Voices began playing in her head as her mind and abilities to reason became clouded.

  "And what about that Flaubert girl? You don't suppose—"

  Yes, Nydia thought. Yes. She would be a prime candidate.

  "And why do you suppose Sam insisted, when you two were talking about buying a satellite dish, upon having that filthy channel?"

  I'm beginning to understand now.

  "He's had other women here, hasn't he? Come on, admit it. Those nights you went out with the girls— sometimes several nights a week—did Sam ever object?"

  No.

  "Don't you find that rather odd?"

  I do now.

  "And many times, when you were tired and wanted to go to bed, didn't he sit up and watch that fuck film channel?"

  Yes.

  "It's all adding up, isn't it?"

  Reluctantly, she agreed. Yes, it was.

  "Would a Christian watch such a channel?"

  No. Not the way Sam does.

  "Then perhaps—"

  The silent voice faded, leaving the rest of it to Nydia's fertile imagination.

  Nydia alternately felt like crying, screaming, jumping up and down, and, the thought came screaming into her brain: making it with another man.

  Sure, why not? Sam has been sleeping around, so why the hell not? What was that old saying?

  "What's good for the goose is good for the gander," the dark voice whispered obscenely.

  She would just, by God, give that some thought; some serious thought.

  She gave no thought to what was taking place around her, in the small town of Logandale. All that had been blocked by the dark forces. And they urged her on.

  She wrote Sam a short note, telling him that she was going for a drive and might not be back for some time. Little Sam would be at Janet's.

  "Let him stew about that for awhile," she muttered. "He's probably out screwing somebody right this minute."

  She dressed Little Sam, put a change into a small bag, and locked up the house. Her eyes were flashing angry sparks as she pulled out of the drive and headed into town.

  "So Jon Le Moyne and I are having an affair, are we?" she muttered. "Well, we'll just see about that."

  And the demons and witches and warlocks and creatures who worship the Dark Prince howled with laughter.

  Father Le Moyne pulled over to the curb and looked at the pastor of the Methodist church. The man was sitting on the steps of his church, a confused and dejected look on his face.

  "Come on," the priest said to Noah. "Let's find out what's wrong."

  "You know what's wrong."

  "Let's be certain." They walked over to the man, Father Le Moyne asking, "What's wrong, Byron?"

  Byron Price, the minister, looked at the two men. "I—am troubled, Daniel. And I feel a little bit lost. Confused. What is happening? My entire congregation seems to be boycotting me."

  "Well, Byron, don't feel like a lost sheep. Richard Hasseling over at First Baptist just told us the same thing, in almost the same words."

  Methodist eyes met Catholic eyes. "And how about you, Daniel?"

  "The same thing. No one came to mass. Not one person."

  "What's happening, Daniel?"

  Father Le Moyne hedged that for a moment. "John Morton at the Episcopal church told us," he indicated Noah, "not more than ten minutes ago, that he spoke by phone with several of his older members—elderly. They told him they had been bullied into not attending church this morning. Some of them had actually been physically shoved around, and worse."

  A slamming door caused all eyes to turn to the house beside the church. An attractive woman was leaving the home, walking toward a car parked by the curb.

  "My wife," the minister said glumly. "She's leaving me. Taking up with a seventeen-year-old boy. The Johnson boy. Seems she's been having an affair with him for several months. Maybe longer than that. Just came right out last night and told me all about it. Said—this is shameful and embarrassing—she said he had staying power in the sack."

  "I beg your pardon?" Father Le Moyne said.

  "He can fuck for a long time," Noah told him bluntly.

  "Great scott, Noah!" Le Moyne looked at his friend. "How crude."

  Byron Price put his face in his hands and openly wept. Father Le Moyne and Noah could do nothing for the man except feel pity for him. Byron was a good and decent man, who worked hard at his faith. He deserved better than this. But both men knew what had caused the breakup.

  Mrs. Price rode by the three men in front of the church. She said something to the young man and they both laughed. The Johnson boy looked at the trio of men and extended his middle finger to them.

  Noah reached for the pistol in his belt. Father Le Moyne's hand stopped him.

  "Not that, Noah! Not yet. They've got to make some overt move first. They have to put us into some life-threatening situation. Only then can we use force. You should know that far better than I."

  Byron raised a tear-stained face to the priest. "Daniel, what in the world are you talking about? You're confusing me even more."

  "Go to your parsonage, Byron," Father Le Moyne told him. "Pack several changes of clothing. Get your personal things together. Come with us. And Byron—if you have a gun—get it."

  "All right," Monty said. "I think it's coming out into the open now. They're trying to get us to leave town voluntarily. I think when they see we're not going to run, they'll attempt to run us out; scare us out. What I don't understand is why they decided to move so quickly with this. It all seems so abrupt."

  "They haven't moved quickly," Sam said, and all eyes swung toward him. "I would bet this is an old coven. Perhaps one of the oldest. Don't ask me how I know that, I just sense it. I—no outsider really knows much about any given coven—the inner workings. But while it appears they move quickly, they actually have spent years getting set. And I'll bet Satan is here—personally."

  Sam reiterated some of his experiences in and around Falcon House, in Canada.

  The mighty voice had spoken to Sam several times, the words thundering in the young man's head. Just seconds after Sam and Nydia performed the marriage ceremony, by themselves, on themselves, the voice came to both of them.

  Nydia had said, "I guess we're married, Sam."

  "In whose eyes is the question?" the strong voice came to them.

  Nydia was frightened. Sam calmed her. "What do you mean—whoever you are—'in whose eyes'?"

  But the voice was silent.

  Nydia said, "I sensed his presence in our room this morning. Or I should say some one's presence."

  "The voice speaks in riddles," Sam warned her. "So be prepared for a puzzle."

  "Not this time, young people," the mighty voice boomed. "The hooved one has made his decision. You, young warrior, are marked for death. A special black mass has been called for tomorrow night. They will attempt to call out the forces of darkness. If they succeed, I will do battle with them. You will know at midnight tomorrow if their calling has been successful. If so, you must take your—wife and leave the house at once. Do not attempt to fight them alone. You both must run and hide in the timber. But a word of warning: You cannot travel past the set boundaries. You will know them, for they are easily seen. Remember, young warrior, your sole purpose is to destroy the tablet, if possible."

  "What tablet?" Sam asked.

  "The Devil's Tablet. It is here. Hidden."

  "And if I destroy it, what happens?"

  "I cannot answer that, for it has never been destroyed."

  "Wonderful," Sam said sarcastically. "How will I know this tablet?"

  "It will know you. For the tablet is evil, and you represent good."

  "May I ask what might sound to you a foolish question?"

  "Ask."

  "Why me? And who are you?"

  "That is two questions. Which do you want answered?"

  "The first one."

  "Because you are who you are."

  "Thank you so very much. You've really cleared it all up."

  Nydia touched his arm. "Sam! Don't be ugly to— him."

  "You are—good," the voice thundered in their heads. "Both of you. Not perfect, but no mortal is. And I have made my decision: I shall help you."

  The voice faded away, leaving the young couple sitting in silence in the timber of Canada.

  "I talked with the voice several more times after that," Sam said. The small gathering in Monty's house could but stare in silence.

  Finally Monty asked, "Who—what was the voice, Sam?"

  "God's warrior, Michael."

  Joe closed his eyes and gripped the arms of the chair tightly.

  "You really talked with Michael?" Mille asked, her eyes wide.

  Mille crossed herself. So did Monty, his wife looking at him strangely. Joe bowed his head. Whether he was praying or wondering if this was all a bad dream was up for grabs.

  Take refuge! the words leaped into Sam's brain. Band together for safety! And be careful, for all is not as it appears!

  "What's wrong, Sam?" Monty asked. "Your face seemed—strange." That damn word again, Monty thought. Well, it fits the situation.

  "I think I just got a message from—far away," Sam told him, speaking to the entire group. "The same way I used to get them up at Falcon House."

  "From the same—fellow?" Joe asked.

  "I don't know. It could well be from my dad."

  Viv was chewing on her lower lip and wringing her hands together.

  "You got voices in your head?" Joe asked. "And they may be comin' from your dead father? Lordy, Lordy."

  Sam smiled. "Yeah. I thought I was a candidate for the funny farm when I first heard them, up in Canada, three years ago. But I quickly learned to listen."

  "What did the voice say to you, Sam?" Monty asked. His wife looked at him as if he was a fool.

  "To band together. To be careful. All was not as it seems."

  "I'll go along with that," Joe said. "Groupin' together might not be a bad idea. But first I'd kinda like to know what we're goin' up against 'fore I bunker myself in."

  "That's me," Monty said. He looked at Mille. "Ginny been acting all right to you, Mille?"

  "I can't see any difference. She never went to church anyway, so that wouldn't be any indicator of change in her."

  "Sound her out, Mille," Sam told her. "If you think she's still—one of us." He stumbled on that. "You two stay close together until we can all meet and talk this out. By that time we should have firmed things up and know when and how to take a stand."

  Viv slumped back on the couch and shook her head. "This is all a bad dream—a nightmare. It has to be. It can't be real. I'm going to wake up pretty soon and everything is going to be all right. Oh, God! Please let it be."

  Monty went to her and took her in his arms. "It isn't a dream, babe. And you are awake. But we're going to make it. We're going to fight this thing and we're going to win it." He looked at Sam. "Aren't we, Sam?"

  It was at that moment Sam realized they were all looking to him for leadership. Ex-Chief of Police Draper, Joe, Mille, Viv, all of them. And he knew, too, he did not want that job. Not again. He didn't know if he was up to it.

  But you are, the voice boomed in his head. You must. You have no choice in the matter.

  Sam met the gazes of the men and women gathered in the den. He sighed heavily, thinking: Here we go again, folks. Quit it, Sam, he berated himself. This is not the time for jokes. "Yes," the young man said. "If we stick together and don't lose our heads, we'll make it." Most of us, he thought, but did not put that into words. "But I won't lie to you. To any of you. It isn't going to be easy. The Devil and his followers will use every evil trick in their black book to get you all to join them. They will tempt you and entice with everything you can possibly think of. They will make it sound so appealing it will take all of your inner strength to combat it." He paused and said, "And—maybe some of you won't make it. It's that tough and tempting. I know, and so does Nydia. We went through it, and so did my dad. Nydia's stepfather raped her." He did not tell the group that Little Sam could well be a demon child. "Nydia's mother seduced me, and my seed produced, within her, a demon child. I do not know what sex or where the child is, but I strongly suspect the child—and it may not be a child—it may be a full grown adult, in some form, is close by. The Devil's child is playing a vital part in all this." And I wonder if the tablet is near?

  Yes!

  I have to face that, too? Again? Sam projected the question.

  Yes! came the silent reply. Sam could not identify the voice. He didn't think it was his father, but he couldn't be sure.

  The young man looked into the eyes of the group. He read utter disbelief on the faces of the men and women. He knew it was too much for them to accept at one sitting. But he felt he did not have a choice in the matter. And there was so much he wasn't telling them.

  "I know," Sam said. "I know. It's difficult for you to believe. But it is all very true and real, please believe me.

  Monty stared at his shoes for a moment. He lifted his eyes. "Let's take this a day at a time, Sam. Let us—adjust, swallow all this. I don't doubt you—not for a minute—please. But Jesus God—this is storybook stuff; you see this at the movies, on TV. It—just doesn't, can't happen in real life."

  "But it is happening," Sam told them. He stood up. "I'm going to prowl around town some, see what's happening. I'll check back with you all later."

  "Be careful," Monty warned him.

  Sam's smile was grim. "Don't you worry about that. I know what I'm up against. What we're up against. But you people have yet to discover the true horror of what is lying in wait for you."

  "You could have talked all day and not said that," Joe mumbled.

  There was no humor in Sam's reply. "Words alone cannot describe what is facing us all. You are days—perhaps only hours—away from getting a firsthand glimpse of all the horrors of hell."

  "Lordy, Lordy," Joe said.

  With a very stunned and badly shaken minister in the back seat of the automobile, Father Le Moyne and Noah pulled away from the minister's residence. "I'm sorry, gentlemen," Byron said from the back seat. "Even though I grew up on the streets of Buffalo, running wild as a buck, I have never fired a gun in my life."

  "I took up skeet shooting about five years ago," Noah said. "I found it helped me to relax. Prior to that, I was a liberal's liberal: gun control, Save the Punks, abolish the death penalty—the entire nine yards. Then I did some serious soul-searching and found that most of my philosophy was unworkable in reality. I began plinking with a handgun. I found it great fun and just as relaxing as skeet shooting. If I ever again take part in any civil disobedience, it will probably be outside a prison somewhere, yelling for the warden to go ahead and execute the bastard!"

  Behind the wheel, Father Le Moyne fought to conceal his smile. "Noah, you've turned into a real tiger."

  "I'm doing my best, Daniel. But it's rather difficult to inflict a serious bite with dentures." The writer laughed. He patted the butt of his .357. "One of these will almost always get a person's attention, though." He pointed to a crowd of men and women gathering on a street corner. "Look over there!"

  "Shall we stop?" Le Moyne asked.

  "Just drive by slowly," Noah said, not taking his eyes from the crowd. "Damn pack of rabble and trash."

  The priest slowed the car. The writer and the men of God looked at the crowd. The mixed group returned the looks, glaring sullenly at the men in the car. One of the women arrogantly gave the trio the middle finger.

  "Mrs. Baxter," Noah muttered. "Bitch used to teach Sunday School at the Lutheran church. I bet she taught them some trash, all right."

  Someone in the crowd said something, the sound of the following laughter reaching the men in the car as they slowly drove past.

  "I wonder what was said?" Father Le Moyne quietly asked.

  "I doubt that you really want to know, Daniel," Noah told him. "For I imagine it was pure filth."

  "Devil worship?" Byron spoke from the back seat. "Covens and witchcraft and the black arts? In Logan-dale. I just can't accept it, gentlemen. I just can't. Someone is playing tricks with you all. This simply cannot be occurring in this town."