“You know anything about a Coven, Wade?” Sam whittled as he spoke.
Almost nothing.”
“Then imagine a circle within a circle within a circle. The outer circle is composed of, in this case, the Beasts. They can fall prey to anything that can kill a mortal. I don’t know why that is, but I have a theory; because they are Beasts, and not human; they do not have the intelligence to grasp the devil’s powers. That’s my theory, anyway. Inside the next circle, closer to the devil’s agent, you have—well, let’s call them workers, stooges, whatever. They, too, can be destroyed by anything that would kill a mortal. A bullet, a knife, a club. At least, I hope I’m correct in that hypothesis. Inside the last circle, the smallest circle, we’ll find the real evil.” He looked at his friends. “Like Michelle. And there is only one way they can be killed.” He held up a sharpened stake.
“Just like in the movies,” Chester said, without any mirth. His voice was tight with emotion as he looked at the stake in Sam’s big fist.
“What about this tablet?” Wade asked.
“I think if we can find it, and destroy it, we’ll have whipped him—at least in Fork. But I don’t hold much hope of finding the tablet. It will be well hidden.”
“Well, let’s storm the Dig site,” Chester suggested. “You’ve got the Thompson, I’ve got my Greaser. We can get some dynamite—make some Cocktails. We can blow them back to Hell!”
Sam shook his head. “Too many of them, Ches. We’ve got to take those in power out first—one at a time. And now, we’ve got that asylum to worry about. And don’t think for a minute Satan didn’t figure on it, too.” Sam had two dozen stakes lying on the ground. “Help me with these, please.”
Arms full of stakes, the men walked back to the road, dumping the stakes in the bed of the truck.
On the way back to Whitfield, Wade asked, “Tell me the truth, Sam, do we have a chance?”
“I believe so. A little less than even.”
“Sixty-forty, huh?”
Something like that.”
“Those are not the greatest odds I’ve ever heard,” Chester commented.
“But we have something on our side they don’t,” Sam grinned.
“I’d be very much relieved to know what that is,” Wade said.
Sam very briefly met his gaze. “God.”
Just before reaching the outskirts of Whitfield, Wade said, “Glen Haskell, Sam. His body, I mean. Is he—?”
“One of them, I would imagine. I know John is.”
Chester shuddered.
In front of the drive-in, the county road was blocked by milling teenagers and their cars and pickup trucks. The three men watched as a young man openly and carelessly caressed the buttocks of a teenage girl. The young man cupped both cheeks of her denim-clad rump. The girl giggled obscenely, rubbing against his crotch.
“That’s the new preacher’s daughter,” Wade said. “Margaret Farben.”
“I know,” Sam replied, cutting his eyes to the side of the drive-in. “Look at that.”
A teenage boy had a young girl, Laurie Conway, backed up against a car, her Levi-clad legs spread wide, the boy between them, hunching, crotch to crotch.
“I believe,” Sam said dryly, “if memory serves me correctly, we used to call that dry-fucking.”
“Sam!” Wade was shocked. He knew his preacher was a maverick—everybody knew that. But not this much a maverick.
“Pardon my bluntness,” Sam said. “But what would you call it?”
Wade shook his head. A light, airy sensation had overtaken him at the sight of all this sexual display. He felt a slight erection begin to grow. He could not clear his head.
“SAM!”he shouted the word.
“Steady, Wade,” the minister cautioned him. “Fight it. All this is being done for our benefit. It’s a stage show, set up by the devil. Fight it!”
Wade closed his eyes, erasing the sight. “He never gives up, does he?”
“No. Are you all right?”
“Be quiet, preacher—I’m trying to pray.”
Sam grinned. His friends would all resist; they were strong in their faith.
“Let’s try to get through them without trouble,” Chester suggested.
But the young people would not let them through. Their profanity was shocking. They shouted things at the men Wade would not have believed had he not been sitting in the truck listening to the verbal garbage.
Chester merely shook his head in disgust.
Mother fucker!” a boy shouted at them.
A young girl, perhaps fifteen at the most, leaned against the truck. She winked at Sam. She also smelled bad. “Want some pussy, preacher?” She opened her shirt, exposing young braless breasts to him.
Sam averted his eyes, looking straight ahead. Suddenly, as if on some hidden cue, the crowd of young people parted. The road was empty, the kids returned to the drive-in. Sam looked behind them. A car, bearing out-of-state plates drove slowly down the road.
“They know,” Sam muttered. “I don’t know how, but somehow all of them knew that car didn’t belong.”
“Sam! Let’s stop that car and tell the people about—”
“No!” Sam cut Wade off in midsentence. “Do you want more innocent people to die?”
“No,” the editor whispered.
“Then just calm down. I want to see what these kids do after this car passes.”
When the out-of-state car had gone, turning onto highway 72, out of town, the kids returned to the road, blocking it as before.
“Interesting,” Sam observed. “It’s as if they receive a signal. But I don’t know how they receive it.”
A burly young man, in his late teens, leaned against the truck, blocking any movement. Wade stuck his head out the window. Roy! Get the hell out of the way!”
The young man looked at him, his face reflecting pure insolence. “Don’t get all worked up, Thomas. You don’t own the fuckin’ road.”
Sam’s smile was sad and knowing, as was Chester’s. Both men said nothing.
“I can’t believe this,” Wade said, his voice trembly. “I taught his Sunday School class for five years. I don’t believe he said that to me.” Then he became angry. “I ought to get out of this truck and kick his butt!”
“Let it slide, Wade,” Sam said. “Besides, are you sure you can kick it?”
The editor grew even angrier. “Look, Sam, I’m forty-one years old. I—”
“Smoke a pipe and two packs of cigarettes a day,” Sam cut him off. “And have for years.” He watched the young people mill about in the road. “And you don’t get enough exercise. Look at that kid—he’s hard as a rock.”
“You sound as though you might be afraid of him, Sam?” Wade spoke before he thought, and was instantly sorry he did.
Sam glanced at him. Wade realized, then, that he did not know his minister as well as he thought he did. There was no fear in Sam’s eyes; just a calmness and a certainty that he could and would cope with any situation that might confront him.
“Sorry I said that, Sam.”
“It’s all right, Wade. You’re under a strain. I understand. No, I’m not afraid of him—I’m not afraid of any living man. I’ve killed men with guns, knives, grenades—and my bare hands. I’ve forgotten more about fighting than most men could even comprehend, much less physically achieve; not that it’s anything to brag about. But even if I were not a minister, it would do no good for me to manhandle that young man.”
Realization filled Wade’s eyes. He nodded. “It’s a game, isn’t it, Sam? Just a damned game! An evil game between Christianity and Satanism.” Several of the young men began to rock the light truck back and forth. They were not attempting to over turn it, just playing a game with the men inside.
“You stood up to the devil,” Wade said. “But you knew he wasn’t going to kill you, didn’t you? Didn’t you? He can’t kill you, can he, Sam?” The minister shook his head in agreement. “Yeah,” Wade said, “that’s what I thought. No
w I get it. That would bring the wrath of God down on him, and he doesn’t want that, does he?”
“The key word is not yet; he can’t kill me.” Sam’s words were soft.
“But he got Glen! Why Glen and not you?”
“I can’t answer that, Wade.”
“Do you feel you’ve been—Chosen, Sam?”
The truck continued to rock.
The minister met Wade’s gaze. “Dubois seems to think so.”
“That’s not what I asked, Sam.”
“Yes, I do. I don’t know why He picked me, but yes, I believe He did.”
“ALL RIGHT—BREAK THIS UP!!” Jimmy’s sharp voice cut a warning through the crowd. “You people get out of here—right now!”
Jimmy stuck his head inside the cab. “Things like this have been going on all over town. For the past two-three hours. But almost no one calls in a complaint.”
“No one, Jimmy?” Chester asked.
The young people had backed off the road, but they were still congregated around the drive-in. The looks they gave the men were of hate. Dark hate.
“Only two people, Mr. Stokes. Mr. Word, and old lady Dornak. Some kids almost scared her to death. This same bunch of kids—some of ’em, anyway. Slipping around her house, howling like animals. When I confronted them and told them to stop, they told me to get fucked!” He glanced at Sam. “Excuse me, sir, but that’s what they said. Doctor King came to the Dornak house to look after her. She was pretty shook up. The same bunch called Tony some pretty rough names. I’m telling you, this is scaring me!”
“Have you tried for outside help?” Wade asked.
“Yes, sir. I’ve had a call in to the Oberlin County Sheriff’s office for more than two hours, now. But I can’t get through.”
“What were you going to tell them?” Sam asked.
Jimmy smiled, a sad, scared smile. “Nothing. I just wanted to see if I could get through. I’m being followed wherever I go. By the men I’m supposed to lead as Chief. Miles told me a few minutes ago that he’s being followed. They’re not going to let us leave, and we can’t call out. We don’t have to wait for the roads to be closed, Sam—we’re cut off now.”
“You wish me to do something?” Nydia asked.
Wilder smiled. “Tonight, Nydia. Kill the old priest.”
Her answering smile was full of the evil of a thousand years. “How?” she asked, knowing full well what his reply would be. They had played this game for centuries.
Wilder’s eyes were savage. “Why, dear, have a stake driven through his heart, as Balon plans for us.”
They chuckled together, the sound a dark blending of Satanic evilness, a cacophony of horror.
“And Balon?” she questioned. “When may I have him?”
Wilder turned his old but ever-young eyes upon her. “Do you really feel you can seduce this man of God?”
“When the time is right, yes. Have I ever failed?”
“Two centuries ago, I recall. In Plzen, I believe it was. That young student—”
“Bah! You tricked me that night. That was your doing, Black.”
And the devil’s agent roared with laughter. “Yes, well, be that as it may.” His smile vanished. “Perhaps you can seduce this man, Nydia, but it will not be easy. It may have to be done with coercion. You must be patient.”
“He is but a mortal man,” the witch scoffed. “And I can do tricks with my body mortal women can only dream of doing.”
Wilder shook his head. “Mortal, yes, Nydia, but—” he hesitated, his dark eyes seeking something in the distance. “Balon worries me. He isn’t afraid. He has no fear.”
She was not convinced. “I will have him, and then he will die like any mortal.”
“Perhaps,” Wilder said. “Perhaps. But at what price?”
“What’s all that?” Wade asked, looking at the bottles and jars Sam had carried in. He had been to the rectory, picking up Father Dubois and what Dubois had waiting for him.
“Holy Water,” the old priest said. “And you’ll need every drop of it. Now I must return to the church.”
“Wait!” Tony said. “What do we do, Father?”
“Fight. All of you. Follow Sam’s direction. His way will be pointed out, with God’s help.” He turned to leave.
“Where are you going, Michael?” Sam asked.
The priest looked at him, a very faint smile on his lips. “Home.”
“I’ll drive you,” Sam said, not yet catching the double meaning of Dubois’s words.
“No.” Dubois stopped him with a wave of his hand. “I want to walk. I want to smell the flowers, the grass, look at the trees. I want to feel the sun on my face.”
Sam felt horror fill him as the full impact of Dubois’s words hit him. The old priest was going to die—and he knew it.
Dubois cautioned Sam with a quick glance. A quick brushing of the eyes that said: Don’t alarm the others. Rally them. It’s all up to you.
“We’ll see you tomorrow, Father,” Tony said.
Yes,” the priest said. Tomorrow.”
Dubois walked back to the rectory, slowly, enjoying the sights and smells of nature in full bloom. He showered, changed into clean clothes, then sat down in his favorite chair in the small living room, reading his Bible. Each time the clock would chime the hour and half hour, he would look up.
He waited.
Dubois read his Bible, savoring each familiar word, occasionally nodding his head in agreement, sometimes saying aloud, “Yes, yes.”
He read for hours, the clock ticking, chiming. At full dark, a bird flew against his window, smashing the glass, killing itself, dying with a horrible screech.
Dubois raised his head. “So you’ve finally come,” he whispered. “Well, come on.”
Silence.
“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 the 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 vi
al 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 of 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 had 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.
Devil's Kiss Page 22
