Stag Party: A Patrick Flint Novel

by Pamela Fagan Hutchins

  Patrick stood and stretched. Smoke swirled up from the fire and hovered against the roof of the cave. It felt like he’d put his head right into a cloud of it. The smoke got into his nose and his throat. He coughed and sat back down quickly. Wes was kneeling by the fire, feeding the flames. Abraham was standing in the mouth of the cave watching the weather.

  Snow was piling up like a wall outside. The firelight danced on the rock like a puppet show. Demons, jumping and ducking, chased smaller monsters off the wall, where they disappeared before being replaced by others of their ilk. It wasn’t a settling interpretation. Patrick wished he could relax. If he’d had his book, maybe he could have distracted himself in Michener’s fictional account of Colorado from prehistory until the present, but Centennial was in his room back at the lodge. He doubted he could have read well by firelight or focused on it under these circumstances, though.

  Dr. John was leaning against the wall. His nosebleed had stopped. “Try not to worry, Patrick. His pulse is strong and steady. It’s a good sign.” He shaved a curl of wood from the stick in his hands with his pocketknife. He can whittle, too. Of course. It was already recognizably a stag after just a few minutes. The man had gifted hands. That was all there was to it.

  Wes stood and walked toward the cave mouth. “I’m going for more wood. Back soon.”

  His departure roused Abraham from his storm watch. He nodded when he caught Patrick looking at him.

  “I don’t suppose it looks any better out there?” Patrick asked. Not that it would make a difference at this point. They weren’t going to drive back to the resort in the dark. Still, part of Patrick felt like he would do anything to get Barry back to civilization. An equal part wouldn’t dare to move him when he was so vulnerable, no matter the light or the weather.

  “If anything, it has worsened.” Abraham took a seat near Dr. John.

  The older doctor didn’t stop whittling. “The snow will have covered the trail back to the resort by now.”

  “Not good for us tomorrow, if no one shows up to help us,” Patrick said.

  Wes returned, his head and body coated in fresh flakes. He dropped an armful of dead branches, then picked one back up and beat it against the wall to knock off excess snow. He snapped it into two sections of two feet each, set them close to the fire, then grabbed another length.

  Patrick touched Barry’s forehead with the back of his hand. No change. “Wes, you look like the abominable snowman.”

  “I feel like him, too. But I’m trying to stay ahead of the fire.” I like a man who takes his job seriously. “We’re going to need to sleep before long, and none of us will want to gather wood then.”

  “Let’s talk about that. We do need sleep. I’d like one of us to stay awake at all times, to monitor Barry and feed the fire.”

  Wes nodded. “Two-hour shifts, maybe?”

  Dr. John frowned in concentration. His knife was making small cuts now. An antler had formed out of a fork in the stick, so fast it was as if he were conjuring. “It’s a little after nine now. Sunrise is seven-thirty or so. We can’t leave before then, even if the storm breaks. That’s ten hours to cover, between the four of us. Two and a half hours each sound right to you, gentlemen?”

  Patrick rubbed his forehead. “I’ll take the first one, if that’s okay with everyone. I’m too wired to fall asleep yet.”

  Dr. John blew debris from his stag. “And I’ll take the second. Hopefully five hours from now we’ll have a good sense of how Barry’s recovering.”

  “Why don’t I take third shift?” Wes dropped more cleaned logs onto the warming pile. “It will probably be the wood gathering shift. That leaves you with four-thirty to seven, Abraham, if that’s okay with you.”

  Abraham closed his eyes and dipped his head. “This is a schedule that works well for everyone and that I agree with.”

  Dr. John snapped his knife shut and slipped the stag into his pocket. Out came a pocket watch in its place. “I’ve set an alarm for the first shift change.” He placed the watch on a rock. “I’m not wasting a minute of my shut-eye, though. See you at eleven-thirty, Patrick. Good night, all.”

  He crawled on hands and knees to the far side of Barry, but still close to him. He put his backpack against the wall and set his head on it. Less than a minute later, soft, rhythmic snores filled the cave.

  Wes returned his last cleaned piece of firewood to the pile. “Dr. John must have learned that sleeping trick in the Navy. I’m going to turn in, too. Wake me if you need anything, Sawbones.” He placed his backpack near Dr. John’s feet, then curled up facing the rock.

  Abraham remained where he’d been sitting, hands in his lap, eyes downcast.

  Patrick lowered his voice. “Aren’t you going to grab some sleep, too?”

  Abraham didn’t look up. “I’ve been working as a ranch hand for many months. I don’t require much rest.”

  “A ranch hand?”

  Abraham shifted. “It is honest work.”

  “I just assumed you worked in a hospital.” When Abraham didn’t respond, Patrick continued. “With snowmobile guiding as a weekend hobby, like with George.”

  “Yes. Guiding is not my occupation.”

  Probably a good thing, given that he’d been the one with Barry when they got lost and Barry was hurt. “So, what happened earlier?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “How did you and Barry get separated from the rest of us?”

  Abraham’s jaw bulged. After a long pause, he said, “It was my fault. Barry strayed from the group, and I didn’t realize it until too late. I am responsible for his injury. For all of it. I will never forgive myself.”

  The man’s humility in owning up to the blame impressed Patrick. “Seems like you made up for it by saving his life.”

  Abraham rolled his lips inward but didn’t reply.

  Wes’s snores joined with Dr. John’s in a syncopated duet. Patrick glanced at Barry’s chest. Still breathing. When he looked back at Abraham, the other man was watching Barry, too. “Where’d you do your residency?”

  “San Francis—” Abraham stopped mid-sentence. He shrank back against the wall.

  “So, you are a doctor. I thought so. What’s your specialty?”

  “I didn’t—”

  Patrick held up a hand. “Listen. I don’t know what happened that you don’t want to talk about, but it’s clear you’re skilled and knowledgeable. I’m just glad you were here to keep Barry alive. Thank you, Abraham.”

  Abraham finally met Patrick’s eyes. His own were wary, but he took a deep breath and said, “You’re welcome.”

  “You’re a California native then?”

  “I am.”

  “I’ve been trying to place your accent. I wouldn’t have pegged you as a Californian.”

  “I—one of my parents was born overseas.”

  “Oh. Do they still live abroad?”

  “My father passed away some years ago. I lost my mother recently.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Abraham nodded.

  Patrick felt like he was hunting a deer. He concentrated on staying motionless and not making a sound so as not to spook Abraham, which grew harder as the seconds ticked by.

  The strategy worked, though. Abraham started talking, his lips moving quickly, like he was trying to keep the words from escaping his mouth. “I studied internal medicine. At Stanford University. I was at San Francisco General for residency.”

  The silence following his confession made the cave feel stuffy and crowded. The man had opened up, even though admitting he had left the practice of medicine to work as a ranch hand raised more questions than it answered. Burn out? Personal crisis? A patient death he couldn’t get over? A malpractice suit or censure? None of them would be things a physician would easily discuss, more than likely.

  Patrick decided not to press him on it. “Well, I will rest easier tonight knowing you’re taking a shift with Barry.”

  Abraham dropped his eyes back to a patch o
f rocky dirt by his feet and didn’t say another word.

  Chapter Thirty-four: Reconcile

  Buffalo, Wyoming

  Saturday, December 31, 1977, 7:00 a.m.

  Trish

  Trish grasped the edge of the bus door as she descended the steps in Buffalo. She couldn’t wait to get off. The terminal in Denver had been one of the smelliest, scariest places ever. The stench of urine was stronger than when Ferdinand had been relegated to the garage as a puppy before he was potty trained. Did people there actually go into the bathrooms to relieve themselves, or did they just squat in the ticket line? The people were the saddest and most desperate she could imagine. Most of them looked tired, hungry, and dirty. Crusty, oily, dirty.

  A few didn’t. She’d never seen prostitutes and pimps in real life before, although she’d seen a few in movies her parents didn’t know she’d watched. Until tonight at the bus station. Women wearing tight clothes in gaudy colors and prints, exposing too much skin for the cold Colorado air, strutting in high-heeled boots made from fake animal skin. Two men in suits with big lapels and silky shirts opened down their chests showing off more gold chains than Trish and her mom owned, put together. One of the men had asked her if she was alone and where she was going. He’d offered her a chance to stay in Denver and “make some dough,” then promised to show her a good time, flashing a handful of pills. She’d turned him down without answering his questions and avoided eye contact with him until she’d been able to board the bus.

  The bus was no better. The driver had leered at her as she climbed on, and he kept using his rearview mirror to stare at her. His Adam’s apple bulged every time he swallowed, and he swallowed every time she noticed him looking at her. She’d buttoned her coat all the way to her throat and pulled it as far down her thighs as it would go. The seat was ripped, with springs sticking out, and so sticky that she’d worn her gloves and leaned a little bit forward so her hair wouldn’t touch it. The bus had smelled worse than the terminal—like week-old hamburgers, cigarettes, body odor, and dirty diapers.

  Between worrying about the driver and gagging over the odors and the nasty seat, she hadn’t slept. And boy did she ever wish she had, because they’d driven through a major storm, barely crawling along the interstate. She’d been terrified they’d have to pull to the side of the road for the night. What would she do about the driver, then? Would anybody on this nasty bus even help her if he attacked her?

  As it was, the storm had them running hours late. She wouldn’t be taking a bus again soon, if ever.

  “You can ride the dirty dog with me any time, little mama,” a smoker’s voice said from behind her, raising the hair on her neck.

  She glanced back involuntarily. The driver. He licked his lips, and she ran a few steps on the sidewalk to put distance between herself and him, stumbling in the pre-dawn light and deep snow. Laughter rang out from inside the bus. Not just his.

  She kept pushing forward. Away, away, away. When she’d put twenty yards between herself and the bus, she stopped and took a deep breath. Fresh, clean-smelling air filled her lungs. It was a huge relief, even if it was absolutely freezing inside her chest. She coughed.

  Hugging herself and shivering, she looked around. The town was sleepy and still. No drug dealing pimps or prostitutes or perverted drivers. The buildings were frosted in several inches of fresh snow. There were no people exiting the bus except her. One old man in winter coveralls boarded and the door shut behind him. She suddenly appreciated normal and quiet.

  She turned in a circle. There were no vehicles driving by. But there was one parked at the curb. Marcy Peterson, her signature brown braids hanging from each side of her head, was waving to Trish from the driver’s seat of her mom’s baby blue station wagon.

  “Thank you, God,” Trish said aloud.

  She had sucked up her courage and called Marcy from Casper a few hours before. It had already been really late. Or really early. Luckily, Marcy had her own phone line in her room, and she’d picked up on the first ring. She hadn’t even made it awkward when Trish had asked for a ride home at dawn, just promised to set her alarm, sneak the car out, and be there.

  Trish trotted to the wagon and opened the passenger door. The radio was turned up to max volume, blaring “More Than a Feeling.” Marcy was obsessed with the band Boston. The heater was cranking at max, too, and it felt wonderful.

  “You’re the best. I can’t believe you came to get me,” Trish said.

  “Of course. You’re my friend, Trish Flint,” Marcy said, flashing a freckle-faced grin.

  “How long did you have to wait out here?”

  “Um, like an hour or so. I fell asleep. It wasn’t that bad.”

  “Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

  “I’ve missed you.”

  The girls leaned to the center of the bench seat and threw their arms around each other. Trish held on tight for several seconds. Marcy was familiar and welcoming. Tears threatened again. She’d needed a hug. She’d needed a friend.

  “I’ve missed you, too, Marcy. I’m sorry I’ve been so preoccupied with Ben and stuff.”

  When they’d released each other, Marcy put the car in reverse. “That’s okay. If I had a fox boyfriend like Ben, I’d ditch you, too, you know. Your house, right?”

  “Right.”

  “The roads are bad. This won’t be fast. The DJ said it’s like the worst storm in years, you know? They’ve shut down the interstate north of Sheridan, and you can’t cross the mountains up there, either. They’ve got it way worse than us.”

  Trish had already noticed there were barely any cars on the road. Thank God the bus made it to Buffalo. A snowplow passed them going the opposite direction on Main Street. She wondered if her dad and Perry were snowed in at their lodge. If her mom, Dian, and Esme would be able to drive home. If Ben is here and if he’ll be able to leave. “Be careful. Your mom will kill you if you wreck her baby.”

  “We’re going to take real good care of the Mamamobile.” Marcy turned on Fort Street, heading west. “But speaking of a mom who’s gonna kill you—how much trouble are you going to be in for this? It’s almost like you’ve run away. But kinda in reverse.”

  Trish groaned. “So, so much trouble. I don’t have a choice, though.”

  “It’s time for you to spill, girl. What’s going on?” Marcy looked over just as Trish pushed her hair off her face. “Oh, my God! Is that a ring on your hand? What? Are you engaged?”

  Heat flooded Trish’s face. The ring. Ben had given it to her and then bailed. How humiliating. “Not engaged. It’s my birthstone.”

  “On your ring finger? It’s from Ben, isn’t it?”

  “Um . . . yes.”

  “I knew it! Are you promised?”

  “I don’t know anymore.” Trish closed her eyes. She didn’t want to tell Marcy about Ben leaving. She wanted to pretend none of it had happened. Was happening. But she owed Marcy a little of the truth, and if she trusted her friend, it would go a long way to repairing their bruised relationship. “This has to stay between me and you, all right?”

  “Are you pregnant?”

  “What? No! We haven’t done that—no, no. It’s not about me. It’s about Ben. He, uh, he got arrested.”

  “Again?”

  “He wasn’t, I mean, he was never really arrested before, he just kind of went to juvie. But, whatever. He got arrested in Laramie.” She sighed. “That’s not the problem, though.”

  “It sounds like a pretty big problem to me.”

  “It is, but he’s innocent. It would have been okay, I think, but he left.”

  Marcy shot her a glance, then cut her eyes back to the treacherous road. Trish was impressed. Her friend was driving really well in the snow. “What do you mean he left?”

  Trish stared straight ahead, unseeing. Good question. “Took off. Without a word to me. Just a note to Henry and Vangie.”

  “Where did he go?”

  An even better question. “He didn’t say. But
I think I might know. And I’ve got to stop him.”

  Marcy turned onto the road to the Flints’ house. The snow was even deeper there. “Whoa.”

  The back end of the station wagon fish tailed. Marcy bit her lip as the car struggled to get through.

  “Don’t let your speed fall.” Trish had gotten stuck on this same road in her truck before.

  “Yeah.” Marcy’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel. She looked tiny stretching as tall as she could for better visibility. The drifts were shoving the station wagon toward the side of the road.

  Trish decided not to bring up the deep drainage ditch buried under the snow.

  When they reached the Flints’ driveway, Marcy stopped by letting off the gas. “If I turn in there, I’ll never get out. If I continue straight here, it reconnects to the road back to my place.”

  “You’re probably right.” Trish hugged her again. “But are you sure you don’t want to come in and brave your mom’s wrath? I don’t want you to get stuck out there somewhere by yourself.”

  “I won’t. I’ll be careful.”

  “You’d better. Thank you, Marcy. For everything.”

  “Call me. Call me the second you know anything.”

  “I will. And you call me when you make it home. Promise?”

  “I promise,” Marcy said.

  Trish got out. The snow was halfway to her knees. She trudged toward her house, turning once to wave to her friend. Man, was she ever glad she’d worn her moon boots on the bus. Hurrying, she dug out her key ring, careful not to drop it. Finding it in the deep snow wouldn’t be fun or easy. Just as she felt like she was about to turn into an icicle, she reached the door. Extended her key ring to unlock it. Saw a paper fluttering where it was tucked into the jamb.

  Her heart caught in her throat, and she pressed against it with three fingers.