"I feel sorry for him," Anita said.
"Oh, for heaven's sake, honey," Wade said. "He's made of clay; he has no emotions, no feelings, no concept of what a human experiences. And I still don't believe he's really here."
"Don't blaspheme," Miles said quickly. "Now is not the time. Just accept."
Balon spoke to Wade: "You are wrong. God breathed life into him, so he does have feelings. He has feelings of protectiveness toward the four of you. But since he has no tongue, he cannot express them. Since he has no eyes, he cannot see you—as you know vision—so you cannot see his feelings. But that is just as well. Doris would probably have had him in for coffee and cake."
"And didn't I have you in often enough for cake and coffee?" Doris challenged the mist. "I committed some sin by doing that? You ate like a horse, Sam Balon."
"Doris!" Miles was appalled. "You hush up that kind of talk. Don't you know who you're talking to?"
"I'm talking to Sam Balon the same way I always talked to Sam Balon. And I'll speak the same way when we get to … wherever it is we're going."
"I never heard of such disrespect for the … excuse me, Sam … dead," Miles said. "Sam—why? Why did they pull back?"
"Because Satan knows he is beaten here."
"But people are still being raped and tortured and tormented and dying," Wade said.
"That is true."
"Why?"
"I do not question the will of God."
"Will we get a chance to ask Him?" Wade persisted.
The hollow voice that was Balon chuckled, then projected: "I think you're in for a surprise, Wade."
"What do you mean, preacher?"
"You'll see."
"Janey?" Anita asked.
"She is well."
"That's not what I meant."
"I know. She has an ordeal ahead of her. A terrible one. But she will endure."
"You can't know that for certain, Sam," Doris said.
"I know."
Then the voice faded and the house was still.
Sam's head hurt, throbbing with pain. The side of his head was sticky. He put his fingertips to his head and gingerly touched the aching. His fingers came away sticky. He touched his head again, exploring the wetness, finding a small cut just above his ear.
Groaning, he attempted to sit up in the darkness. He made it on the second attempt, rested for a moment, then got slowly to his feet, swaying in the darkness of the … he looked around him … of the what? Where was he?
As his eyes began to penetrate some of the gloom ground him, he could tell he was in a large room. A damp basement, he concluded. He stood very still, attempting to get his bearings. He was confused: Roma had assured them no physical action would be taken until Thursday night.
"And of course you believed her." The mysterious voice ripped into his aching head. "Words from the Devil's whore? How typically mortal."
Sam's temper flared. "Sermons I don't need. If you knew she wasn't to be trusted, why didn't you tell me?"
"You are your father's son."
"I'm getting a little tired of hearing that, too, Mr. whoever-you-are."
The powerful, awesome voice chuckled, and Sam could hear the rumblings of nearby thunder.
"Nydia!" He remembered her screaming. "Where is she?"
"Never take anything for granted," the voice said.
"What!"
"Do not trust them further. For as it is written: he knoweth that he hath but a short time."
"All I asked was a reasonably simple question. Why are you giving me such a bad time with all these riddles?"
"Oh, but I don't speak in riddles. It is only that you interpret my words as puzzles. But bear this in mind: remember your father's words at the airport."
Sam's sigh was more exasperation than frustration or anger. "What words?" he asked wearily. "More riddles?"
" 'I cannot guarantee she will not be hurt. If anything, it was blessed by the Dark One.' Now go to her."
A wind blew cold through the darkness; a door banged open, dim light beyond it.
"Through that door, huh?"
"You have reservations?"
"Yeah. How do I know you're one of the good guys and not Old Scratch pulling my leg?"
And again the powerful voice chuckled. Once more, thunder rumbled overhead. "You are learning, young warrior."
Sam felt the mysterious force move away. He was alone.
He looked toward the dim light of the open door. "Oh, what the hell … heck. No! I meant hell!" He walked out of the dampness into the cold of the Canadian night. And it struck him: night! How long was I out? Hours, at least. That had to have come from more than a knock on my head.
"Witchery." That almost overpowering voice cut into his head.
"Thanks." Sam's reply was dry. He spoke as he walked around the huge mansion, searching for a door. "Tell me: Are you here to help me, or just to bug me?"
"Bug?"
"Annoy; harass; needle."
"Ah. I haven't as yet decided."
"You will let me know?"
"Oh, you will know, young warrior. I promise you that."
Sam stopped at a back door. "I'm going through that door; so I'll be looking forward to hearing from you again. When you decide which side you're on."
The chuckling, thundering. "Oh, I know which side, young warrior. Of that you may be certain."
"Riddles," Sam muttered. "Riddles. I don't know what I'm doing here; don't know what I'm supposed to do—not really; and don't know how I'm supposed to accomplish what it is I'm not sure I'm supposed to do. If that makes any damn sense."
Thunder rolled.
"Yeah," Sam said. "Real cute." He opened the door and stepped into the warmth of the house.
* * *
The speaker of mighty words and the producer of thunder appeared in the circle of stones behind the mansion and once more sat on a boulder. He folded his massive arms across his chest. The manlike traveler appeared to be waiting for someone.
It was not a long wait.
"Why didn't you tell the young man his young woman saw the face of the Hooved One?"
"I think he has to be tested further. But … perhaps I should have. Is that what you wish me to do?"
"A test? A painful, wicked one, Warrior. What I want you to do? I didn't want you here to begin with."
"But I am here."
"Obviously. And instead of listening to the pleas of mortals and attempting to keep shaky fingers off of buttons that would ruin the earth, I am with you wondering why my most powerful ally is sitting on a rock in a circle of stones, erected to worship Satan."
"The Foul One does not know of my presence."
"He suspects."
"Am I supposed to tremble with fear at thai knowledge?"
The Heavens rumbled with laughter. "Hardly. But at the risk of being redundant, this is not your place. I should order you away."
"If you do, I shall obey."
"Yes," the most powerful voice in all the thousands of worlds seemed to sigh. "But have I ever?"
"No."
"And so I shall not this time."
And with a rush of wind, the voice faded, leaving the mightiest of God's warriors sitting on the rock, thoughtfully stroking his beard.
Sam wandered through the huge mansion, making his way to his room, hoping he would find Nydia there. Their rooms were empty; the great house silent. As a grave. He shook that thought away.
He washed the cut on his head and applied some antiseptic to the small wound, then took several aspirin and changed clothes. He debated several moments over whether to take the .45 pistol, then shook his head and left the weapon where it was. He went in search of Nydia.
He stopped at every door, carefully looking in every room. He found no one in either the east or west wings of the mansion, on either floor. The dining area was deserted, as were the servants' quarters. That left only one place. Sam stood very still in the foyer, listening for the sound that had stopped him in his search. There it was again. Organ music.
He listened to the faint but unmistakable sounds of funeral music, somber and low, coming from up above him.
"Funeral music?" he said. "Who died?" And then panic hit him hard. What was it the voice had said, speaking in riddles, repeating his father's words: I cannot guarantee she will not be hurt.