His stomach knotted up. He turned to his brother. “I think they just figured out you’re gone.”
Pete nodded, his pupils dilated.
Things are getting real now. As if they weren’t real enough before.
The two of them sprinted up the trail, away from Trout Creek.
Chapter Nineteen: Realize
North of the Tukudika River, Bridger-Teton National Forest, Wyoming
Friday, June 24, 1977, 1:15 p.m.
Perry
As he hiked behind his cousin Brian, Perry stumbled and nearly fell. His dad’s backpack was heavy. He pressed his hand against the bump on the back of his head and winced. It hurt. And he was feeling nauseous again. Dizzy, too, like his head was spinning. He didn’t say anything, though. If there’s one thing his parents didn’t like, it was complaining. Well, that and lying. But right now, as much as Perry wanted to talk about how bad he was feeling, he didn’t.
He could already imagine his mother’s response, because he’d heard her say it all his life. “No one wants to hear about how you feel, Perry Flint. Your dad sees people at the hospital who feel worse than you, all the time.”
And if his dad was there, he’d try to make it into a joke. “You think that feels bad? I can give you something to feel bad about, if you really want it.” He’d sock his fist in his hand.
Like he’d ever hit Perry. Or hurt anybody, unless he had to. He’d stabbed a guy in the throat one time, but that had been to rescue Trish from kidnappers. It made his dad really upset when the guy died. His dad was tough, but he was nice. Usually. Once, he’d overheard his mom talking with her best friend Vangie about the times their husbands had drank too much. She hadn’t realized Perry was in the next room, and she’d told Vangie that Perry’s dad had had too much beer with his brother and his cousin when they were in high school. He’d gotten into a fist fight after a football game with a kid from a rival school and been suspended. It was hard for Perry to believe, and he fully intended to ask his dad about it some time. Even if it was true, his dad had never hit him, except for spankings, and that didn’t count, because all parents spanked their kids. Plus, he’d kind of deserved it. Every time.
He stumbled again and had to catch himself on a tree trunk beside the trail.
His mom was in front of the line, but his Gramma Lana was behind him and saw him almost fall. “Are you okay, Perry-winkle?” She stopped beside him.
He cleared his throat. His mouth watered with the need to throw-up. “Uh, yes, ma’am. I was just, um, resting.”
She eyed him like she didn’t believe him. He wasn’t a very good liar, even for a decent reason like not complaining about how he felt. “Do you want me to stop everyone?”
“No, ma’am. I’m fine now.” Sort of. He started walking again.
She fell into step with him. “Your mom told me that you got really good at football this year.”
He straightened up. She was still taller than him, but he had nearly caught up to her. Only a few inches to go. “Yes, ma’am.”
“But you broke your ankle. That must have hurt.”
“It wasn’t so bad. Missing games was the worst part. It hurt more the second time I broke it.” Which he’d done when he’d tried to take his cast off before he was supposed to. But who could blame him? He’d had to wear it a really long time. It made things boring, and it itched.
She smiled at him. “Are you playing football again this year?”
“I am. But Dad is also teaching me golf, so I can try out for that when I get to high school.”
“Like your Grandpa Joe.”
“Yes, ma’am. Trish is learning, too. But I like it more than she does.”
His Grandpa Joe had played golf professionally for a few years, then he’d designed golf courses and even coached the Texas Aggies men’s golf team. They’d won the Southwest Conference title twice during his time as a coach. When he’d started giving him lessons, Perry’s dad had told him it was important to carry on the family tradition. That, and that golf was a game you could play all your life, even after football was over. Perry had said snow skiing was the sport he planned to do all his life, and his dad had laughed and said he’d better learn to golf, too, just in case.
It was fine. Perry liked all sports, and golf came easy to him.
His Gramma Lana said, “Where is Trish? I haven’t seen her since you guys came back.”
“Oh, she wasn’t with us. She and Bunny turned around and came back a long time before we did. Bunny didn’t want to hike.” Perry gave a goofy grin. Bunny had been a little beastly. The girl could scream big for someone that little.
Gramma Lana frowned. “What do you mean? Came back where?”
“To camp. With you and Mom.”
Gramma Lana put a hand over her chest. Her words came out in a fast whisper. “We were all so busy. And then your injury. We were distracted. And needing to meet Patrick and Pete. But how could we have not noticed?” She raised her voice. “Vera. Vera.”
Aunt Vera was halfway up the line of hikers. She stepped off the trail and turned around, hands on her hips. “Yes?”
“Where is . . . Trish?”
Aunt Vera frowned. “What do you mean?”
“I haven’t seen Trish. Or Bunny.”
“What do you mean? Since when?”
“Since the group left for the creek this morning.”
Aunt Vera’s eyes grew wild. She turned in a circle. “Bunny,” she cried. “Bunny? Where are you?”
Perry’s nauseous stomach did a somersault. This was bad. Worse than falling and hitting his head on the rock.
“Mom,” he shouted. “Mom, Trish and Bunny aren’t with us.”
Chapter Twenty: Encounter
North of the Tukudika River, Bridger-Teton National Forest, Wyoming
Friday, June 24, 1977, 1:15 p.m.
Trish
“Bunny, I need a rest.” Trish had stopped to catch her breath, but she wasn’t sure she could start back up again. Not with forty pounds of sweaty little girl hanging from her shoulders like a floppy backpack. She shook the girl’s ankle. “Wake up, Bunny. It’s time for you to walk.”
Against her back, Bunny’s body stiffened, then arched away from her. “What?” Her voice sounded groggy, and she yawned.
“I need to set you down so you can walk. You’ve gotten so big that I need a rest from carrying you. Your mom must be feeding you super growing potions or something.”
Bunny straightened her legs, and Trish crouched to ease her down gently.
“Where are we?” Bunny said.
Good question. Trish scanned the area around them. Trees, trees, and more trees. Hills that led to more hills. Rocks on piles of other rocks. But no water. Nothing familiar. She’d been sure they’d be at the river by now. It could be that this trail was going upriver instead of across the forest and to the river. She’d passed over a little trail about five minutes before. Maybe that had been the one they should have been on. But she was scared of getting even more lost, so she hadn’t taken it. They could always go back to it. If they didn’t reach the water in five more minutes, she’d turn around.
Trish said, “Remember when we left our canoes by the river?”
“Uh huh.”
“We’re close to there.”
“Is that where we’re eating lunch?”
“Um, no. We’ll eat at the camp, I think.”
“I’m hungry.” Bunny pouted.
“Me, too.” Trish’s stomach growled. She made a silly O with her mouth and clutched her stomach. “Did you hear that?”
Bunny giggled. “Your tummy is loud.” Then hers growled and the little girl grabbed it. “Mine, too.”
“I don’t know. I think yours might be even louder than mine. Maybe they’re having a growling contest.” Trish’s rumbled again.
“Yours wins!”
Trish smiled. It felt fake, but she needed to be confident for Bunny’s sake. “Yay, I win. We’d better start walking so we can feed the
se noisy tummies.”
“Yeah,” Bunny said, nodding. Then she knelt on the ground. “Oh, flowers.”
The girl really liked flowers. It was cute.
Bunny stuck her little fingers between two rocks. “Ouch.”
“Did something bite you?” Trish’s heart jumped like it was coming out of starting blocks. She didn’t know what she would do if a snake bit one of them. She’d seen movies where people sucked venom out of a rattlesnake bite. She didn’t know if she could do that.
Bunny thrust her hand in the air. “Ta da.” She was holding a pink mountain rose, its delicate petals surrounding a sunny yellow center.
Thorns. It was just thorns. Trish laughed, and her heartbeat returned to a normal rhythm. “Follow me.”
“Can I hold your hand?”
Trish’s throat felt tight. “Yeah, of course.”
The two set off, Bunny holding her rose in one hand and Trish’s hand in the other. Trish was glad they were holding hands, because the trail suddenly took a steep, rocky dive. Bunny tripped over an exposed tree root, and Trish kept her on her feet by her little paw. If she’d fallen, she would have scraped up her hands and knees, or worse.
“How much further?”
“Not far at all now. Let’s sing. It will make time go faster.” And alert any bears to their presence. Trish launched into “Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.”
Bunny joined her, singing sweet and high.
They rounded a bend in the trail, and, ahead of them, Trish saw the river. Only it was a part of the river she didn’t recognize from the day before. No cliff. No Teddy Bear rock. No footbridge downstream. She fought back tears.
Then a man’s voice said, “What are you girls doing out here all by yourself?”
Chapter Twenty-one: Choose
North of the Tukudika River, Bridger-Teton National Forest, Wyoming
Friday, June 24, 1977, 1:20 p.m.
Susanne
“Nobody panic.” Susanne grabbed both of Vera’s arms, trying not to let her sister-in-law see the absolute panic she felt herself. Free-falling, mind-erasing, soul-destroying panic.
Her daughter was a mature, strong, sensible girl, but the wilderness was dangerous and remote. Wild animals. Rock cliffs as tall as skyscrapers. Fast-moving water. Stinging insects. And, if they were out there long enough, dehydration. Sunburn. Starvation. There were so many ways to get hurt. To die. The most important thing for Susanne now was to stay calm. To get information. Think. Make good choices.
She swallowed. Her throat was so dry she nearly choked. “How long ago should they have been back?”
Tears ran down Vera’s face. She mumbled Bunny’s name but didn’t look at Susanne.
Susanne shook her, once, hard. Then again when it didn’t work. “How long, Vera?”
Vera didn’t answer. Susanne looked to her in-laws. Lana had one arm around Bert and the other around Annie. Joe was pacing back and forth, and his lips were moving. She’d never seen him talk to himself before, but she should have guessed. Like father, like son.
Susanne gave up on Vera and tried him instead. “Joe? How long ago should the girls have been back to camp?”
“An hour before us. Maybe more,” Joe said.
“All right.” Susanne’s voice had started to shake. She clenched her jaw to stop it. “Trish is experienced with the mountains. She’s going to find her way back to the camp.”
Joe shook his head. “But we’ve all left it.”
Perry looked at his mom with big, somber eyes. “And Dad and Uncle Pete are going to go to the canoes, but we’re not there.”
Susanne suddenly wanted everyone to hush. It was too much. Too much. She wished Patrick was with them. They were partners. He liked to think he was in charge, but the truth was, they discussed the important things and made better decisions together. An insidious thought crept into her brain. Why had he let Trish and Bunny split off from the group? This whole problem had started then. If she’d been with him, she wouldn’t have let them go. Maybe none of the rest would have happened. Perry getting hurt. Pete running to the guard station. Patrick going after him. Trish and Bunny . . . lost. They needed to get the group back together.
But somebody had to find Trish and Bunny. Had to.
She took a step closer to her son. “Perry, what would you do if you were by yourself, went back to the camp, and no one was there?”
His forehead wrinkled up. “I think Dad would tell us to stay put and wait for someone to find us. That’s what I would do. But, um, if I were Trish, I’d be pissed because you’d left me, and I’d go after you.”
“Don’t say pissed,” she said, mothering on autopilot. “But she wouldn’t know where we’d gone.”
He smiled. “Sure she would. The plan was to go downriver in the canoes after lunch.”
“So, she’d head for the canoes?”
“Yeah.”
Susanne’s brain spun. She couldn’t be sure of anything. Not that Trish would get herself and Bunny back to the camp or that Trish would then leave the empty camp for the river.
Joe’s voice was testy. “We’re closer to the river than the camp.”
“And?”
“Just get the group there. Then I’ll go back for Trish and Bunny.”
Ten minutes. That’s how long it would take for the group to reach the river and Joe to be back on the trail. Susanne closed her eyes. She had to have faith in Trish. Surely ten more minutes wouldn’t hurt? And maybe Patrick would be waiting at the canoes. She could talk to him. Get his opinion.
Susanne nodded. “Okay.”
She heard a heaving sound and turned toward it. Perry was holding on to a tree trunk, leaned over. He stood back up. His face was ashy.
She rushed over to him. “What’s the matter, Perry?”
“I’ve got the dry heaves.”
She stared deep into his eyes. How could she tell if something was dangerously wrong with him? She needed Patrick, and she needed him right now. “Do you have a headache?”
He waffled his hand. “I mean, yeah, my head hurts, but I did just hit it on a rock.”
That sealed the deal. She had to take Perry to the river and keep the last of the group together, so Patrick could get their son to the hospital. Joe would come back for Bunny and Trish. It would be all right. It has to be all right.
“Okay, let’s double time march, everyone. To the river.” Her words burned her tongue. It might be the right thing to do, but it still hurt. Her daughter was out there.
“No,” Vera cried, finally breaking out of her stupor. “I can’t leave without Bunny.”
“Come on, honey.” Lana lifted Vera’s hand and gave it a tug. “Joe will bring her to you.”
“No,” Vera screamed. “No, no, no!”
Joe strode to his daughter-in-law. Without a word or the slightest hesitation, he slapped her across the face. “Enough.”
Vera’s head snapped away, and she stumbled back. Joe grabbed Stan’s and Danny’s hands and jerked them along the trail with him. He didn’t look back at Vera.
Vera’s screams turned to sobs, but the slap had worked. She stumbled after Joe.
Susanne waited for the rest of the group to pass before falling in behind Perry in the rear, where no one could see her tears.
Chapter Twenty-two: Catch
East of Trout Creek, Bridger-Teton National Forest, Wyoming
Friday, June 24, 1977, 1:30 p.m.
Patrick
Patrick entered the campsite where his family had spent the previous night, still running. He stopped, hands on his knees, panting and easing weight off his ankle. He glanced down at it. It was swollen and multi-colored—definitely not his imagination—a sickly camouflage of black, gray, and blue. He looked up and around. Susanne and Lana had done a good job breaking camp. Other than pressed grass and ashes in the fire ring, they’d left no trace, and the fire was dead out.
Pete flopped over at the waist, too. “I don’t hear anyone behind us.”
“
Me either.”
“But they could be looking for us on the river.”
That was exactly what Patrick was afraid of. “Yes. We’ve got to catch up with our family before they cross paths with them.” He groaned as he put his weight back on his ankle.
Pete seemed to notice Patrick’s injury for the first time. He frowned. “What the heck happened to you?”
“I fell. Twisted it. Before I found you.”
“Can you run on it?”
Patrick nodded grimly. “I have been so far. I have to. Come on.”
He took the trail toward the river, doing his best not to favor his ankle. Luckily, this trail, while still a single track, was less overgrown and saw more use than the one they’d been running on for the last twenty minutes. The footing was far less difficult. Unluckily, the terrain was steeper and mostly downhill. Each running stride put seven times his body weight on his ankle, more on the down slopes, and he felt every ounce of it. But each second that passed was more time for Hector, Diego, and their crazy friends Les and Winthropp to find them, or—worse—find their family. So, he didn’t slow down. He couldn’t. Instead, he forced himself to run even faster. On the run up Trout Creek, he’d been able to distract himself from his burning lungs, his aching thighs, and his protesting ankle by trying to be quiet. Now, he did it by cataloguing his surroundings. It was a mind game that usually worked well for him. The trees—mostly lodgepole pines. The rock—granite. Sandstone. Shale. No obsidian, at least not that he’d seen yet. The Tukudika had used the glasslike volcanic rock to make arrow points, so he’d been looking for it. He went back to cataloguing. The trail, crisscrossed with lesser trails he hadn’t noticed on the hike in. Game trails or fishermen trails, he guessed. Scat, from deer, elk, moose, and coyote. Running out of things to list, he did a quick calculation of his run since he’d left Vera and the kids. Four or five miles, maybe? Not the longest, but definitely the hardest run of his fledgling endurance career. After this, the half marathon would be a piece of cake.
Scapegoat: A Patrick Flint Novel Page 10
