“Yes.”
“Seen those dogs of his?”
“The Weimaraners? Yes.”
“Awful big, aren’t they?”
Logan didn’t reply, and after a moment Albright spoke again. “Anyways, now you know why I feel bad about Jessup’s death.”
“Why? You don’t think your telling him that fact could possibly have anything to do with his death?”
Albright shrugged.
“His death has had one result, though. The leader of the task force, a trooper named Krenshaw, is planning to raid the Blakeney compound.”
At this, Albright’s bushy eyebrows shot up. “When?”
“Soon. Perhaps the day after tomorrow.”
Albright stood up, dusted the wood curlings from his lap. “Then I guess we’d better go pay a call.”
Logan glanced up at him. “Where?”
“The Blakeneys. Who else?” And as he spoke, the man shrugged into a faded hunting jacket.
29
Logan rose slowly to his feet. Albright glanced over at him, chuckling at his obvious discomfiture.
“We’re going to pay a social visit on the people who stuck a shotgun in my face the last time I went calling,” Logan said.
“Not a social visit, exactly,” Albright replied. “But I think it’s time you found out just what kind of people they really are. They need to know about this raid the troopers are planning — I owe them that much. Besides, isn’t there something you want to ask them?”
“What’s that?” Logan asked.
“Why Dr. Feverbridge visited their compound.”
Logan glanced at him for a minute. Over the past twenty-four hours, the shocks and the tragic events had followed so closely, one upon the other, that he now felt tired and almost stupefied. But immediately, he realized the man was right. He’d come to see Albright because he’d believed, at some instinctual level, that the man was the connection he sought to what Jessup had uncovered: and he’d been right. That connection was Dr. Feverbridge, and why he had struck up an acquaintance with the Blakeney clan, of all people — the very group that all the locals hated, mistrusted, and suspected of murder.
“Of course,” he said. “But will they talk to me?”
“Maybe. If I’m with you.”
“Very well. But aren’t you going to take that?” And Logan nodded toward a .20–06 rifle that hung over the rough stone fireplace.
“No, sir. That would just agitate them.” And he led the way out the front door.
The passenger seat of Albright’s pickup was loaded with an assortment of junk — waders, a few knives of various sizes, a crossbow and assorted quarrels, a torn and faded army jacket with a sergeant’s patch on one shoulder, a box of fishing tackle. Albright threw it all into the backseat and Logan climbed in. Firing up the engine, Albright backed out of the driveway, then started west down 3A. Logan glanced at his watch: it was quarter past two.
They passed the turnoff for Pike Hollow and, after another bend in the road, the overgrown entrance to the Blakeney compound. Three state trooper vehicles were now blocking it.
“How are we going to get past that welcoming committee?” Logan asked.
“We’re not going in the front door,” Albright explained.
A few more bends in the road brought them to the site where Jessup had met his death. Crime scene tape was still strung around a large area of the shoulder. Logan stared at it as they passed by, horror and sorrow mingling within him.
Albright drove the truck around one more bend, and then — veering across the center stripe — pulled onto the oncoming shoulder and then into what to Logan appeared an impenetrable wall of brush. It was, however, only a foot or two deep — the truck pushed its way through and into a small clearing, barely large enough for the vehicle, surrounded on all sides by thick forest. The shrubbery sprang back into position behind them, effectively hiding the truck from the road. Albright shut off the engine, then jumped out, and Logan followed his example.
“Ready?” Albright said.
Logan nodded. Albright walked around the front of the truck and stepped into what was seemingly an unbroken line of trees and heavy vegetal undergrowth. As they began penetrating deeper, however, Logan realized they were following a path of sorts — unmarked, barely visible, but nevertheless of human construction. It was so faint and narrow that he could never have followed it himself. Branches of pine needles brushed across his face as he stayed close behind Albright.
“How can you navigate this without a compass?” he asked. Albright’s only answer was a scoff.
The path twisted and turned with the varying topography of the forest floor, now rising to a height of land, now descending into a valley. Sunlight barely filtered through the heavy canopy overhead. Albright never stopped to check his position, but kept up a steady pace.
“I first met Nahum Blakeney in these woods,” he said over his shoulder. “I couldn’t have been more than ten, and I was practicing my bow-hunting skills on coons. He was maybe a year older than me. He’d never been to school a day in his life. First time I saw him, he just ran off. Melted into the woods. But then I saw him again, a few weeks later. I let him try my bow. Over time, we became… well, not friends — I don’t think the Blakeneys have any friends — but acquaintances. I taught him a few things, brought him some books — he was a poor reader, but he had an eager mind — and he taught me more woodcraft than even my daddy knew.” He shook his head. “One day, he brought me into the compound, introduced me to his people.”
“What were they like?” Logan asked.
“I think it would be better if I let you make that judgment on your own. I’ll wager you’ll discover soon enough which of the legends are true — and which aren’t.”
“Are you saying there’s some truth to the stories I heard in Pike Hollow?”
“Oh, there’s some truth, all right — if we can convince the Blakeneys to reveal it.”
The path was now hugging a steep rock face on one side and a narrow valley on the other. As best he could tell, Logan estimated they had walked about a mile, and the path was gradually trending eastward. Albright followed the invisible trail around a sharp bend in the cliff face, and suddenly Logan found himself confronted with another wall of endless twigs, lashed together with baling wire in vertical rows, seemingly as impenetrable as brick or concrete. This wall was shorter than the first he had encountered, however, and apparently less thick, and it disappeared into the surrounding forest on both sides almost immediately. There was no clearing before it, and the trees crowded in overhead; he could see nothing beyond the serried ranks of twigs, arranged so obsessively in their tightly fitted rows.
Albright stopped, turned to face Logan. “Listen carefully. I used to go inside fairly often as a kid. Since I’ve been back, I’ve only been inside two, maybe three times. If they do let us in, don’t rile them up. Don’t stare. Let me do the talking — until I turn it over to you. Follow my script, understand? And maybe — just maybe — you’ll see some serious shit. Remember what I told you about the Adirondacks, and the Blakeneys in particular — there’s history, and then there’s mystery. Well, the mystery is what lies on the other side of that.” And he jerked one thumb at the dense, ancient wall of twigs.
An old, empty drum of lubricating oil lay to one side, pitted and covered with rust. Picking up a stick, Albright hit the drum, first once, then a second time. And then he approached the wall.
“Nahum!” he called through the twigs, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Aaron! It’s Albright. We need to talk.”
No sound came from beyond the wall, except what sounded to Logan like the faint bleating of goats.
“Nahum!” Albright called again. “It’s important.”