The coven was stunned. Its leader dropped the rat and vanished behind the pulpit. Others started to run. Alain, clearly visible in the torchlight, held the second dagger poised to throw. “Stand still, all of you!” he shouted.
They were transfixed with fear.
Mandeville looked behind the pulpit, but the leader was gone. He herded the others together. “Where are your clothes?” he asked. One man replied that they removed them as soon as they entered the copse.
Since they had come by two different paths, Mandeville drove one group and Alain the other back as they had come. Outside the copse they came together again, dressed and unmasked. Alain recognized the men and three old women as poor townspeople. The young girl was no one he had ever seen before. Two old women said they lived on farms of the count’s estate.
Alain got the horses and he and Mandeville marched the coven to the town and woke the bishop.
No one in the coven knew who the leader was. They all thought he was Satan. They had never seen him without his mask.
Mandeville shook his head. “These are just miserable victims of the man who posed as Satan,” he said. “Until we find him, we have not crushed the menace. He will find more dupes and start over.”
“I think I can find him,” Alain replied.
The next day Alain, Mandeville, and the bishop rode to the castle. The bailey was filled with knights, squires, peasants, and servants. Word of the night’s events had got around.
The count himself came out with his seneschal. Mandeville and the bishop spoke with him. They motioned for Alain to take over. He moved through the crowd to the stables. There he found the marshal, whom he turned over to the bishop.
A crew of the count’s servants rummaged through old equipment from days when the count’s knights numbered half a hundred. Under a pile of saddles they found the gauntlets, rat-gnawed and bloodstained. Further down they discovered the mask of Satan. Since none would touch it, Alain hauled it out and gave it to the bishop.
As they carried the marshal to the cathedral for ecclesiastical trial, Mandeville asked Alain, “How could you recognize the marshal with that mask on?”
“You weren’t there,” Alain responded, “when he tried to kill the rats. Once you have seen him in a frenzy, you can’t mistake it. The weird gyrations with the lamb’s leg gave him away as if he had on no mask at all.”
Truck Stop
by Milton Berle
Milton Berle has been a vaudeville star, a movie actor, and “television’s first mass attraction.” (People) But some of his fans may be surprised to learn that he is also a writer with credits in several national magazines. This is his first piece for EQMM.
He didn’t look much like a trucker. Short truckers, even those only five-three or — four like him, had an attitude you could see. They wore it like a Pendleton, outside and brazen. His white cotton shirt wasn’t a trucker’s shirt.
Through the neon Bud sign in the window beyond the booths Jenny could see his rig. It was a big one with enough tire to gag a fast lane. Jenny guessed that he was an independent, bringing a load out on the northern route but heading back through California and Arizona. This had to be his virgin trip on the big I. Probably lucked into a load of rattan furniture or something.
Jenny’d never seen him before so she knew he was cherry. No trucker would have dared to come this way without stopping at the Countyline Cafe. A trucker could have lost his license for less of an infraction. This one had to be cherry.
Jenny thought about asking him where he was from and where he was heading, but he didn’t start any kind of conversation on which Jenny could hang her curiosity. A grunt of hello and that was all. Instead of ordering, he’d pointed to what he wanted on the menu.
In thirty-two years as a waitress, Jenny’d never asked questions unless the other party indicated a willingness to take the witness stand. This one hadn’t given sign one. A shame too, as it was a slow day. He was the only customer she’d seen for two hours. Two, three in the afternoon was often slow. Most truckers were barreling to beat the traffic that started choking roads at four.
When Jenny served the short fellow Countyline’s world-famous salmon croquette special, she stood facing him from behind the counter. Habit then pulled a few statements out of her. The salmon was just about the best thing on the menu. Most of the time the catch of the day was something like fish sticks. Pablo, the new man in the kitchen, cooked a lot of things badly, but he was good with salmon. And meatloaf. By the way, did the gent want some hot sauce? She knew he’d shake his head no. Mayonnaise, she figured with a silent chuckle, would blister his tongue.
As he cut into the second croquette, the mound still firm when severed, the short trucker spoke up. “This is real nice. My wife makes them good, too.”
Jenny shifted about a third of her hundred-and-eighty pounds and was about to start asking questions when three bikers came through the door. Dressed in leather, confidence, brute, and about ten gallons of unwashed, they sat down in the booth nearest the door. Jenny’d seen them before. They weren’t regulars, once a month at most. They were good for two beers and a little noise. They usually kept their distance from the truckers.
One of the bikers, Wrench, started to pick up a menu with his teeth. Face, the second, who’d probably been a biker eight minutes after birth and slapping the doctor, walked over to the jukebox. As he reached into his pocket for some coins, Jenny cut him short.
“The box isn’t working,” Jenny said.
“That’s dumb,” said Face. “Feel like music.” Turning, he saw the short trucker looking at him. “What are you looking at, man?”
Jenny said, “Let him be.”
Face pressed on. “What in hell are you looking at?” he said to the short trucker.
“Nothing.”
“You trying to say I’m nothing?”
The third biker, the real fat one named Herron, spoke up. “He said you were nothing. Face, you’ve been insulted.”
“Cut it out,” Jenny said.
“I’m not looking for trouble,” the short trucker said. He turned back to his food.
“I think he is,” Wrench said, giving up on the menu.
“Why are you guys acting up?” Jenny asked. “The man came in to eat.”
Face said, “We came in for a couple of brews and some music. He’s the one making trouble.”
“Can’t live without music,” said Wrench.
“Maybe he can sing for us,” said Herron.
“How about a brew on the house?” Jenny asked. “And the radio?”
“Rather hear this cat sing,” said Wrench.
“You do sing, don’t you?” Face asked.
The short trucker dropped a five-dollar bill on the counter and pushed himself from the seat.
“I’m sorry,” Jenny said.
“It’s okay.” The short trucker turned to go. Face placed himself between him and the door. “We’d like to hear you sing.”
“You guys are nuts,” Jenny said.
“Sing!” Face barked.
“A Willy Nelson tune. You know ‘Whiskey River’?” Wrench added.
The short trucker tried to sidestep so he could get through the man mountain. Face moved with him and pushed at him. “Sing something,” he said, almost begging.
The short trucker sang. Sixteen bars into “On the Road Again,” he smiled, as if pleased to be of service. The song trailed off.
“Not bad,” said Herron. “How about dancing for us?”
“Stop it,” Jenny screamed.