12

The next morning, before heading over to my appointment at the Harden School, I decided to give Ronnie a call to see if he wanted to join me. At least that was my plan. I didn’t actually get to ask him the question. Ronnie was—to put it mildly—excited about hearing from me. And he couldn’t wait to fill me in on how prison had changed him.

“Got a vision inside the joint, Earl. Well, I got lots of visions, actually, but they all told me the same thing. You know what they told me?”

“What?”

“You gotta guess.”

“Okay, let me see. Maybe they told you it was time to get your life together?”

“Close, so fucking close, Earl. No, they all told—well, actually they all showed—me the same thing. They showed me it was time to get the band back together.”

“The band?”

“Yeah, you know I play guitar.”

“Actually …”

“Sure, you knew that. Anyway, I’m building a fucking studio, and I’ve already gotten in touch with my old drummer and bass man. We’re going to cut an album. DIY, baby. Fuck the labels. Hell, you want to get the production credit, Earl? I’ll give it to you. Imagine that, ‘produced by Earl Marcus.’ I like it. We got three songs I wrote in jail, and Hunter’s got two of his own, and—”

“Ronnie?”

“Yeah, Earl?”

“I’m on my way over, okay?”

“Sweet. I’ll throw on some steaks for you and the boys.”

“The boys?”

“You ain’t been listening, have you?”

“I’ll see you in a few.”

“Hell yeah,” Ronnie said. “Ain’t nothing like being a free man again.”

*   *   *

The truth was, as soon as Ronnie had said he was going to get the band back together to build a recording studio, I had sort of tuned out. It wasn’t as if I hadn’t heard this kind of shit from Ronnie before. Not too long ago, he’d been running a “siding” company. I’d never seen any indication he knew the first thing about siding. Before that it had been a tattoo parlor, and before that he was going to run Rufus out of business by opening his own churchyard maintenance service. At least Ronnie had tattoos. I wasn’t sure if he’d ever even pushed a mower or held a weed trimmer.

So imagine my surprise when I pulled up to his place and saw that he and some of his buddies had already framed out most of the recording studio. I’d taken no more than a few steps toward the studio before Ronnie tossed me a beer from a cooler and grinned. “Earl, meet the band.”

Two other men, both older than Ronnie, stared at me. One of them looked high; the other one just looked stupid.

“This is Hunter Rawlins, but you can call him Easy. Best drummer this side of the Mississippi.” Easy held out a hand. He was the high one, but when he shook my hand, his grip was firm.

“Ronnie’s told me a lot about you,” he said. “I guess you could call me a fan.”

I waved him off. “Don’t believe his shit.”

“I’d never lie about the great Earl Marcus.”

I laughed. Ronnie liked to build me up to his buddies. I’d never understood exactly why he thought so highly of me, but I’d finally come to realize it was genuine. Hell, once Ronnie decided he liked you, and once you liked him back, even a little bit, he was a totally different person. That was what I couldn’t get Rufus to understand.

“I liked how you stood up to that preacher daddy of yours,” Easy said.

I turned to the other man, because this sort of adulation always made me uncomfortable. “And I guess you play bass?”

“That’s right,” the man said. He had dark facial hair somewhere between a five-o’clock shadow and a beard, and tiny, nervous eyes. “Daryl Roan.” He held out a hand.

“You boys are making some progress,” I said, taking his hand.

“We should be up and practicing by sometime next week,” Ronnie said. “Soundproofing the walls is going to take a little bit, but once that’s done, we’re going to get our songs down and hit the road. We already got a gig at Jessamine’s in a couple of weeks.”

“Got a name?” I asked.

Ronnie smiled broadly and glanced at Easy. “Tell him.”

“The Bluegrass Mountain Cult.”

When I didn’t react, Ronnie shrugged. “You know, like the Blue Öyster Cult, except hillbilly style.”

“Right,” I said. “I can’t wait to hear it.”

“You’re going to love it, Earl.”

I didn’t think so, but what did I know? Hell, I’d never have guessed Ronnie and I would be friends, so that showed pretty clearly I didn’t know much. And here I was, coming to him to ask for help once again.

“Can we talk for a minute? Alone?”

Ronnie grinned. “Holy hell, you got us another case, don’t you?”

“Take it easy. I just want to talk to you.”

Easy patted him on the back. “Lucky.”

Ronnie shrugged. “I told you I helped him, didn’t I?”

“You sure did,” Daryl said.

*   *   *

Inside Ronnie’s house—if you could call it that—I told him what I was planning on doing. He grinned the whole time. When I finished, he nodded. “Cool,” he said. “I can do that.”

“Now remember,” I said. “We’re not trying to go overboard. We just want to see the school, maybe meet some teachers, get a feel for the place before we decide to move all the way from Arkansas.”

“What’s my son’s name?”

“You decide,” I said.

“I want to call him Leroy.”

“Leroy?”

“Sounds like a boy who’d be up to no good.”

“Fine. Just stick with it. And remember, if somebody approaches us, I’m Bob Jenkins, the granddaddy, and you’re the father, Bobby Junior.”

“Right. One question, though.”

“What?”

“Why are we doing this?”

“It’s part of a case.”

“I got that, but what’s the case, what are we trying to figure out?”

It was actually an excellent question. I would do well to figure it out myself. The only thing I knew for sure at this point was I wanted a look at “Doctor” Blevins. “There’s something up with the school. The description on the website made my skin crawl.”

“You mean they might be abusing the boys or something?”

“Maybe. That’s what I’m hoping to find out.”

Nearly thirty minutes later, we’d made our way through Riley and over to Brethren, as far as a person could get from the Fingers and still be in Coulee County. To get to the Harden School, we had to follow a long, winding road up a mountain I wasn’t familiar with. When we finally saw the school in the distance, we also saw the fence surrounding the grounds. It was at least twelve feet high with barbed wire at the top.

“Shit, they don’t want nobody coming in, do they?” Ronnie said.

“I think it’s the other way around.”

“Huh?”

“They don’t want anybody getting out.”

“Oh …”

I pulled up to the gate. There was a call box, and I pressed the button labeled Main Office.

“Just stick to the story,” I said.

There was a beep, and then a voice said, “State your name, please.”

“Bob Jenkins,” I said. “I’ve got an appointment with Mr. Harden.”

“Just a minute,” the voice said. It sounded like the secretary named Mindy I’d spoken to on the phone earlier.

The intercom crackled. “Okay, Mr. Jenkins. You’ll need to show your license at the front desk, so please have it ready.”

“Oh,” I said. “Me and my boy are here from Arkansas, and it’s been a long day. I hate to tell you that I left my wallet in the damned hotel room. Maybe you could let me in this one time? I just got to figure out something for my grandson. We flew over just for this meeting. Harden is supposed to be the best.”

“It’s okay,” she said. “Maybe just bring it the next time you come?”

“Will do,” I said.

The gate opened and I pulled through. Here the road turned from dirt to paved and the trees had been cut back from the road a little. The road went on for at least a half mile before the trees cleared completely and I saw the falls. Great flumes of whitewater tumbled over the gap in the mountains at a furious pace. I watched, mesmerized. The spectacular view seemed matched only by the inevitable danger that would come as I drew closer to the rocky bluffs. I looked away and punched the gas, guiding my truck around another bend and up a final rise. That was when the school came into view again, and this time I got a good look at it.

It was made of faded red bricks and large shuttered windows. A great white portico dominated the front of the massive four-story building. The lawn was pristine, an odd thing to see in the middle of such wilderness. As we drove up to the small parking area to the left of the school, I saw a couple of boys trimming the hedges. They were both sweating profusely, and their faces wore molten expressions of pure misery.

I parked, and Ronnie and I walked to the front door. One of the boys glanced at us. I nodded at him and smiled. He shook his head and turned his glare away, back to the shrubbery he was working on.

The door wouldn’t open, but I saw a button to the left and pressed it. The same female voice came over the loudspeaker. “Mr. Jenkins?”

“That’s right. And my boy Bobby Junior’s here too.”

“I’m opening the door. Please see me at the front desk to sign in.”

I heard a click. This time the door opened when I turned the handle. We stepped into a large lobby. It was—to put it mildly—spectacular. Marble floors, a giant chandelier, and leather furniture conspired to give the space a deeply luxurious feel. There was no way, I realized, a person could step through that door and not take the school seriously. Even if—like me—you were predisposed to having a bad opinion about the place.

On the far side of the lobby, I saw a counter with a young woman behind it. She smiled at us as we made the long walk across the expanse of polished marble.

“I’m Mindy,” the girl said, still smiling. I took her in. Young, brunette. Pleasant demeanor.

“Bob,” I said, and jabbed a thumb at Ronnie. “And Bobby Junior. It’s his son we’re here about.”

“Nice to meet you both,” she said. “We’re excited that you’re considering the Harden School.” She pointed to a sheet for us to sign in.

“So, do the boys handle all the yard work?”

“They do, under Coach Blevins’s watchful eye.”

“Coach Blevins?”

“Well, that’s what they call him. He’s actually a doctor. Really smart, they say, but I’ve also heard he’s …” She shrugged sheepishly, almost apologetically.

“What were you going to say?”

She shook her head. “Nothing, I should have kept my mouth closed.”

“But you didn’t, and now I’m wondering if I should be concerned about sending my grandson here?”

I saw something like doubt creep across her face. “Absolutely not. Everyone says Dr. Blevins is the best. I’m sorry. He’s just … unorthodox.”

“Well,” I said, trying to buy time, hoping she’d say something more. Often it was easiest to let silence bait the hook. Most people simply couldn’t abide it.

“What’s your son’s name?” she said, smartly changing the subject.

I pointed at Ronnie and said, “Bobby Junior.”

“No, not him, the one you want to talk to Harden about.”

“Leroy,” Ronnie said. “He’s about as wild as a buck.”

“Leroy,” she repeated thoughtfully. “How old is he?”

I hesitated, giving Ronnie time to answer again. He seemed like he had a vision for this.

“Fourteen and hell on skates.”

“It’s a tough age,” she said.

“Yep, he thinks he’s got the world figured out, but he ain’t got nothing, not even a clue. He believes he’s the damned cock of the walk now that his balls dropped.” Ronnie snorted. “Truth is, he ain’t nothing but a little banty rooster.”

Mindy made a face I couldn’t quite read. Concern? Not exactly. More like surprise, but why would she be surprised? Surely this story wasn’t uncommon. Maybe it was just Ronnie’s colorful language she wasn’t prepared for. Her next statement went a long way toward clearing up my confusion. “I will add him to our prayer list at church. I’ve seen God change kids. It’s not his will for them to be like that.”

“It sure isn’t,” Ronnie said.

“So,” I said. “Does the school serve boys and girls?”

Mindy shook her head. “No, just boys. I’ve heard they had a girl here a long time ago and it didn’t go well.”

I pointed at a sofa in one corner of the giant lobby. “Okay if we wait over there?”

“No need to wait,” came a booming voice from the other side of the lobby. I turned and saw a well-dressed older man smiling at us. He was handsome, the kind of man who, despite being in his seventies, was still likely to get second looks from younger women. He was muscular and trim and had a roguish quality about him that belied the suit and shiny shoes he wore.

Striding across the lobby, he held out a hand. “I’m Randy Harden.”

“Bob Jenkins,” I said. “From Little Rock. My boy, Bobby Junior.”

“Nice to meet both of you fellows. Let’s go to my office.”