“No, I’m good. I’ll camp wherever I get to. I’m hiking down to Sheridan, but I’m taking my time.”
“Watch out for hunters.”
She pointed to her orange slicker underneath an enormous camo backpack, and he noticed she was also wearing orange rain pants. Had he missed that earlier? He had been a bit preoccupied with his own exposed situation. “Always.”
He saluted her, and she waved, smiling.
The horses were as antsy as he and Perry to get back to camp. Normally, Patrick wouldn’t let them return faster than they went out. It was a really bad habit, almost impossible to break. But tonight was an exception. He needed light to doctor his son’s feet. Plus, he was anxious to check on Trish. He wanted to know whether she’d had a visit from a horny teenage boy while they were gone.
“How do you feel about letting them trot back?” he asked Perry.
“Good.” Perry immediately gripped the saddle horn. The boy didn’t like horses a whole lot more than his mother did, but at least he saw them as a means to a desirable end.
“Keep your weight off your stirrups. Posting would really hurt your feet right now. It’s okay to be floppy for a while. I won’t tell your sister.” Patrick winked.
Perry gave him a watery smile. “Okay.”
Patrick clucked to Reno. The big beast didn’t need any more urging than that. He surged forward, almost floating over the ground. Patrick’s slicker fanned out behind them. It wasn’t far—about two miles—and with the horses eating up the ground at their energy-saving trot, they made it quickly back to their camp.
Or at least they made it back to where their camp should have been.
Chapter Twenty-one: Release
Buffalo, Wyoming
September 20, 1976, 2:00 p.m.
Susanne
“I’m fine,” Susanne said, again. Being trapped in the ER was making her stir crazy. The exam rooms were like the inside of coffins, tiny monochrome boxes. How ironic to feel trapped in death in the very place they are trying to keep people alive. Outside the room, something rolled by with a clanking wheel. Remembering her claustrophobia that morning at the sheriff’s office, she thought, Maybe after a night of captivity I just need to feel free. She pushed her long hair out of her face. “I’ve been here for hours.”
Wes was leaning against a six-foot countertop covered in stainless steel cannisters and tools of the medical trade—a stethoscope, a blood pressure cuff, a reflex hammer, and a glass jar of tongue depressors—with a sink at one end. He clucked. “Dr. John and Kim could never look Patrick in the eye again if they didn’t make double-dog sure.”
Susanne liked the X-ray tech. He kept her mostly serious husband more laid back on the job. She pulled the sides of her front-opening hospital gown together so the edges overlapped. “They’ve done every test known to man. And then some. It’s overkill.” She’d heard plenty about the expense of unnecessary tests from Patrick a million times.
Wes crossed his arms and adjusted himself into a wide-legged stance. “The Porsche is a pancake. Your face and chest are black and blue. You look like you were shot with salt pellets.” He pointed at her cheeks. “And you hit your head and lost consciousness.”
“I just fainted.”
“Right.” Then he smiled. “But despite all that, I have it on good authority you’re going to be released into capable hands soon.”
She bolted forward, remembering just in time to hold on to the edges of her gown. “Patrick?”
Wes shook his head. His eyes were kind and gentle. “Henry and Vangie.”
Susanne slumped back. “How did they find out I’m here?”
“I called them a few hours ago. They’re on their way up as soon as the paperwork to jailbreak you is finished.”
Tears stung her eyes. She was grateful for friends. Truly she was. But she needed her husband. The blows just kept coming, and he’d always been the one in her corner. Now he was missing—no matter what the deputies called it—and she felt so alone. She choked out the right words, though, because that’s what she was raised to do. “Thank you.”
Wes patted her shoulder. “You need to take it easy, Mrs. Doc. Stress is a dangerous thing. If you hadn’t been so exhausted from your ordeal, I’m sure you wouldn’t have run that light.”
Susanne had told her story repeatedly. No one believed her. Her voice came out strident. “I didn’t run it. Someone behind me honked for me to go. I reacted out of instinct.”
He picked imaginary lint from his scrubs. “The police can’t find any witnesses that agree with how you remember things. They’ve said you were alone at the light.”
She sucked in a deep breath. That’s what the officers had told her, too, but it didn’t change things. “He might have driven off, but he was there.”
“He?”
She shrugged. “Playing the percentages in these parts.” Maybe the men didn’t outnumber the women two to one in Wyoming, but it felt like it.
Obviously whoever it was had fled the scene of the accident, and wasn’t the accident itself plenty to distract witnesses from his departure? But who was the mysterious driver? And why had he honked? She thought as hard as her aching head would let her. He could have mistaken the light for green. Maybe he drove away out of fear. He’d caused a serious accident. An expensive one. A Porsche was totaled. A horn once honked isn’t a mistake you can undo. But with all that had happened—Kemecke, the wreck—she couldn’t help feeling paranoid. Had the driver done it to her on purpose?
A flash of bronze station wagon in a rearview mirror filled her mind, and chills crept up her arms. She’d recalled the car behind her honking, but until that moment, she hadn’t remembered what it looked like. Or if she’d really seen it, even when she’d given her statement to the police. Had it really been a look-alike for her own vehicle? Or had it been her car? Oh my God. It could have been Kemecke. She bunched the gown at her chest in her hand. Surely not. He’d be heading for the border. The cops. She should tell them. But what difference would it make? The witnesses had said there was no car, and law enforcement wasn’t going to believe her now just because the car she supposedly saw was her own. They’d think she was just obsessed with Kemecke after what had happened at her house. She closed her eyes, shook her head.
Wes put his hand on her foot. He shook it lightly. “Susanne, are you okay?”
Her eyes flew open. But the entrance of her friends cut the exchange short.
“Oh my gosh, look at you.” Vangie hurried through the door and straight to the bed, the scent of sun and hay clinging to her. She kissed Susanne’s cheek.
Henry stood behind her, looking like Kareem Abdul-Jabbar to her Dorothy Hamill. Wes greeted them and said his goodbyes at the same time, although he gave Susanne a significant look before he left.
“Call me if you need me,” he said from the doorway, then disappeared.
“Thank you.” Susanne smiled at Vangie, but it was strained. “Thank you for coming. If I had a vehicle, I could have driven myself home, but mine was stolen last night, and, well, Patrick’s is toast.” The officers had told her earlier that it had been towed to a repair shop, but that it was likely totaled.
“We heard. You poor thing. Are you okay?” Vangie squeezed her hand.
“Much better than I look.”
“Good. Because you look pretty rough,” Henry said.
The three of them laughed.
“Just let me get dressed, and we can go.” Susanne swung her legs over the bed, holding her gown closed, then groaned. “My clothes. I don’t think they’re wearable.”
Vangie brandished a bag. “Wes told me. I brought you something. Now, shoo, Henry, and let her get dressed.”
Henry mimed cracking a whip. “Your wish is my command, Mrs. Sibley.”
Vangie rolled her eyes.
After he left, Susanne said, “Thank you. So much. Really.”
Vangie put a sweat suit, T-shirt, and undergarments on the bed. “It’s nothing. I can’t wear any of thi
s for a long time anyway.” She patted her flat belly.
Susanne stopped with one foot into the panties. She’d forgotten to ask her about the baby, and she was a terrible friend. “Are you still spotting?”
“Nope. All is well. I have a good feeling about this baby.”
“I’m so glad.”
Susanne finished dressing while Vangie talked about her shopping trip to Billings. Fifteen minutes later, Susanne and the two Sibleys were on the road for the short ride to the Flint home. Ferdinand met the truck at the end of the driveway and danced around it all the way up the hill. Susanne had hardly had time to tell them the bare bones of the stories about her car wreck and her visit from Kemecke. Enough that they were appropriately alarmed, but she left out her strange feeling that he had caused the wreck. She was beginning to doubt herself about it.
Henry insisted on doing a walk-through of the house before Susanne could enter. Susanne filled Vangie in on the rest of the details while they waited outside. How she’d gone to the sheriff’s department to get help finding Patrick and the kids. How she’d visited Hunter Corral and discovered her family had never shown up at their campsite. Despite the horror of all she’d shared so far, it wasn’t until she got to this part of her tale that her tears started to fall.
Vangie wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “They’ll be okay, sweetie.” The words sounded comforting in her soft Tennessee drawl.
Susanne sagged against her. “I’m just so tired, and I can’t get it out of my head that I need to go find them.”
Henry and Ferdinand joined them in the driveway. “All clear.”
Ferdinand pushed up against Susanne’s leg. She reached down and massaged his floppy ears. “Thank you.”
Vangie released her and turned to her husband. “Henry, Susanne wants to go up into the mountains to look for Patrick and the kids later. They weren’t at their campsite last night. Could you give her a ride? She’s stranded.”
Henry pursed his lips, then nodded. “That should work.”
“Really?” Susanne pressed her hand to her throat. “But it could take hours.”
Henry widened his eyes at his wife. She nodded.
“No problem. I should be done with our hay deliveries by then,” he said. “How about five o’clock tonight or so?”
“That would give you time to sleep some first,” Vangie added, giving Susanne a stern look.
“If I knew I was going to look for my family afterward, I could sleep. I don’t know if I could otherwise.”
“Well then, rest easy. Henry’s got you covered,” Vangie said.
“Thank you.” Susanne felt dangerously close to crying. She was tired of crying, so blinked the tears back. “I’ll see you later.”
The Sibleys got in their truck and drove away.
Susanne shielded her eyes and watched the dirt plume that followed them. She felt a tiny flicker of hope for the first time in two days. When the plumes had disappeared, she went into the house with her dog and locked the door. Sleep was going to feel so, so good.
But then she remembered the bronze station wagon. Her mouth went dry. Doubt or not, the memory loomed large, especially now that she was alone in her violated house. Kemecke. Had he been following her? Had he tried to force her into a wreck? And would he be back?
All her thoughts of sleep evaporated.
Chapter Twenty-two: Reverse
Walker Prairie, Bighorn National Forest, Wyoming
September 20, 1976, 4:00 p.m.
Perry
Perry had never seen his dad this upset. When they’d ridden up on the camp, it was a mess. Their tent had caved in, and there were food and clothes and sleeping stuff scattered all over the place. His dad hadn’t said a word, but he got off Reno and paced around, picking things up, and putting them back down. When he found a piece of note paper, he read it, mouthed cusswords, and wadded it up. Then he changed his mind, flattening it against his pant leg and putting it in his pocket.
It all made Perry’s stomach hurt.
“Trish?” his dad shouted.
There was no answer.
He shouted again. And again and again. His voice echoed back to them, but Trish’s didn’t.
That was when Perry looked for the other horses. “Dad, Goldie and Cindy aren’t here either.”
His dad didn’t respond. He was crouched, examining the ground.
“Dad?”
Patrick glanced up. “I heard you, son. Yes, I know.”
“Do you think it was another bear?” Perry asked.
Patrick stood. He rubbed his face, and Perry was startled to see his father’s hands shaking. “No.”
“What did this, then?”
“People, I think. Hard to be sure.”
“Like, a prank?”
Patrick leaned over and started scavenging MREs. “I hope so.”
“Where’s Trish? Do you think she’s hurt?”
“I don’t know, son. Let me concentrate. I need to get us some supplies.”
Perry’s stomachache spread until it was hard to draw in a breath. “Supplies for what?”
“We have to go find her.”
“You don’t think she’ll come back?” His voice cracked and squeaked. He hated it when it squeaked. “Maybe she just got scared and ran off to hide and wait for us.”
Patrick stuffed MREs into his saddlebag. Then he pawed through the sodden mass of clothing options. He came up with a pair of Trish’s wool socks, her slicker, her winter jacket, and three extra sweaters. They dripped water in steady plop-plop-plops. “You have your gloves and wool cap? And your heavy coat?”
“In my saddlebags.” Why hadn’t his dad answered him about Trish?
Patrick added the wet clothes to Reno’s packs. He patted the bows, quiver, sheath knife, the pocketknife Wes had given him, and his holstered revolver, then rummaged in the rest of the saddlebags, mouthing out his finds. Extra canteens. A compass. The first aid kit. Ammunition. Matches. A flashlight. Rope.
Finally, he spoke to Perry, pointing at hoofprints on the tent. “Look at that.”
“Did our horses do that?”
“Can’t say for sure. I don’t think so.” He turned to face Perry, hands on his hips. “Do you need to go to the bathroom? We’re going to move out fast.”
Perry hopped off Duke. His dad stepped over and caught him before he butt-planted. Then Perry walked a few feet away. He’d just water a tree, like his dad. “Where are we going?”
“We’re going to follow any trail we can find. Footprints. Hoofprints.” He frowned. “That’s assuming the horses didn’t just spook and take off.”
Perry wanted to cry, but only babies cried. Instead, he fastened his pants and returned to his dad, his shoulders back. “I don’t think they got loose. The tack and saddles are gone, too.”
Patrick’s stony face softened. “So they are. Good point, son. So let’s start by me circling the campsite to see if we can figure out which direction they went. You hold Reno. I don’t want to add any more prints to this mess than I have to.”
Patrick helped Perry back onto Duke, then handed him Reno’s lead and started slopping around the campsite. Perry almost hollered out, “Like an Indian,” but something made him stop.
He kept the horses still but looked around as best he could. The whole area was muddy and trashy, and now that his dad had pointed out the hoofprints on the tent, Perry could see the edge of the camp was chewed up with them. It was dotted with manure piles, too. More prints and piles than there’d be from just Goldie and Cindy. He tried to figure out how long the piles had been there. Because of the rain, it was hard to tell. He and his dad had left camp early. Right after breakfast. And now it was dinnertime. That was bad, because Trish could be a long way away if she’d left then, too. But the manure smelled fresh to him. Maybe they hadn’t left long ago, which would be better, so he and his dad could catch up.
Perry knew Trish’s friends wouldn’t come up here on horseback, but maybe Brandon would. She acted dumb
enough around him—she could have just gone with him. “Maybe she went somewhere with Brandon.”
Patrick froze. He touched his pocket. “You said they didn’t talk about plans.”
“They didn’t. I didn’t hear them if they did, anyway. But Trish told me that Brandon ditches school sometimes.”
Patrick frowned, nodding, then went back to tracking. Reno nickered at him. Perry wrapped the lead around Duke’s saddle horn, in case Reno decided to try to catch up with his dad. He clenched the line, and his knuckles whitened. Trish was mean to him half the time. She was always running off and leaving him and calling him stupid names. Just last week he’d asked her to let him come when she was going into town for ice cream with Brandon and his friends, and she’d said, “This isn’t for babies, shrimp.” He’d been so embarrassed that he’d balled his fists, wanting to punch her. And he would have, if they’d been at home instead of the parking lot at school. But he wasn’t mad at her anymore. When she was being half-decent, he liked her, sort of. His eyes burned. He didn’t want anything to happen to her.
Duke sighed and shifted. His head drooped, like he was falling asleep, but Perry saw the old guy’s ears swiveling, following every noise, no matter how tiny, and he wasn’t fooled by the horse. Duke was on alert, he was just conserving energy, as his dad liked to call it. He must be worried about Trish, too.
Patrick’s pace slowed. “Horses moved off in this direction. I’m not sure how many.” He followed something Perry couldn’t see. Then Patrick’s shoulders slumped. “Headed back toward Ranger Creek.”
“That’s good, right? That you can see which way she went.”
“Yeah.” Patrick said, but he didn’t meet Perry’s eyes. “We’ll be headed toward the truck, so I’ll just grab the keys.” He hurried back over to the piles of their gear and supplies. He dug through them, over and over. Then he repeated the process, carefully going through every item and putting them in a pile. After three times through their gear and poring over the campsite, he stood. His face was white as a ghost.
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