“Charlie,” Tracy began, “do you know why we’re here?”
Charlie looked at Steve. “You’re back. You came back.”
Steve nodded. “I thought we should talk face to face.”
Charlie looked at Tracy. “Vic Moore is gone; did you know that?” Before she could answer, Charlie turned to Steve. “Did you see anything down in Old Town?”
“So you’re the Frenchman?” Steve asked.
Charlie sat there dumbfounded, caught and speechless.
Tracy touched his arm. “Charlie, it’s okay, we’re here to help.”
Charlie swallowed, his throat dry. “It—it wants me next. Please—you can’t let it take me!”
“Can’t let what take you?” Steve asked.
It was as if Charlie’s brain had malfunctioned. He looked at Steve and tried to answer, but his mouth refused to form the words.
Steve took over. “Charlie, listen. We both went back to Old Town Friday night, the night after Vic disappeared. We staked the place out, and we saw something.”
“Aaaaawww . . .” Charlie let out a weak little wail of terror and put his finger in his mouth.
Steve quickly recapped the previous night’s events, saying only as much as he thought the trembling man could take. Charlie drew no comfort from the tale, that was obvious.
“Did you kill it?” Charlie cried. “Did you kill it?”
Steve was sorry to answer. “No. It got away.”
Charlie wailed louder as he clutched his heart. “Now we’re all dead! You didn’t kill it. Now it’s only madder!”
Tracy insisted, “Charlie, do you know what it is?”
The very question terrified him, and his brain seemed to go on the fritz again.
Steve pressed the question. “We saw something, Charlie. We heard it, we tracked it all night. So there’s more to this thing than just—” Steve didn’t want to say superstition, not to Charlie.
“You’ve got to kill it! You’ve got to kill it before it takes us all!”
“We need your help, Charlie. You need to tell us anything you know about the creature.”
“The cops never do anything. They just stand around and do what Harold tells them.”
That annoyed Tracy a bit, but she wasn’t about to argue with someone half out of his mind.
Charlie leaned toward Steve in earnest. “I thought you could do it! You’re an outsider, you don’t owe anybody anything, you’re not afraid, you could do it! You’ve got to do it, do it before the dragon finds out—” Having let that dreadful word slip, he cried out in pain, and looked about the room as if the thing would come through the walls at him. “Aawww, I can’t tell you!”
“Why not?” Tracy demanded.
He looked at her dumbly.
“Why not?” she demanded again.
“You—you talk about it, it gets mad, and you get killed.”
Tracy looked around the room. “So, if you don’t talk about it you’re going to get killed anyway, right?” He couldn’t answer. “Did Vic ever tell anybody about the dragon?”
“No.”
“So what happened to him?”
At the thought of Vic, Charlie just stuttered.
“So what difference does it make?”
“I—I can’t.”
Tracy stood up. “Okay, Charlie. Tell you what. You help us; we’ll help you. You keep stonewalling, and we’re out of here. It’ll be just you and the dragon; he can have you anytime he wants.”
It was as if she’d dropped a stick of dynamite at his feet. “No— NO!!” he cried.
She stood in her place and looked down at him, waiting. He just sat there, his brain numbed by fear, by generations of tradition.
Steve grabbed Charlie’s arm and leaned in close. “Charlie. We shot it, and I think we hit it, so it’s not a ghost or a spirit or a god. It’s an animal, and that’s all. There doesn’t have to be anything mysterious about it.” It was a tiny germ of hope, at least. It seemed to calm him.
Charlie looked from Steve to Tracy and back again. “Can you kill it? I’ll—I’ll pay you to kill it.”
“Charlie,” Steve said, “listen to me. I don’t need money. I need information. I need to know what I’m up against, what its habits are, its strengths, its weaknesses. I have to be able to anticipate its behavior.”
Charlie shook his head. “But if I talk about the dragon, the dragon’ll know.”
“Who says?” said Tracy.
No answer.
“Did Harold tell you that?”
He shook his head in fear. “I’m not talking about Harold.” Then he looked up at the ceiling and shouted as if to God, “I’m not talking about Harold! I’m not saying anything about him!”
“Okay, okay. Calm down, Charlie.” Tracy shot a glance at Steve. “Harold Bly again.”
“I’m not talking about him!” Charlie repeated.
“Are you afraid of Harold Bly?”
“I’m not talking about him.”
“And you won’t tell us anything about the dragon either?”
Charlie just sat there, staring into space. Tracy sighed and looked at Steve, about to give it up.
Then Charlie muttered, “I don’t know why the dragon’s gotta pick on us. We didn’t do anything. It’s the Hydes; they’re the ones who did it.”
Tracy was almost afraid to ask a question for fear Charlie would clam up again. “The Hyde family, you mean?”
“They’re the ones who brought us all the trouble, and that was a hundred years ago. I’m not a Hyde. I didn’t ask for any trouble. Why’s the dragon have to come after me?”
Steve ventured, “What did the Hyde family do a hundred years ago?”
“Made a deal with the dragon, that’s what. They gave him the town. But I didn’t give him the town. Nobody asked me.”
Calmly, carefully, Steve asked, “So, are there particular people in this town who—who have contact with the dragon? Does the dragon work for them?”
Charlie nodded. “Oh, yeah. You bet. Make a wrong move, or say too much, and—” He made a slashing sound and ran his finger across his throat. Then he added loudly, “But I’m not talking about Harold!”
“No, of course not.”
“The dragon knows where you are. He can come after you, tear you apart, and eat you while you’re sleeping.”
“I doubt he could get in here,” Steve said, looking at all the precautions Charlie was taking.
“I don’t know. Maybe he can. Harold says—I mean, I’ve heard—the dragon can go anywhere. He’s like a ghost. He’s not really alive; he just floats around, and he can disappear. You can’t stop him.”
“He’s not a ghost,” Steve insisted. “He’s a big, dumb animal, and somebody’s been lying to you.”
That kind of talk scared the man. “No! Don’t talk that way! The dragon’ll know!”
Tracy rolled her eyes. “Now you’re starting to sound like Levi Cobb.”
The magic word again. Tracy may have used it on purpose, Steve thought. Charlie was offended, which snapped him out of his stupor. “Hey! No, no, no, that isn’t fair, and it isn’t true! I’m not crazy! Levi’s crazy; I’m not!”
“I think you’re giving the dragon way too much credit, just like Levi does,” Tracy said.
Those were fighting words for Charlie. “I’m not like Levi! I’m not a bigot and a crackpot and a religious nut! He is! I’m a fair and honest businessman, and I’ve got a right to do what I’m doing!”
Tracy was fishing. “Is that so?”
“Yeah, that’s so! Ebo Denning was never gonna go anyplace with that mercantile! I’m gonna make it go places! I’m gonna bring some life back to this town! It was the right thing to do, and I gave Ebo a fair price!”
“So what are you afraid of?”
He fell silent, still fuming. Then he finally blurted, “Just kill that thing, that’s all! You kill that thing and everything else will be fine.”
Steve sighed heavily. He was beginning to lose his pa
tience. “So what can you tell us about it?” he asked again.
“I don’t know anything.”
Tracy tried another approach. “So tell us somebody who does know something.”
“What about Jules Cryor?” Charlie asked.
“Sorry,” said Tracy, not recalling the name.
“He’s working a claim up on Saddlehorse, been there for years. He’s got a perfect view of the whole valley from up there, and he lives as he pleases, does what he wants.”
“How do we get there?”
“He’s a hermit, though, and I hear he’s kind of strange. He might shoot you just for coming close to his claim, I don’t know.”
“It’s a start,” said Steve, taking out his pen and pad. “Give us some directions.”
While Charlie dictated how to get to Jules Cryor’s cabin, Tracy recalled another name. “There’s also Clayton Gentry. He’s a young fellow, a logger, down toward Backup. The guys at Charlie’s can’t say anything nice about him. It never occurred to me until now, but maybe he’s seen something and talked about it, and that’s why the guys don’t like him.”
Steve finished writing the directions. “Anybody else?”
Charlie shrugged. “I don’t know anything. And I’m not really talking about anything.”
“No,” Steve agreed, “you sure aren’t.”
“We’ll check these people out,” Tracy said. “In the meantime— Charlie?”
He looked at her.
“Whatever you do, stay away from Old Town, you hear me?”
Sam learned the rituals from his mother Charlotte, who learned them from her father James Hyde, who learned them from his father, Benjamin Hyde. So it’s run in the family ever since Sam’s great-grandfather started up the town in the 1800s. The rituals always required some blood, which Sam usually got from a sheep or a goat, and they almost always took place in or near Hyde Hall in the old part of town, where it all started.
I don’t know if Sam really had control of an invisible demon beast, but he sincerely believed he did, and to see the fear he could invoke in people, they believed it too.
From the diary of Abby Bly, Sam Bly’s estranged wife and Harold Bly’s mother, dated November 14, 1973, three days before she disappeared without a trace. Her disappearance was attributed to a bear attack.
Twelve
STIRRINGS
HAROLD BLY, grim-faced and impatient, went into Charlie’s Tavern and Mercantile on Sunday afternoon to check the books, do a quick inventory of the stock, observe the flow of business, inspect for neatness and cleanliness—in short, to check everything.
“Where’s Charlie?” he asked, carrying the accounting books to a table near the video games.
“Uh—he’s home,” Bernie said. “He’s been sick.”
Harold’s eyebrows went up. “Oh, has he now?”
“Yeah.”
Harold took a seat and then glared up at Bernie. “Have a seat, Bernie.”
Bernie obeyed, sitting across from Bly. Talking to Bly always made him nervous. The man had a short fuse.
“Do you understand the partnership I have with Charlie?”
“Well—you bought into the business, right?”
“I bought most of it.” Harold jerked his thumb toward the mercantile. “I bought the tavern so Charlie could buy the mercantile. The tavern’s worth seventy percent of the whole shebang, so that makes me seventy percent owner, which makes me boss.”
“Yes sir.”
“So Charlie’s sick. Who’s taking his place?”
Bernie shrugged. He wished he were anyplace but sitting across from Harold Bly, having to answer his questions. “There’s me, Melinda the waitress—you know, whoever.”
“I want somebody running this place, not whoever. You got it? I want this place adequately staffed at all times. We’re here to make money.”
Bernie cringed. “Okay, yeah, right.”
“How long you worked here?”
“Five, six years.”
“You always leave that much grease on the grill?”
“Uh—” Bernie looked toward the kitchen as if an answer would come floating out the door at him.
“Times are changing, Bernie. People are paranoid about fat and cholesterol, right?”
“Right.”
“No more grease. And we’re going to go over the menu. We need good meals cooked correctly, something to fit the times. You got it?”
“Yeah, yeah, Harold. I got it.”
Bly opened one of the accounting books and scanned the columns. “You move a lot of beer in this place.”
Bernie smiled sheepishly. “Well, yeah. It’s a tavern. It’s a restaurant, but it’s a tavern too. The guys like to come over and—you know—”
“We need a happy hour right after quitting time at the mine. But only an hour, you got it? Let’s give the men some incentive to drink more. And put out some pretzels. Keep the guys thirsty.”
“Okay.”
“Bernie, I think you’d better write this stuff down; I’ve got more.”
“Oh.” Just my luck, Bernie thought. He ran to get a pencil and paper. By the time he got back, Carl, Phil, Andy, Paul, and Doug had gathered around Bly’s table to have a word with him. Bly was listening intently.
“It’s about Charlie,” Phil murmured.
“Well, is he sick or isn’t he?” Bly asked.
“He’s been acting weird,” Andy said.
“I saw Tracy and that professor guy over at Charlie’s house,” said Carl, with an aside to Doug. “Sorry, Doug.”
Doug only listened grimly.
“But if Charlie’s talking to that outsider, we could all be in real trouble,” Phil said, his head tilted a little. His ear was still bothering him.
“Somebody needs to shut him up,” Carl said.
The others agreed.
Harold raised a hand to quiet them down. “You guys worry too much.”
They started to protest, “Well, what about Vic and Maggie?”
“We’ve got things to worry about, don’t you think?”
“Hey, I want to be around next week, you know?”
He had to quiet them down again. “Get yourselves under control. That’s Charlie’s problem right now. He isn’t in control. He’s feeling guilty about this Ebo Denning thing, so he’s hiding out, afraid he’s going to be next.” He glared at them. “Somebody gets killed in a car accident, you don’t stop driving; am I right? Or somebody dies of lung cancer, you don’t stop smoking, right? Or somebody gets in an accident because they were drunk, you don’t stop drinking, do you? Life goes on, guys, and you live it as you please and let the chips fall where they may. If something happened to Vic and Maggie, that doesn’t mean anything’s going to happen to you. Charlie just needs time to figure that out.” There were more protests, and Harold had to shout over them. “Hey, he’s no different than you are, and you’re no different than him! I’ll tell you what’s going to happen: He’ll hide out at home for a week or so, and then he’ll get over it—and hopefully, so will all of you.” Then he added, meeting every eye, “And Charlie doesn’t need any help getting himself together, you follow me? No rough stuff. Let him be.”
“But what about the professor?” Phil demanded. “Ain’t he the cause of all the trouble?”
Bly glared at Phil. “I think we were talking about his sister-in-law, weren’t we?”
Chastised, Phil looked down at the floor and said nothing.
“Besides—” Harold paused for effect. “I think I’ve made it clear enough that there isn’t any trouble. Maggie’s with her mother, and Vic is off somewhere on a drunk. Forget about both of them.”
Nobody said anything, but it was easy to see nobody believed that for a second.
“And that’s the way it is!” Harold emphasized.
“Oh, yeah, that’s the way it is,” said Paul sarcastically, scratching his chest. All heads turned in his direction, and he just looked back at them derisively. “I think I’ve finally figure
d this whole mess out. The problem is, there isn’t any you-know-what, but you think there is one, so you act and talk like there isn’t one because for some reason, if anybody thought there was one, there really would be one. Why don’t you guys just believe there isn’t one? You do that and bingo, the whole problem’s gone.”
There were angry mutterings. Andy took a step forward, ready to punch Paul. Doug was right behind him, ready to assist.
But Bly shot his arms out to restore order. “Hey!” They listened. He relaxed in his chair again, his eyes ablaze, and reminded them all, “Paul’s right. Think about it.”
They all looked at Bly, then at one another questioningly.
Harold spoke soothingly and firmly. “We all agree, right, that there isn’t any—we won’t mention it by name? If that’s the case, then Maggie’s all right, and there’s nothing to worry about. Vic is okay, so we don’t need to worry about him. As for Charlie, he’s got nothing to say to anybody because there’s nothing to talk about. As for this professor, he’ll never find anything, and as for his brother, you heard what the cops said: it was a grizzly.” He looked at Doug. “As for Tracy’s little fling with the professor—Doug, it’s a tough break, but you’ll live. It’s your problem, and it has nothing to do with the rest of this town.” He scanned the group, looking each of them in the eye. “If there really is anything to worry about, we’ll know when the time comes, and we’ll know what to do. Other than that, I don’t see why we need to be having this meeting and getting each other all stirred up.”
“What about Cobb?” asked Doug.
Bly repeated, “We’ll know what to do when the time comes.” He looked again at the balance sheets before him. “Now get out of here. I’m busy.”
They moved away, unsatisfied, murmuring a bit, troubled, and Bly noticed.
But he was troubled too. Charlie? Why Charlie? He never had had a bad thought about Charlie. Or had he? Maybe he dreamed it without knowing it.
Then he brightened. What if Charlie? Hmm. It wouldn’t hurt Bly’s situation, now would it?
He acted casual and unruffled, but scribbled a little reminder in his notepad, “Contact Metzger regarding full acquisition.” Metzger was his lawyer, and Bly wanted to be sure he could take full ownership of the tavern and mercantile in the event of Charlie’s—well, in the event Charlie decided to leave town for an indefinite period.
The Frank Peretti Collection: The Oath, the Visitation, and Monster Page 25
