Free Thomas Prescott Superpack by Nick Pirog

Eight in October to where the map should have been, but it’d either vanished or I’d brought the wrong copy of the book. I could have viewed this as a sign I wasn’t fated to go to Alex’s, but that would have been superstitious, and I wasn’t superstitious. Plus, my lucky socks would have canceled it out, had it been a sign.
    I called Lacy and luckily Conner was at the house. Apparently, the two were about to head to a movie, which strangely enough, Lacy still enjoyed listening to. Conner found my signed copy of Eight in October , and I relayed the address to Hillary. Within seconds I was a blue dot blinking along I-95 headed to the red star more than twenty-five miles away.
    I pulled a CD out of the glove compartment and slipped it in.  I was bumbling along to Maroon 5 when I noticed a high-pitched background singer. In reality, it was Hillary bitching at me to merge onto Route 2 westbound. I turned the music down and followed Hillary’s commands until I found myself in the town of East Madison.
    Alex’s house was on Amplewood Terrace. From my experience there was only one house on a terrace and it was usually the biggest house on the block. I drove for a long par five, doglegged left for a short par three, when the street suddenly ended at a huge wrought iron gate, 1222 Amplewood Terrace.
    I didn’t want to announce my presence at the gate box and was debating whether to jump the fence, when the huge gate began to swing inward. Watching Alex’s gate open was like watching a hundred-year-old paraplegic do the moonwalk through fresh concrete. The gate finally opened wide enough to squeak the Range Rover through. Or make that wide enough I thought I could squeak the Range Rover through. My passenger side mirror was now part of Miss Tooms’ gate garden motif. Beats a garden gnome I guess.
    There was a gravel road leading up a hill, the house’s slate roof shingles barely visible through the barrage of spruces and pines. As I drove, my nose detected a hint of lake or river, and I’d be willing to bet there was freshwater parked somewhere in Alex’s backyard. Speaking of parking, there was a silver Jeep Wrangler parked next to a shed about twenty yards from the house and I headed the car in that direction.
    I grabbed the bottle of wine and stepped out, my feet sinking into a bed of more than an inch of fallen pine needles. Walking around the car, I surveyed the wires dangling from where the passenger side-mirror once sat. In my frustration I may have kicked the front bumper, which in turn, fell off.
    The house was that odd height where it could easily be comprised of either two stories or one story with high ceilings. It was made entirely of white cobble brick and the four pane windows sat back seven or eight inches. There were a series of rosebushes girdling the perimeter of the house, the bulbs readying themselves for the long winter slumber. The front door split the house evenly; two windows on each side, and was the only thing with paint attached. I lifted the bronze doorknocker and slammed it twice against the door.
    I was pulling the doorknocker upward for a final thrusting when the door swung inward and I was left with the doorknocker and its hinged compatriot suspended from my fingertips.
    Alex Tooms stood in the doorway holding the door with her right hand, her left hand appearing to be sewn into her hip pocket. She was wearing the same outfit as earlier, only she was now donning a derisive grin.
    I offered her money for the brass fixture but she said she didn’t have her credit card machine up and running.
    She said, “I’m surprised you came. I wasn’t expecting you.”
    Wasn’t expecting me, my ass. She knew, as well as I did, the fancy soap was out. I ambled onto the recently lacquered wood floor, dividing my attention between both Alex and her home’s delicate beauty.
    We made our way to the kitchen, which I was surprised to see was fully loaded. Centering the kitchen was a black marble island