The Frank Peretti Collection

by Frank E. Peretti

  But Steve was intrigued by one new bit of information: Levi Cobb had documents. What they could mean, he had no idea, but one of the biggest challenges in this whole hunt was sorting truth from fantasy, actual events from rumor. No matter what anybody said about Levi, he’d been right on many points, wrong on—Steve couldn’t think of an instance when Levi had been clearly, obviously wrong. Whacky, maybe, but not wrong. Levi had been doing his homework, Steve figured, and those documents, whatever they were, had to be a part of his body of knowledge.

  But that would come later. For now, there was one more witness who needed to be interviewed. Steve laid out the Forest Service map again and tried to locate the mine of Jules Cryor. So far, no luck.

  He checked his watch. It was a little after seven. He had Charlie’s home phone number and the number of the tavern. After Woods’s warnings he felt just a little hesitant about calling the tavern owner, but, as he’d promised, he intended to be careful.

  He picked up his mobile phone and punched in Charlie’s number at home.

  No answer.

  Nuts. What did that mean? He was home but afraid to answer? He was out wandering around? He was dead?

  Steve would have to call the tavern. He punched in the number.

  “Charlie’s,” a voice answered. Steve could hear voices, music, the clatter of dishes in the background.

  The voice was unmistakable. “Uh—Charlie?”

  “Yeah. Who’s this?”

  “Charlie, this is Steve Benson.”

  The voice brightened. “Oh, yeah, how you doin’?”

  “Well I’m all right. How are you?”

  “Just dandy.”

  Just dandy. Since when? Why? “I tried calling you at home. I thought you’d be there.”

  “Heck no. I got a business to run. So what’s up?”

  “I wanted to double-check the directions you gave me—”

  “You mean Jules Cryor’s mine?”

  Yeah. It was Charlie, all right. “Yeah, that’s right.” Steve looked at the map. “I’m not sure which service road I’m supposed to take after I get to the end of forty-seven. Do I go up fifty-one or take . . . sixty-three?”

  “Take sixty-three. Fifty-one’ll just take you around the other side. You got your map there?”

  “Right in front of me.”

  “You’ll see that it looks like sixty-three and fifty-one connect on the map, but they don’t, there’s a big cliff between ’em. So you take sixty-three, and sixty-three’ll wind up the east side ’til you get up to Potter’s mine. You see that?”

  “Potter’s mine, Potter’s mine . . . ah! Got it.”

  “Okay, stay on sixty-three and follow it ’til it runs out. Cryor’s place is right up the slope from there, you can’t miss it.”

  “Great, thanks.”

  “I just hope he misses you; you get what I mean?” He laughed. “Why do you even want to go up there?”

  Steve sensed that he should be careful about what he said. “I just thought I’d like to talk to him, see how the hunting is up there.”

  Charlie chuckled. “You’re wasting your time.”

  “What?”

  Charlie lowered his voice. “Listen, you really don’t have to take all this dragon stuff seriously. It’s a mind game people play around here. That doesn’t mean it’s real.”

  Something had happened; something was going on. “So you’re saying there is no dragon?”

  “Well—no. Listen, I was out of my head. I know I said a lot of crazy things.”

  “Charlie, you sounded pretty convinced—”

  “Look, it happens sometimes. You get under some pressure, you start feeling kinda down, and all that stuff gets to you. But, hey, you can’t let things get you down forever. You gotta get on with life.”

  Steve was knocked off balance by what Charlie was saying. “Charlie . . .”

  “Gotta run. Be careful up there.”

  Click. He was gone.

  Steve sat there, the phone in his hand, dumbfounded, suspicious, puzzled.

  The phone rang in his hand, and he just about dropped it.

  “Hello?”

  “Steve, it’s Tracy.” Her voice sounded urgent. “I just got a call. Evelyn’s been attacked.”

  Steve felt as if someone had punched him in the stomach. “What do you mean? What’s happened?”

  “Somebody broke into the house and attacked her.”

  “Is she all right?”

  “I think she’s okay, but I don’t know the details yet. The Oak Springs police are there now, and I’m in touch with them. Can you meet me in West Fork and lead the way?”

  “I’m already moving,” he replied, keeping the mobile phone to his ear as he hopped out of the camper and started unhooking the water and power. “Where do you want to meet?”

  “I’ll be in my patrol car at Snyder’s Restaurant, right where the Hyde River Road comes into town.”

  “Have you called the house?”

  “I don’t have her number.”

  “I’ll call her as soon as I hang up with you.”

  “See you at Snyder’s.”

  He ended the call with Tracy and banged out Evelyn’s number. The line was busy. He quickly unhooked the camper and was ready to roll.

  He turned the engine over, cursing under his breath—cursing the town, the valley, the stupid, backward people and their warped, deranged ways. If Evelyn was hurt, if as much as a finger was laid on her—

  He roared out of the RV park, the tires squealing as he accelerated down the Hyde River Road toward West Fork.

  In the years that followed, a hellish and capricious contagion beset my brother-in-law. As with almost everything else that touched his life, Benjamin remained secretive and hid it from us until it reached such an advanced stage that concealing it was impossible. Among our close family and personal physicians we tested many theories as to its cause and origin: Some thought it came from the mines and first took hold in Ben’s lungs; some thought Ben had drunk water contaminated by the mine tailings. One theory, which I believe was shared by all though spoken by none, reflected back to his secret practices and the Oath we all took in Hyde Hall. In timid silence, we all feared that he had brought this plague upon himself, and not only that, but that we would soon see it brought upon our own heads because of what we had done.

  From the diary of Abigail Homestead, Benjamin Hyde’s sister-in-law, dated March 9, 1915

  Thirteen

  THE MEMORY

  THE OAK SPRINGS police had arrived at Evelyn’s house to find the front screen door hanging crookedly to the side on its hinges. Inside the two-story white colonial, a trail of strewn clothing, dirt from houseplants, broken picture frames, overturned furniture, and a broken lamp showed a path of struggle from the bedroom, through the hall, and into the living room. After determining that Evelyn had not been seriously injured, the police moved carefully through the house, documenting the evidence and reconstructing what had happened. A photographer was en route to get shots of everything.

  Evelyn sat on the couch in the living room, her son Travis by her side, as one officer, a mild-mannered and polite veteran on the force, sat in the stuffed chair opposite her, pen and pad in hand, getting her statement.

  She was shaken, her blouse was torn, and some bruises were starting to show on her arms and face, but she was coherent and strong, and her eyes were steady.

  The officer was carefully retracing the events. “And you came home about seven—”

  “About seven,” she confirmed.

  She had come home with a load of groceries, driven into the garage, turned off the engine, closed the automatic garage door . . . it was all routine, totally ordinary. It was only afterward that Travis went out and discovered that the back door to the garage had been left open, something the family never did because they didn’t want the cat getting into the garage. The conclusion was that the attacker had entered that way.

  “Where was Travis when you arrived home?” th
e officer asked.

  “Upstairs in my room,” he replied. “I had some music going, so I didn’t hear anything at first.” He looked a little sheepish.

  “Then what happened?”

  Evelyn recounted what had happened, and the officer took it down. “I brought all the groceries in and set them in the kitchen, and then I went into the bedroom to put my purse on the dresser . . .”

  She saw the whole terrifying scene passing before her eyes and began to describe it: The closet door bursting open like an explosion. A figure pouncing on her like a panther, knocking her to the floor. All the while he was trying to subdue her, she was delivering blows to his body, fighting like an animal . . .

  Dark. So dark. A massive weight, a monstrous presence. No voice, no sound but the crashing of tree limbs, the digging and scraping of stones and earth. The smell of blood . . .

  Evelyn stopped in her recounting and closed her eyes, her hand on her forehead.

  “Mrs. Benson?” the officer asked. “Are you all right?”

  “Give me a second,” was all she said. Frantic, scrambled, mixed-up images were swirling through her mind, the memories of two attacks now edited together. The horrible events of this night were bringing back in crystal clarity the events of that night, and it was all she could do to distinguish between them. With great resolve, she continued to describe what had happened tonight. “I pushed him off me and ran out into the hallway,” she continued as the officer wrote it down. “He pulled out a knife and kept trying to stab me.”

  “Stab you?” the officer repeated.

  She could recall the knife in his hand and her own hand around that wrist in an iron grip that now amazed her. They wrestled down the hallway, spinning, crashing into the family photographs hanging on the wall. He slammed her against the wall, the knife gouging the wallboard inches from her face. She delivered a kick to his groin, and he doubled over. Then she had him against the opposite wall and planted a haymaker to his jaw . . .

  She was knocked backward into grass and stones, and the beast continued to grapple with something on the ground. On her feet again, crazed with anger and instinct, she pounced on the creature, her arms about its neck. It lurched backward, and her feet left the ground. She was being whipped about, the limbs of trees slapping and lashing at her. For some reason her arms would not let go.

  “Um.” She had to pause. What happened next—not on that night, but here in the house? “The next thing I remember, we were in the living room here.” She gave the officer an awkward smile— “I guess I jumped on his back. I had my left arm around his throat, and I just kept hitting him with my other hand . . .

  She was high above the ground, up in the limbs of trees, whipping about, hanging on, her grip relentless, the creature’s neck like cold armor. Now her legs were locked around the neck, and she rode it like a bucking horse, stabbing at it with her knife. The blade only glanced off the scales. The creature’s neck dropped down, slamming her into the ground, then whipped upward again, breaking off tree limbs in the process. She felt no pain.

  “Mrs. Benson?” the officer asked. “Do you need to take a break?” He was looking at her with grave concern.

  “No,” she said. “I’m—I’m all right.” She considered the sudden return of her memory, the uncovering of all that had been buried. She was beaten and shaken, but she felt whole again. “I’m quite all right.”

  The officer smiled. “Sounds to me like your attacker got a lot more than he bargained for.”

  She only looked at Travis. “I don’t know how it would have turned out if Travis hadn’t been here.”

  Travis was still shaken from the experience. His voice quavered slightly as he said, “I heard noise down in the living room and Mom hollering and the guy hollering, and I ran downstairs. The guy had just knocked Mom off his back and I saw that he had a knife.”

  The knife found an opening, a gap between the scales. It plunged in, and the scales closed on it like a vise. Suddenly she was encased in iron fingers and glistening claws that wrenched her loose. The knife broke off. She fell.

  Evelyn reached over and gently touched Travis’s hand. “Travis hit him so hard his nose almost came off. He looked like his whole face was bleeding.”

  The officer looked toward the front door. A clear trail of blood led from the front entry, through the door, and down the front walk. Another officer was just now taking samples.

  The officer shook his head. “It’s a good thing you were here, son.”

  Travis looked down. “But he got away.”

  The officer regarded the front door flung open and the screen broken from a violent collision. “Travis, what matters is, he was leaving, as fast as he could go.”

  The officer and Travis were talking, but Evelyn’s mind went for one final moment to the top of Wells Peak in the dark of night.

  The thing was gone as if it had never been there. She found Cliff on the ground, his upper body and head obscured by shadow. She reached to touch his face. She felt only the grass, wet and sticky with his blood.

  Back in the living room of her home, she broke down and wept.

  “NOW YOU GOT me and I got you,” the jukebox twanged, “gonna turn in my ace for the life of a deuce . . .”

  Sunday night at Charlie’s. Great times, great drinks, great food, lots of chatter, and the cash register busy. Seemed like everybody was there tonight, racking up for pool, plugging quarters into the video games, and enjoying the ribs and fries.

  Charlie was behind the bar, feeling on top of the world. “Course now, when I get that mercantile going, it’s gonna be one huge tourist attraction, just you wait,” he was saying to Paul Myers, who was sitting at the bar in his usual spot under the television, nursing a shot glass of whiskey.

  Paul was not so giddy. “Yeah, live it up, Charlie. Things are going your way. I’m happy for you.”

  Charlie leaned over the bar, the compassionate bartender. “Hey, it can’t be all that bad, Paul.”

  Paul only smirked. “Jimmy took off with half the business, Charlie!” He wanted to spit, but Charlie didn’t allow spitting in his place, so he only made the motion with his mouth.

  “How much?” Charlie asked.

  “Not how much, what! The truck, the hoses, the whole thing! I can’t pump septic tanks without the pump truck, now can I? What am I supposed to do, bail them out with a bucket?” He looked into space—actually, he was seeing the face of his no-good partner, Jimmy Yates—and his expression turned vicious. “I just want to kill that guy!”

  Charlie grinned. “Wouldn’t be that hard around here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You can take care of him and just—” Charlie lowered his voice but didn’t lose his grin. “Blame it on the dragon. End of story.” Then he winked.

  Paul was sick of that stuff. “The dragon—hah!”

  “Might work,” Charlie said, wiping down the bar. “Around here, people are just dumb enough to buy it, and you know the sheriff isn’t going to do anything. You mention the dragon, and he just looks the other way.”

  Paul was disgusted. “You’re talking stupid, Charlie, you know that?”

  Charlie leaned on both elbows and looked at Paul, nose to nose. “Think so? Well, let me tell you something. You’d be surprised how much you can get away with.”

  Paul leaned away. Up close, Charlie had a bad smell.

  A few others at the bar were noticing it too and were exchanging glances, as if to say, Do you smell that?

  “Like that old black boy, Ebo Denning. Hey, a little while ago I was standing in your shoes, you know? Had big dreams for my business and then had ’em shot down in one day. Ebo didn’t have any right to buy that mercantile. Sam Calley was my neighbor, you know, did business right next door to me. People’d come to the mercantile; he’d send them over here if they wanted a drink and some lunch. If people came in here and needed to get something, I’d send them over to Sam’s. It was like neighbors, you know?”

  Charlie
was getting a little loud. Andy could hear him clear over by the pool table, and that was over the usual tavern clatter and the jukebox.

  “I coulda bought that mercantile straight out if I’d only known Sam was selling it. I coulda got a loan or something. Ebo had cash ’cause he never had to buy anything, you know what I mean? Same old car, same old clothes—the guy’s house was a junkyard.” Charlie frowned. “Probably got all his money from the government, out of our pockets!”

  Doug Ellis and his perpetual second-in-command, Kyle Figgin, were only a few barstools farther down the bar, trying to get down some beer and ribs but having their appetites curbed by the foul odor coming from Charlie’s direction.

  “You smell that?” Doug asked.

  Kyle wrinkled his nose. “What is it? Smells like something died.”

  Elmer McCoy and Joe Staggart were there as well, smelling it just fine, thank you, but not saying anything. Instead, they were watching and listening to Charlie.

  “But I got him!” Charlie proclaimed, looking about and including everyone else in what used to be a conversation between him and Paul. “Remember when the water pipe broke under the mercantile? Cost Ebo a lot of money to clean up that mess, now didn’t it?” Charlie lowered his voice and moved over to Doug and Kyle to share the secret. “Did it with my little hacksaw! Didn’t take much, but it worked!”

  Doug and Kyle looked at each other. Yeah, the smell was Charlie, all right. It must be that black stuff he’d spilled on the front of his shirt. Didn’t he know about it?

  “Course,” said Charlie, standing back from the bar and addressing the whole group seated on the barstools, “you folks had a lot to do with it. There’s nobody here who wanted to have to do business with an old blackie. A black man owning a business—whoever heard of that? Ebo should have kept on sweeping the place and been happy with that and not got so uppity, ain’t that right?”