Plains Crazy (21 page)

“I don't understand,” Mad Dog said. He knew he had a shaman's power. He could send his soul traveling through time and space when he prepared himself and concentrated properly. He could connect with the spirits that controlled the universe, sometimes manipulate the forces that operated it. But he wasn't aware of any spirit entities having adopted him.

“We will talk of that when you come to Oklahoma.” The old man settled his cap back in place. “In the meantime, she will look after you and reveal herself if she wishes.” He turned and strode across the parking lot to the waiting truck. Mad Dog, more puzzled than ever, watched him go. Stone never turned or looked back. He went around the pickup and Mad Dog heard the door on the far side slam. The truck's engine coughed to life. The woman driving it swung in a lazy circle and headed toward Main. Mad Dog's Mini Cooper was at the edge of that circle. He was shocked when the truck brushed the Cooper and continued on. What shocked him more was that he wasn't upset about the Mini's first ding. More like honored, as if his car had been blessed as well.

The truck paused at the edge of the street, then went to the four-way at the Texaco, turned south, and headed for Oklahoma. The woman didn't stop to see if she had damaged his Mini and Bud Stone didn't look back or wave goodbye.

Mad Dog had expected to be horrified when his new car got its first scratch, but he couldn't work up even the slightest anger in light of what had just happened. Not after the gift he'd been given, and the promise of one even more valuable—knowledge.

Besides, he discovered, the truck had brushed his car so lightly that the scratch on the rear bumper was almost invisible. More troubling was that something appeared to be hanging from underneath. He was about to bend over and inspect it when he heard a siren coming down Main. He stood in time to see his brother throw his truck around the corner toward Bertha's and the park. At that same instant, Mad Dog noticed Janie wasn't waiting in his car anymore. His curiosity about what Englishman was up to evaporated in an “Oh shit” moment. He had completely forgotten Janie.

He looked around. She was nowhere to be seen. Neither was Hailey. He folded his frame behind the steering wheel and the Cooper's little engine growled as its tires bit macadam and took him flying into the street. Janie had been in front of her old house on Jackson when he found her. She had probably gone back. Maybe she'd left a rental car there. He blasted out of the parking lot and the cloth wrapped material under his newly scraped bumper bounced and hung closer to the street.

Jud Haines' red Buick ran the stop sign at Madison and careened onto Main. Hailey was close behind it. Mad Dog nearly climbed the sidewalk avoiding both before he got the Mini stopped. Haines accelerated full throttle, going east. Hailey gave up the chase, if that's what it was, and came back and jumped aboard when Mad Dog opened a door for her. As soon as she rejoined him he screeched tires and headed toward the old Jorgenson house.

Whatever had been hanging below his bumper stayed behind on the asphalt. It was sausage shaped, a small bag. Mad Dog would normally have been curious enough to go back and see what it was. But not after letting Janie get away again.

Mad Dog knew he had a major problem. If he was lucky enough to find Janie, how would he even begin to explain? He could use the help of that guardian spirit Stone had spoken of. She, Stone had said. Mad Dog wondered where she was and what she might be…and if he could ever persuade Janie to speak to him again.

***

Mrs. Kraus sat on the courthouse steps and thought she should have left the grenade in the sheriff's office. She was pretty sure it wasn't going to do anything else, but it didn't need any more chances to kill her. Chasing it around the floor so she could toss it out the nearest window had been opportunity enough.

Before she could corral the fool thing, it exploded in her face. She'd thought she was dead for a minute, but there was just a lot of noise and smoke and she was still there in one piece.

Haines was long through the window by then. Finfrock and the chairman had taken a more conventional exit and were outside shouting “Grenade!” for all to hear. So she'd tried to disguise her distress and carried it out there where she could make the supervisors look bad for leaving her to deal with their problem. And then, all the strength had gone out of her, and the thing rolled down the steps where she'd had to sit before she rolled down after it.

Finfrock was the first to recover. He rose from the ditch and stomped across the courthouse lawn to where the grenade lay. “Damn,” he muttered. “I got ripped off. I gave that guy a perfectly good Uzi for this and the sucker turns out to be a Hollywood fake—all smoke and noise. Wait'll I get my hands on him.”

Finfrock's voice penetrated the ringing in Mrs. Kraus' ears and she found herself sputtering with outrage. “When you do,” she croaked, “you best get down on your knees and thank that man for playing you the fool, Craig Finfrock. 'Cause, if he hadn't, we'd all be hunks of raw meat lying in the rubble of what used to be the sheriff's office about now.”

Trouble was, what she'd said was a gross exaggeration. Everybody else had shown the good sense to run for their lives. She was probably the only one Finfrock's folly actually saved.

Finfrock's shoulders slumped. “Well, I guess that's true,” he admitted.

The sheriff pushed on the door of his Chevy and stood in the opening, hauling himself up so his head was above the level of the truck's roof. “It's all over, folks. Go on about your business now.”

Mrs. Kraus watched as people began muttering among themselves. There wasn't any blood and it didn't seem likely any would soon flow. That made the spectacle at the courthouse less interesting, maybe not even up to the reminiscing they'd been doing. They began to break up into distinct groups again—classes, families, long-lost friends—and drift back into the weedy confines of Veterans Memorial Park.

The sheriff climbed down from the truck, marched toward the courthouse, grabbing Finfrock's arm along the way and removing the grenade from his hand. The sheriff and the supervisor came to a stop at the foot of the steps.

“Mrs. Kraus,” the sheriff announced. “I want you to get me the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms on the phone. We've found a cache of weapons over at the Bisonte that would do downtown Baghdad proud.”

“Uhh,” Finfrock said, “that's a private collection. No threat to anybody. No need to bring in a bunch of government bureaucrats to make a big thing over my little collection.”

The sheriff stuck the grenade under Finfrock's nose. “You don't think this is a big thing?”

“It didn't hurt anyone,” Finfrock whined. “And just because one little bitty explosive device managed to get out of my locked storage vault, that's no reason to bring in the feds. I mean after all, Englishman, this is Kansas. Folks here mind their own business. Pretty much everybody's got a few guns around for just in case.”

“For just in case of what?” the sheriff demanded. Mrs. Kraus couldn't remember seeing Englishman so mad since the supervisors slashed his last budget request. “You've got enough firepower there to hold off a full scale invasion. And, from what I hear, it wasn't just a bogus grenade that got out of your vault. We need to talk about a Sharps buffalo rifle and a drum of C4 plastic explosives.”

Finfrock's jaw dropped. Mrs. Kraus thought there was room in his mouth for that grenade. And good cause to shove it there.

“Don't say a word, Supervisor Finfrock,” the sheriff demanded. “Not before I tell you two things.”

Finfrock blinked. She could see he wanted to ask what they were but he was taking the sheriff's injunction to heart, so she helped out. “What's that, Sheriff?”

“First,” the sheriff said, “my name's English, not Englishman and you will call me that, or Sheriff, or simply shut up. Got that?”

Finfrock nodded.

“And second, you have the right to remain silent…”

***

“Daddy, we've got to talk to you,” Heather English said.

“Not now, honey.” Englishman had sent Deputy Parker to lock the grenade in one of the cells back in the jail and was handcuffing Supervisor Finfrock to a heavy wooden chair in the sheriff's office. “I'm kind of busy.”

Heather understood that. In all her eighteen years, she couldn't remember her dad handcuffing anyone, other than the occasional rowdy drunk, much less a pillar of local government.

“We know,” Two said, “but this is really important.”

He wasn't really listening to them. “Mrs. Kraus. I want everybody kept out of the office while I question this suspect. Chairman Wynn can stay. He's a witness to some of it and I may not have time to fill him in otherwise. And Deputy Parker, when she comes back up front. Nobody else.” He fumbled through the drawers of his desk while Finfrock protested being labeled a suspect.

“You have any idea what I did with that little tape recorder of mine?” Englishman continued. “I want a record of this since the feds will probably end up prosecuting his case.”

“Whoa, now,” Finfrock said. “Slow down, Sheriff. I haven't done anything to cause you to bring the feds in. All we're talking about is a couple of little explosive devices and a few minor automatic weapons in a private museum.”

“None of it properly licensed. See, I want that on tape,” Englishman said.

“Please, Daddy,” One begged. She was close to tears when she grabbed him by the arm and made that heart wrenching plea. It finally got his attention.

“What is it, Heather? What's the matter?”

“It's Mommy. She's gone.”

“Catching a plane for Paris,” he said. “Yeah. I know. And I'll deal with that just as soon as I can. Right now, honey, I've got some dead people and some bombings I need to sort out. And a bunch of explosives still floating around. I have to learn who's got them before we get more dead people.”

“We really need to show you this,” Two said.

He found the recorder and turned it on and did the testing-one-two-three bit. It worked when he rewound and played it back. He stopped then, and looked into his daughters' anguished faces. “This really can't wait?”

One shook her head and Two said, “No, it can't.”

“Okay,” he said. “Let's step out into the foyer for a little privacy.”

That was ironic, leaving the sheriff's office for the entry to the courthouse to find privacy, but right now the office was where the crowd was.

The iron door behind the main staircase clanged and Deputy Parker emerged from the cell block in the rear. “I put it up on the third tier,” she said, “in a cell that's far from any load bearing walls or the fireworks.”

“Good,” he said. “Go on in the office and make sure Supervisor Finfrock doesn't try to leave and take my chair with him. I'll be right there with some questions for him. What I ask should let you know what's going on.”

She raised her eyebrows, but she was professional enough not to inquire what he was doing out here with his daughters. Besides, Heather thought, Parker sort of knew already.

“Now, what's this about?” he asked, ushering the girls into the far corner, away from his office and the front door and the likelihood of interruption.

“You already knew she was leaving?” Heather asked.

“And you didn't try to stop her,” her sister added. The way Two put it was less question than accusation.

“I knew and I tried,” he told them. “But you girls know what your mom's like when she sets her mind on something. And I haven't had much time to argue with her today.”

“Did she tell you she might not come back? Not unless you go with her?” Two seemed more than a little angry because he hadn't fixed this family crisis already. Heather wasn't surprised, considering how fatally tragic the family crisis that brought her to them turned out to be.

He sighed. “Yes. She told me. I don't think she means it, or I don't think she will mean it when she cools down. If I can just get things under control here, maybe I can still talk her out of taking that flight. Or maybe I can join her in a few days. I don't know. Girls, I really don't have time to worry about this right now. It's not like we had some big fight or our marriage is coming apart. She isn't gonna just up and leave us and spend the rest of her life in Europe.”

Heather dug into her pocket. She pulled out a couple of crumpled email printouts and handed them to her Dad.

“What's this Bloodlines thing?” he asked, pointing at the “From” line.

“You know that singer/songwriter you guys like so much?” Heather said. “I'll bet you've got one of his CDs in your truck right now.”

“John Stewart,” he said.

“Right,” Heather continued. “Well, Bloodlines, that's the name of the internet discussion group about him and his music. Mom subscribes to it.”

“Okay, right. I knew that.” He got silent a minute as he read, first one and then the other. “I don't understand. These seem like some kind of prayer circle stuff. Nothing to do with John Stewart.”

Heather took them back. “That's what ‘0% JS' in the subject line means. Right after where they say ‘Prayers, Pixie Dust, and Good Thoughts.'”

“I still don't understand,” he said. “I mean it looks like a couple of people calling themselves Angelbravo and Lordfrench are expressing their concern about someone facing a life threatening illness. What's that got to do with your mother?”

“Dad.” Heather was totally exasperated. “Look who they're addressed to?”

“Some other computer handle,” he said. “How would I know who Englishwoman…” Then he got it. “Oh shit,” he said. “Your mother's calling herself Englishwoman? That can't be. This Englishwoman has some sort of terminal disease.”

Heather watched his face turn the color of ash as the other shoe dropped.