The Devil's Kiss.

by William W. Johnstone.

PROLOGUE.

The minister slowed his car, then smiled with recognition at the man standing by the side of the road, beside his automobile. The minister pulled off the highway, cut his engine, and got out.

"You're a long way from home, old friend," the minister said. "Got car troubles?"

"No," the man replied, the sunlight of early spring sparkling off a strange-looking medallion hanging about his neck. "But you're a long way from home as well, Brother Hayes."

"Once a month to Waldron until they find a minister. But you know that."

"Yes. How did the services go?"

"Very well, thank you. But why are you out here? Not to be prying, of course." The Baptist minister cut his eyes as he detected movement in the rear seat of the automobile. His eyes widened with shock. "What... why, that's Reverend Balon's wife! What-?"

He had turned toward the car, not believing a deacon in his church would have another man's wife with him-not this far from Whitfield. Then he saw the other man. Dalton Revere, an elder in Balon's church. The minister moved toward the car, to get a better look at the couple seated in the rear.

He had heard talk, but had dismissed it as rumor. Now this.

Mrs. Balon, a very beautiful woman, sat close to Dalton, her hand resting on his leg in an intimate touch. Her hair was disheveled, lipstick smeared.

"Church business?" Hayes asked, acid disapproval in his tone.

"Sorry you had to find out like this," Dalton smiled. "But you weren't coming around to our way. You had to discover the truth someday soon.

"Our way?" Hayes's look was of confusion. "The truth?" His eyes touched the medallion each wore around their necks. Strange medallions.

"The only way," Mrs. Balon smiled. "The only truth."

"What are you talking about, Mich.e.l.le?"

Something smashed into the back of the minister's head, dropping him to his knees, the front of his head striking the side of the car, b.l.o.o.d.ying his nose. He turned pain-filled eyes upward. "Otto, please. No!"

The tire iron beat him into unconsciousness, shattering the skull, sending bits of bone deep into his brain. One more blow from the iron bar, and the minister was dead, quivering on the gravel shoulder.

"Take his money," Dalton said, getting out of the car. "We'll make it look like robbery. Put his car over there," he pointed to a low hill, "with him in the trunk. Be careful not to leave any prints on anything. We're not in Fork-this will be investigated."

Otto held up the b.l.o.o.d.y tire iron.

"Put that in the trunk of our car. We'll dispose of it when we get back to Whitfield."

The minister's body was stuffed into the trunk of his car, the car hidden behind the low hill. The trio drove away.

"Now you can bring in your man, Farben," Dalton said. "He'll fill your pulpit and phase one will be complete."

"But there are others we have to worry about," Otto reminded him.

"Father Dubois and Lucas Monroe are old men. They will be no problem. Glen Haskell will have to be dealt with-soon. He could give us some trouble. But it's Sam I'm worried about. He glanced at Mich.e.l.le. "Remember what the Master said."

"Don't worry about my husband," she smiled, and the parting and widening of her lips was evil. "When the time is right, I'll kill him."

"Then we're almost ready," Dalton's smile was nasty. "With that psalm-singing sheriff dead, Walter in office, all we have to do is get rid of John Benton, and the law is ours."

"How much longer do we have to wait?" Otto asked, his free hand busy between Mich.e.l.le's legs.

"Not long," Dalton said, one hand touching the medallion about his neck, the other hand caressing Mich.e.l.le's b.r.e.a.s.t.s. "Not long."

"Stop the car!" Mich.e.l.le said. "Pull over there behind that hill. I want you both."

ONE

They were kids, teenagers, out on a date. A couple of hours spent at the local teen hangout-the only one in town-followed by a few bottles of beer, then some necking and petting in the cab of the boy's pickup truck, borrowed from his father. Early spring in Fork County, the cab of the truck steaming and fogging up from the heavy breathing, most of that coming from the young man."No!" the girl said firmly. "And I mean NO!""Aw, come on, Joan. You gotta do something. I'm hurting!""Larry, NO!" she wriggled from his damp clutches. "Come on, let's stop." She b.u.t.toned her blouse. "I'm sorry, Larry. I really am. I told you, I didn't want to come out here and go through all this."A heavy sigh of resignation from Larry. He was whipped; he knew it. But he didn't feel all that bad. At least he had tried."How 'bout a walk, Joan? Clear our heads some.""My head is perfectly clear, Larry," she said, attempting a primness in her voice. She fought to hide a smile, then giggled."Yeah," the boy said disgustedly. "Real funny, Joan. Come on."They walked, hand in hand, strolling through the cool night. For Larry, it was to be his last walk.Larry whistled an off-key version of a popular song. "You still listen to the radio station, Joan?""No. Not anymore. It-I don't know-I got kind of nervous listening to it, you know?""No. I mean, I don't listen to it anymore, either. But I know what you mean about the nervous bit, though. Me, too. Are the rest of the kids acting, you know, kind of funny to you?""Yes, they are, most of them. I don't want to hang around with them anymore. They're kind of way-out to me.""I know what you mean, I think. The kids around this part of Fork used to be cool. Now-I don't know. Seems like all they want to do is-strange stuff."I know. Even my folks are acting funny. Daddy looks at me kind of-ugly, I guess is the word.""I'm sorry about-back there, Joan.""It's okay. Forget it. I just didn't want things to get out of hand.""Yeah." I'll probably have to take mine in hand when I get home.The thought of beating off didn't appeal to Larry; he always felt guilty afterward. Maybe he'd go talk to Father Haskell about it; see what the Priest had to say.He had tried, back in the truck, to guide Joan's hand to his erection. But she wouldn't cooperate. She would let him feel her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, but only through her bra.s.siere, not under it. Well, he had tried. Everybody said that Joan was the original Ice Queen. No way you'll get the pants off her, boy. She won't even let you feel "down there." And Larry would have liked to have felt "down there." He had never felt any girl's "down there."He never would.They walked further in the night, further from the truck, deeper into the unknown that stretched in front of them-waiting. Two young people, full of life, kidding each other, laughing, talking of the summer ahead of them. A summer neither of them would know."You will go out with me, won't you, Joan? I mean, again? You're not going to let-you know, what happened tonight-I mean, you're not mad at me?""Of course not, Larry. Sure I'll go out with you. You're nice-I like you. You're not like the others; what they've become lately. Just ask when you want to go out."They walked into the night, stopping at a tall fence. No trespa.s.sing signs bolted onto the chain-link."This is Tyson's Lake, isn't it?" she asked."Yeah. Supposed to be deep caves in there. You wanna see them?"She hesitated for just a moment. "Sure! Let's go."They climbed the tall fence, Larry helping her get unstuck when her jeans snagged on a piece of wire, ripping off a small piece of denim. They walked up a small hill, stopping at the crest to catch their breath. Below them, a small lake glistened in the night. A pearl in a cup of blackness."It's beautiful," she whispered. "I've never seen anything like it." She tugged at his hand. "Come on, I want to go down there."Larry pulled her back. "I don't know, Joan. People say funny things happen around here. n.o.body ever ever goes down there." goes down there."She laughed at him, not meaning to hurt his pride. Not knowing she was bringing out the boyish macho in him. "Oh, come on! You don't believe all that old gossip, do you?"He laughed. "Yeah, you're right. Let's go."They walked down the hill to the lake. Two young people, unafraid, unaware of the silent evil watching them. Unaware of the heavy breathing and the dripping of hot, stinking saliva from yellowed fangs. "What is that smell?" she asked. "Yuck! It's gruesome."The odor wrinkled Larry's nose. "Something dead, I guess. Maybe a cow.""Come on."They ran toward the lake. Suddenly, the night seemed to grow darker around them, engulfing them. The young people sensed evil around them. Sensed it, but could not put it into words. They were still full of innocence, still too young, and they would not grow much older.The moment of evil-sensing pa.s.sed. A spirit of adventure filled them as they looked at the dark stand of timber a few hundred yards from them."Where's all the caves that's supposed to be around here?" she asked.He shrugged. "I don't know. I just always heard they were here. I've never seen them. I've never been out here before," he admitted."This place is not as big as I thought it was.""Yeah. Maybe a hundred and fifty acres, I guess. 'Bout that. But it musta cost old man Sorenson a bundle to put up a chain-link fence around this much land.""How much?""I don't know, Joan."Small red eyes watched them from the timber. Huge hairy arms hung down, clawed fingers working in antic.i.p.ation. One of the intruders was female, they sensed that. A breeder, perhaps. The other they would eat.The Beasts knew only survival. They must survive, for He was near. He would soon loose them.Come closer, the Beasts willed.The teenagers left the silver lake. They walked slowly toward the dark timber."Larry? That smell is making me sick. I don't want to go in there. I want to go home.""Aw, come on! Don't get all spooked-out. Nothing to be scared of. I'm here." Maybe this is the way, he thought. Maybe if something happened, then I could protect her from-whatever.He fantasized himself saving her from-it.Outlaws, maybe. He would beat them up. Then Joan would kiss him and maybe give him some. He got a slight erection just thinking about it.She stopped their movement and his erotic thoughts with an arm across his chest. "You hear something?"They listened. Whatever Joan had heard-if anything-was silent. Then a low growl reached them."Yeah," Larry said. "A dog, I think."A twig snapped behind them, spinning them around, hearts beating heavily in their chests. They could see nothing. But the smell-it was awful."Smells like someone who hasn't bathed in a long time," she said. "Or maybe never."Larry forced a laugh. "Aw, come on, Joan. You've been seeing too many monster movies. Maybe it's The Thing?""You jumped, too," she reminded him. Her breath was ragged.Her heart was beating too fast. "Don't talk about monsters, Larry. Not out here. Okay?""Okay, I'm sorry. But I just jumped 'cause you did, that's all.""How far back to the truck?""'Bout a mile and a half, I guess." s.h.i.t! she wants to go home. I'll never get any. I'll be a virgin all my life."I want to go home, Larry. Right now!" Edges of panic in her voice.A snarl from the timber, just a few yards in front of them. A snap of heavy jaws.She grabbed his hand. "Come on, Larry-Run!"A scream touched them, a howling. A shriek of such hideousness it forced all thoughts of s.e.x from Larry's mind. Together, the young couple ran blindly through the night.A snarl in front of them, a thing looming up from the night. It roared at them, reaching for them, its breath fouling the air. They changed directions, running toward the timber. Branches whipped at them, cutting flesh as they ran, panic driving them deeper into the dark timber.Larry screamed, jerking the girl to a stop. "Oh, my G.o.d!" he pointed.Grotesque figures surrounded them, encircling them, eyes red and wild. Fanged jaws dripped stinking drool. The creatures reached for the young people. Larry peed his shorts.Joan wailed her terror as the creatures pawed at her, touching her private places. She was too numb to run. This one, they knew was a breeder. They ripped the clothing from her, leaving her naked. The creatures moved about the teenagers, touching them, prodding them with sharp-clawed fingers. Breeding could wait for a time; they were hungry.One of the creatures moved, swiftly sinking its teeth into Larry's neck, severing the jugular, loving the taste of blood.Joan whirled around, running out of the timber, two snarling, snapping Beasts after her. She ran naked past the small lake, terror making her strong. She ran faster than she ever imagined she could.She stumbled, falling over a root, bruising her knees. The Beasts were on her, trying to drag her back. She screamed, rolled to her feet, and raced into the night.The Beasts were large, longer-legged, but they were clumsy, and Joan was driven by blind fear, the adrenalin pumping through her. She gained on them as she raced up the hill, out-distancing them as she ran down the other side. She scrambled over the fence, cutting her legs, then dropped to the other side, running for her life, never looking back.The Beasts had stopped at the fence, watching the female run into the night. There was disappointment in their low growls. They could not venture past this fence-not yet. To pursue her, they knew, meant the chance of meeting man on the dirt road less than two miles away, and they had been forbidden to leave this area.The Beasts loped back to the timber, hoping the others had left them some meat. They had not been awake long, only a few weeks, and they had been asleep for a long, long time. Years. He had awakened them, and the Beasts were tired of eating fish and berries. They wanted raw meat, and the sweet, hot, salty taste of blood.In the timber, they found only sc.r.a.ps of meat, and they were angry. The pair snarled over the sc.r.a.ps and bones, fighting for a moment before realizing the Master would not like them to quarrel. They quieted, then shared what was left, snapping the bones, sucking the marrow.When they had finished, they dragged the b.l.o.o.d.y clothing of the boy and the girl to a hole in the ground, deep in the timber. The Beasts slipped into the opening of the deep cave, traveling far into the earth. They did not fear the darkness-they knew it well. They had lived here for a long time. Thousands of years. They had walked this earth long before what is now called man came to this place. But when man came, both before and after the flood, he had hunted them. The Beasts had been hunted with everything from stone axes to guns. But they had-thousands of years before-joined forces with the Master, and He protected them, awakening them from time to time. Now, He had awakened them again.The Beasts pa.s.sed one of the ever-awake sentries, growling a greeting, then slipped deeper into the bowels of the earth.Joan managed to start the truck, killing the engine several times in her hysteria. She was cold, and there was not even a jacket in the truck to cover her nakedness. Her hysteria moved into shock as she bounced down the rough dirt road, driving too fast. She cried with relief when she spotted the sheriff's patrol.The deputy licked his lips as his eyes traveled over her naked body. He patted her on the shoulder, covered her trembling body with his jacket, and led her to his car. She slid in next to his partner, very conscious of the short jacket and her body. The seat was cold on her bare rump."I'll drive the truck," his partner said. "Follow you."A mile down the road, the deputy turned to the right."Aren't we going the wrong way?" Joan asked."Short cut," the deputy said.He drove to an old fishing camp in the back country, near a lake in the Bad Lands. There, ignoring her screaming, the men took turns raping her.Just before dawn, while Joan lay sobbing on the dirty floor, a car pulled up outside the shack. "Walter," a deputy said, looking out the boarded-up window."Sink the truck in the lake," the acting-sheriff told them, his eyes taking in the lushness of the teenager's body. He knelt down and squeezed a soft breast."No!" Joan screamed. "Please help me!"Walter beat her into submission, then raped her. When he had finished, he tied her securely, put her in the back seat of his car, and drove to Tyson's Lake, dumping her over the fence. He backed off, up the hill, watching the Beasts lope toward the girl. They dragged her into the timber. Her screaming lasted a long time as the Beasts took turns mounting her.Then the timber was silent.Walter knew the girl had become one of Them, a rapid metamorphosis taking place after she had been bitten on the neck, the infection spreading through her. Walter knew this because the Master's agent had told him how it was done. Then he had taken the acting-sheriff to meet the Beasts.That encounter had been one of the less pleasant experiences of Walter Addison's life.Addison drove back to Whitfield, to his apartment. He showered, shaved, put on a clean uniform, and went to his office, waiting for the call from anxious parents. He was very solicitous as he talked with the parents of Joan and Larry, promising them he would do everything he could to find the missing kids.After hanging up the phone, he looked at a couple of his deputies. They all wore medallions under their uniform shirts. "Some kids disappeared last night," he said. "Parents are all worked up about it."And they all laughed.

TWO

The corruption that almost completely destroyed the town of Whitfield did not occur swiftly. Rather, like a slow-moving cancer, it worked with stealth, insidiously spreading, until the knife could but momentarily halt the propagation, not cure it. Only death would check the dispersion of evil.The purulence-filled cavity of disgust leaked over into the light one day, dribbling just enough filth to alarm one man and one young woman who loved that man. To jog their sense of outrage. To move them into action.The minister, Sam Balon, and the woman, Jane Ann Burke.The forces of evil must have screamed their hatred when Sam began to gather facts, spreading them out in his mind, sorting them into neat little piles of truth.Most men do not know their limits, their capabilities, their own minds. Sam Balon did. The devil despises the Sam Balon's of the world, and would prefer to stay away from them.Sam was no lace-pants preacher. He'd been tested many times, and was as tough as w.a.n.g-leather, understanding the temptations of this world. He had tasted the bittersweetness of evil, and knew that all humankind was susceptible to enticement.The devil is wary of these kinds of ministers. For these types of men are tough. The Sam Balon types, upon seeing that prayer will not work, will ball their fists and come in swinging. This type of minister does not set himself up as a paragon of virtue, for all to follow their example. They know they are human.The Sam Balon's of Christian ministry are rare breeds. They enjoy a cold beer after mowing the lawn. They might smoke a pipe or a few cigarettes a day. They enjoy wine with the evening meal. They understand changing times, moving with the flow, not against it. They are not pulpit-pounders or screamers. The young people usually like them.The devil hates them. For as attractive as Satan makes sin, the Sam Balon's are almost always impervious to it. They cannot be possessed, so they must be destroyed. And the devil sits and scratches his head, wondering-How?Satan cannot destroy the Sam Balon's at the outset: that would anger G.o.d, and the devil knows onlv too well the wrath of G.o.d. Satan has felt G.o.d's boot on his b.u.t.t too many times, and that has made him wary. So the devil must work quietly; he must work around around the Sam Balon's, hoping the man will not discover the evil until it is too late-until the man is alone, almost defenseless. the Sam Balon's, hoping the man will not discover the evil until it is too late-until the man is alone, almost defenseless.In Whitfield, the devil almost succeeded."I guess the kids just took off," Walter Addison told the mothers of the missing teenagers. "They will do that, you know. We've had an APB-that's an All Points Bulletin-out for more than a month.""I know you're doing all you can, Walter," the mother of the missing girl said."Well," the sheriff said, standing with his cowboy hat in his hand, "I hate to say this, but kids do funny things nowadays. I personally think it's all that rock and roll music they've taken to listening to. It's got something something to do with it. I just don't know, ladies. There is gettin' to be so much s.e.x in the songs and in the movies. No tellin' what it'll be like twenty years from now." He shook his head, a humble man, overwhelmed by the enormity of it all. "We'll keep trying, ladies, I can promise you that." to do with it. I just don't know, ladies. There is gettin' to be so much s.e.x in the songs and in the movies. No tellin' what it'll be like twenty years from now." He shook his head, a humble man, overwhelmed by the enormity of it all. "We'll keep trying, ladies, I can promise you that."Sam had stood listening. Walter had ignored him, refusing to speak to him.c.r.a.p! the minister thought, watching the sheriff walk away. Pure undiluted cow chips.5am said goodbye to the ladies and then stood for a moment on the corner of the street.You're a liar, sheriff! Sam mused. You said you called the FBI, and the FBI came in and looked around, investigating a possible kidnapping. But the FBI never came in here, never questioned anyone, because you never called them. And I'd like to know why.I know they didn't come in here, sheriff, because Joan was a member of my church, and they didn't question me. Larry worked part-time for Chester, and they didn't question him. Larry belonged to the Episcopal Church, and they didn't question Glen Haskell. The princ.i.p.al of the high school, Bill Mathis, said they talked with him, in his office at school. But Jane Ann said the day they were supposed to have talked with him, he was out of town, at a meeting in Lincoln. So add that all up, partner, and that makes you a liar, and it makes Bill Mathis a liar.But why?And why all the recent grave robbing? Where are the bodies? And there is something very strange going on at Glower's Funeral Home. I've heard whispers. Even Doctor King is suspicious,although he won't talk with me about it. Not yet.And the people in this town. They've become . . . different, somehow. What's going on, Sheriff?"You're deep in thought, Sam,? the voice jarred him out of his musings. He looked into the violet eyes of Jane Anne Burke, and a warm feeling spread over him."Yes, I am," he smiled at her. "Or was."She looked up at her minister. He was almost a foot taller than her five four. A big man, Sam Balon, who did not in any way fit the minister stereotype.Sam looked more like a mercenary; a soldier of fortune; a pirate. Dark brown hair, almost always unruly. Ma.s.sive shoulders and barrel chest. Heavily muscled arms. Huge wrists. There were scars on his knuckles and two faint scars on his face, one just above his right eye, the other on his chin. She'd heard he got one scar in a barroom brawl in Kansas City, the other scar in a free-for-all in a bar in Korea. Sam had emerged from that war a much-decorated hero, but he never talked about it.She'd heard that Sam had been part of of an experimental combat unit in Korea. Something called Special Forces-guerrilla fighters.Jane Ann was in love with her minister, and she knew he knew. But she was very careful never to be alone with him. If they were seen together, it was always in public places."How is Mich.e.l.le?" she asked."Just fine."That was a lie and they both knew it. Mich.e.l.le, Jane Ann thought, is a b.i.t.c.h! The whole town knew Sam and his wife were having problems. They didn't even sleep together. Lately, it seemed lots of people in Whitfield were having problems, mostly with their faith. Church attendance was way down."Ministers aren't supposed to tell fibs, Sam," she gently scolded him."Ministers aren't human," he returned the smile, thinking, Oh, boy, are we human. Jane Ann, if I weren't a minister . . .An old lady hobbled by on arthritic legs, greeting them. "Jane Ann. Reverend Balon."He smiled and nodded.Sam did not like being called Reverend. He maintained there was only one Reverend person to ever walk the earth, and He had been crucified. Call him Sam, call him preacher, call him brother, but please don't call him Reverend.Walter Addison drove by, and Jane Ann watched her minister's eyes narrow as they followed the sheriff's car down the street. Addison had not waved at them. It was almost as if he was deliberately avoiding them."He was a member of our church for as long as I can remember," Jane Ann said. "Then suddenly he stopped attending. Strange.""Yes. it is-among other strange things happening in Whitfield." Sam swung his gaze to Jane Ann "I'd better be going. Got to get back home."Back to your s.l.u.t wife! Oh, Sam, everybody in town knows she's running around on you. "I'll see you Sunday, Sam.""Yes. Fine." He started to walk away, hesitated, and then said, "Jane Ann?""Yes, Sam?" she almost called him darling."Be careful.""That's an odd thing to say. Why did you say that?"He shook his head. "I don't know. Forget it, Janey."She watched him walk away, arms swinging by his side. A huge, powerful man. A very handsome man. Not the pretty-boy type; the rugged type. Not at all a follower of fashion, Sam Balon. he wore what pleased him, not some men's fashion designer. This was crew-cut or flat-top country. But Sam wore his hair longer than most. Chester Stokes had told her that Sam was once asked about the length of his hair-that it was out of style. The man doing the asking had said it with a smirk. Sam's reply was, "If you don't like it, jump in and try to change it, partner. Watch ihis ex-doggie bite."Not your average preacher type, Sam Balon.Sam had turned more than one woman's head, causing them to think very unchurchly thoughts of the minister.And I'm one of them, Jane Ann smiled.Fork County is one of the largest counties in America-larger than some states. Thousands of square miles of sand hills, ridges, Bad Lands, valleys, hollows, and hundreds of small lakes. Some of the finest timber in the state can be found in Fork County. The land is dotted with cottonwoods and box elders. Very little farming in Fork County, mostly cattle ranching in the rolling hills and plains.There are only four towns in the entire county, the largest being Whitfield. Fork County is huge, and spa.r.s.ely populated. If one wanted to hide, or be alone, or perpetrate an evil, Fork County would be ideal. Not because of the people, but because of its aloneness, its isolation.Whitfield sits almost in the direct center of Fork County, and while its chief law enforcement agent is called Sheriff, he is really a sub-sheriff, the elected sheriff having his offices in Atwood, some sixty miles away.Whitfield is not an easy place to reach; it has few visitors. One road in, one road out. State roads. There are several winding county roads, but most of them lead nowhere, or in a circle, and at times are impa.s.sable.A native of Fork once told a weary salesman who was attempting to get to Whitfield, "You can't get there from here, partner. You got to go somewhere else to start."He was only half joking.Fork County.Standard number of churches in Whitfield, standard mix of religion as found in any small town. The young people leave as soon as they can, unless they plan to ranch with their fathers. Whitfield has no industry. The ranches have pa.s.sed from great-grandfather to grandfather to father to son. Old brands. Foreign investment in Fork County is nil.Only one Jewish family in Whitfield, Miles Lansky and his wife Doris. The Lansky's walk a fine line. They live in a community full of cowboys and out-doorsmen. A community full of the Plains State's version of the Southern Good Ole Boy. A less refined term is Redneck."Them Jews is funny, you know that, boy? They ain't like us."A statement that surely brings great joy to the Jews.Miles owns a very profitable department store. His best friend is Sam Balon.In Fork, cowboys still ride horses on round-up, still carry guns. The six-guns, though, are usually carried in the saddlebags, not belted around the waist. Quick drawing is something that can now be seen at the County Fair. Amuses the kiddies.Sport. Occasionally, someone emulating Wes Hardin will shoot off his toe. Amuses the adults.The one newspaper in this part of Fork, the Fork County Crusader Fork County Crusader, is conservative Republican, owned by its editor, Wade Thomas. The newspaper was pa.s.sed on to him by his father, and to him by his father, who came to what is now Whitfield in the 1860s. The newspaper is published weekly, serving the eastern half of Fork County. Due to a range war in the late 1890s, the western half of Fork does not get along with the eastern half. Memories die hard in Fork County.The Crusader Crusader is a good, solid, small-town newspaper. is a good, solid, small-town newspaper.Whitfield had, until recently, a radio station. The airwaves would alternate painfully between the nasal honkings of country music and the primal gruntings of the newly discovered rock and roll.Sam, a lover of the cla.s.sics, did not listen to the local station. It was not that Sam did not like some country and some rock and roll; for some reason, listening to the local station made him very nervous. He a.s.sumed it was only his imagination and thought no more of it.In June of 1958, the radio station abruptly went out of business and off the air, to the sorrow of many and the almost total relief of the few music lovers in Whitfield.The Crusader Crusader made a few polite inquiries about the archaeologists working around what was always presumed to be an ancient Indian burial ground and the often laughed-about home of some kind of monster. Nervous laughter. Almost everyone in Whitfield believed it was a burial ground; almost no one believed it was the home of any type of monster. Still, though . . . made a few polite inquiries about the archaeologists working around what was always presumed to be an ancient Indian burial ground and the often laughed-about home of some kind of monster. Nervous laughter. Almost everyone in Whitfield believed it was a burial ground; almost no one believed it was the home of any type of monster. Still, though . . .No one knew the site of the Digging was linked to natural tunnels to the stand of timber at Tyson's Lake."It's weird out there, partner," is the standard when one asks about the strange formation of rocks out in the Bad Lands. "It's hard to get to and there ain't nothing out there when you get there. Stupid circle. Indian mumbo jumbo. Big deal. Now, I ain't been out there in years. I ain't goin', either."No one goes "out there" after dark. Very few go "out there" during the day. Even before the archaeologists put up a fence to keep people away from the circle, no one went "out there." Down through the years there have been reports of deaths "out there." Rumors of horrible creatures "out there."Yes, Whitfield and that part of Fork County has had its monsters for hundreds of years-according to stories handed down. The legend is they are fanged and clawed creatures, with enormous strength and a vile stench about them.Scary.But no one has seen them. And, no, the creatures have never been known to venture into Whitfield.Not yet.The people of Whitfield and that part of Fork don't like to speak of the monsters-and don't. It is a close community, and outsiders are carefully scrutinized before being accepted into the fold-if they ever are.The Project Director of the Dig, Doctor (Ph.d) Black Wilder, had refused to allow any pictures to be taken of the Dig, or of himself, or of any of his people. That irritated Wade Thomas. Wade, a typical reporter, took some shots, anyway. They didn't develop. Bad film, he concluded, and put the Digging out of his mind.Really, the archaeologists made for pretty dull copy. Wilder had insisted upon using words so technical Wade didn't know what he was talking about, and if he didn't understand them, he knew perfectly well his readers wouldn't.But something about the Dig nagged at Wade. Something-intangible-bothered him. Something about Wilder bothered him, too. And his workers-they rarely came to town. When Wade tried to talk with them, they answered him in monosyllables. They were not rude in their brevity, they just didn't have a d.a.m.n thing to say. They would smile, nod their head, and walk off."Arrogant bunch of eggheads!" Wade muttered.But if they were a bit strange-to small-town philosophy-they were well-behaved. They bought their supplies in Whitfield, paid in cash, were polite-standoffish, some said-and caused no trouble for the local law.It was Sam who noticed they all wore the same kind of medallion around their necks. And they did not attend church-none of them.But Sam kept his suspicions to himself.And Wade kept his to himself.And Jane Ann kept hers to herself.All of them almost waited too long before bringing their suspicions to the attention of what few friends they had left.

THREE

The archaeologist, at first, viewed the stone and the writings upon it with mildly concealed humor, believing some of his fellow workers were having a joke at his expense. But when he carbon-tested the stone and the edge of the cutting in the tablet, his smile faded abruptly. The stone tablet was thousands of years old. He double-checked his findings. When he finished the second testing, the young man sat in silence, smoking his pipe, looking at the tablet, his eyes not quite believing what was in front of him."Impossible," he said.He then began the task of translating the ancient symbols cut deeply-and perfectly-into the stone. When the translation was complete, the young man shivered as he read the words. He simply could not believe what he was reading.But there it was, in front of him, on the workbench in his small trailer/lab. Again, he checked his findings. The symbols cut into the stone were perfectly formed. They could not have been cut with any tool known to exist five thousand years ago-or more. Then, how?The supernatural entered his mind. He shook his head at that. "No, that's not possible."Or, was it?He read again the translation. HE WALKS AMONG YOU. THE MARK OF THE BEAST IS PLAIN. BELIEVE IN HIM. ONCE TOUCHED, FOREVER HIS. THE KISS OF LIFE AND DEATH.What did it mean?A cool breeze blew through the open window of the trailer. The young man shivered.Under the words cut into the stone, a strange marking of some sort. The young man studied the marking. It was very complicated, yet somehow familiar. Where had he seen it? He remembered. A medallion-yes, that was it! He had seen the markings on a medallion. But where had he seen it?He took a magnifying gla.s.s, studying the markings more closely. A sensation of pure terror overcame him. He felt his lips pull back in revulsion. Under very close inspection, the marking was-horrible. Despicable. A man/creature, but yet, so much more, cut with such fine detail. A scene of debauchment, of total human depravity and ugly corruption.The archaeologist covered the tablet with a piece of canvas. Just doing that made him feel better. But the scene cut into the stone haunted him. There had been people in that scene, humans, but they seemed more animal than human. He threw back the canvas to study the scene. Disgusting! He felt ill. The scene depicted an orgy, yet so much more than that. It went against everything the young man had been taught. Men with men; women with women; adults with children. He had never seen such detail cut into stone. In the very back of the cutting, a human sacrifice. Beyond that, a crucifixion.He covered the stone tablet with the canvas, and, saying nothing to any of his fellow workers, drove into Whitfield. He'd been raised in the Christian church, but had not attended services in years. Today, though, he felt he needed to speak with a minister.At the parsonage, he introduced himself to Sam Balon. He found himself liking the big, rough-looking minister with a rose tattooed on his left forearm.Over coffee, the young man suddenly felt himself unable to speak of the tablet. Unable to speak because the minister's wife had entered the room, and the young man knew, then, where he had seen the medallion with the evil markings. Of course! It was worn by his fellow-workers-all of them, and by the project director, Dr. Wilder. Wilder, it was said, was humping a local woman. This woman. The minister's wife!The woman looked at him with eyes that seemed to burn into his brain, silencing his tongue. The medallion around her neck seemed to glow with life. He could see the medallion and what it depicted-all the evil and debas.e.m.e.nt-why couldn't the minister?Because he's not looking for anything evil in his wife, the young man answered his own question.He was both fascinated and frightened by the power the woman seemed to hold over him. When he met her eyes, they seemed to control his thoughts, his tongue.He chatted with the couple for a few minutes, then left. It was only while driving back to the Dig that he realized he did not know where he'd been, could recall nothing of his visit to the minister's home, or of seeing the man's wife. He did not recall the woman walking him to his car, he had no recognition of her kissing him on the mouth. He could not know he had been marked.ONCE TOUCHED, FOREVER HIS. THE KISS OF LIFE AND DEATH.The sun cast brilliant light through the open windows of the small trailer/lab at the Dig. The stone tablet, uncovered, seemed to glow with life, somehow mocking the young man."This is ridiculous!" he said aloud, rising from his stool. "A rock is a rock. A stone cannot mock a living person."But mere words spoken aloud could not calm him.Tim was not overly religious, but he did believe in G.o.d-and Satan. The young man felt a shiver of fear race through him, touching his spine, moving upward to settle in his brain. The lab seemed to become very stuffy. It was difficult for Tim to breathe. And his memory-something was wrong with his memory. He could remember finding the tablet . . . yesterday; yes, it had been yesterday. But what of yesterday afternoon? He could not remember.Looking at the stone tablet and its markings, Tim suddenly felt he had opened the doors to h.e.l.l, and could hear the cries of the d.a.m.ned and smell the stink of burning flesh. He felt he could sense the agony of the forever condemned."Calm yourself," he said. "Control yourself. There is an explanation for everything, remember?" Well, almost, he thought ruefully. "Don't forget, you're a scientist."His words did nothing to calm him.He poured a gla.s.s of water from the pitcher in the small refrigerator, drank it, then sat down on the stool in front of his workbench. He glared at the tablet.The tablet glared back at him.Tim realized, although the day was cool, he was beginning to sweat. His face was damp with perspiration, his shirt sticking to him. He reached out to touch the tablet, jerking his hand back as his fingers touched the stone.The tablet had burned him!"G.o.dd.a.m.n you!" he cursed the stone. He looked at his fingertips in numb shock. His fingertips were raw from blistering.The stone was glowing, pulsing with life, almost as a heartbeat from within.Tim was suddenly ill, fighting back sickness that threatened to erupt from his belly.He looked at the stone. It had ceased its throbbing."Ugly," Tim said. "Profane. The stone is evil.He glanced at a hammer on his workbench and somehow, as if spoken to by a voice from afar, what he must do-and do it quickly.No! a voice screamed from inside his brain, stilling his hand as he reached for the hammer.Do it! another voice cried, as if in great agony. The voice seemed to be speaking from a great distance. Destroy the stone, the voice screamed. You must destroy the tablet!The voices battled within his head as Tim sat on the stool, listening to the utterances within him. One voice seemed to be almost pure in its vocalizing. The other voice was very evil.The voices fought, long and hard and loudly. Tim found the strength to reach once more for the hammer. Something with great force knocked him from his stool. He clawed his way to his feet, his head ringing with sound. His hand closed around the handle of the hammer.The voices ceased their battling as the trailer door opened. Sweat dripped from the young archaeologist, and his body was strangely exhausted. He looked toward the open door.Black Wilder, the project director, stood looking at him, smiling. His shirt was open to the waist, the sunlight bouncing off a medallion hanging from a chain around his neck.The stone tablet began its pulsing, seeming to draw life from the medallion. The pure voice in Tim's head screamed just once, then faded away into a silent void. A piece of a long-forgotten sermon entered Tim's mind: G.o.d rules the Heavens, but Satan rules the earth.Tim tried to scream, but no sound came from his throat."What were you going to do with that hammer, Tim?"Tim's voice returned with a gasp. "I-ah-was going to chip away a piece of that stone, sir.""With a carpenter's hammer?" the older man laughed. If Tim had known just how old Wilder was, he would have died from fright. "Now, Tim, really!" Wilder's eyes burned into Tim's. "That's a very interesting tablet. Find it at this Dig?""Yes, sir. I-ah-was just about to call you.""Were you?" Wilder's tone was doubting.Tim moved away from the workbench, away from Wilder and the glowing medallion. "What is that thing, sir?" he glanced at the stone.Wilder smiled. "Why didn't you call me yesterday, Tim? When you found the tablet. Why did you visit that minister in Whitfield-Balon?"Tim's memory came rushing back, flooding his brain with remembrances. He recalled the minister's wife, Mich.e.l.le, and her burning eyes. He remembered his mixed emotions as her lips touched his mouth. "Why are you answering a question with a question, sir?"Doctor Wilder's smile was very unpleasant. "You've never liked it here, have you, Tim?""I wouldn't say that."Wilder's smile was all-knowing. The medallion glowed. The stone tablet pulsed."I-uh-like it fine, sir. I-just can't seem to make any friends with your people, that's all. Most of them aren't even civil with me. I think they dislike me for some reason, and I don't know why. I wasn't wanted on this Dig, I know that, and I'm sorry I raised such a fuss about going, now.""You haven't given us a chance, Tim." Wilder moved closer to the young man. "You know that's true. Why. you've only attended one of our talk sessions for the new people.""That's something else. What has happened to the new embers. We were friendly when we first arrived. Now they won't even speak to me. I don't like your talk sessions, sir. I don't like the way you and your people scoff at G.o.d. And why is it I'm always sent to Lincoln on Fridays. I get the feeling you don't want me around here on Friday nights. Why?"Wilder laughed at him; an ugly laugh. "Such a pious young man, Tim. And such a suspicious one. Too bad."Tim was suddenly angry. "You tell me what this is, Doctor Wilder. You tell me what's going on. This is not a Dig-most of your people don't know a dog's hind foot from a dinosaur dropping. I've never seen such careless digging in my life!""Are you doubting my reputation as an archaeologist?""No, sir. Just your explanation for being here. We've uncovered nothing of any importance here, and no evidence to suggest there is is anything of any importance." anything of any importance.""Oh, my, yes, Tim." Wilder's voice was soft, "And you've found it."The trailer became hot-stiflingly so. The stone tablet began to pulse as Wilder moved toward Tim. The medallion glowed. Tim began screaming as Wilder reached for him. The man's eyes were wild, burning with the same intensity as the medallion and the tablet and had Mrs. Balon's eyes at the parsonage.Terror washed over Tim. "Leave me alone!" he screamed.Wilder touched him on the arm, the touch searing Tim's flesh through the cloth of his shirt.Tim screamed in agony. He screamed for a long time, the pain moving through him in ever-heightening waves of torment. In his tortured mind, he imagined the small room filled with demons, Wilder the host demon. The trailer filled with stinking smoke, engulfing Tim in a mist of evil-smelling fetor.Tim lost all sense of date and time. He knew only his horrible pain, wondering why this was happening to him. Then, as the mist cleared, Tim found himself naked, his clothing torn from him, not by hands, but by claws. Filthy claws. His agony was unbearable, but somehow he could not escape it, his mind refusing him the luxury of unconsciousness. He was dragged outside to the ground. He screamed, but no friend came to his aid.Claws ripped his flesh as the people of the Digging surrounded him, tearing at him, their eyes burning with hate and evil.At a word from Wilder, the clawing ceased. The man leaned close to Tim, his breath reeking, offending Tim's face. The young man looked up into eyes as old as evil, as old as time."Won't you join us, Tim?" Wilder asked. "You can. Just repeat the oath. Say this: G.o.d is filth. G.o.d is s.h.i.t. Reject Him!""No!" Tim screamed."Reject Him," Wilder urged. "It's so easy. Join us. Accept the Prince of Darkness, the blood of the Believer. Let the Lord of Flies fill your life with all the pleasures you have but dreamed of.""NO!"Wilder hissed his outrage at this rejection, spittle from his mouth dripping on Tim's face. Again and again he urged Tim to blaspheme his G.o.d. The young man would not deny his G.o.d."Then you will die!" Wilder stood over him."Oh, my G.o.d-my Savior!" Tim cried out his pain. "Help me."The others began laughing as they danced around the young man, their tongues spewing blasphemy. The sunlit day grew darker, gray clouds moving restlessly overhead."Where is your G.o.d, now?" Wilder laughed profanely. "You call on Him, but He does not hear you. Are you sure He even exists?""He hears me," Tim said, his faith growing as his body grew weaker. "He is real.""Then where is He?""Everywhere," Tim spoke through his pain."Then perhaps He will hear you tonight," Wilder smiled. "When we cut out your heart. But you will suffer much before the knife ends it." Tim began screaming.It was a Friday.

FOUR

Sam Balon, minister of the First Christian Church of Whitfield, woke from a deep and very troubled sleep. He no longer put out his hand to touch the far side of the bed. He knew his wife would not be there. She had not been there for months. She would be asleep in the bedroom on the far side of the parsonage, with heavy, black drapes pulled tightly shut, like shrouds, the bedroom door locked.Once, weeks back, Sam had peeked into her bedroom when she had forgotten to lock the door. The heavy drapes were pulled tight. The room held a bad odor. Always a sun-lover, Mich.e.l.le now avoided the sun, sleeping all day whenever she could. Sam had laid in his bed at night, many times, listening to his wife prowl the house in the darkness. Several times she had softly opened the door to his room, to stand looking at him, believing him asleep. Through slitted eyes, Sam had seen the medallion around her neck catch the light from the moon, winking at him. Once, he recalled, Mich.e.l.le had hissed at him from the bedroom door.She had not been a wife to him in months, domestically or s.e.xually.Once, several weeks back, when she had attempted to kiss him, Sam had jerked away from her. He still did not know why he had done that. His actions had enraged her.On this early morning, in the summer of 1958, Sam had. as he had done so many times in the past several weeks, wakened soaked with sweat, his pajamas sticking uncomfortably to him. He had fought and struggled his way out of sleep-a sleep filled with nightmares of human sacrifice, devil worship, and orgies involving the most unspeakable of human deviations. And those creatures! Something straight out of a horror movie. But they were somehow familiar to Sam. He had seen or read about them, somewhere. But he could not pin it down.Sam's restless sleep and troubled dreaming had tired him, leaving him feeling he had slept only a couple of hours, instead of eight. He had been experiencing these awful nightmares for weeks, and he could not understand why.He had read no books nor seen any movies on devil worship or the supernatural-nothing to trigger such dreams. There had been no discussion of such things among his friends.Friends? Sam's smile was bitter as he lay awake on the rumpled sheets. My once large circle of friends has certainly dwindled over the past weeks. Again . . . why?He had read no books nor seen any movies on devil worship or the supernatural-nothing to trigger such dreams. There had been no discussion of such things among his friends. Friends? Sam's smile was bitter as he lay awake on the rumpled sheets. My once large circle of friends has certainly dwindled over the past weeks. Again . . . why?But he did not consider his personal dreaming or his loss of a few fair-weather friends important enough to bother G.o.d with it in prayer. Yet.But something was wrong in Whitfield.He thought of Tim Bennett, the young archaeologist who had come to see him. He had been distraught that day, but had refused to say why. And he had not been back. When Sam had gone to the Dig site looking for him, he was told the young man had quit, gone back home, in the east.Sam felt the man was lying to him. But why would he lie?The preacher sat on the edge of the bed, in the dim light of predawn, and thought of his wife, probably sprawled in sleep in her black-draped room. Sam had not mentioned his dreams to her-why bother? The two of them had not shared a conversation of any substance in months. They had not shared anything in months.Sam fought back the image of Jane Ann. Increasingly, she had the annoying habit of entering his thoughts at the most inopportune times and places. Alone in his bed. In the shower.He had to smile. A preacher I may be, but I'm still a man, and Jane Ann is a very lovely woman.He shook his head, clearing his thoughts of Jane Ann.Sam had toyed with the idea that someone-G.o.d, perhaps-was trying to tell him something with these dreams. He had quickly rejected that idea.Sam rose and padded softly to the kitchen. He poured a large gla.s.s of orange juice, drank it. then rubbed the cold gla.s.s against his forehead. He sat down at the table, weary from his hours of tossing and turning, fighting the dreams. He tried to think; his mind was a jumble of confusion.Sam knew he and Mich.e.l.le had been happy in their marriage. At first. At least he thought they had been. Childless, but content. But now, reviewing the past years, Sam could pick the marriage apart in retrospect. Their social life had never been very good; women seemed not to like or trust Mich.e.l.le. And, he recalled, his mouth bra.s.sy with the knowledge, he knew she had been unfaithful to him many times. All the pieces fit in their proper places: the half-truths, the open lies he had caught her in, but never told her he knew.And why, Sam reflected, would Mich.e.l.le never see a doctor? Sam had gone, suspecting he was sterile. He was not. Mich.e.l.le refused to go, becoming angry when he suggested it.Sam thought back. He had known her . . . how long? Six years. And she had never been sick. Not once. She had never complained of cramps during her monthly time. Never had a cold. Never had a fever. Nothing. It was almost as if she were not . . . human.And why had she been so insistent upon them coming here to Whitfield? He had other offers of more money, bigger churches. But no, she had thrown a temper tantrum when he suggested another church.Why?He had no answer.Again, as he had many times before, Sam thought of the Catholic priest, Father Dubois. Dubois had never liked Mich.e.l.le, nor she him. Sam sensed it. Did the priest know something Sam did not? If so, why didn't he tell him?Again, the minister had no answer.Sam could think of no logical explanation. None at all. None that would satisfy him. Sam wanted very much to be angry, but he could not direct his anger. Inward, perhaps? Is it all my fault; all my imagination?No. No, it's neither my fault nor my imagination. I've done too much soul-searching. Whatever happened between us was not my doing, and there is something wrong here in Whitfield.He shook his head in disgust, in anger, in frustration, in confusion. Rising, he placed the empty gla.s.s in the sink and made a pot of coffee. He moved quietly in the kitchen; a big man, in his mid-thirties.He looked out the window while waiting for the coffee to make. Almost dawn over the town of Whitfield.A strange dawn, Sam thought, standing by the sink. Birds should be singing, dogs should be barking, there should be movement of people. But there is nothing except the stillness of silence. Nothing at all.Why?Peripheral vision caught a glimpse of some . . . thing slinking by the side of the house across the street. Not a dog. It was too large for an animal. And it had not moved with the fluidity of an animal. The movements had been jerky. It looked like a man. Sort of.Sam looked more closely. Whatever it was-if anything-was gone.Sam was suddenly and unexplainedly very uneasy. There had been something. He had seen it. But what? The house belonged to Max Steiner, and the Steiners had a dog-a Doberman. Why hadn't the dog barked? Perhaps the dog was familiar with . . . whatever it had been?Sam shook his head in annoyance, feeling he was allowing his imagination to run rampant. Despite that, he again looked toward the Steiner house, remembering something the Episcopal had told him a few weeks before."I don't understand it, Sam," Father Haskell had said. "Max and Irene Steiner are devout Christians; good church workers-or used to be. Last month they stopped attending services. No explanation. And they won't see me; won't even allow me in their home. The dog had always been friendly to me, now he snarls and lunges at me when I come around. Sam, it's not just the Steiners-you know that. Church attendance is down town-wide. I don't understand what is happening. Do you?"No, Sam did not. His own church attendance was down. It was as if some . . . force was pulling members away from G.o.d. Pulling them toward-what?He did not know.Sam left the kitchen, slipping quietly down the hall to his bedroom, gathering up his clothing. He showered and shaved, then dressed in old, comfortable jeans, pull-on boots, and a shirt slightly worn at the elbows. He fixed his coffee, then walked softly through the house to the front porch. He sat on the steps, sipping his coffee, watching the eastern sky do its magic, working its multicolored change of hues.Dawn over Whitfield.The morning was not cool, yet Sam suddenly shivered. A long, hard trembling. The ragged edge of tension touched his mind, narrowing his eyes. He had felt the same sensation in combat-and just before combat-in Korea, and he had learned to trust his instincts. They had saved his life before."Saved my life?" Sam muttered. Why did I think that? Do I believe my life to be in danger?Maybe.He sat his cup on the steps. "I think I'll do some prowling," he said aloud.He did not see the eyes that watched him from across the street. In the Steiner home, the Barlow home, the Piper home. Burning eyes. Evil eyes. He could not hear the heavy breathing.Not yet.He backed his car carefully around Mich.e.l.le's and drove the streets of Whitfield. He did not know what he was looking for; something out of the ordinary, perhaps. Some . . . thing thing that would dispell his suspicions. As he drove, he could not find the elusive Thing. that would dispell his suspicions. As he drove, he could not find the elusive Thing.At full light, Whitfield started showing signs of life. People in bathrobes stepping outside to get the morning paper. People sitting on their front porches sipping the first cup of coffee, smoking the first cigarette of the day. Everything appeared normal. Still, some . . . thing thing was not quite right. was not quite right.5am waved at a few of the people. None returned his greeting. He drove past the Conway house. Tom Conway, his wife, and their two children had left the church three weeks ago, offering no explanation as to why. Tom and his wife and kids sat on the front porch of the rambling two-story home. Sam drove slowly past, waving a greeting. The oldest of the kids shot him The Bird, right hand clenched, middle finger rigidly extended. The universal sign of contempt. Up your a.s.s! The man and wife and youngest child, Laurie, laughed.Sam stopped the car dead in the street, not believing his eyes. The father was caressing his daughter's thigh, his hand shoved up her short robe. The teenager spread her legs further apart, father's hand moving upward.Tom Conway, Jr. shot the preacher two Birds.Sam drove on, his face flushed. He had seen it. A father caressing his young daughter. The son popping him Birds. "Young man," Sam muttered, "I would very much like to get out of this car, break off your fingers, and shove them up your-"He caught himself before his anger got the best of him. Calm down, Sam, he cautioned himself. Just calm down. Aloud, "Excuse me, Lord. But I don't know what is wrong in this town. Something sure is. Won't You help me?"Nothing happened as Sam drove on down the street. He had to smile. "Well, Balon, what did you expect, flaming words written across the sky? Perhaps the hand of G.o.d to appear and pat you on the shoulder? He hasn't worked that way in over two thousand years. But He did give you a brain-use it!"Sam could not get the sight of Conway caressing his daughter out of his mind. He had heard rumors of incestuous behavior in Whitfield during the past weeks. He had not wanted to believe the rumors. Now he'd seen it.Then he realized he was driving down Jane Ann's street, slowing at her small house, pulling in the driveway. "Sam!" he railed at his actions. "You're an idiot!"He glanced at his watch. Six-thirty. He started to back out of the drive when the screen door opened. Jane Ann stared at him. She looked tired.She neither told him to come in nor to go away. She merely spoke his name. "Sam."The minister nodded his head. "Are you all right, Jane Ann?" Why did he ask that?She shook her head. "No, Sam. I'm not all right."He cut his engine and walked to her. She stood on the porch, the minister on the front steps, both of them very much aware of the spark that moved between them, looking for something explosive to ignite. Both knew they must be very careful."Will you walk around the side of the house with me, Sam?"They walked, not touching, around to the back. The back door was shattered, pulled from its hinges. A crude picture had been drawn on the bottom half of the door. A naked woman with legs spread wide, exposing the genitalia. JANE ANN printed above the obscene drawing.It was embarra.s.sing for both of them."When did this happen?" Sam asked."Last night. I haven't slept since.""Did you call the police?"She looked up at him, her eyes flashing dark anger. "Sam, it was the police!"It was the first time Sam had been in her house in more than a year. When he had sensed her feelings toward him, and his feelings toward her, he'd stopped his visits, thinking it best for both of them.They stood in the kitchen, looking at each other."Let me fix you some breakfast, Sam.""No, that's not necessary. Coffee will be fine.""Have you eaten?""No-but, I just don't think it would be right.""Sam, nothing is right right in this town, and you know it. Sit down, I'll fix breakfast." in this town, and you know it. Sit down, I'll fix breakfast."He had to admit, it was pleasant, watching Jane Ann prepare breakfast. He sipped his coffee, very good coffee, and watched her move around the smail kitchen. Very little wasted motion. Jane Ann was nothing like his wife.Mich.e.l.le was tall, five seven, with black hair and eyes of the darkest blue, almost black; her complexion was dark.Jane Ann was small and blonde, with a very trim figure, unlike Mich.e.l.le's truly magnificent figure. Although, Sam smiled, no one in his right mind would ever mistake Jane Ann for a boy. Her hair was cut short, framing her face.She turned, as if sensing the minister's eyes on her, and caught him appraising her. "It never hurts to look, Sam," she said impishly, softening the remark with a smile."Only if the man is a minister, or married," he countered."You're a minister, yes. But I wouldn't say your marriage was made in Heaven."He shrugged his reply as she placed his breakfast before him. It was everything he liked, prepared as he liked it. Sam lifted his eyes from the plate."Eggs scrambled, with green peppers and onions. Sausage cooked just right. Toast with real b.u.t.ter and strawberry preserves. How did you know this?""I know lots of things about you, Sam. I hope those preserves are still good. I put them up last year. I never opened them till now."He nodded, chewing on a piece of toast."Mich.e.l.le hasn't fixed-" He stopped short, feeling guilty about being here, feeling guilty about speaking disparagingly of his wife."-fixed your breakfast in a long time," Jane Ann finished the remark. She kept her eyes on her plate as she spoke. "Or slept with you, either."Sam chewed his food slowly, looking at the top of her head. "Ugly rumors."She met his eyes. "They are not not rumors, Sam. Stop trying to kid a small town. You can't do it." rumors, Sam. Stop trying to kid a small town. You can't do it."Sam said nothing. He knew what she meant. Very little got by a small town."Annie Brown has disappeared," she abruptly changed the subject."What do you mean?""I've been tutoring her this summer. Yesterday she simply did not show up. I went to her home to speak with her parents-her stepparents, really. They were very rude; very evasive. They refused to allow me in the house. They said Annie had gone to Bradville to visit relatives-her relatives. The girl has no relatives, Sam-anywhere. I know that for a fact. She's been telling me for a month or more that her stepfather has been-making advances toward her. Her stepmother even told her she'd like to see them-you know, do it!"The scene of Conway caressing his daughter filled 5am's brain. He told Jane Ann what he'd seen that morning. All of it."That's been happening all over town, Sam. Whitfield is turning into a cesspool. I've been propositioned two dozen times this past week and some of the remarks from men have been really nasty.""I've heard some pretty rough things about Brother Farben," Sam said. "If they are true, Jane Ann, I just can't believe he's a minister.""I don't think he is, Sam. He and Otto got together the other night."Sam's eyes widened when she said, "I saw them, Sam. Otto is one of the men who propositioned me.""Too many things happening to this town to be counted off as coincidence.""What do you think is happening in Whitfield, Sam?"He almost spoke of his suspicions, then held back, shaking his head.She smiled at him. "Everybody tells their problems to you, Sam. Who do you tell your problems to?""The greatest listener of all-G.o.d. Now about that back door?""Don't you trust me, Sam?"He was being honest when he said, "I don' trust myself, Janey."She touched his hand and the sensation was almost electric to him. Sam feverishly hoped G.o.d was not taking this moment to peer inside his head, for his thoughts-despite his efforts-were borderline erotic.Sam pulled his hand away from her fingertips. "About that back door?" he said stubbornly.She laughed. "Can't blame a girl for trying. All right, Sam. George Best and Jimmy Perkins."Sam nodded, returning to his breakfast before it got cold. No great shakes in the kitchen, he wasn't about to let this good meal go to waste.He said, "It doesn't surprise me about Best, he's a first-cla.s.s horse's behind. Jimmy, though, that comes as a shock. Jane Ann, let me ask you something, other than the obvious, were they acting strangely?""I-don't know quite how to say this, Sam. Best. well, he acted the way he always acts-you know, what you said. But Jimmy-he wasn't himself.""Explain that, please."She pushed her breakfast plate from her, the meal only half eaten. "Sam, I don't believe Jimmy knew what he was doing. He acted . . . drugged, or something. His movements were-jerky, I guess. But they weren't drunk-neither of them. I know how a drunk person acts, my father died an alcoholic. Perkins and Best were not drunk."Sam finished his breakfast and Jane Ann poured him another cup of coffee. He said, "Perkins acted as though-well, perhaps his mind was being controlled?""Exactly, Sam! Yes.""Interesting," he said dryly. "How did you prevent them from coming into the house?"She smiled grimly. "I was raised on a working cattle ranch, Sam. My father was foreman for years-before the bottle got the best of him. Let me show you something."She left the kitchen, returning in a moment with a 12 gauge pump shotgun. "Best told me how well-endowed he was, and what he'd like to do to me. I pointed this at his crotch, chambered a round, and told him