Broken Heartland (9 page)

He heard laughter, high-pitched, hysterical maybe. And then a voice from the basement, cracking, one that hadn't finished changing yet.

“Ally ally out's in free, Sheriff. This time, anyway.”

The sheriff was gasping for breath by the time he got the wounded boy around the corner. His heart felt like it would tear a hole in his chest and go pounding out toward the football field.

The boy had been grazed along one hip. The bullet had plowed a nasty furrow through jeans and flesh. That one was causing a lot of bleeding, but it wasn't as dangerous as the gaping exit wound on the boy's other side, just below the last rib.

Freddie King, Buffalo Spring's star tackle, was still conscious, though. He stared at the sheriff through disbelieving eyes. The sheriff peeled out of his jacket and used the garment to fashion a sort of compression bandage that concentrated on the hole in the boy's abdomen, but covered the entry wound in the small of his back, too. The sheriff used his belt to cinch it as tight as he dared.

“Who shot you, Freddie?”

Freddie was panting as hard as the sheriff. It made him hard to understand. “Am I gonna die?”

The sheriff didn't think so. There wasn't enough blood to make him think the bullet had hit a major artery. And the wound wasn't bubbling, nor was Freddie coughing up blood. It had missed heart and lungs. Which didn't mean it might not be life threatening. It depended on how soon he got medical care.

“You're going to be fine,” the sheriff said, trying to make a wish sound like a certainty. “Who did it? Are there hostages?” The sheriff had a million questions, but Freddie had other concerns.

“It hurts, Sheriff,” he said. “Oh God, it hurts.”

A beige station wagon nearly lifted off the inside wheels as it took the turn into the parking lot in front of the school. The sheriff knew that Buick.

“Doc Jones is here, Freddie. He'll fix it. He'll stop the hurt.”

Freddie didn't seem to hear him. “I thought I'd made it, but he just let me get to the top of the stairs before he shot me.”

“Who, Freddie?” The sheriff stood and waved and Doc's Buick jumped the curb out front and came careening around the building before locking up brakes and showering them with gravel.

There was another shot from the rear of the building. And the sound of breaking glass—one of the windows in the shop.

“No fair peeking.” It was the same man/child voice as before.

Doc was out of his car, black bag in hand. The sheriff returned to the corner of the building and looked for fresh bodies. There weren't any, but the bottom right pane on the door to the voc-ag classroom had a hole in it.

English didn't think it would work, but he had to try. “This is the sheriff,” he yelled. “Throw your gun out and come through the door with your hands raised.”

A volley of bullets tore out the nearest window and headed for the northeast corner of the county.

“You throw your gun in,” the cracking voice said. “You surrender to me.”

“Doesn't work that way,” the sheriff said. “Freddie's gonna be all right. Why don't you come out now, before things get out of control?”

The boy laughed at him. “Just 'cause Freddie's okay doesn't mean everyone is.”

“Don't make me come get you.” Jeez, like he was talking to a child. Well, he was.

“You better not try, Sheriff. I got more in here. Some aren't hurt yet. You come in, that's gonna change.”

Okay, this wasn't working. Time for a different strategy. “Who are you?” the sheriff yelled. “What's this all about?”

“You don't know, do you, Mr. Sheriff Englishman? Sometimes I don't think anybody knows who I am. After today they will. After today, all kinds of people are gonna know me.”

That's when the sheriff realized he'd heard that voice before. Earlier today, in a restroom in this building while removing Doc's packing from his nose.

“Chucky Williams,” the sheriff said. “Do you know what your folks are gonna do when they get hold of you?”

There was a moment of silence before Chucky answered. “Nothin', Sheriff. Not anymore. How do you think I got this gun out of the house?”

***

The Epperson girl had actually voted first thing that morning—for Englishman, she told Mad Dog. Mad Dog had voted by mail. That meant they didn't have to go to the courthouse after all. Just as well, since the entry was jammed with people raising voices and shaking fists at one another. Politics as normal in twenty-first century America, Mad Dog thought.

“I guess I'll try Mark's friend, Galen Siegrist,” Mad Dog said. “Did you really want to come along?”

“Yeah, really.” She followed him to the Mini Cooper. “Hi, Hailey.” The wolf was waiting in the front seat. “I'm Pam Epperson. Do you mind if I come for a ride with you?”

Pam—that helped. Sooner or later, Mad Dog had known he'd have to come up with something more than “the Epperson girl.”

“She's not outgoing,” Mad Dog explained, opening the door for Pam. Hailey made a liar out of him by delivering a slobbery kiss to Pam's outstretched hand. “Not usually, anyway.” Hailey bounded into the backseat and the girl got in the car.

“She's beautiful,” Pam said.

“So are you,” Mad Dog would have said if he were a few decades younger. Instead, he got in, started the car, and aimed it toward Main.

“I may actually be able to help,” Pam said. She and Hailey were exchanging nuzzles. Mad Dog had never seen Hailey take to a stranger so easily before. She usually didn't growl or bare her teeth, not unless people deserved it. But she tended to be standoffish, maybe allow a pat or two before retiring into regal privacy.

“Galen's kind of paranoid. If he thinks you're looking for Mark because Mark screwed up, Galen probably won't help. But since he likes me, and he's got the hots for my favorite cousin, he'll tell me where Mark is. If he knows.”

As Mad Dog turned right on Main, he thought he heard someone run over a bunch of walnuts. A car pulled out of the old Texaco's lot and headed south as they approached the stop sign in front of the Gas — Food. It was a silver Civic, just like the one his niece, Heather English, drove. And the driver looked a lot like her, too.

“Look,” Pam said. “I think that's Galen's truck.”

“Where?” Mad Dog didn't know what Galen drove, but looking for the truck in question took his mind off both the Civic and the walnuts.

“There.” It was a blob of color disappearing into the distance on the westbound blacktop. Mad Dog couldn't even tell if it was a pickup.

Pam looked at him and grinned. “I've heard your Mini is fast. Is it fast enough to catch that truck?”

It had been a very long time since a pretty girl sat beside Mad Dog and encouraged him to speed. But not long enough for him to have forgotten how.

***

“I need your help.”

Doc's plea tore the sheriff's attention away from the grim possibilities of what he might find when he had the chance to check Chucky's house.

“This boy needs to get to a trauma center,” Doc said as he opened the back gate on the Buick and wheeled out his stretcher. “But we can start replacing some of the blood he's losing and get some antibiotics and painkillers in him. I'll get a helicopter on the way as I take him to the clinic.” Doc was trying to retire from practicing medicine, except for his duties at the coroner's office, but he still had an office at the clinic downtown. So did two other doctors, though both alternated weeks with similar clinics in adjacent counties.

Doc gestured toward the school. “Are there more in there need tending to?”

“I think so. Chucky Williams—he's the one with the gun—claims there are more wounded. From what he said, his parents might be hurt, too. If you can find somebody to check on them, they might need help.”

“Jesus!” From Doc, it wasn't a prayer. The two men got their arms under the wounded boy and lifted him gently onto the stretcher. The sheriff helped Doc guide it back into the Buick, where they locked it in place and tied the boy down. “I'll see how the clinic's staffed. Maybe I can send someone to the Williams place from there. Whatever, I'll be right back. Don't do anything stupid. I don't want to be cutting bullets out of you.”

“If you can find me any help, bring it. I need to get the exits to that basement covered before I decide how to get Chucky out of there.”

“Right.” Doc finished strapping Freddie in and hung the IV bags where they could continue flowing into the boy. Freddie wasn't talking anymore. He was just groaning.

Doc and the sheriff didn't exchange more words. There weren't any. Doc jumped behind the wheel, threw the Buick in reverse, turned in the parking lot, and headed for Main. The sheriff went back to the corner to check on Chucky.

“Who's down there with you, Chucky?” he called. “What's this all about?”

“Just me and the choir, Sheriff. And it's about time. I've put up with these bullies way too long.”

Keep him talking. At least for now. While he was talking, he wasn't shooting and the sheriff knew where Chucky was.

“Who?” English called. “Who's in the choir? Who are the bullies?”

“Freddie. But then you already know that.”

“Are there more? Can I talk to somebody? You're claiming you've got hostages down there, but for all I know you've already killed everybody. Maybe there's no reason for me and my deputies not to come down there and bring you out.” There weren't any deputies, of course, but maybe Chucky didn't know that.

Chucky said something, soft and low and not to the sheriff.

Another voice, trembling. A girl's. “There are three of us he hasn't hurt yet. But he shot three down here. I think Mr. Gamble and Butch and Mark are all dead.”

Butch—that would probably be the Bunker kid. The sheriff had had several run-ins with that young troublemaker. Who was Mark? Not Goodfellow, surely. Not the pastor's son.

“Butch Bunker? Mark Goodfellow?”

“She said all you need to hear, sheriff. Now you know my hostages are for real.”

“I know that, Chucky. I know they're for real. I know you're for real. So, now, how do we go about solving this?”

There was a long silence.

“What do you want?” the sheriff called. “What do you hope to get out of this?”

The silence continued for what seemed like forever. When Chucky finally answered, his voice sounded young and frightened. “That's a good question. I just wanted to do what was right. Now, I don't know.”

“You're a juvenile, Chucky. This doesn't have to be the end of the world for you,” the sheriff lied. If someone was dead, Chucky was going to spend the rest of his life behind bars. And if several were dead, he was likely to be tried as an adult and get strapped to a gurney while the state dripped poison in his arm. “But you've got to give up now. You've got to let me get help for those who are hurt and bring the rest out of harm's way.”

“Too late, Sheriff. But I got three girls in here. You don't want them hurt. So maybe I am gonna want something. A million dollars and a plane, maybe. Don't go anywhere. I'll think on it and let you know.”

The sheriff, who hadn't planned on going anywhere, suddenly wanted to be any place on earth other than Benteen County.

“I'll be here, Chucky,” he said out loud. Until I get enough backup so I can come in after you. He kept that last part to himself.

***

Heather should have expected it, of course, but she was surprised to find the gate on the driveway to the Bible camp locked. And it wasn't like her new badge came with a universal skeleton key or a lock picking set.

She'd attended the camp years ago, back when it was more ecumenical than evangelical. She knew the drive led along the trees that bordered Calf Creek until it turned in where a lazy oxbow left room for the boxcars that had been converted into dormitories. If she went around the section, there was a small cluster of houses a farmer had built for his grown-up kids in a back pasture he wasn't grazing anymore. He'd bladed a road into them and they were just across the creek. One of the annual projects when she attended camp was renewing the rope suspension bridge that linked the camp and the side of the creek with the houses. She could park in there, show her badge to anyone who wondered what she was doing, and walk to the bridge. It probably wasn't more than two hundred yards.

She got out of the car first, though, and examined the path that led through the gate. Tire tracks, sure enough. And some big ones, double-wides, like on the back of a school bus. Or a large farm truck, or even some pickups, these days.

Heather had expected her father to call back. She checked her cell to be sure she still had a good signal and hadn't missed any calls. She even thought about calling him again, or Mrs. Kraus. But she didn't want to tell either one where she was. Especially not Englishman, after he'd specifically told her to leave the Bible camp alone.

Not yet, she decided. Not until after.

The houses weren't as appealing as she recalled. They mostly looked unoccupied. No curtains parted, no doors opened, no curious eyes followed her Civic as she piloted it as close as she could get to the creek. The path was right where she'd remembered. But it hadn't been used much. Not for a long time. It was almost knee deep in grass, with bigger weeds on either side. Not the easy access she'd had in mind. She'd have to get a change of clothes and a shower soon after this hike. There'd be chiggers. Probably ticks as well. It was hard to believe that ticks hadn't been a big problem when Englishman and Uncle Mad Dog grew up. Hardly any deer then, they'd told her. There were deer everywhere, these days. Enough for road-killed venison to be a common dish all over the county.

Well, hell. It was a beautiful day and the leaves were changing. Some of the weeds had died back after recent frosts. Maybe the chiggers and ticks had, too.