John reached into his pocket and removed a gray wad.
“What you got there?” Earl asked.
“Dryer lint,” John replied, “makes it easier to light the kindling.” To emphasize his point John slid the lint under some broken dried twigs, took a prescription-medicine container filled with stick matches from his pocket. He took out a match, struck it, and when it flared up, touched it to the lint. The linen fibers ignited and started the kindling burning. He remained in his squat and said, “Buster’s right. There’s no barrier to him crossing over to Canada once he reaches the Slash. However, due to its never-ending hunger, he’ll want to stay where it can get food.”
“Where you think that is?” Earl asked.
“Only places I can think of are St. Pamphile and Lac-de-l’Est. Lots of people for it to prey on in St. Pamphile—but, he’ll probably steer wide of it. Anything as tall as he is would stand out. The lake is twenty or more miles north of St. Pamphile and there may be ice fishermen there, an easier hunt.”
Earl once again took charge of the kitchen duties and made a large pot of coffee, which he served to the others. John sipped the steaming brew and felt the heat move into his core, warming as it went.
“Won’t the Canadians fine him if they catch him?” Louis Dowd asked.
John gave Louis a brief glance and chose to ignore his comment. He fanned the flames and the fire.
“He’s a fuckin’ Indian,” Buster said. “All he needs to do is show a Tribal ID and they won’t bother him.”
John grinned. “What makes you think he will go through Canadian customs? For one thing, every crossing along the Maine–Canada border has been notified that he’s wanted in a string of brutal murders. But more than that … well, when you see this guy, you’ll understand better.”
“What about Dwain?” Buster asked. “Won’t he present a problem?”
John Bear kept silent. It would do no good to tell him that the Wendigo would not allow the boy to be a problem.
36
T18, R13
The Wendigo, with Dwain still perched behind him, walked through the seven-foot-high snow drift, breaking a trail as he went. He felt the boy’s presence and resisted the urge to kill the boy and devour him.
His senses were at their peak: he knew the posse behind him was closing the gap, thanks in no small part to the trail he was leaving for them. If he was going to make it to the Slash safely, he’d have to slow them down. He pulled Dwain from his back and searched the woods, looking for anything with which he could construct a crude booby trap.
_____________
The morning was clear and cold. John Bear urged his sled forward and found his mind wandering back to his childhood. It was something that he tried to keep from doing as it always left him in a foul mood.
_____________
Maliseet First Nation, Edmundston, New Brunswick, Canada, Twenty-Five Years Earlier
“John, Tom! Where in hell are you boys?”
John Bear crouched down behind the evergreen shrub that grew in front of the house. There was just enough space between the clapboards on the side of the rundown house and the small spruce to hide the diminutive boys. John placed a finger across his lips warning his younger brother to keep quiet and not give away their location.
“I know you two sons-a-bitches kin hear me.”
Tom clasped his hand over his mouth, worry and fear in his eyes. Both boys knew from experience what would happen if their mother caught them—especially when she was as drunk as she sounded.
Aquene Bear stepped out onto the porch and John could see her ankle socks, one of which had fallen down and lay wrapped around the top of her dirty lace-up shoes. She hollered again and John heard Tom moan in fear. Although Aquene was mean and abusive when she drank, she could be a loving and caring mother when sober—the problem was that she was seldom sober after nine in the morning. She had her rituals, one of which was that after rising from bed she drank two cups of strong black tea, fortifying them with whiskey when she had it. There was always a pot of tea sitting on the heated top of the old wood cookstove. Aquene’s other ritual was to dump loose tea into a saucepan of boiling water and through the week she’d add water, always keeping the tea hot strong enough to burn the finish off the black iron stove. Once she’d consumed the second cup of tea, it was time for Aquene to start serious drinking.
“I get my hands on you two, I’m gonna wear you out!” she shouted.
A few seconds later, John heard the screen door slam and the heavy thuds of his mother’s feet as she trudged through the minuscule living room on her way to the kitchen. Once back in her favorite room, she would sit at the old kitchen table in front of the window, drinking straight whiskey. She’d stare through the dirty windows and imagine that all of the neighbors were talking about her. The more she drank, the more she envisioned the neighbors were looking down on her, and she became angrier and meaner.
John motioned for Tom to turn about and crawl around the side of the house. He followed his brother and when they were safely out of their mother’s line of sight, the brothers jumped to their feet and dashed into the woods behind the house. Once they were safely inside the crude shelter they’d spent the summer building, Tom sat with his back against the circular wall, folded his arms around his knees, and said, “Why’s Mère such a bitch?”
“I don’t know. All we can do is stay out of her way.”
Tom looked like a lost waif. “Can we stay here until Père comes home?”
John nodded at his younger brother. “Yeah, we can do that….” What he didn’t tell Tom was that there was no guarantee their father would come home. More and more of late Charley Bear would stay away for several days in a row. At least, he thought, we’ll stay here until after she passes out.
The boys had built the wigwam that summer at John’s behest, Tom being too young to plan more than whatever held his interest at any given moment. John wanted a shelter where they could flee when their mother was in her drunken rages. He had been the victim of his mother’s wrath on many occasions and his back bore the scars to prove it. Charley and Aquene Bear had three children: John, ten years old, Tom, six, and an older sister, Danya, sixteen, who ran away six months ago and her whereabouts were unknown. John missed her a lot; she had done what she could to spare him from taking the brunt of their mother’s rage. However, the beatings had become so savage and brutal that Danya disappeared one night and had not been seen nor heard from since. There were times when John wondered if Aquene had finally lost any semblance of control and beat Danya to death. Unbeknownst to anyone, John spent many hours searching the woods for an unmarked grave or human remains in the woods.
_____________
Present Day
Thinking of his sister brought John back to the present. He still felt an emptiness inside whenever he thought of her. Danya would be in her early forties now—if she’s alive.
All his life, John had heard tales of Wendigos and he had always been unable to understand what could be bad enough to push someone to the point where they’d eat the flesh of another human being. As traumatic as his childhood was he’d coped and had little if any empathy for those who couldn’t or wouldn’t.
A sudden commotion ahead snapped John out of his head and he throttled back the sled. The Dowds were all off their snowmobiles and had rushed forward. Buster had volunteered to give John a break and take the lead and there seemed to be a problem at the head of their convoy. John leaped into the thigh-deep snow. He pushed his way through the powdery snow until he was on the hard pack that their tracks had created and ran forward. He leaped over Earl’s and Louis’s sleds and saw Buster lying on the ground. “I’m okay, goddamn it!” Buster shouted. “Asshole set up a booby trap and I sprung it, that’s all.”
John saw the white birch that had been tied back and then the rope by which it had been tied and triggered.
Buster struggled into a sitting position, groaned, and laid back. His face was pale, a line of blood tr
ickled from the corner of his mouth, and he grimaced. John Bear crouched over him and reached for the front of his snowmobile suit.
“What the fuck you doin’?” Louis asked.
“Opening his suit to see how badly he’s hurt.”
Buster looked at him. “I ain’t sure what, but I think somethin’ inside me is busted up bad.”
“Where’d it hit you?”
Buster held his hands over his torso, just below his rib cage. “Here.”
John removed his heavy gloves and unzipped the injured Dowd’s heavy black coat. He reached inside, trying to be as gentle as he could, and unhooked one of the suspenders that supported Buster’s snow pants. When he took his hand out it was red with blood. He looked at Earl, who was fixated on his son’s blood as it dripped from John’s hand into the pristine white snow. He turned back to Buster and said, “I ain’t about to bullshit you, okay?”
Buster nodded.
“You’re hurt bad. You need a doctor and soon.” John looked at Earl. “You and Louis need to take him back. I’ll go on alone.”
John braced himself for an argument from one of the Dowds but none came forth.
“Which of you got a cell phone?”
Louis said, “I do.”
“It’s a sure bet that there ain’t any towers out here. If you head north, as you get close to Estcourt Station you should pick up a Canadian tower. You’ll be roamin’—”
“Don’t worry ’bout that,” Earl said.
John read off a number. “Enter that into your address book and as soon as you get a signal call them for a medical evacuation.” He looked up at the sky and saw the deep-blue color of high pressure. “Weather’s good and wind not too strong. They should be able to fly. If they can’t get to you soon, take him across the line to Pohénégamook. ”
“Po-what?” Earl asked.
“Pohénégamook. A small town on the lake of the same name. Has a population around two thousand—which, when compared to Estcourt with its twenty-five people, constitutes a big city around here.” John looked at Earl and knew what was on the man’s mind. “Yeah, I think they have a small hospital there. If not they’ll have phone service and can get help. Either of you speak French?”
“They both do, their mother was Acadian, she used to talk to them in French all the time.” A wry smile covered his face. “I used to get pissed and tell her that I was American and for her to speak American to me.” He looked up at the sky. “Now it looks like what she done may just save Buster’s life. She’s been gone for nineteen years now. But I’ll bet she’s lookin’ down with that smug smile she always got whenever she proved me wrong.”
John wasn’t sure how to respond so he said, “Never hurt anyone to be bilingual.”
“Bi-what?”
John resisted the impulse to say, we just had this conversation. Instead he said, “Bilingual, able to speak more than one language.”
“Louis,” Earl said. “Empty out a sleigh and make a bed for your brother.” He turned to John. “We’ll take care of Buster. You git on and bring back my grandson.”
John nodded. There was nothing else to say, so he trudged back to his sled and mounted it. He started the motor and revved it a few times. He slowly drove around the line of sleds and saluted the Dowds as he forged ahead. As soon as he was clear of them, John opened up the throttle.
“Dad,” Louis said. “You go with the warden. I’ll get Buster back. Dwain is gonna need to see a familiar face.”
Earl seemed divided between taking care of his oldest son and the need to save his grandson. “You sure, Louis?”
“As sure as I ever been ’bout anythin’. Go.”
Earl jogged back to his sled, started it, and sped after John Bear.
_____________
The Slash, T18, R13
John Bear broke out of the trees and the instant he saw the Slash, his stomach turned. The entire length of the treeless corridor delineating the border between the United States and Canada was beaten down with the tracks of a multitude of snowmobiles. He released the throttle and the sled’s motor dropped to an idle. He saw Earl Dowd’s reaction and knew he was experiencing the same sense of frustration as John. Yet neither of them was prepared to accept defeat.
“We need to split up,” John said. You head north toward Estcourt and I’ll head south toward Lac-de-l’Est and St. Pamphile.”
“How we gonna contact each other if we find something?”
John Bear pondered what he knew was the quintessential question. “I haven’t a damned clue, Earl. In fact, I’ve about exhausted my supply of ideas.”
Earl looked to the north. “What’s that way?”
“Nothing until you reach Estcourt and Pohénégamook, Quebec.”
“Let’s head south together,” Earl said. “If Condor wanted to go to Estcourt I don’t think he’d have come all the way down here. I agree with what you said earlier, he’s probably headed for someplace where he can get food.”
“Tell you what,” John said. “It’s got your grandson; we’ll go until you say we’ve gone far enough.”
Earl nodded his approval. “Thanks, John.”
_____________
John Bear and Earl Dowd traveled south along the United States side of the Slash. The snow was hardpacked and snowmobile tracks crisscrossed the terrain and wove their way around the myriad shacks that lined the Canadian side, facing the U.S. The first time they paused for a break, Earl asked, “What in hell are all of these elevated shelters? They look like ice fishing shacks on stilts.”
“They’re shooting stands,” John replied. “The Canadians use them to shoot moose on our side of the border.”
“You’re shitting me?”
“No, I wish I was. They’ll shoot a moose on this side and then haul it across to their side.”
“And we can’t do nothin’ about it?”
“If we walk twenty feet to the west, the warden service has no jurisdiction. If we did, those shooting stands would have been torn down a long time ago.”
Dowd unzipped his snowmobile suit coat, reached inside, and retrieved a pack of cigarettes. He held it up. “You a smoker?”
“Not regular, but I’ll have one from time to time. I gave ’em up full-time a few years back.”
Earl offered John the pack. “Would this be one of those times?”
“You know,” John said, “it might be.”
Dowd nodded and used his thumb to flip open the box. He took out a cigarette, cupped his hands around a lighter, faced into the wind, and lit it. Once his cigarette was lit he stepped off his sled, handed the pack of Marlboros and the lighter to John, looked at the sky, and then his watch. “We only got about three hours until sunset.”
John Bear lit a cigarette, handed the box and lighter to Earl, and sat silent, smelling the alluring scent of burning tobacco and feeling a slight buzz as the nicotine soaked into his system. He said, “Bitch of a habit ain’t it? You can quit for years and still crave them…. What you want to do?”
“How far you figure we are from Lac-de-l’Est?”
“Couple miles. From there it’s maybe twenty, twenty-five miles to St. Pamphile.”
“How big is it?”
“St. Pamphile? Couple thousand people on the Canadian side.”
“Canadian side? Is there a St. Pamphile in Maine?”
“Yeah, ain’t much of a place. If it wasn’t for the Quebec side of town the place would dry up and blow away.”
Dowd took a final drag on his cigarette and threw the butt into the snow. “So if we was to go across and try and get a place to stay, how much trouble would we get in?”
“Depends. You got a passport on you?”
“Passport card. We do some business over in the provinces so we all got them. I always carry mine in my wallet.”
“Then there won’t be no problem. Customs down there is open until nine at night.”
“Then I guess we oughtta get goin’.” Dowd put his sled in gear and started driving south
along the Slash.
_____________
Lac-de-l’Est, T17, R14
John was about twenty yards behind Dowd when they came upon the lake. Earl suddenly jumped from his machine and ran toward the icy surface. John Bear stopped behind the abandoned sled and saw Dowd on his knees, hugging Dwain. He leaped off his sled and ran to join them. Earl was on one knee, holding the boy at arm’s length, and John heard him ask, “Dwain, are you okay? Did he hurt you?”
The boy said nothing. He merely stared at his grandfather as if he were a stranger.
Dowd raised his voice and John saw the man’s relief turning to anger when his nephew wouldn’t speak. “Goddamn it, Dwain. Talk to me!”
John placed his hand on Dowd’s shoulder. “Take it easy, Earl. He’s been through an ordeal.”
Dowd stood up and walked a couple of steps away from the boy. “I s’pose you’re right,” he said to John. He turned and looked back at Dwain. “Where’d it go?” he asked.
Without saying a word, Dwain raised his hand and pointed at the frozen surface of the lake. The ice looked gray and foreboding. Ice fishing shacks were scattered along the shore. John knew there was no way they’d ever find the Wendigo. “I guess we head home,” he said.
“We’re not going after him?”
“We’re standing on the edge of roughly ten and a half square miles of glare ice. It could have gone straight across to the south or gone over to Quebec Route 287. Most likely it left the ice someplace in between, no way in hell will we catch up to it. Besides, we could be standing in Canada and I got no authority here.”
“I thought Indians could travel back and forth all they want.”
“We can—as private citizens—as a game warden I can’t. Take your grandson home, Earl. Find out how the boy’s father is doing … if you can.”
Dowd looked longingly at the nine square miles of the lake that was Canadian. After several seconds his shoulders slumped. “I suppose you’re right, John. But I swear on everything that’s precious to me—if that motherfucker comes after this boy again, I’ll be shooting first and asking questions later.”
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