_____________
John was amazed that the Wendigo was still able to run; the high-caliber bullets would have killed an elephant. The wind carried a sweet, almost sickening smell, like a slaughterhouse floor, and John thought he would vomit from its heady aroma. Before he was able to bring the rifle to bear and get off a third shot, the Wendigo had disappeared in the woods.
John shifted his shooting position and fired again. The rifle’s report disappeared into frozen landscape. John knew that his last shot had been a futile attempt at best and doubted that he had scored another hit. He saw that the semiautomatic rifle’s ejection port was locked open, the magazine was empty. John rolled over, fumbling inside the sleeping bag for his nine-millimeter service pistol. It seemed an eternity passed before he found it and felt as if he was moving in slow motion. He expected to see his assailant return to finish him off but forced his panic down. He struggled to his feet and stepped outside the shelter, aiming the handgun toward the direction the Wendigo had fled. He heard noises like those made by a large animal running through the forest and fired a couple of shots in the direction of the sound. The echoes of the gunshots were quickly swallowed by the wind.
John found himself standing alone defiantly looking after the Wendigo. He realized he was no match for the beast, especially at night. He quickly scanned all of the surrounding trees, trying to determine whether or not it was circling around, looking for a different angle of attack. All he saw were dark, threatening shadows that seemed to be on the move, and all he heard were the sounds of the wind and trees creaking as they swayed. He hoped he had hurt it and that all it cared about was flight.
John turned his attention to his own situation. He knew that if the .44 had not dropped the beast for good, his nine-millimeter would be as useful as a peashooter. He reached inside his shelter for the rifle. He wiped at the weapon, trying to clear it of any snow or debris it may have gathered when he discarded it. Without taking his eyes away from the surrounding forest, he patted his pockets until he located his backup magazine, which he quickly placed in the weapon.
After several tense minutes, John believed the beast had fled the area. He found his flashlight, turned it on, and scanned the area. Now that his adrenaline rush had abated, he suddenly felt the frigid temperature and crawled inside his shelter.
_____________
The windchill plummeted and John was forced to continually fight to remain conscious, his cold body needing and wanting rest. Under ordinary circumstances, in weather like this, he could curl up in his cold-weather, down-filled sleeping bag. But in this situation, going to sleep could turn into a fatal act; should the Wendigo return to finish him, the last thing he wanted to be was trapped inside the bag or unconscious.
John’s head bobbed forward and he shook it violently trying to force himself awake. He washed his face with snow, trying to shock himself to full consciousness, but he was so cold he felt no difference between his skin temperature and that of the snow. He decided to throw caution to the wind, crawled outside, found a dead tree, and gathered some twigs and branches for a fire. Once he was back in the security of the pine, he started a small blaze and huddled near it as he awaited the dawn.
11
Viverette Settlement
Shortly before dawn, he entered the cabin and sat on his cot, back resting against the wall, and felt safe. He ignored the agonizing pain racking his shoulder and side while channeling his powers to heal the frightful damage his body had absorbed. He knew if he was to survive he had to go on the offensive once again.
The Wendigo was perplexed. For years he’d been successfully hunting these remote woods and no one had ever stood up to him or had even suspected his presence—until now. Rather than cower or try to escape, this man had fought him and it was obvious he was not about to give up.
_____________
T19, R11
The morning broke to reveal a cloudless sky, no discernable wind, and a temperature well below zero. John carried his rifle when he crawled out of his shelter and stretched, trying to force life into his tired and sore muscles. He looked for depressions in the snow, found traces of blood, and shuddered when he realized how close the Wendigo had gotten to him. He stared off in the direction the Wendigo had fled and wondered if he was doing the right thing by taking this thing on alone. “Well,” he muttered, “sane or insane, I’m in it up to my ass now….” He scanned the trees that bordered the clearing one last time and then returned to the shelter and broke camp.
Once he had finished packing his gear, John checked his weapons to ensure they were still in working order and not frozen. He looped the backpack over his shoulders and set off in pursuit of the Wendigo.
He trudged through the new snow until two in the afternoon, when he came to Camp 75 Road, a half mile south of the abandoned McClintock Mountain lookout tower. The road was a major thoroughfare for the large eighteen-wheel lumber trucks that hauled from the various cutting sites to mills in Maine and across the line in Canada, and had been recently plowed. John sat on the snow bank and sighed. He was cold, hungry, and tired to the point of exhaustion. That, coupled with the fact that he had no idea which way the Wendigo had gone, had him debating how much further he should go. He decided that he would give up for the day and head back. There was at most two hours of daylight remaining and the Little Black checkpoint, where he had left his truck, was about twenty miles away by the road.
John strapped his snowshoes to his pack and started walking south. He had walked a mile and a half when he heard the unmistakable rumble of an approaching truck. He turned and waved. When the driver downshifted and broke, the trailer, which was stacked twenty feet high with timber fishtailed slightly.
The side windows of the truck were coated with salt and grit and John could not see the driver’s face. The window rolled down and the driver said, “Jeez crow, I almos’ run you over—you nuts or sumptin’?”
John recognized the driver. He was a local named Rene Thibeau.
Thibeau stared out the open window with eyes that were squinted. “That you, John Bear?”
John knew Thibeau needed glasses, but refused to get them—not that it would make much difference, the windshield of the truck was so splattered with mud that it was doubtful much of anything was visible through it.
Any other time John would have cited him for driving with obstructed vision, but he was too fatigued and wanted a ride. “Bon jour, Rene, I need a ride to the Little Black checkpoint.”
“Well, don’ be standin’ dere. Get yourself in.”
John walked around the front of the big truck, reached up and opened the door. He placed his rifle and rucksack on the floor and climbed in. No sooner had he shut the door than Rene shifted gears and had the truck moving forward.
The lumberman had the stub of an extinguished cigar clenched in his teeth and the truck’s cab smelled like an ashtray that should have been dumped days ago. When the truck was up to cruising speed (which was about ten miles an hour faster than what John would have considered safe for the road conditions), Rene glanced at John’s gear and said, “You carryin’ a lot of guns. How come? It’s too late in the year to be huntin’ bear, you after a wounded animal or somet’ing?”
John knew that to tell Rene what he was hunting would make him sound crazy, so rather than risk it, said, “Yeah. You see anything on the road?”
“Nope, I bin haulin’ from up on Estcourt Road an’ ain’t even seen a fuckin’ coyote….”
John grunted in acknowledgement and settled back in the seat. The truck looked like it was on its last legs and the interior was coated in dust and cigar ash, but it had a damned good heater. In short time the heat penetrated John and he nodded off.
_____________
Little Black Checkpoint
John waved as Rene drove off and turned toward the gatehouse. A cloud of steam rolled out when he opened the door to the heated interior and he stepped inside, quickly pulling the door shut behind him.
Sean O�
��Connell was on duty and he looked up at John. “I thought that was your truck parked outside. You been out all night?”
John picked up a disposable coffee cup and filled it with hot black coffee. Yeah, I camped up near Lake Frontière.”
O’Connell turned around in his swivel chair and studied John for a few seconds. “Right now ain’t exactly ideal campin’ weather.”
All John could think of to say was, “That’s no shit.”
John settled into another chair and sipped the scalding beverage. He savored the beverage’s heat as it flowed down his throat and into his body. “Are there any fools still in the woods?”
“Damned if I know. Once they pay the toll and enter, who knows where they go. They can head north and come out in Estcourt Station or go west to St. Pamphile…. Roads are all plowed between the major checkpoints. Hell, it’s possible they made a big loop and came out at Dickey. Why you askin’?” O’Connell paused for a second. “This got anything to do with those two fellows that died?”
“Yeah. How’d you hear about them?” John was always amazed at how fast word traveled even in the sparsely populated woods.
“It’s been all over the CB. Damn fools from away. Ain’t got enough sense to check the goddamn weather report.”
John swallowed another mouthful of coffee. “Weather had nothing to do with it—the last guy, Raymond Labelle, was a local. They were both murdered.”
O’Connell’s head snapped around. “No shit?”
“No shit.”
John stood up and walked back to the coffee pot. He refilled his cup and returned to the chair. “Sean, you heard about anything … I guess unusual is as good a word as any?”
“Now that you mention it, some idiot from away stopped in a couple weeks back and swore he saw a grizzly bear up north—at Mud Pond I think he said. We almost laughed in his face.”
John finished his coffee and looked at the clock on the wall. It was approaching four in the afternoon and through the window he saw that it was already dark. He still had a ten-mile drive, most of it on unpaved logging road, to get to Lyndon Station. He crumpled the cup and tossed it in a waste can. “Well, I better get the lead outta my ass and head back. If you get any more reports of a grizzly, call me.”
O’Connell smiled and said, “Sure, you’ll be the first person I call.”
“I’m serious. One report we can laugh off, two might be something—most likely not a bear, but something.”
O’Connell turned and stared at John. “Jesus Christ, I believe you’re serious.”
“I am.” John turned to the door. He opened it and said, “Stay warm, Sean.”
“You too.”
John stepped from the warmth of the gatehouse into the cold early evening air. He started his truck and turned east, heading home. As he drove, it took all of his concentration to keep from falling asleep. He cranked the side window down, hoping the frigid night air would keep him awake. As he stared into the tunnel created by his headlights and the six-foot tall snowbanks that the snowplows had pushed up alongside of the road, he wondered what he should do next.
12
Lyndon Station
John drove into his brother’s driveway and coasted to a stop. He saw the curtain in the kitchen window move and knew that his sister-in-law, Clarisse, had been watching for him. He could not help but smile when he thought about how she mothered him whenever he stayed in her home.
When John entered the kitchen, Clarisse sat at the table, two cups of steaming coffee sat in front of her. He sat across from her, pulled one of the mugs toward him and took a drink.
“Pardon my bluntness, but you look like shit. What have you been doing?” she asked.
“Last night I tracked the Lake Frontière killer into the woods—shot it too.”
She stood and looked out the window. “I don’t see anything in your truck.”
“I said I shot it … not killed it.”
Clarisse returned to the table. “John Bear, you been shooting since you were old enough to hold a rifle, there is no way that you shot at anyone and didn’t kill him unless you meant not to.”
John sipped at the coffee and nodded toward the pack of cigarettes that sat beside her mug. “Can I have one?”
“Of course.”
John took a cigarette, lit it with a match, and shook the taper a few times before he threw it into the ashtray. He exhaled and waited for Clarisse to ask the next question. She did not disappoint him.
“You’re sure you didn’t kill him? He may have crawled away into the woods and died.”
“All I’m going to say is that I shot it twice with a .44 Magnum and didn’t kill it. I checked all around the clearing … there’s no way it crawled. If anything, it ran.”
“It? You make it sound as if this killer isn’t human.”
“It isn’t, it’s a Wendigo….”
Clarisse stared at her brother-in-law. “Wendigo … have you been smoking wacky-tobaccy?”
“Do you ever wonder if all those crazy stories we were told as kids were true?”
“I always thought that the Wendigo was just a story to scare us into staying close to home—our own Indian version of the boogeyman.”
John looked into Clarisse’s eyes. “I don’t think that’s the case.”
“John, I’m beginning to think that you’re serious….”
“Clarisse, I’m as serious as death—in fact I met it in the woods last night.”
“You met which—death or the Wendigo?”
“Both.”
Clarisse finished her coffee and walked to the counter. She picked up the pot and asked, “You need a refill?”
“No thanks, I’m fine.” John walked over to the wall phone. He flipped through the phonebook and dialed a number. He listened for a few seconds and then said, “Laura Wells, please.” Holding his hand over the mouthpiece he said, “I won’t be home for supper.”
“Oh?”
“I’m eating out tonight.”
“With this Laura?”
“If I’m lucky—Hello, Laura?” he listened for a second. “It’s John from the other night. You up for that dinner invitation?” He paused, glanced at the clock above the sink, and then said, “Great, I’ll be over in about three hours.” He hung up, finished his coffee and grinned at Clarisse. “Yes, with this Laura. But first, I need a couple hours’ sleep, a shower, and change of clothes.” He walked out of the kitchen.
_____________
Del’s Place
John and Laura walked into McBrietty’s dining room and took a table near the back. Lyndon Station was a small community, so small that the locals said it was the perfect example of a one-horse town after the horse had left. In truth, it was not too great an exaggeration. Lyndon Station did not even have a railroad station. The town was named for a long-defunct trading post, known as The Station, and owned by an early settler named Jonathon Lyndon. Downtown was Del McBrietty’s. The nearest thing to a railroad station was in Fort Kent, forty miles to the east and it was truly just a spur of a railroad that crossed the border from Clair, New Brunswick.
John seated Laura and then circled the table and sat. He glanced around the room to see who was in attendance and then turned his attention to his date. “I know it ain’t much,” he said, “but it’s the only place within an hour’s drive.”
Laura studied the rustic decor for several seconds, noting the moose head that hung over the bar. Dust covered the animal’s head and face and cobwebs hung from its antlers. The walls were adorned with stuffed fish and throughout the room a number of stuffed animals were on display, many of which greeted diners with bared fangs or claws. The tables were covered with red-and-white checkerboard tablecloths and the chairs were heavy wooden replicas of something one would expect to find in a logging or hunting camp. Her eyes went back to the moose and, based upon the state of the mounted head, she wondered how clean the kitchen was. “This is fine,” she told John. “Quaint. And it kind of emphasizes the local atmospher
e.”
She knew John saw that she was less than thrilled by the place. He looked like an awkward teenager on a first date when he grinned and said, “It ain’t much as far as aesthetics goes, but the food is all right and portions big.”
McBrietty walked to their table. “Evening, John, ain’t seen you in a while. You looking into the killings?”
“Yeah.”
“You learn anything?”
“Nothin’ that ain’t already common knowledge.”
McBrietty waited for a few seconds to see if John was about to say more. When it became obvious that he was not going to, he said, “Get you guys somethin’ to drink?”
John motioned to Laura defaulting to her. “I’ll have a vodka Collins,” she said.
“Okay,” McBrietty turned to John. “You havin’ your usual?”
“Sure.”
When McBrietty had left, Laura said, “You don’t give away a lot, do you?”
“In what way?”
“If someone asks you a question you give them a short answer, but don’t go into a lot of detail.”
“It’s a habit I learned over the years. Answer the question. If they want to know more, let them ask another one. Besides, you can’t listen to people when you’re talkin’—at least I can’t.”
She sat back and studied him for a second and then said, “I’m beginning to think that you’re a lot deeper than you want people to know.”
John grinned. “Just don’t tell anyone else, okay?”
“Your secret is safe with me.”
McBrietty returned and set their drinks on the table. “What’ll it be?” he asked. As soon as they ordered, he disappeared into the kitchen.
“Now he’ll put his chef’s hat on,” John commented.
Laura swirled the swizzle stick in slow circles, mixing her drink. “So,” she said, “who is this mysterious man named John Bear?”
John took a drink from his glass and replied, “Who’s asking—Laura the woman or Laura the reporter?”
“Both … to be honest, I’ve gotten to that point where most of the time even I can’t tell the difference.”
Wendigo Page 7
