Devil's Kiss (18 page)

“Have you talked with the sheriff?”

“Wade, the sheriff is in this thing up to his neck,” He told the newsman what Chester had overheard; all his personal suspicions. “You will recall that Walter has dropped out of the church. Has he been friendly toward you lately?”

“No. No, he hasn't. He's been acting strangely of late. Sam, three-quarters of the people in this town are behaving—well, not normally. Damnit, Sam!” he slammed his open hand on the desk. “Come on straight with me—say what's on your mind.”

“Just calm down, Wade. I want to know more about Tyson's Lake.”

“Now, what?” he asked irritably.

“Your father was a newspaperman. What did he have to say about that area?”

“My father died when I was was seven years old, Sam. I don't remember much about him.”

“I'm sorry, Wade. I didn't know.”

He shook his head. “No, I'm the one who should be apologizing, Sam. I never told you about him. Sorry I lost my temper. But this . . . thing—this town; it's got me upset and confused.”

“Does it bother you to talk about your father?”

“Oh, no.”

“Was your dad killed in an accident?”

“Sort of, I guess you could say.” Wade seemed evasive.

Sam pressed on. Like a cop who had just picked up a strong lead, Sam felt a tingling in the pit of his stomach. “Sort of an accident, Wade? Where did the accident happen?” He knew the answer before Wade opened his mouth.

The small office was very quiet. Wade's sigh was audible. He kept his eyes downcast. “Not far from Tyson's Lake,” he said softly.

“How did he die, Wade?”

Wade's dark eyes lifted to meet Sam's. “You know, preacher, you're beginning to spook me a little. Just a little.”

“I'm waiting.”

“Sam, from all I've been able to piece together, my dad was a very virile man. Kept himself in excellent physical shape. He ran, he boxed, did calisthenics. The whole bit, and he wasn't afraid of a living thing.

“It was just about this time of the year. Yeah, almost to the date. Dad had been working on some hush-hush story. No, don't look at me like that or ask me what—I don't know. I've torn up this building, looking for a lead of some kind—any kind. Nothing. No journal, no notes, no nothing.

“Anyway, mother told me, just before she died, that dad had started carrying a pistol whenever he went out there. No one knows why he did it. And no one really knows what happened. Lord knows, I don't. I just vaguely remember the funeral. Closed casket. When I grew older, mother told me dad had been horribly clawed; mangled. Blood everywhere, and not just dad's blood. She said whatever it was that killed him—and the theory at that time was a bear or a puma—had to have died later. Dad's pistol had been fired several times, and he was an expert shot with that .44.”

He sighed heavily, as if the telling troubled him. “This is the strange part: dad had dragged himself away from the fence—it was fenced off even then—barbed wire. It's been replaced several times. Dad dragged himself almost a half mile, to an old road. Doctor King—not Tony, his father—told me years later that dad's face was grotesque; so horribly twisted as to be almost macabre, as if dad had been frightened out of his wits. But I can't believe dad would be frightened of anything, or anybody.

“You see, Sam, mother went to her death, seven years ago, still believing dad had been killed by a ... a ... whatever it was! That's not true; dad killed himself. Shot himself through the heart. Only two people knew that—until now. Doctor King and me. Now you.”

Sam was silent for a moment, thinking of the author's reference to the Beasts. “Could your father's face have been swollen with—oh, infection, perhaps?”

“Well, yes, Sam. You see, that's one of the dark secrets about Whitfield. Very tragic after dad died. Two of the men who helped load dad in the wagon to bring him into town—you couldn't get a car out there—not then, not in those days, had been working on the fence all day. Barbed wire. They had cut themselves on the hands and arms several times; just little cuts, nothing serious. But in handling dad, it seems dad's blood got into those cuts. This is Old Doctor King's theory, remember. Anyway,” again the heavy sigh, “the cuts became infected. The men went crazy, Sam. I didn't see them, of course, I was only a child. But I remember the shooting that night. The shouting and the screaming. The townspeople killed them. It was never reported as such, of course. Whitfield, you see, does have its secrets, Sam.”

“Who else, Wade?” the minister asked softly.

“You're smart, Sam,” the editor's smile was grim. “You put things together real quick, don't you? Yeah, sure, there were others that following day and night. A dozen people—men and women.”

“They were all found and—disposed of?”

“No. Two of them ran away into the prairie. They were never found.”

Which way did they run, Wade?”

“Boy! You're like a bulldog, aren't you, Sam? You never give up. They ran toward Tyson's Lake—so I'm told. They were tracked to the fence by bloodhounds.”

“And?”

“And? And? There is no ‘And?' That's the end of it. They fell in a cave or a hole and died. Period.”

“And you believe that crap?”

Wade's reply was soft, almost inaudible. “No.” He lifted his eyes. “But, if not that, then what?”

“The Mark of the Beast.”

“The Mark of the—what? I beg your pardon, Sam?”

“Let's count it down, Wade. How many people have died, or been killed, or disappeared in that area known as Tyson's Lake? Jane Ann's mother and father. Ex-Chief of Police Kramer. The young kids the lake is named after. The original Father Dubois and the trapper, Duhon. Your father. The two escapees that night, after they were infected. And a dime will get you a dollar that's what happened to Larry and Joan and Annie Brown. Far too many people for coincidence. Some were torn, others mutilated, marked.”

“What is the Mark of the Beast, Sam?”

“I don't know, Wade,” he said, then hesitated for a moment. Then Sam bared his thoughts and all his suspicions to his friend, taking it from the beginning. He told him everything.

When he came to the part about Michelle bending down to kiss him, and the stink of her breath and her reaction to the Holy Cross, Sam almost lost control. He paused for a short time, getting his emotions under control.

Wade didn't know what to believe or how to react. Coming from another man, the editor would have openly laughed. But this was Sam, one of the most level-headed men he'd ever known. He ran a shaky hand across his face. “Good God, Sam!”

“Yes,” the minister said, his voice firming. “I think God is about all we have to count on in Whitfield.”

 

“We'll call the authorities,” Wade reached for the phone.

“No, we won't!” Sam said. “It's too late for that.”

Puzzled eyes lifted to touch the minister's hard gaze. Wade pulled his hand from the phone. “What do you mean, Sam—too late?”

I—I believe there is just a handful of Christians left in Whitfield, in this part of Fork, and we're growing smaller in number with each passing hour. I think right now, Wade, we'd better go see Father Dubois. Perhaps he can shed some light on what's happening around here.”

Wade's usual demeanor had returned; the reporter's attitude on nearly everthing: cynical, doubting. “Sam? You really believe all you've told me, don't you? All this body snatching that's been going on—where are they? Do they prowl the streets at night? Come on, Sam, you're a grown man who is under a terrible strain at home. Now all things can be explained. Surely you don't believe—?”

“I don't know what I believe, Wade. And that's the truth. I need some answers; you need some answers. So let's go find them.”

Wade stood up, his ears doubting what he'd heard but willing to go along with his minister—for a time. “Next thing you'll be telling me is that Frankenstein is lurking outside Whitfield.”

Frankenstein is not mentioned in the Bible, Wade. The devil is.”

Father Dubois opened the rear door of the rectory. He did not seem surprised to see either Sam or Wade. The old priest smiled. “Come in, gentlemen.” He looked at Sam. “I've been expecting you.”

The preacher and the editor followed the priest into his small living quarters. Lucas Monroe of the Methodist Church and Father Glen Haskell of the Episcopal Church sat on the couch. They smiled their greetings.

Sam said, “Is this it? The sum total of Whitfield's faith? Us?”

Father Haskell smiled knowingly. “You're here, Sam, so you must have put it all together. You know the answer to your question.”

Sam remembered seeing several ministers in that parade of cars the night before. “I know about Jack Anglin and Bert Justis. But the others?”

Lucas slowly nodded his head. “Yes, so do we. Roger Owens and Leon Carson have also joined—Them.”

“Them?” Wade sat down without being asked. “You people seem as calm and as certain about this as—death!” He lost his temper. “What is going on!? You people act as though you've known about this . . . this . . . whatever the hell it is all along.”

“Calm yourself,” Dubois urged him gently. “Now is the time for unity, not panic. As to your question, yes—I believe we all sensed something at about the same time. Except for me, of course—I've known it was here for a long while. What I didn't know was when it would surface.”

Wade fumbled in his shirt pocket for a cigarette, lighting it with fingers that trembled despite himself. “This is all a bad dream. Pretty soon I'm going to wake up and return to reality.”

Dubois smiled. “Not likely, son. This is reality. I assure you of that.”

“May I use your phone?” Sam asked.

“Certainly.”

He decided not to call Chester—not yet. He didn't want to let the women in on all of this, not for a while. And if they were being watched—as Sam suspected they were—he didn't want to alarm the watchers. He dialed Miles's number at the store.

“Miles? I think you better come on over to the rectory. I want you to sit in on this. Five minutes. See you then.”

“I'll make more coffee,” Dubois said.

“A Jew in a Catholic rectory,” Miles said, taking the cup of coffee offered him by Dubois. Miles smiled. “My father always said I had a strange sense of humor.”

“Sit down, Miles,” Dubois said, returning the smile. “I really don't wear a tail and horns.”

“Who does?” the Jew countered.

“Ah,” Dubois said. “But for a time, just before the Christian era, do you doubt Jews took Satan seriously?”

“Never too deeply rooted,” Miles sat down, sipping his coffee, smiling.

“What are you two talking about?” Wade asked, irritation in his tone.

He was ignored.

“Do you really believe the Book of Job is fiction?” Dubois asked.

Miles shrugged. “I've drifted away from my faith, Michael,” he said, calling the priest by his first name. “So I suppose I'm open to real proof.”

“But you're here.”

“Yes. I can't deny that, can I?”

“But you won't admit Satan is real?”

Miles smiled. “Whatever is happening here in Whitfield may or may not be real. Why doesn't each of us deal with . . . it in our own way and leave religious dogma for some other time?”

Only Wade did not join in the laughter. Sam said, “That's a nice, safe answer, Miles.”

“That's all you're going to get out of me. So be happy with that much.”

“Jokes!” Wade muttered. “They're making jokes.”

Miles glanced around the small room. “I take it save for Chester, Faye and Jane Ann, this is it?”

“And Peter Canford, yes,” Sam said. “This is it.”

“And the old people,” Haskell reminded them all.

“They are gone and don't know it,” Dubois said, and all eyes swung toward him. “The strong must survive. That's a very un-Christian thing to say, and I'll pay for it, but it's the truth.”

Miles shifted his feet restlessly. He glanced at Wade. “I take it Sam convinced you where I could not?”

“I didn't say I was convinced,” the newspaperman stubbornly held on, “but I'm here.”

“But the old people?” Sam said.
They—”

“Drop the subject, son,” Lucas spoke gently. “Flagellation won't solve a thing. You'll see what we mean, I promise you.”

“Poppycock and balderdash and twaddle,” Wade said, folding his arms across his chest.

“Doubting Thomas,” Sam said.

“I can't relate to that,” Miles smiled, his always good humor breaking through.

“I think,” Wade said, “you're all overreacting. And I include myself in that.”

“You're very wrong, old friend,” Miles said, his grin fading. “And you'll never know what that statement does to me.”

“I was shocked at what Sam told me a few minutes ago,” the editor admitted. “In my office. But I've had time to think on it. I'm sorry, Sam, but—are you sure Michelle did those things? Or did you put too much into an innocent gesture?”

Father Dubois held up a hand, stilling Wade. “We don't have much time. And we certainly don't have time for bickering among ourselves. Let's tell our stories—compare notes, if you will. Then I'll tell you all the real story.” He glanced at Sam. “If you'll begin, Sam.”

For the second time that day, Sam told his story, leaving nothing out. When he finished, he felt drained. All the men—including Wade—sat quietly.

Sam glanced at Dubois. The old priest sat quietly, his hands clasped in his lap, a smile on his lips. A sad, knowing smile. His eyes were dark with secrets.

He knows, Sam realized. He knows more than all of us.

Sam shifted his gaze to the Methodist. Lucas wore a worried look, and Sam knew it had nothing to do with his losing battle with cancer. The Episcopal priest sat very still, holding an empty coffee cup in his hands. Miles slowly shook his head, his lips forming a silent aahhh. Wade shifted his feet on the carpet, not convinced.

Lucas said, “I know perfectly well what is happening in this town. I know the evil that surrounds us all. I know it personally, and it frightens me.”

“I told you twenty years ago, Lucas,” Dubois said. “I warned you then you couldn't outrun your past. Neither can I.”

“Yes,” the Methodist whispered. “I know. But it's too late for me—I'm dying. But not for you.”

“I've got to meet him again,” Dubois said.

“What are you two talking about?” Wade asked, exasperation in his voice, his actions, as he waved his hands in the air. “Who is it you've got to meet?” He smiled. “Or is it whom? I never can get that straight.”

But no one laughed.

“The antisemitism has begun,” Miles spoke. “In earnest.”

“In what way?” Sam asked.

“The phone calls began about two months ago, becoming more vicious as time passed. Now they're really bad. Doris is frightened half out of her wits. The calls—callers—have become extremely abusive.”

“Is that why you abruptly sent your kids to Colorado?” Sam asked.

“One of the reasons,” Miles said gently.

“Will somebody
please
get back to my question?” Wade said. “Who is it you people have to meet? And why?”

The expression on Father Dubois's face was a mixture of amusement, fear, and sadness. “The devil,” he said.

“THE DEVIL!” Wade jumped to his feet. “Oh, come on, gentlemen, now look here. I'll admit there is something going on in this town; I conceded that much to Miles and Sam. But the devil? No! I absolutely refuse to believe any—”

“SIT DOWN!” Dubois shouted. It was the first time Sam had ever heard the priest raise his voice. “Listen to me, Wade. Listen to me very carefully.

“I'm seventy years old, son. I've been a priest for a long, long time. This has been my parish for more than thirty-five years. I remember you as a little boy. Son, I've written volumes on the happenings in Fork County. I have your father's journals as well.”

“My father's writings! I want them! I've searched everywhere—”

“Hush,” Dubois commanded gently. “Listen to me. Your father knew—sensed—something evil about this area. But he spoke not a word of it—to anyone. Except, finally, to me. We talked at length until he was certain I knew what I was talking about, and he could trust me, and I him. I warned him not to go too far, to be careful in his prying. But,” the old priest shrugged, “he was a good newspaper man. I wish I could have known him longer.” He smiled. “Your father did not take kindly to my warnings. Oh, he believed me—your father was a good Christian man. Also a very brave man. His bravery got him killed that day.”

“You
know
who killed my father?”

“Of course, I know who killed him.”

“Well, who?”

“The devil,” Dubois replied calmly, with no more emotion than if he were discussing the price of eggs.

Miles suddenly looked very uncomfortable.

Lucas and Father Haskell nodded in agreement.

Sam sat stunned.

Wade was unhappy, unconvinced, irritable, and becoming even more skeptical of Dubois. “I want my dad's journals,” he said.

Dubois rose, left the room, and returned with several thick ledgers. Wade took them, holding them almost reverently. He stared at the priest. “You know—you're convinced the devil—is out there?” he waved his arm.

“Yes, son.”

“You've known this for—umpteen years?”

“Yes, I have. So did your father, as you will see when you read those journals.”

“Well, why didn't you do something about it? Why didn't you do something about it—before now, I mean! If you're so convinced the devil is lurking about Whitfield—do something!”

Dubois smiled. “What would you have me do, son?”

Well—I—you—oh, crap!” Wade said, sitting down. “This is all just too fantastic for words.”

“A grown man is pouting,” Miles smiled.

“Miles,” Wade looked at his friend, “if this . . . whatever it is is as serious as you obviously believe it is, why are you making jokes about it?”

“Because I don't know what else to do,” he admitted, unhappily. “I told you the last time we spoke—I'm frightened. I don't know what to believe, except that something awful is happening here, and something even worse is about to happen. If you think you're in a bind, think about the situation
I'm
in! To a Jew, Satan is considered not much more than a figure of speech. No play on words, friend, but this puts me in a hell of a spot.” He grinned.

“Well,
I'm
a reporter,” Wade clung stubbornly to his profession.
I deal in facts, not superstition.”