by Hank Early
* * *
The truth was, as soon as Ronnie had said he was going to get the band back together to build a recording studio, I had sort of tuned out. It wasn’t as if I hadn’t heard this kind of shit from Ronnie before. Not too long ago, he’d been running a “siding” company. I’d never seen any indication he knew the first thing about siding. Before that it had been a tattoo parlor, and before that he was going to run Rufus out of business by opening his own churchyard maintenance service. At least Ronnie had tattoos. I wasn’t sure if he’d ever even pushed a mower or held a weed trimmer.
So imagine my surprise when I pulled up to his place and saw that he and some of his buddies had already framed out most of the recording studio. I’d taken no more than a few steps toward the studio before Ronnie tossed me a beer from a cooler and grinned. “Earl, meet the band.”
Two other men, both older than Ronnie, stared at me. One of them looked high; the other one just looked stupid.
“This is Hunter Rawlins, but you can call him Easy. Best drummer this side of the Mississippi.” Easy held out a hand. He was the high one, but when he shook my hand, his grip was firm.
“Ronnie’s told me a lot about you,” he said. “I guess you could call me a fan.”
I waved him off. “Don’t believe his shit.”
“I’d never lie about the great Earl Marcus.”
I laughed. Ronnie liked to build me up to his buddies. I’d never understood exactly why he thought so highly of me, but I’d finally come to realize it was genuine. Hell, once Ronnie decided he liked you, and once you liked him back, even a little bit, he was a totally different person. That was what I couldn’t get Rufus to understand.
“I liked how you stood up to that preacher daddy of yours,” Easy said.
I turned to the other man, because this sort of adulation always made me uncomfortable. “And I guess you play bass?”
“That’s right,” the man said. He had dark facial hair somewhere between a five-o’clock shadow and a beard, and tiny, nervous eyes. “Daryl Roan.” He held out a hand.
“You boys are making some progress,” I said, taking his hand.
“We should be up and practicing by sometime next week,” Ronnie said. “Soundproofing the walls is going to take a little bit, but once that’s done, we’re going to get our songs down and hit the road. We already got a gig at Jessamine’s in a couple of weeks.”
“Got a name?” I asked.
Ronnie smiled broadly and glanced at Easy. “Tell him.”
“The Bluegrass Mountain Cult.”
When I didn’t react, Ronnie shrugged. “You know, like the Blue Öyster Cult, except hillbilly style.”
“Right,” I said. “I can’t wait to hear it.”
“You’re going to love it, Earl.”
I didn’t think so, but what did I know? Hell, I’d never have guessed Ronnie and I would be friends, so that showed pretty clearly I didn’t know much. And here I was, coming to him to ask for help once again.
“Can we talk for a minute? Alone?”
Ronnie grinned. “Holy hell, you got us another case, don’t you?”
“Take it easy. I just want to talk to you.”
Easy patted him on the back. “Lucky.”
Ronnie shrugged. “I told you I helped him, didn’t I?”
“You sure did,” Daryl said.
* * *
Inside Ronnie’s house—if you could call it that—I told him what I was planning on doing. He grinned the whole time. When I finished, he nodded. “Cool,” he said. “I can do that.”
“Now remember,” I said. “We’re not trying to go overboard. We just want to see the school, maybe meet some teachers, get a feel for the place before we decide to move all the way from Arkansas.”
“What’s my son’s name?”
“You decide,” I said.
“I want to call him Leroy.”
“Leroy?”
“Sounds like a boy who’d be up to no good.”
“Fine. Just stick with it. And remember, if somebody approaches us, I’m Bob Jenkins, the granddaddy, and you’re the father, Bobby Junior.”
“Right. One question, though.”
“What?”
“Why are we doing this?”
“It’s part of a case.”
“I got that, but what’s the case, what are we trying to figure out?”
It was actually an excellent question. I would do well to figure it out myself. The only thing I knew for sure at this point was I wanted a look at “Doctor” Blevins. “There’s something up with the school. The description on the website made my skin crawl.”
“You mean they might be abusing the boys or something?”
“Maybe. That’s what I’m hoping to find out.”
Nearly thirty minutes later, we’d made our way through Riley and over to Brethren, as far as a person could get from the Fingers and still be in Coulee County. To get to the Harden School, we had to follow a long, winding road up a mountain I wasn’t familiar with. When we finally saw the school in the distance, we also saw the fence surrounding the grounds. It was at least twelve feet high with barbed wire at the top.
“Shit, they don’t want nobody coming in, do they?” Ronnie said.
“I think it’s the other way around.”
“Huh?”
“They don’t want anybody getting out.”
“Oh …”
I pulled up to the gate. There was a call box, and I pressed the button labeled Main Office.
“Just stick to the story,” I said.
There was a beep, and then a voice said, “State your name, please.”
“Bob Jenkins,” I said. “I’ve got an appointment with Mr. Harden.”
“Just a minute,” the voice said. It sounded like the secretary named Mindy I’d spoken to on the phone earlier.
The intercom crackled. “Okay, Mr. Jenkins. You’ll need to show your license at the front desk, so please have it ready.”
“Oh,” I said. “Me and my boy are here from Arkansas, and it’s been a long day. I hate to tell you that I left my wallet in the damned hotel room. Maybe you could let me in this one time? I just got to figure out something for my grandson. We flew over just for this meeting. Harden is supposed to be the best.”
“It’s okay,” she said. “Maybe just bring it the next time you come?”
“Will do,” I said.
The gate opened and I pulled through. Here the road turned from dirt to paved and the trees had been cut back from the road a little. The road went on for at least a half mile before the trees cleared completely and I saw the falls. Great flumes of whitewater tumbled over the gap in the mountains at a furious pace. I watched, mesmerized. The spectacular view seemed matched only by the inevitable danger that would come as I drew closer to the rocky bluffs. I looked away and punched the gas, guiding my truck around another bend and up a final rise. That was when the school came into view again, and this time I got a good look at it.
It was made of faded red bricks and large shuttered windows. A great white portico dominated the front of the massive four-story building. The lawn was pristine, an odd thing to see in the middle of such wilderness. As we drove up to the small parking area to the left of the school, I saw a couple of boys trimming the hedges. They were both sweating profusely, and their faces wore molten expressions of pure misery.
I parked, and Ronnie and I walked to the front door. One of the boys glanced at us. I nodded at him and smiled. He shook his head and turned his glare away, back to the shrubbery he was working on.
The door wouldn’t open, but I saw a button to the left and pressed it. The same female voice came over the loudspeaker. “Mr. Jenkins?”
“That’s right. And my boy Bobby Junior’s here too.”
“I’m opening the door. Please see me at the front desk to sign in.”
I heard a click. This time the door opened when I turned the handle. We stepped into a large lobby. It was—to put it mildly—spect
acular. Marble floors, a giant chandelier, and leather furniture conspired to give the space a deeply luxurious feel. There was no way, I realized, a person could step through that door and not take the school seriously. Even if—like me—you were predisposed to having a bad opinion about the place.
On the far side of the lobby, I saw a counter with a young woman behind it. She smiled at us as we made the long walk across the expanse of polished marble.
“I’m Mindy,” the girl said, still smiling. I took her in. Young, brunette. Pleasant demeanor.
“Bob,” I said, and jabbed a thumb at Ronnie. “And Bobby Junior. It’s his son we’re here about.”
“Nice to meet you both,” she said. “We’re excited that you’re considering the Harden School.” She pointed to a sheet for us to sign in.
“So, do the boys handle all the yard work?”
“They do, under Coach Blevins’s watchful eye.”
“Coach Blevins?”
“Well, that’s what they call him. He’s actually a doctor. Really smart, they say, but I’ve also heard he’s …” She shrugged sheepishly, almost apologetically.
“What were you going to say?”
She shook her head. “Nothing, I should have kept my mouth closed.”
“But you didn’t, and now I’m wondering if I should be concerned about sending my grandson here?”
I saw something like doubt creep across her face. “Absolutely not. Everyone says Dr. Blevins is the best. I’m sorry. He’s just … unorthodox.”
“Well,” I said, trying to buy time, hoping she’d say something more. Often it was easiest to let silence bait the hook. Most people simply couldn’t abide it.
“What’s your son’s name?” she said, smartly changing the subject.
I pointed at Ronnie and said, “Bobby Junior.”
“No, not him, the one you want to talk to Harden about.”
“Leroy,” Ronnie said. “He’s about as wild as a buck.”
“Leroy,” she repeated thoughtfully. “How old is he?”
I hesitated, giving Ronnie time to answer again. He seemed like he had a vision for this.
“Fourteen and hell on skates.”
“It’s a tough age,” she said.
“Yep, he thinks he’s got the world figured out, but he ain’t got nothing, not even a clue. He believes he’s the damned cock of the walk now that his balls dropped.” Ronnie snorted. “Truth is, he ain’t nothing but a little banty rooster.”
Mindy made a face I couldn’t quite read. Concern? Not exactly. More like surprise, but why would she be surprised? Surely this story wasn’t uncommon. Maybe it was just Ronnie’s colorful language she wasn’t prepared for. Her next statement went a long way toward clearing up my confusion. “I will add him to our prayer list at church. I’ve seen God change kids. It’s not his will for them to be like that.”
“It sure isn’t,” Ronnie said.
“So,” I said. “Does the school serve boys and girls?”
Mindy shook her head. “No, just boys. I’ve heard they had a girl here a long time ago and it didn’t go well.”
I pointed at a sofa in one corner of the giant lobby. “Okay if we wait over there?”
“No need to wait,” came a booming voice from the other side of the lobby. I turned and saw a well-dressed older man smiling at us. He was handsome, the kind of man who, despite being in his seventies, was still likely to get second looks from younger women. He was muscular and trim and had a roguish quality about him that belied the suit and shiny shoes he wore.
Striding across the lobby, he held out a hand. “I’m Randy Harden.”
“Bob Jenkins,” I said. “From Little Rock. My boy, Bobby Junior.”
“Nice to meet both of you fellows. Let’s go to my office.”
13
Harden’s office was a clean and spartan affair, with decor that looked like it had last been updated in the 1970s. His bookshelves were filled with great tomes about military history and religion. Interesting mix, I thought, but not surprising. In Coulee County, religion and violence were always close bedfellows.
Behind his desk were some photos of Harden with what I assumed were former students. In all of them, he stood in front of a concrete maze lined with plants, flowers, and hedges. The students smiled, while Harden posed as the proud father whose hard work had finally paid off.
“Those are my success stories,” he said.
“You’ve only had ten successes?” Ronnie asked.
It was actually a good question. I had been thinking the same thing. Harden, for his part, took the question in stride. “When I say successes, I mean successes.” He swiveled in his chair and pointed at a photo of a smiling red-haired kid. “That’s Jimmy Lawson.”
I waited for more.
“You boys don’t know Jimmy Lawson?”
“We’re from Arkansas,” I said.
Harden laughed. “Well, that explains it. Jimmy’s the new county prosecutor. He came through here in ninety-three. That kid was messed up. But I’m going to tell you what he needed.”
Ronnie and I both waited as Harden drew out the moment.
“He needed somebody to tell him no, and mean it. That’s what I did. I told him no. You’d be surprised how many boys crave that.”
I nodded, trying to decide exactly how to play this. I needed him to believe our boy was a good fit for the school, at least long enough to show me around, to let me meet the teachers, particularly Blevins, and get a feel for the place.
“My cousin lives in the area and she told us about the good work you do here, Mr. Harden. We’ve flown out from Arkansas to check the place out. I’d very much like to hear about your philosophy and maybe see the place. And meet some of the teachers.”
“Hold your horses,” he said. “This school ain’t for everybody. I’ll need to hear a little about your boy. And I’d like to meet him, of course. Why don’t you start by telling me why you believe your boy would benefit from a program like this. Did your cousin tell you what we focus on here?”
“She said you had a way of straightening boys out. That you’d been here for a long time and got the job done. My grandson, Leroy, he’s into drugs and guns, and recently we found out he got some girl pregnant. A middle-schooler. I’m ashamed to tell you these things, Mr. Harden, but I assume you’ve heard worse.”
Harden was silent for a moment. From somewhere outside, I heard some boys shouting, chanting something.
“What’s that?” Ronnie said.
“Just morning exercises,” Harden said. He stood and shut his office door. The sounds went away.
“I’m flattered that you’ve made such a long trip because of the good things you’ve heard about our school, but I’m going to be up front with you. I’m going to have to see if we have room. We’ve had an influx of new students lately.”
“Well,” I said. “I’d like to hear a little more either way. We’ve got to decide if this is the best place for Leroy. Like I said, meet the teachers and whatnot.”
Harden picked up the phone on his desk. “Mindy, can you ask Dr. Blevins to come to my office?” He hung up and smiled at us. “Excuse me,” he said. He walked out of the office, shutting the door behind him.
“What do you think that’s about?” I said in a low whisper.
Ronnie shrugged. “Why are we checking this place out again?”
“Abuse.”
“Right.” He nodded. “He’s the type.”
“What do you mean?” We were both still whispering so he wouldn’t be able to hear us right outside the door, but another possibility struck me. What if he was recording us? What if I’d said something that let him know I was here for reconnaissance and not for my grandson?
“I mean, he’s got that look. You know, handsome but a little creepy. Full of himself. Like your daddy.”
“Yeah,” I said, realizing there was definitely something about Harden that put me in mind of my father. I thought it was the air of confidence he exuded, the sen
se that he’d carved out his place and that even when the world around him changed, he’d just drag the old world with him, using it to insulate himself from the changes and requirements brought on by the new one.
The door opened up and Harden came in, followed by a large, bald man with a big smile. The bald man seemed almost boyish in his manner, like a big, goofy kid who’d found himself in a man’s body. He wore black sweatpants and a T-shirt that said SCIENCE IS ALWAYS CHANGING in large green block letters.
“This is Dr. Timothy Blevins,” Harden said. “We call him Coach. He teaches science and handles the coaching.”
“You have teams here?” I said, hoping he wouldn’t recognize my voice.
Dr. Blevins shook Ronnie’s hand and then mine, meeting my eyes with his own big brown ones. “No, not like that. I coach the boys on how to behave like men. I teach them to get in touch with who they are, who God made them to be.”
“I see.”
Blevins’s expression changed slightly. He looked less boyish and a little more crafty, like a kid who’d figured out he could steal bubblegum instead of paying for it. “Do I know you?”
“Maybe. You got ties to Arkansas?”
He seemed to relax. “No, my people are all from right here in North Georgia.” He beamed. “God’s country.”
“I have to admit,” Ronnie said, “it is pretty.”
An awkward silence followed.
“Well,” I said. “What kind of things do you teach the boys?”
I was talking to Blevins, but Harden was the one who answered. “I don’t think that will be necessary. Sorry to say, Mr. Jenkins, but I think we’re full at the moment. If you’d made contact just a week or two earlier, we would have had a spot, but …” He shook his head and held out his hands apologetically.
“Full?” I said.
“That’s right,” Blevins said. “Not a single room. We should be graduating some boys next spring, if you want to check back then.”
“Well, I sure do hate to hear that,” I said.
“It sounds like your grandson isn’t as bad off as some we have here,” Blevins said.
“He’s in pretty bad shape. What do you have here, murderers?”
I couldn’t miss the quick look Blevins and Harden exchanged. Then Harden smiled. “We’re just full. I think what Coach means to say is you seem like the kind of man who can figure this out. You got your son here. That’s two male role models, Daddy and Granddaddy. Hell, most of the boys we have haven’t had a single decent male role model in their life before they came here. Just stay on him. Discipline is key.”