(1995) The Oath (31 page)

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-bedroom 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.

“Charlie,” Tracy began, “do you know why we’re here?”

Charlie looked at Steve. “You’re back. You came back.”

Steve nodded. “I thought we should talk face to face.”

Charlie looked at Tracy. “Vic Moore is gone; did you know that?” Before she could answer, Charlie turned to Steve. “Did you see anything down in Old Town?”

“So you’re the Frenchman?” Steve asked.

Charlie sat there dumbfounded, caught and speechless.

Tracy touched his arm. “Charlie, it’s okay, we’re here to help.”

Charlie swallowed, his throat dry. “It—it wants me next. Please—you can’t let it take me!”

“Can’t let what take you?” Steve asked.

It was as if Charlie’s brain had malfunctioned. He looked at Steve and tried to answer, but his mouth refused to form the words.

Steve took over. “Charlie, listen. We both went back to Old Town Friday night, the night after Vic disappeared. We staked the place out, and we saw something.”

“Aaaaawww . . .” Charlie let out a weak little wail of terror and put his finger in his mouth.

Steve quickly recapped the previous night’s events, saying only as much as he thought the trembling man could take. Charlie drew no comfort from the tale, that was obvious.

“Did you kill it?” Charlie cried. “Did you kill it?”

Steve was sorry to answer. “No. It got away.”

Charlie wailed louder as he clutched his heart. “Now we’re all dead! You didn’t kill it. Now it’s only madder!”

Tracy insisted, “Charlie, do you know what it is?”

The very question terrified him, and his brain seemed to go on the fritz again.

Steve pressed the question. “We saw something, Charlie. We heard it, we tracked it all night. So there’s more to this thing than just—” Steve didn’t want to say superstition, not to Charlie.

“You’ve got to kill it! You’ve got to kill it before it takes us all!”

“We need your help, Charlie. You need to tell us anything you know about the creature.”

“The cops never do anything. They just stand around and do what Harold tells them.”

That annoyed Tracy a bit, but she wasn’t about to argue with someone half out of his mind.

Charlie leaned toward Steve in earnest. “I thought you could do it! You’re an outsider, you don’t owe anybody anything, you’re not afraid, you could do it! You’ve got to do it, do it before the dragon finds out—” Having let that dreadful word slip, he cried out in pain, and looked about the room as if the thing would come through the walls at him. “Aawww, I can’t tell you!”

“Why not?” Tracy demanded.

He looked at her dumbly.

“Why not?” she demanded again.

“You—you talk about it, it gets mad, and you get killed.”

Tracy looked around the room. “So, if you don’t talk about it you’re going to get killed anyway, right?” He couldn’t answer. “Did Vic ever tell anybody about the dragon?”

“No.”

“So what happened to him?”

At the thought of Vic, Charlie just stuttered.

“So what difference does it make?”

“I—I can’t.”

Tracy stood up. “Okay, Charlie. Tell you what. You help us; we’ll help you. You keep stonewalling, and we’re out of here. It’ll be just you and the dragon; he can have you anytime he wants.”

It was as if she’d dropped a stick of dynamite at his feet. “No— NO!!” he cried.

She stood in her place and looked down at him, waiting. He just sat there, his brain numbed by fear, by generations of tradition.

Steve grabbed Charlie’s arm and leaned in close. “Charlie. We shot it, and I think we hit it, so it’s not a ghost or a spirit or a god. It’s an animal, and that’s all. There doesn’t have to be anything mysterious about it.” It was a tiny germ of hope, at least. It seemed to calm him.

Charlie looked from Steve to Tracy and back again. “Can you kill it? I’ll—I’ll pay you to kill it.”

“Charlie,” Steve said, “listen to me. I don’t need money. I need information. I need to know what I’m up against, what its habits are, its strengths, its weaknesses. I have to be able to anticipate its behavior.”

Charlie shook his head. “But if I talk about the dragon, the dragon’ll know.”

“Who says?” said Tracy.

No answer.

“Did Harold tell you that?”

He shook his head in fear. “I’m not talking about Harold.” Then he looked up at the ceiling and shouted as if to God, “I’m not talking about Harold! I’m not saying anything about him!”

“Okay, okay. Calm down, Charlie.” Tracy shot a glance at Steve. “Harold Bly again.”

“I’m not talking about him!” Charlie repeated.

“Are you afraid of Harold Bly?”

“I’m not talking about him.”

“And you won’t tell us anything about the dragon either?”

Charlie just sat there, staring into space. Tracy sighed and looked at Steve, about to give it up.

Then Charlie muttered, “I don’t know why the dragon’s gotta pick on us. We didn’t do anything. It’s the Hydes; they’re the ones who did it.”

Tracy was almost afraid to ask a question for fear Charlie would clam up again. “The Hyde family, you mean?”

“They’re the ones who brought us all the trouble, and that was a hundred years ago. I’m not a Hyde. I didn’t ask for any trouble. Why’s the dragon have to come after me?”

Steve ventured, “What did the Hyde family do a hundred years ago?”

“Made a deal with the dragon, that’s what. They gave him the town. But I didn’t give him the town. Nobody asked me.”

Calmly, carefully, Steve asked, “So, are there particular people in this town who—who have contact with the dragon? Does the dragon work for them?”

Charlie nodded. “Oh, yeah. You bet. Make a wrong move, or say too much, and—” He made a slashing sound and ran his finger across his throat. Then he added loudly, “But I’m not talking about Harold!”

“No, of course not.”

“The dragon knows where you are. He can come after you, tear you apart, and eat you while you’re sleeping.”

“I doubt he could get in here,” Steve said, looking at all the precautions Charlie was taking.

“I don’t know. Maybe he can. Harold says—I mean, I’ve heard—the dragon can go anywhere. He’s like a ghost. He’s not really alive; he just floats around, and he can disappear. You can’t stop him.”

“He’s not a ghost,” Steve insisted. “He’s a big, dumb animal, and somebody’s been lying to you.”

That kind of talk scared the man. “No! Don’t talk that way! The dragon’ll know!”

Tracy rolled her eyes. “Now you’re starting to sound like Levi Cobb.”

The magic word again. Tracy may have used it on purpose, Steve thought. Charlie was offended, which snapped him out of his stupor. “Hey! No, no, no, that isn’t fair, and it isn’t true! I’m not crazy! Levi’s crazy; I’m not!”

“I think you’re giving the dragon way too much credit, just like Levi does,” Tracy said.

Those were fighting words for Charlie. “I’m not like Levi! I’m not a bigot and a crackpot and a religious nut! He is! I’m a fair and honest businessman, and I’ve got a right to do what I’m doing!”

Tracy was fishing. “Is that so?”

“Yeah, that’s so! Ebo Denning was never gonna go anyplace with that mercantile! I’m gonna make it go places! I’m gonna bring some life back to this town! It was the right thing to do, and I gave Ebo a fair price!”

“So what are you afraid of?”

He fell silent, still fuming. Then he finally blurted, “Just kill that thing, that’s all! You kill that thing and everything else will be fine.”

Steve sighed heavily. He was beginning to lose his patience. “So what can you tell us about it?” he asked again.

“I don’t know anything.”

Tracy tried another approach. “So tell us somebody who does know something.”

“What about Jules Cryor?” Charlie asked.

“Sorry,” said Tracy, not recalling the name.

“He’s working a claim up on Saddlehorse, been there for years. He’s got a perfect view of the whole valley from up there, and he lives as he pleases, does what he wants.”

“How do we get there?”

“He’s a hermit, though, and I hear he’s kind of strange. He might shoot you just for coming close to his claim, I don’t know.”

“It’s a start,” said Steve, taking out his pen and pad. “Give us some directions.”

While Charlie dictated how to get to Jules Cryor’s cabin, Tracy recalled another name. “There’s also Clayton Gentry. He’s a young fellow, a logger, down toward Backup. The guys at Charlie’s can’t say anything nice about him. It never occurred to me until now, but maybe he’s seen something and talked about it, and that’s why the guys don’t like him.”

Steve finished writing the directions. “Anybody else?”

Charlie shrugged. “I don’t know anything. And I’m not really talking about anything.”

“No,” Steve agreed, “you sure aren’t.”

“We’ll check these people out,” Tracy said. “In the meantime— Charlie?”

He looked at her.

“Whatever you do, stay away from Old Town, you hear me?”

Sam learned the rituals from his mother Charlotte, who learned them from her father James Hyde, who learned them from his father, Benjamin Hyde. So it’s run in the family ever since Sam’s great-grandfather started up the town in the
1800
s. The rituals always required some blood, which Sam usually got from a sheep or a goat, and they almost always took place in or near Hyde Hall in the old part of town, where it all started.

I don’t know if Sam really had control of an invisible demon beast, but he sincerely believed he did, and to see the fear he could invoke in people, they believed it too.

From the diary of Abby Bly, Sam Bly’s estranged wife and Harold Bly’s mother, dated November 14, 1973, three days before she disappeared without a trace. Her disappearance was attributed to a bear attack.

TWELVE

STIRRINGS

H
AROLD
BLY
, grim-faced and impatient, went into Charlie’s Tavern and Mercantile on Sunday afternoon to check the books, do a quick inventory of the stock, observe the flow of business, inspect for neatness and cleanliness—in short, to check everything.

“Where’s Charlie?” he asked, carrying the accounting books to a table near the video games.

“Uh—he’s home,” Bernie said. “He’s been sick.”

Harold’s eyebrows went up. “Oh, has he now?”

“Yeah.”

Harold took a seat and then glared up at Bernie. “Have a seat, Bernie.”

Bernie obeyed, sitting across from Bly. Talking to Bly always made him nervous. The man had a short fuse.

“Do you understand the partnership I have with Charlie?”

“Well—you bought into the business, right?”

“I bought most of it.” Harold jerked his thumb toward the mercantile. “I bought the tavern so Charlie could buy the mercantile. The tavern’s worth seventy percent of the whole shebang, so that makes me seventy percent owner, which makes me boss.”

“Yes sir.”

“So Charlie’s sick. Who’s taking his place?”

Bernie shrugged. He wished he were anyplace but sitting across from Harold Bly, having to answer his questions. “There’s me, Melinda the waitress—you know, whoever.”

“I want somebody running this place, not whoever. You got it? I want this place adequately staffed at all times. We’re here to make money.”