"Is that it?" Gordon asked. "Is it over?"
Brother Elias nodded. "It is over," he said. "This time."
Gordon looked around at the ground of Milk Ranch Point. Trees had been uprooted, grass and weeds flattened, rocks overturned. There were huge holes in the gaping earth. Only a few of the white crosses were still standing. Everything was covered with a sickly pale mulch. Gordon looked at his arm. There was no sign of any of the cuts. He could still taste a disgusting musty dryness in his mouth, however, and he spit. He looked over at the sheriff, and both of them smiled.
Above them, the sky was clearing. Silently, Brother Elias picked up Father Andrews' arms. Without being told, Jim and Gordon each grabbed one of his feet.
They started down the hill toward the truck.
Gordon stood with Brother Elias in the crowded lumberyard of the sawmill, watching as teams of men shoveled the tiny dead bodies of hundreds of fetuses into the furnace of the smelter. It was late afternoon, but the sun was still high in the western sky. The men worked hard, using large flat sawdust shovels to remove the fetuses from the pickup trucks. The sheriff was standing on the stump of a log, coordinating the effort, telling the men exactly what to do.
Several regular posse members as well as firemen and workers from the mill were helping to dispose of the bodies. Keith Beck stood nearby, taking photos for the newspaper and talking to various people, writing down their quotes in a small notebook.
He wondered what Beck would write.
Several dozen people stood outside the chain link fence of the sawmill, staring in. Many of the parents had taken their children home, not wanting them to view the horrible scene. Gordon looked out at the crowd. He could see Char Clifton pressed against the fence, and, next to him, Elsie Cavanaugh from the drugstore. Just like he had in his dream.
He looked over at Brother Elias. The preacher's face was bandaged, but he did not look tired or worn out. There was a strange gleam in his eye. He fixed Gordon with his black gaze. '"Just as the weeds are gathered and burned with fire, so it will be at the close of the age.
The Son of man will send his angels, and they will gather out of his kingdom all causes of sin and all evildoers, and throw them into the furnace of fire." Matthew 13:40."
Gordon shivered and turned back to the smelter. Black foul smelling smoke billowed out of the single stack. Many of the workers were wearing surgical masks to protect themselves from the effects. Gordon glanced into the sky, half expecting the smoke to have coalesced into some type of coherent shape, but the black cloud was formless.
He looked at the pickup trucks filled with tiny bodies. He still did not know where all of the fetuses had come from. There seemed to be thousands of them. He found himself wondering how long it would take before all this happened again, and whether anyone then would remember this day. He watched the workers throwing the bodies into the fire, the sheriff shouting orders.
Toward evening, the smoke became so thick that all of the workers were forced to wear masks. Those who had no masks and all of the bystanders had to go home.
The sunset could not be seen for the smoke.
The black smoke hung over Randall for three days, like fog, until a long-overdue rainstorm washed it away.
It was another three days before all of the soot was cleaned off the streets.
EPILOGUE
Fall was coming. Temperatures were beginning to drop, and leaves on some of the trees were already starting to change color. Staring out the office window, Jim could see a small patch of orange and yellow on one of the trees lining Main Street. Farther to the north, near the sawmill, several trees were starting to change. The sheriff stared out at the town, thinking silently. It looked remarkably normal, amazingly untouched. There were no demolished buildings, no flattened homes.
There was a large chunk of forest at the base of the Rim where the old landfill used to be that was now scorched and burned, but on the whole, the damage had been much less severe than he had expected. Most of Randall, in fact, had been cleaned up within a few days.
Of course, who knew what the long-range consequences would be?
Jim moved over to his desk and sat down heavily. He picked up the newspaper and threw it into the metal waste can near his feet.
Eighty-five. The final death toll was eighty-five, counting theSel way family and the first two farmers. A lot of those had been self induced or the result of panic, but a goodly chunk of them were not attributable to anything so rational.Deke Chandler had been torn apart, portions of his body switched. Three ranchers had been drowned in the blood of their farm animals. The coroner had found their lungs suffused with blood. Jeff Tilton and old ladyPeltzer had been brutally stabbed to death. Tilton's face had been stabbed so repeatedly that it was unrecognizable.
He and the coroner had agreed to list the deaths as accidental.
Surprisingly, the TV stations in Phoenix and Flagstaff had mentioned the incidents only briefly. There had been a more thorough article in The Arizona Republic, but even that newspaper had glossed over the facts, instead laying its faith in a bizarre theory put forth by an uninvolved member of the state police. Only the Randall paper had told the real story, had gone into it with any depth. There had even been photos of the burnings on the front page.
The rumor was that Beck was trying to sell the story to the National Enquirer.
Jim smiled. He'd probably sell it. Those people ate up that shit.
Through the open window, the sheriff heard the pealing of the church bells, calling people for the noontime Sunday services. The staggered ringing carried clearly through the still, fresh air, and the sound was pleasant music to the sheriff's ears. He listened carefully, but he could not hear the tones of the Episcopal church bell.
Apparently, the bishop had not yet appointed another replacement.
The phone on his desk buzzed, and Jim picked up the receiver, punching the lighted button for line one. "Hello," he said. "Weldon speaking."
"Jim."
He softened at the sound of his wife's voice. "Hi, honey. What's up?"
"I was wondering if you were coming home for lunch. Thekids're at Timmy Wharton's house, and we could have a nice private little get-together. Just me and you."
He smiled. "Sounds romantic."
"When will you be home?"
"I'll be there in ten minutes."
"Okay," she said. She paused. "I love you."
"I love you, too. Goodbye."
"Goodbye."
He hung up the phone, and his eye fell on the empty holster on the hat rack. Carl's. He would have to start advertising for a replacement soon. And replacements for Pete and Judson. Both had given him their notices. Both had also agreed to stay on until he could find new men.
Pete, he knew, was planning to apply for a job at the post office. He wasn't sure what Judson had planned.
Jim stood up and grabbed his hat from the rack. He put it on and stepped out of his office, walking down the hall toward the front desk.
He smiled and nodded at Rita, operating the switchboard. "Hold all my calls this afternoon, will you? I'm going to be gone the rest of the day."
Rita smiled. "Supervisor Jones is going to have your ass for this, you know. She's already mad at you."
"Fuck her," Jim said. He waved good-bye and stepped outside into the warm, fresh open air.
He got in his car and drove home.
Gordon and Marina sat next to each other on the couch, watching an old Fred Astaire movie on the new television Gordon had charged while they were in Phoenix. The old TV had been smashed. A commercial came on, and they turned to look at each other. They kissed.