Scapegoat: A Patrick Flint Novel

by Hutchins, Pamela Fagan

  Les laughed. Now that Patrick could see him, his voice was chilling. “That means more gold for me. Don’t tempt me.”

  Diego and Hector pulled Pete along between them. They crossed to the west side of Trout Creek, holding Pete up when he slipped and nearly went down in the water.

  Les shouted, “And no guns. Make it look natural, and don’t leave any evidence. Just in case a person finds him before the grizzlies do.”

  To Patrick’s horror, Diego and Hector veered north and headed straight for him.

  Chapter Sixteen: Reconvene

  Campsite, East of Trout Creek, Bridger-Teton National Forest, Wyoming

  Friday, June 24, 1977, 12:30 p.m.

  Susanne

  Susanne and Lana had just finished cleaning the campsite and repacking after Joe’s lunch when Vera and the kids traipsed in.

  “We’re starving,” Bert announced.

  Susanne surveyed the kids. “Bert, your seven dwarves name is going to be Hungry.”

  Barry shouted, “I want to be Hungry, because I am hungry.”

  She laughed. “No, you’re Shouty.”

  “Who am I, Aunt Susanne?” Danny said.

  “Itchy.” She didn’t even hesitate.

  Bert and Barry howled with laughter.

  Susanne turned to Brian. “You’re Teacher. Because you’re always helping your brothers and sisters.” To Stan, she said, “You’re Hidey, since you’re so quiet I can never even find you.” And to Annie, she said, “You’re Sweetie, because you’re the nicest niece I could ever imagine.” Looking around, she frowned. “And Bunny is Bunny, because she keeps us hopping. Where is she now, though? Bunny?”

  Vera said, “Susanne, can I talk to you for a second?”

  Susanne, still looking for Bunny, caught sight of Perry. His hair and shirt were covered in something reddish brown. It took her a moment to register that it was blood. “Perry! What happened to you?” She ran to him. “Are you okay?”

  She probed his face, his noggin, and his shirt, and he only winced a little bit when she grazed the lump and cut on the back of his head. “I’m fine, Mom.”

  Vera said, “That’s what I need to talk to you about.”

  Susanne pulled Perry to her in a fierce hug.

  Perry’s voice was muffled against her. “I fell and hit my head on a rock. Dad said I was unconscious for fifteen minutes.”

  “Oh, my God!” Susanne squished him so tightly that he squirmed.

  “Mom, you’re hurting me.”

  She released him. “Sorry.”

  Vera tugged on Susanne’s sleeve. “It’s important. I have a message from Patrick.” Then she looked around. “Where are Bunny and Trish?”

  Susanne frowned. “Where is Patrick?”

  Vera led Susanne a few steps away from the others. “He went after Pete, who Patrick sent to the guard station to call for medical assistance for Perry.”

  “What?!”

  “That was when Perry was unconscious. But when he woke up and was doing well, Patrick asked me to come get you guys. He wants us to meet them at the canoes, so he can get Perry to the hospital quickly.”

  Susanne’s heart fluttered in her chest. “Hospital?” Her panic was building quickly, and her voice came out a little bit shrill. “I don’t understand. I thought he was fine.”

  “I think he is. Patrick said we don’t need to get emergency help. But the plan is to go back to the cars so you can drive Perry to town for tests and stuff. And Patrick said to tell you we need to leave right away.” She adjusted her headband. “Gotta love men telling you what to do.”

  “Okay. Okay.” Susanne put her hand to her chest and closed her eyes. She had to calm down. “But he’s going to be all right? Perry is?”

  “That’s what Patrick said.”

  I can trust Patrick. Sometimes being married to a doctor was a trial. On call, long hours, high stress, and, well, a wee bit of a superiority complex. Patrick did think he knew best. About everything. Other times, it was a gift from God. Now was the latter.

  She nodded. “Then let’s get moving.”

  Vera grimaced. “Will you tell Joe?”

  “Tell him we’re leaving?”

  “Yes. I don’t think he likes me.”

  “I’m sure that’s not true.”

  “I’m, um, younger than Pete. And I have all the kids. I don’t think he approves. It’s taking me a while to fit in.”

  “You’ll get there.”

  Vera looked embarrassed. “He, uh, he doesn’t always listen to me.”

  Susanne snorted. “Or me either. But this time he doesn’t have a choice.” She turned to the group, but she didn’t see her in-laws. “Joe? Lana?” When they didn’t answer she raised her voice. “Joe? Lana? Where are you?”

  She walked the perimeter of the camp, calling to them. On the far side, the sound of a male voice cursing told her she’d found them, or him at least. She followed it to a rocky overlook with a view of the river beyond. The river wound a twisting path slowly downward toward Jackson Hole, as far as her eyes could see. Trees clustered against its edges like green fringe. From this height, though, it was more like a painting than the loud, powerful body of water she’d seen up close the day before. Her in-laws were sitting on a boulder. Lana was gazing outward, serene and peaceful. Joe’s eyes were down as he whittled another stick. His thumb was bleeding. Again. The man was a bit reckless.

  “Hi, guys.” Susanne stepped in front of them. “We need to get on the trail. Perry fell and hurt his head, and Patrick and Pete are meeting us at the canoes. Patrick wants to get him to the hospital.”

  Joe looked up at her, his lips pinched. But for once, he didn’t say a single negative word. He just stood, folded up his knife, and put it in his pocket. He started walking toward the backpacks, then stopped and turned back to them. “Aren’t you coming?”

  Lana and Susanne shared a look. Susanne arched her brows. Will wonders never cease. Lana took her hand and winked.

  “After you,” Susanne said to her father-in-law and followed him, still holding Lana’s hand.

  Chapter Seventeen: Rescue

  Trout Creek, Bridger-Teton National Forest, Wyoming

  Friday, June 24, 1977, 12:30 p.m.

  Patrick

  Diego and Hector turned Pete ninety degrees and frog-marched him into the thick lodgepole pines on the other side of the creek. Downstream, Les was pointing Winthropp toward something in the opposite direction.

  Now. The time to act is now.

  Patrick pushed himself to his feet. The pain was excruciating. He sucked in a deep breath, clenched his teeth, and hobbled upstream twenty yards, until he was out of sight of the men. He crossed the creek there, arms out for balance, all his focus on not twisting his ankle further. Then, channeling what he had learned in his studies of American Indians, he started working his way through the woods back downstream, mindful of the way sound carried in the dry mountain air. He opened his mouth to breathe. He tested the wind. It was moving toward him. Good. Sound—and smell—will carry better from them to me than from me to them. Then he used what he had read described as the fox-walking technique. He moved toe to heel, with his weight on the outside of his feet. His steps were slow and soft, his knees flexed and back erect, and he kept his weight on his back leg until his front foot found a quiet place to land. It wasn’t fast going, but he was more concerned about stealth than speed, and the forest floor was a minefield of pinecones, rocks of all sizes, twigs and branches, and slippery, crisp pine needles.

  For ten yards, he was a ghost in the forest. He sped up as his confidence grew. A long stretch of flat, mostly underground boulders gave him the chance to speed up even more. On its far edge, he lost traction on a patch of damp moss. One hundred and seventy-five pounds of Patrick slid forward, then came down on a dry twig. It snapped, the sound like a rifle shot to his ears. He froze, eyes closed, heart pounding, adrenaline surging. He turned an ear toward the men, listening for any sign that they’d heard him.

/>   If they’d been alerted to another presence, they didn’t show any sign of it in their voices. He felt weak with relief.

  “I say let’s just tie him up. We’ll give Les a chance to cool down and come up with a different plan. We’re not murderers.” It was Diego’s voice. And it sounded closer than Patrick had expected, although he couldn’t see them.

  Patrick looked around. Most of the trees had skinny trunks. None were thick enough to provide cover. But a few yards away there was a fat rock outcropping tall enough to make a good hiding place. He moved to it and squatted behind it, one hand on its rough surface to steady himself as his ankle protested. He sucked air in through his nose, getting a strong dose of the loamy scent of soil and decay. Time to get ready. He didn’t want a confrontation, would do almost anything to avoid one, but he had to be prepared in case the men discovered him, or if it became his only option to save his brother. He unsheathed his knife from its belt holster. Not for the first time, Patrick thanked his lucky stars for a friend like the one he had in Wes, his co-worker at the hospital in Buffalo. Wes had given Patrick the six-inch knife with SAWBONES engraved in the handle to replace the sissy pocketknife Patrick used to carry. Wes. What he wouldn’t give to have his buddy by his side right now. Wes would give Patrick strength in numbers, experience, and sheer Wyoming toughness. No use thinking about it now, though. Patrick was on his own, and he’d have to make do with the knife Wes had armed him with instead. He always had his revolver, but the sound of gunshots would bring Les and Winthropp running, and Patrick didn’t want that. The gun would have to be as a last resort only.

  He flipped the knife open and strained to hear.

  Hector said, “Agreed. We’ve got to stall.”

  “Let’s just walk upstream and stay out of his way. Come back in half an hour.”

  Pete’s voice was pleading but firm. He didn’t sound cowed. Good. “You don’t have to do this at all. You can let me go. I won’t tell anyone what I saw.”

  Diego said, “I’m sorry, man. Les is crazy. If we let you go and he finds out, it’s us he’ll kill.”

  “You can say I escaped. That I told you I was Special Forces in Vietnam.”

  Hector laughed, but it didn’t sound like he thought anything was funny. “Same result.”

  Diego said, “There. I think he’s secure. Test the rope, amigo. What do you think?”

  After a few seconds of silence, Hector said, “Good enough that he won’t be going anywhere until we want him to.”

  “What’d you say your name was again, man?” Diego said.

  “Pete. Pete Stone.”

  “Where you from Pete?”

  “Texas.”

  “Big state.”

  “Austin.”

  “Hector and I are from San Antonio. Just down I-35. If things don’t go the way we want, we can send something to your wife. Like, some money, you know? We’ve got all this gold. How do we find her?”

  “You don’t. She doesn’t need your money. She needs me.”

  “Well, you can’t say I didn’t offer. We’ll try to change Les’s mind, but no promises, man.”

  Pine needles crunched under footsteps. They were heading toward Patrick and his hiding place. He tried to make himself as small as possible by turning to the side. His hat. The fedora made him taller than the rocks. He slipped it off and held it to his stomach. As the men drew near, he moved around the rocks in a circle, keeping the outcropping between them and himself, and setting his feet down as silently as he could. He held his breath. They walked by no more than twenty feet away from him.

  When they were well past him, he exhaled. Three times he counted out a minute, waiting to be sure they were really gone. Fifty-nine. Sixty. He put his hat back on. Then he stole a deep breath for courage, fought to ignore the pain in his ankle, and ran on his lightest possible feet toward his brother.

  Chapter Eighteen: Escape

  West of Trout Creek, Bridger-Teton National Forest, Wyoming

  Friday, June 24, 1977, 12:35 p.m.

  Patrick

  Pete’s eyes were fixed on the ground as he struggled against the rope binding his hands behind a tree trunk.

  Patrick whispered, “Pete.”

  His brother’s eyes flew up, then widened. Patrick held a finger to his lips and raised his knife in his other hand. Pete nodded. Patrick moved to the back of the tree and made quick work of sawing through the rope right between his brother’s wrists. It was his routine to sharpen his knife on Sunday nights, and he was grateful he hadn’t skipped it the previous weekend.

  Pete dropped his arms, shook them out, then rubbed his wrists. Patrick folded and re-sheathed his knife while Pete untangled himself from the rope.

  Pete’s voice was low. “Man, it’s great to see you. I felt like I’d fallen into a remake of Deliverance.” Patrick almost asked him about the reference, since it was the second time he’d heard it, but he didn’t want to waste the precious seconds. “How did you find me?”

  “Perry woke up, so I came after you as fast as I could. I saw them take you at the creek. Overheard most of the discussion before and after, too. Then I just followed. But now, we’ve got to get out of here.”

  Pete snorted. “Don’t let me hold us back. Which way? I’ve gotten a little turned around.”

  “That’s the problem. Upstream, we may run into Diego and Hector. Downstream, Les and Winthropp. And we need to get to the canoes. The rest of the group is meeting us there, since I still need to get Perry to the hospital.”

  Pete pursed his lips. “We could go cross country.”

  “The terrain can be intense.” Patrick shook his head. “It’s too easy to get disoriented.”

  “Then what do you think we should do?”

  “Do you still have enough energy to run?”

  “Heck, yeah.”

  Patrick patted his gun. “Then I say we cross the creek and strike out upstream. We can take the trail through the camp back to the canoes. I’d rather face Diego and Hector than Les and Winthropp.”

  “Agreed.”

  “We’ve just got to keep a sharp lookout and not make a sound.”

  “And hope they stay on this side of the creek.”

  “That, too.” Patrick pointed toward it. “After you, little brother. When your feet are dry, take a left, then a right after a mile uphill.”

  Pete nodded and set out like a gazelle. Patrick knew this was going to hurt. He took off after his brother. Yep. Feels like someone’s driving a stake through my ankle. He was immediately distracted from the pain by how noisily Pete ran, though. When they got to the creek, Patrick sped up, grabbed Pete’s arm, and stopped him.

  “I think we should cross a little further upstream. We’re too close to Les and Winthropp here, and completely exposed when we’re in the middle of the creek. But when you get to the other side, try to put your feet down like this.” Patrick described the silent fox-walking technique, then demonstrated it. “It’s much quieter. The Indians used it when they didn’t want prey or their enemies to hear them coming.”

  Pete nodded. “Okay. I’ll try.”

  The two ran upstream along the west side of the creek, dodging branches, bushes, and rocks. Pete slowly got the hang of fox-walking and his running grew quieter. Patrick barely noticed the scenery around him. All of his focus was on watching and listening for Diego and Hector, and on staying quiet so the men didn’t find the brothers first. After about thirty yards, they rounded a bend. Pete turned to the water and looked back at Patrick with a shrug. Patrick nodded. Pete forded the creek, seeming to forget all about quiet during the crossing. Patrick cringed at the splashing.

  When they were both on the east side of the creek, Pete whispered, “I’ll race you.”

  Patrick snorted, thinking about the noise. “The winner is the one who doesn’t get us caught.”

  Pete winked and took off at a sprint. Too fast. He won’t last. Patrick fell in behind him. He was getting used to the pain, but there was no trail, and he struggl
ed over the rough, uneven ground. The going was harder than the downhill had been by a long shot, too, and he fought to keep his breathing quiet. But going downhill, Patrick hadn’t felt a sense of urgency, other than to catch Pete. Now, their lives were on the line, and he knew it. So, despite the pain and strain, he ran like his feet had wings.

  Pete soon faltered, as Patrick had expected, and Patrick gained ground on him quickly. As boys, Pete had been the faster of the two of them, from long before he caught Patrick in height. Patrick filled out more than Pete when they matured. Never stocky, Patrick was the burlier and tougher brother. Now the two were identical in height, and, since Patrick had taken up training for distance running, his build had become more like his brother’s lean stature. After a half-mile, Patrick was only six feet behind Pete.

  Movement ahead of them across the stream caught Patrick’s eye. With a Herculean effort, he closed the gap between him his brother. He touched Pete’s arm.

  “Stop,” he whispered. He tried to swallow the sound of his gasps for air.

  Pete quit running. His breathing was loud, too.

  Patrick leaned close to Pete’s ear. “I think they’re just ahead. Moving downstream. Other side.”

  Pete nodded.

  “Let’s cut into the trees. The noise of the creek will cover us some but keep your feet more quiet than ever. Shouldn’t be far until we reach our turn.”

  Pete gestured Patrick ahead with his chin. Patrick eased into the forest, concentrating on his foot placement. Just a few feet in and the trees would make them nearly impossible to spot. But the footing would be far noisier. By the stream, at least the vegetation had been beaten down by the feet of fishermen and animals coming to drink. In the forest, it was completely untamed. He stepped over a fallen tree, careful to avoid the maze of its skinny branches, then skirted a patch of woody bush that snatched off his hat. As he bent to retrieve it, he snuck a look across the creek. For a split second, Diego was in clear view. Patrick held his breath and tensed. Then the forest hid the man again. Patrick turned to Pete, pointed to his eyes, then toward where he’d seen the man. He raised his hand to indicate they should remain in place. He waited, counting to thirty, not seeing the man or his companion again. Then he resumed walking, heading back to the easier passage along the creek and cramming his hat back on as he went. There, he ran faster than ever. Pete’s footfalls were close behind him. Each step felt lighter as Patrick lengthened the distance from where they’d last seen Diego and Hector. Within less than five minutes, Patrick found the rock that he knew marked the trail—such that it was. He made the turn just as he heard a shout.