The Devil's Heart Read online

He told her of the events poolside.

  Her expression was one of confusion. "I wonder why she kept that from me all these years?" She shyly rubbed her fingertips on the back of his hand. "Roma is also lusting after you—and she'll have you, Sam."

  He shook his head.

  "Yes, she will. Roma always gets what she wants. One way or the other. Don't anger her, Sam—please. I'm afraid of her; always have been. I … can't say more. Not until I'm more certain of the thoughts in my mind."

  "Hey," Sam said. "Let's not get heavy with this, Nydia. I have an idea. Let's go exploring this afternoon. Hike in the woods. You want to do that?"

  "Yes," she said, her voice a caress.

  "Hey, you lovebirds!" Black called from the door. Sam and Nydia looked up, both slightly embarrassed. "Just call me the little ole matchmaker, huh?"

  He walked to the buffet line and fixed a plate, sitting down at the table.

  "Really, Black," Sam smiled, "you can't blame me, can you? She's positively gorgeous."

  "Really?" the brother questioned. "I always thought she was rather plain."

  Nydia stuck out her tongue at him and rose from the table.

  "Sis?" Black caught her arm. "Sit down for a second, will you? I owe you both an apology." They looked at him. "Yeah, I forgot to tell you: I invited some others up here."

  "Who?" Nydia's tone was sharp.

  "Oh, you know them all, sis: Lana, Linda, Carol, Susan—a few more. Then there's Adam, Chad, Burt, Mac … some others. I was going to tell you both, but it just slipped my mind."

  "Thanks, brother," Nydia said, fire flickering in her eyes. "A couple of those you named are okay; the test are creeps. I cannot tolerate them."

  "Give them a chance, sis. That's all I ask. You just don't know them."

  "That's the problem, brother dear: I do know them. I'll get the cook to pack us a lunch, Sam. Let's go as quickly as possible." She whirled and left the room, her anger evident in her step.

  "You and sis have plans, Sam?"

  "Hiking, exploring some."

  "Be careful, and don't get lost," Black cautioned with a grin. "It's pretty wild out there."

  "Oh, I'll be careful, Black. Like you, I've had some pretty extensive training in staying alive."

  The young men locked glances, Black finally saying, "Yes, that's true. I've often wondered just which one of us is the tougher."

  Sam's smile was tight. "I hope you never have to find out, Black."

  Sam left it at that.

  Sam had more of his father in him than even his mother suspected, for he never traveled unprepared. In his rooms, after dressing in jeans, heavy shirt, and jump boots, Sam slid a heavy-bladed knife, in its leather sheath, onto his belt. And he had brought with him—quite illegally—a snub-nosed .38 pistol. He slipped that into a pocket of his jacket and then knocked on Nydia's door.

  "You ready, Nydia?"

  The door opened and she stood before him, a young lady just as beautiful in jeans and rough shirt as in a ballroom gown.

  "You look good enough to eat," Sam told her.

  "I've thought about that, too," she said, a smile on her lips.

  Sam cleared his throat and decided to shift gears and head in another direction. "Nydia? Why don't you like those people Black invited up here?"

  "You don't know?" she seemed surprised. "I guess not. They have a … cult at Nelson and Carrington. They've tried several times to get me to join. I refused."

  "What kind of cult?"

  "They practice Devil worship."

  FOUR

  Sam did not realize just how isolated they were until he and Nydia got into the deep timber on the edge of the big park just north of the Williams' home. The dark timber closed around them about 500 meters from the edge of the estate.

  "Beautiful," Sam said. "So beautiful and peaceful."

  Nydia started to reply when three shots cut through the crisp air. Sam instinctively grabbed for the pistol in his coat, checking his movement just before touching the inner pocket. Nydia caught the quick movement and smiled.

  "It's a signal to return to Falcon House," she said. "Come on. It might be important."

  "Sir," Perkins said, "there was a radio message for you just moments after you left. In the communications room. Mr. Falcon is waiting."

  "The message is rather terse, Sam." Falcon handed him a slip of paper. "I do hope this will not alter your plans to visit with us."

  Sam did not reply until he had read the message: MONTREAL FLIGHT 127 1922-58 J.A. He looked into Falcon's dark, unreadable eyes. "This is it?"

  "That was the entire message, Sam. I asked for a repeat, and that was it."

  "Well, I guess I have to get to Montreal somehow."

  "We'll take the Rover," Nydia said. "Go together."

  "Now, dear …" Roma opened her mouth to protest.

  Daughter met mother, head to head, with an unwavering look. "I know the roads, Mother. Sam doesn't. So I'm going with him." There was a firmness to her voice that said she would brook no more objections.

  Roma smiled. "Of course, dear. I was only going to suggest you change into something more suitable for the trip."

  "Certainly you were, Mother." Nydia's smile and tone were just short of condescending. "But we'll go as we are. Come on, Sam." She pulled at his arm. "We'll be there in a few hours."

  Driving away from the estate, Nydia asked, "Sam, what does 1922-58 mean? The time?"

  "I don't think so. Could be, but I doubt it. 1922 was the year my dad was born. '58 was when he died."

  "J.A.?"

  "My mother's initials."

  Nydia shuddered beside him.

  "Cold?" Sam asked.

  "No. Suddenly frightened. For some reason. I just got the worst feeling of ... I don't know: foreboding, I guess I'd call it."

  "Nydia?"

  She glanced at him.

  "I have the same feeling."

  Flight 127 came in and emptied its load of passengers. Sam knew no one on the flight. Sam and Nydia sat in the now deserted arrival area, looking at each other, questions unspoken in their eyes.

  "Son?" the disembodied-sounding voice came from behind the young couple. Sam was conscious of a burning sensation in the center of his chest.

  They turned, looking around. No one was in sight. Nydia dug nervous fingers into Sam's forearm. "Son? Was that what that voice said?"

  "Easy now," Sam attempted to calm her. His own nerves were rattled.

  "Sam?" she said. "Look on the table in front of us."

  Sam slowly, almost reluctantly pulled his gaze to the front. A manila envelope lay on the low table. "That … wasn't there a second ago."

  "I know."

  Again, they looked around them: the arrival area and the corridor were deserted. They both stared at the envelope.

  Sam touched the packet. It was cold to the touch. He picked it up and carefully opened it. A picture and several sheets of paper. The picture was of his father. Sam looked at the 8 x 10 for a long moment, then handed it to Nydia. "My dad," his words were charged with emotion, spoken in a husky tone.

  "I can see where you got your good looks," she said. "He was a rugged, handsome man. Sam? Who put the envelope on the table, and who was that who spoke to you? And where did he go? Sam, there was no one within shouting distance."

  There was a slight grimace of pain on Sam's face.

  "Sam?"

  "I don't know the answer to any of those questions, Nydia. But I'll tell you this: when that voice spoke, my chest started burning. It's just now going away, but man, did it hurt for a few seconds."

  "Your chest?"

  "The skin on my chest. Right in the center." He looked around them: no one in sight. Sam unbuttoned his shirt, hearing Nydia's gasp as his T-shirt came into view. "Relax, I'm not going to strip." He tried a grin. "At least not here."

  "That's not it, Sam," she said, her voice tiny. "Look at your T-shirt; the center of your chest."

  He looked down: the fabric was burned brown. In the
shape of a cross. The cross Sam wore. His father's cross.

  Nydia reached out, pulling up his T-shirt. The cross had burned his skin, leaving a scar in the shape of a cross. Sam touched the red scar; it was no longer painful, even though he could see it was burned deeply.

  Sam unfolded the pages and almost became physically ill. The handwriting was unmistakably his father's scrawl. Sam had seen it many times on old sermons.

  "Sam? You're as white as a ghost!"

  "I … think that's what just spoke to me. My father wrote this."

  The young man wiped his suddenly blurry eyes and once more looked at the writing, reading slowly, Nydia silently reading with him.

  Son—Writing is difficult for me, in my condition. Want to keep this as brief as possible, but yet, there are so many things I must say to you and the girl.

  "How … ?" Nydia said, then shook her head, not believing any of this.

  I have watched you, son—whenever possible—grow through the years. Tried to guide you—help you—as best I could. Nydia, too. The girl beside you, not the Nydia I … knew. Like that time you got drunk in your mother's car and passed out at the wheel. That was a close one, boy.

  "I'm the only person in this world who knew about that," Sam said.

  Nydia said, "In this world, yes." She looked at the young man, wondering why she said that.

  Give the cross you wear around your neck to the girl. Do it, son, without delay. Time is of the essence.

  Sam removed the cross from his neck and handed it to Nydia. "Put it on," he said. He could see she was, for some reason, softly crying.

  No one will be able to remove that cross from her. No one. I cannot guarantee she will not be hurt, but … well, you must have faith.

  Now then, a cruel blow for each of you, for I know your thoughts: Nydia is your half sister.

  "Oh, my God!" Sam said.

  When I knew her mother, Roma was not her name. Her name was Nydia. She is of and for the Devil. She is a witch. After the hooved one attempted to take over the town of Whitfield—and failed, then—during which Wade, Anita, Chester, Tony, Jane Ann, Miles, Doris, and myself killed hundreds of Coven members, I made a bargain with our God to save your mother and what few Christians remained. I won, in a sense. But so did the woman you know as Roma. I killed, or at least sent back to Hell, Black Wilder, the Devil's representative. Your half brother, son, Black, is named for Wilder. And like that spawn of Hell, he is a warlock.

  When you leave this terminal, the both of you must go to a Catholic church; get as much holy water as you can. You will need it.

  I must rest for a moment. Writing is not something one does where I reside.

  Sam glanced at Nydia. Half sister? She met his eyes, read his thoughts. "I don't care." Sam shook his head in confusion and returned to the letter.

  It would be wrong, son, to say the Devil is back, for that one never leaves the earth; so I'll simply say he has returned to Whitfield. There will soon be a great tragedy in Whitfield, and I must be there to help your mother, for her ordeal involves both of us … and the girl. There will be no survivors from Whitfield. None.

  "Mother … ?" Sam whispered. And as if Balon had anticipated the question, the letter continued:

  She has made her choice. Tony has gone over to the other side. He has done so willingly; indeed, a long time ago. I could not stop him, for his faith is weak, as is his flesh. And that is something you will have to deal with as well.

  You have a mission, Sam, and 1 do not envy you your task, for it may destroy you … not necessarily physically, and I can say no more about that. But you are as surely set to this mission as I was, years ago. You will be tempted, and you will fall to some of those temptations, for you are a mortal, blessed, in a manner of speaking, but still a mortal.

  A Coven is being established at Falcon House. It is a house of evil, and you must return there. Your job is there. You will not be able to contact anyone in Whitfield. Whitfield is dead; past saving. But your mother will speak to you—in some way—before she slips through the painful darkness to the other side and to peace and blue and light.

  We will meet someday, son. I am certain of that and can tell you no more about my surety.

  The feelings you and the girl share is something that you both must cope with. I cannot help you, and will not lecture you. But I will say this: the union that produced Nydia was not a holy union. If anything, it was blessed by the Dark One.

  "Riddles," Sam said. "The letter is filled with riddles, and I don't know what they mean."

  I love you deeply, Sam, and wish I could be of more help to you in your task. But I have said too much already.

  Now … I must go. Place the picture of me in the envelope, for that is all of me I can give you that will remain tangible. Put the letter on the table and do not touch it again.

  Love, Father

  Sam placed the picture in the envelope, the letter on the table. Together, still in mild shock, not knowing what to believe, the young man and young woman watched the pages dissolve into nothing. Then they were alone.

  Nydia put her head on Sam's shoulder and wept.

  "I have done all I can do to help Sam," said the silent voice as it pushed out of the mist and into the sleeping brain of Jane Ann.

  She sat up on the couch, rubbing her eyes. "When did you see Sam?"

  "About a minute ago, in Montreal."

  "Neat trick, since you're in front of me at this moment. I won't pursue how you managed that."

  "That would be best. You will understand soon enough."

  "A time warp?"

  "There is no time in my world. A year is the blink of an eye. Drop it, Janey."

  "All right." She stared hard at the misty face of the only man she had ever loved. "Tell me this: how did our son look?"

  "Considering the circumstances, well … and confused, upset." The misty face smiled, then projected, "bewitched, bothered, and bewildered."

  "Oh, Sam!"

  "Now you see why He is constantly calling me on the carpet … so to speak. Our son is falling deeply in love."

  Jane Ann smiled. "How wonderful."

  "With his half sister."

  "You were a rounder before you came to Whitfield, weren't you?"

  "Yes, but … well, I'll explain at a later date."

  "I'm not sure I want to hear about it."

  "As you wish. But don't jump to conclusions."

  She glanced at the clock on the fireplace mantel. "Tony might be back for lunch any moment."

  "Tony will never again set foot in this house, Jane Ann. Not for any decent purposes, that is."

  "I don't understand."

  "You will."

  "Miles?" Doris called down the basement steps. "What are you doing?"

  "I keep telling you and telling you: I am building a golem. So stay out of here. No telling what this thing might get in its head to do."

  "How can a thing with clay for brains get something into its head?"

  "I don't care to argue with you." A moment of heavy silence. Miles looked up. She was still standing in the doorway.

  "I believe you, Miles," she said quietly.

  "Oh?" his voice drifted up, full of disbelief. "So what changed your mind?"

  "You remember me saying you were as crazy as a vontz—after you told me about speaking with Sam Balon?"

  "How could I forget being called a bedbug? So?"

  "He's … it's in the kitchen, now!"

  "So ask him to take a seat. I'll be right up."

  "Wade? I cannot believe you are seriously considering taking part in this insanity!"

  "Honey, you didn't see Sam last night, either."

  "Well, honey," she mimicked him, "neither did you. I warned you about that second piece of pie."

  "Babe," he was very patient with her, "we've been through a lot together. I've tried to bring you along easy this time. But time is up. Look around you, honey—look at the houses we're passing, the people sitting on the porches. Any of them
waving at us? Any of them calling for us to stop, have a cup of coffee, like they used to do?"

  She looked straight ahead, refusing to speak.

  "He's here, Anita. He's back. The Dark One. Sam says this time Whitfield is through. He …"

  "If your friend, the spirit man, is so all-fired blessed, why doesn't he just wave his hand and make all this …" Tears sprang into her eyes. "… hatefulness go away?"

  "Did you pack like I asked you?"

  She sighed. "Yes, Wade. I'll humor you until we can get you to a mental hospital."

  "Anita, old gal," he spoke softly. "My wife of so many very good years, listen to me. We're not going to make it out of this. We're going to die, and Sam says the only thing he can do is make it as easy for us as possible."

  "How considerate of him."

  Wade turned into the drive, parking by the corner street lamp. "We're here, honey."

  "Oh, goody!" she clapped her hands. "Do I get to see the monster man and Sam Balon? A double treat? Oooh, I can hardly wait. This is better than the county fair."

  Wade held her hand as they walked up the sidewalk and up the steps to the porch. Doris opened the door.

  "Thank God!" Anita cried. "A face I know is normal and a mouth that is not raving about things that go bump in the night."

  "I'll get the luggage out of the car," Wade said.

  Anita stepped into the house and stopped dead still in the living room. A huge gray object, in the shape of a man, a giant man, stood against the wall across the room. It was at least eight and a half feet tall. It was faceless.

  She turned to ask Doris what that thing was, was this some kind of a joke and what's the occasion for a party? She dropped her purse on the carpet as her eyes found the mist hovering just above the carpet by a chair.

  "I believe you know Reverend Sam Balon," Doris said.

  Anita fainted.

  They had gone to a hardware store and bought several containers, then went to half a dozen Catholic churches seeking holy water. The priests, once they saw the young couple was sincere, asked no questions but merely gave them as much holy water as they wished.

  "I just don't know … if my mind can … accept all that's been thrown at me this day," Nydia said. "But a lot of things are beginning to fall into place."

  "Explain that?" Sam asked. They were halfway back to the Williams' mansion, eating a mid-afternoon lunch by the side of the road. The lunch they were supposed to have eaten while exploring the woods.