William Johnstone - Devil's Kiss

Peter whistled. "Yeah, I heard about you guys. Guerrilla fighters. Rough outfit. How long were you in Korea?"

"Too long. 'Bout sixteen months."

"You saw your share. It's like I always say, don't judge what a person is by what he does for a living."

Sam smiled in memory, glad for a moment to talk and think about something other than whatever it was that was wrong in Whitfield. "Right. We had a former ballet dancer in our outfit. Some guys from another unit—football types—thought he was a pansy. One night they came right out and called Jon a queer. Very bad mistake on their part. Jon invited them both outside. He put both of them in the hospital; almost killed one of them. After that, people walked light around Jon. He was probably the most in-shape person I've ever seen. He could stand flat-footed and jump over a jeep."

Peter chuckled. "What's the old saying about having to get some people's attention? The mule and the 2 by 4?"

"Right!" Sam laughed.

Peter looked at the minister's rugged profile in the light of afternoon, thinking: I'd hate to have you come down on me, preacher. You look like you could chew nails and spit out tacks. Guerrilla fighter. Never would have guessed it.

Sam climbed into the truck, cranking the powerful engine. "See you, Peter. Tell you what, maybe we'll get together next week. Talk about the service."

"Hey! I'd like that. Sure, we'll do that."

Sam drove away, lurching and bucking for a couple of blocks, until he got the feel of the manual transmission. He drove out of town for a few miles, then cut off onto a gravel road, putting the pickup through its paces, liking the feel of it.

At the dealership, Peter looked behind him, sensing eyes on him. The shop foreman stood a few yards away, staring at him. "Artie," Peter said.

The shop foreman turned his back, the sun catching the medallion about his neck, the rays bouncing off the metal. The foreman looked around, then spat contemptuously on the gravel. He stalked back into the garage.

"Something sure is weird around here," Peter said, as a tremor of fear touched him with light fingers. He shivered in the warm afternoon. "I wish I knew what was wrong with these people."

Sam drove back into town, once again observing the absence of human traffic on the streets and sidewalks. Walter Addison drove past. Sam waved a greeting. The sheriff did not return the salute. George Best sat beside him in the car. The ex-city cop turned deputy laughed at Sam.

"Laugh, punk!" Sam muttered through gritted teeth. "But you're the one who tipped me off."

Punk? Sam thought. How long since you used that word? And how very unpreacherly of you to use it now. Or is it?

Sam parked beside Michelle's car as she came out of the house, standing on the back porch, looking at the pickup with disapproving eyes.

"You going to call on shut-in's in that thing, Sam?"

Her words irritated him. "Some preachers ride motorcycles," he countered, getting out of the truck.

"Your—congregation," she stumbled over the word, "should be thankful for small favors, I suppose." She walked back into the house, banging the screen door behind her.

Wonder where she went this afternoon? Sam mused, as the image of his wife and Dalton Revere crawled through his brain, creeping like a slug. This time, though, the vision did not disturb him, as the memory of his wife's filthy room assailed his brain, bringing back the odor of evil.

She'll be leaving this evening, Sam thought, as he leaned against the truck. If what I suspect is true—and God, I'm praying to You that it isn't—she'll be leaving at sundown.

And if it's true, God, what do I do? Whom can I trust?

In the kitchen, Sam looked at the stove. Cold.

Nothing had been fixed for dinner. So what else is new? We used to have dinner at seven—when she was cooking. Then, a few months back, she began fixing sandwiches. Then she stopped doing even that much.

Sam fixed a sandwich, poured a glass of milk, and walked into the living room, snapping on the radio to listen to the news.

The evening news held no interest. President Eisenhower played a round of golf. The Russians rattled more verbal sabers. Castro condemned the U.S. Guerilla fighting in Africa.

Sam turned off the radio, then sat listening to his wife moving about in her bedroom. She'll be carrying a small overnight bag when she leaves, he guessed. In it will be the black robe and the necklace, and only God knows what else.

Devil worship! My own wife. How she must hate me.

He chewed the last of his sandwich, drained his milk, put his head back, and closed his eyes. What can I do? he questioned his mind. Could I—can I—help her? Do I want to help her?

The silent reply came as no surprise to him. No! No, he really did not wish to help her. For she is as in Job: One who rebels against the light.

What are you doing to me, God—testing me? If so, you've picked a poor, weak man, for here I sit like a hypocrite, lusting after a member of my congregation and refusing to help my wife in her moment of need.

A line from Psalms entered his mind, shaming him. The Lord knoweth the thoughts of man.

Sam rose from the chair, walking through the house to Michelle's bedroom. She was just coming out, closing and locking the door behind her. The medallion about her neck caught Sam's eye.

"Michelle-"

"I really don't have time to talk, Sam. I'm playing bridge and I'm running a bit late. Do you mind? Excuse me."

"Michelle, I'd like to help you. Talk to me."

"Help me, Sam? I don't know what you're talking about."

"What's in the bag, Michelle? Decks of cards?"

She smiled at him. "Gifts for the winners, Sam. That's all."

He fought back an impulse to scream at her: Don't lie to me! He resisted another impulse to strike her; to turn her over his knee like a child and spank her butt.

Yet another thought came to him: But I don't want to touch her. She's evil.

"Bridge, Michelle? Gifts? I thought your club met on Tuesday nights?"

Her gaze was cool, tinged with black hate. It was now very easy for Sam to read her. For months she had been making up one excuse after the other to leave the house on Friday nights, and he had believed her. Sucked the bait in like a big bass.

"This is another club, dear. Tonight I play partners with Pat, in a tournament in Atwood. I have to pick up Pat and Ethel and do a few things before we leave. I won't be in 'till very late, so don't wait up. Now, are we all through playing twenty questions—?"

Only one, he thought, looking down at her, as sudden wild rage filled him: when will the restraint leave me and I smash your lying face?

"No, Michelle—no more questions."

"Good. Bye, now." She walked out the back door, the overnight bag swinging at her side.

He listened to her back out of the drive, then he walked swiftly through the house to stand at the open front door, watching her drive away. He stepped out on the porch, in the quiet of late afternoon. The sun was blood-red, beginning its descent in the west.

Sam's eyes swept the neighborhood, suddenly honing in on the Steiner house across the street. A shade was quickly pulled down, but not so quickly that Sam did not see Mrs. Steiner staring at him, her face pale. Again, he felt that aura of evil hanging around him. He tried to shake it away, but the feeling persisted, hanging to him, refusing to leave.

He looked again at the Steiner house, thinking: there is a perfect example of why I believe—No! I know something is dreadfully wrong in this town. Max and Irene Steiner had always been good friends with Sam and Michelle. Then abruptly, all socializing had ceased. No explanation, and Sam had tried many times to find out why. The Steiners would not speak to him.

Would not speak to me, he thought, still staring at the house across the street, but I've seen them carry on lengthy conversations with Michelle. It's all beginning to fit, each piece forming the outline of the puzzle.