“I could be there in an hour if you want.”
“It’ll be night by then and I already spent one night babysitting a vic. The forensics guys are here and I want my bed tonight.”
“Okay,” John said, “Do what you got to and get the hell out of there.”
“We still should meet and get one another up to speed and talk about something else.”
“What’s that, Murph?”
“You think maybe we ought to put a stop to this weekend’s derby?”
“I do, but the organizers will raise holy hell. They been advertising this all year.”
“Let them fish the other nine lakes and rivers. We get twenty, thirty, or more ice fishermen up here, many staying overnight in their shacks, this thing could hold an all-you-can-eat buffet.”
“I’ll see what I can do. Don’t get your hopes up.”
“I suppose you’re right. There’s one thing that we probably should be thankful for.”
“Oh?”
“This thing leaves so little of its vics there isn’t any fear of the morgue running out of space.”
“This isn’t funny, Murph.”
“I wasn’t trying to be funny.”
“Yeah, I know. Keep me informed.”
“How about we meet at the Little Black checkpoint…. Maybe they’ll still have some hot coffee.”
“You got it. I’ll see you there.”
John placed his cell phone back in his pocket and zipped it closed. He turned to face Linwood Dowd. “You heard. There’s another body, but it ain’t Dwain.” He looked at the darkening sky. “Be dark soon and it’d make me feel better if you and your family went home. Let us handle the search, I will personally direct it and keep you informed.”
“Who’s this us you’re talkin’ about?”
“The Maine Warden Service, the Aroostook County Sheriff’s Department, the Maine State Police, and the Aroostook County Emergency Management Agency. If needed we can also get assistance from U.S. Customs, Starling Woodlands, and volunteers.”
“Bullshit. Other than the warden service how many of them know where in fuck they’re goin’ up here?”
“If nothing else the Starling people know the area.”
“All Starling is interested in is rapin’ our land and stealin’ our timber. No thanks, Warden, we’ll continue lookin’ for Dwain, without you if we got to.”
“Lin, you boys be careful that you don’t break any laws.”
“I already told you, we’ll do whatever we got to do to get that boy back.”
Dowd spun away and motioned for his son, Earl, to mount his sled. Before he drove away, Linwood Dowd said, “Mark my words, Warden. If we find that anyone has hurt our boy, he’ll pay for it.”
“Just so you’re aware that the same holds true for you if you go vigilante.”
_____________
Little Black Checkpoint
John Bear rounded a curve in the unplowed road and saw Murphy’s snow-covered sled parked under the outside spotlights on the hut. John slowed and stopped beside the building. The door opened and Larry Murphy walked out of a cloud of steam. “Hey, Murph. I got here as fast as I could.”
Murphy had left his heavy parka inside the gatehouse. He stomped his feet and wrapped his arms around his torso. “This makes two of these I’ve found in the past week. Why in hell doesn’t this shit ever happen in the summer?”
John stepped off his sled and glanced up at the white globe of the moon. Through the thin layer of clouds between them and Earth’s only satellite it was reminiscent of a 1930s horror film, complete with a ring around it. “Let’s go inside and you can tell me what you got over coffee. They do have hot coffee, I hope?”
Murphy led the way into the checkpoint as soon as John reached the threshold of the door and closed it behind him shutting out the below-freezing air.
“A couple guys going to Lake Frontière were unloading their stuff and saw it down a small ravine.”
“Any identification?”
“The fishing license is made out to Guy Boniface. Says he lives in Rivière-Bleue, Quebec.”
“I know where it is, on route 289, about halfway between Lake Frontière and Estcourt Station.”
“Well, he looked like there may be parts of him in both places. How we going to notify his next of kin?”
“We’ll notify the Canadian authorities. They’ll probably let the RCMP handle it.”
John poured a cup of coffee and sat on a cushioned bench that ran along the room’s north wall. “You find any forensic stuff?”
“You’re shitting me, right? This guy looked as if he’d been there for a few days and we’ve had a couple of good snows since he got hung up …”
“Hung up?”
“Yeah, I forgot to tell you, whoever killed him hung him by hooking his head in a fork on a big beech tree. Looks like the killer wanted to cache the body to keep it safe from predators.”
“Now it’s my turn to say, you’re shitting me.”
“Afraid not. As my old drill instructor would say, I shit you not—why you’re my best turd.” Murphy downed his coffee and sat beside John. He hung his head and his exhausted expression left no doubt the toll that the lack of sleep and the murders were taking on him.
John stood. “C’mon Murph, let’s get out of here. You okay to ride your sled home?”
“Yeah.” Murphy stood, seemed to sway on his feet. He reached out and placed a hand on the wall. “Maybe you should follow me?”
_____________
Big Twenty Township, T20, R11
Dwain added more wood to the stove and stared into the blackness outside. The gigantic thing hadn’t come near him all day and he was getting hungry. He’d searched every corner and crack in the shack but found nothing to eat and he wondered how it was that the big creature survived. During his search for food, he found a box mounted to the outside window in the rear of the cabin. It looked like something you might store meat in during the winter, but it was empty. He walked to the table and sat. He wondered about the mysterious thing with which he’d found refuge. It had a human form, but the incredible height and serpentine looks indicated something else. The boy got up and grabbed a piece of tree branch from the kindling pile, and stirred the ashes in the firebox; which brought another weird thing about whatever it was. Never had Dwain met anyone so averse to heat of any sort. He had not set foot inside the shack since the fire had been lit.
He heard a noise outside and opened the door. It stood in the moonlight, holding something. The snow, which came to Dwain’s waist, barely reached midway up its calves. It took a single step forward and thrust a hunk of what seemed to be fresh meat into Dwain’s hands. As soon as the boy got a grip on the morsel, he backed away from the door as if the heat was searing his flesh.
Dwain’s benefactor disappeared into the night and Dwain closed the door to keep the heat inside. He looked at the piece of, what? What sort of meat is this, he wondered. Had the giant gone into Lyndon Station? If so, why hadn’t he taken me? Dwain’s stomach cramped with hunger and he realized he hadn’t eaten since yesterday. He looked around for a pan to cook it in and anything he could use as a utensil and settled for a pointed stick he saw in the pile of firewood. He stared at the meat. It didn’t look like any meat he’d ever seen before. Rather than a healthy red tint, it was a dull gray, and he didn’t know how old it was and was hesitant to try and cook it. He raised the meat to his nose and smelled it—no odor of rot or putrefaction. Finally hunger won out and he dropped the meat on the woodstove’s hot metal surface.
A loud sizzling and popping filled the room, immediately followed by a strange smell. Dwain allowed the meat to sear for a minute before gingerly gripping the one-inch-thick steak with his right forefinger and thumb and flipping it. While the meat cooked he searched the cabin for something he could use as a cooking utensil. Hunger won out and he speared the food, and the smell of sizzling meat permeated the air around the stove. He began salivating. Unable to hold back, he
pulled it off the hot surface, ignoring the heat, and bit into it, tearing off a piece with his teeth and swallowing it. He took another bite; the outside was charred black, but the inside barely warm. Doesn’t taste any different than a rare steak, he decided, and ripped off another piece.
Dwain finished his supper and the door banged open. He stood outside, barely discernible in the moonlight. The man stood back, away from the warmth inside the shack. When he spoke, all Dwain heard were thunderous roars. It was like being in the middle of a thunderstorm.
Dwain clamped his hands over his ears and shouted, “What?”
It motioned for him to come outside and retreated into the night.
Dwain gathered his snowmobile suit and hesitated before putting it on. For some reason or another, the fire attracted his attention. Suddenly, it seemed to be somehow repugnant; so much so that he was reluctant to get close to it, even if only to pick up his boots. In spite of the room’s multitude of cracks and openings from which heat could escape, the fire still felt stifling. He snatched up his boots, walked as far from the fire as possible, finished dressing, and walked out the door.
He was waiting, standing beside a Polaris snow sled with the motor idling. It motioned for Dwain to get on and once the boy was settled, it pointed north. Dwain opened the throttle and the sled raced across the moonlit snow. Dwain turned his head and almost crashed when he saw him jogging alongside the speeding machine. They traveled a mile and Dwain was sure he would be falling behind and ventured another look, but rather than lagging back, he kept pace and showed no signs of fatigue.
28
Dowd Settlement
Linwood Dowd flopped in the heavy reclining chair and looked at the old pendulum clock that sat on the mantle. He thought: Seems like it should be later than ten past eight. He pulled off his heavy boots and snowmobile suit, and then leaned back and closed his eyes. Exhaustion had worn the old man down, but pride and vanity would not let him show it to his children and grandchildren. He was still, and always would be, patriarch of the family, regardless of age and physical prowess. He heard a noise and when he tried to open his eyes, the lids felt as if they had two-pound weights attached.
Earl stood in the door, holding a mug of steaming coffee, which he offered to the old man.
“Any sign of the boys yet?” Linwood asked as he took the coffee.
“No. I ‘spect they’ll be back before sunrise though.”
Linwood placed the hot mug on the table beside the recliner and leaned back. He closed his eyes and his head turned to one side.
“Dad, whyn’t you head up to bed and get some sleep. I’ll wake you when the boys get home.”
Linwood forced his eyes open and looked at Earl. “I’m fine right here.” He hoped that his son hadn’t picked up on the fact that as much as the old man wanted to go to bed, he doubted that he would be able to climb the stairs to his bedroom. “Just leave me be.”
Earl threw a few pieces of firewood into the fireplace, turned down the lights, and walked to the door. He stood in the threshold and studied his father’s immobile body. For the first time he thought about how frail the old man had become. He still thought of his father as a tall, lean, and taciturn man with a strong dislike of government and politicians in general. However, Earl knew his father’s closest secret. Not only had Linwood Dowd served in the U.S. Army, he was a war hero who’d saved the lives of a squad of soldiers in Gia Lai Province in Vietnam’s central highlands. As an inquisitive kid, Earl had ventured into the uppermost reaches of the barn and come across an old wooden trunk with U.S. ARMY stenciled on its cover, and inside he had found unexpected treasures. A medal that he would later learn was the Silver Star along with a citation that told of Corporal Linwood Dowd’s heroic stand that held a North Vietnamese army battalion at bay until his regiment could arrive and drive the enemy back into Cambodia.
Earl was also aware that as much as the old man tried to hide it, he was too old for running around the North Maine Woods in February. He closed the door that separated the living room from the kitchen and determined that if his father was still asleep when Buster and Louis arrived, he’d leave the old-timer to rest and he and his boys would continue the hunt alone. Earl dropped into a chair and finished his coffee. He yawned and thought: Christ, my ass is dragging too—how in hell does the old man do it?
_____________
Hafford Pond
Askook heard the whine of approaching snowmobiles and peered out the window in time to see two Arctic Cats stop outside his cabin. Even before the riders removed their dark glasses he recognized Buster and Louis Dowd. He reached up and took his .357 revolver off the peg where he kept it. A visit from the Dowds was never a good thing. Before they dismounted their sleds, he opened the door and stepped outside. “What you boys want?”
“That ain’t no way to greet company, Askook,” Buster said.
“Ain’t no way I’ll ever consider you Dowds to be company. So, state your business and be gone.”
“My boy’s gone missing,” Buster said.
“You think I got him? Well, I don’t.”
“We was wondering if you found him. His sled broke down sometime yesterday afternoon. We ain’t been able to find no sign of him and any tracks he may have left were buried under the snow.”
Askook relaxed and asked, “You notify the wardens? Lost people is their job.”
“That Indian warden, Bear, is helpin’ us. He ain’t said as much, but I believe he thinks that whoever has Dwain may be the killer that’s been killin’ folks all over the area.”
The Wendigo. Askook kept his thoughts to himself. Wouldn’t be the first time a Wendigo kept a victim to feed on later.
“Well, all I can tell you is I ain’t seen neither the boy or the killer. If I do I’ll shoot the killer and send the boy home.”
Buster and Louis stared at Askook for several moments. “You do that,” Buster said. He put his glasses on and said, “Don’t suppose you’d let us take a look around?”
“You can look inside.”
When the Dowds dismounted, Askook pointed at Buster. “You. Not both.”
Louis retook his seat on his sled, unzipped his suit, reached inside, and took out a pack of cigarettes. He placed one in his mouth and turned into the wind. He cupped his hands and bent over as he lit the smoke.
Buster gave Askook a wide berth as he entered the cabin. In no time he reappeared. He returned to his machine and straddled the seat. “He ain’t in there,” he told his brother without taking his eyes off Askook.
Louis took a deep draught of smoke then threw his cigarette into the snow. He looked as if he might decide to try something stupid.
Askook looked at the sky. “Won’t be long till it’s dark. You boys should be headin’ back, don’t yuh think?”
Buster started his motor and revved the motor. Louis did the same. Buster put his transmission into gear, spun around, and rode off with his brother behind.
_____________
T20, R12
The Wendigo felt the onslaught of hunger. He walked away from the boy who slept in the abandoned lean-to they had found. The Wendigo became aware of the hum of a plane flying overhead and looked toward the southeast. In summer it wouldn’t cause him any concern, but it was February and the deciduous trees had long since shed their leaves, making it easy for an airborne observer to see through the trees. The drone of the motor became louder and he knew that he had little if any time left.
The plane appeared in the early morning sky. It dipped its wings and flew directly over his head. If the pilot notified the authorities of the location, the Wendigo’s exit route to Quebec would be cut off. It had to get to the border between Kelly Rapids where there was a shallow place where the St. Francis River could be forded, once in Canada it would be easy to disappear.
The more he thought of Quebec, the more the Wendigo believed that to reach it was to reach safety. He returned to the sleeping boy and woke him up. The youngster was intelligent. He immediate
ly mounted the sled and tried to start it. The motor refused to start. The boy unscrewed the gas cap and peered into the gas tank. “Out of gas,” he said.
The Wendigo grabbed him and swung him onto his back and then ran into the woods.
_____________
Sébastien Lavallée banked the Cessna and stared down through the trees. Against the white backdrop of the forest floor he easily spotted the gargantuan figure standing beside a snowmobile. There was no doubt that he had found the man he and John had seen at Viverette Settlement.
Lavallée circled around and dropped down to get a closer look. Another figure appeared from some type of shelter and mounted the sled. He banked the plane into an even tighter turn and reduced throttle as much as he dared. He saw the giant grab the second figure, which by now he was certain was the Dowd kid, and run off into the woods.
He straightened the aircraft and keyed his microphone. He contacted the warden service’s seaport base on Eagle Lake and requested they connect him with John Bear. Once the connection was made, he said, “John, I found the boy. He’s about ten miles north of Hafford Pond.”
_____________
T19, R12
John Bear raced along Estcourt Road. He was traveling at speeds he would not have been able to attain if the road had not been plowed; the hardpan snow filled in most of the potholes. His primary concern was that he’d meet a log truck on one of the turns. He saw a long straightaway before the sled and opened the throttle until the speedometer on the sled indicated sixty miles per hour. He’d placed the coordinates Sébastien had given him into his GPS and knew he was ten miles away. A feeling of incredible urgency came over him and he opened the throttle further.
_____________
T20, R12
John stopped beside the abandoned machine. He followed the smaller set of tracks into a copse of bushes and found a crude and obviously old lean-to. Fresh pine boughs covered the floor and he knew that Dwain Dowd had slept there. He saw no sign of the Wendigo having slept and he marveled at its stamina. John had slept for five hours the previous night and after his ride at breakneck speed was exhausted. He thought that an hour on those boughs would be bliss. He quickly removed his helmet and scooped a handful of snow. He washed his face with the frozen water and shook his head to rid himself of the excess.
Wendigo Page 16
