Authors: Nancy Holder
“"He wanted that pump more than anything,”" Mr. Catlett said.
“"More than going to California to learn how to surf?”"
He wiped his eyes. “"What are you talking about?”"
No, Grace thought. She’'d never do anything so whacked.
Or would she?
“"What do you think he bought with his debit card?”" she asked him. “"We’'re going to check, but if you have an idea, it might help us.”"
“"I don’'t know.”" He was starting to lose it. “"Oh, God, forgive me. God, forgive me.”"
“"What about that note?”" she asked him, relentless. “"Can you think of anyone who would try to extort money from you? Is Sue married? Maybe she has a jealous ex-boyfriend?”"
Maybe she took him herself? Maybe she was some felon looking for an easy mark; you gave her information—--your address, showed her pictures of your kid, and her confederate grabbed him while you two were rolling around in Houston?
“"No. But you said there were pieces of rope on the windowsill. So doesn’'t that mean that someone maybe drugged him, tied him up …... ?”"
She had the weirdest feeling that he wanted the ransom note to be real. She translated: If someone had kidnapped Forrest for money, that meant that Forrest hadn’'t run away because his dad was cheating on his mom. It was sick, and it was base, but it was there. Stephen Catlett had money. He could afford a ransom better than a scandal.
Only now, she was going to dump his phone. Well, shit, maybe Roberta had some nasty secrets, too.
The ransom note had arrived in a sealed envelope. There was no stamp, so it wasn’'t postmarked, but whoever had put it in the Catletts’' mailbox had written the note on a pad of paper from a motel in Edmond. Ordinarily, that would have been just a possible clue, joining its friends on the whiteboard in the conference room; but the fact that the author had scratched out the name and the address of the motel bumped it up to red-flag status. Unless they were dealing with a twisted member of Mensa, it was likely that their kidnapper had decided to hide his or her location by simply crossing it out. As if the Crime Lab didn’'t have ways of dealing with that. Of course they would check for DNA on the glue strip.
Butch was driving the note up to Edmond so the authorities there could scrutinize it. Local law was already inspecting the motel on the notepad. The criminalist had found one print on the envelope, and he was running it through.
In their spare time—--ha—--the squad started checking out the bazillions of leads that had come in. It had always seemed so bizarre to Grace that people would just pick up the phone, call the cops, and make shit up—--shit that sometimes they actually believed—--but there it was. Now it was their shit to deal with.
No one’'s first batch of leads panned out, and the captain made them promise to take some downtime, eat some food, get some rest. You couldn’'t do a good job if you were running on empty.
So Grace went to the hospital.
Now she sat in Jedidiah Briscombe’'s hospital room with her photograph of Malcolm and Jamal in her lap. The old man looked grayer and more sunken than the last time she’'d checked on him. The doctors wouldn’'t say much except that time would tell and Mr. Briscombe was in God’'s hands. Yeah, so had God’'s fingers wrapped themselves around the old man’'s heart and squeezed?
She turned out the light and sat in the dark, fingers crossed that Jamal might come to pay a visit. Chief had probably queered that with the taking of Hellhole 1, 2, 3.
Asshole.
Had that been Jamal, sneaking down the fire escape? Would he have shot her?
Setting the photograph beside the old man’'s bed, Grace crossed her hands on her lap and tried to stop thinking, stop feeling. Just to be. It was too tall an order: She wanted a cigarette or a drink, something to slow herself down, catch her breath. She could sense her mind pushing the puzzle pieces around. Trouble was, she was low on pieces.
“"Hey, Earl,”" she said, turning her head. He was sitting next to her, hands folded like hers. “"So is that true? God kills little babies to punish bad parents? Causes floods because He loses His patience?”"
“"What do you want me to say?”" he asked her.
“"I want you to tell me the truth. If you even know.”"
He clicked his teeth. “"I know He’'s got a plan. And that He loves you. All of you. And that He’'s not about punishing y’'all. He’'s about trying to help you grow up.”"
“"Grow up?”" Her laugh was short and derisive.
“"Yeah. So He uses a divine form of tough love. He lets you scrape your knees—--”"
“"Murder kids. He lets us do that? Drive over little kids like roadkill?”"
He pulled in his chin. “"You’'re being awfully harsh.”"
“"No. God is.”"
“"Rough day?”"
“"Tough times.”" She leaned her head back and closed her eyes. “"There, I said it. Now are you happy?”"
“"No.”" She opened one eye and looked at him. “"I’'m never happy when you’'re in pain, Grace. But I am hopeful.”"
“"Hopeful? When I feel hopeless?”"
His smile was gentle. “"If you felt hopeless, you’'d crawl in bed and pull the covers over your head. But you just come out swinging. And brawling. And having lots of sex.”" He looked at her. “"You got your AIDS test, right?”"
She froze.
“"Don’'t worry. It’'s negative. You’'re fine. But you shouldn’'t take chances like that.”"
“"Why not? They’'re mine to take.”" She heard herself, how childish she sounded, speaking of growing up, and exhaled. “"Is God going to yank me out of the picture in a blaze of glory? Is dying of AIDS the wrong way to go?”"
“"Here’'s the thing, Grace. God has a plan for your life. But that don’'t mean you have to follow it. It doesn’'t mean your future is planned or your fate is sealed. It just means He’'d like your help on a few things.”"
That brought her up short. She’'d never heard Earl talk like this.
“"Things like what?”"
He shrugged. “"I don’'t know. That’'s between you and Him.”" He leaned toward her. “"And you have too heard me talk like this before. Or maybe you haven’'t. Maybe you weren’'t ready to hear what I had to say.”"
Mr. Briscombe stirred. He made a high-pitched whimpering sound. Grace flicked on the light. Earl was gone.
“"Mr. Briscombe?”" she said, leaning over him. “"Sir?”"
He thrashed, hard. His face was turning blue.
She rang for the nurse.
Rhetta returned from the shelter and went into the lab for a while. The print on the envelope had yielded results: three possible matches. One suspect was dead. Another was in a nursing home in Calabasas, California. But the third print was a low-life criminal named Bo Halliford whose last known residence was in—--ta-da!—--Edmond.
Rhetta smiled. A data point for the detectives. She loved her job, collecting evidence, running tests, providing solid, factual information. Helping. There was no DNA on the envelope seal—--a sponge had been used, and the ersatz blackmailer had worn gloves. But the print was a thing of beauty.
She went to tell Grace, and ran into Captain Perry. Captain Perry told her that Grace was on the street, looking for Jamal, because his grandfather wasn’'t doing well. Actually, he was going downhill fast and might not make it through the night.
Rhetta called Grace on her new phone and told her that if she wanted to come over later, she was welcome, and she and Ronnie promised not to fight in front of her.
“"Come if …... something happens,”" Rhetta urged her. “"Even if it’'s late.”"
“"You’'ve had enough excitement,”" Grace argued.
“"If you want to come, come,”" Rhetta ordered her.
Then she drove home, making supper and helping with homework, smiling to herself when Ronnie did the dishes. Mae asked if she could go to the mall with a couple of her friends tomorrow, promising just to look. It was a planned day off—--something about staff development—--long anticipated. Rhetta gave her ten dollars to spend and Mae’'s excitement cut her to the quick. She couldn’'t even go to the movies for ten bucks.
We’'re so poor. We’'re actually poor. I hate it.
Listening to the night birds, she went to the barn, sipping a glass of wine, checking on Speckles. Ronnie had done a thorough job of cleaning the stalls, and he’'d replaced the funky latch on the feed shed. He worked so hard.
So do I, she thought, but her heart wasn’'t in her anger anymore. She finished her glass, savoring the warming sensation, and headed back to her house. The wind was whipping up again—--she looked up at the sky, the stars muted by clouds, and went in through the kitchen. The good smells of dinner—--chicken-and-cheese casserole-still permeated the house.
Ronnie was taking a shower. Smiling to herself, she went into the laundry room and unfolded a towel from the load she had folded while her chicken casserole baked in the oven. She put it in the dryer and set it on high, leaning against the dryer door and uncoiling her hair. She got another wineglass off the shelf and filled both it and hers. Savoring the scent of fresh cotton, she plucked the warm towel out of the dryer and sailed into the bathroom just as Ronnie turned off the shower.
He slid open the shower door and blinked at her. She smiled and handed him the towel, showing him the wine.
“"Hi,”" she said.
With a quizzical smile, he took the wine with one hand and started toweling off with the other. There were dark smudges under his eyes, and his cheeks were thin.
“"Thanks,”" he said.
“"You fixed the latch.”" She raised her glass to him.
He took a tiny sip, then set down the glass. She walked over, took the towel, and dried off his back. He was muscular from all the mucking and lifting and baling. And he was her husband.
“"Hey,”" he said. “"This is nice.”"
“"I’'ve got nicer.”"
She pressed her mouth over his. His left arm came around her waist and he pulled her close. He was still damp. Now so was she. She slid her arms around his neck; he was holding out his wineglass so he wouldn’'t spill it.
She took it from him and turned around, leading the way out of the bathroom. She heard him moving around behind her; he was wrapping his towel around his waist—--mindful of the kids—--and following her into their bedroom.
She went in; he shut the door behind himself. She saw the other load of laundry on the bed—--she’'d forgotten about it, and her mood downshifted, just a little. They had so much to do around here—--
—--We might lose our home—--
—--But she resolutely pushed those thoughts away as she set both glasses down on the nightstand, gathered up the laundry, and set it on top of the bureau. A sock fell onto the carpet. She ignored it. Something clinked beneath the pile—--oh, God, was it a coffee cup?—--and she ignored that, too. They hadn’'t been alone like this in so long that she was awkward at it. She licked her lips and turned to him, posing a little. She should have taken a shower, too; she felt frumpy in her work clothes. Did he remember to cover the casserole dish with plastic wrap when he put it in the refrigerator? Because sometimes he forgot.
“"Rhetta,”" he said, coming to her. He took off her glasses, laced his fingers through hers, and walked her toward the bed. Exhaling, he sat down, easing her down beside himself, and picked up their wine. He handed hers to her; they clinked, and drank.
“"Why don’'t you get out of those clothes?”" he asked.
He was sitting on the bed in his wet towel. He would get the bedspread damp and it might start to mildew with all this rain—--
Shut up, shut up, shut up, she told her brain. She took a hefty swallow of wine, draining her glass. Was that her second or third? She was getting a little tipsy.
“"Rhetta, you smell so good,”" Ronnie said, in his husky, sexy voice. He leaned over, pushing her gently onto her elbow, and kissed her. Slowly she stretched out, aware of the chill in the room, worrying about what had clinked under the pile …... but determined to enjoy this. It had been forever since they’'d had sex …...
“"Rhetta, you feel so good,”" he added, climbing slowly on top of her.
Bills and coffee cups and wet towels faded away and it was just Ronnie and Rhetta, the way it had been a long time ago.
And the way it was now.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Later, Rhetta pulled the sheets and blankets around herself, smiling at the possessive weight of Ronnie’'s arm slung over her. She thought she heard a noise—--could be the kids—--but it was coming from outside. Or so she thought, or possibly dreamed. Maybe it was Grace, which would mean that her friend needed her.
She sighed, but she was so bone-tired she couldn’'t force herself to move. And happy. She and Ronnie still had it. They’'d been so distant, and angry, but maybe this meant they were turning a corner, and that all would be well.
I forgot to turn the porch light off, she thought. She usually turned it off but if Grace was out there, she’'d need a light. Okay …... it wasn’'t worth worrying about …...
She dozed again, drifting.
And awoke again, dimly aware that she had to go to the bathroom. All the wine had turned her bones to rubber; she could no more get up than paint the Sistine Chapel. Ronnie had turned over, turned away, and she wanted to roll over, spooning him, but she was just too tired.
There was another noise. A clink.
Hope no one got out of the barn. I shut the door, right?
And she slept on.
* * *
Did we light a candle? Rhetta thought. Because I smell …...
She bolted upright and stared out the window. Filtered by the porch light, fog was rolling across the glass. No, not fog …... smoke.
“"Ronnie!”" she cried. “"Ronnie! There’'s a fire!”"
“"What?”"
She pointed. “"A fire!”"
They both leaped out of bed. Rhetta threw on her robe and turned on the light—--shouldn’'t do that, she thought—--and flew into Mae’'s room. She raced to her daughter’'s white twin bed.
“"Get up, we have to get out!”" she yelled, shaking her. “"Mae! Fire!”"
“"Rhetta, it’'s not the house!”" Ronnie yelled. “"It’'s the barn!”"
“"Mom?”" Mae cried, blinking. She grabbed Rhetta’'s hand. “"What’'s going on?”"
“"Rhetta, call nine-one-one!”" Ronnie shouted.