Devil's Kiss

by William W. Johnstone

  “How did you beat him?” Wade asked.

  “I drove him out.”

  “Exorcism?”

  “Yes.”

  “I don’t believe in that!”

  Dubois smiled his sad, patient smile. “Do you believe in the supernatural, Wade? In any form of it?”

  “I believe there are things man cannot satisfactorily explain.”

  “Join the club,” Miles muttered under his breath. Only Sam heard him, and he smiled.

  “Nice, safe answer,” Dubois said. “I can but assume you believe in God?”

  “Of course, I believe in God!”

  “Well, then, if you believe in God, then you must believe in the devil.”

  Miles sighed, a pained look on his face.

  “I never said I didn’t believe in the devil, Father Dubois. I just don’t believe the devil is responsible for all that is happening in Whitfield.”

  “Then who, or what, is?”

  “I don’t know. But none of you has convinced me the devil is behind it, or that he’s here. If he’s here, gentlemen—and no offense to any of you—I want to see him.”

  “Son, I pray God you never get your wish,” Dubois said.

  “Wade,” Sam said, “where, then, were all those people going last night? Hundreds of them?”

  The editor shook his head, refusing to answer.

  Sam turned to Lucas Monroe. “A moment ago, Lucas, Father Dubois said to ask you about something. What did he mean?”

  The Methodist sighed, a faint smile on his lips. He glanced at Dubois. “There is never any escaping it, is there, Michael?”

  “I told you, Lucas. Years ago.”

  “Yes. Well, so you did. Sam, many years ago I had a church in—well, never mind where. That would serve no useful purpose, not now. A young girl became, well—possessed. I was not convinced of her possession. It didn’t take me long to become convinced, though. There is no need to go into great detail. You will all, I’m afraid, soon learn the power of that . . . creature! I sat with the girl, working with her, praying, for a long time—days. I exorcised the . . . thing from her.”

  “A Methodist?” Wade blurted.

  “Shut up, Wade! Sam warned him.

  The editor shut his mouth.

  “I emerged from the ordeal,” Lucas spoke softly, “looking like a man three times my age. My hair was snow-white; the color it is now. At the time, I was twenty-eight years old.

  “Things began happening to me—and my family. Both my children were killed in separate, horrible accidents. My wife became suddenly, and to the medical profession, mysteriously ill. She lingered in great agony for months, and then died—horribly. Many unexplained things happened. Finally, I suffered a mental breakdown, knowing that everything that had happened to my family was my fault. After I was released from the sanitarium, I asked for a church far away from that city. I’ve been here ever since, living quietly.”

  Lucas smiled gently. “It’s really quite a joke, isn’t it, Michael? To get away from . . . him, I came to one of his strongholds. I felt his presence as soon as I arrived, but it was a feeble signal. A few months ago, it became quite intense. Then it began building, getting stronger and stronger. I knew—sensed—he would soon surface. Of course, Father Dubois and I knew of each other; there is a small circle of men who have done what we performed. Word gets around. I spoke with Michael about my feelings of alarm. He said he, too, felt it. He knew the devil was closing in, gathering his forces of evil, building another Coven. We discussed talking with you people, but we didn’t know who to trust. We did agree that if you—I’m talking about you, Sam—did not come to us today, we were going to take a chance and call you. To form a battle plan, so to speak. For those of us who are left.”

  “If it isn’t too late,” Dubois added.

  “What do you mean?” Wade asked, unbelieving but still fascinated by the talk from the men of God. “Too late?”

  “He’s called out the Beasts,” Father Haskell spoke. He sat holding a cross in his hands, fingering the silver crucifix, thinking of his wife, dead five years, and wondering if he would soon join her—and in what way?

  “The Beasts? Don’t tell me you believe in all this mumbo jumbo, too, Glen?” Wade looked at the Episcopalian. “Next you’ll be telling me you performed one of these exorcisms.”

  “It isn’t mumbo jumbo, Wade. It’s very real, and it’s happening to our town. And, yes, I assisted in an exorcism shortly after I got out of school. It was not very pleasant.”

  Father Dubois said, “He’s found the tablet that was hidden here by the trapper Duhon, and his agent is drawing power from it.”

  “I know the name,” Wade said. “I discussed Duhon with Sam not an hour ago. But what tablet?”

  “He walks among you,” Sam said. The mark of the Beast is plain. Believe in him. Once touched, forever his. The kiss of life and death.

  Dubois and Haskell crossed themselves as sudden remembrance came lurching into Sam’s mind. “Now I know what happened to Tim.”

  “Tim?” Dubois asked.

  “Tim Bennett. A young archaeologist who came to see me back in early spring. He disappeared soon after that.”

  “What happened to him?” Miles asked.

  “I remember thinking how strange it was that Michelle walked him to his car that day. I believe she kissed him. I’m sure of it.”

  “She marked him,” Haskell said. “Unless he joined them—or became a Beast, he’s dead.”

  Wade stood up. “I think you people are all crazy!”

  He was ignored. Feeling like a fool standing in the center of the room with no one paying any attention to him, he sat down.

  Dubois said, “Duhon came here from a small village in France that had just thrown out the devil’s agent, a man who had come there as a Forgeron.”

  “A what?” Miles looked up.

  “A blacksmith.”

  “Black Wilder,” Sam said.

  “Yes, I believe that is true,” Dubois agreed. “Duhon had the tablet with him. He’d been commissioned by his government to get the tablet far away from France—off the continent. He, along with Father Dubois, a distant relative of mine, brought the tablet to America. To what would eventually become Whitfield; to an area the Beasts occupied.”

  Father Haskell held up a hand for silence, putting a finger to his lips.

  “What’s wrong, Glen?” Miles whispered.

  “We are not alone,” the Episcopal priest said.

  Sam walked to a window, glancing outside. A young man stood by the side of the rectory, just a few feet away. Sam felt Dubois by his side.

  “Sonny Moore,” he said. “He left the church several months ago-quite profanely.”

  “There’s someone in the back,” Wade said. He stood in the small kitchen, looking out the window. “John Petterson. He was listening to us talk, listening through this open window.” He jerked open the door. “What the hell are you doing out here?”

  “Just takin’ a shortcut, Thomas,” the young man said, open challenge in his eyes, his speech. “No law against that—it’s a free country, ain’t it?”

  But the challenge vanished when the bulk of Sam stepped into the door. The ex-warrior, ex-boxer turned preacher with the tattoo on his arm kept the conversation short. “Haul your ashes, boy!” he told him.

  Petterson hauled his ashes.

  Sam pulled Wade back into the kitchen. “Paul Smiley was standing by the west side of the house,” he told him. “We had men all around the rectory, watching and listening.”

  “Sam?” Wade asked. “What would you have done if Petterson had stood up to you?”

  “Knocked him on his butt,” the preacher said.

  “The ranks are narrowing,” Haskell said, pointing to a tree in the front yard. “Look.”

  Someone had written 666 on the trunk of the tree, using white paint. Just below the numbers they had traced an upside-down cross.

  “We don’t have much time,” Dubois said. “We’ve g
ot to rally those we know we can trust.”

  “I know something I can do,” Lucas muttered.

  “Good Lord!” Wade blurted, staring at the men. Miles sat on the couch, eyes numb with shock and disbelief and confusion. “You’re all behaving as though we can’t do anything. I mean—” he let the words trail off into silence. “Miles?”

  The Jew shook his head. “Don’t ask me what we can do, Wade. I don’t know.”

  Dubois put his hand on the editor’s shoulder. “What can we do, son? Go to the authorities? And tell them what? That the devil is working Black Magic in Whitfield? That almost the entire town is possessed? Think about that. I can just see us now, being quietly but firmly escorted to the state mental hospital. And if we prove the notice did not run in your paper—so what? That will just delay things for a time. Besides, son, I have my doubts that any of us would be allowed to leave Whitfield.” He looked at Sam. “Have you attempted to call outside the town today?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “We’re back to ‘number, please,’ again. They say the devil is not working. Won’t be for some time.”

  “Our calls are being monitored, then?” Miles asked.

  “I would think so, son,” Dubois replied. He turned back to Wade. “Son, the devil is no stranger to patience; all he has to do is pull back for a time. A year, ten years, a hundred years. Time means nothing to him. A hundred years is the blinking of an eye.”

  Then—what do we do?”

  “Nothing, for a time. Keep quiet. We don’t know who we can trust. Whitfield is a giant Coven.”

  “There are some we can trust?” Sam asked, a hopeful note in his voice.

  “Yes,” Dubois said. “A few. A pitifully few. I believe Satan has tried to touch them, and they refused him. They know him, they’ve met him, and they have rejected him. They don’t know they have—but they have.”

  “And they are—?” Wade asked.

  “You and your wife. Jane Ann Burke. Peter Canford. Chester and Faye. Miles and Doris. Glen,” he indicated the Episcopal priest, “Lucas, Sam, Tony, Jimmy Perkins, I’m sure, and me.”

  “Fourteen people,” Sam said, shaking his head. “Of the more than twenty-five hundred people of Whitfield, more than two thousand were active in their church. Our survey proved that.”

  “Most people are weak, Sam—you know that. They’re followers, not leaders. Those who do not take an active part in the worshipping of Satan will remain passive, doing nothing. They will not really know what is going on around them—they will simply follow. The devil’s hand has touched them, touched their hearts, their minds, blocking out all he does not wish them to see. They will go about their business, seeing nothing, until it is too late.”

  And—then?” Sam questioned.

  Dubois shrugged. “The Undead, probably.”

  “THE UNDEAD!” Wade almost shouted the words.

  “They are his already,” Dubois said. “They just don’t realize it. They will do what the devil bids them to do.”

  Miles sighed audibly, shaking his head.

  “I wouldn’t ask you to go against your religion, Miles,” Dubois said. “I wouldn’t—believe me. Call whatever is happening in this town by any name you choose. But keep your strong faith in God; that is what’s protecting you and your wife.”

  Miles slowly nodded. Thank you.”

  “Satan has us in a nice little box,” Sam said. “Doesn’t he?”

  “Yes,” Dubois smiled. “Yes, he does. But he can’t nail the lid on the box as long as we’re alive. He planned this very carefully, around us.”

  “The Undead?” Wade was stuck on the word. “You mean like in the movies?”

  “Only this is reality,” Lucas said.

  Wade sat down beside Miles. He touched the smaller man on the knee. “Are you convinced, Miles?”

  “I feel like a yoyo,” he forced a smile. “Up and down. Back and forth. I’m confused, Wade. And I’m scared. I’m really scared.”

  Sam looked first at Dubois, then at Lucas. “I sensed a fatalistic tone in your voices a few moments ago. You two acted as though you know what’s in store for you both.”

  “Very observant young man, Sam,” the old priest smiled. A sad smile as he shook his gray head. “Sam, we’re not afraid to die. Both of us are old men; we’ve both fought him, and in a sense, we’ve won. Oh, he knows we don’t have the strength to fight him again. But he’ll get no real pleasure out of killing us. We’ve given our lives to God. We’re ready to go home.”

  Sam looked at Lucas. The Methodist nodded. “There is very little either of us can do, Sam. It’s up to you young ones. You’ve got the strength to fight—and to beat him! Oh, you won’t kill him. Don’t ever delude yourselves on that. God is the only one who can kill him. But you can beat him here in Whitfield.” He removed a cross from around his neck, handing it to Wade. “Put it on, son. Don’t ever take it off.”

  Wade slipped the chain over his head, the cross gleaming dully on his chest. “Committed to the cause, I guess,” he quipped.

  “A most reluctant warrior,” Miles grinned, his good humor never far from the surface.

  Father Dubois removed his cross. With hands that trembled, from age and emotion, not from fear, he placed it around Sam’s neck. “My cardinal gave this to me forty years ago. It alone won’t protect you, but if you watch the reaction of those around you, it can tell you something. You’re the one, Sam. You’re the one who has to rally your forces and beat him.”

  “Why me, Michael?”

  “Because you’ve been chosen, Sam. Don’t ask me how I know, I just know.”

  Sam removed his own cross, handing it to Miles, startling the Jew. Miles looked at it, a strange glint in his eyes. He shrugged philosophically, then slipped it around his neck. “Well, we Jews believe in luck, so Mazol tov.”

  “What’s that mean?” Wade asked.

  “Literally, it means Lucky Star, and I think we need all the luck we can get.”

  “What do we do now?” Sam looked at Dubois.

  “Watch your backs,” the priest replied, holding out his hands. “Let’s join hands, gentlemen, and pray.”

  ELEVEN

  Outside the rectory, Miles stood with Sam and Wade. “I’m not fully convinced, Sam,” the newspaper man said, “but I’m leaning in your direction. However, I have a suggestion for you—for all of us.”

  “I’m open.”

  “We can gather up our families and run like hell! Get out of this town.”

  “I don’t believe that would do any good,” Miles said, surprising both Wade and Sam. “I agree with Father Dubois, I don’t believe they would let us leave. There is this, too: even if we did get away, we’d just be running away from the problem, not solving it.” He cut his eyes from man to man. “Without being obvious about it, look across the street.”

  The men stole quick, furtive glances about them. They were being watched from all sides. Sonny Moore, Paul Smiley, and a man none of them knew stood about them, watching them.

  Petterson was still hauling his ashes.

  Wade swallowed heavily. “It could be pure coincidence.” But there was little conviction in his voice.

  “Want to take a ride just to see if we can leave?” Miles suggested.

  “No!” Sam said. “That’s not for me. No one-man, Beast, or Satan is going to run me out of this county.”

  Wade looked hard at his minister. “Sam, that sounds like pure bravado to me.”

  “No,” the minister replied. “No, it’s a fight, that’s all. I realized that while talking with Lucas and Michael.”

  Wade shook his head. “I don’t understand, Sam.” He shrugged. “But there are lots of things I don’t understand.”

  You two go on about your business,” Sam told his friends. ”Both of you act as normally as possible. I’ve got some things to do.”

  “We’ll see you later on this afternoon?” Miles asked.

  “Maybe.” And he left them with that.

&n
bsp; “You want to buy a WHAT?” Chester asked, astonished at the request from his minister.

  “That Thompson submachine gun you told me about last year,” Sam repeated his request.

  “That’s what I thought you said. It’s illegal, Sam. You could go to prison for just having it. So could I.”

  “Sure. You could also go to prison for having that Greasegun you keep at your house. Is that .45 caliber spitter a souvenir from World War Two?”

  Chester smiled. “What’s going on, Sam? Come on—level with me.”

  “Got any coffee?”

  “Always. In the back. Let me lock the front door. I may as well have stayed home today; you’re the first customer to walk in.”

  “You’re being watched, Ches. You know that?”

  “Across the street? Oh, that’s just Emery Robinson. He’s loafing, that’s all. You know him—he’s been one of this town’s ne’er-do-wells for years.”

  “No, Ches,” Sam corrected. “He’s one of Them.”

  Chester turned slowly from his closing and locking of the front door. “One of—Them, Sam?”

  “Let’s get that coffee, Ches. I’ve got a lot to tell you.”

  It was early afternoon when Sam finished talking with his friend. He had laid it all out in the open for Chester, then given the man two crosses; one for himself, one for his wife. Before coming to the store, Sam had stopped off at the church, picking up the crosses, blessing them, praying to God for protection and sanction. He had several more in his pocket, for Jane Ann and the others.

  “God in Heaven!” was all Chester could manage to say.

  “Have you seen your children?”

  “No. And I don’t wish to see them!”

  Sam almost began a lecture on forgiveness, then held his tongue, remembering his own thoughts about Michelle. It’s too late for that, he concluded, not without some bitterness.