“Go down to the ranger station at the East Fork of Big Goose. There’s an emergency team there. That’s only a half hour away.”
“I’m fine,” the guy in the knit cap said.
Ronnie nodded. “Okay, then. Thanks, gentlemen. We’ve got to get moving.”
“Good luck.”
Susanne waved as Ronnie accelerated, but her mind was already racing ahead toward her family. “We have the faster method of transportation. We’re getting closer. We should be able to catch them.”
Ronnie cocked her head. “Not where the dude pointed, we can’t.”
“Why?”
“Because no motor vehicles are allowed in the Cloud Peak Wilderness area. Or off the road at all up here, except for campsites within certain restrictions.”
“Is there a trail?” Susanne had hiked in the wilderness before. The most-used trails were narrow, at best. Some got hardly any usage and were little more than game trails. Most of the wilderness had no trails at all.
“I don’t know. But don’t worry. You can go anywhere on foot or horseback.”
Lack of access hadn’t been her worry. The horses were. When she’d asked Ronnie to bring her to see Patrick and the kids, she’d made the leap to riding a horse along the relatively wide Forest Road 312 up to Walker Prairie. Striking off into the wilderness at midnight after kidnappers, on a horse—a strange horse at that—set butterflies loose, churning in her stomach. Narrow-to-nonexistent trails, rugged terrain, big predators. It was a daunting thought. But if riding in those conditions meant they’d find her family, she was on board.
“Where will we park?”
“Up at the communication tower. I’ll radio the troops to meet us there.”
“I thought they weren’t coming until daybreak.”
“Correct.”
“But we can’t just let them get away. They have Trish.” Her fear about the upcoming ride evaporated.
Ronnie smiled. “Exactly.” She picked up her radio and barked into it, giving Johnson County their location and plans. “Susanne Flint was insistent on following her family. I couldn’t stop her. I’ve got no choice but to go after her.”
The response was immediate, predictable, and absolutely unsatisfactory. “Wait for backup.”
“I can still catch up to her.”
“Then arrest her if you have to and come back to meet the group.”
Ronnie turned the radio off abruptly. The sudden silence was ominous until she clapped her hands.
Susanne jumped. “What was that for?”
Ronnie looked sheepish. “I don’t know. We always did that and then yelled ‘break’ when we came out of the huddle and back onto the court in high school basketball.”
“Are we about to play ball?”
“Oh yes, Susanne Flint, that’s exactly what we’re going to do.” Ronnie grinned. “Let’s go find your family.”
Susanne grinned back, but her cheeks were tight. She wanted to be confident and optimistic, but she wasn’t. However, she was determined, and every step forward took her closer to Patrick and the kids. “Break,” she said.
Chapter Thirty-five: Regroup
Southwest of Bruce Mountain, Cloud Peak Wilderness, Wyoming
September 20, 1976, 11:30 p.m.
Trish
Ben led Trish back into the camp by the belt, like a dog on a leash. It was demeaning. She huddled in on herself, trying to shrink—better yet, to become invisible—and trying to stay warm. The wind had driven the cold to the center of her bones and lodged it there, even on the hard walk back to the camp. It was painful, like her whole body had an ice cream headache.
From the other side of the fire, Chester said, “Didn’t get very far, did you?”
She swallowed, eyes fixated on the flames. She didn’t want to see their faces again, or the macabre red smile in Larry’s throat.
“Where do you want her?” Ben asked.
The uncle answered, from her left, nearer the tent. “By the fire, where we can keep watch on her.”
Ben led her close to the campfire. The heat teased her. Better, but not enough to overcome her single shirt. Without use of her hands, she lowered herself Indian-style, shivering. It made her think of her dad. She wondered where he was. Honestly, she’d been so sure he’d rescue her. She couldn’t believe he hadn’t shown up. Her heart ached. It was hard to stay hopeful. With glazed eyes, she watched Ben’s feet walk away from her, tracking him to Larry’s body, where he started tugging at something, which made the body jerk around. She looked away quickly. Her traitorous body shocked her with a loud growl from her stomach. When was the last time she’d had food? Or water? Now that she was thinking about water, she realized her mouth was so dry it felt like it was filled with sand.
“What are you doing?” Chester said to Ben.
“Taking off his coat.”
Ben turned back to Trish with a quilted jacket. She wanted to protest. The thought of the garment touching her was disgusting. But she was cold. Unbelievably cold. Ben draped it over her shoulders. The collar was damp against her neck. Damp with blood. She cringed. The coat was warm, though. Her shivers subsided. She was so grateful, she wanted to sob. She wanted to lie down and go to sleep. She needed to fight, but one warm, smelly coat and her resolve crumbled.
“Ain’t that sweet,” Chester said. “Now tie her feet.”
Ben shot his dad a dirty look, but Chester didn’t seem to notice. Trish wondered whether he was still drinking. It didn’t matter. He was an asshole whether he drank or not. Ben went to the tent and returned with a piece of rope.
“Sorry,” he whispered as he pulled her legs out straight and tied her ankles together.
Trish’s heart sunk. It didn’t have much farther to go to hit rock bottom.
“Get a shovel, Ben,” the uncle said as he stacked branches for firewood.
Trish’s stomach growled again. She reached up with her bound wrists and scooted first one shoulder and then the other of the jacket farther around her. She stared at her fingers. They were red with Larry’s blood. She wiped them on her jeans.
“Why?” Ben asked.
The uncle straightened up. “We can’t have a body lying around the campsite. It will attract predators. You need to bury it. We’ll set her up while you’re gone, then leave when you get back.”
Trish looked up at Ben. His expression was one of sheer horror. She was sure hers matched his.
“What?” Ben said.
“You heard me. Try to dig down as far as you can. Then cover it with dirt and rocks. And be sure it’s out of sight of any trails.”
“But how do I get him there?”
Chester snorted. “Quit sniveling. We’ve got horses, don’t we?”
Ben glanced at Trish. His mouth was in an O, and his eyes told her that he wished they’d run away. But it was too late now. He trudged toward the horses. Five minutes later, he was riding out on Goldie, leading a skittish second horse with Larry’s body tied across its back.
And Trish was left alone with Chester and the uncle. Completely alone.
Chapter Thirty-six: Shock
Southwest of Bruce Mountain, Cloud Peak Wilderness Area, Wyoming
September 21, 1976, Midnight
Patrick
Patrick’s guts rumbled as he dismounted. He hated slowing them down, but he couldn’t wait any longer. They were running out of trees and cover for what he had to do. He checked his pocket. He still had the last few scraps of toilet paper he’d stuffed in there that morning. The scream from earlier still echoed in his mind. Had it been his daughter? At first he’d been convinced it was a girl, but it could have been a mountain lion. It had left both him and Perry a little rattled. A lot rattled. If it was Trish—well, he just couldn’t think about what would elicit a scream like that from her.
A knifelike cramp drove him to prop his hands on his knees. Sweat popped along his hairline and down his back even though he was racked with chills. At least it had stopped snowing. He looped Reno’s
reins around a rock.
“You’re sure you don’t need to go, too?” he asked Perry.
“I’m good.” Perry had taken his break earlier when they’d given the horses a drink of water at a creek. “I’m thirsty, though.”
“Sorry about that. I had to pour the water out. It made me sick. We’ll boil water when we stop for the night. Back in a second. Don’t move.”
“Yes, sir.” Perry looked worried.
Patrick knew he was a big, tough guy in his son’s eyes, but sadly, even big, tough guys could succumb to protozoa. He hobbled to the nearest cover, a little tree. Sparse might have been an even better way to describe it. His stomach popped and gurgled. Thank goodness he hadn’t had anything to eat recently except the MREs. He checked around him for critters and drew his revolver out. He put the gun on the ground beside his boots. Dropping trousers made a man vulnerable.
Things didn’t go well and took more time than he liked. After, he took a moment to rest. His balance was off, and he had rested his head in his hands while the cold air dried his sweat. He had no water, and he was going to get really dehydrated in a hurry. He reholstered his gun, then hauled himself up. His legs were shaking so badly it was hard to walk, but he made it a few steps before he fell back against a narrow tree trunk. Sweat oozed out of him again. The tree bent. Get it together, man. He took off the extra flannel shirt and tied it around his waist.
An out-of-place sound came to him on the wind from past a stand of bushes. He strained to hear it, but it was competing with the noises from his midsection. Cupping a hand around his ear, he pointed it in the direction the sound had come from. He heard the noise again clearly. Metal hitting rock and dirt. Horseshoes? Then grunting. A voice. Trish. It had to be someone who was up here with her. It was just too improbable that anyone else would be all the way up here at midnight in mid-September. Or ever.
He waved a hand until Perry made eye contact with him, then pressed a finger to his lips. He walked back to his son, forgetting the intestinal distress.
As softly as he could whisper, he said, “It’s time to hide.”
“Where?” Perry whispered back.
Patrick scoured the area and found a gap behind a pile of rock. Perry rode Duke to it, and Patrick checked to be sure they were hidden. Perry’s hat was visible, but just barely. Patrick left Reno where he was. The big horse was black as pitch, melting into the nightscape. He had his head down and eyes closed. Unless he got spooked, no one was going to see him, either.
He tiptoed closer to the sounds in a slow fox-walk, past where he’d been earlier, then closer, closer. He patted his holster. The gun was secure and reachable. Each step he placed so as not to roll a stone or break a twig. Every breath was modulated and quiet. Every step was timed so that his senses, especially his peripheral vision, could keep up with him. The sound of metal on rock grew louder. He crept to a stand of scrubby trees and peered through the branches. A young man—tall, dark hair, in jeans and a plaid flannel jacket with elbow patches—was digging. Futilely digging. The ground here was mostly rock. But he was giving it everything he had. Two horses waited on the opposite end of the clearing, their ears pricked toward Patrick.
It wasn’t the kid or the horses that caught his attention, though. It was the dead body near his feet. A dead body with light hair.
For a split second, his heart stopped. Trish. No! He stepped around the tree to get a better angle. His relief nearly dropped him to his knees when he saw the body was longer and thicker than Trish, with short hair. A man. But who was it?
No sooner than he’d exhaled, a small figure barreled past him and into the clearing.
Perry. Perry!
“No,” he wanted to shout. But he didn’t, not wanting to alert the gravedigger. So he ran, but not fast enough.
Perry leapt onto the much taller man’s back. The man hollered. Perry wrapped his legs around him and hung on with one arm, his other fist pounding and flailing. Perry got in one, two, three, four, five licks while his opponent bucked and swatted at him. Then the young man seemed to get his bearings. He ducked his shoulder and rolled Perry onto the rocky ground under his heavier body. Patrick heard Perry’s “oomph.” The horses had enough. They bolted.
Patrick drew his gun. Still, Perry didn’t let go. The gravedigger kept rolling. Patrick couldn’t land a shot or blow without the risk of hitting Perry. On the second rotation, Perry lost his grip, and the young man shucked him away. Perry landed on his back, between the empty grave and the dead body. The gravedigger grabbed the shovel and turned on him.
Patrick had no choice. He lifted his revolver and cracked him on the back of the head with the grip.
Chapter Thirty-seven: Separate
Southwest of Bruce Mountain, Cloud Peak Wilderness Area, Wyoming
September 21, 1976, 12:30 a.m.
Patrick
Patrick kneeled beside the gravedigging kid, weak as a newborn kitten. He tied the boy’s hands together and put a gag in his mouth. Perry had brought Duke and Reno to join them. The horses didn’t like the dead body, the grave, or the unconscious young man, but after a few antsy minutes, they settled down.
Although, to call him a young man was stretching it. He was as tall as a man, but still lanky like a colt, with a baby-smooth face. A kid, around Trish’s age. And that set Patrick to wondering again if Trish was up here on a lark with Brandon or some of her friends. He couldn’t rule it out anymore, even if it made no sense. She wouldn’t steal their vehicle and leave him and Perry stranded. He and Susanne had raised a good girl. And what kind of kid’s prank resulted in burying a dead body in the wilderness?
Unless . . . unless she wasn’t in her right mind. The silver trailer. The speed dealers. Shit. Had Brandon come back with drugs? He didn’t think she was that stupid, but then again, how many times had he consoled parents in the ER who swore their kids would never do whatever it was they had irrefutably done? He needed to pull his head out of the sand. Quit being an ostrich. She was secretive. Moody. Rebellious. Seeing an older boy he knew little about.
So, sure, she could have done drugs. People do stupid, out-of-character things on drugs all the time. Maybe even become convinced they have to bury a friend who dies in an accident.
Maybe.
But whether she came up here of her own free will or not, with kids or adults, she was in danger. This was no place for a pack of teenagers to gallivant off to, especially if they were high. He had to get her down off this mountain. And that meant, no matter how bad he felt, he had to get moving again. With their extra passenger.
He tied Reno to a tree. “I need your help, bud,” he said to Perry.
Perry, who knew he’d messed up, was eager to make amends. “No problem, Dad.”
“We’ve got to get him on Duke, over the saddlebags.”
“Where am I going to ride?”
“In front of him.”
Perry looked dubious. “Okay.”
“Let’s put him on this rock first. You take his legs.”
Patrick hoisted the kid’s shoulders up and onto a table-topped rock nearly three feet high and twice that long. Perry followed with his feet. Then Patrick climbed up onto the rock with the kid. The world spun, and he crouched to rest for a moment.
“Now what?” Perry asked.
Patrick wiped sweat out of his eyes. “Line Duke up.”
Perry brought Duke over and positioned him next to the rock.
“Stay on the other side. I’ll lift him on. You make sure he doesn’t fall off on your side.”
“Okay.”
“Then we’ll tie him on together.” Patrick had already scavenged all the rope they had out of the saddlebags. “Ready?”
“Ready.”
Patrick waited for a wave of nausea to pass. Mind over matter. He slid his arms under the kid’s armpits. He counted to three, then stood, legs quaking from the effort and illness. The boy’s body was longer than his. He stepped toward the horse and lowered the kid until his knees rested on the ro
ck. Then he laid him over the saddlebags as gently as he could. Duke hopped forward with a snort.
Shuffling sideways to keep up with the horse, Patrick held the kid on by his hips. “Stop your horse,” Patrick shouted.
“Whoa, boy,” Perry said.
Duke huffed and stilled. He seemed a little embarrassed to have lost his cool.
Patrick nodded. “Good. Let’s get him tied on.”
Patrick snaked the rope through D rings and around the cumbersome, heavy body. It took five minutes of shifting, lifting, turning, and tying before they had him secured. By then, Patrick was sweating like a sumo in a steam room, despite the temperature.
Perry had moved to Duke’s head. “Are you okay, Dad?”
Patrick bent over, leaning on his legs. “Good enough.”
He shook his head to clear his thoughts. The world tilted and his vision clouded for a moment. After his equilibrium returned, he said to Perry, “We’ve got to find a place to hide him. And you. You can’t leave him. You understand? You absolutely, positively, cannot come barreling in like you did before. I have to be able to trust you. You could get one of us killed.”
“But I didn’t. I counted coup.”
Patrick rued the day he had taught Perry about the Plains Indian tradition of touching enemies without harming them during battle. It was a demonstration of great skill as a warrior. Or great foolhardiness in a child. “You were lucky.”
Perry’s face crumpled.
“Brave, though. And fierce. I thought you had him for a second.”
His son ducked his head, hiding a smile. It isn’t the size of the dog in the fight, it’s the size of the fight in the dog, Patrick had always told Perry. He’d bought the kids boxing gloves when Perry was four. Seven-year-old Trish had dominated their first fight, but Perry fought like a wolverine, and she’d resorted to shoving him into a wall to win. Suffice it to say there’d been a lot of blood. And shouting by Susanne, who had thrown away the boxing gloves.
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