Trish couldn’t hear her dad’s answer over the wind. Mrs. Mendoza had brought up some valid points. It was creepy as all get out that someone had killed those men on this ranch today, with the Flints here. Trish didn’t want to go back in the barn by herself. She was in favor of getting the heck out of Dodge, but she was stranded here, wasting Ben’s last day in town, while they waited on law enforcement.
She grabbed Perry by the hem of his coat. “Let’s go save some sheep, squirt.”
“Ah, man. I wanna go with Dad.” He scuffed the snow with his boot, but he turned and came inside with her.
For the next half hour in the dingy barn, she tried not to think about the dead men and the murderers. She and Perry took turns holding the listless sheep and squirting fluid into their mouths. Most of it ended up on the floor of the barn. Trish coated her finger with syrup and rubbed it in their mouths, hoping they’d at least accidentally swallow tiny amounts. It was exhausting, smelly work. Sheep had a particular odor. A little bit wet dog, a little bit rancid grease. The ewes’ coats left her hands black with an oily grime, too. Still, she liked them, and she decided to ask her parents if she could raise a lamb to show and sell at the county fair that summer. Might as well have something to do with Ben gone.
“I hear somebody.” Perry rose from his kneeling position, releasing a sheep. “I think Dad’s talking to a deputy.”
Trish hadn’t heard the vehicles arrive, and for a moment panic lapped at her. Could it be the killer? The wind was so loud in the eaves of the barn that she could barely hear Perry talking right next to her. She cocked her head and moved her hair away from her ear. Voices. One of them her dad’s. Yes, just outside. Her tension eased a little.
She rubbed the head of each of the mama sheep and looked deep into their eyes. “You’re going to be okay.” Her dad was always coaching her about the power of positive thinking. Maybe the ewes would pick up on it and it would help them.
Perry said, “Let’s go see what they’re doing.”
She looked at their supply of Gatorade and syrup. It was almost gone. There was nothing more they could do for the sheep. She felt a squeezing sensation in her chest. Please be all right, little mamas. “Okay.”
She looked outside. The snow had stopped, the sun was out, and the world was sparkling like the crystal chandelier over her grandmother Mama Cat’s dining room table. She’d always loved looking up at the light fixture when she was little, and she paused, squinting, to take in the sight. It was beautiful. She wished Ben was there to see it. That and the snow devil. He loved stuff like that, and he had a theory that the snow devils were warnings from Mother Nature.
She was going to miss him so much.
“Are you coming?” Perry turned, shooting her an impatient look. “I don’t want to go by myself.”
She ran after him, not wanting to spend a single second by herself in the barn, either. Her breath came in pants after only a few yards. Since cross country season had ended, she hadn’t been running much. First because she was burned out. Then because it was winter. She was going to be hating life if she didn’t get in shape before track season. The coach wanted her to compete in the mile and two-mile races.
Between the barn and the bunkhouse, Mrs. Mendoza and their dad stood talking to two uniformed deputies, one a very short, very young man with a red birthmark across his cheek, the other one a woman with a blonde French braid hanging halfway down her back. The man was wearing a brimmed hat, the woman, a wool cap. Trish recognized her immediately. The Flints’ former next-door neighbor, Ronnie Harcourt. Ronnie and her husband Jeff had adopted a little boy a few months before. Trish had been spending a lot of time in the old neighborhood, babysitting for the Harcourts on the weekends. Baby Will’s real parents were awful, but the Harcourts were an adorable family.
Ronnie wore a grim look and was talking in a tone to match it. “How many hands were living in the bunkhouse?”
Mrs. Mendoza said, “Three.”
Trish’s dad’s face furrowed. “There were only two bodies inside.”
“You’re sure three lived in there, Mrs. Mendoza?” Ronnie asked.
“Bai. I mean, yes.”
Ronnie and the male deputy glanced at each other. She continued to take the lead. “And you looked everywhere, Patrick, and there were only two men in there?”
“Yes. I’m positive. Only two.”
Mrs. Mendoza wrung her hands together, shaking her head. “So, who dead and who not?”
“I’m sorry,” Trish’s dad said. “I didn’t get their names. But one was young and had light brown hair. The other was older, with a round belly and long legs.”
“They white?”
“Yes.”
Mrs. Mendoza put her face in her hands. When she looked up again, she spoke, her voice quavering. “Young one Bryan. Fat one Herman.”
“When was the last time you saw any of them?” Ronnie said.
“This morning. I fix them breakfast.”
“All three men.”
“Bai.”
Ronnie sighed. “We’re going to need to get a name and description out for the one that’s missing.”
“He go by Muhammed.”
The name raised Trish’s eyebrows. She’d never known anyone named Muhammed. Not in Texas and not in Wyoming. It sounded foreign.
Perry poked her and whispered, “Like Muhammed Ali?”
“I don’t know,” she whispered back.
Ronnie’s voice sounded surprised, too. “What was his last name?”
Mrs. Mendoza shrugged. “I forget. We just call him Muhammed.”
“Okay—where is he from?”
“California, he say.”
Trish wondered if the name Muhammed was more common in California.
“Can you describe him for me?” Ronnie asked.
“Like Mediterranean. Olive skin. Dark hair. Lotta hair. Dark eyes.”
“The name Muhammed—is that middle eastern?”
“Bai. Maybe.”
“Any reason to think he would have done this?”
“No reason anybody do this.”
“But was he fighting with the others. Like over money? Women? Work?”
Again, Mrs. Mendoza shrugged.
“All right.” Ronnie turned to the male deputy. “Could you radio in a BOLO?” From all the time she spent around Ronnie when she babysat, Trish knew a BOLO was a “Be on the lookout”.
The man nodded, jiggling his hat. “I’ll check on the ETA of the crime scene techs while I’m on the horn.”
Ronnie gave him a crisp nod. “Good.” He left at a trot, and she turned to Mrs. Mendoza and Trish’s dad. “Did either of you see anybody or anything unusual?”
Mrs. Mendoza shook her head. “Everything same like always today.”
Trish’s dad put one arm around his middle, like he was hugging it. He’d probably hurt his ribs, even if he wasn’t fessing up to it. “Nobody and nothing. It was snowing like mad. You could barely even see the bunkhouse from where we were by the barn.”
“Any first impressions from the scene?”
He rubbed his forefingers across his forehead, leaving a red mark. “I’d say it had to have been at least an hour since they’d been attacked.”
“Why is that?”
“The blood from the younger man. He was dead when I found him. Probably died almost immediately, I’d say, based on the type of wound.” He glanced at his kids, but he continued. “When blood is fresh, it’s a dark red. The blood on the floor beside him was a lighter red, and it had started to clot. But it hadn’t started to look gelatinous or dried out yet.”
Ronnie’s eyes showed a spark of interest. “What time did you feed them breakfast, Mrs. Mendoza?”
Mrs. Mendoza didn’t hesitate. “Five thirty. Every day, five thirty.”
“And, Patrick, you found them at . . .”
Trish’s dad said, “Two forty-five. This isn’t my area of expertise, but, given the condition of the blood, and how dry and cold it is
, that’s my guess on timing.”
Ronnie said, “The killer can’t be too far away then.”
Trish moved a step closer to her dad. Was it her imagination, or did it feel like someone was watching them?
Mrs. Mendoza looked around. “What if he come back and kill me? I by myself.”
“Is there someone you can call, Mrs. Mendoza? To stay with or for them to stay with you?”
“Yes. But my sheeps.”
“Maybe you could get help from people at your church?”
Mrs. Mendoza nodded.
Trish’s dad said, “There’s another thing, Ronnie.”
“What’s that?” she said.
“One of the men was still alive for a few minutes after I found them. Herman, I guess. The older guy. He described the killer.”
Ronnie raised her eyebrows. “And?”
Patrick waved his hand at the bunkhouse. “He said it was an Arab man.”
“Muhammed?” Mrs. Mendoza cried out. “Muhammed do this?”
“Herman didn’t give me a name.”
Ronnie shook her head. “Have you ever seen another Arab man in the area?”
“I haven’t seen one in the entire state.”
“Exactly.” Ronnie stuck out her hand. “Thanks, Patrick. Hopefully we can keep you out of this one. You and the kids are free to go.”
“That would be ideal. But you know how to find me if you need anything else.” He motioned for Trish and Perry to follow him and started toward their truck, his strides shorter than usual. He was holding his ribs again, too.
Trish hurried after him. She couldn’t wait to get home and call Ben. An Arab murderer in Buffalo, Wyoming. It was horrible, but so . . . so . . . exotic. He’d want to hear all about this.
Chapter Three: Wither
Sheridan College, Sheridan, Wyoming
Wednesday, December 28, 1977, 3:30 p.m.
Susanne
Susanne Flint hurried out of the registrar’s office at Sheridan College, her spring class sign-up complete. She shook her head. The political science elective she’d wanted had been full, and she was being forced to take a seminar in geopolitics and international relations. She imagined the papers she would have to write and shuddered. The rise of opposition to the Shah of Iran. Not my thing. Other than that, though, it was a schedule she could live with.
She shoved her registration paperwork into her purse as she stepped aside to let a group pass her. Her first semester had flown by. She’d never been as busy in her life as when she resumed classes toward her teaching degree. It was supposed to be easier, now that Trish had a driver’s license and an old truck. That did help. Susanne ferried her daughter around far less, and Trish taxied Perry to his practices. But somehow Susanne still spent most of her time on the road—running errands, attending sporting events, and commuting to her own classes. It barely left her time to study. Out of desperation, she’d started tape recording lectures and replaying them during her thirty-five mile drive each way, north to class and south back again to Buffalo. The strategy had paid off, by a mere whisker. She’d eked out Bs and Cs in all her classes. No As. She’d hoped for better, but given her reality, she was satisfied. And tired. Beyond tired. Exhausted, honestly. She longed for a break. A real one with actual relaxation.
But she wasn’t going to get one. She glanced at her watch. Three thirty. She’d seen the hideous weather through the window a few minutes before. Her drive was going to be white-knuckled and long—she’d be lucky if she was home by five. Dinner would be delayed. For a fleeting moment she wondered if the kids would cook. They were still off school for Christmas break this week and next. Then she snorted. Fat chance they’ll cook without explicit instructions, dire threats, and no better offers. Maybe, if they were starving. And that was a slim maybe. So, she’d be cooking late and then she’d be cleaning like a mad woman. The house had to be spotless because she was expecting last minute house guests.
Susanne turned left down a hallway of unpainted cinderblock walls toward the building exit. Ivy League Sheridan College was not. Her thoughts remained on the guests due that evening. Her brother Barry had called the day after Christmas with an announcement. He had a (another) new girlfriend. And he’d already asked this one to marry him. After Susanne had picked her jaw up off the floor, she’d recovered in time to hear him ask if he could bring Esme to meet the Flints.
In two days.
The words, “What’s the rush? Is she pregnant?” nearly slipped out of her mouth. She had literally clamped a hand over her lips to hold them in.
Whatever the reason, her big brother and his fiancée had gotten into a car in Austin the next morning and driven straight through to Wyoming, even though Susanne had told them Patrick and Perry were spending a long-planned weekend on the mountain with Patrick’s boss, Dr. John. A last-minute spot became available with Dr. John’s group, and Barry was going to fill it. What in the world am I going to do to entertain a woman I’ve never met before all weekend long?
She’d better think of something because Barry and Esme were due to arrive that evening. At least they’re not bringing my parents and seven kids, she thought, remembering Patrick’s brother’s disastrous visit the previous summer to the Gros Ventre Wilderness. She loved Pete and his wife and kids, and she loved her in-laws. Well, she loved her mother-in-law, anyway, and she tolerated her father-in-law. But hosting a big group was a lot of work. One man and one woman would be far easier.
Oh, who was she kidding. Barry had been treated like a king since birth by her parents and their childhood nanny. Now that he was an adult with an attorney’s income, he employed a housekeeper and ate most of his meals out. Barry and his fiancée were going to be as much work as a dozen children.
She sighed. Her moon boots squeaked on the floor. She shuffled through her purse, digging for her keys. She was only looking down for a moment, but that was enough, and she ran pell-mell into another human.
“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she said.
“Oomph,” the other person said.
Susanne got a heavy whiff of roses. A woman. Wearing a lot of perfume. And when she looked at her, Susanne realized it was a woman she knew, although she couldn’t remember her name. She stood a head shorter than Susanne, with short, prematurely gray hair and dewy, youthful skin sans makeup. Susanne became hyperaware of her own long, honey-brown curls, glossed lips, and blusher. In Texas, she considered herself a light touch when it came to her looks, but sometimes she felt like a hothouse flower in Wyoming.
The woman squinted at her. “Susanne Flint?”
Drat. She knows my name. “Um, yes. Hello.”
“You don’t remember me, do you?” The woman looked her straight in the eyes.
Susanne hated being put on the spot. Southern women didn’t confront, except in private. But Wyoming women were direct. Overly, publicly direct. She thought they’d do better with hairbrushes and a little lipstick than with antagonism, but she was outnumbered.
There was nothing to be done but own up to the truth. “Your face, yes. Your name, I’m so sorry, but I do not.”
The woman dug in a large shoulder bag and brought out a business card. “I’m Wendy Nelson. President of the Johnson County Women’s Club. We met at a parent-teachers association meeting.”
The PTA. Yes. Susanne took the card, glancing at it. Half of the front was taken up by a bundle of lilacs tied with a ribbon. The other, Wendy’s name and a 307 area code phone number. Like an old-fashioned calling card. “Yes, I remember meeting there now.”
“Amongst other times and places.”
Susanne ground her teeth together behind her smile. “Well, I won’t forget again, I can assure you of that. What are you doing up north?”
“Hanging fliers for our big annual fundraiser. You?”
Susanne straightened her shoulders. “Oh, just registering for spring classes. I’m working on my teaching degree.” Although sometimes she hated admitting she’d quit college years back, she was proud to be finishing
her education now.
“That explains it.”
“Explains what?”
Wendy puckered her mouth like she was sucking a sour lemon. “People have just been . . . surprised . . . that as a doctor’s wife you aren’t involved with charitable work in the community. This must be why.”
Susanne’s insides turned queasy. People in Buffalo are talking about me, and not in a nice way? “Oh, my. Well, yes, with our move and then my kids and the classwork, I’ve been stretched a little thin. But I’ve been wanting to get more involved.”
“No better place to start than our JoCo Women’s Club.”
Susanne’s smile felt wooden. The last thing she wanted to do was join a women’s club. She enjoyed time with friends, but she liked to pick them herself. She forced her smile wider. “Absolutely.”
“I can get you signed up. Actually, it’s good luck I ran into you today. Your name came up as a potential committee chair for our fundraiser.”
“Oh?” She girded herself. This was exactly how she felt riding a horse. A little out of control with a world of bad possibilities out of sight around the next bend.
“Yes. We need someone to solicit commitments from our more well-heeled citizens and businesses. You’re a perfect fit for the job.”
“Wow. I’m so . . . flattered.”
“Great. I’ll put your name down for it. Our next meeting is a potluck at the Methodist church. Eleven thirty, sharp, tomorrow. You don’t have to bring anything, since it’s your first meeting. Unless you want to. Might make a good impression, though. Overcome old ones. See you there.” Wendy waggled her fingers and marched smartly down the corridor
Susanne was frozen in place behind her, open-mouthed. Did she really just suggest I be their money grubber? Susanne had grown up without money. Talking about money, much less asking for it, made her insides curdle like buttermilk in the sun.
She walked to the parking lot on autopilot. Drove her Suburban in a fugue state through the snow squall back to Buffalo. Parked in four inches of snow in front of her serene, beautiful dream house on Clear Creek in a total kerfuffle.
Stag Party: A Patrick Flint Novel Page 3