The Devil's Heart

FOUR

Sam did not realize just how isolated they were until he and Nydia got into the deep timber on the edge of the big park just north of the Williams' home. The dark timber closed around them about 500 meters from the edge of the estate.

"Beautiful," Sam said. "So beautiful and peaceful."

Nydia started to reply when three shots cut through the crisp air. Sam instinctively grabbed for the pistol in his coat, checking his movement just before touching the inner pocket. Nydia caught the quick movement and smiled.

"It's a signal to return to Falcon House," she said. "Come on. It might be important."

"Sir," Perkins said, "there was a radio message for you just moments after you left. In the communications room. Mr. Falcon is waiting."

"The message is rather terse, Sam." Falcon handed him a slip of paper. "I do hope this will not alter your plans to visit with us."

Sam did not reply until he had read the message: MONTREAL FLIGHT 127 1922-58 J.A. He looked into Falcon's dark, unreadable eyes. "This is it?"

"That was the entire message, Sam. I asked for a repeat, and that was it."

"Well, I guess I have to get to Montreal somehow."

"We'll take the Rover," Nydia said. "Go together."

"Now, dear …" Roma opened her mouth to protest.

Daughter met mother, head to head, with an unwavering look. "I know the roads, Mother. Sam doesn't. So I'm going with him." There was a firmness to her voice that said she would brook no more objections.

Roma smiled. "Of course, dear. I was only going to suggest you change into something more suitable for the trip."

"Certainly you were, Mother." Nydia's smile and tone were just short of condescending. "But we'll go as we are. Come on, Sam." She pulled at his arm. "We'll be there in a few hours."

Driving away from the estate, Nydia asked, "Sam, what does 1922-58 mean? The time?"

"I don't think so. Could be, but I doubt it. 1922 was the year my dad was born. '58 was when he died."

"J.A.?"

"My mother's initials."

Nydia shuddered beside him.

"Cold?" Sam asked.

"No. Suddenly frightened. For some reason. I just got the worst feeling of ... I don't know: foreboding, I guess I'd call it."

"Nydia?"

She glanced at him.

"I have the same feeling."

Flight 127 came in and emptied its load of passengers. Sam knew no one on the flight. Sam and Nydia sat in the now deserted arrival area, looking at each other, questions unspoken in their eyes.

"Son?" the disembodied-sounding voice came from behind the young couple. Sam was conscious of a burning sensation in the center of his chest.

They turned, looking around. No one was in sight. Nydia dug nervous fingers into Sam's forearm. "Son? Was that what that voice said?"

"Easy now," Sam attempted to calm her. His own nerves were rattled.

"Sam?" she said. "Look on the table in front of us."

Sam slowly, almost reluctantly pulled his gaze to the front. A manila envelope lay on the low table. "That … wasn't there a second ago."

"I know."

Again, they looked around them: the arrival area and the corridor were deserted. They both stared at the envelope.

Sam touched the packet. It was cold to the touch. He picked it up and carefully opened it. A picture and several sheets of paper. The picture was of his father. Sam looked at the 8 x 10 for a long moment, then handed it to Nydia. "My dad," his words were charged with emotion, spoken in a husky tone.

"I can see where you got your good looks," she said. "He was a rugged, handsome man. Sam? Who put the envelope on the table, and who was that who spoke to you? And where did he go? Sam, there was no one within shouting distance."

There was a slight grimace of pain on Sam's face.

"Sam?"

"I don't know the answer to any of those questions, Nydia. But I'll tell you this: when that voice spoke, my chest started burning. It's just now going away, but man, did it hurt for a few seconds."

"Your chest?"

"The skin on my chest. Right in the center." He looked around them: no one in sight. Sam unbuttoned his shirt, hearing Nydia's gasp as his T-shirt came into view. "Relax, I'm not going to strip." He tried a grin. "At least not here."

"That's not it, Sam," she said, her voice tiny. "Look at your T-shirt; the center of your chest."

He looked down: the fabric was burned brown. In the shape of a cross. The cross Sam wore. His father's cross.

Nydia reached out, pulling up his T-shirt. The cross had burned his skin, leaving a scar in the shape of a cross. Sam touched the red scar; it was no longer painful, even though he could see it was burned deeply.

Sam unfolded the pages and almost became physically ill. The handwriting was unmistakably his father's scrawl. Sam had seen it many times on old sermons.

"Sam? You're as white as a ghost!"

"I … think that's what just spoke to me. My father wrote this."

The young man wiped his suddenly blurry eyes and once more looked at the writing, reading slowly, Nydia silently reading with him.

Son—Writing is difficult for me, in my condition. Want to keep this as brief as possible, but yet, there are so many things I must say to you and the girl.

"How … ?" Nydia said, then shook her head, not believing any of this.

I have watched you, son—whenever possible—grow through the years. Tried to guide you—help you—as best I could. Nydia, too. The girl beside you, not the Nydia I … knew. Like that time you got drunk in your mother's car and passed out at the wheel. That was a close one, boy.

"I'm the only person in this world who knew about that," Sam said.

Nydia said, "In this world, yes." She looked at the young man, wondering why she said that.

Give the cross you wear around your neck to the girl. Do it, son, without delay. Time is of the essence.

Sam removed the cross from his neck and handed it to Nydia. "Put it on," he said. He could see she was, for some reason, softly crying.

No one will be able to remove that cross from her. No one. I cannot guarantee she will not be hurt, but … well, you must have faith.

Now then, a cruel blow for each of you, for I know your thoughts: Nydia is your half sister.

"Oh, my God!" Sam said.

When I knew her mother, Roma was not her name. Her name was Nydia. She is of and for the Devil. She is a witch. After the hooved one attempted to take over the town of Whitfield—and failed, then—during which Wade, Anita, Chester, Tony, Jane Ann, Miles, Doris, and myself killed hundreds of Coven members, I made a bargain with our God to save your mother and what few Christians remained. I won, in a sense. But so did the woman you know as Roma. I killed, or at least sent back to Hell, Black Wilder, the Devil's representative. Your half brother, son, Black, is named for Wilder. And like that spawn of Hell, he is a warlock.

When you leave this terminal, the both of you must go to a Catholic church; get as much holy water as you can. You will need it.

I must rest for a moment. Writing is not something one does where I reside.

Sam glanced at Nydia. Half sister? She met his eyes, read his thoughts. "I don't care." Sam shook his head in confusion and returned to the letter.

It would be wrong, son, to say the Devil is back, for that one never leaves the earth; so I'll simply say he has returned to Whitfield. There will soon be a great tragedy in Whitfield, and I must be there to help your mother, for her ordeal involves both of us … and the girl. There will be no survivors from Whitfield. None.

"Mother … ?" Sam whispered. And as if Balon had anticipated the question, the letter continued:

She has made her choice. Tony has gone over to the other side. He has done so willingly; indeed, a long time ago. I could not stop him, for his faith is weak, as is his flesh. And that is something you will have to deal with as well.

You have a mission, Sam, and 1 do not envy you your task, for it may destroy you … not necessarily physically, and I can say no more about that. But you are as surely set to this mission as I was, years ago. You will be tempted, and you will fall to some of those temptations, for you are a mortal, blessed, in a manner of speaking, but still a mortal.

A Coven is being established at Falcon House. It is a house of evil, and you must return there. Your job is there. You will not be able to contact anyone in Whitfield. Whitfield is dead; past saving. But your mother will speak to you—in some way—before she slips through the painful darkness to the other side and to peace and blue and light.

We will meet someday, son. I am certain of that and can tell you no more about my surety.

The feelings you and the girl share is something that you both must cope with. I cannot help you, and will not lecture you. But I will say this: the union that produced Nydia was not a holy union. If anything, it was blessed by the Dark One.

"Riddles," Sam said. "The letter is filled with riddles, and I don't know what they mean."

I love you deeply, Sam, and wish I could be of more help to you in your task. But I have said too much already.

Now … I must go. Place the picture of me in the envelope, for that is all of me I can give you that will remain tangible. Put the letter on the table and do not touch it again.

Love, Father

Sam placed the picture in the envelope, the letter on the table. Together, still in mild shock, not knowing what to believe, the young man and young woman watched the pages dissolve into nothing. Then they were alone.

Nydia put her head on Sam's shoulder and wept.

"I have done all I can do to help Sam," said the silent voice as it pushed out of the mist and into the sleeping brain of Jane Ann.

She sat up on the couch, rubbing her eyes. "When did you see Sam?"

"About a minute ago, in Montreal."

"Neat trick, since you're in front of me at this moment. I won't pursue how you managed that."

"That would be best. You will understand soon enough."

"A time warp?"

"There is no time in my world. A year is the blink of an eye. Drop it, Janey."

"All right." She stared hard at the misty face of the only man she had ever loved. "Tell me this: how did our son look?"

"Considering the circumstances, well … and confused, upset." The misty face smiled, then projected, "bewitched, bothered, and bewildered."

"Oh, Sam!"

"Now you see why He is constantly calling me on the carpet … so to speak. Our son is falling deeply in love."

Jane Ann smiled. "How wonderful."

"With his half sister."

"You were a rounder before you came to Whitfield, weren't you?"

"Yes, but … well, I'll explain at a later date."

"I'm not sure I want to hear about it."

"As you wish. But don't jump to conclusions."

She glanced at the clock on the fireplace mantel. "Tony might be back for lunch any moment."

"Tony will never again set foot in this house, Jane Ann. Not for any decent purposes, that is."

"I don't understand."

"You will."

"Miles?" Doris called down the basement steps. "What are you doing?"

"I keep telling you and telling you: I am building a golem. So stay out of here. No telling what this thing might get in its head to do."

"How can a thing with clay for brains get something into its head?"

"I don't care to argue with you." A moment of heavy silence. Miles looked up. She was still standing in the doorway.

"I believe you, Miles," she said quietly.

"Oh?" his voice drifted up, full of disbelief. "So what changed your mind?"

"You remember me saying you were as crazy as a vontz—after you told me about speaking with Sam Balon?"

"How could I forget being called a bedbug? So?"

"He's … it's in the kitchen, now!"

"So ask him to take a seat. I'll be right up."

"Wade? I cannot believe you are seriously considering taking part in this insanity!"

"Honey, you didn't see Sam last night, either."

"Well, honey," she mimicked him, "neither did you. I warned you about that second piece of pie."

"Babe," he was very patient with her, "we've been through a lot together. I've tried to bring you along easy this time. But time is up. Look around you, honey—look at the houses we're passing, the people sitting on the porches. Any of them waving at us? Any of them calling for us to stop, have a cup of coffee, like they used to do?"

She looked straight ahead, refusing to speak.

"He's here, Anita. He's back. The Dark One. Sam says this time Whitfield is through. He …"

"If your friend, the spirit man, is so all-fired blessed, why doesn't he just wave his hand and make all this …" Tears sprang into her eyes. "… hatefulness go away?"

"Did you pack like I asked you?"

She sighed. "Yes, Wade. I'll humor you until we can get you to a mental hospital."

"Anita, old gal," he spoke softly. "My wife of so many very good years, listen to me. We're not going to make it out of this. We're going to die, and Sam says the only thing he can do is make it as easy for us as possible."

"How considerate of him."

Wade turned into the drive, parking by the corner street lamp. "We're here, honey."

"Oh, goody!" she clapped her hands. "Do I get to see the monster man and Sam Balon? A double treat? Oooh, I can hardly wait. This is better than the county fair."

Wade held her hand as they walked up the sidewalk and up the steps to the porch. Doris opened the door.

"Thank God!" Anita cried. "A face I know is normal and a mouth that is not raving about things that go bump in the night."

"I'll get the luggage out of the car," Wade said.

Anita stepped into the house and stopped dead still in the living room. A huge gray object, in the shape of a man, a giant man, stood against the wall across the room. It was at least eight and a half feet tall. It was faceless.

She turned to ask Doris what that thing was, was this some kind of a joke and what's the occasion for a party? She dropped her purse on the carpet as her eyes found the mist hovering just above the carpet by a chair.

"I believe you know Reverend Sam Balon," Doris said.

Anita fainted.

They had gone to a hardware store and bought several containers, then went to half a dozen Catholic churches seeking holy water. The priests, once they saw the young couple was sincere, asked no questions but merely gave them as much holy water as they wished.

"I just don't know … if my mind can … accept all that's been thrown at me this day," Nydia said. "But a lot of things are beginning to fall into place."

"Explain that?" Sam asked. They were halfway back to the Williams' mansion, eating a mid-afternoon lunch by the side of the road. The lunch they were supposed to have eaten while exploring the woods.

"Well … this is only a small part of it, Sam, but have you ever been in a home that didn't have some religious paraphernalia … somewhere? A painting, a cross, a Bible … something? I haven't. Our house is bare of anything religious. But … that could be explained away by the fact that Roma and Falcon don't go to church. But I know what an upside down cross means, and both Roma and Falcon have those in their rooms. Roma, Falcon, and Black always go somewhere on Friday nights—they stay all night—always returning just before dawn. And they all wear the same kind of medallion."

"I'm surprised they haven't tried to make you wear one."

"Oh, they have, dozens of times, beginning when I was just a small child. But it always irritated my neck; caused great ugly rashes; made me sick, very sick. The last time, just a couple of years ago, Roma threw the medallion away. It was gold, Sam! Worth hundreds of dollars, and she just tossed it into the garbage. She flew into a screaming rage and kept saying: 'Damn that son of a bitch! Black Wilder, you knew this was going to happen. And damn that bastard preacher.' I didn't know what she was talking about, Sam. Raving was more like it. And I didn't ask."

"Dad wrote about Black Wilder. The Devil's representative. The preacher must have been Dad."

She covered his hand with hers. "Sam? For years they've kept it from me—or tried to—but they practice evil. I can't prove it, for they're very careful. But I know they do. That house is evil. The people who work for them are evil. And Jimmy Perkins … the way he looks at me. Something about him frightens me."

"I wish I could recall where I've heard that name."

They looked up as a huge Sikorsky helicopter flapped and roared overhead. The helicopter, capable of carrying sixteen passengers, was soon out of sight.

"Heading for the house," Nydia said glumly. "Poor Lana and the others. They don't have any idea what they're getting into."

"Lana?"

"Lana McBay. Small, blond, and very pretty. Doesn't date much. Word is . . . around the school … she's a virgin." Nydia paused for a moment, a reflective look on her face. "Come to think of it, the word is that several of those girls Black mentioned are supposed to be virgins. Linda, for sure, so the talk goes. But … I don't much like her."

"Why?"

Her reply was a noncommittal shrug.

"Does Falcon like his women young?"

"Oh, yes," she quickly replied. "For a fact. I've seen him looking at me in a way that makes me very uncomfortable. Just like Jimmy."

"Have either of them ever tried anything with you?"

"Oh, no. Never."

"Tell me about Falcon. You know he isn't your real father. Has he been around long?"

"For as long as I can remember. There isn't much else to tell. I … really don't know where they get their money—either of them. I was told they both owned interests in a number of factories and businesses, and that this is where they got their money. I do know mother owns a company that makes wine and perfume, another company that makes clothing for women. I've seen those businesses."

"Tell me about the people who run them. Those you had a chance to meet."

She was again reflective for a moment. "Yes, I see what you mean. They . . . seemed to be afraid of Roma, but yet … The sentence trailed into silence. "… The medallions. The top people all wore medallions, like mother and Falcon and Black."

"And the one your mother tried to make you wear?"

"Just like it."

"And did they ever meet on a Friday. Friday seems to hold some special significance."

"Yes. Several times. And it was just like I told you before: they would all disappear about dark and not return until almost dawn. Mother said it was business, and not to worry. I always had someone staying with me, a sitter or companion. Sam? I'm frightened. I don't want to go back to that house."

"We have to go back, Nydia. I don't believe we could do anything else."

"Sam, let's try. Let's see if we can just run away—go back to New York State. Please? Let's try."

Sam hesitated, not wanting to risk angering his father—if any of this was real, and not a dream. He wavered, sensing that Nydia's fear was very close to overwhelming her.

"We'll try," he said.

But the four-wheel would not start. Sam complained of his chest burning, and the cross around Nydia's neck had begun to glow.

"All right, Dad," Sam said. "We get the message."

The four-wheel started; the burning and the glowing ceased.

"All that could have been a fluke," Nydia suggested.

Sam turned around, heading back to Montreal. The four-wheel died in the middle of the road. The burning and the glowing began again.

Nydia said, "All right, Mr. Balon—no more. We'll go back."

The four-wheel started; the glowing and the burning faded.

"Any doubts now?" Sam asked.

She shook her head. "But where do we start, Sam?"

"At Falcon House."