The Devil's Heart Part 1

THE DEVIL'S HEART.

by William W. Johnstone.

To A. E. J. and C. W. J.

Stay with me G.o.d. The night is dark, The night is cold: my little spark of courage dies. The night is long; be with me G.o.d, and make me strong.

-Poem found on a sc.r.a.p of paper in a slit trench in Tunisia during the battle of El Agheila-1944.

December

The town of Whitfield no longer exists. Very little of the northwestern part of Fork County exists, except in the memories of those who might once have lived there and were fortunate enough to be gone when the great fireball struck, searing the land for miles.

Scientists were stunned by the suddenness of the huge fireball, for it seemed to materialize out of the heavens, traveling at such a tremendous speed it was almost beyond calculation.

Where had it come from? the scientists were asked by a stunned population.

From straight out of the sun was the reply.

And you could not have predicted it?

No.

Why?

The scientists hedged that question, for many of them were sworn, avowed atheists. But finally, one man from an observatory in California who was not an unbeliever did reply, although not to the satisfaction of all his colleagues. His reply brought laughter from more than a few of his fellow scientists.

"How does one predict when the hand of G.o.d will fall? And how hard the blow will be?"

If indeed it had been, as the scientist said, "the hand ofG.o.d," it had been a mighty slap from Him.

By the time various Spies in the Skies satellites picked up on the cannonading ma.s.s of fiery destruction, it was already on top of the satellites, through them, burning them before they could photograph more than a one-second shot at best, and transmit that to earth. Those pictures that did make it back to earth were immediately ordered seized by presidential order. They would be released for public viewing...sometime. At a date that would be set...sometime.

"Why?" came the immediate one-word question from the press.

The president did not tell them the real reason for his order. He did not tell them because he did not want them to think he was nuts. He did not tell them for a number of reasons, but chiefly because he could not think of a reasonable way to tell people that he had been visited by someone ... or something ... in a dream (or was it a dream?) who had forewarned him of the terrible, cataclysmic fireball of death. So he put the monkey on the backs of the military, telling the press it was in the best interest of the nation that the matter not be discussed for a time. It had to be studied and all that. Probably for a very long time.

And the president warned that should there be any leaks-any leaks at all-the leakee would spend the rest of his lengthy tour of duty attempting to hand-carry s...o...b..a.l.l.s between Fort Myers and Miami, along the Tamiami Trail, without benefit of insect repellent.

There were no leaks.

The ball of fire that leveled Whitfield and parts of Fork County was, some scientists said, more than a mile wide and about three miles deep. Some said it was shaped like aStar of David. Others said it looked like an artist's conception of G.o.d's face; a striking resemblance. The president told the scientists to shut their d.a.m.ned mouths, too, or face the prospects of never receiving another dime of government money-for anything. But many people witnessed the strange blue lights that preceded the crash of the . . . whatever the h.e.l.l it was, and they asked about those lights.

But suddenly, all was quiet about the mighty ball of fire, except for speculation, and that soon began to fade as other news pushed the holocaust out of the headlines. Only the insurance companies were left to ponder over the crash and dole out large sums of money to the relatives of those who had been killed.

An astronomer in California thought he knew what had happened. But he kept his mouth shut. Not out of any fear of the government, but because he felt it was the right thing to do.

One investigative fellow did put some rather interesting and curious events together after a bit of prowling. But since he was a career army reservist and did not wish to spend his summer obligations to Uncle Sam cleaning up gooney bird s.h.i.t on Guam, he kept his mouth shut. Someday, maybe, he'd write a book about it. Maybe. But only if he could be a.s.sured the protection of the Dalai Lama in some cave in Tibet.

What he had pieced together was this: at almost the precise moment of fiery impact with earth, a series of fires leveled a huge mansion in Canada. And just before that, something had been seen leaving earth, moving toward the heavens, traveling at tremendous speed. No one knew what that thing was. Or if they did, they weren't talking. And there were people who still remained unaccounted for after the fire at the mansion. One of them was a young man named Sam Balon King, whose stepfather had been a doctor in Whitfield, and whose mother had once been married to a minister ... in Whitfield. And that minister had died under very mysterious circ.u.mstances, back in 1958, when another disaster had befallen that tragedy-ridden community.

But the investigative reporter wisely closed his journal on both disasters...for a time, at least.

PROLOGUE.

It had been abnormally hot for this late in the season.

By this time in northwestern Nebraska there was usually a lash of winter's approach in the air, a bite that brought color to the cheeks of pedestrians, urgently but softlyspeaking of the harsh winter just ahead.

But the winds that blew across the plains and rolling sand hills had a torrid touch, oppressively so, bringing a sudden surliness to the people of this spa.r.s.ely populated county, turning most tempers raw and confusing a few as to why.

The many knew why. The few would learn too late. And out in the badlands, some miles from Whitfield, inside a fenced-in area where horror sprang to life back in the late 1950s...something stirred. A creature cautiously stuck its head out of a hidden cave and looked around, viewing its surroundings through evil, red eyes. The Beast had felt the hot fingers of the wind pushing through the cave entrance as a probing hand might do, signaling those which serve another Master that it was time.

The Dark One was near.

The wind grew in strength and heat, the Beast snarling in reply. The manlike creature rose from its sentry position to crawl out of the filthy hole, rising to stand likea human, bits of dust and twigs and blowing sand striking its hairy body. But to the Beast, it was a signal of love, a gesture of welcome. The Beast roared, its breath foul. It held its huge arms upward and shook its fists toward the sky, roaring its contempt for that G.o.d who occupies a more lofty position than the Master of the Beast. For the creature knew but one G.o.d: the Prince of Darkness; the Lord of Flies; Ruler of all that is Evil.

From behind the sentry came a guttural sound, as other Beasts rose from their long sleep, surly and hungry. They craved meat, and the sweet taste of blood.

But the sentry again tested the wind, and the wind spoke its reply: wait. The sentry held up one warning paw to those below it, holding them at bay. He growled, and the others drew back into the darkness of the evil-smelling hole in the earth. They knew they must obey.

Wait, the growling sentry told them. The Master will tell us when we may move. Be patient, for you have waited more than twenty years, a few more weeks won't matter. Wait.

ONE.

"You're late getting home," the woman said, a flatnessin her voice, as if she knew the reason for his tardiness.

"Yes. Very difficult labor," the man lied.

Jane Ann King smiled ruefully, but kept her thoughts to herself.

"Is that a letter from Sam?" Doctor King asked his wife. He really didn't give a d.a.m.n, but anything was better than having to listen to her run her mouth asking endless questions and not believing anything he told her.

Jane Ann nodded.

"What does he say?"

She drugged. "I haven't opened it."

Tony laughed. "Why the h.e.l.l not?"

His laughter infuriated her. She sighed, rising from her chair, walking to a corner table. "Let me show you something, Tony." A Bible rested on the table. Sam Balon's Bible. The Sam her son was named after. The son did not yet know how and why his real father had died. But that time of unawareness was rapidly coming to a close.

Jane Ann said, "When I got the letter this morning, I was just about to open it when the phone rang. I put the letter on the Bible on my way to the phone."

Oh, f.u.c.k! Tony thought. Who in the h.e.l.l cares? Heheld up a hand. "Wait a minute, baby. I can sense this is going to take half the night. It's been a long day. I'm beat. Let me fix a drink." He smiled. "You want one, baby?"

"You know I don't, Tony. But you fix yourself one. Fix yourself a strong one." She could smell the odor of s.e.x in his clothing, and wondered which female he had serviced this time. She realized she hated her husband. And had for a long time. No, she amended that ... not hate. Rather-she searched for the right word-I loathe not him, but what he has become.

"Thanks a lot." Tony walked to the wet bar, fixing a strong drink. "Go on, tell your story," he said. But G.o.dd.a.m.n, keep it short.

"I'll skip the details, since I realize you aren't particularly interested in them ... and not much of anything else that lives in this house. The letter won't stay on the Bible, near the Bible, or on the bookcase next to the Bible. It won't stay ... on a level with the Bible." She did not tell him she had called Wade, telling him about it first.

Tony looked at the Bible. How he hated that book; he didn't like to get too close to the offensive book. But he took the letter from his wife's hand and placed it on the Bible. It flipped off onto the floor. Tony took a large gulp of whiskey and again took the letter, placing it back on the Bible. Again, the letter was propelled off the Word of G.o.d. No matter where Tony placed the letter-on a level with the Bible-it would not stay.

He silently rejoiced, keeping his face pa.s.sive. He had an idea what was happening, and thought Jane Ann did, too. She was beginning to suspect.

Outside, the wind picked up in strength, tossing bits ofrock and twigs against the house. The hot wind seemed almost to be a signal.

Tony placed the letter under the front cover of the Bible. The small table began to shake as the Bible seemed to press against the letter. The table suddenly collapsed, sending Bible and letter to the floor. Jane Ann picked up the Bible and placed it on a shelf. Tony grabbed the letter, looked at it, then shook his head. When he spoke, his voice was full of shock and awe...and something else Jane Ann could not understand.

"G.o.dd.a.m.n!" Tony swore.

Reverend Sam Balon had written his name in that Bible when he had first received it, back in the late forties. But such pressure had been placed on the letter that the name Sam Balon was now clearly visible upon the white of the envelope. Tony quickly placed the letter on a low coffee table.

Jane Ann was watching him closely. She thought she could see pleasure in his eyes. And something else: evil.

"Impossible," Tony said. "Unless..." His words trailed it off as he realized that the Master of Darkness was truly coming. Perhaps he was already here! He had to get to Jean Zagone. Had to tell the Coven Leader of this. She would be pleased at this astuteness. Perhaps reward him with some nice, young girl.

"Unless what, Tony?" His wife's hated voice brought him back to his surroundings. He glanced at her. Her face was pale, eyes calm, hands clenched into fists at her side.

"Nothing," he said.

"Well...I think Sam is trying to tell us something."

"Oh, s.h.i.t! Sam is dead, Jane Ann. More than twenty years dead." Tony hoped Balon wasn't trying to tellanybody anything.

"As we knew him, yes, he is dead. But his soul is alive. We're mortals, Tony. We don't know what is behind the veil. And remember, Sam was touched by Him-chosen by Him, if you will."

"I don't believe that c.r.a.p anymore," he said, the words tumbling hatefully from his mouth.

And Jane Ann's worst suspicions were now corroborated. She wanted to slap her husband.

His mood shifted as he forced himself to put his arms around her. He kissed her cheek and found it cool to his lips, very unresponsive. "Honey, we're the youngest of the survivors of that...incident. And we're not kids." He grinned down at her. "But you're sure s.e.xy enough to be a kid."

She pushed him away from her. His body odor was awful. She could not remember the last time Tony had showered. More evidence against him. She walked swiftly from the room, returning in a moment with an 8 x 10 glossy of the late Sam Balon. The picture was in a frame with a gla.s.s front.

Tony's eyes narrowed at the sight of the minister. He hated that b.a.s.t.a.r.d. He reached out to take the picture from her.

"No!" She spun away from his hand.

"You think your precious Sam Balon is some kind of f.u.c.king saint? That he's sending you messages? h.e.l.l, baby, maybe he just wants some p.u.s.s.y."

"Pick up the letter!" she said, speaking through gritted teeth.

For some reason, unexplained in his mind, Tony was suddenly afraid of his wife. He picked up the letterwithout questioning her.

"Hold it against the gla.s.s," she said, lifting the framed photograph. There was a knowing smile on her lips that angered the man.

Tony pressed the letter against the gla.s.s. Within seconds, the envelope began to smoke. She jerked the letter from his hands before the smoke turned into a blaze. The front of the envelope was slightly charred.

She looked up at her husband, a smile on her lips. "Yes, Tony, I believe Sam is trying to tell me something. What's the matter, darling? You seem . . . afraid."

On Friday nights, the chanting would begin as no more than a low murmur in the hot night, then grow as the winds picked up in heat and velocity. The chanting would become as profane as it was evil.

The partic.i.p.ants in this macabre chanting would gather around a huge stone circle, miles from Whitfield. There were carvings in the stones. On one stone, two figures were depicted: a saintly looking man and a beastly man-creature with hooved feet. The creature and the saint have been there for thousands of years, locked in silent combat, with no apparent winner.

This area was known as The Digging, the ruins of equipment and rusting old mobile homes still evident. The entire area is enclosed within a tall chain-link fence Roads to the area were destroyed in the fall of 1958. Only in the last few years have they been quietly reopened by some local people. The state bought the land and condemned it because of the dangerous caves in the area. So they said.

This was the area where, for centuries, sightings ofmonsters have been reported: hairy, ugly beasts with red eyes and huge clawed hands and large yellow, dripping fangs.

All nonsense, of course.

Suddenly the chanting would cease. The silence would grow heavy. The wind ceased its hot push.

And the screaming would begin, the agonizing, wailing pushing past lips, tearing out from a human whose skin was being slowly ripped from its body; who was undergoing more s.e.xual depravity than was ever thought of by de Sade...in his blackest moments. The shrieking would continue for hours, the torches of the now silent witnesses to evil flickering in the night, turning the blood-stained altar dripping a slippery black.

The screaming would gradually change into a madness-induced moan, then into alow sob. And then silence. And then one by one the torches would cease their flickering fiery quiver and the area known as The Digging would become as black as the Devil's heart. And as still as a musty grave.

Dear Mom and Dad: Dear Mom and Dad: Sure is a change from the sand hills where I grew up, but I love it here at Nelson College. And guess what?: I'm rooming with a guy whose name is Sam B. Williams. Sure is a change from the sand hills where I grew up, but I love it here at Nelson College. And guess what?: I'm rooming with a guy whose name is Sam B. Williams.

"I wonder what the B stands for?" Jane Ann asked.

"I don't give a d.a.m.n what it stands for," Tony said. "Just read the d.a.m.n letter."