The dawn was cold and crisp. The mercury had dipped to minus ten during the night, but by sunup it had risen to a balmy minus five, with a fat sun stilled above an endless wilderness deep in the heart of the Arrowhead. Northwest of Key Corners, nearly an hour by snowmobile when weather permitted, on a humble farm that had stood for precisely eighty years, a hulking black man emerged from the back door of his ramshackle home and waded through two-foot drifts to reach his only means to the outside world.
Six times he tried to start the old beast. Exactly fifty-two times the day before.
Harmon Wyatt zipped his weathered khaki snowsuit. He rubbed his temples, his brain groaning from a massive hangover. He grabbed the starter cable again and gave it a couple of yanks. The stubborn snowmobile, an aging Ski-Doo Elan, teased him with barely a sputter. The bastard was flooded, drunk in its rich gas-oil mix.
“Piece a shit.” The hood rattled under a swift kick from Harmon’s Sorel. The small trailer attached to the snowmobile rocked.
The woodsman glanced at his back door. Did a quick figuring in his head. Nine bottles left. Fuck. He kicked the piece a shit again.
His bi-weekly trek into town would have to wait. In the meantime, he could rifle up a deer or a moose if it came to it. But chasing the kill of the day with a tall glass of water was just plain ugly.
He scratched his head. Where the hell was his splitting ax? He backtracked through the deep snow, tripped up on something and found himself flat on his ass in a snowdrift.
He got to his feet and brushed himself off. “There ya are, ya bastard.”
He dug out the ax. He’d bought it two weeks ago in Key Corners, thirty-five bucks plus tax. It was heavy and solid, the way he liked them. A man could fell an iron lamp post with one.
He tried to remember how it got here. Most of last night was still drowning in alcohol.
He’d been chopping. Drinking. Lots of drinking.
But the beer had come after, hadn’t it?
After.
He remembered now. Chopping. Seeing her.
That was crazy. It just couldn’t be. Just his old tired mind fucking with him.
He stared at the blade.
More came to him. Madness, mostly, and ghosts. Swinging the thing in the air—at the air—like a madman.
He scanned his farm. The air was oddly still. For a terrifying moment, he feared he was the only human left on Earth.
Enough of this shit, he thought. Get your head on right. Work the wood. Work the wood.
He grimaced. A chip blemished the new blade, smack in the middle. That prick Connelly was always ripping him off.
He studied the imperfection. He hadn’t named the ax yet, but old habits—especially those passed on from the old man, like naming every tool and every gadget—died hard.
A tool’s like a woman, son, Papa preached. Treat her right, and she’ll always be there for you. Treat her wrong, and she’ll fuck you up like a sonofawhore.
Naming the tool, like naming a son or a daughter, was always the first step in treating it right. He considered, and a small grin sealed his inspiration. He slung Mr. Chips over his shoulder and headed down a slope to a small clearing.
Nearly forty-five cords of poplar, birch, and spruce stood before him in four heaping mountains. Most folks would have been crazy taking it—hell, he had thirty cords already, split and stacked since August—but the old man didn’t raise no dummy. As usual, Perry Johnson and his butt-stupid sons had cut a lot more than they could stiff those suckers from the city with, so who was he to say no to a boatload of freebies. Fact was, Perry had more than likely cut it from protected stands as far west as Itasca County, and the jackass had had to unload it. He couldn’t believe they’d hauled it way out here—the plowed roads ended three miles east, and they’d made about a hundred round trips with Perry’s Arctic Cat and a train of two trailers.
The cold air soothed his lungs and seemed to ease the throbbing in his brain. On mornings-after like these, he might pop some Advil like hard candy, but mostly he’d spend a few hours chopping in the fresh air, sweating the aches out of his system. He was supposed to be down at Skeeter’s working the saws at the mill, but not today. He needed to clear his head. Clear his head of the terrors running amok in there.
He settled at the chopping block and set a two-foot length of poplar. His powerful arms hoisted the heavy ax in one fluid motion and came down hard, the blade cutting the air with a whoooomp. The log split with a thud. He placed another log and brought Mr. Chips to bear.
Thud.
He set a third log and readied his delivery. He held firm. He cocked his head ever so slightly … just enough to hear.
His eyes narrowed. His nostrils flared. He was miles east of Jasper Peak, downwind. On a good day he could smell a moose at a mile—the sweat of a man’s brow at a hundred feet—but in this damned calm he couldn’t sniff out a beer fart. Not a goddamned thing.
The old dog listened. Sniffed the air like a hound. He had lived here his entire life, worked the land as long as he could remember. He knew the territory: every trail, every lake, from here to Tower and beyond. If something was out there, he should have heard it coming. Picked up its scent.
He sniffed that dead air again. Someone was close. Too close.
Right behind him.