Page 47 of Backtrack

The sun chased away any semblance of shade from the parking lot by the time they made it back to the El Camino. Careful not to blister himself on the seat-belt clasp, Cutter started the car and circled behind the building to pop back out on South Main, heading north toward Weatherford High School. He drove with the window down—no way his air conditioner could catch up during the two-minute drive. Lafayette Johnson groused the entire time, making the journey feel much longer.

“My English teacher hated me,” he said as he climbed out of the car and snugged down his hat. “Pretty sure she figured I’d end up in prison. What if I see her in the hallway? She teaches summer school every year.”

“What’s her name?”

“Charlotte Blake,” Johnson said, shuddering.

“You say to her,Ms. Blake, my partner and I are hunting brazen killers. We could use your assistance.I expect that’ll be enough to demonstrate you’re not a kid anymore.”

“You’re right.” Johnson hitched up his gun belt. “I am a grown man—”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself there, sport.” Cutter chuckled. “There’s a hell of a lot of ground to cover between high school and manhood.” He added, “But you’ll be just fine if we happen to run into Ms. Blake. Grown or not, youarea bona fide lawman. That is no small endeavor.”

Johnson began to breathe rapidly as he pulled open the hefty metal doors of the high school.

“Right,” he whispered, trying to convince himself. “That’s true. I got nothing to be afraid of.”

Cutter signed both himself and Johnson in at the main office, leaving his business card for the principal, who happened to be outon patrolaccording to the attendance secretary. Elbows on the counter, she peered over the top of her glasses at the sketch of Man Cub.

“Looks kind of familiar,” she said. “Was he supposed to be a student here?”

“That’s what we’d like to find out,” Cutter said.

“He kinda sorta looks like Clint Walker. You know, that actor.”

Cutter nodded. “Cheyenne.”

“He’s a suspect in the armored car robbery on Sunday,” Johnson said.

“A murderer, then …”

“A murder suspect,” Cutter said. “Investigation’s still early days.”

The woman took off her reading glasses and then shook her head. “I wish I could help you, hon.” A puzzled look crossed her face when her eyes fell on Johnson. “Oh my goodness. Is this LJ?”

“Yes, ma’am,” he said.

“How long has … When did you graduate, hon?”

“Coming on four years ago next month,” Johnson said. “How are you, Ms. Tyson?”

“Well, just look at you. A deputy sheriff. I never would have guessed that young Lafayette Johnson would …” She shook her head, as if to clear the rest of her thought before it left her mouth. “Anyway, good on you, LJ. Good. On. You!” She tapped the sketch with the tip of her index finger, addressing Cutter now. “I’ve been here eleven years, and I’ve never seen this person.” She leaned forward, resting on the counter again. “Only a handful of teachers in the building for summer school, but you’re free to talk to them.” She brightened. “You know who might know? Our guidance counselor, Mrs. Shoemake. She’s got an encyclopedia brain when it comes to students. Came over from the middle school, but she was there for ages and ages. There’s a good chance she’s dealt with your mystery murder suspect.”

Cutter shot a glance toward the hallway. “And her office is located … ?”

Ms. Tyson looked at the wall clock. “Lemme see … Day’s all butover. … She’ll be in the teachers’ lounge about now, smoking her afternoon cigarettes.”

Summer school ran on a much looser schedule than the regular academic year. Lockers slammed. Kids whistled and laughed. Johnson stuck close to Cutter like he didn’t want to get left behind. Even with fewer kids than usual, the air was filled with the smell of Love’s Baby Soft and Hai Karate aftershave. Ursula wore Love’s Baby Soft. That alone was enough to make it turn Cutter’s stomach.

“I didn’t know you were part of the Mighty Mob,” Cutter said, noting the spirit posters of blue kangaroos, the Weatherford High School mascot.

“This brings back a lot of memories,” Johnson whispered. “And not the good kind. You might not be able to tell it looking at me now, but I was kind of a—”

“Forget about what you were,” Cutter said, a little harsher that he’d intended. “It’s what you are that matters.”

“Right,” Johnson said, hyperventilating again.

The teachers’ lounge was a short walk down a long hall that passed more kangaroo murals and a set of floor-to-ceiling glass windows that overlooked an outdoor courtyard. Several students stood around a long sandpit having their own afternoon cigarettes. Johnson didn’t look a day older than most of them.