“Hank will be joining us in a few weeks. Or any time he feels like it now, I guess.”
“How do you know it’s a boy?”
She smiled. “I just have a feeling.” She winked, then turned to Brandon. As a Buffalo Elementary school teacher, she’d taught all the kids in town. “Hello, Brandon. Good luck in the state tournament next week.”
He shrugged. “Thanks, Mrs. Sibley.”
Trish glanced at the ski slope just in time to see a man wipe out and knock down a whole row of people.
Brandon whistled. “Whoa. That was far out.”
Trish peered more closely, frowning, and recognized a flannel jacket and thinning brown hair. “Oh my gosh. That was my dad.” Then she laughed. “Man, I’ll bet he’s embarrassed. I hope he didn’t hurt anyone.”
Mrs. Sibley tented her eyes and stood on her tiptoes. “One of the people he knocked over may be Judge Renkin. That’s his wife standing to the side wiping something off her jacket.”
“Coffee,” Brandon said. “She’s still holding the cup.”
A loud crack sounded, then echoed across the lake. Brandon and Trish raised eyebrows at each other.
“A rifle,” he said. “A big one.”
“It’s not hunting season,” Mrs. Sibley mused.
Trish looked around. Where could the shot have come from?
Then one person screamed, followed shortly by another, and another.
“Oh, my God.” Mrs. Sibley’s hand flew to cover her mouth.
“What is it?” Trish asked.
“Someone at the base of the slope has been shot.”
Trish craned her neck toward the base of the ski slope. People were standing and pointing, blocking her line of sight. She jumped to her feet. Her dad. Her dad was down there.
“Daddy,” she shouted. “Daddy.”
And then she was running and stumbling awkwardly in her ski boots, toward the spot she’d last seen him.
Chapter Four: Aid
Bighorn Mountains, Buffalo, Wyoming
Saturday, March 5, 1977, 11:25 a.m.
Susanne
Susanne kept her eyes on Henry Sibley’s back as she followed him slowly down the mountain. He made it look so effortless.
He pirouetted around and skied backwards. “Am I still going the right speed? I don’t want to lose you.” Without taking his eyes off her, he executed a wide turn, still gliding the wrong way.
“I’m good,” she said, then wobbled.
“Put your arms out. Like you’re walking on a log across a creek.” He pronounced creek as “crick” like everyone else did in Wyoming. She still thought it sounded strange even after a couple of years in the state. It made her feel like exaggerating her Texas accent, too. She didn’t want to lose her roots, even if she and Patrick had recently moved into the home of her dreams on a bluff above Clear Creek, just west of Buffalo.
She lifted her arms like she used to do on the balance beam in gymnastics as a girl. It worked, and she stayed on her feet.
“See? Doesn’t that help?”
“It does. Thanks.”
“That’s for balance. Now, if you want to make the turns easier, move those arms in front of you and kind of point them in the direction you’re wanting to go. Like you’re steering a bicycle. I’ll show you.”
Henry swiveled around to face the correct direction again, with his hands in front of him. He turned again, following his arms like he was steering a bicycle. Or a boat.
Susanne tried it. Her body followed her hands, a little. “Wow, I think that helped, too.”
Over his shoulder, he grinned. “You’re a natural.”
She knew that wasn’t true, but it was nice of him to say.
Below them, the trail widened out and ended at the base of the resort. She could see the dreaded T-bar lift, the lodge and its broad deck, and the parking lot beyond. It seemed a long way down, still, and she ached with the desire to be there already. She could put her feet up and drink hot cocoa with Vangie. Or a hot toddie. She deserved one after this. But how was she going to convince Patrick that she’d had enough of skiing for one day? She could hear him already. He’d tell her how the cost per hour of her lift ticket and skis went up if she only skied half the day. But they hadn’t paid for them, so she didn’t care. The thought of going up that T-bar again gave her the shivers, much less skiing down the mountain.
A loud crack startled her. She looked toward the sound, away from her path, and the tips of her skis crossed. She went down in a graceless heap. Like a hippopotamus on roller skates, she imagined.
Henry turned around and skied uphill to help her. Her skis hadn’t popped off, so he hauled her up by one hand, holding on until she was steady.
“What was that sound?” she asked.
“Rifle, sounded like. Although it’s out of season. Maybe someone was scaring off a cranky bear that should have been sleeping.” He gave her a thumbs up. “Last stretch. Are you ready?”
She couldn’t really lift her thumb in her mittens, but she gave him something close to it. “Ready.”
They skied quietly for several minutes. Susanne focused all of her energy on no more falls, even though her thighs were quivering, and it seemed like everything she was wearing was wet from sweat and melted snow.
“Something’s going on.” Henry stopped and pointed at the crowd at the bottom of the hill.
Susanne managed to pull up beside him. Voices buzzed around the lodge as if it were a hive of bees. People were running around, agitated. No one was on the T-bar. And the crowd in front of the deck had swelled. Something was going on. “Maybe this has to do with the Doctor of the Day call.”
“That call was closing in on half an hour ago.” Henry frowned. “Come on. I don’t feel good leaving Vangie alone down there.”
His unease was contagious. Patrick was down there, too. And maybe Trish and Perry. She followed him, skiing faster than she’d thought she could, and snowplowed to a stop about twenty-five feet from the ever-expanding crowd on the snow.
“What’s happening?” Henry said to a man who was walking back toward the parking lot.
The man’s eyes were wide. “Somebody got shot. I’m out of here.”
Panic mushroomed in Susanne’s chest and rocketed, tingling, through her body. She wrestled out of her ski bindings, leaving the skis and poles on the ground. She rushed toward the deck, clumsy in the stiff, heavy ski boots. She needed to find her family.
“Mom!” someone screamed. One of her someones.
She looked up to see Trish hurrying down the steps from the deck.
“Dad was there.” Trish reached her and pointed.
Susanne’s hand flew to her throat. Patrick. Trish grabbed her arm and dragged her back toward the cluster of people on the snow.
Henry appeared on her other side. “Come on.” He shouldered into the crowd, and they followed.
Susanne’s heartbeat was deafening, and her vision had narrowed. “Patrick! Patrick, where are you?” Her husband. The love of her life. The man she’d die for. He couldn’t be hurt. Shot. Dead. He just couldn’t. They’d been together since their early teens, married before they turned twenty, and had kids before he’d graduated from medical school. He was cheap, he was exacting, but he was loving, loyal, and he was the only one for her. She couldn’t lose him.
She was trapped in a maze of people now. She shouted louder. Why wouldn’t he answer her? And why wouldn’t people let her through?
But Henry was a head taller than her. He stopped suddenly. “I see him.”
She clutched his wrist. “Is he all right?”
“Where is he?” Trish wailed.
Henry pointed. “He looks all right. He’s down on the ground tending to someone. There’s a lot of blood, so I’m guessing it’s the person who was shot.”
Susanne still couldn’t see her husband, but she gathered Trish in her arms. “Thank God, thank God,” she whispered into her daughter’s hair.
“He’s okay?” Trish repeated.
Henry nodded. “Yes. Let me see if I can get us closer. Then I’ve got to go check on Vangie.”
“I was with her when this happened. She’s up on the deck,” Trish said.
Henry heaved a sigh. “Good.” Then he raised his voice. “Coming through, people. We’re with the doctor. Let us through.”
The seas parted, a little. Enough to pass. And at the end of the human tunnel and slightly downhill from her, Susanne saw him. Her husband. Her handsome, compassionate, gifted husband. He was kneeling beside a woman in black whose long gray hair was fanned around her head and shoulders. Her neck and chest were covered in blood. As Susanne walked toward them, Patrick yanked off his plaid flannel coat, then pulled his pocketknife out of his jeans.
She fell on her knees beside him. From a quick glance, she could tell the woman was in very serious condition. Thank goodness Patrick had been here. But where were the woman’s loved ones? There was no one hovering or keening over her. Had she been alone?
Keeping her voice low and trying to control the emotion that was threatening to spill out in public, Susanne said, “I’m so relieved you’re okay. I thought you’d been shot. How can I help?”
Patrick’s face was tight, his light blue eyes focused on his patient. “Can you cut my coat into strips for me? I need to try to stop her bleeding.”
“Yes. Of course.”
He handed her the knife and coat. Wasting no time, she sliced and tore his favorite garment into long sections. When she was done, she looked more closely at the woman. Her hands were bare of gloves. An ostentatious ring on her wedding finger was drenched in blood. It was a big diamond with lots of smaller diamonds around it set in a thick gold band. Susanne’s eyes traveled up the woman’s body. Patrick was pressing into her neck, where she was bleeding profusely. Then she saw the woman’s face.
A little yelp escaped Susanne before she put a fist to her mouth. “It’s Jeannie Renkin.”
“Yes,” Patrick said.
Harold and Jeannie Renkin were their closest neighbors on Clear Creek. Or, at least, they were the people who lived closest to them. There was nothing neighborly about the Renkins, in a state known for its over-the-top neighborliness. Life and conditions here could be harsh. People stuck together and helped each other out, even if that meant sometimes they got a little too far into each other’s business.
But not the Renkins. Jeannie had been cool bordering on unpleasant when Susanne had stopped by to introduce herself shortly after the Flints had moved into their home. Then, later, Harold had mailed them a letter complaining about how fast Patrick drove, never mind that it was in response to emergency call outs. The irony of Patrick caring for Harold’s wife now that they were facing their own emergency wasn’t lost on Susanne. She stared at Jeannie’s ashen face. Her normally bright red lips were a pale pink. Her eyes were closed and fake lashes fanned the crepey, lined skin around them.
“Who was the Doctor of the Day call for?”
“A kid. Not a life-threatening injury, so Jeannie has to come first.”
“Can I help?” Trish asked. Susanne had forgotten she was there.
Patrick grunted with effort, then answered his daughter. “I need a stretcher. Someone is supposed to be bringing one. We have to get her out of here. See if you can hurry that along.”
“Yes, sir.” Trish disappeared.
A shadow fell across the snow. Susanne looked up to see Judge Renkin. He was an imposing man, tall and broad shouldered with the beginnings of a belly. He was dressed in unscuffed cowboy boots, a clean hat, a long, new oilskin duster, and jeans with an ironed crease. He was whispering urgently with a man dressed completely inappropriately for the weather. A thin business suit and shirt with no winter jacket. Wingtips on his feet. No gloves on his hands or warm cap on his wiry black hair. The fabric of his suit was shiny. Smarmy.
Patrick grunted. “Judge Renkin, could you crouch down here with me for a second?”
The judge and the man in the suit exchanged an unfriendly glance.
“This isn’t the end of it,” Suit Man said. “Or do you want me to have a little chat with Rawlins or Ochoa?”
“It’s over when I say it’s over, Peters. And it’s over.” The judge took two steps, closing the gap between him and Patrick. His body blocked Susanne’s view of Suit Man.
“My knees,” the judge said. The expression on his face suggested people usually did what he asked and not the other way around.
“I understand, sir, but I’m afraid if I take the pressure off your wife’s wound, she’ll bleed out, and I really need a word with you.”
Renkin squatted on the opposite side of Patrick from Susanne. He didn’t touch his wife or even look at her. “Yes?”
Susanne peered around, searching for the man in the suit. She wondered if he was family, but he’d disappeared.
Patrick kept his voice low. “If we wait on the ambulance, your wife is going to die. I’d like to take her down the mountain myself.”
“Will she live if you do?”
Patrick closed his eyes. “Maybe. Or maybe not. She’s lost a lot of blood, and she’s going into shock. But she has a chance if we hurry, and I’d like to try.”
The judge nodded, his eyes hooded. “Go, then.”
“Would you like to ride with us?”
Renkin glanced at his wife’s face. If he was feeling any emotion, he was really good at hiding it. “No. I’ll meet you at the hospital.” He stood.
Susanne recoiled from him. His wife was dying, and he didn’t want to be with her, to hold her hand?
Patrick was brusque. “All right, then.”
A high-pitched male voice shouted, “Coming through with a stretcher. Pardon me. Pardon the stretcher, please.” A young man—early twenties, maybe?— in ski pants and a burnt orange turtleneck sweater was carrying a stretcher over his head, with Trish running to keep up with him. The bystanders surged back as he lowered it to the ground. For the first time Susanne realized how close to them everyone was standing. It was claustrophobic. Voyeuristic.
“I’m back, Daddy,” Trish said.
“Good. I need both of you to apply pressure to Mrs. Renkin’s wound with these folded strips of cloth,” Patrick said to Trish and Susanne. “I’ve got to get her on the stretcher. You’re going to have to press pretty hard.”
“Okay.” Trish’s voice squeaked.
“I’ve got the first aid kit, too,” the young man said.
Patrick nodded. “We need to apply a pressure dressing. Quickly.”
The young man threw open the kit and tore into a package of bandages. “These?”
“Yes. I’ll need several of the gauze sponges and one of the non-adherent.” Patrick took the bandages he held out. “Be ready with the tape.”
“Got it.” The young man started working the end of the tape away from a roll.
Patrick pulled the bloody tatters of his coat away from Jeannie’s neck. Blood gushed from the wound. He pressed the bandage over it. “Apply the tape, please.”
The young man licked his lips. He tore a long piece with his teeth and applied it over the bandages, firmly, repeating the process several times.
“Pressure here, Susanne, Trish.”
Susanne nodded and pressed her hand down on the bandage and Jeannie’s neck underneath it. Trish reached out, hesitated, then gulped and added her hand to the pile on top of Susanne’s.
“Good.” Patrick huddled with Henry and the young man who brought the stretcher. Then he was on the ground again, this time on the opposite side of Jeannie, tilting her body while Henry and the young man slid the stretcher under her. Blood seeped through the bandage and trickled down Jeannie’s neck.
Patrick saw it at the same time Susanne did. “More pressure.”
Susanne pressed harder.
Trish paled. “I feel woozy.”
Patrick seemed aware of everything and everyone at once. “Have you got it, Susanne?”
Susanne nodded. “I do.”
“Pu
t your head between your legs, Trish.”
Trish didn’t need an engraved invitation. She scooted back on her rear, then bent her legs and put her head between her knees. Patrick hustled around beside Susanne again and slid Jeannie the rest of the way onto the stretcher.
He checked the wound. “Just like that, honey. Stick with it. I’m running to move the car as close as I can. Guys, meet me at the edge of the parking lot?”
Trish got to her feet.
“See you in a minute,” Henry responded, and he and his partner lifted the stretcher and began walking it carefully across the snow.
Susanne rose with the stretcher and paced it, bending over Jeannie and pushing as hard as she dared. “Sorry,” she said to the men.
“You’re fine,” Henry said. “Do what you’ve got to do.”
Trish followed. A woman with a large wad of chewing tobacco was suddenly in their path. She was wearing a blue chambray shirt with Meadowlark Ski Lodge embroidered in gold and green on the front pocket, and she was coatless. She spat.
“Excuse us, ma’am,” the young man said.
“Is she going to make it?” the woman asked.
“Dr. Flint isn’t sure,” Susanne said. “We’re taking her to Buffalo.”
The woman nodded. “Thank you. Damnedest thing.” Tears welled in her eyes. She wiped them away with the back of a wind-chapped bare hand. “Sheriff’s crew is on the way. Now I’ve just got to figure out how to get everyone to stay off my mountain yet still stick around the lodge to talk to them.”
“Free drinks.” Henry suggested. He stepped around her as Patrick pulled their recently-repaired Suburban to the edge of the parking lot. Trish had smashed it into a barn over Christmas—on purpose, to catch a killer. Add that to their totaled station wagon and Patrick’s crushed Porsche, and it had been a rough year on vehicles at the Flint house.
Patrick jumped out and made fast work of putting seats down and stuffing odds and ends into the floorboards. He threw open the rear doors and jerked out his container of disaster-preparedness gear and tools. He slipped, and the box fell to the ground. He caught himself on the door before he fell on top of the box. The lid came off, and out tumbled canteens, matches, an ax, jumper cables, tow rope, and various other paraphernalia largely inspired by his adventures with his friend and co-worker Wes Braten.
Sawbones Page 3
