Page 17 of Tourist Season
BALLMEAT GUY THINKS VERY LITTLEof me, that much is clear.
He thinks I’m weak. That I’ll run. That I’ll hide. That he can bully me into submission or intimidate me into whatever trap he plans on setting.
I don’t know what it is he wants from me yet, but he’s obviously unhinged and dangerous as fuck. But so am I. And this ismytown. Every square inch of it is mine to look after.
Including the Capeside Inn.
I watch from the rocky hill next to the parking lot as Nolan leaves the lobby in a sweater and a loose pair of shorts. He keeps his hood up against the misty rain that rolls in from the sea. His gaze pans across his surroundings as he stretches. Maybe he senses he’s being watched, because he seems to hunt the landscape for clues. His focus passes over the bushes and boulders where I’m crouched, but he doesn’t notice me camouflaged in the shadows. Instead, he bends, straightening a brace around one knee before stretching that leg. A moment later, he’s putting his AirPods in, and then he’s off, heading in the direction of the town at a jog, aslight hitch in the step of the braced leg that seems to soften as he establishes a warm-up pace up the gradual incline.
I turn my attention to my target. The Capeside Inn. A dark thrill swirls in my chest.
I clamber down the hill, stopping at the edge of the parking lot, just in case he turns back. Despite the shitty sleep I had hiding beneath the desk of my guest room with a gun clutched to my chest, I feel fucking wide awake now. I keep my eyes on Nolan as he reaches the end of the street and then disappears from view over the crest of the hill. And then I run for the hotel.
When I enter the lobby, there’s a gentle snore from the office next to the reception desk. I slip beneath the folding counter and into Irene’s domain. When I lean into the office, she’s sitting in her reclining chair, her mouth gaping, a soap opera silently playing on a television that looks nearly as old as she is. Satisfied, I turn back to the reception desk, flipping to the last pages of her guest ledger, where I find exactly what I’m looking for.
Nolan Rhodes, June 6–July 15, Room 117.
I double-check the date on my watch, hoping I could magically be wrong. But I’m not. It’s June 8.
“He’s here forsix fucking weeks?” I whisper-snarl. Irene snorts in the room next door and I duck on instinct, but a moment later, her snore resumes.
It’s early in the season. There are only a few other bookings on Irene’s ledger for this week. Most people stay for a week or two at most. Cape Carnage is cute and all, but there’s only so much to do in a town our size. Unless, of course, you’re here to see someone in particular. And I think it’s clear with the “we need to communicate better as enemies” bullshit, the person he’s here for isme.
Fighting the urge to slam it shut, I close the book more gentlythan I’d like to, then duck beneath the counter and take off at a jog to Room 117.
When I get there, I listen at the door even though I know he’s out. There’s no room for sloppy mistakes with a guy like this. With a glance over my shoulder, I give it a knock, but still nothing comes. Then I slip the master key I had made two years ago into the lock and enter the temporary lair of my new adversary.
There’s nothing particularly revealing about the room, at first. He’s made the bed. His shoes are lined up next to the door. A black roller bag is open on the luggage stand, but there’s nothing in it. I flip the luggage tag over and, though there’s no address, there is a phone number. I take a picture and move along. On one nightstand is a laptop. I open it just in case I strike lucky, I’m not surprised that it’s password protected. I might be good at a little light burglary now and then, but computer hacker I am not. On the other nightstand is a bottle of prescription painkillers. I head to the kitchenette, opening the cupboards and the fridge. There’s not an abundance of food, but what’s here is healthy and fresh. I can tell he must intend to cook for himself frequently.
I open the armoire next, moving each piece of hanging clothing just enough to search for clues, but not enough to tip him off that anything has been disturbed. There’s a black backpack beneath the clothes, pushed to the back of the shelf. I slide it free and open it wide.
“Oh, Mr. Rhodes,” I say as I pull a garrote from the bag. The smell of chlorine rises from the polished wire. “You’ve come to the wrong fucking town.”
I riffle through the bag just long enough to spot a pair of leather gloves and a hammer before I zip it up and toss the strap over oneshoulder, closing the wardrobe before I turn toward my next objective.
The shelves across from the bathroom.
There’s an iron and an ironing board. A pair of folded robes. Extra towels and pillows. And on the middle shelf, the safe.
My heart thuds heavy beats against my bones. My hands sweat in my gloves. I’m just about to push the buttons to enter the master code, the same one I managed to wrangle from Irene the time I got her drunk on an old bottle of whiskey from Arthur’s long-defunct Lancaster Distillery. Irene might have puked on my only nice pair of shoes that night, but it was worth it. Especially in times like this.
And then my phone rings. I pull it from my pocket and check the screen.
“Arthur,” I say, placing the call on speaker before I lay it on top of the safe. I press the first number of the code.
Zero.
“What are you doing?”
“Who says I’m doing anything?”
“You promised you’d tell me if you were up to no good. I’m an aged, dying man who is not-so-slowly sliding into the oblivion of the afterlife—”
“You’re so dramatic. Shit or get off the pot, old man—”
“—and I need to live vicariously through my protégé.”
I snort as I press the next button on the safe.Nine.
