She kept driving north. She didn't know why. The logical thing to do was to turn around and go back to Chicago, but she knew there was no help for her there. She had no chance of ever again being allowed into the presence of the Thorns, both of whom thought her a madwoman. Charles Warren had been her best hope. She knew he believed in Jesus as much as she did, although not as intensely. And if he believed in Jesus, she thought, he had to believe in the power of the Devil as well. But she knew Charles Warren would not help her, either. Not now. Not after the scene she had caused in the museum. She wondered where the power of Jesus was now. Why wasn't He helping her to convince other people?

It was one thing to sit in a living room or a prayer meeting and ask, 'Do you believe in the existence of Satan?' and have the other person say, 'Yes, of course. He's described in the Book of Revelation.' It was quite another thing to ask a man likę. Charles Warren to believe that his employer's adopted son was a devil incarnate. Charles Warren was a practical man as well as a Christian; that meant he would practice his Christianity as long as it didn't threaten the security of his job.

Who, then, could she turn to? What aid could she enlist against this most powerful, cunning, and chamelion-like of foes?

Joan Hart continued to drive, operating on a sort of automatic pilot, as she thought about the problem. She wanted to get as far away from Davidson as possible.

In a little while, she had no idea where she was.

She looked up to get her bearings and realized that she had driven far inland. She was in farm country, country as flat as the tiny wafers she had long been accustomed to receiving at Communion on Sunday mornings. She wished she had one now.

She could see the horizon stretching endlessly on all sides of her. Three hundred and sixty degrees of cold, dry flatness. The highway she was on was the only road in sight, and it cut through the flatland with the straight and deadly precision of one of Bugenhagen's knives, which she also dearly wished she had.

The wind came up, moaning, and whipped the trees. into frantic motion. Joan, suddenly frightened, decided she had better think about getting back to Chicago, or else finding some kind of lodging for the night.

And that was when the car's engine faltered, cut out completely, and died.

The wind died just as quickly.

The car drifted a little bit farther on momentum, then gradually coasted to a halt in the middle of the road.

There was absolute silence. Joan could neither hear nor see any other living thing—no people, no animals, no houses, not even another car in the distance.