Wolf Lake

by John Verdon

  The closest peak—perhaps two miles away—was distinctive enough that Gurney recognized it from his quick Internet search of the area before setting out. It was known as Devil’s Fang, no doubt because it gave the impression of a monstrous eyetooth turned up against the heavens. Joined to it was Cemetery Ridge. Huge granite blocks arrayed upon it ages ago bore some resemblance to gravestones silhouetted against the sky.

  The steep two-mile-long face of Cemetery Ridge formed the west side of Wolf Lake. At the lake’s northern extremity, in the long shadow of Devil’s Fang, stood the old Adirondack Great Camp known as Wolf Lake Lodge.

  CHAPTER 14

  As the road descended toward the lake, the forest reverted to fuller and taller pines, temporarily hiding the surrounding mountains from view.

  When a final curve of the road brought them abreast of the lake and heading directly toward the imposing stone and timber structure standing at the lake’s end, with Cemetery Ridge and Devil’s Fang looming over all, the primeval essence of the place struck Gurney again with surprising force.

  Ahead of them a massive log-and-shingle portico extended from the front of the lodge. Landon had already parked the Land Rover under it and was waving to Gurney to park behind him. As he and Madeleine emerged from their car, Landon was pocketing his cell phone.

  “I was just letting Austen know you’re here.” He gestured toward the glass-and-timber entrance doors, one of which was being pushed open as he spoke.

  Out came a short, solid-looking man with a shaved head and small sharp eyes. As he came toward Gurney he emitted a raw energy, which seemed to be seeping through his bare scalp in the form of sweat.

  “Detective Gurney, Mrs. Gurney, welcome to Wolf Lake Lodge. I’m Austen Steckle.”

  His handshake had the hardness of a professional athlete’s. The fingernails, Gurney noticed, were bitten to the quick. His sandpapery voice and urban intonation were as far as they could be from Landon’s vaguely upper-class purr of entitlement.

  “Can I help with your luggage?”

  “Thanks, but there isn’t that much.” Gurney went around and retrieved the two duffel bags. “Can I leave the car where it is?”

  “Sure, no problem. We also have a couple of nice new Jeeps available for the use of our guests. Good off-roaders. If that’s your pleasure. Just let me know if you want to use one.”

  “Okay, Dave,” interjected Landon, “looks like you’re in good hands.” He took a quick look at his watch. “Two forty-two. What say we regroup in the Hearth Room at three for a drink?”

  “Fine. See you then.”

  Landon ambled in through the lodge doors, followed by Steckle, who moved with a quickness and lightness of foot unusual in a stocky man. Gurney and Madeleine entered last.

  Inside the big double doors was a pine-paneled, cathedral-ceilinged reception area illuminated by an immense chandelier fashioned from deer antlers. There were sets of antlers mounted on the walls, along with antique guns, swords, knives, fur pelts, and Native American feathered shields.

  A stuffed black bear stood erect in a shadowed corner, teeth and claws bared.

  When Gurney got to the reception desk, Steckle held up a large, old-fashioned key. “For you, Detective. The Presidential Suite. On the house.”

  When this produced a questioning look from Gurney, Steckle went on. “Jane told me why you’re here—the favor you’re doing, looking into the case, and all that. So the least we could do is make you as comfortable as possible. The Presidential Suite used to be the owner’s suite, the founder of the lodge, name of Dalton Gall. Very successful man. Owned mines, minerals. Made money like trees make leaves. A few years after the lodge opened, President Warren G. Harding arrived. Of course they gave him the owner’s suite. The president loved it so much he stayed for a whole month. After that it became known as the Presidential Suite. I hope you like it. Shall we go up now?”

  Gurney picked up the two duffel bags, and Steckle led the way out of the reception area, up a broad pine staircase, and into a corridor with an elaborately figured red rug. It reminded Gurney of the rug in the hotel corridor in The Shining.

  Steckle stopped at a large wooden door and inserted the big metal key through an old-fashioned keyhole. He turned the tarnished knob and pushed the door open. He went in first, and few seconds later lights came on, revealing a large room furnished in a country-masculine style with leather couches and armchairs, Native American rugs, and rustic floor and table lamps.

  Madeleine hung back, letting Gurney go in ahead of her.

  “There are no dead animals in there, are there, like that huge thing in the lobby?”

  “No, nothing like that.”

  She came in tentatively. “I hate those things.”

  Steckle opened the drapes, exposing a row of windows overlooking the lake. A glass door led to a balcony. The wall to Gurney’s left was broken by a doorway and a broad archway. The archway led to a room-sized sleeping area with a four-poster bed. The doorway led to a bathroom larger than his den at home—with a separate toilet area, a corner shower stall, an oversized basin, a huge claw-foot tub, and a table piled with bath towels.

  The wall to his right was dominated by a portrait of Warren Harding, who presided over America’s slide into the lawlessness of the Prohibition era. The portrait was hanging above a stocked bar. Further along the wall was a stone fireplace and an iron rack of split logs.

  Steckle pointed to the view through the windows. “Welcome to the wilderness.”

  NAMED FOR ITS GIGANTIC STONE FIREPLACE, THE HEARTH ROOM was furnished in the same rustic-luxury style as the Gurneys’ suite—with leather furniture, tribal art and weaponry, and a bar topped with the scotches, bourbons, gins, ports, sherries, vermouths, crystal glasses, and silver ice buckets of a past generation.

  As Gurney and Madeleine entered the room, Norris Landon called to them with a welcoming wave from one of the leather club chairs. “Make yourselves a couple of stiff drinks and come sit by the fire.”

  Gurney went to the bar and chose a plain club soda. He was surprised to see Madeleine make herself a gin and orange juice.

  They took their drinks to the fireplace end of the room and sat on a couch facing Landon, who looked very much at home in the clothes he’d changed into: a yellow cashmere sweater, tan corduroy pants, and shearling-lined moccasins. With a languid smile he raised his glass of what looked like scotch on the rocks. “Here’s to the success of your visit.”

  “Thank you,” said Gurney.

  Madeleine offered a smile and a nod.

  Landon sipped his drink. “Always nice to sit by a fire, eh?”

  “Very nice,” said Gurney. “Are there any other guests?”

  “At present we have the place to ourselves. Mixed blessing that, since staff’s been reduced. The Hammonds, of course, are still in residence—bit separate though, over in Richard’s chalet. Austen cancelled all the winter reservations after the tragedy. Understandable decision, that. Considering the event itself and then the media explosion. Wise to shut the place down until a satisfactory conclusion is achieved. At least that’s my understanding of Austen’s decision. Austen and Peyton’s decision, I should say.”

  Gurney nodded, sipped his soda water. “With all the reservations cancelled, your presence must mean you’re more than an ordinary guest.”

  Landon produced an embarrassed laugh. “I’d never claim to be more than ordinary. But I do come here quite often. And since I was already here when it all happened . . . I suppose Austen deemed it fit to let me stay on.”

  “How long have you been coming here?” asked Madeleine.

  “Not all that long, just discovered the place a couple of years ago. But once I discovered it . . . well, there’s upland bird season, spring turkey season, fall turkey season, deer season, bear season, small game season, fishing season. And, to be perfectly honest, I simply fell in love with the place. I’m keeping my fingers crossed that the current mess doesn’t put an end to it all.” He raised h
is glass again. “Here’s to a speedy resolution. For everyone’s sake.”

  The silence that ensued was broken by Gurney. “All those game seasons you mentioned must require quite an arsenal of weapons.”

  “I would admit to having a nice variety of sporting arms.”

  “You said something about the lodge having a reduced staff these days. Are there employees besides Austen on site?”

  “There’s a chef who commutes from Plattsburgh. A kitchen assistant. A housemaid to keep things tidy. Other workers who can be called in when Austen sees the need.” He shrugged, almost apologetically. “And then, of course, there’s Barlow Tarr.”

  “Not the typical employee of a thousand-dollar-a-night inn.”

  “No, certainly not. It was a notion of Ethan’s, you see, that all human beings are redeemable. Crock of manure, in my opinion. Whole Tarr clan a perfect case in point. Even Ethan, with all his bloody optimism, was getting close to throwing in the towel with Barlow. Very difficult thing for Ethan to admit that someone was beyond his help. Thing is, Barlow’s like the mountain weather. Turn your back for a minute, and you never know what it might turn into. Ethan told him he could stay on, live in his cabin out in the woods—on the condition that he kept away from the guests. But apparently he approached you—a definite violation of the agreement.” Landon paused again, apparently weighing the implications.

  “Was Ethan in the habit of employing . . . people with problems?”

  “Indeed he was. His greatest virtue and greatest flaw.”

  Gurney paused to consider this pattern, before taking a small sidestep. “How much do you know about the Gall New Life Foundation?”

  Landon studied his drink. “Only that it seems to be exactly what one would expect Ethan to have put together. He was a complex man. Determined, stubborn, controlling. An iron will. Absolute faith that his way was the right way. A bulldozer of a businessman. Single-handedly resurrected this place.”

  “You sound like you see a problem in that.”

  “Ah. Well. At the heart of the bulldozer there was a missionary. A zealot. A zealot with a belief that anyone can be elevated. Hence the Gall New Life Foundation—dedicated to the reeducation and reentry of serious felons into productive society.”

  “I’ve heard that it produced some success stories.”

  “Indeed it did. Big success stories. Perfect example is Austen himself.”

  “Austen Steckle is a paroled felon?”

  Landon screwed up his face in an expression of chagrin. “May have overstepped myself there, although he’s never made a secret of it. . . . Still, not my place. It’s his story to tell, not mine.” There was a brief silence. “If you have questions about anything else here at Wolf Lake, I’ll be happy to share my modest knowledge.”

  Madeleine spoke up, sounding anxious. “Before, out the road, that Tarr person said something about the lake having no bottom. Do you have any idea what he meant by that?”

  “Ah, yes. The bottomless lake. One of the Devil’s Twins.”

  “The what?”

  “The Devil’s Twins. A peculiarity of the local geology, dramatically enhanced by local superstition. It seems that two lakes in this area, quite a few miles apart on opposite sides of a major ridge line, are actually connected through a series of underground channels and caverns. Wolf Lake is one of the two.”

  “That’s what he meant by ‘no bottom’?”

  “Yes and no. There’s a bit more to the story—the way the connection between the lakes was discovered. Back in the mid nineteen hundreds, two young girls were in a canoe on the other lake. The canoe capsized. One girl made it to shore, the other drowned. They dragged the lake, sent down divers, searched for days, weeks, but couldn’t find the body. Great mystery at the time. Lots of theories flying around. Criminal conspiracies, supernatural explanations. Total circus. Journalistic inanity has been with us for a long time.”

  Madeleine was blinking impatiently. “But then what?”

  “Ah. Well. Then. Five years later, a fellow fishing for bullheads snagged his line on what remained of the long-missing body—mostly a skeleton, with some of her clothes still on it. Thing of it is, he was fishing here on Wolf Lake, not on the lake where the girl drowned.”

  Gurney looked skeptical. “Is there some solid evidence beyond that for the underground connections?”

  “Yes. Repeated simultaneous measurements of both lake surfaces show that they always rise and fall precisely in unison, even when a heavy rain storm only impacts one of them directly. So there’s no doubt about the existence of the connection, although it’s never been adequately explored or mapped.” He took another sip from his glass and smiled. “Situations like that can take hold of the ignorant imagination, ever ready to concoct outrageous explanations, especially ones involving evil forces.”

  Although Gurney couldn’t disagree, he found Landon’s manner irritating. He decided to change the subject. “You seem able to come and go as you please. Either you’re retired or you have a pretty flexible job.”

  “I’m mostly retired. Bit of consulting here and there. Love being out and about. Love the wilderness. Living the outdoorsman’s dream. Time passes, you know. Only live once. You know the old saying: No one on his deathbed ever wishes he’d spent more time in the office. How about you, Dave? Jane tells me that you’re partly retired, partly not.”

  Gurney still found it difficult to describe his status. Madeleine would often comment that the term ‘retired’ hardly fit a man who’d immersed himself in four major murder cases since his official departure from the job.

  “I’m occasionally asked for my opinion of a situation,” said Gurney. “And occasionally that leads to some deeper involvements.”

  Landon smiled, perhaps at the intentional vagueness. “My own feeling regarding careers, particularly ones involving risk, is that there’s a time to walk away. Let others do their jobs, grow into their responsibilities. Be a tragedy for a man to lose his life for no reason beyond the desire to keep risking it.”

  “There could be other reasons for not walking away.”

  “Ah. Well. Then it becomes more complicated.” He studied his drink. “Ego, pride, who we believe we are, satisfactions that give meaning to our lives . . .” His voice trailed off.

  After a silence Gurney asked casually, “What sort of consulting work do you do?”

  “I advise clients on international business matters. Legal and cultural issues, security concerns. Much rather be in the woods.” He turned toward Madeleine. “What about you? You an outdoor sort of woman? I bet you are.”

  The question appeared to jar her out of a different train of thought. “I do enjoy being outdoors. If I can’t get outside, I start to feel—”

  Before she could finish, Jane Hammond walked in from the reception area, radiating a mixture of relief and anxiety. Her short, badly dyed hair was sticking out at odd angles. “Dave! Madeleine! You made it! I was afraid with the horrible weather . . . but here you are! So good to see you!” Her voice was hoarse.

  “Norris came to our rescue,” said Madeleine.

  “Rescue? My God! What happened?”

  Madeleine glanced over at Gurney.

  He shrugged. “Difficult spot on the road, bad maneuver on my part, a slippery ditch . . .”

  “Oh no! I was afraid of something like that happening—which is why I asked Norris to check the road. I’m so glad now that I did.”

  “Everything’s fine.”

  “We did have a scary encounter,” added Madeleine.

  Jane’s eyes widened. “What happened?”

  “A strange man came out of the woods.”

  “Tarr,” said Landon.

  “Oh. Barlow. He can be scary. Did he say anything . . . threatening?”

  “He said something about the evil here at Wolf Lake.”

  “My God!” Jane looked at Landon, her face a caricature of distress.

  “Ah. Well. There’s the Tarr family history. Not pretty. Ending
up in the local madhouse was a Tarr tradition.”

  Madeleine’s eyes widened. “When you say ‘local madhouse,’ what exactly—”

  Landon answered before she finished. “State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. Not far from here. But not the sort of local attraction the lodge would advertise. When people know about it, it has a way of preying on their minds. You ever heard an Adirondack loon? Even when you know it’s just a bird you’re hearing, that mournful cry can still give you chills. And if you start thinking that what you’re hearing might really be the wailing of a madman wandering in the woods, well . . . that’s not conducive to easy sleeping.”

  Jane stared at him for a moment, then turned to Gurney and Madeleine, who were occupying the end seats on the couch. “I told Richard I invited you for dinner. He wasn’t totally thrilled, but he didn’t suddenly announce he had to be somewhere else. So we’re past the first hurdle. I thought that dinner would be—”

  A single, soft musical note, very close by, stopped her in mid-sentence.

  Landon shifted in his chair, took a cell phone from his pocket, and peered down at the screen. “Sorry,” he said, rising to his feet. Putting the phone to his ear, he left the room.

  Jane picked up where she left off. “I thought that dinner would be a natural, relaxed way for you get a feeling for the situation . . . and get to know Richard . . . so you can see for yourself how crazy, how completely crazy, it is for anyone to imagine that he . . .” She shook her head, tears welling in her eyes.

  Gurney tended to greet displays of emotion with skepticism, watching for the overly dramatic gesture, listening for the false note. But he concluded that if Jane Hammond was faking her concern for her brother, she was damn good at it.

  “So you changed your mind about how to handle this? I thought the idea was that I’d just show up unannounced, and your brother would feel compelled to see me because I’d traveled all this way just to talk to him.”