The Frank Peretti Collection: The Oath, the Visitation, and Monster

by Frank E. Peretti

  Levi looked at his paperwork and said offhandedly, “Oh-h-h, it hasn’t been that long, has it?”

  Charlie turned from the window toward Levi. “Don’t talk about it!”

  Levi locked eyes with him. “No, not that long. And I guess you’re afraid it might happen again. Is that it?”

  “All right, fine; just forget it!” Charlie retorted. He jumped up so fast he knocked the chair over.

  “Well, it might,” Levi said casually, looking down at his paperwork again.

  “Forget it!”

  And with that, Charlie was out the door, past the gas pumps, and across the street.

  Now Levi sat there alone with only the tools to talk to. “What’d I say?”

  IT WAS DUSK. The mosquitoes were coming out and inquiring at every square inch of Steve’s body, trying unsuccessfully to find some avenue through all that camouflage gear and insect repellent. One was buzzing right near his ear, another near his brow. But Steve did not respond. He did not stir; his powerful muscles were stone steady. The thicket of serviceberries and willow that surrounded and concealed him remained undisturbed.

  He was sighting through his rifle scope, his finger tightly around the trigger. About thirty yards below him, on the game trail, a grizzly, its body thick and ponderous, its shoulder hump pronounced, had found the bait and was now pawing and clawing through the doughnuts with its long, white claws, virtually inhaling them, lapping at the grease, snorting, licking, chomping. He wasn’t the biggest bear Steve had ever seen, but, at seven hundred pounds, he was impressive nonetheless. Steve was waiting for 318 to turn sideways just a little more. He was going for a shot through the chest just behind the foreleg, just below the midline, a shot through the lungs and heart that would kill the bear immediately.

  The bear moved forward a foot or so, and Steve followed him through the scope. Cliff would have envied this shot, this trophy. Had this been one of their many hunting trips together, Steve could have bragged about it just to give Cliff the old needle. It was so strange now to think that this bear had eaten—

  Steve banished all thoughts except for the bear in his sights. Herman, you’re going down.

  The bear moved forward, pawing through the doughnuts. The chest was exposed.

  Steve fired, the rifle kicking back against his shoulder. He chambered another round and had 318 in his scope again just as the bear toppled to the ground. Another round finished the kill in a matter of seconds. Somewhere in the gathering darkness he could hear Marcus hollering. The shots had been clean and true.

  Steve moved for the first time, rising from the blind, his body aching and trembling. On any other hunting trip, this would have been a supreme moment. Today he felt no joy at all.

  Marcus worked his way down from his hiding place, rifle ready, and approached the fallen beast. He nudged it with his rifle barrel, then stooped to read the small ear tag.

  “Three-eighteen,” he reported. “It’s Herman.”

  Although Hyde Valley is best known for its gold and silver mining, the rugged trails and forestlands of Wells Peak and Saddlehorse Mountain provide a unique outdoor experience for hikers, campers, anglers, and hunters.

  While Hyde Valley is rumored to have had more bear attacks per capita than anywhere else in the contiguous United States, such rumors derive more from tradition than fact and should not be taken seriously. Nevertheless, care and caution should always be exercised in the wild to prevent accidental encounters with bears. Always stay on the trails and take precautions with food.

  From a local travel brochure, circa 1970

  There was one griz we called Old Scar, lived up above the Tyler Gorge. He ate Jack Friday, I know. Jack went up there fishin’ and never came back, and all we ever found was his pole and one of his boots. Coulda been Old Scar ate Jules Howard, and maybe he ate that lady cook we had—what was her name? Nancy, I think. Somebody found her apron and part of her foot out in the woods, but nothin’ else. Yeah, it’s always been that way . . .

  Retired miner Homer Bentlow in recorded interview,transcribed in Hyde River Memories by Jill Staten, copyright 1965

  Three

  THE VICTIM

  HERMAN 318, thanks to a team of hefty volunteers and a pickup truck, was now laid out on two sheets of one-inch plywood and several sawhorses in Marcus DuFresne’s garage near West Fork. Some of the volunteers wanted to hang around and see the verdict, but Marcus, being sensitive to Steve’s situation, thanked them and sent them away.

  The two men went about the autopsy slowly, working under the ceiling lights and also employing a mechanic’s worklight at times. Just as Marcus let Steve have the first shot, he now let Steve handle the knife.

  Marcus had already estimated the bear’s age to be between ten and twelve years. Herman was a healthy bear with a good supply of fat under his hide, so hunger wasn’t an obvious motivator for aggression. They found no significant wounds or injuries, only the bullet wounds Steve had inflicted.

  As for the contents of the stomach and intestines . . .

  “Well,” Steve said, wiping his hands on a towel, “we weren’t expecting much anyway, were we?”

  Marcus shook his head. “I don’t know what to say.”

  They found doughnuts and bacon grease, of course, but 318 had also been feeding quite well on berries, roots, and herbage. There were a few shreds of food wrappings from someone’s garbage. As for flesh of any kind, there was no sign of it. Steve felt disappointed and relieved at the same time.

  “He hasn’t been feeding exclusively on human waste,” Steve observed, “but I would say his diet suggests habituation.”

  “Although that’s all it suggests,” Marcus countered.

  “I agree. We can extrapolate and infer aggression, but there’s no objective evidence.”

  They both looked forlornly at the old dead bear, its belly opened like a broken suitcase, its innards spread out over the makeshift table.

  “And you’re sure you don’t have some other candidates out there?” Steve asked.

  Marcus gave a slight chuckle. “Well, all I can say is that Herman was the best, most likely candidate; he was the most logical candidate, and given what we know . . . I guess we got the culprit.”

  Steve was unsatisfied and didn’t hide it. “We’ll see what Evie has to say.”

  “How’s she doing?”

  “She was in bad shape yesterday, but I’m sure she’ll be okay, given time. I hope she can tell us what happened.”

  “That would clear things up, for sure.”

  Then came a silence. Both men were thinking the same thing, but Marcus was afraid to mention it and Steve didn’t want to talk about it.

  Marcus finally gave it a try. “So when’s that autopsy?”

  “It was supposed to be today.”

  “I could give the coroner a call.”

  Steve checked his watch. “Kinda late.”

  “I can rouse him, I think.” Marcus approached his next question carefully. “What—how much do you want to know?”

  Steve looked down at 318, regarding the rows of teeth and the long, white claws. “Just enough, Marcus. Just enough to know for sure.”

  MIDWAY BETWEEN dusk and dawn, amid the silhouettes of old ruins etched in charcoal against the velvet sky, a lone figure stole silently past the old, teetering walls and crumbling foundations, his black clothing blending with the deep, angular shadows so as to make him invisible. No one would know his business; everyone else was afraid to go near this place.

  With silent, feather-light steps, he entered a large ruin, letting its three remaining walls shroud him in their shadows. In the center of the collapsed and rotting structure, he knelt before a large, flat stone and placed his hands on its corners, his gaze fixed upon the stone’s dim, gray image. Then he prayed, muttering his requests in a quiet monotone.

  When he had finished, he drew a slip of paper from under his coat, placed it on the rock, and with a large, black pencil scribbled a name, which he repeated over and ov
er, “Margaret Elizabeth . . . Margaret Elizabeth . . . Margaret Elizabeth . . . ”

  With the strike of a match, he set the paper on fire. “Time for you to die, Maggie!”

  THE THIRD morning after the attack, Steve met Tracy Ellis at the Clark County Medical Center. Evelyn was coherent and recovering. It was time to talk to her about what had happened on Wells Peak.

  They paused near the nurses’ station to compare findings. Steve was dressed in casual slacks and shirt. He no longer looked like a grizzled, half-crazed outdoorsman. Tracy was back in her uniform, armed with a notebook and the case folder for the upcoming interview.

  Tracy looked troubled. “The team finished combing the area all around the campsite, and the dogs have searched the wider area around Wells Peak.” She shrugged. “They didn’t find anything.”

  Steve only sighed. “The autopsy on 318 showed a diet consistent with habituation, but beyond that, there was nothing conclusive.” He handed her a photocopy of his written report, which consisted of just a few paragraphs. “He liked berries, roots, grass, some human garbage, and the doughnuts we put out for him. But that’s all we could find. My report will take about thirty seconds to read.”

  “So you haven’t settled on 318 as the culprit?”

  Steve only spread his hands. “He really is the only viable candidate, and I’m willing to accept that. I’m just saying that the autopsy couldn’t establish anything one way or the other.”

  “Have you seen the autopsy report on your brother?”

  “Marcus talked to the coroner last night, but I haven’t seen the report yet. Have you?”

  She nodded grimly. “Got a copy this morning.” She hesitated before saying, “The bottom line is, the pathologist thinks it was a bear.”

  “Yeah, that’s what the coroner told Marcus, and I guess I can’t argue with that.” Steve looked down momentarily. “Marcus and I have talked about—actually viewing the remains.” He was quick to add, “But I think I’d rather have Marcus do it. I trust his judgment, his powers of observation.”

  Tracy thought about it, then nodded. “Have Marcus do it.”

  “Come on, let’s see what Evie remembers.”

  WHEN THEY entered the room, Evelyn was sitting upright, the mattress raised and several pillows placed behind her back.

  “Well,” said Steve, smiling, “you’re looking better.”

  “Half vertical, anyway,” Evelyn answered with a slight smile.

  “You’ve met Deputy Ellis?”

  “I think I met her two days ago.”

  Tracy smiled. “You did.”

  “Well—hi again.”

  “Hi.”

  There were two chairs in the room, and Steve and Tracy pulled them close to the bed, then sat down. At first they talked in generalities: about Evelyn’s health, her two boys, Samuel and Travis, her mother, Audrey, the care she’d received, and anything else that came to mind that would not be difficult. Steve was encouraged. Evelyn was making perfect sense, speaking coherently. She was on her way back.

  “So,” said Tracy, her tone and pacing signaling the approach of a tough subject, “Mrs. Benson, how comfortable would you be, talking about what happened on Wells Peak? We still have to finish our investigation. You do understand, don’t you?”

  “Sure.”

  Tracy looked toward Steve. “I’m glad Steve can be here. He’s been working at his end, and the sheriff’s department has been doing what it can, but without a witness, it’s been tough.”

  Evelyn was apologetic. “Officer—uh—”

  “Just call me Tracy.”

  “Okay. Tracy. I have to tell you, I don’t remember very much.”

  “Well,” Tracy said, trying not to be pushy, “just start at the beginning and see how you do.”

  Evelyn’s face was troubled. She was struggling to remember but also feeling pain at every recollection. “I remember Cliff went down to put away our leftovers. We’d cooked up a meal for the evening, and—um”

  “What did you have?” Steve asked, hoping to jog her memory.

  “Let’s see.” Evelyn thought for a moment, then said, “Vegetable soup and some crackers.”

  “Nothing meaty? Spicy? You know, something that would give off a strong smell?”

  She shook her head. “No, we try not to eat that kind of stuff if there might be bears around. Besides, if I eat rich food after hiking I want to throw up.”

  Steve nodded, pleased and amused. “So, okay, then what?”

  “He went down the hill to where he had the food stored, and it was dark by then, so I couldn’t see him very well.”

  By now Tracy was discreetly scribbling notes. “About what time was that?”

  “I guess between nine and ten.”

  “Do you always eat that late at night?”

  Evelyn answered, “No. We’d been doing a lot of hiking and took a long time to pick out a campsite. Then we figured we’d better get the tent up first, and by that time the sun was going down. Then Cliff wanted to rig up the food cache down in the trees while we still had some light. It all took time.”

  “So anyway,” said Steve, “you ended up eating late.”

  Evelyn nodded. “And cleaning up late.”

  “So then Cliff went down to stow the leftovers,” Tracy prompted.

  “And . . .” Evelyn fumbled. “I—I just remember him going down the hill in the dark, and I couldn’t see him, just his flashlight sometimes . . .” She stopped. She looked at them, and they looked back at her. Silence.

  Tracy prompted, “He’d gone down the hill with his flashlight.”

  Evelyn just shook her head. “And then I woke up in the hospital.”

  Steve was disappointed—downright frustrated, actually—but tried not to show it. He looked as casually as he could at Tracy. She seemed strangely detached as she studied her notes.

  Her next question had a lighter tone. “So . . . Cliff was a photographer!”

  “Uh-huh. Mainly he did wildlife photography.”

  Tracy looked at Steve. “So this outdoors stuff must run in the family.”

  Steve smiled. He welcomed the lighter topic. “Pretty much.”

  Tracy turned back to Evelyn. “So, was that why you were up there on Wells Peak? Was he taking pictures up there?”

  “No. We just wanted to get away together.”

  “Mmm. Just get some time away, huh?”

  “Yes. He’d been working a lot of hours, and we needed some time alone. We’ve been out hunting in Hyde Valley before. We really like the Wells Peak area, so that’s where we went this time.”

  “I understand your husband had been working in Hyde Valley for a few months; is that right?”

  “That’s right.”

  Hmm, Steve thought, impressed. Tracy has been doing her homework.

  “Doing a photo shoot up and down the valley,” Tracy continued.

  Evelyn nodded. “He was doing local sportsman stuff. You know, hunting, fishing, that kind of thing. But he shot a lot of pictures in the old mining towns. He’s always liked getting into the history and the people.”

  “So, he was away from home a lot?”

  Evelyn hesitated just slightly before answering. “Sure. He had to go where the pictures were.”

  “That must have been tough.”

  Evelyn shrugged a little and sighed. “I took it in stride.”

  “But that’s why you wanted to get away together? Just to spend time together for a change?”

  Evelyn sounded just a little perturbed. “I believe I just said that.”

  “So, how would you say your marriage was going? Were you doing okay?”

  Steve didn’t say anything, but that question seemed a little odd. Maybe Tracy was just making bedside conversation.

  “It wasn’t a fiery romance; it wasn’t a soap opera,” Evelyn answered. “It was just kind of in between.”

  Tracy smiled. “In between.”

  “We got along when we were together. When we weren’t toge
ther it was kind of hard to tell.”

  Evelyn’s tone was composed, but Steve had seen that look on Evelyn’s face before. Tracy had better be careful.

  “So things were going okay, but not . . .” Tracy prodded.

  “Not real okay.” Evelyn went no further.

  Tracy scribbled some notes then asked, “Evelyn, do you own a hunting knife?”

  “Yes. Both of us did.”

  Steve interjected, “She and Cliff used to go hunting a lot.”

  “Okay,” Tracy replied, jotting it down. “Evelyn, when you were found Saturday night, you still had your knife in your hand, and the blade was broken. Do you remember that at all?”

  Evelyn took a moment to search her memory. “Maybe. Kind of like a dream . . . I’m not sure.”

  “Do you have any recollection of attacking anything, having any kind of struggle and using your knife?”

  Evelyn was becoming visibly upset. “I don’t know! There’s just this—this—it’s like a dream in my head, and I can’t remember it.”

  Steve spoke softly, afraid he might press too far. “Evie, we’re looking for a bear, okay? We figure it was a grizzly that got Cliff. Do you remember anything like that?” He was obviously leading the witness, but he didn’t care.

  Evelyn closed her eyes. “Steve, I can close my eyes, and all I see is a big shadow.”

  “Did you attack it?” Tracy asked.

  “Well, I guess I did.” Now Evelyn’s voice had an edge to it. “Wouldn’t you?”

  “There was blood on your clothing and on the knife. Do you recall that at all?”

  Evelyn stiffened with the memory. “I remember some blood.”

  “Do you remember where it came from?”

  Evelyn looked straight at Tracy Ellis, tears filling her eyes. “I understand it came from my husband.”

  Steve could read Evelyn’s face clearly: A line had been crossed, a limit exceeded. He cut in. “Evie, that’s okay. You don’t have to talk about it anymore.”

  Tracy looked his way. She obviously didn’t appreciate his intruding on her investigation.