Snaggle Tooth

by Pamela Fagan Hutchins

  Silence met her words. Just as Susanne was about to blurt out more explanation, the woman said, “Driver’s license, please.”

  “Are you a police officer?”

  “Who else do you think would ask for your license?”

  “I wouldn’t know. You’ve been shining that light in my eyes, and I haven’t seen you.”

  The woman—the officer—repeated, “Driver’s license, please.”

  “I—I don’t have it. When Barb took Will—the baby—I went after them. I didn’t take the time to go back for my purse. I don’t have my wallet and license. Or my glasses. I’m sorry. But if you call the police in Buffalo, they’ll know who I am and what I’m talking about.”

  Silence again, like the officer was pondering her words. Then, “I’m going to need you to come with me, ma’am.”

  Susanne put her hands on the steering wheel and squeezed. “Please, if Barb leaves that motel and takes Will, she could disappear forever. Please help me. At least have someone watch to make sure she stays inside.”

  “Out of the car, ma’am.”

  Susanne swallowed back a wave of nausea. She grabbed her keys and opened her door, uncertain what to do with her hands. Was the woman going to handcuff her and arrest her?

  “Do you have a weapon, ma’am?”

  “What? No.”

  “Then have a seat in the back of my cruiser while I check your story, please.” The officer lowered her flashlight. “After you.”

  Susanne’s vision was a blinding array of spots. She hesitated. “I can’t see.”

  “Take your time.”

  “I don’t have time. Will doesn’t have time.” When there was no answer, Susanne stuck her hands out in front of her as feelers and took a few tentative steps.

  The officer put a hand on her arm and guided her with pressure. “This way.”

  When they reached the vehicle, the officer said, “Stand with your legs apart and your hands on the roof while I pat you down, please.”

  “But why? I told you I’m not armed.”

  The officer didn’t answer. Susanne put her hands on the car and widened her stance. The woman patted her down from head to toe, gently but firmly, and in places Susanne was very uncomfortable with. Her cheeks felt hot. When the humiliation finally ended, the officer opened the back door.

  Susanne took a seat. The officer got in the front and radioed her station. Within a minute, Susanne’s story had been confirmed. She should have felt vindicated, but badgered, sick, and frantic won out.

  Over the radio, she heard, “Units en route from Sheridan and Buffalo. Please surveil the fugitive until assistance arrives.”

  After the officer ended the transmission, she turned to face Susanne, who was able to see her for the first time. She had a strong jaw with a dimple in her chin. Her dark hair was cut as short as a man’s. “Thank you for your help, ma’am. I need to return you to your vehicle so I can get back to my job. And then you need to go home.”

  “Return me to . . . go home . . . can’t I come with you?”

  “No, ma’am. We’ll take it from here.”

  Susanne was speechless for a moment. The officer opened up the back door. Susanne stayed put. “But I tracked her here. I kept her from getting away.”

  “And that’s much appreciated, but you took a big risk. She could have killed you, you know.”

  “But she didn’t. I need to know—I don’t even—what is the plan?”

  “Other officers are coming to join me. We’ll stake out her room until she leaves. Then we’ll arrest her and take the baby.”

  “She’ll be wary. She’s smart. And she’s parked behind the motel. Are there windows from the rooms facing the back? If she’s seen you, she could be leaving already.”

  “Yet we’re still here talking. I need to do my job now. Good night, Mrs. Flint.”

  Susanne stood up and smoothed her skirt. With all the dignity she could muster, she marched to the Suburban. She’d been dismissed. After all the help she’d given them, she’d just been sent home like a naughty child from school.

  The officer exited the parking lot and drove down the street. Susanne’s eyes followed her, a hungry cat tracking a mouse. The squad car pulled in the bar parking lot, where Susanne lost sight of it. She retreated into the Suburban and drummed her hands on the wheel. The cops had the wrong strategy. Barb wouldn’t leave through the front if she sensed anyone out there, and she wouldn’t fail to notice them in a quiet town of this size. If she couldn’t get out the back, it would be a standoff. It could take forever. Did Barb have the supplies to take care of Will if that happened? Susanne doubted it.

  But she’d pled her case to the officer. Law enforcement had taken over, and, as a civilian, there was nothing more she could do.

  She found a gas station across the street. One dollar wasn’t going to take her very far, but it was better than nothing. Her migraine was nearly blinding her, and she longed to be asleep in her own bed. Maybe Patricia or Vangie could help her. She was about to use her quarter to call her sister-in-law, when Sheridan law enforcement vehicles began pulling into the bar parking lot with all the stealth of a Macy’s parade. Her blood boiled. Unless Barb was asleep or in the bathroom, how could she not see them go by? And she was a fugitive, for goodness sakes. She’d be glued to the window, watching for exactly this.

  Susanne’s vision flashed white with migraine aura, and she saw a hand pulling a fire alarm in her mind. It was slender. Feminine. The skin of an adult woman. Perry had pulled the fire alarm at his school so he could get out of class early to go skiing one Friday the previous March. At the time, she’d been so angry with him. But, in retrospect, it had been clever, if devious and without forethought for the consequences. She smiled. The grown-up version of Perry’s stunt might work. If Barb was faced with a real emergency, she’d be less careful. Less watchful. She’d feel like she had to run outside to save herself and Will. The cops could catch her unaware then. But it would have to happen soon, while there was still a prayer that Barb hadn’t figured out they were on to her.

  Was it her own hand Susanne saw in her vision?

  She wished Patrick was with her so they could talk it through. They partnered on big decisions. Would he approve? Probably not. But after all the crazy stunts he’d pulled, after all the times he’d risked his life to save other people, how could he do anything now except wish her God speed when Will’s life and Ronnie’s happiness were on the line?

  Of course, after it was over, Susanne might face consequences, like her son had. But it was a pittance to pay. This would work. It had to, and it would. Her own child had done it, after all, so she knew she could, too.

  Energy built inside her—energy and determination. She put her quarter back in the ashtray. No phone calls. She was doing this. She’d check first that there really were law enforcement vehicles behind the motel, surrounding Barb’s truck. Then, once she knew everyone was in place, she’d go back to the motel, pull the fire alarm, and get out of the way. She poked at her plan again, looking for holes. But she was satisfied with it.

  She drove around the block, just under the speed limit, repeating instructions to herself like she was memorizing Bible verses for Sunday school. Be observant, be careful, don’t draw attention to yourself.

  In less than a minute, the Suburban was bouncing over potholes in the dirt alley behind the motel. The headlight beams jerked up and down on the back walls of the buildings. The alley seemed to dead end at the motel, where a lone white truck was parked. There were no officers in the alley. None she could see anyway. She bit her lip. What were they waiting for? She slowed the Suburban to let it waddle through a large hole. She didn’t want Barb to get a glimpse of the Suburban, so she started eyeing the best spot to make a U-turn.

  Suddenly, a woman climbed out a window in the back of the motel. Platinum hair shone in the moonlight. It gave Susanne pause. That couldn’t be Barb. Barb had red hair. She’d seen it earlier tucked in her cap, and it definitely hadn�
�t been platinum. But then the woman was running through the dark, outside of the span of the lights. A woman dressed as a deputy, with a duffel bag banging off one hip and a baby cradled in her arm.

  “No!” Susanne screamed.

  She stomped on her brakes, jolting the Suburban to a stop. She’d been right. Barb was way ahead of law enforcement.

  Blonde Barb glanced down the alley, threw the duffel into the truck, and tucked a bundled-up Will in the passenger floorboard again. She hurried into the driver’s seat and was backing the truck out before Susanne could formulate a new plan. Barb paused, idling, with the nose of the truck pointed at the Suburban.

  Susanne looked up and down the alley for help, hoping for a last second miracle. There were no cops around. No humans around. No one except her and Barb.

  Susanne had a little bit of gas and could follow Barb again, but not far. The woman would get away if that was all she did. Susanne had to do something more. Anything else was too big a risk to take with Will’s life. Barb accelerated into the parking area on the side of the motel. She wasn’t far from turning onto Highway 14 out of Ranchester. And God knew where after that.

  It was time for action. Susanne mashed the accelerator all the way to the floor.

  Chapter Forty-three: Feel

  Ranchester, Wyoming

  Friday, August 12, 1977, 10:35 p.m.

  Trish

  Trish shielded her eyes with her hand. The sudden glare from flashing lights was painful. Still, she couldn’t help but look. George either, apparently, because he slowed his truck to a crawl. The light was coming from a motel parking lot. Trish rolled her window down and stuck her head out, catching a strong whiff of cooped up horse and the sound of hooves clanging against the metal sides of the trailer. She gawked at the drama—three police cars. So many for such a little town. Ranchester was half the size of Buffalo, and she’d thought it was small compared to Irving, the part of the Dallas metroplex where they’d lived before moving to Wyoming.

  Two of the cop cars were parked inches away from the front of a white truck, one of its flat front wheels up on a curb. The third was beside it, doors open. Pressed up against the side of the rear bumper of the truck was a Suburban. A dark Suburban. Gray?

  Trish frowned. It looked like . . . it couldn’t be . . . it was.

  “That’s my mom’s car!” she shouted.

  “Where?” George asked.

  A woman with long, wavy brown hair was holding an infant in her arms, her body turned away from a police officer, who appeared to be trying to take the baby from her.

  “By the cop cars. And that’s my mom. Stop!”

  George stomped the brakes. His truck jerked to a stop. For a second, Trish felt sorry for the horses.

  Beside her, Perry woke and rubbed his eyes. Then he sat forward, pointing. “What’s Coach Lamkin doing here?”

  An officer was on either side of a woman with long hair the color of Marily Monroe’s, holding her arms. Coach Lamkin had red hair. And this woman was in an officer’s uniform. She turned, and Trish saw her face. Trish’s mouth fell open. Perry was right. It was her former coach.

  “No. No.” Trish jumped from the truck. The wind was intense, and grit pelted her face. She ignored it and ran toward her mom.

  Perry scrambled after her. “Wait for me.”

  The officer talking to their mother intercepted them. At first Trish thought it was a man, but then she realized it was a woman with very short hair. “Stay back, kids. This is crime scene. It’s not safe.”

  “Let them through. Those are my children,” Trish’s mom said.

  Trish was so confused. What was going on? Why was her mom in Ranchester? How had Coach Lamkin escaped from custody? And why was her mom holding a baby? She didn’t know why, but that seemed like the most important question. She leaned toward her mom. “Whose baby is that, Mom?”

  The officer put her arms out wide. “I said stay back.”

  The baby started wailing. Its cry was surreal in the middle of all the strobing lights.

  Trish’s mom swayed and twisted, rocking the baby. “He’s Ronnie and Jeff’s baby. Will.”

  Trish stared at the baby, struggling to make sense of things. Oh, my gosh. Coach Lamkin’s baby.

  Her mom tried to pass by the officer to get to Trish and Perry.

  The officer shook her head. “Mrs. Flint, stop right there. You need to leave the baby with us.”

  Her mom glared at the cop. It filled Trish’s chest with something good. “This is no place for a baby.”

  “Ma’am, this is all going to end just fine for everyone, as long as you don’t make me arrest you.”

  The two women locked eyes. There was something ferocious and unexpected in Trish’s mom’s face. Trish watched her in awe. She isn’t giving in.

  Tires screeched at the edge of the parking lot. Trish turned. Ronnie Harcourt, in her full Johnson County Sheriff’s deputy uniform, jumped out of a car. She sprinted across the parking lot. Her face was tear-streaked, her braided hair loose and wild in the front. The tall figure of her husband Jeff was closing in fast behind her.

  For a moment, all heads turned toward the Harcourts, even Coach Lamkin’s, just as the two officers were lowering her into the back of one of their cars.

  Trish’s mom held the baby out toward Ronnie. “A baby’s place is with its mother.”

  Ronnie snatched Will and pressed him to her chest. “Is he all right? Is my baby okay?”

  Jeff put his arm around them both. His face was bright red, and his eyes were wet and shiny. He started murmuring something Trish couldn’t hear.

  The female police officer said, “Deputy Harcourt. Mr. Harcourt. Good to see you both. Will seems fine to me.”

  Ronnie nodded. She looked over Will’s head at Trish’s mom. “Susanne, I’ll never be able to thank you enough.”

  The women embraced, with Will and Jeff sandwiched between them. When Will squalled, they laughed and backed away from each other.

  Jeff wiped at his eyes. “You saved him, Susanne. You saved our little boy.”

  Ronnie frowned. “That isn’t the outfit I had him dressed in for the party. But it’s his. It was in his dresser at our house. How in the world . . . ?”

  Trish’s mom said, “The first place Barb headed when she left my house was to yours. I nearly made it to a phone to call the police from there, but she took off again too quickly. I’ll bet she stocked up on Will’s things from your place.”

  Ronnie shook her head. “I may have to rethink leaving the house unlocked after this.” Trish had never understood why so many Wyomingites left their homes unsecured in the first place. Her parents sure didn’t.

  “And that explains why the plates off your county vehicle were on her truck, too, and why she was wearing your uniform,” the female officer said.

  “Wait—what?”

  The cop nodded. “Apparently, she stole the truck she was driving from Max Alexandrov. The APB was out for a white Chevy truck with his plates. But when we apprehended her here, she had on a Johnson County Deputy uniform and had a different plate. Buffalo PD looked it up for us, and it’s yours, Deputy Harcourt. Which you would see better if Mrs. Flint hadn’t shoved her truck up on the sidewalk.”

  Her mom gave the cop a raised eyebrow look. “You’re welcome.”

  “That . . .that . . .that horrible woman! She would have gotten away if it wasn’t for Susanne.” Ronnie turned back to Trish’s mom. “But your kids.” She pointed at Trish and Perry with her head. “I thought they were up in the mountains.”

  Trish and Perry were still rooted in place. The terrible things that had happened earlier had flown from Trish’s mind once she saw her mom. They came crashing back all at once. She glanced at Perry. His face was as pale as the moon overhead.

  “Me, too.” Her mom crossed the invisible barrier the officer had established, but the woman didn’t try to stop her this time. She hugged Trish and Perry to her, both at the same time. When she released them, she said, �
��What are you two doing here? Is that George Nichols with you?” She gasped. “Perry, what happened to your mouth? And where are John and your father?”

  Chapter Forty-four: Slide

  Base of Black Tooth Mountain, Cloud Peak Wilderness, Bighorn Mountains, Wyoming

  Friday, August 12, 1977, 10:35 p.m.

  Patrick

  Sweat cascaded down Patrick’s back. He adjusted the travois, trying to keep Elvin’s profile low. They were spotlighted and exposed against the slide of boulders, but he’d lost sight of the horses and riders below, about the same time Eddie had disappeared. He hoped they couldn’t see Elvin and him either. He had to push on, down to Reno and The Lunker, and on down the mountain. But navigating the maze of boulders was arduous work. For every yard he gained down the slide, he had to climb back up half as much.

  And it wore on him that he couldn’t find the riders. Just because he couldn’t see them didn’t mean they didn’t have him in their sights. Honestly, though, he was just as worried about an armed and combative Eddie. The man had declared his independence from Patrick and Elvin. Or maybe he’d been doing more than that. Maybe he’d been declaring his opposition to them. If he took them out, he would have both horses to himself. He could pack out a lot of cash on two animals of that size, without having to share the spoils, worry about Patrick turning it over to the authorities, or Elvin slowing him down. And eliminating Patrick and Elvin could make him an ally to the mobsters. Patrick was just surprised Eddie hadn’t killed them before he left, or even up at the crash site and made a run for it then. Maybe hidden deep in Eddie’s cold, dark heart there was a flicker of humanity, a concern for his friend’s welfare.

  More likely, he was waiting to see who came out on top before he picked sides.

  From somewhere above, back in the direction of the trail they’d taken down from the crash site, Patrick heard a loud crack. Gunshot. He dropped into a crouch. A bullet ricocheted off a nearby rock, sending a chunk of it flying. His elbow stung. He hugged it to him. The chip had hit him. After a few seconds, he realized the injury was only a flesh wound. He released his arm and hunkered, waiting and listening.