Page 66 of Tourist Season

I PULL MY GUN FROM the holster at my side, holding the flashlight over the barrel as I shoulder the iron door open, keeping it ajar with my foot as I enter the old distillery.

There’s a rustle in the dark. I shine my light on the plastic taped to the wall, flapping in the breeze.

Sheets of drywall are stacked in the center of the reception room that surrounds me, waiting to be hung.

The smell of paint and malt and freshly cut lumber lingers in the air.

I pan my light around the space, but there’s no evidence that anyone is here.

I let the door close behind me with a dull thud.

I’ve been to the Lancaster Distillery only once, years ago, before I even lived in Cape Carnage.

But I still remember the layout with perfect clarity.

I head first to the tasting room and retail space to my right, beyond the reception area.

There are polished countertops, new lighting and fixtures, but everything has been selected with care to maintain the feel of history in a building that has been here almost as long as the town itself.

Lukas Lancaster does nothing by half measures, after all.

Mediocrity is not a Lancaster trait. It’s something I’ve come to admire about them.

Lord knows, I’ve been watching them long enough.

When I determine there’s no one to find, I backtrack into the reception room, heading down the corridor that leads toward the stills.

The building is silent as I enter the room where exposed beams frame the vaulted ceiling shaped to mimic the hull of a ship.

I stop on the landing that overlooks the main production area.

Copper stills reflect the moonlight that stalks through the leaded windows.

My light pans across the concrete, swept clean, no prints to guide me.

But I don’t need them. Not when I step to the railing and my light crosses a body lying motionless on the floor below.

“Mr. Porter,” I say to myself, tipping my hat up my forehead as I stare down at him. Blood pools around his head like a halo. One of his arms rests at an impossible angle. I shake my head and tsk . “You found yourself in some kind of unfortunate predicament.”

I’m about to head down the stairs to investigate further when I hear a sound from the entrance of the distillery. I raise my gun and point it in the direction of a flashlight that approaches. “Sam …?” a man’s voice calls. “I’m sorry I’m so late, man. I—”

“Stop right there. Hands in the air.” Vinny Meschino.

Sam’s drone operator and helper. He raises his hands.

“Come forward slowly. Let me get a good look at you.” He does as I ask, stopping when I gesture with my free hand for him to stop just before the end of the hallway.

One side of his face is scraped with fresh cuts.

Dried blood rims his nostrils. The guy has had a rough night, by the looks of things.

“Want to tell me what you’re doing here, son? ” I ask.

He swallows. Shifts his feet. His eyes dart around the corridor as though he might be able to pluck a suitable lie off the walls. That’s a guilty man if I’ve ever seen one. And I’ve seen a fair few in my time.

“I got all night, kid. Go on.”

“I was coming to find Sam,” he finally admits. “We were going to do some filming here.”

“With permission of the Lancaster family?”

He doesn’t answer.

“So that’s a no,” I confirm, and a defeated expression passes over his face.

“Look, I just go where Sam tells me, Officer.”

“Sheriff.”

“ Sheriff .” He shakes his head, lowering his hands just a little. “I’m sorry, sir. Somebody hit me in the parking lot of the Capeside Inn and stole all my gear and my phone. When I came to, I drove straight here to check on Sam. Can I file a police report?”

I slip my flashlight into its loop at my belt, then lower my gun and take a few steps closer. A reassuring smile rises on my lips. “I think we’ll have a few of those to fill out, son,” I say as I lay a hand on his shoulder, giving it a fatherly pat.

Before his next blink, I dig my fingers in and use all my force to smash his head into the concrete wall.

He lands hard on the floor. I’m on him with a knee lodged against his chest as soon as he lands, my gun pointed at his forehead. A spike of adrenaline drives through my veins.

“Wh … what’s happening?” he asks, his speech slurred as he hangs on the edge of consciousness. His limbs scrape across the floor.

“Oh my. Seems you’ve gotten yourself in a bit of a pickle, Mr. Meschino.” He struggles beneath me, but it’s a half-hearted effort that dies when I press my knee harder to his chest. “Tell me why you’re really here.”

“N … Nolan. Nolan Rhodes. Sam … Sam took him. He was going to … to force him to t-talk before handing him to … you.”

“Where is Rhodes now?”

“D-don’t know.”

I make a mental note to check the premises for any sign of Rhodes, though I doubt he would have left much behind.

But there is plenty of evidence of Sam’s presence in a building that doesn’t belong to him.

And now there’s his companion. Two men who were obviously up to no good.

It’s easy for emotions to run high when right and wrong are involved. Morals are tested. Allegiances break.

“N-Nolan Rhodes … is a killer …” Meschino says. “And Harp … Harper Starling, she’s not who she s-says she is. And Arthur Lancaster—”

“Ah yes,” I reply, my tone grim. “Arthur Lancaster. I’ve heard that one before.”

“B-but … the p-property at the Ballantyne River—”

“Do you know about the Symbolist movement in literature?” I interrupt as I pat down Meschino’s pockets. He moans a non-answer.

“Didn’t think so. The Symbolist movement believed art should unlock the fundamental truths of humanity by systematically ‘deranging the senses.’ Isn’t that wonderful?

Systematic derangement . Think about it.

” I give his temple a light tap with the muzzle of my gun and he whimpers.

With a deep sigh, I lean back, pulling a knife from my belt with my free hand.

“ Je suis un berceau, qu’une main balance, au creux d’un caveau: Silence, silence!

” I grin down at Meschino, watching as his confusion bleeds into fear.

An alchemical transformation of the soul.

It’s a delicious concoction. My favorite elixir.

“Please … I have a family. A d-daughter …”

“How fitting. Life. Death. The cyclical nature of time.” I push my hat up with my gun and cast my gaze around us, checking the corners, listening for anything beyond the quiet sobs of the injured man beneath my knee.

“That tattoo on Mr. Rhodes is prophetic, don’t you think?

He was meant to come to Carnage. Just like Harper Starling fits right in at Lancaster Manor, doesn’t she?

” I slip the handle of the knife against Meschino’s palm.

He’s too weak to fight me off. A faint smile hooks the corners of my mouth as confusion filters into his eyes.

It’s the first genuine smile I’ve felt in a long while.

The first stir of my heart against my ribs as I tighten his grip around the handle of the blade. “Or should I say, Autumn Bower.”

I raise Vinny’s hand, tilting the tip of the knife so it faces me. His eyes dart between mine and the polished blade that I bring closer to my body. “W-what are you doing?”

“Taking care of my toys.”

He’s too weak to stop me as I push the tip of the blade into my uniform, piercing just beneath my collarbone.

I welcome the pain. “You know, I really should commend you. I didn’t know her true identity.

I never looked at it closely. I just figured the old man had a soft spot for a woman much like the daughter he lost. But you and Sam are the ones who pieced it together. ”

I consume Meschino’s confusion as I push the knife deeper into my flesh.

The burn blooms, its caress a systematic derangement of nerves beneath my skin.

I am art. Poetry come to life to challenge Vinny’s perception of the world as it slips through his grasp.

Every shake of his head, every word of disbelief, every breath of mounting terror feeds a darkness that I spend too much time trying to hide.

“I hear you’ve been looking for La Plume,” I say as I rise to my feet, aiming my gun at Vinny’s shaking, blood-streaked head. He begs for his life as I squeeze the trigger. With a single shot that echoes across brick and copper, his pleas fall silent.

“You found him.”