Wolf Lake. John Verdon

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.