John Saul - In the Dark of the Night

MADISON — Riley Logan, a custodian at the University of Wisconsin in Madison, was arrested yesterday in connection with the strangling death of sophomore Melissa Hartwell. Hartwell’s body was found in the Administration Building’s custodial supplies closet last Thursday. Logan has been hospitalized several times in the recent past for psychiatric reasons. He is being held without bail.

Ruston’s blood chilled as he read the article.

“And take a look at this,” Derek Anders said. “It was on the same nail.”

KILLER REMANDED TO CENTRAL STATE HOSPITAL

MADISON — Riley Logan was found unfit to stand trial in the strangling murder of Melissa Hartwell, a UW sophomore. Judge Thomas P. Sewell, after reviewing testimony from three different doctors including Hector Darby, who was hired by the state for the purpose of evaluating Logan, has committed Logan to Central State Hospital, where he will be held indefi

The rest of the story had been torn away, leaving only a ragged edge at the bottom of the clipping. “Hector Darby,” Ruston breathed as his mind began to whirl with memories of the Hanover girl who had been murdered years ago, just before Darby’s disappearance. “What the hell is going on around here?” he said, more to himself than to Derek Anders. He scanned the shack again, the litter of boxes suddenly seeming a lot more foreboding than they had a few moments earlier. “I think maybe we better find out what’s in all these.”

Anders picked up one of the boxes and put it on the only table in the cabin. “Looks like medical files,” he said after pulling open its top and lifting out a yellowed folder.

“Medical files?” Ruston echoed. “Whose medical files? What are they doing here?”

Some of the boxes were so old they were mildewed and rotten, and even the best of them looked as though they could collapse at any moment.

“Oh, Jesus,” Anders breathed. “Take a look at this.”

Ruston joined him and peered at the folder the deputy had just opened. More newspaper clippings were on the top, all about the Hartwell girl. Under those was a fat file folder with the Central State Wisconsin Psychiatric Hospital seal on the front and RILEY LOGAN printed on the tab.

“It’s like he kept a scrapbook on what he’d done,” Ruston said. “And no one ever told us who he was — not even Darby.” He shook his head. “Let’s take that box with us and get out of here,” he went on.

Anders picked up the box, and a moment later Ruston followed him outside. He scanned the hillside, already calculating just how many square miles of wilderness Logan had disappeared into. And he hadn’t taken the dog with him, which could have meant one of two things — either he was coming back, or the dog would have slowed him down.

In all the years he’d watched Logan, Ruston had never before known him not to have the dog with him.

Which meant he wasn’t coming back.

“We’re not going to find him today,” he told Anders as they started back to their boat. “In fact, right now I’d bet we don’t find him at all.”

Anders’s brow furrowed. “Where’s he gonna go?”

“Anywhere,” Ruston replied. “But if he knew we were coming — which I’m damn sure he did — he’ll know better than to come back. And he knows the wilderness a lot better than anyone else, which means if he doesn’t want to be found, we won’t find him.”

“So what about tomorrow?” Anders asked, glancing worriedly back at the cabin, which was now all but invisible again. “It’s the Fourth of July picnic. What if he shows up?”

Ruston fell silent for a moment as he thought about his options, and decided he didn’t like any of them. If he started a manhunt now, he’d need an explanation, and any explanation he might come up with — and the rumors that would inevitably boil in the wake of that explanation — would put an instant end not only to the holiday tomorrow, but to the rest of the summer as well.

And his gut was telling him that no matter how many men he put on the search, Logan wasn’t going to be found.

“We’ll add some extra deputies for tomorrow, and tell them to keep a special lookout for Logan. I don’t think he’s going to show up, but if he does, we’ll deal with him.”

As they got back into the boat a few minutes later and started across the lake, Ruston silently prayed that his gut would be as reliable today as it had always been before.

RUSTY RUSTON MOVED through the parade staging area in the Phantom Lake High School parking lot, keeping his eyes and ears open for anything that might be amiss.

An hour earlier he had deputized ten members of the volunteer fire department, briefed them not only on what had been found in Carol Langstrom’s shop yesterday, but on everything he knew about Riley Logan as well. “The main thing is to keep a low profile,” he’d told them as he handed each one a walkie-talkie. “The last thing we want is to panic anybody. So what I want you to do is stay alert and report anything you see that isn’t right. Anything.”

He’d placed Derek Anders at the parade destination, and assigned the rest to various points along the route. Once the parade was over, they’d move on to the park, where most of the town would gather for the rest of the day, staying right through until the fireworks went off an hour after sunset. The whole celebration needed to go off without a hitch, and Ruston fully intended to see that it did. It was going to be a long day, and the best he could hope for was that Logan had spotted him coming yesterday afternoon, been rational enough to know exactly what was up, and had taken off into the woods with every intention to keep on going. If that was the case — and Ruston’s gut was telling him it was — then he, Derek Anders, and the rest of the deputies would have nothing more serious to deal with than a couple of sunburns and maybe a few fingers scorched on sparklers by the time the fireworks display was over.

Up ahead, Misty Kennedy, who had coordinated the parade every year for the last three decades, was waving her arms at the high school band director, telling him to keep his musicians in line and shouting orders at the float drivers, demanding that they check their order one more time. And everyone was ignoring her, just as they had every year for the past three decades.

Ruston checked his watch: 9:55.

Five minutes to showtime.

He walked through the high school musicians as they finally began falling into what passed as a formation, adjusting their uniforms, chattering excitedly, and tuning their instruments to the best of their admittedly small ability.

Still, everyone loved the band, especially the parents of its members. The baton twirlers were warming up — only one flying out of control as Ruston watched — and the banner announcing the Phantom Lake High School Band was moving into place.

Then he began catching snatches of the kids’ conversations.

“…satanic ritual murder…”

“…picked up hitchhiking by some pervert…”

“…I miss him…”

“…he was a jerk, but still…”

“Do you think…?

“Did you hear…?”

“My mom said…”

So it wasn’t the parade the kids were talking about at all, and Ruston sighed as he realized he should have expected it. The kids — the whole town — was nowhere near over the shock of Ellis Langstrom’s death. Still, he’d hoped that today, at least, they’d be able to put their worry and grief aside long enough to enjoy the holiday for which Phantom Lake had been famous for almost a century. And judging from the size of the crowd, the rumors about what might have happened to Ellis Langstrom hadn’t spread too far, for it looked to Ruston as if half the people in the neighboring counties had come to join in the fun.