Jimmy shivered. "Like in the movies?"
"With one exception," Dubois said. "This time it's real."
Fifteen
Sam slept fitfully the remainder of that night, the memory of what had happened to Michelle strong in his mind. He could not shake the recall of that awful evening and her transformation. At dawn, he rose from the couch—he could not bring himself to sleep in either bedroom—and made a pot of strong coffee. He sat on the porch, sipping his coffee.
Waiting.
At midmorning, he called his friends together, drove over to Chester's, and told them all what had transpired the night before. And about the death and disappearance of Haskell.
"Killed her!" Chester blurted. "You and Father Dubois?"
"Oh, my God!" Faye covered her face with her hands.
"What did you do with her?" Wade asked, his tone indicating he wanted to believe but was having extreme difficulty.
Sam told him, bluntly, leaving nothing out.
The newsman closed his eyes and shook his head. "Dear God," was all he said.
God's name, Sam thought, had been used more in the past few days than in the entire past year. He could not help thinking that in times of great stress, He is the one almost always called upon.
Tony moved to the window, looking out on the street. "Not one person moving."
"It's too early," Sam said. "The creatures of the night are still sleeping. Tony? You're armed? Good. Will you stay here with Miles? I want to take Wade and Chester for a little ride."
The watchers let them leave. They had their instructions: let the God-believers prowl all they want. They can't get out of the County; all roads are checked.
The three men rode out to Tyson's Lake in Sam's truck. Noon-hot, the sun blazing down on the earth. The men were all armed. Chester wore a .45 in a shoulder holster; Wade had a .38 belted on. He had offered no objection when Sam told him to arm himself. The skeptic was turning into a believer. But he was not quite there—yet.
Sam drove past Hoge's Pool Hall. "Look on the window, Wade." He pointed to the upside-down cross.
Wade nodded, the muscles in his jaw bunching.
Outside of town, Sam pointed to the 666 on the side of a barn.
Again, Wade nodded. "I'm getting the message, Sam."
"I hope so," the preacher said.
"Michelle is—Michelle is really—?"
"Dead, yes." Sam spoke quietly, his voice just audible over the hum of tires and the rush of wind through the windows of the truck.
Wade looked out at the passing countryside. He said nothing.
"The lightning-blazed tree," Sam pointed out. "You can still smell it."
The men stood on the crest of the hill, overlooking Tyson's Lake, and the miles of emptiness surrounding it.
"Listen," Sam said. "Listen with all your heart and your ears. Be very still, then tell me what you hear."
The area was absolutely silent. Nothing sang, nothing barked, nothing moved. Wade shuddered. "Not a sound. Sam, I can pick up something. I don't know what it is, though."
"Evil," the minister said, touching Wade on the arm. He could feel the man's tension. "Come on. Move quietly, and be very careful. When we get to the edge of the lake, you'll be able to smell them. I believe if the odor is faint, they're in their holes or dens. If the odor is strong, they're out, watching us. Be careful when we get to the edge of the timber."
"I wish I'd brought my 30-06," Wade said.
"Are you beginning to believe?" Chester asked. Sam had to smile.
Wade chose not to reply as the men walked down the hill.
Sam stopped them by the side of the water. He pointed to the moist ground. Footprints stood out, like nothing either man had ever seen before.
Wade knelt down, inspecting them.
"Bear?" he asked hopefully.
"You know better," Sam said.
"God!" Chester said. "That smell is awful."
"Brace yourselves," Sam said. "We're moving in."
"I'm—not at all certain I want to do that," Wade rose from his inspection of the tracks.
"Come on, skeptic. I thought you wanted to feel the nail holes in the sides, hands, and feet?"
"That's not funny, preacher!"
"I didn't mean it to be. Thomas didn't find it all that amusing, either."
"All right, Sam—I'm sorry! Too much has happened too quickly, that's all."
Sam put his hand on the man's shoulder. "I'm not chiding you, Wade. I just want you to be prepared for what you're about to see in there," he nodded toward the timber, dark in the midday sun, as if no light could penetrate the evil within.
Sam felt the man stiffen under his hand. "What's wrong?"
"I saw something move in there!"
"I saw it, too," Chester said.
Sam smiled. The man's skepticism was leaving like a jet fighter. "I know. They're watching us."
Chester took his .45 from the holster, jacked a round in the chamber, put it on safety, and stuck it back in the leather. Sam looked closely at the older man. He could detect no signs of fear.
"Ready to go?" Sam asked.
Wade nodded, his fingers touching the butt of his pistol.
"All right. We'll only skirt the timber this time around."
Wade's eyes widened. "This time? You mean there is going to be a next time?"
"If it's not too late for us, we'll have to come back and destroy them. All of them, if possible. I think I know how—we'll use explosives."
Wade's expression was a mixture of horror, fear, and utter disbelief. "If it's not too late for us? Destroy them? Explosives? Dear God!"
"You must know it by now, Wade—whether you'll admit it or not—they killed your father; caused him to shoot himself. Your dad took his own life rather than become one of . . . Them."
"Yeah," the newsman reluctantly agreed. "It fits. All the disappearances over the years fit, too."
"What disappearances over the years?" Sam asked. "What do you know that I need to know?"
"I was going to tell you part of it, Sam," Chester said, not taking his eyes off the dark timber. "Wade can tell you the rest. It's something Whitfield doesn't like to talk about. Bums, hobos, wander through town, into this area, and are never seen again. I mean, they're seen going in, but never coming out. A few husbands have run away, leaving their families—they never came back. Other people have just left, not telling folks where they were going. The town never speaks of it. We never wanted any national publicity here."
"Why?" Sam asked, realizing he was standing close to unraveling yet another mystery of this isolated part of Fork County.
"At first it was because of the ... tragedy that night. You know, when Wade's father was killed. Then, well, we made a deal with some people in government. Federal government."
"What kind of deal?"
"About the asylum," Chester said softly.
"What asylum?"
"You see," Wade smiled. "You've been here almost five years and you don't even know about it."
"Then why don't you tell me about it?" Sam planted his booted feet firmly, standing in front of the men. "I repeat: what asylum?"
"It's at the base of Crazy Pony Ridge," Chester said. "Some of the most rugged country in the state."
"I've heard of it, but I've never seen it. Never been there."
"You'd be stopped long before you got there," Wade told him. "The government leases the land; the government runs the place. Hell, Sam, probably a full ninety percent of the people in Fork don't know what it is."
"I haven't found out yet," Sam said, becoming a bit exasperated. "Perhaps one of you would be so kind as to inform me?"
"It's not something we're proud of, Sam. Do you want the story we were originally told, or the truth?"
"Both."
"The government told us it was a home for the criminally insane; the really bad ones. The ones there is no hope for. We all believed, for a while—those of us who knew about the place—they were sent here from all over the country—to spend the rest of their lives. Well, this much is true, the place is filled with homicidal raving lunatics. Now then, the government, after washing the money through several agencies, pays Fork County—this part of Fork—to allow the institution to remain—hidden away. We have good schools, Sam; the very best teachers. Haven't you ever wondered how Whitfield could afford that?"