The Winslow Incident (43 page)

“What for?”

“Supplies.”

“What kind of supplies?”

“Medicine.”

“What kind of medicine?”

Simmons stammered and sputtered,
“Just . . . you know . . . medicine.”

“Only place you’re going is to The
Winslow so you can do your job, Doc. Now get your scrawny ass up there and
start treating people.”

Simmons shied back from Pard. “I
don’t want to get involved.”

“You’re involved, all right.
Whether you want to be or not is none of my concern.”

Tanner was walking behind Pete and
wondering what chance he had of making a break for it. He’d have to leap up and
scramble over the flatbed and then run like hell, dodging bullets no doubt. But
it’d take them a while to untangle the trucks and give chase and by then he’d
already be across the bridge and hiding in the woods. There was just one
problem: his leg was bad, his foot was even worse. He wasn’t sure how fast he
could run, if at all.

While Old Pete joined Pard, Tanner
continued to the north side of the bridge where the Kawasaki had been wedged to
block the pedestrian path. Someone had sliced the clutch cable in two.
Big
surprise, wonder who?
He shot a hateful glare at Kenny Clark.

Pete asked Simmons, “So will you
be driving yourself up to the hotel or riding with me?”

Simmons shook his head fiercely.
“I’m leaving. Got to go now. Right now.”

Tanner could see how desperate the
vet was to get out, but couldn’t tell if he was babbling because he was sick or
due to that nasty-looking crack across his forehead.

Ignoring the vet, Pard asked Old Pete,
“What’s the situation in town?”

“Rhone Bakery burned clear to the
ground. No sign of Zachary Rhone anywhere around.”

“Who’d want to burn down the
bakery?”

“Maybe Rhone himself.” Old Pete
glanced at Tanner. “The kid says it’s the bread making folks sick.”

Now everybody turned to look at
him.

“That right, Tanner?” Pard asked.

Tanner tried to sound casual,
“Yeah, it all came from Rhone Bakery. They used bad flour to make bad bread.”

Tanner saw Doc Simmons’ face
tighten with panic. But his uncle’s very slight smile told Tanner that he was
pleased with this offering, relieved to finally have the heat off Holloway
Ranch.

“Damn good thing we stick to Maggie’s
soda sinkers,” Pard said, and Maggie and the other cowhands laughed.

Damn good thing . . .
only Tanner had eaten more than ranch biscuits over the
past few days. There was that ham on rye at the Crock early Saturday. Hazel had
taken his order and called him a stoner when he asked for double fries. Then
there were those donut holes Sunday morning: ninety-nine cents a
dozen—here, take two for a buck and a half, Sean had convinced him.

If I didn’t know better
, Tanner thought dully,
I’d think they were trying to
kill me.

Pard addressed Simmons, “What’s in
the bread? I know that you know—I can see it in your eyes.”

Simmons closed his revealing eyes.
“Ergot.”

“What’s that?”

“A fungus. Grows on grain crops if
they’re rained on too heavily.”

Tanner decided he might as well
help his uncle along. “Maybe the same fungus found its way into your feed as
Rhone’s flour.”

Pard squinted at him one-eyed.

“Kid could be right,” Old Pete
said. “Could be ergot is what’s got into the herd. I’ve witnessed it
before—a cow loses the tip off its ear, half if it’s real bad, sometimes
a tail. But never to this extreme, never seen the animals go strange before,
and I’ve certainly never seen it happen to folks.”

“That sonofabitch!” Pard made
tight fists. “Get Fritz Earley and bring him to the Buckhorn. And act friendly,
Pete. I don’t want him showing up there all balled up. I’m damn near worn out
trying to figure out what the hell we’re up against here and need some honest
answers out of him.”

Suddenly Pard lunged for Simmons
and grabbed the frightened vet by the shirt. “I need some answers out of you
too. What happens if it is this fungus? What do we do about it?”

Simmons went white. “There’s
nothing we can do about it.”

“Don’t give me that!”

A brown cow with white puzzle
piece markings strolled up to the mouth of the bridge and stopped next to
Simmons. Then she looked directly at the vet and mooed.

Pard released Simmons and turned
to Maggie Clark. “Take care of that, will you?” He lifted his hat and sopped up
sweat with a bandanna. “Cattle wandering the streets. Who’s leaving gates
open?”

Simmons finally noticed the hiss
that was his tire hemorrhaging air and swung around. Then he strode to the
truck with Pard yelling after him, “Where do you think you’re going?”

The vet hauled himself into his
truck and started the engine with a foot heavy on the accelerator. He reversed
wildly for thirty feet and then sat for a moment, both hands gripping the
wheel. Clearly he intended to crash into the barricade—try and smash
through it—and take as many cowboys with him as he could.

Tanner backed up to the bridge
railing. Everything shone stark in the clear morning air, the sun glinting off
metal and glass.

“Dammit it, Simmons!” Pard
bellowed. “Get the hell out of there!”

The vet gunned his engine. Tanner
could see the madman’s gleam in his eyes. Then Simmons floored it and screeched
toward the barricade.

The ranch hands scrambled off the
road and onto the pedestrian walkways. Old Pete and Pard ended up next to Tanner
in front of the bike. On the opposite side of the bridge Kenny Clark raised his
rifle and shot into the cab and Simmons ducked below the windshield. Casings
caught sunlight as they flew off the bridge and Pard shouted, “Hey hey whoa!
Hold your fire!”

The red truck collided with the
barricade and smashed Maggie’s Chevy aside in a scream of twisting metal.
Simmons and his truck slid across the bridge, slammed into the railing, and
wobbled precariously over the edge before banging back down on all fours.

Kenny started in the direction of
Simmons’ truck but Pard shouted. “Hold up, Ken. Did I tell you to fire?”

“The Doc’s gone crazy.” Kenny held
up his hand and looked at Pard as if to say,
What else was I supposed to do?

“You’re never to let fly unless I
order it. Understood?”

Kenny took on a hangdog look.
“Yeah, boss.”

Simmons’ engine shuddered to a
stop and Pard turned and scrutinized Tanner for what felt like a long time. Finally,
he clamped his dry hand across the back of his nephew’s neck. “Go and get
Simmons out of there.”

Tanner accepted the revolver his
uncle handed him. Then Old Pete gave Tanner that cow shove again. His heartbeat
ramped up as he approached the vet’s truck.
Why does he want me to do this?
And
why did it seem so quiet all of a sudden? He sucked in his breath and peered
into the cab.

Curled up on his side, the crazed
glint in Simmons’ eyes had been replaced by sheer terror. Tanner let out a long
breath before he looked back at the ranch hands standing at the barricade. They
were all staring at him.

I’m gonna puke.
He was sure of it, felt it right there, but swallowed hard
instead and stepped onto the running board.

Simmons sat up and scooted across
to the passenger’s seat.

Tanner aimed the gun at the vet’s
head, but his hands were shaking so bad he’d be lucky to hit the sky. “Get
out.”

“I can’t.” Simmons shook his head.

“Get out, you cowardly piece of
shit.”

The vet made a bleating noise a
lot like the calf had at Holloway Ranch the other night right before Kenny blew
its brains out.

Tanner raised the gun to point above
Simmons’ head. He pulled the trigger. A resounding boom and the bullet punched through
the roof of the cab. Tanner’s ears popped first, then settled into a roaring
ziiinng.
He lowered the gun and took shaky aim at the vet’s astonished right eye.

“Okay okay.” Simmons mouthed but Tanner
couldn’t hear him. The vet scrambled back to the driver’s side and Tanner
stepped down and opened the door.

“Take him to The Winslow,” Pard
barked from what sounded like a million miles away. “And bring me that
sonofabitch Fritz Earley.”

Simmons shrank back, giving Tanner
a look that seemed to say,
I know what you’re hiding.

Kenny Clark shoved Tanner aside to
grab Simmons out of the cab. “C’mon, Doc,” Kenny said in a faraway voice. “It’s
to the pest house with you. Time to take care of the sickos.”

Tanner’s damaged hearing made him
feel as though he were deep underwater and all this commotion was occurring
distantly above the surface.

Simmons tried to squirm free but
Kenny held fast. “I can’t hear you!” Simmons screamed. “I’m deaf! I can’t hear
you!” Tanner noticed blood trickling out of the vet’s left ear.

Sickos . . .
Tanner’s fingers went to his own ears to see if they were
bleeding too but they came away clean.
You’re the ones who are sick.
He
turned around to find his Uncle Pard and the other ranch hands eyeing him with
something like approval.

But damn did his leg hurt. The
pain had been shifting toward a burning sensation, and the heat kept getting
cranked up.

He hobbled over next to his uncle
and through the ringing in his ears barely heard him ask, “What’s that smell?”
Pard sniffed the air. “Like meat gone bad. Do you smell that?”

Tanner forced his eyes to meet
Pard’s, terrified he’d betray himself. “I think we scared the shit outta
Simmons. Literally.”

Tanner glanced around at Uncle
Pard and Old Pete missing a few teeth and Maggie Clark, all laughing in their
rough way, big heads lolling on thick necks.

And finally he had to admit it to
himself: this was worse than a rodeo injury. Something else was wrong with his
leg, something worse than wounds suffered from the spill he’d taken off
Blackjack. Tanner felt his throat closing up with panic and his mouth went so
dry he gagged when he tried to swallow.

I fucking have it!

His eyes darted from unfriendly
face to face—it seemed as though the cowhands were surrounding him
now—and he realized then that he couldn’t beat ’em so he sure as hell
better join ’em before he was found out and tossed in the pest house too.

He handed his uncle the gun.
“Let’s go rustle us up some more sickos.” Then he managed to force a cold laugh
past the fear wedged in his windpipe.

His Uncle Pard regarded him with a
shifting mixture of skepticism and favor, then Old Pete clapped Tanner on the
shoulder again but this time in a more fatherly way, less lazy cow ass-slap.

T
he creeks at high water never bode
well,
Sarah Winslow thought.
Neither does everybody getting themselves
all riled up like when Samuel Adair—such a fool—poked the end of
his broomstick into a nest of yellow jackets beneath the porch eave.

Sarah sat before a rosewood vanity
among the other retired furniture in the attic of The Winslow. A collection of
spent history.
What clutter
, she thought.
How much can we hold onto
before we can no longer bear the weight of it?

When Hazel and Patience were small
girls, they used to fuss at this dressing table. Donned in Sarah’s old gowns
and musty furs, they’d edge each other out for the spot in front of the mirror,
puckering on lipstick and piling on costume jewelry. Once thus adorned they’d
emerge and dramatically descend the hotel’s wide staircase to the parlor where
Sarah sat waiting. She’d pretend they were fine ladies visiting from San
Francisco and welcome them to sit, “Won’t you take tea?” and offer them Vienna
Fingers (Hazel’s favorite).

Patience would always say, “Why,
thank you.”

And Hazel would proclaim in a
ridiculous British accent: “I do say you have a lovely place here, although it
is a bit
tired.
” Her granddaughter had overheard a guest say that, Sarah
guessed. Nonetheless it was visible even then: the hotel layered in a dank
patina that wouldn’t rub clean—the exhausted past.

Sarah sighed. They still found
thirsty yellow jackets in the bathrooms and laundry room on the first floor.
Not sure how they were getting in, they seemed to find a way.

Studying her reflection in the
vanity’s beveled glass mirror, she thought,
I’ve watched myself grow old in
this mirror . . . will my granddaughter be afforded the same luxury?

There was no point in continuing
to cower in the attic; it wasn’t doing her or anybody else any good. So Sarah
rose, pushed open the attic door, unfolded the stairs, and stepped down with
the care old women take.

She now saw what the crunching
noise had been earlier: a crystal glass lay crushed. Underfoot, it would seem.
She had heard her granddaughter calling her but willed herself not to answer.
She’d suspected that Hazel would insist she come with her, and Sarah didn’t
care to leave or argue about it because she was too old and too tired for
either. Relieved once Hazel left the tower, she then hoped that her
granddaughter would leave the hotel altogether, for Sarah was not so convinced
that the ghosts were friendly here.