Another pause. “But Jeremy…before you abandon this and go back to your research full-time, would you do me one last favor?”
“What is it?” Logan asked guardedly.
“Would you take a trip out with me tomorrow morning to speak with Saul Woden?”
“Saul Woden?” Logan repeated. The name sounded familiar—and then he remembered where he’d heard it: from Krenshaw, during the briefing at the ranger station. This wasn’t the work of an animal, and it sure as hell wasn’t the work of a monster. In fact, I’ve got a pretty good idea who’s responsible.
“I’ve had a chance to look into this Woden,” Jessup said. “Turns out he savagely murdered two people twenty-five years before—down in the Catskills, not around here—was found not guilty by reason of insanity, and was sentenced to the mental institution outside Schoharie. He was paroled a year ago. The state declared him rehabilitated. Now he lives alone outside Big Moose, a hamlet about forty miles away from you, on the edge of the Raven Lake Wilderness.”
“What good would my talking to him do?” Logan said, but even as he asked the question he guessed the answer.
“Because…I want to know your take on the man. Could he possibly be our killer? Can I get behind Krenshaw and his official suspicion? I just need to know I can put this gut feeling of mine aside, once and for all.”
Logan sighed. He’d done so much already—he might as well do this one last thing. “Very well. But you understand that, after this, I’m done. I’ve got a date with the Middle Ages.”
“Fair enough.”
“Can you meet me out at the main entrance again? And can you make it early, say before breakfast? The last thing I need is to have Hartshorn see me heading out with you.”
“I’ll be there at six thirty.”
“Okay. And Randall? Whether this fellow Woden is rehabilitated or not, you will be bringing your sidearm with you—right?”
“Wouldn’t have it any other way. See you in the morning.” And with that, the phone went dead.
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.”