Dead of Winter (4 page)

“I am a warrior of God. With His will I am strong.” Father Xavier stepped to the barred window and locked eyes with the cannibal that had butchered thirteen women. “You are no match for me, duke of Satan. And you are no match for God’s divine will.”

The exorcist splashed holy water in Gustave’s face. The prisoner hissed and retreated into the darkness of the cell.

Father Xavier held his holy book, and glaring into the door’s dark window, chanted the scriptures. “In the name of God, I cast out this demon.”

Gustave screamed like a man on fire and ran face-first into the door. Bones cracked. He rammed the door again and again, his nose smashing against the metal bars. Blood sprayed Father Xavier’s face.

Gustave Meraux dropped to the floor.

8

The dogsleds crossed the icy planks of Beaver Creek Bridge. As Anika drove, Tom kept a blanket bundled up around the little girl they’d found in the woods. She was shivering. He tightened his arms around her and did his best to rub circulation back into her stiffening limbs. The girl coughed vehemently.

“Is she going to be okay?” Anika shouted over the storm.

Tom said, “I’m doing my best to keep her warm. Just hurry.”

On the other side of the creek, the curtains of snow thinned enough to see Fort Pendleton nestled among the aspens, spruce, and hemlock. The caravan of dogsleds reached the twelve-foot-high stockade wall. The top of the spike-tipped fence looked like a row of jagged teeth. Rifle barrels jutted out the slits of the three front watchtowers. The huskies barked.

“It’s just us!” Tom shouted over the wind. “Let us in, quick!”

The barrels retreated back into the square cutouts of the towers. At the gate’s door, a slat opened and a set of dark gray eyes peered out. “Did you find Sakari?” asked Lieutenant Hysmith.

“She’s dead, sir,” Sergeant Cox answered. “We have the body.”

“What killed her?”

“We believe it was Silvertip, sir.”

“Where’s Percy?” Lt. Hysmith asked.

“Passed out, sir,” answered the sergeant. “We gave him some rum.”

Tom yelled, “Let us in, Lieutenant! We have an emergency on our hands.” He held a lantern to the small Indian girl’s pale face. Her teeth were chattering. “We need to get her to Doc Riley.”

Lt. Hysmith shouted, “If she’s Indian, take her to the medicine woman across the creek.”

Anika said, “No, this is Master Lamothe’s daughter, Zoé.”

Hysmith frowned. “What’s
she
doing this far from her outpost?”

Nestled in Tom’s arms, Zoé coughed, hacking up spittle and blood. Tom yelled, “For Christ’s sake, Hysmith, open the damn gate!”

The lieutenant hesitated a moment. “All right, in you go.”

The double doors opened inward. The three dogsleds entered the fort.

9

Father Xavier climbed up from the undercroft of Laroque Asylum, exhausted and hungry. As Warden Paddock approached, Father Xavier said, “Gustave Meraux won’t be disturbing your inmates any longer. I did my best to save the man, but I’m afraid he is dead.”

The warden’s jaw dropped.

“What happened?” It was Brother Francois who asked the question. His face was bandaged where he’d clawed his own cheeks. Francois was holding a teacup and a half-eaten biscuit with marmalade. He had crumbs on his cheek.

Father Xavier directed his report to Warden Paddock. “Gustave Meraux was indeed possessed by a demon. He tried to play games with my head, but finally realized that as long as I live, I was not going to give in to his chicanery. So the demon rammed Gustave’s body into the cell’s door. I heard bones in his face breaking against the bars. Then he dropped and was silent.”

Paddock grinned. “Bloody good riddance, I say.”

“You’ll send a doctor down to confirm the death?”

“Of course.”

The stagecoach arrived, and Father Xavier and Francois walked across the cobble driveway. As Father Xavier was about to climb into the coach, the warden grabbed his arm. “Is that
thing
that possessed him gone?”

The exorcist looked up at the white-walled asylum. The ravens were gone. “From Laroque,
oui
.”

Paddock’s eyes turned glossy. “Thank you, Father.” His grubby hand shook Father Xavier’s.

“Good day.” The Jesuit priest climbed into his stagecoach and sat across from Francois. The novice hung his head, avoiding eye contact.

The carriage rode off, making its journey to the twin-towered cathedral that loomed at the heart of the city.

Father Xavier removed his gloves, glaring at the apprentice sitting across from him. “You abandoned me in there.”

Brother Francois kept his head lowered. “Sorry, Father. I have shamed you.”

Father Xavier sighed. “No need to feel shame, Francois. Very few Jesuits have what it takes to battle the Devil’s legion.”

“I promise to be more prepared next time. I’ll train harder.”

“Exorcising demons is dangerous work.” Father Xavier gazed out the window at the city lights. In the Montréal harbor, fishing vessels and sailboats were tied down for another frosty December night. “I’ve seen many an apprentice lose his faith when the Devil mirrors his own darkness. This work is not for you, Francois. I suggest you return to your mission work with the nuns in Beaupré.”

The young man nodded. “
Oui
, sir.”

The carriage returned to the Notre-Dame Basilica.

As Father Xavier headed for his room in hopes of falling asleep, he was intercepted by a clergyman. “Father, the Archbishop wishes to speak with you.”

He met with Bishop Rousseau in the sacristy. The archbishop was a rotund man in his seventies. His plump face looked eternally agitated.

Father Xavier gave a full report of the exorcism and the releasing of his apprentice.

“Are you certain the demon left Laroque?” asked Bishop Rousseau. “There are plenty of other feeble minds there for it to possess.”

“I’m certain, your holiness. After Gustave died, I exorcised the entire asylum. I felt the presence of evil leave.”

“But your work is not done.”

“It never is.”

The bishop sighed. “Then rest up, Father. I am certain it won’t be long before I need your services again.”

10

Laroque Asylum

Warden Paddock marched down the basement tunnel with two burly orderlies and two guards carrying rifles mounted with bayonets. The five men relit the torches, bringing light back to the asylum’s dark underground cells. The Crypt was unusually silent.

The warden smiled, happy that the Cannery Cannibal was finally dead.

Gustave’s in bloody hell where he belongs.

They reached the oak door with the black iron bars. It glistened with blood. There were a few teeth scattered about the floor.

Paddock kept a good distance as the orderlies pounded on the door. “Gustave?”

Silence.

“Can you hear him breathing?” the warden asked.

The orderly pressed his ear to the bars for a tense moment. “Nothing, sir.”

“Open it.”

The two guards aimed their rifles. One orderly held up a pole with a metal noose, while the other unlocked the door and pushed it open.

Gustave Meraux lay face down in a pool of his own red muck. A rat scurried over his protruding backbone.

“Let’s be quick about this.” Paddock tapped his foot, checking his pocket watch. In an hour, he had an appointment with his favorite prostitute. He couldn’t wait to get between her thighs. After all the stress the day had brought on, the warden was ready to fuck it all away.

The orderly entered, easing the wire garotte over the dead man’s head. Gustave lay stiff, a bloody pile of meat and jutting bones, looking like some kind of strange fish that had washed up on shore. The stink of the sea was heavy in the air. The orderly stretched out the long pole and pulled the noose tight. A pale hand lurched upward, snatched the pole.

Paddock gasped.

At the tunnel entrance, torches began to extinguish. One by one, each section went black, as the darkness moved towards them like a rolling river of ink. Paddock turned back to the cell. In the flickering flame light, the pale-skinned ghoul leaped to his feet. The pole stabbed through the orderly’s back.

The final torch burned out.

Pitch darkness.

Laughter reverberated inside the cell.

Men screamed. Shots fired. Barrel flames lit up a ravenous face biting into an orderly’s throat.

Darkness again.

Paddock pissed his pants. Backed into a cell. Turned. Ran. Stumbled through the tunnel. Past the Crypt’s gate. Tried to lock it. Dropped his keys. Yelped and continued running through the darkness.

Prisoners howled in their cells.

The warden fell against the bars. Hands grabbed his arms, pinning him against cold iron. A prisoner mumbled into his ear. “Feed time. Feed time.”

Paddock fought to break loose.

The rancid stench of fish guts stung his nose.

“No, please, no!”

A slimy hand gripped his cheeks. The Cannery Cannibal cackled. Inches from his face. Warden Paddock screamed as teeth sank into his jugular.

Part Two

The Messenger

11

Fort Pendleton

Ontario, Canada

The storm’s howl heightened into a maddening shriek, rattling the window panes of Noble House, causing Master Avery Pendleton to wonder if it was more than just the wind.

“The Beast of Winter has arrived,” Walter Thain chortled, chomping a mouthful with an annoying smack of his lips.

Pendleton’s gaze went from his glass of brandy to the rotund officer sitting across the table. Red grease stained Walter’s multi-chinned jaw as he stuffed his engorged cheeks with blood sausages. The glutton was eating right out of a silver tin like some mongrel off the street.

Pendleton scowled at his officer. “Percy’s wife was murdered, and all you can bloody do is eat?”

“You know what bad news does to me stomach,” said Walter, peeling back another metal lid and pulling a sardine out by the tail.

“Well, ration your food. We have a long winter yet.” Pendleton tossed a napkin at Walter. “And for Christ’s sake, wipe your chin.”

Pendleton went to a window, where snowflakes clung to the glass, as if fleeing from a terror that lurked in the storm. The ice crystals gathered around the edges of the window, forming a frost border. Beyond were the night and the angry storm.

The Beast of Winter had indeed arrived.

Feeling an ulcer burning his stomach, Master Pendleton snapped his fingers. A Cree Indian butler named Charles brought over a tumbler of brandy on a silver tray. Pendleton sipped his liqueur and peered out the fourth-story window. He had a bird’s eye view of the fort village below.

His
village. Pendleton had purchased this fort along with Manitou Outpost two years ago. Hudson’s Bay Company had offered the two forts and surrounding territory up for sale so cheap that Pendleton and his Montréal partners took the deal and formed Pendleton Fur Trading Company. It was only after moving into Fort Pendleton and setting up trappers at Manitou Outpost that the officers understood the reason the HBC governor was so eager to relinquish this territory. The forts were cursed.

Falling snow powdered the rooftops of a dozen cabins. Windows were aglow with candlelight. Inside the cabins, dark shapes moved about as the colonists went through their suppertime routines, no doubt praying over their meals for salvation from the Beast.

Another bloody death
, Pendleton thought. The latest victim had been Percy Kennicot’s wife, Sakari. Percy was one of the officers who lived here in Noble House. He was also a friend and colleague of many years. Avery Pendleton had dined with the Kennicots on many occasions and was saddened by Sakari’s loss, even if she had been just a homely native woman. She had left behind three children.

How many more must die before this beast is brought down?

As if to mock Pendleton, the snowstorm formed into a monstrous face. Pendleton blinked and it was gone. How many glasses of brandy had he drunk?

Behind him, Walter Thain continued to smack and slurp down sardines like a walrus.

Another migraine tightened around Pendleton’s skull like a vise. He grabbed the edge of the windowsill.

“You all right, Master Pendleton?” the butler asked.

Pendleton pinched the bridge of his nose. “Charles, get me some aspirin and fetch Willow for me.”

“Lady Pendleton left, sir.”

“What do you mean she left? When?”

“A few moments ago.”

Pendleton looked back out the window. A woman in a white fur coat and cap was hurrying across the courtyard. The blizzard shrouded her. Pendleton’s face tightened when he lost sight of his wife.

12

Willow Pendleton pulled the collar of her snow fox coat tight around her neck. “Damn this horrid place.” She crossed the fort’s courtyard through the snowstorm. “And damn Avery for bringing me here.” Her words and sighs puffed out in angry vapors. Her shoes sank in a foot of snow, soaking the ankles of her stockings. Her body trembled from more than just the skin-prickling, teeth-chattering cold.

“God, please release me from this hell. I deserve better than this!”

She had spoken the prayer daily and now wondered if anyone in heaven was listening. Raised as a proper Catholic, Willow had worshipped the Madonna like she was her own mother. Willow had believed that God and His angels were watching over her. Guiding her to the happy life she deserved.
Deserved!
But now her faith was dying out.

There’s still hope
, spoke her encouraging voice.
There’s always the Spring
.

Spring! Ha! challenged a little-girl voice. Spring is ages away. You could die of boredom before then. You could go to sleep one night and never wake up.

It was ten days till Christmas. The holiday would give Willow a brief reprieve, but then the festivities would pass, and she would have to endure four more months of winter and isolation.

And Avery Pendleton’s long spells of silence.