CHAPTER
7
“BRANDY, you’re a fine girl.” Gracie sang softly along with the radio. “What a good wife you would be.” She edged the Ranger out of the Sheriff’s Office parking lot and into traffic on the main boulevard.
She glanced over at Baxter, who sat unmoving in the passenger’s seat, staring out the window. Since Sergeant Gardner had left the squad room, the boy hadn’t spoken a single word.
The song ended and Gracie turned the radio volume down.
She guided the Ranger around the curve in the boulevard. Through the trees on her left, Timber Lake flashed by, glittering cobalt blue.
Gracie glanced at Baxter again. “They’re not all bad, you know?” she ventured.
The boy made no indication he had heard her.
“Law enforcement, I mean. Deputies. Cops. I’ve worked with them, mostly Sheriff’s Department, quite a bit through Search and Rescue. Not that my opinion is that important, but I like, or at least get along with, the vast majority of them. I understand that you’re afraid of cops. I’m not sure why. Maybe your experiences so far haven’t been very positive.”
She looked over again to see if she received any response.
The boy didn’t move.
“Baxter,” she said. “Sergeant Gardner is a class A jerk. I don’t like him either.” She added under her breath, “to put it mildly.” Then to Baxter again: “I’d hate for one experience to taint your view on law enforcement forever. There are some nice ones out there. They’re not all the enemy. In fact, most of them aren’t.”
Baxter looked at Gracie, then turned back to stare out the window.
“I mean it.”
Gracie punched the radio button away from an ad about erectile dysfunction.
“. . . multiple brush fires,” a male announcer said.
Gracie turned up the volume again.
“. . . just before four p.m. yesterday afternoon, west of the community of Shady Oak. Officials are investigating whether the fires, started within a quarter mile and hours of each other, are related in any way.”
“Shady Oak,” Gracie said aloud. Picturing the map of the area in her head, she mentally calculated that the fire was miles away on the other side of the valley’s southern mountain range.
Still, she leaned over and looked out the window. There was no smoke visible above the mountain ridgeline. Not even haze. The sky was a clear, perfect cerulean blue.
She sat back in the seat again, glanced over at Baxter, then back at the road. “I need ice cream,” she said suddenly and made a U-turn in the middle of the boulevard.
That got the boy’s attention. He looked over at her. “What are you doing? Where are we going?”
“We’re getting ice cream.”
“Why?”
“We need a reason?”
Gracie swung the Ranger into the entrance of the Dairy Queen.
“I don’t think I’m supposed to have it. Ice cream,” Baxter said.
Gracie swooped around into the drive-through line and stopped behind a banana-yellow Volkswagen Beetle. “Why not?”
A shoulder lifted. “I dunno.”
Gracie glanced over at Baxter. “Ever been to Dairy Queen?”
“No.”
“Well, then, it’s about time.” At his face, she added, “You can have anything you want. It’ll be our secret.”
A car horn drew her attention to a white Subaru station wagon driving past. Acacia smiled from the passenger’s window, waving both hands.
Gracie tooted the truck horn and waved back. “Hi, Acacia,” she called out the open window.
Baxter craned his neck to watch the Subaru turn out of the parking lot onto the main boulevard, then he swung his head around toward Gracie. “You know those . . . ?” He used a racial slur that made Gracie sputter, “Do . . . I know those . . . what?”
The boy repeated the word. “I heard some new ones had moved into the valley.”
The yellow Volkswagen crept forward. Gracie lifted her foot from the brake and let the Ranger inch ahead. “Baxter, that’s not a good word. You should never use it. Never call anyone that.”
“Everyone calls ’em that.”
“Everyone who?”
“My dad. My grandpop. Uncle Win. It’s in Tom Sawyer.”
Gracie cleared her throat, buying herself a little time. Choosing her words very carefully, she said, “Well, without getting into a literary discussion about Mark Twain’s use of the word”—she took in a deep breath—“I think it’s wrong to use it nowadays. Or ever. Very wrong.”
“Why?”
“Well, that’s difficult to answer in something shorter than a book.” She thought for a moment, mentally sifting through a litany of ethnic epithets. Finally, she said, “It depersonalizes. Denigrates. Do you know what that means?
“No.”
“Words or labels like that make, or try to make, people less than they are, less than human.”
“Oh.” He turned to look out the window again.
“A better word to use would be black. Or African American.”
Another shrug. “Okay.”
* * *
THE RANGER TURNED right onto Oak Street. Gracie leaned forward to peer at the house numbers. “Your grandma’s is 1058, right?”
“That’s Gran’s house up there,” Baxter said, pointing several houses up the block. “The green one.”
The house was an undistinguished cracker box with gray wood showing through patches of weather-beaten forest green paint. The bowed front porch held a lone rocking chair and a bedraggled potted fern. The yard itself was bare dirt and rocks adorned with a few scrubby piñon pines.
Gracie pulled to a stop behind an old, rusted-out blue Honda Civic parked on the side of the street. When she shoved the truck into Park, Baxter made no move to open the door. Instead, he sat staring down at the empty container from the Georgia Mud Fudge Blizzard Treat in his hands.
“I can take your empty cup,” Gracie offered. She took it and stuffed it into the plastic grocery sack serving as a litter bag. She peered into his face. “You okay?”
No answer.
“I’m sorry, Baxter. Sergeant Gardner shouldn’t have said the things he did about your dad. That was mean and uncalled for.”
Several seconds passed, then Baxter looked up at Gracie. “But it’s true.”
“Well, I don’t—”
“My dad is a loser!” Baxter yelled. “And so’s my grandpop! They’re both sons of bitches!”
“Baxter.”
“That’s what Gran calls ’em. That’s why she doesn’t live with them anymore. And why she doesn’t want me to live with them anymore either. She wants me to live with her. She wants to adopt me. But they all say no.”
“They?”
“Grandpop. My dad. Mom Michelle. And—”
The front door of the house opened and a woman stepped out to the edge of the porch, shading her eyes with a hand and peering at the truck. Wearing long silver hair pulled back from her face, a denim shirt, and ankle-length patchwork peasant skirt with leather sandals, she was, Gracie guessed, in her early sixties.
“That’s my gran,” Baxter said, pushing open the door. “I gotta go.”
“I’ll come and say hi,” Gracie said, pushing her own door open.
“Hi, Gran,” Baxter called as he jumped down from the truck. “It’s me.”
At the sound of the boy’s voice, the woman was off the front porch and running across the yard, arms held wide open, a look of pure joy on her face.
She dropped to her knees in the dirt and threw her arms around the boy. “Don’t ever do this to me again. I was so worried about you!”
“Sorry, Gran,” Baxter mumbled. He pulled away and gestured back toward Gracie. “This is Gracie. She’s on Search and Rescue.”
>
The woman looked up and saw Gracie standing at the edge of the yard. She pushed herself to her feet and crossed the dirt, both hands outstretched. “Thank you,” she said, taking Gracie’s hands and shaking them both. “Thank you so, so very much.”
Gracie smiled back at her. “You’re welcome, Mrs. . . . Edwards?”
“Oh, please. Call me Sharon.” Behind a hand, she whispered, “Changing it back to my maiden name.” She gestured back toward the house. “Would you like to—”
The sound of squealing tires drew everyone’s eyes back down the street to a dark green pickup truck roaring toward them.
“It’s my dad!” Baxter yelled. Grabbing up his backpack, he sprinted toward the house.
The pickup left the road, bumped up into the yard, and skidded to a stop in a cloud of dust, blocking Baxter’s way.
The boy changed direction, heading for the trees at the side of the yard.
The driver erupted from the truck. Gracie’s brain registered only snippets of information. Shaved head. White shirt. Red suspenders. Bared teeth.
“Lee!” Sharon screamed, running across the yard in an attempt to intercept the man. “No!”
Lee easily caught up with his son. “You stupid goddam little sissy girl!” he yelled. He drew back a hand to slap the boy.
“Stop!” Sharon screamed, pushing in between Lee and Baxter.
The blow meant for the boy landed on the side of the woman’s head and she fell to her knees.
Gracie yelled and jumped forward.
“No!” Baxter pummeled his father with his fists.
Lee lifted the boy up by the shoulders of his jacket and shook him like a rag doll. “Your stupid stunts is gonna bust us!”
Gracie leapt right onto the man’s back, threw her arms around his neck, and hauled back with all her strength. “Let! Go!”
She made no more impression than a flea. Lee swung an elbow back, catching her in the face.
Pain. And a burst of white light.
Gracie dropped and fell back full-length onto the ground.
“I hate you!” Baxter screamed. “You’re a loser! I hate you!”
“You goddam—” Lee yelled, lunging after the boy.
“Lee, stop!” Sharon screamed, pushing herself up from the ground.
Head whirling, Gracie sat up. She swiped at her nose with the back of her hand. In a daze, she stared at the bloody smear, then over to where Sharon was crouched over Baxter, shielding him with her body.
“Stop protecting him!” Lee grabbed Sharon’s arm and pulled her away. “Time he acted like a man!”
Gracie put a hand on the ground and tried to stand up. Her world reeled. She sat back down.
She was only vaguely aware of a second man, as big as a bear, running across the dirt.
“Get him outta here, Win!” Sharon screamed. “Or I’m callin’ the police!”
From behind, Win grabbed ahold of Lee’s arms and dragged him back across the yard.
Lee fought to free himself, growling like a cornered wolverine.
“Goddammit, Lee!” Win said in an incongruously high voice. “Cut it out! We gotta get. Your ma’s gonna call the cops.” With one arm across Lee’s chest, the huge man lifted him completely off the ground, walked back across the yard to the truck, and practically threw him into the passenger’s seat, slamming the door. Then he walked around to the driver’s seat and climbed inside.
The engine revved. Wheels spun. Dirt and gravel sprayed. Tires screeched on pavement. The truck sped off and disappeared around the corner.
Gracie sat in the dirt, head hanging. Blood dripped from her nose, bright red flowers in the fawn-colored dirt.
The sound of Baxter crying drew her eyes up and across the yard to where Sharon was on her knees beside the boy, arms around his body, voice soft, comforting.
A Steller’s jay squawked a ruckus from a pine branch somewhere above her head.
Gracie looked back down at her blood puddling in the dirt. “What the hell just happened?”
CHAPTER
8
GRACIE stood in front of the mirror in the Gatehouse bathroom, glumly inspecting her face by the dim light of its single wall sconce. The right side of her nose was plum-purple with a twist of Taco Bell napkin protruding from the nostril. Her upper lip was as puffed out as if a cotton ball had been stuffed beneath. Dried blood was smeared across her cheek. “Lovely,” she said to her reflection. “Simply lovely.”
“Should have sidestepped that Mack truck, doodlebug.”
Gracie’s eyes slid over to Allen leaning against the doorjamb, arms crossed and displaying to their full glory solid fields of tattooed peacock feathers and solar systems. “Hardy har,” she said. “Ow.”
“Got ice?” Allen asked.
“Freezer trays were empty.”
The man disappeared from the doorway.
The front foyer door slammed, setting the little bell hanging above the door to tinkling. Outside in the parking lot, Allen’s old Bronco roared to life and drove away.
Gracie withdrew the blood-soaked piece of napkin from her nostril. “Ow, ow, ow.” A line of blood trickled down her upper lip. She dabbed at it with the napkin. “All ready for the prom.”
She leaned on the sink, staring into the mirror, contemplating her lame loser looks, which then progressed to an analysis of her life and how maybe it was time for a change, although what change, she had no idea. “Something,” she said to her nose. “Anything.”
The front office door slammed again and the little bell did its thing. Quick, heavy footsteps on carpet and Allen reappeared in the doorway. He held out a sandwich bag full of frozen peas and two white capsules. “Tylenol.”
“Thanks.” Gracie washed down the painkillers with a swig of water from the faucet. She used her thumbs to shape the peas into a concave bowl and placed the bag on the side of her face. “Owowowow!” She blew out a long, slow breath. “I need to sit.”
Allen stepped aside to let her pass, then followed her down the carpeted hallway to the Camp Manager’s office in the back.
With a groan, Gracie eased herself down into the chair behind the desk. “I feel as if I aged fifty years in the past hour.” She bent forward to peer at a little pile of pink squares in the middle of the blotter. “What are these?”
Allen placed a pile of purchase orders beside the pink squares, then dropped into a metal folding chair on the opposite side of the desk. “Telephone messages. People freaked out that Timber Creek is burning down.”
“The fire’s down the hill,” Gracie said, aware that her tone sounded suspiciously like a whine. “On the other side of the mountain.” She leaned back in the chair, closed her eyes, and rocked. “All right. Thanks. I’ll call ’em all back. Give them a reassuring talking-to.”
“So, you gonna tell me what the heck happened?”
“No.”
“Suit yourself.”
Seconds passed.
“Some creep was whaling on his boy. Or trying to until the grandmother got in the way and got whaled on instead. I got in the middle. Well, not really in the middle . . .”
“On purpose?”
“What do you think?”
“Did you stop it?”
“I’d like to think I helped. Maybe a little.”
“Then it was worth it, right?”
“I guess.”
“So quitcher whining.”
Gracie stopped rocking and looked over the peas at Allen. “I wasn’t—”
He winked at her.
She shot him a look and started rocking again.
Allen leaned forward, resting his arms on his knees. “So what happened? I want details, girlfriend.”
Gracie lifted her foot up onto the desk, saying by way of explanation, “Ankle’s bothering me.” Skipping the Whitney fia
sco and her argument with Ralph, she described the search for Baxter, finding the boy inside the boat, Gardner’s bullying tactics, the boy’s use of a racial slur, the father’s enraged attack. “The grandmother wouldn’t let me call the cops.” She shook her head. “Doesn’t want to press charges. The guy just gets to drive away.” She stopped, staring off into space.
“Earth to Gracie,” Allen said.
Gracie retrieved her focus. “Sorry,” she said. “I was indulging myself in a little mental castration.”
“Well deserved.”
“The big man who pulled the dad away? The guy’s brother-in-law, I think?”
“Yeah?”
“I’ve seen him before. Maybe even met him. He’s kind of hard to forget. Pretty much the size of Alaska. But I can’t place him. My head’s still jangling from getting my bell rung. My . . . uh . . .”
“Clock cleaned?”
“Yeah, that.”
“I’ve heard of the family,” Allen said.
“Edwards.”
“They’re the ones. Something ain’t right there.” He rubbed his palms together. “I know you didn’t ask for my advice, but I’m givin’ it anyway. Stay away from that crowd. They’re bad company.”
“Well, unless I run into ’em between the Wonder Bread and the mayonnaise at Stater Bros., I have no intention of seeing any of them again. Ever.” She glanced down at her desk. “I gotta get to work. I’m way behind on paperwork.”
Allen pushed himself to his feet. “Need anything? Give me a call.”
“Thanks.”
Allen disappeared up the hall. “Later, lovebug.”
“Later . . . whatever.” She dabbed her upper lip with a fingertip. “Ow.”
CHAPTER
9
WITH dark eyes sparkling, Rob smiled his perfect, golden smile. Then he lowered his head and kissed Gracie. Hands pressed flat against her lower back, he lifted her body against his.
She closed her eyes and tilted her head back. Rob kissed her ear, tongue brushing the lobe and raising goose bumps along her arms. His hands wandered across her back, over her shoulders, the curve of her hip, fingers caressing, teasing. His soft lips moved down her throat, her shoulder, moving to her stomach and lower.
Murder on the Horizon Page 6
