Winter Prey

Chapter 3

Chapter 3

Caleb McCoy whacked the snowshoes against the side of the cabin harder than necessary to knock the packed snow from the webs. The action also served to release a bit of his banked frustration. Without regard to where they landed, he tossed the snowshoes aside, then entered the one-room log building. Cold out. Frigid. The same in here. He set his rifle beside the door carefully, due to its more delicate nature, and crossed to the stone fireplace before he took off his gloves. Picking up the small shovel, he raked aside ashes, searching for a glimmer of ember in the fire he'd banked before he left to meet the Native American shaman, Keoman.

Keoman, who hadn't shown up at their meeting place. Damn him! He'd forced Caleb to march miles in frigid weather for a clandestine meeting the other man didn't bother to notify Caleb was canceled.

There. A flicker in the ashes. He checked his irritation and blew gently on the ember rather than whoosh out a breath that would smother his face in gray powder. A moment later, he trickled a handful of kindling on the budding flame. Soon the fire flared, and Caleb added more kindling, and eventually two split logs from the sling beside the fireplace. He'd have to get more wood in from the pile his landlord left before nightfall.

The warmth spread through the well-insulated room quickly, but Caleb only stood there fuming until he realized he was sweating beneath his fur-lined jacket. He jerked it off and tossed it onto the lone bunk in the room before he grabbed the can of coffee off the shelf.

Damn. The water in the coffeepot was frozen. He should have left the propane cook stove on low while he was gone. He hung the pot on a hook set in the fireplace stones for that purpose, lit two of the kerosene lamps, and dropped into the cane rocking chair to mull over Keoman's no-show.

Although he'd been forthcoming over the phone, Keoman had insisted their actual meetings be in secret. With no recourse, Caleb agreed. The Ojibway wouldn't even come to the cabin Caleb had rented for two months, the length of time Caleb assumed he would be here. Maybe less...he hoped less. But if he couldn't even talk to Keoman when the meetings were planned, he might as well hang things up now and try to find some other way to further his investigation.

No one else would fit the bill quite like Keoman, though. Caleb had studied the Northern tribal lore well. Knew where the well-hidden, shadowy activities took place. Activities very similar to what had happened back home in Colorado.

The anguish that threatened his sanity and strength knocked against that door in his mind where he trapped it, and Caleb bent forward to grip his head in both hands. If he allowed the memories to overcome him, he might as well check himself in at some facility and ask for each and every pharmaceutical they could provide to help him weather the downslide. No, not even weather it. Drug it into obscurity. And his wife and son deserved more than that, even in death.

He checked his sat-phone, the only form of communication viable in this deep wilderness area. A good signal. He punched in Keoman's number...with the same result he'd gotten when he called after he snow-shoed to the meeting place. Nada. Not even voice mail.

Where the fuck was the shaman? He caught himself before he threw the phone against the log wall in frustration, breathed deep, then checked the coffeepot. Not that he needed the caffeine, but it would give him something to focus on.

He fired up the propane stove and filled the coffeepot with the now melted water and the basket with grounds. Pot on the stove, he breathed deeply for a few moments to try for a measure of calmness, then settled at the table to again read through the research materials he'd gathered so far. Maybe he'd missed something. But nothing nudged him, only the same vague could be's, might be's, no evidence, only assumptions.