The Revelation (25 page)

"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.