The Winslow Incident

BLOOD

Supported against the kitchen sink, staring at her reflection in the window, it occurred to Honey Adair that it was already dark out again. The days left quickly now and the nights stayed long. She didn’t know how that could be. It was summer so that simply could not be.

Yet it was, and behind the image in the window she recognized as her own, a slideshow played over and over: her husband Samuel threatening her temple with the hammer he uses to pound nails into loose boards on the porch, ink-black creatures as big as horses and with wings like bats skulking out of the Second Chance mineshaft, and her beautiful sons flung over the mountaintop, away from her forever.

When did I last see my boys?

She glanced briefly over her shoulder, at the disaster area the kitchen had become.

The hotel was displeased, she knew. With the infirmity and the malodor and the wailing, the hotel was displeased. Which was why Honey kept quiet, she didn’t want The Winslow to notice her . . . didn’t want it to see her like this, not taking care of it like she’s supposed to.

If the hotel becomes wet with blood, she thought, I’ll never get it clean again.

Blood—like the time Sean sliced through the web of flesh between his thumb and index finger on the pantry door’s split hinge that she’d begged Samuel time and again to fix. She’d rinsed the wound in this very sink and seeing how deep the gash went, bound up his hand and ran him to Dr. Foster’s place. Later, after they’d come home with Sean stitched up, she’d gone back to the sink. She’d made navy bean soup for dinner that night and four bowls sat waiting to be washed.

The bowls were full of blood—her son’s blood—and she’d gone weak and queasy with the helplessness of it then too.

Where are my sons? she silently asked her reflection as visions of fire danced behind her.





THE PEST HOUSE

This was Fritz Earley’s worst nightmare.

As soon as he’d hung up with Hank from Stepstone Feed Supply (Hank had chewed him a new one, all right), Fritz had jumped in his truck and headed for Winslow. Because between calling him a cheap bastard and a thieving sonofabitch, what Hank had to tell Fritz was chilling: he’d found ergot fungus in last week’s delivery of feed.

Driving up Yellow Jacket Pass, vacillating over whether to stop first at Holloway Ranch or head straight to Rhone Bakery, Fritz had pleaded with the good Lord that if the fungus hadn’t also infested the flour he’d delivered to the bakery, he would turn over a new leaf and become a better man. Clearly his prayers had come too late. Clearly Fritz would not be considered a better man anytime soon.

Now Fritz was jostling around in the back of an El Camino making its way along rutted Winslow Road. With every dip, he slammed painfully against the wheel well. I should’ve told somebody I was coming up here. Before shoving him into the truck bed, Pard Holloway’s ranch hands had roughed him up enough to make him wish he’d told somebody he was coming up here and why. Anybody. His bruised eye and split lip pulsed with the question: Why didn’t I?

Because you didn’t want anybody to know, because you hoped to keep it quiet.

An accident, that’s all, surely people would understand that? Everybody makes a mistake every once in a while. Only Fritz knew he shouldn’t have bought that grain on the cheap, knew the deal was almost too good to be on the up and up. But a man’s in business to make a profit.

Fritz touched his wounded face and winced. He was beginning to understand how much that inexpensive grain might really cost him, how quickly the price was rising.

There was going to be holy hell to pay once Holloway figured this out. On Fritz’s way up to Winslow he’d dreaded dealing with Pard Holloway but figured he’d be reasonable once Fritz insisted on compensating him above and beyond any actual losses. Sure, Holloway was a hard bastard, but he was a pragmatic bastard at heart who understood the bottom line.

That was before Fritz had reached the bridge and saw what was happening up here.

The road surface changed to gravel and Fritz realized they were headed up the driveway to The Winslow Hotel. He wondered why they weren’t driving to Holloway Ranch. “Where are we going?” he shouted at Kenny Clark and Pete Hammond in the cab.

Over his shoulder, Kenny said, “We’re tossing you in with the sickos to see if you catch it.”

Did I hear him right?

The El Camino stopped with a lurch that caught Fritz off balance and sent him crashing into the wheel well again. Then Kenny got out of the cab and leapt into the truck bed with a clomp of boots, the weight of him bouncing the truck up and down. He lunged for Fritz as if he might try to escape.

It was laughable. To where would he escape? There were woods on all sides, it was dark, he didn’t know his way around, he was too fat to run fast or far, and he didn’t have a Winchester like the one Pete was aiming at him.

“It can’t be caught,” Fritz said.

“Get up!” Kenny wrenched him forward by the arm.

“What do you think I was trying to tell you before you smashed my face in?” There’d been a blond kid at the bridge and Fritz could tell by his eyes that he got it, but he was battered too and had looked away.

“Shut up and get moving!” Kenny pushed him out of the truck and Fritz fell down into the driveway. The impact cut gravel into his hands and knees.

Fritz looked up at Pete and his rifle. “Do you understand me? It can’t be caught.”

“Guess we’ll find out,” Pete said.

Kenny jumped down into the gravel. “Get up there.” He shoved Fritz toward the hotel. “And if we catch you anyplace else, we won’t go so easy on you.”

Pete cocked the rifle.

“I get it, I get it.” Fritz stood but then stumbled again on his own and felt oddly embarrassed.

Kenny turned, muttering, “We’ll be back later to collect what’s left of you.”

Despite that harrowing promise, Fritz felt relieved when Kenny and Pete got back in the El Camino and sped down the driveway. At least the beating was over. For now, anyway.

With nowhere else to go, he headed up the wide stone steps—only to stop dead in his tracks once he reached the top and the hotel revealed itself to him.

What is happening here?

Large red X’s marked the tall windows and doors of The Winslow. An age-old warning of plague that he knew meant stay away. And an inviolable order that the afflicted are to remain inside.

This was only the beginning of Fritz Earley’s worst nightmare.





WEDNESDAY 3:00 AM

ZOMBIES

The pain in Hazel’s arm woke her just a few hours after she’d fallen asleep in the flower-print, burst-stuffing chair that had been her mother’s favorite place to sit. She felt stiff and out of sorts.

Out of sorts. That was hilarious and she actually laughed a little. Oh, we’re all fine, thank you, really . . . just a bit out of sorts.

With some effort she sat up. The mantel clock claimed it to be three o’clock. Nothing had changed except for the stiffness in her back from sleeping in the chair and new tenderness in her ribs where she’d cracked against the porch railing at The Winslow.

She dug into her pocket and came up with a few Lemonheads and her last Percocet. She swallowed the pill before popping the candy onto her tongue. When she chewed into the soft sourness, her mouth watered.

“Dad?” she called. “Are you here?”

Dead silence, until Hazel’s stomach growled ferociously, the sugar and saliva teasing it back to life, making it think it had a chance at some real food. But she was still afraid to eat, afraid everything had become infested with the ergot.

She adjusted her sling where it’d slipped off her shoulder and sucked in her breath at the pain, wondering if she were bone-bruised or bone-broken or both. She wasn’t up to poking around the wounded area to find out.

Scuffling sounds started up from outside, as if a number of hurried feet were rushing up the stepping stones toward the front porch. Hazel held her breath, straining to hear their hushed conversation over her own clamorous heartbeat.

When the footsteps reached the porch, the voices rose, high and hysterical, before erupting into maniacal laughter.

Terrified they were about to pound on the front door (Did I lock it? I can’t remember!) or worse, break a window like zombies always seem to enjoy doing, Hazel shot out of the chair, prepared to bolt. But then the footsteps and laughter retreated back to the street, and she released her breath and placed a hand over her chest to try and calm her belabored heart.

A box of jawbreakers sat open on the table beside the chair; she’d been chomping on them Sunday night while she waited for her dad to come back from checking on the wolf at the Rhone’s house. Now she grabbed the box and stuffed it into the back pocket of her shorts. Then she crept to the drapes and parted them just enough to peer outside.

Nobody there. No zombies waited on the porch, eager to eat her brains.

While she had slept, the shock from the horrors at the hotel had dulled—as if it were a movie she’d seen, not something she’d experienced. A fully messed up, torture porn kind of movie that leaves you feeling damaged, that is the product of a damaged mind. Now with scary people roaming the streets, her dread had been fully restored, weighing heavy on her spirit. She dragged it out of the living room, across the entry, and into her dad’s office.

Despite the hot stale air, the office had a cold feel to it, perhaps because none of the electronics were glowing or beeping, more likely because her father wasn’t there.

She skirted the desk and plopped down onto the leather seat of her dad’s wooden chair. After swiveling to face his computer she clicked the mouse to wake the machine. As it warmed up she willed the phone line to be working again. She needed information off the Web. And she needed to send an e-mail SOS to the Stepstone Valley Sheriff’s office—with a cc to the whole world.

While she impatiently tapped her foot, the modem made a lot of loud and labored noises but ultimately found no dial tone and gave up.

“Sonofabitch!” She picked up the telephone base unit and slammed it up and down until it started making broken chirping sounds each time it hit the desk. Then she swiveled this way and that in the chair, pausing only to kick at the desk. Finally, she settled down and glanced at the bookshelf.

After Patience’s father’s fudge shop went belly-up (Hazel always figured it was because he’d spelled it Shoppe), Hazel’s dad had felt sorry for Chance Mathers when he came calling in his new salesman vocation and bought an entire set of encyclopedias even though the library had a perfectly decent collection they could reference anytime. Handy for the first time now, she jumped up, pulled the E–G volume from the shelf, and dropped it on the desk with a thud.

Returning to the chair, she opened the thick book. “Maybe this is actually mass demonic possession.”

Then she realized that talking to herself was probably not a good development.

Uncertain how to spell it, she spent a few minutes flipping through thin pages and in her haste ripped through the biography of Ralph Waldo Emerson and a picture of an emu. Once she found what she was looking for, she switched on the banker’s lamp, leaned forward, and read.

Ergot fungi are molds that attack wheat, rye, barley, and other wild and cultivated grasses. Wet spring weather favors the infection of growing crops.

Mold—Hazel recalled Violet saying that the bread was moldy.

She skimmed down the page past all the C33H35N5O5’s and C35H39N5O5’s.

Ergotism, a disease of humans and domestic animals, is caused by excessive intake of ergot: in humans by eating breadstuffs made with infected flour, and in cattle, by eating contaminated grain. Acute and chronic ergotism is characterized by insomnia, mood swings, mental disorientation, delusions, hallucinations, fever, slow pulse, muscle aches and spasms, convulsions, and gangrene of the extremities.

Chronic? She wasn’t positive but thought that meant it might not get better—or at least wasn’t going away anytime soon. Remembering how Doc Simmons had shaken his head when she’d asked him how long it will last gave her the chills.

She kept reading.

Great epidemics of the Middle Ages were caused by ergot poisoning, and outbreaks continued into the twentieth century. Ergotism broke out August 17, 1951 in the south of France, where people in the town of Pont-Saint-Esprit ate contaminated bread. Three hundred people were affected in the largest epidemic since the Russian outbreak of 1926. The disease has often been referred to as St. Anthony’s Fire since those suffering from gangrene would pray to St. Anthony for relief from the burning sensation in their extremities.

Reactions depend upon the individual and amount ingested. Some become too weak to leave bed, while others exhibit superhuman strength. Delusions occur sporadically with lucid moments between. Some report having beautiful religious experiences, others, hellish visions of the apocalypse. In Pont-Saint-Esprit, a war veteran believed he was surrounded by his dead comrades, conversing with the ghost soldiers day and night. Another victim believed he could fly and after jumping out of a fourth-floor window, he rose and ran down the street on broken legs.

She slammed the encyclopedia shut.

Hellish visions. Dead comrades. Broken legs.

“We’re screwed.” Hazel’s heart sank. “We are completely screwed.”

Gangrene? Was that like leprosy? She didn’t know, but it sounded bad. Gangrene. She decided not to look it up. Then she couldn’t help herself. She reopened the book and flipped to the G section, cringing as she read.

Gangrene occurs when there is extensive tissue death and is characterized by severe pain and swelling. This often occurs due to compromised blood circulation. The most common sites are toes, feet, legs, fingers, and hands. The skin is firm and sounds are heard when it is displaced or bent.

Her eyes flew across the page—no stopping now despite her revulsion.

Gangrene leads to the development of black skin with dead underlying muscle and bone turning red if the skin breaks open. As the tissue decays, there may be ulceration and discharge from the tissue that is rancid. If not treated, the infection can spread to the rest of the body.

“Oh, no no no no no . . .” Her stomach was backing up into her throat. This was too much to grasp. Soon everyone’s appendages were going to start oozing and falling off? She imagined the wood plank sidewalk on Fortune Way littered with blackened, foul-smelling hands and feet, and a town full of human stumps—a freak show for the tourists.

This was way too much to grasp.

Her eyes darted around the office. She hoped somebody might magically appear—Sean, her dad, her grandmother, her grandfather’s ghost, her mother, anybody—because she sure as hell couldn’t handle this all by herself.

Panicked beyond all reason, she snatched up the telephone handset and futilely pressed TALK. “Hello? Stepstone General Hospital? This is Hazel Winslow and we are in deep shit up here. Can you please send a doctor? Better yet, send a whole team. Everyone you’ve got. Right away. You see, we’ve all been poisoned by moldy bread.”

Heart racing, she sprang from the chair and began to pace furiously. “And I think my boyfriend is in seriously deep shit too. Better let me talk to Sheriff Washburn now.”

She kicked the chair and sent it crashing into the bookshelf. “Riley Washburn? It’s Hazel, Nate’s daughter. Listen, Riley, you have to promise me you won’t bust Sean Adair, okay? I don’t know why he wrote I’m sorry on the granite wall, and I don’t know why Tanner Holloway told me to tell Sean that Zachary Rhone is looking for him, but do you really believe that Sean would let his little brother Aaron eat that apple fritter if he thought for one split second that it’d hurt him?” She paused to gulp some air. “You’re right, Riley! There is no f*cking way!”

She threw the handset against the computer monitor so hard the casing burst apart. Then she shouted at the pieces of plastic strewn across the floor, “Hello? Hello? Hell-o!”

She glanced around the room; nobody had shown up to help her. “Okay. Okay. I have to get out of here.” She took a deep breath, pulled the bottle of eye drops out of her pocket, and gave each eye a good squirt. “No more screwing around.” She strode out of the office. “I’ll figure out a way to protect Sean while I’m driving down. But I need to get help now.”

Then she remembered her right arm and paused to gaze at the t-shirt sling.

“So what?” she challenged the foyer. “I’ll just get the Jeep into any gear and leave it—I can work the clutch if it starts to stall, screw the transmission. I’ll be down the mountain by sunrise.” If I can steer.

After plucking the spare set of keys off the hook, she swung open the front door. The three-quarters moon had risen in the clear sky, so it wasn’t especially dark out. She doubled back anyway to grab her dad’s aluminum flashlight off the hall-tree. She instantly liked the heft of it in her hand. Returning to the doorway, she swept the yard with the flashlight beam, searching for zombies. All clear.

But then she hesitated at the top step of the porch, her confidence faltering.

It was a long walk back to where she’d seen the Jeep parked on the fire road that morning. And what if it wasn’t there anymore? She’d waste a lot of precious time and still be no closer to leaving. Rose and Owen would let her take their Jeep but it would need to be parked at the Crock because the Peabody’s house was way down on Loop-Loop Road by Doc Simmons’ place. And even if it was at the Crock, that would mean going back to The Winslow to get the keys from them.

And I can’t do that. Hazel shuddered. I won’t.

She decided to check if Patience’s parents next door would let her take their Dodge pickup. She hadn’t seen Constance or Chance Mathers since the rodeo but she’d noticed lights on in their house. Maybe they weren’t even sick. And maybe Patience would go with her. Though she was probably still sick, she could at least shift gears while Hazel worked the clutch, maybe even help steer if she wasn’t too far gone on ergot.

As she started toward their house through the yard full of flowers, she heard animals growling. Her pulse sped up. It definitely didn’t sound like wolves. Still, their tone held menace. She scanned the yard with the flashlight. Everything looked surprisingly normal, the yellow and red blooms on Constance’s rose bushes shone bright as jellybeans in the beam of her flashlight.

More growls and Hazel discovered the source. Patience’s jet-black cat Ajax and Violet’s cat Boo were in a standoff beneath the dining room window, issuing low hateful rumblings. Clearly bad blood existed between these two—a feud for the ages.

“Stop it,” Hazel hissed at them but that only set them off and they went after each other, rolling around in a tight ball, screaming in vengeful fury, tufts of black and gray fur shooting into the air. “Stop it,” Hazel yelled at the spinning cat ball. “Stop!”

When they finally separated of their own volition she tracked Boo with her flashlight as he scampered around the side of the house. Ajax flew up a tree, sailed onto the roof, and was gone too.

Then the porch light switched on and Hazel saw Patience’s parents peeking through the colored glass squares in the tall window next to the front door.

She bounded up the porch steps and knocked even though they were already looking at her. When they didn’t open the door Hazel moved in front of the window, where they continued to stare out at her with wide eyes. They wore masks that covered their noses and mouths, and acted as though she couldn’t see them—as if they could look and look at her but they themselves were invisible.

Hazel pounded the door. “Please, Constance, Chance. I need to talk to you.” When they made no move to let her in she pounded harder, taking out all of her frustration on the carved walnut door. She considered breaking the stained glass window. They’d never be able to replace it. We’ll never be able to replace a lot of things, Hazel suddenly realized.

Finally, Constance responded, “If you stay back, we’ll open the door. But you have to stay back.”

After Hazel moved several feet away the door opened.

“We can’t risk catching it, you see?” Constance said, her moving lips making the mask dance. “Why aren’t you at home, Hazel? We’re under quarantine.”

“It isn’t contagious. It’s in the bread.” Despite the masks, Hazel could read skepticism on their faces. “If you don’t eat any bread, you won’t get sick.”

“Bread?” Constance said. She and Chance shook their heads, not buying it for a minute.

She didn’t have time to argue with them. “I need to borrow the Dodge.”

“Oh no you don’t.” Chance’s mask buckled on his face. “Not my truck.”

“Wait—”

“Absolutely not. I’ve seen the way you tear around town on that motorcycle.” Chance shook his head again. “Not in a million years, little miss.”

She was wasting her time here. “Where’s Patience?”

Constance and Chance looked at each other with questioning eyes.

“Don’t you know?” Hazel couldn’t believe it.

“In the park?” Constance tried.

Chance shrugged his shoulders.

“Well that’s nothing out of the ordinary, at least,” Hazel said. “You’re crappy parents to her. You’ve always been crappy parents.”

“At least we didn’t abandon her.” Chance slammed the door in her face.

There was no point in trying to defend herself, or in telling him to go to hell, so she retreated from the porch and made her way past the rose bushes again. As she retook the sidewalk she thought, They’re not even sick—they’re cowards.

She stopped to glance back at their house, sealed up tight against the world, concerned only with protecting them.

And that infuriated her.

Hazel ran back through the yard and up the steps and the porch light went out just as she reached the door and swung the back of the flashlight against the ornate window. Glass imploded into the foyer, destroying the sanctity of their shelter, and Constance screamed and Chance shouted but Hazel was already racing away down the sidewalk feeling slightly better.

Once she reached Dr. Foster’s house she shortcut a diagonal into Prospect Park toward the Crock on Fortune Way. Now she had no choice but to go and see if the Peabodys’ Jeep was parked there. That first. She wouldn’t let herself worry about having to go back to The Winslow unless it was actually there. Maybe the keys would be in it. Wouldn’t that be lucky?

Walking through the park, Hazel shined the light before her feet to avoid stepping on any bodies. And when she reached the playground she scanned the flashlight across the swings and monkey bars. Then she lighted upon a slight figure crouched on the metal platform of the red merry-go-round: Patience Mathers.

As Hazel approached she saw that Patience was wearing her Rodeo Queen garb—white hat, fringed chaps, pony-hair boots, the whole cowgirl outfit. She played the light up and down Patience. Her red vest was soiled and when Hazel got closer, she could smell the dried vomit.

“Hey . . .” Hazel stopped a few feet away.

Only then did Patience look up with hollow eyes.

“Patience, are you okay?” Of course she wasn’t, Hazel could see that. Her face was so drawn she looked like a corpse.

“I don’t think so,” she whispered.

Hazel put her hand over her nose and mouth, the smell of Patience’s sick-encrusted clothes overwhelming her. “Wait here, all right?” she said through her fingers.

“Don’t go!” Patience reached for her, panic igniting her eyes.

“I’ll be right back, I swear.” Hazel took off in the direction of the duck pond, trying to remember where she’d stumbled into the pile of clothes.

When she returned to the playground she helped Patience peel out of her clothes and into Julie Marsh’s sundress. Even in the pale light of the moon, Hazel could make out the welts and scratches now covering nearly all of Patience’s skin. “You have to stop scratching yourself,” Hazel said. “Do you understand?”

“Okay,” Patience said and dragged her nails along her right arm.

Hazel grabbed her hand away. “Don’t do that anymore. Don’t.”

“Okay.” Patience sat back down on the little merry-go-round.

“What are you doing out here?”

“I’m waiting for you and Sean to finish the ghost hunt.” She took on a pained look. “But there isn’t any candy.”

Hazel reached into her back pocket and pulled out the box of jawbreakers. She shook out a few and handed them to Patience, who put a purple piece in her mouth but then puckered her face as if the candy were sour. She spit it to the ground where her boots and dirty clothes lay in a heap and handed the rest back to Hazel.

“Nobody’s ghost hunting right now,” Hazel said.

“Sean is.”

“How do you know?”

“He told me.”

“Tanner said he saw you and Sean together.” All over each other, she didn’t add. “When was that?”

Patience whispered something Hazel couldn’t quite hear.

“When, Patience?”

She said, “He wanted to kiss me.”

“You’re lying.”

“He did, Hazel. He told me I’m beautiful.”

“No, he didn’t.”

Patience looked up at her. “Yes, he did. In front of the Mercantile. Tanner Holloway was there too. You can ask him.”

Hazel didn’t have to. She sucked in a deep breath and closed her eyes. Maybe she’d just hold it till she passed out or better yet, died. She hated to think Tanner had told the truth about that. It meant she’d have to consider he was telling the truth about a few other things that she didn’t want to believe.

“I didn’t ask him to do anything, Hazel, I’m not easy pickins.”

Hazel finally exhaled. “I know you’re not.” She felt as though she were flailing underwater, out of air and unable to figure out which way is up.

“Tanner wanted to kiss me too after he pushed me too high on the swing but I wouldn’t let him.”

“Popular, aren’t you?” Hazel popped a candy into her mouth to offset the bitterness. Jealous of Patience Mathers? She got that upside down, inside out sensation again.

Patience looked as sad as when Hazel had told her she couldn’t come live with her after Hazel’s mom disappeared. Patience offered to share her room and let Hazel bring all her stuffed animals and they’d be sisters. Hazel said she had to keep her daddy company at their own house but they could be sisters anyway. On every birthday after that Patience would sign the cards pasted with ribbons and stars and hearts she still handmade for Hazel, Love, your sister P.

“I didn’t want him to,” Patience said.

“I know you didn’t,” Hazel said. “I’m sorry.”

“Something’s wrong with Tanner.” Her mouth puckered again. “He doesn’t smell right.”

“You don’t have to worry about him anymore. He’s long gone.” But suddenly Hazel recalled how excessively sweaty he was at the granite wall outside Matherston Cemetery and for the first time realized, Maybe he’s sick too. Could he have made it down the mountain by himself if he were? Maybe that was the real reason he’d wanted Sean or her to go with him. What if he didn’t make it out? The thought alarmed her for reasons she couldn’t distinguish from all the other things making her anxious.

Hazel kneeled on her haunches to face Patience where she sat on the metal platform with her feet drawn up out of the dirt. “Have you seen Sean since you were all together at the Mercantile?”

Patience shook her head.

Then they were quiet for a long time. Hazel knew she should get moving but felt paralyzed, hopelessly incapable of doing anything she needed to do.

Finally, Patience said, “Did you know Hawkin Rhone is back?”

Goosebumps rose on Hazel’s arms. “That’s impossible—he’s been dead for a long time.”

But Hazel recalled Kohl Thacker saying the same thing in the ballroom of The Winslow while the woman by the fireplace cried, “Where are the children?”

“Gramps told me he’s back.” Patience said.

“As usual your gramps is completely full of crap.” Hazel swallowed hard. “You saw what happened to Hawkin Rhone with your own two eyes.”

Patience made chewing motions with her mouth as if she’d been conveyed back five years and now stood with a mouthful of taffy on the banks of Three Fools Creek opposite the rotting cabin, watching Sean crack Hawkin Rhone’s head open with a pine log. She stopped grinding her teeth and stared at Hazel. “Sean’s looking for him. I hope Hawkin Rhone doesn’t find him first.”

Hazel’s heart constricted. “What are you talking about?”

“Gram and Gramps told me other forgotten things, Hazel, about you and your family.”

“You shouldn’t’ve listened.”

“Things you should know,” Patience continued, her expression disturbingly blank. “You didn’t believe me before but you’d better now: terrible things are happening at The Winslow.”

Hazel’s heart clenched tighter. She was certain her grandmother was still somewhere in the hotel, along with Rose and Owen Peabody, and Honey Adair and the other defenseless sick people. But Hazel wasn’t going back there without reinforcements. “Don’t say another word. I’ve got enough problems without hearing more of Ben Mathers’ nonsense.”

“He said your grandmother killed Gram Lottie.”

“More lies. And listen—don’t eat any bread or donuts or anything from Rhone Bakery.”

“And your great granddad killed Gramp’s father.”

“Did you hear me? No bread.”

“And drowned Aunt Sadie in the pond.”

“Enough!” Hazel suddenly felt nauseated. “Enough.”

Patience took a shuddering breath. “Hazel, when am I going to feel better?”

“Soon,” she said, despite the fact that Patience looked worse each time Hazel saw her. “Soon, I’m sure.”

Patience stared at her filthy bare feet for a moment before glancing around the playground. “Where’d Jinx go?”

“I think he’s dead,” Hazel whispered, because saying it too loud would make it too real. “Doc Simmons killed him.”

“You’re crazy.” Patience shook her head. “I just saw him.”

Hazel shined her flashlight across the park. “Before I got here?”

“Just now. Under the monkey bars, watching you like he always does.”

“You’re crazy. I didn’t see him.”

“He looks different. Maybe you didn’t recognize him. I hope he doesn’t come back.”

“I don’t think he will.” As Hazel sighed, defeat hung itself across her shoulders like a saddle. She looked at Patience and wondered if Doc Simmons was right, that there was nothing to be done and people were only going to get worse. “Do you want me to take you home?”

“No—we’ll stay here and wait for Sean.” Patience pulled her knees up to her chest and hugged her legs. “We have candy now, so he’ll come.”

“I don’t think he’s coming either.” She reached over and pushed Patience’s hair out of her eyes. “And I need to go and get help. I have to get down to Stepstone somehow so I can bring back doctors.”

“Noooo, no no.” Patience shook her head fiercely. “You’re staying here with me.”

“I can’t.”

“Please, Hazel, don’t leave me, please.”

“I have to, Patience, I don’t have any choice.”

“You do—you always have a choice. I need you, I’m sick. Help me, Hazel.”

“I have to go. Me staying here won’t help you. You need a doctor, Patience.” Hazel turned her back.

“No! I need you!” Patience grabbed her sling from behind and Hazel twirled around and reflexively raised her left arm to strike her away. “Don’t hit me again.” Patience shrank back.

“I—”

“You never liked me. The only one you ever liked was Sean.”

“You’re wrong . . .”

“But he doesn’t like you anymore.”

“Stop it.”

“You’ll see.”

“Shut up.”

“Why did you slap me? You don’t even care about me!”

“Stop it, Patience!” Hazel was certain she could not take one more awful word, one more harrowing sight, or one more dreadful thought before shattering into jagged pieces like that broken mirror in the Mother Lode Saloon.

Then her friend began to cry.

“I’m sorry,” Hazel said softly. “Just be quiet and stay put. Okay? I’ll come back with help for you, Patience.” Feeling overwhelmed and woefully ill equipped, Hazel walked away.

Leaving the park, she popped out onto Fortune Way in front of Rose’s Country Crock. The screen door hung open but the interior held dark—an uninviting invitation. The Peabodys’ Jeep was nowhere in sight, nor were there any other cars around. Yet an exhaust smell hanging in the dead air told her somebody had recently driven by.

Her pulse picked up when she noticed a light on next door in the old bank building where her dad’s office occupied what used to be the teller area and the former vault now served as the lockup. Of course he’s here. She smiled in relief, chastising her foolishness for not thinking to come here sooner. He’s here being Sheriff of Winslow.

She dashed past the Crock, pounding the wooden boardwalk in her haste, and threw open the glass door stenciled, Mathers Bank ~ Established 1888.

Inside, she found an empty office, an empty chair, and an empty spot on the table behind her dad’s desk—a blank rectangle outlined in dust.

It’s not here either . . . Her spirits sank. The radio. Damn damn damn! The radio’s gone. Of course her Uncle Pard had a radio, but there was no chance he’d let her get anywhere near that.

She took a huge faltering breath and then let it out slowly, trying to get her mind to stop snapping inside her head and her heart to stop pinging inside her chest.

A resolute clang sounded from the direction of the jail cell.

Hazel’s breath caught in her throat. “Who’s there?” she called.

“So dang hot!” A man’s voice. “And all gone to pot faster than whiskers on crawdads.”

She plodded toward the cell on feet suddenly grown as heavy and awkward as bricks. A fishing pole with a snapped line was leaning against the wall in the hallway leading to the vault. Several feet farther she stepped over the other end of the line, which had a dried-out worm skewered on the hook.

“Cal?” Hazel hazarded a guess.

“Yep. That’d be me.”

She turned the corner and saw Cal from the Fish ’n Bait sitting on the cot in the jail cell, holding a Styrofoam cup on his lap. When she reached the bars she could see the squiggling worms inside the container. The door to the cell was closed. She tugged on it—locked tight.

Tiny Clemshaw had been the last person incarcerated in the cell Cal now occupied. A few years ago her dad had thrown him in overnight for running over Meg Foster’s poodle Pepé after too many whiskey sours at the Buckhorn.

“Did my dad put you in here?” she asked Cal.

“Nope.”

“Who then?”

He looked up at her with sorrowful eyes. “That’d be me.”

The source of the clang she’d heard. “Have you done something wrong, Cal?”

“Not yet.”

“Not yet?”

“Come unbuttoned, I tell ya. ’Fraid I might.”

“Might do what?”

“Somethin’ wrong.”

“Like what?”

“Hook somebody in the eye.”

“Best not to do that,” she agreed.

“Best not.” He looked back at his cup.

“I’m glad you came down off the roof. That looked dangerous.”

“Weren’t bitin’ no how.”

“Where’s everybody else?”

“Pest House.”

“Where?”

“Nervous water out there. Mathers says the devil’s gonna put a stop to it.”

“You’re not making sense, Cal.”

“Told ya my bait’s been stripped. Told ya that already.” He stared at his worms.

“You planning to stay in here then?”

“Yep. Aim to keep myself outta the way of all those fish.”

Hazel sighed. Not a bad idea. Briefly, she considered joining him.

Instead, she slogged back to the front of the bank and kicked open the door, then stood on the sidewalk and loudly asked, “Now what?”

After an empty minute or two, she headed aimlessly up Fortune Way, thinking about just going home and crawling into bed and pulling the covers over her head.

It wasn’t until she’d passed Buckhorn Tavern and nearly reached the Mercantile that she noticed Tiny Clemshaw’s shotgun trained on her chest.

“I won’t have you stealing from me!” Tiny howled.

As heavy as her flashlight weighed in, it was no match for the shotgun. “I just want to pass, Tiny, that’s all . . .” Hazel began to cut as wide a swath as possible around him.

Tiny held his ground on the sidewalk in front of the store’s broken display window, hair sticking out at all sides, infuriated features stuck in that cottonball of a face. “I won’t have anybody stealing from me anymore!”

Hazel was quicker to recognize the symptoms now; clearly Tiny Clemshaw was going insane on ergot. “I don’t think you’re feeling yourself,” she tried. “Maybe you should put down the gun.”

He did not put down the gun. Instead, he tracked her, pivoting on the knee he threw out last winter shoveling snow. “Maybe now you’ll think twice about stealing beer from me.”

“I won’t come into your store. Never again if that’s what you want.” What she wanted was to move much faster—to turn and flee—but she worried he’d panic and fire.

“I want you to send the sheriff over. Right away.” His aim on her was steady.

“I’ll find him, Tiny, and I’ll send him.” She realized she was holding her good arm up in the air, stick ’em up.

“He’s at the Rhone place.” He pointed up Fortune Way with the shotgun, then quickly trained it back on her. “Go fetch him.”

She dared take her eyes off Tiny to look toward the bakery. Trucks—including her dad’s Jeep—were parked in front of the Rhones’ house with their lights illuminating the yard. Hazel returned her gaze to the gun. “I will. I’ll go right now.”

And then she did turn and run, certain she’d hear the crack and feel the rip and burn of shot filling her back at any moment.

“Hurry,” he yelled after her but didn’t need to waste his breath.

Her sore ribs and elbow protested, creating shocks of pain with each footfall as she pounded past the bakery and up the rise to the bowed house. She was relieved as rain to spot her father standing next to the clothesline. White sheets hung slack in the breezeless night.

Her father was looking down with a puzzled expression.

What’s going on here? she wondered.

“Dad!” She continued running toward him.

He looked up in alarm and held up his hands, crossing them back and forth in a frantic no, no gesture. “Stay back, sweetheart. Don’t come over here!”

She did anyway, she couldn’t will her legs to stop moving until she was almost upon her, and she forgot all about Tiny Clemshaw gone vigilante at the Mercantile.

If it weren’t for all those red curls, Hazel would’ve never guessed it was Melanie Rhone. Wouldn’t have had any idea to whom those mounds of split flesh belonged. Blood glistened wet in the lights of the Jeep; bone shone white and cold.

Poor, sweet Melanie. If Hazel had had anything in her stomach besides hard candy, she would’ve lost it. Did Violet and Daisy see this? She truly hoped not. But that would explain the blood on their dresses. The grass surrounding the body was soaked. It was hard for Hazel to imagine that the small woman had contained that much blood.

“I came to ask if she’d seen any more wolves.” Her father’s stare was fixed on Melanie but his face displayed no emotion, as though he were looking at a stack of dirty laundry. He shoved his hands into his pant pockets, a gesture that said, I don’t quite know what to do about it.

“Who did this?” Hazel asked. An ax lay in the dandelions a few feet away. She might vomit after all.

He met her gaze with a befuddled expression. “Wolf?”

Hazel wanted to reach over, shake him, scream, A wolf didn’t do this! Wolves can’t swing axes! But his eyes had gone vacant, he was somewhere else, not seeing her at all, she suspected. She glanced down at his hands to see if they were swelling or turning color with gangrene but they remained hidden inside the pockets of his khakis.

“No, Dad,” she said, “not a wolf.”

“Is that you, Anabel?” His eyes glinted with surprised delight.

“No! Not her—I’m me.” And suddenly she was furious at her mother for not being here when she needed her.

“Anabel . . . what should we do?”

That’s it, Hazel thought, he’s done, and the earth may as well have split open and sucked her in. Because any hope she’d had that she wasn’t completely alone in this now drained away.

“Nothing in the house except bloody shoeprints.” Her Uncle Pard came up behind her. “Size eleven, I’d say.” He ignored Hazel, sidestepped Melanie, and loomed in front of her father. “What we need to do now, Sheriff, is get things cleaned up.”

“We can’t clean this up.” Her father’s autopilot seemed to switch on. “We need a proper investigation.”

“Do you really want people seeing what a mess you’ve made?” Pard clutched him by the upper arm. “There’ll be charges against you—criminal charges—for allowing this to happen.”

Her father’s face twisted with uncertainty.

Hazel stepped up. “He’s lying, Dad. He’s trying to scare you.”

She pulled her uncle off her father and glared at him. “We need doctors up here, Uncle Pard.”

He shook his head as if to say, No can do.

“Doctors and vets. You know there’s something wrong with the feed, don’t you?”

He placed a fist on his hip and leaned close to her. “I’m going to say this for the last damn time: My beef could not and did not make anybody sick.”

“You don’t get it—the feed is making the cows sick. Maybe a vet from Stepstone who hasn’t lost his mind like Simmons can help your herd.”

Pard appeared to consider that for a moment, and Hazel hoped his certainty was finally beginning to waver. But then he said, “We wipe up our own spills. You know that better than anyone, Hazel. You, your father here . . . and Sean Adair.”

No, she mentally shook her head. He’s not still using what happened at Hawkin Rhone’s cabin against us. He can’t be. Not now. Not with another dead Rhone on our hands.

Her uncle pushed his cowboy hat up off his forehead so she could see straight into his hazel eyes. “I’ve been to the bakery.”

Cold fingers squeezed Hazel’s heart. “Do not threaten me.”

“Only telling the truth. Besides, folks are on the mend.”

“They’re getting worse.”

He squinted hard at her. “I’ve got things under control.”

Hazel gestured at pieces of Melanie. “This is under control?”

“Listen to me, girl: let me handle this.”

“You’re not handling it! What happened to the phones? Where’s the radio?”

“Don’t know anything about any radio.”

“Damn you, Uncle Pard! I’m taking the Jeep and getting outta here.”

“You won’t get far. And don’t swear at me.”

“Why not?”

“Because the bridge is closed. And because it’s not ladylike.”

“What are you doing? Have you completely lost your mind too? We need help! Not quarantine. I’m leaving whether you like it or not.”

“Cut and run? Didn’t realize how much you take after your mother.”

“Don’t say—” she started to protest.

“Though I can’t say I blame Anabel.” Pard looked at her father with obvious disdain.

“Don’t say that!” Hazel cried. “Don’t you ever say it was our fault she left!” She thought about picking up the ax and lodging it in her uncle’s thick skull. Instead, she hit his chest with her fist several times but he was a big man and it had no effect. When she swung at him again he caught her by the wrist and squeezed.

“Be careful,” she told him, fast running out of steam. “That’s the one Hawkin Rhone broke, remember?”

He let go and she fell on her rump in the grass, landing just inches from the body.

Her dad hadn’t moved a muscle. He simply stared. Hands growing gangrenous in his pockets, she supposed.

And she wondered if Tanner made it out before they closed the bridge.

Hazel glanced up at the old apple orchard, at the leafless trees’ misshapen branches. “Where’s Zachary Rhone?” she suddenly thought to ask.

Her father looked at her with that now familiar helplessness and her uncle glanced away.

Returning her gaze to the pile that was once Melanie Rhone, former Winslow Rodeo Queen, mother of two young daughters, she realized, They think Zachary did this.

The gravity of Tanner’s remark that Zachary Rhone is looking for Sean crashed down on her then with stark horror and ice-cold panic.

She shot up and stumbled fast down the hill, away from her dad, her uncle, Melanie, passing right by the Jeep without even thinking about jumping in and leaving town.

Because now her only thought was, I must find Sean before Zachary Rhone does.