Devil's Kiss

by William W. Johnstone

The two patrolmen, in civilian clothes, stood side by side in Chester’s den, confronting Jane Ann. Sam stood with Chester and the Chief.

  Jane Ann stood with chin high, not backing down.

  “Watch your mouth!” Sam warned the patrolman.

  Best whirled, facing Sam. “Hey!” he pointed a finger at the minister. “You stay out of this, preacher. This is none of your concern.”

  Only the quickly outflung arm of John Benton prevented Sam from knocking the young patrolman flat on his backside. “Easy, Sam,” the Chief cautioned.

  Officer Perkins gave Sam a peculiar glance. He knew the minister’s background, and what he was very capable of doing. “Reverend Balon, we didn’t do those things. As God is my witness, we didn’t do them!”

  “You don’t have to explain a damn thing to that psalm singer!” Best looked at Sam with hate.

  “You’re fired!” Benton snapped. “I will not tolerate that kind of language toward Sam Balon. As far as you not being at Jane Ann’s—I think I can prove you were.”

  Best sneered at him. “I’d like to see you do that!”

  Take off your right shoe.”

  “What?”

  “You hear me. Take off your right shoe. Those are city-issued patrolman’s shoes. You were wearing them last evening because I recognize the scuff on the toe of the left shoe. I told you to polish them. You didn’t. Now, you want to prove you weren’t at Jane Ann’s? Take off your right shoe.”

  “I’ll be damned!”

  “I’m almost certain of that,” Sam muttered, just loud enough for John to hear.

  A corner of the Chief’s mouth crinkled with a small smile.

  “Come on, George,” Jimmy urged. “You know we weren’t there. Take off your shoe if that’ll prove us innocent.”

  For a brief moment, a look of pure panic crossed Best’s face. He shook his head. “No. I won’t.”

  “George,” his friend said patiently, “I could always whip you in high school, and I can do it now if I have to. Take off your shoe!”

  Best shook his head stubbornly.

  Jimmy balled his fists, anger flushing his face a deep red.

  “Easy, Perkins,” John stopped him. “You see, Best, I took an impression this morning in Janey’s back yard, by the shattered door. An impression of a nice, fresh footprint with a pyramid-shaped cut in the heel of the right shoe. If you don’t have a cut like that on your heel, then you’re off the hook. It couldn’t belong to Perkins—I measured the imprint. It’s a size ten and a half. Your size. Perkins wears a nine.”

  Best whirled, slamming a shoulder into Jimmy, knocking his partner sprawling on the floor. Best ran out the side door of the den, jumped in his car, and roared away.

  “That bastard!” Jimmy hollered, struggling to get to his feet. His face crimsoned when he looked first at the ladies, then at Sam. “I’m sorry. I forgot for a minute.”

  Sam helped the young cop to his feet. “Something’s not right here. You just don’t behave like a person who would do what Jane Ann said you did.”

  “I didn’t do it, sir. I swear to God I didn’t.” He looked at Jane Ann. “Janey, you used to babysit me, when you were in the seventh grade and I was in the second grade. I wouldn’t do something like this to you!”

  “All right,” John said. “Let’s just all sit down and talk this thing out. Be calm. We’ll get to the bottom of this.”

  “I’ll get some coffee,” Fay said.

  Over coffee and Faye Stokes’s homemade donuts, the mood relaxed in the den. Jimmy Perkins looked stunned and very confused.

  “Okay,” John said. “Let’s get to it. We can assume—but not prove—from Best’s actions here, that he did what he is accused of doing. I can assure you all that he will never wear another badge on my department.”

  Sam suddenly thought of Walter Addison. He thought: Not on your department, John, but I’ll bet you a nickel Best will wear another badge—and soon.

  “Now, then, Jimmy,” John leaned forward, “I want you to tell me exactly what you and Best did last night. Think! I want every round you men made. Every street, every call. Then I want you to tell me why you were with Best—it was your evening off.”

  As trained cops almost always do, Jimmy called the previous evening’s activities out by rote, ending with, ’Bout eleven we called in for a coffee break. As to why I was with Best, I—uh—don’t know, Chief. I guess there must have been a reason, but I can’t remember. That sounds stupid, doesn’t it?”

  “Have you received a bump on the head lately, Jimmy?”

  “No, sir.”

  “You ate at the drive-in at about eleven o’clock—or had coffee?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And after that?”

  The patrolman looked more confused than ever. Why—uh—there is no after that, sir. I guess George must have taken me home. The next thing I remember is you, pounding on my door this morning.”

  “You looked and behaved as if you’d been drinking the night before.”

  “No, sir! I don’t drink. Never have. But I’ll admit, I did feel kind of funny this morning.”

  Benton stared at Perkins for several very long seconds, his gaze not wavering. He was not sure if Perkins was a liar or a fool or both. “Did you talk with anyone at the drive-in?”

  “Sure! Always the same fellow. He’s there every Thursday night at eleven. Been there every Thursday night for weeks; lots of people talk to him. But I don’t like him.”

  “What fellow?” Sam asked.

  “You know, that fellow with the funny medallion around his neck. From out at the Dig.”

  The Chief’s expression was that of extreme exasperation. “Perkins, what in the devil are you talking about?”

  “Very apt choice of words,” Sam said.

  Jane Ann smiled, but her smile was tight and strained.

  “The director,” Perkins said. “Dr. Black Wilder. He’s always there on Thursday nights. I thought everybody in the whole town knew that.”

  After Perkins had left the Stokes’ home, John Benton, Chester and Faye, and Sam and Jane Ann sat drinking coffee and talking.

  “I’ll bet money,” John said, “that Jimmy is telling the truth.”

  “I agree,” Sam said, glancing at the Chief. “He was with Best. But he doesn’t remember it. Next question is, why doesn’t he remember it?”

  “And,” Chester spoke, “why Jimmy? And why doesn’t Jimmy like this Wilder fellow?”

  Jane Ann abruptly tossed the book on devil worship and possession on the coffee table. It landed title-up, startling them all.

  The Chief laughed. “No, Janey, not that. I’m a Christian man—I think. Most of the time. But that,” he glanced at the book, “is going way out in left field.”

  Chester said nothing as his eyes caught Sam’s, holding them for several seconds. Chester had something to say to the minister, but not in John’s presence.

  Faye looked worried, and, Sam thought, perhaps just a bit frightened. She, too, had something on her mind.

  Sam left the others chatting of things of no importance, excusing himself, going to the bathroom. He passed by the bedrooms in the hall, the kids’ bedrooms, Jack and Ruby. An odor hung faintly in the hall. Where had he smelled it? Then he remembered. Michelle’s bedroom had the same odor.

  On the way back to the den, Sam thought, what am I doing? Adding two and two and coming up with five? So there is an odor in the house. So what?

  But why the same odor?

  He had no answer.

  “John?” Sam asked. “How is the membership at your church holding up?” The Chief was a member of the Episcopal Church.

  Why—” the man hesitated, “come to think of it, it’s down. Yes, down by quite a bit.”

  Sam looked at Jane Ann. “I don’t want you to press charges, Janey. Just let this incident drop. I think it would be best. John has cautioned Jimmy not to say anything about it. Best won’t mention it. But I’ve got a hunch Best will be behind another badge
by this time tomorrow.”

  “Not on my department, he won’t!” John said.

  “No,” Sam agreed. “He’ll be working for the Sheriff’s Department.”

  “Walter?” John was startled. “Why would Walter hire Best after I’ve fired him?”

  Sam toyed with his empty coffee cup for a moment. “I’d like to ask you a few questions, John—if you don’t mind. You have a few minutes to spare?”

  “Fire away, Sam. I’d like to hear what’s on your mind.”

  “The sheriff is telling everyone that the FBI came in here, investigating the disappearance of Larry and Joan. Did they talk to you?”

  The Chief shook his head. “No, Sam, they did not.”

  “Don’t you think that strange?”

  “Very. But I’ve kept my mouth shut about it.”

  Why?”

  Because—well,” his face tightened for a moment. “You ask your questions, Sam, then I’ll tell you my opinions, okay?”

  “Deal. Now then, Bill Mathis says the FBI talked with him, at length, in his office at school. But Jane Ann knows that to be a lie. Mathis was clear across the state, at a meeting. So that makes him a liar. Why would he lie? Add this up, John: Joan was a student of Jane Ann’s, yet the FBI didn’t question her. Joan was a member of my church, but they didn’t talk to me. Larry worked part-time for Chester, yet they didn’t speak to Chester about it. Larry was a member of your church, but they didn’t question Father Haskell or you. Your addition is as good as mine, John. The FBI didn’t come in because they weren’t notified.”

  For a time, the Chief kept his eyes downcast, looking at the coffee table. He was deep in thought. Finally, he nodded his head. “Yes, you’re right, Sam—it stinks! It’s bothered me for weeks; things I just can’t seem to get hold of. And it’s not just the kids. It’s all these grave robbings, too. And nothing is being done about it. Then there is the general mood of this town. I’ve got a very bad feeling that something awful is going to happen. Call it a cop’s hunch, if you will.”

  “I know, John.”

  “There’s something else, too,” the Chief said. “Walter told me a barefaced lie the morning the kids were reported missing. He told me he’d been to a sheriff’s meeting the night before, just got in that morning. That’s not the truth, Sam. There was no sheriff’s meeting—I checked.”

  “What made you check, John?”

  “Because he volunteered the information to me, Sam—for no reason. His answers were too pat, and too quick. I never asked for any of them. It was as if he was trying to convince me of his innocence. But why should I even suspect he’d done anything wrong?”

  “There’s something else,” Chester spoke. “I overheard Walter talking to one of his deputies yesterday. I was standing by my door at the store, just behind that display to the right of the front door. They were walking past, stopped, and didn’t see me. I didn’t catch all the conversation, but what I did hear froze me. Walter said, ‘Does the Coven meet tomorrow night?’ The deputy, Harris, said, ‘Yes, at full dark, as always.’ Excuse me, ladies, Sam, but Walter said, ‘Joan had some good pussy.’ The deputy laughed and said, ‘Prime gash.’ Then they walked on. I didn’t know what to do, or even if they were talking about the missing Joan. I didn’t sleep much last night. Tossed and turned. I’m glad I’ve got it off my chest. But Sam, what’s a Coven?”

  Jane Ann’s eyes darkened as she stared at the book on devil worship and possession. She said nothing.

  “You’re sure they said Coven?” Sam asked.

  “I think so, Sam.”

  “And now you believe they were talking about young Joan?” John asked, ignoring the question about the Coven.

  “Yes, I do, John.”

  Sam made no more mention of the Coven, hoping that question would die. He wanted more time to think and act before answering that. Coven!

  Jane Ann sat wringing her hands nervously.

  John sighed. “I’ve never seen such a dramatic change in a man as has occurred with Walter. All in the past six months. Never been one iota of gossip about him—until recently.” He shook his head. “Call it a cop’s intuition if you will, but I’ve suspected for some time that Walter knew more about those kids than he was letting on. Now, this.”

  “Black Wilder,” Jane Ann said.

  All eyes turned to her. “What?” John asked.

  “Nothing happened until he came in, bringing his dig crews. As soon as Wilder came in, things began happening. Strange things.”

  “I agree with her,” Sam said. “We talked about this a couple of hours ago. John, can you run a check on this Wilder?”

  “I already have, Sam,” Benton replied. Weeks ago, as a matter of fact. I ran them all out at the Dig—just as soon as those kids were reported missing.”

  “And?” Chester asked.

  The Chief shrugged. “Nothing. They’re all clean. Oh, one thing did crop up: most of them belong to one of those kooky cults based in New York.”

  “What kind of cult?” Sam asked.

  “It’s a church, or a religion, they claim. But I’ve never heard of it. It’s called the Church of the Fifteen. Some kind of French words after that. What was it? Oh, yeah, Le Diable. That’s probably the wrong pronunciation, my French is not very good. You ever heard of that church, Sam?”

  “Yes, I have.” But he would not elaborate. Chester looked at him curiously. Jane Ann stirred, but said nothing.

  The Chief rose to his feet. “Well, I have a suggestion, folks. We’ve thrown a lot of assumptions around here this morning. A lot of hearsay, some gossip. But we haven’t proven a thing, so let’s just keep all this to ourselves. I’m going to call the FBI just as soon as I get back to my office. I’ll find out if Walter notified them as he claims he did. Then I’ll get back to you all.”

  “One more thing, John,” Sam said. “Did you listen to the radio station much—while it was still operating?”

  The Chief shook his head. “No, can’t say as I did. Don’t like hill-billy music and can’t stand this new rock and roll. Why?”

  Just curious, that’s all.”

  When the door closed behind the Chief, Chester asked, “What’s all this about the radio station, Sam?”

  “Just a hunch, Ches. Forget it. It’s probably nothing.”

  “Sam?” Jane Ann said. “The Church of the Fifteen. Remember what Best said to me?”

  “Yes, I do.”

  “Le Diable?” Faye said. “What does that mean?”

  Sam’s gaze touched them all. “The Church of the Devil.”

  SIX

  After being assured that Jane Ann was, of course, welcome to stay with the Stokes as long as she liked—they wouldn’t have it any other way—Sam left, heading for home. He felt . . . evil around him, and knew, somehow, it was not his imagination. Not after hearing what Chester said.

  Coven.

  He reminded himself he was a minister before he began cursing in frustration.

  This was Friday, and Sam had been more than an avid student of the occult and devil worship. Black Masses were always held on a Friday.

  “Come on, Sam!” he hit the steering wheel in anger. Knock off the jumping to conclusions.”

  There was a book somewhere in his attic at the parsonage—a very authoratative study on devil worship. The best ever written, some experts said. He would dig it out, read it.

  He heard the sirens coming his way and a chill touched him; a feeling of deep despair. Something awful had happened. And for some reason, Sam had the gut feeling that whatever it was would touch him personally.

  Another block, and Sam saw Benton’s car nosed against the curb, the Chief stretched out on the sidewalk, people standing around him. Sam pulled to the side of the road, parked his car, and got out, walking up to the knot of people just as Doctor King arrived. The young doctor jumped out of his car and ran toward the men kneeling by John Benton.

  No hurry, Sam thought—he’s dead.

  How do I know that? he questioned
silently.

  The sheriff slid to a tire-squalling halt, blocking the street with his patrol car, jumping out of the car. Sam nodded a greeting. Addison ignored him. Sam leaned against a tree, watching Tony minister to Benton.

  “Terrible thing,” a voice spoke from behind him. Miles Lansky.

  “Yes,” Sam turned, the Jew and the Gentile locking eyes. “A terrible thing.”

  “When you get time,” Miles spoke softly, so only Sam could hear, “I’d like to talk to you. This afternoon, maybe. If not, tomorrow will do. It’s important, Sam.”

  Miles knows, Sam thought. He knows. The minister took a chance. “You feel it, too, Miles?” he kept his voice low.

  “Yes,” Miles whispered. “Whatever it is.”

  “We’ll get together.”

  “Good.”

  The two men stood silently, watching Doctor King work on Benton. Tony stood up, shaking his head. “Cover him,” he said. “He’s dead.”

  “Awful!” Addison said. “Just awful! What caused this, Tony?”

  The doctor shrugged, wanting very much to reply: How in the hell should I know? Instead, “Heart attack, perhaps. Stroke. We’ll do an autopsy.”

  Cut up the body?!” the sheriff seemed unduly alarmed at the suggestion. ”What purpose would that solve?”

  “To find out what killed him! What else?” Tony did not like stupid questions from people he felt should know better.

  The sheriff put his hand on the young doctor’s shoulder. “I didn’t mean to be so snappish, Tony. I’m sorry. Forgive me. I’ve known John for so long, that’s all.”

  “I understand, Walter.” But his tone indicated something else. He looked squarely at Sam, just for a few seconds cutting his eyes down the street, toward town.

  Sam nodded his head.

  Tony walked away from the scene, walking toward Sam and Miles. Only a few curious spectators had gathered to rubberneck at the dead man. Only a few. That, to Sam, was unusual. He looked up and down the street. Almost no one stood on their porches, gawking, as is usually the case with tragedy. Odd.

  “Strange, isn’t it?” Miles said softly.

  “Yes,” was all Sam had time to say before Tony reached their side, shaking hands with both men.