Devil's Kiss (12 page)

“I closed it. Only had one customer all day, and that is really strange for this time of year. Wish I could figure out what's keeping people out of town.”

A force, Sam thought. A very evil force. “You keep guns at your house, Chester?”

The man smiled. “Sam, I run a sports shop; the only one in town. Sure, I keep guns at my home. I'd hate for the Treasury people to check me.”

“Will you do something for me?”

“Of course, Sam.”

“Go home. Make sure your guns are loaded—check them. Bolt the doors and secure the windows. And after dark, don't leave the house.”

He received a curious look from his friend. “You feel all right, Sam? Did you have a good lunch? You did eat?”

“I had a very good breakfast at Jane Ann's. I threw it up later. No lunch, and I'm not hungry. I feel fine.

Correction: I am in control of my senses: that's what you're really asking. Please don't argue, Ches. Humor me for a time. Maybe I'm wrong—I hope I am. But for now, go on home and look after things. I'll be in touch.”

Chester nodded, rising to his feet. “All right, Sam. I won't question you about it. But you will tell me what's going on—soon?”

Yes.”

Sam drove out to the local Ford dealership. It was pure impulse on his part. He liked the feel of the Mercury he drove, but he felt it was not the vehicle he needed—for whatever lay ahead of him—and he was growing more certain in his suspicions. He might regret his actions later; he might feel like the biggest fool in two states—he hoped he would—but for now, he felt he was doing the right thing.

As he drove the short distance, Sam noticed one thing that only compounded his suspicions and dread: there was no one on the streets. The town was silent at four o'clock in the afternoon. A shiver of fear touched him.

“Friday,” he muttered. “They're preparing for this evening's worship.”

You're letting your imagination run away with your common sense, he told himself. Be logical.

But his words did little to calm him.

As he pulled into the dealership, he knew he was doing the right thing.

How do you know? he questioned his mind.

And the answer came back: I know.

Peter Canford walked out of the dealer showroom to greet him. “Preacher,” the young man said. “Glad to see you.” They shook hands. “I was beginning to think the town had forgotten us. You're the first customer today.”

“That's odd.”

“Sure is. It's kind of spooky, really. What can I help you with?”

I—uh—want to trade cars, Jimmy. I'd like to have a pickup truck. Preferably one that is already broken in. I want to trade this Mercury in for it. My car's paid for.”

The young salesman scratched his head. “Well, I'm told never to argue with the customer, Reverend Balon—”

“Sam,” he corrected, smiling. “And my mind's made up. I want to buy a pickup truck. One that will take some rough driving over some bad terrain.”

“Right,” Peter grinned. “Sam. I forgot. Okay, I have one you might be interested in. It's a year old. Only has a few thousand miles on it. We got it from a fellow over at Ridgewood. Or rather, we got it from his wife—they split up. It's a fancy one, Sam; got all the equipment and more. Extra gas cans, if you want them. Big tank, winch. I mean, it's got it all. Let's go look at it.”

Sam sat in the pickup, feeling less a fool as time ticked past. He inspected the engine, kicked the tires.

“I like it, Peter.”

“Going to do some fishing this summer?”

“Might have to,” Sam said. “Put some food on the table. What with us being cut off for a week.”

“What?”

Sam told him about the bridges, suggesting it was only a rumor, unfounded.

Peter shook his head. “I haven't heard a word about it. Probably just a rumor, like you said. You want to drive this truck?”

Sam did, around the lot, then said, “Make me a deal, Peter.”

The salesman had looked at Sam's Mercury while the minister was driving the truck. He figured for a moment, then handed Sam a piece of paper. “That's the best I can do, Sam.”

Sam glanced at the figures. “Fine, I'll take it.” And the pickup was his. He smiled as the words “for better or for worse” entered his mind.

Jimmy was thinking: it's a shame. A nice man like Sam Balon, with a wife that's running around on him. With an elder in his own church, too. He almost told Sam to go out and get a big stick, go home, and beat his wife's butt.

Instead, he said, “Sure is something about John Benton. How old was he?”

“Fifty, I think. Have you heard when the funeral will be?”

“Two o'clock Sunday. I heard the council just appointed Jimmy chief of police. Tough way to get a promotion. It's odd, though.”

“What is?”

“Well—it's a small town, Sam. News travels fast. I heard about the trouble at Jane Ann's last night, and about John firing George Best.”

So?”

“Walter Addison just hired George this afternoon. Made him a county deputy. John wouldn't have liked that.”

Everything is beginning to add up. “Let's sign the papers, Peter.”

Fifteen minutes later, the men stood by Sam's newly acquired pickup, chatting. The reception inside the dealership had been cool. None of the other employees had bothered speaking to Sam, and their looks were sullen.

“What's wrong with those people in there?” Sam asked.

“I don't know, Sam, but it's sure embarrassing. They've been acting funny for a couple of weeks. Now they treat me as if I'm not around. I'm just ignored. It's getting worse each day.”

Sam knew Peter was a devout Catholic, but he wasn't sure about his fellow workers. He didn't know how to ask without being obvious about it.

“Maybe they resent your church work, Peter?”

Peter's look was thoughtful. “It's funny you should say that, Sam. A lot of those guys in there—the women, too—used to be good church workers. Different churches, of course, but they all went to church. Then, I guess, oh, maybe two-three months ago, one by one they started drifting away from their church. Now none of them attend services. As a matter of fact, they belittle religion; make fun of it. I don't like that, Sam. I've noticed something else, too, for the past few weeks or so, everyone of them show up for work on Friday wearing those funny-looking medallions around their necks. You've seen them? Fad, I suppose. Probably started out in California with all this rock and roll music.”

Don't count on that, Sam thought, remembering the medallion his wife wore about her neck—every day. “Memphis,” he said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Oh, I'm sorry,” Sam smiled. “I said Memphis. I think rock and roll began in Memphis, Tennessee. But I believe it was a New York City disc jockey who coined the term rock and roll.”

“You like rock and roll, Sam?” doubt in his voice.

“No,” Sam laughed. “Not very much of it. You have a cigarette, Peter?”

“Sure. I didn't know you smoked, Sam.” He held out a package of Lucky Strikes.

“I don't very often,” Sam bent his head to take the light from Peter's Zippo. “Habit I picked up in Korea.”

“Hey! You were in Korea? I was in the service, too, but not in Korea. I was Navy. You?”

“Army. Special troops. We were known as UNPIK.”

Peter whistled. “Yeah, I heard about you guys. Guerrilla fighters. Rough outfit. How long were you in Korea?”

“Too long. 'Bout sixteen months.”

“You saw your share. It's like I always say, don't judge what a person is by what he does for a living.”

Sam smiled in memory, glad for a moment to talk and think about something other than whatever it was that was wrong in Whitfield. “Right. We had a former ballet dancer in our outfit. Some guys from another unit—football types—thought he was a pansy. One night they came right out and called Jon a queer. Very bad mistake on their part. Jon invited them both outside. He put both of them in the hospital; almost killed one of them. After that, people walked light around Jon. He was probably the most in-shape person I've ever seen. He could stand flat-footed and jump over a jeep.”

Peter chuckled. “What's the old saying about having to get some people's attention? The mule and the 2 by 4?”

“Right!” Sam laughed.

Peter looked at the minister's rugged profile in the light of afternoon, thinking: I'd hate to have
you
come down on me, preacher. You look like you could chew nails and spit out tacks. Guerrilla fighter. Never would have guessed it.

Sam climbed into the truck, cranking the powerful engine. “See you, Peter. Tell you what, maybe we'll get together next week. Talk about the service.”

“Hey! I'd like that. Sure, we'll do that.”

Sam drove away, lurching and bucking for a couple of blocks, until he got the feel of the manual transmission. He drove out of town for a few miles, then cut off onto a gravel road, putting the pickup through its paces, liking the feel of it.

At the dealership, Peter looked behind him, sensing eyes on him. The shop foreman stood a few yards away, staring at him. “Artie,” Peter said.

The shop foreman turned his back, the sun catching the medallion about his neck, the rays bouncing off the metal. The foreman looked around, then spat contemptuously on the gravel. He stalked back into the garage.

“Something sure is weird around here,” Peter said, as a tremor of fear touched him with light fingers. He shivered in the warm afternoon. “I wish I knew what was wrong with these people.”

 

Sam drove back into town, once again observing the absence of human traffic on the streets and sidewalks. Walter Addison drove past. Sam waved a greeting. The sheriff did not return the salute. George Best sat beside him in the car. The ex-city cop turned deputy laughed at Sam.

“Laugh, punk!” Sam muttered through gritted teeth. “But you're the one who tipped me off.”

Punk? Sam thought. How long since you used that word? And how very unpreacherly of you to use it now. Or is it?

Sam parked beside Michelle's car as she came out of the house, standing on the back porch, looking at the pickup with disapproving eyes.

“You going to call on shut-in's in that thing, Sam?”

Her words irritated him. “Some preachers ride motorcycles,” he countered, getting out of the truck.

Your—congregation,” she stumbled over the word, “should be thankful for small favors, I suppose.” She walked back into the house, banging the screen door behind her.