William Johnstone - Devil's Kiss

Vanderwerf and Moore lounged across the street, watching the church. Vanderwerf saw Jane Ann looking at him and arrogantly scratched his crotch, grinning at her. He feigned masturbation with one hand, motioning for her to come on over with the other hand.

"Not the most subtle gesture I've ever seen," she said, her face flushing.

Sam didn't help matters any by saying, "It's going to get much, much worse before it gets any better, Janey."

"You're supposed to comfort me, Sam," she looked at him.

And the minister came very close to saying, I'd like to do just that, dear—in a variety of ways.

He remembered where he was and was embarrassed for his thoughts.

"Twenty people!" Chester shook his head. "Twenty people showed up for the funeral. Disgraceful!"

"John's wife wasn't even there," Jane Ann said, her tone indicating disapproval, even a primness that brought a smile from Sam.

"She was with the sheriff and George Best," Wade said. "The two of them were at her house. You all saw the cars when we drove by."

"Doing what, I wonder?" Anita questioned.

"Don't be such a klupper," Doris raised an eyebrow.

"While her husband was being buried!" Anita could not believe it.

"She no longer has any control over herself," Sam spoke quietly, then grimaced. "Besides, she's been seeing Walter for at least a month— maybe longer."

Sam had told them of John on the way to the services, and they had, to a person, looked at him with horror in their eyes as he spoke of the Undead. None of them wanted to believe him, but they knew Sam would not lie about this.

"Sam? Sam!" Jane Ann brought him out of his musings. "Are you certain about Mrs. Benton?"

"Yes, he's sure," Miles said. "So am I. I saw them coming out of a motel in Atwood, about two months ago."

"I don't think any of this matters anymore," Chester rose from his chair, stretching. "I think what matters now is this: everything is out in the open—at least as far as I'm concerned. You might say battle lines have been drawn. We know who is with us, and who is against us." His glance swept each person. "And the odds aren't very good."

"Did you speak with Peter?" Sam asked.

"Yes. But I didn't tell him of my suspicions; he told me of his. He said he'd meet us here about four this afternoon. After we all talk with him, we'll do what we talked about."

Anita looked up, alarm on her face. "What are you men going to do?"

"Go for a drive," Sam said.

"You're not going to leave us here alone?"

"No," Sam shook his head. "Miles will stay with you."

Doris looked at her husband, a twinkle in her eyes. "Miles, I love you dearly, you know that. But when you came home yesterday, wobbling in with that huge shotgun, you looked like the original Sad Sack."

The tension in the room broke under the sounds of laughter. Miles grinned shyly. "I know how to load it, point it, and pull the trigger. Besides, let them," he indicated the other men, "go traipsing out in the wilderness. I'd much rather stay here, surrounded by all you beautiful women." He grinned rakishly.

His wife rolled her eyes. "Casanova didn't have—to the best of my knowledge—hemorrhoids, dear."

"Doris!"

The ringing of the phone stilled the laughter. Chester held the phone out to Sam. "Tony."

"Sam? I've just been called out to Sorenson's ranch. I don't like it, Sam. I'm not his doctor, Sam—he dislikes me, always has. I think something's up. I don't know what, I just sense it,"

"Then don't go."

"I—ah—don't have much choice in the matter. The sheriff is coming by to pick me up."

"Tony, don't go! Tell them you're sick— anything. No! Better yet, tell Walter I'll take you out there. Let's see what happens when he hears that."

"Come on over, Sam. Right now. Please?"

"Five minutes, Tony." He turned, looking at Wade. "You stay here with Miles. Come on, Ches. Get a pistol and let's go. I'll explain on the way. We'll take that drive tomorrow."

"Balon," the sheriff glared at him. "Just what do you want here? This is none of your affair."

The men stood on the sidewalk outside Tony's house. Sam did his best to remain calm. "What I'm saying, Walter, is this, I'll drive Tony out to the K/S. It's no big deal; nothing to get all worked up about. Tony asked me to come along, and I'll do just that. By the way, who is sick? Can I help?"

Sam received a look of pure hatred from the sheriff. While Addison was glaring at Sam, Tony took a closer look at Walter. The man was filthy. His clothing dirty, his face unshaven, and his body odor fierce. The doctor was glad he wasn't standing downwind.

Walter shifted his glare to Sam's truck. "What's Stokes doing here?"

"Just along for the ride, Walter. Any harm in that? Oh, by the way, we missed you at John's services this afternoon."

The sheriff wheeled about without speaking. He stalked to his car, burning rubber as he peeled away from the curb.

"Sam?" Tony said. "What in the world is going on in this town?"

"What did Mrs. Norman die of, Tony?"

"Presumably the same thing John died of. But I don't believe it. I had just examined her about a month ago. Her heart was strong, blood pressure fine. You didn't answer my question, Sam."

"Then what killed her?"

The young doctor sighed as he met Sam's gaze. "Oh, one guess would be fright, maybe—producing a heart attack. When I saw her she'd been dead for hours. I think the old woman saw something in her back yard that scared her to death. That big German shepherd was still standing guard beside her. I guess he frightened off whatever it was."

"You went to her house, then?"

"Oh, yes. Jimmy called me first, then Father Dubois."

"Was there anything . . . unusual that you noticed?"

"What do you mean, Sam?"

"An odor, perhaps?"

Tony slowly shook his head. "Yes, now that you mention it, there was an odor. A very bad odor. Faint, but still present. I—uh—can't describe it; I've never smelled anything quite like it."

"I was afraid of this. They've begun coming into town."

"I beg your pardon, Sam?"

"Get your car, Tony—follow us to Chester's. There's something you'd better hear."

A very stunned and pale young doctor sat on the couch in Chester's den, his coffee cold and forgotten on the table. He lifted his eyes to Sam's. "You're kidding, of course?" There was a hopeful tone in his voice.

"No, Tony," Father Dubois said. "It's all true."

The priest had been called, as had Father Haskell. Peter Canford stood beside Jimmy Perkins.

"Reverend Monroe is dead!" Jimmy said. "And you killed him, Sam? My God!"

Peter spoke for the first time, other than the greetings when he entered the house. His voice was dead, almost void of emotion. "When I got home from John's funeral, there was a note. Pat said she'd had enough of my so-called Christian ways. The note was very profane." He put his face in his hands and wept.

Dubois walked to his side, putting an arm around his shoulders. He did not try to verbally comfort him, just patted him on the shoulder, letting the young man know he was there, ready to help in any way he could.

"I'll make some coffee," Faye said.

"And some sandwiches," Anita said, getting up from her chair. "I'll help you."

"Have you had time to read the journals?" Sam asked Wade.

"Yes," the editor said, "some of them. Dad suspected all along what is—" he stumbled for a moment, "happening here now. But he couldn't come up with any concrete proof. None to take to the law. I know the feeling," he said, biting at his words. "Dad wrote that he felt the devil was after him, but he wasn't going to get him."

"That's why he shot himself?" Sam asked.

Chester looked up. "Your father shot himself?"

Slowly, Wade told the story, filling in the gaps that for years had puzzled many residents of Whitfield, himself included. "But pieces still don't fit," he mused aloud. "There are things that just don't quite jell in my mind. About us, I mean."