Devil's Kiss (19 page)

“Then I'll give you some more grist for your mill,” Dubois said. “Loup-garou,” he spoke the words softly.

“What?” Haskell's head jerked up. “What was that?”

“French for werewolf,” Sam said. “Fellow in my outfit was from South Louisiana—bayou country. He told me many of the old people still believe quite strongly in them.”

“With good reason,” Dubois said. “There are several places in the deep bayou country where Beasts have been sighted over the past couple of centuries. As civilization closes in on them, they will be seen more and more in the years to come.”

“WEREWOLVES!” Wade blurted. “Oh, come on, people. Now, really!”

Sam ignored him, speaking to Dubois. “Yeti? Sasquash?”

“Quite possibly, as well as the Skunk Ape. I'm sure they are descendants of the Beasts, possibly more advanced mentally.”

“WEREWOLVES?” Wade appeared stuck on the word.

“I've heard them,” Dubois said. “Not often, but I've heard them. Howling, snapping, snarling—the stink of them. And I'm not alone. Your father heard them, too, Wade. They killed him, or caused him to kill himself, as the case may be. You're too young to remember the events of that night and following day, but I do, very well. The blood of the Beasts is very infectious. Those people were transformed in a matter of minutes, from human to animal, and worse. No, Wade, they are not werewolves in the classic book or movie sense, but I'm sure that's where the original idea sprang. They are the devil's servants. Believe it.”

“Werewolves,” Wade nodded his head. “Sure! Well, that's just wonderful! Great! First we have the devil, now we have werewolves lurking about. Where are the witches and the warlocks. Surely this scenario can't be complete without them.”

“They are all present, Wade,” Lucas said. “Believe it.”

“But you're all men of God!” Wade cried out as if in pure anguish. “How can any of you believe this—crap?”

Because I've seen him,“ Dubois said. ”I've seen him, and I have beaten him—once.”

Doubt in the editor's eyes. “Then beat him again,” he said sarcastically.

Dubois ignored the cynicism. “I can't.”

“Why?” Wade challenged him.

The priest sighed. “Because I'm too old. I'm tired. I beat him almost forty-five years ago, in Montreal. I was a young man. But I was sick for weeks afterward. Drained—very close to death.” He shuddered in mental recall. “I shall never forget the smell of him. Afterward, I was too weak to even feed myself. The Sisters took care of me. I was months recovering. The Devil knows I'm too old, now. It's a game to him. He knows I'm here, though. He's known all along. Ask Lucas, he'll tell you the same thing.”

“How did you beat him?” Wade asked.

“I drove him out.”

“Exorcism?”

“Yes.”

“I don't believe in that!”

Dubois smiled his sad, patient smile. “Do you believe in the supernatural, Wade? In any form of it?”

“I believe there are things man cannot satisfactorily explain.”

“Join the club,” Miles muttered under his breath. Only Sam heard him, and he smiled.

“Nice, safe answer,” Dubois said. “I can but assume you believe in God?”

“Of course, I believe in God!”

“Well, then, if you believe in God, then you must believe in the devil.”

Miles sighed, a pained look on his face.

“I never said I didn't believe in the devil, Father Dubois. I just don't believe the devil is responsible for all that is happening in Whitfield.”

“Then who, or what, is?”

“I don't know. But none of you has convinced me the devil is behind it, or that he's here. If he's here, gentlemen—and no offense to any of you—I want to see him.”

“Son, I pray God you never get your wish,” Dubois said.

“Wade,” Sam said, “where, then, were all those people going last night? Hundreds of them?”

The editor shook his head, refusing to answer.

Sam turned to Lucas Monroe. “A moment ago, Lucas, Father Dubois said to ask you about something. What did he mean?”

The Methodist sighed, a faint smile on his lips. He glanced at Dubois. “There is never any escaping it, is there, Michael?”

“I told you, Lucas. Years ago.”

“Yes. Well, so you did. Sam, many years ago I had a church in—well, never mind where. That would serve no useful purpose, not now. A young girl became, well—possessed. I was not convinced of her possession. It didn't take me long to become convinced, though. There is no need to go into great detail. You will all, I'm afraid, soon learn the power of that . . . creature! I sat with the girl, working with her, praying, for a long time—days. I exorcised the . . . thing from her.”

“A
Methodist?
” Wade blurted.

“Shut up, Wade! Sam warned him.

The editor shut his mouth.

“I emerged from the ordeal,” Lucas spoke softly, “looking like a man three times my age. My hair was snow-white; the color it is now. At the time, I was twenty-eight years old.

“Things began happening to me—and my family. Both my children were killed in separate, horrible accidents. My wife became suddenly, and to the medical profession, mysteriously ill. She lingered in great agony for months, and then died—horribly. Many unexplained things happened. Finally, I suffered a mental breakdown, knowing that everything that had happened to my family was my fault. After I was released from the sanitarium, I asked for a church far away from that city. I've been here ever since, living quietly.”

Lucas smiled gently. “It's really quite a joke, isn't it, Michael? To get away from . . . him, I came to one of his strongholds. I felt his presence as soon as I arrived, but it was a feeble signal. A few months ago, it became quite intense. Then it began building, getting stronger and stronger. I knew—sensed—he would soon surface. Of course, Father Dubois and I knew of each other; there is a small circle of men who have done what we performed. Word gets around. I spoke with Michael about my feelings of alarm. He said he, too, felt it. He knew the devil was closing in, gathering his forces of evil, building another Coven. We discussed talking with you people, but we didn't know who to trust. We did agree that if you—I'm talking about you, Sam—did not come to us today, we were going to take a chance and call you. To form a battle plan, so to speak. For those of us who are left.”

“If it isn't too late,” Dubois added.

“What do you mean?” Wade asked, unbelieving but still fascinated by the talk from the men of God. “Too late?”

“He's called out the Beasts,” Father Haskell spoke. He sat holding a cross in his hands, fingering the silver crucifix, thinking of his wife, dead five years, and wondering if he would soon join her—and in what way?

“The Beasts? Don't tell me you believe in all this mumbo jumbo, too, Glen?” Wade looked at the Episcopalian. “Next you'll be telling me you performed one of these exorcisms.”

“It isn't mumbo jumbo, Wade. It's very real, and it's happening to our town. And, yes, I assisted in an exorcism shortly after I got out of school. It was not very pleasant.”

Father Dubois said, “He's found the tablet that was hidden here by the trapper Duhon, and his agent is drawing power from it.”

“I know the name,” Wade said. “I discussed Duhon with Sam not an hour ago. But what tablet?”

“He walks among you,” Sam said.
The mark of the Beast is plain. Believe in him. Once touched, forever his. The kiss of life and death.

Dubois and Haskell crossed themselves as sudden remembrance came lurching into Sam's mind. “Now I know what happened to Tim.”

“Tim?” Dubois asked.

“Tim Bennett. A young archaeologist who came to see me back in early spring. He disappeared soon after that.”

“What happened to him?” Miles asked.

“I remember thinking how strange it was that Michelle walked him to his car that day. I believe she kissed him. I'm sure of it.”

“She marked him,” Haskell said. “Unless he joined them—or became a Beast, he's dead.”

Wade stood up. “I think you people are all
crazy!”

He was ignored. Feeling like a fool standing in the center of the room with no one paying any attention to him, he sat down.

Dubois said, “Duhon came here from a small village in France that had just thrown out the devil's agent, a man who had come there as a Forgeron.”

“A what?” Miles looked up.

“A blacksmith.”

“Black Wilder,” Sam said.

“Yes, I believe that is true,” Dubois agreed. “Duhon had the tablet with him. He'd been commissioned by his government to get the tablet far away from France—off the continent. He, along with Father Dubois, a distant relative of mine, brought the tablet to America. To what would eventually become Whitfield; to an area the Beasts occupied.”

Father Haskell held up a hand for silence, putting a finger to his lips.

“What's wrong, Glen?” Miles whispered.

“We are not alone,” the Episcopal priest said.

Sam walked to a window, glancing outside. A young man stood by the side of the rectory, just a few feet away. Sam felt Dubois by his side.

“Sonny Moore,” he said. “He left the church several months ago-quite profanely.”

“There's someone in the back,” Wade said. He stood in the small kitchen, looking out the window. “John Petterson. He was listening to us talk, listening through this open window.” He jerked open the door. “What the hell are you doing out here?”

“Just takin' a shortcut, Thomas,” the young man said, open challenge in his eyes, his speech. “No law against that—it's a free country, ain't it?”

But the challenge vanished when the bulk of Sam stepped into the door. The ex-warrior, ex-boxer turned preacher with the tattoo on his arm kept the conversation short. “Haul your ashes, boy!” he told him.

Petterson hauled his ashes.

Sam pulled Wade back into the kitchen. “Paul Smiley was standing by the west side of the house,” he told him. “We had men all around the rectory, watching and listening.”

“Sam?” Wade asked. “What would you have done if Petterson had stood up to you?”

“Knocked him on his butt,” the preacher said.

“The ranks are narrowing,” Haskell said, pointing to a tree in the front yard. “Look.”

Someone had written 666 on the trunk of the tree, using white paint. Just below the numbers they had traced an upside-down cross.

“We don't have much time,” Dubois said. “We've got to rally those we know we can trust.”

“I know something
I
can do,” Lucas muttered.

“Good Lord!” Wade blurted, staring at the men. Miles sat on the couch, eyes numb with shock and disbelief and confusion. “You're all behaving as though we can't do anything. I mean—” he let the words trail off into silence. “Miles?”

The Jew shook his head. “Don't ask me what we can do, Wade. I don't know.”

Dubois put his hand on the editor's shoulder. “What can we do, son? Go to the authorities? And tell them what? That the devil is working Black Magic in Whitfield? That almost the entire town is possessed? Think about that. I can just see us now, being quietly but firmly escorted to the state mental hospital. And if we prove the notice did not run in your paper—so what? That will just delay things for a time. Besides, son, I have my doubts that any of us would be allowed to leave Whitfield.” He looked at Sam. “Have you attempted to call outside the town today?”

“No, I haven't.”

“We're back to ‘number, please,' again. They say the devil is not working. Won't be for some time.”

“Our calls are being monitored, then?” Miles asked.

“I would think so, son,” Dubois replied. He turned back to Wade. “Son, the devil is no stranger to patience; all he has to do is pull back for a time. A year, ten years, a hundred years. Time means nothing to him. A hundred years is the blinking of an eye.”

Then—what do we do?”