Dead of Winter (17 page)

Translating the Aramaic, Father Xavier had read the entire journal in a few hours and then returned to Bishop Rousseau’s office. Behind his desk on the back wall hung a painting of Saint Ignatius of Loyola. The Christian Soldier. The founder of the Jesuits.

Father Xavier gazed down at the diary. He remembered Father Jacques’ final passages.

I have explored the Savages’ legend in the name of the Holy Church in hopes of disproving it. But my mission has failed on that account, for I have beheld the gaze of the Devil and, suffering from the most formidable temptations, feasted upon the Beast’s sacrament.

So much insanity has plagued us. It was Margaux Lamothe, Pierre’s eldest daughter, who caught the disease first. And then our people. I tried to exorcise the possessed. But there were too many. Out of fifteen colonists, there are only four of us left, Pierre, myself, Wenonah, and a nine-year-old girl. By God’s grace, Zoé hasn’t shown any signs of the infection. As for me, it won’t be long before I succumb to the savagery like all the others. This Evil must be stopped before the hunger spreads.

Father Xavier looked up at Bishop Rousseau who was sitting behind his desk. “The outbreak is happening again.”

“Worse than before.” The archbishop clasped his ring-covered fingers. “I need you to travel to Ontario. Stopping the Devil’s Plague is of highest importance to the Vatican.”

Father Xavier took a deep breath, considering the dangerous mission. He would be traveling to the deep interior of Canada. Indian country. He had read Father Jacques’ previous reports from the past three years. The woods around Manitou Outpost were haunted by evil spirits. In the end, they had infected a colony with madness and killed his mentor. “This battle cannot be won by one priest. We need an army of exorcists.”

Bishop Rousseau said, “You are the only one I have in Quebec.”

“Then we must request more from the Vatican. From Paris and London, as well.”

“There’s no time, Father. The plague is spreading. This matter needs to be dealt with immediately. And I have complete faith that you are the best exorcist for the mission.” He motioned to the painting on the wall. “Not since St. Ignatius have the Jesuits had a finer warrior than you.”

Father Xavier sensed the bishop was merely stroking his ego, but the comparison to his hero did boost his spirit. “I will need a new apprentice. Someone I can count on, preferably a priest.”

Bishop Rousseau nodded. “I have already selected a man for you. Brother Andre is not ordained yet, but he has three years’ experience working with Father Jacques.”

“As an exorcist?” Father Xavier asked.

“As a missionary.” The bishop tossed a pouch of coins onto the desk. “I’m relying on you to train him to become an exorcist.”

63

Brother Andre had spent an hour of training with Father Xavier and was already feeling annoyed. The exorcist was domineering and barked orders like an army general. He was in his mid fifties. He stood over six feet and, with his broad shoulders and high forehead, he had a strong, overbearing presence. What unsettled Andre the most were the priest’s piercing blue eyes. They could appear warm and mirthful one moment and icy the next. He imagined Father Xavier could stare down the Devil.

“You will do everything I tell you,” the exorcist said, as the two walked down a hallway. “The tasks we perform will test every ounce of faith you have. If you don’t think you can handle working with an exorcist, then speak now, and I will find another apprentice.”

Andre stiffened his shoulders. “I just spent three years on the frontier living among the Savages. You will find none as dedicated as I, Father.”

“Very well.” He smiled and put a hand on Andre’s shoulder. “Let’s get started.”

The priest led him down a flight of stairs to a tunnel beneath the cathedral. The undercroft. Feeling a sense of adventure, Andre followed his new mentor along a torch-lit passage. A guard was down here, sitting at a table. Father Xavier signed a book. He took an oil lamp from the table then led Andre into a stone chamber with an arched ceiling. Their footsteps echoed off the walls. Andre’s jaw dropped at the sight of all the relics: statues, swords, goblets, tapestries, and tables covered in silver crosses.

In the center of the chamber were eight chairs sitting around a circular stone table.

Father Xavier said, “This is where the monks bless our holy weapons.”

On the back wall hung a large painting of a Christian soldier fighting off a horde of demons with a sword.

Andre said, “St. Ignatius Loyola.”

“Yes, the founder of the Jesuits.” Father Xavier looked down at Andre. “Do you believe in demons?”

“I believe what the Bible says about them,” Andre said, feeling nervous under his mentor’s suspicious glare. “But honestly, I’ve never seen anyone possessed by one.”

“Have you ever seen an insane person?”

“Of course, sir.”

“Then you’ve seen a possession. Our duty as exorcists is to banish demons who possess people’s bodies and guide the victims to the light of God.” Father Xavier pulled two cases off a shelf and began filling them with silver crosses. The cases reminded Andre of medical kits. “Father Jacques had a case like this. Was he sent to Manitou Outpost to perform an exorcism?”

“Yes. Three years ago we were informed that a demon had possessed an Ojibwa man who was the chief’s son.” The priest gathered a few plum-shaped vials and filled them with holy water. “Father Jacques was sent there to release the possessed man from his demon. That mission was successful.”

“Why didn’t he tell me that was his true mission?”

“Your mentor was under strict orders to keep his mission secret and document his findings. That’s why he left you behind at Fort Pendleton. We generally wait for our apprentices to become priests before we invite them to join the exorcists. Bishop Rousseau is making an exception for you.” Father Xavier continued down a passage and entered a library filled with volumes upon volumes of books.

“The Basilica’s archives,” Father Xavier said. “Every book you see has been duplicated and stored at the Vatican.” The priest meandered through the labyrinth of bookshelves, the flame of his oil lamp flickering across dusty spines. He pulled a black book off the shelf. It had a bold red cross on the cover. “
The Roman Ritual of Exorcism
.” He handed it to Andre. “Read it and memorize the protocols for the ceremony and all the prayers, word for word. You have two weeks.”

Andre flipped through the pages, feeling overwhelmed by the daunting task.

“Come, I have one more thing to show you.”

The priest led him into another chamber that had a life force unlike anything Andre had ever felt. Father Xavier lit a torch. Giant silver crosses were embedded into the four walls. In the center of the room sat a long, stone sarcophagus. On the lid was a relief of St. Ignatius holding a cross-shaped dagger to his chest.

Father Xavier stepped around the stone coffin. “Andre, what I am about to show you is of highest secrecy. There are very few Jesuits who know of it. You must swear to the Christ, our Lord, to never speak of what I am about to show you. Not to anyone.”

“I swear, Father.” Andre crossed himself.

Father Xavier grabbed an iron rod that had a key on the end of it. He twisted the lock, and the lid grated as it slowly opened.

Andre gasped.

Inside the stone coffin lay a mummified creature. Dry, flaky skin shriveled around the thing’s twisted form. It had the body of a man and the face of a beast with sharp teeth. The bony arms, legs, and torso were incredibly long.

Father Xavier said, “In the 1600s, this mummy was found frozen in a bog in northern Quebec.”

“What…” Andre looked up at his mentor. “What kind of animal walks like a man?”

“It’s neither animal or man.” Father Xavier gazed with those piercing blue eyes. “What you are looking at, Andre, is physical proof that demons walk the earth.”

64

Tom Hatcher sat alone at his table, drinking one whiskey after the other, trying to piece together the events that had caused his life to spin out of control.

Two years ago, when he had been working as an inspector in Montréal, he nearly went insane investigating the case of the Cannery Cannibal. Over the span of two years, twelve women, all prostitutes from the harbor docks, were butchered and dumped into the river. After the last victim, several months passed. The case almost went cold until Tom and his partner staked out the docks, watching the riverboat that worked as a brothel. A man tried to abduct one of the prostitutes. Tom and his partner intervened, rescuing the girl, but the man got away.

The next day Tom received a strange gift at his home. A music box that played baroque music. When he opened the box, two ballroom dancers spun in a circle. Inside was a rolled scroll and a sardine tin. Written in elegant handwriting was a message.

Dearest Inspector,

You cannot stop the Shepherd of Death from saving the lost lambs. Like the wind, I am everywhere. If you do not stop, I will come after your family and eat your wife and son’s livers while you watch.

The Cannery Cannibal

The sardine tin was filled with bloated fingers lined up like blood sausages.

Tom had been so enraged that he had moved his family to Lachine. He then returned to Montréal and led a relentless manhunt. He studied the music box, the scroll, and tin for clues. The stationery was from expensive parchment and had a fancy emblem on it of an M. The silver tin was from the Meraux Cannery. They canned everything from turtle soup and oysters to mincemeat and clam chowder. One of their clerks reported missing tins each month. Tom suspected Gustave Meraux, the cannery owner’s eccentric son and heir to the Meraux fortune.

Inspector Hatcher and his squad raided Gustave Meraux’s mansion. In his study was a collection of music boxes. Gustave was nowhere to be found.

The
Montréal police shut down the Meraux Cannery and seized every dockside warehouse and boat. Tom found the killer’s lair in a dock house near the fishing boats and made a shocking discovery. The cannibal had been cooking up the dead women in soups in a large vat and storing their meat in tins.

65

The Montréal harbor was empty except for a young woman walking along the pier. She wore a shabby coat and peasant dress. Gustave Meraux sized her up as one of the prostitutes who worked the docks offering their wares to the fishermen and sailors. Many of the whores lived in a large houseboat that acted as a brothel. That was where the wench appeared to be headed.

Gustave crouched behind a sailboat that knocked against the docks. As the young woman’s silhouette passed, he grabbed her from behind, clamping his hand around her mouth. Her frail body bucked in his arms. She let out a muffled scream. “Hush, hush, little lamb,” he whispered and pinched her nostrils. She kicked out and clawed the air, then finally went limp. “That’s a good girl.”

The cannibal threw her body over his shoulder and carried her back to the cannery warehouse. A dozen rats looked up as Gustave entered his lair. He tore off the woman’s dress and undergarments. Naked flesh no longer aroused his libido, only his hunger. He wrapped her in chains and raised her body till her feet dangled a foot above the ground. He placed his cheek to her warm belly. The smell of her sweet meat stirred up hunger pangs in Gustave’s stomach.

“I’ll be back for you.”

He limped over to his altar and opened his music box. Warped music played his favorite baroque melody. The figurines of a dancing couple spun in endless circles. Gustave lit the five black candles on the altar. The mural of the black-skinned beast stared down at him.

Gustave bowed. “I have brought you a gift, Master.”

The mural spoke to Gustave through the music box’s warbled tune. The ballroom dancers spun round and round.

“Yes, Master.”

Humming the melody, spinning like a gentleman dancing with a lady, Gustave peered into a shard of mirror that still hung on a nearby post. Blood covered his face and stained his thick, black and silver beard. Using the knife, he shaved off most of the whiskers, leaving only a few patches. He grimaced, showing off his red teeth and gray gums. His long, greasy hair was disheveled. He cut his hair, as well, preferring it short. There was a time he could seduce any woman with this face. His libertine days were over. Reaching into his music box, he pulled out a tin and dabbed white powder onto his cheeks. As he prepared himself for one last ceremony, he heard the flapping of wings. A flock of ravens flew down from a hole in the roof. Gustave stepped around the birds and rats. He went to the girl and powdered her face, as well, till she was as beautiful as a Victorian doll. With the flaying knife, he carved a red spiral on her forehead. She woke up screaming. She kicked out. Her twisting body rattled the chains.

Her flopping breasts made Gustave salivate. He wanted so desperately to cut off a piece of her and have a nibble. But this girl, the final sacrificial lamb, was not for him. He returned to the glowing altar. Above the burning candles, the mural appeared to whirl like a funnel. “She’s ready for you, Master.”

Black smoke floated out of the wall, the mural evaporating. The warehouse echoed with cackles and squeaks. The girl screamed louder, drowning out the music box. Gustave turned around. Standing in the center of the room was a giant black shape whose head and body were formed by flapping ravens and squirming rats.

Gustave limped toward his master. The thing towered over him. The rats and ravens writhed within its mass. Hundreds of beady eyes stared at the Cannery Cannibal.

The music box began playing the melody backwards. He heard the command of his muse. “Yes, Master.”

Gustave slashed the woman’s wailing throat. She dangled from the chains, red liquid streaming over her breasts. He then backed away, allowing the spiraling, dark mass to swallow her whole.

Gustave heard crunching and gnawing and the chittering of creatures in a feeding frenzy. In seconds, they reshaped into the giant, black form. At the chains, a red skeleton dangled. The dark beast lumbered toward the doorway.