Sam kneeled down, studying closely the stones of the huge circle; he studied with great interest the largest stone, which depicted scenes of great depravity: of men with huge jutting phalluses; of women with their legs spread wide, exposing the genitalia; scenes of mass orgies: men with men, women with women, men with small children; scenes of hideous torture; of grotesque creatures, monsters, leaping and snarling. And finally, on the east side of the boulder, a scene depicting a saintly looking man who was locked in some sort of combat with a beastly appearing creature.
Sam looked up from his studying. "You didn't tell me about this."
Her face was pale. "That was … never there before, Sam. I mean, the rocks, yes, but not all those carvings."
"Nydia …" he let his statement drift away. "No … I imagine the carvings were always here; you just couldn't see them. They are probably exposed only when Satan wants them to be." And how do you know all that? he silently questioned his mind.
"Or when he is near," she said tightly.
"Yes." Sam rose from his squat position and put his arms around her. She was trembling.
"I'm scared, Sam. For the first time, I'm really frightened. Now I know what you meant when you said you didn't know what to do—where to start."
Sam comforted her as best he could, for he, too, was frightened. "Come on. Let's see this hole in the ground."
They smelled the stench long before they came to the hole, both their noses wrinkling at the foul odor. "Can you imagine what it's like deep in that hole?" Sam tried a grin, unaware that his father had said almost the same thing to a couple of friends back in '58, standing near The Digging.
"Gross!" Nydia said. She watched as Sam reached into his jacket pocket. His face paled. He jerked his hand from the pocket as if he had touched a snake.
"What's wrong, Sam?"
His face regained a bit of color after his initial shock. "That . . . that's not my pistol in there."
"What!"
"I … thought just a moment ago, when I was kneeling down by that boulder there was too much weight in my pocket. But I shrugged it off. That's not a .38 revolver. That's an … automatic."
"Let's see, Sam."
He looked at her for a long moment and then put his hand into his jacket pocket. With his hand still in his pocket, he said, "Oh, my God!"
"Sam!"
He pulled out his hand, the hand containing three fully loaded clips for a .45 automatic pistol.
"What kind of gun did your father carry … back in Whitfield?"
"I don't know."
"Take out the pistol, Sam."
The young man hesitantly put his hand back into his pocket, gingerly pulling out the big automatic. He checked it. A full clip in the butt. He turned the weapon and saw a brass nameplate embedded and riveted into the handle. SGT SAM BALON KOREA 1953
"It's … it belonged to my father," he choked out the words, holding the weapon out for Nydia to see the brass plate in the grip.
She put a hand to her mouth, her face pale with shock.
"Something else just popped into my head," Sam said. "Wade Thomas told me one time my father sure could use a Thompson submachine gun. My mother gave him a look that would have fried eggs."
"What's a Thompson submachine gun?"
"An old-type tommy gun. Like the gangsters used to use.
"Are they any good?"
Sam smiled. "Up to about a hundred yards. If a Thompson won't stop what's coming at you, honey, with those big old slugs, it just isn't going to be stopped. I would love to have one of them."
"Have you ever fired one?"
"No, but it wouldn't take me long to learn." He looked at the pistol again. Somehow, and he could not shake the feeling, the weapon felt natural in his hand, almost as if he had held it before.
"What are you thinking, Sam?" Although she knew his thoughts.
He told her.
"Maybe that's what your father wants you to feel?"
"Yeah," he said softly.
A sudden sensation of being pulled into a dark force field enveloped them. "Sam!" Nydia cried, taking his hand. "What's happening?"
"Hang on! I don't know."
They sank to the ground. And they were speechless, immobile as the strange force took control.
Time took them mentally winging into darkness, spinning them wildly through multicolors. They watched a naked man fighting with a naked woman. The faces were blurred, but both Sam and Nydia knew who they were: Sam Balon and Roma.
Articles of clothing and pieces of equipment flew about the struggling couple, sailing in a slow circle. The man struck the woman with his fist, and her head snapped back, blood spurting from a suddenly crimson mouth. She slapped him, the force of the open-hand pop turning him in somersaults. He kicked out with a bare foot and she grabbed his ankle, her hand working upward to grasp his erect penis. She hunched and impaled herself on the phallus, howling with dark laughter.
He smashed a fist against her jaw and she slumped, the man pushing her from his penis. She flew at him, fighting him. He was growing weaker. Again and again she mounted his maleness, only to have him shove her away, each shove less forceful than the preceding one.
Then, shrieking her taunting laughter, she lunged at him and wailed her delight as the phallus drove to the inner depths of her. For what seemed like hours the couple fucked their way across trackless worlds of time, always in a slow circle, until their combined juices were leaking from her lathered cunt, leaving a trail as bright as the Milky Way.
The young couple, frozen in voyeurism, earth-locked, could see the man was nearly dead.
With one last supreme burst of courage and strength, the man threw out his arm, snagging something out of the maze of clothing and equipment that encircled the couple. The objects seemed to fire from his hand, through the years, straight toward the young man and woman sitting on the ground in Canada.
Nydia screamed.
Sam ducked.
They both jumped to their feet, looking around them. All was still and peaceful. Sam looked at the gun in his hand.
"He threw the gun at you," Nydia whispered. "And something else. But . . . how?"
"I think when we finally learn that, Nydia … we'll be dead."
"You know now what you have to do at Falcon House, don't you?" she asked him.
"I think I've known all along."
"It's Miles," Jane Ann said. "He wants to know how come the phones are still working when everybody else's don't?"
"They don't work in Whitfield," Balon replied.
"He says then maybe you would be so kind as to explain how it is he is talking with me on the telephone this very minute?"
"Tell him to think about it. The answer will come to him."
She relayed the message, then stood listening for a few seconds. She laughed. "He says he understands. He really doesn't, he said. But to please you, he says he does."
"Hang up the phone and come over here and sit on the couch," Balon said.
When she was seated in front of the only man she had ever loved, she smiled at the misty face and said, "All right, Sam."
"I will be able to protect you through most of what will occur during the coming days. But … in the end it will have to be your strength and courage that see you through."
"Can you tell me why?"
"Not yet. Most of it you will be able to guess. After … all is done, then you will know."
She smiled. "I love question and answer games."
"None of this is amusing, Jane Ann!" Balon fired the thought at her with such intensity it caused her head to ache. "Sorry," he said. "But enough is enough. Miles is treating this as some sort of comedy burlesque; Wade is his usual smart-ass reporter self."
"Sam! Angels aren't supposed to talk like that."
"I'm not an angel. Even if I were, it wouldn't make any difference. Michael has been known to loose some oaths that caused tidal waves."
"Do you two get along? You and Michael?"
Silence greeted her.
"Sorry," she muttered. "Conversing with the spirit world is not something I do every day, you know."