Cry Me a River (23 page)

Grace kept her face very neutral. “Why didn’t they like Forrest’s mother?”

“Eunice told me … that was Stephen’s mother …”

“Stephen is Forrest’s father,” Grace confirmed. “Eunice is Stephen’s mother.”

“Yes. She said after the baby died, Roberta just, well she couldn’t let go of it. She became so …” She leaned forward farther, eyes darting left and right. She reminded Grace of a dozen church ladies she had known in her life as a Catholic churchgoer. Thriving on tiny dramas in the congregation, of being in the know.

Grace leaned forward, too. And Ham tried to remain as invisible as possible, because he was smart enough to know that for traditional women like Mrs. Moore, gossip was a feminine pastime. If she remembered he was in the room, she might clam up.

“Forrest’s mother was so …,” Grace said. “Pushy?”

“Yes. She just took over the parish ladies’ group. She told Father Joseph that we should stop having potlucks. We could get food poisoning. And she read an article somewhere about how some congregations were no longer drinking from the same cup at communion.” She made a circle around the side of her head, as in nuts.

“And Forrest was how old?” Grace asked.

“He was born here. But Eunice and Del left, oh, heavens, at least ten years ago. Del was Eunice’s husband.” She nodded. “Father Joe died about a year later. Then we got Father James. Father Alan’s just the assistant, you know.”

“And … do they stay in touch? Forrest’s grandparents?” Grace asked. “Come for Christmas, that kind of thing?”

“I’m not even sure they’re still with us.” Mrs. Moore crossed herself. “You know what we used to say when I was a girl? You need to eat a peck of dirt. That gives you all the immunities against germs that you need. A peck of dirt.” She put her hand on the table as if she were swearing on a Bible. Then she leaned forward again.

“You’re way too thin, dear. Are you ill?”

Ham turned away and coughed to cover his laugh. Of course it served to remind Mrs. Moore that he was there, but Grace knew that the interview was drawing to a close anyway. She pushed away from the desk and rose.

“It was so nice of you to come in and talk to us.” She smiled sweetly at Mrs. Moore.

“Thank you, miss.” She smiled at Ham. “I hope it was useful, Detective.” She wrinkled her nose and added under her breath, “And tell your assistant to gain some weight. A woman needs some curves.”

Then she gathered up her tote and headed for the door, just as it opened. Clay stood on the threshold. He was wearing his backpack, and he looked very surprised to see his aunt.

Grace threw Ham a look, which he intercepted.

“Mrs. Moore, let me walk you out,” he offered.

The door shut behind them. Grace crossed her arms and cocked her head at her nephew.

“Father Alan told me that Forrest told you six months ago that he had a plan for running away from home.”

“Oh.” Clay exhaled. “Yeah. I forgot.”

“You
forgot?”
Grace stared at him. “C’mon, man, what’s up with that?”

“Because it was so stupid. He could never really do it. I was just humoring him.”

“So what was the plan?” she asked. “And do you have any water in that backpack, by chance?”

“Yeah.” That broke the ice a little. He unslung it and set it in the interview chair. Unzipping it, he handed a water bottle to her. She uncapped it and drank half of it down. Handed it back. He took a drink, too.

“He was going to get his college savings out of the bank and buy a plane ticket to California.”

Grace looked at him. “Why California? Do his grandparents live in California?”

Clay frowned. “I don’t know. He’s never talked about his grandparents.”

“So, why California?”

“He wants to learn how to surf.”

Grace actually understood that sentiment. She had once thought about running away from home so she could become a rodeo queen. Now that she knew he had a bank account, she could get a telephonic warrant to check it. No judge would refuse that one.

“If you think of anything else, tell me, okay?” she told him. “Even if you think it’s stupid.”

“Okay. I’m sorry, Aunt Grace. I really did forget about it.” He paused. “You still think you’ll find him, though, right?”

Alive, he meant.

She nodded, and he left. A few more people filed through, mostly to tell her that they were praying for Forrest to be found. She revisited the notion of giving them all stacks of flyers to circulate. But she kept that to
herself, and she didn’t say anything to Ham about his praying, even though it irritated her. Exactly why, she couldn’t say.

After they talked to the senior pastor, Father James, Grace and Ham got back in the truck. They returned to the Catlett home to get his bank account number; en route, Bobby called.

“We have three hundred and twelve leads on the Catlett case,” he said. “You want A through H?”

“Sure.” She lit up. “How many leads on Malcolm Briscombe?”

“None.”

“Haleem Clark?”

“Just Indian’s. Same with the dealer.”

Yeah, if they put them on TV, would that make a difference? Two “ethnic” kids and a dealer?

They disconnected. She unrolled the window, blowing smoke out into the soggy morning. “We should get Mexican for lunch. I’m in the mood for some tacos.”

“Sure,” Ham said, still a bit cool.

Grace blew out more smoke.

“And I need to buy another damn phone.”

“We can do that, too.”

Where the hell was Forrest Catlett?

    “Where are we?” Jeannie asked Rhetta as they trundled along. Rhetta was counting the miles. According to the directions she had printed out, they had 4.5 miles until they reached Shelter Valley. Captain Perry knew Sylvia Wyman, the director, and had called in a major favor. Rhetta didn’t know their history. The captain wanted it all aboveboard, making sure Ms. Wyman knew that the police were watching Jeannie Johnson. They were going so far as to plant a detective from another squad—a new gold shield going under the
name of Brenda Kessel, who had red hair, green eyes, and looked like she was twenty-two.

Shelter Valley was the civilian equivalent of a safe house—monitored, protected. Despite the lack of decent cell phone coverage, the women and children who lived at Shelter Valley had to hand over their cell phones, in case someone weakened and tried to call her abuser. Calls had to be placed in front of one of the “shelter sisters” from a preapproved list of numbers. The list was checked and rechecked … and very, very short.

After some debate, Rhetta had given Jeannie the number for the general switchboard at the department, but not her direct line. It was easy enough to get, but she was trying to establish that there were limits. Jeannie also had Captain Perry’s office number.

Rhetta had made it clear that once she dropped Jeannie off, there was no turning back. She wouldn’t come and get Jeannie just because she panicked. If Jeannie wanted to change her mind, she had to do it in 4.5 … make it 4.4 miles.

Rhetta knew Grace had a vague hope that Jeannie might prove to be a ticket back onto the compound, but so far that wasn’t happening. Nothing had kicked out on a background check that would require a search of the Sons of Oklahoma outpost—she’d been arrested for breaking into a locker at a health club but wound up doing community service. Nor had Jeannie given up any information about the Sons. Rhetta had such mixed feelings—she wanted the murderers of Malcolm, Haleem, and Chris brought to justice, but she also wanted Jeannie Johnson to have a life. The two couldn’t be mutually exclusive, could they?

Rhetta kept the radio tuned to some easy-listening music, and the strains of strings and flutes played as she took the many twists and turns of the remote country
road. She’d edged around a mud slide caused by the rain, and some pine branches that had broken off in the storm. Then over a bridge and up a mesa, and there it was: a nondescript white wood ranch-style house with a shake roof and three cars parked in front.

Parking, she briefly noted the spectacular view of the vast open prairie. They both got out, Jeannie clutching the turquoise canvas bag with fuchsia and silver cats that Rhetta had packed for her—more of Rhetta’s clothes and some extra toiletries—a sample toothbrush from her dentist, shampoo, razor, and a few bits of makeup. Jeannie was afraid Hunter would destroy her possessions in a vindictive rage. That was probably a reasonable concern, and Rhetta wondered what kind of treasures she had.

Rhetta remained slightly detached as Ms. Wyman, who described herself as “the den mother,” greeted them at the door. Ms. Wyman had a scar on her chin and a glint in her eye. She put her arms around Jeannie, helped her sign in, and made sure she understood the rules. No one could know the location of the shelter. Unauthorized use of phones would result in being asked to leave. Everyone had a locker and their own combination lock, but residents were expected to respect one another’s belongings. And to pitch in. If Jeannie was able to make a financial contribution, that would be nice, but not expected. Which was good, since she was penniless.

Rhetta looked around. It was a simple place, but clean. There were four bedrooms for the women and children who lived there, plus Ms. Wyman’s room, and a small cottage in the back for the other employees. Five other women were staying there. Two of them had children, and one of those was a baby. One had a broken arm. Another was bruised and battered far worse than Jeannie.

“You’re smart to get out now,” that woman told Jeannie. “You can’t ever go back.”

Don’t scare her
, Rhetta silently pleaded.

“Brenda” wafted by, and she and Rhetta exchanged subtle nods.

“It’s all a process,” Brenda told Jeannie. “Don’t worry. Take it slow. Nothing is permanent.”

Thank you, thank you, thank you
.

Then it was time for Rhetta to leave. It was the last instant that Jeannie would be able to change her mind. Rhetta held her breath and practically ran out the door.

In fact, she was halfway to the car before Jeannie raced after her. Rhetta heard her feet on the gravel—she was wearing a pair of Rhetta’s sneakers—and Rhetta slumped with disappointment.

“Wait, wait,” Jeannie cried.

Rhetta grimaced. But wait she did.

“Thank you,” Jeannie said. Then she threw her arms around Rhetta and cried.

To Rhetta’s surprise, Rhetta did, too.

Lunch at the office: Grace, Ham, Butch, Bobby, Henry, and Captain Perry. Rhetta was still ferrying their wounded bird to Shelter Valley. Everybody brought something good—Grace got her tacos—and Captain Perry dug into a grilled chicken salad. There was enough grease in the conference room to lubricate a semi. After giving out her new phone number, Grace did the honors at the whiteboard as they concocted the sticky-note equivalent of a spreadsheet. Everybody had a color: Forrest was blue. Haleem was brown. Ajax was green. And Malcolm was orange. They ran it down: time of death, cause of death, common factors, ballistics, location.

Forrest the Blue was the odd man out; so far his case wasn’t connected with the others, and they were all hoping he was alive. They had four days to find him, maybe fewer.

“So if someone kidnapped him, who would it be?” Bobby asked.

“Mrs. Moore talked about some estranged grandparents,” Grace said. “We’re looking for them.”

“Patron saint of
teenagers,”
Ham said, snorting. “That’s so weird.”

“We should have asked her who the patron saint of dealers was,” Grace said with a grin, tapping the whiteboard.

And Ham grinned back; just like that, it was pretty much okay between them again. Grace didn’t understand how things like that worked—how broken things mended—but she was glad to feel the tension dissipate. See? Feelings were distracting.

At that moment, Grace’s cell phone went off. She pulled it out and looked down at it. “Catletts,” she announced, and took the call. Listened as best she could to Mr. Catlett’s frantic announcement.

“They’ve gotten a ransom note,” Grace told the gang.

The squad rolled.

    Rhetta wasn’t back; a different criminalist met them there to process the scene, gloves on, and lab coat on. He put the note in a plastic bag. Grace sat with Mrs. Catlett, who was stoned on tranquilizers, while Ham and Butch talked to Mr. Catlett. Bobby, their resident expert on diabetes, was observing the forensics team. Crime scenes were noisy, busy places. And this was a new crime scene. The status quo had changed since Forrest’s disappearance, so they had to reprocess it. Camera flashes, dusting for prints. The creak of leather gun belts, boot heels thudding on deep carpets. A team was combing through Forrest’s room with minute precision. Grace was hoping for a receipt that would show what he’d spent his money on, or anything else that could help them.

She looked at the note.

“This is bullshit,” Ham murmured as he left Mr. Catlett with Butch and walked with Grace into the kitchen. A tech guy was bugging the Catletts’ landline in
case the kidnappers called them. “They didn’t even spell his name right.”

“So maybe the Sons of Oklahoma did take him,” Grace shot back. She looked around at all the business in the kitchen. “If it’s established that they’ve crossed state lines, then the feds will take it away from us.”

Ham shook his head. “We have to find him. We’ve had too many bad kid cases. We’re due.”

“Yeah, no shit.” She looked around. “I think I’ve gotten everything I’m going to get from Roberta Catlett. She said they haven’t heard from Eunice and Del in over a year.”

“That jibes with what Stephen Catlett told me. He said his parents used to call his office now and then, but then there was this big blowup over the pump thing. He hasn’t spoken to them since.”

“Do you think they’d take him?”

Ham thought a moment. “No, I don’t like it. Why kidnap your own grandson for money?”

“Let me go talk to Dad again,” Grace said.

She left him and went to talk to Stephen Catlett. He was sitting forlornly on a couch, white shirt on, tie loosened, alone, while Roberta was nodding off in an overstuffed chair. His face was sheened with perspiration. When she sat down next to him, he jumped as if a bomb had gone off.