Dead of Winter (28 page)

“In the flesh.” He slid down his pants, letting her see how aroused he was.

“No, I don’t want to.” She grabbed her doll and hugged it against her chest. The childish display only turned on Avery more.

“Have you been a naughty little girl?”

She averted her eyes and realized she was hugging the geisha doll. “Who’s this?”

“Your belated Christmas present.” He pushed up her nightgown. “Now how about mine…”

Willow’s eyes filled with panic. “Where’s Noël?”

“On the floor.”

His wife crawled off the bed and searched the floor on hands and knees. “Where is she? Where?
Where?
”

“By your dresser. Jesus, what’s wrong with you?”

She scooped up the Indian doll and rocked with it like it was her own damn child.

Meanwhile, his balls were aching. “Damn it, Willow, come back to bed.”

She just rocked, her eyes wild.

“Bloody well, then.” Avery pulled up his trousers over his erection. “Woman, I don’t know what’s gotten into you lately, but I will not condone this behavior.” He grabbed the bottle of laudanum. “No more sleeping medicine.” He slammed her door.

103

“It’s okay, it’s okay…” Clutching the Indian doll against her chest, Willow stumbled across the room and sat down at her beauty table. She peered into the oval mirror with the trimmed white border.

The doll snickered with Zoé’s voice,
Mirror mirror on the wall, who’s the most wretched of them all?

Willow’s eyeliner trailed down her cheeks in horrid black tears. She opened her center drawer and retrieved a glass tube with white powder. It was almost empty.

One last magic carpet ride through the clouds,
giggled Zoé.

“Just one more.” Willow poured the cocaine into her pinky nail and snorted. Her reflection began to stretch.

Did she dream Avery returned?

Her breast and inner thigh hurt. No, he was really back.

Sobbing, she looked at the Indian doll. “He’s not who you promised.” Willow brushed her hair in hard strokes. “I want the man you promised!”

Zoé snickered, and then the room filled with the sound of a hundred children giggling.
Don’t worry,
the dolls whispered in unison.
He’s here, he’s here, he’s here…

104

Tom carried a crate of medical supplies into the new hospital house. Back to his role as inspector, he was happy to be working again. He spent the afternoon helping Dr. Coombs set up his lab. The disease specialist had brought microscopes, surgery knives, and medicines.

Tom opened the crate full of science books like anatomy, biology, botany, and zoology. Among them were books by Charles Darwin, the scientist who came up with the theory of evolution. His theories of man evolving from apes had outraged the Church, who believed man derived from Adam and Eve. Ever since Darwin’s theories were published, the Church and the scientific field constantly battled in a theoretical war.

Tom held up the books. “Where do you want these?”

“On that shelf will do.” Dr. Coombs yelped suddenly and stomped the floor, dancing across the room as if he were doing a jig.

Tom laughed. “Something wrong, Doctor?”

“Some kind of critter just ran into the next room.”

“Probably a rodent,” Tom said. “Every cabin has a few mice and rats. They nest up in the attics during winter. Unfortunately, we don’t have any cats out here.”

Dr. Coombs looked up at his ceiling. “Well, the little vermin better not come near me.”

Tom grinned, seeing the large man get so spooked over a tiny critter. Despite their rough start, Tom discovered the new doctor had a dry wit and good sense of humor. Tom was looking forward to keeping company with a man who could not only speak full sentences, but had a stimulating intellect as well.

More importantly, Inspector Hatcher felt useful again. He had a new mission: Hunt down the Manitou Cannibals and help Dr. Coombs secure this village from any further outbreaks. Then come spring, journey back to Montréal with his son’s remains.

After being away from Willow for two weeks, Tom realized he wasn’t in love with her. She was strikingly beautiful and resembled Beth, but that was where his attraction to Willow ended. The spoiled little princess belonged to Avery Pendleton, and the rake was much more suited for her childish games.

As Tom returned to the sled for another crate, he spotted a shadowy form with a top hat climbing up the steps of Anika’s cabin. Pendleton spoke with her a few seconds, then she let him in.

Tom’s jaw went tight. He felt a strange aching in his chest, as he imagined what was happening inside Anika’s cabin.

It’s none of my damned business.
Tom gripped another crate and marched back into the medical lab. He tried to concentrate on work, but for some reason the discomfort in his chest wouldn’t go away.

105

Anika backed away from the door as Pendleton removed his hat and fur coat. She knew that hungry look in his eyes. He grinned like a wolverine gazing upon a wounded fawn. “Hello, Anika, did you miss me?”

She looked away. “I cannot be with you tonight.”

“And why the hell not?”

She thought of an excuse. “I just started my moon time.”

“I don’t care.” He stepped toward her, unbuckling his belt. “Now, take off your clothes and get into bed.”

Anika looked at her bed in the corner and thought of all the nights she had lain with her eyes clamped shut while this beast rammed into her until she was sore. How long was she going to be his whore? She thought of her grandmother and of Tom and knew that she deserved to be treated better. Anika folded her arms and looked into Pendleton’s eyes. Her mouth spoke a word she had never had the courage to say to him. “No.”

He cocked his head. “What did you just say?”

“No. I… I no longer want to be your mistress.”

“You fucking little bitch.” He removed his belt and swung it, slapping the side of her face. Anika fell to the floor. Fire burned around her eye.

Pendleton snarled and whipped her shoulder. “No one talks to me in that manner!” The belt lashed down several times, until she felt hot centipedes of stinging pain crawling across her back and shoulders. The beast yanked her up off the floor and threw her onto the bed. “Now take off your fucking clothes!”

Part Eleven

Communion

106

Noble House

Later that evening, Tom gathered with seven other men at the long table in Master Pendleton’s study. Among them sat Dr. Coombs, Father Xavier, Andre, and the officers, Lt. Hysmith, Walter Thain, and Percy Kennicot.

From the head of the table, Pendleton said, “I’ve called you all here tonight first to welcome our new guests. Their knowledge will be a real contribution to our situation.” As the chief factor went on, Tom made eye contact with Father Xavier. The bald-headed priest looked strong for a man in his fifties, a man of both physical and spiritual strength. Tom sensed Father Xavier was sizing him up, as well.

The Jesuit’s hands rested on a stack of leatherbound books. One was the cryptic diary that Zoé Lamothe had delivered from Manitou Outpost. Father Jacques had written the entire journal in Aramaic. Now the priest for whom the book had been written was here.

Tom said, “Father, can you shed some light on what happened in the final days at Manitou Outpost?”

“Yes, Inspector.” Father Xavier leaned forward, clasping his fingers. “Father Jacques was more than just a missionary. He was also an exorcist, documenting accounts of cannibalism happening among the people living on the frontier.”

Pendleton’s brow furrowed. “Why didn’t he tell me this when he first arrived?”

“His true mission was known only to the high tiers of the Catholic Church.”

“Meaning the Vatican?” Tom asked.

The priest nodded.

Hysmith said, “So you bloody Catholics planted a spy in our fort!”

Father Xavier said, “The Church has no interest in your business doings. We came to the frontier to save people from a spiritual disease that happens when people live in isolation.”

“You claim to know which virus we’re dealing with?” said Dr. Coombs, looking over his spectacles. “Are the Jesuits disease specialists now?”

“Not all diseases stem from the human body,” the priest defended. “What we’re talking about here is an outbreak of demon possession.”

This brought chuckles around the table.

Dr. Coombs released a wheezing laugh. “Priest, you think everything is the work of the Devil.”

“What else would you expect from a bloody Catholic?” Hysmith chided.

“Enough,” Pendleton said. “Father Xavier has traveled all this way. Show him some respect. Father, please tell us what you learned from translating the diary.”

Father Xavier said, “I thought it better that you hear it from Father Jacques’ own words.” He opened the diary and began reading:

“Out here in the wilderness, the dead make sacrifices. Claude and Jean-Luc left with their hunting dogs a week ago and have yet to return. I’ve lost hope that they ever will. Ever since the blizzards arrived in November, a beast from the woods has been stalking us. Some form of manitou, the trappers claim. Since it killed three hunters, we dare not leave the fort.

“We have been stranded here for weeks, waiting out the storms. Our food stores have run out. I know the madness of hunger. Each passing day, I grow thinner. Each night, I hear the moans of the others as they suffer from ravenous nightmares. The outpost has been fortified to protect us from the savage beast in the woods. What we hadn’t counted on was the savagery attacking us from within…”

107

December 10
^th
, 1870

Manitou Outpost

Father Jacques stopped writing at the sound of the fierce wind howling through the lodge house. Down the hall, boots clumped across wood floors as men hustled from room to room, closing shutters that blew open. The native wives of the fur trappers tended to the sick and dying. The inhabitants were hungry. Always hungry. Six days had passed since anyone had eaten. So many mouths to feed. All the livestock was dead, except a few horses. Father Jacques had considered killing the sled dogs for food, but they were all sick, the meat tainted. Getting to Fort Pendleton was the only hope for the Manitou inhabitants. If they didn’t figure a way to get to there soon, it was going to be a long winter.

Today, the three-story lodge house creaked and moaned as it always did during heavy storms. Father Jacques’ hunger caused the edges of his vision to blur as his mind drifted into dark thoughts. Voices rasped inside his head. Ghosts of the poor souls he could not save. He had a haunting memory of a teenage girl drinking blood from the throat of a dead dog. As Father Jacques and men with rifles approached, the girl looked up, blood dribbling down her chin. She glared with solid white eyes, growling. Several shots fired into her. When the grisly image passed, the priest returned to his journaling.

The first to catch the disease was Master Lamothe’s eldest daughter, Margaux. She has since been put to death, an unfortunate but necessary means to our survival. We are now down to fifteen, and time is running out.

Pushing away his journal, Father Jacques stood at a frosted window on the third floor of the main lodge house. His rosary twirled between bony fingers. Outside, the ice covering Makade Lake cracked. The frozen plates pushed together until fissures exploded upward. The crashing booms from the ever-shifting ice was a constant sound that startled Father Jacques during the days and made sleeping fitful during the nights. All around the fort, tree branches clawed violently at the endless wind and snow.

Another week, another storm.

The priest prayed for deliverance from the wintry beast. How much longer could they hold death at bay?

On the ground below, a fox chased a snow hare into a pile of brush. There was a brief frenzy, then the fox emerged with the dead rabbit in its maw. Father Jacques felt an unsettling gurgle in his stomach as the fox tore into the hare’s belly. Sacrificial blood stained the snow.
Is this a sign, oh Lord?
The feasting of predator on prey was a fascinating thing to watch. The wrenching jaw. The tearing of meat from bone. The violent display drew other creatures, as two ravens landed on a branch. Their black eyes gazed at the Jesuit priest. The birds cawed, as if they knew the dark thoughts that had been tormenting Father Jacques these past few days.

From the woods echoed a sound of icicles shattering against the ground. The ravens squawked and took flight. The fox dashed off, leaving the snowshoe hare half-eaten. Father Jacques licked his lips, surprised that the sight of the blood and raw meat stirred his hunger. A part of him wanted to run out into the woods and bury his face in it. He searched the thrashing branches, fearing whatever predator had spooked the animals. From the corner of his eye he caught movement. A flash of white racing between the trees. In the instant it took Father Jacques to shift his eyes, the thing snatched the remains of the dead rabbit and vanished in the blizzard. A white wolf? A polar bear? His rational mind wanted to believe he’d seen an earthly predator. But since the sickness started, Indian superstitions tormented Father Jacques’ mind.

Beware the wiitigos…
The Ojibwa people believed the forest surrounding Manitou Outpost was haunted by evil spirits. Winter phantoms. Windigos. Over the course of several decades countless men and women had disappeared or died of strange deaths. Their fear of an evil presence was why the Jesuits chose this outpost to do missionary work. In his twenty years as an exorcist, Father Jacques had faced his share of evil. And now, standing at the window, he felt as if someone or something were out there watching him from the woods, hiding behind veils of swirling snow. He could feel its hunger. Or was it his own cravings that tightened the pit of his stomach? The priest caught the reflection of his ghoulish face in the windowpane and turned away.

From down the hall, a sick man cried out. Father Jacques went into the room and blessed him. Anton, a once stout blacksmith, was now a skeleton wrapped in a thin sheet of skin. He coughed, spat up blood.