(1995) The Oath (43 page)

“Hi,” she said casually. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything.” She knew she was.

Not a soul answered. Some looked away. Some fidgeted. Others stared daggers at her.

She crossed the room at an easy pace, passing between the empty tables, feeling as safe as a piece of raw meat in a kennel of mad dogs.

They were eyeing her, checking her out. She was definitely in the role of cop tonight, carrying her sidearm, her nightstick, even her handcuffs.

She was feeling like a pretty lonely cop right now. Deputy Jerry Fisk didn’t want to make waves in Hyde River, Deputy Matson wouldn’t sneeze without Collins’s permission, and Johanson was on the other side of the county. Oh well, so be it. Phil Garrett was here now, by arrangement, and Tracy would not be turned away.

“Hi, Tracy,” Doug finally said. “What brings you here tonight?”

Tracy looked past several people to the center of the crowd, the empty chair right by the door to the mercantile. Harold Bly’s chair. Mr. Bly was nowhere to be seen. Seated right next to that empty chair, however, was the real object of Tracy’s visit: Phil Garrett. He was slouching a little but looking cocky, drumming his fingers on his knees in time to some tune going through his head as he looked up at her. A new bandage totally covered the side of his head but did not hide some fresh welts and bruises on his face.

“Anybody seen Harold?” she asked offhandedly.

“He should be here any minute,” Doug answered. “We’re having a meeting.”

How handy, she thought. First he snitches, then he hides.

It was Harold Bly who had called her, telling her she could find Phil at the tavern, and when. Now Bly was conveniently late, distancing himself from the whole situation, sidestepping all the fireworks so he wouldn’t have to be involved. He had to be playing one of his little games.

No matter. Tracy wanted her man.

She was scared, but she couldn’t let anyone know that, so she put on her cop demeanor and stepped forward, slowly working her way through the outer edges of the crowd. When she came up against Doug, he stood in her way. “Excuse me.”

Phil snickered a bit.

Doug was not angry or defiant. His tone of voice was concerned as he asked, “Tracy, are you sure you want to do this?”

“It’s my job,” she said.

He gently put his hands on her shoulders and spoke in a near whisper, “I know you’re mad at me, and I know we have our problems. But I couldn’t bear to see anything happen to you. Please—don’t do this.”

She glared up at him, her hand on her nightstick, and said coldly, “Same old sweet words, huh, Doug? If you care so much for me, then what are you doing here with these people?”

He had no answer.

She looked down at his hands on her shoulders. “I think you’d better get your hands off me.”

He took his hands away and stepped aside.

“Hey—” Phil started to object.

Tracy looked down at him. “Phil, I have to place you under arrest.”

He looked at the others, then at her, chuckling with disbelief. “Hey, haven’t you talked to Sheriff Collins?”

“Every day, Phil.”

“Then what’s this all about?”

“Breaking and entering, assault with a deadly weapon—”

“But Sheriff Collins was gonna take care of it!”

“I’m taking care of it! Now get up and face the wall!”

“No! Sheriff Collins was gonna fix it! Harold said—”

She grabbed his arm to get him to his feet. “Come on.”

He leapt to his feet and shoved her away. “Forget you, little girl!”

She came off some bodies standing behind her like a wrestler off the ropes, her nightstick in her hand. Phil was mocking her with his eyes. They both knew he was surrounded by friends.

She addressed the crowd. “He broke into a lady’s house and waited for her to come home, and then he attacked her and tried to stab her. The only reason she’s still alive is because she was able to fight him off.”

“She didn’t fight me off!” Phil objected.

Carlotta gasped.

Tracy kept going. “Oh, yes, she did, Phil! She and her son. He hit you so hard he about knocked your ear off; isn’t that right?”

But now Phil could see the shocked expressions on some, the disdain in the eyes of others, and clammed up.

Tracy spoke to the crowd again. “Phil has to answer for what he’s done. I’d appreciate your help.”

Elmer McCoy muttered, “I think she asked for it.”

Andy saw it that way. “Yeah, I don’t blame Phil. She was poking her nose into our business.”

Carlotta couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “What?”

Elmer explained, “You know that professor who’s been snooping and hunting around here? She was his sister-in-law.”

Carlotta fell silent. She knew the Bensons were trouble.

Well, Tracy thought, I won’t come out of this popular if I come out of it alive, but I’m not going to be the coward! “Phil,” she said, “you’re coming with me and that’s that.” She prodded him with the stick. “Turn around, hands behind your back.”

He grabbed the arm holding the nightstick, his grip like a vise, his eyes full of malice.

For an instant, she saw him as Evelyn had seen him. Cold, desperate, deadly.

When she kicked him in the groin it was an act of desperation. He bent over in pain, and his grip weakened enough for her to break loose. When she beaned him with her nightstick she was scared enough to make it count, and when he fell to the floor she leapt on top of him just to keep him from getting up again. She was crazed with fear and anger, but she managed to stick to procedure and hold him down with her knee in his spine while she grabbed her handcuffs.

“Get her off me!” Phil squalled into the floor.

“Hey!” Andy Schuller stepped forward.

“Stay out of this!” she warned him, cuffing one of Phil’s wrists.

“Stay out of it,” Doug advised, his tone emphatic.

Andy looked at Doug and then at Tracy, and backed off.

“Give me that hand!” Tracy shouted, grabbing for Phil’s one free, flailing hand. She got it and cuffed it. “You have the right to remain silent—”

“Get her off me!”

She yanked him to his knees, then to his feet, nightstick ready to pop him again if she had to. “Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law—get out of the way!”

The crowd cleared a path, and she pushed Phil through it. “You have the right to an attorney—”

“Help me, will you?” Phil screamed. “Don’t just stand there!”

They just stood there.

She pushed him along, keeping him off balance, heading for the door. She called to the others, “Thank you for your cooperation. Have a good evening,” and got him outside.

JUST DOWN THE STREET
, Harold Bly was hiding behind a ten-ton dump truck, smoking a cigarette and waiting. He saw Tracy burst through the door of the tavern with Phil in hand, still bawling and squalling and even calling his name, “Harold! Harold!”

“Get in the car!” she ordered, stuffing him inside while dodging his kicking feet.

Harold didn’t answer Phil’s cries. He just waited until Tracy had strong-armed Phil into the car, slammed the door shut, and driven off. Then he dropped the cigarette, crushed it out with his toe, and walked to the tavern with the relaxed, casual manner of someone oblivious to what had just happened.

When Bly came in the front door, those who had witnessed the arrest surrounded him. “You missed it!” “Where’ve you been? Tracy came in here—” “She hit him right on the head!” “She’s a dirty traitor!” “She arrested him!” “We didn’t know what to do!” “Do something!”

He asked a few questions and got a volley of answers. He listened while they expressed their outrage. He could see the anger, the frustration, the desperation growing, reaching a fever pitch. Something had to be done! they were all saying.

Very good.

When it was his turn to speak, he asked a calculated question. “So what are you willing to do?”

LEVI OPENED
the back door of his shop to find a soot-blackened, sand-soiled, and weary man leaning against the doorpost.

“Hi, Levi.”

Levi studied Professor Steve Benson up and down, taking special note of the beleaguered man’s charred rifle. “Looks like you came pretty close.”

Steve nodded. “I need to talk to you.”

WHILE LEVI
attended to him with soap and towels, Steve put his whole head under the faucet of the big shop sink and let the cool water pour over him, then washed his upper body as best he could. Levi brought some ointment for the burns on Steve’s left arm and shoulder. Steve winced as Levi smeared it on.

“It breathes fire,” Steve reported. “It just about fried me.”

“Uh-huh,” said Levi, like he’d known it all along.

“I was up on Saddlehorse. I think that’s where it lives.”

“Yeah,” Levi acknowledged, “that would be my guess.” Then he added, “I suppose he trapped you?”

Steve took a towel from Levi and vigorously rubbed his hair dry, taking a long time to finally answer, “I suppose he did.” Then he came out from under the towel and asked, “So why didn’t he kill me? He had the chance.”

“He chooses his own time for that. He might take you tomorrow; he might wait twenty years. You can’t tell when he’ll catch up and collect.”

“So why’d he trap me?”

Levi had to laugh. “Aw, he just wanted to play with you a bit just to keep you interested.”

Steve dried his body gingerly, lightly dabbing at the burns. “What do you mean, keep me interested?”

“He can’t kill you, not yet. He doesn’t own you. But if he can keep you around until he gets you hooked, then he can do whatever he wants.” Levi handed Steve a fresh shirt. “Here, borrow this for now.”

“Thanks.” Steve took the shirt and slipped into it. Levi was shorter than he was, but his shirt was plenty big enough. “You’re talking in riddles again.”

“Yeah, I know. I keep forgetting how far behind you are.”

Steve was on edge. “Then get me caught up! Listen, from all the people I’ve talked to, there’s no one else in this valley as universally hated and discredited as you, which means you’re probably the only one with guts enough to tell the truth. So okay. You’ve got your audience. Speak up.”

Levi smiled. “You up to doing some reading tonight?”

“To be honest, I’m ready for bed, and that’s about it.”

“Come on upstairs. It won’t take long.”

Steve followed Levi up the back stairs to Levi’s apartment over the garage.

Levi went to his desk and pulled open a bottom drawer. “I’m gonna start you at the beginning.” He pulled out a thick three-ring binder and opened it up, flipping through pages of photocopied text. “Do you know about the big massacre of
1
88
2
?”

“I’ve heard conflicting accounts about it.”

“Right. That it was the Indians—”

“Yeah.”

“Or that two factions were fighting over the town and the gold.”

“I heard that, too.”

Levi shook his head. “It’s all a person can do to find out what really happened, this town gets so hush-hush about its past. Anyway, now you get to hear it from people who were there.” He set the binder on the desk. “Some years back, I had a nice lady in my Bible study, one of the older folks who’d lived here all her life, you know? She came out to church for quite awhile, and finally she accepted Christ and got free of a lot of old sins in her life—and that’s a whole other story—but she was part of the old school, the old Hyde River Oath, you understand? She had secrets she could never talk about until she got saved, and then she was free of all that stuff.”

“Okay.” Steve was ready to listen even if he had to listen to a sermon in the process.

“So one day she pulls me aside, and she says, ‘You know that old plastering on the back wall of the church basement? I’ve heard that a lady hid a strongbox back there when they put that plaster up,’ and I said, ‘What’re you talking about,’ and she told me a secret she got from her folks about a lady who used to run the local whorehouse back in Hyde River in the
1880
s. The story goes that this madam kept a diary of everything that happened back then and left it to her daughter when she died. Then the daughter found some more things—you know, letters, notes, newspaper articles—and hid them all away in the wall of the church not long before she died.

“Well, I didn’t do anything about it then because I didn’t want to start tearing the church up, but just a few years ago, we had to redo some plumbing back there, which meant we had to strip the wall down to the old studs. Well, what do you think? I remembered Maybelle—her name was Maybelle Crowder—telling me about the old strongbox, so I did a little extra tearing off and digging in, and lo and behold, there it was. The diary was inside, and some letters and old newspaper clippings, and I want to tell you, what that lady had was dangerous to have, all right. You’ll see what I mean when you read it.” He started thumbing through the binder, pointing out the photocopied documents as he explained, “This here is that madam’s diary . . . and this here is a letter some gal wrote back in
1880
to her sister after her son got beat up. Here’s a letter a man included with his will, and here’s a newspaper article about a gal getting killed because she was talking too much . . . All this stuff was in that strongbox.

“Anyway, Maybelle went to be with the Lord that same year, but she said I could keep all this stuff, so I did. But it got me thinking, so I started looking around, writing a few letters, tracking people down, and guess what? It turns out Harold Bly had an aunt who wasn’t regarded as part of the family anymore.” He flipped to a section. “Clarice Stevens was Harold Bly’s mother’s half-sister, and it took me about two years to finally track her down in Oregon. When Harold’s mother disappeared, Clarice Stevens felt sure the Blys had everything to do with it, so she had nothing good to say about the Blys or the Hydes ever since. But look here: Abigail Homestead, Benjamin Hyde’s sister-in-law, and Abby Bly, Harold’s mother, both passed their diaries down to Clarice, and before Clarice died, she passed along copies to me.

“The rest of this stuff . . . this here’s from the West Fork Historical Society . . . Oh, and you remember Harold Bly talking about the town charter of
1882
? Here’s a copy of that right here . . . This here’s from a book I found in the library . . . this Dennis Mason is an old army buddy of Sam Bly. He’s still alive and gave me a copy of what he wrote.” Levi chuckled. “I even got some good stuff from Harold’s old fourth grade teacher. She never liked him much either!”