Friday, August 12, 1977, 3:15 p.m.
Susanne
When Susanne went back into the house to see who had driven up and come inside, the first thing she heard was a baby whimpering. “Ronnie?”
There was no answer.
Susanne hurried into the dark living room, restraining Ferdinand by the collar. A form shifted on the couch. A baby hiccupped and whimpered again. Then she heard the soft sound of crying. Not from an infant, but from a woman.
She lowered her voice and walked closer to the figure and the baby. “Ronnie?”
The voice that answered was choking on tears. “I feel like such a failure.”
Susanne sat down by her friend on the couch. “Place,” she said to the dog.
He whimpered.
“Place,” she repeated.
He slunk to his pillow on the far side of the living room. She heard him collapse onto it with a sigh. Her eyes were adjusting, and she could just make out Ronnie’s long blonde French braid and pale face.
“You’re no failure. What would make you say that?”
Ronnie crumbled into a sob. In her arms, the baby continued to make unhappy noises.
Susanne pulled the two of them into an embrace, careful not to smush the child. Ronnie smelled like coffee and spoiled milk. It reminded Susanne of the days her own children were infants. “There, there. It’s going to be all right.” She rubbed circles on Ronnie’s back. “You’re going to be all right.”
The sobs tapered off. Ronnie drew in a deep, shaky breath. “I’m a fraud. I couldn’t have a baby of my own, and there was a reason. It’s because God knew I would be a terrible mother. Like I am to Will.”
“That’s not true.”
“This is the first time he’s stopped crying in days. And I’m s-s-s-so tired.”
“That’s the first thing you’ve said that I can agree with. Newborns are exhausting. And if he’s crying all the time, are you sleeping at all?”
“No. None. And I thought I would love this. I . . . I . . . I don’t.”
“Well, of course not. Not yet. When he’s past this stage, it will get better. He’ll smile and laugh and sleep and you will, too. You’ll see.”
“Is it wrong that I want to go back to work?” Ronnie was a well-respected deputy. Tough. Calm. Fair. The quintessential Wyoming rancher’s daughter. So competent that Susanne had been intimidated by her and resisted her friendship for a long time. She was glad she’d gotten over it, and she marveled at the complete role reversal between them. That she was helping Ronnie for a change. “It’s so much easier than being home with Will.”
“You probably never thought you’d be saying that, did you?”
Ronnie laughed and sniffled. She disengaged from Susanne and wiped her eyes. “No. I was a parenthood snob.”
“If it’s any consolation, every mother goes through this.”
“Really?”
“Doubts? Of course. Maybe when they’re newborn, maybe when they have trouble at school or when they’re surly teenagers. But at some point, we all find ourselves crying on our knees in a dark room, begging God for a do-over.”
“Thanks for saying that.”
“It’s true. I promise.”
Ronnie shook her head. “I can’t believe he’s not screaming. I’m a wreck for the party, and everyone will be telling me what an easy baby he is.”
“Of course. Kids specialize in making their mothers look and feel stupid.”
Ronnie’s amazing blue eyes shone even in the low light, magnified by her lingering tears. “I worry that he . . . that he . . . that he acts like this because of his mother—his birth mother—and that maybe there’s something wrong with him. What if he turns out like her?”
“Don’t you believe that for a second. You and Jeff will give him the love and environment he needs. He’ll be wonderful, like the two of you.”
“But her genetics. She could have passed something on.”
Susanne hurt for her friend. “Ronnie, I went to grammar school with a boy whose father kidnapped, tortured, raped, and murdered three women. The son grew up to be a model citizen.”
“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
“Maybe not completely. But I just want you to know Will is not his mother any more than that boy was his father. Will is a unique human being, and he has wonderful parents. All parents worry about how their children will turn out. Patrick and I do all the time.”
“Your kids are perfect.”
Not by a long shot. But that wasn’t fair. They were great kids. Just not perfect, because no one was, no kids or adults, even if Patrick sometimes acted like he was. The thought made Susanne smile with affection. A pang of longing to have her husband home zinged through her. And her imperfect kids. She always thought she needed more time to herself, and it was lovely at first when she got it, but it grew old quickly. See there? I’m not perfect either. She hadn’t been appreciating the blessing of Trish and Perry like she should. And when it came to her own childhood—she’d been far from perfect. She’d disobeyed her parents at times, disrespected them occasionally, and ultimately defied them to elope with Patrick when she wasn’t even out of high school yet. Her kids were normal and—knock on wood—unlikely to turn to lives of crime.
“Trish and Perry are good kids. Sometimes they make me a little crazy, but you’re right, Patrick and I are very lucky.”
“I’ve always believed you make your own luck by working hard and making good choices. At least mostly.”
“There you go.”
Ronnie snorted. “I should listen to myself then.”
“You said it.” Susanne squeezed Ronnie’s hand. “Ronnie, Will is going to disappoint you and break your heart. But he’s also going to light up your life and bring you incredible joy. In a few months, anyway.”
The doorbell rang. Guests already? Sometimes the women in Susanne’s Sunday school class drove her nuts. She wondered which one of them couldn’t tell time. It couldn’t be later than three-twenty.
“People are here? Ugh. I look awful.”
Susanne reached for Will. “You want to let me hold him while you freshen up in my bathroom? It’s more private back there.”
“Yes. Thank you. For that and for talking to me.”
“Any time. Especially after all you’ve done for me.” Talking her friend through a mothering crisis was small potatoes compared to the time Ronnie had dragged a terrified Susanne through the mountains to find Patrick and the kids, only to get cold cocked by multiple murderer Billy Kemecke and nearly lose her job over it, too. Susanne stood, cuddling Will to her chest. Her second baby to hold in an hour. It was shaping up to be a great day.
The doorbell rang again as Ronnie grabbed her handbag and hustled toward the master suite.
“Hold your horses out there. I’m coming after I put the dog up.” Susanne led a dejected Ferdinand to the garage. He balked at the door, and she gave him a push. As soon as she closed the door behind him, he bawled a mournful howl.
“That dog. Right, Will?” She hurried toward the door.
The doorbell rang a third time. She wrenched the door open, mustering her biggest welcoming smile.
Her sister-in-law stood on the front stoop. Her face was white and pinched, her eyes huge. The Suburban was parked in the driveway facing the house behind her. So was a white Chevy pickup. Its engine was running and the door to the driver’s side was open. Susanne didn’t recognize the vehicle. A delivery perhaps?
She tried to dam up the exasperation that wanted to come flooding out at her sister-in-law. A little of it slipped over anyway. “Patricia. You could have just let yourself in.”
Patricia opened her mouth, but no words came out.
“Hello, Susanne.” A red-haired woman stepped into view from where she’d been standing just out of sight. She lifted a gun barrel from Patricia’s back to the side of her head. “I’ve come for my son.”
It was Barb Lamkin.
At first, Susanne’s brain stru
ggled to process the scene. This couldn’t be happening. This couldn’t be real. But there she was. Barb. It was real. Terribly, horribly real. And she wanted Will.
Susanne clutched Will to her chest. She was not handing this baby over to a killer.
Barb cocked the hammer on the revolver with her thumb, a big smile on her face. “Hand him over slowly.”
Would Barb really blow Patricia’s brains out? Surely not. But what would Susanne do to get her own kids back?
Anything. She’d do whatever she had to do, no matter the cost. Of course Barb would kill Patricia.
But she wouldn’t kill her son.
Words flowed from Susanne’s mouth, unconnected to her brain. Automatic, desperate words, stalling words. “Don’t do this, Barb. You don’t want to do this.” She clung tighter to Will.
“Now,” Barb screamed, the sudden change in her tone making Patricia and Susanne jump and Will squall.
“Please, no . . .” Patricia said.
Barb lunged at Susanne, reaching for Will as she smashed the barrel of the revolver across the side of Susanne’s head. For a split second, Susanne wondered how she would grab the boy. Barb only had one hand. Patrick had hacked the other off when she’d been trapped in a burning truck. But reality was an ugly interruption to the thought. Barb’s blow made a loud THWACK sound in Susanne’s head. Her jaw dropped, her head whipped around, and she tumbled to the side. Her vision was a field of stars. She was dimly aware of the muffled sounds of a dog snarling and barking, of trying to hold on to the baby, and of the absence of his warmth in her arm as Barb wrenched him away.
“No.” She tried to scream the word, but it came out like a whisper. Everything around her was moving like a jerky reel-to-reel film. She realized she was still upright, that she’d caught herself on the handle of the open door. Was propping herself up. As if in a dream, she forced herself to turn back toward Barb. She gasped in a breath.
Barb was backing away, the gun trained on Patricia. She put Will in the white Chevy pickup, jumped in after him, and gunned it out of the Flint’s driveway.
Susanne gave her woozy head a shake. Will. No. She snatched the keys from Patricia’s trembling hands, and, without a word, ran for the Suburban.
Chapter Twenty-one: Threaten
Little Goose Trail, Cloud Peak Wilderness, Bighorn Mountains, Wyoming
Friday, August 12, 1977, 3:30 p.m.
Perry
Perry heard a man say, “Patrick Flint.” The voice was coming from down the trail.
Perry had just made his way across the rocks from the cave to where the horses were ready and waiting to go. Duke smelled awful, although it was mostly his wool blanket. It smelled like a sweaty gym sock. Perry had been about to put his foot in the stirrup to mount Duke, but he paused. He knew that voice. He grinned, getting a cold, painful blast of wet wind to the gap in his gum, and turned toward the ridge, waving.
Sure enough, George Nichols was riding toward their group, pulling two big horses along behind him. One of them was monster sized with fuzzy black and white hair. So much hair. Hanging off its chin, its belly, its legs. Long, thick hair covering its hooves. A heavy mane on either side of its neck and a thick black and white tail sweeping the ground. It was the coolest horse Perry had ever seen. It looked like the ones in the beer commercials, only a different color than they were.
“Hi, George,” Perry shouted. “Is that a wooly mammoth behind you?” It didn’t even embarrass him that wooly came out like “woowy.”
“That’s Yeti. Don’t hurt his feelings.” George grinned and waved back. “Mrs. Flint said to tell you all hello.”
“Did you get the electricity back on?” Perry’s dad asked.
“No, sir. I’m sorry to have to tell you that, but I had to bring some guys up the mountain to Highland Park. I told Mrs. Flint I’d get it fixed up on Monday.”
Perry wondered where the guys were. It looked like George and the horses were all by themselves.
“But her party . . .”
“I think she had it under control, sir.”
Perry believed that. His mom could handle anything. On the other hand, she didn’t like to be disappointed, and he guessed she’d make George sorry on Monday. The thought made him smile.
A dark-haired man with a round belly rode into view. One of the guys George had brought up? He interrupted their conversation without being introduced. “Have any of youse guys seen a coupla men out here that weren’t dressed for this weather?” He waved his hand at the sky and the sleety rain. Something about his weird accent and forceful tone made Perry’s mouth go dry.
George looked at the pushy guy like he’d burped out loud during silent prayer time in church. Perry snuck a glance at John and Trish. John was staring at the ground. Trish’s mouth was hanging open.
His dad spoke. “I’m Patrick Flint. These are my kids and their friend.”
Two more men rode up and stopped by the dark-haired man. These two were bald men who looked just alike, except that one of them had a weird eye. They were big like Yeti and made the Quarter horses they were riding look undersized. The horses sighed, lowered their heads, and closed their eyes.
“Uh, Dr. Flint, this is Orion Cardinale and his . . . friends Luke and Juice.” George frowned. “But, Orion, didn’t you say your friend and his girlfriend—”
Orion held up a hand. “Like I was saying, we’re looking for some guys. You either seen ‘em or you haven’t. End of story.”
Perry’s insides tightened up.
“We have not.” His dad’s voice was no nonsense, like he used when he’d say, “This is not a negotiation,” to Perry and Trish when they argued with him. It surprised Perry, because he would have thought his dad would tell the truth, which is that they had seen one guy—and Eddie definitely hadn’t been dressed for the weather—who told them two other men had died in a plane crash. His dad had a thing about telling the truth all the time. So, when he lied, Perry knew something big was up.
One of the men—Luke or Juice?—put his hand under his rain poncho. Perry heard a zipping sound. The man left his hand there, which was really strange. Was he trying to dry it off? Keep it warm? Or . . . did he have a gun holstered there? Lots of people in Wyoming kept their guns in chest holsters. Perry hoped that wasn’t it.
“Uh, Dad.” Perry kept his voice quiet, hoping only his dad would hear. His dad didn’t seem to notice.
“You sure?” Orion smiled with his mouth, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “There’s a cash reward in it for some lucky person. We’re very worried about them.”
George’s forehead folded up like the wings of a paper airplane.
Perry’s dad said, “We’re sure.”
Orion shifted in his saddle. “They would have made quite an . . . entrance. Loud. If you know what I mean.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t.”
“And you haven’t seen or heard anything else unusual?”
“I’m sorry, did you say you’re with law enforcement?”
This made the meatheads laugh. Orion held a hand out and pushed it at the ground, like he was telling them to stop. Which they did. “I didn’t say. But you can consider me the law of the land out here.”
“Well, all right then.” Perry’s dad tipped his cowboy hat. A little waterfall ran off of it. “You fellows have a nice day. George, good seeing you.”
“And you, too, sir,” George said.
Perry’s heart was pounding so loud now he could barely hear himself think. He’d been around plenty of creepy people in the last year, and this guy ranked right up with the creepiest. What he’d said to Perry’s dad sounded an awfully lot like a threat.
Perry had thought George was a good guy. His friend. So what was he doing with creepy people?
Then again, Perry had thought John was tough.
He pressed his fingers against his torn, swollen lips. He guessed today was just a day full of surprises and disappointments.
Chapter Twenty-two: Spill
Li
ttle Goose Trail, Cloud Peak Wilderness, Bighorn Mountains, Wyoming
Friday, August 12, 1977, 3:45 p.m.
Patrick
Patrick’s lips moved feverishly as he watched George lead Orion and the other two riders away. He’d thought better of George than to associate with men like them. The young man was a hard worker. Conscientious and smart. He and Patrick had become friendly when George had been working on a job at the hospital. They’d had some great conversations about George’s time as an outfitter. Then, one day George had arrived at the hospital at the same time as another truck had entered the parking lot. Instead of pulling into a space, the truck careened toward the building without braking. George had pulled open the passenger door and leapt inside. He’d managed to stop the vehicle before it crashed into the entrance. George had put the truck in park and carried the man into the ER. It turned out that the driver had been having a heart attack and lost consciousness. The incident had cemented Patrick’s good opinion of him.
So, now, to discover him mixed up with thuggish big city men? It was disappointing. And, while Patrick didn’t like to speculate without all the facts, Orion’s accent had sounded like Chicago. The men looked Italian, Orion with his dark hair, all of them with olive-toned skin. Their clothes had been distinctive, too. Black leather jackets peeking out from under their slickers. Shiny shoes, ruined by the rain. They couldn’t have looked and acted more like gangsters if they’d been toting machine guns. Chicago, Italian, and gangsters. Patrick’s conclusion? Mobsters, in Wyoming, with George.
As Patrick watched, George stopped the group at the rock cairn, then turned onto the Solitude Trail to the right. Patrick frowned. He thought George had said they were heading up to Highland Park, which was to the left. After Orion’s comments, Patrick had expected them to be looking for the wrecked plane. But maybe they weren’t. Or maybe they didn’t know where it had gone down.
“They went the wrong way, Dad,” Perry said. “Should we tell them?”
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