“We’re a week away from the annual Christmas ball,” Willow said with enthusiasm. “We invite all the local Indians and trappers over to celebrate the holidays. All the chiefs come. It will be a marvelous occasion. You both will be coming, too, won’t you?”
“I wouldn’t miss the party, Willow,” Andre said, his tone a bit too zealous. If Tom didn’t know better, he might have thought the Jesuit brother was smitten. Then again, what man wasn’t under Willow’s spell?
Tom merely nodded. As the fort’s appointed peacekeeper, he and the twelve soldiers under his command would be on duty the night of the Christmas party, making sure the heavy drinkers didn’t demolish the place. Upon Tom’s arrival, he had been informed about the annual Christmas ball. The party would be a mix of Ojibwa trappers and French Canadian voyageurs, English and Scottish fur traders, and countless native women. The men and women drank rum and danced all night. Acts of lust would surely follow, as many of the men chose their wives at the annual ball. The Indians were known to sell off their teenage daughters for the low price of a keg of rum or even something as small as a coat or a top hat they fancied. Just about every man Tom had met out here had an Indian wife. The British officers had married the daughters of the Ojibwa and Cree chiefs. The only exceptions were Master Avery Pendleton, who transported Willow from Montréal, and Doc Riley, who brought his wife, Myrna, all the way from Ireland.
One of the garlands fell from a window.
“Oh, dear,” Willow said. “Pardon me, gentlemen.”
Tom and Andre watched Lady Pendleton move about the grand room, showing the servants exactly how she wanted the decorations hung. Despite her petite frame, Willow commanded orders like a British Navy captain.
“I hope my wife is not holding you two hostage.” Avery Pendleton’s deep voice echoed off the wood floor. The chief factor was coming down the stairs with Lt. Hysmith and Walter Thain in tow. They entered the ballroom and gathered behind Master Pendleton. The wealthy tycoon from Montréal stood like a regal statue with his hands gripping the lapels of his tailored suit. At age forty-five, he had dark hair with silver at the temples. The company officers all looked a bit haggard, as if ready to turn in for the night. Lt. Hysmith seemed peeved that Tom wanted to talk with the chief factor.
Tom said, “Gentlemen, I know it’s late, but Brother Andre and I need to meet with you about the matter of Zoé Lamothe.”
20
As the tower guards were changing shifts, Chris Hatcher sneaked between two cabins. The wind had died down. Snow continued to fall but he could see, thanks to the light of a full moon. His shadow stretched long across the white dunes in front of him. The shin-deep snow thwarted his efforts to get out of sight quickly.
A sentry up in the watchtower whistled down. “’Ey, kid, what are you doing outside past curfew?”
Oh, bugger! “I have to deliver a message for my father.” That sounded believable enough. “Be back before you know it.”
“Did Lieutenant Hysmith approve this outing?”
Chris sighed. He couldn’t go anywhere around here without getting approval from the fort’s head of security. Fort Pendleton was like living in a bloody prison, and Hysmith walked the grounds like he was some high and mighty warden. “He’s in a meeting with my father,” Chris said. “With all the commotion about Sakari going missing, it’s been topsy-turvy around here, eh mate?”
“You ain’t shittin’, kid.” The guard above the gate spat tobacco. “I’m not even supposed to be on duty tonight. Goddamned clerk should have known better than to venture off with his missus.”
“Ain’t life a bloody tosser,” Chris said, repeating an expression he’d heard among the soldiers.
“Sure enough, mate. Ey, better get back soon. If Hysmith sees you out, he’s gonna have your arse.” He laughed hoarsely.
Chris ran past a cemetery. Several crosses were made from canoe paddles. They were painted with French names. It seemed the voyageurs and laborers died in greater number than the British clerks and officers. Beside the graveyard was a shanty. From around back came a familiar sound of flute music. Tonight it carried a melancholy tone. Dogs barked as Chris rounded the shack’s corner.
The music stopped. Inside the dog pen, Anika Moonblood was seated on the ground among her huskies. She silenced her dogs with a command. “Who’s out there?”
“It’s just me.”
“Your father know you’re out this late?”
“He doesn’t mind. Can I come in? I brought you something.”
Anika opened the wire-mesh door. Chris sat beside her in their usual spot in the hay. Recognizing the familiar visitor, the dogs settled into their protective circle. A small fire pit with crackling birch wood kept them warm.
Anika was dressed in deerskin pants and a frayed coat with a fox-fur collar. Her long, black hair hung across her shoulders. Her green eyes looked especially sad tonight.
Chris offered her a bundle wrapped in rabbit fur. “I made you something.”
Anika loosened the binding and opened the pelt. Inside was a block of wood with smooth edges. She flipped it over and her eyes turned glossy. Chris beamed. He had whittled eight dog faces, one for each husky that she owned.
“Your whittling skills are improving.”
“Do you like it?”
Anika held it to her chest. “Very much.”
As they sat there, petting the dogs, Chris asked for a drink from her rum flask.
“Will your father mind?”
“Nah, he won’t care. I’m fourteen now.”
She handed him the horn flask. He gulped it down too fast and coughed. Anika smiled. She continued playing her flute. The high-pitched notes fluttered upward, like birds taking flight, a happier tune. But it wasn’t long before the low notes seemed to sink into the earth with an eternal sadness. Chris sat back against the wall feeling the melodies connecting him to Father Sky and Mother Earth. Anika’s flute music was the only thing in the past two years that eased his grief.
21
In Master Pendleton’s study, a fire crackled and popped in a stone hearth. Above the fireplace hung a drab gray painting of an upper class family—a bearded man in a dark suit, fur coat, and Wellington top hat standing beside a woman in a ball gown with a fox stole around her neck. The gentleman’s hands rested on the shoulders of young Avery Pendleton, who was holding a red violin. A shelf behind a large oak desk displayed a collection of violins and fiddles.
Master Pendleton lit his pipe as he stood at the study’s window, facing out at the falling snow. “This is a bloody awful mess.”
“It’s a matter we need to deal with quickly, sir. Zoé is near death.” Tom glanced around the long conference table at Brother Andre, Lieutenant Hysmith, and Walter Thain. They all seemed to wait for Master Pendleton’s response. He took his time, puffing on his pipe.
The study smelled of tobacco and leather, and, not surprisingly, fur. A menagerie of mounted animal heads adorned the walls: bucks, antelope, mountain goats, and wild boar. Tom sat next to a stuffed wolverine. The ferocious beast was the emblem on the company flag. There were also numerous pelts draped on the walls. On the floor was a tiger-skin rug that looked out of place with the rest of Pendleton’s collection.
Puffing his pipe, the chief factor sat down at the end of the table. “With Pierre Lamothe’s sick daughter in our possession, we clearly have a problem on our hands.”
“Doc thinks he can save her.” Tom accepted a tumbler of brandy from a red-skinned man wearing a butler’s uniform. “But Father Jacques’ letter suggests something may have happened to the other colonists.”
Hysmith said, “You discerned this from a brief address to a Montréal priest?”
“The letter suggests urgency,” said Brother Andre. “I’m afraid Father Jacques and the others are in need of our help.”
Tom added, “Why else would he send a young girl twenty miles to deliver the diary?”
Pendleton picked up the book and flipped through the pages. “Wh
at are you proposing, Inspector?”
“That Brother Andre and I and a few soldiers ride out to Manitou Outpost tomorrow. Explore the matter and inform Pierre we have Zoé.”
Hysmith shook his head. “No, it’s too risky with these frequent storms and that killer out there. Let Lamothe come to us.”
“What if he doesn’t know we have Zoé?” Tom asked. “He could be searching the woods for her. Notifying Master Lamothe seems the noble thing to do.”
Pendleton leaned back in his chair, smoking his pipe. His deep-set eyes gazed at the painting above the fireplace. “Inspector, I’ll approve the mission under one condition. You deliver the message to Master Lamothe that he needs to come retrieve his daughter, then head straight back before nightfall.”
22
Willow Pendleton paid a late-night visit to Hospital House. Doc Riley was still awake, tending to the needs of Zoé Lamothe. The sick girl was sleeping. Her malnourished body, so thin she looked skeletal, was a dreadful sight. Both wrists were bound to the bed, now more securely by rope. Willow hated seeing a little girl tied down, but Doc Riley said she was prone to violent outbursts.
“Never seen such animal behavior before…” Doc listened to Zoé’s heartbeat. “Must be the heathen in her. And take a look at this.” He lifted up one of her eyelids. Zoé’s iris was covered in a gray membrane that looked like cataracts. “She may have gone blind from the blizzard. I won’t know till she wakes up. I gave her enough laudanum to keep her down till morning.” The old man sighed and looked across at Willow. “So, you’ve been having trouble sleeping?”
She nodded, doing her best not to burst into tears. “Each night I toss and turn and wake up perspiring from a fever.” She didn’t mention her dreams about Tom Hatcher.
Doc felt her forehead. “You don’t have a fever now. Worrying too much about the upcoming Christmas ball, lassie?”
“I suppose.” She touched his wrist. “Doc, I was hoping you could fix me up with another cocktail. Something to give me sweet dreams.”
The Irish doctor smiled. “I reckon I got something in me cabinet to bring peace to such a lovely lady.” As he left the room, Willow noticed a small doll sitting on a chair. It was a sad little thing—torn Indian dress, face covered in soot, half bald with a single tuft of black hair. Willow picked up the doll. Its reddish brown skin was made of leather so smooth it felt like human skin. The only remarkable quality was the doll’s single fiery green eye, like a cat’s. Willow cradled it. Dolls had a way of calming her nerves. Humming, she worked a knot out of the hair. She felt a strange sensation and realized Zoe’s pale eyes were half-open and staring blankly in her direction.
“Zoé, are you awake?”
The girl gave a slow nod.
“It’s me, Willow. We met at the rendezvous party last summer, remember?”
“I remember your perfume,” she said in a French accent. “You’re the lady who kissed my father.”
“I beg your pardon?” Willow thought back to that night in July. Pierre Lamothe had pulled Willow into an empty bedchamber. The intoxicated French commander had been all hands and lips. Had the girl witnessed this?
“You’re holding my doll, aren’t you?”
Willow waved a hand in front of Zoé’s gaze. “Can you see me?”
“No, but I know what you’re up to.”
“I was just straightening her hair. She’s very pretty. What’s her name?”
“Noël.”
“That’s a lovely name. It’s the French word for ‘Christmas’”, isn’t it?”
Zoé nodded. Those dull eyes staring through slits gave Willow the shivers. “You know, Zoé, I have a whole collection of dolls in my boudoir. Maybe after you get better, you can come over and see them.”
“I’ve already seen them. Your favorite doll is named Maggie.”
“How did you know that?”
“I have a friend who talks to me when I dream. He calls me, ‘The Secret Keeper.’” The girl smiled. “He told me all your sinful little secrets.”
Willow’s heart skipped. “What in heaven’s name are you talking about?”
“The wicked thing you did last summer. The man you dream about. Don’t worry, Willow, you’ll be with him soon.”
Feeling goose bumps sprout up her arms, Willow backed out of the room and bumped into Doc Riley.
“Whoa, hold up there, lassie. Everything okay?”
“I need to get home.”
“Don’t forget this.” Riley held up a vial of liquid. “I mixed you up a special concoction I give Myrna. Sends her right into dreamland.”
She grabbed the vial. “Thank you, Doc.” She kissed his cheek.
He blushed. “Now, don’t go letting Myrna see you do that. She’ll think we’re up to something.” He winked then looked into Zoé’s room. “I heard you talking. Did the girl wake up?” Her eyes were fully closed. Her bony wrists hung limp in the ropes that bound her to the bed.
“No, that was just me talking to her doll.” As Willow left Hospital House, once again embraced by the bitter cold, she felt tormented by what Zoé said.
Maggie talks to me when I sleep. She tells me your sinful little secrets.
Willow wondered how the girl could possibly know about the face-changing man who visited Willow in her dreams.
23
Shortly after midnight, Chris sat at Anika’s kitchen table, his head warm and fuzzy with rum. He refilled his glass from her canteen.
She sat next to him, whittling a stick into a raccoon face. Chris liked that she let him drink. Unlike his father, she treated Chris like an adult. As she worked her blade into the wood, he studied her face. Of all the Indian women he had seen, Anika was by far the prettiest. Especially when her face softened and she smiled, which was rare. Her face remained hard and taut most of the time. She could be silent for long stretches.
Chris picked up his unfinished flute and knife and started shaving off the wood. Whittling helped take his mind off missing his mum. He worked at the holes, hollowing out the flute. He blew splinters out the end, making a funny sound.
Anika glanced at him sideways and smiled.
Chris held up the flute. “What do you think?”
“You’re learning much faster than I did.”
He put the flute down. “This one takes too long. Show me how to whittle something else, like a bear.”
Anika picked up the instrument. “Whittling a flute takes time and patience. It’s more than just about carving out the wood with a blade. You are merging with spirits of the tree that made the branch. They are teaching you wisdom about yourself. When the flute is finished, you and Great Spirit can make sweet music together.”
As she handed him back the flute, someone knocked at her door. When she answered, Chris’ father entered, his eyes tense with anger. “Christopher Orson Hatcher, you’re supposed to be home in bed!”
Chris stiffened. “I-I couldn’t sleep.”
“That’s no excuse to disobey me. Now, get on home. Anika and I have an early ride tomorrow.”
“Where are we going?” Anika asked.
“Manitou Outpost.”
Her eyes sparked with fire. “Whose foolish idea was this?”
“Mine,” Tom said. “Zoé’s sick and her family will be looking for her.”
“I’m not taking my dogs,” Anika said. “I’ll only go if we take horses.”
“That’s a matter between you and Master Pendleton.” Tom pointed out the doorway. “Chris, let’s go.”
Chris stood. “Let me go with you tomorrow.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Please, Father. I can shoot a gun now. I’m ready. Please, let me help.”
“I said, ‘no.’ Now go on home.”
Chris seethed. He hated being scolded in front of Anika. He started to argue back, but his father had that crazy look in his eyes. “Goodnight, Anika.” Chris hugged the native woman, wishing she could stay back at the fort with him tomorrow.
“’Night, Chr
is. Thanks again for the gift.”
He grabbed his flute and whittling tools. Then, without looking at his father, Chris started the walk back to their cabin.
24
Tom remained behind with Anika, furious that the native woman was constantly spending time with Chris. She packed her tracking gear, tossing her snowshoes, stuffing arrows into a quill. “You’re too hard on him, Tom.”
“It’s none of your concern how I handle my son. And I don’t want you giving him any more rum. He’s too young to be drinking.”
“He’s trying to become a man. You treat him like a child.”
“He just turned fourteen.”
“Ha! At that age the men around here are married and voyaging in a fur brigade.”
“Well, he comes from a different world than yours.”
Anika gripped a tomahawk and shoved it into her pack. “You think we’re all savages here, don’t you?”
“I’m not in the mood to argue.” He opened the door and stepped out onto her porch. “I’ll be knocking on your door before sunrise. I need you to be alert tomorrow, so go get some sleep.”
“I’m a grown woman, Inspector. I’ll sleep when I’m damned well ready.” She slammed the door in his face.
25
Tom’s cabin was dark when he arrived. The door to his son’s bedchamber was closed.
I’ll deal with him in the morning. Tom lit an oil lamp on the dining table. He felt an itch at the back of his throat. His hands were shaking, and he was now too riled up to sleep. With insomnia threatening to keep him up another night, there was only one course of action to take. Tom grabbed a crowbar and opened the lid to a large crate. It was full of brown bottles of whiskey. Pulling out a bottle, he popped the cork, filled a glass, and downed the drink in two gulps. He squinted as the hot alcohol sent fire to the back of his eyes. He pressed the glass to his forehead and sighed. As he walked toward his bedroom, he thought he saw shadow shapes moving outside the windows. Mere tricks of the eyes, he decided. His imagination running wild again. An image of the mutilated woman half-submerged in the ice flashed in his mind. Shredded face, severed torso, exposed ribcage, disemboweled. That vision stirred the murky waters as skeletons of a dozen other slain women bubbled up from the dark recesses of his mind. Then came the whispering voices.
Dead of Winter Page 6
