“We’re going to be using the buddy system,” Uncle Pete announced. “Bert, you’re with me, Barry, you’re with Uncle Patrick. Danny, with your mom. Stan, with Aunt Susanne. Brian and Annie, with your grandmother.”
Perry almost raised his hand to ask if they’d forgotten him. He decided he was happier on his own, though. He waited for everyone else to walk ahead, then fell in line at the end. Since they’d have to come back for the canoes later, he made rock piles to mark their path, like Annie had earlier.
“There’s the road,” his dad called out from the front of the line.
Everyone came to a dead stop.
“Great. Can we camp here?” his mom said.
“Let’s move past it. I want to be close enough that we can hear a vehicle if it goes by, but out of sight.”
“I’d like to be close enough that we can flag one down.”
“That, too. Just give me fifteen more yards once we cross the road.”
Perry’s mom sighed. It was the sigh he heard whenever she’d had it with his dad. She always said that his dad didn’t know when to say when. When they went hiking, he always wanted to go further than anyone else. When they were driving, he always wanted them to wait “one more town” for a bathroom break. Now it was just “fifteen more yards.” His mom was pretty smart.
“Joe will never find us,” his mom muttered to his dad. Her voice was so low that Perry barely heard her.
Perry thought about the rock piles. They were good markers, if you knew to be looking for them. Grandpa Joe didn’t. Perry hadn’t thought much about Trish and Bunny. With his head hurting and how bad he felt, it was all he could do just to keep going. But now he imagined them spending the night out in the forest alone, without a tent. He would be really scared if he were them. He hoped Grandpa Joe had found them, and that they’d catch up with the group tomorrow.
Lana walked Brian and Annie over to Perry’s mom and Stan. “Come here, everyone. I have something I need to say.”
Perry couldn’t remember ever hearing Gramma Lana give an order, but it was clear that this time, she had.
Everyone did as they’d been told.
When her family was clustered around her, Gramma Lana took Brian’s and Annie’s hands and held them up. “Everyone join hands.” There was some jostling and sniping amongst the younger kids as everyone grabbed the hand of the person next to them. Then Gramma Lana bowed her head. “You know I love each and every one of you, but I don’t like how you all are treating each other in this family right now.”
Perry squirmed. He hoped she was talking to everyone else. He thought he’d been pretty nice. It was a major accomplishment since he felt bad, too.
“You think this is tough? Imagine Grandpa Joe, Bunny, and Trish out there. Or Perry, who feels so rotten he keeps throwing up. Now, all of you, stop complaining, and help your parents get us to camp where we can rest and eat, and be quiet, so no one finds us. But most of all, be nice. Can you do that?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“So let’s pray about it.” There were a few groans. “None of that. I’ll make it fast.” She cleared her throat. “Dear God, we can’t do this without you. We need your help. We’re asking for your help. Amen.”
Perry’s eyes tickled and burned, but he held back the tears. It was bad enough being hurt and having everyone running down the river to get him to Jackson like some wimp. He was a teenager now, nearly a man, and he wanted his family to see how grown-up he’d become. Normally, he didn’t put much stake in praying either. It was just something his mom made his dad do before they could eat. But something about Gramma Lana’s soft words got through to his heart. They did need help. They needed it bad. He knew that from the tension between the grown-ups and the look in his dad’s eyes. Gramma Lana’s prayer made Perry believe it was possible God would help them. He felt . . . better.
Maybe there was more to this praying thing than he thought.
“Amen.” Perry’s dad kissed her forehead. “Thanks, Mom.”
The others took turns pressing their lips to her cheek.
Perry went last, and after he kissed her, he was caught up in an impulse. He threw his arms around her. “I love you, Gramma Lana.”
“I love you, too, Perry-winkle.”
Perry-winkle. He had never really liked the nickname, but it was all right from her.
“Back in line, everyone,” Perry’s dad said. “Last leg before we make camp.”
There were groans, moans, and mutterings, but the family complied and lined up with their buddies.
“Why did the chicken cross the road?” Uncle Pete shouted.
“To get to the campsite on the other side,” Brian shouted back.
Stan slapped Brian a high five. Then the group started forward again.
Within five minutes, Perry’s dad had selected a campsite, and the dads had gone back for the first two canoes. Unfortunately, no vehicles had driven by when they crossed the road. Worse, the rain had gotten heavier. It was officially pouring. Water ran down Perry’s head and face, in his eyes. Lana and Vera sheltered under a large pine tree and made sandwiches—no fire, per Perry’s dad, so the bad guys wouldn’t see it and find them—and Brian was helping Susanne and him erect tents. Just being at rest made Perry feel a little less bad. Or maybe his concussion was getting better. He sure hoped so.
By the time all the canoes were stowed near the camp and everyone had been fed, the rain was bombarding them. Water rushed in streams around Perry’s feet. Full dark had set in. He could barely keep his eyes open. Had he ever been this tired in his life? He crawled inside their tent, unrolled his sleeping bag, and snuggled down into it, sighing.
His dad sat down beside him. “Not so fast, son.”
“Huh?”
“I’ve got to keep you awake tonight.”
“Why?”
“Because of your concussion.”
Perry groaned. “Please, Dad. I’m so tired.”
His dad sat down beside him and drew him into a hug. “I’ll be with you every minute, buddy. Somebody has to keep lookout and be ready in case there’s a problem, anyway. I guess that’s us.”
At that point, Perry would have willingly given himself over to the prospectors, if it just meant he could close his eyes.
Chapter Thirty-seven: Amaze
East of Trout Creek, Bridger-Teton National Forest, Wyoming
Friday, June 24, 1977, 7:30 p.m.
Trish
Trish slid the spatula under a pancake in the cast iron skillet that Mr. Smith had set on a wire rack over the fire. The pancake stuck, and she pried it loose, then flipped it over. The odor of burnt food wasn’t as nice as the campfire. She flipped the other two in the pan quickly so they wouldn’t burn, too. Cooking had turned out to be a bust as far as finding a weapon was concerned. No forks. No knives. Not even a can of food. Just a spatula, which wasn’t much of a weapon. She guessed she could slap him with it, if it came down to it. Or hit him with the skillet, as soon as the handle was cool enough that she could pick it up. She transferred the pancakes to a plate and finished making the rest of them from the batter.
When she had exhausted the batter, she turned to Mr. Smith. “The pancakes are ready.”
“Eat up.” Mr. Smith grabbed the top four pancakes.
Trish hesitated. “Don’t we get plates?”
“Nope. Just use your hands.”
Bunny gasped. “My mommy doesn’t let me eat pancakes with my hands.”
“Your mommy isn’t here, and what she doesn’t know won’t hurt her. Or you.”
Bunny’s mouth fell open. “That’s not nice.”
“Don’t eat them if you don’t want to. I don’t care.”
A raindrop pinged Trish on the nose. She picked up a pancake and ripped a bite off with her teeth. It tasted chalky. She gagged a little in her throat. Syrup might have made them taste better, but they were so bad, that, if she wasn’t hungrier than she’d ever been in her life, she would have given hers to the birds
and chipmunks. “You should eat, Bunny. Aunt Vera won’t be mad at you.”
“Promise?”
“I’ll tell her you had to do it.”
The little girl nodded, but she still looked doubtful. She stuffed a pancake in her mouth. Her face crumpled. Trish nodded at her. Bunny chewed with tears in her eyes. Trish sat and patted her lap. Bunny brought her half-eaten pancake and took the seat offered. The two of them managed to finish off a pancake each in silence. Before Trish could decide whether to choke down another, the skies opened up and rain began pelting them. Bunny squealed. It was surprisingly cold, and they were drenched in seconds. Bunny’s teeth started chattering. Trish wrapped her arms around her. Suddenly, she wanted to lie down on the wet forest floor and not get up. She felt utterly defeated. They were in a pickle, and she had completely failed to keep her cousin safe.
The rain started to hurt. It was so hard. Trish wanted to cry. Because it was hailing now, too.
“Get in the tent now, before you get so wet that you spoil the inside.” Mr. Smith’s voice was snappish.
He walked under a tarp stretched between two trees, where he dug in an oil skin bag. He came out with a rain jacket, which he put on, without offering anything to Trish or Bunny.
Trish would have rather spent the night out in the cold rain than go in a tent with Mr. Smith. So far, he hadn’t tried to hurt either of them. But that didn’t mean she trusted him in close quarters. She didn’t move.
“I’m c-cold,” Bunny said. “The rain hurts.”
The fire was dwindling in the rain and hail. It wasn’t warm enough anymore to ward off the bone deep cold, Trish knew. Not for long, anyway, even with their body heat. Indecision wracked her. Which was worse—freezing Bunny to death, or taking her into the tent where bad things might happen to her? Or to both of them?
Mr. Smith stared at them across the fire. “Why are you just sitting there? I said for you to get in the tent.”
Trish stared at him.
Mr. Smith shook his head. “I’m not going to follow you in there, if that’s what you’re worried about. I’m not like that. Just get in there, be quiet, and go to sleep. We’ll be waking up early tomorrow.”
“Where will you sleep?”
“Out here under the tarp, where I can make sure the two of you don’t run off.”
Trish wanted to believe him. She needed to believe him, so she could stomach going inside with Bunny. “Come on, Buns.”
She set her cousin on her feet then stood and led her by the hand into the tent, careful not to bump the sides. She’d learned the hard way that water would soak right through if that happened. The small space was darker even than outside, and the patter of the rain and thunk of the hail on the tent gave her the sensation it was shrinking around them. It smelled like wet, dirty socks.
“Shoes off,” Trish said.
There were two sleeping bags on the floor and nothing else. Bunny sat down on one of them and stuck a foot out. Trish untied one tennis shoe, then the other. Sitting beside Bunny, she removed her own shoes. She tucked all four of them to the side of the door of the tent. On all the camping trips in her life so far, it had always been one of her parents telling her to take her shoes off, helping her, and setting them by the door. Now it was her turn. She was only sixteen. Not old enough to be responsible for a five-year-old little girl. But she had no choice. And that meant she needed to make good decisions about everything, not just do them automatically.
She didn’t have much she could do to protect them from Mr. Smith, but she could set a trap of sorts. She scooted her hiking boots and Bunny’s tennis shoes directly in front of the tent door. It wasn’t much, but if Mr. Smith came into their tent, maybe he’d trip, and Trish would hear him in time to fight.
“Which sleeping bag am I in?” Bunny yawned.
Trish imagined men sleeping in these bags the night before. Dirty, smelly men. Bad men. Possibly men with bed bugs, ticks, or fleas. She wanted to say, “Neither.” That wasn’t realistic, though. She wanted Bunny to have the best one, but to Trish they looked identical in the dark.
“You pick.”
Bunny twisted her lips, considering, then crawled to the other sleeping bag from the one she was sitting one. “This one is farther from the door.”
Trish thought they were equally close to the door, but she didn’t say it. “Then it’s all yours.”
Bunny slid in, yawning. “Can you tell me a story?”
“I don’t have a book.”
“You can make one up.”
Trish didn’t feel very creative at that moment. Her dad had always sung to her and Perry at bedtime. Not her mom, who claimed she couldn’t carry a tune. Her mom was always doing laundry or packing lunch bags for the next day. Tucking in was her dad’s job when he wasn’t at the hospital. Her mom would stop in their rooms and kiss them goodnight after he’d turned out their lights. It was all Trish could do not to sob at the thought. She would have really liked her dad’s songs and her mom’s goodnight kiss about then.
“How about I sing to you instead?”
Bunny nodded. “Like my daddy does. My mommy reads the books. He sings.”
Like my parents, Trish realized. She’d never really thought before about the similarities in her life to those of her cousins. Their dads had grown up best friends, sharing the same bedroom, one year apart in school. They seemed so different in some ways. But her dad had a great voice, and so did Uncle Pete. Her mom was always telling her dad he should go to church so he could be in the choir. When he said no, his excuse was that he felt closer to God in the wilderness than he did in a building, and he knew God would forgive him for sleeping in and working around the house one of the few times he wasn’t at the hospital or on call.
Trish smiled. “I won’t be as good as your daddy, I’m afraid.”
“That’s okay.”
She cleared her throat, trying to remember the lullabies her dad used to sing to her. The opening words of one came back to her. She lay down beside Bunny and began to sing. “Go to sleep little baby, go to sleep little baby. For when you wake, you’ll find a cake and two pretty little ponies.”
Bunny smiled and her eyelids fluttered.
Trish sang the words again and again. She was pretty sure Bunny was asleep after a few times through it, but she kept going for herself. It was calming, and she needed some calm. Finally, she started feeling sleepy herself. The words were coming out slower and slower. But then, outside, she heard the sound of footsteps.
“Hey,” Mr. Smith said. His voice sounded surprised.
She stopped singing and sat up, bumping her head on the ceiling of the tent. Drops of water plopped on her face and the sleeping bags. There were more sounds outside. Scuffling. Breathing.
THUD.
OOMPH.
Her heart started thumping hard inside her chest, the sound in her ears like a basketball in an empty gymnasium, picking up speed like a fast dribble. A bear? She was more afraid of Mr. Smith than any bear, even a grizzly. Bears were just bears. They were either hungry, or they weren’t. They either had cubs to protect, or they didn’t. Mr. Smith wasn’t as straightforward. He was unpredictable. He did things that weren’t right and didn’t make sense.
She held her breath, listening to what was happening outside through the pounding in her ears. A snuffle, a grunt, a growl? The sound of ripping, like a bear would make if it were tearing into a backpack or tent, looking for food?
But she didn’t hear anything that sounded like a bear. There wasn’t a sound from Mr. Smith either. Or at least she didn’t think there was.
She needed to know what they were up against. Bunny looked like she was sound asleep. Moving quietly past the girl, Trish eased the zipper up on the tent—wincing at the zzzzzz sound it made—and leaned low to peer out. If there was a grizzly out there, she didn’t want to offer herself up as its next meal. Is it wrong to pray a bear got Mr. Smith?
Her eyes were already adjusted to the darkness, and she swept them aroun
d the camp. She saw movement. Instinctively, she withdrew further into the tent. But an after image of what she’d seen was imprinted on her brain.
It wasn’t a grizzly. It was two men, dragging Mr. Smith by his heels over to the fire. One was a stranger. A weird stranger without a shirt on. Light colored pants that looked funny in the seat. He had black hair down to his shoulders with something hanging from it in the back. She couldn’t see his face. But she knew the other man. It was her grandfather.
“Grandpa Joe!” she whispered.
He looked up at her and nodded. “Come help me tie him up.”
She wondered why he didn’t just get the other guy to help him, but that was okay. Her heart pounded with a new kind of excitement now. Grandpa Joe had come for her and Bunny. It was going to be all right. They were going to be reunited with her family. Luckily, she and Bunny had stayed completely dressed because of Mr. Smith. She crammed her feet into her hiking boots. When she had them tied, she lifted the zipper too fast. It got stuck and she had to do it over. Measure twice, cut once, her mom would have said. That or haste makes waste. Maybe her mom was right. Sometimes.
By the time Trish made it out of the tent, her grandfather was tying Mr. Smith’s arms behind him around the tree closest to the fire. The other man was gone.
He finished and stood. “Got it done without you.”
“Where did your friend go?”
He tilted his head and scowled. “What friend?”
She hesitated. Had she been seeing double in the light of the fire? “Never mind.” She threw her arms around him. “I’m so glad you’re here. Where’s my dad?”
Scapegoat: A Patrick Flint Novel Page 20
