(1995) The Oath

by Frank Peretti

  “She talked,” Joe said pointedly. “She took it outside the valley, talked to an outsider.”

  “But why Vic?” Charlie asked.

  Elmer and Joe exchanged a glance again. Elmer could only shake his head. “Don’t know if he’s really gone yet, but—”

  “If Vic got taken, then—”

  “Then any one of us could. You go snooping after that thing, you get it riled. And someone’s been snooping, all right.”

  Joe added, “I’ve never seen him take more than one. This is something else. This just isn’t good at all.”

  “So what’s he gonna do,” Andy blurted, “take all of us?”

  That caused a ruckus. “What for? Why us?” “Not me, I haven’t done anything!” “When’s enough gonna be enough?”

  “Can’t Harold do something?” asked Kyle. “You said he was, you know, kind of on the inside.”

  Elmer shook his head. “You’ll have to ask him.”

  Oh, sure. Kyle thought but didn’t say anything.

  Doug asked, “So what about that professor? Is he still snooping around?”

  Wiry little Carl Ingfeldt piped up. “Les Collins and Tracy arrested him last night.”

  Heads turned. “What?” “Where?” “What’re you talking about?”

  “He was down at Hyde Hall again, snooping and trespassing.”

  That brought some cursing and a few fists pounding the bar.

  “See?” Elmer said. “You go snooping after that thing—”

  Doug demanded, “So what’d they do?”

  “They took him to Harold, and Harold let him go.”

  “What?” “What for?” “Is he crazy?” “You gotta be kidding!”

  “Well, he’s gone now, that’s the main thing.”

  “Are you sure?” Doug growled.

  Carl was defensive and spoke rapidly. “I’ve kept an eye on him. He had his camper in a space down at the White Tail RV Park, right? Well, this morning it was gone, and Sara Tyson—you know, she runs the place—said he’d left to go home. I think Harold finally talked him out of it. Either that or Collins ran him out.”

  Elmer was frowning. “I don’t like the sound of this. How’d he find out about Hyde Hall?”

  “He was following Vic, I think. Harold didn’t say for sure.”

  Doug and the others didn’t take well to that bit of information. “How’d he know about Vic?” Doug asked.

  Charlie found some napkins that needed straightening and turned his back on the group.

  The front door opened, the cowbell jangling. It was Phil Garrett. His bandage was gone, revealing his chewed-up ear and the jagged seam of black stitches that held it in place. He was carrying a paper bag tightly wadded shut at the top. He went to the bar and carefully opened the bag, then laid out the broken shards of a Jack Daniels whiskey bottle. “He was there all right.”

  Andy Schuller backed away, the blood draining from his face. Even Elmer and Joe got off their bar stools and gave the bottle some distance. Up to that moment, they’d all been talking and bickering and interrupting, but now there was an ominous silence. All they could do was stare at that broken bottle and then at each other. No one said a word.

  Charlie started walking, then hurried, then ran into the kitchen, just about knocking over Bernie the fry cook, and burst through the washroom door just in time to heave his entire breakfast into the toilet.

  EVELYN?” “

  Evelyn could sense something in Steve’s voice, even over the telephone. “Steve. Where are you?”

  “I’m over in Hyde Valley, still working on some things. How’re you doing?”

  “I’m all right. Are you all right?”

  “I’m okay, just kind of busy. Nothing to be concerned about. I just wanted to check on you.”

  “I’m planning a memorial service for Cliff sometime next week. I’ll let you know the details.”

  “Okay.”

  Now she was ready for some straight answers. “Steve, what are you really doing?”

  He evaded that question by asking one of his own. “Is anyone else there at the house?”

  “Steve, stop trying to avoid my question,” Evelyn said. “You keep talking about other things you have to clear up, and other possibilities. Listen, what aren’t you telling me?”

  He still didn’t answer her question. Instead, he came back with his question again, firmly. “Do you have someone there with you?”

  “Yes,” she finally answered, anger in her voice. “The boys are here, and my folks.”

  “Okay. Good.”

  “Tell me what’s wrong.”

  “Have you talked to anybody about what happened?”

  “Steve! Sure, I’ve talked about it. I’ve talked to my folks, my pastor, the boys, friends—”

  “But what I’m trying to ask is, have you remembered anything else that happened that night, and have you talked to anyone about that?”

  She stopped to think of the right answer and said simply, “I think I do remember a little more, but I haven’t talked about it. I’m not ready to talk about it.”

  “Well, please don’t. Don’t tell anybody what you saw up there, not until you tell me first.”

  “And why not?”

  He said nothing for an awkward moment, and then replied, “I’ve been finding out a few things here in the valley. There are some people here with strong superstitions about how people die in the mountains and why, and they’re kind of upset about Cliff and that whole thing.”

  “Are you going to make yourself clear sometime tonight?”

  “I can’t explain it over the phone. But listen, this is important; it’s the main reason I called. Don’t talk to anybody about this, okay? Especially if you remember anything. Tell me first. Get me on my mobile phone, and let me take it from there, okay?”

  She had plenty of questions but simply sighed in frustration. “You and Cliff. I don’t know why I ever put up with either of you.”

  “Okay?”

  “Okay, Steve. Okay.”

  “Oh, and—”

  “What?”

  “Be careful.”

  OLD TOWN. Dusk on Friday night. The high cirrus clouds above the mountains had faded from sunset’s pink to the dull gray of night, and now the first few stars were appearing. Ravens soared from treetop to treetop, then perched and cawed from the ragged outlines of the old ruins, their last call of the day. The shadows were stretching, filling Old Town, hiding the old boards, the rusted nails, the ragged, swaying grass. The bats were out, fluttering in hurried, erratic patterns, black paper cutouts against the early night sky. The ruins, arranged in single file on either side of the overgrown road, resembled monstrous, grotesque gravestones in crumbling decay, two rows of blackening monuments to fear, superstition, and now death.

  Steve Benson was there, in Hyde Hall, surrounded on three sides by the creaking, leaning walls as the darkness lowered over him like a curtain and the old walls faded from dull gray to soot black. He was sitting motionless and silent on the big flat rock only a few feet from where the whiskey bottle had broken and where Maggie’s shoulder bag and shoe had been found. He was dressed in black to blend with the deep shadows of Old Town, and once again he was armed with the rifle, shotgun, and sidearm. Just behind the rock was a backpack full of provisions and extra ammunition. By his side on the rock was his flashlight. He remained still, waiting.

  As the darkness deepened and his watch counted out the passing of one more hour, he continued scanning the terrain around the old ruins, especially the stand of trees across the river. As it got later, the images of the ruins and the trees began to slip away and lose their forms even as he tried to keep them in focus. He knew he would be at a disadvantage.

  Hopefully, he still had secrecy on his side. He’d left Hyde Valley, all right, and tried to be very visible about it. He’d paid up at the RV park and let Sara Tyson know he was leaving just in case anyone asked. Then he spent the rest of the day driving a long and circuitous route back
to Hyde Valley over the mountains from the north. He had hidden the camper off an obscure logging road a few miles up the mountain slope across the river, then hiked the rest of the way, forded the river about a half-mile upstream, and reached Old Town by dusk. Hopefully, no one knew what he was up to.

  Except one. She’d waited for some real dark, apparently, and now he could see brief glimpses of her light as she approached Old Town from the river, following the route he’d used the day before. Judging from her secretive approach, he wouldn’t get arrested this time.

  When the tiny light reached the top of the riverbank and the open field that used to be Main Street, it blinked out, no longer needed. Steve’s night-adapted eyes could just barely make out her form, stealing through the grass and brush toward Hyde Hall.

  He smiled, knowing the smile could not be seen.

  She was silent until she’d stepped over the old foundation into Hyde Hall and found him there on the big flat rock. Then she muttered, “I don’t know why I’m doing this.”

  Now Steve could see her better, and he was pleased to find she was ready to spend the whole night. She was dressed warmly in hiking gear and equipped with a backpack. She was also ready to hunt—she was carrying a rifle and a sidearm.

  “Well, I have my doubts as well,” Steve replied, “but I also have my hunches. I want to confirm one or the other.”

  “It’s crazy.”

  “Not crazy enough to keep you away.”

  She seemed cross as she answered, “Well, what was I supposed to do?”

  “Arrest me, I suppose.”

  Silence. Then, “Well, just watch yourself.”

  “I’d like you to watch my rear, if you would.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  He laughed, then turned and indicated the other side of the rock and the rest of the world behind him. “I’ll take 180 degrees looking this way, you take the rest looking that way.”

  She sat down on the rock with her back to him. “If somebody else comes along I just might arrest you—you know, to look good.”

  You already look good, he thought, but did not say it. Her nearly perfect silhouette had not escaped his notice. And she was strong, too. After all that hiking, carrying all that gear, she wasn’t even breathing hard. “Thanks for coming, in any event.”

  “You’re not welcome.” Then, “But thanks for the call.”

  So they sat there, in the dark, back to back on the big flat rock, staring at the dismal, night-veiled surroundings, rifles ready, listening for sounds.

  “I figured we should try a retake of last night,” Steve said.

  She was still acting cranky. “If you keep talking you’ll scare whatever it is away.”

  “Maggie was singing, and Vic was hollering. Maybe that’s what the predator listens for.”

  “You mean bear, don’t you?”

  “I don’t know what I mean.”

  “This is crazy.”

  “Anyway, whatever attacked them, it wasn’t scared off by their noise, so it won’t hurt to talk.”

  Tracy spoke over her shoulder, “And might I ask what bait you’re using?”

  “Well . . .”

  “Steve!”

  “This—bear—doesn’t seem to care for food scraps or doughnuts or grease. He goes for people.”

  She turned halfway around to hiss in his ear, “You brought me out here to be bear bait?”

  He thought about that for a moment, then had to admit, “Yeah, pretty much.”

  She turned her back to him again. He just grinned.

  “I’m simply trying to repeat the circumstances of previous attacks,” he explained. “People alone in the woods at night. Vulnerable, easy marks.”

  “Baloney.”

  “Listen. If it was a grizzly, sure, it could have killed all the victims. In Cliff’s case, food could have attracted it, but in Vic and Maggie’s cases we’re dealing with a creature that attacked the victims without another food source as a motivator. Only a specific rogue bear would do that. So . . . it makes sense: If I put out conventional bait we could attract anything. I’m after whatever it is that likes to kill people, where people are sufficient attractants in themselves. And this would be the most likely spot for a recurrence, given what we know.”

  She could only fume a moment and then repeat, “I don’t know why I’m doing this.”

  “You enjoy my company.”

  That unsettled her, and she fidgeted, then stood. “That’s it. I’m out of here.”

  “I enjoy yours.”

  With a mildly disgusted huff, primarily for his benefit, she sat down on the rock again, her back to his. “We are not going to find anything.”

  “Like you said, it’s crazy.”

  She stubbornly kept her back to him as she said, “But about last night . . .”

  “Oh, yes, last night.”

  Now she turned half toward him, indignant. “You have no idea how embarrassing that was for me.”

  He turned around to face her. “For you? Were you in handcuffs? Were you being paraded around like some kind of criminal?”

  “You weren’t paraded around!”

  He was actually raising his voice. “I was within inches of finding out what really happened to Vic Moore. There was evidence right here that could have been gathered, but what happened? You arrested me. You—you killed the messenger!”

  She could match his tone with no problem. “I didn’t arrest you! Collins did that!”

  He turned away, rolling his eyes. “Oh, give me a break!”

  “Well, he was right there, he had his gun on you, what was I supposed to do, let him shoot us both?” She turned her back on him again, and he did the same.

  They sat there silently in the dark, back to back, rifles in their hands.

  Steve finally broke the silence, his voice calm, even conciliatory. “What about Harold Bly? Do you think Maggie’s fine, like he said?”

  Her answer was still a little curt. “I think Maggie’s dead. I told you that.”

  “So why didn’t you tell him?”

  “Why didn’t you?”

  Silence. They sat there and listened some more.

  “He had the upper hand,” Tracy finally explained, her voice softening. “All I wanted to do was get you out of that mess, and that’s the truth.”

  Steve thought it over, then sighed. “Yeah. I know.”

  “And now here I am, right in the middle of another mess.”

  “Not yet.”

  “Well . . .”

  There was no sound but the quiet sigh of the river, no sight but the black shadows of the old buildings and the undulating outline of the trees beyond them.

  “Steve.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What are you thinking really? What are you after?”

  He couldn’t answer.

  “Don’t you know?”

  “I saw something yesterday,” he said finally. “Something across the river. I don’t know what it was, but—” He exhaled a sigh of frustration. “—but I felt it was watching me.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t know what it was?”

  Steve shrugged. “It was hiding in the trees. All I could see was some movement.” He hesitated. “And there’s something else: I felt like I was the one being hunted.”

  Tracy was quiet for a moment. The she said, “You’re starting to sound scary.”

  “Well, sober, maybe. Cautious.” Then he added, “But that’s why I’m here. I have a brother dead, a woman most likely dead and her husband denying it, another victim possibly dead, a religious, superstitious Valley man telling me tales of a killer dragon—”

  “Well, you can discount that.”

  Steve pressed on. “Plus a rather cryptic saliva analysis from the university.”

  “What saliva analysis?”

  “Saliva taken from my brother’s corpse. I had it tested back at Colorado State. They tell me it came from a reptile.”

  Tracy was quiet for a long moment. The
n she reiterated, “Yeah, you’re starting to sound scary.”

  “So here I am with guesses, gut feelings, hunches, and a memory, just a memory, of not quite seeing something that was watching me. Well, I want to see it again. I want it to come after me, to come right out here in the open—”

  “Will you please stop it?”

  “Plus your adultery-and-jealous-husband theory doesn’t hold true anymore.”

  She turned to look at him. “Why not? It makes perfect sense to me.”

  He looked her in the eyes. “You’re forgetting Vic Moore.”

  “Maybe Vic Moore is still alive somewhere,” she said, although in her heart she didn’t believe it.

  “If he was, it’d save your theory, wouldn’t it? Adultery between Cliff and Maggie can explain their deaths: They were messing around, and Harold Bly had them killed. But why Vic?”

  “He could be alive,” she said stubbornly. “He’s gone off on drunken binges before.”

  “You should have heard him scream last night.”

  That stopped her. “You heard Vic Moore scream?”

  “It sounded like he was in a terrible struggle with something— and I think he was. I think he’s dead.”

  Tracy fingered her rifle and peered into the forest beyond the ruins. She couldn’t see a thing. She didn’t mean for her voice to come out in a whisper; it just did. “It may not have been an animal. Maybe Vic Moore crossed somebody just like Maggie and Cliff did.”

  “Maybe.”

  She really did not want to believe it was an animal, at least as long as she was sitting out there in the dark. “But if it’s an animal, why do you think they try to hide it? You know, sanitize the attack sites?”

  Steve answered in a quiet voice himself, “You’d know the answer to that better than I would. But their superstitions and their little games don’t mean a thing to me. They can have them. I want the predator.”

  Tracy ventured, “I figure Bly’s trying to fuel the superstitions. As long as people don’t find out what really happened, he can go on scaring them.”

  “I knew I didn’t like that guy. And I especially didn’t like the questions he was asking about Evie.”