Devil's Kiss (21 page)

You must try to mark him, he told her.

But Michelle knew, speaking with Sam this afternoon, that he would never fall prey to her. He was too strong, too much a believer in his God.

And, though she did not like to admit it, she was afraid of Sam.

“That's interesting, Sam. What did you two discuss?”

“Church business, mostly.” Not really a lie. “It was a most interesting chat, I assure you.”

“How nice for you both. Well, if you're not hungry, I think perhaps I'll get ready to go.”

Carry your butt, he thought bitterly. When, in the past six months, have you cared whether I was hungry or not. “Go?”

“Mrs. Carrison is in the hospital,” she said, her eyes meeting his in the never-wavering gaze of the practiced liar. “In Rock Point. I'm riding over with Susan to visit her. Take her a plant for her room.”

“How very considerate of you. Please give her my best.” He hoped the sarcasm he felt had not slipped into his words. Then he decided he didn't care whether it had or not. “I didn't know she was ill.” He decided to needle her a bit. “Do you want me to ride over with you, dear?” he smiled after his words.

Her eyes shot venom at him, but her lips pulled back in a forced smile. “I don't believe so, Sam. But it's nice of you to ask. We're going to spend the night at Rock Point—with Susan's sister. I told you about it, you must have forgotten, Sam. I know you have a great deal on your mind,” her smile broadened, “with church attendance falling so drastically.” She could slip the needle just as well as her husband.

She should, she'd had hundreds of years of practice.

Touche, Sam's smile was grim. But you're a liar. You never told me a word about it. How quickly the lies come. “Well, perhaps I'd better stay here. I do have a lot of work to do on Sunday's message.”

She picked up her overnight bag. Sam could smell its contents. “What is the topic for Sunday?”

“Devil worship,” he lied, for he had no intention of speaking on that subject.

Michelle dropped her bag. “Darn! How clumsy of me.” She bent to retrieve the bag and Sam felt an almost overwhelming urge to kick her in the behind. It was only with a great deal of effort, working hard at self-control that he did not plant his boot on her derriere.

When she turned to leave, Sam felt relief wash over him. He hoped she would not try to kiss him. She was disgusting to him. Loathsome. If she attempted to touch him, to kiss him, Sam knew he might kill her.

And the thought startled him.

He looked at the woman he had once loved so deeply.

She disgusted him!

Devil worship. Black masses. Coven.

Sam's thoughts suddenly wandered to Jane Ann. Until recently, he had always been able to cope with her feelings toward him. And, he reluctantly admitted, his feelings for her. But now . . . ?

She wasn't the first to fall for a minister. That happens often, this transference of affection, as some call it. There are courses one must take in seminary—courses that supposedly teach a minister how to cope with such a situation. Lately, though, when in the company of Jane Ann, Sam had been unable to think of a single lecture.

He forced Jane Ann from his mind as he looked away from his wife. He did not see the look of black hatred she gave him, or the spittle that oozed from one corner of her mouth. He did not see the snarl that pulled back her lips, or her curving fingers suddenly raised, hooked talons, ready to strike.

When he glanced back at her, her hands went to her hair, patting it, the fingers no longer talons. She smiled at him. “You're very distant this afternoon, Sam.”

He held her gaze until her eyes slid away from his. “Sorry. I guess I have too many things on my mind.”

He wished she would leave—just get
out
! Go, before he did something.... Kill entered his mind. Strike out at her. He fought back an impulse to smash her face. Slowly, he unclenched his big fists. He did not remember balling them.

She continued her smiling at him; invitation in her eyes. He could smell the scent of musk rising from her, filling his head. He fought back her enticement until her eyes changed, a peculiar glint shining from the dark pools. Sam recognized the look: Hate. It's been there for weeks, he thought. I just didn't see it, didn't know it.

She walked around him, getting a sweater from the hall closet.
I'd better be on my way.”

“You're going to spend the night?”

“Oh, I'm sure.”

“What's the number at Susan's sister's house?”

“I believe her phone is out of order, dear.” Her voice was strained. “You want me to call from a service station when we get there?”

“No, that won't be necessary, Michelle. I'm sure everything will be just fine.”

The look in her eyes changed from hate to confusion as her gaze bore deeply into his eyes. As if she were attempting to read his mind, and failing.

As they stood in the foyer, their eyes locking, some ugly misty force moved solidly between them. And Sam knew what it was: Evil. Another force touched them both: Good. Sam knew both Good and Evil very well, never considering himself to be especially pure—he had too much wildness in him as a youth and was still a very earthy man. But he had always felt that God was with him, scolding him at times, but still there. He could never explain just
how
he knew.

As the unseen forces moved around them, Sam wondered if Michelle had ever really known God? Known His love, His compassion, His touch? If so, what had caused her to reject Him?

Or had she rejected Him? Something very uneasy touched Sam's mind as he stared at this woman who was now a stranger to him. As, Sam suddenly realized, she had always been.

As quickly as they had come, the forces vanished. Michelle's eyes glowed with power. They changed to fear as her gaze moved to briefly touch the Holy Cross hung about Sam's neck. The medallion between the jutting mounds of her breasts seemed to glow with life—with hate. The man and woman did not touch. Michelle's eyes calmed, and she turned, opening the door, stepping out on the porch. Just once more, their eyes locked.

“Have a good trip,” Sam said. Personally, he thought, I hope I never see you again.

Her smile seemed inordinately evil. Her eyes once more flashing at him. She turned her back to him, closing the door without speaking.

Sam listened to her drive off. Hate, he thought. Her god says hate Christians.

Sam leaned against the foyer wall, thinking. Just about six months ago; that's when it really started building. Just about the time the digging began. Everything has always pointed to the Dig, and I didn't have enough sense to see it. But our marriage has never been right. There has always been . . . something wrong. I wonder, he mused, if she has always been—one of Them?

He shuddered at the thought.

“Five years of marriage going right down the tube,” he said aloud.

Everything fell into place in Sam's mind. Michelle had appeared at the army hospital one day. Just
bang,
and there she was. They had become good friends quickly. No parents, she told him. She was alone, just like Sam, and thrilled when he told her he was a minister and would be going into the active ministry.

They were married less than three months after meeting.

She knew! he thought. Somehow, she knew I was going to be picked to lead this fight. And she was chosen by her Master to stop me; to keep me occupied while They did their work around me.

It has to be.

But it's odd, he thought, I don't feel terribly depressed about a marriage going bad. About Michelle. Maybe I never really loved her? Maybe I've always known, somehow, something of far greater importance would rise; have to be dealt with.

But, he silently questioned, if I am indeed chosen, as Father Dubois seems to believe—why me?

And he felt uneasy, unworthy with the knowledge that he had been chosen.

Why did you pick me, Lord. Why me?

In the bathroom, washing his face and hands, he glanced in the mirror. His eyes had become hard; how unfeeling they seemed. He thought: if what you suspect is true—and you
know
it is—you're going to have to be hard. You're going to have to be ruthless in dealing with—It.

He dried his hands and face, still gazing at his reflection. There is more. Sam—say it! You're going to have to gather around you all your trusted friends—Christians—and—and destroy what is possessing this town and this part of Fork County.

What's the matter, Sam? Can't you say the word? You were a minister in Korea, and it didn't bother you to kill, did it? How many people did you kill over there? Kill, Sam. There, that's the word. Kill. Destroy.

That wasn't so difficult, was it?

But, as Chester asked, who do I trust?

Try the Lord God.

Lord, my God,
he prayed, his big hands on the washbasin, fingers gripping the porcelain—
stand by my side. Give me the courage to do whatever must be done. Don't forsake me, Lord—You above all know I am but a mortal man, and I am not without sin. Lord, my faith is strong, but I need Your help. Guide me, Lord. Make me as strong as needs be to seek out and destroy Your enemies.

The ringing of the phone broke into his silent prayer. A frightened Wade Thomas on the line.

“Sam? I'm being watched. I think they're about to do something.”

“Where are you, Wade?”

“At the office.” His voice was shaky.

“Miles?”

“Here. With me.”

“Stay put. I'll be right down.”

Sam drove the few blocks to the downtown square, parking in front of Peterson's Drug Store, next to the
Crusader
office. A group of men stood in front of Wade's newspaper office. They were in an ugly mood. Sam tucked the .45 behind his belt, pulled his shirttail over the butt of the weapon, and got out of the truck, standing for a moment looking over the situation.

For the first time in years, Sam felt the old recklessness of his youth build in him. And the feeling was good to him. His smile was tight as he walked slowly across the sidewalk, heading straight for the knot of men blocking the door.

The minister had had far more than his share of fights as a teenager and a young man—in and out of the ring. He'd been a bouncer in strip joints and clip joints; he'd worked in the oil fields as a roughneck, and he'd had many, many bloody, no-quarter barroom and back alley fights. But for all of that, Sam had never been labeled a troublemaker; never goading anyone into a fight. He just would not back down—and he could not remember ever losing a fight.

You're a preacher, Sam, he reminded himself during his short walk from the truck to the knot of men. No longer a barroom brawler. Just remember, this is Addison's town, now, and he is one of Them.

He stopped, facing the men.

“Well, here's goody-goody,” one of the men said. “I figured you'd be to home, Balon, writin' some Sunday bullshit!”

Sam looked at the speaker. David Vanderwerf. For a moment, it seemed David was going to block Sam's way, but something in the preacher's eyes drove the young man back, causing him to step aside.

“You consider God's word bullshit?” Sam asked.

The young man laughed nastily. “Just jokin', preacher.”

“I didn't laugh,” Sam said. He bulled his way through the men, physically shoving them aside. Startled, they made no effort to stop the minister.

Just as he placed his hand on the door, Sam heard one say, “You're gonna git yours, preacher.”

Sam turned. “Which one of you wants to be the first to give it to me?” His eyes touched each man in the group. They cut their eyes from him, refusing to meet his steady gaze. A wildness swelled in Sam. He laughed at them.
All mouth and no guts,” he heard himself say.