Stag Party: A Patrick Flint Novel

by Pamela Fagan Hutchins

  He nursed his beer. So far, he’d made it last for an hour. Chad was chugging down his sixth and chasing each one with a shot of tequila.

  “See that girl over there?” Chad pointed with the bottom of his empty Miller Genuine Draft bottle, holding it close by his pink-skinned face and hawkish nose. He was a head shorter and fifty pounds lighter than Ben, and he didn’t look like he’d ever done a lick of physical work in his life. Probably never did more than ride the bench in any sports, either. Ben’s first impression was that Chad’s family had money and that he must have a pretty mother, because he had long eyelashes and lips so red it was like he was wearing lipstick.

  Ben followed the bottle to the juke box, where a dark-haired girl with a curvy bottom was studying the choices. “Yeah.”

  “Five bucks says she comes back to our room with me tonight.”

  Ben flinched. He didn’t have five dollars to bet, and girls weren’t allowed in their dorm rooms. “Uh—”

  Chad didn’t wait for his response. “Watch and learn, country boy.” His new roommate popped the collar on his shirt and sauntered across the bar, flashing a mouthful of teeth.

  Ben leaned back against the bar and shot looks in both directions. No one was paying them any attention. Chad reached the juke box and said something to the girl. She turned around just as he tossed his wavy brown hair off his forehead. She was laughing. Watching them made Ben uncomfortable, so he turned around and propped his elbows on the bar top.

  “You want another?” the bartender growled.

  “No, thank you.”

  “Then do me a favor and let the paying customers through, sport.”

  Ben glanced over his shoulder. People were lined up three deep behind him. “Sorry.”

  He scooted away and found an open spot on the wall. He leaned back against it, picking at the label on his beer bottle. He was tired. It had been a long day, and he was out of sorts. He’d called Trish like she’d asked him to. No answer. After she’d made him promise to call, she wasn’t home, even though she’d known when he was due to arrive in Laramie.

  It was a bad beginning to their separation.

  Up until now, he’d been the one who’d insisted it would be no big deal. The truth was he’d been trying to talk himself into believing it more than Trish. He had a deep fear that Trish would wise up and find someone better than him. Someone good enough for her. That’s why he’d wanted to put the promise ring on her finger. He didn’t want to drive her away by being jealous and possessive now. But jealous and possessive was exactly how he was feeling. His stomach churned. He’d expected it take a little longer for her to disconnect from him than this. And it would be too late to try calling her again when he got home. Her parents would be asleep. He’d have to wait for the morning, which he hated, and then he’d be forced to keep it short and within his budget, which he hated even more.

  “There you are.” Chad lurched into Ben, knocking him sideways. The brunette from the jukebox was tucked under his arm. “Sophie, meet my upstanding and somewhat square roommate, Ben. Ben, meet Sophie, the future mother of my children.”

  Square? Chad barely knows me.

  Sophie rolled her eyes at Chad and held a limp hand out to Ben. Ben took it, but he wasn’t sure whether he was supposed to kiss it or shake it.

  “Hi, Ben. You’re tall. And kind of cute.”

  Ben froze. “Uh, hi.”

  Chad thumped Ben in the breast pocket. “We’re going to take it offsite, Ben-jammin. That’ll be five dollars, please.”

  Ben gaped. Chad was bragging about the bet right in front of Sophie? Then his mouth went dry. He hadn’t agreed to the wager. He didn’t have five dollars to spare. But he wasn’t the kind of person who welched, even on bets he’d never agreed to.

  Chad laughed. “Just kidding about the money, man. But let’s get out of here. This party’s moving to campus.”

  Just like that, Chad was taking Sophie to their room? Had he even met the girl before tonight? Ben tried not to let the judgment he was feeling show. “I have work in the morning. Orientation. My first day.”

  Chad smirked at Sophie. “What did I tell you? S-Q-U-A-R-E.”

  Sophie looped her arm through Ben’s. “Come on, Benny-poo. I can’t stay long anyway. You’ll get your beauty sleep.”

  Ben frowned at the silly name and the situation. Trish wouldn’t like this. He wouldn’t like it in her shoes, either. For that matter, he didn’t like it. He needed his job, and he didn’t know these people. Didn’t know if he liked Chad, who he had to live with. “I, uh—”

  She pouted. “Don’t be a dud and ruin our night, Benny-wenny.”

  Enough with the nicknames. He should keep the peace with his new roommate. Compromise. With a heavy sigh, he said, “Okay. One hour.” He’d kick them out if they were still partying after that. He’d have to.

  Sophie squealed and hugged him. “Yippee.”

  Chad held up a hand for a high five. Ben gave him a tentative slap. “That’s my man.”

  But Ben had a strong feeling Chad wasn’t going to be his.

  Chapter Fifteen: Wake

  Clear Creek Resort, Bighorn Mountains, Wyoming

  Thursday, December 29, 1977, 11:30 p.m.

  George

  A thrashing noise woke George from a deep sleep. He sat up, disoriented, his heart pounding, his nostrils filled with the smell of dust and sweat. He’d had most of a six pack after dinner. He felt cotton mouthed. A little lightheaded. On the floor, Abraham was moaning and writhing in his sleeping bag.

  George gulped in a breath. It appeared the man was having nightmares. Nothing more.

  He flipped over, rubbing his face against the scratchy wool blanket he’d piled on top of the comforter. He’d had nightmares, too, since last summer, when he’d taken the wrong clients up Little Goose Trail in the mountains, and they’d turned on him and the Flints. He’d never forget hearing the shot, the scream of Perry’s friend John, and then the sound of a silence so heavy that he knew the boy was dead. Knew it deep in his bones.

  Imagining it had been even worse than seeing John’s lifeless face and the blood pooled on the ground. But the worst part had been hours later, when Perry’s shock had finally given way to grief. His sobs. His horrible, wracking, snot nosed sobs. The memory of them still twisted George up in knots, especially around three in the morning.

  That must be why I have such a soft spot for the young Flint.

  Even though he felt empathy for him, he hoped Abraham fought his demons off quickly. They had a big day tomorrow. He sighed. Abraham’s thrashing continued.

  What time was it? He’d brought a travel alarm clock that glowed in the dark. He fumbled for it on the bedside table, found it, and held it in front of his face. Only half past eleven. George had stayed in front of the fire chatting with the guests after dinner. When he’d come back to the room to tuck in around nine thirty, Abraham was already zonked out.

  George set the clock down. Abraham punched and muttered. If that dream got much worse, George would have to wake him up before he hurt himself.

  A few seconds later, the man stilled.

  Hallelujah. But now George was wide awake. A drink of water would settle him and help with the cotton mouth. He flung off the heavy comforter, tiptoed into the bathroom, shut the door, flipped on the switch, and blinked his eyes to block the light. When he could stand the brightness, he came face to face with himself in the mirror. White-blond hair spiking upward. Blue eyes squinting. Skin tanned and wind-burned from breaking trail earlier with Abraham. The man hadn’t lied about his snowmobiling skills. He could ride rings around George, and the job had gone much faster with Abraham in the lead, fighting the heavy powder. They’d have an easier time of it with the guests, since they’d done such a thorough job, if they could just keep everyone on the trail.

  He turned on the cold tap and filled a Styrofoam coffee cup with water, thinking back over his conversation with the guests. Only a few had significant experience on snow machines
. Mostly the Wyoming natives, Dr. John and Wes Braten, who would arrive tomorrow. Of the rest, Patrick, his brother-in-law, and Perry were complete novices.

  One of Dr. John’s buddies, Cyrus, was a tall and athletic New Englander who mentioned playing hockey in college decades before, but he’d only snowmobiled once or twice. George was curious about Cyrus. Mrs. Murray had told him that the man was some big mucky muck in the Carter administration, but George had never heard of him. Cyrus had barely been around the entire evening. He’d made so many calls on the lodge phone that at one point he handed Mrs. Murray a hundred-dollar bill and told her it was prepayment for long distance for the weekend, and that she should keep the change.

  The last guy in the group said he had decent experience from a vacation to the Alps the previous year. George figured he would be a lot of fun on the trail. He had wild, curly gray hair and a booming laugh, and he’d been the center of attention most of the night with loud stories about his days in the Israeli army. Ari. Ari Something-or-Other.

  George sat down on the toilet lid and drank his water in a series of gulps. The room was so tiny, he could have brushed his teeth over the sink from where he sat. But he figured it had everything it needed. Toilet. Shower. Sink. Anything else was a waste of space and money.

  A scream from the bedroom pierced the air. George dropped the cup, which landed in the sink. He had to rouse Abraham from his nightmare before he woke the other guests. Mrs. Murray might fire them if there were complaints.

  He hurried back into the small bedroom. Abraham was standing in the half-light from the window, tangled in the sleeping bag, but arms up and legs bent in a fighting stance. His eyes were open, whites showing, pupils enlarged.

  “I won’t tell anyone,” he hissed. Then he said something George couldn’t understand. Something in a foreign language. Then he switched back to English. “You know I only wish the best for my cousin.”

  George held his hands out, palms down. In a calm voice, he said, “Abraham, wake up. You’re having a nightmare.”

  Abraham lunged at George. George scrambled backward, shocked, but he wasn’t fast enough. Abraham’s hands found his neck and squeezed as he fell on top of him, knocking him to the floor. George’s head hit with teeth jarring force, but the edge of the sleeping bag cushioned the blow just enough. He found the man’s fingers with his and clawed at them. He couldn’t draw a breath. His face felt tight, his eyes bulged.

  George kicked and bucked. He could barely choke out words. “Wake. Up.”

  Abraham lifted his head and stared into George’s eyes. “Don’t make me kill you.” Then, again, he spoke in the language George didn’t recognize.

  “George. Your friend. Help. Stop.”

  George’s words were little more than gasps, gasps that wasted the precious air in his lungs. Abraham’s eyes were stone-cold crazed. When the man didn’t loosen his grip, George scuttled his fingers around on the floor, looking for something—anything—to use as a weapon. He got a handful of fabric. In the scuffle, they’d pulled the comforter from George’s bed. It was of no use to him, and he pushed it aside. Then his fingers bumped into something that dinged. Something with hard edges. The alarm clock! But when he reached for it, he found he’d knocked it out of reach.

  George’s vision was alternating now between shooting stars and patches of utter darkness. Abraham’s scent was overpowering. Testosterone and sweat, like a bull. He was going to pass out. If he did, and if Abraham didn’t snap out of it, George was dead.

  He wriggled frantically under Abraham, scooting his body fractions of an inch closer to the clock. He stretched his arm and touched only air, floor, and bedding. He twisted and bucked again, and this time, the sleeping bag slid along the floor, moving both men several inches closer to where the clock should be.

  George’s hand groped like a pouncing spider. The clock wasn’t there. It had moved with the bedding, too. He pounded the floor with his palm, desperate. On the third strike, something solid under the sleeping bag dug into his palm. The clock? How could it be under the bedding? He dug with his nails, crazed, getting nowhere, until his fingertip caught a fold. He jerked the fabric toward him, and on his next smack, he was rewarded with cold metal and a ding. Thank God!

  His fingers closed around the little clock. He twisted his arm over and swung at Abraham with everything he had left in him, hoping to connect with his head. The clock glanced off Abraham’s elbow with a pathetic ding. Short. Abraham didn’t even react. George reeled the clock back in. If he couldn’t reach his head, he needed to aim for the next best target. All he had to do was wake him up.

  But then a horrible thought entered his brain. What if Abraham was awake? What if he had attacked George on purpose? George had picked him up on the side of the road. A hitchhiker. No, not even that. A man who hadn’t wanted to meet his eyes or even talk to him.

  But he pushed the thought away. Doubt and fear were a waste of energy. He swung. Smashed the clock into Abraham’s ribs. The man grunted and froze. Yes. George reared back and hit him again. And again. And again.

  Abraham’s hands relaxed. Then the weight of his body lifted off George.

  George rolled over and struggled onto his hands and knees, gagging and coughing.

  “What is going on? What have I done?” Abraham cried.

  George crawled away from the sound of his voice. His vision was still spotty, but he felt Abraham’s presence as the other man leaned over him.

  “I won’t harm you.” Abraham groaned. “Not—not anymore. I am so sorry.”

  George bumped his head against the nightstand. He rolled over onto his behind and scooted backward toward the bathroom. In his disoriented state, he found himself pressed instead against the heavy pine leg of the bed. He put a hand to his throat, then he pushed upwards, trying to sit. He fell back to the floor, uncertain whether to trust Abraham, weakened and unable to get away.

  “I had a nightmare, yes? I was sleep walking. I—I—I am overcome with guilt and anguish. Please, allow me to assist you.” Abraham stood. “A glass of water will be of benefit to you.”

  George heard the faucet turn on and the water rush out, and then the flow stopped. The fight or flight response ebbed out of him. Abraham returned with the Styrofoam cup. He put one hand gently behind George’s head, tilting it up, then held the cup to it with the other.

  “Sip slowly. It will soothe your throat.”

  George stared at Abraham. The man he’d spent the day with had returned. His eyes were brimming with tears. Actual tears. The hands that had nearly killed him weren’t weapons anymore. George nodded, then sipped. The water burned on the way down. George had never been choked before, and the pain in his throat was sharp. He cleared it.

  “You’ve got a grip on you, that’s for sure.” His voice was raspy.

  Abraham whispered. “I am so sorry. That man was not me. I thought I was fighting for my life.”

  “Who were you fighting? That guy from the gas station?”

  Abraham didn’t answer.

  “And what language were you speaking?”

  “There are some things I cannot disclose. I have—I have made some enemies while spending time in another country.”

  George wondered if the issue with the guy from the gas station earlier was about more than a woman. “They aren’t here in Wyoming, are they?”

  Abraham frowned and looked more closely at George’s neck. “To my shame, I think you will have bruises. Significant ones.”

  George tried again to sit. His head swam, but this time he made it. “I’ll be all right.”

  “People will notice.”

  George tried to grin. It hurt. “That’s why God invented collars. No one will see.”

  Abraham’s face was solemn. “I will understand and comply if you wish me to leave.”

  George gave it some serious thought for a moment. He didn’t want a repeat of this tomorrow night. But he needed the help. Maybe he could find a Sunday replacement for Abraham and send the man do
wn the mountain at the end of the day Saturday. If he was unsuccessful, Abraham would have to sleep somewhere else. That was all there was to it. The hallway. A car. In the snow machine shed. He didn’t care. Just not in George’s room.

  “Let’s see how it goes today. Help me up?”

  Abraham clasped George’s hand and hauled him to his feet. “I will never forget your kindness.”

  George steadied himself on a bed post. “Noted. Now, let’s get some rest.”

  Abraham nodded.

  George grabbed his pillow and comforter and went into the bathroom. “But if it’s all the same to you, I’m sleeping in the bathtub.”

  He locked the door behind him.

  Chapter Sixteen: Arrest

  Laramie, Wyoming

  Thursday, December 29, 1977, 11:45 p.m.

  Ben

  Ben shuffled across the parking lot to Chad’s car. It was slick. Very slick. Biting snowflakes pelted his face. Behind him, he heard the laughter and slurry whispers of his companions.

  “I’ll drive if you want, Chad,” Ben said. He might not know his way around town yet, but at least he was sober. He’d have trouble showing up for his first day of work if Chad wrapped them around a telephone pole.

  Keys jangled. “Sure, man. Sophie and I can hold down the back seat.”

  Sophie giggled. Ben heard a soft slap. “You’re bad.”

  When Ben reached the back bumper, he turned. Chad tossed the keys toward him. They fell short, into a few inches of snow. Ben sunk to his knees, pawing for them with his bare hands. Sophie’s peals of laughter set his teeth on edge.