Full Wolf Moon

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 not 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?”

“Thank you.”

Albright sat down again and took a pull from the bottle. “Now, maybe you can tell me just how you became a… what was that term they used in the documentary?”

“Enigmalogist. Well, in my case you start by reading every ghost story you can get your hands on when you’re very young and warp your mind in the process. Then you supplement that with Stranger Than Science. And then you start actively searching out real-life enigmas. It wasn’t anything I planned, really — I just fell into it.” Logan shrugged. “A hundred years ago, there were lots of sensational mysteries written about ghost-breakers and occult detectives and the like. Today, it’s kind of a specialized field.”

Albright nodded, took another sip of beer.

Logan had made up his mind to be a little coy with the poet, but realized he was dealing with a shrewd, intelligent man and that the best course would probably be to level with him. “I’ll tell you exactly why I’m here. A friend of mine — a forest ranger — heard that I was staying at Cloudwater. He asked me to look into the recent deaths of the two backpackers over by Desolation Mountain. He doesn’t seem convinced by the official account that the two men were killed by bears.”

Albright nodded again. He didn’t look surprised.

“I’ve talked to the residents of the nearby town, Pike Hollow. They don’t believe bears were at fault, either. They seem to blame the Blakeney clan. And — I’ve been told — they believe the Blakeneys are… well… werewolves.”

Albright’s expression didn’t change. He merely studied the label on his beer bottle.

“And then I heard about you. You were somebody who had grown up here, an Adirondacks native, knew the backwoods like the palm of your hand. But you’d also lived away long enough to gain some objectivity.” Logan hesitated. “In my field, I’m supposed to keep an open mind about everything. But to be honest, I’m having a difficult time wrapping my head around this. Werewolves… Anyway, I just wanted to know what your opinion was.”

“My opinion.” Albright put the bottle of beer on the floor beside his chair. “I guess I can sum that up easily enough, too. Logan, I can understand your skepticism. I’ve heard some pretty outrageous tales myself in the twenty years since I’ve moved back. But I’ll tell you something — something you may already know, given your particular line of work. Many times, legends — no matter how outlandish they sound — have a grounding in reality. And in a place as remote and old as the Adirondacks, it may well be that there are phenomena that cold, twenty-first-century rationality can’t fully explain — or even comprehend.”

“In other words, just because I think the opinion of the locals is outlandish, that doesn’t mean I should ignore it.”

Albright nodded.

“What about you? Do you believe the Blakeneys are responsible? Do you believe they could possibly be werewolves?”

Albright chuckled. Then he shook his head, spread his hands. “In the backwoods of the Adirondacks, Dr. Logan, there’s history — and then there’s mystery. I think I’ll get you that beer, after all.”

Two hours later, just as the sun was setting and darkness crept over the woods, Logan said good-bye to Albright and got into his rented Jeep. Unable to get any further answers out of the man, Logan had continued chatting with him anyway, and soon found that — beneath the gruff, even coarse exterior — lay an intellect both keen and highly observant. It was interesting, he thought as he started the engine and pulled back onto Route 3A, how different the fellow was from Jessup. A lot of this, he supposed, could be traced to the fact that Albright was a true mountain man, who had grown up deep in the Adirondacks and who, despite his mother’s attempt to get him a “real education,” had clearly never lost the backwoods skills — or, in some ways, the outlook — ingrained in him by his father. Jessup, on the other hand, had spent his childhood in outlying Plattsburgh. The difference could be summed up in the ways the two men viewed nature. Jessup, the Ivy League philosopher, looked at it through Thoreauvian eyes: a cosmic leveler of humanity, something one could hold up as a mirror to the way we should live and view our fellow man. Albright, on the other hand, seemed to look at it in much the way his father must have: something to be experienced and enjoyed, but also an elemental force to be respected… and, when necessary, feared.

Just at that moment, his cell phone rang. Logan plucked it from his pocket. “Yes?”

“Jeremy?” came the faint, crackly voice. “It’s Randall. Where are you?”

“I’m driving back to Cloudwater.”

“I’ve been trying to get ahold of you for the last fifteen minutes. How soon will you be there?”

“I guess I was out of cell reception. Less than half an hour. Why?”

“There’s been another killing.”

Logan felt himself grip the phone tighter. “Like the others?”

“Apparently so. I’m heading there now. Step on it — I’ll pick you up on my way past.” The connection went dead.

Logan slipped the phone thoughtfully back into his pocket. Then he glanced out the window, looking skyward through the thick tangle of tree branches. A full moon, bloated and pale yellow, stared back at him, unblinking.