Apparently they built Arona Area High School on the flattest piece of ground in the least picturesque part of town that they could find. It was a comparatively new building—the date 1992 was carved into a cornerstone—with a football field, baseball diamond, tennis court, and an asphalt parking lot big enough to accommodate the Mall of America. Beyond that, there were only empty fields and darkening blue sky.
I parked the Camry in the first empty slot I could find and followed the crowd to the school entrance. It was slow moving, and I couldn’t figure out why until I saw Chief McMahan and her officers running handheld metal detectors over each visitor and inspecting the contents of every bag. A man about ten years older than me objected to the search. He was dressed in a camouflage outfit identical to the ones worn by the only other Red Stone Patriots I’d ever seen.
“I have a legal right to carry a concealed weapon anywhere I choose,” he said.
“Not into a school,” the chief told him.
“So you’re saying no self-defense is permitted beyond this point. You’re saying, ‘I don’t care if you or your family is in danger, I will not allow you to defend yourself.’”
The man was speaking loudly, and some of the visitors stopped to listen.
“The beauty of the concealed carry law, Chief of Police Maureen McMahan, is that only a handful of citizens need to be armed in order to protect the greater part of society from harm. That’s because criminals are never really sure which of the law-abiding citizens around them may be carrying a weapon, and that deters their criminal activities. By insisting that no guns are allowed, you’re inviting criminals to come into this very school and commit whatever mayhem they desire without fear of facing an armed citizen.”
The chief stared at him for a long moment, and I was wondering if she was considering his argument. Finally she said, “Are you done, Curtis? Because you’re holding up traffic.”
Curtis stepped aside. Apparently he was unarmed. Yet he wasn’t done. While the chief and her officers continued to search the other visitors, Curtis spoke to those whose attention he had attracted earlier.
“The most dangerous place in town right now is the parking lot of this school,” he said. “Criminals know that every one of us leaving this place will be unarmed. We’ll be easy pickings for robbers and rapists. I wonder how many criminals might be out there right now, burglarizing cars to harvest the guns that permit holders like me were forced to leave behind because Chief of Police Maureen McMahan wouldn’t allow us to take them inside. Who’s going to protect us from them?”
“Who’s going to protect us from you?” one of the listeners asked.
“I’m not a criminal.”
“We should take your word for it because you wear camouflage everywhere and carry concealed weapons?”
“I live here.”
“You moved in thirteen months ago. That doesn’t mean you live here.”
Curtis stepped toward the listener; the listener stepped toward him. They stared menacingly at each other, like two boxers trying to hype a pay-per-view bout. If it were a playground, I’d expect someone to start chanting “Fight, fight, fight.” Instead, Chief McMahan stepped between them.
“The meeting is going to start in a few minutes,” she said. “If you want a seat up front…”
The two men separated slowly even as they sneered at each other, then went off in opposite directions. The chief moved back to the school entrance. I caught her eye as she did.
“Taylor,” she said. “I want to talk to you later.”
I nodded at her.
* * *
The floor of the high school auditorium had room for about two hundred people, and most of the seats were taken. I was up in the balcony, where there was space for one hundred more; most of the seats were empty. There were chairs arranged behind tables on the stage that were occupied by the acting mayor and other representatives of the city government, as well as Kaufman and Palo. Each of them had their own microphone. Probably they didn’t need them. The auditorium had surprisingly good acoustics, and I could actually hear them speaking quietly to each other. Another mic was set on a stand in the center aisle a few rows back from the stage. A line had already formed behind it that included Curtis.
Skip Zetzman was seated near the mic. I didn’t see a notebook, although he did have a digital camera and a leather bag filled with several different-sized lenses. There were also four video cameras scattered throughout the auditorium. They were manned by an older gentleman, an older woman, a young man, and a young woman. They could have been members of the same family by the way they looked and dressed. None of the cameras carried the logo of a local TV station. I guessed they were part of a public access operation, the Arona version of C-SPAN.
Esther Tibbits gave a bottle of designer water to both Kaufman and Palo. They thanked her before waving her away. She took a seat in the front row. Her dark blue skirt hiked up to there, yet she did nothing about it. By contrast, Cynthia Grey was next to her, a portrait of a lady sitting. She occupied only half of her seat, her legs crossed at the knee, her thighs touching, the hem of her black skirt pulled down, toes pointed toward the floor, her back straight, a notebook in her lap, and her hands folded over the notebook just as the etiquette instructor had taught her. I tried not to stare. It wasn’t easy, and not only because she was so damn pretty. She had been one of the few women who had been able to help me chase away the alone feeling after Laura and Jenny were killed.
Finally Dawn Gischler opened the proceedings with a brief speech about decorum and common courtesy. I was surprised to see that she had exchanged her peasant shirt, jeans, and sandals for a pink business suit. She said she knew that many people in the auditorium wanted to be heard, and she hoped that the audience would be respectful of differing views. She also asked that they limit their remarks to three minutes or less so that everyone would have a chance to speak.
“We’re on cable TV, so please watch your language,” Gischler added.
While listening to her, I was reminded of what Bridgette Franson had said about the acting mayor and her lust for porn sex. I slapped my face twice to dislodge the image that formed in my head.
Doug Pinter was the first to address the audience and, as I expected, went well over the three-minute limit. He spoke about the environmental terrorism perpetrated by the hydraulic fracturing industry, the poisoning of water and land. “Fracking,” he said, “poses an unacceptable risk to our drinking water, to our health, and to the future of our communities.” He was quite eloquent and received a nice ovation when he finished.
What I didn’t expect was Allen Palo’s rebuttal.
“I agree with everything you said,” he announced. “Americans shouldn’t have to accept unsafe drinking water just because natural gas burns more cleanly than coal. I read that scientists at Stanford University have proven that some companies are fracking for oil and gas at far shallower depths than they’re supposed to, sometimes through underground sources of drinking water. They get away with it because of weak safeguards and inadequate oversight. This is unacceptable. U.S. Sand is for anything that’ll force these delinquent companies to play by the rules. It’s important that you understand, though, that we are not involved in the hydraulic fracturing business. We sell sand. We hope our customers behave responsibly. But if they don’t, there’s not a lot we can do about it.”
So it went. For every problem there was a solution; for every accusation, a counterargument. It was as if Kaufman and Palo knew every question before it was asked. I suppose they had been through enough of this kind of meeting that they did know. I had to give them props—they were very good at their jobs.
“According to the Occupational Safety and Health Administration, exposure to silica sand particles can cause lung cancer.”
“If you follow the regulations, there is no threat to the environment, there is no threat to public health, and we follow the regulations. Our operations are well within EPA standards.”
“I’m concerned that no one is monitoring the noise and the water.”
“We placed a seismograph at a house where our neighbors complained about blastings. We tested the water at our expense of another neighbor who said that mining had altered his well. We’re trying to do what’s right out there.”
“We’re losing farms.”
“Sand mining has created thousands of jobs.”
“You aren’t creating as many jobs as you want us to think. Besides, the benefits of sand mining aren’t here in Arona. They flow to the pockets of the company owners who live in beautiful houses on the lake in Chicago, hundreds and hundreds of miles away from the noise and the trucks and the blowing sand.”
“When Arona was forced to close its only nursing home, it was U.S. Sand that came to the rescue. We not only made sure that the facility stayed open and protected one hundred and fourteen quality jobs, we have also promised an additional one million dollars a year for other community commitments.”
“The head of our zoning department is using his position to retaliate against any and all residents who speak out against the frac-sand mines.”
Heads turned to find Bob Barcott, who was sitting in the audience, a notebook on his knee and a pen in his hand.
“I hope that is not true,” Kaufman said. “In any case, we do not interfere with local government.”
“We chose to live here because of the peace and the solitude, and the mining company has taken all that away.”
“If we left town tonight, by tomorrow morning there would be someone to take our place, someone who doesn’t share our commitment to the community or the environment. We’re ranked number one in the industry. The next company that comes in won’t be any higher than second place.”
All the while, Curtis edged closer to the microphone, waiting for his turn to speak. Finally it came.
“I’m Curtis Blevins,” he said. “You all know me. You know what I stand for. I’m an advocate of people’s rights. I personally am opposed to sand mining in Arona. There are more suitable areas where mines and neighbors can better coexist. At the same time, landowners ought to be free to do what they wish with their land without fear of government or big business. I will oppose the annexation of property any way that I can.”
He had more to say, except I didn’t hear him. I was distracted by the muzzle of a handgun pressed against the back of my neck.
“Don’t say a word,” a voice said.
I didn’t.
Nothing happened.
I guess he expected me to put up an argument.
I turned my head slightly. My peripheral vision caught the sight of a young man with blond hair dressed in camo.
“Good evening, Eric,” I said. “Long time no see.”
“You’re coming with us.”
“Okay.”
“Get up. Slowly.”
I did.
“We want to see your hands.”
I held them away from my body.
“This way.”
I let Eric lead me up the stairs to a door at the back of the balcony. Along the way, I recognized his companion, the one with short brown hair who had helped Eric attack me at Emily’s duplex.
We reached the door, and Eric pushed me through it.
The corridor was brightly lit and empty. Metal lockers lined the walls on each side. The classroom doors were all closed. It made me wonder—where do the teachers in small-town schools go during the summer? What do they do? Probably it was an odd thought to have given the circumstances; still …
Eric stood in front of me. His companion remained behind. The companion moved quickly, clapping me into a full nelson. I didn’t resist.
Eric chuckled, actually chuckled like a villain in a straight-to-video thriller. He held open his hand. There was a shotgun shell in his palm, what he had pressed against my neck.
“Sucker,” he said.
“Imagine my embarrassment. Did your sister send you?”
“Leave Esther out of this.”
“Out of what, Eric? What do you nitwits want?”
“You don’t fucking call us names.”
“I apologize. What can I do for you upstanding young men of the Red Stone Patriots?”
“You can stay out of our business.”
“What business?”
“Fuck you.”
He moved toward me and cocked his hand as if he wanted to punch my face.
I brought my hands up and pressed them against my forehead so the kid holding me in the full nelson couldn’t bend my head forward.
As soon as Eric was in range, I jumped up and kicked him in the face. I was actually aiming for his jaw, only I missed. Eric fell back just the same.
I came back down. My attacker moved his legs apart while he struggled to hold me. I brought my own leg straight back and kicked him in the groin with my heel. He let go.
I bent forward, reached between my own legs, grabbed his ankle, and pulled upward. He fell backward onto the floor. I was still holding his leg. I pulled it up high, exposing his groin. I kicked him again.
He rolled on his side and cupped himself.
Eric had managed to get to his knees. He was holding his face with both hands. I managed to get a grip on his short hair. He brought his hands down and looked up at me.
“What?” he said.
I rammed his face into a locker door. My hand slipped off his scalp and hit the locker, too. I think I hurt myself more than I hurt him.
While we were both dealing with our injuries, I reached into my pocket, produced my smartphone, and pulled up Emily’s pic. I took a better grip of Eric’s hair and turned his face so he could get a good look at the screen.
“Who is this girl?” I asked.
“I don’t know.”
I shoved Eric’s face into the locker again.
“What’s her name?”
“I don’t know.”
I hit him again.
“What is her name?”
“I don’t know.”
I hit him a third time.
“He said he doesn’t know.”
I turned my head. Chief McMahan was standing in the corridor, her hand resting on the butt of her holstered nine-millimeter Glock, a gunfighter ready to throw down.
“Of course he knows,” I said. “Why else would he and his friend attack me outside her duplex in St. Paul? Why else would they attack me again in the corridor?”
“Let him go. I mean it.”
I released my grip on Eric’s hair, and he slumped to the floor.
“Move away,” the chief said.
I did.
“You don’t get to hit him again. Or anyone else for that matter.”
“Am I under arrest?”
The question seemed to slow her down.
“No, of course not. I saw what happened. They attacked you.”
“You saw them?”
“It’s a high school. There are cameras everywhere. I’m going to arrest them both and take them to our lockup. I won’t have you taking the law into your own hands.”
I looked down at my hand; my knuckles were scuffed and swollen. I flexed my fingers.
“Is that what I was doing?” I said.
“Are you all right?”
“You’re asking me?” I looked down at Eric; his face was red and puffy. There were only a few small cuts, yet they were bleeding profusely. I glanced at his friend; he was still holding himself and moaning loudly. “Yeah, I’m fine.”
“I’m going to take them both to the station. I need you to come down and make a statement.”
“No, no, no, don’t do that.”
“Don’t do what?”
“Arrest them. Let them go.”
“What? Why?”
“Honestly? I might want to talk to them again later when you’re not looking.”
“This isn’t funny.”
“Not to them, anyway.”
“Taylor, I don’t think I like you.”
“That’s too bad, Chief, because I’m starting to like you more and more. By the way, what was it you wanted to talk to me about?”
“I wanted to warn you that Eric Tibbits and his friend were in the school.”