“Don’t be.”
“Promise me you’ll be careful.”
“I promise.” He got up. “I have got to get back. You have my mobile phone number. Call if you have any trouble, and don’t be afraid to tell me what you’re thinking and feeling. Any information you can give me is welcome.”
“I’m going to be praying; I’ll tell you that.”
He smiled. “That’s fine with me.”
IT TOOK Steve forty minutes to drive back over Johnson’s Pass and through West Fork. From there, he turned north on the Hyde River Road and made his way through the valley, his hands just a little tighter on the steering wheel and his adrenaline pumping. He was returning to the trouble, and he knew it.
Halfway to the town of Hyde River, as he came around a curve in the road and then onto a long straight stretch, he saw the flashing lights of emergency vehicles, and not just a few. This had to be a major pileup, Steve thought—if it wasn’t something else. He was on edge, expecting anything.
A county sheriff’s patrol car was parked across the road to block traffic, its blue lights flashing. Already, two vehicles ahead of Steve had been turned back by the deputy holding a flare.
Steve had no intention of being turned back. When he reached the patrol car and the deputy approached his window, he had his bluff ready.
“I’m sorry, sir, you can’t go through here,” said the deputy.
“I’m Dr. Steve Benson. I got a call.”
The deputy bought it. “Go right ahead, Doctor.”
Steve inched his camper around the patrol car and kept going. Well, he did have his doctorate in biology, and he had gotten a few calls lately.
The accident scene was another quarter-mile ahead. He pulled onto the shoulder only a hundred feet away, extinguished his lights, and got out of the camper, wanting a good look before anyone approached him. He could see Sheriff Collins standing by his patrol car, hands on hips, surveying the scene, supervising. Two fire trucks were parked alongside the road, lights flashing, radios squawking, fire hoses snaked all over the pavement. An aid car waited, its rear door open.
In the center of it all were the remains of a car, the roof peeled completely back, the tires flattened, the windows shattered. The whole vehicle was charred black. The pavement was still wet from fire hoses.
Steve saw flashlight beams sweeping in the pastures on either side of the road. The police and firefighters must be searching for something, perhaps the victim or victims.
He reached into the cab of his camper and got his flashlight, then ducked through the barbed-wire fence to join the others in the pasture. He swept his light to and fro, becoming one of the searchers. Somehow he had to find out what had happened and what they were looking for.
He drew close to a volunteer firefighter walking along the fence line near the shoulder of the road. “You got anything?”
“No,” the fireman answered. “We’ve swept the area within a hundred feet of the road. Either he’s on the other side of the road or he took off.”
“Is there any kind of a description?”
“Well, we think the car belongs to Charlie Mack. You know, the guy who owns the tavern in Hyde River?”
Steve didn’t have to fake his surprise. “Charlie?” He looked back toward the road and the charred, mutilated car. “Does anybody know what happened?”
“He hit something, but we don’t know what. As near as we can tell, it was another vehicle that fled the scene.”
“How’d the roof get torn off?”
“Beats me. It was that way when we got here. The whole car was on fire, the roof was torn off, and there was nobody inside.”
“So what started the fire? Did the gas tank explode?”
“No, and that’s the oddest thing of all. The gas tank’s intact.” The man shook his head. “This whole thing is weird.” He called to another firefighter out in the pasture. “Joan, I’m going to the other side!”
“Okay,” came the answer. “I’ll work here a little longer.”
The man ducked through the barbed-wire fence and started to the other side of the road.
Steve followed him as far as the road shoulder, then lowered his light to cast a shallower angle on the soft ground, making the shadows more pronounced. He walked along the shoulder slowly, up past the wreck, then past the aid vehicle still standing empty, then back again, examining the patterns in the gravel. Plenty of human footprints, tire marks, even some hoofprints left by local equestrians. Nothing unusual.
He followed the road shoulder almost to his camper, then crossed the road and started up the other side. He was getting close to Collins’s patrol car, so he kept his head down, his face turned away, glad that it was dark.
He’d just passed the patrol car and was abreast of the wreck when he stopped. The furrows and scratches in the gravel could be what he was looking for, but he wasn’t sure. He looked closely, shining his light at the pattern from different angles. Then he shined his light off the shoulder and into the soft grass below. Now he was almost positive. The scratch patterns and impressions in the ground resembled those he’d found on Wells Peak as well as the supposed “footprint” Levi had shown him above the dragon’s “trap.”
He didn’t want to jump to conclusions, but already he was fearing the worst.
He crossed over the road to the wreck for a close look, searching inside and out with his light. The inside of the car was burned, melted, obliterated. The damage to the front end did not indicate a high-speed crash, although the hood was crushed in as if something had smashed it from above. The roof—now that was a mystery. It had not been cut through, as rescuers would do if a victim had to be extracted. It had been torn away in one piece, crumpled, and was just lying on the rear of the car. It was punctured in several places as if with huge spikes.
Claws, perhaps? No. Maybe. He couldn’t be sure . . .
Steve was filled with fear and foreboding. If this was the work of the dragon, then that thing was getting bolder by the minute, and no place was safe, day or night. Had the beast torn this roof off? And had the fire come from—
“Benson!” It was Collins’s voice.
Steve turned to face the sheriff marching toward him with his powerful light right in Steve’s eyes. Steve blocked the beam with his hand.
“How did you get in here?” Collins demanded.
“I volunteered.”
“We don’t want your help. Now get out of here!”
“Was it Charlie Mack?”
“We don’t know who it was.”
“How’d the roof get torn off the car?”
“We had to pull it off to get the victims out.”
Steve looked at the empty aid vehicle. “If the victims were in the car, why are men searching the fields?”
Collins grabbed Steve by the arm. “You’ve got one minute to clear the area before I place you under arrest, you got it?”
Steve returned his glare and responded, “Good night, then.”
He headed for his camper, his light still sweeping the shoulder of the road in case there was anything else to see.
There was. One of the searchers in the other field was just coming back, and he was also shining his light along the road shoulder. He was wearing a dark jacket and a drooping hat to hide his face, but Steve recognized the gray beard and wire-rim glasses.
Levi Cobb.
Their eyes locked. Levi gave Steve a challenging look, almost as if asking, Seen enough?
Steve turned and went to his camper. He knew Collins would be watching, and he didn’t want to be seen talking to Levi Cobb.
But the answer was yes. He’d seen enough.
WHEN MONDAY morning dawned, the brooding, foreboding spirit of the night remained like a heavy overcast, and fear like a sooty residue; Hyde Valley had changed, and even those who hadn’t heard of the past night’s dark events could sense it, and wondered.
People driving along the Hyde River Road in the early light of morning found no indication t
hat any accident had ever happened, though. Sheriff Lester Collins had ordered the site swept and hosed clean and the wrecked car hauled to a scrapyard, where it was lost amid an acre of rusting hulks.
The men and women of the valley volunteer fire department returned to their jobs and routines and said little about the accident because there was so little to say. They all had to wonder whatever became of the victim; they knew no one could have survived such a terrible accident. There would always be questions, but none of the questions would ever be asked.
Before the town of Hyde River had awakened, and without a word to anyone, Steve Benson drove his camper north through town, over several miles of rough roads, and turned off on Service Road 63, the road that would take him up Saddlehorse to Potter’s Mine, and beyond that, the diggings of Jules Cryor. His firearms were loaded and with him in the cab, and he’d prepared his backpack for several days in the back country.
BEFORE OPENING his garage for business on Monday morning, Levi Cobb went out into the small yard behind his shop to sort through parts, old farm implements, axles, springs, and sheet metal, looking for just the right materials. “C’mon, don’t be so stubborn, just move . . . Well there you are. I’ve been looking all over for you . . . Have any of you seen that old drill steel I had laying around here?”
He finally found the object of his search, an old drill steel from a pneumatic drill, once used to drill through solid rock in the mines. It was one tough piece of steel, about eight feet long. He set it aside. Next he uncovered a tooth broken from the back claw of a county bulldozer. He knew it would take some work to shape and hone it, but it was a good start.
He paused to peer over his scrap-iron fence. The mountains were slightly obscured in morning mist but would be clear enough to touch in a few hours. A cool breeze was blowing, and he could hear birds singing.
He felt no joy. He could sense an atmosphere that was hot, close, and heavy, the trouble-laden stuff that storms are made of.
The disturbance had already begun. Evil had been set loose and was on its way.
He ducked inside, his materials in hand, switched on an overhead worklight, and cleared some parts from his work area. His welding torch ignited with a pop, and he put the flame to steel. He had work to do, and not a moment to lose.
A man with power is not at the mercy of a man with ideals.
. . . . .
He who has the money signs the cheques. He who signs the cheques makes the rules. He who makes the rules has the Power. He who has the Power has the money.
. . . . .
Power Prevails.
. . . . .
If this be sin, let sin be served.
Plaques of Benjamin Hyde’s favorite slogans, created and placed in Hyde’s office by his son Samuel after Benjamin Hyde’s mysterious disappearance—declared a hunting accident—in 1898. The plaques remain there to this day.
FOURTEEN
SADDLEHORSE
IN CHARLIE’S TAVERN, the dollar bills still lay stacked by denomination on the bar next to the cash register. Two glasses of beer, one full, one half empty, both warm, remained on the bar exactly where Elmer and Joe had left them. At the pool table, the cue ball remained in perfect line to sink the three ball in the corner, the shot Andy Schuller never took. On the screen of a video game, a jerky-motioned martial artist made high kicks at thugs while the machine begged, Insert a Quarter, Insert a Quarter, Insert a Quarter. All around the tavern dinner had been served, but the steaks, ribs, and barbecued chicken lay cold.
Across the room, opposite the bar, the new doorway to the mercantile was open, and beyond it, neat shelves of dry goods, wool shirts, rods and lures could be seen. The mercantile was clean, painted, polished, rearranged, and ready to open.
In the bathroom past the storeroom, a man was whimpering, cursing, agonizing.
Harold Bly, the new lord of it all, the unrivaled ruler of one more piece of real estate, held the key to the front door in a desperate, iron grip as he pounded the edge of the sink in torment.
His shirt was open. In the mirror over the sink he could see a red, burning welt snaking down his chest. He pulled a wad of paper towels from the dispenser, soaked them under the faucet, and dabbed at the sore. There was no relief. “No!” he cried, and rubbed at the mark. It would not go away.
“No!” he said again, shaking his head, refusing to believe it. He struck the sink. “NO! Not me! I’m not the one you want!” He cursed in rage, in pain, in the agony of betrayal. “I’m on your side! What’s the matter with you?”
He held the wad of paper towels to his chest to cool the burning. I’m not like Maggie, he thought. Not like Vic, or Charlie. I’m Harold Bly. I’m a Hyde. I’ve never been marked, never been touched. I’m good for this town!
I don’t deserve this!
He heard the distant clanging of the bell over the tavern door. He cursed again. He’d left the door unlocked!
He removed the wet towels from his chest. The mark was still there, but no stain had come off on the towels. As far as he could tell, there was no stench. Maybe it wasn’t going to be serious. Maybe it wasn’t permanent.
Maybe it was a warning.
“Hello?” came a voice from the tavern. “Anybody here?”
He recognized the voice of Tracy Ellis. Clark County Sheriff’s Deputy Tracy Ellis. This early? Oh no, he thought. Something had gone wrong.
He buttoned up his shirt, straightened his hair, and hurried through the mercantile to the tavern. “Hello! We’re not open yet.”
He found Tracy Ellis standing by the bar, looking at the unfinished drinks, the uneaten dinners, the bizarre, frozen-in-time state of the place. Her eyes were cold and probing. She wasn’t here to say hello—she was here as a cop.
No matter. He was still Harold Bly, and this was his place. “Hi, Tracy. What can I do for you?”
She was still looking around the room when she asked, “You know about Charlie?”
His voice was already tense. All he had to do was add a little sorrow. “Yes. I heard about it last night. Did you see what happened?”
“I was in Oak Springs on another case.”
“Have they found him yet?”
“No. They haven’t found him,” she said angrily. “And there’s been no sign of Vic Moore either, and Maggie isn’t visiting her mother.”
Of course. Bly was offended. “What are you saying, deputy? I suppose you called Maggie’s mother?”
Very good, Harold. You get a gold star. “Yes. That’s exactly what I did.”
Bly had no comment, and she wasn’t expecting one. She looked around the room again. “What happened here last night? It looks like there was a fire drill and nobody came back.”
“I don’t know. I wasn’t here.” His temperature was rising. “So why are you here?”
“I’m looking for an employee of yours, Phil Garrett. Any idea where he is?”
“No. No idea,” Bly said quickly.
“He does work for you, doesn’t he?”
“Yes, but I don’t know where he is.”
It was Monday morning, and Bly had no idea where one of his employees was? She didn’t force the issue. “He broke into Evelyn Benson’s home yesterday and tried to kill her.” She paused to let that sink in, checking his reaction. “Now why do you suppose he’d do a thing like that?”
Bly’s face remained like stone. “When you find him, ask him. Phil Garrett can answer for his own actions.”
“Oh, he will.”
“So where’s your friend the professor?” he asked, to put her on the defensive.
She didn’t flinch. “My guess would be he’s hunting.”
“Hunting? For what?”
“For whatever he finally kills. Listen, I have a warrant for Phil’s arrest. That makes him a fugitive, which could make it rough for anyone who tries to aid and abet him. I just want you to understand that.”
Time to push some weight. “Have you talked to Sheriff Collins about this?”
She
cocked her head and gave him a knowing look. “I’m sure I’ll hear from him soon enough. When I do, he’ll get a full report.” She turned to go. “Let me know if you see Phil.”
She closed the door behind her, the bell clanging.
Bly remained where he was, brooding, seething. His hand went to his chest. The pain was still there. But now he knew why.
Phil had botched the job, and Evelyn Benson was still alive, alive to remember, to talk, to reveal everything. Charlie was dead, but he’d talked. Levi Cobb was still alive, preaching and meddling. Tracy Ellis was tearing away secrets like scabs off wounds.
And Benson the outsider was “hunting.”
No wonder there was trouble. Things had slipped out of his control.
But he was Harold Bly; he could fix it. He’d taken too long, that was all; he’d been too soft, too easy. He could change that.
New hope refreshed him and soothed the pain in his chest. He had a chance. Of course he had a chance. He was finally able to smile as he stood alone in the deserted tavern, formulating his plan.
Then, abruptly, he dashed behind the bar and into the kitchen, then grabbed the telephone off the wall. It was time to contain this mess and take back control, and he would start by climbing all over Sheriff Collins.
CHARLIE MACK was right. Once Steve had pressed on past Potter’s Mine and challenged the rutted, potholed dirt road that wound further around Saddlehorse, he finally did come to another mining effort, this one the least impressive of any he’d seen thus far. The road emptied onto a precarious shelf of rock, a manmade— probably one-man-made—shoulder of broken, blasted rubble, the “muck” and waste from Jules Cryor’s little mine. It was just wide enough to accommodate Steve’s truck and the old Dodge four-wheel-drive already parked there, brown with rust wherever the green paint had worn off. Just beyond the Dodge, steel rails for an ore car curved toward the mountain and disappeared down the entrance to the mine.