Switchback

by Pamela Fagan Hutchins

  “Wow,” she said.

  It was a great picture. The mother moose’s nose seemed only a few feet away from the camera. The baby was gangly and milk- to her dark-chocolate color. He’s probably only a couple of months old, she thought, knowing that most moose calved in June.

  Perry leapt off Duke without falling on his butt. She handed him the picture. After a “Whoa, cool,” Perry returned it to the older guy.

  They thanked them, and everyone said good night. The men revved the engines of their dirt bikes, then disappeared back toward the main road.

  “Trish, could you get us some water? I need you to boil some for tomorrow, and we’re out,” her dad asked. “I’ll build the fire.”

  She thought about the bear earlier. Night was falling quickly, and she didn’t want to be alone in the dark. Besides, why was he piling all the chores up on her, as usual? Perry needed to pull his weight. “Only if the squirt comes, too.”

  Her dad squatted at the fire ring and started building a kindling tepee. “Enough with the comments about your brother’s size.”

  “Yeah,” Perry said, but he stretched upward on his toes, giving himself another vertical inch or two.

  “Take care of the horses first,” Patrick reminded them, without looking up.

  As they walked away, Trish said, “You’re going to need more than your tiptoes.”

  Perry socked her in the arm. She socked him back. Then he ran ahead of her and she gave chase. He was pretty fast. For a squirt.

  After they unsaddled and watered the horses and left them to graze, the siblings took their five canteens down the steep hill to the creek. Perry butt-sledded to the bottom, treating the moss and pine needles like snow. Trish shook her head. If he hurt himself, her dad would probably say she was responsible, but she couldn’t control him. He was a reckless little nut.

  He stood up and rubbed his butt. “Ow. A rock.” The water was low this late in the season, but it was still loud, and he had to raise his voice to be heard.

  She pitched her voice low. “They don’t call ’em the Rocky Mountains for nothing.”

  Perry laughed. “Thanks, Dad.”

  Trish crouched beside the stream and began filling canteens beside her brother. The walk down and the act of filling the canteens wasn’t bad. It was climbing back up the hill with five sloshing canteens that sucked. She took a deep breath, savoring the smells. And the taste. The air coming off the water was like moss and sunshine in her mouth.

  Perry chattered on the climb back. “Do you think those men were okay?”

  “Which ones? Definitely not the elk chasers.”

  “The ones at our camp.”

  Trish’s breathing grew ragged as they climbed. It made it hard to answer, so she did it in gasps and spurts. “I don’t know. Maybe. Dad seemed to think so. Why?” She kind of thought they’d acted like they were high, but that didn’t mean they were bad, necessarily.

  “I didn’t like them in our camp.”

  “They wanted to show us pictures.”

  “It’s not like I haven’t seen a moose before.”

  “Yeah. Well, I think they were just being nice.”

  “I wonder if they stole anything.”

  She pictured the men as they’d departed. “I don’t think so. They weren’t acting weird.”

  “Well, I hope they don’t come back. I like it when it’s just us, you know?”

  “Yeah.” But Trish realized she missed her mom. It would be even better if she’d come. Or if Brandon or her friends were here.

  Still, Perry was creeping her out a little. She didn’t want the men to come back, either. They crested the top of the hill. As she saw the camp through the trees, they heard the whine of dirt bikes approaching again.

  Goose bumps rose on Trish’s arms.

  Chapter Seventeen: Shock

  Southwest of Walker Prairie, Bighorn National Forest, Wyoming

  September 19, 1976, 7:30 p.m.

  Patrick

  Two dirt bikes careened around the bend. From first glance, it was clear to Patrick that they weren’t the ones with the moose picture. These riders were smaller, and the front rider’s shoulder-length hair blew straight back in the breeze. Plus, the bikes were older and both were plain black. Lastly, they didn’t handle their bikes as well. The long-haired kid hit the brakes too hard when he saw them. His rear wheel skidded to the side, then regained traction violently. The torque slingshotted the rider up and over the high side, head down and legs up. Somehow, he managed to get his hands down before his head hit the rocky trail.

  Behind him, Trish screamed.

  The back rider veered, nearly hitting a tree. Patrick sprinted toward the wreck, running through the injury possibilities—head injury, neck injury, concussion. By the time Patrick reached the fallen rider, though, he was on his hands and knees. No paralysis. He was groaning and making a weird sound. When he flopped over onto his back and stared at his scraped and bloody hands, Patrick realized he was just a kid. And that he was laughing.

  “Shit, man. That was far out.” The rider sat and rotated his neck. Then he grinned. “Hey, Trish.”

  “Brandon,” Trish said. Or squealed, rather.

  Brandon. The Lewis kid Trish had a crush on. Brandon shook sandy brown hair out of his eyes and stood. His ridiculous bell bottoms emphasized his long, youthful frame and nearly toppled him back to the ground. Was that how I looked to Susanne’s father? And what the hell is he doing all the way out here?

  Patrick glared at his daughter. “What a surprise.”

  Somehow, she didn’t look surprised at all.

  Chapter Eighteen: Split

  Southwest of Walker Prairie, Bighorn National Forest, Wyoming

  September 20, 1976, 6:00 a.m.

  Perry

  The first thing Perry heard the next morning was Trish’s voice. She was whining. She was always whining.

  “Dad, noooo.”

  “Up and at ’em,” his dad said. “Maybe if you hadn’t been up giggling with Brandon and his friend last night you wouldn’t be so tired this morning.”

  Perry groaned. Trish had been goofy with Brandon and the other guy—Todd, maybe?—trying so hard to be cool that it was embarrassing. She talked stupid. Like someone on American Bandstand, which he wasn’t supposed to watch but did sometimes at his friend John’s house. None of what they said on the show made any sense to him. Cool cats, his dad called people that talked in slang like that. More like goofy cats.

  His dad had been furious that Brandon and Maybe-Todd showed up. The boys had stayed—Trish had insisted on hot dogs, that was cool at least—but Patrick sent them packing after hot chocolate and s’mores. He was an early-to-bed-early-to-rise kind of dad, and he didn’t like the two boys throwing off the schedule.

  Plops started pattering the tent ceiling. Within seconds, the plops grew closer together and louder. Rain. A lot of it.

  “No way am I going out in this,” Trish said. “I’m staying in the tent with my book.” She held up her worn paperback.

  “I’ve been ignoring you reading that questionable material since we left, but I’m not letting it ruin our day. Up.”

  Perry wondered what his dad meant by questionable material. He tried to snatch the book from Trish to see the title.

  “Stop it, brat.”

  Perry stuck his tongue out at her. “Stop it, yourself. I just wanted to look at it.”

  “Well, it’s not your book. Look at your own.”

  “I didn’t bring one.”

  “Because you’re functionally illiterate.”

  “Enough,” his dad said.

  “I am not.”

  “Are too.”

  “I said enough.” Patrick raised his voice. “Zip it.”

  Perry zipped it. Trish did too, but her lower lip jutted out.

  Patrick nodded, looking surprised, then satisfied. “Now, get up, get dressed, and let’s get going.”

  Perry jumped out of his sleeping bag. Goose bumps popped up on h
is arms from the cold. His back hit the tent wall, and water started seeping through.

  Trish’s voice was a snarl. “Look what you’ve done. Now it’s going to leak on me all day.”

  “That won’t happen because you won’t be in here,” her dad said. He sounded calm again.

  “I said I’d go with you on this stupid trip, but I didn’t promise to freeze to death in the rain. I cat-boxed my own poo yesterday. I haven’t washed my hair and it’s gross. My boots are too tight. My hunting shirt itches my neck.”

  Perry remembered her taking the overshirt off the day before and stuffing it into a saddlebag. She’d ridden in only her T-shirt the rest of the day. “How would you know? You barely wore it.”

  She looked like she wanted to spit at him, her lips puckering and then relaxing. “Anyway, that was the last time I’m wearing that shirt.”

  His dad closed his eyes. “Do you know how much that shirt cost?”

  “No and neither do you because Mom said we weren’t supposed to tell you,” Trish shot back.

  Perry said, “I’ll go with you, Dad.”

  “Kiss-ass.”

  Patrick’s lips started moving. He shook his head slightly from side to side. Perry couldn’t understand what he was saying.

  “Who are you talking to?” Trish said. “Mom’s not here. She can’t help you. You just have to do the right thing and let me stay.”

  Perry smiled. This was getting good. Trish and her smart mouth were cruising for a bruising, as his dad liked to say.

  Patrick’s lips thinned. “I thought you were scared to be by yourself when you went to get water yesterday.”

  “That was nighttime. This is daytime.”

  Perry heard her whisper, “Duh.”

  Patrick sighed. “Do you promise to stay in the tent?”

  Trish’s eyes gleamed, and she sat up on her elbows. “Do you honestly think I’m going out in that rain?”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise. Unless I have to pee. But then I won’t go far.”

  Patrick pulled his revolver out from under his pillow. “Take the gun again.” He pushed it toward her.

  She sat up and pushed it back, shuddering like a drama queen. “No, thanks. I could never shoot anybody.”

  It was a super cool .357 Magnum. Perry hoped she didn’t take it. Maybe his dad would let him carry it.

  Patrick rolled his eyes. “Fine. Use your bear spray, then.”

  “I don’t have it.”

  “Don’t have it in here, or don’t have it at camp?”

  “In here. It’s in my saddlebags.”

  “We’ll leave it with you before we go.”

  A smile broke out over her face. “Thanks. You’re the best dad ever.”

  Patrick was muttering to himself again when he opened the tent flap for Perry to walk out first. This time, though, Perry could understand the words.

  “I hope I don’t live to regret this.”

  Chapter Nineteen: Crash

  Buffalo, Wyoming

  September 20, 1976, 8:00 a.m.

  Susanne

  The slump-shouldered Johnson County deputy stared at Susanne like she was a two-headed calf.

  And why not, she wondered. She’d shown up first thing on a Sunday insisting that something had happened to her family, with nothing to go on but her intuition. She squeezed her fingernails into her palms. The place was oppressive and depressing. Dark wood paneling, low light, and heavy wooden desks. It smelled musty, too. Like it had been water damaged. It was possible, she supposed, since it backed up to Clear Creek. The whole vibe made her feel claustrophobic. It reminded her of Girl Scout camp. The counselors had taken the girls to hike in an underground cave. In the damp dark, Susanne couldn’t escape a feeling like something heavy was crushing her from all sides. Like she felt now.

  At least Ronnie was sitting in on this meeting, before her shift. It gave Susanne a shred of credibility, even if it also made her feel like a grown woman who’d dragged along her mama to fight her battles. It didn’t make her feel stronger or more capable. And after a night tied to a chair, she desperately wanted to feel stronger, more capable, and in control.

  She needed to turn her inner warrior loose. But first she had to find her. Where was the girl that Patrick called “feisty”? When Patrick had to face her father after he and Susanne had eloped, her dad had said, “Son, you know you’ve got a tiger by the tail, don’t you?” Patrick loved telling that story, just like the kids loved the ones about the plates and dishes she’d smashed when she was mad. That girl, the fighter, the tiger. She was the one Susanne needed. So far, she hadn’t seen hide nor hair of her.

  She glanced at Ronnie for moral support. Ronnie smiled at her.

  Deputy Whosit—she couldn’t remember his name—repeated what the sheriff had told her the night before. “We put out a BOLO, and we alerted the Forest Service. When did you say they’re due back, again?”

  “Wednesday.”

  “Well then, unless we hear something different, they’re not missing until then.” He added, in a softer tone, “I know it’s hard being out of communication that long, but I’ve been told your husband is a capable fellow. You’ve got to trust him.”

  Her ears burned and hissed. Who was he to tell her what she had to do? “He said he’d be at Hunter Corral, and he wasn’t. I do trust him. That’s why I know something is wrong. And now this madman is on the loose.” She refused to say Kemecke’s name. Or even think it.

  The deputy nodded. “You’re sure he’s not up at Hunter?”

  Ronnie squeezed her knee. Susanne knew a shut it hint when she got one. She just wasn’t very good at taking them.

  She spat her words through clenched teeth. “I told you this already. Someone else was in our spot. I searched for our truck and trailer and it wasn’t there. I talked to the person in charge of the campsite, and he said Patrick and the kids never showed up.”

  “Sounds like you’ve done everything you can, then. They’ll turn up.” He pushed his rolling chair back from the table and stood, indicating it was time for her to do the same. And skedaddle.

  She got up, adrift on unfamiliar water, rudderless. She thanked the deputy and said goodbye to Ronnie.

  “I’ll check on you later,” Ronnie called, just before the door swung closed behind Susanne.

  Angry and distracted, Susanne pulled out of the sheriff’s office parking lot in Patrick’s stupid Porsche, earning her an immediate honk. What did they need with a snooty car that wouldn’t hold groceries or a family of four? Nearly every driver on the road around here reacted to the Porsche. Usually negatively. It made her feel as conspicuous as white shoes in church before Memorial Day. But she had no other option. Driving it made her remember her own car was gone. And it made her think of Kemecke. Just like home did. She didn’t want to go to the house desecrated by the fugitive, but what choice did she have? She could stay in a hotel, but that was awfully extravagant. Logic told her Kemecke wouldn’t come back. Still, he’d violated her home. It felt dirty and unsafe.

  She braked to a stop at one of the two traffic lights in town. Her face gazed back at her from the rearview mirror. Drawn. Eyes with dark circles from her sleepless night. Light brown hair frizzy and wild. It was like staring into the face of a stranger—a crazy one at that. When she found Patrick and the kids, the first thing she’d do, after hugging the breath out of them, was chew off Patrick’s backside for scaring her so badly that she’d ended up looking like this. Then she was making him move her back to Texas. She didn’t want any more nights than were absolutely necessary in the desecrated house. The good memories they’d built there as a family had been replaced by a faceless man and a night of terror.

  A vehicle beeped behind her.

  She had an impression of a bronze station wagon in her rearview mirror before she jerked her attention back to the light, letting out the clutch and pressing her accelerator at the same time.

  “Hold your horses, buddy.”

  By th
e time she realized the light wasn’t green, she was already halfway through the intersection in the riding-lawnmower-sized Porsche.

  A truck was making a left-hand turn directly at her from her right. She ducked her head into her arm and braced herself. Metal crunched and crumpled on the passenger side. The window shattered and glass pelted her head. Her neck snapped to the right, and her body collapsed over the stick shift. She had a sensation of skidding sideways, until the Porsche ricocheted off the curb on the far side of the road, catapulting her back in the other direction. She peeked through her fingers into oncoming traffic stopped inches away from her front bumper. Horns blared. Did they think she ended up in their lane on purpose?

  A weathered face loomed out the driver’s-side window, hat askew. “Ma’am? Are you okay, ma’am?”

  She pulled her hands away from her face and studied them. They were bloody. His face seemed to retreat from her peripheral vision like he was being dragged into the sky. The inside of the car felt like a bubble, and she heard nothing but her own heavy breathing. Her view changed from bloody hands to dancing lights in a field of black, then to nothing.

  Chapter Twenty: Splash

  Walker Prairie, Bighorn National Forest, Wyoming

  September 20, 1976, 10:00 a.m.

  Patrick

  Patrick guided Reno through a thick stand of trees, hoping for a break from the rain so he could get his bearings. The bad visibility was playing tricks with his eyes. Just a few minutes ago, he could have sworn he saw someone dressed in an orange jumpsuit. No one wore that kind of getup out here to hunt. A vest. A hat. A jacket, maybe. But not head-to-toe. He thought about the escaped murderer. Surely not. He strained to get another glimpse, but whatever it had been was gone, or was never there. It was disconcerting, but he put it out of his mind. Just an odd hunting outfit. His mind replaced the orange flash with the face of his wife. It hurt his heart. How could he miss her so much when they’d only been apart two days? It was more than missing her, though. He had a strong feeling that he should be with her right now. That she damn well should have come up here with them, but even more than that, that his place was with her, right this minute.