“Yes, Wijik was the Wendigo. That is why you must always be good children. When the winter wind blows hardest and coldest the Wendigo comes for bad children. It always has and it always will….”
1
Township 19, Range 11 West of the Easterly Line of the State (T19, R11), North Maine Woods
Ryan Kelly sped along the remote tote road with a wary eye on the rapidly darkening sky. Even on a sunny day, night came early in January in northern Maine. But that day was overcast and clouds hung ominously low. Night would come earlier than normal. Getting lost in the dark would be the final blow to what had been a foolhardy endeavor in the first place. Running to Frontière Lake in advance of the annual fishing derby to check out the ice and a site for his portable ice fishing shack was a dumb idea. This time of year, the conditions could change in a heartbeat. What was clear ice today could be covered with deep snow by next Saturday.
Ryan looked at the trees bordering the road and saw the first snowflakes appear against the gray-black backdrop. Suddenly the wind escalated into what the locals called the Montreal Express and blasted his face with stinging sleet. He hunched forward and bent into the wind, wishing he had stayed back in Lyndon Station with his sister and her boyfriend.
The headlamps of his Bearcat illuminated the shape of something in the road ahead. At first he thought it was a moose. But as he neared, he realized it was much too tall. A large moose stood five feet at its shoulders; this shape was at least three feet taller than that. Kelly slowed his sled—if it was a bear he didn’t want to get too close. It couldn’t be a bear, he decided. They’d all been in hibernation for the better part of a month.
The figure noticed his lights and turned. When it turned and faced him, Kelly realized that it was humanoid. His heart skipped. All his life he’d been told that there had been Bigfoot sightings here in the crown of Maine. Was he looking at a Sasquatch? He shook his head as if to clear away a drunken mirage.
The shape began walking toward him and he slowed his sled even more. As he watched it approach, he debated whether to spin around and leave this thing behind. But, he asked himself, what if it’s just a big person in need of help? He made a decision and crept forward.
As he neared the form, Kelly saw that it was indeed a human being. He raised his hand in greeting.
Suddenly a dark cloud covered the man from the waist up, the temperature dropped so dramatically that several trees cracked, the wind escalated from a gentle breeze to a raging blizzard, and an overwhelming odor of death and decay and corruption permeated the air. Icy hands gripped Kelly and began tearing him apart while jagged teeth ripped into his body and he felt his blood being drunk. Kelly fought for his life and screamed and died.
2
Lyndon Station, Maine
Warden Larry Murphy drove slowly. The road was slick with snow and ice that had been packed by passing cars and trucks until it was as hard as the pavement it covered. When he stepped on the brake, the pickup’s rear end fishtailed and he steered in the direction of the skid to bring the vehicle back under control. The tires suddenly came into contact with the road’s paved surface and straightened, snapping the four-by-four to the left. Murphy pulled into the parking lot of McBrietty’s Outpost.
Wendell “Del” McBrietty was the wealthiest man in Lyndon Station and his gas station, general store, restaurant, and rental cabins formed a gauntlet along the only major thoroughfare in the minuscule town. He provided just about everything a resident of—or a visitor to—the remote town could need.
Like the majority of small Maine towns, Lyndon had no police force of its own. Law enforcement was handled by a consortium consisting of the Maine State Police, Aroostook County Sheriff’s Office, and Murphy, a member of the warden service of the Department of Inland Fisheries and Wildlife. While Murphy’s primary responsibility was enforcement of the state’s many hunting and fishing laws, members of the warden service are also police officers. They are required to successfully complete the Maine Criminal Justice Academy as well as a number of physical tests specific to the job. The warden service has the responsibility of conducting search and rescue operations throughout Maine’s extensive woodlands—which was why Murphy was at McBrietty’s.
Murphy parked his truck in front of the store and walked inside. The difference between the minus-twenty degrees outside and the store’s eighty-plus temperature hit Murphy like a wall. He felt as if he had entered a blast furnace.
McBrietty, who was in his midseventies, harbored fond memories of a bygone era and anyone entering one of his buildings for the first time would think they’d entered a time capsule from the 1930s. In the middle of the room was a pot-bellied wood-burning stove—the source of the super-heated, arid air—surrounded by a number of wooden chairs. A large metal coffee pot sat on top of the woodstove and the aroma of percolated coffee filled the air. Del McBrietty stood beside the stove and seemed to be in serious conversation with several men of his own age. Del was a large man, both in stature and in girth. He wore hunter-green wool trousers that were secured by both a wide leather belt and a pair of red suspenders over a red-and-black plaid flannel shirt. He sported a full beard and mustache, and his long hair fanned out from beneath a ball cap that had DEL’S embroidered on the front.
In similar fashion, the men seated around the stove wore the unofficial uniform of northern Maine’s long, long winter season: heavy flannel shirts, wool trousers, and L.L. Bean boots. When he spied the warden, Del stopped talking midsentence and said, “Hey, Murph. I take it you’re here about that idiot snowmobiler from away.”
“Yeah. How you doin’, Del?”
“If business was any slower, I’d have to shut the place down.”
Murphy grinned. For as long as he’d known Del, the man had complained that business was so slow he was going broke—a fact belied by the fancy Cadillac Escalade Del drove. Del’s Place was a gold mine and everyone in Lyndon Station and the surrounding towns knew it. Everyone agreed that if the store were to go out of business it could very well be the end of the town and locals would have to drive to Fort Kent, almost thirty miles away, to buy their cigarettes, booze, and lottery tickets. Regardless, there was no way Del was ever going to close his doors—at least not while he was still looking at the grass from the green-side-down. Murphy expressed his opinion of Del’s complaint. “I seriously doubt that. What’s the story on this lost sledder?”
“Friggin’ idjut from away decided he wasn’t gonna let cold weather keep him from takin’ a ride in the North Maine Woods. He left out of here yesterday mornin’ headed up towards Lake Frontière.”
“That’s a long ride in this weather.”
“It’s a long ride in any weather. But like I said, the guy’s an idjut. He’s a young fella with more guts than brains, if you ask me. He told me that he wanted to check things out before the ice fishing derby this coming weekend.”
“It’s unusual for out-of-state fishermen to go up to Frontière. They usually stay around the more accessible lakes along the Fish River.”
“The kid’s from Massachusetts—that tells me all I need to know.”
Murphy sighed. There was a lot of country between Lyndon Station and Frontière Lake … a trip of about thirty miles along isolated woods, roads, and trails. It was, he believed, going to be an exercise in futility. For all anyone knew the guy had crossed over into Quebec and was holed up someplace—not that there were any places to hole up in—unless he had found an unoccupied camp and broke in. He believed however, that the missing rider was most likely dead from prolonged exposure to subzero temperatures. Either way, Murphy was going to have to head up that way. “Was he here alone?”
“Nope, he was staying with a couple of others…. At least they had enough sense to stay inside until this weather breaks. Gonna have a heat wave, supposed to be up to twenty degrees by Tuesday.”
“I’ll make it a point to keep my bathing suit handy. What cabin were these guys in?”
“Hell, there’s only fou
r back there…. Look for the one with a bright-yellow Hummer parked in front.”
Murphy left the warmth of the store and immediately felt the moisture inside his nose freeze as he circled the building and crossed the parking lot. He spotted the yellow Hummer parked in front of one of McBrietty’s rental cabins. Wood smoke furled from the stone chimney and the windows were covered with a layer of heavy frost. He stepped onto the wooden porch and rapped on the door. A muffled voice called out, “Who’s there?”
“Maine Warden Service.”
Murphy heard footsteps stomping across the cabin’s wood floor and envisioned their source as a large person. He was surprised when a slender woman, who he assumed to be in her early thirties, opened the door. She stepped aside and said, “Come on in, no sense trying to heat the outdoors.”
Murphy stepped inside and removed his bombardier hat. “I’m Warden Larry Murphy. Did you report a missing sledder?”
“No, my boyfriend did.” She raised her voice and called, “Steven, there’s a warden here about Ryan.”
A small man, barely taller than the woman, walked out of the bedroom.” Have they found him?” he asked.
“That’s hardly likely,” Murphy said, “seeing as how we haven’t started looking yet.”
A reddish hue covered the young man’s face. “I was hoping that maybe he’d gotten back or something.”
“There’re a lot of woods out there and before I head out I need to know anything you might know that will help me narrow down the search area,” Murphy said.
“Of, course, I’ll do anything I can to help.” The young man held his hand out and said, “I’m Steve Millhouse….” He turned to the woman. “This is my fiancée, Lisa Kelly.”
“And the name of the missing man?” Murphy asked.
“Ryan … Ryan Kelly,” Lisa said. “He’s my younger brother.”
“Del … Mr. McBrietty told me that he was headed up to Frontière Lake. Is he familiar with the area?”
“Our father grew up around here, over by Saint Francis. We’ve been coming up here since we were little kids.”
Murphy nodded. Her answer made the selection of Frontière Lake as a potential ice fishing location a bit more understandable. “Did your brother say which trail he was going to take?”
“He said he was going to take Lake Road to Cross Lake Road and then cut across Block Road until he came to the lake. He marked it on a map for us.” She walked to the room’s small couch and picked up a copy of DeLorme’s Maine Atlas and Gazetteer. She opened the book to the appropriate map and traced her brother’s alleged route. Murphy scanned the page and saw that Ryan Kelly did know something about the area. The only remaining questions were about the youngster’s readiness for a trip in subzero weather. “What type of condition is his sled in?”
“Tip-top,” Millhouse replied. “It’s a new Arctic Cat Bearcat 570. He was dressed for the cold, too.”
“What about food and water?”
“I don’t think he took any,” Kelly said. “He was planning on riding up and back in one day, said all he was going to do was check out the ice conditions before next week’s derby.”
Murphy grunted. It wasn’t the first time he’d come across people whose one-day ride turned into an exercise in survival. He could only hope that Ryan Kelly was still alive. “Okay, I’ll head up there.” He took a notebook from his coat pocket and wrote a number down. “Do either of you have a phone?”
“We both do,” the young woman replied.
Murphy jotted a number down. “This is the number of the Department of Inland Fisheries and Wildlife Regional Headquarters in Ashland. If you hear anything from your brother, call them and they’ll get in touch with me. Does he have a cell phone too?”
“Yes,” Lisa answered.
“And I’m assuming that he hasn’t called.”
“We figured that there aren’t any towers up here.”
“Oh, you can usually get one, either in the U.S. or from across the border in Quebec.”
“Unless,” Millhouse interjected, “his battery is dead.”
Murphy opened the door and stepped out into the freezing temperatures. As he walked to his truck, he hoped that the only thing dead was Ryan Kelly’s cell phone.
3
Little Black Checkpoint, North Maine Woods
Murphy walked inside the checkpoint and nodded to Sean O’Gill. As he walked to the pot behind the desk and helped himself to a cup of coffee, Murphy asked, “Did a sledder named Kelly come through here yesterday?”
“Don’t know, I was off.”
“Suppose you could check the log?”
“Suppose I could.” O’Gill smiled at the warden. “Carole was on yesterday, so I know that nobody slipped through without her seeing them. What’d this guy do?”
“It’s what he didn’t do—he didn’t come back. Told everyone that he was riding up to Frontière Lake to check it out before the derby next weekend. He hasn’t been heard from since.”
“He may have gone through Dickey checkpoint.”
“Could have, but he was staying at Del’s in Lyndon Station and Dickey is the wrong direction.”
O’Gill accessed the computer on his desk. “I got him. It looks like he came through at ten forty-five yesterday morning. Don’t see where he came back though. Of course if he came through after nine last night there was no one here.”
“What are the roads like between here and Frontière?”
“If I were goin’ up there, I think I’d take a sled. Not much cutting goin’ on in that area so I doubt that plowin’ those roads is a priority. They’ll make sure some of the roads are open for next weekend, but that’s a few days away.”
“You’re probably right. Will it be a problem if I leave my truck here?”
“Nope, you need a hand getting your sled out of the bed?”
“Nah, I got a set of ramps.”
Murphy drank the last of his coffee, crumpled the disposable cup, and tossed it in a waste can.
“Well, if you decide you need me, holler.”
“I will. Okay if I suit up in the restroom?”
“Be my guest.”
It took Murphy ten minutes to don his snowmobile suit, heavy insulated boots, and helmet. He thanked O’Gill for the coffee, went outside, and unloaded his sled from the back of his truck. He let the motor warm for a few minutes while he checked that all of his equipment was in working order.
Lake Road was maintained by logging companies and Murphy was able to race along its plowed surface at forty-five miles per hour. After thirty minutes he left Lake Road, turned onto the unplowed Cross Lake Road, which would take him to Frontière Lake, and followed a trail of snowmobile tracks. Two miles down the road he saw where a single set of tracks turned onto an unnamed tote road and followed it. After a mile and a half, he broke out of the trees and spied a well-worked Ski-Doo with attached trapper sled parked beside a blue and white painted Arctic Cat Bearcat. He stopped behind it and raised the visor on his helmet. As he got off his sled and approached the Ski-Doo, a familiar figure stepped out of the woods that lined the trail. “That you, Louie?” Murphy asked.
Louis Cote raised his visor. “Yup, you been lookin’ for this feller, Murph?”
“I am looking for a sledder who was reported missing this morning. He was reported to be riding one of those.”
“Well, it looks like he ain’t missing anymore.”
“That’s a load off my mind,” Murphy said, he looked at the Arctic Cat and saw what appeared to be blood on the seat. “Is he hurt?”
“Not anymore.”
Murphy turned toward the woods and saw a blood trail. “Maybe you better explain….”
“He’s dead,” Cote said.
Murphy gave Cote a stern look and said, “I don’t think finding a dead body is something you ought to get cute about. Maybe you better tell me what you’re doing out here and what you found.”
“I left home before first light this morning, checking out my t
rapline. I came across this sled, saw the blood, and got curious. As you can see, anyone—even a city dweller—can follow that trail. I stuck my nose in there. You got any idea who he was?”
“If he’s my guy, his name was Ryan Kelly. He was staying at Del’s. I went over there and met with his sister, who told me he was headed up to Frontière Lake.”
“What’s in Frontière Lake?”
“Next weekend is the ice fishing derby.”
Cote nodded as if Murphy’s answer was all the explanation required. He looked at the registration sticker on the Arctic Cat. “That’s a Massachusetts registration.”
“Yeah, but the family is originally from Saint Francis. They come up here several times a year…. Apparently the kid knew his way around. In fact he was smart enough to leave an itinerary with his sister.”
During winter, darkness comes early in the north. Murphy glanced at his watch, the luminous dial said 5:25 p.m. and the sun was already below the trees cloaking the ground beneath them in deep shadows. Murphy walked to his sled and got a flashlight. He shined the beam on the Arctic Cat’s seat.
“I thought that looked like blood,” Cote said. “That’s when I decided to look around for him. There’s a trail leading into the alders over here.” He pointed toward the copse of brush. “The body is in there.”
“Have you looked at it?”
“Not up close. Once I got to the point where I knew it was a body I backed off. I didn’t want to fuck up the area.”
Murphy nodded. “I appreciate the effort, but out here, during the winter there won’t be much to fuck up. C’mon, let’s have a look at it.” He retrieved his Maglite and followed Cote.
They pushed their way through the knee-deep snow following the trail Cote had blazed earlier. In the concentrated beams of their flashlights the world seemed confined, almost claustrophobic. The red left by Kelly’s blood stood out in stark contrast to the white background of the snow.
When they reached the copse of alder bushes, Cote forged ahead and peered into the small stand of leafless bushes. He hesitated before entering the thicket.
Wendigo Page 2
