William Johnstone - Devil's Kiss

The editor stirred uncomfortably in his chair, embarrassed at the minister's bluntness. "Damn, Sam!"

"I'm telling you the way it is, Wade. I shudder to think what it's going to be like ten or fifteen years from now. If you think it's a sex-oriented society now, just wait a few more years. The movies, the magazines, the song lyrics, and the books are going to be full of nothing but sex. You wait and see if I'm not correct. But right now, we'd all better get ready to cope with it until we can turn this society around and get back to some plain old decency. And we're going to hit rock bottom before we do."

Wade smiled, a smile many would take for sarcastic, but which Sam knew was not. "I'm getting a sermon on Saturday. What do I get to hear tomorrow, Sam?"

"I haven't written my sermon for tomorrow."

The men stared at each other, Wade thinking: does this have anything to do with the feeling I've had for several weeks? Dwindling church attendance ? The strangeness that seems to have overtaken this town? If so, Sam, get to it. Convince me, Sam. Tell me what's wrong. Come on, stop walking around what's on your mind.

But neither wanted to be the first to mention it.

Wade wondered if his minister knew his wife was running around on him with an elder of the church? He decided Sam did, but in his usual manner, was playing it close to the vest.

"How's the paper's circulation, Wade?"

The question caught the editor off guard, startling him. He shrugged. "So, so."

"No one stopping their advertising with you?"

Wade's eyes narrowed slightly. "It comes and goes, Sam."

"Sure."

"Terrible thing about John Benton," Wade changed the subject.

"Awful. The funeral is tomorrow."

"I heard about Jane Ann's trouble. It's very strange."

"I guess you heard about the sheriff hiring George Best, then?"

"The same day? Yes. I suppose Walter had his reasons?"

"Right—whatever they may be."

Wade let that lie for the moment. "Is it true about Chester's kids? Did they leave home last evening?"

"Yes. Yes, they did. Hurt their parents very badly. Wade? Why did you suddenly send your kids to summer camp in Colorado last week? Wade Jr. told me he was looking forward to working here with you this summer."

The editor sighed heavily. "Because Miles convinced me it was the right thing to do. His kids went, too, you know."

"He wants to see me this afternoon. In private."

"You're not going to like what he has to say, Sam."

"I believe I know what he's going to say, and I agree with him."

Wade slammed his hand on his desk top, suddenly angry. His face was flushed. He rose to stalk the small office, pacing restlessly. "I'm sorry, Sam, but I just don't buy it. I've had time to think on it, and I just don't believe it."

"Miles obviously believes it enough to go against his own religious upbringing. You believed it enough to send your kids out of town," Sam reminded him.

"I panicked. A moment of weakness, that's all."

"Why didn't you or Miles come to me with your suspicions? Why wait?"

The newsman stared at the minister for a few seconds, then sat down behind his desk. "All right, Sam—all right! Enough, okay?" His face was red, a combination of anger and frustration and entrapment.

A minute ticked by while Wade attempted to gather his thoughts. "Miles doesn't know what it is," he muttered. "And neither do I, for that matter."

He drummed his finger tips on the desk. "Sam, Miles hasn't been to a temple or synagogue in almost thirty years. Since his bar mitzvah. He was laughing the other day; told me he didn't believe he was a Jew—just Jewish!

"Sam, I'm going to tell you something in very blunt language, you're on the sheriffs shitlist—you know that?"

"I know."

"You've been snooping around behind his back."

"I sure have, Wade."

The editor sighed, slowly nodding his head in resigned agreement. He rubbed his eyes, then massaged his temples. "All right, Sam. Let's compare notes, okay?"

"I guess my feeling that... something was—is—wrong started with Charlie Bell," Wade admitted. "Sam, Charlie and I go 'way back together. Grade school. Best of friends. We started playing golf back when we were— oh—freshmen in high school, out at the Club. Twenty-five years ago; little more than that, now. Then, about five-six weeks ago, he became a stranger to me. Cold. I went to him at the bank to talk about financing a new pickup. Over the past fifteen years I've financed six new cars with Charlie's bank. This time, Sam, he turned me down cold—flat. In so many words, he told me to get out of his bank and don't come back. I still haven't gotten over that."

"And you have no idea what might have brought all this on?"

The editor was suddenly embarrassed. "Well—Sam—yeah, I do, sort of. You see, Charlie, about a week before, had kind of suggested—well, talked around the idea of us swapping wives."

The minister did not appear to be shocked. "Like they do out at the Club." It was a statement.

"You and Anita still go out there?"

"No! After I turned down Charlie's offer—well, I would walk in the Club door and conversation would stop. Anita was propositioned every time she went in there; pretty crude stuff, Sam. We resigned our membership." He was thoughtful for a moment. "As a matter of fact, so did Peter Canford, Jane Ann, Chester and Faye. That's about it, I guess."

Sam remained silent, waiting for his friend to continue.

"Then Art Holland pulled his advertising out of the paper. I'd been friends with Art for years—close friends: we were Frat Brothers at the university. Now he won't speak to me. Others began pulling their advertising out, gradually. Then, last week, my ads took a nose dive. Went from bad to zero."

"Have you talked with other editors around the state?"

"No."

"Why?"

"For one thing, Sam, I haven't been out of Whitfield in a month. For another, my national and state ads have been keeping me going—in a manner of speaking. For another, I guess—well, it's the reporter coming out in me." He thumped the desk with a fist, then blurted, "I want to know what in the hell is going on around here!"

Sam told him of Paul Merlin's ordering him off his range that morning.

"That's incredible! Paul is a good, decent man."

Sam told him of the closing of highway 72, north and south, for a week.

"What!?" Wade shouted.

"The state highway department says the notice ran in this paper for weeks."

"No way, Sam! It has not run in my paper. Closing down? Good Lord, Sam—we'd be cut off here—" The truth came staggering into his brain. "Cut off," he whispered. "Cut off!" his voice was stronger.

"Wade, I want you to think back. Has anybody approached you to join any kind of club, or, oh, cult—that's what I'm trying to say?"

He shook his head. "No. Some of us used to gather at various homes to discuss church business, things for the kids to do. Nondenominational meetings among parents. But we don't do that any longer. Haven't for—I guess a couple of months. You know that. My friends won't discuss anything with me; those people who used to be my friends, that is," he added sourly. He reached for the phone.

Sam's hand shot out, grabbing his wrist, stopping him. "No!" the preacher said.

"Sam? Have you gone crazy? Excuse me, but I want to find out what's going on around here."

"It's too late," Sam's voice held a warning.

Wade gave up attempting to free his wrist from Sam's viselike grip. The man was strong as a bear. He nodded, and Sam released him. Rubbing his wrist, Wade asked, "Too late for what?"

"Do you trust me, Wade?"

"Sure. You know that without asking. Of course, I do. Dumb question."

"Then listen to me for a few minutes—answer a few questions, then make up your mind whether to call."