“I don’t know what it was!” he was saying, his voice growing louder and ragged. “Stop asking me! Why do you keep asking me? It was like a man, but larger, hairy, and it ran along the ground like a dog, or a wolf maybe. It had red eyes and a terrible… no, you can’t make me say it! It was wrecking the car, trying to beat in the window to get at me… and then the ranger pulled up and got out of his truck, but it moved so fast it was on top of him before he could pull out his gun, and then it wouldn’t stop, it wouldn’t stop, and… God, my God, no, NO…!”
And as Logan made his way back to the Jeep on stiff legs that weren’t his own, the screaming started up again — and this time it did not stop.
26
That night, Logan slept very little, shock and grief forcing him to toss restlessly. Again and again he replayed in his mind the horrible images he’d witnessed on the shoulder of the highway. It seemed almost impossible to believe. Randall Jessup, gone — killed by the very thing he had been hunting; the very thing, apparently, he had approached Logan about on his first night at Cloudwater.
Finally, feeling the need to divert his mind with something else, he got up and, sitting down at his laptop, managed to put the final touches on his monograph on medieval heresy.
It was exactly eight o’clock in the morning when he completed the last sentence.
Even given the dismal circumstances, it seemed that some sort of ceremonial event, no matter how small, was necessary to mark the occasion. And so, while Cloudwater always laid on a lavish breakfast, he decided to drive into Ray Brook and the one pastry shop in the area he’d found that served passable croissants. After that, he would stop by the Jessup house to pay his respects to Suzanne. It was true he didn’t know her well — he had met her only twice — but he was clearly Jessup’s oldest friend in the region, and it seemed the right thing to do.
Ninety minutes later, leaving the pastry shop and heading for Saranac Lake, he passed the low building that housed Region 5 of the New York State Forest Rangers HQ — the place he’d heard Krenshaw’s briefing on the details of Artowsky’s death. It looked far different from the first time he’d seen it: now it appeared to be mobilizing for D-Day. Several Hummers, ATVs, and what looked like some kind of semi-military vehicle in camouflage were parked outside, and both rangers and state police were moving back and forth with antlike industry. Among them, Logan spotted the tall, powerfully built man Jessup had introduced to him as Jack Cornhill, the supervisor of Zone C. Logan guided his jeep into the parking lot and stopped beside the man.
Cornhill stared at him for a moment before recognition dawned. When it did, the guarded expression on his face morphed to a weary sadness. “You’re Randall’s friend, right?” he asked.
Logan nodded.
“Terrible thing.” Cornhill shook his head. “That’s an awful way for anybody to go, but a man like Randall…” His voice died away for a moment. “Nice wife, too. Really smart. And those sweet kids…” He shook his head again.
Logan indicated the cluster of vehicles and the activity that surrounded them. “What’s with all the muscle?”
“Well, with this fourth murder — that of a law officer, too — Krenshaw is through with half measures.”
“In other words, he’s going to raid the Blakeney compound.”
Cornhill hesitated a moment, then nodded. “That’s right. He’s going to raid it — and hard.”
“When?”
Cornhill shrugged. “Day after tomorrow, maybe. Next day at the latest. Depends on how long it takes Krenshaw to get organized.” He pointed at the vehicles. “As you can see, he doesn’t waste time. He’s calling in troops from as far away as Glens Falls.”
Logan thanked the ranger, said good-bye, and continued on his way to the Jessup residence.
He paused outside the driveway of the neat, small, freshly painted house. It looked just the same as before: he could almost imagine Jessup, mentally communing with Emerson and the other transcendentalists as he nailed the clapboards and laid the shingles with his own hands. It seemed hard to imagine that the man who had built this house, who had fathered the family that lived within, was gone. But gone he was — death had visited this tidy home with a vengeance.
Two vehicles he did not recognize were in the driveway. One was an official New York State Forest Ranger truck that was just pulling out as he arrived. The other was a light-colored sedan. He waited in the Jeep for about fifteen minutes, not wishing to disturb whoever was inside with Suzanne, mentally composing what comforting words he could offer. And then the front door opened and a middle-aged woman emerged. She embraced a figure within — it was too dark to make out any features — and then walked to the sedan, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue as she did so.
Logan waited for the woman to drive away. He waited another five minutes to let Jessup’s family have a little time for themselves. He realized he was stalling: this was the last thing he wanted to do. Heaving a sigh, he started the engine and drove up to the house.
Suzanne Jessup answered the door. No one else appeared to be home. Her honey-colored hair was askew; her eyes were puffy and red-rimmed. For a moment, she just looked at him blankly. And then her face crumpled. “Oh, Jeremy,” she said, and threw her arms around him.
“I’m so sorry,” he murmured as he led her inside. She let him steer her toward a sofa, let him sit her down, as if she had no will of her own. She began to weep: deep, violent, racking sobs that — as he continued to embrace her — shook them both.
“He was my best friend,” she said. “My soul mate in everything. Everything. How could this happen?”
Logan decided the best response was simply to hold her; to let her speak. He certainly was not about to tell her he’d seen how Jessup had died.
“The kids are away,” she sobbed. “Vacationing with my parents in Pound Ridge. How am I going to tell them their father is dead?”
“It’s unfair,” he replied. “Horribly unfair. Nobody should have to do such a thing — ever. When are they due back?”
She released her hold on him, sat back. “Tomorrow. My father is driving them up.”
“Then I think you need to tell them tonight. They need to start to grieve, and the journey home might be the best time for that to begin. You don’t want them to arrive expecting to see him.”
She pulled a tissue from a box on a nearby table. “You’re right. But Jeremy, they adored him so….” And with this she started weeping again.
“And they always will. That will never change. Randall was a wonderful friend to me. I know he was a wonderful father and husband. That’s a legacy your kids — and you as well — can always cherish. Children are stronger than we give them credit for, you know….In some ways, they’re stronger than we are.”
Suzanne sniffed, nodded.
The doorbell rang. “That must be Betty Cornhill,” Suzanne said, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue. “She said she’d stop by around now.”
This, Logan assumed, was Jack Cornhill’s wife. “I’ll be on my way,” he said. “I just wanted to stop by and let you know how sorry—”
“No,” Suzanne interrupted. “No — stay, please. I want to hear your stories about Randalclass="underline" how you met, how you became friends, what he was like at college. I need to hear more, learn something about him I didn’t know before — does that make any sense?”
Logan nodded. It made perfect sense.
“His office is right down the hall.” Suzanne stood up, still dabbing at her eyes and leading the way. “You can wait in there.”
“Very well.” Logan let himself be ushered into a small, neat office-cum-den. He heard Suzanne’s retreating steps; heard the front door open; heard a susurrus of female voices, followed by renewed weeping.