“How can I help you, exactly?” Pace asked.
“I’m a fellow scientist,” Logan said. “Staying at Cloudwater—in the Thomas Cole cabin, as it happens—putting the finishing touches on a paper. I heard about your outpost, here in the middle of nowhere, and curiosity got the better of me.”
“Okay,” the young man said. Logan had already sensed he was withdrawn, timid, not one to readily volunteer information.
“I also wanted to express my condolences about the death of your coworker. How terrible.”
Pace nodded.
“He was a fellow researcher, I understand?”
“Yes.”
“And have you been here long?”
“About eight months. We were hired to work for Dr. Feverbridge.”
“Feverbridge?” Logan asked. “Chase Feverbridge?”
Pace nodded again. He was looking more closely—and curiously—at Logan.
Logan had heard a little about Feverbridge. He was a brilliant, if highly iconoclastic, naturalist, independently wealthy enough to work on whatever subjects interested him most and to fund his own research. As Logan recalled, he was rather infamous for his skepticism of traditional scientific beliefs.
“One moment,” Pace said. Sudden recognition had flashed in those calflike brown eyes. “Did you say your name was Logan?”
“That’s right.”
“Dr. Jeremy Logan?”
“Right again.”
Pace took a deep breath. “Dr. Logan, excuse me for saying so, but I don’t think I should be talking to you anymore about our lab. In fact, I shouldn’t even have allowed you in. That’s up to Laura to decide.”
“Laura?” Logan asked.
At that moment, the door to the building opened and a woman stood framed in the entrance—tall, about thirty, with hazel eyes and high cheekbones: the woman in the photograph. She was wearing a Barbour jacket, and the wind had tousled her blond hair across her face and shoulders.
She looked from one man to the other. “I’m Laura Feverbridge,” she told Logan in a musical contralto. “May I help you?”
“This is Jeremy Logan,” Pace said. He hesitated a moment. “I, ah, I’m going to open those packages that arrived yesterday and store them in the equipment shed.”
And with that he stepped out of the lab, leaving Logan with a woman he assumed was Dr. Feverbridge’s daughter.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Logan?” Laura Feverbridge asked.
“First, let me say how sorry I am for the loss of your coworker. And no, I’m not in any way affiliated with the police.”
Laura Feverbridge nodded. Logan took a step closer to her. He sensed uncertainty; shock; cautiousness; and deep, abiding sadness.
“I’ll be frank with you. There are people here in the Adirondacks who think the three recent deaths—including that of your assistant, Artowsky—are not only tragic, but highly unusual. I’ve been asked, in an unofficial capacity, to look into them. I know this is probably not a good moment for you, but I wonder if you could spare just a few minutes of your time—and that of your father’s as well, if it isn’t asking too much.”
As Logan spoke, the woman’s eyes first widened, then narrowed again. “My father is dead.”
“Oh,” Logan replied, shocked. “I’m so sorry. I hadn’t heard.”
Laura Feverbridge hesitated for a moment. She blinked, drew the hair away from her eyes with one finger. Then she nodded toward the door. “Come on,” she said. “We can talk out there.”
14
They sat on rough wooden benches set parallel to the front door of the lab. Laura Feverbridge looked off into the woods, her hands clenched together.
“Again, I’m sorry to hear of your father’s passing,” Logan said. “The world has lost a brilliant naturalist.”
“Actually, he held doctorates in both biochemistry and the natural sciences, and when he was younger lectured on both disciplines. But you’re right—naturalism was always his first love.”
This was followed by a short silence.
“What can you tell me about Artowsky?” Logan asked.
“I’ve already told the police just about everything,” she said. “Mark was the most dedicated graduate student and lab assistant you could want. He was friendly, knowledgeable, interested in our work.”
“His body was found about six miles north of here. Do you know how he happened to be so far from the lab?”
“Mark was a city boy his entire life. Queens born and bred. We were worried how he’d adapt to such a remote and isolated location. But ironically, he took to it with relish. Almost too much relish. He developed a love of hiking, but he wasn’t very good at directions or orienteering. Twice he wandered off down unmarked trails and got lost overnight. Had to be rescued by rangers.” At this, Laura Feverbridge managed a wintry smile.
“Did he have any enemies?”
“No. No enemies, no scientific rivals—certainly nobody here.”
“Had he struck up relationships with any of the locals?”
“None of us have. We go into Saranac Lake twice a month to stock up on supplies and pick up packages at the post office. Otherwise, we keep to ourselves.”
“If you had to guess what happened to Artowsky, what would you say?”
“That he’d wandered off again—and this time, ended up in the wrong place at the wrong time. They say it was the work of a bear—or maybe a feral wolf.” She shuddered at the thought. “How horrible.”
“Yes, it was. Horrible—and tragic.” Logan paused. “Dr. Feverbridge, have you ever been to Pike Hollow?”
“No.”
“Ever heard of a family called the Blakeneys?”
“No. These sound an awful lot like the questions the police asked. Are you sure you’re not affiliated with them?”
“Quite the opposite. To be honest, Dr. Feverbridge, they wouldn’t want me poking around like this.”
“Then why are you?”
“It’s like I said. There are members of the Adirondack community—responsible members—who have questions, reservations, about the nature of the deaths of the two backpackers, killed in a remote region several miles from here. I’m afraid that their reservations will extend to the death of Mr. Artowsky, as well.”
“And just why did they ask you to look into it?”
“Let’s say that my job is to examine things that lie beyond the scope of normal investigations—police or otherwise.”
Laura Feverbridge did not respond to this. Instead, still looking off toward the woods, she gave a low whistle. Almost immediately, two Weimaraners, sleek and muscular, appeared from behind an outbuilding. They capered in front of the scientist, panting and whining, until she picked up a stick and threw it out toward the edge of the clearing. The two ran after it, barking excitedly.
“Beautiful dogs,” Logan said.
“Thanks. Toshi and Mischa. They’re almost like my own children.”