Full Wolf Moon

8

Logan pulled up in front of Jessup’s small, tidy wood-frame home at a few minutes after seven. It was pleasantly situated on a small pond, just a mile outside the lively, tourist-friendly town of Saranac Lake. The setting felt worlds away from Pike Hollow, with its sense of remote desolation amid an unending universe of dark malignant forest.

The house was decorated as Logan had expected: simple, Craftsman-style furniture; framed landscapes by local painters; a coffee table littered with the odd dichotomy of philosophical journals and magazines devoted to outdoor living. Over an excellent dinner of boeuf bourguignon and scalloped potatoes with raclette, he became acquainted with Jessup’s pair of towheaded children and Suzanne, a lovely woman with an acerbic wit that Logan hadn’t expected. Before marrying Jessup, she had attended Radcliffe, then taught at the Friends Seminary, the old, prestigious private school in Manhattan. Academically, she was clearly a good match for his old friend the philosopher-cum-ranger, and though Logan privately wondered if she found enough to keep her intellectually stimulated in this sleepy backwoods community, she apparently had her hands full homeschooling their kids as well as doing volunteer tutoring of disadvantaged children around the area.

Dinner finished, Logan declined a slice of red velvet cake and, coffee cup in hand, followed Jessup out onto the front porch, where they sat in the inevitable Adirondack chairs and looked out over the pond. The windows threw cheerful yellow stripes of light out across the lawn, and the night was alive with the drone of insects. A waxing moon, almost full, shed a pale illumination over the surrounding forest.

Jessup took a sip of coffee, then set the cup down on the broad arm of his chair. “So,” he said. “What did you think of Pike Hollow?”

“Wouldn’t be my first choice to retire to.”

Jessup smiled a little wryly. “Let me guess. The people you spoke with didn’t agree with the official conclusion that we’re dealing with a rogue bear.”

“No. They had their own ideas about the responsible party.”

“Let me guess once again — the Blakeney clan.”

“That’s right. I went to pay a visit on them before heading back. Got a twelve-gauge in the face for my trouble.”

“I wish you hadn’t gone there. You’re lucky that’s all you got.” Jessup was silent for a moment. “It’s my experience there’s a short list of reasons why people live within the park. The first is that they were born here, it’s all they know, and they have no desire or aspiration to move beyond it. The second is the tourist who comes here, falls in love, and either retires to the area or opens a shop or B and B or the like. Then there’s the third reason. It’s the person who doesn’t feel he fits in today’s society; that he is out of place, walking through life half asleep. People like that are drawn to the Adirondacks because, in Thoreau’s words, they want to live deliberately, to ‘front only the essential facts of life.’ ”

“ ‘The world is too much with us,’ ” Logan quoted. “ ‘Little we see in Nature that is ours.’ ”

“And Wordsworth had the right idea. But in any case, some people in this third group do tend to be a little crazy. Face it: one reason to live deep in the woods, away from other people, would be defective socialization. So, yes, as a ranger I’ve heard of many odd people living off by themselves in various degrees of rustication. Such people tend to attract speculation and rumor — it’s only natural.” He took a sip of his coffee. “But the Blakeneys are a special case.”

Logan remained silent, letting his old friend talk.

“I’ve known about them for years, of course, but it wasn’t until after the death of the second backpacker that I began actively looking into their history. People in Pike Hollow say they’ve always been there, and the official records show nothing to the contrary: their compound had already been in place for decades, at least, before the park’s founding in 1885. All the park officials leave them alone, perhaps fearing that a confrontation would lead to some Waco-like tragedy. Their compound has never been officially surveyed, but that entire section of woods southwest of Pike Hollow has been grandfathered to the clan. No assessment has ever been made or taxes levied.”

“I see.”

“Of course, the Pike Hollow residents view the Blakeneys with the most suspicion, living as close to them as they do. There have been reports that others have had some limited success in getting acquainted. But there is no doubt they are an inbred, secretive, and most likely paranoid extended family, whose isolation over so many years has led to a warped view of the outside world.” Jessup hesitated a moment before continuing. “Did any of the Pike Hollow people you spoke to talk of, ah, specifics?”

“Not really. The most they would do was lay the killings at the doorstep of the Blakeneys. The bar owner, Fred, said more than anybody.” Logan pulled out his notebook, consulted it for a moment. “He said they had lived in the woods too long. He said doing that changes a person. He claimed they stole babies for unknown rituals. And he said they had unnatural dealings with the animals of the deep forest — that they had, in his words, tainted blood.”

“Tainted blood,” Jessup murmured. “Jeremy, let me explain something to you. That’s about as far as you’d expect a citizen of Pike Hollow to open up to an outsider like yourself. But what they talk of among themselves is something else again. I know, because I’ve heard some of it.”

“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.