“There’s something you might want to see,” Bob Pelky said.
“What?”
“It looks like your boy’s been busy. I think it left us another body—at least parts of one.”
John became alert. “Where?”
“St. Francis, Back Settlement.”
“Give me an hour.”
“Hurry up, the CSI team is here. I’ll try and hold the body.” He paused and then added, “What’s left of it anyhow.”
_____________
St. Francis
John Bear parked his DIF&W truck across from the trailer home. Like many homes in the area, what was once an aluminum mobile home was now half-metal, half-wood. He walked toward the group of men who stood before the door and nodded when he reached them. “Is Sergeant Pelky inside?”
“That you, John?” Pelky called from the interior.
“Yeah.”
“The crime scene team has already worked the house, come on in.”
John stepped out of the bright, sunny day into a world of carnage and horror. What remained of the victim was spread across the kitchen tabletop.
Pelky was standing to the left of the door. “Ain’t nothing left of him but a pile of bones and guts.”
John could not take his eyes off the table. The victim’s thorax was ripped open from his neck to his crotch. Intestines, partially digested food, body waste, and fluid coated the floor immediately around it. Pelky handed him a jar of Vicks VapoRub and said, “Use this, it’ll help … somewhat.”
While John spread the Vicks across his upper lip, Pelky said, “I tried to reach you all day yesterday. Where were you?”
“Viverette Settlement. Murph and I found an old root cellar—full of this.” He pointed to the evidence of the Wendigo’s latest act of butchery.
Pelky shook his head and said, “Christ, this is like something from Jack the Ripper.”
“Worse. The Ripper didn’t eat his victims. Who found him?”
“A passerby noticed that something looked wrong and called 9-1-1.”
“Someone must have heard something.”
“If they did we haven’t found him or her.”
“You got any idea when he was murdered?”
“Nope. Sometime last night I’d guess, but I got no idea how they’re gonna determine time of death. It was so frigging cold last night everything in here is frozen. The crime scene technicians had to take tissue samples by scraping them off the tabletop with putty knives.”
John forced his eyes away from the table. “Damn Bob, you look like shit. How long you been here?”
“I got the call around seven this morning and arrived here around eight thirty.”
“Anyone else live here?” John Bear asked.
“His wife passed away about five years ago. Don’t know about kids. We’ll know more once we check out a few places. He worked at the pellet factory. They’ll know.”
John Bear stared out the window for a second and then said, “So, once again we ain’t got a damn thing to work on.” John looked at the empty platform where the woodstove had stood. “Where’s the stove?”
“The killer threw it, fire and all, out the door and through the windshield of Jackson’s pickup.”
John shook his head. “Bob, we got to figure out how we’re goin’ to get this piece of shit.”
“We don’t even know how it got here.”
“I do,” John said. “It ran here from Viverette Settlement.”
“That’s insane.”
“Have we found one thing about this case that wasn’t? All I know is that we saw it from the plane. It was there about ten yesterday morning.”
20
Big Twenty Township, T20, R11
The Wendigo walked through knee-deep snow to the door of the abandoned trapper cabin. He used his left foot to sweep the piled snow away from the threshold and when the bottom step was free, pulled the door open. Once inside he surveyed the interior; everything appeared to be in order. He slammed the door and sat at the crude wood table in the middle of the shack’s single room.
The Wendigo pondered the events of the past few days and tried to determine where he’d gone wrong. For over ten years this had been a fruitful hunting ground, but now that they had discovered a body, Viverette Settlement was unusable and all that was left were several backup locations. The wind gusted and the cedar shingles on the outside wall rattled. The Wendigo took a towel from the leather bag slug across its shoulder. He unwrapped the towel and laid a heart and a liver on the table. His hunger peaked and he reached for the uncooked meat.
As he ate, his thoughts turned to the mysterious man from the encountered of the other night. This was was the biggest threat he had ever faced. Suddenly, the Wendigo experienced an epiphany—the man was Anishinaubae; he knew of the existence of the Wendigos, and he’d also know how to stop one. The Wendigo began formulating a plan to deal with him.
_____________
Lyndon Station
John Bear walked into McBrietty’s Outpost and flopped into his favorite booth, the one beneath the massive head of a bull moose whose antlers spanned over five feet. He glanced up and noted the cobwebs and dust bunnies that coated the trophy. His revelry was interrupted by Del’s sudden appearance at his side. “Hey, John. You havin’ the usual?”
“Yeah,” John pointed at the moose. “You ever consider cleaning that?”
Del looked up at the huge head. “Once: I thought about it, laughed about it, and forgot about it.”
“Really, what about now?”
“Still thinkin’ on it. Be right back with your beer.”
In minutes Del was back and placed a cold beer in front of John. He glanced around the room and seeing that besides John there were only two other customers, slid into the seat across the booth. He leaned forward as if he and the warden were co-conspirators and in a low voice inquired how the investigation was going.
“Del, I can’t discuss an ongoing investigation, you know that. Let’s say we’re still looking into it and let it go at that.”
“You got any idea who killed them guys?”
“Nope. All we know is the killer is very familiar with the area and must be as strong as a wounded bear.”
“There’s rumors that them bodies had parts missing….”
John remained quiet.
Del went on: “I read this book where a guy was killing people so that they could use their organs. I think it was the heart because this cop was chasing him and had a heart attack. Turned out the killer was one of them serial killers and he enjoyed the game him and that cop was playing. He was killing people so they could give the cop a transplant and he could keep the game going. You don’t suppose you’re dealing with someone harvesting hearts?”
“Del, it’s not likely. The window for transplants is real narrow … a matter of hours. No way the killer could get a heart from out here to a hospital in time.”
Del sat back. “Then why in hell is this guy taking organs?” He paused for a minute and then said, “Hey, you don’t suppose this is like that mountain man in the movie, do you? You know the one where the Indians killed his wife and kid and he kept fighting them one at a time? Didn’t them Indians eat their victims’ livers?” Del suddenly realized who he was talking to and his face reddened. He stood up. “Didn’t mean no offense, John.”
John smiled at McBrietty. “None taken Del. The answer is yes, some of the plains Indians did eat the heart and liver of a brave enemy they killed. They believed doing that would give them some of the vanquished warrior’s bravery. But that’s not what we have here. I’d appreciate it if you’d help put a stop to these rumors—only thing they’ll do is scare the shit out of people.”
Del nodded. “I suppose you’re right, John.”
“Who’s been spreading these stories anyway?”
“Aww, it was just a bunch of the fellas sittin around havin’ a few brews, you know how they get.”
“Well, if any more of the fellas start spouti
ng off again, tell them to get hold of Bob Pelky or me and we’ll set them straight.”
Del grinned. “No way in hell they’d ever approach you guys about this.”
“I agree, but it’ll give a couple of ’em a soft stool or two. Won’t it?”
“That it will. You having a steak?”
“Yeah, medium—.”
“Medium well, baked potato, and the vegetable of the day is Brussels sprouts.”
“Hold the sprouts, things give me a soft stool.”
Dell laughed, made a pistol with his index finger and thumb, and pointed it at John. “Gotcha.”
_____________
John Bear walked out of the dining room and into the general store portion of McBrietty’s. He walked to the cooler in the back of the room and took a twelve-pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon from the top shelf. Returning to the counter he overheard a local man say, “They ain’t got a clue who’s doin’ them killins. Ain’t safe to be out in the woods a’tall.”
“What I hear,” his companion said, “it’s like the blind leadin’ the blind…. I don’t think they could catch a cold if they was skinny dippin’ in a snowbank.”
The two men noticed John standing in front of the counter and abruptly shut up and walked out of the store. Placing the twelve-pack on the counter, John commented, “Something like this happens and everyone becomes a law enforcement expert.”
Del’s day-man, George Harvey, rang up the sale and said, “These killings got everyone stirred up. Before you know it they’ll be forming a posse and searching the woods for any one they don’t know.”
“That,” John replied, “is the last thing I need—bunch of boozing, hyped-up vigilantes running around the woods. I’d spend more time dealing with them than I would finding this guy.”
John paid for the beer and carried it out to his truck. He placed it on the passenger side floor and drove along State Route 161 toward his brother’s house. A light snow began falling, and the flakes seemed huge in the brilliance of his high beams. He turned on the radio and tuned in to the Canadian Broadcast Corporation. He listened to the Québécois station until the weather came on. He listened intently, mentally adjusting temperatures and accumulation amounts from metric to English measurement. The resulting forecast was not encouraging—six to twelve inches of snow, followed by temperatures plummeting into the minus-forty range. It was going to be a good night to sit in front of a fire and drink a couple of beers.
He turned into his brother’s drive and shut off the truck. He sat in the sudden stillness, listening to the motor tick as it cooled in the sub-freezing temperatures. After several moments, he grabbed the beer and got out of the truck. He entered the house and immediately felt the dry, super-warm heat of a wood fire. Tom and Clarisse sat at the kitchen table and smiled at him. “Hey, big brother, how you doin’?” Tom greeted him.
John held up the twelve-pack and said, “I come bearing gifts.”
“I see.” Tom kicked a chair away from the table. “Set your ass down and let’s have a couple of them.”
John placed the PBR on the table and opened the box. He took a cold beer out and offered it to his sister-in-law. “Clarisse?”
“No thanks, I’ll stick with coffee.” She gave her husband a stern look and said, “Don’t you be gettin’ drunk, Tom Bear.”
Tom took the beer from John, popped the tab, and took a long drink. He put the now half-empty can on the table, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said, “Never crossed my mind.” He grinned at his brother.
“Well,” Clarisse said, “you two can sit here and drink. I’m going in the front room and watch some television.”
“Watch a bunch of idiots buy a vowel is more like it,” Tom said.
Clarisse gave him a disgusted humph and left them alone.
When she disappeared into the living room, John took a drink and said, “How you guys doing?”
“Been better … but then we been worse. Seems like this winter is never going to end.”
“You fishin’ the derby this year?”
“Don’t know.” Tom pointed over his shoulder with his right thumb. “The ol’ woman don’t think anyone should be out and about, what with all the goin’s on of late. If I do I’ll probably drive down to Eagle Lake or even Square—know some guys who got a shack out on Square. Too much goin’ on around Frontière, if you know what I mean.”
“Yeah, I do. What you been hearing around town?”
“Usual bullshit … everyone is scared shitless to go out in the woods. Hell, even the loggers ain’t happy about cuttin’ anywheres north o’ Estcourt Road.”
“Well—and this goes no further than here—we think this guy also killed a fella in St. Francis.”
Tom finished off his beer and reached for another. “This guy gets around, huh?”
“Appears that way. Anyone capable of this come to your mind?”
“A bunch. You could start with that bunch of crazy-assed Dowds that live over around Kelly Brook Mountain.”
“Oh?”
Tom drank another swallow of beer. “You go up there you better take a long gun and a squad of Marines—them folks don’t take kindly to visitors.”
21
Dowd Settlement, T1, R12
John Bear stopped before the metal gate that barred access to the narrow lane leading into the cluster of cabins and sheds known as Dowd Settlement. He notified the DIF&W dispatcher in Ashland of his location and chuckled when the reply crackled out of the two-way: “John, you be careful goin’ in there. Those Dowds can be crazier than a surfeit of rabid skunks—over.”
“So I hear—over.” He hung the transmitter on its hook and checked his cell phone—zero bars.
He locked his truck and circumvented the barrier, following the road toward the buildings that he estimated to be two hundred yards further on. The road was more of a trail, both sides lined with snowbanks. During summer it consisted of two tracks separated by a median of tall grass which was now poking through the mounded snow. As he walked, John thought about what he’d learned from Del about the Dowd clan. The reigning patriarch, Linwood Dowd was in his late sixties. He was a Vietnam veteran, having served there with the U.S. Army. He returned, like many Viet vets, a disgruntled and disillusioned young man. He turned his back on the society that he believed tried to kill him, went off-grid, and settled into the woods west of Kelly Brook Mountain. Lin Dowd and his offspring lived by a simple code, Don’t be fuckin’ with us and we won’t be fuckin’ with you. The question that John needed to answer, and soon, was whether or not old man Dowd would consider a visit from a game warden as being fucked with. He got his answer in seconds.
“Stop right there.”
John turned and saw a young woman on snowshoes in a stand of pine. She held what appeared to be a .30-30 lever-action rifle aimed in his general direction. “My name is John Bear. I’m with the warden service.”
“I can see your uniform. What you want? Didn’t you see the NO TRESPASSING sign on the gate?”
“I’m here in my official capacity.”
“We ain’t been poachin’ nothin’.” She moved out of the pines and onto the road.
“I’m with Wildlife Crimes Investigation Division.”
“So? Far as I know ain’t no wildlife around here committed no crime….”
John chuckled; at least this one seemed to have a good sense of humor. “I investigate accidents and crimes, such as killings, in the woods.”
She stopped about ten feet in front of him, the rifle still held at the ready position. A sly smile came over her face. “We ain’t had no accidents and as far as I know we ain’t killed nobody…. not yet anyways.”
She wore a heavy black parka and green wool trousers. Striking blond hair was visible around the border of the wool watch cap she wore. She stepped aside. “You armed?”
John unzipped his coat and showed her his service pistol.
“Nice,” she said. “What is it, a nine-millimeter?”
“Y
es and I’m not leaving it or handing it over.”
“Just keep it under your coat.”
John dropped the flap of the coat.
“Zip it up.”
He complied with her wishes. “Might I ask who I’m talking with?”
“You might … won’t do you no good though. Head on up to the house.” She let him pass by and then followed him. “And keep your arms out away from your body.”
“You people take turns being on guard duty?”
“Wasn’t on no guard duty.”
“Then why the rifle?”
“In case I meet a bear.”
“In February?”
“You’re a Bear, ain’t you? Anyways, that’s my story and it ain’t gonna change.”
_____________
When they broke out of the trees, John found himself facing a wide cleared expanse containing several ramshackle buildings, counted ten coyote hides stretched on the side of a shed that contained cords of firewood. “Head for the big house,” his guide said.
John angled toward the largest building. It was constructed of logs and had been coated with tar or oil so often that it looked more black than brown. Smoke spiraled out of a chimney comprised of stone and concrete and the pleasant smell of wood smoke filled the area. A covered porch ran across the front and when they were within twenty feet of the steps leading up, a thin, wiry old man walked out of the door. He spit a wad of brown tobacco into the snow and said, “Who you got there, Amy?”
“Says he’s some kinda special game warden.”
He turned his attention to John. “We done something special?”
“You Linwood Dowd?” John asked.
The old man inclined his head toward John Bear and squinted, an obvious sign to the warden that the old man was in need of glasses. As he mounted the steps leading onto the porch, John saw a white area in the center of Dowd’s eyes where cataracts had formed. The old man peered at the warden for several moments and then said, “Don’t think I know you….”
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