Monster

by Frank Peretti

  “Set ’em free!”

  Cap countered, “Have you ever been in there? The primates aren’t being abused. This is noninvasive research, strictly behavioral. The worst they do is give the primates cucumbers instead of grapes.”

  Some moaned, others wagged their heads, some rolled their eyes. Tarzan even got hostile: “Hey, don’t lie to us, man!”

  “They’re being held in cages, aren’t they?” said the orangutan.

  The woman got right in Cap’s face. “That’s what they want us to think! Sure, maybe the apes here on campus aren’t being abused, but what about the ones they take off campus?”

  “Off campus?” Cap asked. “How do you—?”

  A girl decked out like a tree with a toy chimp in one of her branches—her arm—shouted, “Car coming!”

  They scrambled into lines on either side of the driveway and took up the chant, waving their signs. “Freedom for our brothers; freedom for the apes!” The gorilla broke into his line dance; Tarzan yodeled a yell; the orangutan spun in circles, waving his arms; and the little tree swayed in the wind as the gate lifted and a car rolled through.

  Cap bolted from the curb and stood in front of the car. “Hey! Hey, Baumgartner!”

  The driver braked abruptly, then honked.

  “You’re gonna get arrested!” the little tree cried out to Cap.

  Cap raised his sunglasses as he leaned over the hood of the car. “Baumgartner! It’s me, Capella!”

  The driver quit honking and stared through the windshield.

  Cap took off his straw hat.

  “Cap! Michael Capella!” The driver rolled down his window and stuck out his head. “Cap! Are you crazy?”

  Cap handed his sign to the gorilla and ran around to the passenger’s side, shouting through the closed window. “We’ve gotta talk!”

  Baumgartner anguished a moment, then reached over and opened the door.

  Cap settled into the passenger’s seat and closed the door behind him, blocking out the din of the chants. “Sorry for the getup, but they wouldn’t let me in to see you.”

  Dr. Emile Baumgartner hit the gas. “Well, let’s get out of here before anybody sees you.”

  Fleming Cryncovich, twenty-three-year-old, unemployed son of an unemployed miner, stood there and stared, his head wiggling back and forth in tiny, unconscious expressions of awe and amazement. His spidery hands shook, awaiting orders for an appropriate gesture from his stupefied brain. Words wouldn’t come to his lips, only little gasps and Ohhhhs.

  It was early morning. The shadows were still long, which brought out the footprints in stark relief. He’d been hoping for years to capture just one Bigfoot print, pressing on and wasting bait while the world laughed and his parents shook their heads. Sometime since yesterday morning, it all became worth it.

  His hands shook so badly he had trouble pulling his camera from its case. He forgot for a moment how to turn it on. He nearly dropped it trying to focus.

  Click! He shot from one side.

  Click! He shot from the other.

  Click! From high above.

  ClickClick! Close-ups.

  ClickClickClick! A montage he would paste together on his computer.

  Click. A human print.

  His finger froze on the shutter button. He stared over the top of his camera.

  There wasn’t just one, but several boot prints, some stepped on by a big Sasquatch foot, some on top of the Sasquatch prints, some by themselves. It was a small print, perhaps that of a woman.

  He’d read about this, something about a missing woman up near Abney.

  Arlen. He had to call Arlen! Fleming ran in a circle, excited, nervous.

  Numbers. Those were numbers scratched in the dirt!

  He yanked out his pen, dropped it, picked it up, wrote the numbers on his hand.

  Then he ran up the trail, jamming his camera back into its case. He needed casting plaster too, and a ruler, and he had to call Arlen!

  “We just need another day!” Jimmy was adamant.

  “It’s moving. It’s gone,” said Pete. “Doesn’t matter how long your guys—”

  “Listen! You’ve had your people tramping through the woods, stirring things up and making noise and leaving their scent everywhere. It’s no wonder we didn’t bag this bear!”

  “I can’t call the search off,” said Sheriff Mills. “Not ’til we—”

  “You’ve covered all eight zones. Where are you going to search next, the rest of the world?”

  Pete, Sheriff Mills, and Jimmy stood nose to nose on the front porch of the Tall Pine, refreshed from some sleep and ready to lock horns.

  Pete held up his hand, hoping to keep the floor for at least one complete sentence. “Whatever that thing is, it’s moving south. It doesn’t care about your bear stands and your doughnuts.”

  “You don’t know that!”

  “Well, Reed’s worked up a pretty good theory—”

  Jimmy rolled his eyes. “So you’re listening to him now?”

  “He’s got a good case if you’d just listen!”

  “I’d like to hear it,” said Sheriff Mills.

  “You’ll lose credibility!” Jimmy warned. “You’re losing people already, or haven’t you noticed?”

  Kane and Max stood to the side, having slept little and accomplished less. They weren’t invited to be part of the discussion, but Kane spoke up anyway, “Sheriff, pardon me, but a lot of us need to know we’re not wasting our time. Do we have a good, clear mission or don’t we?”

  Max piped in, “Are we still searching for somebody, or are we hunting a bear, or Bigfoot, or what?”

  Jimmy jumped on him. “We’re not hunting Bigfoot!” He returned to Mills. “See? That right there is the kind of fire I’m constantly having to put out, and I’m getting sick of it!”

  “Just tell us what the mission is, once and for all,” said Kane.

  The sheriff looked at Pete. “Maybe you’d better tell me what’s happening.”

  Pete had to admit, “It’s been tough holding the crew together. Joanie and Chris cashed it in. Don’s out. I had to let Benny go. The medical folks aren’t waiting by the phone, we all know that.”

  Kane offered, “Nobody trusts this Shelton fellow, that’s the problem. How do we know he didn’t off his wife and he’s just making everything else up?”

  Pete bristled. “Kane, why don’t you just shut up?”

  “Well, I’m not the only one who thinks so!”

  “Shut up anyway,” said Sheriff Mills.

  “Sheriff,” Jimmy said with a sigh, “the search is over. Beck Shelton is dead, and so’s Randy Thompson. We need to deal with the hazard that’s still out there—we need to get that bear. It won’t happen with everyone traipsing around.”

  The sheriff looked at Pete as if trying to read him.

  Pete was struggling. “Sheriff, there is more to this. You haven’t seen all the cards yet. You just have to trust me.”

  “What about the search? Are we done?”

  Pete looked down at the ground. “I know some folks don’t see much point in going out there again, and maybe they’re right. I’m going back out there, even if I’m alone.”

  Jimmy sighed. “Pete, we all feel that way.”

  “Do we?” Mills asked.

  “Patrick—Sheriff. You know the score here. I don’t have to tell you the chances of finding Beck or Randy alive.”

  “So now I suppose you want some big decision from me.”

  Mills drew a deep breath and took a moment to weigh his words. When he had all four of them by the eyes, he answered, “It’s easy enough to tell me—heck, even tell yourselves—that Beck Shelton is dead. But which one of you wants to tell Reed?” He didn’t wait long for an answer; he just kept going. “When you can look Reed Shelton in the eye and tell him his wife is dead even though you can’t prove it; when you’re ready to watch his hope lie right down and die; if any of you can come away from breaking the heart of a friend and still call him y
our friend . . .” Now it was his turn to struggle. “Then, all right. I’ll accept that and say we did our best.”

  They were silent and would no longer meet his eye.

  “Sheriff Mills!” It was Reed, in hunting garb, bursting from his room.

  Mills shot a warning glare at every one of them, and then he waited.

  Reed strode up, papers in his hand: maps, charts, some blown-up photographs. “Good morning, sir. I have something to show you—” He noted the group. “What?”

  “Reed . . .” Mills met Reed’s eyes, then directed his attention toward Pete and Jimmy.

  Reed looked at them. Jimmy drew a breath—

  “Sheriff! Sheriff!” Arlen Peak burst out the front door of the inn, a scrap of paper in his hand. “Somebody’s found her!”

  Reed was all over that. “Where? Where! Is she alive?”

  “No. I mean . . . I don’t mean no; I mean, no, he doesn’t know. Am I making any sense?”

  Sheriff Mills looked about ready to grab the innkeeper by the scruff of the neck, but his tone was enough. “We’re listening, Arlen!”

  Arlen referred to his scribbled notes and tried to recap things in a logical order. He got a call from a friend of his—

  “Who?” Mills demanded. “What’s his name?”

  “Uh, Flem Cryncovich.”

  “Come again?” said Jimmy.

  Arlen repeated the name and told how he’d come to know the kid, then went on to explain the baiting site, the fruit, the soft ground—

  “This isn’t another nut case, is it?” Jimmy barked.

  “Will you let him talk?” Reed scolded.

  The footprints in the soft ground, the—

  “Bigfoot?” Jimmy asked. He folded his arms over his chest.

  Arlen ran a hand through his hair. “Uh, well, yes, if you really must know!”

  Jimmy cursed and turned away. “I knew it!”

  “But there were other prints!” Arlen went on. “Boot prints, uh, you know, people prints, a small size, like a woman’s!”

  Jimmy’s face completed the transition from pale with shock to red with rage. “That is the most insidious, most despicable, most insulting pile of crap I have ever heard!”

  “Jimmy,” Mills cautioned.

  “It’s a hoax! This guy’s read the papers! He’s nothing but a sadistic wacko!”

  “No!” Arlen insisted. “No, he’s . . . he’s a little different, but he’s no wacko. He’s honest. He tells the truth.”

  Reed was about to grab the paper from Arlen’s hand. “I’m waiting, Arlen!”

  Arlen showed him the numbers Fleming had given him.

  “What are these?”

  “They were scratched in the dirt right next to the prints.”

  Reed read them, then half cried, half laughed.

  “What is it?” Sheriff Mills demanded.

  Tears filled Reed’s eyes. “That’s . . . It’s my cell phone number! The area code and the first four digits!”

  They gathered around as Reed held the paper up for them to see.

  “Beck’s running around with Sasquatches and leaving her phone number?” Jimmy said, disdain in his tone. “Guys, come on!”

  Mills had to cover the question: “Is there any way this Fleming What’s-his-name could have had your cell number?”

  Reed was trembling. “Are you kidding?”

  Pete asked, “Where is this place?”

  Arlen answered, tapping the paper. “Whitetail, up one of the gulches. I can take you there.”

  Pete nodded. “Whitetail. That’s farther south, Reed. It’s south of Kamayah.”

  Reed caught his meaning. “South! I’m outta here.”

  “Whoa, wait a minute!” Jimmy stood in Reed’s path. “Reed, listen—”

  “Jimmy!” Mills’s big index finger filled Jimmy’s vision. “Now you shut up.” He followed that up with an arch of his eyebrow, and Jimmy held his peace. “The search crews pick up where they left off, and if they’ve covered the zones, they’ll start over again at the first ones. Pete, give ’em their assignments, put Tyler on the tracking, and then grab your gear. Jimmy, if you want to come along on this—”

  “No thanks. I’ve got a bear, a real bear—”

  “Hunt your bear, any way you want. Pete, we need a fourth man.”

  Pete looked at Max, who shot a quick sneer in Kane’s direction and said, “I’m in.”

  Pete tapped Reed. “Hey, maybe Sing oughta bring her mobile lab—” He halted when he saw the hope in Reed’s eyes.

  “What?” Reed asked.

  Pete wished he could answer, but he had neither the words nor the time. “Nothing. Let’s go have a look.”

  “Cap, it’s impossible.” Dr. Emile Baumgartner, jacket and tie removed and shirt collar open, sipped from his coffee cup, then smiled with amusement. “Oh, it’s all very intriguing. It would make a great story, but it’s impossible.”

  Baumgartner had driven them to his home, a comfortable Victorian on the south side of Spokane. They were seated at a wrought iron table on Baumgartner’s patio, enjoying a latte while a timed sprinkler chit-chit-chitted in rainbowed arcs across the lawn. Cap’s notebook computer rested on the table between them, its screen filled with the data from the Judith Fairfax DNA Sequencing Core Facility.

  “Impossible?” Cap loved hearing that word coming from an evolutionist; especially Baumgartner, an esteemed anthropologist and research associate at the York Center. Over the years, he’d been Cap’s kindest opponent in the evolution debate. They’d had many discussions in many places, some private, some public, at various volume levels, but still they managed to stay friends. “Are you sure you want to say that word?”

  Baumgartner laughed. “I’m not afraid of it. I think it all the time.”

  Cap laughed along, out of courtesy. “And then you leave it to poor stooges like me to say it—or write it.”

  “That was your choice. But that’s what amazes me now—that you, of all people, would think it possible when you’ve basically ended your career arguing that it isn’t.”

  “Burkhardt thought he could prove it,” Cap said.

  Baumgartner rolled his eyes and snickered. “Still does, so Merrill thinks he can do it because Burkhardt says so, but I’m sure you’ll agree, blind devotion to a theory sometimes supplants real science.”

  “Merrill’s backing him?”

  Baumgartner held up a hand. “Ah, tut-tut- tut. The agreement, remember. We go no further on that.”

  “All right.”

  “Suffice it to say, Burkhardt may be pitifully myopic in his area of expertise, but far-reaching in his ability to work the system. He has the respect of the scientific community; he has friends with money; he’s published some amazing theories. The university brass dote on him as if he’s the next Watson or Crick, and he may well be—if he ever, ever succeeds in proving anything he’s proposed.”

  “Jealous?” Cap said.

  Baumgartner sniffed a chuckle. “Of course. But he’s starting with an entirely faulty premise, as you pointed out.”

  “Really? You’re saying I was right?”

  Baumgartner laughed. “Oh, come on! You’re not always wrong, no matter what I’ve said!”

  “But where am I right?”

  “You want to hear it from me!”

  “You bet I do!”

  “All right, all right.” Baumgartner took another sip of coffee and set the cup down, pensively watching the lawn sprinkler. “When you argued that an organism is much more than the sum of its DNA sequences, you were right. I agree with you on that.”

  “So you also agree that we can’t find specific genes that govern particular behaviors like swinging from trees or preferring grapes to cucumbers.”

  “Or that make Homo sapiens walk upright or even read Shakespeare. Agreed.”

  “But Burkhardt seems to think you can.”

  “He’s wasting a lot of money.” The anthropologist caught himself again. “I didn’t say that.”
He continued, “Anyone can lay human DNA beside chimp DNA and sort out the similarities and differences, even quantify them.”

  “As in, ‘We’re 98 percent chimpanzee’?”

  “You can’t embarrass me, Cap. I didn’t coin that phrase, though I’d be a richer man if I did. But as you pointed out—and I agree with you—we can find patterns in the DNA. We can even ascertain what creature or plant the DNA came from, but we can’t create the code in the first place, nor can we rewrite it. It’s far, far too complex.”

  Cap was surprised to find Baumgartner so full of concessions. “Wait a minute. No argument in favor of site-directed mutagenesis?”

  Baumgartner laughed. “Do I detect sarcasm?”

  “You’ve argued for it, remember?”

  “In reverse, Cap. Reverse mutations. If we can identify the mutation that knocked out a healthy gene, we can use site-directed mutagenesis to restore the original gene and rescue the mutant, returning it to normal. You’ve seen that for yourself.”

  “Okay. That’s one for you.”

  “Thank you. For that you get a bonus.” He lowered his voice as if enemies might be listening. “However: In all the years of mutating, we have never actually improved anything. We have never produced an individual more fit than the original.”

  “Another concession?”

  “Delivered in private, in confidence.”

  “Well, given that, what about the argument that insects mutate and develop resistance to insecticides?”

  Baumgartner glared at him in mock anger. “So this is how you return my generosity!”

  Cap lifted an eyebrow. “You’ve used that argument on me in public. Now that we’re off the record . . .”

  Baumgartner took a prolonged sip of his latte, apparently trying to build up the willingness to say it. “You’re right about that too. As long as the toxin is present, then of course selective pressure is going to favor those mutants that are resistant, at which point it’s tempting to cut short all observation and conclude a beneficial mutation. But all you have to do is remove the toxin and keep observing, and you’ll find that the resistant mutant has so many other weaknesses that it can’t compete with the normal insects and it dies out. It’s a bad trade, like someone with sickle-cell anemia being immune to malaria but dying from the anemia. There’s no real benefit.” He flopped back in his chair, smarting from his own words. “If you were still the least bit respected in the scientific community, I would never have given you that. But since no one will listen to you . . .”