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."