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?"