The Devil's Touch

by William W. Johnstone

  As he drove the nearly deserted streets, he noticed someone had thrown something through a window of the First Baptist Church, shattering the stained glass.

  "It's begun," Sam muttered. "They have started. The campaign of terror will intensify." And with a sinking feeling, he knew the helpless elderly would be the first to suffer.

  The very young and the very old, Sam mused. Always the ones caught in the middle.

  A teenager—Sam guessed him to be about fifteen—shot looks of hate at Sam as he drove slowly past the boy. A hard feeling of dejavu struck Sam, hitting him with such force he pulled off the road at the first intersection and parked by the curb. He put his forehead on the steering wheel as his mind catapulted back in time.

  Sam viewed three men in an old pickup truck. He knew the town he was seeing. Whitfield. And there was Wade Thomas and a man he didn't know in the cab of the truck. Sam's father was behind the wheel.

  Sam felt his spiritual embodiment pulled closer and closer to the slowly moving pickup. God, but my dad was a big one, Sam thought. Look at the arms and shoulders on him.

  Time gripped the young man in firm hands and held him in silent invisible space. He could hear his father and the other men talking, and could, somehow, know what they were thinking. He was there, flung back in time.

  In front of the drive-in, the county road was blocked by milling teenagers and their cars and trucks. The three men in the pickup truck 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 buttocks. The girl giggled obscenely, rubbing against his crotch.

  "The preacher's daughter," Wade said. "Margaret Farben."

  "Yes," Sam replied. He cut his eyes. "Look at that."

  A teenage boy had a teenage girl 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," the minister 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 experienced a slight erection. He could not clear his head.

  "Sam!" Wade shouted.

  "Steady, Wade," the minister cautioned him. "Fight it. All this is being staged for us. It's set up by Satan. Fight it."

  "Let's try to get through them without trouble," Chester said.

  Then that would be Chester Stokes, young Sam thought through time and mist. My father's good friend. Dad had finally been forced to kill Mr. Stokes after the man had become one of the undead. (The Devil's Kiss)

  But how do I know all this? And why is this happening to me? And what is the point—the message here?

  Sam drifted, his mind's eyes absorbing the scenes of years past.

  The young people would not let the men through.

  Their profanity was shocking. They shouted things at the men Wade would not have believed had he not been present.

  Chester merely shook his head in disgust.

  "Mother-fucker!" a boy shouted at the men.

  A girl, perhaps fifteen, at most, leaned against the truck. She winked at Sam. She smelled bad. "Want some pussy, preacher?" She opened her shirt, exposing braless breasts to him.

  Sam averted his eyes, looking straight ahead. Suddenly, as if on some silent cue, the crowd of young people parted. The road was empty, the kids returning to the drive-in. A car, bearing out-of-state plates drove slowly down the road.

  "They know," the minister muttered. "I don't know how they do, but somehow all of them knew that car wasn't local."

  "Sam! Let's stop the car and tell the people what's happening."

  "No," Sam told Wade. "Do you want more innocent people to die?"

  "No," the newspaper owner whispered.

  "Then just calm down. I want to see what the kids do after this car passes."

  When the vehicle passed and was out of sight, the young people once more blocked the road.

  "Silent signals," Sam said. "From the Devil."

  "If we let him," Chester said, "the Devil, 1 mean, or those working with him, they have the power to cloud our minds, right?"

  "That's it," Sam replied.

  Young Sam was returned to the present with shocking force. He looked around him. This was not Whitfield. It was Logandale.

  Sam was bathed in sweat. His hands trembled. He willed them to cease their trembling.

  "Dad," he whispered. "Are you here with me? Now? What are you trying to tell me? Show me? I know it's you, Dad. Tell me!"

  But only silence greeted his questions.

  He dropped the truck into gear and pulled away from the curb. He was a very confused young man. Then his mind became once more clouded as forces took control. When he finally shook the clouds away, he was on the outskirts of town, near the Giddon House and Fox Estate. He slowed and gazed at the ominous-appearing stone structure known as the Giddon House. The stone fence surrounding the place was at least ten feet high, with spikes and barbed wire on top of the fence. The gates were massive, looking to be made of thick steel.

  Sam then experienced the hardest thrust of evil he had felt in three years. And it came from the Giddon House.

  Sam drove on past the ending of the stone fence. He stopped when he saw Desiree Lemieux standing in the driveway of Fox Estate.

  She waved at him and Sam backed up, rolling down the window on the passenger side.

  "Desiree," he said with a smile. "Waiting for a bus?"

  She looked confused for a moment, then laughed as she caught the joke. "No. After that horrible night last night, this day is so beautiful 1 wanted to go for a walk. 1 had just left the house. Where are you going? I'm sorry," she quickly added. "I did not mean to pry into your private affairs."

  I'd like to have an affair with you, Sam thought. And it did not appear odd to him to be thinking in that manner.

  Soft gray eyes touched Sam.

  On the upper level of the mansion, Jimmy Perkins peeked through heavy drapes, watching the mistress of the house talk to Sam Balon. He was not afraid of her telling the young man of his presence. Everything had been arranged, set in motion by the Master.

  "No apologies necessary, Desiree," Sam said. "I was just going for a drive. Would you like to come along?"

  Those gray eyes once again touched him. Very intimately, Sam felt. He had heard all about these French women. He wondered if all or part of it was true.

  "Won't your wife object? I can see you're wearing a wedding band."

  Forces battled inside his head. The darker force soon became victorious. "No," Sam heard himself say. "Nydia won't mind." Hell, why should she? She's out doing … something. Then the gossip came to him. Maybe she's doing it with somebody. The gossip. Where had he heard it? He couldn't recall. But it was something about his wife and that young Le Moyne boy. Sam could not know that Janet had planted the thought in his mind while he was making love to the teenager. Sam had heard all the stories about young Le Moyne and his being so well-endowed that about half the women in Logandale were panting after him. But Jon, or so the story went, was supposed to be so religious.

  Hell, Sam thought, if he's any better endowed than I am, he's doing very well for himself.

  So religious, the ugly thoughts once more entered the mind of the young man. Maybe he covers up the Bible when he fucks.

  Sam hid a chuckle at the obscene thought. The sensing of evil from the Giddon House had left him. He did not know the reason for that was because he was so close to the evil, the good in him was outweighed when the darker forces were worked so intensely.

  "In that case," Desiree said, "I would like to take a ride with you." She got in the truck and Sam pulled back onto the road. She said, "I haven't made any friends here in Logandale yet. It's—rather lonesome." She
looked at the big .41 mag on the front seat, between them. She said nothing about it. But her eyes lingered long on the weapon.

  "You won't be lonesome very long," Sam assured her. He smiled "Not after the men around here get a look at you, bet on it."

  Desiree returned the smile. "You're very kind. I thank you for the compliment, Sam. But I don't date very much."

  "Oh?"

  "Yes. I find that men all have the same thing on their mind. I am not opposed to a man/woman relationship, but I would rather be the one doing the choosing. Do you find that odd, Sam?"

  "No, not at all. I can understand that." He cut his eyes at her, thinking: So choose me and let's get it on, honey.

  He shook his head, not understanding his thoughts lately.

  Sam did not see Nydia pulling up to an intersection. He did not see her look of shock at seeing her husband with another woman. He was through the intersection before he pulled his eyes back to the road.

  Nydia watched them drive past, heading out into the country. Black rage filled her, compounded—although Nydia, like Sam, did not realize the powers of the Dark One were responsible for it. Nydia was so angry she was trembling. She did not know who the young woman was, catching only a quick glimpse of her. But from Sam's description of Desiree Lemieux, and since they were coming from the direction of Fox Estate, Nydia was sure it was Desiree.

  "You bastard!" Nydia cursed her husband. She gripped the steering wheel so hard her fingers ached. She forced herself into calmness. "All right," she muttered through clenched teeth. "That's just dandy. If that's the way he wants to behave, that's just fine with me."

  "That's right," that whispering voice entered her mind. "He screws the teenager last night, the Frenchwoman today. And you sit about and mope. It doesn't have to be that way. You know where to go. He is waiting for you. Young, virile, handsome. Think what a coup it would be for you to teach a handsome young man all about sex; all the marvels of a man and a woman."

  Nydia sat frozen at the intersection.

  "Go on," the voice whispered. "Go on."

  The voice faded from her mind. She returned to reality. She remembered nothing of the whispering voice. But her subconscious did. She turned toward town. Toward the street where Jon Le Moyne lived. She followed dark silent directions as her anger grew.

  Janet sat in her room, looking at Little Sam playing on the floor. He looked up at her, an unfamiliar light in his eyes.

  Janet stared at him. Something was odd about the boy. Something she did not understand. He suddenly looked mean, almost vicious.

  As quickly as the strange look appeared on the boy's face, it was gone. The child returned to its play.

  "Odd," Janet murmured. "Very odd. Could it be that he is one of us?"

  But no messages came to her. Nothing whispered in her head. No winds blew, containing any sign from her Master. Nothing.

  She continued watching the little boy at play. She was restless, desiring some action. She wanted a man. Last night had only whetted her appetite. But she had her orders from the Master. And she knew she must obey. She was pacified with the knowledge that soon— very soon, hours, perhaps—she could be satisfied sexually by all the men she desired. Including, hopefully, Sam Balon … again.

  As he drove, Sam wondered how Desiree could be so unconcerned. How she could not somehow sense … something strange going on in the town. And then all that was swept from his mind. He could not remember what he had been thinking of.

  Then he remembered it was a Sunday and he asked, "Are you a Catholic, Desiree?"

  "I am nothing," she replied. "Agnostic, if anything. My—parents," she seemed to stumble over that word, "do not attend church, so therefore I was not brought up in one."

  "My father was a minister."

  "So you attend church regularly."

  "I'm afraid not, Desiree. I know I should, but I fell out of the habit."

  "And you and Nydia have been married—"

  "For three years." He didn't tell her they had performed the wedding ceremony themselves. "A very good marriage, I think."

  She put a soft hand on his forearm. Her perfume drifted to him. "I would like for us to be friends, Sam. Close friends. I think you are the type of person a woman could talk with. And I'd like very much to meet Nydia."

  "I believe you two would get along just great." About like a cobra and a mongoose, taking in her present mood. "I'll ask her to come over and chat with you. Maybe then we could all get together and chat."

  Reality returned in a hot rush. What in the hell am I thinking of? Sam again shook his head, but he could not clear his head.

  "That would be very nice," she replied. Was that a note of insincerity in her voice? Sam's head seemed a bit clearer now, as they drove further into the countryside.

  "Where is Nydia this morning?" Desiree asked.

  "I don't know," Sam replied honestly. "She left me a note saying she was going for a drive. She does that occasionally," he lied.

  Why am I defending her with lies? he thought. Guilty conscience, maybe?

  Then he could not remember why he had a guilty conscience.

  "Umm," was Desiree's reply to that.

  Sam's eyes picked up movement on the side of the road just up ahead. He slowed down. They were on the highway that linked with the county road to the ski lodge.

  It had been two men, Sam was certain of that. But when he got to the point where he had watched them jump into the woods, they were no where in sight.

  A highway marker sat in the middle of the road, blocking it from shoulder to shoulder. "Road Closed" the sign read. Sam pulled over and stopped.

  "Why is this road closed?" Desiree asked.

  "1 don't know. I thought I saw some men up here just a second ago, but they're gone." He got out of the truck and walked up to the sign. Desiree followed him. The road was sealed tight. No way for any type of vehicle to enter or leave on this section of highway.

  Sam's mind cleared enough for logic to prevail. This is a county road, he thought. Until the lodge opens when the snow comes, there wouldn't be much traffic on this road, so its closing wouldn't inconvenience a great many people. But it was a way out that had been blocked. But in his present mental state, it was difficult for him to bring to mind the full scope of the situation and why it was important for this road to remain open.

  He turned and bumped into Desiree. She stumbled and grabbed at his arm for support. For a long, soft moment she was pressing against him, both of them obviously enjoying the encounter, and wishing to retain it for as long as possible.

  Sam looked down into pale gray eyes set in a heart-shaped face. Very smooth, unblemished skin, very soft-looking lips. It was a moment that was inevitable, considering the moment and the mood.

  Their lips met in a kiss that both wanted.

  For a young lady that avoided men because they all had only one thing on their mind, she responded with a passion that took Sam by surprise.

  She could feel his maleness pressing against her, and Sam could feel the heat from her pressing against him. He moved against her and she responded, moving her hips, grinding them hard against him. His hand slipped down to her buttocks, caressing the softness.

  Her tongue probed his mouth and her hands softly crawled over him, gripping the hard muscles of his arms and shoulders.

  "Well, now," a voice from the road ditch broke them breathlessly apart. "Ain't this cute?"

  Sam jerked away from Desiree and was conscious of her hot breath on his face. She was breathing hard, her breasts rising and falling from the heat of the moment past. Three men stood between the timber and the road. One standing in the ditch, two just behind him, on the downward slope facing the road. Sam knew their faces but not their names. He did recognize the types, however. Every community has them: borderline thugs; almost outlaws; always standing on the ragged edge of lawlessness, ready to do anything evil and ugly and nasty.

  "Getting your hands full of young stuff, huh, Balon?" one of them asked with a
lewd grin.

  "Get in the truck," Sam whispered to Desiree. "Go on, do it."

  She slipped away and walked quickly to the truck, a strange look in her eyes. Sam said nothing to the men until Desiree was safely inside the cab. Only then did he turn to the trio of men.

  Sam was approaching his twenty-fifth birthday, a senior at Nelson College. But from age seventeen to twenty-one, Sam had been a member of the U.S. Army's elite Rangers. The Rangers, founded in 1756, is one of, if not the oldest unit in the history of America. And not much is made public about them. Especially a tiny, very select group within them, made up of men from all services. Sam had been part of that unit.

  Sam, even before the combat at Falcon House, was not a stranger to blood and killing. He had been assigned three kills during his tenure with a small force of men—and a few women—known as Dog Teams, unknown even to the most active military personnel, and had completed each mission. He was a skilled member of the martial arts community, and could kick as high as a ballet dancer—but with a much more lethal effect.

  Right now, Sam was wondering how the man knew his name. And more importantly, why. "You figure that's any of your business, pus-gut?" Sam asked, some clarity returning to him, the adrenalin overriding the murkiness in his brain.

  The spokesman for the trio, a man who looked to be in his late thirties or early forties, flushed at Sam's challenging and insulting question. He was a burly man, with thick arms, padded with muscles, heavy shoulders, and a barrel chest. He also had a beer belly hanging over his belt buckle. He said, "You just about a smart-ass, ain't you, punk?"

  Autumn colors were beginning to paint the land. The timber behind the men shone in spots like burnished copper. Birches dotted the timber, and the needles of the tamaracks were drooping downward. Small junipers, red cedars, maple and beech were in abundance. Stalks of goldenrod stood in the open spaces. It was the beginning of a beautiful season near the park.

  "I've been known to speak my mind," Sam replied. There was no backup in the young man. He had proved himself, to himself, too many times to be in the least bit timid.

  The man balled his hands into fists.