The Legacy of Buchanan's Crossing (9 page)

“It’s your choice,” Cumberland said in a tone that implied he had all the patience in the world.

The words pealed in Clint’s head with a roll of thunder outside. When he opened his mouth to accept, he was tempted to bite his finger, it was itching so intensely. He looked from his finger back up to Cumberland, who was frowning at it again.

This shouldn’t be so damn hard. Clint clenched the finger into a fist, took a deep breath, and said, “Done.” The instant the word was out of his mouth, the itch disappeared as if it had never been.

He reached into his jacket pocket for the Mont Blanc Dean had given him when he’d signed for the mall project, but Cumberland said, “Please, Mr. MacAllen, use mine,” and proffered an exquisite antique fountain pen.

Clint eyed it appreciatively. Dean slid the contract across the desk. The moment stretched unnaturally. He accepted both and signed his name. Time snapped back when the pen left the paper. His name stood out in the unusual dark rust-colored ink.

Milton was staring at Clint’s hand when he accepted the signed contract. “An excellent decision, Mr. MacAllen. I look forward to meeting you again. By the way, I don’t believe that finger of yours will be disturbing you any longer.”

While waiting for “sweets” to prepare the promised check, Clint’s mind cleared enough to wonder about that comment. It was a pretty weird thing to say. Then again, it had been a pretty weird morning. He blamed the work-stopping storm and hellish headache for the gloom and dread overriding the elation and relief he ought to be feeling.

A severe coughing fit forced Milton Cumberland into the leather chair a few minutes after Clint MacAllen left the building. He groped for his handkerchief and turned on his son. “It’s done.” He spat the next words. “No thanks to you, you useless wretch.”

“It wasn’t my fault the deal nearly went south. Your being here’s what put him on edge. It was easier without you. Besides, all’s well that ends well.” He studied the page of the contract with Clint’s signature. “Shouldn’t it be in
his
blood?”

“As usual, you speak of things of which you are ignorant. The blood binds him. While not as strong as if it were his own, he is bound nonetheless.”

“So he won’t be able to change his mind?”

“He won’t want to.” Milton smiled. “Why would he? There’s nothing in the contract a lawyer would object to.”

“I’m not so sure. He was pretty stubborn regarding the green aspect.”

“Yet he accepted an amount he knew would be insufficient to meet his requirements for making it so. He balked at hiring non-union workers in the past. But he did it, didn’t he? What concerns him isn’t important. What
is
important is that his ambition overrides those concerns.” Milton’s smile lost its cheer when he turned on Dean. “It was a mistake to threaten him. The path that leads him to us should be strewn with tasty breadcrumbs, not barbed wire. Compulsion sours the magic.”

“You told me all I needed to do was get him to sign the contract.”

“No, you imbecile, I said getting his signature in blood was the next step. Why are the finer points always lost on you?” His deep sigh ended in a rattle. “You may have been right about one thing, though. There was some type of magic warning him. The Crossing apparently possessed an additional defense. An itchy finger, how peculiar. But since he chose against it, whatever power it may have had is broken.”

“What about Aileen Buchanan? She won’t go down easily.”

“You leave Aileen to me. It’s her granddaughter who’s the problem. If something happens to the old witch, she inherits the property.”

“Why not her mother?”

“Unlike yourself, boy, I am aware of all the pertinent facts. Muriel Sinclair has no interest in her mother or the land. Muriel’s daughter, however, is by all accounts very close to her grandmother. She’s so problematic her parents disowned her. There’s no telling what she’s capable of. Cayden Sinclair is a wild card we can’t afford in this game.”

“What do you expect me to do about it?”

“Must I spell everything out for you? I said we can’t permit her to be involved. I should think the solution would be obvious.”

“Oh, I see. You want me to have her…?”

“Don’t look so offended. It’s not as though I’ve asked you to do it with your own hands. She lives in a questionable neighborhood. Simply use thugs to make it look like a mugging gone wrong.”

“I see. I just wish she weren’t, you know, a
she
.”

“And sometimes I wish I’d throttled you in your cradle. Would it make you feel any better if I told you it was unlikely, but possible, she’d inherited some of her grandmother’s power? It would be terribly diluted, if you’re any indication, but could prove troublesome. Take enough time to get it done properly, but no more than necessary. It would be nice if, for once, you were able to accomplish a relatively simple task without my assistance.”

The old man started coughing again. Dean removed a disposable phone from his desk drawer.

Chapter Seven

“T
here she is. Texting, as usual.”

“I see her. The pretty girl with the purple backpack, right? What is she now, fourteen?” Clint pulled his truck in behind the line of mostly minivans in the well-marked “pick up” lane to wait.

“Eleven. And you wonder why I worry about her. Actually, I’m surprised you recognize her. It’s been three years since you’ve seen her, since…”

Since his top foreman had been blindsided by the sudden divorce. His wife had remarried less than a year later. Clint knew Bill didn’t see his daughter nearly as much as he would have liked.

“You know, I really appreciate this. I gotta get a new truck. But I’m out four hundred when I pick up the old piece of shit from the shop tomorrow, in time for the weekend. It’s the only one I get her this month.” He grimaced. “It would be easier if Jane hadn’t
let
me keep the house. Making child support and the mortgage on a single income is killing me. I’d give it up and move, but I don’t want to take her away from her friends.”

“The last few years have sucked. I wish there’d been more work.” Clint blew out a breath, then broke into a broad smile. “That’s all behind us now.”

“Yeah? You got something else lined up for Green Man? Is it with J. Milton?”

“Yup.”

“God, that’s good news. What kinda deal is it? Another mall?”

“Sorry, Bill, can’t talk about it yet.”

“The contract’s signed?”

“It’s signed.” Clint could still see his name in the strange reddish-brown ink. The thought sobered him, though he couldn’t say why. His lawyer hadn’t found anything objectionable in the paperwork. It had been three days since the meeting, two since the “out” clause had expired. He should be thrilled.

“If there’s more work coming, why’d you can Dillon? I thought you were old school chums.”

“Acquaintances. That didn’t mean he got to sleep on the job or treat women like shit.”

Bill nodded. “Caught him napping myself a time or two. I didn’t wanna say anything on account of him being an old pal of yours. I definitely got the impression he wasn’t somebody I’d want near my daughter in a few years, either. How’d you find out he was that kind of creep?”

“There’s this, um, woman, who works at the HandiMart. Anyway, I’m not sure what I ever saw in the guy. And, Bill, you see any more shit on the job site that isn’t copacetic, you’d damn well better tell me.”

“No problem. Glad to hear it.”

They’d been moving slowly up the line until they arrived at the loading spot where Bill’s daughter was waiting, her face still intent on her cell phone’s display. What was her name? He sucked at names.

Bill popped the door and jumped out. “Trina!” He wrapped his daughter in a bear hug. She was already at the age where she could make “Da-ad” two syllables.

Clint tried to remember how old he’d been when he’d begun to be embarrassed by public displays of affection from his parents. The memories were tangled up with the general self-consciousness that had accompanied the realization of how poor they were and how much it mattered.

Trina scrambled into the back of the double cab, giving Clint a big smile. “Hi, Mr. MacAllen. I guess Dad’s ugly old truck broke down again. This is cool.” She gawked at the cab’s interior. “Why don’t you get a one like this, Dad?”

“I dunno, honey,” Bill mumbled. “This is a
really
nice truck.” Then his face brightened. “Ready to go skewer overly-eager boys?”

She rolled her eyes. “That’s not what the lessons are for. I’m learning focus, adaptability, and confidence.” She said it with such pride Clint had trouble hiding his grin while he pulled into traffic.

Bill said, “Sure, honey. I like the confidence part best, though. That, and learning how to defend yourself using a sharp pointed instrument.”

“Why are you so paranoid?”

“I am not paranoid. I know boys.”

“How? I’m your only child.”

“I used to be a boy, honey. I know how they think.”

“That was ages ago.”

Bill pulled out a comb, flipping the visor down to comb his thinning hair in the mirror. “Don’t remind me.”

In the rearview mirror, Trina’s gaze narrowed. “Why are you doing that?”

Bill flipped the mirror up and shrugged. “Your teacher, Ms. Sinclair, is cute. I was thinking of asking her out.”

“Eee-ewww. Why do you want to ruin my life? Besides, she’s way too cool for you.”

Trina turned an all-too appraising eye on Clint. “Mr. MacAllen might be cool enough. He’d have to let his hair grow out a little though, and probably update his wardrobe if he’s been hanging out with you.”

Good God. How young did they start?

Bill was asking her about school, what was new, what she wanted to do during the weekend. Clint let his attention drift back to driving. The afternoon traffic was picking up.

A few blocks after he turned onto Sumner, Bill had him take a left, then said, “There’s a lot behind the building.”

Trina looked like she’d sucked a lemon. “This means you’re coming in, doesn’t it?”

“Wouldn’t miss it. Don’t worry, we’ll leave before your mother shows up to get you.”

Clint had agreed on that condition because watching Trina do her thing meant so much to Bill. What the hell. It wasn’t as if he had any place else to be, or a girlfriend to call.

He wished he’d stop having those dreams featuring Cayden. They were becoming dangerously graphic. At least he was sleeping better since he’d begun reading the book she’d lent him. It was special, like she’d said. Oh, not on account of the mumbo-jumbo magic crap she played at. But because it was an honest-to-God original edition of Edgar Allan Poe’s work.

He’d dropped her off in East Granby less than a week ago, then seen her bruised and shredded, getting screeched at by Darcy the next day. It felt like a month. Darcy hadn’t crossed his mind once until now.

Grateful to be spared further analysis of the comparison, he pulled into a gravel parking lot at the rear of an aging brick building. After a quick scan of the area, he locked the truck up tight before following Bill and Trina around to the front of the building. Trina raced up the stairs.

He refrained from giving Bill shit in front of his kid for being winded by the time they arrived on the third floor. The sign on the door read, “Red Raven’s Roost, School of Fencing.” For some reason, the fire in the eye of the logo’s deep red bird reminded Clint of Cayden, again.

And he was grateful, again, to be distracted by the dozen or so kids about Trina’s age gathered around a large metal strip watching two adults dueling on it.

Their form-fitting uniforms made it obvious the fencers were a man and a woman. From the amount of overall padding on her black uniform, Clint figured the woman must be the instructor. She was small and round compared to the tall well-built man wearing the white uniform, yet surprisingly agile. She was a lot better at dodging the man’s weapon than he was at avoiding hers. His moves were forceful, subtly desperate. Clint had spent enough time as a kid on the losing end of fights to recognize a defensive bluff when he saw one.

What he was witnessing was either a fierce battle or an elegant, deadly dance. The intensity of the virtual silence was punctuated by the soft grunts of the pair on the mat and the low whispers of the observers. The competition felt personal.

The kids were quiet, mesmerized. While Clint knew nothing about fencing, even he could admire the two obviously highly-skilled players battling in front of them.

A buzzer sounded. The duel came instantly to a halt. The digital scoring display showed that at the end of the second round, one player had eight—had to be the woman—and the guy in white had three.

While the fencers were resting, the talk grew loud enough for Clint to pick up tidbits. The woman was not only their instructor, she also owned the studio, and yes, she was winning. No one had any idea who the man was. He’d had his mask on before the first kid had come in. Clint heard Trina say he had to be A-rated, or their teacher would have won the match by now. The other kids nodded. They clearly worshipped her.

The talk didn’t die down when the buzzer sounded again and play resumed. Clint had to raise his voice to ask Bill if he’d ever seen a match like this. The black mask the woman was wearing swiveled in his direction. Her opponent took the opportunity to score a brutal hit. Clint would’ve winced even if he hadn’t caught Trina’s accusing glare.

On the strip, the woman’s posture altered slightly. Clint immediately identified it as determination. Apparently, the opposition hadn’t caught the change in her body language, because he was still trying to press his advantage instead of preparing a defense. She dodged him easily, scoring relentlessly. The buzzer went off when the display hit fifteen. The clock still had one minute-thirty to go.

The opponents took off their masks and shook hands.

An audible intake of a dozen breaths preceded Trina’s announcement, “It’s Trip Montgomery!” She and the rest of the girls sighed together.

“Hey, isn’t that the guy on the poster in your bedroom, Trina?”

“He’s even hotter in person, isn’t he?”

The rest of the girls hummed in agreement.

Bill made a choking sound.

“Trip’s ranked fifth in the country. He’s on the team for the next Olympics,” another girl said.

Clint barely heard the conversation. He was too busy staring at the woman in the black uniform. “Ms. Sinclair,” Bill had called her. “Owned the studio,” a kid had said. And she’d just beat the shit out of a guy who was going to the freakin’ Olympics.

Cayden. Except it couldn’t be. She worked the graveyard shift at the HandiMart, for crying out loud. Rode a weird bike when she wasn’t on roller blades. Had delusions of being a witch. Couldn’t possibly be recovered from the mass of scrapes and bruises he’d seen on Sunday to zip herself into that tight uniform, much less endure the hits she’d taken. This woman couldn’t be his Cayden.

Wait a damn minute.
His
Cayden?

“May I have a round of applause for our guest, students?”

Although the boys didn’t clap as enthusiastically as the girls, the cumulative sound broke his chain of thought, thank God.

“Thank you. Now who can tell me the biggest mistake I made during this match?”

Trina spoke up, “You were distracted, Ms. Sinclair.” She drilled Clint with a second glare.

“Excellent, Trina.”

Clint had the wild idea Cayden might look at him, smile even. She didn’t. Maybe it was for the best. He and Bill had come straight from the construction site on a particularly bad day. He brushed uselessly at the dirt ground into his holey jeans.

“This is a perfect example of what I’ve been trying to teach you. Fencing, true fencing, isn’t merely about attack, parry, riposte, and remise, or even footwork and strategy. It’s about focus. Allowing yourself to be distracted”—now she glanced at Clint, though she didn’t meet his eyes—“can not only cost you a bout or a match, it can get you hurt. It can happen to anyone, not just beginners. Please, students, learn from my mistake.” She smiled then, but not at him. “If you’ll go put on your uniforms, you may begin practicing without your foils until I can attend you. I believe Mr. Montgomery would like a word with me. Perhaps he’ll sign autographs for those who would like them.”

Both of them unplugged their uniforms from electrical cords, then rolled them up as if they’d done it a thousand times. The cords, no doubt, were how the hits were scored.

The look on Trippy’s pretty face was priceless as he followed Cayden to the side of the room. Oh yeah, he wanted a word with her all right. Clint strolled casually over to the display case filled with trophies. He wasn’t to blame that it stood in a corner close enough for him to overhear their conversation, or that the two were so wrapped up in it they didn’t notice him.

“Raven’s Red Roost? Really, Cayden? It would be laughable if it weren’t so pitiful. The very idea of you wasting your skills trying to teach these children is ridiculous.”

“These kids need something, and I can give it to them. A few of them possess real talent.”

“Please. I know what kind of people live in this area. You can’t tell me any of these children’s parents can even afford their uniforms.”

“That’s why they need me.” Cayden’s voice was firm, and she leaned in like it was important for this guy to understand. Who the hell was this stuck-up asshole that she cared what he thought? Clint was working up a serious dislike for Trippy.

“How very community-minded of you. We both know what you’re really doing here. You’re hiding.”

“I am not hiding. We both know why you’re here though, don’t we? Todd sent you.” Now who the hell was Todd?

“Fine. What if he did? Look, Cayden, you should be competing. We need you. The team needs you. Your country—”

“Oh, stuff it, Trip. Gran needs me. These kids need me. The rest of you can continue getting along just fine without me.”

“Listen, Cayden, I’ve checked out your web site, your prices. I’m familiar with real estate values and rental costs. This neighborhood not withstanding—” his straight never-been-broken nose wrinkled “—you can hardly be breaking even. If you’d talk to Todd, I’m sure you two could work it out.”

“I’m aware of the studio’s finances. Thanks for the visit and the match. I may come around for an occasional bout to keep us both on our toes. That’s my final word. Now run along and let me get back to my kids.”

Drippy Trippy looked so dejected Clint almost felt sorry for him. “What should I tell Todd? He cares about you.”

“Tell him whatever you like. The only things Todd cares about are his stupid boat and the team.”

“That’s not true. He worships Muffy.”

So she and this Todd character weren’t an item. Clint had no hankering to examine his relief.

“No one’s more aware of that than I.”

Her bitterness startled Clint. Was she involved in some kind of warped love triangle? He pretended to be studying the trophies when Cayden brushed by. She was so preoccupied she didn’t even see him. Which was a good thing, right? Not the punch in the gut it felt like.

As soon as she walked away from Trip-the-Drip, a gaggle of girls who’d been waiting at a respectful distance crowded close, asking “Mr. Montgomery” for his autograph.

Watching turned Clint’s stomach, so he took a real look at the trophies. They were from more than half a dozen colleges and universities, all private, all expensive. He searched, but none of the trophies were from Cornell. It was damn confusing. Just as confusing as the idea of Cayden knowing people with names like Trip and Todd and Muffy, owning a fencing studio, and that the more he discovered about her, the more fascinated he became.

He was torn between dread and anticipation, wondering how watching Cayden dueling in her little black uniform was going to affect his dreams, when Bill walked up. “Ready to go? The ex could be here any minute.”

The brick warehouse had been renovated fairly recently, a rushed half-assed job. The second story units were lofts, so “in” these days. Clint smirked. The neighborhood might have been sold as trendy, but the type of stains on the sidewalk, combined with it being nine o’clock on a Saturday morning and nothing was stirring anywhere, made it clear the area was still on the darker side of iffy. He hit the key’s lock button on his still-not-paid-for truck a second time for good measure.

The tenant list was less illuminating than he’d hoped. Several of the names were probably pseudonyms for artists or drug dealers, a couple were blank except for the numbers, and one was a detailed black Celtic knot on a blood red background. He pressed it. What the hell. Worst case, someone would try to drop something on his head. Glancing up warily, he thought he saw a the tip of a black tail wing sailing through an open window. Nah, must have been the way the morning sun bounced off the glass.