Page 92 of Tourist Season
“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.”