The Frank Peretti Collection

by Frank E. Peretti

  Reed thinks I’m dead.

  The image of him finding that tattered piece of jacket kept playing, playing, and replaying in her mind. It wouldn’t fade; it wouldn’t turn off. It gave her no rest.

  I’m alive and I can’t tell him. He thinks I’m dead and that he can’t save me.

  I may as well be dead!

  “Oooohhh!” She moaned and writhed from the pain and frustration, her voice muffled in the ground. I may as well lie here until I rot, until trees start growing out of me. God hates me.

  Yeah. God hated her. He had to. Why else would He keep slapping her with nothing but lousy luck? Who else understood fairness enough to make sure she never got any good breaks? Who else could make her dead to the world and everyone she loved, and yet leave her alive to agonize in it? It was all too perfect. It had to be planned.

  A rising anger gave her just enough strength to roll over onto her back, point her finger toward the converging treetops, and whine at God, “Y-y-yooo . . .”

  Oh, right! She forgot. God gave her a stutter so she couldn’t tell Him how ticked off she was!

  She slapped the ground and growled at Him. Then she sat up and screamed at Him.

  That upset Rachel, who’d been lying on her back in some maple bushes. She raised her head and looked over her belly. “Hmm.”

  Leah was half visible in another clump of maples, staring at Beck as she tore off the broad leaves and munched on them.

  Beck just growled at them, waving them off. I’m all right, don’t trouble yourselves, don’t get up, just leave me alone!

  Rachel’s head sank to the ground again and she let out a tired sigh. Leah regurgitated a wad of chewed leaves into her palm and started eating them a second time.

  Beck stared at the ground, angrily flicking tufts of moss with her fingertip. What am I going to do? Everybody thinks I’m dead. They’re not going to look for me anymore. They’re going to get together and have a memorial service, and then they’re going to eat chicken and potato salad and go home. Reed’s going to cry for me every night, and I’m going to cry for him, and the only friends I have left are these . . . these . . .

  “Ooooohh!” Seething, she growled at Leah, who ignored her, and Rachel, snoring somewhere beyond those big feet and that round belly. She couldn’t see Jacob or Reuben, but she growled at them anyway, wherever they were: All right, so you hate me! Well, I hate you too! If you eat me, I hope you barf!

  Then she watched Leah, licking and nibbling her vomited wad as if it were coleslaw. These monsters enjoyed barfing! God thought of everything.

  What am I going to do?

  She sniffed derisively at her own thoughts. Why do anything? God will only ruin it.

  She dug her hairbrush out of her pocket and began running it through her hair only because it made her feel better. Maybe God wouldn’t notice and make all her hair fall out.

  “Hmph.” She heard a grunt from Leah. The big gray female was just finishing up her maple-leaf coleslaw and looking at her.

  Beck looked back, angry enough to meet and match the gaze from those deep-set eyes. Direct staring was never polite in Sasquatch circles, and Beck could tell Leah didn’t like it, but she stared anyway and kept brushing, not caring what Leah liked, disliked, thought, or wanted.

  Leah swallowed the last of her green wad, licked her palm clean, and gave Beck’s hairbrush her earnest, undivided attention. Then she extended her hand and grunted again. “Hmmph.”

  Beck quit brushing. She looked down at her hairbrush, then at Leah, and the strangest and most unexpected thought came to her: I have something she doesn’t.

  It was uncanny. Had God thought of this yet? This huge, intimidating, massively strong animal could break Beck in half with no effort at all—but only Beck knew how to use a hairbrush, and Leah seemed to know it.

  Leah’s eyes glanced very quickly at the sleeping Rachel, then back at Beck, taking on an imploring expression, like a dog begging.

  This is going to go wrong. Somehow, God’s going to foul it up.

  Then again, it could have been His idea. She looked toward the sky, didn’t get an answer, and ventured a guess: Maybe I’d better try it.

  She got up slowly, keeping her eye on Leah, who sat there next to the maple bush, eyeing her. Now she could see Rachel’s face. “Mom” was asleep.

  While the cat’s away, the mice will play, is that it?

  “Hmmph.” Leah extended her hand again.

  Looking around for Reuben and not seeing him, Beck stole forward, keeping the brush visible in her hand. She was about to enter Leah’s space, so she hummed quietly, no tune in particular, and diverted her eyes from Leah’s to be polite.

  Leah sure looked big sitting there on her haunches, and those arms were all muscle, lots of it.

  Beck came within a few feet—close enough to have her head swatted off—and thought of a safety tip: When approaching a Sasquatch, bow and try to make that low, guttural, rumbling noise. They seem to like that.

  She bowed, knees bending, her hands almost touching the ground, and tried her best to make her throat rumble.

  Leah looked puzzled.

  Oh. Apparently, bows with rumbled greetings were only for the alpha male. Beck made a mental note.

  “Hmmph,” Leah grunted, leaning forward.

  Beck reached out with the brush and touched Leah’s head. Leah shuffled closer. Beck started brushing, stealing glances at the sleeping Rachel and feeling like a turncoat.

  But she was doing Leah a service, maybe even gaining acceptance from Rachel’s rival, and that seemed a smart thing to do. She continued, working more systematically, from Leah’s head down to her neck and shoulders. Leah burped a green vegetation burp and sat still, looking pleased.

  I don’t know where this is going, but it just might keep me alive. After all, if Beck could be part of the group, maybe the group wouldn’t eat her. Beck kept brushing, working her way down Leah’s back, and Leah allowed her, letting out occasional hums of pleasure. Her gray hair was sensational, so soft and smooth, and once Beck got it all lying in the same direction, it became prismatic, reflecting a rainbow sheen.

  So gross, and yet so lovely.

  After that unfortunate death-flinch blunder with Rachel, Beck was careful to look before she brushed, and it was a good thing she did. Halfway down Leah’s back, Beck spotted another anomaly and stopped brushing just in time.

  Leah immediately noticed the pause and turned her head, grunting over her shoulder.

  Beck hummed back at her pleasantly, finding a safe place to brush while she had a closer look.

  Again, it was blood. Carefully parting the hairs, Beck recognized another bite wound, not as severe as Rachel’s but just as recent. Beck gave a low, rumbling hum as if to ask, What on earth happened? Did Jacob do this?

  Leah sighed, seemingly resigned to whatever the unfortunate situation was.

  Beck kept brushing, carefully checking, then grooming Leah’s ribs. She found a shallow gash under the right arm, possibly a bite that didn’t quite land. Leah flinched when Beck brushed around it, but she didn’t get mad.

  As Beck thought about it, it didn’t make sense that Jacob would do this. When Jacob punished Rachel the first night he saw Beck, he was brutal and unforgivably abusive, but he never used his teeth. Besides, Leah seemed to be the “alpha’s pet” in this group; she could do no wrong. Maybe Beck was seeing the aftermath of a full-blown catfight between Leah and Rachel, with Leah the winner and Rachel the cast-down loser. Either that, or . . . she just couldn’t imagine.

  A shape moved through the pines, and Beck looked up to see Mr. Bad News himself, Reuben, approaching in a wide, tentative arc, head cocked in suspicion. He growled at her as if to say, What are you doing with my mother?

  Beck looked him in the eye and kept brushing.

  He stepped closer, then started sidestepping, left and right, left and right, making little waving, threatening gestures with his arms as he growled.

  Leah pig-grunted at hi
m, which set him back slightly, but he still wanted to fight about it and stared daggers at Beck.

  Beck came to the brink of being frightened. She could feel her stomach starting to tense, her hands starting to tremble, her speech faculties starting to jumble—but strangely, surprisingly even to her, she went only to the brink and no further. Standing by Reuben’s mother with her permission could have had something to do with it, but there was something else: for the first time in her life, her penchant for being afraid had worn thin. After several days of terror and dread, terror and loathing, terror and despair, she was tired of it.

  And besides that, she was just plain mad. She’d lost her husband in a most enraging dilemma; she’d been a doormat to this snotty-nosed throw rug from the day they met; even God was picking on her and wouldn’t give her a break. “Aaargh!” she growled.

  She met Reuben’s stare, held her eyes steady, and didn’t turn away. She growled again and even huffed through her nose at him. Listen, kid, I’m somebody too!

  Leah grunted more loudly at him, her displeasure obvious.

  Beck seconded that with an angry bark, her weight forward.

  Reuben bought it. He backed off, gave her a look that was half dirty, half perplexed, and shuffled sulkingly into the pines to mind his own business.

  Well! To Beck’s amazement, things seemed to be going the right direction.

  Leah nudged her, wanting more. Beck returned to her brushing and enjoyed every square inch of it, right down to Leah’s toes. She finished with a soft hum and a flourish, then backed away passively, eyes diverted, honoring the custom with confidence.

  Back in her own personal space amid the pines, she settled to the ground by herself with no one bothering her, feeling strangely unafraid.

  And strangely alive.

  “She’s not dead.”

  Sing and Pete looked up from the dining table at a man not quite risen from the dead. Reed stood, his frame filling the rear bedroom door, but he didn’t appear well rested, to put it mildly. He was still clutching the bloodied piece of jacket.

  Sing rose from the table. “Can I fix you anything? I have some soup.”

  Reed stood there as if he hadn’t heard the question, a weird, catatonic look on his face. “Uh, yeah. Please. And how about a sandwich or something?”

  Sing rummaged in the tight refrigerator. “I’ve got pastrami and turkey breast.”

  “Okay. Please.” He sat at the computer and looked at the screen, now dark. “So what happened?”

  Pete answered, his fingers curled around a coffee cup, “Hunters are back down for the night. They’ll regroup in the morning, go back to using bear stands and maybe some dogs. They found plenty of sign that something had been up there, but it’s gone now.”

  Reed broke into a delirious grin and chuckled. “So they didn’t get their bear.” He chuckled some more, enjoying a demented laugh at a sorry situation. Pete stared into his coffee, and Sing sliced bread until he’d finished.

  “I’m sorry, Reed,” said Pete. “I wish to God things could’ve turned out different.”

  Reed gave him a curious look. “We don’t know how they turned out.”

  Pete looked at Sing, who only looked down at the open sandwich.

  Pete found words first. “Reed. You know I have the deepest respect for your feelings on this, but we’ve got to face it. Three violent deaths in a row don’t line up with Beck just tagging along with a bunch of creatures, alive and well and leaving footprints. Now that piece of her jacket, that’s consistent with what we’ve seen. That talks.”

  “So you’re with Jimmy?”

  Pete winced. “Oh, man, don’t put me in Jimmy’s camp . . .”

  “He thought the Cryncovich footprints were a hoax. He thought Beck was dead a long time ago. Is that what you think?”

  “We’ve been talking about that,” said Sing.

  “We’ve been going around and around about it,” said Pete.

  Sing still had a touch of fire in her eyes. “I’d like to know how those prints could be so accurately formed, and just what creatures were doing all that howling when Mills was killed.”

  Reed focused on the tired tracker. “Do you have another explanation?”

  Pete could only give a slight throw-up-his-hands gesture. “Like I was telling her, I don’t know, but what if Fleming Cryncovich is as nutty as he looks and just wants attention? He’s a Sasquatch fanatic; he would’ve known how to fake footprints. And as far as Beck’s boot prints, he could’ve found a size 6 boot with a matching sole. A boot is a boot.”

  Sing jumped on that. “With the same tread pattern you noted at Lost Creek? You did sketch it all out on one of your blue cards, didn’t you?”

  Reed added, “With the same wear pattern?”

  “And what about the cell phone number scratched in the dirt?”

  Pete countered, “I don’t have it all figured out. I’m just trying to see this thing from all sides, that’s all. Reed, isn’t it possible that Arlen Peak could have gotten your cell phone number?”

  Reed saw his point. “Yeah.”

  “And he’s a Bigfoot nut too, isn’t he? And he and Cryncovich are friends?”

  Sing’s temper was starting to show. “You know what you’re saying about Arlen?”

  Pete drilled her with his eyes. “Why’d you take his picture then?”

  Sing got flustered. “Just . . . there’s this whole cover-up thing. We can’t rule out any possible suspect—”

  “Well, there might be a cover-up and there might not be.”

  Sing was ready to grapple on that one. “Allen Arnold was moved.”

  “And Randy—was he moved?”

  “Possibly.”

  “But you don’t know that.”

  “Not really.”

  “And that’s my point.”

  Reed asked, “So, what has Cap found out?”

  Sing’s discouragement was obvious. “Nothing solid. It’s all conjecture.”

  Pete let his hand come down forcefully on the table. “There! Thank you! That’s the word I’ve been looking for. Conjecture! I conject, then you conject, and that’s all Cap has is conjecture. Reed, we’ve been at this all afternoon, talking about whether Beck’s dead or alive, or somebody’s fooling us, or we’re just fooling ourselves, or whether there really are Sasquatches up there . . .”

  Reed answered quietly, “And whether Sasquatches are killers, and whether it’s a bear like Jimmy says, and why in the world somebody would want to protect those monsters with a cover-up—if there really are monsters and there really is a cover-up.”

  That gave them pause.

  “I thought you were sleeping,” said Sing.

  “I was until you two started in on each other. But I’ve been thinking too.”

  “So help us out,” said Pete.

  Reed lightly stroked the remains of Beck’s jacket as he spoke in a quiet, tired voice: “Considering how much we don’t know, it might be early to say how things turned out.”

  Pete looked out the window to mull it over. Sing busied herself with lettuce, meat, pickles, and tomatoes.

  “It’s kind of funny, isn’t it, how much this whole thing’s been about what people think they know: it’s a bear, it’s a Bigfoot; I’m a wife-killer, I’m a crazy victim; Beck’s dead, Beck’s alive; it was a cover-up, it was an accident.”

  Sing finished making the sandwich, put it on a plate, and handed it to Reed. “Still want that soup?”

  “That’d be great. Thanks.” He set the sandwich on the computer bench, truly hungry but needing to speak. “I just keep thinking of Beck and me climbing up that trail before this all started, and how much I thought I knew, and how much I really didn’t. Here I was, telling Beck her world was too small and if she didn’t get out and stretch a bit, she’d quit learning and growing, and all along, I didn’t know how small my world was. It’s been one tough lesson.”

  He considered the tattered piece of leather in his lap, looking it over as he spoke
, “Anyway, I guess it’s never a bad idea to let your world get stretched once in a while, to just humble down and admit there might be something right in front of you that you haven’t thought of before. So on the one hand, Pete, you’re right about Beck’s jacket. It talks.”

  He held it up for them to see, tooth marks, bloodstain, and all. “This bloodstain is several days old, isn’t that right, Sing?”

  Silently, she examined the stain, and then she nodded, knowing what it meant.

  Reed spoke what the others realized: “It means Beck died several days ago, probably that very first night.” He folded the leather carefully, solemnly, and set it on the dining table in the midst of them. “There’s no way she could have made those footprints.”

  Sing and Pete stared at that tattered remnant. It did speak, without words.

  Sing finally said, “It still doesn’t answer everything.”

  Pete tried to say it calmly. “It answers enough. The rest of it . . . Maybe we’ll never know.”

  Reed replied, “So that’s one thing we can agree on, that we don’t really know.”

  Pete and Sing silently checked with each other, then nodded.

  “But on the other hand, maybe it’s okay to believe a little? Instead of just accepting the way things look, maybe there’s still room to stretch what we’re so sure of just one more inch.”

  He leaned forward, confronting Pete eye to eye. “Pete, you ever had a feeling you couldn’t explain?”

  Pete understood. He nodded.

  Reed looked at Sing. “How about you?”

  “All the time,” she said.

  “When I was up there at the waypoint and I found this” —he nodded at the remnant on the table— “everything I saw told me that I’d finally gotten the answer, that I finally knew. But there was a part of me that felt something, like she was talking to me. I had every reason in the world to think—maybe even know—that she was dead, but still . . . There was some part of me that wouldn’t let go, that still believed.” He leaned back, eyeing the remnant on the table. “I could say I know Beck is dead, but I don’t, not really. And as long as we don’t know for sure, I can believe she’s still out there.” Then he added, “And I believe there’s one last thing we haven’t tried.”