We found a small coffee shop next to the college bookstore, and sat in a corner bending over my phone so Rachel could talk. Outside the sun was setting, casting long shadows over the street.
“I saw a wendigo in a horror movie once,” Rachel said. “It was pretty gruesome.”
“What do we know about them?” I looked at Wren.
She shrugged and sipped her latté. “It’s part of folklore around Canada, the Great Lakes, and the plains. They’re human, possessed by evil spirits that fill them with an insatiable hunger, especially for human flesh. They’re tall and skinny because they’re never full, so they’re constantly on the hunt. They have horns, like deer.” She hesitated, still afraid I might think she was crazy. “That’s the folklore, anyway.”
“You said human?” I looked at my coffee. “So someone could be transforming into a wendigo? Like a werewolf?”
“Maybe. They are related to European werewolf myths, but that might just be Hollywood.”
“So,” Rachel said, “you’re thinking Isaac and Joel were killed by a wendigo? That’s your theory?”
I looked out the window at the darkening street outside. “Could be. But why? That’s the question, and what it has to do with those emails.”
Wren shuddered. “Someone’s killing us off? I’d call campus security, but they’re a joke. And who’d believe us?”
“The state police must have jurisdiction,” I said. “But I don’t know anyone there who’d take me seriously.” In Chicago some cops would listen to me, but we were a long way outside the city.
“Looks like we’re on our own.” Rachel sighed, annoyed. “As usual.”
Wren stood up. “I’m going to pick up my girlfriend and spend the night in a motel far away.”
“Thanks for your help.” I took my phone off speaker. “You still there?”
“Is she gone? What does she look like? Wait, she’s got a girlfriend? I guess she’s safe then. You’re cute, but not that cute.”
I laughed. “Glad you don’t take me for granted. So what do you think?”
“You forgot to ask her how to get rid of the thing. Oh, wait, is that just an excuse to call her again? Is she cute? You jerk.”
“You’d stab me in my sleep if I ever did anything like that. It keeps me honest. And nervous.” I checked for the restroom. “I’m going to drive around a little and then head home. Maybe I’ll spot something.”
“You’re just trying to get out of making dinner.” It was my turn.
“I’ll pick something up. Love you.”
“Same here. Jerk.” She hung up.
I drove past the Fishling house and over toward the Gunderson’s neighborhood, not sure what I was looking for or how I’d recognize it if I saw something. I headed east under the glowing streetlights, wondering what I could pick up for dinner so Rachel wouldn’t get mad when—
I hit the brake. Something darted in front of the car, then leaped away on long legs. A dark shape, tall and thin. A jogger?
No. It had horns on its head. Like antlers on a deer.
I fumbled for my phone, but it was gone before I could pull it up. Was that really—
Then my phone buzzed. Not a call, but a text. From Leo Frazer. I tapped the message—
It was an image. Dark and blurry, but I could clearly see glowing red eyes, a gaunt, ravaged face, an arm like a twisted tree branch, and long horns sprouting from an almost bare scalp. Standing in front of a bookcase.
Wendigo.
What the hell? I stabbed the Call icon.
Harsh breathing. Crashing noises. Snarling. “Jurgen? It’s here. I called—it was right outside. I called—I called—”
Nothing. I could still hear him breathing. “Leo? Leo, you there?”
I hung up and called 911. I didn’t know Frazer’s address, but I gave them his name and said it sounded like he was being attacked. “Is this the state police?”
“This is McKinnon campus security. What is your emergency?”
I talked as I drove.
By the time I got to the house, two campus squad cars and a state police car were already parked outside, lights flashing. Night had fallen, the stars sparkling brighter over the trees than you could see in the city.
I jumped from my Prius, and a campus security cop intercepted me as I ran up the driveway. “Excuse me, sir—” She was Black and tall, with a face like a hawk. “You can’t go in there. Do you live here?”
“No, I’m—” I took a step back, hands visible. “He sent me a picture. I want to get my phone out to show you.”
She nodded slowly. I pulled out my phone and showed her the image. “This was right before—I mean, I called him, and he was being attacked.”
After peering at the phone, she looked up at me. “And you are?”
“Tom Jurgen. I’m a private detective. I talked to chief Benning yesterday about the coyote killings, I’m working for Abigail Fishling—”
“Brenda?” The voice came from the house. “Who is—oh. You.”
Benning came down the driveway and stopped next to the cop, hands on his hips. “What brings you here, Mr., uh—Jurgen, was it?”
“Tom Jurgen.” I turned the phone to show him the image. “Leo Frazer sent me this right before . . . uh, I mean, is he dead?”
He nodded. “This is a death investigation, yes. But what the hell is that thing? It looks like something from a cheap horror movie.”
“It’s a wendigo.”
Benning glanced at Brenda, the security cop, then back at me. “What’s a wen—wendigo?”
I could see where this was going, but I had to try. “It’s a creature from native American folklore that kills and eats people. Abigail Fishling saw horns on the creature that killed her husband. This thing has horns. It’s cannibalistic and eats human flesh, and it never gets full. And it’s killed two—three people from the Classics department.”
Again they exchanged glances. Then Benning said, “Well, thanks for the information, Jurgen. I think we have this under control for now. Why don’t you stop by in the morning to give us a statement. Officer Barnes, would you escort Mr. Jurgen back to his vehicle?”
I felt like Carl Kolchak—a Chicago reporter in the 1970s who, according to legends passed around in newsrooms and nearby bars, had encountered more than his share of supernatural beings before fading out of sight in 1975. Some said he’d finally gotten killed by a monster; others claimed he’d been silenced by the government. A few said he’d just never finished writing his memoirs.
Like Kolchak, I couldn’t resist taking one last try at persuading Brenda as she walked me to my car. “This isn’t coyotes.” I fought to keep my voice calm. “Something is killing off the Classics department, one by one. Does that sound like a coyote? Do coyotes have a grudge against people who teach Aeschylus? A bad experience with Oedipus?”
She crossed her arms as we reached my door, but smiled at my question. “Have a good night, sir. Drive safely.”
I pulled my seatbelt. “Thanks, officer. You too.”
When I got home with a couple of burritos Rachel was watching TV. “About time.”
“I had murder stuff to deal with.” I put the to-go bag and some plates on the table in front of the sofa and got some beers. “Let me check my email.”
I was expecting to scroll through some spam, with maybe a message from my mom or my brother in Oregon. Instead the first message was from wendi919. Subject: CURSE.
“Uh, Rachel?” I called. “Could you take a look at this?”
I heard a loud sigh as she turned the TV off. “That bitch Mariah was just going to get into it with—wait, what?”
The message read: BEWARE THE CURSE OF THE WENDIGO.
“That guy loves his caps lock.” She leaned forward and grabbed the mouse. After a few clicks, she smiled. “Oh, this is good.”
“I’m actually thinking a curse from the wendigo is not good.” Could a wendigo get all the way downtown? It wouldn’t exactly blend in with Chicago’s nightlife.
“No, it’s sent directly to you. Move.” She punched my arm. I stood up, and she took my chair and attacked my keyboard.
“Is this, uh, all legal?” I didn’t care that much. As long as we didn’t get caught.
“Oh, you want legal? That takes longer.” She laughed and keep clicking. “Trust me. I’m a pro.”
“Did I ever tell you you’re hot when you’re hacking?” I rubbed her neck.
She snorted, then slapped my hand away. “Don’t get me started. Another night of hot sex and . . . I’ll expect it every night. Do you even have that much Viagra? Go bring me my beer.”
I got our beers and pulled her chair over to watch while she worked. She frowned a few times, cursed once, backed out from several attempts, then slapped her hand on the edge of my desk, almost spilling her beer. “Got you!”
I bent forward. The email had originated from a Hotmail address—phma564. Huh. It took me only two seconds to connect the letters—“Philip Marston. President of McKinnon College.”
“Or—” Rachel cocked her head. “Pink Hogwarts Man Adam?”
“Any way to check?”
“Hacking into Hotmail would take a looong time, and the lawyer’s bills when we get caught will be expensive.” She swigged her beer. “What about, ‘Good job, Rach’? I cracked the case. Sort of.”
“Good job. Thanks.” I kissed her. That went on for a while, until Rachel decided she wanted another beer and went back to her burrito and the Real Housewives of whatever.
I sipped my beer and thought for a few minutes. Then I took a breath and started tapping the keys.
I KNOW WHO YOU ARE. I KNOW YOU SENT THE WENDIGO. WHAT WILL MAKE YOU STOP? Hey, he liked all caps. I hit send.
I used a separate email address. I’m not a dummy, despite what Rachel says.. Then I set my phone to notify me if I got a reply, and went back to the living room to eat my burrito.
My phone beeped 20 minutes later, just as I was wishing for another burrito. Email from phma564.
MEET ME AT THE MCKINNON FOREST PRESERVE 1 A.M. COME ALONE.
I laughed and showed it to Rachel, who laughed too. I replied: “Seriously? I’ll meet you in your office. 9 a.m. tomorrow.” I was sick of all-caps.
No immediate response. We went back to watching TV.
Two hours later we were getting ready for bed. Rachel was reading something by Doris Kearns Goodwin—she’d been on a history kick lately—and I was playing a game on my phone when it beeped again. Another email.
This one repeated the first message: MCKINNON FOREST. 1 A.M. But it included a photo.
Paula Wren sat on gravel, arms behind her back, squinting into the flash in front of her face. She had a bruise on her cheek, and her jacket was torn at the shoulder.
My heart froze. What the—?
Rachel looked over. “Who’s that? Wait a minute—”
“She’s the one we were talking to.” I swung my legs out of bed. “She was going to go to a motel. He must have—damnit!” I grabbed for my pants.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Rachel threw her book on the floor. It was a hardcover. It landed with a loud thump.
I hesitated, mid-pull. “It’s my fault she’s there.” I finished yanking my pants up and shoved my feet into my shoes without socks. “I can’t—I’ve got to do something.”
Rachel jumped out of bed. “All right, but if you think you’re going out there alone—”
No point in having this argument again. “Figure out how to kill a wendigo. That’s your job. You can stay here and phone it in while I’m—”
She threw a pillow at me, already in her jeans and sneakers. “Shut up. But if you get killed, we’re going to have words.”
I shivered. “I certainly hope so.”
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