by J. M. Hayes
“You better tell him about Jackie,” Mad Dog prompted.
Her voice started to break and she had to stop for a moment before she answered. “Jackie was a troubled kid. Drugs, sex. I actually thought she’d be better off in Benteen County, but what a role model I turned out to be. What Mad Dog wants me to tell you is that our granddaughter killed that boy this morning.”
“We know she was the archer,” Englishman said.
“She’d been sneaking out and meeting Michael. They’d had a sexual relationship since shortly after she got there. She was jealous. She told me when I talked to her this morning. She only meant to scare them, then Mad Dog and Hailey came jogging down the road and surprised her and she flinched—shot Michael in the back. She would have shot the girl, if she’d meant to hit one of them.”
Mad Dog took his hand back and put it around her shoulder. Heather thought she didn’t look entirely comfortable with it there, but she didn’t shrug him off.
“We think she shot at me at the courthouse,” Mad Dog said, “to make it look like I’d been the target all along. Janie had told her to get on her motorcycle and come over and wait here in Wichita. She planned to consult her company’s lawyers before she decided how they should handle the boy’s death.”
“So, no,” Janie continued. “I couldn’t fly out of here tonight, anyway. I’ve got to make arrangements for my granddaughter.” She paused and a tear slid down her cheek before she continued. “Mad Dog and I, we’ve got things to work out and grieving to do, and I need to pay some penance to my old hometown.”
Englishman nodded. “You saved the life of one of my deputies. Grabbed the bomb that was supposed to blow Mad Dog across most of the state and dumped it out in the country. That counts for something. And you’ve paid a heavy price today. Find a way to make good on a deal that benefits Benteen County and compensate folks for the damages you caused—maybe we won’t need to file charges. I’ll let you, and what’s left of our supervisors, work that out before I make up my mind. Now, let’s get saddled up. We’ve got more than two hours on the road before we can call it a day.”
They rose from their chairs, slowly, wrung out, squeezed dry of spare energy by all they’d been through. All but Judy. She was up before anyone else. She went across the room and took Englishman by the arm.
“No,” she said. “I still want to go to Paris.”
“But you’ve got to see doctors. There are tests, treatments.”
“And they’ll still be here when we get back. Or they have doctors and treatments in Paris, if we need them.
“Englishman, you know how much I want to go. Maybe I’ll have lots of years and lots of chances. But maybe I won’t. Indulge me. Let me see the City of Lights while I can enjoy it. Two weeks. Our insurance company has to approve those tests Doc says I need. It’ll probably take that long before I can start them anyway.”
Heather put in her two cents. “Doc said it might be good for her.”
“Yeah, Dad,” Two agreed. Heather couldn’t remember Two ever calling him Dad before. “We’ve decided you should take her.”
“But it’s too late. I mean, we’re in Wichita and it’s eight o’clock, three hours after we were supposed to fly out of here. The plane is still here, maybe loading soon, but that flight from Atlanta will be long gone.”
“You never looked at our tickets, did you?” Judy chided. “We had quite a layover in Atlanta. Our Air France jet doesn’t leave until eleven-thirty.”
Englishman shook his head. “We still might not make it.” Heather thought he was less trying to talk himself out of it than simply doubting things could fall into place.
“Have you got your passports?” Janie Jorgenson interrupted.
“Right here, in my purse,” Judy replied.
“Then you’ve got time. My jet’s fueled and ready. My pilot will just have to file a new flight plan.”
“That’s mighty kind of you,” Englishman said, “but I can’t do that. It’d be like taking a bribe.”
“Don’t give me that,” Heather said, punching his shoulder to emphasize her point. “You practically promised her you weren’t going to charge her with anything. That working this out is between her and the supervisors. So where’s the bribe?”
“If you think it’s about money,” Janie said, “give me your tickets to Atlanta. After my lawyers get through with the airline that ticketed and provided boarding passes to two sheriffs named English, I’ll make a profit on getting you there.”
Heather’s dad was out of arguments. All he had left was a complaint.
“But look at me,” he said, gesturing at his mud-splattered clothes. “And I haven’t eaten all day.”
“We’ll take care of that,” Judy said, “on our way.”
“It’s the right thing to do,” Mad Dog said. “My spirit feels it.”
Englishman shrugged. “Okay, but no dancing in the rain.”
***
The Windreapers jet was fast and comfortable and private. The pilot and the cockpit were sealed off from the intimate little dinner Judy and Englishman shared. They poured a second glass of wine after they finished their gourmet meal. It had been provided by the people at the executive terminal, along with a change of clothes for Englishman, small things, the pretty manager told them. Not nearly enough to make up for letting a killer pass through to the plane earlier.
“You’ll love Paris,” Judy said. She could see by the look in his eyes that he wasn’t convinced. She slipped off her shoes and gave him a wanton look as she rubbed one of her feet up the inside of his leg under the table.
“You’ll love it because I’ll love it.”
“You’re probably right,” he admitted. “You usually are. It’s just…”
She interrupted him. “I know, but I don’t want to talk about death and dying right now. I only want to think about Paris, and how going benefits you.”
He raised an eyebrow and she slid her foot a little higher.
“Do you know what the mile high club is?”
“No,” he said.
Before they got to Atlanta, she showed him. Then he napped. It was, after all, the fourth time today.
Afterword & Acknowledgments
I remember Kansas bombings. I witnessed many and took part in others. Our bombs, however, were leftover Fourth of July fireworks, and our targets, friend’s rural parties. You knew you’d thrown a successful party when someone drove by and launched a few firecrackers and maybe a Roman candle your way. I was reminded of that, and the fantasies of our youth, when I attended reunions of the Partridge Rural High School Class of ’62. That’s where the idea for this story was born, and why I associated the name of an old friend with the explosives in this novel. Apologies. The Finfrock I know is more like Englishman than the namesake who inhabits these pages.
Bad things happen to good people like Judy. The older I get, the more I encounter that fact of life, and that’s where another element of this story originated. Bad things took two special people out of my life while I wrote this book. One of my dearest friends died of breast cancer. Kate was among the first to read my fiction and take it seriously. She helped me persevere. Just over a month later, the same terrible disease claimed my sister Charlie. At least I had the pleasure of giving her a copy of the predecessor to this volume. Prairie Gothic was dedicated to her, and our surviving sisters.
As I finish this, I’ve just learned my sister Jodi faces a crisis of her own. It’s more evidence of bad things happening to good people. The best. Prayers, pixie dust, and good thoughts for her will be appreciated. And, any small miracles.
I’ve mentioned how difficult it is to go home again in each of my Kansas books. That task will be harder now that Charlie is gone. She was the last of my family still living in Reno County. Reno, of course, depopulated, bumped a little north and west, then exaggerated for effect, is the model for Benteen. My Kansas connections are down to cousins in the eastern part of the state, my sister Kita, in Salina (Kansans pronounce
Salina with a long “i”), and my nephew Eric and his family in Mulvane. And friends, of course, lots of friends.
The prairie wind still whips my hair and sings in my ears, but it does that in my memory. I left Kansas in 1968 to continue my education. I spent one terrible summer (1969) struggling to write a thesis in my parents’ basement. Beyond that, I’ve only been back to visit. I know the land. I know the people. I love both. But I don’t know the realities of daily life there anymore. I hope I haven’t done my former state and its residents an injustice in these pages. Those friends and that family who still live there, they help keep me grounded, as have the residents of Kansas-L. I thank them all.
For those who may wish to write a novel one day, I promise you two things. It’s much harder than you expect, and every bit as rewarding. Even if you never publish.
The process takes lots of help. First, and always most important, is my chief publicist, editor, partner, and wife, Barbara. Karl Schlesier kindly spent hours talking to me about the Cheyenne Way. If Mad Dog and I are on the right course, we owe it to him. I am part of a very special critique group. They point out my flaws, glaring and otherwise, and keep me from stepping on my best lines. This novel is much better than it might have been because of J. Mark Brown, Sheila Cottrell, J.R. Dailey, Margaret Falk, Elizabeth Gunn, Mary Logue, E.J. McGill, and Susan Cummins Miller. None of them should be blamed, however. Kimba and Hailey (yes, there really is a Hailey—sort of), our German Shepherds, give their constant support and never suggest I should have told the story differently. Doctors Thomas Lindow and Ray Malone kindly answered medical questions. They aren’t responsible if I failed to ask the right question or misinterpreted information they supplied. Dorothy-L, Nick Wolfe Garcia, Sid Jackson, and Vic Amos helped me learn about foreign object debris and jet engines, and more. And Doug Pope gave me a look at an executive terminal. There’s one in Wichita, roughly where I put mine. Otherwise, they bear no resemblance to each other. I’ve flown in and out of Mid-Continent’s main terminal enough to know it well. The real one has far better security. In fact, only a few of the places I describe are real. And none of the characters or events.
Bloodlines is real, though. If you love folk rock, search out a John Stewart album. The man is an American poet of the first magnitude, his music, the history of our lives. On bloodlines, you can learn more about him, see an occasional request for prayers, pixie dust, and good thoughts, and meet a lot of good people—perhaps, even, angelbravo and lordfrench.
Mad Dog’s Mini Cooper, that’s real too. He had so much fun with his, he persuaded us we should get one of our own. He was right.
Barbara Peters and Rob Rosenwald are the people who make Poisoned Pen Press such an extraordinary place. But for them and their marvelous staff, many fine writers and great stories might not have been published, or might be out of print. I thank them for balancing those successes by keeping me aboard.
Many others had a part in this. Marilyn Pizzo at Poisoned Pen, for instance, helped me find and fix some loose ends. She, and those others, listened, told, tolerated, and inspired. They all deserve personal thanks, and might have gotten it if I were being paid by the word.
Finally, I need to credit this book’s title. John Orr of the San Jose Mercury News wrote a kind review of Prairie Gothic, my last Mad Dog & Englishman novel, under the title “Plains Crazy.” I was unable to resist the urge to borrow it for their latest adventure.
For any flaws or errors that remain, I alone am responsible.
JMH
Tucson, by way of Hutchinson, Darlow, Partridge,
Manhattan, Wichita, Sedna Creek, et Tabun,
Albuquerque, and a yellow brick road
www.jmhayes-author.com
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