Devil's Kiss (10 page)

The minister stood in the silent house. So, he thought, this is how it feels when love dies. Or has been murdered. What an empty feeling. But was there ever any love between us? On my part, yes. On her part, no—I think not. But if I did love her, where is the sense of loss I'm supposed to be experiencing? Should I be ashamed of my feelings of relief that it's over?

He shook himself like a big bear and suddenly felt better. He glanced toward her bedroom, then walked to the closed door, trying the knob. She had forgotten to lock the door. Slowly, he pushed the door open, his nostrils offended at the odor. The room stank! He flipped on the lights.

The room was in total disarray; clothing flung carelessly about, the floor littered. A filthy black robe hung on a closet door. Sam did not recognize the robe, and he did not, for some reason, want to touch it. The room itself, not just the odor, offended him. The closed space seemed to radiate—he struggled for the word—evil! It sprang into his mind.

A necklace made of bones and feathers lay on the dresser. A painting of a—what in the world was it? Sam took a closer look. The painting on the wall seemed to glare at him. It was a scene of a not-quite-human thing, but not really an animal. The thing was part ram, part bird, part woman. It was overall disgusting!

The minister had known fear; known it on an intimate basis while in combat in Korea. When he made his first jump from a plane. But what he now experienced was something new to him; something more than fear. He realized, suddenly, where he had seen this painting. It was during a course on devil worship when he was in seminary.

He struggled with his memory until he found what he was searching for. When the witches dance naked, the devil will sometimes make an appearance as a horned goat—a ram. The devil, a master of metamorphosis, moves silently between the world of animal and human, transforming himself into whatever form he chooses.

Sam felt sick as he stood in the room. Sicker still when he looked at the plate on the bottom of the frame. THE CHURCH OF THE FIFTEEN. He knew what that meant. His own wife.

Could it be—? NO! He refused to believe it. Not that.

Sam backed out of the room, closed the door, and ran to the bathroom. Holding his head over the sink, he vomited.

 

“You look a little pale, Sam,” Doctor King said. “You feel all right?”

“I'm okay, Tony. Just haven't been sleeping well lately, that's all.”

The young doctor's look was of a man who had heard that story too many times and had not believed it the first time he'd heard it.

Sam sat quietly in Tony's office, his big hands in his lap, his mind still a little numb. After recovering from his sudden sickness, Sam had showered, vigorously soaping and scrubbing himself, as if that alone would remove the stink of his wife's room from his body and the ugly scar from his mind.

The stink was gone; the scar remained.

THE CHURCH OF THE FIFTEEN. If what he suspected was true . . .

When Sam had entered Tony's office, he had been amazed to find the waiting room empty. With only two doctors in Whitfield, both of them were always busy, working long hours.

Sam looked up. “No patients, Tony?”

“Strange, isn't it?”

“A lot of it going around. The strangeness, I mean.”

Tony leaned forward, elbows on his desk. Although the office was empty, he kept his voice low. “Sam, John Benton just had a physical last month—the full treatment. Blood work, urinalysis, EKG, X-rays, everything. John was fifty years old, but his blood pressure was that of a healthy thirty-year-old man. He kept himself in excellent shape: running, calisthenics, the whole bit. He didn't smoke, and never had. Didn't drink, either. His heart was in great shape. Now, I'm not saying he couldn't have had a heart attack, but I will say it's highly unlikely.”

“Stroke?”

Tony shrugged. “I sent him to Rock Point for an encephalogram and other tests I can't do here. They all came back triple-A great! John told me he
never
had headaches. He ate the right foods, he got enough rest. It just doesn't add up, Sam.”

“But it isn't just John, though, is it, Tony?”

The doctor shook his head. “No. Sam, in four weeks—and I checked my records to be sure—ninety-five percent of my patients have canceled out on me. Only the elderly keep their appointments with me. It's as if the others either don't care if they get sick, or they know they're not going to.”

Sam's numbness returned. He fought it away. “How would they know that?”

“You tell me, I'm just a doctor of the body. I've got—had—friends in this town who won't speak to me. Both my receptionist and nurse jumped up one day, cursed me, then quit. I've never seen such a personality change. I'm worried, Sam. This whole town seems to have changed overnight, and I don't like it. I'm suddenly scared, and I don't know why.”

“What about Doctor Matthews?”

“He's one of those who won't speak to me. I have
never
seen such a change in a man.”

“Tony, how's the attendance at your church?”

The doctor was thoughtful for a few seconds. “Interesting question, Sam. It's steadily declining. I know Father Dubois is concerned about it, and I sense he would like to talk about it, but it's as if—well, this is just a guess—it's—perhaps he doesn't know who to trust! Sam, the feeling I have about this town is ... eerie.”

“How can you be sure you can trust me?”

The doctor smiled for the first time since Sam entered his office. “I guess we all have to take a chance, Sam.”

“Yes. Well, you're right, Tony. Something is going on in Whitfield. I have suspicions, nothing else.”

He told Tony of his dreams, of the trouble at Jane Ann's, of the conversation overheard by Chester, of the sheriff's lying, of Bill Mathis's lying, and of his feeling of something evil hanging in the air. He spoke of Doctor Wilder, and the Church of the Fifteen. He did not mention his wife.

“Sam, what is the Church of the Fifteen? I never heard of it.”

“My memory is a little hazy on this, but I'll tell you what I can remember. The Church of the Fifteen is the oldest form of Satan worship—oldest known form that can be proven, that is. It dates back to about the fifth century and has to do with the Tarot.

“There are twenty-two cards in the major arcana of the Tarot. The fifteenth card is the Devil. The unnumbered card is the Fool. When read upright, the fifteenth card represents bondage; subordination; black magic; devil worship. The card also means suffering, violence, punishment. But there is more to the Church of the Fifteen that I can't recall—much more. I've got a book on the subject at the house; I'll have to bone up on it.”

“Devil worship!” Tony's face twisted in shock. “Sam, do you really believe in that?”

“Yes, I do, Tony. And I think it's been going on around Whitfield for a long time; very quietly going on. And I also believe there is a great deal more to it than we know. This is mere speculation, Tony, but I believe Karl Sorenson is in this up to his ears.”

“Nothing would surprise me about that man. My father despised him.”

Why?”

He—my dad, told me he'd treated several people after some of Sorenson's parties—debaucheries, really. Whip marks on their bodies, and a lot more, Sam. Really sick, twisted stuff. There's been rumors for years about that man.”

“You know how Jane Ann's mother died?”

“Yes. Awful! Sam, let's count up what we have. Five minutes after leaving the Stokes' house, a healthy man drops dead of a heart attack—we'll call it that for now. The sheriff is lying; Bill Mathis is lying; officer Perkins can't remember why he was with Best or helping to tear down Jane Ann's back door; bodies are disappearing from the cemetery; there are rumors of strange goings-on at Glowers Funeral Home; rumors of incest in this town, and Chester says he overheard the sheriff saying that Joan had some—ah—pretty good stuff.”

Sam laughed. “It's interesting how people lock up around a preacher.”

The doctor grinned, making him appear much younger. Only his eyes remained old before their time.

“Tony, tell me about the
goings-on' at the funeral home.”

“It's just whispered rumors among the elderly, Sam. That bodies are not being embalmed. Being buried whole.”

“Interesting,” Sam said. “But there is more?”

“Yes. Necrophilia and necromancy.”

“Necromancy, Tony? You've lost me.”

“Black magic; communication with the dead. It's just rumor, Sam.”

But—?”

The doctor shrugged his shoulders. “Added to what you've just told me—I don't know. So we have suspicions, what do we do with them?”

“Keep calm. Say nothing. Just let things develop. How about that autopsy on John?”

Tony shook his head. “No. Mrs. Benton refused to allow it. Oh, I could force it, but—” He sighed in defeat. “Doctor Matthews is the coroner. Dead end there.” He lifted his eyes to Sam's. “You're not telling me all you know, are you?”

“No, I'm not, Tony. Not yet.”

“Oh! I meant to ask you, have you stocked up on supplies? Milk and so forth?”

Why? What do you mean?”