The Winslow Incident

OLLY OLLY OXEN FREE

Impossible as it was for Hazel to believe, her tooth hurt even more than her elbow. Dueling agonies now, engaged in fierce competition for her attention.

Rooftops of ramshackle buildings on Prospectors Way came into view as the trail climbed toward Matherston. Five more minutes and she’d reach the granite wall. Five more hot, exhausted minutes.

Matherston. Her breath caught and her heart hiccupped. I bet that’s where Sean is, with the kids. That makes sense. They’re probably all together in the assay office eating ice cream sandwiches.

The first pleasant thought she’d had in days, she held onto it as she hurried toward the ghost town, embellishing the image until everybody was there, kicking along Prospectors Way, feeling better and licking the ice cream that melted down their arms. Sean and Aaron—Aaron imitating Sean’s every move in that worshipful way he has. Violet and Daisy chasing each other around the hitching posts. Her grandmother with the calm returned to her eyes. And her dad, confident and brave in his uniform, his arm sure and strong across Sarah’s shoulders. Owen and Rose Peabody awake and looking like their old Popeye and Olive Oyl selves again. Even her mother Anabel (why not?), still young because Hazel didn’t know what she looked like now. And Jinx running elated circles around the girls . . .

Hazel scooted up the road, excited to see them, Sean especially. I’ll tell him everything. I’ll make everything the way it was before. Better even.

She passed under the timber-framed entrance to Matherston and struck dust with each step in the dry dirt as she continued up Prospectors Way. When she reached midway through town she stopped in front of Hank’s Boarding House to squint up the road, then back down the way she had just come.

Deserted. Not a soul, dead or alive, greeted her arrival.

But an action figure (Wolverine, it looked like) lying on the wood plank sidewalk in front of the blacksmith shop told her someone had been here recently. Aaron Adair, she hoped. And when she glanced back up she caught the tail end of a diminutive figure disappearing between the Never Tell Brothel and the Mother Lode Saloon.

“Olly olly oxen free?” she called.

Meat cooked nearby. The smell of it reached her and sent her stomach into a ravenous growl.

She followed her nose to the Mother Lode Saloon and peeked inside.

Empty. Then she stole a look down the space between the Chop House Restaurant and the saloon, found it empty as well, and tiptoed between the buildings.

She heard voices now—light, small voices.

A section of the restaurant’s siding had decayed away so she could see clear inside the Chop House as she passed. Round tables and broken chairs still cluttered the interior, along with game heads plastered against the wallpaper. Appetizing. That roasting meat.

When she reached the end of the building she stopped to listen.

“I can’t wait anymore,” a boy.

“It’s done when I say it’s done,” an older boy.

Hazel eased her head around the corner of the saloon.

Sothis is where the children are. A whole clan of them, twenty or so, possibly all the kids in Winslow. Except for her three, the three children she most wanted to see were not among them.

James Bolinger was the older boy she’d heard. Cynthia and Nicholas Thacker, Penelope and Tim Hotchkiss, Lindy Spainhower and Collette Dudley were all gathered around the fire pit despite the heat. What cooked above the pit looked like a cat carcass and Hazel’s innards turned over.

Boo, she thought and her stomach slid back the other direction.

Penelope Hotchkiss wept silently by the fire, shoulders shaking, while her younger brother Timmy tried to comfort her, his small hand patting her shoulder. Hazel recognized Penelope’s battered green Schwinn propped up against the back of the Chop House.

Gunner Spainhower emerged from between the saloon and the brothel—the figure she’d caught a glimpse of earlier. “I’m thirsty,” he declared and made a beeline for the gallon jug crammed in with a hoard of other supplies on the back porch of the Mother Lode.

Other small forms rested beneath sprays of hemlock within the split-rail fence enclosure.

Nicholas Thacker sat too close to the fire, sweat dribbling off his eager face, transfixed by the cooking cat, literally licking his lips. “It’s done,” he told James.

James stood back from the group, leaning on a long board he’d fashioned into a walking stick, or a weapon. Clearly he was their leader. “It’s done when I say it’s done.”

Hazel stepped out into view. James tensed and raised the board, but then relaxed when he saw it was her—the love of his life. He reached her in six long-legged steps.

“Hazel . . .” James’s young face seemed to have been aged twenty years by circumstance—like his grandfather Gus at the hotel—and his black eyeliner had smudged all around his eyes, giving him a ghoulish appearance. “What happened to you?” he asked.

“I wouldn’t know where to start.” And then she was crying again. She couldn’t believe it. But the look of sympathy and concern on his face got the better of her and it came pouring out. She’d never been like this. It was embarrassing and made her feel like an idiot.

“It’s okay.” He hugged her lightly. “It’s okay.”

After sniffing it all back in she sighed. The other kids were staring at her, curious and frightened. Realizing she must be quite a sight she tried to smile at them but knew it was weak.

She looked at James. “Are any of them hurt?” She glanced at Penelope. “Is she okay?”

“Yeah,” James followed her eyes. “They’re all hanging in there.”

Turning away from the group of urchins, she whispered to James, “Let’s go talk.”

“Go ahead and eat,” James told the kids and Nicholas lunged for the meat. “But don’t burn yourself, for crying out loud.”

James followed Hazel, who led the way back between the structures and continued into the Mother Lode. She went to the bar and leaned against the smooth wood, one foot up on the rail, as if expecting a bartender to bring her a whiskey. But there were only empty beer cans scattered around. Behind the bar, shards from the mirror Tanner broke Saturday night still clung to the sticky wallpaper. Guess we shouldn’t have let him do that, Hazel thought wearily.

James joined her at the bar to wait for his whiskey too.

She turned to look at him. “What was that?”

“What was what?”

“What was that cooking?”

“Rabbit.”

“Oh, good.”

“Do you have it, Hazel?” He wrinkled his smooth brow.

“No.” She searched his face for signs and symptoms. “How are you feeling?”

“Hell if I know. I can’t remember what normal feels like.” He ran a hand through his hair, flattening his disheveled Mohawk. “But at least I’m not as bad off as most people. Not even close.”

“That’s good,” she said, grateful for that. “How many of the little kids have it?”

“Ten. They keep scaring the shit outta themselves and then run outta juice for a while.”

She decided against asking him if there were any signs of gangrene. “Tell them not to eat any more bread.”

“How come?”

“There’s mold in it—it’s what’s making everybody sick.”

“Seriously? How did that happen?”

That question made Hazel wonder for the first time: Who really is to blame? She had been so caught up in Sean’s role she had never even considered that most basic of questions.

She frowned at James. “Seems to me like it’s Fritz Earley’s fault. His flour, his feed. It all came from him. Shouldn’t he know moldy, gonna-make-people-sick-as-hell flour when he sees it?”

“You’d think so. When does he come up with deliveries, anyway?”

“Fridays, usually. But he’s already here. Somewhere.” Hazel pondered where that might be. If her Uncle Pard had figured it out, she imagined he’d have something major in store for Fritz Earley. She turned her attention back to James. “How long have you been out here?”

“Since Tuesday.”

“That’s only yesterday, you know?”

He looked puzzled for a snap moment. “I guess you’re right. Seems longer.”

“Sure does. Who knows you’re here?”

“Nobody, I don’t think. Except some sick carny guy we chased out.”

“Who?”

“Some greasy-haired guy and his moustache wandered in totally messed up and we told him to get lost, we didn’t want him here. But he didn’t get it so we chased him and threw stuff at him until he ran up Silver Hill and disappeared.”

Hazel would have laughed if she weren’t so scared. Instead, she nodded. “The vampire. He’s holed up inside the Second Chance mineshaft. Stay away.”

“Don’t worry.” He blew out a sharp breath. “But I seriously hope nobody else knows we’re here. Don’t tell anyone, Hazel.”

“I won’t,” she promised. Then she said, “The bridge is closed.”

“I know—your uncle’s henchmen have it barricaded. My mom and I tried to take off but they turned us back.” He winced as if the memory pained him, then he looked sadly at Hazel. “Do you think anybody’s coming to help us?”

She wished she could tell him yes, that at any moment they’d be rescued, she was sure of it. But she wasn’t. “I honestly don’t know, James. I hope so. If some of the tourists or carnies came down sick after the rodeo, maybe somebody will trace it back here.”

His expression told her how disheartened he’d become. “But how long will that take?”

“I have no idea.” She sighed, suspecting that it might take a while—probably too long. Plus, she’d read in the encyclopedia that ergotism is caused by excessive intake of ergot, so people have to eat infested bread repeatedly. To her, that meant that even if tourists had eaten some of the bread, they wouldn’t be anywhere near as sick as everyone here who’d kept eating it.

James sighed too, a defeated sound. “The ranch hands are patrolling the streets,” he said, “rounding up everybody and taking them to The Winslow. Did you know that? It’s really scary up there.”

“Really scary,” she agreed.

“Everybody’s gone completely psycho. I hope they don’t find us, Hazel. I hope they don’t drag us up there.” He was looking at her with profound worry.

The last time she’d seen James was at the Crock and he’d been worried about his upset stomach. Now he was worried about insane parents and ruthless cowboys and haunted hotels.

“I hope they don’t find you either,” she said, her unease so great that she was incapable of reassuring him. “Hey, I just saw your mom and she’s feeling good. She’s with other people tripping out in the woods.”

“Really? I’m so glad you saw her. She almost jumped off the bridge before she took off and then I couldn’t find her.” He shook his head, looking relieved. “Isn’t it weird? My mom’s acting all groovy while everyone else is having a bad trip.” But the relief on his face was quickly displaced by the worry again. “I wish I knew where my grandpa is.”

Hazel didn’t have the heart to tell him she’d seen his grandfather Gus at The Winslow and that he wasn’t feeling good at all. Instead, she asked, “Why did you come to Matherston?”

“Better here than in town. Except that all the little squirts followed me.”

“Cool of you to look after them.”

“Yeah, guess so. What happened to your arm?”

“Wiped out on my YZ. Bike’s completely tweaked. Crazy Doc Simmons shot at me and Jinx and we ate it.”

“Oh that sucks, Hazel. That totally sucks.” James put a hand on her shoulder and she winced. “Maybe we should sling it, take the pressure off?”

“Okay . . .” She didn’t have the energy to tell him about Aaron’s Vanpire t-shirt and how the vampire in the mine had ripped it apart. “Got any good drugs?” she asked as he took off his own shirt and tried to figure out how he was going to accomplish the sling. It was his vintage Mudhoney concert t-shirt—a sacrifice beyond measure.

“Just dirt weed.” He pulled the collar of the t-shirt over her head and gently swung her arm away from her body, then ran her hand through one sleeve and eased the rest of the shirt around the back of her arm to cup her elbow.

“Ice?” Tears stung her eyes. The pain registered different now, deeper and more acute.

“Let’s try the assay office.”

They retook the sunlight and dusty road and headed for the far end of Prospectors Way.

“Why was Doc Simmons after you, anyway?” James asked.

“We went to his place for help but he was out of his mind, completely bug-eyed with it. He killed Jinx.” That last part rode out on a whimper.

“Jinx is here.”

“What?”

“He showed up last night when we were roasting hotdogs.”

Hazel shook her head in confusion. “Is he okay?”

“He’s acting hurt but I looked him over pretty good and couldn’t find any gushing wounds or anything. And he ate three hotdogs so I figured he’s all right.”

She was afraid to get her hopes up. “Are you sure it’s him?”

“Oh, I’m sure. He scared the hell out of Patience Mathers.”

“Wait, wait, back up—when was Patience here?”

“About an hour ago. She gave us the ghost town tour. She wasn’t looking too good though. Had on her barfy rodeo clothes.”

“Did she say where she was going?”

“No, just flew down the road screaming like a total freak. But before she ran into Jinx in the Mother Lode, she said something really bizarre.”

“What?” Her gut got that doomy feeling again.

“That she’s gonna tell everyone what Sean did.”

Hazel froze.

“What did he do, Hazel?” James was holding open the door to the assay office for her.

She wasn’t surprised to see it empty inside. No Sean, no Dad, no dripping ice cream. It had been a nice daydream. Avoiding James’s question, she asked him the one she felt doomed to repeat the rest of her sorry life: “Have you seen Sean?”

“No.” James shook his head. “But his brother showed up a little while ago.”

“Aaron?” Her heart leapt. “Are Violet and Daisy with him?”

“Yeah, they’re all here. I think something bad might’ve gone down at their house though, but they don’t seem to want to talk about it.”

“Where are they?”

“Second floor of the Never Tell.”

They stepped into the assay office. She’d expected it to be cool inside because of the refrigerators, but the air was hot and stale. She went to the white porcelain freezer and grabbed the handle. There could be body parts in here, she thought, suddenly sure and horrified. Blackened, rotted feet.

“Is it stuck?” James asked behind her and she jumped. Reaching around her, he pulled up the lid. Ice cream sandwiches were nestled inside, like they always were, and little sundae cups with wooden spoons wrapped in paper. No hands, no feet.

“These are perfect.” James grabbed two ice cream bars and turned her around. Carefully, he stretched away the t-shirt and positioned the frozen bars in the sling, one above and one below her elbow.

Hazel raised her eyebrows, impressed. “Thank you.” Looking up at him, she saw how pleased he was to have helped her. So she stood up on her toes and kissed him, knowing that since people were dying and the whole town was imploding it was a good thing to do.

When she stepped away they both smiled, hers saying, It’ll be our secret, and his, I’ll take what I can get.

She reached into the freezer and grabbed four ice cream sandwiches. “If Sean shows up, please take care of him, he’s really sick. Tell him to stay put, tell him I’m looking for him.”

James didn’t reply but the dubious look on his face said it all. Why should he provide comfort to the enemy?

“Please, James.” She was stuffing the ice cream sandwiches into the top of her sling.

“Okay, I will.” He reached down and straightened the sling. “Stay with us.”

“I can’t. I have to find him.”

He considered her for a moment, maybe thinking he should knock her on the head and drag her by the hair back to the safety of his fire pit. Finally, he said, “I’d go with you but I have to stay with the squirts. In case anyone comes.”

She nodded, marveling at his selflessness.

“No matter what, Hazel, don’t tell anybody we’re here.”

“I won’t tell, I promise.” She gestured across the rainbow on her chest and smiled. “Cross my heart and hope to die.” Another promise. This one she’d have to keep. No matter what.

It was hard to walk away from James—he of relatively sound mind and strong body, he who actually cared about her. She did it anyway. She walked out the door, alone, back into the brutal late-morning sun.

The brothel sat cattycorner from the assay office. Must’ve been convenient, Hazel thought. Cash your lode, then—

“Here, Jinxy, Jinx.” The high voice sounded like Daisy’s, and it chilled Hazel’s spine.

The Never Tell had lost its door at some point so she stepped right in. The brothel had a lurid history. Patience once told her that during the ghost town tours, no story played better than that of the night a miner, Dinky Dowd, shot dead the upstanding purveyor of dry goods, George Bolinger, over a beautiful prostitute’s favor. The town’s founders had done their best to keep civilized folk separate from the miners, yet nobody could stop the gentlemen of Winslow from frequenting the Mother Lode to gamble or from paying a drunken visit to the Never Tell.

“C’mere, boy, c’meeeere.”

Daisy was definitely upstairs. Without allowing herself time to contemplate the staircase’s obvious lack of structural integrity—let alone the entire second story, which sagged down into the first—Hazel hauled herself up the steps.

“Doggie c’mere.”

Amateurish paintings lined the hallway of the second floor: portraits of rouged women in dark velvet dresses, displaying cleavage and garter belts. Hookers with hearts of gold, Hazel supposed. The rooms she passed were tiny, all stood empty.

“Jinxy!”

“Daisy, be quiet!” Violet’s voice.

Last room on the left. Hazel hoped the ice cream hadn’t completely melted. The room they occupied was larger, she saw, and still contained a bed on which Aaron lay in his cowboy pajamas. Though he faced the doorway, eyes open, he didn’t acknowledge her when she entered.

Hazel had never been happier to see three snot-nosed kids in all her life.

“Hazel!” Daisy ran up and grabbed her around the thighs.

“Hey, string bean.” She tried to pry her off so she could get into the room, and at the same time smiled at Violet, who looked about to cry with relief. Disengaging Daisy, Hazel pulled the ice creams out of her sling, soft now inside their foil wrappers. She handed one to Daisy, another to Violet, and held out the third to Aaron on the bed. “Eat. It’s good for you.”

He sat up and took the ice cream sandwich from her, holding it by his fingertips as though it was something foreign and possibly dangerous.

“Eat,” she ordered again and sat down on the edge of the soiled bed.

The girls didn’t need to be told; they were already in, Violet taking deliberate nibbles (she’d never finish before it turned to complete mush) and Daisy going at it full bore, mouth ringed in chocolate.

Hazel opened the last one and took a big bite.

The kids’ eyes flew wide open in alarm when Hazel screamed.

“What! Are you okay?” Violet held up her little hands, fingers splayed, in a gesture that said, Help! I don’t know what to do!

“I’m okay. Give me a second.” Hazel cradled her jaw in her hand, thinking, Sonofabitch! She had hoped the cold would numb the pain of her broken tooth. Instead, it had the opposite effect and sent her nerves—and her—shrieking.

A loud whimper issued from beneath her.

She threw her head between her knees to look under the bed and found a hairy red haystack. Jinx. The dog scampered out and sprawled his body across the doorway as if he did not intend to let anybody leave the room.

Swallowing the ice cream that felt like a rock in her throat, Hazel went to her dog, leaned on her left arm all the way down to the filthy floor, and placed her chin in front of his muzzle so she could look straight into his dopey eyes. “I’m glad to see you,” she said.

He chuffed in her face as if to ask, Where have you been?

“Such a good boy.” She touched her nose to his. Wet, as usual, which she took to be a good sign. She sat up on her knees and gingerly poked and prodded him in order to assess the extent of his injuries.

“Lemme eat your ice cream if you’re not gonna!” Daisy bossed Aaron.

Jinx whined when Hazel touched his ribcage.

“I took one in the ribs too, buddy,” she told him. “I know it hurts.” Gently she pulled back his lips to check his teeth. All there, she let out a loud phew. But one floppy ear had an inch-long tear in the side, cleaved and wet with blood. She leaned down and kissed the soft fur on his other ear and murmured, “I know it hurts, but you’re going to be fine.”

He whined back at her, maybe, while his wagging tail thumped up small dust explosions.

How am I going to tell him Molly is dead? she thought. And when she looked back at the girls, who were watching her with big eyes, red curls framing round faces, she wondered, How will I ever tell them their mother is dead?

She didn’t have to.

“I know why you’re sad, Hazel.” Violet came over and stroked Jinx on the head with tiny, gentle fingers. “You’re sad because now none of us have mommies.”

And with that, Daisy went from joyous ice cream eating to wailing despair.

“It’ll be okay,” Hazel tried to calm Daisy.

“It’ll be okay,” Hazel told Violet next.

But to herself she thought, How will it ever be okay again? Gazing into their sorrowful eyes, she said, “If you two keep being so brave, my dad will make you his deputies. Does that sound good?”

Mouths aquiver, the sisters both nodded.

“I’m not a scaredy cat,” Daisy insisted.

“No, you’re not.” Hazel’s heart ached deeply for the girls, knowing firsthand the pain and loneliness that their motherless existence would bring. At least they had each other. At least their mother had loved them. “You’re good, brave girls, both of you.”

She stood and gave each girl a long hug despite the misery it caused her arm and ribs. Then she went to Aaron on the bed, where he was still holding the limp ice cream sandwich, a sour look pasted on his face. Hazel took it from him and handed it to a sniffling Daisy.

“Did you ever find Sean?” she asked him.

“Yes,” he whispered.

Her heart sped up and she grabbed his hand. “You did?”

“He found me.”

“When?”

“When we were in the apple orchard and mean Mr. Rhone came for us.”

“Daddy’s not well.” Violet shook her head dolefully.

“Sean saved us.” Aaron’s mouth twisted with despair.

“Why are you so sad? That’s good, isn’t it?”

Aaron nodded, eyes downcast.

“Where’s Sean now?”

“He was just gone,” Violet said, “after the bakery caught fire and Daddy didn’t come back out.”

Hazel let out a long, relieved breath. Zachary didn’t come back out . . . And instantly she felt ashamed—truly horrified—at her relief because the girls had already lost their mother.

Aaron added, “The little girl ghost kept us safe until Sean could get there.”

Little girl ghost? Hazel did not like the sound of that. “But where did Sean go after that?”

He wouldn’t answer, wouldn’t look at her.

“Aaron—tell me.”

Finally, he raised his eyes to hers. “Sean’s a ghost now too.”

Terror stabbed Hazel. “Don’t say that!”

Aaron began to cry, tight and squelchy as if he were trying hard not to.

Realizing she had been squeezing his hand too tightly, Hazel let go. Then she put her arm around him, pulled him close. “I’m sorry, Aaron. I am so sorry.” She laid her cheek on top of his head, against his shiny brown hair that smelled like puppy, and let him cry.

After a minute, she pulled away. “I’ll find your brother and bring him back. You’ll see.”

He didn’t seem to hear her. Hazel touched his cheek. Still burning hot. Are you ever going to get better? she worried.

Daisy had stopped sobbing long enough to eat her second ice cream and now stood in front of Hazel, wringing her hands in that nervous way she always did when she had a question she wasn’t sure she wanted the answer to. At last she asked, “Is Hawkin Rhone gonna get us?”

“No. Don’t worry.” Hazel dug into her pocket and retrieved the garnet ring, which Daisy promptly snatched from her hand. “He’s not here,” Hazel continued, too exhausted to argue the truth. “He’s out there—across the creek.”

Hazel heard Aaron gasp. Thinking that talking about Hawkin Rhone had frightened him, she turned toward him.

He was staring at something above her head with terror in his eyes.

“Aaron,” she said, alarmed, “what is it?”

“Blood is pouring from the sky,” he whispered. “We are going to drown.”





NOON

DEAD

A lot of men died during the short time the mines were active: mangled in accidents, struck with typhoid fever, murdered over a misdealt card game or perceived slight. Their graves in Matherston Miner’s Cemetery were identified by wooden markers, epithets burned in pine.

The boneyard was full of ghosts today and it was all Sean could do to stay out of the way.

So he sat at the top of the rise between two grave markers, his back against the granite wall, and wondered when Winslow had gotten so crowded. There were a lot of people wandering around town all of a sudden, whom Sean didn’t know but who bore unsettling resemblances to people he did.

At present, on Sean’s right, was the restless spirit of George Bolinger / Outstanding Purveyor of Dry Goods / Shot Dead / Never Tell Brothel / Oct. 13th 1889.

And to Sean’s left: The ghost of Dinky Dowd, hanged for the murder of George Bolinger, Oct. 14th 1889, by order of the Hon. E. A. Winslow.

Sean, George and Dinky all preferred to keep to the shade of the purple-leaf plum tree. Sean wished like hell that he had something to smoke. Something to mellow him out.

George Bolinger looked a lot like James Bolinger, he realized. Half his face had been blown off and his guts hung out of his shirt like uncooked sausage, but still Sean noted the resemblance—tall with big hands and feet. Dinky was skinny and short like he never grew up all the way and had a face marked by toil in the mines.

Sean leaned back and observed the activity in the cemetery. Many more dead miners hustled about their business. They wore ill-fitting denim and sturdy boots, stamping down straw-colored weeds that sprang back in their wake. The rushing men would pause long enough to argue with each other using hostile gestures, or to tell a joke as evidenced by their barks of laughter—not amused laughs, but bitter and knowing. They did not seem bothered by the heat.

George and Dinky and Sean had been discussing the situation for quite some time now. Everyone agreed it was Zachary Rhone’s fault that nobody knew how sick they were going to get from eating the bread. And for keeping that a secret—George and Dinky insisted—he’d deserved to die.

Yet none could deny that it was Sean who spread the bread all over town.

“I should’ve made Zachary look at that nasty flour before I made deliveries.” Sean tossed a pinecone at a marker planted beside the tree:

18 SEPT 1890

YELLOW JACKET MINE

BY ACCIDENT, MOST HARSH

HERE LIES WHAT’S LEFT

OF GUY D. MARSH

“Should’ve,” George agreed and kicked at the pinecone. Then he reclined into the tree, resting one boot against its trunk.

“Should’ve thrown all that bread into the trash,” Sean said. The remorse was voracious, eating away his spirit in fat greedy bites.

“Yeah.” Dinky squatted down next to him. “You really shoulda.”

Sean examined the singed skin on his right forearm. “I wanted to save him.”

“Did yer best,” Dinky said. “Weren’t yer place to deny ’im his due.”

“I thought I had him when he latched onto my arm.”

George gave a plaintive shake of his translucent head.

“I tried to pull him out but he pulled against me. Why’d he do that?” They all shook their heads dunno. “I had to cut him loose. My arm was burning, the heat on my face. Had to.”

“No choice but to cut him loose,” George agreed.

“I watched him melt away.” Sean exhaled hard and abruptly stood as if the memory of it wouldn’t let him sit. “I never wanted him to get hurt. Only wanted to talk, get things straight.”

Dinky stood too, remaining at Sean’s side. “But then ya seen the blood inside the house,” he reminded him.

“Everywhere.” His stomach churned. “In the house, on the sheets outside, all over the grass.”

“And heard yer brother Aaron callin’ to ya.”

“Heard the fear in his voice.”

“You had to do somethin’,” George said. “You saw him—you saw the ax.”

“I had to flush him out or else he’d hurt them too.”

Dinky put his hand on Sean’s shoulder, but Sean felt no pressure from it.

“Burnin’ the bakery was right,” Dinky said. “Was redemption in those flames.”

“I’m still gonna have to pay.” Sean walked out from beneath Dinky’s weightless grasp.

“S’pose you will,” George said. “S’pose you will.”

Then Sean suffered a gruesome thought, Maybe I melted too.

Except the pine needles were sharp beneath his bare feet and his arm hurt where Zachary had grabbed him with burning hands, and Sean didn’t think pain carried over to the great beyond. But he could be wrong. After all, why did he run away after it was all over?

“Why’d ya hightail it?” Dinky wanted to know.

“Because I didn’t want Aaron to see me this way,” Sean said.

“What way?” Dinky asked.

“Toes up,” George answered for Sean. “Worm food.”

Not caring to discuss it any longer, Sean drifted away to the stand of hemlocks at the base of the graveyard. He shook a branch and brown needles rained down.

Everything’s dying, he thought. And now I’ve killed twice: two Rhones, father and son. “I’m going to hell for sure.”

When he was here with Hazel on Sunday, it’d been roasting then too. How long had it been this hot? He couldn’t imagine it ever being any other way.

And now his heart felt sick—mottled and thin and weak. She had always made it clear, hadn’t she? Made it clear since they were little kids that she didn’t want him holding her hand. Made it clear since the first time they swiped rubbers from Clemshaw Mercantile that it meant nothing to her. (“It’s fun, Sean,” she says, “but don’t get emotional.”) Why’d he ever let himself think otherwise?

I couldn’t stand to see.

But Tanner had forced him to face facts. “Hate to see a friend get suckered,” he’d said.

Maybe it was better to finally accept it. Only now he imagined that everyone had been laughing at him behind his back—for years—for being such a slobbering fool. No better than James Bolinger. Why didn’t I have the guts to face it?

“The thing is, though,” he told Dinky Dowd who’d followed him to the hemlocks, “it doesn’t even matter if I face it now, does it?”

“Nothin’s changed,” Dinky agreed.

“I still want her.”

“That’s nothin’ new.”

“And she doesn’t want me.”

“Nothin’s changed.”

Sean supposed he should leave now. This was his last stop. Time to cross the creek.

When he trudged back up the hill, he was startled to spot Patience Mathers standing at the entrance to the cemetery. He wouldn’t have recognized her were it not for her long black hair; all her other features were washed away by the sunlight. Sean was sad to see her, for he knew what it meant.

This is my punishment, he realized then. This is my hell.

He could tell she didn’t want to be here. That she was scared.

But being dead, she had no choice.

“Patience,” he whispered. “I’m sorry I killed you.”


Patience dreaded entering the graveyard. It was swarming and repulsive and she was having trouble swallowing, but she had to get to him first. Matherston Cemetery was always the last place Sean searched on his ghost hunt, so this was where Hazel would find them.

She fidgeted with the lucky charms at her wrist. The dice felt huge between her fingers—sixes all the way around. Lucky. It’s all I have. She felt helpless and powerful at the same time.

Patience forced herself forward.

And they reached each other under the purple tree.

“I’m sorry, Patience.” Sean wrapped his arms around her, hugging her tight. “I’m sorry.”

Warmth flooded her but then Sean pulled back.

“Sorry for what?” she asked. He was shirtless so she unbuttoned her vest.

“I killed you.”

“No you didn’t.” She took his hand and placed it over her heart. “See? It beats.”

“I’m dead,” he said.

“No, you’re not.” She placed her palm flat against his chest. “See? Warm.” Then she slid her fingers down to his belly but he stopped her and took her hand in his.

“It isn’t like that with us,” he said and she could tell from his eyes that he meant it.

“What does it matter, Sean, if we’re dead?”


Hazel pulled the melted ice cream bars from her sling and tossed them onto a fern beside the path. Her arm wasn’t killing her for the first time since the Percocet wore off. The relief would be short lived.

After leaving her dog and the kids safely ensconced in the Never Tell Brothel, she had picked up the trail and continued west, growing hotter with every step as the sun rose to its most offensive position of the day and even the tall pines could no longer shield her path. She sucked in a long breath, careful to hold her tongue against her tormented tooth so as not to irritate the nerve. She was almost there.

When she arrived at the white granite wall Hazel retrieved a piece of blue chalk wedged at its base and scratched out I’M SORRY—SA. Beneath that, she scrawled: SA → HW TFC X HRC.

The message turned out to be unnecessary because when she rounded the corner of the wall and saw a pair of black tennis shoes lying in the dirt, she knew she’d finally found Sean.

In her excitement, she forgot all about her battle wounds. She couldn’t wait to see him and she marveled at how completely she’d missed him. She hadn’t seen him since he came looking for her at the Crock on Monday morning, when she told him she didn’t have time for him.

I don’t have time for you? It was impossible for her to believe that she’d said that to him. What the hell! He was sick and confused and she couldn’t make time for him? How could I do that to you?

She fully realized then how much her loneliness for him had drained her spirit; it was a wonder there was anything left of her. And as she ran to the entrance of the cemetery, she thought, I have all the time in the world for you, Sean. The rest of my life, if you want it.

As soon as she reached the wrought iron gateway, she saw them.

“They move like ghosts,” she whispered and wondered briefly if Aaron were right.

But their bare torsos appeared all flesh and blood.

The graveyard stood bleached beneath the noon sun. The weeds the grave markers the trees—all the same bleak tone. Hazel felt delirious from the blank heat and brilliant shock.

The charm bracelet reflected sunlight as she touched him and he took her hand. He spoke, but from so far away, Hazel could not hear what he was saying.

Hot and high, the sun washed Hazel’s world away in an achromatic wave and she swayed on her feet, wondering what happened to all the air on the mountainside.

Then Sean saw her over Patience’s exposed shoulder and his eyes took on a look of bewilderment.

Patience turned, followed his gaze to where Hazel stood in the wrought iron gateway, and smiled that exquisite rodeo queen smile.

Hazel felt like somebody else entirely as she marched toward them at the plum tree, as if another entity had taken over her body and all she could do was keep out of the way and watch.

Sean appeared stunned to see her. He pulled away from Patience and released her hand.

Patience did not look one bit surprised, like when they were kids and she’d been following them.

This isn’t happening, Hazel thought. This. Is not. Happening! She kicked a flat wooden grave marker in her path, splintering the word Hanged in two.

Sean reached for her, as if he wanted to touch her to verify that she was real the way his dad Samuel had thrown the candy dish at her in the hotel hallway. “I thought you left with Tanner,” he said.

She dodged his grasp. “Does it look like I left, Sean?”

He staggered and shook his head like a boxer who’d taken a sucker punch.

“I stayed for you.” She poked a finger against his bare chest. “I’ve been looking for you!”

“What happened to your arm?” He reached for her again, eyes dark with concern.

“Don’t touch me! Don’t ever touch me again!” She noticed red slashes across his right forearm as if he’d been burned but all she could think of was that arm around Patience. This isn’t happening.

She glowered at Patience, who hadn’t moved from Sean’s side. Her eyes held that same hollowness as when Hazel had encountered her in Prospect Park the night before, made creepier still by the bright light in the cemetery.

“Hazel,” Sean said softly, “you are so wrong—”

“I saw you,” Hazel cried. “I’ve been looking for you everywhere and finally I really saw you!”

“Don’t do this . . .” He wore that same helpless look he used to get when he was still small and couldn’t defend himself against Kenny Clark or his drunken father.

“I was so worried about you.” Hazel placed her hand over her stomach as though the thought of it sickened her. “But now I see that you’re fine. The two of you are just fine and dandy.”

Patience said nothing, only scratched up and down her red-striped arms with that maddening sound.

“Hazel, come over here with me.” Sean wrapped his hand around her fingers and pulled her away from Patience.

“Let go of me!” She squirmed out of his grip and then pressed her hand against her cheek.

“What’s wrong with your mouth?” he asked.

“Nothing.” She let the hand drop. “I broke my tooth.”

“Were you eating candy?”

“Yes—damn you.” The urge to cry nearly overwhelmed her, but she would not let them witness her heart breaking.

His face drawn with empathy, Sean said, “I would never do anything to hurt you, Hazel.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “I don’t care enough about you, Sean, to get hurt.”

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 f*cking 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.