"As I say, I understand. But you call me when you actually get to the cabin," Niona ordered sternly. "Let me know how things are so I can be sure you'll be comfortable there."
"I will."
"And let me tell Keoman you'll be at the cabin," Niona continued. "He can help."
"I'm counting on that. I've already contacted him. That's another reason I left so soon. He said he was going to be tied up fairly soon with something he couldn't put off."
Silence stretched across the airwaves for so long, Kymbria started to hold the phone away and see if the call had dropped. Then her mother sighed, the breath tinged with a measure of frustration. "Then I'll trust this is the right path."
"So will I." It's all I have left. "Give Risa a hug and kiss for me. I love you, Mom."
"Love you, too, darling," Niona whispered. "So much. I…I want my old Kymbria back."
"Bye, Mom."
Scarlet nudged her as she laid the phone down. Kymbria fondled the setter's ears and said, "Maybe that's what Mom wants, sweetie. Me, I'm not so sure I want to go back to that Kymbria. Too much water under the bridge, huh? Too many memories, too many unwalked paths. Maybe…." She clenched the steering wheel. "Maybe too many walked paths. Wrong paths."
And she'd meant what she told Niona. She was taking this action as much for Risa as for herself. Kymbria couldn't raise her daughter in the throes of not knowing when she would black out and become a danger to those she loved.
Not knowing when her fury at her dead husband would erupt during a PTSD episode and override the love she had for the daughter he left her.
She continued on the lonely road for another two miles, driving through pristine snow except for that shoved aside in waist-high grimy banks by the snowplows. Dark-emerald pines reached skyward on both sides of the two-lane, and at one point she slowed to watch a fifteen-hundred-pound moose amble leisurely out of the woods and lift its antlered head to gaze at her car as she passed. She didn't dawdle for a more in-depth look. According to what her father had taught her, the rut could extend into December. More than once a surly, ungratified moose, which had perhaps been beaten out by a larger bull, had attacked trespassers in his domain — along with the vehicle that brought them there.
Finally, Kymbria turned into the cabin drive, where she immediately braked and debated calling Niona back. Ahead of her lay unplowed snow at least a foot deep. Len obviously hadn't been here for ages, and she would have bet a month's pay Niona had contacted him a few days back when they first discussed coming up here, albeit together. Len should have at least made initial preparations for their arrival sometime in the past few days.
Instead of reaching for the phone, she sighed in annoyance, shifted into four-wheel drive, and navigated the hundred yards on to the four bedroom cabin her parents had lovingly restored years ago.
The same here. No walkways shoveled, no stack of cut wood moved from the pile near the garage to beside the back door for easy access. She parked in the drive, since the garage was full of equipment, including their ski boat and several snowmobiles. Scarlet perched on the passenger seat, ears perked as she looked out through the windshield.
"Our new home, sweetie. For a while, anyway. Lots of quiet, beautiful scenery, plenty of long, soothing walks waiting for us." She glanced at the garage, then muttered, "Oh, crap. If Len hasn't cleared the snow, I'll bet the snowmobiles haven't been touched, either." She recalled that there was something to do — or un-do — each winter before the family could use the vehicles during their infrequent cold-weather trips.
Nothing for it right now. Instead, she opened the car door and stepped out, then let the setter scramble after her. Scarlet raced off as Kymbria breathed in the peace and solitude.
Unspoiled. Beautiful. The log cabin sat off by itself on a shore of the lake that hadn't succumbed to development, and her parents' land included four acres of woods. She couldn't even see the next cabin down the shore, since her mother had insisted they leave their acreage in its natural state, except for the quarter acre around the cabin. That they had landscaped with native plants and flagstone walkways, now hidden under the unshoveled snow. In all seasons, they could watch a variety of wildlife from the windows: deer, skunks, numerous birds, even a doe and twin fawns had visited several times one summer.
The very isolation could be dangerous, however, when only one person used the cabin…and also a lot of work since there were no close neighbors to help each other, especially in the winter months. That's exactly why Len was so important. And he had a spotless reputation. She'd never heard anyone complain the maintenance man from the Turtle Clan had let them down or done a bad job.
Len's phone number was probably in the small book her detail-minded mother kept in the stand under the phone, though. In case some sort of miscommunication had occurred, she would call him directly before she let her mother or anyone else know that yes, Len was fallible.
Chapter 3
Caleb McCoy whacked the snowshoes against the side of the cabin harder than necessary to knock the packed snow from the webs. The action also served to release a bit of his banked frustration. Without regard to where they landed, he tossed the snowshoes aside, then entered the one-room log building. Cold out. Frigid. The same in here. He set his rifle beside the door carefully, due to its more delicate nature, and crossed to the stone fireplace before he took off his gloves. Picking up the small shovel, he raked aside ashes, searching for a glimmer of ember in the fire he'd banked before he left to meet the Native American shaman, Keoman.
Keoman, who hadn't shown up at their meeting place. Damn him! He'd forced Caleb to march miles in frigid weather for a clandestine meeting the other man didn't bother to notify Caleb was canceled.
There. A flicker in the ashes. He checked his irritation and blew gently on the ember rather than whoosh out a breath that would smother his face in gray powder. A moment later, he trickled a handful of kindling on the budding flame. Soon the fire flared, and Caleb added more kindling, and eventually two split logs from the sling beside the fireplace. He'd have to get more wood in from the pile his landlord left before nightfall.
The warmth spread through the well-insulated room quickly, but Caleb only stood there fuming until he realized he was sweating beneath his fur-lined jacket. He jerked it off and tossed it onto the lone bunk in the room before he grabbed the can of coffee off the shelf.
Damn. The water in the coffeepot was frozen. He should have left the propane cook stove on low while he was gone. He hung the pot on a hook set in the fireplace stones for that purpose, lit two of the kerosene lamps, and dropped into the cane rocking chair to mull over Keoman's no-show.
Although he'd been forthcoming over the phone, Keoman had insisted their actual meetings be in secret. With no recourse, Caleb agreed. The Ojibway wouldn't even come to the cabin Caleb had rented for two months, the length of time Caleb assumed he would be here. Maybe less…he hoped less. But if he couldn't even talk to Keoman when the meetings were planned, he might as well hang things up now and try to find some other way to further his investigation.
No one else would fit the bill quite like Keoman, though. Caleb had studied the Northern tribal lore well. Knew where the well-hidden, shadowy activities took place. Activities very similar to what had happened back home in Colorado.
The anguish that threatened his sanity and strength knocked against that door in his mind where he trapped it, and Caleb bent forward to grip his head in both hands. If he allowed the memories to overcome him, he might as well check himself in at some facility and ask for each and every pharmaceutical they could provide to help him weather the downslide. No, not even weather it. Drug it into obscurity. And his wife and son deserved more than that, even in death.
He checked his sat-phone, the only form of communication viable in this deep wilderness area. A good signal. He punched in Keoman's number…with the same result he'd gotten when he called after he snow-shoed to the meeting place. Nada. Not even voice mail.
Where t
he fuck was the shaman? He caught himself before he threw the phone against the log wall in frustration, breathed deep, then checked the coffeepot. Not that he needed the caffeine, but it would give him something to focus on.
He fired up the propane stove and filled the coffeepot with the now melted water and the basket with grounds. Pot on the stove, he breathed deeply for a few moments to try for a measure of calmness, then settled at the table to again read through the research materials he'd gathered so far. Maybe he'd missed something. But nothing nudged him, only the same vague could be's, might be's, no evidence, only assumptions.
Caleb found himself counting the beginning plops of brewing coffee. Then frowned.
That one sound hadn't fit the cadence. And it came from outside.
Probably only snow dropping from a branch a bird had disturbed, but better check it out. He glanced at the door. Damn, he hadn't thought to bar it when he came in a while ago. Someone…anything… could bust right in on him.
Not that a door would stop what he was here to kill.
Caleb strode over and grabbed his rifle. Rather than jerk open the door to something unknown, he hefted the weighty wooden bar into place, then moved to the side of one of the front windows. A pair of burlap curtains hung from a rod, and he eased one back far enough to peer out. Night fell early this far north in December, but it was only around three p.m. Still, the snow had started drifting down again from a sky gray and pregnant with clouds. Visibility wasn't the best. Good enough, though.
Tall pines heavy with cones, evergreen against the pure snow. Dried and leafless underbrush beneath the hardwood trees. A person unfamiliar with the terrain could become lost within feet of a trail to safety. An experienced woodsman, Caleb had used both an old-fashioned compass and his new handheld GPS to get to where Keoman had promised to meet him.
Multitudes of lakes filled this land, large and small, and there was no exception here by Caleb's rented cabin. A short walk away was the iced over lake, which would no doubt be beautiful and teeming with fish in the summer.
The only tracks he could make out were his own snowshoe prints coming around the side of the cabin to the door. He hadn't explored that much after he arrived yesterday evening, preferring to get set up in the cabin and prepare for his meeting today. He glanced at the driveway, an additional six inches or so deep in snow since last night. He could barely make out his white pickup beneath the snowfall, and nothing had been around it.
Not everything leaves visible tracks.
He tensed at a flurry of motion in a nearby tree, but it was only a fat squirrel diving for its stick and leaf nest. An owl swooped down a second too late for a meal.
Caleb dropped the curtain and moved to the other window. Same scene out there, just a different slant. And the probable source of the noise: half an icicle hanging from the eave, the other half punched into the snow beneath the window.
The spatter and hiss from the stove drew Caleb's attention.
"Shit!"
He strode across the room to rescue his coffee before it bubbled out and evaporated. Grabbing a potholder, he lifted the pot to a heat-proof square on the counter, then returned to the window.
Crack. Caleb tensed, then relaxed when a branch heavy with snow fell from a half-rotted pine on the lakeshore. Damn, maybe he should re-think that caffeine. Instead, he dropped the curtain and returned to the coffeepot to pour a cup.
No sense wasting more time reflecting on why Keoman stood him up. He'd have to wait until the shaman deigned to contact him. Instead, he focused his thoughts on something else bothering him.
Why hadn't he seen any more animals in the woods? Near his cabin, a few birds, all puffed up with feathers fluffed against the cold, darted here and there — high in the treetops, though, none in the lower branches. The squirrel just now, but only that one. Even it hadn't chattered in the early morning hours when he woke, like it normally should. Squirrels were never quiet in the mornings. They were useful alarm clocks.
The further he'd traveled from the lake, though, the more animal sign he'd run across. Only sign, though, not any actual animals. His snowshoes kept his journey nearly silent, yet he hadn't surprised even one animal that didn't hibernate. Rabbits, owls, deer, and moose; wolverines and wolves. Food and prey.
Once he'd walked by a sprawling area of packed snow where he assumed some deer or moose had bedded down. Moose, he discerned when he studied the fresh tracks. He always traveled the wilderness with senses alert, eyes scanning far ahead of him. Yet he hadn't seen or even heard the moose stampede away from him.
Were the animals skittish? Senses on high alert for some reason?
His sat-phone rang, and Caleb grabbed it from the table without checking Caller ID. It better be that damned shaman.
"Hello?"
A pane in the window to the right of the door — the one he'd just been standing in front of — shattered. Instinctively, Caleb dropped to the floor at the same moment something thunked into the fireplace. Stone chips flew.
A cluster of chips hit one of the kerosene lamps. It exploded and fell onto the hearth, scattering oily liquid as far as a throw rug. A split-second later, the flames whooshed high.
Chapter 4
It roared in rage. The sound reverberated off the walls and dislodged stones and age-old dust from ledges. It had trod between the two meals — the old one stored for the next season and the new one hung down a different tunnel — until Its heavy weight eroded a path in the dirt between and around each body. At one point, It had even sought sleep again, but only drifted in and out of wakefulness.
The inability to decide was new, or at least, a dimly recalled emotion. Where did that come from? The voice, which seemed a little louder each time? The faint flicker of hope that seemed to swell?
No, none of that. It had laid to rest any thoughts of hope eons ago. Buried them deeper after the last hunt. Someone had violated the lair. Someone had been so close they could have found It sleeping. Could not have killed It, but that was not the point. Now some sort of new protective measure must be made before the new sleep.
In a mind long inactive except when hunting prey to feed the hunger, even thought was new this time. Always before, It had followed instincts as much a part of this existence as the need to eat…a need an inherent part of the being It had become. A need inborn, in one way or another, to any species…or non-species.
Now something interfered, some nagging sense of an attempt to alter the established pattern of previous hunts.
Every four decades for three centuries, It had answered to nothing but the urge to seek revenge and satisfy the hunger, then return to unconsciousness until the next waking period. It buried each and every memory of the previous life, the one before It lost any hope of peace in nibowin, death. Death that would pass It through to the land where the ancestors waited. It accepted this existence. Granted, there was no choice, given what It had done. Even during the act, It knew the possible consequences.
One memory would not stay hidden, though. It crouched and contemplated the fresh meal, allowing the smell of the blood to infiltrate wide nostrils, as a childhood memory surfaced. A game all the tribal children played: Windigo. Cannibal. The children would play the windigokazo odaminowin game, foolish with fear as they enjoyed each moment. Still, in the back of all their minds was the knowledge this was only a game, the legend only a tale passed down from mouth-to-mouth for eons.
This legend was true, though, as It found out as a young man. Found out within a year — one exact year — from that first bite of the forbidden And then every forty years afterwards.
The legend could not begin to put words to the reality of a cannibal existence. Nor could anything compare to the hunger during the last month of Its previous existence, which ended in the seasons of deeds It now had no control over. Except for who It chose to slake the hunger.
The smells of both old and new kills tempted beyond measure as It rose again to pace between, and around, the bodies. Trying to decide w
hether to eat now or again seek sleep until the proper season next month. Yet the voice would not leave It alone.
A choice loomed. Follow the nearly inaudible instructions and feed…or resist, wait until giticmanidogizis, the time past experience had shown more suitable. The time when spirits were stronger than in manidogizisons.
Too soon. Now was too soon. Once It fed after dormancy, the urge for more would be ravenous. Uncontrollable until sated over and over. Until the quota had been met once again.
Yet…the smell of near-fresh blood enticed. What would happen if the hunt began early?
So tempting…fresh food, food It had not stored. Who had found the other tunnel off the lair? Brought this new body so close?
Feed. You must feed. The time is now. Someone comes.
Abruptly, It raised Its head and stared down the tunnel toward the entrance to the lair. The voice was right. Someone was coming. Far off, yet in Its territory. Close enough for the sense of the arrival to reach Its keen awareness.
So this was why the season had started early.
Decision made, It strode down the tunnel and grabbed the new kill. This one would fuel the powers more quickly than the moldering one. It dragged the body down the path worn in the dusty floor and moments later, into the storeroom. Then It stared back down the tunnel. It should seal off this portion of the lair. But the new body called. That could be done later.
With the first bite, the rage took over. There was no difference in this one than those chosen in other seasons and slowly killed by Its own hand. Nothing else mattered except the taste, the energy needed to feed the thirst of revenge and reignite the sluggish body responses. As anticipated, the responses grew faster — and greater — with this fresh kill than they had at the beginning of other seasons. Within moments, there were no other thoughts, just the delicious tastes of flesh, blood, satisfaction, and rising power.
Winter Prey Page 3