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

by Frank E. Peretti

  Reed, get out of here!

  He didn’t leave. He took another step toward them.

  They’re going to kill him. Honest to God, they’re going to kill him!

  Twelve

  Sing saw the circle tightening, closing in from the west, north, and south against the stone cliffs above. Inside the circle, toward the south end, Reed’s blip wasn’t moving. He wasn’t answering his radio.

  “Reed! Reed, talk to me! Jimmy, can you see him?”

  “Negative,” Jimmy whispered. “It’s pretty thick in here.”

  “Do you have him on your screen?”

  “Got him.”

  “Then what are you waiting for?”

  Pete came on the radio. “Steady, everybody. Let’s not get ourselves killed.”

  Reed could hear commotion from his earpiece. He replaced it, pressed the talk button, and spoke quietly, “This is Reed. I’m at the waypoint. I don’t see the target, but I can smell it.”

  “Reed, fall back!” Sing cried. “Wait for the others.”

  “Negative. I’m not letting that thing get away again.”

  “Reed!”

  He removed the earpiece.

  Go away, Reed, Beck begged in her mind. I love you. Please don’t let them kill you. Go away.

  Jacob was waiting, ready to explode from the hollow. Beck couldn’t even guess what would trigger him, but she knew the attack would only last an instant.

  Reed moved slowly past the mound of vines, mentally mapping the area, looking for hiding places. An upended stump just below him could have hidden something. The fallen aspen looked suspicious, but could anything fit under there? Another step and he spotted an open space, just a little breathing room to his left. It might give him a half second more to react if anything charged him. He tried to catch that scent, tried to—

  The sight made him jump. He calmed himself, looked around for danger, confirmed his grip on his rifle.

  Brown leather.

  At first he thought it was an animal, obscured by the wild grass and knapweed; then he thought it was a dead animal. It was bloody, torn, ripped.

  Double-checking every direction, he carefully approached whatever it was, knowing what it was but not wanting to know.

  Jacob eased back just a little, which eased Beck just a little, enough to think, What can I do, what can I do? No answers came.

  She could see Reed through another gap in the overgrowth, moving into view in a small clearing. Apparently he’d found something, though for a moment she couldn’t imagine what it could be.

  Wait. Her jacket? She and the group had come full circle, back to where Reuben had raided her toilet paper. It might be her jacket.

  Now her heart quickened with one spark of hope. If Reed found her jacket, he’d know she had to be around here somewhere. It would keep him looking, keep him hoping. It would be like a signal, a flare, a message in a bottle—

  It was her jacket, or at least a piece of it. Reed picked it up, turned it over in his hands. Reuben had done quite a job on it, worse than a pup with a chew toy. It was chewed, shredded—

  A foreboding hit her like a blow to the stomach; the fear—no, the certainty of death coursed through her like an electric shock. There was blood on that jacket, Rachel’s blood from days ago. It was torn into pieces. It looked like—

  A quaking, nearly dying breath passed through her lips as the words formed, “R-r-reed.” Don’t think that, Reed. Don’t think it. It’s not my blood.

  The blood on the leather was days old by now, flaking and brown. The leather was tattered, tooth marked, and only a fragment of Beck’s jacket, a side panel and half of a sleeve. It spoke to Reed; it told him everything.

  He sank to his knees, unaware of the forest, the search, the hunt, and even the danger. His rifle dropped to the grass. He gazed at the shredded garment and ran his thumb over the smear of blood. A shadow crept into his mind like black ink permeating a parchment, spreading, pushing away light and hope, stripping away every thought but one: Beck.

  He raised his eyes. All he could see was Beck chewing on a cold sandwich and making a teasing face, a crooked, stuffed-cheek, half smile, while he took her picture. It was the last smile he could remember, and even as he tried to dwell on it, it faded, lost in the darkness of a night that would last forever. Though he tried to hear her laugh again, or even say his name, only silence answered.

  If she screamed, he would die. She could only lie pilloried in Rachel’s arms and watch in silent agony as Reed rose from the ground, weak as an old man, the tattered remnant of her jacket in his hand. He didn’t think to pick up his rifle, but instead fumbled with an earpiece, his hand trembling, until he’d replaced it in his ear. She heard only the words, “ . . . pulling out . . .” and then he started back the way he’d come.

  Jacob tensed again. Reed would be passing by close.

  Reed stopped, went back for his rifle, then passed by quickly, clumsily.

  I’m not dead.

  One last image through the vines: a trudging, wounded man, no longer alert or careful, in no hurry, stepping over a log, pushing aside a leafy branch . . .

  I’M NOT DEAD!

  He went out of sight. A quiet rustle followed, then the snap of a twig, then a very distant crunching.

  Then there was no sound at all.

  Sing threw open the door on her mobile lab and stood on the steps, gripping the handrail, watching the trail that climbed into the woods from the parking area. For the past forty minutes she had been not a human being but a stone, forbidding herself to feel, care, or cherish. There were hunters in the woods. Someone had to maintain contact and be their link to the outside world. Someone had to help them close up the circle in case the positioning signals winked out on their mobile units. She had to think of them, even while she watched one blip on her screen slowly make its way down the mountain, across the creek bed, past the site where Fleming Cryncovich found all the footprints, and back down the trail to Whitetail.

  Now that the blip on her computer screen had reached the end of its journey, she expected to see Reed and Jimmy drawing near. When she did, she would release her heart. She would become a human being again.

  But how she would ever bear the pain and loss, she didn’t know.

  Janson’s voice crackled through her headset. “Hey, I need some help closing up the south end. A guy could drive a truck through here.”

  She shot a quick glance at her computer screen and replied, “Max? Steve? Do you have Janson’s position?”

  “No, I’ve lost him,” said Thorne.

  “He’s bearing 135, about 800 feet. He’s using Jimmy’s GPS.”

  “One thirty-five, Roger.”

  “Janson, you’re good. Stay where you are until they pick you up again.”

  Janson acknowledged grumpily.

  And then she saw Reed and Jimmy emerge from the woods like tired soldiers returning from battle, eyes vacant, shoulders slumped, legs trudging, rifles slung on their shoulders. Jimmy stayed close to Reed, lending strength, as Reed managed to put one foot in front of the other. Reed caught her eye, but his face was hard to discern. He carried a bloodied piece of leather in both hands.

  Now Sing’s heart was free to grieve. Her hand went to her mouth as her body began to quake.

  They met in the parking lot, embracing. Sing wept with no words. Reed seemed strangely empty, like a body without a spirit. He held her but did not cry.

  “I’ll, uh, I’ll handle the radio,” said Jimmy.

  Sing watched him go to the motor home, recover the headset she’d left dangling by the door, and go inside.

  When Jimmy’s voice came over the radio, Pete had to turn down his volume. “Okay, guys, this is Jimmy. Just to let you know, Sheriff Mills and I had an agreement: as long as it was a search, the sheriff was in charge. When it became a hunt, Fish and Game would be in charge. Well, guys, like you’ve all heard, the search is over. We’ve got ourselves a full-blown hunt now, and that makes me the big kahuna. Tho
rne and Max, Reed and I are out of the game for now, so pull your line south and sew up the net before the big one gets away. Let’s get ourselves a bear!”

  Pete lost half his will to go on when he heard that Reed had pulled out. Now that it was clear there would be no finding Beck, he lost the rest of it. He checked his GPS. The north end was pretty tight now. Sam Marlowe was only ninety yards down the slope, with Wiley Kane and a forest ranger in between. They’d be able to carry on well enough without him. He got a bearing from his compass and started down.

  Sing checked on Reed one last time. He’d shed his jacket and boots and left them on the floor by the bed, but he wouldn’t part with the piece of Beck’s jacket. He clutched it tightly as he lay on the bed in the back of the motor home, his face to the wall.

  “I’ll call Cap and let him know,” she told him. “I’ve got some soup I can heat up. You need to have some.”

  He didn’t answer. He didn’t move.

  “I’ll be right here,” she said.

  Satisfied that he was comfortable—he would never be okay— she closed the door quietly and left him alone.

  In the main room, Jimmy was at her computer, wearing her headset, still running things. “Pete, you need to move up the bank; you’re slipping down too far. Say again?” He rolled his eyes. “Sam, head up the hill and push the other guys ahead of you. Close it up.”

  He looked over his shoulder at Sing. “How’s he doing?”

  “He’s breathing. That’s all I can tell you.”

  He stared at the rear bedroom door. “We were fools to let it go this long. I tried to tell him. I tried to tell Mills.”

  “But nobody ever listens to you.” Her sarcasm was subtle but intentional.

  “This isn’t the time.”

  She picked up her cell phone. “No, it isn’t.”

  “Have you called Dave Saunders?”

  “I’m on it.”

  Jimmy turned to the computer screen, burying himself in the hunt. “Pete, can you hand off your GPS to Wiley on your way down? Thanks, guy, and hey, listen, we all understand.”

  Sing stepped out of the vehicle, closed the door behind her, and punched in a number. It was quiet out here—away from Jimmy.

  She got Deputy Dave Saunders. “Hello, Dave? This is Sing Capella. Reed’s calling off the search. Everybody can stand down.” She listened to his question and fought back tears in order to answer. “No. Just a piece of her coat.”

  While he dealt with the news, Sing pulled herself together—for the moment. “Dave, are you there?” He was, full of condolences, wanting to help. “Reed would like you to contact the Forest Service; we have to close the woods to civilians until we hunt down the . . . until we get the problem cleared up. But, Dave, there’s one more thing: the hunters have cleared out of the Lost Creek area, so you won’t be in their way anymore. We still need to find Randy Thompson—I’m sure we’re dealing with a body, or remains. If you could get a few deputies up there . . . Yeah, I know, but we have to try again, and this time, bring some metal detectors. You’re going to be looking for a shovel.”

  Pete found Wiley Kane within minutes. All he had to do was follow the cigarette smoke.

  “So,” Kane said with a bit of a leer, “you’ve had enough, huh?”

  Pete removed his GPS and handed it to him. “I was in this for Beck, not Jimmy.”

  Wiley dropped his cigarette and crushed it out in the dirt. He took the GPS and marveled at it. “Woo! So this has got all of us on there?”

  Pete pointed out a few details: the available screens, the moving map, the zoom feature, and the various peer-to-peer blips. “You’re gonna be me now, this dot right here. This one here is Sam, down the hill from you. You just put this earpiece in your ear and press this button to talk.”

  “Man, the toys these days!”

  “Sometimes the terrain gets in the way and you wink out, but usually, as long as your unit’s turned on, the other team leaders can see you and you can see them.”

  “Okay, my turn!” Wiley strapped it on his arm as he’d seen the others do.

  “Just run that wire up the inside of your jacket. That’ll keep it out of the way.”

  Wiley removed his jacket and started fiddling with the earpiece, trying to figure out where to route the wire.

  Pete stayed at his back, acting as if he was helping, but all the while taking a good look at Wiley’s boot print where he’d stamped out the cigarette. The print didn’t match Pete’s sketch from Lost Creek, but then again, Wiley Kane was wearing a brand-new pair of boots.

  “Cap?”

  “I’m here.” No further words would come to him, but at the moment, he didn’t care. It was enough for him to accept the news, bear the pain, and nurse the wound as he sat glum and alone in their living room in Spokane, the phone to his ear. The news didn’t come as a shock, but more like the final, awaited outcome of a tragic story. From the outset, Cap and Sing knew it could end this way. Putting aside denial, a happy ending would have been more surprising.

  “What are you feeling?” she asked.

  He rested his forehead on his fingertips and closed his eyes. He was feeling so many things. “You mean, besides the sorrow? The loss?”

  “I’m not sure what to do next.”

  “I got caught sneaking into Burkhardt’s lab today. Merrill had me booted off the campus.”

  Now there was a silence on her end. Finally, “Is that it, then?”

  He thought a moment, then answered, “Anger. I’m feeling anger; a close friend is dead and somebody’s getting away with it.”

  “Do we have anything solid?”

  “So far it’s all circumstantial—and some of it could be imaginary. What about those photos?”

  “I’ve photographed everybody within camera range. I took some more today when all the hunters came through.”

  “Why don’t you e-mail those to me?”

  “Will do.”

  “I’ve got one more lead I’m going to harass a little, and if that doesn’t pan out . . . Maybe I should just get over there and, you know, be there.”

  “Reed could use you right now.”

  “Is he there?”

  “He’s sleeping.”

  “Oh. Well, give him my love, and get me those pictures, and . . . I’ll take one more crack at it, for Beck’s memory if for nothing else.”

  “You be careful.”

  “Oh, I think the worst is over—for me.”

  Sing closed her cell phone and climbed back inside the motor home. She found Jimmy still glued to the computer screen, not saying much and looking antsy. He nervously flexed his ankle with his toe planted, making his knee wiggle up and down like a jackhammer. It was a good sign he wouldn’t be able to sit still much longer. She decided to let the tension build another few minutes before she said anything.

  In those minutes, she used a second computer to go online through her cell phone, selected the folder containing her photos—some posed, some candid, some downright sneaky—of anyone and everyone who’d had anything to do with the search or the hunt. With a few quick taps on the computer’s touch pad, the photos were on their way to Cap.

  “How’s everybody doing?” she asked Jimmy.

  “Nothing so far.” His voice was tense. “That south end was open a long time. The bear may have given us the slip.”

  “I can take over if you want to head up there again.”

  That turned his head from the screen. “You’re sure?”

  “Hey. You want to be stuck down here while somebody else bags that bear?”

  He ripped the headset from his head, grabbed his coat and rifle, and went out the door, jamming the earpiece from Reed’s GPS in his ear.

  “You’re welcome,” she said, settling in front of the computer.

  The first thing Sing noticed was Steve Thorne and Janson’s GPS blips coming perilously close to Reed’s waypoint, the place where he’d found part of Beck’s jacket.

  Jimmy’s voice crackled in the ear
pieces, “Talk to me, Janson. What’s happening?”

  “We’re at the location,” Janson whispered back, “so everybody pipe down.”

  Janson stood guard while Thorne went first, keeping an eye out for any movement, any stirring. The streamer of white toilet paper was still there, hanging on the elderberry bush. It moved lightly in the breeze—as obvious and tempting as bait for a trap. Janson didn’t like this place; there was just something about it.

  Thorne moved slowly, carefully planting each step, sighting down his rifle as he checked out a dark stump amid a clump of young firs, a log within a thicket, a shadow under an upturned root ball. He was mindful that this was where the Shelton woman got chewed up, and he’d seen firsthand what happened to Sheriff Mills. He drew a sample of air through his nose. Didn’t Reed Shelton say something about smelling the target? There did seem to be a certain odor about the place.

  As a matter of fact, the odor could have been coming from a dome of vines that grew over a fallen aspen just a few yards away.

  “Heads up,” Thorne whispered, gesturing toward the dome.

  Janson leveled his rifle at the mound. He nodded to Thorne. Ready.

  Thorne approached slowly. The odor was getting stronger.

  Sing watched intently. Thorne’s GPS blip was dead centered on Reed’s waypoint, apparently motionless, but probably stalking, sneaking. She couldn’t imagine that that thing would still be there after all this time, but then again . . .

  Thorne was close to the fallen aspen, and now he could tell that the tangled overgrowth had been disturbed, thrown open like a curtain and left to settle back in place. He shot a glance at Janson, nodded toward the tangled dome, held his rifle ready in his right hand, reached out slowly with his left, took hold of the vines, drew a breath, yanked the vines open—

  Underneath the thick mat of vines, leaves, and branches was a dark hollow. A foul stench washed over him, making him flinch. His trigger finger tightened.

  He relaxed.

  Janson allowed himself to breathe again.