Dead of Winter by Brian Moreland Read Free Book Online Page A

Aramaic.”
    “Why would your priest write in a language you can’t read?”
    “The journal is for Father Xavier. The priests often send coded messages to one another. The handwriting appears rushed.”
    Tom took back the journal. In the last pages, the elegant handwriting worsened. There were smears of ink and rips in the paper where the priest had written with too much pressure.
    Tom said, “In the letter Father Jacques says, ‘The Jesuits are the only ones who can stop this madness.’ What does he mean?”
    “I don’t know.” Andre’s eyes looked deep in thought. “Over a month has passed since we last met.”
    “Do you know this Father Xavier?” Tom asked.
    “No, I only know of him. He was Father Jacques’ former apprentice. They used to do mission work for the archbishop.”
    “Is that why you’re here?”
    “Father Jacques and I came to do mission work with the Ojibwa, but the savages weren’t interested in being saved. So we concentrated our efforts on converting the fur traders and set up chapels at both forts.”
    Tom said, “I’d like us to go to Manitou Outpost as soon as the blizzard passes. We have to get word to them that we have Zoé.”
    Andre said, “We’ll have to get permission from Master Pendleton.”
    Tom checked his pocket watch. “He’ll be having supper about now. Let’s meet with him at Noble House at eight o’clock sharp.”
    As Tom left the chapel, Lt. Hysmith approached with an agitated expression. “Inspector! Inspector!”
    Tom sighed, “What is it, Lieutenant?”
    “Have a word with your son about obeying curfew.”
    “What do you mean?” Tom asked, wondering what his teenage son had done this time. “Chris is at our cabin.”
    “On the contrary,” Lt. Hysmith said. “He was last seen hanging among Bélanger’s crew. The soldiers reported that your son rode out with the voyageurs , but he didn’t return with them. I don’t know what kind of boy you’re raising, but if you don’t discipline him, then I will.”
    16
     
    Tom marched across the snow-covered fort grounds, pumping his fists. He didn’t know whose neck he wanted to wring more, Lt. Hysmith’s or his son’s.
    Why the hell was Chris venturing outside the fort? And in this storm! The blizzard was hitting Fort Pendleton with all its might. Tom headed toward the far corner. The French Canadian voyageurs and laborers were the men who built the cabins and paddled and portaged the canoes on long journeys. They had their own village within the fort.
    Tom walked between the huts. Huskies barked from a pen, some growling at his intrusion. Smoke that smelled like cooking venison billowed from the rooftops. He knocked on Michel Bélanger’s ramshackle of a cabin. A pock-faced native woman opened the door.
    “I’m looking for a blond-headed boy about this high.” He marked the height at his chest.
    She pointed to a rectangular cabin in the center of the village. “Skinning Hut.”
    He marched through a storage area made up of log poles and cross beams. Flapping in the wind were tools, jaw traps, and a wide variety of fur skins: skunk, rabbit, muskrat, beaver, and deer. Tom ducked his head in several places, pushing aside pelts. The French Canadian laborers also did a little trapping, trading furs to Fort Pendleton in exchange for clothing, tools, food, and rum. The trappers only posed a danger when their drinking got out of hand, which could happen on any given night. Tom knew from experience that a drunk trapper was nothing but trouble.
    A week ago he’d found his teenage son here drinking rum with Bélanger and his crew. Chris was so drunk he had stumbled all the way back to the cabin. Remembering the incident intensified Tom’s anger. He approached the elongated hut. From it came the stink of blood and offal. He entered. Lanterns hung from the ceiling. At a long table, a dozen fur-clad Frenchmen and Indians were butchering animal carcasses. In the center of the table, antlers jutted out of a