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SATAN'S WORK
The cats lay silent in their hidden places, waiting out the storm … and watching as strange, misshapen creatures rose from out of the ground, coming out of the dark swamps. The Beasts stood in the rain; they were not fearful of this rain, for they knew it had been sent by their Master. They stretched their arms and loosened their muscles. They had been asleep for a long, long time. And now they were free.
Huge, clawed hands waved through the wet air Powerful jaws that dripped stinking saliva snapped at nothing. The fangs of the Beasts were four to five inches long, and yellow. The creatures, well over six feet tall when erect, weighed between two hundred and fifty and three hundred pounds. Their eyes were small and evil, with Hell-sent hate shining bloodred. Their bodies were covered with thick, coarse hair.
The cats lay concealed and watched the Beasts as they stretched and growled. And the cats knew that the devil's work had just begun …
THRILLERS BY WILLIAM W. JOHNSTONE
THE DEVIL'S CAT (2091, $3.95)
The town was alive with all kinds of cats. Black, white, fat, scrawny. They lived in the streets, in backyards, in the swamps of Becancour. Sam, Nydia, and Little Sam had never seen so many cats. The cats' eyes were glowing slits as they watched the newcomers. The town was ripe with evil. It seemed to waft in from the swamps with the hot, fetid breeze and breed in the minds of Becancour's citizens. Soon Sam, Nydia, and Little Sam would battle the forces of darkness. Standing alone against the ultimate predator—The Devil's Cat.
THE DEVIL'S HEART (2110, $3.95)
Now it was summer again in Whitfield. The town was peaceful, quiet, and unprepared for the atrocities to come. Eternal life, everlasting youth, an orgy that would span time—that was what the Lord of Darkness was promising the coven members in return for their pledge of love. The few who had fought against his hideous powers before, believed it could never happen again. Then the hot wind began to blow—as black as evil as The Devil's Heart.
THE DEVIL'S TOUCH (2111, $3.95)
Once the carnage begins, there's no time for anything but terror. Hollow-eyed, hungry corpses rise from unearthly tombs to gorge themselves on living flesh and spawn a new generation of restless Undead. The demons of Hell cavort with Satan's unholy disciples in blood-soaked rituals and fevered orgies. The Balons have faced the red, glowing eyes of the Master before, and they know what must be done. But there can be no salvation for those marked by The Devil's Touch.
Available wherever paperbacks are sold, or order direct from the Publisher. Send cover price plus 50¢ per copy for mailing and handling to Zebra Books, Dept. 2091, 475 Park Avenue South, New York, N. Y. 10016. Residents of New York, New Jersey and Pennsylvania must include sales tax. DO NOT SEND CASH.
ZEBRA BOOKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP
All of the characters in this book are fictitious, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
ZEBRA BOOKS
are published by
Kensington Publishing Corp.
475 Park Avenue South
New York, NY 10016
Copyright © 1987 by William W. Johnstone
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written consent of the Publisher, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.
Third printing: April, 1990
Printed in the United States of America
Contents
Book One
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Book Two
THE FIRST NIGHT OF THREE
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
THE FIRST DAY OF THREE
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
SECOND NIGHT OF THREE
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
THE SECOND DAY OF THREE
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
THE THIRD NIGHT OF THREE
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
THE LAST DAY
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
To James Butler. A friend, a fan, and a marvelous singer.
All hope abandon, ye who enter here!
—Dante Alighieri
BOOK ONE
1
They had drifted for a year, not stopping for very long at any one place. Nydia knew her husband was looking for something, and knew what it was. But they had yet to find it.
Xaviere Flaubert's coven.
Since leaving upstate New York, Sam, Nydia, and Little Sam had kept contact with others to the barest minimum.
They were hunters, but yet they knew they were also the hunted.
They were hunting Satan's followers, and Satan's followers were hunting them.
Once, Sam thought he had found them in a small town in Illinois. That proved to be false.
They drove south into Georgia, and once more Sam felt he had found the followers of the Evil One. But again he was wrong.
"Sam?" Nydia said. "Let's try Nebraska."
"Why there?" he asked.
"The beginning," she said simply.
Sam pointed the nose of the car west.
On the fringes of what had once been the town of Whitfield, Nebraska, Sam stopped the car.
"They aren't here," he said to his beautiful, raven-haired young wife. "But … something is."
"Can we get closer?"
"We can try."
The young couple, with Little Sam asleep on the backseat, drove into the charred remains of what the massive fireball had left when it struck the earth, several years back. They found nothing. But both were experiencing a very odd sensation.
"Do you feel it?" Sam asked.
"Yes. But I don't know what it is."
They drove on, through the cracked county road that wound through the sand hills. Sam drove slowly, his eyes searching both sides of the little-used road.
For what, he still did not know.
Then he saw the dog, loping along the side of the road, pacing them. Sam slowed to a crawl; the dog slowed, keeping pace. Sam picked up speed; the dog picked up speed.
"What the hell? …" he muttered.
"Stop, Sam!" Nydia said.
Sam braked and looked at her. "What is it, Nydia?"
Nydia looked at the light-fawn-colored dog, sitting on the side of the road, looking at them. "He is a friend, and we're going to need him."
Sam never questioned his wife. Nydia was a witch. But the inherent good in her
had overpowered the dark side and Nydia had accepted God Almighty as her only God.
That action had infuriated the Dark One. He had schemed and plotted and sworn to have her as his own. For years Satan had tried to kill Sam and possess Nydia as his own. He had flung his awesome powers toward that end.
But whatever Satan did, it always ended in failure at bringing Sam and Nydia to their knees, to worship him. Once he thought for sure he had them up in Canada. He failed, and the skies darkened and it stormed for days. Another time he was certain he had them in upstate New York. But Sam destroyed his coven and then blew up the town to spite him.
And through it all, Nydia had stood like a rock beside her husband and child.
And the Dark One cursed them.
"Call the dog, Sam," she said.
Sam hesitated.
"He won't hurt us. He is why we are here."
Sam opened the door and got out. It was warm for this early in the spring, and the hot winds fanned him.
He wondered if it was just the wind.
He thought not.
Sam squatted down beside the car and called for the dog to come to him. "Come on, boy. Come to me."
The dog did not hesitate. He rose from a sitting position and trotted to Sam, standing in front of the young man.
Sam stayed in a squat, looking at the dog. He couldn't tell what breed it was. It looked to be perhaps a hundred pounds, with a massive head and large jaws. The crushing power in those jaws would be tremendous. The dog appeared to have some German shepherd in him, as well as perhaps some boxer. His ears were pure hound dog. He was solid, with powerful legs. A thick neck.
But it was his eyes that fascinated Sam. One was light blue, the other one was a yellow-gold color. Sam wondered if the dog was blind in his pale eye, as is so often the case. He tested the animal. The pale eye seemed to be normal.
Sam turned around and looked back. Little Sam was awake, sitting up on the backseat, looking at his father and the dog.
"You like him, Sam?" his father asked.
The boy smiled and nodded his head.
"I wonder if he has fleas?" Sam muttered.
"I doubt it," Nydia said, a touch of the mysterious in her voice.
"Dog!" Little Sam said, his voice filled with excitement. "Dog!"
"I guess that's what we'll call him," his father said.
Sam looked more closely at the big dog. No collar.
"That you can see." Nydia spoke softly.
When they first met, it startled Sam to have her read his mind. Now he paid very little attention to it. And since sometimes he did not know the true meaning behind her words—as now—Sam elected to remain silent.
The sky began to swiftly darken, announcing the forming of a savage prairie storm. Thunder rumbled around them and lightning lashed the heavens, seeking introduction with the earth.
Not God's earth, Sam thought. For he knew only too well—firsthand—that while God ruled the Heavens, the galaxies, Satan roamed the earth, ruling it from time to time.
Dog looked up at the dark sky and growled deep in his throat, baring his wet fangs at the lightning.
Little Sam, now in his fourth year, laughed at the approaching storm.
It was still unclear to mother and father exactly what power the boy possessed … Good, or Bad.
Both felt the boy was on the side of Good, for he had exhibited signs to that effect.
But neither could be certain. They would have to wait. Wait.
The winds began to howl, screaming over the sand hills and ripping the hot air, but not cooling it. The air became hotter, and with it came a foul, evil-smelling, putrid odor. The odor assailed the nostrils of all who smelled it.
Dog sneezed and growled.
Sam looked around him, sudden realization touching him with a numbing sensation.
They were parked in the middle of what used to be Whitfield.
He said as much to Nydia.
''Yes," she replied. "I know. I can feel Dad's presence."
"Yes. But he is far away."
Dog growled and turned his big head, looking at Sam.
"Sam?" Nydia said. "Let's go."
"Are you afraid?" her husband asked.
"No. But I know where they are."
Strength filled the young man. He rose to his feet just as the first hot, stinking drops of rain began pelting the barren earth. He opened the door and Dog jumped onto the backseat, lying down beside Little Sam.
Sam slid behind the wheel and turned around. "Where, Nydia?"
Her eyes were closed and her brow furrowed in deep thought. Sweat streaked her face. Sam remained silent, for he had seen her like this before.
The storm battered the car. The winds shrieked in a familiar language to those whose lives were dedicated to fighting evil.
Sam looked back at Little Sam and Dog. The boy was patting the huge head of the animal. Dog opened his eyes and gazed into the dark eyes of the boy. Something invisible moved between them; some … understanding, Sam felt.
Sam took his foot off the brake and the car moved forward slowly.
"They're waiting, Sam," Nydia said. "They are firmly entrenched and waiting for us."
"What do you see, Nydia?"
He was suddenly aware of Dog sitting up on the backseat, his big head resting on the back of the front seat, his mismatched eyes studying Nydia.
"Cold unblinking eyes," she said, her voice husky.
"What is behind those eyes, Nydia?"
"I don't know. Yet."
"Which way, Nydia?"
"I see cypress trees and Spanish moss. Lazy streams. No. Bayous. It's very hot. The people are friendly and open."
"Bayous? Louisiana?"
"Yes."
"What else, Nydia?"
She opened her eyes and turned her head, looking at Sam. "Black magic."
2
The town of Becancour lay just to the north of the center of the state, and a bit to the east of the geographical center of Louisiana. Here is where the Cajun influence really took hold, in speech and music and philosophy.
And in Becancour was where the Dark One had chosen to face his old enemy: God.
Becancour lay off the beaten path; no roads ran east and west. A state road ran north and south, connecting some twenty miles later with Highway 28 to the north, and absolutely, positively nothing to the south.
Except swamps.
Dark, deep, foreboding swamps.
And the population number of Becancour was to some people … well, odd.
Odd, that it never seemed to change. It had not changed in the last six years. It remained a constant. When someone was born, someone either died, or moved away. When dying came first, someone either moved in, or was born.
Odd.
But since Becancour was so far off the beaten path, that little oddity never came to anyone's attention.
Until it was too late.
Such a pretty little town, it was said by those few who visited Becancour.
Sure was.
And the people were so friendly.
Sure were.
But there weren't many dogs, though.
Nope.
Sure were a lot of cats, though.
Yep.
A lot of cats.
"Sure is hot," Thelma Lovern remarked to her husband.
"Sure is," Frank agreed. "And it's so damned early in the season, too."
Frank and Thelma owned the local motel. It didn't have a name. Just MOTEL.
They also owned the cafe adjoining the motel. The cafe didn't have a name, either. Just EATS.
"Reckon we'll get some tourists in this season, Mother," Frank said.
"I'm sure we will, Frank," Thelma agreed.
Neither one of them believed it. Any tourist who came to Becancour was either hopelessly lost or drunk. Or both.
Frank and Thelma had owned the motel and cafe for twenty years. They made a living, and that was about it.
"Sure is hot," Thelma said.
<
br /> "Sure is," Frank agreed. If she says that one more time, Frank thought, I'm gonna kill the bitch!
Across the street, at the most popular bar in town, Lula's Love-Inn, Lula Magee was unlocking the front door to let in her clean-up man, Jules Nahan. Lula noticed that Jules looked even worse than he normally looked. She commented on that.
"I hate cats, Lula. I hate them worse than I do a cottonmouth. And this town is full of 'em. Where the hell did they all come from?"
"I don't know, Jules. But calm down. You need a drink."
"Damn shore do."
She gave him a beer and a broom. "I'll be in my office, Jules."
Jules sat down to rest before work.
Down the street, Chief of Police Sonny Passon sat in his office and stared at Deputy Don Lenoir. He opened his mouth to speak, closed it, then finally blurted, "Would you mind saying that again, Don?"
Don repeated it.
The chief shook his head. "Don, now I know you went off to college and got you a fancy degree in law enforcement, then you done a hitch in the Marines. I know you're a bright young man. You been all over the world and seen a lot. But, Don, don't come in here talkin' a bunch of shit to me! It's too damn hot for jokes."
"I'm not joking, Sonny," the deputy said.
Since Becancour was so far away from anything in the parish, a deputy was stationed there on a permanent basis.
And nobody wanted to be that deputy, 'cause nothing ever happened in Becancour.
Old Man Jobert sometimes dipped too deep into his muscadine wine, dressed up in his French Foreign Legion uniform, and marched through the streets of Becancour, singing "La Boudin" at the top of his lungs. But Jobert never gave the arresting officer any problems. Just slept it off in an unlocked cell.
Sometimes the local good ol' boys got rowdy in Lula's Love-Inn, but Sonny Passon's patrolmen, and one patrol woman, were very adept at handling rowdy good ol' boys. More than one good ol' boy around Becancour had bumps and scars on his noggin from tangling with the Becancour city police. Especially when one good oP boy grabbed patrolwoman Rita Dantin by the tit and shouted, "Grand teton! Teter, s'il vous plait?"
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