Dead of Winter Page 8

  His father faced him, and Chris saw his eyes were full of grief. Chris was familiar with that pain. Over the last two years, he had cried many times over the loss of his mother. For most of that time he had blamed his father. If it weren’t for him trying to track down the Cannery Cannibal, Chris’ mother would still be alive. But with the recent move, the pain and sadness had finally numbed, and he was ready to talk to his father about it. “Please tell me why we moved. I’m old enough to understand.”

  His father sighed. “Gustave Meraux was a member of a very rich and powerful family. They felt he was being framed by the British and that I was a part of some conspiracy to bring down the Meraux Cannery. During Gustave’s trial, I received some death threats. I had no choice but to move us out of Quebec as fast as possible.”

  Just last month, Chris had been attending a boarding school. His father had shown up, frantic, and told Chris to pack his things. It was the middle of the semester. They left so abruptly Chris didn’t even get to say goodbye to his mates. That day he and his father boarded a steamboat and journeyed down the Ottawa River. Chris had been so angry he didn’t speak to his father the entire journey. Tom passed out drunk each night. Each day Chris walked the upper decks, watching his world change with each bend of the river. In Ottawa, they switched to canoes. A brigade of French Canadian voyageurs took them deep into the woods. Chris remembered how strange he felt when the canoes pulled up to the docks. Up the hill stood a massive fort.

  Chris asked, “But why Fort Pendleton? We’re out in the middle of nowhere.”

  His father looked back at the soldiers and lowered his voice, “I had to make a fast decision. After Gustave was sentenced, I was approached by Master Pendleton. He told me he was having some bizarre happenings at his fort. People going missing. Trappers fearful of a killer stalking them. A man’s body had been found in his cabin, half-eaten. Cannibalism has been a growing concern during winter. Since I caught the Cannery Cannibal, Pendleton felt I was the man for the job. I was intrigued by the case and figured Ontario would be a good place to start a new life.”

  Chris stared off at the surrounding pines. “Are we going to live here forever?”

  “I don’t know. We’re here for the winter. Come spring I might make a different decision. Until then I need you to accept that this is our home. Can you do that for me?”

  Chris nodded.

  They reached the end of the rocky field, where a wall of tall pines stood. At the edge of the forest, they waited with Anika and Brother Andre until the soldiers caught up.

  Chris spotted a cropping of rocks etched with monstrous looking figures. One looked like a man with deer antlers. “What are those?”

  “Petraglyphs,” Anika said. “We are entering the forest of the manitous.”

  Chris had heard stories about Indian spirits that roamed the woods. According to Anika, there were both good spirits and evil spirits.

  Tom climbed off his horse and examined the petraglyphs. “What do these etchings mean?”

  Anika said, “It’s an Ojibwa warning not to hunt these woods. This land is sacred hunting ground for the manitous.”

  “That’s nothing but bloody superstition,” said Lt. Hysmith. “We’ve crossed through these woods many a journey and never came across the likes of a manitou.”

  “Sometimes they take the form of an animal, like a deer or wolf,” said Anika. “Sometimes they move through the woods unseen like the wind.”

  As a cold gale blew against his face, Chris felt the hairs on his neck rise. He scanned the surrounding woods. The trees were gray and leafless with spiky branches that intertwined. His palomino backed up and tried to turn around, but Anika grabbed its reins.

  As the ten riders followed a winding trail through the thicket, no one spoke. Chris held his breath until the trees finally opened up into a clearing. The patrol stopped their horses at the shore of a lake that was frozen over. It made constant cracking sounds as the wind moved the plates of ice.

  “Makade Lake,” Anika whispered.

  Chris stared across at a dozen small islands covered with pine trees and rocky cliffs.

  Anika pointed. “That’s Manitou Outpost.” At the lake’s edge stood a small fort with a few structures that rose above a spiked fence.

  Brother Andre said, “Strange. There’s no smoke coming from the chimneys.”

  “Trappers should be moving about,” said Anika.

  “Let’s keep going.” Tom steered his horse.

  The horse riders rounded the lake toward the fort. A three-story log house loomed higher than the stockade. A Pendleton flag with a wolverine emblem flapped at the top of the spiked fence. Manitou Outpost was surrounded by towering trees and a backdrop of snow-peaked hills. The fort grounds were much smaller than Fort Pendleton, enough to house three or four families.

  As the patrol reached the stockade, the first thing that concerned Chris was the open front gate. The second thing was what lay just outside the entrance.

  31

  The ten riders reached Manitou Outpost’s open gate. Tom surveyed the area. In the center of the fort stood a three-story log house. All its windows were dark and frosted over.

  Lieutenant Hysmith pulled his horse up alongside Tom. “Something’s not right. Post seems deserted.”

  “That’s the feeling I’m getting. What do you make of this?”

  In the clearing just before the gate was a red patch of snow clotted with ropy entrails covered in frost.

  “Some fool gutted a deer here,” Lt. Hysmith said.

  “No,” Anika said. “Innards are too big. A horse is more like it.”

  “Where’s the carcass?” Hysmith asked.

  “Over here, Lieutenant,” yelled one of the soldiers. The group on horseback rode over to where some soldiers gathered at a clumping of trees. Half buried in the snow was the carcass of a horse, the bones picked clean. Blood smeared the trail. Footprints went in two directions. One set led toward the forest, the other to the front porch. Tiny hairs littered the trails. Anika hopped off and examined the tracks. “These were made by fur boots.”

  “Silvertip must have attacked one of their horses,” Hysmith suggested. “Some of the trappers went into the woods to hunt for it.”

  Tom nodded. It was as good a theory as any.

  Something disturbed the tree branches with a clacking sound. The nervous horsemen jerked their rifles toward the woods. Above the wind came a screech. Tom located the golden eyes of a hawk perched in the branches. A white rabbit quivered in its talons.

  “Bad omen,” Anika said.

  “I don’t believe in omens.” Tom turned his attention back to the fort.

  Anika pointed upward. “Look at the sky.”

  Clouds the color of coal swirled over the tree line. A gust blew against Tom’s face. Fresh snow began to sprinkle around them.

  “Another bloody blizzard’s coming,” said Hysmith.

  “That’s all we need.” Tom hopped off his horse and walked it toward the gate. “Let’s make this visit quick as possible.”

  Hysmith barked orders at his men. “Private Pembrook, come with us, rest of you keep your rifles on the woods.”

  Four of the soldiers remained outside the compound in case any of the hunters returned. Inside the gate Tom, Chris, Anika, Brother Andre, Lt. Hysmith and Private Pembrook tethered their horses and waded through the knee-deep drifts. Sleet-heavy wind raked across Tom’s cheeks. His skin burned and tingled. Surrounding the lodge house were four single-story log structures, all weathered and dilapidated. Two appeared to be additional cabins. One building was a combination horse stable and work area for a blacksmith. The stalls in the stable were empty.

  “No horses, no livestock,” Hysmith said.

  “No colonists,” Brother Andre added.

  The fifth building was a small shack with a cross on the roof. Beside the chapel, a dozen crosses formed the boundary of a snow-covered cemetery.

  “Let’s check the lodge first.” Tom looked at the
missionary. “Andre, since they’re familiar with you, you do the talking.”

  “Fort’s been abandoned.” Anika motioned to the open front door.

  Tom had the same suspicion. “Well, let’s assume they might still be here and go in with caution. Hopefully, we’ll find everyone’s sleeping and the door just blew open.” Even as he spoke, Tom found his theory hard to believe. He spotted Chris venturing off toward the stables. “Son, stick with me.”

  Tom climbed up the steps to the front porch, gun barrel pointed at the ground. He found it strange how all the windows were boarded up. Chains hung above the entrance, jingling as iron-jaw traps knocked together in the wind. The front door rapped repeatedly against a wall inside. It swung toward them, and Tom caught it with his boot. He noticed a raccoon pelt nailed to the door.

  “What does this mean?” Tom asked.

  “A welcome sign to trappers,” answered Andre. “Master Lamothe opens his post to trappers who are just passing through.”

  Tom pushed open the door. “Stay alert and be ready for anything. Nobody shoots unless I say.”

  The Jesuit called out, “Bonjour, Master Lamothe, Wenonah. It’s Brother Andre.”

  Tom entered next. A stench like rotten carrion assaulted him. Stopping just inside the doorway, he waited till his eyes adjusted to the gloom. The gray light filtered between the slats that covered the windows and lit up only part of a large, open room. Most of the front den was hidden by heavy shadows. “Bonjour, anybody up?” Tom frowned at the sight of a shotgun lying on the floor. Several shells had been expended. “Son, fetch a couple lanterns.”

  Chris hustled back to the horses then returned quickly. Within moments, Tom lit two lanterns, giving one to the Jesuit. Tom ventured inside, Chris hovering close to his heels. They broke off into pairs, spreading about the expansive room. Flame light from their lanterns rippled over pine furniture and a rock fireplace with a mounted moose head. The ashes in the hearth were cold. The room had an unnerving chill that seeped right through Tom’s coat and trousers.

  “Hello?” Andre called again.

  Tom expected to hear footsteps running down the stairs, but the lodge remained silent. Reaching a staircase, he shone his light upward. A pine banister led up to the second floor.

  “How many people live here?”

  “Between fifteen and twenty,” Andre said. “Sometimes more if they have visitors.”

  Tom nodded. “See if you can rouse them.”

  Andre called up the stairs, speaking French. This time his voice was plenty loud enough to wake up anyone sleeping. Tom, Anika, and Hysmith exchanged glances.

  Tom said, “Looks like they abandoned the place.”

  Andre shook his head. “No, Father Jacques would have come straight to our fort.”

  “Maybe that’s what the message was about,” Tom said. “Why they were leaving this place and where they were headed.”

  “But if the message were to me, he would’ve written that in French.” Andre’s eyes filled with hope. “Maybe they all headed to our fort after all, but took a different route.”

  “Or maybe they were attacked by that bear,” Chris said. “And only the little girl got away.”

  “The boy’s got a point,” Hysmith said. “I suggest we head back now so we’re home before nightfall.”

  “We have some time,” Tom said. “I want to explore a little further.”

  “I’d like to visit the chapel, if I may,” Andre said. “See if Father Jacques left behind another message.”

  “Good idea,” Tom said. “Chris, Pembrook, stay down here and keep watch. Lieutenant, Anika, let’s check upstairs.”

  Hysmith nodded and held up his shotgun. Anika drew a buck knife. Tom gripped his pistol and ascended the stairs, holding out the lantern. The old wood creaked under their boots. The railing wrapped around the entire second story. Beyond stood several doors, some open, some closed. At the top, a hallway stretched into a curtain of blackness.

  Tom shone his light into one of the rooms. An empty bed. On a nightstand stood a framed portrait of a white man, a native woman, and two girls. One he recognized as Zoé. She was holding her doll. The other was a teen girl with long, brown hair.

  “So this is Zoé’s parents and sister.” Tom showed the picture to Anika.

  “Pierre and Wenonah Lamothe, and her sister, Margaux,” she said.

  Master Pierre Lamothe, wearing a three-piece suit and Wellington hat, looked more sophisticated than Tom expected, like a gentlemen raised in the upper class. The Frenchman had short brown hair and a thick mustache. His keen eyes indicated he was an intelligent man. The Ojibwa woman beside him, Wenonah, was dark brown and homely with her black hair up in a bun. She wore a dress with a lacy collar. Zoé and her teenage sister, who were Métis like Tom, had lighter skin.

  Tom said, “I sensed from Pendleton that there might be some bad blood between him and Lamothe.”

  Hysmith said, “Pierre wanted the chief trader’s position at Fort Pendleton. He had worked his way up the company ranks, but Master Pendleton decided to do the job himself. Pierre was not happy being sent to manage the trappers here at Manitou Outpost. Not an easy task since the French trappers live like heathens.”

  Tom set the frame back on the table and moved between the bed and dresser. The lantern flame reflected across an oval mirror. “What is this?” He stopped, seeing his fragmented reflection as he leaned inward. Someone had smashed the mirror. Beside it, scratches were etched into the wall—four lines then a slash, four lines then a slash—like someone had been keeping score in a card game. They added up to twenty-eight.

  He looked at Hysmith. “What’s significant about these?”

  “Trappers often etch lines in a tree to count off the days.”

  The wind rattled the panes in the windows. Anika looked out at the approaching storm. “This valley has been hit by blizzards for over a month.”

  “You think they were snowed in for twenty-eight days?” Tom asked.

  Anika nodded. “If they ran out of food, they’d go out hunting. There are a few small cabins scattered out in the forest for hunting or a place of refuge if trappers get caught in a storm. They may have migrated south to one of those cabins.”

  “How far?”

  “A full day’s ride.”

  “We’d never make that in this storm,” Hysmith said.

  “I wasn’t suggesting we do,” said Tom. “I’d rather just get home before nightfall.”

  Hysmith said, “Then you’re satisfied, I hope.”

  “Not quite.” Tom left the room. “Let’s check the other bedchambers first.” They pressed farther down the hall. Each time Tom passed a window, he opened the curtains. The gray light outside pushed back the gloom, but not by much. He found more empty rooms, but no signs of the inhabitants.

  32

  Andre approached Father Jacques’ chapel near the back of the compound. It was a small, leaning shack. The paltry cross on the thatched roof looked as if it had been assembled with some scrap lumber and baling wire. The simple, rustic design seemed to fit Father Jacques Baptiste. A man from the impoverished side of Montréal, he had never been one for lavish décor.

  Andre pushed open the door, entering the small nave. He half expected to find the missing colonists sitting in the three rows of pews. But they were empty. One of the side windows was broken, letting in the snow, which frosted the pews.

  As he walked down the center aisle, a raven landed on the sill of the open window. Andre stopped. The black bird hopped onto the edge of a pew, cawing. Two more ravens flew in. They squawked as he passed. He shooed them. He hated those black-feathered scavengers. They watched him with beady eyes, opening their beaks. “I have nothing for you. Go away.”

  At the altar Andre lit the votive candles. The fire offered some warmth and light to the cold, gray nave. Stepping up to the altar, he saw that the crucifix on the back wall was hanging upside down. He righted it and crossed himself. He entered a narrow room where Father Jacq
ues worked when mass was not in service.

  Andre went through his mentor’s cabinets.

  Where is his case?

  Even though Andre had been his apprentice going on three years now, Father Jacques was a secretive man and never shared what he wrote in his journals. His reports went directly to the Notre-Dame Basilica in Montréal. The archbishop read the diaries then forwarded them to the Vatican, where supposedly the Pope himself read them. Father Jacques also carried a mysterious case that had always made Andre curious.

  He slammed the last door. Aside from the curio cabinet, a chair and writing table were the only furniture in the room.

  He must have taken the case with him.

  The sound of flapping wings and cawing grew louder, startling Andre. He stepped back into the nave. Sitting on the edge of the pews, like a congregation of dark angels, were twenty ravens. A draft blew in through the shattered window, so cold it seized Andre’s breath. Behind him came the sound of wood knocking against wood. On the back wall, the crucifix was hanging upside down again.

  33

  At the bottom of the stairs, Chris jerked with his lantern. “What was that?”

  Private Pembrook whispered, “Probably a rat.”

  “It sounds bigger.” Chris cocked his pistol, aiming at the doorway to the next room. There it was again, the faint sound of a branch scraping a window. Or maybe it was claws dragging across metal.

  “Bugger, I don’t like it.” Private Pembrook climbed halfway up the staircase and tried to see past the railing. “Lieutenant? Inspector?” No one responded.

  “They must be at the far end of the lodge.” Chris took a few steps into the darkness beyond the staircase.

  Pembrook hustled down to the foot of the stairs. “Wait, we shouldn’t leave our post.”

  “Then stay.”

  “Don’t leave me in the dark.” Pembrook followed Chris into the next chamber. The lantern light offered a few feet of visibility, but each time he turned, black nothingness filled in the void around them. Chris passed several columns that had been notched by hunting knives. He and Pembrook stepped into another room half-lit by pale daylight coming through a window. Foul odors burned Chris’ nostrils. His eyes watered. He held his breath just long enough to adjust to the stench.