Jim tossed the remaining messages aside and dialed the number written on the small square of pink memo paper. It was late, he knew, but he couldn't afford to take any chances. A woman's voice answered.
"Hello."
"Hello," he said. "Is Don Wilson there?"
The woman's voice sounded suddenly suspicious. "Who is this?"
"Sheriff Weldon. I'd like to speak to Don if I could."
The suspicion changed audibly to anger; an anger directed at her son.
The woman's voice grew tense, and Jim could almost see the jaw muscles clenching. "What's he done now?"
"Nothing." Jim had promised the boy that he wouldn't tell his parents anything, but he did not want his silence on the subject to get the boy into trouble. He thought quickly. "I'm calling about the anti litter campaign we're starting," he said smoothly. "We're getting a group of volunteers together to pick up cans along the highway next Saturday, and I was told Don might be interested." He knew it was a lame excuse, but it was the best he could do on the spur of the moment. The woman's voice sounded incredulous. "Don?"
"Could you just put him on the line please, Mrs. Wilson?"
"Okay," the woman said. "Just a second."
There was a moment of silence, then the boy came to the phone. His voice sounded tired, and Jim thought he had probably been sleeping.
"Yeah?"
"Don, this is Sheriff Weldon."
"Oh." The boy's voice was suddenly alert and wide awake.
"We found the bodies. Just like you said."
"I know."
Jim cleared his throat. "I got a note here that you called. You wanted to talk to me?"
"Yes."
The boy's answers were unnaturally short, and his voice sounded not quite relaxed. Jim had a feeling that the boy's mother was standing there in the same room, listening. "Can you talk now?" he asked.
"No."
"Is your mother there? Is that why?"
"Yes."
"Okay," Jim said. "But I'd like you to come down to the office tomorrow. I want to talk to you about all this."
"All right."
"How does ten o'clock sound?"
"Fine."
"Okay. I'll see you then." Jim was about to say good-bye and hang up when he thought of something else. "One thing more. Father Selway ?
We found no trace of him. His body wasn't there."
Don's voice was still calm and controlled in front of his mother, but Jim could hear an edgy undercurrent of fear in it. "I know," he said.
"Is that what you wanted to talk to me about?"
"Sort of." Don's voice grew suddenly into a whisper. He spoke quickly, and Jim knew that his mother had left the room for a moment.
"I had another dream," he said. "It was--" The whisper cut off in mid-sentence, and the boy's voice resumed it's normal tone. "Later."
"You'll tell me later?"
"Yes."
"Okay, Don. I'll see you tomorrow then. Ten o'clock. My office."
"Fine. Good-bye, Sheriff."
"Good-bye." Jim hung up the phone feeling slightly edgy himself. He knew he was an adult, and a sheriff, and he was supposed to have gotten rid of his childhood fears years ago, but he was frightened nonetheless. The window of his office looked completely dark, he could see nothing but his own reflection in it, and he was reminded of a particularly horrible nightmare he had had last week. He stood up, suddenly spooked, knowing that both Judson and Pete were keeping watch in the front of the building and that he was all alone back here. He saw again the mutilated bodies of those two farmers, and the face of Mrs.Selway in the mud, rain dripping down her dead lips. He walked quickly across the office toward the door.
There was a quiet swishing noise in the hall outside.
Jim stood perfectly still, unmoving, every muscle in his body on alert.
He listened carefully, head cocked, but all he could hear at first was the rapid beating of his own heart. Then the swishing sound came again, darting down the hall toward the rear of the building. He drew his gun, knowing that nothing human could have made that sound, but hoping to God that he was wrong. He counted to five, then threw open the door.
The lights in the hallway were off, and he barely saw the dark shadow skitter around the corner at the far end of the corridor. He ran forward, gun in hand. The hall was cold, unnaturally so, much colder than even the air-conditioning system could have gotten it, and the air smelled faintly of sewage or rotting vegetables. He ran around the corner .. . and into Judson Weiss.
The deputy went sprawling, his wildly flailing arms knocking over a freestanding ashtray and sending a spray of white sand flying across the tile floor. "Jesus!" he yelled. He slid backward for a few seconds, then regained his balance and used his hands to push himself to his feet. He noticed Jim's drawn gun and instantly became alert. He reached for his own firearm. "What is it?"
Jim was trying to regain his own balance; though he had not fallen, the collision had sent him backward into the wall. "Did you see anything run by here?" he asked.
"What?"
"Something--" He stopped, knowing that what he was about to say sounded stupid, but having to say it anyway. "--something small and dark that made sort of a ... whisk-broom sound?"
Judson stared at him. "Like what? A rat?" His voice was puzzled.
Jim ran a hand through his hair. "Did you see anything run by here?"
"No sir."
"All right." Jim put the gun back in his holster. He knew how he probably sounded, and he was aware of the deputy's worried glance. He smiled to show he was all right. "I'm just tired, I guess. I thought I saw something run by my door. I don't know what the hell I thought it was." He picked up the spilled ashtray and refastened its bowl-shaped top. "Maybe Ioughtta get home and get some sleep."
Judson nodded. "Maybe so. Me and Pete will be here tonight. We'll call you if anything comes up."
"Yeah," Jim said. "Maybe I will head home. After that autopsy report is delivered none of us are going to get any sleep around here."
"Don't guess we will."
Jim pointed toward the spray of sand on the floor tile. "Think you could clean that up there?"
"Sure."
He patted Judson on the back. "Sorry I bumped into you."
"No problem, Sheriff."
Jim went back to his office to get his keys. He knew he probably was too tired. He seemed to be losing his grip. He wanted Judson to think nothing was wrong, but something was very much wrong. He had no proof, nothing to substantiate his fears, but he had a gut feeling that whatever was going on in Randall was not caused by anything human. He knew, though, that despite his inner unfounded suspicions he would have to investigate everything using proper police procedure--procedure that automatically assumed that all circumstances were the result of normal criminals operating in normal criminal ways. Maybe that was for the best. It wouldn't do to have a sheriff who based his actions on dreams, who saw things that weren't there.
But Don had been right about the Selways .
Jim sighed. He knew it was irrational, but it was almost inconceivable to him that so many things could be going on at once and not be connected somehow, particularly in a quiet small town like Randall, a town where the annual crime rate hovered just above zero. The way he saw it, in fact, they were connected. Several farmers' goats had been slaughtered, and the goats' blood had been used to desecrate the town's churches. Two of the farmers whose goats had been killed had themselves been murdered. And Father Selway , whose church had been the first hit, had been murdered.
No, not murdered. His family had been murdered. He was still only missing.
Jim closed his eyes. He could feel a headache coming on. He knew he was thinking irrationally, not reasoning correctly, and he knew he should probably tell someone his fears, his suspicions. Judson or Pete. Carl. But he could not bring himself to do it. This was something he could not share. He grabbed his keys and his hat. He nodded as he walked past Pete, who was manning the switchboard for the night, and made his way out to the parking lot. He couldn't help looking at the bushes surrounding the parking lot for any sign of movement, and he stopped to listen before he opened the car door.