Wolf Lake

by John Verdon

  “There’s that minefield again.”

  “Huh?”

  “Fenton told me I was stumbling around in a minefield.”

  “Nice when everyone’s on the same page.”

  “Did you ask him if he knew in whose ‘good hands’ the case now resided?”

  “He said he’d been given a hint that their identities couldn’t even be hinted at.”

  “Echoes of Robin Wigg warning us to back away. What do you think’s going on?”

  “Fuck if I know. Fuck if the guy in Teaneck knows. All he knows is that he’s not supposed to know anything, say anything, or do anything. And he finds that very irritating.”

  “His irritation could make him helpful to us.”

  “I was thinking the same thing. I mentioned that we’d love to know if Leo Balzac had ever been to Camp Brightwater; or if he’d been known to harbor strong opinions regarding gay men; or if he might have had any past contacts with Gall, Wenzel, or Pardosa.”

  “And?”

  “He said he’d be glad to find out what he could, as long as his involvement would remain a secret. I told him it would—that I’d be delighted to take full personal credit for blasting the case right up the asses of the boys in the stratosphere.”

  “That must have warmed his heart.”

  “We’ll see what kind of information he actually comes up with. In the meantime, how’d your sit-down go with Moe?”

  “He told me that the summer Pardosa was there was pretty awful. One of the campers disappeared. And a nasty rumor circulated afterward was that he might have been killed because he was gay. Problem is, there’s no real evidence for it.”

  “But it does ring that same damn bell one more time.”

  “Yes. It does.”

  “Anything else?”

  “He kept talking about the ‘bad apples’ in the barrel. Couldn’t remember any names, though. Claimed Pardosa’s name meant nothing to him. Maybe I’ll give him a call before he gets on his Tel Aviv flight, see if the names Balzac, Wenzel, and Gall stir up any memories.”

  “Anything else happening? How’s Madeleine doing?”

  “She’s pretty stressed right now. Which reminds me, I need to get going. I’ve been told there’s a record blizzard closing in.”

  THE FARTHER NORTH GURNEY DROVE, THE DARKER IT GOT. WHEN he reached the crest of the last ridge before Wolf Lake, he stopped at the side of the road. Finally within the coverage area of the lodge cell tower, he called Moe Blumberg’s number.

  The call went into voicemail. He left a message that included the names of the victims he hadn’t mentioned during their Otterville meeting, plus Richard Hammond’s for good measure, asking if any of the names triggered memories from that terrible summer thirteen years ago.

  As he pulled back onto the road, the sky ahead was the sullen blackish-blue of a bruise, and a few scattered snowflakes were drifting down through the beams of his headlights.

  Halfway down the winding road from the ridge to the lake, his headlights swept across a large pine thicket, and he saw something moving. He braked to a stop and switched on his high beams just as the creature, whatever it was, disappeared into the deep woods. He lowered his windows a couple of inches and listened. But the silence was deep and unbroken. He drove on.

  By the time he arrived at his parking spot under the lodge portico, Wolf Lake and its surrounding ridges were engulfed in an unnatural darkness, and the snow was falling steadily.

  It was 4:30 PM by the grandfather clock in the reception area. He checked the Hearth Room to see if Madeleine might be there, then hurried up the stairs.

  Entering the suite he found the main room illuminated only by the kerosene lamp by the couch. His first thought was that there was a problem with the electricity—until Madeleine called out to him. “Don’t turn on the lights.”

  He found her in the bedroom alcove, sitting very still in the center of the four-poster bed with her eyes closed and her pajamaed legs crossed in a lotus position. A second kerosene lamp on the bureau bathed the alcove in an amber glow. A classical guitar piece was playing on her tablet, which was placed on the arm of a chair out near the bugged Harding portrait.

  She held up three fingers, which he assumed represented the number of minutes she intended to remain in her yoga pose before speaking to him. He sat in a chair between the bed and bureau and waited. Eventually she opened her eyes.

  “Is it all right for us to talk in here?” Her voice sounded less tense than it had for days.

  “Yes, here in the alcove, with your music playing out there.” He studied her face. “You look . . . relaxed.”

  “I feel relaxed.”

  “Why the kerosene lamps?”

  “The soft light is calming.”

  “How did your meeting go with Hammond?”

  “Very well.”

  He stared at her, waiting for more. “That’s it?”

  “He’s good.”

  “At what?”

  “Reducing anxiety.”

  “How does he do that?”

  “It’s hard to put it into words.”

  “You sound like you’re on Valium.”

  She shrugged.

  “You’re not, are you?”

  “Of course not.”

  “So what did you talk about?”

  “Colin Bantry’s craziness.”

  Again he stared at her, waiting for more. “And?”

  “My own guilt trip—blaming myself for what he did.”

  A silence fell between them. Madeleine’s gaze seemed to be focused on the lamp.

  “What are you thinking?” he asked.

  “I’m thinking that Richard is innocent, and you have to help him.”

  “What about our trip to Vermont?”

  “I called this afternoon and cancelled.”

  “You did what?”

  “Don’t pretend to be irate. You never wanted to go there anyway.” She straightened out her legs slowly from her yoga position and got off the bed. “Maybe you should try to relax. Maybe have a quick nap? I’m going to take a bath before we go to dinner at Richard and Jane’s.”

  “Another bath?”

  “You should try it.”

  She took a small bottle of shampoo out of her duffle bag, went out to the sitting area, took the other kerosene lamp from the end table, and went into the bathroom. He heard her turning on the bath taps and heard the water gushing into the tub.

  He took a few deep breaths and tried massaging his neck and shoulders to loosen the tightness in his muscles. He asked himself where his tension was coming from. He didn’t like the first explanation that came to mind—that he was jealous and resentful that another man was helping Madeleine in a way he himself had been unable to.

  He heard the tub water being turned off. A minute or two later Madeleine returned to the alcove. Standing in the soft light cast by the lamp on the bureau, to all appearances in no hurry, she removed her pajamas and laid them on the bed.

  As it always did, the beauty of her body had a powerful effect on him.

  She seemed to sense the change in the nature of his attention.

  Turning to the bureau, she opened a drawer and took out a bra and panties she’d transferred there from her bag. She laid them on a bench at the foot of the bed. Then she opened a second drawer and took out a sweater and jeans. She laid them on the bench also, moving casually closer to him as she did so.

  He reached out, lightly touching the smooth curve of her hip with his fingertips.

  She met his gaze with a look that was challenging and irresistible.

  Neither of them said a word. She moved her pajamas from the bed, pulled back the covers, and lay down on the sheet. She watched him taking off his clothes.

  Their lovemaking was intense, creating for a while a separate world where nothing mattered except what they were doing at that moment.

  As he lay next to her in a daze, she leaned over and kissed him on the mouth one more time. Then she got up and left t
he alcove. A few seconds later he heard the bathroom door close.

  Feeling deeply at peace for the first time in days, he let his eyes drift shut.

  In retrospect, as he carefully reviewed later what happened, in a search for details that might explain it, he found it hard to recall how much time had elapsed between the closing of the bathroom door and the traumatic horror that changed everything.

  Five seconds? Ten seconds? Possibly even thirty seconds?

  The high-pitched sound pierced him viscerally, chillingly, struck some primitive part of his brain, before his conscious mind identified it as a scream. It was an excruciating sound of terror, followed by the sound of stumbling and the hard impact of a body hitting the floor.

  He jumped from the bed and dashed toward the bathroom, barely noticing that his bare shin collided with a chair along the way, toppling it over backward.

  “Madeleine!” he shouted, grabbing the knob of the bathroom door and turning it. “Madeleine!” The door wouldn’t open. Something was blocking it. He lowered his shoulder, heaving his weight against the door, pushing as hard as he could.

  It slowly gave way, and he squeezed past it.

  Inside, he looked around frantically in the dim light of the kerosene lamp. He found Madeleine naked on the floor. She was lying on her side, her arms wrapped around her knees.

  “What is it?” he cried, dropping to his knees next to her. “What is it? What happened?”

  She tried to say something, but it was lost in a stifled wail.

  He held her face between his hands. “Maddie. Tell me. What happened?”

  She wasn’t looking at him. Her terrified gaze was fastened on something else in the room. He followed her line of sight—to the big claw-foot bathtub. The tub she’d just filled with water.

  “What is it? What happened?”

  Her response sounded more like a moan than a word.

  Only it wasn’t just a word. It was a name.

  “Colin.”

  “Colin? Colin Bantry? What about him?”

  She answered with a half-stifled cry. “His body.”

  “What about his body?”

  “Look.”

  “Look?”

  “In the tub.”

  PART THREE

  THE WOLF AND THE HAWK

  CHAPTER 36

  When Gurney approached the tub and peered into it, he saw nothing but water and a few wisps of steam. He checked it first in the low lamplight, then switched on the overhead fixture for a better look. He saw nothing out of the ordinary.

  He turned his attention back to Madeleine, huddled on the floor, her knees still pulled up against her breasts.

  “There’s nothing in the tub, Maddie. Just water.”

  “Under the water!” she cried. “Look!”

  “I did look. There’s nothing there.”

  Her eyes were wide with fear.

  He tried to speak calmly. “Do you think you can stand up, if I help you?”

  She seemed not to understand.

  “Maybe I can lift you, carry you, okay? We’ll get you off the floor and out of here.”

  “Look under the water!”

  He went to the tub and made a show of inspecting it thoroughly. When he swirled his arm through the water, she uttered a gasp of alarm.

  “See, Maddie? Nothing but plain water.”

  He came back and knelt down beside her. He slipped his arms under her body. His awkward position made lifting her a challenge, and he almost fell on her. In the end, he managed to carry her to the bed.

  He switched on both bedside lamps and checked her body once more for broken bones, abrasions, or any other obvious damage. He found only a reddening area on her hip from the fall.

  He squatted by the bed, bringing his face even with hers. “Maddie, can you tell me exactly what happened?”

  “Colin. In the water. Swollen.” She half-turned her head toward the wall that separated the bedroom area from the bathroom. “I saw him!”

  A tiny muscle in her cheek was quivering.

  “It’s all right, Maddie. There’s nothing there. It was some kind of optical illusion. The water, the steam, the dim light . . .”

  “His body was in the tub—not steam, not dim light! His bloated face, the scar through his eyebrow! The scar from football! Don’t you hear what I’m saying?”

  Her body began to shake.

  “I hear you, Maddie. I really do.”

  He stood up, reached for the flannel sheet and blanket at the foot of the bed and pulled them over her.

  He could see it would be pointless to try to convince her at that moment, petrified and shivering, that imagination, memories, and perhaps the poison of guilt had conspired to create a terrible illusion. She’d dismiss the effort.

  He stood watching her until she closed her eyes. There would be an appropriate time, he told himself, to address the experience rationally, perhaps therapeutically. But right now—

  His train of thought was broken by a sound coming from the bathroom. A barely audible creaking sound.

  Gooseflesh crept up his back.

  He slipped into his jeans and a sweater, retrieved the Beretta from the pocket of his jacket, and eased off the safety. After an anxious look at Madeleine, he moved quietly, barefoot, toward the bathroom.

  When he got there, he heard the faint creaking again; but now it seemed to be coming from the exterior corridor. In fact, it seemed to be approaching the suite door. He reached the side of the door in a few long strides. The bolt was in its open position. He’d forgotten to slide it shut when he’d come in earlier.

  He waited, hardly breathing. He was in the same position he’d been in the night of the power failure—when Barlow Tarr’s face had given him such a start.

  He grasped the handle tightly, hesitated for a second, then threw the door open.

  Seeing Barlow Tarr standing in the corridor once again was not in itself a shock. But there was something in the man’s intense stare that gave Gurney a chill.

  “What do you want?”

  Tarr spoke in a raspy half-whisper. “Be warnt.”

  “You keep warning me, but I don’t understand what the danger is. Can you tell me?”

  “Be warnt of the hawk that swoops down like the wolf. Be warnt of the evil here what killed them all.”

  “Did the evil kill Ethan Gall?”

  “Aye, and the wolves ate him, like the old man afore him.”

  “How did Ethan die?”

  “The hawk knows. Into the sun, into the moon—”

  “Enough of that! Stop your bloody raving!” An angry voice rang out from the unlit end of the corridor.

  Tarr’s face jerked as though it had been slapped. He backed away from the suite door. Glancing back along the corridor like a spooked animal, he scuttled down the main staircase.

  The source of the command strode into the light. It was Norris Landon, approaching in quick strides, glaring in the direction of Tarr’s departure. He stopped at the doorway and turned to Gurney. “Are you all right?”

  Gurney nodded. “Yes, thank you.”

  “Damn fool’s not supposed to be in the lodge. Probably silly of me, going at him like that. God knows what he’s capable of, especially with a storm coming on.”

  “Storms agitate him?”

  “Oh yes. Well-known phenomenon in psychiatric wards. There’s a definite resonance between the primitive side of nature and the unbalanced mind. Things coming undone, I suppose. Thunder and terror. Extremes of emotion. But it wasn’t his raving out here in the corridor that started me on my way to your room. I thought I heard a scream.” He regarded Gurney questioningly.

  “My wife had a bit of a fright. It’s all right now.”

  Landon hesitated, noting the gun Gurney was holding half-concealed at the side of his leg. “I see you’re armed.”

  “Yes.”

  “Is that a reaction to . . . whatever frightened your wife?”

  “Just precautionary. A reflex built into my li
ne of work.”

  “Ah. And your wife? Is she all right?”

  “Perfectly all right.”

  “Well. This may seem like a crazy question, but . . .”

  “But what?”

  “I’m just wondering . . . did your wife by any chance . . . see something?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Did she see something . . . something that might not have been real?”

  “What makes you ask that?”

  Landon looked like he was searching for the right words. “The lodge has . . . a strange history . . . a history of what might be called unsavory sightings.”

  “Sightings?”

  “Visions? Spectral presences? Visitations? It all sounds rather silly, I admit, but I’ve been told that the individuals involved in these . . . incidents . . . were very sensible people, not the kind who usually report these things.”

  “When did these incidents happen?”

  “On various occasions, over the years.”

  “Did the individuals all report seeing the same thing?”

  “No. The way I heard it, each one—”

  Gurney broke in. “Heard it from who?”

  “From Ethan. It wasn’t something he wanted to advertise. The way he told it to me, each woman’s vision—they were all women, by the way, who had these experiences—each vision was from someone close to her in life who had died. Or, to be more specific, someone close to her who had drowned.”

  Gurney showed no reaction beyond normal curiosity. “Did these visions all occur here in the lodge?”

  “Well, I did say the lodge, but in the environs as well. In one case, the woman saw a face underwater in the lake. Another claimed she saw her dead brother under a sheet of ice by one of the chalets. The worst incident was an older woman who had a mental breakdown after seeing her first husband—who’d died in a boating accident thirty years earlier—standing in the shower. According to Ethan, she never recovered.”

  “Water.”

  “Eh?”

  “They all involve water. People who drowned. Drowned people who then ‘come back’ in circumstances again involving water.”

  Landon nodded thoughtfully. “True. Water was always involved.” He paused. “Well, sorry to take up your time with ghost stories. I’m sure they all have some reasonable explanation. Hearing that scream brought them to mind. Felt I should check on you.”