Full Wolf Moon

16

“So what have you learned about this Saul Woden, exactly?” Logan asked at last. They had been driving for the past hour, and conversation had been sporadic. Jessup seemed on edge, and Logan could well understand: he, too, felt a sense of agitation, as if they were heading toward something best left alone, and already more than once he’d regretted agreeing to this visit.

“I reread the file last night,” the ranger replied. “It’s there between the seats if you want to take a look.”

“I’d rather hear it from you.”

“Woden grew up in a remote section of the Catskills. To say he was imperfectly socialized is putting it mildly. He was brutalized by his parents, especially his father, who left when Woden was about seven. The child had emotional problems that were mistaken for a learning disability — his mother apparently hated him for it and, once he reached puberty, no longer bothered trying to see to his education and, in fact, basically kicked him out of the house. He spent most of his time alone in the woods, where his condition worsened. Finally, when he was twenty, he killed two people with an ax — chopped them almost to bits. One was a young man, a backpacker, who happened across the little lean-to Woden had fashioned for himself. This happened during a full moon. The other was a girl of seventeen, who had a job at a Laundromat in a nearby village and was biking home after work. This was four days later, in the early evening, when the moon was waning. When caught — he didn’t try to resist arrest — Woden raved about being persecuted, about the voices that whispered to him in the night, about the two he’d killed being ‘dark saints’ come to steal his soul.”

“Delusions of persecution,” Logan said. “Auditory hallucinations. Sounds like a paranoid schizophrenic.”

“That was the conclusion of the state. He was found not guilty by reason of insanity and committed to a downstate institution. As I already told you, he was released on parole about a year ago. He was monitored carefully during the parole period and adjudged to be rehabilitated. That was when he moved out into the wilderness — six months ago.”

And wilderness it was, Logan thought. From Tupper Lake, they had struck out southwest and, eventually, entered a kind of forest he had never experienced before. The trunks of the trees grew remarkably thick and gnarled, twisted and bent as if arthritic; what leaves remained on the skeletal branches were almost black in color. They were primarily deciduous, with only a few of the tall, stately, pleasantly scented pines that were so common around Cloudwater. Every now and then, a bog or lake could be seen between the trunks: brackish and sullen-looking, dark as the lowering trees that surrounded it. He saw no signs of habitation, and they passed only one vehicle — a decrepit Ford pickup, vintage 1950. The road was worse than even the ones he’d traveled over on the way to Pike Hollow, and Jessup’s truck rattled and shook as if any moment it might fly apart.

“Where exactly are we?” Logan asked.

“Raven Lake Wilderness.”

The cab of the truck fell into another extended silence.

“How is it that you didn’t know of this man’s coming into the region?” Logan asked at length. “I’d have thought that would come under the category of news.”

“His prison time, his parole, all took place far to the south of here. When his parole term was up, he came north — quietly. It was as if he wanted to get as far away from people, and civilization, as possible. But as a felon, he had to register his current address with the parole board. I guess Krenshaw’s downstate cronies must have alerted him. The state police knew, but we didn’t. Don’t forget — us rangers are spread pretty thin. There are only about a hundred of us to cover the entire state. We can’t know everything, be everywhere.”

“Speaking of being everywhere, how’s the search coming?”

Jessup grimaced. “Terrible. We’ve called in rangers from four separate zones. And we’ve found nothing — no bears, no wolves, no clues. We’ll be calling it off in a day or two — otherwise, I think we’d have a mutiny on our hands.”

“I assume Krenshaw has spoken to Woden himself?”

“A couple of times. Apparently the interviews didn’t go very well. He’s still suspect number one. At this point, Krenshaw’s just waiting him out, hoping he’ll try something again.”

Up ahead, in the distance, a state police vehicle became visible in the woven tangle of trees. “We must be close,” Jessup said. “Get down onto the floor.”

“Why?”

“Krenshaw’s put a cordon around Woden’s place. But not too close — he probably knows that would agitate the man. I’d rather not have Krenshaw find out I’ve brought you here.”

Logan did as requested. He felt the truck creep forward, then stop.

“Morning, Officer,” he heard Jessup say.

“Lieutenant,” came the clipped reply from outside and below.

“How far ahead is he?”

“Quarter mile. Just around the bend.”

“The captain has one or two questions she wants me to put to Woden. Don’t worry, nothing that will alarm him. I’ll only be a few minutes. Will you keep a watch here? I’ll let you know if I need you.”

“Will do.”

“Thanks.” And with that the truck eased forward again. As Logan crouched on the floor, the jouncing of the vehicle was even more pronounced. He felt the truck go around a bend, hit a particularly deep rut, then come to a halt.

“We’re here,” Jessup said. “You can get out.”

Logan eased himself up, then opened the door and stepped out. At first, he saw nothing but a veritable whirlwind of trees, shrubs, and bracken surrounding the vehicle. And then he made out, against the riot of brown and black, a cavelike hut, its interior seemingly pulled by hand out of the all-encompassing blowdowns, the way a rodent might pull moss and verdure from a hollow tree stump in order to make a nest. A single low wall of rotting, unpainted two-by-fours made up both a facade and a prop against the collapse of the broken limbs that formed the ceiling. Beyond the truck, Logan could see the “road”—barely a grassy path at this point — curving away into the dimness.

Jessup gave Logan a nod — of both caution and encouragement — checked his weapon, then moved forward. Logan followed.

Reaching the front door — sagging in its jambs, with leather thongs for hinges — Jessup raised a hand to knock. But Logan stopped him, stepped forward himself, and gave a single rap.

“Mr. Woden?” he asked. “Saul Woden?”

There was no response from inside.

“My name’s Logan. Jeremy Logan. I’m not with the police. I just want five minutes of your time.”

Still nothing.

“You see, Saul, I need help — and I think that maybe you can help me. Would you let me in for just a moment? Please?”

For a minute, there was no response. Then a rattling sounded from inside and the door opened a crack. Two eyes like glowing coals peered out from the darkness.

“I’m Jeremy,” Logan repeated. “Could I come in for just a minute? I won’t stay long, I promise.”

The man hesitated. Then he opened the door wider. Logan stepped in, nodding deferentially as he did so. Jessup followed.

Saul Woden was short, but very powerfully built. He had a matted beard and hair that spilled down around his shoulders. His most prominent features were his eyes: bright, skittish. They widened in alarm when they saw the ranger enter. He was dressed in clothes that were old and worn nearly to tatters, but quite clean. The same could not be said for his dwelling: as his eyes adjusted to the dimness, Logan saw that a wattle-and-daub roof had been fashioned into the blowdown over their heads, and more two-by-fours had been used for walls to the left and right. A kerosene lamp hung from a wooden peg set into the ceiling, which grew lower toward the rear of the single room, until at the back one had to stoop to move around. There was a mattress, torn and frayed and without a blanket. An unpleasant odor lingered in the air. Along one wall, countless tins of food had been stacked almost to the ceiling. Two sawn stumps of wood, one larger than the other, made up the only things that could be considered furniture. It was like Jessup said: Woden had deliberately tried to remove himself from all semblance of civilization.

A number of bottles of clozapine — some empty, others not yet opened — lay scattered around the floor.

“What do you want?” Woden said. “I ain’t done nothing.”

“I know that,” Logan said calmly. “Can we just sit for a minute?” And he indicated the stumps of wood.

“I ain’t done nothing,” Woden repeated. “Those police already been bothering me. I ain’t done nothing!”

His voice had grown shrill during this short recitation, and the eyes wider, the whites bulging. Logan realized he had very little time to accomplish what they’d come for.

“I’m a researcher,” he said in the same soothing tones. He took a seat on one of the rough stumps. “I investigate past events. I’m not here about any of those police matters.”

He already sensed that he’d get nothing out of Woden regarding the recent killings, whether the man was responsible for them or not. All he could hope for was a reading of the man’s psyche, a small window into his inner soul.

Now, slowly and suspiciously, Woden sat down on the other stump. His eyes darted nervously toward Jessup once or twice, who stood close to the doorway, arms at his sides, maintaining a nonthreatening posture, hands holding nothing more than his omnipresent notebook.

“Saul,” Logan said, “I know what you did. But that was a long time ago. And you’re better now. You’ve been cured. You’re taking medication. I’m not here to judge you. I’m just here to… to understand. I have a certain ability to do that, you see.” He chose his words carefully, knowing Woden had suffered a persecution complex. “And maybe I can even help you. I just need a single favor. May I take hold of one of your hands?”

Woden jerked in surprise. His hands curled into fists.

“It helps me understand the person I’m speaking to. This way, I won’t have to ask any questions, and you won’t have to say a thing. Not a thing. I know it might sound strange, but trust me.” And then, slowly, he held out one hand, palm open and upraised.

Logan’s soothing, unmodulated voice, his slow gestures, had the effect he intended. Although he still looked nervous, Woden’s fists relaxed. Slowly — as if approaching something very hot — he put one hand forward. Logan noticed that although the hand itself was clean, there was considerable dirt beneath the fingernails.

Logan took the hand gently between his own. “Now, Saul, I’m going to ask you one last favor — just one. And then I’ll go, and I won’t bother you again. I want you to think back — in your own way — on those bad things you did.”

Woden’s expression grew alarmed, and he tried to pull back his hand. But Logan restrained him, gently but firmly. “Just think back for a moment. What happened — and why.”

Woden was looking at him. And suddenly, Logan was filled with a wave of emotion so powerful it almost pushed him off his chair. He was flooded with fear: there was nobody he could trust; everyone around him wished him harm; there was no rest, not even in sleep; and the voices would never leave him — those whispering voices that at times taunted him, at times warned him, at times commanded him. A psychological desolation, a kind of existential despair such as he’d never experienced, pierced Logan to the core. The voices grew louder, more insistent; as if from a great distance he saw an ax, became aware of its reassuring, comforting weight in his hands — there was sudden, involuntary action, a series of ragged screams, and then the voices swelled in jubilation before subsiding into silence. But all too quickly, they began their chanting murmur again — and the darkness once again rushed to embrace him….

For the first time he could remember, Logan snatched his hand away in the midst of an empathetic encounter. Unwillingly, he looked at Woden. The man was staring back. The alarm had left his eyes, and instead there was a strange, almost intimate look in them, as if they had passed on a secret; as if a part of Woden was now part of Logan, and would never leave him.

Shakily, Logan got to his feet. “Thank you,” he managed. “We’ll leave you now.”

He stumbled in the doorway, and Jessup helped him back into the truck, had him crouch once again until they had passed the state policeman. Then the ranger stopped the car, raised Logan into his seat, and strapped him in.

All the way back to Cloudwater, Jessup knew enough to say nothing, keeping quiet while Logan recovered and marshaled his thoughts. Just before the entrance to Cloudwater, he pulled the truck onto the shoulder and looked at his friend in mute inquiry.

Logan returned the look. “I’ll tell you what I experienced,” he said. “But only once. Please don’t ask me to talk of it again. It will be hard enough to forget as it is.”

Jessup nodded.

“I sensed overwhelming fear. I sensed a very sick mind. I sensed violence — savage violence. But that violence seemed… old to me. Still very much alive in his mind — but old.”

“Could Woden have committed these three murders?” Jessup asked quietly.

“I don’t know. I wouldn’t rule it out. As I said, I didn’t sense anything that felt recent — that he was killing in the present. But there was so much violence in his past there’s no way for me to be sure. He may well have been rehabilitated, as the state says. Clearly they believe he’s no longer capable of murder, or they wouldn’t have paroled him. But I believe he’s capable… and dangerous.”

Jessup nodded again. Then he sighed. “Thank you, Jeremy — for everything, but especially for this. If I’d known how much of an ordeal it would be, I’d never have asked. Maybe Krenshaw’s right, after all. In any case, that will be my assumption, going forward. Can I drive you in?”

“No, thanks. I’d rather walk, if it’s all the same to you.”

“Sure. I’ll call you in a few days. We’ll have you over for dinner again — and no shoptalk, I promise.”

“Okay.” And Logan got out of the truck, waited for it to disappear down the road, then began making his way down the lane to Cloudwater.