Devil's Kiss (13 page)

Wonder where she went this afternoon? Sam mused, as the image of his wife and Dalton Revere crawled through his brain, creeping like a slug. This time, though, the vision did not disturb him, as the memory of his wife's filthy room assailed his brain, bringing back the odor of evil.

She'll be leaving this evening, Sam thought, as he leaned against the truck. If what I suspect is true—and God, I'm praying to You that it isn't—she'll be leaving at sundown.

And if it's true, God, what do I do? Whom can I trust?

In the kitchen, Sam looked at the stove. Cold. Nothing had been fixed for dinner. So what else is new? We used to have dinner at seven—when she was cooking. Then, a few months back, she began fixing sandwiches. Then she stopped doing even that much.

Sam fixed a sandwich, poured a glass of milk, and walked into the living room, snapping on the radio to listen to the news.

The evening news held no interest. President Eisenhower played a round of golf. The Russians rattled more verbal sabers. Castro condemned the U.S. Guerilla fighting in Africa.

Sam turned off the radio, then sat listening to his wife moving about in her bedroom. She'll be carrying a small overnight bag when she leaves, he guessed. In it will be the black robe and the necklace, and only God knows what else.

Devil worship! My own wife. How she must hate me.

He chewed the last of his sandwich, drained his milk, put his head back, and closed his eyes. What can I do? he questioned his mind. Could I—can I—help her? Do I want to help her?

The silent reply came as no surprise to him. No! No, he really did not wish to help her. For she is as in Job: One who rebels against the light.

What are you doing to me, God—testing me? If so, you've picked a poor, weak man, for here I sit like a hypocrite, lusting after a member of my congregation and refusing to help my wife in her moment of need.

A line from Psalms entered his mind, shaming him. The Lord knoweth the thoughts of man.

Sam rose from the chair, walking through the house to Michelle's bedroom. She was just coming out, closing and locking the door behind her. The medallion about her neck caught Sam's eye.

Michelle—”

“I really don't have time to talk, Sam. I'm playing bridge and I'm running a bit late. Do you mind? Excuse me.”

“Michelle, I'd like to help you. Talk to me.”

“Help me, Sam? I don't know what you're talking about.”

“What's in the bag, Michelle? Decks of cards?”

She smiled at him. “Gifts for the winners, Sam. That's all.”

He fought back an impulse to scream at her: Don't lie to me! He resisted another impulse to strike her; to turn her over his knee like a child and spank her butt.

Yet another thought came to him: But I don't want to touch her. She's evil.

“Bridge, Michelle? Gifts? I thought your club met on Tuesday nights?”

Her gaze was cool, tinged with black hate. It was now very easy for Sam to read her. For months she had been making up one excuse after the other to leave the house on Friday nights, and he had believed her. Sucked the bait in like a big bass.

“This is another club, dear. Tonight I play partners with Pat, in a tournament in Atwood. I have to pick up Pat and Ethel and do a few things before we leave. I won't be in 'till very late, so don't wait up. Now, are we all through playing twenty questions—?”

Only one, he thought, looking down at her, as sudden wild rage filled him: when will the restraint leave me and I smash your lying face?

“No, Michelle—no more questions.”

“Good. Bye, now.” She walked out the back door, the overnight bag swinging at her side.

He listened to her back out of the drive, then he walked swiftly through the house to stand at the open front door, watching her drive away. He stepped out on the porch, in the quiet of late afternoon. The sun was blood-red, beginning its descent in the west.

Sam's eyes swept the neighborhood, suddenly honing in on the Steiner house across the street. A shade was quickly pulled down, but not so quickly that Sam did not see Mrs. Steiner staring at him, her face pale. Again, he felt that aura of evil hanging around him. He tried to shake it away, but the feeling persisted, hanging to him, refusing to leave.

He looked again at the Steiner house, thinking: there is a perfect example of why I believe—No! I know something is dreadfully wrong in this town. Max and Irene Steiner had always been good friends with Sam and Michelle. Then abruptly, all socializing had ceased. No explanation, and Sam had tried many times to find out why. The Steiners would not speak to him.

Would not speak to me, he thought, still staring at the house across the street, but I've seen them carry on lengthy conversations with Michelle. It's all beginning to fit, each piece forming the outline of the puzzle.

He walked back into the house to sit on the edge of his easy chair, his mind busy assimilating the facts—and he liked none of them. Atwood was almost sixty miles away, and he could recall no time that Michelle had ever played cards there. The only cards that Pat ever played was stud poker with the boys at her father's ranch. Not a bridge player—like most enlisted men in the service—Sam had played pinochle; bridge was the officer's game—nevertheless, he knew it took a certain degree of intelligence to master the game, and Pat didn't have enough sense to come in out of the rain. She was a spoiled, arrogant, round-heeled brat. Thirty years old, going on fifteen. Sam disliked her intensely, able to see through her facade the first time he'd met her. He had often wondered why his wife liked her.

Now he knew.

Sam was wary of people who fought the natural aging process; who refused to act their age; who followed the dictates of fashion with all the harsh discipline of a monk.

He had had friends in this town who, when he first met them, were rational, thinking adults, enjoying the comforts of approaching middle age, who were neither trend-setters nor trend-followers. Sam had watched them make fools of themselves, in his opinion, emulating each new whim of youth—in music, in dance, in dress, in behavior.

Sam was no follower of fashion. He marched to his own drummer.

He rose from his chair, walking through the house to the kitchen, late afternoon sunlight dancing weakly on tiny dust particles stirred by his movements. He was angry, impatient, irritable, restless.

Sam slammed the screen door on his way out, got into his truck, and drove downtown. Big hands resting lightly on the wheel, the left window open, his arm propped there, the wind ruffling his unruly hair. His square jaw was set in resolution. He would follow his wife—or Pat—if he could find either of them, and see for himself just what was going on.

He drove the town streets without catching sight of either of them.

He headed out of town. There was only one way to Atwood, and Sam drove that route, finally pulling off onto a dirt road, driving up a small hill into a clump of cottonwoods. Here, he had a full view of the road, and unless someone looked directly at him, he could not be seen through the stand of trees. He waited.

This was the way to the Dig site, some miles down this road, if one bore to the left at the next crossroads. To the right, was the way to Tyson's Lake.

He waited for a half hour, until the first shadows thickened and day began melting into evening. The first car down the road belonged to Dalton Revere, but Sam's knowing smile faded when he saw Dalton's wife sitting beside her husband, another couple he could not make out in the back seat. Then it was a steady flow of cars and trucks, his wife's Chevy and Pat's Cadillac among them, all the vehicles filled with people. Addison and his deputies—their wives. The Steiners and the Conways and the Pipers. Hundreds of people, adults and teenagers and young kids. Chester's kids, Jack and Ruby. But no old people. He saw the Barlows and the Vaughns—dozens of people he once called friends. Several ministers among the flow of people.

“Going to church,” he muttered. “But not the church they were brought up in.” He sighed, sitting behind the wheel of his truck. “Okay, Balon—now what do you do?”

His first impulse was to follow the line of traffic, but some inner warning stopped his hand as he reached for the ignition key. He waited, unseen in the stand of timber, the sun to his back.

Obviously, he thought, this has been going on for some time. If so, why haven't I noticed it before?

Because I wasn't looking for it, he answered his own question.

After all the cars and trucks were past, and he guessed there would be no more, he cranked his pickup and pulled swiftly away, without lights for the first few hundred yards. Fifteen minutes later, he pulled into Chester's driveway.

The male protector welled up in him as Sam first thought he would not tell Faye or Jane Ann what he had just seen. He would speak to Chester alone. But he quickly rejected that idea. The Stokes were not just strong people, they were strong Christian people, as was, Sam knew, Jane Ann.

When Sam walked into the house, he could feel the tension in the room. Faye had been crying, her eyes red. Chester stood in the center of the den, fists balled in anger. Jane Ann's face was pale.

“What's wrong?” Sam asked.

“Something awfully funny is going on in this damned town!” Chester said harshly. “First time my kids ever pulled anything like this, but they did a good job of it.”

Faye began crying. Jane Ann went to sit by the older woman's side, putting an arm around her shoulders, comforting her.

“Where are your kids?” Sam asked, knowing perfectly well where they were, but wanting to find out just how much Chester knew, or suspected.

“Both of them left the house after—after I caught them in Jack's room. They were fondling each other. My own kids!”

Jack was seventeen, Ruby fourteen.

Faye shuddered once, then stood up, pulling her tattered emotions under control. “I'll get you some coffee, Sam. And a sandwich. No, don't argue. I know you probably haven't eaten. Come along, Jane Ann.”

Chester sighed, then walked to a cabinet, taking out a bottle of bourbon. He poured a shot glass brimful. Smiling ruefully, he said, “Bottle of this stuff usually lasts me a whole year.” He glanced at Sam. “I'm not much of a drinker. Hope you don't mind me taking a belt?”

“Go right ahead, Ches. As a matter of fact, you can pour me a knock, if you will.”

After a quick, startled glance at his minister, Chester poured a second shot glass full. “How long's it been since you had a drink, Sam?”

“Of hard stuff? Years. I like a beer every now and then, though. It helps me to relax.”

The sports store owner and the preacher clinked glasses, then downed the amber liquid. Sam puffed out his lips. “Whew! Well, I used to like the stuff.”

Chester capped the bottle, replacing it in the cabinet, closing the doors.

“You want to tell me what happened, Ches?”

He motioned for them to sit down. “I should have seen all this coming, Brother Balon. I guess I did see it, but just wouldn't admit it was happening. I suppose I have to say it's my fault.”

Sam wanted to tell the man it most certainly was not his fault, but he kept silent. He couldn't, as yet, tell him where he had just seen his kids—and most of Whitfield

“I knew Jack and Ruby and been cutting church services for weeks. They've been behaving—well, strangely, I guess, for some time. I almost told you at the church this afternoon. Anyway, after I came home, I puttered around the house for a while, then checked my weapons and the locks on the doors and windows. Faye and Jane Ann were in the back yard, working in the flower garden. I passed Jack's room and he and Ruby were . . . moaning. You know, sexually. I listened for a moment, then blew my top. Practically tore down the door. I caught them both naked—uh—fondling each other on the bed. They were—uh—pretty close to actually—doing it.” The man paused, tears in his eyes.

“My own kids, Sam! I was so ashamed. But there's more. I tried to punish Jack—took my belt to his bare ass. I marked him several times before he got up. He's a big boy, seventeen. He hit me. Knocked me down on the floor. Oh, Sam, I could have beaten him half to death. I was a champion boxer in the amateur ranks in this state and Regimental Champ in the Corps. I'm in good shape. But I was so shocked at what had happened, I just lay on the floor looking up at him. I wasn't hurt physically, but I was so disgusted and sick at my stomach. And, Ruby, Sam—oh, Lord. She jumped around, yelling for him to kick me, smash my face, kill me. KILL ME, Sam! My own daughter!” He shook his head. “You read about it happening in the papers, you hear about it on the news, but you never think it can happen to you.”