Wendigo

by Vaughn C. Hardacker

  “My name is John Bear—”

  “Bear … what in hell kind of name is that? You an Indian or some shit?”

  “Maliseet, I grew up on the Madawaska Maliseet First Nation near Edmundston.”

  “How’s a goddamned Indian … and a Canadian at that … get to be a game warden in Maine?”

  “Just lucky, I guess.”

  “What you doin’ on my land?”

  “I’m investigating three murders—”

  “Murders … you ain’t tryin’ to pin nothin’ on us are you?”

  “If you ain’t done anything then you ain’t got nothin’ to worry about from me.”

  Linwood Dowd laughed and it turned into the phlegmy cough of a heavy smoker. “Ain’t said that we ain’t done nothin’, we just ain’t killed no one, not in a while anyhow.” He turned toward the house. “Come on in an’ we’ll talk.”

  John Bear looked at Amy and saw that she had turned her rifle away from him and rested it in the crook of her arm. She climbed onto the porch, removed her snowshoes, and entered the house.

  He followed the Dowd patriarch inside the house. He was immediately struck by two things: the intense dry heat from two fireplaces, one on each side of the room, which spanned the breadth of the cabin, and the overwhelming smell of cigarette smoke that seemed to radiate from every piece of furniture. He wondered what the cancer rate was among the Dowds.

  The old man pointed toward a huge couch that faced the fireplace on the east wall and John took off his coat and placed it over the back. Dowd looked at John’s service pistol. John ignored his stare and settled onto the couch. Mounted above the hearth was a moose head with the largest rack John had ever seen; to its right was a twelve-point buck and on the left a black bear. All three trophies appeared to have been prepared by a professional taxidermist. Dowd saw John’s gaze and said, “All shot legal.”

  John smiled. “Nothin’ else ever crossed my mind. Who did the preservation? It’s really fine work.”

  “My oldest boy, Earl. It’s a hobby of his.”

  On the mantle John saw two pictures, one of a much younger version of the old man who stood before him wearing an army fatigue uniform while holding an M-16 rifle; the other was of a beautiful young woman whose attire told him the picture was taken in the 1970s or at the latest, the 1980s. Again Dowd noted where he was looking. “That was me in ’72, in Nam. The woman was my wife, Kera.”

  John nodded. “I heard you were a veteran, thanks for your service….”

  Dowd picked up an empty coffee can and spit into it. “Save me from the fuckin’ platitudes. Where were all these people sayin’ that when we came back? We didn’t get any thanks, we got spit on, and cursed. Now people meet you and say that like everything is okay—well, fuck ’em. I went ’cause I was sent and I did what I had to do to get my ass home.”

  “Well, it’s a different world now.”

  “These shitheads ain’t got a clue. It’d be different if they meant it. It’s like when people say have a good day. Do you think they really give a good goddamn whether or not you have a good day? Not a chance. You want something to drink?”

  “No thanks.”

  The old man walked over to a chest of drawers and opened the top drawer. He took out a bottle of bourbon and twisted the cap off. “Suit yourself, but I’m having a snort or two.” Dowd crossed the room and flopped into a Boston rocker. “Now what’s this shit about murders?”

  “There have been three murders in the last week.”

  “I heard. Now suppose you cut through the bullshit and tell me why you’re sitting in my living room if you don’t think me or mine done it.”

  John couldn’t help but admire the old man’s candor. “Mr. Dowd—”

  “Lin or Linwood, Mr. Dowd was my father an’ that contrary old bastard is long dead. We buried the bastard facedown in case he tried to dig his way out.”

  “Lin, you know this wilderness. In fact, I’d bet that between you and your family there ain’t a road or game trail in fifty miles you don’t know.”

  “You might be right. I been huntin’, fishin’, and trappin’ these woods for over fifty years.”

  “I’m looking for someone of …” John paused for a second. “Well, he’d be almost a giant. I believe that he may have been living up around Viverette Settlement.”

  Dowd took another drink of whiskey. “Askook.”

  “Excuse me, did you say Askook?”

  “Yeah, I did. Only gigantic sonuvabitch I know of up that way is a guide and trapper named Askook. Only met him once or twice myself, but he was one goofy-acting sumbitch.”

  “What do you know of him?”

  “Not much, just that he showed up here about ten, maybe twelve years ago. I believe he was from down around Houlton. He’s taller than anyone I ever seen before or since. Looks like one o’ them zombies you hear about. I hear he’s as strong as any four men. Hauled a eight-hundred-pound cow moose out of the woods by himself.” Dowd must have noticed the incredulous look on John Bear’s face because he added, “Didn’t see it myself mind you, but I heard about it many a time.”

  “Where might I find this man?”

  “If he ain’t in his shack out on Hafford Pond, I ain’t got a clue. He’s probably got lairs spread out all over the place.” Dowd took another drink. “Now that I think of it, I believe that Askook was a Indian too—Mi’kmaq, if I ain’t wrong.”

  “The name is Algonquin,” John said. “Askook is our word for snake. You wouldn’t by any chance know his first name, would you?”

  “I heard it once didn’t give a good goddamn about it or him so I don’t remember it. Recollect it was some Indian thing—even if I did give a shit, it was too damned hard for me to say.”

  John heard a noise and turned his head to see Amy Dowd enter the room. She carried a glass of water in her right hand and an assortment of pills in her left. She looked at the whiskey bottle with disapproval. “Granddad you ain’t supposed to be drinkin’ that stuff. She gave him the water and pills, and then stood close by watching him toss the medication into his mouth and wash it down with a gulp of water. Dowd handed her the empty glass, then turned to John and said, “About all the goddamned army ever gave me was diabetes and them friggin’ pills.”

  The old man seemed to be searching his memory for something. “You know I heard stories about another giant runnin’ around. They say ain’t nobody ever seen it and only a couple people ever heard it.” A grin spread across Dowd’s face. “I guess whoever he is, he ain’t friendly like us—sounds like some friggin’ ghoul to me.”

  John thought that the word ghoul was appropriate when talking about a Wendigo and then stood and said, “Thanks for your help, Lin. I’ll look into Askook.”

  Amy Dowd walked to the door and picked up her parka. “I’ll guide you out to your truck,” she said.

  “That ain’t necessary,” John said. “I can find my way out.”

  “Ain’t no bother,” Lin Dowd said. “Is it, Amy?”

  “None at all.”

  John Bear donned his coat and as he left the warmth of the house and reentered the freezing outside world, he wondered what the Dowds were hiding that they didn’t want him to see. However, he had bigger issues on his mind and filed the thought until sometime in the future.

  22

  Big Twenty Township, T20, R11

  The February wind picked up and howled across the valley. Trees creaked and swayed, throwing off snow that drifted across the road like white clouds and obscured visibility. The Wendigo vaulted over the eight-foot-tall snowbank and stood in the road. His clothing was tattered and he was starved. He had not eaten in three days, and his last meal had consisted of a single bite of raw, frozen meat from his depleting cache.

  He heard the approaching truck before he saw it. The eighteen-wheeler appeared out of the white-out like a plane emerging from a cloud. He waved his arms and the oversized load of timber swayed as the driver slowed. When the truck stopped, he reached up and open
ed the passenger-side door. “Thanks for stopping.”

  The driver studied his filthy clothes and disheveled appearance. “What in hell are you doing out here in the middle of nowhere?”

  The Wendigo ignored his question. He opened the door, jumped onto the truck’s running board, and yanked the driver out.

  The Wendigo’s fast was over.

  _____________

  McBrietty’s Store

  Del McBrietty was working behind the counter when the door opened and a blast of frigid air caused a cloud of steam in the threshold. “Close the friggin’ door,” Del shouted, “I ain’t in the business of heating the outdoors.”

  A man ducked inside and when he straightened his head the ceiling was less than a foot over him. He shifted his head to the side to avoid bumping into the ceiling fan and approached the counter.

  “Hey, Askook, ain’t seen you in a while.”

  “I’m leavin’ the area and got some loose ends to tie up.”

  McBrietty’s internal alarm sounded. Megedagik Askook was carrying a $140 balance on his account.

  “I’ll be squarin’ up my account with you, too.”

  Del hid his relief and said, “Give me a minute, I’ll check on the balance of your account.”

  “You do that—but you and I both know you have it up here.” Askook tapped the side of his head. “To the last penny.”

  Del disappeared into his office. In a few minutes he returned with a bill, and handed it to the huge trapper.

  Askook glanced at the printout and then reached into his pocket and took out a roll of bills that Del estimated was over an inch in diameter. The trapper peeled off two one-hundred-dollar bills and gave them to McBrietty.

  McBrietty opened the till, placed the cash under the money tray and then handed back sixty dollars. “Where you off to, if you don’t mind my askin’?”

  “Over home.”

  “Where might that be?”

  “You’re askin’ a lot of questions, Del.”

  McBrietty shrugged. “Just interested, that’s all. You must be having a good trapping season.”

  “No better than most.” Askook turned and said no more as he left the store.

  A few seconds later, McBrietty heard a snowmobile motor start and the sound of a sled racing away into the night. He stared at the cash register and wondered: Askook must have had one hell of a season to get all that money.

  Del looked at the clock on the wall and started closing up.

  _____________

  John Bear met Laura Wells and Bob and Elaine for coffee at Del’s. He settled into the booth and took a bite out of the donut he’d purchased. “Mornin’.”

  He believed that Laura looked as beautiful on an early-winter morning as most women did at midday on a mild, warm late-spring day. “Tell me, John,” she asked, “why am I sitting here watching the sun rise over a friggin’ snowbank?”

  He laughed and said to Pelky. “Well, she may be pleasing to the eye early in the day, but a bit on the grumpy side.”

  “Hey,” Pelky said, leaning back and holding his hands up in surrender, “don’t involve me in your domestic disputes.”

  John turned serious. “Yesterday I went up to Dowd Settlement—”

  “And got out in one piece?” Pelky commented, “Not a usual occurrence.”

  “I spoke with Linwood.”

  “How is that old geezer? He’s got to be pushing seventy real hard.”

  “From what I’ve heard, I must have caught him in a good mood—he talked with me.”

  “What did you learn?” Laura asked.

  John turned to her. “Laura, you got to promise me that you won’t print a word of this until we get this guy.”

  “I understand.”

  “Okay. Linwood says there’s only one man in the area that he believes is big enough and strong enough to be our perp.”

  John took a notebook out of his pocket. “Megedagik Askook.”

  “I’ve met Askook,” Pelky said, “never knew his first name though. Sure is a mouthful.”

  “Roughly translated from the Algonquin his name means Kills Many Snakes.”

  “Nice,” Laura said.

  “According to his snowmobile registration, Askook lives near Hafford Pond. I’m heading up there today.”

  “Most likely, roads over that way won’t be plowed.”

  “Got my sled on the back of my truck.”

  “You got room for a passenger?” Laura asked.

  “Not this time. But I promise if anything develops I’ll make sure you’re in on it.”

  She didn’t look happy with his answer but rather than push the issue said, “Okay, I’ll let you off the hook this time. But the next time …”

  _____________

  Hafford Pond, T19, R12

  The cabin was almost hidden by snow; in fact, if not for the thin stream of smoke arising from the chimney, John Bear may have missed it completely. As he slowly approached, John wondered about the old man’s name: Kills Many Snakes. Knowing that his people named children according to some event or natural phenomenon, he wondered what Askook’s family had done to earn that name. He stopped his sled in front and stepped off. There was a lean-to attached to the left side of the building and John saw a Polaris snowmobile and a four-wheeler ATV parked inside. He removed his helmet, placed it on the seat, and then put on his green uniform cap. The sudden quiet was broken by the unmistakable chunk of an axe splitting a piece of firewood. He heard a voice shout, “I’m out back.”

  There was a narrow path created by someone’s repeated treading through the snow that led around the right side and John followed it. He heard the sound of the axe fall again, followed by the sound of two pieces of wood striking each other. When he turned the back corner, John stopped dead in his tracks. Hunched over a chopping block was the tallest human being he’d ever encountered. He said, “Megedagik Askook?”

  The giant buried the blade of the axe into the tree stump that served as his chopping block and turned toward John. He was well over seven feet tall and John found the man’s height to be somewhat intimidating, in fact he was tempted to open his coat, allowing access to his service pistol.

  Askook squinted against the brilliance of the sun reflecting from the pristine white snow. “You pronounced my name like you speak the language.” He stepped toward the warden and recognized the green uniform and the DIF&W crest on the front of John’s cap. “What is an Anishinaubae doing wearing that uniform?”

  “My name is John Bear, I’m a special investigator for the Maine Department of Inland Fisheries and Wildlife.”

  “You must be the Maliseet I heard about—the one who crossed over and turned his back on his people.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t believe all you hear.”

  “You here about the Wendigo?”

  John tried to cover up his surprise and knew that he had failed. “I don’t know anything about a Wendigo but I am looking into a couple of murders in these parts.”

  “Don’t bullshit me Warden.” Askook took two long strides and passed John, headed for the front of the cabin. “C’mon, I got a fresh pot of coffee inside.”

  John Bear followed the towering figure inside the cabin. Askook was so tall he had to bend over to enter the door. “I wanted to make it taller,” Askook said, “but couldn’t find one big enough.”

  Everything inside the cabin was constructed with magnified dimensions. John found himself feeling like a small child in an adult’s room. When he sat in the chair that Askook offered, his feet barely touched the floor. “You make all this furniture yourself?” he asked.

  “I had to. They don’t have too many big and tall men’s furniture stores.” Askook poured two mugs of coffee from a pot that sat on the top of a large wood cookstove. The pot reminded John Bear of the huge pots they used to show on chuck wagons in the old Western movies he loved as a kid. Askook slid a mug in front of John and said, “So, what sumbitch told you I was a Wendigo?”

  John couldn’t hel
p but laugh. “Well, you gotta admit that you are tall enough.”

  “Contrary enough too. But, I ain’t never et no human bein’ and don’t expect to either. I took steps.” He motioned around the room. Dream catchers hung from nails driven into the rafters and frame of the house spaced no more than a foot apart.

  Askook drank some coffee. “Bein’ Maliseet, you know there’s a few ways to become Wendigo, eatin’ human flesh is most common, and, like I said, I ain’t never done that and don’t have any plans to either. The other way is to be possessed during a dream. As you can see I took steps to avoid that.”

  Askook’s brow raised as if he’d just had an epiphany. “You been over to Dowd Settlement, ain’t you?”

  John Bear took another drink of coffee, refusing to either admit or deny Askook’s assertion.

  “Fuckin’ Linwood Dowd tol’ you I was some kind a nut, ain’t that so? Well, I ain’t no crazier than that fuckin’ idjut.”

  “All I know is that there have been three mutilation murders in this area, that’s three more than normal.”

  Askook looked at John. “What makes you so sure about that?”

  “If there’s more we haven’t heard of them.”

  “There’s lots o’ shit goes on in these woods you wardens don’t hear about. For instance how many people get lost and disappear and never git found? What about that woman down in the Hundred-Mile Wilderness?”

  John Bear knew the case. The Hundred-Mile Wilderness is the section of the Appalachian Trail running between Abol Bridge just south of Baxter State Park and the town of Monson. It is generally considered the wildest section of the Appalachian Trail, and one of the most challenging to navigate and traverse. A female hiker had gone missing on the trail and in spite of an all-out search by the wardens, forest rangers, state police, and an army of volunteers—many of whom were trained professionals—her remains were not found for three years.

  “Are you saying that her death is related?”

  “Who the fuck knows? Dead is dead and gone is gone. You get taken by a Wendigo—or some sick bastard who thinks he’s one—and you usually ain’t never heard from again….”