One building loomed over all—the vast, many-winged, gambrel-roofed structure whose upper stories he had previously seen from over the wall. It rose to his left, near the center of the cleared area, its back section close to the cliff face. It had been repaired, expanded, and remodeled so many times that it was impossible to guess its age or original design. One thing Logan was sure of: this sagging, lichen-encrusted building was the heart of the compound.
He had been staring, openmouthed. Now he realized that—silently, almost stealthily—a number of people had emerged from various places and approached them. They had formed a semicircle before Logan and Albright, with the man named Nahum at their center. They all wore similar dress—rude homespun, patched and stitched to the last degree. Logan counted over a dozen. They were of all ages, from aged matriarchs to sturdy middle-aged men to an infant, sleeping in the arms of a young woman.
Recollecting himself, Logan tried to reach out to this ragtag assortment with his mind; tried to understand the emotions they were feeling. He sensed, not surprisingly, suspicion. He also sensed independence, fierce familial loyalty—and confusion. But he sensed no feelings of violence; none of the baby-stealing, backpacker-murdering emotions that, for example, were all too evidently possible in the mind of a Saul Woden. No: the overriding emotion Logan became aware of here…was fear.
Quickly, he assembled a mental picture of the group that stood before him: a close-knit, if admittedly uncouth and backward, extended family—one that had endured hostility and suspicion from the locals for so many years that they had grown extremely withdrawn. It was this, he expected, that had prompted their repulsion of his initial visit.
But what surprised him most—what he could not understand—was the strong, almost overpowering feeling of fear he sensed from the assemblage. Fear: and the unwelcome anticipation of some dread if familiar event that, it seemed, was about to happen.
Nahum turned to the assemblage and made a few hand gestures. Most of the crowd—after more furtive, curious looks at Logan—began to disperse, shuffling off in this or that direction, disappearing into dark doorways or headed toward the cultivated fields. Only Nahum and two men remained behind. The other two were older than Nahum, but whether they included his father, brothers, uncles, or some less savory combination, Logan could not imagine. What was clear was that these three constituted the elders of the community.
Now Nahum gestured to a fire pit some twenty yards away, surrounded by a series of long benches fashioned out of split logs. The three men started toward it, Albright and Logan following. The elders sat down on one of the log seats, while the visitors took seats across from them. The three elders conversed together a moment in low tones. And then Nahum—apparently the appointed spokesman—pointed to the man on his left, whose beard was even longer than his own. “Aaron,” he said in his strange, rough accent. Then he pointed to the wizened, elderly figure seated on his right. “Esau.”
Logan placed his hand on his own breast. “Jeremy. Jeremy Logan.”
Albright spread his legs, placed his hands on his knees. “Nahum,” he said, “we’ve been acquaintances of sorts, ever since we were young folk.”
Nahum nodded.
“You know that I wouldn’t lie to you, or do anything to harm you, or any of your kin.”
Nahum nodded again.
“But the people of Pike Hollow feel differently. You know about the murders—and you can guess what the locals are saying about them.”
Nahum did not answer, but his face darkened. The old man named Esau spat into the dirt.
“And now—well, a park ranger has been murdered. And that’s changed everything. You’ve seen the police car parked at the end of your road?”
“We seen it,” said the man named Aaron in a voice as deep as a gravel pit. “For days, they tried to get inside. Hollered, used them things—what, bullhorns. We ignored ’em.”
“Well, when we went past about an hour ago, there was not one, but three cars. The head of the state troopers for these parts, a man named Krenshaw, aims to drive you out of here—one way or another. He’s not one for half measures. I fear things may come to harm.”
“What harm?” Nahum asked.
“I fear he’ll burn you out, if necessary. You’re the only suspects he’s got—and the law’s on his side.”
Looks of shock, dismay, and anger came over the three men. Once more, they huddled together, whispering among themselves.
“But Jeremy Logan, here,” Albright said, interrupting their confabulation, “he’s got experience in these matters. He’s seen a lot of unusual things in his time. He’s a well-known, influential man—and it may be that he can stop this cop Krenshaw.”
“How?” asked Nahum.
“I don’t know that yet. Not exactly. But it might be he could stall him from acting. Or maybe—just maybe—point him toward the real killer.”
All three men swiveled their eyes toward Logan.
“But you have to be honest with us. You have to answer a couple of questions.”
Another huddled murmuring. Then Nahum looked back at them. “What you want to know?”
“Tell us about the doctor. The old man.”
For a moment, the three men went still. “The…scientist fellow?” Nahum said. “The one with the white hair?”
“Yes. He came here, didn’t he?”
It took Nahum a moment to answer. “Yes.”
“How many times did he come?”
This time, it took Nahum even longer. “Twice.”
“And he asked a lot of questions. About your history. And about your clan. No doubt he’d been to Pike Hollow, heard the rumors.” He paused. “Why did you let him in? Agree to talk with him?”
“We needed money,” Aaron interjected. “For medicine. Penicillin. Rebekah had the chest fever awful bad. No poultice would help.”
“And Feverbridge—the scientist—offered you money.”
More nods.
“But he wanted something in return for the money—didn’t he? More than just history.”
The three remained silent.
“Didn’t he?” Albright pressed.
Finally, Nahum nodded reluctantly.
“What was it?”
For a moment, nobody moved. Then Nahum pantomimed the act of swabbing the inside of his mouth with a Q-tip.
“A DNA sample,” Logan murmured. Then, aloud: “Who among you did he swab?”
“Me,” said Nahum. “Esau. Ruth.”
“But those weren’t all, were they?” Albright asked. “Because by this time, you’d told him of the other. Right? After all, you needed the money—and Dr. Feverbridge, who no doubt had heard the rumors coming out of Pike Hollow, knew how to get information out of you.”
“No,” Nahum said, shaking his head.
“Oh, yes,” Albright pressed. “He wanted a swab from Zephraim, as well.”
The three elders exchanged glances. Watching, Logan sensed a sharp increase in both their fear and their reluctance to speak further.
“And you let him have it. You needed the money too badly to refuse. And he promised not to tell anyone.”
Nahum hung his head. After a moment, he nodded. “Didn’t hurt nobody. He said it was just for a test, like.”
“Who is Zephraim?” Logan whispered to Albright.
Albright leaned in toward him. “He’s the reason the Blakeneys are so afraid of the Pike Hollow locals—and why they won’t let any strangers inside their compound.”
Now Logan spoke up. “I need to meet Zephraim.”
Real alarm flashed between the three men across the fire pit. “No,” Nahum said. “You cain’t.”