"What happened to him?" Miles asked.
"I remember thinking how strange it was that Michelle walked him to his car that day. I believe she kissed him. I'm sure of it."
"She marked him," Haskell said. "Unless he joined them—or became a Beast, he's dead."
Wade stood up. "I think you people are all crazy/"
He was ignored. Feeling like a fool standing in the center of the room with no one paying any attention to him, he sat down.
Dubois said, "Duhon came here from a small village in France that had just thrown out the devil's agent, a man who had come there as a Forgeron."
"A what?" Miles looked up.
"A blacksmith."
"Black Wilder," Sam said.
"Yes, I believe that is true," Dubois agreed. "Duhon had the tablet with him. He'd been commissioned by his government to get the tablet far away from France—off the continent. He, along with Father Dubois, a distant relative of mine, brought the tablet to America. To what would eventually become Whitfield; to an area the Beasts occupied."
Father Haskell held up a hand for silence, putting a finger to his lips.
"What's wrong, Glen?" Miles whispered.
"We are not alone," the Episcopal priest said.
Sam walked to a window, glancing outside. A young man stood by the side of the rectory, just a few feet away. Sam felt Dubois by his side.
"Sonny Moore," he said. "He left the church several months ago—quite profanely."
"There's someone in the back," Wade said. He stood in the small kitchen, looking out the window. "John Petterson. He was listening to us talk, listening through this open window." He jerked open the door. "What the hell are you doing out here?"
"Just takin' a shortcut, Thomas," the young man said, open challenge in his eyes, his speech. "No law against that—it's a free country, ain't it?"
But the challenge vanished when the bulk of Sam stepped into the door. The ex-warrior, ex-boxer turned preacher with the tattoo on his arm kept the conversation short. "Haul your ashes, boy!" he told him.
Petterson hauled his ashes.
Sam pulled Wade back into the kitchen. "Paul Smiley was standing by the west side of the house," he told him. "We had men all around the rectory, watching and listening."
"Sam?" Wade asked. "What would you have done if Petterson had stood up to you?"
"Knocked him on his butt," the preacher said.
"The ranks are narrowing," Haskell said, pointing to a tree in the front yard. "Look."
Someone had written 666 on the trunk of the tree, using white paint. Just below the numbers they had traced an upside-down cross.
"We don't have much time," Dubois said. "We've got to rally those we know we can trust."
"I know something I can do," Lucas muttered.
"Good Lord!" Wade blurted, staring at the men. Miles sat on the couch, eyes numb with shock and disbelief and confusion. "You're all behaving as though we can't do anything. I mean—" he let the words trail off into silence. "Miles?"
The Jew shook his head. "Don't ask me what we can do, Wade. I don't know."
Dubois put his hand on the editor's shoulder. "What can we do, son? Go to the authorities? And tell them what? That the devil is working Black Magic in Whitfield? That almost the entire town is possessed? Think about that. I can just see us now, being quietly but firmly escorted to the state mental hospital. And if we prove the notice did not run in your paper—so what? That will just delay things for a time. Besides, son, I have my doubts that any of us would be allowed to leave Whitfield." He looked at Sam. "Have you attempted to call outside the town today?"
"No, I haven't."
"We're back to 'number, please,' again. They say the dial is not working. Won't be for some time.
"Our calls are being monitored, then?" Miles asked.
"I would think so, son," Dubois replied. He turned back to Wade. "Son, the devil is no stranger to patience; all he has to do is pull back for a time. A year, ten years, a hundred years. Time means nothing to him. A hundred years is the blinking of an eye."
"Then—what do we do?"
"Nothing, for a time. Keep quiet. We don't know who we can trust. Whitfield is a giant Coven."
"There are some we can trust?" Sam asked, a hopeful note in his voice.
"Yes," Dubois said. "A few. A pitifully few. I believe Satan has tried to touch them, and they refused him. They know him, they've met him, and they have rejected him. They don't know they have—but they have."
"And they are—?" Wade asked.
"You and your wife. Jane Ann Burke. Peter Canford. Chester and Faye. Miles and Doris. Glen," he indicated the Episcopal priest, "Lucas, Sam, Tony, Jimmy Perkins, I'm sure, and me."
"Fourteen people," Sam said, shaking his head. "Of the more than twenty-five hundred people of Whitfield, more than two thousand were active in their church. Our survey proved that."
"Most people are weak, Sam—you know that. They're followers, not leaders. Those who do not take an active part in the worshipping of Satan will remain passive, doing nothing. They will not really know what is going on around them—they will simply follow. The devil's hand has touched them, touched their hearts, their minds, blocking out all he does not wish them to see. They will go about their business, seeing nothing, until it is too late."
"And—then?" Sam questioned.
Dubois shrugged. "The Undead, probably."
"THE UNDEAD!" Wade almost shouted the words.
"They are his already," Dubois said. "They just don't realize it. They will do what the devil bids them to do."
Miles sighed audibly, shaking his head.
"I wouldn't ask you to go against your religion, Miles," Dubois said. "I wouldn't—believe me. Call whatever is happening in this town by any name you choose. But keep your strong faith in God; that is what's protecting you and your wife."
Miles slowly nodded. "Thank you."
"Satan has us in a nice little box," Sam said. "Doesn't he?"
"Yes," Dubois smiled. "Yes, he does. But he can't nail the lid on the box as long as we're alive. He planned this very carefully, around us."
"The Undead?" Wade was stuck on the word. "You mean like in the movies?"
"Only this is reality," Lucas said.
Wade sat down beside Miles. He touched the smaller man on the knee. "Are you convinced, Miles?"
"I feel like a yoyo," he forced a smile. "Up and down. Back and forth. I'm confused, Wade. And I'm scared. I'm really scared."
Sam looked first at Dubois, then at Lucas. "I sensed a fatalistic tone in your voices a few moments ago. You two acted as though you know what's in store for you both."
"Very observant young man, Sam," the old priest smiled. A sad smile as he shook his gray head. "Sam, we're not afraid to die. Both of us are old men; we've both fought him, and in a sense, we've won. Oh, he knows we don't have the strength to fight him again. But he'll get no real pleasure out of killing us. We've given our lives to God. We're ready to go home."
Sam looked at Lucas. The Methodist nodded. "There is very little either of us can do, Sam. It's up to you young ones. You've got the strength to fight—and to beat him! Oh, you won't kill him. Don't ever delude yourselves on that. God is the only one who can kill him. But you can beat him here in Whitfield." He removed a cross from around his neck, handing it to Wade. "Put it on, son. Don't ever take it off."
Wade slipped the chain over his head, the cross gleaming dully on his chest. "Committed to the cause, I guess," he quipped.
"A most reluctant warrior," Miles grinned, his good humor never far from the surface.
Father Dubois removed his cross. With hands that trembled, from age and emotion, not from fear, he placed it around Sam's neck. "My cardinal gave this to me forty years ago. It alone won't protect you, but if you watch the reaction of those around you, it can tell you something. You're the one, Sam. You're the one who has to rally your forces and beat him."