Susanne scanned the street in both directions. Where was a police officer when she needed one? She started rocking in her seat. Why weren’t the cops all over the roads looking for Barb? Or for Susanne? Surely they had APBs out on both vehicles? But Susanne hadn’t seen a single one since she’d left her house. She heard a keening noise and looked around. It took her a moment to realize it was her own voice. Get hold of yourself. She put her hand over her mouth and stopped rocking.
Barb replaced the nozzle, got back in the car, and used the furthest exit to turn onto the street, heading away from the interstate. Susanne held still. One one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand, four one thousand, five one thousand, she counted, then eased out and followed the truck. Barb didn’t drive far before she turned right onto Coffeen, away from Sheridan College and toward downtown. Susanne was familiar with the area, since she’d recently registered for fall classes at Sheridan College.
She followed Barb down Coffeen and onto Main, pacing her through downtown, where Barb turned on a left blinker, stopping for oncoming traffic in front of the Dairy Queen. Susanne eased past the restaurant and parked on the street front of a hotel. She watched Barb over her shoulder.
Barb made her left turn.
“Go in, go in, go in,” she whispered.
The Chevy pulled into the drive-through.
“Spit in a well bucket.”
Susanne had a few minutes to spare while Barb was in line. She looked around frantically for cops, a pay phone, or even a pedestrian. Someone. Anyone. But there was no one and no pay phones outside the buildings around her. A vehicle passed going the other direction. She considered getting out and flagging one down, but Barb might see her and drive off.
Her stomach growled. And there was that. Hunger. She wanted food and something to drink, too. Fat chance.
Barb slipped out of sight in the drive-through line. Traffic tapered off, and Susanne was alone on the street. She backed up, going the wrong direction on Main, until she could see the drive-through line from the other side. Barb was pulling up to the window. Out of nervous frustration, Susanne turned on the radio. Maybe one of the stations would provide updates on Barb’s escape.
On the first station, Mac Davis was crooning “Baby Don’t Get Hooked on Me.” No. She spun the dial and found Abba and “Dancing Queen.”
“Where is the news?” She turned the dial again and again until a staticky voice came through her speakers.
“—escaped from custody while on trial for first-degree murder in Buffalo. Shortly after her escape, Lamkin kidnapped an infant from his foster mother, Johnson County Deputy Veronica Harcourt. The boy is Lamkin’s birth child but had been removed from her custody pending the outcome of this trial. Lamkin is five foot ten inches tall and has long red hair which she may be covering with a green and yellow baseball cap. She was last seen wearing baggy jeans and a brown Cowboys sweatshirt with yellow lettering. Lamkin is armed and considered dangerous. If you see her, call 911 and do not approach her. In other news . . .”
The Chevy rolled forward from the drive-through window to the street. Susanne ducked behind her sun visor and turned off the radio. They hadn’t told her anything she didn’t already know. Barb turned left. After a few seconds, Susanne eased behind Barb’s vehicle. The truck turned east on Fifth, then got back on the interstate, headed north again. Susanne couldn’t believe it. The woman still hadn’t taken care of Will, unless she did it in the drive-through line at light speed. And could Susanne even afford to keep following her, or should she bail out now and make her calls? She stared at her gas gauge. It wasn’t whether she could afford to follow her. It was whether she could afford not to, and the answer to that was easy.
She accelerated onto the interstate behind Barb. She had enough gas to make it to Ranchester, the next town. After that, well, she didn’t know what she’d do.
She’d just have to think of something.
Chapter Thirty-seven: Lead
Lower Little Goose Trail, Cloud Peak Wilderness, Bighorn Mountains, Wyoming
Friday, August 12, 1977, 7:00 p.m.
Perry
Perry stumbled over an exposed rock. He lost his balance, flailed his arms, then staggered a few steps, passing Yeti without looking up at what was on his back. The horse didn’t react to Perry’s herky-jerky dance.
“I’ll take him.” Perry held out his hand to George for Yeti’s lead line.
George passed it over without a word.
Yeti shoved his nose against Perry’s hand, drawing in a full breath of his scent. The horse nodded, as if deciding it would be all right to cede control to a boy. Perry’s head swam. Maybe the horse was wrong to trust him. He had thought this was the right thing to do. John was his friend. He was up here because of him. He should be the one to lead him out. But now that he was standing under Yeti’s head with the sleeping bag visible on either side of Yeti’s round torso, it felt wrong.
“Let me take him,” George said to Trish.
Perry glanced back at them. Trish gave George the line to the other horse. Then Trish marched up beside Perry. She’d stuck close to his heels on the way down, but she’d left him alone, not forcing him to talk about his feelings or trying to make things better. Or going on and on about Ben, which would have been just as bad.
“I’ll walk with you, Snaggle Tooth,” she said.
His throat felt tight and itchy.
They set out, George and the other horse in the rear. Perry hadn’t cried yet, but tears were so close to leaking out that they stung his eyes. He wouldn’t think about John behind on that horse. He just couldn’t. Like he couldn’t think about their friends finding out John was gone. Or John’s parents. He couldn’t think about all the plans he and John had made for the football season, or the way John had looked at that cheerleader Kelsey. He especially couldn’t think about the fact that they had never gotten the football out of the saddle bag up on Highland Park. All he had to think about was putting one foot in front of the other and holding on to Yeti’s rope.
At least for now.
The forest was growing dark. His dad had told him that the closer you got to the east side of the mountains, the earlier the sun set. Perry knew that was what was happening now, even though it wasn’t time for sunset down in Buffalo. The sun had been warm since the storm broke, and then the temperature fell again. He was numb to it. The sounds around him seemed louder, and the clean forest smells stronger. This is when animals came out. He wondered if any predators were monitoring their presence. Bears, mountain lions, coyotes. Normally, he didn’t think about them much. But he had John to protect. His eyes darted from left to right, scanning for any evidence they were being stalked and not seeing any.
He tripped again. Trish grabbed his arm. Yeti bumped him with his nose, exhaling a warm windstorm down his neck. It was getting hard to see where to put his feet. The moon was rising, but the trees blocked most of its light.
The tears burned but didn’t fall.
He led Yeti past the wooden sign on a tree. CLOUD PEAK WILDERNESS, it read, going in the opposite direction. Did that mean this was the end of the line? He’d never been on this trail before.
George would tell them when to stop, though, so he kept going. The bottom of his feet ached, and the back of his heel stung from a new blister. Wet cowboy boots weren’t made for long distance downhill hikes. Don’t be such a baby. Aching feet were nothing. John wouldn’t ever get blisters from the wrong boots again. Perry knew his friend would rather have had them than be killed by a bullet.
He tried to breathe and something went wrong. His lungs wouldn’t work. He panicked for a second, then he bent over his knees. Trish put a hand on his shoulder. And then his breath came back like it had never gone. He gasped and started walking again. Trish did, too.
They passed another sign, again going the opposite direction. He turned to look. It announced the start of the trail and end of vehicle traffic.
A voice pulled him up short. “Whatcha got on
that horse, son? It’s not hunting season yet.”
Perry whirled to his right. The voice belonged to a man. He was short and built like a bulldog. His thighs bulged so much Perry wondered how he kept from splitting his khaki pants. A shiny badge was pinned to his shirt pocket. A deputy? Behind him, a truck was parked by a cold campfire ring. There was a Wyoming Game & Fish decal on the truck door. No, a game warden. Perry looked at Trish. Her eyes were wide.
George hurried to the game warden, dragging the other horse, his arm out like he was putting up a wall between him and the Flints. “I’m George Nichols. These two kids are Trish and Perry Flint. Their father, Patrick Flint, is still up on the mountain. We’ve had a tragedy, sir. We were attacked by some men up on the trail. They shot one of our party.”
The game warden’s jaw dropped. “Come again?”
George dropped his arm and wiped his hand on his jeans. It was shaking. “I’m sorry. I know this is a lot of story to explain and even more to take in. But that’s Perry’s friend John on the horse. And I’m sad to say he’s dead. We’re packing him down.”
The game warden turned to Perry. “I’m Game & Fish Warden Alan Turner. I know your father. I’m sorry about your friend.” He stuck his hand out to Perry.
Perry shook the man’s hand, trying to keep his own from being limp as a fish. When he pulled his back, he saw that it was stained with oily dirt from the horses. “Perry Flint.”
The warden shook Trish’s hand. “Ms. Flint.”
Trish just nodded.
The warden said, “I apologize, but it’s my job to make sure no one is poaching. I’ve heard wilder stories, so let me just take a look at what you’re packing back here, and . . .” His voice trailed off as he ran his hand along John’s body, from his waist down his legs and feet.
Perry was pretty sure a dead teenage boy felt nothing like an elk carcass.
The warden’s face seemed to go pale, although it was hard to be sure in the low light. “Okay, then. Somebody needs to start over at the beginning and take me through this, real slow.”
Perry wanted to be the one who did. He wanted to man up and prove himself like he had when Barb Lamkin had nearly killed his mom and sister. But when he opened his mouth to speak, no words came out, and the tears he’d been holding at bay finally broke through.
Chapter Thirty-eight: Exit
Base of Black Tooth Mountain, Cloud Peak Wilderness, Bighorn Mountains, Wyoming
Friday, August 12, 1977, 9:00 p.m.
Patrick
“Pull.” Patrick put his weight into his pry bar. He’d fashioned two of them from strong, young trees he’d chopped and stripped.
Eddie grunted and strained against the other pry bar, with his one good arm. Sweat beaded on Patrick’s forehead. That blow torch he hadn’t brought would have finished this job in minutes, but all they had to peel back the plane’s skin was ingenuity and sweat equity. The Centurion’s torn metal siding squeaked and groaned. They were starting to make modest progress.
Patrick gritted his teeth and pulled harder. He’d hoped to get Elvin and his newly caged leg out through the opening where the door had been, but there just wasn’t room to do it without injuring him further. If they could remove the side of the plane, though, Patrick would be able to ease him out and onto the ground without ramming him into anything. It would still be painful. It would still be difficult. But it would be far more humane.
If, being the operative word. The good news is these planes are strong. The bad news is . . .
With a screech, the tear in the panel gave way. Eddie fell on his rear, cursing. Patrick stayed upright, just barely.
“Out of sight.” Elvin’s sallow face was visible through the new hole in the side of the plane.
Patrick was worried about infection and sepsis. All of their efforts would be for naught if the man died. They had to hurry. For Elvin’s sake, and because they would need some visibility to get down the boulder field, and the sun had all but disappeared.
“Almost ready for you,” Patrick said.
“A hand?” Eddie glared up at Patrick from the ground.
Patrick clasped him by the wrist and hauled him up. You’re slowing us down, he wanted to say. But better to be civil than to antagonize him and slow them down further.
“Eddie,” Elvin said. It was the first time the men had laid eyes on each other or spoken since the crash.
“Elvin. Or should I say Deep Throat?” Eddie’s voice was a hiss.
Patrick frowned. Deep Throat? It took him a moment to process the reference, but he’d heard it used frequently in relation to the informant in the Watergate scandal. Did Eddie mean Elvin was an informant? But an informant to whom and about what? The money? Clearly it wouldn’t be hidden in the false skin of an airplane unless it was tainted. Stolen or obtained through illegal means.
Trouble seemed to be getting deeper by the second.
Elvin’s voice was raspy and defensive. “Not me. We got rid of him.”
The two of them had gotten rid of an informant? He glanced through the window at what was left of the pilot. Were they talking about Bruce? But his death had been caused by the crash. If not him, who, then? And when and where had they gotten rid of him?
Eddie glared at Elvin. “I was talking about everything you told Dr. Flint.”
Patrick needed Elvin out of the plane so they could start their long descent. That meant he needed them not to kill each other right now. Answers to questions about informants would have to wait. He wished he could just leave these two up on the mountain. Blast my Hippocratic oath. Blast it to hell and back. “Come on. We’ve got to get him out of there, Eddie. Just a little bit more on the edges of this panel.”
Eddie continued his staring contest with Elvin, showing no sign he’d heard Patrick.
Patrick sighed. Using his bare hands, he bent the metal back as far as he could. The panel ruptured, and twenty-dollar bills fluttered in the wind.
Eddie ran after the money, stuffing bills into his jacket.
Patrick worked on a sharp edge.
Elvin shouted, “Leave it, Eddie. Help get me out of here.”
Eddie kept grabbing money. “A year of work. Nothing to show for it.”
Patrick snorted, his disgust breaking through. “You’ll think nothing if your buddies catch up with us.”
Eddie disappeared behind the plane, still chasing the money.
Behind Patrick, a cheerful voice said, “Looks like you’re in a heap of trouble.”
Patrick wheeled toward the voice, hand instinctively going for his chest holster. But the accent didn’t sound like the men from Chicago. When he saw the speaker, he dropped his arm from the draw position. It was the climber he’d seen earlier, still wearing the pack with gear swinging and clanking as he walked, his eyes hidden behind sunglasses.
The man adjusted his Broncos ball cap. He had a trickle of dried blood on his neck that Patrick hadn’t noticed earlier. “Didn’t mean to startle you. Can I help?”
Patrick frowned. The man hadn’t said a word about the wrecked plane. Did he not see it and the injured man inside it? How odd. Disconcerting bordering on suspicious. “Hello, again. And thanks. I’m just trying to smooth this metal out enough that we can get the man inside out without hacking him up on the way. I need to curve it back. Like this.” Patrick curled the metal outward until the lethal edge was neutralized.
The man nodded. “Doesn’t look too hard.” Without taking off his glasses, he set to work alongside Patrick in silence. Patrick couldn’t tell where the blood was coming from, but the guy wasn’t acting like he was in pain. There was an unpleasant smell to him. Not like body odor. Like garbage. Or death. Patrick switched to breathing through his mouth, which helped. He quickly realized the climber was very strong, although several inches shorter than his own six feet, without an ounce of fat on him. If he wanted to overpower Patrick, he might be able to do it, especially with the pickax in easy reach. Patrick kept an eye on him, just in case. A few minutes l
ater, the men had an opening that looked safe enough to bring Elvin through.
Patrick shook the climber’s hand, still wary. “Thank you. I’m trying to get him down the mountain tonight. Every minute gained helps.”
“I wish I could stay and do more, but I have to get back to my family. I promised them I wouldn’t be late. You got it from here?”
It wasn’t as if the man owed Patrick assistance, but warning bells clanged inside Patrick anyway. Most people wouldn’t just walk away from someone attempting to make a solo rescue of a plane crash survivor off a peak. He hadn’t even offered to make a call or take a message down. It wasn’t the Wyoming way. People here always offered their help and relied on each other.
Something about the man just seemed off. Could he be spying on them for Orion and company? It seemed unlikely. He was genuine, if . . . distant. Patrick tried to shrug off his suspicions. The man had helped him, after all. “Well, the other survivor is in good enough shape to walk out, so—”
“Great. Be seeing you on the mountain.” The man turned to go.
An idea struck Patrick. The man seemed knowledgeable about the area. “I don’t mean to slow you down, but do you know the easiest way to get down from here? I’m going to be carrying this guy out on a travois.” Who knows—maybe he would offer help after hearing that.
The climber smiled. “Sure. It’s a little longer, but there’s a dirt path. Less steep and no bouldering until, oh, maybe eighty percent of the way down this pitch.”
“Could you point me to it?”
He oriented his finger north. “Head straight across the boulder field. You won’t be able to miss it. It’ll switchback down and dead end back into the rocks above where you parked your rides.”
“Thank you. That will be much easier.”
The climber saluted and resumed his departure. Nope. Not going to offer. Patrick shook his head. Then he called out after him. “I didn’t catch your name.”
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