Other villagers gathered around.
“You, boy!” Andre said to a teenager. “Run, get the doctor.”
The kid scrambled off.
“She’s been cursed,” said one of the native women.
“By that witch,” said another.
“Give us some room,” Andre snapped at the onlookers. He rocked Willow. “Everything’s going to be all right. We’re here now.”
Willow stared up with a vacant, heavy-lidded gaze, lips mumbling. As her head lolled back, fear clenched Andre’s heart with icy fingers.
121
Tom stepped out of the Dead House with a sick feeling in his stomach. Lieutenant Hysmith came out second, pressing a handkerchief over his nose. Outside, the garrison of eight red-coated soldiers stood around with forlorn expressions. Private Wickliff was seated on the ground, crying. He was the unlucky bloke who found Fitch’s butchered body. There wasn’t much left of the hapless soldier.
A trail of red footprints zigzagged across the cemetery.
“These were made by a man wearing large fur boots,” Tom said. “Let’s track him.” He followed the bloody boot prints.
Determined to avenge their mate, the soldiers fanned out through the graveyard, gripping their rifles.
Up ahead, Tom spotted a red patch of snow. He kneeled over a severed arm. Most of the muscle along the forearm had been torn off. The hand, which barely clung to the wrist bone, had several large bite marks.
He faced the garrison. “Men, we appear to have another cannibal among us.”
The soldiers glanced at one another with paranoia in their eyes.
“It’s not any of my men,” Hysmith said. “They were with me.”
Tom quickly studied their faces for signs of infection, especially Private Wickliff, who was the last to be alone with Fitch. The teen was a blubbering mess. Other than his boots and the cuffs of his trousers, the kid was free of blood. Tom scanned the graveyard and cabins beyond. Whoever murdered Fitch was now loose inside the village.
Tom said, “Lieutenant, have one of them wrap up this arm and take it to Dr. Coombs.” He saw that the gnawed flesh was covered in white pus. “Nobody touch it with your bare hand. It may be infected.”
Tom marched on and all but one soldier followed. The bloody boot prints ran right past Anika’s home, so close Tom could see the two rocking chairs in the window. That unsettled his nerves. He wanted to knock on the door to make sure she was okay, but there was no time. The bright red patches in the snow faded to pink smears then diminished to occasional red droplets. The trail of boot impressions led to the far corner of the fort.
Off by itself stood the boarded-up hospital house.
122
Father Xavier had the sensation of being watched as he stood in Willow Pendleton’s bedchamber. The myriad of dolls was packed together on shelves that covered two walls. The priest found their blank gazes unsettling.
The blonde woman who had collapsed earlier was now lying in her bed unconscious. Dr. Coombs lifted her eyelids, exposing blue eyes that stared at nothing.
“Will she be okay?” Master Pendleton asked from the opposite side of her bed. He was on his knee, holding her hand.
“She’s snorted a high dose of cocaine.” The doctor rose. “We’ll need to keep a close watch on her.”
“I can stay with her,” Andre offered.
“No, I need you to keep with me,” Father Xavier said. “We have more training to do.”
“But she needs attention—”
“I’ll stay with her,” Master Pendleton said, his face distraught. “Please, everyone, just leave us be.”
123
When the doctor and Jesuits left the room, Avery dropped his wife’s hand. He was sickened that she had left Noble House high on cocaine. Now the whole damned fort would be gossiping.
“How could you do this to me?” he asked.
Willow just lay there like Sleeping Beauty waiting for her prince. Avery wasn’t about to kiss those pale lips. Her skin was sallow in the half-light. Her face looked older now, with crow’s feet around the eyes.
He glanced around the room at her wardrobe of dresses, her velvet curtains, and the damned collection of dolls. He had given Willow everything her heart desired, and she did nothing but embarrass him in return. She always needed to be the center of attention. How many times had he caught her flirting with other men? When Avery first started courting Willow, she was sixteen. A spoiled little debutante. The gorgeous daughter of a wealthy and powerful baron. Avery thought once he married Willow, he could tame her. Make her his obedient wife to show off at business parties and galas. But his marriage was more like a father raising a little girl who refused to grow up.
Kill her, whispered a voice inside his head. Kill the little slut.
Avery took one of her lacy pillows and held it a foot over her face. All he had to do was press down, and he would be free of his wife’s childish antics.
Behind him came a sound like a porcelain plate smashing against the floor. One of the dolls had fallen off the shelf and shattered into a thousand tiny shards. It was the geisha he had bought his wife for Christmas. On the bed, Willow giggled softly and rolled over onto her side. She slept with a lazy smile, as if having a pleasant dream.
Oh, to hell with this brat. Avery tossed the pillow and left the room.
124
Tom and his soldiers approached Hospital House. Bloody boot prints marked the snow and back porch. The planks had been torn from the doorway. Tom peered into the black maw.
The soldiers lit up a couple of lanterns. Tom, cocking his pistol, eased a lantern across the threshold. Snow spun along the kitchen floor. Beyond the kitchen, hallways split off into three directions. One was a staircase that led to the second story. The wood floor was bloodstained from the day Doc Riley slaughtered his wife. Tom listened. Wind careened through the shattered windows. Then came flapping from some distant room. Birds had gotten in.
Tom glanced over his shoulder at Sgt. Cox and the guards. They all looked like nervous sheep. None of them were trained for police raids. The inspector entered first, signaling the men to cover two of the doorways. He directed Sgt. Cox to take four soldiers upstairs. Then Tom and Hysmith explored the hallway directly left. If memory served him right, it led to the apothecary. He stabbed the light into a room. The bedroom where Zoé had slept. The room was now empty. As Tom crept through the dark corridor, he couldn’t help feeling he was back in Montréal, exploring the maze of warehouses at the Meraux Cannery. He heard the sound of chains chinking together, water dripping, and the bubbling of soup boiling inside a giant vat. Tom paused, shaking his head. Since he’d stopped drinking and passed the time whittling out his demons, the flashbacks had ended. But searching for a cannibal inside Hospital House was bringing the horrid visions back.
Aware of his heartbeat, Tom aimed his pistol and continued down the hallway. The corridor opened up into a room with curio cabinets. The lantern light reflected something green. It sparkled like an emerald. On a cabinet sat an Indian doll with a single eye. Zoé’s doll. He had last seen it in Willow’s room. What was it doing here? There were other objects on the cabinet: a ring, a necklace, a knife, a flask, and a half dozen other trinkets. They were arranged like some sort of altar. On the wall above was another red spiral.
The ceiling creaked. Tom raised the lantern. Above issued a gibbering sound that caught his breath. His mind flashed to the face of the Cannery Cannibal. The gibbering turned to cackling. Then Hospital House erupted with screams and gunshots.
125
As the screams and gunfire faded, Tom and three soldiers charged up the staircase. At the top floor, a long room full of beds stretched the length of Hospital House. Gray light pierced through the clapboards covering two windows. The back half of the room was hidden by deep shadows. The room reeked of gunsmoke and blood. Tom entered and was knocked back by a flutter of air. Black birds flew up from the floor, flapping over his head. Tom reeled at the sight of three
mutilated soldiers. Among the dead lay Sgt. Cox. He had claw marks across his face. One soldier was missing.
The ravens flocked together and flew into the shadows. A guttural snarl, like a feral wolf, issued from the far end of the room.
One of Tom’s soldiers bolted down the stairs. The other two remained frozen, holding up their rifles with shaking arms.
“Keep with me, men.” Tom held up his lantern and eased toward the guttural cawing sounds. He stopped midway when the edge of the lantern glow revealed the body of the missing soldier. Pale hands dug into the dead man’s belly and tore out his guts. Tom raised the lantern. The killer, wearing a hooded fur parka, was hunched over, stuffing entrails into his mouth. Flapping birds perched on his back. The parka that cloaked the beast was a squirming mass of living rats with beady eyes and worm-like tales that intertwined.
“Oh, Jesus!” yelled one of the soldiers.
The killer looked up. Nocturnal eyes reflected the light.
At the sight of the face, Tom froze, disbelieving.
Gustave.
The Cannery Cannibal’s face split into a red grimace. He rose, a swarm of dark wings flapping around him.
“Shoot him!” Tom screamed at the two soldiers. The gunmen unleashed a frenzy of bullets.
The cannibal charged, loping toward them, closing the distance with incredible speed. Tom hurled the lantern, striking the beast with a burst of flames that rippled across the fur parka. The ravens scattered. The cannibal roared, spinning, a whirling dervish of fire. Tom and the soldiers filled the killer’s body with lead until he finally collapsed in a heap of flames.
126
Tom, still shaken from the attack, stood among Pendleton, Hysmith, Dr. Coombs, and the two Jesuits. Firelight reflected in each of their eyes as they watched Hospital House burn like a giant bonfire. The rooftop caved in with a thundering crash of timbers. Black smoke and glowing embers drifted across the fort.
The bodies of the four slain soldiers had been left inside the burning house. Only the corpse of the cannibal creature lay on the snowy ground.
“I’ve never seen anything quite like this,” Dr. Coombs said. “The man’s physiology has gone through some kind of metamorphosis.” He pointed with a stick, careful not to touch it. “He has claws and look at those teeth.” On the charred half of the face, the flesh had burned away, exposing a row of fangs, everyone of them sharp as a canine’s. The other half showed the man was not Gustave Meraux, as Tom had feared, but another colonist.
“Who is he?” Tom asked Pendleton.
“Jean Chaurette.” The chief factor shook his head. “He was one of the voyageurs who just returned from Montréal.”
Tom thought of the sixteen men who had recently traveled the rivers by canoe. The last two days of their journey, they had camped in the woods. Four members from that party were standing in this circle now. Tom gazed at Father Xavier, Andre, Dr. Coombs, and then at Pendleton. “Your voyageurs must have brought the disease back into the fort.”
Master Pendleton scoffed. “No one in my crew showed any sign of the sickness.”
Tom said, “Doc Riley didn’t show any symptoms right away either, but he eventually began to change into something like this.”
Dr. Coombs stabbed a needle into the creature’s arm and drew a sample of blood. “Now, I can finally have look at this virus.”
Pendleton said, “Find out what you can quickly, Doctor, before another outbreak occurs.” To the four remaining soldiers, he said, “Men, throw this body into the fire.”
The pallbearers wore heavy coats, scarves, and mittens as they carried the cannibal’s corpse and tossed it into the pyre. To be safe, they burned their outer clothing, as well.
“We can’t be sure that’s the last of it,” Tom said. “If one or more of the voyageurs brought the disease into the fort…”
The bonfire drew other onlookers, as over forty villagers gathered. Tom looked around at all the men, women, and children who watched the blaze. Any one of them could be carrying the virus within them.
127
Andre stood mesmerized by the bonfire. He’d never seen anything so dazzling as the tall flames that licked the evening sky. Ashes drifted upward like snowfall in reverse. On the ground, the heat melted away the snow in a large radius, uncovering black earth. A group of giggling kids ran past, their boots splashing through mud.
Sweat rolled down Andre’s face. He loosened his tunic. He looked around at the crowd of men and women captivated by the glowing spectacle of flames devouring the walls of Hospital House. The children grabbed hands and danced in a circle. Behind them, the towering fire popped and crackled as the timbers disintegrated. A burst of orange embers burst outward, a swarm of fireflies floating over the heads of the children.
Andre called to them, “You shouldn’t be so close to the fire.”
The kids only snickered, dancing hand in hand like little pagans. They were circling an object that lay on the ground on a flat piece of wood.
Andre looked back at his mentor. Father Xavier was in deep discussion with Master Pendleton and Inspector Hatcher. The gazes of all the parents remained transfixed on the bonfire, as if enchanted by it. Andre approached the children, who were now singing a French nursery rhyme. The object that they danced around had tiny feet and hands. It looked like an infant lying on a sacrificial altar. Andre broke up the circle. “Go find your parents,” he said, shooing the kids. They scampered away, giggling.
The heat this close to the fire was sweltering. Kneeling, Andre picked up an Indian doll that had a soot-covered face and singed fur clothing. The leather skin on half its face had melted away, exposing the solid wood beneath. A single green eye stared at Andre, reflecting the light.
A little girl’s voice whispered in Andre’s mind, Take me back to Willow.
Part Thirteen
Hysteria
128
Standing on the chapel’s stage beside Master Pendleton, Tom gripped a shotgun. His adrenaline was still pumping from shooting the cannibal at Hospital House. Morale was down. The garrison had lost five more members today. First the cannibal creature killed Private Fitch in the Dead House, and then slaughtered Sgt. Cox and three others on the top floor of Hospital House. Fort security was now down to Lt. Hysmith and four privates, all teenagers.
The lieutenant and his guards appeared anxious, as thirty colonists walked single file into the nave. Dr. Coombs examined them for signs of the infection. Everyone seemed accounted for except Willow, who was sick in bed. Tom had been shocked to hear that she had nearly overdosed on cocaine. He felt pity for the woman, but she was Avery Pendleton’s problem to deal with.
Tom had an outbreak to contain.
With the gaze of a hawk, he watched every man, woman, and child standing in line. He prayed none of the children were infected. The thought of having to execute a child in front of his parents…Tom didn’t want to think about it. Instead, he focused on the men who gave him the most suspicion: The French Canadian voyageurs who had recently returned from their canoe trip.
The latest infected man, Jean Chaurette, had lived among the voyageurs in a small cropping of cabins at the front corner of the fort. They were a tight-knit bunch who kept to themselves. When the laborers weren’t working, they spent their nights drinking rum and singing French songs that echoed across the fort. Several times Tom had to ask them to stop singing so the rest of the colony could sleep.
Jean Chaurette had been their leader. What was he doing inside Hospital House? Hiding out so no one would see that he was changing into a monster? Tom remembered the altar he’d found—the red spiral, the offerings of trinkets. Were they placed there by Jean or the owners?
The first thought that came to mind was Devil worship. Tom studied the haggard faces of the voyageurs who stood in line, awaiting their examination. Among them stood the bearded giant, Michel Bélanger. He glared back at Tom, giving him the evil eye.
Pendleton leaned toward Tom’s ear and whispered, “If any of
them are infected, you know what has to be done.”
129
Father Xavier watched the colonists as they were examined by Dr. Coombs and then took a seat in the pews. The disease specialist studied the throat and eyes of a little boy. After a moment, Dr. Coombs smiled and patted the boy’s head. “Pierre, you can go sit with your sister.”
Brother Andre checked the boy’s name off a list.
Father Xavier released his breath. All the children were free of the disease. Thus far, out of forty people, only two men and one very sick woman had been discovered with symptoms—white scabs, pronounced veins, and fitful coughs. They had been segregated from the others and remained quarantined at the far corner of the nave. Two guards watched over them.
Next in line was a crane-thin man with an unruly gray beard. The grandfather of the previous boy and girl. Father Xavier noticed the old man’s hands were trembling. He kept his head down.
“What’s your name?” Dr. Coombs asked.
“Jean-Luc Boisvert,” he spoke with a raspy voice.
Dr. Coombs held an oil lamp to Boisvert’s wrinkled face. He had nasty scabs on his cheeks and forehead. “How long have you had these lesions?”
“Bout a week. It’s frostbite.” His eyes were bloodshot, the blue-gray irises streaked with white. Like dull marbles. His lips were chapped.
“Open wide and let me see your teeth.”
“Why do you need to see my teeth?”
“It’s just a procedure.”
Boisvert opened his mouth. Half the teeth were missing. His gums were gray and spotted with patches of white foam. Dr. Coombs made some notes. “I’ll need you to spend the night in the hospital.”
“I ain’t infected,” Boisvert snarled.
Father Xavier said, “If you are well, then touch this cross and accept the blessings of Jesus Christ.” He held up a cross. The old man’s marble eyes flared, and he recoiled.
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