Sawbones

by Pamela Fagan Hutchins

  “I trust you, so if you trust someone who’s willing to help, send them my way.”

  Heads nodded around the table.

  The doorbell rang. Susanne went to answer it.

  Patrick kept the discussion going. “Is anyone here friends with the principals at the junior high and high school? We need to let them know what’s going on and ask for their cooperation.” He’d dropped his voice so that the kids wouldn’t hear, although both were upstairs, supposedly in their rooms. But he’d seen the two of them sneak into the hallway when they were younger to try to catch Santa in the act, and he didn’t put anything past them. Especially since Trish was angry at them for keeping her home, and they’d disappointed Perry by nixing his idea for a ski day, in favor of this meeting. “We need the teachers to treat it as an emergency if the kids aren’t in class, or if a stranger shows up at the schools for them.”

  Dr. John raised his hand. “Me. I’m on the school board. I’d be happy to make the calls.”

  Susanne walked in with Martin Ochoa.

  He tweaked the end of his waxed mustache then took a seat, resting his hands on his belly. “Sorry I’m late.”

  A chorus of hellos rang out.

  Patrick smiled. “Mayor, I’m just delighted you’re here.”

  “Wouldn’t miss it.”

  “Now I count five,” Henry said.

  “How are your parents, Martin?” Dr. John asked.

  Martin sighed. “Stubborn as two old mules. I’ve been trying to get them a house in town where I can help them and they’d be closer to the hospital, but they insist on staying on their homestead. I haven’t been able to get the state of Wyoming to take away their licenses, either, although neither of them should be driving. If I could, I might have more success in moving them.”

  Patrick knew Mr. Ochoa’s health was failing. But he was very proud of his homestead. Many of the Basque families in the area had become land-wealthy. Martin’s parents didn’t fall in that category. His father had scrimped and saved while tending sheep and working odd jobs. When he had enough to buy a couple of acres and put his own stock on it, he’d married Martin’s mother. They’d raised one child to adulthood and lived poor but happy, with Mr. Ochoa declaring himself the luckiest of men to anyone who would listen, his whole life. Or that was the story Ochoa liked to tell at chamber of commerce pancake breakfasts, anyway.

  Dr. John rubbed his chin. “Give them my best. And let me know if I can help.”

  “Thank you. I will. Now, don’t let me interrupt. Carry on, carry on.”

  Patrick said, “We were just getting to logistics. I can fill you in on everything else we’ve talked about when we finish up.”

  “Perfect.”

  “Okay, everyone. I’ll see what kind of schedule I can cobble together if you’ll each let me know your time restraints before you leave. I’ll call everyone with it later tonight. And, then, hopefully, we’ll be able to fill any holes with your recruits. If that’s not enough, I’ll see about hiring help.”

  “You mean like pay them with cash money? That doesn’t sound like you, Doc,” Wes said. His eyes were twinkling.

  “I would hate it. Not because of the cost, though.” Patrick might be a penny pincher, but he wouldn’t hesitate to spend money on his family’s safety. “It’s more that I don’t want to rely on some rent-a-cop who’s paid by the hour, checking his watch, and longing for a nap.”

  The group laughed. What Patrick wanted was to know the people watching out for his family. That they cared about the Flints. That they were trustworthy.

  Like the people around him. He swallowed down another lump.

  After a little more discussion about logistics, the group wrapped up the meeting.

  When the visitors had dispersed, Susanne started washing coffee cups in the sink. “Are you going to call Ronnie? Maybe she has an update from Sheriff Westbury about protection.”

  He picked up a clean mug and started drying it with a plaid dish towel. “I should. But we would have already heard from her by now if they were going to be able to help.”

  She slipped her arms around his waist, holding her wet hands away from his back and laying her head against his chest. “You’re taking great care of us. You’re my hero, you know.”

  He pulled her in tight. “I haven’t done anything.”

  “Oh, but you have. You have.”

  They rocked back and forth for a few moments.

  When Susanne released him, she dried her hands and brought him the phone. “Call Ronnie.”

  He took a deep breath. Gathered his thoughts. Rehearsed his words. Planned his calm response for when Ronnie told him Sheriff Westbury had turned down their request. Dialed Ronnie’s home number.

  “Hello.”

  “Ronnie, it’s Patrick.”

  She sighed.

  His stomach tightened like a sheath. Sighs were bad. He didn’t like bad. “Did you talk to the sheriff about security for my family?”

  “I’m sorry, Patrick. We’re stretched really thin.”

  Patrick counted to ten. “Maybe someone could keep an eye on the school? Or talk to the principals, to help us express the gravity of the situation?”

  Her voice changed, like she was reading words from a paper. “Since no concrete threats or actions have been taken against anyone in your family, I’m only authorized to tell you we’ll do our best.”

  “Dammit.” He rubbed his forehead and slumped back against the cabinets. “There haven’t been any concrete threats or actions against Judge Renkin either.”

  “I said that to the sheriff myself. But the judge is a public figure whose wife was murdered, and he might have been the intended victim. It’s different.”

  It wasn’t. Not in Patrick’s mind. But he knew he wasn’t going to win. “Fine. I read you loud and clear. We’ll handle this on our own.”

  “I’m so sorry.”

  He twisted his wedding ring. “It’s not your fault.”

  “The sheriff has us scheduled eighteen hours a day through the trial. I want to help you guys. So badly.”

  He believed her. She’d bent over backwards for them before. Without Ronnie, Susanne would never have made it up Dome Mountain on a horse in the middle of the night, where she was then at the right place at the right time to shoot Kemecke, saving Patrick’s life, and ensuring Trish’s rescue. Ronnie had bucked the sheriff to do it, and he’d taken a chunk out of her hide for it. Patrick would never doubt Ronnie’s heart.

  But that didn’t change anything for him and his family. He hung up the phone. He had a schedule to make for his security posse.

  Chapter Eighteen: Ensnare

  Buffalo, Wyoming

  Monday, March 14, 1977, 11:30 a.m.

  Trish

  Trish had never been so happy for school in her whole life as she was that Monday. Sunday had been long and boring. “House protection” was like being grounded, but without the fun of doing something bad to earn it. At her locker, she’d slipped into Brandon’s letter jacket and hung his class ring on a long chain around her neck. She waited for him there, but he didn’t show up. He was tardy a lot, so this wasn’t unusual. It was a bummer to start her day without seeing him, though. She spent most of the first few class periods writing notes to him and Marcy, using a new multicolor pen. She added a few hearts in red to Brandon’s, then signed her name in green with WBS for “write back soon,” even though he never did.

  On her way to basketball, she stopped at the entrance to the gym. She always met Brandon there before she suited up. Peering through the bodies crowding the hallway, she stood on her tiptoes looking for him. Coach Lamkin was giving all of the girls the week off as a reward since varsity had gone to the state tournament. “Varsity’s success is all of your success. You drilled together, conditioned together, and played each other all year. Good job,” she’d said, the week before. Even though they weren’t suiting up, they still had to be on time for attendance. Trish gave up on Brandon and hustled to the locker room. She
beat the late bell by a few seconds.

  Marcy was sitting in front of rows of painted metal lockers. She patted the bench beside her. She was shorter than Trish by a few inches and played first string point guard on the JV. Her nose was a cute button covered in a thick wash of freckles. She was wearing her dark brown hair in Pippi Longstocking braids. If Trish had her curls, she’d wear it down every day. Trish had tried to set her up with a few of Brandon’s friends, since Marcy desperately wanted a boyfriend. It hadn’t worked out with any of them.

  She hurried into the spot Marcy had saved for her and handed her the note.

  “We had a test last period. I couldn’t write you one.” Marcy rolled her brown eyes. Her lashes were so dark and long they looked fake.

  The coach walked in and flipped her red ponytail over her shoulder. She took attendance, her back to the bank of communal showers that Trish hated, then said, “I expect you to use this period as a study hall.” She winked. “Keep it to a dull roar, ladies.”

  Marcy and Trish exchanged a giggle. That meant they’d write notes and gossip the whole time. A shock wave of female voices began chattering at once. Things were about to get rowdy in the locker room.

  The coach raised her voice over the din. “Flint, my office.”

  Flint? Her? That was what the coach always called her, but she barely ever talked to Trish. Although she had been nice to her in Laramie.

  The coach disappeared down the short hallway toward her office.

  “Oh, my God. What do you think she wants with you?” Marcy pushed Trish’s shoulder playfully. Marcy was the star of the JV team. The coach talked to her a lot.

  “I have no idea.”

  Marcy raised one eyebrow. It went up into a point in the middle, like the roof of a house. “What’d you do?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Come on.”

  “I swear!”

  “Right.” Marcy laughed. “You’d better go before you get in even more trouble.”

  Trish walked toward the exit of the dressing room like she was heading for the gallows. She stopped at the coach’s small office door, where she touched her underarms. She was pitting out. This was ridiculous. She hadn’t done anything wrong. Her grades were great, she was never late, much less missed a practice, she always tried hard, and she never got in trouble at school, unlike at home. Get it together girl. She squeezed her hands into fists then opened them and stretched her fingers and palms so far that they inverted slightly. It helped, so she did it a few times. The butterflies in her stomach settled.

  She raised her chin and shoulders and knocked on the door.

  “Come in.” The coach’s voice was clipped.

  Trish took the biggest breath she could fit in her lungs, then swung the door open on the exhale.

  Coach Lamkin was sitting behind her desk, scribbling on some paperwork. She didn’t look up. “Have a seat.”

  A large pile of newspapers filled the only other chair in the room. Trish hefted them onto the floor against the wall, wrinkling her nose at the dry, dusty smell, then sat. Loud clicks from the clock on the wall marked the seconds. Click one-thousand. Click two-thousand. Click three-thousand. Click four-thousand.

  At thirty-two clicks, the coach raised her head and met Trish’s eyes. “Hello, Flint.”

  “Hi, Coach Lamkin.”

  “I’ll get right to the point. Are you planning on playing basketball again next year?”

  Trish loved basketball. The squeak of shoes on the court, the perfect arc of a jump shot, the swish of a ball through a net, the sting in her hands when she caught a chest pass. She didn’t even mind the rubbery smell of the ball or the dirt she had to scrub off her hands after every practice. What she loved most, though, was the idea of being good at basketball, and what other people would think about her if she were a good athlete.

  Of course she would play again next year, unless she got cut from the team. “I am.”

  “Good. You’ve really been improving on your passing and dribbling.”

  Trish’s mouth dropped. “I didn’t think you’d noticed.”

  The coach frowned. “I notice all my players. You have a great work ethic. You’re in better shape than anyone I’ve got, JV or varsity. Conditioning is critical in the final minutes of a game, when everyone else is out of gas.”

  Hearing the coach praise her felt unreal, like she was watching a movie version of her life. “Thank you.”

  “How would you feel about moving up to varsity?”

  Of every possible thing the coach might have said, this was the last one Trish would have expected. “Really?” she squealed.

  The coach smiled. “I’ll take that to mean you’re interested.”

  “Yes. Very. Thank you.” Trish stumbled over her words and felt like an idiot.

  The coach held up her hand. “Varsity is no bed of roses. And I won’t be making any final decisions until the fall. But if you keep working hard and improving, you’ll be in.”

  “I will. I promise.”

  “You should go to basketball camp this summer. The Flying Queens at Wayland Baptist have a great one. Or you could look for something closer.”

  A thrill ran through Trish, from her center and fluttering up through her chest. “I’ll talk to my parents.”

  The coach’s stern expression softened. “How are you and your family?”

  She wasn’t sure what Coach Lamkin meant. “Um, good, I guess?”

  “It must have been hard, helping Jeannie Renkin after she was shot.”

  “Oh, yeah. It was.” Trish wanted to talk about her future as a basketball star. She was already picturing her letter jacket. “But it was mostly my parents. I’m fine.”

  “You’re tough. That’s one of the things I like about you as a potential varsity player.” Coach Lamkin pursed her lips. “Your poor mother, worrying about all of you. Especially since Perry saw the shooter.”

  Trish frowned. Her parents had told them not to talk about that. “That’s supposed to be a secret.”

  “Of course. I haven’t said a word to anyone since your mother told me last weekend. She was very upset.”

  “Yes. She is.” Trish relaxed. It was nice having someone to talk to. Coach Lamkin was old enough to give good advice, but way cooler than her parents. “She and Dad have us on house arrest.”

  The coach nodded with sympathetic eyes. “I thought your dad was kind of rough on you at the game.”

  If Trish’s heart had wings, it would have soared into the air and circled above their heads. “Big time. I know they’re scared about our safety and all, but they’ve got this posse of people watching us night and day. We can’t go anywhere or do anything.”

  “I’d do the same thing if I had kids, but maybe I could help—who should I call?”

  “That would be very cool.” Trish felt a strange sense of pride that her coach not only wanted her to be on varsity but also wanted to help her family. “My mom or dad, probably.”

  The coach winked. “I’m a little more fun than most of your chaperones, I’ll bet.”

  Trish smiled. She felt giddy.

  The bell rang announcing the end of the class period. Time had flown by. Normally she sprinted out to meet Brandon for lunch, but she wasn’t sure if he would be there. She could have talked to Coach Lamkin for hours.

  The coach pointed at the door. “Don’t forget what we talked about. More practicing. More conditioning. And basketball camp.”

  Trish practically skipped out, beaming. “I promise.”

  Marcy was waiting for her outside the locker room. “Tell me, tell me.”

  They walked together toward the building exit.

  Before Trish could answer Marcy, a man entered. He stopped when he saw them. “I’m looking for Coach Lamkin’s office. Can you give me directions?”

  Trish smirked. Only if he wanted to go inside the girl’s locker room. He seemed a little shady, with pale skin, dark bags under his eyes, thin blond hair, and a weird accent. Where the heck
was he from anyway? He sounded kind of Russian. She pointed back down the hall. “First door on the left. You have to knock real loud.”

  “Thanks.” He walked the way she’d pointed.

  “Okay, now tell me,” Marcy demanded.

  For some reason, Trish held back with her friend. “It was a pep talk. She was encouraging me to go to basketball camp.”

  “That’s cool.” Marcy smacked her gum. “Want to go to A&W with me since Brandon’s not here?”

  Trish could see Marcy’s tongue stretching the gum thin. Marcy was terrible at blowing bubbles and always ended up with gum stuck to her face and sometimes her hair. “I don’t have a car.”

  Marcy blew into the gum. It was too thick. Nothing happened, and she started chomping it again, like a cow with a great big cud. “Me either. My mom needed it to run errands. But Ryan and Jeff are going. They said we could tag along.”

  Trish shook her head. Brandon wouldn’t like it if she went with Ryan and Jeff. He would think it was too much like a double date, even though she and Marcy were just friends with them. Marcy would have liked more, with either of them—she wasn’t picky. “You go. I’m going to do my homework. I brought a sandwich.”

  Marcy’s voice was sing song as she tickled Trish in the ribs. “I have some gossip you’ll want to hear about a certain teacher getting it on with a certain senior.”

  Trish wriggled away. “What is it?”

  “Are you sure you won’t go? I’m getting a root beer float.”

  “I’m sure. But what’s the gossip?”

  “Later. Gotta run.”

  Trish groaned. Marcy waved and ran out to the curb. A gold Chevelle with a black rag top pulled up, the bright sun glinting off its hood. She hopped in the back seat, and the car sped off. Trish was dying to know who the rumors were about. She’d have to call Marcy later to get the scoop.

  Before Trish turned to go, a tall, dark-haired boy walked up the sidewalk and into the school. She was so surprised, she froze in place.

  It was Ben.

  “Trish.” He blushed and stuck his hands in the pockets of a black windbreaker.