Bentley Little - The Revelation

"You'll tell me later?"

"Yes."

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

"Fine. Good-bye, Sheriff."

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

There was a quiet swishing noise in the hall outside.

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

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

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

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

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

"What?"

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

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

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

"No sir."

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

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

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

"Don't guess we will."

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

"Sure."

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

"No problem, Sheriff."

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

But Don had been right about the Selways .

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Wilson!

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

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

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

"I think he did ..."

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

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

"Howbad's the damage Natalie?"

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