Q Is for Quarry

lot. I hadn't realized how tense I was until I'd unlocked the car door and slipped behind the wheel. I took a good deep breath and did a neck roll. Anxiety was roiling through my body now that I was on my own. I hadn't realized how dependent I'd become on Dolan. It was nice to compare notes, nice to share meals, even fun to knock heads. My attachment didn't contain a shred of romance, but it did trigger a longing to be connected to someone. I'd trained with two old guys, who'd taught me the business many years before. Maybe it was them I missed.
    I flipped through my note cards. The next obvious move was to chat with the principal at the alternative high school. I wished Dolan were on hand so he could handle it. Though I hated to admit it, he'd be subjected to a lot less guff. Mano a mano. Once he flashed that badge of his, people tended to respond. I picked up my minimap and located the Kennedy Pike, then fired up the Chevy and pulled out of the lot. On the way down Main Street, I detoured into a filling station and pumped gas into the tank. I stood there clutching the pump, watching the gallons go in while the total sales price went up. The process took so long I thought the tank must have sprung a leak. I'm accustomed to my VW with its gas tank the size of a bucket of paint. $29.46 later, I nosed out of the station and turned right.
    Once I reached Kennedy Pike, I drove west, scanning for sight of the cemetery and the white frame structure across the street from it. This section of Quorum was made up of endless flat, empty fields stitched together with lines of trees that served as windbreaks. When I finally spotted the cemetery, it looked as flat as the fields around it. There was only a smattering of visible headstones. Most were laid flat in the ground. I could see a few concrete benches and a sparse assortment of plastic bouquets that had been left near graves. The surrounding fence was iron and without ornament. Square brick support posts appeared at fifteen-foot intervals. There were seven full-sized trees of an indeterminate type, but the branches hadn't leafed out yet and the limbs looked frail against the April sky.
    Just beyond the cemetery entrance and across the street, I saw the Lockaby Alternative High School. I wondered if the students made the same melancholy association: from Youth to Death with only a stone's throw between. When you're of high school age, the days go on forever and death's little more than a rumor at the end of the road. Dolan and I knew death was just a heartbeat away.
    I parked in the lot and followed the walkway to the front porch, up a flight of wide wooden steps. This must have been a farmhouse once upon a time. It still carried an air of small rooms and cramped hopes. I let myself into the foyer, where eight kids were sprawled on the floor with sketchbooks, doing pencil drawings of the staircase. The teacher glanced up at me and then continued moving from student to student, making brief suggestions about perspective. From upstairs, I could hear another class in progress. Laughter trickled down the treads like leaking water. I don't remember anything funny from my high school days.
    To my right, the former parlor served as the main office, complete with the original fireplace. The hearth and surround were dark red brick and the whole of it was topped with a dark mahogany mantel-piece. There was no counter separating the reception area from the office secretary, whose desk had been arranged facing the wide bay window. She interrupted her typing to turn and look at me. She seemed pleasant; dark-haired, plump, probably in her forties, though it was hard to tell. When she said, "Yes, ma'am?" several dimples appeared in her cheeks. She pulled out a chair and patted the seat.
    I crossed the room and sat down, introducing myself. "I'm looking for Mrs. Bishop."
    "She's in district meetings all day, but maybe I can help. I'm Mrs. Marcum. What can I do for you?"
    "Here's the problem," I said, and launched into the tale. I'd told it so often that I had it down pat; the search for Jane Doe's identity in fifty words or less. For the umpteenth time, I described Jane Doe and the series of interviews that had led me to Lockaby. "Do you remember anyone like that?"
    "Not me, but I've only been here ten years. I'll ask some of the teachers. Mrs. Puckett, who teaches typing, doubles as the guidance counselor. She'd be the one who'd recognize the girl if anyone did. Unfortunately, she's out