The Devil's Touch (17 page)

"Sound her out, Mille," Sam told her. "If you think she's still—one of us." He stumbled on that. "You two stay close together until we can all meet and talk this out. By that time we should have firmed things up and know when and how to take a stand."

Viv slumped back on the couch and shook her head. "This is all a bad dream—a nightmare. It has to be. It
can't
be real. I'm going to wake up pretty soon and everything is going to be all right. Oh, God! Please let it be."

Monty went to her and took her in his arms. "It isn't a dream, babe. And you are awake. But we're going to make it. We're going to fight this thing and we're going to win it." He looked at Sam. "Aren't we, Sam?"

It was at that moment Sam realized they were all looking to him for leadership. Ex-Chief of Police Draper, Joe, Mille, Viv, all of them. And he knew, too, he did not want that job. Not again. He didn't know if he was up to it.

But you are,
the voice boomed in his head.
You must. You have no choice in the matter.

Sam met the gazes of the men and women gathered in the den. He sighed heavily, thinking: Here we go again, folks. Quit it, Sam, he berated himself. This is not the time for jokes. "Yes," the young man said. "If we stick together and don't lose our heads, we'll make it." Most of us, he thought, but did not put that into words. "But I won't lie to you. To any of you. It isn't going to be easy. The Devil and his followers will use every evil trick in their black book to get you all to join them. They will tempt you and entice with everything you can possibly think of. They will make it sound so appealing it will take all of your inner strength to combat it." He paused and said, "And—maybe some of you won't make it. It's that tough and tempting. I know, and so does Nydia. We went through it, and so did my dad. Nydia's stepfather raped her." He did not tell the group that Little Sam could well be a demon child. "Nydia's mother seduced me, and my seed produced, within her, a demon child. I do not know what sex or where the child is, but I strongly suspect the child—and it may not be a child—it may be a full grown adult, in some form, is close by. The Devil's child is playing a vital part in all this." And I wonder if the tablet is near?

Yes!

I have to face that, too? Again? Sam projected the question.

Yes!
came the silent reply. Sam could not identify the voice. He didn't think it was his father, but he couldn't be sure.

The young man looked into the eyes of the group. He read utter disbelief on the faces of the men and women. He knew it was too much for them to accept at one sitting. But he felt he did not have a choice in the matter. And there was so much he wasn't telling them.

"I know," Sam said. "I know. It's difficult for you to believe. But it is all very true and real, please believe me.

Monty stared at his shoes for a moment. He lifted his eyes. "Let's take this a day at a time, Sam. Let us—adjust, swallow all this. I don't doubt you—not for a minute—please. But Jesus God—this is storybook stuff; you see this at the movies, on TV. It—just doesn't,
can't
happen in real life."

"But it is happening," Sam told them. He stood up. "I'm going to prowl around town some, see what's happening. I'll check back with you all later."

"Be careful," Monty warned him.

Sam's smile was grim. "Don't you worry about that. I know what I'm up against. What we're up against. But you people have yet to discover the true horror of what is lying in wait for you."

"You could have talked all day and not said that," Joe mumbled.

There was no humor in Sam's reply. "Words alone cannot describe what is facing us all. You are days—perhaps only hours—away from getting a firsthand glimpse of all the horrors of hell."

"Lordy, Lordy," Joe said.

With a very stunned and badly shaken minister in the back seat of the automobile, Father Le Moyne and Noah pulled away from the minister's residence. "I'm sorry, gentlemen," Byron said from the back seat. "Even though I grew up on the streets of Buffalo, running wild as a buck, I have never fired a gun in my life."

"I took up skeet shooting about five years ago," Noah said. "I found it helped me to relax. Prior to that, I was a liberal's liberal: gun control, Save the Punks, abolish the death penalty—the entire nine yards. Then I did some serious soul-searching and found that most of my philosophy was unworkable in reality. I began plinking with a handgun. I found it great fun and just as relaxing as skeet shooting. If I ever again take part in any civil disobedience, it will probably be outside a prison somewhere, yelling for the warden to go ahead and execute the bastard!"

Behind the wheel, Father Le Moyne fought to conceal his smile. "Noah, you've turned into a real tiger."

"I'm doing my best, Daniel. But it's rather difficult to inflict a serious bite with dentures." The writer laughed. He patted the butt of his .357. "One of these will almost always get a person's attention, though." He pointed to a crowd of men and women gathering on a street corner. "Look over there!"

"Shall we stop?" Le Moyne asked.

"Just drive by slowly," Noah said, not taking his eyes from the crowd. "Damn pack of rabble and trash."

The priest slowed the car. The writer and the men of God looked at the crowd. The mixed group returned the looks, glaring sullenly at the men in the car. One of the women arrogantly gave the trio the middle finger.

"Mrs. Baxter," Noah muttered. "Bitch used to teach Sunday School at the Lutheran church. I bet she taught them some trash, all right."

Someone in the crowd said something, the sound of the following laughter reaching the men in the car as they slowly drove past.

"I wonder what was said?" Father Le Moyne quietly asked.

"I doubt that you really want to know, Daniel," Noah told him. "For I imagine it was pure filth."

"Devil worship?" Byron spoke from the back seat. "Covens and witchcraft and the black arts? In Logan-dale. I just can't accept it, gentlemen. I just can't. Someone is playing tricks with you all. This simply
cannot
be occurring in this town."

Noah glanced back at the man. His eyes were glazed and the minister looked as though he might come unglued at any moment. Noah cut his eyes to Father Le Moyne, then back to Byron.

"Byron?" the priest said. "This has been a very trying and traumatic day for you. Why don't you rest for a few moments? Just put your head back, close your eyes, and rest. It will do you good."

"Don't you dare patronize me, Daniel!" the Methodist snapped back. "I am not a child."

"I know you're not a child, Byron. And I did not mean to patronize you. I apologize for my tone. It's just that you do not know what you are—what we are—facing in this town today."

"What happened between my wife and I has nothing to do with black magic. And this Sunday was merely a fluke of some sort," the minister stated flatly, his tone revealing his unyielding attitude on the matter. "I do not believe in the black arts. While there very well may be a gathering—a coven, if you will, in this town, of misguided men and women, I refuse to accept the premise of the Devil's actually being in Logandale. The mere thought is ludicrous."

Noah cut his eyes to the priest. The writer arched an eyebrow and sighed. "I hope you are an open-minded person, Byron. For you are about to be rudely slapped across the face by reality."

"Nonsense!"

"Byron," Father Le Moyne spoke softly. "Are you disputing the written word that in Luke the Devil claims authority over all the world?"

"Not at all, Daniel. But if I am to take that literally, then I would have to accept the premise of the individual's laying on of hands to heal, as well. Luke 4:40, 1 believe."

The priest smiled. "Are you saying that Jesus did not heal those with divers diseases?"

'That is not what I meant, Daniel," the Methodist defended his position. "And you know it."

"I know, Byron. Byron, we could talk of Satan's seeking man's destruction—in Peter. We could discuss Satan's tempting man to disobedience—Genesis. We—"

"Yes, Daniel," the minister cut him off. "I know all that. That Satan blinds the unbelievers. That he incites men to evil. That he appears as the Angel of Light. That he delights in misusing the scriptures. I am very much aware of all that. The Good Lord knows you and I have spent many a night debating all that—and more. But I do not believe in demonic possession, black magic, exorcism, witches, warlocks, things that go bump in the night, Bigfoot, the Loch Ness monster—none of that. I am telling you both, before you race about town, making utter fools of yourselves, that today was only a fluke, and nothing more."

"Like John, Byron, I feel you are about to witness something that will awe you."

"Nonsense!"

Worried about Little Sam and Nydia, plagued by a guilty conscience, and wanting to tell Nydia what had happened the previous night, Sam returned home. He found the note.

"Gone for a drive!" Sam said, his voice echoing around the empty house. He couldn't believe it. Of all the people in Logandale, Nydia should have known how much danger they were facing. And she calmly goes out for a drive. He shook his head in disgust and mounting anger.

The dark forces began working at him, silently, invisible, insidiously.

His anger mounted. "All right," he said hotly. "If that's the way she wants to play the game, then two can play as well as one."

Sam stood for a moment in the den, looking at the chair where Janet had straddled him, taking his hardness into her hot young depths. He vividly recalled the scene: her firm breasts, jutting nipples, and soft skin. He replayed in his mind her tongue probing his lips and mouth. He recalled her hands on him.

He shook his head, attempting to clear them of those scenes. He found he could not.

"Well, it won't happen again," he muttered. "I made a mistake, and I'm going to catch hell for it." He laughed ruefully. "More truth in that than 1 might think."

Then the dark forces entered his mind. Their good friend at Nelson, Xaviere Flaubert. Sam had picked up vibes from her more than once. He felt she was ready for a brief fling … with him. Hell, why not? She was tall and well-built, with soft, long brown hair, lovely gray eyes. And the new girl in town, Desiree Lemieux. Both young women were gorgeous, beautiful. For a moment, Sam allowed himself the pleasure of mental eroticism, wondering how they would look naked.

He experienced such a heady feeling of lust he had to clench his big hands into fists and shake himself like a dog to clear his mind.

The forces slipped away and Sam was left with no conscious memory of what he had been thinking. But it was firmly implanted in his subconscious. And it would return … with a vengeance.

He went to his gun cabinet and took out his .41 mag, checking to see if it was fully loaded. It was. He slipped a handful of cartridges into his jacket pocket and left the house, carefully locking the front door. He looked in the glove box of his pickup. The .38 Chiefs Special was in leather, fully loaded. Sam, like his father whom he had never known, paid very little attention to current gun laws. Like so many law-abiding Americans, Sam believed he had a right to own one gun, or one hundred guns, if that is what he wished. And it was no business of the government, or of anyone else, how many guns he owned. Like his father, Sam was a conservative in much of his thinking.

Sam drove aimlessly through the small town, not liking the feeling that slowly crept over him as he drove. The Dark One was here, very close. Sam had no doubts about that. The feeling was too strong. And it was the same feeling he had experienced up in Canada, at Falcon House.

As he drove the nearly deserted streets, he noticed someone had thrown something through a window of the First Baptist Church, shattering the stained glass.

"It's begun," Sam muttered. "They have started. The campaign of terror will intensify." And with a sinking feeling, he knew the helpless elderly would be the first to suffer.

The very young and the very old, Sam mused. Always the ones caught in the middle.

A teenager—Sam guessed him to be about fifteen—shot looks of hate at Sam as he drove slowly past the boy. A hard feeling of dejavu struck Sam, hitting him with such force he pulled off the road at the first intersection and parked by the curb. He put his forehead on the steering wheel as his mind catapulted back in time.

Sam viewed three men in an old pickup truck. He knew the town he was seeing. Whitfield. And there was Wade Thomas and a man he didn't know in the cab of the truck. Sam's father was behind the wheel.

Sam felt his spiritual embodiment pulled closer and closer to the slowly moving pickup. God, but my dad was a big one, Sam thought. Look at the arms and shoulders on him.

Time gripped the young man in firm hands and held him in silent invisible space. He could hear his father and the other men talking, and could, somehow, know what they were thinking. He was there, flung back in time.

In front of the drive-in, the county road was blocked by milling teenagers and their cars and trucks. The three men in the pickup truck watched as a young man openly and carelessly caressed the buttocks of a teenage girl. The young man cupped both cheeks of her denim-clad buttocks. The girl giggled obscenely, rubbing against his crotch.

"The preacher's daughter," Wade said. "Margaret Farben."

"Yes," Sam replied. He cut his eyes. "Look at that."

A teenage boy had a teenage girl backed up against a car, her Levi-clad legs spread wide, the boy between them, hunching, crotch to crotch.

"I believe," Sam said dryly, "if memory serves me correctly, we used to call that dry-fucking."

"Sam!" Wade was shocked. He knew his preacher was a maverick—everybody knew that. But not this much a maverick.

"Pardon my bluntness," the minister said. "But what would you call it?"

Wade shook his head. A light, airy sensation had overtaken him at the sight of all this sexual display. He experienced a slight erection. He could not clear his head.

"Sam!" Wade shouted.

"Steady, Wade," the minister cautioned him. "Fight it. All this is being staged for us. It's set up by Satan. Fight it."