Page 11 of Tourist Season
I don’t take more than three before Sam calls after me.“Hey … you know, I’d love to take you up on the offer, if you mean it? If you’re not busy, of course.”
The smile I cast to the shadows of the corridor ahead is not the same as the one I give Sam by the time I’ve turned to face him. “I’d be happy to.”
I wait for Sam in the lobby as he takes his belongings to his room, returning fifteen minutes later with a hard plastic case and a backpack. Just as we reach the door, Irene’s voice pipes up from behind the counter, her tone too cheerful and teasing when she says, “What did you want to ask me, Mr. Rhodes? Something about Harper Starling …?”
“Nothing, ma’am.” I tip my head to her in a grateful nod, keeping my expression warm and reassuring despite the excitement that bubbles beneath my surface. “Thanks for your help.”
With little more than a nod between us, we say goodbye to Irene and set off in the direction of the lighthouse. Though it’s in the opposite direction of the town center and Harper’s probable location, I know it’s still a high point on the topography, and if I’m lucky, I might be able to fly close enough to Lancaster Manor to catch a glimpse of her.
“So, you’re an SAR specialist?” Sam asks as we turn down Beacon Road. I nod. “Don’t meet one of those every day. What brought you to that job?”
As if on cue, the pain in my elbow spikes, reminding me that I can never truly forget the injuries that haunt me, even when I’m able to push them to the back of my consciousness. “I was a firefighter. I had an accident. Just couldn’t do it after I got out of the hospital.” I shrug, laying my palm over the scar where the pins and plates are embedded in bone. “Search and Rescue was a good option. Went to work in the Great Smoky Mountains NationalPark and never looked back. I do a lot of drone work,” I say with a nod to his black case. “Not just the searches, but mapping the trail hazards, incident prevention, that kind of thing.”
Sam gives me a breath of a laugh as he shifts the brim of his cap down farther against the sun. “You’re probably more experienced with this thing than the guy I meant to bring. Serendipity, I guess.”
“Irene said you’re making a documentary?” I ask, and though he doesn’t look my way, a tight-lipped smile creeps across his face. “About what?”
Crystalline blue eyes dart my way. He’s nearly chewing his grin into submission to keep from spilling every one of his secrets to a stranger. “Kind of like a true crime thing.” He looks at me once more, gauging my reaction. When he seems to surmise I’m the appropriate amount of both concerned and intrigued, his smile stretches. “This might come off as a quaint little town that’s found a way to profit off its name, but let’s just say not all the macabre vibes are for show.”
“What do you mean?”
“Have you ever heard of the serial killer called La Plume?” The name vaguely rings a bell, but I shake my head, and it seems to excite Sam that he’ll be the one to educate me. He pulls his phone from his pocket, bringing up a web page and searching for La Plume, holding the device toward me to display the composite sketch of a man.
His short hair is swept to one side, black-rimmed glasses framing soulless eyes. “He had a very particular method,” Sam says as he pockets the phone. He nods toward a path that departs from the sidewalk we’re on, a sign forWIDOW’S POINTpainted on a plank of weather-beaten wood. “He’d immobilize hisvictims and inscribe text into their skin with a quill. Theentirebody would be covered in text. Then, once he was finished, he’d kill them. He murdered a young woman here nearly thirty years ago and then he suddenly just …disappeared. But I don’t think the killing in Cape Carnage ever stopped. Since then, every so often, people who have passed through have gone missing. Sometimes, they disappear from one of the nearby towns after stopping in Carnage. Sometimes, they seem to go missing from the town itself.”
I look around as though a clue might surface from the barren brown rock that lies before us. “And, what … they just haven’t been found?”
Sam shakes his head. “Nope. They’ve simply vanished. No evidence. No sign of them ever again. And it’s not like police want to dig too deep, you know? One murder and a serial killer who disappeared while visiting aren’t really great for the tourist industry. They might like the morbid vibes that come with the name, but they don’t want anyone to think it’s actually real.” Our attention is diverted from the path ahead as a tour bus lumbers up the road next to us, heading for the lighthouse and nearby museum. Despite the fact that it’s only the start of the tourist season, the vehicle still looks packed, silhouettes taking up most of the seats behind the tinted glass. “Urban legends are good for business, as long as they’re just that. Legends.”
We stop at a rocky outcrop partway along the path that leads to the cliff. I can hear the rhythmic crash of the sea against the stone in the distance, the percussion of an endless battle between water and land. “But legend is what’s led me here,” Sam says as he sets his case down. The dark and determined look he darts in my direction reminds me of the one I sometimes see in the mirror.“I believe someone very special went missing in Cape Carnage. I think La Plume killed her here too. And that’s how I’m going to blow this place wide open.”
I don’t ask him what he means. I already know he won’t tell me, not with the tight smile he shoots my way, like he’s given me just enough crumbs to pique my interest so he can deny me a full meal. If I want to know his secrets, I’m going to have to wait. He strikes me as the kind of person who needs to be pushed by disinterest. If he thinks I’m too eager, I’ll spook him and he’ll shut down. So I keep my mouth shut as he sets up the drone and moves on to the technical specs and the kinds of shots he wants. I take over piloting the drone above the quaint downtown.
I can barely contain the spike of triumph that hits my veins when the camera spots Harper Starling walking down a side street not far from the coffee shop where we met. She has a duffel bag slung over one shoulder, a pair of headphones over her ears, and an oversized hoodie that nearly reaches to the hem of her black biker shorts. She seems to be headed for the gym, and just as she turns down the walkway that leads to its entrance, a man exits the building. Some douchey-looking gym bro asshole who struts straight for her. As soon as she sees him, she pulls her headphones off, a smile stretching across her face as she draws to a halt. The moment he envelops her in a hug, the triumph I just felt turns to dust in my blood.
“Let’s get some shots of the south end, there’s a huge manor just on the outskirts of town,” Sam says, though his words barely register in my mind. My heart is climbing up my throat, trying to choke every breath as I watch Harper and the man separate from their embrace. He still has his hands on her arms. I want to fucking rip them off one bone at a time and feed them into his brightfucking smile as he grins down at her. I want to— “Nolan …? South end?”
“Yeah, sorry. Got lost in thought, I guess,” I say with a hint of sheepishness in my voice. Sam gives a nod and then launches into some vague references to an amateur investigative group he’s part of, as though he wants to tell me more but isn’t ready to. With one last look at Harper and her companion, one final burn of fury through my flesh, I pilot the drone away.
We get shots of the rest of the town. Some of the extensive gardens and the austere stone mansion of Lancaster Manor, a historic estate that looms over the town like a foreboding castle. Some of the little cottage on its southern border, much of it obscured by oaks and elms. Some of the cliffs that drop into the sea. And as the battery in the drone starts to deplete, I bring it back to our rocky outcrop to be packed away. Though I make an effort to engage in conversation with Sam, it feels like just that. Effort. By the time we’re back at the hotel, I’m both exhausted and enraged, and I spend the rest of the day trying to force my anger to cool.
But it never does.
There’s only one thing that will alleviate this relentless torment:finding my prey.
And thanks to Irene’s intel about Harper’s garden at Lancaster Manor, I figure that’s probably the best place to start.
It’s dark and there’s a chill in the air when I set out on foot from the Capeside Inn with my backpack of tools and weapons, heading south, sticking to the dimly lit side streets rather than the main road through the downtown. I’ve memorized enough of the map to know exactly where I’m headed, and the aerial views of the property from the drone were certainly helpful. I tug my hood up when I draw close to the stone wall that follows the perimeter ofthe extensive grounds, slowing as I walk past the main entrance, a wrought-iron gate closing off the driveway leading up to the manor house. I keep walking, rounding the corner at the end of the block as I head for the secondary entrance to the southwest. The driveway gate is closed off with a chain and lock, but before that is a small walkway that leads to the quaint stone cottage. The little gate is open. And the lights are on.
My fists tighten around the straps of my backpack.
I enter the property. Slowly. Methodically. With my eyes on the door of the cottage, I slip into the shadows at the left of a wide garden that leads to the house, following a decorative path toward a row of bushes and trees. There’s a low stone wall and I hop over it, keeping my head down, staying close to the darkness. And then I creep closer to the house.
The wall follows the cottage, gardens and lawns sprawling on both sides. At the back of the little house are mature oak trees and more gardens, a mix of ornamental in some sections and vegetable in others, this side more a work in progress with a woodchipper and a small tractor parked close to a pile of stones. There’s another small gate in the wall that leads to the backyard, most of it obscured from my view by the boughs of the trees. I imagine Harper working here in the summer, the sun beating down on her exposed back. The beads of sweat on her skin. The strength in her arms from toiling outdoors. The sound of her voice as she talks to herself. Or maybe she’s talking to me.
I imagine reaching down to fold my hands around her neck, to choke that confession out of her. Those words I’ve been waiting for four years to hear. Words like—
“Yeah, baby. Just come a little closer.”
