“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.”