the people— hundreds of them—be so easily possessed.
Of course, he smiled: the radio station. Mind implantation. It would be easy over a period of time. The government had experimented with it in the early fifties, both in radio and TV—and it worked. Subtle little messages, sent so fast they could only be perceived by the subconscious mind. Sure, it would be easy that way.
The lights began to flicker, browning out, again and again. Sam looked at his watch. Midnight.
The Black Mass had begun.
Sam took a long, very hot shower, then went to bed, falling asleep almost instantly, his exhaustion finally catching up with him. He was sleeping at dawn when Michelle entered the house, her slight noise at the door awakening him. Through slitted eyes, he watched her stand over his bed, the stench of her almost overpowering. He watched her lips pull back in a snarl, her dark eyes flashing hate at him.
Don't let her kiss you! he silently cautioned.
She walked to him in the dim light, bending down, her mouth only inches from his. Sam deliberately turned over on his back, the silver cross laying on his chest catching the light from the outside, pouring through the open and uncurtained window. Michelle's hands flew to cover her eyes.
Sam felt sick at his stomach.
Quickly, quietly, she backed out of the room, away from the sight of the Holy Cross.
In her bedroom, she carefully locked the door behind her, pulling the heavy black drapes, filling the room with darkness. She stripped naked, her body bearing the bruises of a dozen hands upon her flesh.
She did not wash herself, the thought of water repulsed her. She fell naked on the bed, stinking, her evil permeating the room. She drifted off to sleep as the sun climbed from out of the east. She occasionally snarled in her sleep, drippings from her mouth wetting the already stained pillow. Her dreams were of Sam—always of Sam.
She dreamed of cutting out his heart, listening to him scream. She smiled in her sleep, teeth flashing white in the darkness—like fangs on a snarling animal.
After Michelle left the room, Sam was wide awake, his heart pounding. His nose wrinkled at the odor of unwashed flesh, the musky scent of sex, and of evil, he was sure. He lay still for a time, the smell assailing his nostrils. He now knew the truth, and he did not know what to do with the knowledge.
His wife, Michelle, was one of Them.
He blamed himself for not realizing sooner. He should have known; should have put it all together weeks ago, when he first suspected the evil in Whitfield. The pranks that were played on him; the phone calls with heavy breathing and cursing.
Kids, he had thought. Playing games with the preacher.
Now he knew better.
He rose from his bed, padding softly to the bathroom. He washed his face, brushed his teeth, and ran a comb through his hair. In his room, he dressed quickly. Jeans, pullover shirt, rough-out boots. He checked his watch. Seven-thirty. He wanted to see five people this day: Dubois at the rectory; Haskell at the Episcopal church; Lucas Monroe; Wade Thomas; and Miles Lansky.
If Miles, a Jew, who really did not believe in Heaven or Hell—so he professed—sensed something evil in Whitfield, then something was evil in Whitfield.
And Sam had made up his mind to visit Tyson's Lake. Somehow, he believed, everything was linked to that area. If there was something evil out there, he was going to find it, and if possible, kill it!
Sam pulled a trunk out of his closet, rummaging around in the bottom until his hand touched the cold metal of what he sought. He pulled out a .45 caliber automatic pistol, a box of shells, three clips, and the leather that went with them. He had not touched the weapon in almost five years—except to clean it occasionally. Not since 1953 had he thought of using it. Since Korea.
In the living room, he field-stripped the weapon, cleaning it, oiling it, working the slide action back and forth. He filled the clips, inserted a full clip into the weapon, and left the chamber empty.
Sam suddenly remembered the Thompson Submachine Gun Chester had in his shop. In a vault. Sam made a mental note to speak to Chester about that weapon.
Am I being silly? he questioned.
No! he answered the question.
He put the .45 into leather, fitted the full spare clips into their pouches, attached holster and clip pouches onto the web belt, and wrapped the belt around the holster. He carried it outside.
He was a bit confused for just a few seconds at seeing the pickup in his drive, then the memory of the trade came to him. Peter Canford. He wanted to see Peter, too. Peter sensed something wrong in town.
He looked up and down the street. Nothing moved. Nothing at all.
Sam drove out into the country, into the sand hills, where he practiced with the .45 until he was satisfied he had not lost his eye for shooting and could hit a man where he aimed to hit him.
