Dead of Winter by Brian Moreland

ground. He found it strange how all the windows were boarded up. Chains hung above the entrance, jingling as iron-jaw traps knocked together in the wind. The front door rapped repeatedly against a wall inside. It swung toward them, and Tom caught it with his boot. He noticed a raccoon pelt nailed to the door.
    “What does this mean?” Tom asked.
    “A welcome sign to trappers,” answered Andre. “Master Lamothe opens his post to trappers who are just passing through.”
    Tom pushed open the door. “Stay alert and be ready for anything. Nobody shoots unless I say.”
    The Jesuit called out, “ Bonjour , Master Lamothe, Wenonah. It’s Brother Andre.”
    Tom entered next. A stench like rotten carrion assaulted him. Stopping just inside the doorway, he waited till his eyes adjusted to the gloom. The gray light filtered between the slats that covered the windows and lit up only part of a large, open room. Most of the front den was hidden by heavy shadows. “ Bonjour , anybody up?” Tom frowned at the sight of a shotgun lying on the floor. Several shells had been expended. “Son, fetch a couple lanterns.”
    Chris hustled back to the horses then returned quickly. Within moments, Tom lit two lanterns, giving one to the Jesuit. Tom ventured inside, Chris hovering close to his heels. They broke off into pairs, spreading about the expansive room. Flame light from their lanterns rippled over pine furniture and a rock fireplace with a mounted moose head. The ashes in the hearth were cold. The room had an unnerving chill that seeped right through Tom’s coat and trousers.
    “Hello?” Andre called again.
    Tom expected to hear footsteps running down the stairs, but the lodge remained silent. Reaching a staircase, he shone his light upward. A pine banister led up to the second floor.
    “How many people live here?”
    “Between fifteen and twenty,” Andre said. “Sometimes more if they have visitors.”
    Tom nodded. “See if you can rouse them.”
    Andre called up the stairs, speaking French. This time his voice was plenty loud enough to wake up anyone sleeping. Tom, Anika, and Hysmith exchanged glances.
    Tom said, “Looks like they abandoned the place.”
    Andre shook his head. “No, Father Jacques would have come straight to our fort.”
    “Maybe that’s what the message was about,” Tom said. “Why they were leaving this place and where they were headed.”
    “But if the message were to me, he would’ve written that in French.” Andre’s eyes filled with hope. “Maybe they all headed to our fort after all, but took a different route.”
    “Or maybe they were attacked by that bear,” Chris said. “And only the little girl got away.”
    “The boy’s got a point,” Hysmith said. “I suggest we head back now so we’re home before nightfall.”
    “We have some time,” Tom said. “I want to explore a little further.”
    “I’d like to visit the chapel, if I may,” Andre said. “See if Father Jacques left behind another message.”
    “Good idea,” Tom said. “Chris, Pembrook, stay down here and keep watch. Lieutenant, Anika, let’s check upstairs.”
    Hysmith nodded and held up his shotgun. Anika drew a buck knife. Tom gripped his pistol and ascended the stairs, holding out the lantern. The old wood creaked under their boots. The railing wrapped around the entire second story. Beyond stood several doors, some open, some closed. At the top, a hallway stretched into a curtain of blackness.
    Tom shone his light into one of the rooms. An empty bed. On a nightstand stood a framed portrait of a white man, a native woman, and two girls. One he recognized as Zoé. She was holding her doll. The other was a teen girl with long, brown hair.
    “So this is Zoé’s parents and sister.” Tom showed the picture to Anika.
    “Pierre and Wenonah Lamothe, and her sister, Margaux,” she said.
    Master Pierre Lamothe, wearing a three-piece suit and Wellington hat, looked more sophisticated than Tom expected, like a