Devil's Kiss by William W. Johnstone

Humor me.”
    Sam received an odd look, then Chester dialed the number of the District Headquarters of the State Highway Department, located in the eastern part of Fork County. He talked for several minutes, then hung up, a puzzled look on his face.
    â€œWe were notified back in March, according to Wayne. The county board requested the closing to repair the bridges. They were supposed to notify the citizens. Wayne says the mail will be picked up by the sheriff’s department and taken by patrol car to the north bridge, then transferred to a regular mail truck. The deputy will bring back any mail for Whitfield. It’s all been okayed by the post office.”
    â€œAnd the board is composed of—?”
    â€œKarl Sorenson, Dalton Revere, Paul Merlin, Otto Stockman, and Max Steiner. Wayne says he has a public notice from the Crusader on his desk. The notice ran for six weeks. Excuse me, Sam, but it’s damn funny I didn’t see it!”
    â€œIt never ran in the paper,” Sam said glumly, an idea of what might be happening taking better shape in his brain. He did not like what he was thinking, but for now, kept his ideas to himself.
    â€œHe has the notice on his desk,” Chester objected.
    â€œHe has a notice. It could have been printed anywhere, and probably was.”
    â€œBut why, Sam?”
    The minister shook his head. He fumbled in a desk drawer until he found attendance records—a graph he’d been keeping since March. “Look here, Chester,” he laid the graph on the desk. “December through the middle of February we had a two percent increase in church attendance. The last two weeks of February we began to slide a bit. By the first of April, that slide had increased to a five percent loss, then a ten percent loss by the last of April. May, it was down to twenty-five percent. Last month, almost fifty percent. I’ll predict that by this Sunday, there won’t be forty people in church, and most of them will be elderly.”
    â€œI thought it was just a fluke,” Chester said, sighing. “Summer’s here, vacation time. But that’s not it, is it, Sam?”
    â€œNo, Chester, it isn’t.” Sam put his hand on the phone to call an old friend and pastor of the largest Christian church in the state.
    â€œMy kids,” Chester said, then let the words trail off into silence.
    â€œWhat about your kids?”
    The church elder shook his head. “Nothing, Sam. Forget it. Who are you calling?”
    Chris Farmer up in North Platte. You know him—he held our revival last year. As soon as I dial, you pick up the extension in the nursery. I want you to hear this.”
    Popping noises for a few seconds, then the ringing. The two ministers chattered for a few minutes, then Sam asked the man about his church attendance.
    â€œCouldn’t be better, Samuel. I’m up nine percent from this time last year. People are coming back to Jesus. Going to be a great year for religion, my boy—a great year. I can feel it in my bones, and loving every minute of it.”
    Sam congratulated the minister, chatted for a few more minutes, then hung up. He called to Chester, “Stay in the nursery, I want you to hear all these calls.”
    Sam called the Christian church in four directions, two states. He got the same reply: business was booming! Religion was pulling the folks in the front door. Great!
    Chester came in, sat down. “You called in all directions, Sam, and you got the same answer. Religion is not just doing well, it’s wonderful. But why isn’t it wonderful here in Whitfield? I know from talking to people it’s down in all the churches in town. Why?”
    Sam slowly shook his head. “Who is minding the store?” he asked abruptly.
    â€œI closed it. Only had one customer all day, and that is really strange for this time of year. Wish I could figure out what’s keeping people out of town.”
    A