The Devil's Heart

by William W. Johnstone

  "That son-of-a-bitch!" Falcon cursed him, all the while feeling admiration for the young warrior. "By all that is unholy, why couldn't Black have turned out like him?"

  "Because young Black is a schemer and a plotter, sir," Jimmy said.

  Falcon turned deathlike eyes on the man. "You know something I need to know, Perkins?"

  "He plots against you, Master. With some of the younger members. I heard them talking. I was listening and they did not see me."

  "What did they say, Jimmy?"

  "Young Black said—told them—he had been in communication with our True Master, and the Master had said young Black could have the Coven should you fail."

  "Thank you, Jimmy. Thank you very much. For once your snooping and spying was of service. I have a task for you: go to Roma's quarters. Put her in the center room that is free of windows. She must be protected at all times."

  "She is with Demon child, sir?"

  "Yes, yes," he said impatiently. "Then, Jimmy, as a reward for your information, tell Judy to come to me. I will instruct her that you are to have her at any time you wish."

  "Thank you, Master," Jimmy drooled, the slobber dripping in slick ropes to the floor. "You are kind."

  "Yes, yes. Now get moving, you cretin." Falcon stood arrogantly at the open window, waving at the ridge where Sam lay sniping. He felt the tug of the lead as it passed through his body. He howled with dark laughter, making an obscene gesture toward the ridge.

  Sam watched Falcon through the scope on the .338. The young man was a qualified sniper, having shot for qualification at more than a thousand meters. He knew perfectly well if the weapon was adequate and sighted in. Using the right ammunition—which he was—he could hit anything he could see. And he knew he had hit Falcon.

  "Sure, dummy!" he berated himself. "Don't you remember all those monster movies? You can't kill a vampire with anything other than a stake through the heart or a silver bullet, and I sure don't have any silver bullets." There on the wind-swept ridge, cold in the winter sun, Sam chuckled, then wondered about his sanity, laughing at a time like this. "Where are you, Lone Ranger, now that I need you?"

  He again laughed. "That's me, a lone Ranger." He shook his head, wondering if the stress was getting to him?

  No, he thought. No, it's just like my instructor said about me, back at Fort Benning. "The kid is a natural-born killer."

  The remark had gotten back to Sam, and the young man had accepted it. He knew he was different from most; knew that, discovering it early, 'way back in grade school, when an older, larger boy had jumped him for no reason other than the bigger boy was a bully. Sam had picked up a club and bopped the bully on the side of the head with it, dropping him like a felled tree. "He started it," Sam told the principal. "I don't believe in fair fights. I believe there is a winner and a loser … and he lost."

  "You're not sorry for what you've done?" the principal questioned. "The boy is in the hospital with a fractured skull."

  "No, I'm not sorry. That's his problem."

  Sam had taken his licking from the principal without flinching. But he thought it unfair, and told his parents his thoughts.

  "Just like his father," Tony had snorted, then walked from the room.

  That was about the time, Sam remembered, lying on the cold, windy ridge, that Tony began to change, young Sam hearing rumors about his stepfather's sexual antics. And that was the time a lot of other people began to slowly change. Sam let his thoughts drift back in spurts, short bursts of remembrance, then back to the present, keeping alert. The ministers began complaining of a lack of attentiveness among many of the churchgoers. Some of the churches closed their doors, others got ministers that Christians whispered about, questioning the men's faith.

  But his mother had told him, "Just watch your temper, Sam. You're a lot like your father, Sam Balon."

  "Is that good or bad?" Sam had asked his mother.

  She had smiled, and Sam remembered how pretty she was. "Oh, honey—I think it's wonderful."

  Sam pulled his attentions back to the present and chambered a round in the .338. He would have to move just at dusk, changing positions, for he knew they would be sending people in after him. Then he smiled. He'd have a nice surprise waiting for them.

  He slipped from the ridge and set about cutting off small limbs, sharpening them. He whistled as he worked.

  THURSDAY NIGHT

  The hoarse bellow of pain drifted over the darkness of the land. Again and again the screaming spiked the night. Before the echoes of the first howling had died away, another yowl of pain ripped the gloom cast by the shadows of the tall timber. The line of men stopped and backtracked to the clearing behind the mansion, one running for the huge house, fear hastening his feet.

  "What is all that screaming and howling?" Falcon asked.

  Gulping for air, the Devil-worshiper gasped, "The Christians, sir. He's … put out traps for us. Awful things. Like they used in Vietnam. Punji pits. And he's got swing traps set all over the place; and wire stretched ankle high, too."

  "He has what!"

  "The wire or rope, sir, is stretched tight, ankle high; man trips, falls forward onto sharpened stakes driven in the ground. The swing traps, sir … you take a stick and tie half a dozen smaller, sharpened sticks to it, about six inches apart. Then you bend a limber sapling back and fix your trap with rope or rawhide. Man triggers the trap, the limb pops forward, coming real fast. King's got them rigged stomach high. It's bad, sir. I never seen nothing like it. You told us this would be easy. You said …"

  "All right, all right," Falcon waved him silent. "Stop your babbling and whimpering, man. Get control of yourself. Pull the men back. We won't do anything until morning."

  "No, sir, Mr. Falcon," the man stood his ground, "I'm going to have my say on this."

  Falcon almost sent him scorching his way to Hell, in :he form of a roach, but he held his temper in check. Things were going badly enough without a revolt among the ranks. "Very well—speak."

  "All them monsters and demons and things we helped call out? Well … they're runnin' around like scared chickens. In a blind panic. And do you know why? Well, I'll tell you: 'cause something is after them. There's some … thing out there in the deep timber. I never seen nothing like it in my life."

  Falcon suspected what it was. "What do you mean? Speak more descriptively, man. What kind of … thing?"

  "Well, it ain't human. I don't know what he is. Wears a gown or a robe; carries the biggest sword I ever seen. Damn thing's five feet long—glows. This thing … laughs; and when he does, it thunders. He's killed a hundred or more of them big monsters. The imps are hiding, so are the satyrs. The centaurs have stampeded, whatever those stupid-looking fuckers do. Everybody getting uptight, sir. You gotta do something." Falcon stared the man down, until the frightened Devil-worshiper dropped his eyes. "I shall do something, Karl. But for now, pull your people back to the house. We all need a good night's rest."

  When the man had gone, Falcon allowed himself the first taste of fear, of failure, and it was bitter on his tongue. Ugly. He could understand the fear of the forces in the timber. Even the Beasts had refused to leave their caves. While no mortal could kill Falcon with any conventional weapon, the warrior could. And would. If Falcon was foolish enough to leave the house and go traipsing into the timber. And Falcon dared not call on the Master for more help, for that would be admitting failure, and he would be sent back to the netherworld.

  Oh, how Black must be enjoying this! Falcon's thoughts were foul, his mood savage and bitter. Grist for his cunning, scheming mill.

  Somehow, Falcon mused, I must draw Sam into the house. Once in here, I have a plan, and I will win.

  But how to draw him in?

  Falcon decided to rest on the matter.

  But no one got much rest that night. Every fifteen minutes, on the dot, rifle slugs would pock the house, seeking entrance through the darkened windows. Then Sam would change the timetable, and every five minutes his rifle woul
d roar. And then he would be silent for a half hour. Then firing every minute. One man was hit through the stomach when he recklessly exposed himself in front of a window, light behind him. One young member of the Coven took splinters of wood into his eyes, blinding him. Another was shot through the head as she tried to peek over a windowsill.

  On the ridge above the house, Sam smiled grimly, knowing full well the nerve-rattling psychological game he was playing.

  In the deep timber, the once tranquil forest floor began to resemble a bloody, stinking battlefield as the Warrior wielded his mighty flashing sword as if God's fury was controlling each devastating swing of the blade.

  The creatures of the evil calling were running and flapping and scurrying and lumbering and galloping in all directions, fleeing the awesome sword in the hands of the warrior they knew they could not best.

  The mightiest of all God's warriors strode through the forest, shouting in a voice only the godless could hear. He roared at them to stand and fight; he insulted their courage with oaths that made God cringe in the firmament, thinking: I will have to speak to the old warrior about that … again.

  The warrior rained down slurs upon the od forces' master. But still they ran in fear. Roaring his rage, the sky thundering from the echo of the mighty voice, the warrior stamped the evil life from the rats that scampered in fright beneath his great feet; the bats swirled overhead, screeching their fear, not understanding this manner of man who roared at them, disturbing their inner radar, causing many to slam into trees. Those that were left went flapping back to the warp in time that had allowed them entrance to this place.

  And when the forest was quiet, rid, for the most part, of the forces of the netherworld, the old warrior rested, quite pleased with his work this night.

  He did so enjoy a good fight.

  FRIDAY MORNING

  Sam catnapped from four in the morning until the first red streaks of dawn filtered through the timber. He cautiously moved a mile from his resting place before he squatted down and ate a sandwich Nydia had fixed him, washing it down with cold water from his canteen. With that in his stomach to soften the blow of the diet pill, Sam took one of Nydia's amphetamines, knowing he had to be alert, and knowing he had not had the rest to maintain the vigil he must keep … in order to stay alive and win this fight.

  He smiled at the carnage that lay on the soft blanket that was the forest floor. The warrior had indeed meant his words when he said he was going to destroy the Devil's spawn.

  Sam inspected the dead creatures, and found them to be as hideous in death as they were in life. So there was some truth to what is mistakenly called mythology, he concluded. The scientists and the professors and the arrogant atheists aren't as wise as they profess to be.

  "So what else is new?" he muttered.

  He left the dead ugliness of the Devil to rot and made his way back to a ridge, this one on the east side of the huge mansion. It was by far the best vantage point he'd found, for his shooting distance was shorter, and he would be able to see if anyone tried to slip from the house and circle around behind him.

  Smiling, he noticed a bell hanging from the rear of the house. Nydia had said it was very old, an antique her mother had picked up in Europe—Holland, she'd said. Sam jacked a round into the heavy, .460, braced himself for the recoil, and sighted in the bell. "Ring my bell," he muttered, then gently squeezed the trigger, allowing the weapon to fire itself.

  The bell clanged, then jumped from its bracings, blown from the brackets by the force of the heavy slug. But the men and women of the Coven, trapped inside the mansion, were ready for Sam this time. From every window came an answering volley of shots, forcing Sam to scamper back below the lip of the ridge. He crawled to the slight protection of a small clump of trees and carefully eased his way forward, until he could see the house. He sighted in one man, firing from the third floor, and eased the trigger back. The butt pounded his shoulder. But Sam had been shooting downhill, the scope adjusted for that angle, and his shot was high, not catching the man in the chest, but in the throat, almost decapitating the Coven. The .460 slug flung the man backward, his bubbling scream cut off before it could reach his lips.

  Sliding backward, Sam changed positions, running several hundred feet before dropping to the earth and easing his way up to the crest of the ridge.

  He spent the morning harassing those in the mansion, but taking no great personal risk in doing so. He knew he would have to go inside the mansion, and he was not looking forward to that, for that would put him on Falcon's territory, and the warlock would then have the advantage. But as long as he could, Sam intended to cut the odds … down, at least make it fifty/fifty, even-up, the scales tilting in no one's direction.

  NOON, FRIDAY

  Jane Ann heard the clock chime its chilling message. Noon. Odd, she thought, I've always loved that old clock. Now, I hate it. Then from the outside, she heard a low chanting coming from the center of the small, doomed town, growing stronger and louder with each heartbeat. 5he listened until she could make out the words.

  "Praise him that is our Master," they chanted. "Now the Christian whore dies. Praise the Hooved One."

  The chant was repeated, over and over, until it became a maddened drone in Jane Ann's head. She looked for the mist that was Balon, and was not surprised to find him gone. He had warned her she would have to face some of he ordeal alone. She stood up, moving to the front door. She had taken a long hot bath, fixed her hair, and done her nails. She had put on her best dress, her best jewelry, and now stood facing the door, her Bible in her hand.

  Waiting.

  "Why does this have to be?" Miles asked the misty face of Balon.

  The mist stirred but projected no reply. "I will, if not gladly, certainly willingly take her place," Wade said. "And I know I speak for all here, we've all talked about it."

  "That cannot be."

  "Why, for God's sake?" Anita asked.

  "Precisely the reason."

  "Sam, you're speaking in riddles," Miles accused him.

  "No. You are perceiving them as puzzles, that's all."

  "She's dying for us, isn't she, Sam?" Doris asked.

  "Yes."

  "But there is more to it than that, isn't there, Sam?" Wade asked.

  "Yes."

  "She's dying for you, isn't she, Sam?" Miles' words were softly spoken, and not accusatory.

  When Balon thrust his reply, the one word was charged with emotion: "Yes!"

  The long filthy line of Satanists stopped in front of the house. The chanting ceased. The town grew quiet.

  "Hey, bitch!" a man's husky voice called. "Get your ass out of that house. It's your time."

  "Yeah," another called. "And you might as well step out of them panties 'fore you do, 'cause you gonna be out of them damn quick."

  Ugly laughter rang in Jane Ann's ears.

  The petite lady stepped out of her house, onto the porch, facing the ugly crowd. She was jerked from the porch, seized by dirty, rough hands, manhandled profanely. As if envious of her neat appearance, a woman reached out and quickly mussed her hair. Hard male hands roamed over her body.

  "Take her to the circle of stones," Jean Zagone commanded. "The Digging." She stood in front of Jane Ann, hate shining from her dark eyes. She spat in Jane Ann's face, the spittle dripping from the smaller woman's cheek. "It's going to be fun listening to you beg, Christian cunt."

  Jane Ann's reply was calm. "That will never happen. I can't say I won't scream. But I can assure you, with the Love of God in my heart, I will never beg."

  Jean slapped her, her hard hand rocking the woman backward. "Take her."

  Laying on the ridge facing the house, something very cold touched Sam's heart. His big hands gripped the rifle until his fingers ached from the strain. "Mother," he whispered.

  The scene in Whitfield was suddenly played before his eves, a five-second burst of reality. Then it vanished as quickly as it had appeared.

  Sam put his forehead on the ground
and allowed himself the denied luxury of tears.

  A rifle shot from the house, spitting dirt onto his face, brought him back to his own reality.

  The young man cut his eyes upward. "I guess You have Your reasons."

  She wondered how long she had been here. Wondered if it was hours, or days. Another man fell on her bruised nakedness, spreading her legs, forcing his way into her, grunting his dubious pleasure as he worked in and out of her. Jane Ann had learned early on that to fight them only meant more pain, with the end result being the same. Better not to resist.

  She opened her eyes, watching the last of the sun's rays fade in colors beyond the western horizon. She'd stopped counting the men assaulting her when she reached twenty, and there had been many more after that.

  Jake, Jean Zagone's foreman, had been the first, and he had been furious when she did not cry out as he assaulted her.

  "Come on, bitch!" he had yelled, plunging his maleness into her. "I bet you ain't never had this much meat before."

  And she had made a mistake by saying, "My first husband was bigger."

  That had gotten her a hard fist on the jaw.

  Jake had then proceeded to tell her—in great detail, with many four-letter words—what he would do to make her beg … later. This was bad enough, Jane Ann thought; she was not at all looking forward to Jake's promise.

  The man lunging at her shivered as he ejaculated, and she felt the wetness of him on her thighs, and then the coolness of approaching night fanned her nakedness. Still abnormally warm for this time of year, she thought, then fought to keep a smile from her lips. How ludicrous, she thought. I am lying here on the ground, naked and sore from the assault of … only God knows how many men, wondering what is next for me, and thinking about the weather. I must be going insane.

  But she knew she was not losing her mind; knew she had been, as so many prolonged rape victims, learning to detach herself from reality.

  She was left alone for a time, lying on the ground next to the dark altar. Someone tossed a stinking rag of a blanket over her, and she closed her eyes.