Broken Heartland (5 page)

Mad Dog nodded. Cell phones were common enough in central Kansas now, but spoiling your kids wasn't. If Mark were a better laborer, maybe, but the Browns probably felt they were being kind just giving a grown-up boy room and board. From what Mark had said, Mad Dog didn't think the old man even paid his son regular wages.

“If you see him, tell him I'm back,” Mad Dog said. “Ask him to get in touch and we'll settle up.”

“I'll do 'er,” Brown said. He turned back toward his tractor as Mad Dog climbed the barbed wire.

“Church,” Brown said.

Mad Dog looked back and nearly lost his hold on the upper strand while its barbs were uncomfortably close to his crotch.

“Mark's been hanging around that church near the courthouse a lot lately. That'd be the first place I'd look if he's not where he's supposed to be.”

Mad Dog must have looked surprised. Not because he hadn't thought Mark was religious. Most folks in Kansas were inclined to seek heavenly intervention from droughts, floods, tornados, hail, late and early frosts, and the other extremes of nature. Mark just hadn't seemed the sort to attend weekday services.

“The oldest Epperson girl practices piano over there most every day,” the senior Brown said. “I reckon it's got more to do with her than any spiritual calling.”

***

Heather took several more phone calls. Every one was from an angry or nosey citizen, wanting to know what the hell Deputy Wynn had thought he was doing and why he'd hit that bus and whether any of the local children were dead. And who were the people in that other car, anyway? It was Election Day and her dad had said this one was going to be extra tough. She made herself be polite, even when the callers weren't. But she was starting to get frustrated, and a little anxious. She still hadn't proved to herself that Englishman was all right. She hadn't seen or talked to him. It was going to take seeing him in the flesh, she decided, before the last of the bad feelings she'd woken with would go away.

Mrs. Kraus was taking the same kind of calls. Only her patience had long ago worn thin. “That's not public information,” she said. Or, “I'm not at liberty to say.” As well as the occasional, “Don't you have anything better to do than keep me from my job?”

Mrs. Alexander was Heather's current caller. The woman lived across Main Street from the school and she was convinced the sheriff had just pulled in there to inform the administration that every child on that bus had died.

“No, ma'am,” Heather said. “In fact, I just heard from the authorities in Hays that, other than a few broken bones, none are seriously hurt.”

“Well then, young lady,” Mrs. Alexander said, “what's your father doing wasting time at the school? Is he campaigning for a few last-minute votes right at the polling booths?”

Heather had had it. “No, I think he's trying to find out why those kids were out there so early this morning. If not, he's probably getting ready to serve those eviction notices the commission authorized for past-due property taxes.” That shut the woman up. Mrs. Alexander had refused to pay her property taxes since she lost money in the county's wind farm debacle. The line went dead and Heather wondered whether she'd just lost her dad a vote. Probably not, considering the tone the call had begun on. She left the line off the hook and went over to her father's desk. She knew where he was now. And she would go see him, reassure herself that he was fine so she could stop that nagging fear at the back of her brain. And after she saw him, she knew what she would do then, too.

When she turned, she discovered her dad's opponent, Lieutenant Greer, accompanied by Newt Neuhauser—Greer's sidekick and likely the next under-sheriff—with Pastor Goodfellow, coming through the door.

Greer had been so far ahead of her in school he'd never noticed her. And he'd been the kind of guy who didn't notice anyone who didn't worship him, or get in his way. From the way he smiled at her, Heather was sure he didn't know who she was. The smile went away when Goodfellow nodded to her and said, “Good morning, Miss English. I thought you were off at school.”

“I was,” she said, and left it at that. She had no desire to explain herself to these three.

Mrs. Kraus cleared her latest phone call and offered the trio a greeting. “What can I do for you
gentlemen
?” The way she emphasized the last word made it clear she thought they were anything but.

Heather put her own phone back on the hook. “I've got to go,” she told Mrs. Kraus, and went around the counter toward the men bunched by the door.

“No need to get testy, Mrs. Kraus,” Greer said. “I don't plan to fire you when I'm elected. You can stay on till your Medicare kicks in…or has it already done that?”

“Excuse me,” Heather said. “You're in my way.” Goodfellow and Neuhauser had stepped aside to let her pass, but Greer was blocking the door.

“We just came to get an idea of the layout,” Pastor Goodfellow apologized. “If the lieutenant wins, we plan to set up a desk for me over here. I'll be available for Christian counseling whenever I can spare the time. As a volunteer, of course.”

Greer didn't comment. He was staring at Heather. She'd watched men undress her with their eyes before. No big deal. She knew she was attractive and had a good figure. But this felt different, more like a strip search.

“Wow,” Greer said. “Looks like Englishman's daughter is all grown up.”

“Some of us do that,” she said. She had her mother's short temper and wise mouth. It was going to get her in trouble one day. “Now, if you'll let me by…?”

He stood his ground. “You see your daddy,” Greer said, “tell him I'm sorry if I busted his nose. But old men ought to know their limits.”

The morning's anxiety snapped back. Had this bully really hurt her dad? She tried to brush past but he put a hand on her arm to stop her.

And then he was kneeling on the floor as she decided whether to break his finger. Englishman had insisted she take those self-defense courses. This war hero should have been smart enough to avoid the hold she'd put on him, but he'd underestimated her and placed his hand where she could control it.

“You best let go of me, little girl. Else, broken finger or not, I'm gonna have to hurt you when I get up.”

And that was a problem. He was probably a lot better trained at this stuff than she was, to say nothing of the eighty pounds he had on her. She could make that finger very painful, and she knew a few other tricks that were likely to hurt just as bad, but there wasn't much chance she could stop him cold and, if she didn't, his size and strength were going to make the difference. Then he could hurt her.

“Let me go now or you're gonna end up bleeding all over this room,” Greer hissed.

“No she's not,” Mrs. Kraus said. Heather looked over her shoulder. Mrs. Kraus had her Glock in a two-handed shooter's grip centered on Greer's belly. “Why don't you go on and leave, Heather. This man's gonna stick around and explain to me why he's assaulting a young woman right here in the sheriff's office and why I shouldn't arrest him and maybe lock him back in one of our cells for the rest of Election Day.”

“Now, now,” Goodfellow said. “The lieutenant was only teasing.”

“Yes, teasing,” Neuhauser said, his voice hard. “Weren't you, Lieutenant.”

Greer glanced from Heather to Mrs. Kraus and her Glock. Heather thought he might be angry enough to kill all of them, but he agreed with Neuhauser and Goodfellow. “Yeah,” he said. “Just joking around.”

“It's been fun,” Heather said. “But I really do have to go.” She released her grip and went out the door. Behind her, she heard Goodfellow suggest that Mrs. Kraus put the gun away.

“I'm gonna need a few minutes to think on that,” Mrs. Kraus said as Heather went down the hall toward the back door.

Heather wondered if she would be able to come home again if Greer won this election. All of a sudden, that seemed like a legitimate question. Probably, she thought, but not if she'd followed her instincts and snapped the bastard's finger.

***

The principal's office was located in the ugly blond-brick addition that made an odd link between Buffalo Springs' red-brick two-story elementary and high schools. It had been added in the fifties when the community's student population was still rising.

The bell rang and Englishman found himself threading his way through a mob of hobbit-sized kids. This part of the school had become the junior high—now, middle school—shortly after it was built. The principals' offices—three, one for each level—occupied subdivided classrooms about midway along the addition's main hall beside an absurdly short water fountain.

The sheriff acknowledged waves and greetings from most of the kids before ducking into the security of the secretary's office.

“Oh, Sheriff English,” she said, rising and offering her hand. “I'm so sorry.” Her sympathy for his wife was two years late and it embarrassed both of them.

“Is Mr. Juhnke in?” he asked. Juhnke was the high school principal and the man who'd called about the buses.

“Yes, but he's with someone. He'll be free in a few minutes if you could just have a seat.”

“It's kind of important,” the sheriff said. “Maybe you could let him know I'm here.”

Her blush freshened and she ducked into one of the offices. When she returned, she was followed by a sour-faced teen, who took the seat the sheriff might have otherwise occupied. Juhnke came out and offered his hand, then guided the sheriff inside. Diplomas lined a wall above a collection of file cabinets. Textbooks, interspersed with dusty trophies, decorated shelves on either side of a window with a marvelous view of the faculty/staff parking lot.

“Any word on my students, Sheriff?”

“Not that I've heard, but you and I both would know it if there were bad news.”

Juhnke didn't seem reassured. “Then I assume you're here about the bus?”

The sheriff nodded.

“I don't know what it was doing out there. Or why those kids were on it. We aren't missing any bus drivers or teachers. Everyone showed up as usual this morning. Fortunately, we've got a spare bus for emergencies.”

“Whose bus was missing?”

“Swenson's. He called me when he came in. By then, I already knew what had happened to it.”

“Who has keys?”

“Each driver has his own set. Spares are in a lock box in the bus barn. The drivers all know the combination. So do most of our teachers and some students, I'm afraid. We haven't been security conscious about that. Now we will be.” He shrugged. “Locking our barn door after the horse was stolen. Isn't that how it goes?”

The sheriff was beginning to think he should have called instead of taking the time to drive over. “So you have no clue who might have stolen it?”

“Well, one of the drivers came in early. Had a fouled spark plug yesterday and he brought a replacement to install this morning. He said a car and a truck were in the lot near the barn. Weren't there when he came back.”

“Did he recognize them?”

Juhnke looked pained. “Just the car. It was Mr. Gamble's.”

The sheriff felt his eyebrows go up. “You mean…?”

“Yes,” Juhnke said with more than a hint of irritation. “Our music teacher.”

The sheriff knew Gamble. Gamble had been working hard for his opponent. One of Greer's campaign promises was to force the high school to let Gamble teach an Intelligent Design course.

“Mr. Gamble won't want to talk to me,” the sheriff said, “but it seems we need to have a conversation.”

***

Heather felt odd, stepping back inside Buffalo Springs High. Like she'd overslept and was late for a test. All that was needed to complete the script of her occasional nightmares was for her to be dressed in her nightshirt, or not dressed at all. She couldn't quite catch herself before one hand checked her blouse and the other her jeans. No, she was really here, back where she'd always had to be on her best behavior. It was bad enough that Dad was sheriff, but Mom had taught and served as vice principal inside these very walls.

She turned and aimed herself toward the principals' offices. That was where Englishman would have gone. She knew he was still here. She'd parked beside his tired old pickup in the parking lot.

There was a new row of pictures above the lockers that lined the hallway. She hadn't seen them before. Valedictorians along one wall, salutatorians on the other. Her picture appeared to be in both locations for the class of 2002. That wasn't true, of course. She had been the runner-up. Her sister, the second Heather in the family, had gotten downright manic about pleasing her foster parents with good grades. Heather Lane, or Two of Two as they'd decided to call each other when a pair of Heathers in the family turned confusing, had shown One of Two who really was first in the English household, academically at least. And Heather English hadn't minded. It had been a friendly competition. There were no hard edges to either of them, even though they'd decided to number themselves like
Star Trek Voyager
's sexy and dangerous Borg crew member, Seven of Nine.

Heather was near a branch in the hall, studying her sister's picture and marveling, yet again, at the remarkable resemblance between them. They looked like twins, though they weren't even real sisters, just distant cousins. That, and the shared name, had caused them all sorts of troubles, and afforded all sorts of opportunities. Heather remembered the time she'd scheduled two dates on one evening and how Two had filled in. The guys found out, of course, but neither figured out which of them got the girl he'd asked and which got the substitute.

Mark Goodfellow, Butch Bunker, and Chucky Williams came bowling around the corner and literally ran into her.

“Whoa, guys, slow down,” she said. They looked surprised to see her, and not very happy about it. At least Mark and Butch looked that way. Chucky just looked desperate.