Phantoms

evil that it was almost laughable. If there was anyone here who was destined for Heaven, it was Gordy. Not that Bryce believed the judgment day had come. He didn’t. But he couldn’t think of a thing to say to Gordy, for the big, rawboned kid was too far gone to be talked out of his delusion.
    “Timothy Flyte is a scientist, not a theologian,” Jenny said firmly. “If Flyte’s got an explanation for what’s happening here, it’s strictly scientific, not religious.”
    Gordy wasn’t listening to her. Tears were streaming down his face. His eyes looked glazed. When he tilted his head and stared up at the sky, he was not seeing the sunset; he was apparently seeing, instead, some grand celestial highway on which the archangels and hosts of Heaven would soon descend in their chariots of fire.
    He was in no condition to be entrusted with a loaded gun. Bryce slipped the revolver out of Gordy’s holster and took possession of it. The deputy didn’t even seem to notice.
    Bryce saw that Gordy’s bizarre soliloquy had had a serious effect on Lisa. She looked as if she had been hit very hard, stunned.
    “It’s all right,” Bryce told her. “It’s not really the end of the world. It’s not judgment day. Gordy’s just… disturbed. We’re going to come through this just fine. Do you believe me, Lisa? Can you keep that pretty chin of yours lifted? Can you be brave for just a little while longer?”
    She didn’t immediately respond. Then she reached into herself and found yet another reserve of strength and nerve. She nodded. She even managed a weak, uncertain smile.
    “You’re a hell of a kid,” he said. “A lot like your big sister.”
    Lisa glanced at Jenny, then brought her eyes back to Bryce again, “You’re a hell of a sheriff,” she said.
    He wondered if his own smile was as shaky as hers.
    He was embarrassed by her trust, for he wasn’t worthy of it.
    I lied to you, girl, he thought. Death is still with us. It’ll strike again. Maybe not for an hour. Maybe not even for a whole day. But sooner or later, it will strike again.
    In fact, although he couldn’t possibly have known it, one of them would die in the next minute.
     

Chapter 32
    Destiny
     
    In Santa Mira, Fletcher Kale spent the greatest part of Monday afternoon tearing apart Jake Johnson’s house, room by room. He thoroughly enjoyed himself.
    In the walk-in pantry, off the kitchen, he at last located Johnson’s cache. It wasn’t on the shelves, which were crammed full of at least a year’s supply of canned and bottled food, or on the floor with stacks of other supplies. No, the real treasure was under the pantry floor: under the loose linoleum, under the subflooring, in a secret compartment.
    A small, carefully selected, formidable collection of guns was hidden there; each of the weapons was individually wrapped in watertight plastic. Feeling as if it were Christmas morning, Kale unwrapped all of them. There were a pair of Smith & Wesson Combat Magnums, perhaps the best and most powerful handgun in the world. Loaded with .357s, it was the deadliest piece a man could carry, with enough punch to stop a grizzly bear; and with light-loaded .38s, it was an equally useful and extremely accurate gun for small game. One shotgun: a Remington 870 Brushmaster 12-gauge with adjustable rifle sights, a folding stock, a pistol grip, magazine extension, and sling. Two rifles. An M-1 semiautomatic. But far better than that, there was a Heckler & Koch HK91, a superb assault rifle, complete with eight thirty-round magazines, already loaded, and a couple of thousand rounds of additional ammunition.
    For almost an hour, Kale sat examining and playing with the rifles. Fondling them. If the cops happened to spot him on his way to the mountains, they would wish they had looked the other way.
     
    The hole beneath the pantry also contained money. A lot of it. The bills were tightly rolled wads, encircled by rubber bands, and then stuffed into five large, well-sealed mason jars; there were anywhere from three to five rolls in each container.
    He took the jars out to the kitchen and stood them on the table. He looked in the refrigerator for a beer, had to settle for a can of Pepsi, sat down at the table, and began to count his treasure.
    $63,440.
    One of the most enduring modern legends of Santa Mira County was the one that concerned Big Ralph Johnson’s secret fortune, amassed (so it was rumored) through graft and bribe-taking. Obviously, this was what