Chapter Eight

  Sanguine Springs

  Allison stared at her father's home. Her chest constricted, breath growing short. It should be morose. Mournful. Woebegone.

  But it wasn't.

  The cabin-style house, with its stripped log siding and rustic window dressings beneath an insistently green tin roof, stood out like a postcard. The forest crept up around the building, as if only a foretaste of the backyard had been cleared and then left alone to be reclaimed by the ever-hungry mouth of nature. But the house? It stood among the woods, like the other four houses of the isolated cul-de-sac. Nestled in nature. Even the small lake to the east of the houses didn't seem to mind the encroachment. A loon called its daytime song, and the trees waved in reply. These houses belonged here.

  Allison did not.

  Not here.

  Not Los Angeles.

  Not anywhere.

  She shifted her weight from one foot to the other. The drive and the coffee were catching up with her. Should have used the bathroom in Keene, she thought.

  Her prosthesis beeped, drawing her attention back to the blinking LED. She pulled out her phone and checked the prosthetic's status with a Bluetooth-linked app. No error messages. Battery at fifty-three percent. Impressive, really. She hadn't charged it in nearly forty-eight hours.

  The Tetherly prosthesis utilized bleeding-edge self-charging technology—motion from walking fed voltage back through the servomotors while sensors translated body heat into energy. Combined with the proprietary battery, it rarely gave Allison trouble. Just the occasional low-battery warning and this morning's unrecognized blinking light. As warnings went, it was obscure—especially compared to the growing urgency she felt hearing the nearby brook.

  "Al? What are you doing here?" The voice startled her into a small squeak. A man's voice, warm but with more gravel than the road on which she stood. He emerged from the house closest to Allison and clattered down the wooden steps of the deck at his front door.

  "Hi, Uncle Betty," Allison replied with a smile. She'd bestowed the moniker on her uncle as a preschooler, enamored with the Paul Simon song that used her name. It took years to realize Al was usually a boy's nickname, but by then her uncle was already christened Uncle Betty in the family. The big man always just smiled and ruffled her hair.

  "Betty"—or Brad—crossed the distance, his feet crunching over fallen leaves and gravel. Her uncle was dressed in a red and black flannel overshirt, a black tee, and a pair of jogging pants and Crocs to complete the ensemble. As he approached, Allison studied his face. His mouth bore a wide smile, but his eyes told another story. They were bloodshot. New wrinkles stretched across his forehead and cheeks. He was haggard. Worn. He wasn't just in mourning. He was lost.

  "Good to see you, Al," Brad said as he drew near to wrap her in a one-armed embrace. Even for a side hug, her uncle's embrace was fierce. If not for the ballast of a suitcase in her left hand, she might have been knocked over.

  "Good to see you too," Allison said after she regained her balance. "Sorry I just... showed up."

  "Yeah, that's a bit of a surprise." Brad nodded. "What finally brought you to town?"

  She fidgeted, glancing around at the house, the pond, the trees, anywhere but Brad's eyes. The gleam of afternoon sunlight on the bumper of a nearby truck caught her attention. "It was time," she said simply, her gaze drawn as if by a magnet along the length of the Ford's body. To the cab.

  The damage was obvious. Something very big and very fast had caved in the driver's side door. Even from here, she could make out the broken windshield, its clarity lost in the opaque blizzard of shattered safety glass.

  Something landed on her shoulder. Allison recoiled, nearly tripping over one of her bags. Stupid, she chided herself. It had only been Brad, reaching out a hand of ineffective comfort.

  "Sorry, Al," he said.

  "No, I'm sorry, Betty—I mean, Brad." Allison closed her eyes. "I didn't tell anyone I was coming. I don't even have the keys." The tears started to fall. This was a mistake. I should have called. No, I shouldn't have come at all. She fought to regain control of her breathing, fought back the tears. But she was a thinker. A maker. Not a fighter.

  "Whoa, Al," Brad's voice cut in over the snuffling noise—the sound of her own crying. "It's okay, it's okay, calm down." She felt his hands again, grabbing her shoulders. "Breathe with me, kiddo."

  Her uncle took deep breaths. Despite the fogginess of her tired mind and the heat of her tear-streaked cheeks, Allison followed along, listening to the steady rhythm. Inhale. Pause. Exhale, slow. Break. Inhale again. Regular like waves on a beach.

  After a minute of breathing, she opened her eyes. Light filled the clearing created by the circular drive. She could make out the hues of every leaf on the spreading maples and birches that filled the hills up to the horizon. It was calm. Beautiful. Even the wrecked Ford looked at peace.

  Brad gave her shoulder a squeeze. "Better?" he asked.

  "Yeah." Allison nodded and wiped away tears. "Do you have a key to Dad's place? I could really use a pit stop."

  "Of course. I'll be right back," Brad said before turning to walk briskly to his own house.

  Alone, Allison left her bags on the gravel. She walked up to her father's truck. She rested her left hand against the black plastic of the driver's side door latch. It was cool to the touch. She tried to imagine some lingering warmth—a warmth not from the sun, but from her father's hand as he hopped in the truck for what would turn out to be his final drive. Somewhere between Jay and Wilmington, a drunk driver had cut Jake Clarke's life short.

  It hadn't seemed real to Allison at the time. She was separated from her father not just by miles but by the years of fallout that trailed like debris clouds behind her parents' divorce. It shaped her course, which was why she bore her mother's maiden name.

  She didn't cry when her father died. She just felt blank and more concerned about the lack of feeling than about the loss itself. Seeing the truck in front of the empty house where her father had lived brought it home in a gut-hammering way. She'd nearly lost it just now. But Uncle Betty brought her back.

  "Hey, who are you?" A rough voice challenged. Allison whirled, heart thumping, as a stranger bustled toward her across the gravel drive.

  The stranger was a balding, beardless man of average height. His narrowed eyes glowered from behind a pair of black colored, round framed glasses. He made a beeline for her, his stout forearms swinging freely from the short sleeves of a deep blue bathrobe, while his ample beer belly protruded from the white A-shirt he wore beneath.

  "Yo, lady, I'm talking to you," he called in an accent that was best described as Bronx-adjacent. The overall effect was that of a used car salesman, fresh out of the shower giving his best shot at setting a new speed-walking record. His gaze swept from Allison to her rental and back again.

  Allison took a step back, then stopped. She was tired, emotionally drained, and really had to use the restroom. On their own, each of these stressors might have been enough to overwhelm her. But on the whole, they somehow morphed into a type of armor of anxious apathy. It kept her from giving a crap what this stranger wanted.

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  "I'm sorry, who the hell are you?" she shot back, both hands balling into fists at her hips.

  "I ain't gotta tell you that," the man said. "What are you doing to Jake's truck?" He tried and failed to puff out his chest. Allison's stomach soured as her accuser succeeded in thrusting his potbelly in her direction.

  "My dad."

  "What?" The bald man stopped short. Whatever he had been expecting, it wasn't that.

  "Jake Clarke. He was my dad."

  "Wait a minute. YOU'RE Allie?"

  "My name. Is. Allison." She gritted her teeth. What was this guy's problem?

  A door slammed. Allison and the newcomer both turned to see Brad hustling their way. He held a keyring aloft like an Olympic torch and shot Allison a triumphant smile. "Got it!" Before noticing his niece's interrogator. "Oh, hey Tony."

  "Yo, Brad, how's it goin'?" Tony inclined his chin and greeted her uncle familiarly.

  Allison's jaw dropped. "You know this creep?" She gestured toward the bald man.

  "Creep?" Brad stopped and looked back and forth between the two like a spectator at a tennis match.

  "I, uh, might've come on a bit rough," Tony said, rubbing the back of his neck with a meaty hand. "Saw a new car with an Albany sticker on its plates. Thought she was someone else, poking around like a fink."

  "No." Brad said firmly. "She's not. This is Allison, Tony. My niece, and Jake's daughter."

  Tony stood up a bit straighter and folded his arms in front of his chest, pulling the bathrobe closed. "Sorry, miss," he said, his voice carrying actual regret. "I didn't know. And I'm sorry 'bout your old man. Jake was a good guy."

  "Thank you," Brad said, then turned to his niece. "Al, this lunk is Tony."

  "Tony Dalotto," the bald man elaborated, "at your service." He bowed his head to the point where Allison worried the portly man might fall over.ch

  "Thanks," she replied, "but I really gotta go." She closed the distance to her uncle, snatched the keys, and dashed toward the front door without saying goodbye. She could visit with Uncle Betty later; and with any luck, she’d never have to interact with the buffoon in a bathrobe ever again.

  The stairs up to the porch shook as she climbed then crossed to the door. Her father's front door was lightly secured with just the keyed entry on the exterior knob. No deadbolt, no keypad. It makes sense, she thought. Who needs high security out here?

  "I'll put your luggage inside!" she heard her uncle call as she pushed the door open and hurried in the direction of what she hoped was the restroom.

  "Well, she seems nice," Tony said as the newcomer disappeared into her father's house. "Sorry 'bout giving her the third degree." He scratched his chest and looked sheepishly at Brad.

  "Yeah, I am too," Brad replied, giving his neighbor a stare. "That didn't help anything. She's been through a lot, Tony."

  "I know, I know," Tony said, raising his hands in surrender. "Just me running off at the mouth again." He was trying, and failing, to regain control of the conversation.

  "Do you rush out half dressed to interrogate every visitor?"

  "I was coming to see you! Make sure you remember tomorrow. I didn't even know she was here till I rounded that damned tree. It's a blind spot, I keep telling you. How about you let me chop it down?" Tony asked for the twentieth time.

  "No. It stays," Brad replied as usual. "What's the big deal with tomorrow?"

  "My party!" Tony exclaimed in surprise. "You don't mean you forgot? I got tomatoes, and truffles, and veal."

  "Oh crap, you did say something about that," Brad's brow furrowed. "Your saga."

  "Sagra," Tony corrected. "It's an authentic Italian tradition!"

  "And you're an authentic Italian since when?" Brad asked.

  "Born and raised," Tony answered proudly. He wouldn't admit he got the idea after binging two seasons of The Italian Kitchen over the summer. "Everyone's invited. You, Jael, Matt." His eyes widened. "Oh, and your niece! If she's here, she's coming."

  "Generous," Brad admitted. "It might be good for her. She was always a quiet one, even before losing her dad."

  "They weren't close, were they?" Tony stared at his friend. "She never came around before, when he was alive."

  "That's personal, Tony."

  "Ah shit," Tony said, shoulders slumping. "There I go again."

  Brad shrugged. "Let's drop it. You couldn't know."

  "Okay," Tony replied. He decided to quit while he was ahead. "That's all really. You and your niece are welcome, capisce?"

  "I'll tell her," Brad said, then turned with a nod, picking up Allison's luggage.

  Tony watched him set the bags inside the door then return to his own house. The bald man stood alone in the drive. He heaved a sigh of relief, then walked over to the rented Corolla.

  Tony looked around furtively, then dropped to his hands and knees. He craned his neck, giving the Toyota's underside a thorough examination.

  Tony muttered a quiet string of curses. Sharp bits of gravel drilled upward into his palms and knees. No trackers, no modifications, no tags—no connection to the Family, Albany or otherwise.

  A clean rental.

  You're getting paranoid, Tony mused as he slid out and brushed the gravel from divots in his palms. No one knows you're here. Hell, they don't even know you're still alive. He stood and stretched with a groan, popping his back. His sigh of relief was cut short by a familiar female voice from behind.

  "Checking for rust?"

  Tony turned to find his next-door neighbor beneath the lodgepole pine in the center of the cul-de-sac.

  Jael Barak stepped forward, letting the full sunlight fall on her. She stood between five and six feet in height, with a dark braid of thick hair spilling over her left shoulder and down her collarbone to rest distractingly on the upper slopes of her bust. She was closer to fifty than forty, but a lifetime of dancing and martial arts helped the tanned Jewish immigrant pass for a much younger woman. She stood, arms crossed, a one-sided smirk on her tanned face.

  "I, uh, thought I heard a loose cat," Tony mumbled. How long had SHE been there?

  "A...cat?" Jael looked at him with confusion.

  "No, a CAT. Ya know, a catylitic converter."

  "Uh-huh, sure," she drawled, the two syllables thick with with skepticism.

  "C'mon," Tony replied defensively. "I didn't want nothing happening to her rental is all. She's got enough going on without some trooper pulling her over for a noise violation."

  "Right," Jael drawled with a nod. "She's Brad's niece, Tony. I think she'll be fine without your tender ministrations."

  "Hey, hey. Nothing like that," Tony protested. "On my honor."

  "Quite the foundation." Jael unslung her arms and let them hang down. Tony stiffened as her right hand passed a leather sheath hanging from her belt. The Israeli woman's fingers wrapped around the twin red handles of a tool. Tony relaxed as she pulled what looked like a pair of pliers from the pouch.

  They weren't. They were pruning shears. One second they were on her hip, the next they were up, trimming back an untidily broken lower branch of the pine tree.

  Gotta admit, she's quick.

  "Just tell me you aren't going to flirt with her, you goomba," Jael said without looking up from her trimming. "She's half your age, Gelato."

  "Come on," Tony said, hands spread wide in pietistic innocence. "I ain't got time for a young chick." He watched the sharp blades sever finger-thick branches like they were candlesticks. Tried not to think about what else they could cut, and changed the subject. "You comin' to the party tomorrow, right?"

  "Yeah, I guess," Jael sighed. "Might as well get some of that famous marinara while it's fresh. Besides," she added, "someone's gotta hang out with the new girl—all you guys together in one room? Oy vey." She reholstered the pruning shears and walked back to her house.

  Tony stood confused and watched his neighbor disappear behind the pine and its children. She flowed, all grace, not a wasted motion. He'd never noticed her silhouette before. Not bad...

  Abruptly, he shook his head. Nope. Nope. Not even gonna go there.

  Allison stepped into the hall and flipped off the bathroom light. With a sigh, she walked back toward the front door, where Uncle Betty had left her baggage. She looked around at her father's house, seeing it for the first time. The front door opened into the living room, behind a short half wall delineating the entry. A sofa sectional and two recliners ringed a glass-topped coffee table, all aimed at a raw stone fireplace. Dominating the hearth was a single slab of granite, the thick stone overflowing with a plethora of pictures, photos, and frames. She stepped closer and read them, from left to right.

  Allison as a toddler, staring solemnly at a huge pastel dollhouse. It towered over her, two stories of blow-molded pinks and purples. She couldn't remember owning, let alone playing with it.

  Allison and her brother fishing at Sacandaga Lake, with the sun on the waters almost bleaching out their faces.

  Jake, smiling with both kids at the top of Mount Defiance, with Fort Ticonderoga in the background. Mom must have taken it. Before the divorce. Allison didn't remember the day, but it was easy to place her age. She'd been thirteen. Still had braces—and both her hands.

  She looked away. The house was silent as a photo. No air moved. No clock ticked. With the heater turned off, the living room was cool, almost the same temperature as the Tetherly Campus offices. A thin layer of dust rested on the flat surfaces of the house. Otherwise, it was clean. Her father had been a tidy man. It took effort, especially with his passion for woodworking.

  Even now she could smell him. Her father's scent. The house smelled just like him, all sawdust and pipe smoke and fresh mountain air. She turned toward the door and saw a coatrack mounted to the wall. Jake Clarke's work jacket hung from one of the hooks, beside an outrageous Stetson cowboy hat.

  Exhaustion hit her like a brick wave. How long have I been awake? she wondered. Her thinking slowed like an engine starved of fuel. I need something to eat. But first, a quick nap. She shivered.

  Allison walked to her luggage to throw on a sweatshirt. She bent to unzip her large suitcase, then stopped and looked again at the coatrack.

  A moment later she was curled up on the couch, wrapped like a child in her father's Carhartt. She was out in a minute flat, asleep in the afternoon calm, her face lit every now and then by the steady pulse of the LED embedded in her synthetic hand.