Dead of Winter (13 page)

You put a curse on our fort, didn’t you, witch?

Anika looked up. Feeling pierced by the witch’s gaze, Willow glanced away.

44

One by one, the colonists approached the altar and paid their respects. When Anika got her turn, she opened a rabbit pelt, taking one last look at the object inside. The antler carving of a white buffalo was her most treasured gift from her uncle Swiftbear.

Anika held back any tears, withdrawing the sorrow into her tight face. She set the tiny buffalo on the altar beside Chris’ photo.
May this guide you safely to the land of White Buffalo.

Tom stepped beside her, whispering his own prayer. His eyes were full of pain and rage. Anika felt she needed to say something. Apologize. But there were no words.

Brother Andre and the mourners sang more hymns. The native woman walked back up the center aisle, feeling a dozen angry eyes upon her, accusing her. A man mouthed the word “Witch,” then returned to his singing. She walked back to her pew feeling as if a clawed hand were wrapped around her heart, squeezing tighter and tighter.

The chapel went quiet. Everyone bowed their heads.

Brother Andre held open his bible. “‘Ashes to ashes and dust to dust…’”

When the service was over, Anika remained seated as the mourners left the chapel. Avery Pendleton tugged at his wife’s arm, but she shrugged it off. He walked up the aisle, buttoning his black fur coat. He grimaced and tipped his hat at Anika, then exited the chapel.

As Brother Andre went to his chambers, Anika found herself inside the nave with only Tom Hatcher and Willow Pendleton. The chief factor’s wife sat in the second row pew, sniffling. Why had she remained behind?

Anika approached the altar. Candlelight outlined the silhouette of Tom’s head. She set a hand onto the inspector’s shoulder. He tensed, but let her keep it there. Pulling out his son’s whittled flute, Tom blew into it, whistling a shrill sound that had no melody.

45

Brother Andre tapped on the open door to Master Pendleton’s office. “Sir, I was wondering if I could speak with you about a matter?”

The chief factor was sitting at his desk, writing notes in his log. Without looking up, he said, “I’ll be with you in a moment. Have a seat.”

Andre sat down in one of the plush leather chairs that faced the enormous cherry-wood desk. He surveyed all the mounted antlers and stuffed animals, including a marble-eyed wolverine that seemed to bare its fangs at the corner of the chief factor’s desk.

Pendleton stabbed his quill into an inkwell. “All right, so what is this matter?”

Andre fidgeted with his hands. “It’s regarding Father Jacques’ diary, sir. His request was that it reach Father Xavier at the Notre Dame basilica in Montréal. The message seems urgent and, after all that’s happened—”

“With Father Jacques dead, the diary serves no purpose now.”

“But maybe if Father Xavier translated it, we could learn more about what happened at Manitou Outpost.”

“We’ve assessed what happened. The bloody trappers turned cannibal on each other. It occurs out here during winter, especially at the more remote posts. Sorry, Andre, but your priest chose the wrong fort to do his mission work.”

His heart ached for the loss of his mentor. “But Father Jacques stressed how important the diary is to the Church. He risked the life of a little girl to deliver it to us.”

Pendleton sighed, “What are you proposing? That I send my couriers to Montréal in the middle of winter?”

“Actually, sir” –Andre sat forward– “I wish to deliver it personally. The bishop needs to be informed that Father Jacques was killed.”

“And how do you propose to get there?”

“I was hoping your
voyageurs
could take me in one of the canoes. I just need to get to Ottawa. From there I could catch the ferry—”

“Out of the question. No one leaves the fort until spring.”

“But it would only take a few days—”

“My decision is final, Andre! End of discussion.”

Andre huffed, his upper lip shaking. “Then may I at least have his diary back?”

“No, it’s staying with me.” Pendleton returned to writing in his log. “Now, if you’ll kindly see yourself out, I have more urgent matters to deal with.”

Andre glowered at the chief factor. He had disliked Avery Pendleton since the day the Jesuit missionaries had first left Quebec and journeyed to Fort Pendleton. Now, with the denial to carry out his mentor’s holy mission, Andre wanted to dump the inkwell on Pendleton’s stubborn head. But Andre had endured enough Catholic discipline to refrain from acting out his hostile emotions. And he had plenty of self-inflicted bruises to remind himself of his devotion to the Church.

As Andre rose to leave, Lt. Hysmith knocked at the open door. “Beg your pardon, Master Pendleton, but we got an Indian messenger outside the gate. There’s been more killings at their village.”

46

A patrol of soldiers on horseback followed an Indian messenger across the creek to the Ojibwa village. Tom and Anika rode among them, gripping rifles. Tom’s head ached from a hangover. Vengeance burned in his blood.

As the horse riders rode into the village, Tom saw several red patches in the snow. Anika made a sobbing sound and put a hand to her mouth. According to the Indian messenger, Kunetay Timberwolf had gone on a murderous rampage in the middle of the night. At least ten men, women, and even a few children were missing. One trapper’s body was lying facedown. His head was split with an axe, the weapon left jutting from the back of his skull. The killer’s bloody tracks crisscrossed into numerous trails. As Tom and Anika dismounted their horses, Chief Mokomaan approached with three Indian warriors. They all carried bows nocked with arrows.

“What happened?” Tom asked.

The old chief shook his head as he gazed at the carnage all around them.

Tom searched the village for the killer. “Where is Kunetay?”

“Gone,” Chief Mokomaan said, his voice filled with pain. “Into the woods.”

Tom said to Lt. Hysmith, “Spread out the men and find Kunetay.” With the lieutenant relaying orders, the dozen soldiers charged off on a manhunt.

Anika said, “Is Grandmother Spotted Owl alive?”

“She’s with the tribe.” Mokomaan pointed to a large wigwam where two warriors guarded the entrance. Anika hurried to the wigwam and stepped inside. Tom felt a stabbing in his chest, as he remembered the night Chris had been sitting among the elders and smoking a ceremonial pipe. He suppressed the pain, doing his best to concentrate on the crime scene. Tom turned to the chief. “Where is Kunetay’s hut?”

Mokomaan led him to a birch bark hut that was set off from the others, bordering the tree line. The air reeked of offal. The gate to a dog pen stood open. There were no huskies inside, but the snow was saturated with blood and tufts of fur. At the hut’s entrance, Tom saw something on the outside wall that stopped him in his tracks.

Red spirals. A dozen of them were marked around the entrance.

Tom turned to the chief. “What do these symbols mean?”

Mokomaan kept his distance from the hut. “Warnings of evil spirits.”

Tom stepped inside Kunetay’s hut. Butchered limbs and ropy entrails hung from the rafters. Boiling in a stewpot was a woman’s head and heart. Tom covered his nose with a handkerchief and explored the rest of the hut. In the dark corner lay two small bodies. What the trapper had done to his own children turned Tom’s stomach. He stepped back outside as Anika was approaching.

Tom marched past her. “We have another cannibal on the loose.” He cocked his Winchester rifle, heading toward the woods. “Let’s find the son of a bitch.”

47

Fort Pendleton

Hospital House

Willow sat in a rocking chair, cradling an Indian doll. Zoé Lamothe was still sleeping, her thin arms tied to the bedposts. She hadn’t woken in over a day, and Doc Riley had said she might have gone into a coma. The girl was unaware that her mother was dead and her father missing. Zoé was the only known survivor who had escaped the massacre at Manitou Outpost. The thought that Pierre Lamothe might well be dead troubled Willow. She had first met the French Canadian officer back in Montréal last summer. She was attending a company banquet with Avery. Pierre, a handsome gentleman in his thirties, had sat next to her. As Avery gave one of his typical speeches about the upcoming fur-trading season, Willow had felt a hand caress her thigh. Her heart rising in her chest, she glanced toward Pierre. He gazed at her with a mischievous look in his eyes.

A wheezing sound snapped Willow out of her reverie. Once again, Zoé’s eyelids were half-open, the pale white irises gazing blankly.

Willow shivered. She left the girl’s room and sat down at the kitchen table with Doc and Myrna Riley. The elderly couple were playing cards.

Doc asked, “Did Zoé wake up yet?”

“Not so much as a stir. Her forehead is ice cold.”

“I don’t know how that lass keeps hanging on. She should be dead.” Doc coughed into a handkerchief. His skin had a sick pallor to it, as if he were coming down with a cold.

“Take some more castor oil,” Myrna said.

“I just had some.” He winked at Willow. “Sometimes she forgets who the doctor is in this house.”

Myrna dealt the cards. “He forgets I worked in a hospital in Dublin for fifteen years before he dragged me out to this godforsaken land.”

“You love Canada and you know it.”

Willow smiled as the old couple quarreled. The three drank tea and played a hand of Reverse, her favorite card game.

“Christ, this pain,” Doc Riley grumbled when it was his turn to deal. He peeled back the bandage on his hand. The bite had turned the skin a purplish-black. Vile yellow pus oozed from Zoé’s teeth marks. Three fingers had swollen to the size of sausages.

Myrna shook her head. “Quit fussing with it.”

“It burns like the Devil’s tits.” Doc pressed a knife to the engorged skin and lanced out more of the mucus. “Get me some more morphine, will you, love?”

“You’re getting poison all over my clean floor,” Myrna said. “Come with me. I’ll redress it for you.”

The Rileys went down the hall to the apothecary room, leaving Willow alone at the table. She heard a cough coming from the dark bedroom where Zoé slept. The door stood partially ajar.
I should probably go in there and check on her again. Maybe feed her another spoonful of castor oil.
But Willow didn’t budge from her seat. The girl’s strange, white-membraned eyes gave her gooseflesh.

Willow dealt herself a hand of Solitaire. Her fingers trembled.

There was another reason she was feeling a bit unsettled today. Inspector Hatcher, the man who had sparked life back into her heart, had left this morning on another dangerous mission. She prayed that Tom and the other men returned safely.

A strange groan sent a chill up Willow’s spine. She turned toward the bedroom, listening. There it was again, a raspy moan from the darkness beyond the doorway.
Zoé must have woken up.
The door slowly swung open, the hinges creaking. Had the girl gotten out of bed? Impossible. She was tied down. The candlelight in the main room illuminated the foot of the bed. It was too dark to see if Zoé was still in it.

Willow grabbed a candle and approached the open door to the bedroom, trying to make out the lump buried beneath the covers. “Zoé, everything all right?”

The girl growled like some kind of animal. In the murky room, her shadow moved on all fours. Willow reeled. The shape of the girl’s head looked all wrong, twisted at an impossible angle. Zoé hissed. A draft blew out the candle in Willow’s hand. Pitch darkness blinded her. Before she reached the door, it slammed shut. “Hey!” Willow twisted the knob, but it wouldn’t open.

“What’s the matter?” Myrna Riley asked from the end of the hall. Her candle parted the darkness, illuminated the closed door to Zoé’s room.

“That little hellion’s holding the knob.” Willow put her weight into it, but the door felt like it was nailed shut.

“Here, lass, step aside.” Myrna pounded. “Child, open the door now, you hear?”

There was a sound of nails scraping down the door. The two women yelped.

Behind the door echoed more growls, as if a feral dog were on the other side. Feet scampered across the wood floor.

Inside the bedroom, glass shattered. The door opened on its own, swinging inward. A cold draft blew Willow’s hair. She and Myrna rushed into the room. The bed was empty, the frayed ropes lying loose across the blanket.

Willow ran to the broken window. Outside, bloody footprints trailed off across the snowfield behind Hospital House.

48

The forest behind Kunetay’s hut was thick with brambles. The hunting party of soldiers spread out through the pines. Every man was quiet except for the sounds of his boots crunching the snow and branches scraping against coats and rifles. Tom, hell-bent on getting the first shot at the cannibal, led the manhunt.

From behind, Anika called, “Tom, slow down. You’re going to get yourself killed.”

“We can’t let him get away.” Tom charged forward at an unrelenting pace. He stepped over pools of blood and splintered bones. With each tree he rounded, he anticipated a crazed Indian leaping out.

The blood trail led into a clearing surrounded by tall spruce. Scattered about were carcasses of dogs and humans who had been torn apart, gnawed upon, and then discarded.

The soldiers gathered, speechless.

Among the red footprints were dozens of larger tracks, like the ones they’d found near Sakari Kennicot’s body two days ago.

Anika crouched beside the bear-sized tracks.

“Are these from Silvertip?” Tom asked.

“
Maji-manidoog.
”
Chief Mokomaan said, shaking his head. “
Wiitigo
.”

Lt. Hysmith and his soldiers all glanced at one another suspiciously.
 

The chief continued speaking in his native tongue, pointing toward the woods surrounding the clearing.

Tom looked at Anika. “What’s he saying?”