The Winslow Incident Read Online Free PDF Page B

asked.
    “Sore.” She examined her right
palm. “Not so splintery.”
    He grimaced, then said, “I had to
kick Aaron out of my bedroom last night.” He took his eyes off the road to look
at her. “Out of left field, he’s convinced that Hawkin Rhone lives in his
closet.”
    “That’s strange . . .” She felt
uneasy, as if merely saying the man’s name might conjure him up. “I didn’t
think Aaron believed in all that.” Sean’s kid brother had always been more sensibly
obsessed with bikes and bugs than with scary stories.
    Sean’s face darkened. “He believes
now.”
    “It’s just a coincidence.” She managed
to keep her tone light, despite the dread tunneling through her that her uncle
had, indeed, resurrected Hawkin Rhone. “You know how it is,” she continued. “It’s
fun for the kids to picture him out across the creek—old and toothless
and scary.”
    “You’re right,” Sean agreed, though
he looked no less troubled.
    She suddenly became aware that she
was kneading her left wrist; it still hurt sometimes. Forcing herself to stop,
she sat back in the tattered bucket seat and took in the familiar sights of
downtown Winslow and Prospect Park. A rectangle around which the town was
neatly arranged, the park occupied a broad plateau beyond which Stepstone Range
resumed its eastward rise. The park was absurdly big compared to the rest of
the town. Led by her own family (so it was told), the town founders had been
certain Winslow would thrive and expand. But after the price fell out of silver
in 1893 and the mines were boarded up, anyone with any sense packed up and left
to seek their livelihood elsewhere. Those who didn’t had their own stubborn
reasons for remaining on the remote mountainside, inaccessible save for the
bridge that spanned the narrow Lamprey River canyon. It didn’t seem to bother
anyone but her that the nearest real grocery store was two hours away in good
weather, the closest movie theater three.
    The van clattered to a stop in
front of Clemshaw Mercantile, a two-story wood frame store that stocked
everything from bullets to baby food. A tarnished plaque above batwing doors
proclaimed, Established 1888 .
    Sean climbed out and opened the
van’s back door with a grating squeak.
    Hazel turned in her seat to watch
him head toward the store carrying two trays of bread.
    Out front, Tiny Clemshaw looked up
from where he was sweeping to shout, “You’re late!”
    “I’m only—” Sean started.
    “You’re late and they’re all waiting
for you.” Tiny gestured with his broom at the nonexistent crowd, and would have
bonked Sean on the head with the handle had Sean not ducked out of the way. “My
customers do not appreciate being kept waiting.”
    Hazel saw sweat streaming down
Tiny’s face, pooling inside his collar, dripping from his nose. Sure, it was
hot out, but it wasn’t that hot yet.
    Sean was glancing around. “What
customers?”
    “ My customers—” Tiny
looked around then, too, and his face registered sudden dismay. “They were
right here,” he muttered, his bluster giving way to uncertainty. “They were all
right here.”
    Sean looked over his shoulder at
Hazel in the van and silently mouthed to her, “What the hell?”
    Tiny bumbled over to the store’s entrance
and held open the doors for Sean, saying, “They grew tired of waiting for you.
But they’ll be back.” The man looked increasingly flustered. “Don’t you think?”
    “Uh, yeah . . . ,” Sean said. Backing
into the store, he rolled his eyes at Hazel like, Cuckoo, cuckoo.
    She sighed, her stomach knotting
even tighter. They had enough crap to deal with today; they didn’t need Tiny
Clemshaw freaking out on them too.
    When Sean jumped back inside the
van, Hazel turned to him and frowned in bewilderment. “Everyone is acting incredibly
weird today,” she said.
    “No shit!” He shook his head.
“First Aaron, then Zachary, now Tiny.”
    “My dad’s not right, either,” she
said.
    Sean