Devil's Kiss

by William W. Johnstone

  Mrs. Hardison nodded, then marched out of the church, chin up, head high, all her suspicions confirmed. The Balons were, indeed, having marital problems.

  “Gossipin’ old biddy!” Mr. Word muttered, shaking Sam’s hand. The elderly retired rancher met Sam’s eyes. “Something ... nasty happenin’ in this town, Brother Balon. I’d like to comfort some of these old ladies, but I don’t know how to go about it without scarin’ ’em half out of their wits.”

  Sam looked in the auditorium. Chester, Faye, Wade, Anita, and Jane Ann all stood in a group, waiting for Sam to finish.

  “How do you mean, Mr. Word? Nasty?”

  “Don’t try kiddin’ me, Sam—I’m too old a bird. Ninety-nine percent of the church-goin’ population of Whitfield has stopped goin.’ People ain’t friendly toward one another anymore. Lot’s of other things, too.”

  Sam felt a glimmer of hope. Perhaps Mr. Word could gather up the old people, hide them in the Bad Lands. But who would protect them? Sam and his little group would be spread too thin.

  “And what do you think it is, Mr. Word?”

  The elderly gentleman plopped his hat on his head, and said, “Khrushchev and those damned Russians. Put something in the water!”

  Sam felt his slight hope drift away. “Perhaps it is the devil, Mr. Word?”

  The old man laughed. “That’s a good one, Sam. The devil! No, son, the devil don’t want Whitfield. Don’t nobody want Whitfield.” He walked away, chuckling.

  I tried, Sam thought. I tried.

  Mr. Word gathered a half dozen or more elderly outside the church and they all had a good laugh, at Sam’s expense.

  Sam sighed. I wish it was the Russians. They would be a lot easier to deal with.

  Jane Ann touched his arm. “Sam? You want to ride with us this afternoon. To John’s funeral?”

  He had not told them about John.

  He agreed. “I’ll be at Chester’s about one-thirty. I don’t believe there’ll be much of a crowd at the funeral, though.”

  Her hand was warm on his arm. “I’m frightened, Sam. Why can’t we just run? Just get out?”

  “And do what once we got there? Besides, it’s too late for that, I think. We’re being watched.” He glanced across the street. “Look.”

  Vanderwerf and Moore lounged across the street, watching the church. Vanderwerf saw Jane Ann looking at him and arrogantly scratched his crotch, grinning at her. He feigned masturbation with one hand, motioning for her to come on over with the other hand.

  “Not the most subtle gesture I’ve ever seen,” she said, her face flushing.

  Sam didn’t help matters any by saying, “It’s going to get much, much worse before it gets any better, Janey.”

  “You’re supposed to comfort me, Sam,” she looked at him.

  And the minister came very close to saying, I’d like to do just that, dear—in a variety of ways.

  He remembered where he was and was embarrassed for his thoughts.

  “Twenty people!” Chester shook his head. “Twenty people showed up for the funeral. Disgraceful!”

  “John’s wife wasn’t even there,” Jane Ann said, her tone indicating disapproval, even a primness that brought a smile from Sam.

  “She was with the sheriff and George Best,” Wade said. “The two of them were at her house. You all saw the cars when we drove by.”

  “Doing what, I wonder?” Anita questioned.

  “Don’t be such a klupper,” Doris raised an eyebrow.

  “While her husband was being buried!” Anita could not believe it.

  “She no longer has any control over herself,” Sam spoke quietly, then grimaced. “Besides, she’s been seeing Walter for at least a month—maybe longer.”

  Sam had told them of John on the way to the services, and they had, to a person, looked at him with horror in their eyes as he spoke of the Undead. None of them wanted to believe him, but they knew Sam would not lie about this.

  “Sam? Sam!” Jane Ann brought him out of his musings. “Are you certain about Mrs. Benton?”

  “Yes, he’s sure,” Miles said. So am I. I saw them coming out of a motel in Atwood, about two months ago.”

  “I don’t think any of this matters anymore,” Chester rose from his chair, stretching. “I think what matters now is this: everything is out in the open—at least as far as I’m concerned. You might say battle lines have been drawn. We know who is with us, and who is against us.” His glance swept each person. “And the odds aren’t very good.”

  “Did you speak with Peter?” Sam asked.

  “Yes. But I didn’t tell him of my suspicions; he told me of his. He said he’d meet us here about four this afternoon. After we all talk with him, we’ll do what we talked about.”

  Anita looked up, alarm on her face. “What are you men going to do?”

  “Go for a drive,” Sam said.

  “You’re not going to leave us here alone?”

  “No,” Sam shook his head. “Miles will stay with you.”

  Doris looked at her husband, a twinkle in her eyes. “Miles, I love you dearly, you know that. But when you came home yesterday, wobbling in with that huge shotgun, you looked like the original Sad Sack.”

  The tension in the room broke under the sounds of laughter. Miles grinned shyly. “I know how to load it, point it, and pull the trigger. Besides, let them,” he indicated the other men, “go traipsing out in the wilderness. I’d much rather stay here, surrounded by all you beautiful women.” He grinned rakishly.

  His wife rolled her eyes. “Casanova didn’t have—to the best of my knowledge—hemorrhoids, dear.”

  “Doris!”

  The ringing of the phone stilled the laughter. Chester held the phone out to Sam. “Tony.”

  “Sam? I’ve just been called out to Sorenson’s ranch. I don’t like it, Sam. I’m not his doctor, Sam—he dislikes me, always has. I think something’s up. I don’t know what, I just sense it.”

  “Then don’t go.”

  I—ah—don’t have much choice in the matter. The sheriff is coming by to pick me up.”

  “Tony, don’t go! Tell them you’re sick—anything. No! Better yet, tell Walter I’ll take you out there. Let’s see what happens when he hears that.”

  “Come on over, Sam. Right now. Please?”

  “Five minutes, Tony.” He turned, looking at Wade. “You stay here with Miles. Come on, Ches. Get a pistol and let’s go. I’ll explain on the way. We’ll take that drive tomorrow.”

  “Balon,” the sheriff glared at him. “Just what do you want here? This is none of your affair.”

  The men stood on the sidewalk outside Tony’s house. Sam did his best to remain calm. “What I’m saying, Walter, is this, I’ll drive Tony out to the K/S. It’s no big deal; nothing to get all worked up about. Tony asked me to come along, and I’ll do just that. By the way, who is sick? Can I help?”

  Sam received a look of pure hatred from the sheriff. While Addison was glaring at Sam, Tony took a closer look at Walter. The man was filthy. His clothing dirty, his face unshaven, and his body odor fierce. The doctor was glad he wasn’t standing downwind.

  Walter shifted his glare to Sam’s truck. “What’s Stokes doing here?”

  “Just along for the ride, Walter. Any harm in that? Oh, by the way, we missed you at John’s services this afternoon.”

  The sheriff wheeled about without speaking. He stalked to his car, burning rubber as he peeled away from the curb.

  “Sam?” Tony said. “What in the world is going on in this town?”

  “What did Mrs. Norman die of, Tony?”

  “Presumably the same thing John died of. But I don’t believe it. I had just examined her about a month ago. Her heart was strong, blood pressure fine. You didn’t answer my question, Sam.”

  “Then what killed her?”

  The young doctor sighed as he met Sam’s gaze. “Oh, one guess would be fright, maybe—producing a heart attack. When I saw her she’d been dead for hours. I think the
old woman saw something in her back yard that scared her to death. That big German shepherd was still standing guard beside her. I guess he frightened off whatever it was.”

  “You went to her house, then?”

  “Oh, yes. Jimmy called me first, then Father Dubois.”

  “Was there anything . . . unusual that you noticed?”

  “What do you mean, Sam?”

  “An odor, perhaps?”

  Tony slowly shook his head. “Yes, now that you mention it, there was an odor. A very bad odor. Faint, but still present. I—uh—can’t describe it; I’ve never smelled anything quite like it.”

  “I was afraid of this. They’ve begun coming into town.”

  “I beg your pardon, Sam?”

  “Get your car, Tony—follow us to Chester’s. There’s something you’d better hear.”

  A very stunned and pale young doctor sat on the couch in Chester’s den, his coffee cold and forgotten on the table. He lifted his eyes to Sam’s. “You’re kidding, of course?” There was a hopeful tone in his voice.

  “No, Tony,” Father Dubois said. “It’s all true.”

  The priest had been called, as had Father Haskell. Peter Canford stood beside Jimmy Perkins.

  “Reverend Monroe is dead!” Jimmy said. “And you killed him, Sam? My God!”

  Peter spoke for the first time, other than the greetings when he entered the house. His voice was dead, almost void of emotion. “When I got home from John’s funeral, there was a note. Pat said she’d had enough of my so-called Christian ways. The note was very profane.” He put his face in his hands and wept.

  Dubois walked to his side, putting an arm around his shoulders. He did not try to verbally comfort him, just patted him on the shoulder, letting the young man know he was there, ready to help in any way he could.

  “I’ll make some coffee,” Faye said.

  “And some sandwiches,” Anita said, getting up from her chair. “I’ll help you.”

  “Have you had time to read the journals?” Sam asked Wade.

  “Yes,” the editor said, “some of them. Dad suspected all along what is—” he stumbled for a moment, “happening here now. But he couldn’t come up with any concrete proof. None to take to the law. I know the feeling,” he said, biting at his words. “Dad wrote that he felt the devil was after him, but he wasn’t going to get him.”

  “That’s why he shot himself?” Sam asked.

  Chester looked up. “Your father shot himself?”

  Slowly, Wade told the story, filling in the gaps that for years had puzzled many residents of Whitfield, himself included. “But pieces still don’t fit,” he mused aloud. “There are things that just don’t quite jell in my mind. About us, I mean.”

  “Yes,” his wife said. “We were just talking about that in the kitchen. Why us? Why were we—spared?”

  Jane Ann put her coffee cup carefully on the table, in the saucer, her face a study in concentration. “Sam? Did you ever listen to the local radio station?”

  “Rarely, but I think I know what you’re getting at. I’ve had the same suspicions of late. Go ahead, though, let me hear your thoughts.”

  She looked at each person in the den. “Did any of you ever listen to the station?”

  “No,” Chester said. “Can’t stand country and western music, and I certainly can’t tolerate this new rock and roll. Besides, when I did accidently tune in, I got nervous. I mean—I felt strange when I listened.”

  They all denied ever listening very much to the local station. But all admitted when they did listen, it made them nervous.

  “For years,” Jimmy said, “it was kind of a blah station. The old people listened to it mostly. Then, after Sorenson bought it, he brought in a whole new crew; changed the programing completely. Hillbilly for the adults, rock and roll for the kids.”

  “That’s right,” Peter said. “Something else, too; after Sorenson bought it, he stopped all religious programing. On Sunday’s, it was all rock and roll.”

  “It wasn’t a very powerful station, was it?” Sam asked.

  “No,” Wade said. “Two hundred and fifty watts. And the tower was in a bad location, so I’m told. Twenty miles out of town, you couldn’t pick it up.”

  “And the nearest town is over forty miles away,” Jane Ann added.

  “This new crew Sorenson brought in,” Sam said, “was there anything—odd about them?”

  Most agreed they never saw much of them. They tended to stay by themselves, in a mobile home.

  “Yes,” Jimmy said. “Yes, there was something. I remember now. They all wore medallions about their necks.”

  “That’s right!” Wade snapped his fingers. “I always thought it was some kind of station symbol, or something like that.”

  “It was,” Sam said. “Of the worst kind.”

  “What does the station have to do with all this, Sam?” Father Haskell asked.

  “Mind implantation. The government has proven it. It works.”

  “I’m afraid I’m a bit behind times,” Dubois confessed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “The message would be very short,” Sam said. “Perhaps one tenth of a second. So short the conscious mind would not realize it had heard anything. But the subconscious would record and remember it. Over a period of months, a person would have heard that message millions of times. It would be a part of them. If the message played on some secret desire, such as—oh—sex, power, money, revenge—whatever—a person could be won over. Like hypnotism, only much more insidious.”

  Chester nodded. “Yes, now I recall. Jack and Ruby would lock themselves in a bedroom, listening to the rock and roll. When it was over, or if one of us would make them turn it off, they’d be surly, restless; they would want to do—wild things. And did do them!”

  Jimmy rose to pace the den. “My girl did the same thing. I used to have to make her turn the radio down or off. She was receiving messages from it.”

  “The same with my wife,” Peter noted. “I bought her an expensive combination radio/Hi-Fi set just so she could listen to that crap!”

  “But, Sam?” Doris asked. “Why didn’t it affect all the kids? It didn’t seem to bother our two. Or Wade or Anita’s.”

  “I can’t answer that, Doris. I just don’t know.”

  “Our kids never listened much to the radio,” Anita said. “We,” she looked at her husband, “always listened to classical music. So did Miles and Doris’s kids. We became friends partly because of our mutual interest in good music.”

  “Of late,” Chester said, “oh, probably within the last six months, our two have begun running with some—well, wild kids. Guess that’s where they got hooked. I’d try to talk with them, so did Faye, but it just seemed to bounce right off them.”

  It was late afternoon, the shadows moving through the town, thickening around the houses.

  “Don’t be afraid,” Father Dubois smiled, sensing the fear building in some of the people. “This is God’s day. Satan can make no move against us on this day.”

  “What do we do?” Tony asked.

  “This is what we do,” Sam took command, leaning forward, speaking softly.

  FOURTEEN

  Dark when Sam reached the parsonage. The lights were on in the living room. With a dull feeling in his guts, Sam realized Michelle was home and he would have to face her. He hated her!

  A virile man, Sam’s sex life had been nil for months, and he was very much aware of his need for a woman. His groin told him so when he had looked at Jane Ann that afternoon. The women he had known before becoming a minister walked naked through his mind. Soft breasts and erect nipples, satin-smooth legs, wet mouths, and . . .

  He forced those thoughts from his mind as he got out of the car. “I don’t see how priests do it,” he muttered.

  The odor in the house hit him when he opened the door. The smell of stale sweat, unwashed bodies, and the musky smell of sex. Everything that had occurred the past days fell on Sam’s mind, o
verpowering the big man. Wild rage raced through him, hot and uncontrolled, overwhelming reason. He stalked through the house, seeking Michelle.

  The door to her bedroom was closed. He tried the knob. Locked. Sam forced the door open. Michelle lay on the bed, naked, her legs spread wide, fingers busy within the dark mass of pubic hair at her apex.

  The stench in the closed room was vile.

  Michelle’s breasts, full and heavy, were marked with bruises. Her knees were scratched. She had not washed herself, and the room stank with the scent of the unfaithful, the betrayer, the Godless.

  The medallion hung about her neck, between her breasts, her nipples swollen with passion. Michelle’s breath was quick, in her anticipated self-induced climax.

  She opened her eyes; eyes dark with fury. “Get out of my room!” she hissed at him. “GET OUT!” she screamed.

  Sam’s temper boiled to the surface. All the rage and disgust and frustration rose up, yelling to be freed. “You Godless whore!” he shouted at her, grabbing her by one ankle, jerking her from the bed. She yelped as her bare butt hit the floor.

  Michelle spat profanities at him, the filth spewing from her mouth. Sam slapped her, his big hand hard on her face, back-handing her twice. He tore the medallion from her neck, breaking the heavy chain, and threw it across the dimly-lit bedroom. The medallion bounced off a wall. His wife squalled at him, face ugly with rage and hate.

  “Goddamn you!” she kicked at him with bare feet.

  Sam dodged the kick and dragged her, by the heels, across the room into the bathroom. She howled and fought him. Shoving her into the shower stall, he turned the water on full force, adjusting the water temperature, then tossed a bar of soap onto the floor of the stall.

  “I really don’t want to touch you,” he said. “But if I have to, I’ll scrub the stink off you.”

  She laughed at him, her lips pulled back in a snarling grimace. Sitting on the floor of the stall, the water pasting her black hair to her skull, Michelle lewdly spread her legs wide, exposing herself to him.