Page 64 of Tourist Season
When we’ve finished dinner, I drive Harper home, waiting in my rental car for her to change her clothes before we head to the Ballantyne River. We have more bodies to exhume and not many days left to do it. We can’t take more nights off. It gnaws at me, knowing we’re running out of time and she’s the only one who knows the places to dig. If she’d tell me, I’d do it on my own and work later into the night so she could rest. But the truth is, I know I can’t ask. Her trust in me is fragile. She’s always looking for a reason to break it. The best thing I can do for her is to keep my suggestions to myself and follow her lead, even if we’re up against the clock.
We manage only one exhumation tonight, agreeing we’ll dig up two bodies tomorrow. It’s going to be bright weather and a busy day in town with the Carnival of Carnage Gravity Races, and festivities afterward are due to continue into the night. We can risk starting a little early, since it’s unlikely Sam would miss the opportunity to film one of the town’s most important annual events. When we leave the river and get to the road, I think for a moment that Harper might let me drive her home. Maybe she’lleven ask me to stay. But she doesn’t. She slings the bag of bones over her shoulder and gives me a tentative smile, then starts toward the path, disappearing into the dark.
I watch her walk away, and I linger there on the road long after she’s gone.
It’s a restless sleep. All I can think about is Harper. How Sam is getting too close to her.
Andwhy.
There’s something she’s not telling me. A secret she’s harboring. I’m more sure of it with every day that passes. And the way he must have approached her on his own?
It just doesn’t seem right.
When I finally fall asleep, I dream about that night four years ago. Everything happens just as it did. Crossing the dark road. The crash. Opening my eyes, my face flat against the cool asphalt. Even the taste of blood. But I don’t hear Billy’s voice. I’m not reaching for him with my broken arm. It’s not his sightless eyes that watch me back. It’s Harper’s.
I awaken just after five with a sudden start, drenched in a cold sweat. My body is aching. A dull throb pulses in my elbow where a bruise colors the flesh in streaks of deep purple. My neck radiates pain into the base of my skull. I press my fingertips against the tender wound on my shoulder, prodding the puncture beneath the bandage. With a groan, I pop a couple of painkillers and run through my stretches, and by six, I’m sitting by the unlit fireplace of the lobby with a cup of tea as I watch the morning unfold in the Capeside Inn. Despite my insistence that I can lend her a hand, Irene refuses my assistance, shuffling from the kitchen with my plate of French toast and bacon held at a precarious angle. It’s a fucking miracle it doesn’t slide onto the floor.
“Any big plans today, Mr. Rhodes?” she says as she places a glass jug of maple syrup on the table with an unsteady rattle.
“I think I’ll take in some of the soapbox races. That’s about it.”
“Nothing else …?”
Aside from more pining after a woman I shouldn’t want, buying industrial quantities of hot chocolate, and digging up dead bodies? “No, ma’am. Nothing in particular,” I reply as I stir a splash of milk into my tea and raise it to my lips.
“So you haven’t already planned a second date with Harper Starling? Such a shame.”
I cough my sip of tea back into my cup and onto my lap.
“You need to hop on it. None of that ‘wait three days to call her’ bullshit,” Irene says as she pulls a tea towel off her shoulder to dab at the wet spot on my lap. “Otherwise, you’ll be left with one of those dating apps where it’s either swipe left or you finally pick someone and find yourself catfished.”
“You’re on dating apps?”
Irene flips the tea towel back onto her hunched shoulder before she pushes her bifocals up her nose. “I’m one foot in the grave already. If I wait any longer for Arthur Lancaster to make a move, I’ll be ashes in the wind.”
“I …” I’m legitimately not sure what to say.
“Get Harper to give Arthur a kick in the pants and ask me to dinner. Unless you screwed up your first date so badly that she doesn’t want to talk to you again.”
“Who said I was on a date with Harper?”
Irene looks to the ceiling as though searching through a lengthy list, holding up a hand so she can tick names off with her fingers. “Jimmy Baker. Maria Flores. Bert Wilson. Sarah Winkle, that crusty bitch—”
“So, the whole town.”
“Pretty much.” Irene pushes the teapot in my direction so I can replenish my spilled drink. “Not much gets past the residents here. Especially not when it comes to romance.”
Irene shuffles away, but she leaves me with a spreading sense of unease. If a simple dinner has caused ripples through Cape Carnage, what does that mean for our other activities? What if we haven’t gone so unnoticed in the night?
I’m mulling over this question when Sam’s drone operator and assistant who I saw the other day by Harper’s house, a guy named Vinny, enters the small dining area, the first of the other guests to appear. He gives me a curt nod before he finds a table on the other side of the room, pulling a tablet from his bag as soon as he’s seated. There was no warmth in his greeting, only the most basic amount of civility to cover a cutting edge in his eyes. Either he’s pissed about the goose chase I sent him on, or Sam has been talking. Maybe both.
Sam enters a few minutes later with his camera bags in tow. When he sees me, his smile and words of greeting appear much more genuine. But Sam is slick. He knows he needs to manufacture something believable so he can avoid making waves as he’s slithering through the murk. He might consider himself on the other side of the law from a creature like me, but we’re just different branches of the same evolutionary tree. And I can recognize my own kind. This is the way the darkest creatures operate. We keep the surface still until we’re ready to take a bite.
I take my time eating. Pretend I’m minding my own business. The pair of men make it hard for me to mind theirs. They speak in low tones, leaning over their meals, passing the tablet and papers and Sam’s notebook between them. When they drain theircoffee cups, Vinny heads to the parking lot with his gear as Sam packs up his belongings.
“How’s that documentary going?” I ask over the lip of my cup as soon as Sam’s surly companion is out of earshot.
Sam turns, flashing me a polite smile. “Good, thanks. How’s your vacation?”
