I went out to the lake.
It didn’t seem to have a name. Down a dirt road about five miles from the cabin, the lake was maybe a mile across, surrounded by trees just starting to return to life in the early spring. Reeds grew close to the shore. There wasn’t any kind of beach for swimming, but a dock extended into the water. No boats were tied to it, but a boathouse sat near the dock with a few watercraft locked up inside.
This was late March, so some ice was still floating on the surface. I could see weeds swaying under the water, but no fish swimming around under the surface. I wasn’t about to test the water temperature. A chilly breeze cut the air, and I shoved my hands in my poc kets to keep them warm. A bird flew overhead, squawking once, and disappeared across the water.
On the far side of the lake I could see the top of a house, half hidden behind the trees. Smoke drifted from a chimney in the roof, fading into the clouds. I wondered who lived there,
I also wondered what else lurked at the bottom of the lake. More bodies? A lost city? The Loch Ness monster’s American cousin? But I wasn’t going to find out right now. So I drove to town.
Linewood had a small weekly newspaper, with an office on the main street. I asked the man at the front desk—older than me, but friendly enough—to look at any issues covering the recovery of Wooding’s body. He didn’t ask why until he came out of the back room with a plastic box containing four weeks’ worth of the paper. “You a movie producer?”
“Private detective. I’m working for Gregory Wooding’s daughter. She wants to know more about what happened.”
“That’s got to be hard for her.” He sighed. “I’m Ben Tyson. I used to be the editor here, until I retired. Five years ago? Six. Poor girl.”
“Did you know Mr. Wooding?”
Tyson shook his head. “I saw him around town a little, but I didn’t know his name until they printed his picture.” He pointed to a front page, next to the headline: DEAD MAN PULLED FROM LAKE.
I’d actually already seen it—the newspaper had the last 15 years of its issues online. What I really wanted was to talk to people. A lot of the time I get results because I keep asking the same questions until I stumble on an answer. I like to think of it as tenacity, a tactic from when I was a reporter. Rachel calls it being a stubborn asshole. Either way, it works. At least sometimes.
“What’s the reaction around town?” I asked. “Are people nervous?”
Tyson shrugged. “You know, not too much. I don’t think anyone really knew him well. The big theory is that it was some kind of mob hit, and that wouldn’t have much to do with anyone here.”
I’d thought of that, and I was hoping it wasn’t true. I’ve tangled with the supernatural a lot, but the thought of confronting the mafia was scarier. “He seems to have kept to himself a lot.”
“I guess. I would see him sometimes in the bar. It’s the Corner Bar, it’s down on the corner.” He grinned. “It’s a small town. We go for simple names.”
I nodded. “I’m told there have been other bodies found in the lake. Would there be articles on that?”
His eyes grew chilly. “The paper goes back to the founding of the town,” he said stiffly, as if I’d offended him. “My great-great grandfather was one of the first publishers. We’ve got everything. But you can’t go poking around the archives on your own.” He reached under the desk. “Fill this out and I’ll see what’s available.”
I filled out a form, hoping I had the approximate year right based on what my client had told me. A woman came in to place an ad while I was doing that, and a mail carrier dropped off some envelopes. Tyson took his time getting to my form and looking through his computer files, but he finally disappeared into the back and returned with another box. “Keep these in order,” he told me as he showed me to an empty desk behind the counter.
I spent half an hour looking through the articles. About 20 years ago the body of an unidentified man had been found floating in the lake in late spring, a rope tied around his neck but his arms and feet free. He was eventually identified as Arnold Kyser, from a town about 100 miles away. His only family was a cousin who lived in Canada, which is why he stayed a mystery for months after being found. Again, the authorities expected suicide, but there was no mention of any note or any mental health issues.
Then, just 10 years ago, there’d been a local victim. Ed Haynes had moved here from Milwaukee after a divorce. He’d been arrested for public drunkenness twice, but he apparently got sober after that. He served a few terms on the city council, according to his obituary, and been a member of something called the Elwood Lodge, but for the last few years he’d faded from public view, apparently, up until ending up below the ice.
I looked through the rest of the papers, trying to get a feel for the local culture. Linewood had been founded in 1903 as a farming community, growing corn, oats, and other crops, and still had a solid agricultural base in the acres surrounding the town. The town seemed to have a thriving small business community, with ads for stores selling craft beer, wine, whole grain bread and cereal, and a bookstore. Most of the news stories covered local sports at the high school, along with city council business and state government issues and the occasional lost dog story.
The town seemed quiet and friendly. The only problem seemed to be that from time to time, people and pets sometimes get mauled and even killed at night. Wolves, the sheriff speculated, or maybe even feral pigs. There’d been an attack earlier this year, one man sent to the hospital in a nearby city, and a dog killed. Mrs. Dorner’s dog, actually—Wooding’s neighbor. The dog was a poodle named Peanut. The attacks had taken place in late February.
I checked the dates. Greg Wooding had been found in the laker in early March. Coincidence? Connection? I filled out another form, and Mr. Tyson, with a sigh, brought me another box of old papers. “Keep them in order,” he said again, and I promised I would.
I went through the papers from 20 years ago, around the time Arnold Kyser had been found in the lake. A week earlier, a married couple had been attacked by wolves after their car had broken down and they started walking back to town. The man had died of his wounds, but the woman survived. In the days after, several dogs and cats had been found out on the edge of the town, ripped apart and partially devoured by whatever had attacked them.
I returned the papers, thanked Mr. Tyson, and asked for a good place to get lunch. He smiled and pointed across the street. “My wife Edna runs the place, so I’m biased. But they do a good cheeseburger.”
He was right—the cheeseburger was excellent. The waitress who served it, a blond girl in her 20s, didn’t know anything about Gregory Wooding, although she admitted that the body in the lake had been gross and scary. Edna herself, at the cash register, told me she’d seen Wooding in her diner a few times. “Usually a hamburger, sometimes a grilled cheese.” She handed me my change. “Before or after a stop at the Corner Bar. That’s down the street.”
It was early for the bar, but I had a job to do. At least that’s what I’d tell Rachel if she found out.
The bartender was a bored woman in her 40s watching an old sitcom on the TV above the bar. Two men sat at the bar drinking beer, and three women sat at a table drinking wine. I ordered a beer.
The bartender looked me over. “Just passing through? I’m Janie.”
“Staying at Gregory Wooding’s place for a few days.” I took a sip. “His daughter asked me to. I’m Tom. From Chicago.”
“Oh.” She leaned back against the row of bottles behind the bar. “Greg came in here sometimes. Weird what happened to him. And the others.”
“What do you think happened?”
Janie didn’t answer, but one of the men down the bar did. “Drug gang,” he grunted. “That guy kept to himself too much. He was up to something. Maybe did a deal with a gang that didn’t work out.”
“Or a wendigo monster,” said the other man. They were both in their 60s.
“Wendigo?” I’ve met a wendigo. I don’t want to meet another one.
His friend laughed. “They say there’s all kinds of monsters out in the woods. It’s all bullshit.”
“I don’t know, Troy,” said Janie. “I’ve seen some weird stuff driving home at night. I don’t know what a wendy-go looks like, but I’ve seen some stuff.”
“Did anyone know Greg Wooding at all?” I tried to steer the conversation back to my subject.
“I used to see him taking walks,” the other man said. “He took long, long walks.”
“What about Ed Haynes?” It was a long shot, but I had to ask.
The question was met by silence, until Troy scratched his head. “I remember him. Not a bad guy. Got in some trouble for a while, and then he quit drinking, straightened out. Joined the lodge.”
“What lodge is that?” I asked.
The two friends looked at each other, as if he’d dropped a secret. “Elwood Lodge,” Troy said. “They’re sort of a men’s club. I don’t know what they do, they keep pretty close to each other.”
“Naked mud wrestling,” the other man grunted. “Glow-in-the-dark body painting. Or secret drum meetings about their feelings.”
Troy chuckled. “Don’t let Dwight hear you say that.”
“Who’s Dwight?” I asked.
Caution again. “He’s, uh, the grand pooh-bah or something at the Lodge.”
“Did he know Wooding?”
A group shrug answered that question.
By now they were growing suspicious of me—the men, at least. Janie went back to drying cocktail glasses from the sink and watching her sitcom, but the two guys started looking me over, and not in a good way. The women drinking wine at the table ignored all of us.
I paid for my beer and left the mug half full. “Thanks a lot. Good meeting you all.”
“Come back again!” Janie waved, then turned back to her soapy cocktail glasses. I felt the two guys at the bar watch me leave.
I walked around the town for a while, but I didn’t approach anybody on the street or in go into any shops to randomly ask about Wooding. I stopped in at the small library, where the woman at the front desk told me that Wooding liked to come in and look at the town history section from time to time. I stopped in at the bakery to buy some doughnuts for Rachel and me—okay, mostly me—but the guy behind the counter didn’t know who I was talking about when I asked about Wooding.
Two blocks later I passed a dark, rugged wood building with a sign above the front door: ELWOOD LODGE. It took me 30 seconds to realize that “Elwood” was an abbreviation of “Linewood,” proving I may not be as smart a detective as I like to think. But the neighbor had mentioned Wooding spending some time here, and the other local victim, Haynes, had been a member long ago.
The front door was locked when I tried it, and the blinds inside the windows on either side were shut tight, and if I spent any more time checking the building out I’d probably attract too much attention, so I moved on. I figured I’d already drawn a certain amount of attention and suspicion just by walking around and asking questions.
I drove back to the cabin and sent a report to my client. Then I went through the cabin again, looking for anything I’d missed, while I waited for Rachel.
She arrived at seven. I had dinner ready, and she was hungry, so we ate and caught each other up on our days. She doesn’t talk about her patients much—confidentiality, HIPPA, and all that—but she gossips about the other doctors and therapists at the clinic. I told her about my day, and she flinched when I mentioned the possible wendigo. “I hope it’s not one of those things again. I still see that one in my nightmares.”
“I think he was just trying to scare the city slicker. Are you picking up anything in here?” Her psychic powers could tell me if anything supernatural was involved. Maybe.
Rachel closed her eyes for a moment. Then she frowned. “Damn it.”
“What?”
She stood up. We were in the kitchen, and she walked into the living room, looked around, and headed for the fireplace. “That.”
I took the metal rat off the mantle. “What is it?”
“I don’t know.” She reached out and put a finger on it. She didn’t yank it away immediately, a good sign. “I don’t know if it’s attracting, or repelling. Or both.”
“Attracting what?” I put the sculpture back.
“How should I know?” Rachel shook her head, annoyed. “I don’t think it’s evil—the statue, I mean. It just sort of has a little ball of energy inside it, like it’s waiting for something. And don’t ask me what!” She glared at me. ”I don’t know.”
Rachel sometimes resents my reliance on her psychic abilities. “Sorry.”
She took a deep breath. “I’m just hungry. Let me eat some more.”
After dinner we snuggled on the sofa under a blanket, while Rachel watched a reality show on her laptop and I tried once again to read some Thomas Pynchon. The cabin was quiet, the blanket was cozy, and by 10:30 we were dozing. I woke up enough to start trying to get Rachel interested in something in the other room when someone started pounding on the door. What the hell?
Rachel’s laptop fell to the hardwood floor as I lurched up. I pushed the blanket away and stumbled into my shoes, looking for my jacket.
More pounding. Rachel followed me to the door, but grabbed my arm as I reached for the knob. “What are you doing?”
“Someone’s out—” But I hesitated. The knocking sounded angry. I looked around for a weapon. A big flashlight hung next to the door, so I flicked it on and pointed it down. Rachel stood right behind me as I pulled the door open.
The man in the front yard was thick and brawny, with a gray beard. He wore a heavy overcoat, oversized boots, and a red knit cap pulled down over his ears. His boots were planted firmly in the dirt as if he expected me to try to shove him over.
“Who are you?” he demanded. “What are you doing in this house?”
I stepped forward onto the grass, trying to keep Rachel behind me. The flashlight felt firm and heavy in my hand, a decent weapon if I needed to swing it at him or blind him. “I’m Tom Jurgen. I’m from Chicago. Mr. Wooding’s daughter said my wife and I could stay here for the weekend. Who exactly are you?”
His face curled, suspicious. “Daughter?”
“Emma Wooding. Do you have a name? And a reason to be here?”
“Harrison. Dwight Harrison.” He scowled. “He never mentioned any daughter.”
Dwight. The “grand pooh-bah” of the Lodge? “Were you a friend of his?”
“He wasn’t very friendly.” He leaned over, trying to get a better look at Rachel. “Your wife?”
Rachel stepped around me. “Rachel Dunne. Pleased to meet you.”
“What are you doing here, Dwight?” I asked.
He let his face relax a little. “Saw lights. I wanted to make sure it wasn’t a break-in.”
“Are you a neighbor? I met one of his neighbors this morning.”
“I’m at the Lodge. That’s where I know him.” He took a step back, eyes still on us. “I guess I’ll let you guys go. Have a good night.”
He stood in the yard, looking at the house, and behind him I saw a shadow shift in the darkness. More than one shadow. Low and close to the ground, back and forth, as if he was walking a pack of black dogs ready to attack. I thought I heard a growl mixed with the wind.
Then he turned and walked into the darkness. I waited for the sound of a car, but the wind rustling through the trees was the only sound we heard.
“Okay.” I flicked the light around but didn’t see him in the distance. “Weird. Was he a ghost?”
Rachel shook her head. “Human. Breathing. Maybe he just enjoys a late-night stroll.”
“I think I want to find out more about this Lodge.” I turned to the door. “Later.”
She smiled. “Tomorrow is another day.”
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