Devil's Kiss (5 page)

Wilder laughed at him; an ugly laugh. “Such a pious young man, Tim. And such a suspicious one. Too bad.”

Tim was suddenly angry. “You tell me what this is, Doctor Wilder. You tell me what's going on. This is not a Dig—most of your people don't know a dog's hind foot from a dinosaur dropping. I've never seen such careless digging in my life!”

“Are you doubting my reputation as an archaeologist?”

“No, sir. Just your explanation for being here. We've uncovered nothing of any importance here, and no evidence to suggest there is anything of any importance.”

“Oh, my, yes, Tim,” Wilder's voice was soft. “And you've found it.”

The trailer became hot—stiflingly so. The stone tablet began to pulse as Wilder moved toward Tim. The medallion glowed. Tim began screaming as Wilder reached for him. The man's eyes were wild, burning with the same intensity as the medallion and the tablet and had Mrs. Balon's eyes at the parsonage.

Terror washed over Tim. “Leave me alone!” he screamed.

Wilder touched him on the arm, the touch searing Tim's flesh through the cloth of his shirt.

Tim screamed in agony. He screamed for a long time, the pain moving through him in ever-heightening waves of torment. In his tortured mind, he imagined the small room filled with demons, Wilder the host demon. The trailer filled with stinking smoke, engulfing Tim in a mist of evil-smelling fetor.

Tim lost all sense of date and time. He knew only his horrible pain, wondering why this was happening to him. Then, as the mist cleared, Tim found himself naked, his clothing torn from him, not by hands, but by claws. Filthy claws. His agony was unbearable, but somehow he could not escape it, his mind refusing him the luxury of unconsciousness. He was dragged outside to the ground. He screamed, but no friend came to his aid.

Claws ripped his flesh as the people of the Digging surrounded him, tearing at him, their eyes burning with hate and evil.

At a word from Wilder, the clawing ceased. The man leaned close to Tim, his breath reeking, offending Tim's face. The young man looked up into eyes as old as evil, as old as time.

“Won't you join us, Tim?” Wilder asked. “You can. Just repeat the oath. Say this: God is filth. God is shit. Reject Him!”

“No!” Tim screamed.

“Reject Him,” Wilder urged. “It's so easy, Tim. Join us. Accept the Prince of Darkness. Drink the blood of the Believer. Let the Lord of Flies fill your life with all the pleasures you have but dreamed of.”

“NO!”

Wilder hissed his outrage at this rejection, spittle from his mouth dripping on Tim's face. Again and again he urged Tim to blaspheme his God. The young man would not deny his God.

“Then you will die!” Wilder stood over him.

“Oh, my God—my Savior!” Tim cried out his pain. “Help me.”

The others began laughing as they danced around the young man, their tongues spewing blasphemy. The sunlit day grew darker, gray clouds moving restlessly overhead.

Where is your God, now?” Wilder laughed profanely. ”You call on Him, but He does not hear you. Are you sure He even exists?”

“He hears me,” Tim said, his faith growing stronger as his body grew weaker. “He is real.”

“Then where is He?”

“Everywhere,” Tim spoke through his pain.

“Then perhaps He will hear you tonight,” Wilder smiled. When we cut out your heart. But you will suffer much before the knife ends it.”

Tim began screaming.

It was a Friday.

Sam Balon, minister of the First Christian Church of Whitfield, woke from a deep and very troubled sleep. He no longer put out his hand to touch the far side of the bed. He knew his wife would not be there. She had not been there for months. She would be asleep in the bedroom on the far side of the parsonage, with heavy, black drapes pulled tightly shut, like shrouds, the bedroom door locked.

Once, weeks back, Sam had peeked into her bedroom when she had forgotten to lock the door. The heavy drapes were pulled tight. The room held a bad odor. Always a sun-lover, Michelle now avoided the sun, sleeping all day whenever she could. Sam had laid in his bed at night, many times, listening to his wife prowl the house in the darkness. Several times she had softly opened the door to his room, to stand looking at him, believing him asleep. Through slitted eyes, Sam had seen the medallion around her neck catch the light from the moon, winking at him. Once, he recalled, Michelle had hissed at him from the bedroom door.

She had not been a wife to him in months, domestically or sexually.

Once, several weeks back, when she had attempted to kiss him, Sam had jerked away from her. He still did not know why he had done that. His actions had enraged her.

On this early morning, in the summer of 1958, Sam had, as he had done so many times in the past several weeks, wakened soaked with sweat, his pajamas sticking uncomfortably to him. He had fought and struggled his way out of sleep—a sleep filled with nightmares of human sacrifice, devil worship, and orgies involving the most unspeakable of human deviations. And those creatures! Something straight out of a horror movie. But they were somehow familiar to Sam. He had seen or read about them, somewhere. But he could not pin it down.

Sam's restless sleep and troubled dreaming had tired him, leaving him feeling he had slept only a couple of hours, instead of eight. He had been experiencing these awful nightmares for weeks, and he could not understand why.

He had read no books nor seen any movies on devil worship or the supernatural—nothing to trigger such dreams. There had been no discussion of such things among his friends.

Friends? Sam's smile was bitter as he lay awake on the rumpled sheets. My once large circle of friends has certainly dwindled over the past weeks. Again . . . why?

But he did not consider his personal dreaming or his loss of a few fair-weather friends important enough to bother God with it in prayer. Yet.

But something was wrong in Whitfield.

He thought of Tim Bennett, the young archaeologist who had come to see him. He had been distraught that day, but had refused to say why. And he had not been back. When Sam had gone to the Dig site looking for him, he was told the young man had quit, gone back home, in the east.

Sam felt the man was lying to him. But why would he lie?

The preacher sat on the edge of the bed, in the dim light of predawn, and thought of his wife, probably sprawled in sleep in her black-draped room. Sam had not mentioned his dreams to her—why bother? The two of them had not shared a conversation of any substance in months. They had not shared anything in months.

Sam fought back the image of Jane Ann. Increasingly, she had the annoying habit of entering his thoughts at the most inopportune times and places. Alone in his bed. In the shower.

He had to smile. A preacher I may be, but I'm still a man, and Jane Ann is a very lovely woman.

He shook his head, clearing his thoughts of Jane Ann.

Sam had toyed with the idea that someone—God, perhaps—was trying to tell him something with these dreams. He had quickly rejected that idea.

Sam rose and padded softly to the kitchen. He poured a large glass of orange juice, drank it, then rubbed the cold glass against his forehead. He sat down at the table, weary from his hours of tossing and turning, fighting the dreams. He tried to think; his mind was a jumble of confusion.

Sam knew he and Michelle had been happy in their marriage. At first. At least he thought they had been. Childless, but content. But now, reviewing the past years, Sam could pick the marriage apart in retrospect. Their social life had never been very good; women seemed not to like or trust Michelle. And, he recalled, his mouth brassy with the knowledge, he knew she had been unfaithful to him many times. All the pieces fit in their proper places: the half-truths, the open lies he had caught her in, but never told her he knew.

And why, Sam reflected, would Michelle never see a doctor? Sam had gone, suspecting he was sterile. He was not. Michelle refused to go, becoming angry when he suggested it.

Sam thought back. He had known her for . . . how long? Six years. And she had never been sick. Not once. She had never complained of cramps during her monthly time. Never had a cold. Never had a fever. Nothing. It was almost as if she were not . . . human.

And why had she been so insistent upon them coming here to Whitfield? He had other offers of more money, bigger churches. But no, she had almost thrown a temper tantrum when he suggested another church.

Why?

He had no answer.

Again, as he had many times before, Sam thought of the Catholic priest, Father Dubois. Dubois had never liked Michelle, nor she him. Sam sensed it. Did the priest know something Sam did not? If so, why didn't he tell him?

Again, the minister had no answer.

Sam could think of no logical explanation. None at all. None that would satisfy him. Sam wanted very much to be angry, but he could not direct his anger. Inward, perhaps? Is it all my fault; all my imagination?

No. No, it's neither my fault nor my imagination. I've done too much soul-searching. Whatever happened between us was not my doing, and there is something wrong here in Whitfield.

He shook his head in disgust, in anger, in frustration, in confusion. Rising, he placed the empty glass in the sink and made a pot of coffee. He moved quietly in the kitchen; a big man, in his mid-thirties.

He looked out the window while waiting for the coffee to make. Almost dawn over the town of Whitfield.

A strange dawn, Sam thought, standing by the sink. Birds should be singing, dogs should be barking, there should be movement of people. But there is nothing except the stillness of silence. Nothing at all.

Why?

Peripheral vision caught a glimpse of some . . . thing slinking by the side of the house across the street. Not a dog. It was too large for an animal. And it had not moved with the fluidity of an animal. The movements had been jerky. It looked like a man. Sort of.

Sam looked more closely. Whatever it was—if anything—was gone.

Sam was suddenly and unexplainedly very uneasy. There had been something. He had seen it. But what? The house belonged to Max Steiner, and the Steiner's had a dog—a Doberman. Why hadn't the dog barked? Perhaps the dog was familiar with . . . whatever it had been?

Sam shook his head in annoyance, feeling he was allowing his imagination to run rampant. Despite that, he again looked toward the Steiner home, remembering something the Episcopal priest had told him a few weeks before.

“I don't understand it, Sam,” Father Haskell had said. “Max and Irene Steiner are devout Christians; good church workers—or used to be. Last month they stopped attending services. No explanation. And they won't see me; won't even allow me in their home. The dog had always been friendly to me, now he snarls and lunges at me when I come around. Sam, it's not just the Steiners—you know that. Church attendance is down town-wide. I don't understand what is happening. Do you?”

No, Sam did not. His own church attendance was down. It was as if some . . . force was pulling members away from God. Pulling them toward—what?

He did not know.

Sam left the kitchen, slipping quietly down the short hall to his bedroom, gathering up his clothing. He showered and shaved, then dressed in old, comfortable jeans, pull-on boots, and a shirt slightly worn at the elbows. He fixed his coffee, then walked softly through the house to the front porch. He sat on the steps, sipping his coffee, watching the eastern sky do its magic, working its multicolored change of hues.

Dawn over Whitfield.

The morning was not cool, yet Sam suddenly shivered. A long, hard trembling. The ragged edge of tension touched his mind, narrowing his eyes. He had felt the same sensation in combat—and just before combat—in Korea, and he had learned to trust his instincts. They had saved his life before.

“Saved my life?” Sam muttered. Why did I think that? Do I believe my life to be in danger.

Maybe.

He sat his cup on the steps. “I think I'll do some prowling,” he said aloud.

He did not see the eyes that watched him from across the street. In the Steiner home, the Barlow home, the Piper home. Burning eyes. Evil eyes. He could not hear the heavy breathing.

Not yet.

He backed his car carefully around Michelle's and drove the streets of Whitfield. He did not know what he was looking for; something out of the ordinary, perhaps. Some . . . thing that would dispell his suspicions. As he drove, he could not find the elusive Thing.

At full light, Whitfield started showing signs of life. People in bathrobes stepping outside to get the morning paper. People sitting on their front porches sipping the first cup of coffee, smoking the first cigarette of the day. Everything appeared normal. Still, some . . .
thing
was not quite right.

Sam waved at a few of the people. None returned his greeting. He drove past the Conway home. Tom Conway, his wife, and their two children had left the church three weeks ago, offering no explanation as to why. Tom and his wife and kids sat on the front porch of the rambling two-story home. Sam drove slowly past, waving a greeting. The oldest of the kids shot him The Bird, right hand clenched, middle finger rigidly extended. The universal sign of contempt. Up your ass! The man and wife and youngest child, Laurie, laughed.

Sam stopped the car dead in the street, not believing his eyes. The father was caressing his daughter's thigh, his hand shoved up her short robe. The teenager spread her legs further apart, the father's hand moving upward.

Tom Conway, Jr. shot the preacher two Birds.

Sam drove on, his face flushed. He had seen it. A father caressing his young daughter. The son popping him Birds. “Young man,” Sam muttered, “I would very much like to get out of this car, break off your fingers, and shove them up your—

He caught himself before his anger got the best of him. Calm down, Sam, he cautioned himself. Just calm down. Aloud, “Excuse me, Lord. But I don't know what is wrong in this town. Something sure is. Won't You help me?”

Nothing happened as Sam drove on down the street. He had to smile. “Well, Balon, what did you expect, flaming words written across the sky? Perhaps the hand of God to appear and pat you on the shoulder? He hasn't worked that way in over two thousand years. But He did give you a brain—use it!”

Sam could not get the sight of Conway caressing his daughter out of his mind. He had heard rumors of incestuous behavior in Whitfield during the past weeks. He had not wanted to believe the rumors. Now he'd seen it.

Then he realized he was driving down Jane Ann's street, slowing at her small house, pulling in the driveway. “Sam!” he railed at his actions. “You're an idiot!”

He glanced at his watch. Six-thirty. He started to back out of the drive when the screen door opened. Jane Ann stared at him. She looked tired.

She neither told him to come in nor to go away. She merely spoke his name. “Sam.”

The minister nodded his head. “Are you all right, Jane Ann?” Why did he ask that?

She shook her head. “No, Sam. I'm not all right.”

He cut his engine and walked to her. She stood on the porch, the minister on the front steps, both of them very much aware of the spark that moved between them, looking for something explosive to ignite. Both knew they must be very careful.

“Will you walk around the side of the house with me, Sam?”

They walked, not touching, around to the back. The back door was shattered, pulled from its hinges. A crude picture had been drawn on the bottom half of the door. A naked woman with legs spread wide, exposing the genitalia. JANE ANN printed above the obscene drawing.

It was embarrassing for both of them.

“When did this happen?” Sam asked.

“Last night. I haven't slept since.”

“Did you call the police?”

She looked up at him, her eyes flashing dark with anger. “Sam, it was the police!”

 

It was the first time Sam had been in her house in more than a year. When he had sensed her feelings toward him, and his feelings toward her, he had stopped his visits, thinking it best for both of them.

They stood in the kitchen, looking at each other.

“Let me fix you some breakfast, Sam.”

“No, that's not necessary. Coffee will be fine.”

“Have you eaten?”

No—but, I just don't think it would be right.”