Devil's Kiss

by William W. Johnstone

  He stopped, facing the men.

  “Well, here’s goody-goody,” one of the men said. “I figured you’d be to home, Balon, writin’ some Sunday bullshit!”

  Sam looked at the speaker. David Vanderwerf. For a moment, it seemed David was going to block Sam’s way, but something in the preacher’s eyes drove the young man back, causing him to step aside.

  “You consider God’s word bullshit?” Sam asked.

  The young man laughed nastily. “Just jokin’, preacher.”

  “I didn’t laugh,” Sam said. He bulled his way through the men, physically shoving them aside. Startled, they made no effort to stop the minister.

  Just as he placed his hand on the door, Sam heard one say, “You’re gonna git yours, preacher.”

  Sam turned. “Which one of you wants to be the first to give it to me?” His eyes touched each man in the group. They cut their eyes from him, refusing to meet his steady gaze. A wildness swelled in Sam. He laughed at them. All mouth and no guts,” he heard himself say.

  “You talk mighty big, preacher,” a man said, his face flushed red from the knowledge there were five of them and only one of Sam, yet he had arrogantly, physically pushed them aside.

  “Yes, I do,” Sam said, a nasty grin on his lips. “And I’m big enough to back it up.” He stepped toward the man, stopping a close foot from him, crowding him. “Tell you what, Moore.” Sam knew the man, a local shade-tree mechanic; knew him for what he really was: a loud-mouthed bully who beat his wife, intimidated anyone he could, sneered at whatever he could not mentally comprehend—he sneered a lot—and in general was a detriment to any decent society. “Why don’t we both forget I’m a minister. We’ll step around back of this building. If you’re as good with your fists as you say you are—which I doubt—you shouldn’t have any trouble with me. What do you say about that?”

  Moore looked at Sam; looked very carefully at the bulk of him, then swallowed. “I ain’t never whupped no preacher before,” he managed to say.

  “Don’t worry about it, Moore—you’re not going to ‘whup’ this one, either. It won’t take me twenty seconds to kick your ass!”

  “BREAK IT UP!” Addison’s sharp words stopped the argument before it could erupt into a real donnybrook. Sam was mildly disappointed. “You men go on about your business,” he spoke to the five of them. They moved on, casting surly glances at Sam. Moore looked relieved.

  Addison stood between Sam and the Crusader door. His face was not friendly. “You’re pushing your luck, Sam.”

  Sam smiled. “Well, tell the boys I’ve got The Luck with me now.”

  “What?”

  “You should read Bret Harte, Walter. Find out about that unknown sea. Oh, something else, Walter.”

  “What’s that, preacher?”

  “You ought to take a bath. You stink!”

  Sam pushed past him and walked into the newspaper office. He felt fine.

  “Sam! Have you lost your mind?” Wade confronted him in the hall. “There were five of them!”

  Sam calmly fished a Pall Mall out of Wade’s pocket and lit it. He said, “I would have killed Moore and one other before the rest even knew what was happening. By that time, one of them would have been blinded, out of action. That would have left me only two to deal with. They would have been easy.” The months of brutal training had returned swiftly to Sam. The dehumanizing, turning man into animallike killer, lethal with hands and feet. And the months of combat in Korea, behind the lines, killing silently.

  Wade’s face expressed his shock. “Are you serious? Kill? Blind? This is my minister speaking?”

  “There is a time for everything, Wade. You should study Ecclesiastes, chapter three, verses one through eight.”

  A smile spread Miles’s lips.

  “I’ll be in church tomorrow, Sam. Preach to me then.”

  “I’ll do my best.” Sam led them into Wade’s office, then told him what he had done at Chester’s, advising them to do the same. He looked first at Wade. “Your pickup in good working order?”

  “Just had it serviced.”

  Sam glanced at Miles. “Sure, Sam. But I haven’t fired a gun in years. I’m a fisherman, not a hunter.”

  “When you go to Chester’s, tell him that. He’ll fix you up with a shotgun. Get several cases of shells, both shot and slugs. Nothing like a slug-loaded shotgun to stop a man; doesn’t leave any doubt.”

  “Okay, Sam, whatever you say. But listen to me for a minute. Doris is sitting right on the ragged edge. I haven’t told her very much, but I think it’s time we did. We lost people in Europe, Sam, on both sides of the family—in the . . . camps. Close relatives. Doris is just now getting over that, and that’s fourteen-fifteen years ago. I don’t know how she’s going to take this news.”

  “You want me to talk to her?”

  “Yes, please. If you will.”

  “Tell you what, you go pick up Faye and Jane Ann. Take them over to your house, let them prepare Doris for what I have to say. Wade, you get Anita. I’ll meet you at Miles’s in an hour. We’ll talk, then.”

  Sam rose, stretching, the front of his shirt sliding up, exposing the butt of the .45. Miles and Wade looked at the gun, at each other, then at Sam.

  “Have you ever used that thing, Sam?” Wade asked.

  “Yes. Many times. I carried it in Korea. You men go on, now, I’ve got to see Father Dubois. Something about Lucas worries me.”

  Sam drove by Lucas’s home. No one there. He was being followed, but the tail did not worry him. Let them watch all they wanted to. He tried the church study. Locked. He drove to the rectory.

  Where is Lucas, Michael?”

  The old priest invited Sam in, shaking his head. “Against my advice, Sam, he’s gone to do battle.”

  A chill touched Sam. Not—out there?” he jerked his head in the direction of Tyson’s Lake.

  Dubois nodded. “He said he had nothing to lose. He’s almost a dead man, Sam.”

  “What chance does he have? Out there, I mean?”

  “None,” the priest said flatly. “That’s why They let him go.” He looked hard at Sam, sensing something in the man. “Don’t be a fool, Sam! I don’t think They would try to stop you, but don’t go after him. You’re needed here.”

  “I’ll be careful, Michael. But I want to see them. I must satisfy my curiosity. You understand, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” Dubois said softly. “Yes, I’m afraid I do.”

  “You’ve seen the Beasts?”

  “You’ll smell them a long time before you see them.” There was an edge to his voice.

  “Can they be killed?”

  “Oh, yes. Nothing so dramatic as a stake through the heart. They’re part animal—part human; overall, most disgusting. They are, I believe—although my philosophy goes directly against church doctrine—a mistake.”

  The ringing of the phone prevented Sam from asking what Dubois meant by “a mistake.”

  “I must go,” the priest said, hanging up the phone. “There’s been a death.”

  “Who?”

  “Mrs. Norman. Neighbors found her in her backyard a few minutes ago. Heart attack, they believe.”

  “I didn’t know she had heart trouble.”

  “She didn’t. It’s begun, Sam. He’s beginning to make his move. Only just begun.”

  “Father Dubois? Are you expecting a crowd at mass tomorrow?”

  “Only the old, son. You’ll see at your services. We’ve lost the others.”

  He was gone before Sam could ask anything else.

  Only just begun.

  “Tell me it’s not true!” Doris Lansky confronted Sam before he could get in the front door. “You’re all playing a joke on me.”

  Sam led her to a chair. “Sit down, Doris. No, it’s not a joke.” He took her hands in his. “Brace yourself, you’re not going to like what I have to say.”

  A few moments later, Mrs. Lansky began to weep.

  “Balon’s on to us,” Walter Addis
on told Wilder over the phone. “He’s been a busy man today.”

  “Regrettable,” Wilder said. “But not an insurmountable problem. We’ll just have to be more careful; it’s too soon for us to make any major move. We need a few more days. The roads have to be legitimately closed.”

  “Suppose Balon and the others try to leave?”

  “They won’t. Balon is going to fight me.” He laughed. “I know the type of man he is. I should, I’ve met him many times, and I’ll beat him.”

  “Let me kill him!”

  “No. Fool! You don’t understand. This is not between you and Balon. This is between God and our Master.” Again, he laughed. “It’s an old war, Walter, one I have fought many, many times. You simply do not understand the rules.”

  “Rules?”

  “God is using Balon as His warrior here on earth. He always picks one like Balon. I should know,” his voice was bitter. “No, Walter, you couldn’t kill Balon even if you tried. Neither can I—not yet.” The nasty laugh rang through the phone. “But I’ll test his courage tonight. I’ll see if Balon is to be a worthy foe.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He’s coming to see me tonight.”

  “How do you know that?”

  The laughter. “I know everything, Addison. I know what is in the hearts of all men and women. I know their weaknesses and their strong points. Don’t, under any circumstances, try to stop Balon tonight. He’ll kill you, or anyone who tries to stop him. I’ll play his game this evening, then put him to the test at a later date.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You’re not supposed to.” The line went silent.

  Addison slowly replaced the receiver, then stood by his desk for a few moments, mulling over what Wilder had said. There had been no fear in Wilder’s voice as he spoke of Balon, but there had been respect. Addison decided he would leave Balon alone.

  The office was filthy, stinking of urine and defecation. The musky odor of sex hung heavy in the room.

  In the rear of the building, in the cell area, a prisoner—a transient—lay dead and rotting on a cell floor. The prisoner had been tortured, beaten, starved, and sexually assaulted. The man had been dead for days. Rats, their eyes beady and evil, roamed close to the bite-pocked body.

  The sheriff’s secretary entered the office. She glanced at Addison, hiked up her skirt, and bent over a desk. Walter sodomized her as a deputy looked on, his eyes dead. When Addison finished, the deputy took his turn.

  In another part of town, a mother caressed her teenage son while the father made violent incestuous love with his teenage daughter.

  A middle-aged man beat his bed-ridden mother to death with a club while his wife looked on, urging him to strike the woman harder, laughing as the blood splattered the walls of the bedroom.

  Brothers and sisters fornicated to the amusement of their parents, and then changed partners.

  A teenage boy pushed his younger brother off the roof of the garage where they had been playing, smiling as the boy screamed on his way down. A short scream. The screaming ceased abruptly as the boy hit the concrete parking area. The teenager climbed down, dragged the broken body into a tool shed, and stuffed the battered carcass into a burlap bag.

  “Willie!” his mother squalled from the house. “Come on in, now, you’ve chores to do. What was that noise a minute ago?”

  The boy picked up a claw hammer from his father’s workbench and walked to the house. His smile was evil, eyes shining banefully. His smile turned to laughter when he saw his mother bending over the sink. She looked around just in time to see, very briefly, the hammer swinging. Her skull popped like an overripe melon and she slid in a sprawl to the kitchen floor, legs jerking as she died.

  Willie walked into the living room, where his father sat listening to a ball game on the radio. The teenager buried the hammer head in his father’s skull.

  “It’s a home run!” the announcer shouted.

  “Screw you!” Willie said, turning off the radio. “I hate baseball.”

  Willie walked back into the kitchen, stepping nonchalantly over his mother’s cooling body. He fixed a sandwich and sat down at the table, chewing slowly. The kitchen smelled of fried liver. His mother should not have fixed liver. Willie had told her time after time he did not like liver.

  His mother’s dead eyes stared at her son as he ate his sandwich. The eyes seemed fixed on the medallion hanging about his neck.

  Willie wondered if the earth Master, Dr. Wilder, would be angry with him for doing this. He decided he would not.

  He stood up, gazing out the window at the little girl playing in the meadow behind the house. He felt an erection build, his breathing quickening. He slipped quietly out of the house, walking toward the young girl in the meadow, playing gently among the summer flowers.

  After a time, the prairie winds blew her dress across the meadow, a splash of color amid the flowers.

  Otto’s wild laughter rang through the house as he swung the leather belt. His wife’s screaming as the belt struck bare flesh drove him on. The medallion caught the late afternoon sun streaming through the window, casting golden flashes around the bedroom.

  Stockman dropped to his knees beside the woman. Now you’ll accept him?” he questioned.

  “No!” the woman sobbed. “NO!”

  “Oh, yes,” Otto smiled, caressing her bruised flesh. “Yes, you will.” He brutally mounted her, enjoying her screaming.

  At dusk, Herman Alario, horse trainer at Little River ranch, watched the foreman through curious and suspicious eyes. Where was Slim? he mused. Why hadn’t the sheriff been notified of his disappearance? Something was sure as hell funny around this place, and Herman knew damn well Slim didn’t just take off. Something bad had happened to him.

  The actions of the men puzzled Herman as well. And the boss, Ray Zagone—he was acting strange. Herman retreated further into the darkness of the north side of the barn, squatting down, thinking, his back to the barn.

  For all his supposed drinking and fighting—and that was exaggerated—Herman was, at heart, a believer in God, although he seldom went to church more than twice a year. He had been raised in the church by strict parents, in Arizona, and Herman didn’t like all the talk he’d been hearing in the bunkhouse. Talk he was not supposed to hear. Talk of black masses and devil worship and orgies of the most disgusting kind. Men with men, women with women, and something about kissing the red ass of the devil.

  Sickening!

  “Where’s Alario?” he heard the foreman, Lou Parker ask.

  Don’t know,” a cowboy said. He was around here a half hour ago.”

  “Is he still wearing that damned cross around his neck?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Then we can’t waste any more time on him. If he doesn’t come around to us tonight, we’ll have to dispose of him. He should have come around by now.”

  DISPOSE OF HIM! Herman almost panicked. Him is me! Jesus God—they’re talking about me!

  He remained rock-still by the side of the barn, only his eyes moving in the darkness, shifting from side to side, searching the night for any person who might be coming to harm him. And he knew, now, that every man and woman on this ranch was against him. What he couldn’t figure out was: Why?

  The high, shrill laughter of a woman reached him in the night. Pat Zagone. “More, more!” she screamed. “Right there!” she grunted.

  A guttural moaning drifted to Herman. The gruntings of men and women together.

  Dear God, the cowboy thought. What is happening around here?

  He remembered what Slim had told him. That something was out of kilter on the L-R, and they both had talked of pulling out. Slim had said, “There’s a . . . force . . . or something that ain’t right around here. You been seein’ all them medallions on folks? And everybody cuts out on Friday nights. All the whisperin,’ too. I don’t like it, Herman. It’s—I don’t know—evil, I think. I don’t know.”

  And then Slim dis
appeared.

  Herman watched two cowboys, Pip and Mack, meet on the lighted front porch of the ranch house, talk for a moment, then split up.

  Here they come, Herman thought. He waited. There was no place to run.

  Five minutes passed in silence. Hermen longed for a chew of tobacco, but was afraid to move, afraid to reach for the pouch in his back pocket. He heard movement to his right.

  Pip?”

  “Yeah?”

  “He’s gotta be around here—close to the barn. Maybe in it.”

  “Right. Don’t let him git to his truck.”

  “Won’t do him no good. I jerked all the wires.”

  Damn!

  “You be careful. He’s cat-quick in a fight.”

  Herman heard the sound of a round being chambered into a rifle. A lever action. Probably a .30-30, he thought. His own rifle was on a rack in his pickup; his pistol in a trunk in the bunkhouse. But he had a sheath knife on his belt.

  Don’t pull it yet, he cautioned. Light could reflect off the blade and give me away.

  Why are they hunting me? his mind worked feverishly. Why do I sense something evil all around me?

  Pat’s high shrilling reached Herman. Pat’s daughter, Jean, joined in the laughter. Obscenity spewed from her young mouth, the oaths floating through the soft air of early night on the prairie. She called out the foreman’s name, over and over.

  Herman slowly shook his head in disgust. Ray and Pat were watching the foreman screw their daughter. Sick, sick!

  Herman crossed himself without thinking.

  “Something moved on the north side!” Pip called.

  Herman reached for his knife. Too late. The men were on him, pinning him to the ground. A boot caught him on the side of the head, stunning him. He drifted into unconsciousness.

  When he came out of his daze, Herman was on the now darkened porch of the ranch house, his hands tied behind his back. He was naked from the waist down.

  Pat crouched between his legs. She was naked, her woman’s breasts swinging free, the nipples enlarged. She smiled at him, the smile seeming cruel and evil—yet enticing to the cowboy. A medallion hung between her breasts, the gold gleaming at him. The woman touched his bare belly, the hand slipping down to grasp his manhood.