Scapegoat: A Patrick Flint Novel

by Hutchins, Pamela Fagan

  Perry had stopped and was standing slumped. The backpack he’d been carrying was resting on the ground, dangling from his limp hand.

  “You okay, son?” Patrick zipped the tent into a backpack.

  “Tired.” Perry stared at the ground, unmoving. His voice was the slurred mumble of a drunk. “You made me stay up all night.”

  “Part of it. You slept half.”

  “Doesn't feel like it.”

  “You’re just lucky I fell asleep so you could, too.”

  “If the grizzly hadn’t come, I could have slept more.” Perry turned to face him. His dark-circled eyes looked past his father. “Since I didn’t die in my sleep, does that mean I’m okay?”

  It was hard to tell how much of Perry’s symptoms were due to lack of sleep and how much to his condition. The bottom line was that Patrick had no idea, which scared him, so he avoided answering the question.

  “How do you feel?”

  “Awful. And my head hurts.”

  “I’m sorry, son. I know. I’m proud of you. You’re a tough kid.”

  Many people with head injuries like Perry’s were fine up until the moment they weren’t, and, by then, it was often too late. Patrick wasn’t going to tell him that, though. And he was absolutely taking him to the hospital as fast as they could get down the river.

  “Young man.”

  “What?”

  “I’m a teenager now, and that makes me a young man.”

  Patrick smiled. “Young man. Of course.”

  Around the clearing where they’d camped, the rest of the group was finishing getting dressed and packing up.

  Patrick clapped his hands softly. “Look alive. We’re leaving in five minutes, everyone.”

  Danny let out a war whoop and chased Stan through the clearing.

  “Shh. Sound carries out here,” Patrick reminded them. “We’re trying not to attract grizzlies or bad guys.”

  Danny whooped again. Patrick decided to change the boy’s seven dwarves name to Unruly.

  Pete snagged Danny by the arm. The boy jerked to a stop. “Did you hear your Uncle Patrick? Be quiet. You can do it. Just one more day.”

  Danny jerked his arm away. “This is no fun.”

  “Tell me about it.” Pete sighed. He turned to Patrick. “My clan is ready.”

  “Me, too,” Lana said.

  She had wrapped Danny in a bear hug to stop his shenanigans. He giggled and struggled against her half-heartedly, shaking her hairdo. Patrick wasn’t sure how she’d managed it, but she’d caught her blonde hair in an orange and brown scarf. Not a wisp was showing, except for her bangs under the jaunty knot she’d tied in the scarf at the crown of her head.

  Patrick shouldered his backpack. It was heavier and bulkier than it had been the day before. “Everyone ready for their canoes?”

  He was met with dead silence, but Perry and Vera shuffled over to theirs. Vera’s eyes were red, like she’d cried herself to sleep. Patrick lifted the canoe for them. Pete did the same for Brian and Susanne’s canoe. Susanne avoided eye contact with Patrick. The thaw the previous night when he’d held her and comforted her during the grizzly’s visit to their camp had been replaced by an even thicker layer of ice that morning. She hadn’t said a word to him. Susanne was usually his biggest supporter. He drew strength from her confidence in him. More than he’d realized. He tried not to let it deflate him.

  Pete said, “New buddy assignments today. Keeping it fresh, guys. Bert, you’re with Gramma Lana. Barry with Annie, Danny with Stan.”

  Bert did a victory dance, then he ran to his grandmother.

  “We don’t have to hold hands, do we?” Stan said.

  Pete made a serious expression that didn’t hide his laughing eyes. “The whole way.”

  Both boys groaned, but they linked hands. Immediately, Danny tugged on Stan and then tickled him. Stan wrestled away from his brother and nearly went down. He yelled in protest.

  “Boys,” Pete said.

  They straightened up and pretended to hold hands, without actually touching. Pete ignored them.

  Patrick led the way down the trail. Water was rolling onto his fingers down the sides of the canoe. Instead of the canoes drying, water dripping from tree branches was continually recoating them with water. The footing was terrible. Wet, muddy, and slippery, where it wasn’t wet, rocky, and slippery. Little mushrooms had sprung up overnight.

  Patrick had wrapped his ankle as tightly as he could in a wool sock. It wasn’t a perfect bandaging job, but the extra support helped some. He scrambled onto the roadbed and scanned it in both directions. Based on the lack of tire tracks, not a single vehicle had driven by the whole night. He slid down the other side of the road embankment.

  Behind him, he heard Vera say, “Are you okay, Perry?”

  “I’m all right,” Perry replied.

  “What’s the matter?” Patrick turned to them, holding up the line.

  Perry didn’t answer.

  “He tripped,” Vera said. “He nearly dropped the canoe on me.”

  Patrick got too close and his canoe bumped into and rattled theirs. “Sorry. Son, will you tell me if you’re getting worse?”

  “Dad, I already did tell you. I’m tired.”

  Patrick knew that’s what Perry had said. To be honest, though, he wasn’t sure what he’d do if Perry did tell him he was getting worse. It’s not like he could drain fluid from inside his skull to reduce the swelling. Not out here.

  He walked faster.

  But Perry wasn’t the only one he was worried about. He couldn’t forget the gunshots they’d heard the night before. It would be a load off his mind when they met up with the Hilliards, everyone safe and sound, and got on the river. He felt responsible for the well-being of the three men, too, since he’d roped them into helping the Flints. Patrick slipped on a mossy rock, tweaking his ankle again. Complaining was out of the question, but he wished he could curse like his father. It suddenly seemed like it would make his ankle more bearable.

  He quickened his pace. Time passed in a blur as his brain tried to work out solutions to every problem they were facing. He didn’t get anywhere on them, but he covered a lot of ground on the trail. He became aware of a rushing sound growing louder with every step. Then, through the thinning trees, he saw water. The river was in sight. Not close, but in sight.

  He walked faster still.

  “We’re having trouble keeping up, Patrick.” Susanne’s voice sounded far away.

  THUD.

  “Ouch,” his mom said.

  “Hold up,” he replied. As treacherous as the wet ground was, Patrick didn’t want to cause a pile-up. He turned back to the group. Behind Vera and Perry, his mother was crumpled on the ground, a bird-like mound of safari-tan fabric. “Mom, are you okay?”

  She sat up, cradling her left arm. “I fell. I’ll be fine.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Of course.” She waved him off with the other hand but grimaced. Pain. “Stop fussing.”

  “I think I should look at it.”

  “It’s not bleeding, Patrick. Bert, be a good boy, and help me up, okay?”

  Patrick frowned. “If you’re sure. It could be broken.”

  “I’m sure. It’s already feeling better.”

  “Just a hundred yards to the river. Maybe less.”

  Vera’s eyebrows lifted. She looked refreshed just hearing the river was close. He sensed the rest of the group perking up, too. Even Perry nodded, like their proximity met with his approval.

  He smiled encouragingly at the group. “We’ve got to be quiet, and we have to be observant. Let me know if you see or hear anything.” He signaled to move forward with two fingers.

  Patrick led on, more careful than ever. His group was physically, mentally, and emotionally spent, which made them more prone to accidents—like his mother. The ground was rockier this close to the river. Big, buried rocks half-covered with pine needles, mud, and lichen. A fall could result in an injury like Perry’s. T
hey were banged-up enough as it was, and he couldn’t afford to put anyone else on the injured reserve list. His stomach rumbled. And they were hungry. When they made it to Jackson, they’d have to find hotel rooms. Everyone needed rest and good, hot food.

  As the cover of the trees broke at the riverbank, he held up a hand. He scanned the river and its banks, looking for signs of the Hilliards. They didn’t know exactly where the Flints would be, just that it would be on the south side of the river, before the rapids. He also kept an eye out for the prospectors.

  But he saw nothing, other than a vixen fox, her red coat lustrous, dashing into the forest across the river with her three bushy pups. No canoes, no gear, no people. That’s strange. We’re late, but they wouldn’t have left us. They knew the Flints couldn’t shoot the rapids without their help. In his mind, he heard the gunshots again from the night before, and his throat felt tight. They just overslept. Everything’s okay. Still, there was no reason for him to stand here waiting for them. He decided he would meet them partway, or, failing that, walk until he found their camp, to make sure they were all right.

  His wife arrived at the bank. He set his canoe down and reached for hers. She let him take it without a word. Icy. He didn’t push her.

  When the canoe was on the ground, he went to his mother. “Can I see that arm of yours?”

  She was holding the weight of her elbow with her opposite hand. “I feel so foolish.”

  He straightened it as gently as he could, but he saw the discomfort that clouded her watery blue eyes. “Don’t be silly. I was the klutz who twisted an ankle yesterday.” He ran his hands down her arm, from above the elbow to her palm. “Where does it hurt?”

  “Up close to my elbow.”

  He focused his attention there. “I don’t feel a break. But I can’t be sure without an x-ray.” He peeled off his flannel shirt and the t-shirt underneath. He put the flannel back on, then fashioned a rudimentary sling out of the t-shirt. “I’m sorry. That will have to do for now.”

  “It’s perfect.” She beamed at him. “I can’t believe how lucky I am to have a doctor as a son. Thank you, Patrick.”

  He didn’t feel like he deserved her praise. Certainly not on this trip. But he dipped his head. “You’re welcome, Mom.”

  He walked to his wife and stood close to her. Perry was sitting with his back against a tree about five yards away. The other kids were on the ground, so close that they looked like a litter of kittens curling up for a nap in the sun. Pete and Vera had put their canoes beside his and Susanne’s and were standing with her.

  He pitched his voice so that the kids couldn’t hear him. “The Hilliards should have been here already.”

  Susanne scowled. Why is she even more beautiful when she’s upset with me? “What if they left us?”

  “They wouldn’t have. They’re not that kind of people.”

  “You barely know them.”

  Her tone raised Vera’s eyebrows.

  Patrick might not have known them long, but he’d gotten a sense of them, and he felt sure he was correct. “I need to check on them to be sure.”

  “Wait. What about getting Perry to the hospital?” Susanne’s face was stormier than the rain clouds from the day before.

  Pete put his hand on Vera’s arm, and the two of them seemed to move away even though they didn’t go anywhere.

  “We need help getting down river.”

  “Which we’ll have, if they show up. And we won’t if they don’t.”

  “Standing here waiting on them for hours doesn’t get Perry to the hospital any faster. If I get there and they’re gone, then we know to push on without them.”

  “On the rapids?”

  The river had come close to eating his lunch the evening before. Vera and Susanne couldn’t paddle that stretch of the river. He barely could. He wasn’t even sure if he’d make it through them a second time. “On foot.”

  “The group isn’t up for another hike carrying canoes.”

  “I know.” He kept his voice neutral. Her feelings were valid. He just knew she might not have a choice.

  She put her hands on her hips. It emphasized her tiny waist, and he could see her chewing the inside of her cheek. It was a gesture he was familiar with, and he braced himself.

  “I don’t want you leaving us,” she said.

  He put the last of his cards on the table, wanting to persuade her to see things as he did. “Susanne, I feel like they were in harm’s way because of us. Those gunshots last night. I’m worried about them. If something’s happened, I need to try to help them.”

  Susanne’s eyes drilled into his. “I don’t agree. If you get stuck there, your son is stuck, too. Here. Not getting medical care.”

  Anger flickered inside him, then faded. Why should he expect Susanne to agree without reservation? Besides, she wasn’t incorrect. He just knew deep in his gut what the right thing to do was. And sometimes the right thing to do felt all kinds of wrong.

  He drew in a deep breath, held it for a moment, then released it. “I hear you. I’ll hurry back.”

  “Patrick Flint . . .” she sputtered to a stop. Then she huffed. “Be careful.”

  “I will.” He started to kiss her cheek, but she pulled away. It was like a knife between his ribs. He cleared his throat. He turned to his brother, who he knew had been listening, Vera by his side. “Pete, you’ve still got the gun?”

  Pete patted his back with one hand. “Yep. Don’t worry. We’ll stay back from the river and out of sight. You can count on me.”

  His words made Patrick’s throat close. He tucked his own gun in the waistband at the small of Susanne’s back, then he cleared his throat. “You know how to use this if you have to.”

  She started to protest, but he held up a hand, giving her a look that told her not to waste her breath. She nodded instead.

  “Somebody hand me a paddle and a life jacket?” he said to the kids.

  Stan handed him a life jacket. He put it on, then took the paddle Danny brought to him.

  “Thanks, guys. I’ll meet you all in an hour or less.”

  He took off up the river, jogging briskly, with a limp.

  Chapter Forty: Risk

  Yellowjacket Guard Station, Bridger-Teton National Forest, Wyoming

  Saturday, June 25, 1977, 5:00 a.m.

  Trish

  Trish woke to see Grandpa Joe rifling through the ancient wooden cupboard in the cabin. Sunlight was flooding through the windows. The radio was making static noises, but no voices were coming out of it. Bunny was standing behind Grandpa Joe, eating something out of her hand.

  Trish sat up and stretched. She let out a big yawn. “Hi, Grandpa. Good morning, Buns.”

  He held up a Tupperware bowl, its lid in his other hand. “I found dry granola. Breakfast.”

  Trish nodded. She was starving. She reached for it, but he put the lid on the container.

  “We eat on the way. Let’s go.”

  Trish hadn’t even had time to wipe the sleep out of her eyes. “Can I go to the bathroom first?”

  “Hurry.”

  “Bunny, do you need to go, too?”

  Bunny nodded and wiped her hand on her leg. Granola rained onto the wooden floor. Grandpa Joe didn’t seem to notice. That will make the forest mice happy.

  Holding hands, the girls went outside and walked into the trees. It was shady and almost cold without the sun. When they finished and came back, Grandpa Joe was standing outside. The door to the cabin was closed. He handed Trish the granola. In one smooth motion, he lifted Bunny to his hip and whirled toward the river. Across the clearing, a couple of cow elk were grazing with calves by their sides. The long-legged animals spooked and disappeared into the forest like vapor as soon as the Flints headed toward them. Trish’s mouth fell open. Had they been there when she and Bunny went into the woods? Elk were shy, and beautiful. Grandpa Joe and Bunny hadn’t seemed to notice them at all.

  Grandpa Joe began marching toward the river, his pace brisk, as us
ual. Trish looked at the grass. There were standing puddles from the storm the night before—a real downer. She was sick to death of wet shoes and clothes. Stalling, she ripped the lid off the Tupperware, stuffed a handful of granola in her mouth, then put the lid back on. She splashed after her grandfather, crunching, chewing, and trying not to choke on the dry cereal. When she’d swallowed it all, she made a face. No more for her.

  She caught up with Grandpa Joe at the water’s edge where he’d set Bunny down. He went back into the trees and came out with the canoe.

  “I’m thirsty,” Bunny said.

  Grandpa Joe pointed at the river.

  Bunny giggled. “Like a dog?”

  Trish remembered how sick her dad had gotten the year before from drinking unsterilized stream water in the mountains. She also recalled that it was because she hadn’t boiled it when he asked her to. Not her finest moment. She couldn’t let that happen to her cousin.

  “Let’s wait, Buns. It can make you sick. We’ll get a drink when we catch up with your mommy and daddy.”

  Bunny frowned but she nodded.

  Trish asked her grandfather, “Are we going through the rapids?”

  He nodded.

  “Without life jackets?”

  He pulled off his belt. “Put Bunny in the middle seat.”

  Trish did as she was told. Her back and arms ached from carrying her cousin the day before. She could barely lift her high enough to put her in the boat. As it was, Bunny landed halfway on the side. She kicked her legs up and over.

  “Good job, Buns.”

  She rewarded Trish with a grin.

  In the meantime, Grandpa Joe had fastened the belt around Bunny’s seat. He buckled it and pulled against it. He grunted.

  “Hold this strap, Bunny.” His face was stern. “Really tight and don’t let go.”

  Bunny’s eyes were big brown buttons. “Yes, Grandpa Joe.”