“Such as?”
“Well, Fred Bridger was right. A few babies have gone missing over the last several decades. There have been several unexplained deaths in the park over the last forty years, and a disproportionate number of them happened in the Five Ponds vicinity. For a long time now—even though they wouldn’t say it to your face—the inhabitants around those parts think they know exactly what the Blakeneys are…and what kind of changes they’ve experienced.”
Jessup took another sip of coffee. The droning of insects increased.
“Well?” Logan spoke into the silence. “What do the inhabitants think the Blakeneys are?”
“Lycanthropes.” Jessup spoke the word carefully, as if tasting it.
“Lycanthropes?” Logan repeated. “People believe the Blakeney clan to be werewolves? That’s—”
“What? Ridiculous? Coming from an enigmalogist like you?”
“But there’s no clinical evidence to support such a phenomenon. A human being, transforming into a wolf?”
“From what I’ve read, you’ve investigated stranger things than that. And don’t forget, these are people who know the Blakeneys best—who have lived, practically on their doorstep, for generations. They’ve seen things that you and I haven’t.”
Logan glanced at the ranger with fresh surprise. Was it possible Jessup might actually lend credence to such a story?
Jessup, looking over, guessed what Logan was thinking. He smiled again the thoughtful, wistful smile Logan remembered so well.
“Now you know why I asked you to go out to Pike Hollow today—and why you were the only person I could ask. I mean, let’s face it—it’s your job.”
This was true, Logan admitted to himself; as an enigmalogist, he couldn’t discount any possibility. And Jessup knew these woods and these people much better than he did.
“I’m not saying I believe it,” Jessup went on. “I’m not saying that at all. But as a ranger, I can’t just ignore it, either. Rumors don’t just start themselves. And a lot of strange things are hidden away in these six million acres of forest.”
Logan didn’t reply.
“Just give it some thought,” Jessup said after a long silence. “And read those case files.” And with that he drained his coffee cup, set it down again, and gazed out over the moonlit pond.
9
For the next two days, Logan remained cloistered in his cabin at Cloudwater. The days were Indian-summer warm and the nights brisk and clear. He found himself quickly slipping into a routine. He skipped breakfast, instead making himself a pot of coffee that he nursed over the course of the day. Lunch, always excellent, was brought to his cabin around one p.m. He left the cabin only to have dinner in the main lodge, where he became acquainted with the people staying in the cabins closest to his—a conceptual artist and a pianist-composer—and where talk lingered on the subjects of the weather and their individual projects.
Logan had feared it would take him some time to get reimmersed in his monograph, but Cloudwater seemed to exert an almost magical influence: the enforced isolation, and the faintly competitive awareness of all the work being done by others in the cabins around him, sharpened his concentration. By the end of the first day, he had acquainted himself once again with the source material and reread what he’d accomplished so far; by the end of the second, he was actively writing. It was this sense of real progress that, after dinner that second night, allowed him to relax his guard and finally take a look at Jessup’s case files.
The clinical details in the files did not add much to what he already knew about the murders—except for their sheer ferocity, which was obvious from the evidence photos even given the advanced states of decomposition. While the bodies had not been eaten, they had been torn apart with remarkable fury. The corpses were too far gone for the wounds themselves to be analyzed with any accuracy, and it was primarily the brute strength necessary to rend a human body in such a way that caused the ME to presume bear attacks.
The other commonalities he already knew: both victims were backpackers, both had been killed in the vicinity of Desolation Mountain, and both had been killed during full moons.
Pushing the case files away, Logan accessed the Internet and spent ninety minutes researching werewolves. The situation he found himself in was, he realized, a little unusual. While over the course of his career he had looked into all sorts of so-called monsters—mummies, revenants, and the rest of the Hollywood horror-movie parade—he had never dealt with werewolves. Zombies could be explained away by the absorption of tetrodotoxin-laced coupe poudre into the bloodstream; belief in vampirism was said by some to be based on victims of porphyria, or mass hysteria of the sort found following the death of the so-called Serbian vampire Petar Blagojevich. And yet werewolves had always seemed—from a scientific aspect—the least explainable to him. And he found nothing on the web to change his mind. He was aware, of course, of clinical lycanthropy—the delusional, even schizophrenic, belief that a person could transform himself into an animal. He also knew something of hypertrichosis, or “werewolf syndrome,” in which victims are afflicted with excessive and abnormal hair growth, sometimes covering the entire body. Yet neither of these fit the true definition of a werewolf: a human with the ability to shape-shift into a vicious, wolflike creature.
Still, there was no denying that the werewolf legend was both remarkably old and remarkably tenacious, having its roots in ancient Greece and coming to full flower in Central Europe during the Middle Ages. And there it continued to persist in the years that followed: in such books as Claude Prieur’s 1596 Dialogue de la lycanthropie, or 1621’s Anatomy of Melancholy, in which Robert Burton devoted an entire subchapter to lycanthropia, or “wolf-madness”—supposedly caused by an excess of melancholic humor—in which the sufferer believed himself to be a wolf. Even John Webster allowed Duke Ferdinand, a villain in his infamously blood-drenched play The Duchess of Malfi, to succumb to the malady:
They imagine
Themselves to be transformèd into wolves;
Steal forth to church-yards in the dead of night,
And dig dead bodies up: as two nights since
One met the Duke ’bout midnight in a lane
Behind Saint Mark’s Church, with the leg of a man
Upon his shoulder, and he howl’d fearfully;
Said he was a wolf—only the difference
Was, a wolf’s skin was hairy on the outside,
His on the inside.
In the Elizabethan-era firsthand accounts Logan managed to unearth, werewolves or wolf-men were usually the result of dabblings in witchcraft, or at times the direct intervention of Satan himself. One such tract, “A true Discourse. Declaring the damnable life and death of one Stubbe Peeter, a most wicked Sorcerer, who in the likenes of a woolfe, committed many murders,” described an evil man who—thanks to the practice of sorcery—could turn into a wolf almost at will, and whose favorite practice included accosting pregnant women, “tearing the Children out of their wombes, in most bloody and savedge sorte, and after eate their hartes panting hotte and rawe.”
Indeed, the accounts and descriptions he examined differed in precisely how, when, and why lycanthropes turned from men to wolves, as well as how much control they had over the process. One thing, however, most sources agreed on: werewolves were at their most powerful, most bestial, and least able to govern their savage impulses on the nights of a full moon.
Logan closed his laptop with a sigh. By definition, his job as an enigmalogist meant he needed to keep an open mind about anything, no matter how strange; his resistance, even skepticism, about the possibility of a phenomenon like lycanthropy was something he couldn’t explain.
Feeling the need for a breath of air, he left his cabin, then wandered down the pathways in the direction of the main lodge. Almost all its hundred-odd windows gleamed with warm yellow light, and voices could be heard faintly on the autumn breeze: no doubt the question-and-answer session following that evening’s colloquium. Lo
gan couldn’t help contrasting the inviting cheer of this vast building to the ancient, haunted, and forbidding structure he had seen rising up beyond the barricade surrounding the Blakeney compound.
Emerging onto the broad lawn, he made his way down to the lake. Here, the voices were out of earshot, and the only sounds he heard were the lapping of water by his feet and the restless night noises of the forest insects. The moon, just grown full, hung low over the water, so large it seemed almost within his grasp.
The sounds of quiet footsteps approached through the grass behind him, and then came a voice: “Good evening to you, Dr. Logan.”
Logan turned. It was Hartshorn, the resident director.
“To you as well. And it is a beautiful evening.”
“This is my favorite time of year. Warm days, cool nights. Great sleeping weather. The summer tourists have left, and the skiers haven’t yet arrived.” The moon lit up the director’s mane of white hair with an almost ghostly glow. “How is your work going?”
“Remarkably well. With the progress I’m making, I might cut short my stay.”
“We can’t have that.” And Hartshorn smiled. He seemed more at ease than he had during their first meeting. Clearly, the low profile Logan had been keeping was putting the director at ease.
“I understand that ranger visited you the night you arrived,” Hartshorn said, with deliberate casualness.
This fellow doesn’t miss much. “Like I told you, he and I go way back.”
“You went to Yale together, you said.” Hartshorn shook his head. “A Yale-educated ranger. Interesting.”
“Well, let’s call him a born philosopher who happens to spend his days as a ranger.”
Hartshorn chuckled. “So he just stopped by to catch up.”
Logan understood the inference immediately: Hartshorn knew about the murders of the backpackers, of course, and he was wondering if—for whatever reason—the ranger who had seemed so eager to see him was enlisting his help. “I haven’t seen him for many years,” he said. “A lot of water under the bridge.”
Hartshorn merely nodded.
It might, Logan realized, be a good idea to throw the director a bone. After all, if he displayed no interest in local folklore at all, it would seem so out of character as to raise Hartshorn’s suspicions—and the last thing he wanted was to have his comings and goings monitored. “Randall has seen a lot during his years as a ranger,” he said. “It seems the residents of these woods have more than their share of tall tales.”
“Which would naturally be of interest to you—given your avocation, I mean. Well, I’ve never had much to do with the locals, but I do know enough to take their tall tales with a huge grain of salt. No objectivity, you know. Except for Albright, I suppose.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Harrison Albright. Well-respected poet. Grew up in the park, then moved away as a teenager. Came back here in the late nineties and has made the Adirondacks his home ever since. You won’t find him passing on rumors or giving credence to legends. He’s giving a lecture here next week, in fact. You might enjoy hearing him talk.”
“I’ll be sure to do that. Thanks.”
“Well, enjoy the rest of your evening. And good luck with the monograph.” Hartshorn smiled once again, then turned and made his way back in the direction of the lodge.
10
After lunch the following day, Logan did not return to his monograph. Instead, he called a cab, walked down Cloudwater’s private drive to the main road, and had himself driven into Saranac Lake, where he rented a Jeep Wrangler. His own car was scratched and muddy from the trip to the Blakeney compound, and he wasn’t about to risk more serious damage on future outings. Besides, the Wrangler would be less conspicuous.
While completing the rental paperwork, Logan asked the clerk offhandedly about Harrison Albright. Not only did the man know of the poet, but he knew precisely where he lived. It was as Hartshorn had told him: for all its size, the Adirondacks sometimes felt like a small community. And so, on the drive back from Saranac Lake, Logan passed right by the entrance to Cloudwater and instead continued on down 3, then off onto 3A once again, looking for a particular A-frame with a red Ford F1 in the driveway, a mile or two short of the Pike Hollow turnoff. It was ironic, Logan thought: in the very act of trying to keep him at Cloudwater, busily working on his monograph, Hartshorn had instead—by mentioning Albright—unwittingly helped him decide on the next move in his investigation.
Late that morning, Logan had walked over to the lodge and availed himself of Cloudwater’s generous and wide-ranging library. Among the many titles he found several volumes of Albright’s poetry: From the Deep Woods; Algonquin Peak; The Mossy Col. Leafing through them, he found verses of an accessible, rough-hewn character that nevertheless showed considerable craftsmanship and native skill. Some of the poems were musings on Adirondack life; others were rustic ballad tales of the Robert W. Service and John Masefield school. The brief bio on the back cover of one of the books burbled that Albright was “a modern-day Davy Crockett” who had been born “with maple syrup in his veins.”
Making this particular drive for the second time, Logan was again conscious of leaving what passed for civilization and heading into the dark heart of an immense, untamed, uncaring wilderness. It was odd: his job as an enigmalogist had taken him to far more remote places in the past—Alaska’s Federal Wildlife Zone, hundreds of miles north of the Arctic Circle; the vast swampy wasteland south of Egypt known as the Sudd—and yet none of these had filled him with the kind of vague anxiety that he felt now, driving once more toward the hamlet of Pike Hollow and, beyond it, the strange wall of twigs that hid the Blakeney compound from the outside world.
He rounded a bend and the A-frame, with its red pickup, came into view on the right. Logan slowed, then turned into the short driveway. The house was set back about a hundred feet from the road and—while not as trim and shiny as the Jessup residence—was in relatively good repair. A large woodpile was set beneath a shelter beside the pickup, and gray smoke was curling up from the redbrick chimney. There was no backyard to speak of; the woods crowded in on three sides.
Getting out of the Jeep, Logan walked down a rough path half covered in pine needles, mounted the steps, and—seeing there was no doorbell—rapped on the front door. A moment of silence, and then he heard a stirring within and the door opened. A man of about sixty stared out at him from the darkness of the house: tall and muscular, with penetrating blue eyes, close-cropped white hair, and an equally white beard that spread out to cover his entire jawline. He wore a plaid work shirt and faded denims, and a long knife sheath of scuffed leather hung from his belt. He said nothing, but merely raised his bushy eyebrows questioningly.
Only now did Logan realize that—most uncharacteristically—he had not prepared for this visit. He’d surmised, from Hartshorn’s comments, that Albright’s opinion on the recent killings might be worth hearing—but he had not given thought as to how he should present himself to the man or approach the subject. He’d simply been too preoccupied, feeling the forest close in around him as he drove west from Saranac Lake, to do this most basic bit of social engineering. He’d have to wing it.
“Mr. Albright?” he asked.
The man nodded.
“I wonder if I might come in for a minute.”
Still the man looked at him impassively.
“I’m not selling anything. The name’s Logan.”
“I know who you are,” the man said at last in a gravelly baritone. “I saw that special on the Discovery Channel—the one where you disproved the existence of the Loch Ness Monster. I’m just not sure I want to let you in.”
Now it was Logan’s turn to look quizzical.
“I can guess why you’re here. I love these woods—and I don’t want to have them tainted by a lot of bad publicity.”
I see, Logan thought. “Would it help if I told you I’m staying at Cloudwater, putting the finishing touches on a historical essay? I’m no
t here to generate PR, good or bad. In fact, I’m doing my best to stay below the radar. Fact is, the Cloudwater director would be very upset if he knew I was even here.”
The man considered. Then his creased face broke into a smile. “Okay,” he said. “I’m speaking there next week, and if this conversation ends up with me not liking you, I’ll rat you out.”
“Fair enough,” Logan said, unable to suppress a faint sense of misgiving.
The man stood back and let Logan into a small living room, furnished in a simple, almost spartan style. Much of the furniture seemed handmade. There was a makeshift bookcase, full of all manner of titles; a writing desk; some wooden chairs; and a standing lamp with the usual birch-bark lampshade.
Albright motioned Logan to a chair, straight-backed and uncomfortable. “Beer?”
“No thanks.”
“Good, ’cause there are only two left in the fridge and I don’t feel like driving into town for more.” The man eased himself down into another chair with a sigh. “Now, why don’t you tell me just what I can do for you?”
“Before we get into that, I have a question. It seems you already know who I am. Can you tell me a bit about yourself?”
Albright shrugged. “Not that much to tell. I was born just ten miles from here. My old man was in the logging business. Taught me all he knew about woodcraft. Died in an accident when I was fourteen. My mother couldn’t wait to get me and my brother out of the backwoods. We moved to Albany so I could get what she called a ‘real education.’ Went to University of Albany, SUNY. While there, I got interested in literature, especially poetry. Worked a bunch of different jobs downstate and wrote poetry in the evenings. Finally got my first book, Trailhead, published. Made just enough money so I could move back here—like I’d always wanted to do.” He got up, walked out of the room, came back a minute later with a bottle of beer in his hand. “Good enough?”
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