North Woods Law (The Great North Woods Pack Book 5)

by Shawn Underhill

  At times he remained with the caribou for days on end, even weeks. He watched over them as if their self-appointed guardian, though they didn’t come near to understanding. Being extremely simple creatures, they would sometimes grow worried and move away, and the old Snow would give them space before following after them again.

  More than once he stooped to taking on the form of a wild man in their sight. But when that too grew old and they became too wary to rest in his presence, he would speak peace to their simple minds and finally withdraw completely, knowing well their reason for distrust.

  It was a strong mistrust, not of personal memory but of collective ancestral experience. It served them well. Carnivores might sometimes test the herd, searching for a straggler to feed upon. But men were not always safer. Certain kinds would merely gawk when the herds crossed rural roads. Certain other kinds would shoot every last one of them, given the chance.

  They had done it before.

  They would likely do it again.

  Abel knew that sort very well. He’d dealt with violent men all his long life.

  Though it was now illegal to shoot caribou in the state of Maine, the caribou were not aware of any such law. Rather, they adhered to their learned instincts over official policy. They were better off that way.

  But Abel knew that law. If any man dared brake that law, he resolved to break that man. No one would find a scrap of such a man to place below a headstone. That was his law. Not written on any paper, but the most prominent of all.

  Yet, even he could not be everywhere at once.

  He lay now on the edge of a secluded glade, watching the herd bed down together. With the sense of kin needling him, the great wolf finally gave in and stood. He stretched the stiffness from his legs, then shook himself to dispel the chills from his spine. Turning his back on the caribou herd, he started for the village with a grumble in his throat.

  Chapter 7

  The lights of the outpost station flickered through the trees.

  Kerry Bowers could no longer feel her toes and fingers. If she let herself cry for fear of frostbite, the tears would only freeze to her face. And if she appeared upset before Robert Jones, she would only make him right. Women weren’t fit to be wardens. She certainly wasn’t.

  Not to him.

  There was more to it than that, of course. If she’d been older and heavier and more impressed with him and perhaps kept a lip full of tobacco, he might have eased up and treated her like one of the guys. But since she was younger, educated, in decent shape, completely unimpressed with him and unwilling to flatter him, he disliked her more with each passing day.

  It had been her dream job.

  Until she’d known all it entailed.

  But Jones wouldn’t get the best of her. Kerry was determined. Just a few more years and he’d be gone. Out to pasture. The only sway he’d hold would be over other old men gathered round the coffee pot at the country store. Then she could let down her guard and enjoy the work she loved.

  Entering the final turn before the trail opened up before the station, a large blur of black suddenly flashed at the far edge of the block of light from the snowmobile’s headlight.

  Kerry took her frozen thumb from the throttle and coasted to a halt. Was she delirious? Exhausted to the point where her eyes were playing tricks?

  The black streak was no small animal. It was at least the size of an adult black bear. Not an old six hundred pound monster. But certainly not a little yearling. Either way it was odd. What bear with any sense would leave its den amid an Arctic high pressure front? There was nothing to be gained and everything to lose.

  The temperature was now double digits below zero. And falling. That, without the wind chill factor. By sunup the mercury might touch thirty below.

  After a time she hit the throttle again. The trail straightened and the trees gave way and her headlights washed over the aging outpost building. In the parking lot she saw two green trucks and a plain sedan. One truck was assigned to her, one to Jones. The car belonged to Dorothy, the office secretary and assistant.

  Of course he’s still here, she thought. But she was glad that Dorothy was still there too. She would have a pot of hot decaf waiting on the burner. And Jones would be moderately civil with Dorothy around.

  She stopped before a garage bay door and stood stiffly on her heels. Her toes mercifully prickled as she rocked her weight. Meaning they weren’t quite frozen solid yet. She made painful fists with both hands and then removed her gloves in order to manage her key ring. With stiff fingers she unlocked the bay door and then idled the snowmobile inside. Killing the engine, she passed the sled bearing the body bag without looking on it. Closed the bay door and locked it and came in the side door and locked that behind her. She shed her helmet and trudged back to her office.

  Outside, the sleek black wolf crept along unseen.

  She walked silently on the packed snow and approached the three vehicles. Her nose could put a bloodhound to shame, and now, after months of practice, she had learned to trust it above all other senses. She now had the woman’s scent committed to permanent memory. She slunk near the green truck emitting the familiar scent and purposely distinguished it from the scents related to the other vehicles.

  Turning, she regarded the building containing the three humans. Then she crept close, slinking in the shadows beneath the glowing windows at the front of the long and rectangular structure.

  Her ears worked nearly as well as her nose.

  Chapter 8

  Harold’s forge was made of pine logs, as most all buildings were. Approaching it, the trio of Snows passed several homes, rustic little cabins, a one-room schoolhouse, and a sugar shack for boiling maple sap. There was a large woodpile under a long overhang near the front door of the forge. Through the small frosted windows the glow of candles and a fire flickered.

  “Wolf’s Den Custom Tools,” Evie said, reading the wooden sign over the door. It had wolves sitting back to back, their heads turned up to the sky. Two axes, crossed like a firefighter’s shield, were displayed on the heavy plank door.

  “For sure it is my comfortable den,” Harold stated. “You name it, I can make it.”

  “I love that sign.”

  “Ah, you got me there,” he said. “I’d be a rotten liar taking credit for that sign. I can make a fine handle and a few other odds and ends. But, as you’ve seen, we have some mighty fine woodworkers here among us.”

  They stepped into a large open space that smelled of wood fire and candles and faintly of pipe tobacco. The low light shone on hammers and shovels and rakes, knives and axes, hatchets and battle hawks, pitchforks and pickaroons and horseshoes, all hung from the walls and beams. Some of the steel was plain and dark, charred black from the fire. Some of the axes and knives were polished to a mirror finish, and some even had filing designs and etchings that resembled elvish script. Each piece was custom, slightly varied from the others, indicating both the care and creative nature of their makers.

  Even the wooden handles of the various tools were well above average implements. They were not blocky but steamed and sanded to beautifully smooth curves that melted into the hand and then treated with oils to bring out the grain of the hickory and poplar wood.

  Nothing resembled the Chinese throwaway tools found in modern home and garden stores. These tools were made to last lifetimes and be passed on.

  On a thick beam near the doorway, Evie noted a small wooden decorative sign. On it was carved a shield and an axe, with the inscription save us from the fury of the men of the north.

  “Perhaps I shouldn’t jest of such matters,” Harold said when he saw her reading it. “But neither should we ignore the prowess and great reach of our relatives that crossed the seas. Hmm?”

  She nodded, picturing some frightened monk uttering that plea when he saw the longships appear on the horizon.

  Against one wall stood a line of walking sticks. Some had heads of wolves, some bearded men. Running the length of the s
ticks she noticed the same elvish script as some of the axes. It was carved and scorched into the wood.

  She had to ask.

  “Not all who wander are lost.” Harold said. But he was now focused on his young apprentice, who was not a boy but clearly a man. He was laboring over glowing steel with a heavy hammer, the sleeves of his flannel shirt rolled up over knotty forearms. Seemingly consumed with his task, he never glanced over at them as they entered.

  “Can’t quit, can you?” Harold said, approaching him and inspecting the work with a frown.

  “I hate to,” said the boy.

  “Funny. Seems to me that I instructed you to.”

  “Sir?”

  “Stop hammering, I say.”

  He did.

  Harold looked from the glowing metal to the boy and said, “Without a proper eye, we sure can’t have a proper axe. Can we?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Has a handle ever fit well within a poor eye?”

  “Never, sir. This is my third try today.”

  “Sad day, I say. But everyone loses a battle now and then. You’re exhausted, boy. Spent.”

  He sighed heavily in unspoken agreement.

  “Get out of here,” Harold said. “You may start anew tomorrow.”

  “I hate to give up, sir.”

  “Right you do. But you see, I’ve instructed you to. Eh? Multiple times. Have I not? See, look about you a moment. This is my place, last I checked. How could you learn too well the lesson of persistence, and yet completely miss the lesson of following direct orders? Explain that, can ya?”

  The boy said nothing. He set his hammer down reluctantly, wiped his brow on his apron and then removed the apron. Then he looked full at the visitors with a nod and a forced smile.

  David, Evie thought. The resemblance was striking when she saw his face squarely. Same eyes. Same nose and mouth. He was certainly of the Wilson family.

  Harold said, “Go join the feast.”

  “I’ve no appetite, sir,” Stephen replied.

  “Stop calling me sir fifty times a day. For pity’s sake.”

  “I don’t always.”

  Harold made a sound like a loud laugh or grunt, saying, “Oh, yes. Of course not. For sanity’s sake, how many times have I told you?”

  “I …”

  “Yes. You sure do. Let me tell you.”

  “Sorry, s—”

  “Ah, I see how it is. Nothing changes. Should I smack you before the lady? Would that help your senses?”

  “No.” He wanted terribly to add sir. “Sorry.”

  “That you are. I believe it.”

  Stephen shook his head and whispered, “Sorry.”

  “And stop apologizing,” Harold burst.

  “Yes. Right.”

  “Such a good, infuriating boy, you are. Blast it all!”

  Stephen said nothing.

  “What’s this?” Harold said next. His shoulders were shaking with low laughter as he searched his apprentice’s face with mock exaggeration. “I see now. Very strange, very strange. I rob you only of sorry and sir and you become a mute.”

  The boy shrugged. He was at a total loss.

  “How do you really feel?”

  “Honest and freely?”

  “Of course. Speak up.”

  “I feel angry, sir. I mean … angry.”

  “Aye, yes. An old bat sleeping between the shingles could see as much.”

  Stephen nodded.

  “So, I trust the banshee has been at her screaming fits again.”

  “Like mad,” Stephen said with a deep breath.

  “Then why do you stay?”

  “I work here, sir.”

  Harold bit down hard on his pipe.

  “I mean, I work for you,” Stephen said.

  “Keep proving me right. That’s it. Go on with the game. Like a blue-tongued blueberry thief hollering of his innocence.”

  “I work here, Mr. Snow.”

  “During work hours, yes. But now, see, look there. Tell me, is there any daylight beyond that winder?”

  Stephen didn’t bother to look to the window. He just stood there looking lost and dejected, searching blindly for something to say.

  “Must I toss you out the door?” Harold asked. “You’re torturing yourself, boy. Remove yourself from these premises. Say hello to our guests and then go fetch some supper and good company. Perhaps some wine. Do you hear me?”

  “I do, I do. Yes. Of course.”

  “Good. Get going. Now, not later.”

  Stephen nodded and finally moved away from his instructor, at which point Harold sighed a great sigh. Then Stephen stood at attention before Joseph Snow and, of course, addressed him as sir.

  “I’m glad to see you, young Mr. Wilson,” Joseph said. “This with me is Evie.”

  Stephen only looked at her for a moment. Long enough to bow his head politely and realize that she was certainly one of the Snows. Then his eyes returned to the elder.

  “With respect, sir,” he said. “My work is suffering because of that wretched creature locked in the back room.”

  “She’ll be gone shortly,” Joseph assured him. “I truly am sorry for your grief.”

  “She brought loss and pain to my household, our name, sir. She troubles me daily, and I can do nothing about it. That is certainly grief.”

  Joseph Snow nodded slowly, holding eye contact. Before he could speak the boy had shaken his head and was speaking again.

  “I’m sorry, sir. I’ve no right to question your authority, as I’ve none to question Abel’s or Harold’s. Forgive me, I’m not at my best. In truth, I haven’t slept well in quite some time.”

  “Get to the hall,” Harold ordered. “Have you got ears, boy? Out with you. Out! Out!”

  Stephen jumped. Made a quick bow to the visitors. Then stepped over and took his wool coat from a hook and promptly went out from the warmth to the biting cold. He shut the door just shy of slamming it.

  “Twenty-one years young,” Harold said. “Ah, darn good boy if I ever saw one. Looks like he’s not going to make the change, and it’s bothering him something fierce. That, and having the woman ten yards away sure don’t help a feller.”

  “I’m responsible,” Joseph exhaled.

  “Leading has its hardships,” Harold replied, puffing smoke. “Aye, might as well get it over with. Come now and see our unfortunate roommate.”

  Chapter 9

  They walked through a doorway to a very basic office with wooden tables and chairs and wooden shelves. Evie noticed a nice new computer on a table and, at the far end, a much older computer monitor. Big and blocky. This particular model was set apart by having the head of a smith’s hammer buried deep within its electronic guts, the handle protruding from the broken screen. It was very dusty, even in the low light. Evidently it had been shoved aside after the battle and completely ignored ever since.

  She didn’t ask.

  A second door stood before them. The only door in the village with a lock, Harold made sure to point out. Which happened to be a glorified rotating wooden system, something like those found on barn doors, but this one being intended not for keeping wind and critters out but a person in.

  Harold raised a heavy board and opened the thick door and brought them into a storage room. A dull amber bulb dimly lit the space from above. One small window, mostly boarded over, allowed a thin view of the outside world. In one corner there were several disfigured computer towers and monitors, and a laptop smashed almost beyond recognition. There was a fair amount of dust and sawdust accumulated on everything. No hammers or tools. Soft music was playing from an old tabletop CD player on one end of a low woodpile.

  Don’t Fear The Reaper.

  In the far corner huddled what remained of Rowan Merrill. Now emaciated and filthy, missing much hair, wrapped in blankets, cowering, she was tethered by the neck with a chain. She did not acknowledge their arrival in any way.

  “She screams to raise the dead, then falls into long si
lences,” Harold explained. “Never communicates clearly with a-one-of-us.”

  Evie couldn’t look at her. Her eyes fell to an assortment of CDs beside the player. Pop princesses and boybands. And one newer CD by a boy who sounded like a girl.

  No wonder she was crazy.

  “That’s the rotation,” Harold said. “The boys who drive trucks find these cheap CD thingamajigs in the towns. Popular stuff with the city folk. Ain’t it?”

  “Not with me,” she replied.

  He looked mildly perplexed for a moment, then resumed to say, “Well, the only one that matters is the death song. The reaper song. Somewhere Abel overheard it and it stuck with him. Told us specifically to add it to the rotation. Wishes her to be consumed with thoughts of death, yet never know when she might attain it. So here she sits, day and night, neither living nor dying nor knowing the difference. Only making us crazy.”

  How on earth did he hear that song? Evie asked herself. With the tension in the room, she didn’t feel it right to raise such an insignificant question aloud.

  Without a word Joseph Snow turned and left the room. The others exchanged uncomfortable glances and followed just after, Harold locking the door behind them.

  They stood in the large open area of the forge amid the glow of the fading fire and flickering candles. Evie wasn’t exactly a huge fan of such man caves, but she had to admit, this one was quite interesting. Strangely cozy, despite all the razor sharp tools and weapons. It was old but well cared for, aside from all of Harold’s spent match sticks discarded all over the floor. No matter where he was, spent matches were constantly being tossed around.

  Somehow the place emanated with pride. Much smaller than the longhouse, but still, somehow, very proud. She could imagine Harold spending many hours here perfecting his craft and then gladly sharing those skills. It was quiet. She cringed inwardly to think what it must be like for Stephen hearing the crazed prisoner’s muffled screams through the walls while he was trying to focus.

  A long silence was broken by the front door suddenly bursting open. Stephen rushed back inside, accompanied by a blast of frigid air. Without the presence of mind to close the door, he went right to work apologizing to Evie and Joseph for his rude and disrespectful behavior.