The Suicide Lake (Book of Shadows 2)

by Michael Penning

  The second man was a curious sight. He was a Native of average height; lean, bandy-legged, and much older than the lumberjack. The leathery skin of his face was stretched taut across his prominent cheekbones. His head was shaved to the scalp except for a long, black topknot tied with a leather thong adorned with three eagle feathers. He wore buckskin breeches, leggings, leather moccasins, and an old, red British soldier’s coat. Abigail could see the scorched hole above the breast pocket where a rifle shot must have killed the coat’s previous owner during the War of Independence. Thick steel bracelets were fastened around the sleeves at each of the man’s biceps. A necklace of beads and bear claws dangled from his neck. A blue sash wrapped around his waist secured his tomahawk and a bulky leather satchel was slung across his chest. He carried a long Baker rifle folded in his arms.

  “Glenn Colvin, I’d like you to meet Abigail Jacobs.” Duncan made a sweeping gesture toward Abigail as he introduced her to the lumberjack. “Ms. Jacobs is the new schoolteacher sent by the company.”

  Abigail shot Duncan a sharp look but his pleading glance forced her to bite her tongue. “Glenn is our camp foreman,” he explained.

  “A schoolteacher,” Colvin mused. Lowering his axe to the ground, he leaned his palm on the butt of its oak handle. “I wasn’t aware Witherbee & Rand had appointed us one. You would think I would have been notified.”

  Colvin’s face hardened and Abigail noticed his eyes weren’t black at all, but deep molten amber. Unlike many men she encountered, she didn’t detect anything lewd in his gaze as he looked her over. He was simply accustomed to scrutinizing everything, and everyone, in turn. It was a trait Abigail could respect.

  Duncan shrugged passively at Colvin’s suspicion. “You know how unreliable our communications with the company have been, what with the entire northeast at war.”

  Colvin pursed his lips as he ran a palm over his thick beard. “Aye, I suppose they have been.” He paused again before offering Abigail his hand. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Ms. Jacobs.”

  “Likewise, Mr. Colvin.”

  “Though I haven’t a clue what incentive could have drawn you out here, I’m sure the children of our little slice of heaven can only benefit from your services.”

  Colvin’s calm languidness told Abigail he was accustomed to leading with easy self-assurance. She suspected he was the type of man others followed out of respect, not fear—although he was very likely deserving of both.

  “This handsome fellow is our Indian guide, Josiah Benedict.” Colvin motioned to the man at his side. The Native nodded but said nothing, his face a mask of passivity. “You needn’t be alarmed, Ms. Jacobs. Josiah’s a Penobscot, not a Mohawk.”

  Colvin’s eyes went to the black dog sniffing and pawing at the dark stains on the ground. “Timber, here,” he commanded, pointing to a spot at his side. The dog responded instantly and sat by Colvin’s boot where it remained staring up at Abigail with narrow, suspicious eyes. The lumberjack ran an affectionate hand over the animal’s furry head and nodded at the bloodstains. “Helluva place to bring a lady, wouldn’t you say, Emmons?”

  “I... Yes, well...” Put on the spot, Duncan froze.

  “Mr. Emmons was simply indulging my request, Mr. Colvin,” Abigail broke in smoothly.

  Colvin’s eyes fell on her and Abigail was struck by the ability of his gaze to be both intense and engaging at once. “Your request?” he asked mildly.

  “Indeed. You see, upon his engagement of my services, Mr. Witherbee apprised me of the string of tragedies that have lately befallen your village. At first I paid them no mind, but when I heard of this most recent incident, I... well...” She shuddered visibly. “I must admit to being somewhat spooked by the thought of so many suicides. Mr. Emmons merely desired to ease my fearful imagination by proving that yesterday’s casualty was nothing more than an unfortunate accident.”

  Duncan stared at her in disbelief, stunned by the ease by which the lies came to her.

  A moment passed as Colvin eyed her, chewing it over in his mind. “Yes, of course. A most unfortunate accident.”

  An awkward silence settled on the clearing until Colvin cocked an eye toward the darkening sky. “Rain’s moving in again. Looks like the autumn storms are coming. Hope you’re not afraid of foul weather, Ms. Jacobs. Out here in the Adirondack, we’ve got three seasons: rain, snow, and mosquitos.” He gave her a grin and a wink before turning once more to Duncan. “It’s gonna’ be a wet one tonight. I’ll have someone give Ms. Jacobs a proper tour of the camp in the morning. Until then, be sure the lady has a hot meal before she retires for the evening.”

  Duncan nodded and after wishing Abigail a good evening, Colvin and his Native companion disappeared up the trail with Timber bounding ahead of them.

  Abigail waited for them to move out of earshot before turning on Duncan, her eyes smoldering. “Perhaps now would be an appropriate time to explain exactly what is going on?”

  “I haven’t told anyone why you’re really here.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “I just couldn’t. Most of the villagers are fresh immigrants, Scots and Irish mostly. Many still cling to their Old World faiths and superstitions. Some are devout to the point of fanaticism. If they knew you were...” His voice trailed off.

  “Knew I was what? A witch?”

  Duncan’s face grew somber. “They never would have let you come here. I would never have let you come here. There’s no telling what they would do if they found out about your, uh... methods.” He motioned to where the two men had disappeared down the path. “Colvin’s a fine man; level-headed and fair. We could trust him, but I wouldn’t think of burdening him with the task of keeping such a secret from the rest of the village. And so, until you discover what evil is at work here, you’ve no choice but to play the part of a schoolteacher sent by Witherbee & Rand.”

  Abigail couldn’t believe what she was hearing. “You expect me to rescue these people from an entity that has driven four men to suicide, despite the fact that they could very well hang me if they knew what I was doing?”

  Duncan frowned. “This is why I gave Emily explicit instructions not to involve you in what is going on out here. I told her it would be too dangerous for you. But now that you are here...” He pinched his shoulders together and gave a mirthless smile. “Come on, I’ll show you to your cabin. You’ll need your rest; you’ll be teaching your first lesson tomorrow.”

  Chapter 7

  It was shortly after midnight when Abigail snuck from her cabin. Rain came down hard upon her and turned the wooded path into a sloppy morass as she stole through the inky blackness of the sleeping village. Bundled in an oilcloth cloak she had wisely packed for the mountains, she carried an unlit hurricane lamp swinging from her hand as she skirted the puddles and darted past the darkened windows of the slumbering cabins. The chilly night air was filled with the green scent of pinesap and wet earth.

  The trail widened and the timber cabins crowded closer together as Abigail approached the village center. Once she reached the only intersection, she ducked beneath the overhanging roof of a squat building on the corner, receded against the wall, and waited to be sure no one was around. She lingered there a moment while the downpour hammered the tin roof above. She hadn’t seen a single light during the dash from her cabin. Shrouded in darkness, the village had every appearance of a ghost town.

  But that didn’t mean she was safe. Despite the storm, Abigail assumed the loggers would have posted a nightly sentry to guard against Native raids. After what she had learned about the villagers’ religious fervor, she couldn’t chance being discovered—especially not with what she had planned.

  Standing there huddled in the darkness, straining to discern any signs of movement through the heavy sheets of rain, Abigail felt a growing sense that she was about to make a foolish mistake. There would be no way of explaining herself if she were caught inside the shed containing Chester Prue’s remains. In all likelihood, the villagers migh
t accuse her of attempting to defile Prue’s corpse. And then what? Would they search her cabin once they had seized her? What would they do if she refused to open her trunk, the black one with the unsettling markings? Worse yet, what if she did open it and they discovered the strange collection of arcane artifacts that lay inside? There would be no explaining them either. Once the true purpose of her presence in Tahawus was laid bare, would the villagers be content to simply run her out of town? Given Duncan’s grim warning, Abigail surmised that she would be lucky to escape so easily. Out here in the lawless wilderness, far from any shred of educated civility, she imagined a hanging for witchcraft wasn’t entirely out of the question. There certainly wasn’t anyone around to prevent it.

  Abigail’s thoughts went to Glenn Colvin; the brawny camp foreman she had met earlier that afternoon. Duncan had called him a good man, but could Colvin be counted on to defend her from a lynch mob? The more Abigail thought about it, the more she became convinced that she was indeed taking a great risk—perhaps too great.

  And yet, dangerous or not, examining Chester Prue’s body was essential to her investigation. For all Abigail knew, the village pastor, Father Carnes, might decide to burn the corpse in the morning. Besides, the shed in which Prue’s remains were being stored was on the outskirts of town, past the chapel at the north end of Main Street. It was far from the cabins and bunkhouses. Under the cover of the rain, sneaking in shouldn’t be difficult at all. This might be her only chance to find some answers; she had to act quickly and she had to act now.

  Abigail wrapped herself tighter in her cloak and took one last look around before darting from her shelter. Through the driving rain, the chapel’s whitewashed steeple rose like a finger-bone into the night. Abigail’s leather boots splashed through the mud as she stole in its direction, moving swiftly through the rain-soaked gloom. Out on the open width of Main Street, she was far too exposed. Even in the heavy downpour, her cloaked shape would be visible to anyone who might be watching.

  Abigail quickened her pace, closing the distance to the chapel until she finally pressed herself flat against the clapboard siding, careful to avoid the streams of rain pouring from the steeply-pitched roof. The steel ring of the unlit hurricane lantern felt cold in her grip as she waited, listening, expecting the strident cry of a sentry to peal through the darkness at any moment.

  The only sound that came to her was the steady patter of the rain.

  The village remained still and silent.

  Abigail’s breath streamed from her hood and bloomed white in the night air as she rounded the back corner of the chapel and peered into the murky darkness beyond. The path she was looking for eluded her for a moment but she finally spied it. It appeared as little more than a vague shadow in the dense forest.

  Leaving the chapel behind, Abigail raced for the cover of the tree line and plunged into absolute darkness. She went very still and waited for the dreadful sensation of blindness to pass. The pause did no good. Under the heavy cover of the evergreens, the driving rain had been replaced by an utterly black oblivion. It crossed Abigail’s mind that she might be forced to light her lantern, but she quickly dismissed the idea; the glow would give her away instantly. As much as she hated to admit it, she would have no choice but to turn back if she couldn’t go on without a light.

  Abigail strained her eyes as best she could. A minute passed and still the darkness yielded nothing. She was beginning to lose hope when, to her great relief, she discovered she was able to make out the vague outline of shapes looming black-on-black in the gloom ahead. She picked her way carefully along the lightless path as she crept toward the hulking silhouettes, dragging her toes across the forest floor to avoid tripping over the exposed roots and rocks. Part of her wondered what she would do if the shed doors were locked. She had stashed her set of lock-picking tools in her pocket in anticipation of such a possibility, but she would need light to use them. But as she approached the crude structures, Abigail quickly realized she had a more immediate problem to contend with: she had no idea which of the three sheds housed the remains of Chester Prue. She wouldn’t have time to search them all, not with the threat of discovery hanging over her head. With her outstretched hands probing the darkness, Abigail crept to the first shed, located a knothole in a timber plank, and tried to peer into the yawning blackness. Nothing was visible. She would have to find a better way of determining the right shed and she would have to do it quickly. The risk of being caught was growing greater with each wasted second.

  Moving to the next hut, the solution to her dilemma suddenly presented itself. Emanating from within was the sour, unmistakable odor of decaying meat. With renewed determination, Abigail ran her hand over the barn door, combing it for the latch. Her hopes fell when her palm closed on the cold, unyielding iron of a large padlock. Whoever had deposited Prue’s corpse here wasn’t taking any chances with hungry scavengers.

  Abigail probed the lock with her fingers and determined it was a common warded variety. Ordinarily, it would be the work of a minute for her to pick it. Her set of tools was among the best that could be found, a gift from Niall O’Leary, Boston’s most notorious thief. But in this darkness, Abigail wasn’t certain how effectively she could manipulate the picks. And if she could, did she have enough time? Even now, the sentry could be making his rounds past the chapel, heading her way.

  A persistent voice inside Abigail’s head told her it was already too late; she should turn back. And yet, she still found herself thrusting her hand into her pocket, reaching for the lock picks.

  Setting the hurricane lantern on the ground far enough from her feet that she wouldn’t inadvertently kick it over, Abigail cupped the tiny tools in one palm and probed them with her fingers until she found the right one for the job: a thin steel rod bent at a ninety-degree angle at one end. She located the keyhole on the lock’s faceplate and inserted the bent end of the pick, scraping it around the interior of the hole in an effort to turn the wards. Her wet hands made the thin tool slick and tricky. All of a sudden, the pick snagged on something inside the lock and nearly tumbled between her fingertips. Abigail’s stomach lurched as she imagined losing the pick in the darkness. She would never find it again and her one chance to examine Prue’s remains would disappear with it.

  Abigail heaved a deep breath and forced herself to concentrate. Her hands were trembling from the cold now. After several more seconds of prodding around the keyhole, the pick finally struck against something solid. There was a brief resistance before the ward gave way and she felt the padlock come loose in her hand.

  Abigail returned the pick to her pocket, retrieved the lantern from the darkness with one hand, and gathered a handful of wet pine needles with the other. With a groan of rusty hinges, she then eased the door open and slipped into the blackness.

  Chapter 8

  The nauseating stench of decomposition permeated the darkness. Even for Abigail, who had spent more time in moldy crypts and mausoleums than she cared to remember, the reek was almost unbearable. She kept the handful of pine needles clamped to her nose as she inched her way deeper into the darkness. The pungent scent of pinesap helped to mask the awful smell, but only slightly.

  Once she had secured the door behind her, Abigail no longer had a choice. If she wanted to locate and examine Prue’s body, she would have to light her lantern. This wasn’t unexpected; she had brought the light along knowing she would be forced to use it eventually. But even here, within the seemingly safe confines of the shed, sparking the wick wasn’t without risk. If the gaps between the rough planks were wide enough, or the knotholes large enough, her light would stream through the walls like a beacon in the darkness. This was one part of her plan over which she had no control. The risk of discovery was great, but it was also unavoidable.

  Abigail uncovered her nose and let the pine needles drop from her palm, brushing away those that still clung to her fingertips. The cloying reek was suffocating in its intensity, hinting at the gruesome human remains t
hat lay somewhere in the blackness. Fumbling with the lantern, Abigail managed to spring the glass chimney without shattering it. She then drew a tinderbox from her pocket, struck the flint, and lit the oil-soaked wick. A bright flame flared to life and flooded the shed with light. Abigail winced and squeezed her eyes against the sudden brilliance. A heartbeat passed before she quickly twisted the lamp’s regulator down as far as she could. The flame sputtered inside the chimney and threatened to gutter before eventually stabilizing and suffusing the shed with a dull orange glow. Abigail let out her bated breath, held the lantern high, and got her first look at her surroundings.

  The space was larger than she had guessed, about twenty feet wide and perhaps fifty feet deep. Dusty crates of supplies were piled high against the walls. The furthest stacks were lost in the shadows beyond the short radius cast by the lantern. Most of them were packed with flammable whale oil and Abigail quickly understood why this particular shed had been erected so far on the outskirts of the village. If it were any closer and somehow caught fire, the entire community would be engulfed in a hellish inferno.

  A large area had been cleared in the center of the space. Here sat another crate. It was rectangular and larger than the others and its lid was sealed tight at each of the four corners. Two shovels rested against the nearest wall, their rusty blades plastered with pine needles and dried blood. Abigail knew she had found what she had come for: the makeshift coffin of the unfortunate Chester Prue.