Free Apparition Trail, The by Lisa Smedman Page A

began fumbling with the buttons on the front of his jacket. “I had no ch-ch-choice. Not after he d-d-did….” His hands pulled the jacket open and lifted his shirt, exposing his chest. “This!”
    I stared, incredulous. On the left side of Dickens’s soft, hairless chest, just above the nipple, was a pattern of puncture marks, each surrounded by a patch of angry red inflammation. The marks were exactly what one would expect to see if a large cat had sunk the tips of its claws into human flesh.
    “How….”
    Dickens let his shirt fall. “I d-d-don’t know,” he whispered. “Wandering Spirit just made a g-g-gesture with his hand, and the next thing I knew I felt a terrible p-p-pain in my chest. It hurt so badly I thought I was going to d-d-d-”
    This time, I waited until he said the word himself.
    “To d-d-die,” he finally managed. “Right there on the spot.”
    Belatedly, I realized that I should have been taking notes. Steele had asked for a full and complete report on everything connected with the case, impressing upon me that no detail, no matter how trivial it might seem, should be left out.
    An Inspector nearly killed by paranormal forces was hardly a trivial detail.
    “How long ago did this happen?” I asked, rummaging in my haversack for a report book and pencil.
    “Nearly four weeks ago,” Dickens answered.
    I stared at the strange wound. It was as vivid and red as if it had been made only yesterday.
    Now that he’d gotten the worst of it out, Dickens’s stutter was settling down again. “The McDougalls were reported missing on July 2nd,” he said. “Corporal Cowan was sent to investigate, and returned to the f-f-fort with Wandering Spirit on July 10th.”
    Something occurred to me. I pulled a copy of Cowan’s report from my haversack and leafed through it. “The corporal’s report wasn’t telegraphed to headquarters until the 16th of July. Wandering Spirit was long gone by then, presumably.”
    Dickens nodded, his eyes on his buttons as he refastened them.
    “Are you certain that Wandering Spirit didn’t conceal a weapon on his person and use it against you?”
    “Wandering Spirit was searched,” Dickens said. “He had no weapon, and his wrists were shackled together.”
    My next question was a difficult one, considering the fact that Dickens was an officer, and thus my superior. I reminded myself that his drinking was no secret. “When you questioned Wandering Spirit, were you sober?”
    Dickens bristled, but his answer was direct. “I may have had a d-d-drink that d-d-day, but I know what I saw. Wandering Spirit just … gestured. I have no explanation for what happened.”
    I did, but I kept it to myself. There’s a word in the Cree language: atayohkanak . It means “spirit power” — we’d use the word magic in its place. Wandering Spirit had used magic to intimidate Dickens into releasing him: there was no other explanation for the puncture marks on Dickens’s chest. The Inspector was an incompetent officer who liked his brandy, but he had keen self-preservation instincts and was accustomed to strong drink. He’d have to have been staggering and blind drunk before he’d mistake the swing of a weapon for a simple hand gesture. Dickens might be as much of a storyteller as his illustrious father, but I didn’t think he had the imagination to concoct a tale like the one I’d just heard.
    I tucked the photo of the Manitou Stone and my copy of Corporal Cowan’s report back into my haversack. I wanted to question Wandering Spirit myself. I knew where to begin my search: Big Bear’s band often camped near Poundmaker’s reserve, which was no more than fifty miles down river, near Battleford. Yet if Wandering Spirit really did have the power to wound with a mere gesture — or kill, as I suspected had been the case with Tom Quinn — I’d have to be cautious. I decided I’d gather all the information I could before visiting the Cree encampment.
    “I know the trail is