Everything You Want Me to Be(75)

“I heard he was directing the school play that Hattie was in.”

“He was. I was here on Friday night, saw Hattie just a few hours before it happened. I got chills, watching her. And now the papers are talking about a curse.”

“Have you heard what happened at the rehearsal?”

“No, what—?”

The women spotted me and they both hushed and found some seats.

Farther into the room I located Tommy. He sat in the middle of the first row of bleachers that groaned under the weight of the football team. None of them were saying much; they stared at the front of the gym, their unused muscles just waiting to tense. Tommy wore a suit that was too small for him and looked like he wouldn’t have heard the halftime horn if you blew it in his ear. His folks sat directly behind him, both of them watching me. I kept walking.

I found Peter Lund high in the farthest section of bleachers. A lot of teachers and school staff sat in the same area, but they’d left a space between him and the rest of them. The closest person to Lund was Carl Jacobs, although the two didn’t act like great buddies. Carl folded and unfolded his program while Lund stared into the center of the crowd and seemed oblivious to that deliberate distance between him and the others. He wore a suit, too, and maybe his was snazzier than Tommy’s, but he looked just as out of place in it, with bloodshot eyes and at least a day’s worth of beard. I didn’t see Mary Beth anywhere.

Fear, Standler had said. Fear and remorse drew that blade down Hattie’s face, leaving her nothing left to show the world. Which one of them had the rage to kill her and then the gall to feel bad about it in the next breath?

I made my way back out of the gym and alerted the crew, letting them know I’d located both suspects. Then, taking a deep breath and smoothing a hand down my stiff suit, I slipped into the nearby classroom next to the gym, where Hattie lay among her family.

Her casket filled the front of the classroom, with lilies covering its closed lid and masking the horror inside. The preacher stood in front of it with his hands on Bud’s and Mona’s shoulders. Eyes closed and face up, he prayed.

“Heavenly Father, we know this was not your plan for Hattie. Our sorrow and anger are overwhelming. They choke us. We need your strength, Lord. We need you to help us understand how this could happen. Even though we know she is with You, we cannot contain our bewilderment, our need for justice. Help us get through this day, Lord. Help us put Hattie to rest, even as the sin of retribution burns inside of us.”

He kept on like that as another noise rose in the room—a soft sobbing from all corners. The men tried to hold it in, but the women broke down one by one, their faces in Kleenex, mascara dripping down their cheeks. The only one without his head down was Greg. He wasn’t crying like the rest. He stared directly at me and I recognized a soldier poised for battle. He was his father’s son, ready to take revenge on his sister’s killer, like the preacher’s prayer made flesh.

After the Amens I nodded to the funeral director to let him know it was time. I held the door while the pallbearers, Greg at the front, took their stations and carried Hattie out. Bud and Mona were the first to follow, and this time Bud saw me and stopped, holding up the whole procession.

“Del?” he asked, and I knew what he was asking. His face was wet. Mona tightened her grip on his hand.

“I’m so sorry, Bud.”

I put a hand on his shoulder, but he didn’t acknowledge it. He breathed out slow, like he was fighting to control something in him that wanted loose and then kept walking, letting my hand fall into the air.

As the rest of the family exited, Jake appeared. He waited until the last of them were well into the gym before giving his report.

“News vans are in a holding pattern. They tried asking me a few questions, all general sniffing around, nothing about either of our boys. Shel’s keeping an eye on them while they film their updates for the evening news.”

Piano music drifted down the hallway, followed by a thousand voices echoing off the rafters. I glanced at my program: “Hymn of Promise.”

“Good.” I cleared my throat. “Everybody knows their jobs after the service. I’m going to go inside and keep to the back. I’ll—”

My phone buzzed. I pulled it out and saw a Twin Cities area code. Jake and I both tensed before I punched the button.

“Goodman.”

“Sheriff Goodman, this is Amanda at the Minneapolis crime lab. I have the results of your DNA tests for case number 094627.”

Like I had a hundred case numbers pending DNA results. My pulse leapt as I waited.

“The specimen was an exact match to the second DNA sample, donor name Peter Lund. I’m emailing the full report to you right now.”

Son of a bitch. The married teacher.

“Appreciate it.” I hung up before she said anything else and turned to Jake. “It’s Lund.”

His eyes steeled over and a muscle jumped in his cheek. “We don’t take him now, do we?”

“And risk a damn lynch mob? Not in front of this crowd or those news trucks camped outside.” I checked my gun in the shoulder holster. “I’ll show you where he is. After the service you shadow him. Follow him to his car and then take him in. I’ll be along after I lead the procession back from the cemetery. Too noticeable if I try to leave before then.”

I gave him Lund’s position as we entered the gym, sidling up to the end of the bleachers. Tommy was still in the front row, but with everyone standing for the hymn, I couldn’t see to the far side of the room. Even though Jake was taller than me, I could tell he wasn’t having any luck either. The singing seemed to take an age, in verse after verse they delivered Hattie up to the Lord, their voices a sharp, grieving thunder that paralyzed us. Finally the song ended and the crowd sat down. I craned my neck and located Carl Jacobs, sitting alone in a sea of people.