Should she go back on her meds?
She unloaded the rifle and laid the shells loose inside the cabinet, then relocked the case. At least, if she had to take the time to unlock things and reload the rifle, it would give her a period in which to regain control. Try to, anyway.
But she couldn't believe she would actually harm the dog she loved. She glanced at Scarlet, who eyed her a bit warily, then trotted over, already forgiving her. If only she could master her feelings so easily….
Next she studied the toddy glass. Perhaps the alcohol had weakened her control. She retrieved the drink and carried it into the kitchen, where she started to dump it down the drain. Instead, she gripped it tightly, then paced back out to the porch and sat again in the chair. She took a deep swallow of the toddy.
Would she have hurt her dog if she hadn't gained control? Wasn't she up here now because of the incident with her mother? Wasn't she worried she might harm Risa?
Had she gained control? Or had whatever whispered those words merely lost contact with her…?
Chapter 6
Well after sunset and an hour into his wait for Sheriff Hjak, the man the dispatcher told him to expect, Caleb finally remembered to check his phone. A damned blocked call. Maybe an attempt to distract him so the shooter could get a clear shot? A true attempt to kill him? A stray shot? A warning? If so, why?
He'd already emptied one pot of coffee and brewed another. The burnt odor from the rug sopping with fire extinguisher foam lingered in the room. Thankfully, the landlord had pointed out the extinguisher on the brief tour of the small cabin. Now the metal canister lay on its side, empty and needing a refill or replacement. Which he would damn sure take care of with a trip into town tomorrow.
No doubt what had shattered the window. Caleb found the spent bullet on the hearth, crumbled from its impact with the fireplace stone. It was a small caliber shell, a .22. Could have been a stray, he supposed. Still, that was an awfully small caliber rifle, or pistol, to be carrying in a land where large animals roamed.
Where large animals usually roamed, he corrected himself.
Caleb's frustration threatened the reins of its bounds. The sheriff should have been here by now. Finally, he tried reaching Keoman again.
This time, the Native American man answered on the first ring. "I can't talk right now. Where are you?"
"At my cabin," Caleb spat. "Ducking bullets!"
"Shit," Keoman said softly, too softly to suit Caleb's frame of mind. "Are you all right?"
"Hjak's on the way. "
"Look, I'll be there as soon as I can. In fact, I tried to call you a while ago, but had to hang up when an Elder came back."
So it had been the shaman who called. "I thought you didn't want to meet me here."
"I'll have to make an exception."
"How long?" Caleb demanded.
"An hour. Maybe less. Did you hear anyone?"
"Your damn windigo doesn't use a rifle," Caleb snarled. "It uses claws and teeth. Eats its human prey. Whoever did this wasn't close enough for that."
"No snowmobile? No four-wheel drive starting up its engine and leaving?"
"No. Look — "
"I have to go."
Keoman disconnected, and Caleb stared at his phone in disgust, until a few seconds later, someone pounded on the cabin door. The knocker followed up with, "McCoy? It's Sheriff Hjak! You all right in there?"
Rifle in hand, Caleb strode over to the window, where frigid air still blew through the broken pane despite the piece of cardboard Caleb had shoved over the hole. Whoever… whatever…had called out might be lying about being the sheriff. If it was a what, his research indicated that some could imitate human voices via telepathy. That voice was clearly audible, but who knew how much this evil Northwood monster had evolved over three centuries.
Damn the fact of no electricity in this rental he'd chosen because it was available on short notice. The lack of amenities hadn't bothered him initially. He'd spent weeks, even months, on his own in the wilderness. He knew how to take care of himself. Yet a set of security floodlights would be welcome now.
He chanced a quick glance, eyes sharpened with vigilance…as well as caution. A touch of fear, too. Only fools insisted they were never afraid. Fear had saved his ass more than once. Getting shot at wasn't his favorite pastime. Hadn't been even when he served his Marine tour.
A four-wheel drive pickup with a law enforcement insignia on the door sat outside the window. The path of tire tracks had plowed around Caleb's truck.
The man pounded on the door again.
Caleb threw the door open and let the sheriff in, along with an inch or so of snow mounded on the front cabin step.
"What took you so long?" Caleb demanded, still seething with pent-up anger. He should have gone out looking for the bastard who shot at him rather than waiting for law enforcement. But he'd assumed the sheriff would speed to the scene of a crime involving a shot fired. By the time Caleb decided that wouldn't happen, the shooter had probably long gone.
The sheriff removed his fur-lined hat and gloves as he said, "An old, rotted pine finally gave up the ghost and fell across the road a mile or so back. Luckily, I carry a chainsaw among my other supplies in the county vehicle."
"You should have called me. I could have helped clear the road." He handed the sheriff the bullet he'd placed in a plastic sandwich bag.
"And put yourself in the line of fire again," the sheriff stated as he looked at the bullet, then shoved it in his pants pocket, "if that .22 wasn't a stray bullet. That's not your job, it's mine. And that might be what the perp wanted you to do. You got any coffee left in that pot on the stove?"
Caleb poured coffee into a clean cup and handed it to the sheriff. Then, despite knowing he'd be better off with an antacid, he poured another cup for himself, ignoring what the caffeine would do to him. He'd been easily unhinged for months now, his instincts on edge, his mind working on the various paths, trying to decide which one was right, which wrong.
His wife had hated those periods of intense distraction. He'd made sure he never allowed them to distract him from his son.
"You don't seem too shocked at what happened here," Caleb said. "And before you ask, I have no idea who it was. Or why anyone would want to shoot at me — if that's what happened. Hell, as far as I know, the only two people who are even aware that I'm up here are the Ojibway shaman, Keoman, and the man I rented this cabin from."
"I knew you were here," Hjak said. "Keoman told me. It's not smart for someone to isolate themselves in this country, especially this time of year."
"This time of year…or this specific year?" Caleb demanded.
No surprise shadowed Hjak's eyes. Perhaps Keoman had also informed him of the reason for Caleb's visit. Hjak carried his coffee cup over and sat at the table covered with research material. "I'll be up-front with you. I checked you out. Amazing what you can discover on the internet about people."
So the sheriff can use a computer. "Shouldn't you be out there looking for whoever shot at me?"
"My deputy is checking, and he'll call if he finds anything before he heads back to town. But doubt he will. Maybe it was a hunter — a kid — who missed a shot at his game. 'Bout the only thing a .22's used for is rabbits or squirrels. We've also got plenty of young people up here who live and breathe this wilderness. Who can move through the woods and not leave a trace. Older folks, too."
"What about tracking dogs?"
"We had a hound, but he got too old a few months ago. Hasn't been any money in the budget to replace him. Those dogs cost a pretty penny."
Hjak sipped his coffee, then gestured at the papers on the table. "The articles about your wife and son's deaths were on the 'net. You have my condolences, of course." He went on with a question in this tone, "But their deaths happened hundreds of miles from here. Months ago."
"Let's get all of our cards on the table, Sheriff. You've got a monster due to start prowling the Northwood again in a few weeks. One that's b
een around for three centuries and the same species of evil entity that I suspect killed my wife and son. But yours is — "
"It isn't mine," Hjak interrupted in a level voice, but Caleb continued over the attempted disruption.
" — on a different timetable than that Colorado bastard. Maybe you aren't even sure the rumors of this thing are true, since you were probably a kid the last time it appeared. On top of that, from what I could find out, not many whites know about this one. So far, it's always focused its kills among the Native American population."
"I know about it." Hjak leaned into Caleb's space to make sure he paid attention. "It's my job to know what's going on in my territory, and I have a first-rate relationship with the tribe. So don't misjudge this situation. Or me."
Caleb didn't back down. This was too important. "Then maybe you don't want to start a panic, because even this time of year, your town depends on tourism dollars from winter snowmobilers. Plus the tribe didn't have its casino up and running forty years ago, so they're not real anxious to let word of something like this ruin their income."
Hjak snorted. "I doubt even rumors of a cannibalistic monster on the prowl would keep folks from dropping their money at the casino. Might make a dent in the profits for a while, but they'd pick back up in February, when according to past seasons, this thing goes dormant again. At least, legend says that's how it's always worked. Besides, how many folks really believe in things like this entity?"
"This windigo," Caleb stated flatly.
"Cards on the table," Hjak said. "I've been sheriff here for twenty years. I'm not Indian…excuse me, Native American. But I've dealt with the local tribe all my career, since they don't have an official, organized police force like some of the other tribes in the state. Keoman and the Elders wouldn't allow just any so-called paranormal investigator to be involved with what's probably going to happen here next month."
"So you consider me legit."
"For now. Until you prove me wrong."
"No one's found a way to kill this windigo," Caleb said in an abrupt subject shift. The shaman could tell Hjak whatever he wanted to, if he ever got here. "The stories passed down through the tribal historians say that every time it comes out of hibernation, all anyone can do is let it hunt until it's satisfied its hunger for sixteen people. Then it goes away for another forty years."
Hjak rose from the table and paced the room. He finished his coffee and poured another cup before he faced Caleb again. "Some reports say fire will kill a windigo. Has to be the actual beast that catches fire, not just its den."
So the sheriff had done some research of his own. "Maybe that worked on some of the early-on windigos," Caleb said. "Even supernatural entities evolve. Encroachment — threats to their so-called existence. Some of them find ways to compensate. The more powerful ones, anyway."
Before the sheriff could speak again, the door burst open. Caleb instinctively grabbed at the consecrated cross he wore under his shirt and crouched for battle. The sheriff grasped the pistol holstered on his hip.
"You really ought to keep your damn door locked," the man who entered said in Caleb's direction, without apparent fear of assault. He shoved the door shut behind him and slammed the wooden bar in place.
The illusive Keoman Thunderwood, Caleb realized. He recognized the voice from the phone calls. Hjak eased off his grip on the pistol.
"Why?" Caleb shot back. "A locked door won't keep a windigo out."
"Keoman's right," Hjak put in, confirming the other man's identity. "It's best to keep your doors locked these days."
Keoman studied Caleb for a moment, and Caleb returned the perusal. The shaman was pure Native American, high cheekbones, knife-edged nose, darker coloring in contrast to even Caleb's outdoor tan, deep brown eyes meeting Caleb's green. Keoman tied his glossy black hair back beneath the heavy knit cap he wore, and Caleb estimated his age close to his own, just past forty. The shaman's body hadn't gone to seed in middle-age and remained as fit and trim as that of a much younger man.
Keoman finally shrugged and headed for the coffeepot. Steaming cup in hand, he sat at the table. "Our windigo's not due out for another few weeks."
"So you said when we talked on the phone," Caleb agreed. "We figured that would give us time to research this one a little more. For me to talk to some of your Elders."
Keoman swirled the coffee in his cup without drinking. After a moment, he said, "I was with an Elder this afternoon, when we were supposed to meet. You don't walk out on an Elder, or let something like a cell phone cause a distraction."
"And…?" Hjak prodded.
Keoman sighed. "The Elders think this season might be different. There's something they can't see. Some sort of block on their communication with the other world. Their ceremonies aren't productive."
Caleb leaned back in his chair, barely restraining himself from nodding in agreement. He was familiar with that block from what the sensitives who participated in paranormal investigations told him. If it was the same type, it would be harder than hell to overcome this beast before it wreaked its own brand of havoc and crawled back into its depth to wait for another winter killing season.
This monster would be every bit as powerful as the one in Colorado. Perhaps even more formidable.
Chapter 7
On her second day at the cabin, dressed in a down-filled snowsuit and snow boots, Kymbria stood on the edge of the bank above the lake and welcomed the sunrise, as her ancestors had done for generations. The golden orb inched up through brilliant magenta, dark violet and orange, and she murmured as much as she could recall of one of the Old Prayers that Keoman's father, Adam, had taught her. The Old Prayer that began each first day of the rest of one's life. Each day that would — hopefully — now offer true healing in her life.
Northwood sunrises and sunsets were unique times for her people. Though their beauty rivaled the infrequent Aurora Borealis, they were also one of the many bridges to the nature they honored and the spirit world they respected. After the gold winter sun fully broke the horizon, Kymbria finished her prayer and strode back to the cabin to retrieve Scarlet, then stopped at the garage/storage shed for her snowshoes.
"Let's go, sweetie," she said a moment later, snowshoes in place. "We're here to let the spirit world heal us, and we won't find that inside four walls or on the traveled roadways."
She took several preliminary steps to test her balance on the snowshoes, webbed circles she had actually made herself one year in summer camp.
Summer camp. Another memory I'll have to take out and brush off at some point…
Satisfied she recalled the right walking tempo to maintain her balance, she headed up the road in the opposite direction of the previous day's walks. New snow stretched ahead of her, not deep enough to hamper the setter's shorter legs, since at different points in time it had been plowed. Now, though, the flawlessness was unbroken by vehicle tire treads and, surprisingly, unmarred by any animal tracks like she had seen in the other direction. Weird, she acknowledged. She'd seen no sign of any other inhabitants on this side of the lake, so the animals shouldn't fear roaming close to the winterized cabins. Perhaps her wood smoke had given them pause and they would return soon.
At first, Scarlet raced ahead, enjoying her own exercise, a flash of silky red fur in the pristine whiteness beneath black hardwood and gray-white birch tree trunks. They passed the next cabin up the lake, dark and lonely despite the picturesque, wavering drifts piled here and there. Kymbria knew the neighbor, and he also contracted with Len. The maintenance man wouldn't bother preparing the neighbor's cabin unless notified he was going to use it, so the untended driveway and walkway were explainable here. It didn't account for why he hadn't shown up at her cabin or answered her messages.
Moments later, Scarlet returned to Kymbria and trotted silently at her side.
"You can go on, sweetie," Kymbria urged, swinging a hand wide to indicate the woods around them as she left the snow-covered roadway and headed into the forest. "I'm
right behind you."
Scarlet ignored her, ears on alert and her gaze ahead of them as she struggled through the deeper snow. Kymbria slowed her steps, then stopped. The setter stayed right beside her.
This wasn't like her dog. Scarlet pranced eagerly whenever she even heard the word walk. At times, Kymbria had to sternly order her to stand so she could get the leash snapped, if they were exercising in an inhabited area.
"Shit," she whispered. She'd come here to heal herself, not worsen her emotional problems. It was safe here, even with the isolation. Yet she couldn't ignore the two decades of training she'd had prior to deployment to erupting hotspots.
Maintain vigilance. Stay alert and focus on the essentials. Don't take anything at face value.
She'd asked the spirits this morning to take away this stress, this constant on-edge feeling. She'd been so sure that things were calming. Then….
…that feeling yesterday evening, the whispers….
The lack of animal sign during their walks….
Don't take anything at face value….
The rage that surfaced last night ... almost as though something triggered it.
"Well, maybe you're right." Kymbria laid a hand on Scarlet's head. "Maybe we should just go slow and listen to the silence."
Before she could take the next step, a low mutter of a growl rumbled in Scarlet's throat. Kymbria frowned, for a second wishing she'd at least grabbed one of the pistols from the gun cabinet. Then she chastised herself. This was the Northwood she had come to for healing. Scarlet would get used to the wildlife as they took more long walks together.
The shadow that stepped out of the distant trees moved on two legs, not four. However, it was too far away to make out much more than it was definitely tall and covered in the same shade of brown from head to toe. Had it not been December, Kymbria would have taken it for a bear, although brown bears were extremely scarce in this part of the Northwood. And bears were in hibernation.
She thought, anyway.
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