The Winslow Incident (50 page)

The corners of his mouth shot down
and he blinked hard against watering eyes. “Don’t get close, don’t get hurt. Is
that how it works?” He grabbed her hand again. “So nobody will hurt you like
your mother did?”

She shook him off, refusing to
respond.

“It would never be that way with
me.” His eyes flashed anger. “Why don’t you get that?”

“Hazel!” Patience screamed shrilly
enough to wake every dead miner in the graveyard.

Hazel spun around.

“Look at me!” Completely nude now,
Patience stood with her arms held out toward them, shaking and shivering like a
wet cat. “Do you see me, Hazel?”

“I see you,” she replied, “and you
look pathetic.”

Patience wrapped her arms across
her chest, her respiration rapid. “I have to tell on him—what Sean did at
the cabin.” Her eyes glazed over. “’Cause Hawkin Rhone will punish us unless we
tell the truth.”

Hazel charged up to Patience and
grabbed her by the hair. “If you say anything to anybody about what happened,
I’ll drown you in the deep pond. Do you understand me?”

At last the blank look in
Patience’s eyes broke; now her eyes registered surprise and fear. She nodded,
gasped, “Understand.”

Hazel let go of her and turned to
face Sean, knowing she was about to start bawling and not caring anymore. “I
was looking for you.” She whimpered, wanting more than anything to touch him, to
touch his mouth where it turned down at the corners. “Aaron’s hiding in
Matherston, scared and worried about you. He thinks you’re dead.”

“I am,” Sean sounded anguished.
Then he did touch her, traced her tears down her cheeks, along her jaw and
under her chin, his amber eyes a swirl of confusion and longing.

She cried harder, tears dripping,
nose running. “Tanner told me but I didn’t believe him. With
her
, Sean?
She told me too and I didn’t believe her either. I couldn’t. How could you do
this to me?” She turned from him, intending to leave, because there was nothing
left to say.

Until Patience spoke in a voice
gone cold: “What’s the big deal? I saw you with James Bolinger in Matherston.”

Hazel whirled around to see the
alarm on Sean’s face.

“Hazel,” he sounded horrified,
“what did you do?”

“Nothing.” And although it really
was
nothing, she worried that Sean would suspect there was more to the story.
Because he always knew when she was lying. (
Doesn’t he?
she thought.
Hasn’t he all along?
) So she added honestly, “I gave him a kiss because he
fixed my sling.”

Sean looked inordinately
upset—his face all twisted—as if she had just confessed to screwing
Kenny Clark. “
James
?
Why are
you
doing this to
me
?”
He grabbed the Mudhoney sling where it hung from her shoulder and jerked her
forward so that she stumbled against him.

“Sean, I didn’t—”

“This is
his
fucking
shirt!” He tightened his grip.

“He was only trying to help me.”
His rage terrified her.

“Never mind—I
get
it.” The muscles in his arm tensed, as if he were about to rip the sling the
way the vampire had.

Now he was really hurting her.
“Let me go, Sean!”

Instead, he yanked her close to
his face. “Don’t come looking for me anymore.”

After he released his grip and
shoved her away from him, she turned and raced out of the white ghost world of
Matherston Cemetery.

She could not have felt more
grief-stricken if Sean really were dead.

She wished
she
were dead.

Who knows?
she thought, crossing through the iron gateway.
Maybe
we all will be soon.

S
ometimes the past needs a good
diggin’ up if you aim to make peace with the nowadays.

—Dinky Dowd

A
aron shrank back against the picture window of
Matherston Miners Supply. He couldn’t feel the glass, or the frame, only the
terror. Because they were
everywhere.

Loud, rough men, the creases in
their unshaven faces filled with grime. Crusty old boots pounded the wooden
boardwalk, making the whole of Matherston shake.

Loud women, too, in tight dresses
and bright makeup, laughing at the men, slapping away their hands, leading them
into the Never Tell Brothel.

Shuddering, Aaron tried to close
his eyes and cover his ears. Then he remembered Hazel telling him not to be
scared, that they were friendly ghosts. That gave him the courage to move
across the boardwalk onto the dirt road, not sensing his feet upon the ground,
floating through the noise.

Searching for a friendly face, he
looked up Prospectors Way toward the assay office where men whooped and kicked
up their heels inside a cloud of silver dust billowing from the open doorway.
Then he looked the opposite way, past the blacksmith’s shop that was on fire
and the people watching just laughed and laughed, and on past Holloway Harness
where horses were escaping one by one, clomping and neighing frightfully,
trampling anyone in their path.

Aaron’s spirit sank: no friendly
faces here.

He glanced at the second story of
the Never Tell and wondered if Violet and Daisy Rhone were still up there.
Suddenly he regretted leaving his friends. Daisy, especially, because she was
so sick. What if the ghost ladies found them hiding in the room upstairs? Would
they be in trouble?

As Aaron continued to look up, the
sky shifted from bright blue to black. Music, fast and tinny, started up inside
the brothel.

It struck him as funny that
everyone in Winslow always called Matherston a ghost town, yet no one truly
believed it.

Until now. No one could deny this
was a ghost town now.

An ugly man in too-big jeans
brushed against him—knocked into him on purpose maybe—and sent
Aaron reeling toward the batwing doors of the Mother Lode Saloon. Once he
landed, he scrambled like a crab to the hitching post and attempted to grab
onto one leg of the post to keep grounded. As more men strolled past, some
regarded him with amusement, others ignored him. None offered help.

The men seemed to know exactly
where they were going, so why didn’t Aaron know where to go? It would be better
if his mom weren’t so sick and could tell him what to do, like when she would
bug him to come inside and eat his lunch or go outside and do the weeding. Aaron
wanted more than anything to be back in his bedroom at The Winslow Hotel,
feeling sleepy or hungry or bored. Not chilled to his core. Not afraid because
the ghosts were in charge now.

A man who looked like Sheriff
Winslow (but not like him at the same time) began to cross the street, heading
straight for Aaron, who would’ve given anything to see the real Sheriff Winslow
right then: his bike, his new videogames, his allowance for a whole
year—anything. Instead, he could only try to hide better, to become even
more invisible, to try and keep this ghost from stealing his soul.

The man kept coming, all swinging
arms and long, sure strides, paralyzing Aaron with his purposefulness. When he
reached Aaron, he leaned into the hitching post, crossed his arms, and stared
hard at Aaron as if he’d been waiting a long time to give the boy a good
talking to.

Aaron’s brother Sean always said
that it’s only stories. That the ghosts aren’t real. So why did this feel like
the most real thing that had ever happened?

Aaron noticed that one of the
man’s hands was missing, his arm ending at the wrist in raggedy-looking skin
and splintered bone.

“Name’s Guy Marsh,” the man didn’t
say out loud. He gestured toward his mangled arm with the one hand that he
still had. “Mining accident,” he offered by way of explanation.

Aaron caught a huge whiff of the
man as he moved. Like the other ghosts, this one smelled bad. Rotten, oozing
potatoes and soggy black leaves—the smell of a body that has spent time
in the ground.

Aaron realized then that he had
lost his own body again.

Panic struck. Where had he left
himself this time? Was anybody taking care of his body, or was he just lying
out in the open where coyotes and wolves could eat him?

“What is it, son?” Guy smiled
crookedly, his jaw broken in half. “Cat got your tongue?”

Another terrifying prospect struck
Aaron then: What if one of the ghosts stole his body? What if it walked around
pretending to be seven years old, fooling everyone and doing stuff it shouldn’t
be doing? Bad stuff that would get Aaron into bad trouble if he ever got back
inside himself again.

“Where am I?” Aaron cried
voicelessly.

Guy Marsh regarded him with great
sympathy on his dented face. A “now, now, easy there” expression that Aaron
knew meant something was really seriously wrong.

Aaron wanted to run away from that
look, but he had no legs.

Had he arms, he would have
crawled.

The ghost leaned closer to Aaron
then, bringing along a fresh wave of old death to smother him. “If nobody’s
home, son,” Guy gently asked, “how long before your body goes cold?”

T
his is her fault,
thought Tanner
Holloway.
This is all Hazel Winslow’s fucking fault.

He glanced at his new pal Kenny
Clark as they clomped along the boardwalk on Fortune Way. Kenny was wolfing
down a cold hotdog he’d helped himself to in Clemshaw Mercantile, that look of
determination that said,
Get ’em
, still pasted on his ugly mug.

“Stale as shit.” Kenny spit pieces
of bun when he talked. “Nothing to eat around here.”

Tanner blew out a breath.
Guess
you were busy scratching your ass while the rest of the class went over that
it’s
the bread,
you moron.
Tanner had no appetite, hadn’t in three
days. He was too busy worrying about how much longer he could hide it. Because
his limp was getting worse and whenever anyone got too close they’d ask,
What’s
that awful smell?

So no matter how well he continued
to play the cooperative buckaroo, somebody would figure him out soon. Then
they’d take him to the pest house or trap him in a ditch and light him on fire.
And he felt like he was running a fever too.
Impossible to tell in this
heat.

Passing the Crock, he saw that the
dining room sat empty except for tables littered with dirty dishes, and chairs
scattered and knocked over.

“I gotta take a piss,” he told
Kenny. “I’ll catch up with you.”

“All right, meet in the park,”
Kenny said. “And don’t take all damn day.”

Tanner pulled open the Crock’s
glass door in a cacophony of bells, then it was quiet inside except for the
buzz of gorging flies. Food sat untouched on plates; the heat had baked eggs
dry and petrified the bacon. Black coffee sat thick in mugs. The stench of
spoiled milk and rotting food nearly floored him. He gagged his way to the back
as quick as he could manage, dragging his left leg across the linoleum, shoving
chairs out of his way.

This is her fault.
He spat on the floor. Caged, while whatever the hell sort
of rot this was grew in his leg and the whole town grew even nastier. Hazel
Winslow’s fault, no doubt about it.

But the rot itself?
Tanner flipped over a small plate and two slices of old
toast went flying.
That’s thanks to Sean Adair.

“What a dumbfuck,” his voice rang
loud in the deserted Crock. “What an arrogant, apologizing, moldy-bread-delivering
dumbfuck.

Then Tanner had an enticing
realization:
All I have to do is tell Kenny.
A smile formed on his lips.
I’ll just casually mention it
, a tasty thought,
and let those two jack-offs
cancel each other out.

That’ll get her where she
hurts.
Tanner laughed and spat again.
“Whatsamatter, Hazel? Is that knife in Sean’s back breaking your cold little
heart, cousin?”

He pushed open the men’s room
door, flipped on the light, and slid the door lock into place. Then he went
around the partition that separated the urinal from the can, flung down the
toilet seat lid and plunked onto it. Hot stale air enveloped him.

Pausing a moment, he shut his eyes
and took deep breaths.

Don’t panic, just take a look.

He lifted his left leg and crossed
it over his right knee, then carefully removed his tennis shoe and dropped it
to the tile.
Deep breath on three.

Holding his breath now, he peeled
the sock off his foot—slowly, painfully—and as he did, stuff stuck
to it . . . pieces of crunchy skin, pus-filled clumps of flesh, gooey strings
of infection.

In a state of fascinated horror,
he held up the sock to examine the detritus.
Oh shit . . .

Tanner glanced down at his foot:
his ulcerated, blackened foot. The rot had crawled up and over his ankle now,
creeping its way up his calf.