Golden

by Mary Victoria Johnson

  “This is amazing,” Emily Cartwright told me. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  “It’s reminds me of a movie set,” Jess agreed. “Did I ever tell you, young man, that I . . . ”

  Zoning out and maintaining a smile, I let my attention wander. The streets stank of manure and woodchips, and were absolutely baking in the direct sunlight. We were shown saloons and watchmakers, general stores and jailhouses, post offices and museums, all constructed out of wood, all either original or built to mimic originals down to the last crude detail. Women in sweeping dresses and men in wide-brimmed hats grinned down at us from porches, so natural I wondered if they ever broke character.

  “I love their clothes,” someone said. “Reminds me of my childhood!”

  This was met with a few chortles, until the local guide, a red-faced woman built like an ox, offered to take us to an outfitters that would provide us with our own pioneer garbs.

  “Excuse me,” Doug objected, “I came here for the history, not to play dress-up.”

  The guide looked at me. “Well, we’re nearing the end of our tour anyway. I can take a group to the theater for a quick presentation, and you can take another group to the outfitters.”

  They mumbled amongst each other, deciding, then split into two relatively even sides. My smile thinned when I saw Hera join my group.

  The clothes shop was like a little girl’s closet, with racks upon racks overflowing with gowns, skirts, scarfs, hats, slacks, shirts, jackets, and any other type of historical clothing imaginable. Silk and linen and leather and flannel and feathers, black and pink and red and cream, sizes for children and sizes that could’ve served as tents.

  “Perle would hate this,” Robbie exclaimed, doffing a ridiculous hat and wrapping a boa around his neck. “I should get my picture taken and give it to her for Christmas.”

  He shuffled off to do exactly that. To occupy myself, I helped the staff find outfits for everyone, or anything else that kept me away from Hera.

  “Is that dress for you, Lewis?” Emily teased, nodding at a dress I’d been holding on to for Hanako, one of the Japanese sisters. “I think it’d suit you.”

  “I don’t doubt it.”

  “You’re not dressing up?”

  “Ah, no. If I take this T-shirt off, I lose all my special status.”

  “You should.” Another guest joined in, now. “Change, I mean, not . . . the yellow and your hair don’t play well together, see.”

  I thought back to Lucy and sighed, “You’re not the first to say so. However, nothing really does.”

  “Black would,” one of the staff members piped up. “Sorry, I wasn’t eavesdropping, I just happened . . . anyway, black would work on you. Would you like me to find you something?”

  “I don’t want—”

  “Oh, go on, Lewis!” Emily’s friend crowed. “You’re the guide, of course you have to dress up too!”

  “She’s right,” Robbie nodded wisely. “You really do.”

  Smile. You’re enjoying yourself. This is all good fun.

  So I conceded and found myself forced into a shirt with billowing sleeves, a black waistcoat, and tatty pants that were several sizes too big. Robbie found me an overcoat to cover up the ridiculous sleeves and a pair of boots to hide the flare of the pants, but I still felt like a walking pantomime.

  “See, now you fit in!” Robbie exclaimed

  “Finally.” I sighed, that familiar exhaustion returning with a vengeance.

  Robbie’s expression grew serious. “Apologies, Lewis. You are tired.” Voice dropped low, he continued, “It is okay not to smile all the time, you understand?”

  “You look like you are the one who came from the theater, not me!” Perle, arriving with the rest of the other group, interrupted whatever answer I’d been about to give. Her eyes flickered between me and her husband, then softened. “I think—”

  “Mr. Crake?”

  I bowed out to see what the Barkerville guide wanted, head ringing.

  After photos were taken, a grizzled older man gave us a different kind of tour, delving into the darker side of the town’s history. Gambling, rivalry, theft, murder, and all manner of crime ran rampant, kept barely under control by a host of ruthless lawmakers, one of whom was notorious for his love of hangings. We saw a graveyard, evidence of such an underworld, and were told tales of lingering ghosts that had some tourists paling. Emphasized by a wind whipping up and black clouds beginning to pool over the mountains, most people seemed glad to be shepherded back to their respective hotels. I waited in the foyer of the more popular hotel, and after a good few minutes, was handed a massive stack of gold-digger clothing to be returned to the outfitters.

  It was twilight by this time, the sky prematurely dark. No stars tonight. It was a shame; out here, hours from the nearest proper town, the lack of artificial light would’ve made for brilliant constellations.

  Something small and hard came hurtling through the air and smacked into my shoulder blade. I pivoted to see Hera twirling a top hat on the handle of a walking stick. She was completely dressed up in a red velveteen ball gown, honey-colored shoulders exposed and the untied laces of a corset fluttering down her back.

  “This would make a great Halloween costume, don’t you think?” She gave half a smile. “Victorian brothel princess.”

  “Certainly.”

  I kept walking, ignoring the pocket watch she’d thrown. There was something in her tone that unnerved me, something bitter. It was like she couldn’t make up her mind, whether to act like yesterday hadn’t happened, apologize, or get angry at me for whatever I’d done wrong according to her. As though, just like me, she could feel whatever façade she’d built start to crumble, brick by brick.

  Well, not my problem. I wasn’t hired to be a detective or a therapist.

  There was a crunching of gravel, indicating Hera had decided to follow me. I ground my teeth and willed myself not to turn around.

  “I doubt we’re going to beat this storm, hey? It’s a shame.” She was being more conversational now, almost begging me to respond. “I wouldn’t mind having to stay another night here, though. It’s so nice.”

  I kept walking. The shop was coming into view now, white siding gone yellow and a sign at the door reading CLOSED.

  “Lewis, c’mon.”

  Was two meters a reasonable distance to pretend to be unable to hear someone?

  “What would Chrissy think about such manners?” she sighed.

  I froze. I must’ve misheard her; I’d never mentioned Chrissy’s name to anyone on the trip so far, of that I was certain.

  Hera laughed without humor. “Gotcha.”

  “How did . . . ?”

  She raised her palms in mock surrender, but her face was perfectly solemn. “There’s nothing wrong with writing letters. I’ve always wanted a pen pal.”

  “How do you know about Chrissy?” I demanded. “And how do you know she writes me letters?”

  Hera gave the ghost of a smile, just standing there in the middle of the dusty road with her too-big ball gown and blue hair falling out of its ponytail.

  Arms burning from the pile of clothes, I set them down on a nearby porch. It was starting to rain, big fat drops smacking into puddles, and even the locals were inside. “What do you want?”

  Silence, the wind, the rain.

  Very slowly, Hera shook her head. “I used to be able to answer that question.”

  It all happened in the space of an instant. Two steps. A sharp intake of breath. Then Hera was kissing me, and the sky broke open.

  IDIOT. IDIOT. IDIOT. I GLARED AT MY REFLECTION IN the hotel mirror, which was shaking from the force of the storm pounding the wooden walls. Or maybe I was the one who was shaking. Idiot.

  Admittedly, it hadn’t started out as my fault. I hadn’t, ah, initiated anything, or given any signs that could’ve been interpreted as such. However, it had become my fault when I’d kissed Hera Wilson right back. Now, I couldn’t even rationalize
it. But in the moment . . .

  I shook my head and went to close the window, realizing my papers were starting to be blown around the room. It jammed halfway, so I left it.

  So much for not getting involved, the logical part of me hissed. Congratulations on successfully burning that bridge. Was it worth it? No.

  Yes.

  “Crake? Crake, you in there?”

  I jumped, crossing the room in two strides and throwing open the door. Sergio was standing there, his shirt semi-transparent from a combination of rain and food grease. He raised his eyebrows.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Yes,” I snapped. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and said, calmer, “Yes. What’s wrong?”

  “What are the chances of staying here another day? The weather’s only going to get worse, apparently.”

  “No! Of course we can’t! You know we can’t do that.” I made to shut the door. “Nice try, though.”

  “I’m not messing with you, kid.” A beefy hand slid out and blocked me from locking up.

  “Scared of a little rain?” I said, mimicking his own words.

  “Listen—”

  “We can’t change the plan any more than it’s already been changed. Please, stop making this so bloody difficult.”

  The hand disappeared, and the lock clicked into place. After a few seconds, the telltale creak of floorboards announced he’d walked away.

  Adults these days. I shuddered and resumed the pacing of my room.

  Of all the possible hitches I’d prepared myself for, this was so completely unexpected I almost didn’t know what to feel or do. Poor road conditions, nattering guests, medical emergencies, logistics fiascos . . . all things I’d made sure I was ready to handle. Falling for a girl who was a “person of interest” for some mysterious crime—oh, and who also happened to have psychic-like abilities regarding obscure personal details—was, without a doubt, the last thing that’d crossed my mind.

  Admitting it to myself didn’t make me feel any better. There were only three days left, barely a blink in the grand scheme of things. What was I expecting to happen when those days were up? What was I expecting to happen during that time?

  Well, obviously you’re incapable of just keeping your distance.

  A headache beginning to pound the inside of my skull, I collapsed on my bed, wincing as the springs shrieked, and stared at the discoloration on the ceiling. The cracks formed something that resembled a massive spider or the skeleton of a snowflake. I tried to focus on them, but . . .

  Stubbornly, my mind replayed the kiss again and again and again like some stupid scratched record. The relief behind Hera’s burning eyes when I didn’t push her away. My own surprise, replaced with something bright and alive that I’d never felt before. The awkward bulkiness of her costume, the biting of the rain, then a flushed grin before she was gone again, heading to the hotel to get changed.

  Now, I’d had girlfriends before. A date to middle school graduation that had lingered into high school, a best friend who had later evolved into something more. But those had been slow relationships, picking up traction after months of hesitation and uncertainty, fizzling out in the same steady decline. There had been time to think, to consider, to decide, to fall in and out of love in a regular fashion. This wasn’t even like those moments of fleeting attraction between strangers, something inconsequential and insubstantial; this was real enough to have me truly scared. I think it’d always been there from day one—it had just needed one of us to drag it out into the open, kicking and screaming, to make me admit it.

  But I had a road trip to run, with two dozen other people who weren’t Hera Wilson on board. And that meant, as my dad would cheerily say, I had to stuff my crap in a sock and keep going as normal.

  Wonderful.

  I was awoken by the sound of distant thunder and my phone ringing. By the time I’d registered the latter, the line had already gone dead.

  “I reckon you’ll be all right,” the bed-and-breakfast owner said, serving myself and eight other guests pancakes in the kitchen. She was still wearing her 1860s getup. “With the storm, I mean. The Weather Network said it shouldn’t hit in full force until the afternoon.”

  “You have a TV in here?” I asked, amused.

  She winked. “And five channels.”

  So I spread the word that we needed to hustle and leave Barkerville as early as possible, then returned to my room, collected my things, and went out to check the coach was being loaded. On the way over, my phone rang again.

  “Hello?” I said, the caller ID registering the number as unknown.

  “Where are you, Lewis?” The voice on the other line was quiet, unsteady. Almost angry. It took me a minute to place where I recognized it from.

  “Mr. Swierenga.” I set down my backpack and took a deep breath. “We’re about to leave Barkerville, sir.”

  “That’s not where you’re supposed to be.”

  “Ah, no, sir. But I was advised by the driver that this would be a safer option, given the current weather conditions. He told me you wouldn’t mind.”

  There was a pause, and for a moment, I thought I’d lost the connection.

  “Drivers do not have the authority to alter set itineraries, Lewis. Neither do you, for that matter. Unreliability is not a reputation a tour company wants to have.”

  “I thought—”

  “Now, I do trust your judgement, Lewis. Really I do. But the fact that I’m phoning you at all should disclose how out of control you’ve let this situation become.”

  I frowned. “Out of control? Everything is in hand, sir.”

  Swierenga gave a sardonic laugh. “Tell that to the RCMP.”

  My throat went dry. The Royal Canadian Mounted Police were Canada’s famous Mounties, but aside from their iconic red-uniformed touristy personas, they were the active national police force of the country. Whatever they were involved in was bigger than some localized misdemeanor.

  “I’m not following you.”

  “They were waiting for you in Quesnel.” Swierenga sounded weary. “They’re after one of our customers, apparently. Unfortunately, now we’re the ones who look bad, since I told them you’d be in Quesnel today and you quite clearly weren’t. It looks like you’re avoiding them.” Before I could protest, he went on, “I’m not saying that was your intention. At least, I hope to God it wasn’t. Just make sure you get yourself to town today and do all the sucking up you have to do, all right? And for the love of Pete, don’t improvise again. Severing contracts isn’t pleasant for either of us.”

  “I understand.”

  I held my phone in a clenched fist long after Swierenga hung up, heart hammering and emotion after emotion pulsing through my body. Irritation, fear, resignation, anger, and—more than ever—a burning curiosity. I had to tell her. I had to give her one last chance to explain herself.

  The air was thick with humidity and the promise of rain, and running back to town was doubly as draining as it should’ve been. I avoided the tour group as much as possible, directing a few people to the coach and answering a few rushed questions, searching all the while for that distinctive blue ponytail. I found her with one of the town’s employees, a man dressed as a stagecoach driver, stroking his horse and cooing to it softly.

  “Hera?”

  She glanced upward, her smile fading at my expression. “What’s the matter?”

  “I need to talk to you. Alone.”

  We slipped down an alleyway between the saloon and the old blacksmith’s, avoiding the gigantic puddles that had materialized overnight. There was barely enough room to stand facing each other, my shoulders scraping the timber walls of both buildings.

  “I had a call from my boss,” I said, diving right into it. “The RCMP are waiting for us in Quesnel.”

  “Us?” She paled.

  “Well, presumably just you. No names were mentioned, but taking a wild guess . . . ” I trailed off, gaging her reaction.

  “Oh,” she w
hispered. “Shoot.”

  “Yeah.”

  Hera chewed on her lower lip, dark eyes glassed over. Wearing denim cutoffs and a simple white tank top, she seemed much . . . smaller, somehow, than she had yesterday in that oversized gown. “I was hoping we threw them off earlier.”

  “So you admit it is you they’re after?”

  She gave a tight bob of the head. “I think at this point, it’d be useless denying it.”

  “What did you do?”

  “Ah.” Hera finally met my gaze. “That, I’m afraid, is classified.” Her lips twitched into a sideways grin. “It’s far too much fun keeping you on the hook. I have a feeling the only reason you’re keeping me around is out of nosiness.”

  “This isn’t funny!” I exclaimed, despite fighting back an exasperated grin of my own.

  “No.” The smile was gone again. “I don’t suppose it is. Are you in much trouble?”

  “I mean, they haven’t revoked my visa yet.”

  She nodded for a second time. “Good. How long can you delay leaving without getting in hot water again?”

  “Technically we don’t have to be in Quesnel until two o’clock, but if we leave it much longer we’ll be stuck in the storm. Why?”

  “Well, first and foremost, I need to change your guest roster. If I’m on it when you arrive in Quesnel, then it’s game over for both of us. Then I need to disappear.”

  Disappear. Out here, surrounded by nothing but mountains and dense wilderness, anyone could vanish in a matter of minutes. However, given that running into the woods was practically a death sentence, I imagined Hera had something far more intricate in mind.

  “But how would you do either of those things?”

  Too deep in thought to hear me, she began moving out of the alleyway toward the edge of the village, where the coach was parked. I followed, but right when I caught up with her again, she stopped so suddenly I nearly slammed right into her back.

  “Jess?” we said in unison.