Free The Curse of the Wendigo by Rick Yancey Page A

better.” He cupped the head gently in his hands and pulled the chin back. The empty eye sockets rolled toward the canopy. “Look closely now. Are you quite certain it’s Larose?”
    “Yes. It’s him. It’s Larose.” Hawk dug into his rucksack and removed a silver flask, unscrewed the top with shaking fingers, gulped down a few swallows, and shuddered violently. “I recognize the red hair.”
    “Hmm. It
is
quite red, isn’t it? Curious how the face has been left untouched, except for the eyes.”
    “Why did they cut out his eyes?”
    “I am not certain anyone did.” The doctor brought his face close. “My guess would be carrion, but I can’t make outany marks in this light. We’ll have to wait for morning.”
    “All right, but what about the skin? No animal strips off the skin and leaves the rest—and where the hell are his clothes?”
    “No, whatever flayed him was no animal,” the doctor said. “At least, not of the four-legged variety. The skin has been sliced off, with something extremely sharp, a hunting knife or . . .” He stopped, hovering over a large hole that yawned in the middle of the man’s chest, the only obvious wound visible other than the spot lower down where he had been impaled, and then hacked free from the hemlock. The monstrumologist laughed under his breath and shook his head ruefully. “Ah, my kingdom for some real light! We could wait, but . . . Will Henry, fetch my instrument case.”
    I scooted around our consternated guide and retrieved the doctor’s soft canvas field case. He tugged free the leather ties, flipped it open, and pulled out the desired instrument, holding it up for Hawk to see.
    “Or a scalpel, Sergeant. Will Henry, I’ll need more light here—no, take the opposite side and hold the lamp low. That’s it.”
    “What are you doing?” demanded Hawk. He drew closer, curiosity getting the better of his revulsion.
    “There is something very peculiar. . . .” The monstrumologist’s hand disappeared inside the hole. Operating by sense of touch and his knowledge of anatomy, he made several quick sliceswith the scalpel, then handed the instrument to me.
    “What is?” asked Hawk. “What’s peculiar?”
    “Ack!” the doctor groaned. “I can’t do both. . . . Will Henry, set down the lamp a moment and pull this apart. No, deeper; you’ll have to get hold of the ribs. Pull
hard
, Will Henry. Harder!”
    I felt someone’s breath upon my cheek—Hawk’s. He was staring at me.
    “Indispensable,” he whispered. “
Now
I understand!”
    The doctor’s hands disappeared between mine. Then, with a dramatic flourish, the monstrumologist hauled out the severed heart, cradling it in his hands and holding it high like a bloody offering. I plopped onto my backside, the muscles of my forearms singing with pain. Warthrop turned toward the fire and allowed the light to play over the organ. As he pressed on the pericardium, thick curds of arterial blood dribbled over the severed lip of the pulmonary artery and fell into the fire, where it popped and bubbled, steaming in the intense heat.
    “Most peculiar . . . There appears to be denticulated trauma to the right ventricle.”
    “What?” Hawk fairly shouted. “What to the what?”
    “Teeth marks, Sergeant. Something bored a hole through his chest and took a bite out of his heart.”
    There would be no sleep that night for the monstrumologist. Around three in the morning he shooed me to bed—“You’llbe no use to me in the morning otherwise, Will Henry”—and urged Hawk to get some rest as well. He would take both watches. Our shaken escort did not take kindly to the suggestion.
    “What if you fall asleep?” he asked. “If that fire goes out . . . the smell of . . . It will draw all sorts of things. . . .” He was hugging his rifle as a child might his favorite blanket. “Not to mention whoever did this is still out there. They could be watching us right now, waiting for us to fall asleep.”
    “I assure