(1995) The Oath (17 page)
Vic bristled at that. “And you talked to her!”
Levi looked puzzled. “She’s Tracy Ellis, Vic! She grew up here. She knows about all this stuff!”
“She’s a cop,” Vic countered. “She’s working for outside people. She’s working for the law.”
“So what did you tell her?” Carl demanded.
Levi shrugged. “Gave her my opinion. Told her I thought the dragon got him.”
That seemed to be the only word that offended these guys. Andy shoved his way toward the front. “Why you—”
Levi gestured with the knife as Vic held Andy back. “Now, come on, just take a long look at how it’ll go. You know Tracy and how she feels about my opinions. You know Collins, too, and where he stands. Soon as you bring in the dragon, he pulls out. And that’s what happened. I got a call from him this morning, and he wanted to be sure I got the word: They’ve decided a grizz got the photographer and Maggie’s just taken off and Harold’s in the right as always and I should just go about my business and forget about the whole thing. As for that professor, I understand he’s packing up and leaving, so that’s that. Sure, I took a little chance, but now the cops aren’t asking any more questions, the professor’s gone, and everything’s over, nice and smooth.”
The men looked at one another, as if deciding whether or not they agreed with Levi’s actions.
“As for the widow,” Levi continued in an even tone, “she’s out of this thing. Maybe she’ll learn what her husband was doing and maybe not, but at least she can go home and get on with her life.”
Vic asked, “So what if the cops come back?”
Levi couldn’t believe he’d heard such a question. “Vic, have they ever come back?”
Vic and his buddies visibly relaxed. Vic turned toward the door, then turned back as if needing to get in the last word. “Cobb, someday you’re gonna say too much. You watch yourself.”
“Nice talking to you,” said Levi.
“
JUST ONCE
, just once I’d like one straight answer to a question, I’d like—I’d like—” Steve caught himself ranting out loud and stopped. He was getting as bad as Levi. He threw down his notebook and slumped in the chair by the table in his motel room. Should he just pack up, leave, and drop the whole matter? If he did, the death of his brother, and its true cause, would haunt him forever. Should he stay and investigate further? Where? What? Who could he talk to? Who would talk to him? The police were no longer with him, and the local folks had been against him from the start.
And what about Evelyn? What could he tell her, and what point would there be in doing so? He couldn’t prove Cliff was killed by a bear, but he couldn’t prove otherwise, so why cast doubt on the bear theory and raise all the other questions that would only hurt her? If it wasn’t a bear, then Cliff was murdered. If Cliff was murdered, then there had to be a reason: the affair. But with Maggie gone, and actually, he didn’t know if she was dead or alive, there was no way to prove the affair had ever happened. So why tell Evelyn when so little could be established anyway?
And what about Evelyn’s memory? That might still return, and then—
The phone rang. This was either going to be the key to it all or more confusion, he thought.
He grabbed up the phone beside the bed. “Hello.”
“Steve? Dan Cramer.”
Steve sat on the bed. Dan Cramer was a biochemist at the university. At the sound of Dan’s voice Steve remembered: the saliva sample taken from Cliff’s body! In all the tangle of other information and events he’d forgotten about it. “Dan, hi. What’s up?”
“Well, I don’t know.” Dan had a hint of laughter in his voice as if he’d just been the victim of a practical joke. “FedEx just delivered your saliva sample, and I’ve run some tests on it.”
“Yeah?” Steve said, trying to hold back his impatience. Come on, Dan, just tell me.
“Well, first of all, we ran the electrophoresis, and it wasn’t bear saliva, and it wasn’t human. As a matter of fact, the bands we got ruled out any kind of mammal.”
“No mammalian indications at all?”
“No. The DNA rules that out.”
Great. More noninformation. “Well, is it saliva?”
“Oh, it’s saliva, all right, but you’re in the wrong part of the country to be sending in samples like this. Looking at the amino acids and the enzymes, I’d say you’ve got a reptile.”
Steve’s mind came to an abrupt halt as if hitting a wall. “What?”
“It’s a common pattern for large lizards. The closest match would be . . . oh, black tagu, savannah monitor, something along that line.” There was a protracted silence. “Steve?”
“Dan, this was my brother. I really hope this isn’t a joke—”
Dan was firm. “Steve, this is no joke. I’m giving it to you straight.”
“You’re sure? You didn’t get the samples mixed up or anything?”
“No, I gave this one priority.”
“Can you fax your report to me?”
“What’s the number?”
Steve realized as soon as he said it that he had no number. He didn’t even know where he might find a fax machine. “I don’t know what I was thinking. I doubt if they’ve ever seen a fax machine in this town.”
“What’s the address?”
Steve ran a hand through his hair. This was exasperating. “My sister-in-law is getting out of the hospital today. I was thinking of checking out of this place.”
“Well, if you’re through up there you can just see the report when you get back.”
Steve made an instant decision. “I realize I’m not through up here yet. I might stay a little longer. Listen, as soon as I know for sure what I’m doing and where I’ll be, I’ll call you.” Reptile? Large lizard? “I may be here awhile.”
IF CHARLIE MACK
was moving up in the world, he sure didn’t feel like it. Sure, he was getting help from some of his patrons— the ones who didn’t mind working—and Harold Bly had sent some men over. They had cut a nice-size doorway through the wall between the tavern and the mercantile. But he had really hoped Harold would help supervise the operation. Charlie was finding it almost impossible to run one business while renovating the other. He was constantly running back and forth through that doorway to keep things moving, and his feet were starting to hurt, his patience was growing short, and—
“Hey!” he shouted to two men on ladders. “Where’re you going with that?”
They were trying to lower an old Indian canoe from the ceiling of the mercantile but had underestimated its weight. “Not far, Charlie.”
“Well, just leave it there, leave it there.”
“Thanks.”
“Let’s get going on the floor, guys. We have to scrub the whole thing so we can paint it.”
“Where’re the mops?”
“Back of the tavern.”
“Where?”
He yelled, “Ask Melinda!”
Oh, well. Sure, it was busy, hectic, about to drive him crazy, but someday it would all be worth it. Someday this place would be rolling right along, doing business like it used to before Ebo Denning bought it. Someday Charlie would be able to pay Harold back, and it would all be his.
If he lived long enough.
He went behind the old oak counter and pretended to tinker with the cash register, a new digital machine he didn’t even know how to operate. The thing came with instructions, but he hadn’t read them. He couldn’t keep his mind on it. His hand went to his chest, and he rubbed a burning itch over his heart. It was worse today. When it had first shown up a week ago, he thought it must be heartburn. But it wouldn’t go away, not even with Alka-Seltzer.
It had to be nerves. Sure, that’s what it was, with all the stress and the bookwork and the inventory—nerves. Stress. Hives, maybe.
Or maybe it was Harold. Harold had . . . connections. He had heard Harold could make things like this happen.
What if Harold’s trying to muscle me out? He buys into the business, then gets rid of his partner, and everything becomes his, just like the rest of this town! Well, Charlie had dreams, ambitions, and they did not necessarily include Harold Bly. Harold had his empire already. Charlie wanted one of his own, even if it was a little one. He deserved it.
Charlie struck the counter with his fist. I deserve it, he thought. I deserved it when Sam Calley had this place, before he sold it to Ebo!
Sam’s selling a store to Ebo Denning five years ago had erased Sam Calley from Charlie’s list of friends, and it was only Ebo’s leaving that finally made things right. Sure, Ebo had taken good care of the place. The mercantile was well stocked and well organized when Charlie bought it, with all the dry goods neatly arranged on shelves and the aisles clearly designated according to contents. But as far as Charlie was concerned, it was still Ebo’s mercantile; it still bore his personality, his style, and Charlie couldn’t stand having the slightest reminder of that black man around.
So the old photographs of miners, loggers, and pioneer families had to come down from the walls only because Ebo had hung them there; the huge whipsaw came down from the ceiling so a mural could be painted on it and it could be rehung as something new and improved and not Ebo’s whipsaw. The antique tools hanging all around the ceiling, all the old hammers, saws, and plows, the wringer washer, the bunghole bore, and the blacksmith’s tools could stay since they’d belonged to the original settlers of the town and the townsfolk would miss them. But Charlie rearranged them his way; they could not remain where Ebo had them. The Indian canoe would be a problem, but he’d deal with that later. Ebo’s old cash register was gone, and good riddance.
“Charlie!” It was Doug, dropping by for a look-see and carrying a cold bottle of beer.
“Oh, hi, Doug. What do you think?”
“Looking good, Charlie,” Doug said, clearly impressed. “I mean, like it’s gonna look good.”
“What are you up to these days?”
“Running the skidder for Harold. We’re logging off that forty acres above Black Rock.”
Charlie nodded approvingly. “Great to be working, I’ll bet.”
“You know it.”
There was a pause. Charlie tried to sound disinterested as he asked offhandedly, “So whatever became of that bear thing?”
Doug smiled a little. “Talked to Vic Moore this morning. It’s over. Sheriff settled on the bear, the grizzly they shot. So we were right. The cops are out of it, and that wimpy prof who thinks he’s a hunter is packing it up and leaving.”
Charlie forced a smile and leaned on the cash register. “He’s going, eh?”
“Yeah, and it’s a good thing for him. A guy like that just wouldn’t do very well around here.”
“Well, he shot Herman!”
“Hey, any one of us could have shot Herman. It don’t take a college education to do that.” He took another swig of his beer, then regarded Charlie. “You feeling okay? You don’t look so hot.”
Charlie rubbed his forehead with the back of his hand. “Just working too hard, I guess.”
“Well, quit worrying,” Doug said, then went over to talk to Andy Schuller and Carl Ingfeldt, who were doing the finishing work on the new doorway.
As soon as Doug walked away, Charlie hurried into the storeroom in the back, past the floor-to-ceiling shelves and into the small washroom. He closed the door and locked it, then leaned over the toilet, his arms braced against the wall, afraid he might throw up. He gasped for breath, trying to calm himself, waiting for the trembling to stop.
The hunter was leaving? The cops were dropping the whole case? So now things would go on as before. Now . . .
He went to the mirror over the sink and unbuttoned his shirt. The sore, red spot was not only still there, it was worse. The red rash had turned a dark brown, and there was an odor coming from it. He hurriedly pulled some paper towels from the dispenser, ran some cold water over them, and tried to dab the area clean. Some brown ooze came off on the towel, but the mark itself wouldn’t go away. He held the wet towel there for a long moment as if the cool water would relieve the fierce burning, but there was no relief.
He began to shudder. “Oh, please. I’m only trying to survive around here. I didn’t mean it—please—I swear, I didn’t mean it.”
One of the more bizarre incidents of the great flood of
1953
was the washing out of the Hyde River Cemetery in which some thirty-six coffins were unearthed and carried away by the raging floodwaters. Of the thirty-three coffins recovered, eighteen contained no remains and were apparently buried empty. What became of the bodies? Were there any bodies to begin with? The secret of the empty coffins was buried with them in a new cemetery and has remained a mystery to this day.
From
World of the Dim Unknown: True Accounts of the Bizarre and the Supernatural,
edited by Fraser Sullivan
T
HURSDAY
AFTERNOON
, four days after the trucker found her on Wells Peak, Evelyn was ready to go home. Her physical strength had returned; her injuries, none of them major, were well on their way to healing. Being home again with her sons, the dog, and her folks would be the best medicine.
Her son Travis, athletic and handsome at eighteen, had driven the family pickup with its camper back from the parking area at the base of the Staircase Trail. Now, with Travis driving, her mother, Audrey, sitting beside her, and her father, Elbert, following in his Ford, Evelyn stopped by the Tamarack Motel in West Fork to visit with Steve one more time before heading back over Johnson’s Pass to Oak Springs and home. They met in the parking lot outside Steve’s room. Evelyn wanted to be outdoors, in the sunshine. She had asked her parents and her son for a few private moments with Steve.
“You look great,” Steve said, and meant it.
“I’m standing. I’m walking, I’m talking. That’s got to be some improvement.”
Evelyn wasn’t beautiful in the traditional sense, but Steve had always thought her very attractive. She was tall and strong, normally had a mischievous glint in her eyes, and tended to face life with a patiently assertive nature and a sense of humor that he had always admired.
“So we know about me,” she said. “How are you doing?”
He knew she wouldn’t accept any answer but an honest one. “I’m sad, I’m angry, I’m unsettled.”