The Winslow Incident (51 page)

And suddenly the pain he’d been
suffering for days went times a trillion. His foot looked dead, but his nerves
sure as hell weren’t. On active duty now, they bombarded his brain with signals
that shrieked,
Red alert! Mayday! Do something already!

Then a slow burn spread through
him.
She’s gonna pay.

He turned the soiled sock inside
out and then screamed at the agony of easing it back around his swollen foot.
All his toenails were gone (stuck to the sock, he saw) except for the one on
his pinky toe. One little piggy spared.

She is going to fucking pay.

“
T
o your health,” Pard Holloway toasted Fritz
Earley.

“Here’s how.” Pete Hammond brought
his own bottle to his lips.

Fritz sat on a stool at the bar
next to Old Pete while Pard stood across from them like a friendly bartender.
In the cool dark of the Buckhorn Tavern, they were just a few friends shooting
the breeze over a tall one. Pard hadn’t bothered asking Fritz where he’d gotten
those cuts and bruises on his face. No mystery there. He grinned at Fritz
before he took a long draw from his own bottle. The cold beer went down easy.
This day had developed into the most blistering yet, the afternoon sun beating
down with a matchless fury.

Pard noticed Fritz hadn’t touched
his beer, only sat there looking as nervous as a pecked hen. “Drink up!” he
urged.

Eyeing Pard warily, Fritz raised
his bottle and took a sip.

“First of all,” Pard addressed
both men, “things are fouled up to be sure. But if we keep our heads, we can
contain the damage. A lot’s been lost, but a lot can be salvaged.”

They both agreed, no argument
expected.

“’Course we all know that keeping
it dry is desirable in these sorts of situations. And I respect a man’s right
to keep his mouth from shooting off in directions that might harm his own
interests. But between us, Earley,” Pard implied that the three of them
constituted a convivial
us
, “How, precisely, did this happen?”

“Hard to say.” Fritz shook his
head and looked even more anxious.

“Strikes me as odd that Zachary
Rhone didn’t notice anything peculiar.” Pard tried to sound chummy. “Does it
you?”

“Listen, Holloway.” Sweat broke
free across Fritz’s forehead. “It was an accident. You beat up on me to find
cheaper feed, remember? Didn’t you tell me either get it cheaper or you’d get
yourself a new supplier? Now this happened.”

“Let’s stop beating the devil around
the stump here,” Pard maintained his pleasant tone. “We’ll all be taking our
fair hit, but we’ll help each other out as best as we can, won’t we? I’d hate
to see anybody suffer disproportionately over what you yourself said was only
an accident.”

Fritz appeared suspicious. “I’ll
reimburse you for your losses, if that’s what you’re getting at, above and
beyond actual. You and Rhone both.” He took a fast swig of beer. “I insist.”

“That’s generous of you. Don’t you
think, Pete?”

Old Pete nodded. “Been expectin’
you’ll pay.”

“Does Rhone feel the same about
keeping things between us?” Fritz asked.

“Don’t worry about him,” Old Pete
said.

Pard cocked his head
inquisitively. “What I’m really interested in knowing, Fritz, is the full
extent of this situation.”

“It’s only here.” Fritz looked
hopeful now, as if he thought Pard might be glad to hear that. “The situation’s
contained in Winslow.”

Old Pete said, “Difficult to
fathom this occurring at all, what with testing these days.”

“Oh it still happens,” Fritz quickly
defended, “from time to time.”

“Apparently.” Pard chuckled and
Fritz finally loosened up and laughed a bit with him. Then Pard asked, “So what
happens next?”

Fritz shook his head again and
repeated, “Hard to say.”

But Pard could tell it wasn’t
because Fritz didn’t know, it was because Fritz didn’t want Pard to hear it. He
stared at Fritz for a long moment before he leaned across the bar and harshly
whispered, “
Try.
”

Fritz gasped.

“Try!” Pard snatched up his beer
bottle and slammed it into the side of Fritz’s head. The bottle exploded
against the man’s scalp and skull and Pard grabbed Fritz by the neck before he
could slip under the bar. “Would it be
hard to say
just what the hell
you were thinking when you brought ergot-contaminated feed up to my ranch and
poisoned my herd?”

Bloody beer ran down the side of
Fritz’s head and dripped loudly onto the bar.

“Would it be
hard
to say
just what the hell you thought you were doing delivering poison flour to this
town’s only bakery?” Pard continued.

Fritz was slipping out of Pard’s
grasp, desiring only to pass out on the floor, it looked like, but Old Pete
grabbed him by the back of the collar and wedged him against the bar.

Pard yelled in Fritz’s face,
“Would it be hard for you to say that you’ll clean this mess up or die trying?”

Fritz sputtered, “People are
looking for me by now.”

“What people? Nobody’s looking for
you. In fact, I’d bargain you didn’t tell a soul you were coming up here.” Pard
looked at Pete. “This get together is officially over. Take him back.”

“To the pest house?” Old Pete
asked. “Sure you wanna do that?”

Pard studied Fritz for a moment; the man did not
look good. “Just as well let things run their course. And Pete—leave out
the particulars, but make certain they get the gist of our conversation here.”

P
ard sat alone at the bar after they left. Not
drinking, thinking.

Earlier, when he’d returned to
town from the bridge and saw for himself the bakery burned to the ground, he’d
thought,
Just what I need.
But the fire had been put out quickly, Tiny
Clemshaw had informed him. So the situation hadn’t turned into a problem as far
as Sparks would be concerned. Though it did worry Pard some to see Clemshaw
both sick and on the shoot—that combination could easily turn into a
problem.
And the fact that nobody’s getting any better is a problem.
If
you counted Zachary Rhone, who Pard figured for ash since he hadn’t managed to
cause Pard any further trouble, that made at least two dead already. Things
were fouled-up, all right. And the bloody mess inside the Rhone house and
spread across the yard—that was definitely a problem.

His niece Hazel also posed a
problem, undermining his authority and asking questions he wasn’t keen to
answer.
And dammit, she really does look just like Anabel when she’s all
fired up.

At five years his junior, Anabel
used to follow Pard everywhere and he’d be damned if he’d let his kid sister
tag along with him and his buddies. But there she’d be with her fishing pole or
baseball mitt or wearing her swimsuit with the yellow daisies—the right
equipment for wherever she guessed they were headed. He’d yell at her to get
lost and she’d turn fightin’ mad, eyes flashing that same green he saw in
Hazel’s eyes last night when she’d pounded on his chest.

Pard sighed, worn-out tired.
We
need to get things tidied up, is all
, he thought. He was gambling that
nobody would come looking for Fritz Earley.
Because now we really can’t let
anybody see the hash we’ve made of things up here.

What Pard needed was to get back
to the ranch to check on his herd. He
wanted
to get back to his ranch
where things were manageable. Because the longer he remained in town, the more
he felt the reins slipping from his hands.

He swiveled off the barstool and
left the Buckhorn, shoving through batwing doors and into the brutal sunlight.
Blackjack was tied to the hitching post in front of the tavern and Pard started
on the knot that would release him.

The town was quiet save for the
drone of a vehicle accelerating and what sounded like the car dragging
something, its bumper maybe. Peering across the park, Pard saw a brown Plymouth
moving fast: Old Man Mathers driving fifty damn miles an hour down Park Street.
He’s gonna kill somebody
, Pard worried.

After mounting Blackjack, Pard
rode across Fortune Way and into the shade of Prospect Park. When he reached
the playground he stopped short of the swings to observe his cowhands working
the area. Tanner was with them, bobbing along on the back of Kenny Clark’s
chestnut Morgan. He and Kenny were shouting back and forth to each other and
laughing. Laughing? They were acting real friendly—best buddies.
When
the hell did that happen?
Pard wondered.

Making a noise, “Scheww,” Pard
pulled off his hat and mopped his face with a bandanna. He wanted to make his
nephew into a man and maybe there was hope after all. Tanner had been
cooperating all day; Pard was truly surprised the kid had it in him. And he
wanted to feel pleased—but dammit if those weren’t the Marshes over there
by the duck pond? The very same people he’d ordered home yesterday at sunset?
Pard
scheww
ed again as he replaced his hat and steered Blackjack their
direction.

To Pard’s astonishment, Kenny and Tanner
suddenly gave chase after Jay Marsh, Kenny twirling a lariat above his head
while Tanner crouched out of the way behind him and held on for dear life.
Before Jay could scramble under the monkey bars Kenny effortlessly tossed the
rope over the man’s head and jerked it tight around his bare torso, pinning his
arms inside. After turning his horse to yank Jay to the ground Kenny leapt off
and then pulled the kid down next.

Pard saw the shock hit Tanner’s
face when he landed on his left leg. Pard had noticed at the bridge that Tanner
had gotten himself roughed up at some point and was limping pretty bad. Pard had
truly hoped then, as now, that the limp was the result of Blackjack dragging
his nephew around the rodeo ring and nothing more.

Kenny shoved the rope into Tanner’s
hands. Then he pushed Tanner toward where Jay lay squirming in the grass at the
other end of the rope. The kid hauled himself over and began to hogtie Jay
Marsh, who was yelling, “Stop! I’m a human being!”

They’re too rough now
, Pard admitted.
How many times has this line been
crossed?

From where he was still working
the rope around Jay’s ankles, Tanner looked up when Pard reached him. At first
the kid’s face registered fear—as if he thought he was about to get it.
But then Tanner smiled . . . a huge grin through that mess of pale hair, like
he knew his uncle approved, like he was proud of himself. And Pard felt the reins
completely slip away.

H
eedless to the aggravation that running caused
her injuries, Hazel pounded down the trail, her ends disturbingly loose.

Fighting with Patience Mathers was
hardly unusual. She and Patience had often fought when they were younger: over
a game of jacks (“I already did twosies”), over who got the last Louie-Bloo
Raspberry Otter Pop, over Patience being so irritating mainly.

This was only the third time Hazel
had ever fought with Sean Adair.

The second was Monday morning in
front of the Crock.

The first was when they were
eleven and Kenny Clark was beating the crap out of Sean in front of the Fish ’n
Bait and Hazel intervened by smashing Kenny from behind with her skateboard.
But that didn’t stop Kenny from pummeling Sean some more and later Sean told her,
“I can take care of myself.”

And she’d said, “It didn’t look
like it.”

And he’d spat, “Just leave me
alone,” before ditching her to lick his wounds in private.

Leave me alone . . .
That sounded sorely familiar.
Don’t come looking for me
anymore.

When she could run no more, she
collapsed to the forest floor. Sprawled on a carpet of pine needles, licking
her own wounds, she wished Bigfoot would come and carry her away to his
Sasquatch digs, where they’d eat blackberries and communicate using hand
gestures and grunts.

But he didn’t come for her.

So after she caught her breath,
she rose and staggered down the trail—the sun beating down on her like a
different kind of hot-breathed monster—and headed back to town. Nowhere
else to go. No idea what to do next. Not even thinking about it, really, just
making her way along the path, bleary-eyed, trying not to smash her hurt arm
into any branches.

I’m shell-shocked
, she realized.

Matherston Cemetery had been
another unimaginable nightmare. Like last night when she had seen how twisted
and tormented everyone had become at the hotel, or viewing the gruesome remains
of Melanie Rhone while her dad stood quietly growing gangrenous, or the vampire
attacking her in Second Chance Mine that morning.

Nightmares. Surely not reality.
Surely those things did not happen to her.

Unthinkable.

Popping out of the woods onto
Winslow Road, Hazel longed to see Sheriff Riley Washburn’s patrol car cruising
up the blacktop. (Riley and her dad liked to shoot the breeze over a shot of bourbon
on the back porch of The Winslow.) An ambulance speeding past with its sirens
whirring would’ve been good too. Or that forest service helicopter from her
dream.