The Winslow Incident

ROSE’S CROCK

FORTUNE WAY

As soon as Rose Peabody swung open the door, Winslow locals piled in and filled all of the Crock’s thirty-odd seats. Nearly everybody ordered catwiches: Owen Peabody’s famous fresh-fried catfish sandwiches.

Left with an hour’s wait for a table in the Crock, most of the tourists decided to head out of town and grab a bite down Yellow Jacket Pass in Stepstone Valley. Those with more pressing hunger wandered back to Prospect Park and the Holloway Ranch barbecue tent, where they ate beans and brownies and Maggie Clark’s cornbread. Nobody felt much like eating burgers.





SATURDAY NIGHT

MOTHER LODE SALOON

MATHERSTON GHOST TOWN

Outside the Mother Lode Saloon, Hazel parked her motorcycle next to the other two—horse-style in front of the hitching post. The waxing moon slung low over Silver Hill illuminated the tumbledown buildings on Prospectors Way, while the stagnant air trapped the day’s heat. Still feeling disturbed over all that had happened at the rodeo, Matherston seemed to Hazel—for the first time—genuinely ghosty.

She scooted off her bike and hustled up to the boardwalk, worried that dallying would enable a pack of ghouls to descend upon her as surely as a swarm of mosquitoes.

Unlike downtown Winslow’s ornate Italianate architecture, the old miner’s section of town consisted of simple wood-frame structures bleached gray by the sun. Some of the buildings leaned left, some right, or as with Holloway Harness and the Chop House Restaurant, caved in straight down the middle. Long-faded signs and advertisements had been painted directly onto siding and overhangs.

HANK’S BOARDING HOUSE

HOT BATHS ~ 10¢

TOWEL & SOAP FREE

No fussing or mussing here, Hazel thought as she pushed her way through the saloon’s batwing doors. Matherston had been all about business, once: mining and assaying, shoeing horses and repairing wagons, and the serious business of boozing, gambling and whoring.

Hazel joined Sean, Patience and Tanner at the long pine bar, where a hand-painted sign above the rifle rack ordered:

CHECK ALL GUNS WITH BARTENDER

Sean lit a lantern with his lighter while Tanner doled out warmish cans of beer.

Holding a can toward Patience, Tanner said, “Quite a show you put on today.” When she didn’t take the beer, he slammed the can onto the bar and slid it her way. “Drink up—carbonation helps when you’re sick to your stomach.”

She groaned and pushed the can away.

“You’re one to talk, Tanner,” Hazel said. “Who made a bigger ass out of himself today, really?”

He scowled. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay, so quit hassling her.” She turned to Patience. “How do you feel now?”

“Better. Not great.” Putting a hand to her forehead, she tilted back her head and in an overdone southern accent declared, “Ah’m sufferin’ a toucha the vapors.”

Hazel laughed. “Seriously—did you eat something that made you sick?”

“I’m not sure. It could’ve been the heat and the smells and Indigo screaming like that.” Patience sighed in disgust. “I still can’t believe I barfed in front of our whole town.”

Tanner slowly shook his head. “Eating a burger was a big mistake. Why’d you do it?”

“She didn’t.” Sean sounded fed up. “Veggie burger, maybe.”

“I don’t eat anything that has a face,” Patience said.

Hazel had been weighing whether or not to broach the subject with Tanner. Finally, she said, “I wonder how everybody in town found out about the cattle so quick.”

Tanner stared at her as if she were dense. Then he stuck his finger on her upper chest. “Um, that would be . . . you.” Hazel’s heart stuttered as his hand moved past her to point at Sean. “And you.”

Sean smacked his hand away. “Bullshit.”

Patience shrank back as if worried the accusatory finger would taint her next.

“Does Uncle Pard think that?” Hazel asked, her heart refusing to settle into a steady beat.

“Hell if I know.” Tanner was scrutinizing her face. “You didn’t blab?”

“No.” She grabbed the sleeve of his t-shirt. “So don’t ever say that we did.”

“Why didn’t you?” He flicked away her hand, then narrowed his eyes at her. “What’s Uncle Pard got on you, anyhow?”

Hazel avoided looking at Sean and Patience, avoided speaking the name that echoed in her mind: Hawkin Rhone. Instead, she said, “He told us he’d have us drawn and quartered if we said a word. And scatter our body parts around the pasture for a vulture feast.” She shrugged unconvincingly. “He’ll do whatever it takes to protect his ranch.”

“No kidding. I can’t believe they shot Indigo,” Tanner said with zero emotion. “Wish they’d shoot that gluebag Blackjack next.”

Patience rubbed her hands up and down her bare arms as if she felt cold, only it was still at least ninety degrees out. “What’s the matter with all the cows anyway?”

“Who knows?” Tanner said. “And who cares?” He popped open another beer.

Hazel took a long swig from her own, hoping the alcohol would dull the edge on her increasingly sharp dread. “Doc Simmons hasn’t figured out what’s wrong yet?”

“Nope. He was poking around the pasture all morning. Picking weeds and scooping up shit.” Tanner chucked his can through an empty window frame. “Why doesn’t somebody just bulldoze this whole crappy place?”

“Can’t do that.” Patience blinked hard, as if incredulous that he’d even suggest it. “Where would the spirits go?”

“What spirits?”

“Don’t ask,” Hazel said, grateful for the change to a less frightening subject.

“Dead miners.” Sean seemed relieved too. “Badass sonofabitch ghosts. You do not wanna mess with ’em. Believe me.”

“Screw those dead miners.” Tanner wrenched off a piece of wood from the lip of the bar and pretended to throw it toward the casket-sized mirror hanging on the opposite side.

“Don’t do it!” Patience reached for his arm. “It’s bad luck!”

“Bawk, bawk,” Sean made like a chicken.

Tanner swiveled away from Patience, pulled back, and flung the wood hard. They all watched the clouded mirror crack, hold for a split second, then shatter into scores of pieces that plinked noisily to the wood floor.

Sensing Patience’s distress, Hazel put a hand on her friend’s shoulder.

“Oh . . . ,” Patience whispered. “Oh, no.”

“What?” Tanner raised his hands in mock innocence.

Patience placed her fingers over her lips and slowly shook her head.

“Don’t tell us,” Sean said, flicking his lighter on and off. “Three years’ bad luck.”

“Seven,” Hazel corrected, desiring to lighten the mood. “But is that seven for Tanner or seven divided by the four of us?”

Patience stared, unblinking, at the dark rectangle of wallpaper where the mirror had hung.

“Guess those ghosts’ll be haunting me now,” Tanner tried to joke with Patience and when that didn’t work, he looked at Hazel with whoops written all over his face.

“There’ll be no hiding from them,” Hazel confirmed. Thanks to recent reminders of horrors past, she feared those words just might be true.

Patience spun to face Tanner. “You should’ve listened to me. It’ll be worse than that.”

Accustomed as Hazel was to the dire predictions of Winslow’s rodeo queen, she still felt bees in her stomach. Hazel looked behind the bar at the fragments of mirror still clinging to soiled wallpaper, alive with the light of the lantern, and heard Patience add, “For all of us.”





SUNDAY MORNING

Day Three of the Heat Wave





THE MERCANTILE

Fretful, Hazel had hardly slept the night before. And two restless nights in a row had left her feeling dazed and disoriented, as if she were lost at sea.

Strolling along in the early sunlight, she tried to convince herself that it was quite simple, really. Vet Simmons would figure out what was wrong, give the cattle medicine, and everything would go back to normal. Simple.

She popped into the Mercantile to pick up groceries for her grandmother and boxes of Lemonheads and jawbreakers for herself. She had it bad for candy—the harder the better—and her dad kept warning her that she was bound to crack a tooth. Walking down the humming, refrigerated aisle, she placed milk, eggs and ice cream into her basket. Her grandmother loved dairy, which maybe explained how she’d managed to get so old without ever breaking a hip.

After Hazel made her way to the front of the store, she spotted Aaron Adair and his buddy Tim Hotchkiss. Both stood staring into the big freezer next to the cash register, paralyzed, it seemed, by the enormity of the decision at hand. Sundae cup or ice cream sandwich? Drumstick or Rocket Pop? The wrong choice certain to lead to a torment of unfulfilled desire. She noticed that Aaron was also holding a half-eaten glazed donut, which she suspected he’d procured from Sean at the bakery.

“Gonna give yourself a bellyache,” Hazel said, walking up to the boy.

Aaron glanced at the donut in his hand as if he’d forgotten he was holding it. Then he announced to no one in particular: “I’m going home.”

Timmy tore his eyes away from the freezer treats. “Why?”

Alarmed, Hazel took a step closer to Aaron. “Is something wrong?”

“I don’t feel so good.” He dropped the donut to the floor. “I see floaty things.”

“Okay—hold on a sec.” Hazel reached for his hand. “I’m going to The Winslow too.”

But Aaron was already rushing for the store entrance with Timmy calling after him, “Are we still goin’ fishing later?”

Anxious to follow Aaron so that she could make sure he made it home all right, Hazel hurried her purchases up to Tiny Clemshaw at the cash register.

Tiny Clemshaw was a rangy, middle-aged man with a cotton ball of a face: no distinct features, everything just melded together in confusing white fuzz. “That it?” he asked.

No “Good morning,” no “How are you today, Hazel Winslow,” just “That it?” And she noticed he looked extra pasty today. But his was the only store in town so there was no avoiding him. “That’s it,” she said and dug into her pocket for yesterday’s tip money and pulled out a handful of crumpled singles.

“Thirteen sixty then,” Tiny said, tossing her items into a paper sack with uncharacteristic carelessness. Eggs on bottom, milk on top.

She noticed then that skinny streams of sweat were running down from his forehead, tracing the blue veins in his temples. “Are you all right, Tiny?”

“Thirteen sixty,” he repeated and a fat drop of sweat plipped into her grocery sack.

As she opened her mouth to protest, Tiny said, “And ask your father to come round next time you see him. Somebody’s been busting into my cooler and stealing my beer.”

Oops, Hazel thought. Maybe she’d just forget to mention that to her dad.

As it turned out, she never did get a chance to not mention it.





THE GHOSTS OF WINSLOW

The trouble Aaron was having keeping the handlebars of his bike straight was only one of his problems. His stomach was churning and he was determined to make it home before he threw up. When they were in the first grade, Timmy barfed in Prospect Park after too many spins on the merry-go-round, and the other kids had never let him live it down: “Look out—he’s gonna blow!” Aaron didn’t want to be teased like that too.

Peddling like mad up Fortune Way, he spotted his Uncle Jim heading into the Buckhorn Tavern. Uncle Jim always used to let Aaron ride on his shoulders, making the boy feel tall too, and Aaron was just about to call out to his uncle when he caught himself . . . because Uncle Jim didn’t belong here anymore.

Just keep quiet. Aaron broke out in a sweat. Just get home.

He pedaled faster, panting and sweating like crazy, trying not to crash his bike; he could barely see straight, let alone steer. Suddenly Uncle Jim appeared in the middle of the road, gesturing at Aaron to slow down. Instead, Aaron sped up, swerving at the last moment to dodge his uncle’s spectral grasp.

Speeding recklessly, he carved the street corner and raced up Civic Street. Up ahead, the gurgling lady with the blood gushing out of her neck was slowly making her way up the walkway to the library. Just as he feared, she stopped to stare straight at him as he approached. He could turn around—but Uncle Jim was back there. So he rode faster, racing past the lady before she could sprint down the walkway and embrace him in her bloody arms.

What are they doing out here? Aaron wondered, both amazed and horrified. How’d they get loose? Then, an even more disturbing thought: Did someone let them out on purpose?

At least he was almost home. But when he popped onto Ruby Road, his relief gave way to terror. He turned his bike sideways, nearly laying it down, and skidded to a stop.

Less than ten feet away, a red-haired wolf blocked the road. The creature lowered his huge head and started for Aaron, orange eyes glowering at the boy, big paws slapping the street.

Aaron glanced over his shoulder, desperate for an escape route.

His heart froze midbeat.

Not only was the gurgling lady coming up fast behind him, so was Uncle Jim’s ghost. Worse still, the other lady had joined them, the one who looked like Patience Mathers except her white skin was wrinkled and her dark hair and long dress were sopping wet.

Aaron did the only thing he could do. He closed his eyes. He closed his eyes and willed them all to go away.

It didn’t work; he could still hear them, growing louder, getting closer: the wolf’s claws scraping loose blacktop, the bloody lady gurgling, the drowning woman dripping, and his Uncle Jim asking, “Whatsamatter, boy? Don’t you wanna ride?”





THE WINSLOW

When Hazel arrived at The Winslow, she was relieved to spot Aaron’s bike at the base of the porch steps, carelessly pitched on its side, handlebars askew. Apparently Aaron had made it home safe, if not entirely sound.

Jinx bounded down the steps from the porch to join her. The red dog looked guilty somehow, his eyes a little too gleeful, his tail wagging a bit too hard.

“What have you been up to?” Hazel asked.

Jinx kept mum, choosing instead to sniff at Aaron’s front bike tire.

“I better not find out you were chasing Aaron on his bike,” Hazel warned the Irish setter. “Or terrorizing Ajax or Boo or any other cat.”

The dog’s expression changed to one of such profound innocence it was impossible to argue with him. “Okay, I believe you,” Hazel said, quickly adding, “this time.”

Since she needed to unload the groceries, Hazel walked through the side yard and then directly into the kitchen, where she found her grandmother at the big stove working over her cast iron Dutch oven, pulverizing apples into applesauce. Sarah Winslow glanced up wearing the same look of delight she always donned to greet her only grandchild.

“Aaron’s not feeling well,” Hazel said, feeling uneasy herself because she’d rather be any kind of sick than sick to her stomach. She plopped the grocery sack onto the butcher-block countertop before remembering that Tiny had packed the eggs on the bottom.

“I know,” Sarah made a sympathetic face. “He barely made it through the front door before he got sick in the lobby. Didn’t you see Honey cleaning it up?”

“Luckily, no.”

“Honey’s under the weather too. Maybe the entire Adair family ate something off.” Sarah glanced around the kitchen as if the guilty dish might reveal itself.

“I don’t know about Honey,” Hazel said, “but it wouldn’t surprise me if Aaron got sick from eating one too many treats this morning.”

“That boy’s sweet tooth is out of control.” Her grandmother spied the box of candy peeking out from the front pocket of Hazel’s shorts. “Like somebody else we know.”

“Please,” Hazel said. “Lemonheads are practically fruit.” She stuffed the carton of ice cream into the freezer of the large fridge, shoving vegetables and fish to their proper place in the unreachable back.

Her grandmother came over and pulled the ice cream back out, squinting to read the label because she didn’t have her glasses on. “Why’d you buy me this?”

“Because you love rocky road.” Hazel took the carton from her and pushed it back in.

“You love rocky road.” Whenever Sarah smiled, her bright blue eyes disappeared.

Hazel placed her hands on her hips. “What are you implying?”

But Sarah looked concerned now. “Your father told me he’s having trouble with Pard Holloway again.”

Hazel’s stomach dropped. Had her father found out what happened at the ranch between her and her uncle? How much did her grandmother know? She decided to test the waters before giving her grandmother any information that could make her victim to the same blackmail. “True. Dad didn’t want the carnies at the rodeo this year. Said he’s had it with their rusty rides and rigged games, that they’re not in the best interests of our town. And Uncle Pard said, ‘You’ve got it exactly wrong, as usual, Winslow.’ ” Hazel deepened her voice in imitation of her uncle: “ ‘Anything that brings in tourist dollars is in the best interests of this town.’ ”

Sarah shook her head, clearly distressed. “I’m telling you, dear girl, this business at the ranch bodes ill.” She took Hazel’s right hand and turned it up to inspect the red marks left on her palm post splinter surgery, seeming to sense that there was a connection. Then Sarah raised her eyes to Hazel’s: “Tell me what happened at the rodeo.”

“I saw Ben Mathers,” Hazel replied matter-of-factly. “Eating a hot dog.”

“And?” Sarah asked as though she didn’t have all day.

Hazel hesitated, then said, “And something went wrong with Indigo. They had to put him down.”

“The bull, I know about. What I want to know is what, exactly, all of this has to do with you.”

The look on her grandmother’s face told her that she was giving her a chance to come clean. And since everyone in town already seemed to know about the cattle crisis—thanks to Tanner’s gigantic mouth, she strongly suspected—was there any point in continuing to lie? She just had to leave out a few key details. Like her Uncle Pard’s threat. Like what really happened that day five years ago at Three Fools Creek. Like why Hazel was so terrified, deep down, that the incident was rising to the surface like a long-dead catfish: spectral, slippery and foul.





SUNDAY AFTERNOON

MATHERSTON CEMETERY

They sat in the shade of the granite wall, sweating into crisp yellow weeds. No one in town could recall who built the long squat wall around Matherston Cemetery, or why. It resisted memory; its white face wiped clean each time the snow came. There were no messages written on the wall that afternoon.

Hazel swiveled to admire Sean. The sun lit his eyes a warm color, like the bourbon they’d swipe from his dad when Samuel was so drunk he’d never remember he hadn’t been the one to polish it off. Only now, with Sean’s blank stare and sweaty face, he appeared feverish.

“Uh, oh . . . ,” she said, “are you feeling sick too?”

He barely turned his head to look at her—too much effort, apparently. “Just hot, I guess.”

Looping the front hem of her t-shirt through the neck, she fashioned it into a halter-top. Sean watched her perform this operation with interest. Then she swabbed the sweat pooled on her belly with her palm and wiped it on her shorts. That seemed interesting too. She leaned back against the wall with a sharp sigh. “Does anybody even care that we’re broiling to death up here? And with the stomach flu or something equally nauseating going around on top of that?”

“I don’t think anybody gives us much thought between rodeos.” He yawned hugely. “Do you suppose that’s the end of the Winslow Rodeo?”

“Probably. Quite a finale.”

“Do you suppose that’s the end of Holloway Ranch?”

“It’d serve my uncle right, wouldn’t it? Trying to keep it quiet only makes the whole situation worse. Obviously, it’s impossible to keep secrets in this town anyway. I bet if he brought more vets up they’d figure it out. I wonder if anybody down mountain has heard yet.”

“Doubt it. Seems like people are whispering today. Like if they talk too loud they’ll hear it in the valley. Have you noticed?”

She nodded. “It’s creepy.” For all she knew, her uncle had something hanging over the head of every citizen of Winslow. It wouldn’t surprise her. Maybe he’d been collecting instruments of blackmail for just such an occasion. “Like ghosts sharing secrets,” she said.

Sean grinned at her. A lazy, sultry grin. “Are we ghost hunting this summer?”

“Only if you ante up the good candy.”

“I can do a lot better than candy.” A slight smile played across his features.

Suppressing her own smile, she touched one corner of his lips where they turned up. Then she kissed that mouth she knew almost as well as her own. When her tongue touched his, the heat of him shocked her.

She pulled away and placed her hand against his forehead. “Sean—you are so hot!”

He took her hand and tugged her back to him, eyes teasing. “Then where are you going?”

She sprang to her feet, held her hand down to him, and hauled him up. “We need to douse you in Three Fools Creek.”

He blew a hot frustrated breath in her face . . . then he turned his back and bolted.

“Wait!” she called, chasing after him through the graveyard, laughing. “Wait for me!”


In the stingy bit of sunshine the tree canopy allowed to pass, the surface of Three Fools Creek shimmered. “It’s too pretty,” Hazel decided.

Nodding, Sean poked at a mound of wet leaves with a stick. “Foolish to fall for it.”

For beneath its sparkle, the creek raged. Three miners had drowned trying to cross the creek at high water after a wet spring like this. But unlike Hawkin Rhone, the miners had been buried proper in Matherston Cemetery.

Hazel stepped back to study the boulders that jutted up along the bank like crooked tombstones. When she looked at Sean again he was staring at Hawkin Rhone’s cabin across the creek. In complete collapse now, the old prospector’s shack was barely visible beneath a patient blackberry bush.

“Why did we go over there?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“Wish he’d stop haunting us.”

“Don’t worry.” He reached for her hand. “Curse is on my head, not yours.”

She pulled away, wagging her finger at him in a mock scold. “That’s right, Adair—it’s up to you to keep Hawkin Rhone in his grave.”

He blinked at her. Then he gave her a long, puzzled look before saying, “You’re right.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m going over there,” he said, his face marked by distress now.

His expression made her extremely uneasy. “We agreed we’d never go back.”

“I have to. I have to make sure.”

“Make sure what?”

“That he’s still buried.”

She spun him by the shoulder to face her. “I was only kidding. What’s wrong with you?”

He stepped closer to the turbulent water. “I’m going over.”

“You’re out of your mind. This is not funny. Let’s go.”

“Hold on. I’ll make it quick.” He took off his tennis shoes and moved down the muddy bank.

She shot a glance at the crumbled cabin, knowing that her dad and Dr. Foster had buried Hawkin Rhone not far from the porch. Reaching for Sean, she said, “Okay, ha-ha, joke’s over—”

An explosive splitting sound from behind them caused both to whirl and face the woods.

After listening for a silent moment, Hazel asked, “Rifle shot?”

Sean scrambled into his shoes, the violent sound evidently bringing him back to his senses. “Sounded more like a tree snapping.”

Another sharp crack issued, this time from the place up the creek where the water ran black—closer now to where they stood straining to hear and see into the dark woods.

Her heart pounding, Hazel grabbed Sean and whispered, “Bigfoot.”

“Like hell,” he said too loud.

“I’m telling you, there have been all sorts of sightings lately.”

“Not here.”

“Why not here?”

“Hey, Bigfoot! Hazel Winslow wants to meet you!”

“Shush!” She smacked his arm. But he’d succeeded in making her feel silly rather than scared. She looked him in the eye. “I think you’re afraid.”

He smiled at her. “Maybe.”

“Don’t worry—I’ll protect you.”

“Your record isn’t so good.”

“I will. Promise.” She gestured across her chest: “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

A fish jumped in the creek behind them, making a plopping sound that startled them both.

Sean pulled her tight. “Protect me, Hazel!”

She shook him off and turned to go. “You need psychiatric help,” she decided.

“I got your psychiatric help right here,” Sean said.

Hazel swiveled back to find him lighting a joint. After a guilty yet brief consideration of her father’s warning that they’d better not’ve bought weed from Cyclone Clyde, she plucked the joint from Sean’s fingers. “You know, I think I feel a touch of insanity coming on, too.” She took a deep hit and passed it back to him. Then, from her back pocket, she pulled the bottle of eye drops she always carried and gave each eye a squirt. “I have to get back,” she said. “I’m working dinner shift.” She took up the trail.

“Just admit it,” Sean called after her, “you’ve always needed me to protect you.”

She continued down the path for a few moments before realizing that he was no longer behind her. Turning around she found Sean several yards back, leaning against a lodgepole pine, arms folded across his stomach.

She ran to him and tried to catch him by the arm but he slid down the tree into a crouching position.

Squatting before him, she asked, “What’s wrong?”

His long brown hair was suddenly drenched in perspiration. She pushed it off his forehead while he looked at her with swimmy eyes, as if he couldn’t get them to focus.

“Sean—what’s the matter?” she asked.

He ran his tongue across his lips, then: “Where did I go?”