He dared not believe it. Yet he could not hear it slithering down the tunnel toward him. Well, he couldn’t stay here, he thought. The only way out was back up the tunnel. If the dragon was going to kill him, it would kill him whether he stayed here or not.
Calling on his last reserves of strength, Steve crawled around the corner toward the tunnel, then sat leaning against the wall, breathing heavily and listening. There was silence and total darkness in the tunnel. Suddenly Steve realized he still had his flashlight on his belt. With shaking fingers he unclipped it and shined it up the tunnel. It was clear. Slowly, painfully, he began to crawl up it, too exhausted to walk.
The trip back up the tunnel seemed interminable, but at last he reached the main room. He flashed the light around. It was empty. The smoke was clearing, and he could see light filtering in to the entrance of the tunnel.
The dragon was gone!
Over against the cave wall, he saw his rifle, black and smoldering, the magazine blown open and the spent shells scattered about on the sand. He crawled over to the wall, then pulled himself to his feet, his legs rubbery, and stole quietly to the entrance. Nothing but fading, reddening daylight out there.
And air. Clear, crisp, breathable air.
He emerged from the cave filthy, scorched, stinking of smoke, and trembling like a leaf. Below him, the thin, struggling trees remained undisturbed. Saddlehorse Peak was awash in the warm light of the late-afternoon sun.
He sank to his knees on the sandy shelf in front of the cave entrance then flopped onto his back to breathe for a while, to recover, to think. He had to get going before it got dark, he knew. But right now he couldn’t move.
Oh God, just let me rest and be alive for a while. Just let me feel the cool earth under my back and see the sky overhead . . .
His hand fell on something small and metallic. He glanced over at it, then picked it up.
It was one of the dragon’s scales. All he had to do was hold it, and it mimicked the color and texture of his hand. Maybe one of his shots had broken it loose. It showed no damage, though, no dents or abrasions.
He rested his head in the sand and looked up at the sky, clear except for a few cirrus clouds.
Levi tried to warn me, he thought. This was a repeat of the last time, only Levi wasn’t here and I walked right into it. Stupid, stupid, stupid!
As hard as it was for him to accept, Steve realized that the creature could think. It knew what he was thinking; it knew him. He didn’t—he couldn’t—understand it, but he knew that the creature was aware of his own motivations.
But then, why did it let me go? he wondered. Why didn’t it eat me? What was all that flame-throwing for? Was it just showing off?
Steve’s rational mind began to kick in. He was weak, but he forced himself to get up and to walk away from the cave toward some bushes, where he collapsed again and began to rethink what had happened.
He realized now that he should have gotten a clue from the tracks in the sand. There was only one set and only one furrow left by the tail. The thing didn’t come here all the time. In fact, it had only been there once recently—once, just to trap him.
He should have known that. He should have seen it.
He sat there for several minutes replaying the whole scene, mentally kicking himself for being so stupid. I should have known . . . I should have anticipated . . . I should have . . . I should have . . . I should have . . .
CHARLIE WAS gone, and everyone knew it. A story went around town about Charlie being the victim of a hit-and-run truck—Lester Collins came up with that one—and another one about Charlie hitting a moose but such stories were destined for an early death in Hyde River. No one said a word, at least not very loud, about what really had happened to Charlie Mack, but everyone knew.
They knew about Maggie too, and Vic, and by now they knew Cliff Benson by name and knew whose brother he was and what Steve the professor was after. Those from the old school, like Elmer McCoy and Joe Staggart, knew better than to talk openly about it, but they were still ready to give hushed, two- or three-word answers to the younger folks who dared to ask questions. The community was closing in tightly.
Crucifixes began to appear around town. Carl Ingfeldt’s wife never went anywhere without the old silver cross her mother had given her. Doug Ellis welded one together out of bits of sheet metal and copper wire and kept it around his neck even when he showered.
Carlotta and Rosie nailed a wooden cross to their front door but went one step further by tacking garlic cloves to it. Kyle Figgin had a brainstorm and fetched a bottle of holy water from West Fork, asking only a dollar a portion to cover his trouble and expense.
Those of purely secular minds invested in more firearms and ammunition. Even Paul the skeptic could feel something brewing and oiled up the locks on his doors and windows, something he hadn’t done as long as he’d lived in the town.
The people of Hyde River were afraid. Reverend Ron Woods could sense it clearly as they greeted him on the street or in the hardware store or even came by to help him nail shingles onto the church roof. They all wanted to talk, to see how he was, to talk about—well, about any old thing having nothing to do with what was really bothering them. He was happy enough to visit with them and reassure them, but since they had no questions, he couldn’t venture any answers, and of course, they could not talk about The Problem. Anything but that.
Levi knew the talk going around; he could feel the fear spreading through the town. He knew the closeness of the evil and the shortness of the time.
So he continued working, grinding and honing the edge of the old bulldozer backclaw tooth, heating it, hammering it, forming it into a broad-tipped, razor-sharp spearhead. “Out of the fire, a tool fit for the master’s hand. Ha! Just you watch. Any time now, might even be tonight, that cocky professor’s gonna come through my door, and this time he’s gonna be ready to listen. We gotta be ready by then, am I right?”
THE COWBELL over the door to Charlie’s tavern jangled.
The moment Tracy Ellis stepped inside, she could tell the town’s center of socializing had become like a bunker under siege. There was some kind of meeting going on in the far corner, she’d walked into the middle of it, and now she was drawing icy stares from all the attendees. Andy Schuller and his pool-shooting buddies were part of that meeting, leaning against the far wall, the pool table and cues totally ignored. There was no clatter from the kitchen, for Bernie was out of his apron and seated with the others. Carl Ingfeldt was there, along with Paul Myers, and across the table from them sat the town’s two girlfriends-at-large, Carlotta and Rosie, smoking cigarettes and looking nervous. Tracy’s estranged husband, Doug, was there, along with his loyal sidekick Kyle Figgin, and right next to them were the old-timers Elmer McCoy and Joe Staggart. Seeing McCoy and Staggart, Tracy realized that this gathering had to be important. Those two usually stayed in a clique of their own.
“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 1882?”
“I’ve heard conflicting accounts about it.”
“Right. That it was the Indians—”
The Frank Peretti Collection Page 34