Switchback

by Pamela Fagan Hutchins

Chester grunted. “What are you doing, girl?”

  She shrank further into the darkness. The snowflakes were falling faster now, some making it all the way to the fire, where they sizzled. The ones that landed on her cheeks made cold wet spots. She brushed some away with the back of one hand.

  “I said what are you doing over there?”

  “Praying.”

  He snorted out a few laughs that sounded more like he was hawking loogies. “You think he’s going to help you now? Only thing’ll help you is if you’re nice to me, and if you are, I’ll give you a swig of my drink. That’ll make you feel a lot better.”

  The uncle glared at Chester behind his back. Trish clenched her fists. No, no, no. The uncle had killed his cousin Larry for acting like that. Before Chester could take it any further, though, the scream of an animal cut through the sound of the wind.

  “That sounded like a horse,” the uncle said.

  “Ben?” Chester lumbered to his feet. “Ben?”

  “I’ll go find him. You’re too drunk. But stay away from the girl. You hear me?”

  Chester saluted him. “You may be older, but you’re my half brother, not my daddy.”

  The uncle’s grayish-black hair looked almost white with snow now. “With our mother dead, I’m not feeling much family loyalty.”

  “We’re in this together. As a family. Paying that quack doctor back for killing Mama.” Chester sipped again.

  The bottle must have been empty, because he threw it into the fire. The glass shattered. A piece flew out and hit Trish on the cheek. It stung. But she didn’t raise her hand to her face. She was riveted by Chester’s words. What was that about? Trish knew they were using her, somehow, as repayment on a debt, but it sounded like they thought her dad had killed their mom. That was impossible. Her dad saved people’s lives, when they could be saved. He would never kill anyone. She wasn’t supposed to know it, but he even volunteered once a month in Fort Washakie clinic at the Wind River Indian Reservation. Her mom didn’t like it. She worried that it was a dangerous place and that someday something bad would happen to him there.

  “As long as you don’t get me in trouble, we’re together. I’m not going back to prison because you’re a dumbass.” The uncle mounted one of the horses, shaking his head.

  He rode out of camp without a backward glance. For a moment, Trish worried about what Chester might do to her with the uncle gone. But then a thought dawned. A horse. It could mean help was on the way. Maybe the praying thing had worked. Trish started over at the beginning. Our Father, who art in heaven . . .

  Chapter Thirty-nine: Attack

  Southwest of Bruce Mountain, Cloud Peak Wilderness Area, Wyoming

  September 21, 1976, 1:15 a.m.

  Patrick

  From behind a cluster of pines with thick branches down their trunks, Patrick peered into the campsite while he recovered from the hike. The effort had been slowgoing. It was all he could do to stay upright, between his nausea, cramps, light-headedness, and blurry vision. He’d vomited a few yards back, the last of anything left in his stomach. From the sounds in the camp, it didn’t seem like anyone had heard him. Thank God for the wind.

  At the fire, a large, bearded man was gesticulating and talking. Patrick drew in a quick breath. He recognized him. The asshole who’d given him a hard time about the campsite at Walker Prairie. But what relation did the kid have to this guy? When it hit him, he felt stupid. Of course. He hadn’t recognized the kid at first, but now he did. He was the quiet one who had kept his head down during the confrontation. But there’d been three of them on Walker Prairie. Where was the third? Maybe he was the man the kid was burying, he hoped. That would improve Patrick’s odds to one-on-one, although his “one” was stricken with giardia. But he couldn’t make assumptions. He’d have to make sure the third one wasn’t there.

  The big man starting pacing, and Patrick’s heart stopped. There was another figure sitting by the fire. It looked like Trish. Light hair, small, feminine frame. It definitely wasn’t the third man, nor was there any sign of him yet. It was all starting to fit together, even if it still made no sense. These guys had been near their camp on Walker Prairie. He didn’t know why they would have taken his daughter, but they had known she was there, and they were hostile. Very hostile. Another realization struck him. The big man had been one of the two elk chasers. The second one wasn’t the kid, though. That must have been the third man. He scanned the camp again, worrying about where he was.

  The big guy stood, unsteady on his feet, and weaved over to the girl. Unsteady . . . sick? Drunk? Patrick catalogued the possibilities with growing optimism. The big guy flopped down and lurched onto her. From the way she awkwardly and unsuccessfully tried to get away from him, Patrick thought she was bound, hand and foot. He couldn’t hear the words the big guy was saying, but a familiar feminine voice shouted.

  “No! Don’t touch me. He’ll kill you. You know he will.”

  There was no doubt now that it was his daughter in the clearing, or that the man was assaulting her. Rage pulsed through him, breaking through his resolve to stay calm and cool and to figure out where the third man was. His anger overcame his weakness and dizziness, and he literally saw red. Patrick barreled into the camp, straight at them, revolver drawn.

  “Dad,” Trish screamed.

  No, he thought, wishing she hadn’t spoken. Surprise was no longer on his side. He got one shot off, wild and wide, trying to scare the big guy.

  The man pulled Trish in front of him in a headlock. “You’re not going to risk shooting your pretty daughter, are you, Doctor Flint?” His voice was slurry. His cheek bulged with chewing tobacco.

  Definitely drunk. Patrick locked eyes with Trish, willing her to be brave, trying to tell her that he loved her. “Let her go.”

  In response, the big man drew a knife from a scabbard at his waist. “Why should I let her go? Or even let her live? You had the chansh to let my mama live, and you didn’t take it.”

  Patrick frowned. “Your mama?”

  “I’m Cheshter Jones. My mother came to you for help. You killed her.”

  All the air rushed out of Patrick, and for a moment, he deflated like a tire with a nail in it. “Bethany Jones. You’re her son.”

  “Isn’t that what I just said?”

  Oh, sweet Jesus. They’d taken Trish because of him. For revenge. It was his fault his daughter was here with a knife at her neck. Susanne’s face filled his mind. I’m sorry, baby. So sorry. He had to fix this. Had to get Trish away from this lunatic. Cramps tore through his belly. Mind over matter, dammit. Mind over matter.

  He spoke, looking for a way to get a shot off at the same time. “She had sepsis, Mr. Jones. Blood poisoning. By the time she got to me, she was past saving. I’m sorry she died, but I didn’t kill her.”

  “Bullshit.” Chester spit a stream of tobacco juice that landed on Trish’s feet. She didn’t flinch. “I dropped her off myshelf. She was fine. She was going to be fine. Until you pumped her full of poison.”

  “Those were antibiotics, not poison. They were her only chance. It was just too late.”

  Chester roared, his voice clearing a little. “You’re lying. You killed her. Now you’ve ruined things again. You weren’t supposed to see me. You were supposed to pay a ransom. This changes everything. Everything.”

  There was nothing Patrick could say. Slowly, he started working his way around them, trying to get a better angle for a shot. Chester hauled Trish’s body around, too, keeping her between them. The whole time, she held her neck rigid and arched away from the blade, but she never broke eye contact with Patrick.

  Chester put his head and tobacco-stained beard against Trish’s face. He seemed to relax again. “The way I shee it, you’re going to throw your gun over there”—he gestured away from the fire with his head—"and lie down on the ground with your hands behind your head. Then you’re going to get to see how Bethany Jones’s sons collect their debts, with your little blondie here. Or I shlit he
r throat now, and she bleeds to death while we fight it out.”

  Trish’s voice was high and loud but strong. Steady. “No, Daddy. Don’t do it. Fight, fight, fight.”

  Her voice repeating his words back to him nearly brought tears to his eyes. But Patrick didn’t see a choice. He couldn’t run for help, leaving Trish with this monster. Besides, there was no help, not for many miles. And he couldn’t take the chance that Chester would really draw that knife through her soft, vulnerable neck. He’d comply, lull Chester into submission, then find another way to get Trish away from him.

  “It will be okay, Trish. Trust me.”

  “No,” she moaned.

  He tossed his gun, then lowered himself to the ground. He laced his fingers behind his head.

  “You don’t got mush fight in you, do you, Daddy?” Chester’s voice was mocking.

  He shoved Trish aside and started hefting himself up from his knees. Patrick turned to watch. Chester stumbled and went down. The man was really plastered. While he was down, Trish jerked her arms up over her head. She brought her bound hands down hard, smashing them into Chester’s temple. Patrick didn’t expect her blow to do much, but Chester made a “HUH” sound and keeled onto his side. Patrick was on his feet and running toward his .357 Magnum before Chester hit the ground. Trish crawled away from Chester on her elbows and knees. But the blow didn’t knock Chester out. Before Patrick got to his gun, Chester shook his head and growled. Blood gushed from the side of his head, down his face and into his mouth.

  He grinned, showing red demon teeth. “Let’s see who gets to her first.” He stood and dove toward Trish.

  Patrick jumped between them. Acting on pure instinct, he whipped his pocketknife from his jeans. He flicked it open and held it straight out in front of him, pointed at the base of Chester’s throat. Patrick hated that he knew from anatomy class where the soft spot was. Chester’s momentum drove his body weight into the knife and Patrick. He gurgled, and the two men went down together, with Chester on top, limp. Blood spurted around the entrance wound onto Patrick’s face. He tried to pull the knife loose, but it was lodged in Chester’s spine. Chester gurgled and his neck twitched. Patrick released the knife, his eyes fixing on the word SAWBONES as his hand fell away. He drew on his last reserves of strength and rolled the bigger man off of him. Chester still twitched, but Patrick knew he would bleed out in a matter of minutes.

  “You did it, Daddy. Untie me. We have to get out of here. The uncle’s coming back.”

  Patrick barely registered her words. He rose to his knees, feeling an immense sadness. He saved lives, he didn’t take them. Then he slumped over beside Chester, clutching his guts.

  Chapter Forty: Defend

  Southwest of Bruce Mountain, Cloud Peak Wilderness Area, Wyoming

  September 21, 1976, 1:30 a.m.

  Susanne

  Susanne let out a jittery breath as she rode up the narrow switchback trail. “I feel as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.”

  Ronnie turned back to her. “Courage is when something scares you and you do it anyway.”

  The unexpected compliment brought a lump to Susanne’s throat, even if it didn’t quell her fears. The snow was stinging her eyes. The wind made her feel unsteady, and her horse was jumpy. Patrick had always told her that whatever she felt, her horse felt, too. She hadn’t believed it, thought it was just Cindy that was flighty. She was beginning to think there was something to what he’d said now, but it didn’t help things. One wrong step by this animal, and it would all be over. They’d tumble together down the impossibly steep mountainside and be smashed in the rocks.

  All her nerves fled in an instant when the crack of a gunshot rent the quiet.

  “It’s them,” she shouted. “It’s got to be them.”

  Ronnie turned to Susanne. “It came from over there.” She pointed. “You ready?”

  Susanne would have to trust Ronnie on the direction. Close noises sounded far away, and far away noises sounded close. All sounds seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once, to her ears.

  “I’m ready.”

  Ronnie clucked to her horse, and it picked its way faster along the trail. Susanne’s did, too, stumbling occasionally, but for once, Susanne didn’t notice. She patted the gun in the holster she’d remembered to use this time. Long-pull trigger, ten to fifteen feet. Long-pull trigger, ten to fifteen feet, she chanted silently. At the next switchback, Ronnie went off-trail instead of turning back and uphill.

  “It looks like we’re not the first ones to take this route,” she said.

  Susanne couldn’t see a thing. But she said, “Uh-huh.”

  The horses slowed for the rougher terrain. A few hundred yards off the trail, Ronnie’s horse shied hard to the right. Susanne’s followed, and she clung to the saddle horn. Her legs flopped up and back against the animal’s sides.

  “What is it?” she asked, panting.

  “I’m not sure.” Ronnie reined her horse back to within ten feet of a mound on the earth. The horse refused to go any closer. “Oh my God. It’s a dead guy.”

  “Do you think that was the shot we heard?”

  Ronnie shook her head. She pointed at a heap of dirt and rocks beside a shallow hole. “Looks like someone was trying to bury him.” She got the horse a few steps closer. “His throat was cut.”

  “Oh God. The people that took Trish are murderers.” Susanne shuddered, her central nervous system on fire. Her daughter. Her husband and son. Up here somewhere, with one man already dead.

  “Unless the good guys won this round.”

  Susanne tried to imagine her husband, daughter, or son putting a knife through someone’s throat. It didn’t seem possible.

  Ronnie said, “Keep your gun handy, and stay behind me.”

  Susanne straightened in the saddle. Hell yes, she’d keep her gun handy and ride a horse into the darkness behind Ronnie. Her family needed their help. She only wished they could ride faster. After a few minutes, Ronnie held up a hand, then pointed through the trees. The two of them stopped. Susanne saw an orange glow. With her poor night vision, she couldn’t see anything else, though.

  She whispered, “What do you see?”

  Ronnie’s voice was harsh and urgent. “Trish upright, and two guys on the ground.”

  “The shot.”

  “Maybe. I’m going in. You stay here.”

  Susanne didn’t want to stay here alone. She wanted to go with Ronnie, grab her daughter, and run all the way back down to Sheridan. But she said, “Okay.”

  Ronnie walked her horse to the edge of the clearing and dismounted. Susanne lost sight of her on the other side of the animal. She heard a loud THWACK, and then a thump. The horse sprang forward. Ronnie’s body lay crumpled on the ground, with a man standing over her that Susanne had seen once before, and in her mind nearly every moment since then, wearing her husband’s plaid flannel shirt.

  Billy Kemecke.

  Her own horse decided he’d had enough and bucked once, bolting after Ronnie’s horse before his feet landed. Susanne crashed to the ground, hands first. Pain shot up her fingers and wrist. The landing knocked the wind out of her, but she rolled to face Kemecke.

  She tried to speak, but all that came out was, “Guh. Guh.”

  He grinned and started walking toward her. “Mrs. Flint, fancy meeting you again.”

  Susanne drew a gasping breath, then refound her voice. “What are you doing here?”

  “Repaying a debt I owed to your husband for killing my mother.”

  What kind of nonsense was he spouting? But clearly he had kidnapped Trish, and now had knocked Ronnie out. Susanne didn’t have time to yak with him about what he meant. By her reckoning, he was fifteen feet away and closing. She pushed herself to her feet as she yanked the revolver out of its holster and pointed the gun at Kemecke. A shooting pain in her fingertips surprised her, but she ignored it. She pulled the trigger hard and long, over and over, flinching and yelling a war cry that she
hadn’t known she had in her at every shot. Pull. Boom. Pull. Boom. Pull. Boom. She didn’t count, just kept pulling until when she pulled she got a click. She did it again. Another click. Smoke curled from the barrel of the gun. Beyond it, she saw the writhing body of Billy Kemecke. She looked at her hands. Her fingers were bloody, and her nails were broken to the quick. It took her a moment to realize it was from her fall, not some spontaneous reaction to shooting Kemecke. She dropped the gun and got to her feet.

  “Trish,” she screamed. “Trish!”

  “Mom, is that you?”

  Susanne ran past Kemecke and into the campsite to her daughter. Trish was tied up, hands and feet.

  “Oh, my sweet girl. My poor brave girl.” Susanne knelt and kissed her face, then unhooked the belt restraint around Trish’s wrists. She drew her into her arms and hugged her hard. “Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine. But, Dad.” Trish started to sob.

  Susanne drew back, but left her hands on Trish’s shoulders. “What about your dad?”

  Trish couldn’t speak. She just pointed.

  Susanne looked. Patrick was lying motionless on the ground.

  Chapter Forty-one: Synchronize

  Buffalo, Wyoming

  September 23, 1976, 11:00 a.m.

  Patrick

  Patrick heard noises in his hospital room. He rolled his head a little on his pillow to test how he felt, keeping his eyes closed. Better, although a headache was new and unwelcome. He knew he didn’t make the world’s best patient. Doctors rarely did. But after a day on IV fluids and antibiotics, he was coming around.

  “You’re alive.” Susanne squeezed his hand.

  He fluttered his eyes open. “Barely. Where are the kids?”

  “Down in the cafeteria. Probably signing autographs.”