The Winslow Incident (20 page)

A heavy crash against the glass
sent her springing back. She scanned the kitchen for a weapon, her heart
bouncing around in her chest.

When she looked back at the door,
there was nothing there.

Until Jinx jumped against the
glass again. This time he remained standing on hind legs, front paws pressed
against the window, eyes rolled halfway back in his head in pure doggy fright.

Exhaling relief, she rushed over
and opened the whiny door and he fell in. Scampering across the tile the dog
cast a furtive glance behind him, as if terrified that something were about to
give chase into the kitchen. And after Hazel slammed the door shut, Jinx looked
relieved too.

She put her back to the door,
squatted down to him, and stroked the soft hair on his head. “What’s the
matter, boy?”

The dog shook nose to tail.

“There’s nothing to be afraid
of—”

Behind her the door was shoved
open with such force the old hinges didn’t just whine, they screamed.

Jinx yelped as Hazel spun up and
around in one fell swoop to face Patience: wild-eyed and breathing hard, her
dark hair all a jumble, looking like some crazed beautiful witch.

“We have to undo it,” Patience
said, struggling for breath.

“What are you talking about?” Hazel’s
chest tightened while Jinx whimpered beside her.

Patience narrowed her eyes at the
dog. “We have to undo it.” She looked back at Hazel. “Or else three more will
die.”

Jinx growled at Patience then,
deep in his throat, and Hazel glanced down. The dog’s hackles stood on end . .
. and she felt the hair on the back of her own neck creeping up.

A
ll the way to The Winslow, Patience kept
pulling at her shorts and tank top as if they were chafing her skin. Then she
would scratch at her arms, leaving welty red streaks up and down them. “Stop
that,” Hazel ordered her, the sound of it driving her mad.

But Patience told her, “I
can’t—there’s something under my skin.”

When they reached the base of the
hotel’s steep driveway, Hazel stopped and took Patience by the shoulders. “Listen.
You really don’t want to do this.”

“We
have
to do this.” Patience
gave her a look of total desperation.

But Hazel felt certain that what
they were about to do would prove to be a huge mistake. Just like the first go round.
“Why now—of all times—do you want to come back here, Patience?”

A violent shudder shook Patience’s
frame. “Don’t you understand, Hazel?” She glanced up at the hotel and trembled
again. “It’s the only way for us to set the past right. And to make sure it won’t
happen again.” She looked back at Hazel. “To stop it from happening
right
now.
”

Despite Hazel’s continued pleading,
there had been no talking Patience out of it.

So here they sat, cross-legged,
before the tall, darkened window in the circular room at the top of the tower,
the crystal glass positioned between them. Hazel watched Patience summon her
courage—she could almost
see
the waves of dread passing over her
friend’s face.

“Let’s get this over with,” Hazel
whispered. She wasn’t sure why she whispered; nobody appeared to be around. But
it seemed best to leave whoever or whatever might be undisturbed.

“Okay . . . ,” Patience said
through a shaky exhale. Then she cracked the egg and worked the innards and
shells until the white slipped into the water. As the egg sank, she sucked in
her breath.

Nothing. No coffin. No sign of ill
fortune. No discernable shape at all. Hazel hoped that would put an end to this.
It was starting to feel claustrophobic in the tower. She looked up at Patience,
who was staring into the glass, skin ghost-white, eyes ink-black.

Raising her wide eyes to Hazel’s,
Patience asked in a hushed voice, “Do you see anything?”

“A slimy egg white.” Hazel
suddenly felt swallowed by claustrophobia and unable to contain her irritation.
“And you being a freak. I’m leaving now.”

“No you’re not!” Patience snatched
up the glass and threw it against the window. Water splashed back on them but
the glass didn’t break. Instead, it cracked a 120-year-old pane of red stained
glass before it bounced to the floor. Patience shot up and pointed down at
Hazel. “You’re glad I’m sick!”

Hazel was taken aback. “Why would
I be?”

“You’re jealous of me!”

Hazel stood to face her. “You are seriously
deranged. Get a grip.”

“I know what you said!” Patience’s
shrill voice cracked.

“Oh?” Hazel placed her hands on
her hips, surprised that it felt almost good to be fighting with her. “And what
was that?

“That I’m easy pickings.”

Hazel didn’t reply. She was
busted; what was there to say? So she stood her ground and stared at Patience,
her next door neighbor since they were squirming babies, and thought about how
she’d like to punch Tanner Holloway right in his gigantic mouth the next time
she saw him. Finally, she said, “At least I warned you about Tanner and his
creepy country pie fantasy.”

That reminder did nothing to
dampen the flames of Patience’s outrage. “You’re a back-stabber! And Sean’s not
taking any more of your bullshit either!”

She’d never heard Patience use
those words before. Clearly they were Tanner’s.
Or Sean’s
, Hazel
realized with a sinking heart. “Where is Sean?”

“How would I know?”

“When did you see him?”

“I didn’t, Tanner told me. Why
didn’t you help me bury the broken mirror?”

“When did Tanner see Sean?”

“Does it matter? It’s too late.”

“What does
that
mean?”
Hazel felt cold despite the smothering heat in the tower.

“If you don’t bury the glass beneath
the moonlight, the bad luck comes. In threes they’ll come, Madame Marcelle told
me. You know you should’ve listened to me.”

“Settle down, Patience.”

“The cows sensed it coming—what
a bad sign. Indigo knew and now I know. Gram Lottie says the cows knew and I
threw up over everything in front of everybody and Gramps is ashamed at such a
display and he said, ‘No Mathers should make such a spectacle of themselves,’
and he asked what the devil is the matter with me anyhow?” Patience placed her
hands over her heart. “
I don’t know!
”

“Calm down!”

“What’s the matter with me, Hazel?
I thought you were my friend, I always thought that, but when I told you about
the ring around the moon you—”

“Patience! Stop!”

“—didn’t listen. I tried to
warn you and now look. Now I’m sick everybody’s sick and it’s too late. The
cows are dying the mirror’s broken the ring is red and that’s three only that’s
not all Sadie says—”

Hazel slapped Patience across the
face. Surprisingly, that felt good too.

H
azel tried to steal more sleep in the lobby of
The Winslow, where she’d taken up position on the sofa in case Sean came home.
When she heard heavy boot steps outside followed by a loud thump on the porch,
she slogged through her exhaustion to the door and opened it wide, too tired to
be afraid of what she might find there. The body leaning against the door
slumped into the entryway and came to rest on top of her bare feet.

She flipped on the light.

Owen Peabody. Not dead, she didn’t
think, but not moving either.

She watched Old Pete Hammond and Kenny
Clark climb into Pete’s truck and jostle back down the driveway. “What the hell
is going
on
?” she yelled at the taillights.

By the time Hazel found Sean’s dad
Samuel Adair and they half-carried, half-dragged Owen into the lobby and up
onto the couch, Rose Peabody, Ivy Hotchkiss, Gus Bolinger, and Kohl Thacker
were in the lobby too. They all looked upset and disheveled.

“What are you doing here?” Hazel
asked them. She felt raw from too little sleep, hungry because she was afraid to
eat, thirsty from drinking nothing but soda.

“They said we have to stay here.”
Rose stood looking down at Owen on the sofa. She didn’t look concerned or even
curious. She just looked.

She’s detached
, Hazel realized with dismay.
Unhinged.

“We said we wouldn’t go.” Kohl’s
eyes had a feral glint to them. “Not with them.”

“They rousted us out of the
Buckhorn Tavern like cattle.” Ivy was on the verge of tears.

“Why’d they bring you here?” Hazel
asked her.

“Said since we wouldn’t stay home,
we’d run out of options. Said we had to go to the south pasture.”

“Tiny Clemshaw’s the only one who
broke free,” Gus said.

“Goes to prove Clemshaw’s been
right all along,” Kohl said. “Holloway’s got the most to lose so he’s
corralling us all here to keep us quiet.”

“What’s wrong with us?” Ivy asked.
“Is everybody sick?”

“The ranch hands aren’t sick,”
said Gus.

“I’m not sick,” Kohl declared.
“I’m perfectly fine.”

Gus gave Kohl a sidelong glance
that said,
Sure you’re fine.

“Who is in charge?” Ivy searched
their faces. “Where’s Sheriff Winslow?”

Owen woke up babbling, “Stay away
from the water don’t even shower in it everything has water in it—
everything.
The cattle drank water, didn’t they? It looks clear but hides hideous
toxins and microscopic amoebae—”

“Should we go down to the
hospital?” Rose interrupted. “I think you need a doctor, Owen.” She looked
around at the others standing in the lobby. “I think Owen needs a doctor.”

“Not tonight,” Samuel Adair
finally added his two cents. “It’ll keep till daylight. Too risky driving the
dark pass in your condition.” With that he turned and headed up the stairs.

“If it’s just food poisoning,”
Rose said, “then we’ll all feel better in the morning.” She tried on a hopeful
expression.

Hazel could not stand to look at
that forced face and turned away, thinking,
It’s already almost morning,
Rose.

Then Kohl said, “Gonna get worse
before it gets better. A lot worse.”

Now the tears did let loose down
Ivy’s cheeks and a look of panic crossed Gus’s face.

“Nobody’s getting worse,” Hazel
said, “you’re just tired.” She knew she was. “Why don’t you take rooms and get
some rest. There’re no guests left in the hotel.”

They all just stared at her . . . unwilling
to take direction from this mere girl.

Hearing silverware clink from the
direction of the kitchen, Hazel abandoned the cause and rushed back to see who
was there—hoping for Sean—surprised to find her grandmother at the
table with Sean’s mom, Honey Adair. Honey’s dress was still wrinkled, her hair
uncombed. With all the lights on against the dark night beyond the windowpanes,
the women sat drinking port and not eating the wedge of cheese plated before
them.

“Why isn’t anybody sleeping?”
Hazel complained.

Honey Adair looked at her with a
completely blank expression . . . until instantly she brightened, as though
somebody had flipped her
on
switch. “If everybody’s up, I best get breakfast on.” Honey rose and started
banging around the kitchen.

Taking Honey’s place across from
Sarah, Hazel heaved herself down onto the hard oak chair. The fatigue made her
feel weighty despite having eaten so little since yesterday morning. She leaned
closer to the white cheese, poked at it (soft), sniffed at it (stinky), and
decided against it. Instead, she sat back and blew out an exhausted breath.

Then she closed her eyes . . . and
remembered Lottie Mathers’ blood all over the dining room: on the chandelier,
the tablecloth, the hardwood floor. Hazel had sworn she’d never eat in there
again, never even go in there again if she could avoid it. That had only lasted
until her grandmother threw her thirteenth birthday party in the dining room.
Sarah had hung purple crepe streamers from the chandelier and covered the long
table in colorfully wrapped gifts and pink-frosted cupcakes to prove that it
was not the room or the furniture, but rather the guests and the menu that had
wrought such horrors.

“Has Ben Mathers ever been back
here?” Hazel asked her grandmother. She knew that until tonight, Patience had not
stepped foot inside The Winslow in over five years, not even for Hazel’s
birthday parties.

Sarah scowled at the mention of
Ben Mathers. “He paid me a visit just yesterday.”

“Really?” Hazel asked, not at all
surprised by the flash of anger that accompanied that news. “What did he want?”

“To threaten me.”

Hazel shot forward.
“
What
?”

“Don’t worry.” Sarah caressed
Hazel’s cheek, smoothed her hair. “I shooed him away.”

Still fuming, Hazel said, “Grandma,
tell me about Lottie Mathers.”

“Charlotte Ambrose.” Sarah sighed.
“Lottie used to be an Ambrose before she hitched herself to Benjamin Mathers.”
She shook her head as if to say,
What a mistake that was.