Harrow Lake

by Kat Ellis

  “Well, you’re here now,” I say. Larry lowers himself onto a squeaky plastic chair and leans toward me.

  “So you just . . . found him like that? That’s what happened, right?”

  I nod, but it becomes a shudder as the image of Nolan lying there covered in his own blood flashes through my mind.

  “You look . . .” Larry doesn’t finish, but I can guess what he means. My hair hangs in clumps around my face, and my eyes itch. I’ve chewed my fingernails to the point that they sting, and my arms are covered with black pen. I’ve got quite the Silent Hill esthetic going on.

  Larry glances at the sleeping woman in the corner, then leans back and crosses his legs at the ankles. She’s no one.

  “You didn’t speak with the police, did you?” Larry says.

  “Well, yeah.” There were a lot of questions—I remember that—but not much of what I said. Nolan’s lawyer was there for most of it, her expression as crisp as her Dior suit. She was probably the one who called Larry. I’ll try not to hold that against her; it’s what lawyers do. “Is that a problem?”

  “Yes, it’s a problem,” Larry snaps, standing up again and starting to pace. “They really shouldn’t have done that—” Larry whirls on me suddenly, his gaze so intent I almost shrink back. But I don’t. “What did you tell them?”

  I try to remember, but the conversation is hazy. So I make an educated guess. “I told them I got back to the apartment and the door was open. Nolan was lying in his study. He said he needed an ambulance, then passed out. That’s what happened.”

  Larry lets out a sigh. “Okay. That’s all right. No harm done. Though obviously you won’t be able to go back to the Ivory while the police are there, and the media are bound to be hanging around outside,” he says. “They’ll be salivating over this. Probably praying Nolan will die, just for the headline.”

  It occurs to me that he’s not just his usual brand of tense—he’s worried. Understandable, I suppose. Or is it? I watch him tapping one thick finger against his lips. Aside from me, Larry is the only other person with easy access to the apartment. And he said Nolan texted him to come get me, but what if he didn’t? What if instead Larry went to see Nolan at the apartment after I left, and something happened between them? It wouldn’t be the first time they’ve argued about me. What if this time it got out of hand and—

  No. No way. No matter how much they butt heads, Larry would never actually hurt Nolan. They’ve known each other forever. They were “frat bros,” and all that bullshit. Besides, who’d take care of Larry’s never-ending gambling debts if Nolan died?

  If Nolan died.

  I think I’m going to throw up. “Do you think he’s going to die?” My voice is small. Maybe that’s why Larry ignores me.

  “I’m not sure if Nolan spoke to you about this, but he left instructions in his will that—”

  “He isn’t dead,” I say.

  Larry exhales loudly through his nose. “As I was saying, if anything were to happen to him while you’re still a minor, your grandmother would get custody of you. So you’ll go there.”

  “My grandmother?” I say. “I don’t have a grandmother.”

  I don’t have any relatives besides Nolan. Well, except Lorelei. And then I realize what’s coming.

  “I mean Lorelei’s mother,” Larry says. “She still lives in Harrow Lake.”

  I was five when Lorelei packed up her shit and left. I have only random memories of her: the way she looked so serious as she put on her makeup, how she’d whisper bedtime stories so I had to edge closer to listen, the tune she used to hum when she washed my hair because it was the only thing that would keep me from squirming away.

  Lorelei stuck around just long enough that I felt like my world emptied when she left. And then Nolan filled it all.

  “You expect me to go to Lorelei’s hometown? Like, just drop by for a nice, friendly visit? Are you serious?”

  My response is automatic. Optimal. Nolan would never want me to visit Harrow Lake.

  So why would he put that in his will?

  There must not be anywhere else for me to go.

  Larry watches me, unmoved. “We’re in a bit of a pinch right now, Lola.”

  I slump back in my squeaky plastic seat. “Is she there?” I ask.

  “Lorelei?” he says. I’m sure he waits as long as he can before answering. “No.”

  The answer’s a sucker punch. Double sucker punch, because I don’t even know if I wanted the answer to be yes.

  “But this doesn’t make any sense . . . Why didn’t Nolan ever tell me about this?”

  “That’s between you and him. I’ve told you everything I know.” Larry cocks his head: Take it or leave it. “So the publicist is preparing a press statement, but I’m waiting on the official word on his condition before I give the go-ahead to release it. You need to be gone before the vultures start circling.”

  I can’t say I’m not a tiny bit curious about this grandmother he just dangled in front of me. And I’ve always secretly wanted to visit Harrow Lake—it’s a living snapshot of Nolan’s past I never thought I’d be allowed to see.

  “Jesus, Lola,” Larry says, his tone weary. “What are we gonna do about all this . . . mess? I can’t believe it all got so fucked up. I should’ve . . .” He shakes his head.

  I stare at a spot on Larry’s tie as though it might tell me exactly how our life became a bloody hurricane in one night. The spot looks like a burrito stain. It probably doesn’t have the answers I want.

  “All right. Harrow Lake it is,” I say, as though Larry has actually asked for my thoughts on the matter. “That’s obviously what Nolan would want us to do.”

  “Good. That’s good.” The tension under that ugly suit slackens. “I’m not sure how long he’ll be in here, but I’d bet it’ll be weeks rather than days—probably with medical care at home after that. Unless Nolan says otherwise, you can come back as soon as he’s up to receiving visitors. A couple of days, three days, max—”

  “Wait, you’re not coming?” Whenever Nolan’s away for work and can’t take me with him, Larry stays with me. Always. Even if that means Nolan has to hire someone new to be his gopher on location.

  “Nolan needs me here to handle things.” His mouth sets in a stoic line. “So you’ll be traveling solo this time. Your grandmother will take good care of you in Indiana.”

  Larry probably thinks I’m nervous about being alone. And I am, a little. Last night, out on the streets of a city I sometimes call home, I could still feel Nolan’s invisible thread wrapped around my wrist, trailing along the miles and miles of sidewalk behind me, tying me to him. But will that thread follow me all the way to Indiana? Or will it snap, leaving me on my own?

  Free of him . . .

  The thought is a silverfish, quick and slithery.

  “The police might want to speak to you again,” Larry continues, “but they can just wait until you get back. Like I said, you won’t be gone long.”

  “I’ll need to grab some things from the apartment. Will the police let me back in?”

  “No need. I packed a bag for you when I went to check on the CCTV footage,” Larry says, getting to his feet.

  I hadn’t even thought about that. Of course Nolan’s attacker will have been caught on camera. “Did you see who it was?”

  Larry’s eyes snap to mine, then away. “There’s nothing on the tape. Must’ve been a glitch in the system. Anyway, why don’t I bring the car around?”

  He’s gone before I can answer. I sit there for a moment, rolling his words over in my head. How could the tape be blank? Was the person who attacked Nolan some kind of professional, who knew how to cover their tracks? Or . . .

  Or was the tape blank because Larry wiped it? He has a key. Knows the security system. And he knew I was out of the apartment.

  This thought digs its claws
in a little too deep to shake off. Could Larry have hurt Nolan? The question hums under my skin, inside my head. I try to picture Larry doing it—pulling out a knife and . . .

  I swallow hard. No, Larry wouldn’t do that. Not to Nolan. Besides, he’s the type to use his fists, if anything.

  I go and find the room where Nolan is recovering. There are two security guards outside the door and they nod to let me know I can go in if I want to. But I don’t. I press my hand up against the observation window, my fingertips turning bloodless against the glass.

  Nolan’s face is slack and tired against the hospital pillow. He never looks like that, not even when he’s sleeping. With all those tubes and wires attached to him, he’s so ordinary. Old. Broken.

  No.

  Nolan Nox can’t be reduced like that. Like he’s nothing.

  I let my hand drop to my side, leaving behind a hazy imprint on the window.

  “Tell him I was here,” I say to the handprint. It doesn’t answer.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “Are you my grandmother?” I ask the man at the airport holding the sign with my name on it.

  He doesn’t laugh, just frowns. “I’m Grant,” he says. No indication of whether this is his first or last name. “You must be Lola. Your grandma asked me to collect you.”

  He isn’t thin, but he looks skeletal somehow, in a shirt and pants with suspenders, and a pair of well-worn but polished boots on his feet like a pilgrim. I guess he’s around forty, with close-cropped hair that’s just starting to thin and deep lines around his mouth.

  “She didn’t need to send someone,” I say, not moving. “I can call a cab.”

  The pickup parked behind him is exactly the kind of truck a serial killer would drive.

  “No taxi cab’ll go all the way out to Harrow Lake,” Grant says. “I guess you could rent a car and drive there yourself, if Russell’s Rentals is open. Want me to see?”

  He smirks like he can tell I don’t have a driver’s license. “I don’t need another damn thing to worry about,” Nolan said. “Besides, where would you go?”

  “Or you could walk,” Grant adds with a shrug. “It’d only take you a day or two to get to Mrs. McCabe’s place.”

  Moira McCabe.

  That’s the name Larry gave me before he waved me off with the packed suitcase and a promise to let me know as soon as there was any news about Nolan.

  I’ve already called the hospital twice since the plane landed, using the crappy prepaid phone Larry handed me at JFK Airport along with one of Nolan’s credit cards and my passport. I thought it was strange that Larry had my passport ready, as though he was expecting I’d need it—but then I remembered the move to Paris. I should be in France right now.

  A white-hot rush of anger has me grinding my teeth. Larry knew about the move before me. I mean, of course he did—he must have made most of the arrangements. But the reminder that telling me ranked lower on Nolan’s list of priorities than telling Larry feels like I’ve been shoved aside all over again.

  Haven’t you, though? Isn’t that why you’re in the middle of nowhere right now—so you’re out of the way?

  My thumb hovers over my phone screen. I want to call Nolan again, but so far my calls keep hitting a wall of hospital workers. Nolan is in the best place . . . recovering as expected . . . needs his rest . . . and on and on and on. Just vague reassurances they might be reading from a prepared list. (I know a list when I hear one.)

  There’s nothing I can do now except go with this stranger in front of me like a good little lamb. I text Larry a picture of Grant, just in case he is in fact a serial killer, then go over to the truck.

  “Where shall I put my bag, Mr. Grant?” I smile at him the same way I smile at Larry: functionally, a sequence of muscle contractions pulling my lips away from my teeth.

  “I’ll take that for you, sweetheart.” He heaves the suitcase into the back of the pickup and throws a tarp over it. “And it’s just Grant.”

  By the time I climb up into the cab next to him, Grant’s eyes have already crawled all the way up from my toenails to the roots of my hair. I stare at him until he turns away with a grin.

  * * *

  • • •

  I blink awake to find the truck rumbling through a forest. Grant drives like looped footage: hands moving from ten-and-two to gear shift, then back. The last time I looked out the window it was at a long stretch of highway dotted with cars. Now there’s only a dirt track that I can barely make out in the glow of the headlights. Is this what Harrow Lake looks like? Is that even where he’s taking me? I picture a cabin in the woods full of hunting knives and snares, or some End of Days bunker with a drain in the floor.

  I reach for the phone lying on the bench seat next to me.

  “Hey there, sleepyhead,” Grant says, and I almost drop the phone. I’m pretty sure he’s been keeping one eye on me this whole time.

  “Where are we?”

  “Almost there. The main road into town runs past the campsite on the west shore of the lake,” he says. “It’s easier to find. But that’s mostly just for the out-of-towners. We’re taking the back road.”

  “Out-of-towners?”

  “Sure. During the summer festival, plenty of folks come to visit the spot where Nightjar was filmed . . .”

  I grew up with people whispering “Nightjar” whenever they saw Nolan in the street. I’ve watched his masterpiece hundreds of times. It brought my parents together, made stars of them both, although Lorelei never acted in another movie after it. She played the part of wife and mother for a while, I guess, then took off to become someone else.

  “That won’t do you much good now,” Grant says, gesturing toward the phone in my hand. “Not in Harrow Lake. The signal won’t reach down into the basin—”

  “So how am I supposed to contact anyone? I need to be able to reach the hospital.”

  “Your grandma has a landline at the house, I think.”

  “You think?”

  He chooses this moment to become a man of few words.

  * * *

  • • •

  We circle the water’s edge as the streetlights flicker to life. This is Harrow Lake—the town and the body of water it’s named after.

  Will Nolan be angry that I came here? Putting it in his will was one thing—a someday, never, not really kind of promise—but if he truly wanted me to visit Harrow Lake, he would have brought me here himself. Shown off the town he created, more or less—the birthplace of his masterpiece.

  Then again, if he’s pissed, I can spin it, convince him that coming here is really just giving me the opportunity to learn more about his work. That would be the Optimal approach.

  The lampposts are elegantly curved and double-ended, the bulbs set in glass lanterns. They look like stiff old ladies carrying pails of light. I wave at them, but they don’t wave back.

  The lake itself is a dark, sleeping eye, glimpsed between rows of storefronts that reflect my tired face. It’s large enough that the far side is invisible in the fading light as we crawl along Main Street in a line of cars. The quaint clapboard buildings have hand-painted signs above the doors advertising things like GARVIN’S GROCERIES, THE EASY DINER, ROAMER’S GUEST HOUSE, and TAYLOR’S TACKLE & BAIT. I know these places. This is Nightjar in the flesh, living and breathing around me. Familiar and alien at the same time.

  The glass-fronted interiors are still lit as a few people hang banners and colorful garlands. My heart falters for a second when I see my mother’s face peering out from one of the windows. But it’s only a picture of her—one of the Nightjar posters from the movie junket.

  “Everyone’s setting up for the parade next week,” Grant says, pointing at a swath of bunting. “It starts the week-long festival we hold each summer—and gives all those Nightjar fanatics a chance to come see where the movie was made without bothering us the
rest of the year.” It doesn’t sound like the festival is a highlight on his calendar. “You should see about getting involved with the parade. All the local kids do. Talk to your grandma about it. I’m sure she’d be—”

  “I’ll be gone by then.”

  Three days, max, Larry said.

  Unless Nolan . . .

  No. There is no “unless.”

  I catch a drift of some old music over the chug of the truck’s engine. I’m not sure what the song is, but it’s familiar. Goose bumps rise across my ink-stained forearm.

  Tucked back behind the other stores, a lantern illuminates an old sign: BRYN’S MUSEUM & MEMORABILIA. Someone steps into the circle of light beneath it. Probably the owner, about to lock up. Except there’s something unsettling about the figure; something strange about the way it stands under that spotlight. So tall and thin it looks like it has been stretched on a rack.

  “You all right there?” Grant’s question snaps my gaze to him. When I look back at the museum, the figure is gone.

  “I just . . . I thought I saw someone outside the museum, but they’re gone now.”

  “Shouldn’t be anyone down here at this time,” Grant says. “The museum closes at five except on Thursdays.”

  I stare back at the spot beneath the flickering lantern, now just an empty patch of light.

  The buildings fade to trees, and a short while later a house appears out of the darkness. The lit windows are small, and I can see the upstairs rooms are tucked into the eaves of the sharply slanted roof. No streetlights here. No other houses nearby to act as beacons of civilization. This is a place where the sun never quite chases away the shadows.

  “Talk about Cabin in the Woods,” I say under my breath, not quite able to force myself to reach for the door handle. But the truck door swings open anyway. Grant stands outside with my bag in his hand.