Father Xavier said, “In the 1600s, this mummy was found frozen in a bog in northern Quebec.”
“What…” Andre looked up at his mentor. “What kind of animal walks like a man?”
“It’s neither animal or man.” Father Xavier gazed with those piercing blue eyes. “What you are looking at, Andre, is physical proof that demons walk the earth.”
64
Tom Hatcher sat alone at his table, drinking one whiskey after the other, trying to piece together the events that had caused his life to spin out of control.
Two years ago, when he had been working as an inspector in Montréal, he nearly went insane investigating the case of the Cannery Cannibal. Over the span of two years, twelve women, all prostitutes from the harbor docks, were butchered and dumped into the river. After the last victim, several months passed. The case almost went cold until Tom and his partner staked out the docks, watching the riverboat that worked as a brothel. A man tried to abduct one of the prostitutes. Tom and his partner intervened, rescuing the girl, but the man got away.
The next day Tom received a strange gift at his home. A music box that played baroque music. When he opened the box, two ballroom dancers spun in a circle. Inside was a rolled scroll and a sardine tin. Written in elegant handwriting was a message.
Dearest Inspector,
You cannot stop the Shepherd of Death from saving the lost lambs. Like the wind, I am everywhere. If you do not stop, I will come after your family and eat your wife and son’s livers while you watch.
The Cannery Cannibal
The sardine tin was filled with bloated fingers lined up like blood sausages.
Tom had been so enraged that he had moved his family to Lachine. He then returned to Montréal and led a relentless manhunt. He studied the music box, the scroll, and tin for clues. The stationery was from expensive parchment and had a fancy emblem on it of an M. The silver tin was from the Meraux Cannery. They canned everything from turtle soup and oysters to mincemeat and clam chowder. One of their clerks reported missing tins each month. Tom suspected Gustave Meraux, the cannery owner’s eccentric son and heir to the Meraux fortune.
Inspector Hatcher and his squad raided Gustave Meraux’s mansion. In his study was a collection of music boxes. Gustave was nowhere to be found.
The Montréal police shut down the Meraux Cannery and seized every dockside warehouse and boat. Tom found the killer’s lair in a dock house near the fishing boats and made a shocking discovery. The cannibal had been cooking up the dead women in soups in a large vat and storing their meat in tins.
65
The Montréal harbor was empty except for a young woman walking along the pier. She wore a shabby coat and peasant dress. Gustave Meraux sized her up as one of the prostitutes who worked the docks offering their wares to the fishermen and sailors. Many of the whores lived in a large houseboat that acted as a brothel. That was where the wench appeared to be headed.
Gustave crouched behind a sailboat that knocked against the docks. As the young woman’s silhouette passed, he grabbed her from behind, clamping his hand around her mouth. Her frail body bucked in his arms. She let out a muffled scream. “Hush, hush, little lamb,” he whispered and pinched her nostrils. She kicked out and clawed the air, then finally went limp. “That’s a good girl.”
The cannibal threw her body over his shoulder and carried her back to the cannery warehouse. A dozen rats looked up as Gustave entered his lair. He tore off the woman’s dress and undergarments. Naked flesh no longer aroused his libido, only his hunger. He wrapped her in chains and raised her body till her feet dangled a foot above the ground. He placed his cheek to her warm belly. The smell of her sweet meat stirred up hunger pangs in Gustave’s stomach.
“I’ll be back for you.”
He limped over to his altar and opened his music box. Warped music played his favorite baroque melody. The figurines of a dancing couple spun in endless circles. Gustave lit the five black candles on the altar. The mural of the black-skinned beast stared down at him.
Gustave bowed. “I have brought you a gift, Master.”
The mural spoke to Gustave through the music box’s warbled tune. The ballroom dancers spun round and round.
“Yes, Master.”
Humming the melody, spinning like a gentleman dancing with a lady, Gustave peered into a shard of mirror that still hung on a nearby post. Blood covered his face and stained his thick, black and silver beard. Using the knife, he shaved off most of the whiskers, leaving only a few patches. He grimaced, showing off his red teeth and gray gums. His long, greasy hair was disheveled. He cut his hair, as well, preferring it short. There was a time he could seduce any woman with this face. His libertine days were over. Reaching into his music box, he pulled out a tin and dabbed white powder onto his cheeks. As he prepared himself for one last ceremony, he heard the flapping of wings. A flock of ravens flew down from a hole in the roof. Gustave stepped around the birds and rats. He went to the girl and powdered her face, as well, till she was as beautiful as a Victorian doll. With the flaying knife, he carved a red spiral on her forehead. She woke up screaming. She kicked out. Her twisting body rattled the chains.
Her flopping breasts made Gustave salivate. He wanted so desperately to cut off a piece of her and have a nibble. But this girl, the final sacrificial lamb, was not for him. He returned to the glowing altar. Above the burning candles, the mural appeared to whirl like a funnel. “She’s ready for you, Master.”
Black smoke floated out of the wall, the mural evaporating. The warehouse echoed with cackles and squeaks. The girl screamed louder, drowning out the music box. Gustave turned around. Standing in the center of the room was a giant black shape whose head and body were formed by flapping ravens and squirming rats.
Gustave limped toward his master. The thing towered over him. The rats and ravens writhed within its mass. Hundreds of beady eyes stared at the Cannery Cannibal.
The music box began playing the melody backwards. He heard the command of his muse. “Yes, Master.”
Gustave slashed the woman’s wailing throat. She dangled from the chains, red liquid streaming over her breasts. He then backed away, allowing the spiraling, dark mass to swallow her whole.
Gustave heard crunching and gnawing and the chittering of creatures in a feeding frenzy. In seconds, they reshaped into the giant, black form. At the chains, a red skeleton dangled. The dark beast lumbered toward the doorway.
“Please, Master, take me with you.”
The music box played the tune Gustave wanted to hear. A song that promised vengeance and eternal suffering to his enemies. Smiling, he slashed his wrist, dripping his blood in a clockwise spiral on the stone floor. He kneeled on the symbol and sliced open a dozen red wounds along his ribs and belly. As he bled like a disciple on the cross, he raised his arms to the dark lord.
The mass exploded outward, swarming around Gustave’s body. The rats and ravens fed, pecking and gnawing, releasing the Cannery Cannibal from his mortal prison until there was nothing left but tatters and bones.
Part Seven
Dark Night of the Soul
66
Screams echoed throughout the forest.
Running, running, running…
Tom stumbled through a thicket of trees. Branches swatted his face.
Clawing, clawing, clawing…
A snow mound up ahead. Blood spread across the white dune, forming a red spiral.
He fell to his knees.
Digging, digging, digging…
Uncovered the face of the Cannery Cannibal.
A bloody mouth opened.
Cackling, cackling, cackling…
Tom jerked awake, feeling as if an axe were splitting his skull. The room spun, adding vertigo to his pain and nausea to his roiling stomach. His mouth tasted like talcum powder. The cannibal’s cackling faded.
He blinked his eyes. The room came into focus. Another nightmare.
Twilight shone through the windows. Was it dawn or dusk?
Did it even matter? Tom rubbed his face, trying to remember the last time he was sober. He remembered being seated here at the dining table, gulping down one glass of whiskey after the next.
Now an empty bottle lay sideways on the table next to the glass. He spotted a picture frame facedown on the table. He turned it over to the side that displayed a black and white photo. A younger version of himself was dressed in his suit and black lawman hat, standing proud between his wife and son. The portrait had been taken three years ago in Montréal. Beth had her blonde hair pinned up and was a timeless beauty in her Sunday dress. Chris Hatcher, wearing his suit, was age eleven in the photo. His hair had a cowlick that never combed down properly. He had his father’s high cheekbones and mother’s blue eyes.
Feeling the pressure build again, Tom pinched the bridge of his nose. His head was in such a haze he couldn’t remember why he’d pulled out the photo. Maybe to torture himself. The image of his family just made him want to open another bottle and sink back into a mindless slumber. Before he could succumb to the whiskey devil, Tom growled and upturned the table. The bottle and glass hit the wall and shattered. He kicked his chair, knocking it over.
Tom stumbled into the den, fists clenched, arms shaking.
Something scraped wood in the shadowy corner. Tom turned, wobbling, still half-drunk. “Stop it!”
At the back corner of the den the crate that looked like a coffin took up half the wall. Something inside was scratching to get out. Tom grabbed the crowbar and smacked the top of the crate. “Shut up already!”
The scrapes, like claws dragging across wood, continued relentlessly.
“Blast you!” Tom jammed the crowbar into the edge of the lid. He pried, jacking up the nails at each corner. He removed the top, tossing it to the floor with a thundering crash. Inside the crate was a wooden grid housing brown bottles. He grabbed one by the neck and pulled out the cork. He guzzled the whiskey. A river of fire scorched his throat, flowing down into his belly. Tears glazing his eyes, he fell back against the wall and slid down onto his rump.
Christ, I can’t take any more of this.
Two weeks had passed with him wasting away inside this cabin. He had spent both Christmas and New Year’s so bloody pissed the holidays were nothing but foggy memories. He smelled a foul odor from something rotting in the kitchen. Or was it coming from him?
Tom took another swig. I’ve got to get out of this cabin.
The walls felt like they were pressing in. As the twilight in the windows faded, and the room grew darker, Tom began to see tiny fireflies floating out in front of him.
He blinked, focusing his eyes, seeing them more clearly.
Glowing red spirals.
He swatted at them. The spirals spun upward like dust, then drifted back down in front of his face.
He blinked again, and they were gone.
I’ve gone completely mad.
Then realization hit him like a punch to the gut. He stood, remembering his dream. The red spiral spreading across the snow dune, digging up the face of Gustave Meraux.
Heart racing, Tom paced. Outside, nightfall was quickly claiming the last of the twilight. I have to know. He put on his coat and lawman hat and lit a lantern. Grabbing the crowbar, he headed out the door.
The red fireflies returned, leading the way.
67
Tom crossed the fort grounds to the back side of Hospital House. After removing Doc and Myrna Riley’s dead bodies, the soldiers had boarded up the doors and windows of the two-story white building to keep the children out. Climbing the steps to the back porch, he clumsily worked the crowbar, prying at the boards covering the door. He removed three of them, creating a gap. It was as dark as a copper mine inside.
He leaned in with the lantern. The smell of decay smacked his senses. Blood still stained the floor and kitchen counters. The building had been quarantined out of fear that it was contaminated. Tom wasn’t worried about catching the disease. He knew very little about viruses but was almost certain one couldn’t survive below-zero temperatures.
He ducked in through the gap. As he stood upright inside the kitchen, he felt disoriented. The effects of the whiskey doubled his vision. He leaned against a wall for a moment, allowing his equilibrium to stabilize. Wind blew in through the boarded windows. Most were shattered. Shards of glass covering the floor reflected the lantern light like crystals. Tom twisted, pushing away the darkness at each side of the kitchen. Three passageways led off into different parts of the house.
Which way to the master bedroom?
He took the hall on his right. The wood floor creaked beneath his boots. Up ahead, the blood-streaked door stood ajar. Pushing it open, he held up the lantern, lighting up the red-spattered bed. Tom pictured the ghoulish thing Doc Riley had become, with arms jutting out at impossible angles. On the wall above the bed was the macabre pattern he had been painting with his bloody hands.
Red spirals.
A memory from the Cannery Cannibal’s lair flashed through Tom’s mind. He suddenly felt sick to his stomach and vomited. The red spiral had been Gustave Meraux’s signature, carved into the foreheads of the thirteen women he butchered. In the two years Tom spent tracking the killer, he never understood what the symbol meant. Now it was showing up again, first at Manitou Outpost, painted above Father Jacques’ altar. Then around the entrance to Kunetay’s hut. And here it was again by the hands of Doc Riley, who had contracted the disease from Zoé. The only connection between them and Gustave Meraux was cannibalism. What do the spirals mean?
Lights suddenly filtered in through the cracks between the boards.
Oh shit. He wasn’t supposed to be in here.
“Hello, anybody in there?” a man called from the kitchen.
Several sets of boots entered and clumped down the hallway.
“It’s Inspector Hatcher,” Tom yelled. “In the master bedroom.”
Lt. Hysmith entered with two of his soldiers. They lowered their weapons. “What in God’s name are you doing in here at this hour?”
“Trying to make sense of those symbols.”
“What?” Hysmith looked at the wall and scowled. “I don’t see nothing but a sickening mess.”
“No, look how the strokes make a pattern of spirals. I saw this back in Montréal. I think it’s some kind of message.”
Hysmith frowned. “Inspector, you’re drunk and it’s late.”
“I’m fine. I need to work.”
“Not tonight you don’t.” Hysmith waved him over. “Come with us, Inspector.”
They escorted him back to his cabin. Tom had difficulty walking straight. The moon seemed to sway in the sky. The earth went topsy-turvy as he fell to the snowy ground. He was embarrassed that the soldiers had to help him to his feet.
At the cabin doorstep, Hysmith said, “If I may offer some advice, please take a bath. You’re about as approachable as a dead skunk.”
68
Tom soaked in a tub in the corner of his bedroom. The water, which he had boiled, had quickly turned from warm to bone-numbing cold. He couldn’t stop shaking. Even the whiskey failed to warm him. He was so drunk again that he had already forgotten about why he had ventured out to Hospital House. It didn’t really matter anyway. Once Master Pendleton got word of Tom’s drunken behavior, he was probably going to lose his position.
Nothing much mattered anymore. His pistol sat on a bench beside him. He picked it up, rubbing the Hatcher family crest engraved in pewter on the gun’s handle. He remembered the day his father gave him the gun. Tom had just been promoted to inspector at the police station in Montréal.
Orson Hatcher brought Tom into his study and pulled out a wooden box that encased the pistol. His father smiled. “Son, by becoming a detective, you have made me very proud. Your grandfather gave me this the day I made inspector, and now I’m passing it down to you. One day you will pass this along to your own son. Hatcher men were born to solve crimes.”
Now the gun weighed heavy in his hand. A pull of
the trigger and Tom could escape this miserable life. He ached to be with Beth and Chris again. Would they be there waiting for him in the afterlife? Or would a darker hell await him? He imagined his father frowning down from heaven. Don’t do it, son. If you quit on yourself, you quit on everyone. I never raised you to be a quitter. You are a Hatcher, and no matter how tough life gets, a Hatcher man never gives up. So somehow you’ve got to find a way to turn things around.
But I’m only half a Hatcher, Tom wanted to argue. A bloody half-breed. His whole life he suffered the shame of being Métis—half-white, half-red—coming from two separate worlds and belonging to neither. He could feel the savagery in his blood from the half of him that was Ojibwa. Like the red people, he had a weakness for alcohol, an untamed heart. He lacked the white man’s restraint. Shivering in the freezing tub, Tom cried until there were no more tears left.
I’m of no use to anybody if I’m dead.
He set the pistol back on the bench.
As he was climbing into his red long johns, he heard a knock at the front door.
Who was visiting at this hour?
He was surprised to see Anika, holding her flask of rum. Her green eyes were glossy. “I thought maybe you could use some company.”
“I’m fine on my own.” He started to shut the door.
“Tom, wait.” She placed her hand on the door.
He pulled it back open. “What?”
“I… I’m sorry about Chris…” Her eyes were filled with pain. “I was supposed to watch over him…” Tears dribbled down her cheeks.
Tom wanted to blame Anika for Chris’ death. To channel all his hate toward this wretched woman. But seeing her tears softened his anger. “It wasn’t your fault. I never should have let Chris leave my side. I…” The overwhelming pain returned, and Tom hurried to the kitchen and poured himself another whiskey. Gulped it down.
Anika entered his den and shut the door.
Tom stared at the native woman for a long moment and then went to the cupboard and pulled out a second glass.
Dead of Winter Page 14