She nodded. “Thanks again for the x-ray machine.”
He shook her hand. “No problem.”
“Will we see you at the clinic soon?”
Trish’s head popped up. Whatever he said now was being catalogued and would be reported back to her mom.
“I’ll have a few days off next month and come in with Wes then.”
“I may be gone. Justin and I, we’re—um—we’re getting married. Taking a little honeymoon time in Vegas. I never had that with Big Mike.”
“Congratulations.” Patrick didn’t bother to try to hide his relief.
***
Two hours later, their landing at the Johnson County Airport was blessedly anticlimactic. The wheels of the Tri-Pacer gripped the tarmac and slowed gradually. The runway had never been in better shape since Patrick had been flying there. He and other pilots had Mountain West Airlines to thank for it, as one of their planes had put down there by mistake a few months before, thinking they were landing at the nearby—and larger—Sheridan County Airport. No one had been injured, but the damage from the Boeing 737-200 had resulted in a fresh layer of asphalt, as well as a suspension for the pilot who had landed without air traffic control clearance. His case was still pending in federal court. As a pilot, Patrick prayed he never committed the kind of boneheaded mistake that made national news, or, God forbid, harmed any living creature.
He turned off the runway and taxied to his tie-downs, where he shut the plane down. In the sudden silence, the acrid smell in the cabin seemed stronger. Trish climbed out like a sloth, clutching a sloshy bag of what had been her lunch in Dubois, before she’d succumbed to another bout of air sickness on the way back to Buffalo. Her face was a pale greenish-gray.
After he’d secured the plane and completed his post-flight ritual, he and Trish walked in silence toward the office in the hangar. The wind blew jet fuel fumes straight into their faces. Trish put her hand over her nose.
“Would you look at that?” Patrick whistled as they passed a new-looking Cessna 421 with red and green stripes. Like Christmas. A low-wing twin engine, it would seat from six to seven depending on the configuration. And it was pressurized. An expensive plane. Nicer than any he’d ever seen locally.
“Whoop-de-doo,” Trish muttered.
It was certainly nicer than the red-bellied 210 Centurion beside it, a plane so old that it had the vintage strut-braced wing design. Centurions were great planes, though, and if this one’s owner would have invested the time and money to take care of it, it would have stood up well next to the 421. The owner in question was tinkering with the skin of the fuselage at that very moment. Bruce Folske, a legend at the airport, both for his heroic exploits as a pilot in Vietnam and for his daredevil tendencies in civil aviation. His latest renovation to the plane had been to install a jump door on the passenger side so he could take up skydivers.
Patrick shouted, “Bruce.”
The compact man turned and waved, then rubbed his shiny bald head. “Greetings, Dr. Flint. And little Flint.”
Patrick could feel Trish’s eye roll. “Fixing her up?”
“Oh, ya know. A little spit and polish.”
“Don’t I know it. I bought that Tri-Pacer I’ve been leasing. Lot of that for me from now on.”
“That old flying milk stool? Took you long enough.” Bruce laughed, then spat tobacco. The wind carried it dangerously close to Trish, who shrunk back. “Let’s grab bad coffee in the office sometime and you can tell me how much it set you back.”
Patrick tried not to react defensively to the comment about his new plane. It had earned the nickname honestly because of how close together its wheels were. He just considered it part of the family now, and, as such, felt a need to protect its honor and reputation. “Sounds good. Be seeing you.”
Bruce saluted.
Patrick pulled open the office door, entering after his grumpy daughter. From the far side of the room, a man in military-style boots and work coveralls with the sleeves cut off at the shoulder raised a hand in greeting. He had crewcut gray hair, deep dimples in each weathered cheek, and sparkling blue eyes.
“Want some, Flint?” He was pouring coffee into a Styrofoam cup from the electric percolator on the counter. He grinned at Trish. “From the looks of you, young lady, I’d say your father was doing loop-de-loops again.”
Trish groaned. “Practically.”
Patrick shook his head. “Thanks for the offer, Ernie, but I’m good.”
“Nice day for a flight.” Ernie dumped half a jar of Coffee Mate into his cup and stirred it with a finger discolored by airplane grease.
“Gorgeous up there.”
“I heard you had an incident in Dubois.”
Of course he’d heard. By now the news had reached every airport in the state. “Yeah. It was something else.” Ernie waited for details, but Patrick didn’t have the energy to give them. He was mentally worn down from the ordeal and long day of flying.
“Everything all right with your bird?”
“Running like a top. Could you fill her up when you get a chance?”
“As soon as the morning rush lets up, I’ll get right on it.”
Patrick smiled. The Johnson County airport did a decent business, but it wasn’t exactly a hub of frenetic activity. “You good here?”
Ernie turned, blowing on his coffee. The airport was his one-man show. Air traffic control, maintenance, mechanics, fuel, flight instruction, help with tie-downs, leasing of hangar space, directions, and maintaining the runway, which largely meant plowing snow and shooing wildlife away. All Ernie, all the time. “Good enough. Strange-talking characters been fueling up here lately, then taking off again. Little more than touch-and-gos in their fancy Golden Eagle. Foreigners.” He spat out the last word like chewing tobacco.
The Golden Eagle—another name for the 421 Patrick had seen tied down outside. “From another country?”
“No, Chicago or some such.”
Patrick laughed. “I hope you’re using your diplomatic skills.” Ernie was a Marine with four divorces to his name. There was no one Patrick knew with less diplomacy.
“Who, me?” Ernie winked. “But, honestly, I was, until they went and hired Bruce for a short haul job. He’s taking up his Centurion. I told them he ain’t got no business flying it until I get that fuel leak fixed, but would they listen to me?” He shook his head, the answer obvious.
Patrick would never fly a plane with a fuel leak. Bruce was a risktaker, though, which Eddie knew well. They’d served together, in the same squadron. It was how they ended up in the same small town at the same small airport. Brothers for life.
“How bad is the leak?”
“Oh, it’s a slow one, at least for now. But Bruce is dead broke. He can’t pay for the job until after they pay him, and I can’t order the parts without Bruce’s dough. We’re all in a pickle.” His phone rang, and he waved goodbye as he answered it. “Bronx Zoo House of Primates. Can I help you?”
Patrick waved back and put a hand on Trish’s shoulder. The two of them made their way out to his truck without any more conversation. With every step, the weariness Patrick had been fighting since Dubois grew heavier. Even with Ernie’s levity, the pall of finding the dead man on the runway hung over him. They got in the truck, and Trish put her head on the door and went to sleep, or at least feigned it. Patrick swallowed back a sigh. Sometimes being the adult wasn’t fun. The staying awake and driving while others slept, the putting on a brave front for everyone else, the soldiering on when you didn’t feel like it.
He put the truck in gear. He couldn’t wait to get home, hug his wife, and take a long, hot shower.
Chapter Four: Gulp
Buffalo, Wyoming
Flint Residence, Thursday, August 11, 1977, 4:00 p.m.
Susanne
Patricia Sand—Patrick’s baby sister—stood at the breakfast bar. She adjusted her flowered, round-necked top and poured two water glasses of rosé wine to the rim, without asking Susanne whether
she wanted any. Which Susanne did, but, at the same time, did not. The part of her that was bone weary after a week of reliving the Barb Lamkin ordeal wanted the whole bottle anyway. But the part of her that had miles to go before she slept did not. It was so early, unseemingly early, not even happy hour, and she had so much to do to prepare for Ronnie’s party the next day. Her stress was compounding. She hadn’t heard from Patrick and Trish, and they were late getting back from their flight to Dubois. Perry hadn’t been home all day and as mischievous as he was, she was always waiting for the other shoe to drop or the phone to ring. George Nichols, the electrician, was a no-show. How was she going to make dinner with no electricity in half the house—the half that included the kitchen—much less throw a party for fifteen women? And it had been out for two days already. Two long, long days shuttling food into coolers and cooking on the grill out back.
Susanne glanced at the clock, again. Four p.m. Where were Patrick and the kids? She noticed a small hole of light in her vision. Oh, no. A migraine was coming. Patrick had taken her to a neurologist in Denver the month before about her headaches. The doctor had given her a prescription, warning her that it would only work if she took it at the first sign of a migraine. The pills knocked her out, and she hated them, but she couldn’t afford to be in bed sick, especially tomorrow. She went to the kitchen cabinet. She kept her medicine there so she could take one fast with a glass of water. She pulled out the bottle and dumped a pill in her hand.
“You never age a bit, Susanne, and you get prettier every year. Do you color your hair?”
Susanne put a hand to her long brown locks. They were naturally wavy and matched her eyes. Her mother’s hair was darker and had gone salt-and-pepper when she was Susanne’s age, but her own hair wasn’t showing signs of it yet. Her thighs, on the other hand, were criss crossed with veins, and she wasn’t crazy about the lines around her eyes. As long as Patrick likes how you look. And he seems to like it quite a bit. She smiled. “No. And thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” Patricia took a dining chair close to the open window, then set down her wine on the checkered cloth placemat. She sipped daintily, her Patrick-blue eyes sparkling over the rim, and her center-parted Dorothy Hamill-cut hair swinging forward on her pretty, round cheekbones. “Mom won’t quit talking about the canoe trip.”
Originally, Patricia had planned for a long weekend visit, which Susanne had been elated about. As the youngest in her own family, she loved being the adored big sister. But then the visit had extended into ten days. Ten days, each growing longer than the last, with the dual pressure of the trial and being the hostess with the mostest to her sister-in-law. Not that Patricia had come with expectations of being entertained. Susanne just couldn’t help herself. But, taking her own shortcomings out of the equation, she still ascribed to the Benjamin Franklin adage that guests, like fish, started to smell after three days.
And the visit might extend even longer. Patricia didn’t have to be back in Austin to teach her kindergarteners for another week. Susanne was starting classes at Sheridan College then anyway, resuming her quest to obtain a degree in education. With the hours she’d accrued at colleges in Austin and Dallas, she only had three semesters to go until she’d be student teaching. It seemed so close and yet so far. She’d hoped to have a little break between Patricia’s visit and her own return to academia, to mentally prepare herself, but it didn’t appear she’d be getting it.
Ferdinand, the family’s Irish wolfhound, flopped down beside Patricia. The two had become best buds, thanks to Patricia ignoring her brother’s admonitions not to feed the beggar from the dinner table. He’d finally given up. Susanne had a feeling this was a big hairy genie that wouldn’t go easily back into a bottle when Patricia left.
She filled a glass of water from the tap and swallowed her pill, hoping she was in time to stop the migraine. Patricia’s comment still rang in her ears. She just bet her mother-in-law Lana was still talking about the Gros Ventre Wilderness canoe trip. They’d all nearly died at the hands of the horrible men they’d run into there. Trish and her cousin Bunny had gotten lost, then been kidnapped. Perry had sustained a life-threatening head injury. Patrick had twisted his ankle, and Lana had sprained her wrist. If Susanne never went on another outdoor adventure with her husband, it would be too soon.
A breeze wafted through the window, lifting Patricia’s bangs and ruffling the sides of her hair. “Does this view ever get old?”
Susanne looked out the window above the sink. “No, it really doesn’t. Especially in the spring and early summer when the wildflowers are out. Although a lot of the year it’s nothing but ice and snow.” She could hear the meadowlarks singing and the water burbling as Clear Creek tumbled past the back of the house. A smooth, grassy lawn rolled down from the deck to the towering cottonwoods that lined the banks. Far beyond the creek, the foothills of the Bighorn Mountains muscled their way out of the plains up toward bright afternoon sunlight.
“Do you think you’re ever moving back to Texas?”
Susanne paced the kitchen. It was shadowy without electric light. Her mind had wandered to what she was going to feed her family for dinner. To say Patrick wasn’t big on eating out was an epic understatement. The man was allergic to spending money. But they’d cooked and consumed their freezer reserves, and, without power and refrigerated food, peanut butter and honey sandwiches were about all she could throw together. Well, so be it, then. She assembled the ingredients on the counter, vaguely aware that Patricia had said something to her from her seat at the table, ten feet away. She opened the peanut butter jar and recoiled. The smell. The oily, peanut-y smell of it was overpowering.
Uh oh. Sensitivity to light and smell were . . .
A sudden wave of nausea nearly bowled her over. She gripped the edge of the countertop, trying to keep the migraine at bay through sheer force of will. The hole in the light grew larger, and then, inside it, she saw a series of images flit through. Patrick and an American Indian man she didn’t know. Trish and Perry, kneeling on the ground by a stack of felled timber. Henry and Ben—the young man the Sibleys had taken in a few months before—riding horses at full speed through a forest, dodging tree limbs. And Barbara Lamkin, holding a baby in a dark parking lot.
“Susanne, I said do you think you’ll ever move back to Texas?” Patricia repeated.
Susanne’s visions faded. She drew in a deep breath. “I don’t know how to answer that.” Continuing to breathe through her mouth, she laid out slices of soft wheat bread on plates. The strange images were coming more frequently with the aura recently, and she didn’t understand it. She hadn’t told Patrick about them. She didn’t want to scare him. Come on, drugs. She cleared her throat. “Patrick loves it here. So do the kids. We’ve made good friends.”
“But don’t you miss being close to family?”
“I do. Terribly. We’ll see.” When Patrick had agreed they’d buy their dream house on the creek, she had committed they could stay in Wyoming indefinitely. Susanne was a good sport, and she wouldn’t go back on her word. As long as family kept visiting them, she’d be all right. But she could do with a good, long trip back to Texas, and soon.
The front door opened. “Mom, I’m home!” It was Perry.
“Where have you been?” She wheeled with her hands on her hips. Too fast. The room tilted, her stomach lurched. But it wasn’t just her son. Perry’s best friend John was with him, as was their electrician, George. And Perry had a black eye and blood all over his face and shirt. “Oh, my!” She put a hand on her chest. “What happened to you?”
George raised his hand. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Flint. He begged me not to go easy on him.”
“What?” This grown man, this virtual stranger, had done this to her son? He was twice Perry’s weight. Seven or eight inches taller.
Perry grinned. “It’s okay, Mom. We were playing football. George was a safety in high school, so I was running routes on him.”
George nodded vigorously, his blond curls bo
uncing. The man looked a little bit like that rakish singer, Rod Stewart. She wasn’t sure that was a good thing. “He did really well, too, Mrs. Flint.”
So, George was playing football while her freezer continued its unscheduled defrost? She forgot all about her son’s injuries. “I thought you were going to be here today, George. I was counting on you. I have out-of-town company, and tomorrow I’m throwing a party. I need electricity in my kitchen.”
He put his hand over his heart, a horrified look on his face. “I had you on the schedule for tomorrow afternoon.”
Susanne fought to keep her voice under control. Catch more flies with honey than vinegar. That was easier to do when her head wasn’t hurting. Well, she’d just have to settle with catching a few less flies. “Tomorrow afternoon is when this house will be full of ladies expecting to be fed and entertained. Tomorrow afternoon is too late.”
George frowned, his forehead folding up like a pleated shirt, his ice-blue eyes meeting hers with a direct, steady gaze. “I’m sorry. I don’t know how I got that mixed up. I’ll be here first thing in the morning. I’d start now, but your parts are back at my place, out near Big Horn.”
“How long will it take you to get things working once you start?”
“A coupla three hours, I’d guess.”
“The party is at three-thirty.”
“No problem, ma’am.”
“You promise?”
He held up two fingers, one of which bore a long, jagged scar. “Scout’s honor.” Then he grinned. “Does that count if I was never in Boy Scouts?”
The front door opened again.
Susanne turned. Trish led the way in. Patrick followed her. Her eyes rested on her husband. Six feet in his socks, beautiful blue eyes, skin tanned from the outdoors, a trim physique, and light brown hair, thinning on top and receding a little bit in front. In her mind, perfect.
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