William Johnstone - Devil's Kiss

Sam looked first at Dubois, then at Lucas. "I sensed a fatalistic tone in your voices a few moments ago. You two acted as though you know what's in store for you both."

"Very observant young man, Sam," the old priest smiled. A sad smile as he shook his gray head. "Sam, we're not afraid to die. Both of us are old men; we've both fought him, and in a sense, we've won. Oh, he knows we don't have the strength to fight him again. But he'll get no real pleasure out of killing us. We've given our lives to God. We're ready to go home."

Sam looked at Lucas. The Methodist nodded. "There is very little either of us can do, Sam. It's up to you young ones. You've got the strength to fight—and to beat him! Oh, you won't kill him. Don't ever delude yourselves on that. God is the only one who can kill him. But you can beat him here in Whitfield." He removed a cross from around his neck, handing it to Wade. "Put it on, son. Don't ever take it off."

Wade slipped the chain over his head, the cross gleaming dully on his chest. "Committed to the cause, I guess," he quipped.

"A most reluctant warrior," Miles grinned, his good humor never far from the surface.

Father Dubois removed his cross. With hands that trembled, from age and emotion, not from fear, he placed it around Sam's neck. "My cardinal gave this to me forty years ago. It alone won't protect you, but if you watch the reaction of those around you, it can tell you something. You're the one, Sam. You're the one who has to rally your forces and beat him."

"Why me, Michael?"

"Because you've been chosen, Sam. Don't ask me how I know, I just know."

Sam removed his own cross, handing it to Miles, startling the Jew. Miles looked at it, a strange glint in his eyes. He shrugged philosophically, then slipped it around his neck. "Well, we Jews believe in luck, so Mazol tov."

"What's that mean?" Wade asked.

"Literally, it means Lucky Star, and I think we need all the luck we can get."

"What do we do now?" Sam looked at Dubois.

"Watch your backs," the priest replied, holding out his hands. "Let's join hands, gentlemen, and pray."

Eleven

Outside the rectory, Miles stood with Sam and Wade. "I'm not fully convinced, Sam," the newspaper man said, "but I'm leaning in your direction. However, I have a suggestion for you—for all of us."

"I am open."

"We can gather up our families and run like hell! Get out of this town."

"I don't believe that would do any good," Miles said, surprising both Wade and Sam. "I agree with Father Dubois, I don't believe they would let us leave. There is this, too: even if we did get away, we'd just be running away from the problem, not solving it." He cut his eyes from man to man. "Without being obvious about it, look across the street."

The men stole quick, furtive glances about them. They were being watched from all sides. Sonny Moore, Paul Smiley, and a man none of them knew stood about them, watching them.

Petterson was still hauling his ashes.

Wade swallowed heavily. "It could be pure coincidence." But there was little conviction in his voice.

"Want to take a ride just to see if we can leave?" Miles suggested.

"No!" Sam said. "That's not for me. No one—man, Beast, or Satan is going to run me out of this county."

Wade looked hard at his minister. "Sam, that sounds like pure bravado to me."

"No," the minister replied. "No, it's a fight, that's all. I realized that while talking with Lucas and Michael."

Wade shook his head. "I don't understand, Sam." He shrugged. "But there are lots of things I don't understand."

"You two go on about your business," Sam told his friends. "Both of you act as normally as possible. I've got some things to do."

"We'll see you later on this afternoon?" Miles asked.

"Maybe." And he left them with that.

"You want to buy a WHAT?" Chester asked, astonished at the request from his minister.

"That Thompson submachine gun you told me about last year," Sam repeated his request.

"That's what I thought you said. It's illegal, Sam. You could go to prison for just having it. So could I."

"Sure. You could also go to prison for having that Greasegun you keep at your house. Is that .45 caliber spitter a souvenir from World War Two?"

Chester smiled. "What's going on, Sam? Come on—level with me."

"Got any coffee?"

"Always. In the back. Let me lock the front door. I may as well have stayed home today; you're the first customer to walk in."

"You're being watched, Ches. You know that?"

"Across the street? Oh, that's just Emery Robinson. He's loafing, that's all. You know him—he's been one of this town's ne'er-do-wells for years."

"No, Ches," Sam corrected. "He's one of Them."

Chester turned slowly from his closing and locking of the front door. "One of—Them, Sam?"

"Let's get that coffee, Ches. I've got a lot to tell you."

It was early afternoon when Sam finished talking with his friend. He had laid it all out in the open for Chester, then given the man two crosses; one for himself, one for his wife. Before coming to the store, Sam had stopped off at the church, picking up the crosses, blessing them, praying to God for protection and sanction. He had several more in his pocket, for Jane Ann and the others.

"God in Heaven!" was all Chester could manage to say.

"Have you seen your children?"

"No. And I don't wish to see them!"

Sam almost began a lecture on forgiveness, then held his tongue, remembering his own thoughts about Michelle. It's too late for that, he concluded, not without some bitterness.

Walking back into the showroom, with all the fishing tackle, guns, knives, and camping equipment, Sam said, "I think it's important for all of us to act as normally as possible. They know we're on to them, but what they don't know is how much."

The ex-marine was recovering quickly from his initial shock, and his mind was working now on defense. "No use to run?" he looked at his minister. "Is that what you're saying?"

"That's it—for a number of reasons. Ches, try to speak to Peter sometime today; tell him what I've told you. I'll talk to Jimmy."

The older man sighed, shuddered, and resigned himself to what Sam had said. He nodded his agreement.

"After I finish here, Ches, I want you to stock up on a few supplies. Do it quietly; a little today, a few more tomorrow, finish up Monday."

"Preacher, I was a marine in the Pacific—I went the whole route. You sound as though you want to prepare for a field operation?"

"That's exactly what I want. You have a lot of surplus C-ration here?"

"Cases of it."

"I'll take several cases. Divide the rest between the others. I want blankets, sleeping bags, a couple of pup tents. Wrap that Thompson in one of the blankets. We'll split the .45 caliber ammo. How many rounds do you have?"

"Enough to refight the battle of Saipan. Sam, you tell me to be careful, yet you're wide open in what you're doing."

"I want them to see me, friend. I want them to know I know."

"I don't understand."

"I don't expect you to, Ches. But I believe he—through Wilder—has tossed the glove down to me. I don't know why: probably never will, but he has. Dubois believes it, too. It's a game to him. But it's life and death for us."

"Then—They'll be after you?"

"Not yet. It isn't time."

"And how do you know that?"

"I feel it. I think I knew all along—now I'm certain of it. How many clips do you have for that Thompson?"

"Five. And two sixty round drums."

"Good. I want them all."

"I can only assume you've handled a Thompson before?" Chester's tone was dry as he discovered yet another side to his suddenly warlike minister.

"I carried one in Korea."

"As a guerrilla fighter?"