The Frank Peretti Collection

by Frank E. Peretti

  Collins sat there silently, playing with the rubber band. Finally, grudgingly, he asked, “Deputy, I hope you’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking.”

  Tracy had to build up to saying it. “Sir, Maggie is Harold Bly’s wife. If she was having an affair with Cliff Benson . . .”

  Collins rolled his eyes. “I’d rather go with the bear theory.”

  “So would I.”

  “Then why don’t you—” At the look on her face, he gave up. He knew she would not be easily dissuaded. “All right, listen. You’ve got your theories, and that’s fine, but give me some hard evidence. Connect at least one loose end for me, and then we can decide if you’ve got anything.”

  So he was dumping it all on her. That was easy to do from behind a desk in a town far from the problem. “Well, do you think you might talk to Harold Bly about this?”

  The sheriff looked at her disdainfully. “About what? About the fact that someone’s dead who his wife was rumored to be having an affair with? Now if I was an absolute moron who didn’t know how to do my job and didn’t care about keeping my job, then yeah, I might butt into Harold’s personal business and insinuate that he’s a murderer.”

  “I’m just trying to—”

  “What you have done, Deputy, is to make assumptions that could get us all in big trouble if we don’t back them up a little better.” His tone was condescending as he asked, “Are you following me?”

  She kept her tone calm and even, but inside she was shaking with anger. “I am trying to find connections and substance. But I have to start somewhere.”

  “Well, sticking my neck out for Harold Bly to chop it off is not the place to start.”

  “Just thought I’d ask.”

  He went back to his rubber band. “So before we talk about this again, get me some real information, and I mean some hard stuff. Find Maggie. Talk to her. Odds are you’ll get nothing but a sob story about their marriage that doesn’t have diddly-squat to do with anything.”

  Tracy winced. “Which means I’ll have to talk to Levi Cobb.”

  Collins gave her a mocking smile. “Hey, this is your case, Deputy. Drop it or pursue it, it’s up to you. Personally, I’m more comfortable with the bear.”

  Of course you are, you jerk. Then you wouldn’t have to do anything. She came within a hair’s breadth of saying it. Instead, she said, “But, Les, you realize Levi knows the rules out there. He isn’t going to tell me anything.”

  “Well, I’m sure you’ll think of a way to get it out of him.” Tracy closed her notebook, trying not to display her frustration. “That’s a good girl,” he added. The only way Tracy could hide her frustration and anger was to turn quickly and get out of there.

  STEVE MANAGED to arrange a Federal Express pickup of the vial of saliva—the FedEx van came right to Steve’s motel room—and sent it off to a biochemist friend at the university. It would arrive the following morning, and hopefully he would get some useful information back.

  Now for a visit to Hyde River. Steve got into his camper and drove out of West Fork and through the tightening valley, following the winding road as it followed the river. He passed through Able, took the left fork of the Y, drove on through Nugget and Yellow Knife, and knew he was getting close to Hyde River by the mounds of gravel tailings along the riverbed, the last vestiges of the old gold-dredging days.

  It amazed him a little as he considered a sheriff’s deputy like Tracy Ellis driving up into the mountains this far to do her job. Considering how far Hyde River was from the sheriff’s department and how short on personnel the department seemed to be, law enforcement had to be more of a word, an ideal, than a reality.

  Perhaps that explained the little sign Steve saw posted on the front of a house as he first entered Hyde River: an ominous silhouette of a revolver with the superimposed words, WE DON’T CALL 911. That about captured it, he thought. They’re self-sufficient up here, to put it mildly. Everywhere he looked, he could catch the message: Mind your own business. This wasn’t a place where county building codes, weed ordinances, or waste-disposal regulations carried a lot of weight. People lived as they pleased. He was reminded of Tracy’s warning about strangers asking questions.

  The dogs were out roaming and lying around as if the whole town owned them. The Hyde Mining Company still cast its dismal, tombstone shadow over the town, its ramps, rails, tunnels, and towers looking like an ancient and defunct amusement ride, its old water tower now a weathered pedestal without the tank.

  Steve thought he caught some stares from some of the people as he drove into town. Could be. His big camper with an out-of-state license plate virtually cried out “stranger.” When he slowed down, turned off the road, and parked in front of Charlie’s Tavern, he was sure he was being stared at. Well, greetings, folks. I don’t want any trouble; how much do you want? He was confident he could take care of himself. He was just hoping he wouldn’t have to.

  He got out and stood beside his camper for a moment, trying to get a feel for the place. There were quite a few pickup trucks parked outside the tavern, every one of them standing high on big tires and sporting a rifle rack in the back window. It was after four. Quitting time at the mine and probably everywhere else. All the local boys must be gathered here: contractor types, loggers, miners, outdoorsmen. They would know these mountains, if anyone did.

  He stepped up to the front door—it bore another sign advertising the grand opening of Charlie’s Mercantile, the building right next door—and stepped inside, into the dimly lit den of the town’s beer brotherhood. It wasn’t a bad-looking place, Steve thought. The bar stretched along the entire length of the left wall, with enough stools for about ten customers; behind the bar, the bottles, neon signs, hunting trophies, and beer posters of perfect-bodied women kept the eyes busy. On the far-right wall was an impressive stone fireplace with logs smoldering, and in between were several tables, every one of them different, from a fifties-style Formica-topped kitchen table to rustic ones made from logs and elk antlers. At the far end of the room, three men in well-worn clothes, wide suspenders, and billed caps did slow, cue-chalking laps around a pool table, their beer bottles ready and waiting along the table’s edges. In the far corner, a jukebox pounded out a country tune while video games bleeped and warbled.

  Steve caught the eye of two men sitting at the nearest table, the younger one with his arm around a loosely behaved and tightly dressed blonde. The men were dressed in what seemed to be the Hyde Valley uniform: checked flannel shirts, billed caps with brand names on the front—usually of beer or chewing tobacco—wide suspenders, and faded jeans. They were carrying on an animated conversation until they saw him. Then they stopped talking and just stared at him. Steve returned their looks and said hi. They said hi back, but nothing else.

  “Hi,” came a woman’s voice.

  Steve looked toward the waitress behind the bar. She was plump and pleasant-faced and wearing a T-shirt that proclaimed, “Timber Dollars Feed My Family.”

  “Hi,” he said, and fumbled in his shirt pocket for a business card. “I wonder if you might help me.” Aware that the men were watching him, he stepped up to the bar and presented his card to her. “I’m Steve Benson; I’m a wildlife biologist from Colorado State University, and I’ve been investigating that bear attack that happened last weekend, the man killed up on Wells Peak.”

  She smiled as she read the card and heard his quick résumé.

  The man in the thick glasses who came up behind her wasn’t smiling. “What’s going on, Melinda?”

  She started to answer. “This is—”

  “Who’d you say you were?” he demanded.

  Melinda passed him Steve’s card, and Steve recited the reasons for his presence again.

  “Go get Paul a beer,” the man ordered, and she went to serve the man seated at the opposite end of the bar. “Mr. Benson, I’m the owner of this place. You got questions, you talk to me.”

  Brother! It was easy to do the wrong thing in this pla
ce. “Are you Charlie?” Steve tried to sound friendly, attempting to undo his being a stranger.

  Charlie read Steve’s card again. “That’s right. What can I do for you?” Subtitle: Whaddaya want?

  “I need to talk to some people who know these mountains. You know—hunters, sportsmen. We’re trying to isolate just who or what was responsible for the attack—”

  “You don’t know yet?” He gave Steve a skeptical look.

  “Well, we’re not sure.”

  “We’ve got flyers all around town that say it was a bear.”

  “Yeah, that’s the going theory, of course.”

  “Who’d you say you’re working for?”

  “I’m not really working for anybody. I’m just here on my own.”

  “What for?”

  “To help out with the investigation.”

  “A lot of help you are. They’ve already shot the bear, in case you haven’t heard.” Charlie tossed the card on the bar and turned away.

  Steve called after him, “Uh, Charlie—can I call you Charlie?”

  Charlie busied himself with tending the bar as he replied, “I s’pose.”

  “Charlie, I’m the one who shot the bear. I also did an autopsy on the bear, and the findings were inconclusive.”

  “Well, if you don’t know what you’re doing, there’s nobody here that can help you.”

  Okay, far enough. Not another inch. “How do you know?”

  “Huh?”

  “I don’t mean to be rude, but perhaps your patrons would like to speak for themselves.”

  Charlie finished pouring a beer for a customer and then returned to take another look at the business card. “So you shot the bear, huh?”

  “Yes. Up along Tailor Creek. You know Marcus DuFresne?”

  Now Charlie paid better attention. “Yeah. You know him?”

  “Sure. We went after that bear together. He called it Herman.”

  Charlie was stunned. “You shot Herman?”

  Steve nodded.

  Charlie looked at Steve’s card again. “So you really do hunt bears.”

  “I study them mostly. But sometimes I have to shoot one.”

  “How big? What’s the biggest bear you ever shot?”

  “Eight hundred pounds. A Kodiak in Alaska.”

  “Ever shot anything bigger?”

  Now Steve felt he was obliged to impress this guy. “No. I think that’s about as big as I’ve killed.”

  Charlie took a moment to think that over.

  Steve heard a voice behind him. “You having some trouble, Charlie?”

  It was one of the men from the front table, the bigger, older one, stepping into the situation. His friend and the woman were watching, and no doubt he was aware of it.

  Charlie looked Steve over again as if trying to decide the answer. “Mister, are you gonna order anything?”

  Steve knew he’d better answer. “Yes. A beer would be fine.”

  Charlie looked at the big guy standing there. “No trouble.”

  The big guy was still eyeing Steve suspiciously, wanting trouble. He was a rugged man with stubble on his face and beer on his breath. He was leaning close, forcing himself into Steve’s space, sizing him up. Steve didn’t want a fight. It was a waste of time and energy.

  Charlie volunteered, “Doug, this guy studies bears. He’s from a university.”

  At that, the man laughed. “Oh. A university.” That had to mean wimp, Steve thought. “So what are you doing here?”

  Charlie brought the beer. Steve paid for it and then faced the man called Doug who hadn’t budged from his spot. He took time for one swallow of beer, then formally introduced himself and his reason for being there.

  “It was a bear,” Doug said. “It happens around here.” Then he stood there, waiting for Steve to agree and leave.

  “But we still need to know which bear. We shot Herman, but do you know of any bear besides Herman who might be responsible? Have you or any of your friends sighted any other bears around that aren’t afraid of people or like to raid campsites?” Steve was asking about bears, but hoping some other sliver of information might come out—anything at all.

  Doug just shrugged.

  Steve looked at the other man, still seated with the woman. “Hi. I’m Steve.”

  “I’m Kyle,” answered the young man. Then he gestured with his beer bottle toward the woman. “This is Carlotta.”

  Steve nodded toward the woman, and she cocked her head and looked him over warily. Steve turned back to Kyle. “What do you think, Kyle? Ever had anything like this happen around here before?”

  Kyle seemed a bit unnerved by the subject. “Sure. I haven’t seen anything, but there’s plenty of people around here who have. They just don’t talk about it much.”

  “Shut up!” Doug snapped.

  “What’d I say?”

  “Just don’t say anything!” Doug roared, and Kyle fell silent.

  Steve raised his arms slightly in quiet diplomacy. “Fine. Fine. No offense intended.”

  “Come on, Doug,” Carlotta beckoned. “Just leave him alone.” Doug rejoined her and Kyle at the table to finish his sandwich and beer but not before giving Steve a warning glare.

  By now, the three men playing pool were watching to see if there’d be any action. The guy named Paul, still sitting at the other end of the bar, only stole sideways glances.

  Steve asked Charlie, “May I sit down?”

  Charlie shrugged. “Sit.”

  One of the three pool players took a shot; the balls clacked and rolled. Paul went back to his beer. Kyle and Carlotta resumed their conversation, and the jukebox kept playing. Doug kept watching Steve.

  Steve chose a small, two-person table a little farther back and close enough to another patron to engage him in conversation. This guy was older, bearded, with a large, barrel-shaped body and big, muscular arms. He sat alone at a hand-hewn burl table, eating a hefty lunch and apparently having a conversation with someone who wasn’t there.

  Steve caught his eye and smiled in a neighborly fashion. “Hi.”

  The bearded fellow cocked his head and gave Steve a look that carried a lecture in itself. “Mister,” he said in a low, gravelly voice, “if I were you, I’d settle for the bear.”

  Steve made a tiny mental note about how all these people were overstating the obvious. Then he leaned closer and spoke in a quiet voice. “But which bear? Do you know of any other rogue bear around here, some bear Fish and Game may not be aware of ?”

  The man had raised his hand to say hold it. “You’re in the wrong place to be asking a lot of questions. If Herman did it, then let it go at that.” He turned back to his lunch and prepared to take another bite of his sandwich, not looking at Steve as he said, “You push this thing any further, you’ll get people riled.”

  “What if more innocent people get hurt?” Steve countered.

  The man took a large bite of the sandwich and chewed for a moment before remarking through the wad in his mouth, “Ain’t nobody innocent.”

  “Listen. The man who was killed was my brother!”

  That registered. The man’s eyes narrowed as he looked away and muttered, “Hoo boy, we’re in trouble now.”

  Slap! Steve felt a powerful hand on his shoulder, twisting him around.

  It was Doug. “I don’t think he wants to be bothered.”

  The bearded man protested. “Doug, I can speak for myself.”

  “Not to him, you’re not.” Then Doug said sideways to Steve, “You don’t want to talk to him. He’s the town’s nut case.”

  The man put down his sandwich and placed his ham-sized hands on the table, ready to get up. “Well, maybe he’d like to be the judge of that himself.”

  Steve stood, as tall as Doug if not taller, and this time he invaded Doug’s space. “Hey. I’m not looking for trouble. I just need information, that’s all, and I’ll thank you to let me go about my business.”

  Doug had found his excuse. He grabbed a fistful o
f Steve’s shirt and backed him up against a post, knocking a picture to the floor. “I’ll give you information, Professor!”

  Now the pool players were watching again, and Paul turned completely around on his bar stool.

  Steve’s arms came from somewhere Doug wasn’t expecting and restored a comfortable distance between them, landing Doug across a table.

  Doug was startled. But he got up from the table slowly, looking about, wanting to be sure the other patrons had seen it all. They had. The mood of the place shifted like the flipping of a channel.

  The stranger had crossed the line. The pool game broke up as the pool players moved in, their cue sticks in their hands.

  “Hey!” hollered Charlie, running from around the bar. “Now hold on, everybody!”

  Doug righted himself but didn’t charge. He was waiting for the reinforcements to gather.

  Steve looked the pool players over, now standing with Doug, their faces full of confidence and malice.

  “Now listen, there’s a proper way to settle disputes,” Steve said coolly.

  The biggest pool player exchanged an incredulous look with the others. “I think he’s telling us what to do.”

  Now Kyle joined up. Five to one.

  DOUG ADVANCED to give Steve a shove, but Charlie stepped in. “All right, now, let’s break this up.”

  Doug pushed Charlie away. “Stay put, Charlie. We’ll be done in a second.”

  Steve braced himself, estimating the force of their weight against his own. He figured he would most likely lose—and it would hurt, too.

  “Told you,” said the big bearded man, coming alongside to stand with him.

  “Stay out of this, Levi!” Doug warned. “This isn’t your fight!”

  Levi stood his ground, his big arms loose and ready. “Five to one is no fight at all, Doug.”

  Just then, the cowbell over the front door jangled as the door opened and sunlight entered the room. Doug didn’t charge, and neither did Kyle. The pool players lowered their cue sticks, disappointment clouding their faces. Steve had his back to the door, and he wondered who they were staring at. But he wasn’t about to turn and find out.

  Then Steve heard a familiar voice. “Can’t you boys play a little more quietly? For a minute I thought I heard some trouble in here.”