The thought of the baby made Patrick queasy. An infant born in jail, with both parents behind bars—it would be tough going for the child unless someone came forward to foster or adopt.
Yes. We need a vacation. It’s been a tough year, and it’s not over yet.
Trish tapped him on the shoulder and held out his keys.
“You gave Aunt Vera some Benadryl?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“And you put it back in my bag and the bag . . .”
“. . . Back where I found it. Yes, Dad.”
He nodded. “Thanks.” Then he turned back toward the extended group of Flints. They had scattered like a covey of quail around the store and out onto the sidewalk. “Pete, a word?”
His brother sauntered over, an arm around Vera’s curvy waist. The two of them looked like half the Mamas and the Papas. Pete with his rock-star hair and bell bottoms, Vera with her yellow-lensed John Lennon sunglasses, a headband over her straight hair, and a gypsy-sleeved top. The comparison wasn’t far from reality. Pete was eking out a living as a musician—guitarist, singer, songwriter—gigging in bars, opening for the openers at Austin-area concerts, and playing for tips when he couldn’t get a booking. Vera had met him at one of his shows. She was his roadie and number one groupie, in addition to being the main herder of cats in their large household.
Pete slung his arm sideways to grab Patrick’s, in a combo low-five/handshake. “So good to be here, bro.”
“I can’t believe you’re all here. I thought it was going to just be you guys and Mom and Dad.”
“Isn’t it great? Vera said we should just bring everybody, so we stuffed them all in the station wagon, and here we are.”
Vera beamed. “The kids are going to remember this their whole lives. Gotta love a family trip.”
From outside, Patrick heard a shriek, then clattering hooves. Uh oh. He shot forward like a sprinter out of the blocks. But before he could make it to the sidewalk, Brian hustled a wailing Bert back inside and to their mother. The rest of the kids followed, eyes huge. Bert wasn’t limping or bleeding, which were both good signs.
Vera wrapped Bert in her arms. He seemed a little small for his age, like Perry had been “What happened?”
“A big animal attacked him,” Brian said. “Well, it tried to, but I scared it away before it got him. Good thing, because he fell down running away from it.”
Patrick raised an eyebrow. “Was it tall and dark brown with hooves?”
“Yes. And really long legs. I think it was a baby, though, because it ran down the street to an even bigger one. Then they ran off.”
“Moose,” Patrick said. “You’ll want to leave them alone in the future. Especially the ones with babies. Very dangerous.” He smoothed Bert’s blond hair, which stood straight up like a cockatiel’s feathers.
“Wild animals in the middle of town?” Vera said.
Patrick smiled. “Sometimes. It’s Wyoming. You okay, Bert?”
The boy had stopped crying. He nodded.
“Where does it hurt?”
Bert shrugged. Another good sign. It looked like the worst injury was to his pride and feelings.
“Does your head hurt?”
This time Vera prodded him. “Use your manners and answer your uncle. He’s a doctor.”
“No. I mean, no sir, Dr. Uncle Patrick. It didn’t get me.”
“Just Uncle Patrick. You’ll have a good story to tell your friends.”
Bert nodded. Vera released him, and Brian took him by the arm. The kids headed straight back outside. Apparently, they weren’t all that worried about moose.
“It’s always something when you have seven,” Pete said, shaking his head, but smiling.
Patrick had thought it was always something with two. He couldn’t imagine seven kids. “So, let’s talk about the trip. You know we’ve booked canoes so we can camp and fish on the Tukudika River?”
Pete nodded. “Sounds awesome.”
“I’m trying to work out the logistics. We’ve got six adults, three of whom are women. And nine kids. Or, seven kids since we’re counting Perry and Trish as adults for purposes of canoeing. I’d booked four canoes and eight life jackets. I had planned on Dad, you, me, and Perry each taking responsibility for a canoe. My worry is, how are we going to fit everyone in?”
Vera bit her lip. “We’ll need more life jackets.”
Patrick clenched his teeth. Obviously. “I’m also worried about room in the canoes.” Pete and Vera’s kids ranged from five to ten years old. None of them were old enough to reliably paddle an additional canoe.
Pete rubbed his chin. “I guess we can put two of them in each.”
“That was where we were going to stash our gear and supplies. Food, tents, sleeping bags, and the rest of it take up a lot of space.”
Susanne had joined them. She added, “And gold panning equipment.”
Patrick had been reading up on the area, and there was a not-insignificant amount of gold in and along the Tukudika and its tributaries. Most of it was too fine to interest prospectors or miners, but he’d thought it would be fun to try their hand at panning anyway.
Pete stood taller. “There’s gold up there?”
Patrick shrugged. “Some. Maybe.”
“Sign me up.”
“If we can fit the panning gear in the canoes.” He lowered his voice to a mutter. “Or any of our gear and supplies.”
“Can we get another canoe?”
“Who would man it?”
Brock cleared his throat. “I don’t mean to eavesdrop, but you could ferry a gear canoe. You know, by a rope.”
Patrick rubbed his forehead. Which wouldn’t come free. “Yes, I suppose we could.”
“Your bigger problem is the water. We’ve had a really dry year, but it’s still early in the season. You might run across some Class III rapids. In a wet year, you’d maybe even encounter some Class IV.”
Vera’s brow furrowed. “Is that bad?”
Brock waffled his hand. “Depends on your level of experience.”
Susanne harrumphed. “We didn’t survive Kemecke, Riley Pearson, and Lamkin in the last year only to die in a river.”
She had a point. Patrick hadn’t even tallied crazy Riley when he’d been thinking about the Flints’ tough year. Riley had been obsessed with an Eastern Shoshone nurse and poisoned Patrick out of a misguided sense of loyalty to her. It had happened not too far down the road, in Fort Washakie on the Wind River Reservation. No, they hadn’t survived them all only to die now. He’d studied up on the river, too, and on canoeing in general.
He shook his head. “Nothing over Class II for this group. Even then, I think we’ll want to put the kids ashore to walk whenever we get to any rapids.”
Brock shrugged. “Where you can. Some areas, the shoreline is as dangerous as the water. Or impassable.”
“What would you suggest we do, given our group’s . . . sudden growth?”
Brock motioned for them to follow him back to the counter. He pulled out a map of the Tukudika and a red pen. He circled three areas. “These are the spots where the water gets sort of aggressive, you know?” He drew lines across the river before each circle. “If you get out where I’ve marked, there are trails you can hike to bypass the whitewater. They’re not easy, but they’re doable. If you, like, go any further, then you may not be able to get off the water in time.”
“Can you portage on those trails?” Patrick asked.
Vera slipped her hand in Pete’s. “What does portage mean?”
“Carry canoes overland.”
Brock said, “Yeah, I guess you could, but it wouldn’t be fun. Honestly, I’d just offload your gear into backpacks and send your ladies and kids along. You can solo the canoes through the rapids.” He dropped his voice to barely above a whisper. “And I can’t make any guarantees, but it’s likely the water is down to a high Class II or a low Class III by now. In most places.”
No guarantees. Meaning he couldn’t guarant
ee they wouldn’t get their you-know-whats handed to them. “Maybe we should talk it over. It’s important to me we always keep the group together. For safety.”
Pete pulled out a fifty-dollar bill. “Nah, it sounds like a great adventure, man. I’ll pay for the extra canoe.”
Brock tapped his pen on the counter. “And seven more life jackets, some more paddles just in case you need them for the extra canoe, and some line to ferry it with?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Are you sure we need more paddles for a canoe we’ll be ferrying?” Patrick asked.
“I’d highly recommend it.” Brock quoted a number.
Pete blanched. “I’m a little short of that. Can I pay you back later, Patrick? We’re trying not to carry too much cash on us, you know?”
Without comment, Patrick pulled out his wallet and started counting bills. At the same time, he said, “We’ll need more of everything. Groceries. Water. Sleeping gear. Tent space.”
Their patriarch wandered up. “What’s the problem, boys?” His voice sounded accusatory. He was holding one hand in the other.
Even though he and Susanne weren’t touching, Patrick could feel her stiffen beside him. No one could understand how Lana had put up with his father since the two of them had eloped as teens, but love defies logic.
Patrick decided that if his father was going to criticize someone, he’d let it be him. “We just added a gear canoe. Dad, did you do something to your hand?”
Lana was listening, and she raised her voice to answer for Joe. “He slammed his thumb in the door a minute ago when he went back to the car for a jacket.”
Joe Flint was the most accident-prone person Patrick knew. Falling off ladders. Shocking himself in electrical outlets. Hammering his fingers, which he’d done too many times to count.
“Let me see it, Dad.”
Joe held it up. Blood dripped from under the nail, and it looked flattened. “It’s nothing.”
Brock smiled at Joe, wasting the effort of twelve muscles to do so. “Funny coincidence. We’re about ready for safety instructions for the group.”
Joe crossed his arms, not smiling back.
“Dad, could you help us get everyone together?”
Joe’s lack of smile deepened.
Vera continued beaming and holding Pete’s hand.
“They’re your kids,” Joe finally said, to no one in particular.
Patrick sighed. If he didn’t need his father to paddle a canoe, he’d be tempted to leave him in Jackson.
Susanne walked around the store, clapping her hands and raising her voice. “Everybody. Everyone. All of you. That means you, too, Perry.” He quit talking to Brian and grinned at her. “Time to get our canoe safety lesson. Come on.” The younger kids pretty much ignored her. “Trish, starting now, you’re in charge of Bunny, Barry, Bert, and Danny. Perry, you’ve got Annie, Brian, and Stan. When I ask for something, you guys make it happen with your troops. So, by the counter, line them up, now.”
Trish put her hands on her hips. “Mom, no.”
“No arguments.”
Trish sighed dramatically. “Do I at least get paid?”
“No, but you get to continue living.” Then she softened. “If you do a good job, we’ll discuss it.”
Trish made a sound deep in her chest that didn’t sound like enthusiasm, but she turned back to the kids and started barking orders like her mom had just done to her. Perry stood up taller and his chest seemed to puff out as he rounded up his charges. Lana led Bunny by the hand from a table where they’d been studying a diorama of the Gros Ventre Wilderness. Within seconds, the kids were assembling in a line that was about as straight as a dog’s hind leg.
Brock picked up a blue pen. “Mr. Flint, here are a few more things you should know about the river.” He drew arrows toward it. “This is where you’ll start. You can put in here, or you can portage upriver and extend the length of your float.” He drew another arrow. “You’ll need to get out before the falls. Here.”
“Falls? Like waterfalls?” Pete sounded hesitant about the river for the first time.
“The same, but different. They’re not as high as the falls in Yellowstone, but you still don’t want to go over them, man. We’ll pick you up Sunday at three, here.” He drew a third arrow near the second. “If you beat us there, the fishing is dynamite.”
Now Pete moved in closer to look at the map.
“Thanks,” Patrick said. “We’re really interested in any suggestions you have for good fishing, hiking, camping, or gold panning spots.”
“Gold panning? Far out.” Brock drew a couple of fish on the map, then added what Patrick assumed were either skulls and crossbones or campfires, and then triangles. “Fishing, camping, and hiking. The hiking trails should be marked by signs.” Then he waggled his eyebrows. “As for gold panning,” he drew several stars along the river, and a few more on tributaries, “here are some good places to try your luck. Let us know if you find anything. We can, like, add you to our wall of fame.” He waved toward the wall to his right.
For the first time, Patrick noticed framed photos posted above a display of gold panning equipment for sale. They featured people holding panning equipment and what might be tiny gold nuggets.
“We will.” Patrick took the map, folded it, and slid it in his shirt pocket.
A shorter, bushier-haired man burst through the back door of the shop. Through the opening, Patrick saw racks of canoes, kayaks, rafts, paddles, and used life vests.
“Brock, the Tomson party just got back.” His voice held a shrill note, and Patrick noted that his breathing was rapid and shallow, pupils dilated, face flushed, and nostrils distended.
A look of annoyance showed in the sudden lines around Brock’s eyes. “Cool, man. But I’m with some customers.”
The man rushed on. “They found a dead body on the Tukudika. No life jacket, no fishing or hiking gear, not one of our customers.”
“They found what?”
“A dead body. They canoed him back. They were freaking out about leaving him, so we loaded him on the trailer and brought him back here.”
Brock’s eyes bugged. “The dead guy is here?”
“Well, he’s on the trailer outside, but, yeah.”
Brock stabbed the air with his finger. “You’re not supposed to move a dead body. Evidence, you know? Call the sheriff. Now.”
“Uh, yes, sir.”
As the shorter man hurried to the phone, Brock muttered, “I’d better not get my license pulled over this.”
Patrick felt a burst of adrenaline. He had to check on the man. Administer CPR, if it appeared it would do any good. But as he rushed through the back room, a thought started looping through his head. Please Lord, not a murder on my do-over vacation.
Chapter Two: Shock
Jackson, Wyoming
Thursday, June 23, 1977, 11:00 a.m.
Trish
“Watch out for Bunny!” Trish shouted at the rest of the kids.
Perry had organized them into a game of freeze tag on the grassy town square. All around it, the wooden buildings were designed to make the place look like a spiffed up Old West town. Tourists streamed in and out of the doors and milled on the sidewalks. Trish would have rather browsed the fancy shops and galleries than play tag, but she knew better than to take the kids inside the stores. “You break it, you buy it” was a phrase she was very familiar with from her parents, and, as the one in charge, she was afraid she would be responsible for any damage by the seven dwarves.
At first, tag had been a good way to distract the little ones from the thought of the dead man at the canoe shop. She didn’t have such an easy time forgetting him, though. When some freaked out short guy had run in and shouted out that he’d brought a corpse in on a trailer, she’d been curious and snuck out back to see for herself. The dead guy had looked a lot like a puffer fish she’d seen in her Aunt Patty’s aquarium. Vampire-white, water-logged, eyes wide open, with funny black whisker spots on his fa
ce like her dad’s at night when he hadn’t shaved since morning. He was missing one shoe, and his hands were wrinkly. Trish’s got the same way when she stayed in the bathtub a long time. He’d smelled funky, too. Bad in a way that was hard to describe, but that she’d smelled once when she’d ridden her horse Goldie past a dead, rotting deer. Yeah, that will be in my nightmares tonight.
She’d only had a brief look at the body, though. Her parents had been furious when they realized she was out there. Before they could get her back inside, the sheriff’s deputies had come and shooed the grown-ups out of the way, too. Her mom, Aunt Vera, and Gramma Lana had huddled, then left Trish with a ten-dollar bill for snacks and strict instructions to keep all the little ones distracted and out of trouble, while they went to buy more supplies. Trish had hustled back in the shop and done just that.
She had a lot of experience babysitting, especially in the last two months. Trish was saving up for a down payment on a used car. But she’d never kept this many kids at once, and the freeze tag competition had gotten out of hand, for everyone except Danny, who was pretty much swaying and staring into space. The Benadryl really seemed to have hit him hard.
Bunny, who was on the base of one of the four enormous antler arches at each corner of the square, was doing what she called her “pwincess dance.” It consisted of twirling on her tiptoes with her hands to the sky. Suddenly, Bert rammed into her, and she tumbled sideways. Her head thudded into pointy antlers.
“Bunny!” Brian screamed. He raced over to her, just ahead of Trish, as the little girl crumpled to her knees.
“Are you okay?” Trish was afraid to look at her, expecting blood. A lot of it. And a gored eyeball hanging from its socket.
Scapegoat: A Patrick Flint Novel Page 2