William Johnstone - Devil's Kiss

He read for hours, the clock ticking, chiming. At full dark, a "bird flew against his window, smashing the glass, killing itself, dying with a horrible screech.

Dubois raised his head. "So you've finally come," he whispered. "Well, come on."

"So you wish to play games with me, eh?" he said. "Very well, then listen to this." He began to read aloud. "Yea, though I walk the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil—"

A hissing drifted through the house, reaching Dubois's ears. An evil hissing came from his back door. A thin scratching sound as the door was pushed open. A shuffling sound as feet dragged across the tile.

"Ah," Dubois smiled. "You don't like that, eh? Well, listen to this: The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear?"

"Die!" the one word was spoken from out of darkness.

"The Lord is the strength of my life, Dubois read to the darkness facing him, "of whom shall I be afraid?"

"Die!" the voice spoke.

"But I will die only once," the priest said, "You are the living dead."

The voice laughed insanely; a voice Dubois knew. He strained to place the tones. No! It couldn't be. But he knew it was. "That is true," the voice said. "The Lord is my strength and my shield," Dubois said, a small finger of fear touching him. You're only going home, he reminded himself. And the hollow, evil voice laughed at the words. "I will say of the Lord, He is my refuge and my fortress: my God; in Him I will trust." The lamp beside the priest suddenly shattered, plunging the room into semidarkness, the only light a small night light in the hall.

"Thou shalt not be afraid for the terror by night . . ."

John Benton stepped into the room, his dark burial suit rumpled, white shirt dirty from the grave.

Dubois rose in shock. "Get away!" He held a cross up to the figure.

Benton shuffled across the room, his pale, bloodless face shining in the dim light. A hideous face, with staring, unblinking eyes. "Do not forsake me now, my God," Dubois prayed.

Benton raised a stake, shuffling closer. The cross Dubois held had no effect on the living dead. The priest backed away, back, until he bumped against the wall. His heart was pounding in his chest.

Dubois reached for a vial of Holy Water on the table by his chair. His shaking hands knocking the vial to the floor, the glass shattering on the tile.

Benton came closer, his walk a staggering, awkward gait. His smile was hideous.

"John!" Dubois cried. "John Benton—can't you hear me? Don't you know me?"

"I know you," the living dead spoke. He raised the stake.

The last sound Father Michael Dubois heard was his own praying as the stake plunged into his chest.

Sixteen

Sam banged on the front door of the rectory, growing more frustrated with each knock. He walked around to the rear. The back door was open, early morning sunlight streaming into the kitchen, the light picking up the faint dusty track footprints on the tile floor. Sam cautiously stepped inside. The dirty footprints led to Father Dubois's living room. The smell of death hung in the small room. Something else, too. Something Sam could not quite identify. Then he had it: it was a musty odor. But more than that, it was a smell of something he had smelled many times in Korea: graves that had been disturbed. But why would that smell be in Michael's house? Unless—?

Sam stepped around the footprints in the kitchen and walked into the living room, knowing what he would find. He was not shocked to discover Dubois dead on the floor. The old priest d known it was coming—somehow. Sam stood for a long silent moment, looking down at the body of his friend. The priest lay sprawled on the floor, his face twisted in horrible pain, eyes wide and staring. At nothing. A long stake protruded from his chest. The room stank of blood.

And that musty smell.

Sam spoke a silent prayer for Dubois, then picked up the phone and gave the operator the number of the City Police, knowing everything he said would be monitored.

"Jimmy? Get over to the rectory as quickly as possible. Father Dubois is dead."

He then called Tony, telling him what had happened. The doctor said he'd be right over.

The operator laughed.

Sam sat down in a chair, waiting. He had to force himself to remember that the grotesque thing on the floor was merely an empty shell; Dubois was not in this room. He was home with his God—home, at last.

"You fought a good fight, friend," Sam whispered. "Now rest forever in the arms of God."

"Sam?" Jimmy's voice echoed through the home.

"In here, Jimmy. Watch those footprints on the floor."

"I see them." He got his first look at Dubois and gagged for a moment, before control took over.

The body of Dubois seemed to sigh in death as gas escaped him.

Tony walked in. He looked at Dubois, crossed himself, then knelt down by the body. "Dead about ten or twelve hours, I'd guess. Give or take a couple of hours."

"What is that smell?" Jimmy asked. "Not the blood—the other one."

"The Undead," Sam said.

Eyes swung toward him; disbelieving eyes. Eyes mirroring dread and horror. Jimmy stuttered, "The—the Undead, Sam?"

"How many graves have been broken into the past two months, Jimmy?"

"Couple of dozen, I guess. Maybe more." The realization of what the minister was saying struck a hammer blow. "You mean—?"

"Yes."

"But why would they do this?" Tony pointed to the remains of Dubois. "Like this!?"

"Because they were ordered to do it." Sam rose from his chair and got a blanket from the closet. He pulled the stake from Dubois's chest, grunting with the effort. He tossed the bloody piece of wood to one side then covered the priest with the blanket.

"What do we do with him?" Tony asked.

"We can't take him to Glower's; he's one of Them. I won't have Michael's body defiled. I'll take care of it myself."

"I'll help you," Tony volunteered.

"How many city cops can you trust, Jimmy?"

"None. They're all wearing medallions."

"Watch your back, boy," Sam warned him.

"Yes, sir," the young acting-Chief said. "I'll swing by and take a look at Chester's and Miles'." He left, walking slowly out the back door, his shoulders hunched, as if expecting a blow from behind.

Tony looked at the blanket-covered body of Father Dubois. "What do we do with him, Sam? Where can we bury him where They won't find him?"

"We don't bury him," Sam said. "We burn him."

Black smoke spiralled upward from the makeshift funeral pyre at the city dump. The gas-soaked wood upon which Dubois lay burst into flames. In minutes, the priest was gone.

The doctor shuddered in the heat of the Nebraska morning and the flames from the dying pyre. "What an ignoble way for a good man to have to go," he bitterly observed, then looked at Sam. "I'm scared, Sam."

"So am I, Tony. So am I."

But the doctor looked at the preacher and thought: No, you're not, preacher. I believe you're looking forward to this fight.

Sam met his gaze. "Go on home, Tony. Get your gear together. Boots, canteens, blankets, guns—the whole bit."

He nodded his agreement. "Miles and Doris have asked me to stay with them."

"That's good. Everything pops day after tomorrow."

"And—?"

"We win or we lose. And God have mercy on us if we lose."

After dropping Tony off at his car at the rectory, Sam drove the streets of town. Very few stores were open. No one walked the streets except young people. They were brazen, rude, and profane.

Then he saw Jane Ann walking on the sidewalk, followed by several young men.

Sam gunned the pickup, reaching her a moment before the young men. They were hulking, sneering, and half drunk. Sam threw open the door on the passenger side. "Get in here!" he snapped. "Have you lost your mind, Janey?"