Devil's Kiss (15 page)

The disgusting, macabre celebration continued for hours, the lustful calling, screaming, grunting filling the night air. The howling of the Beasts, jaws leaking drool, the moaning of the Servants of Satan, all mingled with the glare of the torches jammed into the earth, casting leaping shadows about the valley of the circle, the valley of the tablet, the valley of The Digging.

At predawn, just as first light faintly tinted the eastern sky, the faraway sound of a cock crowing brought the night's abomination to an abrupt close. Black Wilder and Nydia looked about them, fear on their faces. The Beasts huddled together in fright. The devil lives for darkness, afraid of the light, and the devil and his servants are filled with dread at the sound of a crowing cock. Satan can do only quiet, unobtrusive evil in the light of God's sun. It is only in the darkness that the unholiness is nurtured, where it thrives and grows, where the evil is the personification of all that is vile and wicked.

A large owl, perched for hours during the night, beat its wings and hooted, suddenly flying away, its eyes unblinking and evil. It vanished in the dim light, its tiny brain receiving a message from its Master.

As roaches do when the light is clicked on, the members of the Coven scurried away in the dimness of predawn, the evil on their faces mixed with fear, for they know it is God's sun.

The altar had been washed clean. The cross removed and hidden. The body of Annie Brown was not to be seen. The Beasts were disappointed that she could not be used as a breeder, but they knew some things were beyond their grasp, so they accepted without question.

After selected older members of the Coven, those who, although they did not at this time know it, were well on their way to becoming the Undead, had sucked their portion of blood from Annie's still-warm body, the Beasts ate her. Growling, they stripped the flesh from her, snapping the bones to suck the marrow, as they had done with Tim Bennett, weeks back. As the full glory of God's day filled the valley of The Digging, the Beasts slipped into holes in the earth, making their way back to the caves at Tyson's Lake, past the chosen Sentinel.

Slim Wesson, the cowboy, who, until this moment, believed he had seen everything God meant for him to see, lay on the cool ground of the hill overlooking the valley, and wept unashamedly and openly, something he had not done since childhood. He felt soiled and threatened by what he had witnessed.

After a time, he rose to his feet and staggered down the hill to his horse, still waiting for him. Mounting, he rode off, speaking to the animal. “Bullet, I think we'll get the hell out of this state—pronto!”

The owl soared high above him, watching, waiting.

Slim rode carefully, recalling what he'd seen during the night of sickness. Slim was no prude, but he was physically ill in his recall. He had seen his foreman, Lou Parker. He had seen the owner of Little River, Ray Zagone. He had watched the two men fondle each other, love each other, and then mate with the other's wife.

Slim shook his head. Sick, sick, sick!

And that awful crucifixion of the young girl. God! they cut out her heart.

Slim drew up, dismounted, and vomited on the ground. He did not see the owl swooping down toward him, long talons poised. The owl's charge knocked him down, blood pouring from Slim's ripped forehead. The owl arched in the sky, then made another pass, the talons ripping out Slim's eyes. The cowboy screamed in his sudden red-darkness of pain, falling back against his horse. The animal panicked at the smell of blood and the fear of man, kicking out with steel-shod hooves, catching Slim in the hip, breaking the big bone. He fell heavily to the ground. The owl dipped down, quickly sinking its talons into Slim's throat, ripping the flesh. The blood spurted.

The cowboy quickly bled to death. His horse throtted away, fear rolling its eyes white. It stepped on its reins, annoying the animal. The leather finally broke, and the animal trotted away. Late that afternoon, the horse would wander back to the ranch corral. The men there would look at each other, smile, and remove the saddle. They would rub the animal down, feed it, and stable it.

No one would mention Slim Wesson.

Herman Alario, Slim's best friend, was not present when the horse wandered back. When he asked about Slim, he was told Slim had drawn his pay, sold his horse to Little River, and pulled out. But Herman did not believe that. Slim wouldn't cut out without telling him goodbye. But he kept his suspicions to himself.

The next day, cowboys would ride out, find Slim's body, and take it to the Beasts.

The Beasts would feast.

 

Sam had driven slowly home after leaving Chester's. The streets were deserted. He did not see a dog or a cat. But he did feel the evil hanging over the town. His fingers touched the cross hanging around his neck.

He was thankful the parsonage was empty. He had some things he wanted to do, and he could not do them with Michelle there.

Turning on all the lights in the house, leaving each room blazing with light, Sam went up to the attic. A half-remembered phrase had come to his mind during the drive home; something from his days at the seminary. THE KISS OF LIFE AND DEATH. What was the rest of it? He had to find that old textbook. Yes, now he remembered. ONCE TOUCHED, FOREVER HIS. That was it! That secret sect of the devil. Unproven. Not mentioned in the Bible, so professors tended to scoff at it.

Sam prowled the attic, in the dim light from the one bulb hanging from its cord. He searched through the boxes, ripping open the tops with his powerful hands until he found the textbook he sought. A slim volume on Ancient Witchcraft and Devil Worship. He had not looked at this book in years, but he had never really forgotten it, such was its impact on him.

Sam looked at the dusty volume. “Do you hold the secret to this mystery?”

The dust and the cobwebs of the attic clung to him; the attic boards creaked under his weight. A chill fell on him as summer winds blew against the frame house. Sam shivered.

“Don't get spooked, Sam,” he verbally reassured himself. “Not this early in the game.”

He resisted an impulse to rush from the attic, then forced himself to move at a normal pace as he turned out the light, closing the door, just for a moment engulfed in darkness. But he breathed a bit easier when he was downstairs in the light.

A practiced speed-reader, Sam went through the slim volume in less than an hour, not wanting to read the words, but forcing himself to do so, liking none of it. The words were disgusting. Vile.

He read:
Without the Beasts, the
earth-bound agent
of Satan would be hampered in his efforts to secure
a
home for his Master. With the Beasts,
and
the Undead, whom he may
call
out
at
will, the
agent
of Satan is
almost all-powerful.
It is rumored that Satan—with the help of the
Beasts—overpowered a small
village in Spain in the fifth century
and held the townspeople under his control for more than fifty years.
(Not substantiated).

The lights in the den browned out for a moment. Sam looked around, exasperated. The lights brightened.

He read on:
It is reported that the people in
a
nearby village, with help of the Lord God Almighty, wrested the powerful tablet from the hands of the devil's
agent and
the witch,
Nydia,
bringing the reign of terror to
an
end. The witch,
Nydia,
is reported to be most beautiful; tempt
ing—one
of
Satan's
favorites.
She
is rumored to have birthed
several
Demons, her favorite male partners rumored to be men of God whom she seduced.

Tablet? Sam pondered. What tablet?

A witch?

He read on:
The devil's
agent,
who was named Blakkr Villr by the peoples of
Scandinavia,
surfaced
again
in the 9th century, in what is now Norway. It is rumored that Satan himself brought down the curse, producing the plagues that decimated that country in the
12th
century, so great was his
anger at
being repelled some three centuries before. (Neither the plague nor Satan's presence can be substantiated, since the sickness hit only very isolated
areas).

It is said the
agent
draws much of his
strength—in part—from
the tablet. Should the
tablet be destroyed, so will much of the devil's powers
here
on earth
. For a time.
The tablet is
inscribed:
HE WALKS AMONG
YOU.
THE MARK OF THE BEAST IS PLAIN.
BELIEVE IN HIM.
ONCE TOUCHED, FOREVER HIS. THE KISS OF LIFE AND DEATH.

And Sam knew than he must not allow Michelle to touch and kiss him.

He returned to his reading:
The French
trapper,
Duhon, reported sighting Beasts in the new land, shortly after his government found the tablet had not been destroyed and empowered Duhon to bring the tablet to America, thus forever removing it from France.
Sam had to smile as he read the name of the Priest who accompanied Duhon. Dubois.

Things were beginning to fall more concisely into place.

Sam put the book aside. He had to admit, grudgingly, the devil, or his agent, certainly picked an ideal spot in Whitfield. The town was all but isolated. One airstrip, owned by Karl Sorenson. No night lights. The spur rail line was thirty miles away, and used only at roundup. No bus service. A state highway that could be easily blocked—as was going to happen very soon—and no one would notice for a week or more. One phone call to the bread and milk companies: bring in enough for a week and forget us. By that time, the deed would be done, leaving, during the day, normal-acting citizens. At night, however, they would be free to prowl, slowly taking over smaller surrounding towns.

Nice and neatly packaged, tied with a red ribbon. Red for Satan.

Communications would be easy for them; the phone company personnel would be among the first to be possessed. Calls could be easily monitored—blocked, rerouted. No one in town had the equipment of a ham operator. The radio station was closed down, all the equipment sold, including the antenna. They could not put out a signal for help.

But how, Sam mused, could the people—hundreds of them—be so easily possessed.

Of course, he smiled: the radio station. Mind implantation. It would be easy over a period of time. The government had experimented with it in the early fifties, both in radio and TV—and it worked. Subtle little messages, sent so fast they could only be perceived by the subconscious mind. Sure, it would be easy that way.

The lights began to flicker, browning out, again and again. Sam looked at his watch. Midnight.

The Black Mass had begun.

Sam took a long, very hot shower, then went to bed, falling asleep almost instantly, his exhaustion finally catching up with him. He was sleeping at dawn when Michelle entered the house, her slight noise at the door awakening him. Through slitted eyes, he watched her stand over his bed, the stench of her almost overpowering. He watched her lips pull back in a snarl, her dark eyes flashing hate at him.

Don't let her kiss you! he silently cautioned.

She walked to him in the dim light, bending down, her mouth only inches from his. Sam deliberately turned over on his back, the silver cross laying on his chest catching the light from the outside, pouring through the open and uncurtained window. Michelle's hands flew to cover her eyes.

Sam felt sick at his stomach.

Quickly, quietly, she backed out of the room, away from the sight of the Holy Cross.

In her bedroom, she carefully locked the door behind her, pulling the heavy black drapes, filling the room with darkness. She stripped naked, her body bearing the bruises of a dozen hands upon her flesh.

She did not wash herself, the thought of water repulsed her. She fell naked on the bed, stinking, her evil permeating the room. She drifted off to sleep as the sun climbed from out of the east. She occasionally snarled in her sleep, drippings from her mouth wetting the already stained pillow. Her dreams were of Sam—always of Sam.

She dreamed of cutting out his heart, listening to him scream. She smiled in her sleep, teeth flashing white in the darkness—like fangs on a snarling animal.

After Michelle left the room, Sam was wide awake, his heart pounding. His nose wrinkled at the odor of unwashed flesh, the musky scent of sex, and of evil, he was sure. He lay still for a time, the smell assailing his nostrils. He now knew the truth, and he did not know what to do with the knowledge.

His wife, Michelle, was one of Them.

He blamed himself for not realizing sooner. He should have known; should have put it all together weeks ago, when he first suspected the evil in Whitfield. The pranks that were played on him; the phone calls with heavy breathing and cursing.

Kids, he had thought. Playing games with the preacher.

Now he knew better.

He rose from his bed, padding softly to the bathroom. He washed his face, brushed his teeth, and ran a comb through his hair. In his room, he dressed quickly. Jeans, pullover shirt, rough-out boots. He checked his watch. Seven-thirty. He wanted to see five people this day: Dubois at the rectory; Haskell at the Episcopal church; Lucas Monroe; Wade Thomas; and Miles Lansky.

If Miles, a Jew, who really did not believe in Heaven or Hell—so he professed-sensed something evil in Whitfield, then something was evil in Whitfield.

And Sam had made up his mind to visit Tyson's Lake. Somehow, he believed, everything was linked to that area. If there was something evil out there, he was going to find it, and if possible, kill it!

Sam pulled a trunk out of his closet, rummaging around in the bottom until his hand touched the cold metal of what he sought. He pulled out a .45 caliber automatic pistol, a box of shells, three clips, and the leather that went with them. He had not touched the weapon in almost five years—except to clean it occasionally. Not since 1953 had he thought of using it. Since Korea.

In the living room, he field-stripped the weapon, cleaning it, oiling it, working the slide action back and forth. He filled the clips, inserted a full clip into the weapon, and left the chamber empty.

Sam suddenly remembered the Thompson Submachine Gun Chester had in his shop. In a vault. Sam made a mental note to speak to Chester about that weapon.

Am I being silly? he questioned.

No! he answered the question.

He put the .45 into leather, fitted the full spare clips into their pouches, attached holster and clip pouches onto the web belt, and wrapped the belt around the holster. He carried it outside.

He was a bit confused for just a few seconds at seeing the pickup in his drive, then the memory of the trade came to him. Peter Canford. He wanted to see Peter, too. Peter sensed something wrong in town.

He looked up and down the street. Nothing moved. Nothing at all.

Sam drove out into the country, into the sand hills, where he practiced with the .45 until he was satisfied he had not lost his eye for shooting and could hit a man where he aimed to hit him.

“Hit a man!” Sam said aloud, shocked at his thoughts. He glanced heavenward, seeking some advice.

None came.

“Is that what it will come down to?” he asked the sand hills.
Man killing?” Only the wind sighed as it moved endlessly across the rolling plains.

Sam drove for a time, crisscrossing ranges. He was stopped just after intersecting with a range road that would take him back to Whitfield.

The cowboy who blocked the road with his jeep was not friendly. “This is Rocking-Chair Range, Balon. Stay off.”

Sam, suddenly angry, got out of his truck to face the cowboy. “I've known Paul Merlin for years,” Sam said, not realizing he was balling his fists. “I've fished with him. If Paul wants me off his range, let him tell me.”

The cowboy was a small, wiry man, his face burned the shade of old leather. But his eyes were strange—dead-looking. The cowboy stood his ground.

“I've told you what I was told to tell you, Balon. Now, git! We don't need your kind around here.”

“My kind! I'm a minister, man. What do you mean?”

“That'll do, Davy,” the words came from behind Sam.

Sam turned to look at Paul Merlin. He did not know where the man had come from, and Sam Balon was not an easy man to sneak up on.

“Paul,” Sam spoke a greeting.

“Balon,” the rancher spoke the word harshly. “You're not welcome here. Leave now!”

“Paul, I—”

“Get out!”

Something about Paul was out of kilter. Sam realized this as he studied the face. His eyes, like the cowboy's, were dead-looking, the voice flat.

“All right, Paul,” Sam said. “I'll leave. Tell your hand to move his jeep.”

“Go around it.”

Sam resisted a quick impulse to give the rancher a short right cross to the mouth. “Very well, Paul,” he fought back his temper. “As you wish.”

Sam listened to the men laugh at him as he backed out and around the jeep, almost getting stuck in a ditch. Sam did not know what was going on around this part of Fork County, but he sure intended to find out—soon.

He drove straight to the
Crusader
office, where he knew Wade often worked on Saturday mornings, on personal business.

“Sam!” Wade said, surprise on his face as he answered the knocking on the front door of the newspaper building. He looked at the truck. “You trade cars?”

“Yesterday.”

“I like it.” The editor smiled, taking in his minister's casual dress and the unshaved stubble on his face. “You going fishing, Sam?”

“Hunting might be a better word, Wade. Can you spare me a few minutes of your time? I need to talk with you.”

“For you, Sam—anytime. All the time you want. Hunting? I didn't know you hunted.” He paused in his locking of the door after Sam was inside. “There is no hunting season open around here, Sam.”

“The season on this animal never closes,” Sam said dryly.

Wade gave him an odd look as they walked into his office. But he said nothing about whatever his minister might be hunting in the middle of summer.

“Sit down, Sam,” he pointed to a chair facing his desk. “I just made a pot of coffee. You take yours black, don't you?”

“Black as sin,” Sam smiled, but there was no mirth in his grin; no humor in his eyes.

Wade picked up on his minister's seriousness. Something is very wrong, he thought. Has Miles's alarm drifted over to Sam? I won't open the ball, though. I'll let him tell me.

Pouring them coffee, Wade stole a glance at Sam. The man never ceases to amaze me—never ceases to bring out the curiosity in me.

Sam was the only minister Wade had ever known with a combat background, although Sam never talked about his time in Korea with UNPIK. Whatever in the hell UNPIK was! He doesn't look like a minister. Big man. Barrel chested; thick, powerful wrists. Big hands, flat knuckles. Tattoo on his arm. Boxed in college, some say. I can believe it, looking at the size of those arms.

To lighten the mood of the moment, Wade abruptly asked a question he'd been wanting to ask for years. “How many fights did you have, Sam?”

Sam grinned boyishly. “I had too many, Wade. I enjoyed boxing, even though I felt it best to quit when I went into active ministry. Your next question will be, how many fights did I win? I won all of them.” He tapped his head.
Thick skull; hard to knock down,” his grin widened. “My trainer was appalled when he learned I was a theology major. He couldn't quite correlate boxing with the Bible. Thought it wrong somehow.”

“You were a minister while you were in the service ?”

“Yes. But the guys didn't know it. Let me clarify that. I had my degree, but I had not yet held a church. I wasn't sure until after the war—or sometime during it—that I really wanted to be a preacher.”

The speculation of whatever it was lurking around Whitfield entered Sam's mind, fading his grin. He did not know how to bring up the subject to Wade. Or what to do about it when he did.

Wade watched the changes sweeping his minister's face. “And you didn't think boxing wrong?”

That grin again. “No, I didn't. God liked his warriors.”

“You do like the Old Testament, don't you, Sam?”

“Yes, I do. Our nation—the world—would do well to go back to some of those hard Old Testament rules.”

Wade arched an eyebrow—a habit he picked up from watching George Sanders movies. “A lot of people—ministers included—might disagree with you about that.”

“Good,” Sam said, sipping his coffee.
I enjoy a fast debate. I'm a very opinioned minister, Wade. I've been called a maverick more than once, by my own peers. I really don't care, since I know for a fact that many ministers are notoriously naive about worldly ways. I think going back to the Old Testament might make a better people out of us. Myself, included. I know I could use some hard discipline from time to time.”

Interesting thing for him to say, Wade thought. Wonder why he said that? Jane Ann, perhaps. I know he's in love with her.

Wade knew that Sam came from a religious family, but had been a wild one, well up into his twenties. A street fighter; he openly admitted that. Sam's father had been a minister in Kansas City, Missouri. The elder Balon and his wife had been killed in an automobile accident when Sam was fifteen. Sam ran away from his Uncle's home in Iowa, drifting around the country, raising hell wherever he went, until a social worker in California persuaded him to go to college. Then the army.

“It amazes me how well you get along with young people, Sam. My oldest says you're a cool cat.”

But not “cool” enough, Sam thought. The youth department at the church has gone from bad to worse to zero. Again, the radio station came to mind. It had to be. Sam could think of no other way it could have been done. But, he recalled, every teacher in the elementary and high school was in that parade of humanity I saw last night, heading out to worship the devil. The radio station and the teachers—a good combination to mold young minds.

“Wade, Jr. is a good boy,” the minister said. “He just likes the girls, that's all.”

“Would I be asking you to violate a confidence if I asked what you told him that time he talked with you half the night. After you sobered him up, that is,” he added dryly.

“No. No violation of any confidence. I just told him if he couldn't keep it in his pants, at least put a rubber on it.”

Wade felt his face flush hot. He shook his head. “Sam, you're the darnest minister I've ever met in my life.” He fought a losing battle to hide a smile.

“Friend, in this day of blossoming sexual promiscuity among the young—and it's going to get much worse before it levels off—I'm not about to tell a healthy young man to go home and jack off. He'd think me a fool! I have to do what most parents won't or can't do with their kids, mostly boys, and that is tell them about the birds and the bees. It's a job most ministers don't want and are not equipped to handle. It's not our job, although a great many parents seem to think it is. Lucas Monroe told me, last year, a young man said to him that he didn't want to know about the birds and the bees; what he wanted to know about was pussy.