Broken Heartland (18 page)

The guy from the church wore his hair long in a comb-over that emphasized his baldness. But his suit probably cost more than twice what the hired help wore. “What are these people doing here?” the little man demanded.

“This is the pair who came in the Mini Cooper,” Galen said.

“I thought you took care of them.”

Galen protested, “I did. I put them in a grain bin and locked it, like I told you.”

“Like you did with that other young man? If these two are free, maybe you should check on him.”

Before Galen could argue the point, or hurry to obey, the room got even more crowded. A tall man with thick silver hair pushed in. A doctor, maybe, because he was wearing scrubs and a stethoscope.

“Has our donor…?” he began. He had a peculiar accent. German, Mad Dog thought at first, then revised his opinion when the man continued.

“Must I remind you,” he said. “We are rapidly running out of time. We have no more need of prayers from church folk.” Mad Dog had heard his voice before—on the phone in Galen's warehouse office.

“These two are snoops,” Comb-over said, “not church members.”

“Expendable?”

The accent was Dutch, maybe, or more likely Afrikaans, Mad Dog thought. Then the word “expendable” registered.

“Expendable, yes,” Comb-over nodded.

“So. Let us test them. Perhaps one of these will have to do if your substitute doesn't arrive soon.”

“Test us for what?” Pam said, but no one paid her any attention.

“I will send the nurse. You will see that it is done.”

The guy in the scrubs disappeared back into the hall. Galen started to follow him. “I'll go check on Mark. Make sure he's still in his bin.”

“Go with him,” Comb-over told the hired gun nearest the door. “Bring the boy back for testing, too. Or, if he's missing, hunt him down.”

“He's long gone,” Mad Dog said. “We let him out and sent him for help hours ago.”

“You haven't been here for hours,” Comb-over corrected, accurately enough. “Even if you did let him out, he can't have gone far, not without a car.”

The little man turned back to the hired muscle. “Check it. Bring him in, or catch him if he's loose.”

Galen looked a little pale. He followed the pro through the door just as a young man wearing scrubs entered. He was carrying a basket filled with needles and other paraphernalia. “Who shall be first?” he said. His accent was similar to the doctor's.

“I guess we shouldn't have snooped. We should have just run for it,” Pam said. Mad Dog nodded.

“Roll up a sleeve,” the male nurse said. “You should not worry. Liver donors have an extraordinarily high survival rate. Heart-lung, well, that's something else.”

***

“So what do I do now?” Heather Lane couldn't know how many people in Benteen County had been asking themselves variations of that question today. Right now, she was asking it of her sister, Heather English, who seemed preoccupied and a bit put out at having to answer another call from the observation post just north of the Siegrist farm.

“Wait. Keep watching.”

There was shouting in the background behind Heather One's voice. “What's going on there?” Two asked.

“There was a shooting at the school. Chucky Williams killed some classmates. He seems to have gotten away, but the highway patrol has arrived.”

Two couldn't believe it. Not in Buffalo Springs. And not Chucky. She remembered him as kind of a wimpy kid.

“But Daddy's all right?”

“He's fine.”

“Then what's all that yelling about?”

“He and the highway patrol captain are debating policing techniques.”

“What?” That didn't sound reasonable, not under the circumstances.

“Look,” the first Heather said. “I've kind of gotten involved in this and I need to explain some things to these officers. Just keep an eye on Galen's place, okay? Call me if anything happens. We'll be out there as soon as we can.”

“But…” Heather began, only One wasn't on the other end of the connection anymore.

Heather Lane let herself feel a little righteous indignation, though she supposed things must be wild and confused in Buffalo Springs if the first part of her sister's story was accurate. Chucky Williams killing students? God, she wanted to know who had been hurt and what was happening now. But here she was, standing at the end of a tree row almost half a mile north of where her Uncle Mad Dog might have been taken hostage along with someone in a blue uniform. She suddenly wished Chairman Wynn had stuck around with his pistol so they could go over there and bang on the door, free Uncle Mad Dog, and demand some answers…if that was Mad Dog and he was a hostage and if Galen had really been driving that bus last night.

She put the glass back to her eye. The Siegrist farm looked pretty much the way she remembered it. Except—what was that? A man…no, two men were walking up to one of the metal outbuildings. They opened the door and went inside. Uncle Mad Dog wasn't one of them. Nothing suspicious about that, was there? Though something about it bothered her. Something nagged at a corner of her mind.

Then she realized what it was. One of them, the big one, was wearing a suit. No one in Benteen County wore suits. Oh, maybe for Sunday services or to attend a funeral, but that was all.

What should she do about it? Should she call her sister back? She hardly thought her message would be welcome. Keep watching, One of Two would say, and then hang up on her again.

Well, the adopted Heather wasn't any more inclined to sit around and wait on events than Englishman's natural daughter. She tossed her fanny pack over one shoulder, put the monocular to her eye and gave the farm and outbuildings one last careful look. Then she started back to her car.

Heather didn't know what she planned to do. A drive-by surveillance, at least. Maybe she could see more from up close or another angle. And then, if it seemed like Mad Dog was in need of immediate help she'd…. She'd…. Well, she'd figure that out when it happened.

***

“Look,” the sheriff said. “Right now I don't care what you do with your trooper. I'll release him to your custody as long as you get him out of my county.”

He was going to file charges later. Doc and his two volunteers, that was bad. But discharging a shotgun at his daughter—damn right he'd press charges.

“Right now, there's still a killer on the loose. I'm shorthanded. I need your help to find him.”

Captain Miller looked like he wanted to add some disparaging adjectives to shorthanded. But the captain seemed to think he was getting what he wanted. He thought he'd freed his trooper and been given control of the investigation. “We'll find your killer, but we need a better description than just a kid with a gun.”

“About five-two,” Heather said.

Was he that tall now, the sheriff wondered? Kids always seemed smaller and younger in his memory than they actually were. Part of getting old, he supposed. He kept his mouth shut and let his daughter continue her description.

“Slight,” she was saying, “but soft. Maybe one-ten, one-twenty at the outside. Medium-brown hair, neatly cut. Blue eyes. He's wearing blue jeans and a green corduroy shirt, long-sleeved but turned up at the wrists.”

“That's a hell of a description, Deputy.” Miller was obviously surprised to find competency in the Benteen Sheriff's office, especially from the sheriff's daughter. “You've seen him today, I assume.”

“Several times. Last time, carrying the gun into the school, I think. He was toting a trombone case. I wondered about that because I thought he played the clarinet.”

“Good job,” Miller said. “You get that, men?” The officers who were still with him nodded their heads. “All right, I want two of you to take cruisers and start prowling the streets near the school. Work your way out. Hell, this town's not so big you can't cover all of it in short order. Sheriff, you and your deputy can ride along with them if you want.”

“What about you?” the sheriff asked.

“I'm sending one man with your coroner to document the crime scenes and collect the bodies. I'll take the rest with me to check out the school and be sure it's really clear.”

“Good,” the sheriff said. “My deputy and I, we'll go check the kid's home. From what he said, I think he killed his parents before he started in here. He may have gone back home, or I may find something to tell me where he's headed next.”

“Fine.”

The sheriff could tell Miller was just glad to have him out of the way.

“But stay in touch with me.” Miller gave the sheriff the radio frequency he and his men would be using as two patrol cars peeled out of the lot to begin prowling neighborhoods.

“I'm afraid the last mobile radio we had was destroyed with our black and white in an accident this morning.” The sheriff hated to admit that, but….

“Ah. Yes. That deputy who ran into a school bus,” Miller said.

“We're down to cell phones. Can we exchange numbers?”

“Sure,” Miller said. “Better than smoke signals.” He gave English his number. None of the other officers were carrying cells. Heather efficiently jotted the number down.

Miller was ignoring them now, giving his men instructions for how they'd go in and what they'd do once they got there.

The sheriff headed for his pickup. Heather followed.

When they got to his Chevy he asked her for Miller's phone number.

“Sure,” she said, “but I could just program it into both our phones while we're on the way to the Williams place.”

“You're not going,” he said.

Her mouth dropped.

“I don't want you seeing what I expect to find over there.”

“I can take it,” she said.

The sheriff thought that was more bravado than an honest opinion. “And I don't want you with me if Chucky's there. I don't know if anywhere in Buffalo Springs is safe right now. The courthouse is probably as good as it gets. You can walk there in a few minutes. Fill Mrs. Kraus in and help her contact parents. That's going to be a full-time job for the rest of the afternoon.”

“But Dad….”

He got in the truck and started the engine. “No arguments. I'm not taking you with me.”

He backed out, swung around the wrecked highway patrol car, and pulled onto Main. He looked over his shoulder before he made the turn toward the Williams place. She was still standing in the high school parking lot in the exact spot he'd left her.

***

The former chairman of the Benteen County Board of Supervisors had expected it to be difficult to trail the white Ford Fusion after it left the Siegrist place. It wasn't. The Ford's driver didn't seem to notice he was being tailed, or he didn't care.

They drove straight south to the blacktop, then followed it east into Buffalo Springs. The Ford led the chairman and his all-too-noticeable Escalade down Main Street, right to the school. It slowed as if it planned to turn in, then sped up and made a hasty right, south, away from the buildings. Wynn followed. He hardly glanced at the school, but he noticed a highway patrol car in the parking lot. Were they putting on some kind of driving clinic for students today? He hadn't heard about it. And why wasn't that cruiser parked normally? It looked like it had been in an accident. Then he was around the corner and concentrating on the Ford again, because it seemed to be in more of a hurry now. It turned right at the first opportunity, back into Buffalo Springs. He stayed on its tail, though not so close as to be obvious.

The Ford zigzagged through town. Was it trying to lose him? Another highway patrol car came toward them at one point and the Ford dropped south a couple of blocks before heading west again. Or was the guy avoiding those patrol cars? He certainly hadn't put any additional distance between himself and the Escalade.

They went north again, then, toward Main, crossed it, and turned west beside Bertha's Café. That put them next to Veteran's Memorial Park, and headed toward the courthouse. The Ford slowed. It had to. There was quite a crowd down near the courthouse. Amazing election turnout, he thought. But why was another highway patrol car there? And was that a uniformed trooper standing just inside the front doors?

The Ford turned left by the Church of Christ Risen and stopped next to the building. Wynn kind of pulled onto the edge of the park, for the first time feeling thankful that he hadn't managed to find the money for the curbs he'd wanted to put there to keep damn fools, such as himself, from driving on the grass.

The Ford's driver called to the group of men standing near the entry to the church. He must have asked to speak to Pastor Goodfellow, because someone went inside and returned with the man moments later.

Goodfellow and the guy in the Ford seemed upset about something. Goodfellow waved his arms about as if he were delivering one of his you're-all-doomed-to-eternity-in-hell sermons. Wynn couldn't hear them. Not over the babble of several conversations and the usual gusts of wind searching for leaves to usher through town.

Wynn did notice that two men had followed Goodfellow out of the church, though. One was Lieutenant Greer, Englishman's opponent in the race for sheriff. The guy with him was a friend of Greer's, but not a local man. New-something, Wynn thought. Neuhauser, that was it. Neuhauser was keeping an eye on the reverend and the fellow in the Ford. Greer was keeping an eye on everything. Wynn ducked down to avoid being noticed by the would-be sheriff. When he raised up to look again, the Ford and Goodfellow were moving. The Ford pulled into a parking place and the driver got out and joined the reverend. The two of them, still arguing, went into the church.

But it was Greer and Neuhauser who caught Wynn's attention. Greer had grabbed Neuhauser by the arm and was pointing back down the street to where several cars always parked around Bertha's Café. The Williams kid was getting in one of them. It looked a lot like Mrs. Kraus' car, but Chucky Williams wouldn't do that. An old farmer was standing alongside, saying something to Chucky, who nodded and seemed to thank him. And then Chucky settled the rifle he was carrying onto the seat beside him, started the car, and headed south toward Main.