He took his laptop and notebook from the duffel and placed them on the table, though he doubted he’d need to refer to either one. Then he walked past the table and, hands behind his back, gazed out the window at the view below.
“Okay, Kit,” he murmured to his dead wife. “Let’s run it all up the flagpole, shall we?”
It was time to make a final effort to reevaluate everything he’d heard, read, and observed — if for no other reason than to fulfill his promise to his friend Randall Jessup.
First and foremost, there were the three murders. Each had occurred during a full moon; each had been perpetrated with extreme violence; and in each case it was uncertain who or what had done the killing. The third body, that of Artowsky, had been found some distance from the other two, but that in itself meant nothing except an extension of the kill zone. It was reasonable to assume the same being was responsible for all three deaths. A rogue bear had been the first opinion; most recently, the official theory was a wolf, although Captain Krenshaw leaned more toward a human killer, despite the remarkable strength required to tear bodies apart so violently.
The inhabitants of Pike Hollow, the closest hamlet to the murder sites, held the Blakeney clan responsible. The local belief — a belief of long standing — was that the Blakeneys were lycanthropes. Werewolves. He hadn’t heard this from their own lips; he’d heard it from Jessup.
In the Saranac Lake library, he’d combed through the local newspapers going back fifty years. True, he’d come across a number of intriguing articles, sometimes splashed across the front pages, other times buried deep within: stories of strange sightings, maulings by animals, even the rare disappearance of a hunter or fisherman — not to mention the four young children who had vanished over the last two decades. None of these disappearances had been successfully accounted for, and no mention of the Blakeneys was made in the articles.
It was understandable that Jessup might suspect something unusual at work here, and Logan would be remiss not to keep in mind that his friend knew the locale far better than he did. On the other hand, he’d undertaken a dozen similar investigations, all over the world, and on every occasion he’d heard strange rumors, often sinister, always dark. Very rarely, they turned out to be true. And then, there was the other thing — despite his job as an enigmalogist, where keeping an open mind was essential to the game, something about the very notion of lycanthropy stuck in his craw. Not only that, but the Blakeneys — although he’d been personally threatened by them — seemed too much of an obvious scapegoat.
The readings of the air ion counter, EM detector, and other equipment he’d tested at a variety of sites were all inconclusive. That left only one item to consider: the unsettling feelings that, as a sensitive, he’d been aware of every time he drove down the forest-haunted 3A into deeper and deeper wilderness… wilderness he’d never experienced, or even known to exist, on his weekend trips to the High Peaks as a younger man. He could come to only one conclusion: the Adirondacks itself was full of an unplumbed, untamable force of nature that was — while not malignant, exactly — at best indifferent to man and, at worst, inimical. It was an irresistibly strong force that overwhelmed his ability as an empath to make specific observations or to absorb particular feelings, beyond the general sense that something was amiss; alien.
And that, he realized, made him useless to his friend the ranger.
Still looking out the window, he pulled out his cell phone, checked to make sure it had reception — a habit he’d developed since arriving — and made a call.
“Jessup here,” the voice on the other end answered.
“It’s Jeremy.”
“Jeremy, hi. Anything new to report?”
“Nothing. Except that I’ve done a lot of thinking, and… well, I’ve decided to throw in the towel.”
There was silence on the other end of the line.
“Look, Randall. I’ve done all I can to help. I’ve talked to the locals, investigated the deaths, even viewed the third one with my own eyes. I’ve tried for your sake to keep an open mind. I’ve spent ten times as many hours on this as I’d originally agreed to. But I’ve run up against a brick wall.”
“What about the Blakeneys?”
“Krenshaw is already keeping a close eye on them, as you know. The plain fact is, I’m not finding any leads. I simply haven’t come across a shred of evidence, hard or soft, to justify my looking into things further. I hate to say it, but the time has come to let law enforcement — you included — do its job. And the fact is I’m losing precious ground on the project I came here to complete. I also think that Hartshorn, the resident director, is getting suspicious of my comings and goings. He gave me a look as I went into dinner last night that I didn’t care for. I don’t want to be summarily given the heave-ho from Cloudwater.” He paused. “I’m sorry. I know you feel strongly about this, and I wish I had something more positive to say. But without any measurable progress, I just can’t afford to give it any more time.”
It took Jessup a moment to answer. “I understand. And I appreciate it — I really do. You’ve gone out of your way to help, which was more than I had reason to expect, appearing on your doorstep like I did after being out of touch for so long.”
“Don’t think twice about that.”
Another pause. “But Jeremy… before you abandon this and go back to your research full-time, would you do me one last favor?”
“What is it?” Logan asked guardedly.
“Would you take a trip out with me tomorrow morning to speak with Saul Woden?”
“Saul Woden?” Logan repeated. The name sounded familiar — and then he remembered where he’d heard it: from Krenshaw, during the briefing at the ranger station. This wasn’t the work of an animal, and it sure as hell wasn’t the work of a monster. In fact, I’ve got a pretty good idea who’s responsible.
“I’ve had a chance to look into this Woden,” Jessup said. “Turns out he savagely murdered two people twenty-five years before — down in the Catskills, not around here — was found not guilty by reason of insanity, and was sentenced to the mental institution outside Schoharie. He was paroled a year ago. The state declared him rehabilitated. Now he lives alone outside Big Moose, a hamlet about forty miles away from you, on the edge of the Raven Lake Wilderness.”
“What good would my talking to him do?” Logan said, but even as he asked the question he guessed the answer.
“Because… I want to know your take on the man. Could he possibly be our killer? Can I get behind Krenshaw and his official suspicion? I just need to know I can put this gut feeling of mine aside, once and for all.”
Logan sighed. He’d done so much already — he might as well do this one last thing. “Very well. But you understand that, after this, I’m done. I’ve got a date with the Middle Ages.”
“Fair enough.”
“Can you meet me out at the main entrance again? And can you make it early, say before breakfast? The last thing I need is to have Hartshorn see me heading out with you.”
“I’ll be there at six thirty.”
“Okay. And Randall? Whether this fellow Woden is rehabilitated or not, you will be bringing your sidearm with you — right?”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way. See you in the morning.” And with that, the phone went dead.
16
“So what have you learned about this Saul Woden, exactly?” Logan asked at last. They had been driving for the past hour, and conversation had been sporadic. Jessup seemed on edge, and Logan could well understand: he, too, felt a sense of agitation, as if they were heading toward something best left alone, and already more than once he’d regretted agreeing to this visit.