Broken Heartland (31 page)
Authors: J.M. Hayes
He'd brought a speaker phone into the room in the Buffalo Springs Clinic he had made Heather Lane promise to occupy, at least for tonight. They'd finally persuaded the receptionist at the hospital in Wichita to put a call through to Englishman's room. The other Heather had pushed from her end, after long ago sharing the good news/bad news results of their father's surgery.
“Hey, honey,” Englishman said. His voice sounded a little woozy. “Thanks for calling. They tell me I'm going to be a little gimpy, but fine. How about you?”
Heather was staying on her left side. The local anesthetic Doc had used to stitch up her shrapnel wound was wearing off and her right hip would be seriously sore by now.
“Let's just say I'll be sitting very carefully, if at all, for a while.”
Doc piped in. “She'll have an interesting scar, but she'll only want to share it with really special friends.”
“Hey, bro,” Mad Dog called from the corner. He was sitting there with Hailey under one arm and Pam Epperson under the other. Doc still hadn't figured out what that was about.
“You're gonna heal faster and better than those doctors think. They don't know a Cheyenne shaman and his wolf spirit helper will cure you quick.”
Englishman laughed. “How about you and Hailey, Mad Dog? No ill effects?”
“He's got mental problems,” Doc said, “but he had those before.”
“They tell me the transplant doctor died,” Englishman said. “Galen, too. But that leaves the nurse and the guy with the comb over, Dunbar. And three of their four hired guns. Did the highway patrol get them to talk?”
“The nurse was talking long before the highway patrol got there,” Mad Dog said. “Dunbar, bad hair and all, was manager for Aldus P. Goodfellow's televangelist empire. He's been channeling money into this county in order to control it politically for a couple of years. It was always about setting us up as the location for their Frankenstein-lab, a place to treat old man Goodfellow and his political cronies. God's care wasn't good enough for them. But the reverend had a stroke this fall and they started rushing things. Including the shipment of Goodfellow's fake clone this morning. Wynn-Some interrupted that.”
“Was
our
Pastor Goodfellow involved?” Englishman asked.
“He knew about a little of it,” Mad Dog said, “but he didn't approve. His boy thoughâ¦.”
“I know,” Englishman agreed, “but the kid paid with his life.”
“Dunbar hooked them up with this guy who'd been selling miracle cures for decadesâstem cells and human growth hormones, even claimed he could clone people years before Dolly the sheep.”
“Scam artist,” Doc interrupted. “Mostly, anyway. Kept old man Goodfellow's heart beating. With enough transplants and gimmickry, he might have done that almost indefinitely. But his nurse admits the reverend's been brain dead from the moment they started treating him. Says that clone was actually one of a herd of unwanted children they raise for medical purposes at a clinic in Mexico.”
“Any word on Wynn-Some?” Englishman asked.
“We thought you might know,” Doc said. “He's in the same hospital as you. Still in an induced coma last I heard. But at least the people on that bus confessed Galen was driving without lights, too. Troopers said they wouldn't be charging Wynn-Some.”
“There'll be time to go over all this later.” Deputy Heather's voice sounded as tired as Doc felt. “Dad needs his rest now.”
“Yeah,” Heather Lane said, just as the door to the room opened and Mrs. Kraus stuck her head in. “Daddy doesn't need to worry about any of this. The state will handle things now.”
Englishman's voice came back on the phone. “That's okay. The trials might be over before I heal up enough to help. And, by then, my term will have run out.”
“Bullpucky!” Mrs. Kraus rasped.
“Hey, Mrs. Kraus,” Englishman said. “Nice of you to come cheer me up, too.”
“Nice, my ass,” she said. “I just come from where they finished the vote count. I wanted to congratulate our new sheriff.”
“Greer,” Englishman said. “He's right here with Heather.”
“Let me speak to the lieutenant,” Mrs. Kraus said.
The phone changed hands and Greer said, “I'm here, Mrs. Kraus.”
“Lieutenant Greer. You lost. They haven't even accounted for the fraudulent votes yet and it's two to one, Englishman.”
Everyone in Heather's room was stunned into silence. Englishman had never won any of his previous elections by more than a few percentage points. This seemed impossible. And, of course, how would he perform his duties?
“But he can'tâ¦,” Two began.
“Not now, maybe,” Greer said. “But he's got a deputy, standing right next to me, who can handle anything. Anything at all.”
***
She could, Mad Dog thought, though he'd rather see Heather English go back and complete her law degree.
He was relieved to discover that the last of the reportersâthey'd descended on the community like a plague of locusts this afternoonâwas gone when Doc escorted Heather's visitors out of the clinic.
“I want this girl to get some sleep,” Doc said. “And I'll be snoring away in the next room. I'm an old man, not up to all this excitement.”
Mrs. Kraus scurried out to her car, which she'd retrieved from the Siegrist farm before the highway patrol got around to impounding it. “Might be it's time for a new generation to take over,” she said as she opened her door. “Even I'm getting a tad past my prime.”
Mad Dog felt that way, too. He'd been a long time without sleep. He opened the door to his Mini Cooper and let Hailey and Pam climb in.
“Can I take you home, Pam?” he asked, getting behind the wheel.
“Sure,” she said. “If you're talking about your place. You and I have unfinished business.”
He started to ask her, What about Mark?âwho'd run for home at the first shot. He was going to remind her of their age difference. Before he could say a word she leaned over and nuzzled his ear and it became obvious he wasn't
that
old.
A good Cheyenne shouldn't do this, Mad Dog told himself. He glanced into his rearview mirror. From the way Hailey's eyes glowed in the moonlight, she clearly disagreed. And her toothy grin told him she thought it was about time.
The last episode in the adventures of Mad Dog & Englishman,
Plains Crazy
, was released by Poisoned Pen Press in October 2004. That was just in time for the first Great Manhattan Mystery Conclave. It's held in the Little Apple, Manhattan, Kansas, and that provided the perfect excuse to go “home” again.
Barbara and I traveled about the state immediately before one of the most polarized presidential elections ever. I was keen on taking the pulse of my homeland because Thomas Frank's book,
What's the Matter with Kansas: How Conservatives Won the Heart of America
, had come out only a few months before. I thought Frank made many good points, but I also thought he hadn't quite got it.
My Kansas upbringing taught that religion and politics were
the
subjects to be avoided in polite conversations. Bringing them up, even in a novel, can be like trying to put out a fire by spraying it with gasoline. And yet, the Kansas I recall allowed for such conversations as long as you listened politely and, if you disagreed, did so without disparaging others' views. The Kansas I was educated in never doubted I should be exposed to good science any more than it limited what sections of religious texts could be discussed in houses of worship. But that was before the Kansas Board of Education inserted itself into the evolution debate.
Kansas has a history of conservatism, both politically and in the religious beliefs of its citizens. It's hard not to feel the need for a direct connection to God when your existence and the well-being of your family so tied to weather's whims. And whims is too gentle a word for the extremes Kansans face. Fewer families farm than when I grew up, but the state's economy still relies on how weather affects agriculture.
We attended another Great Manhattan Mystery Conclave just before the mid-term election of 2006, the day on which
Broken Heartland
is set. Those results prove, I think, that politics in Kansas are not as simple as Frank proclaimed. And that there's nothing the matter with Kansas that isn't duplicated in our nation at large. This story includes my small effort to demonstrate that, though the results of the 2006 election in Benteen County are as fictional as the locality itself.
Some readers of this series may wonder why Judy English had to die. She didn't, of course. The decision was easier to make than it is to justify. Part of my reason is because these books have so often been described as cozies. To me, that implies an effort to avoid controversy. This series has considered child abuse, incest, abortion, religious fanaticism, and the practicality of everyday democracy, to say nothing of brutal murder. And, though it may push real-world possibilities to the extreme (or beyond), I hope it has remained sufficiently grounded for readers to relate to my characters. People die. We may not like to be reminded of that, and yet there is comfort in shared grief. I grieve for family and friends who have died since this series started. Now, my characters join me.
No one should take the medical practices described here too seriously. You can't transplant eyes. Not so far as I'm aware, anyway. And there's no paralysis drug as selective as the one in this book, nor any legitimate purpose for it.
The Buffalo Springs Church of Christ Risen is an invention, as well. There may be real churches that share some of its name, but I have no reason to think they might be similarly involved in politics or illegal activities. Like picking names for characters, unintentional matches are unavoidable, and bear no resemblanceâ¦.
Yes, I know Mad Dog is too old for Pam. So does he, but the heart seldom respects logic. Besides, Pam may be the more mature individual in the relationship, and anything that's all right with Hailey is okay by me.
The usual suspects must be rounded up for thanks. Barbara, my own “child bride,” first and foremost. I've dedicated several books to her, but always along with others. Being an author's wife is no easy task. And I'm not counting all the reading, editing, and emotional support. She deserves at least one book, all her own.
Next, my critique group, without whom I literally couldn't do this. Elizabeth Gunn and Susan Cummins Miller were around for the whole ride. Sheila Cottrell, Liza Porter, and William K. Hartmann got off more lightly. Bill's wife and my dear friend, Gayle Hartmann, volunteered some careful editing as well as several wise suggestions. Karl Schlesier continues to provide guidance about all things Cheyenne. The Poisoned Pen posse inspires, especially Larry Karp with his thoughtful insights. Thanks to all!
Friends and family still in Kansas help keep me rooted there. Included among them are the folks behind the Great Manhattan Mystery Conclave. Their encouragement has been invaluable. So has that of the internet discussion group, Kansas-L. I owe Cheryl Brooks of that list for the idea about the black walnuts.
Finally, its impossible to adequately thank the fine folks at Poisoned Pen Press. Barbara Peters and Rob Rosenwald, of course, but also Jessica Tribble, Marilyn Pizzo, Jennifer Muller, Geetha Perrera, Nan Beams, and Monty Montee. The next generation, as well, including newcomer Eleanor Ann Muller. And, of course, Annette, whoever you are.
For any errors, flaws, or advice not taken, I alone am responsible.
JMH
Tucson, by way of Hutchinson, Darlow, Partridge,
Manhattan, Wichita, Sedna Creek, et Tabun,
Albuquerque, and a yellow brick road
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