The Revelation

by Bentley Little

  Gordon ignored the editor's tunnel-visionedaccount of the situation.

  "What about the other clergymen? Have they disappeared?"

  "No. But that's really all I can tell you," Beck admitted. "The sheriff is supposed to call me back. The way it's going now, it looks like I'll be here 'til dawn."

  "I'll let you go, then. Thanks."

  "No problem. And I'll look into that baby situation as soon as I can.

  I'll get back to you if I find anything out."

  Gordon made his final call of the evening to his parents in California.

  After he'd told them of Marina's pregnancy they wanted to talk to Marina herself, and he yelled for her to pick up the other phone. The four-way long distance conversation was very sober and very tearful, and it continued on until well past midnight. Finally his parents hung up, promising to call again Monday night. On his father's request, he dialed the operator and had the charges reversed.

  Outside, the rain had long since stopped and the world was completely quiet. Looking out the window, Gordon could see the short line of stars that formed the handle of the Big Dipper standing out sharply against a background of galaxies and nebulas in the now clear night sky. Closer in, the pine trees stood tall and straight, completely unmoving in the breeze less air. He closed the drapes and walked down the hall to the bedroom, slipping naked into bed, where Marina joined him a few minutes later. Although it was late and they were tired, they made love, more for the closeness and intimacy it afforded than the pleasure, and it was nearly two o'clock before both of them finally fell asleep, curled next to each other under the thin sheet.

  Neither of them heard the soft scuttling noises that whispered through the house soon after.

  And neither of them noticed in the morning that the furniture in the living room had been subtly, slightly moved.

  Jim Weldon turned on the fluorescent office lights and shuffled across the carpet to his desk, sitting tiredly down. He leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes tightly and pressing against the lids with the palms of his hands. It had been one hellacious day. They had found the rest of Mrs.Selway's body and the bodies of the children in various stages of dismemberment by nightfall, and all of the corpses had been loaded onto Scott Hamilton's truck for the trip back to town.

  Jim had ridden with Scott and a few other men to the mortuary and had called the county coroner, while Carl had remained at the dump with the rest of the posse, trying to find the body of Father Selway . Jim had stopped briefly at the newspaper to let Keith Beck know what was happening, then had hurried back out to the dump. Father Selway's body had not been recovered. They had continued searching for another hour and a half with no luck and had finally given it up for the night.

  Jim did not think they would ever find the body.

  He took his hands from his eyes and let his chair fall forward.

  "Supervisor Jones called."

  He stared at the three-word note sitting on top of his desk and swore to himself. Jesus fuck. Leslie Jones. The last thing he needed today was to talk to that bitch. She'd probably found out from the coroner that The Selways’ bodies had been recovered and wanted to chew him out for not finding them sooner, or for not giving them adequate protection while they were alive, or for ... something. She always had some bug up her ass. He crumpled up the paper and tossed it on the floor, shaking his head. Luckily, it was a weekend and her office was closed.

  He didn't have her home phone number, so he couldn't return her call until Monday.

  He picked up the other messages that had been left on his desk and glanced through them. Beck had called from the newspaper and wanted him to call back as soon as possible. Reverend Paulson from the Presbyterian church had stopped by, but he'd come back tomorrow when things weren't so busy. Annette had called to say that she'd heard what had happened and would hold dinner for him.

  Don Wilson had called.

  Jim tossed the remaining messages aside and dialed the number written on the small square of pink memo paper. It was late, he knew, but he couldn't afford to take any chances. A woman's voice answered.

  "Hello."

  "Hello," he said. "Is Don Wilson there?"

  The woman's voice sounded suddenly suspicious. "Who is this?"

  "Sheriff Weldon. I'd like to speak to Don if I could."

  The suspicion changed audibly to anger; an anger directed at her son.

  The woman's voice grew tense, and Jim could almost see the jaw muscles clenching. "What's he done now?"

  "Nothing." Jim had promised the boy that he wouldn't tell his parents anything, but he did not want his silence on the subject to get the boy into trouble. He thought quickly. "I'm calling about the anti litter campaign we're starting," he said smoothly. "We're getting a group of volunteers together to pick up cans along the highway next Saturday, and I was told Don might be interested." He knew it was a lame excuse, but it was the best he could do on the spur of the moment. The woman's voice sounded incredulous. "Don?"

  "Could you just put him on the line please, Mrs. Wilson?"

  "Okay," the woman said. "Just a second."

  There was a moment of silence, then the boy came to the phone. His voice sounded tired, and Jim thought he had probably been sleeping.

  "Yeah?"

  "Don, this is Sheriff Weldon."

  "Oh." The boy's voice was suddenly alert and wide awake.

  "We found the bodies. Just like you said."

  "I know."

  Jim cleared his throat. "I got a note here that you called. You wanted to talk to me?"

  "Yes."

  The boy's answers were unnaturally short, and his voice sounded not quite relaxed. Jim had a feeling that the boy's mother was standing there in the same room, listening. "Can you talk now?" he asked.

  "No."

  "Is your mother there? Is that why?"

  "Yes."

  "Okay," Jim said. "But I'd like you to come down to the office tomorrow. I want to talk to you about all this."

  "All right."

  "How does ten o'clock sound?"

  "Fine."

  "Okay. I'll see you then." Jim was about to say good-bye and hang up when he thought of something else. "One thing more. Father Selway ?

  We found no trace of him. His body wasn't there."

  Don's voice was still calm and controlled in front of his mother, but Jim could hear an edgy undercurrent of fear in it. "I know," he said.

  "Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?"

  "Sort of." Don's voice grew suddenly into a whisper. He spoke quickly, and Jim knew that his mother had left the room for a moment.

  "I had another dream," he said. "It was--" The whisper cut off in mid-sentence, and the boy's voice resumed it's normal tone. "Later."

  "You'll tell me later?"

  "Yes."

  "Okay, Don. I'll see you tomorrow then. Ten o'clock. My office."

  "Fine. Good-bye, Sheriff."

  "Good-bye." Jim hung up the phone feeling slightly edgy himself. He knew he was an adult, and a sheriff, and he was supposed to have gotten rid of his childhood fears years ago, but he was frightened nonetheless. The window of his office looked completely dark, he could see nothing but his own reflection in it, and he was reminded of a particularly horrible nightmare he had had last week. He stood up, suddenly spooked, knowing that both Judson and Pete were keeping watch in the front of the building and that he was all alone back here. He saw again the mutilated bodies of those two farmers, and the face of Mrs.Selway in the mud, rain dripping down her dead lips. He walked quickly across the office toward the door.

  There was a quiet swishing noise in the hall outside.

  Jim stood perfectly still, unmoving, every muscle in his body on alert.

  He listened carefully, head cocked, but all he could hear at first was the rapid beating of his own heart. Then the swishing sound came again, darting down the hall toward the rear of the building. He drew his gun, knowing that nothing human could have made that sound,
but hoping to God that he was wrong. He counted to five, then threw open the door.

  The lights in the hallway were off, and he barely saw the dark shadow skitter around the corner at the far end of the corridor. He ran forward, gun in hand. The hall was cold, unnaturally so, much colder than even the air-conditioning system could have gotten it, and the air smelled faintly of sewage or rotting vegetables. He ran around the corner .. . and into Judson Weiss.

  The deputy went sprawling, his wildly flailing arms knocking over a freestanding ashtray and sending a spray of white sand flying across the tile floor. "Jesus!" he yelled. He slid backward for a few seconds, then regained his balance and used his hands to push himself to his feet. He noticed Jim's drawn gun and instantly became alert. He reached for his own firearm. "What is it?"

  Jim was trying to regain his own balance; though he had not fallen, the collision had sent him backward into the wall. "Did you see anything run by here?" he asked.

  "What?"

  "Something--" He stopped, knowing that what he was about to say sounded stupid, but having to say it anyway. "--something small and dark that made sort of a ... whisk-broom sound?"

  Judson stared at him. "Like what? A rat?" His voice was puzzled.

  Jim ran a hand through his hair. "Did you see anything run by here?"

  "No sir."

  "All right." Jim put the gun back in his holster. He knew how he probably sounded, and he was aware of the deputy's worried glance. He smiled to show he was all right. "I'm just tired, I guess. I thought I saw something run by my door. I don't know what the hell I thought it was." He picked up the spilled ashtray and refastened its bowl-shaped top. "Maybe Ioughtta get home and get some sleep."

  Judson nodded. "Maybe so. Me and Pete will be here tonight. We'll call you if anything comes up."

  "Yeah," Jim said. "Maybe I will head home. After that autopsy report is delivered none of us are going to get any sleep around here."

  "Don't guess we will."

  Jim pointed toward the spray of sand on the floor tile. "Think you could clean that up there?"

  "Sure."

  He patted Judson on the back. "Sorry I bumped into you."

  "No problem, Sheriff."

  Jim went back to his office to get his keys. He knew he probably was too tired. He seemed to be losing his grip. He wanted Judson to think nothing was wrong, but something was very much wrong. He had no proof, nothing to substantiate his fears, but he had a gut feeling that whatever was going on in Randall was not caused by anything human. He knew, though, that despite his inner unfounded suspicions he would have to investigate everything using proper police procedure--procedure that automatically assumed that all circumstances were the result of normal criminals operating in normal criminal ways. Maybe that was for the best. It wouldn't do to have a sheriff who based his actions on dreams, who saw things that weren't there.

  But Don had been right about the Selways .

  Jim sighed. He knew it was irrational, but it was almost inconceivable to him that so many things could be going on at once and not be connected somehow, particularly in a quiet small town like Randall, a town where the annual crime rate hovered just above zero. The way he saw it, in fact, they were connected. Several farmers' goats had been slaughtered, and the goats' blood had been used to desecrate the town's churches. Two of the farmers whose goats had been killed had themselves been murdered. And Father Selway , whose church had been the first hit, had been murdered.

  No, not murdered. His family had been murdered. He was still only missing.

  Jim closed his eyes. He could feel a headache coming on. He knew he was thinking irrationally, not reasoning correctly, and he knew he should probably tell someone his fears, his suspicions. Judson or Pete. Carl. But he could not bring himself to do it. This was something he could not share. He grabbed his keys and his hat. He nodded as he walked past Pete, who was manning the switchboard for the night, and made his way out to the parking lot. He couldn't help looking at the bushes surrounding the parking lot for any sign of movement, and he stopped to listen before he opened the car door.

  But there was no movement and no sound, and he drove home still troubled.

  The church bells rang out in staggered order, calling people to their respective Sunday services, their different tones and pitches blending, harmonizing, to create one lovely melded semi melody From his office, Jim could hear the bells of five of the town's six churches, and he could pick out the individual sounds of three of them. He looked out the window, staring at the fluffy white clouds above the Rim; the clouds that would turn into raging thunderheads bymidafternoon . All but one of the bells quit pealing. Their ringing tones faded, quieted, died out. Only the bell to the Episcopal church continued. Three extra rings. Then it, too, was silenced.

  Jim stared in the direction of the Episcopal church, though he could see nothing but trees. He wondered who was taking Father Selway's place in the pulpit today. He thought of the horrible attitude of the bishop and he grimaced. He was half-considering popping over to the church for a quick look, just to see what was happening, when he heard the unmistakable sound of the fire department's siren. He cocked his head, listening. The truck seemed to be heading down Main Street, away from Old Mesa Road. He skirted around his desk and turned up the scanner on the shelf above the rifle case.

  ".. . Ash Lane." There was a sharp crackle of static. "Fire reported at the residence of John Wilson," a woman's voice stated. "Twelve thirty-four South Ash Lane."

  Wilson!

  Jim ran down the hall to the front office. "Rita!" he called. "Do you have the address of that kid who was here yesterday? Don Wilson?"

  The dispatcher looked startled. "Yes, but I think I put it on your desk."

  "Never mind! Do you remember whether he lived on Ash?"

  "I think he did ..."

  Jim was out the door and running, fumbling the keys out of his pocket as he sprinted across the small parking lot. He hit the lights and the siren and spun out onto the street. He grabbed the radio microphone from its spot on the dash. He clicked the radio tuner to the fire emergency channel. "Weldon!" he shouted into the mike. "Get me an update on that fire!"

  The woman's voice came over the car's speaker. Sheriff?" It was Natalie Ernst, Chief Ernst's daughter-in-law.

  "Howbad's the damage Natalie?"

  "The truck's there right now. The neighbor who called said the house just sort of exploded about ten minutes ago."

  Ten minutes ago. He hadn't heard a thing. "What about the family?"

  "Someone got out, but we're not sure who."

  "Was it a kid?"

  There was a short hesitation. "I don't think so."

  Jim turned the car onto Old Mesa Road. The four travelers on the street pulled over as they heard his siren. He let the radio mike hang. "Sheriff?" Natalie said. "Sheriff?" He flipped the radio off and turned onto Ash. Ahead, he could see the square yellow bulk of the town's new fire engine blocking the road. Smoke was billowing out from the house in front of the fire engine, partially obscuring the scene. A tangle of hoses, like gigantic anacondas, snaked across the partially paved road into the thickest part of the smoke.

  A helmeted, uniformed man, probably Ernst, was standing in the middle of the street shouting orders and gesturing authoritatively.

  Jim slammed on the brakes and hopped out of the car. He ran straight for the fire chief. "How's the kid?" he yelled.

  Ernst looked at him, his face already blackened by soot. "What kid?"

  The neighbors were out now, standing in front of their houses in huddled groups, a bizarre mixture of Sunday-suited churchgoers and sleep-garbed stay-at-homes. They were milling around nervously, looking this way and that, talking among themselves in hushed tones.

  Jim walked up to the nearest group. He nodded toward a well-dressed elderly man. "Do you know theWilsons ?" he asked.

  The man shrugged. "Not too well."

  "Any of you?"

  "I used to baby-sit Don," one lady offere
d. She clutched the top of her pink terry cloth robe to her neck, trying to hide her semi nakedness.

  "Have you seen Don this morning?"

  The lady shook her head. "I just got out here a few minutes ago. I didn't know anything was happening till I heard the sirens pull up."

  Jim strode over to another man, standing by himself, staring into the smoke. "You seen anything?"

  The man shook his head. "I heard the woman got out. That's all I know."

  "Did you see her?"

  The man pointed toward an adjoining lawn, where several people were milling about. "I think she's over there. They're waiting for the ambulance to come."

  Jim started toward the house next door, but he could see the sheeted figure on the grass between several legs before he even reached the spot. His heart sank as he pushed two people out of the way and looked down on the moaning remains of Don Wilson's mother, her arms, little more than stumps, trying unsuccessfully to shield her charred and blackened face from heat that was no longer there. The sounds that came out of her mouth were barely human, and discolored blood seeped out from beneath peeling folds of burned skin.

  He turned away and walked back across the street to where Ernst was adjusting a hose on the fire truck. Orange flames were now leaping out of the smoke. "Chief!" he called.

  Ernst waved him away with one short motion of his hand. "You're in the way, Weldon," he said abruptly. "I'll be glad to talk to you, but not right now. We've got a fire to put out."

  Jim stepped back and watched as Ernst and another man ran into the smoke toward the house carrying a hose. He heard several voices shouting orders.

  He stood alone in the middle of the street, staring numbly. Don was dead, he knew. The boy had never even made it out of the house. He had probably died in his sleep from smoke inhalation. Or else he had fried trying to escape. Jim thought he saw shapes moving through the smoke. It looked like the fire was coming under control. This was no accident, this fire. Someone--something-had wanted Don dead, had known that the boy had come to him and wanted to get him out of the way. He stepped over a puddle, walking back to his car. He was going to make sure that Ernst followed through with an investigation of this fire. A full arson investigation. The fire had been deliberately started, and he wanted some answers.