The Stranger in the Woods_ The - Michael Finkel

their canoe has been borrowed and returned undamaged.
Knight was capable of reaching homes anywhere on the two ponds. “I’d think nothing of paddling for
hours, whatever needed to be done.” If the water was choppy, he’d place a few rocks in the front to keep the
boat stable. He’d typically stick close to shore, cloaked against the trees, hiding in the silhouette of the land,
though once in a while, on a stormy night, he’d paddle across the middle, alone in the dark and lashed by the
rain.
When he arrived at his chosen cabin, he’d make sure there were no vehicles in the driveway, no sign of
someone inside—all the obvious things. This wasn’t sufficient. Burglary is a dicey enterprise, a felony
offense, with a low margin for error. One mistake and the outside world would snatch him back. So he
crouched in the dark and waited.
Two hours, three hours, four hours, more. He needed to be sure no one was nearby, no one was
watching, no one had called the police. This was not difficult for him; patience is his forte. “I enjoy being in
the dark. Camouflage is my instinct. My favorite colors are those that helped me blend in. Dark green a
shade darker than John Deere green is my favorite color.” He never risked breaking into a home occupied
year-round—too many variables—and he always wore a watch so he could monitor the time. Knight, like a
vampire, did not want to stay out past sunrise.
Sometimes, especially in the early years, a few cabins were left unlocked. Those were the easiest to enter,
though soon other places, and later the Pine Tree freezer, became nearly as simple—Knight had keys to
them, ones he’d found during previous break-ins. Rather than travel around with a big jangling key chain, he
stashed each key on its property, typically under some nondescript rock. He created several dozen of these
stashes and never forgot where one was.
He noticed when several cabins left out pens and paper, requesting a shopping list, and others offered
him bags of books, hanging from a doorknob. But he was fearful of traps, or tricks, or initiating any sort of
correspondence, even a grocery list. So he left everything untouched, and the trend faded away.
For the majority of his break-ins, Knight worked the lock on a window or door. He always carried his
lock-breaking kit, a gym bag with a collection of screwdrivers and flat bars and files, and he could defeat all
but the most fortified bolts with the perfect little jiggle of just the right tool, less about muscle and more
like Houdini.
If you had a really sophisticated door lock, he’d go in through a window. The idea of smashing glass or
kicking down a door was appalling to Knight, the purview of barbarians. When he was finished stealing, he
would often reseal the hasp on the window he’d unlatched and exit through the front door, making sure the
handle was set, if possible, to lock up behind himself. No need to leave the place vulnerable to thieves.
As the residents of North Pond invested in security upgrades, Knight adapted. He knew about alarms
from his one paying job, and he used this knowledge to continue stealing—sometimes disabling systems or
removing memory cards from surveillance cameras, before they became smaller and better hidden.
He evaded dozens of attempts to catch him, by both police officers and private citizens. One time
Sergeant Hughes served as driver for a search party that included officers from the state police. Everyone
piled into the back of Hughes’s four-wheel-drive truck, and they drove the rugged forest roads, stopping
frequently to investigate on foot. “We searched and searched and never did find the hermit or his camp,” said
Hughes. With the vigilantes, including the man who spent more than a dozen nights lying in wait with his
gun, Knight either sensed their presence or got a bit lucky.