Jessup laughed again. “That’s right.” He sipped his drink. “So you stayed at Yale.”
“Got my doctorate at Magdalen College, Oxford. Spent a few years of my own wandering the world, but not places as exotic as Nepal or Burma—mostly old libraries, monasteries, and the churches of England and the Continent. Then I came back to teach a colloquium on the Black Death when the Yale professor who’d been planning to give it fell ill.” He shrugged. “Never left.”
“That’s not what I’ve heard,” Jessup said, in a quiet voice.
“You’re referring to my, ah, avocation.”
Jessup nodded.
“The strange one. The one that tends to get my picture in the papers now and then.”
Jessup nodded again. “You were doing that even back at Yale. I remember our senior year, when you proved how that ghost that supposedly haunted Saybrook was just a secret tradition, handed down from one graduating student and entrusted to another.” He paused. “I read that profile of you in People a year or two ago.”
“Terrible photo. Made me look fat.”
“And you call yourself an…?”
“Enigmalogist. Somebody else came up with the term, actually, but it seems to have stuck.”
“I remember how the article described it. It said you study phenomena beyond the bounds of regular science: investigate the strange and inexplicable, prove things most people would label occult or supernatural.”
“Or disprove them—as with the Saybrook ghost.”
“Right.” Jessup hesitated a moment, seemed to come to some kind of decision. “Look, Jeremy—you’ve probably guessed my stopping by isn’t just to renew an old acquaintance.”
“Although it’s nice to see you again, the thought had occurred to me.”
“Well, do you mind if I share something with you? Between ourselves—for the time being, anyway.”
“Of course.”
Jessup shook the ice in his empty glass. “Can I get a dividend first?”
“How remiss of me.” Taking the glass into the kitchen, Logan splashed some more vodka into it and gave it back to Jessup. The ranger took a sip, paused a moment, looked around the room, and then—after taking a deep breath—started to talk.
5
“Over the last three months,” Jessup began, “two hikers—backpackers—have been killed not far from here.”
Logan waited, listening.
“There are a lot of similarities between the two killings. Both men were young and extremely fit, knowledgeable about forestry issues and the park. And they were both members of the Adirondack ‘Forty-Sixers.’ ”
Logan nodded his understanding. This was the group whose membership was limited to those who had climbed all forty-six Adirondack peaks over four thousand feet. The requirements included both mountains with blazed trails and the trailless peaks, and, as he recalled, at least one winter ascent. He and Kit had once, years back, entertained hopes of joining the elite club—before reality intervened.
“Both were savagely mauled to death,” Jessup went on. “Both were killed in roughly the same remote location—and both, as it happens, during a full moon.”
“What remote location, exactly?”
“West of the Five Ponds Wilderness.” Jessup paused a moment, and night sounds from the open window—the rustle of leaves picked up by a stray gust of wind, the hoot of an owl—filled the silence.
“These hard-core backpackers are a breed apart,” Jessup said. “No achievement, no matter how hard-won, is ever enough. So once they’ve bagged all forty-six peaks, some of them go on to score other bragging rights. Three mountains seem to be favorite.” He pulled a leatherbound journal from a breast pocket, leafed through it, studied a page for a moment. “Avalanche Mountain, number sixty-three—close to higher and more famous mountains and an obvious choice. North River Mountain, number fifty-six, just shy of four thousand feet and coveted because the official state surveyor, Ebenezer Emmons, climbed it immediately before his famous 1836 ascent of Whiteface Mountain. But the most coveted prize is Desolation Mountain. At only thirty-two hundred feet, it’s not even in the top hundred.” He replaced the journal. “But its claim to fame, and what makes it such an attractive target, is its remoteness. The Desolation Lake area is probably the wildest and most isolated section of the entire park—even more so than the Silver Lake Wilderness or Wilcox Lake. Not only that, but the terrain there is terrible for hiking—no access roads and few motorized lakes, covered with blowdowns, outwash bogs, all sorts of other hazardous conditions. Unless you know what you’re doing, and you’re incredibly motivated, it’s almost impossible to reach. The climb itself is the easy part.” He laughed almost bitterly, shook his head. “That’s why it’s known among the ADK climbing elite as ‘heartbreak forty-seven.’ ”
As quickly as it came, the laugh died in Jessup’s throat. “Both hikers were found in the vicinity of the mountain. As you can imagine, there’s not a lot of traffic through there, and by the time the bodies were discovered each was in an advanced state of decomposition. As a result, the autopsies were somewhat inconclusive, but given the violence inflicted on the corpses, the verdict in both was mauling by a rogue bear.”
Jessup took another sip of his drink. “We’ve tried to keep details of the story quiet—places like Cloudwater here, for example, need that kind of publicity like they need a hole in the head. But rumors spread, and the locals all know.”
“I’m sorry to hear about it,” Logan said. “But why the urgency to tell me?”
Again, Jessup hesitated. “I told you the official conclusion of the autopsy. But the fact is, a few of us rangers aren’t so certain. Black bears—the only kind found in the park—aren’t numerous, nor are they known to be vicious. A single death by mauling is very rare, but two…” His voice trailed off.
“There’s a long history of wild animals turning aggressive toward man,” Logan said. “Look at the Tsavo lions.”
“I know. And that’s what I’ve been telling myself. But you have to remember, I spent a lot of summers here growing up. I heard my share of the local rumors and fables. Most visitors here stick to the tamer locales like Lake Placid. Domesticated, populous. They don’t know there are millions of acres out here—not that far of a drive, either—that aren’t like that. Some places to this day have never seen a man’s footprint, or echoed with the chop of an ax.”
“Spoken like a true philosopher,” Logan said gently, trying to lighten the atmosphere. Jessup grinned a little abashedly. “I suppose you’ve sent search parties through the area where the bodies were found, looking for the animal?”
“A brief one. It yielded nothing.”
“Anyway, it sounds like you aren’t satisfied with the official story.”
“I’m not sure I’d ever admit to that,” Jessup said quickly.
“But you think there might be more to the story. That something else might be going on.”
“You know what Emerson said. ‘Nature and books belong to the eyes that see them.’ ”
“I knew you’d get around to Emerson eventually. But why bring it to me? I’m no Natty Bumppo. The last trail I set foot on was Newport’s Cliff Walk, which doesn’t even count.”
“It’s not that kind of skill I’m looking for. I can’t say why exactly, but the peculiar circumstances of these deaths…something feels wrong to me. And I say that as someone who has policed these forests for many years. But I’m too close to this—both as a ranger, and as a resident. I need someone with your objectivity…and your, um, unusual skill set.”
So that’s it. Logan felt dismay settling over him. Although he’d never admit it to his old friend, this was the last complication he needed right now. It was going to be hard enough just summoning the intellectual energy to finish his monograph—what more if he had to traipse around the vast park on a nebulous errand he wasn’t qualified for?
“Look, Randall, I can understand your concern,” he said. “If I was in your position, I’d feel
the same way—”
“It’s not that,” Jessup said, a faint hint of stubbornness creeping into his tone. “I don’t feel responsible for these deaths—there are many areas of the park so remote we don’t even try to patrol them. I just feel that if I asked you to take a brief look into these deaths…well, then I’d have done my due diligence. And I’d sleep better at night, knowing that.”
“You say something feels wrong. What, exactly?”
“I don’t know. If I knew, I wouldn’t be asking you for counsel. But I just can’t seem to shake the premonition that something bad is going to happen again…and soon.”
“I’d like to help,” Logan said. “But I don’t see what expertise I can offer. I’m no pathologist. I’m no backwoodsman. And the fact is I came up here to finish a paper I’ve been working on for almost two years—”
“Just go to Pike Hollow,” Jessup interrupted. “As a personal favor to me. It’s the town nearest the sites of the killings. Go there tomorrow, ask around—under the radar, of course—and then have dinner with me. Meet my wife and kids. And then, if you don’t want to take it further, I’ll let the whole thing drop.”
“I…” Logan began, then stopped. There was no mistaking his friend’s concern. And it seemed pointless to protest anymore. He took a deep breath. “Okay. But your wife had better be a good cook.”
Jessup smiled again—this time with obvious relief. “I don’t think you’ll have cause to complain.” He picked up the leather satchel, pulled out two thick manila folders, passed them over to Logan. “Here are copies of the case files. Look them over when you get the chance. But keep it to yourself. The park is a crazy quilt of overlapping jurisdictions. Since so many of the smaller communities have no police departments of their own, the state police often take the leading role in serious crimes such as rape or murder—not that those are common. It’s true I’m a Department of Conservation officer, authorized to enforce all state rules and regulations, but I’m not really at liberty to bring a layman into the investigation.”
“Great. You want me to investigate, but you don’t.”
“I’m sure this isn’t the first job you’ve taken requiring discretion. I understand your SSBI clearance has an open exit date.”
“I haven’t taken the job, remember? But you’re right. Give me your address, let me know what time dinner is tomorrow, and I’ll see you there.”
Jessup pulled out the small, worn journal again, scrawled quickly on a page, tore it off, and handed it to Logan. “Seven o’clock work for you?”
When Logan nodded, Jessup stood. “Then I’ll let you get settled in. Thank you, Jeremy. I know this is an imposition. But I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t think it was important.” His gaze drifted toward the case files.
“Get on home. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
Jessup seemed about to say something else. But then he simply nodded, picked up the empty satchel, shook Logan’s hand, seated his ranger’s hat squarely on his head, and stepped out of the cabin into the night.
6
The next morning, Logan had an early breakfast in the big lodge, then got into his car and left Cloudwater. He now regretted promising Jessup he’d look into the murders; in the chill light of day he was even more convinced there was nothing he could add to the official investigation, and his laptop, books, and notes—placed on the living room worktable of his cabin—silently chastised him for not getting immediately to work. But he was to have dinner with the Jessup family that evening; it seemed best to make a cursory effort—Randall had asked him as a personal favor, after all—which would then allow him to report no success and get on with what he’d come here to finish.
And so he pointed the nose of his car westward, following Route 3 as it threaded its way between the steep flanks of rising mountains and along the shores of rushing streams. It occurred to him as he drove that he had never penetrated this deeply into the park before. It was a forty-mile drive to the hamlet of Pike Hollow, and the farther he went, the more the things he was accustomed to seeing began to fall away. First went the summer camps with the fake Indian names and wooden signboards, invariably situated on the shores of lakes. Next went such tourist attractions as the curio shops offering lynx tails and arrowheads and other backwoods bric-a-brac. Then, even the establishments that catered to the locals began to vanish: gas stations; ATV and snowmobile repair shops; turnouts for private logging roads. Past Sevey he left Route 3 for 3A, a narrow road that plunged still farther westward, into a pine forest so deep the overhanging branches formed a kind of woven tunnel, beneath which a perpetual evening reigned. The air became increasingly humid and moist. This road was in far worse repair, its blacktop so cracked and heaved that sections of it could barely be called paved. Passing cars were infrequent. As the reception bars on his cell phone disappeared one by one, Logan became aware of a vague sense of apprehension: if anything should happen to his Lotus Elan S4, he doubted that there was a mechanic within a hundred miles capable of repairing, let alone finding parts for, the fifty-year-old sports car.
But there was another component to his growing feeling of apprehension—the forest itself. It gave the impression of being almost immeasurably old; he felt that he could pull onto the shoulder at any point, walk off into the trees, and within minutes—if he wasn’t already lost—be where no human being had set foot before. The growing lack of human habitation was somehow unsettling. Logan felt almost like an intruder here: a tiny, insignificant intruder, to be tolerated perhaps but given no comfort or assistance. He recalled the lines of an old English ghost story, set in a remote Canadian wilderness: The bleak splendours of these remote and lonely forests overwhelmed him with the sense of his own littleness. That stern quality of the tangled backwood which can only be described as merciless and terrible, rose out of these far blue woods swimming upon the horizon, and revealed itself. He understood the silent warning. He realized his own utter helplessness.
A sudden bend in the road, and Pike Hollow was upon him: a one-street town leading north off 3A, home to eight hundred inhabitants according to the faded road sign, surrounded on all sides by dark, rising forest as if built into the bowl of an inverted snow globe. Here, at least, there was a small degree of civilization: shops, houses, a diner, their facades all pushed up close against the road as if grasping at a life preserver. His roadster received the occasional curious look as he drove slowly through town. This was no tourist destination, as the decrepitude of many buildings and the obvious lack of affluence made clear. Here and there, narrow lanes led off the main street, inevitably ending in a huddle of sad-looking residences hard up against the encircling forest. He glanced over his shoulder, past the buildings toward the south, to the unbroken wall of trees. A few miles away, he knew, lay the Five Ponds Wilderness. And beyond that, Desolation Lake—and the site of the two murders.
He made a circuit of the town—an undertaking that took up less than ten minutes—and then pulled over to a spot near where he’d first entered and killed the engine, considering how best to proceed. This was a task he’d done many times before—entering an unfamiliar town with the intent of prizing information out of locals who might or might not be eager to talk—and he had developed a number of roles through which to accomplish it. He considered, then rejected, posing as a tourist—a tourist wouldn’t ask the kind of questions he was going to. He also rejected impersonating a potential real estate buyer: it didn’t seem particularly credible, and besides, people would be unlikely to talk about unpleasant subjects to someone who might bring money into the town. In the end he settled on the guise of nature photographer. This not only gave him a believable motive for being so far off the beaten track, but it gave him reason to ask a lot of questions under the pretense of seeking colorful locations to shoot. And a photographer wouldn’t likely be scared off by rumors of evil deeds: in fact, they might arouse his professional curiosity.
He reached into the glove compartment, pulled out a pair of heavy tortoiseshell glasses, and put the
m on, just on the off chance he might be recognized. Then, getting out of the car, he opened the boot and rummaged among various disguises and props, at last pulling out a suitably faded photographer’s vest and a Nikon SLR with a telephoto lens: the camera wasn’t in working order, but since it was only for effect it had been much cheaper to purchase that way. He shrugged into the vest, slipped the camera strap over one shoulder, and prepared to make his way down the main street.
Pike Hollow had no police force of its own, so Logan had to content himself with speaking to a variety of shop owners. He dropped in first at a barber, where—although he didn’t need one—he got a haircut from a fellow named Sam, who, it seemed, lived only to catch fish with a fly rod on the Ausable River. Next, he visited the town’s sole restaurant, where he had an early lunch, served by a talkative waitress. This was followed by a stop at a dry goods store, where after a lengthy conversation with the proprietor he purchased a pair of socks that he could at least justify to himself, since (the merchant told him) a cold snap was in the forecast.
Each stop provided him with additional information, which he was then able to leverage in future stops to gain still more information. While the townspeople were obviously concerned about the recent backpacker deaths, they did not seem to be particularly shy about discussing them. And the more he learned about the town and the area, and the more he could pass himself off as a knowledgeable visitor, the more people seemed to open up. After each stop, he took out a notebook, made entries on what he had learned, and cross-correlated any common threads.
One thread in particular seemed to crop up in every conversation.
Finally, around half past three, he walked into Fred’s Hideaway, a bar at the far end of town. It was, as he’d hoped, empty save for Fred. Logan ordered a beer, surmising it was the beverage he could nurse the longest while engaging the bartender in conversation. All beers were bottled—there was nothing on tap—nor were there any imported brands. Logan chose a Michelob Light.