Stag Party: A Patrick Flint Novel

by Pamela Fagan Hutchins

  And the fact that Ronnie wouldn’t like Trish leaving the lodge made it even better.

  “Cool. Thanks.”

  “I’ll pick you up near the back door in five minutes. In the meantime, why don’t you gear up? My daughter is about your size, and her outerwear is in a closet down the hallway.” Mrs. Murray pointed.

  Trish hadn’t thought about gear, but she was grateful. The trick to avoiding winter misery was never getting cold in the first place, and, wearing only what she had with her, she’d be freezing her tushy off from the get-go. “Thank you.”

  Mrs. Murray walked out toward the kitchen with her bucket. Trish wandered down a hallway jam-packed with pictures. She slowed down to take them in. Hunters with giant elk and moose, and one with a black bear. People in vests and hats holding up trout and fishing poles. Horses lined up, their riders smiling, mountain peaks in the background. And what must be the Sno-Cat, orange and boxy, in more snow than Trish had ever seen. Walking on, she found the closet and picked out a pair of winter overalls, heavy snow boots, an enormous jacket, a wool hat, and some good thick gloves.

  It took her five minutes just to get dressed, and by the time she made it outside, she was sweating. Mrs. Murray rumbled to a stop beside Trish in the Sno-Cat. Trish hauled herself up into the funny looking cab. The vehicle had four tracks instead of wheels. And it was loud. Hurt-your-ears loud. Trish pulled her cap down further and lifted the hood of the jacket up. It muffled the noise some. Better.

  She felt a pang in her chest. Ben would have loved this thing.

  Mrs. Murray held up a thumb, her face asking the question Are you good?

  “Far out,” Trish yelled.

  Mrs. Murray smiled. She yelled back. “It’s a beast. But living up here in the winter, we’ve really needed it.” She set it in motion, and they began chugging forward.

  “How fast can it go?”

  “Five miles per hour is about its max.”

  “You can’t sneak up on anyone.”

  “No, you can’t. But at least we know where Perry was going. I checked, and his tracks follow the trail the snowmobiles made. We’ll catch up to him out there.”

  They rode in silence—except for the roar of the Cat—for half an hour. It was so beautiful out there that Trish almost forgot to worry about things. The branches of the trees were drooping like weeping willows under the weight of the snow. A coyote streaked across a park chasing a snowshoe hare, little puffs of snow mushrooming behind them with every leap and step. Snowmobile tracks carved a line ahead of them, barely leaving a mark. The world was so pristine, so clean, so white, so peaceful that it was hard to believe her uncle was lying out there hurt somewhere.

  Movement in front of the Sno-Cat caught her attention. Something dark blue or black against the snow. It was Perry, crawling on his hands and knees out of a snow drift, pausing every few feet to push his skis and throw his poles ahead of him.

  “There he is!” Trish pointed at her brother.

  “Doesn’t look like he and the skis are getting along,” Mrs. Murray said, amusement in her voice.

  “You were right.”

  When Perry reached level ground, he rolled over on his back with his arms spread. He sunk and was almost hidden in the snow. Then he lifted a hand in the air. It was either a wave or a gesture of surrender. Mrs. Murray stopped the Sno-Cat beside him.

  Trish opened the door. “Need a ride, shrimp?”

  Perry sat up. “What are you doing here?”

  They didn’t have time for that long story. “I came with Ronnie. Did you see her?”

  “Yeah. But she didn’t see me. Are you going to get Dad and Uncle Barry?”

  Mrs. Murray said, “George and Jenelle already went after them. Ronnie, too. They’ll bring them back.

  He stood but didn’t make a move to climb into the cab. “There’s been a lot of shooting.”

  Trish reached a hand toward her brother. “It’ll be okay. Get in here and get warm.”

  Mrs. Murray motioned him in. “Climb on in, young man. Everyone is meeting back at the lodge. We’ll be safer there.”

  Perry made a surprised face, then turned to look in front of the Sno-Cat. Had he heard something?

  “What is it, squirt?” Trish asked. Maybe he saw a moose or something.

  Perry’s mouth fell open. His eyes went wide, and he raised his hands over his head. A man stepped into view, pointing a gun at Perry’s head. He motioned for Trish and Mrs. Murray to get out of the Sno-Cat. Trish was so surprised that she barely had time to feel scared. She and Mrs. Murray looked at each other. They couldn’t make a run for it. Not with Perry out there, and not with the Sno-Cat’s top speed not much faster than a man could run in this snow. An armed man. And bullets were definitely faster than the machine.

  Mrs. Murray bit her lip, then nodded at the door. Trish stepped out, sinking to her knees in powder. She shut the door behind her. The man hadn’t said a word. The Sno-Cat’s engine stopped. The only sound was Perry’s heavy breathing. Trish locked eyes with him. Hold still. Don’t freak out. If they cooperated, maybe the guy would tell them what he wanted and let them go. She snuck a glance at him. A black balaclava covered his face, except for the eyes and mouth. He was wearing snow pants that looked brand new. In fact, all his clothes seemed fresh off the rack from the Sports Lure, the place where everyone in town bought their outdoor gear. His eyes were cutting from the back to the front of the Sno-Cat, but Mrs. Murray didn’t appear.

  “Why are you doing this?” Trish blurted out.

  The man turned dead eyes on her. “I must secure a vehicle.”

  Something about his voice was weird. The words he used. The accent. Maybe both. “Why? What are you doing out here without one?”

  “You ask too many questions. I had a snow machine. It got . . . it is broken.”

  Definitely a foreign accent. One she didn’t recognize. But him needing a vehicle was good news. They could give him the Sno-Cat. He didn’t need to hurt them. “Fine. Take ours. You don’t have to point a gun at us.”

  His voice became a snarl. “You talk too much even when you aren’t asking questions. Shut your mouth, girl.”

  Trish heard the sound of heavy breathing and a commotion behind the Sno-Cat. Her own breath froze in her chest. Mrs. Murray! What was she doing? The man growled and shoved Perry to the ground. He bounded through the snow to the back of the Sno-Cat.

  Trish watched in horror as he lifted his gun and fired.

  Chapter Forty-four: Surprise

  North of Clear Creek Resort, Bighorn Mountains, Wyoming

  Saturday, December 31, 1977, 10:45 a.m.

  Patrick

  Patrick scooched on his rear away from the drop-off until he felt the decline on the safe side. He wanted to throw himself backward, away from the cliff, but he tamped down the urge. There was nothing he could do for the man who had flown over, except let the authorities know where his body was.

  He turned and saw Wes waving whole-armed to him from below. Patrick raised his hand. Then he worked his way over to the descent trail left by his snowmobile. It wasn’t much of a pack, but better than virgin snow. He gave walking a brief try, but, when he fell on his rear and started sliding, he discovered it was an effective way down. Using his hands to guide him, he sledded on his back until he glided to a stop near Wes and the snowmobiles. There, he stood, shakily, using his own snowmobile for support.

  “What in hell’s half acre happened up there?” Wes asked.

  “He went over.” Patrick unbuckled his helmet and yanked it off. He needed air. Lots and lots of fresh air.

  Wes gaped. “Like drove away on the other side of the mountain?”

  “There is no other side.”

  “Whoa,” Wes said with a whistly exhale. “Did he make it?”

  Patrick shook his head. “He did not.” He told Wes what he’d seen. The glare from the snow was painful, and he held a hand over his brow. “Did you go after the other guy?”

  “No. He’s on foot. Le
ss of a threat. I followed you.”

  Patrick gave Wes a weak smile. “I’m glad you did.”

  “Want to go meet up with our crew?”

  “Very much so.” He winced. “I hope my machine isn’t mangled.”

  “I think it’s all right. I turned it around for you. But how are you, Sawbones?” Wes reached toward him, then pulled his hand back as if he was afraid of insulting Patrick.

  “No pain, no gain, right?” In truth, Patrick would have been vomiting if he’d had anything to eat since noon the day before. He wanted to go home and sleep the soreness off. Crawl into his warm bed, sipping broth while his beautiful wife fussed over him. Except that Susanne wasn’t a fusser. Make that while she scolded him for getting himself in his present condition. With love, of course.

  “That’s what some crazy doctor always says anyway.”

  Patrick reached for the starter on his snowmobile and thought better of it. As much as he hated admitting weakness, he was done. “Would you mind starting this for me? Broken ribs.” He patted them.

  “No problem.” Wes got the engine going in two pulls. Then he yelled, “Follow me. I’ll take it slow.’”

  The men rode out, and Patrick was able to keep up with Wes as he tested his machine for damage. The skis were straight, the handlebars intact. He couldn’t believe it had survived its slow-motion crash so well, but it was in better shape than him.

  Wes took the trail Abraham had cut when he’d separated himself from his pursuer. Soon, they were cruising through a stand of trees. When they emerged on the other side, Patrick saw a big orange Sno-Cat parked smack in the middle of a park. Two people were standing on one side of it. Patrick frowned. They were familiar. He squinted to get a better look.

  It was his kids. Both of them.

  There was movement at the back of the Sno-Cat. A man. A man on foot. A man with a gun, which he raised, pointing it at something or someone out of Patrick’s line of sight.

  BOOM.

  Ahead of him, Patrick saw Wes’s snowmobile hurdle forward. Patrick gunned his own and went to the opposite side of the man. They converged on him in seconds. He turned, gun still up. Patrick killed his ignition and vaulted from his sled, ripping off his right-hand glove, unzipping his coat, and reaching for his .357 Magnum in a fluid series of motions. He managed to draw the gun from his holster, but his cold hands felt stiff and awkward. He took a step forward, gun in hand, and nearly fell over a pair of skis. He didn’t have time to wonder why they were there. He stopped five feet from the man. The man’s weapon was pointing from him to Wes, then back at him, back at Wes. His eyes were flat.

  “He shot Mrs. Murray, Dad,” Trish yelled.

  “Do it, Sawbones,” Wes said.

  Patrick pulled the trigger. Instead of drawing it back, his numb finger jerked and knocked the gun off balance. The revolver tumbled into the snow and sunk. Just before Patrick dove into the snow after it, another man ran out of the trees, stumbling in the snow and clutching one arm to his stomach with his other hand.

  This man Patrick knew. Abraham.

  Abraham screamed something at the shooter, but Patrick couldn’t understand what he was saying. The man holding the gun turned toward Abraham and answered him. Their words and accents sounded similar—like people Patrick had only heard on international news. News about the oil embargo. OPEC. Unrest.

  Middle Eastern. They’re speaking a Middle Eastern language to each other.

  The shooter’s eyes cut back and forth between Wes and Patrick again. Abraham shouted even more frantically, walking forward and waving an arm over his head like he was trying to get the man to look at him. As Abraham drew closer, Patrick saw blood dripping from the other arm, landing in crimson splotches that sunk and disappeared in the snow. Abraham had been shot.

  Then, in English, Abraham said to Patrick, “I instructed him not to kill anyone. That I offer myself in exchange for your lives.”

  “What’s going on here, Abraham?” Patrick eyed the snow where his gun had disappeared, wondering if he could find it before he got shot, if he moved fast.

  “I am afraid I know something I should not. This man works for the secret police in another country. They were hunting me, and I hid here in Wyoming. My knowledge, and my flight—they led to the assassination of my mother. To the execution of my friends and coworkers at the O Bar M. I can’t cause the death of anyone else. My death will end it all.” It was a start, but it didn’t exactly clear everything up for Patrick. Abraham continued. “If you kill him, they will just deploy someone else like him. It must stop now.”

  “His buddy is dead.” Patrick didn’t bother to explain the circumstances.

  Abraham bobbled his head. “They will not desist until I am dead also.”

  The shooter started shouting at Abraham in the Middle Eastern language again, gesturing with his gun at Wes and Patrick. Patrick doubted this man would be satisfied with just killing Abraham. The rest of them were witnesses to whatever this was. Wes, Patrick, and the children of Patrick’s blood. Patrick understood what Abraham was trying to do and he respected him for it, but that didn’t mean he agreed with it.

  And if he didn’t agree, then he needed to act.

  The shooter turned back toward Abraham. Patrick gave up on his gun. He crouched and picked up the ski, took two steps, and swung it as hard as he could at the back of the man’s head.

  THWACK.

  The man grunted and crumpled to the ground.

  Patrick and Wes leapt on him.

  “You hold him. I’ll get his gun and search him for other weapons,” Patrick said.

  “Got it.” Wes kneeled on the man’s back and restrained his arms by the wrists.

  Patrick confiscated the shooter’s gun—which had landed beside him—a backup pistol, and a knife. He stood. “There’s rope in those emergency kits under your snowmobile seat, Wes.”

  Abraham looked stricken. “I will get the rope. I have caused so much trouble.”

  “Dad!” Perry flew into Patrick.

  Patrick returned his son’s hug, even though it hurt.

  “Are you okay?” Trish was next in line. “Who is that guy who came out of the trees?”

  “I’ll tell you all about it later,” he whispered, squeezing his daughter and kissing her head. In a normal voice, he said, “I’m fine. But what about Mrs. Murray? You said she was shot?”

  Another voice called, “He shot a hole in my best jacket, and I played dead when I heard Patrick and Wes arrive. I didn’t want to cause a distraction that messed things up. Is it safe to come out now?”

  “Mrs. Murray, you’re all right!” Trish shouted. “Yes, it’s safe. Dad saved the day.”

  Patrick would have smiled if he wasn’t in so much pain.

  Abraham gave the rope to Wes, then returned to stand beside Patrick. Loud engines approached, and a brigade of snowmobiles burst into the park. When they pulled to a stop and removed their helmets, Patrick saw that it had been Ronnie leading the way, with George behind her pulling a bundled-up Barry in a stretcher, and Jenelle, Ari, Cyrus, and Dr. John bringing up the rear.

  Ronnie stood on her runners. “What the heck happened here?”

  Abraham dipped his head. “My problems followed me across the ocean and all the way to Wyoming. Many people have died, to my shame, and today it almost cost the life of my new friends. But because of their heroism, we are all alive.”

  Ronnie looked confused. “Who is this guy?”

  George answered. “My co-guide in the snowmobiling adventures this weekend.” Then, to the others, “I promise, I didn’t know any of this when I hired him.”

  Patrick held up a hand, “Let’s get Barry back to the lodge and off the mountain, and then maybe Abraham can help us figure more of this out.”

  Barry’s voice wasn’t loud, but it was clear. “Yeah, let’s get Barry out of here. Please.”

  But Cyrus stepped forward. In his no nonsense New England accent, he said, “A word please?” He gestured for Patrick and Ab
raham to join him away from the others.

  Patrick had an ominous feeling about the conversation Cyrus was initiating. He wished he’d paid more attention to what Cyrus did for the Carter administration. And he hoped that his request to talk to him and Abraham had nothing to do with it. “How about the rest of the group gets going. Abraham, where’s your machine”

  “I parked it back in the trees so as not to be heard,” Abraham said.

  “Good.”

  Ronnie said, “What about that one?” She pointed at the trussed and unconscious shooter.

  Cyrus walked over to her and whispered in her ear. Whatever he was saying, it widened her eyes and went on for almost a minute. Then, loud enough for everyone to hear, he said, “Leave him here, please.”

  A funny look crossed Ronnie’s face, but she didn’t argue. She circled her hand in the air. “The rest of you. Load ‘em up and move ‘em out.”

  Dr. John walked over to Patrick. In a low voice, he said, “You’re in good hands with Cyrus. The best. Don’t worry.”

  Patrick glanced at Abraham. The man looked anxious. Patrick hoped Dr. John was right.

  Chapter Forty-five: Deal

  North of Clear Creek Resort, Bighorn Mountains, Wyoming

  Saturday, December 31, 1977, 11:00 a.m.

  Patrick

  The line of snowmobiles and the Sno-Cat exited the park toward the lodge five minutes later. Patrick was relieved his kids were leaving the danger zone and that Barry was one step closer to getting the medical care he needed. He’d done a more-than-competent surgery on his brother-in-law, but he’d feel much better when Barry was in a hospital and could be monitored until he was out of the woods, no pun intended. He didn’t like how warm he’d been that morning, and he had a feeling a major course of antibiotics was warranted. As for himself, Patrick wanted to conclude whatever this business was as soon as possible. Food and a couple of Tylenol sounded like heaven.