Dubois smiled. 'What would you have me do, son?'
'Well—I—you—oh, crap!' Wade said, sitting down. 'This is all just too fantastic for words.'
'A grown man is pouting,' Miles smiled.
'Miles,' Wade looked at his friend, 'if this . .. whatever it is is as serious as you obviously believe it is, why are you making jokes about it?'
'Because I don't know what else to do,' he admitted, unhappily. 'I told you the last time we spoke—I'm frightened. I don't know what to believe, except that something awful is happening here, and something even worse is about to happen. If you think you're in a bind, think about the situation I'm in! To a Jew, Satan is considered not much more than a figure of speech. No play on words, friend, but this puts me in a hell of a spot.' He grinned.
'Well, I'm a reporter,' Wade clung stubbornly to his profession. 'I deal in facts, not superstition.'
'Then I'll give you some more grist for your mill,' Dubois said. 'Loup-garou,' he spoke the words softly.
'What?' Haskell's head jerked up. 'What was that?'
'French for werewolf,' Sam said. 'Fellow in my outfit was from South Louisiana—bayou country. He told me many of the old people still believe quite strongly in them.'
'With good reason,' Dubois said. 'There are several places in the deep bayou country where Beasts have been sighted over the past couple of centuries. As civilization closes in on them, they will be seen more and more in the years to come.'
'WEREWOLVES!' Wade blurted. 'Oh, come on, people. Now, really!'
Sam ignored him, speaking to Dubois. 'Yeti? Sasquash?'
'Quite possibly, as well as the Skunk Ape. I'm sure they are descendants of the Beasts, possibly more advanced mentally.'
'WEREWOLVES?' Wade appeared stuck on the word.
'I've heard them,' Dubois said. 'Not often, but I've heard them. Howling, snapping, snarling—the stink of them. And I'm not alone. Your father heard them, too, Wade. They killed him, or caused him to kill himself, as the case may be. You're too young to remember the events of that night and following day, but I do, very well. The blood of the Beasts is very infectious. Those people were transformed in a matter of minutes, from human to animal, and worse. No, Wade, they re not werewolves in the classic book or movie sense, but I'm sure that's where the original idea sprang. They are the devil's servants. Believe it.'
'Werewolves,' Wade nodded his head. 'Sure! Well, that's just wonderful! Great! First we have the devil, now we have werewolves lurking about. Where are the witches and the warlocks. Surely this scenario can't be complete without them.'
'They are all present, Wade,' Lucas said. 'Believe it.'
'But you're all men of God!' Wade cried out as if in pure anguish. 'How can any of you believe this— crap?'
'Because I've seen him,' Dubois said. 'I've seen him, and I have beaten him—once.'
Doubt in the editor's eyes. 'Then beat him again,' he said sarcastically.
Dubois ignored the cynicism. 'I can't.'
'Why?' Wade challenged him.
The priest sighed. 'Because I'm too old. I'm tired. I beat him almost forty-five years ago, in Montreal. I was a young man. But I was sick for weeks afterward. Drained—very close to death.' He shuddered in mental recall. 'I shall never forget the smell of him. Afterward, I was too weak to even feed myself. The Sisters took care of me. I was months recovering. The Devil knows I'm too old, now. It's a game to him. He knows I'm here, though. He's known all along. Ask Lucas, he'll tell you the same thing.'
'How did you beat him?' Wade asked.
'I drove him out.'
'Exorcism?'
'Yes.'
'I don't believe in that!'
Dubois smiled his sad, patient smile. 'Do you believe in the supernatural, Wade? In any form of it?'
'I believe there are things man cannot satisfactorily explain.'
'Join the club,' Miles muttered under his breath. Only Sam heard him, and he smiled.
'Nice, safe answer,' Dubois said. 'I can but assume you believe in God?'
'Of course, I believe in God!'
'Well, then, if you believe in God, then you must believe in the devil.'
Miles sighed, a pained look on his face.
'I never said I didn't believe in the devil, Father Dubois. I just don't believe the devil is responsible for all that is happening in Whitfield.'
'Then who, or what, is?'
'I don't know. But none of you has convinced me the devil is behind it, or that he's here. If he's here, gentlemen—and no offense to any of you—I want to see him.'
'Son, I pray God you never get your wish,' Dubois said.
'Wade,' Sam said, 'where, then, were all those people going last night? Hundreds of them?'
The editor shook his head, refusing to answer.
Sam turned to Lucas Monroe. 'A moment ago, Lucas, Father Dubois said to ask you about something. What did he mean?'
The Methodist sighed, a faint smile on his lips. He glanced at Dubois. 'There is never any escaping it, is there, Michael?'
'I told you, Lucas. Years ago.'
'Yes. Well, so you did. Sam, many years ago I had a church in—well, never mind where. That would serve no useful purpose, not now. A young girl became, well—possessed. I was not convinced of her possession. It didn't take me long to become convinced, though. There is no need to go into great detail. You will all, I'm afraid, soon learn the power of that . . . creature! I sat with the girl, working with her, praying, for a long time—days. I exorcised the . . . thing from her.'
'A
'Shut up, Wade! Sam warned him.
The editor shut his mouth.
'I emerged from the ordeal,' Lucas spoke softly, 'looking like a man three times my age. My hair was snow- white; the color it is now. At the time, I was twenty-eight years old.
'Things began happening to me—and my family. Both my children were killed in separate, horrible accidents. My wife became suddenly, and to the medical profession, mysteriously ill. She lingered in great agony for months, and then died—horribly. Many unexplained things happened. Finally, I suffered a mental breakdown, knowing that everything that had happened to my family was my fault. After I was released from the sanitarium, I asked for a church far away from that city. I've been here ever since, living quietly.'
Lucas smiled gently. 'It's really quite a joke, isn't it, Michael? To get away from . . . him, I came to one of his strongholds. I felt his presence as soon as I arrived, but it was a feeble signal. A few months ago, it became quite intense. Then it began building, getting stronger and stronger. I knew—sensed—he would soon surface. Of course, Father Dubois and I knew of each other; there is a small circle of men who have done what we performed. Word gets around. I spoke with Michael about my feelings of alarm. He said he, too, felt it. He knew the devil was closing in, gathering his forces of evil, building another Coven. We discussed talking with you people, but we didn't know who to trust. We did agree that if you—I'm talking about you, Sam—did not come to us today, we were going to take a chance and call you. To form a battle plan, so to speak. For those of us who are left.'
'If it isn't too late,' Dubois added.
'What do you mean?' Wade asked, unbelieving but still fascinated by the talk from the men of God. 'Too late?'
'He's called out the Beasts,' Father Haskell spoke. He sat holding a cross in his hands, fingering the silver crucifix, thinking of his wife, dead five years, and wondering if he would soon join her—and in what way?
'The Beasts? Don't tell me you believe in all this mumbo jumbo, too, Glen?' Wade looked at the Episcopalian.
