Wendigo Read online

  PRAISE FOR VAUGHN C. HARDACKER

  “In this hard-hitting crime novel … Hardacker keeps the action flowing all the way to the violent climax.”

  —Publishers Weekly on Black Orchid

  “Fast paced and action packed, Black Orchid takes the Hollywood private eye novel in a bold and exciting new direction. You won’t want to put it down.”

  —Paul Doiron, author of The Precipice on Black Orchid

  “Hardacker is a writer as comfortably at home on the dark streets of Boston as he is in the north woods of Maine. In both places, his story of a twisted serial killer will make you feel like you’re there even as he keeps you right on the edge of your chair. This ensemble of strong men, strong women, good bad guys, and bad bad guys will take you on a trip you won’t want to miss.”

  —Kate Flora, winner of the 2013 Maine Literary Award for Crime Fiction on The Fisherman

  “Born in Southie and forged by the Marine Corps, there’s no way Boston police detective Mike Houston is going to sit still for a sniper shooting up his city, never mind going after the people he loves. A tense and exciting duel that turns the pages for you.”

  —Stephen D. Rogers, author of Shot to Death on Sniper

  “From its initial horrific crime to its hold-your-breath climax, Sniper is a full-throttle thriller. Hardacker has written a page-turner that feels authentic both technically and in its very human cast of characters. Fans of Stephen Hunter’s Bob Lee Swagger won’t want to miss this outstanding debut!”

  —Steve Ulfelder, Edgar-nominated author of Shotgun Lullaby on Sniper

  “Tense, taut, and genuinely chilling. Hardacker instills this disturbingly sinister tale of vengeance and terror with true Boston heart and authenticity.”

  —Hank Phillippi Ryan; Agatha, Anthony, Macavity, and Mary Higgins Clark award–winning author of The Wrong Girl on Sniper

  “Hardacker handles the action and the characters well and ties things together in a suspenseful manner.”

  —Kirkus Reviews on Sniper

  Also by Vaughn C. Hardacker

  Sniper

  The Fisherman

  Black Orchid

  Copyright © 2017 by Vaughn C. Hardacker

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Skyhorse Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Excerpts from pages xi–xii from Manitous: The Spiritual World of The Ojibway by Basil Johnston, Copyright 1995 by Basil H. Johnston. Reprinted by permission of HarperCollins Publishers and Beverly Slopen Literary Agency, 131 Bloor Street West, Toronto, Canada M5S1S3.

  Skyhorse Publishing books may be purchased in bulk at special discounts for sales promotion, corporate gifts, fund-raising, or educational purposes. Special editions can also be created to specifications. For details, contact the Special Sales Department, Skyhorse Publishing, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018 or [email protected].

  Skyhorse® and Skyhorse Publishing® are registered trademarks of Skyhorse Publishing, Inc.®, a Delaware corporation.

  Visit our website at www.skyhorsepublishing.com.

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  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  Cover design by Erin Seaward-Hiatt

  Print ISBN: 978-1-5107-1591-2

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-5107-1593-6

  Printed in the United States of America

  DEDICATION

  To Connie, who was my first fan and supporter, and to Leslie Jane, my current number-one fan and supporter, who said this one scared the crap out of her!

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  As with any work, there are many people who were invaluable to me in completing Wendigo. I would like to take a moment to thank a few of them.

  The North Maine Woods covers more than 3.5 million acres (14,000 square kilometers) of forestland. While global economic changes and other factors have hurt Maine’s forest-resources industry, forest products are still a key part of the state’s economy. Maine has two hundred forest-products businesses employing some twenty-four thousand people. The forest-products industry directly contributes some $1.8 billion to the state’s economy each year. Maine is the second largest paper producing state. The North Maine Woods is managed by North Maine Woods, Inc., in Ashland, Maine. Executive Director Al Cowperthwaite was a great resource quickly answering my questions about the woods industry, and about geographical features of the woods.

  Thanks are also owed to Warden Ryan Fitzpatrick of the Maine Department of Inland Fisheries and Wildlife Warden Service, who gave me assistance on warden procedures and organization.

  Ojibway teacher and scholar from Ontario Basil Johnston’s book on Native American gods, The Manitous, was instrumental, particularly in its well-written chapter on the Wendigo, spelled Weendigo in the book. Johnston brings out the point that the myth does have its real-world counterparts. He states that the Wendigo is never satisfied: the more it eats, the more it grows, and the more it grows, the more it needs to eat; it is constantly hungry. He argues that the modern-day Wendigo is the logging industry, in that the more timber they cut, the more they need to cut, leaving our natural woodlands looking like the result of a humongous bomb detonation or the impact of an interstellar body similar to the meteor (or asteroid) that exterminated the dinosaurs.

  To Maxim Brown, my editor at Skyhorse Publishing, for his insight and patience while I made major revisions based on his recommendations. To Jay Cassell of Skyhorse Publishing, who took a chance on me, and now we are up to book number four with number five under contract (hang in there, you who are awaiting more of Ed Traynor).

  You, the reader, give me the fortitude to keep writing, to fight off the deadly impact of procrastination on those days when I’d rather goof off than place myself in front of a word processor—thank you.

  Stockholm, Maine

  2016

  Of the evil beings who dwelt on the periphery of the world of the Anishinaubae peoples, none was more terrifying than the Weendigo. It was a creature loathsome to behold and as loathsome in its habits, conduct, and manners.

  The Weendigo was a giant manitou in the form of a man or a woman, who towered five to eight times above the height of a tall man. But the Weendigo was a giant in height only; in girth and strength, it was not. Because it was afflicted with never-ending hunger and could never get enough to eat, it was always on the verge of starvation. The Weendigo was gaunt to the point of emaciation, its desiccated skin pulled tautly over its bones. With its bones pushing out against its skin, its complexion the ash gray of death, and its eyes pushed back deep into their sockets, the Weendigo looked like a gaunt skeleton recently disinterred from the grave. What lips it had were tattered and bloody from its constant chewing with jagged teeth.

  Unclean and suffering from suppurations of the flesh, the Weendigo gave off a strange and eerie odor of decay and decomposition, of death and corruption.

  When the Weendigo set to attack a human being, a dark snow cloud would shroud its upper body from the waist up. The air would turn cold, so the trees crackled. Then a wind would rise, no more than a breath at first, but in moments whining and driving, transformed into a blizzard.

  Behind the odor and chill of death and the killing blizzard came the Weendigo.

  Even before the Weendigo laid hands on them, many people died in their tracks from fright;
just to see the Weendigo’s sepulchral face was enough to induce heart failure and death. For others, the monster’s shriek was more than they could bear.

  Those who died of fright were lucky; their death was merciful and painless. But for those who had the misfortune to live through their terror, death was slow and agonizing.

  The Weendigo seized its victim and tore him, or her, limb from limb with its hands and teeth, eating the flesh and bones and drinking the blood while its victim screamed and struggled. The pain of others meant nothing to the Weendigo; all that mattered was its survival.

  The Weendigo gorged itself and glutted its belly as if it would never eat again. But a remarkable thing always occurred. As the Weendigo ate, it grew, and as it grew so did its hunger, so that no matter how much it ate, its hunger always remained in proportion to its size. The Weendigo could never requite either its unnatural lust for human flesh or its unnatural appetite. It could never stop as animals do when bloated, unable to ingest another morsel, or sense as humans sense that enough is enough for the present. For the unfortunate Weendigo, the more it ate, the bigger it grew; and the bigger it grew, the more it wanted and needed.

  The Anishinaubae people had every reason to fear and abhor the Weendigo. It was a giant cannibal that fed only on human flesh, bones, blood. But the Weendigo represented not only the worst that a human can do to another human being and ultimately to himself or herself, but exemplified other despicable traits. Even the term “Weendigo” evokes images of offensive traits. It may be derived from ween dagoh, which means “solely for self,” or from weenin n’d’igooh, which means “fat” or excess.

  The Weendigo inspired fear. There was no human sanction or punishment to compare to death at the hands of the Weendigo …

  THE LEGEND

  The Saint John River, near what is now the Madawaska Maliseet First Nation, New Brunswick, Canada, 1683

  A gust of frigid wind caught and snapped the deerskin flap. The small fire at the center of the lodge struggled to ward off the cold while its light made the occupants’ shadows dance on the thin walls like an eerie shadow-puppet play. An old Maliseet man faced the five wide-eyed children who were huddled together as close as they could to the fire, several of them wrapped together in blankets, trying to absorb as much warmth as possible. The old man’s low, raspy voice filled the room above the periodic popping of the wood fire and the howling of the wind. His breath was visible in the air as his tale held his young audience captive.

  “It happened years ago, after Kji-kinap created the six worlds and the people. Many years before the French came to our lands and destroyed the balance of life, the people had shared with the Earth World from the time of creation. The people knew that for three seasons the Earth World worked hard providing crops so the people could survive the fourth season, when the Earth World rested. The balance was always uncertain, some seasons were dry and crops suffered, others were wet and again crops suffered. Then the whites came and killed the Earth World’s animals for the pleasure of it. They left the carcasses, taking only the prize meats, leaving the rest of the valuable gift to rot on the forest floor. Soon game was not so plentiful and Kji-kinap was displeased with the way both the French and the Algonquins had treated the Earth World. To teach the people a lesson and to get them to return to the old ways, Kji-kinap sent Wendigo to the land.

  “Wendigo has always been a cruel teacher. He visits during the Hunger Moon, when food is scarce and the people are weak with starvation. His lessons always bring death and suffering.

  “Over the land came a winter worse than anything the people had ever known. They knew Kji-kinap was angry and punished them for abusing the blessings that the Earth World provided. Snow fell for days at a time and soon was so deep even the deer and moose moved to the south. Many of the people died from the cold and lack of food.

  “There was among the people a great warrior named Plawej. He stood head and shoulders above the next tallest man in the village. He saw that the people’s need was great and declared he would take a band of hunters far away, toward the setting sun to seek food for the tribe. There was great celebration in the village, for Plawej was renowned throughout the land as a great hunter. “Surely,” the people said,” if there is anyone who can find game it is he.” The villagers were so sure that the hunt would be successful that they gave most of their food to the hunters for their journey.

  “The party was gone two moons with no word of them. One day, when it was so cold the air froze into fine crystals of ice, Wijik, one of the hunters, crawled into the village. The villagers took him before the council and placed him before a fire to warm. The warrior had been in the frigid cold for so long he was reluctant to sit close to the fire; its heat too painful for his cold flesh. He gathered the council around and this is the tale he told:

  ‘We traveled many days to the south and west, past the great lake shaped like the antlers of the moose. The cold and snow made travel hard and we saw no game. Plawej led us into a great cedar swamp where the snow was not so deep, but hoarfrost was everywhere. Never have I seen such a frozen and foreboding place. Ice coated the trees and their branches hung to the ground as if they were the arms of a great frozen monster, waiting to grab us up. It was there that Plawej decided to set our hunting camp. Many of the hunters were not happy with the place. The swamp air was so frigid that it seemed to freeze on our faces and every breath brought the glacial chill deep into our chests. On the ground, the hoarfrost was so thick and hard it was all we could do to chop through it for water. Plawej challenged anyone who doubted his decision. We all knew his prowess as a warrior, so no one challenged him.

  ‘We hunted around the great lake for seven suns and found no game. We told Plawej we should return home because we were running out of food. It is far better to starve with your people than to die alone in the deep woods. He refused us. Again he issued his challenge. No one took it.

  ‘The next morning when we arose, Skun and Njiknam were gone. We saw their tracks going toward the rising sun and believed they had given up and returned home. The following morning Tia’m and Mi’kmwesu were gone, the day after, Miskwekepu’j and Antawesk. The desertions continued until only Plawej and I remained.

  ‘Hunger and cold were the only truths we knew. I had lost much weight and was weakening. I knew I too had to leave while I still had enough strength to get home. Plawej, as was his habit, had left camp early, climbing one of the high ridges that surrounded the swamp. I was suspicious of his going off alone and I set out to find him. I walked on the ice, seeking the place where his tracks left the frozen bog and entered the deep snow. I followed his footprints out of the swamp and up the great ridge. I was almost atop the incline when I first smelled something foul. It smelled as if a great battle had taken place and the smell of spilled blood and death rode the gusting wind. The ledge was too steep for me to climb while carrying a notched arrow, so I took my war axe in hand, hung my bow across my shoulder and slowly climbed to the top.

  ‘Once atop the ridge, I heard cracking sounds and sought cover in some evergreen trees. Curious about what the sounds were, I crept toward their source. In a short time the cracking ended and a great beast, I hoped it was a moose, could be heard walking down the ridge. I notched an arrow in my bow and stepped out of the tangled evergreens.

  ‘What I found there will remain with me always. I was in an area of pine, beech, and great maple trees. Suspended from the trees were the remains of men. They had been devoured … the ground beneath the hanging carcasses covered with broken bones, the very marrow gone as if it had been sucked out. To one side I found a pile of clothing and weapons: Tia’m’s bow was there, as was Mi’kmwesu’s moccasins and Miskwekepu’j’s blanket. I looked up into the maple tree and saw what remained of Antawesk hanging by the neck in a forked branch. The fiend had lifted him up and left him there, no doubt to keep its food safe from other animals. At first I wanted to find Plawej, but was afraid the monster might return, smell my scent and follow me. I decid
ed to return to my hiding place in the evergreens and wait.

  ‘The sun was halfway across the sky when I heard it. I waited for him to get settled for his midday meal. I soon heard the cracking noises again and pushed aside the evergreen boughs.

  ‘I could not believe what I saw. There sat the creature—only it was not an animal!

  ‘It was Plawej. He squatted with his back to me, chewing and sucking the marrow out of one of Antawesk’s broken leg bones—he had become Wendigo.

  ‘I knew that even at full strength, I was no match for him, so I crept away. Once I reached the bottom of the ridge I ran and ran until I thought I could run no more—then I ran more. I ran until I dropped from exhaustion. Several times I heard Plawej call to me, asking me to wait for him so that we could travel together. I was too afraid to do anything but run….’”

  The children sat entranced. Only the smallest, her eyes wide with horror, was brave enough to speak. “What happened then, Grandfather?”

  “The next morning when Plawej arrived at the village, unaware Wijik had beaten him there, the people fell upon him and killed him. Because a Wendigo will resurrect unless his icy heart is melted in a great fire, they cut his body into pieces and burned the pieces.

  “But, that was not the end …”

  “It wasn’t?” the youngest said, her eyes wide and she leaned forward.

  “No, the villagers were too hasty. They did not remember all there is to know about the Wendigo. Although they are gaunt in appearance, no mortal man can move faster. It is said that it would be easier to outrun the wind than a Wendigo. It was impossible for Wijik to have outrun one.

  “As the fire in which Plawej burned died down, Wijik suddenly grew to over twenty feet tall. He snatched up two of the village children and disappeared into the woods, leaving only his laughter behind.”

  The children gasped as one. “You mean—” said the eldest.