The rain had abated and the lightning had stopped while Gordon had been in the sheriff's office, but there was still a light mist in the air and the sky was darkly overcast. He pulled out of the parking lot and onto Main. Ahead of him, above the road, across a telephone line, two rain coated workers were stringing a large banner. He slowed down.
Through the wet windshield he could read the purple words written on the white cloth: "Thirtieth Annual Randall Rodeo Sept. 1, 2, 3."
The rodeo. He had forgotten that it was coming up. He and Marina had been planning to go this year. Gordon stared at the two men wrestling with the banner, both standing on the top rungs of twin tall ladders, as he passed between them. He wondered how many other people had forgotten about the rodeo this year.
The whole town's on edge, the sheriff had told him before he'd left.
Gordon passed the Valley National Bank building, now closed, and sped up as he passed the Circle K. By the time he hit the ravine on the other side of Gray's Meadow, he was doing well over sixty. He knew for a fact that the sheriff wasn't hiding behind bushes trying to catch speeders, and he had a feeling that handing out tickets wasn't high on his deputies' list of priorities right now either. Rounding a curve, he swerved to miss a small boulder that had fallen from the adjacent cliff onto the road during the storm.
"Shit," he said, turning the wheel sharply. He slowed down. He didn't want to kill himself.
By the time he pulled off on the small dirt road that led to their house, it was almost dark. He could see the warm comforting yellow lights of home through the irregularly spaced black shadows of the trees. He pulled to a stop and Marina, peeking out of the living room window, unlocked the front door. She met him on the porch. "So what happened?" she asked.
He looked down at her big brown eyes and put a hand protectively over her stomach. He wasn't sure he should tell her. Well, he should tell her, but he wasn't sure he wanted to. He didn't want to worry her unnecessarily. Though he didn't know if he believed everything Brother Elias had said, both the preacher and his theory scared the living hell out of him.
"Nothing," he said.
She looked up at him, forcing him to meet her eyes. "You're lying. I
can tell. What happened?"
"Nothing," he said.
"Bullshit."
Gordon smiled. "I never could fool you, could I?" He kissed her, but she pushed him away.
"Don't try to change the subject," she said.
Gordon assumed a look of unhappy resignation. "The sheriff doesn't think we have much of a case against Brother Elias," he lied. "He might do thirty days at the most, then walk." He met her eyes, feeling like a prick for not leveling with her, for not even being honest about his real reason for meeting with the sheriff.
Marina was outraged. "The man's crazy!" she exclaimed. "What does he have to do, kill me before he can be put away?" She shook her head in disbelief. "Jesus, I used to think the conservatives were idiots when they said our judicial system's gone to hell."
"I know," Gordon said sympathetically.
"That Weldon's an incompetent jerk. God, I hate that man."
Gordon said nothing. He held her close, kneading the muscles in her shoulders until he felt some of the tension drain out of them.
Marina pulled away from him. "Come on," she said. "Let's eat.
Dinner's been ready for a while now. I thought you'd be home sooner."
She led the way into the house. "You'd better enjoy these home-cooked meals while you can, you know. School's starting in a few weeks, and you're going to have to start helping around here again."
He followed her into the kitchen and sat down at the table while she pulled a casserole from the oven. She turned the oven off and used a spatula to dish out two equal portions of the casserole. "I don't know how that man ever rose past patrolman," she said, grabbing two wine glasses from the cupboard. "He doesn't know what the hell he's doing."
"Oh, he's all right," Gordon said halfheartedly.
She sat down at the table next to him. "How did you two get to be such bosom buddies? Our cat gets torn apart in our own kitchen, and he sits on his butt all day and does nothing."
"He caught Brother Elias," Gordon pointed out.
"And now he's going to let him go." She looked at Gordon. "You know, they say that reporters who cover the police beat become more like cops than reporters if they stay there too long."
He made a face at her. "Very funny."
"Oh. I almost forgot." She stood up and opened the refrigerator, bringing out a tray of sliced carrots and cucumbers.
Gordon looked down at the tray and grinned. "Phallic vegetables," he said. "Are you trying to tell me something?"
She picked up a carrot stick and slipped it suggestively between her lips, letting her tongue flick lightly across the tip. "After dinner," she promised.
They ate quickly and washed the dishes together. Gordon turned off the lights in the kitchen, and they headed back toward the bedroom, hand in hand. Marina pulled down the bedspread and slipped off her T-shirt.
She was wearing no bra. She pulled down her pants.
Gordon had taken off his shoes and was unbuckling his pants when he stopped for a moment, listening. He looked over at Marina who was already naked and under the covers. "What's that?" he said.
"What?"
He held up a hand. "Listen."
Marina remained unmoving, her head cocked, listening. From far off, she thought she heard a low buzzing. "That?" she said. "That buzzing noise?"
Gordon nodded. "It sounds like it's coming from outside."
"It's probably just electricity in the wires. Or bugs or something."
Flies.
He stood up, buttoning his pants. "Stay here," he said. "I'm just I going out to check for a moment." He walked slowly toward the front of the house, switching on lights as he did so. Nothing. There was nothing there. He stopped in the middle of the living room, listening.
The buzzing was louder now, and it was definitely coming from outside.
Slowly, afraid of what he might find but knowing he had to look, he pulled aside the front drape and pressed his face against the glass.
Flies were all over the Jeep. A swath of blackness ran up from the vehicle's gray hood to the windshield. Even from this far away, he could see that the flies were not still. They were moving, swarming over one another, and in the dim light shining from the windows of the house, the Jeep looked almost alive.
Gordon dropped the drapes, terrified and repulsed, and he closed his eyes, trying to blot out the vision. But he could still see the flies in his mind, and he could still hear their maddening drone.
He walked back to the bedroom, forcing himself to appear calm though his heart felt ready to burst through his chest. He tried to smile at Marina, hoping his face gave nothing away. She was sitting up in bed, leaning back against the headboard, the blanket folded over her lap, her breasts exposed. For one horrifying second, he imagined her covered with flies.
"What is it?" she asked, frowning. "You look pale. Do you feel all right?"
"I'm fine," he said, crawling into bed. "Fine." He hugged her tightly and closed his eyes, hoping that none of them would get into the house.
After taking Brother Elias back to the holding cell and saying goodbye to Gordon and Father Andrews, Jim returned to his office. He sat for a moment, staring down at the pile of papers on his desk, then opened the bottom desk drawer and drew out the telephone directory. He found the number of the county historical society and dialed.
Millie Thomas answered the phone. "Hello?"
"Hello, Millie? This is Jim Weldon."
The old lady's voice instantly brightened. "Jim! How are you? I
haven't heard from you in a while."
He smiled at her enthusiasm. "I'm fine, Millie. How are things going with you?"
"Great," she said. "Great. As you know, we've been trying to put together this book on the history of Randall for the past year, and we're supposed
to get it to the printer next week. That's why I'm here so late. I'm rechecking everything to make sure we haven't forgotten something."
Jim saw his opening. "Is there anything in there about Milk Ranch Point?" he asked casually.
"Why do you ask?"
"Oh, I was just thinking of those stories we used to tell when we were kids."
Millie laughed. "Those ghost stories? Those were old when your mother and father and I were children. And I suppose the kids today are still telling them."
Jim tried to keep his tone light. "Did you mention any of those stories in your book?"
"Actually, we did." Millie's voice grew excited, the voice of a historian in love with her subject. "Like most stories that are passed from generation to generation, this one too has a grain of truth in it.
You've been to Milk Ranch Point, I assume? You've seen the crosses, the graves?"
"Yes," Jim said. "Only I didn't go there until I was a teenager, long after I'd heard the stories."
"Well, that really is where people from this area used to bury their dead babies."
"But why did they do it so far out of town?"
"Because," Millie said, pausing for dramatic effect, "not all of the babies were dead. Most were stillborn, but sometimes, if a baby was born sick or deformed, the parents would take it there and leave it to die."
"Jesus," Jim breathed.
"That's where the stories started."
"I can't believe anyone would do that," Jim said.
"Don't judge them too harshly," Millie said. "Three out of four babies died anyway in those days. The people were just doing what they thought practical. They were weeding out the weak and the infirm before they had anything invested in them. Times were hard. Most families could not afford more than one child, and they wanted to make sure that one child was strong and healthy enough to pull his own weight. And birth control was unknown."
"I can't believe it," Jim said. "I'd always thought those stories were made up. And I didn't think those crosses marked real graves. I
thought they were ... I don't know what I thought they were. But I didn't think they were real graves."
"Oh, they're real all right. And that's not all. Before that, before the white man settled here, the Indians, theAnasazis , used to do the same thing. In the same spot. I wouldn't be surprised if that's where our ancestors got the idea."
Jim felt his heart pounding in his chest, the blood thumping in his temples. His stomach was knotted with fear. "I seem to recall a story about a preacher," he lied. "A preacher who was connected somehow to Milk Ranch Point."
"Why, yes," Millie said, "there was such a preacher. Only it's not a story. In our research, we've turned up documentation, corroboration from several diaries and journals, that confirms the man's existence."
He closed his eyes, holding the receiver tight to his ear so he wouldn't drop it. "Really?" he said.
"Yes. It was about a hundred and fifty years ago. An itinerant minister, wandering through the area, found out somehow about Milk Ranch Point. He preached about the evil of such practices on any soapbox he could find. He scared the heck out of everyone in town.
He'd been here for a week or so when he started trying to get people to go up there with him. But no one wanted to take him. Finally, a few of the men accompanied him up the Rim. In fact--" she paused for a moment. "Wait a minute. Yes. Your great grandfather was sheriff at that time. I think he went up there with them."
"What did this preacher look like?" Jim asked. "Do you know?"
"There was only one physical description, and it seemed to dwell on his eyes. His eyes, apparently, were black, unnaturally black."
Jim licked his lips, which were suddenly very dry. "What happened then?"
"We don't really know. An entry in one of the diaries made it sound as though there was some type of exorcism or something, but we're not sure. We don't even know what they were supposed to be exorcising.
It's fascinating though, isn't it?"
"Yeah," Jim said mechanically.
"Now you see how rumors and ghost stories get started. Of course, we did get most of this from personal remembrances, and you know those records aren't reliable. Still, it's food for thought."
"Yeah," Jim repeated. He cleared his throat. "Whatever happened to the preacher?"
"That we don't know," Millie admitted. "But we turn up something new all the time. I expect we'll find out eventually." She laughed. "I
guess you'll have to buy the sequel for that."
"Yeah. Well, thanks Millie. You've been a lot of help."
"May I ask why you wanted to know all this?"
"Oh, nothing. Curiosity."
"Okay," she said. "I'll let you go. You are going to buy one of our books when it comes out, aren't you?"
He smiled. "Of course."
"I'll let you go then. Bye-bye."
"Bye." He hung up, feeling numb. He glanced involuntarily toward the hallway. At the end of the hall, he knew, Brother Elias was sitting calmly in his holding cell.
He had the sudden feeling that, within that cell, Brother Elias was looking toward him and smiling. Jim stood up. He had to get away from here. He knew he should talk to Brother Elias, confront him, but he did not want to see the man right now. Not until he had had time to sort things out. He picked up his hat and walked out to the front desk. Rita had just left, and Pete and Judson were signing in, coming on duty. He waved tiredly, perfunctorily, at them and walked across the silent parking lot to his car.
He drove home on instinct, his mind still on Milk Ranch Point. He thought of the stories he and his friends had told each other when they were kids. The ghosts of abandoned babies, perpetually crying in the forest for mothers who would never come. Infants left at the point to fend for themselves who had grown into wild, animalistic killers. Goose bumps arose on his arms, though the air tonight was warm.
He parked the car on the street in front of his house and walked across theunmown lawn to the front door. His mind was preoccupied. He did not see the pools of unfamiliar shadow next to the garage. He did not see the shadows move. He did not see the shadows buzz.
Father Andrews drove to the church after leaving the sheriff's office.
He had a Bible study group to meet with at seven, and though he didn't really feel like going through with it, he couldn't cancel out now. He parked the car and walked across the gravel toward the front door of the church. Looking down, he could see minuscule bits of multicolored glass in the gravel. His eyes moved up to the twin stained-glass windows in the front of the building. Good as new. No one could ever tell that anything had happened here, save for the slightly lighter tone of the new paint on the bricks.
He took out his key and opened the door, turning on the lights as he walked in. He poked his head in the chapel, to make sure everything was all right. The setting sun, its rays converted to red and blue and yellow and orange as it streamed through the chapel windows, fell on the altar. Everything was as it should be.
Father Andrews walked down the short hall to the large Sunday school classroom that was used for the Bible study group. He wondered idly why this church hadn't been burned. He thought of Brother Elias and felt a cold finger tickle his spine. He was suddenly aware of the fact that he was all alone in the church. He hurried into the classroom and pulled the small portable radio out of the storage closet, turning it on, grateful for the sound of another voice.
He busied himself preparing for the meeting, trying to keep his mind off of what had happened at the sheriff's office.
Billy Ford and Glen Dunaway were the first to arrive, driven by Glen's mother. Both were giggling as they came into the classroom. Father Andrews smiled. "What's so funny?" he asked.
Billy shook his head. "Nothing." Both boys giggled again, whispering to each other.
Susie Powell stepped through the doorway a moment later. She was running her hands through her hair, as though she were trying to comb something out. She looked up at Father Andrews. "What
are all those flies doing out there?" she asked.
"You know what they're attracted to," Glen said, and both he and Billy laughed loudly.
Flies? Father Andrews felt the fear well up again, and he strode out of the classroom toward the front of the church. He stood for a moment in the open doorway. Two pairs of headlights pulled into the parking lot. It was dark, and he could see nothing.
But he could hear, even above the engines of the cars, a droning buzzing.
Flies.
Brother Elias had predicted there would be flies.
His mind went over all of the Biblical plagues. Was that what was happening here? He felt like calling the bishop. He was not equipped to deal with something like this. He did not have the experience. But he knew the bishop would not understand, would think he was crazy, would dismiss him from his position.
Maybe he should be dismissed from his position. And get as far away from Randall as possible.
But, no, he couldn't do that. He had responsibilities. And he owed it to the sheriff to stay. He was involved with this, whether he liked it or not.
He stood by the front door and watched two more groups of children run to the church, swatting the flies away as they ran. More headlights pulled into the parking lot.
An earthquake was supposed to come after the flies, Father Andrews thought, and he suddenly felt sick to his stomach. What if it happened while they were at their Bible study? The church might cave in, killing all those kids.
But it was too late to call it off now. Most of the parents had already driven off and wouldn't be back for an hour.
They would practice civil defense tonight, he decided, duck and-cover.
Ann Simon, the last member of the study group, came running through the doorway, and Father Andrews closed the heavy wooden door behind her.
"To keep the flies out," he explained.
"We have a whole bunch at our house, too," Ann said as they walked toward the classroom. "I don't know where they all came from."
Father Andrews told the children the story of Joseph and his brothers, they practiced civil defense and talked for a moment about earthquakes, they had refreshments.
The Revelation Page 18