The University Research Library was a modern, inexhaustible depository of knowledge, six floors, miles of stacks, and millions of bound volumes. It was the haunt, the second home, of graduate students and doctoral candidates who created their own offices in the study booths along the walls and maintained a steady flow of traffic in the elevators. It was a quiet, somber place where great minds could meet and challenge new frontiers—as long as they did it quietly and brought in no food or drinks. There hadn’t been any murders here lately—maybe a flasher or two up in the stacks, but certainly no spies or killers.
Cap relaxed and smiled to himself. Okay, he thought, I’ve been careful.
He directed his attention back to the computer screen, trying to sort out, make sense of, and interpret the “inconclusive” findings Nick had brought back from the Judy Lab—the campus nickname for the Judith Fairfax DNA Sequencing Core Facility. The files on the CD Nick had given him were burgeoned with row upon row of the same four letters—A, C, T, and G—in a myriad of combinations, all representing specific strands of DNA from the hair, stool, and saliva samples. These were the clues, the indicators that would tell him what creature the samples came from, if the specific strands could be matched with those of a known creature.
Fortunately, DNA sequencing had reached such a level of sophistication that, using Internet resources such as GenBank and the calculating power of a high-speed computer, Cap could access vast archives of known strands, request comparisons, and find a match.
At least, that was the way it was supposed to work. So far he’d found plenty of matches but plenty of confusion as well. To most anyone, including the folks at the Judy Lab, the data would have to be ruled inconclusive; Cap’s samples had to have been contaminated.
Contamination was the classic “wrench in the works” as far as DNA sequencing was concerned. Even though much of the sequencing was now automated, eliminating most of the usual errors, contamination was one determined little gremlin, constantly waiting for a chance to mess things up. The field was full of stories of misidentification due to foreign DNA somehow getting into the mix. DNA from a triceratops was once found to be 100 percent identical to DNA from a turkey, but the researchers could never be sure whether the dinosaur was really identical to turkeys or whether someone eating a turkey sandwich during the sequencing contaminated the sample.
To most anyone, Cap’s samples indicated that kind of contamination, foreign DNA somehow mixed in with known DNA.
To most anyone, that was the end of the matter.
For Cap, it didn’t end there. Of course, he wished that it did. It would have been so much better than having to deal with another possible explanation and what that could mean.
Cap leaned back in his chair, hands interlocked in his lap, as he stared at the screen. What now?
Well. A paunchy man in a sagging wool sweater walked into the library’s comfortable, chair-and-sofa study lounge.
Dr. Mort Eisenbaum, just the man Cap needed to see.
Eisenbaum was an unmarried, socially inept genius who preferred huddling and communing with organic molecules, amino acids, and proteins to living in the complicated world of people. He and Cap weren’t close, but they’d often consulted on projects and compared notes on particular students. This man was a pioneer in DNA sequencing and usually liked being consulted about it. Cap had all the data laid out systematically on the computer. It wouldn’t take much of Eisenbaum’s time.
Cap ventured out of hiding and into the study lounge. Eisenbaum had settled into a favorite spot at a large oak table and was leafing through a stack of research volumes, obviously on the trail of something.
“Excuse me. Mort?”
Eisenbaum looked up over his reading glasses. A cloud fell over his face. “Dr. Capella. How are you?”
“Pretty good, pretty good. I was working on something when I saw you come in. It’s got me a little baffled.”
Eisenbaum closed the volume he was reading, stacked it on top of the others, and rose from his chair. “I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
Cap groped for some words as Eisenbaum brushed past him. “Um, well, it’s just over here on the computer. It would only take a moment, I’m sure.”
Eisenbaum kept walking, not looking back.
“Well, what about—we don’t have to meet here. What if we went someplace private, had some coffee or something?” Cap followed him, trying not to look desperate. “The agreement doesn’t say we can’t talk to each other, just outsiders—” He stopped. I am an outsider.
Eisenbaum went out the door as if he and Cap had never met.
Cap was disappointed. Eisenbaum had always struck him as a lone eccentric, not affected that much by department politics.
Back to square one. Cap returned to his computer station and slouched in his chair, staring at the computer screen in case God might send a revelation. Did these results really make sense in their own bizarre way?
Many of the sequences from the stool, hair, and saliva samples matched chimpanzee DNA, but there were just as many sequences that matched up with human DNA. At first glance, one would think that either the chimp DNA was contaminated with human DNA, or the other way around—except for an entirely distinct third group that seemed to be an odd hybrid of both. It closely matched chimp, and where it didn’t match chimp, it closely matched human. Contamination couldn’t have caused that.
To make matters worse, mixed in through it all were weird sequences that didn’t match up with anything; they were “junk” DNA, unidentified contaminants with no explanation for how they got there.
Unless . . .
Cap saved all his findings to a fresh CD and tucked the disk away in his pocket with the CD he’d gotten from Nick. He had a hunch, but he needed someone to test it and hopefully tell him he was wrong. He needed someone who loved to tell him how wrong he was about virtually everything, someone who would pull no punches.
He immediately thought of just the person. Judging from the cold reception Cap got from Eisenbaum, it might be tough getting through to him, but no matter. Cap was desperate enough.
Pete set down his rifle, shed his tracking gear, and dropped onto a bench on the porch of the Tall Pine with a deep, tired sigh. He removed his hat, ran his fingers over his scalp, and allowed himself a moment of staring at the plank floor with his mind a blank.
Tyler had set his gear down near the porch rail. For some reason the young flank man still had enough energy to remain standing. “You guys want something to drink?”
“Coffee,” said Max, lying on his back on the floor. “Nothing in it.”
“I’ll take a Coke,” said Benny, plopping down next to Pete.
Tyler waited, but Pete said nothing. “Pete?”
Pete returned to this world long enough to answer, “Just some water. Thanks, Tyler.”
Tyler went after the drinks.
There was about a three-second moment of silence, which was apparently all Benny could stand. “Well, we made it back. Still got about an hour of daylight left.”
Pete could not be cheered. “There wasn’t much left to do anyway.”
Jimmy Clark walked over. He looked fresh enough. His clothes weren’t even dirty. “Everybody down?”
Benny answered, “Yeah, we’re calling it quits. Joanie and Chris have gone home already. They’re the smart ones.”
Pete took his turn after Benny—he’d been doing it all day. “The woods are clear. Your guys can have at it, and I really do wish you the best.”
“Thanks, Pete, I appreciate it.”
Pete rubbed his tired eyes. “I wanted out of there anyway. I don’t want my crews up there in the dark when that critter has all the advantage.”
“It’ll all be over by tonight. I’ve got a feeling.”
“Yeah, you’d better hope so,” said Benny. “Not all of us are happy how things are going.”
A voice called from across the parking lot. “Pete!”
“Speak of the devil,” said Benny.
It was Reed, in uniform, coming from a big motor home Pete recognized as Sing’s mobile crime lab. Pete gave a weak smile. The young man was brewing up something, he could tell.
“So where’ve you been?” asked Benny. “Out chasing Bigfoot?”
“Benny!” Pete’s voice was strained. He then said quietly, “I think it’s time for you to go home.”
“Well, I’d just like to know what he’s been up to while we’ve been busting our butts up there looking for his wife.” He challenged Reed, “You do have a wife, don’t you, or would you rather not discuss that?”
Reed smiled at him. “I appreciate all your hard work, but I think Pete’s right—you need to go.”
“Well, there’s more going on here than meets the eye, I’ll bet on that!”
Pete barked, “Go home, Benny!”
Benny glared at Pete, then at Reed, then grabbed up his gear. “I’m not coming back.”
“I won’t expect you,” Pete said.
Benny stomped across the parking lot to his truck, muttering how he should have been paid, but no amount of money was worth it anyway.
Reed watched him go, strangely calm, then looked at Pete, the question in his eyes. Pete answered, “We didn’t find her. Didn’t find a thing.”
Tyler returned with drinks in a cardboard holder. “Where’s Benny?”
Max took his coffee and Pete took his water. Pete said to Reed, “Help yourself to a Coke.”
Reed took it. “Sing and I would like a meeting with you over in the rig.”
Pete was already interested before Reed even said anything. “You got it.”
The sun was low and the ravine was in shadow. The forlorn, dismembered cabin was fading, becoming indistinct in a premature dusk. The white-haired Wiley Kane and Steve Thorne, the marine, had moved to the downwind location above the ravine, thankful for a change in the view and the tedium. They’d spent the afternoon bored out of their minds, whispering jokes to each other, expecting no action until darkness came.
Now, darkness approached, and as the light faded, their interest revived. Each checked his rifle one last time, sighting through the scope and drawing a bead on that half drum of doughnuts and greasy goo. Soon they would need the night-vision goggles. Wiley Kane, who would have the first shift, tried his out.
Sam Marlowe, the young Mariners fan, checked his watch. He hadn’t slept much, but he’d gotten some reading done, and now it was time to relieve his partner. He rose quietly, rifle on his back, and moved out.
Janson carefully climbed down from the bear stand that was hidden among the limbs. They said nothing to each other. Marlowe simply gave Janson a pat on the shoulder and started climbing, limb by limb.
The bear stand was a device suitable only for the durable and patient. A precarious-looking platform clamped to the trunk of the tree about twenty feet off the ground, the bear stand was not much more than a foldable chair with footrests to keep the hunter’s legs from dangling and a safety harness to keep him from killing himself should he doze off. Marlowe eased himself off the limbs and onto the platform and strapped himself in. The campsite of Ted and Melanie Brooks lay just below, deserted, but tantalizingly baited. Jimmy Clark had called for the old standby, a half drum full of doughnuts and bacon grease, but Marlowe and Janson had added their own enticements based on what the campers had been eating: a paper plate with a wilting salad and three fried hamburger patties on a small card table.
Come on, fella, Marlowe thought as he prepared his night goggles. Let’s get it over with.
Sing’s mobile lab was cramped, tightly furnished with two lab benches, drawers and shelves, flasks, test tubes, pipettes, cameras and tripods, a microscope, charts and maps, rulers and tape measures, a laser level, a drawing table, and now the radio and GPS gear Reed had ordered. Sing sat at her compact computer station, clicking and opening digital photos on her laptop while Reed and Pete, squeezed into two folding chairs, looked over her shoulder.
“Check this out,” said Reed, finishing his Coke. “Exhibit 1. I took this picture when Beck and I first got to the cabin.”
Sing opened the window on the computer screen.
It was a shot of the cabin interior, torn apart, shelves broken, with shredded packaging thrown everywhere and a white dusting of flour on everything.
“Huh,” said Pete. “No tracks.”
“I was shooting the area in front of me before I stepped on it,” said Reed.
“And note this,” Sing said, selecting and enlarging a detail with the mouse. “The shovel on the floor near the upper left corner.”
“All right,” said Pete.
“And now Exhibit 2,” said Reed.
“I took this one the next day.” She brought up another photo and positioned the two photos beside each other.
“Okay, right,” said Pete. “That’s how it looked when I was there.” The second photo showed the same cabin interior, this time with several boot prints clearly visible in the flour, and another difference Pete saw immediately. “Hm. No shovel.”
“And note the boot prints,” Reed added.
Pete nodded. “Right. Two sets.” He pulled some footprint diagram cards from his pocket and studied them one by one. “I recorded three different prints up there.” He pointed at the tracks on the screen. “These are Reed’s. Same size, same sole, same wear patterns. But these others, up in the corner where the shovel was . . . I thought they belonged to Randy.” He leaned back, stroking the back of his neck. “But they sure don’t.”
Reed spoke what Pete had to be thinking. “By the time those other prints were made, Randy was dead and Beck and I were . . . having our trouble. Our campsite was hidden up in those trees. Whoever it was must have thought my prints were Randy’s— until he found Randy dead.”
“Our guess is our third person buried Randy’s body, hoping no one would find it,” said Sing.
“So we have two men killed the same way,” said Reed, “and both deaths concealed. First, Allen Arnold was buried under a pile of logs, and then Randy Thompson was buried somewhere with the shovel from the cabin.”
“The shovel was discarded, maybe hidden with the body so there wouldn’t be any fingerprints or clues—out of sight, out of mind,” Sing added. “This is all an educated theory, of course.”
“What do you think?” Reed asked Pete. “Do you think we could be right?”
Pete leaned back and clasped his hands behind his head. “If you ever find Randy’s body, you’ll know for sure. Does Sheriff Mills know about this?”
“He will when he gets here tomorrow morning,” said Reed. “I’m hoping he’ll either buy our idea or come up with a better one, but do something either way.” Reed drew a breath, his emotions close to the surface. “None of this says Beck is alive, but I’m still believing.”
“And we’re ready for new ideas, that’s for sure,” said Pete. “So what about Jimmy? You gonna let him in on this?”
“I’ll leave that up to Sheriff Mills. Jimmy still thinks I’m crazy.”
Pete stared at the computer screen. He ran a hand across his forehead. “As if that fool critter wasn’t enough, now he’s got helpers!”
There was something about the coming of night that changed things. As the sun turned bloody red, then winked out behind a distant ridge; as the sky faded from blue to black; as the night voices of the forest began to mourn, click, yelp, and chatter, Beck felt another fear returning like a slow-working potion, spreading through her in perfect cadence with the deepening of the night. Though she and Reed had tried to talk themselves out of it that first night above the cabin on Lost Creek, she now had a name for it—Night Fear—and believed in it, even trusted it. It never came invited, but it was there for a reason: there was something out there to be afraid of.
Strangely, chillingly, the Sasquatches seemed to feel it too. These wild animals, clearly capable of traveling and foraging at night, were afraid. Beck could sense it in the nervous darting of their eyes, the overcaution of their gait,
their strange, stealthy silence, and, of course, the fear scent that thickened as darkness came. They were moving again, fleeing by the looks of it, winding and dodging through old-growth forest on a steep mountainside, stumbling and tired, short on sleep and hungry, driven by something out there.
They broke out of the cover of the forest to cross a vast field—acres—of broken, angular rocks. The sky was open above them, and directly ahead, Sagittarius and Scorpius twinkled close to the horizon. They were going south. The apes’ soft, flexible feet conformed and gripped the rocks. With speed and silence, they made it across and back into the trees.
The clash in the trees was like a bomb going off—sudden, deafening, jolting. Beck lurched, gripped Rachel’s neck, tried to see what was happening. It was too dark to tell exactly, but Leah had run into something, had disturbed something, or was being attacked by something. There was a terrible thrashing in the brush and branches. Leah screamed; Reuben bawled; Jacob roared.
Rachel, trying to look in every direction for what the problem might be, spun so fast she threw Beck from her back. Beck landed on one foot, hopped to favor the other, and stumbled backward into a thicket. She rolled, wrestled, tried to get up. Branches, leaves, vines, and twigs entangled her. She couldn’t get her legs under her.
The ground was quivering. Jacob was still roaring. Reuben was screaming. Rachel was huffing, terrified.
Lost Creek. For a moment, Beck was back at the forlorn little cabin, hearing the same sounds, mad with the same terror. She let out a cry as her arms flailed in the thicket, trying to find a handhold.
Leah had encountered something big, powerful, and fast, but apparently she’d scared it. It was now smashing and crashing through the tangle to get away from her—and coming Beck’s way. When the thing raced through a shaft of light, Beck saw an immense round body galloping toward her, leaping over logs and pushing through limbs. She knew immediately it was a bear. She also knew that in just a second or two, it was going to run right over her. She struggled to get up. She slipped, then tripped and got nowhere.
The Frank Peretti Collection Page 118