The Winslow Incident (5 page)

What’s wrong with me?
She felt a surge of panic.
Say something!

“Story has it, dear?” the old gray
woman gently prompted.

“Uh . . . uh . . .” Patience
swallowed hard, concentrating on the poker table until it finally came back to
her. “Story has it that no less than five men killed themselves after losing
their fortunes at that table even quicker than they’d made them at their
claims.” She chased her rush of words with a long exhale, still reeling from
her memory lapse. Yet she managed to finish. “And some say those souls have
never left the Mother Lode, unable to rest until they reclaim their treasure.”

A tourist kid made a mock spooked
sound and two little girls fell into a fit of giggles.

Patience gave the kid her best
evil eye before taking the group back outside, deciding then to cut the tour even
shorter for fear that her brain might short circuit again. “Our last stop,” she
continued, “is the Chop House Restaurant, which was said to have the thickest
steaks and surliest service in the West, both courtesy of Holloway Ranch.”

Suddenly Patience wished the ranch
would just go away, wished it would simply slip off the mountainside in a
jumble of barns and cows, and then she’d have so much less to worry about.

T
anner Holloway sat alone at the bench table
recently vacated by the ranch hands, spooning in clumps of lukewarm oatmeal and
considering his options (which, he had to admit, were few) when his Uncle Pard
stormed into the mess building with fire in his eyes.

Oh shit
, Tanner thought, shooting up and looking for the quickest
route of escape.

Pard charged up. “Where have you
been and what the hell were you thinking last night?”

Tanner pretended not to see or
hear him, glancing casually around at the litter of breakfast dishes on the
long table, his pounding heart undermining his efforts to stay cool. Busted.
Again.

“You were sitting right here at
mess yesterday,” Pard said, jabbing one finger against the table, “when I told
everyone to keep quiet until we can get a handle on things.”

He stared at his uncle now,
refusing to respond, uncertain if his voice would quiver.

Pard glared back, exasperated.
“Then I find you and your cousin and her crew out in the pasture laughing it up
at a damn near tragic situation.”

Working up his nerve, Tanner
strode to the head of the table and poured himself a cup of coffee. “I’d offer
you some,” he said, amazed that his hands were steady, “but it seems like
you’ve had enough.”

His uncle went redder in the face.
“No wonder my brother wanted to get rid of you. You’re nothing but a punk.”

“Then I’m not disappointing
anyone.”

“You disappoint everyone.”

“Hey, I didn’t ask to be
here—”

“And I didn’t ask to have you
here, but I’ve been trying to make the best of it.”

“Make the best of it?”
Bullshit!
Tanner thought.
You’ve made it crystal clear you wanted nothing to do with
me since the day they dumped me here.
His parents had barely stayed long
enough to drink a glass of iced tea on the porch of the sprawling ranch
house—Tanner and Pard eyeing each other warily the whole time—out
of fear Pard would change his mind about taking his nephew for the summer. And Tanner
had been surprised by the way his dad had avoided looking at him when he
unloaded the duffel bag from the back of the Forester and said, “Be good, son.”
That was the first time in a long time he’d been called “son,” and to Tanner,
it had sounded odd and somehow final.

Now his uncle tried a different
tact. “Listen, you’re a smart kid. Make yourself useful.”

“What should I do? Go warn the
innocent townsfolk?”

Pard slammed his fist down on the
table so hard coffee jumped out of Tanner’s cup and his heart leapt in his
chest. “Dammit! I’ve got problems here and don’t need any extra aggravation.”

“Okay, okay . . .” Tanner backed
away, thinking,
You do got problems.
Then, to Tanner’s relief, Kenny
Clark swaggered in.

“We’re ready for you, boss,” Kenny
said.

For reasons beyond Tanner’s
fathoming, the only thing Kenny seemed to love more than his job was his boss.

“Find any more dead?” Pard asked Kenny
without taking his eyes off of Tanner.

“Nope.” Kenny appeared proud to
report that, maybe thinking that the boss would figure Kenny Clark had played a
hand in this good turn. “More sick, but no more dead.”

Relief softened Pard’s features
and he swiveled to tell Kenny, “Good. Be right there.”

Pard turned back to Tanner. “Look.
I’m willing to pull in my horns this time. But don’t cause me any trouble at
the rodeo. It won’t get you down the mountain any quicker, I promise you that.
It’ll only increase your sentence.”

Kenny chortled at that while Pard
leaned closer to Tanner. “You will do what the men tell you to do, and when you
are not doing that you will keep out of the way. Above all, you will keep your
mouth
shut.
Understood?”

“Yes,” Tanner hissed in reply. Of
course he understood. That didn’t mean he’d do it.

F
rom the passenger’s seat, Hazel watched Sean
fight to keep the steering wheel of the bakery van straight. Sunlight pouring
through the windshield lit up his eyes and kissed his hair.
How’s a
boyfriend in prison sound?
A shudder snaked down her spine. It sounded horrifying—that’s
how it sounded. At the ranch, her uncle had known precisely which lever to
pull. Now, as she studied Sean’s profile, she couldn’t help but think for the hundredth
time that he was too good-natured for prison, too young and too good-looking; she
felt sick imagining what might happen to him.

Sean crammed the gearshift into
second with a grinding sound. “How’s your hand?” he asked.

“Sore.” She examined her right
palm. “Not so splintery.”

He grimaced, then said, “I had to
kick Aaron out of my bedroom last night.” He took his eyes off the road to look
at her. “Out of left field, he’s convinced that Hawkin Rhone lives in his
closet.”

“That’s strange . . .” She felt
uneasy, as if merely saying the man’s name might conjure him up. “I didn’t
think Aaron believed in all that.” Sean’s kid brother had always been more sensibly
obsessed with bikes and bugs than with scary stories.

Sean’s face darkened. “He believes
now.”

“It’s just a coincidence.” She managed
to keep her tone light, despite the dread tunneling through her that her uncle
had, indeed, resurrected Hawkin Rhone. “You know how it is,” she continued. “It’s
fun for the kids to picture him out across the creek—old and toothless
and scary.”

“You’re right,” Sean agreed, though
he looked no less troubled.

She suddenly became aware that she
was kneading her left wrist; it still hurt sometimes. Forcing herself to stop,
she sat back in the tattered bucket seat and took in the familiar sights of
downtown Winslow and Prospect Park. A rectangle around which the town was
neatly arranged, the park occupied a broad plateau beyond which Stepstone Range
resumed its eastward rise. The park was absurdly big compared to the rest of
the town. Led by her own family (so it was told), the town founders had been
certain Winslow would thrive and expand. But after the price fell out of silver
in 1893 and the mines were boarded up, anyone with any sense packed up and left
to seek their livelihood elsewhere. Those who didn’t had their own stubborn
reasons for remaining on the remote mountainside, inaccessible save for the
bridge that spanned the narrow Lamprey River canyon. It didn’t seem to bother
anyone but her that the nearest real grocery store was two hours away in good
weather, the closest movie theater three.

The van clattered to a stop in
front of Clemshaw Mercantile, a two-story wood frame store that stocked
everything from bullets to baby food. A tarnished plaque above batwing doors
proclaimed,
Established 1888
.

Sean climbed out and opened the
van’s back door with a grating squeak.

Hazel turned in her seat to watch
him head toward the store carrying two trays of bread.

Out front, Tiny Clemshaw looked up
from where he was sweeping to shout, “You’re late!”

“I’m only—” Sean started.

“You’re late and they’re all waiting
for you.” Tiny gestured with his broom at the nonexistent crowd, and would have
bonked Sean on the head with the handle had Sean not ducked out of the way. “My
customers do
not
appreciate being kept waiting.”

Hazel saw sweat streaming down
Tiny’s face, pooling inside his collar, dripping from his nose. Sure, it was
hot out, but it wasn’t
that
hot yet.

Sean was glancing around. “What
customers?”

“
My
customers—” Tiny
looked around then, too, and his face registered sudden dismay. “They were
right here,” he muttered, his bluster giving way to uncertainty. “They were all
right here.”

Sean looked over his shoulder at
Hazel in the van and silently mouthed to her, “What the hell?”

Tiny bumbled over to the store’s entrance
and held open the doors for Sean, saying, “They grew tired of waiting for you.
But they’ll be back.” The man looked increasingly flustered. “Don’t you think?”

“Uh, yeah . . . ,” Sean said. Backing
into the store, he rolled his eyes at Hazel like,
Cuckoo, cuckoo.

She sighed, her stomach knotting
even tighter. They had enough crap to deal with today; they didn’t need Tiny
Clemshaw freaking out on them too.

When Sean jumped back inside the
van, Hazel turned to him and frowned in bewilderment. “Everyone is acting incredibly
weird today,” she said.

“No shit!” He shook his head.
“First Aaron, then Zachary, now Tiny.”

“My dad’s not right, either,” she
said.

Sean made a monster noise,
wro-hoo-hoo
,
while holding out one arm zombie-style. “Maybe aliens are invading their
bodies.”

Hazel laughed, but then the
thought of mad cow disease eating holes in people’s brains made the idea seem less
farfetched and far less funny. “Let’s hope not,” she said softly.

Sean got the van moving, turning
right at the corner and then rattling down Park Street past the row of
Victorians. Hazel always thought the houses were over the top, making
spectacles of themselves like old ladies wearing crazy hats and too much
makeup. Just past her own house, Sean turned right onto Ruby Road and then hung
a quick left up the steep drive to The Winslow, the hotel described by one
travel writer as, “An Old West treasure trove well worth braving the hazards of
Yellow Jacket Pass.”

“Sticky and gray,” Sean was
muttering.

“What?” Hazel said, realizing
she’d been distracted.

Sean glanced at her. “You know
what? Screw Zachary.”

“Are you gonna quit?” she asked.

“Get fired, most likely.” He blew
out his breath. “He’s such a dick.”

She nodded. “What’s his problem?”

“Beats me. When I went to ask him
a simple question he bit my head off.”

“I’ll talk to Owen Peabody. Maybe
he can use some help at the Crock.”

“Cool. Or maybe your dad needs a
deputy,” he joked.

That didn’t strike Hazel as funny.
Hell, Sean would probably
be
sheriff once her dad retired. For as much
as she always lamented it, she predicted Sean was never leaving Winslow, never
leaving his little brother Aaron or their mother alone with their drunken
father.

Sean parked at the base of the
stone staircase cut into The Winslow’s massive retaining wall and climbed the
steps with a tray of bread. Then he headed around the side of the hotel to go
in through the kitchen door, where Hazel imagined he’d find his mother
preparing breakfast for the guests. Hazel was glad that Honey and Samuel Adair
ran her family’s hotel and that she didn’t have to work there. There was way
too much history in the place, and Hazel hated dragging the past around—it
was too heavy.

“Hazel!” Aaron Adair shouted,
barreling down the steps so recklessly that Hazel was certain the
seven-year-old boy would stumble and plant his face in stone.

She flung open the van door and
jumped down onto the driveway. “Aaron, slow down!”

He did not slow down, not until he
smacked right into her. “I just saw another one,” he said, out of breath. The
boy was a miniature Sean: same light brown eyes, same soft brown curls. And he
was looking at her with fierce intensity. “I just saw one who looks like
Patience Mathers.”

Not easily spooked, Hazel’s sudden
shiver caught her by surprise. Before she could ask Aaron what he meant, she
noticed Sean descending the steps. She frowned at him to signal her concern.

Still breathing hard, Aaron
continued, “And all night long another lady with blood gurgling out of her throat
scared the bejeebers out of me.”