Page 50 of Stay Buried

“There’s something I need to tell you,” she said, keeping her voice low. Mal leaned forward, his excitement now tempered with concern.

“What is it?”

“You know when we just talked with Lorelei and she told us about the fire that destroyed the town hall?”

He nodded.

“That fire happened on the very next day after Mom wrote that letter to Gram. She was probably still here.”

Mal was quiet for a few seconds. “Huh. Well, that’s a strange coincidence.” He ran his finger over the condensation on his mug of beer.

“Coincidence?” Ashley almost laughed.

“So what are you saying? That Mom had something to do with the fire?” He flashed her a look of concern, ayou’re not having crazy thoughts again, are youkind of look.

“I have no idea, but it’s weird, right?”

He shook his head. “You’ve gotta stop trying to solve riddles that don’t exist, making things more complicated than they need to be. It seems like she came to Boone’s Ferry a few days before…” He trailed off. “Which you have to admit is not likely to cheer anybody up. There’s no big conspiracy or mystery. It’s just a shitty, heartbreaking thing that happened.”

Mal reached out his hand for hers.

She pulled her hand away. “No. You believe what you want. But I can’t believe Mom would—”

“Maybe you didn’t know her as well as you thought you did,” Mal interrupted. “Maybe none of us did.”

The waitress arrived with their burgers, dropping them off unceremoniously. The burgers looked good, and the plates were piled high with homemade potato chips. But Ashley, who had been starving an hour ago, no longer had much of an appetite. She looked up at the photo of the horse-drawn cart above their table, her eyes glazed with tears, and realized she’d been so focused on the blurry driver that she hadn’t noticed the contents of the wagon.

There, draped across the back of it, was a dead horse, black or dark brown with a white spot on its face, its head tilted at an unnatural angle, hanging off the edge of the wagon.

TWENTY-THREESAD WILLY

October 17, 2016

Strangers. Strangers had come to town. Too early for hunters. Late leaf peepers, maybe? A couple out for a fall drive, an authentic New England experience? Disappointed to find they’d arranged the trip too late, that the trees were bare?

Could be.

But he didn’t think so.

These didn’t feel like your average tourists (not that many came out to Boone’s Ferry, not unless they were lost anyway).

No, they weren’t tourists. He was sure. It was the way they were hunched over the table, talking seriously. The woman, she looked worried, frightened, even. Her eyes kept darting around the room like she was expecting someone or something to come jumping out at her.

It felt important, them being here. Him seeing them. Like that was why he was in the pub, right now, at this moment. It was to see them.

Had they been sent here? Sent here to help him with his plan? To help him save the girl? Stop the knackerman?

Or were they just going to make everything worse, throw a wrench in the works?

Willy looked up, over the door to the kitchen, saw Denise on the old wall phone in there, talking animatedly. She had her eye on the strangers the whole time.

Willy knew exactly what she was doing. Sounding the alarm. The whole town, it was connected like one big web. Denise was just giving one of the threads a little tug, but that little tug would be felt all over town. Soon everyone would know about the strangers. Hell, they probably already did. The phone lines were probably buzzing as soon as an unfamiliar car was spotted coming over the pass and down Main Street.

Willy finished the last of his burger, wiped his bearded chin with a paper napkin. Then he sucked down his bourbon, slid off the barstool.

“Thanks for the drinks, boys,” he said, nodding at the others.

“Anytime, Sad Willy,” they all said, and he could tell they meant it.