Cry Me a River (11 page)

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Clay cried. His face was streaked with dirt and sweat. “We were just trying to figure out how it worked. Then I couldn’t stop it.”

“You people are in so much trouble,” a man said, approaching. He looked at Grace. “I’m the range safety officer and I can’t begin to tell you how many rules you’ve broken. I
told
that priest to watch his group—”

“You’re damn lucky you didn’t fall over,” the second man declared, trotting over to them. He had a grizzled beard and a ball cap that read
DESERT STORM.
He pointed at the boys. “That’s my ATV. I told you you could
sit
on it, that’s all.”

“That was what we were doing, Dr. Anderson,” Clay said. “But I hit something and it took off.”

The man grunted.

“Th-that’s t-true,” Forrest piped up, stammering. His face was so white it was almost gray. But he was smiling very faintly. He turned to Grace. “W-we just wanted to s-sit on it.”

“Okay, Clay,” Grace said; maybe to someone else, she would have sounded angry. But she was shaking with terror; she stuffed her hands in her jacket to hide them. Then, on second thought, she pulled them out and held them in front of herself, to show Clay just how frightened she had been. He grimaced.

She could imagine going joyriding on an ATV: Hell, how many times had she driven Rhetta’s dad’s tractor as young as Clay, completely drunk on cheap wine, wearing a bandanna across her eyes? She remembered riding it backward, balancing on the seat, making out with some boy as the tractor took out part of the wooden fence.

How often had Rhetta’s mom yelled at them, “And if one of you jumped off a bridge, would the other one jump, too?”

Rhetta would always say no. And Grace most
assuredly would think yes even if she didn’t come out and say it. Why should Rhetta have all the fun?

“I’m so sorry, Aunt Grace,” Clay said, his apple cheeks red, his gaze lowered in shame. “We didn’t mean for it to go.”

But they hadn’t exactly minded.

“Is there any damage?” she asked the owner as he inspected it. “Because Clay will be happy to pay for it.”

Clay went pale.

“You clipped that rock.” The man frowned, dropped to one knee, and ran his hands along the side of the vehicle. “A dent and some scraped paint. A bit of body work. I’ll have to get an estimate.”

Grace gave Clay a look. “I’m sorry, sir,” Clay said. “I’ll pay for it.”

“You sure will,” he said. He ticked his attention to Grace. “Or your mama will.”

“She’s not my … okay,” Clay said.

“Let’s go talk to Father Alan,” Grace suggested. She pulled her card out of her wallet. “You can let us know about the cost, sir.”

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.

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.