Broken Heartland (8 page)

That left the envelope. It was unmarked on the outside and sealed, but there was no point in stopping now. She used the knife again. A single sheet of plain white paper lay within. It wasn't addressed to anyone and it wasn't signed. But she knew who should get the test tubes now—Doc at the coroner's office, if he was there. She'd call first, right after she called Englishman to tell him what the note said.

This was getting seriously weird. She reread the paper as she photographed it with her cell phone. It didn't sound any less strange when she read it out loud.

“I will not guarantee the integrity of stem cells transported in this manner.”

***

“Someone changed the lock.” Juhnke was still steaming. No doors in Buffalo Springs High should fail to open to his ring of keys.

The sheriff was getting tired of traipsing around the old building on Juhnke's heels. He didn't even know if this mystery choir had anything to do with his deputy's accident, though it was certainly suspicious. If it wasn't related, he needed to turn his attention lots of other places, and quick. “I could shoot it open,” he offered, putting his hand on the butt of his .38.

“Oh no,” Juhnke said, taking him seriously. “That's not necessary. There's another entrance.”

“I know,” the sheriff said. “The outdoor stair at the back of the building.”

“Of course, they could have changed locks back there, too.”

“Yeah,” the sheriff said, “but there's a way into the cage that surrounds the stairs that doesn't require a key. Once inside the fence, we should be able to see what's going on through the windows. If we can't and your keys won't open the basement door, I know how to jimmy those windows.”

Juhnke raised his eyebrows.

“Hey, I was a student here. Remember?”

“And a trouble maker, it sounds like.”

The sheriff led the way down the front hall and out the exit. “Not really. But this is a small school and an old building. All of us knew its secrets.”

“Everyone but the administrators, apparently,” Juhnke said.

Someone ran over a handful of black walnuts on Main Street. The explosive cracks rang across the school yard and the sheriff grinned as Juhnke ducked. Grinned, until he noticed there weren't any cars on Main. No one was there to run over walnuts and cause gunshot-like explosions. Nothing explained the sounds, except maybe a real gun that might be somewhere inside the school.

***

“Mad Dog,” Pastor Goodfellow said. “You're the last person I expected to find visiting God's house.”

Mad Dog could believe that.

“Morning, Pastor. Seems to me every house is God's house. Besides, you've got that big welcome sign by the front door. I didn't think anyone would mind.”

“We welcome all who come here to accept Jesus. Is that what brings you?”

Mad Dog shook his head. “Not today, thanks. I'm not inclined to join a faith whose followers would put an obscene sign in my front yard, kill small animals, and poison the water bowl by my back door. I was looking for Mark Brown. He's supposed to be keeping an eye on my place. His dad thought he might be here listening to Ms. Epperson practice the piano.”

Goodfellow favored him with a patient smile. “Each of us is granted free will. We may use it to accept Jesus, or not. But I assure you, no true Christian would do the things of which you accuse us. As for Mark, alas, he hasn't accepted salvation here either. Nor has he been present in this house of worship today, as you can see for yourself.”

Another man stuck his head in the door, a little fellow with a bad comb-over. “Don't waste time with this guy. Just get him out of here.”

Mad Dog didn't recognize the man. “So the welcome sign is only for show?”

The man who wanted Mad Dog gone didn't answer. He just looked at Goodfellow and said, “I mean now,” before he disappeared back into the hall.

“My apologies,” Goodfellow said. “Mr. Dunbar could have been more polite, but I suppose he's within his rights. He's a representative of the political action committee renting our facilities today. Since they've brought in local volunteers who are trying to put your brother out of a job, your presence could hamper the enthusiasm of their efforts.”

Mad Dog nodded. “Not a problem, Pastor. I've been thrown out of better places. You prefer me to use a back door?”

Goodfellow's smile was weak. “If you don't mind,” he said, “there's an exit at the end of the hall.”

The Epperson girl grabbed her purse and put her arm through Mad Dog's. “I don't think I want to be here anymore, either,” she said. “Let's go. I'll help you find Mark.” She edged Mad Dog out of the practice room and into the corridor. Dunbar was tapping a foot, arms folded, a few steps back into the church.

“You know,” she told Mad Dog, louder than was necessary for him to hear, “I wasn't planning to vote. But now I want to go right over and cast my ballot for Englishman.”

They went out the rear exit into bright sun and a gentle fall breeze. Someone slammed the door behind them.

***

Screams. More walnuts that weren't walnuts. Shouts. Pounding footsteps. A kid, a boy with red hair and pimples, came careening around the corner. When he saw the sheriff and the principal he stopped and pointed behind him. He made some vague whimpering noises and then started to cry.

“Gunshots,” the sheriff said.

“Yes,” Juhnke said. “I think so.”

“You have a plan for a situation like this?”

“We evacuate everyone to the gym, or the lunchroom if the gym isn't safe. Then we lockdown. No one goes in or out until it's over.”

The sheriff nodded. “Do that,” he said, “and take this boy with you.” The boy was still trying to tell them things that the sheriff needed to know, but the kid was unintelligible in his terror. The sheriff couldn't wait.

The shouts and cries seemed to be coming from behind the school. Maybe down in that basement where the nonexistent choir was supposedly practicing. The sheriff took no chances. He pulled his .38 and went around the corner, crouched in a shooter's stance. Two more boys were hiding against the wall near the back of the building. When they saw the sheriff, one threw himself on the ground and the other just froze. But only for a moment. Then he ran toward the sheriff.

“In the basement,” the boy was saying. “Someone's killing people in the basement.”

The sheriff made sure this kid, and the one on the ground, didn't have anything in their hands. When guns started going off in a school, they were probably being fired by kids who might look just like these two.

“Who's shooting?” the sheriff asked. “How many guns?”

The kid shook his head. “I don't know. But they got Freddie. We were in the shop, out back.” Vocational Agriculture and shop classes were still taught in the metal building behind the school. The sheriff had built his mother a pair of awful end tables there that she had prized all her life.

“Freddie came stumbling up the steps and fell down.” The kid gestured to where his friend still hugged the ground. “We saw him and heard the shots and we just ran for it.”

There were still a lot of voices coming from back there. No more gunshots, though. The sheriff was thankful for that. “Get your friend,” he told the boy. “Take him around front and go to the gym. I'll cover you.”

The sheriff and the boy went to the corner, where they practically had to claw the second kid off the ground. “It's all right,” the sheriff told them. “I'll take care of it. This is my job.” He kept one eye on the boys and one on the corner, his .38 up and cocked. Once off the ground, the second boy was ready to run. The two of them disappeared around the front of the school.

It
was
his job, but how would he do it on a day when he didn't have any deputies? The sheriff took a deep breath and peered behind the building.

Another boy lay on the paved drive between the main building and the shop. His tan shirt was stained with blood and he was feebly trying to crawl away.

One thing at a time, the sheriff told himself. He grabbed his phone and hit the button that dialed his office.

“Mrs. Kraus,” he said. She was trying to tell him something about a problem with the election but he didn't give her the chance. “There's been a shooting at the high school.” She shut up in mid-sentence. “Get the highway patrol to send us any available officers immediately. And get an ambulance. Call Doc and tell him we've got at least one wounded. Then find me a deputy…but don't send Heather.”

He slapped the phone shut, holstered his gun and went. There was a kid out there who had to be extricated from the killing zone.

***

Heather called her dad first. He had either turned off his cell or was on the line, because it went straight to his voice mail. She knew how busy he must be, so she gave him a brief summary of what she'd found and what she planned to do with it. When she called Doc at the coroner's office, his line was busy. He must have a cell, but she didn't know the number. When she tried to get it from Mrs. Kraus, the lines to the sheriff's office were busy, too. She tried Doc again. No answer this time. Then the sheriff's office was still busy.

What should she do with the ice chest full of stem cells? Secure and cool them, she supposed. But where? Doc must have left his office. The courthouse didn't really have proper facilities. So….

Heather marched the cooler into the Gas — Food. She flashed her badge at the woman behind the counter. Heather had been wanting to do that.

“I need to commandeer some space in your cooler,” Heather said.

The woman's jaw dropped. Heather faintly remembered her as the mother of a girl who'd been two or three classes ahead of her. “Lord, Heather, I thought you were off in school. You come home to work for your daddy now?”

“It's just temporary.”

“Well, honey, you don't need to commandeer a thing. You want some space back in that cooler, you're welcome to it.”

Commandeering would have been more fun, but Heather smiled and thanked the woman and put the ice chest on the counter. “I need to keep this cold until I can get it to Doc Jones.” She looked around the interior of the Gas—Food. “It might be important to a case we're investigating, so I need to protect the chain of evidence.”

The woman looked impressed. Thanks to whoever had sent the cooler, Heather knew exactly how she was going to do that. “I'll need a roll of packing tape and a magic marker.” The clerk's face creased with doubt and Heather clarified her request. “I'll pay for those,” she said.

The woman found her a two-inch-wide roll of clear tape and a black marker.

“Or would you prefer fuchsia?”

“Black, thanks.” Fuchsia didn't seem serious enough.

Heather resealed the package and scrawled her signature and the date on the tape. The thing couldn't be opened again without her knowing about it. She used enough tape to be sure. The stuff was so hard to handle coming off the roll it ended up covered with her fingerprints. Her seal was at least as effective as the original.

“Now,” Heather said, “show me where we can put this.”

The woman took her down a narrow hall to a door that led into the back of the glassed-in cooler where beer and sodas and a selection of lunch meats and cheeses were displayed. They found a spot above a shelf filled with cases of Coors. Heather reeled off more tape and attached it to the shelf. Again, she signed and dated the tape in a couple of places, then covered her signature with yet another layer of tape.

“My, honey, you are being cautious with that. What's inside?”

“I'm not sure.” That was true. Heather didn't know whether the test tubes really contained stem cells. “But it's nothing for you to worry about. It won't hurt anyone who doesn't open it.” Heather was sure it would be left alone here, but a little insurance never hurt. She followed the woman back to the counter and paid for her purchases, including plastic evidence bags—food storage bags, really—for the Jack-in-the-Box sack and the original tape that sealed the cooler. She got herself a notebook, too.

After determining the clerk's shift wouldn't end before nightfall, Heather reassured her, “I'll be back for it before then. Or Dad or Doc Jones will come pick it up. Don't let anyone else touch it. In fact, it'd be better not to tell anyone it's back there.”

“Not to worry, honey. I'll see it isn't disturbed.” Heather would have preferred being called Deputy, but honey would have to do. “Where you off to in such a hurry, you've got to leave that?”

Up to that moment, Heather hadn't even admitted it to herself. Most of the reason she didn't want to take it over to the courthouse and stick it in the refrigerator beside Mrs. Kraus' brown bag lunch was because she wanted to continue investigating. Despite her father's instructions about the Bible camp, Heather yearned to look for herself. And then, a couple of the kids who'd been on that bus, the ones the deputy over in Hays had told her were being released and would soon be home, lived out that way.

Heather wanted to test her interrogation techniques, and flash her badge a few more times. She hoped to solve the mystery of what that busload of kids had been doing out there at three in the morning. It wasn't just about enjoying the power of her badge, it was about helping Englishman. Hey, that's what a daughter did when she loved her dad.

***

The sheriff was going to take a quick look at the kid's wound before moving him, but bullets began slamming into the metal wall of the shop even before he got there. He hunched down and tried to make himself a lot shorter than normal and grabbed the kid by the arms. A bullet whined off the concrete lip to the stairwell, too close, as the sheriff dragged the boy back toward the corner. He could feel the next one ripping his flesh, but it never came.