Devil's Kiss d-1

by William W. Johnstone

  Dubois raised his head. "So you've finally come," he whispered. "Well, come on."

  "So you wish to play games with me, eh?" he said. "Very well, then listen to this." He began to read aloud. "Yea, though I walk the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil—"

  A hissing drifted through the house, reaching Dubois's ears. An evil hissing came from his back door. A thin scratching sound as the door was pushed open. A shuffling sound as feet dragged across the tile.

  "Ah," Dubois smiled. "You don't like that, eh? Well, listen to this: The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear?"

  "Die!" the one word was spoken from out of darkness.

  "The Lord is the strength of my life, Dubois read to the darkness facing him, "of whom shall I be afraid?"

  "Die!" the voice spoke.

  "But I will die only once," the priest said, "You are the living dead."

  The voice laughed insanely; a voice Dubois knew. He strained to place the tones. No! It couldn't be. But he knew it was. "That is true," the voice said. "The Lord is my strength and my shield," Dubois said, a small finger of fear touching him. You're only going home, he reminded himself. And the hollow, evil voice laughed at the words. "I will say of the Lord, He is my refuge and my fortress: my God; in Him I will trust." The lamp beside the priest suddenly shattered, plunging the room into semidarkness, the only light a small night light in the hall.

  "Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night . . ."

  John Benton stepped into the room, his dark burial suit rumpled, white shirt dirty from the grave.

  Dubois rose in shock. "Get away!" He held a cross up to the figure.

  Benton shuffled across the room, his pale, bloodless face shining in the dim light. A hideous face, with staring, unblinking eyes. "Do not forsake me now, my God," Dubois prayed.

  Benton raised a stake, shuffling closer. The cross Dubois held had no effect on the living dead. The priest backed away, back, until he bumped against the wall. His heart was pounding in his chest.

  Dubois reached for a vial of Holy Water on the table by his chair. His shaking hands knocking the vial to the floor, the glass shattering on the tile.

  Benton came closer, his walk a staggering, awkward gait. His smile was hideous.

  "John!" Dubois cried. "John Benton—can't you hear me? Don't you know me?"

  "I know you," the living dead spoke. He raised the stake.

  The last sound Father Michael Dubois heard was his own praying as the stake plunged into his chest.

  Sixteen

  Sam banged on the front door of the rectory, growing more frustrated with each knock. He walked around to the rear. The back door was open, early morning sunlight streaming into the kitchen, the light picking up the faint dusty track footprints on the tile floor. Sam cautiously stepped inside. The dirty footprints led to Father Dubois's living room. The smell of death hung in the small room. Something else, too. Something Sam could not quite identify. Then he had it: it was a musty odor. But more than that, it was a smell of something he had smelled many times in Korea: graves that had been disturbed. But why would that smell be in Michael's house? Unless—?

  Sam stepped around the footprints in the kitchen and walked into the living room, knowing what he would find. He was not shocked to discover Dubois dead on the floor. The old priest d known it was coming—somehow. Sam stood for a long silent moment, looking down at the body of his friend. The priest lay sprawled on the floor, his face twisted in horrible pain, eyes wide and staring. At nothing. A long stake protruded from his chest. The room stank of blood.

  And that musty smell.

  Sam spoke a silent prayer for Dubois, then picked up the phone and gave the operator the number of the City Police, knowing everything he said would be monitored.

  "Jimmy? Get over to the rectory as quickly as possible. Father Dubois is dead."

  He then called Tony, telling him what had happened. The doctor said he'd be right over.

  The operator laughed.

  Sam sat down in a chair, waiting. He had to force himself to remember that the grotesque thing on the floor was merely an empty shell; Dubois was not in this room. He was home with his God—home, at last.

  "You fought a good fight, friend," Sam whispered. "Now rest forever in the arms of God."

  "Sam?" Jimmy's voice echoed through the home.

  "In here, Jimmy. Watch those footprints on the floor."

  "I see them." He got his first look at Dubois and gagged for a moment, before control took over.

  The body of Dubois seemed to sigh in death as gas escaped him.

  Tony walked in. He looked at Dubois, crossed himself, then knelt down by the body. "Dead about ten or twelve hours, I'd guess. Give or take a couple of hours."

  "What is that smell?" Jimmy asked. "Not the blood—the other one."

  "The Undead," Sam said.

  Eyes swung toward him; disbelieving eyes. Eyes mirroring dread and horror. Jimmy stuttered, "The—the Undead, Sam?"

  "How many graves have been broken into the past two months, Jimmy?"

  "Couple of dozen, I guess. Maybe more." The realization of what the minister was saying struck a hammer blow. "You mean—?"

  "Yes."

  "But why would they do this?" Tony pointed to the remains of Dubois. "Like this!?"

  "Because they were ordered to do it." Sam rose from his chair and got a blanket from the closet. He pulled the stake from Dubois's chest, grunting with the effort. He tossed the bloody piece of wood to one side then covered the priest with the blanket.

  "What do we do with him?" Tony asked.

  "We can't take him to Glower's; he's one of Them. I won't have Michael's body defiled. I'll take care of it myself."

  "I'll help you," Tony volunteered.

  "How many city cops can you trust, Jimmy?"

  "None. They're all wearing medallions."

  "Watch your back, boy," Sam warned him.

  "Yes, sir," the young acting-Chief said. "I'll swing by and take a look at Chester's and Miles'." He left, walking slowly out the back door, his shoulders hunched, as if expecting a blow from behind.

  Tony looked at the blanket-covered body of Father Dubois. "What do we do with him, Sam? Where can we bury him where They won't find him?"

  "We don't bury him," Sam said. "We burn him."

  Black smoke spiralled upward from the makeshift funeral pyre at the city dump. The gas-soaked wood upon which Dubois lay burst into flames. In minutes, the priest was gone.

  The doctor shuddered in the heat of the Nebraska morning and the flames from the dying pyre. "What an ignoble way for a good man to have to go," he bitterly observed, then looked at Sam. "I'm scared, Sam."

  "So am I, Tony. So am I."

  But the doctor looked at the preacher and thought: No, you're not, preacher. I believe you're looking forward to this fight.

  Sam met his gaze. "Go on home, Tony. Get your gear together. Boots, canteens, blankets, guns—the whole bit."

  He nodded his agreement. "Miles and Doris have asked me to stay with them."

  "That's good. Everything pops day after tomorrow."

  "And—?"

  "We win or we lose. And God have mercy on us if we lose."

  After dropping Tony off at his car at the rectory, Sam drove the streets of town. Very few stores were open. No one walked the streets except young people. They were brazen, rude, and profane.

  Then he saw Jane Ann walking on the sidewalk, followed by several young men.

  Sam gunned the pickup, reaching her a moment before the young men. They were hulking, sneering, and half drunk. Sam threw open the door on the passenger side. "Get in here!" he snapped. "Have you lost your mind, Janey?"

  She slid in beside him, fear on her face.

  "Hey, preacher!" a young punk called. "You gonna get you some of that pussy?"

  A deadly calm overcame the minister; a killing mood crept into his brain. He got out of the truck, walked up to the young man, and hit him, a low
, vicious right to the stomach, about one inch above the belt buckle. When the punk doubled up in agony, Sam savagely brought his right knee up into the young man's face. There was grim satisfaction on Sam's face as he heard teeth shatter and the jaw break under the impact. The punk dropped to the sidewalk, his face ruined. Sam resisted an impulse to kick him in the balls; to finish him as he had been taught to do. Brutally, he shoved the other punks out of his way, sending one sprawling into the gutter, hoping they would try to start something with him.

  They did not.

  I have to remember, he thought, that I am a minister.

  It seemed to Sam he was reminding himself of that fact more and more each day.

  "I'm sorry, Sam," Jane Ann said, as he pulled away from the curb and the drunken, once profane, and now silent and stunned young men. "I just wanted to get out of the house. I didn't know it would be this bad." She looked at Sam in a different light, now, after having witnessed another side of the man. She loved him even more.

  He told her about Father Dubois. Tears sprang into her eyes, multicoloring the violet.

  "And we can't run?" she asked.

  "No." He glanced at her. "All right—let me show you."

  They spent the next hour driving about that section of Fork, attempting to get out. It was useless; impossible, as Sam had told them all it would be. He could feel her fear growing. This section of Fork—thousands of square miles, dotted with more than two hundred small lakes—was sealed off tight.

  "A wreck is blocking the road just ahead," sheriff's deputies told them, smiling as they spoke, their eyes dead.

  "A bridge is being worked on," a highway patrolman informed him, smiling as he lied.

  "This county road is closed temporarily," a highway department worker told them.

  "The dam at Cottonwood Creek is leaking," a game and fishery man told them. "Sorry, but you can't get through."

  "Too bad," a cowboy said, his eyes drifting down to Jane Ann's crotch, outlined through her jeans. He licked his lips. He stopped his tongue-play when his eyes lifted to meet Sam's cold stare.

  "This range is closed to traffic."

  "Why?" Jane Ann challenged.

  "Just carry your little ass on, lady!"

  Sam's was the only civilian vehicle on any road they drove.

  As they drove, Sam could sense Jane Ann was on the ragged side of hysteria. "Settle down," he told her. "Just accept the facts and prepare yourself for the fight ahead of us."

  "I am frightened," she admitted. "It was, I don't know—kind of a game, I guess, up to now. Now I'm really scared."

  "We're going to make it, Janey. You have to believe that."

  "I do believe it, when I'm with you." When he not reply, she said, "You're the first minister I've ever seen with a tattoo. Why a rose, Sam?"

  He chuckled. "I was sixteen years old and drunk. I'd just run away from a foster home. Made it to California and was working part-time in L. A. I passed a tattoo shop one night, saw a picture of this in the window, liked it, and went in.

  She touched the red rose on his thick forearm, fingers cool on his skin. She rubbed the outline of the petals. "Sam?"

  "Uh-huh?"

  "Michelle is gone."

  "Believe me, I know."

  "Why don't you stop the truck, Sam? Right up there by that grove of trees."

  He slowed, then braked, pulling off the dirt road, knowing it was wrong, knowing what was coming, but unable to help himself. Truthfully, he did not want to help himself, he admitted. He cut the engine and they sat for a time in silence.

  "There is a little creek over there," she pointed across a small field to a clump of trees. "I used to play there as a child. It's very lovely, very peaceful."

  "Jane Ann—"

  "All that junk in the back, Sam—do you have a blanket back there?"

  "Jane Ann—"

  "Never mind. I'll see for myself." She got out of the cab and rummaged around the gear until she found a blanket. She tossed it in the cab, beside him.

  Sam looked at the blanket, a woeful look in his eyes. "Jane Ann, I—"

  "Now, you listen to me, Sam Balon." She stood outside the truck, her eyes locked with his. "I'm tired of dillydallying around this. I don't know how much time we have, so I'm going to have to take the lead in this thing. I love you, Sam. There! I've said it. I—Love—You," she carefully enunciated each word. "And I know, beyond any doubt, that you love me." She walked around the truck and opened the door to the driver's side. "So get the blanket and come on."

  There was an aching in his groin, and his heart

  was pounding like a kid on his first date, but he got the blanket and followed her. He was not so love-struck that he forgot his .45, however, or extra clips.

  As they walked across the small field, Sam kept reminding himself: You're a minister, Sam. This is wrong!

  But he kept walking.

  They walked in silence to the creek and the of the trees.

  It was peaceful, he thought, as Jane Ann took the blanket from him, tugging it away from his grasp. "Sam! Turn loose!"

  She spread the blanket on the cool earth beside the tiny creek. She bent over, smoothing out the blanket, and her jeans stretched tight across her rump.

  Sam felt as though there was a walnut lodged in throat. Sweat beaded his forehead. He shut his eyes and gritted his teeth, his fists balled hard.

  "Open your eyes, Sam," Jane Ann said. "For heaven's sake! I'm not going to rape you." She giggled. "However, that is a thought."

  She sat down on the blanket, drawing her knees under her chin, arms locked around her shins. "Sit down, Sam. Make yourself comfortable. We're going to be here for a while."

  The minister mumbled something under his breath. He felt as though he were fourteen again, looking for the first time at a naked woman. He remembered that moment very well. An older woman—all of eighteen, and the sister of a friend—had asked Sam if he'd like to take a walk in the woods. Sam's life had never been the same after that hour in the bushes with—what was her name? He couldn't remember.

  Standing by the creek, looking down at Jane Ann, Sam felt like a fool. He also felt like gathering her up in his arms and climbing a tree with her—among other things. He wondered what his father would have done in this situation?

  "My boy," his father had told him, just a few months before his death, "the flesh is very weak. Remember that."

  "What does that mean?" Sam asked.

  "It means, Sam, keep it in your pants if at all possible. You're a big, good-looking boy, and you're going to be a handsome man. I've seen the way you look at girls," he smiled. "And the way the girls look at you." He sighed. "I suppose you come by it naturally, though. I was not exactly pure at heart as a young man."

  Two weeks later, Sam was caught in the back seat of his father's car with a cheerleader—an elder's daughter. And they were not studying the Bible lesson for Sunday School. The elder left Sam's father's church in a huff, the daughter was sent away to school, and Sam got a licking he still remembered.

  Smiling in remembrance, Sam sat down on the blanket beside Jane Ann; a respectful distance from her. She laughed at him. It was the first time he'd heard her laugh in days.

  "Sam?" she touched his arm. "There is no guarantee we'll come out of this alive, is there?"

  "No," he said gently, thinking: You might, but I won't.

  "Then, why don't they just come on and do whatever it is they plan to do?

  "The time is not right, Janey. Besides, it's a game to them."

  She was silent for a time, staring at the tiny in front of them. A bird sang in the tree above them. Not a bird indigenous to this area, but neither of them noticed.

  "Do you love me, Sam?"

  "Yes," he spoke softly, and felt a great weight lifted from him. His heart was light. "Yes, I do. I think I have for a long time."

  He thought of Father Dubois's statement, that they must produce a son. Again, he wondered why Dubois had said it.

  Jane Ann la
y back on the blanket. Sam forced himself to look straight ahead, knowing that if he looked at her, all his principles, all his morals, and his hard put-upon noble thoughts were going to go flying away.

  Peripheral vision saw her unbuttoning her shirt. Damn! he swore. Forgive me, Lord.

  "Sam?" she whispered.

  "It's not right, Janey." His eyes were fixed straight ahead. I should get up and walk away, he told himself. But he remained on the blanket.

  "It isn't wrong, either, Sam."

  "How can you say that?" he swung his head and knew he'd made a big mistake.

  She lay on the blanket, her shirt unbuttoned to the waist, the shirttails pulled out. She wore no bra.

  Oh, Lord! Sam silently groaned, his heart thumping, his throat dry, and his groin aching.

  The "Song of Solomon" rushed into his head. The two breasts are like two young roses that are twins, which feed among the lilies.

  "I can say it because it's true, Sam. Your marriage to Michelle was unHoly, and you know that, now. She's gone—really, she never was. And we might be all out of time." She tugged at his arm and he slipped down beside her.

  Forgive me, Lord, he silently spoke to Him.

  "I love you, Sam," she whispered, her lips wet. "And I want you." She pulled his head to her breast, and his mouth found the nipple, his big hand resting on her bare stomach.

  Thy navel is like a round goblet, which wanteth not liquor: the belly is like a heap of wheat set about with lilies.

  Her hand fumbled with his belt buckle as his mouth found hers. "Take off your gun belt, Sam," she said. "I'm really not that dangerous."

  Pistol on the ground beside them, she touched him, and his heart pounded.

  They were naked in the shade of the cotton-woods, and the tiny creek murmured words of love, the babbling mingled with their words.

  Above them, the bird sang a curious song.

  "Sam!" she cried out as he entered her.

  Her bare leg rested on his thigh, her dampness

  pressing against his hip. Her face was pushed against his shoulder. Breathing had softened, evened, slowed.