William Johnstone - Devil's Kiss

"Now, what?" he asked irritably.

"Your father was a newspaperman. What did he have to say about that area?"

"My father died when I was was seven years old, Sam. I don't remember much about him."

"I'm sorry, Wade. I didn't know."

He shook his head. "No, I'm the one who should be apologizing, Sam. I never told you about him. Sorry I lost my temper. But this . . . thing—this town; it's got me upset and confused."

"Does it bother you to talk about your father?"

"Oh, no."

"Was your dad killed in an accident?"

"Sort of, I guess you could say." Wade seemed evasive.

Sam pressed on. Like a cop who had just picked up a strong lead, Sam felt a tingling in the pit of his stomach. "Sort of an accident, Wade? Where did the accident happen?" He knew the answer before Wade opened his mouth.

The small office was very quiet. Wade's sigh was audible. He kept his eyes downcast. "Not far from Tyson's Lake," he said softly.

"How did he die, Wade?"

Wade's dark eyes lifted to meet Sam's. "You know, preacher, you're beginning to spook me a little. Just a little."

"1'm waiting."

"Sam, from all I've been able to piece together, my dad was a very virile man. Kept himself in excellent physical shape. He ran, he boxed, did calisthenics. The whole bit, and he wasn't afraid of a living thing.

"It was just about this time of the year. Yeah, almost to the date. Dad had been working on some hush-hush story. No, don't look at me like that or ask me what—I don't know. I've torn up this building, looking for a lead of some kind—any kind. Nothing. No journal, no notes, no nothing.

"Anyway, mother told me, just before she died, that dad had started carrying a pistol whenever he went out there. No one knows why he did it. And no one really knows what happened. Lord knows, I don't. I just vaguely remember the funeral. Closed casket. When I grew older, mother told me dad had been horribly clawed; mangled. Blood everywhere, and not just dad's blood. She said whatever it was that killed him—and the theory at that time was a bear or a puma—had to have died later. Dad's pistol had been fired several times, and he was an expert shot with that .44."

He sighed heavily, as if the telling troubled him. "This is the strange part: dad had dragged himself away from the fence—it was fenced off even then—barbed wire. It's been replaced several times. Dad dragged himself almost a half mile, to an old road. Doctor King—not Tony, his father—told me years later that dad's face was grotesque; so horribly twisted as to be almost macabre, as if dad had been frightened out of his wits. But I can't believe dad would be frightened of anything, or anybody.

"You see, Sam, mother went to her death, seven years ago, still believing dad had been killed by a . . . a . . . whatever it was! That's not true; dad killed himself. Shot himself through the heart. Only two people knew that—until now. Doctor King and me. Now you."

Sam was silent for a moment, thinking of the author's reference to the Beasts. "Could your father's face have been swollen with—oh, infection, perhaps?"

"Well, yes, Sam. You see, that's one of the dark secrets about Whitfield. Very tragic after dad died. Two of the men who helped load dad in the wagon to bring him into town—you couldn't get a car out there—not then, not in those days, had been working on the fence all day. Barbed wire. They had cut themselves on the hands and arms several times; just little cuts, nothing serious. But in handling dad, it seems dad's blood got into those cuts. This is Old Doctor King's theory, remember. Anyway," again the heavy sigh, "the cuts became infected. The men went crazy, Sam. I didn't see them, of course, I was only a child. But I remember the shooting that night. The shouting and the screaming. The townspeople killed them. It was never reported as such, of course. Whitfield, you see, does have its secrets, Sam."

"Who else, Wade?" the minister asked softly.

"You're smart, Sam," the editor's smile was grim. "You put things together real quick, don't you? Yeah, sure, there were others that following day and night. A dozen people—men and women."

"They were all found and —disposed of?"

"No. Two of them ran away into the prairie. They were never found."

"Which way did they run, Wade?"

"Boy! You're like a bulldog, aren't you, Sam? You never give up. They ran toward Tyson's Lake—so I'm told. They were tracked to the fence by bloodhounds."

"And?"

"And? And? There is no 'And?' That's the end of it. They fell in a cave or a hole and died. Period."

"And you believe that crap?"

Wade's reply was soft, almost inaudible. "No." He lifted his eyes. "But, if not that, then what?"

"The Mark of the Beast."

"The Mark of the —what? I beg your pardon, Sam?"

"Let's count it down, Wade. How many people have died, or been killed, or disappeared in that area known as Tyson's Lake? Jane Ann's mother and father. Ex-Chief of Police Kramer. The young kids the lake is named after. The original Father Dubois and the trapper, Duhon. Your father. The two escapees that night, after they were infected. And a dime will get you a dollar that's what happened to Larry and Joan and Annie Brown. Far too many people for coincidence. Some were torn, others mutilated, marked."

"What is the Mark of the Beast, Sam?"

"I don't know, Wade," he said, then hesitated for a moment. Then Sam bared his thoughts and all his suspicions to his friend, taking it from the beginning. He told him everything.

When he came to the part about Michelle bending down to kiss him, and the stink of her breath and her reaction to the Holy Cross, Sam almost lost control. He paused for a short time, getting his emotions under control.

Wade didn't know what to believe or how to react. Coming from another man, the editor would have openly laughed. But this was Sam, one of the most level-headed men he'd ever known. He ran a shaky hand across his face. "Good God, Sam!"

"Yes," the minister said, his voice firming. "I think God is about all we have to count on in Whitfield."

"We'll call the authorities," Wade reached for the phone.

"No, we won't!" Sam said. "It's too late for that."

Puzzled eyes lifted to touch the minister's hard gaze. Wade pulled his hand from the phone. "What do you mean, Sam—too late?"

"I—I believe there is just a handful of Christians left in Whitfield, in this part of Fork, and we're growing smaller in number with each passing hour. I think right now, Wade, we'd better go see Father Dubois. Perhaps he can shed some light on what's happening around here."

Wade's usual demeanor had returned; the reporter's attitude on nearly everthing: cynical, doubting. "Sam? You really believe all you've told me, don't you? All this body snatching that's been going on—where are they? Do they prowl the streets at night? Come on, Sam, you're a grown man who is under a terrible strain at home. Now all things can be explained. Surely you don't believe—?"

"I don't know what I believe, Wade. And that's the truth. I need some answers; you need some answers. So let's go find them."

Wade stood up, his ears doubting what he'd heard but willing to go along with his minister—for a time. "Next thing you'll be telling me is that Frankenstein is lurking outside Whitfield."

"Frankenstein is not mentioned in the Bible, Wade. The devil is."

Ten

Father Dubois opened the rear door of the rectory. He did not seem surprised to see either Sam or Wade. The old priest smiled. "Come in, gentlemen." He looked at Sam. "I've been expecting you."

The preacher and the editor followed the priest into his small living quarters. Lucas Monroe of the Methodist Church and Father Glen Haskell of the Episcopal Church sat on the couch. They smiled their greetings.