(1995) The Oath

by Frank Peretti

  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?”

  He got defensive. “What kind of a question is that?”

  “Remember that night in Hyde Hall? You were trying to tell me love was nothing but chemical reactions in the brain or something like that.”

  “Well, that’s true.”

  “And I think I said ‘baloney.’”

  “I do recall that.”

  “So? How can you be a total person while denying the existence of one of life’s most important ingredients? I mean, love is what being a total person is all about, in my book.”

  “I’m not denying the existence of love. I’m just trying to be realistic.”

  “I think you’re hiding.”

  “Hiding?” He laughed at that.

  “You’re hiding from who you are. You’re a wildlife biologist, sure, a Ph.D. But you’re also a man, a human being, and I think you’re hiding from that.”

  He took a sip of wine. It was easier than replying.

  “Remember the lake?” she asked.

  He remembered it, but he played dumb. “Huh?”

  “You were watching me.”

  Steve managed to look her in the eye. “I—I don’t think you were on duty.”

  She placed her hand on his shoulder. Then her fingers touched the back of his neck. “And I don’t think you were being scientific.”

  As he looked into her eyes, as he saw her perfect skin in the warm glow of the lamplight, he began to concede that some forces of nature were beyond empirical study and explanation. He cleared his throat. “I—uh—I don’t suppose you want to hear about my encounter with the dragon?”

  Her eyes sparkled playfully. “What dragon?”

  He set his wine glass on the coffee table. “I guess it can wait.”

  It waited. As a matter of fact, the subject never crossed their minds the rest of the night.

  WHEN TRACY opened her eyes, the bedroom was already waking up with sunlight. The alarm clock would ring in another five minutes; she reached over and clicked it off. Then she lay quietly, her head on her pillow, looking at the man sharing her bed. He was still asleep, and he was magnificent, like a Greek god in repose, powerful yet serene, his arms like finely sculptured bronze, his face darkening with manly stubble.

  And he didn’t even snore! Was the world suddenly perfect or what? she asked herself.

  “You’re mine now,” she whispered softly, longing to touch him. “I have you, and I’ll never let you go.”

  Quietly so as not to wake him, she slipped out from between the sheets and stole into the kitchen to get the coffeemaker—and her day—started. Then she showered, selected a freshly pressed uniform, and became a cop again, her mind shifting into police mode, laying out the day’s agenda over a cup of coffee and an English muffin. Evelyn Benson was due at the station at nine to ID her attacker, thus completing that little political favor for Sheriff Collins. After that . . .

  Hmm. After that, she could call the Oak Springs police and have them take custody of the suspect. Take over. Handle the whole case. She could get out of it.

  It occurred to her that only yesterday, the case was important to her and she had felt reluctant to bow out. This morning, well, things were different. Now she could envision herself turning in her uniform and moving far away from Hyde River, from Doug, from everything. She could envision herself having a good life in Colorado.

  An hour later, as she drove her Ranger toward West Fork, she checked her appearance in the rearview mirror, making sure her collar was straight, her hair in place. She looked sharp, and that was always important to her. But having checked her professional appearance, she lingered.

  Was she really beautiful? She thought she’d like her auburn hair a little longer so she could do more with it, but then again, the shorter length was easier to take care of. She was glad she looked younger than thirty—but maybe she looked too young, perhaps immature. She could try a little more makeup, perhaps.

  Brother. Enough of this! She turned her attention back to her driving, smiling at herself and her thoughts. Yes, things were different this morning.

  STEVE AWOKE, read a cute little note from Tracy on her pillow— she’d gone to work, would call later, hoped he had a nice day—another note on the coffeemaker, telling him to help himself to muffins and cereal, and a third note on the bathroom mirror in which she informed him what she would be doing that day: meeting Evelyn at the station and having her ID Phil Garrett so the Oak Springs police could take over. She closed this last note by saying she’d be thinking of him today and signed it “Love, Tracy.”

  Steve removed the note from the mirror so he could see to shave and opened up the shave kit he’d brought in from his camper.

  Well. Evelyn’s coming to West Fork. All right. That should get the case cleared up neatly enough.

  Love, Tracy. Love? What were they starting here? What he was feeling this morning wasn’t what love was supposed to feel like. He couldn’t stop thinking about Doug—yeah, Steve, remember Doug? Her husband? To whom she’s married?— and what that big guy would have thought or done had he found them in bed together. Not that it mattered from a moral point of view. Tracy was separated from Doug, and this was something both he and Tracy had decided together to do. Besides, where was Doug’s halo? But Steve still had some practical concerns, such as getting through the day—or the next several days, for that matter—with his life and body intact.

  He lathered his face and started shaving.

  I hope this doesn’t turn out to be some big deal, he thought. I mean, it was just one night. Tracy wanted it, I wanted it, and we both needed it, we’ve been through so much together. Now she’s gone to work like she always does and here I am, a wildlife biologist and college professor like I’ve always been, and she’ll go on being a deputy and I’ll be teaching again fall quarter, so nothing’s really different. We can both walk away like it never happened.

  He rinsed his razor under the hot tap water and continued.

  Like it never happened? Why would I want to pretend that? Was there something wrong with what happened last night? Man oh man! Here we go with that guilt question again! Aw, give it a rest!

  He finished shaving and rinsed his razor under the tap again.

  Then he stopped. Now what had he done to himself? The burns on his arms were still there, and the bruises, well, they came with the territory. But what was this discoloration over his heart? It looked kind of like varicose veins, squiggly and branchlike. Hmm. Had to be from his encounter with the dragon. He’d bashed and bruised himself so many times in that incident he’d lost track. This could be a broken blood vessel from all the exertion.

  It was no big deal. A guy in his line of work wouldn’t get much done if he worried about every little mark he got. It kind of hurt, though.

  He put away his razor and shaving cream. He had to get going. Tracy was meeting Evelyn, Evelyn was going to ID Phil Garrett, the whole case was going to be handed off to the Oak Springs police, and then . . .

  Legally speaking, the case against Phil Garrett seemed tight enough, so he would most likely do some time. But unless some hard evidence materialized, it was doubtful anyone else would be charged with anything. As far as Steve knew, the dragon really was responsible for all the deaths that had been blamed on it. />
  It was the political/cultural climate that now presented the biggest problem, aggravated, of course, by the arrest of Phil Garrett. Steve had confirmed that Hyde Valley and its surrounding environs were inhabited by a large, reptilian creature, most likely a carry-over from prehistoric times. But what complicated any further research—indeed, what had already cost human lives and was sure to cost more—was the local culture, the belief system, that had grown up around this creature. Steve would have to deal directly with that belief system. The people of Hyde River had to realize that the creature could not be hidden any longer but would have to be studied. They also had to realize that the beast could not be allowed to kill again.

  Steve’s course of action was bold and simple: He’d go right to the top, to Harold Bly, and just tell him that the secret was out, the whole scientific world would soon be waiting at Hyde River’s doorstep, and the people of Hyde River needed to adjust their thinking. Simple enough. Good grief. If Harold Bly was smart, he’d start figuring out ways to capitalize on it.

  He finished dressing and gathered up the gear he’d brought in from the camper: his backpack, his shaving kit, and of course, all the laundry Tracy had washed last night. Tracy might expect him to stay another night, another week, however long she could keep him, but he couldn’t let that get started, especially if he wanted to make peace with the town.

  Ouch! His hand went to his chest. What had he done to himself? This broken blood vessel, or whatever it was, was burning. He dug through his first-aid kit and found some ointment for insect bites. It might work. He opened his shirt and smeared some on. The pain didn’t subside, but perhaps it would, given time.

  But now he had to make that phone call. He found the number of the Hyde Mining Company in the local phone book and dialed it.

  The old mining company had shrunk a bit. Steve recognized Harold Bly’s voice as Bly answered the phone himself. “Hyde Mining.”

  “Mr. Bly?”

  “Yeah, who’s this?”

  Bly was sounding a bit gruff this morning. Steve did not expect a kind response when he answered, “Mr. Bly, this is Steve Benson.”