Figures of Fear: An anthology (16 page)

‘I don’t know,’ I admitted. ‘Something came rushing up to us. Something hit her and killed her, but whatever it was I never saw it.’

John Shooks was waiting for me outside my hotel. It was a sharp sunny morning and I had to lift my hand to shield my eyes from the snow-dazzle. He was sitting in a 1969 Lincoln Continental Sedan, in highly polished black, wearing tiny little sunglasses and a large fur hat that looked even odder than his hair. As I came past he rolled the window down.

‘I want you to know that I’m truly sorry about what happened,’ he said.

‘But what? It was unavoidable? What did Alma ever do to upset anybody?’

‘She was your brother’s lover, sir. You cut down one of those trees, and you’ve started a blood feud. They’ll come after you and yours, all of your kith and kin, all of your friends, all of your lovers and business associates, until they’ve wiped out anybody who ever had a good memory of you.’

He paused, and then he said, ‘That’s why I’ve come here this morning. I’ve come to warn you to go away and stay away. Never come back.’

‘I’m not going until I know what it was that killed my brother and Alma Lindenmuth.’

John Shooks had a long think about that, and then he climbed out of his car. ‘You and me better have a talk, in that case.’

We went to the Happy Raccoon Donut Bar. We picked a corner table, next to the window, and John Shooks ordered black coffee and sugared donuts.

‘You see this town?’ he asked me. ‘In 1885 it had only four settlers. By 1895 it had grown to six hundred, and four years later farmers raised forty thousand bushels of hard red spring wheat. Telephone lines were strung in 1903, and in the same year the town had its own light plant. A four-hundred-pound sturgeon was taken from the Roseau River in 1907 and had to be hauled up the riverbank by a team of horses.

‘Those early settlers worked hard and they suffered all kinds of hardships, but one thing they never did was to disrespect their environment.’

‘My brother respected this environment more than anybody. He wanted to preserve it, not destroy it.’

‘You know that and I know that. But one man’s preservation is another man’s destruction. In 1924 five college students went camping in the Lost River Forest north of Roseau. They were expected in the neighbouring town of Warroad by dusk on August twenty-first. They never appeared, but six years later their skeletons were found by a fur-trapper called Kevin Dubuqe, still scattered around the ashy remains of a six-year-old campfire. Kevin Dubuqe said it looked as if their bones had been blown apart by all the winds in hell.’

‘So what had happened?’

‘They had made the mistake of cutting down a tree for their campfire, one of the sacred trees belonging to the spirits of the Ojibwa. They didn’t do it deliberately, but spirits don’t usually make allowances for ignorance. They were attacked and killed by something called a Windigo, or Wendigo.’

‘I’ve heard of that, but it’s only a story, isn’t it?’

‘A lot of people think that it was created by Algernon Blackwood, the horror writer. But the Ojibwa have their own tales about the Wendigo, going back so far that they can’t remember when the story hadn’t been told. The Ojibwa say that it’s a tall figure wearing white robes, and that it has an appetite for human flesh that beats my appetite for donuts.

‘Some say that it follows you through the woods and drives you mad because it’s always up close behind you, but whenever you swing around, there’s nothing there, because it’s dodged behind you again.

‘Others say that it swoops down from the sky and catches a-hold of you and makes you run so fast that your feet catch fire. There are newspaper stories about black-charred footprints running right across fields of winter stubble.

‘But there’s one thing that all the storytellers agree on. The Wendigo is so thin that you can only see it when it decides to confront you face-on. It can come right up to you edgewise, and you’ll never see it until it’s too late.’

I put down my coffee cup. There was sugar all around John Shook’s mouth. ‘And you believe this is true? I asked him. ‘You believe this is what really killed my brother, and took off Alma’s head?’

‘It’s sunny now,’ he told me. ‘But it’ll be dark by four, and there’s snow forecast. If I was you, I’d put your brother’s passing down to misfortune, and see if you can’t make Thief River Falls by twilight.’

One of the skills I’d honed during my years as a liability lawyer was an ability to read between the lines, to see the truth through the countless layers of lies. Liability cases were never cut and dried, clients usually proffering just enough information to sway a court ruling in their favour. When I got that telltale feeling, that fluttering down in the pit of my stomach, I knew it was time to dig a little deeper.

I looked directly into John Shook’s eyes and waited for counsel from my spirit guide – this analogy seemed appropriate with all this talk of Ojibwa and the Wendigo. ‘I think,’ I said, cracking my mouth open in a wide grin, ‘I’ll stick around for another couple of days. Might see if I can get a hunting rifle; see if I can bag a Wendigo.’

John Shooks’ expression remained impassive. ‘You will die if you stay here, Mr Ballard. Just like you brother and Miss Lindenmuth. It’s only a matter of time.’ He stood up, wiped the sugar from his mouth then wiped his fingers on his coat. ‘I don’t expect I’ll be seeing you again, Mr Ballard. I bid you farewell. Please try and make the right decision.’

As he ducked through the door of the Donut Bar I suddenly felt extremely alone, sitting sipping coffee in a dingy café in a strange town, no one around that knew my name except a crazy local man foretelling my death.

A chill tickled the back of my neck and my hands developed a film of glistening sweat. I needed to hear a friendly voice, the dulcet tones of Marie, Tabitha, Conrad.

She answered after the fourth ring.

I took a deep breath. ‘Hey, how’s it going?’

Her reply was terse. ‘Fine. We’re all fine. The real question is how are you?’

‘Listen, Marie, I think I’m on to something. I’ve been threatened by a local guy called John Shooks. He says he knew Jack. He warned Jack to stop cutting down trees but Jack wouldn’t listen. Marie, I think he killed Jack. He’s trying to scare the forestry company into pulling their operation.’

‘For Christ’s sake, Bill, have you told the authorities?’

‘Yes. Well, no, not quite. They told me to get out of town.’

‘I hope you’re doing what he asked,’ said Marie. Her voice now reflected concern.

‘What if it was this Shooks character? I can’t just give up and let him get away with murder.’

There was a pause. ‘Listen, Bill, I’m not going to yell. I don’t want another fight. Come home and leave the investigation to the experts.’

I felt prickly. I’d called her for support. For a friendly voice. ‘I don’t think you’re listening. Jack’s girlfriend was decapitated last night right in front of me and I’m sure it was this freak, Shooks.’

‘What?’ Marie screamed. ‘You’re going to get killed, you idiot. Then where will we be? Stuck here without a husband. Tabby and Conrad without a dad. You’re always so goddamned selfish.’

‘Jesus, Marie, I called you for some support, not a goddamned lecture.’

‘Right,’ she snapped, ‘if you won’t come home, we’ll come to you.’

‘No, it’s too—’ My words trailed off as I heard the line drop and go dead.

Goddammit!

I hurried back into town, straight for the glitzy tackle shop on Roseau Avenue, right across the parking lot from the North Star Bar.

‘It’s got a lovely action on it,’ said the clerk, handing me a .338 Winchester hunting rifle. ‘You could take out Bigfoot’s left eye at four hundred paces with that.’

He checked my ID and then, after making a couple of phone calls to verify I was who I claimed, he swiped my credit card and sent me on my way with the rifle, ten boxes of ammunition and a cheery, ‘Happy huntin’.’

The next few hours I spent locked in my hotel room familiarizing myself with my new toy. The instruction book was more pamphlet than book, but it seemed a pretty simple device. The bullets went in the top, cock the lever underneath, point it at the target, and blow its head off. Simple. You didn’t need a big manual or course to teach you simply to point and shoot.

By mid-afternoon I was an experienced hunter, a woodsman of legend, so I decided to ring home again. No answer.

Dammit!

I phoned the airline enquiries desk at Thief River Falls and asked when the next flight from Minneapolis was due in. Shirley, the cheery lady on the flight desk, confirmed that Marie, Tabitha and Conrad were scheduled on board the 18.15, and my heart sank. Why the hell had I married such an obstinate woman? I guessed if they arrived in TRF at 18.15, they’d be another hour or so getting their luggage then the long drive to Roseau would take at least until midnight. No doubt Marie would call me when they landed, so I decided it was time to get to work. The rifle broke down into three pieces and fitted neatly inside my rucksack with the ten boxes of ammunition. I dressed in my warmest outdoor clothes and headed out.

The North Star Bar wasn’t as busy as it had been the previous evening, but it was still early. I ordered a large Jack and Coke and sat down in the corner behind the pool table, studying the local barflies, people who might know something more about the peculiar John Shooks.

I nodded at a swarthy bear of a man who wore a bushy brown beard and peered back at me with black, soulless eyes. He was dressed in the traditional garb of the North American logger, checked shirt and heavy cord trousers, feet the size of snowshoes inside well-worn boots.

‘Hey,’ I said, pulling my stool alongside his. ‘Bill Ballard.’ I extended my hand and smiled. ‘You from around here?’

The big man stared vacantly at me, as if appraising this dweeb trying to latch on to his serenity, then his expression softened and he smiled. ‘Name’s Bobby Ray.’ Bobby Ray gripped my hand and squeezed.

‘Some grip you got there, Bobby,’ I said, gasping as he squeezed even harder.

‘What’cha doin’ in Roseau?’ Bobby Ray asked, still gripping my hand like a vice.

‘Passin’ through,’ I replied nonchalantly. He must have seen the tears welling up in my eyes since he released his grip and returned to his drink.

‘Wanna Bud, Bill Ballard?’ asked Bobby Ray, beckoning to the hostess. I nodded.

The squat, middle-aged woman waddled to our end of the bar and slapped a notepad down on the worktop. ‘What’s it gonna be, boys?’ She hovered her biro over the blank pad.

‘Two Buds,’ said Bobby. She turned to the fridge without scribbling on the pad, before Bobby shouted, ‘Oh, Norma, get us a couple packets o’ them cheesy chips from out back, will ya?’

Norma grunted something unintelligible then disappeared through the door to the kitchen. I was alone with Bobby Ray.

‘Do you believe John Shooks is trying to kill you, Bill?’

The question knocked me sideways. I looked at the big man and felt the blood drain from my face. He obviously knew more than he’d let on, so I came clean. ‘He killed my brother,’ I said. ‘And I’m damned sure he killed Alma Lindenmuth.’

‘Not sure old John’d be too happy ’bout you spreadin’ rumours like that,’ said Bobby. ‘Maybes you should pack up and get yourself outta Roseau before you go causin’ any more trouble.’

‘I need to know where Shooks is,’ I said to Bobby. I belched a foul combination of Jack Daniel’s and donuts. ‘Can you help me find him?’

‘I’ve lived around here all my life,’ said Bobby, ‘and the one piece of advice I’ve learned is to keep away from the natives. Shooks is not all that he seems. But one thing is for sure, he ain’t no killer. If he says it’s the Wendigo, then that’s what it is.’

‘I need to find him,’ I repeated. ‘I need to know who killed Jack.’

‘Get out of town,’ said Bobby. ‘Go to your family and never return.’

I noticed the edge of Norma’s frock through the doorway. Bobby Ray followed my gaze, and upon seeing the hostess’s return he fell silent.

‘Thanks,’ I said, as the hostess handed over our order.

I’d taken my first mouthful of icy Bud when my cellphone vibrated in my trouser pocket. I glanced at the antiquated clock mounted beside the head of a stuffed moose and shivered, noting that it was already 18.30. My eyes widened. Written in big bold neon green letters on my cellphone’s LCD was the name I’d been dreading.

Marie.

‘Bill,’ she spluttered, ‘I’m not staying on. We’ve landed in Thief River Falls and I’ve managed to get a cab to take us all the way into Roseau tonight. Stay at the hotel. We’ll be with you by midnight.’

I was dumbstruck, so I said the only think I could think of. ‘OK … I love you.’

Bobby Ray looked at me with disdain as I slid the cellphone back into my pocket. ‘I can’t believe you’ve placed your family in danger by bringing them out here.’

‘It wasn’t my idea—’

‘Listen,’ said Bobby Ray, his voice urgent. He leaned closer and whispered, ‘If you wanna get through tonight, you’ll do exactly as I say. Follow me.’

Donning our coats, we hurried from the bar, taking our beers into the parking lot. Night was fast approaching. The cold light of day had been reduced to an animated grey streak on the horizon, just visible through the trees at the edge of town. High above us, the Great Bear, Ursa Major, resolutely pointed north towards Polaris at it had done for countless millennia. I turned to face Bobby Ray, feigning an air of confidence I certainly wasn’t feeling inside. The alcohol, mixed with the shock of the cold north wind, made my voice quiver. ‘What’s the plan, Bobby?’

‘Things, Mr Ballard, are not entirely as they might seem. To defeat the Wendigo, you need to believe in its power. You’ll need to understand what drives it if you expect to survive.’

I listened intently. I had to; I had no option. This was my only lead. Nodding slowly to Bobby Ray, I said, ‘Go on.’

‘I’m only agreeing to help you because of your family, Mr Ballard. Children have no place in a feud with the spirits, but the spirits care not for the sanctity of the innocent. Souls are souls, Mr Ballard, and tonight, the Wendigo will feast.’

I gulped. He was sincere. Even if I didn’t believe his words, I believed this burly logger was frightened. More scared than I’d ever seen anyone. Christ, he really did believe we were in mortal danger.