Stag Party: A Patrick Flint Novel

by Pamela Fagan Hutchins

  Ari said, “Quit complaining and start helping.”

  The musher groaned. His assistant, who had led the way via snowmobile and arrived first, came running out of the trees, hitching up the straps of his coveralls and dragging his coat by one arm. He headed straight for the happy scrum of animals.

  Patrick raised his eyebrows at Perry. “Ferdie’d be out of control. Just like those guys.”

  “Maybe he could pull me by himself on our snow disc.” His son breathed out his next words with reverence. “Or on skis.”

  The musher clapped his gloved hands for their attention. He pulled up his goggles, revealing his droopy eye. Patrick had been wondering about it since seeing it earlier. A stroke? Myasthenia gravis? A tumor? Diabetes? A simple stye? “The first thing a musher does after a run is take care of his team. Everybody needs to pitch in to secure the dogs and get them fish and water.” He lifted the lid of a huge cooler. It was filled with ice and intact, halved frozen fish.

  Two yellow snowmobiles burst into their midst, narrowly avoiding the dogs. One of the riders unbuckled her helmet and wrestled it off. Long brown hair tumbled out and over her jacket. Patrick pegged her age at early twenties. She yelled something, then switched off the ignition on her machine and motioned for her companion to do the same. The cessation of their roar gave way to the yipping of the dogs.

  “There’s a man hurt. His friend sent us to get help.” She pointed. “Out there.”

  “Who is it?” Patrick said.

  “I don’t know. But he’s hurt pretty bad.”

  “I’m a doctor. I can go.”

  “You can’t go alone. I’ll come, too,” Dr. John said, joining Patrick in two strides.

  “We can show you the way out to them if you want to grab snowmobiles from the shed,” the young woman said.

  Cyrus frowned. “Should I call for an ambulance?”

  The woman nodded, saying, “Yes,” at the same time Patrick and Dr. John did.

  Cyrus wheeled and started high stepping through the snow down the path to the lodge.

  “What do I do, Dad?” Perry sounded steady and mature.

  Patrick squeezed his son to his side, ignoring the pain. “Help with the dogs, son.”

  Ari raised a hand. “I’m on dog duty, too.”

  Patrick turned to Dr. John. “I’ll grab my medical kit and meet you at the snowmobiles, then?”

  The young woman said, “And I’ll help you with the machines. I’m Jenelle Murray, by the way. My parents own this place. That’s my friend, Mandy.” Her face dimpled, although she didn’t quite smile.

  The other snowmobiler lifted a hand in greeting.

  Dr. John nodded at her. “Thanks, Jenelle. I’m Dr. John. This is Dr. Flint. Between us, you’ll have half the doctors from Buffalo with you. Patrick, see you at the machines.”

  Patrick was wading through the snow, stymied by the depth of the accumulation and the grade of the slope down to the resort. Cyrus, with his long legs, had made it look easier. Patrick pumped his knees higher and spread his arms wide for balance. Soon, sweat was trickling down his back and his breathing grew ragged. But he didn’t stop. Couldn’t stop. No matter who it was out there, they needed his help.

  He had a horrible feeling, though, that it was going to be someone he knew and cared about very much.

  Chapter Twenty-six: Flee

  Laramie, Wyoming

  Friday, December 30, 1977, 3:00 p.m.

  Vangie

  Vangie tapped her foot and hugged herself. She was waiting for Henry at the front door of Ben’s dormitory. He’d run up to get Ben, who hadn’t answered his phone, and hadn’t been at Les Parker’s home or office when they arrived in Laramie. What a horrible start to what should have been the most exciting time of his life. One that might have serious long-term repercussions. She wished she’d insisted on helping Ben with his move the day before. Everything would have been different. Navigating the space between friend and parent-come-lately with a nineteen-year-old foster son was tricky. This wasn’t the first time she felt like she’d gotten it wrong.

  Back in high school in rural Tennessee, she’d known a kid like Ben. One from a bad family whose members disappeared one by one on him. Rooster, that had been his name. She and her friends had shunned him, like Rooster had a contagious disease instead of just a funny name, and their parents had encouraged them to keep their distance. Yet she couldn’t recall a single thing the boy had done to put them off. He’d been shy. Courteous. Clean, if poorly dressed. Hungry, with sad, hollow eyes.

  By the time they graduated, he’d been arrested a couple of times for theft. For stealing food. A year later, she’d heard he was in prison for armed robbery. She wondered where Rooster was now, and whether she could have made a difference for him, even a small one, if she’d tried.

  It wasn’t what had driven her to ask Henry if they could provide a home for Ben. She hadn’t even remembered about Rooster until recently, after she’d grown to love Ben. Rooster’s story had come back to her like a nightmare. Not Ben. Not on my watch. Despite her vow to herself, she was starting to see, though, that there was much she wouldn’t be able to protect Ben from. Some things that she could have. Wished she had. A tremor rocked her. There will be much I can’t protect Hank from, either.

  She wiped a tear from the corner of her eye. Ben and Henry could be down any second. She couldn’t let Ben see her cry. She had to show him confidence and strength. But what was keeping them? She just thought the drive from Story to Laramie had been hard, worrying about Ben the whole way and unable to get to him any faster.

  Vangie leaned against the brick wall beside the door. To her, college had been the time of her life. After two years in Vanderbilt in Nashville, she’d taken a summer road trip to Yellowstone with her roommates. They’d stopped for gas in Laramie, where she’d met a good-looking cowboy at the next pump over. The trip would have been fantastic, even without meeting him, but it was a huge bonus to discover Wyoming and Henry Sibley at the same time.

  Henry had pretended he was on his way to Yellowstone, too. He’d caravanned across the state with them, and they’d hung out together over the next week. It wasn’t until the trip back to Laramie—with Vangie now riding in his truck—that he’d confessed to her that the trip had been a spontaneous one on his part, just to spend a little more time with the cute, brown-eyed girl with the Tennessee accent that tickled his ears and made his head spin.

  She’d transferred to the University of Wyoming for her senior year, and they’d married and both gone to work on Piney Bottoms after graduation. She couldn’t help but smile at the memory.

  But Ben was starting his time in college with a stint in jail, fighting drug charges. She wished she could turn him around and take him home. Away from this mess. Give him a do-over somewhere else. Instead, they were going to meet with Les about Ben’s defense. After that . . . she wasn’t sure. But they’d have to figure something out.

  She pushed up her jacket and glanced at her wristwatch. Henry had been inside for ten minutes. What was taking so long? Maybe Ben was packing. Or was in the shower.

  Then the glass door swung open. Vangie straightened and turned toward it, widening her smile for Ben’s benefit. It was a kid about Ben’s age, but not Ben. Short, with skin like an English milkmaid, rosy to the point of pink. It looked like he had his hand over a bloody nose. She felt a flash of sympathy for him, but he wasn’t her problem, and a bloody nose wasn’t fatal.

  She sighed and turned her waiting eyes back on the door. It was cold. She was coming unglued from the energy bursting out of her. Pacing the sidewalk sounded like a better option than just standing there, until she tried it. When she came out of the shelter of the building, the frigid wind buffeted her back.

  She turned away from it and saw Henry. He was alone.

  She ran to meet him. “Where’s Ben?”

  Her husband’s mouth was a grim line.

  When he didn’t answer fast enough, she grabbed his arm, jerking it and him
toward her. The Tennessee deep inside her came out in her stricken voice. “Where is Ben, Henry?”

  He held out a piece of paper. “His roommate gave me this. That, and some lip.”

  “What is it?” She took it from him and unfolded it.

  Henry said nothing.

  Vangie read it, starved for information. I can’t do this. I have to go. I’m sorry, but I’ll be fine. Thank you for everything. You are the best. Tell Hank I love him. Ben

  The paper fluttered from her hand into the breeze and tumbled across a snowy patch of grass. Henry ran after it and snatched it up.

  Vangie sank to her knees, put her face in her hands, and sobbed.

  Chapter Twenty-seven: Reject

  Denver, Colorado

  Friday, December 30, 1977, 4:00 p.m.

  Trish

  Water had run off the ketchup leaving a red mound on the edge of the plate. Trish dunked a room temperature French fry in the gooey part. It didn’t stick, but she stuffed the fry in her mouth anyway. She chewed and swallowed without tasting anything, then pushed the plate away. She’d choked down half a cheeseburger and a handful of fries since lunchtime, more out of nerves than hunger. In the background, the television had been droning all day. Cartoons. Soap operas. Now some sort of after school special, even though school was still out for Christmas break. It didn’t matter. She wasn’t paying any attention to it.

  All her energy was directed at the phone, willing it to ring.

  She inspected her fingers. The cuticles were ragged, red, and swollen. She had nothing left to gnaw on. Her eyes roamed the walls. The hotel room had seemed so luxurious to her before. Now it felt claustrophobic. The windows wouldn’t even open—Trish had tried. She needed fresh air, but she couldn’t leave.

  And then the phone rang.

  Finally! It had only rung once since her mom had left, and that time it had been her checking in on Trish. Please don’t let it be Mom again.

  She snatched it up. “Hello?”

  “Trish?” It was Mrs. Sibley. Clearly, recognizably Vangie Sibley. But Trish had never heard her voice sound this high-pitched before or stretched this tight. A section of barbed wire fence in one syllable.

  Trish sprang off the bed like she’d been cattle prodded. “Yes. It’s me. What is it? Is everything okay?”

  A long pause. “Have you talked to Ben?”

  “No. Is he out of, um, jail?” Trish hated the taste of the word in her mouth.

  “He hasn’t called you?”

  I already told her I haven’t talked to him. Was Mrs. Sibley insinuating Trish had done something wrong? “No. Why?”

  “You didn’t call him?”

  “I’ve tried his room, but there’s been no answer.”

  “I need you to think carefully about this before you answer me. I need the absolute truth, no matter what it is.”

  “I’ve been telling you the truth. I swear.” Trish’s voice broke. “You’re scaring me.”

  Mrs. Sibley barreled on. “Do you know where he went?”

  Trish pressed her palm against her forehead. She’d thought she was all cried out, but the tears were coming again. Mrs. Sibley didn’t know where Ben was. “N-n-n-no. Where is he?”

  Mrs. Sibley didn’t answer.

  Then Mr. Sibley’s voice replaced hers on the line. “Hello, Trish. Ben met with our attorney earlier, after he got out of . . . custody. We’re at the lawyer’s office now. Ben was supposed to pick up some things from his dorm room and head over to the attorney’s house.”

  Trish’s voice came out a hoarse whisper. “Mr. Sibley, what happened? Is Ben missing?”

  “He left a note at his dorm room. For us. It sounds like he’s left town, but he didn’t say where he was going. Or when he was coming back. We were hoping you’d know.”

  Trish staggered along the wall, propping herself off it with one hand. “I haven’t talked to him since he left Buffalo. He doesn’t even know how to reach me in Denver. But I don’t understand. Why would he leave?”

  “The attorney said Ben was really upset when they met.”

  “But Mrs. Sibley told me he didn’t do the things he was accused of.”

  Mr. Sibley sounded tired and sad. “None of us believe he did. The attorney had to explain to him that that doesn’t mean he won’t still be convicted, though.”

  “Why? How?”

  “Even though we believe someone planted drugs on him, the police found them on him. And he has the juvenile record.”

  “I could testify. It wasn’t his fault.”

  “I know you would. Bottom line, though, we don’t know where he is. If he contacts you, will you let us know, please?” Henry recited the attorney’s phone number. Trish grabbed the hotel note pad and pen and scribbled it down. “In the meantime, we’ll be staying here a day or two in case he comes back.”

  After promising she’d call, Trish dropped the phone without hanging up the receiver. She pulled at her hair and paced back and forth from the window to the door. What have you done, Ben? To the window. Where have you gone? To the door. And why, why, why would you just leave? Back to the window, where she stopped and twisted the promise ring on her finger. He’d only given it to her yesterday, and now he was gone. Unless . . . unless he was trying to find her? And he had to be. He wouldn’t take off somewhere without telling her, without telling the girl he intended to marry someday.

  At least, she hoped not. Hoped against hope.

  And then she stiffened. She might not know why he would disappear, but she did have an idea about where he’d go. It was wrong-headed and crazy, but if she was right, she had to move fast. Get back to Buffalo. Because first, he’d go home. He’d think Trish would be in Buffalo. He’d go to her house, but she wouldn’t be there. She tried to think like Ben. Would he wait? He hadn’t waited on the Sibleys. Then what would he do? Grab his things from Piney Bottoms and . . . leave?

  Her heart was racing, and if she’d had on her track shoes, she would have already been running down the hall and out of the hotel. She had to get home. Get her truck. Go after him. Catch him before he did something stupid.

  But how would she get there? Her mom wouldn’t be back for an hour or two. Maybe more if she went out to dinner with Dian and Esme before they came back to the hotel. That would be too late, even if Trish could convince the others that they had to leave Denver immediately.

  If she had enough money, she could take a bus. Buses stopped in Buffalo every day.

  After a few frantic minutes—like Ferdinand searching for a lost ball in the house—she found her purse on the counter in the bathroom, then rifled through it and dug into her wallet. Her Christmas money. This year she’d asked for contributions to the “Trish Flint gas fund” for her truck, and both sets of grandparents had sent perky gift-wrapped boxes of cash, through the mail, which her mom had said was nuts. But Trish was happy they’d done it because that meant she had forty dollars.

  Forty whole dollars.

  Would it be enough to get her home? She hefted the Yellow Pages off the desk and plopped down with it on the bed. Found a number for Greyhound. Called them. Asked about their prices, schedule, and location.

  She pumped a fist. She had enough cash. Way more than enough to get to Casper and from Casper to Buffalo. No need to pack up her suitcase and take it. It would be a hassle on the bus, and her mom could bring it home. She grabbed her purse and put on her coat.

  Then she stopped. How was she going to get to the bus station? It was too far to walk.

  A taxi, she decided, and felt very mature and cosmopolitan. She would call a taxi.

  And in Buffalo, once she arrived—how would she get from the bus to her house, where her truck was parked in the driveway? It was two or three miles in winter weather. Walking would cost her time she didn’t have. Running was an iffy idea. The roads and sidewalks might be slick. She didn’t have her running shoes. And she wasn’t in tip top shape after taking her post cross country season break.

  She’d have to fin
d a ride. A year ago, she would have been comfortable asking her friend Marcy for any favor. They were BFFs. But things between them hadn’t been the same since their basketball coach had gone to prison for murder, with Trish one of the people who had testified against her. Added to that Trish spending more time with Ben than she did with her friends and Marcy wanting a boyfriend of her own more than anything, and the two of them had drifted apart.

  I’ll call her in Casper. And I’ll make it up to her.

  Trish crossed her fingers and headed for the door.

  Chapter Twenty-eight: Find

  Bighorn Mountains, Wyoming

  Friday, December 30, 1977, 4:00 p.m.

  George

  Yellow against white. A snowmobile. Abraham was riding on a red one, but could the yellow machine be Barry? Between the speed of the machine and the weather, as soon as George had glimpsed it, it was gone.

  He and Wes had been searching for the missing men for hours now. Who knew how many—he’d quit checking his watch and he’d stopped paying attention to his growling stomach. The storm. It didn’t just make it harder to find the men. It made the search for them more dangerous, and the probability that they’d find them in trouble higher. They’d been through this park earlier, and there had been nothing and no one here, but they had decided to retrace their paths. The lost men could be driving in circles. If they didn’t find them soon, they were going to have to call the search off for the night. Sunset was coming quickly, in less than an hour, he’d expect. By now Mrs. Murray would have reported the situation to Search & Rescue. They’d have reinforcements when the search continued.