The Winslow Incident (10 page)

Hazel swiveled to admire Sean. The
sun lit his eyes a warm color, like the bourbon they’d swipe from his dad when
Samuel was so drunk he’d never remember he hadn’t been the one to polish it
off. Only now, with Sean’s blank stare and sweaty face, he appeared feverish.

“Uh, oh . . . ,” she said, “are you
feeling sick too?”

He barely turned his head to look
at her—too much effort, apparently. “Just hot, I guess.”

Looping the front hem of her
t-shirt through the neck, she fashioned it into a halter-top. Sean watched her
perform this operation with interest. Then she swabbed the sweat pooled on her
belly with her palm and wiped it on her shorts. That seemed interesting too. She
leaned back against the wall with a sharp sigh. “Does anybody even care that
we’re broiling to death up here? And with the stomach flu or something equally
nauseating going around on top of that?”

“I don’t think anybody gives us
much thought between rodeos.” He yawned hugely. “Do you suppose that’s the end
of the Winslow Rodeo?”

“Probably. Quite a finale.”

“Do you suppose that’s the end of
Holloway Ranch?”

“It’d serve my uncle right,
wouldn’t it? Trying to keep it quiet only makes the whole situation worse.
Obviously, it’s impossible to keep secrets in this town anyway. I bet if he
brought more vets up they’d figure it out. I wonder if anybody down mountain
has heard yet.”

“Doubt it. Seems like people are
whispering today. Like if they talk too loud they’ll hear it in the valley.
Have you noticed?”

She nodded. “It’s creepy.” For all
she knew, her uncle had something hanging over the head of every citizen of
Winslow. It wouldn’t surprise her. Maybe he’d been collecting instruments of
blackmail for just such an occasion. “Like ghosts sharing secrets,” she said.

Sean grinned at her. A lazy,
sultry grin. “Are we ghost hunting this summer?”

“Only if you ante up the good
candy.”

“I can do a lot better than
candy.” A slight smile played across his features.

Suppressing her own smile, she
touched one corner of his lips where they turned up. Then she kissed that mouth
she knew almost as well as her own. When her tongue touched his, the heat of
him shocked her.

She pulled away and placed her
hand against his forehead. “Sean—you are so hot!”

He took her hand and tugged her
back to him, eyes teasing. “Then where are you going?”

She sprang to her feet, held her
hand down to him, and hauled him up. “We need to douse you in Three Fools
Creek.”

He blew a hot frustrated breath in
her face . . . then he turned his back and bolted.

“Wait!” she called, chasing after him through the
graveyard, laughing. “Wait for me!”

I
n the stingy bit of sunshine the tree canopy
allowed to pass, the surface of Three Fools Creek shimmered. “It’s
too
pretty,” Hazel decided.

Nodding, Sean poked at a mound of
wet leaves with a stick. “Foolish to fall for it.”

For beneath its sparkle, the creek
raged. Three miners had drowned trying to cross the creek at high water after a
wet spring like this. But unlike Hawkin Rhone, the miners had been buried
proper in Matherston Cemetery.

Hazel stepped back to study the
boulders that jutted up along the bank like crooked tombstones. When she looked
at Sean again he was staring at Hawkin Rhone’s cabin across the creek. In
complete collapse now, the old prospector’s shack was barely visible beneath a
patient blackberry bush.

“Why did we go over there?” she
asked.

He shook his head. “Seemed like a
good idea at the time.”

“Wish he’d stop haunting us.”

“Don’t worry.” He reached for her
hand. “Curse is on my head, not yours.”

She pulled away, wagging her
finger at him in a mock scold. “That’s right, Adair—it’s up to you to keep
Hawkin Rhone in his grave.”

He blinked at her. Then he gave
her a long, puzzled look before saying, “You’re right.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m going over there,” he said,
his face marked by distress now.

His expression made her extremely
uneasy. “We agreed we’d
never
go back.”

“I have to. I have to make sure.”

“Make sure what?”

“That he’s still buried.”

She spun him by the shoulder to
face her. “I was only kidding. What’s wrong with you?”

He stepped closer to the turbulent
water. “I’m going over.”

“You’re out of your mind. This is
not
funny. Let’s go.”

“Hold on. I’ll make it quick.” He
took off his tennis shoes and moved down the muddy bank.

She shot a glance at the crumbled
cabin, knowing that her dad and Dr. Foster had buried Hawkin Rhone not far from
the porch. Reaching for Sean, she said, “Okay, ha-ha, joke’s over—”

An explosive splitting sound from behind
them caused both to whirl and face the woods.

After listening for a silent
moment, Hazel asked, “Rifle shot?”

Sean scrambled into his shoes, the
violent sound evidently bringing him back to his senses. “Sounded more like a
tree snapping.”

Another sharp crack issued, this
time from the place up the creek where the water ran black—closer now to
where they stood straining to hear and see into the dark woods.

Her heart pounding, Hazel grabbed
Sean and whispered, “Bigfoot.”

“Like hell,” he said too loud.

“I’m telling you, there have been
all sorts of sightings lately.”

“Not here.”

“Why not here?”

“Hey, Bigfoot! Hazel Winslow wants
to meet you!”

“Shush!” She smacked his arm. But
he’d succeeded in making her feel silly rather than scared. She looked him in
the eye. “I think
you’re
afraid.”

He smiled at her. “Maybe.”

“Don’t worry—I’ll protect
you.”

“Your record isn’t so good.”

“I will. Promise.” She gestured
across her chest: “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

A fish jumped in the creek behind
them, making a plopping sound that startled them both.

Sean pulled her tight. “Protect me,
Hazel!”

She shook him off and turned to go.
“You need psychiatric help,” she decided.

“I got your psychiatric help right
here,” Sean said.

Hazel swiveled back to find him lighting
a joint. After a guilty yet brief consideration of her father’s warning that
they’d better not’ve bought weed from Cyclone Clyde, she plucked the joint from
Sean’s fingers. “You know, I think I feel a touch of insanity coming on, too.” She
took a deep hit and passed it back to him. Then, from her back pocket, she
pulled the bottle of eye drops she always carried and gave each eye a squirt. “I
have to get back,” she said. “I’m working dinner shift.” She took up the trail.

“Just admit it,” Sean called after
her, “you’ve always needed me to protect you.”

She continued down the path for a
few moments before realizing that he was no longer behind her. Turning around
she found Sean several yards back, leaning against a lodgepole pine, arms
folded across his stomach.

She ran to him and tried to catch
him by the arm but he slid down the tree into a crouching position.

Squatting before him, she asked,
“What’s wrong?”

His long brown hair was suddenly drenched
in perspiration. She pushed it off his forehead while he looked at her with
swimmy eyes, as if he couldn’t get them to focus.

“Sean—what’s the matter?”
she asked.

He ran his tongue across his lips,
then: “Where did I go?”

Z
achary Rhone never sat on the porch swing, yet
here he was: swinging and whistling and feeling so happy. No—that wasn’t
the right word. Joy. He felt full of joy.
And why not?
he mused as he
looked over at his daughters.
My darling baby girls.

Violet and Daisy sat on the steps
clapping and slapping hands and singing, “Say say my playmate, come out and
play with me, and bring your dollies three, climb up my apple tree . . .”

Even the cat seemed happy, Zachary
noticed, lolling in a shady spot by the clothesline.

Melanie came out the screen door
from the living room, where she’d been resting on the couch ever since they
returned from the rodeo yesterday. “I still don’t feel well,” she said.

She has the bluest eyes
, Zachary marveled. Blueberries. He leapt up and grabbed
her around the waist, dancing her around the porch.

“Slide down my rain barrel (clap-slap)
into my cellar door—”

Suddenly Violet groaned, “Ewwy
yuck!”

Daisy was throwing up, while
Violet backed away in disgust.

Zachary simply stared for a long
moment. Then it struck him that this was quite hilarious. “That’s funny,
right?” he asked Melanie, but she was already shuffling back into the house.

Once Violet and Daisy both began
to cry, all of a sudden it wasn’t so funny anymore.

And Zachary wondered,
Who’s going
to clean up this mess?

O
utside the Crock, up and down Fortune Way, and
as far as Hazel could see into Prospect Park, there wasn’t a soul in town.

She gazed at The Winslow hunkered
on the hill rising beyond the opposite side of the park. After she’d left Three
Fools Creek and delivered a deliriously queasy Sean home to the hotel, Hazel
had watched the last of the guests pack up their cars and head out, trying to
beat nightfall for an easier time navigating Yellow Jacket Pass. Fully occupied
before the rodeo, now entirely vacant, The Winslow would receive occasional
guests over the rest of the summer and early fall, hopefully enough to keep the
roof patched and taxes paid for another year. Then once the snow came and the
pass required chains and hours of treacherous driving, they would close up the
hotel until spring, save for the second floor quarters of her grandmother and
the Adairs, and Samuel Adair could take to drinking in earnest.

She looked left over to Park
Street.

Nobody.

With the rodeo over, she had
expected the place to empty of all the tourists and carnies.

But where is everybody else?
She raised her eyes to the blank sky. Usually townsfolk
would be rehashing events: who made how much selling what, who got drunk and
busted by her father for conduct unbecoming, and who took top prize or suffered
worst injury at the rodeo.

Only now, downtown Winslow had
become as much of a ghost town as Matherston.

She turned from the front window
to face the dining room: nobody in here either. Maybe the stomach flu really
was going around.

The interior of the Crock was
early rustic, gingham style, and like all of the original structures on Fortune
Way, had rough-hewn paneled walls, wide plank floors, and tall multi-pane
windows.

“An embarrassment of Old West
architecture,” Hazel once heard a tourist say.

An embarrassment, all right
, she had thought.

Hazel jumped when a voice broke
the silence directly behind her: “Are you still open?”

She turned to find James Bolinger
towering in the doorway. Nearly six feet tall at only fifteen, he still hadn’t
grown all the way into his hands and feet, like Jinx when he was a puppy. And he
sported studded leather wristbands and a dyed black Mohawk. Despite his best
efforts to look tough, James was still one of the gentlest spirits in Winslow.

“Hey, Hazel,” he said, and then
smiled sheepishly, his eyes bright behind heavy kohl liner.

“Hey,” she said. For whatever
reason (perhaps the time he happened upon her skinny-dipping in Ruby Creek),
she was the love of the poor kid’s life, and she always tried her best not to
encourage him.

“I need something to settle my
stomach,” he said.

“What’s wrong? Do you have the
stomach flu?”

“I don’t know. I feel pretty bad.
And my parents locked me out of the house.”

“Why would they do that?”

“I have no idea.” He glanced down
as if he were embarrassed that they had. “They’ve been acting like total freaks
all day.”

“Who hasn’t?” Hazel said. “Here,
sit. I’ll make you some toast.”

“Thanks.” He shuffled over on his
clown feet and collapsed into the chair she had indicated. In the sunlight
streaming through the window, she could see the green around his gills.

She hurried to the waitress
station. After she popped a couple of slices of rye into the toaster, Rose
Peabody careened out of the bathroom wearing the same pale shade of green as James.

Rose wiped her face with a bar
towel. “This is the nastiest bout of food poisoning I’ve ever had.”