Devil's Kiss by William W. Johnstone

away, Miles said, “I thought you just had a physical? Didn’t you tell me that a few weeks ago?”
    â€œYes, I did. Tony wants to talk about something.”
    â€œProbably the same thing I want to talk about. See you later, Sam.”
    Sam drove toward home, looking at the town of Whitfield in the hot light of summer. A Friday. Very few adults walked the streets. Those that did were elderly. No young people played on the sidewalks. No bike riders. No teenagers walking along, holding hands and listening to portable radios, savoring young love in the summer. The town seemed—to Sam—to be almost dead.
    Or undead, the thought jumped into his mind.
    How could I have missed what was happening?
    Come on, Balon, he urged his mind to relax. Knock it off.
    Sam did not park in the drive as he usually did. He pulled to the curb in front of the house, very quietly getting out of the car, closing the door softly. He slipped up the front steps, easing into the living room. He didn’t know why he was doing this, and he felt a little like a fool. Sam Spade in preacher’s clothes.
    The record player was blaring, but it was not the music that caught and held Sam as if in a vise. Michelle was on the phone in the kitchen.
    â€œDo we meet tonight?” she asked. “Good! Will it soon be time?”
    A moment of silence.
    Sam froze, unintentionally hidden by the partition separating dining room from kitchen. He did not like hearing this in such a manner, preferring to confront his wife openly, but his legs felt like lead.
    â€œI’ll be ready, Dalton,” she said.
    DALTON? Dalton Revere? The man was a close friend. Or so Sam had believed. But, Sam grimaced, that’s so often the case. A friend. Dalton was an elder in his church, and twenty years older than Michelle.
    Sam felt sick.
    He slipped quietly out the front door, closing it softly behind him, stepping out on the porch. He waited for a ten count, then opened the door, walking back into the house, shutting the door hard behind him. He hoped he had given his wife—and the word wife disgusted him—time to compose herself from her verbal fornication.
    She stood by the dining room table, smiling, looking at him. “How has your day been, Sam?”
    â€œInteresting,” he forced himself to return the smile. “And very informative.”
    Oh,?”
    He did not elaborate, merely stood looking at the woman, his wife. A tall, very beautiful woman. Who—the thought twisted out of his mind—was screwing an elder in his church.
    Not very preacherly of you, Sam. But, he bitterly reflected, I don’t feel very preacherly at this moment.
    For a few seconds, he allowed himself the erotic pleasure/pain of imagining Michelle and Dalton together. He forced those images from him. Before he could stop his brain, that mass of marvelous recall conjured a picture of Sam and Jane Ann together. The minister felt shame wash over him at the eroticism of his thoughts. He pushed the image from him.
    â€œWhat was the reason for all those sirens a few minutes ago?” she asked.
    Bluntly, he told her about John Benton.
    She gasped, putting a hand to her throat. “How awful!”
    But it was an act, Sam realized. What a marvelous actress she was, had become, or had always been, Sam reflected sourly. How many men, he questioned his mind, has she entertained while I was out spreading the word of the Lord?
    The medallion about her neck seemed to sparkle at him, casting flashes that were almost hypnotic in their radiance. He lifted his eyes from the gold, meeting her dark eyes. They flared with anger and lust, a curious combination shining at him.
    Careful, he warned his heart, the message shooting fom his brain: That medallion is dangerous.
    But, why?
    The man and woman stood glaring at each other.
    Help me, Lord, Sam silently prayed.
    Her eyes fell away from his.
    Michelle said, looking down at the carpet, “Sometime, Sam, soon,