Stag Party: A Patrick Flint Novel

by Pamela Fagan Hutchins

  “You’re the expert on the area, but weren’t we further into the park?” Mandy said, pointing. “Near that hump of snow? I think I see yellow.”

  Jenelle nodded. “And there are some tracks. Follow me.” She lowered her face guard and gunned the engine on her machine.

  Patrick and Dr. John fell in behind them. Less than a minute later, they stopped at a mound of snow. The yellow was a Ski-Doo snowmobile, flipped and partially buried in snow stained with something dark. Patrick’s stomach clenched. Barry had been riding a Ski-Doo. Wes, too. But so had everyone else the lodge rented to that day, in addition to anyone who might own one of the popular machines and be riding one in the area.

  Mandy said, “I don’t get it. If this is their machine—and I think it looks the same, plus, it seems like that’s blood from the injured guy—then the other one and the men are gone. Maybe someone else already gave them a ride?”

  Jenelle shook her head. “We would have seen them. That was the only way back to the resort.”

  Patrick smacked one fist into the other palm. “Where the heck are they?”

  He couldn’t believe how long it had taken the four of them to get there from the lodge. Between the poor visibility, people getting stuck, and Jenelle’s snowmobile breaking down, their progress had been agonizing. At least they hadn’t wasted time on the crippled machine. Jenelle had just squeezed on with Mandy and forged ahead.

  Dr. John put a hand on his shoulder. “We’ll find them, Patrick.”

  Patrick felt his lips moving. He didn’t want to look like he was talking to himself in front of the others, but his stress was so high, he was powerless to stop. Don’t let it be Barry. Or Wes. Or George. He wouldn’t wish a wilderness injury on anyone, but he couldn’t help being most concerned about his family and friends.

  A gust of wind so strong that it knocked him back a step ripped across the park. He leaned into it. When it died down, he thought he saw smoke rising over a rock outcropping.

  He pointed, energy infusing his voice. “Is that smoke over there? Or is it just a snow devil?”

  Three heads swiveled.

  Dr. John frowned. “My distance vision isn’t what it used to be.”

  Jenelle nodded. “Could be. Definitely could be.”

  Patrick hopped back on his snowmobile. Was the smoke from a wrecked machine? Or a man-made fire? He eyed the park, trying to get a fix on what he thought he saw between them and the possible smoke. Soft-edged depressions seemed to cross the expanse—parallel lines filled with the last dump of snow. They headed toward the smoke. Or at least he thought they did. It was hard to tell. “Those could be snowmobile tracks leading over to it.”

  Dr. John tapped his shoulder. “Let me break trail for you. We’ll go see together.”

  “All right.”

  “Give me some room in case I get stuck. Don’t let your speed drop once you get going, though, or you’ll founder.”

  Patrick nodded.

  “We’re going, too,” Jenelle said.

  “I’ll bring up the rear, then.” Patrick dropped his face shield and pulled the starter.

  Within seconds, two of the three snowmobiles were growling and roaring into the face of the blizzard. Patrick took a deep breath. He was a neophyte, but he’d had most of the day to build his skills, especially in the last hour over deep powder. Now it was time to test himself, broken ribs or not.

  No fear. Don’t blink.

  He depressed the throttle and steered his snowmobile into the deep tracks left by the others.

  His machine all but levitated across the snow. The sensation was like floating, but somehow lighter. It was close to the one flying his plane gave him. This is what the land speeder in Star Wars must have felt like. The experience would have been an almost perfect peace, despite the storm, if not for the whine of the machine’s belt as it struggled and the disquietude he felt about what might be waiting for them on the other side of the park.

  Halfway there, darkness fell like a cloak. With the heavy clouds, there was no sun, no moon, and no stars. By the time Patrick’s group had reached the rocks, it wasn’t just a whiteout, it was a blackout. Patrick couldn’t see the tracks in the snow, the machines or the rocks in front of him, the buttons on his dash, or even tell where the land ended and the sky began. He hadn’t asked how to turn on his headlamps before. A critical error. A button? A switch? Where? It wasn’t something he could figure out while he was fighting powder. With the roar of the machine added to the darkness, the sensation was simultaneously isolation and claustrophobia. He’d experienced something similar when he’d turned off the lights to his plane while flying at night once. But he’d known all he had to do was flip them back on then. He had no such reassurance now. He could plow into or over one of his friends without advance warning. Or the rocks.

  How far ahead of me are they? For a moment, he thought about stopping, but, just as he was about to let off the gas, he saw bouncing light illuminating rock faces. The others turned on their lights. The relief made him feel giddy, especially since he now saw that the trail cut to the left of the rocks. Without the lights, he might have plowed right into them. He barked out a laugh that was swallowed by snowmobile noise.

  The snow wasn’t as deep close in to the rocks, and a loud scraping noise and jolt scared the bejeebers out of him. Rocks under the snow, he realized. They jerked his handlebars to the left, toward the enormous boulders. He was face to face with towering rock, only inches away, before he regained control and swung the machine’s nose back to the right. His sled veered away from the base of the cliff.

  In front of him, one set of lights disappeared. Then the second set was gone, too, leaving him in darkness once again. They’ve rounded a corner. He slowed, searching for an end to the rocks, a fold, a cave, anything, and unable to see their tracks anymore.

  He shouted, “Hello?”

  There was no answer. Of course. He eased the machine forward at the lowest speed he dared. If he got stuck, how long would it be before the others realized they’d lost him and turned back for him?

  As he was worrying through his options, a figure hidden against the stone face leapt out at him. Upright. Huge. Looming.

  Bear!

  He pulled hard to the right, away from it. But then he realized the upright form was wearing a brown jacket. One he recognized, too. Wes. Patrick had never been so glad to see his friend and co-worker. Please let the others be with him. Barry. George. Abraham.

  Wes waved Patrick in toward the rock. Now Patrick saw snowmobiles parked in an alcove of sorts, with tall rock walls sheltering them on three sides. Dr. John’s, with the light still on, and four other machines. One red, one blue, the others yellow. He matched colors to riders. Red. Abraham had been on a red one. George had ridden the fancy blue one. Jenelle and Mandy were on a yellow Ski-Doo, as were Wes and Dr. John.

  Whose machine was out in the park—Barry?

  He pulled up beside the last snowmobiles in line and turned his off. The silence rang louder in his ears than the noise had, it seemed, and it felt like his whole body was vibrating.

  He lifted his shield, ripped off his helmet, and hurried over to Wes. “Can’t tell you how glad I am to see you.”

  Wes pulled him into an excruciating hug. “Not as glad as I am to see you and Dr. John, Sawbones. When I heard those snowmobiles coming, I don’t mind telling you I cried. Like a damn baby, Doc.” Wes released him. Patrick could see the redness around his eyes. His friend wasn’t kidding.

  “We heard someone is injured.”

  “Yes, and I’m sorry to say it’s your brother-in-law.”

  “How bad is he?”

  “Come see for yourself. He’s in the cave back there.”

  Cave? Patrick grabbed the medical kit from the snowmobile, then followed Wes. They walked past the other sleds toward the rock wall. As Wes neared it, he rounded a standing rock that shielded the mouth of a recessed area. A rock overhang covered it from above, high enough that an adult male could stand
up under it. Patrick wouldn’t have called it a cave, but it was close enough to one to provide protection from the elements. George and the two women were huddled around a fire. From their body language, Patrick guessed George and Jenelle were friends, or at least knew each other previously. Mandy was listening to their conversation.

  Dr. John and Abraham were crouched close to the fire. A pot was wedged in the coals, heating water. Patrick saw the booted feet of a prone figure on the dirt-packed ground between the men. The feet were elevated and resting on rocks.

  Barry.

  Patrick joined them, his heart jammed so high in his throat he couldn’t swallow. “How is he?”

  He stared at the pale face of his brother-in-law. Patrick had been friends with Barry most of their lives. Since they were boys. Before he’d starting dating Barry’s cute little sister. To see him like this was a blow to the solar plexus. But then the doctor in him asserted authority, pushing him into a steely-eyed medical response. There would be time for emotion later.

  Barry’s closed eyes popped open. “Not dead but wish I were.”

  “You’re awake.”

  “Not by choice. Hurts like the dickens.” His voice was reedy.

  Dr. John’s usually sparkling eyes were grave. He motioned Patrick away from Barry. “Wes has done a fine job of slowing the bleeding, taping up the wound, and stabilizing him, but he was impaled in the side by a metal spike. The volume of bleeding is troubling.”

  Wes stepped closer. He crossed his arms. “It wasn’t me who helped him, Dr. John. It was Abraham.”

  Patrick ignored the extraneous information. A metal spike to the side. Profuse bleeding. There were so many possibilities for internal injuries, not to mention the impact of blood loss and shock, and any secondary injuries that were being overlooked elsewhere. Broken bones, concussion, dislocations, other soft tissue damage. “He looks to be in shock. Any fever?”

  Dr. John said, “He is in shock, I think. But he doesn’t feel feverish.”

  “Any vital organs pierced?”

  “I think we’d have already lost him if so, but we need to check. And we need to stop that bleeding.”

  Surgery in the wilderness. It was tricky. Patrick kept thinking about that metal spike. So many things it could have damaged. Intestines, spleen, and the list went on. “Are you thinking about operating on him here? I’ve got about everything we’d need in my bag.”

  “Do I get a vote in this?” Barry said.

  “No,” Patrick answered.

  Dr. John sighed. His eyes were warm and empathetic. “I think we need to get that bleeding stopped sooner rather than later. Transporting in this storm would be risky, even if we could figure out how to move him. We could end up losing a lot of time he doesn’t have. Or worse, getting stuck somewhere that makes this place seem like a state-of-the-art operating theater.”

  Wes said, “I don’t see how we could move him. I don’t even see how we could navigate ourselves.”

  Jenelle had been listening. “I can’t help on how to move him, but I know the way back blindfolded. Is there something I can do?” The way she swallowed the vowel in “back” gave her away as a lifelong Wyoming resident.

  Patrick rubbed his palm back and forth across his forehead. “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  “Okay, then. A real stretcher. Something we could belt him into that would shelter him from the weather and absorb the bumps.”

  Barry groaned. “No bumps. Please no bumps. So much pain.”

  Dr. John rolled his neck. “Better yet, a helicopter, but I don’t see that happening in time.”

  Jenelle nodded. “I’ll radio Buffalo. You never know. George, would you ride back with Mandy and me? We’re down to one snowmobile. It’s not smart to ride alone at the best of times in daylight. This is anything but that.”

  “Escort two beautiful women or stay in a cave with a bunch of smelly guys? Easy choice.” He grinned. “Seriously, it’s going to be tricky going out there. If we get lost or stuck, we’ll need to huddle for body heat. I just want you to know I’m willing to make that sacrifice for you.”

  Jenelle smiled at him. “I’ve got a pup tent and a feather weight sleeping bag. We’ll be fine. You, on the other hand, might freeze to death.”

  Patrick now felt sure they knew each other, and that they wanted to know each other better.

  “I believe I can be of most assistance here, George, if you agree.” It was Abraham, who hadn’t spoken since Patrick arrived. His upper lip was beaded in sweat and his voice was shaky. “If someone were to have to try to get him back to the resort tonight, I would be best suited, because of my snowmobile skills.”

  George gave Abraham a pointed look. “I’m counting on that.”

  Patrick caught George’s eyes and mouthed what is that about? George shrugged, then mouthed back nothing. Patrick wasn’t so sure, but he assumed the two guides had argued about Abraham and Barry getting separated from the group. Which made Patrick wonder why they had. But they had bigger problems for him to worry about now.

  Jenelle spoke to Patrick and Dr. John, dividing her eye contact between them. “If we can’t get anyone up the mountain with a real stretcher, we’ll build you one. And when I return with it, I’ll have food and hot drinks.”

  “If the weather doesn’t clear, wait for daylight,” Dr. John said. “We don’t need anyone else hurt or lost.”

  “See you for breakfast, then.”

  The emotion Patrick had tamped down welled up again, and his voice wobbled. “Thank you. All of you.”

  Mandy, George, and Jenelle picked up their helmets and disappeared into the night.

  Patrick heard the snowmobiles fire up and depart. He laid his jacket on the ground, inside up, and arrayed supplies from the kit on it. Scissors, stitching line, a needle, betadine, alcohol, gauze and bandages, antibiotics, lidocaine, morphine, syringes, a stethoscope, a thermometer, and more.

  Barry rolled his head, trying to get a look. “I know I call you a quack, Patrick. But right now, I’m really praying you’re not one. Are you sure we need to do this? I can survive the pain.”

  “He’s not. And we’re sure.” Dr. John looked over the selections. “You’re so well-equipped, it’s like we’re in the operating room back in Buffalo.”

  Patrick half-smiled in acknowledgement of the compliment. “How about I’ll prep and assist, and you operate?” God had blessed Dr. John with the hands of a surgeon, and then he’d put them to good use as a Navy surgeon in the Korean War. It was a time he wouldn’t talk about, other than to say his skills were battle tested. The volume of surgeries was lower in Buffalo, and he kept his fingers limber by building grandfather clocks. He’d invited Patrick over once to watch him at work. The small parts, the intricate ways in which they meshed—Patrick had been amazed that Dr. John could fit his hands into the tiny spaces and operate his tools there. He was unflinching and had no tremor. Patrick wished he was half the surgeon Dr. John was. “You’ve got the magic hands.”

  Dr. John smiled. Patrick’s offer had been only confirmation of the division of labor that he would have insisted on. Not only was he the better surgeon, but he was the better physician to care for Barry. Barry was Patrick’s friend and family member. Patrick could have attended to him—would help attend to him—but best practice was to eliminate even the possibility of emotion getting in the way.

  Wes said, “I’ll keep the fire fed and water boiling. In fact, I’m going to start gathering more firewood now. Gotta brush it off and get it in here to dry, so we’ll have it ready when we need it.”

  “I can assist with the procedure in any way you need,” Abraham said.

  Patrick almost protested. Abraham could gather the wood. But Wes had said Abraham was good with Barry earlier. They could always call Wes back if they needed him. He washed his hands in the snow beside Dr. John, who was doing the same thing. Then each man rubbed their hands with a small amount of alcohol.

  Patrick squatted beside Barry an
d put a hand on his shoulder. “If I were in your shoes, there’s no one in the world I’d rather have operate on me than Dr. John.”

  “Let me know how to help you best,” Abraham said. “I see you have painkillers.” He gestured at the supplies.

  Patrick settled back on his heels, scrutinizing Abraham. He was knowledgeable about medicine. More than simply a snowmobile tour guide and racer. Then again, he should have expected Abraham to have a “day job.” George guided tours, and he was a fine electrician.

  “Are you a nurse?” Patrick asked.

  Abraham said, “I have had medical training.”

  “Hmmm.” Intriguing. Patrick had poor needle skills. “How are you with giving shots?”

  Dr. John said, “Neither of us usually operates the needle.”

  “Great,” Barry muttered.

  “I am good with a syringe. Would you like me to administer five milligrams of morphine? And I can inject lidocaine. Possibly twenty cc’s? Or thirty?”

  Patrick did a calculation in his head and found to his surprise that Abraham was spot on. “That sounds right on the morphine. Let’s go with thirty on the lidocaine. And he’ll need some of the ampicillin.”

  “Two hundred and fifty milligrams?”

  Patrick was no longer surprised. “Yes. Thank you. I’ll start prepping him.”

  Abraham knelt to wash his hands at the mouth of the cave.

  Patrick began rolling up the edges of Barry’s upper layers of garments, while Dr. John took his vitals. In the cold temperatures, Patrick couldn’t afford to cut the fabric, but neither could he run the risk of dirty fabric getting in the wound. He decided to stitch it loosely out of the way, then cut the stitching when the surgery was over.

  “No fever,” Dr. John said. “That’s a good sign.”

  Patrick tied off his stitching and returned the needle to Dr. John. Dr. John moved on to sterilizing the scissors, needle, and line, and Patrick could tell he was taking care to minimize the waste of alcohol as he did so. In the hospital operating room, the alcohol would have been used much more liberally. Even wastefully. But their supply was limited out in the wilderness.