Dead of Winter

by Brian Moreland

  “Oh Christ…the children!” Pendleton came out of the next room, pressing a hand over his mouth.

  Tom peered in at the red-splattered walls. Percy’s three children were lying in their beds with blood-soaked covers pulled over their heads.

  Tom cocked his pistol. “Percy! Come out!”

  “He’s finally cracked,” Hysmith said from a few paces back.

  Tom eased into the study. Percy was sitting on the couch near the window. The moonglow lit up half of a red tribal mask that covered his face. His hands covered his ears. One hand tapped the pistol against his mask.

  “Percy, put down the gun.”

  He looked up at Tom, Pendleton, Hysmith, and Thain. “It wants us.” He sniffled and pointed out the window. “The beast out there. Can’t you hear it?” He shook his head wildly, as if bees were swarming inside his skull. “The whispers won’t stop.”

  Tom held out his hand. “Give me the gun.”

  “Get back!” Percy hissed with a voice that sounded like wind rustling dry autumn leaves. He raised the pistol and released a deep, guttural laugh. “The Dark Shepherd is coming for you all. One little lamb at a time.” Then he placed the gun barrel under his chin. The shot boomed, ringing Tom’s ears. The back of Percy’s scalp blew outward. Red matter stained the wall. The clerk slumped back on the couch, his demon mask staring blankly at the window.

  Part Fifteen

  Brotherhood

  153

  “Take him to the Dead House,” Tom ordered two soldiers.

  “Aye, sir.” They carried out Percy Kennicot’s body wrapped in a bloody sheet.

  Tom remained alone in the study, where the stench of death made the air almost unbreathable. Percy had released all body fluids as his brains exploded across the back wall. Blood dripped off several native masks. They looked back at Tom like a tribe of bodiless ghouls and demons. False Faces, Tom thought. He picked up the red visage Percy had been wearing. White dots traced circles around the eyes and mouth. Tufts of what looked to be ox hair hung off the sides. Tom recognized it as an Iroquois Indian mask carved from balsa wood.

  A few years ago, in Lachine, Quebec, a group of Iroquois had entered a farmer’s barn, wearing red demon masks and chanting. The disturbance had caused a scare among the white farmers. When Tom questioned the Indians, they explained they were members of the False Face Society. They claimed they were exorcising demons called Ga-go-sa that haunted the barn. These bodiless faces supposedly floated in midair and terrorized the Iroquois. Tom knew it was just another Indian superstition, but the Iroquois made monstrous masks with twisted faces and performed ceremonies to ward off the Ga-go-sa.

  Tom frowned, his head full of questions. Why was Percy wearing an Iroquois mask? And what pushed him to murder his own children and then kill himself? On Percy’s desk was the child’s drawing of the stick figure with antlers.

  It wants us, Percy had said. The beast out there.

  Tom’s hand began to palsy. He gripped his wrist to steady it. After his nerves finally settled, he went into the next room where Pendleton, Hysmith, and Thain waited with forlorn expressions on their faces. Pendleton looked up from his seat. “Find anything, Inspector?”

  “Percy left no suicide note. He appears to have emptied a bottle of Scotch. Was he a heavy drinker?”

  Pendleton nodded. “Ever since he lost Sakari.”

  Tom leaned against the threshold, gripping the red mask. “Gentlemen, before Percy…took his life, he said some things that I find rather peculiar. I have to ask if any of you know what he meant by ‘The Dark Shepherd is coming for you all.’”

  The officers glanced at one another, shaking their heads, remaining tight-lipped.

  Pendleton said, “Inspector, it’s late, and we’re all in shock at the sudden loss of our friend. We’re going to turn in for the night. I suggest you do the same.”

  154

  Tom went back to the barracks and told the guard on duty to go out for a break. In the corner cell, Anika rose from her seat. “Tom!”

  He gripped her hands through the bars. “Are you okay?”

  She nodded. “You have to believe I’m innocent. I would never—”

  “I believe you.” He squeezed her hands. “Anika, I’m so sorry for what we put you through. Pendleton was convinced you conjured a windigo to curse his forts. There’s more that’s been happening.” He told her about Percy’s suicide. “The officers are acting strange. They know something they’re not telling me.”

  “They know they’re cursed,” she said. “It was only a matter of time before someone sought revenge.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The villagers all despise the officers. At Noble House, they have been making the servant women play sexual games down in the cellar.”

  “You’ve witnessed this?” Tom asked.

  Anika nodded, her face a mask of anger. “Lt. Hysmith is the most dreadful, and all the women fear him. Last autumn, a servant girl ended up dead. I admit I wanted the officers to suffer, but I had nothing to do with the curse.”

  “Who then, one of the servants?”

  Anika shrugged. “Anyone in this village could have paid a shaman to conjure the windigo.”

  155

  Tom returned to his cabin and sat on his bed. Staring at the wall, he thought of all the strange events that had happened today. The cannibal attacks. The deaths of fifteen more colonists, the final ones being a triple murder and suicide. Percy’s rampage had disturbed Tom the most. The voice behind the mask did not sound like Percy’s, but one that had haunted Tom’s nightmares for the past two years.

  He reached under his bed and pulled out a trunk. Taking a deep breath, he opened it. Inside were mementos from a past he had wanted to forget. He picked up a black and white portrait of Gustave Meraux in a regal suit and top hat. Before going crazy, Gustave had been a high society libertine and an heir of the wealthy Meraux family. And then at the age of forty he started abducting and cannibalizing women.

  What drives a man to go insane? Tom wondered. What makes him suddenly develop a craving for human meat?

  Stored in the trunk were several newspapers. He read the headlines: INSPECTOR HATCHER CAPTURES CANNERY CANNIBAL; THIRTEEN WOMEN MURDERED; INSPECTOR’S WIFE CANNIBAL’S FINAL VICTIM.

  The last headline brought a heaviness to Tom’s eyelids, but he tightened his face and willed back the tears. He tried to remember Beth Hatcher when she was alive: her smile, her infectious laugh, the way she hummed when she cooked, one hand resting on the swell of her belly when she was eight months pregnant. But those memories were quickly torn away by nightmarish thoughts and distant screams. Tom quickly grabbed a fourth newspaper with the headline GUSTAVE MERAUX CONVICTED.

  During the trial, the cannibal had been chained inside an iron cell in the courtroom, his arms wrapped in a straightjacket. As Tom gave his testimony, Gustave stared with feral eyes, his lips constantly moving. Upon the judge’s summoning the death sentence, the killer rattled his cage and screamed, “As the Devil is my witness, alive or dead I will come back for you, Tom. I will eat your son’s heart in front of you.”

  Tom had charged the cage. The bailiffs dragged Tom away as Gustave cackled. “I am the Dark Shepherd! The collector of lost lambs!”

  Now, that raspy voice echoed in Tom’s head as he tossed the newspapers and photo back into the trunk and shoved it under the bed. His right hand palsied. He began to hyperventilate. He went to the rinse bowl and splashed cold water into his face. He stared into the mirror. Behind his shoulder appeared a pale, grinning face. Tom jerked around. But like so many times before, the Cannery Cannibal wasn’t there.

  156

  Tom stepped into the chapel. The nave was dark except for one corner where Father Xavier was kneeling at the altar. Candlelight and shadows rippled across the statue of the Virgin Mary. The blood tears had been cleaned from her face, but her cheeks now had a pink hue, as if the Madonna were blushing.

  As Tom approached, the bald priest t
urned. “Evening, Inspector, what brings you to God’s temple at this hour?”

  “I couldn’t sleep. I was wondering if you have time for a confession.”

  “Of course.” The priest rose and led Tom to the confessional booths.

  Tom sat inside a small closet and took a deep breath.

  Father Xavier slid open the screen. “What is your confession?”

  Tom crossed his chest. “Forgive me, Father, it’s been a couple of years since my last confession.”

  “God loves you and forgives you.”

  Tom said, “Being from Montréal, you must have heard of the Cannery Cannibal.”

  “Oui, oui, he was quite notorious. Our cathedral was filled with people who lived in fear of him.”

  “I was the detective who finally captured him.”

  “What is your confession?”

  Tom’s stomach knotted as he recalled his days in Montréal. “I spent over a year tracking the Cannery Cannibal. I sinned a great deal during that time. I neglected my family. I drank heavily. I became completely consumed with the case. I spent most nights staking out the harbor docks. I visited brothels…”

  “Did you sin with these women?”

  “No, I loved my wife. I just went to the rooms with the women and questioned them. They were all on edge after several prostitutes had been found butchered.” Tom envisioned skeletons with the heads left intact, the faces powdered with makeup. “I was so consumed with getting inside the mind of a cannibal, that I…I went so far as to break into a morgue. There was a fresh cadaver on the table. I stole small samples of flesh. At home I cooked the meat and tasted it. I knew I was sinning, but I had to understand what drove a man to cannibalize another person…”

  “And…” said the priest.

  “I was mortified by the effects of cannibalism. I felt stronger, more alert. The meat had a life force. I had a feeling of power like nothing I had ever experienced. As if eating human flesh awakened some animal nature within me. I felt a connection to some god that was far from holy.” Tom clenched his fists. “I immediately craved more.”

  “And did you follow that temptation?” asked Father Xavier.

  “No, I stopped myself, but it took all my will not to eat another piece of meat. I was disgusted with myself.” Tom fidgeted with the sleeve of his coat. “After that I began to have nightmares. My relation with Gustave Meraux had gone beyond that of a detective hunting a murderer. I felt a strange brotherhood with him. Like we were two reflections walking on opposite sides of the same mirror. The cannibal began to target me, as well. I received three anonymous packages from him. Small sardine tins. Only they had fingers in them, one from each of his victims. He included notes goading me to track him down. The last tin he sent…one of the fingers was wearing my wife’s wedding ring.” Tom’s chest burned with anger and sadness. “By the time I tracked Gustave to the Meraux Cannery…” His head filled with his wife’s distant screams, as he relived the nightmare from two years ago…

  157

  A woman’s tortured screams echoed across the rainy night.

  “Beth!” Tom and his police squad raided the cannery with a half dozen bloodhounds. The complex was a labyrinth of docks and warehouses along the St. Lawrence River. Choppy waters splashed under the piers. Fishing boats bumped in their slips. The shacks groaned beneath the pounding of rain. Beth’s cries of agony were drowned out by the endless torrents and crackling thunder. The hounds barked, stretching their leashes. Tom’s heart pounded as he led his men along the docks, searching from building to building.

  From the distance echoed a high-pitched cackle. Tom ran ahead of his men. His swinging lantern tossed the light across the rain-drenched dock boards and black river water. He half expected his wife’s body to float up to the surface like all the others, her face eaten by fish, the skull covered in kelp and barnacles.

  No, he’d heard screaming. Beth had to be alive!

  The pier ended at a long warehouse set off by itself. The large shack was dilapidated, with peeling white paint and broken windows. Shimmering light glowed inside.

  Pistol raised, Tom kicked the door open and burst into the warehouse. He ran past a fishing boat under repair. Beyond was a second door and a room where iron chains hung from the ceiling. As he entered, he was immediately pummeled by the smell of blood and offal. In a giant vat boiled some kind of red stew with chunks of meat. On a long table were hundreds of small soup tins and a machine used for canning.

  Tom searched the shadowy warehouse for his missing wife, wary that the Cannery Cannibal could be hiding anywhere in the dark mortuary of broken boats. Whispers reverberated off the hulls. At the far end, beyond a thatch-work of fishing nets, glowed an altar of black candles. Kneeling before it was a naked man with blood smeared on his back and buttocks. His hands raised an object that was dark red and shaped like a cow kidney. He spoke something in a strange language and then set the glistening organ on the altar. “For you, Master.” On the wall above loomed a tall mural of a dark-skinned beast with antlers.

  Tom weaved through a maze of netting and chains that dangled from the ceiling. They chinked together. The killer remained on his knees, facing the Satanic altar. Tom gripped his pistol with a shaky hand and stepped up behind the cannibal.

  “Don’t move.”

  “I’ve been waiting for you, Tom.” The Cannery Cannibal slowly stood and turned around. “Ahhh, at long last we meet.”

  The candlelight illuminated a rail-thin body painted neck to toe in blood. The outline of his ribcage pressed through his skin. His gaunt face was covered in white powder.

  For a long, surreal moment Tom gazed into the eyes of the mass murderer he’d been tracking for over a year. The cannibal who had sent Tom tins of severed fingers. The beast who had abducted his wife. Gustave grimaced and Tom saw that all of the cannibal’s teeth had been filed down to sharp points. “You’re just in time to join me and Beth for supper.”

  Tom kept his pistol aimed at Gustave’s chest. “Where is she!”

  The killer’s long-nailed finger twirled until it finally pointed toward a side wall. Hanging from the chains like a slaughterhouse carcass was Beth’s stiff body. Her face had been made up like a doll. Her arms and chest were flayed to the bone. Her butcher had disemboweled her and removed the unborn fetus. It was in that horrifying instant that Tom realized what the cannibal had set upon the altar.

  The room began to spin…chains…carcass…candles…cannibal.

  Tom fell to his knees and vomited.

  The warehouse filled with the sounds of barking bloodhounds and running footsteps as the other officers charged into the lair.

  Gustave put his hands up in surrender and kneeled across from Tom. “Looks like you’ll have to dine without me, Tom.” The madman grinned as the police shackled him and lifted him to his feet. “Have you ever taken a bite of your wife’s breast? I have. Ripped the nipple clean off.”

  Tom screamed and drew his gun, but several policemen grabbed him before he could kill the Cannery Cannibal. The maniac cackled as the police dragged him off.

  158

  Tom leaned back against the confession booth wall and looked at the priest’s silhouette. “Father, I had wanted so badly to kill that son of a bitch. But the other officers wouldn’t let me. The police chief was friends with the Meraux family and had ordered that Gustave be brought in alive. After Beth’s and the baby’s deaths, my life became a drunken blur. I cursed God and the Church. I verbally abused my son, Chris. Even though Gustave was behind bars, the nightmares persisted, as if the cannibal was imprisoned inside my head. I felt as if I were going mad. I brought my son here to start over, but shortly after we arrived…Chris was killed…” Tom choked. “And I feel…I feel as if God is punishing me. Beth, Chris, and my baby daughter are all dead because of my sins. I miss my family so much, I don’t think I can go on.” Before Tom knew it, he was weeping, and there was nothing he could do to stop the flowing of tears.

  159

  A h
alf hour later, Tom sat in a pew illuminated by the flickering glow of votive candles. He whispered several Hail Marys to the Virgin statue. The knot in his chest began to release, and a euphoric feeling waved over him. He felt a lightness of mind, as if the Madonna had kissed his forehead. He wiped his eyes on his sleeve. At the sound of footsteps, he turned and saw the tall priest taking a seat next to him.

  Father Xavier said, “How do you feel, Tom?”

  “Like I’ve cried my guts out.”

  “You should confess more often. Bottling up emotions only summons the Devil.”

  Tom nodded. “There’s something else that I haven’t told you. Gustave still shows up in my nightmares. And I keep having visions of him here at the fort. Tonight, just before Percy shot himself, Gustave’s voice spoke through him. He said the Dark Shepherd is coming after all of us. That was the nickname Gustave called himself during his trial. The collector of lost lambs. Am I going crazy?”

  Father Xavier rubbed his rosary between his fingers. “Tom, I have my own confession. Because of my vow of secrecy, I have not been forthright with everything I know. But I need you as an ally as much as you need me.”

  Tom stared at the priest, not knowing whether to feel angry or intrigued. “If you can help make sense of all this, I need you to tell me.”

  Father Xavier took a deep breath and crossed himself. “Ever since you captured Gustave, I’ve been documenting his case for the Jesuits. I went to the warehouse where he performed his Satanic acts. I observed the mural of the horned beast. I sat among the congregation at Gustave’s trial and saw what a monster he’d become. He wasn’t just an insane criminal. He was possessed by a demon.”

  Tom pictured the madman wearing his straightjacket, sitting in his cage and staring across the courtroom at Tom. “I believe a man can be evil to the core, Father, but what makes you so certain demons exist?”