Stag Party: A Patrick Flint Novel

by Pamela Fagan Hutchins

  She held up one finger, then dashed down the hallway. She came back with a rifle in each hand. “I know George and Jenelle are armed. But you’re not going without these, city slickers. Do you know how to use them?”

  Cyrus smiled, but it was grim. “Ari is former Israeli military. I grew up hunting in Maine. And let’s just say I’ve had a lot more field training for my past jobs than I’d like.”

  Strength in numbers. George had faith in himself and Jenelle, but he wasn’t going to argue with adding a few to their rescue party.

  Chapter Forty: Summon

  Buffalo, Wyoming

  Saturday, December 31, 1977, 8:30 a.m.

  Ronnie

  Ronnie eased her county truck up to thirty-five miles per hour—only five miles over the Main Street speed limit. She folded a stick of Juicy Fruit in her mouth and chewed as if she could chomp her frustrations away. She’d intended to head straight for Piney Bottoms to intercept Trish. Assuming that was where the girl had gone, and it seemed like a safe bet. Ronnie had been a teenage girl herself once, and knew how their brains worked—or didn’t.

  That seemed ages ago. She and her husband Jeff had adopted their son Will right after her thirty-fifth birthday. She loved Will more than anything, but he made her feel old and tired like the modern Wyoming Methuselah, female version. It had been even harder on her before she’d returned to work, when Jeff had taken over nighttime baby duty. At least now Ronnie was getting some sleep. A few of Jeff’s friends had given him the side eye for taking on so much of the parenting, but it didn’t faze him. He delivered propane. The job had flexible hours, and Will could ride with him in the truck. Ronnie’s own father had been distant and uninvolved. Jeff was a great dad. She and Will were lucky.

  See? There I go again. Brain off the rails. Mommy brain was what she was calling it. When she wasn’t thinking about Will’s bowel movement schedule, his red corkscrew curls, or his infectious laugh, she was still distracted. Not herself.

  Anyway, the sheriff himself had called her before she left for Piney Bottoms, instructing her to return to the office to give him a debrief on the O Bar M murders. Ronnie had laid out the case for him at light speed, but he was no dummy, and he’d asked questions. Lots and lots of questions. Answering them had consumed a quarter of an hour. When she’d finally satisfied his burning need to know everything, she’d bolted out. First thing she’d done in her truck was light up the radio, seeking an update. Hoping to hear someone had found Trish.

  No such luck.

  She sighed, activating her left blinker and pulling her braid out from between her back and the seat, then turned onto the interstate’s access road. She had a good idea where to look for Trish, but not how to handle her when she found her. If Trish had been a young horse, Ronnie would have known better what to do. Growing up a rancher’s daughter might have been short on affection, but it was long on horse sense. When a horse would run off, she’d work the animal until it realized how much worse running was than just being agreeable and getting down to business in the first place. Something that would backfire with Trish, or any human female teenager, she was sure. Thank goodness Jeff and I have a boy.

  Her radio crackled to life. The familiar voice of Pat from dispatch said, “Deputy Harcourt, are you still in town?”

  She wanted to pretend she hadn’t heard the call. If she answered it, she’d be yanked away from chasing after Trish. Again. And would be letting Susanne down. But if she didn’t pick it up, she’d be ignoring her duty, and she could never do that.

  She stuck her gum on the wrapper she’d saved in the ash tray. Then she keyed her mic. “Harcourt. Near enough. What’s up?”

  “Semi-auto shots fired near Clear Creek Resort. Not hunters. Suspicious circumstances. The Murrays have requested law enforcement assistance. You’re closest. Can you respond?”

  Clear Creek Resort was in the opposite direction, all the way up in the mountains. Ronnie was only fifteen minutes from Piney Bottoms and, maybe, Trish, but driving to the ranch first would put her another half hour away from responding at the resort. She wrestled with herself. She had a job to do. Every law enforcement officer in the state had Trish’s information. A missing teenage girl in this weather would be something they all took seriously. And the Flint family was well known and appreciated for their support of law enforcement. That couldn’t hurt.

  Who knew—maybe she’d get lucky and could talk to Patrick about O Bar M while she was up there? He’d appreciate an update. Plus, there was a detail about the case that was bothering her. Everyone in her office seemed convinced that Herman, the O Bar M hand, had identified Muhammed as the killer shortly before his death. She remembered Patrick’s story differently; that Herman hadn’t specifically ID’ed anyone. If she was right, it was telling. Herman would have just said it was Muhammed if his co-worker had been the killer, wouldn’t he? And Patrick was the only witness to what Herman said.

  She wanted to hear Patrick’s story in his own words again herself.

  “Turning around and heading their way now. ETA—” she paused. That would be completely dependent on the roads. “Unknown, pending firsthand inspection of Highway 16 into the mountains. But I’d be half an hour away on clear roads.”

  “Thanks. The plows are working in that direction. At worst, you should be able to follow them up.”

  “10-4.”

  “You should be aware they’ve also got a guest stuck out in the wilderness with a serious injury. They’re trying to bring him in to the lodge on their own, since Search and Rescue hasn’t been able to get out there yet. I’m trying to find a medical unit to dispatch for transport.”

  Ronnie was momentarily speechless. Patrick. Perry. Dr. John. They were all guests at the resort. She keyed the mic on, off, and back on again. “Who is the patient?”

  “I don’t know. But I’m told Dr. John was going to operate. Out in the wilderness in a blizzard, no less.”

  Ronnie took a deep breath. Well, it wasn’t Dr. John. But she wouldn’t know if it was Patrick or Perry until she got there. There had to be other guests at the resort. Dr. John brought people in from all over the world for his annual trip. But it was a small lodge. The odds for the Flints weren’t good. God, how she didn’t want to be the one to tell Susanne more bad news. The woman was stronger than she gave herself credit for, but she loved her husband and kids more than anything. A woman could only take so much.

  “10-4.” She paused. “I have a hunch about Trish Flint. Is there anyone close enough to Piney Bottoms Ranch to see if she’s there? Ben Jones, too.”

  “Ben Jones is missing?”

  “Ran off. But he’s of age. Still . . .”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Thanks. Anything else?”

  “That’s it. Dispatch, over and out.”

  “Harcourt, over and out.”

  Ronnie settled the mic back in its holster, resigned about her mission but filled with unease. The miles had flown by while she talked with Pat. She was already west of town cruising up the highway past the veteran’s home on the grounds of old Fort McKinney. A plow was just ahead of her, starting its ascent into the mountains. Beyond it, the road was covered with snow.

  It was going to be slow going. She smacked the steering wheel with her palm. Clear Creek Resort was less than ten miles away, but the plow would average thirty miles per hour. Maybe less. Another half an hour to get there. Then an hour or two evaluating the shots fired. Another half hour back down. It was going to eat up most of her day. She wouldn’t be the one to find Trish and take her back to Susanne. Someone would, though.

  Ahead of her, a motorist was standing on the side of the road by a pickup. Stranded, most likely. Ronnie was torn. Something had rattled the Murrays and good for them to call in law enforcement over shots fired. They’d lived in the mountains for decades. They weren’t ones to overreact or cry wolf. Ronnie had to assume theirs was a serious situation. An emergency. Whereas a car stuck on the side of a well-traveled road on
a bright, sunny day wasn’t life-threatening.

  But as a deputy she couldn’t just drive by, either.

  Ronnie decided to stop and let the traveler know that she was radioing for assistance. This being Wyoming, someone would dig and tow the person out long before the sheriff’s office could dispatch a unit. The driver would be miffed at her and inconvenienced, at worst.

  She let off the accelerator and coasted to a stop in the middle of the road, ending up beside the truck with her passenger door even with its driver’s door. After putting her vehicle in park, she leaned over and rolled down her passenger side window. The glass on the truck’s window was frosted over. It started to descend. A blonde head came into view.

  Trish Flint turned to face Ronnie, and she didn’t look happy to see her.

  Chapter Forty-one: Dispatch

  Buffalo, Wyoming

  Saturday, December 31, 1977, 8:30 a.m.

  Susanne

  Susanne paced the kitchen with a coffee mug in her hand, mumbling to herself a la Patrick. They say married couples become more alike over time. Like him, she couldn’t care less if she seemed crazy to Dian or Esme. The only difference between her and Patrick, really, was that Susanne was one hundred percent aware she was doing it. She couldn’t hold it in. Her feelings were leaking out all over the place. Her daughter was missing. Had possibly run away.

  The phone rang. Ronnie! Susanne dashed to the phone and snatched up the receiver. “Did you find her?”

  A woman’s voice—vaguely familiar, but not Ronnie’s—said, “Find her? I’m sorry. I must not be who you were expecting. Is this Susanne?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “This is Wendy Nelson, from the JoCo Women’s Club. I was calling to see if you’d considered our request to chair our fundraiser?”

  The call was so out of left field that Susanne couldn’t find the words to answer. Trish, she wanted to scream. The only thing that matters right now is my daughter. The silence stretched on. Susanne lost track of it. Lost track of the telephone in her hand. The receiver dropped to her shoulder.

  “Susanne? Are you there?” Wendy sounded put out.

  Susanne lifted the receiver to her ear. Her voice wooden, she said, “I’m sorry. Now isn’t a good time for me to talk.”

  Wendy responded in a no-nonsense manner. “When would be, then? We need to get the ball rolling, don’t we?”

  Pushy. Insensitive. Rude. “I’ll call you.” Susanne hung up the phone and resumed pacing.

  Dian walked over from the great room, where she’d been pretending to watch the TV, without any volume. She grasped both of Susanne’s upper arms, holding her in place. “It’s going to be okay.”

  What if Trish has a wreck? What if she gets kidnapped . . . assaulted . . . raped . . . worse? What if she doesn’t find Ben and it breaks her heart? What if she does and it’s the same result? But what if it isn’t? What if she elopes with him? What if she gets pregnant? What if she throws her bright future and her family away and never, ever comes back?

  Susanne didn’t say any of what she was thinking aloud. She nodded.

  Dian ran her hands down to Susanne’s elbows, then released her. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

  Susanne set her mug on the table. “No. Nothing. There’s not even anything I can do for me. I’m completely sidelined and helpless without a vehicle.” Then she had a thought. “Maybe I could rent a car and go after her.”

  “If that would solve it, I’d let you take mine. But it won’t.” Dian went for a mug of coffee, shaking her head. “Go after her where? Your deputy friend has already done that, and other law enforcement are looking for Trish. They’ll find her. She’ll be home soon. And you’ve got to be here when she arrives, because that girl is going to need her mama.”

  Dian’s words pierced the armor around Susanne’s heart. Susanne had been operating under the belief that what she felt was fear for her daughter and anger at her for putting her mother and everyone else in a horrible position. But a new emotion burst to the surface. A pure pain, empathetic and maternal, took her breath away. Her daughter was hurting. Ben had hurt her daughter. Maybe not on purpose, but that didn’t change the facts. The price of love. But a mother never wanted her children to have to pay that price.

  All the energy in her body leaked out, dissipating into nothing. She sagged into a chair at the table, bowed like an old woman. “My baby girl,” was all she could say.

  Dian set her coffee down. She sat in the chair next to her and held her hand.

  Esme appeared and stopped in the space between the eating area and the great room. “Have you heard from Barry or Patrick?”

  Dian stiffened.

  Susanne straightened. “No. I tried to call the resort, but the phone lines appear to be down from the storm.” Patrick doesn’t even know his daughter has run away. How was she going to tell him? She needed him to know. They were partners. Their shared fear made things less scary. Shared grief, less crushing.

  “What are we going to do about it?” Esme said.

  Dian stood, backing away. “It was wonderful seeing you all and your home, Susanne. Going to Denver with you. But I need to get on the road to Billings. Could you give Trish the things I bought her when she gets back?”

  If she gets back. “Of course.” Part of Susanne wanted to beg Dian to stay. A larger part of her was relieved she was going. The tension between Esme and Dian added to the stress of Trish leaving was too much. It was all too much. “Let me walk you out when you’re ready to go.”

  “I turned on the car to let the heater and defrost work their magic, oh, maybe ten minutes ago, when I put my bag in it. I’m all set.”

  The phone rang again. Susanne glanced at it, then back at Dian.

  Dian pointed at the telephone. “You should get that. I know you love me. I’ll see you at the reunion in June, okay?”

  Susanne nodded and mouthed, “Thank you.” She snatched up the phone receiver. “Susanne Flint speaking.” She wasn’t making the same mistaken assumption twice. But if it was Wendy, she was going to hang up on her.

  A gravelly voice said, “Mrs. Flint, this is Pat. I’m the dispatcher with Johnson County. Ronnie asked me to relay some good news to you. Are you ready?”

  A tingly lightness came over Susanne. Trish. She put her hand over the receiver. “I think they’ve found her!”

  Dian blew her a kiss as she backed away. “See? I told you so.”

  Esme pouted, looking unhappy at her earlier question being ignored.

  “I’m ready,” Susanne said into the receiver.

  “Ronnie picked Trish up at the base of the mountains on Highway 16, where she’d gotten her pickup stuck.”

  Thank God. “That’s great news! Is she bringing her home or should I come in to get her?”

  “No, ma’am. It’s going to be a while before you can see her, I’m afraid.”

  That made no sense. Ronnie wouldn’t torture Susanne like that. Pressure that had only just lessened built back up in Susanne’s chest. “Why? Is Trish in trouble?”

  “Nothing like that. Ronnie was on her way to Clear Creek Resort when she ran into Trish. Trish is riding up the mountain with her.” Susanne drew in a deep breath. It’s okay. “Clear Creek has a few emergencies up there, and—”

  Just like that, Susanne’s world heaved and spun again. “What? What kind of emergency at Clear Creek?”

  The dispatcher’s voice dropped. “I probably shouldn’t be telling you this, but, since your daughter’s going up there . . . there’s been some unexplained shooting, and—"

  “Were guests involved?”

  “They’re not sure. But the shooting is making it harder to rescue the injured guest.”

  “Injured . . . what? Who?”

  “Someone was stranded in the wilderness overnight. Dr. John apparently performed surgery in the blizzard. Or that’s what we were told.”

  “What?” Susanne shrieked.

  Esme put a hand to her chest.

&nbs
p; “Are you okay, Mrs. Flint?”

  “My husband, my son.” She looked up at Esme. “My brother. Who is the patient?”

  “Are Dr. Flint and your son up there?”

  “Yes, with Dr. John.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that. I’m sure everything will be all right. They didn’t say who the patient is, but Ronnie’s on her way. And Dr. John is the best. Well, I’m sure Dr. Flint is wonderful, too. Shoot. You know what I mean. And our ambulance is getting ready to head up there now.”

  “Tell it to wait.”

  “What?”

  “I’ll be there in five minutes. I’m riding up with them.”

  She dropped the phone and yelled, “Dian, stop!”

  “Where are you going?” Esme said.

  But Susanne didn’t answer her. She was sprinting out the door.

  Chapter Forty-two: Combat

  North of Clear Creek Resort, Bighorn Mountains, Wyoming

  Saturday, December 31, 1977, 10:30 a.m.

  Patrick

  Patrick gripped the throttle and held it tight with numb fingers and thumb. His toes were ice blocks. He’d lost feeling in one of his cheeks, in the marathon of excavating snowmobiles out of snow drifts and searching for, chasing after, and losing Abraham and the shooters, over and over on repeat. Patrick knew Abraham had been a snowmobile racer, so it made sense he was skilled at staying unstuck, but who were these men that equaled him in skill?

  More than once while digging, Patrick and Wes had discussed whether to give up and return to the cave. Not because of Barry—even though Patrick worried about whether he was spiking a fever that was the start of a dangerous infection. Dr. John was with him, and Barry couldn’t be moved until help arrived. But because their plan—or mostly their lack of one—seemed futile. Their goal had been to rattle the shooters, so they’d give up the chase. Or just create a distraction long enough that the men ran out of ammunition. Neither had happened yet. Patrick was driven onward by a dogged loyalty to Abraham that wasn’t one hundred percent rational. Wes was concerned that Abraham would accidentally lead the shooters back to the cave.