The Revelation (16 page)

Gordon raised his arms and linked his fingers through the square holes in the metal fence, pressing his face against the chain link. He could smell the powerful odors of unburied garbage, rotting food, burning trash. The dump had been here almost as long as Randall, he knew.

There were literally tons of garbage buried beneath this land. A lot of it was natural, organic, but a lot of it wasn't. There were various synthetic products, the used goods of an increasingly disposable society, discarded carburetor cleaner, old oil from oil changes, old transmission fluid. God knew what all was down there.

Dr. Waterston was right. It could be leaking into the wells below, into the water supply.

He peered into the dimness, trying to make out specifics of the severalacre landfill. This was where The Selways’ bodies had been found, he knew. He'd read it in the paper. They'd found the kids' bodies all torn up and ripped apart, barely recognizable. Mrs.Sel way's head had been removed from her body and buried separately.

Gordon shivered, feeling a tremor of fear pass through him, a shiver of dread.

A white figure inside the dump passed through the diffused headlights of the Jeep.

Gordon's heart jumped in his chest, his blood pounding. His fingers squeezed against the strong metal wires of the fence. "Hey!" he forced himself to call bravely. "What are you doing in there?"

There was no answer. He continued to stare into the landfill, his eyes searching through the blackness for some sign of movement.

The figure passed again through the headlights, this time closer.

Gordon backed away from the fence, not daring to look away but terrified of what he might see. The figure had been burned, badly burned, a charred husk of a person in a glowing white T-shirt. It had beckoned to him, wanting him to join it.

He bumped against the Jeep and felt behind him for the reassuring solidity of the vehicle's metal hood. He guided himself by touch around to the driver's door, still keeping his eyes on the spot where he'd seen the terrible figure.

He started to climb into the Jeep. And then he saw the boy sitting in his seat.

He leaped back.

"It's okay," the boy said, trying to smile. He was a kid of twelve or thirteen, wearing strangely ill-fitting pants and a white T-shirt. His greasy hair was long, and it curled onto his shoulders. Although he was trying to appear brave, confident, at ease, Gordon could tell that the boy was nervous, scared. "There's nothing to be afraid of," the boy said.

Gordon backed away from the Jeep. "Who are you?" he demanded.

"Your friend," the boy said. He climbed out of the Jeep and approached Gordon, hand extended. "I have something to show you."

The boy's voice was tremulous, nervous, but there was an undercurrent of iron resolve in it, as though he knew he had to say something but was afraid to say it. Gordon shook his head, backing away. He was backing into the darkness of the forest, he knew, away from the modern comfort of the Jeep and its headlights, but he did not care. The natural darkness behind him seemed infinitely preferable to the unnatural boy in front of him.

"I have something to show you," the boy repeated. One hand pulled a wisp of hair from his forehead. "Don't run away."

He turned away from the boy .. . and he was standing in a large semicircle with several people from town. The fire before them was so large and so hot that the shimmering heat waves radiating outward obscured the faces of the other people, but he knew they were from town instinctively.

The fire raged and crackled, flames shooting upward higher and higher until they were well above the tops of even the tallest pines. From somewhere within the blaze came cries and moans, sounds of pain and agony, and Gordon could see that what he had mistaken for blackened kindling at the base of the fire was moving, wiggling, writhing. A charred hand reached upward, then disintegrated into ashes.

The person next to him grabbed his hand. The hand felt cold, dead, and Gordon looked down to see the boy, holding hard onto his hand, his face set in an expression of grim determination.

And then he and the boy were alone in a small meadow surrounded by pines and aspens. The wind was blowing hard, and though there was a full moon, the storm clouds passing continuously over its face gave a fluid shifting quality to the bluish light surrounding them. Far off in the forest, a wolf or coyote howled mournfully.

"This is what I wanted to show you," the boy said, letting go of his hand.

Gordon looked down at the ground, at the tiny white crosses sticking up from between clumps of overgrown weeds. He was scared, filled suddenly with an icy terror he had never before experienced. He looked next to him, at the boy, but the boy was gone. He was all alone in this hateful place, and he closed his eyes, hoping it, too, would disappear, but when he reopened them, all remained as it was. The wind blew hard, tinkling the round leaves of the aspens, sending small leaves and branches skittering across the rough ground. The white crosses, some standing straight, others falling over at various angles, seemed to glow with an unnatural luminescence.

A large cloud passed over the moon, sending the small meadow into total darkness. And then the weeds before the tiny crosses were parting. The hard rocky soil beneath was pushed upward as if something under the ground was trying to break free.

The wind blew harder, carrying away his terrified screams. He felt a soft hand on his leg and he looked down ... to see Marina's fingers on top of the crumpled sheet that covered his body. He was sitting up in bed, his skin wet with a cold sweat, the sheets sticking to his body.

He looked over at Marina. She was staring at him with concern, worry wrinkling her pretty features.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

He nodded, still unable to speak. He could feel his heart pounding, taking its own time about slowing back to normal. He reached over and grabbed her hand, squeezing lightly.

Marina looked him over carefully. "You've been having quite a few nightmares lately," she said.

He nodded. "I know." He closed his eyes, leaning back on the pillow.

"That was a really bad one."

"Is there something wrong, something you want to talk about? If there's something the matter, we should talk it out. I don't want you keeping it all bottled up inside."

"It's everything," he said, shaking his head. "All of the pressures, I

guess. The baby. What Dr. Waterston told us about. The kitten. The money situation." He pulled her close to him. "It's not anything I

can't handle. I don't even feel that stressed out during the day."

"But at night you have nightmares."

"At night," he agreed, "I have nightmares."

They lay there for a few moments, saying nothing, enjoying the closeness. Marina listened to the sound of a dog barking somewhere close to town.

"Maybe," she began, turning toward him.

But he was already asleep, starting to snore, and she turned back over, staring up at the ceiling.

Soon she, too, was asleep.

"Jesus Christ! Is the whole damn world going crazy?" Jim ran an exasperated hand through his sweat-soaked hair and replaced his hat. He slumped in his chair. "All right," he sighed. "Send him in."

Rita nodded and moved out into the hallway. She looked toward the front desk and beckoned. Jim heard the sound of familiar shoes clomping down the hall. He sat up in his seat and tried to make his expression appear interested and concerned, but it was too much effort and he gave it up.

Gordon walked past the receptionist, who was holding open the door, and into the room. The sheriff motioned for him to sit down. "What's new today, Mr. Lewis?" he asked tiredly. Rita closed the door behind her.

"I was going to ask you the same question."

The sheriff smiled. "Not a damn thing," he said.

"Look, sheriff--"

"No. You look. I have several murder investigations going on at this moment, several missing person cases and hundreds of thousands of dollars in damages from vandalism that I have to explain.

Your kitty cat is not real high on my list of priorities right now."

"Yeah. It's small stuff. People break into houses and mutilate kittens all the time." Gordon stood up. "Look, Sheriff. My wife is terrified, and I'm not sleeping too well myself. Some fuckingwier do is walking around loose out there and you try to make it sound as though a group of kids was playing a harmless prank. I'm getting pretty damn tired of your--"

"You stop right there," Jim told him. He stood up and pointed a finger in Gordon's face. "Don't you say another word." He glared at Gordon, and the younger man looked embarrassedly away. Jim shook his head.

"Look, I apologize, all right? I didn't mean to dismiss your problem or make it seem unimportant. It's just that there's been a lot on my mind lately. There really are someweirdos out there, and I'm doing my best to keep things under control. A lot of strange things have been happening in this town."

"I know," Gordon said. "One of them happened at my house." He sat back down.

Jim smiled, the tension eased. He walked over to the window and looked outside. Somewhere on the Rim, search parties were trying to find Jack Harrison, Wayne Fisk, and Matt McDowell. Closer in, the mill was working at only partial power. Many of the workers, Tim McDowell included, were out searching. Jim turned toward Gordon. "You know Tim McDowell?"

Gordon nodded. "Yeah. We're good friends. He called me as soon as he found out. I was out searching with him yesterday afternoon." He kicked at a scrap of paper on the floor. "It's hard to believe."

Jim snorted. "You don't know the half of it. I could tell you things ..." He trailed off. "Hell, I feel like one of those movie sheriffs surveying the wreckage of his town after the big disaster and saying, "This used to be a nice place to live."" He laughed shortly. "Except I

have this horrible feeling that the big disaster hasn't happened yet."

"Me too," Gordon said quietly.

"You too?" The sheriff turned to look at him. "What do you mean, you too?

You have no idea what's going on here."

"Then tell me."

Jim stared at him for a moment, as if thinking, then shook his head.

"No." He moved over to the desk and leaned against it, taking off his hat and setting it on a pile of papers. "Look, why don't you just go home. I'll call you if anything comes up."

Gordon looked at him suspiciously.

"I will." Jim smiled, holding up three pressed-together fingers.

"Sheriff's honor."

"Okay," Gordon said, standing up. "I have a lot of work to do anyway.

My wife wants me to put new dead bolts on all the doors and see if I can do something about the windows. Call me if you find anything out or if you have any more questions about what happened." He yawned.

"Sorry," he said, smiling apologetically. "Between this and the dreams I've been having, I haven't been getting much sleep."

Jim's bland farewell smile faded. He had been about to open the door for Gordon, but his hand remained unmoving on the round brass doorknob.

"Dreams?" he said.

"Yeah. Nightmares." Gordon looked at himquizically . "What does that have to do with anything?"

"Are these normal nightmares?"

"I don't know what you mean by normal--"

"Do you have them often?"

Gordon nodded. "Fairly often."

"When did you start having them? Did it all start recently? Say, a month or so ago?"

Gordon looked at him. He started to back slowly toward the desk. "What is all this?" he asked. "What do you know?"

An hour later, the two men were speeding down Old Mesa Road past the abandoned hulking building that had once been the town's bowling alley.

"I want you to talk to the priest," Jim said. "Tell him what you told me. I'll tell him what I know, too. I've kind of hinted around about things, but I haven't come out and told him what I really think." He turned onto a side street. "I met Father Andrews a few days ago when his place was vandalized. He's a very intelligent man. He knows a hell of a lot about ESP and parapsychology and all that. I think he can help us out a lot."

"His place was vandalized, too?"

"Much worse than yours. The whole library was destroyed; books torn up, pages covered with shit." He looked at Gordon. "I mean real shit.

Human excrement. The whole thing set on fire--"

"Was this his house or Father Selway's ?" Gordon asked suddenly.

"Selway's."

"You think maybe they're connected?"

The sheriff nodded grimly. "I'm sure of it."

The car pulled up in front of a one-story wood-frame structure set back from the road. An old black Plymouth was parked in the dirt driveway.

The sheriff stopped the car and got out. Gordon got out as well and followed him up the path toward the front door.

They were almost to the door when a clean-shaven man with short blond hair, wearing jeans and an old work shirt, peeked around the corner of the house. "I thought I heard someone pull up," he said. He waved at Jim with a dirty trowel. "I'm back here, trying to put together some sort of garden."