Jumping Rise

by S. W. Hubbard

  But was her exit willing or unwilling?

  Certainly, it was odd. But he couldn’t file a missing persons report for a woman whose full name he didn’t know and for whom he had no photo.

  Since the room was paid for through August, Caitlin’s disappearance wasn’t costing the Patels money. Mina fretted about what to do with the girl’s belongings if she didn’t return by the end of her booking, but Frank told her not to engage in advance worrying.

  He reserved that task for himself.

  Back at the office, Frank shared the odd tale with Earl. “Why would a young woman hole up at a motel with no transportation and no means of communication with the outside world? It’s like a form of house arrest, without the ankle bracelet.”

  “Maybe the guy who dropped her off was her dad, and he wants to break her of her internet addiction. Chicks have nervous breakdowns over losing Instagram followers,” Earl said as he put the finishing touches on the presentation he was preparing for Penny’s computer literacy for seniors class. As Frank had predicted, Earl had been very pleased by the invitation. “Or maybe she was caught up in one of those online cults. I’m going to talk about that in my presentation. My mom had a friend who went off the deep end over QAnon, and her husband got so frustrated he took her computer and phone outside and ran over them with his truck.”

  Frank laughed. “Did it work?”

  “Slowed her down. She tried to log on at the Saranac Library, but they have all those crazy sites blocked on the public computers. I told Penny she needs to do that here in Trout Run.”

  “Huh. The library.” As was often the case, talking things over with Earl helped Frank see a new path. “I wonder if Penny has seen this girl. Maybe she stopped by our library to find a connection.”

  But when Frank got home that night, he immediately got sidetracked from his question. He found Penny packing for their weekend trip, a large array of clothing—mostly hers—spread over their bed next to a small duffel bag.

  “You’re not going to get all that into there,” Frank pointed out.

  “I’m not packing all of it. I’m trying to decide what we need.”

  “A toothbrush and a pair of clean underwear will be enough for me,” Frank said.

  “We have to be prepared for activities. Bathing suits for sure.” Penny dropped her one-piece and his trunks into the bag. “Sneakers and socks, but not hiking boots, right? And we each need a fleece—it’ll be chilly on the water at night.”

  “Whatever,” Frank grumbled. He perched on the corner of the bed and told Penny about his visit to Room 12 at the Mountain Vista. “Earl thinks she might have run off to find an internet connection as the first step in her escape. Have you noticed a pretty, slender girl with long blond hair using the library computers in the past few days?”

  Penny twirled a strand of her hair as she thought. “Mostly it’s been the regulars—people from town who don’t have a computer at home or don’t have wifi. There was a tourist from Montreal who needed help finding campground information and a teenager who wanted to play some dumb on-line game that uses up all our bandwidth, so I had to make him stop. No pretty girls that I noticed. But maybe one of the volunteers saw her.”

  “Can you ask on Monday?”

  “Yes, dear.” Penny patted his hand. “Now, can you find a shirt to pack for the weekend?”

  Frank grabbed the first thing he saw in the closet and tossed it in the bag.

  EARL PUSHED FRANK OUT of the office at three on Friday after patiently enduring Frank’s advice on how to handle Trout Run’s law enforcement needs for the next night and day. Yes, he would cruise by the Mountainside Tavern several times tonight. No, he would not forget the plan to manage the traffic expected for Edith Dunleavey’s funeral on Saturday morning. Yes, he would check all the trailheads tomorrow with a supply of Gatorade at the ready.

  Frank collected Penny at their house, and she hopped in the truck with a medium-sized duffel packed with their overnight necessities. “You succeeded in keeping it to one bag,” Frank observed. “No high heels and ruffly dress for dinner tonight?”

  Penny refused to be provoked. “Desmond assured me that camp clothes were all we needed. I packed the plaid shirt you got for your birthday and the fleece without the hole.”

  “The fleece with the hole is my favorite, but I’m willing to project a snappier image for the occasion.”

  Penny squeezed his leg affectionately. “Behave yourself tonight. At this time tomorrow, we’ll be back home.”

  Frank smiled as he drove with his wife beside him. The weather couldn’t be nicer, and he had to admit that spending Friday night drinking cocktails with Penny on a porch overlooking Mallard Lake had to be better than breaking up bar fights and chasing down speeders.

  They left Trout Run behind and passed through Verona, a village even smaller than its neighbor. Penny gazed out the window. “Oh, dear—I see that little local produce and hand-crafts store closed. There’s not much left here but the Catholic church and the package store.”

  “Jesus and gin—what more do you need?” Frank left the two block commercial district and drove another five miles to the town dock on the shores of Lake Compton. By studying topographical maps he’d determined that Desmond Hale’s camp was on the third lake of a chain of lakes that began here in Verona. He’d never been beyond the first lake, and the others were inaccessible to vehicular traffic. Every person—every object—that went to the few houses on those other two lakes was carried in and out by boat.

  Small boats. Because the lakes weren’t that deep.

  Frank and Penny would leave their truck at the parking lot at the Verona dock, and Desmond Hale would send a boat to pick them up. After that, they’d be at the mercy of their host.

  When they pulled into the parking lot, many of the spaces were filled, but there were no other people around. Several small motorboats bobbed in slips around the dock. Frank looked out over the peaceful lake. Balsam trees grew right up to the shore, and the only signs of human habitation were a couple of small docks projecting into the water. The houses belonging to them were well-secluded among the trees. No breeze ruffled the glassy surface of the water, but a bass jumped up and snagged a passing fly. In the sultry, late afternoon heat, Lake Compton called to Frank to strip off his clothes and dive in.

  A sound that mimicked a baby’s wail echoed across the water.

  “A loon,” Penny said. “Where is he?”

  Frank pointed to a spot near a tiny island of rock in the middle of the lake. At that moment, the bird dove, leaving only concentric ripples to show he’d been there.

  “Watch to see where he pops up again,” Frank said. They stood side-by-side in silence, waiting for the loon to reappear. Frank knew the fowl could swim underwater looking for food for five minutes at a time.

  After what seemed an eternity, they heard a splash near the shore. “There he is.” Penny spoke with the delight of a child who’s won at hide-and-seek. “Look how far he swam.”

  Frank’s tension around the weekend dissolved further. Penny was having fun, and he’d make every effort to enjoy himself as well.

  Once they took their eyes off the loon, they noticed a small boat with an outboard motor chugging toward them. After it passed the other private docks and aimed for the town dock, Penny waved. “That must be our ride.”

  The driver of the boat didn’t wave back, but continued to steer directly toward them, so Frank assumed Penny was right even though their chauffeur didn’t seem very friendly. Soon, the pilot had steered the small craft alongside the dock. A sixty-ish man with a weather-beaten face and a dingy canvas hat wrapped a rope around the cleat without saying a word.

  Penny was not deterred. “Hi! I’m Penny Bennett and this is my husband, Frank. I guess you’re here to take us to The Balsams, eh?”

  Ignoring her, the man extended his hand toward Frank. “Give me your bag.”

  Frank tossed their duffel into the well of the boat and held Penny’s arm until sh
e stepped in and sat down. Then he jumped in behind her. If this jerk couldn’t be bothered to even say hello, he could push off without Frank’s help.

  The man untied the boat and backed away from the dock.

  “Have you worked for—” Penny tried again to be friendly, but the pilot let out the throttle and the little motorboat shot forward with a deafening roar.

  So much for small talk.

  Frank removed his Kansas City Royals cap before it blew away and tried to tamp down his irritation. He was used to people being rude to him—maybe he even deserved the rudeness sometimes—but he couldn’t abide anyone being rude to Penny. She was so unfailingly cheerful and positive. What justification could this man have for refusing to even greet her?

  But Penny didn’t seem upset. She leaned forward eagerly, enjoying the breeze and the scenery flashing by. Soon they were well past the rock where they’d first spotted the loon. The lake divided around an island big enough to sustain a few trees. The boat stayed to the right, and up ahead Frank could see a big house on the shore, positioned on a hill with a long flight of switch-back stairs leading up to it. Could that be their destination?

  The boat sped right past it, and Frank realized they were still on the second lake.

  The further they traveled from the Verona dock, the bigger and further apart the houses got. Occasionally they saw people swimming or fishing, but mostly the houses seemed as silent as the trees.

  The boat turned right again, slowed to chug through a narrow channel, and sped up before Penny could speak. They were now on the third connected lake, Frank realized. He tried to picture the map in his mind’s eye—how much further to The Balsams? They sped past a wide dock with Adirondack chairs. People enjoying a cocktail together waved; Penny and Frank waved back, but their chauffeur ignored the neighbors.

  The boat continued slicing through the water. On land, all Frank could see was trees.

  Where the hell were they? He pulled out his phone to see if he could locate himself via Google maps, but he had no service. They were officially off the grid.

  Another three minutes passed when Penny pointed to a long, low building hugging the shore. Silver birch timbers outlined the frame, contrasting with cedar shake siding stained sage green. Large windows on the second floor overlooked the water, and a deck jutted out over it with canoes and motorboats moored underneath. The building blended perfectly with the surrounding trees, seeming to grow directly from the forest. Frank thought it was a lovely home, but then realized it wasn’t a home at all. It was a boathouse. He looked up. Just barely visible between the trees was a much larger version of the same building.

  They had arrived.

  Their silent chauffeur piloted the boat into an empty slip, and Frank and Penny disembarked. The beautiful, varnished long boats stored in racks under the boathouse caught Frank’s eye, and he paused to look at them. But Desmond Hale’s employee urged them along the dock ahead of him. No time for gawking. When they reached the end of the dock, a long flight of stairs rose up the hill through the trees.

  “How far to the house?” Frank asked as they began climbing. Frank supposed his question was directed to Penny, since the one person among them who knew the answer clearly wasn’t going to provide it.

  “I don’t see it yet,” Penny said. “Just woods.” She reached a landing where the stairs turned. “Oh, I think I see it now.”

  “Guest house,” a voice floated up from behind them to correct their assumption.

  So, Hale’s employee wasn’t mute after all.

  They climbed ten more steps, and the guest house came fully into view. Penny paused to admire it. The architecture echoed that of the boathouse, but it was half again as large. This was the house Frank had glimpsed through the trees as they had pulled close to shore. Their ultimate destination remained out of sight.

  “You’re staying in the main,” their tour guide said. The impatience in his voice got Frank and Penny moving again. Twenty more stairs and another landing, and the main house appeared.

  “Holy Christmas,” Penny whispered.

  Holy Christmas, indeed. The house’s construction materials were the same as the boathouse and the guesthouse: logs, cedar shakes, birch, stone. But the house traversed the summit of the hill—sometimes three stories, sometimes two, sometimes four—built on a sheer outcropping of solid rock. It had scores of windows, four decks, three chimneys, two balconies, and a tower.

  How had something so big, so magnificent, been built in such a remote spot?

  A man rose from a bentwood rocking chair on the main wrap-around porch. He lifted one hand in a lazy salute and strolled down the flagstone path toward them.

  “Penny! So glad you could make it.” Desmond Hale gave Penny that silly double cheek kiss greeting that Frank hated. Then he extended his hand. “And you must be Frank, the very lucky husband. Desmond Hale.”

  Frank shook the man’s hand and said what was expected. “Thanks for having us.”

  “Welcome to The Balsams! Let’s get a drink into you, and then we can do the tour.” He turned to his employee, “Thank you, Chet. That will be all.”

  Frank figured he had a long evening ahead of him. A few beers could only help.

  Chapter 7

  “Isn’t it fabulous?” Penny danced around their room as if she were in the cast of a Broadway musical. And the room was nearly as big as a stage.

  Frank flopped onto the king-size bed. “Very comfortable. Care to try it out?”

  “Oh, Frank—there’s no time for that!” Penny continued her circumnavigation of the room, pausing to examine a carved duck decoy here and vintage snowshoes there. “Desmond’s waiting to give us the full tour before the sun sets.”

  After drinks on the porch, Desmond had sent them to their room to “freshen up,” but Frank could have happily taken a cat nap. The beer their host had served came from a local brewery famous for IPAs with 8 percent alcohol content. And Penny had short-circuited his attack on the basket of cheese straws with one fierce glance. With a foggy brain and a growling stomach, Frank wasn’t looking forward to the next phase of their visit. Although curious about the house, he hated the prospect of trailing along behind Desmond, ooo-ing and ah-ing at all the splendor. He’d keep his head down and let Penny do all the gushing.

  “Desmond is very friendly and down-to-earth, don’t you think?” Penny asked from the bathroom where she was touching up her make-up.

  Don’t be sarcastic. You only have twenty-four hours to get through. “Mmmm—a nice guy,” Frank agreed with his eyes shut.

  “This bathroom has all its original fixtures from the 1920s,” Penny called out her report. “But it’s perfectly maintained. Wait’ll you see this clawfoot tub.”

  “Does that mean there’s no shower?” Frank groused. He didn’t relish soaking in a small pot of tepid water delivered through ancient, rusty pipes.

  A moment later, Penny stretched out beside him and ran her finger along his cheek. “Thank you for coming even though I know you didn’t want to.”

  He put his arms around her and buried his face in her soft hair. Desmond Hale might have a crap-ton of money and a big ass house, but Frank was lucky in love.

  FRANK AND PENNY DESCENDED the wide wooden staircase from the second floor to the huge, empty entrance hall. The stuffed head of a twelve point buck reproached them from its spot over the front door. A large trestle table built from solid oak contained other wildlife specimens: a beaver, a skunk, a fox, and a great horned owl.

  Penny walked over to the table and stroked the owl’s feathers with a frown. “I hope no one shot this beauty just so it could be stuffed.”

  Desmond materialized from one of the adjacent rooms. “My grandfather was an enthusiastic hunter and outdoorsman,” their host explained. “He shot that buck and the bear who became the rug in the great room. But he had great regard for all the creatures that make up the Adirondack ecosystem. The story goes that this owl was found dead near one of our outbuildings. He had no
visible injuries, so they speculated he must’ve eaten a rat poisoned by the household help trying to preserve the house’s supplies. After that, my grandfather refused to allow the use of any rodent poisons. We relied on cats and mousetraps.”

  Penny cocked her head in confusion. “Your grandfather?”

  “I thought you just bought this house recently,” Frank added.

  “I did. But I spent every summer here as a kid when my grandfather owned it. Then just as I was entering my teenage years, Grandpa went belly up in some stock swindle fiasco and had to sell The Balsams.” Desmond directed Penny and Frank out of the foyer. “Let’s start the tour, and I’ll tell you more as we walk.”

  The three of them went out the massive front door and down the front porch steps. Standing on the pine-needle-covered ground, they craned their necks and looked up at the massive house. Desmond began his tale.

  “My great-great-grandfather, Jacob Halstein, was a Jewish immigrant who came here as a teenager in the 1870s. The family name got changed to Hale when they went through Ellis Island. He was a scrappy entrepreneur who turned a shop on the Lower East Side into a big import-export business. My great-grandfather took it over, and expanded it even further. The family moved uptown to a fancy townhouse, and like all wealthy Manhattanites, they wanted to escape the city in the summer.”

  Penny clasped her hands over her heart. “What a place to escape to! Imagine greeting every sunrise on that balcony.”

  Desmond continued leading them on a circuit of the house. “In those days, being rich and successful wasn’t enough to get you into high society. My great-grandfather built The Balsams in 1910 because Jews were excluded from The Lake Placid Club.”

  “Figures. The place is still pretentious,” Frank said.

  Desmond chuckled. “He certainly beat the WASPs at their own game. For a while, The Balsams was the biggest house in the Adirondacks. It was built over two summers and employed hundreds of craftsmen—woodworkers, stonemasons, and engineers.”