by Nancy Holder
Grace took a nice swig of wine. She was going to have to drink a vat of the stuff if she ever hoped to wind down from the day she’'d had.
“"Shit,”" she said. She’'d forgotten about the title report for the Sons of Oklahoma property. She put it on her mental to-do list. Reaching again for her Chardonnay, she saw that everyone was looking at her. “"Sorry,”" she said, and then she realized that she had accidentally commanded their attention. She took another hefty swallow. And the glass was half empty.
Make that completely empty.
“"Here’'s the thing. Crime is sky-high and it has been for a while now. Things on the street have been getting worse, not better.”" She looked at their bewildered faces. “"We don’'t know how the mayor manipulated the stats but he had to have done something because that report Kendra Burke gave is total bu—--wrong. And you should all be real careful.”"
“"Marc-Alain was right,”" Paige breathed, taking a minute sip of her wine. At least three molecules passed from the glass to her lips.
Grace pondered the personality makeup of someone who ate and drank like Paige. All she could come up with was tight ass.
“"Who’'s Marc-Alain?”" Doug asked.
Paige put her napkin to her lips. The napkins were cloth, of course. Paige was all about civilized behavior.
“"My tennis coach. He said Oklahoma City is an incredibly violent place. When I told him about that piece Kendra did, he said it was a whitewash because of the mayor’'s reelection campaign.”"
Smart Marc-Alain.
“"Why do you have a French tennis coach?”" Johnny asked her.
“"I need help with my serve,”" she retorted, but she looked a little flustered.
Maybe to get back at her husband for banging the owner of that chichi little bookstore, Grace thought. Said husband being MIA for this dinner, by the way.
But she didn’'t say anything. No one knew that she knew Buck was screwing around. Except Buck the Shithead Cheater himself.
“"But that would be shoddy journalism,”" Paige argued. “"To let herself be fooled like that?”"
“"Yeah, speaking of ol’' Kendra. Where’'s the remote?”" Grace scooted back her chair.
“"Grace, please stay focused.”"
Grace ignored Miss Prissypants. Top of the hour. Kendra had promised. Grace walked out of the dining room and into the living room, locating the remote on a Tuscan-style coffee table. She aimed it at the huge plasma TV, and fired.
There she was. The love of Butch’'s life. Heavy makeup, long face.
“"Tonight, all residents of Oklahoma City are urged to call the Oklahoma City Police Department if they have any information as to the whereabouts of Forrest Robert Catlett.”"
The photograph Mrs. Catlett had supplied appeared behind Kendra. Forrest looked better in the photo than Grace had ever seen him in real life. She hoped that wouldn’'t make him harder to recognize.
A crawl along the bottom of the screen gave out the police department number. There was a pool on how many crackpot false leads they were going to get. If Butch won this one, too, Grace was going to have to do something desperate.
“"Forrest has been missing for approximately ten hours. He’'s a diabetic and he’'s overdue for a dose of insulin. It is extremely urgent that he be taken to the nearest medical facility for treatment, as soon as possible. Here’'s Forrest’'s pediatrician, Dr. Herman Salzman, with more information.”"
Grace did a double take. They had slathered the doctor in pancake makeup; he looked like an orange.
Paige, Johnny, and Doug joined Grace.
“"I’'m sorry, Grace,”" Paige murmured. “"I shouldn’'t have said anything about losing your focus. I should have realized you had a good reason to leave my dinner table without asking to be excused.”"
Grace nodded. Then Forrest’'s dad appeared on-screen with Mrs. Catlett, who appeared to be barely functioning. That would be good. That would stir people up. They were making their appeal for information, for Forrest to come home, for the kidnappers to make their demands. The dad was a typical chubby businessman. Grace thought Mrs. Catlett would have put him on a diet. Maybe Forrest was as much as she could handle.
The chief had sent someone to stay with the Catletts in their house, and a patrol car would make the rounds all night. He and the mayor were fielding lots of queries about why they’'d issued statements about the downward trend in violent crimes when all evidence pointed to the contrary. They were squirming like snails on a hot sidewalk.
Paige was twisting her napkin between her hands. “"I should get a gun.”"
Paige talked about buying a gun whenever she got scared. Grace just couldn’'t see it. You had to be willing to use a lethal weapon, lethally. You had to be willing to kill someone. Paige wouldn’'t be able to commit to that. She’'d freak out and her assailant would take it from her. Grace had seen it over and over and over.
“"You could teach me how to shoot,”" Paige implored.
“"God, no,”" Doug groaned. Paige glared at him.
“"Okay, maybe,”" Grace said. Kendra’'s piece on the Catlett case ended, and a shot of the noose on the Survivor’'s Tree hit the screen. Been there, done that. Grace turned off the TV and headed back to the dinner table.
“"We should pray again,”" Paige announced as she and Grace sat down. “"Pray some more.”" Paige looked at Johnny and folded her hands, waiting.
“"Does it work that way?”" Grace asked her brother. “"You flood the office with requests and God finally responds?”"
“"Intercessory prayer is a complicated thing,”" Johnny replied.
“"Can’'t you just pray?”" Paige snapped, irritated.
Doug looked at Grace and gave his head a weary shake. Then he picked up his empty plate and said, “"Is there more food?”"
“"Don’'t interrupt,”" Paige ordered him. “"We’'re praying.”"
And here we are again, Grace thought. The prayer thing. I don’'t feel it. Words, begging …... it won’'t make a difference. God does whatever the hell He wants. We’'re like a bunch of string puppets—--
“"Amen,”" Johnny said.
Grace realized she’'d zoned out and quickly crossed herself in unison with everyone else. She got up to go to the kitchen to open another bottle of wine. Eat, pray, drink. It was going to be a long dinner. Even without anything to eat.
Later, Grace sat with Clay in a rattan double swing on Paige’'s covered porch, watching the rain. A little rain was good. It relieved the pressure.
His head was on her shoulder and they rocked back and forth, back and forth, while Clay cried. She knew he didn’'t want to break down like this; he thought it was babyish and after all, he was thirteen now.
“"It’'s not your fault,”" she said, resting her chin against the crown of his head.
“"I got Forrest in trouble. His mom sent him to his room. And then …... he disappeared.”"
“"He was going to bed, Clay. He didn’'t feel good.”"
“"That’'s what she told you. But she was always sending him to his room. He hated it.”" He sniffled.
“"Enough to run away?”"
“"I don’'t know, Aunt Grace.”"
“"Did you know he had diabetes?”"
“"No. And I always thought he was kind of a wimp. He could probably tell.”"
He cried a little more, and she put her arms around him and hugged him tightly, willing her strength into him, feeling all over again just how scared she’'d been at the launch site. Roberta Catlett had lost one son, and the other one was a diabetic and an asthmatic. It was a lot for one woman.
“"I’'ll find him. I will, Clay. He’'s going to be all right,”" she said, and then she heard herself. She was spouting bullshit. Kind lies. She shook her head.
“"I’'ll find him,”" she said, “"and I hope he’'ll be all right.”"
He lifted his head. “"What if he dies?”"
She studied his face. Licked her lips.
Stay honest, she o
rdered herself.
“"We’'ve got a week. In police detective time, that’'s like a whole year.”"
He looked at her hard. “"Aunt Grace …...”"
“"If he dies, I’'ll be here for you,”" she said.
He burst into tears.
From the shadows, Earl watched Clay and Grace.
That’'s some powerful praying you got going there, girl. Nice job.
Then God’'s angel spread his wings over Grace and her nephew, and he prayed, too.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Tuesday morning. Too bright. Too early.
Grace had put away half a bottle of bourbon after she escaped from Paige’'s, and she felt every drop now. Head, stomach. Aspirin and coffee gave her a kick start, and then she grabbed a sausage-and-egg sandwich to go on the way in to work. Okay, maybe that was a mistake, too.
She was first in the office, so it was up to her to turn Butch’'s Longhorn magnet upside down. The gang needed a good prank to relieve the tension—--a little rain—--and she began to scheme. Who would be her target? Or should it be all of them, wa-ha-ha?
First though, she was going to do the title report on the Sons of Oklahoma land purchase. She typed in the URL for public records and squinted at the first screen. Bobby was best at this kind of stuff, but it wasn’'t rocket science.
Bingo. The Sons had bought their fifty acres from James Morrison III, and at less than market value. Whoa, what a steal. Times were tough, sure; but maybe the Sons had come to Oklahoma City because Mr. Morrison had cut them such a screamin’' deal. Maybe in his heart he was a bigoted white guy who wanted to help out his fellow racists.
Maybe he was one of them.
In some cities, they wore white sheets. In others, they just walked around like regular people. Had jobs, sold real estate. Shot people on the weekends.
“"Maybe you even gave them one of Syndee Barlett’'s magnetic signs. Or maybe they just took it.”"
She bookmarked the page and sent the URL to Ham. Checked the clock. Almost eight a.m.
And school was in session.
At the top of the stairs, giving her a bird’'s-eye view of the students and the streets, Grace watched the kids as they slogged to the double entrance doors of Franklin High School. A kid trotted past, reeking of dope; she shook her head at his stupidity.
Ian Fletcher might have a name for the architectural style, but Grace was going for Fortress of Arrogance. As the blustery wind grabbed at her hair, she saw Jamal down at the bottom, walking and talking to two boys who were about six and fourteen inches shorter than he was, respectively. He was all slouchy gangsta man, with his do-rag and bling, and they were hanging on every word.
She set her jaw. If he was recruiting, she was going to kick his ass from here to Tulsa.
The warning bell rang and students hightailed it through the arched entryway. The two younger kids broke away from Jamal and rushed to make it to their classes. Still buying into the system, then. Still caring what their grades were.
Good.
Jamal saw Grace descending toward him. He took off his rag and stuffed it in his backpack. Then his big-ass necklace. If they searched his pack and found that shit, he’'d be expelled. She wondered if he cared anymore.
“"How’'s Daddy D?”" he asked her, eyes wide and fearful.
“"The same.”" She chewed the inside of her lip, trying to read him, see if he already knew what she was here to tell him.
“"There was a fire yesterday,”" she began. “"In your neighborhood.”"
He swallowed hard. “"Yeah, I know.”" He looked up at her through his lashes. “"And?”"
“"It’'s all gone, man.”"
“"Shit!”" he yelled. He flung his backpack at her. She caught it like a basketball. “"You lying to me!”" He was talking street; he’'d gotten all A’'s in English. Every year.
“"We’'re investigating it—--”"
“"You’'re not doing shit!”" He balled his fists and looked around for something to hit. Back, forth, he pivoted, like a caged animal. He ran over to a spruce and rammed his fist into the trunk. Roared from the pain.
She let him rage for a while; then, sensing someone behind her on the stairs, she turned and saw a school security guard. Unhooking her badge, she flashed it at him. He nodded, but he didn’'t go away, just moved up a few stairs and watched.
“"Oh, God, God,”" Jamal whispered; then he began to pant. He hit the tree again. It had to hurt like hell.
Had to hurt worse to lose all your worldly possessions.
“"Everything we had of Malcolm’'s,”" he said. “"His stuffed animals, and his chemistry set. His baby blanket …...”" He dug the heels of his hands into his eye sockets and keened. He wailed and he screamed and he sobbed.
Grace waited, watching his hand bleed.
“"I’'m going to kill those suckahs,”" he hissed. “"Get that gun and blow ’'em away.”"
“"Come with me to the hospital,”" Grace said. “"Come see your grandfather. We can get your hand looked at at the same time.”"
“"Is he awake?”" Jamal asked without looking at her. He flexed his fingers. “"Does he know?”"
“"No,”" she said. “"But when he wakes up, he’'s going to need you, Jamal.”"
“"He hates me.”" He hung his head.
“"He hates that you’'re in a gang. Because he loves you. Come on.”"
She could see him wavering. Then he scowled at her, backing away.
“"You came to my school, man. Everybody saw you. If they saw us talking, they’'ll kill me.”"
“"Then come with me.”" She held out her hand. “"I’'ll protect you.”"
“"Like you protected our place?”" His laugh was bitter, derisive.
“"The Sons of Oklahoma are ramping up,”" she said. “"They’'re going to try to start a war. You can’'t fight a war if you’'re not in the army.”"
“"Tyrell X got my back,”" he informed her. “"We’'re gonna get it done.”"
“"All you’'re going to do is die.”" She walked down the rest of the stairs and held out both hands. “"I am asking you, for your grandfather’'s sake. Get out now.”"
“"If I die, it’'s your fault, because you came here.”" He clamped his mouth.
She kept walking toward him. “"If you kill someone, you’'ll get your Full Patch, am I right? And once you’'re a full member, there is only one way out. It won’'t be like it is now. It’'ll be worse. Much worse. You have to stop.”"
“"You don’'t tell me what to do, you—--you white bitch!”" Spittle erupted from his mouth and he raised his hands, balling them as if he might actually hit her. She gave him a cop’'s hard eye, more to keep him from hurting himself again than anything else. “"Everything I have is gone!”"
“"You’'ve got your grandfather.”"
“"Shut up. You just shut up!”" he screamed at her.
Then he turned and ran into the gray, windy day.
Grace ran her hands through her hair and sighed heavily. She started down the stairs; then something made her turn around.
The security guard was standing still, watching her. He’'d been there the whole time. And when she met his gaze, his eyes were cold and mean; maybe Jamal had a point. Maybe this guy was a gang member. If you were smart you could get through the screening. Guys who got jobs doing security had a lot in common with cops and, weirdly enough, cops had a lot in common with criminals. A fun fact you learned in the academy.
Grace walked to the curb, where she’'d double-parked Connie—--a perk of being a police officer and not a criminal—--climbed into her Porsche, and started looking for Jamal.
She figured he couldn’'t have gotten far. But she must have figured wrong. He had melted into the shadows like an expert. Calculating his walking speed, then running speed, Grace pulled over a number of times and searched.
“"Damn it, come out,”" she called. “"Jamal, don’'t do this!”"
Another day over. It had started raining again, and the holes in
their barn roof were spreading like puddles. Maybe Ronnie was right; they should sell before any more things broke.
After Rhetta finished putting the kids to bed, she steeled herself for her nightly meeting with her husband in the kitchen. What would it be tonight? They had already gone over the bank statements and checkbooks-all the things he had been hiding from her. What was left? She was sure she’'d find out soon enough. Then she’'d drink a couple of glasses of wine and wind up crying in the barn.
Only, tonight, Ronnie wasn’'t in the kitchen. She stood alone, caught off guard, and went into their bedroom. He was in bed, and by the sound of his gentle snoring, he was asleep.
Her heart softened. She looked at the lines on his face, the light spilling from the doorway on his hair. For better or worse, and these times were bad.
She could go to him. Be comforted by him …...
She was too angry. And besides, every time they’'d …... tried, nothing had happened. They were both too stressed.
But there was holding each other. Just being together.
No. She just couldn’'t.
Feeling defeated, she shut the door, went back into the kitchen, and mulled what to do next. She thought about going to check on Speckles. She’'d wait five minutes; maybe the rain would die down.
She reached into the fridge to get another glass of white wine, then changed her mind and grabbed a water bottle instead. Unscrewing the cap, she glanced over at the calculator on the counter, sitting on top of the file folders containing the evidence of their financial ruin.
Then the landline phone rang. Rhetta jerked and automatically glanced at the clock. Ten. As she rushed to grab it, she made a mental inventory—--kids safe; Ronnie safe; it might be Grace but she doesn’'t call this late on my landline; maybe it’'s our parents; what if it’'s someone in Grace’'s family, because something has happened to her?
She grabbed the phone.
“"Hello?”" she said, holding her breath as she put the receiver to her ear. The frenetic thump of heavy metal whooshed across the line like horrible static.
“"Mrs….... mmmm …...”" It was a girl’'s voice, very muffled, followed by some sobbing. Rhetta blinked as, just as rapid-fire as before, her mind sought to make connections: a wrong number; one of Mae’'s friends; Grace’'s niece, Sayre—--
