A number of bottles of clozapine — some empty, others not yet opened — lay scattered around the floor.
“What do you want?” Woden said. “I ain’t done nothing.”
“I know that,” Logan said calmly. “Can we just sit for a minute?” And he indicated the stumps of wood.
“I ain’t done nothing,” Woden repeated. “Those police already been bothering me. I ain’t done nothing!”
His voice had grown shrill during this short recitation, and the eyes wider, the whites bulging. Logan realized he had very little time to accomplish what they’d come for.
“I’m a researcher,” he said in the same soothing tones. He took a seat on one of the rough stumps. “I investigate past events. I’m not here about any of those police matters.”
He already sensed that he’d get nothing out of Woden regarding the recent killings, whether the man was responsible for them or not. All he could hope for was a reading of the man’s psyche, a small window into his inner soul.
Now, slowly and suspiciously, Woden sat down on the other stump. His eyes darted nervously toward Jessup once or twice, who stood close to the doorway, arms at his sides, maintaining a nonthreatening posture, hands holding nothing more than his omnipresent notebook.
“Saul,” Logan said, “I know what you did. But that was a long time ago. And you’re better now. You’ve been cured. You’re taking medication. I’m not here to judge you. I’m just here to… to understand. I have a certain ability to do that, you see.” He chose his words carefully, knowing Woden had suffered a persecution complex. “And maybe I can even help you. I just need a single favor. May I take hold of one of your hands?”
Woden jerked in surprise. His hands curled into fists.
“It helps me understand the person I’m speaking to. This way, I won’t have to ask any questions, and you won’t have to say a thing. Not a thing. I know it might sound strange, but trust me.” And then, slowly, he held out one hand, palm open and upraised.
Logan’s soothing, unmodulated voice, his slow gestures, had the effect he intended. Although he still looked nervous, Woden’s fists relaxed. Slowly — as if approaching something very hot — he put one hand forward. Logan noticed that although the hand itself was clean, there was considerable dirt beneath the fingernails.
Logan took the hand gently between his own. “Now, Saul, I’m going to ask you one last favor — just one. And then I’ll go, and I won’t bother you again. I want you to think back — in your own way — on those bad things you did.”
Woden’s expression grew alarmed, and he tried to pull back his hand. But Logan restrained him, gently but firmly. “Just think back for a moment. What happened — and why.”
Woden was looking at him. And suddenly, Logan was filled with a wave of emotion so powerful it almost pushed him off his chair. He was flooded with fear: there was nobody he could trust; everyone around him wished him harm; there was no rest, not even in sleep; and the voices would never leave him — those whispering voices that at times taunted him, at times warned him, at times commanded him. A psychological desolation, a kind of existential despair such as he’d never experienced, pierced Logan to the core. The voices grew louder, more insistent; as if from a great distance he saw an ax, became aware of its reassuring, comforting weight in his hands — there was sudden, involuntary action, a series of ragged screams, and then the voices swelled in jubilation before subsiding into silence. But all too quickly, they began their chanting murmur again — and the darkness once again rushed to embrace him….
For the first time he could remember, Logan snatched his hand away in the midst of an empathetic encounter. Unwillingly, he looked at Woden. The man was staring back. The alarm had left his eyes, and instead there was a strange, almost intimate look in them, as if they had passed on a secret; as if a part of Woden was now part of Logan, and would never leave him.
Shakily, Logan got to his feet. “Thank you,” he managed. “We’ll leave you now.”
He stumbled in the doorway, and Jessup helped him back into the truck, had him crouch once again until they had passed the state policeman. Then the ranger stopped the car, raised Logan into his seat, and strapped him in.
All the way back to Cloudwater, Jessup knew enough to say nothing, keeping quiet while Logan recovered and marshaled his thoughts. Just before the entrance to Cloudwater, he pulled the truck onto the shoulder and looked at his friend in mute inquiry.
Logan returned the look. “I’ll tell you what I experienced,” he said. “But only once. Please don’t ask me to talk of it again. It will be hard enough to forget as it is.”
Jessup nodded.
“I sensed overwhelming fear. I sensed a very sick mind. I sensed violence — savage violence. But that violence seemed… old to me. Still very much alive in his mind — but old.”
“Could Woden have committed these three murders?” Jessup asked quietly.
“I don’t know. I wouldn’t rule it out. As I said, I didn’t sense anything that felt recent — that he was killing in the present. But there was so much violence in his past there’s no way for me to be sure. He may well have been rehabilitated, as the state says. Clearly they believe he’s no longer capable of murder, or they wouldn’t have paroled him. But I believe he’s capable… and dangerous.”
Jessup nodded again. Then he sighed. “Thank you, Jeremy — for everything, but especially for this. If I’d known how much of an ordeal it would be, I’d never have asked. Maybe Krenshaw’s right, after all. In any case, that will be my assumption, going forward. Can I drive you in?”
“No, thanks. I’d rather walk, if it’s all the same to you.”
“Sure. I’ll call you in a few days. We’ll have you over for dinner again — and no shoptalk, I promise.”
“Okay.” And Logan got out of the truck, waited for it to disappear down the road, then began making his way down the lane to Cloudwater.
17
Logan walked slowly, trying to still the agitation and dismay that he felt. As a sensitive, he’d had numerous unpleasant encounters in the past — though few as disturbing as this one — and as he walked he employed a mental exercise: as calmly and rationally as he could, he went over the encounter one final time. And then, quite deliberately, he put it inside of a box, shut the box, and stored it away in a far corner of his mind where — hopefully — it would remain without troubling his dreams.
He turned in at the path to his cottage, glanced at his watch. To his surprise, it was almost a quarter to two. He felt utterly drained; there would be no work for him today. He passed the turnoff for the Albert Bierstadt cabin, the William Hart cabin, then took the final turn toward his own. As he did so, he stopped, frowning in surprise. Ahead, he could see that someone was sitting on his front steps. It was Pace, the technician he’d met the other day; the one who worked for Laura Feverbridge.
What on earth could he want? Logan wondered. Clearly, the man wasn’t aware of Cloudwater’s no-uninvited-visitors policy. This was the last thing he needed: his only desire at the moment was to go inside, pour himself a stiff drink despite the early hour, lie down on the couch, and close his eyes. But with an effort he put a spring into his step and approached the cabin. His lunch, he saw, had been left on its usual tray, beneath a pair of stainless-steel dish covers.