The Fury - Jason Pinter [37]
have to ask Amanda to start hauling my big ass around
in a pickup truck to talk to sources.
The scenery driving up was truly breathtaking. Pine
trees studded the landscape as we passed numerous
hiking and cross-country skiing trails. There was little
up here for visitors other than what nature offered. I
could see why Stephen Gaines liked to come here. As
much as I loved the clicks and clacks of the newsroom,
there was something about the peace and quiet this area
offered that appealed to me.
It was six o'clock by the time we turned onto I-87
North heading toward Blue Mountain Lake. The city
itself was nestled in Hamilton County, in the town of
Indian Lake. After passing Albany and Saratoga
Springs, we turned onto Route 28 toward Indian Lake.
The drive down 28 was breathtaking. The roads were
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Jason Pinter
teeming with lush, green trees, small-town stores and
crisp blue water. It was the NewYork that existed outside
of what people commonly associated with New York.
Nearly untouched by technology, commerce and
industry.
About half an hour down 28, we passed a brownbrick building on our left. The sign read, Adirondack
Museum. The lettering was burned into a wooden
plaque, and unlike some other museums I'd seen in my
travels this one looked remarkably well maintained. It
was a shame, I thought, that I'd seen so many places yet
actually experienced so few. When I traveled, there was
always a reason. A story, something pulling me to a des
tination. There was never much time to enjoy my sur
roundings. I was here for business, and as much as I
could admire the beauty of this place, I wouldn't--at
least now--be able to lose myself in it.
We drove several miles down Route 28, the majesty
of Blue Mountain Lake on our left. I could picture
Stephen Gaines (or was it myself?) sitting in a chair by
the water, writing in a spiral-bound notebook, listening
to nothing but the world itself. It was a far cry from what
I'd gotten used to in the city. Either I could love being
here for the blissful solitude--or it would drive me
crazy not to hear blaring horns and the music of the
newsroom.
There were several unpaved roads, which, according
to Rose, led to various cabins. There weren't many
year-round residents up here, and most of the occu
pants were, like Stephen and Helen, city dwellers who
came to get away from the hustle and bustle. Each house
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stood far enough away from its neighbor to allow peace
and quiet, but were close enough that it did feel like
somewhat of a community up here.
As we approached the turn onto Maple Lodge Road,
on the northeast ridge of Blue Mountain Lake, I noticed
a set of tire tracks leading up to the cabin that looked
fairly recent, and another set leading away. They looked
like the same type of tread. The weather reports said that
it had rained here just two days ago, so whoever had
come here had done so in between the time Stephen
Gaines had died and now. And if, as Rose thought,
Helen had come here, we would hopefully find her.
The tracks leading away could have been Helen
shopping, picking up supplies.
Amanda turned the stereo off. I could feel the breath
become shallow in my chest. Helen Gaines had to have
answers. Even if she didn't know who killed her son,
she would certainly know what he might have been
mixed up in that got him killed. She was our only hope,
our only lead. My father's only hope.
We pulled onto the driveway and slowly entered the
Gaines residence. The only sounds were the rustling of
leaves in the slight wind. I could hear Amanda breathing
beside me. I felt her hand on my elbow for reassurance.
As we got closer we could see the cottage. It was two
stories tall, made from rounded interlocking logs. The
front door was bracketed by six logs surrounding a
makeshift porch. A chimney jutted from a roof lined
with a green material. It looked as if some sort of moss
or other plant life was growing on it. The chimney was
static. I lowered the window, smelled the air. It was
clean. If Helen was