He read her card. “Cop? You?”
She let it go as they all walked back toward the parish launch site. Part of her wanted to shake Clay; another part of her wanted to go for a ride, too. She’d wave her hand over her head as if she were breaking a bucking bronco, screaming at the top of her lungs. But she had to be the adult here. She settled for reaching out her hand to tousle Clay’s hair, but instead she pulled him into her arms. She held him for a few seconds, then let him move away, because, after all, he was too old for such things.
As they trudged in formation, Clay walking like a condemned criminal, Forrest kind of hopped forward and smiled up at her. “That was awesome,” he confessed. “I’ve never done anything like that in my life.”
She couldn’t help her grin. “Well, Forrest, turns out you’re a daredevil. Who knew?”
“Yeah.” He mock-posed his arms like a macho guy, smile as big and bright as they came. He was immature for his age, acting younger than Clay. Sensing forgiveness, Clay caught up with them, and Forrest said, “We should go to the go-cart place sometime, Clay. We would totally kill it.”
Clay looked at Grace. Confirming that he wasn’t in big trouble after all, he smiled at his friend and nodded.
“That would be totally cool.”
“Totally,” Grace mimicked. “Happy to take you, if you get permission.”
Reality check, and she knew it. Forrest’s smile evaporated and Grace was so sorry about it. Expected it, but mourned it all the same. She wondered if there was some way she could intervene when the shit hit Forrest’s fan.
They got the “error in judgment” sorted out with Father Alan, who smoothed the way with great finesse, agreeing that Clay and Forrest both should shoulder the cost of repairing the ATV. Agreeing that they might have to find another place to launch their rockets. Kowtowing to keep his boys out of serious trouble. In the old days, his collar would have protected him. Not with Mr. Desert Storm, no sir.
That would have been enough to exhaust Grace for the rest of the day if she were a priest, which would never happen in this pope’s army, but then Mrs. Catlett showed up about twenty minutes later.
“Oh, my God, oh, my God,” the mother moaned as she threw her arms around the very skinny, extra-pale boy, knocking off his glasses. She was bone-thin, wearing green linen pants and a black boat-necked sweater, showing a heavily lined neck. Her face was pulled up very tight over her cheekbones.
Clay looked on, stricken, ashamed. He slid his glance at Grace, who pulled a sad face and shrugged sympathetically; it didn’t look like they’d be going go-cart racing anytime soon.
“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Catlett,” Clay said. “It was my fault.”
She glared at Clay. “Don’t speak to me.” She was kneading Forrest’s shoulders, touching his face, his head, moaning and crying, kissing him. Maybe a normal kid would have protested, but Forrest took it stoically. His shoulders slumped. He looked utterly defeated, like a death-row inmate who had used up all his appeals.
“Mrs. Catlett,” Grace began, “the boys were just trying to see how the ATV worked, and—”
“I have half a mind to sue Father Alan,” the woman announced. “Were you chaperoning?”
Grace held up her hands. “No, ma’am. But they weren’t hurt and—”
“I’ll thank you not to undermine my authority in front of my child.” She put her arm around Forrest. God, her face was tight. How many lifts had she had?
“Ma’am, I’m not …”
Mrs. Catlett’s expression would have reduced a weaker woman to a puddle. Grace kept her peace, trying to figure out how best to handle her.
She bristled. “You haven’t got the first idea about his situation or you wouldn’t be standing there judging me. I’m not overprotective; Forrest has a condition and maybe it makes me unpopular to take care of him, but I am his mother and that is my job.”
Holy shit, Grace thought. Was that a classic case of projection or what?
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Catlett,” she said placatingly. “I certainly didn’t mean to imply that what the boys did was okay.”
“Let’s go, Forrest,” Mrs. Catlett said, grabbing his arm. He was fourteen, and she was yanking on him like a toddler.
And he let her. He probably had to put up with a lot of shit to get to do anything. Maybe his mom deserved to have issues. Grace was trying very hard to reserve judgment. After all, fear made some people snap.
Forrest took one look at Clay, and his gaunt face spoke volumes: He was saying good-bye. As Forrest’s mother led him away, Clay took a step toward him, but Forrest shook his head.
“I’m sorry, Father,” Clay said again. “Really, really sorry.” Maybe he thought Father Alan would be able to order up some divine intervention on behalf of his friend.
“I think you’ve learned your lesson,” Father Alan said gently. “Go help pack up.”
“Yes, Father.”
Clay escaped, rejoining his friends as the priest and his aunt looked on. Father Alan crossed his arms and sighed, his gaze on the retreating backs of Mrs. Catlett and her prisoner.
“I’ve got to go deal with her,” he said.
“Good luck,” Grace replied, and she meant it.
“She was just looking for a reason to pull him out anyway.” He shook his head. “I can’t say that to Clay …”
“But I can.” Forrest was going to blame himself anyway. Grace looked at the priest. “Do you think Forrest is sick?”
He paused. “I did some research on celiac disease,” he replied. “The main culprit is gluten. He sat there and ate his special food on pizza nights. He couldn’t have nachos …”
“That’s corn tortillas. Not wheat.”
“Or hamburgers, because of mad cow disease.”
“You’re shitting me.” She wrinkled her nose. “Sorry.”
He looked sad. “His mother holds on so tightly.”
“What about the Eucharist?” she asked. “That’s wheat.”
“He takes it in youth Mass,” he replied. “Mrs. Catlett doesn’t know.”
“And you don’t forbid that.”
He hesitated. “It’s a sin of omission, and I say penance for it.” He leaned toward her. “There has been some inquiry into using rice wafers for congregants with wheat allergies. But so far, the Holy Father has refused to consider it.”
“That’s forward thinking.” She shrugged to take the sting out of her words. He let it go. Maybe he thought it was kind of wacko, too.
“But he takes the wafer, and it doesn’t seem to bother him. He told me that not taking it would bother him more. Of course, it’s such a tiny amount—”
“And it’s not wheat when he takes it,” she added.
“The body of our Savior,” he concurred.
Her cell phone went off. Ham. She flipped it open. “Yeah.”
“Got the warrant.” He sounded smug. “Just the truck.”
“Fantastic.”
“But not their property. We can go onto it, but just to look for the vehicle. We can’t touch anything else.”
“Well, shit, that’s a start.” She glanced over at Father Alan. It was the second time in less than thirty seconds that she had said shit. The New Church didn’t freak out when kids swore. When she’d said shit in Catholic school, she’d sat in detention for an hour with a bar of soap in her mouth. An hour. Which was a pretty shitty thing to do to a kid.
But Father Alan wasn’t listening to her conversation. He was walking toward Forrest and Mrs. Catlett, who were standing next to a Volvo. There were high safety ratings on Swedish cars.
“You want to go check it out now?” she asked Ham.
“Hell, yeah.”
“Good. Call Butch and Bobby. And Rhetta.” She ticked her glance toward the horizon. Uh-oh. Clay’s father had just arrived. “I got a few loose ends to tie up.”
Jumping out of his car, Doug Norman was waving his arms like a windmill. With that sixth sense kids have about their parents, Clay turned from the
group loading rocket club equipment into the parish van. He ticked his glance to Grace, who smiled hopefully back at him. Poor guy. His dad was going apeshit.
Maybe Clay would have to wave good-bye, too.
CHAPTER
NINE
The warrant.
Life was good.
Grace drove with Ham to the Sons of Oklahoma compound, located at the end of a frontage road off the 270, then over dirt for three bumpy miles. The pot of gold was a closed iron hurricane fence chipped with white paint and rust; guarded by men in white T-shirts and/or work shirts, jeans, and leather belts and holsters with real live guns in them. Grace counted them—thirteen. Despite the ball caps, they weren’t good ol’ boys. They were in fighting trim. In addition to the holsters, Grace spotted bulges that did not mean they were glad to see her. It meant they’d shoot her dead if they could get away with it. Concealed weapons, private property. It was the Oklahoma way.
She smelled sweat, dust, horseshit, and greasy oil rags. And now and then, a whiff of Ham’s skin as he stood beside her, which stirred her, even here, even now.
As reward for his efforts, Ham served the warrant on Tommy Miller, the leader of the Sons. Tommy was actually a pretty good-looking guy, with shots of silver in his light brown hair, hazel eyes, and a trim goatee. Square face and a big jaw, broad shoulders. He was medium height, one ninety. He was reading the warrant, every word, while his lieutenant, Hunter Johnson, kept his arms crossed over his chest and glared at Ham and Grace like a school yard bully.
Johnson was more interesting looking than Miller. He had dark, blue-black hair, bushy eyebrows like Grace’s brother Johnny’s, and a soft, full mouth. His eyes were a crystalline blue—maybe contacts?—and his face was thin. More distinctive, he’d be easier to pick out in a lineup if they ever got to that.
And Grace sure hoped they did.
Miller kept reading, making them stand there—out of hearing range—in the unseasonable heat. Grace wished the wind would return. Movement in the air would be a blessing. She had to pee, too.
Kicking up dust, Butch and Bobby pulled up in Butch’s blue Ford, parked at the side of the road—OCPD were courteous cops—and got out. Hunter Johnson ticked his glance over at them. His eyes narrowed.
What, you dumb shit? Grace wanted to ask him. Did you actually think we’d show up alone?
Rhetta pulled up behind Butch’s truck in a company car. She got Johnson’s steely-eyed treatment, too. Eyes so blue they looked like glacier ice. But cold. Killer eyes.
“Hey,” Rhetta murmured, carrying her forensics field kit as she came up to Grace. She was wearing her black jacket with her name embroidered on it. “Is there a problem?”
“Mr. Miller is reading the fine print,” Grace replied through her teeth. “And sounding out the big words.”
It was a good joke but she didn’t really mean it. It would be easy to dismiss the Sons as a joke, a bunch of redneck yokels. Okies from Muskogee. But Grace had a lot of years in law enforcement. You never underestimated your adversary, even if he gave you cause. Especially if he gave you cause. There was a row of photographs, down at the office, of officers killed in the line of duty. No one would ever say so in public, but some of them had gone down because of their own carelessness.
“Captain Perry knows we’re out here, right?” Rhetta asked.
“Oh, yeah,” Grace assured her. “We got squad cars and a helicopter just prayin’ for these jokers to twitch wrong.”
Rhetta glanced overhead, where there currently was no helicopter. It wasn’t even airborne. But if the need arose, it would be.
“Oh, my God,” Rhetta said. “I’m sort of nervous about this. Aren’t you?” She absently fingered her cross.
Tough times. Oh, dear God, don’t let it be about Rhetta.
“I don’t really get nervous,” Grace said, glancing at her. “I just move straight to scared. But I am so damn glad to be here. You take all the samples you can, promise?”
“That I can legally,” Rhetta underscored. “We don’t want to mess this up, Grace. We want everything to go smoothly once these guys are in court.” She took a breath. “If they wind up in court.”
“I’ll drive them there myself.” Grace gazed around at the dirt, the weeds, and the white supremacists. “So here we are, in our chosen professions.”
“Yeah,” Rhetta said. “Remember when Sister Laura Marie asked us what we wanted to be when we grew up? I said I wanted to be a nun or a movie star.”
Grace snorted. “You never did. You wanted to be a nun or a mommy. I got detention because I wanted to be a cocktail waitress.”
Rhetta frowned. “I was sure I said I wanted to be a movie star.”
Grace snorted again. Rhetta looked affronted, which was good. She wasn’t quite as nervous anymore.
“We have to let them on,” Miller declared in a loud voice, folding up the warrant and stuffing it in his front jeans pocket, eyeing Ham as if he expected him to grab it or go for a weapon.
“We’ll walk,” Grace said, checking with Ham, who nodded. “Rhetta, you get in Butch’s truck with the guys and drive slow. Ham and I can always hitch a ride in the bed if we get tired.”
“What if we don’t find their truck?” Rhetta murmured.
“Then we’ll have had a nice, long, leisurely canvass over their entire property,” Grace replied, savoring the thought. “It’s a win–win.”
“I’ll walk across with you, then I’ll get in with Butch,” Rhetta said, moving closer.
Grace squinted at her. “You okay?”
“Just a feeling,” Rhetta replied. But she wasn’t looking at Grace head-on. Holy shit, had someone told Rhetta there were tough times ahead?
Grace nodded at Tommy Miller. “Open sesame,” she tossed off. Miller scowled at her, but she was way past his bad temper. He couldn’t do a thing to her and he knew it.
“Spread the word that we got visitors,” he said to Hunter. “And tell the tits they are not to talk to anybody until they clear it with one of us.”
“The tits, nice,” Grace said under her breath to Rhetta. “They’re running their organization like an outlaw motorcycle club.”
“Good to know,” Ham cut in, with a faint smile. “Maybe you and Rhetta can shake ’em up.”
“If it shakes some information loose, all for it. Otherwise I don’t see any point in bothering.” Grace popped a stick of gum in her mouth and offered one to Rhetta. Rhetta shook her head.
The gate squealed open and Grace stepped onto the promised land. Miller and his buddies grouped around her and Ham, and Miller looked her and Rhetta up and down like pieces of meat, smirking.
Smirk away, asshole. I’ll be smirking when I watch that needle go in.
There were elm trees—elms, like her dream—all over the place, and bushes and undergrowth. The road into the compound wasn’t all that well maintained, maybe to keep undesirables out. It curved to the right, and Grace saw a jumbo-sized American flag drooping from a tall white flagpole. There was a wooden sign next to it that read SONS OF OKLAHOMA PRIVATE PROPERTY STAY OFF WE HAVE THE RIGHT TO SHOOT TRESPASSERS.
“You don’t want to be trying to sell Avon to these people,” Rhetta drawled under her breath.
“Or handing out pamphlets and asking them if they’ve accepted Jesus as their personal savior,” Grace replied.
Behind the flag was a wooden guard shack with another gate. A bald man came out of it, dressed not in a white T-shirt and jeans, but in cammies. And he was holding a rifle.
“Time to put that away, sir,” Grace called.
“Stow it, White,” Miller grunted. “And let them through.”
“That’s fitting, don’t you think, a white supremacist named White?” Grace asked Miller. “Ku Klux Klan had a leader named Don Black. That’s just plain ironic.”
Miller stared at her as if she were speaking in a strange tongue. The men surrounding her and Ham remained silent, the leather of their gun belts making creaking noises that weren’t unplea
sant. Grace could hear Butch’s truck rolling slowly behind them. If someone came upon the scene, they might think they were conducting some strange cowboy funeral.
White lifted the gate and the law sallied on through. They rounded a copse of elms, and Grace saw buildings. And trailers, abutting a chain-link fence—the perimeter of the compound. A cat was climbing straight up, its quarry a bird that was perching on a newel post.
About seven women, tanned and heavily made up, had gathered on a slanted wooden porch attached to the ends of a couple of parallel-parked trailers. They were dressed in that biker slut look some men found so attractive—cutoffs, halter tops, too much cheap jewelry. Four of the ladies had really shitty bleach jobs. All that peroxide had to hurt after a while.
Just like the fists of their ever-loving menfolk. There was one who stood a little apart, without makeup, with soft brown hair falling to her shoulders. She looked … sweet. And underage. She was wearing a tank top and jeans slung low over narrow hips … and a beauty of a shiner.
Beatup Girl lowered her eyes when she met Grace’s gaze. Then she hefted a bottle of rubbing alcohol and tipped it upside down, soaking a wad of paper towels and pressing them against a fresh tattoo on her upper arm. It read HUNTER, and it looked infected.
“Look at them,” Rhetta said quietly. “Look at that girl with the bad tattoo. How old do you figure, sixteen?”
“Hunter’s tits? Scary-cool,” Grace said. “You should bring Mae out here.”
Rhetta grunted.
The girl with the tattoo raised her gaze again. Her lips parted as if she wanted to say something, like maybe Get me the hell out of here, and there was something in her look, on her face, that alerted Grace to the possibility that she might be someone they should get to know. Tit-to-tit.
“Rhetta,” Grace said, without moving her head, “I have to look around with Ham, but maybe you could try to get close to that girl, see if she’ll open up. She’s staring at us like she wants something. Like political asylum. Like she’d swap information for a permanent change of scenery.”
Rhetta nodded. “I’ll see what I can do.”
“Maybe once you get in the truck, Butch can drive real slow. She might figure out a way to meet up with you.” On the other hand, Beatup might be too afraid of the consequences. A black eye was one thing. Missing teeth or broken bones were another.