The Frank Peretti Collection

by Frank E. Peretti

  “It’s going to be tricky finding out. Don’t forget, we’re still up against a whole town that’s trying to hide that thing and protect it. They worship that thing. They’ve made a religion out of it.”

  “With Harold Bly at the center of that religion, am I right?”

  Tracy nodded. “And taking full advantage. I can see now it’s more than just talk.” Then she added grimly, “And Doug’s involved somehow, I know it. There were things he just wouldn’t discuss with me and I always had a hunch about it.”

  “So,” Steve ventured, “I guess it’s safe to say my brother wasn’t killed by Harold Bly.”

  “Not directly, anyway.” When he looked at her strangely, she tried to qualify herself. “Well, maybe he has that creature trained, you never know.”

  “That’s just too weird to think about.”

  Tracy reminded him, “I don’t think Harold was above killing Maggie, though. That was still in his interests, however it happened.”

  Steve took another bite of his sandwich. Finally, he said, “We might take another look at the legends and traditions. In all the fiction, we might find some clues as to the facts.

  “You’re talking about a lot of fiction, Steve.”

  “Well, how about Levi? What can we glean from his version?” Steve did want to know, but he also figured he’d test her reaction again.

  She reacted calmly, but she was still resolute. “There are other sources we can turn to.” She took another bite of her sandwich, considered while she chewed, and then revealed, “I have a new informant in Hyde River who calls me every once in a while. I think things are heating up, people are getting nervous, so he’s daring to break the Oath and leak information. He’s scared, so he’s talking. I’m thinking if he’s scared, maybe somebody else is too.”

  Steve cocked his head to one side and asked, “He wouldn’t be a Frenchman, by any chance?”

  She stared at him. “He’s called you too?”

  “Twice now. He was the first one to tell me about Old Town, and he tipped me off that Vic Moore was heading for Hyde Hall— and you know the rest of that story.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  “You weren’t exactly in my camp at the time.” He was pleased to see that she looked a little sheepish. “Anyway, do you know who he is?”

  “No, but we’re going to find out. We have to be careful, though. The folks of Hyde Valley aren’t going to appreciate us getting this close to their—whatever-it-is.”

  Steve allowed himself a slight sneer. “Well, that’s too bad, isn’t it?”

  “Steve—”

  “It makes no sense to me that anyone would want to hide and protect something that’s killing people.”

  “Steve, this is Hyde Valley. Things don’t have to make sense.” She could see he was bothered. “What?”

  “Why in the world do you stay here?”

  She didn’t mind the question. Actually, she welcomed it. “I’m running out of good reasons. My father passed away two years ago, and my mom moved to Idaho to live with my aunt. I’ve told you what it’s like trying to be a cop around here, and as far as love is concerned, you know how that’s going. I’m married, but—”

  “But not really.”

  “No. Not really.”

  She looked up at the large, rough-hewn center post that held up the ceiling. “Just look at that.”

  He followed her gaze and saw names carved in the wood. He rose and went closer.

  “Agnes, Jerry, Cindy,” he read.

  “My mom and dad and my little sister.”

  “And Tracy.”

  “I carved that when I was twelve years old.” She searched his eyes as she asked, “Remember being twelve?”

  He did. Go-carts, skateboards, swimming in the lake, building a fort in the woods, and definitely, camping out with his mom, dad, and Cliff. He smiled and nodded. “Did you enjoy it?”

  “I did. Back then, everything was—oh, the way it should be. Seems like that was the last time it was ever that way.”

  Feeling weary, Steve went over to a bunk. “You’ve got time, Tracy. Don’t waste it; that’s all I can say.”

  She smiled at him. “You’re right.”

  “Talk to you later,” he said, flopping down to get some sleep.

  “Have a good nap,” she replied, taking the bunk across the room.

  He was asleep within moments, and she lay on her side gazing at him, as she had wanted to do since she first met him. Now, she took all the time she wanted to study his strong, square chin, his ruddy complexion, his jet-black hair with just the right touch of gray. She heaved a deep sigh. Wish you’d been around a lot sooner, Steve Benson.

  Finally, she too fell asleep, her eyelids closing on his image.

  STEVE WOKE UP slowly, savoring that sweet state between dreaming and reality. A breeze carried the scent of pine into the cabin, and Steve could hear the clear song of the birds, feel the warmth of a summer day. They reminded him of every great vacation of his life. He was a kid again, with no trouble, no pain, no worries.

  But slowly, steadily, the real world returned, nudging him when he didn’t want to be nudged. He sat up, regrouping and thinking about his situation. The angle of the sun had changed. It must be almost noon, he thought. He looked at his watch. Yep. That meant he’d slept about two hours. He felt he could sleep the rest of the day, but necessity got him to his feet. They had to get back to Hyde River, back to business.

  Tracy’s backpack was still leaning against the center post that bore her carved name, but she wasn’t in the cabin. He went out the front door, across the veranda, and down the short trail to the lake’s edge. He expected he would find her down there, and it gave him a good excuse to see the lake. He couldn’t be in a place this beautiful without taking a moment to enjoy it.

  Old Homer had worked hard getting a beach established, Steve thought. The coarse sand under his feet was not typical for a mountain lake; it had to have been put there, probably over many backbreaking days. More labor had gone into a rough-hewn dock that reached out into the lake. To one side of the beach, Steve saw a small rowboat lying with its hull to the sun.

  Steve never tired of a beautiful sight, and he took plenty of time relishing this one. The lake was a mirror today, and the mountains on the other side seemed to reach into infinity, their height doubled by the lake reflection. He wished he had a camera, and yet a camera couldn’t do it justice. The deep green of the trees against the blue of that water . . .

  The trees. Steve blinked and looked again. He was still a little sleepy, and he’d been up all night. It was probably a third of a mile across the lake, so distance could have been a factor. He may have imagined it.

  He stood very still and kept watching. Now the trees along the distant lakeshore were clear and distinct and every trunk, every vertical line, solid. Nothing unusual. So . . . maybe it was a flashback of sorts; maybe it was wishful thinking; maybe he hadn’t seen the same, weird mirage he’d see from Old Town.

  But his instinct was nagging him again, the same as before. Danger, it said. Pay attention! He looked away to clear his eyes and hopefully his mind. He was too tired to trust his senses.

  Then he saw Tracy, and all thoughts of the mirage disappeared. If his instinct was still speaking, he was no longer listening.

  She was swimming in the lake, just now coming out from behind a fallen, sun-bleached snag that dipped into the water. Around her, the water sparkled like diamonds in the sun, and as her strong arms propelled her along, the morning light made her fair skin shimmer. Maybe I shouldn’t be watching, he thought, but she hadn’t seen him yet, and like everything else around here, she was a breathtaking sight.

  He quickly scanned the shore and spotted her clothes, hung on the dead branches of the fallen snag. Was he dreaming? Was she a mirage? No. He was awake, and she was there, all right, with a considerable stretch of open space between herself and her clothing.

  For an instant, he thought she looked his wa
y, that their eyes met as she paused to push back the wet hair from her face. But her behavior didn’t indicate she was aware of his presence, especially as she swam to the shore, climbed up on the rocks, and crossed the open space to where her clothes were hanging.

  In the fleeting moment it took for Tracy to gather her clothing and disappear into the trees, Steve’s curiosity was fully satisfied. He was pleased to find that his initial guess had been less than correct: He’d figured she would be nearly perfect. Now he knew she was quite perfect.

  We have talked in the past about Harold’s scare tactics as he tries to intimidate the other children, and I’m afraid he still lapses into such behavior from time to time. Today during recess he found a garter snake, cut off its head, and told two girls the same thing would happen to them if they didn’t let him copy their homework. The tale about the pet monster who eats children came up again as well. I think another parent-teacher conference would be in order.

  From a letter by Marian Clayburg, Harold Bly’s fourth grade teacher, to Sam and Lois Bly, circa 1960

  Eleven

  CHARLIE

  WHEN HAROLD BLY came knocking at Dottie Moore’s door, she was almost expecting it. The town, in its peculiar, hush-hush way, had been buzzing about Vic’s disappearance since Thursday night, and the news was bound to reach Bly’s ears sooner or later.

  Now it was Saturday afternoon, and he stood at her door, dressed up, cleaned up, the perfect gentleman, his hat in his hand, and asked if she’d heard anything.

  She was sick with dread and worry but knew she was obliged to talk to him. She told him what he had to know already. “I haven’t heard a thing, Mr. Bly, not a thing. Some of the guys went looking for him up the draw, and I think they’ve checked the river downstream.”

  “No calls?” he asked.

  “No, no calls. I’ve been on the phone with Phil and Carl, and I talked to Pastor Woods, too. Everybody’s looking and calling around.”

  “Have you called the sheriff?”

  In Hyde River there was only one correct answer to that question. “No. You know how Vic feels about that.”

  Bly nodded with understanding. “Listen, Dottie, if there’s anything I can do, please let me know. I’m here to help, you know that.”

  Again, her response was correct. “I know. I appreciate it.”

  “And that goes for the financial side of things, too. I know you and Vic were struggling, and—”

  “We were doing all right.”

  It was as if he didn’t hear her. “If it comes down to it, and you feel you need to move on to a better life somewhere else, just remember, I’m ready and willing to unburden you.”

  She was offended, but guarded her answer. “If you want to buy the business, you’ll have to talk to Vic.”

  Unruffled, he only smiled at her. “I’m sure you and I will talk again.”

  Meaning, Dottie knew, that she had no option.

  THAT NIGHT, in the ruins, another prayer was said at the stone and another scrap of paper was burned. This one bore the name of Dottie Moore.

  SUNDAY MORNING, Carl Ingfeldt went into Charlie’s, sat on a barstool between Phil Garrett and Andy Schuller, who were already eating, and ordered the Number Two breakfast, ham and two eggs with toast.

  Bernie was the only one there to take his order. After he went into the kitchen to fry it up, Carl asked quietly, “Where’s Charlie?”

  Phil and Andy looked at him with a secret in their eyes.

  “Says he’s sick,” said Phil.

  Andy added, “He’s been sick since Friday morning; you know that?”

  Carl was getting the picture. “Since we found out Vic disappeared.”

  “He’s hiding, that’s what,” Phil said.

  “And I’ll thank you to keep your mouth shut,” Andy said.

  “Well he thinks he’s next; that’s what I think.”

  Andy stiffened. There was fire in his eyes as he said, “You keep talking about it and we’re all dead. Now shut up!”

  Phil surrendered. “Hey, sorry.”

  “We’ve got more trouble,” Carl said. “I just got a call from Sara down at the RV park. That professor is back.”

  Andy and Phil said nothing, but their stunned faces said everything.

  Carl continued, “Pulled in with his camper last night, all set to stay awhile.”

  “I thought you said he was gone!” Phil protested.

  “He was. Sara said he looked like he’d been out hunting. Didn’t look like he got anything, though.”

  They looked at one another. Then Phil ventured, “Could be Harold’s right. He thinks—” He lowered his voice. “—that Tracy and the professor have taken a shine to each other.”

  “That professor’s what started the trouble in the first place!” Carl said, pounding his fist on the counter. “It’s too bad about his brother, but if he’d just left things alone . . .”

  “Harold says it’s gonna be just like Maggie and that guy’s brother, all over again.”

  “Does Doug know about it?” Andy asked.

  “Ain’t nothing to know yet. But I’m betting Harold’s right.”

  Carl took a swallow of coffee. “Well, if she’s gone soft on that guy, there’s gonna be a change in the rules around here.”

  “You got that right,” Andy said.

  “I don’t care if she wants to play sheriff, but if she’s gonna—”

  The front door opened.

  It was Deputy Tracy Ellis, in uniform, apparently there on business. “Good morning.”

  “Good morning,” said Bernie the fry cook. He was just setting Carl’s plate in front of him.

  “Morning,” the three conferees muttered into their breakfast plates.

  She approached the bar in a casual mood. “Is Charlie here?”

  “No,” said Bernie. “He’s been pretty sick the last few days.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”

  She looked at the three men who looked back at her with the familiar Hyde River expression reserved for strangers. She smiled and laughed a little, hoping that would loosen things up. “Hey guys, nobody’s in trouble. I just wanted to say hi.”

  “Well,” said Phil, “hi.”

  “Hi,” said Carl.

  “Hi,” said Andy, going back to his eggs.

  “So, is Charlie at home?” she asked.

  Phil said nothing, Andy shrugged, Carl started to say “I don’t know,” and Bernie answered directly, “Yeah, he’s stuck at home. I don’t think he’s going anywhere.”

  Phil dropped his fork and grabbed it again before it went off the bar.

  Tracy said thanks and went out.

  The moment the door closed, Bernie received a concert of rebukes. “Are you nuts?” “What’d you tell her for?” “She’s snooping around again, can’t you tell?”

  Bernie just threw up his hands, “Hey, she asked me, I told her. What’s the big deal?”

  “Aw, forget it,” said Andy.

  Phil started to say, “We think maybe she’s—”

  “Forget it!” Andy insisted, so Phil did.

  Bernie went back to work in the kitchen. The three ate in silence for a moment.

  “She looked pretty nice,” Carl observed.

  “Smelled nice too,” said Phil. “Little bit of perfume, little bit of makeup, eh?”

  “Doug’s gonna kill that guy,” muttered Andy.

  AN HOUR LATER, Tracy eased her Ford Ranger to a halt near the gutted shell of an old filling station. Steve appeared from behind a rusting truck chassis and climbed in.

  “Charlie’s at home,” she told him. “I called him, and he’s expecting us.”

  “How can you be sure he’s the Frenchman?”

  “Oh, I think I heard him using that accent in the tavern one night. He never was very good at it.”

  Steve crouched down below the windows while Tracy drove up the hill past the church and then doubled back the next road over, easing down behind Charlie’s little two-bed
room house with the white lap siding and green metal roof. They were trying to avoid being seen, but in this town, secrecy was nearly an impossible dream, and they knew it.

  They went to the back door, and Tracy knocked. There was no answer.

  “Charlie?” Tracy called, not too loudly.

  He was just inside the door. “Who is it?”

  “It’s Tracy Ellis.”

  “Did you bring the professor?”

  “Yes. He’s right here with me.”

  They heard a chair slide away from the door, and then the rattling of the lock, and finally the door opened a crack. Charlie took a look first, then opened the door so they could come in.

  Without a word between them, Tracy and Steve knew they were seeing a repeat of Maggie Bly’s condition, the same nightmare revisited. The kitchen was a case study in neglect, with cupboard doors left open, all the counters cluttered with food, dishes, jars, and containers from the refrigerator. The living room was a mess as well, and dark. The draperies were all pulled; it was hot and stuffy, and the air was permeated with a horrible smell, as if something had died. Some boards had been nailed across the front door, and a large stuffed chair had been pushed against it. A crude cross made of sticks lashed together with duct tape hung on the door, and to one side, a hunting rifle leaned against the wall, apparently loaded and ready.

  Charlie was a dirty, pitiful, sweat-soaked mess, wearing only pajama bottoms and a T-shirt stretched tightly over his round belly. His hair was disheveled, and his crooked glasses had slid down his slick face so they were even more crooked. He was crouching a little, as if expecting gunfire through the windows any moment, and fingering an oversized bronze crucifix hanging around his neck.

  “Sorry for the mess,” he said in a trembling voice.

  “Why don’t you sit down, Charlie,” Tracy suggested in a gentle voice.

  The man hesitated as if unsure what she meant, then sank onto the couch, clutching the crucifix in a shaking hand, his face contorted and his eyes filled with fear. Tracy also sat down on the couch, and Steve pulled a chair over. Charlie just sat there, looking from Steve to Tracy and back again.