“What are you going to do?”
John leaned back. “By the time I get out there they’ll have at least a couple hour’s head start. I might as well eat, then grab Murph and head up there.”
_____________
Dowd Settlement
John and Murphy parked off to one side of the plowed open area that the Dowds used as a front yard. Amy met them before they were halfway across. “Thank God you’re here. Dwain has gone missing!”
“You’re sure?” John asked. “Maybe he’s hiding someplace.”
“I’ve looked everywhere. He’s nowhere to be found.”
“I’ll see if there is any sign of which way he went,” Murphy said. He walked toward the barn.
“He went by himself,” Amy called after him.
Murphy turned toward her. “You sure of that?”
“He didn’t get within fifty yards of here.” She pointed toward the trees over a hundred yards away. “Louis and Dad saw him when he was coming across the field. That’s when they went after him and he knocked Louis off his Ski-Doo and took off. Dad came back here, got every man in the settlement, and they took off after him.”
Murphy remained where he was. “John? How you want to handle this?”
“Amy already searched the property, so doing it again is a waste of effort. Let’s get our sleds off the trucks and see if we can catch up with them.” He looked at the cascading snow. “Before we lose their trail.” He looked across the open field and saw the wind pick up the loose surface snow and spin it into a whirlwind which darted along the ground.
The wardens pulled their snow machines out of the beds of their pickups. John reached into the back of the extended cab and removed his cold-weather suit. Once he had the suit on, he sat and removed his boots, slid the felt booties out of the rubber-soled snowmobile boots, put them on, and then slid the bulky outer boots over them. Ready for prolonged exposure to the winter weather, he saw that Murphy was likewise ready. They straddled their sleds and started the motors.
John turned to Amy. “If any of them return, tell them to stay here or I’ll arrest them.”
_____________
T17, R12, North Maine Woods
Back in the woods and secure in his element, the Wendigo decided to go on the attack. He hid beneath a tall evergreen tree beside the trail. In short time he heard the Dowd convoy and prepared to strike. Headlights illuminated the trees around his hiding place and for a brief second he worried that the rider of the lead snowmobile would see him. He let the file of men pass and when the last sled was abreast of him, he struck.
He leaped from his hiding place and hit the unknown rider, driving him off his sled and into the deep snow. He straddled the man and raised his hand, prepared to smash it into the rider’s face. Suddenly he was in the center of a beam of light and he heard a shout. He’d miscalculated; there had been another member of the group who’d lagged behind. He turned toward the light and saw a flash immediately followed by the impact of a bullet. He rolled off the downed Dowd and heard another shot. The man on the ground grabbed a knife from his belt and drove it into his thigh.
The Wendigo roared his rage and smashed his huge right fist into the knife-bearer’s face. He felt bone and cartilage break and the man went limp. The trailing man raised his rifle and fired a third shot. Again the Wendigo felt a bullet’s impact. He coiled, preparing to leap at this new threat. Suddenly the road was bathed in light; the rest of the party had turned around and were racing toward him.
The Wendigo leaped over deadfall and burst through a copse of frozen ice-covered alder bushes, loud voices behind him. He paused long enough to see his footprints and knew that stealth was out of the question. His only hope lay in flight.
_____________
T17, R12, North Maine Woods
Earl Dowd waded through the knee-deep snow and saw Louis and two family members squatting over a body. As he got closer, Earl saw the dark spot in the snow that he knew would turn red as he got closer to it. “Who is it?”
Louis looked at his father and said, “Cully. I ain’t never seen nothing as strong as that thing. The bastard killed him with one punch.”
“I shot him—twice,” another voice said.
Earl turned to see his nephew, Kane, standing to one side, still holding his Remington 700 .30-06 semiautomatic rifle. “You sure of that, Kane?”
“You know me, Uncle, I hit what I shoot at.”
Earl nodded. Of all the Dowds, Kane was the best shot. “Someone needs to take him home,” Earl said. “As for the rest of us, there ain’t nothin’ to be done for Cully. So go after the sonuvawhore. This time we ain’t goin’ back until we’ve killed the fucker.”
Earl looked at the circle of family members and pointed at the two youngest. “You boys been ridin’ double?”
“Yes, Uncle Earl.”
“Then you’re the funeral detail.” Earl stared into the black forest and in a low voice said, “Too goddamned young to be involved in this.” He turned to the boys. “Take him home—and stay there. We’ll end this tonight.”
44
John and Murphy followed the trail into the forest, and when they saw headlights coming toward them, they stopped and waited for the sleds to approach. The two boys stopped and John recognized them as being Dowds. “You boys headin’ home?”
The first rider said, “Yes, sir.”
John looked past him and saw the dark shape of a sleigh. “What you haulin’?”
The boy looked as if he’d been caught chewing gum in class and looked at his companion.
“I asked you a question, son,” John said, keeping his voice and tone at a reasonable level.
“My cousin, Cully. Fuckin’ asshole killed him—”
John nodded, “Who killed him?”
“That thing we was chasin’. Crushed his head with a single punch. None of us ever seen anything like it.”
“Tell me what happened. Don’t leave anything out.”
The boys related the events of the evening and concluded with: “Uncle Earl sent us back with the body and said we was to stay at home.”
“Sounds like good advice to me,” Murphy said.
“How long ago did all this happen?” John asked.
“’Bout three hours ago.”
“Okay, you boys go about your business, and when you get home call the state police and tell them what happened. They’ll send someone for him.”
John and Murphy watched the Dowd boys ride away and sat quiet for a few moments. “What you thinking about, John?”
“I’m thinkin’ that this could turn into one hellacious blood bath in a hurry.”
“If it hasn’t already,” Murphy said.
_____________
The Wendigo looked down the ridge and watched them setting up a camp in the valley below. There were fewer of them now, only five—and they were about to become fewer still. His attention was drawn to the east where two additional sleds approached. He remained back in the trees watching. The snowfall had abated and the wind picked up, driving the windchill into the minus-thirty range. He relaxed; things were working out perfectly. Even the weather was helping him—what was freezing cold to his pursuers was comfortable to him.
The new arrivals stopped at the camp and dismounted. The first of them removed his helmet, and the Wendigo immediately recognized the Indian warden. He walked away from the precipice and strode deeper into the woods. He stared at the posse one last time and wondered how they’d react if they knew how close to them he was. A gust of wind sent a cloud of snow into the air and he let it settle on his head, face, and shoulders. As he descended the steep slope of the ridge, trees creaked and swayed in the wind, frozen dead branches broke off some of them and fell into the four-foot-deep snow with muffled thumps. He turned toward Rocky Mountain, where he knew of a cave where he had a cache and could hide.
_____________
John Bear and Murphy were exhausted when they drove into the small valley and found the impromptu ca
mp the Dowds had established. John dismounted and pulled his helmet off. He immediately felt the sweat that the insulated protective headgear had caused begin to freeze in the frigid wind. He reached inside a pocket of his snowsuit and retrieved his warden service hat and put it on. He saw Earl Dowd standing beside a small fire holding a steaming cup of coffee.
“Earl,” John said with a nod of his head. “Got any more of that coffee?”
Dowd pointed at the pot sitting on a bed of smoldering coals. “Help yourself.”
John saw a row of metal coffee mugs lined up on a snowmobile seat and retrieved two. He returned to the fire, tossed a mug to Murphy, and then used one of his heavy insulated mittens as a potholder to hold the hot percolator
Steam hovered over the rim of the metal camp cup as John gulped down a burning mouthful of the hot liquid. The hot beverage seemed to scorch his throat as he felt it make its way down his esophagus before disappearing deep into his body. “I guess you know why we’re here.”
“To stop us from getting it….”
“To help you get it—and stop you from killing him.”
Dowd sat on a dead tree that lay near the fire. “We got you outnumbered.”
“How many more of your relatives are you willing sacrifice to get him?”
Earl seemed to pout as he sat forlorn on the snowy tree. “I gather you met up with Billy and Mikey, and Cully—Cullen.”
“Yes,” John saw movement to his left and turned that way. Louis Dowd appeared at the edge of the trees. He must have been taking care of personal matters and was slipping his snowsuit trouser suspenders over his shoulders. His face was swollen and one side a spreading bruise. Something had hit him hard and John didn’t think it was a branch. He nodded at Louis and asked, “You all right? Looks like you kissed a runaway truck.”
“I’ll live.” Louis helped himself to a cup of coffee. “What brings you out here?”
“Amy called and said you guys had had a run-in with it yesterday and that you were chasin’ him.” He paused to let his words sink in and then added, “She also said that she didn’t believe you’d be bringing him in alive.”
Louis looked at his father. “She’s out of control, Dad.”
“Yeah,” Earl replied.
“She’s got a good head on her that’s for sure,” John added. “You kill him without him attackin’ you and I’d be forced to bring you in too. Right now, he’s a person of interest, not a fugitive for anything except maybe kidnapping—and I ain’t so sure that Dwain didn’t go with him on his own.”
Earl stiffened. “You sayin’ my grandson wanted to run off with that freak?”
“Yup, and from your reaction, I’d say you think so too.”
“So,” Earl said, “now that’s all been said. What are you going to do?”
John squatted in front of the fire and warmed up his coffee from the remnants of what was in the blue metal pot. “Take charge. It’s now an official manhunt. We bring him in alive if we can, otherwise, we do what we have to to end this thing.”
Earl stared across the fire. After several tense moments of silence he said, “You gonna deputize us or something?”
“No need for all that; besides I don’t have that authority. But you take your orders from me or, in my absence, Murphy.”
45
Rocky Mountain, T18, R12, North Maine Woods
The Wendigo squatted in the mouth of the cavern he’d used for hibernation since before the whites came into the world and studied the slope below. He saw no sign of activity and after twenty-five minutes turned and scrambled deeper inside. Halfway down the narrow chasm he stopped beside a bear den and looked in. He saw movement and heard the sow grunt in her sleep, it was then he realized that she’d given birth, which made him leery. It was not unknown for she-bears to come out of hibernation when they gave birth. For several minutes he stood bent over so he wouldn’t bang his head on the roof of the cave, and studied the miniature bear cubs, which he estimated to be less than a week old, as they scrambled for a warm spot near their mother’s teat. The sow was about three-quarters deep into her hibernation state and there was a GPS collar around her neck—which didn’t concern him. If biologists from the Department of Inland Fisheries and Wildlife should appear to do a check on the cubs, he’d deal with them.
Satisfied that the new mother posed no threat, he crept past the den and moved deeper into the cavern. Within fifty feet of the den, the cavern opened up into a wide area with several tunnels branching off it. The Wendigo scrambled to the first tunnel on the left and darted into it. He lay down and closed his eyes, fighting against the overpowering hunger that threatened to consume him. He stayed that way for over an hour and then got up in frustration. He went back to the entrance, and once again taking care not to crush one of the tiny cubs beneath his huge feet, he circumvented the comatose she-bear.
The sun was already well into its afternoon descent when he low-crawled out of the pile of deadfall that obscured the entrance to the lair and he breathed in fresh cold air, which was manna after the stuffy, moldy smell of the bear den. He stared off in the direction where he’d last encountered the posse and fought back his desire to give in to impulse and set off in that direction to obtain food. He turned in the opposite direction and climbed further up the slope. There were logging roads in that direction; thoroughfares where food might be found. He stopped, turned, and stared wistfully downslope, where he knew food existed.
_____________
T17, R12, North Maine Woods
The search party had spread out, hoping to cut the killer’s trail. They had spent the morning hunting in vain. If the fugitive had left any tracks, the wind and drifting snow had filled them in. As the afternoon wore on toward sunset, the search had turned from a manhunt into one of finding a suitable campsite for the night.
John and Earl Dowd were drinking hot coffee at the campfire that was maintained at a central location from which the area had been searched in quadrants. “Ain’t natural that he can disappear like this,” Earl said.
John knew that if there was one thing Wendigos were not, they were not natural—if anything, they were a perversion of nature. They thrived on cold, eating mankind, and had supernatural abilities. He’d heard tales of them having the ability to shape-shift their appearance. They also were capable of self-healing and resurrection if their bodies were not burned in a raging bonfire. Still he knew that if he was to tell Earl his thoughts and beliefs, he would think John was just another crazy damned Indian. John sat on the seat of his Ski-Doo and finished his coffee. He looked off at the silhouette of Rocky Mountain, barely visible through the fine sheet of falling and drifting snow, and knew that they need not look for the Wendigo. It’s all-consuming hunger would lead it to them. John refilled his coffee mug and said, “I think that drinking this much coffee is a mixed blessing.”
Dowd understood what he meant and smiled. “Yeah coffee and beer have one thing in common. You never own them, only rent them.” He indicated to the bulky one-piece snowmobile suits they wore. “These suits are a pain in the ass when it’s time to pay the rent.”
They heard a sled approach, stood up, and waited until it stopped near theirs. Louis Dowd raised the visor of his helmet and said, “I hope you two ain’t drunk all the hot coffee.”
“Anything?” John asked.
“Nothing but snow, dead trees, more snow blowing from the trees, and cold. Other than that I ain’t seen shit.” He threw one leg over the sled and dismounted. He retrieved a mug and, when he held it out, John filled it. Louis took a drink and said, “Ain’t no one seen nothing. It’s like the ground swallowed him up.”
“It probably did,” John replied.
The Dowds said nothing and John added: “Wouldn’t surprise me none if he ain’t found a lair where he’s layin’ up—probably burrowed down, waiting for us to give up the search.”
“Well,” Louis said, “he’s in for the shock of his life. I ain’t goin’ back until we got him—one way or the ot
her. I don’t care if I have to stay out here until spring.”
“I don’t think it’ll come to that,” John said. He turned to Earl. “We may want to send a couple of the boys back to get some supplies. This could run into a week or more. I’ll send Murph. One of us has to update the brass on what’s happening.”
“I’ll send two of the boys back in the morning. No sense in doing it today, it’ll be dark in a couple of hours and it’s five or six hours each way to the settlement. If they have to run into Lyndon it could be a couple days before they get back.”
John nodded and looked toward the mountain again. “You ever been up there?” he asked.
Earl looked in the same direction as John and said, “Rocky Mountain? Long time ago the old man was gonna cut wood up there back in the late seventies, early eighties. We never did though.”
“Why not?”
“Beats me, the old man never said why he changed his mind.”
“Maybe,” John said, “he couldn’t get a permit to cut.”
“Doubt that, Linwood Dowd could care less about permits. Back then it was Seven Islands that held the cuttin’ rights, and they were tough but you could work with them guys. Today it’s Irving from Canada. They’re a whole different type of animal. If they had their way wouldn’t be nothing left of these woods but clear-cut and mud. Northern Maine would look like Southern California—a mud slide waitin’ for a rain storm … or the spring thaw. And if they get their way, they’d own every tree that was cut.”
“Anything up there?”
“Nothin’ worth goin’ out of your way for. The forest service has a lookout tower, but that’s unmanned this time of year.” He gave John a quizzical look.
“What?” John asked.
“I’m surprised you don’t know the place.”
“Why should I?”
“Well, there’s a warden cabin about a mile below the lookout tower on the summit.”
“No shit? I’ve never been a patrol warden up here. The state did most of that down in Oxford and Hancock Counties. Murph’ll know.”
Wendigo Page 24
