Stag Party: A Patrick Flint Novel

by Pamela Fagan Hutchins

  “I’m going in the house,” Esme announced.

  Don’t let the door hit you on the behind on your way in. “Fine,” Susanne said.

  “Do I need a key?”

  Susanne had left her keys in the ignition for the tow truck. “Under the mat.”

  Esme’s reply was inaudible, which was probably a good thing. She got out, but Dian stayed in the truck.

  “That one’s unfriendly,” Ronnie said.

  Susanne said, “You have no idea.”

  Ronnie radioed Trish’s information to dispatch and asked for a BOLO. After she hung up her mic, she said, “Don’t worry, Susanne. We’ll catch up to her. I’ll go after her myself.”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  Ronnie shook her head. “I wish I could let you do that, but I need you by the phone in case she calls.”

  Susanne drew in a deep breath. She hadn’t thought of that. “I hate it, but you’re right.”

  “Of course I am. I’ll call you the second we have her.”

  Susanne nodded, fighting tears as she got out of the truck with Dian, and headed into her big, empty house.

  Chapter Thirty-six: Resent

  Clear Creek Resort, Bighorn Mountains, Wyoming

  Saturday, December 31, 1977, 7:30 a.m.

  Perry

  The first thing Perry did when he woke up was look over at his dad’s side of the bed in their room at the lodge.

  Empty.

  Perry balled the covers in his hands. He knew his dad was smart and had a way of getting out of scrapes, but he was still worried. The wind had howled all night. He sat up. The windows were covered in frost and snow. It wasn’t the kind of night to spend outside, even with shelter. George had come back around dinner time with the two girls Perry had seen when they were putting up the sled dogs. He’d tried to convince Perry that the cave and fire were warm enough. That his dad was safe.

  But Perry still had a heavy ball in his gut.

  He knew he should be more worried about Uncle Barry. George hadn’t said so, but Perry knew Uncle Barry would make it, even though Dr. John was going to operate on him. His dad always said Dr. John had magic hands. But it was still scary. In the wilderness. In a blizzard. Much better to be in a hospital. A warm, dry hospital with nurses and medicine and everything else a doctor would need.

  Perry had a sudden thought. What if his dad was back, but he’d stayed with Uncle Barry, to take care of him? Or maybe he just hadn’t wanted to wake Perry up. He could be eating breakfast in front of the fire right that second.

  Perry threw the covers off. The room was cold—cold as a bear with no hair—and his teeth chattered as he hopped on one foot and stuck the other in the leg of his jeans. When he had them on, he added yesterday’s sweater with no shirt underneath. He glanced at his toothbrush and toothpaste but decided bad breath wasn’t going to matter today. He’d slept in his wool socks, so he jammed his feet into boots that he didn’t bother tying, grabbed his coat, and dashed from the room.

  Perry’s and his dad’s room was on the first floor. He sprinted down the shallow hall to the central room with its enormous rock fireplace and a breakfast buffet that ran along the entire length of one wall. He was in a hurry to see if his dad was there. His stomach rumbled. But he was also hungry. Eggs, sausages made locally in Sheridan, pancakes, oatmeal, and fruit. It was terrible to be thinking about food when he should be worried about his dad. He could be both at the same time, though. He ran faster.

  He came to a quick stop at the entrance and searched the room. He didn’t see his dad, and his heart sank like a bucket of cement. But George and the two women were there, eating. Their plates were nearly empty, though.

  George waved him over. “Good morning, young Mr. Flint.”

  Perry didn’t have time to yip yap with George. “Have you seen my dad yet?”

  “No, but we didn’t expect to. It wasn’t safe for them to travel at night in the storm. I was hoping Search and Rescue would be here by now, but they haven’t been able to get through. That’s okay, though. We made a warm stretcher on a sled for your uncle. The storm has stopped, and the sun is up. We’re going to get them ourselves.” He clapped Perry on the shoulder. “It’s going to be okay, Perry. You’ll see.”

  One of the women said, “My mom made them thermoses of coffee and hot food. We’ll be on our way in five minutes.”

  Perry nodded. “I’ll go get ready.” He turned to run back to his room.

  “Whoa, whoa, whoa.” George grabbed him by the elbow. “That’s not happening, buckaroo.”

  Perry’s face flamed and he shook George off. “I’m old enough. And it’s my dad and uncle.”

  George’s lips pressed together. He shook his head slowly. “No can do. I’m sorry.” He stood. “That storm laid down a ton of new powder. It’s going to be difficult for even the most experienced riders. We can’t afford to slow down for anyone getting stuck. You understand, right?”

  The women stood, too.

  Perry nodded, his neck jerky, but he didn’t say a word. He watched them walk away, his anger simmering, and a plan forming in his mind.

  Chapter Thirty-seven: Sleuth

  Piney Bottoms Ranch, Story, Wyoming

  Saturday, December 31, 1977, 8:00 a.m.

  Trish

  Trish shivered. Her old truck took forever to warm up, and it was like an ice box inside it, even after she’d been driving for fifteen minutes. The reflection of the sun off the snow was blinding, and despite her sunglasses, Trish still had to squint. Nothing looked cleaner, prettier, and brighter than Wyoming after a blizzard. As beautiful as it was, it didn’t cheer her up. She was searching for the boyfriend she had thought loved her, but who had left her to run off who knew where, after he put a ring on her finger. She looked at her hand. A pretty little amethyst ring. A promise that they would be together.

  Her eyes burned from crying, but she was out of tears. That was a good thing. Tears meant she wouldn’t be able to see where she was going. If she got stuck or ran off the road, she wouldn’t be able to catch up with Ben.

  But catch up with him where? She knew he’d gone through Buffalo, but that was it. She had no idea how far ahead of her he was, and only a guess that he’d headed to Piney Bottoms. She mulled it over for the thousandth time. If he’d driven out of Laramie yesterday afternoon, he’d probably left the note for her on his way to the ranch the night before. Probably. He might have done it after he left Piney Bottoms. She didn’t think so, though. It made sense that he’d stop on his way.

  So, would he have spent the night at the ranch or grabbed his things and kept driving? That was a harder question. Was he more worried about falling asleep on the road or about being intercepted at Piney Bottoms? He couldn’t have slept much in the jail. Driving after two nights in a row without sleep would be dangerous. Foolish. He knew that Henry and Vangie were in Laramie. But if they’d left to return to the ranch immediately after reading his note, they might make it back before he got away. And what about Trish and her family? It was a short drive from Buffalo to Story. For all Ben knew, the Sibleys could have sent the Flints after him. Would that bother him? It wasn’t like anyone could stop him. Not really, short of holding him at gunpoint. He was an adult. He could do what he wanted.

  Including breaking up with her. Ugh, the possibilities. At least the heater had started to make a difference in the cab. She was exhausted from cycling through the possibilities. Her brain wanted to collapse in a heap.

  Talk about stuck. Mentally, at least. She decided that none of it made a difference. Not really. Because no matter where Ben had spent the night, her search for him had to start at the ranch. Had to.

  Luckily, getting her truck stuck didn’t seem likely. The snowplows had been out in force on the interstate, and she drove slowly and didn’t have any trouble. Until she turned off pavement, that is, and onto the four miles of dirt road leading to Piney Bottoms Ranch. Only one strip had been plowed, right down the center of the road. A very narrow stri
p. Not even the width of the blade of a commercial snowplow. More like the blade on the front of a pickup of someone who needed to get to work.

  She eyed the road, the plowed strip, and the snow on either side of it. Did she have any other options? If she drove to Story and approached Piney Bottoms from the opposite direction, she’d still be on the same gravel road, with four miles to cover either way. Piney Bottoms was smack in the middle of it. And there was no guarantee anyone had plowed at all from that direction. Her choice was simple. Go, and risk getting stuck on a road with almost zero traffic, which meant she’d be alone and without help. Or not go, and risk missing Ben or at least clues about where he was headed.

  I’m dressed okay for the weather, and I’m not going to starve to death. Didn’t her parents always tell her, “nothing ventured, nothing gained?” Usually that had to do with trying out for a new sport or applying for college scholarships. They wouldn’t be pleased to know she was applying their logic to driving down a drifted road after Ben.

  “Come on, Trish. You can do this.” She pounded her mittened hand on the steering wheel, then gently pressed the gas.

  Her pickup seemed to float. She concentrated on driving a straight line, barely breathing at first. Her truck crept up a hill. Was she going too slow? She could bog down. But if she sped up, she might lose traction. Would the road be worse or better if it wasn’t so cold out? Winter weather fluctuated wildly in their area, as did the properties of snow and strategies for driving in each type. It would morph from deep and drifted and smooth as frosting to cottony and lumpy, then to oozy, and on to dense and icy, all before it thawed. None of them were easy to drive in. Ice is the worst. But drifts are second worst.

  Her head started to hurt, and she realized her shoulders were nearly up to her ears. Relax. Be calm. She took several long, slow breaths. You’ve got this. She relaxed her death grip on the steering wheel and allowed herself to take in a little of the landscape. A deer pawed down to the grass in the pasture next to Fort Phil Kearney, but other than that, the snowscape was smooth and unbroken. It made her feel alone. And she was alone, not just because right this minute she was in the only vehicle she could see—the only person around for who knew how far. Her family wasn’t anywhere she could reach them. Her mom was in Denver. Her dad and Perry were in the mountains. Marcy had come to Trish’s rescue when she called, but the two of them weren’t close anymore.

  And Ben was gone. Or maybe not. Maybe he’d be at Piney Bottoms, snowed in, with the power out like happened so often in a blizzard, wrapped in a blanket in front of a roaring fire. Happy to see her. She could talk him into staying while they waited for the power to come back on. Probably not, but it could happen.

  She approached a stream crossing. The water was still running but with ice at the edges of the creek. A few horses were sunning on its banks, their backs covered in solid blankets of snow and their empty turn-out shed behind them. She slowed to cross the earthen bridge, then gradually increased her speed up a hill on the other side of the creek. A family was sledding beside the road, taking turns on long plastic toboggans. Across the road from them, a man was hitching two horses to a sleigh. It looked like they were all having fun.

  Sadness twisted her insides. She wanted fun. To be in front of that fire she imagined at Piney Bottoms, with Ben. In Denver buying clothes and makeup with her mom would be okay, too. She’d even be happy up at Clear Creek Resort with her dad and brother.

  She just wanted to feel good. Ben had always made her feel good. This—leaving her—was the exact opposite.

  She rounded a bend. The gate to Piney Bottoms was in sight. Finally. The plowed strip had continued all the way there. That had been a stroke of good luck. But it didn’t turn into the gate. She stopped, evaluating and looking. There was a single set of tire tracks over the cattle guard leading to the house and ranch buildings. A drumroll started in her chest. Ben. Maybe. But coming or going? She had no way of knowing anything, other than they’d been left after the snow.

  She positioned her truck in the tracks and drove carefully toward the house. It wasn’t as easy as following the plowed strip, but it was only a few inches deep since the north wind tended to blow most of the snow away there. She tried to keep her eyes on the road, but it was impossible not to search for Ben’s truck. She didn’t see it anywhere. Henry’s either. The twisting feeling in her midsection started up again. When she reached the main house, she jumped out and ran to the front door. She knocked but didn’t wait to see if anyone answered. They never locked the place. She opened the door.

  “Ben! Ben, where are you? It’s me. Ben!”

  The inside of the house was quiet. Quiet as her school had been one time when she and Marcy had sneaked in after hours to get a book Trish had forgotten in her locker. She sniffed, hoping to detect the scent of breakfast or Ben—his wonderful mix of soap, sunshine, dirt, and clean sweat.

  Nothing.

  She ran into the kitchen.

  Empty.

  Back through the great room.

  No Ben.

  Down the hall to his bedroom.

  No one was there.

  And into the bathroom.

  The lights were out, and the door was open.

  She slumped against the wall in the hallway. Ben wasn’t there. Might not have come there at all. She thought about the tracks. They were most likely his, but she couldn’t be sure. Not about who left them or when.

  But she would assume they were Ben’s. It was her best option.

  Which direction had the tracks gone—back the way she had come or towards Story? She hadn’t noticed. She fought an urge to run back to her truck and follow them. She could do that. Would do that. But she was already in the house. She had to see if he’d left a note while she was still there. Look for any clues he might have left accidentally.

  She walked into his bedroom. His absence was palpable, but so was the fact that he had been there the night before. Now she knew something for sure. His bed was made, but sloppy, with the lumpy covers pulled over but not tucked around the pillow. Like he’d done it instead of Mrs. Sibley, because Mrs. Sibley liked things to be just so. Trish leaned over the bed and caught a whiff—just a trace—of Ben. It made her feel a weird pressure in her chest. She ignored it. Now wasn’t the time to get emotional.

  Trish opened each drawer in his dresser. They were empty. Of course. He’d taken most of his clothes to Laramie. She’d sat in his desk chair and watched him pack. She looked around the room. It was like he’d never lived here. No pictures. No mementos. The rocks he’d collected last summer were gone. The lucky horseshoe he’d found his first day at the ranch—not there.

  Ben didn’t plan on coming back.

  Alaska, a voice inside her whispered. She knew in her heart of hearts that he was making a break for Alaska. She didn’t know how she knew it. Ben had only mentioned Alaska a few times. She just did, because she knew him. Inside and out.

  But it would take a lot of money for gas all the way to Alaska. To buy food. To pay for places to stay, whenever the weather wasn’t nice enough to camp or stay in his truck. That would be a lot of the time. It was the dead of winter. Ben didn’t have enough money to get to Alaska.

  Yet he’d been here and was gone. For a split second, she wondered if he’d stolen money from Vangie and Henry. She dismissed that thought as fast as it had come. Ben wouldn’t do that. Never in a million years. Not just because he was a good person, but because he was determined to prove he was nothing like the criminals in his family.

  So, what would he do to get the money?

  She stared out the window. It looked out on rugged pastureland and up the mountains. The view. There was nothing like the view from Piney Bottoms. In the distance, a herd of black Angus cattle were huddled with their butts to the wind. They’d stand like that for hours, waiting for someone to come throw them hay. To take care of them.

  Ben wasn’t like that. Ben took care of himself.

  And that’s when it hit her. In his
note, Ben had told her exactly where he was going and what he was going to do. She pulled it out of her jeans pocket and re-read it. “I’m stopping at my old house to get some stuff and make some cash for my trip. I’m going where I can make money, and no one knows about me.” He wasn’t talking about Piney Bottoms. He meant his old house, where he’d lived with his mom, before she disappeared, and then with only his dad.

  Ben was on his way to Alaska, with a stop in Cody first.

  Trish sprinted back to her truck, tripping in the deep snow in the yard. She tumbled to her hands and knees, then all the way onto her chest, getting a face full of cold and wet. She scrambled back to her feet and ran again, not slowing down. She threw herself into her truck. It was freezing in there again. She restarted it.

  “Come on heater. Do something. Please.” It made noises and spit out air. Cold air. She pumped the gas to help it along.

  Then she dug through her glove box. Her dad had given her a bunch of maps when she bought the pickup. The Wyoming map was on the bottom. Everything piled on top of it spilled to the floor. A box of tissues. A Chapstick. A hairbrush with ponytail holders in different colors wrapped around its handle. A box of raisins. She ignored the mess and spread the map out on the seat. Cody was on the other side of the Bighorn Mountains, somewhere in the middle of the state. She drew a line with her finger from Buffalo west across the mountains. Scanned the area. Found Cody.

  “Yes!”

  She studied the map. It looked shorter to cross the mountains north of Sheridan, but Marcy had said those roads were closed. Trish would have to go back through Buffalo and connect with Highway 16. But did she have enough fuel? Her tank was close to full. She added up the mileage along the route. She’d probably make it. If not, she had a few bucks left of the Christmas money from her grandparents.