by J. M. Hayes
She clasped their hands tight and bounced up and down a little, giving their twin stares a bit of payoff. She bounced a couple of steps backwards, too, pulling them behind her and leaving Chucky free and unnoticed. Chucky might not be in competition to join her and Heather in the picture gallery, but he recognized opportunity when it slammed him upside the head. He ducked back around the corner and she heard the echo of his footsteps as he ran for it.
“Hey,” Butch said, dragging his gaze away to look for their designated prey.
“You did that on purpose,” Mark said, turning and heading for the corner.
“So,” Heather asked, “you guys still bed wetters?”
Butch turned back and pushed her. Hard. It took her by surprise and left her off balance, so she only kicked him in the shin instead of where she’d intended. It must have hurt like hell, though.
“Leave her be,” Mark said. “Help me find Chucky.”
Butch had quite a limp when he turned to obey. He took the time to glance over his shoulder and favor her with a glare. “I’ll see you again,” he said.
No doubt about it. Heather had to admit that coming back home to live some day was turning into an increasingly risky proposition.
***
Mad Dog parked the Mini in front of the Church of Christ Risen. Beneath the name, the sign bore another message, “All Are Welcome Here.” That was an exaggeration. It didn’t apply if you were a homosexual, pro-choice, believed Darwin’s theory wasn’t a hoax, or were attempting to practice Cheyenne shamanism. He decided to test the message anyway and held the door open for Hailey. She bared impressive teeth, growled low in her chest, and trotted back across the street toward Veteran’s Memorial Park. He didn’t blame her. He’d left the windows down in the Mini. She could jump back in and curl up on a seat if she got bored.
Mad Dog hadn’t been in the building in years. But he’d spent a lot of time searching for a spiritual element to fill his life. He finally found it in his mother’s genealogy. She’d been an intelligent, well-read woman who marched to the beat of a different drum. She would have fit right into Bohemian or Beatnik society. Neither existed in Benteen County, so she hadn’t fit in at all. She explained herself by telling folks she was a half-breed Cheyenne. It hadn’t been completely true, but it gave the locals something to blame her eccentricities on. In reality, her Cheyenne half turned out to be equal parts Cheyenne, Sans Arc, Mexican cowboy, and Buffalo Soldier, but Mad Dog was convinced she’d latched onto the right ancestor to claim. She’d been Cheyenne at heart, and when he started studying Cheyenne culture and religion, he’d discovered he was Cheyenne, too. Christians weren’t the only ones who could be born again.
The church bore a distinct resemblance to a warehouse. The foyer was utilitarian, a place to stomp the snow off, trap heat or cold, and block the wind. Inside, there was just a big open space. Today it was filled with rows of empty tables and scattered chairs. This was Tuesday. Didn’t they hold Chamber of Commerce breakfasts here? That would explain the lingering odor of grilled sausage that hung on the air. And the platter of cinnamon rolls on the end of one of the tables against the west wall—the only tables currently being used. Half a dozen people were working phones there. They were using phrases like “Vote your faith,” which made him sure he’d stumbled into the evangelical right’s get-out-the-vote headquarters. He felt like going over and asking if any of them knew about the sign in his front yard, but he wasn’t looking to cause trouble for its own sake. Besides, these people were openly proclaiming their politics. The ones who had assaulted his property weren’t likely to work that way.
The volunteers were busy with their phone scripts. If any of them noticed him, none of them said anything. He cruised through the auditorium and took the hall on his left. He could hear the faint strains of a piano playing an unlikely honky-tonk tune back there.
The piano player had nice hair and good posture. She was so caught up in her music that she didn’t notice when he entered the choir room. She was alone. Mad Dog had hoped to find Mark Brown in her audience, but there were just the two pictures on the wall in front of the piano. Jesus on the left, Reverend Aldus P. Goodfellow on the right. Aldus P. was the father of the Buffalo Springs pastor. The old man was a famed televangelist, known to millions. Mad Dog found a seat. The eyes on both portraits seemed to follow him across the room. Jesus’ eyes hinted at forgiveness. Aldus P.’s glared, clearly having pegged Mad Dog as someone destined to suffer hell’s eternal flames.
Mad Dog had never understood the appeal of the elder Goodfellow. Maybe he tapped some universal guilt, some need folks had to be punished for the things they’d gotten away with—the lies that worked, requited covets, or failure to deserve the devotion of a first puppy. Aldus P. had raged from his pulpit directly into people’s living rooms, promising damnation for the mildest of sins, but selling redemption. In Mad Dog’s youth, while he searched for spiritual answers, Aldus P. Goodfellow’s verities never appealed to him. But they’d appealed to plenty of others. Even when the old man began suggesting nuking Godless Communists and, more recently, purging the earth of every Muslim. The specifics of his plans put even Hitler to shame. But he’d maintained a substantial following until age slowed him down.
The girl at the piano finished her tune and did a neat segue into something innocuously classical. Mad Dog decided it was time to proceed with his investigation. He cleared his throat and the girl cleared the bench. She stifled a screech and grabbed her attractive chest in surprise.
“Oh,” she understated, “you scared me. I’m glad it’s only you.”
Mad Dog didn’t think the “only” was a put down, considering what she’d just finished playing.
“Wasn’t that Kinky Friedman? When did the Church of Christ Risen add ‘They Ain’t Makin’ Jews Like Jesus Anymore’ to their hymnal?”
***
“Dad!” Heather couldn’t contain the relief she felt at seeing Englishman obviously safe. Not that he looked good. The weight he’d lost and the dark circles under his eyes emphasized his high cheekbones. His puffy nose was new to her. But his startling blue eyes were filled with life, and the pleasure of seeing her.
Mrs. Kraus had reassured Heather, but there’d been that premonition. Her father and Mr. Juhnke were exiting the principal’s office when she spotted them and flew into her father’s arms.
“Hello, Heather.” Mr. Juhnke took the safe route. He’d never been sure which of the sisters was which.
Englishman returned her hug, then held her at arm’s length and tried to look disapproving. “What are you doing here? Is everything all right?”
That was what she’d wanted to ask him, but now the horrible sense of concern she’d felt about the possibility of losing a second parent was finally beginning to fade.
“Sure, Dad. I just wanted to come spend Election Day with you. Help you celebrate.”
“What, my retirement?” But he smiled at her and she could tell he was glad she’d come, even if she was cutting classes.
“It’s great to see you,” he continued, “but I’m in the middle of a busy morning.”
“Yeah,” she said. “I heard about Wynn. I helped Mrs. Kraus answer some calls over at the office when I got in. One was from a deputy in Hays.” She told them what the man had had to say, though not who he’d thought he was saying it to. She could see tension bleed out of both men as she explained that none of the kids on the bus were seriously hurt.
“And I heard how shorthanded you are,” she said. “Actually, that’s why I’m here.”
She reached in her fanny pack and pulled out the stuff she’d brought from his office. “You need a deputy, so I got you one.”
“Really!” She could see the excitement in his eyes. “Who’s that, honey?”
What she’d brought from the office was a shiny old badge bearing the logo, BENTEEN COUNTY DEPUTY SHERIFF. He had lots of spares since no one was using them at the moment. And she’d stuffed in his old set of handcuffs. The ones
you could open with anything you could insert in the keyhole. She already had a can of pepper spray, so she’d left his spare pistol. She wasn’t keen on guns.
“Me, Dad.” She pinned the badge on the inside of her jacket. “Swear me in. Okay?”
***
Hailey was visiting the courthouse. Since it was warmer outside than in, someone had propped the front doors open, making it simple for the wolf to enter.
There was an unusual crowd inside the foyer, waiting to vote at the booths lined up across from the door to the sheriff’s office. Hailey watched for a minute, even let an elderly woman she knew stop to pet her. She didn’t wag her tail, but she didn’t bare her teeth either.
Agnes Wagner presented herself at the table, had her registration verified, signed in, and was presented with a ballot. She took it to the farthest booth. Hailey observed it all with the intensity her ancestors reserved for lonely caribou calves.
Agnes took her time. Several booths near her were occupied more than once while she laboriously studied the names and propositions and carefully checked each against a list she’d brought to spur her memory. She finally finished and walked to the man by the ballot box.
“Morning, ma’am,” he greeted her. He reached out and took her ballot. “Here,” he said. “Let me put that in the box for you.”
Agnes smiled and fluttered ancient eyelashes at him. He let the ballot drop to his side as he reached out to guide her toward the door with his other hand. Hailey’s lips curled as he turned back to the ballot box. When he reached to insert Agnes Wagner’s ballot Hailey put herself between him and the box. Her teeth flashed and she took the punch card out of his hand.
“Hey!” the man said. Several people turned to see what had caused the exclamation. “Nice doggy,” he said. “Give that back now.”
Hailey made a rumbling sound in her chest and drew back her lips to let him see how long her canines were. She turned and trotted across the lobby into the sheriff’s office. Mrs. Kraus was on the phone. The wolf padded around the corner of the counter as the man from the ballot box trailed her through the door.
“Can you make that dog put that down?” he said.
Mrs. Kraus shook her head. No one ever made Hailey do anything. “Actually,” Mrs. Kraus told the phone, “I don’t care to take a voter survey just now because this is the Benteen County Sheriff’s Office, you ninny.” She slammed the phone back in its cradle and glanced at Hailey.
“Where’s Mad Dog?” she asked. “And what kind of trouble have you gotten into?”
“Just make the dog put that down,” the man said, advancing into the room. “Then I’ll take care of it and there won’t be any problem.”
One of the precinct observers was close on his heels. “Actually” he said, “you’re supposed to let the voters put their ballots in the box themselves. You shouldn’t touch them at all.”
“Innocent mistake,” the man said.
Hailey dropped the punch card at Mrs. Kraus’ feet. “What the…,” she said. “There isn’t just one punch card here. There’s a bunch, and all of them are punched identically.” Mrs. Kraus looked up accusingly. The man from the ballot box wasn’t there anymore.
“My God,” the precinct observer said. “Are you saying he was stuffing the box?”
Hailey opened her mouth and did that happy panting Mad Dog thought was canine laughter, then turned and trotted out of the office and headed for the front door.
“Get me one of the written ballots,” the observer was saying. “I want to know who’s trying to rig this election.”
There was a commotion in the foyer. Hailey wove through people’s legs. As she went outside, Mrs. Kraus was saying, “I remember noticing Englishman is number eighteen on the punch card. Lieutenant Greer’s just after him. All these cards are punched nineteen.”
***
Englishman wasn’t as thrilled about having a daughter for a deputy as his daughter was about becoming one. Heather should have expected that. But he was short on options, and smart enough to realize she’d do a better job than most people he could get. This was her community and, because she’d grown up a sheriff’s daughter, she had a slightly different view of it than most. Trouble was, he also had a different idea of how to use her.
“Start with the Dodge,” he’d told her, dismissing her idea of checking out the Bible camp. “There are plenty of other things I need your help on before that.” She thought maybe he didn’t want her going out there alone.
“I checked the Magnum’s visor for registration,” he said. “Looked in the glove box, which was empty, but I got too busy to search the whole vehicle. Start there, then the phone needs to be worked. Someone’s got to talk to each of the kids on that bus, and their families. Choir practice at three in the morning? Sure. So where were they actually coming from, or going? And Wynn’s family. Call them, too. See if he told his wife or father what he thought he was doing out there.”
Englishman tore a couple of pages from his notebook and gave them to her, along with a spare pen so she could make notes. She felt stupid for not thinking to bring a notebook of her own.
“Mr. Juhnke and I are going to have a chat with Mr. Gamble, who happens to lead the school chorus. His car was parked near the bus barn when the first driver arrived this morning. And there’s a student I want to talk to. But you start with the Dodge and then make those phone calls. And report back to me. In an hour, say, or the minute you learn anything I need to know.” She might have forgotten a notebook, but she did have her cell phone.
She found her Civic in the parking lot. Checking the Dodge wouldn’t be as glamorous as peeking in windows and testing doors at the Bible camp, or flashing her badge at anyone who thought she had no business nosing around. But it would help her dad in an important way. And she did have the badge she’d wanted. She was official. She’d find someone to flash it to before the day was out.
But those calls…. That wasn’t going to be fun, or easy. The people she talked to wouldn’t be able to see her badge over a phone. Even when she explained her new official capacity, she wasn’t likely to inspire confessions. She would still be Heather English in their minds—the sheriff’s kid, not the latest member of Benteen County’s law enforcement team.
Chucky Williams was getting a trombone out of the trunk of the family Ford as she headed toward Main Street. She waved, but he ducked down and pretended not to see her. He was probably embarrassed that she’d had to save him from a bad case of bullying. Gratitude apparently didn’t last very long in teenage boys. Nor had Chucky’s commitment to the clarinet. Hadn’t he tortured her with that instrument when she last babysat for him?
Heather turned right on Main and glanced back at Chucky, now nearly to the entrance to the high school. It startled her when she hit a black walnut. But not half as bad as it startled Chucky. He hit the ground like he was in downtown Baghdad.
It had been the clarinet. She remembered now, because he’d complained he couldn’t play brass instruments because they made his lips numb. So why had he changed to trombone?
She smiled at herself as she avoided more walnuts with a bit of slalom-like steering. Was this what being a deputy did to you? Turned you distrustful of clarinetists who traded for trombones? If there’d been time, she would have gone back and made him explain. Lord, Heather thought, she hadn’t been in law enforcement ten minutes and already she was developing a cop’s inclination for suspicion.
***
The Epperson girl was tall, almost as tall as Mad Dog, and pretty, with a figure guaranteed to draw passes. Mad Dog understood Mark’s interest in her, even if she proved unable to speak in complete sentences.
“Nobody else has called me on this,” she said—a complete sentence. Mark was onto something here. “I’m not sure whether they don’t pay attention or they just don’t recognize what I’m playing.”
“If I had to guess, I’d say Kinky Friedman isn’t widely known by Pastor Goodfellow’s flock. But that was pretty obviously not ‘A
mazing Grace.’ I’m surprised you haven’t had complaints.”
She shrugged. “None yet. I give them ‘Amazing Grace’ on Sundays, and I play for choir practices. Maybe they put up with my practice sessions rather than risk losing me.”
“You’re good,” Mad Dog said, “but they could find another decent piano player. And I’m thinking they will, if they catch on. The people who run this church don’t have much of a sense of humor.”
“Or forgiveness. Yeah, I know. But I don’t really care anymore. I turn twenty-one next week, and then I’m outta here. My uncle runs a bar in Vegas. He can use a piano player. He says if I dress right, play a few bawdy songs, and flirt a little, I can make fifty bucks an hour in tips. No way to match that in Kansas.”
No legal way, Mad Dog had to admit. Not that it was his business. “Actually,” he said, “I didn’t drop by to act as a music critic. I’m looking for Mark Brown. His dad said I might find him hanging around you.”
She smiled. “Yeah. Mark’s nice. I’ve spent some time with him lately. But I haven’t seen him since Friday.”
“His dad hasn’t seen him either. Mark was supposed to be looking after my place while I was out of town. He doesn’t seem to have done that either. You have any idea where he might be?”
She put a long, supple index finger to her chin and bit her lower lip. “No,” she said. “Friday, that’s when I told him about Vegas. He took it kind of hard. I thought that was why I hadn’t seen him. That he was off pouting somewhere.”
Mad Dog remembered how much it hurt when the girl you loved told you she was through with you. Still hurt, in his case, since the same girl had gone and disappeared on him twice now. The second time was just a couple of years ago, when the wind energy company she’d tried to bring back to Benteen County went bankrupt, sending her and her money to a nation where the U.S. had no extradition treaty.