William Johnstone - Devil's Kiss

Sam said, "Is this it? The sum total of Whitfield's faith? Us?"

Father Haskell smiled knowingly. "You're here, Sam, so you must have put it all together. You know the answer to your question."

Sam remembered seeing several ministers in that parade of cars the night before. "I know about Jack Anglin and Bert Justis. But the others?"

Lucas slowly nodded his head. "Yes, so do we. Roger Owens and Leon Carson have also joined—Them."

"Them?" Wade sat down without being asked. "You people seem as calm and as certain about this as—death!" He lost his temper. "What is going on!? You people act as though you've known about this . . . this . . . whatever the hell it is all along."

"Calm yourself," Dubois urged him gently. "Now is the time for unity, not panic. As to your question, yes—I believe we all sensed something at about the same time. Except for me, of course—I've known it was here for a long while. What I didn't know was when it would surface."

Wade fumbled in his shirt pocket for a cigarette, lighting it with fingers that trembled despite himself. "This is all a bad dream. Pretty soon I'm going to wake up and return to reality."

Dubois smiled. "Not likely, son. This is reality. I assure you of that."

"May I use your phone?" Sam asked.

"Certainly."

He decided not to call Chester—not yet. He didn't want to let the women in on all of this, not for a while. And if they were being watched—as Sam suspected they were—he didn't want to alarm the watchers. He dialed Miles' number at the store.

"Miles? I think you better come on over to the rectory. I want you to sit in on this. Five minutes. See you then."

"I'll make more coffee," Dubois said.

"A Jew in a Catholic rectory," Miles said, taking the cup of coffee offered him by Dubois. Miles smiled. "My father always said I had a strange sense of humor."

"Sit down, Miles," Dubois said, returning the smile. "I really don't wear a tail and horns. '

"Who does?" the Jew countered.

"Ah," Dubois said. "But for a time, just before the Christian era, do you doubt Jews took Satan seriously?"

"Never too deeply rooted," Miles sat down, sipping his coffee, smiling.

"What are you two talking about?" Wade asked, irritation in his tone.

He was ignored.

"Do you really believe the Book of Job is fiction?" Dubois asked.

Miles shrugged. "I've drifted away from my faith, Michael," he said, calling the priest by his first name. "So I suppose I'm open to real proof."

"But you're here."

"Yes. I can't deny that, can I?"

"But you won't admit Satan is real?"

Miles smiled. "Whatever is happening here in Whitfield may or may not be real. Why doesn't each of us deal with . . . it in our own way and leave religious dogma for some other time?"

Only Wade did not join in the laughter. Sam said, "That's a nice, safe answer, Miles."

"That's all you're going to get out of me. So be happy with that much."

"Jokes!" Wade muttered. "They're making jokes."

Miles glanced around the small room. "I take it save for Chester, Faye and Jane Ann, this is it?"

"And Peter Canford, yes," Sam said. "This is it."

"And the old people, Haskell reminded them all.

"They are gone and don't know it," Dubois said, and all eyes swung toward him. "The strong must survive. That's a very un-Christian thing to say, and I'll pay for it, but it's the truth."

Miles shifted his feet restlessly. He glanced at Wade. "I take it Sam convinced you where I could not?"

"I didn't say I was convinced," the newspaperman stubbornly held on, "but I'm here."

"But the old people?" Sam said. "They—"

"Drop the subject, son," Lucas spoke gently. "Flagellation won't solve a thing. You'll see what we mean, I promise you."

"Poppycock and balderdash and twaddle," Wade said, folding his arms across his chest.

"Doubting Thomas," Sam said.

"I can't relate to that," Miles smiled, his always good humor breaking through.

"I think," Wade said, "you're all overreacting. And I include myself in that."

"You're very wrong, old friend," Miles said, his grin fading. "And you'll never know what that statement does to me."

"I was shocked at what Sam told me a few minutes ago," the editor admitted. "In my office. But I've had time to think on it. I'm sorry, Sam, but—are you sure Michelle did those things? Or did you put too much into an innocent gesture?"

Father Dubois held up a hand, stilling Wade. "We don't have much time. And we certainly don't have time for bickering among ourselves. Let's tell our stories—compare notes, if you will. Then I'll tell you all the real story." He glanced at Sam. "If you'll begin, Sam."

For the second time that day, Sam told his story, leaving nothing out. When he finished, he felt drained. All the men—including Wade—sat quietly.

Sam glanced at Dubois. The old priest sat quietly, his hands clasped in his lap, a smile on his lips. A sad, knowing smile. His eyes were dark with secrets.

He knows, Sam realized. He knows more than all of us.

Sam shifted his gaze to the Methodist. Lucas wore a worried look, and Sam knew it had nothing to do with his losing battle with cancer. The Episcopal priest sat very still, holding an empty coffee cup in his hands. Miles slowly shook his head, his lips forming a silent aahhh. Wade shifted his feet on the carpet, not convinced.

Lucas said, "I know perfectly well what is happening in this town. I know the evil that surrounds us all. I know it personally, and it frightens me."

"I told you twenty years ago, Lucas," Dubois said. "I warned you then you couldn't outrun your past. Neither can I."

"Yes," the Methodist whispered. "I know. But it's too late for me—I'm dying. But not for you."

"I've got to meet him again," Dubois said.

"What are you two talking about?" Wade asked, exasperation in his voice, his actions, as he waved his hands in the air. "Who is it you've got to meet?" He smiled. "Or is it whom? I never can get that straight."

But no one laughed.

"The antisemitism has begun," Miles spoke. "In earnest."

"In what way?" Sam asked.

"The phone calls began about two months ago, becoming more vicious as time passed. Now they're really bad. Doris is frightened half out of her wits. The calls—callers—have become extremely abusive."

"Is that why you abruptly sent your kids to Colorado?" Sam asked.

"One of the reasons," Miles said gently.

"Will somebody please get back to my question?" Wade said. "Who is it you people have to meet? And why?"

The expression on Father Dubois's face was a mixture of amusement, fear, and sadness. "The devil," he said.

"THE DEVIL!" Wade jumped to his feet. "Oh, come on, gentlemen, now look here. I'll admit there is something going on in this town; I conceded that much to Miles and Sam. But the devil? No! I absolutely refuse to believe any—"

"SIT DOWN!" Dubois shouted. It was the first time Sam had ever heard the priest raise his voice. "Listen to me, Wade. Listen to me very carefully.

"I'm seventy years old, son. I've been a priest for a long, long time. This has been my parish for more than thirty-five years. I remember you as a little boy. Son, I've written volumes on the happenings in Fork County. I have your father's journals as well."

"My father's writings! I want them! I've searched everywhere—"

"Hush," Dubois commanded gently. "Listen to me. Your father knew—sensed—something evil about this area. But he spoke not a word of it—to anyone. Except, finally, to me. We talked at length until he was certain I knew what I was talking about, and he could trust me, and I him. I warned him not to go too far, to be careful in his prying. But," the old priest shrugged, "he was a good newspaper man. I wish I could have known him longer." He smiled. "Your father did not take kindly to my warnings. Oh, he believed me—your father was a good Christian man. Also a very brave man. His bravery got him killed that day."