14
Lytton’s cabin lay five miles outside town at the end of a long, narrow cut into two hundred acres of thick brush, bog, balsam pine and tamarack. The lane leading to the cabin was marked by an old hand-painted sign on a cracked gray board nailed to a post: “Taxidermy.” A chain strung between two aspen saplings blocked the entry.
Cork eyed the deep snow drifted into the narrow lane. “Long walk in, Tom. I’ve got skis and snowshoes,” he offered.
“The only thing I can handle in the snow is my Kawasaki. I’ll walk, thanks.”
“Then I’ll walk, too.”
Cork reached into the glove compartment for a flashlight, then opened the rear door and took his Winchester from its sheath. He pulled several cartridges from his coat pocket and fed them into the rifle.
“What’s that for?” the priest asked.
“How much do you know about Jack the Ripper?”
The snow seemed to multiply the light of the moon that was nearly full and the mass of stars that frosted the sky, and even without the flashlight Cork had no trouble seeing the way along the cut through the trees and brush.
“I was out here once just after I first came to Aurora. I brought a big muskie Father Kelsey had caught and wanted mounted. Never made it off my motorcycle. That dog was on me as soon as I pulled up. I gave it full throttle coming back down this lane and the Ripper still nearly caught me. Biggest, fastest, meanest dog I ever saw.”
“Lytton lets it run loose,” Cork said. “Especially when he’s gone, and he’s gone a lot. Burglar protection, he claims. I used to warn him about the dog getting off his land, but the Ripper never does. Seems to know his territory. And we’re in it right now. I don’t want to be caught out here on foot without something to discourage that dog.”
The priest shook his head at the rifle. “That thing could discourage a critter to death.”
“Lytton’s put out word that he’s trained the Ripper to attack on command and to go for the kill. Now, that could be just Harlan blowing smoke out his ass, but I’d rather not take that chance.”
They passed a tangle of vine thick as a stone wall and covered with snow. The vines blocked Cork’s view of much of the woods to his left, and he kept a watchful eye in that direction.
“Why would anyone train a dog to kill?” the priest asked.
“What do you know about Lytton?”
“Only what I’ve been told. He sounds like a man who could use a good long visit in a confessional.”
Cork stopped. The priest stopped, too.
“What is it?” Tom Griffin asked.
“Thought I heard something.” Cork looked carefully at the thick vine wall.
“What?”
“Could’ve been only a clump of snow falling off some branches.”
“Or it could be Jack the Ripper circling for a kill.” The priest looked carefully around. “I feel like a sitting duck on this road,” he whispered.
“Don’t ever wander off in these woods, Tom. There’s bogs out there could swallow you up without a trace.”
Cork listened a little longer, then started walking again, wading through the snow that was nearly knee deep and that would, if they had to run, hold them back like thick molasses. He fed a round into the chamber.
“Lytton’s a strange case. He’s always been a little different. A loner. His mother used to work for the judge. Housekeeper. After the judge’s wife left him and hauled Sandy back east, the judge took a liking to Harlan, treated him in many ways like a son. They did a lot together. Hunting and fishing. That kind of thing. Harlan started getting into a lot of trouble as a teenager. The judge used his influence as much as he could and kept the kid out of jail. Harlan finally joined the marines. Everybody figured him for a lifer, but he came back a few years ago. Word is, less than honorable discharge. Most people just stay out of his way. That’s not difficult because mostly he keeps to himself out here.”
Tom Griffin said, “I heard he’s a bit of a peeping Tom.”
“I was never able to catch him at it,” Cork replied. “But he’s been reported in strange places at strange times. When I was sheriff, the FBI was interested in him. Thought he might be linked to the Minnesota Civilian Brigade.”
“The paramilitary group?”
“Yep. I could see it. Typical profile for a member of that kind of group is an unemployed, undereducated white guy. Hell Hanover gives the brigade room in the Sentinel once in a while to spout their epithets.”
“Hanover certainly doesn’t make a secret of the fact that his own sympathies run in that direction.” The priest leaned nearer as if someone in the dark might hear. “Just between you and me, with that shaved head and those cold blue eyes, old Hell looks just like a Nazi commandant.” As if saying the name of Hell Hanover was like conjuring the devil, the priest looked carefully about. “Why in God’s name are you out on a night like this to see a man like Harlan Lytton?”
“Henry Meloux says he heard the Windigo call his name.”
“The what?”
“Long story, Tom. Believe me, I wouldn’t be out here if Lytton would just answer his damn phone. I’ve been trying him all day. Either he can’t or he’s in one of his moods.”
“It’s important for you to know which?”
“The judge is dead. Harlan and him have a long connection. Now Henry Meloux’s heard the Windigo call Harlan’s name. I’d just like to check on Harlan.”
“Professional curiosity? Isn’t that the sheriff’s job?”
“The Windigo’s not something Wally Schanno’s likely to consider seriously.”
“And you do?”
Cork thought about telling the priest that he’d heard the Windigo call his own name and that his interest wasn’t professional but quite personal and very pressing. But he decided to keep it simple.
“Once I begin to wonder about a thing it’s hard for me to let go. There’s his cabin,” Cork said in a low voice. “He’s got lights on. Good sign. Him and the Ripper enjoying a quiet evening chewing on somebody’s bones.”
The cabin was small but sturdy, with a shake roof and split shutters, all of cedar. There was a small garage to one side and a shed in back. From what little Cork knew about Lytton, he understood the shed was where the man used to do his taxidermy work. With the Ripper around, very few people brought Lytton that kind of business anymore.
“Lytton!” he called. “Harlan Lytton!”
There was no response from the cabin.
“It’s Cork O’Connor! I’ve got Father Tom Griffin with me!” Cork glanced at the priest. “He was never much impressed with my sheriff’s badge. I figure if he’s thinking of taking a bead on us, your collar might carry some weight.”
“Thanks. He’ll shoot me first out of respect.”
“Lytton, are you there!” Cork tried again. “Come on, Tom. If he hasn’t shot at us by now, he probably won’t.”
“Don’t forget about The Ripper.”
Cork started ahead.
From behind the wall of vines to the left came a blur of black against the white of the snow. Cork caught the movement out of the corner of his eye. He swung around as a huge black shape charged through the snow, bounding up and down, moving swiftly as a stone skipping over water.
“Tom!” Cork cried, trying to warn the priest.
St. Kawasaki saw it coming. He lifted his arm to fend off the attack. Cork had the Winchester shouldered, and he fired at the black form as it launched itself at the priest. The Ripper yelped and his body jerked violently in midair. Tom Griffin turned and ducked, taking the impact of the dog with his shoulder. The Ripper slammed into him, then fell and lay still, a great black shape imbedded in the snow at the priest’s feet. As they both watched, the dark color of his fur seemed to melt out of its throat, staining the white snow.
“No!” Harlan Lytton screamed, rushing from the cover of the vine wall.
Lytton was a wiry little man with a face always in need of shaving. In the crisp winter air, as Lytton knelt down beside Jack the Ripper, Cork caught the smell of whiskey and the odor of a body long overdue for a bath.