The Devil's Touch Read online

  "Make plans to storm the house," she told them. "It seems the only way left us. But Sam Balon must be taken alive. 1 must have his seed. See to it."

  And far away, in his nether region at the far north, Satan screamed his outrage.

  "No! You dumb bitch. That is exactly what He wants. You're playing right into Balon's hands. You stupid fucking cunt. You useless daughter of a whore!"

  Satan pointed his dark evil face to the heavens and screamed his fury at the Almighty, wrongly blaming Him for what was occurring on Earth.

  But the Almighty had grown weary of Satan's tirades, and had blocked the Dark One from His ears.

  But the warrior heard. And the mighty warrior could not conceal his victorious smile.

  "Kick ass time," the warrior muttered.

  An old ragged piece of red silk, attached to the inside of the lid, flapped in the sudden rush of air following the opening of the crate's lid.

  But the crate itself was empty.

  When their hearts had settled down into a slower pulsing, and jangled nerves ceased ringing, Sam was the first to speak.

  "What the hell? I know the knocking was coming from this empty crate."

  Noah shone the beam from his flashlight into the dark reaches of the crate. "Not entirely empty," he said. "Put your light in here, Sam."

  The twin beams of light played off the interior of the crate, piercing the gloom, settling on the bottom of the huge rectangular box.

  "It's a book of some sort," Nydia said.

  Noah rose to his tiptoes and reached into the crate, almost falling in. Sam grabbed the smaller man by the seat of his pants and hauled him back.

  "It's a journal of some kind," Noah said, carefully opening the old manuscript, bound in leather and worn leather strips. "When was it written?" he muttered. "Ah! Here it is—1666. Three sixes," he said. "How apropos." He visibly paled when he saw the name of the author on the inside of the leather covering.

  "What's wrong, Noah?" Nydia asked, looking at the man's sudden loss of composure.

  "Samuel Balon," the man said softly. "Samuel Balon wrote this. He started the journal in France, in 1659." He carefully turned the old pages. They were in remarkably good condition for a journal written more than three hundred years before. "This entry was written in a place called Ville Marie."

  "Montreal," Nydia said. "Ville Marie was the original name of the city."

  "Listen to this," Noah said. "I think this might have some bearing on our predicament. Le cog s'oyt par fois es sabbats sonnat le retraicte aux Sorciers."

  "Translate it, please," Sam said.

  Father Le Moyne's voice startled them all. The priest stood in black, framed in light in the shattered doorway to the attic. He said, "the cock crows; the Sabbat ends; the Sorcerers scatter and flee away."

  "But what message does it contain for us?" Noah threw the question to anyone who might have an answer.

  "I think," Sam said, "that it goes along with what my father said. It's telling us to hold out until Sunday. If we can make it until then, we're safe."

  "But Sam," Nydia said. "I—what about the town? Even if we do make it—when we make it," she amended that. "All the dead people; the destruction, everything. What do we do? How do we explain it? Are we going to have to run again? Are we always going to be looking over our shoulder, living in fear?"

  The young man was silent for a moment, very conscious of Father Le Moyne's eyes upon him. It was as if the priest could see something about him; knew something about him that Sam did not know.

  "I can't answer that, Nydia. Maybe—maybe I— we—have been—picked for this job; maybe this is what we were put here to do. Wherever there is a coven, perhaps it's our job to seek it out, destroy it. I don't know. I hope with all my heart that is not the case, but if it is, then we have to obey. I think when this is over, here in Logandale, then we will know for sure. One way or the other."

  Her dark eyes searched his strong face. "All right, Sam. If that is the case, where you go, I go."

  Father Le Moyne smiled. It was working out well. Michael was going to see his dream become reality. The mighty warrior would have a man on Earth to do His work.

  But the heavens would roar when the Almighty discovered what His warrior had done. But, Le Moyne thought, the firmament has shook from the rage of God before—and probably would again.

  Nydia tapped the journal Noah held. "But who, or what, was this Samuel Balon?"

  Father Le Moyne decided he could no longer hide the truth from the group. He could continue to hide his true identity for a while longer, but even that, in time, would have to be revealed.

  "He was a priest," Le Moyne said. He sighed. "Close the crate and come downstairs. I'll tell you what I know about Father Balon." Or what I am allowed to tell you, that is, he thought.

  "Curiouser and curiouser," Sam muttered.

  FIVE

  "Samuel was not the priest's name. His name was Yves. The Church gave him the name of Father Sam. From—what I have been able to gather through the years, Father Sam was a huge bear of a man, and rather a maverick as far as the Church was concerned. One of the reasons he was sent to the New World, I should imagine. I know all this because—well, let's just say I did a paper on the man in college.

  "You see, Father Sam—and that is a misnomer—for the man left the Church, married, and when his wife—" He hesitated, seemed to inwardly struggle for a few seconds, then continued, but Sam and Noah both saw the grimace on his face when he said the word, … "died; well, he attempted to once more assume the title of priest. Of course, it was refused him." Father Le Moyne smiled strangely. "But Father Sam, being the type man he—was, did not let that deter him. He came to this part of the New World, established a Church, and went about his business as if nothing had happened. This house is supposedly built over his grave, so the story goes. No one has yet been able to verify that.

  "As far as why those religious leaders met here," the priest said, doing his best to wear a sheepish look, "had it not been for Father Sam's leaving the Church and marrying, the man might well have been canonized. It is—said that Father Sam met the Devil face on and beat him. Right here on this very spot where we are sitting. I, ah, don't know all the particulars, but that's it in a nutshell."

  The priest is lying, Sam thought. But not lying for any personal reasons. He's lying for a very—pure reason, the phrase came to him.

  "You said he married, Daniel," Noah said. "Do you know the name of the woman he married?"

  The priest's smile was strangely rueful. "Oh, yes," he said softly. "Very well. Michelle Dubois. The union produced several children. One priest came out of that union. Father Sam killed one of the children with his bare hands; a daughter. The other daughter, named after her mother, Michelle, married a man by the name of Duhon. That union produced a cabin-full of children. Several of the boys became trappers. They went west, out around what is now Nebraska; in that area. The other boys of that union became priests. Those that didn't go into the priesthood married— more children. More priests out of those unions.

  "The last record of priests from any marriage of those related to Father Balon was in the late 1700s, in Nebraska. For some reason, the Balons, the Duhons— they left the Catholic faith behind them and joined the Protestant religion. I don't know why."

  Sam leaned back in his chair. He was aware of Father Le Moyne's eyes on him. The stories he had heard as a child; rumors and tall tales about the goings-on around Whitfield came to Sam's mind. He began tying them all up into neat little packages.

  "You appear to be deep in thought, Sam," Noah said, looking at the expression on Sam's face.

  "Yes," he said. Sam then related all the stories he had heard as a child. About Tyson's Lake, Father Dubois, the trapper Duhon, Sam's own father's first wife, Michelle the witch.*

  "It keeps coming back to you, Sam," Monty said.

  "Unfortunately," Sam muttered, very much aware of Father Le Moyne's intense gaze.

  WEDNESDAY NIGHT
>
  "Seventy-eight hours to go," Joe said. "Might as well be seventy-eight years."

  Mille put her hand on Joe's arm. "We're going to make it out of this, Joe," she said, gently squeezing his forearm. "And I want you to know I think you are a fine, good man for staying here, helping in this fight."

  "I ain't no better than none of the others, Mille. I really don't understand what is happening around here. All this Devil stuff and exorcisms and the walking dead." He shook his head. "Too much for an ol' country boy like me."

  "How old are you, Joe?"

  "Too damned old for a young chicken like you," he replied, sensing the direction the conversation was taking.

  She smiled up at him and something soft touched his heart. "How about you letting me be the judge of that?" she responded, her words gentle.

  "Mille—"

  "Shut up, Joe. Just put your arms around me and hold me for a minute or two, all right?"

  "Be glad to oblige," Joe said, his voice husky.

  Father Le Moyne stood in the darkness of the foyer and smiled. He slipped quietly back into the shadows and left the two alone. He approved of Mille and Joe, despite the vast differences in age.

  Barbara came to John and put her arms around her husband. "If we get out of this mess, John, I'll walk out of your life. You can tell people I died—anything. I won't disgrace you with a divorce. I'll change my name and move away. You can get another church and—"

  "No," her husband said, a new firmness to his voice. "Barbara, I never really tried to understand your—problem. Or mine, for that matter. We'll go to doctors, counselors, anything or anybody you like. But we will work it out, I promise you."

  "But the things Duke said."

  "Forget about Duke, Barbara. Put all that behind you. It's over."

  She put her head on his shoulder and wept.

  Monty and Viv sat upstairs, looking out over the darkened sector assigned to them. Sam had referred to it as their perimeter. They were content to be together, touching, their love vibrating between them, constantly reaffirming with silent love messages.

  Jeanne and Ginny sat in a darkened bedroom, looking after Little Sam. Both the young women had fallen in love with the little boy. He was such a good child; never fussy or whiny. He was a happy child. Even if he did sometimes get a funny look in his eyes.

  "I think Byron Price kind of likes you," Jeanne said.

  Ginny laughed softly. "Yeah. I never flirted with a preacher before."

  "I think he's cute, in a kind of fumbling way. You know what I mean?"

  "Yes. Me, too. And it must have been awful for him, his wife taking off that way."

  "I'll stay with Little Sam. Why don't you go sit with Mr. Price. I know you want to."

  "You don't mind?"

  "Not at all."

  "Thanks, Jeanne. 1 owe you one."

  Little Sam sat looking at the draped window, as if he could see through the drapes to the other side. There was a very strange look in his eyes.

  Richard Hasseling was very conscious of Desiree's presence. Uncomfortably so. He had never seen any woman quite so beautiful as Desiree. And his feelings for her were becoming—well, unnerving. He had to keep constantly reminding himself he was a Baptist minister.

  And a virgin.

  When Desiree sat down next to him and put a soft hand on his thigh, Richard thought he was going to die. For sure, he couldn't risk getting up. He would stick out in front.

  Father Le Moyne found Noah at his post at the rear of the house. "Noah? Maintain your sentry duties and I'll talk. I want to tell you something."

  "Very well, Daniel."

  "I will not come out of this alive, Noah. No! Don't say anything. It is—well, I am prepared for it. I want you to know I have valued your friendship. And I am sorry that people thought that—well, you and I had some sort of sexual relationship. I know that hurt you as much as it hurt me. It is a strange and unfeeling society we live in where two men cannot have a close friendship without—well, certain people of low intelligence making something different out of that friendship.

  "Noah, don't waste your life pining and moping away what time you have left you over a woman you haven't seen in thirty years."

  Noah smiled and looked back at the priest. "Marta? My heavens, Daniel. I haven't thought of her in years. No, Daniel, Marta isn't the reason I never married. The years just seemed to march on past me, without my noticing their passage. I grew older, more set in my ways. Then one day I looked up and I was middle-aged. I—am eccentric, to say the least. It would take a woman of exceptional understanding to put up with me, Daniel. And to tell you the truth, 1 really haven't been looking that hard. No. I really haven't been looking at all."

  "You haven't had to look," the priest said dryly. "You've been filling your bed with those young would-be writers and artists of the female gender out at your workshops."

  Noah laughed softly. "Indeed I have, old friend. I have some marvelously delicious memories, Daniel. And I have absolutely no intention of apologizing for any of them."

  The priest smiled. "I should tell you to be ashamed of your behavior and to do penance, but you would probably tell me to stick it in my ear."

  "Not quite that crudely put, Daniel," Noah said with a chuckle. "But—close."

  Both men were silent for a moment. Noah said, "Daniel, just for the sake of conversation, since we all might be looking at eternity any moment, how many people know you were adopted into the Le Moyne family as a young man?"

  "I didn't know you knew, Noah."

  "I guessed. Tricked you, old friend."

  "Exactly, Daniel, how much do you know, or have guessed over the long years?"

  "Let us just say, Daniel—or should I call you Yves?—that you are not of this world."

  The priest did not elect to answer verbally. Instead, he rose from his chair and walked to the man. He put his hand on Noah's shoulder. Noah would remember nothing of the encounter. He would not remember anything about his suspicions of Father Le Moyne being anything other than a small parish priest in Logandale, New York.

  But Noah's life, from that moment on, would be drastically altered.

  The priest removed his hand and offered it to Noah. The writer took it. He could not remember the priest leaving his chair.

  "You've been a good friend, Noah. I have enjoyed it."

  "I, too, old friend." '

  Le Moyne lifted his eyes to the darkness of outside. "Something moved out there, Noah."

  Noah jerked his head around and searched the ink of night. "I see it, Daniel. Call Sam and Joe."

  Sam came on the run. "Human, Noah?" he asked.

  "Yes. I believe so." He pointed. "Right over there, Sam—see it?"

  Sam could see the white form lying on the cold wet earth. "I can't tell from this distance if it's male or female. But whatever, it's naked. I'm going after it."

  Before anyone could argue, Sam was running through the night. Joe was right behind him. The form on the cold ground was a woman. Sam rolled her over. He had seen her around the small town but did not know her name.

  She opened her eyes. They were filled with horror and fright.

  "Easy," Sam told her. "You're safe."

  "Susie Parish," Joe said. "Vernon's wife. Jesus, Susie. What happened?"

  She laughed bitterly. "You name it, Joe. If it's perverted and twisted, it was done to me." She put her head on the grass and began weeping.

  "Come on, Joe. Help me get her inside."

  Inside, the women took over. Nydia was ready with a blanket to place over the naked woman's shoulders. In the light of the kitchen, all could see the woman had been savagely abused. But despite the whip marks on her body and the bruises on her face, Susie was still a very attractive woman.

  Susie was shaking from the cold, exhausted from her ordeal. But when Nydia tried to lead her out of the kitchen and into a bedroom, she pulled away.

  "No," she gasped. "Got to tell you what I know. Why I came. It's—it's my oldest daughte
r, Judy. She's—one of them. I—never saw anything so awful in my life. She's one of the night people."

  "Night people?" Viv questioned anyone who might give her an answer.

  "The undead," Noah told her. Mrs. Parish, he concluded, was a gorgeous woman. Something about her fascinated the writer. She was so—strong. Brave. She had risked her life to come here, to warn them. What a completely unselfish gesture on her part.

  Noah did not notice Father Le Moyne smiling at him.

  "My youngest daughter, Anne, and my son, Fred, have gone over to the other side. Both of them rejected God and swore allegiance to Satan." Her eyes found Noah. "The coven members are going to storm this place at dawn. Hoping to catch you all by surprise. They thought I was knocked out. But I was only pretending. I slipped out the back window of the house and came here."

  Noah squared his shoulders. "Then, my dear, we shall all certainly be ready to repulse the attack." Although, he silently mused, he hadn't the foggiest idea how.

  MIDNIGHT

  Sam had slept for a few hours and felt refreshed. As he dressed, an idea began forming in his mind. He dressed in dark clothing, stuffed a dark blue skull cap in his pocket and a dark scarf around his neck. When he went out to do some headhunting, he would pull the scarf over his face, leaving only his eyes exposed.

  He could tell the wind had picked up. It was still blowing out of the northwest, but with heavy gusts, maybe as much as thirty-five to forty miles per hour at times.

  Look to yourself to even the odds. You are trained to do that. His father's words returned to him.

  Sam's smile was a warrior's smile. Right, Dad, he thought. Guerrilla warfare, hit and run, demoralize the enemy. Hit hard and fast and deadly.

  "All right, Dad," Sam said aloud. "I get the message."

  Sam went downstairs and began gathering up long-necked bottles. He filled those three-quarters full with gasoline and mixed flour with the gas. The flour would stick the burning gasoline to a surface, thus ensuring a longer burning time. He jammed a rag down each bottle neck and carefully wrapped each bottle in a thick towel to prevent breakage. He found a knapsack taken from the sporting goods store and packed his Molotov cocktails.