Total pages in book: 155
Estimated words: 152045 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 760(@200wpm)___ 608(@250wpm)___ 507(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 152045 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 760(@200wpm)___ 608(@250wpm)___ 507(@300wpm)
It’s local folklore. The town’s youth doesn’t have some tradition of making a pilgrimage or offering to it or something?
But he just waves his hand. “Look at this shithole.”
I bring up the light on my phone, Coral and Calvin taking the flashlights.
“I mean, how do you expect to find anything here?” Calvin goes on.
We head through the narrow opening in the short rock wall around the old graveyard, the overgrown landscape almost swallowing any sign of what’s buried underneath.
I flash the light around, seeing sporadic markers peeking out of the tall grass. “Yeah, it’s pretty awful.”
I shuffle through the brush, finding a row and holding up my light to the names.
Cool rain wets my face, and I gaze over at the wooded area to my left, dense and dark.
“Spread out,” I tell them. “I’ll take this section.” I point to Coral. “You sweep the bottom.” Then I nod to Calvin, gesturing to the hill above us. “You go over there.”
“What are we getting for this?” Coral grumbles.
I stand up straight and let my head fall back. “I can’t believe I have to pay friends.”
“Oh, you’ll get used to it,” Calvin points out. “Last week I had to pay Farrow gas money for a ride he was already making anyway.”
Hustlers. I cock my eyebrow, looking to Coral.
She crosses her arms over her chest. “I want season access to the raceway next summer.”
“To compete?”
“To watch, dipshit,” she retorts.
I shoot a glare at Calvin.
“A hundred-dollar gift card to Frosted,” he says.
I turn away. “Fine.”
We spread out, Calvin working through the headstones above and Coral below. There are tall monuments, groups of similar stones for husbands and wives, and once in a while, I step on one planted in the ground.
This cemetery feels like it should be bigger. Next to seaside towns, river towns are the next most settled areas. Weston has to be over a hundred years old. Maybe there’s another cemetery?
But Bastien said it was Esplanade Street.
I squint at a white marble marker. “Can you guys see the names okay?”
“Some of these markers are old,” Coral calls out.
I rise up, realizing. “Yeah, his won’t be.”
Conor only died twenty-two years ago. I can ignore the ones that look like they’re from the Prohibition.
“I got nothing!” Calvin shouts.
If we come up empty, then Bastien was mistaken. The twins, Conor and Deacon, are probably alive.
“Do people get buried here a lot?” I ask.
“No.” Coral moves to another row, flashing her light. “We don’t have the population anymore, and when someone does die, it’s often off to the crematory.”
It’s the same in the Falls. Mausoleums are more popular too. Whatever’s cheaper.
“Dylan?” Coral says.
I turn my head, seeing her staring at a block of stone in the middle of the last row.
I run over, hearing Calvin trail in behind me.
Rushing to her side, I look down to where she flashes her light and see a marble bench with a bottle of liquor sitting between the two support posts.
She picks it up. “I would’ve missed it, if not for this.”
I take her light and read the name in black letters on the front of the stone slab. Conor Doran
The birth date is listed before the name and the date of his death after. Twenty-two years ago.
I take the bottle from Coral, flashing the light on it. “Chimney Wind,” I read, swiping the grime off the faded and wet label.
Calvin takes it, tossing it up and catching it, the liquid inside sloshing against the brown glass. “It’s been here a while.”
“Not that long,” Coral chimes in.
I glance at her. “What?”
She scrolls her phone, droplets of water landing on her screen. “The brand’s been in the works for a decade, but it looks like they didn’t bottle their first batch until two years ago,” she says, showing me the website. “It’s made in New Orleans.”
Only two years.
My light catches a glint of something silver, and I bend over, picking up a tiny skeleton key off the bottom of the bench, next to where the bottle sat. I lift it up, searching for markings or numbers, but there’s nothing. It looks like a key to an old padlock.
Something cracks next to me, and I look over to see Calvin twisting the cap off the bottle.
Coral flashes her light at him. “What are you doing?”
He lifts the bottle, smiling. “Waste not.”
Tipping the bottle back, he gulps down a swallow, and I shake my head.
But immediately, he pulls the bottle away and coughs.
“What?” I ask.
“It’s not whiskey.” He laughs, clearing his throat. “It’s cognac. And it’s fucking good too.”
He gulps down some more as I pull up my camera and snap the pics Hawke requested.
Tucking my phone away, I lead Coral and Calvin back to the car. Calvin holds out the bottle to me.
“No,” I tell him.
He offers it to Coral, but she damn near runs away from him. “No, that’s bad luck,” she scolds. “You don’t steal from the dead. Didn’t you ever see The Mummy?”