Sawbones

by Pamela Fagan Hutchins

  He shook his head. He needed to focus on the immediate danger of his situation. And he knew his ideas were a stretch. It was more likely that whoever was out there, they were aiming at Harold Renkin. He’d save the deep thoughts on what that meant for his family for later, when he was out of this mess.

  CRACK. PING.

  Another bullet buried itself in the body of a nearby vehicle. He had to figure out how to get the shooter to stop. He couldn’t make it happen from his crouch. Someone would have to advance on him. Or loud sirens might do the trick.

  “Where’s your security?” he asked the judge.

  “Damned if I know. Doughnut break, maybe? But when I find them, I’m going to kill them.”

  A horrible thought crept into Patrick’s mind. Had the officer abandoned his post, possibly on purpose? Or maybe he was even in on the attack? If so, that meant Patrick couldn’t trust law enforcement. But how to know? “How trustworthy is your detail?”

  CRACK. PING.

  “I was just asking myself the same question.”

  “We’re sitting ducks out here.”

  In the midday, small town quiet, he heard the emergency room doors squeak open. Heels clicked. Women’s voices chattered and laughed.

  “Stop!” he shouted. “Someone’s shooting into the parking lot. Don’t come out here. And call 911. Please!”

  “Oh, my goodness,” one of the women said. Her voice was nearly as high-pitched as the squeak of the door.

  A second woman shouted to him in a deeper tone. “Are you okay?”

  “Yes, but we won’t be much longer. There are two of us pinned down out here.”

  “Okay, we’re on it,” she said.

  There was a clicking of retreating heels, then the door squeaked again. Outside it grew deathly quiet. Long seconds passed. A minute. One of Patrick’s calves spasmed with a charley-horse. He grimaced and stuck it out to the side, trying to stretch it out with no luck. He clenched his teeth and tried not to think about it. Patrick’s thoughts recycled on who the shooter might be. Someone hired by Renkin or Rawlins? Kemecke’s gang? The person blackmailing Renkin? One of his disgruntled ex-lovers? A cuckolded husband? An angry defendant from his court? The list was long.

  Two minutes. The pain from his cramp was making Patrick lightheaded.

  He pulled his leg back in and rocked back to front to back on his toes to stretch his Achilles, while his mind raced. He dug his thumbs into the knot in his muscle. Assuming for a moment that the shooter was trying to kill the judge, Patrick wasn’t sure that would change anything for the Flints. It didn’t mean Renkin hadn’t hired someone to kill his wife or that he wouldn’t come after Perry. In the heat of danger, Patrick’s slimy feelings about saying yes to Rawlins were gone. He couldn’t wait for Morales to arrive. If the extra security had been here today, Patrick might not still be hunched behind this car listening for the whistle of an approaching bullet that would lodge itself in his flesh.

  At three minutes, Patrick’s cramp started to ease up. There’d still been no more shots. The quiet felt charged and unstable, and he didn’t like it.

  “You still there, Judge?”

  “I am.”

  “How’s the ticker?”

  “No change.”

  “That’s good news at least.”

  Patrick paused, listening for the slightest of sounds. He heard birds. Distant traffic. A dog barking. But nothing else.

  After another half a minute, he said, “I think the shooter left.”

  “Probably heard you sending for help.”

  Patrick’s truck was two vehicles down from where the judge was hiding. He wasn’t about to move from his cover until the cops came. The good cops, he amended, again wondering where Renkin’s security was.

  Sirens approached.

  Patrick closed his eyes. Thank you, God. With anticipation of the end of their situation, his emotions moved quickly from relief to joy, even humor. A picture formed in his mind of the judge earlier that day, insisting that someone had tried to kill him with poison. “Hey, Judge, you know how you were wondering whether someone had tried to kill you?”

  “Yeah?”

  “I don’t think you have to wonder anymore.”

  Chapter Twenty-seven: Judge

  Buffalo, Wyoming

  Tuesday, March 15, 1977, 11:45 a.m.

  Susanne

  Barb and her friend were being seated at a heavy, round table on an elevated section of the dining room in the Busy Bee. Susanne realized she had seen the friend before. At church, with Barb, she thought.

  As usual, Barb was eye-grabbing, today in a lime green wraparound dress and gogo boots. A scarf held her wavy red hair off her face. The ends hung with her hair over her shoulders. She outshone and towered over the other woman, who looked average in height and everything else. Barb as Ginger to her friend’s Mary Ann, a la Gilligan’s Island. The friend was wearing round tortoise glasses, low-heeled pumps, a mid-calf skirt, and a long-sleeved shirt with a blousy tie at the neck. Her light brown locks were in a loose, low bun. Pretty, but prim. A schoolmarm.

  Susanne let Vangie climb the steps to their table first.

  “Look at you. Any day now?” Barb hugged Vangie.

  “The good Lord willing.”

  Barb laughed. “This is Tara. Tara, these are my friends. Vangie is the pregnant one. The other is Susanne.”

  Tara shook their hands. Hers were silky soft and long-fingered, fluttering through Susanne’s like a little bird.

  “Nice to meet you, Tara,” Susanne said. “I’m Susanne Flint.”

  Tara’s voice was as soft as her hands. “Flint? One of my trig students is named Trish Flint.”

  “She’s my daughter.”

  “I met your husband, too, up at the school. Dr. Flint. He was quite the hero.”

  Susanne smiled. She loved hearing people say good things about Patrick. “So I heard. I’m just glad Marcy is okay. As is Trish. The girls are inseparable.”

  The four women took their seats.

  Tara said, “Trish missed trig today. Is she sick?”

  “No,” Susanne admitted. “We’ve pulled her out of school until she’s done testifying in a trial that starts tomorrow.”

  Tara put a hand to her mouth for a moment. Her nails were bitten to the quick. “That’s right. I heard Dr. Flint say that yesterday. I’ve read about the trial, too. And what happened to her.” She shook her head. “To all of your family.”

  Some of Barb’s flowing locks fell in front of her shoulder. She flipped it to the back. “I’ve volunteered for your security posse. Yee haw.”

  Susanne said, “Thank you. Both of you. And, Tara, Trish will get the assignments from a fellow student.”

  “I’ll bring them to your house.”

  “You don’t have to do that.”

  “It would be my pleasure. Trish is very conscientious. One of my best students. I know she’ll want to keep up.”

  “Well, then, that would be lovely.”

  Tara reached toward two purses on the floor. One was black vinyl. The other brown leather. She choose the brown shoulder bag, then dug out a pen and a store receipt. “What’s your address?”

  Susanne recited it to her.

  Tara dipped her head to write. Her glasses slid down her nose. “I’ll stop by after school.”

  “If you’re sure. I could go to the school and pick them up.”

  Tara pushed her glasses up. “It’s no problem. Will Trish and Dr. Flint be there?”

  Susanne paused, a little put off by the question. Her tone was stiff. “Trish will be. With my son Perry and me. My husband will be at work.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  Susanne exchanged a glance with Vangie. Her friend raised an eyebrow. One by one, the women picked up their menus and perused them, then all ended up ordering chef salads.

  “We’re watching our girlish figures,” Barb told the waitress.

  “But I’m having dessert,” Vangie declared.

  They all l
aughed, except for the waitress, whose facial expressions were so stony she could have posed for Mount Rushmore. She was wearing wooden-sole clogs. Susanne would have looked stony if she were wearing shoes like that, too. Those dang things were painful. It reminded her that her own feet hurt. She’d worn cute boots with high wooden heels. A mistake.

  “They’re usually pretty fast,” Barb said, when the waitress had clomped off.

  Tara nibbled a fingernail. “I hope so. I can’t be late. I really need this job.”

  “You just moved here?” Vangie asked her.

  “A few months ago. I substituted last fall until this opening became available.”

  “Where are you from?”

  Tara looked down. “All over the state, really. A few places in Montana.”

  Barb flashed a toothy smile. “She moved here for a boy.”

  Tara glared at Barb.

  The waitress interrupted with four iced teas and a caddy of sugars. Vangie quizzed the poor young woman about how her tea had been prepared. As a Tennessean, she liked her sugar stirred into hot tea, and it was an ongoing source of angst for her that people in Wyoming didn’t embrace this concept. Still stone-faced even after that, the waitress left them again.

  Susanne and Vangie stirred sugar into their tea. Tara and Barb did not.

  Barb patted Tara’s hand. “Tara is shy, so we don’t make her talk about her beau. I, on the other hand, am most definitely not. And I have an announcement.” She paused.

  Susanne leaned forward, all ears.

  A bell on the entrance door jingled. A gust of wind followed Johnson County Attorney Max Alexandrov into the small restaurant. Shouting and chanting could be heard from the sidewalk outside, and Susanne saw a line of people walking and waving poster board signs mounted on pickets. DEATH PENALTY IS MURDER. EXECUTE JUSTICE NOT PEOPLE. CAPITAL PUNISHMENT IS THE COWARD’S WAY. The stream of people was diverse. Young and old. Country and even a citified man in a slick gray suit who looked familiar to her. Susanne dreaded the gauntlet she’d have to walk to the courtroom.

  Max’s eyes lit on their table a few feet away, and he tipped his cowboy hat at them before removing it. Susanne waved. Max had looked tired and sad for months now, ever since his wife left. Today he seemed rejuvenated. He looked confident in ostrich skin boots and a blue western suit with wide lapels and brown stitching. She’d hoped he would do some trial prep with Trish and her, but she’d gotten the call that morning that the trial was on for tomorrow. It appeared they were out of time. They’d practiced their testimony with the Sheridan county attorney, and, before him, they’d met to go over their statements with the county attorney in Big Horn. Maybe Max had everything he required in his files. Susanne needed to talk to him, though, about Judge Renkin’s conflict of interest with Donna Lewis. Patrick had left him a message about it the night before, but Max hadn’t called them back. Or not at home anyway. Maybe he’d reached Patrick up at the hospital.

  She realized he hadn’t looked away from her group. She glanced back and forth between the women, trying to figure out which of them had him looking like a hungry man in a room full of ribeyes. Tara hadn’t reacted to him. Vangie was more interested in perfecting the sugar in her iced tea. But Barb flicked her eyes to Max and then back to her nails. Bingo, Susanne thought.

  Susanne lifted her hand to get his attention, but, right before she did, he moved off toward the counter seating. She decided to waylay him as he was leaving. “You can’t keep us in suspense any longer, Barb. What’s your announcement?”

  Barb lifted her glass. “I’ve given my notice to Buffalo High School.”

  “What?” Susanne said. She set her glass down with a thump. Trish was going to be crushed.

  Tara didn’t look surprised.

  Vangie said, “Whatever for? You’ve been so successful here.”

  Barb put one hand on her tummy and glanced down at it, then back up at each of them in turn. Her eyes sparkled. “My fiancé and I will have an announcement soon. But I wanted to give the school plenty of time to find a replacement. The girls deserve that.”

  Susanne put both her hands around her tea glass. Surely Barb wasn’t telling them she was pregnant out of wedlock? They were budding friends, but not close. Down south, women went to great lengths to ensure no one ever found out when a baby was conceived, if it was before there was a ring on the mother’s finger. Were things that different in Wyoming? And, if so, how was Susanne going to explain it to Trish?

  Under the table, Vangie’s fingers dug into Susanne’s knee. She’d obviously drawn the same conclusion. As much as Susanne had adjusted to Wyoming, there were just some things about Texas and the south she would always be more comfortable with. The beginnings of a headache hit her like a ton of bricks at the base of her skull, and she moved a cold hand from her tea glass to the back of her neck.

  She latched on to the element she felt she could safely address in polite lunchtime conversation. “Fiancé? You’re engaged? Congratulations. When are you going to tell us who he is?”

  “It won’t be long, now that I’ve given notice at the school.”

  Vangie let go of Susanne’s knee and put her hand over her chest. “You simply must let us throw you a shower.” Susanne couldn’t help but notice she didn’t specify whether it would be a wedding shower or a baby shower. “When’s the big day?” Again, ambiguous. Vangie was deep-fried southern perfection.

  “We haven’t set a date, but soon. It’s something of a shotgun wedding.” Barb winked.

  Susanne smiled at her so brightly her cheeks ached. She wasn’t looking forward to breaking this news to her already surly daughter.

  Maybe things had been easier before Susanne started fitting in with the locals.

  Chapter Twenty-eight: Mistake

  Buffalo, Wyoming

  Tuesday, March 15, 1977, Noon

  Trish

  After putting Goldie and Reno back out to pasture with Duke—where Goldie immediately rolled in the mud and ruined the grooming Trish had worked so hard on—Trish and Henry went inside for lunch. She put leftover beef stew on the stove to warm, while Henry built a roaring fire in the living room. When Trish dished up bowls of piping hot stew and set them on the table, she went to get Henry, but found him asleep on the couch with his boots off and his hat over his face, Ferdinand on the floor beside him.

  So much for a bodyguard.

  Outside, she heard a vehicle engine. It was too soon to be her mom, so it was probably her dad coming home for lunch. There was enough stew for him, too. She decided to meet him outside so she could warn him Henry was napping. When she quietly opened the door, she got a surprise, though. It wasn’t her dad’s old white pickup. For a split second, she panicked, her parents’ paranoia finally getting through to her. She was alone out here, vulnerable.

  But she recognized a distinctive thump noise and gasoline smell. It was Brandon’s truck. Her heart leapt. He’d even brought his new snowmobile in the truck bed. She was dying to ride it. He’d saved up and bought the big yellow monster in January, then hadn’t been able to take it out because of basketball season. Maybe he was going to ask her to ride up in the mountains. Surely her parents would say yes—what trouble could she get into up there? Besides, she really needed to spend quality time with him.

  Things had ended badly the day before. She hadn’t wanted to skip class, but he’d refused to take her back to school after lunch. He’d laughed at her and called her a goody two shoes. She thought he’d change his mind, and she didn’t want to walk, so she’d stayed in the truck with him.

  It had been secluded in the park. A wintertime weekday. One thing had led to another, as she’d been afraid it would. She wouldn’t let him past second base. Not then, or ever, except for one time a few months before. It had scared her. He was so intense. So strong. So, so, so . . . bullish. Literally, like the bull in the pasture near their old house. Once she’d seen a cow unable to get up off the ground for days after the bull was done with her. That old bull had one t
hing on his mind and one thing only, and, from the look in Brandon’s eyes, it was all he thought about, too.

  Trish wasn’t ready. So, ever since then, she’d made up excuses. But a girl could only be on her “time” just so often. She’d tried to use that excuse again yesterday, but he didn’t buy it.

  Then she’d just told him no.

  They’d had an argument. A mean one. He’d accused her of being a tease. Said she was too much of a little girl for him. Then he tried to pull a wild U-turn in the parking lot, hit a curb, and flattened his tire. Thank goodness Wes had shown up. She’d torn off Brandon’s letter jacket and class ring and left them in the truck, then Wes had driven them back to the school. Trish had left with her dad, and Wes had given Brandon a ride home.

  Brandon hadn’t called at all the night before.

  Trish was sick about it, certain he was going to break up with her. By that morning, she’d decided that maybe she was ready for sex after all. He was her soulmate, and they were going to get married someday anyway. It would be fine. Just not in City Park in the middle of the day. Somewhere private and romantic—they could make it special.

  What a relief he’s here now. Even though he knew her parents would disapprove, he came anyway. She ran toward the truck, coatless, smiling so wide it stretched her mouth. The truck was muddy and dirty all the way up the windows. Brandon liked to drive it fast, and with the snow melting, that meant slush splashed onto the roof. She grabbed the handle and opened the door, throwing herself up and onto the seat. Brandon’s letter jacket wasn’t there where she’d left it. The truck reversed and was halfway out of the driveway before she’d even shut the door.