“I reread the file last night,” the ranger replied. “It’s there between the seats if you want to take a look.”
“I’d rather hear it from you.”
“Woden grew up in a remote section of the Catskills. To say he was imperfectly socialized is putting it mildly. He was brutalized by his parents, especially his father, who left when Woden was about seven. The child had emotional problems that were mistaken for a learning disability — his mother apparently hated him for it and, once he reached puberty, no longer bothered trying to see to his education and, in fact, basically kicked him out of the house. He spent most of his time alone in the woods, where his condition worsened. Finally, when he was twenty, he killed two people with an ax — chopped them almost to bits. One was a young man, a backpacker, who happened across the little lean-to Woden had fashioned for himself. This happened during a full moon. The other was a girl of seventeen, who had a job at a Laundromat in a nearby village and was biking home after work. This was four days later, in the early evening, when the moon was waning. When caught — he didn’t try to resist arrest — Woden raved about being persecuted, about the voices that whispered to him in the night, about the two he’d killed being ‘dark saints’ come to steal his soul.”
“Delusions of persecution,” Logan said. “Auditory hallucinations. Sounds like a paranoid schizophrenic.”
“That was the conclusion of the state. He was found not guilty by reason of insanity and committed to a downstate institution. As I already told you, he was released on parole about a year ago. He was monitored carefully during the parole period and adjudged to be rehabilitated. That was when he moved out into the wilderness — six months ago.”
And wilderness it was, Logan thought. From Tupper Lake, they had struck out southwest and, eventually, entered a kind of forest he had never experienced before. The trunks of the trees grew remarkably thick and gnarled, twisted and bent as if arthritic; what leaves remained on the skeletal branches were almost black in color. They were primarily deciduous, with only a few of the tall, stately, pleasantly scented pines that were so common around Cloudwater. Every now and then, a bog or lake could be seen between the trunks: brackish and sullen-looking, dark as the lowering trees that surrounded it. He saw no signs of habitation, and they passed only one vehicle — a decrepit Ford pickup, vintage 1950. The road was worse than even the ones he’d traveled over on the way to Pike Hollow, and Jessup’s truck rattled and shook as if any moment it might fly apart.
“Where exactly are we?” Logan asked.
“Raven Lake Wilderness.”
The cab of the truck fell into another extended silence.
“How is it that you didn’t know of this man’s coming into the region?” Logan asked at length. “I’d have thought that would come under the category of news.”
“His prison time, his parole, all took place far to the south of here. When his parole term was up, he came north — quietly. It was as if he wanted to get as far away from people, and civilization, as possible. But as a felon, he had to register his current address with the parole board. I guess Krenshaw’s downstate cronies must have alerted him. The state police knew, but we didn’t. Don’t forget — us rangers are spread pretty thin. There are only about a hundred of us to cover the entire state. We can’t know everything, be everywhere.”
“Speaking of being everywhere, how’s the search coming?”
Jessup grimaced. “Terrible. We’ve called in rangers from four separate zones. And we’ve found nothing — no bears, no wolves, no clues. We’ll be calling it off in a day or two — otherwise, I think we’d have a mutiny on our hands.”
“I assume Krenshaw has spoken to Woden himself?”
“A couple of times. Apparently the interviews didn’t go very well. He’s still suspect number one. At this point, Krenshaw’s just waiting him out, hoping he’ll try something again.”
Up ahead, in the distance, a state police vehicle became visible in the woven tangle of trees. “We must be close,” Jessup said. “Get down onto the floor.”
“Why?”
“Krenshaw’s put a cordon around Woden’s place. But not too close — he probably knows that would agitate the man. I’d rather not have Krenshaw find out I’ve brought you here.”
Logan did as requested. He felt the truck creep forward, then stop.
“Morning, Officer,” he heard Jessup say.
“Lieutenant,” came the clipped reply from outside and below.
“How far ahead is he?”
“Quarter mile. Just around the bend.”
“The captain has one or two questions she wants me to put to Woden. Don’t worry, nothing that will alarm him. I’ll only be a few minutes. Will you keep a watch here? I’ll let you know if I need you.”
“Will do.”
“Thanks.” And with that the truck eased forward again. As Logan crouched on the floor, the jouncing of the vehicle was even more pronounced. He felt the truck go around a bend, hit a particularly deep rut, then come to a halt.
“We’re here,” Jessup said. “You can get out.”
Logan eased himself up, then opened the door and stepped out. At first, he saw nothing but a veritable whirlwind of trees, shrubs, and bracken surrounding the vehicle. And then he made out, against the riot of brown and black, a cavelike hut, its interior seemingly pulled by hand out of the all-encompassing blowdowns, the way a rodent might pull moss and verdure from a hollow tree stump in order to make a nest. A single low wall of rotting, unpainted two-by-fours made up both a facade and a prop against the collapse of the broken limbs that formed the ceiling. Beyond the truck, Logan could see the “road”—barely a grassy path at this point — curving away into the dimness.
Jessup gave Logan a nod — of both caution and encouragement — checked his weapon, then moved forward. Logan followed.
Reaching the front door — sagging in its jambs, with leather thongs for hinges — Jessup raised a hand to knock. But Logan stopped him, stepped forward himself, and gave a single rap.
“Mr. Woden?” he asked. “Saul Woden?”
There was no response from inside.
“My name’s Logan. Jeremy Logan. I’m not with the police. I just want five minutes of your time.”
Still nothing.
“You see, Saul, I need help — and I think that maybe you can help me. Would you let me in for just a moment? Please?”
For a minute, there was no response. Then a rattling sounded from inside and the door opened a crack. Two eyes like glowing coals peered out from the darkness.
“I’m Jeremy,” Logan repeated. “Could I come in for just a minute? I won’t stay long, I promise.”
The man hesitated. Then he opened the door wider. Logan stepped in, nodding deferentially as he did so. Jessup followed.
Saul Woden was short, but very powerfully built. He had a matted beard and hair that spilled down around his shoulders. His most prominent features were his eyes: bright, skittish. They widened in alarm when they saw the ranger enter. He was dressed in clothes that were old and worn nearly to tatters, but quite clean. The same could not be said for his dwelling: as his eyes adjusted to the dimness, Logan saw that a wattle-and-daub roof had been fashioned into the blowdown over their heads, and more two-by-fours had been used for walls to the left and right. A kerosene lamp hung from a wooden peg set into the ceiling, which grew lower toward the rear of the single room, until at the back one had to stoop to move around. There was a mattress, torn and frayed and without a blanket. An unpleasant odor lingered in the air. Along one wall, countless tins of food had been stacked almost to the ceiling. Two sawn stumps of wood, one larger than the other, made up the only things that could be considered furniture. It was like Jessup said: Woden had deliberately tried to remove himself from all semblance of civilization.