Only there wasn’t any mud.
Like . . .
“Hey, Dad, the station wagon has a flat tire,” Danny called. “I can help you change it.”
And that was it. That was what Patrick had been noticing. The tires—not just the one Danny had pointed out—were flat, all of them that he could see anyway. He felt the hair rising on his arms. How could the tires on both cars be flat? He broke into a jog. His ankle was stiff from the time in the canoe, and it protested, which kept him slow. Pete pulled ahead of him. Each brother made a circuit of the cars.
Eight flat tires. Patrick checked them twice to be sure. What were the chances? Nearly zero. One flat on each they could have handled, but the vehicles only carried a single spare apiece. With eight flats, the cars were completely disabled.
Patrick knelt by the front driver’s side of the Suburban, trying to put most of his weight on his good ankle. He gritted his teeth. He was only partially successful. What he saw when he was in position was a kick in the solar plexus.
He pitched his voice so only Pete could hear. “Slashed.”
Pete crouched beside him. “Who would do this?”
“Les? But he was still upriver. He couldn’t have gotten down here and back to where we saw him. Not in the time he had after Hector and Diego discovered you missing.”
Pete rubbed his chin. “Did you see them—Hector and Diego?”
“No.”
“Me either. Could it have been them?”
“Possibly. But, it would have been awfully hard for them, too. They’d have to have left immediately and moved quickly after they discovered you missing. But why would they have come here? They didn’t know we had cars here.”
Pete nodded. “Yeah.”
“I didn’t see any evidence of any watercraft on the riverbank either. Which they would have had to have to get here in time to do this.”
“Hmm.”
“What are you thinking?”
“That maybe I’m just paranoid, but it sure feels like we’re being watched.”
Patrick stood and surveyed the forest around them, fronted by the clearing where the vehicles were parked near the guard station cabin. Behind the brothers was the river and a smattering of trees and rocks. There was a disturbing number of places to hide.
“I don’t see anyone,” he said. “But if someone’s out there with a rifle, we’re sitting ducks.”
“What next, then?” Pete said. He shoved his longish hair away from his face. His cheekbones seemed sharper than usual, and his eyes were red rimmed and had dark circles underneath them. Patrick wondered if he looked the same.
If there really was someone armed watching them, Patrick had to figure out how to protect the family. But how? If they all clustered together, they made a big, easy target. He patted his hip, finding his revolver and knife. He had weapons, but they wouldn’t do any good against someone taking pot shots from a tactically superior hiding place. His brain whirred, processing so hard he could almost imagine a motor. And it generated an idea. The cabin. It could provide shelter. And if Klaus and Sylvie were there, they would help. He glanced at the little building. The Jeep wasn’t parked behind it. So much for Klaus and Sylvie.
But the cabin had a radio. And he didn’t need their help to use that.
He pointed. “The cabin. The radio.”
Pete nodded. “Good idea. I’m not sure why I didn’t think of that.”
“Or me, sooner.” Except that Patrick was very familiar with the effects of stress on brain function. He imagined his effective IQ had fallen twenty points since Perry’s injury, the interaction with the prospectors, and losing Bunny and Trish. Just another reason he needed to get control of his emotions and keep breathing.
Patrick faced the others. The kids were milling around, a little on edge, but nothing too troubling. They’d hold themselves together if the adults did. The women were huddled, and stress radiated off them so hot and intense they almost glowed.
He raised his voice, trying to imbue it with confidence and positivity. “Hey, everyone, let’s take a rest over in the cabin. But no racing this time, Danny. I want to go in first.”
“Why, Dr. Uncle Patrick?” Danny asked.
Patrick had given up on erasing the “Dr.” in front of Danny’s “Uncle Patrick.” “In case there’s anyone in there. I don’t want to scare them.”
“Oh. Okay.”
Patrick started toward the cabin. The after image of the family in his head didn’t include his son. Frowning, he turned back around. “Where’s Perry?”
Susanne said, “Sitting in the shade. His headache and nausea are getting worse.”
Medical texts were filled with examples of worst-case scenarios. When it came to head injuries, patients who had been walking and talking after an injury, like Perry, could still succumb to bleeding inside the brain hours or even days later. Epidural hematomas. Subdural hematomas. Even thinking about the medical names made Patrick shudder. Perry’s symptoms—the headache, the nausea—might indicate nothing more than a concussion, or they might be signs that he was facing a very serious issue. But now was not the time to panic. If Perry started to show paralysis or confusion, slurred speech, or a fixed, dilated pupil, or if he lapsed back into unconsciousness again, then panic might be understandable. Unavoidable, even for a doctor. Because there would be nothing Patrick could do to help his son. Not out here. There might not even be much they could do for Perry in Jackson.
Between Perry, Trish, the vehicles, and the prospectors, Patrick’s adrenal system was redlining. But he had to stay steady, for everyone’s sake. He had to forget this was his son and tear his mind away from all the horrible possibilities. Instead, he needed to focus on what he could do, which was to keep working on getting Perry out of the wilderness. But time was of the essence, and now they had no vehicles. The clearing was big enough to land a helicopter though. He could ask for one to be sent when he radioed for help.
He swallowed and kept his tone casual. “I need Perry inside with the rest of us. He can’t be out here alone.”
“I’ll stay with him.”
“The two of you can’t be out here alone.”
Understanding dawned across her features. “Got it.” She turned to Perry. “Come on, honey. We’re going into the cabin. It’ll be nice and cool in there.”
Perry got up, but he moved slowly, like his head was made of glass he was afraid he would break. Patrick didn’t see any drooping or jerky movements that screamed the beginning of paralysis to him. Good. He shook off his parental urge to run to his son and cradle him. Focus on getting him out of here. He headed toward the cabin.
At the door, he stopped. “Pete, could you make sure everyone stays to one side, please.”
Pete herded the family back, where the door would be between them and anyone who might answer it. Susanne put a hand under Perry’s elbow and led him to join the group. Her eyes looked as worried as Patrick’s felt. Do what you have to do. He rested his hand on the butt of his revolver. Then he knocked and waited. The cabin was small, and it wouldn’t have taken anyone but a moment to get to the door.
When there was no answer, he shouted, “Hello. Is anyone home?” He waited again, longer this time. To the family he said, “I’m going inside. Stay put until I invite you in. Please.” He drew the revolver, but kept it pointed down and didn’t cock it. Then he eased the door open, keeping as much of himself out of the frame as he could. The hinges creaked as the door swung outward. “If anyone’s in there, this is Patrick Flint, and I’m entering the cabin now.” He stepped inside and looked around, gun barrel aimed at the ground in front of him.
The cabin was empty of people. It was a one-room structure, with two unmade twin beds on one end. A stone fireplace, a square wooden table, and four rickety chairs were on the other. Light shone through twin windows, and dust danced in its beams, like mist in a spotlight. The floor was made of wide wooden planks. They groaned and sagged as he walked across them. He caught a whiff of chili. L
ast night’s dinner? He swung his head around and saw a metal desk against the front wall, in the corner away from the window. A rusty folding chair sat in front of it. On its surface was a radio.
Patrick holstered his revolver. “There’s no one here. You guys can come in, but don’t mess with anything. People live here, and we’re not invited guests.”
The cabin had felt small before the rest of the Flints entered, but with twelve people in it, it was a matchbox. Patrick edged over to the radio. He didn’t have a lot of experience with them, but his father-in-law was an expert. Patrick had picked up a few pointers from him over the years, enough to operate one, anyway.
He twisted the dial on. Nothing happened.
He leaned in for a closer examination. Nothing he’d learned from Susanne’s father was going to help him with what he saw.
“Pete,” he said.
His brother didn’t have to walk far to join him.
Patrick gestured toward the radio.
Pete’s face fell, and they stared at the unit together.
All the wires had been pulled out of the back. But that wasn’t the worst part. The misshapen mic looked like it had been crushed with a mallet.
The radio was just as useless to them as their vehicles.
Chapter Twenty-four: Meet
Yellowjacket Guard Station, Bridger-Teton National Forest, Wyoming
Friday, June 24, 1977, 2:30 p.m.
Perry
Perry’s head felt like it was being squeezed between the massive hands of a giant. It made it hard for him to concentrate. To think at all. And the crowded little cabin didn’t have enough air. He was suffocating. His dad had said he had a concussion. Perry’s best friend John had gotten one in the last football game of the season. John had vomited on the sideline and had a headache for days. But he’d been fine. Perry knew he just needed to toughen up. “No pain, no gain,” his dad always said. Of course, that was usually related to workouts, but he also liked to say, “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” If that was really true, then Perry was going to be a lot stronger after this.
His cousin Brian was standing in front of him now, saying something, and it was like Perry was looking at him through a dark tunnel. “. . . football when I get in junior high . . .”
Perry nodded. Something in his stomach jarred loose, all the way up into his throat. It burned. And it wanted out.
“. . . can’t fix it . . .” his dad said.
Uncle Pete answered him. “. . . maybe we should walk out . . . not expecting it . . .”
“. . . too far for the little ones . . . take too long . . . Perry . . .”
Perry clapped his hand over his mouth. His dad had told them to stay inside together, but he also told them not to mess up the cabin. Puking counted as messing it up, he felt certain. He threw the door open and ran, barely making it outside before the acid came up. He’d already emptied all the food out of his stomach earlier. He held himself up with his hands on his knees while he retched and heaved. His eyes watered and his nose ran. The acid burned his throat, his mouth, his nose. He wanted to lay down in the dirt and put his cheek on a cool rock, but he’d splattered clear yuck all over the ones in front of him. He heard the sounds of a lot of footsteps and chattering kids.
“Are you okay, honey?” His mom laid a hand on his back.
“I don’t feel so hot.”
“I’m sorry. We’re headed to town now.”
“How?”
Then his dad said, “Susanne. A word?”
She patted Perry’s shoulder and stepped away.
His dad spoke in a low voice, but Perry could still hear him. “No radio. No cars. The fastest way to get to town is on the river.”
“I don’t like it, Patrick. What about Trish and Bunny? And your dad?”
“We’re going to have to trust Dad. I know he doesn’t show it very often, but he’s a capable and determined guy. And Perry needs a hospital, Susanne.”
“He was throwing up again. Do you think it’s a concussion?”
“At least.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means we need him checked out. I can’t see inside his head. But the skull is an unforgiving barrier when it comes to bleeding and swelling, which puts a lot of pressure back inward on the brain.”
Her voice rose in pitch. “But he’s awake. He’s walking around. He’s talking to us. Aren’t those good signs?”
“Probably so.”
His dad sounded like he was trying to calm his mom down, and that scared Perry more than his words. Perry closed his eyes. He was going to be fine. Just like John was.
Perry’s mom drew in a shaky breath. “Okay.”
“So, right now, we’ve got to get moving. For Perry, and before the prospectors decide to come after us.”
“They wouldn’t do that, would they?”
“Honestly, I would think they’d stay with their discovery and that load of gold Pete saw. It would be the rational thing to do. But, up until now, they’ve behaved pretty irrationally, so I don’t know. There’s no sense in sticking around to find out. We’ll just have to pray for Dad’s success and the girls’ safety.”
“Will you?”
“Will I what?”
“Pray with me for them. Now.”
Perry’s dad cleared his throat. “Of course.”
Perry knew this was big. Dad never even goes to church. Perry stepped over to them and took his dad’s hand. His mom grabbed Perry’s other one. The three of them formed a human chain.
Perry’s dad said, “Dear Heavenly Father, please watch over Trish and Bunny and keep them safe. Help Dad find them and bring them home. And please Lord be with Perry with his head injury and with all of us as we journey down the river. In Jesus’s name I pray. Amen.”
“Amen.” Perry’s mom squeezed his hand.
An unfamiliar man’s voice from behind him made Perry jump, which rattled his brain in his head. Perry turned toward the voice, slowly.
“I didn’t know it was Sunday—or is everyday church day for you folks?” The man facing them grinned, showing stained teeth. Perry thought he looked like he’d been out in the wilderness a long time. He was thick—his legs, his body, even his head, thanks to a shaggy brown beard—and everything about him was dark, including his skin, but that was probably because of the layer of dirt he was wearing. The only thing that wasn’t dark about him was his bright orange hat. Stink didn’t usually bother Perry too much, but this guy hadn’t had a bath in a long time, he guessed, and it made Perry’s queasy stomach do weird things again.
His dad stepped in between Perry and his mom and the strange man. “Hello.”
“How are you people doing on this fine afternoon?”
“Fine, but in a bit of a hurry. My son has injured his head, so we’re headed to town. If you’ll excuse us.” Perry’s dad gave him a push in the center of his back. Not hard. Just enough to direct him toward the canoes.
“You’ve got a big mess of kiddos.”
His dad didn’t break stride as he walked Perry and his mom toward the shore and waved at Pete to do the same with the rest of the family. Aunt Vera’s eyes widened, but she kept her lips zipped. Gramma Lana didn’t hesitate, marching Bert and Barry ahead of her. Aunt Vera recovered and brought Danny along, while Uncle Pete walked with a hand on Annie and Stan’s shoulders, Brian beside him.
The man called out after them. “You folks take care now.”
Perry’s mom whispered, “He gives me the creeps.”
At the river’s edge, their canoes were as they had left them. His dad counted and named the items in the canoe.
He grimaced. “Fifteen life jackets. We have them all.”
Aunt Vera frowned. “But Bunny needs one.”
“And Trish and Joe do. Well, hopefully they’ll just wait by the river for us to get back. They have the food in the backpack Joe was carrying. What do we have in these?” Patrick pointed at the ones that had made it with them.
&nbs
p; “Bread, chips, peanut butter, and jelly, and a few other odds and ends,” Gramma Lana said. “Jackets. Bedding. The tents.”
“Good,” Perry’s dad said.
“I’m hungry,” Barry said.
“Me, too,” Bert echoed, followed by several other sounds of agreement from the rest of the kids.
Gramma Lana smiled. “When we get going, I’ll make sandwiches, and you can canoe over to me and pick them up. Like a drive through window at McDonald’s. Sound good?”
That met with everyone’s approval.
It only took a few minutes for Uncle Pete and Perry’s dad to figure out who was riding with whom, but to Perry it seemed like hours.
“Can we go now? I’m tired,” he said.
“Yes. You can rest, but you can’t sleep, though.” His dad was holding his mom’s hand while she climbed in the canoe.
“Now, this just ain’t right,” a man said. It was the same thick guy from up by the cabin. “You’ve got women paddling. How about I ride along and help you out?”
“I’m fine,” Perry’s mom said. “I taught canoeing at summer camp.”
“And you, pretty missy?” he was looking at Aunt Vera.
Uncle Pete bristled.
She giggled. “I’m good enough.”
“Good enough looking, but I’d be happy to paddle.”
“We said we’re fine.” Perry’s dad sounded tense.
The man held up both hands. “Have you canoed the Tukudika before?”
“No.”
“It’s not as challenging as the Snake or the Gros Ventre, but it has some tricky patches. Do you have a map?”
Perry’s dad looked at his mom.
She shook her head. “It’s in the backpack Joe’s carrying.”
Perry’s dad’s lips started moving. Uh oh.
The man followed their exchange. “Listen, you’d be helping me out. And I could help you out. I was hiking into town for provisions today. You’ll save me that long walk, and I’ll show you where the bad spots on the river are. Keep you from going over a waterfall.”
Perry knew his mom didn’t like the guy, but his Aunt Vera nodded and smiled. She seemed pretty excited about the idea. She hadn’t been close enough to smell him yet, though. Perry was in her canoe. He sure wasn’t voting to bring the guy along with them.
Scapegoat: A Patrick Flint Novel Page 12
