The Frank Peretti Collection: The Oath, the Visitation, and Monster

by Frank E. Peretti

  As long as Beck was slow and careful, Rachel let her brush out the blood-encrusted hair around the wounds and even helped by licking the area with her tongue. It was tedious work, sometimes hair by hair—Beck didn’t want to get decked again—but they made it through the task together. The perilous area groomed, Beck stepped back to clean her brush, admire her work, and enjoy the feeling.

  Rachel grunted, reaching for the hairbrush. Beck let her take it to sniff it for treats while Beck removed her jacket. Rachel sniffed the brush and probed it with her fingers, but better treats could easily be found for less work. She lost interest.

  “Hmm?” Beck prompted, her hand extended.

  Rachel gave the brush back.

  Beck worked her way down Rachel’s expansive back and around her waist, nudging that big body one way and then the other so she could reach every side. Rachel was looking good, the dandiest Sasquatch in the forest.

  She sent looks Leah’s direction. Hey, Leah! I’m getting groomed! What do you think about that?

  Jacob abandoned Leah, disappearing into the forest in his usual, mysterious way. With no source of glory, Leah sank against a tree and moodily examined her fingernails.

  Rachel jutted out her jaw and wiggled it at her competitor.

  Apparently, Leah reached some kind of limit. A plaintive expression came over her face; she actually fussed a little and then started to rise as if she would come their way.

  Rachel lurched and barked at her, teeth bared, a display so abrupt and loud it made Beck jump. Leah sat back down, her eyes averted.

  Beck wasn’t sure she could believe what she saw. “M-my, my!”

  Rachel snuffed in Leah’s direction, an assertive postscript, then heaved a deep sigh and relaxed, looking lovely.

  “Woo-w-well! It’s about time!” Beck touched the side of Rachel’s face and looked her in the eye, something only safe between friends. “See? You’re not so bad.” A cluster of mountain bluebells grew within reach. Beck plucked them up, twisted them together, and stuck them in Rachel’s hair. “The ugly duckling is now a princess!”

  Rachel pulled the bluebells from her hair, sniffed them, and ate them.

  Oh well.

  When Beck heard a sickening, ripping sound, she knew what it was—and who was responsible—before she leaped lopsidedly to her feet to look.

  “No, noo!”

  She’d wondered where Reuben was, and of course, all it took to bring him out of hiding were Beck’s eyes averted and her jacket unguarded. He had her buckskin jacket in his teeth; he bit and yanked pieces of leather as if it were beef jerky. A sleeve was already torn off and lying on the ground by itself.

  Beck limped toward him, yelling, screaming, waving her arms.

  He found a pocket and pulled out Beck’s precious roll of toilet paper.

  “N-n-noo! P-p-p-!” Please!

  She took one step too many toward Leah’s child. Leah exploded from the ground and became a fearsome wall between them, teeth bared, hands ready to break Beck in half. Beck lurched away to save her life, and Rachel caught her, growling, but moving to their safe zone.

  Reuben discovered that the toilet paper could unroll.

  Beck wailed in anguish and disbelief. This couldn’t be happening. God wouldn’t let a thing like this happen. This was worse than losing the jacket.

  When Reuben pulled on the streamer of toilet paper, the dwindling roll danced and tumbled. He leaped with delight and pulled it again, getting another loop of streamer as a reward.

  Beck sank to her knees, defeated, insulted, and violated, watching the last vestige of her cherished world unravel in the hands of a savage beast.

  With his body draped and looped in white streamers, Reuben grabbed the jacket again and, like a dog slinking away to chew on a treat, bolted into the woods and out of sight.

  God, did You make him do that? You couldn’t allow me just one little comfort?

  And just when she was feeling better. She’d even spoken a few sentences.

  It wasn’t fair.

  It was unbelievable, but the evidence was clear, recent, and right in front of them, not more than an hour’s hike from Whitetail. The roughly twelve-by-twelve patch of tilled and raked earth now abounded in tracks unlike any they’d ever seen before.

  “Never in my life,” said Arlen Peak, in total awe.

  Fleming Cryncovich, still burdened with heavy bags of casting plaster and clanging mixing bowls, was the sort whose excitement went straight to his mouth. “Hey, forget Bluff Creek and the Skookum Cast, I mean, this is something, this is really something, this is four of ’em all at once! This oughta change some minds, don’t you think? My mom and dad, you know, they don’t believe in Bigfoot, but I always knew . . . It’s patience, right? Patience is what it takes. Let’s cast ’em, man, before they erode.”

  Sheriff Mills, unabashedly staring, visibly shaken, put up his hand. “Slow. Slow down. And stay back, please. We have no idea what we’ve got here, not even the half of it.”

  Fleming backed up a few steps, his impatience showing. Max Johnson and Arlen Peak stayed close to make sure Fleming wouldn’t be a problem. That didn’t mean they could keep him quiet. “I’ve tried to stick with local fruits, the kind that grow around here. But I guess somebody liked the bananas too. Listen, there’s a running creek right over there. I can bring water for the plaster; it’d be easy.”

  Pete, with Reed at his shoulder, had worked his way around the perimeter, measuring boot prints near the edge and comparing them to a drawing he’d made near the Lost Creek cabin. He placed his tape measure in his pocket and looked one more time at his drawing. Finally, he reported, “It’s her.”

  Reed exhaled a held breath and locked his knees to keep from collapsing. He couldn’t hold back his tears, but he resolved he would remain standing, whatever it took.

  Pete pointed as he spoke. “Same boot sole, same wear pattern. See there? She’s favoring her right foot, putting most of her weight on the left. She’s injured, but she’s alive and walking. Can’t explain it; can’t explain any of this, but that’s how it is.”

  “Well,” Fleming piped in, “Bigfoot are not known for violence against humans, except maybe the Ape Canyon incident, but that’s grown into a legend by now—but there have been reports that they don’t like dogs very much . . .”

  Sing kneeled on the opposite side of the tilled area, glasses perched on her nose, magnifying glass hovering over the largest print. “It’s explaining itself, if we can believe it.” She rested back, sitting on the grass at the edge, more shaken than Reed had ever seen her. She brushed some hair away from her face and looked at Arlen. “This footprint has a scar on the ball of the foot. It’s an old injury that’s healed, with the dermal ridges turned inward.” She sighed, overcome. “Arlen, you know that casting you have back at the inn? That footprint and this one were made by the same animal.”

  Arlen was stunned, then beaming. He and Fleming high-fived each other.

  Pete nodded. “Most likely a male.” He turned to Reed and Mills, “The alpha male, if that’s how these animals operate. We’ve got four of ’em: one big male, two smaller adults that are probably females, and one juvenile, can’t guess what sex it is.”

  “And Beck,” said Reed.

  “And Beck,” Pete agreed.

  Sing was still looking at the big print. “This print’s a full eighteen inches long, and—Pete, what do you make of this?”

  Pete circled around, along with Reed and Mills, and knelt close. “Yeah, lookie there. See the outside edge of the print?” He pointed it out to Reed and Mills. “The dermal ridges—you know, the crinkles in the skin like fingerprints—they’re running along the length of the foot, not across it, like human prints.”

  “So tell me what we’re looking at,” said the sheriff.

  All eyes went to Pete. He scanned the prints one more time. “I may as well admit the obvious.” He paused and gave a deep sigh. “I’d say we’ve got ourselves a Bigfoot.” He cast a questio
ning glance at each of them.

  Reed had thought so all along, and now he let his face show it. Sing nodded acceptance. Mills stared back, stern as a rock.

  “Which one has Beck?” Reed asked.

  “Not the camp raider.” Pete pointed to one of the midsized prints. “I’d say this one here. It’s the closest match with the size we found above the waterfall, and look at that pressure ridge in the middle of the print.”

  Sing was still amazed about it. “Right behind the midtarsal joint. These feet flex in the middle.”

  “That’s how she fooled me. She pushes off from the whole front half of the foot. We couldn’t tell what in the world we were tracking. But look there; figure that one out.” He directed their attention to where the first digits of Reed’s cell phone number were scratched in the dirt—two sets of prints seemed to be playing tag with each other. “When Beck tried to carve out your phone number, that big gal was following her.” He sniffed a chuckle. “Looks like she even tried to write herself.”

  Sing grabbed the camera from her backpack and snapped pictures. Among her shots of the footprints, she also captured a few group shots, careful to include close shots of Fleming Cryncovich, Arlen Peak, and Max Johnson. She and Reed were compiling a record of every name, every face, no exceptions.

  “How fresh are these tracks?” Mills asked.

  Fleming blurted proudly, “I raked this area early yesterday. Found the tracks this morning.”

  Pete nodded. Apparently, what he saw matched that scenario. Still on one knee, his gaze sweeping slowly, he scanned the trail of tracks leading back across the coarse sand and into the streambed. “Could I have everybody stay put, and no noise, please?” He got to his feet and followed the tracks, taking one carefully chosen step at a time, staying well to the side. As the others waited and watched, the tracks took him clear across the smooth, dry river rocks of the streambed and to a narrow stand of river grass on the other side. Just beyond the grass, the forest began and the mountainside rose sharply, the trees rising one behind the other, tree above tree above tree, until the green mat of the forest ended abruptly against a jagged and near-vertical rock face. He stood very still in the grass, reading the sign, looking, listening, maybe even smelling for all the others knew.

  Fleming piped up, his whisper loud and grating, “Can we do the casting now?”

  Mills picked up his rifle as he answered, “When Pete gives the okay.”

  “I brought some more plaster,” said Arlen, “but I don’t think it’ll be enough.”

  “I brought some too,” said Sing. “We’ll try to stretch it.”

  Mills looked at the field of footprints and gave his head a barely discernible wag. “Nobody’s ever gonna believe this.”

  When Pete finally returned, his walk was brisk. He didn’t speak until he was close enough to do it quietly. “They didn’t follow the streambed.” He pointed as the others gathered around. “They cut straight across and headed up the mountain. If they’re still up there and we can push them up against that rock face . . .”

  Mills nodded and whispered, “We can hem them in.”

  Reed got a grip on his apprehension by sheer force of will. His stomach was tight to the point of nausea, and even his whisper quaked: “What if Beck’s with them?”

  They all exchanged nervous looks.

  “If Beck’s with them,” the sheriff finally answered, “then we can’t let them leave.”

  Max sighted through his rifle scope a little too calmly, as if he wasn’t buying any of this.

  Pete walked to his backpack and dug out some small plastic spray bottles. “Better spray this on. The air’s moving up that slope like a brush fire.” He tossed a bottle to each hunter. It was scent shield, rather unpleasant stuff that covered up human scent. They sprayed it on their clothing and boots, then smeared it on their hands and faces. “There’re only four of us, but maybe that’s better,” Pete said. “No dogs, no mobs, no racket. I want to get close this time.” He pulled his shirt open and sprayed his armpits. The others did the same.

  “Can we cast the prints now?” Fleming nagged.

  “You may,” said Pete. He studied the mountainside as he addressed Mills. “If we push ’em, they’re gonna break left or right. If I can get you and Reed to handle the left and right flanks, Max and I can sew up the middle.”

  Max seemed unconvinced. “So how do we even know they’re up there?”

  “Right now it’s a good guess,” said Pete. “But we’re gonna find out real quick.”

  The big metal door swung open and Cap came through, shoving the cleaning cart ahead of him, brooms swaying, bottles sloshing. He checked his watch. Louis wouldn’t be arriving for several hours. So far, so good. He pushed the door shut and wheeled the cleaning cart back into its parking place. Now. Which mops did he add? He pulled one out—

  A key rattled in the back door.

  I’m dead!

  He never danced so quickly in his life as he spun and swivel-necked, trying to spot a place to hide.

  Behind the carts. It was his only choice.

  He yanked the cart out of its parking place, dove into the space behind, and pulled the cart in after him. It didn’t fit all the way in, but maybe Louis wouldn’t notice.

  The back door opened and somebody big came in, work shoes thudding and shuffling heavily on the floor. It was Louis, all right. Cap knew that familiar whistle. The tune was “Georgia.” Louis was a big Ray Charles fan.

  And he was ever-so-inconveniently early!

  Cap looked down and noticed he still had Louis’s access card around his neck. Oh, please, Louis, don’t go to your locker.

  He heard the locker door open and the rustle of Louis’s coveralls as Louis pulled them on.

  Then the whistling stopped. Louis was rummaging around in the locker. The big footfalls went to the desk. Papers shuffled. A drawer opened and shut again.

  The huge footsteps came into the supply room and stopped. Louis was looking around. The silence suggested he was being cautious.

  I’m deader than dead. Louis had to weigh 270, 280 pounds, and he was all muscle. If he wanted to detain Cap—and that was putting it nicely—it would happen, absolutely.

  Cap prayed, his heart pounding. Dear Lord, don’t let him worry about one of his carts being crooked—

  Louis came straight to the cart and pulled it out.

  The light streamed in on Cap, cowering like a frightened mouse against the back wall.

  Louis, a towering African American with a lineman’s body and a shaved head, gawked at Cap for a protracted moment. Cap considered trying to explain, but this ridiculous situation and the sight of this huge man struck him stupid and he couldn’t find the first word.

  The big man sighed through his nose, rubbed his lips together thoughtfully, and finally asked, “Should I come back later?”

  Cap struggled to his feet, never breaking eye contact and trying to smile. “Uh, no. I’m all through.” Once on his feet, he still had to look up to meet Louis’s gaze.

  Louis reached and with one finger gave the card hanging from Cap’s neck a little jiggle. Cap took it off hurriedly and handed it to him. Louis looked it over as if checking for damage, then put it around his own neck.

  “You better get out of here,” he said. “I got some crew comin’ in, and I don’t wanna be stuck explainin’ you.”

  Cap inched around the big man’s frame and made a beeline for the back door. “Louis, uh, thanks.”

  Louis followed him at a distance, watching him. “You get what you needed?”

  Cap paused at the door, considering the question and the data printout he’d stuffed in his pocket. “I’m afraid so.”

  He got out of there.

  Reed worked his way carefully up the incline, searching and selecting a firm, hopefully silent place to plant each step, weaving and dodging from tree to tree, his pulse pounding, his rifle slick in his sweating hands. The GPS receiver strapped to his left forearm showed him he’d come hal
fway up the slope; the four numbered blips on the moving map indicated he was maintaining formation with the others. They were moving up the hill in a semicircular arrangement, like the bottom half of a clock: Reed was at three o’clock; Pete was downhill and to Reed’s left at five o’clock; Max was coming up the middle to Pete’s left at seven o’clock; Sheriff Mills was directly opposite Reed at nine o’clock. The rock face was directly above them.

  The GPS doubled as a two-way radio, and now Pete’s voice whispered in Reed’s earpiece, “The tracks are veering south a little. Let’s add another ten degrees.”

  Reed spotted a big fir about fifty yards up the bank and ten degrees to his right. He headed for it. The blips on his map made the same correction. The half circle warped, lagged, caught up, overtightened, then loosened again as each man struggled with the terrain, but so far they were holding the dragnet together.

  Reed held his rifle in one hand while he dried the other on his pant leg, then switched hands and dried again. Part of him—the part with the weak knees, pounding pulse, and sweaty palms—couldn’t help dwelling on the flaws in the plan. There were only four hunters forming this semicircle, and they were spread out over half a mile. Any creature brave and wily enough could slip through the huge gaps between them and be long gone before they knew it. The success of Pete’s plan rested on these animals being either very shy or very deadly. If they were shy, they would back away until the hunters could tighten the circle and hem them in against the rocks; if they were deadly, then at least one of the hunters was bound to encounter them sooner or later. Pete didn’t mention how even shy animals could become deadly if cornered, but it did occur to Reed that, given what they were attempting, they were going to be dealing with a deadly wild animal either way. Pete’s only admonition for whenever that happened was “Don’t let them get past you.”

  Right. No problem. Those eighteen-inch footprints had given Reed a whole new way of looking at shadowy trees, obscured stumps, and breeze-rippled bushes. He’d already chambered a round. The safety was off. Thinking of Beck was the only thing that kept him pushing into this madness. Pete had said she was injured, limping most likely. Reed hoped it wasn’t more serious. How had she managed to survive this long when two strong men had died at the hands of these beasts? That was the question no one had asked, and yet it bothered Reed. Was she living in a terror that far outpaced the hell he’d been living in?