“It’s a herd path of sorts,” Albright said. “He’s been this way before.”
Now they entered a dense section of woods literally choked with pines. Logan forced his way forward, following Albright, who had slowed slightly in order not to lose Feverbridge’s track. The heavy pine needles scraped along Logan’s limbs as he pushed through them. Once, Albright lost the trail and they had to backtrack until he found it again. The pine forest descended into a muddy gully, which they splashed through before climbing the far bank. Suddenly, they broke free of the forest and found themselves on the remains of an ancient railroad, small trees growing up from between its rotting ties. It ran left and right, rails rusted and half covered in weeds, the screen of trees encroaching on both sides.
“What is this?” Logan asked, panting for breath.
“Private railroad,” Albright answered. “Rail was once the primary mode of transport, both for passengers and freight. Back in the late nineteenth century, there were dozens of operators. Died out in the thirties with the automobile. I think this was the Adirondack and Lake Champlain.” He knelt over the crumbling tracks, which shone an eerie yellow in the moonlight. “Look,” he said, pointing to a pair of ragged, muddy footprints. “They’re heading west, toward Desolation Mountain.” He took some of the mud between his fingers, rubbed it carefully. “This has been here less than five minutes. Seems like we’re gaining on him.”
“That hardly seems likely—” Logan began, but Albright was already running down the tracks, his rifle—slung over his back—bouncing crazily between his shoulder blades.
Logan dashed after him. Albright had at least twenty-five years on him, but nevertheless he found it hard to keep up. Jogging along the abandoned rail line proved more difficult than he’d expected: the ties were spaced at just the wrong distance for running, and the interstices were full of brambles, weeds, and treacherous sinkholes.
The muddy tracks grew fainter, and Albright slowed accordingly, but he did not stop. Now and then he would lance his torch left or right, shining it over the unbroken flanks of forest that threatened to engulf the line.
After about a quarter of a mile, Albright came to a dead halt. He shone his torch around more slowly and carefully, scanning the dark woods. “There,” he said after a minute, pointing to the left side of the tracks toward a stand of American beech. Logan had no idea what Albright had picked up, but he dutifully followed the man as he went tearing into the woods. Up ahead, he thought he could faintly make out the sound of crashing. His grip tightened around the handgun. He wondered for a moment what they would do if they caught up with Feverbridge—and then, almost immediately, he realized he already knew.
They scaled a height of land, then came out into a tiny clearing, ringed on all sides by beech. Ahead, rising above bare branches maybe half a mile away, was another fire tower—but unlike the one at the research site, this one appeared to be intact. It was a vast metal skeleton, perhaps two hundred feet tall, with a covered room at the top and a fire-escape-style ladder that switchbacked up its center from bottom to top. But Albright had taken off again, and Logan could not pause to examine it further.
“Phelps Fire Observation Station,” Albright said over his shoulder. “Abandoned, of course.”
Crossing the clearing, the moon above them bright with a surrounding swath of clouds, they entered the woods on the far side. Logan could no longer hear any sound ahead. Despite the occasional slowdown or false lead, he was truly impressed by Albright’s knowledge of woodcraft. Whether through the tutelage of his father, Nahum Blakeney, his own youthful experience, or a combination of all three, he was somehow able to follow a trail that, to Logan, looked invisible.
The stand of beech gave way once again to pine, even thicker than before. “Strange,” Albright said, stopping to examine a newly broken branch at shoulder height, fragrant with sap. “He’s circling around to the south. It’s almost as if he’s doubling back—”
And at just that moment there came a sudden burst of sound to their right; the pine trees shook violently; and a creature of nightmare exploded out of the forest and onto them.
38
Laura Feverbridge stood in the doorway of the hidden lab. For a moment, she gathered herself to run after the others, but she remained immobile; it was as if the shocks of the last several minutes had left her paralyzed. She heard the sound of running footsteps, quickly receding; the squeal of brakes; a brief, urgent conversation—and then, silence.
Now, slowly, she turned around and walked back into the main room of the lab. Logan’s insinuations—accusations—were crazy. She had worked with her father for months, trying to reverse the effects of the serum. True, most of the work had been done by her father—that was necessary, since she had to maintain a presence in the primary lab during the day, with the two lab assistants—but she’d seen enough of his work, helped with enough of it. He couldn’t, wouldn’t, deceive her—not after the sacrifices she’d made for him.
“Father,” she murmured. “What have they done to you?”
At first, her steps had been slow, faltering, like a sleepwalker’s, as she wandered aimlessly from table to table. But the more she thought about this awful turn of events, the more agitated her movements became. What to do? What to do?
There had to be something she could do.
This was the worst development imaginable. She’d trusted Logan, let him in on their secret…and he had betrayed her. Worse, he’d betrayed her father. God knew what he would do with that knowledge. But there was one thing she was certain of: these kind of gross accusations, on top of all the scorn her father had endured already, would have the worst possible effect on him.
As she paced, her eye fell on the door to his private room—the room where he did his own research, where she was forbidden to go.
She stopped. Of course. There would be proof in there; proof that he was doing his best to undo the dreadful affliction he was suffering, that this talk of his efforts being nothing but pretense was the vilest kind of slander.