Chapter 12
Ice pressed his back against the building and peeked around the corner. His eyes traced the snowy landscape for what must've been the dozenth time, seeing nothing new. He sighed, wishing Nik hadn't insisted they separate.
"We know Dale had at least an hour and a half lead on us," Nik had argued. "If the Windigo has him, we need to find them as quickly as possible.”
"But what can we do if we're alone when we find them?"
"Nothing," Nik answered. "We're going to search for fifteen minutes and meet back here. If one of us discovers something, we go investigate together."
Ice had reluctantly agreed and Nik reminded him, "Don't forget we have a connection. You can contact me here." The medicine man pointed to his head.
"No, I can't," Ice mumbled. Nik had introduced the skill of communicating through their spiritual link at least a year and a half ago. Ice quickly mastered receiving Nik's messages, but he'd never successfully sent a mental reply.
"If the lines are open one way, they're open the other way too," Nik said, not unkindly. "If you see anything, try contacting me. Come back here and keep trying until you succeed or I show up."
So Ice had crept around the camp, following a set of tracks punched through the snow. He saw both human and Windigo prints, but it wasn't clear who was running and who was in pursuit. The trail looped back to the building where the snowmobiles were parked. Just as he was tracing his outbound footsteps and the front skis of their machine came into view, Ice heard a shout. He stopped in his tracks, sure Nik had tapped their mental connection. When nothing further came through, Ice continued quickly, but warily, around the corner of the building.
The sound had been so brief, Ice was unsure now exactly what he'd heard. Was it outside? Or was it in his head, as he first thought? As he stepped into full view of the snowmobiles, a bird screeched, nearly scaring him out of his boots. He tried to laugh, managing only a strangled grunt. Maybe that had been the source of the noise—a bird.
Warm and winded from the trudge through the snow, he sat on the seat of the snowmobile, concentrating on breathing evenly and keeping a sharp eye out for Nik.
Their meeting time came and went.
As the time stretched out to five minutes past, and then ten, the cold began to creep through his clothes. He got up and began pacing while he attempted to clear his mind and reach out mentally to his mentor. But his eyes kept darting around the area and his ears strained to hear the sound of footsteps crunching the snow. He refused to close his eyes to concentrate, as he'd be an easy target.
Retracing his path from the snowmobile to the building and back, Ice checked the time yet again. Even if he could get service, he didn't dare try Nik's phone. If the medicine man was in a precarious position, the sound of his phone might give him away. Ice's gaze fell to the trail of prints the medicine man had investigated. Then he took a deep breath and set off in Nik's footsteps.
The camp covered a large area, with buildings scattered about the grounds. The path Ice had followed led to the back area of the property while Nik's trail headed for the waterfront. Ice made his way around the front of the main building and saw that the tracks led downhill, toward the beach. He hesitated, scanning the clearing where, under the snow, stairs descended to the shoreline. Then he stepped away from the path, moving off to the right, where he could slip into the trees and make his way down the hill undercover.
As he neared the bottom of the incline, he heard a sound and stopped to listen, one hand on a tree to hold himself steady. The low chatter didn't sound like an animal, yet Ice couldn't make out words. He advanced as silently as possible, alert to any noise or movement.
At the base of the incline, the ground planed out before reaching the water. Near the shore was a small cabin-like structure. The building may have once been a boat house, with the evolution of the waterfront and receding lake levels rendering it landlocked. The sound was definitely coming from the structure.
Ice's heart was pounding in his throat as he approached the back of the building. A moan came from within. Like a slow motion replay, he lifted a foot and set it down gingerly. Then the next foot. It seemed to take an eternity to reach the window set in the side wall. Ice edged his face past the frame and then let loose a string of profanity inside his head.
The window was boarded up.
The muttering from inside the boathouse sounded possibly human, although incoherent. Ice debated on whether or not he should go in search of a weapon before going any farther. Then, taking a deep breath, he proceeded toward the front of the building. A weapon search would likely yield nothing and only waste time.
Just short of the corner, he leaned forward and caught sight of the door standing ajar. A mumble issued from the inside of the building—definitely a different voice than the run-on babble. Ice heard a growl followed by a thump, and the new voice went quiet.
His heart was thumping so loudly, Ice feared it would give him away, still he had to know what was happening inside—and who was in there. At the front of the building, and standing close to the wall, Ice stooped low. Whoever was in there would be more likely to spot him at eye level. As he peered into the murky interior, Ice realized the door was probably left open for light. Despite his instincts screaming at him to jerk his head back, he waited for his eyes to adjust.
The joists supporting the roof structure were covered in metal hooks screwed into the wood. Life jackets in a variety of shapes, sizes, and colors hung from them. Off to the left side, a hook had been cleared to make room for a loop of nylon rope. Suspended from the rope was Dale, his wrists trussed together and his toes just touching the floor. His head hung limply to the side, his eyes closed. A shiny, dark liquid pooled at his feet.
A figure sat on the ground nearby amid scattered life jackets, his left side toward the door. One bare foot was visible, and even in the low light, Ice could see claws emerging from disfigured toes. With no surprise, he recognized the tatters of plaid that hung from the creature's emaciated, hairy torso. The consumption of human flesh was transforming Nesbitt quickly into a monster.
Where was Nik? Ice strained to see farther into the gloom and finally spied the medicine man's crumpled form on the other side of the Windigo, among the life jackets. Nesbitt began to mutter again. He was fiddling with a length of rope and snarled with frustration. As on his feet, large claws protruded from his fingers, rendering him handicapped when it came to fine motor skills.
Ice crept backward, his mind racing. He needed to get Nesbitt away from Nik—before the medicine man was tied up. As he retreated into the trees, he ran though his options. Luring Nesbitt from the building was a no-brainer, all he had to do was reveal himself. But that wasn't enough. He needed to incapacitate the Windigo.
Ice worked his way up the hill and headed for the snowmobiles. The building they'd parked next to had two large barn-like doors at one end, leading Ice to believe it was some sort of garage or storage facility. He was panting when he arrived, but didn't stop to rest. Unlatching the snowmobile's seat, Ice flipped it up in search of the rudimentary tool kit that was hopefully inside.
After a little pawing around, he produced a heavy pouch that jangled like metal tools. Jogging to the building, Ice set the pouch on the ground and opened it. The old fashioned doors were mounted symmetrically on vertical hinges. In the center, a cable was looped through the large metal handles on each door and secured with a padlock.
Ice rummaged in the pouch and produced a wire cutter. When he held it near the cable though, he groaned. The tool was made for cutting and stripping small wires, not severing a thick cable. He surveyed the situation again, clearing his initial thoughts and trying to think outside the box.
Suddenly he grinned. Reaching into the sack of tools, Ice removed a socket set, praying he'd have the right size socket. Plucking the largest of the shiny cylinders from the case, he slipped it over a bolt on the door handle and turned. It didn't catch—too big.
Whispering a petition, Ice chose t
he next socket. He had trouble fitting it over the bolt and thought it was too small, but then noticed flakes of rust speckled the snow at his feet. Using a flathead screwdriver, he cleaned the sides of the bolt and then slipped the socket easily onto it. Within minutes, Ice had the socket on the wrench and gave the bolt a twist, doing his best to use enough force, yet not break the bolt or the tool.
It took a few tries, but finally the bolt broke free. Ignoring the sweat that'd broken out on his forehead, Ice ratcheted the coupling until the bolt was loose enough to turn with his fingers. When the bottom of the handle was free of the door, he went to work on the top bolt. Minutes later, he let out a jubilant cry as the handle fell from the door and slid down the cable, swinging from the other door handle. Both doors moved slightly outward and Ice wrapped his fingers around the edge of the right door and pulled. Its progress was hampered by the snow, but all Ice needed was enough room to slip inside.
He selected the flashlight function on his phone and squeezed through the doors.
We must always fight for what we believe in. We must never tire in our fight. It does not really matter how we fight, what matters is what we are fighting for.
Dino Butler, American Indian Movement
Heart of Ice Page 16