old priest shrugged, his eyes cloudy.
Sam realized he would not get much more from Dubois concerning the Beasts' survival or creation. The priest felt very close to death; perhaps he did not wish to antagonize God this close to meeting Him.
Sam said, 'Lucas told me—he said the devil calls out the Beasts when he needs them. Why, then, have people around here been seeing them for years? Or so they claim. Seeing them, and smelling them?'
'I argued with Lucas many times over the years, Sam. We did not agree on the Beasts. I—I believe the people heard and smelled the guardian of the Beasts. The Sentry, if you will. I believe Duhon and my ancestor, Father Dubois, saw the Sentry. He killed them.'
'But the tablet remained hidden until recently?'
'Yes. I'll say this much, Sam, it was Lucas's belief that over the past hundred and fifty years, God and Satan fought out near the Dig site. I disagreed in part with him. I've been out there hundreds of times over the past thirty years. I used to go out there and spend entire afternoons, just feeling the powers move silently around me. No, Sam, I believe God and Satan have fought out there for
'Until death?'
'Perhaps.'
'Answer this, Michael, why has there not been some reputable archaeological teams in here to study the site?'
'I can't answer that, Sam, other than to say the people in this part of Fork County never speak of the site. I never heard of it until I went prowling one day. It was—I suppose, that night of terror after Wade's father was killed that closed people's mouths around here.'
Sam nodded, rising to his feet. He would get no more from Dubois. 'I'll go home, now.' The exhaustion in him was visible.
'Will you attend John's funeral tomorrow?' Haskell asked.
'Such as it will be, yes. Is there nothing we can do about John's condition?' he directed the question at Dubois.
'Not yet,' the priest replied. He glanced at the towel-covered heads. 'I'll dispose of those.'
But Sam did not drive straight home. Instead, he drove the streets of Whitfield—looking. For what, he didn't know. Just looking. Then it came to him while he drove: not one person was out this night. No one. And for a Saturday night, that was odd.
He drove by Margie's Cafe. Closed and dark. Normally, it would have been far too early for that. The theatre was closed. The drive-in, where the kids usually congregated, was shut down tight. Homes were dark, foreboding, but Sam could feel eyes on him as he slowly prowled the streets.
'Strange,' he muttered. 'It's as if the town has died, and I'm the only one left alive.'
He knew that was not true, but he had to fight down the panic that suddenly grew in him.
He drove past the town's taverns. All dark.
Dark. Matching the night.
As Sam slept that night, he dreamed of Jane Ann. He tried to push her from his dreams, but her presence was too strong. He dreamed of making love to her, awakening with a guilty conscience.
From the pulpit, the church appeared cavernous to Sam. Only a handful of people sat in the auditorium. With the exception of Wade and Anita, Chester and Faye, and Jane Ann, all others were elderly. Michelle was not present. She had not returned to the parsonage when Sam had left for church, and he had no idea where she might be.
He really didn't care.
He looked out and down at Jane Ann. Their eyes met. Sam smiled, more to himself than at her. So, this is love? he thought. How ludicrous! The town is facing destruction from forces so evil as to be unspeakable; I'm not sure what can be done about it; and yet here I stand, grinning like a schoolboy with his first infatuation.
Sam began speaking extemporaneously, for he had prepared no text. He spoke calmly and firmly, trying to soothe the old people, for they were afraid, he could see it and sense it. They were facing an unknown, and Sam really did not know how to calm them. He did know he could not tell them of the evil that was near—they would either go into a panic or think him a fool.
He did not know what to do about them, and he had given it much thought. They were going to suffer, and there was nothing he could do about it.
That thought shamed Sam, but he had to face it. In the fight he knew was coming, the strong— as many as possible—had to survive, even Father Dubois admitted that. The strong faithful had to survive; they could not face the threat of extinction protecting those lives that had very nearly run their course.
It was a cruel and ugly choice, but Sam knew it had to be. He hoped God would forgive him his ugly decision.
Some of them might survive, but—
Sam spoke of the glory of God; His love for mankind, and of the peace that awaited them all when they finally reached the safety of His arms.
But it was not enough; not really what they wanted to hear; not really what Sam passionately wanted to tell them. The elderly wanted their fears allayed, and Sam could not do that. He felt sick because of it. His close friends, Chester, Faye, Jane Ann, Wade, and Anita; they felt his vocal inadequacies, and their hearts went out to their minister.
Sam thought of the agony Miles and Doris must be experiencing.
Somehow, he struggled through the sermon, cutting it short. Finally, he stood at the door, shaking each hand, pitifully few of them. His heart was sad as he shook the old, withered hands. They work all their lives, he thought, believing in God, and their minister deserts them in their most grave time of need.
Dear God, forgive me!
'It's all this rock and roll music,' an elderly lady told him. 'That's what's driving the young people away from God.'
'I'm sure that has something to do with it, Mrs. Findley,' Sam smiled. Tell the old people what they want to hear, Sam. Lie! Stand here in the House of God and lie.
'It's just a shame and disgrace!' Mr. Woodward said, taking Sam's hand.
'What is, sir?'
'Someone killed off every one of my chickens last night. Tore the heads off of 'um. Shame and disgrace to do that to an old man like me.'
'Did you report it to the police?'
'Uh! I called the sheriff, all right. Said he'd come right out. Never did show up.'
'I'm sorry, Mr. Woodward. Is there anything I can do?' You can tell the truth, Sam. But he knew he could not do that.
'Don't expect so, preacher. 'Less you got the power to bring all my hens to life.'
'Just the hens?'
'That's what so funny 'bout it. They never touched a one of my roosters.'
Because the devil is afraid of a crowing cock. 'Call me if there is anything I can do, sir.'
'Where is Michelle this morning?' an elderly lady asked, in a not-too-subtle stage whisper. Twenty heads swung around, forty ears straining.
In normal times, Sam would have told a small fib. Today, though, he didn't care. 'I haven't the faintest idea, Mrs. Hardison.' He wanted to add: and really, I don't give a hoot where she is.
Mrs. Hardison nodded, then marched out of the church, chin up, head high, all her suspicions confirmed. The Balons were, indeed, having marital problems.
'Gossipin' old biddy!' Mr. Word muttered, shaking Sam's hand. The elderly retired rancher met Sam's eyes. 'Something .. . nasty happenin' in this town, Brother Balon. I'd like to comfort some of these old ladies, but I don't know how to go about it without scarin' 'em half out of their wits.'
Sam looked in the auditorium. Chester, Faye, Wade, Anita, and Jane Ann all stood in a group, waiting for Sam to finish.
