Lone Heart Pass. Jodi Thomas

“You’ve got to go to school, Thatcher. I think, somewhere beneath all the dirty hair, there just might be a brain.”

      No one had ever said that to him. He wanted to tell her that he made two thousand three hundred and fourteen dollars last year selling snakes, and almost eight hundred selling eggs to farms too lazy to bother with chickens.

      But he didn’t say anything because one of his mother’s boyfriends told him if he told anyone he was selling snakes or eggs the government would come after him for taxes.

      “Lauren, could I ask you a question?”

      “If it’s about how to impress Kristi, I’d say start with a haircut, a bath and clean clothes. You’ve already got the brains and that cute smile.”

      “No, it’s not that,” Thatcher said as he stored the information away for later. “Could you tell me where the grid is? Mr. Fuller told me once that I lived off it.”

      Lauren laughed. “You mean old Mr. Fuller who retired years ago?”

      “Yeah. He came in to substitute when Mr. Franks ran off with Miss Smith-Williams back before Thanksgiving.” Thatcher scratched his head. “That was strange. Mr. Franks was old and mean and Miss Smith-Williams always seemed confused. Couldn’t even pick a last name. And, no matter where she was—her class, the hallway or the parking lot—she’d jump when the bell rang. You’d think after teaching high school for twenty years she’d get used to it ringing.”

      Lauren giggled. “Wonder where they are now?”

      He winked at her. “Probably on a beach where there are no bells to ring or kids for Mr. Franks to yell at. I can see them wearing matching bathing suits and listening to country swing.”

      Lauren winked back at him. “You might want to keep that vision to yourself.”

      They both laughed.

      He leaned over the desk and figured it was time to risk another question. “See that bottom drawer of your dad’s desk?”

      “Yes.” She was back to working.

      “You have any idea what he keeps in it?”

      “Papers, I guess.”

      Thatcher knelt down and tugged on the handle. “Then why is it locked?”

      Now he had her attention. She swiveled around and also tried the drawer. “I don’t remember him having a locked drawer. He has a safe to keep evidence in. Why would he need a drawer?”

      Thatcher shrugged. “Letters from a lover. Weapons. Drugs. Body parts.”

      She frowned. “My pop doesn’t have time for lovers. He carries his weapon. Drugs would be locked in the safe and body parts would smell.”

      Before he could ask any more questions, the phone on the sheriff’s desk rang.

      Lauren answered, nodded a few times and said yes once, then hung up.

      Thatcher moved closer.

      She’d turned eggshell-white.

      “What?” he said.

      Lauren stood slowly. “The coroner has the report ready on the man they found dead in the canyon. He’s faxing it over. He said he wants my pop to see it immediately.”

      “So call him up and tell him.” Thatcher might not have a cell phone, but everyone else in the world seemed to.

      “I can’t. He’s down in the canyon looking for clues. No cell service in that tiny sliver of canyon behind Lone Heart Pass.” Lauren looked worried as the fax machine spit out three sheets of paper. “I have to get this report to him. I know there’s nothing down there, but going to where someone died gives me the creeps.”

      Thatcher set his cup in the sink and washed his hands. “Don’t worry about anything, I’m going with you.” He lowered his voice, trying to sound older. “This is official police business and you might need backup.”

      “But...”

      He moved a few feet, blocking her exit. “The sheriff told you to keep an eye on me, didn’t he?” Thatcher saw the truth in her eyes before she had time to think of a lie. “Well, the only way to watch me is to take me with you.”

      She grabbed her purse. “Then come on.”

      Thatcher exploded. “Wow! We’re on a job. Do I get a gun?”

      “No,” she shouted as she bumped his shoulder on her way out.

      “Well, fine,” he yelled back. “But we’re picking my truck up on the way back. The last bit of paint is probably rusting off right now from being left out in the rain.”

      When she didn’t answer, he tried asking another question as they reached the small parking lot beside the county offices. “Any chance I could drive your car? I could use a little practice with something that I don’t have to shift.”

      “No,” she answered as she climbed into the driver’s side.

      Lauren started the car and shoved the gear into drive before he had a chance to close the passenger door.

      Thatcher didn’t care. He was on official police business. This was exciting. He might have to rethink becoming a coroner.