Sawbones: A Patrick Flint Novel by Pamela Fagan Hutchins

Author:Pamela Fagan Hutchins [Hutchins, Pamela Fagan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781950637119
Publisher: Skipjack Publishing
Published: 2020-03-21T22:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-one: Discover

Buffalo, Wyoming

Monday, March 14, 1977, 5:00 p.m.

Perry

The Suburban hit a pothole and Perry’s math book fell to the floorboard. He was still embarrassed about his mom waiting on him while he worked with his math tutor, parked right out in front of the school where anybody could have seen her and guessed why she was there. Other kids thought only dummies had tutors. He wasn’t dumb. His mom had taken him in for an IQ test. When his parents had read him the results, they’d sounded relieved. He was smart. Really smart. Numbers just didn’t get along with his brain, that was all. Or letters either. Somehow, what he saw on a page was just different from what his teachers told him it was. Letters, numbers—they all swam around and switched places with each other. No one believed him when he tried to explain it, which is why he had to stay after school for help and to finish his work. Again. The tutor was nice, but Perry could tell she was getting frustrated with him. Why did his weird brain have to make everything so hard?

His mom had taken him to A&W for an ice cream float and told him she was proud of him, but that didn’t make it all better. He wasn’t a little kid anymore.

He bent over to pick up the book before it got soaked from the water that had dripped from his shoes onto the floorboard. Stupid snow. The dirt road to their house was like ice skating in the morning and water skiing in the afternoon. The snow melt was digging some pretty big trenches and potholes, too. The Suburban hit another one, and he banged his head on the dashboard. Then, as he sat up, rubbing it, he saw something yellow whizz past. It was on the side of the road, where the snow was still drifted deep. A police car passed going the other way and splashed mud up the side of the Suburban and onto the windows.

“Hey! That’s the snowmobile I saw at Meadowlark!” He was so excited that he shouted, even though his mom was only two feet away from him.

She braked. He caught himself on the dash, then leaned forward to get a look at the back of the snow machine as it zipped along a split rail fence. It was just like the one he’d seen on the mountain. Big. New. Yellow. Fancy. Black in the back. Was the same person riding it? He couldn’t see the driver. Not that he knew much about the person anyway. Not really. Other than size—medium—and clothing—a white camo snowsuit. This person wasn’t in white camo, but people could change clothes. It might be the killer, or it might not. There was no way to be sure. But that meant it could be. Here in his neighborhood. That wasn’t good. A stomachache jabbed him so sharply that he bent over at the waist.

He waved his hand forward, over and over.

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