Devil's Kiss Read online

  But neither wanted to be the first to mention it.

  Wade wondered if his minister knew his wife was running around on him with an elder of the church? He decided Sam did, but in his usual manner, was playing it close to the vest.

  “How’s the paper’s circulation, Wade?”

  The question caught the editor off guard, startling him. He shrugged. “So, so.”

  “No one stopping their advertising with you?”

  Wade’s eyes narrowed slightly. “It comes and goes, Sam.”

  “Sure.”

  “Terrible thing about John Benton,” Wade changed the subject.

  “Awful. The funeral is tomorrow.”

  “I heard about Jane Ann’s trouble. It’s very strange.”

  “I guess you heard about the sheriff hiring George Best, then?”

  “The same day? Yes. I suppose Walter had his reasons?”

  Right—whatever they may be.”

  Wade let that lie for the moment. “Is it true about Chester’s kids? Did they leave home last evening?”

  “Yes. Yes, they did. Hurt their parents very badly. Wade? Why did you suddenly send your kids to summer camp in Colorado last week? Wade Jr. told me he was looking forward to working here with you this summer.”

  The editor sighed heavily. “Because Miles convinced me it was the right thing to do. His kids went, too, you know.”

  “He wants to see me this afternoon. In private.”

  “You’re not going to like what he has to say, Sam.”

  “I believe I know what he’s going to say, and I agree with him.”

  Wade slammed his hand on his desk top, suddenly angry. His face was flushed. He rose to stalk the small office, pacing restlessly. “I’m sorry, Sam, but I just don’t buy it. I’ve had time to think on it, and I just don’t believe it.”

  “Miles obviously believes it enough to go against his own religious upbringing. You believed it enough to send your kids out of town,” Sam reminded him.

  “I panicked. A moment of weakness, that’s all.”

  “Why didn’t you or Miles come to me with your suspicions? Why wait?”

  The newsman stared at the minister for a few seconds, then say down behind his desk. “All right, Sam—all right! Enough, okay?” His face was red, a combination of anger and frustration and entrapment.

  A minute ticked by while Wade attempted to gather his thoughts. “Miles doesn’t know what it is,” he muttered. “And neither do I, for that matter.” He drummed his finger tips on the desk. “Sam, Miles hasn’t been to a temple or synagogue in almost thirty years. Since his bar mitzvah. He was laughing the other day; told me he didn’t believe he was a Jew—just Jewish!

  “Sam, I’m going to tell you something in very blunt language, you’re on the sheriff’s shitlist—you know that?”

  “I know.”

  “You’ve been snooping around behind his back.”

  “I sure have, Wade.”

  The editor sighed, slowly nodding his head in resigned agreement. He rubbed his eyes, then massaged his temples. “All right, Sam. Let’s compare notes, okay?”

  “I guess my feeling that . . . something was—is—wrong started with Charlie Bell,” Wade admitted. “Sam, Charlie and I go ’way back together. Grade school. Best of friends. We started playing golf back when we were—oh—freshmen in high school, out at the Club. Twenty-five years ago; little more than that, now. Then, about five-six weeks ago, he became a stranger to me. Cold. I went to him at the bank to talk about financing a new pickup. Over the past fifteen years I’ve financed six new cars with Charlie’s bank. This time, Sam, he turned me down cold—flat. In so many words, he told me to get out of his bank and don’t come back. I still haven’t gotten over that.”

  “And you have no idea what might have brought all this on?”

  The editor was suddenly embarrassed. Well—Sam—yeah, I do, sort of. You see, Charlie, about a week before, had kind of suggested—well, talked around the idea of us swapping wives.”

  The minister did not appear to be shocked. “Like they do out at the Club.” It was a statement.

  “You and Anita still go out there?”

  “No! After I turned down Charlie’s offer—well, I would walk in the Club door and conversation would stop. Anita was propositioned every time she went in there; pretty crude stuff, Sam. We resigned our membership.” He was thoughtful for a moment. “As a matter of fact, so did Peter Canford, Jane Ann, Chester and Faye. That’s about it, I guess.”

  Sam remained silent, waiting for his friend to continue.

  “Then Art Holland pulled his advertising out of the paper. I’d been friends with Art for years—close friends; we were Frat Brothers at the university. Now he won’t speak to me. Others began pulling their advertising out, gradually. Then, last week, my ads took a nose dive. Went from bad to zero.”

  “Have you talked with other editors around the state?”

  No.”

  Why?”

  “For one thing, Sam, I haven’t been out of Whitfield in a month. For another, my national and state ads have been keeping me going—in a manner of speaking. For another, I guess—well, it’s the reporter coming out in me.” He thumped the desk with a fist, then blurted, “I want to know what in the hell is going on around here!

  Sam told him of Paul Merlin’s ordering him off his range that morning.

  “That’s incredible! Paul is good, decent man.”

  Sam told him of the closing of highway 72, north and south, for a week.

  “What!?” Wade shouted.

  “The state highway department says the notice ran in this paper for weeks.”

  No way, Sam! It has not run in my paper. Closing down? Good Lord, Sam—we’d be cut off here—” The truth came staggering into his brain. Cut off,” he whispered. Cut off!” his voice was stronger.

  “Wade, I want you to think back. Has anybody approached you to join any kind of club, or, oh, cult—that’s what I’m trying to say?”

  He shook his head. “No. Some of us used to gather at various homes to discuss church business, things for the kids to do. Nondenominational meetings among parents. But we don’t do that any longer. Haven’t for—I guess a couple of months. You know that. My friends won’t discuss anything with me; those people who used to be my friends, that is,” he added sourly. He reached for the phone.

  Sam’s hand shot out, grabbing his wrist, stopping him. “No!” the preacher said.

  “Sam? Have you gone crazy? Excuse me, but I want to find out what’s going on around here.”

  “It’s too late,” Sam’s voice held a warning.

  Wade gave up attempting to free his wrist from Sam’s viselike grip. The man was strong as a bear. He nodded, and Sam released him. Rubbing his wrist, Wade asked, “Too late for what?”

  “Do you trust me, Wade?”

  “Sure. You know that without asking. Of course, I do. Dumb question.”

  “Then listen to me for a few minutes—answer a few questions, then make up your mind whether to call.”

  “All right,” Wade leaned back in his chair, a half-smile on his lips. “Sounds awfully sinister, preacher, but I’ll listen.”

  “First give me a cigarette.”

  “I didn’t know you smoked!”

  “I don’t, very often. Come on, Wade, give me a cigarette.”

  He tossed a pack of Pall Mall’s on the desk. “Next thing I know my minister’s going to tell me he drinks, too.”

  “I had a shot of booze with Chester last evening.”

  Wade rolled his eyes and grimaced. “Please spare me any more of your vices, Sam.”

  “Just leave the pack where I can get at it, will you? Ready for this? Okay. Tell me everything you know about Dr. Black Wilder and his crew.”

  “That’s easy. I don’t know anything about them! Sam, I’m much more interested in this so-called notice that is supposed to have run in—”

  “Just bear with me a few minutes, Wade,” Sam cut in.
“Okay? What do you know about the Tyson Lake area?”

  “I might be able to help you there. It’s been fenced off for years—as long as I can remember. It’s full of caves, holes, lava pits.”

  “You’ve seen these caves and holes and pits? Firsthand?”

  Well—no, Sam. But someone obviously has, or the place wouldn’t be fenced off for public safety.”

  “Karl Sorenson owns the land?”

  “That’s right. Been Sorenson land for—oh, over a hundred and fifty years. Maybe longer.”

  “And the Sorenson’s came from—where?”

  Wade shrugged. “Scandinavia, I guess.”

  Uh-huh. Got a dictionary, Wade?”

  “You’re asking a newspaper man that?” he grinned. “Sure.” He flipped open a large dictionary on his desk, cleverly hidden under a pile of out-of-town newspapers. “What’s the word, Sam?”

  “Black.”

  “Black? Just Black?” He received a stare for a reply. “Okay.” He thumbed through the pages.

  “Got it.”

  “Check the Icelandic spelling.”

  “Blakkr.”

  “Now look up wild.”

  A curious stare, then Wade thumbed through the W’s. “All right, got it.”

  Icelandic spelling?”

  “Villr.”

  “Put them together in English.”

  The editor was thoughtful for a moment. “Black Wild. Black Wilder; that what you’re getting at? So what?”

  Sam told him of the book he’d read. Of Jane Ann’s suspicions. Of his own.”

  “Duhon,” Wade muttered. “Yeah, I recall reading about him. He isn’t exactly one of the heroes of early Americana, but he did trap this area two centuries ago. Let me think back to my history classes at the university. All right. Duhon, along with a Father—” he stumbled over the word, “Dubois, helped set up the First Catholic Church in what is now Nebraska. Dubois! Father Dubois is our parish priest now.” He forced a smile.

  “Interesting, isn’t it?” Sam returned the forced smile.

  “Have you spoken with Father Dubois?”

  “Not lately. And not about this, but I plan to—today.”

  Wade nodded absently. He rose to his feet, walking to a wall lined with books. He selected a slim volume of Fork County history. “Yes, things are coming back to me. Sam, do you know what is purported to have happened to Duhon and the original Father Dubois?”

  No.”

  “Real fairy tale stuff.” He flipped a few pages of the book, found the passage he sought, and read, The log cabin church was destroyed in the late 1700s. Folklore has it that the church was destroyed by huge, foul-smelling, hairy beasts, who, after destroying the church, ate both Duhon, the trapper, and the priest, Dubois. He laughed. “Pure hogwash.”

  Sam said nothing.

  “The truth,” Wade read on, will probably never be known, for their bodies were never found, nor was any grave site ever located.

  He skipped a few pages. The church was originally built near what is now the town of Whitfield, in an area known locally as Tyson’s Lake. The lake was named in memory of two young children, Abe and Martha Tyson, who disappeared near there in the mid-1800’s, and were presumed to have drowned.

  Trappers have long avoided the area known as Tyson’s Lake, because of the bad smells coming from the small stand of timber, and because of the frequent howling and snarling from the woods.

  The author goes on to say the smells probably came from bad water in some of the holes, and the howling and snarling pure imagination and the wind.

  “Sure,” Sam said. “Right.”

  This time the editor’s smile was not forced. He openly chuckled. “Come on, Sam! You’re not going to sit there and tell me you believe in ghosties and ghoulies and things that go bump in the night?”

  “Do you believe in God, Wade?”

  “Certainly, I do!”

  “Then if you believe in God, you have to believe in the devil.”

  Wade nodded, but refused to elaborate further. He sat behind his desk, a slight smile on his lips, his eyes amused.

  “Why did the radio station close down, Wade?”

  He shrugged. “I guess because it wasn’t making any money. Town’s too small. It was always marginal.”

  “Who owned it?”

  “Oh, it’s changed hands several times in the past ten years. A media group out of Omaha owned it for years. Then about three years ago—” he paused, his eyes lifting to meet Sam’s, “Karl Sorenson bought it.”

  “And ran it until a few months ago. That’s interesting.”

  “Maybe,” Wade was thoughtful. “But I know something that is more interesting, I believe. You know Karl Sorenson?”

  “Unfortunately. He’s perhaps one of the most profane men I’ve ever had the misfortune to encounter. Why do you ask?”

  “Karl’s been spending a lot of time with Otto Stockman.”

  “That is interesting. And odd. The most profane man in the county spending time with a Baptist deacon. Stranger still, when one recalls it was Otto who urged the new man, Farben, to break with the Ministerial Alliance a couple of months ago. I heard Farben called the M.A. the most useless group in town.”

  “I remember you telling me about that. I didn’t pursue it because I know you don’t care for Otto.” He grinned. “Or is that putting it too mildly?”

  “No, it isn’t. I prayed for guidance, Wade; prayed for help and forgiveness because of my dislike for Otto. I recall what Father Dubois told me about Stockman. He said Otto was too Christian! He said anytime a mortal man sets himself up as a pure model for others to follow, he’s in real trouble. Dubois said he’d known Otto for years and the man had always been a pompous ass. He allowed himself to be placed on a pedestal. Dubois told me a couple of years ago he thought Otto was heading for a bad fall. He didn’t elaborate.”

  “You think Otto has something to do with—whatever you believe is happening here?”

  Sam lifted his shoulders in a shrug. “Maybe. Something else, too. Jane Ann told me Annie Brown has disappeared.”

  “What do you mean, disappeared?”

  “Gone. Vanished. Departed. Dematerialized—”

  Wade held up one hand. “Enough, Sam-spare me. I know the meaning of the word. I withdraw the question. How do you know she’s disappeared?

  “Because Jane Ann checked it out. No one has seen her. Not at church, not at the movies, nowhere. She’s just gone.”

  “Her stepparents?”

  “They told Jane Ann she’d gone to visit relatives in Bradville. That’s a lie. The girl has no relatives.” He related to Wade what Jane Ann had told him. The editor’s face expressed his disgust at her stepparent’s actions.

  “Have you talked with the sheriff?”

  “Wade, the sheriff is in this thing up to his neck,” He told the newsman what Chester had overheard; all his personal suspicions. “You will recall that Walter has dropped out of the church. Has he been friendly toward you lately?”

  “No. No, he hasn’t. He’s been acting strangely of late. Sam, three-quarters of the people in this town are behaving—well, not normally. Damnit, Sam!” he slammed his open hand on the desk. “Come on straight with me—say what’s on your mind.”

  “Just calm down, Wade. I want to know more about Tyson’s Lake.”

  “Now, what?” he asked irritably.

  “Your father was a newspaperman. What did he have to say about that area?”

  “My father died when I was was seven years old, Sam. I don’t remember much about him.”

  “I’m sorry, Wade. I didn’t know.”

  He shook his head. “No, I’m the one who should be apologizing, Sam. I never told you about him. Sorry I lost my temper. But this . . . thing—this town; it’s got me upset and confused.”

  “Does it bother you to talk about your father?”

  “Oh, no.”

  “Was your dad killed in an accident?”

  “Sort of, I gue
ss you could say.” Wade seemed evasive.

  Sam pressed on. Like a cop who had just picked up a strong lead, Sam felt a tingling in the pit of his stomach. “Sort of an accident, Wade? Where did the accident happen?” He knew the answer before Wade opened his mouth.

  The small office was very quiet. Wade’s sigh was audible. He kept his eyes downcast. “Not far from Tyson’s Lake,” he said softly.

  “How did he die, Wade?”

  Wade’s dark eyes lifted to meet Sam’s. “You know, preacher, you’re beginning to spook me a little. Just a little.”

  “I’m waiting.”

  “Sam, from all I’ve been able to piece together, my dad was a very virile man. Kept himself in excellent physical shape. He ran, he boxed, did calisthenics. The whole bit, and he wasn’t afraid of a living thing.

  “It was just about this time of the year. Yeah, almost to the date. Dad had been working on some hush-hush story. No, don’t look at me like that or ask me what—I don’t know. I’ve torn up this building, looking for a lead of some kind—any kind. Nothing. No journal, no notes, no nothing.

  “Anyway, mother told me, just before she died, that dad had started carrying a pistol whenever he went out there. No one knows why he did it. And no one really knows what happened. Lord knows, I don’t. I just vaguely remember the funeral. Closed casket. When I grew older, mother told me dad had been horribly clawed; mangled. Blood everywhere, and not just dad’s blood. She said whatever it was that killed him—and the theory at that time was a bear or a puma—had to have died later. Dad’s pistol had been fired several times, and he was an expert shot with that .44.”

  He sighed heavily, as if the telling troubled him. “This is the strange part: dad had dragged himself away from the fence—it was fenced off even then—barbed wire. It’s been replaced several times. Dad dragged himself almost a half mile, to an old road. Doctor King—not Tony, his father—told me years later that dad’s face was grotesque; so horribly twisted as to be almost macabre, as if dad had been frightened out of his wits. But I can’t believe dad would be frightened of anything, or anybody.