The Falls Ii: In the Crossfire of Mist and Madness

By Robert Sneider

Former river rat, Ro Walsh has worked on the Niagara River all his life and has seen how its deadly mystique engulfs strangers and friends alike. It is stamped irrevocably on their death faces. Despite an unending feeling that something unnatural exists in the unfathomable void that is the plunge basin at the base of Niagara Falls, Walsh escapes its pull.

And his fears.

But only for a while.

Now it wants him back. A sniper is on the loose in Niagara Falls and his targets are the men who work on the river known as river rats. Or so it seems. In spite of the danger, Walsh is compelled to return to the Falls setting in motion events that will take him into the mysterious depths of the plunge basin.
And on a collision course with his darkest fears.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Aug 23, 2007
• ISBN: 9781466957183

Robert Sneider

Robyrt Snyder grew up near Niagara Falls and has always been intrigued by its history, fascinated by its majesty, and haunted by its psyche. The author lives and writes in New Hampshire.

Book preview

© Copyright 2004 Robert Sneider. All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

Note for Librarians: a cataloguing record for this book that includes Dewey Classification and US Library of Congress numbers is available from the National Library of Canada. The complete cataloguing record can be obtained from the National Library’s online database at:

www.nlc-bnc.ca/amicus/index-e.html

ISBN 1-4120-1663-0

ISBN 978-1-4669-5718-3 (ebook)

Image291.JPG

This book was published on-demand in cooperation with Trafford Publishing.

On-demand publishing is a unique process and service of making a book available for retail sale to the public taking advantage of on-demand manufacturing and Internet marketing. On-demand publishing includes promotions, retail sales, manufacturing, order fulfilment, accounting and collecting royalties on behalf of the author.

The haunting journey into the dark depths of Niagara Falls continues. This is the nightmare they said couldn’t happen at the Falls.

Former river rat, Ro Patric has worked on the Niagara River all his life and has seen how its deadly mystique engulfs strangers and friends alike. It is stamped irrevocably on their death faces. Despite an unending feeling that something unnatural exists in the unfathomable void that is the plunge basin at the base of Niagara Falls, Patric escapes its pull.

And his fears.

But only for a while.

Now it wants him back. A sniper is on the loose in Niagara Falls and his targets are the men who work on the river known as river rats. Or so it seems. In spite of the danger, Patric is compelled to return to the Falls setting in motion events that will take him into the mysterious depths of the plunge basin.

And on a collision course with his darkest fears.

Other books by Robyrt Snyder

THE FALLS: DESCENT INTO THE MAELSTROM

Visit us at our website www.robyrtsnyder.com

Or www.trafford.com

Phone orders 1 866 752 6820 fax [phone]

Or write Trafford Publishing 2333 Government St. Suite 6E

Victoria B.C. Canada V8V 4K6

Cover design courtesy Grinning Moon Creative

www.grinningmoon.com

Lyrics by Farrenheit www.charliefarren.com

This book is dedicated to all who have lost their lives looking into the eye of the beast.

Also to R and J.

Thanks to B. for her honesty and love.

The Falls II:

In The Crossfire Of Mist And

Madness

A NOVEL

BY ROByRT SNyDER

Image321.JPG

Valkyrie Productions

In the future there will be a point of convergence, where two opposing forces-one of good and one of evil will collide in a battle called Armageddon.

anonymous

I was a sinner in a previous life

I was a beginner with a frozen heart

When she lays her hands on me

Danger disappears

Take me in your arms and I’ll

Show you what your future is

Sister, sister of mercy sister of life

Make me whole won’t you heal my soul tonight

Sister of Mercy by Farrenheit

Contents

CHAPTER ONE-it begins

CHAPTER TWO SOMEWHERE IN A JUNGLE IN SOUTH AMERICA-1992

CHAPTER THREEFLORIDA-PRESENT DAY

CHAPTER FOUR-BACK TO THE FALLS

CHAPTER FIVE-up on the tower

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER Seven

CHAPTER eight

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

CHAPTER NINETEEN

CHAPTER TWENTY

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

CHAPTER THIRTY-AFTERMATH

POSTSCRIPT

CHRONOLOGY OF HIGHLIGHTS AT NIAGARA FALLS

OVER THE FALLS

AUTHOR’S NOTE

BIBLIOGRAPHY

CHAPTER ONE-it begins

NIAGARA FALLS WINTER 1683

HE was named for his heart and that was the price he paid. Ultimately it was what they took from him.

Jesuit priest, Father Jon Coeur’s greatest fear was that he wouldn’t have the courage to die like a man. He did not want them to think that he was weak, like a woman.

Coeur, meaning heart in French, was a priest in Paris five years ago when Father Louis Hennepin became the first white man to lay eyes on the mighty falls at Niagara. Coeur, anxious to see what the New World was all about accepted an assignment to the French settlement at Mont Royal, now present day Montreal. After having spent his life in Paris, the wooden stockades of Montreal were quite a shock; not exactly what he had been expecting when he’d heard wondrous tales of a new land across the ocean.

But Mont Royal was high civilization compared to what he would encounter when he got transferred to the frontier at Niagara, a year ago. This was a harsh and oft times savage existence in a virtually untamed wilderness.

His mission was to introduce Christianity to the Iroquois, following the path blazed by Hennepin. It had been a miserable two years and the Indians were no closer to God than mushrooms were to the sky. All that he carried into this new life had fit onto the back of a pack horse. Bibles, wooden crosses, some food stores, coffee and dried meats and a few rudimentary tools, a saw, hammer and an axe. Now he’d wished he had brought a gun but men of the cloth were not expected to need such an implement.

He was expected to construct a place where the Iroquois could come and learn about God, as well as worship. This was to be done with the help of the Iroquois, of course. The first problem that he encountered was that no one had told the Iroquois of this plan. One of the tribesman, who had learned some French from the trappers who traded with his cohorts and who was to act as an interpreter for Jon Coeur, had been killed in a hunting accident on the river, even before the priest had arrived.

It had taken Coeur most of the fall to fashion a hut out of mud and sticks, that he hoped would be sturdy enough to sustain at least one life through the brutal Canadian winter. His.

Winter was upon him by the time that task was complete and he rarely ventured outside. There was no point . The Iroquois did not understand French and he didn’t understand Iroquois. They’re involvement with him up to now had been to stare curiously at the strange white man in the black robe.

Then something strange happened. The ice in the river above the Falls jammed up stemming the flow of much of the water over the Falls. This was unprecedented in the lifetimes of any of the Iroquois. The sun always rose in the sky and water always flowed over the Falls.

Soon they began to venture out into the dried up river bed. Next thing Coeur knew they were all out there hacking at the foundation of the riverbed with any instrument they could get their hands on.

One of the bravest of the warriors , Yurquew( meaning straight spear) had been assigned the duty of watching over the river workers. He had an uncanny ability to hit his target with a thrown spear; accurate and deadly within fifty yards. Day after day, Yurquew vigilantly stood guard over the little band of his tribesman, spear clutched tightly in hand, making sure his flock was safe and not disturbed.

Coeur had no idea what the Indians were up to but they had not shown one iota of such industriousness when it had come to building his mission. Every time Coeur wandered near the workers on the river, Yurquew stiffened, gritted his teeth, and gripped his spear a little tighter. That was all the body language Coeur needed.

Except to ponder what the Indians were doing in that riverbed, Coeur spent most of his days confined to his hut, sleeping, building fires, fetching water and cooking. His food stuffs were depleted by January. He had burned the bibles and the crosses to keep warm. He scrounged what he could from the Indian camp. In February he cooked his pack horse. That lasted until March when a series of early thaws broke the back of winter. It was a good thing too, because the Indians had butchered his riding horse.

The Iroquois had kept at whatever they were doing in that riverbed all winter long . Coeur asked himself the same question many times, What were those damn Indians doing in that bloody river? He knew that as a man of the cloth he should not be taken to such cursing, but his curiosity always got the better of him, Damn, what the hell were they up to? Coeur never did discover what they had been up to.

In April things started to go bad for Coeur. When the ice dam finally broke in the river that month it sent a flood of water surging toward the Falls. The ever alert Yurquew, still with his omnipresent spear in hand, jumped into the riverbed screaming like a Bedouin at his sheep and escorted the workers to safety, then got his foot caught in a crack in the rocky floor and drowned in the avalanche of water that came down the river. His body was never found in the river below. Some say it never went over the Falls. Some Iroquois still believe that his skeleton sleeps on the bed of the river above the Falls still clutching his hardwood spear and watching over his Iroquois tribesmen. However, regardless of their theories at the time, the loss of one of their best and most loyal warriors had put the rest of the tribe in a surly mood.

Having survived the winter, Coeur knew that he had to make some contact with these people, for without their help he would not make it through the next winter. It was either that or walk back to Mont Royal in disgrace, having failed in his service to God. Initially, even though the progress was slow, he did have some luck communicating through signs and demonstration.

What he came to realize was that this encampment of Iroquois was basically divided into two factions. One faction of the tribe was generally amiable and allowed him to come and go among them as he pleased. The other faction was led by Maryat. Maryat was as savage a beast as they come. When he seemed to be laughing he was really baring his teeth much the way an animal does. His eyes held nothing but contempt for Jon Coeur.

Up to now.

But Jon Coeur was well aware that these eyes were capable of much more murderous and bloodthirsty expression. Even in the absence of a language barrier, he had about as much chance of converting Maryat and his blood-lusting followers as he did instructing a meat eating bear on the benefits of vegetarianism. It did not take Jon Coeur long to realize that this man-beast probably held his life in the balance of its carnivorous whims. And maybe it was more devious than that. It was Maryat who had been hunting with his interpreter when he was killed.

It wasn’t until one of the sons of one of the tribal leaders became ill that Jon Coeur’s fate was sealed. White men of the time had always been susceptible to new strains of diseases but had developed some resistance to others over the years. Indians had never been exposed to any of these diseases and once they were introduced, a disease would run unchecked through the villages like wildfire.

The sickness influenza would claim the life of the son and many others would follow. It was only natural that Jon Coeur took the blame for the village misfortunes. At least the French trappers had traded in whiskey and blankets. All Jon Coeur had were ideas.

When he couldn’t heal the son, Maryat came to his hut with teeth bared, blood dripping from his stare and Jon Coeur knew that he would need all of his faith in God.

First, they bound him to a cross in the center of the village, so that all could watch. They used his own hatchet to strike a blow to his right hand. The hand came off clean on the first blow and Jon Coeur was thankful to the French for making the steel hatchet strong and sharp. Then he passed out. The Iroquois burned the stump where the hand had been, essentially cauterizing the wound.

When Jon Coeur revived, his left hand and both feet were removed in similar fashion. One thing about the Iroquois, they knew how to inflict pain. They would be as patient as needed to allow the victim to feel the full weight of their handiwork. More importantly, they were not afraid to inflict it. Many civilized men of this time would have been repulsed at the horror of such mutilation to a living human being. The Iroquois regarded mutilation as an art to be practiced to its animalistic perfection. Without flinching.

Up to now Jon Coeur had weathered the amputations fairly well, considering the circumstances. The quick blows, the application of the fire, and the periods of unconsciousness, while leaving his body in shock, had been somewhat numbing and had not resulted in as much of a loss of blood as he would have expected.

And up to now he had not really screamed.

That all changed when they went for the eyes.

The right eyeball was punctured with a knife and then the gelatinous tissue was cut out of the socket. The left eye was burned with a hot steel rod; the tissue curdling and bubbling in the cradle of its socket like melted marshmallow. The pain was excruciating. To hear a grown man scream in such a manner was absolutely blood curdling. His own burning flesh was that last thing he smelled before he passed out again. Even when he came to, he was now permanently entombed in a world of darkness.

But he couldn’t have cared less about that. Darkness didn’t hurt. Where his eyes had been, surges of white hot light seared a path to his brain, over-riding the dull aches he felt where his limbs had once been.

He’d always wondered if he’d welcome death when it came. Now he was about to find out. Most people try to keep death at arms length and stave it off for as long as possible. When finally confronted with their demise, most go reluctantly at the very least while others go kicking and screaming to the last breath. But Jon Coeur was a man of the cloth and was supposed to believe in an afterlife, therefore death was not to be feared.

However, the Iroquois had a way of making you covet it. Coeur longed for his death. He wanted to rush to it and embrace it. He called to it and then the Iroquois cut out his tongue. He found that he craved death and not because of a burning desire to be with God. He wondered if it ever was a question of God. He longed for his death out of a burning desire to escape the unimaginable pain-of burning to death.

Now his torn body was encased in bark and smeared with pitch, then lit. As he roasted, his tormentors would carve slices from his arms and legs, eating them as he died. If he lasted a long time without showing fear, the braves would fight for the privilege of eating his heart, believing in this way that they could inherit the victim’s courage.

When Jon Coeur was dead, the Iroquois dug out the cross with what was left of his body and threw it into the great falls. Life on the frontier in the 1600’s was a very harsh and brutal affair. Death could be even harsher.

Let it be noted here, that in the end, the man Jon Coeur, whose name meant of the heart, had his heart eaten by the Iroquois.

CHAPTER TWO SOMEWHERE IN A JUNGLE IN SOUTH AMERICA-1992

MARK Todd Kroy watched as the mosquito landed on the tanned skin of his arm, careful to select a dry spot among the glistening beads of sweat, then inserted its needle-like snout below the surface, almost to the hilt. Commencing to suck out blood, its transparent undercarriage turned red and bulbous, as it filled with the precious cargo. When it could hold no more, the mosquito began to disengage its needle nose and within the blink of an eyelid, it would be gone.

Just before that happened, the force of a human hand smashed the life and the blood out of the mosquito and Kroy felt enough satisfaction and amusement that he chuckled, all the while knowing that he was losing it. The few times that Kroy had been known to smile, his mouth would curl up at the corners while his eyes would stare unblinking, forming a confluence of facial features that was bent on convincing an observer that he or she was looking into the countenance of a snake.

It was hot in the jungle and he was just beginning his latest mission. Somehow he knew that one way or another, this was probably going to be his last. That was a shame, because if anyone was born to be in special forces, it was him. Pulling out a piece of dried beef from his pack(he never allowed himself to eat much on his missions) because he had more important things to carry than food. The tools of his trade, as they say. Besides he had been trained well, and one of the aspects that he had excelled in was living off the land. With his foraging skills and knowledge, food was never really a concern.

Despite all that, the beef was a small luxury he allowed himself. It was a far cry from the food he