Chapter One: Lock
Jackson, Wyoming
Thursday, June 23, 1977, 10:00 a.m.
Patrick
Patrick Flint kept a tight grip on his wallet as the owner of Wyoming Whitewater pulled out a pencil and tallied up the damages, tongue out and eyes squinted. The shop was in a musty log cabin near downtown, close enough to the Jackson Hole Historical Society & Museum to taunt Patrick. He was dying to see their new exhibits—one on the history of bighorn sheep in the area and another on the Mountain Shoshone or “Sheep Eater” Indians who had inhabited the surrounding high country since long before the advent of Yellowstone as a national park.
He glanced over his shoulder. Out the front windows, the green stripes of ski runs crisscrossed the face of the mountains that were crowding the downtown area. It was pretty, but it paled next to the wonders he’d seen in the previous twenty-four hours. During their drive to Jackson that morning after camping near Dubois, Patrick had been amazed by the sharp granite teeth of peaks in the Shoshone National Forest. By the prominence of stately Gannett, the highest peak in the state. By the high sagebrush flats in the Wind River Range. In fact, the whole drive from Buffalo to Jackson had further cemented his belief that Wyoming was the wildest and most beautiful state in the nation. From the bright red cliffs of the Chugwater Foundation, to the range of colors in the palette of the arid western slope of the Bighorns, to the high canyons, gorges, and gulleys carved by wind and water. But by far his greatest moment of wonder was his first glimpse of the iconic skyline of the jagged Cathedral Group peaks. Grand Teton’s rocky, snow-topped spire stood above the rest, basking in the mid-morning sun.
His skin actually tingled with anticipation. He couldn’t wait to get out into the wilderness, where he felt closest to nature, his true self, and the majesty of the Almighty, but the shop owner’s voice drew him back around.
“You want four canoes, eight paddles, and eight life jackets, for three days. Canoeing the backcountry. Like in the movie Deliverance. Or, actually, let’s hope it’s not like Deliverance.” Patrick had never seen Deliverance, and he had no idea what the man was talking about. “That comes out to . . .” The owner, whose name was Brock, quoted a number and brushed sun-bleached curls from his eyes with his other hand. Mid-to-late twenties, tall and stooped, looking more California cool than Wyoming rough and ready. He also gave off an odor like he’d poured most of a bottle of cheap cologne down his chest. No self-respecting mountain man left the house smelling like that. “Anything else, man?”
Patrick groaned. Not for the first time, he compared the cost of the extra gas he would have used if he’d borrowed the gear and equipment back in Buffalo, to the rental total. Just when he’d been about to hit up his friend and co-worker Wes Braten to make the trip with them and pull one of the trailers, his wife Susanne had put the kibosh on the plan. She didn’t like the idea of caravanning with trailers through multiple mountain ranges, regardless of the savings he’d projected. Patrick had been disappointed and not just because of the expense. Wes and his International Harvester Travelall, “Gussie”, were a rugged pair and good to have along.
“Do you offer any kind of volume discount?” Patrick suggested a lower number.
Brock laughed. “It’s 1977, not 1957, you know? That’s my best price. And you won’t find a better deal in the western part of the state.” He straightened the shoulders on his t-shirt, light green with short-sleeves and the words LUNCH COUNTER below a graphic of a turbulent river. Identical shirts hung on a carousel rack. Shelves displayed sunscreen, Chapstick, hats, insect repellant, and bumper stickers with the state flag. Elsewhere on racks, the shop offered life jackets, paddles, seat cushions, and much more. In one corner, a cooler contained drinks and snacks for sale. The walls showed off an array of action photos on various local rivers, mostly the famous Snake River. The showpiece of the place was an ancient rowboat that no longer looked like it would stay afloat. A nameplate was affixed to its stern. SNAKE CHARMER.
“All right, then.” What Brock said about the price was true. Patrick knew, because he had called all the shops in Jackson. And in Cody. “What’s that mean on your shirt, ‘Lunch Counter?’”
“It’s a super awesome rapid on the Snake River. You wouldn’t want to go down that in canoes. Or anything but a nice, big raft. The water is moving at fifteen hundred cubic feet per second, just like you’ll find on the Tukudika. But two of my buddies are convinced they can surf it.”
“With surf boards?”
“Yeah. But they’ll probably die trying.” He grinned. “There’d be less competition for guides on the river then.”
A bell dinged, and a cool breeze swept through the building. Wyoming could be warm during June in Jackson Hole—the wide, flat 6000-feet elevation valley on the west side of the Continental Divide, between the Tetons and Gros Ventre mountain ranges—but it often wasn’t. The paper the owner had been writing on levitated and tumbled through the air. Patrick chased it and stomped on it. He wanted to check the math.
Before he could, the floor creaked and familiar voices reached his ears.
“There’s my boy.” The tinkle of bells. That’s what he thought of when Lana Flint spoke.
He turned and caught sight of her. His mother was dressed as if for an African safari, only jauntier, with a pink and red scarf tied around her neck. Probably one of her own designs. She had worked as an inhouse designer for a clothing manufacturer ever since his youngest sister Patty, his daughter Trish’s namesake, had left for college.
“Hi, Mom.” He continued naming his family members as they filed into the store. “Dad. Pete. Vera.” Then his throat dried, and his words stuck. “And the . . . the . . . rest of you.”
Patrick had thought his brother Pete and Pete’s young wife Vera were traveling without their kids, but he counted all seven of their young brood behind them. The oldest, Annie, scowled at two brown-headed boys. Stan and Danny. The three of them were Pete’s birth children. Vera’s kids were tow-headed and freckled. Brian was holding the hand of Bunny, the youngest, and Bert and Barry were peeking around their big brother’s shoulders.
“Just call them the seven dwarves,” Joe Flint didn’t crack a smile under his thin mustache. The older Flint—shivering in brown corduroy pants, a green and navy flannel shirt with what looked like a t-shirt underneath, and hiking boots—was a flat-top wearing whipcord. He had a tongue like one, too, which he used anytime he thought people wanted his opinion, usually about whether they carried an excess ounce of flesh, and he’d been known for his heavy hand as well when his kids were young. Patrick had his father’s brown hair and blue eyes, but, despite their similarities, something kept them from looking much alike. Maybe it was World War II that had hardened Joe and pinched features that on Patrick were rounded and full.
Patrick didn’t laugh. When his father had announced the visit and asked to go fishing, Patrick had planned a few modest day trips into the Bighorn Mountains near the Flint family’s home. Then his mother had phoned to ask if Pete and Vera could come and told him how much they all wanted to see Jackson Hole and Yellowstone National Park. Patrick had been dying to visit the area. So, he’d planned this trip on the Tukudika River, excited that his thirteen-year-old son Perry was finally old enough and strong enough, and sixteen-year-old Trish cooperative enough for a canoe and fishing trip to be feasible. He’d read everything he could on the Mountain Shoshone native to the area, and he was really hoping to see some authentic artifacts in the wilderness.
He hadn’t counted on Pete and Vera’s young family.
Patrick looked toward the line of humanity still filing into the store. Susanne waved Trish and Perry in last, scowling at her offspring. He felt a familiar pride that a woman as vivacious, lovely, and kind as Susanne had chosen to be his wife. She looked so darn cute in cut-off blue jean shorts, a sleeveless t-shirt, hiking boots, and a red bandana scarf holding long brown curls off her face. And was it his imagination, or had Perry grown an inch overnight? Not that his son was tall. He was still six inches behind his grade level buddies. But taller, and his face looked slimmer, too. His body slightly harder than it had been in shorts and a tank top the summer before. He hoped so. Perry hated being small. Trish, on the other hand, had clearly blossomed into young womanhood. With her long braids and bright blue eyes and a body toned by basketball, running, horsemanship, and youth, she radiated vitality. He felt the shop owner’s eyes light on her.
Back off, buddy. She’s too young for you.
Just as his eyes traveled from his kids back to his wife, Trish socked Perry in the kidney. Patrick didn’t react. He was too numb from shock over the seven youngsters for anything else to faze him.
“Honey, can I talk to you for a second?” he said to Susanne.
As she made her way over to him, all smiles now, he hugged his visiting family members one by one, starting with the children and moving on to his brother, Pete. The two of them had bedeviled scout leaders and teachers for years with their nearly identical looks, although now Pete had long sun-streaked hair while Patrick kept his darker hair fingernail short. The brothers were best friends, partners in crime, and Irish twins, separated by less than a year in age. Vera was next. Her marriage to Pete was recent, and Patrick had only met the tiny woman a few times before, and then she’d been tongue-tied. She was from a large family in a very small town, but that was about all Patrick knew about her.
After Patrick embraced Vera, she pulled Danny forward. The eight-year old had olive skin, a shock of jet-black hair, and dark eyes, just like his mother, who had passed away soon after he was born. But he looked enough like Vera that he could have been her birth child.
“What do you think of this rash?” Vera swiveled Danny around and rolled up the hem of his cut-off jeans. “This one’s always into something. He’s been scratching like a flea-bitten dog half the day.”
Patrick crouched beside Danny and examined the red, irritated skin closely. As a doctor, he was on call twenty-four/seven when it came to family. Heck, who was he kidding? He was on call twenty-four/seven with anyone he encountered. Kneeling to pray at church. Paying the cashier at the hardware store. Throwing out his garbage at the town dump. He turned Danny around and smiled at him. The boy smiled back. The expression gave him a mischievous look.
“Do you feel bad anywhere else, Danny?”
The boy shook his head, sending his hair flying around the crown of his head like he was a human May pole.
Patrick laid the back of his palm across the boy’s forehead. No fever. “Say ah.”
“Ahh.”
Patrick considered the boy’s tongue and the back of his throat. Pink and unremarkable. He palpated Danny’s belly. The boy didn’t react.
Patrick stood. “Is he allergic to anything?”
Vera frowned. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
“Well, I don’t think it’s anything serious, but let’s give him a Benadryl, since it’s probably his skin reacting to something he came into contact with. Do you remember touching anything itchy?” he asked Danny.
“No.”
Vera said, “They were playing in the grass when we took a rest stop earlier.”
Danny nodded. He sounded solemn. “I fell on my bottom in a bush.”
Wyoming bushes that cause irritant dermatitis? Russian thistle. AKA the tumbling tumbleweed, once it dries out.
“All right.” Patrick eyeballed Danny, pegging his weight at about fifty-five pounds. “But just one Benadryl. Twenty-five milligrams. Do you have any?”
Vera shook her head. “Not with us, I don’t think.”
“It’s good to travel with some, especially when you’re going to be in a remote location. I have some in our Suburban.” He called to his daughter. “Trish, can you bring the Benadryl in to your Aunt Vera? It’s in my—”
“—Doctor’s bag behind the driver’s seat. I know,” Trish said, in a singsong voice. “Why don’t you make Perry get it?”
Patrick glared at her.
She rolled her eyes. “Okay, okay.”
He pitched her the car keys, and she headed for the front door.
“Thanks,” Vera said. “Gotta love little boys.”
“That we do.” Patrick riffled Danny’s hair. He missed the days he’d been able to do that with Perry, who had decided when he turned thirteen that hair mussing was undignified for a fellow of his advanced age. Vera was already chasing after Bert and Barry, who had knocked over the t-shirt display and run for the hills before it hit the ground.
Patrick walked over to join Susanne beside a bathroom door covered in hand-painted psychedelic peace signs. She tilted her head toward him so he could talk quietly into her ear, and her long brown waves fell over a bare shoulder. After a few cold Wyoming winters, cool June temperatures didn’t bother her anymore.
He kept his voice low. “What’s going on? Are they planning on bringing the kids on the river trip?”
Facing away from their family, she widened her eyes. “I think so.”
“This isn’t a trip for little kids.”
“Tell them that.”
Patrick’s lips started moving, but no sound came out.
“I can’t understand you when you’re talking to yourself.”
“Probably best if I don’t repeat it.”
“It will be okay.” She winked at him. “It’s our vacation. How bad could it be?”
He snorted. The last family vacation Patrick planned had ended with Trish kidnapped by multiple-murderer Billy Kemecke. Not exactly idyllic. This trip was his do-over. His chance to show his Texas family a wonderful time in his chosen home state.
“It had better be wonderful. We’re celebrating Kemecke taking the plea deal for life in prison, and you being off the hook from testifying against him.”
“Thank the good Lord for that. But we’ve still got the Barb Lamkin trial to go.”
Lamkin was the most recent criminal the Flints had faced, and Trish’s former basketball coach. She’d used Patrick’s family to bait her former lover into meeting her in the mountains, fully intending to kill all of them. Luckily, a mountain lion in the road had sent her vehicle plummeting toward a creek bed, where Perry had achieved hero status by rescuing his mom and sister. Patrick arrived just in time to free Lamkin by hacking her trapped wrist off with a hatchet and getting her out before the truck had exploded. Now Lamkin was facing first degree murder charges, but the trial couldn’t be held until after her due date, because she was pregnant. The baby’s father, a judge, had been charged with fraud in a slam-dunk, decades-old case the county prosecutor had just uncovered.
The thought of the baby made Patrick queasy. An infant born in jail, with both parents behind bars—it would be tough going for the child unless someone came forward to foster or adopt.
Yes. We need a vacation. It’s been a tough year, and it’s not over yet.
Trish tapped him on the shoulder and held out his keys.
“You gave Aunt Vera some Benadryl?” he asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“And you put it back in my bag and the bag . . .”
“. . . Back where I found it. Yes, Dad.”
He nodded. “Thanks.” Then he turned back toward the extended group of Flints. They had scattered like a covey of quail around the store and out onto the sidewalk. “Pete, a word?”
His brother sauntered over, an arm around Vera’s curvy waist. The two of them looked like half the Mamas and the Papas. Pete with his rock-star hair and bell bottoms, Vera with her yellow-lensed John Lennon sunglasses, a headband over her straight hair, and a gypsy-sleeved top. The comparison wasn’t far from reality. Pete was eking out a living as a musician—guitarist, singer, songwriter—gigging in bars, opening for the openers at Austin-area concerts, and playing for tips when he couldn’t get a booking. Vera had met him at one of his shows. She was his roadie and number one groupie, in addition to being the main herder of cats in their large household.
Pete slung his arm sideways to grab Patrick’s, in a combo low-five/handshake. “So good to be here, bro.”
“I can’t believe you’re all here. I thought it was going to just be you guys and Mom and Dad.”
“Isn’t it great? Vera said we should just bring everybody, so we stuffed them all in the station wagon, and here we are.”
Vera beamed. “The kids are going to remember this their whole lives. Gotta love a family trip.”
From outside, Patrick heard a shriek, then clattering hooves. Uh oh. He shot forward like a sprinter out of the blocks. But before he could make it to the sidewalk, Brian hustled a wailing Bert back inside and to their mother. The rest of the kids followed, eyes huge. Bert wasn’t limping or bleeding, which were both good signs.
Vera wrapped Bert in her arms. He seemed a little small for his age, like Perry had been “What happened?”
“A big animal attacked him,” Brian said. “Well, it tried to, but I scared it away before it got him. Good thing, because he fell down running away from it.”
Patrick raised an eyebrow. “Was it tall and dark brown with hooves?”
“Yes. And really long legs. I think it was a baby, though, because it ran down the street to an even bigger one. Then they ran off.”
“Moose,” Patrick said. “You’ll want to leave them alone in the future. Especially the ones with babies. Very dangerous.” He smoothed Bert’s blond hair, which stood straight up like a cockatiel’s feathers.
“Wild animals in the middle of town?” Vera said.
Patrick smiled. “Sometimes. It’s Wyoming. You okay, Bert?”
The boy had stopped crying. He nodded.
“Where does it hurt?”
Bert shrugged. Another good sign. It looked like the worst injury was to his pride and feelings.
“Does your head hurt?”
This time Vera prodded him. “Use your manners and answer your uncle. He’s a doctor.”
“No. I mean, no sir, Dr. Uncle Patrick. It didn’t get me.”
“Just Uncle Patrick. You’ll have a good story to tell your friends.”
Bert nodded. Vera released him, and Brian took him by the arm. The kids headed straight back outside. Apparently, they weren’t all that worried about moose.
“It’s always something when you have seven,” Pete said, shaking his head, but smiling.
Patrick had thought it was always something with two. He couldn’t imagine seven kids. “So, let’s talk about the trip. You know we’ve booked canoes so we can camp and fish on the Tukudika River?”
Pete nodded. “Sounds awesome.”
“I’m trying to work out the logistics. We’ve got six adults, three of whom are women. And nine kids. Or, seven kids since we’re counting Perry and Trish as adults for purposes of canoeing. I’d booked four canoes and eight life jackets. I had planned on Dad, you, me, and Perry each taking responsibility for a canoe. My worry is, how are we going to fit everyone in?”
Vera bit her lip. “We’ll need more life jackets.”
Patrick clenched his teeth. Obviously. “I’m also worried about room in the canoes.” Pete and Vera’s kids ranged from five to ten years old. None of them were old enough to reliably paddle an additional canoe.
Pete rubbed his chin. “I guess we can put two of them in each.”
“That was where we were going to stash our gear and supplies. Food, tents, sleeping bags, and the rest of it take up a lot of space.”
Susanne had joined them. She added, “And gold panning equipment.”
Patrick had been reading up on the area, and there was a not-insignificant amount of gold in and along the Tukudika and its tributaries. Most of it was too fine to interest prospectors or miners, but he’d thought it would be fun to try their hand at panning anyway.
Pete stood taller. “There’s gold up there?”
Patrick shrugged. “Some. Maybe.”
“Sign me up.”
“If we can fit the panning gear in the canoes.” He lowered his voice to a mutter. “Or any of our gear and supplies.”
“Can we get another canoe?”
“Who would man it?”
Brock cleared his throat. “I don’t mean to eavesdrop, but you could ferry a gear canoe. You know, by a rope.”
Patrick rubbed his forehead. Which wouldn’t come free. “Yes, I suppose we could.”
“Your bigger problem is the water. We’ve had a really dry year, but it’s still early in the season. You might run across some Class III rapids. In a wet year, you’d maybe even encounter some Class IV.”
Vera’s brow furrowed. “Is that bad?”
Brock waffled his hand. “Depends on your level of experience.”
Susanne harrumphed. “We didn’t survive Kemecke, Riley Pearson, and Lamkin in the last year only to die in a river.”
She had a point. Patrick hadn’t even tallied crazy Riley when he’d been thinking about the Flints’ tough year. Riley had been obsessed with an Eastern Shoshone nurse and poisoned Patrick out of a misguided sense of loyalty to her. It had happened not too far down the road, in Fort Washakie on the Wind River Reservation. No, they hadn’t survived them all only to die now. He’d studied up on the river, too, and on canoeing in general.
He shook his head. “Nothing over Class II for this group. Even then, I think we’ll want to put the kids ashore to walk whenever we get to any rapids.”
Brock shrugged. “Where you can. Some areas, the shoreline is as dangerous as the water. Or impassable.”
“What would you suggest we do, given our group’s . . . sudden growth?”
Brock motioned for them to follow him back to the counter. He pulled out a map of the Tukudika and a red pen. He circled three areas. “These are the spots where the water gets sort of aggressive, you know?” He drew lines across the river before each circle. “If you get out where I’ve marked, there are trails you can hike to bypass the whitewater. They’re not easy, but they’re doable. If you, like, go any further, then you may not be able to get off the water in time.”
“Can you portage on those trails?” Patrick asked.
Vera slipped her hand in Pete’s. “What does portage mean?”
“Carry canoes overland.”
Brock said, “Yeah, I guess you could, but it wouldn’t be fun. Honestly, I’d just offload your gear into backpacks and send your ladies and kids along. You can solo the canoes through the rapids.” He dropped his voice to barely above a whisper. “And I can’t make any guarantees, but it’s likely the water is down to a high Class II or a low Class III by now. In most places.”
No guarantees. Meaning he couldn’t guarantee they wouldn’t get their you-know-whats handed to them. “Maybe we should talk it over. It’s important to me we always keep the group together. For safety.”
Pete pulled out a fifty-dollar bill. “Nah, it sounds like a great adventure, man. I’ll pay for the extra canoe.”
Brock tapped his pen on the counter. “And seven more life jackets, some more paddles just in case you need them for the extra canoe, and some line to ferry it with?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“Are you sure we need more paddles for a canoe we’ll be ferrying?” Patrick asked.
“I’d highly recommend it.” Brock quoted a number.
Pete blanched. “I’m a little short of that. Can I pay you back later, Patrick? We’re trying not to carry too much cash on us, you know?”
Without comment, Patrick pulled out his wallet and started counting bills. At the same time, he said, “We’ll need more of everything. Groceries. Water. Sleeping gear. Tent space.”
Their patriarch wandered up. “What’s the problem, boys?” His voice sounded accusatory. He was holding one hand in the other.
Even though he and Susanne weren’t touching, Patrick could feel her stiffen beside him. No one could understand how Lana had put up with his father since the two of them had eloped as teens, but love defies logic.
Patrick decided that if his father was going to criticize someone, he’d let it be him. “We just added a gear canoe. Dad, did you do something to your hand?”
Lana was listening, and she raised her voice to answer for Joe. “He slammed his thumb in the door a minute ago when he went back to the car for a jacket.”
Joe Flint was the most accident-prone person Patrick knew. Falling off ladders. Shocking himself in electrical outlets. Hammering his fingers, which he’d done too many times to count.
“Let me see it, Dad.”
Joe held it up. Blood dripped from under the nail, and it looked flattened. “It’s nothing.”
Brock smiled at Joe, wasting the effort of twelve muscles to do so. “Funny coincidence. We’re about ready for safety instructions for the group.”
Joe crossed his arms, not smiling back.
“Dad, could you help us get everyone together?”
Joe’s lack of smile deepened.
Vera continued beaming and holding Pete’s hand.
“They’re your kids,” Joe finally said, to no one in particular.
Patrick sighed. If he didn’t need his father to paddle a canoe, he’d be tempted to leave him in Jackson.
Susanne walked around the store, clapping her hands and raising her voice. “Everybody. Everyone. All of you. That means you, too, Perry.” He quit talking to Brian and grinned at her. “Time to get our canoe safety lesson. Come on.” The younger kids pretty much ignored her. “Trish, starting now, you’re in charge of Bunny, Barry, Bert, and Danny. Perry, you’ve got Annie, Brian, and Stan. When I ask for something, you guys make it happen with your troops. So, by the counter, line them up, now.”
Trish put her hands on her hips. “Mom, no.”
“No arguments.”
Trish sighed dramatically. “Do I at least get paid?”
“No, but you get to continue living.” Then she softened. “If you do a good job, we’ll discuss it.”
Trish made a sound deep in her chest that didn’t sound like enthusiasm, but she turned back to the kids and started barking orders like her mom had just done to her. Perry stood up taller and his chest seemed to puff out as he rounded up his charges. Lana led Bunny by the hand from a table where they’d been studying a diorama of the Gros Ventre Wilderness. Within seconds, the kids were assembling in a line that was about as straight as a dog’s hind leg.
Brock picked up a blue pen. “Mr. Flint, here are a few more things you should know about the river.” He drew arrows toward it. “This is where you’ll start. You can put in here, or you can portage upriver and extend the length of your float.” He drew another arrow. “You’ll need to get out before the falls. Here.”
“Falls? Like waterfalls?” Pete sounded hesitant about the river for the first time.
“The same, but different. They’re not as high as the falls in Yellowstone, but you still don’t want to go over them, man. We’ll pick you up Sunday at three, here.” He drew a third arrow near the second. “If you beat us there, the fishing is dynamite.”
Now Pete moved in closer to look at the map.
“Thanks,” Patrick said. “We’re really interested in any suggestions you have for good fishing, hiking, camping, or gold panning spots.”
“Gold panning? Far out.” Brock drew a couple of fish on the map, then added what Patrick assumed were either skulls and crossbones or campfires, and then triangles. “Fishing, camping, and hiking. The hiking trails should be marked by signs.” Then he waggled his eyebrows. “As for gold panning,” he drew several stars along the river, and a few more on tributaries, “here are some good places to try your luck. Let us know if you find anything. We can, like, add you to our wall of fame.” He waved toward the wall to his right.
For the first time, Patrick noticed framed photos posted above a display of gold panning equipment for sale. They featured people holding panning equipment and what might be tiny gold nuggets.
“We will.” Patrick took the map, folded it, and slid it in his shirt pocket.
A shorter, bushier-haired man burst through the back door of the shop. Through the opening, Patrick saw racks of canoes, kayaks, rafts, paddles, and used life vests.
“Brock, the Tomson party just got back.” His voice held a shrill note, and Patrick noted that his breathing was rapid and shallow, pupils dilated, face flushed, and nostrils distended.
A look of annoyance showed in the sudden lines around Brock’s eyes. “Cool, man. But I’m with some customers.”
The man rushed on. “They found a dead body on the Tukudika. No life jacket, no fishing or hiking gear, not one of our customers.”
“They found what?”
“A dead body. They canoed him back. They were freaking out about leaving him, so we loaded him on the trailer and brought him back here.”
Brock’s eyes bugged. “The dead guy is here?”
“Well, he’s on the trailer outside, but, yeah.”
Brock stabbed the air with his finger. “You’re not supposed to move a dead body. Evidence, you know? Call the sheriff. Now.”
“Uh, yes, sir.”
As the shorter man hurried to the phone, Brock muttered, “I’d better not get my license pulled over this.”
Patrick felt a burst of adrenaline. He had to check on the man. Administer CPR, if it appeared it would do any good. But as he rushed through the back room, a thought started looping through his head. Please Lord, not a murder on my do-over vacation.
We hope you are enjoying the book so far. To continue reading...
Copyright © 2024 All Rights Reserved
Please log in to recommend or discuss...
