_____________
St. Francis River, Border of Maine and Quebec, Canada
The Wendigo came upon the river and checked the area before crossing. He saw a car with a light bar race by on the highway in Canada. A sound above made him look up and he saw a small aircraft flying along the river on the American side. He had no doubt that they were looking for something—and that that something was him. Obviously, alerts and warnings had been sent to law enforcement agencies in both countries. Escape was not going to be as easy as he thought.
The Wendigo moved away from the river, back into the safety and concealment of the trees. He needed transportation. There were hundreds of miles of border south of Pohénégamook and most of it was uninhabited.
_____________
Fort Kent, Maine
John Bear felt lousy. He’d returned to his brother’s house and slept for three hours, but that was nowhere near enough. Tom had woken him up at one o’clock holding a cordless house phone. That was when John learned that a task force consisting of the RCMP, Maine State Police and Warden Service, and ICE had been formed. Law enforcement was pulling out all the stops in the manhunt for the Wendigo, which they were now calling the North Woods Killer. John entered the customs building and introduced himself to one of the customs agents. The agent directed him to follow a short corridor to a conference room where everyone was gathering.
When he entered the room he saw Larry Murphy and Bob Pelky already seated at a long rectangular conference table. He took a seat beside them. Pelky looked at him and said, “Jesus, John, you look like warmed-over shit.”
“You think things look bad where you’re sitting,” John wisecracked back. “You should be sitting here looking out.”
“You get any rest?” Murphy asked.
“A couple hours … what’s up?”
“I think,” Pelky said, “that this investigation is about to be taken out of our hands.”
John leaned forward, rested his left elbow on the table and massaged his burning eyes with his left thumb and index finger. “That’s all I need right now.”
Over the course of the next fifteen minutes the room began filling up with various law enforcement people—many of whom John knew and greeted. Finally, Lieutenant Aurel Michaud, senior warden in charge of the Ashland Regional Headquarters, walked in and all conversation in the room ceased. Michaud walked to the front of the room and stood behind the podium at the head of the conference table. “Good afternoon,” he said. Michaud turned his attention to John. “How you feeling, John? I hear you’ve had a tough few days.”
John smiled and said, “I’ll be fine Lieutenant—nothing a few days rest won’t fix—once we bring this killer in.”
“That,” Michaud said, “is why we’re here. To put our heads together and figure out how we’re gonna catch this fucker.”
John sat to Michaud’s left and wondered if the senior warden had any clue what they were dealing with.
“ICE will be monitoring the border along with our aircraft out of Eagle Lake. Customs agents in both Maine and the Canadian provinces of New Brunswick and Quebec have been notified to be on alert for him.” He turned toward Pelky and continued, “The Maine State Police will be watching all the roads between here and Patton, in the event he tries to escape to the south.”
“We’ve been able to track this perp back to when he was a kid, down in the Swedish Colony. His father was brutally murdered and the kid disappeared. From what we can piece together, the old man was an abusive drunk. Beat the hell out of the kid for the slightest thing. Kid grew up and must have gone into one hell of a rage. He ripped the old man, one Wally Condor, to pieces. The body wasn’t discovered for five days and no one has seen the kid since the day of the murder—until now.”
John sat back lost in thought. If Paul Condor had become the Wendigo, he had been one for so long that not a single vestige of Condor remained. Rather than open himself up to verbal ridicule he opted to keep the true identity of the killer to himself. “What I don’t understand,” John Bear said, “is how these disappearances have gone unreported all this time. At the rate this is going we should have been swamped with missing persons reports and constant search missions.”
“We’re looking into that.”
The meeting was interrupted by a knock at the door. A young woman in a customs uniform walked to the front of the room and handed Michaud a pink message slip. He thanked her and read the slip. He addressed the meeting, John and Murphy in particular.
“They found a body they think may be another of Condor’s vics about ten miles east of Estcourt Station. John, you and Murph should head up there after the meeting. I’ll have a CSI team meet you there.”
Michaud concluded the meeting by asking if anyone had any questions. He then singled out John Bear and Murphy. “You guys done yeoman’s work on this. If you hadn’t, this guy would still be unknown to everyone.”
This guy and what he’s become, John thought, is still unknown to most of you….
31
Big Twenty Township
John Bear and Murphy studied the gigantic footprints in the snow. “At least we haven’t had a snowfall since it took off on foot,” Murphy commented.
“Don’t sell it short, Murph. We ain’t dealin’ with a normal perp here.”
“John you ain’t believing that this is one of them … what did you call it?”
“A Wendigo. Doesn’t matter what I believe—it is what it is and that’s what should concern us.”
Murphy nodded. “Either way, what we got here is one big sumbitch who just happens to be a psycho.”
“Believe what you will, Murph, but I’m not gonna sell it short.” John returned to his snowmobile. “Let’s see where the bastard went. Shall we?”
_____________
They followed the tracks as they skirted the St. Francis River, all the while headed toward Estcourt Station. The going was slow as they had to weave through trees and break their own trail, all the while keeping the mammoth footprints in sight. When the tracks left the trees and entered Airport Road they knew they’d lost him. “Tell you what,” Murphy said. “You head west and I’ll go east, maybe we’ll pick up his trail again.”
John Bear was looking at the sky over the road to the west. A murder of crows was swarming around the woods. “I don’t think there’s any need of that. Follow me.”
They walked down the road a hundred yards and stopped. John stepped into the woods and the trees exploded with crows taking flight.
When Murphy reached John’s side, he said, “Jesus, John, look at all the blood. You suppose it’s … ?”
“It’s arterial.” John pointed to a long stream of blood that looked as if someone had shot it from a hose. He followed the blood trail deeper into the trees and found a copse of leafless red willow bushes. John called out to Murphy, “We got another victim.”
Murphy followed, taking care to step in the tracks John had made. He found John squatting in the thicket, staring at a body. John looked up when his companion stopped beside him. Murphy’s face contorted when he looked at the body. “Sonuvabitch,” he said.
John picked up the dead man’s hands. “He ain’t been here long, rigor ain’t full.”
Murphy looked at the body. It had been eviscerated and there were various organs lying in the three-foot-deep snow. “Was he … ?”
“Eaten? Yes. His neck’s been bitten open, that was the arterial blood we saw.”
Murphy squatted beside John and said, “It’s as if he was killed kosher.”
John stared at Murphy for a second trying to determine if he was trying to be funny or if he was merely stating an observation. He decided that it was the latter.
“You think animals got to him?”
“He hasn’t been here that long, but if he lies here much longer …”
“I know, I got to wait for crime scene. I’m starting to feel like the cadaver recovery unit of the warden service.”
_____________
/> It took an hour for the crime scene technicians to process the scene. As limited as they were by the snow, cold, and terrain they gathered as much forensic evidence as possible. The only evidence they had on the killer was the gigantic tracks they photographed, hoping to match the tread to pictures they’d taken at the other crime scenes and around the shack in Viverette Settlement.
When the sound of the departing helicopter diminished, John announced, “I might as well go back with you. This trail has been beaten down so much I’ll never determine which way it went.”
32
Junction of Little Black River and Johnson Brook, Allagash, Maine
The Wendigo threw the bone into the trees. The femur was the last of his larder and already the never-ending hunger was driving him mad. No matter how much or how often he fed, the hunger was always there; the more he ate, the more he wanted to eat. To be a Wendigo was to be continuously on the hunt.
He stared at the open area where the summer hunt was always good. The site of a trailerable boat launch, there were always fishermen and campers here, but not in winter. In winter the lakes with their supply of solitary ice fishermen were a much better hunting ground. He stood and turned toward Dowd Settlement. Due to recent events he’d never be safe to hunt the area—they’d always be looking for him. He also knew that no matter what he’d never be able to hunt anonymously again. The Wendigo knew that his only chance of survival was to run; hide in the deep woods southwest of Allagash.
_____________
Dowd Settlement
Amy Dowd met John Bear in front of Linwood’s house. “Mornin’, Warden.” Her body language and smile surprised him. Prior to his finding her nephew, he’d thought that the Dowds would never trust anyone in law enforcement, let alone a warden.
“Good morning, Amy. Any of the men around?”
“They ain’t far.”
“Well, I thought I’d stop by and see how Dwain was doing.”
“He’s …”
“Amy, who you talkin’ to?” said a third voice from inside the house. In a few seconds, Earl Dowd appeared in the threshold of the door. “John,” he said.
John stepped onto the porch. “I came by to see how the boy is doing.”
“You get the bastard?” Earl asked.
“No, he killed a snowmobiler and took off into the deep woods. We lost him not far from Estcourt.”
“I’ll bet you guys are surprised when you find your fuckin’ shoes in the morning.”
“There are times when I surprise myself,” John said.
“Who’s that in your truck?” Amy asked.
John motioned and Laura Wells got out of the truck. “This is Laura Wells. She’s a newspaper reporter who’s writing a story about the hunt for this killer.”
Earl turned his attention to Wells. “You gonna write about Dwain?”
“I was hoping to get to interview him,” she said.
Earl stepped aside allowing them access to the house. “You want some coffee?”
“Sure, I’d like that,” Laura said.
“C’mon in.”
John and Laura followed Earl inside, with Amy following. After the subzero temperature of the outside, the fires from two fireplaces and a woodstove made the interior of the log house seem like a blast furnace and they took off their heavy parkas. Earl and Amy pointed to a couch in front of the hearth. “Have a seat,” Amy said. “How do you like your coffee?”
“Black,” John and Laura said in unison.
Earl sat in a recliner chair to their right.
“How’s your father?” John asked.
“Not good. He ain’t no spring chicken and all the commotion with Dwain taxed him a mite. He’s been taken abed for the past two days.”
“How is Dwain doing?” Wells asked.
“Seems okay, although he’s took up some queer habits.”
“Queer habits?” John asked. “What sort of queer habits?”
“Hates coming inside the house, says it’s too hot for him. Last night he snuck out of the house and slept in the barn.”
Amy came in carrying a tray with four cups of coffee on it. “You talking about Dwain?” she asked.
“Yup,” Earl said, “I was tellin’ them that since he got home he’s been acting sort of weird.”
“Well Dad, keep in mind that he went through a lot. After all, he’s still a boy,” Amy replied, trying to defend her nephew. “He’ll be all right with time.”
“He ain’t had no appetite either,” Earl added. “He don’t snap out of it soon his father will take him over his knee.”
“He’s not your grandson?” Laura asked.
“My son, Buster, is his father,” Earl said.
Laura took a notebook from her bag and jotted notes as Dowd spoke. “How is his mother reacting to this?”
“She don’t live with us. She and Buster divorced.” He turned to Amy, “Five years ago I think it was.”
Amy nodded her head in affirmation.
“She was from away—” he made the comment as if it explained everything, “and wasn’t able to adjust to life here.”
“Where was she from?” Wells asked.
“Over by St. Francis.”
John had to suppress a laugh. St. Francis was less than thirty miles away. But to the Dowds it may as well have been in South America.
Laura drank some coffee and placed the mug on the coffee table in front of them. “Is it possible to talk with him?”
“I got some questions I need answered too,” John added.
Earl became suspicious and said, “If we can stay.”
“Of course,” Laura said.
John gave her a stern look. He’d hoped to get the boy alone, away from family where he may open up more freely. He turned toward Earl and saw stubbornness in the set of Dowd’s jaw. “I have no problem with that,” he said.
Dowd turned toward his sister and said, “See if you can find the boy.” When Amy left he turned to John and Laura. “Don’t be surprised if we have to go outside to talk with him. Like I said, since we got him home he can’t stand heat.”
Amy returned five minutes after she’d left—alone.
“Where’s Dwain?” Earl asked.
“He won’t come in. He said he’ll talk with them but only if they come out to the barn where it’s cool.”
“Cool?” Earl said, his face red with anger. “Cool! It’s ten below zero out there.”
I’m sorry, Dad, but that’s what he said.”
“That’s fine,” Laura said. “We’ll go out there, won’t we John?”
John Bear agreed, but he was beginning to be concerned about the boy and his obvious aversion to anything approaching warmth. They donned their coats and followed Amy outside. Snow and ice crunched beneath their feet as they crossed the open yard. With each breath steam hung in the air before their faces and the moisture in John’s nose froze.
The interior of the barn was dark and almost as cold as outside. Dwain Dowd stood well back in the dark recesses of the first floor. The smell of hay, old oil, and diesel fuel permeated the atmosphere. This was not an unused building. When they approached Dwain, John could see a gleam in the boy’s eyes that had not been there yesterday. What really struck him was that he was certain Dwain Dowd had grown at least an inch, maybe even two or three in twenty-four hours. He looked at Amy with a quizzical look. Her only answer was to shrug her shoulders.
Dwain circled around and sat on a frozen bale of hay. “Hi, Warden,” the boy said.
John Bear wasn’t certain what to expect, but after rescuing Dwain he expected more than an aloof Hi. “Dwain. I have some questions to ask you,” he said.
“I’ll try to answer them.” He looked at Laura.
“This is Laura Wells,” John said, “she’s a friend of mine who writes for the newspapers downstate.”
“Hello, Dwain,” Laura said. She held her hand out.
Dwain stared at the proffered hand but did not reach for it.
After sever
al moments, Laura dropped her hand.
“So,” Dwain said, “who’s asking the questions?”
“Since this an active investigation, I am,” John Bear said.
Dwain nodded and John noticed that as cold as it was the boy’s coat was open and all he wore underneath was a thin undershirt. “How did you come to be with him?”
“I was going to see my friend, Murdock …”
“That would be Murdock Cochran?” John interjected.
“Yeah.”
“Go on,” John said.
“The old man … my father … didn’t want me to go so I snuck out and left quick, never thought to check the gas and oil in my sled. The motor seized when I was just over halfway there. I figured that I was closer to the Cochran’s than home and started walkin’. I got really cold and built a shelter by a fallen tree. I fell asleep and when I woke up I was in a cabin.”
“Did he … ,” John paused while he thought about the right way to ask what he was about to ask, “… harm you in any way?”
“No, he treated me real good, fed me and everything.”
“Really?” John asked, curious now. “What did he feed you?”
“Gave me some meat to eat.”
“Did he,” John asked, “give you any indication of where he was headed?”
“He didn’t talk. When he tried all he could do was roar really loud.”
“He didn’t hurt you in any way?” Laura asked.
“No, he was fine, until that crazy Indian attacked him and you come along. He took off—I think he run because he thought you’d arrest him, even though that fella he killed attacked him first. I hope he comes back—he’s a really nice guy.”
_____________
Big Twenty Township
Having eaten the last of his most recent kills, the Wendigo debated its options: one was to follow the Estcourt Road south and try to cross the border somewhere along the Slash. There was no way the cops could put a barrier and watch the entirety of the border and he could disappear into the hundreds of square miles of Canadian wilderness. His other option was to return to Lyndon Station—the last thing they would expect. He could go to Dowd Settlement and get the boy. He was surprised to realize that he missed the boy…. Maybe the boy would come with him willingly. If he didn’t, it would be easy to take him.
Wendigo Page 18
