Dead of Winter (18 page)

“Please, Master, take me with you.”

The music box played the tune Gustave wanted to hear. A song that promised vengeance and eternal suffering to his enemies. Smiling, he slashed his wrist, dripping his blood in a clockwise spiral on the stone floor. He kneeled on the symbol and sliced open a dozen red wounds along his ribs and belly. As he bled like a disciple on the cross, he raised his arms to the dark lord.

The mass exploded outward, swarming around Gustave’s body. The rats and ravens fed, pecking and gnawing, releasing the Cannery Cannibal from his mortal prison until there was nothing left but tatters and bones.

Part Seven

Dark Night of the Soul

66

Screams echoed throughout the forest.

Running, running, running…

Tom stumbled through a thicket of trees. Branches swatted his face.

Clawing, clawing, clawing…

A snow mound up ahead. Blood spread across the white dune, forming a red spiral.

He fell to his knees.

Digging, digging, digging…

Uncovered the face of the Cannery Cannibal.

A bloody mouth opened.

Cackling, cackling, cackling…

Tom jerked awake, feeling as if an axe were splitting his skull. The room spun, adding vertigo to his pain and nausea to his roiling stomach. His mouth tasted like talcum powder. The cannibal’s cackling faded.

He blinked his eyes. The room came into focus.
Another nightmare.

Twilight shone through the windows. Was it dawn or dusk? Did it even matter? Tom rubbed his face, trying to remember the last time he was sober. He remembered being seated here at the dining table, gulping down one glass of whiskey after the next.

Now an empty bottle lay sideways on the table next to the glass. He spotted a picture frame facedown on the table. He turned it over to the side that displayed a black and white photo. A younger version of himself was dressed in his suit and black lawman hat, standing proud between his wife and son. The portrait had been taken three years ago in Montréal. Beth had her blonde hair pinned up and was a timeless beauty in her Sunday dress. Chris Hatcher, wearing his suit, was age eleven in the photo. His hair had a cowlick that never combed down properly. He had his father’s high cheekbones and mother’s blue eyes.

Feeling the pressure build again, Tom pinched the bridge of his nose. His head was in such a haze he couldn’t remember why he’d pulled out the photo. Maybe to torture himself. The image of his family just made him want to open another bottle and sink back into a mindless slumber. Before he could succumb to the whiskey devil, Tom growled and upturned the table. The bottle and glass hit the wall and shattered. He kicked his chair, knocking it over.

Tom stumbled into the den, fists clenched, arms shaking.

Something scraped wood in the shadowy corner. Tom turned, wobbling, still half-drunk. “Stop it!”

At the back corner of the den the crate that looked like a coffin took up half the wall. Something inside was scratching to get out. Tom grabbed the crowbar and smacked the top of the crate. “Shut up already!”

The scrapes, like claws dragging across wood, continued relentlessly.

“Blast you!” Tom jammed the crowbar into the edge of the lid. He pried, jacking up the nails at each corner. He removed the top, tossing it to the floor with a thundering crash. Inside the crate was a wooden grid housing brown bottles. He grabbed one by the neck and pulled out the cork. He guzzled the whiskey. A river of fire scorched his throat, flowing down into his belly. Tears glazing his eyes, he fell back against the wall and slid down onto his rump.

Christ, I can’t take any more of this.

Two weeks had passed with him wasting away inside this cabin. He had spent both Christmas and New Year’s so bloody pissed the holidays were nothing but foggy memories. He smelled a foul odor from something rotting in the kitchen. Or was it coming from him?

Tom took another swig.
I’ve got to get out of this cabin.

The walls felt like they were pressing in. As the twilight in the windows faded, and the room grew darker, Tom began to see tiny fireflies floating out in front of him.

He blinked, focusing his eyes, seeing them more clearly.

Glowing red spirals.

He swatted at them. The spirals spun upward like dust, then drifted back down in front of his face.

He blinked again, and they were gone.

I’ve gone completely mad.

Then realization hit him like a punch to the gut. He stood, remembering his dream. The red spiral spreading across the snow dune, digging up the face of Gustave Meraux.

Heart racing, Tom paced. Outside, nightfall was quickly claiming the last of the twilight.
I have to know.
He put on his coat and lawman hat and lit a lantern. Grabbing the crowbar, he headed out the door.

The red fireflies returned, leading the way.

67

Tom crossed the fort grounds to the back side of Hospital House. After removing Doc and Myrna Riley’s dead bodies, the soldiers had boarded up the doors and windows of the two-story white building to keep the children out. Climbing the steps to the back porch, he clumsily worked the crowbar, prying at the boards covering the door. He removed three of them, creating a gap. It was as dark as a copper mine inside.

He leaned in with the lantern. The smell of decay smacked his senses. Blood still stained the floor and kitchen counters. The building had been quarantined out of fear that it was contaminated. Tom wasn’t worried about catching the disease. He knew very little about viruses but was almost certain one couldn’t survive below-zero temperatures.

He ducked in through the gap. As he stood upright inside the kitchen, he felt disoriented. The effects of the whiskey doubled his vision. He leaned against a wall for a moment, allowing his equilibrium to stabilize. Wind blew in through the boarded windows. Most were shattered. Shards of glass covering the floor reflected the lantern light like crystals. Tom twisted, pushing away the darkness at each side of the kitchen. Three passageways led off into different parts of the house.

Which way to the master bedroom?

He took the hall on his right. The wood floor creaked beneath his boots. Up ahead, the blood-streaked door stood ajar. Pushing it open, he held up the lantern, lighting up the red-spattered bed. Tom pictured the ghoulish thing Doc Riley had become, with arms jutting out at impossible angles. On the wall above the bed was the macabre pattern he had been painting with his bloody hands.

Red spirals.

A memory from the Cannery Cannibal’s lair flashed through Tom’s mind. He suddenly felt sick to his stomach and vomited. The red spiral had been Gustave Meraux’s signature, carved into the foreheads of the thirteen women he butchered. In the two years Tom spent tracking the killer, he never understood what the symbol meant. Now it was showing up again, first at Manitou Outpost, painted above Father Jacques’ altar. Then around the entrance to Kunetay’s hut. And here it was again by the hands of Doc Riley, who had contracted the disease from Zoé. The only connection between them and Gustave Meraux was cannibalism.
What do the spirals mean?

Lights suddenly filtered in through the cracks between the boards.

Oh shit.
He wasn’t supposed to be in here.

“Hello, anybody in there?” a man called from the kitchen.

Several sets of boots entered and clumped down the hallway.

“It’s Inspector Hatcher,” Tom yelled. “In the master bedroom.”

Lt. Hysmith entered with two of his soldiers. They lowered their weapons. “What in God’s name are you doing in here at this hour?”

“Trying to make sense of those symbols.”

“What?” Hysmith looked at the wall and scowled. “I don’t see nothing but a sickening mess.”

“No, look how the strokes make a pattern of spirals. I saw this back in Montréal. I think it’s some kind of message.”

Hysmith frowned. “Inspector, you’re drunk and it’s late.”

“I’m fine. I need to work.”

“Not tonight you don’t.” Hysmith waved him over. “Come with us, Inspector.”

They escorted him back to his cabin. Tom had difficulty walking straight. The moon seemed to sway in the sky. The earth went topsy-turvy as he fell to the snowy ground. He was embarrassed that the soldiers had to help him to his feet.

At the cabin doorstep, Hysmith said, “If I may offer some advice, please take a bath. You’re about as approachable as a dead skunk.”

68

Tom soaked in a tub in the corner of his bedroom. The water, which he had boiled, had quickly turned from warm to bone-numbing cold. He couldn’t stop shaking. Even the whiskey failed to warm him. He was so drunk again that he had already forgotten about why he had ventured out to Hospital House. It didn’t really matter anyway. Once Master Pendleton got word of Tom’s drunken behavior, he was probably going to lose his position.

Nothing much mattered anymore. His pistol sat on a bench beside him. He picked it up, rubbing the Hatcher family crest engraved in pewter on the gun’s handle. He remembered the day his father gave him the gun. Tom had just been promoted to inspector at the police station in Montréal.

Orson Hatcher brought Tom into his study and pulled out a wooden box that encased the pistol. His father smiled. “Son, by becoming a detective, you have made me very proud. Your grandfather gave me this the day I made inspector, and now I’m passing it down to you. One day you will pass this along to your own son. Hatcher men were born to solve crimes.”

Now the gun weighed heavy in his hand. A pull of the trigger and Tom could escape this miserable life. He ached to be with Beth and Chris again. Would they be there waiting for him in the afterlife? Or would a darker hell await him? He imagined his father frowning down from heaven.
Don’t do it, son. If you quit on yourself, you quit on everyone
.
I never raised you to be a quitter. You are a Hatcher, and no matter how tough life gets, a Hatcher man never gives up. So somehow you’ve got to find a way to turn things around.

But I’m only half a Hatcher,
Tom wanted to argue.
A bloody half-breed.
His whole life he suffered the shame of being Métis—half-white, half-red—coming from two separate worlds and belonging to neither. He could feel the savagery in his blood from the half of him that was Ojibwa. Like the red people, he had a weakness for alcohol, an untamed heart. He lacked the white man’s restraint. Shivering in the freezing tub, Tom cried until there were no more tears left.

I’m of no use to anybody if I’m dead
.

He set the pistol back on the bench.

As he was climbing into his red long johns, he heard a knock at the front door.

Who was visiting at this hour?

He was surprised to see Anika, holding her flask of rum. Her green eyes were glossy. “I thought maybe you could use some company.”

“I’m fine on my own.” He started to shut the door.

“Tom, wait.” She placed her hand on the door.

He pulled it back open. “What?”

“I… I’m sorry about Chris…” Her eyes were filled with pain. “I was supposed to watch over him…” Tears dribbled down her cheeks.

Tom wanted to blame Anika for Chris’ death. To channel all his hate toward this wretched woman. But seeing her tears softened his anger. “It wasn’t your fault. I never should have let Chris leave my side. I…” The overwhelming pain returned, and Tom hurried to the kitchen and poured himself another whiskey. Gulped it down.

Anika entered his den and shut the door.

Tom stared at the native woman for a long moment and then went to the cupboard and pulled out a second glass.

69

Tom woke, feeling dizzy.

The sun shone through the windows of his bedroom, causing him to squint. He rubbed his eyes. Another morning, another headache. He remembered soaking in the bathtub, gulping down one glass of whiskey after the next. Then Anika visited him, and he couldn’t recall anything that followed.

Warm skin brushed his back.

Tom jerked back the covers. Anika was nuzzling up against him. Her hair covered her face. The small woman had tan skin and a slender, lean-muscled body. The sight of her small breasts with brown nipples stirred Tom’s arousal.

“Oh, Jesus.” He touched her bare shoulder. “Anika.”

“Mmmm.” She rolled over, pulling the covers over her head. She started snoozing again.

“Christ, what have I done?” Tom dressed quickly, throwing on his long johns and trousers. He went to his kitchen. An empty bottle stood on the table between two glasses. He paced.
Why did I let her in?

The whiskey demons scratched at the crate, tempting him to open another bottle. “Bugger off!”

His drinking was getting him into constant trouble. Now he had Avery Pendleton’s mistress in his bed.

Tom looked out his back window. It was the brightest morning he’d seen in over a month. A large snow owl flew down and perched on a post. Its golden eyes stared at Tom. The Ojibwa believed seeing animals was a sign. Tom just didn’t know if this predator bird was a good omen or a bad one.

Someone knocked at the front door. The owl flew off.

“You have a visitor.” Anika ambled out of the bedroom with a blanket wrapped around her. Her bare feet padded across the wood floor. Her hair was disheveled. She held a hand against her forehead, the look of a hangover on her face.

The pounding at the door echoed in Tom’s head. “Who is it!”

“It’s me.” Willow Pendleton.

Shit, if she sees me with Anika, the news will go straight back to Master Pendleton.
Tom held a finger to his lips, signaling Anika to keep quiet. He spoke through the door. “Can you come back later? Now’s not the best time.”

Willow said, “Please, Tom, I need to see that you’re okay. I’m worried about you.”

“Okay, give me a moment.” To Anika he whispered, “Keep quiet,” and shooed her back into the bedroom and closed the door. He looked into an oval mirror on the wall. A face with bloodshot eyes reflected back. His beard had grown thick and unruly.
I’m a bloody wreck
. He dipped his hands into the washbasin and splashed icy water onto his face. Once he looked halfway presentable, he opened the door. What appeared to be an angel stood before him, a vision in pure white in her long, snow-fox coat. Her blonde hair was tucked beneath her furry white hat. Her porcelain-doll face was pink from the cold. “Good morning, Tom.”