Why?
Peripheral vision caught a glimpse of some . . . thing slinking by the side of the house across the street. Not a dog. It was too large for an animal. And it had not moved with the fluidity of an animal. The movements had been jerky. It looked like a man. Sort of.
Sam looked more closely. Whatever it was—if anything—was gone.
Sam was suddenly and unexplainedly very uneasy. There had been something. He had seen it. But what? The house belonged to Max Steiner, and the Steiners had a dog—a Doberman. Why hadn't the dog barked? Perhaps the dog was familiar with . . . whatever it had been?
Sam shook his head in annoyance, feeling he was allowing his imagination to run rampant. Despite that, he again looked toward the Steiner house, remembering something the Episcopal had told him a few weeks before.
"I don't understand it, Sam," Father Haskell had said. "Max and Irene Steiner are devout Christians; good church workers—or used to be. Last month they stopped attending services. No explanation. And they won't see me; won't even allow me in their home. The dog had always been friendly to me, now he snarls and lunges at me when I come around. Sam, it's not just the Steiners—you know that. Church attendance is down town-wide. I don't understand what is happening. Do you?"
No, Sam did not. His own church attendance was down. It was as if some . . . force was pulling members away from God. Pulling them toward—what?
He did not know.
Sam left the kitchen, slipping quietly down the hall to his bedroom, gathering up his clothing. He showered and shaved, then dressed in old, comfortable jeans, pull-on boots, and a shirt slightly worn at the elbows. He fixed his coffee, then walked softly through the house to the front porch. He sat on the steps, sipping his coffee, watching the eastern sky do its magic, working its multicolored change of hues.
Dawn over Whitfield.
The morning was not cool, yet Sam suddenly shivered. A long, hard trembling. The ragged edge of tension touched his mind, narrowing his eyes. He had felt the same sensation in combat—and just before combat—in Korea, and he had learned to trust his instincts. They had saved his life before.
"Saved my life?" Sam muttered. Why did I think that? Do I believe my life to be in danger?
Maybe.
He sat his cup on the steps. "I think I'll do some prowling," he said aloud.
He did not see the eyes that watched him from across the street. In the Steiner home, the Barlow home, the Piper home. Burning eyes. Evil eyes. He could not hear the heavy breathing.
Not yet.
He backed his car carefully around Michelle's and drove the streets of Whitfield. He did not know what he was looking for; something out of the ordinary, perhaps. Some . . . thing that would dispell his suspicions. As he drove, he could not find the elusive Thing.
At full light, Whitfield started showing signs of life. People in bathrobes stepping outside to get the morning paper. People sitting on their front porches sipping the first cup of coffee, smoking the first cigarette of the day. Everything appeared normal. Still, some . . . thing was not quite right.
5am waved at a few of the people. None returned his greeting. He drove past the Conway house. Tom Conway, his wife, and their two children had left the church three weeks ago, offering no explanation as to why. Tom and his wife and kids sat on the front porch of the rambling two-story home. Sam drove slowly past, waving a greeting. The oldest of the kids shot him The Bird, right hand clenched, middle finger rigidly extended. The universal sign of contempt. Up your ass! The man and wife and youngest child, Laurie, laughed.
Sam stopped the car dead in the street, not believing his eyes. The father was caressing his daughter's thigh, his hand shoved up her short robe. The teenager spread her legs further apart, father's hand moving upward.
Tom Conway, Jr. shot the preacher two Birds.
Sam drove on, his face flushed. He had seen it. A father caressing his young daughter. The son popping him Birds. "Young man," Sam muttered, "I would very much like to get out of this car, break off your fingers, and shove them up your—"
He caught himself before his anger got the best of him. Calm down, Sam, he cautioned himself. Just calm down. Aloud, "Excuse me, Lord. But I don't know what is wrong in this town. Something sure is. Won't You help me?"
Nothing happened as Sam drove on down the street. He had to smile. "Well, Balon, what did you expect, flaming words written across the sky? Perhaps the hand of God to appear and pat you on the shoulder? He hasn't worked that way in over two thousand years. But He did give you a brain—use it!"
Sam could not get the sight of Conway caressing his daughter out of his mind. He had heard rumors of incestuous behavior in Whitfield during the past weeks. He had not wanted to believe the rumors. Now he'd seen it.
Then he realized he was driving down Jane Ann's street, slowing at her small house, pulling in the driveway. "Sam!" he railed at his actions. "You're an idiot!"
He glanced at his watch. Six-thirty. He started to back out of the drive when the screen door opened. Jane Ann stared at him. She looked tired.
She neither told him to come in nor to go away. She merely spoke his name. "Sam."
The minister nodded his head. "Are you all right, Jane Ann?" Why did he ask that?
She shook her head. "No, Sam. I'm not all right."
He cut his engine and walked to her. She stood on the porch, the minister on the front steps, both of them very much aware of the spark that moved between them, looking for something explosive to ignite. Both knew they must be very careful.
"Will you walk around the side of the house with me, Sam?"
They walked, not touching, around to the back. The back door was shattered, pulled from its hinges. A crude picture had been drawn on the bottom half of the door. A naked woman with legs spread wide, exposing the genitalia. JANE ANN printed above the obscene drawing.
It was embarrassing for both of them.
"When did this happen?" Sam asked.
"Last night. I haven't slept since."
"Did you call the police?"
She looked up at him, her eyes flashing dark anger. "Sam, it was the police!"
It was the first time Sam had been in her house in more than a year. When he had sensed her feelings toward him, and his feelings toward her, he'd stopped his visits, thinking it best for both of them.
They stood in the kitchen, looking at each other.
"Let me fix you some breakfast, Sam."
"No, that's not necessary. Coffee will be fine."
"Have you eaten?"
"No—but, I just don't think it would be right."
"Sam, nothing is right in this town, and you know it. Sit down, I'll fix breakfast."
He had to admit, it was pleasant, watching Jane Ann prepare breakfast. He sipped his coffee, very good coffee, and watched her move around the smail kitchen. Very little wasted motion. Jane Ann was nothing like his wife.
Michelle was tall, five seven, with black hair and eyes of the darkest blue, almost black; her complexion was dark.
Jane Ann was small and blonde, with a very trim figure, unlike Michelle's truly magnificent figure. Although, Sam smiled, no one in his right mind would ever mistake Jane Ann for a boy. Her hair was cut short, framing her face.
She turned, as if sensing the minister's eyes on her, and caught him appraising her. "It never hurts to look, Sam," she said impishly, softening the remark with a smile.
"Only if the man is a minister, or married," he countered.
"You're a minister, yes. But I wouldn't say your marriage was made in Heaven."
He shrugged his reply as she placed his breakfast before him. It was everything he liked, prepared as he liked it. Sam lifted his eyes from the plate.
"Eggs scrambled, with green peppers and onions. Sausage cooked just right. Toast with real butter and strawberry preserves. How did you know this?"