“Go away, Maggie!” he yelled through the door.
“Please . . .”
Elmer’s voice sounded frightened as he said, “Go away, you hear me? We don’t want your trouble.”
She turned away, and the dogs barked at her until she was out of sight.
EVELYN BENSON stayed on the steep trail for miles, taking step after jarring, downhill step until at last the trail emptied onto the logging road she and Cliff had followed. Having made it this far, her desperation gave way to exhaustion, her knees buckled, and she sank to the ground on the side of the road, too numb with shock to weep, too emotionally spent to pray. By now the blood that soaked her clothing had mingled with sweat, and the night wind drew heat from her body until she began to shiver.
“GO AWAY!” Carlotta Nelson hissed from behind the door of the small, one-story house.
“Please, Carlotta! Let me in. I can’t stay out here!” Maggie cried, standing on the front porch and clinging to the knob of the closed door.
Carlotta Nelson and Rosie Carson, semi-cute and not quite young anymore, were still the town’s favorite ladies—and determined to stay that way.
“I can’t let you in here,” Carlotta replied, “not if Harold kicked you out. You ought to know that!”
“Carlotta, I’m scared!”
Carlotta, her long blonde hair pulled back in a loose braid, exchanged a worried look with Rosie, a petite, freckled redhead. Carlotta had her hand on the doorknob, not to open it, but to be sure it wouldn’t turn.
Rosie was near the door only because she could hide behind Carlotta. “Well—well, we’re scared too, you follow?” she shouted over Carlotta’s shoulder.
“Just let me in for the night,” Maggie pleaded. “I’m dead if I stay out here!”
Dead? Did she say dead? Carlotta shot a look of terror at Rosie, and Rosie shot it right back: Only a wooden door stood between them and the worst kind of trouble.
“That’s your problem,” Carlotta said, and now her voice was quavering. “And you can take it somewhere else, you hear? Now get out of here!”
Maggie was weeping again. “Please, let me in. I’ll leave in the morning, I promise!”
Her plea was met with silence.
Finally, Maggie turned and, in a stupor of fear, drifted down the porch steps to the main sidewalk, staying close to buildings, cars, and trees, continually looking over her shoulder, toward the sky and down the highway.
HAD HE not been forced to slow down due to the poor condition of the road, the trucker would never have seen Evelyn in time. As it was, he had to brake quickly when his headlights caught her, lying like a bloody corpse on the road.
He brought his logging rig to a grinding, growling halt about ten feet away from the prone body. As he eased himself down from the cab, the trucker could already feel himself starting to shake. It was dark, he was alone, and there could be more to this situation than he could see in his headlights. He approached the motionless body warily, expecting the worst: a hunting accident or a bear attack; maybe a raped, mutilated body dumped by some pervert. He glanced over his shoulder. What if the attacker was still in the area?
“Hello?” he called tentatively.
Evelyn stirred and moaned into the ground. The trucker quickened his step. Reaching her, he stooped down and gently turned her over. She was limp, her eyes closed, her face waxen. He cradled her head and felt her neck. Her pulse was strong, her breathing normal.
“Ma’am, can you hear me?”
She awoke with a start.
Evelyn was not aware of who she was, where she was, or who was holding her. All that registered in her mind were the truck’s imposing grill, the rumbling diesel engine, and especially, the glaring headlights—they looked like eyes to her.
With a terrible shriek, she broke free from the trucker and leapt to her feet, staggering with exhaustion, stained with blood, her right hand wielding her knife, the broken blade flashing in the headlights. The trucker, fearful for his own safety, scrambled away from her, away from that blade. Stunned, he stood in the road watching the woman as, with crazed eyes and a cougarlike scream, she assaulted his truck with the knife, shrieking, kicking, lashing at the big machine, the blade clanging over the grill. Then realizing that she was going to hurt herself, the trucker leapt forward and grabbed her, pulling her away from the truck. She kicked and screamed and almost sliced his ear off.
VIC MOORE, tall, bearded, and burly, didn’t need any trouble either. Finding work in Hyde Valley wasn’t easy these days, especially for a contractor. Well, he’d managed to keep food on the table, which said something for his strength and cleverness. He’d also managed to stay married to the same woman for going on six years, which in itself was quite an accomplishment—and said something for Carlotta Nelson’s ability to keep a secret. So things were going fine, thank you, and could only get better from here. At least, that was what he thought until that night.
He was just getting ready for bed, standing bare-chested in front of the bathroom sink, when he noticed what looked like a rash or some broken blood vessels directly over his heart. He leaned toward the mirror, trying to get a better angle to study the strange mark. It seemed to have a lacy, veinlike pattern to it and covered an area over his breastbone an inch or so wide and a little longer than the width of his hand. What in the world was this? he wondered.
From somewhere deep in his memory, an answer surfaced, and the heart just beneath that mark began to pound faster. Vic grabbed the edge of the sink to steady himself. His head began to swim as reason and logic fought against fear and denial. This mark, this blemish, couldn’t be what he thought it might be. He didn’t believe all that stuff he’d heard since he was a kid. No, he’d just pulled a muscle or something; broken a couple of blood vessels swinging a hammer or lifting a radial arm saw. He’d been working hard lately.
A loud knock at the front door made him jump. There was a moment of silence, followed by desperate pounding. Dottie, his wife, was in the shower, and he knew she couldn’t hear the knocking. Vic cursed the bad timing. Who in the world—?
He had to cover himself. He couldn’t let anyone see— Oh come on, he told himself, just put your shirt on. It’s no big deal.
He put on his shirt, which was hanging on a hook on the back of the bathroom door. For good measure, he grabbed his robe, too.
The pounding continued, and as Vic crossed his living room toward the front door, tying his robe as he went, he could hear a voice. “Hello! Hello, please, somebody!”
Uh-oh. It sounded like Maggie Bly.
He swung the door open. Maggie almost knocked him over as she pushed her way inside and held him, practically climbed him in terror.
“Vic, let me in, let me in!”
Vic was startled, then angry. “Maggie, what’re you doing? What is this?”
She held on to him, her eyes fixed on the front door as if something had chased her inside. Her words tumbled out like those of a frightened child. “Vic, you gotta let me stay here, I won’t be any trouble, let me stay here please, I can’t go out there!”
“Maggie, now calm down!” he hissed, forcibly breaking her hold on him. “And pipe down, will you? I’ve got Dottie and the kids here. You wanna get them all upset?”
Maggie tried to quiet down, but her voice was still high-pitched with terror. “Please, just don’t make me go out there . . .”
Vic looked toward the hallway leading to the bathroom. He could still hear the shower running. He was getting nervous. “What’s the matter? What happened?”
Maggie rubbed the area over her heart as if trying to ease a pain. “Harold kicked me out.”
Vic saw what she did as he heard what she said, and he was frightened. She leaned toward him. He backed away. “Easy, Maggie, easy. Harold kicked you out? What for?”
She stood there, just crying, not looking at him.
Vic insisted, “Why’d he kick you out?”
“I’ve never had this happen to me before . . .” she sa
id, sidestepping the question.
Vic got the picture, and his face tightened with fear. He stepped to the door and swung it all the way open. “Out.”
Her death sentence. “Vic—”
“Out! Now!”
She clasped her hands in front of her imploringly. “Vic, don’t you know what’s out there?”
He lowered his voice to a whisper, hoping she would take the cue. “It’s gonna stay out there. You’re not bringing it in here.”
“I didn’t mean it—”
Vic’s speech accelerated as he grew more agitated. “Maggie, whatever you’re doing, it’s got nothing to do with me, and it’s got nothing to do with Dottie or my kids. Now get out of here!”
She hesitated, trembling, unable or unwilling to move. Vic knew he had to get her out of his house—and quickly. Reaching out, he grabbed her by the arm, then dragged her toward the door. She let out a cry.
“Shut up!” he hissed, and then he threw her out. He closed the door and bolted it.
The shower had stopped. A few moments later, Dottie, a lovely woman wearing a towel on her head and a robe, walked into the living room. “Who was that?” she asked her husband with some concern.
Vic had been standing in the middle of the room, looking at the door, waiting to see if Maggie would dare come back. As he turned to face his wife he couldn’t hide the fact that he was quite upset. “Stupid kids, throwing rocks.”
“What did you do?”
“I chased ’em off.”
“Did you see who they were?”
“Naw, it was too dark.”
She was about to ask another question, but he brushed past her, scratching an itch over his heart as he walked out of the room. He wanted to get to bed, to turn the lights out, and to put this day behind him. He didn’t want to answer any more questions.
MAGGIE CAME at last to Cobb’s Garage, formerly an old mining company fire station haphazardly constructed of stone and brick with two huge wooden doors on iron hinges. The lights were on; Levi was working late. She went to the side entrance and with no thought of knocking, tried the door. Finding it unlocked, she entered quickly, slammed the door shut behind her and leaned against it. Her mind was set: Levi Cobb might pick her up and throw her out, but she would not leave on her own. She would not be outside for one more moment.
A utility truck from the phone company was sitting up on jacks, and Maggie spotted Levi just beyond the back end of the truck by the cluttered workbench. A bearded, graying, heavyset fellow with wire-rimmed glasses and the huge arms of a laborer, he was holding a welding torch in one hand and just raising his welder’s mask to see who had come in. At the sight of her standing against the door, holding it shut, trembling and disheveled, he cocked his head.
“Mrs. Bly?”
STEVE BENSON had gotten a call from Evelyn’s mother in the middle of the night and arrived at the Clark County Medical Center in West Fork before two o’clock the next afternoon. He could sense fatigue chasing him down the hospital corridor, but he knew he had the stamina to outrun it. He strode down the hallway, weaving past patients in wheelchairs, past nurses and doctors, intent on finding Room 31. He was aware of people staring at him as he passed. A towering man dressed in rugged, outdoor clothes, he knew he looked out of place in that white, sterile environment, and yes, he did look like he’d driven half the night, his face a blackening stubble and his eyes glazed and intense. They could stare all they wanted, he thought. His priority was to see Evelyn and find out if his brother Cliff had been located.
He spotted the nurses’ station and the sheriff’s deputy waiting there for him—at least she was dressed like one. At the sight of her, his impatience went up another notch. What was the sheriff’s department thinking, “Aw, the Cliff Benson thing’s no big deal, only a minor case, send the girl”? She looked to Steve like a green-as-grass rookie: auburn hair trimmed neatly at the neck and not a hair out of place, as if she’d never done a moment’s police work. Lean, fit build. A china-doll face. He also noticed she looked ill at ease, wound up, like it was her first day on the job.
Great. Just great.
She was looking his way. Don’t try to stop me, young lady.
“Can I help you?” she asked, walking toward him.
“I’m Steve Benson,” he said, coming to a halt to keep from running over her.
“Mrs. Benson’s brother-in-law?”
“That’s right,” he answered, letting her shake his hand but already looking past her, toward the corridor beyond, anxious to see Evelyn.
“I’m Tracy Ellis, the county, I’m the—I’m with the Clark County Sheriff’s Department,” she was saying. Yeah, she was nervous all right. It was understandable. “Evelyn’s mother said you were coming. So you’re the brother of the—uh—”
Steve finally gave her his full attention, if only to get around her. “Cliff Benson is my brother.”
She seemed to grope for her next question. “Are—are you alone? Has anyone come with you?”
“I’m alone. Let’s cut to the chase here. I want to see my sister-in-law, and I want to know if you’ve found my brother.”
She read his face and his tone, dropped her eyes for a moment, then finally said, “Evelyn is alive, safe, sedated. No serious injuries. She was cut and bruised and in shock when the truck driver brought her in, but she’s resting now. She’ll be all right.”
Steve did not miss the fact that she’d told him only about Evelyn. But before he could speak, she touched his arm. “Could we sit down first, just for a moment?”
“What for?”
She only answered gently, “Come on,” and led him to a waiting area just off the hallway, a spacious room with comfortable chairs, People magazines, big windows. He sank into a soft chair by the window, a chair already warmed by the afternoon sun. It felt better than he’d expected; his body was giving him hints about needing rest, hints he’d been ignoring.
Tracy Ellis pulled a chair over so she could sit opposite and close. She was holding a folder, no doubt the details of the case gathered thus far, Steve thought, but he noticed she didn’t open it. Instead, she just looked—he could see she was struggling to find words.
But her expression said enough. He could read the truth in her eyes, feel it boring into his guts, overpowering his hopes, dashing his strongest desires to not believe.
“Is my brother dead?”
She still hesitated. Finally she said, “Um, we need a positive identification of the body, but . . . yes, it’s almost certain that your brother Cliff is dead.”
A flicker of hope returned, but only to torment him. “What— what do you mean, almost certain?”
She quickly opened the folder and scanned her notes for specific information. “Did—” She flipped to another page. “—your brother Cliff have a scar on his right leg, uh, on the side of his thigh?”
Steve took a deep breath. He could feel himself going numb.
Her face was full of apology, but she was waiting for an answer.
He nodded. “He, uh, shot himself in the leg with a pistol when he was sixteen. He was trying to show me his quick draw.” He could see it all: the hand-drawn paper target tacked to the old oak tree out behind the house; Cliff, tall and gangly, with that holster tied to his leg and that drooping cowboy hat. Clint Eastwood, move over. “He was—he was a crazy kid.” And I loved him for it.
“I’m so sorry.”
“What happened?”
“We’re not sure. Last night, a truck driver found Mrs. Benson alone on a logging road up on Wells Peak. She was in shock and incoherent, but had some ID on her. We called her home and found out from one of her sons that she and your brother had gone camping together. We found your brother’s body on Wells Peak early this morning.” She paused, then said carefully, “By the looks of things, we think he may have been the victim of a bear attack.”
May have been? “You can’t tell a bear attack when you see it?”
His tone was sharp; he was in such pai
n he couldn’t help it. He noticed that she took it well, remaining calm and pleasant though visibly tense. “We don’t have all the information yet. First of all, bear attacks, if that’s what this was, are extremely rare around here, at least the reported bear attacks, and—” She hated to admit this. “—we’ve never established a procedure for expediting a case of this sort. In this part of the country, it takes time to gather the personnel and work out the logistics. Now, your brother’s body was taken to the morgue in Oak Springs—that’s over the pass, about thirty miles from here. The autopsy is scheduled for tomorrow, and we’re hoping the county medical examiner can make a determination. In the meantime, we’ve contacted the Department of Fish and Game, and they’re going to get some people out here—”
“Marcus DuFresne?”
She stopped. “Uh—excuse me?”
“The conservation officer with Fish and Game. It’s Marcus DuFresne, isn’t it?”
She cocked her head. “You know him?”
“We’ve worked together. I helped him tag some bears last year. Is he on this case?”
She hesitated just a little, but replied, “Yes, I think he is.”
Nervously running his hands through his straight, black hair he said, “I’d better get in touch with him, then. We’ve got to get right on this before the signs fade, before we lose the evidence—”
“Well, I’m sure Mr. DuFresne is well qualified—”
“We both are. It’ll take both of us.” Steve was aware he was talking too loud, too fast, but he couldn’t stop himself. It was as if he were putting all his pain and anger into a course of action, into something he could control.
“Mr. Benson.” She raised her hand to cut him short. “Give it some time. You’re too close to this—”
“We don’t have time!” he snapped. “If this was a bear attack, the signs could fade within hours.”
“There are qualified people working on this—”
“You want qualifications? Is that it?” Steve said, raising his voice. “Would a Ph.D. in biological science be good enough for you? How about a professorship at Colorado State University, teaching environmental science and biology? I know bears, Deputy! I’ve specialized in grizzly and black bear behavior for the past ten years. I’ve consulted with the National Park Service, I’ve chaired twelve boards of inquiry into bear attacks, I’m currently doing research on grizzly habitat and seasonal use in Glacier National Park. As a matter of fact, I’m even in the process of writing down some of what I know, and you can read all about it when I finish my book, but for now, I’ve got a brother killed and a possible rogue bear responsible, and . . .” He stopped, exhaled a long sigh, and leaned forward, resting his head on his fingertips. He had gone too far, and he knew it.
The Frank Peretti Collection: The Oath, the Visitation, and Monster Page 2
