The Suicide Lake (Book of Shadows 2)

by Michael Penning

  Duncan reached for a flat stone and sent it skipping across the water. The ripples spread out across the surface in five neat, concentric circles. “The second man was named Jean Beaulieu, a Frenchman lumberjack down here from Lower Canada. He was felling pines when he took his axe and walked off into the woods by himself. When his partner went after him, he found Beaulieu had hacked off his own left arm below the elbow. He was sitting cross-legged in the forest, feasting on the severed limb. They tried to save him, but Beaulieu died of blood loss before they could get him back to the village.”

  Duncan lowered his head and wavered for a moment, as if suddenly reliving a memory he had fought hard to suppress. “The third to die was Cyrus Gill. I was with him when it happened. We were charting the land about ten miles to the northeast and Cy was serving as my assistant. On the fourth night of our expedition, I awoke to a brilliant glow from somewhere beyond the tent. When I rushed outside, Cy was engulfed in flames. He had soaked himself in lantern oil and set himself ablaze.”

  Duncan’s lips tightened and his gaze went down to the ripples lapping gently at the shoreline. “Cy was a family man. His wife and daughter are still here in Tahawus. I expect you’ll meet the girl in your lesson this afternoon. Her name is Hannah.”

  Raising himself from the boulder, Duncan turned his back on the lake. His bright blue eyes sparkled in the sunlight. “So you see, Abby, it’s simply not possible that these men willingly inflicted such horrific violence upon themselves. There has to be some other explanation. Perhaps now you can appreciate why I cannot accept their suicides as being anything but the work of some unnatural evil—and why I cannot understand why you are so intent on proving this is not a haunting.”

  It wasn’t lost on Abigail that this was the first time Duncan called her by her old nickname since she had arrived. She wondered how long it would be before he began to evoke other mementos of their past as well. “’Tis not a matter of my intentions,” she replied delicately. “’Tis a matter of facts. A vengeful spirit cannot simply will itself into existence. It is born of the soul of someone who has died a violent death. Such was the case when we were both haunted by the soul of my great-grandmother twenty years ago on that All Hallows’ Eve. Her vengeful spirit was unleashed the moment she’d been hanged during the Salem witch trials. And unless you can tell me otherwise, such an incidence of violence has never before been recorded in the history of this village.”

  For a moment, Duncan’s face was a battlefield of defiance and defeat. For the first time, Abigail saw that the carefree wonder of the boy she had known had been overrun by the fears and duties of manhood.

  With an exasperated sigh, he brushed past her and marched up the trail.

  “Duncan.” Abigail waited for him to stop and turn. “The first two victims, the ones who killed themselves before Mr. Gill. Are their bodies accessible for exhumation?”

  Duncan shook his head. “Jed Hawes was buried somewhere near North Camp. The others were left in shallow graves where they died.”

  “Who was the last person to be in contact with them?”

  “Glenn Colvin.”

  Chapter 12

  Father Elias Carnes still reeked of smoke. The acrid smell clung to the wool of his black cassock as he shrugged it off and hung it behind the door of the chapel’s vestry. Later, he would hang it outside to air. The priest’s hands were black with soot and he was careful not to further soil his linen shirt as he rolled the cuffs up to his elbows and plunged his hands into his washbowl. The cold water went a murky gray as he washed his palms and fingers clean.

  With a glance at the chipped mirror on the wall, Carnes saw a face that looked drawn and tired beyond its thirty-three years. White specks of ash were sprinkled across his thick, coal-black hair. His beard—long and dense and cut square across the bottom—was now bristling and streaked with grit. Pale green eyes that were usually as striking as stars on a cloudless night were now leaden and encircled with shadowy rings.

  Wringing his hands dry, Carnes did his best to straighten himself before leaving the vestry and entering the sanctuary of his small chapel. It was still early afternoon, but having spent the morning assisting in the cremation of Chester Prue, Carnes felt the evening couldn’t come soon enough. Even as he knelt before the unassuming altar, he could still smell the stench of Prue’s burning corpse. When he closed his eyes, he saw Prue’s flesh sizzling and dripping from his fractured bones like rendered fat. Bowing his head, Carnes whispered a silent prayer that he would be allowed to forget all that he had seen, all that he, himself, had decreed. With a quiet amen, Carnes then stood and turned, hoping the silent peace of the sanctuary might ease his burden.

  The chapel was small—perhaps fifty feet long and thirty feet wide—and was barely large enough to accommodate nine rows of pinewood pews divided by a single aisle. White pine paneling imbued the sanctuary with a light and airy ambiance. Three tall, rectangular windows were set into each of the side walls, ensuring the congregation was always bathed in sunlight: brilliant and yellow from the east in the morning; warm and rich from the west at sunset. Dust motes coasted lazily through the air, materializing and vanishing over and over as they traveled from sunbeam to sunbeam.

  Carnes himself had participated in the construction of the Georgian-style building on his arrival in Tahawus three years ago. The humble country chapel was a far cry from New York’s St. Peter’s where he had been an altar boy. But grandiosity wasn’t what had drawn Carnes to the priesthood. He had an impoverished childhood in New York’s Sixth Ward to thank for his calling. Having survived the squalor of his early years, Carnes had been eager to leave the urban slum behind and escape as far into the wilderness as was possible.

  Tahawus was just the place the young priest had imagined.

  Carnes moved to the foremost pew where he sat and craned his head to one side, stretching the aching muscles of his neck and shoulders. Moving Prue’s crude coffin from the storage shed to the cremation site hadn’t been easy, but Carnes would never have asked Colvin and Josiah to carry out the unpleasant chore on their own. The cremation was his decision. Once they had arrived, Carnes himself had insisted on being the one to douse the crate in whale oil and set it ablaze.

  Inhaling deeply, Carnes tried yet again to shake himself of the memory. Sometimes when the breeze was right, he could still smell the rough-hewn oak of the chapel’s framing beams lingering beneath traces of stale incense and musty mountain air. But today, the stillness of mind Carnes craved eluded him. Prue’s cremation had been too draining, both physically and emotionally, and he now felt weary and perplexed.

  A sound came from somewhere behind him, a shuffling from the rear of the church that roused Carnes from his reflection. He swiveled in the pew to find Evelyn MacIntyre framed in the sunlight of the open door.

  “Am I disturbing ye’, Father?” she asked. The sunshine at her back wreathed her red hair with a fiery radiance.

  “Not at all, Evelyn.” Carnes rose to his feet and smoothed his linen shirt. “What brings you here this fine afternoon? The Lord knows we haven’t enjoyed many sunny days of late.”

  “Will ye’ hear my confession?” Evelyn asked as she entered and closed the door behind her.

  As draining as the morning had been, Carnes still found himself curious. Most of the confessions he heard from the village women involved lustful thoughts directed toward the more handsome of the lumberjacks. Those same bachelors sometimes came to him to confess having snuck into the woods to pleasure themselves. Such was life in an isolated logging town.

  But Evelyn MacIntyre was different. Although she had been a dutiful parishioner since arriving in Tahawus with her husband nearly a year ago, never in that time had she attended confession. What could have arisen so abruptly that she now felt the need to unburden herself? In spite of his fatigue, Carnes was intrigued and even welcomed the distraction Evelyn presented. Perhaps hearing her confession would help dull the memory of the grim task from which he had just returned.
/>
  “Of course, Evelyn” he replied. “Please, be seated.” Carnes motioned to the empty pew and stood ready to offer his hand to the pregnant woman as she eased onto the bench. Once she was comfortable, he took a seat next to her while she crossed herself and commenced her confession.

  “In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. My last confession was...” Evelyn hesitated for a moment. “My last confession was nearly three years ago.”

  Carnes gave her a curious look but said nothing.

  “It has been three years since I committed the sins I am about to confess,” Evelyn went on, “and I’ve only recently begun to feel contrite.”

  There was something different about Evelyn this afternoon, a strange solemnity that Carnes had never seen in her before. “Very well,” he said. “Do you open your heart to me and welcome me into your soul as your confessor that I may give you absolution?”

  “I do, Father.”

  “Then please continue. Tell me how you have sinned.”

  Evelyn wavered a moment, as if she had suddenly forgotten her lines in a stage play and was struggling to find the words. At last she spoke. “As ye’ know, before coming to America, Heath and I lived as farmers in the Old Country. What ye’ don’t know are the circumstances by which we came to leave our homeland behind.”

  Carnes gazed at her and listened intently.

  “Our land in the parish of Dornoch was owned by Lady Stafford, the Countess of Sutherland. Generations of MacIntyre clansmen had worked the soil before the homestead fell to Heath and I to keep the tradition. The house wasn’t much—little more than a hut of thatch and mud to be sure—but it was to be our own. We were so excited, Father; glad at the prospect of home and family. We were disposed to work hard and pay our due to Lady Stafford as was fair... but the Countess had other plans for the land. Wool fetched a far better price at market than potatoes, and what had forever been the MacIntyre glen was to be sold to sheep farmers from the south.”

  Evelyn’s green eyes traveled up to the altar and remained fixed on the wooden crucifix hanging there. “It was late in the summer of 1808 when the Countess’ factor came with his men to evict us from our farm. His name was Patrick Sellar, a cruel and hateful man the likes of which I’ll never see again lest I go to Hades and meet the devil himself. Even as I sit here in the Lord’s own house, I can find no contrition in my heart for the ill will I’ve wished the man.”

  Carnes nodded without judgment. “Please, go on.”

  “By Sellar’s decree, our entire clan was to vacate the land immediately—nearly forty families all told. We were chosen because we were Catholic and we were to be among the first to be removed to the Countess’ properties on the nor’east coast. There, we’d be given a croft of land from which we’d continue to pay our taxes.”

  Evelyn paused and Carnes noticed a trembling in the breath she took. “As I’m sure you’ll understand, Father, our clansmen were fairly at daggers drawing. But when Heath stood firm and refused to give up our farm, Sellar had the roof of our house pulled down and the rooftree set ablaze to prevent us from resurrecting it. He then had the clan’s grazing fields razed to starve our cattle. Even now, I can smell the stench of the fires; hear the terrible bellows of the affrighted beasts, the screams of the children, the wails of the elders scrambling to save their meager valuables. Driven out like dogs, we’d no choice but to leave.”

  A lock of red curls fell over Evelyn’s face as she bowed her head and closed her eyes, struggling against the emotions stirring within. A gentle breeze passing through the bell tower high above sent a creak through the ceiling beams.

  Finally, when she was ready, Evelyn opened her eyes and continued. “The journey from Dornoch to the seacoast was long and difficult—long enough to be the undoing of my ailing mother. We buried her in a rocky grave in the shadow of Dunrobin Castle. When we arrived in Caithness, we found the crofts were rotten and useless for anything but kelping. The Sutherlands continued to profit from our toil but the work was intolerably hard. Within six months, Heath’s father fell ill with fever and we were left to work the kelp alone. No longer able to pay our tribute to our landlords, Heath sought an audience to plead our case before the taxman.” Here, Evelyn paused for a moment, her fingers now worrying at the folds of her skirt. “Sellar came for us while Heath was gone. I’ll not tell you what the vile man did to me on that black day, Father. Indeed, I’ve vowed never to speak of it again. But I will tell you that when Heath returned, I’d been left homeless to the rain and his father was dead. Such was my misery that I’d a mind to fling myself from the cliffs. It was that very day we decided to make the journey to America... it was also then that I turned from God.”

  “Under such circumstances, it would be understandable that you should question your faith,” Carnes reassured her. “Many are the afflictions of the righteous, but the Lord delivereth him out of them all.”

  “Oh, but I didn’t just question my faith, Father. I lost it altogether. On the eve before we were to set sail and leave Scotland forever, I went to the village church to pray for our safe voyage. But I couldn’t enter, Father. Even with the tears streaming from my eyes, I couldn’t bring myself to cross the threshold.” Evelyn’s gaze fell to the floorboards and her voice grew soft and quaking. “I know not how the rock came into my hand, but there I found it. My fist closed upon it and I brought it up, ready to shatter the chapel’s window, ready to fling another and another and another. But something stayed my hand. Instead, I took the rock and scratched my name into the glass. Heaven forgive me, Father, but I wanted nothing more than to leave my name behind for all to see! A reminder of the poor soul their Lord had forsaken!”

  Evelyn sighed and Carnes saw tears welling in her eyes when she finally looked him in the face. “I remained wrathful for a very long time. But lately, I feel as though something has changed.” She brushed the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand. “Here, in Tahawus, I’ve been given another chance. As much as I pity those among us who have so recently been touched by tragedy, I can’t help but be happy for the new life with which I’ve been blessed. I’ve a husband and a home and freedom such as I’ve never dreamed.” Her hands slid to her round belly. “And I’m to be a mother.”

  Evelyn looked away again, no longer able to meet the priest’s pale green eyes. “I know my child will have a good life here, and I’m no longer afraid of what may come of us. But in my heart, I know I’m unworthy of such happiness. I know our suffering was the work of the devil and that I was to resist him, that I was to stand firm in my faith in the Lord regardless of the afflictions set upon us. But I failed, Father! In my time of trial, I failed in my faith! I know I’m a sinner, but I’m ready to repent. As underserving as I am, I’m ready to beg forgiveness at the Lord’s feet. But can I be forgiven, Father?”

  “Of course, Evelyn,” Carnes soothed. “You must remember that God’s divine plan may sometimes seem unclear, like the reflection cast by ripples moving across water. But His plan is ever at work nonetheless. Even your doubt, your anger, is part of His plan. You simply cannot yet see the part they will play. Sometimes what may appear to be evil on the surface may actually be revealed to be good. And other times, the opposite may be true. The wisest among us will leave it to God to decide our fortunes. In the meantime, we must trust that glory awaits those that love Him and repent of their sins. This you have now done, Evelyn.”

  A hint of a smile crossed Evelyn’s lips and Carnes knew she had found some comfort in his words. “I know not why the Lord has seen fit to bless me with such happiness,” she said.

  For the first time that day, Elias Carnes smiled too. “Such is the merciful glory of God.”

  Chapter 13

  Glenn Colvin was sharpening his axe when Abigail found him outside his cabin. The shrill squeal of the grinding wheel scraping against the hardened steel blade echoed through the forest. The afternoon was growing late and sunlight streamed at long slants through the boughs. Shadows were already gat
hering in the furthest reaches of the woods. The smell of sizzling grease wafted through the village from where the women were preparing dinner in the mess hall.

  Colvin’s big dog, Timber, sat up and let out a low growl at Abigail’s approach. The black fur of his neck bristled and she knew the dog sensed something different about her. Animals were keenly sensitive to the powers she wielded.

  Catching Timber’s reaction from the corner of his eye, Colvin finally looked up. “Ms. Jacobs,” he said with a cool mildness that made it seem as if he had known she was there all along. Rising tall, he tested the sharpness of the axe blade with his thumb. “I see you’ve brought the sunshine with you from Boston. Can’t recall when we last had a day such as this.”

  He flashed her an easy grin, his white teeth gleaming from beneath his beard. His straight black hair was slick with perspiration and his flannel shirt was unbuttoned to his navel, revealing his barrel chest and the hard muscles of his stomach. A pair of suspenders kept his breeches from slipping below his trim waist.

  It occurred to Abigail that the proper thing for a lady to do was to avert her eyes from a man so exposed. But Colvin didn’t seem to care. His sleeves were rolled to his elbows and Abigail could see the details of the crude tattoos on his forearms. His left bore the likeness of a howling wolf, a compass rose, and a timber axe. Emblazoned on his right was a long eagle’s feather and a circular symbol that Abigail guessed might be Native in origin. She didn’t judge Colvin for having the tattoos as other women might; she had lain with too many sailors to be critical of the custom. Besides, Colvin was young to be a foreman—likely in his early thirties—and Abigail knew there must to be something remarkable about him to have attained a position of such authority in a lumber camp this large.