fell down onto the carpet, where she hit it again, pressing the heel down as hard as she could to make sure it was dead.
Anna heard the sound, came running out from the kitchen. 'Mommy['
Rich looked at her over their daughter's head. 'What was that you just killed? A spider?'
Corrie picked up Anna, gave her a kiss on the forehead, then looked flatly at Rich. 'Yes,' she said. 'It was.'
At the church, the days passed quickly, much more quickly than they had at the paper. The work was by no means challenging, but she felt less stifled than she had working with Rich all day, and some of the edge seemed to wear off of her dissatisfaction. She still wanted to get out of this town and move back to civilization, to raise Anna in a more culturally enlightened environment, but some of the urgency had gone out of her need. She was more laid back now, more willing to take things easier, to wait a little.
Perhaps it was the influence of Jesus. She preferred not to think about that, tried desperately hard to keep it at the back of her consciousness. If she allowed herself to even consider the idea that Jesus had returned to earth, had come here to Rio Verde, she would become so frightened that she would not be able to function. She knew that Anna was still worried, still scared-she'd had nightmares every night this week--and she wished she could do more to set her daughter's mind at rest. To set her own mind at rest as well. In truth, she was not sure what to think. She and Pastor Wheeler discussed only the practical matters of the parish, the day-to-day operation of the church. She knew from Wheeler's bearing and attitude, from the assumptions underlying his statements, that he truly believed he had seen Jesus Christ. But her own certainty had waned with the week, the al most palpable belief that had been imparted to her and the rest of the crowd by the pastor's sermon now seeming more and more like the by-product of a good speech.
But if she didn't believe, why was she dreading this Sun day's services?
Why couldn't she reassure Anna that there was nothing to be afraid of?.
And why was she keeping it all from Rich? She had the feeling that if she could just talk to Rich, if she could just tell him what was going on, if she could just share her confusion with him, everything would be okay. Wasn't that what marriage was about? Sharing and support?
She pushed such thoughts away. The bottom line was that, despite the fear, she enjoyed working here, and she felt better now than she had in a long time. The words that came immediately to mind were 'tranquil' and 'at peace.'
Church words.
He is going to establish the kingdom of heaven on earth.
'Jesus loves you,' the Pastor Mr. Wheeler said. Corrie looked up.
The pastor was smiling at her. There was something a little off about that smile, a hint of fanaticism in its too wide parameters, and it would have frightened her had he not spoken, had he not said those words, had he not addressed the doubts inside her head.
But he had spoken, he had said those words, he had addressed her doubts. And his voice was comforting, soothing, making her feel warm, wanted, and content.
The Pastor Clan Wheeler had truly been blessed by God. Wheeler stood and walked out from behind his desk, holding in his hand the pristine white Bible from which he drew his sermon topics. 'Glen Lyons did not show up last night,' he said. 'He was supposed to take over the night shift from Gary Watson and construct that installation in the walkway to the addition. I am very disappointed in Glen. Very disappointed.
Would you call him and tell him that? Would you call him and tell him that the next time he volunteers his time and reneges on his promise, I will personally rip his balls out by the roots and feed them to Jesus?'
The pastor was still smiling. Somewhere in the back of her mind, a warning buzzer sounded, telling her that these words were not normal, not right. But her perceptions seemed to have been encased in Lucite, and that warning was just a dull hum somewhere far in the back, ground.
Corrie nodded. 'I'll tell him.'
Behind the preacher, on the wall, she could see a calendar for the year. Small black X's filled the squares for the months of January through September. October 31, the date of the Second Coming, was circled in red. The rest of the year had been whited out.
Corrie found Glen's number in the church directory, picked up her phone, and dialed while the pastor watched. She realized that there was less than a month left until the Second Coming.
That suddenly seemed very important to her.
Very important.
Glen, obviously hungover, answered the phone after six rings. She told him in a cold voice that the next time he volunteered his time and did not show, causing construction of the church to fall behind schedule, Pastor Wheeler would rip his balls out by the roots and feed them to Jesus. She liked saying that word: 'balls.'
And she found that she liked hearing the terror in Glen's voice as he desperately and pathetically tried to apologize.
She hung up on him in the middle of his apology, and looked up at the pastor. He grinned at her. 'Very good,' he said. 'Very good.'
Her doubts seemed to have disappeared, and in their place she felt only a quietly unobtrusive bliss. She was smiling to herself as she returned her attention to the invoices on her desk.
He saw it again. The Face in the Sand. Cutler closed his eyes and gripped the sides of the sink for support. Outside the restroom of the Shell station he heard the blowing wind, a whooshing noise that would have sounded like water were it not for the tiny granules of sand that scraped against the metal door and the small dirty window above the wastebasket. From inside the gas station itself, muffled by the wall, he heard the dinging of the bell as a late-night customer ran over the cable and pulled up to the pumps.
Cutler opened his eyes, looked again at the mirror. Over his shoulder, he could still see the reflection of The Face, peering in at him through the window.
He looked down into the sink, concentrating on a rust stain connected to the drain directly below the faucet. The Face in the Sand. The malevolence of its gaze and the un naturalness of its composition had been burned permanently into his brain, and after all these years had lost none of its terrifying power. Seeing it again, Cutler felt like a small frightened child, and he was dimly aware that he had wet his pants.
The whooshing sound seemed to grow louder.
It was The Face in the Sand that had kept him from setting out and searching for the Lost Dutchman when he was eighteen. Along with Hobie Beecham and Phil Emmons, he'd been planning to take a year off after high school and before college, to search for the fabled gold mine.
Having grown up in east Mesa, practically under the shadow of the Superstition Mountains, the three of them had spent most of their grammar school years obsessed with the Lost Dutchman, dreaming of becoming rough, tough, rich, and famous prospectors. For six months in fifth grade, after they'd pooled their allowance money one week and purchased a weathered 'Genuine Lost Dutchman Treasure Map' from the tourist trap on Main Street, they'd thought the mine was theirs. The obsession had cooled somewhat by high school, but they were still seriously planning to spend a year prospecting in the Superstitions beginning the summer after graduation. They didn't really expect to find the mine, but they were expecting to party, live off the land, and generally enjoy their last gasp of freedom before becoming responsible adults.
Then he'd seen The Face in the Sand.
Cutler had never told his two friends what he'd seen, knowing they would think him pussy or worse. Instead, he'd given them a transparently false story about growing up and putting away childish things, a story neither of them bought. Both Hobie and Phil had tried desperately, together and separately, to change his mind, playing on his sympathy, on his memory, on his loyalty, but he'd re fused to budge. They'd ended up fighting with him, then fighting with each other, and the whole idea had died an ignominious death. He hadn't seen either of them after that, was not even sure if they'd kept in touch with each other. At the end of the summer, carrying only the stuffed backpack that he'd planned to bring with him into the Superstitions, he'd hit the road to Denver, where there was supposed to be an airplane mechanic's school. He had some half-baked idea of becoming a jet mechanic, but he'd lasted there about nine months before moving on to Colorado Springs, where he lasted about nine months before moving on to Albuquerque, where he lasted about nine months before moving on... :: And always The Face had haunted him. He'd seen The Face in the flat desert outside Apache Junction. It had been a hot Saturday afternoon, and he'd been walking alone, down one of the old Indian trails that wound through private property and reservation
