Devil's Kiss

'At the office.' His voice was shaky.

'Miles?'

'Here. With me.'

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

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

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

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

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

He stopped, facing the men.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'What?'

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

'What's that, preacher?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

A smile spread Miles's lips.

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

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

'Just had it serviced.'

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

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

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

'You want me to talk to her?'

'Yes, please. If you will.'

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

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

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

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

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

'Where is Lucas, Michael?'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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