"No, that won't be necessary, Michelle. I'm sure everything will be just fine."
The look in her eyes changed from hate to confusion as her gaze bore deeply into his eyes. As if she were attempting to read his mind, and failing.
As they stood in the foyer, their eyes locking, some ugly misty force moved solidly between them. And Sam knew what it was: Evil. Another force touched them both: Good. Sam knew both Good and Evil very well, never considering himself to be especially pure—he had too much wildness in him as a youth and was still a very eai thy man. But he had always felt that God was with him, scolding him at times, but still there. He could never explain just how he knew.
As the unseen forces moved around them, Sam wondered if Michelle had ever really known God? Known His love, His compassion, His touch? If so, what had caused her to reject Him?
Or had she rejected Him? Something very uneasy touched Sam's mind as he stared at this woman who was now a stranger to him. As, Sam suddenly realized, she had always been.
As quickly as they had come, the forces vanished. Michelle's eyes glowed with power. They changed to fear as her gaze moved to briefly touch the Holy Cross hung about Sam's neck. The medallion between the jutting mounds of her breasts seemed to glow with life—with hate. The man and woman did not touch. Michelle's eyes calmed, and she turned, opening the door, stepping out on the porch. Just once more, their eyes locked.
"Have a good trip," Sam said. Personally, he thought, I hope I never see you again.
Her smile seemed inordinately evil. Her eyes once more flashing at him. She turned her back to him, closing the door without speaking.
Sam listened to her drive off. Hate, he thought. Her god says hate Christians.
Sam leaned against the foyer wall, thinking. Just about six months ago; that's when it really started building. Just about the time the digging began. Everything has always pointed to the Dig, and I didn't have enough sense to see it. But our marriage has never been right. There has always been ... something wrong. I wonder, he mused, if she has always been—one of Them?
He shuddered at the thought.
"Five years of marriage going right down the tube," he said aloud.
Everything fell into place in Sam's mind. Michelle had appeared at the army hospital one day. Just bang, and there she was. They had become good friends quickly. No parents, she told him. She was alone, just like Sam, and thrilled when he told her he was a minister and would be going into the active ministry.
They were married less than three months after meeting.
She knew! he thought. Somehow, she knew I was going to be picked to lead this fight. And she was chosen by her Master to stop me; to keep me occupied while They did their work around me.
It has to be.
But it's odd, he thought, I don't feel terribly depressed about a marriage going bad. About Michelle. Maybe I never really loved her? Maybe I've always known, somehow, something of far greater importance would rise; have to be dealt with.
But, he silently questioned, if I am indeed chosen, as Father Dubois seems to believe—why me?
And he felt uneasy, unworthy with the knowledge that he had been chosen.
Why did you pick me, Lord. Why me?
In the bathroom, washing his face and hands, he glanced in the mirror. His eyes had become hard; how unfeeling they seemed. He thought: if what you suspect is true—and you know it is—you're going to have to be hard. You're going to have to be ruthless in dealing with—It.
He dried his hands and face, still gazing at his reflection. There is more. Sam—say it! You're going to have to gather around you all your trusted friends—Christians—and—and destroy what is possessing this town and this part of Fork County.
What's the matter, Sam? Can't you say the word? You were a minister in Korea, and it didn't bother you to kill, did it? How many people did you kill over there? Kill, Sam. There, that's the word. Kill. Destroy.
That wasn't so difficult, was it?
But, as Chester asked, who do I trust?
Try the Lord God.
Lord, my God, he prayed, his big hands on the washbasin, fingers gripping the porcelain—stand by my side. Give me the courage to do whatever must be done. Don't forsake me, Lord—You above all know I am but a mortal man, and / am not without sin. Lord, my faith is strong, but I need Your help. Guide me, Lord. Make me as strong as needs be to seek out and destroy Your enemies.
Lord, where is the Brown girl? Was that her on that dark altar? If so, why did You show that picture to me? Why don't You intervene, Lord? I am but a mortal—You have no limitations. And the teenagers, Lord—Larry and Joan—where are they? Have they—?
The ringing of the phone broke into his silent prayer. A frightened Wade Thomas on the line.
"Sam? I'm being watched. I think they're about to do something."
"Where are you, Wade?"
"At the office." His voice was shaky.
"Miles?"
"Here. With me."
"Stay put. I'll be right down."
Sam drove the few blocks to the downtown square, parking in front of Peterson's Drug Store, next to the Crusader office. A group of men stood in front of Wade's newspaper office. They were in an ugly mood. Sam tucked the .45 behind his belt, pulled his shirttail over the butt of the weapon, and got out of the truck, standing for a moment looking over the situation.
For the first time in years, Sam felt the old recklessness of his youth build in him. And the feeling was good to him. His smile was tight as he walked slowly across the sidewalk, heading straight for the knot of men blocking the door.
The minister had had far more than his share of fights as a teenager and a young man—in and out of the ring. He'd been a bouncer in strip joints and clip joints; he'd worked in the oil fields as a roughneck, and he'd had many, many bloody, no-quarter barroom and back alley fights. But for all of that, Sam had never been labeled a troublemaker; never goading anyone into a fight. He just would not back down—and he could not remember ever losing a fight.
You're a preacher, Sam, he reminded himself during his short walk from the truck to the knot of men. No longer a barroom brawler. Just remember, this is Addison's town, now, and he is one of Them.
He stopped, facing the men.
"Well, here's goody-goody," one of the men said. "I figured you'd be to home, Balon, writin' some Sunday bullshit!"
Sam looked at the speaker. David Vanderwerf. For a moment, it seemed David was going to block Sam's way, but something in the preacher's eyes drove the young man back, causing him to step aside.
"You consider God's word bullshit?" Sam asked.
The young man laughed nastily. "Just jokin', preacher."
"I didn't laugh," Sam said. He bulled his way through the men, physically shoving them aside. Startled, they made no effort to stop the minister.
Just as he placed his hand on the door, Sam heard one say, "You're gonna git yours, preacher."
Sam turned. "Which one of you wants to be the first to give it to me?" His eyes touched each man in the group. They cut their eyes from him, refusing to meet his steady gaze. A wildness swelled in Sam. He laughed at them. "All mouth and no guts," he heard himself say.
"You talk mighty big, preacher," a man said, his face flushed red from the knowledge there were five of them and only one of Sam, yet he had arrogantly, physically pushed them aside.
"Yes, I do," Sam said, a nasty grin on his lips. "And I'm big enough to back it up." He stepped toward the man, stopping a close foot from him, crowding him. "Tell you what, Moore." Sam knew the man, a local shade-tree mechanic; knew him for what he really was: a loud-mouthed bully who beat his wife, intimidated anyone he could, sneered at whatever he could not mentally comprehend—he sneered a lot—and in general was a detriment to any decent society. "Why don't we both forget I'm a minister. We'll step around back of this building. If you're as good with your fists as you say you are—which I doubt—you shouldn't have any trouble with me. What do you say about that?"