Footsteps echoed hollowly on the stone walkway leading from the yard. Sam turned. A tall, almost emaciated-looking man slowly made his way up to the terrace.
"Best you go in the house now, sir." The man spoke slowly, as if the act of speaking was painful.
"Why?"
"Because it is going to rain, and you are not dressed for the elements."
Sam looked up into the sky. Thousands of stars twinkled down at him. "But there isn't a cloud in the sky!"
"It will rain," the man insisted. "Soon."
"What's your name?" Sam asked.
"Perkins. Jimmy Perkins."
"Have you worked for the Williams long?"
"Years. Go in the house now." The man turned, and the night seemed to dissolve him.
Sam listened for the sound of fading footsteps. But none could be heard. The man appeared to have vanished.
Perkins? Sam thought. Now … where have I heard that name before?
Lying in his bed, conscious of Nydia in the next room, near but so far, just before sleep spread its gentle blanket over him, Sam was still musing over the tall man with the somehow familiar name.
And on the dresser, the cross glowed dully.
"Meddling!" Satan fired a dirty salvo into the Heavens. "Always meddling. Why can't you abide by the rules?"
"You are complaining about rules being broken, Asmodeus? How droll."
"We made an agreement—aeons ago. You rule the Heavens; I rule the earth."
"I don't recall any hard and fast set of rules." The Master of All chuckled, and the Heavens rumbled with thunder. "Hooved one, you amuse me. Your mind, what there is of it, is open for inspection. My maverick resident returned to earth by his own volition—not with my permission."
"You lifted the veil."
"Not necessarily. Balon is a curious one, and a brave one. He takes chances; he pries; he investigates. Besides, the boundaries that divide life from death are at best shadowy and vague. Who shall say where the one ends and the other begins?"
Satan howled his laughter, the foulness stinking the air. "That is not very original of you, Thunder-Breath. Have you taken to spending your time reading Poe?"
"Idiot! Who do you suppose put the thought in his mind?"
"I was under the impression it was I."
'That says a great deal for your intelligence."
"I don't have to stand here and be insulted."
"Anywhere you go is an insult to someone."
"Bah!"
And the Heavens became silent as a gentle rain began falling over Falcon House and the grounds surrounding it.
"Miles!" The mist formed at the foot of the Jew's bed. "Open your eyes. Look at me."
Miles fearfully opened his eyes, looking at the mist. He began silently reciting prayers, recalling them as if he had just stepped out of the synagogue.
Miles tried to speak but found he was voiceless.
"Don't be alarmed." The mist thrust its silent projection as it began to take shape. "I can hear your thoughts."
"Go away!" Miles said. "Sam? My God—my God! Oh! I think I'm having a heart attack."
"And I think you're as full of it now as when I knew you years ago."
"Don't think ugly!" Miles sat up in bed. "You're too close to Him to take chances."
"Miles?" Doris stirred by his side. "What's wrong?"
I should tell you and you'd have an accident in your gown. "Nothing," his voice popped from his throat. "A little gas, is all."
"Umm," she said, and then fell into a deep sleep.
"She won't wake up again until I leave," Sam projected. "You may speak normally."
"I wish you had taught me how to do that years ago."
"I didn't know how years ago."
"Sam—I'm dreaming all this, right?"
"It is not a dream."
"I was afraid you'd say that. Sam, I'm an old man, with more than my share of aches and pains: bad circulation … and that other thing, too. Arteriosclerosis. And I got …"
"Not anymore, Miles."
"What do you mean, Sam?"
"Do your legs hurt you, Miles?"
Miles thought about that for a moment, his hands feeling his thin legs. His legs were not cold, nor did they ache. He looked at the mist and said: "What did you do, Sam?"
"Corrected a few physical problems. You and Wade will have to be strong, mentally and physically, to make it through this upcoming ordeal."
"Why am I experiencing this feeling that I am about to get the shitty—excuse me, Sam—end of this handel?"
"I don't speak Hebrew, Miles."
"Bargain. You really don't? That seems odd."
"All languages are as one there, Miles. Miles? Am I your friend?"
"Oy! Here it comes; I knew it."
"Wouldn't you rather go out in a blaze of glory, Miles?"
"If it's all the same with you, Sam, I would rather not go out at all! Sam, old friend, do you realize what you're doing to me? You turned my head all cockeyed more than twenty years ago. I'm a Jew—I don't believe in all this crazy stuff. Now here you come again—no offense meant. Sam, please, it's good to see you; what there is of you. But … oh, Sam! What do you want from this old man? Let me rephrase that: What's gonna happen to me?"
"You're going to meet The Man in nine days."
"Some friend you are! You fix my legs all up where they don't hurt—first time in five years—then you tell me I'm gonna die in nine days!" He lay back, his head on the pillow. He closed his eyes. "If I don't see you, don't talk to you, you'll go away."
He was still for a few moments, until curiosity got the best of him. He opened his eyes. The mist that was Sam Balon was still there, looking at him.
Miles sighed, then said: "Well, sometimes it works. Okay, Sam … I never could win an argument with you. What do you want me to do?"
"Finish the Clay Man."
"I knew that was coming, too."
"I will speak with Wade and Anita. Perhaps Wade only. They will come to stay with you and Doris. The Clay Man will have power for nine days only; for the duration of the siege. When life leaves him, the four of you will go home."
"How is it, Sam? I mean … where you are. Were. Where you stay."
"Different. But I don't stay there often. When I'm there, I'm usually in trouble with Him."
"That, I can believe. Sam? What does this make me? This flies in the face of all that I was taught as a child. Everything I was taught to believe."
"I cannot say what it makes you. That will be your choice at the end."
"Wonderful," Miles said dryly. "I love a mystery."
The mist began to fade.
"Sam?" Miles cried. "What about Jane Ann?"
The mist projected its reply, and Miles was saddened.
Breakfast at the mansion was served buffet style, with Sam and Nydia eating together.
"Did you sleep well?" she asked.
"Passed out," Sam said, buttering a piece of toast. "I don't recall ever sleeping so soundly."
"It's the silence of the woods. But sometimes it can be … well, frightening."
"How?"
Her eyes were serious as they fixed their beauty on Sam's face. "Do you believe in the Devil, Sam?"
"Of course."
"Do you believe in possession?"
Sam chewed thoughtfully for a few seconds. "Yes, I do, Nydia. Even though most Protestants don't. But my father did. My real father. Mother told me he did. My stepfather was raised in the Catholic Church, but he broke from it when I was about ten … just a kid. Tony stopped worshiping God. Just quit. I don't know what happened. But mother taught me the Bible, and to believe in demonic possession. One thing she stressed was that the Devil walks the earth. Yeah … it was about that time I started hearing whispers about Tony running around on Mother. But," he shrugged, "his loss. Mother is beautiful. I don't understand men who run around on their wives. Sorry, I'm digressing. Why do you ask about possession?"
"Are you a Christian, Sam?"
"Well … technically, yes, I suppose I am. I'm not very pure at heart at times, though."
"Christians aren't supposed to be perfectly pure—I don't believe that's possible for a human."
"Sounds like you're really serious about religion, Nydia. I mean, don't take that the wrong way … so am I. It's serious business."