Switchback

by Pamela Fagan Hutchins

  “An hour or two.”

  The horse shifted from foot to foot.

  “Whoa, boy,” Patrick said. “Was she in the truck?”

  “Maybe. It was a boy driving. There was definitely a female in there with him, but with this rain.” She lifted a ladle and pointed at the sky, splashing out liquid.

  “Do you know which way they went on Red Grade?”

  “Toward Twin Lakes.”

  It didn’t make sense. Into the mountains—not down toward Sheridan. Patrick backed Reno up, preparing to leave. “Thank you.”

  The man said, “Awful dark and wet to be out looking for someone. Do you have a camp?”

  “No.”

  “Well, why don’t you hole up under our tarp here until dawn?”

  “Because it’s my daughter. I think something . . . bad . . . has happened.”

  “Shit. Whyn’t ya say so? I’ve got a CB radio. Let’s see if we can raise a forest ranger.”

  “That would be great.” Patrick snuck a glance back at Perry. The boy’s eyes were like full moons in the light of the campfire.

  “I’ll be right back. It’s in the truck.”

  The man got in his vehicle and started it up. They watched as he leaned over and fiddled with something, scowled, and smacked the dashboard with his hand. He swigged from a flask, then he came back outside with it in his hand.

  “Can’t get the blasted thing to work. Why don’t I drive over to the ranger station and let them know about your problem while you ride after your daughter? I expect they can catch up with you easy enough.”

  Patrick reached to touch the brim of his cowboy hat before remembering it was on Perry’s head. “I’d appreciate it.” As a flatlander heading high into the mountains, he could use all the help he could get.

  The woman called, “Need anything for you or the youngster?”

  Patrick shook his head. “We’re in a bit of a hurry.”

  The woman smiled. “I understand.” She leaned over a cast-iron skillet on the ground beside the fire. “At least take a hunk of cornbread. You can eat that in the saddle if you’re fast enough.”

  “Thank you.”

  She brought one to him, and one to Perry, shielding the cornbread from the rain with her jacket.

  “Thank you, ma’am,” Perry said. He tipped his cowboy hat to her, and water ran off onto Duke’s back. The horse didn’t seem to notice.

  “You’re welcome. Good luck finding that girl of yours. I’ll be praying for the good Lord to lead you right to her and that she’ll be safe and sound.”

  For the first time since he and Perry had come upon their own desecrated, empty campsite, Patrick’s eyes watered. He held the tears back, though. “We’ll take those prayers, for sure.”

  He wheeled Reno.

  “Wait. What’s your name?” the man asked. He had one hand on the door handle to his truck. The flask was now in his breast pocket.

  “Flint. Patrick and Perry. My daughter is Trish.”

  The man nodded. “Flint. Any relation to the young doc in Buffalo?”

  “That’s me.”

  “You saved my brother’s leg when he had a logging accident. We’re very grateful to you.”

  Patrick remembered the logger. “I hope he’s doing well.”

  “He is, and he’ll be real happy we were able to help you out. I’ll get to the ranger station quick-like.”

  “Could you ask them to call my wife?” His heart spasmed. He hated for her to get that call alone.

  “Can do.”

  He hopped in his vehicle and pulled out ahead of the horses, accelerating so fast his truck fishtailed and sprayed mud. Patrick and Perry were back to Red Grade in minutes. The road ahead and to the right was smooth and relatively rock-free. Patrick couldn’t be sure, but it appeared that there was more than one set of tracks heading to the right in the mud. Definitely at least one truck and trailer, more likely two of each. Which was theirs? It didn’t really matter until one made a turn. Until then, he had a good trail.

  “Hold on tight,” he said to Perry.

  “Ready.”

  “Yah,” Patrick said firmly.

  Reno responded with his usual understated power, and Duke clattered along behind them. Trish was up ahead somewhere, with God knew who. Patrick’s need to find her and protect her was so overwhelming that it was all he could do not to ask the horse to chase after his daughter at a full gallop into the gloom.

  Chapter Twenty-five: Fumble

  Undeveloped Forest Area Near Woodchuck Pass, Bighorn National Forest, Wyoming

  September 20, 1976, 7:00 p.m.

  Trish

  Rain—almost sleet—was blowing in the open truck windows, along with the nauseating smell of exhaust. Trish put her hand under her nose. Without sight, her other sensations were too much. Sounds were louder and clearer. The slap of the windshield wipers and the booming kicks of Cindy in the trailer felt like they were pressed up to her ears. The taste of the salty tears on her lips was sharper, and the chapped skin felt like razors to her tongue. And her sense of smell—she’d never experienced anything like it. She could smell everything, the good and the bad. The horse manure in the trailer. The chemical scent of the vinyl seats. The clean moisture in the air. All of it. She was disoriented and terrified.

  Everything since the men blindfolded and kidnapped her had been surreal.

  In the tent, Trish had dropped her book on her stomach. She was thinking about Brandon, and rebraiding her dirty hair. She held the smiley-face hair fasteners in her mouth while she worked. Last night had been amazing. Brandon had really come all the way to Walker Prairie just to see her. Brandon had slipped her a note before he left. It was so romantic she couldn’t stand it. He’d even suggested that he could follow her into the woods just to sneak a quick kiss. But she’d been too scared of her dad catching them. She regretted it now. Trish fastened the first braid, then plaited the other side quickly and refastened it, too.

  She pulled the note from her pocket, smoothed it, and reread it. I can’t wait to see you again. Next time alone. And soon.

  Swoon.

  But then she’d heard hoofbeats and men’s voices on the trail. She was glad the tent was zipped and tied, since there’d been strange people around. The ones who’d argued with her dad about the campsite. The elk chasers. The weird ones who had harassed her on the drive up. Even the dirt-bike guys with the moose pictures, who’d dropped one with her just that morning, “for your family, since, you know, they appreciated them so much.” It was a close-up of the mother and baby. She’d thanked them and tucked it in her jeans pocket, then they’d left. Thank goodness.

  One of the men outside whooped. “See those horses? Someone’s here. Come out, come out wherever you are.”

  That was her introduction to the voice of the man she now thought of as the ringleader.

  “It’s the girl. I saw her on that palomino,” a second voice said. It was creepy and made her skin crawl. “We can work with that.”

  She heard boots hit the ground and footsteps coming toward the tent. The bear spray. For a moment she looked for it in the tent. She couldn’t find it. Where was the dumb thing? Then she remembered. She’d taken it with her outside earlier when she went to the bathroom and checked on the horses. She’d laid it down in the grass by a tree. And left it there.

  A quiet but authoritative voice said, “Gloves, everyone.” It was flat and toneless.

  Gloves? Her heart lodged in her throat. Why did they need gloves? And how could they “work with her”—and why? She couldn’t think of a single good answer.

  There was a wet-sounding SPLAT on the ground, and then the ringleader said, “I’ll bet she’s in the tent. Are you in the tent, sweet thing?”

  “No,” she prayed, mouthing the words. “Please, God, no.” She dropped Brandon’s note and buried her face in her sleeping bag. This had to be a bad dream. It was too late to run, too late to hide, and she had no weapon.

  “I’ll just have to take a l
ook inside.”

  The tent zipper ripped open. She didn’t dare turn around, afraid of what she’d see.

  “Well, well, what do we have here?”

  Big hands grabbed her shoulders. A knee dug into her thigh and a weighty leg trapped hers. Fight, fight, fight, she heard in her mind. She kicked, thrashed, and screamed. Footsteps stopped at the mouth of the tent. She screamed louder. The man on her legs struck the side of her head, so hard it was like her brain rattled inside her skull. It hurt, a lot, and she stopped screaming. Stopped everything. He leaned over and pinned her wrists. Something wet and warm dripped onto her neck. He was so heavy, she was afraid her bones would break. Her dad’s self-defense drills had seemed so simple in their living room, but there was nothing easy about them.

  “That’s better,” the ringleader said near her ear. “It won’t do you any good anyway.”

  “Fresh meat,” the one with the creepy voice said.

  The scary voice said, “None of that. She’s payment for a debt—no more, no less.”

  She glanced at her hands. The ringleader’s hand was covered by black work gloves. Above them, his wrist was as red as a ribeye steak, like he’d been burned, but covered in thick, curly hair. Her stomach turned. He smelled worse than Ferdinand had after he’d been skunk-sprayed. An awful stink cut with a nauseating sweet mintiness. The stench then made her eyes water. It did now, too.

  The scary man said, “Put this over her eyes.”

  There was a rustling sound, then the ringleader released her wrists and lifted his knee. He straddled her, putting his bottom where his knee had been, and pulled her head up by the back of her hair. Her head throbbed from his blow. She whimpered, trying not to cry. Fabric slid across her face. It felt like flannel and smelled like her dad. His shirt? At first, she thought the ringleader was going to suffocate her. That it was all over for her, and the last thing she’d have seen was the note from Brandon. Then the ringleader jerked the fabric and tied it around the back of her head. He flipped her body until she was faceup and he was straddling her from the front. She panted inside the fabric.

  “What do you see?” the man with the scary voice asked.

  “N-n-n-nothing.” She hated that her voice cracked. But if he was asking what she saw, then maybe the shirt over her face was just a blindfold, and they weren’t going to kill her.

  “Good.”

  “Get her out of here,” the ringleader said. He got off her by crawling over her face on his knees. The smell was even worse. She gagged.

  Instead of yanking her up, the men dragged her out of the tent feetfirst. Her shirt rode up and rocks dug furrows through her back. The ringleader crawled out behind her. She struggled to breathe. Her own hot breath was suffocating her inside the flannel.

  “Stand up,” he said.

  She did, after several unsuccessful efforts. Rough hands tied her wrists behind her back.

  “Hold her for a minute.”

  A tall, bony body grabbed her from behind and pulled her close. He pushed his personal parts against her hands and she cringed. She tried to pull herself away from him, but it didn’t work. He breathed heavily in her ear, and it didn’t seem like it was an accident. She concentrated on getting enough air. Pots and pans began hitting rocks. Softer items landed in a pile near her feet.

  “Who can pony out the girl and the horses?” the ringleader asked.

  The creepy-voiced man’s lips brushed her ear. His breath was hot and damp. “I can.”

  Trish shivered.

  The ringleader grunted. “Good. I’ll ride ahead and make sure we don’t meet people on the trail. We can’t let anyone see her with us.”

  She heard a jangle of metal.

  “I found their keys.” It was the scary voice.

  The ringleader laughed. “Jackpot. And now we have an easier way to move the girl and the nags.”

  “We need to move fast and put some distance between us and her dad.”

  “That fancy-hands flatlander? He’s going to run for help. We’ll have a day’s head start before the knuckleheads with the sheriff’s department get their shit together.”

  Pony her and the horses out? Move them in her family’s own truck and trailer? Put distance between her and her dad? That sounded bad. Her dad’s voice rang in her head. “Whatever a bad guy is going to do to you somewhere else is always worse than what he is going to do to you right here.” Really bad. Trish didn’t want to leave. Her dad wouldn’t know where to find her, or who she was with.

  “Please,” she’d said, her voice loud and at the same time muffled inside the shirt. “Please, no.”

  But they’d ignored her, and she’d zoned out, trying to imagine herself somewhere else. Anywhere, with anything else happening. Doing algebra problems under her mom’s watchful eye. Eating canned asparagus. Even hunting in the rain with her dad and Perry. She didn’t care. Anything would be better. Time passed, but she lost track of it.

  Sometime later, the ringleader said, “Get her up on her horse.”

  New hands took over for the creepy guy. He was gentle and kept his body at a distance from her.

  “Now, son. Don’t be such a pussy about it.”

  The man holding on to her moved faster. He tapped her left leg, then she heard a creak of leather. She lifted her leg. His hands caught it and shoved it into a stirrup. With a quick grab and lift, he got her to stand in it. He didn’t let go of her waist. She swung her leg over and landed in the saddle like a sack of potatoes. Goldie snorted. The man’s hands released her, and she swayed, alone and unsteady. If Goldie spooked, she had no way to hold on or break her fall, except for her legs, so she gripped tightly with them.

  The ringleader said, “Move out.”

  Over the next few hours, she’d ridden Goldie with Cindy ponied behind her. Her head was killing her. The lead rope cut into Trish’s thigh. She weighed out possible escape scenarios. Without her hands or her eyes, though, she had no options. She needed to keep from freaking out and pass the time until she had a real chance at it. So she made lists of her favorite books. Black Beauty. The Black Stallion. Blue Smoke. Lately mystery series. Trixie Belden. Nancy Drew. Even the Hardy Boys. And, of course, everything by Judy Blume.

  The mental exercises had worked, mostly, and she breathed easier and thought about her aching head less. When they reached the truck, the ringleader started issuing orders again.

  “You’re with her, son.”

  One of the men shoved her up onto the bench. He removed the rope from her hands and used it to bind her feet. She heard the other men talking and the horses being loaded into the trailer behind her. It all happened so fast, she didn’t have a chance to make a break for it.

  Who was she kidding? She was too scared to try.

  The driver’s door slammed. She heard clanging of hooves that sounded like someone was loading horses into a trailer next to them. An engine fired up. Then their truck started, backed up, and pulled away. As they rolled down the forest road, she peppered him with questions. Who was he? Where were they going? Why had they taken her? She was embarrassed to think about how she’d babbled, really. The only time he’d even responded was when she said she couldn’t breathe through the blindfold. He’d stopped the truck and fixed it, rolling the shirt into a band and retying it. Then he had started driving again without a word. That was it. Nothing else.

  And now she was careening blindly up a mountain with him, kidnapped.

  Wind buffeted through the open windows. Her head throbbed, and her ears rang. She pressed her hands against her ears but it didn’t help, so she put them back in her lap. Why hadn’t she put up more of a fight? Her parents had trained her better. And when it had happened, what had she done? She clenched her fists, frustrated and disappointed in herself. She’d screamed. Screamed like a little girl. Then gone limp as a rag doll when the ringleader hit her. Whimpering. Cowering. Defeated.

  Well, she was done with that and ready to fight now. More than ready, when she got the chance. It had taken
her a while to get her wits about her, but her thinking was clear now. No one in the world had any idea where she was. She didn’t know what the men wanted with her. What they planned to do to her. But she knew it wouldn’t be anything she liked. Help wasn’t coming. She might only be fifteen years old, but it was up to her to figure her way out of this.

  She needed a way to signal rescuers where she’d gone. To signal her dad. What did she have? She thought about the moose picture in her pocket. There was nothing else. No wallet, so she couldn’t use her learners permit or library card. She didn’t have on any jewelry. But she did have the smiley-face hair fasteners at the end of her two French braids.

  Moving like one of the giant tortoises she’d seen at the Dallas Zoo, she pulled one off a braid and slipped it even more slowly into her pocket. Immediately the wind tore a few strands out of the braid now that it was untethered. They whipped around her face, tickling her and sticking to her lips. She waited a few minutes, then repeated the process on the other side. The driver didn’t seem to notice, or if he did, he didn’t say or do anything.

  What else could she do? If she’d gotten herself together sooner, she could have been memorizing the turns the truck was making. But come to think of it, she didn’t need to memorize them. They’d only made one turn. After that, the truck had driven a long time. At least half an hour. It had been going mostly up instead of down. Her ears had even popped a few minutes ago. She concentrated, trying to visualize the mountains and the roads. That meant that when they made their first turn onto Red Grade, they’d gone in the opposite direction from where she and her dad and brother had driven in two days before. To the right. Into the mountains.

  So, they were heading higher. Much, much higher.

  Suddenly, she heard a vehicle honk from far to her right. Bom-bom-ba-bom-bom, bom-bom. A signal. The driver heard it, too. He swung the truck toward the sound. The road was bumpier, and the tires crunched dirt and rocks. Trish was ready, had been for miles. She dropped one of the two smiley-face hair fasteners out the window. She had one left, plus the moose picture. Two more turns she could mark. It energized her to be doing something.