Broken Heartland (3 page)

“Trussed?” That took the sheriff by surprise. He hadn't noticed any bindings at the scene. Of course he hadn't spent much time on the kid once he knew the boy was beyond help. There'd been so many other victims.

“You probably wouldn't have noticed that, would you? I found a little piece of sliced plastic embedded in one of his wrists. Part of one of those disposable plastic pull-tight strips they use for handcuffs these days. Marks on his ankles make it look like he was bound hand and foot. The plastic probably got cut off him when he went through the window, or just tore free as he tumbled across that field.”

“You're saying this kid was being abducted? Held against his will?”

“Looks that way,” Doc said. “Guess I should have let you know that sooner, huh?”

The sheriff started to tell him so, then stopped himself. If he'd known at the scene, maybe he could have concentrated more on questioning the driver of the Dodge. But Doc hadn't known at the scene, either, and both of them had been too busy trying to keep Wynn and the kids from the bus alive until the emergency vehicles arrived. He hadn't had time for an interrogation. Now, with the driver transported to a hospital in Hutchinson, and with the sheriff working this investigation single-handed, knowing before this moment wouldn't have helped him one bit.

“The driver was belted in up front where he had air bags. Still, he did things to his knee that'll remind him of last night for the rest of his life. When I found the plastic, I called the hospital in Hutchinson. The driver's still in surgery. They said he wasn't likely to wake up for HPD to question him before mid-afternoon. I did ask them to call back and let me know when he starts recovery. That was the guy who asked for Pastor Goodfellow, wasn't it? You find Goodfellow? He know anything about this?”

The sheriff was glad he hadn't chewed Doc out. The emergency medical techs who transported the driver had known he was under arrest and in need of questioning. By the time Doc found the plastic, there was nothing more to do from Benteen County. Just call the cops in Hutch and make sure they questioned the man as soon as he came out from under anesthetic.

“Greer and I had our little misunderstanding before I got to Goodfellow, so we didn't talk much. The pastor claimed he knew nothing about the guy or the Dodge or the kid.”

Doc leaned against the counter where his autopsy tools were laid out. The bone shears gleamed. “Goodfellow speaks Spanish. He evangelizes among the new Latin majority down in Garden City and some of the other meat-packing communities where English has become a second language. You'll probably find most Hispanics in this part of the state know our pastor.”

The sheriff pulled his notebook out and checked. He'd forgotten the driver had appeared to be Hispanic, though it was in his notes that way. The man hadn't been carrying any identification and there'd been no tags on the Dodge.

“Remember?” Doc said. “Goodfellow tried services in Spanish here. Didn't work because our Latinos don't speak Spanish anymore.”

That was because Buffalo Spring's last economic boom had been more than fifty years ago. People had been leaving the county ever since, not migrating to it.

The sheriff's cell rang. It was Mrs. Kraus. She told him about the school bus, as well as her opinion of the low-lifes who'd been tying up her phone since she got in.

“Just what I need,” the sheriff said, “another mystery to solve.”

He was feeling overwhelmed. Aside from Wynn, who was in an ICU in Wichita, the county's financial crisis had left him with only two other deputies. One of those was on indefinite leave in Winfield, trying to persuade his aging parents to trade the house they kept accidentally setting fire to for a place in a retirement community. The other, a wanna-be chef, was home heaving his guts out after one of his recipes failed. Mrs. Kraus had said that deputy wouldn't be in until his fever broke and he could get more than ten feet from the nearest toilet.

“Things are getting complicated, Doc. That school bus had no business being out there. Now I've got that to look into, as well as this kid.” He glanced at the crushed and carved body on the stainless steel table. “Can you tell me anything else about him that might help? I don't have much to go on.”

“Well, there is one thing,” Doc said. He bit a lip for a moment as if searching for a way to put it. “Took me awhile to realize it,” he said, “'cause he's so banged up and all, but this boy's real unusual.”

“How's that?”

“He was perfect. Other than what the accident did to him, and being tied up, this kid didn't have any blemishes. No cavities, no fillings, no missing teeth. You'd expect some old wounds, but I haven't even found a scar on him, to say nothing of birth marks or other defects. I mean, it's weird. He doesn't even have a pimple.”

***

When Mad Dog looked around, Hailey wasn't there. She'd been sniffing the grass moments ago, just a few feet away. Had she caught a scent and decided to follow it?

He called her name, not that she usually came when wanted. She was mostly wolf, not dog. She didn't do obedience. When he needed her, that was something else. When he needed her, she was always there.

He left the Mini in the drive and headed for the house. Maybe she was thirsty. Maybe she'd gone to the galvanized steel tub he kept filled for her by the back door.

As Mad Dog passed the lilac bushes in front of the house, a splash of color caught his eye. Red, on his front door. There wasn't supposed to be any red on his front door. Paint, he thought at first. Then he got closer and realized it wasn't exactly red and it sure wasn't paint. It was more the rust shade that blood turns when it dries. And it had been applied to his door to spell one word—“Pagan.”

Mad Dog was starting to get seriously angry. The sign in his front yard, that was bad enough. But somebody had painted their intolerance on his door in blood, and left behind the paint brush. One of the squirrels that lived in the big trees that dotted his yard had been gut shot, its tail dipped into the death wound to paint the message.

This was almost like killing a pet. The squirrels in his yard were half-tame. Hailey delighted in chasing them, and they delighted in teasing her from just out of reach. It seemed to be a game both sides had agreed to play without the normal consequences. Hailey might cut them off from a tree they were headed for, but she always let them get away. And when they stayed too close to the ground to stop and brag about their escape she showed them how high a wolf could jump, but she always managed to avoid snapping her powerful jaws on one. Even when they threw sticks or hedge apples at her.

The little corpse had been dead a while. This must have been done shortly after he left. He was surprised the kid he'd hired to keep an eye on the place hadn't cleaned it off.

Mad Dog tested the front door to be sure it was still locked. It was. And the windows all proved to be closed, unbroken, and secure, as he made his way around to the back door.

That's where he found Hailey. By the water tub, along with more dead squirrels and a few dead birds. Hailey's hackles were up. She was staring at the tub and growling deep in her chest. Mad Dog wanted to join her. The water was green from the discarded bottle of antifreeze that had been dumped into it.

Jesus, she hadn't drunk any, had she? No, she couldn't have. From her stance and attitude, she'd recognized the threat and the evil behind it. He didn't take any chances, though. He turned the poisoned water over and got a hose and diluted the stuff until he'd turned his back yard into a muddy mess. He still wasn't satisfied, but he didn't know what else to do. He'd have to ask someone, the local vet, maybe. But first, he needed to make sure Hailey came inside and got fresh water, safe water, straight from the tap. And he needed to call Englishman. Tell his brother about the greetings he'd found in his yard. And warn him, because Mad Dog was pretty sure that however viciously he'd been attacked, Englishman was the real target.

***

Heather English parked her Honda Civic in the lot behind the Benteen County Courthouse. It was a dazzling fall morning. She stepped out and stretched, a bit stiff after the three-hour drive home from Lawrence. She was a first-year law student at KU. Bright sun, gentle breezes, lots of color in the leaves welcomed her. It was always good to come home, but it was odd to drive past so many election posters urging voters to pick someone other than her father for Benteen County Sheriff. He'd been getting reelected by narrow margins for as long as she could recall, but this year's signs had a nastier quality than she remembered. Politics in general had been moving that direction for years, but when it was your dad, that made the insults personal.

Englishman's Chevy pickup wasn't in the lot, but Mrs. Kraus would know where he was. Heather went in through the back door, anxious to find him. She was sure he was all right, but she'd woken with the oddest feeling this morning. Her dad had talked her out of skipping school to come home for Election Day. He'd suggested she wait and maybe stretch out the Thanksgiving break. But the moment she opened her eyes this morning, she'd had no choice except to come back. She'd never felt anything like it before. It was woo-woo stuff, like Uncle Mad Dog was always talking about. She believed in the spiritual stuff her Uncle Mad Dog described, but nothing like it had ever happened to her no matter how hard she tried. Not until this morning.

“Heather!” Mrs. Kraus stood behind the counter in the dusty old sheriff's office and greeted her with a smile as big as the Kansas sky. “What are you doing here? Does Englishman know you're coming? Did you hear about Wynn?”

She felt a little reassured. If something had happened to her dad, Mrs. Kraus didn't know about it. And that wasn't likely. Heather decided to answer the last question first.

“I heard on the radio as I was driving back. Is there any word? Do you know how Wynn's doing? Or the kids who were on that bus?”

Mrs. Kraus' smile disappeared. “Wynn's critical, but stable. I was on the phone with his wife not long ago. They flew Wynn to a hospital in Wichita. The doctors think he's got a good chance to make it, but he won't be telling his side of the story anytime soon. Would sure help your dad if he could.”

“Is Dad okay?” Heather had wanted to lead with that question, but she'd been trying to persuade herself that the feeling she'd woken with could be explained by the anchovy pizza her study group had split last night, along with some pithy thoughts on the limitations of tort liability.

“Oh, sure, honey. I mean, you know he's not been sleeping well and he's shook up by all this, and overwhelmed as usual, but he's fine. He'd be better if I could find him a deputy to help sort through this mess.”

Englishman hadn't been sleeping or eating well since her mother died. Before, really, while he was sheriff and caregiver and searcher after miracles. Heather knew about her dad's deputy problems, too. Englishman had only had one qualified deputy in all his years in office. The woman had saved Heather and her sister from a bomb. After that, she got lots of better offers from other law enforcement agencies. Then Benteen County's finances turned so desperate they stopped issuing regular paychecks. Heather didn't blame the woman for moving on.

“Dad's working this case by himself?” She hadn't thought it would be that bad. The county budget included three deputies—not trained police professionals, but nice guys who did their best. Wynn was in a hospital, but that still left two. “Where are Gaddert and Frazier?”

“Gaddert's on leave to deal with his folks. Frazier's latest experiment in gourmet cooking missed the mark. He's out with food poisoning.”

“How can Daddy investigate the car Wynn was chasing and the bus accident, all by himself?”

“Well, he's got me.” Mrs. Kraus squared her shoulders and pulled herself up to her full four-foot-ten. Heather knew the old woman was a huge asset, no matter how tall she stood.

The phone rang. “Dang!” Mrs. Kraus said. “I had the state troopers on one line and the hospital in Hays, where they took the people from the school bus, on the other. Somebody's gone and got impatient on me.”

“I'm sorry. Deal with business. You get that line and I'll see if I can keep the people on the other one happy.” Mrs. Kraus grabbed a phone and Heather started around the counter.

“Heather?” someone said. Heather turned and discovered a neighbor, who lived a block down from the English house, standing in the doorway behind her.

“I was just about to vote,” the woman said, “only someone told me the most disturbing rumor. Maybe you can help.”

That phone needed attention, but Heather had been taught to be polite. “Yes?”

“That person told me Englishman is an atheist. Is that true?”

Heather tried to decide how to answer that. Englishman wasn't exactly on speaking terms with God. She'd once heard him say he and God shared mutual doubts. And that was before Mom died. The God Englishman believed in wasn't much interested in tracking the flight of every sparrow, or even humanity in general. In this woman's world, that was atheism.

“Uh, no,” Heather said. She thought that was technically accurate. “Daddy's no atheist. My sister and I were raised as Episcopalians, if that helps.”

The woman's face turned prune-like. “Oh my,” she said. “Isn't that pretty much the same thing?”

***

The sheriff pulled his Chevy out of Klausen's parking lot and turned right on Main Street. It was too warm for fall. Indian summer, he supposed. Mother Nature teasing you with what she was about to take away.

There wasn't much traffic on Main. Good thing, since he was working his cell phone as he drove. He hated people who did that, but he needed to do several hundred things at the moment, among them making sure the authorities in Hutch realized the driver of the Dodge was probably a kidnapper.