A History of the Future by James Howard Kunstler Read Free Book Online Page A

would not burn down.
    Robert and Loren followed the mob out to Van Buren Street, then downtown, on Main Street. The new Union Tavern had already emptied out and that crowd had also moved down to the scene of the tragedy. The music circle crowd finally passed under the ancient railroad overpass that led into Mill Hollow, the site of Union Grove’s first industrial establishment, a flax braking works, built in the 1820s. Several dozen men and not a few women stood grimly outside the Stokes cottage. Candles flickered within and dark shapes moved around. Robert Earle had to fight his way up front through the combined mobs before he climbed four steps to the front door. Loren Holder, who held the so far largely ceremonial office of village constable and was the sole police presence in Union Grove, joined Robert on the deck to the entrance portico. The crowd appeared to them as more than the sum of the individuals in it—a threatening organism of uncertain appetites.
    “What do I say,” Robert asked Loren who, as a minister, had much more experience speaking before groups of people. Robert had been elected the village mayor by happenstance in June and was not a natural politician.
    “Thank them for showing concern,” Loren said leaning close to Robert’s ear.
    About a hundred faces looked up at Robert and Loren, dim in the meager light that came only through the windows from the rooms within.
    “Thank you for showing concern,” Robert said. “I don’t know as it’s necessary for all of you to stay around here.”
    “We want to know what happened,” said Eric Laudermilk.
    “What if there’s a killer on the loose?” said Petey Widgeon.
    The whole mixed crowd of musicians and tavern patrons rumbled anxiously.
    “If you show a little patience, we’ll try to find out what went on here and fill you in as soon as we have some information,” Loren said.
    “We may need some help carrying messages around town,” Robert added.
    “We already sent for the doc,” said Ian Hindley, a Schmidt farmhand who had been enjoying himself at the new bar some minutes earlier and was now shivering under a crude blanket poncho with no hat.
    “When he gets here, tell him to come right in,” Robert said. “The rest of you, please stay outside. We’ll let you know what’s up as soon as possible.”
    Robert and Loren entered the cottage. Three candles guttered around the first-floor rooms. Deeper inside, in the sitting room turned bedroom, Mandy Stokes sat on the bed staring into the rug, being quietly comforted by a neighbor woman on each side. Loren and Robert turned their attention to the figure of Rick Stokes splayed atop a heap of splintered cherrywood. The handle of a cook’s knife protruded conspicuously from the vivid dark splotch in the center of his wool coat. His eyes were fixed wide open and his mouth frozen in a morbid rictus of stupefaction. A dark viscous pool of liquid spread out on the floor beyond the splintered wood he lay upon. A much smaller bundle lay near him on the floor. Loren fetched a candle stub closer. He and Robert got down on their hands and knees to look.
    “Aw, jeezus,” Loren muttered, discerning that the bundle contained a baby and that the baby was motionless, its face gray.
    “What do you think?” Robert said.
    “Both dead,” Loren said.
    They lingered near the floor watching closely a good minute.
    “Do you suppose she killed him?” Robert whispered.
    “That might be one theory,” Loren said. He got up off his hands and knees and Robert did likewise.
    Of the several Mill Hollow men inside the house, Loren was slightly acquainted with Brad Kimmel, who ran one of the town’s few going cash businesses: a “fix-it” shop. In the old times he’d sold power tools at the Lowe’s big box store in Glens Falls.
    “Is that the husband and their child there on the floor?” Loren asked.
    “Yes it is,” Kimmel said. “Name of Rick. A decent fellow.”
    “You live down here, right?” Loren