The Book of Joby (83 page)

“Okay.” He shrugged. “Just wanted to make certain.”

“So how have you been?” she asked.

“Fine,” he said wryly. “I’ve been working on my screenplay and designing that new atom bomb downstairs in my spare time. Then there’s all the fan mail to answer.”

“I guess Taubolt’s pretty boring in the rain,” she said apologetically. “Especially if you’re new here. I should have made a bigger effort to get down and see you.”

“Naw,” he said, smiling like he meant it. “I see Joby every day at the inn, and I’m looking for a job. That’ll fix me up.”

“Money running short?” she asked, sounding concerned.

“Nope. Being a man of leisure’s just not turning out to be as fun as I thought.”

“There’s a big Halloween bash at the Crow’s Nest tomorrow night,” Laura said sympathetically. “Joby and I are going. You should come.”

“He already told me,” Ben said. “I’ll be there with bells on. Well, not bells, exactly, but something pretty flashy.”

“What are you wearing?” she asked, smiling for the first time since he’d arrived.

“That would spoil the surprise.” He grinned. “You?”

“If you’re not telling, neither am I,” she said with a smile he was sure she hadn’t meant to seem so flirtatious, but it cut him nonetheless.

He’d come here planning to say all sorts of things he knew now he couldn’t say, which, having barged his way into her home, left him with the awkward task of inventing some graceful exit. “Well, speaking of my costume, it still needs a little work,” he said, getting up. “I should go back and get that taken care of. Just wanted to say hi.”

“But you just got here,” she said, getting up as well. “I’m sure Arthur would like to see you. They should be home any minute. Won’t you stay?”

Suddenly, it seemed almost hard to breathe. “I really can’t,” he said, knowing that he must sound like a fool, but that there was no remedy for it now. He had to get away before he said or did who knew what stupid things. “Hawk sees me all the time in town. I’m sure he must be sick of me by now. Like you said, it’s a long way back to town, and I’ve got interviews tomorrow, early.” He forced another grin. “See you tomorrow night. Can’t wait to see your costume.”

“Okay,” she said, looking at him strangely. “Can’t wait to see yours too.”

As he turned to go, she came and gave him a farewell peck on the cheek, which was all it took to send him bolting for the door. “See you two tomorrow!” he called back as he left the house, half-running for his car. He’d been a fool to come here; a bigger fool to stay in Taubolt once he’d found out Joby was already here; and a total moron to make so many stupid promises it was already killing him to keep. He’d be leaving Taubolt very soon, it seemed—for all their sakes.

Six months after the Lord had led him to Taubolt, Reverend Samuel Cotter of the One True Gospel Church had yet to win a single convert. In part, he credited his failure to the foothold enjoyed by that papist outfit on the hill.
They had the only real church building here, and sinful folk always mistook such empty edifice for true spiritual authority. Sam’s ministry, which did not enjoy the funding to support such vain facade, was housed in a small rental storefront at the farthest corner of town, and the few tourists who found him there at all invariably beat a hasty retreat upon discovering that he was no purveyor of filthy, overpriced mammon like the others.

Beyond these handicaps, Sam knew his poor showing was simply the inevitable result of having been sent, like Jonah, into such a heathen, unresponsive land. Taubolt reeked of pagan belief and practice. Halloween seemed bigger news than Christmas here!

This particular morning, however, Sam’s ire had a far more urgent target. Hours of agonized prayer had revealed that his most urgent mission here must be to drive Molly Redstone from the streets of Taubolt once and for all. He’d felt constrained to lie low for a time after that ill-fated confrontation during the parade. God’s grace had helped him to elude those misguided officers, but one did not ask the Lord to multiply such signs.

Wickedness like Redstone’s could not be tolerated indefinitely, however. Thus, he had reluctantly decided to visit his only ostensible colleague here, papist or not, and see if they might join forces against the Wiccan whore of Shea Street and her nest of blasphemous followers. If nothing else, a life of itinerant preaching had taught Sam better than to scorn any tool, however offensive or demeaning, that the Lord might provide. The road to glory, he knew, was lined with thorns, and traveled on one’s knees in humility, one painful step at a time.

So it was that Sam Cotter came knocking at the door of St. Luke’s Parish rectory, that Halloween morning, prepared to extend the hand of ecumenism to his Catholic counterpart for as long as it took to get rid of Molly Redstone. When no one answered, he wondered if the old priest might be in his chapel, and walked around to the front of the church. The doors there were locked, but he knocked anyway. Receiving no answer here either, he turned to go in something of a huff. But as he reached the gate, he heard the door rattle behind him, and turned to see it swinging slowly open.

“Hello?” Father Crombie smiled.

“Hello, sir.” Sam smiled back. “How are you this fine morning?”

“Well, but rather slow, I fear. My legs are not what they were. May I help you?”

“Actually, sir, I was hoping we might both help the Lord. My name is Samuel Cotter. I’m minister of the One True Gospel Church, here in town.”

“Ah, yes,” Father Crombie said uncertainly. “I believe I have heard your name.”

“May I come in?” Sam asked.

“Why . . . yes, of course. This is God’s house, not mine.”

Sam was not surprised at Crombie’s poorly concealed hesitation. It was only to be expected that a leader of the papist cult would feel some hesitation in the presence of a true man of God. He put on a pleasant face, and stepped inside, glancing suspiciously at all the papist gewgaws and idolatrous statuary as they moved toward the altar.

“Nice little building,” Sam said. “You fill it up on Sundays, do you?”

“Attendance varies, of course,” Crombie said amiably, “depending on how many of Taubolt’s visitors happen to join us, but we’ve a goodly congregation.”

When Crombie failed to inquire about the size of Sam’s own congregation in return, he could not help feeling snubbed. As much as it would have embarrassed Sam to admit he had none, the old man’s smug disinterest still offended him.
You shall know the tree by its fruit,
he thought with disgust, deciding it was time to get down to business.

“Sir, I’m here today because this lovely and deserving town is afflicted with a spiritual cancer that I expect distresses you as deeply as it does me. I am referring, of course, to that heretic, Molly Redstone, and her spiritual brothel down on Shea Street. The Lord knows I’ve labored to expose that woman for what she is, but one voice in the wilderness does not seem to have been sufficient. It was my thought that if you and I joined forces, we might have enough moral clout around here to drive her out, and return this community to the state of spiritual health I’m sure you also long to see restored.”

Having said his piece with admirable brevity, Sam fell silent, assuming that not even a papist minister could fail to endorse such clear common sense. But Crombie just stared in apparent confusion, causing Sam to wonder if he might be a little senile, or just so out of touch that he’d not even heard about the witch in his own backyard.

“You are aware of Molly Redstone and her so-called Harmony House?” he asked.

“I have heard some about that, yes,” Crombie murmured, “but, Mr. Cotter,
though the woman clearly holds very different beliefs than my own, I am not sure it is my place to . . . ‘drive her out,’ as you put it.”

Cotter was stunned, at the old man’s bald admission, if nothing else. Hadn’t he even the shame to
pretend
he was on God’s side? “You’re a Christian minister, sir, are you not?” Sam protested. “Are you aware of what this woman teaches, of how many people she has seduced into joining in her Satanic practices?”

“I’ve been led to believe,” Crombie said, “that she sells bits of crystal, a little jewelry, some candles, tea, and vitamins there, and espouses a philosophy of vague goodness and optimism.” He paused briefly, then added, “Some astrology as well, I suppose, but while I may not be as convinced as she that such things are efficacious, I would hesitate to call them Satanic.”

For a moment, Cotter was reduced to drop-jawed, speechless astonishment. “You
back
this woman?” he blurted at last.

Crombie looked startled. “I said nothing of the kind, Mr. Cotter. You and I clearly disagree on several points, but that doesn’t mean that I endorse—”

“Sir, I have spent my life reading and rereading the scriptures, and I can assure you, without hesitation, that
God
agrees with
me
!”

Crombie’s expression became almost sympathetic, which galled Cotter more. “I propose, Mr. Cotter,” the old man said gently, “that it might be wiser to agree with God.”

“You, sir, are a danger to your congregation!” Sam snapped indignantly. “The immortal souls of your flock hang in the balance of what you teach them, and if that tripe is any sample, they are surely all bound straight for Hell in the same handbasket!”

“Mr. Cotter, I am afraid I must ask you to leave,” Crombie said, no longer looking confused, or friendly.

“If this
was
God’s house, I’d make
you
leave, old man!” Cotter spat. “But any fool can see it’s not, so you bet I’ll go, and shake the filth from my sandals as I do.”

It was only as he turned to leave that Sam heard the sound of . . . music? It was quiet, and rather discordant, as if a large choir were warming up behind the door of some distant room. But this place was nowhere near large enough to hide any such choir. Cotter turned, looking for the source of the sound.

“What’s that?” he demanded, but Crombie said nothing. In fact, the old priest suddenly looked almost frightened, which raised the hair a bit on Cotter’s neck. “Where’s that music coming from?”

“I . . . am an old man,” Crombie demurred. “My ears have failed along with my legs, I fear. I cannot hear whatever you’re referring to. Perhaps it’s something outside.”

But it wasn’t outside. It was coming from somewhere just behind Crombie, and growing louder! It was coming from somewhere very near the altar!

“Liar!” Sam rasped fearfully. This was as unnatural as any sound he had ever imagined. “What kind of perversion are you hiding in this whitewashed tomb, old man?”

“Mr. Cotter, I really must ask you to go,” Crombie insisted.

But Cotter’s mission was to cleanse Taubolt of evil, and he knew now that he’d found its dark heart here, where no one would have thought to look; in a church! Ignoring Crombie’s protests, Cotter pushed roughly past him, and marched toward the sanctuary.

“In the name of Jesus Christ!”
he shrilled.
“I command the powers of—”

That was all he managed to get out. Through the very seams of a golden box mounted in the wall behind the altar came a hideous light, which washed Cotter in such pure loathing and animal terror that he could only flee in panic toward the church’s open doors. Some small part of his mind was salient enough to feel ashamed that he had met true black magic at last and fled before it without a struggle. But the rest of him was filled with gibbering pleas too backed up to do more than clot behind his mouth.

Only when he’d run several blocks down Shea Street did fear finally relinquish control of his legs, which clung now to his pants in a glaze of cooling urine. He stumbled to a halt, trembling and gasping, right in front of Redstone’s wicked store. When the worst trembling had passed, he turned and screamed back up toward the unhallowed church,
“Thou art an abomination before God! Burn! Burn, thou consort of witches and demons! The fires of Hell consume you and your blasphemous temple!”