Madeleine looked hopeful. “Do you think it’ll get us out of the ditch?”
“It’s done the trick before. Wouldn’t want to be without it up here. I was talking to Jane Hammond earlier today, and she was anxious about your arrival in this wretched weather. Lodge is short-staffed at the moment. I volunteered to put Jane’s mind at ease—check the condition of the road, make sure no trees were down, that sort of thing. Things have a way of changing fast here. Streams turning into whitewater floods, roads collapsing into ravines, rock slides, instant icing—risky on the best of days.”
Not quite British or American, his accent was Mid-Atlantic, the diction once adopted by the cultured wealthy in the Northeast and actively nurtured in the Ivy League—until those institutions began to overflow with would-be hedge funders who didn’t care how cultured they sounded as long as they got rich fast.
“Do you know where your tow hook is, and can you reach it with the undercarriage in that awkward position?”
Gurney peered under the tilted front end before answering.
“Yes, I think, to both your questions.”
“In that case, we’ll have you back on the road in no time.”
Madeleine looked worried. “Before you arrived on the scene, someone approached us out of the woods.”
Landon blinked, appeared disconcerted.
She added, “A strange man with a hatchet strapped to his waist.”
“Crazy talk and amber eyes?”
“You know him?” Gurney asked.
“Barlow Tarr. Lives in a cabin out here. Nothing but trouble, in my opinion.”
“Is he dangerous?” asked Madeleine, still shivering.
“Some say he’s harmless. I’m not so sure. I’ve seen him sharpening that hatchet of his with a damn wild look in his eye. Hunts with it, too. Saw him cut a rabbit in half at thirty feet.”
Madeleine looked appalled.
“What else do you know about him?” asked Gurney.
“Works around the lodge, sort of a handyman. His father worked here, too. Grandfather before him. All a bit unbalanced, the Tarrs, to put it gently. Mountain people here from the time of Genesis. Related to each other in odd ways, if you know what I mean.” His mouth curled in distaste. “Did he say anything intelligible?”
“Depends what you mean by intelligible.” Gurney brushed a buildup of sleet pellets off the shoulders of his jacket. “Perhaps we could hook up that winch, and talk about the Tarr family later?”
IT TOOK A QUARTER OF AN HOUR TO GET THE LAND ROVER POSITIONED at the best angle and the cable set properly on the tow hook. After that, the winch did its simple work and the trapped car was gradually freed from the drainage ditch and pulled up to a drivable position on the road, well above the point at which it had lost traction. Landon then rewound his winch cable into its housing, turned the Land Rover around, and proceeded back up the hill with Gurney following.
Once over the crest, the visibility improved considerably and some of the tension went out of Madeleine’s expression.
“Quite a character,” she said.
“The country squire or the weird handyman?”
“The country squire. He seems to know a lot.”
Madeleine’s attention was then drawn to the stark vista appearing before them.
A series of jagged peaks and ridges the color of wine dregs stretched out toward a fog-shrouded horizon. Distance created the illusion of sharp edges—as though those peaks and ridges had been hacked with tin snips out of sheet metal.
The closest peak—perhaps two miles away—was distinctive enough that Gurney recognized it from his quick Internet search of the area before setting out. It was known as Devil’s Fang, no doubt because it gave the impression of a monstrous eyetooth turned up against the heavens. Joined to it was Cemetery Ridge. Huge granite blocks arrayed upon it ages ago bore some resemblance to gravestones silhouetted against the sky.
The steep two-mile-long face of Cemetery Ridge formed the west side of Wolf Lake. At the lake’s northern extremity, in the long shadow of Devil’s Fang, stood the old Adirondack Great Camp known as Wolf Lake Lodge.
CHAPTER 14
As the road descended toward the lake, the forest reverted to fuller and taller pines, temporarily hiding the surrounding mountains from view.
When a final curve of the road brought them abreast of the lake and heading directly toward the imposing stone and timber structure standing at the lake’s end, with Cemetery Ridge and Devil’s Fang looming over all, the primeval essence of the place struck Gurney again with surprising force.
Ahead of them a massive log-and-shingle portico extended from the front of the lodge. Landon had already parked the Land Rover under it and was waving to Gurney to park behind him. As he and Madeleine emerged from their car, Landon was pocketing his cell phone.
“I was just letting Austen know you’re here.” He gestured toward the glass-and-timber entrance doors, one of which was being pushed open as he spoke.
Out came a short, solid-looking man with a shaved head and small sharp eyes. As he came toward Gurney he emitted a raw energy, which seemed to be seeping through his bare scalp in the form of sweat.
“Detective Gurney, Mrs. Gurney, welcome to Wolf Lake Lodge. I’m Austen Steckle.”
His handshake had the hardness of a professional athlete’s. The fingernails, Gurney noticed, were bitten to the quick. His sandpapery voice and urban intonation were as far as they could be from Landon’s vaguely upper-class purr of entitlement.
“Can I help with your luggage?”
“Thanks, but there isn’t that much.” Gurney went around and retrieved the two duffel bags. “Can I leave the car where it is?”
“Sure, no problem. We also have a couple of nice new Jeeps available for the use of our guests. Good off-roaders. If that’s your pleasure. Just let me know if you want to use one.”
“Okay, Dave,” interjected Landon, “looks like you’re in good hands.” He took a quick look at his watch. “Two forty-two. What say we regroup in the Hearth Room at three for a drink?”
“Fine. See you then.”
Landon ambled in through the lodge doors, followed by Steckle, who moved with a quickness and lightness of foot unusual in a stocky man. Gurney and Madeleine entered last.
Inside the big double doors was a pine-paneled, cathedral-ceilinged reception area illuminated by an immense chandelier fashioned from deer antlers. There were sets of antlers mounted on the walls, along with antique guns, swords, knives, fur pelts, and Native American feathered shields.
A stuffed black bear stood erect in a shadowed corner, teeth and claws bared.
When Gurney got to the reception desk, Steckle held up a large, old-fashioned key. “For you, Detective. The Presidential Suite. On the house.”
When this produced a questioning look from Gurney, Steckle went on. “Jane told me why you’re here—the favor you’re doing, looking into the case, and all that. So the least we could do is make you as comfortable as possible. The Presidential Suite used to be the owner’s suite, the founder of the lodge, name of Dalton Gall. Very successful man. Owned mines, minerals. Made money like trees make leaves. A few years after the lodge opened, President Warren G. Harding arrived. Of course they gave him the owner’s suite. The president loved it so much he stayed for a whole month. After that it became known as the Presidential Suite. I hope you like it. Shall we go up now?”
Gurney picked up the two duffel bags, and Steckle led the way out of the reception area, up a broad pine staircase, and into a corridor with an elaborately figured red rug. It reminded Gurney of the rug in the hotel corridor in The Shining.