The Devil's Touch

emotions in the span of a few seconds. None of them pleasant. He looked at the silent, empty church. He clenched his hands into fists of rage, momentarily enjoying the emotion before mentally driving it from him and calming himself.

Not one person had come to mass. No one.

Now the priest knew what he must face. Again. And he was not looking forward to the task.

He cocked his head. Was that a car driving up, stopping? Yes. The priest listened for a moment. The front door of the church opened. Noah Crisp stood silhouetted in the brilliant sunlight that poured from the heavens.

'This time you've got to face him and beat him,' Noah said, his voice slightly hoarse. 'I know he's here, and so do you. We've both known for a long time. I know what people think about us, Daniel. I know people think I'm a borderline basket case. Maybe I am. But I have met him, seen him face to face, and lived to tell of it. That is something few people have ever managed to do. But so much for that. Tell me, how badly outnumbered are we?'

Father Le Moyne shook his graying head. 'Probably five or six hundred to one.'

'That many. Well—we will still have no choice.'

'None.'

'We should have done this years ago, Daniel. Even if it meant—and it would have—taking the law into our own hands.'

'I didn't have the courage. I don't know if I have the courage to do it now.'

Noah walked down the aisle to face the priest. 'We both sinned, Daniel. But sins can be forgiven. What happened is past, and it has not and will not occur again.' He looked around him at the empty church. 'No one came to mass?'

'Not one person.'

'So it's really, finally begun?'

'It appears that way.'

'Let's drive around town. See if the same is or has occurred at other churches.'

Father Le Moyne noticed, for the first time, the pistol stuck in Noah's belt. 'I had heard you had forsaken your gentle beliefs for those of a more savage nature, Noah.'

'I've changed a lot over the past four or five years, Daniel. And yes, it's been that long since we've talked.'

'Almost five years,' the priest muttered. 'Where has the time gone?'

'To the Devil,' the writer said flatly. 'Quite literally.'

Le Moyne had to smile at that.

'Get yourself armed with holy water, Daniel,' Noah urged him.

But the priest shook his head. 'Not yet. It isn't time for that.'

The writer looked dubious … and somewhat ludicrous, dressed in cowboy boots, jeans, a painter's smock, and beret cocked jauntily on his head. But the gun in his waistband was real, and his determination was strong. 'Are you certain, Daniel?'

'As certain as I can be.' He put a hand on his friend's arm. 'Noah, I don't know if I have the faith to go through with this thing. I don't know if I have the strength. I don't know if God has any faith in me. Not in years. I—'

Noah slapped the priest. Backhanded the man of God across the face, rocking his head.

'Don't you ever say anything like that again, Daniel. Not at this juncture of our lives, and the lives of a small band of Christians out there. If I have to, Daniel, I'll use my fists to pound the faith back in you; or to bring it to the surface, as the case may be. Probably is. Do you understand all that, old friend?'

Through watery eyes caused by the abrupt and totally unexpected pop across the face, Father Le Moyne looked through a mist at the man. Physically, Le Moyne could have broken the writer in half. The priest was a big shambling bear of a man. But he was a gentle, loving type of man who abhorred any type of violence.

'You do have a way of getting your point across, Noah,' Father Le Moyne said.

'I felt it quite necessary. And we'll speak no more of your supposedly 'lost faith.' Come on. We have a lot of work to do. His work, Father Le Moyne. We've got to salvage as many lost souls as possible. If it isn't too late.'

'Yes. For us, as well,' the priest reminded the man.

'We don't matter, Daniel. Not any longer. Not in the overall scheme of things. We were adults and fully aware of what we were doing.' He shook his head. 'No matter. There are young people out there,' he said waving his hand, 'who are lost, stumbling about in the evil darkness created by the Master of Night. We have to try to help them. One way or the other,' he added, a grimness to his tone.

Father Le Moyne smiled. 'You always did have a way with the English language, Noah.'

'I used to, Daniel. I really did. I could have been a great writer. Well,' he said grimacing, 'perhaps not great, but a selling author, let us say. All that changed in the few hours before midnight, long ago. But I can still make a contribution to this world—we can, Daniel, you and I. So let's stop dillydallying about and get on with it.'

'One moment,' the priest said, holding up a hand. He went to his living quarters and returned carrying a cross. It looked to be about ten inches long and perhaps seven or eight inches across. 'Cardinal Greiner blessed this cross, many years ago. I think this might be a better weapon—at this time—than anything else.'

Noah smiled. 'You're probably right, Daniel. But I'll keep my .357 for a backup. After you, Father.'

While Daniel Le Moyne and Noah Crisp rode through the small town, each of them experiencing a sinking feeling at the sight of empty churches, Nydia was working herself into a monumental black rage—helped by darker forces,