Stag Party: A Patrick Flint Novel
Page 11
Come on, Ben. Come on.
On the fifteenth ring, someone answered. “Hello?” a guy said. Not Ben.
Trish was so surprised she dropped the phone receiver.
“Hello?” the guy said again. “Is anyone there?”
Trish said, “Me. I’m here. I’m calling for Ben.”
Silence on the other end.
“Is this Chad?” she said.
“Let me guess. You’re Trish.”
“Yes! Where’s Ben? I’ve been calling and calling and—”
“He’s not here.”
“Where is he?”
“I hate to be the one to tell you this, sweetheart, but he’s in jail.”
The way he said sweetheart sounded like an insult. “What?” Trish knew her voice was shrill and too loud, but she couldn’t help it. “Why?”
“We were out, and he got busted by the cops.”
“For what?”
“It’s a long story.”
“How long will he have to be in there?”
Chad sounded exasperated. “How would I know? But I’m sure someone will post his bail soon.”
Ben was an orphan. He was broke. He was alone. There was no one in Laramie to help him. “Can you help him?”
Chad snorted. “I don’t think that would be such a good idea.”
“Why?”
“Listen, Trish?”
“Yes?”
“You need to call his parents if you’re worried about your little Ben. Count me out.”
Trish heard a click and then a dial tone. “Hello? Hello?” He hung up on me! I’m practically Ben’s fiancée, he’s in jail, and his roommate hung up on me!
Trish stared at the phone. “He doesn’t have any parents,” she screamed, to no one.
She tried calling back, but, after thirty unanswered rings, she gave up, slamming the phone down over and over on the hotel desk, imagining it was Chad’s stupid head. The only thing she could think of to do to help Ben was call the Sibleys. She couldn’t get hold of her own mom and dad, not that she would have wanted to involve them anyway. But what if Ben didn’t want the Sibleys to know he was in jail?
It didn’t seem like she had a choice. Someone had to help him. She dialed the Piney Bottoms ranch number by heart.
“Hello?” Mrs. Sibley answered on the first ring. She sounded upset.
“Mrs. Sibley? It’s Trish.”
“Oh, honey, did you talk to him?”
“No. But I just got hold of his roommate and he said . . . he said . . .”
“I know. Ben got arrested. Someone planted drugs on him, and his roommate ditched him. And then there were more drugs in the roommate’s car. Ben was driving.”
“Oh, no,” Trish wailed. “Ben!”
“Don’t worry, honey. Henry’s college friend is an attorney in Laramie, and he went to help Ben the second we called him. He’s going to get this straightened out. And as soon as we drop Hank with the Harcourts, we’ll be on our way, too.”
“With his juvie record . . .”
“It certainly doesn’t help.”
“Can I do anything?”
“Just pray for him, honey. He’s had a tough time.”
“And his job. He missed his orientation for his job.”
“He’ll have to worry about that later.”
Trish wiped away tears. “He doesn’t do drugs, Mrs. Sibley. I promise you, he doesn’t.”
“I know, honey. I know. I hate to do this to you, but we have to leave. Try not to worry too much.”
“How will I know what’s happening?”
“What hotel are you at?”
Trish found the number on the phone, then gave it to her along with the room number and hotel name.
“I’ll call you when we know something. But it’s not likely to be until much later today.”
“Thank you,” Trish whispered.
They ended the call, and Trish sank to her knees on the floor of the hotel, head in her hands.
The door opened. An explosion of chattering entered the room ahead of her mother, Dian, and Esme.
Dian saw her first. “Trish?”
Trish held a fist to her mouth. Her shoulders heaved as she sobbed with no sound.
“Trish,” her mom shouted and ran to her side. She pulled Trish into her arms. “Trish, what’s the matter? What happened?”
All Trish could do was shake her head, grinding her face into her mom’s shoulder.
Chapter Twenty: Prep
Clear Creek Resort, Bighorn Mountains, Wyoming
Friday, December 30, 1977, 9:00 a.m.
Patrick
A battalion of snowmobiles was parked in formation by a barn-like structure behind the Clear Creek Resort Lodge. Most of the machines were bright yellow. To Patrick, it looked like a swarm of killer bees. George Nichols was standing in front of them in a white snow suit like the beekeeper.
Patrick strode to him and shook his hand, covering up a wince as pain shot through his ribs. He owed George the world for saving the life of his kids, and he would never forget it or be able to repay the debt. “Great to see you, George. Perry said you’d be our captain today.”
“I am. I can’t wait for you to try snowmobiling, Dr. Flint. You’re going to be hooked,” George said. “Take your pick from the yellow machines.”
“It’s an expensive sport, Patrick. You’d better protect your wallet with one hand.” Dr. John was walking around the sleds, occasionally leaning in for a closer look. He moved with a noticeable limp—a military service injury—that didn’t prevent him from leading an active Wyoming lifestyle.
Patrick groaned. He moved to the snowmobile Perry was sitting astride. “Is it too late to back out?”
Barry’s cheeks were apple red in the cold, matching his borrowed coveralls. He winked at Perry. “It’s a well-known fact that my brother-in-law is so tight he can pinch a penny between his cheeks and it comes out a dime.”
“Gross!” Perry shouted. “But true.”
“I consider it one of my best qualities.” Patrick squeezed Perry’s shoulder. “I can’t afford for you to take up this activity, too. Between skiing and football, you’re already bleeding me dry, son.”
“Ha ha, Dad.”
Patrick walked forward and wrapped his fingers around the hand grip on the machine in front of Perry. Sensory memories flooded through him. Wind in his hair. Bugs on his sunglasses. Dirt in his teeth. For one shining month, he’d owned a motorcycle when he was in college. He’d loved every second of it, too. He’d bought it on a whim as a newlywed and justified the purchase to Susanne as his cheapest and best option to commute to campus. She hadn’t liked it, but it wasn’t until he’d laid it over to avoid being hit by a car running a red light that she’d put her foot down.
“I’m too young to be a widowed mother,” she’d yelled at him, with tears running down her face.
He’d thought she’d been overreacting. “It would be nice if your first thought was how much you love me and would miss me if something happened to me.”
When he walked outside the next morning, the motorcycle had a for sale sign taped to it, in Susanne’s handwriting.
In retrospect, he probably shouldn’t have spoken his thoughts aloud to his pregnant young wife. It remained to this day the only major expenditure he’d ever made without consulting with her ahead of time. Patrick squeezed the brakes on the snowmobile. If he had to guess, Susanne wouldn’t be onboard for one of these, either.
Ari grinned at Perry. Gray curls rimmed the bottom of his black wool cap, and his eyes twinkled. He’d traveled all the way from Israel for the get together. “Young Mr. Flint, I believe you should have no fears in this regard. Your father will give you the world if you only ask him.”
Perry took Ari seriously. “I’ll settle for a snowmobile.”
Everyone laughed, even Cyrus, the quiet one in the group. The tall man had a pale, serious face, athletic frame, and ears that stuck out like they were reaching to catch words. If they ha
d flapped, it would have put Patrick in mind of Dumbo. Oh, heck, yeah, they remind me of Dumbo, whether they flap or not. Patrick was pretending he had no idea that Cyrus held a cabinet level position at the White House, since Dr. John had told them Cyrus was trying to remain incognito. But it had been hard the evening before when Cyrus was in and out on mysterious work phone calls. Patrick was curious about what it was like to be on the inside, politically. He didn’t have any political aspirations. He just couldn’t understand why anyone else would willingly put themselves through it, either.
Two men approached. One was a muscular man of medium height, the guide working with George. He’d met him briefly the night before. The other—a praying mantis figure—Patrick knew well.
The long, lean man called out, “Hey, Sawbones. Dr. John. Perry. George. How is everyone?” It was the jack-of-all-trades medical tech Wes Braten, one of Patrick’s best friends. He was up for the day rather than the weekend.
“I guess they’ll let anyone on this ride,” Patrick said.
Wes replied in his droll voice. “Lucky for you, I guess. I tried to talk George out of letting you come along.”
He made the rounds, with Dr. John introducing Ari and Cyrus and Patrick doing the same with Barry.
“And this is Abraham,” George said to Wes. “He’ll be the other guide today, and he’s a far better rider than I am. He’s even done a little racing out in California.”
“At the beach?” Perry asked. “Is there even snow there?”
Abraham smiled. “In the mountains. They’re called the Sierra Nevadas. They are stark and very beautiful. You should visit them if you get the chance.”
Suddenly, a cone of snow lifted from the ground not fifty feet away from them. Patrick pointed. “Another snow devil, Perry.”
“You mean a snownado.” Perry smiled.
“Either works.”
“Out of sight,” Barry said. “I’ve never seen anything like that.”
“They’re rare elsewhere, but we get them fairly regularly, when the conditions are right.”
The sun was almost shining through the snow fall, for now, but that could change quickly, and the temperature was barely up to five degrees. The sparse flakes were tighter, smaller. Prisms, he thought. Like needles. The whirling snow danced around the edge of the trees for a few more seconds, then disappeared.
George clapped his hands to get everyone’s attention. “All right, then. If everyone could gather close, I’ll explain the rules of the trail and show you how to operate these snow beasts.” Patrick noticed that George’s voice was hoarse. He hoped George wasn’t coming down with something. “The most important thing to remember is to stay close to the machine in front of you and always on the trail. It’s deep powder on either side of it in most places. You’re likely to get stuck in it, and then we’ll spend our whole day digging machines out of drifts.”
Ari raised his hand. “I am too old and too fat for digging.”
And my ribs hurt too bad, although I won’t let that stop me. Patrick had bound his midsection tightly with lengths of Ace bandage before he’d gotten dressed. And he’d taken more Tylenol. That would have to do it.
George laughed. “Everyone digs. Also, the wildlife out here is wild. And moose are cranky in deep snow. Give them a wide berth if we see them.”
Wes patted his hip. “Is everyone armed, in case we have to scare something off?”
Everyone from Wyoming answered in the affirmative. Patrick didn’t get dressed without his knife, and he didn’t go anywhere in the mountains without his .357 Magnum.
Cyrus said, “I missed the memo. But all I have back east is a deer hunting rifle.”
Ari crossed his arms. “And out here it’s the wild, wild west.”
Dr. John waffled his hand. “In the west, it’s every man for himself, against the wild. We all carry, but we rarely have reason to use a gun, except for hunting.”
Speak for yourself. Patrick wished there’d been less cause for him to use his. He heard a vehicle engine and glanced down the hillside to the lodge. A green sedan had pulled up out front. Terrible vehicle for the mountains in winter. Was it the same one he’d seen at the gas station the day before? He turned back to George. As he did, his eyes passed over Abraham. The man looked almost scared. But of what, and why? Abraham backed up and worked his way to the far side of the group, where he donned a balaclava. When he had it adjusted over his face, he put on goggles.
He’s just getting ready, Patrick realized.
He gave himself a mental shake. Time to tune back into George’s talk. Patrick wasn’t going to be the one who ended up needing to be dug out of a drift today.
Chapter Twenty-one: Speed
Bighorn Mountains, Wyoming
Friday, December 30, 1977, 10:30 a.m.
Perry
Perry wasn’t sure when the sun had disappeared, and the snow had started falling harder. Gradually. It sure was pretty, even if it was getting harder to see. The tall pines were wearing snow caps, the rocks were like cupcakes with fluffy white frosting, and the terrain was endless marshmallow fluff. He’d barely looked around earlier. All of his attention had been on his snowmobile and the rooster tail thrown up by George’s machine in the trail in front of him. He didn’t even mind the exhaust smell that went with it. Now that he’d gotten the hang of it, he could look around more.
Man, he’d only thought he loved football and snow skiing. Snowmobiling was better. Literally, it was the best sport ever. And the more it snowed, the cooler it got. With the way the stuff was coming down, tomorrow would be uh-mazing.
George raised his fist, a pre-arranged signal each of them was supposed to pass down the line to tell the group to stop. Perry raised his and hoped everyone else did the same, so they wouldn’t crash into a pile-up. He brushed snow off his face shield and flipped it up as he slowed his snowmobile. The end of his scarf whipped him in the face. The flakes were hard, like pellets. He stuck out his tongue to catch them and they stung just a little. He had to work to keep his eyes open.
The gap between him and George grew smaller. Perry released pressure with his thumb on his throttle. After a few seconds, he gained ground on George again. He backed his speed down until his thumb trembled in the awkward position. When no one plowed into him from the back, he let off the gas altogether. George came to a complete stop. Perry goosed his snowmobile just enough to park neatly behind him. One by one, the engine noise of the snowmobiles quieted as all the riders shut them down.
George climbed onto the seat of his fancy Boss Cat and stood up. He made a megaphone around his mouth with his hands. “Is everybody having fun?”
The group cheered. Perry pumped a fist.
“Okay, then. Huddle up where you can hear me.”
Everyone gathered closer. Perry waited on his seat but swiveled around to watch them. The other guys were being careful to walk single file on the packed trail. Those that had stepped off it during breaks earlier had ended up in snow to the knees. Or, in Perry’s case, the waist.
He turned back around, admiring the blue and white Boss Cat. It really was a sweet ride. He wondered if George would be willing to let him take it for a spin. Not yet of course. The more practice he got in first, the better. It couldn’t be later today, though. A musher was taking them dog sledding that afternoon. The next morning wouldn’t work, either. They’d be going ice fishing at Meadowlark Lake. Personally, Perry would be more than happy to just fish from the shore. It seemed like winter had barely started, and he didn’t trust that ice not to crack open and give him a deathly cold dunking. But tomorrow afternoon, they planned on doing more snowmobiling. That’s when he’d ask George about trying the Boss Cat.
His dad sidled up and gripped Perry’s shoulder. His Uncle Barry leaned against the sled from the other side.
Perry grinned at his dad and whispered, “Race ya back, old man.”
His dad shook his head, eyes twinkling, but put a finger to his lips as George started talking again.
Ari raised his hand. “Do we call this a storm, or do we call it a blizzard? We do not have these in Israel. I am thinking blizzard.”
Cyrus rolled his eyes at Dr. John. “He hasn’t changed a bit since college. Still never shuts up.”
Wes laughed. “This is nothing. Stick around through April.” He and Ari had really hit it off. Ari was always clowning around, and Wes was one of the funniest people Perry knew.
Uncle Barry shivered in his ketchup-red coveralls. “Why does anyone choose to live in an unhospitable place like this?”
Why wouldn’t they? Winter sports are the best. Perry sat a little taller, feeling proud to be Wyoming tough.
“Getting engaged has made you soft, shyster,” his dad said.
Uncle Barry raised his hands in front of his chest. “Guilty.”
“Any more questions?” George said. Ari opened his mouth, but George held up a hand. “Any more serious questions?” Ari made a zipping motion across his lips. “We’ll maintain the same order, with me first, and Abraham last.” He put a thumb up. “Got it?”
Perry gave him a thumbs up. There were more thumbs and a few “got its” in reply.
“Great. Next stop, hot lunch at the lodge!”
Perry turned on the ignition, grasped the pull start, put his foot up on the runner of the snowmobile, and jerked as hard as he could. It took him five pulls to start it, but he didn’t have to ask his dad for help, which was the best he’d done so far. George had started his machine in one pull but was standing on it again, watching the group get ready. He made a big O with his arms over his head, then nodded. Perry had seen George and Abraham signal each other this way before. It meant they both thought everything was okay, he guessed. George lowered himself onto his seat and hit the gas.