A sudden bend in the road, and Pike Hollow was upon him: a one-street town leading north off 3A, home to eight hundred inhabitants according to the faded road sign, surrounded on all sides by dark, rising forest as if built into the bowl of an inverted snow globe. Here, at least, there was a small degree of civilization: shops, houses, a diner, their facades all pushed up close against the road as if grasping at a life preserver. His roadster received the occasional curious look as he drove slowly through town. This was no tourist destination, as the decrepitude of many buildings and the obvious lack of affluence made clear. Here and there, narrow lanes led off the main street, inevitably ending in a huddle of sad-looking residences hard up against the encircling forest. He glanced over his shoulder, past the buildings toward the south, to the unbroken wall of trees. A few miles away, he knew, lay the Five Ponds Wilderness. And beyond that, Desolation Lake—and the site of the two murders.
He made a circuit of the town—an undertaking that took up less than ten minutes—and then pulled over to a spot near where he’d first entered and killed the engine, considering how best to proceed. This was a task he’d done many times before—entering an unfamiliar town with the intent of prizing information out of locals who might or might not be eager to talk—and he had developed a number of roles through which to accomplish it. He considered, then rejected, posing as a tourist—a tourist wouldn’t ask the kind of questions he was going to. He also rejected impersonating a potential real estate buyer: it didn’t seem particularly credible, and besides, people would be unlikely to talk about unpleasant subjects to someone who might bring money into the town. In the end he settled on the guise of nature photographer. This not only gave him a believable motive for being so far off the beaten track, but it gave him reason to ask a lot of questions under the pretense of seeking colorful locations to shoot. And a photographer wouldn’t likely be scared off by rumors of evil deeds: in fact, they might arouse his professional curiosity.
He reached into the glove compartment, pulled out a pair of heavy tortoiseshell glasses, and put them on, just on the off chance he might be recognized. Then, getting out of the car, he opened the boot and rummaged among various disguises and props, at last pulling out a suitably faded photographer’s vest and a Nikon SLR with a telephoto lens: the camera wasn’t in working order, but since it was only for effect it had been much cheaper to purchase that way. He shrugged into the vest, slipped the camera strap over one shoulder, and prepared to make his way down the main street.
Pike Hollow had no police force of its own, so Logan had to content himself with speaking to a variety of shop owners. He dropped in first at a barber, where—although he didn’t need one—he got a haircut from a fellow named Sam, who, it seemed, lived only to catch fish with a fly rod on the Ausable River. Next, he visited the town’s sole restaurant, where he had an early lunch, served by a talkative waitress. This was followed by a stop at a dry goods store, where after a lengthy conversation with the proprietor he purchased a pair of socks that he could at least justify to himself, since (the merchant told him) a cold snap was in the forecast.
Each stop provided him with additional information, which he was then able to leverage in future stops to gain still more information. While the townspeople were obviously concerned about the recent backpacker deaths, they did not seem to be particularly shy about discussing them. And the more he learned about the town and the area, and the more he could pass himself off as a knowledgeable visitor, the more people seemed to open up. After each stop, he took out a notebook, made entries on what he had learned, and cross-correlated any common threads.
One thread in particular seemed to crop up in every conversation.
Finally, around half past three, he walked into Fred’s Hideaway, a bar at the far end of town. It was, as he’d hoped, empty save for Fred. Logan ordered a beer, surmising it was the beverage he could nurse the longest while engaging the bartender in conversation. All beers were bottled—there was nothing on tap—nor were there any imported brands. Logan chose a Michelob Light.
After the initial pleasantries were complete, Logan was quick to establish himself—with a variety of observations he’d picked up during his previous conversations—as someone who had at least a passing familiarity with the region and its news. As they spoke, Fred nodded with a pretense of sagacity, every so often stopping to pluck a bar towel off his left shoulder and wipe the worn varnish with it.
“I’m a freelance photographer,” Logan said in response to a question from Fred. “Don’t work for any particular magazine or bureau. Nobody sends me anywhere, or hands me assignments. That means it’s up to me to find the most interesting pictures I can.”
He took a pull from his beer as Fred gave another sagacious nod.
“So I was thinking maybe I could get some shots of the region where these terrible accidents took place,” Logan went on. “You know, the killings of those backpackers.”
“The Wilderness?” Fred asked, disbelief creeping into his voice.
“Yes, that’s it. The Five Ponds Wilderness. It’s pretty close, right?”
“Couldn’t get in there. Least not without a helicopter, or maybe a tank. That’s bad country in there. Nobody goes in except the occasional crazy hiker. And the last two hikers that went in there didn’t come out again.” Fred put a knowing fingertip to the side of his nose.
“No guides?”
Fred shook his head. “You’d be awful hard-pressed to find one—especially after what’s happened.”
“Well, maybe I can just go to, you know, the edge of it. What I’m really looking for is a shot of a bear.” And here Logan leaned in a little conspiratorially. “I mean, if I sold that picture—the killer bear that mauled two backpackers—who’s going to dispute whether I snapped the right bear or not?”
“Wasn’t no bear as killed those youngsters,” Fred said, leaning in a little himself.
Logan feigned surprise. “No bear?”
“Nope.”
“What killed them, then?”
Fred hesitated. “Don’t know as I should say, rightly. Haven’t got any proof. That is, unless you call sixty years of hearing tales, and seeing things with my own eyes, proof.”
Fred was just about the most garrulous of the Pike Hollow residents Logan had spoken with. He also seemed to know more than most. Yet on this one particularly important point he seemed reticent. Logan realized he would have to show his hand just a little. He drained his beer, ordered another, and invited Fred to have one, on him. When it came, he said: “You must be talking about that clan.”
At this, Fred nodded. “The Blakeneys,” he said, popping the cap off a bottle of Budweiser and placing it on the bar in front of him.
This was a darkly hinted nugget that, in one form or another, Logan had picked up from just about everyone he’d talked to: the town’s deep, aiding, and long-standing mistrust of the so-called Blakeney clan.
“Tell me about these Blakeneys,” Logan asked offhandedly. “Everything I’ve heard is just rumor.”
Fred hesitated again.
“I won’t say I heard it from you.”
Fred considered a moment, then shrugged. “Guess there’s nothing wrong with saying what everyone in town knows already. Those Blakeneys have lived in the area since before anyone could remember.”
“Where, exactly?”
Fred pointed southwest, over Logan’s shoulder. “They’ve got a big, rambling old stead on the edge of the Wilderness.”
“What’s it like?”