Full Wolf Moon

by Lincoln Child

  Albright stopped, turned to face Logan. “Listen carefully. I used to go inside fairly often as a kid. Since I’ve been back, I’ve only been inside two, maybe three times. If they do let us in, don’t rile them up. Don’t stare. Let me do the talking—until I turn it over to you. Follow my script, understand? And maybe—just maybe—you’ll see some serious shit. Remember what I told you about the Adirondacks, and the Blakeneys in particular—there’s history, and then there’s mystery. Well, the mystery is what lies on the other side of that.” And he jerked one thumb at the dense, ancient wall of twigs.

  An old, empty drum of lubricating oil lay to one side, pitted and covered with rust. Picking up a stick, Albright hit the drum, first once, then a second time. And then he approached the wall.

  “Nahum!” he called through the twigs, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Aaron! It’s Albright. We need to talk.”

  No sound came from beyond the wall, except what sounded to Logan like the faint bleating of goats.

  “Nahum!” Albright called again. “It’s important.”

  A faint rustling noise from the far side. “Harrison?” came a hoarse, oddly accented voice.

  “Yes, it’s Harrison. We have to talk—about the police who are watching your place. Something’s about to happen—something bad.”

  A pause.

  “I’ve got someone with me. Maybe he can do something to stop it.”

  “What someone?” asked the voice from beyond the wall.

  “His name’s Logan. He’s not from around these parts. And he’s not here to judge you. He’s here to help.” And with this, Albright turned back and gave Logan a significant look.

  For a moment, nothing happened. And then there was an audible stirring on the far side: a sliding, shifting sound, along with the creak of metal. Then a narrow opening appeared in the wall—an entrance so well disguised that Logan would never have known it was there. The doorlike structure pushed outward—and Logan came face-to-face with a gaunt man about six feet four, with long, unkempt hair, deeply set brown eyes, and a beard that reached down to his chest. His ragged clothes were a mass of patches and rude stitching. His huge hands were dirty and heavily callused from years of manual labor. He looked at Albright, then at Logan—his expression becoming suspicious—before turning back to Albright again.

  “Harrison,” he said.

  “Nahum, we need to talk to your family—now. It’s very important. Vitally important.”

  The man called Nahum scratched himself, seemed to ponder this a moment. Then wordlessly he stepped aside, allowing them admittance.

  Logan ducked through the low enclosure—then stopped short, staring around in surprise.

  30

  In his travels as an enigmalogist, Logan had witnessed many strange things and exotic places: hidden tombs of Egyptian kings; the watery depths of Scottish lochs; the crumbling crypts of Romanian castles. But as he looked around, he had to stop and remind himself that he was standing on modern American soil. The Blakeney compound—at least, as much as he could see of it—looked like nothing so much as an ancient colony such as Jamestown or Plymouth. The site had been cut out of the living forest, and it used both impenetrable rocky cliff faces and the thick wall of twigs as protection from the outside world. He could see that the cleared area consisted of perhaps twenty-five acres or more. Dozens of buildings, some of them clearly a hundred or even two hundred years old, rose out of the grass. Many of them were crumbling, in the final stages of disrepair; others had been restored and expanded over time until they were rambling structures of the most bizarre architecture imaginable. Some of the buildings had tiled roofs; others were thatched or covered in wattle and daub. There was a smithy; a forge; what appeared to be a glassblowing apparatus; several barns; pens for poultry and livestock. Hogs wandered the area unvexed. Far ahead—toward the front of the property—were the outbuildings and fenced area for crops that he had spied on his first visit. There was no apparent order or planning to the community; it, along with the buildings it contained, appeared to simply have grown by accretion, making for confusion and a jumbled riot of workable, habitable, and barely habitable buildings. A few structures had in fact collapsed in on themselves and apparently been left to rot.

  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.”

  “Why not?”

  “You just cain’t,” came the evasive answer.

  “Tell him why,” Albright said in a quiet voice. “Tell him the real reason.”

  Nahum began to speak; hesitated. Then he pointed to the sky, which was just beginning to darken.

  “ ’Cause it’s the changing time,” he said.

  Albright sat forward on the log. “Listen to me,” he addressed the three. “I told you: Jeremy here has seen a lot of strange things. He’s not going to judge you—and he’s not going to judge Zephraim. Understand, we can’t make any guarantees. But if he is to have any chance at all of helping you, he has to see everything. And that means Zephraim.”

  The three elders conversed nervously among themselves.

  “It’s either that or the state police,” Albright said.

  The whispered conversation went on for another moment. Then, with a kind of weariness that had nothing physical about it, Nahum pushed himself up from the log. The other two Blakeneys followed suit.

  “This way,” Nahum said.

  Logan and Albright swung in behind the three elders as they began following a muddy path between dairies, a candlery, and, farther along, what looked like some kind of shed for repairing machinery. There was apparently no electricity in the compound, and candles and kerosene torches began to appear in the passing windows. Logan glanced at his watch: it was five thirty.

  “Nahum told me about Zephraim, once or twice, back when we were kids,” Albright said to Logan in a low voice. “He was still a young child—I only got glimpses of him now and then. I haven’t heard a word about him since I returned from downstate. But look how twitchy the whole clan is—they’re not usually the nervous type; they’ve been estranged from the local populace far too long for that. No: Zephraim’s at the bottom of this, you can bet that much. God only knows what Feverbridge got up to, exactly, before he fell off that cliff.”

  As they continued to climb the path, it became increasingly clear that their destination was the huge structure that towered over the entire compound. On closer inspection it was an even more bizarre building than it first appeared. It seemed to have been originally made of mud brick, but its exterior walls were covered over with so many layers of clapboard, homemade stucco, and scavenged concrete chunks of assorted sizes and shapes that it was impossible to be sure. Logan judged it to be five or maybe six stories in height, but the mismatched gables and dormers that sprouted from the main structure and its various dependencies had so little in common with their brethren, and the numerous windows—some made of ancient glass of circular pattern, others with rude blinds covering them, others simply oiled paper hammered into place—were at so many different levels that they presented only confusion to the eye.

  Nahum led the way inside. Logan had expected to find a parlor, or living room, or greeting area of some sort, but saw nothing more than a narrow, low-ceilinged hallway burrowing back into untold distances. The walls were made of wide, rough-hewn beams. While it had been growing increasingly dark outside, once the elders shut the front door behind them Logan found himself in almost total blackness. A match flared; guttering tapers suddenly flickered in wall sconces; a kerosene torch was lit; and Nahum gestured them to follow him along a circuitous path that led up creaking stairs, along passages, down short flights, and up still longer ones, passing innumerable doors, most closed, a few open onto scenes of almost indescribable rustication. Logan soon lost all sense of his bearings, or just how many stories they had climbed. An audible gust of wind shook the structure, causing it to shudder unnervingly. And still they climbed.

  And then, quite suddenly, the stairs ended at a small landing before a single wooden door. It was bound by two stout bands of iron, and instead of a doorknob it was secured by a padlock. The group gathered together on the landing, huddled close together in the confined space. Nahum set the torch on a table, then rapped on the door.

  There was no response. Logan imagined he could hear a low, scuttling noise beyond.

  Nahum knocked again. When there was still no reply, he bent over, lips
near the padlock.

  “Zephraim?” he said in a calm, soothing voice, the way one might talk to an animal. “Zephraim, it’s Nahum. I’m coming in now.”

  31

  Nahum undid the padlock, opened the door slightly—gingerly—then pushed it wide. Ahead lay a darkened space. He stepped inside, followed by the others.

  Logan found himself in a small garret room. There was no furniture save for a simple, crudely constructed table, holding a clay pitcher of water and a wooden bowl containing what looked like gruel, and a three-legged stool perched in the center of the floor. A single window, barred on the inside with several pieces of wood, admitted just the faintest traces of afterglow from the dying sun. He realized that he must be in the top room of the structure: the one he’d seen from outside the wall, the first time he had tried to visit the compound. The only real light came from the lantern, sitting on the table outside the door.

  The three elders arranged themselves against one wall, and Logan and Albright followed suit. The wall, he noticed, was not the rough wooden planks he had seen in the rest of the building, but covered in some kind of cotton batting, greasy and torn, stuffing protruding from a hundred tears.

  Seated on the three-legged stool was a man about forty years old, tall and muscular. He was dressed in the same homespun as the others, the only difference being that, instead of wearing trousers and a work shirt, he was dressed in something more closely resembling the loose vestments of a monk. He had a rough beard, like the others, and his brown hair fell in uncombed knots and tangles to his shoulders. He glanced at the elders without interest as they took their places against the wall. When his eyes reached Albright, curiosity and recognition flared briefly across his face before fading again. Finally, he saw Logan: and fear abruptly flooded over his features.