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  Renkin pushed himself upright in the bed. His face turned red, which made Patrick even more confident of his diagnosis. The man was under the grips of extreme stress and emotions. “Anxiety? Like a mental disorder? Impossible. It felt like I was having a heart attack, not like I was going crazy.”

  Patrick had expected his reaction. Most people wanted to be told they had something that could be fixed with a pill or a knife. And they equated anything mental with “crazy.” Crazy couldn’t be fixed, and it changed how people were regarded by others. It was difficult to get patients, or the public, to understand that mental issues were a normal part of the human condition.

  “Not a disorder. An episode. And I’m not saying you’re crazy.”

  “Sounded like it to me. People have labeled Judge Ellis as loony tunes since the story came out that he killed himself. I can’t let that happen to me, too.”

  “I didn’t say you were crazy, Judge. And, for the record, I don’t have any reason to think Ellis was either.”

  He harrumphed. “Mental disorder.”

  “Anxiety episode.”

  “Preposterous. I don’t know how you could even reach that conclusion.”

  “From the evidence—your symptoms. The ones you had as well as the ones you didn’t have.” Patrick ticked a list off on his fingers. “You had an accelerated heart rate and rapid breathing. You were pale, sweaty, and tired. You had chest pain down into your arm, but you didn’t have some of the other symptoms I usually see with a heart attack. Like neck or jaw pain. Nausea or indigestion. And, as I said already, your EKG and blood work were good.”

  The judge shook his head. “You can’t ignore the coincidence. Judge Ellis died under suspicious circumstances on the eve of the Kemecke trial. Now, on the eve of the same trial in my courtroom, I have this attack. Ellis was no more suicidal than I am, and I can assure you that I’m not. Our sheriff thinks the tox screen will show Ellis was drugged. And I think that’s what my tox screen will show, too. My money says Kemecke’s supporters are behind my . . . episode.”

  “If they tried to kill you, they didn’t succeed this time. But I don’t think you were poisoned or drugged. I’ve consulted with the cardiologist in Casper. In an abundance of caution, I’d like you to stay overnight so I can repeat the blood work in twelve hours.”

  The judge’s voice was a shocked roar. “Impossible. The trial starts in the morning.”

  Patrick wasn’t a skeptic by nature, but it was possible the judge had been faking since he’d walked into the ER that morning, to throw suspicion off himself and create sympathy. If he had, he was even more dangerous to the Flints now. Patrick didn’t mind at all that by keeping the judge overnight he would keep him away from Susanne and the kids. It would bridge more of the gap until the governor’s security guard arrived, too.

  He stood his ground.

  “Exactly. You’re an important man to this state and county. We need to take good care of you.”

  “Good care of me? I won’t sleep a wink here. I have to be at my best. I have a duty to the people.”

  If Patrick couldn’t convince Renkin to stay, he couldn’t legally hold him against his will either. He could be stubborn and require him to sign out against medical advice, but it was a stretch. Renkin just didn’t have the risk factors to support that decision. He wasn’t obese, didn’t have diabetes, and claimed no personal or family history of hypertension or heart disease.

  Patrick decided he had to let him go without the signature. “All right. It will be your choice. But if you’re leaving, you’re doing it against medical advice.”

  Renkin sneered. “Dr. John wouldn’t be such a hard ass about this.”

  “I’m not being a . . . I’m not being hard. I’m standing behind my medical opinion. I can’t guarantee this won’t happen to you again. You might even be in the beginning of an incident that will escalate tonight.”

  “Duly noted.”

  Patrick grabbed his stethoscope. “Let me listen to your chest one more time.” He rubbed his stethoscope on his own shirt to warm it, then slid it under Renkin’s gown, moving it several times as he listened closely. When he didn’t hear anything out of the ordinary, he took Renkin’s blood pressure. Then he counted his pulse.

  Finally, he nodded. “I’m going to need you to schedule a follow-up appointment about your blood pressure. It’s 160 over 110. That’s not immediately dangerous, but it’s too high. For the sake of your health, I’d like to see you do something to control the stress in your life. It wouldn’t hurt you to lose some weight and drink less, too.”

  “You’re kidding, right?”

  “I can assure you, I’m not.”

  “Fine. I’ll make an appointment for after the trial.”

  Patrick never ceased to be amazed at how quickly patients could go from prioritizing a health situation to rationalizing why it was no longer important. Nothing short of an emergency deserved attention. But that is just what the situation would become if they put off care too long.

  “Will you at least come in for daily blood pressure checks? The staff can handle them in just a few minutes. No appointment necessary. That way we can put you on a diuretic if your blood pressure doesn’t come down.”

  “Fine.”

  Patrick thought Renkin coming in every day for BP checks was about as likely as Susanne asking him to get her another horse. “We can release you now, and you can make your follow-up appointment before you head home.”

  “Is my deputy here?”

  “Your protection detail?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll check while we get your paperwork ready.” Patrick stood.

  Renkin cleared his throat. “By the way, Dr. Flint. I appreciate you volunteering this year as the team doctor for the basketball season. That kind of community spirit says something about a man.”

  Patrick nodded. “Thank you. I enjoyed it, and it made my daughter happy, too. She’s crazy about basketball.” He shook his head. “She’s going to be devastated that her coach won’t be back next year. Lamkin has been so successful with the program, too. It’s going to be a big loss for the school.”

  “Yes. Yes, she has. But I trust the school district to find an appropriate replacement.” The judge frowned, then stood and held his gown closed. “I think you’re aware I’m running for a U.S. Senate seat?”

  “I’d heard that.” As recently as his call with Rawlins, but he didn’t tell Renkin that.

  Renkin waved his hand in front of his chest. “We’ve got to keep this quiet. My condition.”

  Patrick chafed internally at the use of the word we. He always protected patient confidentiality to the best of his ability. The barking dog was normally the patient, although the medical provider was usually blamed. He knew his voice was a little stiff when he said, “We don’t disclose confidential patient information.”

  “Still, just in case, I would prefer this be classified as an inconclusive diagnosis instead of acute anxiety. Even indigestion would be better than anxiety.”

  “You didn’t have any symptoms of a gut ailment.”

  “Work with me, Dr. Flint.”

  Patrick walked to the door, opened it, and exited, then leaned his head back in. “You can call it whatever you’d like. I won’t contradict you.”

  Then he shut the door firmly and took a few calming breaths. After the day—the week—Patrick was having, Renkin wasn’t the only one whose blood pressure was elevated.

  Chapter Twenty-five: Exult

  Buffalo, Wyoming

  Tuesday, March 15, 1977, 11:30 a.m.

  Susanne

  Susanne stood in a shaft of warm sunlight just outside the open front door to the house. A police car drove past on the dirt road. The beefed-up security presence of the Flints’ own posse combined with the officers protecting the judge was comforting. Henry had arrived an hour before. He’d parked his truck in front of their house, turned off the engine, and put his hands behind his head and his feet on the dash and hadn’t
moved since. Asleep? She waved, and he waved back. Nope. Just relaxing.

  Relaxing sounded good. Their situation was wearing on her, and she could have used a nap in a hammock with warm sun on her face. She loved this time of year. Longer days. The end of the harsh winter so tantalizingly close that she could probably convince Patrick to let her shave his beard. A smile crossed her lips. Maybe she was fooling herself, but she thought it was even starting to smell like spring. Loamy and fresh, like new beginnings. She’d just put out her hummingbird feeder an hour before, and already she had seven of the little terrorists fighting each other for the four perches. Their wings were a whirring chorus that varied only in intensity when they dove or accelerated, and their feathers were like robes of emerald green and ruby red against the backdrop of the remaining snow.

  From the front porch stoop, she had a good view of Trish but was far enough away that she didn’t absorb any of her daughter’s lingering wrath. The girl was brushing Goldie’s flaxen mane. The palomino mare was tied to the hitching post in front of the barn, blonde and petite beside the hulking blackness of Reno. Trish had agreed to care for Reno today but had balked at working with Perry’s chunky little paint, Duke.

  Reno. Their miracle horse. Symbolic of their family, possibly? That they didn’t give up. That with the help of friends and family, they could survive anything? That there was a life of peace and tranquility out there for them? She certainly hoped so. Trish lifted one of Reno’s giant hooves and cleaned the muck from it with a hoof pick. Ferdinand padded over and scarfed it up the second it hit the ground. It was mostly manure, and Susanne cringed. That dog was going to try to kiss her face later, she just knew it.

  Poor Duke stood watching them with his head over the gate and his eyes downcast. If ever a horse could be hang dog, he was. Trish must have noticed, too, because she set Reno’s hoof down and went to the paint. His head popped up, and he nickered. She reached into her pocket for a cookie and slipped it in his mouth. He bobbed his head as he chewed, and Susanne heard Trish laugh as she walked back to Reno.

  Inside the house, the phone rang. Susanne shouted, “Trish, I have to run get the phone. I’ll be right back. Henry’s here.”

  Trish ignored her. Or maybe she didn’t hear her. Nah, Susanne decided. Her daughter was ignoring her. Susanne ran for the phone, snatching it off the hook on its sixth ring.

  “Hello?”

  “May I speak to Susanne Flint?” It was a woman’s voice. Familiar, but not someone she immediately recognized.

  “Speaking.”

  “Hi, Susanne. This is Barb Lamkin.”

  Why would Trish’s basketball coach be calling her? She hoped they hadn’t gotten Trish in trouble by keeping her out of school. “Hello, Coach Lamkin. I have Trish home with me today. I hope she didn’t miss a practice?”

  “Call me Barb. Oh, no, no. She’s good. I’m giving them the week off before we start our spring practice schedule. That’s not why I’m calling.”

  Now Susanne was really confounded. “Oh?”

  “I had a great time talking to you at the tournament in Laramie, and you’ve been so nice to me at church. I wanted to see if you’d like to meet me for lunch today.”

  “Don’t you have school?” Susanne regretted the blurt as soon as it was out of her mouth. She should have just said thank you. Coach Lamkin—Barb—was a grownup and could manage her own schedule.

  But Barb just laughed. “I don’t have a long lunch break, but I do eat offsite some days. It’s easier for me to do it when the girls are on hiatus. If you’re busy, or if you’re not a lady who lunches, maybe we could go to the shooting range some time.”

  Susanne felt a stirring of pleasure. She was doing better and better in the friend department, although she wasn’t about to choose the shooting range over lunch. Or anything. She’d never been asked to socialize over gunpowder and lead before moving to Wyoming. But Barb was a Wyoming native, and she fell in the tough and capable category of women that Susanne hadn’t fit in with her first few years in Buffalo. But she was fitting in with Barb now.

  A female voice spoke behind her. “Susanne, what are you up to?”

  Susanne turned into the cord, wrapping herself. It was Vangie. Of course, she fit in with Vangie, too, but that didn’t really count since Vangie was from Tennessee. Susanne smiled and twirled three-hundred and sixty degrees in the opposite direction, freeing herself.

  “Hold on a second, Barb.” Putting her hand over the phone, she pointed to the receiver and whispered to Vangie, “It’s Barb. Inviting me to lunch.”

  Vangie made O’s with her mouth and eyes. Her tiny body and enormous belly made her look like a lollipop in her red maternity dress and white snow boots. “Are you going?”

  “I can’t. Trish.”

  “You can leave her with Henry and me.”

  Susanne cocked her head, thinking. “In that case, would you want to go, and we could just leave her with Henry?”

  Vangie patted her belly. “The baby does need food.”

  Susanne uncovered the mouthpiece. “Sorry. Vangie Sibley is here with me right now.” She paused, giving Barb a chance to invite her.

  Barb took it. “Why don’t you bring her? I’ll bring another teacher with me, and we’ll make it a foursome. Do you know Tara Coker?”

  “I’ve heard the name.”

  “She’s new in town. She took over after the Christmas break for the upper level math teacher.”

  “I’ll look forward to meeting her.”

  “You’ll like her. She’s plucky like you.”

  Plucky. Susanne had been called perky and spunky before, even feisty, but never plucky. She mused on it for a moment. She wasn’t one hundred percent sure what it meant, but she liked it. “Where and when?”

  “Could you be at the Busy Bee in ten minutes?”

  “See you there.”

  She hung up the phone, turning to her friend. “You’re so adorable it hurts me.”

  “Stop. I’m about to pop.” She offered her elbow, and Susanne put a hand through it. “Let’s go break the news to Henry that he gets a chance to redeem his teenager-watching reputation.”

  Chapter Twenty-six: Duck

  Buffalo, Wyoming

  Tuesday, March 15, 1977, 11:45 a.m.

  Patrick

  At the nurse’s station, Patrick saluted Kim, who was tapping a pen against her cheek. “I’m running home for a quick lunch. Dr. John will be covering for me until I get back.”

  She waved but barely looked up from her paperwork. “See you in a few.”

  As he walked, Patrick stuck one arm through a sleeve of his quilted jacket, then repeated the process on the other side. He reached the vestibule at the same time as Judge Renkin. Renkin averted his eyes and didn’t speak.

  Patrick pushed the door open for the older man. Keep your friends close but your enemies closer. The door squeaked, which reminded Patrick he needed to let the maintenance staff know it needed to be greased. “I hope you have an uneventful night. Don’t hesitate to come back if anything seems out of the ordinary.”

  The judge nodded. His behavior was so markedly different from earlier, that Patrick wondered if he’d spoken with the sheriff or the governor. Did he know about the Flints’ suspicions? About the deal Patrick had struck with Rawlins? Patrick hoped not.

  The two men walked into the parking lot, down the same aisle. The lot was close to empty. Not a busy day at the hospital. And still Patrick and Renkin had managed to park near each other. With Renkin spending so much energy ignoring Patrick, the proximity made Patrick self-conscious.

  The judge paused behind a shiny black Dodge Ram truck, digging in his pocket for keys. A recent model. It didn’t appear the man suffered used vehicles. He stepped around his truck bed to the driver’s side. Patrick walked faster to put some distance between them.

  CRACK. PFFFT.

  For a moment, the sound didn’t trigger recognition in Patrick. But only for a very short moment. It was clearly a rifle shot. After
another fraction of a second, Patrick realized the bullet had passed somewhere between him and the judge. The shot hit the asphalt a few yards behind them, sending up a spray of debris.

  “Get down!” Patrick shouted. He dove behind a parked woody station wagon. “Are you okay, Judge?”

  CRACK. PING.

  A bullet hit the metal exterior of a vehicle, although which one, Patrick couldn’t tell, other than it was close.

  “I’m fine. I wasn’t hit.” CRACK. Glass shattered. “That one was close. It got my side window.”

  “It seems like you might be better off behind your truck.”

  There was a short pause, then Patrick heard a rustling noise.

  “On my way now.”

  Patrick’s mind raced like the trained emergency responder he was. What if other people were in the parking lot, under fire like Renkin and him? No one had cried out, but that didn’t mean someone hadn’t been hit. If someone was injured, he had to help.

  He shouted, “Is anyone else out there?”

  No voices answered.

  The judge gave a horse’s laugh. “Just the shooter.”

  Patrick glanced over at him. He was hunched behind his truck’s bumper. “Did you see him?” Or her. But odds favored the shooter being male, in his ER experience with gunshot victims.

  “No.”

  Patrick thought about the security posse watching his wife and kids. Maybe he should have scheduled someone to keep an eye out for him as well. But why would anyone want him dead? Possibilities whirled through his brain like images in a kaleidoscope. He was testifying against Kemecke, but not as a witness to murder, or as the victim of kidnapping. Maybe the shooter was trying to scare him for some reason. That didn’t make sense to him though. If someone wanted to scare him, they’d go after his family. And what would they be trying to scare him away from? With a jolt, he thought about his call with Rawlins. The governor had made a deal with him to back off Renkin. If Renkin wasn’t here under fire, the scare-tactic theory might have worked in relation to him. Or maybe it did. The shooter might not realize Renkin was here, too. Or was the judge avoiding suspicion by putting himself near the line of fire, knowing he wasn’t the target? If he’d done it at Meadowlark, he could be doing it again here.