He stopped, confused. “Amy, where are you?”
Her crying changed to mocking laughter, and then Elkheart’s heart seized as he realized he had been tricked. He tried to fire his rifle, but it jammed. He tossed the gun and pulled out his knife. He challenged the fog, “Show yourself!”
From above, hot, blistering air heated Elkheart’s scalp. Something wet and sticky hit the nape of his neck, oozing down his back. He tilted his head up toward the trees and saw a large mouth with a rack of fangs. A shadowy thing was hanging upside down from the branches. Its hands gripped Elkheart by the throat, lifting him high into the air. He released a warrior’s howl and stabbed at the beast with his knife. Elongated fingers noosed around his throat, choking off his air. His dangling legs kicked the tree. His beloved knife fell from his limp hand. As the forest went black, Jon Elkheart heard the lost spirits of his ancestors calling him deeper into the cold and visceral darkness of Macâya Forest.
Part One
The Journey
My shrink says the best way to face your fears is to go back to your roots. To return to the time before innocence was lost. Before a child’s mind witnessed something so horrific that it was forever scarred. The moment of trauma is where the healing journey must begin. But I fear if I dig up my past, the horror will be there waiting for me.
—Detective Alex Winterbone
From the novel The Ghosts of Winterbone
by Kyle Elkheart
Chapter One
“Fear wears many skins…” a raspy voice whispered into Kyle Elkheart’s ear while he was sleeping. Cold fingers touched his cheek. “Kyle, wake up…”
He opened his eyes to the dark and saw the blurry outline of someone standing over him. Before Kyle could react, hands gripped his throat, choking. He jerked up in bed and swung blindly, but his fists struck nothing but air.
The hands released his neck. A shadowy shape backed away, merging with the darkness that concealed Kyle’s bedroom.
“Who’s there?” He pushed a set of buttons on the wall, hoping to turn on the lights. Instead, his TV flashed on a channel with white noise and the automatic curtains began to open. Gray light poured in through the high-rise apartment windows. Kyle’s visitor retreated with the shadows to the far corner of the bedroom. Then, like so many mornings before, the ghost sank into the wall.
It’s just another bad dream, Kyle tried to convince himself as he rubbed his aching neck. The feeling that someone’s icy hands had gripped his throat wouldn’t go away. More and more, his nightmares were crossing over into the waking world. Usually Kyle heard noises or saw movement out of the corner of his eye. This was the first time his haunter had tried to physically harm him. What’s happening to me? Kyle lay back in bed, staring up at the ceiling.
At 6:00 a.m. the alarm radio blared and a DJ spoke like he was high on Starbucks. “Goooood morninggggg, Seattle! You’re waking up with Rowdy Roscoe! Forecast for today is fog and rain! The weather may be gloomy, but you don’t have to be—”
Kyle hit the off button, groaning. He started to call his shrink to tell her about the nightmare that had awakened him, but then hung up. He already knew what Dr. Norberg would say, “The ghost is a figment of your imagination, Kyle. Keep journaling and we’ll talk about it on Tuesday.”
He got up and went to the bathroom sink. A reflection with mussed brown hair and a three-day beard stared back at him. He couldn’t believe that last night he had gone out onto the balcony, looked over the rail and imagined what it would be like to free fall out of his miserable life. He had two voices battling inside his head—one telling him to jump, the other urging him not to give up. After nearly teetering over from vertigo, he had stepped away from the edge and gone back inside. This morning the memory frightened him. Last night had been a turning point. Kyle was determined to get his life back on course before his shrink sent him to the nuthouse or his haunter convinced him death was the best option.
“You’re not going to waste another day,” Kyle said to the man in the mirror. “No more feeling sorry for yourself.”
He started his wake-up routine with twenty minutes on the treadmill. Streamers of rain trickled down the floor-to-ceiling window. Living in a corner apartment on the fifteenth floor, he had a spectacular view of downtown Seattle and the main harbor, Elliot Bay. Another gray storm enshrouded the seaport city. “Great,” Kyle muttered. He had planned to drive to Lake Union and go kayaking. “Another day trapped indoors.”
As he was doing pushups, he heard a knock on the wall. Footsteps echoed from another part of the apartment. A door clicked shut. What the hell was that? No one lived in his three-bedroom apartment but him. Grabbing a baseball bat, Kyle hurried to the living room. The apartment was quiet now, except for a clock ticking on the wall. He checked the front door. The two deadbolts were still latched. No sign of a break-in. He searched his office and closet. Empty. As he stepped back into the hallway, another sound, like a book falling over, issued from behind the closed third bedroom door. He crept down the hallway, gripping the bat. He listened at the door. The thought of going in that room got his heart racing. This door had remained shut the past two years. He placed his fingers on the knob, then paused.
I’m imagining things again.
Swallowing hard, he turned the knob and pushed the door open with the bat. The smell of paint and turpentine brought back a flood of memories. He struggled to breathe. His trembling hand flipped on the light. The extra bedroom was an art studio with wall-to-wall oil paintings of seaside landscapes, harbors and Seattle skylines, all painted as if seen from a far distance. An unfinished painting of Mt. Rainier sat on an easel. The room was covered in layers of dust.
Venturing inside, he checked behind the door. Empty. Then he checked the walk-in closet. The walls were lined with canvasses and shelved painting supplies. Kyle sighed, shaking his head. Thunder rumbled outside and a heavy rain slapped the windows.
It’s just the storm.
As he was leaving the room he glimpsed a shelf on the wall full of seashells, colored crystals and other knickknacks. In a silver frame was a photo of himself with his late wife Stephanie on a beach in Maui, holding up handfuls of shells. Her auburn hair blew sideways across her face. Her smile almost knocked him to his knees. God, he had loved her.
He rested the photo in a drawer, closed it and left the room.
Today was going to be different. Instead of moping around and watching TV, Kyle was going to get back to his writing. He stepped into his office and fired up the computer. The screen flashed to a desktop image from the movie The Shining: Jack Nicholson’s crazed face peering through a broken door. “Here’s Johnny!” the computer said as it completed its boot up.
He sat at his computer, eager to write the next chapter of his latest Detective Winterbone novel. Kyle’s brain was electric with remnants from last night’s dream: visions of shadowy woods and a village haunted by ghosts. His dark muse had finally returned from her silent crypt. His eyes locked on to the screen, and he typed as fast as his fingers would move.
More pounding startled him. At first Kyle thought his haunter was back, but he traced the pounding to the front door. Kyle peered out the peephole. It was Eric.
“Shit,” Kyle whispered, debating whether to answer. The two hadn’t spoken since their fallout a year ago.
“Kyle, I know you’re home. Open the door.” His brother knocked impatiently.
“Hold on.” Kyle unlatched the deadbolts and opened the door. “What the hell? It’s six thirty in the morning.”
“I’ve left a dozen messages.” Eric barged into the living room, his soaked shoes and umbrella dripping water onto the carpet. At six-three, he was taller than Kyle and built of solid muscle. Once a star high school quarterback, Eric had been blessed with looks and charisma, which he now used to his advantage as an M and A lawyer at Nelson, Fairbanks and Koch.
Eric had a suspicious gleam in his eyes. “How’s my big brother?”
Kyle crossed his arms. “Wr
iting. What’s up?”
Eric removed his trench coat without being asked to stay. As usual, he was wearing a silver Brooks Brothers suit with a power tie perfectly knotted. “Can we sit?”
Kyle’s heart plummeted as he recognized the somber tone in Eric’s voice. “Shit, something’s happened to Shawna.” Kyle had visions of his sister’s dead body on an ER gurney somewhere. Another OD, this one successful.
“Relax. Shawna’s fine,” Eric assured. “In fact, right now she and her latest freak boyfriend are crashing on my futon.”
Kyle released his breath. Thank God their sister was all right. He couldn’t go through another scare like last year.
Eric’s face remained grim. “Listen, I received a strange call yesterday from Ray Roamingbear.”
Kyle, Eric and their younger sister, Shawna, had been born on a Cree reservation in British Columbia. Their mother, who was white, left their alcoholic father, Jon Elkheart, and moved them to Seattle. It had been a turbulent time in Kyle’s life because he had been close to his Cree father. In the past twenty years, Kyle had been back to the reservation to visit a number of times. Eric and Shawna, who were estranged from Elkheart, hadn’t been back once. Whenever their cousin, Ray Roamingbear, called out of the blue, it usually was to share bad news about their father.
Kyle braced himself for the worst. “What’s the news?”
“Last month Elkheart went on another drinking binge and disappeared. He didn’t tell anyone he was leaving or where he was going.”
“Shit.” Kyle felt a mixture of fear and disappointment. Every couple years their father, an archaeologist and chronic myth chaser, called asking Kyle to wire money to help fund some expedition or, when his father went through a bad bender, bail him out of a drunk tank. “Does Ray have any clue where Dad went?”
“Nothing.” Eric opened the fridge and helped himself to a bottle of Evian. “Ray thinks Elkheart took off to South America on another one of his treasure hunts. My bet is he’s probably passed out again and doesn’t know where the fuck he is.”
Kyle stared out the window at the drizzling rain and the fog shrouding downtown Seattle. “The last time Dad and I spoke he said he had quit drinking and started going to AA.”
“Elkheart called you?” Kyle thought he heard jealousy in Eric’s voice. Talking about their father had always been a sensitive subject.
“Yeah, last summer.” Kyle gazed at a bookshelf that had a framed photo of himself with his father on one of their camping trips. “I went to visit him for a weekend at the reservation. Dad looked great. Happy for once. He had a new university job and a steady girlfriend. He’s been making an effort to turn his life around.”
“Elkheart never asked me up for a visit,” Eric grumbled.
An awkward silence fell between them. There had to be more to the story, because Eric wouldn’t have bothered to visit otherwise. Eager to get back to writing, Kyle wished his brother would cut to the chase. “Any other news?”
“Yeah, Ray said that he and Grandfather Two Hawks are the last tribe members living on the reservation. And check this out…with Elkheart M.I.A. or whatever, you, me and Shawna are the last descendents of the tribe. Ray and Grandfather have something to pass on to us. Something our father was supposed to give us years ago.”
“Did Ray say what it was?”
Eric shook his head. “He said we have to come up to Canada to find out. He invited us all to visit the reservation. Shawna and I have already agreed to go. She’s bringing what’s-his-face, and I’m taking Jessica.”
“I thought you were dating Stella.”
Eric laughed. “Man, you’ve been out of touch. I see Stella when I’m in Portland. There’s Rachel in Vegas and Kristen in L.A. Jessica’s the one I’ve been dating in Seattle.”
Kyle shook his head. “I don’t even bother to keep up anymore.” He ushered his brother toward the door. “You guys have a great time in Canada. Send me a postcard.”
“Actually…” Eric cleared his throat. “We were hoping you could break away for a few days and go with us. Maybe even fly us there in your plane.”
And there it was—the sales pitch Kyle had been waiting for. “I can’t. I’ve…” Kyle looked down at a stack of unedited chapters on the coffee table. “I need to focus on finishing my book. I’ve got a deadline to meet.”
“What better place to write than a remote cabin?” Eric flashed the smile he used to win over clients. “The fresh mountain air could do wonders for your writing. Think about it. This is a chance for all three of us to travel back to our childhood home. Reconnect with our Cree heritage.”
Or find out why we’re all so screwed up. A week in the mountains with his brother and one of his bimbo girlfriends was not a selling point, but Kyle did miss his sister and was slightly curious as to what his native relatives had for them. There was also the off chance that their father might show up, assuming he wasn’t rehabbing at a hacienda in the Mexican desert.
Kyle remained on the fence.
Eric switched his tone to begging. “Come on, it’s been ages since the three of us did anything together. We’ve all had it pretty tough since Mom passed away. It would be good for all of us if we made this trip a family vacation.”
Kyle gave his brother a sideways look. “Since when did you start caring so much about doing things with me and Shawna?”
“Since we almost lost her last year. If you won’t go for me, at the very least go for Shawna. She needs her brothers to steer her in the right direction.” Eric walked up and put a hand on Kyle’s shoulder. “What do you say?”
Kyle looked around at the apartment that had grown tomblike since his wife’s death two years ago. His shrink had diagnosed him as borderline agoraphobic. Except to buy groceries, go kayaking alone or maintaining currency on his pilot’s license, he rarely ventured outside. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d gotten together with his siblings. Lately, Kyle’s only company had been the ghost that walked the apartment at night, whispering strange phrases into his ear. A vacation in the mountains might be just the thing. He sighed. “Okay, you win. When do you guys want to leave?”
His brother grinned. “Tomorrow at the crack of dawn.”
Chapter Two
The next morning, Kyle arrived at Lake Union as the sun was stretching its golden fingers behind Mt. Rainier. He sat behind the wheel and stared at the lake. Fog drifted across the dark water. He felt a strong tug to go back to his apartment. Why did I let Eric talk me into this? Kyle picked up his phone and started to call his brother to back out, but then hung up. He needed this trip.
He got out and grabbed his backpack and bedroll. The dew was heavy on the grass, and a light haze floated around the marina. The weather report said the fog should dissipate within the hour, followed by clear skies and sunshine. A perfect day for flying. As Kyle walked down the dock to the hangar wharf, the sight of his pontoon plane was like seeing an old friend. Painted yellow and forest green, the single-prop de Havilland Turbo Otter seaplane had been his first major purchase after he’d gotten out of college.
He climbed onto a pontoon and ran his hand along the side of the plane. “Hey, girl. Did you miss me?”
The plane rocked on the water from the wake of a passing boat.
Kyle climbed up into the cockpit and was quickly reminded of the man he used to be: adventurous, confident, happy to be alive. As he went through his preflight procedures, he was taken back to a time when he used to work as a charter pilot, flying scenic tours over Seattle and Washington’s beautiful forests and mountains. Occasionally, he had delivered supplies to Vancouver or Kodiak Island. He had taken the plane up a couple times in the past year, but it had been routine flights to stay up to code with his currency. The last flight that he had actually enjoyed had been with Stephanie on her birthday. The memory of his late wife threatened to shatter Kyle’s mood. He quickly pushed thoughts of her away and focused on the checklist.
“Don’t leave me, Kyle,” a woman’s voice whispere
d with the wind.
Startled, he looked around the harbor wharf at all the floating planes. There was no one here but him.
* * *
Eric parked his Lexus near a dock at the lake. He looked at his three sleeping passengers. Jessica, Shawna and Zack had slept the entire forty-minute ride from his house to the lake. “Wake up, everybody. Time to get moving.” Eric patted his girlfriend’s leg.
In the passenger seat, Jessica stretched and yawned. “Where’s the airport?”
“You’re looking at it.” Eric motioned toward the vast lake, where a pontoon plane was already taking off. “Where we’re going, they don’t have runways.”
The Devil's Woods Page 2
