Snaggle Tooth

by Pamela Fagan Hutchins

  “Jeez. My butt hurts almost as much as my arm. Got any more of that codeine, man?”

  Anger flared in Patrick.

  This. This view and this ruined moment were what he had come for. To enjoy this place with his friend and his kids. Not to be carting around Eddie Blackhawk while mobsters hunted for him and his injured buddy. A sense of loss replaced Patrick’s anger. The more of his birthdays that passed, the more he realized that time lost couldn’t be recaptured. The opportunity for the time with his kids, this time, was gone forever. Taken by Eddie, because of whatever it was he and Elvin had done that had brought the mafia after them.

  “Which direction to the plane?” Eddie asked.

  Patrick tried to shake off his anger. It wouldn’t help him find the survivors and get them safely off the mountain. His lips were tight when he answered, though. “I thought you knew. We were still climbing that last pitch when you went down. When we got up here, the park and the peaks were completely socked in with clouds. Then Henry went after John’s horse—I’m not even sure in what direction—and half an hour later, he showed back up with you, over there.” Patrick pointed to a stand of trees to their right.

  The Lunker inched forward until Eddie was even with Patrick. Reno dropped his head to graze. Patrick loosened the pony line, and The Lunker did the same.

  Eddie said, “I don’t see the plane.”

  “Neither do I.” Nor did Patrick see smoke or broken timber. Nothing to identify a crash site.

  Eddie nodded. “I’m a decent enough tracker. I’ll find it.”

  “After a storm like that one?”

  He shrugged. “It makes it harder. I need to be on the ground to do it, though.”

  Patrick thought about the men looking for Eddie. George had sent them on the wrong path, but they were bound to figure that out sooner or later. They were delayed, not thwarted, and they would be coming for Eddie, he felt sure. “It will slow us down if you walk.”

  “Not as much as wandering in circles without getting anywhere will.”

  That was true. “Do you need help?”

  “I know how to get off a horse.” Eddie slid feet first down The Lunker’s rump. The horse didn’t stop chomping grass or even flinch. Eddie cradled his injured arm in his good hand. “This way.” He struck out to the right of the trail, his knees bent and his eyes intent on the ground. Within seconds he was moving at a brisk pace toward the trees where the group had sheltered earlier.

  Patrick eased Reno and The Lunker forward. “I know we went there.”

  “I know you know. But I want to get familiar with the prints so my eyes will know what to look for when we strike new ground.”

  It made sense. Patrick kept the horses well behind Eddie. Now that they were getting closer to the crash, it was time to learn more about what he would be facing. Maybe there was something he could do to prepare “How badly were Elvin and the pilot hurt?”.

  Eddie didn’t look up. “Bad. I couldn’t get Elvin’s seat belt to release. He was unconscious and it looked like his ankle was broken. And his arm.” After a moment he added, “The pilot was trapped, and his head was bleeding. He wasn’t conscious either.”

  It sounded to Patrick like they’d be towing down travois, which meant they would also be carrying them like stretchers through the worst terrain. Evading mobsters wouldn’t be easy. But Patrick couldn’t think about that. One problem at a time. Right now, that problem was to find the plane. But then it registered on him that Eddie had just described Elvin as unconscious. It gnawed at him. Earlier, when he admitted his friend had survived the crash, Eddie had claimed Elvin had spoken to him.

  Patrick spoke casually. “Did Elvin wake up before you left him?”

  Eddie’s steps didn’t falter. “No.”

  “But I thought you said he begged you to leave him and get help?”

  Eddie kept his eyes on the ground. “He would have, if he’d been awake. I know him.”

  Patrick’s voice rose. “Do you ever tell the truth?”

  “I guess.”

  Eddie sounded so blasé that Patrick itched to jump off his horse and give him a pummeling. These were men’s lives they were talking about, even if one of them was a man Patrick didn’t like. But Eddie was his friend. The man was trapped in a wrecked plane, deserted by his friend in a strange wilderness. With friends like Eddie, a man wouldn’t need enemies.

  Patrick clenched his jaw and closed his eyes for a moment. He prayed Elvin and the pilot were still alive when they finally reached them. Otherwise, leaving his kids with George wouldn’t have been worth the risk.

  Chapter Twenty-six: Shadow

  Buffalo, Wyoming

  Friday, August 12, 1977, 4:00 p.m.

  Susanne

  Driving east down Main Street past interspersed little hotels and storefronts in jauntily painted old houses, Susanne’s Suburban might as well have been a flashing neon light in Barb Lamkin’s rearview mirror. Barb knew the vehicle. Susanne eased off the gas to let it fall as far back from Barb as she could get and still follow her. Nearly two blocks. A tractor without its trailer—how many wheels did that make it?—turned onto Main between them. It belched out a cloud of smelly black smoke as it accelerated. Susanne couldn’t see around it, and she bit her lip. Barb could turn off on a side road and be gone in a flash.

  Susanne never drove aggressively. But that didn’t mean she wasn’t capable. Her father had kept roadsters when she was a girl. She’d learned to drive in a race car, and he’d made her prove to him she could put it through all of its paces, on and off the dirt track. Mashing her accelerator, Susanne whipped around the truck, earning her angry beeps from an oncoming sedan.

  “Thanks, Daddy,” she said aloud.

  Adrenaline pulsed in her veins. She squinted, looking ahead for Barb. Her glasses. She didn’t have her glasses. Her far-vision was terrible. The white blob in the distance had to be her. She gave the Suburban some gas so she could get close enough to be sure. She tried to recall ever seeing Barb drive a white Chevy truck before but came up empty. In fact, Barb had totaled her brown Chevy truck the night she’d tried to kill Susanne and the kids. From there, Barb had been transported to the hospital, then to jail after she was released from medical care. She probably didn’t even own a working vehicle anymore. Had she stolen this truck? Maybe from a tourist. The plates were from out of state. White with Columbia blue lettering. Virginia, if Susanne’s eyes didn’t deceive her.

  They were on the outskirts of town now, near the fairgrounds. Ahead was the junction of the interstates—90 north to Sheridan, east to Gillette, or 25 south to Casper. As the gap between their vehicles closed, Susanne’s adrenaline slowed. It was definitely the white truck ahead of her. She hadn’t lost her. Luckily, Barb was easy to follow. She was obeying the speed limit and traffic laws, obviously taking care not to attract the attention of cops. Her being a wanted fugitive and all. Anger boiled up in Susanne. She squeezed the steering wheel so hard it hurt her fingers. Barb had better drive carefully, because Will was in that truck.

  Susanne didn’t trust Barb with a baby, even one she’d given birth to. She pictured the infant thrown off the seat and tumbling to the floorboard. Or being catapulted into the dash. The thought made her shudder.

  Up ahead, Barb put on a left blinker, then red lights flashed on her bumper. Susanne applied her brakes. Where could Barb be going? She clearly wasn’t headed to her old house, a tiny rental near the hospital. It was now occupied by Mayor Martin Ochoa’s aged parents, who had recently been convinced by their son to move into town from their remote ranch, nearer to community assistance and medical care. There would have been nothing for Barb at her old house.

  Barb didn’t appear to be driving toward a friend’s house either, at least no one Susanne had known about. Barb’s best buddy had been Tara Coker, another young teacher at the high school, who’d lived in a duplex further south. But Tara had left town after she was fired for having an affair with a student. And not just with any student. Wit
h Trish’s ex-boyfriend, Brandon Lewis. He’d been seventeen at the time. In Susanne’s opinion, that constituted abuse of a child, and the woman should have been prosecuted. She’d pled the case to Max Alexandrov, but he’d stood firm that the damage to Brandon and the school from bringing charges would be greater than the gain. As the parent of teens and an aspiring educator herself, it had made her sick.

  Other than Tara, Barb had mostly associated with her former lover, Judge Renkin, up until their mutual incarcerations. Hers, pending the trial she’d run out on. His, after pleading guilty as an accessory after the fact in Barb’s murder of his wife. Plus, the Renkins had lived next door to the Flints. Barb definitely wasn’t headed there.

  The white truck turned left onto Airport Road. Who did Barb know out in that area? Susanne had exhausted all of the contacts she could think of who might have helped Barb make her escape or who might harbor her now. This was the Flints’ old neighborhood and the only route to the county airport. Dear God, don’t let her be meeting someone with a plane.

  Susanne eased her big vehicle slowly into the turn, hanging as far back from Barb as she dared get. The road would wind through a rugged gulch for the next mile, then open up onto a plateau with multi-acre properties and an unfortunate amount of visibility between the homes on them. No trees, unless you counted the occasional oversized chokecherry bush or buckbrush. Not much for the pronghorn antelope and white-tailed deer to hide behind except rocks. Wyoming wasn’t renowned for its lush vegetation, except in the mountains. In fact, pretty much any land where trees grew naturally belonged to the state. Because of the terrain, Susanne would have to stay close enough that she’d see Barb in case she turned off the road, but, because of the lack of cover, far enough behind that she didn’t attract her attention. It would be hard to balance and not something Susanne had any experience with. She was a homemaker, for Pete’s sake. A soon-to-be college student. A wife and mother. Not a police officer.

  So, what the heck was she doing following this woman? It had been a rash decision. Not even a decision, really. Pure instinct. She’d been dazed at the time, still reeling from the blow to her head. She touched the knot on the left side of her forehead gently with her fingertips. It was tender and as round and raised as a grape. The blow hadn’t helped her headache, that was for sure. The hole in the light had returned, and she knew the migraine would come barreling in behind it like a freight train soon. And she was on the trail of a murderer, albeit one with a missing hand. Not that it seemed to have slowed Barb down much. Susanne had no weapon. She didn’t have her purse—glasses—or medicine. She had no idea what she’d do if she caught up with Barb, or, worse, how she’d defend herself if Barb realized she was being tailed and turned on her.

  All she knew for sure was that she couldn’t let Barb out of her sight. At this point, Susanne was the only person who knew where Barb and Will were. She felt a strong sense of responsibility to herself and her family and the state of Wyoming to thwart Barb’s escape. It might sound crazy, but she was the only one who could. But she felt an even stronger sense of duty to Ronnie not to let Will out of her sight. Because it was Susanne’s fault. Barb had taken Will right out of her arms.

  She still couldn’t believe it. How could she have let it happen? Why hadn’t she fought back harder? Would she have done something differently if it had been one of her babies? She hoped not, but she’d never know. A sobering thought struck her. What would she have done in Barb’s shoes, if she had given birth to a child, then had a chance to escape from life in prison or a death sentence, to get the baby back? For a fleeting second, she felt something like sympathy for Barb. It had to have been and must still be incredibly difficult to be forced to give the boy up.

  But the moment ended as fast as it had begun. That’s what happens when you murder your lover’s wife and try to kill the witness and his family. Barb had forfeited her right to freedom by her own choices, even the freedom to raise her son. Prison was no place for a baby. No place for a child. The State was working in Will’s best interests, to give him a chance at a normal life. A good life. That sweet little boy didn’t deserve to be kidnapped from the good people who were giving that to him. He didn’t deserve to suffer because of who gave birth to him.

  Ahead of her, Barb’s truck disappeared from sight into the ravine. Susanne goosed the accelerator. Around the next curve, she caught sight of the truck’s bumper again. She was not letting this woman get away.

  A low, furry body waddled into the road. She slammed on the brakes, biting the inside of her lip so hard that she drew blood. A badger.

  “Go, go, go,” she screamed.

  The badger didn’t look at her, didn’t hurry. When it had cleared her lane, she stomped on the gas pedal. The Suburban’s tires laid rubber on the asphalt. She didn’t let off the gas until she caught a glimpse of Barb’s taillights going around a bend. Her speedometer had climbed to fifty, and she eased back on her speed as she entered the curve. It didn’t matter that she didn’t know what to do. She was doing the only thing she could, the thing she had to, which was something. Even if all she could do was not let Barb out of her sight. But that also meant she couldn’t blow a tire or wreck the Suburban. Wherever Barb went, Susanne, if no one else, would know about it. Will would not be missing. He would be kidnapped, but he would not be missing.

  The road climbed out of the ravine, spitting the Suburban out onto the vast, barren expanse of the plateau. Susanne scanned the road ahead.

  No Barb.

  She whipped her head back and forth, checking the long rural driveways from the road to the small acreages and homes along it.

  No white truck. How could she have lost her so quickly?

  She looked ahead further, to the limits of her terrible vision, to the last turn off from the road before it crested the hill toward the airport. Barb could have accelerated up the straightaway and be half a mile ahead by now. She could be almost to the entrance of the airport. Susanne smashed the gas pedal down again, heedless of the ninety degree turn ahead in the road. Her tires squealed around it, and her back end slid onto the gravelly shoulder of the road. The smell of burning rubber filled the interior. She hung on tight to the wheel, muscling the Suburban straight again, holding her breath, spraying gravel. Then, as she was gathering speed, she darted a glance to the left, down the dirt road she, Patrick, and the kids had lived on until they’d bought their house on Clear Creek. Where Ronnie and Jeff Harcourt had been their next-door neighbors and still lived.

  She hit the brakes. Ronnie and Jeff lived out there. Will’s home was down this road.

  She peered into the distance. And there it was—the white blob, pulling into a sheltered parking area on the south side of the Harcourt house. Blood ran from her face, leaving it cold. Was Barb going to lie in wait for the Harcourts to come home and then do something horrible to them?

  Susanne slammed the Suburban into reverse and smashed the accelerator. The vehicle lurched and weaved as she backed up. She stomped the brakes to the floor, shifted before she was fully stopped, and gunned the engine into a turn to the left, fishtailing onto the gravel. If only Daddy could see me now. Or Patrick, who likes to think he’s the better driver. Fat chance.

  But now that she was barreling down the dirt road, indecision and self-doubt hit her full force. She couldn’t just drive up to the house. Barb had a gun. And there were plenty more in the Harcourts’ house, since Ronnie was a deputy and both she and Jeff were hunters. What Susanne really needed to do was inform law enforcement of where Barb and Will were. But there were no pay phones out here. No stores where she could borrow one. There were phones, however. There was one right next door, in fact, at the Flints’ former home.

  Susanne had met the family who had moved into it. She could ask them to call the police. Barb would be next door. Susanne could keep one eye on her and leave the Suburban running. She nodded. It was her best option.

  She drove past the entrance to the Harcourt place and on to her old driveway. The
Suburban bumped and jolted up the familiar path as memories swirled in her head. Good ones, like walking the kids to the bus on their first day of school in Wyoming. Watching Patrick set up a triangular pattern of barrels for Trish and Goldie. Perry running down the hill, racing Ferdinand, who had been just a gangly puppy. And bad ones, like the night of terror she’d spent tied up in her bedroom, hostage to Billy Kemecke, until Ronnie had found her the next day, after Kemecke had gone after Patrick up on Walker Prairie in the mountains.

  When they’d moved to their dream house, she’d been so excited that it hadn’t registered with her then how many important moments had taken place here. Tears threatened, but she swallowed and willed them away. This was no time to give in to emotion. She whipped the Suburban around the circle drive in front of the house, leaving it poised to make a quick exit, but out of sight of the Harcourt house, engine running.

  She ran to the front door. A mat with a picture of a fat black bear on it read WELCOME TO OUR DEN. She took a deep breath, then rang the bell. “Come on, come on, come on.”

  She looked to her right, toward the Harcourts’ house, but it was set back further on its property than this one was. She couldn’t see it while she was standing at the front door. Her breathing sped back up again.

  There was no answer to the doorbell.

  She rang it again. As she waited, her vision dimmed out. No. No. Not again. Not now. She threw her hands up and braced herself on the door. Images flashed through her head. At first, they were the same ones she’d seen earlier. Patrick and an American Indian man. Trish and Perry standing by a stack of felled timber. Henry and Ben riding full speed through a forest. And Barbara Lamkin, holding a baby in a dark parking lot. Then they changed. A church next to a motel. George Nichols with tears in his eyes. A crumpled figure on a mountain trail.

  She cried out and slumped forward against the door. The images faded. Her vision returned to normal. Why was this happening to her? Was she losing her mind? After a few seconds, she forced herself to stand up. To get control of herself.