The Revelation

by Bentley Little

  Her last thought, before the pain obliterated everything, was disjointedly coherent: We're too far from town. No one will hear us die.

  The truck turned from Main Street to Old Mesa Road, cases of Pepsi sliding slightly across the metal floor in the back and bumping gently against the side as Brad pulled the wheel hard, trying to lessen the impact of the curve. The truck straightened out and they headed past the park toward the markets at the north end of town. Suddenly Brad bent forward and stared through the dirty windshield, squinting against the morning sun. "What in fuck's name is that?"

  He pulled the truck to a stop in front of the parking lot next to the Valley National Bank building. A crowd of people had gathered in the parking lot and were standing in a tight group, facing the building, those in back pressing close against those in front and craning their necks as though trying to see something. Gordon looked over at Brad.

  "Why'd you stop? You want to get out and see what it is?"

  Brad took off his Pepsi hat, threw it down on the seat next to him and ran a hand through his hair in a rough effort to comb it down. "Don't see something like this every day," he said in answer.

  "Must be fifty, sixty people out there."

  They hopped out of the truck and started walking across the pavement toward the crowd. They could hear the clear tones of a public orator, loud even without amplification. The crowd pressed forward, listening, trying to catch a glimpse of the speaker.

  "Satan preys upon the young because they are WEAK! They do not KNOW they are doing his bidding, they simply do notunderSTAND ! They are INNOCENT! And innocence is NEITHER good nor evil! It is the absence of BOTH! THIS is why innocence is so easily corruptible, why the innocent so often become the wicked! We must not be innocent OR ignorant if we expect to do battle with Satan! We must be ARMED! Armed with the ammunition of RIGHT! With the Holy Word of God!"

  Brad stopped walking before they were even halfway across the parking lot. He listened for a moment to the voice, then laughed loudly. A few heads on the periphery of the crowd turned to look at him. "I thought this was something important," he said. "It's just some preacher trying to drum up business. He's probably planning to have a tent meeting tonight and tell everyone about the evils of sex and drugs and rock and roll." He spit on the asphalt then nodded back toward the truck. "Come on. Let's get going. I don't want to hear this crap, and we have a lot to do today."

  Gordon held up his hand. "Wait," he said. He was already walking forward. "I want to see something first."

  Though he had been tempted, Gordon had said nothing to Brad about Marina's experience with Brother Elias the other night. He could hear Brad shuffling uninterestedly behind him, the heels of his cowboy boots scraping against the loose gravel on the asphalt. "You've heard enough," Brad said. "Let's go."

  Gordon ignored him and moved forward.

  "Chaos is Satan's goal! He will stop at nothing less! He intends to unravel ALL of God's work, ALL of man's accomplishments and bring about his OWN world! A world of evil, of blackness, of perpetual night!"

  He knew that voice. He had heard it only once, and it had been much quieter, much more subdued, but it had been filled with the same demonic intensity and had been delivered in the same rhythmic cadences. He pushed his way through the crowd, shouldering past old men and young women, stepping over small children in strollers. Until he stood before Brother Elias.

  The preacher, wearing the same gray business suit he had worn that day in the hospital, his short hair neatly combed and glistening with some type of application, stood on the small bench in front of the bank, holding a Bible in his right hand as he spoke. Behind him, Gordon could see the faces of the tellers and other bank workers pressed against the tinted glass doors of the building. Brother Elias was pacing, walking back and forth along the rectangular seat of the wooden bench like an animal in its cage. Periodically, he would stop pacing and point his Bible melodramatically at someone in the crowd, his voice rising with fervor. Sunlight glinted off his gold crucifix tie clip.

  Brother Elias suddenly crouched low, pointing at a young mother standing next to her infant daughter. He straightened up as he saw Gordon. He stopped speaking, and his black eyes bored into Gordon's.

  The expression on his face was so fanatic, his look so hard and determined, that Gordon felt the anger which had been building inside him drain away and metamorphose into something like fear.

  The crowd was hushed, waiting for the preacher to speak, and Brother Elias' voice was barely above a whisper when he spoke. '"Humble yourselves therefore under the mighty hand of God, that in due time he may exalt you. Cast all your anxieties on him, for he cares about you.

  Be sober, be watchful. Your adversary the devil prowls around like a roaring lion, seeking someone to devour. Resist him, firm in your faith, knowing that the same experience of suffering is required of your brotherhood throughout the world." First Peter 5:6."

  Gordon looked away, avoiding the burning black eyes, not quite sure why his heart was pounding wildly in his chest. From far off, on the other side of town, he heard the familiar whine of a siren. Someone, he realized, someone in the bank, must have called the sheriff. He looked again at Brother Elias and saw that the preacher was staring fixedly at him. The preacher had not yet said another word, and vague questioning murmurs were beginning to ripple through the assembled crowd. Brother Elias slowly lifted his Bible and pointed it toward Gordon. "You and your wife are not without sin.

  You are sinners in the eyes of the Lord. Yet you have been chosen by the Lord our God."

  The siren grew louder then abruptly shut off as the car pulled into the parking lot. Gordon turned to look, along with the rest of the crowd, but he could see nothing. Too many heads were in the way. There was the sound of a car door being slammed.

  "Out of the way. Come on,Flo , move aside. I have to get through here." Gordon heard the tired, slightly nasal voice of CarlChmura as the deputy pushed his way through the crowd. He pressed between an old man and woman and nodded curtly to Gordon as he passed by. Brother Elias remained unmoving on top of his bench, staring at Gordon.

  The glass double doors of the bank opened andDelmer Rand, the small weasel-like bank manager, stepped officiously out, followed by three or four curious tellers. "This man has been trespassing, creating a public nuisance and obstructing my business," he told the deputy. "I want him arrested."

  Chmuralooked at him condescendingly. "Let us decide if there are going to be any charges filed here, all right Del?" He turned to look at the preacher, still standing on the bench, and his expression grew tense. His hand snaked to the butt of his nightstick. "All right, mister," he said. "What's your name?"

  "Brother Elias."

  At the sound of the name,Chmura stiffened. He looked quickly at Gordon then stepped forward. "I'm afraid you are under arrest, sir.

  You are going to have to come with me." His hand closed around the nightstick, ready to use it.

  Brother Elias nodded agreeably, as if the proposition met with his complete approval, but his eyes lost nothing of their black burning intensity. He stepped down from the bench and held his hands out in front of him, offering the deputy his wrists. "Would you like to handcuff me, officer?"

  Chmurashook his head. "That won't be necessary. Just come with me to the car."

  The crowd parted to let the two through and immediately began to disperse. Some people followed the deputy and Brother Elias, listening to the deputy read the preacher his rights, but most scattered slowly outward, resuming whatever they had been doing before stopping to listen to the preacher. Gordon looked around for Brad and saw that he was already back in the truck. There was an impatient honk as he saw Gordon walking across the parking lot. He rolled down the window. "Get your ass in gear! We're already behind schedule!"

  Gordon desperately wanted to be there when the sheriff questioned Brother Elias. He had some questions he wanted to ask himself. But he knew that he dare not ask Brad for the day off. The deliveries were
running behind schedule, and though Brad hadn't said anything, Gordon knew he was mad about the time he had already taken off.

  He ran the last few feet to the truck and hopped into the cab. Brad had already started the engine, and he put the truck immediately into gear, peeling out. Gordon was thrown back into the seat.

  Brad grabbed his hat from the seat next to him and put it on. He looked at Gordon. "So what the hell was all that about?"

  Gordon thought for a moment. "Nothing," he said.

  Jim pulled into the parking lot of the sheriff's office and sat in his car for a moment, staring out at the low gray building. The meeting with McFarland had been a waste of time. He had met the state policeman at the cafe for a late breakfast, hoping to get some idea of where the investigation was headed, what leads were being followed up.

  But McFarland had been closemouthed, saying only that Wilson believed they should concentrate their efforts in the Valley. Jim had tried to tell him about Brother Elias, who seemed to him to be intimately connected with at least the fires, but McFarland, very patronizing, had said that theweirdos came out of the woodwork for something like this.

  Jim had left early, furious, intending to call Wilson and give him a piece of his mind. This was supposed to have been a joint investigation, an equal partnership, and these young punks were treating him as if he were some rube who didn't know his ass from his elbow.

  He drove around town for a while, radio off, windows open, trying to calm down. When at last he no longer felt like doing physical violence to that state asshole, he headed back toward the office.

  Now he sat in the car, staring out the dusty windshield. He resented wasting half his morning talking to McFarland. It was like talking to a brick wall. He wished he had never called in the state police, publicity or no publicity. He didn't see where thestaters were helping out a whole hell of a lot anyway.

  He got out of the car, pulled up his belt and walked across the parking lot to the office. He nodded at Rita as he walked in. "Where's the posse searching this morning?" he asked.

  "They checked in about an hour ago, said they were still in the Aspen Lake-Milk Ranch Point area. There's a lot of ground to cover there."

  Milk Ranch Point.

  Jim remembered the dream he had had about Milk Ranch Point, Don Wilson taking him on a tour of the small white gravestones, and he shivered, feeling the coldness seep through him.

  "I'll be back in my office," he told Rita.

  She nodded, pressing a button on the switchboard to answer a call.

  Jim started down the hallway, toward the back of the building, when he heard Carl's excited voice behind him. "Sheriff! I've found him!"

  Jim turned around to see Carl leading a conservative-looking business-suited man through the front door. The man was moving along voluntarily, not struggling, but there was defrance in his posture, fight in the movement of his muscles. His eyes, unnaturally black, were staring hard into Jim's. Jim noticed a black-bound Bible under the man's arm.

  "Brother Elias!" Carl said excitedly. "I got a call about a disturbance at Valley National, and I found him preaching out there!"

  "Good," Jim said, keeping his voice calm. "Bring him back to the conference room. I want to talk to him." He led the way down the hall, forcing himself to remain stoically detached though the adrenaline of excitement was coursing through his veins. He used his key to open up the conference room door and flipped on the lights. The fluorescent bars in the ceiling flickered into existence.

  Carl led Brother Elias into the room and sat him down on a hard metal folding chair. The preacher looked at the deputy and smiled slightly. His eyes were cold. "Get out of here," said Brother Elias quietly.

  Carl looked toward the sheriff.

  "He's my deputy. He stays."

  "Then I cannot speak." Brother Elias folded his hands on the table in front of him and stared at the bare whiteness of the opposite wall.

  Jim looked at the preacher. Brother Elias sat staring with an expression of endless patience on his face. The patience of a true believer. He had seen that expression before--too often before-and he knew there wasn't a damn thing he could do to wipe the infuriating complacency off the man's face. If Brother Elias said he wouldn't talk, he wouldn't talk. The sheriff sighed heavily and motioned for Carl to leave the room. "All right," he said. "We'll have to play it his way for a while. Stay outside. I'll call you."

  The deputy glared with hatred at the preacher as he walked out of the room. The door closed behind him, and Jim turned to Brother Elias.

  "Well," he said. "You've been pretty busy the past week or so, haven't you?"

  The preacher turned to look at him, examining his features. "There's a lot of family resemblance," he said finally.

  "What?"

  "You look an awful lot like your great-grandfather."

  Jim stared at the preacher, unsure of how to react. Behind the man's cold black eyes, he could detect an inner insanity. He forced himself to smile benignly. He'd let the preacher determine the course of the conversation. "My great-grandfather?" he said.

  "Ezra Weldon," the preacher replied.

  Jim's polite smile faded. Ezra Weldon had been his great-grandfather's name. But how could Brother Elias know that? He stared into the preacher's unflinching black eyes and felt the first vague stirrings of fear inside him.

  "He was a good man, and a good sheriff," the preacher said.

  Jim stood in front of Brother Elias. "Who are you?" he demanded.

  "What the hell are you doing here?"

  "I am Brother Elias," the preacher said calmly. "I have come to fight the fight of the good. I have come to repel the wicked and do battle with the forces of evil. For the evil one is here." He looked into the sheriff's eyes. ""And the adversary also came among them."

  Job 1:6."

  "How do you know my great-grandfather's name? And how do you know he was a sheriff?"

  Brother Elias smiled. "I knew him," he said. "He was with me the last time."

  Jim began pacing around the room. The man was obviously crazy. He had gottenahold of Ezra Weldon's name somehow, and now it happened to come in handy. There was no secret to it, nothing mysterious. Any one of the fifty-odd members of the county historical society could have given him detailed information about theWeldons , theMurphys , the Stones, the Smiths, or any of the other local families who had lived in Randall for several generations.

  But why would any of them talk to Brother Elias about Ezra Weldon? Why would Brother Elias ask about Ezra Weldon?

  Jim stared defiantly at the preacher. "What do you know about the First Southern Baptist Church?"

  "It was consumed by fire."

  "And the Catholic church, St. Mary's? And the Presbyterian church?"

  "They, too, were burned by the unholy flames of hell."

  Jim glared at him. "And didn't you predict that they would burn?

  Didn't you know they would be set on fire?"

  Brother Elias nodded. "All is as it was foretold. I have seen this in a vision of the Lord. The Lord came unto me and told me that here the adversary would be. He told me that first there would be sacrilege, then fire, to the houses of God."

  "And you don't know how these fires were started?"

  "I know," the preacher said.

  "How?" Jim demanded.

  "The minions of Satan started these fires. They are preparing for the coming battle against the forces of the Lord."

  The sheriff pressed a hand against his forehead. Jesus. How come he always ended up with this kind of crap?

  "There will be fires," Brother Elias continued, his voice chanting in a monotonic cadence. "And the lightning will turn red, signifying the coming of the adversary. There will be flies. There will be earthquakes."

  Jim opened the door in disgust and motioned for Carl, standing directly opposite the door on the other side of the hall. "Lock him up," he said.

  Carl grinned, pleased. "What's the charge?"

  "Suspected arson," he s
aid. "Disturbing the peace,harrassment . Have Gordon Lewis' wife come in here later and sign a complaint."

  "Will do."

  Jim watched as Carl walked into the conference room and escorted the preacher down the hall to one of the holding cells. Part of him wanted to believe that Brother Elias knew what was going on, but the police training in him was too strong. The man seemed to have really gone off the deep end. He heard Carl slam shut the iron door to one of the holding cells. He had no proof to back up the arson charge, but he refused to admit that McFarland was right, that Brother Elias was just a crazy who had crawled out of a hole and who really knew nothing of what was going on. He wanted to keep him in incarceration for a few days at least, to see if he could discover something. Anything.

  He shook his head in frustration and walked down the hall to his office. He slammed the door behind him.

  They finished delivering to the town stores an hour earlier than expected, despite the heavy afternoon rain, and Brad decided to call it quits for the day. Tomorrow they were delivering to the outlying areas and they'd be starting early. Gordon declined Brad's offer to stop off for a beer at the Colt and headed home instead. He was half-tempted to drop by the sheriff's office and talk to the sheriff about Brother Elias, but he knew he should drive home first and pick up Marina. She was the one who would have to identify the man and press charges anyway, if there were any charges to be pressed.

  The Jeep sped past Char Clifton's 76 station, and Gordon was surprised to see that it was closed. As far as he knew, the station had never closed this early in the day before. Come to think of it, there had been quite a few places in town that had been unexpectedly closed today. He wondered idly if there was a flu going around. Or something worse?

  He pushed the thought from his mind, concentrating instead on the narrow road curving through the trees. Ahead, through the ravine, he could see the flat-topped outline of the Rim and a curling wisp of smoke coming from somewhere on its top. Lightning from the storm must have hit up there and started a minor forest fire.