William Johnstone - Devil's Kiss

"I'll be ready, Dalton," she said.

DALTON? Dalton Revere? The man was a close friend. Or so Sam had believed. But, Sam grimaced, that's so often the case. A friend. Dalton was an elder in his church, and twenty years older than Michelle.

Sam felt sick.

He slipped quietly out the front door, closing it softly behind him, stepping out on the porch. He waited for a ten count, then opened the door, walking back into the house, shutting the door hard behind him. He hoped he had given his wife—and the word wife disgusted him—time to compose herself from her verbal fornication.

She stood by the dining room table, smiling, looking at him. "How has your day been, Sam?"

"Interesting," he forced himself to return the smile. "And very informative."

"Oh?"

He did not elaborate, merely stood looking at the woman, his wife. A tall, very beautiful woman. Who—the thought twisted out of his mind—was screwing an elder in his church.

Not very preacherly of you, Sam. But, he bitterly reflected, I don't feel very preacherly at this moment.

For a few seconds, he allowed himself the erotic pleasure/pain of imagining Michelle and Dalton together. He forced those images from him. Before he could stop his brain, that mass of marvelous recall conjured a picture of Sam and Jane Ann together. The minister felt shame wash over him at the eroticism of his thoughts. He pushed the image from him.

"What was the reason for all those sirens a few minutes ago?" she asked.

Bluntly, he told her about John Benton.

She gasped, putting a hand to her throat. "How awful!"

But it was an act, Sam realized. What a marvelous actress she was, had become, or had always been, Sam reflected sourly. How many men, he questioned his mind, has she entertained while I was out spreading the word of the Lord?

The medallion about her neck seemed to sparkle at him, casting flashes that were almost hypnotic in their radiance. He lifted his eyes from the gold, meeting her dark eyes. They flared with anger and lust, a curious combination shining at him.

Careful, he warned his heart, the message shooting fom his brain: That medallion is dangerous.

But, why?

The man and woman stood glaring at each other.

Help me, Lord, Sam silently prayed.

Her eyes fell away from his.

Michelle said, looking down at the carpet, "Sometime, Sam, soon, we've got to talk. About us."

"Yes. I think we should." The medallion shone with a greater intensity, and Sam had to force himself not to look at it.

Michelle touched a breast; a light touch, a sensuous half-caress. "I haven't been very nice to you lately, have I?"

DANGER flashed through Sam's mind. But, why? His thoughts shot silently into space. Why? "No, Michelle, I guess you haven't."

She licked her lips, her tongue snaking out, wetting the lipstick. "Perhaps—?" the one word invitation was left hanging, for Sam to pick up.

The picture of Michelle and Dalton entered his brain. When he spoke, his words were harsher than he intended. "Thanks, Michelle, but I think I'll pass."

Her face turned ugly with hate, the lips pulling back in a half-snarl.

I've won a battle, Sam thought. I don't know how, or really, why, but I've won. However, he recalled, a woman scorned can be a dangerous thing.

"Yes, Sam," she said, the words tight with anger, "we'll talk someday. I can promise you that."

"What's wrong with now?"

She shook her head, slowly regaining her composure after his harsh rejection. "No. No, I don't believe so. The time is not yet right." She laughed at him.

Sudden anger swept over Sam. "The time? What are you talking about?"

She shrugged, her eyes dark with mystery. "I'm going out. I'll see you later."

"Where are you going?"

Her smiled mocked him. "None of your business," she said. Her bedroom door slammed, punctuating the bluntness of her reply.

Sam walked into the living room, to stand with his back to her bedroom door, arms folded across his massive chest. A few minutes later, he heard the back door slam, then the sound of her car starting, backing out of the drive, the sound dying as she drove away.

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?"

"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."