Wendigo Page 6

  “They do that often?”

  “No, we’re all overworked and underpaid.”

  The remainder of the trip to the motel was completed in silence, each of them content to spend the time alone with their thoughts. John pulled into Del’s parking lot, circled the store, and slowed down to cruise along the front of the cabins. “It’s the fourth from the office,” Laura said.

  As he drove past the cabin with the yellow Hummer in front, John said, “I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but five minutes after you go over to Del’s for coffee someone’ll tell you that that cabin is where the victim’s sister and her boyfriend are staying.”

  Wells looked with interest at the vehicle. “Thanks, maybe I’ll try to get an interview tomorrow.”

  John pulled up in front of her door and said, “How about I buy you dinner before you go back?”

  “That sounds fine,” Laura said opening the door and stepping out into the freezing night air. “I’ll wait to hear from you then.”

  John pointed to the smoke spiraling from the small cabin’s chimney, “Looks like Del decided to warm the place up for you.”

  “Thank God for small favors,” she said with a smile. “Thanks for the lift. I’m going to hold you to that dinner promise.”

  John smiled and said, “Don’t get your hopes up. There ain’t any fancy restaurants in Lyndon Station.”

  “I’m sure we’ll make do,” she replied. “Thanks again.” She shut the door and walked into the cabin’s.

  John remained parked in front of the small cabin until he saw her enter and close the door behind her. As he drove out of the parking lot he realized he was looking forward to taking her out. He smiled to himself all the way home.

  It had been years since John had been interested in a woman. It was not like he didn’t have his share of chances—he was not a bad-looking man. Elaine told him that often enough. Women just didn’t seem to fit into his lifestyle. He lived in a two-room cabin in Ashland, not because he had to, but because he held little if any regard for material things. He had more than enough money to keep him living in comfort. In fact, if he didn’t want to work as a game warden ever again, he could sit in front of his fireplace and read. The job just seemed to fit his solitary ways, and gave him a reason to be in the outdoors most of the time. John Bear was not the type to be domesticated or housebroken. He liked being alone. In fact he chose to be alone. But of late he had found himself questioning his lifestyle more and more. Was he finally ready, at the age of forty-three, to get serious about a woman? Was he ready to start a family? The turmoil of his childhood came to mind and John shrugged the thoughts out of his mind. He was not sure if he was ready for that degree of responsibility or commitment. Let alone to trust a woman that much. There was, however, one thing he couldn’t deny. He found Laura Wells very intriguing.

  9

  Lyndon Station

  John swallowed the last of his coffee and rinsed the mug in the sink. He stared through the kitchen window at the predawn darkness. He turned his eyes to the left and looked at the thermometer on the outside window frame. The needle pointed to the twenty-below-zero mark.

  On the table, his brother’s radio was on and the disc jockey was reading the weather forecast. It was going to be cold. John already knew that. However the rest of the forecast was ominous. It called for the weather to warm up ahead of a frontal passage later in the day. That meant snow. They were calling for twelve to eighteen inches, and, when coupled with the forecasted thirty-five-mile-an-hour winds (with gusts to fifty miles an hour), it was more than enough to hinder John’s search. He knew it was today or never. He shook his head and remarked about the weather forecast. “Now ain’t that just goddamned great.”

  “Good morning.”

  John jumped with surprise; he had yet to get used to having anyone in the house with him. “You really get a charge out of sneaking up on people, don’t you?” he snapped at his brother, Tom.

  Tom smiled, undaunted by his older brother’s gruff behavior. “It’s not my fault you can’t think and hear at the same time.”

  “I’m sorry. I’m just a little jumpy. I didn’t want to disturb you.”

  “I’m usually an early riser,” Tom lied. The last thing he wanted to do was to tell John that neither he nor his wife, Clarisse, had slept all night. The thought of what John was about to do had kept them awake and they were afraid to say anything that could upset him. So they had suffered in silence.

  John rinsed his coffee mug with water and placed it in the sink. “I’d better get going. We’re due for some weather today and tomorrow. I don’t have much time.”

  “John, I heard that forecast—they’re calling for another nor’easter. Can’t this investigation of yours wait until after the storm?”

  “No. If I wait I’ll never find its trail—at least not before it comes back and kills someone else. This town is so damned small I guarantee the next victim will be someone I know.”

  Tom decided to make one last plea to dissuade him. “It’s bad enough you’re going into the wilderness after who knows what but with the weather forecasted, you’ll be risking death from exposure.”

  “Give it a rest, okay? I’m going,” The tone of his voice told Tom the issue was settled. John struggled into his heavy coat and added, “I’ve got a cell. Hell, it even has a built-in GPS! If it starts to get bad and you don’t hear from me for two days, call the warden service. They’ll come and get me with a plane.”

  “Planes don’t fly in blizzards.”

  Damn, John thought, he’s as stubborn as I am. Although he was not about to admit it, John knew Tom was right. But this was his job, what the state paid him to do. He picked up his rifle and pistol. “I’ll be careful,” he said. He gave Tom a weak smile, patted him on the shoulder, and walked through the door into the frozen darkness.

  _____________

  John was less than a mile from his brother’s house when his cell phone rang. “John Bear,” he said.

  “It’s Murph. We got another one.”

  “Where?”

  “Same area … the victim is Raymond Labelle. He ran a trap line.”

  “Where are you now?”

  “A couple of miles from where we found Kelly. This one looks like he’s been here for a while.”

  “Give me an hour.”

  “Hurry up, John. I have to confess that I’m not enjoying being out here alone.”

  _____________

  T19, R11

  The body was in much the same condition as Kelly’s. Who or whatever had killed Raymond Labelle had slaughtered him. Once again the chest cavity had been ripped open and the legs were gone. John was sure that Serge would find the heart and liver missing. This time the killer had had more time to do his work.

  John studied the area. “Just like Kelly, finding anything is gonna be a problem.”

  Murphy said, “Like that crime scene, I found tracks over there under a tree.” He pointed down the road. “They’re old, but more legible than the ones near the Kelly kid.”

  “Who else you call?” John asked.

  “The state police. They’re sending a chopper in here to lift him out.”

  “Let’s take a look at those tracks.”

  They walked down the road and once again found large tracks similar to those found at Kelly’s murder scene. The killer had stayed on the road until it intersected an animal trail and had then turned off into the woods. The two wardens stood beside the road and looked where the tracks disappeared into the dense tree cover.

  “What’s in that direction,” John asked.

  Murphy, who was familiar with the area, answered, “Not much. Viverette Settlement is northwest about twenty-five miles … but beyond that we got no jurisdiction. It’s Quebec.”

  Their musing was interrupted by the sound of an approaching helicopter and they turned back to meet it. As they neared the body, Murphy asked, “John, you think we have any chance of finding this guy?”

  “I think tha
t there will be one hell of a body count if we don’t.”

  “What possible motive can the killer have?”

  “If it’s what I think it is, it’s hunting.”

  “Hunting for what?”

  “What men have hunted for thousands of years—food.”

  _____________

  When the departing helicopter was a small dot against the low-hanging clouds, John turned to Murphy. “You got room on your trailer for my sled?”

  “I should have. Where are you going?”

  “I’m going to follow those tracks—” John lifted the cover to his sled’s storage department and took out a pair of snowshoes, “—afoot. If we get the snow that’s forecast, we may not get another chance to find out who or what we’re dealing with.”

  “Are you sure about this? There’s over three feet of snow in the woods.” Murphy stared at John as if he was uncertain whether or not he should speak what was on his mind. After a pause he asked, “When were you on snowshoes last?”

  John grinned as he dropped the shoes into the snow. “Been a while, that’s for sure.”

  Murphy picked up one of the snowshoes. He turned it over and studied it. The bottom of the shoe was orange and was supported by a sturdy aluminum frame; the boot was similar to that of a ski in that it only allowed the wearer’s heel to rise up to make walking easier. “These things have come a long way. How long is it?”

  “L.L. Bean catalog lists it as thirty inches. It fits into the storage compartment perfectly.”

  “It’s still gonna be hard, especially if you aren’t used to shoeing in deep snow.”

  “Yeah, only problem is that I don’t see any other way.”

  10

  T19, R11

  John adjusted the straps of his backpack and the sling on his rifle so they would not dig into his shoulder and walked in the direction the track led, keeping his eyes on the ground until he found the second track. The footprints had to be eight or ten feet apart. Even if the killer was running, he had to be one big bastard to cover that much ground in a single step. He was glad he had brought his snowshoes. Even though this was his first time on shoes this winter and his legs ached from the unaccustomed exertion, it beat trudging through calf-deep snow. He saw a line of tracks equidistant to each other and, for the next hour, he followed them.

  The trail continued to go southwest, never faltering nor drifting away from their tack. The trail did not circumvent dense brush and tree limbs, the murderer merely busted through, apparently paying them little, if any, mind. He definitely knows where he’s going, John surmised. He’s making a beeline to some place.

  John glanced upward. What he saw in the sky did not please him. The clouds appeared to be dropping lower and lower, a sure sign of snow. He knew from experience that before long the forecasted storm would be upon him. The wind began to add to his discomfort by whipping and gusting through the trees knocking snow from the heavily burdened branches onto his head and shoulders. “Of all times for the weatherman to be right,” he groaned in frustration. “Why did he have to pick today?”

  John looked at his watch. It was three in the afternoon and he had been snowshoeing for almost three hours with only a couple of short breaks. He was cold, and his legs were sore from walking on snowshoes. In an hour and a half it would be sunset, not enough time for him to make it back to Lyndon Station. He needed to find a place to settle in for the night and the last thing he wanted to do was set up camp in the dark. He decided to continue on until he found a suitable place to construct some sort of shelter for the night. He was determined to track this killer to the end, even if it meant weathering the storm in a makeshift lean-to. Blizzard or no blizzard, he was not going back until he had found the Wendigo.

  Just prior to three, the snowflakes started to fall. At first they were large and heavy, what one usually encountered in a short, fast-moving squall. However in a half hour they turned into light, fine flakes—the type associated with prolonged and serious accumulation. The wind increased and each gust whipped the crystalline water against John’s exposed face, stinging his flesh like a swarm of stinging insects. The airborne snow rolled across the landscape, giving the appearance of a tidal wave—a mammoth wave of frozen water rolling over, around, and (John was sure) through him. This was going to be a much stronger storm than the weatherman had predicted; John was not going to be able to stay out in this.

  Suddenly, John found himself in a small meadow. He saw several large pines scattered through the clearing and spied one whose boughs were arched downward under the weight of snow, creating a natural shelter. He crawled inside and shrugged with approval when he found himself sheltered from the wind and snow. He removed the cell phone from his pocket and checked the display—it read: NO SERVICE. Before he could return it to his pocket, he froze in place. He stared out through the pine branches, which spread over his head and surveyed the clearing.

  Something was there. Something big.

  Slowly and without taking his eyes off the figure, John slipped the phone into his pocket, and crept forward. He stopped at the perimeter of his shelter, still partially hidden by the tree and studied the gigantic figure. It was almost impossible to determine whether it was animal or human with the blowing snow obscuring visibility. John’s heart hammered in his chest. He worried that whatever stood before him would hear its clamorous thudding.

  The wind suddenly died down and when the swirling snow settled, John saw the unmistakable outline of a moose. The large bull pushed snow around using its front hooves and snout. It seemed to sense John’s presence and stopped its foraging. The huge head turned and stared at him. One of its antlers was missing. John was unsure whether it had lost one during a rutting fight or if it had dropped it (during December and January, Moose dropped their antlers, growing new ones in spring and summer) after the annual rut.

  John remained still; sight is not the strongest of a moose’s senses. Although usually docile, a startled moose will run, and not in any particular direction. It could charge as easily as it could flee. Passive or not, a half-ton animal could do a lot of damage if it ran over you. The animal studied him for a minute and then lumbered away, entering into the trees at the far end of the dell, and disappeared into the storm.

  John settled back, sighed, and set about arranging the shelter for the night. He slid deeper into the protective confines of the pine and cleared away an area beneath the large lower boughs. Despite the calm in his impromptu camp, each time the wind gusted, snow drifted through the tree and settled on his head and shoulders. John opened his pack and extracted a tarpaulin, unfolded it, and then interwove it through the branches. Satisfied that he would be sheltered from falling snow, John staked the sides of the tarp in place with metal tent pegs. Using cord, he tied the back around the tree’s trunk and, even though it was probably unnecessary, staked it into the frozen ground. The makeshift tent more than met his satisfaction. The tarp was big enough that a portion of it hung down in front and would serve as a door. It was not insulated, but it would keep snow from falling on him and he would be dry and out of the wind.

  Finally, John banked snow around the bottom edges of the impromptu tent and crawled inside. He untied his goose-down sleeping bag from the pack and spread it out. He retrieved a flashlight and switched it on so he could see to unload the rest of his gear. Supper was a can of beans, eaten cold. His meal finished, he placed the empty can in his pack and sat on the sleeping bag. He debated whether or not he should remove his insulated boots when the effects of the day caught up with him. Suddenly, after a day of unaccustomed labor, his legs cramped and he massaged them until the spasms subsided. As he fell asleep his last thought was: All the comforts of home.

  _____________

  A loud thundering boom woke John up. He listened to the wind racing through the clearing and remembered what Charley Bear had told him about the Wendigo. He peered out of his rudimentary shelter. The front had passed on, leaving behind a cold wind, clear sky, and a brilliant landscape
illuminated by a full moon. Then he saw a dark figure standing at the far end of the clearing. This time it was not a moose; it was humanoid. Jesus, he thought, the old man was right—the damned thing does exist! He reached behind his body and grasped his rifle.

  The Wendigo charged, heading directly at John’s hiding place beneath the pine. Its gigantic strides covered the distance between them at a speed John had heretofore thought impossible. There was no way anything so large could also be so fast! He pulled the high-powered rifle forward and into his shoulder, took aim, and squeezed the trigger.

  The rifle’s sharp crack was immediately followed by a dull thud as the bullet found its target.

  _____________

  The Wendigo was within fifty yards of his quarry when he saw the man raise his rifle. He feinted to the right and saw a flash of light burst from the weapon. A tremendous force hit him in the left shoulder, hammering him as if he’d been struck by a falling tree, and he stepped back, fell on his side, and for a few seconds lay in a heap.

  _____________

  John was unsure whether or not he had killed the Wendigo and stayed in place, still aiming his weapon at the form that lay on the snow. He thought: Anything less than the .44 Magnum and I wouldn’t have stopped him!

  The gargantuan suddenly leapt to its feet and John realized that it was only wounded. Once again, the beast’s agility and speed shocked him. It charged again and John fired once more, hearing the unmistakable crack, thud of a high-velocity, large-caliber bullet finding its mark.

  _____________

  Once again, a tremendous force slammed the Wendigo backward. He realized he had only one choice and that was to flee so he might live. Although he knew the man’s weapon would not kill him; it was capable of incapacitating him for a time—leaving him vulnerable to being cut open! He leapt to his feet and ran toward the side of the clearing away from the man with the deadly rifle. He quickly widened the gap between him and the man and then veered left. Without so much as a backward glance, the Wendigo fled into the safety of the woods.