Stag Party: A Patrick Flint Novel Read online

  He noted she didn’t respond to his suggestion to call the vet. It might be nearly 1978, but, when it came to ranchers, they were by and large old school, preferring to save the money and do their own veterinary work. Not because they didn’t care about the animals, but because vet care was an expense that might leave a rancher right side down on an investment. He couldn’t force her to do it, even if he thought it was the right thing.

  “All right then,” he said.

  She scurried out of the barn.

  “These poor sheep.” Trish opened the stall and went inside. She knelt between the ewes and rubbed their heads. They didn’t resist her. “Will they die?”

  “Maybe. They probably would have if they’d been left with the herd.”

  “That’s so sad.”

  “Mother Nature can be harsh.”

  “I’ve got to stay with them.”

  “I need you out with the horse and me.”

  “But—”

  “I’ll do it. I’ll stay with them.” Perry slipped into the stall.

  Trish started to protest, but then she buttoned her lip. Patrick didn’t know what had gotten into her, but he appreciated the reprieve. The wind hit him like a sledgehammer as they exited the barn. The temperature had plummeted, and the sun had disappeared again. He popped the collar on his flannel jacket and wished he’d brought the down one instead. Ice pelted his face, sharp and stinging. Gone was the flaky snow of earlier.

  “This isn’t very good weather for trying out a horse.” Trish walked to the animal’s head with her palm down. Its eyes were wide open, whites showing. The horse snorted and jerked back against its line. “He doesn’t think so, either.”

  Patrick grinned. “This is Wyoming. We can’t buckle under at the first snowflake.”

  “Wind makes horses crazy.”

  Patrick rubbed circles in the rigid muscles of the gelding’s neck. “Hey, boy. Martin said you’re a big pussycat. We’re just going for a short ride. If all goes well, we could move you off this ranch and into our pasture where there’s a nice run-in shelter. Would you like that?”

  The horse pawed at the ground.

  “That didn’t seem like a yes,” Trish said, her voice dry.

  Patrick untied the lead line from the post and led the horse a few steps away. Was it his imagination or had the temperature dropped five degrees since they’d been here? He pulled his hat further down his forehead. He just needed to get this over with. For everyone’s sake, including the horse. “Trish, can you hold his lead and unclip us when I’m up?”

  She walked over and held the rope, leaning toward one of the horse’s ears. “I’m sorry. This will be over soon.”

  Patrick gathered the reins in his leverage hand, grasped some mane, put his foot in the stirrup, and stepped up. He swung his leg over the saddle. The stirrups felt about the right length. The horse shifted its feet beneath him. “Feels like he’s about ready to go.”

  Trish unclipped the lead rope. “Or something.”

  A gust of wind rattled the eaves of the barn and sent Patrick’s hat flying from his head and past the horse’s nose. The horse reared up on its hind legs. Patrick was caught unawares, before he’d set his feet firmly in the stirrups. One of his feet slipped out and he grabbed the saddle horn.

  Trish stumbled backward, away from the flailing hooves, and slipped down onto her rump.

  After what seemed like an eternity but was only fractions of a second, the gelding leaped forward, landing halfway across the barnyard, then whirled and ran in the opposite direction, with Patrick barely hanging on. The horse half-galloped, half-bucked for a few steps. Patrick pushed his weight down into the seat with one hand and one foot, desperately searching for the bouncing stirrup with the other foot. After several failed attempts, he found it with his toe. Just as he was about to shove his foot in, the horse came to a stiff-legged full stop.

  Patrick exhaled. “It’s okay. We’re good. Everything’s okay.”

  The horse ducked its head and pumped its back legs skyward with a kick so powerful that Patrick shot out of the saddle like a cannon ball. He sailed into the air. The snowflakes. I can see them even better from up here.

  Then he landed on his side with a crunch. His head came to rest in the snow, and he wasn’t thinking about snowflakes anymore.

  ***

  Patrick heard moaning and screaming. For a moment he didn’t know where he was—who he was—what had happened to him—why his side hurt so bad—who was making all the darn racket.

  “Dad! Dad! Are you okay?” A female voice. The source of the scream. His brain ground a few gears, then caught. Trish. His daughter.

  But Trish wasn’t moaning. That was him. Ugh. Must stop it. Scaring Trish. Real men didn’t panic their kids. He slowed his breathing. His brain came up to speed, mostly. He opened his eyes and gasped a response. “I will be. Can you catch the horse?”

  Trish was kneeling over him, wide-eyed, face drawn. “I don’t think I should leave you.”

  “I’m fine.” He pushed up on an elbow. Pain knifed his ribs. Don’t let her see it. He clamped his mouth shut so tight it felt like the enamel on his teeth would break. Breathing was a struggle.

  Perry’s face floated into view beside Trish’s. “Dad!”

  It was hard to see his kids, not just because of the pain, but because snow was coming down straight sideways. The compact pellets stung his cheek.

  Then he heard Rosa’s voice. And something else. Hoof beats on the snowy ground. “You okay, mister doctor? I bring the horse. You try again?”

  Holding his side with one hand, he answered in spurts around grimaces. “Gotta . . . pass . . . on that.” He hadn’t even caught the horse’s name. Hell Cat. Or maybe Satan.

  “You lose your hat. I think it blow away.”

  The least of his worries. “Kids, grab me under each arm and help me up, all right?”

  They did as he asked without further comment. Or if they did comment, he didn’t hear them, because the pain obliterated every sound except the scream inside his head. But it was just pain. Something to block out, to push through, to get stronger from.

  “Thanks.” He tried to stand up straight and almost made it, but the excruciating catch in his left side had him seeing stars instead of snowflakes. Closing his eyes, he focused on the sound of his breath. In with the good air, out with the bad air. He ran his right hand along his side. Nothing felt out of place. He was as sure as he could be without an x-ray that he’d broken a rib in his seven to ten range—or several. But the break or breaks was closed. He pressed harder into the most painful area, feeling for broken edges, without finding any. Good. Either the fractures were partial or at least they were stable. His breathing sounded fine, if short. He’d hear it if he’d punctured a lung. Bottom line, he wasn’t dying. If things got worse, he’d get an x-ray. In the meantime, he just needed to suck it up.

  Trish whispered into his ear. “Dad, Rosa asked you a question.”

  “Sorry. What was that?” Patrick looked at the matriarch. Rosa held a plastic pitcher in one hand, a bottle of syrup under an arm, and the lead line of the mockingly docile-looking gray horse in her other hand.

  She raised her voice. “I say I call the bunkhouse and they no answer. I knock. Same. Can you go ask them when they do their jobs?” Even yelling into the wind, her words and manner were prim. He understood. Walking into a bunkhouse for men wasn’t something he’d wish on most females. Not the mess, the smells, or the possible cursing and nudity.

  “No problem.”

  “Want me to come with you, Dad?” Perry’s face was tight, his eyes cloudy and worried.

  Patrick wouldn’t wish the bunkhouse on his son, either. Some things couldn’t be unseen, and if the hands were involved in unsavory activities, well, best that it only be Patrick to roust them. “Why don’t you and Trish get some Gatorade and syrup in those ewes for me?”

  Perry nodded and bounded back toward the barn. Trish eyed Patrick suspiciously. He thought she�
��d give him an argument, but she just frowned and shook her head at him.

  “See if you can find a plastic syringe so you can squirt it on the back of their tongues.”

  Rosa nodded at Trish. “In the metal cabinet. You see it in the barn. By the big doors.”

  “Okay, thank you.” Trish ran to catch up with her brother.

  Rosa motioned vaguely toward the outline of a long, narrow building, past the barn. “The bunkhouse.”

  Patrick squinted. He could barely see it through the snowfall. “Back in a moment.”

  Holding his side, Patrick leaned into the wind, setting his feet down as carefully as if he was walking on glass. Each step was a painful stab to the ribs. The cold was really getting into his bones, too, and he wished he’d worn heavier outerwear. It took him three times as long to reach the building as it should have, four times if there’d been no wind.

  With the muscles in his torso and abdominals clenched as tight as he could knit them, he rapped on the door. The contact of his knuckles on the wood jolted his ribs like a high-speed collision with a concrete wall. He groaned and shivered. More high-speed collisions, a series of them. Gritting his teeth, he settled on a mantra, which he repeated to himself in rhythm with his breaths. Inhale. It’s only pain. Exhale. It won’t kill you. Inhale. It’s only pain. Exhale. It won’t kill you.

  When no one answered after a minute, he tried the door. The knob turned easily in his hand. He raised his voice. “Anyone home?”

  The interior was dark and quiet.

  “Rosa—Mrs. Mendoza—sent me to fetch help for some sick ewes.” He paused. “Hello?”

  He took a step backward, at first intending to return to Rosa and let her know the hands weren’t home. But he was inside already, along with a musty stink that made him think of wet socks in front of a fire and overripe garbage. He might as well get the complete picture. All he really knew was no one was answering. Someone could be lying in bed ill or hurt. Unconscious.

  Or hiding, not wanting to go out in the storm.

  But first he needed light. He groped along the wall, searching for a switch plate. He found one but flinched. It was sticky. In a bunkhouse of bachelors, especially bachelors who worked with livestock, he didn’t want to imagine what substance was now on his hand. He flipped a switch upward. No light came on. He fumbled around for another switch but found none. Burned out? Great. Now I’ll have to find one in another room. Running into furniture in the dark wouldn’t be fun with a broken rib or three. He put his left hand in front of him, moving it back and forth as he shuffled his feet. He could make out a dim glow in what he assumed was the kitchen. An oven clock? A refrigerator ajar? It gave him a target to aim for.

  He was making steady progress until his foot bumped into something. Furniture? Maybe, but it didn’t feel that solid. He shifted to the left and moved forward. His foot hit the whatever-it-was again. He reached down in front of him but didn’t find a chair, a couch, a table, or anything except air.

  Frowning, he pushed the object with his toe. It gave and shifted. He pushed harder, and it rolled away from him. What the heck? Not heavy enough to be a pillow. A rolled carpet, maybe? He definitely needed light. He scooted further to the left until he was around the obstruction and shuffled double time toward the glow. His eyes were adjusting to the gloom. Not much, but enough to confirm he’d found the kitchen and to see the switch plate. He flipped two switches to their on position. The kitchen was immediately bright as a summer afternoon. He squeezed his eyes shut, holding his hand up as a shield. Darn fluorescent bulbs.

  Turning back toward the entrance to the bunkhouse, he craned his neck to see around a wooden dinette table and chairs he’d skirted, looking for whatever he’d bumped into on the floor, but without success. He stepped out of the galley kitchen for a more direct view. The living area he’d traversed was small. The furniture—a love seat, a threadbare armchair, and the dinette set—dingy. His eyes were drawn to an incongruity beyond them, on the wall by the front door. The switch plate wasn’t white like he would have expected. Or not much white, as it was nearly completely covered by a dark residue. His mind went to mammalian body fluids brought in by hands in need of a good washing.

  Then his eyes returned to the floor and the lump that had blocked his path. Suddenly, he wished he had listened to Trish. He’d been wrong to come to the O Bar M. Susanne didn’t want a horse. He’d busted up his ribs for no reason. And now . . . now he was staring at blood pooled near a head of short, sandy brown hair, with boot tracks leading straight to Patrick. His eyes cut to his feet. My boot tracks.

  His medical training kicked in. Time would be of the essence in rendering aid. Patrick hurried toward the prone figure, ignoring the pain from his own injury. He found a young man, splayed out, a gaping incision across his throat. He’s been attacked. The wound didn’t look survivable, and the man’s chest wasn’t rising and falling. Patrick crouched, gasping, and reached for a wrist. He searched for a pulse. Didn’t find one. Kept trying. Eyed the blood on the floor. It was still liquid but lighter red than fresh blood. The process of coagulation had begun.

  A thready voice called, “Help. Me.”

  Patrick nearly fell over in surprise and cringed in pain from the sudden movement. He shot a look at the man, even though the sound seemed to come from someplace else, further in the bunkhouse. It wasn’t this man who had spoken. This man was dead.

  “In. Here.” The words were a barely audible hiss. Patrick dropped the dead man’s wrist, stood, and spun in a circle, searching for the source of the voice. “Kitchen.”

  But I didn’t see anyone in there. He retraced his tracks. A wide smear of blood, darkened but still wet-looking, led across the tiny kitchen floor to a door, which was open about a quarter of an inch with light seeping out around it. The glow from earlier. A pantry? A laundry room? A hallway?

  Whatever was behind it, Patrick didn’t want to open that door. But he knew he had to.

  He sucked in a shallow breath and wrenched the knob, pulling outwards to expose a surprisingly deep pantry. A bare bulb with a pull string hung from the ceiling. It illuminated cans of food and bags of rice, beans, sugar, and flour on the shelves, and a long-legged man with a boot missing from one foot slumped against the base of the wall. He held one hand on his bleeding head, hair color indeterminate. The other pressed into his round, oozing gut.

  Patrick drew in a sharp breath. What had he stumbled into? “I’m here to help you. I’ll be right back after I call an ambulance.”

  The man shook his head, revealing broken teeth in what may have been a smile. “Not. Gonna. Make. It.”

  Patrick squatted to get a closer look at the gut injury. The man’s intestines had oozed out around his fingers. What seemed like half his body’s blood volume was seeping into gapped wooden floorboards. Patrick couldn’t be sure without moving the man’s hand, but it looked like he was dealing with another incision in addition to the traumatic head injury. Patrick gave the man a ten percent chance of survival, only because he’d toughed it out so far.

  He said, “Just let me . . .”

  “He. Got. Away.”

  Patrick paused. Part of him wanted to discourage the man from wasting his energy on speech. But this was important information. The man in the other room had been murdered. In a few minutes, this fellow would likely meet the same end. Right now, he was a living witness to a homicide. Possibly the only one who could identify a killer. A killer who might attack someone else. Friends, neighbors. His wife. His kids. The murderer might even still be on the ranch, where he was a current threat.

  “Who?” Patrick asked.

  “Man. Dark hair. Dark . . . skin.”

  “Indian?” The Wyoming population was by and large either light-skinned or, if dark-skinned, American Indian.

  A slight headshake. “Ay-rab.”

  Arab? Patrick didn’t know of a single person fitting that description in Johnson County. Nor all of northeastern Wyoming for that matter. “A man from the midd
le east did this to you?”

  A barely perceptible nod. Then the man’s eyes closed.

  “Stay with me, sir. I’m calling an ambulance.” Patrick heard the rattle of the man’s last breath before he’d even backed out of the pantry.

  He was beyond any help that could be summoned, other than through prayer. Still, Patrick found a phone on the kitchen wall and made the emergency call. Then he hurried outside to give Rosa the bad news.

  Chapter Two: Witness

  South of Buffalo, Wyoming

  Wednesday, December 28, 1977, 3:00 p.m.

  Trish

  When her dad had discovered the hands dead—which was awful, of course—Trish’s first thought was, Who will take care of the poor sheep? Perry, on the other hand, had wanted to run to the bunkhouse and see the bodies, which her dad had said no to, natch, because um, dead people, you know, and probably because he was afraid it would upset Perry. The last dead person they’d seen was Perry’s best friend John. It was probably weird to think in terms of which dead person it was in the long list from their last few years, but that was their life in Wyoming. Anyway, Perry hadn’t handled John’s death well, understandably, and she couldn’t figure out why he wanted to face those feelings again. Trish had no interest in seeing another corpse for as long as she lived.

  “Who dead?” Mrs. Mendoza said, clutching her coat at her breastbone.

  “The hands.”

  Tears welled in her eyes and she crossed herself.

  “I’m very sorry, Rosa. County personnel should be here soon.” Her dad’s blue eyes were somber, and his face was pinched, whether because of the murders or because of getting bucked off the horse, Trish wasn’t sure.

  “Who coming?” Mrs. Mendoza said.

  “People with the sheriff’s department. I’ll wait for them outside the bunkhouse. Everyone needs to stay clear of it. We don’t want to accidentally mess up any evidence.”

  Mrs. Mendoza chased after him. “Where the killer? He maybe in my house? He hide? My husband in Casper!”