Devil's Kiss d-1

by William W. Johnstone

  She picked up her overnight bag. Sam could smell its contents. "What is the topic for Sunday?"

  "Devil worship," he lied, for he had no intention of speaking on that subject.

  Michelle dropped her bag. "Darn! How clumsy of me." She bent to retrieve the bag and Sam felt an almost overwhelming urge to kick her in the behind. It was only with a great deal of effort, working hard at self-control that he did not plant his boot on her derriere.

  When she turned to leave, Sam felt relief wash over him. He hoped she would not try to kiss him. She was disgusting to him. Loathsome. If she attempted to touch him, to kiss him, Sam knew he might kill her.

  And the thought startled him.

  He looked at the woman he had once loved so deeply.

  She disgusted him!

  Devil worship. Black masses. Coven.

  Sam's thoughts suddenly wandered to Jane Ann. Until recently, he had always been able to cope with her feelings toward him. And, he reluctantly admitted, his feelings for her. But now . . .?

  She wasn't the first to fall for a minister. That happens often, this transference of affection, as some call it. There are courses one must take in seminary—courses that supposedly teach a minister how to cope with such a situation. Lately, though, when in the company of Jane Ann, Sam had been unable to think of a single lecture.

  He forced Jane Ann from his mind as he looked away from his wife. He did not see the look of black hatred she gave him, or the spittle that oozed from one corner of her mouth. He did not see the snarl that pulled back her lips, or her curving fingers suddenly raised, hooked talons, ready to strike.

  When he glanced back at her, her hands went to her hair, patting it, the fingers no longer talons. She smiled at him. "You're very distant this afternoon, Sam."

  He held her gaze until her eyes slid away from his. "Sorry. I guess I have too many things on my mind."

  He wished she would leave—just get out! Go, before he did something . . . Kill entered his mind. Strike out at her. He fought back an impulse to smash her face. Slowly, he unclenched his big fists. He did not remember balling them.

  She continued her smiling at him; invitation in her eyes. He could smell the scent of musk rising from her, filling his head. He fought back her enticement until her eyes changed, a peculiar glint shining from the dark pools. Sam recognized the look: Hate. It's been there for weeks, he thought. I just didn't see it, didn't know it.

  She walked around him, getting a sweater from the hall closet. "I'd better be on my way."

  "You're going to spend the night?"

  "Oh, I'm sure."

  "What's the number at Susan's sister's house?"

  "I believe her phone is out of order, dear." Her voice was strained. "You want me to call from a service station when we get there?"

  "No, that won't be necessary, Michelle. I'm sure everything will be just fine."

  The look in her eyes changed from hate to confusion as her gaze bore deeply into his eyes. As if she were attempting to read his mind, and failing.

  As they stood in the foyer, their eyes locking, some ugly misty force moved solidly between them. And Sam knew what it was: Evil. Another force touched them both: Good. Sam knew both Good and Evil very well, never considering himself to be especially pure—he had too much wildness in him as a youth and was still a very eai thy man. But he had always felt that God was with him, scolding him at times, but still there. He could never explain just how he knew.

  As the unseen forces moved around them, Sam wondered if Michelle had ever really known God? Known His love, His compassion, His touch? If so, what had caused her to reject Him?

  Or had she rejected Him? Something very uneasy touched Sam's mind as he stared at this woman who was now a stranger to him. As, Sam suddenly realized, she had always been.

  As quickly as they had come, the forces vanished. Michelle's eyes glowed with power. They changed to fear as her gaze moved to briefly touch the Holy Cross hung about Sam's neck. The medallion between the jutting mounds of her breasts seemed to glow with life—with hate. The man and woman did not touch. Michelle's eyes calmed, and she turned, opening the door, stepping out on the porch. Just once more, their eyes locked.

  "Have a good trip," Sam said. Personally, he thought, I hope I never see you again.

  Her smile seemed inordinately evil. Her eyes once more flashing at him. She turned her back to him, closing the door without speaking.

  Sam listened to her drive off. Hate, he thought. Her god says hate Christians.

  Sam leaned against the foyer wall, thinking. Just about six months ago; that's when it really started building. Just about the time the digging began. Everything has always pointed to the Dig, and I didn't have enough sense to see it. But our marriage has never been right. There has always been ... something wrong. I wonder, he mused, if she has always been—one of Them?

  He shuddered at the thought.

  "Five years of marriage going right down the tube," he said aloud.

  Everything fell into place in Sam's mind. Michelle had appeared at the army hospital one day. Just bang, and there she was. They had become good friends quickly. No parents, she told him. She was alone, just like Sam, and thrilled when he told her he was a minister and would be going into the active ministry.

  They were married less than three months after meeting.

  She knew! he thought. Somehow, she knew I was going to be picked to lead this fight. And she was chosen by her Master to stop me; to keep me occupied while They did their work around me.

  It has to be.

  But it's odd, he thought, I don't feel terribly depressed about a marriage going bad. About Michelle. Maybe I never really loved her? Maybe I've always known, somehow, something of far greater importance would rise; have to be dealt with.

  But, he silently questioned, if I am indeed chosen, as Father Dubois seems to believe—why me?

  And he felt uneasy, unworthy with the knowledge that he had been chosen.

  Why did you pick me, Lord. Why me?

  In the bathroom, washing his face and hands, he glanced in the mirror. His eyes had become hard; how unfeeling they seemed. He thought: if what you suspect is true—and you know it is—you're going to have to be hard. You're going to have to be ruthless in dealing with—It.

  He dried his hands and face, still gazing at his reflection. There is more. Sam—say it! You're going to have to gather around you all your trusted friends—Christians—and—and destroy what is possessing this town and this part of Fork County.

  What's the matter, Sam? Can't you say the word? You were a minister in Korea, and it didn't bother you to kill, did it? How many people did you kill over there? Kill, Sam. There, that's the word. Kill. Destroy.

  That wasn't so difficult, was it?

  But, as Chester asked, who do I trust?

  Try the Lord God.

  Lord, my God, he prayed, his big hands on the washbasin, fingers gripping the porcelain—stand by my side. Give me the courage to do whatever must be done. Don't forsake me, Lord—You above all know I am but a mortal man, and / am not without sin. Lord, my faith is strong, but I need Your help. Guide me, Lord. Make me as strong as needs be to seek out and destroy Your enemies.

  Lord, where is the Brown girl? Was that her on that dark altar? If so, why did You show that picture to me? Why don't You intervene, Lord? I am but a mortal—You have no limitations. And the teenagers, Lord—Larry and Joan—where are they? Have they—?

  The ringing of the phone broke into his silent prayer. A frightened Wade Thomas on the line.

  "Sam? I'm being watched. I think they're about to do something."

  "Where are you, Wade?"

  "At the office." His voice was shaky.

  "Miles?"

  "Here. With me."

  "Stay put. I'll be right down."

  Sam drove the few blocks to the downtown square, parking in front of Peterson's Drug Store, next to the Crusader office. A group of men stood in front of Wade's newspaper office. T
hey were in an ugly mood. Sam tucked the .45 behind his belt, pulled his shirttail over the butt of the weapon, and got out of the truck, standing for a moment looking over the situation.

  For the first time in years, Sam felt the old recklessness of his youth build in him. And the feeling was good to him. His smile was tight as he walked slowly across the sidewalk, heading straight for the knot of men blocking the door.

  The minister had had far more than his share of fights as a teenager and a young man—in and out of the ring. He'd been a bouncer in strip joints and clip joints; he'd worked in the oil fields as a roughneck, and he'd had many, many bloody, no-quarter barroom and back alley fights. But for all of that, Sam had never been labeled a troublemaker; never goading anyone into a fight. He just would not back down—and he could not remember ever losing a fight.

  You're a preacher, Sam, he reminded himself during his short walk from the truck to the knot of men. No longer a barroom brawler. Just remember, this is Addison's town, now, and he is one of Them.

  He stopped, facing the men.

  "Well, here's goody-goody," one of the men said. "I figured you'd be to home, Balon, writin' some Sunday bullshit!"

  Sam looked at the speaker. David Vanderwerf. For a moment, it seemed David was going to block Sam's way, but something in the preacher's eyes drove the young man back, causing him to step aside.

  "You consider God's word bullshit?" Sam asked.

  The young man laughed nastily. "Just jokin', preacher."

  "I didn't laugh," Sam said. He bulled his way through the men, physically shoving them aside. Startled, they made no effort to stop the minister.

  Just as he placed his hand on the door, Sam heard one say, "You're gonna git yours, preacher."

  Sam turned. "Which one of you wants to be the first to give it to me?" His eyes touched each man in the group. They cut their eyes from him, refusing to meet his steady gaze. A wildness swelled in Sam. He laughed at them. "All mouth and no guts," he heard himself say.

  "You talk mighty big, preacher," a man said, his face flushed red from the knowledge there were five of them and only one of Sam, yet he had arrogantly, physically pushed them aside.

  "Yes, I do," Sam said, a nasty grin on his lips. "And I'm big enough to back it up." He stepped toward the man, stopping a close foot from him, crowding him. "Tell you what, Moore." Sam knew the man, a local shade-tree mechanic; knew him for what he really was: a loud-mouthed bully who beat his wife, intimidated anyone he could, sneered at whatever he could not mentally comprehend—he sneered a lot—and in general was a detriment to any decent society. "Why don't we both forget I'm a minister. We'll step around back of this building. If you're as good with your fists as you say you are—which I doubt—you shouldn't have any trouble with me. What do you say about that?"

  Moore looked at Sam; looked very carefully at the bulk of him, then swallowed. "I ain't never whupped no preacher before," he managed to say.

  "Don't worry about it, Moore—you're not going to 'whup' this one, either. It won't take me twenty seconds to kick your ass!"

  "BREAK IT UP!" Addison's sharp words stopped the argument before it could erupt into a real donnybrook. Sam was mildly disappointed. "You men go on about your business," he spoke to the five of them. They moved on, casting surly glances at Sam. Moore looked relieved.

  Addison stood between Sam and the Crusader door. His face was not friendly. "You're pushing your luck, Sam."

  Sam smiled. "Well, tell the boys I've got The Luck with me now."

  "What?"

  "You should read Bret Harte, Walter. Find out about that' unknown sea. Oh, something else, Walter."

  "What's that, preacher?"

  "You ought to take a bath. You stink!"

  Sam pushed past him and walked into the newspaper office. He felt fine.

  "Sam! Have you lost your mind?" Wade confronted him in the hall. "There were five of them!"

  Sam calmly fished a Pall Mall out of Wade's pocket and lit it. He said, "I would have killed Moore and one other before the rest even knew what was happening. By that time, one of them would have been blinded, out of action. That would have left me only two to deal with. They would have been easy." The months of brutal training had returned swiftly to Sam. The dehumanizing, turning man into animallike killer, lethal with hands and feet. And the months of combat in Korea, behind the lines, killing silently.

  Wade's face expressed his shock. "Are you serious? Kill? Blind? This is my minister speaking?"

  "There is a time for everything, Wade. You should study Ecclesiastes, chapter three, verses one through eight."

  A smile spread Miles's lips.

  "I'll be in church tomorrow, Sam. Preach to me then."

  "I'll do my best." Sam led them into Wade's office, then told him what he had done at Chester's, advising them to do the same. He looked first at Wade. "Your pickup in good working order?"

  "Just had it serviced."

  Sam glanced at Miles. "Sure, Sam. But I haven't fired a gun in years. I'm a fisherman, not a hunter."

  "When you go to Chester's, tell him that. He'll fix you up with a shotgun. Get several cases of shells, both shot and slugs. Nothing like a slug-loaded shotgun to stop a man; doesn't leave any doubt."

  "Okay, Sam, whatever you say. But listen to me for a minute. Doris is sitting right on the ragged edge. I haven't told her very much, but I think it's time we did. We lost people in Europe, Sam, on both sides of the family—in the . .. camps. Close relatives. Doris is just now getting over that, and that's fourteen-fifteen years ago. I don't know how she's going to take this news."

  "You want me to talk to her?"

  "Yes, please. If you will."

  "Tell you what, you go pick up Faye and Jane Ann. Take them over to your house, let them prepare Doris for what I have to say. Wade, you get Anita. I'll meet you at Miles's in an hour. We'll talk, then."

  Sam rose, stretching, the front of his shirt sliding up, exposing the butt of the .45. Miles and Wade looked at the gun, at each other, then at Sam.

  "Have you ever used that thing, Sam?" Wade asked.

  "Yes. Many times. I carried it in Korea. You men go on, now, I've got to see Father Dubois. Something about Lucas worries me."

  Sam drove by Lucas's home. No one there. He was being followed, but the tail did not worry him. Let them watch all they wanted to. He tried the church study. Locked. He drove to the rectory.

  "Where is Lucas, Michael?"

  The old priest invited Sam in, shaking his head. "Against my advice, Sam, he's gone to do battle."

  A chill touched Sam. "Not—out there?" he jerked his head in the direction of Tyson's Lake.

  Dubois nodded. "He said he had nothing to lose. He's almost a dead man, Sam."

  "What chance does he have? Out there, I mean?"

  "None," the priest said flatly. "That's why They let him go." He looked hard at Sam, sensing something in the man. "Don't be a fool, Sam! I don't think They would try to stop you, but don't go after him. You're needed here."

  "I'll be careful, Michael. But I want to see them. I must satisfy my curiosity. You understand, don't you?"

  "Yes," Dubois said softly. "Yes, I'm afraid I do."

  "You've seen the Beasts?"

  "You'll smell them a long time before you see them." There was an edge to his voice.

  "Can they be killed?"

  "Oh, yes. Nothing so dramatic as a stake through the heart. They're part animal—part human; overall, most disgusting. They are, I believe—although my philosophy goes directly against church doctrine—a mistake."

  The ringing of the phone prevented Sam from asking what Dubois meant by "a mistake."

  "I must go," the priest said, hanging up the phone. "There's been a death."

  "Who?"

  "Mrs. Norman. Neighbors found her in her backyard a few minutes ago. Heart attack, they believe."

  "I didn't know she had heart trouble."

  "She didn't. It's begun, Sam. He's beginning to make his move. Only
just begun."

  "Father Dubois? Are you expecting a crowd at mass tomorrow?"

  "Only the old, son. You'll see at your services. We've lost the others."

  He was gone before Sam could ask anything else.

  Only just begun.

  "Tell me it's not true!" Doris Lansky confronted Sam before he could get in the front door. "You're all playing a joke on me."

  Sam led her to a chair. "Sit down, Doris. No, it's not a joke." He took her hands in his. "Brace yourself, you're not going to like what I have to say.

  A few moments later, Mrs. Lansky began to weep.

  "Balon's on to us," Walter Addison told Wilder over the phone. "He's been a busy man today."

  "Regrettable," Wilder said. "But not an insurmountable problem. We'll just have to be more careful; it's too soon for us to make any major move. We need a few more days. The roads have to be legitimately closed."

  "Suppose Balon and the others try to leave?"

  "They won't. Balon is going to fight me." He laughed. "I know the type of man he is. I should, I've met him many times, and I'll beat him."

  "Let me kill him!"

  "No. Fool! You don't understand. This is not between you and Balon. This is between God and our Master." Again, he laughed. "It's an old war, Walter, one I have fought many, many times. You simply do not understand the rules."

  "Rules?"

  "God is using Balon as His warrior here on earth. He always picks one like Balon. I should know," his voice was bitter. "No, Walter, you couldn't kill Balon even if you tried. Neither can I—not yet." The nasty laugh rang through the phone. "But I'll test his courage tonight. I'll see if Balon is to be a worthy foe."

  "What do you mean?"

  "He's coming to see me tonight."

  "How do you know that?"

  The laughter. "I know everything, Addison. I know what is in the hearts of all men and women. I know their weaknesses and their strong points. Don't, under any circumstances, try to stop Balon tonight. He'll kill you, or anyone who tries to stop him. I'll play his game this evening, then put him to the test at a later date."