stopped.
Before them, blocking the entrance, parked sideways across the dirt road, was a truck.
Brad Nicholson's Pepsi truck.
Gordon got out of the pickup, his heart pounding. The cab was empty, he saw, its door open. The canvas strap used to close the back gate of the truck was swinging gently in the open air.
'Stay back!' the sheriff ordered. He had gotten out of his truck and was advancing toward the gate, gun drawn. Gordon remembered the rifles sitting in the bed of his pickup and he was tempted to grab one, but he remained rooted to the spot, watching as the sheriff moved cautiously forward.
Jim put one foot slowly in front of the other, trying desperately not to make any noise. He glanced from side to side, listening for the sound of movement, prepared to defend himself against whatever might jump out at him. He reached the open door of the cab and cautiously peeked in. Empty. He moved around the front of the truck, still preparing himself for an unexpected attack. From here, he could see the rest of the dump. A reddish orange glow emerged from the smoldering embers of thecumbustible pile in the middle of the cleared area, and he shivered. He scanned the space immediately around him.
Nothing moved. He continued walking around the truck. The canvas strap of the rear door had stopped swinging, and the sheriff realized that there was no breeze. Something must have hit the strap to make it move. His grip tightened on his gun, and he peeked into the back of the truck.
Nothing.
He relaxed. Puzzled, he looked again into the interior of the truck then toward the bright headlights of the two pickups. He shook his head in an exaggerated motion. 'Nothing!' he called.
Gordon moved forward and Father Andrews got out of the truck. Both of them approached the gate. 'That's Brad's truck,' Gordon said. 'How did it get here?'
'I don't know,' Jim said.
Brother Elias emerged from the cab of the first pickup, clutching his black-bound Bible in his hand. The preacher walked through the open gate of the landfill and moved around to the back of the truck where the others were standing. ' 'Just as the weeds are gathered and burned with fire, so will it 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,' Father Andrews finished for him. He looked into the preacher's black eyes, and the preacher smiled.
The sheriff glanced around the dump. The sky was becoming progressively lighter. Although the sky to the west was still a dark purple, to the east it was anorangish blue, almost daylight. The tall ponderosas were no longer black silhouettes but were now identifiable as trees.
Brother Elias focused his cold gaze on the sheriff. 'Get the pitchforks from the trucks,' he ordered. 'Get the rope.'
'What about the rifles?' Jim asked.
'We do not yet need them.'
Jim started for the pickups and Gordon moved to follow him, but Brother Elias clapped a strong hand on his shoulder. 'He will get the weapons,' the preacher said. 'You move the truck. We must have the way clear.'
Jim returned with four pitchforks and the coils of rope. Gordon, to his surprise, found the keys still in Brad's ignition, and he moved the vehicle away from the gate. Glancing down at the seat next to him, he saw an empty can of Pepsi, a few wet drops of the beverage visible on the vinyl upholstery, and he thought of his boss.
He shut off the engine and hopped out of the truck. He saw the sheriff run back to his pickup and pull the smaller vehicle through the gate into the dump. Brother Elias waved for him to park in the center of the landfill, near the smoldering woodpile. Jim stopped the truck, turned off the lights and came running over.
Brother Elias picked up the pitchforks and handed one to each of them.
Gordon accepted the implement and hefted it in his hands. It felt heavy, lethal. The shiny steel of the pronged points captured the first rays of the rising sun and reflected them back at him. He wasn't sure exactly what Brother Elias had in mind, but he knew that as a weapon a pitchfork was good for only one thing--stabbing.
The thought did not comfort him.
Jim and Father Andrews accepted their weapons from the preacher.
''Take care, brethren,'' Brother Elias said softly, ''lest there be in any of you an evil, unbelieving heart, leading you to fall away from the living God.' Hebrews 3:12.' The preacher stared hard at each of them, then picked up his pitchfork. 'Let us go forth,' he said.
After taking her shower, Marina dried off, slipped on a robe and went back into the bedroom. She sat on the unmade bed and stared at herself in the full-length mirror on the front of the closet door. The house was silent, she thought, too silent. And she wished, not for the first time, that they lived a little closer to town. Outside, it was still dark. The moon had long since set, and the sun was not yet peeking its face above the eastern horizon. The forest outside the window looked ominous and vaguely threatening.
That was nonsense, Marina told herself. It was the same forest that was out there in the daytime, the same trees she walked amongst in the light. She was just spooked because of what Gordon had told her.
She stood up and moved over to the dresser for some underwear. She would get dressed and drive to Phoenix, spend the day shopping in the bright clear heat of the Valley, surrounded by miles of steel and concrete and people and civilization.
She slipped on her panties and stood still for a moment, listen Was that a scratching noise she heard coming from the kitchen?
No, she told herself. But she did not move, dared not breathe. She listened carefully.
Yes.
Something was out in the front of the house. Something small. She pulled her robe closed, then rushed over and slammed shut the bedroom door. Moving quickly, she pushed a chair against it. She put her ear to the door.
All was silent.
Marina moved over to the window. It was dark and she could not see very well, but she thought she detected movement in the underbrush.
Scared now, she inched her way across the room to the phone, still watching the window. She dialed the emergency number. The phone rang five times before someone answered. 'Sheriff's office.' The voice was tired, harried.
'Hello,' Marina whispered into the phone. 'My name is Marina Lewis. Is my husband Gordon there?'
'Gordon Lewis? He went someplace with the sheriff. May I take a message?'
'I think there's a prowler in my house,' Marina whispered. 'I'm in the bedroom, and I barricaded the door. I heard noises out in the kitchen.'
'Stay calm, ma'am. We'll have someone out there as soon as possible.
We're a little understaffed right now, so it may be a while before we can get to you. I suggest you call a neighbor and try to find some type of weapon--'
'I need help!'
'I understand that, ma'am.' The voice was clearly under stress.
'I'm pregnant!' Marina screamed. She dropped the phone, willing herself not to cry. The house was still silent, but she knew someone--something--was out there. She could feel it. She moved next to the door and crouched down, pressing her ear against the wood. Never before had she been so conscious of the child inside her, never before had her unborn baby seemed so alive, so in need of protection. She felt an unfamiliar predatory instinct flare up inside her--the instinct of a mother prepared to protect her young against all odds.
Something just outside the door gave a small yelp, and Marina jumped.
She pressed against the door with her shoulder, pushing all her weight against it so nothing could get in. With one hand, she held the chair in place. There was the sound of rough gnawing on the wood outside the door.
'Get out of here!' she screamed.
Tiny voices in the hallway laughed, and there was the sound of little feet running away. Marina began
