The Winslow Incident (42 page)

Bigfoot is loose in the woods
, she shudders.
Hungry wolves.

She’s afraid to go, afraid to find
out.
Don’t think
, she thinks,
go!

She looks back to the turbulent
water: The creek is full and raging, tossing logs around like beach balls.
How
did he get over there?
she wonders.

She’s out of her mind, she
realizes, to even
consider
crossing the creek.

She steps into the water anyway—

And it happens surprisingly fast.

Her left foot slips off a slimy
rock and she’s sucked into the cold torrent, and with only one arm to fight
with, she’s losing the battle and thinking,
I made it all this way only to
be the fourth fool to drown in this fucking creek?

Just as suddenly, Sean is there, pulling her out
of the water and up onto the opposite bank. As happy as she is to be alive,
she’s even happier to see him again. He looks unharmed. Strangely normal. She grabs
hold of him and won’t let go, spitting up creek water and trying to catch her
breath, and crying with relief.

C
rying, crying, I’m crying . . .

Crying not with relief, but in
pain.

No, I don’t want to leave him.
Let me stay here.

But it felt like her arm was on
fire.

Goodbye Sean, goodbye
helicopter, goodbye dream.

Hazel shifted her weight on the
water tower platform and cried out at the burning pain consuming her shattered
elbow. She opened her eyes, bleary with agony and tears.

The sunshine was still soft so she
knew she had slept only a short while, and as she squeezed more tears from her
wide awake eyes, she felt glad for the dawn that continued to rise behind her
and bathe Silver Hill in light the color of orange sherbet. It had been a very
long night.

She had no plans to leave the
safety of the tower. Her back to the tank, the position made a perfect cat
perch: high in the air and sheltered from behind, so nothing could sneak up on
her, and shaded from the monster sun that by mid-morning would bake the
mountainside crisp. But her body insisted she stand up, having grown stiff and
sore from sitting on the metal platform.

All her aches and pains shifted
into high gear as she hobbled to the railing for a better view. There were men on
horseback riding around downtown. Holloway ranch hands, it looked like, kicking
ass and taking names.
Go back to the ranch
, she wished.
Mind your
pigs and cows and leave us alone.

Prospect Park looked empty, while
a handful of people darted along Fortune Way. Pursued, she hazarded a guess, by
Tiny Clemshaw and his shotgun.

Sniffing and wiping her face, she
watched a brown car swerve up the driveway to The Winslow. She figured that her
grandmother must still be in the hotel, somewhere Hazel hadn’t thought to look.
Regret gnawed at her—she should’ve searched harder. It was so much safer
up on the tower, if only her grandmother were here with her, instead of hiding
in that insane asylum.

She turned her back on the town
and stared at her right arm. The lunatic in the mine had ripped away the sling,
so she cradled her injured elbow against her bruised ribs. Naked now, her arm
revealed a swollen kaleidoscope of color: blue black purple and red. Seeing it
made it hurt so much worse, made her feel as though all her blood really had been
drained by the vampire. Even the wrist broken five years ago by a different madman
throbbed in aggravation.

Ice would help, she knew, but not
enough to compel her to climb down from the tower. So instead she thought about
milkshakes and cold water creeks, about sno-cones and the snow that come
November would drape the entire mountain range, cloaking the sins of summer in
pure white.

Snowflakes, Corn Flakes, I
scream for ice cream—

She spied a matchbox wedged inside
a hose bib. After snaking her fingers in to retrieve it, she slid open the box.
Her lucky day. Nestled inside was a half-smoked joint, tightly rolled, Tanner
Holloway-style. Matches, too. She had yet to strike a match when she smelled
smoke.

Serious-smelling smoke.

Ignore it.

Where was it coming from?

Just stay put.

That lasted all of two seconds
before she turned back to the railing and glanced down . . . beyond Silver
Hill, past the apple orchard—to Rhone Bakery. Red flames caressed the
immutable stone wall at the rear of the bakery, but mostly it was smoke—a
skinny funnel pouring through an opening in the disappearing roof.

Panic struck with such ferocity
that Hazel recoiled from the railing. With her good fist she pounded the side
of the metal tank in frustration, crushing the matchbox and its precious contents,
while Tanner saying, “Zachary Rhone’s looking for him,” looped in her mind.

“Where
are
you, Sean?” she
screamed at the town, across the mountainside.

Then it occurred to her: maybe
Sparks Brady would see this fire. Maybe he’d see the smoke and respond with
help and helicopters.

She peered in the direction of the
fire lookout tower so many miles away, then back at the white smoke coming off
the smoldering bakery, where Cal Allison and Hap Hotchkiss, both armed with
hoses, were spraying the last of the flames.

Her father had taught her that
white smoke means a fire has been doused in water and is on its way out.
Of
course Sparks knows that
, she realized with despair,
which means no
helicopters, no help
.

Suddenly her heart seized up. Violet
and Daisy and Aaron were hiding in the apple orchard—not far from the
fire. It hadn’t been tricky to figure out where they planned to hide because it’s
where Violet always hides when they play hide and go seek.

Hazel knew then that she had no
choice but to leave the safety of the tower. Sally forth.
Only she
wasn’t a brave soldier, she was terrified. She walked toward the ladder anyway,
her weight causing the metal platform to warp and clang with each step.

She stopped just short of the
ladder, gripped the railing.
I can’t do it.

Looking over the side of the tower,
she released the matchbox and watched it fall . . . and fall.
I can’t.
It
was so far to the ground she’d never make it all the way down; she’d break her
neck trying and land in the dirt in a lifeless heap.

Besides, what could she even do?
She’d tried already, hadn’t she?

But yesterday she’d deluded
herself into thinking everyone would be better today.

Today, Melanie Rhone was dead.

Today, the bakery was on fire.

Today, the children were waiting for
Hazel—waiting for her to finally call, “Olly olly oxen free!”

She swung herself out into thin
air, her left hand clutching the ladder, the right worthless and throwing off her
weight until her feet found purchase on the rungs and she started climbing down—one-armed
and reckless—wondering what that Hawkin Rhone vampire had meant by,
“Beware the pest house.”

I
can’t believe I’m stuck here thanks
to that stupid bitch.

All night Tanner Holloway had been
forced to ride roughshod over the town with Kenny Clark and Old Pete Hammond,
rounding up sickos (as Kenny called them) and dumping them at The Winslow. Then
once the streets were clear they’d started knocking on doors and dragging
people out of their houses if they looked like they might have the sickness.

Now Tanner was crusted-over tired
and his leg hurt like hell. But he was glad the night was finally through, and
wondered when someone would get wise to what was happening in Winslow. Tanner
could understand nobody driving up here with the rodeo over, but wouldn’t somebody
at least try to call and then question why the phones were dead?
Nice going,
Uncle Pard, real nice.

Sitting on the El Camino’s
tailgate he watched Old Pete and Kenny descend the steps of the hotel. They
wore bandannas tied over their noses and mouths, and thick suede
cattle-rustling gloves. Kenny slapped his hands together as if rubbing away
dirt. They’d just dropped off Patience’s parents. They’d really fought, those
two, claiming they didn’t have it.

He hadn’t seen Patience around.
Too bad. He realized she’d been right, of course, when she told him that nothing
good would come to him.

“Headin’ out.” Pete clapped Tanner
hard on the shoulder, as if Tanner were a lazy cow that needed a good shove to
get it moving.

When Tanner climbed into the truck
bed, his left leg painfully crackled and popped. And as they drove down the
driveway, the hotel still looming large, he thought,
At least I’m not stuck
in that hellhole.

He wiped his face on the sleeve of
his already damp t-shirt. It hadn’t cooled off—all night long he’d
sweated like a roasting pig.

They cruised down Civic Street,
Kenny driving moronically slow and Pete with his rifle poised out the window,
ready to fire at anything that moved.

But all was quiet. If people knew
what was good for them, they’d keep quiet. And not answer their door.

Kenny swung a sudden hard right
onto Fortune Way and gunned it, causing Tanner’s head to snap forward and then
back against the window with such force he worried his skull might crack. Then
Kenny eased up, crawling slowly by Clemshaw Mercantile to Rhone Bakery. Where
the bakery used to be, anyway, wasn’t much there anymore.

“Whatever happened here is over
now,” he heard Old Pete say.

Kenny flipped around at the corner
of Park Street, then punched it again down Fortune Way.

As they passed back by the
smoldering bakery, Tanner imagined he saw charred bones piled up in front of
the blackened oven that stood alone amid the ruins, and he supposed maybe he
smelled something like cooked meat.
Maybe Sean got deep fried in there.

He thought about Sean puking his
guts out over the railing of the water tower Sunday night and even then acting
as if he were better than Tanner. And the last time Tanner saw him, Sean had
just stood there going “uh uh uh” when Tanner asked him why the hell he was
talking about mayo and deliveries. It was almost as though he
wanted
to
be responsible. The guy had a guilt complex or something.
But if that’s
the way Sean wanted it, who was he to argue?

Tanner wondered how Hazel was faring.
Wondered how surprised she would be to see him again. And wondered how sorely
he could make her regret that he was stuck here thanks to her holding him up for
so long.

He shifted his weight off his
aching, burning leg. As soon as he got a chance he intended to whip that horse Blackjack
for doing this to him.

They left town on Winslow Road and
drove past the church cemetery, into the tunnel of trees, back toward the
bridge.
Time to relieve the troops
, Tanner thought with great weariness.
He threw back his throbbing head and watched the sun speckle in and out through
the branches.
I could sleep for a hundred years—Rip Van Winkle . . .
and
he did semi-snooze in the truck bed for a couple of jostled minutes.

But there was trouble at the
bridge when they pulled up—screaming yelling guns-raised trouble.

Kenny slammed on the brakes,
spinning the El Camino in a complete one-eighty before it jerked to a stop that
nearly flung Tanner out the back. Then Kenny leapt out to join the fray.

Old Pete got out slow, him and his
Winchester, no rush . . . just stretchin’ his legs. “C’mon, kid.” He gave Tanner
that shoulder shove again and Tanner knew he’d better cooperate.

But he didn’t like the looks of
it. Didn’t want any part of it. In front of the barricade—which now included
the fat man Fritz Earley’s truck—the nervous vet was arguing with Uncle
Pard. Behind Doc Simmons was the red truck Tanner knew to be his since he’d
seen it parked next to the barn the day Simmons came to slice Indigo apart. The
Doc didn’t have his glasses on but his hand kept going up to the bridge of his
nose anyway, pushing at the rim that wasn’t there. Obviously Pard Holloway was
winning this argument: he was the one with the gun.

Tanner hadn’t seen his uncle since
the wake-and-bake in the south pasture yesterday morning, when he’d told Tanner
that drastic situations call for drastic measures, then forced him to light the
cattle carcass bonfire. He realized that Pard looked haggard now, sort of
diminished. His uncle noticed him climbing off the truck bed and gave him a
nod. Tanner felt glad for that in a way.

Kenny loped up to the red truck
and pulled a knife out of his boot.
You are a complete moron
, Tanner thought.
The truck was dented, its windshield cracked on the driver’s side. Kenny
stabbed the left front tire, sinking the long knife deep before he rocked it
back and forth.

Simmons didn’t notice; he was too
busy blustering at Pard. “You can’t keep me here.”

“Where’re you aimin’ to go?” Pard
asked.

“Stepstone.”