"Evil?" said the dark priest, looking up from his paper. "You mean evil in the abstract?"

"I don't know what that means," said Mike. He often felt stupid around Father C.

"Evil as an entity or force separate from the works of man?" asked the priest. "Or do, you mean evil like this?" He held up a photo in the paper.

Mike looked. It was a picture of some guy named Eichmann who was a prisoner in a place called Israel. Mike didn't know anything about that. "I guess I mean the separate kind," he said.

Father Cavanaugh folded the paper. "Ahh, the ancient question of evil incarnate. Well, you know the Church's teachings."

Mike blushed but shook his head.

"Tut, tut," said the priest, obviously teasing now. "You're going to have to resume your catechism lessons, Michael."

Mike nodded. "Yeah, but what does the Church say about evil?"

Father Cavanaugh removed a pack of Marlboros from the pocket of his work shirt, shook a cigarette free, and lit up. He picked a bit of tobacco off his tongue. His voice turned serious. "Well, you know that the Church recognizes the existence of evil as an independent force . . ."He glanced at Mike's incomprehending stare. "Satan, for instance. The devil."

"Oh, yeah." Mike remembered the smell coming up out of the tunnels. Satan. Suddenly the whole thing seemed a little silly.

"Aquinas and other theologians have dealt with the problem of evil for centuries, trying to understand how it can be a separate force while the dominion of the Trinity can be the all-powerful, unchallenged force Scripture says that it is. The answers are mostly unsatisfactory, but certainly the dogma of the Church tells us to believe that evil has its own dominion, its own agents . . . Are you following this, Michael?"

"Yeah, sort of." Mike wasn't quite sure. "So there can be ... evil powers sort of like angels?"

Father Cavanaugh sighed. "Well, we're getting into some medieval mind-sets here, aren't we, Michael? But, yes, essentially, that's what the tradition of the Church teaches."

"What kind of evil powers, Father?"

The priest tapped his long fingers against his cheek. "What kind? Well, we'd have demons, of course. And incubi. And succubi. And Dante categorizes whole families and species of demons, wonderful creatures with names like Draghig-nazzo-which would mean 'like a large dragon,' and Barbar-iccia, 'the curly-bearded one,' and Graffiacarie, 'he who scratches dogs,' and . . ."

"Who's Dante?" interrupted Mike, excited at the prospect of someone living around here who would be an expert in such things.

Father C. sighed again and stubbed his cigarette out. "I forgot that we were depending upon the educational system here in the seventh circle of desolation. Dante, Michael, is a poet who lived and died some six centuries ago. I'm afraid I digressed from the substance of our discussion."

Mike finished his coffee, brought the mug to the sink, and carefully washed it. "Do these things . . . these demons . . . do they hurt people?"

Father Cavanaugh frowned at him. "We're talking about the intellectual creations of people who lived in an ignorant time, Michael. When people were ill, they blamed it on demons. Their only medicine was attaching leeches ..."

"Bloodsuckers?" Mike was shocked.

"Yes. Demons were blamed for illness, mental retardation ..." He paused, possibly remembering that his altar boy's sister was retarded. "Apoplexy, bad weather, mental illness . . . anything that they couldn't explain. And there was very little that they could explain."

Mike turned back to the table. "But do you think these things existed . . . exist? Do they still go after people?"

Father Cavanaugh folded his arms. "I think the Church has given us some wonderful theology, Michael. But think of the Church as a giant steam shovel searching the river bottom for gold. It brings up a lot of gold, but there has to be some muck and refuse from all that scooping."

Mike frowned. He hated it when Father C. got into comparisons like that. The priest called them metaphors; Mike called it dodging the question. "Do they exist?"

Father Cavanaugh opened his hands, palms up. "Possibly not in the literal sense, Michael. Certainly in the figurative."

"If they did exist," persisted Mike, "would Church stuff stop them the way it does vampires in the movies?"

The priest smiled slightly. "Church stuff?"

"You know . . . crosses, the Host, Holy Water . . . stuff like that."

Father C. raised his dark eyebrows as if he were being teased. Mike, waiting for the answer, did not notice.

"Of course," said the priest. "If all that. . . Church stuff . . . works on vampires, it would have to work on demons. Wouldn't it?"

Mike nodded. He decided that he'd learned enough for now; Father C. would think he was daffy if he started talking about the Soldier after all this stuff about demons and vampires. Father C. invited Mike to a "bachelor dinner" at the rectory on Friday, something he did about once a month, but Mike had to decline. Dale had invited him out to Uncle Henry's farm on Friday to search for the Bootleggers' Cave they'd been hunting for since he'd first met the Stewart family. Mike suspected that there was no Bootleggers' Cave, but he always enjoyed playing in Uncle Henry's fields. Plus, dinner at Dale's Uncle Henry's always meant great food-even if Mike couldn't eat the steak on Friday-with lots of vegetables fresh from the garden.

Mike said his good-byes, found his bike, and pedaled like mad for home, wanting to get the yard mowed and all the other household chores done by early afternoon so he could play. Passing Old Central, he remembered that Jim Harlen had been home for several days and realized with a pang of guilt that he and the other guys hadn't stopped by to see him yet. That thought led to the memory that today was Duane's uncle's funeral in Peoria.

The thought of death made Mike think of Memo, possibly home alone this time of day, except for Kathleen of course.

Mike pedaled faster, past the school, toward home. * * *

Dale called Duane McBride on Wednesday evening, but the conversation was short and painful. Duane sounded tired beyond imagining and Dale's expressions of sympathy embarrassed them both. Dale told the other boy about Friday night's get-together at Uncle Henry's and pressed him until Duane said that he would try to be there. Dale went up to bed depressed.

"Do you think the thing's still under the bed?" whispered Lawrence an hour later. They'd left the night-light on.

"We checked," Dale whispered back. "You saw nothing's there." Lawrence had insisted on holding hands. Dale had compromised by allowing his little brother to hang on to the sleeve of his pajamas.

"But we saw it . . ."

"Mom says we saw a shadow or something."

Lawrence made a rude sound. "Was it a shadow that pushed against the door?"

Dale felt a chill. He remembered the insistent, unrelenting pressure of the closet door pushing against him. Whatever had been in there had refused to stay closed in. "Whatever it is," he whispered, hearing the edge in his own voice, "it's gone now."

"No, it isn't." Lawrence's voice was barely audible.

"How do you know?"

"I just do."

"Well, then, where is it?"

"Waiting."

"Where?" Dale looked across the short gap of the bed and saw his brother staring at him. Without his glasses, Lawrence's eyes looked very large and dark.

"It's still under the bed," his brother whispered sleepily. He closed his eyes. Dale allowed him to hold his hand rather than his sleeve. "It's waiting," mumbled Lawrence, drifting off to sleep.

Dale looked at the ten-inch gap they'd left when they shoved their beds closer. They'd wanted to push the beds together, but their mother said it was too hard to vacuum when they were that way. Ten inches was easy enough to reach across, small enough that nothing huge could come up at them.