"Why?" Nydia asked. "How do you know that?"
"Someone is telling me these things. And I don't feel inclined to question the source. Sunday is the one day the forces of Black Magic, Od, Satanists, whatever you choose to call them, can't move. Supposedly," he put a disclaimer on that. "That is God's day, and we'll probably be left alone." He fell moodily silent for a few moments.
"What are you thinking, Sam? I can't quite read you."
"Probably the same as you: how we're going to get out of this mess; how we're going to win it."
"You mean, if we're going to win it."
His eyes became alive with a fever she had never before witnessed. "No. Nydia, not if. We can't have doubts— ever. The instant we start doubting, and really dwell on those doubts, we're finished. If we start doing that, we may as well hang it up."
"I'm … not as strong as you, Sam. I'm a newcomer to all this."
"What do you think I am?" His words were spoken much more harshly than intended.
Tears touched her eyes, rolling down her cheeks. "Don't be angry with me, Sam—please? I'll do whatever you tell me to do, but you've got to help me."
He sighed, taking her hands in his. "I'm sorry I snapped, honey. I'll die for you if I have to." And she knew he meant it. "I love you, Nydia. Even though I know it's wrong, and I'll—we'll—pay for it someday. I can't deny my love for you any more than I could deny my love and faith for the Lord God."
"Roma was right, you know. Our love is wrong, and God won't have it; He won't allow it to go unpunished."
"Let's get out of this … mess first," he said grimly. "Then we'll worry about that."
"Worry about that tomorrow?" She forced a smile. "But where is Tara, Sam?"
"Wherever we choose to make it, honey. And we will make it—together."
"Promise me?"
"Yes." He spoke with renewed faith, renewed hope. "Yes, I promise."
They wanted very badly to kiss, but both held their emotions in check. She pulled her hands from his and stood up, walking across the carpet to her room, picking up the Bible along the way. "I'm going to study this for a while, Sam."
He could but nod his approval.
The crowds of Devil worshipers in Whitfield paraded up and down in front of Miles' home, shouting filthy words and making obscene gestures. But no one dared to violate the space guarded by the huge Clay Man, and the golem would not venture past the front yard. It was a stand-off.
"Around back,'' Jean Zagone suggested to her foreman. "We'll keep that fuckin' monster occupied here; you take some people around to the back of the house. Quietly now. Try to take them alive for some fun.''
The foreman, Jake, nodded his approval. "I'll get in my pickup, pretend like I'm leavin'. That ought to throw 'em off some. Then I'll circle 'round back, pickin' up some guys I know along the way."
"Go. Get some men you can depend on, Jake."
"You can depend on me, baby."
Jean watched his slender ass as he walked away. Jake was one of the heaviest-hung cowboys she had ever known, and she reckoned she had fucked about half the men in the county. But Jake was pure randy, and wasn't nothing he wouldn't do; nothing too kinky for ol' Jake. And he was mean and about half crazy, to boot. And he sure liked to fuck.
Jake had told her any number of times over the years, way back when they was just gettin' this Coven started, that he sure would like to shove the meat to Jane Ann; either end, didn't make no difference to him.
Jean had promised him he could have Jane Ann. That had got him so turned on she had to suck him off right then and there. Damn cock so big she couldn't hardly get it in her mouth. Cummed all over her.
Jake located several of the Coven's good old boys and together they eased around to the back of Miles' house, as furtively as possible. The golem was standing impassively in the front yard, making no move toward the street. Jake knew that to attempt to shoot the goddamned thing was useless: he had personally pumped a full clip of .308s into the fuckin' thing and hadn't even staggered it; the slugs just bounced off, one of them hitting one of his own people on the ricochet. Jake didn't know where the Clay Man had come from, but he damn sure didn't want any truck with it, not after seeing it rip off both arms of man with no more effort than if he'd been lifting a soft titty to squeeze.
Jake shook his head; have to quit thinkin' 'bout pussy, he cautioned himself. Ain't had none in two days, and that wasn't good for a man: man ought to wet his dauber every day—twice a day if he could find a hole to stick it in. He sneered as he thought of Jane Ann. Now that was gonna be some prime fuckin'. Prissy little psalm-singin' bitch. So damn high and mighty when everybody knew she was fuckin' that preacher fellow, Balon, way back then, and them not even married, or nothing. Bet her eyes will pop when I shove my meat to her, Jake thought, grinning. Got to be close to 45 years old and still looks good enough to eat.
They were back of the house, squatting down behind a line of hedge, watching for anything out of the ordinary. They saw nothing to alarm them.
"Jew boy so sure his God's gonna take care of them they ain't even guardin" the back," Boo said.
"Stupid fuckers," Clint agreed. "Come on, let's take 'em. I wanna see that Jew bitch squall when we pour gasoline on her and set her afire."
But Jake was too old a hand to be sucked into something this obvious. And since he didn't particularly care for either Clint or Boo, he said, "You boys git on up there. Me and Link'll stay back a piece, keep a good eye on your back trail."
The two overanxious members of Zagone's Coven nodded their heads in eager agreement. They ran across the yard. They made it to the back porch steps before two shotguns blasted, the slugs from one catching Boo in the face, blowing his head apart. The other blast hitting Clint in the center of his chest, flinging him backward. He died as he hit the ground.
"I didn't figure they was that dumb," Jake said, fingering the medallion that hung around his neck. "Come on. I got me an idea."
Jean wasn't surprised to hear their attempt to rush the house had failed. Things were not going as planned. Not at all. "What's your idea, Jake?"
"Simple," the foreman said. "Burn 'um out."
Gasoline was found, Molotov cocktails made. The first firebomb exploded in the hands of its preparer; the second and third ones bounced off the house and went out. The fourth and fifth bombs were picked up by the Clay Man and hurled back at the crowd, badly burning one man and blinding another.
"Enough!" the Prince of Darkness hurled his command into the brain of Jean Zagone. "It is as I thought: useless. Let them be."
And the Dark One knew then his attempts to wrest, the town of Whitfield from the hands of God and build a Coven there were doomed to failure. The Almighty Meddler had allowed him to waste his time here for more than twenty years, knowing all along He would not allow the final act.
The Dark One brooded, his thoughts more savage than usual. He searched the Heavens for some sign of his lifelong foe, but He was not to be found.
Could it be, Satan mused, could it be true, that He really did retire into His firmament? But why would He do such a thing?
The Dark One could find no logical reason for such silly behavior on His part. There were reasonably innocent people in this miserable village . . . well, not really innocent, he amended that … but He had not—so far—interfered with their taking; their torture; their rape; their degradation.
Why?
Why would He save only the Jew and Jewess, and those silly Gentiles? Satan could not believe He would allow the torture and rape of Jane Ann simply to test Sam Balon … or would He? No, that might be it in part, but there was more to this. The Prince of Rats knew that God sometimes acted in mysterious ways, but this was erratic even for Him. It made no sense.