Broken Heartland by J.M. Hayes Page A

Tuesday. Didn’t they hold Chamber of Commerce breakfasts here? That would explain the lingering odor of grilled sausage that hung on the air. And the platter of cinnamon rolls on the end of one of the tables against the west wall—the only tables currently being used. Half a dozen people were working phones there. They were using phrases like “Vote your faith,” which made him sure he’d stumbled into the evangelical right’s get-out-the-vote headquarters. He felt like going over and asking if any of them knew about the sign in his front yard, but he wasn’t looking to cause trouble for its own sake. Besides, these people were openly proclaiming their politics. The ones who had assaulted his property weren’t likely to work that way.
    The volunteers were busy with their phone scripts. If any of them noticed him, none of them said anything. He cruised through the auditorium and took the hall on his left. He could hear the faint strains of a piano playing an unlikely honky-tonk tune back there.
    The piano player had nice hair and good posture. She was so caught up in her music that she didn’t notice when he entered the choir room. She was alone. Mad Dog had hoped to find Mark Brown in her audience, but there were just the two pictures on the wall in front of the piano. Jesus on the left, Reverend Aldus P. Goodfellow on the right. Aldus P. was the father of the Buffalo Springs pastor. The old man was a famed televangelist, known to millions. Mad Dog found a seat. The eyes on both portraits seemed to follow him across the room. Jesus’ eyes hinted at forgiveness. Aldus P.’s glared, clearly having pegged Mad Dog as someone destined to suffer hell’s eternal flames.
    Mad Dog had never understood the appeal of the elder Goodfellow. Maybe he tapped some universal guilt, some need folks had to be punished for the things they’d gotten away with—the lies that worked, requited covets, or failure to deserve the devotion of a first puppy. Aldus P. had raged from his pulpit directly into people’s living rooms, promising damnation for the mildest of sins, but selling redemption. In Mad Dog’s youth, while he searched for spiritual answers, Aldus P. Goodfellow’s verities never appealed to him. But they’d appealed to plenty of others. Even when the old man began suggesting nuking Godless Communists and, more recently, purging the earth of every Muslim. The specifics of his plans put even Hitler to shame. But he’d maintained a substantial following until age slowed him down.
    The girl at the piano finished her tune and did a neat segue into something innocuously classical. Mad Dog decided it was time to proceed with his investigation. He cleared his throat and the girl cleared the bench. She stifled a screech and grabbed her attractive chest in surprise.
    â€œOh,” she understated, “you scared me. I’m glad it’s only you.”
    Mad Dog didn’t think the “only” was a put down, considering what she’d just finished playing.
    â€œWasn’t that Kinky Friedman? When did the Church of Christ Risen add ‘They Ain’t Makin’ Jews Like Jesus Anymore’ to their hymnal?”
    ***
    â€œDad!” Heather couldn’t contain the relief she felt at seeing Englishman obviously safe. Not that he looked good. The weight he’d lost and the dark circles under his eyes emphasized his high cheekbones. His puffy nose was new to her. But his startling blue eyes were filled with life, and the pleasure of seeing her.
    Mrs. Kraus had reassured Heather, but there’d been that premonition. Her father and Mr. Juhnke were exiting the principal’s office when she spotted them and flew into her father’s arms.
    â€œHello, Heather.” Mr. Juhnke took the safe route. He’d never been sure which of the sisters was which.
    Englishman returned her hug, then held her at arm’s length and tried to look