ACCORDING TO PLAN, I arrive at Elk Lake shortly after ten p.m. Two miles out from the turnabout leading to The Uke’s cabin, Otter Lodge, I kill the headlights, proceed for another mile in darkness. I park the Pathfinder far enough off onto the verge so as not to be visible from Elk Lake Road. They’ve had rain here, so I do my best not to get stuck in the mud or rip out the bottom of the vehicle because I know we may need it later to make a quick escape.
How or why The Chatterbox chooses this location—or knows of its existence at all—I do not know. Maybe he’s been tailing The Uke to the cabin for years, fearing what he might know, planning to do-him-in. Maybe Simon is more familiar with the terrain than I suspect, confident help will be slow in coming if it comes at all.
Like he says, I do find it ironic.
Before exiting the vehicle, I do a weapons check. Deciding I have too much common sense and not enough swagger to be a character in a Tarantino movie, my plan is to shoot first, ask questions later.
From memory, I recall where Bobby’s cabin is located relative to the road. Earlier, using Google Earth on my phone, I see it lays snookered between Elk Lake to the north and a brackish pool of water—more like an eddy—to the south. The backwash from the swirl creates a stream that empties into the lake. Where the current turns back on itself there is a strip of sediment and river-rock that has settled to form a narrow, natural causeway just passable on foot.
I plan to proceed through the underbrush, cross over the causeway, and make my way east through the woods beyond Bobby’s cabin before turning toward the lake. From there, I will double-back and approach Otter Lodge from the water using the overhanging deck—where Gabby and I got drunk a lifetime ago with The Uke—for cover.
It may take me an hour. But I’m well-rested, well-fed, highly-caffeinated, and highly motivated. Between crucifying Livingstone, abducting Gabby and Mel, and rushing here, The Chatterbox cannot have got much sleep. I hope to have this wrapped up before the Witching Hour.
Still, I know I’d be wise to not underestimate him, though Lord knows I already have.
The night air is cold, the sky clear with no moon. Aside from a canopy of flickering stars, it’s eerily-dark. This far north in the mountains, the temperature has dropped by twenty degrees; I can see my breath. Wearing only the summer-weight wind-cheater and a short sleeve shirt, I have little protection from the chill. My Nike trainers may or may not be suitable for the terrain. In any event, they won’t save me from fallen branches, help me to navigate unseen declines, or keep me dry from the water-saturated bogs I encounter along the way.
Perhaps, I’ve overestimated myself: I’m no Daniel Boone.
Undaunted, I make my way headlong into the brush. By the time I reach the rock-strewn causeway, I’ve been walking for over an hour. I’m shivering, and my shoes are soaked through. My face is covered with open cuts where I’ve been nicked by tree branches and brambles and feasted on by mosquitoes. The causeway is inundated with two feet of fast-flowing water.
Due to time lapsed, I need to re-calibrate my plan.
Instead of coming at the cabin from the deck-side, I decide to come at it head-on. If I continue on my plotted course, it could be hours before I reach the cabin. With my ringers off, The Chatterbox can’t contact me here by phone. So long without contact, Simon may do something rash.
Finally, I reach the narrow road where Gabby and I jettisoned the rental Ford on our first visit. In its place is the white panel-van. On my mobile, I check the time: ten fifty-nine. Checking the plate number, I confirm the vehicle is a match to the panel-van traveling north out of New Jersey earlier in the day. It’s affirmative: The Chatterbox has arrived on scene.
A showdown it is.
Per my instructions to Upton, the New York State Police should now be mustering four miles south along Elk Lake Road equipped with high-powered rifles, night-vision goggles, and sniffer-dogs. They will have notified the management at Elk Lake Lodge to make available to them all power watercraft in their possession, fully fueled and ready to shove off from the dock at a moment’s notice. When the call comes in, they will order all employees and guests to remain in their rooms and to lock all doors. They will be advised to shelter in place until given the all-clear to do otherwise. But nothing will happen until Tony tells Upton to unleash the Dogs of War.
Keeping low, I round the front grill of the panel-van. Dropping to all fours, I make my way to a clearing leading to the scrubby pathway heading up to Danilenko’s cabin. I draw the weapon from my leg holster. Thirty yards ahead, I see the cabin through the trees, a dark relief against the high, black-gray shadow of the mountains across the glassy lake. There is no light from the cabin, no movement I can see. No voices audible over the cackle of night-noise coming from the woods.
Belly-crawling along the scrubby path, I reach the stone walkway leading to the front door. The cabin still looks like it can withstand the force of an RPG. Staying on my belly, I crawl to the door, reach out and try the knob: locked. I crab-walk sideways until I’m beneath the front window. The curtain is open a crack.
Raising my head, I strain for a glimpse inside. I don’t think The Chatterbox will blow my head off because that would be too easy, for him even anti-climactic. He has something more creative planned for me, I’m sure. And Gabby, and Mel, too. Christ only knows what I’ve let Bobby Danilenko in for.
Through the window, I scan The Uke’s front-room; no one sharing a laugh and throwing back shots of Deluxe Brand Khortytsa vodka before a roaring fire. In the gloom on a low table constructed from a slab of fallen tree, I make-out a copy of The New York Post and The New York Times.
The Chatterbox reading his press clippings.
Rather than enter by way of the front door and directly into an ambush, I decide to make my way to the rear of the cabin.
Still on my belly, keeping my service weapon forward, I slither the distance along ground littered with sharp stones, fallen tree branches and twigs, pine needles and cones. Because The Chatterbox has a unique physical profile from the rest of us, the chance I’ll fire recklessly in the dark and accidentally hit Gabby, Mel, or The Uke is remote. But I’m wet and shiver from cold, so there are no guarantees.
I reach the edge of the deck where it’s been secured to the main cabin using joist hangers. From here, it extends out over the water twenty feet. To my right, against the reflection of Elk Lake, I see Danilenko’s smokehouse. Now I have a critical decision to make. Enter the cabin from the rear on the assumption The Chatterbox, Gabby, Mel, and The Uke are somewhere inside, or continue to reconnoiter the property outside.
Estimating I have less than a half hour before the sirens from the Trooper’s vehicles slice through the thin mountain air, I decide.
But before I can move, I hear running water. Only a trickle, but distinct from the other night-sounds filling the air. Listening carefully, I struggle to decipher both relevance and direction. It could be the sound of a stream falling from an incline into the lake, but I don’t think so. To me, it sounds like someone pissing in a toilet. And unless my ears deceive me, it’s coming from nearby, from Danilenko’s smokehouse, the place he plucks his pheasant and keeps his block-ice.
Before an assault on the cabin, I decide to investigate. The smokehouse is not large—maybe twelve foot long by ten foot wide. Enough space for a man, even a man as big as The Uke, to strip and hang pheasant and carve out block-ice, but maybe not large enough for one big man to comfortably hold a giant man and two female NYPD detectives, captive.
Still crawling on my gut, I reach the smokehouse. If nothing else, I’ve confirmed the source of the running water. It’s coming from inside the smokehouse. Keeping low and off to one side, I flip the latch. With a gentle nudge, I allow the door to swing open.
It takes a moment, but my eyes adjust and I’m looking at a re-creation of the crucifixion of Marcus Livingstone.