If it had to. Because he wasn’t giving up until he had to.
He accelerated, jumping to his feet on the runners and craning his neck to see over a rise that snuck up on him. In the near distance, he spotted two mounds. No red. No yellow. Just the mounds, and they were almost upon them. The snow-covered ground between them looked like a terrible place to park their own machines. He braked and lifted a fist in the air for Wes, hoping he was close enough to see him, before one of them or both barreled over the mounds. George vaulted off his snowmobile without waiting to find out.
It was hard going in the thigh-deep snow, but he fought his way forward. The closer he got, to the mounds, the more certain he was that he’d found people. And when he was thirty feet or so from them, Abraham leaned around one of the mounds, his helmet on and his face shield lifted. He waved George toward him. The look on the man’s face was pinched. Pained.
George drew closer. He could see Abraham kneeling over something on the ground behind the mounds. Not something. George saw a prone figure near or under one of the mounds—which he knew now were the snowmobiles, buried in snow—a patch of scarlet around his body. Someone. And not just any someone. A dark-haired man with a familiar profile and recognizable red coveralls. Barry. One of his tour customers. Dr. Flint’s brother-in-law. From a distance, it looked like his eyes were closed, and he wasn’t moving. Please God let him be alive. The silent prayer was heading up before George realized it had entered his mind. He’d been raised in a praying household, but he’d gotten away from it in the last few years. This seemed like a good time to resurrect the practice. He did it again, this time on purpose. Please God let him be alive and let us get him out of here safely.
“See them?” he shouted to Wes, even though the lanky man had caught up and was standing next to him. The wind seemed to catapult voices into a soundless void.
“Yes!” Wes didn’t stop, just kept wading through the snow toward Abraham and Barry.
When George had agreed that Wes would accompany him on the search, he’d done so because of the man’s strong snowmobile and mountaineering skills. As they approached Barry, though, he thought of Wes’s medical expertise, which he knew about firsthand after seeing him in action during the weeks George had worked on an electrical project at the hospital. George knew the man pitched in with whatever, whenever. The doctors relied on him heavily. It would have been even better to have Dr. Flint or Dr. John out there, but Wes was a godsend. For George, and for Barry.
Wes reached the men first, but George wasn’t far behind. Barry’s eyes fluttered open. George heard him groan. He still couldn’t tell if he was pinned under the snowmobile or simply close to it.
Wes knelt beside the men. “Tell me what happened.”
Abraham shot a glance at George, but the man couldn’t hold George’s gaze. George glared at him. They had an injured client to take care of right now. But, later, Abraham had some serious explaining to do.
Abraham spoke in his formal, clipped tone. “He flipped. The snowmobile landed on him. The mirror broke off. The metal arm impaled his side.”
That sounded bad, and from the horrified expression on Wes’s face, George got the confirmation he wasn’t looking for.
“How long ago?” Wes said.
Barry wheezed. “A lifetime, feels like.”
“Half an hour. Forty-five minutes at most. Two young women came by on snowmobiles from the resort only a short while afterwards. They went back for help at my request.”
Wes cocked his head. “You left it on him. In him.”
Abraham closed his eyes. There was a grayish white cast to his nose. George wanted to punch him in it. “I didn’t have anything I could use to close his wound. I was afraid that if I lifted it—removed it—he’d bleed to death. There’s been a great deal of blood. And I’m quite worried about shock.”
Wes’s forehead wrinkled into a stack of lines, like books with blank spines facing out. “Good call. I think he looks shocky, too.”
George wasn’t sure what shocky looked like, but Barry’s skin was pale and seemed a little damp. His breathing was fast and shallow. None of that was good, but then the man did have a piece of metal jammed into him.
“Are you a physician?” Abraham asked.
Wes held the back of Barry’s wrist in his palm, his fingers on the exposed veins. “No. But as far as Barry goes right now, I’m close enough.”
Abraham nodded slowly. “With the three of us working together, we might be able to move him.”
“A place out of the wind and snow where we could build a fire would be good,” Wes said, pulling Barry’s coat sleeve over his wrist. “His heart rate is on the high side.”
“I’m right here,” Barry said. His voice was weak, but his sense of humor was intact. “Not dead. Not unconscious.”
Abraham ignored him. “In my opinion, it would be best to find the shelter and build the fire before we attempt to move him from this location. Start some water boiling. Possibly we might find materials with your machines or on your persons that we could use to slow the bleeding and for these other purposes.”
“I’ll check,” George said. Returning to his Boss Cat for his backpack, George kept an ear on their conversation. He had matches, kindling, a small pot, a canteen, extra outerwear, and a shovel in the bag. And maybe some other things that Abraham and Wes would find helpful. He’d bring Wes’s pack, too, while he was at it.
“I see some rocks over there.” Wes stood and waved an arm. “I’ll go check it out on foot. I don’t want to waste time digging out the sled.”
George lugged the backpacks over. “I’ve got what we need to get a fire going and water boiling. Matches, fire starter, paper.”
“Give them to me. If I find us a spot, I’ll get everything going before I come back to help with Barry.”
Abraham rubbed his chin. “What about tape?”
George frowned. “A roll for the snowmobiles, for burst hoses and the like.”
“Good. When you return, we can lift the snowmobile and pack Barry’s wound with fabric and wrap his torso in tape. It is better than nothing, I think.”
“Now? Or when I come back?” Wes asked.
“When you return. I will surround the wound with the cleanest and most absorbent fabrics while you are gone.”
“10-4. I’ll hurry.”
George fished the supplies from his bag. Wes stuffed them down the front of his jacket and zipped it up. He saluted Abraham and George with two fingers, then hunched over and plowed toward the rocks. The white park looked like a bowl of whipped cream, peaked in spots, wavy in others. Wes took one step, stomping it all the way down, then took another and another, slowly moving across the park. Soon he was thigh-high, which was saying a lot for a man with legs like a stork.
George turned away from Barry to question Abraham as soon as he thought Wes was out of earshot. Abraham was searching through the backpacks. He had pulled out George’s hooded Sheridan Broncs sweatshirt.
“How in Hades did you get yourself and Barry separated from the group?” George hissed, whispering.
Abraham stood, sweatshirt trailing from his hand, his eyes on Barry, his voice even lower than George’s. “I tried to slip away unnoticed, but Barry kept turning back to look for me. He saw me leave and followed. I didn’t intend for that to occur.”
George hadn’t expected that answer. A hollow opened inside him that was quickly filled with burning fury. “You left us on purpose? On my snowmobile?”
Abraham’s eyes flicked up. They looked as tortured as the night before when he’d woken from his nightmare to discover he’d attacked George. “They’re here. They followed me here.”
Was Abraham crazy? “What do you mean?”
Abraham’s mouth opened and shut several times. He looked away for a moment. When his eyes returned to George’s, they had gone blank. “I—never mind. I became discombobulated. It is humiliating to admit, for someone of my experience. I am sorry for all the trouble I have caused.�
�
George gaped at the man, as angry—and confused—as he’d ever been in his life. “Whatever, man. Just keep it together from here on out. Okay?”
“Of course. And now I must pack around Barry’s wound. He is bleeding profusely, and I am quite worried.”
George turned away from Abraham. I’ll never get another guiding gig after this. He just hoped Barry would survive.
Chapter Twenty-nine: Panic
Denver Colorado
Friday, December 30, 1977, 5:00 p.m.
Susanne
Susanne stalked down the hallway ahead of Dian, who was speed walking to stay well in front of Esme. The day had gone well enough. Good even. Until they’d taken a break for a mid-afternoon coffee an hour before. Esme had asked one question too many about their youth in College Station, Texas, and Dian had given too much truth in her answer.
Not that it was Dian’s fault. Not entirely. Susanne had been in serious need of a pick-me-up. The mall had worn her out. No. Worrying about Trish has worn me out. As they passed by a cluster of food and beverage outlets, she’d spied a bakery with a sign by the cash register. HOT COFFEE ALL DAY. Praise the Lord and pass the biscuits.
“Would anyone mind stopping for a coffee at that bakery?” she’d asked, pointing to the cute sign in forest green lettering. It had a French feel to it, with a picture of a croissant on one end and a tall, layered cake on the other. Of course, it was a counter in front of a display case in a mall. For all she knew, the baked goods were Sara Lee from the frozen food section of a grocery store. But there could be a gourmet kitchen and a pastry chef back there somewhere. Or maybe there wasn’t.
“I thought you’d never ask.” Dian was half Susanne’s body weight but twice her size in shopping bags. Without waiting for Esme to weigh in, Dian began shedding bags beside a little round table in front of the bakery.
Esme sniffed. “I don’t drink coffee after noon. But a chamomile tea wouldn’t hurt.”
Within minutes, the women were seated at the table—with a third chair they’d borrowed from the Orange Julius next door—hot drinks in front of them and, in Susanne’s case, fork buried in a slice of carrot cake with cream cheese frosting.
“You’d better be planning on sharing a bite with me.” Dian was emptying packets of artificial sweetener one after another into her coffee.
Susanne moaned as she chewed her first bite. She handed the plastic fork to Dian.
Esme dunked her tea bag. “You and Barry seem to be good friends, Dian.”
Dian’s eyes widened. Her mouth was full. She made an agreeable noise, nodding.
“Did he date much in high school?” This time Esme addressed the question to both Susanne and Dian.
The old friends looked at each other. Hadn’t Barry talked to her about his past? About Dian?
Susanne swallowed her carrot cake and reached for her coffee. She waffled her hand.
“He certainly dated half the women in Austin before me.” Esme’s laugh was brittle. “But no one serious, he said, except for one ex-fiancée.”
Esme doesn’t know! She doesn’t know about Barry and Dian.
“One, but two times,” Dian blurted out.
Susanne kicked Dian’s shin under the table.
Esme cradled her paper teacup with both hands. She leaned toward Dian. “Two engagements? He didn’t tell me that. What do you know about it? About her? About them?”
“Oh—” Dian said.
Susanne cut in. “Gosh, Esme, those are questions for Barry.”
Esme’s eyes narrowed to slits. “I’m going to be family. Your sister.”
Susanne faked a laugh. “I’m already his sister. And he’d kill me if I talked about him behind his back.”
“Fine. Not him, then. Her. Tell me about her.”
“Esme . . .”
“Her name, at least.” Esme’s voice rose. “Just tell me her name. You owe me that much.”
Owe her?
Something in Dian’s posture changed. Uh oh. Her voice was firm and unapologetic. “Dian.”
“Excuse me?” Esme said.
Susanne squeezed her eyes shut. This is going to go badly. Why couldn’t Dian have let me handle it?
“Her name was Dian.”
For long, silent moments, Esme didn’t speak. Her eyes flitted from Susanne to Dian, back and forth like a metronome. Finally, she said to Susanne, “Is she saying that she was his fiancée?”
Dian answered for Susanne. “Both times. We were slow learners.”
“I’m spending my hen party weekend in Denver with my fiancé’s old girlfriend?” Esme screeched. She knocked her tea sideways. Susanne caught it and kept it from spilling.
Dian smiled. “His old fiancée. But one who couldn’t be happier for the two of you.”
“Have you two been laughing at me this whole time?” Esme was staring daggers at Susanne.
Susanne reached out and put a hand on Esme’s arm. “No, of course not. This whole weekend has been lovely.” Except for right now. And my daughter’s boyfriend being thrown in jail.
Esme’s lips pressed into a straight line. She clutched the V of her blouse collar. Her voice turned venomous. “When exactly were you going to tell me?”
Dian wasn’t known for having a lot of rope, and her patience had run to the end of it. “Honey, that is a question you should be asking of our sweet Barry-boy.”
“Barry-boy? Is that your pet name for him?”
Susanne didn’t know how to defuse the situation. It had turned so ugly, so fast. She was going to give her brother the business for not telling Esme before he let the women go away together for the weekend.
She smiled. “No. That’s what our family nanny called him when we were kids. It spread from our house to his school friends. But, Esme, truly I had no idea Barry hadn’t told you. He loves you, though. You’re getting married.”
Dian inspected her nails. “Everything about us is ancient history.”
“When did you break up?” Esme demanded.
“Years ago, wasn’t it?” Susanne stretched the truth as far as it would go. It wasn’t a lie. The first engagement had ended more than a decade before.
Dian looked Esme in the eye. “Long enough that I don’t remember the specifics. Esme, I’m sorry this has made you uncomfortable. I’m happy for Barry. And for you.”
“How can you be? You’re alone.”
Susanne read the rage in Dian’s body language, but her voice was smooth and sweet as Karo syrup when she answered. “By choice. And that has nothing to do with wanting the best for my friends, old and new.” She tilted her coffee cup and looked in it. “Empty. Shall we get on the road now?”
“Now is good. I need to check on things with Trish before dinner,” Susanne said.
Esme tucked her purse under her arm and stood. “I think I’d like to have an evening in. You all can go to dinner without me.”
The three women left without another word said. Not in the mall, not in the Suburban, and not in the hotel walking to their room. Susanne reached the door first. Her whole body ached with the need to see Trish with her own eyes, to hug her daughter if the girl would accept it, and to try to make things better for her. She hated bringing Esme’s tension in the room with her. Maybe Trish wouldn’t pick up on it.
Entering, she called, “Trish, we’re back.” Then she felt silly. That’s obvious.
Dian followed up with, “You’re going to love the things I bought for you with your dad’s money!”
Esme closed the door.
Trish didn’t answer.
Susanne walked all the way into the room and turned in a circle. Trish wasn’t there. She checked the bathroom. The door was wide open. No Trish in there, either. Susanne frowned.
“Where is she?” Esme asked.
Susanne couldn’t hold back the snap in her voice. “How would I know?”
“Excuse me,” Esme snapped back. “I thought maybe she’d told you when you called her from the mall.”
Susanne pressed her knuckles to her lips. “She didn’t.”
Dian ran her hand across the desktop. A half-eaten burger and fries sat there, dry and sad on a plate. “Is there a note? Maybe she went for a walk.”
A thorough room search didn’t yield a note. Or her coat. Or her purse. Only her suitcase.
Trish is gone. Susanne trembled. She was frightened and had no idea what to do next.
Esme’s voice was small, but the anger had left it. “She probably didn’t realize we’d be back before dinner. Maybe she went to get something else to eat. This hamburger looks like it was from lunch. She’ll be back soon.”
She was probably right. But what if someone took her? There was no sign of a struggle, though. “I’m going to kill her for scaring me like this. She knows better.”
The phone rang. Susanne lunged for it, tripping over Trish’s suitcase and catching herself on the edge of the desk. “Hello?”
“I only have a minute, Mom. I—”
“Patricia Flint, where are you?” Susanne’s voice cracked.
“Getting on a bus.”
Susanne screeched like a parrot. “What?”
“Mrs. Sibley called me. Ben is out of jail, but he left a note that he had to leave. He’s disappeared.” Trish’s voice sounded sad but determined. “I’m sorry. I love you, Mom, but I have to go. I’ll see you at home.”
“Go where?” Susanne asked.
A dial tone was her only answer.
Chapter Thirty: Examine
North of Clear Creek Resort, Bighorn Mountains, Wyoming
Friday, December 30, 1977, 5:00 p.m.
Patrick
Patrick cut off the engine to his snowmobile. He and Dr. John parked beside Jenelle and Mandy, who were riding double, since Jenelle’s machine had broken down. Patrick’s ribs were grateful for the respite. He was a staunch believer in pain building character. After today, he was going to have enough to last his lifetime.
“This is where they were.” Jenelle looked to her friend for confirmation. “But where did they go? It would help a lot if we had some light.” The sun had set, and the light was growing dim on the mountain.
Stag Party: A Patrick Flint Novel Page 15
