The Devil's Touch by William W. Johnstone Page B

some community business we're—involved in. And we might be late. Your parents won't object if you stay over?"
    "Oh, no. I'll just call and tell them." She hefted a large purse. "You know I always bring a change with me, just in case you want me to spend the night."
    Her eyes were bright and clear and full of innocence, despite the rape she had endured as a child kidnapped and brought to Falcon House in Canada. The teenager had been rescued by Sam and returned to her parents. Rescued, so Sam and Nydia were led to believe. Janet had been Little Sam's babysitter since his moment of birth.
    Janet had plans for Little Sam.
    Monty, Joe, and Father Le Moyne rose as if on silent cue. Monty said, "Well—Sam, Nydia, we'll see the both of you at the house in about an hour. We'll continue this—discussion there. You'll stay for dinner, of course." The men moved toward the door and the approaching night.
    Outside, the door closed behind them, Joe looked toward the old orchard. "Can you imagine eating on that goddamn thing out there?" He looked at Father Le Moyne. "'Cuse me, Father."
    "I couldn't have put it more aptly myself," the priest said, taking no offense. "Gentlemen, I have mass to attend to. I'll see you both around eight-thirty." He walked to his car, backed around the police car, and disappeared into the night.
    "Monty?" Joe said.
    "Yeah?"
    "I'm scared and confused."
    "Join the club, Joe."
    "How come you didn't level with Sheriff Jenkins this morning?"
    "I—don't know, Joe." But he did know.
    "You think he's one of—
them?"
    "I don't know. Maybe. Yeah," Monty said, his voice containing resignation. "Yeah, I do."
    "Me, too. Monty, something just came to me a few minutes ago. We're in a box. There ain't nobody on God's green earth gonna believe any of this even if we was to call for help. Hell! They'd lock us up in the loony bin."
    "I know that, too."
    "1 used to look forward to the night. Meant gettin' off work, goin' home to the wife and dinner. Maybe a few beers and some TV." He looked around him at the wet gathering darkness. "I ain't lookin' forward to this night, Chief."
    "Not one word of this, Joe. To anybody. Not a word. We'll firm it all up at my house. Come on. I'll drop you off at your car."
    Janet went to Little Sam's room and stood for a moment, watching the child play with his toys.
    Are you or aren't you? She silently questioned. Are you one of us, or one of them? Are you a child of my Master, or are you a whimpering Christian? I wish I knew.
    The child looked up at her and grinned.
    Janet heard the sound of water running in the bathroom. That would be Sam, taking a shower. She stood for a moment, mentally conjuring pictures of him in the shower, naked. Then other pictures of high sexuality played erotically in her mind. She wanted Sam Balon. Wanted to feel him entering her. She became wet with passion. She fought the pictures away.
    Janet again looked at the child. She thought: If it is determined that you are not one of us, but a spawn of them—I am going to kill you.
SEVEN
    "Princess," the young woman was addressed. "We have word that the Christians are massing. They are few, yes, but Sam Balon's offspring is among them. As well as the turncoat, Nydia."
    The young woman with the long brown hair and pale eyes looked at her servant. She was tall, with a magnificent figure. Very stately and very regal appearing. She was Satan's child. The daughter of the Devil. A demon. She served only the Black Master of evil. Her father: Satan. She had burst forth from her mother's womb in a shower of blood and torn flesh. Roma the witch had died this earthly life giving birth to her. The young woman looked to be about twenty years of age.
    By earth time, she was three years old. She had been born on the sixth day of the sixth month, at precisely the sixth minute of Roma's pregnancy. At precisely the exact moment Little Sam was birthed. They were half brother and sister.
    But this child was as old as evil—by the hands of