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.
11
Logan had grabbed a duffel bag from his cabin and met Jessup out at the entrance to Cloudwater, eager to avoid offering its residents the spectacle of an official vehicle with a flashing lightbar. Jessup drove fast down the twisting highway, headlights stabbing into the unrelieved darkness. Infrequently, a small blur of habitation would shoot past the windows. In the indirect dashboard illumination, the ranger’s face was set in a grim mask. He turned down one dirt road, and then another, and Logan quickly grew disoriented by the walls of dark trunks flashing past, the canopy of branches overhead. The cabin of the vehicle was silent save for the occasional squawk of the police radio.
“Where was the body found?” Logan asked at last.
“Near Sand Creek. A hunter found it, traveling along a private inholding on an ATV.”
“Backpacker?”
“I don’t know.”
“Near Desolation Mountain?”
“Closer. Five Ponds Wilderness, maybe four miles from Pike Hollow.”
Now Jessup turned off the road onto something that could barely be called a trail, the heavy truck bouncing and floundering wildly over exposed roots and deep ruts, pushing tall grass and saplings out of the way. Ahead, Logan could make out a faint, flickering glow.
And then, quite suddenly, the forest gave way to a clearing. Just before them was a cluster of vehicles—state police cars, Forest Preserve trucks, an ambulance—parked in a rough semicircle, engines running, headlights converging on a single spot. Jessup slowed, then pulled in beside the closest vehicle.
“Stay in the background,” he told Logan. “But keep your eyes and ears open.”