The Devil's Heart

by William W. Johnstone

  "Some friends of my parents'," Nydia said.

  "Mr. Falcon is taking me horseback riding this afternoon," Lana said. "Going to show me the country. I bet it's just beautiful."

  And I'll bet that's not all he's going to show you, Sam thought. He wondered how to tell her of what fate awaited her.

  "You will not." The voice filled his head. "Neither of them."

  Why? Sam silently flung the question to the unknown being or beings that seemed to hover invisibly around the estate.

  And the voice came to him: "They were raised in the church and have been washed in the blood. They know their true God. The choice is theirs to make. There is nothing you can or will do."

  "I don't understand," Sam said, projecting his reply. "But I will do what you say. Whoever you are."

  Sam was very conscious of Nydia's eyes on him, unspoken questions in them. He projected: "Later."

  "What are you two going to do this afternoon?" Linda asked Nydia.

  "Read, relax, maybe take a walk. Would you and Judy like to join us?"

  "Oh, I'd just love it!" Linda replied. "I … don't take this the wrong way … I just can't seem to get close to the others. You know what I mean?"

  "I know the feeling," Sam said dryly. He looked at Judy. "How about you?"

  The look in her eyes chilled the young man. The look was vacant, not of this earth. And he knew, somehow, she was gone from this world, his faith, his help.

  "She is beyond help," the voice rang in his head. "She is one of them. Her thoughts have never been pure, although she pretended they were to others around her. She has denied her God many times. She is gone. Gone beyond our help."

  "I'll find something to do," Judy said. She abruptly rose from the table and walked out of the dining area.

  "She's changed," Linda said. "Changed so drastically in just a few hours."

  "Oh, that's just your imagination working overtime," Lana said. "Maybe she's worried about something, or just tired." She hurriedly ate her breakfast and dropped her napkin beside her plate. "Well … gotta go. Mr. Falcon's waiting. See you kids later." Then she was gone.

  Linda looked first at Nydia, then at Sam. She put her hand on Sam's arm. "Don't leave me alone in this house," she pleaded. "I mean it. Something is going on around here that's … I don't know … just don't leave me alone. Please?"

  "Okay," Sam said. "You stick with us."

  But preoccupied as he was with the seemingly impossible task that stretched before him, some of it still vague in his mind, Sam did not see Nydia's eyes narrow in suspicion, her dark eyes flitting across Linda's face, as the young woman slowly removed her hand from Sam's arm.

  In Whitfield, the crowds began to gather in front of Miles' home in early afternoon. Anita and Doris tried to ignore them; Miles stood guard by the picture window, a shotgun across his lap; Wade totally ignored the silent crowd, writing furiously in a note pad. The pad would soon join the growing pile of legal tablets on the floor beside his chair.

  "Maybe somebody will read them," he had explained.

  "Those insane people out there," Miles jerked his white-maned head. "Those … Satanists, they don't bother you?"

  "Not as much as your chattering does, old friend," the aging newspaper editor smiled, not looking up from his frantic scribblings.

  Miles looked at his wife, looking at him. "Doris, do I chatter? Me?"

  "Like a squirrel," she replied.

  "Some friends I got," Miles groused, rising from the chair. "I think I'll go sit with the golem." He walked out onto the porch. "Hershel, you want some company?"

  The Clay Man looked at him, nothing on his expressionless face. He pointed to the door that led back into the house.

  "You don't want my company, either?"

  The golem continued his pointing.

  "Wonderful," Miles said. "I'm in such demand. I made you, you know?" he said to the huge Clay Man.

  The golem shook his head.

  "I didn't make you? My hands ached for a month after digging all that clay from the riverbank. Now you're telling me I didn't make you?"

  The golem rose from the steps and lumbered toward Miles, towering over him by several feet. He turned him as one might turn a paper doll and gave Miles a gentle shove toward the door.

  "You don't have to get physical," Miles complained. "I get the point already."

  The golem shook his head, pointed to the shotgun leaning in the corner by the front door, and then pointed to the back of the house.

  Miles' face brightened. "Oh! You want me to guard the rear of the house?"

  The huge gray man nodded solemnly.

  "Wade, too?"

  Again, the nod.

  "You're a good man … ah, thing, Hershel. I like you. You don't carry on a conversation worth spit, but I like you. And," he looked up at the expressionless face, "for all of us, I thank you."

  The golem looked upward, toward the Heavens.

  "Thank Him? Oh, I have, Hershel. A hundred times each day."

  The golem nodded and walked back to the steps, slowly sitting down, his massive arms dangling by his side, daring anyone to enter the territory he was given life to protect.

  Wade was on his feet, shotgun in hand, when Miles reentered the house. "You heard?" Miles asked.

  "The golem is smart," Wade said. "To think about the rear of the house."

  "Smart?" Miles looked startled. "How can he be smart? He don't have a brain. He's clay, from the river outside of town, and that's dry half the time."

  "He's smart in ways we won't ever understand," the editor insisted. "You may have molded him, old friend, but the Almighty breathed life into him."

  Miles smiled. "Least I get credit for something."

  "This is going to be the most difficult part, isn't it, Sam?" Jane Ann asked. "The waiting, I mean?"

  "You've asked me that before. No. I told you: the most difficult part lies near the end. And you are not prepared to face it. Not yet."

  She smiled, and she was beautiful. "I try not to think about it."

  "It's time you did; time you began preparing. Get my Bible."

  She walked to the table, picking up Balon's Bible. "You want me to read the twenty-third psalm?"

  Balon smiled through his mist, projecting: "Never anticipate a command."

  "Yes, Sergeant."

  "Read psalm three. Read how the Lord will sustain you. Read it again and again until you know it by heart."

  She sat with head bowed, reading aloud, again and again.

  Finally, Balon said: "Now read psalms five and twenty."

  She read and reread those, then looked at the mist.

  "Now the twenty-third," he told her.

  Then he had her read 46 and 90, and of the 119th, she read Nun.

  Balon thrust: "Now read them again and again. Take comfort and keep the faith as you do so, for His words will sustain you."

  She looked at the mist that was all she had ever loved on this earth and said, "I love you, Sam Balon."

  "Read!"

  "Isn't this lovely, my dear?" Falcon asked. "I find it so mentally refreshing to ride through all of nature's beauty."

  "It is beautiful," Lana replied. "I feel … so peaceful here." She smiled at him. "And I'm glad I'm with you, Mr. Falcon."

  "Thank you, dear. But just Falcon, please. I am too conscious of the differences in our ages as it is."

  "Oh, that's silly, Falcon. You're the most handsome man I've ever met. Would you be offended if I asked a personal question?"

  Would you be offended if I shoved this cock of mine in your pussy? Falcon thought. He smiled, riding behind her. And then in your mouth and up your ass? "Of course not, dear."

  "Well," she turned to smile at him, "how … ah … old are you, Falcon?"

  Four hundred and seventy-seven, he thought smiling. Or was it four hundred and seventy-eight? "I am forty-eight years old, dear."

  She twisted her lovely ass in the saddle and said, "Oh, that's young, Falcon!"

  "
Really? I'm glad you think so, dear. Now I have a confession to make: I'm sorry I'm married. For if I were a single man, I'd ask you out."

  With her back to him, riding just a few feet in front, Lana said, "What does married have to do with anything?"

  Falcon smiled. It never varies, he mused. The dialogue is as old as time. From the grunting of the cave people to the causerie of modern humankind. The language varies from country to country, but the nuances remain the same. "Take the trail to your left, Lana. There is something I want to show you." Other than what is between my legs.

  "Where are we going?" she asked, no alarm in her voice.

  "A private place of mine. I had it built some years ago. It's a place I use to get away from it all; to be alone."

  "I'll bet it's lovely and lonely."

  "And very private."

  "Good. It's getting crowded back at the house."

  Not nearly as crowded as your cunt will soon be. "I felt the same, Lana. One of the reasons I asked you to come with me." Which you will soon be doing.

  A mile farther and the cabin came into view: a picture-postcard dwelling; an idyllic setting for romance.

  A perfect locale for evil.

  "Oh, Falcon, it's so lovely!" She twisted and smiled at him, the push of her full breasts against the buckskin jacket he had found for her arousing him, bringing almost to the surface the brute heat and endless depravity that constantly lay smoldering within him, just beneath the surface.

  "Yes." His words were soft. "It is. But not nearly as lovely as you." How many times have I said that?

  "You're just saying that."

  "No, dear. I mean it. I like to be with you." He dismounted, loosening the cinch and looping the reins around a hitch post. He helped her from the saddle, and she deliberately rubbed against him, her hands lingering on his shoulders just a bit longer than necessary, her loins pushing against his crotch.

  With her hands on his narrow waist, she asked, "Why do you like to be with me, Falcon? I mean, you have everything: wealth, charm . . . everything anyone could ask for."

  "Everything except a loving wife."

  "Oh, Falcon. But … Roma seems so … how do I say it? So … sexy."

  "Outwardly, my dear. All that is but a show." He inwardly grimaced. This dialogue is maddeningly droll. Soap stuff. "She has not been a wife to me in years."

  "That's so sad."

  He pulled away from her and loosened the cinch on her horse, securing the reins.

  "Why did you just pull away from me?"

  "Because I did not wish you to get the wrong impression of me. I did not bring you up here to pour out my troubles or to seduce you. I like your company, and thought you might like to see my private hiding place. You're so lovely … I'm … afraid of my emotions."

  Someday, Falcon thought, I must ask the Master to allow me to pursue a career in writing. Then he remembered he already had: back in the eighteenth century.

  She walked to him, putting a small, soft hand on his arm. "There's no need to be afraid, Falcon. I know what it's like to want somebody; what it's like to be lonely."

  He looked down at her, his smile sad and seemingly so very bittersweet. Falcon, he thought, you are a perfect son of a bitch. The tragic look on his face hid the evil that lay behind his obsidian eyes. "I have some truly excellent brandy inside, Lana. Shall we have a drink before we start back?"

  She smiled. "We don't have to start back anytime soon, do we? After all, Falcon, we have all afternoon to … do whatever we choose."

  "That's so true," he replied, and pushed open the door to Hell.

  FOURTEEN

  Somewhere in the depths of the great house, a thin wailing began. It could not be heard constantly, but rather only the high peaks of agony and fear, the thinnest shriekings at the zenith of pain.

  "Can't you do something?" Nydia asked.

  They were in Sam's room, Linda napping just across the hall, the door to her room slightly ajar.

  "What would you have me do?" Sam asked. "I don't even know where the kids are being held. I can't go prowling, I'd be stopped before I got started. That's what your mother wants, honey. Me to start trouble."

  "She isn't my mother," Nydia said. "And I will never again think of her as such. And don't you."

  The awful wailing ceased abruptly, ending on a note of pain and terror.

  "Maybe it's over?" Nydia suggested, a hopeful tone to her question.

  "It's just begun," Sam said, shattering any illusions she might have had.

  "What are they doing to her?"

  "Use your imagination," he said flatly. "I'm sure you'll come up with something."

  "The young girl mot … that bitch talked about at breakfast—the twelve- or thirteen-year-old?"

  "I'm sure."

  The screaming began anew.

  Then Nydia asked the question Sam was dreading to hear, but knowing it was coming. "If your God—our God—is such a just God, why is He allowing this to happen?"

  "I can't answer that question, Nydia. I don't believe any mortal could give you a satisfactory reply to that, and I'm equally certain it's been asked ten million times a day, since the beginnings of religion."

  She looked at him, with Sam very much aware of the heat in her eyes, and the heat did not come from just her anger at what was happening somewhere in the mansion.

  "No, Nydia," he said quietly.

  "I love you, Sam."

  "And I love you. But the answer is still no."

  "What am I supposed to do?"

  "Take a cold shower."

  "I don't want to take a cold shower. I want you. What would be the harm?"

  The words roared into Sam's head: "And when woman saw that the tree was good for food, and that it was pleasant to the eyes, and a tree to be desired to make one wise, she took of the fruit thereof, and did eat, and gave also unto her husband with her; and he did eat."

  "Can't you see what's happening, Nydia? You're being tempted. The Dark One is everywhere in this house; in every room, in every object. Fight it."

  "Sam!" she moaned. "I want you to fuck me!"

  "Fight it!"

  She came to him, tearing off her shirt, ripping the garment from her. She tore off her bra and grabbed at his hands, placing them on her breasts, the nipples hard against his palms. She held his hands there, as she worked her loins against him. "Don't you want me, Sam? Please. Let me suck you, Sam. I want to take you in my mouth.

  I …"

  He slapped her, slapped her open-handed, rocking her head back. He brought his hand back across her face, backhanding her, stunning her. A tiny drop of blood appeared on her mouth, where a lip had smashed against a tooth.

  He laid her across the bed and ran to the bathroom for a wet towel. There was a strange roaring in his head, as visions so erotic they startled him began playing against the forces of good that reared up within him. Pictures of Nydia with her naked legs spread wide, her lushness open, waiting to receive him. Her hands worked at her erect nipples, pinching them, with her begging him to hurt her, bite her, fuck her.

  Sam slammed a hard fist against the bathroom wall as the eroticism grew stronger, battling in his mind. A technicolor picture of him with his face pressed against her mons veneris, tonguing her into incredible wetness, while her hands wormed over his naked body. And then an invisible force slammed him against the wall, holding him immobile as the scenes of carnality grew wilder: Nydia with her long black hair fanned out over his belly, his penis in her mouth, her fingers caressing him as her tongue worked at his stiffness.

  "Sam!" Nydia called from the bed, and he forced his head to turn and his eyes to open at her cries. "Oh, God, Sam—help me!"

  She lay with her jeans wadded around one ankle, her panties ripped from her. Her fingers were busy between her legs, working in and out of the dark wetness.

  Summoning all his strength, Sam pushed away from the wall and staggered into the bedroom, a wet towel in his hand. He washed Nydia with the cold, dripping towel, one
hand forcing her fingers from her womanhood.

  Her eyes were wild as she fought him, and she was strong in her fury, lashing out at him. When she found he was winning physically, she changed tactics, under the commands of a Master over which she had no control. She softened under him, her hands at her side, letting Sam gently bathe her nakedness with the cold, wet towel. She lifted one hand, placing the palm against his cheek.

  "I'm sorry, Sam. I don't know what came over me."

  "The Devil was tempting you. It's all right, now. It's over."

  She slipped her hand from his face to his neck, gently drawing his mouth to hers, finding no resistance as their lips touched. Slyly, she slipped her tongue between his lips, working hotly into his mouth, and finding him responding to her.

  Sam's hands found her breasts, caressing them. His hand slipped downward, to part her legs, to enter the wetness of woman ready.

  Then, from the deep well within her, good burst forth, for the moment overpowering evil. She harshly pushed him away. "No, Sam. Get away. It's not over—can't you see?"

  Almost violently, he pulled away from her nakedness. She covered herself with a sheet. "Read to me from the Bible, Sam," she hissed the request through clenched teeth. "Read to me."

  Fighting back passions suddenly unleashed within him, emotions so wild and hot Sam was filled with fear, he grabbed for the Bible and flung it open.

  "Read to me!" she screamed.

  The book had opened to the General Epistle of James, and it seemed at first to be an odd place to begin. But as Sam read, a smile came to his lips as the text began unfolding on the source of temptation. Gradually, Nydia's breathing slowed and she rose from the bed and dressed, asking Sam to reread that passage about temptation. He did, and felt the room suddenly clear of all that is dark and foul and evil.

  "It's over," Nydia said. "I can feel it, can't you?"

  "Yes." Sam closed the Bible.

  "I suppose we can expect more of the same?"

  "Until Thursday night, at least."

  She looked at him.

  "That's when it'll really get rough," he explained.

  She glanced at the still ajar bedroom door. "Linda didn't wake up, and we got pretty loud."