Page 4 of Tourist Season
With a final, bittersweet smile at the old man, I leave the estate and walk into Cape Carnage.
My town.
ANCHORNolan
THE WIND CARRIES THE GRITof salt from the sea. I take a deep breath and let it flood my lungs. We always think the scent of the ocean refreshes us. Cleanses us. There’s a rightness to that for humankind. We say it gives us peace when it’s really the smell of death and decay.
A smile lifts one corner of my lips as I look across the water. It’s true, I do feel reinvigorated by the scent of death.
And I can’t wait to bring my vengeance to Cape Carnage.
I head to the trunk of my rental car and grab my bags, and with a final glance toward the ocean, I make my way up the steps of the Capeside Inn. My knee is stiff from the long drive. My elbow too. When I tilt my head from one side to the other, the vertebrae crunch and crack and pop. I mentally rearrange my schedule for Day One.
First, check into the hotel. Second, go for a walk to loosen things up. Maybe find a sandwich. Third, start hunting down that bitch to give her the slow and painful death she deserves for making me suffer immeasurable grief and pain and torture and indignity. Fourth, hot tub.
My grin widens as I enter the lobby.
Every year on the anniversary of the crash that killed my brother and nearly took me too, I claim another life. She’s the final prize of my annual expeditions for justice. My most coveted trophy.
This is going to be a fucking amazing vacation.
There’s no one at the desk when I drop my bag on the crimson carpet, but a gentle snore comes from a darkened room to the left, behind the counter. I clear my throat, but nothing happens. The snores continue. I say, “Excuse me,” but there’s still no response. That’s when I notice the framed sign next to a little brass bell.RING THE BELL OR I’LL KEEP SNORING, the sign says in large print. And below it in smaller font:I’M NOT LYING. RING IT OR YOU WON’T GET YOUR KEYS.
I ring the bell.
There’s a snort in the dark. And then, “I’m here. Hold on to your britches.”
Shuffling footsteps come from the direction of the room. A short, elderly woman makes her way to the reception desk, breathing on the lenses of her glasses to polish them on an embroidered apron as she draws closer. Her cloud of white hair sways with every sliding step, her smile carving trenches into her sepia skin. When she finally stops at the desk, she slides her glasses on, then lets her cloudy eyes travel over the details of my face. Everything takes her longer than it should. Every blink. Every breath. She clears her throat. Audibly swallows. And finally: “Checking in?”
“Yes,” I say, passing my license and credit card across the counter. “Reservation for Nolan Rhodes.”
The woman takes my cards with crooked fingers and sets themdown as she opens a leather-bound book. “Welcome to Cape Carnage,” she says, flipping through pages. “I’m Irene.”
“Nice to meet you, Irene …” I reply, though Irene doesn’t really acknowledge my words. She starts repeating my name as she trails a finger down the ledger. She leans closer to the book, and closer, and closer. Then she picks up a magnifying glass and leans closer still.
“Nolan Rhodes,” she says with a note of triumph as she finds my name. “Checking out July fifteenth. Room one-seventeen.”
“That’s the one with the hot tub, right?”
“Yes, indeed.” She turns away to a board on the back wall where keys hang from brass pegs. “You’re here on holiday?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Come to see theCarnage?”
I cover my snort with a cough. “Something like that, ma’am.”
“Water’ll still be pretty cold, but it should be clear. Wallie rents winter wetsuits if you don’t have your own. You’ll find Wallie’s Watersports by the marina. Take Harborside Road along the cliff and then follow the signs, can’t miss it,” she says as she points in the general vicinity of the sea.
I know the map of the town by memory, and she’s definitely not pointing in the right direction, but I just nod. Satisfied, she passes me the key. “Breakfast is served daily from six to ten in the dining room. There’s a kitchenette in your suite, but there are some good spots to eat out at too.” She slides a pamphlet across the counter, then rings up my credit card, declaring that she’s given me the off-season rate because she “likes the cut of my jib,” whatever the fuck that means. I just take my cards back with a bright word of thanks and then grab my bags, heading down the hall to my room.
Though run by someone who’s truly ancient, the inn gives off a traditional but sophisticated, timeless vibe. My room is a suite with pale blue walls and mahogany furniture and French doors that face the sea. There’s a small patio with a privacy fence and a hot tub that gurgles beneath a cover. I stand outside and face the cliffs for a long moment before I head back into the room, stop in front of the bed, spread my arms wide, and flop down onto the plush duvet. The handle of the knife strapped to my belt knocks against my ribs, a reminder of the amazing time I’m about to have. I wrangled a whole fucking six weeks off. Not an easy feat when you work in Search and Rescue, by the way. I’ve imagined this trip so many times over the last four years. And now I’m finally here, about to grasp the one thing I’ve been hunting for. The thing that kept me going in the darkest hours: revenge.
I pull the blade free of its sheath and turn it over, testing the sharpness with my thumb. When it nicks my skin and a bead of blood appears, I smile.
“You can’t hide from me. Not anymore.”
I set the blade on the nightstand, and I get up to fish a Band-Aid from my luggage before I unpack. I set out fresh clothes. My wash bag. My laptop and charger. And then, with a last glance around the room as though someone else could be watching, I pull out my prized possession.
