The Winslow Incident

WHATEVER

His uncle had assigned him to keep an eye out for Doc Simmons since they wouldn’t be finished separating cattle until late afternoon at best. Good riddance, Tanner had thought and took the opportunity to go back to bed. His uncle kept getting him up so early. And he was sore from being dragged around by that bastard horse at the rodeo.

When Tanner first arrived at the ranch and was assigned a bedroom on the second story above his uncle’s room, his first thought had been that it was going to be hard to sneak out at night. Now he knew Pard didn’t give a shit what he did so long as it didn’t harm his precious ranch or dent his sterling reputation.

So that morning, without a second thought, Tanner had crawled back into bed and fallen fast asleep and dreamt of heifers and steers and his Uncle Pard riding around barking orders and looming large like Moses parting the Red Sea.

A buzzing noise from the direction of the main barn woke him. He looked at the clock: 12:20. That was more like it. He grabbed his blue trunks off the floor and threw them on with a t-shirt. It was hot already, which was the only drawback he could see to sleeping late: not easing into the heat.

After he left the house, he wandered toward the buzz until he found Doc Reed Simmons at the far end of the barn.

Using a circular saw, the veterinarian was cutting open the head of the bull killed at the rodeo. He finished the cut and with a lot of effort and cursing pulled off the top of the skull and tossed it aside. It landed on a hay bale with a soft plunk.

For a fascinated moment, Tanner watched Indigo’s lid—horns erect, ears slack—drip red into yellow hay. “That’s nasty,” Tanner said.

“Don’t sneak up on me like that!” The bony and bespectacled vet looked seriously startled and wielded the circular saw as if he just might use it on Tanner’s head next.

“Have you figured out what’s wrong?” Tanner kept his distance from the agitated man.

“That’s what I’m trying to do right now.” Doc Simmons pushed up his glasses with a gloved finger, leaving a bloody mark on the bridge of his nose. He then made some wet snips inside the head.

Tanner found himself intrigued by this autopsy. “Haven’t found anything yet?”

“Acutely inflamed gastrointestinal tract.”

Tanner glanced at the bucket full of guts next to Simmons’ blood-spattered galoshes.

“Could be the bull got himself into marsh marigold,” Simmons continued, “or lupine.”

“What’re those?” he asked, though it seemed like the vet was talking more to himself.

“Toxic plants.” Snip snip. “Ate some jimsonweed maybe.”

“Is it serious?”

The vet looked at him as if he were an imbecile. An annoying imbecile. “Dead serious. Or haven’t you noticed?” When the vet adjusted his glasses again, Tanner noticed that his fingers shook.

Tanner wondered if the vet was always this nervous or just when he had to deliver bad news to Pard Holloway. “I was wondering if—”

“Look, kid, I’m busy here!” Doc Simmons plunged both hands into the head cavity, twisted, and pulled out the brain with a loud schloopp.

“Fine, take it easy . . .” Tanner had wanted to ask if the animals being sick had anything to do with Patience puking at the rodeo and Sean and his family getting sick too. Clearly now wasn’t the time.

So he left Doc Simmons in the barn and turned his attention to the troublesome question of why his left leg hurt so much. Plus he felt extra, miserably hot today. Walking back toward the house, he scanned the acre after acre of pasture surrounded by split-rail fencing. The boonies. No DQ, no cell phone reception, no signs of civilization whatsoever. He may as well have been on the f*cking moon.

In the empty kitchen of the empty house, he ate some cereal and then felt seriously bored and decided to take the dirt bike into town and try to scare up some action. The Kawasaki was the only good thing on the ranch. It was Kenny Clark’s but Maggie said he’d outgrown the bike and Tanner could use it if he wanted. That was before Maggie got all pissed off at him.

Whatever. It never took long.


Downtown Winslow was as lame as ever until he spotted Patience Mathers all by her lonesome in Prospect Park, sitting on one of the swings, not swinging but spinning lazily using one foot as a pivot. Tanner rode his bike right into the park, tearing up grass, and parked it next to the kiddie-go-round.

The park felt desolate with the rodeo attractions and carnival rides packed up and gone. And after cutting his engine, it was quiet except for a duck quacking and flapping along the wall surrounding the pond as though it wanted to take off but couldn’t get up the momentum.

Patience watched him approach with a tight look on her face, as if she might jump up and bolt out of the park at any second.

“Want a push?” he asked when he reached her.

He could tell she didn’t trust him; why should she?

“Okay. But not too high.” She pulled up her feet.

After untangling the chains to get her headed straight, he came around behind her. She wore a strapless pink top and he thought how easy it would be to hook his thumb on it and—oops—pull it down. But he thought better of it when he saw that her back was covered in scratch marks: stark red against her alabaster skin. So instead he pulled up the swing by the chains and let her go. When she swung back to him he placed his palms beneath her shoulders and pushed.

“Not too high,” she repeated.

Her skin was cold to his touch. Zombie, he thought. Here he was, sweating it out in the midday swelter, and she felt kinda . . . dead. That made him want to push her hard. And when she yelled at him to stop, he pushed even harder. But then she was screaming at him so he grabbed one side of the swing and yanked her to a sideways stop. “Sorry,” he said.

She sniffed hard. “You shouldn’t’ve broken that mirror.”

“Sorry,” he lied again. He stood above her, holding onto one chain.

She looked not so good: holding fast to the swing with both hands, tilted forward in the seat, staring straight ahead.

“You looked hot in that cowgirl getup at the rodeo.”

Her face was really white. She scratched at her cheek, creating red welts there too.

“That vest, especially. You looked damn good in that.”

No response.

He stared down at her, calculating, then: “You’re the most beautiful girl in Winslow.”

She raised her head to look at him.

“You know that, right?” he said. Her pupils were huge: Raggedy Ann eyes. “You’re the most beautiful girl I’ve ever seen.” He squatted down in front of Patience, grabbed both chains of the swing, and pulled her toward him. “Anywhere. Ever.”

She stared at him, black-eyed, for a long time, until finally: “Really?”

“Without a doubt.” Their faces were close now.

“You liked my outfit?” Her breath was on his face.

“You looked amazing.”

But then something skittered behind her dark eyes and she said, “You’re just after country pie.”

“What are you talking about?”

She tried to pull away from him by backing up with both feet. “I know you said you were gonna get a piece of me.”

“Who told you that?” he asked through gritted teeth, holding tight to the swing.

“I’m going home now.” She tried to twist out of his grasp.

He could feel her panic rising. “Who told you? Hazel?”

“Maybe.” She strained against his grip.

“Fine.” He released the chains and stood but didn’t step back. “Hazel told me something about you.”

She pushed the swing aside and backed away from him. “What?”

“That you’re easy.”

“She didn’t say that.”

“Easy pickins were her exact words. Low-hanging fruit.”

“Hazel would never say that.” She spun around and ran.

“Skate punk? Backseat of his Nova?” he yelled. “Ask her if you don’t believe me. And while you’re at it, tell her Sean isn’t putting up with any more of her two-faced bullshit either.”

“You never should’ve broken that mirror,” she cried without looking back. “Nothing good will come to you!”

“Obviously.” Tanner watched Patience and his only chance for getting some tail in this backwoods race out of the park, and wondered how he was going to make Hazel Winslow pay.


Tanner had been back for a while by the time Pard returned. From the kitchen where Tanner sat eating more cereal, he heard his uncle plod up the front steps and tear open the door. His nerves twitched as he waited for Pard to find him, which took all of three seconds.

“Did you see Doc Simmons?” Pard sounded out of breath.

“Yup,” he answered without looking up from his bowl.

“And?”

He glanced up then to see his uncle looking as if he might smack him. “And Simmons doesn’t look so good himself,” Tanner replied. “Nobody does.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Everyone in town is sick as hell.”

“What kind of sick?”

“The puking kind.”

Tanner saw alarm register on his uncle’s face for a split second. But then Pard seemed to catch himself. “That’s got nothing to do with us. Do I make myself clear?”

“What if it does?”

“We’re not sick, are we?”

Tanner thought for an instant about his aching leg. “No.”

“Then if people in town are ailing, it must be from something in town,” he reasoned.

Tanner suspected he was trying to convince himself more than anyone else. “Like what?”

“Could be anything. Bad fish from the Mercantile, spoiled coleslaw at the Crock.”

“Cows don’t eat coleslaw.” Tanner couldn’t help himself.

His uncle’s eyes took on a queer look and Tanner was sure he would get a smack after all. So he was surprised when instead Pard agreed, “No, they sure as hell don’t.” But then he grimaced at his nephew. “Are you hurt, kid?”

Tanner realized he was rubbing his leg. “You care? Why’d you make me ride Blackjack?”

Bootsteps pounded the porch, followed by somebody banging on the front door.

As Pard strode out of the kitchen he muttered, “Better be that scrawny-assed vet.”

But after Tanner heard his uncle wrench open the door, he recognized Kenny Clark’s voice: “We found Simmons’ truck wrecked in a ditch off Loop-Loop Road. But no Simmons.”





WOLVES OF WINSLOW

Hazel was desperate to leave the Crock so she could race to The Winslow where she hoped she would find Sean, but Owen begged her to stay and help him since Rose refused to come out of the restroom. After Sean had walked away from her, she’d felt like her heart had been ripped out and she knew she wouldn’t feel better until she saw him again, until she made things right with him.

When Owen finally evicted everyone from the dining room around three, Hazel tore off her yellow Crock apron and dashed out.

Cutting through the park, she popped a few Lemonheads into her mouth. In an effort to avoid the food poisoning, she’d been eating nothing but candy. In fact, the last real food she’d consumed was cereal yesterday morning. She felt starved but figured that was better than getting sick and acting like a freak.

The whole thing reminded her of when she was nine years old and had mononucleosis—the sore throat and nausea so severe she barely ate for a week.

“Who have you been kissing?” Dr. Foster had teased. He passed away two years ago after falling off a ladder onto his brick patio, and there hadn’t been another doctor in town since.

With the mono, she had been stuck in bed forever and would have gone crazy with boredom were it not for Sean, who bought a new comic book for her every day at the Mercantile, using up his entire allowance.

Now that he was sick, she owed him. Maybe not comic books, but at least the comfort of her promise that no matter what, they could work this out.

As she left the park, Hazel glanced up at the water tower on top of Silver Hill. She’d had no water since Owen claimed there was something wrong with it. Of course, thinking she mustn’t drink it made her insanely thirsty. Owen could be wrong, but why chance it?

When she reached The Winslow, she grabbed a can of orange soda from the fridge and chugged down the whole thing in five long gulps. Stomach sloshing, she then headed up the servants’ staircase.

Nobody was around in the Adair’s quarters . . . and alarm rose as she searched the empty rooms on the second floor. Things were so off kilter she wouldn’t have been surprised if everyone simply vanished off the side of the mountain, or if skeletons popped out of the closets like in the House of Horrors.

She finally gave up and started down the formal stairway, where she met Sean’s mom walking up. Honey Adair looked as if she’d just gotten out of bed: mascara smudged, brown hair tangled, sundress wrinkled.

Hazel stopped. “I’m glad to see you.”

Without so much as a glance, Honey continued past her up the staircase.

Did Sean talk to her? Hazel wondered. Is she mad at me? She headed back up the stairs behind her and tried again: “I wanted to see how Sean is feeling.”

“Sean?” Honey asked with a dazed look on her face.

“Your son.”

“He’s a good boy.”

“Well, yes, but how is he feeling?”

Honey paused near the head of the staircase—hand resting on the banister, one foot on the upper stair, the other hanging back yet—and appeared to consider the question.

Impatience nudged Hazel. “Have you seen him?”

“I can’t see him anywhere, can you? I think he’s invisible now.” Honey turned to look at Hazel. “Thank you for asking, Anabel.”

Honey completed her ascent and headed down the hallway, leaving Hazel to stand there dumbfounded for the second time that day by a member of the Adair family.

But Hazel knew Sean wasn’t in the hotel; invisible or not, she would sense him. She descended the wide, red-carpeted steps, skirted past the ballroom, and went out through the leaded-glass back door, where she found her grandmother on the porch that ran the entire length of the rear of The Winslow. In the shade of an ancient oak, Sarah sat facing the woods with a shotgun lying across her lap.

Ordinarily Hazel would have found that strange.

She plopped down beside her grandmother with an exhalation that belied her age. Then she stared at the gazebo planted in the corner of the yard like some oversized, over-decorated birthday cake. The structure always annoyed her. Too fussy. She longed to take an ax to all of its gingerbread details.

Instead, she asked her grandmother, “What are you doing with that gun?”

“Your father says there are wolves about,” she replied. “Never saw a wolf in Winslow myself, but he seems sure.”

“You saw him today?” Hazel still hadn’t seen him since last night. That, she did find exceedingly strange.

“He visited earlier.” Sarah peered into the woods. “But I haven’t seen him since. I never was able to keep track of that boy. He’d hide in the woods for hours on end even when no one was playing seek.”

“That’s funny . . .” Hazel felt distracted, wondering where her dad was now. And what about Sean? To where had he disappeared?

“Guess he felt safe out there.”

Hazel turned to look at her grandmother. “Safe from what?”

“Your mother, I suppose.” Sarah laughed. “Anabel and Nate were just like you and Sean—always chasing each other around.”

“I know,” Hazel said, and that’s what had always scared her. If Sean kept chasing her, would she have any choice but to run all the way out of Winslow and—poof!—disappear too?

Her mother used to drive a little car they called The Lemon. Hazel had always thought it was because it was yellow, but later her dad told her it was because the car had a transmission no man could fix. Hazel could never remember the exact moment her mother got into The Lemon and left, but she could never forget that soon thereafter she’d discovered all the newly empty spaces—in the house, in her heart—that her mother had formerly occupied. And afterwards her dad would drop her off at the hotel every morning where Honey Adair made pancakes with blackberries from the side yard, which Hazel and Sean would eat in the kitchen nook. But she hated coming over to play because Sean would chase her around the long porch and pull her hair.

“It’s because he likes you,” Honey would say.

Doesn’t feel much like ‘like’ to me, Hazel always thought.

Sometimes Patience would come over too, so her mom Constance could take a break and the five-year-old girlfriends would gang up against Sean and chase him around the giant oak, threatening to kiss him. All the while Hazel pretended her mother would be coming to pick her up like she always did after she’d just gone down the mountain to do a big grocery shop. But she never came. Instead, her dad would return for her in the afternoon and take her to the Crock for a snack of pie and coffee for him and rainbow sherbet for her. Hazel would sense him willing her not to ask where her mother had gone, so she never did, because as long as she didn’t ask, she didn’t have to know that Anabel was never coming back.

“You look tired, Hazel,” her grandmother said now.

“I am.” Suddenly she felt exhausted and slouched down in the roomy wicker chair. I’ll close my eyes for just a minute, she thought, and then she dozed on the shady porch, dreaming about wolves and little girls in braids and Sean running away from her, into the sun.

When she woke, she found her father sitting beside her in place of her grandmother. She had to squint because while she’d slept, the sun had changed position and now violated the shade of the porch. It was too warm on her skin but her dad’s expression as he sought something beyond the tree line made her sit still so she could watch him.

It took only a moment for her to decipher the look on his face. Worry. Deep, black worry. He wore his uniform and, unlike last night when he’d gone to the Rhone’s house, he now had his revolver nestled in its holster.

That further unsettled her. With his rifle always locked on the rack inside his jeep, he didn’t usually feel the need to carry his handgun. Despite the sun shining right on him, he looked chilled.

He must have sensed her awake because he turned his head to look at her. “Welcome back, my Hazel.” He smiled at her with such tenderness it made her heart hurt.

She smiled back, feeling safe for the first time that day. “Thought you’d gone missing,” she said.

But then he gave her a look that stole her sense of relief at having finally found him, and made her feel anxious again. “Dad, what is it?”

He ran a hand over her head to smooth sleep-mussed hair. “You needn’t be concerned.”

“Too late—I’m already concerned.” She sat forward and eyed the woods. Though she couldn’t see the water, she could hear Ruby Creek traversing the forest on its journey westward, running down through Holloway Ranch to its final meeting with the Lamprey River. She returned her gaze to her father. “Everyone’s acting so weird.”

“Something isn’t right,” he agreed, resuming his own scan of the woods. “Something’s out there.”

“Wolves?” she asked, confused.

“Something worse,” he said.

And she felt a dark splotch of fear spread slowly through her like a drop of warm blood in still water.





MONDAY NIGHT

LADYBUG LADYBUG

Zachary Rhone had no idea how long he’d been in the bakery staring into the oven, but it was dark out now. He remembered Pard Holloway stopping by for a while, and he remembered Melanie coming in a couple of times. But he couldn’t remember why they’d interrupted him.

He could hear Violet and Daisy outside in the yard skipping rope and chanting, “Not last night but the night before, twenty-four robbers came knocking on my door.”

Struggling to ignore them, Zachary continued to stare into the big bread oven, on the verge of figuring it all out. If only he concentrated a little harder, he knew it would come to him. Though he felt no heat, he saw flames dance, heard fire hiss his name.

His daughters chanted faster: “And this is what they said . . . to . . . me! Ladybug ladybug, turn around. Ladybug ladybug, touch the ground.”

Ice-cold fingers tapped Zachary on the chest: the fire had a question for him. He leaned closer while the frozen fingers wrapped around his heart, chilling his blood.

“Shall we bake a cake?” asked the flames.

Zachary wiped at the sweat dripping from his forehead into his eyes. He knew this was important—if only he could pay attention.

But his girls were so loud. “Ladybug ladybug, fly away home.”

“Bread buns rolls for everyone,” the flames taunted.

So hard to concentrate. He spun on his stool, putting his back to the oven, and shouted, “Can’t you girls be quiet for one minute and let. Daddy. THINK!”

Faster, faster they shouted, “Your house is on fire, your children will burn!”

Flames sprang from the oven, snatching at Zachary’s arms and neck.

I only turned my back for a second! he lamented before breaking free of their fiery grip.

Pinwheeling up from the stool, he saw a contorted, monstrous face in the window. “What are you?” he screamed at his own reflection. “What do you want from me?”

He backed away and slammed against a shelf, upsetting a sack of flour that burst open when it hit the floor and sent a grayish plume rising in the air.

I can’t breathe! Zachary choked, feeling his way out of the bakery. It’s killing me.





A MOST PECULIAR FEELING

“Just consider it, is all I’m saying,” Owen Peabody was saying, although nobody appeared to be listening when Pard Holloway entered the Buckhorn Tavern.

Mounted game heads and antique horse gear festooned the bar’s wood-paneled walls. And townsfolk were parked on every last cowhide-covered chair and barstool. What the hell are all of you doing out? Pard puzzled. Even Tiny Clemshaw was there, sucking on a bottle of beer. Pard hadn’t seen Clemshaw take a drink in years. Not since Nate Winslow arrested him for plowing down Meg Foster’s poodle Pepé on the sidewalk of Park Street.

“That rotting old water tank,” Owen continued, seemingly undaunted. “Bacteria multiplying like gangbusters. Slime.” He shuddered. “Toxic slime.” Owen paused as if for reaction, but everyone remained engaged in their own spirited conversations. “Just consider it, that’s all.” Looking deflated, Owen sank down onto the stool next to his wife Rose at the bar.

Pard maneuvered around Laura Dudley and Ivy Hotchkiss dancing to Creedence’s swampy “Susie Q” on the jukebox, and took the barstool between Tiny Clemshaw and Kohl Thacker. Then he motioned for the blond, pixyish Marlene Spainhower behind the bar.

Marlene sauntered over to him in tight jeans and tighter cowgirl shirt. “Hi ya, Pard,” she greeted him brightly. Marlene and Pard had an arrangement. They’d had it for years. It worked well enough.

“What’s all this?” he asked her over the din, gesturing at the crowded bar.

Shriekish laughter spurted from the table by the jukebox.

She shrugged as if to say, Who knows? and drew him a draft. “People have been acting peculiar all day, seemed drunk before they had their first.”

“Have you seen Doc Simmons?” Pard asked. Earlier, Pard had pounded on the vet’s front door but there had been no answer and Pard hadn’t had any luck finding him anywhere else. Pard was seriously worried that the vet may have injured himself when he totaled his truck and was wandering the woods bleeding from the head.

“Simmons?” Marlene glanced around with green eyes. “Not scraggly hair nor skinny hide.” She set the glass in front of Pard but he made no move to pick it up.

Instead, Pard turned his attention to Kohl Thacker who sat mumbling beside him. “What’s that you say?” Pard wanted information.

“The sickness,” Kohl raised his voice, then knocked back the rest of his bourbon and banged the glass down on the bar.

Pard’s unease grew. “What sickness?”

“The sickness we got!” Kohl yelled and the bar got quiet, the only sound the chick chick of the ancient jukebox as it loaded the next forty-five.

“And what exactly is it?” Pard asked in a measured tone designed to encourage Kohl to keep it the hell down.

“It’s spreading, that’s what it is!” Kohl squawked and murmurs rolled through the tavern.

After talking to Tanner, Pard had figured he better come into town and see for himself exactly what was going on. Now he assessed this situation as not good. Maybe worse. His visit to Zachary Rhone at the bakery had been none too encouraging either, the baker at present being a few slices short of a loaf.

From the jukebox, Peggy Lee spoke, “I sat there watching the marvelous spectacle . . . ,” while Julie Marsh walked to the head of the bar as if called for her turn to speak.

“I have been feeling poorly, not very well,” Julie announced before returning to her table where her husband Jay Marsh sat sweating into his beer.

“It’s the strangest feeling I’ve ever had,” Ivy Hotchkiss said.

“It is a most peculiar feeling,” Rose Peabody agreed. “Sometimes I feel fine and then—”

“The Government!” Laura Dudley looked convinced. “It’s a secret military experiment.”

Owen shook his head fiercely. “It’s gotta be the water. We drank it. The cows drank it.”

Pard strode to the jukebox and pulled the plug. “We all need to settle down.” He looked around the tavern and felt his impatience shifting toward anger. “You’ve got food poisoning, plain and simple. Right, Rose?”

From the bar, Rose stared at him and neither agreed nor disagreed, just looked weary.

“All we have to do is ride this out,” Pard continued.

“Is that so?” Gus Bolinger said from the far side of the bar. “I’d like to know where Sheriff Winslow is. What’s he got to say about all this?”

“Nate must be sick,” Marlene replied. “He’s made himself scarce today.”

“Now, Gus,” Pard managed to keep his tone agreeable, desiring no wrangle with the Korean War hero. “You know we’ve got no need for the law. Haven’t we always taken care of our own?”

Tiny Clemshaw shot up, jabbed his finger Pard’s direction, and knocked over his beer bottle with his elbow. “It’s your fault!” he blustered. “You’ve been wantin’ to be rid of us for a long time and now you’ve gone and poisoned us with your stinking, rotting meat!”

Pard stormed over and shoved Clemshaw back down onto his barstool so hard it was a wonder the stool and the man didn’t snap. The storekeeper was always on the prod but he usually showed Pard respect. Not tonight.

“All right, Holloway.” Gus rose from his bar stool. “No need to get rough.”

“Pard,” Ivy piped up from right beside the door, looking ready to bolt if need be. “Most of us did eat beef at some point over the past few days.”

“Is it mad cow disease?” Kohl asked, fright wrinkling his pale face.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake, Thacker.” Pard spat out his breath in aggravation. “My cattle eat organic grains, so mad cow isn’t even a possibility. Besides, it takes years for symptoms of BSE to develop in humans, not days.”

“Oh, no.” Laura looked shocked. “It’s anthrax, isn’t it?”

Pard inhaled deliberately slow and let everyone fidget while awaiting his reaction. “Enough!” he finally boomed and the people nearest him shrank back from the force of it. “I’ll be damned if I’ll stand by and let you ruin this town with your half-cocked speculating. Don’t you see? Rumors like that spoil tourists’ appetites. Even the simple truth—food poisoning—will be enough to ruin our reputation. Forever.” He glared around the room, challenging anyone to argue with that.

No one dared.

Until Tiny Clemshaw, full of piss and vinegar and abnormal daring, said, “Won’t be carryin’ Holloway meat in my Mercantile anymore, I can tell you that much.”

Pard felt a nearly overwhelming impulse to haymaker the man into next week. Instead, he reined in his fury and said, “Disparaging my good name is as good as destroying your own.”

Tiny brayed.

“Don’t come crying to me, Clemshaw, when you’ve got no livelihood. Listen up, all of you—I’m trying to do you a favor.”

“Pard’s right,” Marlene said. “Think about it—this could really hurt us next season.”

“Aw, hell,” Gus said. “The tourists come more for blackberry pie and Lamprey River trout than Holloway rib eyes.”

“What is wrong with all of you?” Pard pressed his fingers against his forehead. “They can get those things a lot easier down in Stepstone without having to brave the pass. And I bet those folks down in the valley will be more than happy to soak up our lost tourist dollars.”

Tiny narrowed his eyes at Pard. “What are you hiding?”

“Not a damn thing! Not a single cowhand is sick and we eat beef nearly every damn day.”

“But what about your dead cows?” Ivy asked. “What about Indigo?”

“Enough about my herd! You’re barkin’ at a knot! Cattle get sick; it happens. Stop trying to connect invisible dots.”

No one would meet his eyes now.

“Look,” he continued, “we need to work together here. Let’s not allow things to get blown all the hell outta proportion.” Everybody looked sheepish and uneasy, so he figured he must finally be getting through. “And we need to keep a lid on this or else we’ll end up like Hawkin Rhone with an orchard full of apples no one will touch at any price. Is that what you want?”

Heads were shaking.

“Didn’t think so,” Pard said.

“It almost feels the same as then, doesn’t it?” Ivy said.

“Like when Missy Rhone—” Kohl started.

“All right, all right.” Pard gestured at them to quiet down, though he couldn’t help but think, Same family, two of the worst things that ever happened to this town. He shook his head. “No need to flog that dead horse. Now let’s all go on home and stay there until this blows over.”

He turned back to the bar and took a long draw from the glass. “Thanks for the beer, Marl,” he said.

“Anytime.” Marlene was looking at Pard with concern.

Or maybe that look held the first stirrings of distrust, Pard couldn’t be certain.

The crowd parted to let him out of the tavern. After he burst through the batwing doors and into the hot night air, he heard the jukebox start up again. Across the street in Prospect Park, Hap Hotchkiss was doubled over—one hand on his belly and the other pushing back his hair—losing his biscuits to the pine needles. And in front of the Fish ’n Bait next door to the Buckhorn, Cal was rearranging plastic letters on his Today’s Special Critters board.

“What the hell are you doing?” Pard wanted to know. Usually Cal closed up shop by noon.

“Folks’ll be in early for bait and tackle.”

“What folks?”

“Gonna be lots of anglin’ around here from now on.”

“Why’s that?”

“Seeing as we can’t eat your beef anymore and we’ve got all these fish storms.”

All argued out, Pard left Cal to his task, thinking, This situation is not good at all.


Bam, bam, bam! Somebody knocked with startling force. Bam! Bam!

Nate Winslow heard the windows rattle as he hurried through his living room to the entry, one hand on the grip of his gun. With his other hand, he jerked open the front door just as Pard Holloway was about to pound it again.

“What can I do for you, Pard?” Nate asked, feeling worn out and not up for a fight with his brother-in-law. It took great effort just to stand there, holding onto the door, and suddenly Nate wondered if his outward appearance betrayed how truly bad he felt inside.

Pard brushed past Nate into the house, knocking him away from the door. “You need to do something about this right away, Sheriff.”

Plunking down onto the staircase, Nate tried to guess which this Pard meant. Pard always said the word sheriff with such derision. As though it tastes bitter on his tongue, Nate thought.

Looming over him, hands on hips, Pard said, “These people of yours are fixing to make things a whole lot worse than they already are.”

“People are worse,” Nate agreed. Then he could tell by the perplexed look on Pard’s face that he hadn’t responded correctly to what he’d said. What had he said? Already, Nate could not remember. His stomach gave another sickened lurch.

Pard stood for a moment, staring at Nate, appearing to consider. Finally, he cleared his throat. “You’re right then, Winslow,” he said with an air of conclusion. “We need to quarantine the town.”

Have we been talking for a while? Nate wondered. Hadn’t they just gotten started? He felt as though he’d definitely missed something.

Pard stabbed a finger down at him. “And do it quick or you’ll send the whole place into a panic.”

“Shouldn’t we consult a doctor first?” Nate tried.

“Doc Simmons can handle it.” Pard dismissed further discussion with a flick of his hand. “Besides, phones are out. I’m guessing another rotted-out pine split in two and took out the line again. Damn bark beetles.”

Alarms clanged in Nate’s head. A veterinarian is going to handle this? What if things get as bad as they got with Missy Rhone? He began to protest, “But a quarantine requires—”

“Listen, Sheriff, time is of the essence here. I’ve taken care of my ranch and quarantined my cattle. Now it’s your job to take control of your town. Or else I’ll do it for you.”

“We need to get the authorities up here.” Nate was certain this was what they needed to do. Right away. Why hadn’t he thought of it before? When had all this started anyway?

“We are the authorities, Winslow, and we clean up our own messes around here. Always have, always will. You know that better than most.”

Nate grappled with the implications of Pard’s statement. “What are you saying?”

“A helluva mess that was, too.” Pard rocked on his heels and whistled.

Nate endeavored to maintain a semblance of control, when really he felt like crawling into a closet and shutting the door. They had all agreed that summer that no one would miss the old man. That there was no point in Sean Adair getting into trouble—what was done was done. They’d all agreed on that. And Nate and Dr. Foster had buried the body the full six feet deep.

Only now Nate sensed Hawkin Rhone clawing at the earth.

Pard cleared his throat again. To get Nate’s attention, Nate supposed. “Just so we’re clear, Sheriff: that radio of yours quit working too. Because I’d hate to have to dredge all that up again, truly I would. Especially since Jules Foster isn’t around anymore to back your version of it.”

“Are you threatening me, Holloway?”

“Threatening?” Pard feigned a look of surprise. “No, just applying a little leverage, Winslow, to keep you herded in the right direction. Hate to see you stumble off a cliff.”

All at once Nate realized he didn’t want to be in charge anymore. What if I can’t handle it? With sudden panic, he understood that he was too sick to handle anything. Maybe he should just let Pard take over. He’s okay, isn’t he? So hard to tell. Nate massaged the muscles aching in his arms while his pulse raced and his stomach flopped around like a hooked eel.

“So what’s it gonna be, Sheriff?” Pard glared at him while Nate struggled to muster a response. “A quarantine then? Good idea. No one in, no one out. Effective immediately. Your orders, Sheriff.”

Pard left then, evidently satisfied Nate wasn’t going to give him any trouble.

Feeling incapable of rising from the step, worried they may have woken Hazel in her bedroom upstairs, Nate laid his head across his arm and hoped things wouldn’t get any worse—and that the past would stay buried across Three Fools Creek.