"No, Janey, you're not. But I thought I was the only one who suspected something out of whack around Whitfield. But you're leaving out something: Sheriff Marsh."
"Yes. Mr. Marsh was a good, decent man. A man in excellent health who suddenly drops dead of a heart attack. Two days after his funeral, his body is stolen. How many bodies have been stolen so far, Sam?"
"Too many, I'm afraid. But nothing is being done about it."
"I didn't put it all together until last week. School was out, I didn't have anything to do, so I began looking around this town. I don't like what I've found. Or what I think I've found."
"It's always on a Friday," Sam muttered.
"You do know devil worship."
"Not as much as Father Dubois, but enough to pique my curiosity—get me moving on my suspicions. I'll start today."
"You've talked with Father Dubois?"
"Not lately, but I intend to."
"Today is Friday, Sam."
"I know," the minister said quietly. "What time did Perkins and Best try to break in?"
"It was—let me think. Twelve-thirty. I remember because I woke up when they started driving up and down this street. That was at midnight. I lay in bed wondering what in the world was going on."
"Why did you ask me if I'd talked with Chester or Wade?"
"I overheard them talking at the church last Sunday. Chester is worried about this town, and his children. But Wade laughed at him. He said it was Chester's imagination. But Sam, it wasn't a very convincing laugh."
"Yes, for the first time in his life, Wade's sent his kids off to summer camp. So did Miles. Wade is trying to play the skeptical-reporter bit. But his act is not coming off very well. He's worried."
"He's a good Christian man."
"One of the best I know, considering the line of work he's in."
"What do you mean?"
"Reporters have to deal with all the frailties of humankind; it must be difficult not to become cynical after a time."
"You're worried; I'm worried; Miles is worried; Wade is worried." She shook her head. "Sam, what do the numbers 666 mean to you?"
He smiled. "That's a tonic, isn't it?"
"Come on!" she laughed. "Be serious."
"It's from Revelations. The Beast. Chapter 13. Mentions two beasts. The mark of the beast. The number is six hundred three score and six."
"Do you believe it?"
"I have no reason to doubt it."
"How about an upside down cross?"
"If you've read that book," he pointed to the book on devil worship, "you know what it means. Devil worship."
"I know," she said. "I've seen both things."
"Where?" he was instantly alert.
"There is an upside down cross just inside the front window of Hoge's Pool Hall. The numbers 666 are painted on the side of a barn, just outside of town. They weren't there last week. I'm sure of that."
"Of course, Janey, we must remember that everything we're saying may just be the product of overactive imaginations. We have to consider that."
"I have considered it, Sam—and rejected it."
He nodded, not committing himself. "All right. You've said nothing about this?"
"Not to a soul, Sam. Except to you." She picked up the book on devil worship and possession. "In this book, Sam, the author says some—well, disturbing things. He says there are Beasts on this earth that—well answer to the devil or the devil's agent. He says these Beasts are God's mistakes. I really feel funny saying that. He maintains that no one really knows exactly how many times God tried to make man in His image; that God may have tried several times, many times, even, and these Beasts are part of His failures. He says God managed to destroy all His other failures, but at least one effort survived, due to Satan's intervention, and the devil can call them out whenever he chooses."
"That's really not a new theory, Janey. I believe most intelligent people—layman or theologian—will have to agree that anthropologists have just about proved humankind evolved, working its way up from primates—out of the caves. I believe that works right along with the Bible, not against it, as some argue. God may well have made mistakes—if you want to use that word—in His endeavors to create. And He is certainly capable of destroying what He created."
"You're an unusual minister, Sam," Jane Ann said, all the love in the world shining in her eyes.
"I may be an unusual one, but I'm not at all certain I'm a good one."
"Doubts, Sam? You?"
"I'm a married man, yet," he hesitated, "I'm lusting after another woman. It's the first time in my ministry I've done so."
"That just proves you're human, Sam—not a rock."
He wanted very much to touch her. He wanted very much to do several things to her and with her. He fought back his feelings, apologizing to God for them.
"I don't want you staying here, Janey. Not after what happened last night. Pack up a few things and we'll go over to Chester's; tell him what happened. Chester and Faye will welcome you in their home."
"I was hoping you'd suggest that. I won't be a minute."
"You're a liar!" Patrolman George Best snapped the words at Jane Ann. "Me and Jimmy wasn't nowhere near your house last night. What are you tryin' to pull, anyway?"
The two patrolmen, in civilian clothes, stood side by side in Chester's den, confronting Jane Ann. Sam stood with Chester and the Chief.
Jane Ann stood with chin high, not backing down.
"Watch your mouth!" Sam warned the patrolman.
Best whirled, facing Sam. "Hey!" he pointed a finger at the minister. "You stay out of this, preacher. This is none of your concern."
Only the quickly outflung arm of John Benton prevented Sam from knocking the young patrolman flat on his backside. "Easy, Sam," the Chief cautioned.
Officer Perkins gave Sam a peculiar glance. He knew the minister's background, and what he was very capable of doing. "Reverend Balon, we didn't do those things. As God is my witness, we didn't do them!"
"You don't have to explain a damn thing to that psalm singer!" Best looked at Sam with hate.
"You're fired!" Benton snapped. "I will not tolerate that kind of language toward Sam Balon. As far as you not being at Jane Ann's—I think I can prove you were."
Best sneered at him. "I'd like to see you do that!"
"Take off your right shoe."
"What?"
"You hear me. Take off your right shoe. Those are city-issued patrolman's shoes. You were wearing them last evening because I recognize the scuff on the toe of the left shoe. I told you to polish them. You didn't. Now, you want to prove you weren't at Jane Ann's? Take off your right shoe."
"I'll be damned!"
"I'm almost certain of that," Sam muttered, just loud enough for John to hear.
A corner of the Chief's mouth crinkled with a small smile.
"Come on, George," Jimmy urged. "You know we weren't there. Take off your shoe if that'll prove us innocent."
For a brief moment, a look of pure panic crossed Best's face. He shook his head. "No. I won't."
"George," his friend said patiently, "I could always whip you in high school, and I can do it now if I have to. Take off your shoe!"
Best shook his head stubbornly.
Jimmy balled his fists, anger flushing his face a deep red.
"Easy, Perkins," John stopped him. "You see, Best, I took an impression this morning in Janey's back yard, by the shattered door. An impression of a nice, fresh footprint with a pyramid-shaped cut in the heel of the right shoe. If you don't have a cut like that on your heel, then you're off the hook. It couldn't belong to Perkins—I measured the imprint. It's a size ten and a half. Your size. Perkins wears a nine."
Best whirled, slamming a shoulder into Jimmy, knocking his partner sprawling on the floor. Best ran out the side door of the den, jumped in his car, and roared away.
"That bastard!" Jimmy hollered, struggling to get to his feet. His face crimsoned when he looked first at the ladies, then at Sam. "I'm sorry. I forgot for a minute."