Sawbones

by Pamela Fagan Hutchins

  His dad started firing questions at him so fast that it made his ears even hotter.

  Perry closed his eyes, trying to remember. He answered his dad the best he could, but he stumbled when he got to the part about losing his pocketknife. “I, um, I’m sorry.” He’d lost a glove, too, but he left that part out.

  But his dad didn’t get mad about the pocketknife. He rubbed at his beard. It was a really wimpy beard. Perry wished he would shave it off. Or just not make Perry be seen in public with him. “We need to take you in to tell someone in the sheriff’s office about this when we get back to Buffalo.” He looked at his wristwatch. “I’m due inside for the boys’ game.” He walked off fast, then turned for a second. “We’ll talk about that pocketknife later.”

  Rats. Perry thought he’d gotten off easy about the knife for a minute.

  “I need to check on Trish,” his mom said. “Before she and Brandon do something dumb and Donna Lewis comes after us again.”

  Perry widened his eyes at her, trying to look innocent. “Yeah, I think she was going to find him before the game.” He actually had no idea if she’d planned that or not. He just liked it better when his parents were grilling Trish instead of him.

  Susanne growled, and she hustled Perry inside. His legs felt heavy as he climbed the bleachers, because of the ankle weights he’d strapped on that morning. If he was ever going to be a downhill racer, his legs needed to be stronger. He and his mom sidled down a row and took a seat. It seemed like everyone he knew from Buffalo had come to Laramie, all except for his friends.

  His mom stood and scanned the stands for Trish. Perry searched, too, conscious of the squeak of sneakers on the hardwood floor, the smell of buttery popcorn, and a cold breeze coming from somewhere above him. When he turned to look for the source of the air—an open window at the top of the stands—he saw Trish sitting with the girls’ varsity basketball team, near the window. They had won their consolation round game that morning, so he knew they had to play again later in the day. He was surprised Trish wasn’t with Brandon. Where was he? He glanced down toward the gymnasium floor. Even though he was hurt, Brandon was with his team. He was in a track suit, sitting on the first row of the bleachers, watching them warm up.

  Perry was about to tell his mom where Trish was, when he saw something that made his heart pound like a jackhammer. A tall, dark-headed kid was right behind Brandon. Perry had seen him before, two times. The first time was up in the Bighorn Mountains, in Cloud Peak Wilderness, burying a man in the dark. The second time was in a picture with a newspaper article about his sister’s kidnapping ordeal. He even knew his name. Ben Jones.

  Wasn’t he supposed to be locked up?

  Ben wasn’t watching the team. He was facing up into the stands, right at Perry. At first, Perry thought Ben was staring at him. Then he realized Ben was staring past him. Perry turned in his seat, following Ben’s gaze.

  Trish was up there. Was Ben staring at Trish? He needed to tell somebody.

  He stole a glance at his mom. Someone had taken a seat beside her, and they were yakking. He knew it would be rude to interrupt her, and he couldn’t talk to his dad, because he was on the court with the boys’ coach. Perry started bouncing his knee.

  His mom was talking in a happy camper voice. “Patrick told me that Governor Rawlins and Judge Renkin were talking about their secret plans for Renkin’s future the other day. I’ll bet it was about that Senate campaign you told me about.”

  “I’m not surprised,” the woman replied. He couldn’t see who she was, but she didn’t sound like anyone he knew.

  Susanne turned to Perry and whispered, “You’re bouncing the entire bleachers. Stop it.”

  He froze, feeling like a baby.

  Susanne leaned back toward the other woman. “I’ve been meaning to ask you, if it’s not too personal. At church, you mentioned a boyfriend. Is he someone I know?”

  The woman laughed. “We’re keeping it under wraps for now. There’s quite an age difference between us, and, as a coach, I have to be sensitive to parents’ perceptions. But I think you’ll recognize his name when we go public.”

  Boring lady stuff. He couldn’t wait any longer. “Um, Mom?” He tapped her shoulder.

  She held up a hand. “Just a second.”

  “It’s okay.” The woman his mom was talking to leaned around her and smiled at him. “Hi, Perry.”

  Perry drew in a whistley breath he hoped she couldn’t hear. “Hi, Coach Lamkin.” All the boys in his class thought Coach Lamkin was super foxy. She was pretty, with her long red hair and green eyes, but also kind of scary. Tall and strong and . . . something he couldn’t put his finger on that gave him funny fluttery feelings in his belly. His favorite teacher, Ms. Tavejie, was prettier and a lot nicer. Back when he was little, he’d had a crush on Ms. Tavejie. Now, he realized she’d probably never like him back. Not in that way. But he still liked looking at her.

  The coach pointed. “What is that you have around your ankles?”

  Perry muttered, “Ankle weights.” How embarrassing.

  She nodded approvingly. “Nice. Are you going to play basketball next year?”

  “I’m not sure. I’m not very good.”

  “That’s okay. You’ll get better if you practice.” She kept her gaze locked on his.

  It made him nervous, and he blurted out, “I want to ski.”

  “Oh?”

  He couldn’t believe he’d said it, but it was true. “I want to be the next Andy Mill.”

  “You know he grew up here, right?”

  “Here, in Wyoming?” Perry’s voice squeaked, and he wanted to crawl under the bleachers.

  “Here, in Laramie. At least for a few years. I’m from here, and I used to babysit him.”

  “Really?” Perry no longer cared that he was squeaking.

  “Really.”

  “That must have been so cool.”

  She laughed. “He wasn’t famous then. He was just an energetic boy who didn’t want to go to bed.”

  Perry considered his idol as a boy. If Andy Mill had been ordinary back then, like Perry was now, then maybe Perry could become a great racer, too.

  “Where do you ski?” the coach asked.

  “Meadowlark.”

  “Only once,” Susanne said. “Last weekend was his first time.”

  Perry had another urge to roll his eyes. This time he felt less guilty about it.

  Coach Lamkin smiled. “You’ve gotta start somewhere. How did it go?”

  Perry shrugged, trying to be as cool a cat as Brandon was when people asked him about basketball. “Oh, pretty good.”

  Susanne leaned close to the coach. “Other than we think he may have seen the person who murdered Jeannie Renkin.”

  “What?” The coach put a hand on her chest. “That’s terrifying.”

  Susanne pressed her fingers to her mouth. “I shouldn’t have said anything. We haven’t taken him in to tell Sheriff Westbury about it yet. Please don’t repeat that to anyone.”

  Perry chewed the inside of his lip. He was pretty sure his mom had just done a bad thing that his dad would be unhappy about. Perry wasn’t going to be the one to tell him, though. What dad doesn’t know won’t hurt anyone.

  Coach Lamkin made a zipping motion across her lips. “Mum’s the word.”

  Perry decided it was time to point his mom’s attention elsewhere. “Hey, Mom, there’s Trish.” He pointed.

  “With Brandon?” Susanne craned her neck to see.

  “No. Brandon’s with his team. She’s with the girls’ team. But I think there’s something you need to know.” He told her he’d seen Ben Jones.

  Just like he’d expected, she wigged out.

  Chapter Eleven: Parent

  Laramie, Wyoming

  Saturday, March 12, 1977, 2:15 p.m.

  Patrick

  Patrick tapped his foot on the glossy wooden floorboards. He was sitting courtside next to Coach Lamkin, available in case one of the Buffalo girls sustained an
injury, with the game due to start in fifteen minutes. In front of him, the team was running through warm-up drills. He knew his lips were moving. Worry about what Perry had seen was eating him up from the inside out. He felt like if he could just get outside—go for a run, a hike, even a drive—it would clear his mind and help him harness his energy and thoughts more productively. But he couldn’t. Duty kept him here.

  He rubbed his palm against his forehead. Had his son stumbled across a murderer? Worse, had that person seen Perry? If it was someone local, Perry wasn’t hard to identify or track down, and they’d had a whole week to do it. God, how he wished Perry had said something about it immediately. The kid dumbfounded him sometimes. He should have put two and two together as soon as he heard about the shooting. But what seemed logical and obvious to Patrick never seemed to occur to Perry. His son viewed the world with less suspicion. It was a good trait, he supposed. They were different in other ways, too. Perry didn’t bounce his knee, talk to himself, or drive everyone around him crazy with his high expectations. At least not that Patrick had seen.

  A ball bounced off the court right at him. He jerked back and caught it inches from his jaw. A girl bounded after it, and he handed it to her.

  “Thanks, Dr. Flint,” she said.

  He nodded. “No problem.”

  Trish tapped his shoulder. She was crouched behind him. “Dad, can I go to the concession stand with Brandon?”

  “No.” They didn’t need trouble with Kemecke’s sister Donna Lewis.

  Coach Lamkin leaned in. “Not to be eavesdropping, but you should let her.” She turned and winked at Trish.

  Trish beamed. “Thanks, Coach. It will be okay, Dad. There are lots of people around. It’s not like we’re sneaking off somewhere.”

  “But Mrs. Lewis is here.” Not that he should let her go anyway. They had promised to support Donna Lewis’s rules, whether she was there or not.

  “She left after the boys lost again. With her new boyfriend, or whoever it is she’s always hanging out with.”

  Coach Lamkin talked out of the side of her mouth. “What’s it hurt, Pops?”

  Pops? He was beginning to get a little irritated with Lamkin’s interference.

  “Please, Dad?”

  Trish’s big blue eyes did him. “Okay. Just this once.”

  “Thank you. And I’m sure Mrs. Lewis won’t find out. Even if she does, I’m practically on her good side. She didn’t even bawl me out or anything today.” Trish stood to go.

  “Bawl you out?”

  “She does that sometimes. Like last week. I told her she couldn’t keep mom and me from testifying at her brother’s trial. She said, ‘We’ll just see about that’ in a mean tone of voice.”

  That sounds like a threat. Patrick worked his jaw. Today he was getting bombarded with one piece of bad news after another. “When was this?”

  “Um, after the Sibleys let me ride home with Brandon.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us?”

  “I forgot about it.” She sighed. “And there’s something else I forgot to tell you.”

  He stood, bracing himself, and saw Brandon standing further down the row. He lifted a hand in greeting. Brandon returned the gesture. “What is it?”

  “Uh, she said for me to tell you that our family wasn’t able to keep Ben locked up, and they won’t let us ruin her brother’s life either.”

  “Ben? Not locked up?”

  “Not anymore.”

  Patrick’s jaw literally dropped. The kid was supposed to be in juvie until he aged out.

  “I was surprised, too. He’s out on early release and living with the Lewises again.”

  “When did you find out?”

  “Last Saturday.”

  “I’m not happy you didn’t tell us about this earlier. Days ago. That boy kidnapped you.”

  “I’m telling you now, though. That’s good, right?”

  Coach Lamkin whispered, “That’s good, Daddy-o.”

  Patrick gritted his teeth. He wasn’t sure which was worse—Pops or Daddy-o.

  “Love you, Dad.” Trish kissed him on the cheek.

  “Love you, too.”

  She scampered off with Brandon. Then the coach rose and signaled for the players to join her for the pre-game huddle.

  Patrick stayed seated on his chair and fumed.

  Chapter Twelve: Strategize

  Interstate 90, Kaycee, Wyoming

  Saturday, March 12, 1977, 7:30 p.m.

  Susanne

  Susanne scooted closer to Patrick on the bench seat, close enough to kiss his furry cheek. It was prickly, even after more than two months of growth. They’d just blown through Kaycee, one of those “blink and you’ll miss it” type of towns. Only an hour until they would be home. On either side of the interstate, the landscape was white as far as the eye could see. East, into buttes, and west, all the way up the face of the Bighorns. It was austere and beautiful, but winter in Wyoming lasted a long, long time, and she was ready for a change of season. Green grass, baby animals, and wildflowers.

  “Hey, handsome.” She rubbed her husband’s neck. It was as furry as his cheek. “Let me cut this when we get home. Front and back.”

  He grinned. “It’s not spring until March 21st.”

  “Just the neck then.”

  He pretended to think about it. “Just the neck, on March 21st.”

  “Have it your way, Mountain Man.” She ran her index finger over the bunched lines on his forehead. “You’ve been talking to yourself.”

  He grimaced. “I’ve been wishing Billy Kemecke died up on that mountain.” He glanced in the rearview mirror and frowned.

  Susanne sighed. She looked into the back seat. Both of her not-so-little-anymore kids were sacked out, Perry with his head on Trish’s thighs, and Trish with her head on Perry’s hip. Good. She and Patrick could talk freely, if they kept it down. “Unfortunately, I’m not that accurate a shooter.”

  “I’m not blaming you. You saved all our lives. And I know it’s un-Christian of me to wish for someone’s death.” Now his eyes cut to the sideview mirror. The lines between them deepened.

  “Then I guess I’m guilty of being un-Christian, too, because I’ve had the same thought.” She swiveled her head to get a view of the roadway behind them. From what she could see, it was just a normal evening on a mostly empty Wyoming highway. “What are you looking at back there that has you so agitated?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ve been watching your mirrors. And frowning.”

  He slow-nodded several times. “The same station wagon has been on our tail since we got to the interstate.”

  “Station wagon? That doesn’t sound very sinister.” She smiled.

  “That’s probably what Kemecke would have said if someone told him you were walking up on him and look how that turned out.”

  “True. But it’s probably nothing. Half of Buffalo was in Laramie this weekend, and, with the games over, we’re all heading home at the same time.”

  “It’s not a car I recognize.”

  She’d learned to respect his instincts. If something had him rattled, it was probably worth being rattled over, which ramped up her own tension. She knew him well, though, and she didn’t feel like she’d gotten the whole story yet. She snuck another peek at the kids. They were still asleep. “What else is wrong?”

  He shook his head. “You’re persistent.”

  “And usually right.”

  “Well, there’s Perry’s revelation. And Trish also told me that Ben is out of juvie.”

  “I’m so glad she did. Perry told me, and I was planning on telling you as soon as we had a moment alone.”

  His voice held a little bit of an edge. “Dad’s always the last to know.”

  “I only found out this afternoon.”

  He huffed, but it was a self-aware sound. Almost a sigh. “She also said Donna Lewis is being aggressive.” He cut his eyes from the sideview to the rearview mirrors.

  “We
ll, that’s nothing new.”

  “Maybe not, but she threatened Trish about keeping you guys from testifying.”

  A gold Pontiac station wagon pulled alongside them. There appeared to be only one person in it, but it was so low compared to the Suburban that Susanne couldn’t see inside it very well. “What? When?”

  “A few days ago. Apparently, Trish ‘forgot’ to tell us.”

  “I wish she didn’t have to testify in court. We never got a ruling from Sheridan county on whether Trish could testify via affidavit.”

  He kissed her hand. “It’s not just Trish’s testimony I’m worried about.”

  She leaned her head against his shoulder. “Thank you.”

  “With Judge Ellis and Jeannie Renkin dead on the same day, I have a bad feeling about the Kemecke family and this trial.”

  The station wagon was inching ahead of them. Susanne could see the driver now, a woman of about their age who was keeping her eyes on the road.

  Susanne said, “Couldn’t that just be a bad coincidence?”

  “It could. And the Kemecke family might not have anything to do with either of them.”

  “But then again, they might.”

  “Yes.”

  Susanne followed his train of thought. “And now, Perry’s news makes you think the killer might have seen him, and that the killer is with the Kemecke family.”

  “Yes. I’m a little concerned the Kemeckes may have a reason to wish ill on all of you now.”

  “Oh, Patrick.”

  The station wagon’s blinker came on. Instead of waiting until it had cleared their vehicle, the driver veered into their lane, cutting them off, and slowed down right in front of them. Patrick stomped on the brakes and threw his right arm out. Susanne caught herself on the dashboard, first with her hands, then with her chest. The impact knocked the wind out of her and snapped her neck forward. She narrowly avoided eating the dash.

  As suddenly as the station wagon had slowed down, it sped back up. The driver either hadn’t noticed or didn’t care that she’d nearly run them off the road. Patrick resumed normal speed.