(1995) The Oath (38 page)
“We don’t know who it was.”
“How’d the roof get torn off the car?”
“We had to pull it off to get the victims out.”
Steve looked at the empty aid vehicle. “If the victims were in the car, why are men searching the fields?”
Collins grabbed Steve by the arm. “You’ve got one minute to clear the area before I place you under arrest, you got it?”
Steve returned his glare and responded, “Good night, then.”
He headed for his camper, his light still sweeping the shoulder of the road in case there was anything else to see.
There was. One of the searchers in the other field was just coming back, and he was also shining his light along the road shoulder. He was wearing a dark jacket and a drooping hat to hide his face, but Steve recognized the gray beard and wire-rim glasses.
Levi Cobb.
Their eyes locked. Levi gave Steve a challenging look, almost as if asking, Seen enough?
Steve turned and went to his camper. He knew Collins would be watching, and he didn’t want to be seen talking to Levi Cobb.
But the answer was yes. He’d seen enough.
WHEN MONDAY
morning dawned, the brooding, foreboding spirit of the night remained like a heavy overcast, and fear like a sooty residue; Hyde Valley had changed, and even those who hadn’t heard of the past night’s dark events could sense it, and wondered.
People driving along the Hyde River Road in the early light of morning found no indication that any accident had ever happened, though. Sheriff Lester Collins had ordered the site swept and hosed clean and the wrecked car hauled to a scrapyard, where it was lost amid an acre of rusting hulks.
The men and women of the valley volunteer fire department returned to their jobs and routines and said little about the accident because there was so little to say. They all had to wonder whatever became of the victim; they knew no one could have survived such a terrible accident. There would always be questions, but none of the questions would ever be asked.
Before the town of Hyde River had awakened, and without a word to anyone, Steve Benson drove his camper north through town, over several miles of rough roads, and turned off on Service Road
63
, the road that would take him up Saddlehorse to Potter’s Mine, and beyond that, the diggings of Jules Cryor. His firearms were loaded and with him in the cab, and he’d prepared his backpack for several days in the back country.
BEFORE OPENING
his garage for business on Monday morning, Levi Cobb went out into the small yard behind his shop to sort through parts, old farm implements, axles, springs, and sheet metal, looking for just the right materials. “C’mon, don’t be so stubborn, just move . . . Well there you are. I’ve been looking all over for you . . . Have any of you seen that old drill steel I had laying around here?”
He finally found the object of his search, an old drill steel from a pneumatic drill, once used to drill through solid rock in the mines. It was one tough piece of steel, about eight feet long. He set it aside. Next he uncovered a tooth broken from the back claw of a county bulldozer. He knew it would take some work to shape and hone it, but it was a good start.
He paused to peer over his scrap-iron fence. The mountains were slightly obscured in morning mist but would be clear enough to touch in a few hours. A cool breeze was blowing, and he could hear birds singing.
He felt no joy. He could sense an atmosphere that was hot, close, and heavy, the trouble-laden stuff that storms are made of.
The disturbance had already begun. Evil had been set loose and was on its way.
He ducked inside, his materials in hand, switched on an overhead worklight, and cleared some parts from his work area. His welding torch ignited with a pop, and he put the flame to steel. He had work to do, and not a moment to lose.
A man with power is not at the mercy of a man with ideals.
. . . . .
He who has the money signs the cheques. He who signs the cheques makes the rules. He who makes the rules has the Power. He who has the Power has the money.
. . . . .
Power Prevails.
. . . . .
If this be sin, let sin be served.
Plaques of Benjamin Hyde’s favorite slogans, created and placed in Hyde’s office by his son Samuel after Benjamin Hyde’s mysterious disappearance—declared a hunting accident—in 1898. The plaques remain there to this day.
I
N CHARLIE’S TAVERN
, the dollar bills still lay stacked by denomination on the bar next to the cash register. Two glasses of beer, one full, one half empty, both warm, remained on the bar exactly where Elmer and Joe had left them. At the pool table, the cue ball remained in perfect line to sink the three ball in the corner, the shot Andy Schuller never took. On the screen of a video game, a jerky-motioned martial artist made high kicks at thugs while the machine begged, Insert a Quarter, Insert a Quarter, Insert a Quarter. All around the tavern dinner had been served, but the steaks, ribs, and barbecued chicken lay cold.
Across the room, opposite the bar, the new doorway to the mercantile was open, and beyond it, neat shelves of dry goods, wool shirts, rods and lures could be seen. The mercantile was clean, painted, polished, rearranged, and ready to open.
In the bathroom past the storeroom, a man was whimpering, cursing, agonizing.
Harold Bly, the new lord of it all, the unrivaled ruler of one more piece of real estate, held the key to the front door in a desperate, iron grip as he pounded the edge of the sink in torment.
His shirt was open. In the mirror over the sink he could see a red, burning welt snaking down his chest. He pulled a wad of paper towels from the dispenser, soaked them under the faucet, and dabbed at the sore. There was no relief. “No!” he cried, and rubbed at the mark. It would not go away.
“No!” he said again, shaking his head, refusing to believe it. He struck the sink. “NO! Not me! I’m not the one you want!” He cursed in rage, in pain, in the agony of betrayal. “I’m on your side! What’s the matter with you?”
He held the wad of paper towels to his chest to cool the burning. I’m not like Maggie, he thought. Not like Vic, or Charlie. I’m Harold Bly. I’m a Hyde. I’ve never been marked, never been touched. I’m good for this town!
I don’t deserve this!
He heard the distant clanging of the bell over the tavern door. He cursed again. He’d left the door unlocked!
He removed the wet towels from his chest. The mark was still there, but no stain had come off on the towels. As far as he could tell, there was no stench. Maybe it wasn’t going to be serious. Maybe it wasn’t permanent.
Maybe it was a warning.
“Hello?” came a voice from the tavern. “Anybody here?”
He recognized the voice of Tracy Ellis. Clark County Sheriff’s Deputy Tracy Ellis. This early? Oh no, he thought. Something had gone wrong.
He buttoned up his shirt, straightened his hair, and hurried through the mercantile to the tavern. “Hello! We’re not open yet.”
He found Tracy Ellis standing by the bar, looking at the unfinished drinks, the uneaten dinners, the bizarre, frozen-in-time state of the place. Her eyes were cold and probing. She wasn’t here to say hello—she was here as a cop.
No matter. He was still Harold Bly, and this was his place. “Hi, Tracy. What can I do for you?”
She was still looking around the room when she asked, “You know about Charlie?”
His voice was already tense. All he had to do was add a little sorrow. “Yes. I heard about it last night. Did you see what happened?”
“I was in Oak Springs on another case.”
“Have they found him yet?”
“No. They haven’t found him,” she said angrily. “And there’s been no sign of Vic Moore either, and Maggie isn’t visiting her mother.”
Of course. Bly was offended. “What are you saying, deputy? I suppose you called Maggie’s mother?”
Very good, Harold. You get a gold star. “Yes. That’s exactly what I did.”
Bly had no comment, and she wasn’t expecting one. She looked around the room again. “What happened here last night? It looks like there was a fire drill and nobody came back.”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t here.” His temperature was rising. “So why are you here?”
“I’m looking for an employee of yours, Phil Garrett. Any idea where he is?”
“No. No idea,” Bly said quickly.
“He does work for you, doesn’t he?”
“Yes, but I don’t know where he is.”
It was Monday morning, and Bly had no idea where one of his employees was? She didn’t force the issue. “He broke into Evelyn Benson’s home yesterday and tried to kill her.” She paused to let that sink in, checking his reaction. “Now why do you suppose he’d do a thing like that?”
Bly’s face remained like stone. “When you find him, ask him. Phil Garrett can answer for his own actions.”
“Oh, he will.”
“So where’s your friend the professor?” he asked, to put her on the defensive.
She didn’t flinch. “My guess would be he’s hunting.”
“Hunting? For what?”
“For whatever he finally kills. Listen, I have a warrant for Phil’s arrest. That makes him a fugitive, which could make it rough for anyone who tries to aid and abet him. I just want you to understand that.”
Time to push some weight. “Have you talked to Sheriff Collins about this?”
She cocked her head and gave him a knowing look. “I’m sure I’ll hear from him soon enough. When I do, he’ll get a full report.” She turned to go. “Let me know if you see Phil.”
She closed the door behind her, the bell clanging.
Bly remained where he was, brooding, seething. His hand went to his chest. The pain was still there. But now he knew why.
Phil had botched the job, and Evelyn Benson was still alive, alive to remember, to talk, to reveal everything. Charlie was dead, but he’d talked. Levi Cobb was still alive, preaching and meddling. Tracy Ellis was tearing away secrets like scabs off wounds.
And Benson the outsider was “hunting.”
No wonder there was trouble. Things had slipped out of his control.
But he was Harold Bly; he could fix it. He’d taken too long, that was all; he’d been too soft, too easy. He could change that.
New hope refreshed him and soothed the pain in his chest. He had a chance. Of course he had a chance. He was finally able to smile as he stood alone in the deserted tavern, formulating his plan.
Then, abruptly, he dashed behind the bar and into the kitchen, then grabbed the telephone off the wall. It was time to contain this mess and take back control, and he would start by climbing all over Sheriff Collins.
CHARLIE MACK
was right. Once Steve had pressed on past Potter’s Mine and challenged the rutted, potholed dirt road that wound further around Saddlehorse, he finally did come to another mining effort, this one the least impressive of any he’d seen thus far. The road emptied onto a precarious shelf of rock, a manmade— probably one-man-made—shoulder of broken, blasted rubble, the “muck” and waste from Jules Cryor’s little mine. It was just wide enough to accommodate Steve’s truck and the old Dodge four-wheel-drive already parked there, brown with rust wherever the green paint had worn off. Just beyond the Dodge, steel rails for an ore car curved toward the mountain and disappeared down the entrance to the mine.
Directly above, perched on another precarious shoulder of hewn rock, was the log cabin of Jules Cryor, a rather haphazard structure with little thought given to such petty details as level, plumb, and square. Steve surmised that the logs had been cut from the immediate area, hauled to this spot, and dropped into a roughly rectangular shape until the pile was high enough to live in.
Jules Cryor must have heard him coming, Steve thought, for he appeared from behind the Dodge, the very image of an old prospector with a gray beard reaching to his belly and a weathered hat with the brim low over his eyes. The only thing missing was a cantankerous mule loaded down with picks, shovels, and jangling canteens.
He was also cradling a shotgun in his arms, sending Steve a clear message.
Steve shut off the engine, trying to think of ways to look harmless and well-meaning. Being armed to the teeth didn’t help. He unbuckled his sidearm and put it on the seat, then tried smiling through the windshield and giving Cryor a little wave of greeting. Cryor waved back without a smile, then sat on the front bumper of the Dodge, as if waiting for this visitor to explain himself. He seemed in no particular hurry to use the gun, so Steve figured it would be safe to climb out.
“Jules Cryor?” he asked.
“Yes,” the man replied. “And who might you be?” His resonant voice and clear diction were a surprise to anyone expecting the raspy voice of a stereotypical prospector.
“My name is Steve Benson. I’m a professor of biology at Colorado State University. I’m here—” This part was always difficult to explain.
Cryor’s eyes narrowed as he studied Steve’s camouflage clothing and inventoried the rifles in the cab of the truck. “Looks to me like you’re here to hunt. May I remind you, the season is some months away.”
Steve smiled. “I’m not here to hunt—well, not in the usual sense. I’m involved in an investigation. A little over a week ago, a man was killed, half eaten, by an animal up on Wells Peak. We’re trying to locate the animal.”
“Who’s ‘we’?”
“Well—myself.”
Cryor seemed to accept that, for he nodded. “A rogue grizzly, I suppose?”
“No, not a grizzly. We’re looking for something—bigger.” Steve was dropping a hint to see if Cryor would pick up on it.
Cryor said nothing for the longest time but sat there on the bumper of the old truck, eyeing his visitor. Finally, he said, “Mr. Benson, considering your conventional and very obvious means of getting here—the size of your truck, the clouds of dust you’ve kicked up, the sound of your engine—I would say you’ve lost some advantage already. Your quarry knows you’re here. Have you ever seen him?”
“Yes. I believe so.”
“Then he’s seen you.” Cryor rose to his feet. “Come on, you’d better get inside.”