(1995) The Oath

by Frank Peretti

  “Let’s get going on the floor, guys. We have to scrub the whole thing so we can paint it.”

  “Where’re the mops?”

  “Back of the tavern.”

  “Where?”

  He yelled, “Ask Melinda!”

  Oh, well. Sure, it was busy, hectic, about to drive him crazy, but someday it would all be worth it. Someday this place would be rolling right along, doing business like it used to before Ebo Denning bought it. Someday Charlie would be able to pay Harold back, and it would all be his.

  If he lived long enough.

  He went behind the old oak counter and pretended to tinker with the cash register, a new digital machine he didn’t even know how to operate. The thing came with instructions, but he hadn’t read them. He couldn’t keep his mind on it. His hand went to his chest, and he rubbed a burning itch over his heart. It was worse today. When it had first shown up a week ago, he thought it must be heartburn. But it wouldn’t go away, not even with Alka-Seltzer.

  It had to be nerves. Sure, that’s what it was, with all the stress and the bookwork and the inventory—nerves. Stress. Hives, maybe.

  Or maybe it was Harold. Harold had . . . connections. He had heard Harold could make things like this happen.

  What if Harold’s trying to muscle me out? He buys into the business, then gets rid of his partner, and everything becomes his, just like the rest of this town! Well, Charlie had dreams, ambitions, and they did not necessarily include Harold Bly. Harold had his empire already. Charlie wanted one of his own, even if it was a little one. He deserved it.

  Charlie struck the counter with his fist. I deserve it, he thought. I deserved it when Sam Calley had this place, before he sold it to Ebo!

  Sam’s selling a store to Ebo Denning five years ago had erased Sam Calley from Charlie’s list of friends, and it was only Ebo’s leaving that finally made things right. Sure, Ebo had taken good care of the place. The mercantile was well stocked and well organized when Charlie bought it, with all the dry goods neatly arranged on shelves and the aisles clearly designated according to contents. But as far as Charlie was concerned, it was still Ebo’s mercantile; it still bore his personality, his style, and Charlie couldn’t stand having the slightest reminder of that black man around.

  So the old photographs of miners, loggers, and pioneer families had to come down from the walls only because Ebo had hung them there; the huge whipsaw came down from the ceiling so a mural could be painted on it and it could be rehung as something new and improved and not Ebo’s whipsaw. The antique tools hanging all around the ceiling, all the old hammers, saws, and plows, the wringer washer, the bunghole bore, and the blacksmith’s tools could stay since they’d belonged to the original settlers of the town and the townsfolk would miss them. But Charlie rearranged them his way; they could not remain where Ebo had them. The Indian canoe would be a problem, but he’d deal with that later. Ebo’s old cash register was gone, and good riddance.

  “Charlie!” It was Doug, dropping by for a look-see and carrying a cold bottle of beer.

  “Oh, hi, Doug. What do you think?”

  “Looking good, Charlie,” Doug said, clearly impressed. “I mean, like it’s gonna look good.”

  “What are you up to these days?”

  “Running the skidder for Harold. We’re logging off that forty acres above Black Rock.”

  Charlie nodded approvingly. “Great to be working, I’ll bet.”

  “You know it.”

  There was a pause. Charlie tried to sound disinterested as he asked offhandedly, “So whatever became of that bear thing?”

  Doug smiled a little. “Talked to Vic Moore this morning. It’s over. Sheriff settled on the bear, the grizzly they shot. So we were right. The cops are out of it, and that wimpy prof who thinks he’s a hunter is packing it up and leaving.”

  Charlie forced a smile and leaned on the cash register. “He’s going, eh?”

  “Yeah, and it’s a good thing for him. A guy like that just wouldn’t do very well around here.”

  “Well, he shot Herman!”

  “Hey, any one of us could have shot Herman. It don’t take a college education to do that.” He took another swig of his beer, then regarded Charlie. “You feeling okay? You don’t look so hot.”

  Charlie rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. “Just working too hard, I guess.”

  “Well, quit worrying,” Doug said, then went over to talk to Andy Schuller and Carl Ingfeldt, who were doing the finishing work on the new doorway.

  As soon as Doug walked away, Charlie hurried into the storeroom in the back, past the floor-to-ceiling shelves and into the small washroom. He closed the door and locked it, then leaned over the toilet, his arms braced against the wall, afraid he might throw up. He gasped for breath, trying to calm himself, waiting for the trembling to stop.

  The hunter was leaving? The cops were dropping the whole case? So now things would go on as before. Now . . .

  He went to the mirror over the sink and unbuttoned his shirt. The sore, red spot was not only still there, it was worse. The red rash had turned a dark brown, and there was an odor coming from it. He hurriedly pulled some paper towels from the dispenser, ran some cold water over them, and tried to dab the area clean. Some brown ooze came off on the towel, but the mark itself wouldn’t go away. He held the wet towel there for a long moment as if the cool water would relieve the fierce burning, but there was no relief.

  He began to shudder. “Oh, please. I’m only trying to survive around here. I didn’t mean it—please—I swear, I didn’t mean it.”

  One of the more bizarre incidents of the great flood of 1953 was the washing out of the Hyde River Cemetery in which some thirty-six coffins were unearthed and carried away by the raging floodwaters. Of the thirty-three coffins recovered, eighteen contained no remains and were apparently buried empty. What became of the bodies? Were there any bodies to begin with? The secret of the empty coffins was buried with them in a new cemetery and has remained a mystery to this day.

  From World of the Dim Unknown: True Accounts of the Bizarre and the Supernatural, edited by Fraser Sullivan

  SEVEN

  HYDE HALL

  THURSDAY AFTERNOON, four days after the trucker found her on Wells Peak, Evelyn was ready to go home. Her physical strength had returned; her injuries, none of them major, were well on their way to healing. Being home again with her sons, the dog, and her folks would be the best medicine.

  Her son Travis, athletic and handsome at eighteen, had driven the family pickup with its camper back from the parking area at the base of the Staircase Trail. Now, with Travis driving, her mother, Audrey, sitting beside her, and her father, Elbert, following in his Ford, Evelyn stopped by the Tamarack Motel in West Fork to visit with Steve one more time before heading back over Johnson’s Pass to Oak Springs and home. They met in the parking lot outside Steve’s room. Evelyn wanted to be outdoors, in the sunshine. She had asked her parents and her son for a few private moments with Steve.

  “You look great,” Steve said, and meant it.

  “I’m standing. I’m walking, I’m talking. That’s got to be some improvement.”

  Evelyn wasn’t beautiful in the traditional sense, but Steve had always thought her very attractive. She was tall and strong, normally had a mischievous glint in her eyes, and tended to face life with a patiently assertive nature and a sense of humor that he had always admired.

  “So we know about me,” she said. “How are you doing?”

  He knew she wouldn’t accept any answer but an honest one. “I’m sad, I’m angry, I’m unsettled.”

  “I still can’t believe it,” Evelyn said softly. “I can’t believe Cliff’s gone.” Her eyes filled with tears.

  “I know,” Steve said softly and put his arms around her. “I know.”

  Evelyn leaned against him for a moment, feeling the comradeship of grief. Then she straightened. “I’ve still got to make the funeral arrangements, and the boys really need me
right now.”

  “I’ll be glad to help any way I can,” Steve said.

  Evelyn smiled. “Thanks. I really appreciate that. But you’ve done so much already.” She nodded in the direction of her parents, who were standing by the camper talking quietly. “Mom and Dad will be helping me with what needs to be done. And I’m going to take a few weeks off from my job.” Evelyn was a CPA with a firm in Oak Springs. “Tim Johnson—he’s one of the partners—says he’ll cover my accounts until I go back. He says I should take as much time as I need. They’re a great bunch, just like family.”

  “Sounds like a good group,” Steve agreed. “I’m glad.”

  Evelyn nodded. “So, as the saying goes, I’ll just try to take it one day at a time.” She smiled. “Or even one step at a time. I’m in God’s hands. Nobody ever dies without someone questioning why, but, well, God has His ways, and we just have to trust Him.”

  Steve listened intently, deeply moved. Evelyn would rebuild her life; he had no doubts about that.

  He thought of Tracy Ellis’s words: You can walk away, Steve. You can put it all behind you. If only it were so. If only he could move on, like Evelyn, not burdened with what he had seen, what he knew, what he still needed to know. For her sake, though, Steve kept his thoughts to himself.

  Then Evelyn asked Steve about his own plans. “Oh, I have a few matters to clear up here,” he said vaguely, hoping she wouldn’t ask him what they were.

  She didn’t. Instead, she hugged him once more and said, “Steve, thanks again for everything. I’ll call you about the memorial service.”

  Tears filled Steve’s eyes, and pulling back, he put his hand lightly on Evelyn’s shoulders and looked directly into her eyes. “Take good care of yourself, okay?”

  “I will,” she promised. “You, too.” Then she walked to the truck. Just before she climbed into the cab next to her son, Evelyn turned and gave him one last wave good-bye.

  Steve knew she’d thanked him for killing the bear, for clearing up the whole question of Cliff’s death. As far as he was concerned, her thanks were premature, and that pained him.

  Evelyn, Audrey, and Travis drove away in the truck and camper, and Elbert followed. For them, Hyde Valley was history, a memory to be buried.

  For Steve, Hyde Valley was still the haunting, tormenting present.

  THE PHONE call came soon afterward, while Steve was studying the Forest Service maps of the area, planning his own private scouting mission on Wells Peak. To hear the phone ring perplexed him a little. As he reached for the receiver he was going down the list of people who had the number and might call: the sheriff? Doubtful. That was over. Fish and Game? Same answer. Evelyn? On the road. Dan Cramer? Steve hadn’t gotten back to him yet. Tracy?

  “Hello.”

  “Allo, Dr. Benson, síl vous.”

  Now this he certainly didn’t expect. What was that supposed to be, a French accent? It was poorly done, whatever it was.

  He answered smoothly, “This is Dr. Benson. Who is this?”

  “A friend, Doctor.” The voice was low, breathy, creepy. “A friend who knows what really ’appened in Hyde River.”

  For real? A crank? Steve was hungry for information in any case. “I’m listening.”

  “I have heard you are leaving, that the case is closed. That is bad, Doctor. There are things you still need to know.”

  How far should I go with this guy? How far is safe? “Well, let’s see if you can tell me something I don’t already know.”

  The voice dropped to deliver the first gem. “Maggie Bly is dead.”

  “Oh? Then you know of a body somewhere?”

  No answer.

  “I know she’s missing. Some people think she’s dead. What I’m asking you is, if she’s dead, what happened to her body?”

  The caller ignored the question. “She was having an affair with your brother.”

  “I know that, too.”

  The voice was clearly disappointed. “Oh. You already know that.”

  “Well, how about we get back to the question you didn’t answer? If Maggie Bly is dead, where is her body?”

  The voice hesitated, then tried, “You are a hunter, oui? You kill big game. You kill bears.”

  “I’m a wildlife biologist. I study bears.”

  “But you kill them! You killed the big grizzly who killed your brother!”

  “That’s what I’m told.”

  “Then I will tell you.”

  Silence. Where’d he go? “Hello? Are you there?”

  “Oui. I must tell you—” It sounded very much like he did not want to tell Steve anything. Then he finally got it out. “There is a big—umm—creature in the mountains. A big creature ate Maggie Bly, and that is why her body will never be found. The creature ate your brother too.”

  Okay, here we go. “What kind of creature?” Steve wanted to push a little, make the guy really say it.

  The voice was quite flustered. “I—I cannot say, monsieur. It is not good to speak of it.”

  “Are you talking about the dragon?”

  The voice stuttered, hemmed, and hawed. Finally, “I am sorry, monsieur, I cannot talk about—about that. You must look into it yourself, you see?”

  “Baloney. I’ve heard about the dragon, just like I’ve heard about Santa Claus and the tooth fairy. I’m looking for some hard information about who killed my brother. If you can’t give me that—”

  “But—” Now the voice was sounding desperate. “You must go after the dragon. You—you must kill it before it kills anyone else!”

  Now this was a new twist. “You want me to kill the dragon for you?”

  “Oui, oui, monsieur.”

  “So tell me where to find it.”

  This guy sounded scared. “I—I cannot talk about the dragon.”

  Steve wanted to hang up on this jerk, but he said nothing and stayed on the line. What mattered at this point was that somebody was talking, somebody desperate.

  “Monsieur!”

  “I’m still here.”

  “Do you know where Old Town is?”

  “Old Town?”

  “Oui.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “Maggie Bly was killed in Old Town, in Hyde Hall.”

  Hmm. That sounded like real information. Maybe. “Hyde Hall in Old Town?”

  “That is where Maggie went that night, and she was never seen again. Go there. This is where your search for the dragon begins. I will call again, oui?”

  “I may not be at this number.”

  There was a long silence, and then the man asked, “You are leaving?”

  “No, I’ll be around a while. Please call again sometime.”

  “But how will I know—?”

  “Call me on my car phone. Here’s the number.” Steve gave the phony Frenchman the number even as he doubted the wisdom of it. “If you’re sincere about this, you’ll reach me sooner or later.”

  “Merci, monsieur.”

  “Good night.”

  “Au revoir.” Click.

  Steve sat at the table a moment, reviewing the conversation. Tracy Ellis said Maggie had gone back to Hyde River, but she hadn’t mentioned anything about Old Town. He looked at the Forest Service map and found Hyde River easily enough, a helterskelter cluster of little black squares in the narrow river valley. But where was Old Town? He couldn’t find it on the map. Tracy Ellis would know, but bringing her in would bring in the whole sheriff’s department, and they didn’t want to pursue this thing any further— if anything, they’d stand in his way. So okay. This was his investigation now.

  Levi Cobb. He’d been with Maggie toward the end, lived in Hyde River, and seemed willing—or at least able—to talk. He would be a logical first step. Steve knew he might get nothing but superstition and sermonizing, but somewhere in all that gospel soup there might be morsels of truth, something he could pursue.

  He started gathering up his clothes, his shaving kit, his hunting gear. He would check out of the Tama
rack and get closer to Hyde River, plant himself deeper in the meandering gorge of Hyde Valley. He’d live in the camper if necessary, but he had to work himself into the fabric of the place, breathe it, smell it, get a feel for it. The truth was hiding up there somewhere, and it wasn’t about to come to him. He’d have to stalk it, hunt it down.

  But what about the risk, the danger? His presence would not be appreciated. He thought of the superstitions. The Oath. Cliff’s body. Maggie’s blood. We don’t call 911.

  Well, he’d just have to be ready for anything.

  In a few trips, he’d loaded all his gear into the back of the camper. Then he climbed in and closed the door.

  He reached into the narrow clothes closet near the door and brought out a sturdy, foam-lined case. His .357 magnum. He’d load it, and he’d wear it at all times. From a cabinet above the tiny sink he grabbed his hunting knife, in a sheath, and strapped it on his belt. It, too, would be a part of him from now on. He jammed cartridges into the 30.06 then uncased his automatic shotgun and filled the magazine. He strapped the rifle into a rack above the front bunk; the shotgun he’d keep in the cab.

  The dragon. Even as he was dropping cartridges into the . 357, the thought skipped lightly through his mind, What if it’s real? What if there’s an undiscovered life form out there? What if . . .

  He strapped on the holster, dropped in the revolver, and snapped the holster shut. He was ready.

  STEVE FOUND Levi Cobb outside his garage, his head and shoulders inside the engine compartment of a monstrous, articulated front-loader, a huge yellow machine with eight-foot, knobby tires, a deep loading bucket in front, and a hinge in the middle that enabled it to turn incredibly tight corners. Levi had to use a small scaffold to reach the engine compartment. Steve could hear Levi talking, but there didn’t seem to be anyone else around. “You oughta see these plugs. I mean, if those county boys let ’em get this bad you should say something!”

  “Mr. Cobb?”

  Levi came out into the daylight, a wrench the size of his arm in his greasy hand. He took one look at the big, dark-haired man standing there with a hunting knife on one hip and a sidearm on the other, and then just sighed and leaned against the loader’s eight-foot-high rear tire. “I thought you’d left.” His tone said he wished Steve had left.