Stag Party: A Patrick Flint Novel

by Pamela Fagan Hutchins

  “And could I pick you out a couple of tops? I’m good with color.”

  Dian had always been the most fashionable of her mother’s friends. Trish laughed and nodded.

  “Don’t go overboard.” Her mom’s voice was dry, but she didn’t say no.

  Dian stood and smoothed her pleated pants. “I’ve always wanted a daughter. You know that. And yours is having a tough day. Let Aunt Dian spoil her a little. It will make me happy.”

  Dian would have been the perfect mother. But no, Trish was stuck with her own mom, who was so uncool and drove her crazy.

  Her mom laughed. “Has anyone ever been able to tell you no?”

  “Only one person.” A shadow crossed Dian’s face. “Now, are we ready?”

  Trish’s mom leaned down to whisper in her ear. “Are you sure you’re all right alone?”

  “Yes. Please, just go.” Then Trish squared her shoulders. “Have fun. I’ll see you guys later.”

  The three women grabbed their purses and walked out. Trish’s mom turned around one last time, her face a worried frown.

  Trish waved. The door shut behind them. She got up, threw the lock, and picked up the phone.

  Chapter Twenty-three: Rescue

  Bighorn Mountains, Wyoming

  Friday, December 30, 1977, 12:30 p.m.

  George

  George stopped his snowmobile and got off, ignoring his growling stomach. By now, the group was probably back at the resort. Mrs. Murray would be ushering them into the lodge, where they’d be shedding boots, coats, hats, scarves, and gloves. The smell of her spicy chili and sweet cinnamon rolls would be filling the air. She’d serve them lunch in front of the enormous fireplace, which would be so hot it would make their faces red. Jenelle Murray might even be with them by now.

  He pictured her pretty face and groaned. Meanwhile, he and Wes had been driving blind in the middle of a storm, with two of their party missing on the first guided snowmobile tour George had ever led. It was a nightmare. He’d never forgive himself if something had happened to Abraham or Barry. As it was, he wondered if Mrs. Murray would give him another chance taking a group out. He wasn’t sure he would in her shoes.

  Wes walked up and stood beside him. George lifted his face shield and examined the tracks in the snow. Skis and belts.

  “Two sets,” Wes said.

  “And definitely veering off the trail and creating one of their own.”

  George could follow them, even though visibility was bad. What he couldn’t do was understand. Abraham was experienced with snowmobiles. With snow. With judging distance and following trails. With mountains. Even if he didn’t have experience in the Bighorns specifically, it should have been no big deal for him to sweep the rear and keep Barry on track. If they had fallen behind, following the trail and tracks of the others shouldn’t have been difficult for him. If nothing else, he would have noticed the difference between the packed trail and the fresh powder. It seemed impossible that he would have veered off the trail. But if he had, he was carrying a compass and should have been able to orient himself back in the right direction.

  Wes echoed his thoughts. “Makes no dang sense.”

  “Maybe one of them is hurt.” If Abraham was ill or injured and Barry was in charge, that could account for the disorientation. Maybe. Abraham would have to be seriously out of commission, though.

  “I hear something.”

  George heard it, too, although sound was muffled through his balaclava and helmet. Snowmobile engines, heading toward them from a different direction altogether. Barry and Abraham coming back? If so, they’d driven in a circle, because their tracks clearly led in the opposite direction of the sound he was hearing. He turned toward the noise, squinting, then lowered his face shield again. “They’re coming from behind us.”

  Bright yellow snowmobiles emerged through the white. Both yellow. Ski-Doo. Not Abraham, at least, as he was on George’s Rupp, a red Sprint. The machines stopped just short of where George and Wes were standing. George lifted a hand in greeting. He couldn’t identify the riders through the balaclavas and the face shields of their helmets. When the snowmobiles started up again and went around them without the men even speaking to them, he knew it wasn’t anyone from their party. Or anyone that followed back country etiquette. Didn’t even say hello or ask us if we need help. No chance to ask if they’d seen Abraham and Barry.

  Wes broke the silence. “They aren’t the friendly sort.”

  George snorted. “They better hope we don’t find them on the trail needing our help later.”

  George and Wes returned to their machines and re-started them. A sense of urgency was building in George. He’d been sure they’d find Abraham and Barry on the trail. But it was clear now that the two could be anywhere. It was a vast wilderness with hazards he didn’t want to think about. They’d just have to catch up to them and bring them back before they got themselves so lost or injured that they froze or starved to death. He shuddered as he climbed back on his machine and gunned it into the face of the storm.

  And before they get Wes and me lost or in trouble out here, too.

  Chapter Twenty-four: Despair

  Laramie, Wyoming

  Friday, December 30, 1977, 1:00 p.m.

  Ben

  Ben picked at the empty Styrofoam cup between his hands. It had held water, which he’d gulped down. He felt out of place in a fancy lawyer’s office, especially after where he’d spent the night. Here, there were overstuffed armchairs. There, hard benches. Striped wallpaper instead of iron bars. The smell of warm banana bread on a plate in front of him versus the horrible animalistic smells in the jail.

  Possibly the biggest contrast of all: the attorney with the kind eyes across the desk from him—Les Packer compared to the taunting guard. Packer had sprung him and taken him to get his truck. He was speaking in a calm, friendly voice to Ben now. “My friendship with Henry goes back a long way, to our freshman year together here at U-Dub. You’re a freshman there now?”

  It was hard to picture the two men as friends. Henry, a rough and tumble rancher, and this attorney with soft, white hands and a moon-shaped face. Packer’s body was doughy. His face, while unlined, was red-nosed and looked years older than Henry’s. But Packer had proved the friendship was real when he’d shown up for Ben on nothing but Henry’s say-so.

  “Haven’t started school yet. Just got here,” Ben said.

  “Henry filled me in a bit.” That’s code for “I know all the bad stuff about you.” Packer’s voice turned serious. “We need to talk about what happened last night. Can you tell me your story from the beginning?”

  Ben didn’t want to think about it, but he was afraid it would be something he’d never forget. He had to face it. It was hard to get himself to force the first words out. He didn’t know where to begin or what to say. After a long silence, he finally found a starting place. “It was my first night here. My roommate Chad insisted on taking me out to welcome me to town. We had a hamburger somewhere, and then we went to a bar. I had one beer. Chad was drinking a lot.”

  “Drunk?”

  “I’d say so.” Ben stopped.

  “Go on.”

  “He started, uh, talking to a girl. Sophie.”

  “Had you ever met her before?”

  “No. And I barely met her last night. Chad and Sophie said they wanted to go back to the dorm. Chad was my ride. I told them I had to start my new job in the morning, but they promised not to keep me up long. On the way out to the car, I took Chad’s keys because I didn’t want him driving us.”

  “Were you drunk?”

  “No, sir. I only had that one beer.” He shrugged. “I didn’t have money for another. The bartender was disgusted with me. He might even remember me as the guy taking up space and not buying anything.”

  “Then what?”

  Packer asked a lot of questions, but Ben didn’t feel badgered. It was helping, some. “Then a cop pushed me up against Chad’s car. Sophie threw a fit about not want
ing to be with us, which the officer decided meant I was forcing her to come. The cop let Chad walk her back to the bar, and then he never came back.”

  “Chad didn’t?”

  “Right. The officer found drugs in my coat pocket and in the glove box of Chad’s car.”

  The attorney drilled Ben with his eyes. “Were they your drugs?”

  “No, sir. I’d never seen them before. To tell you the truth, I’d never seen any drugs before. I’ve been in trouble—I’m sure you know that—but it wasn’t because of drugs. Since I’ve lived with the Sibleys, I work and go to school or hang out with my girlfriend Trish at one of our houses, with her parents or Vangie and Henry. I’m, well, pretty square.” He remembered the sting when Chad had thrown that word out about him.

  “Chad said the drugs weren’t his.”

  Ben slumped forward and put his head in his hands. “I don’t know about the stuff in my pocket, but it’s hard to believe the drugs in the car weren’t his. And he had plenty of chances to put something in my coat pocket, too.”

  “Could anyone corroborate that?”

  Ben frowned. He didn’t want to seem dim, but the word was new to him. “Corrobo—”

  “Did anyone see Chad with the drugs, or see him put them in the car or your pocket?”

  “I’m not sure how I would know that. I didn’t even see it myself.”

  The attorney pushed back from the table and stood. “Henry vouches for you.”

  Ben nodded. His eyes felt prickly dry and yet wet at the same time. Don’t you dare cry. Don’t you dare.

  “But I’ve got to be straight with you. The drugs in your pocket are a problem. The car, not as much. Unless your fingerprints are on the bags or the glove box.”

  “They won’t be on the bags. Not any of them, even the one in my pocket.”

  “That would be good.”

  Ben wiped his forehead. “But I might have put my hands on the door to the glove compartment. I rode in the passenger seat. I don’t remember one way or the other.”

  Packer walked slowly back and forth in his office, in front of a wall of diplomas and photographs, then by the window with the view of the red brick buildings on the other side of the wide downtown street. “If it wasn’t for your juvie record, this would be a first offense. Unfortunately, kidnapping is considered a violent crime, which means your record is fair game in adult court. But that was your only brush with the law, correct?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “No prior drug arrests?”

  “Never.”

  “That will help.”

  “And my girlfriend, Trish. She’s the one—”

  He held up a hand. “I know, son. I know. I’m not sure how a judge will look on that. Your release for good behavior is a positive, though.”

  “Trish would testify for me. She’d tell the court my dad and uncle made me do it. And that if I hadn’t, they would have hurt her.”

  Packer took a chair beside Ben, no desk between them, and leaned toward him. He put his hand on Ben’s shoulder. “I’m not judging you. But I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t help you face what you’re up against.”

  Ben’s hand contracted and smashed the cup. Embarrassed, he tried to return it to its original shape, but couldn’t. He looked up. “I know. And it includes a roommate who’s a liar and a user.”

  Packer nodded. “If we’re lucky, we’re going to find he has a record for drug offenses. And that your prints aren’t on the bag in your pocket. With those two things, we might get you off clean. I just can’t make any promises.”

  “Because of the kidnapping thing.”

  “Well, yes, and because the drugs were in your coat and there aren’t any witnesses that saw someone else put them there.”

  Ben bit down on the inside of his lip.

  “Do you have any questions for me?”

  He had a million. What happens next? How will I get my job back? Will I be expelled? How do I get out of living with Chad? But he shook his head. “Not right now.”

  Packer stood again. “I’m sure you’d like a shower and a nap before Henry and Vangie get here.”

  “I don’t want to go back to my dorm room. I never want to see Chad again.”

  Packer walked to the office door. Ben realized he was supposed to follow him and did. “Fair enough. Why don’t you grab some things from there, though? I’ll call my wife and let her know to expect you at our house. You can get something to eat and shower there. Then when Henry and Vangie arrive, you can figure out how to handle the roommate situation together.”

  Heat rushed into Ben’s face. He hadn’t expected the kindness. “Thank you,” was all he managed to get out.

  “Let’s meet back here at four, then. All of us.” He stopped Ben with a firm handshake. “No matter what, son, you’re going to be okay. This is just one moment in your life. You’ll get past it.”

  Ben couldn’t even muster a thank you. If he said anything, he’d cry. So, he nodded, swallowing down the huge lump in his throat, and bolted for his truck, which was parked out on the street. He jerked the door open. The meeting had gone as well as it could. The attorney was nice, he was just wrong. This wasn’t only one moment in Ben’s life. With his history, he’d never get past it. If he stayed here, this is how it would be for him forever.

  Chapter Twenty-five: Plug

  Clear Creek Resort, Bighorn Mountains, Wyoming

  Friday, December 30, 1977, 3:00 p.m.

  Patrick

  The falling snow closed around the dog teams and mushers like a heavy curtain, giving Patrick a touch of vertigo. He could barely see the lead dog’s black and white body. Just a few days ago he’d been raving about the properties of snowflakes. What was I thinking? They all blended now. Too many for too long. And dogsledding, which had seemed like a good idea after lunch, didn’t anymore. Not just because the motions of the dog sled—the turns, the bumps, the swoops, the tips, the jerks, and the jolts—were stronger than the four extra-strength Tylenol he’d downed with lunch for his aching ribs, but because Barry hadn’t returned yet.

  One of the snowmobiles probably broke down. My worrying from here doesn’t help. Wes and George have got this.

  But Patrick wasn’t buying the empty assurances he was dishing out to himself.

  Nine ecstatic dogs threw themselves flat-out around a curve on the forest trail. The snow-covered trees leaned inward, making the trail seem like a tunnel. He shifted his weight on the sled runners and his grip on the basket. The centrifugal force pulled at his ribs, messed with his sense of up and down, and sent a churning through his stomach. He prayed there wasn’t a moose twenty feet in front of the dogs. If there was, he’d never see it in time to set the anchor brake. They’d be after it, dragging him either to bounce along in rough terrain or to fall out of the basket and do more damage to his side.

  What had the musher been thinking giving Patrick his own sled?

  From the basket, Perry whooped. His son was almost as ecstatic as the dogs. Patrick was happy that Perry was happy, but he just wanted the sledding to be over. To try it another day when it wasn’t so painful, and he wasn’t so worried about Barry.

  The dogs bounded down a straight section of trail, the homestretch to the lodge. Patrick drew in a shuddering, relieved breath. The outbuildings appeared first, dark shadows behind white static, looming ever closer. Behind him, he knew two more teams had to be careening down the trail, too, but he couldn’t hear them. Couldn’t hear anything except the wind rushing past his ears and the runners sliding over the snow.

  The dogs shushed up to a big wooden barn that saw heavy summer usage in trail riding season. Patrick and Susanne had taken the kids on a ride with Clear Creek when they had come up for Patrick’s original job interviews several years before. The resort horses wintered off the mountain, and the barn doors were open, revealing a dark, empty cavern. The owner of the dogs had staged them there prior to the sledding, and it was where they were to disembark as well.

  �
�Whoa,” Patrick stepped on the foot brake two times, signaling to the dogs. After they’d slowed, he set the anchor and added his weight to it.

  Perry was already scrambling out of the basket before it had come to a complete stop. “Whoa, fellas. Whoa.” When he turned to Patrick, his eyes were full July fourth sparkle. “I can’t believe we just did that. Like Call of the Wild.” Patrick and Susanne had taken turns reading the book aloud after dinner in front of the fire the previous winter, and their teens had loved it, although Trish would never have put it in those words. “Do you think Ferdie could pull a sled?”

  Patrick glanced back at the others. All three teams had been silent and focused on the trail, but the chaos of their high-pitched barks and leaping beforehand had made Patrick a little edgy, and the pandemonium of stopping compounded the feeling. He needed more order from life and animals. And he’d learned a few things about sled dogs in the last hour, or at least these Huskies in particular. They lived to run. Most of them had arresting blue eyes, while several had one blue eye and another of a different color. They loved to “talk,” mostly in howling “woos.” And commands were more like suggestions, hence the dual braking system.

  The two other sleds were approaching fast, one after the other. Dr. John was driving the first team with Cyrus in the basket, and Ari had the other with the musher riding. Dr. John’s team stopped, but Ari’s dogs broke the anchor free and ran forward, yelping.

  “Set the brake,” the musher yelled.

  Ari stomped on it again, putting his entire body weight into it, and the dogs gave in, but not before they’d overtaken Dr. John’s sled. They loudly and enthusiastically tangled themselves with the other team in a thrashing of zero body fat and fuzzy hair of black, silver, red, and white.

  Cyrus jumped off his sled and shot Ari a look. “By my count, that’s the third time in our friendship you’ve tried to kill me.” He ticked on his fingers. “Motorcycling during summer break from college. Skiing in the Alps after your fourth wedding. And now this.”