(1995) The Oath

by Frank Peretti

  Tracy purposely paused a moment to calm the situation down. Then she tried to present a rational, professional position. “I had to ask particular questions as a matter of routine. We have to cover all contingencies.”

  “Like how her marriage was doing? Do you think for one moment—”

  “What I think is immaterial. I have a job to do.” Her tone was formal as she said, “You’re a professional. You know how important objectivity is in a situation like this, am I right?”

  Steve wanted to lash back, but yanked his own leash and held it. She was right. He was offended and defensive for Evelyn’s sake, and he was letting his feelings rule the moment. Tracy was in control; he wasn’t. He took a breath and forced himself back into his professional role. It was like putting on a pair of tight shoes. “Yes. You’re right. You’re right, sort of.”

  “Sort of?”

  “Personal feelings aside, the idea of complicity on Evie’s part is . . . well, it’s untenable, unthinkable.”

  “And it seems you’re having trouble blaming a bear, too.”

  “I’m—” He wanted to deny it, but couldn’t. “I’m willing to accept any hard evidence.” Then he narrowed his gaze. “Which raises the question of the autopsy report . . .”

  He noticed her cringe slightly. “Steve . . .”

  “Is there additional evidence I still don’t know about?”

  She took time to formulate an answer. “Maybe you do need to read that report for yourself.”

  “Maybe I need to view the remains for myself.”

  She emphasized, “Maybe you need to read the report and evaluate it first.”

  He accepted that. “Do you have it with you?”

  She took the report from her folder. It was a document about thirty pages thick, held together with a large clip.

  He took it but didn’t look at it. “I’ll read it before I confer with Marcus.”

  “Just keep in mind your relationship to the victim.”

  “I’m aware of my relationship to the victim.” Who do you think you are, my baby-sitter?

  “All right.”

  “All I want is the answer to our questions—before you get any wrong ideas.”

  She was clearly offended. “Steve, I am not jumping to any conclusions. I do have questions, though!”

  “So I observed!”

  She drew a breath, held it, then gave a long sigh. “Okay, Steve, you’re the expert. Tell me what happened.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to find out.”

  “How is it that only Cliff was killed, and only his blood was on Evelyn’s clothes, and Evelyn wasn’t injured at all? If Evelyn came so close to the attack that she got Cliff’s blood all over her, why wasn’t she attacked as well? How did her hunting knife get broken, and how is it that she remembers everything else in such detail, even what they had for dinner, and what time they ate, and the order of events up to the crucial time in question, and then . . . ding, she’s in dreamland?”

  Steve had thought about that, too. “The attack was over by the time she got there. Upon finding what was left of Cliff, she went hysterical—we have the truck driver’s testimony as to her disturbed mental state—and having gone hysterical, she . . . well, who knows what she may have done? Maybe she was embracing what was left or trying to put him back together; I don’t know. But the hysteria is well established, I think, and explanation enough for her memory lapse. As for the knife, how do we know she didn’t break the blade when she attacked the truck?”

  “The driver said the blade was already broken.”

  “So figure she went around stabbing trees or something. She was out of her mind.”

  “But even your scenario puts her and her husband together at the time of death, and you’ll have to admit an attacking bear isn’t necessary to produce the blood on her clothes.”

  “Except that I don’t like your line of thinking, Deputy. I can’t even entertain such a possibility.”

  “You don’t have to, Steve. You’re not a cop.”

  “Granted.” Silence. “So what’s your next step?”

  “I’m going to take a drive out to Hyde River and talk to some friends.”

  “The same friends who told you Cliff had been in the area?”

  “The same. It’s a small community, and word gets around.”

  “Well, I just might drive out there myself.”

  She raised her hand. “Whoa, hold on there.”

  “What?”

  “I know Hyde River. Do we agree on that?”

  “I guess so.”

  “So take this as wise advice from someone who knows: Don’t go up there asking questions by yourself. You could get more trouble than you ever wanted.”

  He didn’t follow her. “I only want to ask around about—”

  “It doesn’t matter,” she interrupted. “You’d be a stranger asking questions, and that’s not welcome up there.”

  He digested that for a moment. “So, we’ll have to hope you find out something for both of us, I suppose.”

  “I suppose.”

  Steve had already decided that wasn’t going to be the case when he asked, “So when do we touch base again?”

  “I’ll call you tonight at the Tamarack. Or you call me.” She scribbled a number on a corner of a notebook page and tore it off for him. “Here’s my home number. You can try me at the sheriff’s department or at home. I’ll let you know if I find out anything.”

  “All right.”

  She was ready to leave, and so was he.

  “Steve.”

  “Yeah?”

  She spoke carefully, “Take it slow.”

  MARCUS DUFRESNE came to Steve’s motel room that afternoon. He looked pale and sick. He would have preferred a shot of Jack Daniels but settled for some coffee Steve had in a thermos. They sat at the small round table near the window, the autopsy report between them. For the longest time, Marcus only stared at the report, trying to find words, while Steve sat, waiting silently, giving him as much time as he needed.

  “I guess—” Marcus finally began.

  Steve leaned forward.

  “I guess the pathologist gave it his best guess: a grizzly attack. Considering what was left of your brother, what else could he say? Have you read the autopsy report?”

  “Yeah. The whole thing, this afternoon.”

  “Lot of technical jargon, but—”

  “It was clear enough.”

  “Yeah. Real clear. Well, what’s in that report is what I saw today.” Marcus stared into space as if watching a replay of his visit to the pathology department. “One shoulder gone, no head, one arm detached. There were some ribs—” Marcus touched his own chest to illustrate. “—just sticking out of the . . . the cut, the bite, whatever you want to call it. They were just snipped off, cut right through. It was a pretty clean bite line.” As Tracy had done, Marcus traced it against his own body with his hand. “It went from left shoulder to right pelvis. And—did you read about the pelvis being cut through?”

  “Was it?”

  “It was.”

  “And the rest intact?” Steve asked.

  Marcus nodded. “The vital organs and the lower limbs were all there.” Then he added, “And that scar from the old gunshot wound? It was there. And the fingerprints from the left arm match the prints on file with your brother’s gun permit. Just so you know.”

  Steve nodded, then moved on to what he’d been thinking about, agonizing over, all afternoon. “No teeth marks or claw marks?”

  “No. And no animal hairs.” Marcus reached into his shirt pocket. “But I got some scrapings.” He produced a small vial and set it on the table. “Looked like it could be dried saliva. The pathologist couldn’t make anything of it, but maybe you’ve got some people at the university who can figure out what it is.”

  Steve held the vial up to the light to examine the crusty slime. “I’ll FedEx it there right away.”

  Then there was silence again.

  “S
o?” Steve prompted. “What do you think?”

  Marcus thought about it long and hard and then shook his head. “Steve, this was one unique bear.”

  Steve nodded. “The soft organs were intact below the bite line—”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “A bear will typically go for the abdomen, for the soft organs first.” He took a sip of coffee, and Marcus did the same. “A bear will bite, clamp its jaws onto its prey, tear at it, drag it . . .”

  Marcus continued the line of thought. “Yeah, bears do that. So do coyotes, wolves, cougars, vultures, eagles—”

  “This attack seems a little neat, if you catch my meaning.”

  Marcus spread his hands. “So, how do you explain it?”

  Steve rested his elbows on the table, his chin on his interlaced fingers. “I think Tracy Ellis and the sheriff are already looking for another explanation. Tracy was asking Evie questions about her marriage.”

  “Poor Evelyn,” Marcus said, disturbed by the thought. Then he offered, “I’ve seen a few chain-saw accidents that happened during woodcutting season. The cut in the flesh wasn’t anything like that, though.”

  Steve could feel himself getting nauseous. He hated the question even as he asked it. “Could it have been done with a hunting knife?”

  Marcus looked back at him, hating the answer. “I suppose. But it would have taken a long time and a lot of careful thought. I’d find it easier to believe a large, mechanical sawing device was used, like you’d find in a lumber mill.”

  “A device like that would be pretty far from the campsite.”

  “You’re right.”

  “And if a human device was used, there is still the question of the missing half. If it was not consumed by an animal, then what became of it?” Steve felt bile rising in his throat. He swallowed hard. “I can’t believe the things we’re talking about here.”

  “I may not eat for days,” Marcus said grimly. “But you see the problem. If we reject the whole bear idea, then we have to open up the investigation to some horrible possibilities.”

  “I guess that’s what Tracy’s doing right now.”

  “I guess.” Then Marcus said, “But the pathologist doesn’t want to go that far. He said it was a bear attack.” Marcus narrowed his eyes. “But in person, off the record—talking to me, in other words—he couldn’t account for the condition of the body. He couldn’t say for sure what caused it.”

  “So we’re back to where we started.” Steve got up abruptly and headed for the door. “I need some air.”

  “I’m with you.”

  They stepped outside into the parking lot.

  Steve’s vehicle, a well-integrated truck and camper combination, was parked near the room. Marcus walked over to admire it just for something else to think about.

  “Nice rig.”

  “Yeah, I’ve put a lot of miles on it. It’s been to Canada, Alaska, Yellowstone—”

  “Four-wheel drive?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  Marcus looked in the windows at the tight and efficient living environment. Then he turned. “I’d better get going. I sure hope you solve this thing.”

  “Oh, I’m going to solve it, all right,” Steve replied, his voice strained. “Even if I have to ruffle some feathers in Hyde Valley.”

  Jonathan came to our home in the early hours of Wednesday, April 9th, after riding most of the night. He was badly beaten, his clothing was torn, and he was bleeding from his mouth and nose. We took him to the doctor immediately and found that his nose and jaw were broken as well as three ribs. Jonathan told us that four men from the mining company had assaulted him as he returned home from the mine, and that the attack was retribution for something he had said about the company’s owner, Benjamin Hyde. When we asked Jonathan what he had said to warrant such punishment, he would not tell us for fear of being attacked again. . . .

  From a letter written by Clara Beth Atkins, Jonathan’s mother, to her sister Claudia Dunsmith of Oak Springs, dated April 12, 1880

  FOUR

  HYDE RIVER

  DEPUTY Tracy Ellis parked her patrol car in one of the slots outside the sheriff’s department in West Fork, some pages from her notebook filled with fresh notes and her mind full of ideas. She’d just turned thirty, and although she’d gotten away from Clark County, particularly Hyde Valley, long enough to attend college and the police academy, it hadn’t been long enough to lose the feel, the instinct, she had about this place. She knew the people; she’d grown up with many of them and now patrolled the valley as a deputy. Something was brewing in Hyde River. She was sure of it.

  The Clark County Sheriff’s Department was located in one of West Fork’s vintage stone-and-brick buildings across the street and a few blocks down from the courthouse. On the main floor, just inside the front door, was the front office where the public could talk to whichever deputy was scheduled to man the front counter. Around the corner from the front office was the examining station for driver’s licenses—the same deputy handled that, too. Just behind the front office was the cell block with its three jail cells, a rack of handcuffs handily located on the wall next to the steel door.

  Across the room from the front counter was the office of the county sheriff, Lester B. Collins, a man known and mostly liked for his laid-back practicality. His self-written job description was to keep the peace so people could go about their business without too much commotion. That didn’t mean he always enforced the laws as written, but he did keep the peace, so folks didn’t mind him too much. By now, he’d been reelected so many times he’d become an institution in Clark County.

  At the moment he was well-planted in his chair, reading some arrest reports and playing with a rubber band stretched around his fingers. He was still lean and fit in his early fifties, with a stony face and short-cropped hair that made him look like a marine, which he had never been. No matter. He liked conveying the image of a tough cop, a quality even his deputies were known to debate behind his back.

  His office door was open as it usually was. Tracy knocked on the doorjamb, and he looked up. “Come in and close the door.”

  Tracy followed his order, then sat down, her notebook and case folder in her lap.

  Collins was reading through a report and shared the news. “Phil Garrett got his ear nearly bit off last night. They’ve stitched it back on, but the doctors don’t know if they can save it or not.”

  Tracy wasn’t surprised, but she couldn’t keep herself from smiling at the thought. “Well, at least it can only happen one more time—the ear part. Was it down at the Logger?”

  “Where else? I’ve got a warrant out for—” He looked through the papers on his desk. “Ever hear of Stack Morris?”

  Tracy shook her head.

  Collins was bothered. “Neither have I. I’m not even sure what he looks like—or used to look like before last night.”

  “Phil Garrett won’t be hard to spot from now on.”

  Collins allowed himself a quick chuckle. “Anyway, what’ve you got?”

  Tracy referred to her notes. “A lot of weird pieces that aren’t coming together. I think the bear attack theory’s in trouble, and Steve Benson isn’t comfortable with it either.”

  Collins took that news with some concern. “Why? What’d he say?”

  “The autopsy on 318 was inconclusive.”

  Collins waved that off. “Well, what’d he expect almost two days after the mauling? That doesn’t mean the bear didn’t do it. The coroner seems satisfied.”

  Tracy gave a small sigh. Collins always preferred the easiest road. “Well, I’m not saying I won’t settle for the bear theory, but there are some other matters I’d like to see resolved before I do. I talked to Evelyn Benson this morning, and she admitted she and the victim had been having marital problems.”

  Collins raised one eyebrow. “They’d have to be pretty severe marital problems, don’t you think?”

  Give me a chance to say it all, Tracy thought. “There’s more. It turns o
ut Cliff Benson’s no stranger to Hyde Valley. He’d been in the valley off and on for the last three months, and he spent quite a bit of time in Hyde River, supposedly doing photo shoots.”

  “Supposedly?”

  Tracy hesitated before spilling her next piece of news. “The night of the attack, Harold Bly kicked Maggie out of the house. I understand it was a substantial blowup.”

  Collins digested that a moment. “You are stretching it, deputy.”

  She shrugged. “It might only be coincidence, I know.”

  “I would say it is coincidence. Maggie and Harold having a fight is not news, it’s the normal state of things.”

  But Tracy kept on. She had to finish. “Well, so far, nobody knows what became of Maggie, but I’ve gotten word that Levi Cobb is sleeping outside his garage in his camper.”

  Collins sat there silently, playing with the rubber band. Finally, grudgingly, he asked, “Deputy, I hope you’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking.”

  Tracy had to build up to saying it. “Sir, Maggie is Harold Bly’s wife. If she was having an affair with Cliff Benson . . .”

  Collins rolled his eyes. “I’d rather go with the bear theory.”

  “So would I.”

  “Then why don’t you—” At the look on her face, he gave up. He knew she would not be easily dissuaded. “All right, listen. You’ve got your theories, and that’s fine, but give me some hard evidence. Connect at least one loose end for me, and then we can decide if you’ve got anything.”

  So he was dumping it all on her. That was easy to do from behind a desk in a town far from the problem. “Well, do you think you might talk to Harold Bly about this?”

  The sheriff looked at her disdainfully. “About what? About the fact that someone’s dead who his wife was rumored to be having an affair with? Now if I was an absolute moron who didn’t know how to do my job and didn’t care about keeping my job, then yeah, I might butt into Harold’s personal business and insinuate that he’s a murderer.”