Monster

by Frank Peretti

  Jimmy gazed at him, struggled for words, and finally came up with, “I guess you’ve made your point.”

  “Well, next time—” Reed smiled and waved that one off. “No, we don’t want a next time.”

  “No, we sure don’t.”

  They shared a laugh and then a handshake.

  The two officers had Burkhardt between them. Burkhardt wouldn’t look at his monster; he wouldn’t look up at all.

  Jimmy hollered, “Okay, let’s get these people out of here.”

  Beck sat in the coarse grass, holding the cold compress against her face with one hand while pulling itchy, prickly grass, twigs, and moss from inside her shirt with the other.

  When Reed and Jimmy came over to help her up, Jimmy shied back from the filth. “Eeesh! What did you do to yourself?”

  “Hey!” She got to her feet without any help and looked him squarely in the eye. “Just for your information, this is my family scent. It tells everybody who I am and what I’ve been eating and how I’m feeling about things.”

  Reed and Jimmy stared at her.

  “It even tells you whether I like you or not, so read it and weep—”

  “Beck,” Reed began.

  “—unless you can’t read plain Sasquatch!”

  “Beck?”

  She turned toward him, her dignity reclaimed. “What?”

  “What happened to your stutter?”

  The question stopped her cold. Plainly, she hadn’t noticed until this moment. “Uh . . .” She glanced toward the woods. “Maybe God took it.”

  He gave her a special smile and then pulled her in close. She clung to him unabashedly. “Ready to come home?” he asked.

  “Anywhere with you.”

  He gave her his arm to lean on. “Come on. Let’s get you to a hospital.”

  The chopper was parked on a rocky knoll a short hike up the hill. As it rose above the trees, Beck watched out the window and marveled: the mountains really were as vast and mysterious as they seemed.

  Almost immediately, Jimmy started circling as Reed tapped her shoulder and pointed.

  They passed over a deep, meandering ravine with a creek running down its center. Because of the thick forest, Beck could only catch a few quick glimpses, but it was enough for her to recognize a natural log bridge across the creek and the square, split-shake roof of a forlorn little cabin.

  epilogue

  “What in the world were they thinking?” A week later, Reed still couldn’t get over it. “I mean, how were they going to explain all the dead people lying around? Didn’t they think somebody would start to wonder?”

  He sat at one of Arlen Peak’s best tables at the Tall Pine Resort, debriefing and remembering with Cap, Sing, Dave, and Jimmy while they waited for the best barbecued steak dinner Arlen could whip up.

  “The problem got away from them, literally,” said Cap. “Even if Burkhardt and his crew had a containment plan, it had to be trashed the moment Beck got grabbed. These guys were desperate.”

  “Nice pictures, Jimmy.” Sing, wearing a head bandage and a modified hair arrangement, was once again glued to her computer. “But Thorne cut us a nice break, right, Reed?” She was hinting. She still hadn’t heard the full explanation.

  None of them had. Reed had a rapt audience. “I figured Thorne had to leave Kane’s gun with him so people would think Kane died from a self-inflicted gunshot wound. I had a waypoint in my GPS marking where Kane and Thorne left off, so I used that to find Kane’s body—that and some lucky guessing.”

  “A mighty long shot, Reed,” said Jimmy.

  Reed shrugged. “That’s all I had left.”

  Jimmy patted his shoulder. “It was brilliant. Pete would’ve liked it.”

  Reed, along with the others, fell into a somber moment at the mention of their old friend. “It does sound like something he’d do, doesn’t it?”

  Dave had plucked a cracker from the basket in the middle of the table and said with his mouth full, “So what were they going to do with that monster’s carcass, let the birds eat it?”

  “Bury it, I suppose,” said Sing.

  “Well, it’s in a cooler now,” said Jimmy.

  “Just like Burkhardt,” Reed quipped, and got a laugh.

  “He and Merrill could end up being bunkmates,” Cap ventured.

  “Tell them about your job,” Sing prompted her husband.

  Now Cap had their undivided attention. “Well, it looks favorable. I don’t know whether the university’s had a change of heart or whether they’re just trying to save face, but . . .”

  “But you can’t argue with Right,” said Sing with an overacted pat on his hand, “and that’s what you are!”

  Arlen swept through to take drink orders. “And by the way, it’s not such a bad idea to let the birds and the bears and the coyotes eradicate a carcass. They can make quick work of it, let me tell you.” He directed his next sentence at Jimmy. “Which is why nobody’s ever found a Sasquatch skeleton. Nature has a way of erasing things.”

  Jimmy smirked good-naturedly, hands lifted in surrender. “Whatever you say, Arlen.”

  “Didn’t Beck find a skeleton up there?” Dave asked.

  Reed put up a hand of caution. “That’s a sensitive area.”

  Cap interjected, “But remember, Jimmy: Those hairs from Beck’s backpack turned out to have clean DNA from a creature not yet catalogued. Nobody mutated that animal; it was the real thing.

  Sing peered closely at her computer screen. “And you might take a look at this, Jimmy, especially since you took these pictures.”

  They all rose and gathered around Sing’s computer. She scrolled through the photos as they murmured, reacted, and pointed. They’d seen these before but were more than eager to see them again. Sing clicked and enlarged one of Jimmy’s wide shots of the clearing. “See those two fir trees and that bush between them?”

  They did.

  She scrolled to a medium shot of the monster’s corpse on the ground. The two fir trees were visible in the background. She clicked and dragged over the fir trees and zoomed in on that area.

  “Take a look, gentlemen. Take your time.”

  At first there was silence as they studied the blown-up image of two fir trunks with a splashing of green, yellow, and red leaves between them.

  Green, yellow, and red.

  But red only in one area.

  “I think I see it,” said Reed, as he traced it with his finger.

  Sing clicked and dragged, enlarging the image until the saw-edge of the individual pixels began to appear.

  Jimmy’s eyes narrowed, glued to the screen. “I took this picture?”

  They could all see it now: a domed head, a red brow, two amber eyes, and a flat nose—a face peering through the leaves, keeping an eye on all that was happening in the clearing.

  “That’s her,” said Reed. “That’s Rachel.”

  “Beck needs to see this,” said Cap.

  “Where is she, anyway?” Jimmy asked.

  Reed put out a hand to calm them down. “Outside.”

  “She okay?” they all wondered at once.

  Reed nodded. “She’ll be right back. She just needed to say good-bye.”

  Beck had not gone far, just enough of a walk up the Lost Creek Trail to stand still and silent among the trees, out of sight of her world, just barely within the boundary of theirs.

  The swelling in her face was nearly gone, reduced to bruised patches of yellow, purple, and blue. Her cuts were healing. Her ankle was back to business as usual.

  Her stutter had not returned. She could still lapse into shyness, but for the first time in her and Reed’s marriage, she was answering the phone.

  She’d gotten that shower and shampoo she used to dream about the first several nights in the woods—plenty of showers, as a matter of fact. Her skin was bathed, moisturized, and perfumed.

  Nevertheless, the Sasquatch stench still lingered—in her memory.

  She’d come to this place to wonder,
she supposed, just wonder, and for how long, she couldn’t guess. One moment, one night, one lifetime might never be enough to finish what felt so unfinished.

  If only . . .

  She listened for the voice of the forest. The birds were singing their closing number, but there weren’t too many. A light breeze moved through the treetops, but so gently that other sounds could still be heard.

  She didn’t feel foolish when she whistled; she only thought about how to achieve that particular, teakettle-like wavering in the main part and that curious warble at the end. The first attempt was only fair. The second was better. The third was delightful, almost exactly the way Rachel did it.

  Then she stood quietly, listening, knowing how unlikely it would be, thinking she would never tell anyone, wondering if her whistle would carry far enough.

  The voice of the forest continued to speak, but it had nothing to say to her.

  Yes, it was a bit foolish. The mountains were so vast, the forests so deep. The wind could be wrong.

  She turned to start back—

  Somewhere out there, so far away, a teakettle whistled.

  She held so very still, not breathing, straining to hear it again.

  The teakettle whistled, wavering in the main part, warbling at the end—and so much better than Beck could do it.

  There was nothing after that—only the breeze and the last verse of one bird’s evening song. Beck cried a little, deeply happy and not having to wonder quite so much. She started back down the trail while she still had light to see her way.

  It could have been a bird. It could have been the bugle of an elk or the squeaking of one tree swaying against another. She couldn’t be sure.

  But it was enough for now, and maybe forever.

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  behind

  the scenes

  An Interview with Frank Peretti

  Q. How did the power of story affect you as a child?

  A. It affected me in a special way. I remember watching “The Wonderful World of Disney” on television; the stories and the action were a part of me. It was something I knew immediately I wanted to do—be a part of the story. I knew I was innately made to be a storyteller. Some people read stories as a “receptor.” I read stories as a creator.

  Q. How did you start writing? What was your first piece of writing like?

  A. I’ve always been a writer. My first piece of writing was a comic strip called Tony the Terrier. I went from there to tapping out stories on my Mom’s portable typewriter. Storytelling was in me, no question. Years later, I made up a story to tell at a junior high Bible camp and it went over so well I actually wrote it all down and submitted it to a publisher. The publisher was Crossway Books, and the story was The Door in the Dragon’s Throat, the very first book I ever published.

  Q. Why do you write fiction?

  A. The best way to convey a spiritual truth is by telling a story because stories work. I started out as a speaker for junior high youth camps years ago. It struck me one day, “You know, we’ve got five days of camp. That's two chapel services. I can give those kids 10 sermons that they're probably not going to remember, or I can give them one big effect that they're going to remember.” So I devised a story with cliffhanger endings that conveyed a spiritual truth. Just one good truth that I wanted to get across for the whole week. I have met some of those kids, who are now grown up with kids of their own, and they remember that camp and remember what they learned.

  Q. Why do you think people remember so much more about stories than they do about sermons?

  A. Stories are powerful. After that camp I started thinking, “Man, if I want to effect the body of Christ, if I want to reach people, if I want to change their lives, and convey spiritual truth to them, the story is the way to do it.” The goal is always the same. I want to change people's lives and bring them closer to the Lord in a new way. I want to confront them with an issue.

  Q. What are some of the different issues you have dealt with in your books?

  A. In This Present Darkness, it was spiritual warfare and intercessory prayer. In Piercing the Darkness, it had to do with the encroachment of neo-paganism into the educational and legal system. And in Prophet, it dealt with the Truth and really living by the Truth. In The Oath, it was sin depicted as this monster waiting to devour us that we just kind of ignore. In The Visitation, it was the false Christ that so many of us are serving. We have our own idea of what Jesus ought to be like. And in Monster— whoooh!—there’s a whole lot of different messages. My first idea was evolution. One of evolution’s best-kept secrets is that mutations don’t work. They’re not beneficial. I believe that if I can just create a story that somehow addresses that one leg of evolution, I can get people thinking. I can’t make a big scientific argument. I can just tell the story. One of the best ways to really combat the fortress of Darwinism is to allow people to wonder about it, to acquaint them with the controversy so that they know there is one.

  Q. All of your novels deal with unknown evil—demons, sin, oppression, and now monsters. Why does your writing explore the dark side?

  A. I know that I’m a suspense writer. I guess I find those types of stories interesting. But if you don’t have some kind of evil—well, at the least some kind of struggle— then you don't have a story to tell. You’ve got to have something to drive the story. You’ve got to have something to keep the pages turning.

  Q. What do you hope readers get out of your novels?

  A. It’s surprising to know that a lot of folks—good Christian folks—don’t realize what kind of a box they might be living in. You have to test the truth, but some folks don’t even do that. My role is, believe it or not—are you ready?—I’m a builder. The Lord says, “Frank, you just build. Build the Body of Christ. You equip them. You build them. You help them to think. Help them to see Truth. Help them to walk closer to the Lord. Help them to just, through stories, test ideas, test things that they’re living or believing or doing or teaching or growing in.” That’s what good fiction ought to do—just get you thinking.

  Q. Much of Christian fiction is didactic. How do you avoid that in Monster?

  A. It is a tightrope to walk. Christian fiction spends a lot of time making its point. But good fiction needs to spend more time making the story work. Yes, I have an idea I am trying to move further in Monster. But I don’t want to frame an entire story around an argument.

  Q. Your stories have a strong visual element. How do you write for the reader to “see” the story?

  A. Classic novels are written for the love of words, the richness of language. And while there is a place for that style of writing, the bulk of today’s readers want a story to create vivid images in the mind. I try to write for our present culture, which is visually-oriented. It is interesting how little you can give a reader and yet he or she will picture it perfectly.

  Q. The visual elements of your stories give them an engaging cinematic feel. Which of your novels have been made—or are being made—into movies?

  A. So far, Hangman’s Curse and Tilly. The Visitation is in post-production and should be released soon. We have our sights on The Oath and, of course, This Present Darkness, but those are going to be huge projects and we’ll be trusting God for the studio, personnel, and money.

  Q. What do you like to read? Who are some of your favorite authors?

  A. I usually read nonfiction books doing research for my next project, but I love a good novel and try to learn from other authors. I guess I would classify Michael Crich
ton as my favorite author. I noticed just the other day that I’ve read practically everything he’s written.

  Q. Which authors have influenced your writing?

  A. No one in particular. I try to learn from everybody. But I learn from movies too. I’m always looking for a good story and trying to analyze just what made a good story good.

  Q. What is the process for writing your novels?

  A. It is always the same four-step process: brainspilling, outlining, writing, and rewriting. Any novel I write takes a full two years to complete. I outline thoroughly and plan the book carefully before I ever begin to write. I try to put in five hours a day and I use a kitchen timer to keep track of my time. I use a notebook computer, Microsoft Word, and some really cool outlining programs. I’ve had to take special care of my wrists and hands in the past few years, so now I use a voice dictation program part of the time, as well as one of those weird, ergonomic keyboards and a wireless, gyroscopic mouse.

  Q. Are any of your characters like you? If so, who?

  A. I have a lot in common with Travis Jordan, the lead man in The Visitation, but he’s the only character I purposely drew from my own life.

  Q. What advice would you offer to aspiring writers?

  A. Never stop learning. Learn all you can about the craft. Know what you’re doing. Read books about it, take classes, read other authors, do all you can to develop your skill. Did you notice I didn’t say, Never give up? Persistence comes second to learning. If you don’t know what you’re doing, you can persist until you’re dead and never be a writer. I still consider myself a student of writing; I’m still learning.

  Q. Do you have a germ of an idea for your next book?

  A. I honestly am thinking about doing another Darkness book. I want to get a wider perspective of what’s going on in those stories—what is happening in the world around the characters. If you could make a list of the things that changed after 9-11, it would be huge. I am beginning to think that one of the best ways to explore this phenomenon is through a sequel to This Present Darkness.