(1995) The Oath (22 page)

It was ironic, Ron thought, that one of his own church members was giving him a sermon. But, then, Levi gave a lot of sermons. Ron relaxed a little. “What is it with people, anyway?”

Levi repeated an old theme, “You haven’t figured that out yet?”

Ron waved it all aside. “I don’t want to talk about it. We’ve got to get this roof back on before it rains.”

“I’ve got some people I can call. Maybe they can finish the job for us.”

“Great.” Then Ron added, “But Levi, be careful about Vic. He’s a man with a lot of anger. He could hurt you.”

“I know.”

Levi said nothing more, but it wasn’t Vic or his threats that had triggered Levi’s fears. It was the anguish he could sense in Vic’s soul, the fear in the man’s eyes, the gun under his jacket—and the faint stain Levi saw on Vic’s shirt, right over his heart, soaking through like sweat and smelling like death.

THAT NIGHT
, Vic Moore wouldn’t quit talking. He was resolutely planted on a bar stool at Charlie’s, throwing back beers and running down the same list, over and over.

“Now Taylor’s place, that was a classic! Bid that job out at forty grand. Know how much it cost me to build it? Twenty! Taylors were happy, and you bet I was happy!” Then he couldn’t help laughing. “Hope they never check the insulation under the floor— it isn’t there!”

After that came the saga of Ike Buhler’s cabin on June Lake, at least six inches out of level because Vic had forgotten to bring his transit but went ahead and guessed. The justification: “Aw, it’s clear up there on the lake. Nobody’s gonna see it.”

People came and went, buying drinks, having dinner, shooting some pool, and every one of them heard at least one of Vic’s stories of shoddy workmanship or shady dealing, how he’d gotten away with it, and how much money he had pocketed.

Behind the bar, Charlie was quiet, edgy, distracted. Every loud boast frayed his nerves a little more. He didn’t know what to do with this guy. The other patrons were trying to ignore Vic’s ramblings, but Vic was getting more pleased with himself and talking louder with each recollection he shared.

“Saved on roofing nails, saved on lumber, saved on hangers— Charlie!”

Charlie jumped a little. His hands were shaking as it was. He’d been drying glasses behind the bar just to give his hands something to do. “Yeah, Vic?”

“How many earthquakes we get around here? We get a lot of ’em?”

“No. Not very often.”

Vic smiled and nodded, recalling another job. “Won’t make any difference, then. Saved on labor. It’ll stay there.” He turned to Paul, who was in his usual spot at the end of the bar. “People trust me, you know? I’ve got a reputation around here.”

Paul muttered without turning around, “Not after today, you don’t!” Then he went right on watching the baseball game on the television suspended above the bar.

“Yeah,” said Vic, continuing his monologue as if Paul hadn’t said anything, “I come up with good cost-saving ideas, so I can give people a good price.” He pondered his own glory for a moment and then agreed with himself, “Yeah, I do all right.” Then he turned to Paul again. “Hey, Paul!”

Paul rolled his eyes but didn’t look at Vic.

“Did I ever tell you what I did to Homer Kirby? He was up there at Smyths doing that remodel, remember that? Remember how he got fired for drinking on the job?” He lowered his voice. “Hey, I was responsible for that. I waited ’til Homer knocked off for the day, and then I went up there and tossed beer cans all over the yard.” He tried to take a swallow of beer but couldn’t hold back a laugh, and he spit the beer all over the bar. “Wish I coulda seen old man Smyth come home and blow his stack. He sure was happy I could fit him into my schedule, let me tell you. That’s what Homer gets for trying to underbid me. That don’t sit too well with me, you know?”

Phil Garrett was trying to shoot pool with Kyle Figgin and Carl Ingfeldt. It was his turn to shoot, but he kept staring at Vic.

“They’re never gonna get that church roof done. I’ve got friends, you know that? Red Johnson’s my friend. He’ll never sign that place off. And who’s that guy at the county, you know, with the road crew? Paul? Who’s that guy—”

“Wally Neddleton,” said Paul without looking away from the ball game.

“Neddleton, yeah. I’ll just have a little talk with him about that Levi Cobb.” He took a swig of beer. “Cobb’s never gonna see another county job when I get through.”

Phil Garrett finally shouted, “Charlie! Make him shut up!”

Charlie was still standing behind the bar drying glasses and feeling scared. Phil’s order only intimidated him further. He went to Vic and spoke quietly, “Vic, you about done with your drink?”

Vic was offended. “No, I am not.”

“Well, I, uh . . .”

Suddenly Charlie found himself pulled halfway over the bar by his collar, nose to nose with Vic. “Hey, Charlie. Wanna play tough guy?”

Charlie was speechless. Vic let Charlie go with a little shove so that he almost fell backward, then laughed at him. “Whatsamatter, Charlie? I scare you?”

By now, everyone in Charlie’s was watching. Vic turned and spoke to the other patrons. “Nobody—nobody—tells me what to do. I do what I want, when I want. You all know that, now don’t you?”

They were silent, gawking at him.

“Well, what are you staring at?”

At the table nearest the door, a miner named Jack Carlson and his wife Amy reached for their coats. Kyle Figgin moved away from the pool table.

Vic was nonplussed. “I’m just telling you, don’t take it so serious. Goodies go to the grabbers; ain’t that right, Paul?”

But Paul was getting up to leave as well.

Charlie tapped on Vic’s shoulder. “Vic—I got something for you.”

Vic turned to see a full bottle of Jack Daniels in Charlie’s hand. He got the message. He took the bottle, and got up from the bar.

“Thanks for coming in,” said Charlie.

“Be seeing you,” said Vic, pleased.

On his way out, Vic noticed Carlotta Nelson sitting with Andy Schuller and stepped toward her. “Hey, Carlotta—”

She cowered under his gaze. “No, Vic. Not tonight, no way.”

“Aw, c’mon.”

Andy spoke up, “You heard her, Vic.”

Vic glowered at Andy for a moment and then he pulled back his jacket to reveal the gun. He waited until he’d gotten just the right amount of wide-eyed fear from both of them and then enjoyed another laugh as he let his jacket fall back into place. “Whatsamatter? Did I scare you?”

“That’s not funny!” Andy said.

Vic only laughed at him and then went out the door.

The place was dead quiet. The video games in the corner bleeped and warbled to themselves; nobody was playing. A ball player slammed a triple on the television, but nobody noticed.

Charlie grabbed another bottle of whiskey and with shaking hands poured himself a stiff drink. He downed it in one gulp.

Andy made a face. “Shew! He smelled like a dead rat.”

Charlie spoke to no one in particular, “Probably too drunk to drive.”

Jack and Amy, who had their coats on now, looked out, and Jack reported, “He isn’t driving. He’s walking up the middle of the road.”

The shot glass dropped out of Charlie’s hand and clattered on the bar. He grabbed it quickly then wiped the bar frantically with a cloth.

Phil fumbled a bit with his cue stick, then tried to line up a shot. He missed by a mile.

Conversation started again. Now that Vic had gone, Jack and Amy took off their jackets and went back to their table, but Paul paid his tab and left. It was Phil’s turn again, and he leaned over the pool table to sink the nine ball in the corner.

“You think maybe he’s—uh—” Andy Schuller wondered.

“NO!” Phil shouted. “He’s drunk. He’s just drunk and that’s all!”

“Well,” said Carl, “it ain’t me, so I ain’t gonna think about it.”

Phil tried the shot again and missed again.

When Charlie was satisfied all eyes were elsewhere, he ducked into the kitchen, went past the big iron sink and the hanging pots and pans, and grabbed the phone hanging on the wall by the back door. His hands were still shaking as he read the phone number off the back of a business card and tried to dial it.

STEVE HAD
rented a hookup at the White Tail RV Park about ten miles south of Hyde River. It was a no-frills setup with twenty hookups and a set of restrooms with no paper towels, but almost all the spaces were filled with campers and trailers, families and groups of guys, all out to hook trout the next morning. When the cellular phone warbled from its rack above the sink, he was half expecting the phony Frenchman.

He wasn’t disappointed.

“
Monsieur
Benson!”

“Well, the Frenchman! How are you?”

The man’s voice was hushed, tense. “Listen, listen to me! I think there is going to be another death at Hyde Hall tonight!”

Steve sat up straight. “How do you know?”

The voice on the other end of the line was frantic, filled with fear. “He . . . was just here. He is going to Hyde Hall right now!”

“Who?”

CHARLIE KEPT
his voice down and his eyes on the kitchen door. “His name is Vic Moore. He was talking crazy tonight—he is going up the road right now, going to Old Town!”

“Right now?”

“Right now! If you hurry, maybe you can catch the dragon before he gets away!”

Steve hesitated. “I’d be trespassing down there; I suppose you know that.”

“If you miss your chance, you will know by tomorrow when Vic Moore is dead!”

Charlie hung up, shaking like a leaf. Enough said. Let the great hunter take it from there. Please.

STEVE BURST
from the back door of his camper and yanked the power cord from the hookup. This was crazy. Risk trespassing in Old Town again, and for what? A wild tip? He hadn’t resolved his argument with himself even as he jumped into the cab, cranked the engine over, and pulled out.

Should he call Tracy? he wondered. Then he realized he couldn’t call her now—the phone was still in the back. He’d call her once he got there if he decided to proceed. But could he trust the tipster? He would be taking a risk, no question, but it might be worth it. He’d wait until he got to Old Town to make a decision.

He drove through Hyde River at well above the speed limit but didn’t seem to draw any attention. The lights were on at Charlie’s, and some rigs were parked outside. Apart from that, the sleepy little town looked deserted.

He came to the dirt road that veered off the highway just past the grove of cottonwoods. It was blocked, of course, but now he’d been back there, he knew the way, and he could make it quickly on foot. His heart was racing; he was primed. With no conscious decision to proceed he proceeded, leaving the camper beside the highway, bounding over the dirt berm and down the overgrown road to Old Town, a flashlight in one hand, his shotgun in the other, and the .
357
on his hip. He’d neglected to call Tracy Ellis.

He swerved and dodged through the grass and brush. He could tell someone had passed by here recently because the tall grass was pressed down in the direction of Old Town. It could have been Levi, Tracy, or the spies for Harold Bly, or—it could be what’s-his-name, if the Frenchman’s tip was reliable.

He stopped to listen. Was that laughter?

Yes. A man was laughing somewhere in the dark, somewhere in Old Town. The eerie sound of it perfectly matched the surrealistic, deathlike surroundings, and Steve felt a chill.

Now the man was talking. But to whom? It was the unheard, the unseen, the unknown, that frightened him. Suddenly Levi’s words, “Ghosts . . . the place is haunted . . . the devil lives here . . .” carried a lot more weight.

He extinguished his light, though he hated to do so, chambered a shell in the shotgun, then stole along in the deepening shadows of the night, his eyes finally beginning to discern the dark shapes of trees and bushes ahead of him as the grass rustled and hissed around his legs.

Yes, he could hear the man’s voice plainly now, hollering and whooping as if having a one-man party. Maybe the Frenchman was right, and yet . . . this was bizarre.

What am I walking into? Steve wondered.

The wind kicked up, the first real wind of the night, rushing through the tall cottonwoods, making the leaves flutter in the dark, drowning out the man’s voice. Steve kept moving. Hyde Hall. He had to get there.

Steve reached the main road through Old Town and stopped to listen, to observe. The ruins were barely visible in the dark. The trees just beyond were swaying lazily, the wind the only sound.

He heard the voice again, a little quieter but still going on and on about something. It was definitely in the direction of Hyde Hall. Steve pressed on, hoping the sigh of the wind would drown out the rustling of his footsteps.

Suddenly Steve felt a gust of wind. It was strong, forceful, rolling through the treetops and sweeping down the old street like a wave, rippling the grass, shaking the brush, and nearly knocking him over.

Then, just above the rush of that wind, came a scream. Then another scream, this one muted. Then there was a silence.

Vic Moore was definitely not alone out there. Someone—or something—had gotten him.

Steve’s fear vanished. He charged like an animal, running headlong down the street, his flashlight still out.

Hyde Hall loomed up on the right. He stopped. He listened.

The wind was gone. The place was eerily quiet.

He could hear no sound except that of his own pounding heart.

He approached Hyde Hall like a hunter stalking his prey, first a step, then listen and watch, then a few more steps, then listen and watch, staying low, looking around, listening, his finger on the trigger of the shotgun.

The place was dead. Silent.

Steve reached the foundation and stepped over it. He listened again. There was no sound, so he clicked on the flashlight. The beam stunned his night-sensitive eyes, but it revealed nothing out of place. No breakage, no body, no signs of—

Wait. Here was something new. Not far from the big flat stone in the center of the building, almost in the same spot where Levi had found Maggie’s purse, was a broken bottle. Steve approached and examined it in his light without touching it.