(1995) The Oath (46 page)

“We never saw it clearly, but apparently, it could fly. It dropped right out of the sky and just about killed both of us. We shot at it, but it got away.” Then she added, “Oh. Did I tell you we were in Hyde Hall at the time?”

His eyes got wider, and his whole body started to quiver.

“Yeah. We started by staking out Hyde Hall because that was where Maggie and Vic both disappeared. Well, we just about found out what happened to them, but like I said, it got away.”

He began shaking his head back and forth, his eyes wide, his voice weak and trembling. “Oh, you shouldn’t have done that. You . . . oh, why did you—”

“Is that what you’re afraid of, Phil? Is there really something out there that might—come and get you?” He reacted as if the question had stabbed him like a knife. She tried another one. “Is that why you tried to kill Evelyn Benson, because she saw it, because she knows what it is?”

“No . . .”

“Why are you protecting it, Phil? Why are you protecting something that kills people?”

“No!” he screamed. “I’m not saying anything! I’m not gonna talk about anything!”

Like Charlie, she thought.

She rose and looked down at the pitiful wreck of a man. He was bent over, his head almost between his knees, rocking gently, muttering in fear, “I didn’t talk . . . I didn’t do anything . . . I’m not saying anything . . .”

Well. At least he was in a jail cell. This would be the first victim who couldn’t wander or drive off.

“Try to get some sleep,” she said finally. “I’ll see you again in the morning.”

She clicked off the hall light and left him there.

FLIPPING THROUGH
the pages of the binder, Steve came to a photocopy of a finely lettered document with a large, bold title:

OFFICIAL CHARTER OF THE CITY OF HYDE RIVER

Not a bad piece of work for something so hastily thrown together, he thought. Holly Ann Mayfield could have been right: Benjamin Hyde already had this thing drawn up before the massacre, meaning he could have planned the massacre all along, including the trumped-up charge against Charles DuBois that triggered it.

One giveaway was the date, July
19, 1882
, which had all the appearance of being filled in after the fact. Steve had to chuckle at the recollection of how proud Harold Bly was of his great, great granddaddy.

“Whereas,” the document began, like so many documents did. Okay, we’ll read what these killers have to say for themselves.

Whereas the undersigned, having founded and established the city of Hyde River through their own resources, wisdom, and resolve, and. . . .

Whereas, no appeal has been made to, nor any strength or assistance received from, the so-called Almighty or any deity of any kind, and. . . .

Whereas, the undersigned, confident of their own capacity for good, do wish to pursue happiness, peace, and contentment by whatever avenue they may choose. . . .

We the undersigned do declare and affirm that. . . .

We are the masters and makers of our own destiny.

There is no God but Reason.

Only by Reason can Truth be established.

Only by living according to the Truth we have Established, shall we secure for ourselves and our posterity enduring Wealth and Happiness, our supreme goal.

These precepts shall be the Creed and Guiding Light of the City of Hyde River, for ourselves and for our posterity.

If This Be Sin, Let Sin Be Served.

It seemed a rather flimsy set of precepts on which to found a town, Steve thought, more of a reaction against the influence of the Reverend DuBois than a workable charter. But such a vague document gave Benjamin Hyde all the room he needed to run things his way, so in that sense, it must have satisfied the signatories.

Steve looked over the signatures and counted thirty-two. Holly Ann Mayfield’s signature was near the bottom, written in the same fluid hand as her diary.

Benjamin Hyde had signed his name in large, bold letters as if mimicking John Hancock, and then reiterated just above his name; “If this be Sin, let Sin be served.”

So take that, DuBois!

Now Steve turned the page. There were still many documents— old letters, news clippings, diary entries—to go through. Steve had been cynical when he started reading, but now he was downright intrigued. He started skimming, then he went back to double-check what he’d read, then he began to read every document with steadily growing interest. What in the world—?

The knock on the camper door jolted him back from the
1880
s to the present so quickly he felt he’d dropped his heart somewhere along the way.

“Steve?” It was Tracy!

He didn’t need her finding out he’d been talking to Levi. He scrambled to hide the binder, throwing it into a cupboard before he opened the door.

At the sight of her face, a smile came easily. “Well, hello, stranger.”

“Hello,” she said, smiling up at him. “I was on my way home and I thought I recognized this camper. What happened to the RV Park?”

“I got kicked out.”

She immediately understood everything that meant. “So it’s all hitting the fan.”

He offered his hand. “Please, come in.” With a strong but gentle tug, he helped her inside. She sat down at the table.

“I arrested Phil Garrett,” she announced. “I’m sure that’s one reason for the trouble.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet it is,” he agreed. “Did he say anything?”

“Not a thing. He’s under the same Oath. I tried to talk to him for about an hour, but all he did was blubber and sweat and stink the same way Charlie and Maggie did. He was scared silly.”

Steve was immediately concerned. “But you do have him locked up?”

“Oh, yeah. He can’t wander off.”

“Okay.” Steve shifted gears so he could share the biggest news of the day. “Listen. I saw the dragon.”

She froze. “You—What do you mean, you saw it?”

“I went after it, up on Saddlehorse, and—”

She held up her hand. “Wait.” He stopped. “Why don’t we get out of here? I’ve had a rough day, and I want to get out of this uniform. And you look like you need a shower.”

He looked apologetically at his dirt-covered pants.

Her eyes sparkled. “You’ve never been to my place, have you?”

“What about my camper?”

“Bring it with you! Just follow me!”

“Well . . .”

“Going once,” she teased, “going twice—”

“Sold,” he blurted. “Sold!”

IT WAS
not at the night’s darkest hour, not midway between dusk and dawn. The shadows were not their deepest, the setting was not at its macabre, gloomy best.

But Harold Bly was desperate as he knelt before the stone that had become an altar, muttering to his god, trying to find an explanation other than the one that kept recurring in his mind despite his best efforts to ignore it: I’m not controlling it. I didn’t call for some people to die and they’re dead; I called for others to die and they’re still alive. The dragon’s doing what it pleases, marking and killing whoever it wants, including me. It’s not doing my will at all.

No, no, he argued back, that couldn’t be it. Things are just getting out of hand, that’s all. I haven’t acted quickly and decisively enough. But no problem. I’ll just get it straightened out. The dragon’s upset, and I can’t blame him, but he’s still my dragon. The dragon and my family, we go way back, and now I’m the very last of the Hydes, the only soulmate that creature will ever have.

“So hey,” he said to the stone, the ruins, the withered trees, “I’m taking care of it. I’ve already started squaring it all up. You’re going to like it.”

He felt alone in this place. He could remember being here with his father and grandfather, his mother and family, all one powerful group. Maybe, as a group, they had had more power than he had now, kneeling here by himself.

Then again, he no longer shared the power with anyone; it was all his. That thought reassured him and even made him smile.

His was the one and only will, the only voice. He could strike a bargain, cut a deal. The dragon would know a good offer when he saw it. He’d buy, Harold was sure of it.

Bly felt better as he considered the cleverness of his plan and the sly steps he’d already taken. I’m Harold Bly. I can fix it. I can fix anything.

STEVE SANK
into the soft couch with a deep sigh of relief. It was one of those sensations he’d gone a long time without. He hadn’t realized how much he missed the sheer warmth of being in a real home instead of a motel or a camper.

Tracy was renting a quaint, one-bedroom cottage on ten acres about two miles up the Nelson Creek drainage, a quiet valley east of the river. The cottage was nothing fancy, but Tracy had lived there long enough to instill it with her own personality. All around the house and along the stone walkways, she’d brought the old flowerbeds back to life, and now the roses, petunias, and marigolds were flourishing. Inside, she’d tastefully surrounded herself with the things that brought her joy: dried flowers, pottery, hand-woven tablecloths and pillows, sculptures and woodcarvings of eagles, Indians, and wolves.

Steve, fresh and clean from a shower, was dressed in the last set of clean clothes he had, a pair of dress slacks—he had brought them in case he had to attend a meeting—and a University of Colorado T-shirt. The rest of his wardrobe, down to the last dirty sock, was presently in the washing machine churning away in the enclosed back porch. He could feel the machine’s progress reports rumbling through the floor.

He could also hear the shower running in the corner of the house adjacent to the bedroom. Tracy was taking her turn. He hoped he hadn’t used all the hot water.

He smiled. He could imagine her in that shower right now; he knew what she looked like.

He ran his fingers over the burns on his arms. Not too bad. Kind of like a bad sunburn in places. He’d come through the encounter very well, considering how it could have turned out.

He leaned his head back on the couch and thought about the diary. A fascinating story. No, more than that. Devastating. Disturbing. No wonder it had lain buried for so long. No wonder the town had become so self-contained, so secretive. Fear of discovery had become a heritage, passed from generation to generation. One could even call it an inherited sense of guilt. Reverend Woods had said something about that.

In terms of guilt—forget about guilt.

Tracy had just come into the room, looking fresh, clean, and very cute in leggings and an oversized pullover. She paused to look him over, and perhaps to let him look her over.

“My, don’t you look comfortable!” she said.

“I’m very comfortable,” he replied, sitting up a little, “thanks to your hospitality.”

“How do I look?” she asked.

He grinned. “Like a woman instead of a law enforcement officer.”

She settled gracefully into a love seat to his right, looking relaxed and at ease. “Hmm. Do I detect a note of sexism?”

“Sex has everything to do with it.”

She was in a teasing mood. “Go ahead, Professor. Explain.”

In fun, he caricatured himself and waxed professorial. “When you are Clark County Deputy Tracy Ellis, in uniform, the whole question of sex—that is, gender—is a nonquestion: it’s disallowed. Given that, any observations regarding your appearance would have to be confined to such adjectives as ‘well-groomed,’ ‘neat and clean’—you know the drill. But I don’t think you’d hear such observations as ‘pretty,’ or ‘good-looking,’ and you would most certainly never hear such adjectives as ‘sexy,’ or ‘alluring,’ seeing as such comments might be deemed inappropriate in the workplace. Anyway, all that is to say, I think it’s safe and appropriate in our present context to acknowledge your gender and tell you—” He became himself. “You look beautiful.”

She smiled. “Well thank you, Professor. I’m flattered.”

They looked at each other for so long it became awkward. Finally she broke the silence. “Would you like a glass of wine?”

“Oh. Yes, please.”

She was already up from the love seat and heading for the kitchen. The living room and kitchen were actually the same room, divided by a counter, apartment-style. As Tracy went to the cupboard for glasses, Steve was able to keep her constantly in sight.

It was remarkable how long ago, how remote, his encounter with the dragon now seemed. Right now, all he really wanted to think about was Tracy. But he had come here to tell her what had happened that day. “I, uh, I went up Saddlehorse and had a chance to talk to Jules Cryor.”

She was about to pour the wine when she stopped, the bottle in mid-tip. “Of course, that shouldn’t matter—”

That muddled his train of thought. “Huh?”

“Whether or not I . . . well, you know, how I look.”

“Oh.” So they were still on that subject. Well, that was okay with him. “In regards to your—your person, your professional skills, everything that makes up your potential as a human being . . . no, I suppose it doesn’t really matter.”

“But it’s fun to think about—I guess.” She couldn’t think of any more words, so she filled one glass.

“I like to think about it. You make it easy to think about—if you don’t mind my saying so.”

She caught the subtle compliment and smiled. “I don’t mind.”

He hid behind the professor role again. “But could I venture the proposition that being a woman is a part of everything you are?”

“Well, of course.”

“And perhaps, just maybe, for practical, workaday reasons, that part of you has been pushed aside, usurped by your career?”

She stopped to mull that over, then answered his question with one of her own. “So how about you?”

“What about me?”

She filled the second glass, then walked toward him. “You’re a professor of biology, a strict professional, a man with a scientific explanation for everything—and a man without a meaningful relationship. How much room does that give you to be a total person?” She handed him his glass, then sank into the soft couch next to him.

“I believe I’m a total person.”

“A person who cares about love?”

Now that was a big question to throw at him. “Whoa!”

“Is there such a thing?”