(1995) The Oath (13 page)

“Stay out of trouble,” she said, and got in her car.

They drove away in opposite directions.

EVELYN STILL
wasn’t all there, Steve thought. She’d seemed so well, so like herself the other day, but today she seemed vague and sketchy in her thinking and conversation.

She might have a long road back, Steve thought.

“I have dreams,” she said, lying on her back and staring vacantly at the ceiling.

They’d gotten around to That Night after talking about anything and everything else. He told her he’d been to Hyde River, but he withheld more than he shared. As far as Evelyn knew, the trip to Hyde River had been unfruitful but had raised some “other possibilities” Steve was going to look into. Evelyn asked no questions, so Steve let it go. He did not tell her what he’d learned about Cliff and Maggie. He didn’t know if he ever could.

Now, as Evelyn tried to recall something, anything, she began drifting between reality and . . . he didn’t know what.

“I have dreams that keep coming back.”

Steve stayed close, listening but expecting little.

“I keep seeing a big black thing coming out of the dark. And I hear it, I feel it thrashing around, and I feel blood splashing all over me.” She shivered.

Steve asked softly, “What about people? Are there any people in your dreams?”

She continued to stare vacantly and slowly shook her head. “No. No people. Only a big black thing.”

“What about your knife? Do you fight back? Do you use your knife?”

“Yes. I stab at it. I just keep stabbing and stabbing.”

“Where is Cliff? Is he in your dreams?”

Tears came to her eyes as she whispered, “No. He’s gone. He’s gone, and all I see is a shadow where he used to be.”

THE TRAVELER MOTEL
on Route
16
catered to vacationers traveling south, away from Clark County and Hyde Valley. Tracy knew that few people from Hyde River would ever come this way or notice this place unless they were on vacation, so Tracy had brought Maggie here, not in her patrol car but in her own Ford Ranger. Maggie had registered under a false name.

Now they were in Maggie’s room, Number
12
. Tracy stood by the door in jeans and a light blue workshirt, the incognito civilian. Maggie sat on the bed. “So what now?” she asked, timid and bewildered.

“Just sit tight for a few days. Take some walks down by the lake, see a movie. You need to breathe free for a while, and I need to find out what’s going on without having to worry about you.”

Maggie bent just a little and looked out the window at the sky. “He might see me.”

“Maggie, come on. This far away?”

“I don’t know . . .”

“I’ll be back tomorrow to check on you.”

They said good-bye, and Tracy drove away.

EARLY THAT EVENING
, Steve sat in a lawn chair by the little kidney-shaped pool at the Tamarack Motel, thinking, making notes, trying to clarify where things stood, and not getting very far. All he could think about was Cliff, the kid brother he would never see again; all he could see before his mind’s eye were the memories, some of them so hilarious now:

The hot-air blimp Cliff tried to make out of laundry bags when he was fourteen. It flew for maybe one minute before it landed on Mr. Sorenson’s barn and set it on fire.

Cliff spending all his summer earnings on a gutless Chevy with drag slicks and stuck valves; boy, it looked great, but it couldn’t even climb a hill, much less race anybody. Cliff thought it would impress the girls, but it never got out of the driveway.

That stupid dock Cliff built out of inner tubes and old pallets. It was his revolutionary design: portable, quickly assembled, quickly torn down, easy to maintain. He was going to get it patented and become a millionaire. You couldn’t walk on it—it flipped over the first time they tried.

But that was Cliff, always running off half-cocked after some crazy idea and always getting a lecture from his big brother when he got back. They were a pair: the imp and the intellectual, the clown and the straight man, the kid who stayed a kid and the older brother who never got to be one.

Cliff was nine and Steve was fourteen when their folks split up and their dad moved out of state. As a result, Steve quickly found himself in the role of the father, skipping his teenage years entirely to look out for his mother and his carefree brother. Cliff almost forced it on him. Whenever he was in trouble, Cliff came to Steve, and Steve was always there for him.

But now those days of childhood were long past, Cliff was gone, killed in an unbelievably gruesome way, and Steve was left alone in the confusing, devastating present. He began to shake with emotion and turned away from the motel building so that no one would see the tears streaming down his face.

After several minutes, he sat back in the chair, wiped his eyes and nose with a handkerchief, and wondered if perhaps Tracy Ellis was right. Maybe he was too close to the situation to be investigating Cliff’s death. With such a load of grief and outrage, it was nearly impossible to be objective and clear-headed, and he’d demonstrated that to himself and to Tracy Ellis despite his best efforts.

But what else could he do? With Cliff’s death unexplained and unresolved, and now, with foul play being considered, he had to be here; he could do nothing less. He couldn’t rest until he had the answers.

With a deep breath and a determination to press ahead despite his feelings, he referred to some notes he’d scribbled on the writing pad in his lap. He had discovered long ago that writing things down helped him organize his thoughts, helped him see what was important, and helped him find solutions. He had written down three topics:

The killing. The greatest riddle, of course. Tracking down and shooting a rogue bear would have been simple. Now he knew less and had more questions than when he’d started, and worst of all, he might be expected to trust others to solve the whole thing while all he did was sit at home fretting about it. That just couldn’t happen, not as long as—

Steve jumped a little. Oh. The motel owner’s big tabby cat, that’s what it was, letting out a long, low growl—the strange sound that people who didn’t know cats were always surprised that they made—from the bushes nearby. Steve settled back into his chair, having demonstrated to himself a secondary burden: his shattered nerves.

Next topic:

The affair. This topic could be broken down into two categories: (
1
) How the affair could suggest a human perpetrator in Cliff’s death, unthinkable though that may be, and (
2
) How in the world Cliff could be so foolish as to get tangled up with that semi-deranged woman in the first place; how he could be so intoxicated that he gave no thought to what his escapade would do to Evelyn and the boys—and to Maggie Bly’s husband. From all appearances, which Cliff should have seen, Hyde River was definitely a bad choice of towns for starting an affair, and Harold Bly’s wife was definitely the wrong woman.

Cliff, you sure did it this time. If only I’d known . . .

He was getting upset again, so he went on to the next topic:

The myths and superstitions of Hyde River. Now here was something he knew nothing about, but apparently he’d come close to getting clobbered because of it. If there had been foul play, this would be a factor—

Crunch. Crunch. A faint sound.

Crunch.

Steve looked in the direction of the sound—and froze in horror at the sight. Under another lawn chair nearby, the big tabby crouched, his face close to the concrete. He was chomping, chewing, licking a large mouse. The lower half of the mouse sat on its haunches, lifeless, rocking to and fro with the cat’s jaws. The upper half was gone, snipped off. The lower half ended in a red stump . . .

THE BARTENDER
at Harvey’s Restaurant and Lounge asked Steve if he’d been jogging. Steve only asked for a table in the corner and a stiff drink. He had no recollection of his long run down the road from the motel, and he wasn’t entirely sure where he was.

He was sweating and breathing hard. He couldn’t think.

The drink arrived and he gulped it down, the liquor burning his throat. He was still shaking. He couldn’t stop.

IT WAS DARK
enough to get away with spreading a little terror without being seen, so this night six huge men, all wearing black hoods to hide their faces, got together to make a few things abundantly clear to young Kyle Figgin. Kyle was bound hand and foot, kicking, squirming, trying in vain to free himself from their iron grip as they carried him like pallbearers, three on a side, his body flat out and face down. They rushed along, letting Kyle’s head and face take the lead through the tall grass and prickly underbrush until they got to the edge of the river. Kyle was screaming, but his screams were only pitiful squawks through the gag they’d crammed into his mouth.

When they reached the river they didn’t slow down but splashed headlong into the current until the water rose to their knees—and Kyle’s face. Then they shoved him under and held him there.

Moments passed. Kyle started kicking so hard they could barely hang onto him.

“Okay,” said the ringleader, who stood by Kyle’s head, and they raised him just enough so he could suck some frantic breaths through his half-clogged nose. The ringleader bent to speak into Kyle’s ear. “You don’t talk to outsiders, Mr. Figgin. Not a word. We just want to make you aware of that, you understand?”

Kyle didn’t have time to grunt, nod, or scream an answer before they dunked him under the water again and held him there only seconds short of his life. When they raised him up again, he was pulling and snorting air through his clogged nose, desperate to stay alive.

The ringleader let go of Kyle’s arm long enough to untie the gag and yank the rag from Kyle’s mouth. “Don’t scream.”

Kyle didn’t scream; he was too busy breathing—and crying, totally repentant.

“Don’t feel too bad about it, son. We’ve all been here one time or another. Just don’t forget, that’s all.”

With a glance from the ringleader, one of the men holding Kyle’s feet cut away the ropes with a knife. Then they dropped him face first into the river and let the current carry him along as he struggled to right himself in the shallow water, his arms still bound behind him, his face dipping again and again under the rippling, splashing surface.

He was a good distance down the river by the time he finally got his feet under him and could push, kick, and half-float his way to the shore. Then he flopped on the smooth rocks and wept like a child, gasping and coughing, glad just to be alive.

By the time he’d recovered, he was alone, without tormentors but also without help. He’d washed up on the opposite side of the river. Somehow he’d have to cross again to get home, and his arms were still tied behind him.

It would be a very long night for Kyle Figgin.

NIGHT CAME
, and in the vast mountainous regions beyond the city lights, the darkness was thick and absolute, enfolding the forests, blanketing the valleys, reducing the ridges to the faintest of jagged lines against the clouded sky. The air was cool and still as the sounds of night took their turns: the crickets up close and all around, the frogs farther in the distance, the coyotes howling and chattering in a faraway, other world.

Fully dressed, Maggie Bly lay on her bed in the dark, her face illuminated by the cold yellow of the motel’s yardlight. She was looking out the window and listening. The light gave her a sickly complexion, but her eyes were alert and attentive. Her lips betrayed a faint smile, her first in days. She felt at ease, relaxed. Absently, she scratched at the area directly over her heart while a stain, black and odorous, began to spread in a widening circle, saturating her scooped-neck cotton shirt and blackening her fingers.

She rose from the bed and went to the window, her eyes dreamy and her smile broadening. Then she listened, as if to sweet music, her head swaying lazily from side to side. The dread, the fear, was leaving her. She couldn’t help but giggle.

ELMER AND BERTHA
MCCOY
sat in the darkened living room of their mobile home amid TV trays, beer cans, and cigarette butts watching the late show, their stony faces lit by the bluish glow of the television. After the late show, as they did every night, they would take turns washing up in the bathroom and then go to bed. This was all in the routine, as was the two dogs out front barking at nothing in particular as they did every night.

But something was different. The dogs’ barking was usually sporadic, background sound that barely registered with the McCoys. But that night the barking was louder, insistent, continuous. It was enough to force Elmer out of the soft couch and to the window. “Hey!” he yelled. “Shut up out there. Knock it off!”

But then he thought he heard singing somewhere out in the dark. Griz yapped again.

“Shut up!” Elmer turned to his wife. “Turn down the TV for a second.” She pressed the mute button, and Elmer stood at the window, frowning as he tried to hear the strange sound. Even though both dogs kept barking, Elmer could still hear the singing between their barks, a woman’s voice far away, barely audible, then ever so gradually, getting louder. She must be coming up the road toward their trailer.

By now Bertha was curious. “What is it?”

Elmer only motioned her to be quiet. She got up and joined him at the window.

She heard it, too. “Somebody out there singing this time of night?”

When Elmer recognized the voice, he whispered, “It’s Maggie Bly.”

“No, it isn’t!” Bertha whispered in denial, immediately clinging to his arm.

As they stood there, the voice grew louder, moving eerily up the road.

“It’s her,” Elmer whispered.

Bertha clung to him tighter, hurting his arm.

It was Maggie’s voice all right, a very good voice but strange and haunting. She was singing a lonesome country tune about a good man loved and lost, and love never coming again. Then, from behind the big cottonwood in their front yard, a silhouette emerged: Maggie Bly, strolling along the white center line, easy and carefree, singing her mournful song, her hands clutching her heart.