Devil's Kiss

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?"

"Yes."

The combat vet knew there was nothing else left to ask. The two men suddenly knew each other very well.

While Chester began pulling articles from the shelves, Sam walked through the store, selecting other items, stacking them on the counter, aware he was being watched from the sidewalk. Rope, boots, a hunting knife, a small axe, ammo pouches, canteens, tarps, web belts.

"Be sure to pick out enough clothing for all of us," Sam reminded his friend. He named those he felt he could trust. "You know their sizes?"

"I know," Chester replied quietly. "Sonny Moore is watching you."

"Let him crane his red neck. When I get tired of it, I'll chop it off."

The man is pure warrior, Chester thought. "What about Michelle? Is there no chance for her?"

"Let the devil have her!" Sam felt no remorse in saying it. "She's one of Them. I told you how she tried to mark me last night."

Chester shuddered. "How do we determine who we can trust?"

"I believe I've named them all. There might be one or two more, but don't count on it."

"Fourteen people, Sam? Fourteen!"

"Fifteen, Chester."

The store owner silently added them. "Who is the fifteenth, Sam?"

The minister looked at him over the growing mound of supplies. "God."

Sam was aware of being watched as he loaded his supplies in the back of his truck. On his last trip, Sam smiled at Chester. "Put this on my account, Ches. We'll settle up when—it's all over."

"It's on the house, Sam. Be careful. Sam? I pray you're wrong about this."

"Do you think I'm wrong?"

"No," Chester said softly. "No, I don't. I'll get my gear together."

Sam waved goodbye.

Michelle was up, sitting in the kitchen, a cup of coffee in front of her. She had bathed, washed her hair, perfumed herself. She smiled at him, but Sam knew the lip greeting was forced. If she was one of Them—and Sam had no doubts about it—living with a minister, a man of God, in a home filled with religious articles, that must be awful for a person who worships Satan.

For the first time since Korea, Sam knew the blood-boiling, mind-eating sensation of wanting to kill.

But not a human being, he thought. She is not a human being. Not any longer. None of Them. She is a non-person, more animal than human. Rabid in thought and act. She has no soul. She has given that to Satan.

But he that shall blaspheme against the Holy Ghost hath never forgiveness, but is in danger of eternal damnation.

But God was even more specific than His Son: Thou shalt have no other gods before me.

And that, Sam thought, is that!

He returned his wife's smile. Both of them living out an act. But for how long? Michelle's eyes were cool on him. Sam felt unclean—soiled under her gaze.

"I've been thinking, Sam. Perhaps we should try to work out our differences?"

Here it comes, Sam thought, bracing himself inwardly. Don't let her touch you, don't let her tempt you, don't let her kiss you. You've been a long time without a woman, Sam, and she is beautiful, and don't forget: she will have Satan working with her. Be careful.

Help me, Lord, he prayed.

"Yes, Michelle, I've been thinking about that, too." That, and other things.

"What—uh—do you think we should do?"

"Since I don't know the problem, I don't believe I can answer your question."

Her eyes narrowed in hate. She rose from the table. "Are vou hungry?"

"Not really."

"Is something the matter, Sam?"

He smiled at her, but it was more a grimace. He watched her eyes drift to the cross hanging about his neck, outside his shirt. Black rage filled her dark eyes, the power of the hate almost filling the kitchen.

"Is that a new cross, Sam? I don't believe I've seen it before. It's—much more ornate than your old one."

"Father Dubois gave it to me."

The muscles in her jaw bunched quickly, then relaxed. That was the only sign of alarm or tension.

You're quite an actress, Michelle, he thought.

She lifted her dark, brooding eyes to his. Her eyes were evil. "When did you see him?"

"This morning."

The words of Black Wilder came to her. He had told her she had to try to convert her husband— mark him as one of Them. Failing that, Sam would have to die, but it would be difficult to kill him.

She had questioned the devil's agent about that. With great patience, reminding her she was a longtime worshipper of the Master, and she should know these things, he explained that Sam had been chosen—by Him, and He would take great umbrage at one of His people being killed—at least this early in the game. There are rules, you must remember.

You must try to mark him, he told her.

But Michelle knew, speaking with Sam this afternoon, that he would never fall prey to her. He was too strong, too much a believer in his God.

And, though she did not like to admit it, she was afraid of Sam.

"That's interesting, Sam. What did you two discuss?"

"Church business, mostly." Not really a lie. "It was a most interesting chat, I assure you."

"How nice for you both. Well, if you're not hungry, I think perhaps I'll get ready to go."

Carry your butt, he thought bitterly. When, in the past six months, have you cared whether I was hungry or not. "Go?"

"Mrs. Carrison is in the hospital," she said, her eyes meeting his in the never-wavering gaze of the practiced liar. "In Rock Point. I'm riding over with Susan to visit her. Take her a plant for her room."

"How very considerate of you. Please give her my best." He hoped the sarcasm he felt had not slipped into his words. Then he decided he didn't care whether it had or not. "I didn't know she was ill." He decided to needle her a bit. "Do you want me to ride over with you, dear?" he smiled after his words.

Her eyes shot venom at him, but her Hps pulled back in a forced smile. "I don't believe so, Sam. But it's nice of you to ask. We're going to spend the night at Rock Point—with Susan's sister. I told you about it, you must have forgotten, Sam. I know you have a great deal on your mind," her smile broadened, "with church attendance falling so drastically." She could slip the needle just as well as her husband.

She should, she'd had hundreds of years of practice.

Touche, Sam's smile was grim. But you're a liar. You never told me a word about it. How quickly the lies come. "Well, perhaps I'd better stay here. I do have a lot of work to do on Sunday's message."

She picked up her overnight bag. Sam could smell its contents. "What is the topic for Sunday?"

"Devil worship," he lied, for he had no intention of speaking on that subject.

Michelle dropped her bag. "Darn! How clumsy of me." She bent to retrieve the bag and Sam felt an almost overwhelming urge to kick her in the behind. It was only with a great deal of effort, working hard at self-control that he did not plant his boot on her derriere.

When she turned to leave, Sam felt relief wash over him. He hoped she would not try to kiss him. She was disgusting to him. Loathsome. If she attempted to touch him, to kiss him, Sam knew he might kill her.

And the thought startled him.

He looked at the woman he had once loved so deeply.

She disgusted him!

Devil worship. Black masses. Coven.

Sam's thoughts suddenly wandered to Jane Ann. Until recently, he had always been able to cope with her feelings toward him. And, he reluctantly admitted, his feelings for her. But now . . .?

She wasn't the first to fall for a minister. That happens often, this transference of affection, as some call it. There are courses one must take in seminary—courses that supposedly teach a minister how to cope with such a situation. Lately, though, when in the company of Jane Ann, Sam had been unable to think of a single lecture.

He forced Jane Ann from his mind as he looked away from his wife. He did not see the look of black hatred she gave him, or the spittle that oozed from one corner of her mouth. He did not see the snarl that pulled back her lips, or her curving fingers suddenly raised, hooked talons, ready to strike.

When he glanced back at her, her hands went to her hair, patting it, the fingers no longer talons. She smiled at him. "You're very distant this afternoon, Sam."

He held her gaze until her eyes slid away from his. "Sorry. I guess I have too many things on my mind."

He wished she would leave—just get out! Go, before he did something . . . Kill entered his mind. Strike out at her. He fought back an impulse to smash her face. Slowly, he unclenched his big fists. He did not remember balling them.

She continued her smiling at him; invitation in her eyes. He could smell the scent of musk rising from her, filling his head. He fought back her enticement until her eyes changed, a peculiar glint shining from the dark pools. Sam recognized the look: Hate. It's been there for weeks, he thought. I just didn't see it, didn't know it.

She walked around him, getting a sweater from the hall closet. "I'd better be on my way."

"You're going to spend the night?"

"Oh, I'm sure."

"What's the number at Susan's sister's house?"

"I believe her phone is out of order, dear." Her voice was strained. "You want me to call from a service station when we get there?"

"No, that won't be necessary, Michelle. I'm sure everything will be just fine."

The look in her eyes changed from hate to confusion as her gaze bore deeply into his eyes. As if she were attempting to read his mind, and failing.

As they stood in the foyer, their eyes locking, some ugly misty force moved solidly between them. And Sam knew what it was: Evil. Another force touched them both: Good. Sam knew both Good and Evil very well, never considering himself to be especially pure—he had too much wildness in him as a youth and was still a very eai thy man. But he had always felt that God was with him, scolding him at times, but still there. He could never explain just how he knew.

As the unseen forces moved around them, Sam wondered if Michelle had ever really known God? Known His love, His compassion, His touch? If so, what had caused her to reject Him?

Or had she rejected Him? Something very uneasy touched Sam's mind as he stared at this woman who was now a stranger to him. As, Sam suddenly realized, she had always been.

As quickly as they had come, the forces vanished. Michelle's eyes glowed with power. They changed to fear as her gaze moved to briefly touch the Holy Cross hung about Sam's neck. The medallion between the jutting mounds of her breasts seemed to glow with life—with hate. The man and woman did not touch. Michelle's eyes calmed, and she turned, opening the door, stepping out on the porch. Just once more, their eyes locked.

"Have a good trip," Sam said. Personally, he thought, I hope I never see you again.

Her smile seemed inordinately evil. Her eyes once more flashing at him. She turned her back to him, closing the door without speaking.

Sam listened to her drive off. Hate, he thought. Her god says hate Christians.

Sam leaned against the foyer wall, thinking. Just about six months ago; that's when it really started building. Just about the time the digging began. Everything has always pointed to the Dig, and I didn't have enough sense to see it. But our marriage has never been right. There has always been ... something wrong. I wonder, he mused, if she has always been—one of Them?

He shuddered at the thought.

"Five years of marriage going right down the tube," he said aloud.

Everything fell into place in Sam's mind. Michelle had appeared at the army hospital one day. Just bang, and there she was. They had become good friends quickly. No parents, she told him. She was alone, just like Sam, and thrilled when he told her he was a minister and would be going into the active ministry.

They were married less than three months after meeting.

She knew! he thought. Somehow, she knew I was going to be picked to lead this fight. And she was chosen by her Master to stop me; to keep me occupied while They did their work around me.

It has to be.

But it's odd, he thought, I don't feel terribly depressed about a marriage going bad. About Michelle. Maybe I never really loved her? Maybe I've always known, somehow, something of far greater importance would rise; have to be dealt with.

But, he silently questioned, if I am indeed chosen, as Father Dubois seems to believe—why me?

And he felt uneasy, unworthy with the knowledge that he had been chosen.

Why did you pick me, Lord. Why me?

In the bathroom, washing his face and hands, he glanced in the mirror. His eyes had become hard; how unfeeling they seemed. He thought: if what you suspect is true—and you know it is—you're going to have to be hard. You're going to have to be ruthless in dealing with—It.

He dried his hands and face, still gazing at his reflection. There is more. Sam—say it! You're going to have to gather around you all your trusted friends—Christians—and—and destroy what is possessing this town and this part of Fork County.

What's the matter, Sam? Can't you say the word? You were a minister in Korea, and it didn't bother you to kill, did it? How many people did you kill over there? Kill, Sam. There, that's the word. Kill. Destroy.

That wasn't so difficult, was it?

But, as Chester asked, who do I trust?

Try the Lord God.

Lord, my God, he prayed, his big hands on the washbasin, fingers gripping the porcelain—stand by my side. Give me the courage to do whatever must be done. Don't forsake me, Lord—You above all know I am but a mortal man, and / am not without sin. Lord, my faith is strong, but I need Your help. Guide me, Lord. Make me as strong as needs be to seek out and destroy Your enemies.

Lord, where is the Brown girl? Was that her on that dark altar? If so, why did You show that picture to me? Why don't You intervene, Lord? I am but a mortal—You have no limitations. And the teenagers, Lord—Larry and Joan—where are they? Have they—?

The ringing of the phone broke into his silent prayer. A frightened Wade Thomas on the line.

"Sam? I'm being watched. I think they're about to do something."

"Where are you, Wade?"

"At the office." His voice was shaky.

"Miles?"

"Here. With me."

"Stay put. I'll be right down."

Sam drove the few blocks to the downtown square, parking in front of Peterson's Drug Store, next to the Crusader office. A group of men stood in front of Wade's newspaper office. They were in an ugly mood. Sam tucked the .45 behind his belt, pulled his shirttail over the butt of the weapon, and got out of the truck, standing for a moment looking over the situation.

For the first time in years, Sam felt the old recklessness of his youth build in him. And the feeling was good to him. His smile was tight as he walked slowly across the sidewalk, heading straight for the knot of men blocking the door.

The minister had had far more than his share of fights as a teenager and a young man—in and out of the ring. He'd been a bouncer in strip joints and clip joints; he'd worked in the oil fields as a roughneck, and he'd had many, many bloody, no-quarter barroom and back alley fights. But for all of that, Sam had never been labeled a troublemaker; never goading anyone into a fight. He just would not back down—and he could not remember ever losing a fight.

You're a preacher, Sam, he reminded himself during his short walk from the truck to the knot of men. No longer a barroom brawler. Just remember, this is Addison's town, now, and he is one of Them.

He stopped, facing the men.

"Well, here's goody-goody," one of the men said. "I figured you'd be to home, Balon, writin' some Sunday bullshit!"

Sam looked at the speaker. David Vanderwerf. For a moment, it seemed David was going to block Sam's way, but something in the preacher's eyes drove the young man back, causing him to step aside.

"You consider God's word bullshit?" Sam asked.

The young man laughed nastily. "Just jokin', preacher."

"I didn't laugh," Sam said. He bulled his way through the men, physically shoving them aside. Startled, they made no effort to stop the minister.

Just as he placed his hand on the door, Sam heard one say, "You're gonna git yours, preacher."

Sam turned. "Which one of you wants to be the first to give it to me?" His eyes touched each man in the group. They cut their eyes from him, refusing to meet his steady gaze. A wildness swelled in Sam. He laughed at them. "All mouth and no guts," he heard himself say.

"You talk mighty big, preacher," a man said, his face flushed red from the knowledge there were five of them and only one of Sam, yet he had arrogantly, physically pushed them aside.

"Yes, I do," Sam said, a nasty grin on his lips. "And I'm big enough to back it up." He stepped toward the man, stopping a close foot from him, crowding him. "Tell you what, Moore." Sam knew the man, a local shade-tree mechanic; knew him for what he really was: a loud-mouthed bully who beat his wife, intimidated anyone he could, sneered at whatever he could not mentally comprehend—he sneered a lot—and in general was a detriment to any decent society. "Why don't we both forget I'm a minister. We'll step around back of this building. If you're as good with your fists as you say you are—which I doubt—you shouldn't have any trouble with me. What do you say about that?"

Moore looked at Sam; looked very carefully at the bulk of him, then swallowed. "I ain't never whupped no preacher before," he managed to say.

"Don't worry about it, Moore—you're not going to 'whup' this one, either. It won't take me twenty seconds to kick your ass!"

"BREAK IT UP!" Addison's sharp words stopped the argument before it could erupt into a real donnybrook. Sam was mildly disappointed. "You men go on about your business," he spoke to the five of them. They moved on, casting surly glances at Sam. Moore looked relieved.

Addison stood between Sam and the Crusader door. His face was not friendly. "You're pushing your luck, Sam."

Sam smiled. "Well, tell the boys I've got The Luck with me now."

"What?"

"You should read Bret Harte, Walter. Find out about that' unknown sea. Oh, something else, Walter."

"What's that, preacher?"

"You ought to take a bath. You stink!"

Sam pushed past him and walked into the newspaper office. He felt fine.

"Sam! Have you lost your mind?" Wade confronted him in the hall. "There were five of them!"

Sam calmly fished a Pall Mall out of Wade's pocket and lit it. He said, "I would have killed Moore and one other before the rest even knew what was happening. By that time, one of them would have been blinded, out of action. That would have left me only two to deal with. They would have been easy." The months of brutal training had returned swiftly to Sam. The dehumanizing, turning man into animallike killer, lethal with hands and feet. And the months of combat in Korea, behind the lines, killing silently.

Wade's face expressed his shock. "Are you serious? Kill? Blind? This is my minister speaking?"

"There is a time for everything, Wade. You should study Ecclesiastes, chapter three, verses one through eight."

A smile spread Miles's lips.

"I'll be in church tomorrow, Sam. Preach to me then."

"I'll do my best." Sam led them into Wade's office, then told him what he had done at Chester's, advising them to do the same. He looked first at Wade. "Your pickup in good working order?"

"Just had it serviced."

Sam glanced at Miles. "Sure, Sam. But I haven't fired a gun in years. I'm a fisherman, not a hunter."

"When you go to Chester's, tell him that. He'll fix you up with a shotgun. Get several cases of shells, both shot and slugs. Nothing like a slug-loaded shotgun to stop a man; doesn't leave any doubt."

"Okay, Sam, whatever you say. But listen to me for a minute. Doris is sitting right on the ragged edge. I haven't told her very much, but I think it's time we did. We lost people in Europe, Sam, on both sides of the family—in the . .. camps. Close relatives. Doris is just now getting over that, and that's fourteen-fifteen years ago. I don't know how she's going to take this news."

"You want me to talk to her?"

"Yes, please. If you will."

"Tell you what, you go pick up Faye and Jane Ann. Take them over to your house, let them prepare Doris for what I have to say. Wade, you get Anita. I'll meet you at Miles's in an hour. We'll talk, then."

Sam rose, stretching, the front of his shirt sliding up, exposing the butt of the .45. Miles and Wade looked at the gun, at each other, then at Sam.

"Have you ever used that thing, Sam?" Wade asked.

"Yes. Many times. I carried it in Korea. You men go on, now, I've got to see Father Dubois. Something about Lucas worries me."

Sam drove by Lucas's home. No one there. He was being followed, but the tail did not worry him. Let them watch all they wanted to. He tried the church study. Locked. He drove to the rectory.

"Where is Lucas, Michael?"

The old priest invited Sam in, shaking his head. "Against my advice, Sam, he's gone to do battle."

A chill touched Sam. "Not—out there?" he jerked his head in the direction of Tyson's Lake.

Dubois nodded. "He said he had nothing to lose. He's almost a dead man, Sam."

"What chance does he have? Out there, I mean?"

"None," the priest said flatly. "That's why They let him go." He looked hard at Sam, sensing something in the man. "Don't be a fool, Sam! I don't think They would try to stop you, but don't go after him. You're needed here."

"I'll be careful, Michael. But I want to see them. I must satisfy my curiosity. You understand, don't you?"

"Yes," Dubois said softly. "Yes, I'm afraid I do."

"You've seen the Beasts?"

"You'll smell them a long time before you see them." There was an edge to his voice.

"Can they be killed?"

"Oh, yes. Nothing so dramatic as a stake through the heart. They're part animal—part human; overall, most disgusting. They are, I believe—although my philosophy goes directly against church doctrine—a mistake."

The ringing of the phone prevented Sam from asking what Dubois meant by "a mistake."

"I must go," the priest said, hanging up the phone. "There's been a death."

"Who?"

"Mrs. Norman. Neighbors found her in her backyard a few minutes ago. Heart attack, they believe."

"I didn't know she had heart trouble."

"She didn't. It's begun, Sam. He's beginning to make his move. Only just begun."

"Father Dubois? Are you expecting a crowd at mass tomorrow?"

"Only the old, son. You'll see at your services. We've lost the others."

He was gone before Sam could ask anything else.

Only just begun.

"Tell me it's not true!" Doris Lansky confronted Sam before he could get in the front door. "You're all playing a joke on me."

Sam led her to a chair. "Sit down, Doris. No, it's not a joke." He took her hands in his. "Brace yourself, you're not going to like what I have to say.

A few moments later, Mrs. Lansky began to weep.

"Balon's on to us," Walter Addison told Wilder over the phone. "He's been a busy man today."

"Regrettable," Wilder said. "But not an insurmountable problem. We'll just have to be more careful; it's too soon for us to make any major move. We need a few more days. The roads have to be legitimately closed."

"Suppose Balon and the others try to leave?"

"They won't. Balon is going to fight me." He laughed. "I know the type of man he is. I should, I've met him many times, and I'll beat him."

"Let me kill him!"

"No. Fool! You don't understand. This is not between you and Balon. This is between God and our Master." Again, he laughed. "It's an old war, Walter, one I have fought many, many times. You simply do not understand the rules."

"Rules?"

"God is using Balon as His warrior here on earth. He always picks one like Balon. I should know," his voice was bitter. "No, Walter, you couldn't kill Balon even if you tried. Neither can I—not yet." The nasty laugh rang through the phone. "But I'll test his courage tonight. I'll see if Balon is to be a worthy foe."

"What do you mean?"

"He's coming to see me tonight."

"How do you know that?"

The laughter. "I know everything, Addison. I know what is in the hearts of all men and women. I know their weaknesses and their strong points. Don't, under any circumstances, try to stop Balon tonight. He'll kill you, or anyone who tries to stop him. I'll play his game this evening, then put him to the test at a later date."

"I don't understand."

"You're not supposed to." The line went silent.

Addison slowly replaced the receiver, then stood by his desk for a few moments, mulling over what Wilder had said. There had been no fear in Wilder's voice as he spoke of Balon, but there had been respect. Addison decided he would leave Balon alone.

The office was filthy, stinking of urine and defecation. The musky odor of sex hung heavy in the room.

In the rear of the building, in the cell area, a prisoner—a transient—lay dead and rotting on a cell floor. The prisoner had been tortured, beaten, starved, and sexually assaulted. The man had been dead for days. Rats, their eyes beady and evil, roamed close to the bite-pocked body.

The sheriff's secretary entered the office. She glanced at Addison, hiked up her skirt, and bent over a desk. Walter sodomized her as a deputy looked on, his eyes dead. When Addison finished, the deputy took his turn.

In another part of town, a mother caressed her teenage son while the father made violent incestuous love with his teenage daughter.

A middle-aged man beat his bed-ridden mother to death with a club while his wife looked on, urging him to strike the woman harder, laughing as the blood splattered the walls of the bedroom.

Brothers and sisters fornicated to the amusement of their parents, and then changed partners.

A teenage boy pushed his younger brother off the roof of the garage where they had been playing, smiling as the boy screamed on his way down. A short scream. The screaming ceased abruptly as the boy hit the concrete parking area. The teenager climbed down, dragged the broken body into a tool shed, and stuffed the battered carcass into a burlap bag.

"Willie!" his mother squalled from the house. "Come on in, now, you've chores to do. What was that noise a minute ago?"

The boy picked up a claw hammer from his father's workbench and walked to the house. His smile was evil, eyes shining banefully. His smile turned to laughter when he saw his mother bending over the sink. She looked around just in time to see, very briefly, the hammer swinging. Her skull popped like an overripe melon and she slid in a sprawl to the kitchen floor, legs jerking as she died.

Willie walked into the living room, where his father sat listening to a ball game on the radio. The teenager buried the hammer head in his father's skull.

"It's a home run!" the announcer shouted.

"Screw you!" Willie said, turning off the radio. "I hate baseball."

Willie walked back into the kitchen, stepping nonchalantly over his mother's cooling body. He fixed a sandwich and sat down at the table, chewing slowly. The kitchen smelled of fried liver. His mother should not have fixed liver. Willie had told her time after time he did not like liver.

His mother's dead eyes stared at her son as he ate his sandwich. The eyes seemed fixed on the medallion hanging about his neck.

Willie wondered if the earth Master, Dr. Wilder, would be angry with him for doing this. He decided he would not.

He stood up, gazing out the window at the little girl playing in the meadow behind the house. He felt an erection build, his breathing quickening. He slipped quietly out of the house, walking toward the young girl in the meadow, playing gently among the summer flowers.

After a time, the prairie winds blew her dress across the meadow, a splash of color amid the flowers.

Otto's wild laughter rang through the house as he swung the leather belt. His wife's screaming as the belt struck bare flesh drove him on. The medallion caught the late afternoon sun streaming through the window, casting golden flashes around the bedroom.

Stockman dropped to his knees beside the woman. "Now you'll accept him?" he questioned.

"No!" the woman sobbed. "NO!"

"Oh, yes," Otto smiled, caressing her bruised flesh. "Yes, you will." He brutally mounted her, enjoying her screaming.

At dusk, Herman Alario, horse trainer at Little River ranch, watched the foreman through curious and suspicious eyes. Where was Slim? he mused. Why hadn't the sheriff been notified of his disappearance? Something was sure as hell funny around this place, and Herman knew damn well Slim didn't just take off. Something bad had happened to him.

The actions of the men puzzled Herman as well. And the boss, Ray Zagone—he was acting strange. Herman retreated further into the darkness of the north side of the barn, squatting down, thinking, his back to the barn.

For all his supposed drinking and fighting— and that was exaggerated—Herman was, at heart, a believer in God, although he seldom went to church more than twice a year. He had been raised in the church by strict parents, in Arizona, and Herman didn't like all the talk he'd been hearing in the bunkhouse. Talk he was not supposed to hear. Talk of black masses and devil worship and orgies of the most disgusting kind. Men with men, women with women, and something about kissing the red ass of the devil.

Sickening!

"Where's Alario?" he heard the foreman, Lou Parker ask.

"Don't know," a cowboy said. "He was around here a half hour ago."

"Is he still wearing that damned cross around his neck?"

"Yeah."

"Then we can't waste any more time on him. If he doesn't come around to us tonight, we'll have to dispose of him. He should have come around by now."

DISPOSE OF HIM! Herman almost panicked. Him is me! Jesus God—they're talking about me!

He remained rock-still by the side of the barn, only his eyes moving in the darkness, shifting from side to side, searching the night for any person who might be coming to harm him. And he knew, now, that every man and woman on this ranch was against him. What he couldn't figure out was: Why?

The high, shrill laughter of a woman reached him in the night. Pat Zagone. "More, more!" she screamed. "Right there!" she grunted.

A guttural moaning drifted to Herman. The gruntings of men and women together.

Dear God, the cowboy thought. What is happening around here?

He remembered what Slim had told him. That something was out of kilter on the L-R, and they both had talked of pulling out. Slim had said, "There's a . . . force . . . or something that ain't right around here. You been seein' all them medallions on folks? And everybody cuts out on Friday nights. All the whisperin,' too. I don't like it, Herman. It's—I don't know—evil, I think. I don't know."

And then Slim disappeared.

Herman watched two cowboys, Pip and Mack, meet on the lighted front porch of the ranch house, talk for a moment, then split up.

Here they come, Herman thought. He waited. There was no place to run.

Five minutes passed in silence. Hermen longed for a chew of tobacco, but was afraid to move, afraid to reach for the pouch in his back pocket. He heard movement to his right. "Pip?"

"Yeah?"

"He's gotta be around here—close to the barn. Maybe in it."

"Right. Don't let him git to his truck."

"Won't do him no good. I jerked all the wires."

Damn!

"You be careful. He's cat-quick in a fight."

Herman heard the sound of a round being chambered into a rifle. A lever action. Probably a .30-30, he thought. His own rifle was on a rack in his pickup; his pistol in a trunk in the bunkhouse. But he had a sheath knife on his belt.

Don't pull it yet, he cautioned. Light could reflect off the blade and give me away.

Why are they hunting me? his mind worked feverishly. Why do I sense something evil all around me?

Pat's high shrilling reached Herman. Pat's daughter, Jean, joined in the laughter. Obscenity spewed from her young mouth, the oaths floating through the soft air of early night on the prairie. She called out the foreman's name, over and over.

Herman slowly shook his head in disgust. Ray and Pat were watching the foreman screw their daughter. Sick, sick!

Herman crossed himself without thinking.

"Something moved on the north side!" Pip called.

Herman reached for his knife. Too late. The men were on him, pinning him to the ground. A boot caught him on the side of the head, stunning him. He drifted into unconsciousness.

When he came out of his daze, Herman was on the now darkened porch of the ranch house, his hands tied behind his back. He was naked from the waist down.

Pat crouched between his legs. She was naked, her woman's breasts swinging free, the nipples enlarged. She smiled at him, the smile seeming cruel and evil—yet enticing to the cowboy. A medallion hung between her breasts, the gold gleaming at him. The woman touched his bare belly, the hand slipping down to grasp his manhood.

"Nice," she muttered, stroking him. "Very nice." She bent her head to kiss his cheek, her tongue licking him like a cat. "Don't be afraid, Herman," her words were soothing. "There is nothing to be afraid of. Nothing at all. Just let us pleasure you. We've waited so long."

Herman nodded, thinking, I'll play their game until I get a chance to run, then I'll cut out.

With that, he doomed himself forever.

Pat's daughter, Jean, joined the group on the porch. The fifteen-year-old was naked. Herman, despite his earlier feelings of disgust, felt himself thicken at the sight of the teenager. Pat's hand increased her stroking of his maleness.

The mother licked Herman's ear, whispering, "Look at her, Herman. Isn't she lovely, beautiful?" The mother reached out and up to fondle her daughter's pudendum. The girl moaned, kneeling beside her mother and the prostrate cowboy. The girl kissed him on the mouth, wetting his lips with her tongue.

"Isn't that nice, Herman?" Pat asked him, her breath hot on his face. "Aren't her lips soft?"

The woman and the girl touched the cowboy, stroking him, caressing him. Herman groaned, his penis hot and hard in the woman's soft hand.

"I'm going to have Pip untie you, Herman," Pat said, as Jean swung one leg over his waist, her slim hand guiding him into her wet softness. Herman's hands, free, drifted about the girl's waist, gripping young bare flesh as she settled into a moaning, sweaty rhythm, moving on his hardness, working him deeper.

As Pat's lips touched his mouth, Herman felt something leave him. The mother's mouth on his, the daughter's silkiness trapping him, Herman listened as the departing thing left his body and mind, winging away. As lips worked on his, a darkness overtook him, and the evil that is in all humankind rose to the surface, driving out the goodness that is in all humankind, but not buried so deeply as the evil.

Herman screamed in the darkness as an almost unbearable wave of pleasure/pain gripped him. Soon, the pain was gone, leaving only pleasure.

"One more," he heard the woman say. "We have one more for you, Master."

And Herman began laughing, his voice sounding savage pushing past his lips.

The girl jammed him full inside her, yelling her pleasure to the ever-moving winds of Fork County, the cry blending with the night.