Dead of Winter

by Brian Moreland

  He didn’t know what was worse, the constant rise and fall of the rapids, or having to listen to Dr. Coombs talking so gleefully about the ride. The Jesuit was thankful Andre was riding up two benches forward with Master Pendleton. Father Xavier would be embarrassed to have his apprentice see his mentor sick as a greenhorn at sea.

  He wondered how his Uncle Remy dealt with motion sickness while sailing across the globe with the French Navy.

  “Trick is to watch the horizon,” Dr. Coombs said, as if reading his thoughts. “And drink plenty of water.” He offered his pouch.

  “Merci, but no.” Father Xavier knew if he put anything else in his stomach he’d only wretch it back out. He watched the passing trees that lined the river. It seemed to help, at least with his queasiness. But he was riddled by more than just the upward and downward motion and numbing cold. He couldn’t shake the nightmare he had witnessed back at the docks. His dead sister Mirabelle had stood before him in the flesh, her skin as pale and clammy as the last time he saw her.

  Somehow the demon that possessed Gustave Meraux had found a way into the vault of the exorcist’s mind and unleashed a Pandora’s box of dark memories.

  92

  The Goddard Mansion

  Montréal, 1830

  When Xavier was ten years old, he lived in a mansion in the elite section of Montréal. His father, a relentless big game hunter, was away on some far-off safari in Africa or India or the Canadian wilderness. Xavier’s mother was a busy socialite who made more time for galas and tea parties than her own two children. Xavier’s older sister, Mirabelle, was the only family member who ever paid attention to him. She used to read him books and take him on adventures through the garden, where she swore fairies and elves lived. They often flew kites or played hide and seek or sat and fed the ducks at the pond in their back yard. At age thirteen, Mirabelle had been a blooming girl with long, curly hair and freckles covering her nose and cheeks. She was smart and funny and loved to play games. Xavier idolized her.

  One day after school, he came home to the sound of screaming from upstairs. He raced up the winding marble staircase. On the second floor he ran down the wide corridor. The screaming escalated from a room at the end of the hall. A door slammed open and closed. His sister’s bedroom. As Xavier reached the threshold, the door stopped banging. He stepped inside.

  “What is thy name, demon?” Two priests stood at the foot of Mirabelle’s bed, chanting and flicking bottles of water. Xavier’s mother was in here, too, along with the family doctor. The four adults were all facing his sister’s bed. Mirabelle’s wrists were tied to the bedposts. Her face was withdrawn, her eyes bulging, her mouth opened into a horrid grimace. She twisted her head at a strange angle, gazing at Xavier with eyes that were rolled back solid white. She snarled, “Brotherrrrr…”

  The room seemed to shake. Mirabelle’s four-poster bed rose off the floor an inch, and then tapped the floorboards. “Xavier, help meeeeee…”

  “Mirabelle!” Before Xavier could touch her, his mother yanked him out into the hall. She explained that his sister was under the Devil’s spell, and the priests were performing an exorcism.

  “Xavierrrrrrrr!” Mirabelle kept screaming his name, pleading for him to help her. He wanted to save her, but the adults wouldn’t let him back in the room. So he remained out in the hall, listening to the priests chanting. He brought out his own bible and prayed for his sister. He pleaded for God to send down angels to fight the demon that possessed his sister.

  Now, forty years later, Father Xavier floated in a canoe of what could very well be the river Styx, carrying them all to hell. No, I can’t think such thoughts, or the demons have won. The priest closed his eyes and returned his attention to the deep inner faith that had gotten him through many spiritual storms. It wasn’t Mirabelle back at the docks, he reminded himself. It was the forces of evil.

  The demon who had possessed Gustave Meraux, the Cannery Cannibal.

  The man at the masquerade party disguised in the red-and-white tribal mask.

  The twin succubae in Andre’s dreams.

  And the skeletal girl with Mirabelle’s face…they were all faces of the Beast who calls himself “Legion.”

  Evil hides behind many faces.

  Father Xavier gazed at the faces of the voyageurs paddling the canoe parallel to him. On his canoe, Master Pendleton and Brother Andre were facing forward. Father Xavier turned to look at the faces of the men paddling behind him. Dr. Coombs grinned with an odd gleam in his eye. The queasiness returned to Father Xavier’s stomach as a dark realization hit him.

  No one could be trusted.

  93

  At dusk, just as the sun was setting behind the fort’s spike-tipped walls, and the rising moon cast silvery light along the leafless branches, Tom made the brisk walk across the snowfield that covered the central courtyard. There was no wind, so it was unusually quiet this evening, the only sound being his shoes crunching over hard-packed snow.

  Tom felt aristocratic wearing his Sunday best—a brown wool overcoat and three-piece suit. The ensemble was topped off with a D’Orsay hat that had once been his father’s. Like the pistol Tom always carried, the one with the Hatcher family crest emblazoned on the handle, the brown top hat held a special meaning. His father had worn it while leading Montréal’s police force and hobnobbing with the city’s upper crust. Orson Hatcher once said, “A man can rise from middle class to nobility just by wearing the right clothes and mixing in with the right people. Hatcher men have always been able to mix with both worlds.” The D’Orsay hat was one of many heirlooms that his father had passed down. While Tom felt more comfortable dressing modestly, he occasionally relished dressing up for formal events. Dining at Noble House was just such an occasion.

  “Tom, is that you?” spoke a woman’s voice off to his left. Anika was walking with Makade. The black wolf dog woofed. The native tracker was wearing a hooded fur parka. Her bare hand clutched the legs of a dead rabbit that hung by her side. Anika narrowed her eyes at Tom’s outfit. “She must have cast a powerful spell on you.”

  “Who?”

  “Lady Pendleton. Isn’t that the reason you’re wearing that silly hat?”

  Tom gripped the lapels of his coat. “I’ve been invited to supper.”

  She tilted her head. “Is that all?”

  Tom didn’t like her tone. “If you have something to say, Anika, then speak it.”

  She looked away briefly, swallowed, and then once again cut into him with her sharp gaze. “This morning I saw Willow come out of your cabin.”

  Tom bristled. “She stopped by to check on me.”

  “She was there for quite a spell.”

  “It’s nothing to be concerned about.” His agitation became overpowered by a sudden nervousness. He feared the Indian woman might have peered into the windows and saw him and Willow kissing. “Were you spying on me?”

  Anika stepped forward. “Everyone in this damned village knows Willow fancies you. And when you two are alone behind closed doors…word goes ’round is all I’m saying.”

  Tom’s chest burned with a mixed brood of fear and anger. He stared at the surrounding cabins. “And who’s spreading such gossip?”

  “Never mind that. You should be more worried about having secret liaisons with Master Pendleton’s wife. He is not a man to cross.”

  Tom’s anger flared. “Anika, you are certainly not one to speak. Everyone knows you’re Avery’s whore.”

  The Indian woman’s eyes filled with rage. Grunting like an animal, she turned and stomped off toward her cabin, the dead rabbit in her hand dripping a trail of blood.

  94

  Inside Noble House, Tom started up the winding staircase. As he climbed the second flight, he heard voices and footsteps coming down. Lt. Hysmith and the heavy-set officer named Walter Thain rounded the banister with one of the native servants, a girl of about fourteen. They stopped at the landing when they saw Tom.

  “Good evening, Inspector.” Walter Thain
nodded. “Good to see you out and about.”

  “I’m feeling much better, thanks.” Tom was grateful he had shaved earlier. He wanted to get on the officers’ good graces and return to work.

  Lt. Hysmith’s face pinched. “What brings you to Noble House?”

  “Uh, Lady Pendleton invited me over for supper.” Tom furrowed his brow. “It was my understanding you two would be joining us.”

  “No, not tonight,” said Thain. “We have business to attend to.” He looked at Hysmith. “Our work seems to never end.”

  Tom studied the servant girl that stood between the officers. Her eyes never looked up from the floor. “I’m eager to get back to work myself. Perhaps I can assist you. I can tell Lady Pendleton another evening.”

  “Nonsense,” said Thain. “It would be rude to decline a lady’s dinner invitation, especially when the cooks have gone to all the trouble.” He patted Tom’s arm. “Enjoy supper, Inspector, and do behave yourself. Lady Pendleton can cast quite a spell.” He winked. Hysmith gave Tom a suspicious look before climbing down the stairs.

  Did they know about what happened this morning? He feared one of the watchtower sentries might have spotted Willow leaving his cabin. Or perhaps Anika was the Judas and went straight to the officers. Would she doublecross Tom? If she were scorned, she bloody well might. Hell hath no fury and all that.

  No, I’m just on edge, Tom decided. If Hysmith knew the truth then he would have said something. The lieutenant had never been a man to withhold his discontent.

  As the officers rounded the lower landing, Thain put his bloated hand on the girl’s shoulder. Tom got a creepy feeling. He quietly followed them down the stairs. Thain and Hysmith took the native girl down the bottom stairwell to the cellar.

  What was this about?

  Tom had never been down to the ground floor. The cellar had no windows. As far as he knew, it was where all the fur pelts were stored, along with the fort’s rations of food and rum. Were they doing inventory tonight? If so, why take the girl?

  Tom wasn’t about to ask why. He was already treading a thin line by what happened today with Lady Pendleton. He returned to the fourth level and reached the door to the Pendleton home. It’s just dinner, he reminded himself. He knocked. The butler named Charles answered. He was a full-blooded Cree with ruddy cheeks, shortly cropped silver hair, and wore a black three-piece suit with gray vest. A visual clash between heathen and high society. With a gray-gloved hand, he waved Tom inside and took his coat and hat. “Lady Pendleton requests you wait in parlor.” The butler hung his coat and hat on a rack then handed him a glass of red wine.

  “Thanks, Charles, but I’m not drinking.” Before he could give back the glass, the butler marched down the hall.

  Tom sniffed the fruity wine and winced. Chianti. Thankfully, wine didn’t have the same grip on him as Scotch whiskey. He set the glass on a hallway table and entered a formal sitting room with plush Victorian furniture and decorative art. The Pendleton home took up both wings of the third floor. In an adjacent room, three Cree women in servant uniforms placed silverware and plates on a cloth-covered dining table.

  Tom checked his pocket watch. What’s keeping Willow?

  He explored the rest of the parlor. A grand fireplace was aglow with a bonfire inside the deep hearth. It put off so much heat he had to keep his distance. Above the mantel hung a large oil painting of Willow. She looked regal, posing in a ruby dress with a ruffled collar that went up to her chin. Her golden hair was pinned up with a lacy hat, allowing just a few ringlets to dangle in back. She was smiling. Even in the painting she resembled Beth. The likeness was uncanny. Willow had the same oval face, dimpled chin, and porcelain skin. Her eyes were a darker shade of blue, but the resemblance was enough to make Tom feel butterflies.

  It’s just dinner.

  “Hello, Tom?” Willow’s voice called from some other chamber. “Tom, are you out there in the parlor?”

  Confused, he looked around and saw a half-open door at the back of the parlor. It led into a hallway. “Yes, Willow. Just waiting on you to make your appearance.”

  “Could you be a love and come here a moment?”

  He looked back at the dining room. The servants placed a baked ham on the table along with several other side dishes. The aroma of the feast made his mouth water. “I believe dinner is being served.”

  “It can wait,” Willow called back. “I could use your assistance.”

  “Sure.” Sighing, Tom walked down the narrow passage that had, of all things, pink walls with a floral design. He opened a door that led into a closet overstuffed with dresses that reeked of perfume. Coughing, he closed the door. Her private chambers had so many doors, big ones and small ones. “Where are you, Willow? Are you playing hide and seek?”

  “Yes.” she giggled. “Come find me.” Her voice echoed from the doorway at the end of the hall. It was partially ajar. He knocked. “Are you in here?” Tom entered a long, narrow room. Velvet curtains draped the windows. The double doors of a tall wardrobe hung open, displaying more colorful dresses and fur coats of every shade. The woman was not for want of something to wear to a ball. A four-poster bed had a red comforter with two dolls propped against plush pillows. One of the dolls was porcelain with blonde hair. The other was the Indian doll that had belonged to Zoé Lamothe.

  Beside the bed sat a beauty table with a circular mirror. An assortment of makeup and brushes was displayed on the table. The room was almost dark, lit by a single glowing candle that was down to the end of its wick. In the far corner he saw several dozen jewel-like eyes reflecting the candle flame. Great Scott! He took a step back. There must have been a hundred dolls propped up on shelves.

  “I’m in here.” Willow giggled.

  He rounded a corner to a small nook, hearing the splash of water. Behind a sheer curtain, Willow was soaking in a bathtub. The outline of her head and bare shoulders was a sight to behold. Her breasts floated just above the water.

  Tom turned away. “Excuse me, Ma’am. I didn’t realize you weren’t decent.”

  He felt flustered. His heartbeat quickened and the excitement in his loins returned. Walking in on Lady Pendleton bathing was the last thing he expected.

  “It’s okay, Tom.” She splashed water at him. “You don’t have to be so polite. I’ve been very naughty.”

  Damn it, he was aroused now. He looked back at all the porcelain faces. “Uh, this is quite a doll collection.”

  “I’ve been collecting my dollies since I was a little girl. They keep me company.”

  Tom felt as if the pale-faced figurines were all watching him. All of them were girls in various hair colors and dresses. Some had parasols and springtime gowns, while others wore miniature fur coats.

  Water splashed as Willow stood. “Could you hand me that towel?”

  “Sure.” He had to turn toward her to reach for it. Out of the corner of his eye he saw her naked form through the sheer curtain. Soapy water dripped down her body. She stepped onto the rug and toweled herself off.

  “I-I’ll wait outside.” He went back into the pink hall, his heart thumping.

  What am I doing? I shouldn’t be in here. Entering the boudoir of another man’s wife was just as adulterous as sleeping with her. Christ, that’s twice today I’ve trespassed on dangerous ground.

  If the officers made a surprise visit, how would he explain himself?

  “Willow, I should leave.”

  “No, stay. Come back in. I’m decent now.”

  Tom had never felt so much lust and confusion. His body and mind were in constant battle. Which side would win depended on how much willpower he could muster. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door. Lady Pendleton was sitting at her beauty table wearing a silk robe. Her wet hair hung down in long curls around her shoulders. She smiled, gazing at him in the mirror. “I’ve been waiting a long time for you, Tom.” She sprayed perfume on her neck.

  He felt himself succumbing to the fragrance of lilac and orange blossom.

>   95

  Anika’s blade carved into the rabbit’s belly. She ripped out the entrails and put them into a stew pot. Damn the Pendletons. They had done nothing but bring misery to Anika and her people. And damn Tom Hatcher.

  As she drank rum, her two dogs stared at her and whimpered.

  “Makade, Ozaawi, lie down.” She waved them away. “Go on.” The dogs curled up by the stove.

  Anika set down the disemboweled rabbit. She looked at her fingers, now covered in blood and hair.

  I’ll never be anything more than a whore and a witch.

  The kitchen table was covered with roots, feathers, leaves, and herbs. She sprinkled a pinch of each into the pot. She put it on the stove and set the brood to boil. Then she picked up the object that gave the concoction its most power.

  Willow’s white fur mitten.

  96

  Willow looked at her reflection in the mirror and powdered her cheeks. She could barely breathe. Her heart beat wildly, and it was more than just the magic dust coursing through her veins. The man from her dreams now stood in the doorway.

  “You can enter now, Tom.” With nervous anticipation, Willow closed her eyes. God, this is finally happening. She hummed, waiting for her lover to step up behind her and place his hands on her shoulders. She had dreamed this moment for so many nights, she had memorized the sequence. His footsteps approached her from behind, the wood creaking at the weight of his shoes. And then he was directly behind her, breathing, his very presence tingling the back of Willow’s neck. Fingers sifted through her wet hair, caressing her scalp, pulling lightly at the roots. His lips pressed against her temple, moving down her cheek to her ear. His heated breath sent ripples of excitement up her chest. As his trail of kisses found their way to her lips, melting into them, his hand slid down into her robe and cupped her breast, squeezing it gently and pinching the nipple. Pleasure and pain. Loving and wicked. He kissed her neck, while both hands fondled her breasts. She leaned back against him, moaning, surrendering fully to his touch. Then he guided her to her feet, so light now she was floating, turning to face him. He slid her robe off her shoulders, admiring the curves and contours of her body as her silk draping brushed down her skin and fell to the floor. She stood before him, baring her naked soul, vulnerable, and never more eager to be taken. Her lover picked her up and carried her to the bed, laid her on her back on the soft velvet spread, her head sinking into the pillows. She pushed Maggie and Noël beneath the pillows, so they wouldn’t see what grownups do. In that moment, the man’s gentlemanly patience ended, and he proceeded to ravish Willow like a barbarian.