Steckle stopped at a large wooden door and inserted the big metal key through an old-fashioned keyhole. He turned the tarnished knob and pushed the door open. He went in first, and few seconds later lights came on, revealing a large room furnished in a country-masculine style with leather couches and armchairs, Native American rugs, and rustic floor and table lamps.
Madeleine hung back, letting Gurney go in ahead of her.
“There are no dead animals in there, are there, like that huge thing in the lobby?”
“No, nothing like that.”
She came in tentatively. “I hate those things.”
Steckle opened the drapes, exposing a row of windows overlooking the lake. A glass door led to a balcony. The wall to Gurney’s left was broken by a doorway and a broad archway. The archway led to a room-sized sleeping area with a four-poster bed. The doorway led to a bathroom larger than his den at home—with a separate toilet area, a corner shower stall, an oversized basin, a huge claw-foot tub, and a table piled with bath towels.
The wall to his right was dominated by a portrait of Warren Harding, who presided over America’s slide into the lawlessness of the Prohibition era. The portrait was hanging above a stocked bar. Further along the wall was a stone fireplace and an iron rack of split logs.
Steckle pointed to the view through the windows. “Welcome to the wilderness.”
NAMED FOR ITS GIGANTIC STONE FIREPLACE, THE HEARTH ROOM was furnished in the same rustic-luxury style as the Gurneys’ suite—with leather furniture, tribal art and weaponry, and a bar topped with the scotches, bourbons, gins, ports, sherries, vermouths, crystal glasses, and silver ice buckets of a past generation.
As Gurney and Madeleine entered the room, Norris Landon called to them with a welcoming wave from one of the leather club chairs. “Make yourselves a couple of stiff drinks and come sit by the fire.”
Gurney went to the bar and chose a plain club soda. He was surprised to see Madeleine make herself a gin and orange juice.
They took their drinks to the fireplace end of the room and sat on a couch facing Landon, who looked very much at home in the clothes he’d changed into: a yellow cashmere sweater, tan corduroy pants, and shearling-lined moccasins. With a languid smile he raised his glass of what looked like scotch on the rocks. “Here’s to the success of your visit.”
“Thank you,” said Gurney.
Madeleine offered a smile and a nod.
Landon sipped his drink. “Always nice to sit by a fire, eh?”
“Very nice,” said Gurney. “Are there any other guests?”
“At present we have the place to ourselves. Mixed blessing that, since staff’s been reduced. The Hammonds, of course, are still in residence—bit separate though, over in Richard’s chalet. Austen cancelled all the winter reservations after the tragedy. Understandable decision, that. Considering the event itself and then the media explosion. Wise to shut the place down until a satisfactory conclusion is achieved. At least that’s my understanding of Austen’s decision. Austen and Peyton’s decision, I should say.”
Gurney nodded, sipped his soda water. “With all the reservations cancelled, your presence must mean you’re more than an ordinary guest.”
Landon produced an embarrassed laugh. “I’d never claim to be more than ordinary. But I do come here quite often. And since I was already here when it all happened . . . I suppose Austen deemed it fit to let me stay on.”
“How long have you been coming here?” asked Madeleine.
“Not all that long, just discovered the place a couple of years ago. But once I discovered it . . . well, there’s upland bird season, spring turkey season, fall turkey season, deer season, bear season, small game season, fishing season. And, to be perfectly honest, I simply fell in love with the place. I’m keeping my fingers crossed that the current mess doesn’t put an end to it all.” He raised his glass again. “Here’s to a speedy resolution. For everyone’s sake.”
The silence that ensued was broken by Gurney. “All those game seasons you mentioned must require quite an arsenal of weapons.”
“I would admit to having a nice variety of sporting arms.”
“You said something about the lodge having a reduced staff these days. Are there employees besides Austen on site?”
“There’s a chef who commutes from Plattsburgh. A kitchen assistant. A housemaid to keep things tidy. Other workers who can be called in when Austen sees the need.” He shrugged, almost apologetically. “And then, of course, there’s Barlow Tarr.”
“Not the typical employee of a thousand-dollar-a-night inn.”
“No, certainly not. It was a notion of Ethan’s, you see, that all human beings are redeemable. Crock of manure, in my opinion. Whole Tarr clan a perfect case in point. Even Ethan, with all his bloody optimism, was getting close to throwing in the towel with Barlow. Very difficult thing for Ethan to admit that someone was beyond his help. Thing is, Barlow’s like the mountain weather. Turn your back for a minute, and you never know what it might turn into. Ethan told him he could stay on, live in his cabin out in the woods—on the condition that he kept away from the guests. But apparently he approached you—a definite violation of the agreement.” Landon paused again, apparently weighing the implications.
“Was Ethan in the habit of employing . . . people with problems?”
“Indeed he was. His greatest virtue and greatest flaw.”
Gurney paused to consider this pattern, before taking a small sidestep. “How much do you know about the Gall New Life Foundation?”
Landon studied his drink. “Only that it seems to be exactly what one would expect Ethan to have put together. He was a complex man. Determined, stubborn, controlling. An iron will. Absolute faith that his way was the right way. A bulldozer of a businessman. Single-handedly resurrected this place.”
“You sound like you see a problem in that.”
“Ah. Well. At the heart of the bulldozer there was a missionary. A zealot. A zealot with a belief that anyone can be elevated. Hence the Gall New Life Foundation—dedicated to the reeducation and reentry of serious felons into productive society.”
“I’ve heard that it produced some success stories.”
“Indeed it did. Big success stories. Perfect example is Austen himself.”
“Austen Steckle is a paroled felon?”
Landon screwed up his face in an expression of chagrin. “May have overstepped myself there, although he’s never made a secret of it. . . . Still, not my place. It’s his story to tell, not mine.” There was a brief silence. “If you have questions about anything else here at Wolf Lake, I’ll be happy to share my modest knowledge.”
Madeleine spoke up, sounding anxious. “Before, out the road, that Tarr person said something about the lake having no bottom. Do you have any idea what he meant by that?”
“Ah, yes. The bottomless lake. One of the Devil’s Twins.”
“The what?”
“The Devil’s Twins. A peculiarity of the local geology, dramatically enhanced by local superstition. It seems that two lakes in this area, quite a few miles apart on opposite sides of a major ridge line, are actually connected through a series of underground channels and caverns. Wolf Lake is one of the two.”
“That’s what he meant by ‘no bottom’?”
“Yes and no. There’s a bit more to the story—the way the connection between the lakes was discovered. Back in the mid nineteen hundreds, two young girls were in a canoe on the other lake. The canoe capsized. One girl made it to shore, the other drowned. They dragged the lake, sent down divers, searched for days, weeks, but couldn’t find the body. Great mystery at the time. Lots of theories flying around. Criminal conspiracies, supernatural explanations. Total circus. Journalistic inanity has been with us for a long time.”