Devil's Kiss d-1

by William W. Johnstone

  "We don't have much time," Dubois said. "We've got to rally those we know we can trust."

  "I know something I can do," Lucas muttered.

  "Good Lord!" Wade blurted, staring at the men. Miles sat on the couch, eyes numb with shock and disbelief and confusion. "You're all behaving as though we can't do anything. I mean—" he let the words trail off into silence. "Miles?"

  The Jew shook his head. "Don't ask me what we can do, Wade. I don't know."

  Dubois put his hand on the editor's shoulder. "What can we do, son? Go to the authorities? And tell them what? That the devil is working Black Magic in Whitfield? That almost the entire town is possessed? Think about that. I can just see us now, being quietly but firmly escorted to the state mental hospital. And if we prove the notice did not run in your paper—so what? That will just delay things for a time. Besides, son, I have my doubts that any of us would be allowed to leave Whitfield." He looked at Sam. "Have you attempted to call outside the town today?"

  "No, I haven't."

  "We're back to 'number, please,' again. They say the dial is not working. Won't be for some time.

  "Our calls are being monitored, then?" Miles asked.

  "I would think so, son," Dubois replied. He turned back to Wade. "Son, the devil is no stranger to patience; all he has to do is pull back for a time. A year, ten years, a hundred years. Time means nothing to him. A hundred years is the blinking of an eye."

  "Then—what do we do?"

  "Nothing, for a time. Keep quiet. We don't know who we can trust. Whitfield is a giant Coven."

  "There are some we can trust?" Sam asked, a hopeful note in his voice.

  "Yes," Dubois said. "A few. A pitifully few. I believe Satan has tried to touch them, and they refused him. They know him, they've met him, and they have rejected him. They don't know they have—but they have."

  "And they are—?" Wade asked.

  "You and your wife. Jane Ann Burke. Peter Canford. Chester and Faye. Miles and Doris. Glen," he indicated the Episcopal priest, "Lucas, Sam, Tony, Jimmy Perkins, I'm sure, and me."

  "Fourteen people," Sam said, shaking his head. "Of the more than twenty-five hundred people of Whitfield, more than two thousand were active in their church. Our survey proved that."

  "Most people are weak, Sam—you know that. They're followers, not leaders. Those who do not take an active part in the worshipping of Satan will remain passive, doing nothing. They will not really know what is going on around them—they will simply follow. The devil's hand has touched them, touched their hearts, their minds, blocking out all he does not wish them to see. They will go about their business, seeing nothing, until it is too late."

  "And—then?" Sam questioned.

  Dubois shrugged. "The Undead, probably."

  "THE UNDEAD!" Wade almost shouted the words.

  "They are his already," Dubois said. "They just don't realize it. They will do what the devil bids them to do."

  Miles sighed audibly, shaking his head.

  "I wouldn't ask you to go against your religion, Miles," Dubois said. "I wouldn't—believe me. Call whatever is happening in this town by any name you choose. But keep your strong faith in God; that is what's protecting you and your wife."

  Miles slowly nodded. "Thank you."

  "Satan has us in a nice little box," Sam said. "Doesn't he?"

  "Yes," Dubois smiled. "Yes, he does. But he can't nail the lid on the box as long as we're alive. He planned this very carefully, around us."

  "The Undead?" Wade was stuck on the word. "You mean like in the movies?"

  "Only this is reality," Lucas said.

  Wade sat down beside Miles. He touched the smaller man on the knee. "Are you convinced, Miles?"

  "I feel like a yoyo," he forced a smile. "Up and down. Back and forth. I'm confused, Wade. And I'm scared. I'm really scared."

  Sam looked first at Dubois, then at Lucas. "I sensed a fatalistic tone in your voices a few moments ago. You two acted as though you know what's in store for you both."

  "Very observant young man, Sam," the old priest smiled. A sad smile as he shook his gray head. "Sam, we're not afraid to die. Both of us are old men; we've both fought him, and in a sense, we've won. Oh, he knows we don't have the strength to fight him again. But he'll get no real pleasure out of killing us. We've given our lives to God. We're ready to go home."

  Sam looked at Lucas. The Methodist nodded. "There is very little either of us can do, Sam. It's up to you young ones. You've got the strength to fight—and to beat him! Oh, you won't kill him. Don't ever delude yourselves on that. God is the only one who can kill him. But you can beat him here in Whitfield." He removed a cross from around his neck, handing it to Wade. "Put it on, son. Don't ever take it off."

  Wade slipped the chain over his head, the cross gleaming dully on his chest. "Committed to the cause, I guess," he quipped.

  "A most reluctant warrior," Miles grinned, his good humor never far from the surface.

  Father Dubois removed his cross. With hands that trembled, from age and emotion, not from fear, he placed it around Sam's neck. "My cardinal gave this to me forty years ago. It alone won't protect you, but if you watch the reaction of those around you, it can tell you something. You're the one, Sam. You're the one who has to rally your forces and beat him."

  "Why me, Michael?"

  "Because you've been chosen, Sam. Don't ask me how I know, I just know."

  Sam removed his own cross, handing it to Miles, startling the Jew. Miles looked at it, a strange glint in his eyes. He shrugged philosophically, then slipped it around his neck. "Well, we Jews believe in luck, so Mazol tov."

  "What's that mean?" Wade asked.

  "Literally, it means Lucky Star, and I think we need all the luck we can get."

  "What do we do now?" Sam looked at Dubois.

  "Watch your backs," the priest replied, holding out his hands. "Let's join hands, gentlemen, and pray."

  Eleven

  Outside the rectory, Miles stood with Sam and Wade. "I'm not fully convinced, Sam," the newspaper man said, "but I'm leaning in your direction. However, I have a suggestion for you—for all of us."

  "I am open."

  "We can gather up our families and run like hell! Get out of this town."

  "I don't believe that would do any good," Miles said, surprising both Wade and Sam. "I agree with Father Dubois, I don't believe they would let us leave. There is this, too: even if we did get away, we'd just be running away from the problem, not solving it." He cut his eyes from man to man. "Without being obvious about it, look across the street."

  The men stole quick, furtive glances about them. They were being watched from all sides. Sonny Moore, Paul Smiley, and a man none of them knew stood about them, watching them.

  Petterson was still hauling his ashes.

  Wade swallowed heavily. "It could be pure coincidence." But there was little conviction in his voice.

  "Want to take a ride just to see if we can leave?" Miles suggested.

  "No!" Sam said. "That's not for me. No one—man, Beast, or Satan is going to run me out of this county."

  Wade looked hard at his minister. "Sam, that sounds like pure bravado to me."

  "No," the minister replied. "No, it's a fight, that's all. I realized that while talking with Lucas and Michael."

  Wade shook his head. "I don't understand, Sam." He shrugged. "But there are lots of things I don't understand."

  "You two go on about your business," Sam told his friends. "Both of you act as normally as possible. I've got some things to do."

  "We'll see you later on this afternoon?" Miles asked.

  "Maybe." And he left them with that.

  "You want to buy a WHAT?" Chester asked, astonished at the request from his minister.

  "That Thompson submachine gun you told me about last year," Sam repeated his request.

  "That's what I thought you said. It's illegal, Sam. You could go to prison for just having it. So could I."

  "Sure.
You could also go to prison for having that Greasegun you keep at your house. Is that .45 caliber spitter a souvenir from World War Two?"

  Chester smiled. "What's going on, Sam? Come on—level with me."

  "Got any coffee?"

  "Always. In the back. Let me lock the front door. I may as well have stayed home today; you're the first customer to walk in."

  "You're being watched, Ches. You know that?"

  "Across the street? Oh, that's just Emery Robinson. He's loafing, that's all. You know him—he's been one of this town's ne'er-do-wells for years."

  "No, Ches," Sam corrected. "He's one of Them."

  Chester turned slowly from his closing and locking of the front door. "One of—Them, Sam?"

  "Let's get that coffee, Ches. I've got a lot to tell you."

  It was early afternoon when Sam finished talking with his friend. He had laid it all out in the open for Chester, then given the man two crosses; one for himself, one for his wife. Before coming to the store, Sam had stopped off at the church, picking up the crosses, blessing them, praying to God for protection and sanction. He had several more in his pocket, for Jane Ann and the others.

  "God in Heaven!" was all Chester could manage to say.

  "Have you seen your children?"

  "No. And I don't wish to see them!"

  Sam almost began a lecture on forgiveness, then held his tongue, remembering his own thoughts about Michelle. It's too late for that, he concluded, not without some bitterness.

  Walking back into the showroom, with all the fishing tackle, guns, knives, and camping equipment, Sam said, "I think it's important for all of us to act as normally as possible. They know we're on to them, but what they don't know is how much."

  The ex-marine was recovering quickly from his initial shock, and his mind was working now on defense. "No use to run?" he looked at his minister. "Is that what you're saying?"

  "That's it—for a number of reasons. Ches, try to speak to Peter sometime today; tell him what I've told you. I'll talk to Jimmy."

  The older man sighed, shuddered, and resigned himself to what Sam had said. He nodded his agreement.

  "After I finish here, Ches, I want you to stock up on a few supplies. Do it quietly; a little today, a few more tomorrow, finish up Monday."

  "Preacher, I was a marine in the Pacific—I went the whole route. You sound as though you want to prepare for a field operation?"

  "That's exactly what I want. You have a lot of surplus C-ration here?"

  "Cases of it."

  "I'll take several cases. Divide the rest between the others. I want blankets, sleeping bags, a couple of pup tents. Wrap that Thompson in one of the blankets. We'll split the .45 caliber ammo. How many rounds do you have?"

  "Enough to refight the battle of Saipan. Sam, you tell me to be careful, yet you're wide open in what you're doing."

  "I want them to see me, friend. I want them to know I know."

  "I don't understand."

  "I don't expect you to, Ches. But I believe he—through Wilder—has tossed the glove down to me. I don't know why: probably never will, but he has. Dubois believes it, too. It's a game to him. But it's life and death for us."

  "Then—They'll be after you?"

  "Not yet. It isn't time."

  "And how do you know that?"

  "I feel it. I think I knew all along—now I'm certain of it. How many clips do you have for that Thompson?"

  "Five. And two sixty round drums."

  "Good. I want them all."

  "I can only assume you've handled a Thompson before?" Chester's tone was dry as he discovered yet another side to his suddenly warlike minister.

  "I carried one in Korea."

  "As a guerrilla fighter?"

  "Yes."

  The combat vet knew there was nothing else left to ask. The two men suddenly knew each other very well.

  While Chester began pulling articles from the shelves, Sam walked through the store, selecting other items, stacking them on the counter, aware he was being watched from the sidewalk. Rope, boots, a hunting knife, a small axe, ammo pouches, canteens, tarps, web belts.

  "Be sure to pick out enough clothing for all of us," Sam reminded his friend. He named those he felt he could trust. "You know their sizes?"

  "I know," Chester replied quietly. "Sonny Moore is watching you."

  "Let him crane his red neck. When I get tired of it, I'll chop it off."

  The man is pure warrior, Chester thought. "What about Michelle? Is there no chance for her?"

  "Let the devil have her!" Sam felt no remorse in saying it. "She's one of Them. I told you how she tried to mark me last night."

  Chester shuddered. "How do we determine who we can trust?"

  "I believe I've named them all. There might be one or two more, but don't count on it."

  "Fourteen people, Sam? Fourteen!"

  "Fifteen, Chester."

  The store owner silently added them. "Who is the fifteenth, Sam?"

  The minister looked at him over the growing mound of supplies. "God."

  Sam was aware of being watched as he loaded his supplies in the back of his truck. On his last trip, Sam smiled at Chester. "Put this on my account, Ches. We'll settle up when—it's all over."

  "It's on the house, Sam. Be careful. Sam? I pray you're wrong about this."

  "Do you think I'm wrong?"

  "No," Chester said softly. "No, I don't. I'll get my gear together."

  Sam waved goodbye.

  Michelle was up, sitting in the kitchen, a cup of coffee in front of her. She had bathed, washed her hair, perfumed herself. She smiled at him, but Sam knew the lip greeting was forced. If she was one of Them—and Sam had no doubts about it—living with a minister, a man of God, in a home filled with religious articles, that must be awful for a person who worships Satan.

  For the first time since Korea, Sam knew the blood-boiling, mind-eating sensation of wanting to kill.

  But not a human being, he thought. She is not a human being. Not any longer. None of Them. She is a non-person, more animal than human. Rabid in thought and act. She has no soul. She has given that to Satan.

  But he that shall blaspheme against the Holy Ghost hath never forgiveness, but is in danger of eternal damnation.

  But God was even more specific than His Son: Thou shalt have no other gods before me.

  And that, Sam thought, is that!

  He returned his wife's smile. Both of them living out an act. But for how long? Michelle's eyes were cool on him. Sam felt unclean—soiled under her gaze.

  "I've been thinking, Sam. Perhaps we should try to work out our differences?"

  Here it comes, Sam thought, bracing himself inwardly. Don't let her touch you, don't let her tempt you, don't let her kiss you. You've been a long time without a woman, Sam, and she is beautiful, and don't forget: she will have Satan working with her. Be careful.

  Help me, Lord, he prayed.

  "Yes, Michelle, I've been thinking about that, too." That, and other things.

  "What—uh—do you think we should do?"

  "Since I don't know the problem, I don't believe I can answer your question."

  Her eyes narrowed in hate. She rose from the table. "Are vou hungry?"

  "Not really."

  "Is something the matter, Sam?"

  He smiled at her, but it was more a grimace. He watched her eyes drift to the cross hanging about his neck, outside his shirt. Black rage filled her dark eyes, the power of the hate almost filling the kitchen.

  "Is that a new cross, Sam? I don't believe I've seen it before. It's—much more ornate than your old one."

  "Father Dubois gave it to me."

  The muscles in her jaw bunched quickly, then relaxed. That was the only sign of alarm or tension.

  You're quite an actress, Michelle, he thought.

  She lifted her dark, brooding eyes to his. Her eyes were evil. "When did you see him?"

  "This morning."

  The words of Black Wil
der came to her. He had told her she had to try to convert her husband— mark him as one of Them. Failing that, Sam would have to die, but it would be difficult to kill him.

  She had questioned the devil's agent about that. With great patience, reminding her she was a longtime worshipper of the Master, and she should know these things, he explained that Sam had been chosen—by Him, and He would take great umbrage at one of His people being killed—at least this early in the game. There are rules, you must remember.

  You must try to mark him, he told her.

  But Michelle knew, speaking with Sam this afternoon, that he would never fall prey to her. He was too strong, too much a believer in his God.

  And, though she did not like to admit it, she was afraid of Sam.

  "That's interesting, Sam. What did you two discuss?"

  "Church business, mostly." Not really a lie. "It was a most interesting chat, I assure you."

  "How nice for you both. Well, if you're not hungry, I think perhaps I'll get ready to go."

  Carry your butt, he thought bitterly. When, in the past six months, have you cared whether I was hungry or not. "Go?"

  "Mrs. Carrison is in the hospital," she said, her eyes meeting his in the never-wavering gaze of the practiced liar. "In Rock Point. I'm riding over with Susan to visit her. Take her a plant for her room."

  "How very considerate of you. Please give her my best." He hoped the sarcasm he felt had not slipped into his words. Then he decided he didn't care whether it had or not. "I didn't know she was ill." He decided to needle her a bit. "Do you want me to ride over with you, dear?" he smiled after his words.

  Her eyes shot venom at him, but her Hps pulled back in a forced smile. "I don't believe so, Sam. But it's nice of you to ask. We're going to spend the night at Rock Point—with Susan's sister. I told you about it, you must have forgotten, Sam. I know you have a great deal on your mind," her smile broadened, "with church attendance falling so drastically." She could slip the needle just as well as her husband.

  She should, she'd had hundreds of years of practice.

  Touche, Sam's smile was grim. But you're a liar. You never told me a word about it. How quickly the lies come. "Well, perhaps I'd better stay here. I do have a lot of work to do on Sunday's message."