The Revelation

Brother Elias stared straight ahead, his eyes fastened on the road.

"The Lord's work."

Tim nodded, smiling, and lapsed back into silence. He should've known better than to pick up a hitcher. Any hitcher. Even the ones who looked normal and respectable were weird these days. He snuck a glance out of the corner of his eye at Brother Elias. The preacher was staring straight out the windshield, his hands folded over the Bible in his lap, his face a complete blank. Tim shook his head. It was his own fault; he had picked this clown up. But it was his duty to be friendly. He drove silently for a few miles then turned to the preacher. "So you just travel around? Hitching? Seems like it'd be easier to have your own church and stay in one place to me."

"I go where I am needed," said Brother Elias.

"And where're you headed now? You going to Randall?"

Brother Elias nodded.

"You think Randall needs saving?"

Brother Elias nodded again.

"Seems like there're a lot of worse places than Randall to me. Los Angeles, for one. Damn place is full of hippies, punks, queers, you name it." He cleared his throat, embarrassed. "Sorry again. So how do you pick where you're going? How come you decided Randall was the next place needed to be saved?"

"I have seen the coming evil," said Brother Elias. "I have seen it in a vision. The Lord has shown me the foulness of Satan's corruption and the face of his evil. He has shown me the means by which the adversary will triumph in this new Babylon. "And he called out with a mighty voice, "Fallen, fallen is Babylon the great! It has become a dwelling place of demons, a haunt of every foul spirit."" Revelation 18:2.

"The Lord has sent me to combat this evil with his holy word and the teachings of Jesus Christ our Lord and Savior."

Tim did not respond to the preacher. He said nothing. Instead, he looked ahead to where the two-lane road curved through a wooded canyon and inwardly cursed himself for picking up the man. Brother Elias was crazy. Not playing with a full deck, deuce high, as his daddy used to say. This should teach him not to pick up hitchers. No matter how they looked. He hazarded another glance at the preacher and saw that he was again staring straight out the window, his face a blank. Tim shivered and gave the truck more gas, pushing it up to sixty-five.

They passed through the canyon and sped past the small dirt road that led to the ranger station. There was nothing but flat forest the rest of the way into Randall, and Tim turned on the radio to make the drive a little more pleasant and to ease the strain of silence that he felt.

He looked toward the preacher as he tuned in the clearest station, but Brother Elias' face remained impassive.

Since he did not seem to object to the noise, Tim left the radio on.

A few minutes later, the preacher closed his eyes.

They were almost on the outskirts of town when Brother Elias jerked wide awake. He looked at Tim. "You have a son," he said. It was not a question but a statement of fact.

"Yes," Tim admitted.

"Drop me off at the police station," Brother Elias said.

"We don't have a police station. We have a sheriff's office."

"Drop me off at the sheriff's office."

Tim drove through the main part of town and pulled in at the sheriff's office. He watched as the preacher picked up his suitcase and small brown parcel from the seat between them. "Why did you say I had a son?" he asked.

The preacher opened the passenger door and stepped out.

Vivcame running out of the sheriff's office, her face red and wet with tears.

Tim stared at his wife as she dashed across the small parking lot. He jumped out of the truck and hurried toward her, leaving the keys in the ignition. "What is it?" he demanded. "What happened?"

She threw her arms around him and held tight, burying her face in his shoulder, sobbing uncontrollably. Her face was hot and wet against his skin. He hugged her, his hands pressing against the soft flesh of her back. Above her head, he could see Carl Chmura striding slowly but purposefully out of the sheriff's office. The deputy was staring at the ground as he crossed the parking lot, avoiding Tim's eyes. Tim felt a sudden rush of panic--Matt!-and looked quickly from Carl Chmura's averted face to his own white knuckled hands grasping iv's back.

No, he thought, please God don't let it be Matt.

"Tim--" the deputy began.

"Is it Matt? Tell me, Carl."

The deputy nodded. "He never came home this morning. Neither did Jack or Wayne. Your wife reported Matt missing around ten o'clock this morning. I tried to getahold of you, but you'd already left. I called the store up inHargreve , but I guess they didn't find you in time."

"What happened to Matt?" He was starting to feel numb, disconnected, as though his brain was preparing itself for the inevitable shock.

"We don't know," the deputy admitted. "We have a search team out there looking for the boys right now. Your wife said they went camping at Aspen Lake--"

"That's right."

"--so we sent a posse." He looked at Tim. "There was quite a big storm on the Rim last night."

"What the hell's that supposed to mean?"

The deputy shrugged. "Can't tell. There was a lot of lightning, lot of rain, lot of wind. If we're lucky, they just got lost; they were out hiking when the storm hit and somehow got turned around in their directions. If we're not lucky ..." The deputy left the sentence unfinished.

"Maybe their car just broke down--"

"We found the car. And all their gear. They started to make a camp down by the lake itself."

"We should never have let him go!"Viv screamed, looking up at him. "I

told you he shouldn't have gone!" Her face was contorted with shock and pain and fear.

"Maybe you'd best take her home," the deputy said quietly. "We'll call you if anything turns up."

"I'm going up there," Tim said. "I'm going to look for my son."

"Take me home,"Viv sobbed, looking up at him and clutching the shoulders of his tank top. "Please take me home. I want to go home."

"Take her home,"Chmura said gently.

"I'll be back," Tim said, leading his wife toward the truck. "I'm going up there." He opened the passenger door and helped his wife in.

Closing the door, he ran around to the driver's side and jumped up on the seat, knocking a small illustrated pamphlet onto the floor. He bent down to pick up the pamphlet.

"Do you know where your children are right now?" the headline screamed up at him. "They could be caught in the clutches ofsatan ."

He tore the pamphlet in half and tossed it out the window, and the rear tires of the truck scattered the pieces as he sped out of the parking lot toward home.

Gordon parked the Jeep in front of the closed chain link gate of the dump and got out, leaving the headlights on. The high beams stabbed forcefully into the moonless dark but failed to illuminate more than a straight narrow stretch of the landfill. Around the edges of the light, the blackness closed in thicker, as if gathering for an assault of its own.

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 several-acre 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."

The two walked around the edge of the house. The priest was standing next to a large rectangular patch of cleared ground that covered almost the entire side yard. The soil here had been recently tilled, and a pile of dried weeds andmanzanita bushes was pushed against the wall of the house. A few tentative rows had been started in the dirt at the far end of the rectangle. The priest dropped his trowel next to a stack of seed packets and wiped his hands on his jeans before offering one to Gordon. "Father Donald Andrews," he said. "First Episcopal Church."

Gordon shook the priest's hand. "Gordon Lewis," he said. "Pepsi deliveryman."

The priest laughed. He shook hands with the sheriff. "What can I do for you gentlemen?"

Jim looked at Gordon, then back at the priest. "We have to talk.

There are some things I'd like to tell you."

Father Andrews' face became serious as he listened to the sheriff's tone of voice. "Is this along the lines of what we were discussing the other day?"

Jim nodded.

"I thought so. I had a feeling you were keeping something back; though I hoped I was wrong." He picked up his stack of seeds and started walking toward the rear of the house. "Come on. We can talk inside."

Jim and Gordon sat on opposite ends of the couch in the living room while Father Andrews washed up and put on a pot of tea. The priest emerged from the kitchen a few moments later and sat down in the large overstuffed chair opposite the couch. He looked at the sheriff. "So what is all this about?"

"Dreams," Jim said.

"What?"

"You know about psychic experiences, Father. You've studied them, and you may have had a few yourself."

The priest nodded.

"I think that's what's happening here. Gordon and I have both been having some pretty strange dreams lately. Nightmares. For all I know, a lot of other people have been having them too." He paused. "A boy named Don Wilson had these kinds of dreams also." He leaned forward in his seat. "But that boy saw things in his dreams. Real things. He saw the Selway family being murdered, and he told us where to find their bodies."

The priest's eyebrows shot up in surprise.

"He's dead," Jim said, anticipating the priest's next question. "He'd had a new dream, an important dream that he said he had to tell me about, but he was killed before he could explain it to me."

"What happened?" Gordon asked.

"His house burned down. Officially, he died of smoke inhalation." Jim shook his head. "I mean, he did die of smoke inhalation. But it was intentional. He was murdered. Do you understand? It was a very convenient fire."

Father Andrews frowned. "What? Some sort of cult?"

"That's just what my wife thought. But no, I don't think that's what it is. I know this sounds crazy, but just bear with me." The tea kettle started whistling in the kitchen and the sheriff looked at Father Andrews questioningly, but the priest shook his head. Jim looked from the priest to Gordon and back again. "In his dream, the boy said he saw the Selway family tortured and killed by monsters. He said the creatures ate the baby, ripped apart the other children and tore off Mrs.Selway's head. We found the half-eaten remains of the baby, the eviscerated kids, and the mother and her head exactly where Don told us we would." The sheriff looked at Gordon.

"None of this leaves the room, understand?"

Gordon nodded silently, his face pale.

"But that wasn't all. Don told us that after the creatures killed Selway'sfamily, they madeSelway himself kneel before a fire, telling him to bow down before his new God. Something huge came out of the flames, something with horns that Don said looked like the devil, and Selwaywalked into the fire." He paused. "We never foundSelway's remains. Don told us we wouldn't."

"That's quite a story," Father Andrews said. "But you expect me to believe it all?"

"What don't you believe?"

"Where do you want me to start?" He looked at the sheriff and sighed.

"Okay, first, the conception of the devil as an entity with horns and a tail and a pitchfork comes from artists and fiction writers. It has no theological basis in fact--"

"Are you telling me that the Bible gives detailed descriptions of each and every demon mentioned and that none of them have horns?"

"Well, no," the priest admitted. "There are very few physical descriptions."

"Okay then."

"But psychic dream correlations are very seldom literal. There's hardly ever a specific one-to-one correspondence between the details of a premonition and what actually occurs--"

The sheriff held up a hand. "Look, humor me. Suppose the boy saw what actually happened? What then?"

"I'm--"

"Take into account the fact that several churches have been vandalized and painted with goat's blood, that goats from neighboring farms have been slaughtered, that two of the farmers themselves have been killed, that similar things have happened around the state. Throw in your own experience, the disappearance of some teenage boys and some small stuff like Gordon's cat. What have you got?"

The priest looked at him. "Do you want my official answer as a member of the Episcopal church, or do you want my own personalanswer?v "Your personal answer. Your honest answer." "I don't know," Father Andrews admitted. "But you're starting to scare me."

Marina was standing in the front doorway when Gordon hopped out of the car. She walked down the porch steps to meet him. "What took you so long?"

He shook his head. "Nothing." He kissed her lightly on the lips.

"Did you find anything out from the sheriff?"

"No. Nothing new."

"That bastard. I'll be damned if I'll vote for him again. He hasn't done a single thing to find out what happened."

"He's trying," Gordon said.

She stepped back from him, her brows furrowed. She crossed her arms.

"What did he do? Give you some sob story about how overworked he is?"

Gordon smiled. "No."

"Well then why are you sticking up for him?"

"A lot of things have been happening around here. He's busy."

"That doesn't helpVlad ." Marina turned away with an angry toss of her head and walked back up the porch steps.

Gordon followed. "Look, I don't want to argue about this right now." He hefted the small brown paper sack in his hand, making a clanking jingling noise, and she turned around to look. "I bought some locks," he said.

She stared at him levelly. "That's something."

"I'm going to put them on so we don't have to worry about anyone else breaking in."

She nodded, softening but still not smiling. "You do that. I'll start making dinner."

For the next hour he lost himself in the menial job of installing locks on the windows. He was all the way around to the kitchen window when Marina called him in for dinner. He waved at her, telling her he'd be through in a minute, and hastily put in the last screw before going inside to eat.

He washed his hands in the kitchen sink as Marina placed a large salad and two bowls of minestrone soup on the table. She seemed to have forgotten all about their earlier disagreement. "So," she said, getting out the silverware, "how do these locks work?"

He sat down. "Simple. You push the bolt to lock the window, pull the bolt to open it."

"How come you're putting them on the outside?"

"The lock itself is on the underside of the window, even though you lock it from inside the house."

The phone rang, and they looked at each other. Ordinarily, when someone called during dinner they let the phone ring without answering it, but Gordon did not want to take any chances. "I'll get it," he said.

Marina nodded.

He came back into the kitchen a few minutes later, embarrassed.

"Brad," he said. He scratched his head. "He wants me to help him finish up tonight."

"Tonight!" Marina looked at the clock. "It's after six already!"

Gordon shrugged. "He's let me off early the past few days to take care of this break-in--"

"So what's that mean? You owe him your life?"

"That's the reason he's fallen behind. All he wants me to do is help him deliver a few cases to the markets in town. That's it. With both of us working it shouldn't take more than an hour. Hour and a half at the latest."

"What about the door locks? You're just going to leave me here alone by myself? It'll be dark in less than an hour."

"We only have two doors," he said. "I don't have to meet Brad until seven. I have plenty of time to put both locks on."

"Hurry up and eat then." Marina shivered, though it was far from cold.

"I want them done before you go."

All of the lights in the house were on, but Marina was still frightened. She should have gone with Gordon, should have gone to the stores with him and read magazines while he unloaded Pepsis.

The house sighed somewhere, creaking, and she blamed the wind, though she knew the air outside was still. She focused her attention on the TV, trying to get herself involved in the show, but the picture came in poorly, the dialogue interrupted by loud crackles of static, and she realized that there was a storm somewhere between Randall and Flagstaff. The thought made her aware of how isolated she really was from everything. She considered calling Ginny, but then decided against it. She didn't really have anything to say; she would just be calling to assuage her fears, to feign companionship.

Wasn't that reason enough?

No. She forced herself to watch the snowy television. Besides, Gordon would be home soon.

There was a knock at the door. Marina jumped from her chair and ran to the front. She peeked through the curtains of the living room window and saw a strange man in a gray business suit standing on her doorstep.

She gave a short, sharp cry and the man's sharp eyes veered instantly to her window. She let the curtain fall, backing into the room. She banged against a chair and reached behind her, grabbing it for support.

There was another knock at the door. This one firmer, less hesitant, more insistent. The man wanted in!

"Go away!" Marina yelled.

"I have come to speak with you and your husband," the man called through the closed door. His voice was loud, carrying with it the controlled authority of a public speaker.

"My husband's not home! Come back later!"

"I will talk with you, then."

Marina licked her lips, but her tongue was dry as well. She could feel her arms trembling with fear. Slowly, she crept forward until she was again at the window. She thought for a moment, then moved to another vantage point--the window on the other side of the door. She pulled the curtain slowly back and peeked out. The man's gaze was still fixed on the other window. "I would like to speak with you," he said.

"I can hear you fine!" Marina yelled. "Tell me what you want to tell me, then leave! Or I'm going to call the sheriff!"

His gaze swung immediately to her, and she blanched at the intensity of his expression. She noticed for the first time that he carried with him a Bible, tucked under his right arm.

"Who are you?" she demanded.

"I am Brother Elias. I have come to save you from your peril and to deliver you from the brink of the pit upon which you stand."

"Go away!"

Brother Elias took out his Bible and opened it to a previously marked page. '"Children, it is thethe last hour; and as you have heard that antichrist is coming, so now many antichrists have come; therefore we know that it is the last hour. They went out from us, but they were not of us; for if they had been of us, they would have continued with us; but they went out, that it might be plain that they all are not of us."" He closed the Bible and looked at her, his eyes holding hers.

Is this how these people keep their followers? Is this how Jim Jones got his disciples? She could not look away. It was as if he had her hypnotized.

"So it is written in The First Letter of John, chapter two, verses eighteen and nineteen. The antichrist is not coming, the antichrists are here!" His voice took on the rolling oratorical delivery of a fundamentalist minister. "We must fight this evil where it dwells! We must bring it out into the open sunshine of the Lord's divine light where it can be dissipated according to the Holy Word of God!" He opened up the Bible again, looking away, and Marina quickly let the curtain drop, retreating back into the room.

She could hear his voice, above the television, as she made her way to the telephone.

""And the great dragon was thrown down, that ancient serpent, who is called the devil and Satan, the deceiver of the whole world--he was thrown down to the earth, and his angels were thrown down with him.""

Marina, her fingers fumbling, found the number of the sheriff written on the emergency pad next to the phone. She quickly dialed. The line was busy, and she dialed again.

'"And when the dragon saw that he had been thrown down to the earth, he pursued the woman who had borne the male child--'"

"Shut up!" Marina yelled. "Shut up!" She was gratified to hear the loud voice stop for a moment. She picked up the phone again. "I'm calling the sheriff!" she announced. "I'm going to have you arrested!"

"I am here to save you from the darkness that threatens, from the evil within. I am here to put you on the path of righteousness and--"

"Get the fuck out of here!"

Marina was aware that her voice sounded panicked, that she was becoming hysterical, but she was terrified. She saw in her mind the bloody kitchen, gray and red portions ofVlad scattered over the tile floor and the Formica countertops. She dialed the sheriff's number again, and this time the phone rang. Someone on the other end picked it up.

"This is Marina Lewis," she said breathlessly into the receiver.

"There's someone at my house. He's outside my front door, trying to get in--"

"We'll have someone there immediately," the receptionist told her.

"Don't let him in. Do you have any firearms in the house?"

"No."

"Then I'd suggest grabbing a baseball bat or a knife or any sort of weapon you do have. Just in case." There was a click, and the receptionist's voice became muffled as she put out the call. "Deputy Chmuraand Deputy Weiss will be there in a moment," she said, reconnecting into the line. "Don't panic."

"I'm not." Marina looked up, putting the receiver down. The voice outside had stopped. She listened for a moment, then ran over and turned down the TV. Nothing. Gathering up her courage, she pulled open the curtains and looked outside.

Brother Elias was gone.

Marina returned to the phone. "He left," she said. "Thank you." She didn't wait for the receptionist's reply but hung up the phone. She again moved to the front of the room and looked out the window, trying to spot any sign of movement in the darkness, listening for the sound of a starting car.

A moment later, she heard the sound of a siren, growing louder, coming closer. The trees lining the narrow dirt road soon glowed with the blue and red of the sheriff's flashing lights. Behind the sheriff's car, thankfully, unbelievably, was the Jeep.

Marina opened the front door and ran outside.

Only then did she realize that she was crying.

Father Andrews milled around after the prayer meeting, shaking hands and talking with parishioners. The meeting had gone much better than he'd expected. He had never conducted a prayer meeting before, and though he knew theoretically what was required of him, he was sure that the actual practice would be quite different. He wasn't sure he'd be able to do it. But Father Selway's congregation had been kind to him on Sunday, and the parishioners at the prayer meeting had been just as nice. They'd guided him through the meeting, letting him know how Father Selway had done things, but letting him know that if he wanted to make changes that was fine, too.

He grabbed a Dixie cup filled with red punch. An elderly woman next to him, wearing a large hat and too much makeup, reached for a cookie. She smiled up at him. "My name's Betty Murphy," she said.

He shook the woman's offered hand. "I'm glad to meet you, Mrs. Murphy, and I'm glad that you could make it to our meeting."

She giggled. "Oh, I wouldn't miss it for the world. I come here every week. Been coming ever since Jim died." She straightened her flowered hat. "I wanted to ask you what you think of that new preacher who's been preaching around town."

"New preacher?"

"Yes. I'm not sure exactly who he is, but I've seen him twice already this week. The first time, he was preaching in the parking lot in front of the old bowling alley. The second time, he was on top of a car parked near the post office, yelling at the people who walked by.

It was real hellfire and damnation stuff, how we are all going to burn if we don't repent." She wrinkled her nose distastefully. "I never did go in for that sort of preaching." She put her hand familiarly on his arm. "That's why I became an Episcopalian." "I couldn't help overhearing you." A thin middle-aged man, wearing a gaudy new western shirt and a bolo tie, turned from the small group he was with to face the priest. He held out his hand. "JeffHaught ."

Father Andrews shook his hand. "I'm glad to meet you."

The man turned to Mrs. Murphy. "Were you talking about that street preacher been around town the past couple days?"

She nodded, her hat bobbing up and down in assent.

"Did you hear what he said?"

Mrs. Murphy sniffed. "I heard enough."

The man faced Father Andrews. "That preacher's crazy. I was just stopping by the Circle K yesterday to buy some ice, and I saw this crowd gathered around the side of the building. I went over to investigate, and there was this preacher, wearing a heavy gray suit, in the hottest part of the day, standing on one of those empty wooden spools they use for telephone line. I stood there listening for a while and," the man shook his head, "I never heard anything like it. He started off like Mrs. Murphy said, regular fire and brimstone fundamentalism, but then he started on this .. . weird stuff. He started saying how Satan and God were going to fight it out here on earth and how we'd better start gathering up our weapons to fight. He said some people were going to be fighting on God's side, but some were going to be on Satan's. Then he started pointing out specific people in the crowd!"

Father Andrews smiled. "That's not unusual. A lot of these evangelists use such techniques to fire up the crowd and get people to listen to them."

"He said God and Satan were going to fight here, in Randall. Next week."

Father Andrews' smile faded. Mrs. Murphy laughed out loud. She let go of the priest's arm and grabbed the other man's. "Oh Jeff. You don't mean to tell me you actually believe that nonsense?"

He shook his head, smiling. "Of course not. But a lot of other people seemed to." He looked at Father Andrews. "That's what I wanted to talk to you about, Father. Do you think maybe you could give some kind of warning during your sermon Sunday? Tell people not to listen to this jerk?"

The priest slowly shook his head. "No, I can't really do that. It is not my place to criticize other religions, particularly on the pulpit."

"I understand. I just thought that maybe as a kind of public service ..."

Father Andrews smiled. "No."

Jeff nodded. "That's okay." He started to go, then turned back around. "You know something, though? When I was leaving, he was starting to make predictions."

Father Andrews frowned. "What kind of predictions?"

"The only one I really heard was the first one. He said the churches in town were going to be struck down, one by one, by the devil's fire.

Then I went to get my ice. He was still talking, but I didn't hear what he said."

"That is a little more serious," Father Andrews said. He was silent for a moment, thinking, but conscious of the two pairs of eyes on him, he forced himself to smile. "Of course, he probably just heard about the vandalism and what happened to the Selways and was trying to make the most of it," he said.

Jeff nodded. "Probably." He shook the priest's hand again. "I really enjoyed the meeting, Father. I just wanted to tell you that. I hope you're going to be around here for a while."

"I hope so, too," Father Andrews said laughing. But he stopped laughing almost immediately, aware of how callous and flippant that sounded in the wake of what had happened to the Selways .

Though he had never met his predecessor, everyone here had been on close terms with him, and they had all liked him a lot.

But neither Jeff nor Mrs. Murphy noticed his faux pas, and he did not dwell on it, turning his attention instead to the excited chattering of Mrs. Murphy, who was filling him in on the details of everyone in the room. He watched as Jeff and two of his friends left by the front door. A few moments later, several other elderly ladies came up to talk to him, to tell him how much they'd enjoyed the meeting. He kept the conversation on a light tone. There was something in the story of that preacher that bothered him, and he found himself coming back to it, thinking about it, and not concentrating on the conversation around him.

By ten o'clock, everyone had left, even Mrs. Murphy, and he put away the leftover carton of punch, storing it in the church refrigerator, and picked up the crumpled Dixie cups left on the tables around the room. He gave the room one last cursory glance, and turned off the lights, locking the door behind him as he stepped outside.

He felt a smothering cloak of dread settle about him the second he stepped out of the church. The air suddenly felt thick and heavy, hard to breathe. He thought instantly of the preacher.

From the center of town, he heard a siren, loud in the still evening.

Afiretruck , Father Andrews thought. One of the churches is on fire.

But he pushed the thought from his mind. He was overreacting, still hyped up from his talks with the sheriff. He was jumping at shadows.

He could not allow his emotions to run away with him. If he was going to be any help at all to the sheriff, he would have to think things through logically, reason everything out.

He got into the car just as it started to drizzle. The light rain and the windshield wipers cleared the small flecks of soot and cinder from the glass.

Jim sat in Ernst's office, squirming in the uncomfortable plastic chair the fire chief had filched from the elementary school last year when the cafeteria had caught on fire. Ernst nodded slowly, not looking up from his desk. "It's arson," he said. "We haven't had time for an official investigation yet, of course. But after a while you can spot these things. It's arson. I'd bet money on it."

Jim stood up and started pacing around the room. "Damn it, I knew it would be." He hitched up his pants. "That's the last thing I need right now."

Natalie Ernst stuck her head in the open doorway. "You two want anything to drink? Coffee?"

The fire chief shook his head, waving her away. "Not now, Nat. Maybe later."

She smiled cheerfully at her father-in-law. "Okay."

Ernst picked up a short stubby pencil from the top of his desk, turning it over in his hands. "This is the fire season, you know. The rangers do most of the work, but we have a pretty full load ourselves."

Jim nodded. "I know."

"But the monsoons have come," Ernst continued. "And if you and your men need a little help, we'll be glad to help you out. I can spare a few men, as long as things don't get too crazy around here."

Jim shook his head. "Thanks, but--"

The staccato clanging of a loud fire bell sounded throughout the small building. Ernst stood instantly up, punching the intercom button on his desk. "What is it?" he asked.

"Church," Natalie said. "First Southern Baptist. Over on east Main."

Ernst stared at Jim. "Want to come along?"

The sheriff nodded. He followed Ernst out to the garage, where four other men were already putting on fireproof uniforms. Ernst quickly got into his suit and hopped into the truck. Jim jumped into the passenger seat, and the other men found places on the back of the vehicle. The fire chief nipped on the siren and pulled out onto the street.

"It's a hot one," Ernst said as they pulled up to the church. Jim saw multicolored shards of stained glass littering the church parking lot.

The windows had exploded outward, and thick white smoke was billowing from the open holes. Small orange flames were licking out of a hole in the roof.

Ernst stopped the truck and jumped out. "Anybody inside?" he yelled, approaching a young man standing in the parking lot watching. The young man shook his head. The other firemen were already hooking up the hoses. "How long ago did it start?" Ernst demanded.

The young man shrugged. "It was alreadygoin ' when I got here."

"Did you call it in?"

"No." He pointed toward a teenage girl standing nearby, holding her hands over her mouth. "She did."

The firemen had hooked up the hoses by this time, and two of them grabbed axes from the back of thefiretruck . Ernst hurried across the asphalt to join them, and Jim approached the sobbing girl. "You're the one who reported the fire?" he asked gently.

She nodded, still holding her hands in front of her mouth.

"I'm Sheriff Weldon. Could you tell me exactly what you saw? Did you see how it started?"

The girl shook her head. "I was just walking by on the way to the store, and I saw smoke coming out from under the door." She looked up at him. "That's my church, you know." She wiped the tears from her eyes with the back of a hand. "I ran over and opened the door, and all this smoke just poured out. I called out, to see if anyone was in there, but no one answered. I ran around the building, looking for Pastor Williams' car, but it wasn't there so I assumed there was no one in the church, so I ran across the street and called the fire department." She stifled a sob. "We just got that new Sunday school addition put onto the church last year. Now we're going to have to start from scratch."

Jim turned to watch the firemen put out the blaze. "Maybe they'll be able to save it," he said. "Maybe there won't be that much damage."

"It's destroyed!" the girl sobbed.

An overweight man wearing faded jeans, a Charlie Daniels T shirt, and a CAT hat moved next to the sheriff. He stared at the firemen, who were running into the side doors of the church with long hoses. "You know, Brother Elias said this was going to happen."

Jim turned to look at the man. "What?"

"I said, Brother Elias said this was going to happen."

Jim was instantly on the alert. Brother Elias. The man who had been harrassingGordon's wife. "Who is this Brother Elias?" he asked.

The man shook his head dismissively. "A preacher I saw out by the Circle K yesterday. Crazy as a fucking bedbug."

"But he said this church was going to be set on fire?"

The man chuckled, a low sound that came from deep within his massive chest. "He didn't say this church was going to be set on fire, he said all the churches were going to be burned. Satan was going to burn them, he said."

"Why?"

The man shrugged. "How the fuck should I know?" He stared at the smoking building, but it was clear that the firemen already had the blaze under control. He started to move off.

"Wait," Jim said. "Do you know where I can find this Brother Elias?"

The man shook his head. "Search me. I saw him at the Circle K yesterday, but I heard someone today say he was at the sawmill. You might try there."

"Thanks." Jim watched the man lumber away. Next to him, the young woman was still sobbing. From the front door of the church a yellow-suited fireman, Ernst presumably, gave him the high sign. Jim waved back and turned to the girl. "It's out," he said. "It looks like they saved most of it."

She did not hear him, or, if she did, she did not care. She continued to cry into her hands. Jim stared at the church. A small plume of smoke was still swirling upward from a hole in the roof, like the benign smoke from a chimney. The brownish bricks of the building were covered with soot and water.

Brother Elias, Jim thought.

The preacher stood on the small wooden bench, holding his Bible high in the air and glaring out at the assembled crowd before him. There were at least fifteen or twenty people standing on the rough asphalt sidewalk in front of the rodeo grounds, staring up at him in rapt attention. They had all been walking by on their way to other places, they had all been thinking of other things, but they had all stopped to listen when they'd heard the sound of his voice.

"The evil one is amongst you NOW!" the preacher screamed, gesturing into the crowd with his Bible. He smiled slyly, crouching low on the bench. "No, don't pretend that you are surprised. Because you are not surprised. He is here now, and you know he is here! In fact, YOU have had dealings with him!" The preacher jumped up, pointing to a long-haired young man drinking a Coke.

"Fuck you," the young man said tiredly. He held up a middle finger as he walked away. Several people in the crowd giggled.

"Yes, you can laugh now," the preacher said. "But there will be no laughter when Satan claims the earth for his own and walks freely amongst his subjects! For, yes, that is what he intends to do.

He will conquer this earth and all on it and turn it into his own private playground, his own annex of hell!"

Someone in the crowd stifled a laugh.

The preacher looked heavenward, straining his neck as he faced the skies. "Oh Lord, why dost thou give them brains when they do not use them to think? Why dost thou give them eyes when they do not use them to see?" Suddenly, he jumped down from the bench, waving the Bible in his hand at the crowd. The people backed up a step, shocked. The preacher's black eyes burned with a crazed, fiery intensity. "He has come once before, the evil one. He came to this town and was defeated!" He looked around at the faces before him. "Do you have enough faith to defeat him this time? Are you willing to fight on the side of the Lord, or will you lay down and die and surrender your souls to the clutches of Satan?"

A frightened woman in the front of the crowd took a dollar bill from her purse.

"I don't want your money!" the preacher yelled, slapping her hand and sending the bill fluttering to the ground. "I want your word! God has given you his word, will you give him yours? Will you stand by your faith? Will you fight against the forces of evil?" He stared at the woman who had offered him the money. "You," he said. "Your son is fighting on the side of Satan. He is lost."

The woman paled. "I ... I have no son," she stammered.

But the preacher was already moving through the crowd, touching certain individuals. "Your wife died in childbirth," he said to one old man.

"She has ascended to the bosom of the Lord. Your daughter is burning in the pits of hell." He looked at another man. "You could go either way," he stated.

"How do you know all this?" one skeptical voice piped up. "What makes you think we should listen to you?"

"It has been foretold in the Bible," the preacher said loudly. "It has all been foreseen by Almighty God." He glanced around him. "This has happened before," he repeated, "and if we are successful in our attempts to combat the adversary it will happen still again. And again. And again. Satan has been banished for all eternity from the presence and grace of the Lord, and he will never give up in his attempt to usurp the power of God. Satan is gathering to him an army, and he will use that army to fight against the forces of good." He moved back through the crowd and once again jumped on top of the wooden bench. "We have no time to argue or debate. Either you are with God or you are against him. The time for indecision is past. The evil one is here and ready to strike!"

The crowd was silent.

The preacher closed his eyes and began swaying. "And the lightning will turn red, signifying the coming of the adversary," he chanted.

"There will be flies, there will be earthquakes." He stopped speaking, opening his eyes, and he stared silently down at the crowd. He jumped down from the bench and, without a word, picked up his suitcase from the ground behind him and strode purposefully through the throng of people. He continued down the street, not looking back.

On the bench, he had left a pile of pamphlets, religious tracts. One man moved hesitantly forward, picking one up. "Blessed are the brave,"

the title announced, "For They Are the Armies of God."

EIGHT

Pete King sat in the metal swivel chair in front of the switchboard, his feet propped up on the counter. He stared at the randomly flickering lights of the board, wondering why they lit up when no one was calling. He never would understand how these damn things worked.

Judson came in from the back, from the bathroom, buckling his belt. He nodded toward Pete. "Any of them donuts left?"

Pete tossed him a crumpled white sack. "Some."

Judson pulled out half a crumb donut and a small piece of maple bar. He dropped them back in the sack and threw the sack at Pete in disgust.

"That's it? You ate all the rest?"

"I saved two for you."

"Two pieces you bit out of."

Pete laughed. "I didn't bite out of them. I tore pieces off with my fingers. What a pansy."

"Pansy hell. I just don't want to get your AIDS germs." Judson pulled the chair out from Rita's desk and sat down, pushing his feet against the wood and tipping the chair back on two legs. He nodded toward the switchboard. "Anything?"

Pete shook his head. "Slow night."

"So what'd that dickhead from Phoenix have to say?"

"McFarland? Nothing new. I think thestaters are concentrating more on the Valley than here."

"That's bullshit.More's happened here than there."

Pete laughed. "What is this? A contest? Sure,more's happened here than there, but they figure Phoenix is bigger, he'd have more place to hide. Up here, we'd notice someone new immediately, the town's too small."

"He, huh? They've narrowed it down to a single person?"

"Don't play goddamn word games with me. You know what I'm talking about. They think the perpetrator or perpetrators is or are in the Phoenix area, all right? Is that clear enough for you? They're concentrating their efforts in the Valley. McFarland's staying here, butRalphs will be operating both here and in Phoenix."

"That's bullshit. Did you tell him about the preacher? What's his name?"

"Elias something. Yeah, I told him. He said he'd talk to Wilson about it, but he himself couldn't make any decisions. He said he'd tell him about the fire this afternoon, too, but he thought that last fire was totally unconnected. He has a real bug up his ass about everything being centered in Phoenix."

"Shit."

Pete shrugged. "That's the way of the world."

Judson put his feet back down on the floor and pulled a stick of gum from his shirt pocket. He slowly unwrapped the gum. "Tell me the truth. Do you think it was a good idea bringing these guys in?"

Pete thought for a moment. "I don't know," he admitted. "I did at first, but they don't seem to be doing any better than we did on this.

Worse, maybe. And they treat us like shit. They're supposed to be cooperating with us on an investigation, but they act like we're their goddamn servants or something."

"Ain'tthat the truth."

"They think that just because we work in a small town instead of a big city, we're Podunk know-nothings and can't be trusted to work on an investigation."

Judson laughed. "The old Barney life situation."

Pete shook his head. "I don't know." He turned around and stared at the lights of the switchboard, flicking on and off for no discernible reason. Behind him, he heard Judson scoot across the floor in his chair and grab the donut bag. He stared at the lights for a moment longer, thinking, then swiveled around again. Judson was eating the last of the crumb donut, licking the excess spices off his fingers. He wasn't quite sure how to bring up what he wanted to say, and he almost turned back around, but he gathered up his courage and cleared his throat. "Jud?" he said.

Judson looked up. "Yeah?"

"Have you noticed anything .. . strange about all this?"

"What do you mean, strange?"

"You know, strange."

"You mean like those strange little footprints in the blood over at the farmer's place?"

Pete nodded excitedly. "Exactly!"

"No, I haven't."

"Come on. Be serious. You know what I'm talking about. You know this isn't any ordinary investigation."

Judson nodded reluctantly. He put the donut bag down. "Yeah," he said slowly. "Yeah, I do. I don't want to, but I do." He sighed. "I've been seeing things, hearing things, thinking things, and I wish to Christ they'd go away."

"What'd you see?"

Judson was silent for a moment. "The footprints," he said, finally.

He looked at Pete. "You saw the footprints, too?"

Pete nodded.

"We all saw the footprints. So how come we pretended we didn't? How come none of us said anything? How come we didn't tell Jim?" He shook his head. "Jesus. Last week, right after all this started, about this time of night, Jim came running out of his office with his gun drawn.

He was scared shitless. I could see it in his face. I was coming back from the head, and he ran into me in the hall, knocking me down. He said he saw something, something strange, running down the hall. I told him he was tired." He laughed mirthlessly. "Jesus, tired."

"You think he really saw something?"

"Hell, I saw the fucking thing too! It was running fast and keeping to the shadows. You know how shitty the lights are back there at night.

But I could see that it was about the size of a small dog. It was hairless and pinkish, and it ran on four legs, babbling to itself. I saw it right after the sheriff left. Right after! He turned around the corner, and it sped by at the other end of the hall. I should've called out to Jim, or at least said something to him the next day, but I didn't. I ignored it, tried to forget about it, pretended it didn't happen."

Pete nodded. "I know what you mean. I saw those footprints too.

Weirdest damn things I ever saw. What do you think they were?"

Judson shook his head slowly. "I don't know, and I don't think I want to know."

"And what about those bodies? The farmers' and the preacher's family.

I mean, we were all acting like it was nothing, like we did this all the time, like we were trained to handle shit like that, but I know damn well that I wasn't trained for anything like that. I've never seen anything like that in my life. And I never thought I would, outside of a movie."

"Me either," Judson said softly.

Pete stood up and began pacing. "People are talking, too, in town. I

hear them. At the store, at the gas station, at the restaurants. They know thisain't no normal situation here. People have a good nose for this sort of thing, and they know there's something strange going on. A

lot of them are talking about that preacher, that Elias. They say he's making predictions, warning them about what's going to happen." He stopped pacing and stared down the hallway toward the back of the building. The lights were off back there, and the hallway disappeared into blackness. He shivered. "Something is going on here, but I'll be damned if I know what it is."

"I don't know either. And I don't think I want to know." Judson picked up the donut bag and pulled out the last piece of maple bar.

"Aren't you even curious?"

"Sure I'm curious. But I'm not going to do anything about it." He gave Pete a halfhearted smile. "It's not my job."

Pete moved back to his seat and slumped down in the metal chair, his eyes focusing on the blinking lights of the switchboard. "Yeah," he said. He stared at the lights. "Yeah."

Dr. Waterston tore up the duplicate copies of the test analysis, wadded up the pieces and threw them across the room in disgust. The crumpled paper fell far short of its intended mark against the opposite wall and landed benignly on the middle of the carpet. Waterston picked up the flask of whiskey next to his right elbow and took a long, healthy, medicinal swig.

Nothing. The test results revealed that there was nothing in the Geronimo Wells water. If anything, the water was cleaner, purer, than average. No chemicals, particulates down to almost nothing, only a few traceable minerals.

So what the hell was it?

There had to be some common denominator, something that linked Julie Campbell, Joni Cooper, Susan Stratford and possibly even old Mrs.

Perry. But what could it be? The water was out. Chances of it being some type of food were slim to none. Could they have been exposed to hazardous waste being transported through Randall? It was possible.

Though it was a much longer route, many trucks preferred to pass through Randall when transporting goods from Phoenix to either Prescott or Flagstaff in order to avoid the weigh and inspection stations on Black Canyon Highway And who knew what those trucks carried? Who knew what sort of substances they were transporting?

Waterston took another swig from his flask. He realized that he was grasping for straws. If there had been any unfamiliar chemicals in any of the women's bloodstreams they would have shown up on the blood tests. There didn't seem to be anything physiologically wrong with any of the women, with the possible exception of Mrs. Perry. But something obviously was wrong. Dreadfully wrong.

He had to admit it: he was baffled.

But at least something good had come out of all this--the chances that something would go wrong with Marina Lewis' pregnancy had been whittled down to almost nothing.

Waterston pulled open his desk drawer and drew out the photographs he had taken of the miscarried babies before the autopsies. On the top of the stack, the half-formed mucilaginous eyes of Julie Campbell's fetus stared blindly up at him. In the next picture, the premature infant's reptilian hands were clenched into permanent fists.

Waterston put the photos down and took another swig of whiskey. He needed courage. He would have to call each of the women and tell them what he had found. Or what he had not found.

He shuffled quickly through the photos, and his eye was caught by the horrible face of Joni Cooper's infant. The smooth bald forehead was wrinkled into a frown, and the toothless mouth was twisted into a hideous grimace. The eyes, pure white, with neither irises nor pupils, bored into his own and caused him to shudder. He dropped the stack of pictures on the desk. It was impossible, but the tiny infant looked angry, furious.

Waterston picked up the phone and started dialing.

Joni Cooper stared into the blackness of the living room, letting the phone ring without picking it up. From the bedroom, Stan called out angrily, "Are you going to get that or what?" She did not answer him.

"Fuck it, then!"

The phone rang three more times, then stopped. Joni sat unmoving. The drapes in the room were all closed, and the lights were off. She could see nothing. But she stared into the blackness, listening, thinking.

She could hear Stan thrashing around in the bedroom, taking his aggression out on whatever inanimate object was closest to hand. They had had another fight tonight, or, rather, another battle in their ongoing fight. She knew she should be upset, but for some reason she just didn't seem to care.

She sat, staring, thinking, and after a while Stan shut off the television. Soon she heard his even, regular breathing--the breathing of sleep--loud in the silent empty house.

A year. It had been almost an entire year since she had lost the baby.

Though she knew there was something wrong with her, she had never gotten over the loss of her baby. It was affecting her still. She thought about it constantly, brooded about it, lamented it. She realized that her preoccupation with the incident was taking its toll on her marriage, her job, her friendships, but there didn't seem to be anything she could do about it. She had no control over the situation.

She was losing her grip on everything.

It was stupid, she knew. Women had abortions all the time. It wasn't the end of the world. And she could always have another child. There was nothing physically wrong with either her or Stan. Theoretically, they could have a whole bunch of kids.

But she couldn't let this child go. Stan Jr." she thought. They would have named him Stan Jr.

She even imagined sometimes, in the middle of the night, staring into the darkness, that she could hear the baby crying, crying.

From the bedroom came the sound of something heavy being knocked over.

A lamp. She heard the shattering of glass, followed by a loud hard thump. What was Stan doing in there, tearing the place apart? She knew she should get up to investigate, but she couldn't bring herself to move. Instead, she sat still, staring into nothingness, listening.

There was a muffled yelp.

And a baby's cry.

Joni stood up, her heart racing. The sound came again, and she hurried down the hall toward the bedroom. The lamp had been knocked over. The room was dark. The only light was the diffused glow of the bathroom overhead. She peeked into the room. "Stan?" she called softly.

Something small and soft nuzzled against her leg, and she felt a thrill of excited anticipation rush through her. She bent down on one knee and reached forward with both hands. Her fingers touched skin that was cold and slightly slimy. In the half-light, she saw something pinkish press toward her. Stan Jr.? She reached for it and instinctively pulled it toward her, cuddling it blindly against her breast.

Searing pain lashed through her as tiny teeth bit down and tiny claws dug in. She tried to push the small creature away from her, but it held tightly onto her breast, ripping open the skin. She fell forward, screaming, feeling the blood spurting from the open wound. Another pair of jaws bit into the exposed skin of her calf.

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 said. "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.

A few minutes later, he pulled off on the small dirt road that led to their house. Marina came out of the kitchen as the Jeep rolled to a stop. The air was still slightly chilly from the recent rain, and she walked toward him slowly, avoiding the puddles in the drive, her hands buried deep in her jeans pockets for warmth. She kissed him lightly on the mouth, and he put his arm around her as they walked toward the house. "The sheriff called," she said. "I tried calling the warehouse around lunchtime to let you know, but no one answered. I called Connie, and she said that you and Brad were in town somewhere."

"Did he say what it was about?"

"No. He just said to have you call him back as soon as possible."

Gordon was silent for a moment. "They caught Brother Elias this morning," he said. "I saw it. They found him preaching in front of Valley National."

Marina stopped walking. "Why didn't he tell me?"

Gordon shrugged. "I guess he didn't want to worry you or anything. I

don't really know."

"But I'm the one who's going to have to sign the complaint."

"You're right." They walked into the kitchen and Gordon grabbed an apple from the wire fruit basket on the counter next to the sink. "Do you want to go down there?"

Marina shivered, remembering the strange black eyes that had held her spellbound. "I don't know. I don't think I want to see him."

"You don't have to see him to swear out a complaint." Gordon walked out into the living room and headed toward the back of the house. "I have to go to the bathroom. After I'm finished, we'll go."

Marina moved into the living room and stood in front of the screen door, staring outside. The storm had died, but a new one was brewing on top of the Rim. There was a flash of lightning, and she blinked her eyes, not believing what she had seen.

Gordon put a hand on her shoulder, and she jumped. "Jesus! Don't scare me like that."

He grinned. "Sorry."

She pointed toward the top of the Rim. "Look up there," she said.

"Watch that lightning."

Gordon followed her finger. "I don't see anything."

"Just keep watching."

He stood there for a moment, staring. "That's weird," he said finally.

"It's red."

Gordon was right. Marina did not have to see Brother Elias to sign a complaint. She simply filled out the form the sheriff gave her and signed her name at the bottom. Jim looked over the form and nodded.

"Fine," he said. He handed it to Rita for processing.

Although Marina had not mentioned the kitten, she was somewhat cold to the sheriff, and Gordon was happy when the complaint had been signed and it was time for them to leave. It had been a somewhat awkward situation. They were about to step out the door, when he heard the sheriff loudly clear his throat behind them. He turned around.

"Could I speak to you for a moment?" Jim asked. "In private?"

Gordon looked at Marina. "I'll wait in the car," she said flatly. She walked out the door without even glancing at the sheriff.

Jim smiled. "Still mad at me, huh?"

"Well, you know--"

"Happens all the time," the sheriff said, waving his hand dismissively.

"Don't worry about it." He opened the small gate next to the front desk and motioned for Gordon to follow him back to his office.

"What is it?" Gordon asked when they were alone.

"It's Brother Elias. Tell me what you think of him."

Gordon shrugged. "I don't know. I only met him that one time. I thought he was crazy. Marina thinks he's crazy."

"He didn't .. . scare you?"

Gordon looked at the sheriff. "What are you getting at?"

Jim chewed on his upper lip for a moment, thinking. "Okay," he said.

"I don't want you to breathe a word of this to anyone."

"You know I won't."

"He's been around town here for a couple days now, preaching."

He paused. "Predicting. He predicted those church fires, and he said he didn't have anything to do with them starting, and I believe him."

Gordon remained silent.

"And he talked about my great-grandfather as if he knew him. I've been thinking about this all day, going over it in my head, and I don't see how he could know anything about my great-grandfather. Not realistically." He looked at Gordon. "To be honest, he scares the shit out of me. I've gone back there a couple of times today, to check on him, and each time I do he's always staring at me, waiting for me, as if he knows when I'm coming. It gives me the creeps. There's no logical connection other than the fires, but I think he's involved in all this. It's nothing that'll hold up in court, but .. he trailed off. "I think I'm going to ask Father Andrews to come here and look at him, see what he thinks."

"What other predictions has he made?" Gordon asked.

The sheriff shook his head. "I don't know. Something about flies, an earthquake, different colored lightning--"

"Red?" Gordon asked.

The sheriff nodded, looking at him. "Yes."

"Look outside," Gordon said. He found that his hands were trembling.

Jim moved over to the window, glancing out at the town. His eye was captured by the building storm on the Rim. He saw a flash of red lightning, and he paled. He turned back to Gordon. "How long has this been going on?"

"I don't know. We just noticed it about a half hour ago."

"Do you think its some type of legitimate weather disturbance? I mean, do you think he could have known about it ahead of time?"

Gordon shook his head. "I don't know."

The two men stared at each other. "Do you want to see him?" the sheriff asked finally.

"Not now," Gordon said. "Right now I just want to take Marina home and forget about this whole damn thing."

Jim nodded, understanding. "But what if we have an earthquake in the middle of the night?" he said softly.

"Then I'll hold her even closer. And I'll wait for it to go away."

"But we can't just ignore it. We can't pretend there's nothing going on."

"What else can we do?"

"I'm going to call Father Andrews," Jim said. "He's dealt with this kind of stuff before. We'll see what he has to say about all this.

Maybe he can make some sense out of what Brother Elias is saying."

"Are you still having nightmares?" Gordon asked.

The sheriff nodded. "Of course. You?"

"Yes. I had a hell of a one last night."

"What was it about?"

"I was at the dump, then I was at this place with little white crosses and there was a boy--"

"Jesus," Jim said. He sat down hard on his chair. "I had the same dream." He stared at Gordon. "You take your wife home," he said.

"Then you get back here. I'll call Father Andrews. We're going to talk to Brother Elias."

Gordon nodded silently.

The sheriff looked at his watch. "It's four right now. Be back here at five-thirty. We're going to get to the bottom of this."

"Are you sure we want to?" Gordon asked.

"We have no choice."

Gordon left the sheriff in his office and walked back toward the front of the building. He nodded politely to Rita as he passed by, then moved through the double glass doors. As he walked across the parking lot toward the car, he couldn't help glancing at the storm on top of the Rim.

The red lightning was flashing much more often now. And was getting much stronger.

The day's storm hit earlier than usual, just after twelve, and Father Andrews found himself staring outside for most of the afternoon at the torrents that fell from the gray-black sky, trying to gauge the damage being done to his recently planted seedlings. He stared, almost hypnotized, as the rain fell in never-repeating patterns on the concrete floor of the open patio.

Another of God's small miracles.

He turned away from the window and was surprised by the darkness of the house. He walked across the kitchen and switched on the light. The light illuminated the kitchen but sent the rest of the house and the world outside into further darkness. He found himself, against his will, listening for noises from the back of the house, from Father Selway'sstudy. But there was nothing. He put on some water for tea and sat down at the kitchen table. He picked up the Episcopal Concordance where he had left it. Several of the pages were marked with small bits of paper. Next to the concordance, on the table, was a list he had written. A list of everything the sheriff and Gordon had told him, as well as what he had learned on his own. Most of the things he had written, he knew, would not he found in the Bible. But he hoped to somehow link together what elements he could, to discover some meaning in the emerging patterns.

He had begun by reading all relevant passages relating to Satan or the devil. Though he had studied all such passages thoroughly in the seminary and knew most of them by heart, he felt it important to double check. Just as he had thought, the passages concentrated on Satan's acts rather than on descriptions of the fallen angel. The only description he could find--and that one an analogy-had been in Revelation. Satan here was described as a dragon and a serpent. Not the traditional cloven-hoofed devil he had been searching for. He had underlined the passage anyway, marking it with a scrap of paper, and had moved on to accounts of dreams and visions, but dreams and visions were so prevalent in the Bible that he had barely begun to scratch the surface before he had had to quit for the evening.

Now, he picked up the concordance and leafed through it. He happened upon the description of Satan in Revelation and reread the blue underlined verse. His eye moved back to the beginning of the chapter:

"And a great portent appeared in heaven, a woman clothed with the sun, with the moon under her feet, and on her head a crown of twelve stars; she was with child and she cried out in her pangs of birth, in anguish for delivery. And another portent appeared in heaven; behold, a great red dragon, with seven heads and ten horns, and seven diadems upon his heads. His tail swept down a third of the stars of heaven, and cast them to the earth. And the dragon stood before the woman who was about to bear a child, that he might devour her child when she brought it forth."

Father Andrews shivered and put down the book. He knew that the woman was Mary, her son Jesus Christ and the dragon Satan, and he knew the traditional explanation of the symbols, but there was something about the passage that spoke to him, that somehow had a bearing on the disjointed thoughts whirling around in his head. He had no alternative interpretation of the passage, but he had a gut feeling--premonition? insight?--that it related to the situation in Randall.

The situation in Randall. It was amazing how quickly he had come to believe that there was a "situation" in Randall, that there was something going on which could not be explained away by logic or any of the other placebos of rationality. Something was happening that encompassed all of the recent bizarre occurrences. Something so big that the obvious crimes comprised only a small part of its totality.

Something entirely unseen and possibly incomprehensible.

Father Andrews knew that such a line of thinking could not be supported by an objective look at the available facts. But what the mind could deduce and what the mind actually thought were often two different things. And he had always been one to trust his feelings and instincts rather than his rational mind. What he felt and what he sensed were always more important than what he thought. Although a similar leap of faith, a similar trust of feeling rather than fact, was required of anyone practicing a religion, he knew that the bishop would frown upon such a practice from one of his priests. Particularly in regard to an ostensibly secular matter. He smiled as he thought of Jim Weldon's description of the bishop. The sheriff had dismissed him with one short blunt word: "Prick." He wouldn't go quite so far, but he knew that he and Bishop Sinclair did not see eye to eye on many matters.

Unfortunately. He needed someone to talk to on this matter, someone with more experience, someone he could trust.

The sheriff . The phone. These thoughts, neither words nor images, forced themselves upon his consciousness, separate but connected. In the split second after his brain received and acknowledged the thoughts, the phone rang, and he knew immediately that it would be the sheriff. He picked up the receiver. "Hello?"

"Hello, Father? It's me, Jim."

The priest felt an icy finger of fear shiver down his back. "I know,"

he said. "I knew you were going to call before the phone rang."

The sheriff sounded surprised. "Really?"

"Just a routine psychic experience." He tried to make his tone light.

"So why did you call, Sheriff? What can I help you with?"

"Actually, it's along those lines."

"What lines?"

"Psychic lines." The sheriff's voice lost its open, friendly tone.

It was now very serious, and Father Andrews thought he could detect a slight note of fear in it. "We have someone here, in custody. He's a streetcornerpreacher. We found him preaching in front of the Valley National this morning. A few nights ago, he was out at Gordon's house, scaring the heebie-jeebies out of Gordon's wife."

"Brother Elias," the priest said.

The sheriff was silent for a moment. "You know him?" he said finally.

"No. But I know of him. I've heard a lot of things about him the past couple days."

"You're going to be hearing a lot more about him. I want you to come down to the station right now. I think you should hear what he has to say."

"What's this about?"

"I'd rather not tell you over the phone," the sheriff said hesitantly.

He's scared, Father Andrews thought. The sheriff is scared. "Okay," he said aloud. "I'll be right over." He told the sheriff good-bye and hung up the phone. He sat unmoving for a few moments, staring at the black receiver, feeling the cold seep into his bones. He had a sudden premonition of death, of destruction.

Outside, the rain had abated somewhat, the torrential downpour of the early afternoon tapering off to a constant drizzle. The sound of thunder rolled down from the top of the Rim. Father Andrews ran across the yard to his car. He had not brought a raincoat with him to Randall because he had not anticipated the monsoons. It seldom rained in Phoenix during the summer. He hopped in the car and started it up, turning on the windshield wipers. The driver's wiper worked all right, but the passenger blade flopped around with each sweep across the windshield.

He pulled out of the driveway, driving slow, trying to see through the small curved rectangle of clearness created by the single wiper blade.

The road curved next to the river, now brown and muddy because of the rain, and crossed the water on the east side of the sawmill. Through the windshield he could see the billowing smoke of the smelter, fighting bravely against the rain. There was a sharp flash of red, and he braked to a stop.

What was that?

The flash came again, a crimson light that flashed over everything and turned even the trees a blood red.

Lightning. It was lightning, and Father Andrews stared out his windshield in wonder. He had never seen red lightning before. There was another flash. And another. And another.

He took his foot off the brake and started moving again. There was something strange about the colored lightning, something he didn't quite like, something that disturbed him. But he concentrated on the road, not letting his mind dwell on the extraordinarily loud thunder or the lightning flashes that were now almost constant.

He turned right on Main and headed for the sheriff's office. He parked the car as close as possible to the door and dashed through the open entry way. He stomped the water off his feet and wiped his shoes on the entrance mat, shaking the rain from his hair. He smiled at the pretty receptionist staring at him. "I hate this weather," he said.

The receptionist smiled back. "We like it around here. The monsoons make things a lot easier for us." She stood up and moved to the counter next to him. "May I help you?"

"I'm supposed to see Sheriff Weldon. My name's Donald Andrews."

"Father Andrews! The sheriff's been expecting you. Come with me." She pushed through the swinging gate that separated the back of the counter from the front and led the way down a wide corridor. "They're in the conference room." She stopped in front of a door and pushed it open, sticking her head in the room. "Father Andrews is here," she announced. She held the door open to let him in.

The sheriff stood up from a chair, offering his hand. "I'm glad you're here, father."

Father Andrews shook his hand, but his attention was focused on the business-suited man sitting on the other side of the table in the center of the room. Brother Elias. He walked forward slowly, looking into the preacher's face. BrotherEllas ' eyes, the pupils glaringly black, stared back unflinchingly.

The sheriff worked his way around the table and sat next to the preacher. He motioned for Andrews to sit down as well. The priest pulled out a chair opposite the sheriff and sat. He pushed his chair closer to the table. From this vantage point, he could see that Brother Elias' tie clip was a small gold crucifix. His cufflinks were also in the shape of crosses.

The sheriff took off his hat and placed it on the table in front of him. He cleared his throat loudly and nodded toward Father Andrews.

"You said you'd heard about Brother Elias," he said. "What exactly have you heard?"

Father Andrews looked at the preacher. He felt awkward talking about him in the third person, as if he weren't there. "Not much," he admitted. "Rumors."

"Like what?"

"Some of my congregation members have been talking about him. They said he's been preaching around town, making predictions --"

"The predictions," Jim said, nodding. "Have you heard those predictions?"

Father Andrews shook his head.

"He predicted that churches would be burned," the sheriff said, his voice low. "And they were burned. He predicted there would be red lightning. And there is red lightning." He paused. "And he predicted there would be an earthquake."

"And flies," Brother Elias added, smiling slightly.

"And flies," Jim agreed. He stared at Father Andrews. "What do you make of this?"

The priest shook his head. "I don't know yet. What should I make of it?"

"Talk to him," Jim said. "See if you can make any sense out of what he says."

The priest turned to Brother Elias. "Why are these predictions coming true?" he asked. "The adversary is among us," the preacher said.

"The evil one is here."

Father Andrews leaned forward. "What do you mean the adversary is among us? Do you mean that Satan is here? Actually, physically, here?"

"Satan is here," Brother Elias said. "And he is recruiting disciples to help him accomplish his work."

"But where is here? Do you mean here on earth? Or do you mean Randall specifically?"

Brother Elias' black eyes bored into those of the priest. "He is here," he said, hitting the table with his forefinger to punctuate his words. "Here in this town. He is recruiting disciples in preparation for the coming battle with the forces of the Lord. This is to be the battleground."

Jim stood up, running a tired hand through his hair. "What makes you think he's here?" he asked. "Churches in Phoenix have been desecrated, too. How do you know he's not down there?"

"He is here."

"Why?"

"Who knows why Satan does what he does, why he goes where he goes? It is enough to know that he is here among us, that he is gathering together his army in preparation for the final battle, the battle that was foretold--"

"Look," Jim said loudly. "I've had just about enough of this crap." He glanced toward Father Andrews. "I'm not sure I believe all this end-of-the-world shit he's spouting, but it seems pretty obvious to me that he's involved in all this. I don't know how. Maybe he's crazy, and maybe I'm crazy too, but I think he knows what's going on here.

What do you think?"

The priest nodded.

"All right, then. Now what I want is specifics. What, where, and when. Don't give me this vague crap about visions and prophecies."

Brother Elias smiled. "You are just like Ezra," he said. "Just like your great-grandfather."

Jim looked exasperatedly at Father Andrews for help. "You try to talk to him, Father." He began pacing around the room. "Jesus fuck." He glanced quickly and shamefacedly at the priest. "Sorry,"

Andrews smiled, shaking his head, signifying that no apology was necessary. He turned his attention back to the preacher, seated across the table from him. There is something wrong with this man, he thought, something basically and fundamentally wrong.

Something inhuman. He stared into the preacher's calm face and felt the fear rise within him. He could sense, beneath the surface calm, an inner twistedness Outwardly, Brother Elias' suit was neatly pressed, his hair combed to perfection, his.. .. Andrews bent forward, squinting, not believing what he was seeing.

On Brother Elias' earlobe was a small cross. It had been tattooed on.

He looked closer. No, not tattooed. Carved. The cross had been carved into his flesh. Andrews looked at the preacher's other ear. The skin here, too, had been savagely marked with the carving of a crucifix.

The door to the conference room opened, and Rita let Gordon in. He stood by the doorway for a moment, taking everything in, unsure of what to do.

"Sit down," the sheriff told him. "We're just getting started."

Gordon nodded politely to Father Andrews, but his attention was focused on Brother Elias. The preacher, likewise, was staring at Gordon. "I was wondering when you would arrive," he said.

"Let's get back to the questions," the sheriff said. "What exactly is Satan doing here in Randall?"

Gordon looked up at the sheriff, but he knew enough not to interrupt or ask any questions. He would just follow along with the conversation and ask questions afterward, if he had to.

Brother Elias continued to stare at Gordon. "He is recruiting disciples for the coming battle--"

"How is he recruiting them?" the sheriff demanded. "Who is he recruiting? And where is he getting them? From the prisons? From the bars? From the people who don't go to church or don't believe in God?"

Brother Elias stared at him as though he had just said something profoundly stupid. "Where is he getting them? He is getting them from the womb. He is gathering to him the babies."

The babies.

Gordon looked at the suddenly pale faces of the sheriff and Father Andrews, knowing that his face must appear even more shocked and scared. He tried to lick his dry lips, but the saliva had fled his mouth.

Brother Elias picked up a black-bound Bible from the floor next to his chair and opened it to a marked page. "Revelation 20:14," he said, and his voice was filled with calm authority. '"Then Death and Hades were thrown into the lake of fire. This is the second death, the lake of fire; and if any one's name was not found written in the book of life, he was thrown into the lake of fire."" He looked up and repeated the last portion of the verse in a softer voice. ""And if any one's name was not found written in the book of life, he was thrown into the lake of fire.""

There was silence after the preacher had finished speaking.

Brother Elias closed the Bible and put it back on the floor next to his chair. "The lake of fire is hell," he said. "And those who are not written into the book of life, those who are not born, those who are aborted or miscarried or stillborn, are cast into the lake of fire to become the disciples of Satan. These unborn infants are blank slates, neither good nor bad, but Satan captures them in his web, forcing them to do his evil work, converting them to his evil purpose."

Father Andrews shook his head. "You're wrong," he said. "You don't know what you're talking about. The lake of fire is not hell, and the book of life is not life. Any seminary student could tell you--"

"Go not by the interpretations of the past," Brother Elias said. "For they are incorrect."

"You have no idea what--"

"The Lord," Brother Elias said calmly, "has spoken to me in a divine vision. He has shown me what must be done." He looked from Gordon to Andrews to the sheriff. "And you are to help me."

"Why do you need us at all?" Andrews asked. "You obviously know what needs to be done and how to do it, why don't you just do it on your own?"

"The adversary is crafty. He is a liar and the father of lies, and he can call forth his minions to aid him. He will do everything in his power to stop me from doing my duty."

Jim sat down heavily in the chair next to Brother Elias. He thought for a moment, then sighed. "I don't know what to believe," he admitted. He looked at the preacher. "I believe you know what's going on here, but I'm not sure you're telling us the truth. Or all of the truth. I need more proof. I need proof before I can act on any of this. I can't just take your word for it all."

Brother Elias fingered the gold cross of his tie clip. His black eyes were bright and alive. "By tomorrow, you will have your proof," he said. "If you wait any longer than that, it will be too late."

Tim McDowell, armed only with a flashlight and a kid'swalkie talkie, walked for the thirteenth time that day across the water-cut path that dissected the ravine at the north end of Aspen Lake. A low drizzle had started several hours ago, burgeoning into a full fledged storm, and most of the searchers had since gone home for the day. A few others were waiting out the monsoon in their cars, parked along the dirt road next to the lake, staring out their windshields at the flashes of alternately red and blue lightning, perplexed. Only he and Mac Buxton and Ralph Daniels were still trudging around and actively looking. He knew that the odds were against finding anything, particularly in this ravine, which had been covered more than any area save the campground itself, but he was determined not to give up the search until he found out about Matt. One way or the other.

Several of the other searchers had tried to hint gently that it was possible the boys were dead, and he knew, intellectually, that they were probably right, but emotionally he felt otherwise. He had a feeling, a gut feeling, that Matt was alive, only lost or hurt.

"Matt!" he called. "Matt!"

No answer.

His voice was getting hoarse, and his arms and legs were aching, but he didn't care. He pulled a wad of chaw from hisSkoal can and put it between his cheek and gum. The tobacco tasted good. He spit, wiping the excess off his beard. He took off his CAT hat and squeezed some of the water out of it before putting it back on.

The walkie-talkie crackled, and he held it up immediately next to his ear, but it was only another false alarm. He put thewalkie talkie down and looked back toward the lake. Through the natural green of the ponderosas he could see the red and blue metal of pickup cabs. Ron Harrison and Joe Fisk were in one of those trucks. Drunk, probably. He spit in disgust. How could they sit there when their kids were still missing? What kind of fathers were they?

"Shitty," he answered himself. He looked around, walking forward, trying to spot a shirt, a shoe, something. "Matt!" he called.

The walkie-talkie crackled. He held it up to his ear.

"Tim. I've found something."

His heart stopped. His lips were dry in spite of the rain. He held down the "talk" button with his finger and took a big gulp of air. "Is it ... Matt?"

"You .. . have to come here." Ralph's voice sounded strange.

"What's wrong?" He was scared. "What is it?"

"You have to come here. You too, Mac."

"Where are you?" Mac's voice sounded faint, far away.

"I'm behind the hill on the west side, probably straight across from the campsite."

Tim was already running. His feet sank in the mud and he tripped over an occasional rock or branch, but he was moving too fast for it to slow down his momentum. He found a deer trail leading up the side of the ravine, and he sprinted up the path. Branches whipped against his face. He was breathing heavily, both because of the exertion and the panic, but he forced himself to keep moving, despite the pain in his chest.

He topped the hill and saw, down below, the red flash of Ralph's jacket through the trees. From somewhere off to the side of him, Mac was yelling loudly for the rest of the search party to follow him. Tim listened, as he ran, for the telltale sound of slamming truck doors, but he heard nothing. The other searchers, sitting in their vehicles, probably with the windows up, could not hear Mac over the rain. The walkie-talkie crackled, and Mac's harried voice came through clearly. "I'm going to get everyone else. Hold on, we'll be right there."

Tim slipped in the mud and slid down the last twenty or thirty feet of the hill. He scrambled to his feet and ran over to where Ralph stood looking into the darkly clouded sky and breathing deeply. "What is it?" he demanded, grabbing Ralph's shoulder. "What did you find?"

Ralph looked at him, the rain dripping down his face looking almost like tears. He said nothing but pointed off to the right. Tim's gaze followed his finger, but he could see nothing at first. There was only a dead half-rotted log, a copse of small saplings, some ferns, and ...

Tim walked slowly forward, his heart thuddingpropulsively in his chest, feeling as though it would pound a hole through both his ribcage and his skin. On some of the light green ferns he could see trails of watery pink. He moved closer. Now there was a definite form lying in the midst of the ferns. A form wearing a T-shirt and jeans.

Matt? "Ohmygodohmygodohmygod..." He realized he was babbling, but he did nothing to stop himself. He didn't care. This close, he could see that the pink trails on the ferns had been formed by splattered blood watered down with rain. Darker blood had seeped into the mulch like ground cover and other, lower, sheltered plants were speckled with various hues of red. He bent next to the body, falling to one knee, praying, pleading wildly in his mind, Don't let it be Matt, please don't let it be Matt, as he tentatively touched the form.

The T-shirt gave under the pressure of his prodding finger and collapsed inwardly. There was nothing there. There was no back to the figure. He pushed his finger forward again and felt squishiness.

Squishiness and bone. The dirty whiteness of the T shirt began to disappear under a creeping soaking red.

The hair was blond, he noticed suddenly. Matt had black hair.

He dared not turn the body over, so he shifted his position, moving in front of it.

He closed his eyes immediately.

The figure's face had been eaten away. Ragged clumps of bitten, gnawed flesh hung in tattered patterns from an almost visible skull. An eye lolled limply on a torn optic nerve. Red-stained teeth grinned in a dead idiot's smile.

He stood up, opening his eyes only when he was once again on his feet.

He stared into the sky, trying to blot the horrible image from his mind, trying to cleanse his senses of the sight. Even in the rain, he could smell the thick, heavy, disgusting odor of blood. Taking a deep breath, he looked down again, checking out the rest of the body. Hands and feet were all gone. Although the backs of the jeans and T-shirt had been untouched, the fronts were ripped to shreds. All that was left of the body was a bare outline, a hollow shell.

He stepped back over the body and stopped before Ralph. He swallowed audibly. "Where are the rest of them?" he asked.

Ralph looked at him, his face pale. "I don't know. I didn't want to look."

There was the sound of voices and cracking twigs and branches as Mac led the rest of the searchers over the hill. Tim looked up, watching the others make their descent. Half of him wanted to search immediately for Matt's body, but the other half wanted to wait until other men could help him search, afraid of what he might find. He was sure Matt was dead after seeing that other body, but he dreaded the confirmation and wanted to put it off as long as possible.

One of the men on the hill stumbled and went down, slipping in the wet mud. Tim heard a disgusted "Jesus Christ!" and then, seconds later, a panicked "No! Please, God, no!"

"Ja-a-a-ack!" Ron Harrison's cry of animal torment cut through the whispered hissing of the rain and the mumbles of the other men like a knife throughJello . Jack. They had found the body of Jack Harrison.

Tim glanced instinctively back at the body couched in the ferns. That must be Wayne, then. Wayne Fisk.

But where was Matt?

He looked at Ralph and their eyes met. They did not have to climb up the hill to know what the other searchers had found. Neither of them said anything, but both moved in opposite directions, their eyes on the ground, searching for the last body. Matt's body.

Tim's muscles hurt, not from exhaustion but from tension. The muscles in his arms and legs were knotted with fear and anxiety, and he could feel his neck cords straining. His teeth were clenched against whatever he might find. He stared at the ground, moving slowly, looking behind every fern, every shrub, every fallen tree for any sign of blood or clothing. His shoe hit against a rock, almost tripping him, and he stopped to catch his balance, looking up Ahead, lying against a tree trunk, almost hidden by underbrush, he could see the bloody, pulpy remains of what had once been a body.

The body of his son.

He ran forward, screaming as he did so, hearing his cries echoed by Ralph and taken up by the men on the hill. He reached the tree and stopped, looking down, his arms dangling uselessly at his sides. He didn't know what to do. Some part of him, some primal fathering part of him, felt the need to cry and grieve and hug his son's dead body.

But there was no body to hug. What remained of Matt was a broken and twisted lump of bloody, almost gelatinous, flesh. There was no sign of head or hands or feet or anything recognizable. It looked as though his body had been torn apart, then turned inside out, then completely restructured. Only a tiny scrap of cloth remained of his clothing, and it was glued by blood to the tree trunk.

Tim looked away, staring down at his feet instead. He wanted to cry, but he could not. He was too horrified. For some reason, he could not conjure up Matt's image in his brain. When he tried to picture his son, only the bloody lump of flesh came to mind. He tried to force his brain to concentrate on Matt's good points, to remember the times they had had together, to somehow recover those moments that had been lost and would open the floodgates to his grief, but his senses were too shocked, his mind too numb.

From far off, behind him, he heard someone gagging, then retching.

His eye caught on a small footprint next to his foot. He stared at it. What the hell could it be? It looked almost like a baby's footprint. He looked closer, and saw that there were many such footprints in the open mud around the tree. Quite a few of the footprints had been either obscured or obliterated by the constant rainfall, but the deeper ones had remained and stood out sharply.

Ralph walked up behind him and clapped a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. "Sorry," he said. His voice was filled with genuine hurt, genuine understanding. He glanced toward Matt's body and looked instantly away.

Tim touched his arm and pointed at the footprints. "Look at that," he said.

There was a rustling movement in the ferns off to the right. Both men watched as something small scurried away from them, pushing ferns and grasses aside as it moved. Around them, other rustling noises sounded.

Tim felt an instinctual fear supersede his pain and disgust. The rain became suddenly heavier, its loudness drowning out the rustling noises in the underbrush. He turned to Ralph. "What do you think it is?" he asked.

Something grabbed his legs from behind and jerked, sending him sprawling. In the split second before his eyes were clawed out, he saw Ralph fall as well. Small creatures, creatures brown with mud, were hanging onto Ralph's legs and pulling him down. Others were darting out from under the ferns, babbling and cackling in some high-pitched alien tongue.

Then his eyes were gone and he was fighting blindly against his unseen attackers. His hands found flesh, soft flesh, and punched, grabbed, squeezed. Others were upon him now, small claws ripping and tearing, small mouths biting. He screamed in agony as he felt his legs being torn apart, the pain shooting up through his spinal cord and bolting through his brain in one shock-inducing instant.

Where were the other searchers? Couldn't they see what was happening?

The last thing he heard, before he lost consciousness for the last time, was the sound of other men screaming.

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.

Nothing happened.

After the children had left, Father Andrews locked the door behind them and went into the chapel. He spent the night there, on his knees, praying.

He prayed for guidance but none came.

The earthquake hit at precisely ten after midnight.

Gordon and Marina had been making love, and they stopped in mid movement hardly daring to breathe, as the ground beneath them jolted in harsh irregular waves. There was the sound of shattering glass from the kitchen, the sound of something crashing in the bathroom. The hanging lamp above their bed was swinging wildly. "What is it?"

Marina screamed, clutching his back.

"An earthquake," Gordon said, feigning a calm he did not feel.

"Oh God," Marina said, closing her eyes. "Oh my God."

They held each other tight.

Jim had lain awake all night, waiting for this moment, knowing it would happen, preparing himself, but he still felt a helpless primal feeling of panic as he felt the earth shift beneath the bed. He jumped up, shaking Annette awake and rushing down the hall to the kids' rooms. He tookSuzonne in his arms and jerked Justin out of bed, running back to his own bedroom.

He and Annette and the kids stood under the doorway, waiting, until the quake was over.

Father Andrews, kneeling before the altar of the church, closed his eyes tighter, prayed more fervently, and hoped that the shaking would stop.

On the "Today" show the next morning, John Palmer said it was the first recorded earthquake in Arizona in over a hundred years. He said the quake measured 4.5 on the Richter scale and was centered just above the small town of Randall on the Mogollon Rim.

Jim sat in his office, the door locked, the phone off the hook, waiting for Gordon and Father Andrews to show up. He pulled a small piece off the glazed donut on his desk in front of him and swallowed it down with a sip of lukewarm coffee. The damage from the quake hadn't been that bad. He'd compared notes with Ernst at the fire department, and both of them had agreed that the damage was much less than either of them had expected. Of course the actual monetary amount of damages hadn't been assessed yet and probably wouldn't be for another week or so, but none of the buildings in town had collapsed and no one had been seriously injured.

That hadn't stopped people from calling, however. He had tried getting aholdof Pete right after the quake had stopped, and it had taken him a full fifteen minutes to get through. The office phones had been ringing nonstop ever since, which was why he had taken his own phone off the hook. He didn't feel like listening to petty complaints about broken china or smashed teacups. He'd let Rita and Tom handle that.

He had much more important things to think about.

He took another bite of the donut and another sip of coffee. He knew he should go back and talk to Brother Elias, but he did not want to go back there. He was afraid. He would wait until Gordon and Father Andrews got here.

There was a knock at the door.

"Who is it?" he called.

"Andrews."

Jim stood up and walked across the room to open the door. The priest, he noticed immediately, was wearing the same clothes he had worn yesterday. He had not shaved. His skin, normally pale, now looked even paler. The sheriff looked at him with concern. "Are you okay?"

Andrews shrugged. "I didn't get much sleep last night."

"Who did?" Jim said. He glanced back toward his desk. "Listen, do you want to wait here until Gordon comes, or would you rather go back and see Brother Elias right now?"

The priest licked his lips. "Let's see him now."

Jim closed the door behind him and led the way down the hall, past the conference room, past the supply room to the thick iron door that led to the trio of holding cells in the back. Even through the door, they could hear Brother Elias loudly singing hymns to himself. They looked at each other. "Are you sure?" Jim said.

Father Andrews nodded.

The sheriff unlocked the door, and they walked over to the first holding cell. Brother Elias stared at Jim and smiled. "You have your proof," he said.

The sheriff nodded. "Yeah. I have my proof." He unlocked the cell door. "What do we do now? I assume you have some sort of plan."

Brother Elias rose slowly to his feet. He was clutching his Bible under his right arm. "We must wait until we are all here," he said.

He moved forward. "We will wait in your office."

"Okay," Jim agreed. "Come on."

They returned to his office to wait.

Ten minutes later, Gordon rapped softly on the door then pushed the door open. He stepped into the room and saw the sheriff seated at his desk, his fingers fiddling with a bent paper clip.

If Father Andrews was sitting on the couch opposite the sheriff's desk, holding his hands between his knees, staring at the carpet. He looked up as Gordon entered the room and smiled, but his smile seemed wan and forced.

In front of the window, silhouetted, staring out at the town, was the unmoving form of Brother Elias.

Brother Elias turned away from the window, stepping into the center of the room, metamorphosing from a silhouetted shadow to an almost normal looking man. He smiled at Gordon, though his black eyes remained unreadable. "We have been waiting for you," he said.

Gordon nodded slowly, unsure of what to say. He felt intimidated, though he was not quite sure why. He was aware that the balance of power in the room had shifted since the meeting yesterday. On the previous day, the authority had rested with the sheriff. Today, Brother Elias was in charge.

The sheriff stood up. "All right," he said. "We're all here now. Why don't you tell us what's going on?"

Brother Elias looked from Gordon, to the sheriff, to Father Andrews.

"You have all been chosen by the Lord our God to combat the evil of the adversary. Satan has been banished for all eternity from the comforting presence of the Lord, and in his impotent rage he has vowed revenge on the Heavenly Father. He has been gathering to him an army to thwart the Lord's will, and if he is not stopped in time his efforts will be successful." He looked at Gordon, then the sheriff. "You have had nightmares, have you not?"

Both men nodded.

"The Lord has chosen to speak with you through visions," Brother Elias said. He fingered his tie clasp. "He has seen fit to warn you of the coming evil through your dreams, as he did of old, as he did with Joseph and many of the prophets."

Jim cleared his throat. "So what's that mean? Whatever we saw in our dreams is going to come true?"

"The Lord works in mysterious ways," the preacher said. He looked at Father Andrews. "As the good father can tell you, God often speaks in parables or allegories."

Father Andrews found himself nodding.

"Maybe that was true at first," Jim said, "but I've been having some damn specific dreams lately. A kid I knew was in those dreams."

He looked hard at the preacher. "I dreamed about Milk Ranch Point."

"Me, too," Gordon added.

Brother Elias smiled. "As the time draws nigh, as the powers on both sides approach their peak, the visions become less vague. My visions, too, are clearer."

"I've had no nightmares," Father Andrews said softly.

"You were chosen nonetheless." The preacher looked at Jim. "Your friend, the boy. He was chosen by the Lord our God. Now he is guiding your visions, doing the Lord's work on the other side. You," he turned back to Father Andrews, "have been chosen to fill his role."

"Why have I been chosen?" the priest asked. "Why have we all been chosen?"

"You are psychic," Brother Elias said simply. "The Lord has blessed you with powers beyond those of ordinary men. Now he wants you to use those powers. You must speak with the adversary, you must communicate with the evil one."

Father Andrews paled.

"Your family," he said to Jim, "has always aided in the Lord's work. Your ancestors fought bravely against the adversary. Now it is your turn."

"This has happened before," Jim said.

Brother Elias nodded.

"At Milk Ranch Point."

"Yes."

"How far back does it go?" Jim asked. "How long has my family been involved?"

"You would not believe me if I told you."

"Tell me anyway." He paused. "My great-grandfather went up there, didn't he?"

"Ezra Weldon," the preacher said. "And Ten-Hano-Kachiabefore him. And Nan-Timochabefore him. And Ware-Kay Non .. ."

"And you were there, weren't you? All the way back then?"

Brother Elias only smiled.

Jim looked at the business-suited preacher and shivered. How had he appeared to his great-grandfather? he wondered. As one of those frontier ministers with the dusty black suit and stovepipe hat?

And how before that? As a wandering Indian? How about originally? A caveman? He wondered how his very first ancestor, way back when, had gotten involved in all this. Someone, sometime, had to have made a conscious decision to go along with all this.

But he was making a conscious decision, wasn't he? This was his own choice.

Not really. It had already been decided for him.

"Why was I chosen?" Gordon asked.

Brother Elias shook his head. "That I cannot yet tell you," he said.

"You are not ready for it. I will tell you when the time comes."

"Tell me now," Gordon said.

"I will tell you when the time comes," Brother Elias repeated. His black eyes bored into Gordon's, and Gordon felt his will crumble beneath the gaze. The preacher moved over to the sheriff's desk and picked up a pencil and pad of paper. "We have little time," he said.

"The hour of action is drawing nigh. We must prepare if we are to be successful."

"And what if we are successful?" Jim asked. "Will that be it? Will that be the end of it?"

Brother Elias shook his head. "We were successful in the past," he said. "If we had not been, the four of us would not be here today.

Satan has been beaten and humiliated by Almighty God, and he will never give up in his attempt to usurp the power of the Lord. He is immortal.

And though we may beat him in these small battles, he can afford to wait. He will try again and again, gathering to him new armies, until he is successful."

"What if we lose?" Gordon asked.

"Satan will walk the earth. The earth will be his, and all in it his subjects. He will twist lives to his own purposes and mock the creations of God. He will laugh in the face of the Lord."

"Why doesn't God do something about it himself?" Father Andrews asked quietly. "Why must he work through our imperfect vessels?"

"Do not dare to question the decisions of the Lord," Brother Elias said angrily. "Do not presume to know the mind of God."

Jim stepped between the two. "How much time do you think we have?" he asked Brother Elias.

"I do not know," the preacher admitted. "The evil has already started, and it will intensify as more are converted. I would estimate that it will be twenty-four hours before Satan and his minions have the strength to take what they are after. We must strike before then. If we don't, we are lost."

They were silent, looking at each other, each of them feeling numb.

Brother Elias began writing on the pad of paper. He tore off the top sheet and handed it to the sheriff. Jim looked over the penciled list.

He handed it to Father Andrews, who read it and handed it to Gordon.

Gordon glanced at the paper. "Items we need," it said in a thick bold hand. He scanned the list. Thick rope, an unspecified amount. Pickup trucks. Four copies of the Revised Standard Version of the Bible.

Plastic tarp. Four crucifixes. Four pitchforks.

Pitchforks?

Four high-powered rifles. Four hand-held axes. Matches. A gallon of human blood.

Gordon looked up from the paper at Brother Elias. "What are we going to be doing?" he whispered.

Brother Elias ignored him. Jim took the paper back from Gordon, looking it over. "Most of this should be fairly easy to get," he said.

"The blood might be a little difficult, but I think I can requisition it from the hospital."

"I want you to get your families out of town," Brother Elias said.

"Take them to a safe place, away from here." He looked at the sheriff.

"Have your wife and children stay with relatives for a few days, until this is over."

Jim nodded.

The preacher looked at Gordon. "Make sure your wife is far away from this area," he said. "This is very important. She must not be here come tomorrow."

"Why?" Gordon asked.

"I cannot yet tell you. The time is not right. But you must get her away from here."

Gordon felt his mouth go dry. He imagined Marina killed, torn apart like the Selways , likeVlad . He licked his lips, looking up at the preacher. "I don't know if she'll go. I don't know if she'll even believe all this when I tell her."

"It does not matter what you tell her as long as you get her away from here."

"It's her decision," Gordon said firmly. "I can't force her to do something she doesn't want to do."

"Take her from this town," Brother Elias said. "for the husband is the head of the wife as Christ is the head of the church.. . As the church is subject to Christ, so let wives also be subject in everything to their husbands." Ephesians The preacher pulled out the Bible he had been clasping unobtrusively beneath his arm and began nipping through pages. He pulled a recently taken photograph from between two pages of the Bible, handing it to Gordon.

Gordon stared at the color photo. It had been taken near a beach somewhere. In the background, he could see the ocean. In the foreground were several dead and bloody bodies.

A tiny infant, with grinning bloody teeth, was pushing its way out of a pregnant woman's abdomen.

The implication was obvious.

Gordon handed the photo back, sickened. His rational mind wanted to protest, to label the photograph a fake, to attribute the horrible scene to darkroom trickery, but he knew the picture was genuine.

The preacher turned to Jim. "We need a camera as well," he said.

Jim reached over and grabbed a pencil. "Camera," he wrote at the end of the list. "Film."

"What exactly are we going to be doing?" Gordon asked.

But Brother Elias had moved back in front of the window and was staring out, unmoving, at the black shape of the Rim far above the town.

Ted McFarland pulled his white government-issue Pontiac into the closed and abandoned Texaco gas station next to the Colt Saloon.

Shutting off the engine and the headlights, he sat in the darkness for a few moments, staring out the windshield, thinking. He felt lonely, depressed. He knew he wasn't doing a damn bit of good on this investigation, and he could feel the resentment of the local authorities every time he tried to make a conjecture or offer an opinion. He sighed. He didn't know why Wilson had assigned anyone to this case at all. State police shouldn't have the responsibility of bailing out locals when they screwed up.

A pickup truck pulled in behind him, the bright headlights reflecting back off the rear view mirror and almost blinding him. He tilted the mirror up to keep the light out of his eyes. A minute or so later he heard the sound of the truck's doors being slammed and the sound of boots on gravel as its occupants made their way toward the bar.

He knew he should call Denise. She was probably waiting by the phone for him to call. But listening to her talk, hearing her voice, would probably only accentuate his loneliness and make him more depressed. He stared out the windshield of the car at the lighted doorway of the saloon. He could hear, from inside the building, the raucous sounds of people having a good time, the music of Charlie Daniels. He knew that, in the state he was in, if he didn't call Denise he would be likely to do something stupid, something he would later regret.

A young buxom woman wearing tight jeans and a skimpy halter top came stumbling out of the bar, her arms around a tough-looking man in a cowboy hat.

McFarland looked at her, thought for a second of Denise, then rolled up the window of the car door and got out, locking it. He walked over cracked slabs of asphalt and hopped the low, crumbling brick wall that separated the gas station from the Colt. The parking lot of the saloon was filled with pickups. A few were high riding customized jobs; a few were small foreign gas savers. But the vast majority of them were good, healthy, American stock trucks. Fords primarily. Nearly all had the obligatory trailer hitch on the rear bumper and the gun rack in the back window.

He walked into the bar. It was smoky and humid, the smell of cigarettes and beer and human body odor almost overpowering. The music was loud, too loud, and conversation appeared to be difficult if not impossible. He scanned the room for a familiar face and, seeing none, made his way toward the bar. He motioned for the bartender. One song ended, and before the next began he shouted: "Coors!"

There was a hard clap on his shoulder. McFarland jerked around. Carl Chmura, Weldon's right hand man, was standing behind him, grinning.

"Hey," he said. "How's itgoin'?" McFarland nodded as the bartender brought his beer. "All right." He stared at the deputy. CarlChmura had been one of those who had resented his presence the most, and he had made it clear that he did not want and would not accept the help of the state police, though he would comply technically with all of the sheriff's orders. Now the young deputy was smiling at him, apparently friendly, all hostility gone. Apparently, he was one of those people who could successfully separate all aspects of his job from the rest of his life--something McFarland had never been able to do.

He tried to smile at the deputy, but the smile felt strained and he was aware of the fact that it probably looked false. "So," he said, "what are you doing here?" The question was stupid, and he knew it was stupid, but he could think of nothing else to say.

Chmuratook a swig from the bottle he held in his hand. "I have the night off, I just broke up with my girlfriend, I thought I'd celebrate.

Want to join me?" He looked around the bar. A group of cowboys and their dates were two-stepping to the Marshall Tucker Band. Several unattached women stood around the fringes of the dance floor, looking around for partners. "I bet we could pick up on one of those bimbos there."

McFarland shook his head. "Not tonight. I don't really feel up to it."

Chmuragrabbed his arm, and McFarland realized that the deputy was already drunk. "Come on."

He shook his head more firmly and peeled the deputy's hand off his arm.

"I can't. I'm married."

Chmuralaughed. "That don't mean shit. I was married once, too. Who cares?"

McFarland looked at the younger man. Married and divorced? He couldn't have been any older than mid twenties McFarland shook his head and pretended to look at his watch. "Sorry. It's almost time for me to call my wife. I've got to get going." He downed his beer and stood up. He'd head back to the hotel and see what was on TV. Maybe he would call Denise. Who could tell? It might cheer him up. It certainly couldn't be worse than this. He clapped an arm onChmura's back in an expression of camaraderie he didn't feel. "I'll see you later."

"Wait," the deputy said, and there was a tinge of desperation in his eyes. "You sure you wouldn't like to just stay here and talk or something?"

McFarland shook his head. "Sorry, but I have to go. Maybe some other time."

There was a sudden jumble of loud voices in the back of the bar, near the jukebox, and both men turned to look at the disturbance.

Something slammed hard against the jukebox and the obnoxious sound of a needle being scratched over a record surface blared through the Colt's PA system.Chmura put his bottle down on the bar, hitched up his belt and grinned. "It's times like these that it's fun to be a deputy." He started toward the rear of the bar and noticed suddenly that the crowd which had been gathered there was slowly backing up toward him. One older woman abruptly turned and ran for the front door. A new song had started playing on the jukebox, a Waylon Jennings song, and Waylon's already low voice became even lower as the power plug to the jukebox was pulled out and the record slowed to a stop.

McFarland watchedChmura hesitate for a moment, patting his waist for a gun and holster that weren't there, then start slowly forward, against the tide of people. He swore to himself, wishing that he, too, had brought along some type of weapon, and reached for the deputy's bottle.

He smashed it against the bar and held the jagged edge out in front of him, moving forward to helpChmura . You could never tell what would happen in these redneck bars. You could never be too careful.

The bar was silent now, all conversation stopped, and the dancers and drinkers in the front of the building were looking curiously toward the rear, trying to figure out what was going on. Some of the other patrons were still backing up, and some were standing their ground, staring toward the door next to the jukebox, but the vast majority of them were making a hurried beeline for the front exit. McFarland followedChmura through the crowd of people and stopped.

A small infant, legless, its arms mere underdeveloped stumps, was flopping along the wooden floor of the saloon through the doorway, laughing and cackling to itself. The sound was low and barely audible, but McFarland could hear it clearly through the silence of shuffling feet and it sent a cold chill down his spine. He moved a step closer and stared at the baby. It was small, undersized, and appeared to be newly born. Its pink skin was still wet with blood, and behind it on the floor stretched a red trail, like that of a snail. Its eyes blinked rhythmically at even intervals as it flopped forward, staring at nothing. Its mouth continued its hideous cackling.

McFarland looked around at the faces of fear and disgust on the staring patrons. He would have expected, under the circumstances, that some woman in the crowd, some compassionate mother-type, would have picked up the baby, feeling sorry for it, and tried to help it. But there was something so decidedly wrong about the infant, something so evil, that he could well understand why most of the people were backing away from the creature, why some were running away. He, too, felt a primal sort of fear at the sight, and he had an instinctive desire to rush over and stomp on the thing, crushing it beneath the heel of his boot as he would a particularly large and repulsive bug.

There was a loud female scream off to the right, and McFarland looked toward the sound. Another infant, equally small and equally deformed, also laughing, was crawling through the open window at the side of the saloon. Its tiny body was halfway over the windowsill, crooked arms flailing wildly in the air. The window, he knew, overlooked a drainage ditch that ran along the side of the building to the field out back. It was a good twenty feet to the bottom.

How had the baby gotten up that high?

McFarland glanced towardChmura . The deputy was staring at the window, his face a blank expression of disbelief. Shock had apparently nullified the effects of alcohol. He turned to look at McFarland.

"What's happening?" he said.

The state policeman shook his head. He had no idea. He saw another baby crawling through the door next to the jukebox, following the red blood trail of the first. This one had a huge oversized head. In the front of the bar, near the entrance, several people screamed.

They were coming in from all sides.

McFarland looked around. The bartender had taken a sawed-off shotgun from beneath the bar and was holding it in both hands, ready to use it if something happened. He was staring at the fragmenting groups of panicked people in the saloon, confused. McFarland nodded quickly at Chmura, catching his eye, and ran over to the bar, pulling his badge from his front pocket. "State police," he said. He reached for the shotgun.

"Hold it right there, motherfucker." The bartender lowered the weapon and snaked a finger over the trigger.

"I'm a policeman," McFarland said in a louder, more authoritarian voice. "Please let me see your weapon. Mine is out in the car."

The bartender's eyes darted quickly around the saloon and he saw, through a hole in the parting crowd, the first blood-wet infant flopping along the hardwood dance floor. His hold loosened on the shotgun, the weapon drooping, and McFarland wrenched it from his hands.

The bartender looked up at McFarland. "What is it?" he asked. His voice was quiet, subdued, filled with either terror or awe.

"I don't know," the policeman said. Holding the shotgun tightly, he started back across the floor towardChmura . Before he had reached the deputy, however, the saloon was rocked by a harsh shock wave. There was a loud metallic crash from the front of the building, and the crowd, as one, stepped slowly, silently, backward. There were no screams this time, no grunts or groans or mutterings of any kind. No one spoke. No one made a sound. There was only the quiet ragged breathing of the terrified patrons and the sickening wet slapping sounds of the strange infants as they flopped forward on the floor.

Then McFarland saw it.

A charred and blackened figure, wearing what looked like the tattered remnants of a priest's collar and uniform, stood at the front of the saloon, gazing at the crowd with unnaturally white eyes. The skin on its face was burnt horribly, peeling off in large flakes. Its hands and fingers were twisted almost into claws. Behind the figure, a large hole had been torn through the wall next to the door.

McFarland sidled up to the deputy, swallowing hard. "What is it?" he whispered.

Chmurashook his head.

"Sinners," the black figure said, then chuckled. Its voice was grating, inhuman.

Chmuragasped. "Selway," he said. "Father Selway ."

McFarland could hear the whisper traveling through the crowd as others recognized the figure.

"Ask and you shall receive," the thing said, its voice mocking. It smiled, revealing crooked blackened teeth. "I have come to set you free." Its grating voice chanted something in an alien tongue, and it pointed into the crowd with one charred finger. Through the hole in the wall, more infants came, fifteen or twenty of them moving slowly forward en masse. There was the sound of workmanlike scratching from atop the roof.

Chmuralooked around crazily. "It's not human," he said. He grabbed the shotgun from McFarland's hands and pointed it toward the figure's head. He pulled the trigger. There was a deafening roar and then . . .nothing.

The slug neither tore the figure apart nor passed cleanly through it.

Instead, the blackened head seemed to accept the slug and absorb it.

The head did not even move backward from the impact.

Chmurafired again. Nothing happened. And again. Nothing. The figure smiled.

McFarland grabbed the shotgun from the deputy.

"You've been bad, Carl," the thing said. "You have been straying from the path." It moved forward, the crowd parting in front of it as people scurried out of its way. McFarland found himself inching away from the deputy. The figure stopped directly beforeChmura . "Bad Carl."

The deputy did not even try to move away. He remained rooted to the spot, apparently in shock, and he did not flinch as the creature reached out and grabbed his arm, ripping it from its socket. It held the arm high, blood dripping onto the floor, and grinned.

StillChmura did not move. He remained standing, blood flowing freely from the open socket, and stared up at his severed limb.

The noises on the roof grew louder.

McFarland could take no more of this. He raised the shotgun high and shoved it hard into the figure's blackened face, pulling the trigger.

The end of the shotgun sank easily and deeply into the burned head, but the creature did not seem to notice. No slug emerged from the back of the skull.

The thing turned to appraise McFarland, jerking the weapon from his hands and tossing it aside. It smiled at him.

There was the sound of splitting wood, and McFarland saw out of the corner of his eye tiny malformed infants dropping from the roof onto bare heads and cowboy hats. These were not slow and plodding like their brethren flopping along the ground. They moved quickly, surely, with purpose. One landed on a burly man nearby and started digging in, small arms and small mouth working in tandem as it ripped apart the flesh on the man's head, the man trying in vain to pull it off him.

The Colt was filled with wild screaming as more fell from the roof and began attacking.

"I hope you said your prayers before going to sleep last night," the burnt figure said in its grating voice. It laughed.

McFarland struggled as a strong hand gripped his neck. He could smell the fried flesh.

Denise! he thought. / should have called Denise!

And then Father Selway pulled his head from his body.

Brother Elias sat alone in the well-lit conference room of the sheriff's office, thinking back upon the time when he was not known as Brother Elias. He had had darker hair in those days. And shabbier clothes, in keeping with the times. Then, he had called himself Father Josiah. Before that, it had beenIktap-Wa . And, before that, WikiupAsazi.

Names changed, but people remained the same.

Evil remained the same.

He stared down at the black-bound Bible on the table in front of him and smiled slightly. He liked Christianity. It was a simple religion, with few standardized ceremonies, and it was easier to incorporate into the ritual than most. And, unlike some of the more holistic Eastern religions, Christianity understood that there was a clear dichotomy between good and evil.

Even if it didn't understand the true nature of evil.

Brother Elias maintained the placid smile on his face and stared benignly at the wall, aware that he was being observed through the small window of safety glass embedded in the steel door. One of the sheriff's deputies came to check on him every few hours, keeping tabs on what he was doing. As always, the man stared through the window for a moment then quickly disappeared.

Brother Elias knew what was happening in the town. He knew that attacks were being made at various weak points. He knew that the evil was growing quickly now, that it was making firm inroads. He had seen it all before. In other towns, other times.

In Randall.

Brother Elias touched the small gold crucifix that served as his tie clip. He could not afford a debacle like the last Randall excursion.

That time, four of the six men involved had been killed. The evil had been contained, its power effectively drained for the next century and a half, but they had come perilously close to failure. Only he and Ezra Weldon had come down from the Rim alive.

He was afraid the same thing would happen this time.

Or something worse.

It might be too late already, he knew. He should have gotten to Randall much earlier. Things weregeting out of hand. But neither he nor Andrews nor the sheriff nor Gordon would have been ready. He was not sure they were ready now. The chance that they would succeed in their mission was slim.

But he could not voice his fears. He could not show his lack of faith.

He had to be strong for all of them. He had to provide the courage they did not possess themselves.

If the ritual was done correctly, if everything went according to plan, there would be no mishaps, there would be no sacrifices. But nothing ever went perfectly. There were always variables. There were always changes to be made according to circumstances.

There were always deaths.

The narrow dirt road wound through the forest, tall pines lining the rutted trail like silent sentinels, black and forbidding against the moonless sky. Gordon walked forward, his eyes trained ahead, tripping periodically in shallow shadowed holes he could not see, stubbing his bare toes on rocks he could not quite make out. Before him, the trees seemed to be growing closer to the road, edging deliberately in on the dirt path, and it appeared as though eventually the road would dwindle away entirely.

Gordon continued walking. He did not know what lay ahead of him, but he felt an increasing sense of menace, a growing paranoia, the deeper he penetrated into the woods. He wanted to turn back, but something inside him made him press on. On the sides of the road, between the trees, he could hear sinister whispering noises and what sounded like low chuckling. He increased his pace.

Ahead, something large and black lurched out from behind a tree and stood directly in the middle of the road, blocking his way. The night was dark, but the figure was darker, and it loomed before him, standing completely still, not moving. Its very lack of movement seemed threatening, and Gordon forced himself to stop. He nervously coughed. "Who are you?" he asked.

The figure did not speak.

"What are you?"

Gordon was aware that the figure moved, but he could see no movement and it scared the hell out of him. He turned to run away, and ... he was standing in the middle of Old Mesa Road, staring around him at the wreckage of Randall. In front of him, the Valley National Bank building was demolished, large chunks of concrete and metal protruding from a pile of charred ash. Two people, dressed in torn rags and leaning on one another for support, were staggering away from the smoldering hulk of what had once been the Circle K store. Further up the road, people were running as fast as they could away from him, away from the center of town. Above everything, high on the Rim, an enormous black storm cloud grew ominously, slowly shaping itself into the form of a gigantic clawed hand.

Something bumped against his leg, and Gordon looked down. Something that looked like a large rat--a rat as big as a small dog--was crouched on the asphalt in front of him, grinning up in malevolent glee. Before he could react, before he could kick out at the animal or even scream, the creature had leapt up and attached itself to his face, clawing wildly, its carnivorous teeth biting with relish into the soft flesh of his cheeks. He could feel the blood gush warmly out of his face as the skin was ripped apart. Trying to pull the creature from his face, he fell backwards and .. . landed with a soft thud on a pile of wet garbage. Stunned, it took him a moment to get his bearings. When he realized where he was, he sat up and looked around. It was morning, and the sunlight glinted brightly off strips of chrome and shards of steel in the pile of metal next to him. On the other side of him, the pile of wood and combustibles was burning, and the air around the fire shimmered in liquid waves of heat. Gordon stared at the burning pile, transfixed. Though he did not want to, he could see within the fire strange shifting shapes. Figures. Faces. The figures were almost but not quite human, and the faces were known to him but not immediately recognizable. Though he tried to concentrate on one face at a time, he could not. They changed too rapidly for him to get a fix on them.

Out of the bottom of the burning pile crawled a charred, smoldering baby. The infant was blackened almost beyond recognition, but Gordon could see that even if it had not been burned, the baby would have been horribly deformed. Its bones were heavy and oddly formed, and as it crawled out from under the fire, pulling itself over stray pieces of garbage, it smiled, revealing unnaturally long and crooked teeth that stood out in white relief against its scorched skin.

The baby looked up at Gordon "Daddy," it said.

Without thinking, Gordon jumped to his feet and grabbed a long broken stick from the pile on which he was standing. He shoved the pointed end of the stick with all his might into the center of the infant's back. He could feel the point piercing the tiny body. The baby emitted one long loud shriek of sudden pain, jerked once and was still.

Gordon looked up and saw in the fire the wavering figure of Marina. Her face was unclear and indistinct, but it seemed to him that she was crying.

He glanced around and saw, to his surprise, a ring of people surrounding the fire. Some of them were holding long sticks similar to his own. Many were not. He recognized among the faces Father Andrews and the sheriff. Standing next to the sheriff, looking up at him with something like admiration, was a young teenage boy with dirty clothes and greasy unkempt hair.

The boy from his previous dream.

He stared at the youngster and the boy smiled at him, nodding in recognition.

Gordon walked across the gravel toward the boy and the sheriff and grabbed both of their hands. Across from him, he could see the face of Char Clifton, and, next to Clifton, Elsie Cavanaugh from the drugstore.

Something large rose up from the fire .. . and Gordon was standing before the black metal smelter of the sawmill. He was alone. Around him, the wind whistled and howled, driving the dried leaves on the ground into a frenzy. The door to the smelter slowly opened.

And out rushed the massive head of a raging demon, babbling incoherently in the tongue of the damned.

Gordon sat bolt upright in bed, a scream caught in his throat.

Marina held tight to his shoulders, hugging him close. "It's okay," she murmured reassuringly. "It's all right. It's just a dream,"

He clasped her hard and said nothing.

She let her hands wander up and down his back then lightly caress his sleep disheveled hair. "Are you okay?"

She felt him nod against her shoulder, but still he said nothing.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

He pulled back from her and looked her full in the face. His eyes were worried, scared. "You have to leave," he said. "You have to get out of here."

She held him and said nothing.

"You have to get out of here," he repeated. "Before morning."

"I'm not leaving," she told him.

"I'm serious."

"I'm serious, too," she said. She sighed and kissed him lightly. "Look, let's get some sleep, okay? We'll talk about it in the morning."

Gordon started to protest, but she pulled him to her, holding his head tightly against her breast. In a few moments he was fast asleep, and she carefullylayed his head upon the pillow. She stood up slowly, so as not to disturb him, and moved in front of the window, not exactly sure why she suddenly felt so frightened and alone.

Something large rose up from the fire, and Jim was standing before the black metal smelter of the sawmill. He was alone. Around him, the wind whistled and howled, driving the dried leaves on the ground into a frenzy. The door to the smelter slowly opened.

And out rushed the massive head of a raging demon, babbling incoherently in the tongue of the damned.

Jim awoke gasping into his pillow, his hands clutching the pillow's fluffy edges, his mouth opened against the cotton material of the pillowcase. He was drenched with sweat. Beside him, Annette still slept, though she tossed fitfully. He was tempted to wake her but decided against it. She would be leaving early in the morning and needed all the sleep she could get.

They had argued long and hard over her leaving, and finally she had said, "I'm not setting a foot out of this house until you tell me what this is all about. Are you in danger? I don't want you pulling any High Noon crap on me."

"I just want you to leave town for a few days," he'd told her.

She'd just stared at him. "Why can't you at least have enough respect for me to level with me, to tell me the truth instead of treating me like I'm one of the kids?"

That had gotten to him. He'd apologized and meant it, then had lied to her and told her that they were closing in on the murderers, a cult, and that as the family of the sheriff, she and the kids might be prime targets. She'd seemed to buy the story, or at least had realized that the children probably were in real danger, and she'd agreed to visit her sister for a few days.

She'd made him promise that he would be careful, that he would let someone else play hero, and he had lied again and said okay.

He pushed a wisp of hair from her face. He felt isolated, alone, in the quiet darkened house. But he was isolated neither by the quiet nor the dark. He was isolated by his knowledge.

He closed his eyes, trying to will himself back into slumber.

Across town, Father Andrews slept peacefully and without dreams.

Brother Elias stared at the bare wall of the lighted conference room, wide awake.

Gordon awoke well before the alarm went off at four. Next to him, Marina had kicked off the covers and lay unmoving, her face half buried in the pillow, her arms resting at her sides. He watched her back move slowly up and down as she breathed. He should have made her leave. He should have forced her to go.

But she did not want to go. And trying to force her would have made her all the more stubborn.

He had to convince her to get out of town, to at least go down to Phoenix for the day and shop. What he and the sheriff and Father Andrews and Brother Elias were going to do was dangerous. There was a strong possibility that one, or more, of them might be injured. Or killed.

Gordon thrust the thought from his mind. He didn't want to think about that possibility. He wasn't one to believe in self-fulfilling prophesies, but on some superstitious level he didn't feel comfortable dwelling on such thoughts. Perhaps if he didn't think about it, it might not happen.

He looked down at Marina. She seemed to be sleeping so innocently, so peacefully. His hand touched her back, and she jerked awake.

"Sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to startle you."

She opened her eyes, rubbing them. She stared blearily at him. "What time is it?"

"Almost four."

She sat up on one elbow, looking at him. "I'm sorry about last night."

Her eyes were serious, her mouth grave. "I've been thinking about what you said, and I think you're right. It is dangerous here for me and the baby."

"You mean you'll--"

"And for you, too. I think all of us should get out of here."

He stared at her stupidly, thrown off by her unexpected change of mind.

He had been planning to fight an uphill battle in order to get her to leave, and now she not only wanted to get out of Randall , she wanted him to come with her. He was not quite sure how to react.

"I want us to go to Phoenix or Flagstaff until everything blows over."

He shook his head slowly. "No," he said. "I can't do that." His voice was regretful and apologetic, but there was no hesitation in it, no openness to debate.

Marina's mouth tightened. "I'm not going alone."

"I have to stay here. I have to--"

"Help the sheriff? Help Brother Elias? Come on, you don't owe any of these people anything. Your duty is to me and to your daughter." She pressed a hand against her abdomen. "Your family." "It's dangerous here," Gordon said. "You know that. After you drop me off at the sheriff's office, I want you to--"

"I'm not taking orders from you." She glared at him. "Stop talking to me as if you were my father."

He took a deep breath. "Look, I just want you to be safe. And I want to make sure nothing happens to the baby. Please, promise me you'll take the car and go down to Phoenix for the day."

"I'm not leaving here without you. If you stay, I stay."

He shook his head. "Now you're just being stupid."

"Maybe I am," she said. "Maybe I am being stupid. But so are you. I don't know what's happened, but lately you've been a real macho asshole," She threw the covers off angrily and slipped into her jeans, which were lying on the floor next to the bed. She pulled on a T-shirt and ran a hand through her hair. She picked up her keys from the dresser.

"What are you doing now?"

"I'm going to take you down to the damn sheriff's office, then I'm going to get the hell out of here."

He reached across the edge of the bed, and the tips of his fingers touched her back. "I only want you to be safe," he said. "I worry about you. I care about you."

Marina pulled away, facing the wall. She said nothing.

He got out of bed and pulled on his own jeans. He stared at the back of her head. "You are going to Phoenix, aren't you?" She said nothing, and he walked around the bed to where she stood. Hesitantly, he put a hand on her shoulder.

She pulled away. "Fuck you."

"Marina--"

"I'm only doing this for the baby. If it wasn't for her, you'd never get me out of here unless you came with me."

Gordon looked relieved. "You take first shower. I'll make us some coffee. Then you can drop me off and head back around to the highway."

"I'll take a shower after I drop you off. I just want you to get the hell out of here right now."

"Okay," he said. "Okay." He grabbed a shirt from the closet and took a pair of underwear from the dresser. "I'll take a quick shower, and then we'll go." He started out the door, then turned around to look at her unmoving form. "You are going to Phoenix, right?"

She did not look at him. "Just take your goddamn shower."

He went into the bathroom.

Father Andrews awoke to the sound of static from the blank hissing television. He had left the TV on, he remembered. And the lights. He felt, for a second, embarrassed, but that passed immediately. He remembered what they were to do today, and a black cloud settled over him. He did not feel right about this. No, that was not true. He did not feel good about this, though it felt right.

He felt scared. That was it exactly. He was scared. Like Jim and Gordon, he had only a vague outline of Brother Elias' plan. But that outline was enough to terrify him.

He got out of bed and turned off the television. He was half tempted to call the bishop and tell him what they were planning. It was not yet four, and the bishop had probably not yet awakened, but he knew his superior would want to know about this.

And he knew the bishop would disapprove and would forbid him to go along with it.

That was the real reason, wasn't it? That was why he wanted to tell the bishop. Not because he respected the other man's opinion, not because he was worried about the moral and ethical implications of what they were going to do, but because he was scared and wanted to find an easy way out of it. He wanted to remove the responsibility for his actions from his own shoulders and place it on someone else. He wanted to pass the buck. He wanted to fall back on the oldest, safest excuse in the book: "I can't. I'm not allowed to."

Father Andrews bowed his head in embarrassment, though no one was there to see him. He looked up, toward the window .. . and Brother Elias was standing alone in the middle of a grassy meadow. His face was covered with a light stubble, and his dirty hat and clothes were typical of the type worn by many westerners of the mid-nineteenth century. At the meadow's periphery stood a small group of similarly dressed men, one of whom bore an uncanny resemblance to Jim Weldon. As the men looked on, Brother Elias raised his hands and cast his eyes toward the sky. The bushes surrounding the meadow began to rustle ominously, and the preacher reached down to grab a pitchfork.

Father Andrews looked away from the window and closed his eyes, his head reeling from the strength of the vision. He sat down on the bed, waiting for the dizziness to go away. He had never experienced a psychic flash of such length and magnitude before. He had never been the recipient of such a clear and literal vision.

He opened his eyes, and his gaze fell on the four Bibles he had promised the sheriff he would provide. The Bibles were bound in white and were unused, completely new.

Trying to think of nothing, concentrating only on the tasks immediately at hand, Father Andrews dressed in nondescript street clothes and put the Bibles in a bag. Before he left the house, he bent down next to the bed, his hands folded before him on the mattress like a child. He began to pray.

Pete King was sitting in front of the switchboard, waiting for the phone to ring, when Jim walked into the office. He jumped at the sound of the sheriff's boots on the tile and swiveled immediately around.

"Thank God you're here!"

Jim stared at the deputy, shocked by the deep circles under the young man's eyes, by the look of haggard frustration on the normally implacable face. Even Pete's hair, ordinarily combed to perfection, looked unkempt and in disarray. "What's up?" the sheriff asked.

Pete shook his head and picked up a huge pile of scratch paper from the table in front of him. "I don't know where to begin," he said. "The members of the posse out looking for those kids on the Rim never came back. There was some type of huge fight at the Colt, I really don't know how many people were killed or exactly what happened. The whole place is in shambles. The Department of Public Safety's been calling in every hour or so with reports of giant accidents on the highway.

Eight people from three different neighborhoods called in saying they heard screams and gunshots from their neighbors' houses--"

"Okay, Pete. I get the picture."

"I don't think you do. Judson hasn't called in since he went out to the Episcopal church. Tom said Carl was--"

The sheriff stopped him. "I understand. Where's the preacher?"

"He's still in the conference room."

Jim nodded and was about to walk down the hall when he stopped. "You can go home, Pete," he said.

"Who's taking over the shift?"

"No one. We're closing down the office for a while."

Pete shook his head. "That's okay. I'll stay."

"You need some rest. You look like hell. Now get home. That's an order."

"No." Pete met the sheriff's eyes for a moment then glanced away. "We have to have someone here. We can't just close down the office. What if something happened? What if someone was in real trouble? Who would they call?"

"I'll call Elise and have her transfer all our calls to the DPS. I'll explain the situation to Nelson. He and his men can handle things for a day."

"I'm sorry. I don't think so, sir."