The Devil's Heart (6 page)

"Corrected a few physical problems. You and Wade will have to be strong, mentally and physically, to make it through this upcoming ordeal."

"Why am I experiencing this feeling that I am about to get the shitty—excuse me, Sam—end of this handel?"

"I don't speak Hebrew, Miles."

"Bargain. You really don't? That seems odd."

"All languages are as one there, Miles. Miles? Am I your friend?"

"Oy! Here it comes; I knew it."

"Wouldn't you rather go out in a blaze of glory, Miles?"

"If it's all the same with you, Sam, I would rather not go out at all! Sam, old friend, do you realize what you're doing to me? You turned my head all cockeyed more than twenty years ago. I'm a Jew—I don't believe in all this crazy stuff. Now here you come again—no offense meant. Sam, please, it's good to see you; what there is of you. But … oh, Sam! What do you want from this old man? Let me rephrase that: What's gonna happen to me?"

"You're going to meet The Man in nine days."

"Some friend you are! You fix my legs all up where they don't hurt—first time in five years—then you tell me I'm gonna die in nine days!" He lay back, his head on the pillow. He closed his eyes. "If I don't see you, don't talk to you, you'll go away."

He was still for a few moments, until curiosity got the best of him. He opened his eyes. The mist that was Sam Balon was still there, looking at him.

Miles sighed, then said: "Well, sometimes it works. Okay, Sam … I never could win an argument with you. What do you want me to do?"

"Finish the Clay Man."

"I knew that was coming, too."

"I will speak with Wade and Anita. Perhaps Wade only. They will come to stay with you and Doris. The Clay Man will have power for nine days only; for the duration of the siege. When life leaves him, the four of you will go home."

"How is it, Sam? I mean … where you are. Were. Where you stay."

"Different. But I don't stay there often. When I'm there, I'm usually in trouble with Him."

"That, I can believe. Sam? What does this make me? This flies in the face of all that I was taught as a child. Everything I was taught to believe."

"I cannot say what it makes you. That will be your choice at the end."

"Wonderful," Miles said dryly. "I love a mystery."

The mist began to fade.

"Sam?" Miles cried. "What about Jane Ann?"

The mist projected its reply, and Miles was saddened.

Breakfast at the mansion was served buffet style, with Sam and Nydia eating together.

"Did you sleep well?" she asked.

"Passed out," Sam said, buttering a piece of toast. "I don't recall ever sleeping so soundly."

"It's the silence of the woods. But sometimes it can be … well, frightening."

"How?"

Her eyes were serious as they fixed their beauty on Sam's face. "Do you believe in the Devil, Sam?"

"Of course."

"Do you believe in possession?"

Sam chewed thoughtfully for a few seconds. "Yes, I do, Nydia. Even though most Protestants don't. But my father did. My real father. Mother told me he did. My stepfather was raised in the Catholic Church, but he broke from it when I was about ten … just a kid. Tony stopped worshiping God. Just quit. I don't know what happened. But mother taught me the Bible, and to believe in demonic possession. One thing she stressed was that the Devil walks the earth. Yeah … it was about that time I started hearing whispers about Tony running around on Mother. But," he shrugged, "his loss. Mother is beautiful. I don't understand men who run around on their wives. Sorry, I'm digressing. Why do you ask about possession?"

"Are you a Christian, Sam?"

"Well … technically, yes, I suppose I am. I'm not very pure at heart at times, though."

"Christians aren't supposed to be perfectly pure—I don't believe that's possible for a human."

"Sounds like you're really serious about religion, Nydia. I mean, don't take that the wrong way … so am I. It's serious business."

"I … would like to know more about it, yes. Tell me, Sam: can you still be a Christian and lust after someone?"

"I don't know, Nydia. That's a human trait, isn't it? Yes, I think you can, if you recognize the fault and try to do something about it. I think being a Christian means believing in God, trying to do right by his Commandments. I think it all depends on how a person lives his or her total life: do you help others in need; try to think good thoughts; do the best you can? Those types of things." He smiled. "Are you lusting after someone, Nydia?"

"Yes." She put her hand on his and squeezed gently.

Sam returned the gentle caress. "I couldn't take my eyes off you after we met."

"I felt the same. And … Sam? It's funny, sort of. I got the feeling that it was … right. You know what I mean?"

"Yes. It was … odd. I've never felt anything like it. You know, we're going to have to be careful: your mother reads thoughts."

"What do you mean, Sam?"

He told her of the events poolside.

Her expression was one of confusion. "I wonder why she kept that from me all these years?" She shyly rubbed her fingertips on the back of his hand. "Roma is also lusting after you—and she'll have you, Sam."

He shook his head.

"Yes, she will. Roma always gets what she wants. One way or the other. Don't anger her, Sam—please. I'm afraid of her; always have been. I … can't say more. Not until I'm more certain of the thoughts in my mind."

"Hey," Sam said. "Let's not get heavy with this, Nydia. I have an idea. Let's go exploring this afternoon. Hike in the woods. You want to do that?"

"Yes," she said, her voice a caress.

"Hey, you lovebirds!" Black called from the door. Sam and Nydia looked up, both slightly embarrassed. "Just call me the little ole matchmaker, huh?"

He walked to the buffet line and fixed a plate, sitting down at the table.

"Really, Black," Sam smiled, "you can't blame me, can you? She's positively gorgeous."

"Really?" the brother questioned. "I always thought she was rather plain."

Nydia stuck out her tongue at him and rose from the table.

"Sis?" Black caught her arm. "Sit down for a second, will you? I owe you both an apology." They looked at him. "Yeah, I forgot to tell you: I invited some others up here."

"Who?" Nydia's tone was sharp.

"Oh, you know them all, sis: Lana, Linda, Carol, Susan—a few more. Then there's Adam, Chad, Burt, Mac … some others. I was going to tell you both, but it just slipped my mind."

"Thanks, brother," Nydia said, fire flickering in her eyes. "A couple of those you named are okay; the test are creeps. I cannot tolerate them."

"Give them a chance, sis. That's all I ask. You just don't know them."

"That's the problem, brother dear: I
do
know them. I'll get the cook to pack us a lunch, Sam. Let's go as quickly as possible." She whirled and left the room, her anger evident in her step.

"You and sis have plans, Sam?"

"Hiking, exploring some."

"Be careful, and don't get lost," Black cautioned with a grin. "It's pretty wild out there."

"Oh, I'll be careful, Black. Like you, I've had some pretty extensive training in staying alive."

The young men locked glances, Black finally saying, "Yes, that's true. I've often wondered just which one of us is the tougher."

Sam's smile was tight. "I hope you never have to find out, Black."

Sam left it at that.

Sam had more of his father in him than even his mother suspected, for he never traveled unprepared. In his rooms, after dressing in jeans, heavy shirt, and jump boots, Sam slid a heavy-bladed knife, in its leather sheath, onto his belt. And he had brought with him—quite illegally—a snub-nosed .38 pistol. He slipped that into a pocket of his jacket and then knocked on Nydia's door.

"You ready, Nydia?"

The door opened and she stood before him, a young lady just as beautiful in jeans and rough shirt as in a ballroom gown.

"You look good enough to eat," Sam told her.

"I've thought about that, too," she said, a smile on her lips.

Sam cleared his throat and decided to shift gears and head in another direction. "Nydia? Why don't you like those people Black invited up here?"

"You don't know?" she seemed surprised. "I guess not. They have a … cult at Nelson and Carrington. They've tried several times to get me to join. I refused."

"What kind of cult?"

"They practice Devil worship."

Sam did not realize just how isolated they were until he and Nydia got into the deep timber on the edge of the big park just north of the Williams' home. The dark timber closed around them about 500 meters from the edge of the estate.

"Beautiful," Sam said. "So beautiful and peaceful."

Nydia started to reply when three shots cut through the crisp air. Sam instinctively grabbed for the pistol in his coat, checking his movement just before touching the inner pocket. Nydia caught the quick movement and smiled.

"It's a signal to return to Falcon House," she said. "Come on. It might be important."

"Sir," Perkins said, "there was a radio message for you just moments after you left. In the communications room. Mr. Falcon is waiting."

"The message is rather terse, Sam." Falcon handed him a slip of paper. "I do hope this will not alter your plans to visit with us."

Sam did not reply until he had read the message: MONTREAL FLIGHT 127 1922-58 J.A. He looked into Falcon's dark, unreadable eyes. "This is it?"

"That was the entire message, Sam. I asked for a repeat, and that was it."

"Well, I guess I have to get to Montreal somehow."

"We'll take the Rover," Nydia said. "Go together."

"Now, dear …" Roma opened her mouth to protest.

Daughter met mother, head to head, with an unwavering look. "I know the roads, Mother. Sam doesn't. So I'm going with him." There was a firmness to her voice that said she would brook no more objections.

Roma smiled. "Of course, dear. I was only going to suggest you change into something more suitable for the trip."

"Certainly you were, Mother." Nydia's smile and tone were just short of condescending. "But we'll go as we are. Come on, Sam." She pulled at his arm. "We'll be there in a few hours."

Driving away from the estate, Nydia asked, "Sam, what does 1922-58 mean? The time?"

"I don't think so. Could be, but I doubt it. 1922 was the year my dad was born. '58 was when he died."

"J.A.?"

"My mother's initials."

Nydia shuddered beside him.

"Cold?" Sam asked.

"No. Suddenly frightened. For some reason. I just got the worst feeling of ... I don't know: foreboding, I guess I'd call it."

"Nydia?"

She glanced at him.

"I have the same feeling."

Flight 127 came in and emptied its load of passengers. Sam knew no one on the flight. Sam and Nydia sat in the now deserted arrival area, looking at each other, questions unspoken in their eyes.

"Son?" the disembodied-sounding voice came from behind the young couple. Sam was conscious of a burning sensation in the center of his chest.

They turned, looking around. No one was in sight. Nydia dug nervous fingers into Sam's forearm. "Son? Was that what that voice said?"

"Easy now," Sam attempted to calm her. His own nerves were rattled.

"Sam?" she said. "Look on the table in front of us."

Sam slowly, almost reluctantly pulled his gaze to the front. A manila envelope lay on the low table. "That … wasn't there a second ago."

"I know."

Again, they looked around them: the arrival area and the corridor were deserted. They both stared at the envelope.

Sam touched the packet. It was cold to the touch. He picked it up and carefully opened it. A picture and several sheets of paper. The picture was of his father. Sam looked at the 8 x 10 for a long moment, then handed it to Nydia. "My dad," his words were charged with emotion, spoken in a husky tone.

"I can see where you got your good looks," she said. "He was a rugged, handsome man. Sam? Who put the envelope on the table, and who was that who spoke to you? And where did he go? Sam, there was no one within shouting distance."

There was a slight grimace of pain on Sam's face.

"Sam?"

"I don't know the answer to any of those questions, Nydia. But I'll tell you this: when that voice spoke, my chest started burning. It's just now going away, but man, did it hurt for a few seconds."

"Your chest?"

"The skin on my chest. Right in the center." He looked around them: no one in sight. Sam unbuttoned his shirt, hearing Nydia's gasp as his T-shirt came into view. "Relax, I'm not going to strip." He tried a grin. "At least not here."

"That's not it, Sam," she said, her voice tiny. "Look at your T-shirt; the center of your chest."

He looked down: the fabric was burned brown. In the shape of a cross. The cross Sam wore. His father's cross.

Nydia reached out, pulling up his T-shirt. The cross had burned his skin, leaving a scar in the shape of a cross. Sam touched the red scar; it was no longer painful, even though he could see it was burned deeply.

Sam unfolded the pages and almost became physically ill. The handwriting was unmistakably his father's scrawl. Sam had seen it many times on old sermons.

"Sam? You're as white as a ghost!"

"I … think that's what just spoke to me. My father wrote this."

The young man wiped his suddenly blurry eyes and once more looked at the writing, reading slowly, Nydia silently reading with him.

Son—Writing is difficult for me, in my condition. Want to keep this as brief as possible, but yet, there are so many things I must say to you and the girl.

"How … ?" Nydia said, then shook her head, not believing any of this.

I have watched you, son—whenever possible—grow through the years. Tried to guide you—help you—as best I could. Nydia, too. The girl beside you, not the Nydia I … knew. Like that time you got drunk in your mother's car and passed out at the wheel. That was a close one, boy.

"I'm the only person in this world who knew about that," Sam said.