Devil's Kiss (17 page)

“Wade, I want you to think back. Has anybody approached you to join any kind of club, or, oh, cult—that's what I'm trying to say?”

He shook his head. “No. Some of us used to gather at various homes to discuss church business, things for the kids to do. Nondenominational meetings among parents. But we don't do that any longer. Haven't for—I guess a couple of months. You know that. My friends won't discuss anything with me; those people who used to be my friends, that is,” he added sourly. He reached for the phone.

Sam's hand shot out, grabbing his wrist, stopping him. “No!” the preacher said.

“Sam? Have you gone crazy? Excuse me, but I want to find out what's going on around here.”

“It's too late,” Sam's voice held a warning.

Wade gave up attempting to free his wrist from Sam's viselike grip. The man was strong as a bear. He nodded, and Sam released him. Rubbing his wrist, Wade asked, “Too late for what?”

“Do you trust me, Wade?”

“Sure. You know that without asking. Of course, I do. Dumb question.”

“Then listen to me for a few minutes—answer a few questions, then make up your mind whether to call.”

“All right,” Wade leaned back in his chair, a half-smile on his lips. “Sounds awfully sinister, preacher, but I'll listen.”

“First give me a cigarette.”

“I didn't know you smoked!”

“I don't, very often. Come on, Wade, give me a cigarette.”

He tossed a pack of Pall Mall's on the desk. “Next thing I know my minister's going to tell me he drinks, too.”

“I had a shot of booze with Chester last evening.”

Wade rolled his eyes and grimaced. “Please spare me any more of your vices, Sam.”

“Just leave the pack where I can get at it, will you? Ready for this? Okay. Tell me everything you know about Dr. Black Wilder and his crew.”

“That's easy. I don't know anything about them! Sam, I'm much more interested in this so-called notice that is supposed to have run in—”

“Just bear with me a few minutes, Wade,” Sam cut in. “Okay? What do you know about the Tyson Lake area?”

“I might be able to help you there. It's been fenced off for years—as long as I can remember. It's full of caves, holes, lava pits.”

“You've seen these caves and holes and pits? Firsthand?”

Well—no, Sam. But someone obviously has, or the place wouldn't be fenced off for public safety.”

“Karl Sorenson owns the land?”

“That's right. Been Sorenson land for—oh, over a hundred and fifty years. Maybe longer.”

“And the Sorenson's came from—where?”

Wade shrugged. “Scandinavia, I guess.”

Uh-huh. Got a dictionary, Wade?”

“You're asking a newspaper man that?” he grinned. “Sure.” He flipped open a large dictionary on his desk, cleverly hidden under a pile of out-of-town newspapers. “What's the word, Sam?”

“Black.”

“Black? Just Black?” He received a stare for a reply. “Okay.” He thumbed through the pages.

“Got it.”

“Check the Icelandic spelling.”

“Blakkr.”

“Now look up wild.”

A curious stare, then Wade thumbed through the W's. “All right, got it.”

Icelandic spelling?”

“Villr.”

“Put them together in English.”

The editor was thoughtful for a moment. “Black Wild. Black Wilder; that what you're getting at? So what?”

Sam told him of the book he'd read. Of Jane Ann's suspicions. Of his own.”

“Duhon,” Wade muttered. “Yeah, I recall reading about him. He isn't exactly one of the heroes of early Americana, but he did trap this area two centuries ago. Let me think back to my history classes at the university. All right. Duhon, along with a Father—” he stumbled over the word, “Dubois, helped set up the First Catholic Church in what is now Nebraska. Dubois! Father Dubois is our parish priest now.” He forced a smile.

“Interesting, isn't it?” Sam returned the forced smile.

“Have you spoken with Father Dubois?”

“Not lately. And not about this, but I plan to—today.”

Wade nodded absently. He rose to his feet, walking to a wall lined with books. He selected a slim volume of Fork County history. “Yes, things are coming back to me. Sam, do you know what is purported to have happened to Duhon and the original Father Dubois?”

No.”

“Real fairy tale stuff.” He flipped a few pages of the book, found the passage he sought, and read,
The log cabin church was destroyed in the late 1700s. Folklore has it that the church was destroyed by huge, foul-smelling, hairy beasts, who, after destroying the church, ate both Duhon, the trapper, and the priest, Dubois.
He laughed.
“Pure hogwash.”

Sam said nothing.

“The truth,”
Wade read on,
will probably never be known, for their bodies were never found, nor was any grave site ever located.

He skipped a few pages.
The church was originally built near what is now the town of Whitfield, in an area known locally as Tyson's Lake. The lake was named in memory of two young children, Abe and Martha Tyson, who disappeared near there in the mid-1800's, and were presumed to have drowned.

“Sure,” Sam said. “Right.”

This time the editor's smile was not forced. He openly chuckled. “Come on, Sam! You're not going to sit there and tell me you believe in ghosties and ghoulies and things that go bump in the night?”

“Do you believe in God, Wade?”

“Certainly, I do!”

“Then if you believe in God, you have to believe in the devil.”

Wade nodded, but refused to elaborate further. He sat behind his desk, a slight smile on his lips, his eyes amused.

“Why did the radio station close down, Wade?”

He shrugged. “I guess because it wasn't making any money. Town's too small. It was always marginal.”

“Who owned it?”

“Oh, it's changed hands several times in the past ten years. A media group out of Omaha owned it for years. Then about three years ago—” he paused, his eyes lifting to meet Sam's, “Karl Sorenson bought it.”

“And ran it until a few months ago. That's interesting.”

“Maybe,” Wade was thoughtful. “But I know something that is more interesting, I believe. You know Karl Sorenson?”

“Unfortunately. He's perhaps one of the most profane men I've ever had the misfortune to encounter. Why do you ask?”

“Karl's been spending a lot of time with Otto Stockman.”

“That is interesting. And odd. The most profane man in the county spending time with a Baptist deacon. Stranger still, when one recalls it was Otto who urged the new man, Farben, to break with the Ministerial Alliance a couple of months ago. I heard Farben called the M.A. the most useless group in town.”

“I remember you telling me about that. I didn't pursue it because I know you don't care for Otto.” He grinned. “Or is that putting it too mildly?”

“No, it isn't. I prayed for guidance, Wade; prayed for help and forgiveness because of my dislike for Otto. I recall what Father Dubois told me about Stockman. He said Otto was too Christian! He said anytime a mortal man sets himself up as a pure model for others to follow, he's in real trouble. Dubois said he'd known Otto for years and the man had always been a pompous ass. He allowed himself to be placed on a pedestal. Dubois told me a couple of years ago he thought Otto was heading for a bad fall. He didn't elaborate.”

“You think Otto has something to do with—whatever you believe is happening here?”

Sam lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “Maybe. Something else, too. Jane Ann told me Annie Brown has disappeared.”

“What do you mean, disappeared?”

“Gone. Vanished. Departed. Dematerialized—”

Wade held up one hand. “Enough, Sam-spare me. I know the meaning of the word. I withdraw the question. How do you know she's disappeared?

“Because Jane Ann checked it out. No one has seen her. Not at church, not at the movies, nowhere. She's just gone.”

“Her stepparents?”

“They told Jane Ann she'd gone to visit relatives in Bradville. That's a lie. The girl has no relatives.” He related to Wade what Jane Ann had told him. The editor's face expressed his disgust at her stepparent's actions.