Dead of Winter Read online

  “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.

  A whirling snowstorm engulfed the fort and tossed Willow from side to side. All the colonists were inside their homes, their doors latched after hearing the news of another death. There was only once place Willow felt truly safe.

  She reached the chapel, a log house that looked like all the others. Its only distinguishing feature was a cross on the roof. Willow entered the house of worship eager to speak to the only man she could trust.

  13

  “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned,” spoke the young English lady.

  Brother Andre’s chest swelled with guilty pleasure whenever Willow Pendleton addressed him as “Father.” Even though the young missionary was only twenty-five and not yet an ordained priest, Brother Andre accepted the title. It wasn’t as if he were being a charlatan. Andre was the only representative of the Catholic Church living inside Fort Pendleton. Sitting in the darkness of his cramped booth, Andre leaned toward the screened window. Willow was breathing heavily. The scent of her perfume made the booth smell like a rose garden.

  Is she wearing it for me? Oh, stop such boyish nonsense, Andre chided himself. He knew from Willow’s previous confessions that her vanity was to rouse the other men. It was a wicked game she played. A flirtatious gaze or swivel of her hips to get the fur traders and soldiers to look at her with hungry eyes. She did this to spite her husband, Avery Pendleton. But Willow never cheated, though she could have any man in the fort.

  “Tell me what’s on your mind, Madam.”

  Willow spoke with a shortness of breath, “I have been having impure dreams these past few nights. Certainly blasphemous.”

  Brother Andre’s loins tingled with anticipation. “Describe the dreams to me.”

  “They happened much like before. I’m in my boudoir, seated at my beauty table. I’m wearing nothing but my corset and knickers. I hear my door open. In the mirror I see a man who is not my husband. I feel butterflies in my stomach and…stirrings in places I dare not mention. The man puts his hands on my bare shoulders. I lean into him. His hands untie my corset…”

  Andre’s heartbeat quickened. “Go on…”

  Willow let out a soft moan. “I close my eyes. The stranger slowly undresses me, taunting me with soft kisses upon my neck. As I surrender fully, near to fainting, he carries me to the bed and ravishes me like a wild heathen. And then I open my eyes…”

  Andre released his breath. Willow had described this recurring dream several times this month. Each time the imaginary affair had been with a different man. Sometimes he had no face, just various shades of skin color, often reddish brown like the tribal savages. A few of the fantasies had been of Lt. Hysmith, although she swore the two had never done more than exchange proper words. But the last few confessions stirred Brother Andre’s own impure thoughts, for the mysterious lover in Willow’s dreams had been him.

  He said, “You open your eyes, and…”

  “The man making love to me is Inspector Hatcher.”

  Brother Andre’s smile dropped.

  “Ever since the inspector arrived…” Willow paused, breathless. “…my night dreams have turned into daydreams. When Avery’s not around, I lie in bed and imagine Tom is there with me. We are lying beneath the quilts, behaving like curious new lovers.” She gasped. “I know I shouldn’t have these dreams, Father, but they torture me.”

  Andre leaned his head back against the booth’s wall. His hand squeezed into a fist around his rosary. “God is listening, Willow. Keep sharing.”

  “Lately, on the nights Avery visits my bed,” she continued, sobbing now, “and I feel his cold hand touch me, I want nothing to do with him. I don’t understand why I can surrender to a stranger but not my own husband. I’ve been feigning headaches. I don’t know what to do.”

  “God hears you and forgives you. As well you should forgive yourself, for these dreams are caused not by you, but the Devil.”

  “Yes, Father.”

  “Only Satan would tempt you to sin against your husband.” Brother Andre rolled the rosary between his fingers. “I suggest you light a votive at the altar and pray to the Virgin. Ask Her to fill you with restraint and release you from the Devil’s grip.”

  “Yes, Father, thank you and God bless you.”

  The door to her booth slid open and her footsteps echoed toward the altar.

  Remaining inside his booth, Brother Andre leaned his head against the screen, whispering his own confession. Once again, the English lady had stirred up the celibate man’s loins. He touched himself, reliving Willow’s fantasy of him ravishing her in bed, his face between her bare bosoms, kissing the pink rose petals of her areolas…

  The front door opened, and a hollow wind roared into the chapel like God’s fury. Brother Andre jerked his hand away. “Oh, dear God, please forgive me.” He stepped out of the confessional closet, both relieved and disappointed that Willow had left. Once again thoughts of her roused Andre with a heat that spread across his loins. He went into his bedchamber and sat on his bed. “I vow to be chaste! I vow to be chaste!” As he chanted, he grabbed a rubber cudgel and flogged his thighs.

  14

  At Hospital House, Tom Hatcher soaked his frost-bitten hands in warm water.

  Myrna Riley, the gray-haired wife of the fort’s doctor, brought a tray with a porcelain teapot and cups into the patient’s room. “Here you go, gentlemen. Black tea with milk and sugar. I’ve got vegetable soup cooking for the little one when she’s awake.”

  “Thanks, love.” Doc Riley dipped a rag into a basin and wiped Zoé Lamothe’s forehead.

  Tom was grateful to be drinking something to warm his body.

  Myrna paused on her way out of the room. “Oh, Inspector, Lieutenant Hysmith’s in the front room. He insists that you speak to him.”

  Tom stepped out into a waiting area.

  Lieutenant Zachary Hysmith stood by the front door, unraveling a snow-frosted scarf. He wore a long greatcoat over his red uniform and a lieutenant’s hat, which he removed. He had cropped silver hair and a sharp widow’s peak. “Tom, upon your arrival, did Master Pendleton not orient you on the protocols of fort security?”

  “Of course,” Tom said. “Why, is something ailing you, Hysmith?”

&nbs
p; The lieutenant had a burning look in his eyes. “The way you spoke to me in front of the garrison was disrespectful and absolutely unacceptable.” He removed his gloves, and Tom wondered if the uptight soldier was going to slap his cheeks with them.

  “I was concerned about the girl.” Tom squared up to him. “You were being a horse’s arse and wasting precious time. Doc thinks she might have pneumonia.”

  Hysmith hesitated briefly, considering this. “Well, you broke protocol bringing her here. I have the fort’s security to think about. We don’t let just any heathen inside our walls.”

  “I had a life or death crisis. When that happens, bugger protocol.”

  Hysmith’s face turned red. “Inspector, you may have done as you bloody wished back in Montréal, but as long as you reside at this fort, you will adhere to my orders!”

  “The only authority I answer to is that of Master Pendleton. If you have an issue, Hysmith, go discuss it with him. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a sick girl to tend to.” Tom stepped back into Zoé’s room. Hysmith followed.

  Tom said, “Doc, tell us some good news.”

  The old man pressed a stethoscope to the child’s bleach-white chest. “Wish I could, gentlemen. But she’s got a bad case of pneumonia.” Doc Riley pulled down the flesh beneath Zoé’s dilated eyes. “Symptoms of scurvy and frostbite, too. And by the looks of her ribs, she hasn’t eaten in days. Maybe a week.” Doc scratched his white sideburns.

  “How far could she have ridden in that blizzard?” Tom asked.

  Doc said, “It’s twenty miles between here and Manitou Outpost.”

  “All that way to deliver a diary?” Tom asked.

  Hysmith’s brow furrowed. “What diary?”

  Tom picked up a small, leather-bound book off the table. “Zoé was carrying this with her. We think she was trying to deliver a message.”

  Hysmith examined the diary. “What kind of language is this?”

  “Looks Persian.” Tom held up a folded parchment. “I found this letter inside written in French.” Tom began reading. “‘I pray this diary reaches Father Xavier Goddard at the Notre-Dame de Montréal Basilica. It is of dire importance. The Jesuits are the only ones who can stop the madness that has befallen Manitou Outpost.’ It’s signed by a Father Jacques Baptiste.” Tom shook his head. “I can’t make any sense of the diary itself.”

  Hysmith said, “The priest is from Quebec. Why not write in French?”

  “I don’t know,” Tom said. “Do either of you have any idea what ‘madness’ Father Jacques is referring to?”

  Doc shrugged. “I haven’t the foggiest.”

  “Let me take the diary,” said Hysmith. “Master Pendleton and I can decide what to do with it.”

  Tom kept the journal. “First I’m taking it to the chapel. Brother Andre might have some answers.” He looked down at the Métis girl lying in bed. Zoé coughed, her lips stained with red speckles.

  Doc said, “She seems alert now.”

  The girl hugged her chest, shivering.

  Tom spoke in French, asking the girl why she was out riding in the woods alone.

  The girl’s jaw quivered as her head rolled from side to side across the pillow. She gasped and mumbled something.

  “She’s hungry,” Tom said. “Tell Myrna to bring the soup.”

  Doc Riley said, “Wait, there’s something else you should see.” He rolled back the quilts to show her left leg. He turned it. Zoé’s calf was black and blue with several scratches. “Looks as if she was attacked by some kind of animal,” Riley said. “The area around the lacerations is infected. I’m not sure what’s causing the infection–the pneumonia or the scratches. Take a look at her epidermis.” He rolled up her shirt. The girl’s belly caved inward, the bones of her ribs pressing up against thin skin, which had somehow turned translucent, exposing branches of blue veins beneath.

  “She’s so cold.”

  Tom placed his hand on her forehead. It was like touching the skin of a cadaver.

  Doc leaned over the girl’s mouth. “Her breath has a chill to it.” Zoé moaned. The old man jerked then stood abruptly. Wiped his cheek. “She just licked me.” Doc shook his head, chuckling. “Okay, lass, I guess it’s time we feed you.” He shouted to his wife, “Myrna, bring in the soup—”

  There came an odd growl, as if a vicious dog had entered the room. With a rabid snarl, Zoé sat up and bit down on Doc Riley’s hand. The old man buckled over, crying out. Tom grabbed the girl. Her jaw clamped down tighter on the old man’s hand. She growled and wrenched.

  Tom pried open the girl’s mouth. Doc Riley slipped free, his hand dripping blood across the quilt.

  Zoé flopped on the bed, convulsing, eyes rolling back.

  Tom shouted to Hysmith, “Your scarf!”

  While Hysmith held the girl down, Tom strapped her wrists to the bedposts with the scarf and his belt. Zoé arched her back. Her bloodstained teeth chomped the air.

  “Okay, let her go.” The three men backed away. The girl fought against the bindings. Staring at them with feral eyes, Zoé licked the blood around her lips.

  15

  Tom entered the chapel, the cold wind howling at his back. The nave was dark except for a table with glowing candles. As he walked down the center aisle between the pews, Brother Andre approached. The French Canadian missionary wore a black cassock and soup-plate hat. He was a young man. His shoulder-length brown hair and blue eyes made him appear like a clean-shaven Jesus. “Bonjour Inspector, what brings you to church on an evening like this?”

  Tom pulled out the diary and letter and explained that it had been sent by Father Jacques from Manitou Outpost. “I heard you traveled here with him from Quebec.”

  “Yes, Father Jacques is my mentor.” He read the letter. His eyes filled with concern. “Has something happened to him?”

  “I don’t know,” Tom answered. “Can you translate the diary?”

  “No, I can’t read Aramaic.”

  “Why would your priest write in a language you can’t read?”

  “The journal is for Father Xavier. The priests often send coded messages to one another. The handwriting appears rushed.”

  Tom took back the journal. In the last pages, the elegant handwriting worsened. There were smears of ink and rips in the paper where the priest had written with too much pressure.

  Tom said, “In the letter Father Jacques says, ‘The Jesuits are the only ones who can stop this madness.’ What does he mean?”

  “I don’t know.” Andre’s eyes looked deep in thought. “Over a month has passed since we last met.”

  “Do you know this Father Xavier?” Tom asked.

  “No, I only know of him. He was Father Jacques’ former apprentice. They used to do mission work for the archbishop.”

  “Is that why you’re here?”

  “Father Jacques and I came to do mission work with the Ojibwa, but the savages weren’t interested in being saved. So we concentrated our efforts on converting the fur traders and set up chapels at both forts.”

  Tom said, “I’d like us to go to Manitou Outpost as soon as the blizzard passes. We have to get word to them that we have Zoé.”

  Andre said, “We’ll have to get permission from Master Pendleton.”

  Tom checked his pocket watch. “He’ll be having supper about now. Let’s meet with him at Noble House at eight o’clock sharp.”

  As Tom left the chapel, Lt. Hysmith approached with an agitated expression. “Inspector! Inspector!”

  Tom sighed, “What is it, Lieutenant?”

  “Have a word with your son about obeying curfew.”

  “What do you mean?” Tom asked, wondering what his teenage son had done this time. “Chris is at our cabin.”

  “On the contrary,” Lt. Hysmith said. “He was last seen hanging among Bélanger’s crew. The soldiers reported that your son rode out with the voyageurs, but he didn’t return with them. I don’t know what kind of boy you’re raising, but if you don’t discipline him, the
n I will.”

  16

  Tom marched across the snow-covered fort grounds, pumping his fists. He didn’t know whose neck he wanted to wring more, Lt. Hysmith’s or his son’s.

  Why the hell was Chris venturing outside the fort? And in this storm! The blizzard was hitting Fort Pendleton with all its might. Tom headed toward the far corner. The French Canadian voyageurs and laborers were the men who built the cabins and paddled and portaged the canoes on long journeys. They had their own village within the fort.

  Tom walked between the huts. Huskies barked from a pen, some growling at his intrusion. Smoke that smelled like cooking venison billowed from the rooftops. He knocked on Michel Bélanger’s ramshackle of a cabin. A pock-faced native woman opened the door.

  “I’m looking for a blond-headed boy about this high.” He marked the height at his chest.

  She pointed to a rectangular cabin in the center of the village. “Skinning Hut.”

  He marched through a storage area made up of log poles and cross beams. Flapping in the wind were tools, jaw traps, and a wide variety of fur skins: skunk, rabbit, muskrat, beaver, and deer. Tom ducked his head in several places, pushing aside pelts. The French Canadian laborers also did a little trapping, trading furs to Fort Pendleton in exchange for clothing, tools, food, and rum. The trappers only posed a danger when their drinking got out of hand, which could happen on any given night. Tom knew from experience that a drunk trapper was nothing but trouble.

  A week ago he’d found his teenage son here drinking rum with Bélanger and his crew. Chris was so drunk he had stumbled all the way back to the cabin. Remembering the incident intensified Tom’s anger. He approached the elongated hut. From it came the stink of blood and offal. He entered. Lanterns hung from the ceiling. At a long table, a dozen fur-clad Frenchmen and Indians were butchering animal carcasses. In the center of the table, antlers jutted out of a crate of severed deer heads.

  Tom stopped at the threshold. “Excuse me, men.” The voyageurs all shot glares in his direction. Tom recognized several he had arrested for brawling at the saloon. A large wolfhound with a humped back snarled.