Dead of Winter (29 page)

Master Pierre Lamothe entered the room. “What should we do with him, Father?” The chief factor was gaunt, himself. He hadn’t been the same since he burned his daughter’s body. That day he’d given over his command to Father Jacques. The priest had become their only hope and salvation.

Father Jacques leaned over the bed and drew a cross over the dying blacksmith’s chest. The priest led Master Lamothe into the hallway. “Anton has only a few hours, maybe less. I think there may be a way to save the others.”

By that evening, they were down to fourteen people. The priest sat down at a long dining table with a half dozen French Canadian men, their Ojibwa wives, and mixed-blood children. All devout Catholics delivered to God by Father Jacques. The Jesuit’s flock gazed at him with desperate eyes, as did Master Lamothe. Beside the chief factor sat his wife Wenonah and their half-breed daughter. Zoé remained stoic while her mother cried.

Father Jacques clasped his hands together. “Anton was a pious man, a devoted husband, a good father. It is his last noble sacrifice that he blesses us with this offering.”

Zoé glared at the priest. In time the girl would understand. All the disciples would.
Six days without a meal…and no game to hunt, no livestock to eat.
They were ready to do whatever it took to survive. Sister Claire, the only nun among the colony, set what looked like a piece of fried pork skin on everyone’s plate. Father Jacques picked up the crispy meat wafer. “For we have no bread, this symbolizes the Eucharist. And Jesus said, ‘This is my flesh.’” The disciples put the communion host into their mouths. There was an immediate brightness in their eyes as they chewed. The priest lifted his cup. “And this is the red elixir, the holy sacrament. And Jesus said, ‘This is my blood.’” They drank the blood. “‘This do in remembrance of me.’”

The wafer and blood filled Father Jacques with a newfound strength. His mouth watered as the nun spooned meaty stew into everyone’s bowls.

He smiled at his flock. “Trust in me, disciples. For I am the door. I am the vine. I am the good shepherd. Amen.”

“Amen,” the men, women, and children repeated.

To the priest’s surprise, the others ate their stew greedily. Zoé just stared at her mother and father, who slurped up the broth like half-starved prisoners.

Father Jacques said, “Zoé, best you eat, child, if you want to survive the winter.”

The dark-headed girl pushed the bowl away and left the table. Her mother pulled over the bowl the girl had left behind and poured the broth into her own bowl.

Father Jacques pictured Anton’s blank eyes and felt a stab of guilt, wondering if he’d made the right decision.
Six days without a meal…
He thought about the fox feasting upon the rabbit. The prey surrendering itself to the predator. The vision eased the priest’s mind as he ate the stew of human meat. It was the natural law of survival.

Out here in the wilderness, the dead made sacrifices.

108

Father Xavier watched the bewildered faces of all the officers as he closed the diary.

“He must have written more,” Pendleton said.

The priest ran his fingers along the leather spine. There was much more indeed, but much of Father Jacques’ documentations were restricted to only the higher tiers of the Jesuits. Father Xavier was ordered to only tell them what they needed to know. “The following passages describe the downfall of Manitou Outpost as their hunger only grew stronger. The trappers eventually were overtaken by the sickness, as were all the dogs.”

Inspector Hatcher said, “So the colonists cannibalized one another.”

“Not all of them died,” Father Xavier said. “Some of the ‘Infected’ wandered off into the forest. Father Jacques and a few others took refuge in the cellar. The sickness was slowly taking each of them over. They survived for about a week. Once they were out of food and water, they made a plan to escape.”

“Then we found Zoé,” Inspector Hatcher said.

“And she caused a bloody outbreak,” Hysmith said.

“Which we curtailed,” said Pendleton. “For now at least, while we’re quarantined inside the fort. But there are still a few of the Infected roaming the woods.”

Inspector Hatcher said, “They are hunting as a pack. Tomorrow, we should take a patrol out and track them down.”

Pendleton shook his head. “No, I’m not risking any more men out there. No one leaves the fort for any reason. We have plenty of food to last us till spring. What we need to do is find a way to make sure this outbreak never happens again.”

109

“I’d like to perform autopsies,” Dr. Coombs said.

“Autopsies?” Tom thought of his son’s body stored in the Dead House.

“Yes,” Dr. Coombs said. “I plan to cut up your cadavers right away. See if I can find any traces of the virus.”

Tom’s blood went hot. “Then I wish to have a say in which bodies.”

“All of them are to be examined,” Pendleton said. “It’s for the common good—”

“No one’s dissecting my son.” Tom locked gazes with the two men. “I want Chris in one piece when I bury him.”

Master Pendleton narrowed his eyes at Tom’s outburst. “Okay, Doc, you heard the man. Cut up anyone but the inspector’s son.”

110

Andre placed a cup of hot tea on Father Xavier’s bedside table. “Shall I get you anything else?”

“No, I’m good for now.” His mentor looked ten years older. Neither of them had gotten much sleep during the journey by river. They had nearly frozen to death camping in the woods, sleeping beneath canoes circled around an open fire.

“Get a good night’s sleep yourself, Andre. Tomorrow we begin ridding this place of evil.” Father Xavier smiled and sipped his tea.

“Pleasant dreams.” Andre closed the bedroom door. Carrying a single candle, he left their private quarters and stepped into a cold, black void. A familiar sanctuary took form—rows of pews, confession booths, the lectern, the chancel—and sank back into the void as he passed. He stopped at the prayer altar and kneeled. The Virgin Mary stared down with vacant eyes. Andre whispered a prayer as he lit votive candles. The walls around the altar rippled with orange light. Black-winged shadows flapped away, taking roost in the infinite darkness.

Andre heard a hollow sigh. He turned around. He felt a presence, as if someone else were in the nave. A chill seeped along the floor, frosting his ankles with ghostly hands. Holding out the candle, he stepped to the first row of pews. A lone figure sat on the back row.

“Who’s there?”

A woman sobbed.

Andre walked up the center aisle, cutting a swath of light through the curtains of darkness. The flickering glow and the woman’s shadow cast across the wall. She wore a white fur coat and hat. She was cradling an Indian doll.

“Willow?”

She looked up. Tears and makeup streamed down her cheeks. “Andre…” She rushed into his arms. Hugged him tight. Trembling, sobbing into his chest.

Andre hugged her back, timidly at first, not knowing where to place his hands.

“I need to make a confession,” she said.

Feeling suddenly aroused, he pulled away. “Having more dreams about your mysterious lover?”

“Yes, I mean, no…” She grabbed his hand. “I need to tell you about something that happened last summer.”

“Oh…would you like to confess in the booth?”

“No, just listen to me.” Willow sniffled. “I have committed a horrible sin. When I was in Montréal, I…I had a brief affair with Pierre Lamothe.”

The news was like a slap in the face. Andre remembered the leader of Manitou Outpost. Master Lamothe, with his cold, reptilian eyes, had been hated and feared by all the trappers, because he treated his workers like animals. According to Father Jacques, if the trappers disobeyed, Lamothe whipped them with his bullwhip. Every one of the trappers had scars on their backs. The thought that Willow had fornicated with such a sinister snake angered Andre. “How long did this affair last?”

“Two weeks. Avery had gone on a trip with one of his mistresses. I was hurt and angry. Pierre, who was staying in our guesthouse, looked after me. I was seduced by his charms. I fell in love with him and found out I was pregnant.” Willow stroked the hair of the Indian doll. “Pierre refused to believe it was his. He broke off the affair, telling me the baby was my problem. He then returned to Manitou Outpost. I felt so abandoned and confused. I could feel the baby growing inside me. I lied and told Avery it was his. He was so proud to become a papa, doting on me, treating me like his little princess. All that changed when I arrived here. I discovered Avery was having an affair with that whore Anika. And Pierre had an Indian wife and two daughters. They came to our Halloween ball, you remember it.”

Andre recalled that night. He and Father Jacques had drunk rum and watched with amusement all the villagers and Indians dressed in costume. The officers all wore suits, top hats, and masks. Pierre’s mask had been of a jack-o’-lantern. He had danced with his daughters, Zoé and Margaux.

Willow said, “Zoé somehow knew that my baby was Pierre’s. She was such an odd little girl. All the men got drunk that night. Avery spent the night with his whore. Pierre pulled me into a room and tried to have his way with me. I slapped him and threatened to tell Avery everything. Pierre threw me to the floor and kicked me hard in the stomach. He told me if I ever spoke a word about their affair or the baby being his, he would kill me.” She sobbed. “I was such a fool.”

Andre squeezed her hand. “It’s okay, Willow. Pierre was an awful man.” After a moment of letting her cry, he asked, “Is that why you lost the baby?”

She nodded. “After that Avery wouldn’t touch me. Pierre had ruined me. I was so enraged I cursed his name and wished a horrid death would fall upon him.” She lowered her head. “I feel like it’s my fault that everyone at Manitou Outpost died.”

“Willow, look at me.” Andre gazed into her glossy blue eyes. “What happened there was not your fault. They were snowed in and ran out food. You can’t blame yourself for that.”

“But I keep having dreams about Zoé. I fear her ghost is blaming me for all that’s happened.”

“Father Xavier told me such dreams are nothing but Satan’s attempt to lead us astray from God. Let’s go to the altar and pray.”

“No, just hold me.” She threw her arms around him, pressing her head against his chest.

Andre held her for several moments. He stroked her hair. “It’s okay, Willow. I’m always here for you.”

“I’m so glad you’re back. I’ve been so lost without you.”

Her words filled Andre’s chest with warmth. He gazed up at the ceiling, closed his eyes. She felt so good in his arms, like a frail little lamb. He needed this comfort as much as she did. Without thinking, he kissed her forehead.

“Oh, Andre…” Willow looked up at him with tear-soaked eyes. “Is it you who’s come back for me?” She kissed him on the lips, stirring up butterflies in his chest. The feeling of her soft skin and the scent of her perfume cast him under a spell like a dream so heavenly he didn’t want to awaken. In this dream, he was not a celibate monk but a man who surrendered to the fire coursing through his veins.

He kissed Willow back with a hunger he hadn’t known he had. As the heat of their lips flared, Andre willed himself to pull away. But instead, his mouth opened and welcomed the moist embrace of her tongue.

111

Tom lay in bed but couldn’t sleep. His old friend insomnia was keeping him up again. The wind outside crooned a melancholy chorus, sounding as if the woods were filled with lost souls wandering aimlessly among the trees. Manitous? Windigos? Ghosts of the dead? Tom wondered if Chris’ soul walked among them. Tom hated that his son hadn’t received a proper burial. The thought of him stored on a shelf in the Dead House made Tom worry that Chris might be suffering in some limbo place.

As a Catholic, Tom believed the spirit went to purgatory: a place of temporary suffering where souls faced their past sins to be fit for heaven. As a husband and a father, Tom had committed sins he wasn’t proud of, especially during his days as a detective in Montréal. Thinking of the events of the past three years, Tom wondered if he had already died, and Fort Pendleton was his purgatory.

I was a fool to bring Chris here.

Suddenly Tom was overcome by grief. His face tightened. He closed his eyelids tight to dam off any tears.
Hatcher men don’t cry
, came his father’s voice.
Stiffen your lip, son. I better not see you cry.

“All I want to do is sleep,” Tom said out loud. “God, just let me sleep.”

There’s one way you can sleep,
came another voice.

He felt the familiar itch at the back of his throat. Before Tom knew it, he was standing in the den, looking down at the long, coffin-sized crate.
Just one drink to make the pain go away.
He pried open the lid with a crowbar and pulled out a brown bottle.

“No I can’t.”

Sure you can,
whispered the whiskey demons.
Just one bottle to get through the night.

His mouth thirsted for the fiery drink. His hands shook. He thought of the promise he had made to his son. “Not today.” Tom put the bottle back into its slot inside the crate. He hammered the lid down tight. He still couldn’t bring himself to pour the bottles out. He took comfort knowing they were still available, just in case.

The floor creaked inside Chris’ bedroom. Footsteps.

Tom whirled. “Who’s in there?”

Silence.

Gripping the crowbar, he pushed open the door. The candlelight from the den spilled into the room, illuminating the collection of whittled animals on his son’s dresser. The rest of the room was all slashes of moonlight and pools of shadow. Tom peered around the door at the bed. There was a lump under the covers. For a moment he wanted to believe Chris was still alive, sound asleep. Tom reached into the gloom to pull back the covers. Someone beneath rolled over. A cold hand grabbed Tom’s wrist. His mind flooded with visions of a blizzard…clawing branches…a giant human shape with elk horns charging through the trees. A boy’s scream filled the room.
“Father…”