The Progeny Read Online Free Page B

list, find the roll of tape in the drawer. Spreading the tiny scroll on the top page, I carefully affix it to the pad.
    I glance at the clock: 7:43. The library is long closed by now on a Saturday. The Center in Indiana, my only access to Clare, is closed now as well.
    A thought itches the back of my mind.
    I bolt up and throw a jacket over my smiley-face Nirvana T-shirt, pull on my sneakers. Hurry to the bathroom to brush my teeth and smooth my hair. Three minutes later I’m in the boat with the flashlight, headed toward shore.
    I find the Bronco just as I left it—minus Clare’s cross—and drive toward Lily Bay Road just slow enough not to die on the off chance I actually encounter a moose.

4
----
    I t’s a quarter after eight by the time I pass the Fly Shop and turn onto the town’s main drag. Pritham Avenue is lined with sandwich, sweet, and ice cream shops interspersed with tourist traps and a handful of restaurants, all centered on the public dock on the south side of the lake. I drive two blocks to the Dropfly, across from the small high school.
    Before I even cut the engine I can hear muffled music and people talking outside—a town turned out for the last gasp of Indian summer at the end of tourist season.
    The entrance, on the opposite side of the building from where I parked, is crowded with smokers. I duck my way through a carcinogenic cloud to the steps, show my ID to the bouncer on the landing, pay the cover, and shoulder my way inside.
    The bodies inside the small pub are packed against the hewn-log bar. Those fortunate enough to have snagged a stool are penned in place by people standing in groups behind them. A band is wedged into the corner of the adjacent dining room, the singer barely two feet from the nearest table. The entire place smells like hot wings, beer, and body odor.
    I search the tables and then worm my way toward the middle of the bar, craning to see around a really tall woman in boots and a denim skirt—probably the most dressed up I’ve seen anybody around here. A few people glance over their shoulders at me, and I check to make sure the stubby patch behind my ear is covered, wondering for the second time this week if there’s a stamp on my forehead marked NOT FROM HERE . If I had something in my hand I’d at least feel less awkward.
    “You want to order something?” a guy in front of me with a better view of the bar offers.
    “Guinness,” I say, loud enough for him to hear me. He leans between two stools and calls down to the bartender.
    All this time I haven’t seen one head of dark honey hair resembling Luka’s. Did he take off when I wasn’t here right at eight?
    A minute later the guy is handing me a beer. I try to give him six bucks, but he waves it off.
    “Thanks,” I say, glancing around as I take a long pull off the top, wrecking the clover in the foam.
    I scan the group near the door. Not a single familiar face. Not that many faces around here are familiar to me. But even though it’s packed and some chick to my right is wearing a perfume that knocks the smell of fried food right out of my nostrils and a part of me feels lame for being here by myself, new energy is jittering up from my stomach, making me wonder why I haven’t wandered into town—even alone—at night before.
    Because you’ve spent the last month moping around like a depressed, sleepwalking convalescent. And then you learned your life was in danger and faceless others were depending on you.
    And maybe I shouldn’t be here. As good as it feels to have waded into the human current for a brief swim, maybe sticking out—alone—in a crowd doesn’t qualify as the quiet life.
    But I also came here for something.
    The girl with the perfume is telling some story to a guy, and when she laughs she falls away and almost crashes into me. She grabs my arm to steady herself. Beer sloshes over my hand. “Sorry!” she says, but then she smiles and I think she’s more sober than I gave her credit