“Behind the courthouse. I couldn’t find a space on Main Street, so I went around the block and parked back there. Susanne had shown me that lot before and said it was her secret parking place.”
He nodded, frowning. “Go on.”
The man hadn’t been the least bit encouraging or friendly since he’d arrived. Did he blame her for this fiasco? Sure, she felt terrible about it. Awful, awful, awful. But from what she’d heard so far, a dangerous murderer had escaped from custody right under his and everybody else’s noses. So, whose fault did that make it? He might be cute, but she wasn’t going to let him try to make her feel worse than she already did.
She took a deep breath. “I parked. I wasn’t sure how to get to the street, and I got kind of lost in some trees on the side of the building. She was there.” Her voice started shaking, which was embarrassing.
“Barbara Lamkin.”
“Yes, but at the time I didn’t know that’s who she was.”
“Of course. How was she dressed?” He started walking to and fro again. The man was wound tighter than Patrick.
“At the time, she was wearing some sweatpants with a matching sweatshirt—plain gray—with really long sleeves that covered her hands. Her hair was in a ponytail.” Patricia leaned forward. “Honestly, she didn’t look very good. People have been talking about how beautiful she is, but I just didn’t see it.”
One of Max’s eyes twitched. “Keep going.”
“She pointed at the Suburban and said something like ‘you don’t look like Susanne.’ I told her that Susanne was my sister-in-law, and that I was just glad I didn’t look like my brother. We laughed, and she said she was friends with Susanne and that her name was Heather. I told her my name was Patricia and that I was lost. She looped her arm through mine and said Buffalo was too small a town to get lost in if you had friends, and that any relative of Susanne’s was a friend of hers. She invited me for coffee.”
“Where?” He stopped pacing for a moment.
Ferdie sat up straighter and whined.
“She said her favorite spot wasn’t downtown. She was so . . . friendly, I couldn’t say no. She said, ‘Let’s take your car.” We got in the Suburban, and she gave me directions.”
“Where to?”
“First, the grocery store. She asked if I’d mind if she ran in for something. Of course, I thought it was strange since I’d only just met her, but I didn’t really mind. But when she got out of the car, she said she had forgotten her purse and asked to borrow money. I lent her ten dollars.” Patricia shook her head in embarrassment. “I should have known something was off, but, well, I didn’t have any reason to think an escaped killer was on the loose, did I?”
Max didn’t answer, but she thought he looked a bit uncomfortable. Good. Ferdie settled back against her leg until Max started pacing again.
Patricia continued. “She was back in just a minute, and she gave me some change. About thirty cents. And then she directed me to a house.”
Max stopped short, eyes bright. “Wait. What was in the bag?”
“Well, I don’t snoop.” Patricia examined her nails. The light pink polish she’d applied that morning was already chipped. “But it was lipstick and hair dye. L’Oreal. No wonder she didn’t have much change.”
“Color?”
“I only got a peek. But a white blonde, I think. The woman on the box had hair like Marilyn Monroe.”
He nodded. “Okay.”
“Where were we?”
“The house.” He paced again. She was finding it very distracting. So was Ferdie.
“Right. I didn’t realize until she unlocked the front door with a key from under a flowerpot that it wasn’t a coffee shop.”
He frowned and froze in his tracks. “Where was the house?”
“Kind of behind the grocery store. In that neighborhood. It was an old house. White siding, two-story. Very nice, actually.”
He groaned. “Green shutters? A really big spruce tree in the yard?”
Ferdie sighed and flopped onto his belly, seemingly exhausted.
“Yes. The tree was enormous.”
He rubbed his eyes. “Then what?”
“She put a pot of coffee on to percolate and said she’d be back in a flash. She went into a bedroom for about five minutes. When she came back out, she had changed clothes and had a duffel bag with her.” Patricia’s voice hitched. “If only I’d known she put a gun in that bag. But I had no idea.” She paused, hoping for a little reassurance. None came. “She looked completely different.”
“In what way?”
“Well, she had put on some baggy jeans, cinched with a belt to stay up, I’d guess, and another big sweatshirt. A brown one that said Cowboys on it in yellow. And she was wearing a baseball cap. Green and yellow. It was covering her hair. Which needed to be washed, by the way.”
“And?”
“And, then we had coffee and some little cookies she got out of the pantry. It was all very pleasant.”
“And you didn’t think it was odd she used a key she found under a pot?”
Patricia’s cheeks warmed. “Well, no. She’d forgotten her purse, after all.”
He made a rolling motion with his hand. “Anything else?”
The county attorney was rubbing her the wrong way, handsome or not, accent or no accent. “I asked her if it was her place, and she laughed like that was a big joke. She winked and told me that she made the best coffee in town. ‘Never spend more for someone else to do something you can do better yourself,’ she said."
“What did you talk about?”
“My visit to Buffalo. Where I was from. That I taught school and so did she. That kind of thing. And that I had to get going to Ronnie’s party for Will. Heather—Barbara—said she was going to it as well, and that she would just follow me.” Patricia frowned. “There was one odd thing about her.”
“What was that?”
“She kept one of her hands in her pocket all the time. Like it was hurt or she was hiding it or something.”
“She doesn’t have one of them.”
“One of them what?”
“A hand. Your brother chopped it off. Field amputation when she was trapped in a truck. He saved her life.”
Patricia’s jaw dropped. How had she not heard about that before? “What did he use?”
Max paused, then said, “An ax.”
She nodded. “Wow.” Her brother had always been something of a hero. She supposed that was what made someone think they should be a doctor.
“Anything else at the house?”
“It was time for the party, so we left. She followed me in her truck.”
“Where’d she get a truck?”
“From the garage.”
Max’s face turned splotchy red.
Patricia couldn’t figure the man out. When he didn’t speak, she said, “She also brought the duffel bag, which I thought was weird. I asked about it as we were leaving, and she said Will’s present was in it. But when we got here, everything changed. She pulled a gun out of the duffel, pointed it at me, and took Will. Then Susanne went after her, and Vangie called 911.”
Max stood with his back to her, then turned. He sighed. “It’s not her place, you know. Or her truck.”
“What?”
“The house you were in. It isn’t hers.”
He’d told her about the green shutters and the big spruce, though. She frowned. “Then how did you know what it looked like?”
Ferdie looked up at Patricia, then at Max.
“Because it belonged to me and my ex-wife.”
“You’re divorced?” Patricia suddenly felt better about life and herself. She’d worried what Max thought about her, when he was divorced himself.
“We used to live there together. Last year she moved back to Virginia. I got the house and truck when we split up.” Max turned and stalked back across the room, one hand pressed against his forehead. He barked out a license plate number. “Put out an APB on it. STAT.”
“Then it’s . . . your house. Your truck.”
Max didn’t answer.
Holy smokes. Ferdie let out a booming bark. The officer looked up from his notes, mouth hanging open. His pencil fell from his hand to the floor.
Patricia knew just how they felt.
Chapter Twenty-four: Bump
Hazel Park, Bighorn National Forest, Wyoming
Friday, August 12, 1977, 4:00 p.m.
Ben
Ben held onto the steering wheel with both hands. He couldn’t believe the old truck and trailer had made it this far. The roads from Red Grade down to Little Goose Creek had been bad. Cruddy, even. It still smelled like something was burning after the workout he’d given the brakes. Then the truck had almost swamped in the stream but going up the rocky incline after the crossing was the worst part of all. Poor Jackalope, back in the trailer, surfing the bumps from the ruts and washouts. He felt almost sorry enough to stop and ride the horse instead. But the further he drove at a speed faster than the horse could walk, the shorter the time until he caught up with Trish. And that’s what this was all about. Trish.
He rounded a curve, splashing through a mud puddle the size of a small pond. For a moment, the windshield wipers did double duty against mud and the rain or sleet or hail or whatever the thick wet stuff falling from the sky was.
He slowed down until his visibility improved. When the glass was clearer, he saw he’d come upon a meadow with a truck and stock trailer parked up against the tree line, right where it looked like outfitters occasionally camped, given the fire rings and poles in the trees for hanging elk and deer and anything else the hunters had shot.
This road wasn’t going to get any better. He took his foot completely off the gas. He wasn’t sure how much further he could drive. The parked rig was pretty clear evidence that someone else had thought they shouldn’t drive any further. If he got Henry’s truck and trailer stuck or broken down, he’d have big problems. It might slow him down so much that he missed Trish completely. No one even knew he’d come up here. Help would be slow coming. Maybe he should have left Vangie a note, but he hadn’t, and it was too late to fix that now. For a moment, guilt ate at him. He wasn’t used to having people concerned about him. Was out of practice being cared for. She’d be alone and worried when he didn’t show up at home that night. He would have a lot of explaining and making up to do.
But if he caught up to Trish, it would all be worth it. And Henry would be there, so he could help make things right with Vangie.
Mind made up, he whipped the steering wheel to the right and pulled in to park ten yards away from the other vehicle. Moving fast, he put on his outerwear and hopped out, locking the truck, and turning to jog back to the trailer. The weather was horrible, but he wasn’t going to let it stop him or dampen his mood.
He was doing the right thing. Trish would see how he felt, and he could explain himself. Everything between them would be great again.
“Where do you think you’re going?” a voice asked, as he nearly ran smack into an unhappy horse and an even more unhappy Henry Sibley.
Chapter Twenty-five: Push
Highland Park, Cloud Peak Wilderness, Bighorn Mountains, Wyoming
Friday, August 12, 1977, 4:00 p.m.
Patrick
Patrick had to hold Reno back as he began the climb from the East Fork of Little Goose to Highland Park. The horse was a powerhouse. Solid muscle, even after a year of mostly lounging in a pasture five thousand feet lower in elevation than where he was now, and he loved to attack on the uphill and ride the brakes on the downhill. It had only been about three quarters of a mile since they’d departed from the kids and George, but it was tough going—six hundred feet of steep, narrow, rocky descent. They were now facing the same up the other side of the basin.
All day, Patrick had been hypervigilant to the slightest falter in his horse’s stride. Any hesitation. Any unwillingness. But, as counterintuitive as it seemed, Reno appeared stronger with every mile, like he was enjoying using his body for something other than as a hay receptacle. His head was high, his ears alert. His step on the flat sections, a prance. Patrick suspected this was in part a show for The Lunker. Reno was always the dominant gelding in any herd, and he clearly enjoyed forcing the other horse to match his path and pace.
Around them, the sleet had left a rapidly melting blanket, and water cascaded down the mountain. Reno splashed up mud with every step. Behind them, Patrick could hear The Lunker’s heavy breathing. He glanced back. Eddie was riding with no hands, using his good arm to brace the injured one. The lead line was icy but still snug around the saddle horn. The weather had started easing up, though. It was no warmer, but the precipitation intermittent, the sky lighter, the wind less gusty. Patrick was relieved. Their work at the crash would be hard enough without fighting the crazy storm.
Eddie hadn’t spoken during the ride. The quiet gave Patrick time to think about what to say to him. He still didn’t believe he had gotten the real story out of him. He felt like he needed it, for their safety and the safety of the other survivors, if they were still alive. Questions wouldn’t necessarily yield truthful answers. Chewing Eddie out wouldn’t do anything except make Patrick feel better, and only a little bit at that.
The grade of the trail increased, and Reno sped up. Patrick shifted his weight back. The horse didn’t know when to say when. Patrick hated to pull on the horse’s mouth when he was expending so much effort, but he needed to be smarter than the horse. To not let him hurt himself or spend all his energy. So, Patrick used the influence of his body mechanics to coax Reno into a slower pace. It worked, but only a little, and Patrick smiled as Reno resisted. He liked “try” in an animal. He liked it in a person, too. Try, truthfulness, and honor. Maybe that was why he’d never liked Eddie. Or Elvin for that matter. When he’d known Eddie, the man had never held an honest job. He’d acted like his sister was his personal piggy bank, and Elvin had treated her with appalling disrespect. When Patrick had seen her in Dubois, Constance claimed Eddie and Elvin had gone legit, but, based on what he’d seen so far today, he found it hard to believe.
He shook his head. And it was for Elvin and a pilot working for the goons that he’d handed his kids off to George Nichols and ridden back out to Highland Park with Eddie? He knew God had a plan for everyone, and that His plan was for Patrick to be a healer. Sometimes, though, he had trouble believing in the wisdom of that plan. He supposed that was what faith was all about. He just hoped that this was not a situation that would put his faith to the test.
Reno stopped to catch his breath and The Lunker bumped into him. Reno pinned his ears back and shot the other horse a malevolent glare.
“Easy,” Patrick said in a firm voice.
There was no sound from Eddie or The Lunker except the horse’s heavy breathing.
Reno sucked air like he’d sucked water at the stream a few minutes before. Patrick cocked his head and listened to him. The altitude was hitting him. Patrick had only taken him up over ten thousand feet once before this trip, on the night Reno had broken his leg. And, while horses acclimate to altitude faster than humans, it’s still not automatic for them. But Reno’s breathing sounded normal, if winded. Patrick nodded, satisfied. He would have enough problems transporting the injured men off the mountain on two horses. He’d never needed Reno’s size and strength more.
Reno gave The Lunker another dose of the stink eye. Patrick patted his neck, looked up at the final ascent to the saddle onto Highland Park. It was the steepest section yet, and he knew Reno would try to lope it unless he kept him in hand.
“All right, boy. Let’s finish this.” He gave the horse a gentle tap in the flanks. As expected, the gelding lunged upward, but Patrick held him to a fast walk. “Easy, easy.”
Reno snorted and pulled at the bit, but Patrick stayed firm. He tried to imagine running up this trail like his horse. No way. He was a darn good hiker—accused of being a mountain goat by his family, who always lagged behind him
and begged him to slow down. He couldn’t help it. Between his slow twitch endurance muscles and his goal smashing personality, pushing into the inclines was the only way he knew how to climb. Like Reno. Except he’s got me beat.
Suddenly, yellow sunlight flooded the hillside in front of them. The heat of the sun on Patrick’s wet cheeks was so intense, that it felt like they were venting steam. Everything seemed to smell clean and fresh again. How was that even possible so quickly? He snuck a glance over his shoulder. A dark gloom still clung to the mountains below, but it gave way to wispier clouds that rose to meet skies as clear and blue as his daughter’s eyes. He hoped it would clear up for her and the rest of the group at lower elevations soon, too.
Then Reno was cresting the ridge in a final push. Patrick reined him in for another rest stop, then looked up. His jaw dropped. He let out a low whistle. Highland Park stretched out before him. He’d known it was a big park. He’d seen it from above. But it was hard to believe a meadow of this size, with such hearty grass, existed at the tree line.
“This is where we were?” Eddie said. The Lunker had pulled up beside Reno, and Reno, for once, wasn’t telling the other horse to back away.
Patrick had forgotten the other man was with him for a sweet moment. “Hard to believe, isn’t it?”
“It sure looks different.”
The view of the massif that had been obscured before by the weather dominated the skyline. The peaks were shockingly close, and yet, at the same time, still a long distance away. Dark and imposing, it wasn’t hard to pick out Black Tooth’s rocky, jagged profile from the others. From the plane, Black Tooth had been beautiful, but different. Flattened out. Here at its foot, Patrick could appreciate every inch of its additional three thousand feet of elevation from where he sat astride his horse. He remembered the name Perry had given the mountain earlier—Snaggle Tooth—and Perry’s missing tooth, which had given him a matching profile. It almost made him smile. Almost.
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