“Maybe I should take my own car. There’ll be more of us to keep track of,” Rhetta suggested. “For their enforcers, I mean.”
“More targets, too,” Grace countered, not loving the idea of her friend putting herself more directly in harm’s way. “I’d say better to stick with Butch and Bobby.”
“Okay.”
Sounding relieved, Rhetta moved off. Butch stopped and Bobby climbed down, opening the passenger door of the cab for Rhetta. With Bobby’s heavy mustache and ponytail of raven-black hair, his Hispanic–Native American roots were evident. His appearance elicited a ripple of reaction from their escort service.
“I think they’re more upset about letting Bobby on than us tits,” Grace said to Ham, observing Tommy Miller’s intense sneer in Bobby’s direction as the detective got back in Butch’s truck and shut the door. Behind the wheel, Butch made a point of talking on his cell phone, reminding the Sons of Oklahoma SOBs that a vest network of cops and other denizens of the Justice Department knew they were out here. If anyone wound up shot, there’d be more than blurry security footage to back up the case.
The case. The blessed case. The three cases. If you had anything to do with Malcolm, or any of them, I want you dead, Grace thought as she kept pace with Tommy Miller.
They had aerial pictures of the compound; there were ten houses on the property, which was a total of fifty acres, most of that undeveloped land. They had a website for donations, but so far no law enforcement agency had been cleared to investigate their funding. The vehicles were usually parked around a barn within easy walking distance of the guard gate. Tommy Miller’s house was the farthest away, about a mile from the main gate. If they didn’t find the vehicle at the barn, Ham and Grace would climb into Butch’s truck.
“Tommy?” one of the men said. He was holding out a cell phone. Miller grunted and moved away from Grace and Ham, leaving them a little bubble of privacy.
“If we see the panel truck, we can’t do shit,” Grace reminded Ham. “It’s not on the warrant.”
“I know.” He nudged her. “Check it out.”
On a hilltop, a big red barn stood like a poster for good farm living. Above it, a Confederate-style flag-red with diagonal blue bars containing single rows of stars—was stretched between two poles that looked to Grace like lightning rods. In the center of the flag, surrounded by a ring of red and orange flames, a clenched white fist held an eagle feather. Bent around the top were the words 110% AMERICAN 110% WHITE 110% FREE. Beneath it, SONS OF OKLAHOMA.
“That totals three hundred thirty percent crap,” Grace said.
“Well, they are free,” Ham reminded her.
“For now.” A dry twig cracked under her boot, snapping like a rifle shot. “How much you want to bet we’re in some asshole’s scope sight, and he’s following every move we make?”
“Not taking that bet.” Ham smiled as he scanned the area. “But I’m going to collect for the warrant.”
She grinned, studying each plank of the barn, the bushes, the ground, the sky. And the six vehicles that came into view as they hiked up the rise. Blue truck, black car, black, black, gray truck. And one white truck. The same logo was painted on the side as in the minimart tape. She pulled out the phone and called Rhetta.
“May have something for you,” she said. “At the barn.”
“I’ll tell Butch,” Rhetta replied.
Hunter Johnson moved in, taking Miller’s place as Grace and Ham’s guard. Grace got a weird vibe off him again but she kept her face neutral as she headed for the white truck. Johnson kept up. She thought about the girl with the hinky tattoo and wondered how she’d gotten mixed up with these guys.
Then her heart sank. “Ham, this is a Chevy Silverado 1500,” she said under her breath. The truck on the tape was a 2500, nearly ten feet longer.
Ham pursed his lips. “Game’s not over yet.”
“Hey, we’re looking for a 2500,” Grace told Johnson. He chuckled breathily, like he was laughing, and shook his head.
“Don’t think we have one of those,” he replied.
“We’ve got it on tape,” Grace said. “With your logo on the side.”
“Not ours,” he insisted. “It could be …” He blinked and trailed off, as if he had stopped himself from saying something incriminating.
“Could be what? Someone impersonating you? They painted up their truck so they could go on a rampage and blame you?” She walked up to him. He was wearing Beckham and he smelled great. She was taken aback.
“Or maybe they put on a magnetic sign, you know, like small businesses use? Real estate, things like that?” She waited, crossing her fingers that he would take the bait. His cheeks went a little pink, but maybe he was simply displaying one of the telltale signs of lying because he was pissed off. Body language was a lot more complicated than most people realized. That was because the truth could be a relative thing. A person could both believe he was being honest and fear that he was lying. Plus there were all kinds of lies: bald-faced lies, half lies, white lies, kind lies. And bullshit.
“We don’t sell real estate,” he said.
“No, you just kill black kids,” she bit off.
This time, no pink rose to his cheeks. So, there was the truth. Or it could also simply mean that he was tired of dealing with her. You could pass a lie detector test by detaching. She’d seen it done. Basically, if you didn’t give a shit if anyone believed you, you were home free.
She shielded her eyes as the sound of an engine caught her attention. It was Butch’s truck, kicking up dust as it headed her way. She was about to call Rhetta back and tell her to hold her horses when she caught Johnson staring at the back section of the barn. There was something there that interested him.
Let it be a 2500, Grace thought.
Ham had noticed, too. The partners ambled on, nothing passing between them except one blink. Grace’s heart quickened; she was a bloodhound with a scent. Johnson walked a little faster.
Butch’s Ford pulled abreast of them and Butch himself leaned out the window. He didn’t say anything. Neither did Grace. Then her cell phone went off. She checked the faceplate. It was Rhetta.
“Do you want me to get out of the truck?”
Rather than verbally reply, Grace texted NOT YET.
Rhetta hung up. Everyone kept walking toward the barn. Grace turned to Johnson and said, “We hear you’re going to start cleaning up the city.”
He raised a brow. “Where’d you hear that?”
“Who made the announcement, you or Tommy?” Grace asked in a low voice, glancing around. Fearless Leader was still offstage, talking on his cell phone. “Because from where I stand, looks like you want to be the boss. He’s in your way.”
He scratched his chin. And—bingo—his cheeks went pink. “I don’t know what gave you that idea, Detective. But then, you have some pretty crazy ideas. About us. And what we stand for.”
“White power,” Ham said.
“See, that’s exactly what I’m talking about.” Johnson pulled a long face, aggrieved. “How come when they talk about black power or Hispanic power or, I don’t know, gay power, that’s okay, that’s good? But if we want to celebrate our heritage, we should be locked up?”
“I’m sure you’ve debated this a million times,” Grace said. “C’mon, it’s hot and I’ve got to take a piss. Can you just show us the goddamn 2500? Maybe in return we can help you out with your organizational situation.”
Johnson blinked, hunched his shoulders, and stuffed his hands in his pockets. Grace tried to read him, see if he thought she was being serious. Since he believed that cops were corrupt pieces of shit he probably believed her.
And … it was a thought. If she could make him feel undervalued and exploited, and offer the hope of a better situation such as in becoming leader of the Sons, maybe she could flip him. That was how cops transformed criminals into CIs—with a little pixie dust and a lot of sleight of hand—playing to their egos, making them feel important. A gang bea
t you down and scared you into submission. Everything hinged on carrying out orders—on obedience. But CIs went against the code of their group—and they did it to either escape punishment, avoid suspicion, or feel special.
We could do some damage, Grace thought, warming to her subject. Pit him and Tommy Miller together. Get them to have a civil war. That’d keep ’em busy … maybe make them show their hands.
As they reached the barn, Grace smelled cow manure, and hoped it didn’t mean her musings were bullshit. Did the Sons actually own livestock? The lowing of a bovine answered her question, and she and Ham traded glances. White supremacists and survivalists. Could be a bad combination, if they thought they were going to stir up so much trouble that they were going to have to slaughter their own food.
Butch drove up beside her and Bobby got out, followed by Rhetta. Johnson stiffened.
“We don’t like his kind on our land,” Johnson ground out.
“His kind is cops,” Grace shot back. “Look, all we need is the truck and we’ll leave you in peace.” She gave him a look—remember what we talked about—and he dropped his gaze toward his boots. Oh, yeah, he was remembering. He was tempted. He did want that throne and that crown.
Then he ticked his gaze in the same direction as before. She started walking into the barn, which was warm and earthy. Ham circled a hay bale, moving into the shadows. She forked to the left, past a tractor and some large empty white plastic buckets. Warmer, warmer, she could just feel that truck in there somewhere. Warmer still … hot …
Pigs oinked on her approach. Three of them, enormous, grunting, raised their heads from a pen to her left. Chickens clucked. It was a busy barn.
She kept going.
“Gotcha,” Johnson muttered, and she knew that he’d played them. There was no truck back there. He was just throwing out all kinds of hints that there was, to watch the stupid cops dance to his tune.
Grace whirled around. “I’m serious about this, man. Help me out and I’ll help you out. Just show us the truck.”
He cocked his head and swept his gaze up and down her body. “Maybe I don’t want you to leave. Maybe I like your company.”
“It’s better in small doses,” she told him. “You’d get tired of me slamming your teeth down your throat whenever you tried to call me ‘tits.’”
“Why? That’s what you are.”
“And you’re a jackass, but you don’t hear me calling you that,” Grace said.
His smile was lazy, provocative. “There’s no truck. There’s never going to be a truck.”
“What about a white panel van?” she asked. Before he could answer, she said, “Just think about it, okay? I’m sure you were nowhere near that hit and run. Or the drive-by. Or any of the other shit that’s going to get Tommy Miller the needle.”
His smile grew. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Guys like you never do,” Grace said. “Look, we got resources—”
“So do we.” He placed his hand suggestively on the .357 Magnum on his belt. “So do we.”
CHAPTER
TEN
In the barn, listening to Grace, Rhetta didn’t like the back-and-forth banter with Hunter Johnson that Grace was indulging in. Johnson was a mean, scary person. Grace would know just how far she could push this guy, but it still made Rhetta nervous. It was like hanging around with a snake charmer who was your best friend in all the world. She wanted to collect her evidence and get the hell out of there.
Flies buzzed on animal droppings as she gazed at the bales of hay, and the manger brimming with straw; and a rush of grief caught her stomach and made her press her lips tightly together.
We’re going to lose the farm. These racist skinheads can have a farm, but I can’t.
Taking a deep breath, she walked past the cow—Holy Cow could live here, wouldn’t that be just … awful?
Her criminalist’s brain scanned the earth for tire tracks. There were some. She tried to tell if her distinguishing tire mark was present, but it was too dark to tell. She couldn’t do any kind of forensics tests, or collect evidence, unless it was on the truck itself.
She wandered deeper into the barn, the smells filling her soul. Around the hay manger, toward the closed door of a wooden shed …
… no, it was ajar …
“Pssst,” someone whispered from inside.
Rhetta froze. Had she imagined it? She looked back at Grace for backup, but she was still working Hunter Johnson. She didn’t see Butch or Bobby.
She turned her attention back to the door.
“Hello?” she whispered.
The door creaked open and a head poked out. Long, soft brown hair fanned across a sweetheart-shaped face, a split lip, and a black eye. It was the girl with the infected tattoo.
As nonchalantly as she could, Rhetta crossed over to her. The girl’s eyes widened and she began to retreat, but Rhetta reached forward and held on to the handle of the shed. The smell of rubbing alcohol stung her nose and eyes.
“I’m not going to hurt you,” Rhetta said. Slowly she opened the door.
Crouching among the rakes and brooms, the girl gazed up anxiously at Rhetta and put a finger to her lips. She seemed practically feral, and Rhetta took a step backward, lowering her hand to her side.
“Okay,” she murmured. “I’m here.”
“Please,” the girl murmured. “Are you a doctor?” She looked at Rhetta’s field kit, then gestured to her arm. “Something’s wrong. It itches like crazy.”
Rhetta saw that the infection was really just irritation, likely caused by the girl herself. “You’ve been putting alcohol on it,” Rhetta said. “You’ve disinfected it, but your skin is irritated from the alcohol. Do you have access to any kind of antibiotic cream?” She named a couple of generic brands.
The girl shook her head. “All’s we got are bandages, aspirin, and rubbing alcohol. Tons of it.”
Rhetta made a note of that. Isopropyl alcohol was a versatile liquid. You could make poisons with it, disinfect with it, and start fires with it.
“I’m Jeannie,” the girl whispered. She stuck her hand out awkwardly. “How do you do?”
“I’m …” Rhetta hesitated. Not a good idea to give out her name. “Do you want some Tylenol? It’ll help with the swelling. On your face.”
“Oh.” Jeannie flushed and looked down at her hands. “Don’t tell Hunter you saw me, okay? We’re not supposed to talk to you.”
“Is he your boyfriend?” Rhetta asked, flipping open her kit. She found a jar of salve for the sore arm. Simple, but effective.
Jeannie’s reply was midway between a sob and a laugh. She immediately stifled it by pushing both her hands against her mouth. When it became clear that Rhetta was waiting for her answer, she lowered her hands to her sides, a naked gesture of submission that tore at Rhetta’s heart. This girl had not only been beaten up; she had been beaten down.
“He’s my husband,” Jeannie murmured. “We’ve been married for six months.” Her voice changed; there was a tinge of defiant pride. She raised her left hand, and a surprisingly lovely blue agate cameo ring gleamed in the diffused light. The cameo showed the face, torso, and wings of an angel, hands pressed together in prayer.
Rhetta fought to hide her shock. Yikes. Talk about a bunny rabbit living with a rattlesnake.
“What a lovely ring.” Probably stolen.
“Thank you. It was Hunter’s grandmother’s.”
Rhetta didn’t believe that for a minute.
“So you’re Jeannie Johnson.”
“Mrs. Double J,” she said softly. “Hunter says once we get the ranch that’s what we’ll call it. The Double J. For me.”
“The ranch.” Did she mean the compound? Was Grace right? Was there a power struggle going on between Tommy Miller and Hunter Johnson?
“In Montana. Someday.” She looked past Rhetta. “Who’s that lady talking to my man?”
“A police detective,” Rhetta said.
“Her?” J
eannie was incredulous. Rhetta remembered how the women were set apart in a group as “the tits” and wondered if there were other Mrs. Hunters. If Grace and the squad had stumbled on to some kind of polygamous sect. God, she hoped not. Look what had happened in Texas. All that bad press for the authorities. And no good had come out of it.
“How old are you?” Rhetta asked.
Jeannie shrugged. “Old enough.” She touched her lip. “I could use something to kill the pain.”
Was she an addict? Rhetta opened her kit again and lifted out a bottle of Tylenol. She shook out two for Jeannie and two for herself. She was getting a terrible headache.
“Did he do this to you?” Rhetta asked bluntly. “Why?”
“I forgot a few things.” Jeannie’s face softened. She was almost dreamy. “We were going to have chicken and biscuits for dinner, but I didn’t start defrosting the chicken soon enough. It was still frozen. And I was supposed to call this guy for Hunter. But I-I got distracted. Idol was on. You know how the saying goes.”
Rhetta waited for the punch line. After a moment, Jeannie cleared her throat and gazed off into the distance, as if she were reciting a poem from memory.
“A hungry husband is an ill-tempered husband.”
You’ve got to be kidding me.
“Here. For the pain.” Rhetta handed her two caplets. Jeannie took them, dry-swallowing them down. Standing on tiptoe, she looked over Rhetta’s shoulder again at her man. God, she was practically a baby.
“You know, if you have a … problem,” Rhetta began, “you can file charges. Wives have rights.”
“They’d all back Hunter up,” Jeannie said in a rush. Then she flushed deep purple. “Our men are under a lot of stress.” But her tone was bitter. She was angry. That was good. She still had a bit of a spark left.
“Oh, really? Why?” Rhetta asked. If she could get her to say something incriminating, Grace could call for a more extensive warrant. They’d have probable cause. Of course, Jeannie might retract her statement. It would be Rhetta’s word against hers, and the judge might assume that Rhetta would fabricate a story to help the squad. All this Rhetta let run through her mind while she tried to sound only mildly interested.