Free Broken Heartland by J.M. Hayes

happening on his watch that he wasn’t aware of. That was bad enough, but having the sheriff right here to witness his failure, that made it intolerable.
    â€œLet me get this straight,” Juhnke said. “You girls are enrolled in chorus this hour, right?”
    There were bright red splotches on the Showalter girl’s cheeks. Her companions kind of sidled off, out of Juhnke’s direct gaze, as if he might somehow, later, fail to recall their involvement.
    â€œYes.” The girl’s voice cracked a little.
    â€œBut your teacher and some of your classmates aren’t here and so you’re just sitting around chatting and not reporting their absence to the office?”
    â€œWell, they usually aren’t here.”
    â€œExcuse me?” Juhnke seemed on the verge of a Krakatoa impersonation.
    The sheriff decided to get involved. “You know where they are?”
    â€œWell, sure,” the girl said. “Mr. Gamble left me in charge, so I didn’t think there was anything to report.”
    â€œWhere are they?” the sheriff prompted.
    â€œOur voices, they aren’t full enough,” she tried to explain.
    Juhnke was red as a Kansas sunset and sputtering. Maybe Krakatoa wasn’t big enough. Maybe he would mimic a supernova.
    â€œTell us where they are, please,” the sheriff said.
    â€œChoir practice. It’s a cappella.”
    â€œChoir?” Juhnke’s voice was all funny and high pitched, like steam coming from a safety valve. The girls jumped, but he hadn’t really gone off. Not yet. “Choir, not chorus?”
    â€œWhere’s this choir practice held?” the sheriff asked again.
    â€œIn the basement, Sheriff English, sir. In that old classroom next to the boiler.”
    â€œWe don’t have a choir,” Juhnke stammered. “And we haven’t had classes in the basement for years.” The sheriff didn’t think Juhnke was going to explode, after all. Not until he found Gamble, anyway.
    â€œYou don’t have one of the school buses you had yesterday, either,” the sheriff said. “Come on. Let’s take a look.”
    ***
    Heather found the Dodge wagon out behind the Texaco. Except it wasn’t the Texaco anymore. Now it was just GAS —FOOD, thanks to Texaco’s merger with Chevron. Gas—Food didn’t work for Heather. She wanted the Texaco back. She wanted Buffalo Springs to be just the way it always had been. She knew, when she let herself think about it, that what she really wanted was a Buffalo Springs with her mother in it. She sighed and parked around by the entrance to the restrooms. When she got out and advanced on the Dodge, she kept a hand on the edge of her unbuttoned jacket, ready to flip the badge and justify her presence. No one paid her any attention.
    The school bus wasn’t there. It must have been towed back to the bus barn.
    The Dodge was almost unrecognizable. Heather wasn’t a car expert, but it was the only vehicle back there that was new, black, and covered with chunks of fresh earth and vegetation. She tried the driver’s door. It wouldn’t open. Neither would the back door. They weren’t locked, they were buckled.
    There wasn’t any glass in the windows, but she didn’t want to crawl in if it wasn’t necessary. Too many shards, even if it was safety glass. She tried the rear lift gate, but it wouldn’t budge either. The back door on the passenger’s side was open a crack. She got both hands on it and pried and it reluctantly gave way. She looked for blood, oil, or other unpleasant substances that might spoil her clothes, didn’t see any, and crawled inside.
    Englishman had checked the glove box and the sun visor for registration papers. That didn’t mean she shouldn’t look there again. She wormed her way between the front seats, brushing aside the spray of safety glass with her jacket sleeve. Nothing in either location,