Only now did Logan realize that — most uncharacteristically — he had not prepared for this visit. He’d surmised, from Hartshorn’s comments, that Albright’s opinion on the recent killings might be worth hearing — but he had not given thought as to how he should present himself to the man or approach the subject. He’d simply been too preoccupied, feeling the forest close in around him as he drove west from Saranac Lake, to do this most basic bit of social engineering. He’d have to wing it.
“Mr. Albright?” he asked.
The man nodded.
“I wonder if I might come in for a minute.”
Still the man looked at him impassively.
“I’m not selling anything. The name’s Logan.”
“I know who you are,” the man said at last in a gravelly baritone. “I saw that special on the Discovery Channel — the one where you disproved the existence of the Loch Ness Monster. I’m just not sure I want to let you in.”
Now it was Logan’s turn to look quizzical.
“I can guess why you’re here. I love these woods — and I don’t want to have them tainted by a lot of bad publicity.”
I see, Logan thought. “Would it help if I told you I’m staying at Cloudwater, putting the finishing touches on a historical essay? I’m not here to generate PR, good or bad. In fact, I’m doing my best to stay below the radar. Fact is, the Cloudwater director would be very upset if he knew I was even here.”
The man considered. Then his creased face broke into a smile. “Okay,” he said. “I’m speaking there next week, and if this conversation ends up with me not liking you, I’ll rat you out.”
“Fair enough,” Logan said, unable to suppress a faint sense of misgiving.
The man stood back and let Logan into a small living room, furnished in a simple, almost spartan style. Much of the furniture seemed handmade. There was a makeshift bookcase, full of all manner of titles; a writing desk; some wooden chairs; and a standing lamp with the usual birch-bark lampshade.
Albright motioned Logan to a chair, straight-backed and uncomfortable. “Beer?”
“No thanks.”
“Good, ’cause there are only two left in the fridge and I don’t feel like driving into town for more.” The man eased himself down into another chair with a sigh. “Now, why don’t you tell me just what I can do for you?”
“Before we get into that, I have a question. It seems you already know who I am. Can you tell me a bit about yourself?”
Albright shrugged. “Not that much to tell. I was born just ten miles from here. My old man was in the logging business. Taught me all he knew about woodcraft. Died in an accident when I was fourteen. My mother couldn’t wait to get me and my brother out of the backwoods. We moved to Albany so I could get what she called a ‘real education.’ Went to University of Albany, SUNY. While there, I got interested in literature, especially poetry. Worked a bunch of different jobs downstate and wrote poetry in the evenings. Finally got my first book, Trailhead, published. Made just enough money so I could move back here — like I’d always wanted to do.” He got up, walked out of the room, came back a minute later with a bottle of beer in his hand. “Good enough?”
“Thank you.”
Albright sat down again and took a pull from the bottle. “Now, maybe you can tell me just how you became a… what was that term they used in the documentary?”
“Enigmalogist. Well, in my case you start by reading every ghost story you can get your hands on when you’re very young and warp your mind in the process. Then you supplement that with Stranger Than Science. And then you start actively searching out real-life enigmas. It wasn’t anything I planned, really — I just fell into it.” Logan shrugged. “A hundred years ago, there were lots of sensational mysteries written about ghost-breakers and occult detectives and the like. Today, it’s kind of a specialized field.”
Albright nodded, took another sip of beer.
Logan had made up his mind to be a little coy with the poet, but realized he was dealing with a shrewd, intelligent man and that the best course would probably be to level with him. “I’ll tell you exactly why I’m here. A friend of mine — a forest ranger — heard that I was staying at Cloudwater. He asked me to look into the recent deaths of the two backpackers over by Desolation Mountain. He doesn’t seem convinced by the official account that the two men were killed by bears.”
Albright nodded again. He didn’t look surprised.
“I’ve talked to the residents of the nearby town, Pike Hollow. They don’t believe bears were at fault, either. They seem to blame the Blakeney clan. And — I’ve been told — they believe the Blakeneys are… well… werewolves.”
Albright’s expression didn’t change. He merely studied the label on his beer bottle.
“And then I heard about you. You were somebody who had grown up here, an Adirondacks native, knew the backwoods like the palm of your hand. But you’d also lived away long enough to gain some objectivity.” Logan hesitated. “In my field, I’m supposed to keep an open mind about everything. But to be honest, I’m having a difficult time wrapping my head around this. Werewolves… Anyway, I just wanted to know what your opinion was.”
“My opinion.” Albright put the bottle of beer on the floor beside his chair. “I guess I can sum that up easily enough, too. Logan, I can understand your skepticism. I’ve heard some pretty outrageous tales myself in the twenty years since I’ve moved back. But I’ll tell you something — something you may already know, given your particular line of work. Many times, legends — no matter how outlandish they sound — have a grounding in reality. And in a place as remote and old as the Adirondacks, it may well be that there are phenomena that cold, twenty-first-century rationality can’t fully explain — or even comprehend.”
“In other words, just because I think the opinion of the locals is outlandish, that doesn’t mean I should ignore it.”
Albright nodded.
“What about you? Do you believe the Blakeneys are responsible? Do you believe they could possibly be werewolves?”
Albright chuckled. Then he shook his head, spread his hands. “In the backwoods of the Adirondacks, Dr. Logan, there’s history — and then there’s mystery. I think I’ll get you that beer, after all.”
Two hours later, just as the sun was setting and darkness crept over the woods, Logan said good-bye to Albright and got into his rented Jeep. Unable to get any further answers out of the man, Logan had continued chatting with him anyway, and soon found that — beneath the gruff, even coarse exterior — lay an intellect both keen and highly observant. It was interesting, he thought as he started the engine and pulled back onto Route 3A, how different the fellow was from Jessup. A lot of this, he supposed, could be traced to the fact that Albright was a true mountain man, who had grown up deep in the Adirondacks and who, despite his mother’s attempt to get him a “real education,” had clearly never lost the backwoods skills — or, in some ways, the outlook — ingrained in him by his father. Jessup, on the other hand, had spent his childhood in outlying Plattsburgh. The difference could be summed up in the ways the two men viewed nature. Jessup, the Ivy League philosopher, looked at it through Thoreauvian eyes: a cosmic leveler of humanity, something one could hold up as a mirror to the way we should live and view our fellow man. Albright, on the other hand, seemed to look at it in much the way his father must have: something to be experienced and enjoyed, but also an elemental force to be respected… and, when necessary, feared.