Rhetta raised the latch, opened the door, and leaped over the threshold. Then she realized that the best thing that could happen to Jeannie was that she come into the barn, too. Maybe not the best thing for Rhetta. Still.
Her chest rising and falling, she dug into the turquoise bag. Dug deeper.
The gun was not there.
Jeannie slid across the threshold.
The gun was in her hand.
“Miz Rodriguez,” she begged. “Please don’t make me hurt you, please.”
Then Rhetta heard the roar of an approaching truck engine.
Make that two.
At the compound, DeWitt was angrily ordering one of the Sons foot soldiers to open the gate. Ham, Grace, and Butch stood shoulder-to-shoulder. Rain poured down. Trigger fingers were twitchy.
On both sides of the barrier. Grace pictured Ruby Ridge, and Waco, and the Murrah Building. She remembered the noose on the Survivor Tree. Haleem’s bleed-out. Malcolm’s crime scene photos.
And Jamal’s smile in that photograph of his party.
She gazed steadily at the angry white faces of the bigoted murderers—men who felt disenfranchised and threatened. Men tired of welfare cheats and drug dealers, who cast themselves as decent patriots but beat up their wives and called them tits.
And a hard-partying detective with a last-chance angel.
This is all so goddamn twisted, she thought. I can’t make sense of it anymore. It is just totally beyond my understanding.
Grace’s cell phone went off. She grabbed it.
“We’ve found Bobby,” Captain Perry said. “Lying by the side of the road. Someone dropped him. He’s unconscious.”
Grace turned her back on the firing line. “Rhetta—?”
“No car. No Rhetta. No Jeannie.”
“Oh, my God,” Grace said. “Shit.”
“Any ideas?” Captain Perry was tense.
“Rhetta’s house. No lights, no sirens. Let me go first.”
“Aren’t you serving a warrant?”
“Butch and Ham can do it. I got a feeling, Captain.” Or maybe a hope. “I don’t know where else to look.”
“Okay.” Captain Perry hung up.
She turned to Ham. “I gotta go.” He raised a brow. “Rhetta.”
“Want me to come with?”
“Butch would miss you too much,” she replied. “I got backup on the way.”
“Grace,” he said. He looked at her. Really looked. “I think I had a nightmare last night. About you. I can’t remember.” He stared hard at her. “Don’t take chances.”
Tough times.
She had told Jamal that it wasn’t just either perfectly healthy or dead. There were so may stops in between-disabled, disfigured, walkers, ventilators. Not just for gangbangers and cops, but for little kids and best friends.
“Bobby’s down,” she said. “Head injury. If you feel the need …”
“I’ll say a prayer.” He wrinkled his brow. “I’m serious, Grace. Don’t take any chances.”
“Don’t be an asshole,” she retorted.
Grace parked up the road from Rhetta’s and slogged through the rain. She edged around the gate to the farm, and chills ran over her in waves. The white Silverado 2500 they’d been looking for was pulled up in front of the barn. And a blue Silverado was pulled up next to it.
Both bore bumpers stickers that read SONS OF OKLAHOMA 110%.
She pulled out her gun, made sure the little one in her ankle holster was secured, and crept forward, until she was well within shooting range. She made two males in cowboy hats, guns drawn—a big Glock, a .357 Magnum—standing on either side of the closed barn door.
“Come on out, baby,” said the one on the left. Hunter Johnson.
“She said she was going to be in the house,” the other one muttered. Tommy Miller.
The big guns.
Grace put first Johnson in her sights, then Miller. Kept her ear peeled for the backup. Timing was everything, both in sex and police work.
There was silence. Grace wasn’t a fan of it. She wanted to know who was in the barn and what they were doing.
“Too bad it’s raining,” Miller said to Johnson. “Wet wood doesn’t burn.”
“At least not fast enough.”
Miller reached in his pocket and pulled out a cell phone. Texted. Put it back.
“We’re all set,” he said. “They’re around back. On my count.”
“Gonna miss those blow jobs,” Johnson said.
There’s an epitaph, Grace thought. She gave great head.
“Hunter?” It was Jeannie from inside the barn. Grace kept her aim.
“Yeah, baby?”
Hunter took a couple of steps back and extended his arms, making a tripod, getting ready to shoot. Grace zeroed in.
Took a deep breath. If you held it, your hand was steadier.
No backup yet.
“I’m sorry,” Jeannie said. “I-I kind of freaked out. But Miz Rodriguez totally understands, honey. She—she knows you didn’t do anything.”
“Shit,” Miller said.
Then he wheeled sideways and shot Hunter Johnson.
At point-blank range.
Grace went into action, taking down Miller as she charged forward. She got him in the shoulder; he collapsed; she hit him again as she slammed against the door, opened it; aware of more gunshots from the back. Knew those suckers could go straight through wood on both ends of the barn; they could kill her—and anyone else inside the barn.
“Rhetta!” she shouted. “Rhetta!”
Saw Jeannie hunched over, screaming, holding a gun. Grace approached, kicked the gun out of her grasp, sending Jeannie sprawling. Didn’t shoot her, might should have, kept running as she scanned for Rhetta, gun up, then out, flattening herself against hard surfaces whenever possible. The bullets kept coming from the other side of the barn. One hit the dirt beside her boot.
The back door flew open. In the dull, nickel light she saw Rhetta leap from behind the feed shed. She was holding a shotgun. She was going to get herself killed.
Grace didn’t call out to her, didn’t tell her to get the hell out. She didn’t want to distract her, or call attention to her. But three men were charging through the doorway and all three of them saw Rhetta.
Grace fired.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Down they went, all three of them.
And down went Rhetta.
Grace screamed.
Then time … stopped.
They were surrounded by white light, Grace and Rhetta. It was warm, and it smelled like Oklahoma on a spring morning. Rhetta turned to her. Her skin glowed, and she was radiant.
“It didn’t hurt,” Rhetta said.
“I did not shoot you,” Grace replied.
“I think you did,” Rhetta said from her hospital bed. Everyone was gathered around—Ronnie, Mae, and Todd; Butch, and Ham. And Bobby, all banged up, but still with them.
There were roses from Captain Perry; tulips from the Crime Lab; and a card from Jeannie Johnson, with I am sorry, Luv ya, Jeannie written in a childish scrawl.
“Ballistics will tell,” Grace said.
“I feel a pool coming on.” Butch rubbed his hands in gleeful anticipation.
The nurse came in and shooed everyone out. Ronnie walked beside Grace, and she made a face.
“If I shot her, I’m sorry.”
He rolled his eyes. “At least those sons of bitches are dead.”
“And the rest of ’em in custody. Including that asshole Realtor. Told Haleem’s mom. And Ajax’s next of kin, too.”
“Hey, Grace,” Ham said, catching up with her, “Peter Maxwell’s coming in. He’s Indian’s friend, the one who witnessed the Robertson gang murders. After lunch.”
“Cool,” she said. “I’ll be there.”
But first, she had promises to keep.
Dressed in the nice clothes from his getting-out photograph, Jamal met Grace at the entrance to th
e graveyard. She had on a dress and her hair was swept up in a chignon. She was holding lilies.
Together they walked the rows—the many, many rows—of little plaques in the ground. No statues of weeping angels, no statues at all. There was a fountain in the middle, though. It was pretty nice, for a modest, chain-store-style graveyard.
Beside Malcolm’s plaque, Mr. Briscombe sat in a wheelchair, holding the hand of the boy whose face had been on the target beside Malcolm’s. There was a Bible in his lap, and he looked gray and unwell, but alive.
“I’m done, Ms. Grace,” Jamal said. “I’m out. We’re moving to Edmond. Ms. Ada got me another job, and I’m going to night high school.” His eyes welled. “Then I’m going to college, and I’m going to become a cop.”
She smiled. “Become a lawyer. They make more money. A lot more.”
He smiled back. “Because I’m going to make a few things right.”
“Oh, then, cop’s the better choice,” she replied.
Later, Grace stood in front of Forrest Catlett’s closed hospital room door. She was afraid to go in.
“Is he going to make it, Earl?” she whispered, turning her head as Clay and his father headed their way. Clay was pale, and frightened. “The doctor said the damage was so extensive …”
“Maybe.” Earl took her hand. “But I do know that even if he doesn’t, he’s going to be okay.”
“How do you know that, man?”
Earl murmured the verse.
“For now we see through a glass, darkly, but then face to face: now I know in part, but then shall I know even as also I am known.”
He leaned forward with his sad, kind smile. For a moment she thought he was going to kiss her forehead. And she wanted him to.
“I care about this kid,” she whispered.
“Your version of ‘caring’ is stronger than most folks got in ’em to feel love. You feel deep, Grace. That’s the flip side of what gets you into such deep trouble. You’re just so damn much. Too damn much for some people.”
“It’s a gift,” she said.
“It is,” he retorted. “Love is tough.”
Then he did kiss her forehead.
And it was sublime. It was the most incredible, wonderful, transcendent sensation she had ever felt in her entire life. She swooned in it; she dwelled in it. She wanted to stay there forever.
Golden light flashed all around her, and he was gone. Maybe to Montreal, or Paris, or to some other place where someone else needed one more chance.
Oblivious, Doug and Clay walked up. Grace put her arms around Clay and held him tightly.
“Hey, Clay,” she whispered. “Hi, how you doing?”
Clay bobbed his head. “I’ve been praying so hard for Forrest. Father Alan says that God always answers all our prayers. But sometimes we don’t like the answers.”
“He’s a smart man,” Grace said. Tell that to Forrest’s grandparents, up for a raft of felonies. Or his parents, finally in marriage counseling. She looked at Doug.
“Paige said you’re taking her book club to the shooting range.”
“And afterward, we’re having Cosmos,” she replied, rolling her eyes. They shared a smile because, in the midst of everything, there abided faith, hope, and charity, but the greatest of these was making Paige happy.
“Let’s go in,” Grace said.
Clay took a deep breath. Grace took his hand in hers and gave it a little shake.
“No matter what, I’m here, okay? I am here.”
“She’s getting it,” Earl said to Gus, as Grace’s angel appeared in Grace’s living room.
Grace’s dog drooled lovingly and whined.
“No, I don’t have to pee, but I’ll be happy to accompany you outside.”
Earl opened the side door and looked up at the sky. The sun was finally coming out.
As Gus trotted outside, Earl leaned against the doorjamb and had a chaw. Life was a mystery, for angel and human alike. Dogs just took it as it came. Right now, the best part of livin’ far as Gus was concerned was reestablishing his territory and remembering that he had buried a bone under Grace’s dead rosebush. He did a little digging and voilà. He chuffed and trotted back to Earl with a victorious shake of his big-dog head.
“Praise the Lord,” Earl said, standing aside so Gus could trot back in.
Then the front door opened, and Grace crossed the threshold.
Smiling.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
With deepest thanks to my editor, Kelli Fillingim, and Dennis Ambrose, king of the copy editors. My gratitude to my agent, Howard Morhaim, and his assistant, Katie Menick. Thanks to Steve Perry for gun information. All errors of fact are mine alone.
Saving Grace: Tough Love is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A Ballantine Books Mass Market Original
© 2010 Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Ballantine Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
BALLANTINE and colophon are registered trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Fox logo and Saving Grace TM & © 2010 Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation
eISBN: 978-0-345-51597-1
www.ballantinebooks.com
v3.0
Table of Contents
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CHAPTER TWENTY
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Nancy Holder, Tough Love
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