Miles smiled. 'Whatever is happening here in Whitfield may or may not be real. Why doesn't each of us deal with . . . it in our own way and leave religious dogma for some other time?'
Only Wade did not join in the laughter. Sam said, 'That's a nice, safe answer, Miles.'
'That's all you're going to get out of me. So be happy with that much.'
'Jokes!' Wade muttered. 'They're making jokes.'
Miles glanced around the small room. 'I take it save for Chester, Faye and Jane Ann, this is it?'
'And Peter Canford, yes,' Sam said. 'This is it.'
'And the old people, Haskell reminded them all.
'They are gone and don't know it,' Dubois said, and all eyes swung toward him. 'The strong must survive. That's a very un-Christian thing to say, and I'll pay for it, but it's the truth.'
Miles shifted his feet restlessly. He glanced at Wade. 'I take it Sam convinced you where I could not?'
'I didn't say I was convinced,' the newspaperman stubbornly held on, 'but I'm here.'
'But the old people?' Sam said. 'They—'
'Drop the subject, son,' Lucas spoke gently. 'Flagellation won't solve a thing. You'll see what we mean, I promise you.'
'Poppycock and balderdash and twaddle,' Wade said, folding his arms across his chest.
'Doubting Thomas,' Sam said.
'I can't relate to that,' Miles smiled, his always good humor breaking through.
'I think,' Wade said, 'you're all overreacting. And I include myself in that.'
'You're very wrong, old friend,' Miles said, his grin fading. 'And you'll never know what that statement does to me.'
'I was shocked at what Sam told me a few minutes ago,' the editor admitted. 'In my office. But I've had time to think on it. I'm sorry, Sam, but—are you sure Michelle did those things? Or did you put too much into an innocent gesture?'
Father Dubois held up a hand, stilling Wade. 'We don't have much time. And we certainly don't have time for bickering among ourselves. Let's tell our stories—compare notes, if you will. Then I'll tell you all the real story.' He glanced at Sam. 'If you'll begin, Sam.'
For the second time that day, Sam told his story, leaving nothing out. When he finished, he felt drained. All the men—including Wade—sat quietly.
Sam glanced at Dubois. The old priest sat quietly, his hands clasped in his lap, a smile on his lips. A sad, knowing smile. His eyes were dark with secrets.
He knows, Sam realized. He knows more than all of us.
Sam shifted his gaze to the Methodist. Lucas wore a worried look, and Sam knew it had nothing to do with his losing battle with cancer. The Episcopal priest sat very still, holding an empty coffee cup in his hands. Miles slowly shook his head, his lips forming a silent aahhh. Wade shifted his feet on the carpet, not convinced.
Lucas said, 'I know perfectly well what is happening in this town. I know the evil that surrounds us all. I know it personally, and it frightens me.'
'I told you twenty years ago, Lucas,' Dubois said. 'I warned you then you couldn't outrun your past. Neither can I.'
'Yes,' the Methodist whispered. 'I know. But it's too late for me—I'm dying. But not for you.'
'I've got to meet him again,' Dubois said.
'What are you two talking about?' Wade asked, exasperation in his voice, his actions, as he waved his hands in the air. 'Who is it you've got to meet?' He smiled. 'Or is it whom? I never can get that straight.'
But no one laughed.
'The antisemitism has begun,' Miles spoke. 'In earnest.'
'In what way?' Sam asked.
'The phone calls began about two months ago, becoming more vicious as time passed. Now they're really bad. Doris is frightened half out of her wits. The calls—callers—have become extremely abusive.'
'Is that why you abruptly sent your kids to Colorado?' Sam asked.
'One of the reasons,' Miles said gently.
'Will somebody please get back to my question?' Wade said. 'Who is it you people have to meet? And why?'
The expression on Father Dubois's face was a mixture of amusement, fear, and sadness. 'The devil,' he said.
'THE DEVIL!' Wade jumped to his feet. 'Oh, come on, gentlemen, now look here. I'll admit there is something going on in this town; I conceded that much to Miles and Sam. But the devil? No! I absolutely refuse to believe any—'
'SIT DOWN!' Dubois shouted. It was the first time Sam had ever heard the priest raise his voice. 'Listen to me, Wade. Listen to me very carefully.
'I'm seventy years old, son. I've been a priest for a long, long time. This has been my parish for more than thirty-five years. I remember you as a little boy. Son, I've written volumes on the happenings in Fork County. I have your father's journals as well.'
'My father's writings! I want them! I've searched everywhere—'
'Hush,' Dubois commanded gently. 'Listen to me. Your father knew—sensed—something evil about this area. But he spoke not a word of it—to anyone. Except, finally, to me. We talked at length until he was certain I knew what I was talking about, and he could trust me, and I him. I warned him not to go too far, to be careful in his prying. But,' the old priest shrugged, 'he was a good newspaper man. I wish I could have known him longer.' He smiled. 'Your father did not take kindly to my warnings. Oh, he believed me—your father was a good Christian man. Also a very brave man. His bravery got him killed that day.'
'You know who killed my father?'
'Of course, I know who killed him.'
'Well, who?'
'The devil,' Dubois replied calmly, with no more emotion than if he were discussing the price of eggs.
Miles suddenly looked very uncomfortable.
Lucas and Father Haskell nodded in agreement.
Sam sat stunned.
Wade was unhappy, unconvinced, irritable, and becoming even more skeptical of Dubois. 'I want my dad's journals,' he said.
Dubois rose, left the room, and returned with several thick ledgers. Wade took them, holding them almost reverently. He stared at the priest. 'You know—you're convinced the devil—is out there?' he waved his arm.
'Yes, son.'
'You've known this for—umpteen years?'
'Yes, I have. So did your father, as you will see when you read those journals.'
'Well, why didn't you do something about it? Why didn't you do something about it—before now, I mean! If you're so convinced the devil is lurking about Whitfield—do something!'
