Devil's Kiss

He shook his head, clearing his thoughts of Jane Ann.

Sam had toyed with the idea that someone—God, 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 glass of orange juice, drank it. then rubbed the cold glass 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 Michelle 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 Michelle. And, he recalled, his mouth brassy 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 Michelle never see a doctor? Sam had gone, suspecting he was sterile. He was not. Michelle 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 Michelle, 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 glass 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 God. 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 Michelle's and drove the streets of Whitfield. He did not know what he was looking for; something out of the ordinary, perhaps. Some . . . 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 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 ass! 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 God 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.'