“Pete has, too.”
Susanne sipped her coffee, then touched a finger to her lips to lift some grounds off. She wiped her finger on the stump. “I’ll bet they’re all having a ball.”
Lana raised delicate brows. Usually, she created a Joan Crawford look with tweezing and eyebrow pencil. Without makeup, her blonde brows were practically invisible. Like Pete’s, Susanne realized. She’d never made the connection between the features before. “Oh, I’m sure Joe has found something to complain about by now.”
“More than one thing I’m sure.”
“He’s been perfecting his role as the grumpy old man since we were teenagers. He’s gotten very good at it.”
They laughed together, Susanne with some surprise. Lana didn’t often acknowledge what a curmudgeon Joe was.
Susanne drank the last of her coffee, then stood. “Well, I have a few more things to finish up before the horde returns.”
Lana started to rise. “I’ll help you.”
Susanne held up a hand. “I’ve got it. You relax. You’re on vacation.”
“So are you.”
“Well, you’re my mother-in-law, and I want to take care of you, so I win.”
Lana settled back onto her stump. “Just a few more minutes won’t hurt, I guess. I can’t imagine a more beautiful spot than this. I’m really enjoying the birds.”
Susanne paused to watch the tuxedo-clad magpies hop around the campsite. Suddenly, the birds took wing. The shadow of a larger bird crossed the ground. She looked skyward and saw a shiny white head, yellow beak, and rich chocolate feathers across a broad wingspan.
She pointed. “Bald eagle, Lana.”
Lana gasped, then put her hand over her heart. “I pledge allegiance, to the bird, the national bird of America.” She giggled. “I don’t know why I said that. It’s just so majestic, it doesn’t feel right not to honor it somehow.”
Susanne knew exactly what Lana meant. She felt it, too, in a heart-swelling way.
The eagle emitted a high-pitched shriek and circled out of view. Moments later, something large and heavy crashed through the underbrush. Susanne’s heart jumpstarted from relaxation to a sprint. She moved closer to Lana. How quickly beauty could turn to terror out in the wilderness. She looked around for something to use as a weapon. Patrick stayed ready 24/7 in the wilderness, carrying his knife and .357 Magnum revolver, but she had nothing. He’d been trying to get Trish and her to carry knives. He’d even suggested Susanne get a handgun. She’d argued that it was pointless, since she was always with him.
She now saw the error of her ways.
Snatching a rock nearly the size of her palm from the ground, she motioned behind her. “Stay back, Lana.”
On the edge of the clearing, the branches of a small pine shook. She flexed her knees and shook her arms, trying to stay loose. She expected a grizzly to burst through any second. Her mind raced through all the instruction she’d had on bears. If it’s a black bear, wave your arms. If it’s a grizzly, play dead. Please don’t be a cub. Cubs have mamas. Mamas get protective. But what emerged from the forest was far crankier and less lethal than any bear.
It was Joe.
He let a few choice cuss words fly. “Missed the damn trail. Only way I found the camp was your voices.”
Lana bustled forward, exclaiming over scrapes on his arms and face.
He shrugged off her attentions. “Haven’t eaten a thing since breakfast.”
“We haven’t either,” Susanne said. She glanced at her watch. “But it’s only ten-thirty.”
“Doesn’t mean I’m not hungry. Not after all that hiking and fishing.”
Lana’s face was completely devoid of expression. “I’ll make you a bite.” She crouched by the backpack and started pulling out food.
“Where is everyone else?” Susanne asked.
Joe waved an arm vaguely upstream. “Out there. Impossible. Kids are too loud. No one’s making them mind. Scared off all the fish. No one was listening to me, and I was wet and cold. Couldn’t take it anymore.” He slapped at his arm. “And mosquitos. Mosquitos the size of a Buick eating me alive.”
Susanne bit the inside of her lip. Joe didn’t like it when he wasn’t the center of negative attention. But she imagined the rest of the group was a lot happier without his stormy personality in their midst.
So much for peaceful girl time. Now she wished she was with the kids.
Chapter Eleven: Misstep
East of Trout Creek, Bridger-Teton National Forest, Wyoming
Friday, June 24, 1977, 10:30 a.m.
Trish
“I’m tie-yud.” Bunny plopped her little fanny down on a rock beside the trail. It was just the right height to make her a seat. She immediately started picking tiny flowers. Little daisies. What looked like miniature wedding bouquets. Exquisitely small fuchsia blossoms. She gathered them in her hand and pressed her nose into them.
“Me, too. Hold on, Buns. I’m just going to peek over this ridge and see if we’re almost there.” Trish jogged up a short but steep hill. She knew she wasn’t going to see the camp. Nothing around them looked familiar. But she wasn’t going to say that out loud, partly because she didn’t want to scare Bunny, and partly because she didn’t even want to admit it to herself.
It was inescapable, though. She was lost. Lost in a giant wilderness with a tired little girl and no food or water. When they’d first started walking back to camp, Trish supposed she’d been distracted. Consumed by her feelings of being mistreated by the adults. Why was Bunny her responsibility? Why was it just okay to ruin Trish’s good time? Why didn’t Aunt Vera or Uncle Pete take Bunny? By the time she’d gotten her emotions under control, she’d realized she might have walked too far along the creek and missed the path back to their campsite. Then she’d come upon a trail, heading in what looked like the right direction. Away from the creek.
She’d convinced herself it looked familiar and took it, hoping against hope that it was the right one. She just wanted to get back to camp. But it wasn’t the right trail. It had quickly wandered off to the right—which was the wrong direction. It had grown more and more narrow, with branches crisscrossing overhead and blocking out the sun. Bunny was walking upright, but Trish was hunched over. The trees were so close around them and to each other that it made her feel claustrophobic. And jumpy. Squirrels had chittered at them. She nearly came unglued when something hit her in the head, until she saw it was a small branch of pinecones—just the doings of a squirrel.
She should have backtracked when she was still on the creek. Even gone all the way back to her dad and the rest of the group, whether Bunny liked it or not. The wilderness is not a place for guesswork, she thought. She was sounding like her dad.
Trish crested the ridge, and her heart sank. No camp. Not even the river. All she could see was a dark ocean of tall, skinny evergreens clustered tightly together, broken up every so often by pools of bright green leaves of aspen. A sob rose in her throat, but she choked it back. She had to be strong. For Bunny’s sake. Like it or not, she was responsible for her. She sucked a deep, long breath through her nose, then paused, holding it.
She heard water. A lot more water than little old Trout Creek. More like a river. It has to be the Tukudika, she decided. She knew she had a choice.
Option A, she could take Bunny back the way they’d come, through the scary forest, all the way to Trout Creek, then walk upstream and look for her dad. But what if her family had already gone back to camp? She might end up walking back and forth for hours, just as lost there as here.
Option B was to follow this path to the Tukudika, where she’d be able to see the rock cliff and trail to their campsite. The Tukudika sounded close. She could just follow the trail and her ears. She could get her bearings at the river. Just imagining it made her feel slightly less bad.
She walked back to her cousin, giving her a bright smile that hurt her face. “Okay, Buns. We’re almost to the river. We can rest there, then we’ll be nearly
back to camp.”
Bunny locked big, trusting brown eyes on her, and Trish almost lost it. There were tear tracks through the dust on the little girl’s cheeks.
“Okay.” She dropped her flowers, stood, and held out her hand to Trish.
Trish clasped it. Then she said, “Would you like to ride piggyback for a little while?”
Bunny nodded solemnly. Trish crouched, and Bunny climbed on. Trish wrapped her arms around the girl’s skinny legs and stood. Bunny was heavier than she’d expected. But Trish had been running more hills lately, and she had confidence in her thighs. She strode off at a brisk pace. Within minutes, Bunny went limp and her head fell forward onto Trish’s shoulder. She was asleep. At first Trish was relieved. But, sleeping, Bunny released her grip on Trish, which made the girl’s body heavier and more unwieldy. Plus, it made Trish feel even more alone.
The forest grew eerily silent. Trish’s footsteps were muffled by the pine needles padding the trail. There might be bears or mountain lions out here, and I wouldn’t even hear them. If she rounded a bend and came upon a predator, she’d have to drop Bunny and fight—with her bare hands. Trish knew she needed to make noise, to scare them off, but she didn’t want to wake up Bunny. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes, and she willed them to stop. No being a cry baby. She couldn’t even swipe them away with her hands.
She picked up her pace. Her only consolations were that the sound of the water was growing louder and the trail was now mostly downhill. She gritted her teeth. You can do this, Patricia Kay Flint. You can do this.
She could do it, and she would, because she had no choice.
Chapter Twelve: Care
North of the campsite, Trout Creek, Bridger-Teton National Forest, Wyoming
Friday, June 24, 1977, 10:30 a.m.
Patrick
From the top of the falls, Patrick saw a blond head, wet with blood, a body— unmoving—draped over a boulder mid-stream. His stomach clenched.
It was his son’s blond crew cut. His son’s unmoving body. Perry. What happened, what happened, what happened? That refrain was quickly replaced by Dear God, please let my son be all right. Please, please, please, God.
He took off at a run down the steep, rocky trail beside the waterfall. It was slippery, and he fell on his rear, sliding most of the way. He landed on his feet beside the hat that tumbled from his head. Then he ran, splashing through the creek. It was only a few steps to Perry, but he was blocked by the six small children and two adults who had crowded around his son.
“Let me through,” he said, his voice terse.
Pete had his hands on Perry’s temples. He used his dad voice. “Move. Everyone. Now.” He stayed put, though, still holding Perry’s head.
Brian shooed Bert and Barry away. Stan and Annie scooted to one side. Danny jumped back and fell on his behind in the creek. Patrick barreled over rocks and through the water toward his son. Vera leaned over and dragged Danny out of Patrick’s way.
“What happened?” Patrick knelt in the cold water by Perry. He willed himself to slow down, to be calm. Think. Be a physician, not a father. He had to treat Perry like any other patient right now. Any other unconscious patient with a head injury. Any other unconscious patient with a head injury in the middle of a huge, remote wilderness area. Don’t go down that road. You can do this. Check his vitals. Breathing, first. Blocking out everything else around him, he checked the rise and fall of Perry’s chest. He was breathing. And from the regular rhythm, he didn’t appear to be in respiratory distress.
“He was playing on the rocks in the waterfall,” Pete said. “Climbing them. He slipped and fell backwards. Hit his head.”
Patrick was only dimly aware of his brother’s words. Check the wound site. He probed gently in Perry’s hair, careful not to twist Perry’s neck, his fingers searching for the source of the blood. It was hard to determine where the injury was. Perry’s entire head was wet from water and blood.
Pete kept explaining what had happened. “He hadn’t climbed far. Maybe a foot or two. Then he just slipped and fell over backwards. I didn’t see him land.”
Vera said, “I saw it happen. His behind hit first. Then his head.”
Patrick digested their information. Perry’s body had broken the velocity of his fall before his head struck the rock. That was good, although the whiplash could have injured his neck, too. But head injuries were dangerous. Patrick had a patient who died from a slip and fall in his own kitchen. On the other hand, he’d also treated mountain climbers who’d tumbled the equivalent of two stories and lived to tell the story. The fact that Perry was unconscious wasn’t a positive sign, though.
He asked, “The back of his head?”
“Yes,” Vera said.
Patrick slid his hands carefully up Perry’s neck and around the back of his head. He breathed a sigh of relief when he didn’t find the injury until he’d crossed the unprotected area at the base of the skull. Not that it meant Perry was out of the woods. Just that paralysis was less likely. The wound site was already swelling, which intensified the churning in Patrick’s stomach. It could be swelling as much or more on the inside of the skull than on the outside of it. Even bleeding inside it. And the hard skull didn’t flex with fluid buildup like skin did—it held it in and compressed the brain with it. The gash itself wasn’t long, though—maybe an inch. The blood flow was impressive, but head wounds produced a lot of bleeding. The external bleeding wasn’t the problem. The swelling was.
Patrick chewed the inside of his lip. “We need to get him out of the water or he’ll get hypothermia pretty quickly, but we have to be very careful. He could have a neck or spine injury.”
“What do you want me to do?” Pete asked.
First, he needed to finish his examination. Just to be on the safe side. Check his pulse. Patrick put his fingers on the inside of Perry’s wrist, found his pulse. “Count to ten seconds.”
Pete nodded. “One one thousand, two one thousand, three one thousand,” he began counting.
As his brother timed him, Patrick counted his son’s heart beats.
“Ten one thousand.”
Patrick multiplied his result times six. Sixty beats per minute. A little slow, but Perry was young and in good physical condition.
Check for response to sound. “Perry. Can you hear me?” Patrick raised his voice and leaned toward his son. “Wake up. Perry, wake up.”
The boy didn’t respond.
Check for parasympathetic nervous system response. Patrick lifted Perry’s eyelids. The pupils contracted smoothly and rapidly at the sudden influx of sunlight. That was good. He positioned his thumb and fingers on either side of the trapezius on Perry’s left shoulder and squeezed hard, then harder still. Perry flinched. His hand twitched and his feet kicked. That was even better. Patrick exhaled. He realized he was feeling lightheaded. That he’d been holding in his breath. He breathed deeply and exhaled again. In with the good air, out with the bad.
He nodded. “We’ve got to be very, very careful moving him, so we don’t cause further damage. It’s going to take all three of us. You, me, and Vera.” Patrick wished he had a trauma team and a litter, but six arms would have to do.
“I can help, too.” Brian’s voice squeaked, but it was strong.
“Four of us, then. Thank you, Brian. Come on over, now.”
Vera and Brian joined Patrick and Pete, and the group of children surged closer again.
Patrick squatted on his haunches. His butt was in the water, but he didn’t care. “We need to keep his back and neck immobilized as much as we can. It’s not going to be easy. Here’s what we’re going to do. We’ll need to get on one side of him, then we’ll slide our arms under him and lift him with our arms all at the same height. We’ll walk him to the shore, and then I want us to lower him to the ground under that tree—” he pointed to a flat grassy area— “very, very gently. I’ll take his head and neck. Pete, you take his shoulders and upper back. Vera, you’ll have his hips, and Brian, you’ll t
ake his knees.” Patrick was worried about the weight Vera would bear, but he didn’t dare entrust Perry’s injured head to anyone but himself. “We’ll move on my count.”
“Got it, son?” Vera asked.
Brian nodded.
When everyone was standing in position, Patrick said, “Okay, then. Let’s slide our arms under him.” He knelt and slid his arms through the icy water and under Perry without jostling him. The others did the same. “Now, get in a low stance where you can lift him using your thigh muscles.” The others adjusted their bodies. Patrick checked his footing. “On three, lift slowly. Stay together. One, two, three.” Patrick gently lifted his son’s head, keeping pace with his brother as Pete lifted Perry’s back. Vera grunted, but she got Perry’s hips in the air, and Brian did the same with his knees. Patrick waited a second until everyone was stable. “Now, a little higher.” Perry seemed to levitate in the air. “Walk, slowly, on my count. You absolutely can’t trip. Lift your feet out of the water and lower them carefully. Don’t move until all your weight is down, and don’t anyone get ahead of each other. Ready?”
“Ready.” Pete said.
“Ready,” Vera and Brian said.
“Step.” Patrick paused for everyone to secure their feet. “Step.” He paused again. “Step. Step.”
Inch by inch, the group strode through the water and over to the edge of the stream. On dry land, the going was easier, and they moved faster. When they reached the tree, they lowered Perry to the ground in unison. Patrick held his breath until his son was settled securely against the earth.
“Now what?” Pete clasped Patrick’s shoulder.
The simple gesture sent Patrick tumbling back in time through all the moments his brother had stood by him. When Patrick had gotten up after a beating from a neighborhood kid who had bullied Pete. When Pete had gone down hard blocking for Patrick on the football field, and Patrick had run the ball he’d caught for the touchdown back to his little brother and helped him stand. After Patrick had taken a licking with a belt from Joe for sneaking out and drinking beer, without ratting out Pete, who’d been in on the entire escapade. And, when Patrick had been cut off financially by his father for eloping with Susanne, Pete had followed him out to his car, shook his hand, and clapped him on the back. If there was anyone he’d want by his side right now, it was Pete.
Scapegoat: A Patrick Flint Novel Page 7
