“Sorry, dude,” Chad said, not sounding sorry at all.
Ben came up with the keys. “Yeah, dude. It’s fine.”
A bright light popped on, spotlighting the snow a few feet away from Ben. The beam redirected into Ben’s eyes. A deep, nasally voice said, “Good evening gentlemen. And lady. You been drinking?”
Panic clawed inside Ben, a wild thing fighting to get out of his chest. A cop. Checking for drunk drivers. He wasn’t drunk, but after six months in juvie, he didn’t take any interaction with law enforcement for granted. The last thing he wanted was to get on the wrong side of the Laramie police. “Uh, not really, sir.”
“He’s driving, not us.” Chad released Sophie, who teetered against the side of the car.
“Are you okay, ma’am?” the cop asked. With the light in his eyes, Ben couldn’t see the man’s face.
Sophie burst into tears. “I just want to go home. I don’t want to go with him. And I’m c-c-c-cold.”
“With him who?”
Sophie gestured at Ben and Chad. Chad threw his hands up in a “not me” gesture. She moaned, then turned and vomited on the ground. The stench was immediate, but Ben didn’t recoil.
The officer took a step closer to him. “Sir, I need you to turn around and put your hands on the trunk of the car.”
“But, I—”
“Now!”
Ben complied. “Yes, sir.” He’d learned some lessons in juvie, and one of them replayed now in his head. Never argue with a cop. Never argue with a cop. Never argue with a cop. Everything would be okay. He wasn’t drunk, and Sophie wasn’t with him.
“Why won’t you let this girl go home?”
“She can do whatever she wants. She’s not with me. Ask Chad.”
Sophie’s crying escalated. Chad remained silent.
“How much have you had to drink?”
“One beer.”
The cop snorted. “All you college punks from out of town think you can come to Laramie and do whatever you want. We’ll see about that when I give you a sobriety test.
“But I haven’t been driving. Plus, I’m not even drunk.”
“And now you’re resisting. Drunk and disorderly. Ma’am, why don’t you run back inside with your friends. You’re going to be okay. I think you’ve had enough for the night, though. Is there someone who can drive you home?”
“Y-y-y-yes.”
“All right, then.”
“Can I walk her inside, sir?” Chad asked.
There was a pause. “Just to the door. Then come right back.”
“Yes, sir.”
Ben heard footsteps and whispering as Chad and Sophie started their trek back to the bar.
“I’m going to pat you down and look in your pockets,” the cop said to Ben. “Any weapons or contraband?”
“No, sir. Just a pocketknife, in the front pocket of my jeans.” Everyone carried pocketknives. It wasn’t against the terms of his release from juvie. He swallowed and tried to relax. He hadn’t done anything wrong. This would be over when the cop figured that out.
The officer pulled the knife out. Then he resumed his search, starting with Ben’s heavy coat. Ben knew those pockets were empty. He usually kept his gloves in them, but he’d forgotten them in the dorm room. So, he was shocked when he felt the cop pull something out of one of the pockets.
“Well, well, what have we here?”
Ben turned to look, and the cop shoved him face down on the trunk. “I didn’t tell you to move, punk.” The officer pressed Ben’s mouth into the icy cold metal.
Snow melted on Ben’s lips and he tasted metallic dirt. “Sorry, sir.”
“Want to tell me why you would have a big bag of weed in your jacket?”
“I wasn’t carrying any weed. I don’t do drugs.” Ben’s pulse accelerated. Where had a bag of marijuana come from?
The cop dangled a baggie in front of Ben’s eyes. “Huh. I guess it must be someone else’s jacket, then?”
“No, sir. The jacket’s mine, but that’s not my bag. I’ve never seen it before.”
The cop straightened up. Ben heard a jangle, and then cold metal snapped around one of his wrists. The officer jerked his other arm behind him and cuffed it, too. Ben’s cheek was still smashed into the trunk. It felt like his lips were starting to stick. His wrists and shoulders hurt. He didn’t dare move, though. Didn’t dare make a sound.
What the heck is going on?
The officer pulled Ben’s wallet from his back jeans pocket. A few seconds later, he said, “Ben Jones from Story?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’m using your keys now to search your vehicle.”
“It’s not my vehicle. My truck is back at the parking lot near my dorm. I just got here today. This is Chad’s car. The other guy.”
Ben tracked the crunch of the officer’s footsteps as he went to the door of the car and unlocked it. Ben heard muted sounds from inside the vehicle. Snow fell on his face. He moved his lips away from the metal, feeling a sickening tearing sensation and a sharp pain. He wondered if it was okay to stand back up. No. He couldn’t. Not without permission. He stood, trembling, bent over the car, his face hovering half an inch over it. He tried to think, desperate to figure out what was happening. How things had spun out of control so fast.
Drugs in my pocket. Had he grabbed the wrong coat? No. He’d never taken it off. Someone had to have stuck them in there. Someone in the bar, maybe? Someone ditching them, afraid to get in trouble? Because who would spend money on drugs only to stick them in a stranger’s pocket unless they were scared of getting caught with them?
Chad. Chad or Sophie.
Then the cop leaned in Ben’s face. He had a big grin on his face, fetid breath, and pockmarks and sparse beard hairs across his cheeks. “I suppose the other bag of weed and all the pills aren’t yours, either?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. I swear.”
“I found the stash in your glove compartment.”
Ben’s voice went up in pitch. “Ask my roommate Chad. He’ll tell you. I’m a square. It’s not my car. They’re not my drugs.” With a lurch of his stomach, Ben realized Chad hadn’t come back from the bar.
His new roommate had set Ben up to take the fall for him.
The cop laughed. “Welcome to Laramie, Ben Jones. You can kiss college goodbye. You’re under arrest for possession of marijuana and methamphetamines, with enough on you to deal to half the people in the bar tonight. The only place you’re going is prison.”
Ben felt his legs giving out and his weight slumped onto Chad’s car. How was he ever going to explain this to Trish?
Chapter Seventeen: Tense
Denver, Colorado
Friday, December 30, 1977, 7:00 a.m.
Susanne
Susanne jostled her sleeping daughter. “We’re leaving for IHOP in ten minutes, Trish. I’m not going to wake you again.” She picked up Trish’s dirty jeans from the floor. The girl was smart, she was hard working, she was too pretty by far, but she was an absolute slob. Her closet. Her truck. And now this hotel room.
She looked at the head of her daughter on the pillow and the hand beside the face, the purple of the stone in the little ring standing out against the white of the pillowcase. Purple, yes. An actual amethyst, Susanne doubted. Ben didn’t have two spare nickels to rub together. So how had he gotten the ring? She wondered if he’d stolen it. Or if the Sibleys had known about the ring and given him the money. She didn’t know which was worse, Ben compounding his crimes, or her own best friend betraying her. She’d have a heart-to-heart with Vangie as soon as she got back to Buffalo.
Trish lifted her head. One side of her face was lined with creases from the bedding, the same side drool was running out of her mouth from. “Bring me back something.”
Susanne swatted Trish gently on her backside with the jeans. “That’s not how it works, young lady, and you know it. If you miss the bus, you miss the breakfast. And we’ll only swing back to pick you u
p to go to the mall one time. After that, you’ve bought yourself a lonely, hungry day in the hotel.”
Trish flapped a hand. Not the one with the ring. “Go without me.”
“Get up.”
“I can’t.”
“Brush your teeth and throw on your clothes. Now.”
Trish growled and sat. Susanne held in her own return growl. Trish was nowhere near mature enough to be thinking about lifelong commitments. She couldn’t even get herself out of bed. She argued with her mother. She was a mere child. And I was only a year older when I married Patrick. Which is exactly what had Susanne so terrified.
Dian came out of the bathroom, her hair perfectly styled, and a full face of makeup painted on. Susanne touched her own ponytail.
Dian said, “You’re making my ovaries shrivel, Trish Flint.”
Trish barely gave her a glance as she lurched into the open bathroom.
Susanne walked to her purse and got out a lipstick. She rubbed some into her eyelids and onto her cheeks. Inside, she felt like she was a train flying off a trestle, but she couldn’t let that be what she showed on the outside. “And to think I tried to talk Patrick into four kids. What if I’d had three girls?”
Esme turned from where she was gazing out the window. “I can’t wait to have a daughter.”
Dian laughed. “Have you heard a word of this exchange?”
Esme clutched a handbag to her chest. “I won’t put up with that kind of nonsense. My mother kept a firm hand on us, and my sisters and I turned out all right.”
Susanne’s hand slipped and she drew a stripe of lipstick from her lips to her ear.
Dian gripped her shoulder as Susanne rubbed off the worst of it. “I’m sure you’re right. I hope you have a whole houseful of girls.”
Esme turned back to the window. Snow was falling in a sheet, almost like white rain. “It will be dreamy.”
Dian held out her hand to Susanne. “I’ll bring the Suburban around if you’d like.”
Susanne dug in her bag, returning her lipstick, and coming out with keys, which she gave to Dian. “Thanks. I’ll be ready in a jiffy.”
“I’ll come with you, Dian,” Esme said.
The two women walked out together. Dian peered back in the door and mouthed “help me” to Susanne before it shut. Despite herself, Susanne smiled and laughed softly. Trish wasn’t the only problem child on this trip.
Her daughter came out of the bathroom, looking slightly more alert. “What’s so funny?”
“I’m not sure that Esme knows Dian used to be engaged to your uncle.”
“What? When?”
“Once, in high school. Then again a year ago. I sure wouldn’t be buddying up to your dad’s old flame if I were Esme.”
“Dian and Uncle Barry were engaged in high school?”
“Yes.” And aren’t together now. Susanne knew she and Patrick were the exception, not the rule, and she hoped Trish understood it, too.
“That’s just weird.”
“Isn’t it?” Susanne slipped into the bathroom.
She wet a washcloth and scrubbed the remains of the lipstick slash. The cloth left an abraded red mark of its own, making it hard to tell if she’d gotten it off or not. It would have to do. She had been looking forward to eating out and shopping in good stores since yesterday. She hoped Trish didn’t ruin it for her.
She locked eyes with herself in the mirror. “Then don’t let her,” she said, imitating Patrick’s voice. “Be the stronger person. Be the parent.” Nodding at herself, she walked out.
Trish was holding the phone receiver to her ear.
“Trish, I didn’t give you permission to make a phone call.”
Her daughter held up her hand. “I just need Ben to know where I am.”
“Which Vangie will tell him.”
Trish slammed the phone down.
“Thank you. Now get ready.”
Trish dove onto the bed and rolled herself into the covers. Her voice was muffled as she replied. “He didn’t answer his phone. And I’m not going anywhere.”
Susanne sighed. “Be the parent.”
“What?”
“I said I’m going to breakfast. See you in an hour.”
Chapter Eighteen: Break
Laramie, Wyoming
Friday, December 30, 1977, 7:30 a.m.
Ben
“Hey, you,” a voice said. It came from outside the cell where Ben was being held along with a few other men brought in during the night.
Ben didn’t look up. His eyes felt like he’d rubbed sand in them. His fingertips were stained red from biting hangnails until they bled. He hadn’t slept all night. His butt hurt from the metal bench he was sitting on, and his hand was numb from propping his forehead in it.
“I’m talking to you, Ben Jones.”
Ben stumbled to his feet. A man in a uniform was standing outside the bars. Not the one who’d arrested him, but the same man who’d checked him into what he’d called the drunk tank the night before. Whatever they called it, it smelled like piss, body odor, and vomit, which meant Ben did now, too. The officer—guard?—talking to him was tall and heavy. The fat kind of heavy. His clean-shaven face was so white it was almost pink.
“Sorry.”
“We were able to reach law enforcement in Johnson County.”
Ben tensed, preparing himself. He knew what was coming.
“They said you did time in juvie.”
Heads swiveled toward him. Not just another college punk sleeping one off with the big boys, the other men’s interest said.
“I was released early for good behavior.”
“Kidnapping. That’s intense.”
Ben flexed his hands to keep from balling them into fists. Around him he heard intakes of breath. One of the guys tutted. Why did he have to announce that in front of everyone?
“I was . . .” He trailed off. I was saving the girl I was in love with from my dad and uncle. But who would believe that? Explaining wouldn’t do any good. “This is all a misunderstanding. Did you check the registration on that car? It wasn’t mine. The drugs weren’t mine. The girl wasn’t with me.”
“If I had a dime for every loser who said they didn’t do it. You’re just another case of history repeating itself.”
Ben wanted to scream, but he knew he needed to keep his cool. The guys in uniform loved to get under your skin. Why else would they want these cruddy jobs? If he gave in to his feelings, if he reacted, it would go worse for him. He’d learned that lesson from the jump in juvie. In his first week, a guard had asked him what he’d done to Trish when he had her to himself. Ben had rushed him and tackled him to the ground. He probably would have beat the guard half to death if other kids hadn’t pulled him off. He’d been confined to his room for a week and lost all privileges for a month for it.
He’d never made that mistake again, no matter how bad the uniforms egged him on. He’d figured out a strategy that worked for him—never look into their eyes. Just stare at their uniforms and not their faces. Imagine them as less than human. As not mattering to anyone, because that’s how they thought about him. His control had gotten him out of there early, too.
He wouldn’t lose his cool now.
The uniform cocked his head. “Nothing else to say?”
Ben shook his head.
“You want your phone call?”
Ben walked to the bars, nodding.
“What’s the magic word?”
“Please.”
The uniform winked. “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”
Ben pushed his lips up into a smile he didn’t feel. You have no idea.
The uniform fastened cuffs around Ben’s wrists, then opened the cell for him to exit. Ben kept his eyes down and shuffled behind him down a hall and into a small room with a pay phone on the wall.
“Have at it.” The guard stood back, arms crossed.
Juggling the cuffs out of the way, Ben picked up the receiver and cradled it to his ear. He dialed the zer
o.
“Operator, how can I help you?” a woman said, her voice bored.
“I’d like to make a collect call. From Ben.” He gave her the number.
“Hold please.”
Ben listened as the phone rang and rang. Pick up, pick up, pick up.
“Hello?” Vangie’s Tennessee accent was unmistakable.
“Collect call from Ben. Will you accept the charges?”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“You have a nice day.” The operator dropped off the line.
“Ben? You miss us already?” Vangie teased.
More than she could ever know. I hate making this call. Hate it. “I’m in trouble and I need your help.” Ben dropped his forehead to the wall and a tear slid from his eye.
Chapter Nineteen: Panic
Denver, Colorado
Friday, December 30, 1977, 8:00 a.m.
Trish
Trish thought she’d never get rid of her mother, but, once she did, she made up for lost time, calling Ben’s dorm room phone line over and over. She sat in a swivel chair at the desk, rocking back and forth. No one had answered so far. She dialed it for the tenth time. Her stomach was in knots. Why wasn’t he answering? She knew he had to report to his new job today, but surely, he hadn’t started this early. She thought he’d told her he had to be there at nine for orientation. She’d been calling since seven.
Had he been out partying all night? Had he already met a wild college girl? All the bad possibilities played repeatedly in her head.
Or it could be he hadn’t picked up for an innocent reason. He’d given her a promise ring. He was a good person. He wasn’t cheating on her. He couldn’t be. The phone might have come unplugged. She knew it wasn’t off the hook because she wasn’t getting a busy signal.
But something might have happened to him. Had he been in a wreck? He probably drove somewhere to get food. The roads must have been bad. The storm had made a mess of the interstate near Cheyenne, and that was only about an hour away from him.
Stag Party: A Patrick Flint Novel Page 10
