Devil's Kiss

by William W. Johnstone

  Tony clasped the minister on the shoulder. When he spoke, it was loud enough for Walter to hear. “Sam? You haven’t forgotten your appointment this afternoon, have you. Two o’clock, now. You’re overdue for that physical.”

  Sam had just had a physical in June. Tony knew that perfectly well—he had given it to Sam. “I haven’t forgotten, Tony. I’ll be there.”

  Addison was no longer paying attention to them.

  As Tony walked away, Miles said, “I thought you just had a physical? Didn’t you tell me that a few weeks ago?”

  “Yes, I did. Tony wants to talk about something.”

  “Probably the same thing I want to talk about. See you later, Sam.”

  Sam drove toward home, looking at the town of Whitfield in the hot light of summer. A Friday. Very few adults walked the streets. Those that did were elderly. No young people played on the sidewalks. No bike riders. No teenagers walking along, holding hands and listening to portable radios, savoring young love in the summer. The town seemed—to Sam—to be almost dead.

  Or undead, the thought jumped into his mind.

  How could I have missed what was happening?

  Come on, Balon, he urged his mind to relax. Knock it off.

  Sam did not park in the drive as he usually did. He pulled to the curb in front of the house, very quietly getting out of the car, closing the door softly. He slipped up the front steps, easing into the living room. He didn’t know why he was doing this, and he felt a little like a fool. Sam Spade in preacher’s clothes.

  The record player was blaring, but it was not the music that caught and held Sam as if in a vise. Michelle was on the phone in the kitchen.

  “Do we meet tonight?” she asked. “Good! Will it soon be time?”

  A moment of silence.

  Sam froze, unintentionally hidden by the partition separating dining room from kitchen. He did not like hearing this in such a manner, preferring to confront his wife openly, but his legs felt like lead.

  “I’ll be ready, Dalton,” she said.

  DALTON? Dalton Revere? The man was a close friend. Or so Sam had believed. But, Sam grimaced, that’s so often the case. A friend. Dalton was an elder in his church, and twenty years older than Michelle.

  Sam felt sick.

  He slipped quietly out the front door, closing it softly behind him, stepping out on the porch. He waited for a ten count, then opened the door, walking back into the house, shutting the door hard behind him. He hoped he had given his wife—and the word wife disgusted him—time to compose herself from her verbal fornication.

  She stood by the dining room table, smiling, looking at him. “How has your day been, Sam?”

  “Interesting,” he forced himself to return the smile. “And very informative.”

  Oh,?”

  He did not elaborate, merely stood looking at the woman, his wife. A tall, very beautiful woman. Who—the thought twisted out of his mind—was screwing an elder in his church.

  Not very preacherly of you, Sam. But, he bitterly reflected, I don’t feel very preacherly at this moment.

  For a few seconds, he allowed himself the erotic pleasure/pain of imagining Michelle and Dalton together. He forced those images from him. Before he could stop his brain, that mass of marvelous recall conjured a picture of Sam and Jane Ann together. The minister felt shame wash over him at the eroticism of his thoughts. He pushed the image from him.

  “What was the reason for all those sirens a few minutes ago?” she asked.

  Bluntly, he told her about John Benton.

  She gasped, putting a hand to her throat. “How awful!”

  But it was an act, Sam realized. What a marvelous actress she was, had become, or had always been, Sam reflected sourly. How many men, he questioned his mind, has she entertained while I was out spreading the word of the Lord?

  The medallion about her neck seemed to sparkle at him, casting flashes that were almost hypnotic in their radiance. He lifted his eyes from the gold, meeting her dark eyes. They flared with anger and lust, a curious combination shining at him.

  Careful, he warned his heart, the message shooting fom his brain: That medallion is dangerous.

  But, why?

  The man and woman stood glaring at each other.

  Help me, Lord, Sam silently prayed.

  Her eyes fell away from his.

  Michelle said, looking down at the carpet, “Sometime, Sam, soon, we’ve got to talk. About us.”

  “Yes. I think we should.” The medallion shone with a greater intensity, and Sam had to force himself not to look at it.

  Michelle touched a breast; a light touch, a sensuous half-caress. “I haven’t been very nice to you lately, have I?”

  DANGER flashed through Sam’s mind. But, why? His thoughts shot silently into space. Why? “No, Michelle, I guess you haven’t.”

  She licked her lips, her tongue snaking out, wetting the lipstick. Perhaps—?” the one word invitation was left hanging, for Sam to pick up.

  The picture of Michelle and Dalton entered his brain. When he spoke, his words were harsher than he intended. “Thanks, Michelle, but I think I’ll pass.”

  Her face turned ugly with hate, the lips pulling back in a half-snarl.

  I’ve won a battle, Sam thought. I don’t know how, or really, why, but I’ve won. However, he recalled, a woman scorned can be a dangerous thing.

  “Yes, Sam,” she said, the words tight with anger, “we’ll talk someday. I can promise you that.”

  “What’s wrong with now?”

  She shook her head, slowly regaining her composure after his harsh rejection. “No. No, I don’t believe so. The time is not yet right.” She laughed at him.

  Sudden anger swept over Sam. “The time? What are you talking about?”

  She shrugged, her eyes dark with mystery. “I’m going out. I’ll see you later.”

  “Where are you going?”

  Her smiled mocked him. “None of your business,” she said. Her bedroom door slammed, punctuating the bluntness of her reply.

  Sam walked into the living room, to stand with his back to her bedroom door, arms folded across his massive chest. A few minutes later, he heard the back door slam, then the sound of her car starting, backing out of the drive, the sound dying as she drove away.

  The minister stood in the silent house. So, he thought, this is how it feels when love dies. Or has been murdered. What an empty feeling. But was there ever any love between us? On my part, yes. On her part, no—I think not. But if I did love her, where is the sense of loss I’m supposed to be experiencing? Should I be ashamed of my feelings of relief that it’s over?

  He shook himself like a big bear and suddenly felt better. He glanced toward her bedroom, then walked to the closed door, trying the knob. She had forgotten to lock the door. Slowly, he pushed the door open, his nostrils offended at the odor. The room stank! He flipped on the lights.

  The room was in total disarray; clothing flung carelessly about, the floor littered. A filthy black robe hung on a closet door. Sam did not recognize the robe, and he did not, for some reason, want to touch it. The room itself, not just the odor, offended him. The closed space seemed to radiate—he struggled for the word—evil! It sprang into his mind.

  A necklace made of bones and feathers lay on the dresser. A painting of a—what in the world was it? Sam took a closer look. The painting on the wall seemed to glare at him. It was a scene of a not-quite-human thing, but not really an animal. The thing was part ram, part bird, part woman. It was overall disgusting!

  The minister had known fear; known it on an intimate basis while in combat in Korea. When he made his first jump from a plane. But what he now experienced was something new to him; something more than fear. He realized, suddenly, where he had seen this painting. It was during a course on devil worship when he was in seminary.

  He struggled with his memory until he found what he was searching for. When the witches dance naked, the devil will sometimes make an appearance
as a horned goat—a ram. The devil, a master of metamorphosis, moves silently between the world of animal and human, transforming himself into whatever form he chooses.

  Sam felt sick as he stood in the room. Sicker still when he looked at the plate on the bottom of the frame. THE CHURCH OF THE FIFTEEN. He knew what that meant. His own wife.

  Could it be—? NO! He refused to believe it. Not that.

  Sam backed out of the room, closed the door, and ran to the bathroom. Holding his head over the sink, he vomited.

  “You look a little pale, Sam,” Doctor King said. “You feel all right?”

  “I’m okay, Tony. Just haven’t been sleeping well lately, that’s all.”

  The young doctor’s look was of a man who had heard that story too many times and had not believed it the first time he’d heard it.

  Sam sat quietly in Tony’s office, his big hands in his lap, his mind still a little numb. After recovering from his sudden sickness, Sam had showered, vigorously soaping and scrubbing himself, as if that alone would remove the stink of his wife’s room from his body and the ugly scar from his mind.

  The stink was gone; the scar remained.

  THE CHURCH OF THE FIFTEEN. If what he suspected was true . . .

  When Sam had entered Tony’s office, he had been amazed to find the waiting room empty. With only two doctors in Whitfield, both of them were always busy, working long hours.

  Sam looked up. “No patients, Tony?”

  “Strange, isn’t it?”

  “A lot of it going around. The strangeness, I mean.”

  Tony leaned forward, elbows on his desk. Although the office was empty, he kept his voice low. “Sam, John Benton just had a physical last month—the full treatment. Blood work, urinalysis, EKG, X-rays, everything. John was fifty years old, but his blood pressure was that of a healthy thirty-year-old man. He kept himself in excellent shape: running, calisthenics, the whole bit. He didn’t smoke, and never had. Didn’t drink, either. His heart was in great shape. Now, I’m not saying he couldn’t have had a heart attack, but I will say it’s highly unlikely.”

  “Stroke?”

  Tony shrugged. “I sent him to Rock Point for an encephalogram and other tests I can’t do here. They all came back triple-A great! John told me he never had headaches. He ate the right foods, he got enough rest. It just doesn’t add up, Sam.”

  “But it isn’t just John, though, is it, Tony?”

  The doctor shook his head. “No. Sam, in four weeks—and I checked my records to be sure—ninety-five percent of my patients have canceled out on me. Only the elderly keep their appointments with me. It’s as if the others either don’t care if they get sick, or they know they’re not going to.”

  Sam’s numbness returned. He fought it away. “How would they know that?”

  “You tell me, I’m just a doctor of the body. I’ve got—had—friends in this town who won’t speak to me. Both my receptionist and nurse jumped up one day, cursed me, then quit. I’ve never seen such a personality change. I’m worried, Sam. This whole town seems to have changed overnight, and I don’t like it. I’m suddenly scared, and I don’t know why.”

  “What about Doctor Matthews?”

  “He’s one of those who won’t speak to me. I have never seen such a change in a man.”

  “Tony, how’s the attendance at your church?”

  The doctor was thoughtful for a few seconds. “Interesting question, Sam. It’s steadily declining. I know Father Dubois is concerned about it, and I sense he would like to talk about it, but it’s as if—well, this is just a guess—it’s—perhaps he doesn’t know who to trust! Sam, the feeling I have about this town is ... eerie.”

  “How can you be sure you can trust me?”

  The doctor smiled for the first time since Sam entered his office. “I guess we all have to take a chance, Sam.”

  “Yes. Well, you’re right, Tony. Something is going on in Whitfield. I have suspicions, nothing else.”

  He told Tony of his dreams, of the trouble at Jane Ann’s, of the conversation overheard by Chester, of the sheriff’s lying, of Bill Mathis’s lying, and of his feeling of something evil hanging in the air. He spoke of Doctor Wilder, and the Church of the Fifteen. He did not mention his wife.

  “Sam, what is the Church of the Fifteen? I never heard of it.”

  “My memory is a little hazy on this, but I’ll tell you what I can remember. The Church of the Fifteen is the oldest form of Satan worship—oldest known form that can be proven, that is. It dates back to about the fifth century and has to do with the Tarot.

  “There are twenty-two cards in the major arcana of the Tarot. The fifteenth card is the Devil. The unnumbered card is the Fool. When read upright, the fifteenth card represents bondage; subordination; black magic; devil worship. The card also means suffering, violence, punishment. But there is more to the Church of the Fifteen that I can’t recall—much more. I’ve got a book on the subject at the house; I’ll have to bone up on it.”

  “Devil worship!” Tony’s face twisted in shock. “Sam, do you really believe in that?”

  “Yes, I do, Tony. And I think it’s been going on around Whitfield for a long time; very quietly going on. And I also believe there is a great deal more to it than we know. This is mere speculation, Tony, but I believe Karl Sorenson is in this up to his ears.”

  “Nothing would surprise me about that man. My father despised him.”

  Why?”

  He—my dad, told me he’d treated several people after some of Sorenson’s parties—debaucheries, really. Whip marks on their bodies, and a lot more, Sam. Really sick, twisted stuff. There’s been rumors for years about that man.”

  “You know how Jane Ann’s mother died?”

  “Yes. Awful! Sam, let’s count up what we have. Five minutes after leaving the Stokes’ house, a healthy man drops dead of a heart attack—we’ll call it that for now. The sheriff is lying; Bill Mathis is lying; officer Perkins can’t remember why he was with Best or helping to tear down Jane Ann’s back door; bodies are disappearing from the cemetery; there are rumors of strange goings-on at Glowers Funeral Home; rumors of incest in this town, and Chester says he overheard the sheriff saying that Joan had some—ah—pretty good stuff.”

  Sam laughed. “It’s interesting how people lock up around a preacher.”

  The doctor grinned, making him appear much younger. Only his eyes remained old before their time.

  “Tony, tell me about the goings-on’ at the funeral home.”

  “It’s just whispered rumors among the elderly, Sam. That bodies are not being embalmed. Being buried whole.”

  “Interesting,” Sam said. “But there is more?”

  “Yes. Necrophilia and necromancy.”

  “Necromancy, Tony? You’ve lost me.”

  “Black magic; communication with the dead. It’s just rumor, Sam.”

  But—?”

  The doctor shrugged his shoulders. “Added to what you’ve just told me—I don’t know. So we have suspicions, what do we do with them?”

  “Keep calm. Say nothing. Just let things develop. How about that autopsy on John?”

  Tony shook his head. “No. Mrs. Benton refused to allow it. Oh, I could force it, but—” He sighed in defeat. “Doctor Matthews is the coroner. Dead end there.” He lifted his eyes to Sam’s. “You’re not telling me all you know, are you?”

  “No, I’m not, Tony. Not yet.”

  “Oh! I meant to ask you, have you stocked up on supplies? Milk and so forth?”

  Why? What do you mean?”

  “You haven’t heard? I just heard this morning. Next Thursday,” he glanced at his calendar, “the state is closing highway 72, north and south. We’re going to be cut off, for all practical purposes, for a week. You know those old bridges are in bad need of repair.”

  Sam’s smile was both grim and knowing. Cut off for a week? Now that is interesting, yes indeed.”

  “Yeah,” Tony said. “The National Guard will have helicop
ters ready to come in if we need anyone medivaced out. But we’re really going to be cut off. For a week.”

  SEVEN

  “Five days,” Sam muttered, driving away from the doctor’s office. “Five days until we’re completely isolated—for a week. And the public was not told until today; and not even officially told. Interesting. And a little sad,” he concluded, driving slowly through the small town.

  Pedestrian traffic was light. Almost all were elderly. Sam saw no young people playing on the sidewalks and streets; no young people walking. Only the elderly.

  An eerie feeling overcame the minister, leaving him slightly bewildered and a little shaken with his thoughts and conclusions.

  Sam drove to his church, pausing in the stillness of the silent auditorium. The coolness of the empty sanctuary was comforting to him; the hush calming. He always felt much closer to God in here, as if the glass and brick and wood had all combined to form a place of safety, not unlike the hollow of His hand.

  Sam sat in a pew. He sat for a long time, his head bowed, submitting to the weariness for a few moments. He was not praying, just allowing his thoughts to drift out and up, in the hope God would somehow hear, and give him instruction. Seated in the pew, Sam fell into a semidoze, his memories working, taking him back in time. Then sleep, brought on by nights of tossing and turning and dreaming, closed his eyes, deepening his breathing. Reminiscences skipped through the preacher’s mind, touching different times and places, moving him backward through the years.

  “Get ’em! Get ’em!” the lieutenant screamed. “There’s four of ’em—right there! They ducked into that ravine.”

  Corporal Balon and the others sprayed the area with automatic weapon fire. Screaming from the ravine bounced to them. Sam stilled the wailing with a grenade.

  “Mean lookin’ little fuckers, ain’t they?” a soldier said. He stood by Sam’s side, looking down at what was left of the four North Koreans. And not that much was left. Bloody guts and shattered bodies, scattered over the dirt and rocks of the ravine.

  “Move it out!” the lieutenant said. “We’re in deep shit this far north.”