He skipped a few pages. "The church was originally built near what is now the town of Whitfield, in an area known locally as Tyson's Lake. The lake was named in memory of two young children, Abe and Martha Tyson, who disappeared near there in the mid-1800's, and were presumed to have drowned.
Trappers have long avoided the area known as Tyson's Lake, because of the bad smells coming from the small stand of timber, and because of the frequent howling and snarling from the woods.
The author goes on to say the smells probably came from bad water in some of the holes, and the howling and snarling pure imagination and the wind.
"Sure," Sam said. "Right."
This time the editor's smile was not forced. He openly chuckled. "Come on, Sam! You're not going to sit there and tell me you believe in ghosties and ghoulies and things that go bump in the night?"
"Do you believe in God, Wade?"
"Certainly, I do!"
"Then if you believe in God, you have to believe in the devil."
Wade nodded, but refused to elaborate further. He sat behind his desk, a slight smile on his lips, his eyes amused.
"Why did the radio station close down, Wade?"
He shrugged. "I guess because it wasn't making any money. Town's too small. It was always marginal."
"Who owned it?"
"Oh, it's changed hands several times in the past ten years. A media group out of Omaha owned it for years. Then about three years ago—" he paused, his eyes lifting to meet Sam's, "Karl Sorenson bought it."
"And ran it until a few months ago. That's interesting."
"Maybe," Wade was thoughtful. "But I know something that is more interesting, I believe. You know Karl Sorenson?"
"Unfortunately. He's perhaps one of the most profane men I've ever had the misfortune to encounter. Why do you ask?"
"Karl's been spending a lot of time with Otto Stockman."
"That is interesting. And odd. The most profane man in the county spending time with a Baptist deacon. Stranger still, when one recalls it was Otto who urged the new man, Farben, to break with the Ministerial Alliance a couple of months ago. I heard Farben called the M.A. the most useless group in town."
"I remember you telling me about that. I didn't pursue it because I know you don't care for Otto." He grinned. "Or is that putting it too mildly?"
"No, it isn't. I prayed for guidance, Wade; prayed for help and forgiveness because of my dislike for Otto. I recall what Father Dubois told me about Stockman. He said Otto was too Christian! He said anytime a mortal man sets himself up as a pure model for others to follow, he's in real trouble. Dubois said he'd known Otto for years and the man had always been a pompous ass. He allowed himself to be placed on a pedestal. Dubois told me a couple of years ago he thought Otto was heading for a bad fall. He didn't elaborate."
"You think Otto has something to do with—whatever you believe is happening here?"
Sam lifted his shoulders in a shrug. "Maybe. Something else, too. Jane Ann told me Annie Brown has disappeared."
"What do you mean, disappeared?"
"Gone. Vanished. Departed. Dematerialized—"
Wade held up one hand. "Enough, Sam— spare me. 1 know the meaning of the word. I withdraw the question. How do you know she's disappeared?"
"Because Jane Ann checked it out. No one has seen her. Not at church, not at the movies, nowhere. She's just gone."
"Her stepparents?"
"They told Jane Ann she'd gone to visit relatives in Bradville. That's a lie. The girl has no relatives." He related to Wade what Jane Ann had told him. The editor's face expressed his disgust at her stepparent's actions.
"Have you talked with the sheriff?"
"Wade, the sheriff is in this thing up to his neck," He told the newsman what Chester had overheard; all his personal suspicions. "You will recall that Walter has dropped out of the church. Has he been friendly toward you lately?"
"No. No, he hasn't. He's been acting strangely of late. Sam, three-quarters of the people in this town are behaving—well, not normally. Damnit, Sam!" he slammed his open hand on the desk. "Come on straight with me—say what's on your mind."
"Just calm down, Wade. I want to know more about Tyson's Lake."
"Now, what?" he asked irritably.
"Your father was a newspaperman. What did he have to say about that area?"
"My father died when I was was seven years old, Sam. I don't remember much about him."
"I'm sorry, Wade. I didn't know."
He shook his head. "No, I'm the one who should be apologizing, Sam. I never told you about him. Sorry I lost my temper. But this . . . thing—this town; it's got me upset and confused."
"Does it bother you to talk about your father?"
"Oh, no."
"Was your dad killed in an accident?"
"Sort of, I guess you could say." Wade seemed evasive.
Sam pressed on. Like a cop who had just picked up a strong lead, Sam felt a tingling in the pit of his stomach. "Sort of an accident, Wade? Where did the accident happen?" He knew the answer before Wade opened his mouth.
The small office was very quiet. Wade's sigh was audible. He kept his eyes downcast. "Not far from Tyson's Lake," he said softly.
"How did he die, Wade?"
Wade's dark eyes lifted to meet Sam's. "You know, preacher, you're beginning to spook me a little. Just a little."
"1'm waiting."
"Sam, from all I've been able to piece together, my dad was a very virile man. Kept himself in excellent physical shape. He ran, he boxed, did calisthenics. The whole bit, and he wasn't afraid of a living thing.
"It was just about this time of the year. Yeah, almost to the date. Dad had been working on some hush-hush story. No, don't look at me like that or ask me what—I don't know. I've torn up this building, looking for a lead of some kind—any kind. Nothing. No journal, no notes, no nothing.
"Anyway, mother told me, just before she died, that dad had started carrying a pistol whenever he went out there. No one knows why he did it. And no one really knows what happened. Lord knows, I don't. I just vaguely remember the funeral. Closed casket. When I grew older, mother told me dad had been horribly clawed; mangled. Blood everywhere, and not just dad's blood. She said whatever it was that killed him—and the theory at that time was a bear or a puma—had to have died later. Dad's pistol had been fired several times, and he was an expert shot with that .44."
He sighed heavily, as if the telling troubled him. "This is the strange part: dad had dragged himself away from the fence—it was fenced off even then—barbed wire. It's been replaced several times. Dad dragged himself almost a half mile, to an old road. Doctor King—not Tony, his father—told me years later that dad's face was grotesque; so horribly twisted as to be almost macabre, as if dad had been frightened out of his wits. But I can't believe dad would be frightened of anything, or anybody.
"You see, Sam, mother went to her death, seven years ago, still believing dad had been killed by a . . . a . . . whatever it was! That's not true; dad killed himself. Shot himself through the heart. Only two people knew that—until now. Doctor King and me. Now you."