Also by Nancy Holder

Saving Grace: Cry Me a River The Wicked series: Witch, Curse, Legacy, Spellbound, and Resurrection Pretty Little Devils Possessions Possessions 2: The Evil Within Buffy the Vampire Slayer: Queen of the Slayers (and many others) Angel: The Casefiles (and many others) Smallville: Silence and Hauntings Athena Force: Disclosure

To the cast and crew of Saving Grace, especially Nancy Miller and Holly Hunter. With my deepest admiration and gratitude.

Love is a given, hatred is acquired.

—--DANIEL H ORTON

CHAPTER                 ONE

“"Fight,”" Grace told the boy, as he slipped further and further away from her.

Definite drive-by. Probable DOA. Dead on arrival. Sixteen, maybe, and his life was nearly over.

Not yet, though. He had backup: Grace Hanadarko and Ham Dewey, OCPD Major Crimes; and they were busting their humps to keep him alive. While Grace tried to stanch the grievous life-sucking wound, her partner talked to 911. Ham spoke calmly but loudly into the phone, running down the pertinent information: location, location, location; victim’'s condition. By Ham’'s questions and answers, Grace knew a squad car was en route for backup—--lights and sirens—--and an ambulance was practically there. But help wasn’'t there yet, and it might not come soon enough.

The pitch-black alley stank of rotten food and dogshit, a terrible place to die. Wind pitched grit, gravel, and fetid newspapers against Grace’'s face. The knees of her jeans were soaking up blood and rock chips as her bare hands slipped in and out of the hole in the kid’'s chest. The hole. The big, gaping, fatal hole that was expelling blood like an Oklahoma gusher.

He can make it, she told herself.

The hole that was too big—--

He will make it. He will.

She had violated procedure when she didn’'t take the time to snap on a pair of latex gloves before she went to work. Maybe someone else would lose focus and fret about that, spin a mental mini-drama about getting a positive result on the subsequent AIDS test they would take. But she wasn’'t someone else, and right now she had this kid’'s whole world in her hands.

Despite the buffeting wind, Ham held the long, black flashlight steady while he stayed on the line with Dispatch. Grace’'s world was reduced to a circular yellow glow, a spotlight. The boy’'s complexion was very black, almost purple-black; she couldn’'t tell if he had gone cyanotic, which would not be a good sign. But if this murder came to trial she was saying that there had been enough light for the shooter to see this short, scrawny boy, this unarmed teenager who was gurgling and dying. Plenty of illumination for the bastard to hit exactly what he’'d been aiming for:

A one-way ticket to hell.

“"Live,”" Grace ordered him. Then something happened to his eyes: They fluttered open and she felt a thrill down her back as they focused on her. “"Come on. You can do it. You can—--”"

His eyes widened. She saw him seeing her. He was aware, and with her. Ham’'s flashlight shone like a halo.

“"Yeah,”" she said. “"Good. Stay with me.”"

Then they went dull and glassy, and she knew he wasn’'t seeing anything. Her hands slid in the wound, and she set her jaw. If they got him to a hospital, got a transfusion going; got a team working on him—--

“"Grace,”" Ham said softly. “"Grace. He’'s gone.”"

She was silent a moment, aware that she was panting and that icy sweat was sliding down her face. Her back muscles were spasming. Her knees felt like ground glass was embedded in them.

Pain. Hurt. World of hurt. The boy, gone …...

Then she said, “"Hell with that,”" and pressed her hands over the boy’'s wound again.

And she didn’'t let go until the ambulance came.

CHAPTER          TWO

Around eleven that night, Grace blew into her house along with the fierce, near-gale-force winds, her long, curled blond hair brushing the shoulders of her black suit jacket as she shut the front door and leaned against it, head back, her dressy boot heels flush. Overcome with exhaustion, she wiped her eyes. She was wearing the change of clothes she kept in her locker at the office—--black trousers, white shirt, the matching jacket—--like the damn FBI.

A few drinks at Louie’'s had done nothing to dull the pain of giving the news to the overwhelmed, methaddicted mom of the victim. He had a name now: Haleem Clark, and from the looks of it, he had bled out in that alley while making a drug buy for her. Some kids get sent to the store for a loaf of bread. Haleem died fetching a chunk of crystal for Mommy Dearest.

This was how Grace and Ham figured it went down: The dealer met Haleem and they began to conduct their business. Then Mr. Dealer saw something he didn’'t like and took off down the alley. They guessed that would have been the vehicle carrying the shooter. Maybe it was someone he owed money. Or sold bad drugs to. Or maybe he just saw the glint of a weapon.

Whatever the case, he was smart to run, because someone in the vehicle shot at him. At least once. Rhetta Rodriguez, head of the Crime Lab and Grace’'s best friend since kindergarten, had extracted a bullet from the exploded remains of a pile of dogshit and it sure looked like a Sig P220 to the two of them. Grace and Rhetta were both assuming Haleem’'s gut shot came from the same weapon. Rhetta would get back to Grace after Ballistics made their report.

Despite the Sig’'s reputation as an accurate weapon, the shooter still missed the dealer. So Mr. Killer made another pass in his vehicle, leaving nice, deep tire tracks in the mud that Rhetta’'s lab was already working on. Also, by tracing Haleem’'s shoe prints through the mud and garbage, Grace surmised that Haleem had run toward the vehicle, maybe assuming the occupants would recognize him or else spare an innocent bystander.

Maybe the shooter didn’'t like Haleem. Maybe he didn’'t like black kids buying drugs. Whatever the motive, he—--or she—--took out Haleem on a second attempt, the vehicle hanging a U and driving by him again. They couldn’'t quite figure out why he hadn’'t been shot in the back-why he hadn’'t dashed headlong back into the alley to get out of the range of fire. It was almost as if he had stood waiting to take a bullet while the vehicle drove past him one more time.

That second pass was Grace’'s judicial ace in the hole. Coming back around implied intent and premeditation. That invited stiffer penalties, including the needle. If praying for an execution would get it done, then Grace was all for praying.

Okay, then, maybe just crossing her fingers.

Someone called the shooting in—--though of course no witnesses came forward during the subsequent canvass; Dispatch sent Grace and Ham over, as they were already in the vicinity, working on a liquor store burglary. As first on the scene, they rendered assistance. The victim was strangled by his own blood anyway.

At sixteen.

Grace went to the mom’'s house while Ham attacked their shitpiles of paperwork. Later, Captain Perry bought them a round at Louie’'s. With their first toast—--two longnecks chased with tequila shots—--Grace swore she would find the shooter—--find him and strap him to the same gurney in the same death chamber where Leon Cooley had died—--unless someone else got him first.

As for Haleem’'s mom, she’'d wailed like a banshee when Family Services came for her three other kids, screaming that she’'d just lost one baby and how could they do this to her? High as a kite, and there was no food in the house, and the littlest one was wearing nothing but a filthy diaper and some flea bites.

“"She might as well have pulled the trigger herself,”" Grace muttered against her jittering door. She felt a million years old.

Then toenails clattered, and Bighead Gusman, her white bulldog, greeted her with his nose against her kneecap and a low, happy moan. Without lifting her head or opening her eyes, she gave him a good scratch and a pat. Some of the storm clouds dissipated as he chuffed in response and led her toward the kitchen, where he knew that his five-star dinner sat waiting for him in a family-sized pork-and-beans-sized can. Grace remembered only then that she had a fresh rawhide bone shaped like a barbell out in the car. With a couple of growfs, Gus assured her that he was happy to see her even if she never brought him home another chew toy in his doggy-years life. He was always happy to see her. She smiled very faintly.

Okay, so maybe there was life after death, and dogs were in charge of it.

“"Evenin’', Grace,”" Earl said, as she grabbed a beer out of the fridge. One minute she and Gus were alone; the next, her last-chance angel was standing beside her in the kitchen. Earl did that, just showed up; it used to be the sight of him was enough to set her teeth on edge. Now, as with her Gussie, she was glad Earl was there.

By all appearances, Earl was a fifty-something workin’' man with straggly teeth and tousled brown-and-gray hair. He was wearing a gray jacket with a couple of militaristic-looking badges over a plaid shirt over one of his signature T-shirts—--a photograph of a tornado and the words OKLAHOMA’' S FIFTH SEASON. Ha, got that right. Jeans and black athletic shoes completed his ensemble. But he also had a pair of golden, feathery wings that he kept tucked away, unless he had to fly off to France or Milwaukee, or hold a dying child in his arms. When even one feather brushed her, it made her feel stoned and orgasmic. Blissful. She needed some bliss, just about now. Haleem Sampson Clark had not died in a state of bliss.

“"Hey, Earl.”" The fridge door hung open; she raised her brows and paused, in case he wanted one, too. Earl nodded. She grabbed three beers. Checked the level on the tequila bottle that was sitting next to an opened box of pancake mix. The bottle was nice and full. Grace was counting her blessings.

Earl took one of the longnecks and held it up, toasting. “"To Haleem.”"

They clinked, threw back. One of the things Grace loved about beer was that the seventh one tasted as fantastic as the first one. Every time.

“"Where is he now?”" she asked him, pushing coils of hair away from her eyes. “"There a ghetto in heaven, too? Angels fly by now and then, and wave, then go hang out in the nicer neighborhoods?”"

He smiled sadly at her with world-weary eyes. “"You know heaven don’'t work that way, Grace.”"

“"I don’'t know shit,”" she retorted as she crossed to the side door and forced it open against the stabbing wind. She made kissy noises at Gus. “"Go wee-wee, Gusman.”"

As her housemate moaned and trotted happily past her, she said, “"I take that back. I do know shit. I know that kid is dead.”"

“"Dead in this world,”" he concurred. “"But in the next, he’'s only dead to pain and sorrow.”"

“"Like I said.”" A frustrated sigh escaped her. She didn’'t think every single word coming out of Earl’'s mouth was bullshit anymore, but she also wasn’'t quite sure how much was lifted from the in-house marketing memos God circulated every morning, versus how much was stuff Earl made up on the spot. Or maybe some of it might actually be true.

“"And Haleem knows his mama loves him, in her way,”" he added.

“"Yeah, loved him to death.”" Grace grabbed the tequila bottle. “"Just like God and Jesus, huh. God loved His only begotten Son so much He let Him hang there suffering …...”" She trailed off, as tired of her own cynicism as she was sure Earl was.

“"You should close that pancake mix,”" Earl said. “"It’'s going to spoil.”"

“"Clay’'s coming over tomorrow night. We’'ll finish it off.”" Still, she set down the tequila bottle and crimped the edges of the plastic bag together. Then she opened up Gus’'s can of wet food and thwunked the massive, chunky cylinder into his bowl. Broke it up nice with a spoon and set it on the floor as she opened up the side door again. The wind slammed it wider; she jumped; Earl did not. Equally unruffled, Gus sashayed in, harrumphed his thanks, and dug in.

“"Good thing he ain’'t a Chihuahua,”" Earl drawled, and Grace grunted.

“"Yeah, he’'d be long gone by now.”" She smiled affectionately at her puppy guy. “"Gone with the wind.”"

She leaned against the breakfast bar, awash in weariness. The last of her street-induced adrenaline had long ago burned off, leaving her to crash, hard. Crashing was difficult to take, so cops pulled brutal practical jokes and swore and drank too much and had libidos to match the need to stay alert so they could stay alive. Ham got that—--the prime directive to mix it up—--or rather, he used to, until he started feeling sentimental about her instead of simply lustful. Now he was muddying the waters of their firecracker partnership with buzz-kill feelings.

Did Earl understand that she had to drum it up to keep it up? She had a demanding profession; she had to stoke her fires to keep burning bright. Tonight he just smiled his pleasant, accepting smile and drank in silence with her. Her mind went over and over what she had done, and what she had failed to do. If they’'d gotten there sooner, if she’'d tried harder to stanch the wound. It was such a bitch when her best still wasn’'t good enough.

She should have saved that kid.

Anger began to build. She felt it sizzle her blood and welcomed it. It shouldn’'t have happened. She shouldn’'t have let it.

“"You know about Mother Teresa?”" Earl asked. She cocked her head, because she knew it was a rhetorical question. She also knew he would get to the point when he was good and ready. “"Her entire ministry was devoted to dyin’' people. One of those people said, ‘'I lived like an animal in the streets. But I will die like an angel, loved and well cared for.’'”"

Earl took another pull on his beer. “"That kid knew you were there. He knew you cared about him.”"

“"Except angels don’'t die. But I get the point. Thanks, Earl.”" For trying to get her out of her own tornado. Or at least help her find the eye of the storm.

“"Friday tomorrow. Rocket club after school for Clay, and an Aunt Grace sleepover after that. Life is good,”" Earl said.

“"For some kids,”" she replied, but she warmed at the thought of her nephew. A life with Clay Norman in it was a good life. As she pushed the door shut, she calculated whether she needed to make a store run for more popcorn and sour candy.

“"Are you and Clay going to watch some rocket movie?”" Earl asked. “"Astronaut Farmer, maybe?”"

She snorted, turning around to face him. “"Astronaut Farmer? Are you kidding? Zombies, man.”" Walking back into the kitchen, she hoisted the tequila bottle. “"I hope rocket club’'s not canceled due to the wind. Can you talk to your boss about that? I’'m going to take a shower.”"

Make that another shower; at the police station she’'d washed Haleem’'s blood away, and plastered some bandages over her pitted knees, before she put on her business clothes for her visit with Haleem’'s mother. She went through a hell of a lot of jeans on the job; she wasn’'t about to bleed on the good stuff, too.

Ham had offered to go with her to the mom’'s but Grace wanted it to be personal, woman-to-woman. Then Ham had asked to come on by. She’'d told him she needed some alone time. He wasn’'t doing great, being single. It was clear to her now that he’'d gotten divorced from Darlene so he could go for a do-over. Grace had honestly thought the Deweys had broken up because their marriage wasn’'t working—--that Ham would never have strayed into an adulterous affair with her, Grace, if he actually believed in the concept of holy wedded matrimony. Last laugh was on her. Poor Ham. She had no plans to get married, ever.

“"We could get a pizza and watch the game after you’'re cleaned up,”" Earl ventured.

She was touched. She figured he had shown up because she was upset. And that he was sticking around for the same reason. He was a real angel that way.

“"Which game would that be?”" she asked, blinking her eyes in mock innocence.

He shrugged, watching Gus lick his food bowl clean, then slurp up water, content and secure, and drank his beer. “"I don’'t know. But since this is Oklahoma, I figure there’'s one you got recorded.”"

“"Well, you figured right,”" she told him. “"Sooners played BYU tonight. I bought everybody a round at Louie’'s to keep them from telling me the score. But I figure we won big. Sooners have got the real running backs. None of that platoon bullshit the Cougars use.”"

He looked at her with a shit-eating grin. Her heart skipped and she narrowed her eyes.

“"What, do you already know the score?”" He raised his eyebrows, all innocence, and she turned her eyes into slits. “"Don’'t you dare tell me.”"

“"You ready to give your life to God? Otherwise …... well, let’'s see …... the Sooners made the first down—--”"

She cupped her ears and turned her back. “"It’'s gotta be free will, Earl. This is duress.”"

He chuckled. Tentatively, she lowered her hands, making a half turn. He just looked at her. Shrugged.

“"You know that’'s not my style, bribing you. But if you feel a declaration coming on …...”" He pantomimed uncapping his own ears.

“"Let’'s stick with pizza,”" she said. “"You in the mood for the usual?”"

He nodded. “"No mushrooms, extra jalapeñnos. And them bread sticks,”" he added. “"With the Parmesan cheese.”"

She grinned crookedly. Earl went through more food than a linebacker.

“"On it.”" She crossed to the phone to place their order. Once that was done, she took another swig of tequila. “"Want to jump in the shower with me?”"

He shrugged. “"It’'d be tight quarters with the wings and all.”"

“"Uh-huh,”" she drawled, unconvinced. Earl seemed to have a modest streak she had yet to cure him of. For her part, she flashed her next-door neighbor as a matter of course.

Still smirking, she maintained possession of the tequila and two more beers and sailed into the bathroom, stripped to the empty, dark window across the yard, and heard her TV go on. The volume was low, and she could make out the rumbly bass of Earl’'s voice as he chatted with Gus. Apparently they actually communicated, which didn’'t surprise her. She and Gus had a language all their own, too.

All dogs went to heaven. Earl had promised.

Steam rose around her; the water was as hot as she could stand. She poured some scented bath oil over her shoulders and let it run down her arms and breasts. Her face got wet and she wasn’'t exactly crying; maybe she was shedding the anger, like a lizard sheds its skin …... no. Away from the uplifting chitchat in the kitchen, she felt as heavy and as burdened as when the paramedic had stopped the CPR in that stinking, filthy alley. Grace had taken off her jacket and laid it over Haleem’'s face. Had touched his cheek. The EMT had told Grace that he was sorry, as if Haleem were someone special to her.

“"I’'m going to make him pay, Haleem,”" she said aloud, making a gun with her hand and shooting off a round. “"Nothing’'s getting in my way of that.”"

She wrapped her hair in a towel, got on her flannel pajamas and her bathrobe, and made it back down the hall just in time to collect the pizza from the delivery guy. Cute, plus he clearly liked her jammies. She gave him five bucks extra. Earl and Gus gazed up at her expectantly from the couch.

Then her landline rang.

She took a look at the number. Ham. Sighing, she held the pizza box out to Earl, who received it, looking on. She wondered if he already knew why Ham was calling. Either Ham wanted to get a Grace-fix—--he was getting kind of addicted to her—--or he had police business to discuss.

“"Hey, Ham,”" she said.

“"Hey, you okay?”" he began.

Oh, God, the Sooners lost, she thought with a sickening wrench. Then she realized he was referring to Haleem. “"Yeah. I’'m good.”"

“"There’'s been a homicide sixteen blocks south of the alley where Haleem was killed. North Rob. Looks like the dealer.”"

“"Good,”" Grace said, and Earl raised a brow. What, did he want her to pretend? She really was glad that the scumbag was dead. “"Anybody see it happen?”"

“"If they did, guess they aren’'t talking. People around there are scared.”"

“"Yeah, they’'re getting more than their share of it these days,”" she concurred. Street violence in OKC was way up. So were petty crime, vandalism, and the rest of the annoying crap poor people in bad neighborhoods had to put up with. Strip off the layers of graffiti and you could get the entire history as different gangs warred to claim door stoops and cash registers as their territory. The beat cops in the ghetto and the barrio were cranky, overworked, and tense. The city was a pressure cooker, and the temperature was rising.

“"An informant linked the dealer’'s death to the Cholos Ricos. Says he saw it. The dealer was in the Snake Eyes.”"

“"That’'ll mean payback,”" Grace said. “"The Snake Eyes will strike at the CRs.”"

The Snake Eyes were an all-black gang. The Cholos Ricos were Hispanic. They kept track of all the various infractions and insults they committed against one another in a complex system. In a different life, they could all be accountants.

“"Maybe it’'s payback for a previous payback,”" Ham said. “"Escalation.”"

“"Terrorism,”" Grace said. “"More bullets for innocent bystanders to dodge. Could the informant link either gang to Haleem’'s killing?”"

“"No, but maybe Rhetta can,”" Ham replied. “"Night crew is catching it,”" he added. “"We can stay home.”" Meaning that they weren’'t being called in to work it. Grace had mixed feelings about that. She wanted to see the face of the man who dealt slow death to boys and their mothers. But she was also overtired, starving, and wondering why Earl had smiled when she’'d talked about the game. Anyway, with any luck, the dealer would be in the medical examiner’'s freezer tomorrow, and she could visit him then.

Grace’'s stomach growled. “"I gotta go.”"

“"Yeah, okay.”" Ham sounded surprised, a little hurt. “"I get it. Rough night. That kid …...”"

“"Haleem,”" she said. “"That was his name. I’'ll see you in the morning, Ham.”" She made her voice gentle, then firmly disconnected. Hustled on over to the party and took the pizza slice and the paper napkin Earl offered.

“"They got him,”" she said. “"But you already knew that.”"

“"I already did,”" he confirmed.

She appraised him. “"Were you his last-chance angel?”"

He took a bite of pizza. “"Who, Haleem? Or the dealer?”"

“"Take your pick.”"

“"Nope.”"

As she flopped onto the couch, Earl aimed the remote and the game zapped onto the screen—--two teams of burly, padded college players whaling on each other. There’'d be penalty flags and injuries, but by the end of it someone would actually win.

Must be nice.

They ate pizza. Gus got the crusts and a few hunks of sausage. He rested his gigantic head on Grace’'s knee and she lovingly scratched behind his ears. Earl munched and watched the game. They were the Three Bears: Angel Bear, Sinner Bear, and Doggy Bear. The Sooners were ahead. Gus celebrated by burping and Grace did the same.

When the commercials started up, Earl turned to her. “"I gotta tell you something, Grace,”" he said. “"Things are going to get tough for a while.”"

She hesitated, then chomped down rebelliously on her third slice of pizza. “"They already are tough, Earl. Okay? I don’'t need tougher.”"

He gave her a look and shook his shaggy head. “"I don’'t have any say in it, any more than you do. I’'m just letting you know.”"

She swallowed. “"Why?”"

“"Because you’'re going to be in a position to do something about it.”" He picked up a bread stick. “"I love these things.”"

“"That’'s great, Earl,”" she said tiredly. “"That’'s just great.”" She took another bite of pizza and watched BYU make a touchdown. She groaned. Gus emitted a sympathetic sigh.

Actually, the simplicity of sports was not so nice, if the wrong guys were the ones doing the winning.

“"You shouldn’'t stay up too late tonight,”" Earl added. “"Get some rest.”"

She narrowed her eyes. “"Can’'t you just tell me what’'s going to happen?”"

He shook his head. “"I don’'t know, either. All God told me is that heavy winds are gonna blow. Time to batten down the hatches.”"

She took a swig of beer. “"Or turn into kites.”"

CHAPTER          THREE

That night the wind rattled Grace’'s window, threatening to pry off her roof, and shook her to her bones. Gus complained a bit about it but she urged him to lie across her feet, and then she kneaded his thick neck with her toes, and that soothed him. As she drifted, she had a dream about Leon Cooley, brought into her life by Earl and, as it turned out, a friend of her since-deceased sister, Mary Frances. Grace had run over Leon while driving drunk—--or hadn’'t; it turned into a dream or a vision or something. Kneeling beside him, performing CPR, she had asked God for help.

Then and there Earl had appeared before her, informing her that he was her last-chance angel, and warning her that if she didn’'t mend her ways she was going to go to hell. It had turned out that he was Leon’'s last-chance angel, too. Grace didn’'t know if Earl had accomplished his mission with Leon—--Earl said he had—--but she did know Leon was dead, and that her own brother, Johnny, who was a Catholic priest, had arranged for his burial.

But in her drifting dream, Leon was still alive, and he wasn’'t wearing prison clothes. He looked like a regular bald person, not a dead felon. He had on the same long-sleeved shirt and trousers that he’'d worn to Clay’'s baptism, and she thought her heart would spill out of her chest: He had started out so well and ended up so badly.

The gray winds were blowing, threatening to twist into a tornado, and her purple kite was plastered against the slanted, shingled roof of his house. It was a little house, and it looked suspiciously like hers.

Then it transformed into a house made of bricks. Then into one of sticks; and one of straw. The straw flapped in the wind, rippling like a yellow curtain, too insubstantial to withstand the air current. But it was still topped by a brick chimney, and her kite was still stuck to it.

“"It’'s a dream,”" she said.

“"Life. Life is but a dream,”" he told her. Then he opened his arms and flew like an angel to the straw rooftop, grabbing up her double triangle of thin, fragile paper. If someone put a hole through that, the weather would shoot right through it, pour right out of it like gray blood …... so much blood …... red blood.

I lost that kid. He died beneath my hand.

“"Hey, Leon, you can fly now,”" she said.

“"I shed my burdens. But you haven’'t. So be careful not to fall. And don’'t jump into a bottomless pit without a parachute, you got it?”" Leon said as he let go of the kite.

The purple triangle drifted toward her. Grace grabbed it and held it against her chest, then raised her free hand up to Leon, who was still crouched on the straw roof.

“"Let me help you down,”" she said.

“"You got your hands full.”" He gestured with his head at the kite. “"Besides, once you’'ve had up, down’'s just not the same.”" He grinned at her with his boyish gappy teeth. The house became brick again, solid and substantial, more appropriate for someone who weighed as much as Leon.

“"Where you are, is it good?”" she asked.

A fierce gale blew, scudding clouds between the two of them; Leon and the house disappeared, and Leon’'s smile was the last thing to go. As the force died down, Grace found herself on a wide dusty plain surrounded by elms. The Survivor Tree was an elm; it had survived the Oklahoma City bombing, and had become a beloved symbol of the city’'s endurance. The inscription read:

The spirit of this city and this nation will not be defeated; our deeply rooted faith sustains us.

I don’'t have faith, she thought. I’'ve seen too much.

Then a shot rang out, sounding for all the world like a jag of lightning, and Grace rotated in a circle, looking for its source. Strangely, she was not afraid. Somehow she knew the bullet was not meant for her.

I put that girl in a coma, Grace thought, remembering the zing of gunfire before Coma Girl’'s aka Neely’'s shit-head boyfriend put a bullet in her brain. I tried to talk to her and she got shot in the head to keep her from spilling his secrets. How come all this crap keeps happening? Why doesn’'t God stop it?

With a sharp jerk, she woke up to a buzzing alarm clock and a rumble of thunder that vibrated through her rib cage. She felt for her bathrobe and touched Gus with her toes to reassure him. He hated thunder. Groaning deep in his barrel chest, he flopped onto his other side, pressing against her shins as she drew up her legs.

“"It’'s okay, Gussie,”" she said. He chuffed tentatively in response.

Gently she extricated herself as she sat up, amazed that she was coming up negative on the hangover meter. Grace had a lot of hangovers. That was what came with being fond of booze. No heartburn, though, ever, despite the greasy pizza.

Earl wasn’'t around. Tequila shots had accompanied the annihilation of the BYU Cougars. Well, actually, she’'d killed the tequila and Earl had nursed a couple of longnecks. She’'d like to get him really drunk sometime, find out if he ragged on his boss or got real silly.

Grinning sleepily, she dragged her ass into the kitchen and microwaved yesterday’'s leftover coffee in a cup that had previously contained some orange juice; she found the pizza in the fridge and pulled off two hunks. As she ate, she smiled at Gus, who was ready for a potty break and some breakfast.

She hustled him out into the dawn-streaked turbulence, picked up the remote, and turned on the morning news. Butch’'s hottie fiancéee Kendra Burke stood in front of City Hall. Very pretty, even more sincere. Yeah, Grace was pretty sure she’'d had a boob job.

“"…... the mayor and the chief of police are both on record as stating that the gang problem in Oklahoma City is finally turning around. Levels of street violence are decreasing—--”"

“"What the hell?”" Grace cried. What an incredible crock.

Her cell phone rang. Moving fast, she opened the door and kept it open with her bare foot so Gus could come back in quick—--which he would, since he was not a fan of harsh weather—--and grabbed the phone off the breakfast bar. It occurred to her that she hadn’'t yet had her morning cigarette.

She checked the number. It was the office.

“"Hey, Captain Perry,”" Grace said, even though at one time Perry had always been “"Kate”" and they’'d worked Vice together. Grace switched back and forth, addressing her more formally most of the time. “"Are you watching this bullshit on TV?”"

“"When you get in, come to my office,”" Captain Perry said in an even, neutral tone. “"Something’'s happened.”"

She went cold. “"It’'s not Ham—--”"

“"Nobody on the squad. And no one in your family. But yes, there’'s been a death.”"

“"Jesus, Kate—--”"

“"Best you come into my office when you get here.”" Captain Perry hung up.

“"Someone else died, Gus,”" Grace told her dog. Then Grace became a whirlwind, dressing in jeans, a long-sleeved peasant top, and her black leather jacket; feeding Gus and making sure he was settled for the day; holstering her gun and fitting her badge on her leather belt with the decorative rivets.

The wind pushed at her as she raced down the walk to Connie, her beloved Porsche 911. She drove too fast; she was so rattled, she put that first morning cigarette in her mouth but forgot to light it. She realized the error of her ways just as she pulled into the police parking lot behind 701 North Colcord Drive, and lit up for the few precious seconds she had until she hit the smoke-free zone. Trash and leaves cartwheeled across the pointed tips of her boots. She stubbed out her Morley with her heel and scooped up the carcass to dump in the trash. Her hand was shaking.

Hanging from the ceiling above Butch’'s chair were blue ribbons with what had to be real Viagra pills attached to the ends. Seemingly oblivious, Butch sat forward in his cowskin desk chair. The desk itself was littered with all his Texas Longhorn obscenities—--bobblehead, magnets, miniature football—--out in broad daylight for decent human beings to see. Bobby was leaning over Butch’'s shoulder, and they were both staring at Butch’'s computer monitor. They were intent but untroubled. Clearly they had not been called into Captain Perry’'s office for bad news; Grace was going to be the first to know.

As she walked past, Butch glanced at her and popped a marshmallow into his mouth. At his elbow, there were several bags of marshmallows mounded into a limp phallic mountain topped with a big blue pill shape the size of a foot-long sandwich. It was drooping, and there was a sign hanging from it that read, DEAR BUTCHIE, YOUARE TOO SOFT. XO KENDRA.

Grace didn’'t smile, even though it was a pretty good joke on short notice. Then she cast a glance around for Ham, didn’'t see him, and blasted into her captain’'s office.

Kate Perry was coifed and dressed in an oyster-shell-gray jacket and a luminous blue lamb’'s-wool sweater—--every inch an administrator. There were colorful crime scene photos on her desk, graphic ones, of some black kid facedown in a street, horribly broken, legs and arms askew. Blood pooled around him.

Captain Perry was black, too, so Grace’'s mind shot into overdrive, trying to make a connection between Kate and this corpse, wondering if it was a nephew, a godson—--

“"Malcolm Briscombe,”" Captain Perry said, and Grace went completely, uncomprehendingly numb. For maybe ten seconds, she stared blankly at the gruesome photographs. She saw his profile. He was unrecognizable. She lit herself a cigarette. Kept staring. Her mind began turning.

“"Hit and run,”" Captain Perry added.

“"Jesus.”" Grace sank boneless into a chair. “"Oh, my God, Kate.”"

“"You can see why I didn’'t want to tell you on the phone.”" Her voice was an alloy of steel and velvet.

Grace chewed on her lip. “"We got any leads? Somebody checking in with Jamal?”" Jamal was Malcolm’'s sixteen-year-old brother.

The look on the other woman’'s face said it all.

“"Jamal’'s back in the gang,”" Grace muttered. “"Shit.”" She took a draw on the cigarette and slumped in her chair. Then she pulled out her cell phone and called Jamal’'s cell. Service had been terminated. Called his place of employment. He was no longer with them.

“"I asked Jedidiah Briscombe to contact us if Jamal shows up,”" Captain Perry said as Grace flipped her phone shut. That was Malcolm and Jamal’'s grandfather. “"He hasn’'t heard from Jamal.”" She paused. “"Mr. Briscombe is not in a very good place.”"

“"Shit,”" Grace said. “"Damn it. I’'ve got a list of Jamal’'s friends. Not the gang ones, of course.”" If the gang knew he’'d been talking to a cop, she’'d be lucky to find him in a filthy alley. “"I’'ll run them down.”" She heard what she’'d said and paled. Malcolm is dead. Oh, God, he was such a sweet kid.

There was a knock, and Ham came in. He was wearing a blue cowboy shirt and jeans, looked good, well rested, and worried.

“"Butch said you looked funny.”" He gave Grace a once-over. “"You okay?”"

Grace shook her head.

“"Malcolm Briscombe. Thirteen years old,”" Kate said, gesturing to the pictures. “"Younger brother of your sixteen-year-old Confidential Informant, Jamal Briscombe. So far we’'ve got a hit and run.”"

“"Shit,”" Ham said, scrutinizing the grisly array of photographs. Normal people would avert their eyes if they saw what he was seeing. But like Grace, Ham was a cop, not a normal person. He tapped the close-up of Malcolm’'s head injury like a poker player asking for another card. Then he raked his fingers through his hair and dropped his hands to his sides. “"What about Jamal? Is he okay?”"

Kate shook her head. “"We don’'t really know. Jamal’'s grandfather thinks Jamal rejoined the Sixty-Sixes. We can’'t confirm.”"

“"The Sixty-Sixes make the Snake Eyes look like pussies,”" Grace gritted. “"They’'re the most violent black gang in the city.”"

“"Blood In, Blood Out,”" Ham concurred. “"Kill to get in, die to get out.”"

“"But he was just a Hang Around,”" Grace reminded him. “"Last he told me, anyway. He wasn’'t even an associate member. Sixty-Sixes have a long trial period. He needs to be an adult before he can become a Full Patch. So he hasn’'t taken his loyalty oath.”"

“"That means he’'s got a couple of years before he has to murder someone,”" Ham said. “"Make his bones.”"

“"If they do consider Jamal one of their own, they’'ll look on Malcolm as a little brother. They’'ll demand payback for his death,”" Grace said. “"If they know who ran over him …...”"

Ham picked up another photograph, scowling, then his face softened as perhaps he, too, remembered the funny little boy Malcolm had once been. Malcolm had a thing about the zoo—--loved the snow leopards. And sour candy, like Clay.

“"A death for a death,”" Ham said. “"Law of the streets.”"

“"Good. Let ’'em kill each other,”" Grace muttered. “"Swear to God, I’'d just nuke ’'em if I could.”"

There was silence. No one was inclined to argue. Emotionally, anyway. But they were the real law. They were not someone like Timothy McVeigh—--or even God—--intent on hitting reset by committing a major act of terror—--in one case, a bombing; in the other, a big, fat flood. No, they had to follow the rules and bring in the guilty. Even protect them, until they got a fair trial. But the anger she felt was righteous anger, for a little boy who had never done anything wrong. Her heart was hurting for the injustice of his stupid, senseless death.

Maybe senseless, maybe not, her cop brain argued back. For kids who lived like the Briscombes did—--in poverty, in ghettos, with black faces—--the line between right and wrong was often very blurry.

“"I need to be lead on this case,”" she said quietly. “"Us.”" She looked at Ham, who nodded emphatically. He was in, and she was grateful down to her boots. Together they would make this right.

Just not together together.

“"You’'ve got it,”" Captain Perry said.

“"Thanks.”" Grace rose from her chair. Her legs felt more solid now. For a few moments she’'d been lightheaded with anger and sorrow. But she’'d found her source of gravity again: Malcolm was going to get some justice.

“"Malcolm is personal. For the whole squad. I’'ll tell Butch and Bobby to give you an assist.”" Captain Perry gathered up the photographs and slid them into a case folder.

Then she gazed at each detective in turn. “"The faster you move, the better. Before Jamal does something that ruins his own life.”"

“"Sixteen, dead brother, pissed as hell,”" Grace said. “"Not a great combination.”" She patted herself down for her car keys. “"What was all that bullshit on the news this morning?”"

Captain Perry pursed her lips. “"You’'re talking about Kendra Burke’'s report.”"

“"Damn straight. Gang violence is sky-high. There’'s a turf war on. People should be staying off the streets after dark and locking their doors.”" Grace frowned at Ham, who was obviously drawing a blank. “"There was this puff piece Kendra did, about how violent crimes are down in Oklahoma City.”"

“"Say what?”" Ham looked from Grace to Captain Perry and back again. “"Why’'d she do that?”"

“"Guess someone’'s planning their reelection campaign,”" Captain Perry bit off. “"Used her as their mouthpiece. Only you did not hear me say that.”"

“"Shit,”" Ham said, scowling. “"What’'s Butch got to say about that?”"

Grace realized the question was largely rhetorical—--what Ham was really saying was that Butch’'s choice in fiancéees was questionable at best. Grace liked Kendra but she had to agree; nevertheless, she moved back to more important matters.

“"We should go find Jamal before he does something that he can’'t fix,”" Grace said to Ham.

“"His grandfather has no idea where he is.”" The captain spread her hands over the case folder.

Ham grunted sympathetically. “"Poor old man. One grandson dies, the other hits the streets.”"

“"He did everything he could for those two boys,”" Captain Perry reminded him. “"At some point they made a choice.”"

“"Yeah, join my gang or get your head stuffed up your ass,”" Ham muttered. He exhaled slowly. “"We had him out, man.”"

“"Maybe we weren’'t enough,”" Grace said. Her thoughts flew, as they often did, to Clay. Doubtless rocket club had been canceled. He’'d be eager for the overnight, but maybe she should bail, stay on the job—--

No way. As sorry as she was about Malcolm, Clay came first. Then Malcolm, then Haleem. Last night, she’'d promised Haleem she’'d catch his killer. Last night, he was number one on her list. Or was that just something she’'d said to hear herself talk?

CHAPTER          FOUR

Grace wanted to go directly to the crime scene, to see where Malcolm had died, but it was more important to locate Jamal. The lowering Oklahoma sky pushed against Grace’'s back while she and Ham worked the mean streets, two white faces in a blasted-out black-and-brown neighborhood with a prison-style perimeter of hurricane fences plastered with posters for cheap car repairs, bail bonds, hip-hop concerts, and Mexican cheese. Styrofoam fast-food containers and paper plates twirled and spun in the damn wind that would not let up; they had to yell at people to be heard, and everyone pretended to be deaf anyway. When you were poor and hopeless, you admired power. The cops didn’'t have power here. The gangs did.

The scenic stretch of dollar stores, thrift shops, liquor stores, a closed bank, and a grocery store with a broken window belonged to the 13X Boyz. When Jamal had left the Sixty-Sixes, he had moved his grandfather and little brother out of Sixty-Six territory, but he couldn’'t manage to leave gangland behind. He didn’'t have the cash. Yet. Jamal had been working on his dream—--a little house farther away from all the bad guys, like in Norman. Saving all his paychecks.

Or so he told her. Maybe he’'d been lying to her to make her feel better. Maybe he’'d known that Norman was a lot farther away than the road atlas indicated.

“"How long has he been gone?”" Grace asked Jamal’'s grandfather when she and Ham arrived at the Briscombes’' run-down apartment, located over a garage that had, in the past, served as a meth lab. Casa Briscombe was the home of someone who had diligently followed the rules and gotten smacked around because of it. Threadbare carpet, church-donated refrigerator, two-ring cook stove. It smelled like oil changes and alley garbage.

“"He took off soon as we got the call. I had to go down to the morgue by myself, make what you call a positive identi …...”" He trailed off, staring at his hands as if he had never seen them before. “"Make sure it was my boy.”" Tears slid down his face.

Jedidiah Briscombe had always looked older than his sixty-five years; tonight he looked three hundred and change. Seated in a vintage brown-and-orange frayed recliner, he held the framed photograph of Jamal and Malcolm at the party the squad had thrown when Jamal supposedly got out of the gang. There in the photo stood Grace, with a turquoise feather in her hair, and Rhetta, in a dress; Ham, and Henry. Butch and Bobby. And Lieutenant Yukon, grinning from ear to ear with his arm around Jamal’'s shoulders. Lieutenant Yukon had been their boss before his POS addict brother shot him dead, right in the squad room. He had died in Grace’'s arms.

Grace remembered the taste of chocolate cake and icy fruit punch; how Jamal’'s white teeth had outshone all the cop badges in the room. How awkward he had been as the center of attention, but how pleased and proud. Everybody had pooled their money to buy the J-man some good clothes for job interviews; Butch’'s mom whispered into a couple of ears, got him something in a mail room for a foundation whose board she sat on. Next stop, community college, maybe a trade school. A life.

“"I’'m sorry, Mr. Briscombe. I really am,”" Grace said. She squeezed his trembling hand. “"And I know this is a terrible time. But we need to find Jamal.”"

“"Malcolm, Malcolm,”" he wept.

Grace kept holding his hand. Her heartbeat ticked away the seconds but she kept every single emotional impulse in check. This was the edge cops had—--to wall off their feelings so they could concentrate on their work. She was very walled off at the moment.

But as he sobbed, she could feel the cracks starting to form.

Ham shifted. Grace read his body language: He didn’'t want to hurt Mr. Briscombe, either, but if Jamal’'s grandfather knew where his surviving grandson was, he would be doing him no favors by withholding information. In the gang life, Jamal had revealed weakness and/or betrayal by walking out on his “"brothers.”" If he tried to rejoin, they might brutalize him as punishment, or as a test of his loyalty. The Sixty-Sixes “"beat in”" their recruits—--made them endure a beating for sixty-six seconds. If any of them had discovered in the meantime that Jamal had been a CI, they’'d kill him. Slowly. In bits and pieces. Grace and Ham had picked up the pieces of some of those lessons. And deposited them in dozens of evidence bags.

“"I know this is terrible. I know that you’'re hurting,”" Grace said. “"But we need to focus on Jamal right now. If he does something to strike back—--”"

“"It’'s that goddamn gang,”" the old man broke off. “"Vampires. Monsters.”"

She couldn’'t argue. It was such a vicious cycle-gangs, injustice, rage, violence. And kids, in the mix. It was so wrong that kids got sucked in and flattened by the whole horrible machine. But they did.

A tear slid from Mr. Briscombe’'s left eye and zigzagged down his sunken, wrinkled cheek, clinging to the end of his nose. He began to make a strange hitching sound, and for a second Grace thought he was having a heart attack or stroking out. But it was his grief speaking. Sucking the life out of him, and making him even older.

“"He said he had to do this for Malcolm,”" Mr. Briscombe said, in a thin, papery voice. Grace went on alert. He was going to tell them where Jamal was. She and Ham exchanged glances and stayed quiet, giving Mr. Briscombe time to say what was on his mind.

“"I begged him not to. I told him to stay here, with me. I said, ‘'Boy, they’'ll kill you.’' But he told me they all loved Malcolm like a little brother, and that they’'d get the people who had done this.”"

“"We’'ll get those people,”" Grace half whispered. “"That’'s our job.”"

Jamal had been eleven years old when he’'d joined the Sixty-Sixes. When they’'d beat him in, he’'d cracked a rib that never healed properly, because he never got medical attention for it. He started breaking into houses and stealing cars, working his way up to the things he kept from her.

She had asked him point-blank if he’'d ever murdered anyone, and he’'d crossed his arms and looked away when he’'d told her that he hadn’'t. The main reason he’'d gotten out was to keep Malcolm from going in.

This is so damn twisted, Grace thought. We do crazy-ass things to save the people we love. Decades ago, she had nearly bitten off Father Patrick Satan Murphy’'s tongue rather than let him use it on her little sister, Paige. Like he had on her.

“"Things was getting better for my boys,”" Mr. Briscombe ground out. “"Why did this have to happen?”"

It was a question Grace asked a million times a week, as she watched lives fracture and go down the sewer; and it was one for which she had no answers. If Earl were here, he’'d remind Grace that life wasn’'t fair, and it was up to you to play the cards you were dealt as best you could. That was her main beef with her angel—--as far as she was concerned, the Great Dealer in the Sky was using a stacked deck, and the House always won. And Earl was like a pit boss, making sure everybody abided by the House’'s rules.

Okay, I have sucked that metaphor dry, she thought.

She waited a bit longer, but Mr. Briscombe had fallen silent. Then she said, “"Do you know why Malcolm was in that neighborhood last night? It was a school night. Shouldn’'t he have been home? It was after curfew.”"

“"I thought he was in bed. He came in my room and kissed me good night. Must have snuck out.”" He shut his eyes tightly as if he could blot out the horror. “"I wish to God I had woken up. I’'d have stopped him.”"

Grace wondered if Malcolm had joined the Sixty-Sixes, too. There were a hundred reasons for a thirteen-year-old to sneak out at night—--hell, she’'d done it—--and none of them were good. Less so, if you lived in a neighborhood like this one.

God, she felt so sorry for this old man.

“"I want to go to see Malcolm again,”" he said, opening his eyes. “"I got to see him. Maybe it’'s not him.”" He sounded too excited, a little manic. “"Maybe—--”"

“"No, it’'s him,”" Grace said, gently but clearly. “"You shouldn’'t do that.”" That mangled carcass in Henry’'s fridge was Malcolm no longer.

He went silent. She could hear him panting. His hand was shaking so hard she was afraid it would break off at the wrist if she continued to hold it.

“"Then I want to go to my church. I want to see Reverend Stone.”" He started to get up.

“"We can call him for you. He’'ll come over here,”" Ham said. It was the first time he had spoken other than offering his condolences to Mr. Briscombe. Grace’'s partner had great instincts about when it was better to let her do the talking. Sometimes it was a woman thing, sometimes it was because she was short and, therefore, less intimidating. Sometimes, it was just because she was Grace.

“"I need to go,”" Mr. Briscombe said. “"I need to talk to my pastor.”"

“"What if Jamal comes back? He’'ll need you. You need each other,”" Grace insisted.

She didn’'t mention that the apartment was being watched. Butch and Bobby were in an unmarked car up the street, waiting for Jamal to show.

“"I got to go. I’'ll take the bus,”" he insisted.

Grace had seen grief before. She knew it was fragmenting him, scattering his thoughts. She had watched a wife do a load of laundry for a husband who had just died, a brother call a brain-dead sister’'s place of employment to explain that she wouldn’'t be in today. Your life just blew apart, and you worked overtime to put it back together.

“"We’'ll drive you,”" Grace said.

“"No.”" Mr. Briscombe emphatically shook his head. “"I can’'t be seen with y’'all. If Jamal’'s back with the Sixty-Sixes, it’'ll go even harder for him if they see his grand-pop with the police.”"

“"This isn’'t Sixty-Six territory,”" Grace pointed out. “"And maybe if he sees Ham and me, he’'ll know we care about him and want to help.”" Remind him that he risked his life to give us information on his homeys and if they find that out, they’'ll come for Grandpa, too. Maybe seeing us together will scare him shitless back to the light. Or maybe I’'ll scare him myself. Whatever it takes, I’'ll do it. Especially if he can help me find out who did this.

Mr. Briscombe didn’'t know Jamal had become a CI, only that someone on the police force who happened to be named Grace Hanadarko had taken a special interest in his grandkid, and given him a hand up. That had astonished the older man, who’'d taken a beating from a white cop when he’'d sat at a segregated lunch counter, and avoided white people for the rest of his life. Avoiding white people was actually—--sadly—--pretty easy to do, even in these days of so-called integration.

“"You’'re my little white angel,”" he said suddenly to Grace. “"Okay, I’'ll go with you.”"

Grace jerked. Why the hell had he said that? Did he have a last-chance angel, too?

“"Thank you, Mr. Briscombe,”" she said.

He exhaled and began the long, painful struggle to get out of his recliner. The walk-up had no elevator; with her hands wrapped around his, she had a brief, disturbing image of him getting sick up here, too weak to get downstairs for groceries and help. She made a mental note to investigate some services for him. Make sure he had a landline and/or a cell phone charger, that kind of stuff. If Jamal was gone, his grandfather would need someone to do his laundry and wash his dishes. Meals on Wheels. If they’'d even come to this neighborhood.

As they exited the apartment, Grace got a text message from Henry Silver, their medical examiner, informing her that he had begun the autopsy on the John Doe dealer.

The trip down the stairs was long and arduous. Grace was very worried about the difficulty Mr. Briscombe was having. Shock could do that, but so could a medical condition. She gazed past the old man’'s bowed head at Ham, who was bringing up the rear. He blinked, echoing her thoughts. Mr. Briscombe was in bad shape.

Across the street, a shadow darted behind a rusted jungle gym and some dried-out bushes clicking like castanets in the wind. Grace crossed her fingers that it was Jamal. Ham’'s posture shifted, straightening just a fraction of an inch: He’'d noticed, too. Stay alert, stay alive. She remembered how scared she’'d been as a rookie beat cop, bracing herself for a bullet every minute of her shift. How exhausted all that fear had made her. She never told anyone about it. She just drank it away as soon as she could. Screwed it away. Got back up the next day and did it all over again.

That was exactly what it was like to be in a gang, only there was never any downtime. It wasn’'t a shift at a job you could walk away from, close your door, watch your TV shows. It was your life. If you wanted to become a full member—--a Full Patch—--you joined the army of darkness. Getting beaten, shot at, killing people on command. If you were a woman, you had to have sex with everyone in the gang to get membership. More than one gang’'s female initiation included consent to sex with a known HIV-positive male.

Suddenly Mr. Briscombe started crying again.

“"I feel old today,”" he said.

“"Me, too,”" Grace told him, holding his hand very tightly as they finished getting down the stairs. They reached the curb and started to cross the street. She knew Butch and Bobby were watching.

Mr. Briscombe hesitated and looked over his shoulder at his building. “"I feel like if I fall, I ain’'t never going to get back up.”"

“"You won’'t fall,”" Grace promised. “"I’'ll hold you up.”"

“"My angel, you’'re my little white angel.”"

She jerked. Why was he calling her that?

And the shadow stepped from its hiding place.

It was Jamal. One eye was swollen shut; his lip was split and the rest of him was one big set of bruises on top of more bruises. He was wearing a black T-shirt with 66 embossed in gold and a big gold pendant around his neck. His open eye was jittering. He was on something. Weirdly, he looked younger now, on the street, despite his pumped biceps and the stubble on his chin. His do-rag hung low over his forehead, concealing a cut, maybe. It took all her self-control not to rip it off and stomp on it. But he already knew what she thought of his gang.

“"Jam,”" Mr. Briscombe gasped.

Jamal stiffened and moved back into the shadows. “"I can’'t be seen with y’'all,”" he said to Grace in a low voice, having no way of knowing, of course, that his grandfather had recently said the exact same thing.

“"They beat you back in,”" Grace guessed.

“"No,”" he said. “"They didn’'t. This was …... for something else.”"

And then she guessed the truth. “"You never really left.”"

“"Yeah, well,”" he said. He exhaled and adjusted his rag. “"Okay, I never did.”"

“"No,”" Mr. Briscombe said, groaning. “"Oh, no, baby.”" He slumped against Grace and she held on to him, propping him up.

“"So why’'d they beat you up, man?”" Ham asked.

Jamal’'s face was a twist of stricken guilt as he stuffed his hands into his big, droopy pant pockets. His two-foot-long wallet chain jingled. Grace wanted to shove his pretty white teeth down his throat.

“"I told Tyrell the reason I was working at the foundation was so we could figure out how to rob it,”" Jamal confessed. “"So he wouldn’'t give me shit about it.”" Tyrell X was the leader of the Sixty-Sixes. “"I kept feeding them bullshit about the floor plans and the security guards. Making stuff up. Because they thought I was a pussy for having a job.”"

“"So far, that’'s totally stupid,”" Grace said grimly. But she knew it wasn’'t the stupidest part of the story.

“"So after my brother …... after I told them about Malcolm, Tyrell said we should rob it as soon as we could and use the money to buy my first gun. So I could take care of my business.”"

Mr. Briscombe sagged further, and Jamal lowered his head. “"But Detective Ada’'s mama got me that job. So I told Tyrell I got fired.”"

“"And Tyrell was pissed,”" Grace filled in. “"So he beat you up.”"

“"Yes, ma’'am,”" Jamal murmured.

“"You do realize you were working for a nonprofit organization,”" Grace said. “"By definition, they don’'t profit. Not a lot of cash lying around.”"

“"Oh, they had money, all those rich women hanging around that place to make themselves feel good,”" he said bitterly. “"They had more diamonds than a jewelry store. There was this one lady, she had a driver for her Mercedes.”"

He slid a glance at his grandfather. “"A black driver, Daddy D, called her ‘'ma’'am’' all the time. He told me when she isn’'t home he pisses in her swimming pool. I never saw one black woman there.”"

“"You said you was out. You said it was over,”" Mr. Briscombe shouted. “"You lied to me!”"

Jamal jerked as if his grandfather had hit him. “"I didn’'t want to hurt you. But I had to stay in, Daddy D,”" Jamal pleaded. He sounded desperate. And scared. If he could still feel anything, there was still hope. Life in a gang made you so hard, you became an unfeeling shell. “"You know that if you leave they come after you. And your family.”"

“"You should have told me,”" Grace said. “"You know I would help you. I thought maybe they let you go, since you were only a Hang Around.”"

He shrugged, not meeting her gaze. “"Tyrell says anyone who leaves is helping the enemy. But I’'ve only been doing little shit. ’'Cuz of me being a minor.”"

Only doing little shit. When Jamal had flipped, becoming her Confidential Informant rather than face hard time for drug possession, he had shared Sixty-Six secrets that might have shocked a younger cop. He’'d told her about armed robberies, extortion, pimping, and murder. He’'d sworn he hadn’'t done anything like that, that his duties included acting as a courier and a lookout. And recruiting more young potentials from his school, Franklin High.

He had told her about the time that Tyrell had ordered three of his soldiers to gang-rape his girlfriend’'s cousin, LaMaya, for saying that his girlfriend was “"a skinny, skanky bitch ho.”" Grace had never been certain that Jamal was not one of the three rapists, but she had hoped he wasn’'t. Today she was inclined to suspect that her smiling poster boy for rehabilitation had brutalized that girl. He lied so well.

“"I’'m sorry, Daddy D,”" he whispered. “"The Sixty-Sixes, they got my back. We’'re going to find whoever did this to Malcolm and make ’'em pay.”"

Mr. Briscombe’'s face turned purple. He doubled his fists and the veins on his neck stuck out; his eyes got so huge Grace half expected them to pop free from his face. He took one lurching step toward his grandson.

“"Then you’'ll die! You will die!”" Mr. Briscombe threw back his head and wailed like an animal.

Jamal stared at him in alarm. “"Make him sit down. Get him some water,”" he begged Grace.

“"Ham, why don’'t you escort Mr. Briscombe to your truck. I need to talk to Jamal,”" Grace said, training her attention on the gangbanger. She had to keep him here. Keep him connected to her. Talk some sense into him. She knew his shame would drive him away and she couldn’'t let him go.

“"C’'mon, Mr. Briscombe,”" Ham urged.

“"No! He’'s mine!”" Mr. Briscombe shrieked, his voice high and thin. He was shaking. “"I am not giving him up!”"

Jamal looked set to haul ass. Damn it. She had to get a plan B now.

“"You don’'t know who did it?”" Grace asked Jamal.

He shrugged. “"We’'ve got our suspicions.”"

“"But you don’'t know. Let’'s run it another way. You talk to us, tell us everything you know—--”"

“"I don’'t know nothing.”"

“"And we get you and your grandfather out of here.”" She gestured at Ham. “"We’'ve got places we can move you. A safe house.”"

Captain Perry could never authorize anything like that—--there was no budget for it—--but among the squad, they had resources. Ham’'s dad had a fishing shack upriver. Butch’'s family was loaded; they must own apartments somewhere off the interstate.

For a second—--one second—--Jamal teetered. He stood on one side of a chasm and gazed across at her outstretched hand. She remembered when Earl had transported her to the Grand Canyon. Felt again the sensation of teetering on the mountaintop, about to fall. And Earl’'s hand had caught hers, saving her.

“"Talk to me,”" she begged Jamal, her hand open. “"Like you used to.”"

Jamal’'s eyes went cold, hooded. His jaw clamped shut as he gave his head one tiny, fierce shake. In that instant, Grace watched him change from a winsome sixteen-year-old to a hard-case felon; and though she’'d seen the transformation before—--usually much more slowly, based on her years of cultivating CIs—--it stunned her like a taser and broke her heart.

“"I talked to you. And now he’'s dead.”" Before she could frame a reply, he rushed on. “"You’'ll never stop them. You can’'t. You’'ve got too much in your way. But we can.”"

Grace’'s heart stuttered. “"Stop who?”"

“"Everyone.”" Jamal gazed at Grace with a mixture of disdain, pity, and envy. “"Everyone who is doing all this shit to everybody else.”" He raised his chin and stared down his nose with his cold, cold eyes. “"We’'re starting with the May Street Grandes. We got word they might have done it. You know the Robertson Hood? That mixed gang? Gone. Grandes did it.”"

So they were blaming the Grandes, and not the Cholos. She filed that away. “"But you’'re not sure,”" Grace said. “"So why go after them?”"

Jamal didn’'t reply. Probably because he didn’'t know.

“"You’'re living in a war that don’'t have to be,”" Mr. Briscombe protested. “"All this hate, it ain’'t right. It’'s not what your mama would want for you, boy.”"

Jamal set his jaw. “"You stood up, Daddy D, when you were my age. At the lunch counter and shit. But you thought you got it done when black men could have the same shit jobs as white trash pigs.”" His voice dripped with contempt. “"Look how you live. Whipped. And afraid.”"

“"Afraid of you gangbangers.”" Mr. Briscombe spit at Jamal’'s feet.

“"You’'re just as afraid,”" Ham said to Jamal.

“"Screw you. I am not,”" Jamal replied, sneering. “"I got backup. Lots of it.”"

“"You’'re not my boy no more,”" Mr. Briscombe blurted out. “"You’'re dead, too.”"

Jamal blinked. There was silence, except for the wheezing of the old man’'s increasingly labored breathing. After a few seconds, Jamal’'s lips parted and his eyes welled. “"Daddy D—--”"

The old man turned his head. “"You don’'t have the right to call me that no more. Don’'t come back to my house. You want the streets, live on them.”"

Jamal was crestfallen. “"It’'s for Malcolm—--”"

“"It’'s not,”" Mr. Briscombe whispered. “"You don’'t care, you don’'t—--”"

“"Of course I do! I’'ll get out,”" Jamal cried, his voice breaking. “"I will. After we do what we need to for Malcolm.”"

“"How? By killing one of their little brothers?”"

Mr. Briscombe wheeled away. Ham gently took his arm and led him toward his truck; the shuffle of the man’'s feet was like sandpaper against the blacktop.

Grace studied Jamal’'s face as he watched his grandfather. He was torn, and that was good. Maybe that would slow him down, buy her some time. She moved in close.

“"What if I can find the people who did this? The individuals? And I arrest their asses and get ’'em charged?”" she asked.

Jamal snorted. “"Even with murder one, y’'all will just let them out in a year or two. They know that. Our way …... is more permanent.”"

Shit. Shit shit shit. It was like she was back in that filthy alley, losing that other boy.

“"What if it wasn’'t the Grandes? What if all you do is piss them off, and they retaliate? Then you’'ll take another swing at them for no good reason. And sooner or later, you’'ll die. You know that.”"

“"Everybody dies,”" he said. It was what stupid-ass gang members always said.

“"Okay, what if you die twenty years after you’'re confined to a wheelchair,”" she rejoined. “"Or after your face is shot off and when women look at you, they scream. It’'s not always zero to sixty, Jamal. Sometimes it’'s wearing diapers and a big, hairy guy on probation helping you out of bed.”"

They had had this conversation before, when she flipped him. Maybe it would work again. Nothing else was working.

“"I got to be loyal,”" he insisted.

She jabbed her finger at him. “"Hey, I put it on the line for you, more than once. Where’'s your loyalty to me, man? What if one of your brothers takes a shot at me?”"

At that, his hard, battered face softened. “"I-I know,”" he said. His eyes welled. “"But did you see what they did to Malcolm?”" He heaved a sob. Jesus, he was a mess. Only three years older than Clay; she had to remember that.

“"I did,”" Grace said. “"It was horrible.”" She laid a hand on his arm.

Somehow it was the wrong thing to do. Stiffening, he raised his chin. “"We’'re both after the same thing. You do it your way. We’'ll do it ours. Whoever gets them first, maybe after that I’'ll do what you say. You can take us someplace …...”"

Then he lost the attitude and stared back down at the ground, and Grace knew he was still lying. He couldn’'t see himself leaving the Sixty-Sixes, ever, unless it was in a coffin. And what did she think she could do about it? Gallop into their crib, guns blazing, and sling him onto the back of her horse?

Hell, yeah.

Jamal jerked, and Grace heard the vibration of a cell phone in his baggy-ass jeans. His masters, she guessed, tightening the leash. What incredibly bad timing. “"Gotta go.”"

“"No,”" Grace said. “"Don’'t.”"

But Jamal turned and ran down the street. Kicking at a bottle, she wheeled around and headed for the truck. Wind caught at the bottle, making it clink along the cracked sidewalk like a broken wheel.

She called Butch, who answered immediately.

“"Follow him,”" she said.

“"On it,”" Butch replied.

One block north, a battered gray Corolla started its engine and slowly moved from the curb.

Standing beside the opened passenger door of Ham’'s GMC, Mr. Briscombe staggered in the direction Jamal had disappeared, one step, two, three …... and then he collapsed on the sidewalk, grabbing his heart and groaning. Gray face, extreme sweating.

“"He’'s having a heart attack,”" Grace cried, racing to the stricken man. As she fell to her banged-up knees beside him, she felt a terrible sense of déejàa vu.

Just last night, she’'d lost a citizen to death. Today, she sure as hell was putting up a better fight.

“"Detective Ham Dewey,”" Ham said into his phone. “"We need a bus. Here’'s my location.”"

“"You’'re gonna be okay,”" Grace promised Mr. Briscombe. “"You are.”"

CHAPTER          FIVE

Three hours later, Ham and Grace arrived at the scene of Malcolm’'s hit and run. It was a stupid potholed street two blocks northeast of an OK All Day minimart-and-gas-station combo. The water in the potholes fluttered with the wind. Yards of straining yellow caution tape and sawhorses cluttered the road, while uniforms waved motorists and pedestrians off. Evidence markers were anchored with weights to prevent them from blowing away. Grace visually traced a serpentine double line of them along skidding tire tracks.

Bobby and Butch, who had trailed Jamal to a known Sixty-Six crib, had arrived at the H&R location two hours ahead of Grace. They’'d been canvassing the neighborhood, asking locals if they’'d seen anyone slam into Malcolm Briscombe, send him flying halfway down the block, run over him, and take off. Because cops were asking, the answer was always no. No one had seen so much as a cat trot across the blacktop.

If just one person would come forward, say something, anything …... But the locals believed the police were the bad guys. Always. If anybody was going to do anything about that poor child’'s death, it would never be the cops. If looks could kill, Butch, Bobby, Grace, Ham, and the rest of the responding team would be lying in Henry’'s fridge, waiting for their brains to be weighed.

Grace pulled out a cigarette, not lighting it, not wanting to contaminate the crime scene any further than the wind, the dirt, the dust, and the birds overhead, nearly shitting on her head. Cold anger kept her head clear. She let herself freeze a layer of ice over that, and she felt pretty much nothing at all.

On the surface, at least.

Two blocks southwest of the chalk outline of Malcolm’'s final resting place, the minimart proper sat behind one line of two gas pumps. Tar shingles flapped like playing cards with the gusts; dusty windows advertised a special on cartons of cigarettes and liters of soda, and there was a faded poster for last year’'s Tulsa Powwow.

Rhetta came around the corner of the minimart with a young police photographer in tow—--male, six-even, cute, intense, nervous. He must be new; Grace didn’'t recognize him. He must be scared, waiting for someone to take a potshot at the cops.

Rhetta was dressed for her brand of work: black OCPD jacket with her name embroidered on the left breast; latex gloves, work boots, jeans, and that plaid ruffled shirt. Her dark hair was pulled into a bun, and her thickly rimmed dark glasses rested on the crown of her head. Her face was drawn and there were circles under her eyes. She and Ronnie were losing the farm.

She acknowledged Grace and Ham with a somber nod. “"We’'ve got some great tire impressions,”" she announced. “"Pickup truck, definitely. Also, a patch job on the right front tire.”"

“"That’'s six kinds of fabulous,”" Grace said. “"A distinguishing mark.”"

Ham nodded. His phone buzzed and he pulled it out, checking the caller ID. “"It’'s Indian,”" he announced. Indian was their informant on the Haleem drive-by. So maybe there was more good news.

He took the call, listening. “"Yeah, good,”" he said. “"Cool, man. Sure. Alone. Of course.”" He clicked his phone shut. “"Indian’'s hungry. I’'m taking him to that coffee shop over by that strip club.”"

“"They’'ve got good onion rings,”" Grace offered.

“"Why doesn’'t Indian like you?”" Rhetta asked Grace. Then Rhetta got a call, too, and opened her phone.

“"Maybe he’'s a Longhorn fan,”" Grace answered. “"Or he thinks women shouldn’'t be in law enforcement. I don’'t give it much thought.”" She made a face. “"Have you ever seen him, Rhetta? His face is like a piece of leather, swear to God. And his hair—--”"

She fell silent as Rhetta held up a finger, asking for quiet. Her mouth dropped open.

“"Are you sure? Yes, of course I mean that rhetorically.”" She listened hard, face going a bit sour. Then Rhetta flicked the phone shut.

“"Henry got three bullets out of the dealer,”" she told Grace and Ham. “"Ballistics has them.”"

“"Three?”" Grace echoed. “"Guys on the night crew said one.”"

“"The other two shots entered the body at an entirely different angle. Rooftop, most likely. We’'re going back over there.”" She looked perturbed; Rhetta prided herself on the Crime Lab’'s thoroughness. This one was not Rhetta’'s fault. She’'d only had so much time to process the crime scene, and the ME assistant on the scene had said one bullet. There’'d be no need to go all over kingdom come looking for anything else. You did what you could with what you had. The department was as strapped as the rest of the economy. So many cases, so little time.

“"Two shooters,”" Grace surmised, raising her brows. She thought about her dream, with the kite going up to the rooftop. Maybe that had been symbolic, going up on a roof. Ham looked equally intrigued, although, of course, he didn’'t know anything about any of her dreams. “"They really wanted that guy.”"

“"It appears so,”" Rhetta said.

“"Why?”" Ham asked. “"He was just a scummy, low-life dealer. A bottom feeder. What’'s the motive?”"

“"Oh, I don’'t know. Maybe because he fatally poisoned a lot of people?”" Rhetta asked.

Grace shrugged and looked at Ham. “"Maybe Indian knows. He’'s a bottom feeder, too.”" She looked at Rhetta. “"What have you got?”"

“"The dealer had no wallet, but I found fibers consistent with leather—--very cheap—--in his pocket and he was still wearing a wallet chain. Traces of meth were on the chain and the fibers.”"

“"Was it a robbery? A dealer might have a lot of cash on him,”" Grace surmised, “"if he was stupid.”"

“"By definition,”" Rhetta replied, “"dealers are stupid.”"

“"So they could have wanted the cash. Or committed payback on behalf of a loved one.”" She fell silent, processing her thoughts, looking for a conclusion.

Ham turned to Grace. “"I’'ll see what I can shake loose. Later?”"

Later, as in grabbing some burgers and rolling around in her sheets while they mulled over the case. “"Clay,”" she said apologetically. “"Sleepover.”"

Ham looked bummed but he took the news well. He said, “"Sure, man,”" and Grace and Rhetta watched him trot away.

Rhetta smoothed some errant strands off Grace’'s forehead and sighed, pursing her lips. “"I feel terrible about Malcolm.”"

“"Jamal’'s back in the Sixty-Sixes,”" Grace said, “"except he never left.”"

“"Oh, that’'s awful, Grace,”" Rhetta replied, also very sad. “"How’'s Mr. Briscombe doing?”" Ham’'s call had gone out on police channels; bad news traveled fast.

“"Still alive. Sort of.”" Grace had left the hospital to come to the crime scene. Jedidiah Briscombe had looked like death, shrunken in the hospital bed with a cannula in his nose that was giving him oxygen but not much comfort. “"I put the word out, hope Jamal comes in to see him. If he does, I’'m cuffing him to Mr. Briscombe’'s hospital bed.”"

“"Mae told me that some of the girls at school think boys in gangs are scary-cool. That’'s what they say, ‘'scary-cool.’'”" Rhetta looked stricken. “"I don’'t know what Ronnie would do if Mae …... well, actually, he might lose his mind if she brought a boy home for a simple, innocent study date. Even a nice boy.”"

“"I’'m wondering if Malcolm joined up, too,”" Grace said. “"That could explain why he snuck out of the house. Maybe Tyrell gave him a job and Malcolm screwed up. Maybe he did something more unforgivable than getting fired from a place Tyrell hoped to toss.”"

“"That sweet baby?”" Rhetta caught her breath. “"What if Todd joins a gang?”"

“"He’'s not going to join a gang. And Mae is smart. She wouldn’'t date a gangbanger.”"

“"You’'re smart. And some of the guys you wind up with …...”" Rhetta scrunched up her nose.

Grace was mildly affronted. “"Hey, I only pick up nice guys. Mostly.”"

“"How about that one who left you handcuffed to your bed all day?”" Rhetta countered.

“"Zach? He got scared. I forgot to tell him I was a cop.”" Grace shook her head. “"Rhetta, your kids are good kids. They’'ll stay good kids. Thanks for moving on this so fast,”" she added, changing the subject. “"I know you’'re busy.”"

“"I gave you cuts. It was the least I could do, for Malcolm.”"

Bobby trotted up with a notepad and pencil in hand. His hair was pulled back in a long ponytail, and he was wearing a black leather vest over a burgundy shirt. He said, “"We’'re getting the footage off the minimart security tapes. They’'ve got a camera aimed at the front door, and another directly at the street because of the number of drive-bys. They got their windows blown out last Halloween.”"

“"Straight at the street? Whoa, talk about a lap dance,”" Grace said. “"That’'s just a damn gift.”"

There was a phantom smile on Bobby’'s face. Nobody could be very happy at the scene of Malcolm Briscombe’'s death, but they were cops, used to a sort of tough love that left civilians stymied. You saw what a cop saw, you had to put it at a distance. Look at Bobby, all messed up after he went undercover in that child sex ring. Hateful and angry, till Grace made him scream out his rage and horror.

Grace said, “"I’'m going to go take a look at the dealer while Henry’'s got him on the table.”"

Rhetta nodded. “"And I’'m going to pray for his soul.”"

“"Don’'t bother,”" Grace said. “"He doesn’'t have one.”"

Forty minutes later, Grace put on a surgical gown and a mask and entered Henry’'s morgue. Her mission: to collect more information on the case; and also to curse the dead scumbag to hell. Henry had told her on the phone that he placed his victim—--if a dealer could be called a victim—--at under eighteen. She had three cases involving minors now: Haleem, Malcolm, and Shithead. She wanted very badly for there to be good solid links between two or even all three of her cases so she could gift-wrap it and hand it to Captain Perry. Make it a scoop that Kendra Burke would be forced to share with her adoring public. But that might be more than even God could manage.

I’'m gonna hate you on sight, Grace promised the dead dealer as she approached Henry’'s slab. But when she saw Henry weighing his lungs, then moved her line of vision to the profile of the corpse’'s face, she was startled by Shithead’'s youth. He might be older than Malcolm, but he certainly couldn’'t be as old as Jamal. Another kid, murdering people. Decrease in violent crime, her ass. How the hell had he messed it up so bad?

Then her heart hardened. She didn’'t care how he got there. She wasn’'t a social worker. He was a dead POS. Piece of Shit. Dealers dealt out death. They weren’'t selling Girl Scout cookies. He’'d known what he was doing.

Just like Jamal.

“"Hey, Henry,”" Grace said. “"Emily taking to the new member of the family?”"

Emily was Henry’'s “"new”" twenty-one-year-old cat, whom he’'d adopted when her predecessor, Molly, had to be put down. Grace had slept with Henry the night of Molly’'s death: two drunk, sad people, one of them knowing that this was comfort sex and the other shopping for engagement rings. Now Henry had a second new cat, acquired after a court reporter they knew had been murdered. Grace had found homes for the dead woman’'s cats, named after the Seven Dwarfs. Captain Perry’'s was Grumpy. Rhetta wound up with Bashful, even though she was originally going to get Doc. Henry’'s was Sneezy. Grace had passed on getting one. Gus was it for her.

And so was one night of cat pity sex.

“"Yeah, so far they seem to be doing well together,”" Henry told her, flushing a little, obviously remembering their encounter as well.

“"That’'s great. You got anything for me?”" She looked down at the dead dealer.

“"There are three entry areas. The back, which you saw. But also here …...”" He showed her the entry wound between the vic’'s shoulder blades. “"And here. Look. Straight down into his neck and shoulder. Ballistics is on it.”" He gestured to the collapsed veins in Shithead’'s arms. “"Heroin. Heavy user.”"

“"Did you get a better estimate of his age?”" Grace asked.

“"I’'m thinking maybe fifteen if that. I’'m basing that on his skeletal development and dentition. He’'s got a Snake Eyes tattoo.”" Henry used his gloved hands to move down the drape and show Grace the inside of his forearm. Two slitty, serpent-like eyes were colored fluorescent green. “"He was so dirty when he came in that I couldn’'t even see it.”"

Dead, dirty, in the morgue. A bad end all around. Next time she saw Jamal, she was dragging him down here to take a look at what was in store if he didn’'t shape up.

Maybe I’'m his last-chance angel, she thought, but she felt very cynical. She didn’'t want to save him from going to hell. She wanted to drag him out of it. Maybe he was already in too deep.

Maybe he was just too heavy.

Maybe her hands were already too full.

“"Tough times,”" she murmured.

CHAPTER          SIX

After the morgue, Grace went back to the squad room with a brown paper bag in her grasp, to find a pair of white net wings dotted with white flowers taped to the sides of her chair. A halo was clamped to the back. Ham had phoned this one in, so to speak. She put down her bag, pried off the halo, and set it on top of her head. Pressing her hands palm-to-palm in prayer, she glided over to Bobby’'s desk to see what was going on.

Both Captain Perry and Bobby were eating marshmallows as they watched some tape on a monitor. Bobby had on what Grace privately called his grandpa glasses. She had some old-lady glasses, too, which she used for sewing and reading late at night.

Grabbing a marshmallow, she looked at the monitor. The tape was on pause, revealing a section of badly lit street. It was time-stamped twelve twenty-three a.m. By the lividity of Malcolm’'s corpse and the temp of his liver, Henry had put time of death after eleven thirty p.m. and before one a.m.

“"This is the minimart surveillance tape from the camera aimed at the street,”" Bobby explained. “"Watch this.”" He gestured with the remote.

Two white smears appeared—--headlights—--and she kept watching as a white blob turned into a white pickup. Looked like a Chevy. There were a couple of shapes inside the cab that were moving around. Driver and passenger. And there was a decal or decoration on the driver’'s-side door.

“"Stop,”" she said, and Bobby, already anticipating her request, hit pause and typed a couple of keys. The image enlarged on the screen, but not by very much before it became a shimmer of pixels. On TV shows you got all the stylish close-ups, but not in real life, and not in the OK state. Bobby ratcheted it back down, and Grace made out a circle with rays emanating from it—--a sun, or maybe it was a ring of fire, with 110–-110–-110 above it, in text that curved around the circle. Around the bottom, like a motorcycle rocker, SONS OF OKLAHOMA.

“"That’'s that crazy white supremacist group,”" Grace said. “"Bought up all that land off the 270 last summer.”"

“"And registered a lot of weapons,”" Captain Perry added.

“"Which means they’'ve got ten times as many that they haven’'t registered,”" Bobby put in.

Two seconds later the truck whooshed out of frame. “"All that movement inside the cab …...”" Grace pondered.

“"We think they were cheering,”" Bobby said. His voice smoldered with anger.

“"For running over a kid?”" Grace leaned in and scrutinized the monitor. “"A black kid?”"

Bobby reran the tape. “"We’'ve all been wondering when the Sons of Oklahoma would make their first move. This may be it.”" Oklahoma City PD had talked about slipping someone in undercover to monitor the Sons. So had the Feebs—--the FBI—--but so far that had just been talk.

“"Who gets the pool?”" Grace asked. They’'d all laid bets on when the Sons would break a law. Grace had figured they’'d wait for something like the anniversary of Ruby Ridge. Today was just a blustery day in March.

“"That’'d be Butch,”" Bobby replied. “"Just under the wire. He said mid-March.”"

“"I had April Fools’' Day,”" Captain Perry grumped.

“"That’'s all we need. A smug Longhorn.”" Grace made the sign of the cross at Ham as he walked in. He grinned at her halo. He was windblown and drinking a Styrofoam cup of coffee.

“"Hark,”" she said. “"Behold.”"

Joining the group, he glanced down at the monitor.

“"Sons of Oklahoma,”" Grace explained. “"Ran over Malcolm, looks like.”"

“"Yeah, I know.”" He sounded unsurprised “"Indian told me word on the street is the Sons of Oklahoma are starting a ‘'cleanup campaign.’'”" He made air quotes. “"Telling the locals the cops aren’'t doing their job so the Sons are going to do it for them. Get rid of all the drug dealers and the pimps. And the illegal immigrants.”"

“"Especially the ones with brown or black skin,”" Bobby grumbled. “"That’'s how it usually starts, doesn’'t it?”"

“"Vigilantes,”" Captain Perry said, disgust in her tone. “"We’'ve all seen it before. They’'re usually racist thugs disguising their motives by appealing to people’'s fear. Then when they’'ve got community support, they turn against the local authorities.”"

“"The community’'s already turned against us,”" Bobby said. “"Crime-ridden neighborhoods, substandard housing …... it’'s hard for them to see what good we’'re doing.”"

“"People in those circumstances don’'t want to admit that things could be worse,”" Captain Perry countered. “"With no police force to protect them at all …...”" She shivered. “"I wouldn’'t want to be around to see that.”"

Grace blew her bangs out of her angelic eyes. “"Well, tougher times are here, aren’'t they.”" As she took off her halo, she gave Ham a pointed look. When Ham blinked, confused, she reminded herself that she’'d had that conversation with Earl. Sometimes it was difficult to keep the men in her life straight. Let’'s see, she thought. One of ’'em is trying to keep me from going to hell and the other one takes me to heaven on a regular basis. Okay, I got ’'em straight.

“"If we have the Sons of Oklahoma to deal with on top of all this gang warfare,”" Bobby said, “"then people should be warned. They need to stay off the streets, go home at night …...”"

Grace thought of her family. Of Clay. Her stomach tightened. “"Yeah, got that right. Kendra Burke—--”"

“"Ol’' Softie’'s woman?”" Ham snickered.

“"You know that’'s not going to fly,”" Captain Perry said. “"Upstairs is telling a different story. But I’'ll see what I can do.”"

“"Maybe we can cut the Sons off at the knees,”" Ham said. “"Start watching them, tracking them. They do anything, we bring them in. Keep sweeping until the streets are clear.”"

“"Yes,”" Bobby said. “"That would prevent them from building a relationship with the community.”"

“"Then they’'ll start talking police harassment,”" Grace argued. “"If we bring ’'em in but the DA lets them walk, they’'ll be holding press conferences in front of the Murrah Building.”" The Alfred P. Murrah Building was the site of the Oklahoma City bombing, carried out by Timothy McVeigh and Terry Nichols. Grace’'s sister Mary Frances had died there while getting Clay his Social Security card. Everybody on the squad had lost friends and colleagues.

“"Yeah, and Kendra Burke will be interviewing them,”" Ham said. “"In a nice tight close-up, to show off those big white teeth of hers. That she is lying through.”"

Whoa, the love for Kendra was leaving the building. If this kept up, no one would be going to Butch’'s wedding.

“"But if we can tie them to Malcolm’'s hit and run and Haleem’'s drive-by and/ or the dealer’'s shooting, we might be able to shut them down altogether,”" Captain Perry said. “"Like Bobby said, before they build up steam in the community.”"

“"One, two, three, like dominoes,”" Grace said, making a flicking motion with her thumb and forefinger.

“"Exactly. So there’'s your mandate, Detectives. Solve these three cases as quickly and as thoroughly as possible. If we can prove the Sons are involved in any of them, we’'ll kill two birds with one stone.”"

Her dark brown eyes glinted. “"I want the Sons quick, and I want them legally. And this has got to be done by the book. I do not want procedural errors. I want it provable and squeaky clean. Got it?”"

They nodded and broke it up like a team that had been huddling with their quarterback. Grace was glad Kate was their captain. She was smart, a great tactician, and committed to the job. Perfect credentials, as far as Grace was concerned.

Energized, Grace crossed to her desk, opened her brown paper bag, and pulled out Mr. Briscombe’'s framed photograph of Jamal and Malcolm at Jamal’'s getting-out party. With a pang, she touched Malcolm’'s face with her fingertip. Then she set the photograph on her desk, angling it just so. Next she opened the drawer where she kept the dried petals from all the roses the father of a murdered girl kept sending her, hoping to remind her to keep on working that cold, cold case. She had not forgotten. She would not forget.

So much death among the roses.

Ham walked up to her. “"I got stuff on the dealer,”" he said. “"From Indian. His name was Chris Jones but he went by Ajax.”"

“"Because that is so much sexier,”" Grace drawled.

“"Someone accused him of cutting his heroin with kitchen cleanser. Jones beats the accuser to a pulp and injects him with ammonia.”"

“"Well, damn, he’'s no angel.”"

“"He got a bad reputation for dirty drugs. Plus he banged some underage girl, got her pregnant, dumped her, and she committed suicide. So I could see someone hating him enough to shoot him three times.”" Ham gazed down at the picture.

“"And me, hating him enough to be glad he’'s dead,”" Grace said.

She couldn’'t be sorry about it. But she was very sorry that this was the kind of world Jamal couldn’'t seem to leave, no matter how hard she tried. He was going to wind up in hell, way down deep where the fire was hot.

Contemplating the work ahead, she made a face. “"Sheesh, Chris Jones. Why couldn’'t his last name be something like Nemecek-Gulac?”" Which was the least common surname in the United States, and the answer to a bar bet.

“"I’'ll start a file on him,”" Ham said. “"You should have your sleepover.”"

“"You’'re a good man, Dewey,”" she said. She fluttered her wings, which were still attached to her office chair. “"A real angel.”"

“"Payback.”" His smile was lecherous.

“"With interest,”" she promised. She had rarely been clearer that the sleepover was the right thing to do. With the mayhem on the streets, Clay was safest with her, knowing he was loved, knowing he had people watching out for him.

She shut the drawer and got ready to leave, already planning the required store run before she picked up Clay. At the thought of the fun to come, she brightened, and reached in her pocket for a cigarette.

“"Sure, I would love to see Astronaut Farmer,”" Grace said as Clay held out the video. With all the deftness of a card sharp, she shuffled the three zombie movies she had rented—--who knew there were so many to choose from?—--to the bottom of the pile that was threatening to spill over on the coffee table. She made a show of admiring Billy Bob Thornton’'s smile as he stood in front of a barn. What on earth had possessed Clay to change his mind and watch this thing? She had a sneaking suspicion that Earl had had a hand in this.

Clay looked at her apprehensively. “"You’'re not disappointed, are you, Aunt Grace?”"

“"’'Course not, man,”" she said, taking his choice to the DVD player. “"I think the popcorn’'s nearly done. How about you grab it?”" He scooted into the kitchen, and she put the disk in.

Dressed in raggedy sweats and a too-small Frontier City T-shirt that had really had its day, Clay opened the microwave door. “"Oh, good, this is the kind with extra butter.”" Grinning, he plucked up the steaming popcorn bag with his thumb and forefinger.

“"There is no other kind,”" Grace declared as she headed back to the couch. “"Grab the Cokes, too.”" She reached for the bag of sour candy on the coffee table and ripped it open. Dove in and stuffed her mouth full of eye-watering, sour goodness. Sugar, fat, and caffeine. How bad could one movie be? “"We’'ll need the salt.”"

Clay brought over the goodies as Gus raised his head from his doggy bed, then hefted himself up and joined the party. He crawled onto the sofa and fwumped down beside Clay, eyeing him eagerly, and everyone got comfy.

“"I hope Forrest shows up on Sunday,”" Clay said as Grace grabbed a handful of popcorn. Grace felt a warmth in the center of her doting aunt’'s heart. Mooking around, watching movies and doing nothing special, that was when Clay opened up and told her what was on his mind. She treasured these moments as much as any Sooner touchdown. It was like cracking the case that was Clay’'s unfolding life, clue by miraculous clue.

“"That’'s that kid who’'s so pale,”" Grace recalled. “"Forrest Catlett. His mom won’'t let him ride in the parish van.”"

“"Yeah, she always drives him.”" Clay wrinkled his nose. “"It really embarrasses him. He hardly ever gets to come anymore. She told Father Alan that he’'s got some kind of condition.”"

Grace washed down her candy-and-popcorn mashup with three very hefty swallows of Coke. She burped. It was satisfying. Gus passed some gas. She assumed that was satisfying for him, too. As she and Clay made a show of waving away the smell, she took another handful of popcorn.

“"Do you think he’'s got some kind of condition?”" she asked.

Clay thoughtfully munched. “"I don’'t know. I’'ve been praying for him just in case.”"

She smiled at him. So sweet. His cheeks were still little-kid round, but he needed new black pants for school because he’'d grown two inches since Thanksgiving. A mixture of little boy and young man …... where was the baby she’'d rocked to sleep?

“"That’'s nice of you, Clay,”" Grace said sincerely. “"Praying for your friend.”"

“"Yeah. My dad’'s been praying for Forrest’'s parents to lighten up. He thinks they’'re turning him into a hypochondriac.”"

“"That’'s a big word,”" she said.

Clay took a good, healthy handful of gooey buttery goodness. Two kernels fluttered to the floor and Gus slid off the couch like a wet sandbag, Hoovering them up. Who needed to get the vacuum cleaner fixed?

She grabbed the remote. Let there be AstronautFarmer. She settled in and glanced over at Clay, who looked pensive.

“"She says Forrest is allergic to everything,”" he continued as the previews began. “"He has to bring special food. My dad says it’'s probably a bunch of hooey.”"

Grace cocked her head. “"What do you think?”"

“"Well, they’'re so protective of him,”" he mused.

“"Maybe because he’'s got some kind of condition.”"

“"Or maybe they’'re just worried that he might get hurt,”" Clay said. “"He had an older brother who died.”"

Grace was startled. That was new information; Clay had never mentioned any Catlett siblings before, deceased or otherwise.

“"So maybe they’'re afraid he’'ll die, too,”" he explained.

“"That makes sense, in a sad kind of way,”" she said. Maybe she herself was a little neurotic about Clay.

“"But it’'s hard to get hurt at rocket club.”" He frowned at the screen. “"These previews are really lame. Do you think the movie’'s going to be lame?”"

“"If it is, we’'ll watch something else.”" She could hope. She plucked up a piece of popcorn and aimed it at his nose. Bull’'s-eye. “"And we have liftoff,”" she said.

“"It’'s in the air.”" He threw a piece of popcorn back at her.

“"Oh, my God, meteor shower!”" She picked up a handful and showered him with it. Laughing shrilly, he leaped to his feet, reaching for the bag as Grace seized it, hurtled herself up and over the couch, and rolled to a crouch with the popcorn bag against her chest like a football. Clay rounded the end of the sofa and headed for her as she feinted left, right, working out an escape route while Clay wobbled with laugher, which slowed him down. Gus stretched up and flopped his head on the top of the sofa, watching with one eye closed, which was as enthusiastic as he was going to get.

Clay was almost on her when Grace turned her head toward the TV and shouted, “"Oh, my God!”" As she expected, Clay looked, and she lifted the bag over his head and showered him with popcorn.

“"Falling stars!”" she yelled.

“"Aunt Grace! Aunt Grace!”" Clay blustered, laughing. He slid to the floor, covered with popcorn; Grace did a war dance around him, whooping like a victorious brave. Gus got back down off the couch and approached, chomping his way to the two shrieking humans.

“"I’'m covered in butter!”" Clay protested.

“"I’'ve got a shower,”" she reminded him. “"And a washing machine.”" She dove over the couch, grabbed the salt, and dumped some over his head.

“"No, no!”" He laughed, flailing at her, obviously not really wanting to stop her. She added one more shake, then one for good luck over her shoulder.

“"Just be glad we weren’'t eating something you don’'t like,”" she told him. “"Like your grandma’'s split-pea soup.”"

He grimaced. “"Yuck.”"

“"My point exactly.”"

He wiped his face with the edge of his T-shirt, eyes twinkling, some nice high color in those apple cheeks. “"This is the kind of stuff Forrest never gets to do.”"

“"We should invite him over,”" Grace suggested. “"Show him how to walk on the wild side. With limits, of course. We’'ll only cover him in stuff he’'s not allergic to.”"

“"Wow, could we? That’'d be great.”" Clay plucked a piece of popcorn out of her hair. “"He’'d have a blast.”"

She smiled, wondering if Forrest’'s mom and dad could ever be persuaded to say yes. Doug might be able to give her some pointers on how to behave like a normal fuddy-duddy parent.

“"You go take a shower,”" Grace said. “"I’'ll clean up the mess.”"

“"Okay, Aunt Grace.”" Clay scooped up some popcorn to fling at her, but she was too quick and ducked out of trajectory range. His weapons of mass carbos plummeted to earth. Laughing, he turned around and headed for her bathroom.

“"You’'ve got some sweats and a T-shirt in the clean laundry,”" she called after him. A bigger T-shirt, at that. “"Basket’'s on the dryer.”"

“"Thanks,”" he called back.

She smiled fondly after him, then down at Gus, who was still clearing the debris field. She was tempted to let him devour all the popcorn, but she didn’'t want him to have a bellyache. So she nudged him back with one bare foot while she dropped a roll of paper towels on the floor. Then she started gathering up gobs of popcorn with the use of her nimble feet.

“"Evenin’', Grace,”" Earl said, appearing next to the TV. He was examining her stack of videos.

“"Did you put Clay up to Astronaut Farmer?”" she asked him as Gus abandoned the popcorn and trotted over to Earl. Gus loved her angel more than junk food. Amazing.

Earl patted Gus as he examined the back of a George Romero classic. Brain-eating zombies, shotguns. What was not to love?

“"Nope. You sure do like zombies,”" he said.

“"Used to be one.”" She crossed her eyes. “"Catholic schoolgirl. No one more brainless than that.”"

“"Rhetta was a Catholic schoolgirl,”" Earl said. “"And you think she’'s smarter than you.”"

“"Because she is. But I can drink more and swear better.”"

“"Proud accomplishments.”" He set down the videos. “"It’'s nice to see you two having a good time. You and Clay. Life’'s so short. Gotta seize the moment.”"

She went cold. Something in his tone set off her alarm bells. “"Those tougher times you mentioned …... that’'s the Sons of Oklahoma, right?”"

He moved his shoulders. “"Maybe. Or maybe it’'s about a certain daughter of God. The tough times she’'s having.”"

If he was talking about Grace herself, she didn’'t currently give a shit about that. “"It doesn’'t have anything to do with Clay?”"

“"You know I can’'t tell you that,”" he said, gazing steadily at her.

“"Can’'t or won’'t?”" she pushed, but she knew he wouldn’'t say either way. Still, as he stood facing her with her DVDs in his hand, the coldness turned to ice, as if she were standing in a cave in the Himalayas. If anything ever happened to her boy …...

“"Why are you here?”" she asked. She clutched the roll of paper towels like a weapon. “"What’'s going on, Earl?”"

“"I’'m not here for any special reason. I just heard the laughter,”" he replied. “"I knew Clay was over, and I thought I’'d pop by. I like Clay.”"

She took a protective step toward the hall. “"Clay,”" she yelled, but she heard the shower going. He wouldn’'t be able to hear her. She swallowed. “"Nothing’'s going to happen to him. I want you to tell me that.”"

He only looked at her. “"How you’'re feeling? That’'s how God feels when you’'re being reckless, taking chances. You. That’'s how He feels about you.”"

“"What is this?”" she asked, edgy, defensive. “"Is this some kind of test, or lesson?”" She put the towels on the breakfast bar and stomped down the hall. She rapped on the door with the back of her hand, fingers doubled into a fist. “"Clay?”" she called loudly. “"You okay?”"

The water went off.

“"Aunt Grace?”" Clay called. “"Did you say something?”"

“"Yeah, um.”" She closed her eyes. “"Just …... there’'s a clean towel on the rack. The blue one.”"

“"Thanks.”" A beat. “"Are you okay, Aunt Grace?”"

“"Yeah.”" She sagged a little, relief making her go weak in the knees. The water went back on, and she strode back into the living room. “"This is not okay, man,”" she began.

But Earl was gone.

CHAPTER          SEVEN

“"If we’'re so smart, why aren’'t we solvent?”" Rhetta asked Ronnie as they sat across from each other at the kitchen table. Now that he’'d told her all of it—--that their savings were gone, and the farm was probably going to have to go, too—--Rhetta couldn’'t keep the cutting remarks from coming. She knew he felt terrible. He looked awful—--he’'d lost weight and dark rings circled his eyes. She wanted to feel sorry for him. But the farm hadn’'t been his to lose—--it had been in her family for over a hundred years. A hundred years.

“"How many times can I say I’'m sorry?”" he demanded, his voice rising. “"I’'m sorry, I’'m sorry, I’'m sorry.”"

He reached for her hand across the table and she forced herself not to bat it away. Anger welled inside her; she pursed her lips shut. She got up and poured herself another glass of wine from the nearly empty bottle beside the microwave. It was three in the morning and the kids were asleep. She and Ronnie seemed to be doing this weird thing where they waited for Todd and Mae to go to bed, and then they sniped at each other until either one of them had had enough or the sun started to come up. Rhetta hated it. Nevertheless, once the kids were down for the night, she met him in the kitchen, and they quarreled. Maybe wine was the wrong thing to drink at times like this.

Maybe tequila would be better.

Carrying her wine with her, she grabbed her jean jacket on the hook by the door. Slipped into her cowboy boots without any socks. Ronnie didn’'t say anything.

She went outside. The wind had died down, which was nice, she supposed. Heading for the barn, she breathed in the cold, fresh air spiced with mud and cow manure. If they did have to sell, they were going to move into an apartment complex. She didn’'t think she could bear it. After the intensity of a day in the Crime Lab, wallowing in disgusting Dumpsters or collecting blood and fecal matter in trashed motel rooms, she needed the clean solitude of the country. Safe harbor. Retreat. A place where she could pretend the whole world was as nurturing as her farm.

Fresh hay. The strong scent greeted her as she pushed open the door. Tears welled in her eyes as she looked over at Holy Cow, the animal Grace had liberated from Alvin Green, the richest cattleman in Oklahoma. Holy Cow was white with black markings that looked like the face of Jesus Christ on the Shroud of Turin. If they had to sell the farm, she’'d have to find a place for HC. Grace couldn’'t keep him in her suburban neighborhood.

“"I’'m so sorry,”" she said to the cow as tears welled. Then she heard the soft lowing of their new calf. Mama and baby had been separated to reduce the possibility of infection, but they were next door to each other in two pens near the back of the barn. Rhetta drank down her wine as she lifted the latch and went inside. Speckles had finished her most recent feeding of colostrum and was resting.

“"Poor little thing, poor thing,”" Rhetta said as the little calf gazed up at her with sleepy, limpid brown eyes. Mae had named it Speckles. Speckles’'s mama was Buttercup.

The calf blatted, sounding almost like a sheep, and Rhetta began to cry. She laid her head against Speckles’'s neck as the tears flowed freely and sorrow poured out of her. How could they leave here, ever? How could they?

She cried for a long time, half expecting Ronnie to come in to check on her. She was glad he didn’'t, but also disappointed. A chasm was building between them and she was too angry and sad to do anything about it except retreat a little farther every day, so that she wouldn’'t fall in.

Speckles nudged her tentatively, lowing, and she wiped her eyes and gave the animal a gentle pat.

“"We have to have faith,”" Rhetta told them.

Right you are, Earl thought as he watched from the barn door. Holy Cow gazed at him; Earl winked in return. He’'d be sad if they lost the farm, too. Not up to him what happened, but he liked to think he had his wings around this family. The Rodriguezes were part of Grace’'s family, through love if not blood.

He kept vigil until Rhetta fell asleep. Then he pulled a saddle blanket from the tack shed and draped it over her, cautioning Mama Buttercup to hold her peace. In her sleep, Rhetta smiled faintly, and Earl knew she was having a little conversation with her Father.

Who was Earl’'s Father, too.

Saturday was supposed to be her day off, but after Doug picked up Clay, Grace drove over to the OK All Day minimart and walked up and down the street. Forensics was all done; the yellow police caution tape and the little evidence flags were gone. Based on the tape, Ham had tried to get a warrant to inspect the Sons of Oklahoma compound for a white truck at the same time that Grace and Clay had fallen asleep watching Astronaut Farmer.

Ham called Grace in the morning to vent: The judge had turned down Ham’'s request. Grace was indignant, and Captain Perry agreed that they should have gotten the warrant. But a cop was a cop and a judge was a judge, and for now they had to wait it out.

Grace was not okay with that. She didn’'t want to end the weekend empty-handed. All those forensics shows on TV might get things wrong now and then, but they were right about one thing—--the first twenty-four hours of a case were the most crucial. You had a much better chance of closing it if you found something to go on in that critical day.

So she was out fishing. She had her fingers crossed for good, solid leads that took her straight to Malcolm’'s killer, although she’'d settle for more evidence that would snag them a warrant. Grace had a mental list of what they had so far: Rhetta had taken those sweet tire track impressions, but she hadn’'t picked up any on the actual street Malcolm had died on. That didn’'t mean there weren’'t any, just that she hadn’'t lifted them. Rhetta also hadn’'t weighed in yet on the rooftop situation.

As far as the department knew, they had obtained all the pertinent surveillance tapes from the minimart cameras; and while they proved that the white truck was in the vicinity, they didn’'t prove that it had actually run Malcolm over. That was the judge’'s rationalization for turning them down. Grace thought that was bullshit; she’'d gotten warrants on less than that.

They could have had two vehicles out here, she thought. One to run him over, one to watch. Maybe Sons had to make their bones just like other gangs. As far as she was concerned, that was all they were—--a thug club.

Slowly she inched down the same side of the street as the minimart. Back up on the other side. She studied the small houses as she passed them, secured behind chain-link or wrought-iron fences—--the walls flecked with chipped paint, security bars and aluminum foil in the windows, rickety porches and brown crabgrass in the pavement cracks. A few of them sported bright American flags planted in weedy yards and stickers on mailboxes that read WE SUPPORT OUR TROOPS. Grace had never seen a sticker that said WE SUPPORT OUR COPS.

She ambled around the corner, onto the street where Malcolm had died, pulling her soft green jean jacket around herself as a blast of wind flapped at the hem. She was cold; maybe she’'d invite Ham over tonight and get warmed up.

On any other occasion, the thought would have made her smile. But she was drawing closer to the place where they had found Malcolm’'s body. She stopped, staring, digging her hands in her pockets. The sound of Malcolm’'s laughter echoed in her heart.

She looked across the street, wondering if someone was watching her, someone who had lied to Butch and Bobby about having seen it happen. Then she turned around, cocking her head as she took in the yard directly facing her. The privet hedges were nicely trimmed, and there were no weeds. In lieu of the standard cracked cement walkway to the front door, there was a nice, tidy brick path. The porch had been refaced with brick, and there was a trio of stone urns containing well-cared-for geraniums. Whoever lived here had a little more time and money than his or her neighbors. More to lose, in other words. And people like that …...

She scrutinized the eaves of the sloped wooden roof. At the apex, she caught a glint in the early-morning sun. Narrowed her eyes and really stared. Oh, yeah, baby.

It was a security camera.

How’'d we miss that? she thought as she gingerly opened the gate and walked on the snazzy brick path, listening to the scuff-scuff of the soles of her boots, which reminded her of Jedidiah Briscombe’'s shuffle. Visiting hours would find her in his room, hopefully with an update on the investigation and a report on the welfare of Jamal.

Maybe I should get a warrant. But that same stupid judge was still on call, and he’'d probably say no.

She reached the porch and glanced around, spotting another camera such that anyone approaching the front door was captured in profile. She unclipped her badge and held it up for the camera as, seeing no bell, she rapped on the door.

A dog barked inside the house. She glanced at the camera and kept her mind focused on where her gun was—--back holster—--because sometimes people with security cameras in bad neighborhoods weren’'t nice people.

The dog growled. Grace kept her badge held up high. Then she heard someone walking toward the door.

“"Go back, Frank,”" a male voice said. “"Go on, now.”"

The wind stuttered the knob and then the door opened, revealing an incredibly good-looking guy who was at least a foot taller than Grace. He had wet, dark blond, curly hair; enormous, deep-set sea-blue eyes; and more crags on his face than a mountain. He was wearing a blue Henley and a pair of jeans, and socks. He smelled like soap.

“"I’'m Detective Grace Hanadarko,”" she informed him, holding up her badge so he could read the number off it if he cared to. “"There was a hit and run on this street Thursday between the hours of eleven thirty p.m. and one a.m. I was wondering if you saw or heard anything.”"

He lifted brows that were darker than his hair. “"I had no idea,”" he said. “"I just got in about an hour ago. I stopped to pick my dog up from the kennel.”"

“"I noticed you have a security camera.”"

He nodded. “"I do. It was on while I was gone. I was at an architecture conference in Santa Fe.”" He stepped backward, inviting her in. “"Would you like to see if I picked up anything?”"

“"Yes. Thank you, sir.”"

“"Ian,”" he said. “"Fletcher. It’'s upstairs.”"

She walked in, catching her breath at the beauty of the interior of his house. A hardwood floor complemented oak paneling; brass hinges gleamed on carved, closed doors; and golden light gauzed a steep stairway with a tapestry stair runner. He went on up ahead of her, and she had a spectacular view of his ass. This guy worked out.

“"This is not a very nice neighborhood,”" she ventured.

“"I inherited this house,”" he replied. “"Thought I’'d see what I could do with it. I planned to flip it but I’'ve overbuilt for the current neighborhood. And it’'s kind of grown on me.”"

She wasn’'t sure she bought that. One look at this palace and any fool knew it was too upscale for what lay around it. Architects as a rule wouldn’'t accidentally overbuild. But it wasn’'t entirely out of the range of possibility. After all, Bricktown had been a bunch of derelict buildings. Now it was a tourist playland of gentrified bars, restaurants, and souvenir shops.

They reached the landing. Grace realized that the golden glow downstairs emanated from a stained-glass skylight of amber hues and yellows. Whoa, this guy was begging to be burgled.

“"You ever had anyone from the police department come out, advise you on how to make your house theft-secure?”" she asked him.

He cocked a brow. Damn, he had dimples. “"No. Is that something you might be able to help me with?”"

As he gazed at her, the light hit his hair like a halo. It took her a bit aback.

“"Sure,”" she replied. Then I’'ll lock you in for a couple of nights.

“"Thank you. The camera is in my bedroom,”" he added, reaching the end of the hallway. He turned the brass knob and voilàa, bachelor den. A big bed with burgundy sheets, lamps with stained-glass shades on the nightstands, and across one wall …... oh, yeah, baby …... mirrors.

She didn’'t mean to grin, but he was looking at her reflection and he caught it. Saying nothing, he led her to a roll-top desk angled in the corner next to the window. She saw the wide-screen computer monitor, very fancy, with a screen saver of a Grecian temple and big block letters that read FLETCHER ARCHITECTURE; beside it was another monitor, a screen filled with a black-and-white image of the street below them. Real time. She looked from it to his window, confirming the angle.

He leaned around her, typing on the computer keyboard, and an external hard drive beside the computer spit out a shiny CD. He showed it to her and slid it into the desktop computer. “"We’'ll get a clearer image on this one than the one that came with the system,”" he said. “"It happened two nights ago, you say?”"

“"Yes. Between eleven thirty and one a.m.”" She kept her eyes fastened on the monitor. The Grecian temple disappeared. The screen filled with a black-and-white image of a tree branch, whipping back and forth like a crazed windshield wiper, obscuring her view of the street. He typed in a few commands. There was no sound, but there was a date-and-time stamp in the lower right corner, glowing white. Eleven twenty-nine p.m. She watched, glad to have a witness so no defense attorney could claim she’'d tampered with evidence. Or rather, so it was less likely that a jury would believe the defense attorney.

“"Is it possible to speed it up?”" she asked him. Otherwise they might have to sit there for an hour and a half. Not a terrible prospect, but still …...

He typed, and the images sped up. The same damn branch, a few cars. Fifteen minutes passed. She kept watching. The minimart tape had shown the Sons truck at twelve twenty-three.

Between the frenetic whipsaws of the branch, she stared at the street and the apartment building across from this house. A waist-high wooden fence barricaded an entrance to an alley beside the apartment building.

“"It was very windy that night,”" he said. “"Hard to drive.”"

“"Yeah.”" She kept her eyes glued to the screen.

Twelve. Then twelve fifteen. A couple of minutes went past; then, as the branch flapped back and forth, Malcolm’'s head popped up from behind the wooden fence. His movements were furtive. Grace tensed; Malcolm hopped the fence and started running, looking back over his shoulder, leaping off the curb, watching …...

Twelve twenty.

No, no, no, Grace thought. Aloud, she said, “"You might want to look away.”"

To her surprise, Ian Fletcher did as she suggested, moving to the window and looking out, as if he would see what was on the recording. She took note; it was a little weird.

Then she returned her attention to the monitor as, on the screen, a panel van approached. The time was twelve twenty-one.

The image was black and white, so the van could be yellow, white, light blue, whatever. Tech might have a way to narrow it down for her. She could only see it from the side. There were letters in a square; she strained to decipher them, but it was no good. Not a Sons of Oklahoma logo, she didn’'t think.

Malcolm reached the center of the street. She could almost hear the fwap-fwap of his athletic shoes, the gasp as he turned and saw the van for the first time.

Run, she urged him.

Then things started happening fast. She couldn’'t look away, couldn’'t, as Malcolm realized the van was bearing down on him, as he zigzagged crazily and tried to run back to the curb—--

Run, goddamn it, Grace thought, even though she knew it was too late, and he was dead.

He shot back the other way, and the van straightened out. Grace stared hard. She couldn’'t see the license plate. All she could see was Malcolm’'s last moments on this earth.

Then it slammed right into him, sending him flying. Grace didn’'t blink; she forced herself to watch, the way she had watched Leon Cooley’'s face as the fatal cocktail of execution drugs had streamed toward his vein, on their way to kill him, in the death chamber. She hadn’'t wavered, just willed Cooley to look at her, and he had died.

Twelve twenty-two.

Then it backed up, aimed, and ran right over his head. Straight over, nose first. It rocked, then backed up, then went over his head again. Premeditated. Vicious. Evil.

She watched the van scream out of frame. She imagined them calling the truck as it cruised by the minimart to share the good news. She’'d put some cell phones on the warrant. If they found phones in the van and the truck, they could dump ’'em, get all the numbers. Trace them back …... get all the sons of bitches.

Malcolm just lay there. Bleeding. He was probably already dead. Impact like that …...

Lying there, lying there. No one came out to see what was going on. No one ran into the road to help. She checked the time stamp. Twelve twenty-three. Twenty-four. The anonymous call had come in at twelve twenty-nine. Untraceable.

“"It’'s over,”" Grace said to the man. Ian. She was shaking. She was afraid she was going to be sick. Then her cop brain reasserted itself, and she pulled herself together.

“"Did you see what you were after?”" he asked her softly, turning his head in her direction. She nodded.

“"Sir, may I have this? I can’'t promise I’'ll be ever able to return it. It’'ll be entered into evidence and—--”"

“"Of course.”" He turned around and faced her. He looked somber. “"And I’'ll testify, if you need that, too.”" He picked a CD case up off a stack and handed it to her. She put the precious evidence inside.

“"He meant a lot to you,”" he said, and she nodded. “"I’'m sorry for your loss.”"

She pressed onward. “"I’'ll need a statement.”"

“"Over tea?”" he suggested.

“"Sure.”" She slipped the case into her pocket. He led her downstairs and into his beautiful, tidy kitchen. Antique cast-iron stove, oak dinette table with four chairs. There were some roses in a vase in the center of the table. Fresh roses.

“"How long were you gone?”" she asked him, glancing at the flowers.

“"About a week.”" His back was to her as he lit a gas burner and set a copper teakettle on it. She touched one of the roses. Real, not silk.

“"We left flyers up and down the street,”" she said. “"Asking for information.”" He left his house unguarded for a week? In this neighborhood? What about his dog?

“"Hmm. I didn’'t see one,”" he told her, turning. He looked at the roses, and then at her. “"Unlucky in love,”" he said. She cocked her head. “"I bought those for someone. Paid her a visit on my way back.”"

“"Wasn’'t she home?”"

“"Not for me.”"

She grunted. “"What’'d you do?”"

“"It’'s what I didn’'t do. Tick-tick-tick. Her biological clock,”" he explained. “"I’'m not ready. For much of anything.”"

The kettle shrieked and he got tea bags and small round black ceramic cups with red enameled Chinese characters on them. She watched him moving around, thinking that it was nice to meet a hot guy who didn’'t want a relationship. Ham’'s neediness was something she wasn’'t ready for, either.

Then she felt the hard plastic CD case in her pocket and her levity evaporated. She felt as heavy as a ton of bricks. As he set down the cups, she pulled out her detective’'s notebook.

“"So let’'s get started on that statement,”" she said, clicking her pen.

“"You’'ll need contact information. My phone number, e-mail address …...”" He took a sip.

“"Yes,”" she said neutrally. “"I’'d appreciate that.”"

And suddenly she felt like the worst kind of fool because there was no way in hell she could hop in the sack with this man, nor did she want to. She wanted to sit down and cry because the Briscombe family was falling apart before her eyes. So much effort and hope had been poured into their lives, and for what?

Goddamn it, Jamal, she thought. I’'m going to drag you out of the state of Oklahoma by your hair.

“"Detective?”" Ian Fletcher said.

She jerked. He was looking at her expectantly, concern etched on his chiseled face. Her right hand was gripping her pen and her left was wrapped around her cup. She became aware that the skin on her fingers stung; she was burning herself. Freaked out, she let go of the cup and laid her hand on her thigh. Jesus, was she falling apart, too?

It’'s because Earl scared me about Clay, she thought.

“"I’'m sorry. I missed what you said.”" She raised her hand over the notepad. Waited.

“"I haven’'t said anything,”" he replied. “"I guess I’'m a little at a loss for words.”" He took a sip of tea. “"Maybe if I’'d been here …...”"

“"You weren’'t,”" she said. Then more gently, “"You weren’'t.”" And that was probably a good thing. All witnesses would be at risk.

“"Let’'s get started,”" she added.

Her scalded hand throbbed.

CHAPTER          EIGHT

After Grace dropped the CD off at Tech, she walked into Mr. Briscombe’'s hospital room at Sacred Heart. He was asleep, or unconscious, who could tell; all hooked up to machines.

On his nightstand, there was a card: store-bought Get Well. She picked it up. There were a lot of signatures inside. Really, more like graffiti tags than signatures: among them, Six-Pop, JJ Maxxx, Jam Z, and Tyrell X. Grace was guessing that “"Jam Z”" was something Jamal had come up with. Gang members liked nicknames. Made ’'em feel like superheroes or supervillains or something. Made them forget that once upon a time they had been scared, lonely, lost kids.

Jamal must have brought it by. She didn’'t want to be moved that they had done this for Jamal and his grandfather. But she knew they did shit like that—--threaten to kill you if you left, give you a nice cake complete with candles on your birthday.

She sat and read the paper for a bit, then touched the old man’'s forehead; then bent over and kissed it. For a split second she sensed that she wasn’'t alone in the room; she ticked up her gaze, hoping to see Jamal, or maybe Earl. There was a sense in the air, indefinable.

“"Are you an angel?”" she said aloud.

But there was no one there.

*   *   *

An hour later, once the wind blew all the sunlight away, heaven was there, as Ham blasted over with two Thetas and three large fries from Johnnie’'s at around five, and they ripped into them with the gusto that was the Hanadarko/Dewey trademark. And they further proved the existence of paradise when he ripped off her clothes and carried her into the bedroom. She made him wear a condom and they worked it all off—--calories and frustration and everything, boiled off in white passion. Intensity was their crucible. As he entered her, and she bucked beneath him, she felt herself getting put back together, a little bit, anyway. Some people lost themselves in sex. She found herself …... at least when she was having sex with Ham.

She climaxed and he followed; then she had a couple of aftershocks. They both sank into the mattress, exhausted. Ham groaned and flopped a hand on her belly. She groaned back appreciatively. At least her body was slowed down, and she was too limp even to reach for an after-sex cigarette.

But as she dozed, her mind began to speed up again. She wondered what the letters on the vehicle would read. Let it be Sons of Oklahoma, she thought. We need that damn warrant.

“"Yeah, me too,”" Ham murmured.

She frowned. “"What?”"

He raised his head, his eyelids heavy with sleep. “"Didn’'t you just say you were hungry?”"

“"No. You dreamed it, man. But I think we’'ve got some fries left.”" She rolled out of bed like Lazarus rising from the dead.

Staggering down the hall, she gathered up her hair and let it fall over her shoulders. Gus looked up from his bed and panted at her. Whimpered. Gus was not a whimpering sort.

“"What is it, Gussie?”" she asked, snapping out of her stupor. She looked around the room, seeing nothing out of place. But the hair stood up on the nape of her neck. Something was different.

“"Ham,”" she murmured, but unless he had ESP, he wouldn’'t hear her.

Then Gus got up and trotted to the side door. Grace looked out with him. Surrounded by a dervish of swirling leaves, a tawny shorthaired dog with a long, long pink tongue sat on his haunches and stared intently at her.

She swallowed. The dog appeared now and then, and Earl had a tattoo of him on his back. She had the suspicion that this dog was God. Did she need a better reason to be skeptical about some of the things Earl told her?

Gus barked once, very softly. Gus hardly ever barked. The dog kept looking at Grace, panting away, that big pink tongue practically touching the ground.

“"What?”" she asked it. Him. It. “"Do you want me to know something?”"

The dog stood and walked off her patio. Just like that. It didn’'t disappear in a burning bush or a bolt of lightning or—--

Grace went outside to pursue it. Naked. The wind was fierce and her hair whipped around her face, stinging painfully.

“"What?”" she called out, turning in a circle. “"Where are you? What do you want?”"

“"Grace?”" Ham said, jostling her.

She woke up. She was lying in her bed. It was just a dream.

“"I had a dream that you had a dream,”" she said. She thought a moment. “"Then I had my own dream. Never mind.”"

He smiled at her, brushing hair away from her face. “"I was just telling you that Tech called. They’'ve made out the words on the van. It’'s one of those magnetic car signs. For a real estate agent named Syndee Barlett. I’'ve got her home address.”"

“"Cha-ching, paydirt,”" Grace said happily.

They both leaped out of bed and Grace gathered up her clothes. “"Cowboy up. Let’'s ride,”" she said.

Then she re-remembered her dream about the dog and Earl’'s admonitions about tough times. Her mood sobered and she studied Ham, the screwy blond eyebrows, sleepy bedroom eyes, creases on either side of his mouth. Could tough times be Ham, getting hurt? Dying? On the job?

“"Let’'s be careful out there,”" she said. “"I got a feeling.”"

He lifted a brow as he stuck one leg through his underwear. “"Say what?”"

“"Something in my gut, man.”" When he looked at her curiously, waiting for more explanation, she shrugged and gave him a fleeting smile. She’'d tried to tell him about Earl but hell, she wouldn’'t have believed him if the shoe had been on the other foot.

Which it should be. She looked down at her right foot, clad in her left boot, plopped down on the bed, and yanked it off. She could feel her senses snapping awake, fizzing and sizzling along her nerve endings like antacid tablets. She realized she was hungry.

In the kitchen, she grabbed some more cold fries and two bottles of Coke. Handed one to Ham as they blasted out the door. It was eight o’'clock on a Saturday night, not too late to pay a citizen a visit. Especially if said citizen ran over Malcolm Briscombe.

Ham drove his GMC and Grace called in the name. It was a single-family home on the outskirts of Nichols Hill, which was one of the ritziest parts of OKC. Wide streets, lots of trees, nice.

“"Twelve-oh-seven,”" Grace said, watching the numbers on the houses. “"Should be the next block.”"

They pulled up. The truck ticked when Ham pulled out the key—--cooling down. Grace was just getting warmed up.

There was a Prius hybrid parked in the driveway. The garage door was shut. As they exited Ham’'s truck, Grace pulled a flashlight out of the glove box and darted around the side of the house. Glory hallelujah, there was a window into the garage. She peered in. It was very tidy. A washer and dryer and a bicycle, but no panel van. Yeah, well, if she had killed a kid with a vehicle, she’'d dump it, too. So the lack of same didn’'t prove anything except that it wasn’'t there.

Just in case, she skirted the driveway, although it was wishful thinking that Rhetta would lift that distinguishing mark off the concrete. No sense jinxing it.

Ham was at the door by the time Grace caught up with him. He smelled like sex. Maybe they should have showered.

As she gave her head a shake—--negative on the garage—--he rang the doorbell. She tucked the flashlight under her arm, and they both pulled out their badges.

The door opened partway; there was a chain on it. Grace saw an eye and part of a face with a lovely honey complexion.

“"Ms. Barlett?”" Grace said. “"I’'m Detective Hanadarko and this is Detective Dewey. We’'re investigating a car accident. May we talk to you?”"

“"What?”" She sounded utterly nonplussed. “"Who was hurt?”"

“"Do you know someone named Malcolm Briscombe?”"

“"No. You must have the wrong address.”"

“"No, ma’'am, we don’'t think we do. We can give you our badge numbers and wait while you check with the department,”" Grace said, letting the woman see her.

Grace gave her the appropriate phone number and the woman called it in. As they waited politely on the porch, Grace could feel Ham’'s disappointment. It was doubtful that someone who had committed a felony would be so …... judicious. But stranger things had happened. Look at Earl.

“"Okay, I’'ve verified your badge numbers,”" Ms. Barlett informed them as she took the chain off the door. “"May I please know what this is about?”"

“"May we come in?”" Grace asked. Sometimes vampires and cops had a lot in common—--there were occasions when both had to be invited in.

The woman opened the door, leading them from an entryway tiled in China blue to a sunken living room featuring matching blue-striped sofa and two chairs upholstered in solid blue. Nice place but not palatial. She liked blue. A lot.

“"About this accident,”" Ham said. “"One of the vehicles involved had a magnetic sign of yours on the door.”"

“"That’'s why we’'re here,”" Grace added.

The woman looked surprised and worried. “"I quit selling real estate. I don’'t use those signs anymore.”"

“"Who else has access to them?”" Grace asked.

She shook her head. “"No one. I cleaned all my stuff out of my office months ago. I threw them out.”" Grace could hear the anxiety in her voice. It didn’'t mean anything except that she was anxious. Innocent people got scared, just like guilty ones.

So someone might have spotted it in her trash, or at a dump.

“"Is it possible you missed one of your signs?”" Grace asked. “"Maybe one was taken while you were still selling real estate?”"

“"I guess.”" Ms. Barlett’'s shoulders lowered; Grace’'s line of questioning was reassuring, nonconfrontational. The long finger of the law was not being pointed at her. “"I’'m trying to remember …... I left things in my office for a couple of months. I’'d paid my rent in advance and I couldn’'t break the lease, so I backburnered clearing it out.”"

“"You didn’'t sublet?”"

“"No, it was an office of several agents.”" A cloud passed over her features. “"There was someone new, just got his license. Dwight something. He wanted to take over my lease but …...”" She trailed off.

Grace leaned toward her. “"But what, ma’'am? Please tell us whatever you have to say. It might be important.”"

She caught her lower lip. “"Well, I don’'t like hurtling around false accusations, so can this be …... off the record?”"

“"Of course,”" Grace lied.

“"I was the only black agent in the agency. And …... I’'m not sure the broker was comfortable with that. And Dwight was black, too.”"

A potentially racist broker. A white supremacist van with a black agent’'s magnetic sign. Those puzzle pieces might fit together in some twisted way.

“"This …... Malcolm, was he hurt? What happened?”" Syndee Barlett sat down on her vastly blue sofa.

“"Would you mind telling us where you were Thursday night?”" Grace asked.

“"Oh, God, I was here,”" she said, paling. “"I was alone.”" Grace could observe her comfort level dissipating like water in a hot frying pan. “"I called my mother. I can verify that—--”"

“"You’'re not a suspect,”" Grace assured her, even though that might also turn out to be a lie. “"But if we could take a statement now, and we might need you to come downtown later …...”" She pulled her detective’'s notebook out of her belt. Slid out her pen and clicked it.

“"Yes. Yes,”" Ms. Barlett said. “"Of course.”"

Turned out she had worked for OKC Home Realtors for five years. It was a large group with a number of real estate agents. But she’'d gotten out of the business when the economy went south.

“"There weren’'t a lot of folks buying houses in my area,”" she said. “"And I didn’'t have the stomach for foreclosures.”"

“"That would be tough,”" Grace agreed.

“"Jim …... my broker, he wanted me to go after all the upside-down mortgages and snap them up.”" She blinked. “"Said I’'d be ‘'perfect.’'”"

“"In what way?”" Ham asked neutrally.

Ms. Barlett remained silent.

“"Anything you have to say, you can tell us,”" Grace assured her. “"Was it some kind of racial statement?”"

“"Look,”" the woman answered, not angrily, “"I never lodged a complaint against him, anything like that, and it would be …... unfair to say anything now.”"

So, yes, it had been racial. While Grace kept her game face on, her mind was processing information as it came in. The Sons had to have bought their land from someone. Say they went into the real estate office to deal with their bigoted friend Jim, and snatched a sign or two for later. It would be easy to do. Say they went in a lot of times to sign papers and shit.

“"Did you ever have any dealings with a man named Tommy Miller?”" Grace asked. “"Or see him in the brokerage office?”"

Ms. Barlett gave it some thought.

“"It would be a bunch of acres off the 270, mostly undeveloped but with a few buildings on it,”" Grace prompted.

“"No. I usually handled residential, simple stuff.”" She thought a moment. “"Jim had some ‘'boutique’' clients, he called them. He liked to brag about his deals to ‘'inspire’' us. After a while, I stopped listening. I knew I was getting out.”"

“"Could you give us a list of the other agents in the office?”" Grace asked. “"And the name of your boss? The actual broker?”"

“"Sure. He’'s James Morrison.”"

She got up and went to a laptop on her dining room table. Grace murmured softly, “"He’'s Jim Morrison.”"

Ham chuckled.

About a minute later, a printer started whirring down the hall. Wireless. Nice.

“"Are you working now?”" Grace asked her.

The woman nodded. “"For a nonprofit group. I help secure funding.”" She smiled sadly. “"Or make the attempt. It’'s called Get Out Now. We try to get kids off the streets. As you know, Oklahoma City has a terrible gang problem.”" She went down the hall, probably to retrieve the list from the printer.

“"Tell Kendra Burke that,”" Ham muttered.

Jamal’'s image blossomed in Grace’'s mind. Maybe once this case was over she’'d make a donation to Get Out Now.

Syndee Barlett returned with her business card and handed it to Grace. Grace and Ham reciprocated with their own cards, and Grace closed her notebook and put it away.

“"If you think of anything, please call,”" Grace said.

“"If you get my sign back, please let me know,”" she replied. “"It’'s very …... unnerving to think that someone committed a crime with my sign on their door.”"

“"Yeah. It’'s a good thing you’'re out of the business,”" Grace replied.

When they left, Ham turned to Grace. “"She was nervous around us. White cops, man.”"

“"Yeah.”" She nodded. Wind blasted around her, flapping at her olive-green jacket. “"White cops. Jim Morrison.”"

It was almost ten by the time they drove past OKC Home Realtors. Big building of genteel brick, closer to downtown than Syndee Barlett’'s residence, the whole thing leased to James Alan Morrison III. The lights were off and nobody was home.

“"We can check the land sale through the Public Access System, get the title report,”" Grace said. “"Talk to him next week. No sense waving a red flag.”"

“"Yeah,”" Ham replied. “"No sense.”"

It was Sunday at three in the afternoon, and rocket club was almost over. As Grace drove to the launch site on the prairie by the North Canadian River, she checked her phone for word from Ham. He had returned to battle over their warrant. No news yet.

She had volunteered to pick up Clay; Doug had taken his car in for a tune-up after Mass and it looked like he needed some brake work.

Pulling Connie over, she got out, admiring the brilliance of the sky against some distant green hills. It was as if the wind had blown all the gray away, leaving a vast field of cornflower blue hanging overhead like the dome of a basilica. Malcolm would never see another day like this.

There were two groups shooting off rockets today, Clay’'s school club and the local branch of the big Tripoli organization. The parish kids had come in a big van; the Tripoli guys had SUVs and shop trucks. There were a couple of ATVs—--all-terrain vehicles—--used for retrieving the rockets, as she recalled. The groups were situated close together, probably so they could share tools and advice, all very civic and fun.

She walked over gravel and dirt, giving a wave at young Father Alan, who was wearing a black short-sleeved shirt, his clerical collar, and a baseball cap. He had hairy arms. A group of young boys thronged a two-foot-tall cylinder painted red, white, and blue. Grace didn’'t spot Clay among them.

Fingers in her belt loops, she ambled on over to the rocketeers. The cute young priest smiled at her. Father Alan had invited her to Mass every single time she’'d picked up Clay at some function or other. She had absolutely no doubt that he was praying for her to come back to the church. Probably had Clay doing that, too. Maybe Clay worried about her soul at night, fretted that if she died he wouldn’'t see her up in heaven, like he was gonna see his mom.

“"Hi, Father,”" she said. “"Where’'s Clay?”"

Father Alan frowned and looked around. “"He and Forrest went to retrieve a rocket.”" He glanced at his watch. “"But they should have been back by now.”"

Tough times.

She got a little scared.

“"Where?”" she asked.

“"Well …...”" He straightened and peered to the west. “"Hmm. They should be over there.”"

Her fear level rose a little higher. “"You don’'t know where they went?”" Her voice was shrill. Some of the boys looked up at her, then at one another. Then around, as if, like Father Alan, they’'d just realized that two of their party were MIA.

“"I saw them over there,”" one of the kids said, pointing east, toward the hills.

Father Alan grinned ruefully. “"They must have gotten distracted. You know how kids are.”"

Tough times.

“"Yeah,”" she said. “"How long ago did they go?”"

The same kid shrugged. “"An hour?”"

“"It wasn’'t an hour,”" Father Alan insisted.

“"It’'s been a while, Father,”" another boy piped up.

She started walking across the dirt as she cupped her hands around her mouth and let out a bellow.

“"Clay!”" Her voice echoed off the mountains.

There was no answer; picking up speed, she ran-walked past a wave of prairie grass, looking back over her shoulder at the priest and the boys, all of whom were watching her. She got that creepy-crawly feeling that parents and guardians got, the one that moved you past assuming your fears were exaggerated to contemplating the fact that things did go wrong. She put on the turbo; her boots crunched over the sandy ground in a rapid-fire rhythm, like bullets from a semiautomatic.

Move faster.

“"Clay!”"

These are not our tough times, she thought. My family has had more than its share. Not Clay.

An unreasoning anger toward Earl flared through her nervous system. Goddamn it, if he couldn’'t tell her all of it, why did he tell her any of it? It went to show you that God was a sadist—--

And then she heard the roar of an engine. She squinted as dust kicked up, and she made out the shape of an all-terrain vehicle, and two boys on it, Clay doing the driving. Forrest Catlett sat between him and the handlebars, making the vehicle top-heavy and unstable. No helmets, no nothing, just two reckless boys, yelling their heads off.

Clay hung a sharp U-turn and hit the turbo, going much, much too fast, blasting along as she closed up the distance. The ATV wove past a barrier of sawhorses and ripped through yellow caution tape. She didn’'t know if Clay meant to do it, or if he had lost control of the ATV …... which was now headed toward a huge boulder.

“"Oh, God!”" Grace screamed.

“"The range is hot!”" someone shouted. “"Ma’'am!”"

She ran so fast she was flying, scrabbling across a rock bed, losing her footing, tumbling over her boots. And in her mind’'s eye, for one flash of an instant, she was running toward the Murrah Building after McVeigh and Nichols blew it all to hell, and Clay’'s mom had been blown apart. A hundred and sixty-eight lives lost; and she had helped carry out the bodies, finding Mary Frances herself, and Clay was so tiny and small and helpless—--

This can’'t happen to us, she told herself, at the exact moment that the Tripoli group started yelling at her. There was a huge bang; as she looked over, she saw that their rocket was taking off. She had run through their launch site. She moved fast, to get clear, and there was more yelling.

She looked up. The rocket had turned and was arrowing back toward the ground, gyrating and tumbling, snaking out of control. She ran toward Clay, waving her hands to stop; Forrest flapped his arms crazily. They kept going.

Clay clipped the side of the boulder; the ATV rocked onto two wheels, nearly tipping over on its side.

“"Shit! Shit! Shit!”" Grace yelled, charging.

The rocket crashed to earth, kicking up huge amounts of dirt. Grace kept running; three men caught up with her and fanned out into a half circle around the ATV as it began to zigzag like the rocket. The men gave chase, like rodeo clowns trying to slow down a bull. Grace stumbled over rocks and brush. Flooding with adrenaline, she closed the distance between herself and the ATV and leaped at it, grabbing onto the rear wheel cover and dragging her weight like an anchor. Clay jerked his head over his shoulder, eyes wide. He was very scared.

“"Damn it, what are you doing?”" Grace shouted, her boots kicking up tremendous amounts of dust as Clay somehow managed to stop.

“"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.

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 unpleasant. 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.

“"Maybe I should take my own car. There’'ll be more of us to keep track of,”" Rhetta suggested. “"For their enforcers, I mean.”"

“"More targets, too,”" Grace countered, not loving the idea of her friend putting herself more directly in harm’'s way. “"I’'d say better to stick with Butch and Bobby.”"

“"Okay.”"

Sounding relieved, Rhetta moved off. Butch stopped and Bobby climbed down, opening the passenger door of the cab for Rhetta. With Bobby’'s heavy mustache and ponytail of raven-black hair, his Hispanic–-Native American roots were evident. His appearance elicited a ripple of reaction from their escort service.

“"I think they’'re more upset about letting Bobby on than us tits,”" Grace said to Ham, observing Tommy Miller’'s intense sneer in Bobby’'s direction as the detective got back in Butch’'s truck and shut the door. Behind the wheel, Butch made a point of talking on his cell phone, reminding the Sons of Oklahoma SOBs that a vest network of cops and other denizens of the Justice Department knew they were out here. If anyone wound up shot, there’'d be more than blurry security footage to back up the case.

The case. The blessed case. The three cases. If you had anything to do with Malcolm, or any of them, I want you dead, Grace thought as she kept pace with Tommy Miller.

They had aerial pictures of the compound; there were ten houses on the property, which was a total of fifty acres, most of that undeveloped land. They had a website for donations, but so far no law enforcement agency had been cleared to investigate their funding. The vehicles were usually parked around a barn within easy walking distance of the guard gate. Tommy Miller’'s house was the farthest away, about a mile from the main gate. If they didn’'t find the vehicle at the barn, Ham and Grace would climb into Butch’'s truck.

“"Tommy?”" one of the men said. He was holding out a cell phone. Miller grunted and moved away from Grace and Ham, leaving them a little bubble of privacy.

“"If we see the panel truck, we can’'t do shit,”" Grace reminded Ham. “"It’'s not on the warrant.”"

“"I know.”" He nudged her. “"Check it out.”"

On a hilltop, a big red barn stood like a poster for good farm living. Above it, a Confederate-style flag-red with diagonal blue bars containing single rows of stars—--was stretched between two poles that looked to Grace like lightning rods. In the center of the flag, surrounded by a ring of red and orange flames, a clenched white fist held an eagle feather. Bent around the top were the words 110% AMERICAN 110% WHITE 110% FREE. Beneath it, SONS OF OKLAHOMA.

“"That totals three hundred thirty percent crap,”" Grace said.

“"Well, they are free,”" Ham reminded her.

“"For now.”" A dry twig cracked under her boot, snapping like a rifle shot. “"How much you want to bet we’'re in some asshole’'s scope sight, and he’'s following every move we make?”"

“"Not taking that bet.”" Ham smiled as he scanned the area. “"But I’'m going to collect for the warrant.”"

She grinned, studying each plank of the barn, the bushes, the ground, the sky. And the six vehicles that came into view as they hiked up the rise. Blue truck, black car, black, black, gray truck. And one white truck. The same logo was painted on the side as in the minimart tape. She pulled out the phone and called Rhetta.

“"May have something for you,”" she said. “"At the barn.”"

“"I’'ll tell Butch,”" Rhetta replied.

Hunter Johnson moved in, taking Miller’'s place as Grace and Ham’'s guard. Grace got a weird vibe off him again but she kept her face neutral as she headed for the white truck. Johnson kept up. She thought about the girl with the hinky tattoo and wondered how she’'d gotten mixed up with these guys.

Then her heart sank. “"Ham, this is a Chevy Silverado 1500,”" she said under her breath. The truck on the tape was a 2500, nearly ten feet longer.

Ham pursed his lips. “"Game’'s not over yet.”"

“"Hey, we’'re looking for a 2500,”" Grace told Johnson. He chuckled breathily, like he was laughing, and shook his head.

“"Don’'t think we have one of those,”" he replied.

“"We’'ve got it on tape,”" Grace said. “"With your logo on the side.”"

“"Not ours,”" he insisted. “"It could be …...”" He blinked and trailed off, as if he had stopped himself from saying something incriminating.

“"Could be what? Someone impersonating you? They painted up their truck so they could go on a rampage and blame you?”" She walked up to him. He was wearing Beckham and he smelled great. She was taken aback.

“"Or maybe they put on a magnetic sign, you know, like small businesses use? Real estate, things like that?”" She waited, crossing her fingers that he would take the bait. His cheeks went a little pink, but maybe he was simply displaying one of the telltale signs of lying because he was pissed off. Body language was a lot more complicated than most people realized. That was because the truth could be a relative thing. A person could both believe he was being honest and fear that he was lying. Plus there were all kinds of lies: bald-faced lies, half lies, white lies, kind lies. And bullshit.

“"We don’'t sell real estate,”" he said.

“"No, you just kill black kids,”" she bit off.

This time, no pink rose to his cheeks. So, there was the truth. Or it could also simply mean that he was tired of dealing with her. You could pass a lie detector test by detaching. She’'d seen it done. Basically, if you didn’'t give a shit if anyone believed you, you were home free.

She shielded her eyes as the sound of an engine caught her attention. It was Butch’'s truck, kicking up dust as it headed her way. She was about to call Rhetta back and tell her to hold her horses when she caught Johnson staring at the back section of the barn. There was something there that interested him.

Let it be a 2500, Grace thought.

Ham had noticed, too. The partners ambled on, nothing passing between them except one blink. Grace’'s heart quickened; she was a bloodhound with a scent. Johnson walked a little faster.

Butch’'s Ford pulled abreast of them and Butch himself leaned out the window. He didn’'t say anything. Neither did Grace. Then her cell phone went off. She checked the faceplate. It was Rhetta.

“"Do you want me to get out of the truck?”"

Rather than verbally reply, Grace texted NOT YET.

Rhetta hung up. Everyone kept walking toward the barn. Grace turned to Johnson and said, “"We hear you’'re going to start cleaning up the city.”"

He raised a brow. “"Where’'d you hear that?”"

“"Who made the announcement, you or Tommy?”" Grace asked in a low voice, glancing around. Fearless Leader was still offstage, talking on his cell phone. “"Because from where I stand, looks like you want to be the boss. He’'s in your way.”"

He scratched his chin. And—--bingo—--his cheeks went pink. “"I don’'t know what gave you that idea, Detective. But then, you have some pretty crazy ideas. About us. And what we stand for.”"

“"White power,”" Ham said.

“"See, that’'s exactly what I’'m talking about.”" Johnson pulled a long face, aggrieved. “"How come when they talk about black power or Hispanic power or, I don’'t know, gay power, that’'s okay, that’'s good? But if we want to celebrate our heritage, we should be locked up?”"

“"I’'m sure you’'ve debated this a million times,”" Grace said. “"C’'mon, it’'s hot and I’'ve got to take a piss. Can you just show us the goddamn 2500? Maybe in return we can help you out with your organizational situation.”"

Johnson blinked, hunched his shoulders, and stuffed his hands in his pockets. Grace tried to read him, see if he thought she was being serious. Since he believed that cops were corrupt pieces of shit he probably believed her.

And …... it was a thought. If she could make him feel undervalued and exploited, and offer the hope of a better situation such as in becoming leader of the Sons, maybe she could flip him. That was how cops transformed criminals into CIs—--with a little pixie dust and a lot of sleight of hand—--playing to their egos, making them feel important. A gang beat you down and scared you into submission. Everything hinged on carrying out orders—--on obedience. But CIs went against the code of their group—--and they did it to either escape punishment, avoid suspicion, or feel special.

We could do some damage, Grace thought, warming to her subject. Pit him and Tommy Miller together. Get them to have a civil war. That’'d keep ’'em busy …... maybe make them show their hands.

As they reached the barn, Grace smelled cow manure, and hoped it didn’'t mean her musings were bullshit. Did the Sons actually own livestock? The lowing of a bovine answered her question, and she and Ham traded glances. White supremacists and survivalists. Could be a bad combination, if they thought they were going to stir up so much trouble that they were going to have to slaughter their own food.

Butch drove up beside her and Bobby got out, followed by Rhetta. Johnson stiffened.

“"We don’'t like his kind on our land,”" Johnson ground out.

“"His kind is cops,”" Grace shot back. “"Look, all we need is the truck and we’'ll leave you in peace.”" She gave him a look—--remember what we talked about—--and he dropped his gaze toward his boots. Oh, yeah, he was remembering. He was tempted. He did want that throne and that crown.

Then he ticked his gaze in the same direction as before. She started walking into the barn, which was warm and earthy. Ham circled a hay bale, moving into the shadows. She forked to the left, past a tractor and some large empty white plastic buckets. Warmer, warmer, she could just feel that truck in there somewhere. Warmer still …... hot …...

Pigs oinked on her approach. Three of them, enormous, grunting, raised their heads from a pen to her left. Chickens clucked. It was a busy barn.

She kept going.

“"Gotcha,”" Johnson muttered, and she knew that he’'d played them. There was no truck back there. He was just throwing out all kinds of hints that there was, to watch the stupid cops dance to his tune.

Grace whirled around. “"I’'m serious about this, man. Help me out and I’'ll help you out. Just show us the truck.”"

He cocked his head and swept his gaze up and down her body. “"Maybe I don’'t want you to leave. Maybe I like your company.”"

“"It’'s better in small doses,”" she told him. “"You’'d get tired of me slamming your teeth down your throat whenever you tried to call me ‘'tits.’'”"

“"Why? That’'s what you are.”"

“"And you’'re a jackass, but you don’'t hear me calling you that,”" Grace said.

His smile was lazy, provocative. “"There’'s no truck. There’'s never going to be a truck.”"

“"What about a white panel van?”" she asked. Before he could answer, she said, “"Just think about it, okay? I’'m sure you were nowhere near that hit and run. Or the drive-by. Or any of the other shit that’'s going to get Tommy Miller the needle.”"

His smile grew. “"I don’'t know what you’'re talking about.”"

“"Guys like you never do,”" Grace said. “"Look, we got resources—--”"

“"So do we.”" He placed his hand suggestively on the .357 Magnum on his belt. “"So do we.”"

CHAPTER          TEN

In the barn, listening to Grace, Rhetta didn’'t like the back-and-forth banter with Hunter Johnson that Grace was indulging in. Johnson was a mean, scary person. Grace would know just how far she could push this guy, but it still made Rhetta nervous. It was like hanging around with a snake charmer who was your best friend in all the world. She wanted to collect her evidence and get the hell out of there.

Flies buzzed on animal droppings as she gazed at the bales of hay, and the manger brimming with straw; and a rush of grief caught her stomach and made her press her lips tightly together.

We’'re going to lose the farm. These racist skinheads can have a farm, but I can’'t.

Taking a deep breath, she walked past the cow—--Holy Cow could live here, wouldn’'t that be just …... awful?

Her criminalist’'s brain scanned the earth for tire tracks. There were some. She tried to tell if her distinguishing tire mark was present, but it was too dark to tell. She couldn’'t do any kind of forensics tests, or collect evidence, unless it was on the truck itself.

She wandered deeper into the barn, the smells filling her soul. Around the hay manger, toward the closed door of a wooden shed …...

…... no, it was ajar …...

“"Pssst,”" someone whispered from inside.

Rhetta froze. Had she imagined it? She looked back at Grace for backup, but she was still working Hunter Johnson. She didn’'t see Butch or Bobby.

She turned her attention back to the door.

“"Hello?”" she whispered.

The door creaked open and a head poked out. Long, soft brown hair fanned across a sweetheart-shaped face, a split lip, and a black eye. It was the girl with the infected tattoo.

As nonchalantly as she could, Rhetta crossed over to her. The girl’'s eyes widened and she began to retreat, but Rhetta reached forward and held on to the handle of the shed. The smell of rubbing alcohol stung her nose and eyes.

“"I’'m not going to hurt you,”" Rhetta said. Slowly she opened the door.

Crouching among the rakes and brooms, the girl gazed up anxiously at Rhetta and put a finger to her lips. She seemed practically feral, and Rhetta took a step backward, lowering her hand to her side.

“"Okay,”" she murmured. “"I’'m here.”"

“"Please,”" the girl murmured. “"Are you a doctor?”" She looked at Rhetta’'s field kit, then gestured to her arm. “"Something’'s wrong. It itches like crazy.”"

Rhetta saw that the infection was really just irritation, likely caused by the girl herself. “"You’'ve been putting alcohol on it,”" Rhetta said. “"You’'ve disinfected it, but your skin is irritated from the alcohol. Do you have access to any kind of antibiotic cream?”" She named a couple of generic brands.

The girl shook her head. “"All’'s we got are bandages, aspirin, and rubbing alcohol. Tons of it.”"

Rhetta made a note of that. Isopropyl alcohol was a versatile liquid. You could make poisons with it, disinfect with it, and start fires with it.

“"I’'m Jeannie,”" the girl whispered. She stuck her hand out awkwardly. “"How do you do?”"

“"I’'m …...”" Rhetta hesitated. Not a good idea to give out her name. “"Do you want some Tylenol? It’'ll help with the swelling. On your face.”"

“"Oh.”" Jeannie flushed and looked down at her hands. “"Don’'t tell Hunter you saw me, okay? We’'re not supposed to talk to you.”"

“"Is he your boyfriend?”" Rhetta asked, flipping open her kit. She found a jar of salve for the sore arm. Simple, but effective.

Jeannie’'s reply was midway between a sob and a laugh. She immediately stifled it by pushing both her hands against her mouth. When it became clear that Rhetta was waiting for her answer, she lowered her hands to her sides, a naked gesture of submission that tore at Rhetta’'s heart. This girl had not only been beaten up; she had been beaten down.

“"He’'s my husband,”" Jeannie murmured. “"We’'ve been married for six months.”" Her voice changed; there was a tinge of defiant pride. She raised her left hand, and a surprisingly lovely blue agate cameo ring gleamed in the diffused light. The cameo showed the face, torso, and wings of an angel, hands pressed together in prayer.

Rhetta fought to hide her shock. Yikes. Talk about a bunny rabbit living with a rattlesnake.

“"What a lovely ring.”" Probably stolen.

“"Thank you. It was Hunter’'s grandmother’'s.”"

Rhetta didn’'t believe that for a minute.

“"So you’'re Jeannie Johnson.”"

“"Mrs. Double J,”" she said softly. “"Hunter says once we get the ranch that’'s what we’'ll call it. The Double J. For me.”"

“"The ranch.”" Did she mean the compound? Was Grace right? Was there a power struggle going on between Tommy Miller and Hunter Johnson?

“"In Montana. Someday.”" She looked past Rhetta. “"Who’'s that lady talking to my man?”"

“"A police detective,”" Rhetta said.

“"Her?”" Jeannie was incredulous. Rhetta remembered how the women were set apart in a group as “"the tits”" and wondered if there were other Mrs. Hunters. If Grace and the squad had stumbled on to some kind of polygamous sect. God, she hoped not. Look what had happened in Texas. All that bad press for the authorities. And no good had come out of it.

“"How old are you?”" Rhetta asked.

Jeannie shrugged. “"Old enough.”" She touched her lip. “"I could use something to kill the pain.”"

Was she an addict? Rhetta opened her kit again and lifted out a bottle of Tylenol. She shook out two for Jeannie and two for herself. She was getting a terrible headache.

“"Did he do this to you?”" Rhetta asked bluntly. “"Why?”"

“"I forgot a few things.”" Jeannie’'s face softened. She was almost dreamy. “"We were going to have chicken and biscuits for dinner, but I didn’'t start defrosting the chicken soon enough. It was still frozen. And I was supposed to call this guy for Hunter. But I-I got distracted. Idol was on. You know how the saying goes.”"

Rhetta waited for the punch line. After a moment, Jeannie cleared her throat and gazed off into the distance, as if she were reciting a poem from memory.

“"A hungry husband is an ill-tempered husband.”"

You’'ve got to be kidding me.

“"Here. For the pain.”" Rhetta handed her two caplets. Jeannie took them, dry-swallowing them down. Standing on tiptoe, she looked over Rhetta’'s shoulder again at her man. God, she was practically a baby.

“"You know, if you have a …... problem,”" Rhetta began, “"you can file charges. Wives have rights.”"

“"They’'d all back Hunter up,”" Jeannie said in a rush. Then she flushed deep purple. “"Our men are under a lot of stress.”" But her tone was bitter. She was angry. That was good. She still had a bit of a spark left.

“"Oh, really? Why?”" Rhetta asked. If she could get her to say something incriminating, Grace could call for a more extensive warrant. They’'d have probable cause. Of course, Jeannie might retract her statement. It would be Rhetta’'s word against hers, and the judge might assume that Rhetta would fabricate a story to help the squad. All this Rhetta let run through her mind while she tried to sound only mildly interested.

Jeannie shifted her weight. Her face was still red. “"We just moved here. And the guys are looking for jobs and stuff. The economy is bad.”"

“"That doesn’'t excuse beatings. If you wanted to …... make a change …...”"

Jeannie’'s eyes widened and Rhetta made herself shut up. Grace would kill her if she muddied up the investigation with this. And it would be justifiable homicide.

Jeannie wrapped her hands around her waist. “"No. Me and Hunter are in love. We have our bad times and all …...”" Her face turned a brilliant scarlet and her eyes welled. He split lip trembled. “"But, you know …...”" She trailed off. She was trying very hard to smile. “"Marriage …...”" She played with her ring.

Rhetta was disappointed but not surprised. She slipped on a glove before she spread soothing salve over the tattoo. “"Did you go to a good place to get this done?”" she asked. Jeannie hissed and danced while Rhetta smoothed the salve over the irritated skin. “"Did the artist change needles? Did he wash his hands?”"

“"I don’'t know,”" Jeannie confessed. “"I was pretty drunk.”"

It just keeps getting better, Rhetta thought.

“"Rhetta?”" Grace called.

“"Oh, God,”" Jeannie whispered. “"Oh, God, if he sees me out here …...”" She jerked away from Rhetta and stuck her hands in her hair, as if she had just snapped out of a hypnotic trance, to find herself standing in front of an alligator. “"Oh, God …...”"

Rhetta dug in her purse and pulled out one of her business cards. She turned it over and began to write.

“"Look, there are people who can help you. There are shelters.”"

Jeannie opened the shed door, gazing fearfully back into the darkness.

“"He-he’'d find me,”" she whispered. “"He said so. Find me and beat the tar out of me.”"

“"People who love each other don’'t beat the tar out of each other.”" Rhetta held out the card. “"Here’'s the name of a shelter. It’'s affiliated with my church. Here’'s the number. See it?”" She pointed to the second line, under GOOD SHEPHERD SHELTER FOR WOMEN AND CHILDREN.

“"Do you have a cell phone?”"

Jeannie shifted. “"Kinda.”"

“"Hey, Rhetta,”" Grace called.

Jeannie whimpered.

Rhetta shook the card at her. “"If things get bad, call them. They’'ll help you. Promise me.”"

“"All right. God bless you.”" Jeannie’'s eyes welled as she grabbed the card, glanced at it, and folded it over and over. Then she slipped the cardboard wad into her jeans. Rhetta hoped to God that she had the wherewithal to hide it where Hunter Johnson couldn’'t see it.

Then Jeannie bobbed forward and hugged her. Hard. “"Pray for me, okay?”" she whispered into Rhetta’'s ear.

Rhetta was moved. Deeply. She could see Mae in this girl. And Grace, too. There but for, well, the grace of God …...

“"I will. I’'ll pray for you. The church can help you,”" Rhetta added hopefully. “"I know a priest, Father John—--”" Grace’'s brother.

“"Thank you, ma’'am,”" Jeannie said, letting go. “"But I have to go now. If Hunter finds out I been talking to you …...”" She backed away, as if she didn’'t dare show her back to Rhetta. She looked like a frightened little dog. “"I have to go.”"

“"It’'s okay,”" Rhetta assured her. But it wasn’'t. Her heart bled for this poor girl.

Jeannie darted out of the barn. Rhetta paused, watching her race into a stand of elms and disappear. As if on cue, an owl hooted.

The cow lowed again while Rhetta retraced her steps. Grace, who was with Ham, nodded at her. Butch and Bobby walked a distance away. Butch had a pair of binoculars.

“"Find anything?”" Grace asked. Ham waited for her answer, too.

Rhetta hesitated. Then she shook her head, feeling a pang of regret that she hadn’'t tried harder to extract a promise from Jeannie to at least think about getting out of here. She was upset; no one seemed to be getting what they wanted. No truck, no farm, no shelter. And her glasses were dirty. Or else she was on the verge of tears.

I need some sleep, she thought.

“"Let’'s move on,”" Grace said to Ham. “"There’'s no truck in this barn. Let’'s take a nice slow drive around.”" She stretched her arms. “"That’'d suit me just fine.”"

They walked back out of the barn. Tommy Miller was still on his cell phone, yelling and waving his free hand, and Hunter Johnson was talking to him. Grace slid a glance at the pair, then smiled brightly as Johnson reattached himself to Grace’'s hip, metaphorically speaking.

“"Your Imperial Wizard is pissed off,”" Grace said to him. “"My guess is he told someone to ditch the truck and now he’'s reconsidering. Since we’'re here wandering all over your compound. Do you have a bathroom I can use?”"

“"Sorry. We don’'t have indoor plumbing,”" Johnson replied. “"We’'re just a bunch of hicks.”"

Grace made a show of covering her mouth in dismay. “"Why, Hunter, I’'m shocked. I never did call you that. Racist bastards maybe, yeah, but not hicks.”" She fluttered her lashes. “"I’'ll just go pee in the barn.”"

“"All right,”" he said unhappily. “"I’'ll take you to a bathroom.”"

Rhetta looked over her shoulder, wondering if Jeannie had successfully slipped away. It would go hard for her if the man beside Grace found out that she’'d disobeyed a direct order and talked to one of the enemy.

Grace pointed to a distant outbuilding sided with corrugated aluminum and roofed with turquoise fiberglass.

“"What about in there? There any bathrooms in there? Out there by itself …... it’'d be a hike to use the john if you were in there planning your next drive-by shooting.”"

Oh, my God, Grace, Rhetta thought, glancing at Ham to see how he reacted—--he didn’'t—--and bracing herself for a response from Johnson. Instead, he looked straight at her. At Rhetta.

“"What do you think? Think we got a bathroom in there?”"

“"It doesn’'t matter what she thinks,”" Grace said. “"I’'m the one who’'s gotta pee.”"

He regarded her. “"You’'re probably one of them women who tries to pee standing up.”"

“"Hold still and you’'ll find out,”" Grace shot back, and Johnson laughed. Ham grinned, too. Grace could do that, act like a chameleon to get what she wanted. She’'d had years of pretending everything was fine while her priest and father confessor was raping her. It gave her an advantage as a detective. Due to the lack of trauma in her childhood, Rhetta was less versatile. Less wounded.

My farm, she thought unhappily. My animals.

My home.

Grace called Captain Perry’'s cell to give her the news: no truck. And everything of investigative value had been dragged out of sight, if the many phone calls Hunter Johnson and Tommy Miller both sent and received were any indication of a concerted effort to save their butts before the detectives spotted unregistered handguns or dead bodies.

The Sons of Oklahoma saw them off pretty much the way they greeted them, in an unsmiling row, their womenfolk tucked away. Rhetta told Grace that Jeannie Johnson had found her, and she’'d given the girl some salve for her arm. Rhetta seemed like she wanted to tell Grace something else, but then Captain Perry called back to order Grace to get her paperwork done first thing in the morning.

“"First thing. After our meeting,”" Grace promised.

It was a Sunday night, and the Monday-morning meeting in the conference room had been arranged so the squad could go over Henry’'s full autopsy report and Rhetta’'s progress so far. They wanted to lay out the three cases to see if they found connections, or if the information they were assigning to one case was a better fit for another. It was Bobby’'s turn to bring in the coffee and donuts. Clay was safely with his dad. So it was time to pay Ham back some more for getting the warrant.

As she ripped off her clothes and grabbed a bottle of bourbon, Ham lifted her up and carried her down the hall like a caveman. He smacked her bottom with more affection than aggression, and she arched up so she could take a swig of hooch. This late at night, Ham would probably wind up falling asleep. No one spent the night, not even him—--especially not him—--but she’'d worry about booting him out later. After all, it was only ten p.m. now.

He unrolled her onto the bed; she held the bottle up like the Statue of Liberty’'s torch and …...

…... the phone rang.

She looked at caller ID. It was Clay. At ten on a school night. She instantly went into concerned-aunt mode and Ham backed off, aware that something was up.

“"Yeah, Clay, hi,”" she said. “"What’'s up, man?”"

“"Forrest was supposed to e-mail me this evening. We’'re working on a project in school. But he hasn’'t done it.”" He sounded very worried.

“"Is the project due tomorrow?”"

“"Yes.”"

“"Well, that sucks. Did you call him?”" She sat cross-legged and grabbed her cigarettes and lighter out of her nightstand.

“"His mom answered. She said he’'s not allowed to talk to me.”"

Grace smiled gently as she lit a cigarette and took a puff. “"Well, there you go, man. He’'s been grounded.”"

“"But I need his part of the project and he knows that. He could have e-mailed it. I know she would have let him.”"

Ah, the logic of kids. Urgency trumped the facts every time. She blew out her smoke. “"Did you tell your dad? Maybe he can write you a note. When Forrest shows up tomorrow at school, he can vouch for you. Heck, I’'ll talk to your teacher if you need backup.”"

There was a pause. Ham started sliding his hand between her crossed legs. With a silent laugh, she leaned back on one elbow and gave him some room.

“"I feel terrible, Aunt Grace,”" Clay said. “"He got in trouble because of me.”"

“"No one forced him onto that ATV,”" she reminded him. “"It wouldn’'t have been so bad if you hadn’'t driven into that boulder.”" She chuckled silently at Ham’'s astonishment. “"Just when that rocket started chasing everybody.”"

Ham mouthed What?

“"Yeah,”" Clay murmured. Then he chuckled a little. “"It was pretty wild, how it all happened at once.”"

“"You think?”" Grace said. “"Hey, I’'m pretty used to wild and it scared the tar out of me. Think how Forrest’'s mom must see it. She’'s probably going to make him wear body armor from now on.”"

Clay guffawed. “"And a seat belt when he goes to the bathroom.”"

She snickered. “"So when he comes to school tomorrow, just have him tell your teacher that he wasn’'t allowed to use the computer and it’'s all good.”"

“"I’'ll give you good,”" Ham whispered. She kicked at him to shut him up.

“"Okay, Aunt Grace.”" There was another pause. “"I need to make some money. To pay that guy for the damage. Dr. Anderson.”"

“"A doctor. Too bad he’'s not a mechanic.”" Grace took another puff. “"Maybe you could start a dog-walking service. You could take Gus around the neighborhood and hand out flyers after school tomorrow. If you don’'t have too much homework.”"

“"Cool. How much should I charge?”"

“"Let me think about that,”" Grace said as Ham wriggled his way between her legs. “"I’'ll do a little research. But you should go to bed.”"

“"Right. Thanks. I love you.”"

Grace smiled. “"I love you, too, man. Now get some rest. And Clay?”"

“"Yes, Aunt Grace?”"

“"Let Forrest tell the story at school tomorrow. He doesn’'t have many chances to brag.”"

“"I will. G’'night.”"

They hung up and Grace batted at Ham again while she tamped out her cigarette. It didn’'t deter him, only made him crawl on top of her, while they both laughed and prepared for liftoff.

“"He drove an ATV into a boulder and got chased by a rocket?”" he asked.

“"Something like that.”" She rocked and rolled. “"A little to the left, Detective.”"

“"Shit. Are you kidding me?”" His eyes were far away, even if his body was not.

“"No. I’'m not kidding you. I want you to move a little to the left.”" She roped her legs around him and applied pressure to his right cheek.

“"Jesus, Grace, you’'re steering me,”" he said, laughing.

“"Right into the explosion,”" she promised.

They began to move together, as only Dewey and Hanadarko could; partners, bedmates, all wound up after the trip to the compound, both looking for release from the Sunday-night blues: Tomorrow the official workweek started, not that they had taken much time off that weekend. They had to be ready; who knew what tomorrow would bring?

Tough—--

“"No,”" Grace whispered, but it sounded like “"Oh.”"

“"Oh, my God, Grace,”" Ham whispered, touching her hair, her cheek, her earlobe. He moved inside her; he moved her; she closed her eyes as white-hot ecstasy shot through her veins. If heroin was as good as this …...

And then all thoughts escaped her, which was the point, and she was pure, wonderful, blissful sensation. No Grace, no Ham, just …...

Pow.

She fell asleep before she could kick him out, and she woke up because the rain was pelting her roof like hail. Maybe it was hail. Gus didn’'t like it so she kneaded him with her toes and looked through the darkness at the male shape next to her. Ham, Ham, what was she going to do with him?

She got up naked and walked into the kitchen. Grabbed a beer. Then she walked over to the case files she’'d brought home—--Malcolm’'s was on top—--and stared at the horrible, gruesome pictures. She felt nothing, only clinical interest. God, the job was hollowing her out.

She pulled her throw over herself and listened to the rain. Thought about waking up Ham and making him go home. He’'d squawk. She lit a cigarette, smiling to herself when toenails clicked on the floor and Gus approached with a questioning doggy moan.

“"Hey,”" Earl said, sitting in her easy chair. Gus hurried over to him and sat down at his feet with a plop. Earl leaned forward and gave him a head scratch. “"Can’'t sleep?”"

“"No, man.”" She took a drag. “"Who can sleep with all this shit going on? So is this it, Earl? My tough times?”"

Earl cocked his head. “"Didn’'t say they’'d be yours, Grace.”"

“"Why can’'t you just talk like a normal person?”" she snapped, rolling her eyes. “"Maybe this is all fun and games to you but this is my life, Earl. My life that I have to live.”"

“"I know. I wish I had all the answers for you. But I’'m just a messenger.”" He looked genuinely sorry. “"I know that God has plans for you. Big plans.”"

“"Maybe He doesn’'t,”" she said, blowing out smoke. “"Maybe you’'re just telling me that to get me to do what you want. The way I tell the criminals I flip that they’'re special, that I can see they’'re not just regular thieves and rapists. Sometimes I tell them the department’'s had its eye on them for a while, and I’'ve been sent to ask for their help.”"

Earl pondered her words. “"And that works?”"

“"You know it does. ‘'Hail Mary, the Lord is with Thee.’' God’'s special handmaiden. God’'s chosen people. My chosen CI. I don’'t pick them out because they’'re special. I pick them out because I can get them to do what I want.”"

“"So because you lie to them, you think I’'m lying to you?”"

She leaned her head against the sofa and looked at him through her cigarette smoke. “"Maybe all this talk about paradise after we die is like heroin. You dole it out to make me feel good, let down my guard. Maybe dead is dead, and all this shit is a lie.”"

He looked perplexed. “"I thought we’'d moved past all that. I thought you trusted me. At least a little.”"

“"Maybe it’'s a kind lie,”" she said, her tone softening a little. “"Like a pellet in a rat maze.”"

“"You really are in a bad mood.”" He hunkered forward. “"That little escapade of Clay’'s scared you more than you’'re letting on, am I right?”"

She pulled the throw around herself. “"Stabbings, murders, rapes …... I see a world I never want him to see.”"

“"He sees you trying to make it better.”"

“"It’'ll never be better for Malcolm. Or Haleem.”"

“"It already is, Grace. In my Father’'s House are many mansions.”" He did look honest, and he did look kind. “"And I’'ve seen a world I never want you to see.”"

“"Hell.”" It scared her to say it, even though most of the time she didn’'t really believe it existed.

“"Yup.”"

“"Maybe that’'s a lie, too. An empty threat.”" She took another drag.

“"It’'s not. Trust me.”" He grinned. “"A little.”"

Lightning flashed across the glass side door. “"It’'s coming down like crazy,”" she said.

“"I love the rain,”" Earl replied. “"It’'s one of my favorite things in all creation.”"

“"It washes away the evidence.”" She yawned. “"Do you know where the white truck is?”"

“"Nope. And I’'m telling you the truth. Now I really think you should get some sleep.”"

“"I’'m not sleep …...,”" she began, and then her eyelids closed.

Gus gazed up at Earl and expressed his opinion. Earl took it into consideration.

“"I know she’'ll wake up with a neck ache,”" the angel told Grace’'s concerned roommate, “"but if she wakes up next to Ham …...”" He tsk-tsked. “"She’'s prickly about that.”"

Gus gazed over at Grace, then back at Earl.

“"Sure, you’'d love to share your doggy bed with Peaches every night,”" Earl said, “"but Grace needs her space. Lots of space.”" He pursed his lips. “"It’'s complicated.”" He grinned.

Gus made another suggestion. “"You think Ham should give her a dead rat? That would definitely show his undying devotion. Yes, I do think Peaches would love one.”"

Gus shook and panted.

“"Sure, I’'ll go hunting with you. One for Grace, too? That’'s real thoughtful, Gus. We’'ll see what we can do.”"

Gus was delighted. And grateful.

But as for Earl, he felt a tad confused. Maybe angels did tell kind lies.

CHAPTER          ELEVEN

“"Hey,”" Ham said.

Grace jerked awake. Purple-gray light was washing her walls, literally—--the shadows of heavy rains ran down the walls. Ham was staring down at her from behind the couch, naked, drowsy. She could see the hair in his armpits and his hairy chest. Nice view.

“"Did I chase you out of bed?”" he asked. He was trying to make light, but it was clear he was concerned. Or hurt. Or something. Gah. Complications.

“"I came out here to look things over.”" She lifted up the case files. “"I must have fallen asleep.”" Okay, this was really weird. Now what?

“"I have to go home and change,”" he said. Because she wouldn’'t let him bring clothes over, maybe he was saying. She let it hang there. They’'d settled all this, right?

“"I’'ll see you at the office. Got the meeting. Bobby’'s bringing donuts.”"

“"Yeah, cool.”"

He went back into her bedroom and came out in his clothes. The house shook as he headed for the front door, thunder loud as bowling balls.

“"Jesus,”" Grace said.

“"Bad storm. Drive careful.”" He opened the door and went out. About fifteen seconds later, Grace heard his truck.

Sighing, she lowered her head back to the couch, twisting back and forth to work out the kinks. The rain was really coming down. Maybe that was God’'s big plan with the flood and all…... …... washing away the evidence.

She listened to calls coming in for a big pileup over on May Street and called Dispatch, asking if she should go. Things were in hand, but the road was a big, fat parking lot. Of course the one morning she didn’'t stop for coffee was the morning she was denied the satisfaction of that first cup. But that was a minor inconvenience. There were fatalities involved in the accident. Fire truck, paramedics—--she wondered if her brother Leo the firefighter was there.

Knowing Oklahoma City as she did, she wove her way across town on a hundred surface streets, windshield wipers struggling violently to keep up with the rain. And the wind. God, they were halfway to gale force. Maybe Earl’'s T-shirt was a secret message. Maybe they were going to have a tornado.

She got to the police lot and rushed inside, not bothering with an umbrella because all it would do was turn itself inside out.

The people at work smelled wet and the linoleum floor was a muddy mess. Grace peeled off her light green jacket with the fringes and slung it over the back of her chair. Hey, howdy, welcome to the wet T-shirt contest. Everyone else looked to be in the interview room for the meeting. Cups of coffee and a big pink box, go, Bobby.

She turned to go when something on her desk caught her eye—--it was a statue of Wonder Woman with her legs spread wide and her hands on her hips. Someone had attached a handwritten sign at the base: I PEE STANDING UP! She recognized that handwriting.

Grace chortled and made a quick sign of her own, on a sticky note, and stuck it to the center of Butch’'s screen:

TOO BAD LONGHORNS CAN’'T!

Then she turned his Longhorn refrigerator magnet upside down and took a step back as she lifted her hair off her shoulders to dry it out.

She was just about to blast into the meeting when she caught sight of someone walking down the outside corridor in her peripheral vision. The figure turned and pushed on the glass door of OCPD Major Crimes. It was Mrs. Catlett. She had on no makeup and her hair was pulled back in a tight, unbecoming ponytail.

She pushed open the door before Grace could move forward and do it for her. When she saw Grace her mouth dropped open. Maybe Clay had never mentioned that she was a cop.

“"Mrs. Catlett?”" Grace prompted. “"May I help you?”"

“"My son is missing,”" she said as a secretary from the pool swerved to avoid her. “"Forrest. Catlett. Someone kidnapped him.”"

Hoo, boy, Grace thought, as she led Mrs. Catlett out of the traffic path. Monday morning in a police office was a very busy place. She leaned sideways to give a wave to Captain Perry, who was looking at her from a standing position beside the whiteboard. Butch, Bobby, Ham, and Rhetta were seated, and everyone was munching down the donuts.

“"You and Forrest had a bit of a disagreement on Sunday,”" Grace said slowly. “"Is it possible he decided to take some time off?”"

Mrs. Catlett stared at her. “"Take some time …... what are you talking about? He was taken from his bedroom!”"

Captain Perry came out of the conference room, followed by Ham, Butch, and Bobby. Rhetta stayed behind. They all looked at Mrs. Catlett, then at Grace.

“"I’'m Captain Perry,”" Kate told Mrs. Catlett. “"May I help you?”"

“"Oh, God, oh, my God!”" Mrs. Catlett screamed, at the top of her lungs. “"Does anyone here speak English? Someone kidnapped my son!”"

Heads turned; a few people kept watching. Meltdowns were not uncommon in police offices.

“"If you’'d like to file a missing persons report,”" Grace began, but Mrs. Catlett looked around, grabbed Grace’'s Wonder Woman statue, and threw it on the ground. It shattered.

“"Listen to me! Listen, listen, listen,”" she bellowed, stepping toward Grace and sliding on the shards of plastic. Grace grabbed her arm and she batted at it. Grace let go.

“"His bedroom window was open. Open in the rain. Someone came in and took him away!”" She threw back her head and let out a bloodcurdling wail. Then she sank into Grace’'s chair, shrieking.

Rhetta came out, assessing, watching. She looked to Grace, who held up a hand.

“"Did you call the police?”" Captain Perry nodded at Butch, who went to his desk. Tore off Grace’'s sticky note from his monitor and started typing. Grace knew he was checking the internal dispatch log.

“"Of course I did. Do you think I’'m an idiot? No one’'s come by. They’'re all at some accident.”"

Oh, shit. The logjam on the streets. Mrs. Catlett must have taken a raft of surface streets, too.

Butch nodded his confirmation at Captain Perry. “"Dispatch reports a car there now.”"

“"Forrest is a friend of Clay’'s,”" Grace told Captain Perry. They exchanged a look. Captain Perry stifled a sigh.

“"Detective Hanadarko, would you join me in my office?”"

“"Why aren’'t you doing something!”" Mrs. Catlett screamed. “"Do something!”"

Grace and Captain Perry filed into the office. Grace shut the door.

“"Fill me in,”" Captain Perry said.

Grace did, describing Forrest’'s restricted life, the rocket club, and the ATV accident on Sunday.

“"So he and Clay get in trouble and now he’'s missing,”" Captain Perry said. “"I’'m sorry, Grace. Even if this family is close to yours, this is Missing Persons. And we are Major Crimes.”"

Grace made a puppy face, and Captain Perry shook her head, trying to hide her frustrated smile. “"I’'m going to look like a stone fool if I send detectives out there. You don’'t even think he was kidnapped.”"

“"I have personal time.”"

“"You don’'t even like this woman.”"

“"But Clay likes her son,”" Grace said. “"And it’'s raining. Hard. And we might have a tornado.”"

“"Oh, for God’'s sake.”" Captain Perry rolled her eyes. “"Go ahead. Take your partner with you. If you see anything, you can call Rhetta to check it out.”" She sighed and tapped her desk with her manicured fingernails. “"So much for the new budget we just got approved. They’'re going to eat me alive upstairs if they get wind of this.”"

“"I’'ll bring my own coffee,”" Grace said. “"From now on. I swear. And my own toilet paper.”"

“"Just go.”" Captain Perry waved her away.

“"And soap.”" Grace batted her lashes and bolted out of the office. Striding toward Mrs. Catlett, who was still hysterical, she nodded at Ham. Grace bent over her and said, loudly, “"We’'re going to your house.”"

“"Why? He’'s not there!”" she said, clenching her fists.

Grace looked over Mrs. Catlett’'s head at Ham, who looked about as enthusiastic about this assignment as Captain Perry had.

“"Because we can try to gather evidence that might help us determine where he went …... was taken,”" Grace said. “"If you have any thoughts on that, you can share them with us while we drive to your house.”"

It was raining, hard. Lightning flashed across the wide sky, and thunder rumbled. Water rushed down the gutters into the storm drains. Grace spared a moment’'s concern for Gus. Maybe Earl’'d stop by and keep him company, help him stay calm during the storm. Grace hoped so.

They reached the Catlett home, two stories, brick, with dark green shutters and two Grecian columns holding up a portico. It looked more southern than Oklahoma. Grace wondered how the Catletts made their money. Could be oil, ranching, old family money.

Dressed in black rain jackets, two uniformed patrol cops were already on the scene and their squad car was parked at the curb. No lights, no sirens. Grace recognized them. Hillyer was standing beneath the portico while Pettit was squishing along the side of the house in the grass with her flashlight on. It was that dark. Part of living in Oklahoma was putting up with extremes in weather, and the cloud cover that came with them.

Grace checked in with Hillyer while Ham took the keys from Mrs. Catlett, unlocked the front door, and ushered her inside.

“"You see anything? Area secure?”"

“"We can see an open window on the east side of the house on the first story. No signs of forced entry.”" Hillyer hesitated. “"We haven’'t gone inside.”"

“"That’'s fine.”" Grace wrinkled her nose. “"We’'re thinking teenage runaway. She grounded him.”"

Hillyer grinned. “"I ran away a few times. Always came back around suppertime.”"

Grace grinned back and went inside. The front room was decorated very sparely, with hardwood floors that gleamed and wooden furniture covered with clear plastic covers. A grand wooden staircase led upstairs. Staring at the plastic, she whispered “"No way”" and followed the sound of Mrs. Catlett’'s weeping down a central hall, turning right.

The distraught woman was sitting on a rumpled king-sized bed made with plain white sheets and a cotton brown-and-green quilt. A HEPA filter was wheezing quietly. The hardwood floor was bare.

Ham had on gloves, and he had just closed the window. There was a sizable pool of water on the floor; left to lie there, it was going to damage the hardwood.

Grace pulled on a pair of gloves and examined the watery surface. “"Footprints?”" she asked Ham, leaning way over, staring at the splashes.

“"Can’'t tell,”" Ham said. “"Maybe. The last time Mrs. Catlett saw Forrest was at eight o’'clock last night. He wasn’'t feeling well so she told him to go to bed.”"

Grace thought about the e-mail Clay hadn’'t gotten. She looked around the room for a computer.

“"Does Forrest own a laptop?”" she asked.

“"No. There’'s a computer in the family room. I monitor his use,”" Mrs. Catlett replied.

Of course you do, Grace thought, but she didn’'t actually disapprove. The Internet could be a big bad world.

“"Had he changed into his pajamas?”" Grace opened the closet.

“"No. He had on his jeans, and a T-shirt about space, and his denim jacket.”"

Handy, if he wanted to crawl out the window.

Nothing was out of place: schoolbooks lined up on his study desk, clothes put away, shoes in the closet. A large bronze crucifix hung on the wall so that Forrest would be able to see it first thing in the morning.

Grace picked up a book. Rocketry for Beginners. She opened it. It belonged to Clay. She paged through it and put it down.

“"Mrs. Catlett says that none of Forrest’'s things are missing,”" Ham told Grace.

That still wasn’'t proof that he was kidnapped. Hell, she’'d run away from home when she was twelve—--only everyone in her family was so busy that day, no one had noticed. Football practice, Paige’'s music lesson, and Leo had a dental appointment. Plus she had forgotten to take a sweater. When she’'d dragged on back, waiting for her family to gather around her and tell her they were sorry—--for what, she no longer recalled—--her mother had told her to set the table for dinner.

Although she didn’'t condone what Forrest had done, she was proud of him for having the stones to do it. She pulled out her cell and called Clay’'s house again.

“"Me,”" she said to the phone machine. “"If Forrest checks in with you—--”"

“"He can’'t check in with anybody,”" Mrs. Catlett yelled at her. “"Don’'t you people understand?”"

Ham looked at Grace and vice versa. They stepped together in the hall.

“"No one is going to take this seriously,”" he said. “"It hasn’'t even been twenty-four hours.”"

“"He’'s fourteen,”" Grace countered. “"Kinda young.”"

“"He had a fight with his mother.”" Ham moved his shoulders. “"When I ran away from home, no one called the cops. They just waited.”"

Grace went back into the room and sat beside Mrs. Catlett. From her place on the bed, she had a good view into a half-opened nightstand drawer. Inside lay a gigantic pump container of hand sanitizer, a box of disinfectant wipes, and an asthma inhaler.

Also, a clutch of small diabetic needles secured with a rubber band and what appeared to be a bottle of insulin.

“"Mrs. Catlett, does Forrest have diabetes?”" Grace asked slowly. Ham froze in the doorway, listening.

“"Yes, of course he does! I told you that!”"

Grace looked at Ham, who shook his head. It was news to him, too. “"Does he have a pump that delivers insulin to him automatically?”"

“"No. I don’'t trust those things. I have to give him his insulin. I have to do it myself.”" She reached into the drawer and grabbed the clump of syringes. “"And it’'s been too long!”"

Grace was dumbfounded. She tried to think back on all the conversations she’'d had about Forrest. Clay had said nothing about diabetes. Father Alan hadn’'t mentioned it. And neither had Mrs. Catlett.

Mrs. Catlett held the syringes in both hands. “"It’'s from his celiac disease. A complication,”" she said, sobbing. “"If he doesn’'t get his insulin, he’'ll die.”"

Shit, Grace thought. He really does have a condition.

“"Mrs. Catlett,”" Ham said, coming over to her. “"We’'re going to find him.”"

She touched each capped needle as if she were counting them. Did it again. “"I already lost one son. Oh, dear God, I’'ve already lost one!”" She gripped the syringes against her chest. “"You’'ve got to find Forrest. God, God, find him!”"

She folded up and collapsed onto the bed, screaming and kicking. Grace signaled for Ham to stay with her and he nodded, keeping close, but not too close.

Moving into the hallway, Grace whipped out her cell phone. Her face prickled with alarm, intensity. Mrs. Catlett hadn’'t told them. They’'d had no idea. She demon-dialed her captain, who answered on the first ring.

“"We need Rhetta,”" Grace told her. “"And Butch and Bobby. We need an APB for Forrest Catlett. He’'s got a life-threatening illness and he needs his medication. Juvenile diabetes. Insulin. So we especially need Bobby.”" He himself was a diabetic.

“"Hell,”" Captain Perry said. “"Why didn’'t she tell us in the office? Did she forget?”"

“"No clue,”" Grace said. “"She’'s going out of her mind.”"

“"Do we need to send someone from Psych out there?”"

“"That might be a good idea. We have to make her talk to us. Find out how severe it is. How often his doses are administered.”"

“"Don’'t they have pumps nowadays?”"

“"No pump. She’'s got a pile of diabetic needles, those little ones.”" Grace had a lot of first-aid training, and she’'d seen such needles before. “"We’'ll get an inventory, see if all his insulin’'s here. He also has an inhaler. As in asthma.”"

Captain Perry grunted.

“"We’'ll get as much as we can and then I’'ll talk to his pediatrician.”" Grace puffed air out of her cheeks. “"Why’'s it all got to be about kids all of a sudden?”"

“"Don’'t ask me, sister-woman,”" Kate said. “"Any signs of forced entry? A struggle?”"

“"Not so far. We just got here.”"

“"I’'m sending a paramedic and the rest of the team over and I’'ll get you an APB. Let’'s see if Kendra Burke will help us out on this one.”"

“"Copy that,”" Grace bit off. She hung up and went back inside the room. Ham had his notebook out, but Mrs. Catlett was still in orbit.

“"Mrs. Catlett, you need to help us. Forrest needs you. Can you tell us if he took any of his insulin with him?”" Grace asked.

She kept crying.

Grace shrugged at Ham—--Sorry, man—--and headed back out of the room and went outside, into the storm, and walked the perimeter of the house. No one had asked about Mr. Catlett. Grace hadn’'t gotten the impression that they were divorced, but then again, she also hadn’'t known that Forrest really did have a medical condition. Ham was probably finding out about Mr. Catlett now. He was a good partner.

Within seconds, she was soaked to the skin. She didn’'t notice until suddenly, the rain wasn’'t touching her. It was as if an invisible umbrella had opened above her head.

“"Earl? Is that you?”" she asked. There was no answer.

Mr. Catlett was in Houston on business; he was catching the next flight back. Rhetta had found some latent prints on the wall—--man-sized, maybe they were Dad’'s and maybe they were Hannibal Lector’'s—--and there were streak marks and rope fibers embedded in the windowsill consistent with someone dragging something heavy out of the house. Restraints, a kid goofing, who knew? Rhetta was doing her tests.

Turned out Forrest’'s denim jacket was missing. Grace was very proud of Mrs. Catlett for getting her act together sufficiently to notice. Unfortunately, Mrs. Catlett couldn’'t remember if he’'d been wearing it the last time she’'d seen him. They couldn’'t get anywhere with her after that, and she asked for and received a tranq. Butch and Bobby stayed on the home front while Grace and Ham took to the field.

The partners drove to Forrest’'s pediatrician’'s office in Grace’'s Porsche. Ham had to move aside some fast-food bags, and he sat on a squeaky toy she’'d bought for Gus. It was still raining and the wind was brutal. A storm by any other name …... Oklahoma had more tornadoes than any other state in the Union. There had to be some kind of price to pay for living in God’'s country, she supposed.

They got to the pediatrician’'s office. There were cartoon giraffes and lions on the walls—--had to embarrass a young teenage boy—--and Grace remembered Clay telling her that Forrest had a thing for snow leopards. She felt as if she understood him a little better—--the sad, pale boy with the enmeshed mother.

Bobby called to tell her that he’'d checked in with the pharmacy where Mrs. Catlett got Forrest’'s insulin. She purchased a month’'s supply at a time. The school had some on hand. She was missing a little over a quarter of her stash. A week’'s worth. And more than enough syringes to deliver it. That was cause for celebration.

“"Look for prints on the remaining syringes,”" Grace advised.

His doctor was an older man, maybe sixty, with very silvery gray hair, named Dr. Salzman. He ushered them into his office—--drawings by kids on the walls, comfy leather chairs, a big wooden desk with lots of files and a computer.

Grace filled him in quickly. “"Some insulin is missing from the house. More than a quarter of the total. So we’'re going on the assumption that it’'s with Forrest. So that gives us a week, right?”"

“"Which kind?”" the doctor asked. Grace blinked. She looked over at Ham, who shrugged.

“"Forrest takes two kinds of insulin. Most children with Type One diabetes need a sort of foundational insulin that keeps their blood sugar levels low on a constant basis. Then they take a bolus insulin—--something that acts fast—--to lower blood sugar levels when they eat.”"

Grace took that in. Bobby hadn’'t differentiated the prescription, but he would know to ask. If he said a week, he meant a week.

“"I’'ll write down his standard dosages for you, and you can compare them with what’'s in the house. Another factor is what he eats. The more carbohydrates he eats, the greater his need for insulin.”"

“"Okay, yes, please do that,”" Grace said, handing him her notebook.

“"I’'ll call Bobby and put him on the line,”" Ham said.

Grace turned her attention back to Dr. Salzman. “"We’'re trying to determine if Forrest was taken, or if he ran away,”" she informed him.

“"I see.”" He sounded guarded.

“"Do you have an opinion about that?”"

Turned out he did. Even with the diabetes and a confirmed diagnosis of celiac disease, he agreed that Mrs. Catlett held on too tightly.

“"Once we knew it was celiac—--an inability to absorb nutrients—--we could work with that through his diet. And he’'s a great candidate for an infusion pump,”" Salzman told her. “"It would make him more independent. I’'ve told Roberta numerous times that I thought he should have one. But she was scared that it would fail. They’'re simple to monitor; we’'d know right away if there was a problem—--”"

“"What about at school?”" Grace asked, wandering over to a bookcase featuring pamphlets covering just about every childhood illness and malady known to man. Lice …... yup. Pinworms …... yup. She remembered them both from Clay’'s childhood years.

Diabetes for Teens. “"Does he have to get any injections at school? He eats lunch, needs the mealtime injection, right? The second kind of insulin?”"

Grace became aware of his silence. She turned and looked at him. He smiled grimly.

Grace was boggled. “"His mother goes to school to give him his injections.”"

“"I’'m afraid so. There’'s a trained caregiver there. She could monitor him giving himself an injection. We recommend that diabetic patients take over their injections at fourteen. Many do it younger.”"

“"He’'s fourteen,”" Ham said, covering the phone. “"If the other kids know his mother sticks him in the butt with a needle every lunch period …...”"

“"He was using his thigh. And Forrest was positive that no one knew,”" Salzman said. “"They thought his diet and occasional hypoglycemic symptoms were from the celiac disease. On the other hand, sometimes the friends of diabetics protect their secret.”"

Grace opened the pamphlet. Happy, smiling teenagers. Something about Planet D. Special summer camps. “"Did Forrest ever confide in you, tell you how he felt about all this?”"

“"Forrest Catlett is still in my care. I need to honor doctor–-patient confidentiality.”" He hesitated. “"But diabetics as a group have a higher incidence of depression than the general population.”"

“"If I had a chronic illness, I’'d be depressed, too,”" Grace said. She didn’'t think Bobby was, though. But he was a grown-up, used to having diabetes.

A chime sounded, and Dr. Salzman pulled out his cell phone.

“"You’'ve got a patient,”" Grace guessed.

“"I have time for you.”" He sounded very kind. She liked him.

“"Glucagon,”" Grace said, holding up the pamphlet. “"Give him sugar asap. May I take this?”"

“"Take whatever you like.”" The doctor cleared his throat. “"It’'s been a bit of a vicious cycle. She’'s afraid for him to take part in many activities. So she hovers.”"

“"Helicopter parent,”" Grace said.

The doctor inclined his head. “"Exactly. Forrest feels uncomfortable. As a result, he’'s dropped out of most of his activities. He used to be in Little League. He got hit pretty hard with a ball and she went cra—--she got very upset. There’'ve been fewer and fewer things he’'s been interested in.”"

“"Depression,”" Ham said. He pointed to the phone. “"Bobby says about a quarter of the Lantus was missing, too.”"

“"That’'s the basal insulin.”" Salzman nodded. “"So you were right. You’'ve got about a week.”"

Good. Good, good, good.

“"Do you think Forrest was uncomfortable enough to run away from home?”" Ham asked.

The doctor looked uneasy. “"That’'s hard to say. He was private with me. I did suggest therapy.”"

“"For him? Or for his mother?”" Grace wasn’'t big on it, herself.

“"Both, but it didn’'t happen.”" He looked down at his desk. Grace traded looks with Ham. They both fell silent. Silence bothered some people.

They both waited.

“"Forrest had an older sibling. The baby died of SIDS when he was about a month old.”"

“"Crib death,”" Ham said. “"Yeah, I had a friend who lost a kid that way.”" He glanced at Grace. “"Friend of Darlene’'s,”" he amended.

“"Whoa.”" Grace processed that. Not the bit about Darlene and Ham’'s friend—--although that was too bad—--but somehow, she’'d imagined that Forrest’'s brother had died later, like in a car accident or something. It continually surprised her how many preconceived notions she had about things—--assumptions she didn’'t even know she’'d made.

“"That would make me clingy,”" Ham said.

You’'re clingy to start with, Grace thought, taking her notebook back and jotting notes. “"So SIDS, no other cause of death?”"

“"Not that I’'m aware of. I wasn’'t their pediatrician back then,”" Salzman said. “"They moved here from Texas after their first child died. There’'s a good support group called Empty Cradle. They have meetings all over the country. I mentioned it a couple of times. I don’'t think she’'s ever gotten over the death of that child.”" He grimaced. “"If something happens to Forrest …...”"

Grace currently couldn’'t care about Mrs. Catlett. She didn’'t have enough bandwidth. Maybe an angel could do it.

But she was no angel.

“"We’'re going to ask the media to run a piece on this,”" Grace said. “"Would you be willing to be interviewed? We want to broadcast information about his treatment and care. What to do if he goes or is found unconscious.”"

“"Yes, of course.”"

“"We’'ll have them call you, if that’'s all right,”" Grace said.

He inclined his head. “"I’'ll do anything to help.”"

Except tell his mother she has to step out of the picture and let him man up.

As they left, she whipped out her phone and called Butch. “"Kendra’'s gotta sell this to her producers,”" she said. “"Or you gotta cut her off, man.”"

CHAPTER          TWELVE

There was another drive-by that afternoon, but for once it wasn’'t a kid. It was Carlos Santander, head of the Cholos Ricos. Before his body was cold, the CRs had retaliated against the 13X Boyz, and the Briscombes’' block was on fire—--collateral damage, as they lived in 13X Boyz territory.

Grace’'s firefighter brother Leo was working the fire; during a break for hydration, he called Grace and told her that everything the Briscombes had owned was gone.

Jamal would never go back to his grandfather’'s apartment again.

Two hours after the fire started, someone had dangled a noose from the limbs of the Survivor Tree. Attached to the noose was a sign:

We will not stand by.

Two hours after that, someone tagged Emmanuel Synagogue on Northwest 47th Street, one of the oldest Jewish communities in Oklahoma City, with a row of swastikas six feet tall.

All within the space of about five hours.

Meanwhile, Rhetta said the scrapes on Forrest’'s bedroom window were consistent with hauling a weight of approximately 130 pounds out the window.

According to Dr. Salzman, Forrest weighed 128 pounds at his last doctor visit. So had he been knocked out and dragged away? A kid could have climbed out the window without a rope. Why not just lift him up and hand him off to a confederate—--unless someone had been working alone, and didn’'t want to hurt him or call attention to themselves by pushing him out the window and letting him land in the grass?

Now Rhetta was running the handprint through IAFIS to look for a match. There were fifty-five million prints in the international database. There were over three hundred million people in the United States alone.

Grace was worn out and overextended. Her knees were scabbing up and the skin pulled tight, a reminder of her vow to Haleem to find his killer and bring him to justice. Poor Haleem; he was farther down on the list than ever. If she could just get one case closed …...

“"So how’'s it going in here?”" Grace asked Rhetta as she came through the door of the Crime Lab. Grace had just gotten word that Kendra was going to do the piece at the top of the news hour. Dr. Salzman would go on the air with her.

Rhetta was radiant. She had little piles of evidence in tidy rows all over her table and she twirled in a little circle and curtsied like a ballerina.

“"I am amazing,”" she crowed. “"You will never guess what I found.”"

“"A cure for Type One diabetes,”" Grace said.

“"Well, no,”" Rhetta said, the wind temporarily knocked out of her sails. “"But I did find a bullet on that rooftop. That had not been shot.”" She did a little balletic hop. “"And guess what was on the casing.”"

Following her train of thought, Grace also made a little ballerina circle and a bow. “"Oh, dear God, tell me it was a fingerprint.”"

Rhetta leaned her head back. “"I am so awesome.”"

“"You are.”" They high-fived. “"So how do you figure? Jammed in the chamber, so the shooter knocked it out?”"

“"That’'s how I figure. And I got a great print, Grace.”" She took off her glasses and set them on the crown of her head. “"I’'m running it through now. No match yet, but we can hope.”"

“"And save it for later. Those sons of bitches jaywalk, I’'m printing every last one of them.”"

Rhetta kissed Grace’'s cheek. “"Down, girl. By the rules, remember? We want everything to go well in a court of law.”"

“"A print is a print, Rhetta. You can’'t argue with a print.”"

“"You can argue with how you got it. Don’'t you watch Law and Order?”"

“"Only when Barry Switzer’'s on it.”"

They chuckled. Grace cricked her neck. “"On top of it all, I gotta go to Paige’'s for dinner.”"

“"At least she’'s a good cook,”" Rhetta said, going for an encouraging smile.

“"Yeah, if you’'re a rabbit.”"

“"And you are, Grace.”" Rhetta’'s smile turned bright.

“"Thanks. Paige is all freaked out about, y’'know, half of Oklahoma City going up in flames today. She wants to talk about it.”"

“"Is her book group going to be there?”" Rhetta asked. “"Because you remember what happened last time.”"

Grace smiled fondly. “"Yeah. I got half of them roaring drunk and we did the limbo. Good times, good times.”"

Holding back her hair, Grace peered through Rhetta’'s microscope. “"I always hated that coffee table anyway. Kokopeli is so last decade. Is this saliva?”"

“"Church rummage sales can be dangerous,”" Rhetta concurred. “"And yes, it’'s saliva.”"

“"Buying each other’'s crap. It’'s ridiculous. Maybe I’'ll stop and get her a present. Like a fifth of bourbon.”"

“"Is it just you and them? Her family?”"

“"God, no. That would be too pleasant. It’'s Johnny and Doug, too.”" Grace straightened. “"Saliva, ear wax, semen. How do you keep it all straight?”"

“"Is your mother coming?”"

“"Paige didn’'t mention it.”" Grace swallowed hard. “"But then, she wouldn’'t, if she wanted me to come.”" Grace pressed her hands together. “"Pray for me, Rhetta.”"

“"I do.”" Lovingly, Rhetta looped some of Grace’'s errant curls behind her ear. “"Every single night.”"

“"I love you.”" Grace kissed her check.

“"I love you, too. Go with an open mind. You might actually enjoy it.”"

Oh, yeah, I’'m enjoying this, Grace thought, as she sat in one of Paige’'s stiff-backed cane chairs facing Doug, who was making faces at her. She tried to kick him under the table and succeeded only in ramming her foot against one of the table legs. It shook, but Paige and Johnny were too engrossed in prayer to notice. Father John the Blabtist finished his long version of the blessing and Grace was set to dig in, but Paige cleared her throat and everyone froze in position.

“"And please protect each and every member of our family,”" Paige said, intent on having the last word, as she often did, even though their brother was a professional praying machine.

“"Amen,”" Johnny said, and they crossed themselves.

“"Especially Leo, who is putting his life on the line even now,”" Paige added.

“"Amen,”" Johnny said.

Paige was not finished. “"And please watch over—--”"

“"Amen,”" Grace said. “"Jesus, Paige, I’'m about to die of starvation.”"

“"That’'s no reason to be inappropriate,”" Paige snapped.

“"Amen,”" Johnny said, crossing himself.

Grace looked down at the baubles of food: two tastes of chicken, a smidge of mashed sweet potatoes, and three toothpick-thin string beans. Grace wondered if they were being punked. This could not possibly be their entire meal.

Clay and Paige’'s kids had it made—--they were upstairs eating gobs of pizza, drinking soda, and playing video games. Leo was still out fighting the fires, and his daughter, Sayre, was doing whatever teenage girls did these days when Daddy was not home. Grace tried not to go there.

As for Grace herself, she would rather eat ground glass than attend a family powwow, but as Grace had told Rhetta, Paige was scared. Smart Paige.

“"It’'s just …... so many bad things are happening all of a sudden,”" Paige said as everyone tucked into their miniature versions of food.

Grace took a nice swig of wine. She was going to have to drink a vat of the stuff if she ever hoped to wind down from the day she’'d had.

“"Shit,”" she said. She’'d forgotten about the title report for the Sons of Oklahoma property. She put it on her mental to-do list. Reaching again for her Chardonnay, she saw that everyone was looking at her. “"Sorry,”" she said, and then she realized that she had accidentally commanded their attention. She took another hefty swallow. And the glass was half empty.

Make that completely empty.

“"Here’'s the thing. Crime is sky-high and it has been for a while now. Things on the street have been getting worse, not better.”" She looked at their bewildered faces. “"We don’'t know how the mayor manipulated the stats but he had to have done something because that report Kendra Burke gave is total bu—--wrong. And you should all be real careful.”"

“"Marc-Alain was right,”" Paige breathed, taking a minute sip of her wine. At least three molecules passed from the glass to her lips.

Grace pondered the personality makeup of someone who ate and drank like Paige. All she could come up with was tight ass.

“"Who’'s Marc-Alain?”" Doug asked.

Paige put her napkin to her lips. The napkins were cloth, of course. Paige was all about civilized behavior.

“"My tennis coach. He said Oklahoma City is an incredibly violent place. When I told him about that piece Kendra did, he said it was a whitewash because of the mayor’'s reelection campaign.”"

Smart Marc-Alain.

“"Why do you have a French tennis coach?”" Johnny asked her.

“"I need help with my serve,”" she retorted, but she looked a little flustered.

Maybe to get back at her husband for banging the owner of that chichi little bookstore, Grace thought. Said husband being MIA for this dinner, by the way.

But she didn’'t say anything. No one knew that she knew Buck was screwing around. Except Buck the Shithead Cheater himself.

“"But that would be shoddy journalism,”" Paige argued. “"To let herself be fooled like that?”"

“"Yeah, speaking of ol’' Kendra. Where’'s the remote?”" Grace scooted back her chair.

“"Grace, please stay focused.”"

Grace ignored Miss Prissypants. Top of the hour. Kendra had promised. Grace walked out of the dining room and into the living room, locating the remote on a Tuscan-style coffee table. She aimed it at the huge plasma TV, and fired.

There she was. The love of Butch’'s life. Heavy makeup, long face.

“"Tonight, all residents of Oklahoma City are urged to call the Oklahoma City Police Department if they have any information as to the whereabouts of Forrest Robert Catlett.”"

The photograph Mrs. Catlett had supplied appeared behind Kendra. Forrest looked better in the photo than Grace had ever seen him in real life. She hoped that wouldn’'t make him harder to recognize.

A crawl along the bottom of the screen gave out the police department number. There was a pool on how many crackpot false leads they were going to get. If Butch won this one, too, Grace was going to have to do something desperate.

“"Forrest has been missing for approximately ten hours. He’'s a diabetic and he’'s overdue for a dose of insulin. It is extremely urgent that he be taken to the nearest medical facility for treatment, as soon as possible. Here’'s Forrest’'s pediatrician, Dr. Herman Salzman, with more information.”"

Grace did a double take. They had slathered the doctor in pancake makeup; he looked like an orange.

Paige, Johnny, and Doug joined Grace.

“"I’'m sorry, Grace,”" Paige murmured. “"I shouldn’'t have said anything about losing your focus. I should have realized you had a good reason to leave my dinner table without asking to be excused.”"

Grace nodded. Then Forrest’'s dad appeared on-screen with Mrs. Catlett, who appeared to be barely functioning. That would be good. That would stir people up. They were making their appeal for information, for Forrest to come home, for the kidnappers to make their demands. The dad was a typical chubby businessman. Grace thought Mrs. Catlett would have put him on a diet. Maybe Forrest was as much as she could handle.

The chief had sent someone to stay with the Catletts in their house, and a patrol car would make the rounds all night. He and the mayor were fielding lots of queries about why they’'d issued statements about the downward trend in violent crimes when all evidence pointed to the contrary. They were squirming like snails on a hot sidewalk.

Paige was twisting her napkin between her hands. “"I should get a gun.”"

Paige talked about buying a gun whenever she got scared. Grace just couldn’'t see it. You had to be willing to use a lethal weapon, lethally. You had to be willing to kill someone. Paige wouldn’'t be able to commit to that. She’'d freak out and her assailant would take it from her. Grace had seen it over and over and over.

“"You could teach me how to shoot,”" Paige implored.

“"God, no,”" Doug groaned. Paige glared at him.

“"Okay, maybe,”" Grace said. Kendra’'s piece on the Catlett case ended, and a shot of the noose on the Survivor’'s Tree hit the screen. Been there, done that. Grace turned off the TV and headed back to the dinner table.

“"We should pray again,”" Paige announced as she and Grace sat down. “"Pray some more.”" Paige looked at Johnny and folded her hands, waiting.

“"Does it work that way?”" Grace asked her brother. “"You flood the office with requests and God finally responds?”"

“"Intercessory prayer is a complicated thing,”" Johnny replied.

“"Can’'t you just pray?”" Paige snapped, irritated.

Doug looked at Grace and gave his head a weary shake. Then he picked up his empty plate and said, “"Is there more food?”"

“"Don’'t interrupt,”" Paige ordered him. “"We’'re praying.”"

And here we are again, Grace thought. The prayer thing. I don’'t feel it. Words, begging …... it won’'t make a difference. God does whatever the hell He wants. We’'re like a bunch of string puppets—--

“"Amen,”" Johnny said.

Grace realized she’'d zoned out and quickly crossed herself in unison with everyone else. She got up to go to the kitchen to open another bottle of wine. Eat, pray, drink. It was going to be a long dinner. Even without anything to eat.

Later, Grace sat with Clay in a rattan double swing on Paige’'s covered porch, watching the rain. A little rain was good. It relieved the pressure.

His head was on her shoulder and they rocked back and forth, back and forth, while Clay cried. She knew he didn’'t want to break down like this; he thought it was babyish and after all, he was thirteen now.

“"It’'s not your fault,”" she said, resting her chin against the crown of his head.

“"I got Forrest in trouble. His mom sent him to his room. And then …... he disappeared.”"

“"He was going to bed, Clay. He didn’'t feel good.”"

“"That’'s what she told you. But she was always sending him to his room. He hated it.”" He sniffled.

“"Enough to run away?”"

“"I don’'t know, Aunt Grace.”"

“"Did you know he had diabetes?”"

“"No. And I always thought he was kind of a wimp. He could probably tell.”"

He cried a little more, and she put her arms around him and hugged him tightly, willing her strength into him, feeling all over again just how scared she’'d been at the launch site. Roberta Catlett had lost one son, and the other one was a diabetic and an asthmatic. It was a lot for one woman.

“"I’'ll find him. I will, Clay. He’'s going to be all right,”" she said, and then she heard herself. She was spouting bullshit. Kind lies. She shook her head.

“"I’'ll find him,”" she said, “"and I hope he’'ll be all right.”"

He lifted his head. “"What if he dies?”"

She studied his face. Licked her lips.

Stay honest, she ordered herself.

“"We’'ve got a week. In police detective time, that’'s like a whole year.”"

He looked at her hard. “"Aunt Grace …...”"

“"If he dies, I’'ll be here for you,”" she said.

He burst into tears.

From the shadows, Earl watched Clay and Grace.

That’'s some powerful praying you got going there, girl. Nice job.

Then God’'s angel spread his wings over Grace and her nephew, and he prayed, too.

CHAPTER          THIRTEEN

Tuesday morning. Too bright. Too early.

Grace had put away half a bottle of bourbon after she escaped from Paige’'s, and she felt every drop now. Head, stomach. Aspirin and coffee gave her a kick start, and then she grabbed a sausage-and-egg sandwich to go on the way in to work. Okay, maybe that was a mistake, too.

She was first in the office, so it was up to her to turn Butch’'s Longhorn magnet upside down. The gang needed a good prank to relieve the tension—--a little rain—--and she began to scheme. Who would be her target? Or should it be all of them, wa-ha-ha?

First though, she was going to do the title report on the Sons of Oklahoma land purchase. She typed in the URL for public records and squinted at the first screen. Bobby was best at this kind of stuff, but it wasn’'t rocket science.

Bingo. The Sons had bought their fifty acres from James Morrison III, and at less than market value. Whoa, what a steal. Times were tough, sure; but maybe the Sons had come to Oklahoma City because Mr. Morrison had cut them such a screamin’' deal. Maybe in his heart he was a bigoted white guy who wanted to help out his fellow racists.

Maybe he was one of them.

In some cities, they wore white sheets. In others, they just walked around like regular people. Had jobs, sold real estate. Shot people on the weekends.

“"Maybe you even gave them one of Syndee Barlett’'s magnetic signs. Or maybe they just took it.”"

She bookmarked the page and sent the URL to Ham. Checked the clock. Almost eight a.m.

And school was in session.

At the top of the stairs, giving her a bird’'s-eye view of the students and the streets, Grace watched the kids as they slogged to the double entrance doors of Franklin High School. A kid trotted past, reeking of dope; she shook her head at his stupidity.

Ian Fletcher might have a name for the architectural style, but Grace was going for Fortress of Arrogance. As the blustery wind grabbed at her hair, she saw Jamal down at the bottom, walking and talking to two boys who were about six and fourteen inches shorter than he was, respectively. He was all slouchy gangsta man, with his do-rag and bling, and they were hanging on every word.

She set her jaw. If he was recruiting, she was going to kick his ass from here to Tulsa.

The warning bell rang and students hightailed it through the arched entryway. The two younger kids broke away from Jamal and rushed to make it to their classes. Still buying into the system, then. Still caring what their grades were.

Good.

Jamal saw Grace descending toward him. He took off his rag and stuffed it in his backpack. Then his big-ass necklace. If they searched his pack and found that shit, he’'d be expelled. She wondered if he cared anymore.

“"How’'s Daddy D?”" he asked her, eyes wide and fearful.

“"The same.”" She chewed the inside of her lip, trying to read him, see if he already knew what she was here to tell him.

“"There was a fire yesterday,”" she began. “"In your neighborhood.”"

He swallowed hard. “"Yeah, I know.”" He looked up at her through his lashes. “"And?”"

“"It’'s all gone, man.”"

“"Shit!”" he yelled. He flung his backpack at her. She caught it like a basketball. “"You lying to me!”" He was talking street; he’'d gotten all A’'s in English. Every year.

“"We’'re investigating it—--”"

“"You’'re not doing shit!”" He balled his fists and looked around for something to hit. Back, forth, he pivoted, like a caged animal. He ran over to a spruce and rammed his fist into the trunk. Roared from the pain.

She let him rage for a while; then, sensing someone behind her on the stairs, she turned and saw a school security guard. Unhooking her badge, she flashed it at him. He nodded, but he didn’'t go away, just moved up a few stairs and watched.

“"Oh, God, God,”" Jamal whispered; then he began to pant. He hit the tree again. It had to hurt like hell.

Had to hurt worse to lose all your worldly possessions.

“"Everything we had of Malcolm’'s,”" he said. “"His stuffed animals, and his chemistry set. His baby blanket …...”" He dug the heels of his hands into his eye sockets and keened. He wailed and he screamed and he sobbed.

Grace waited, watching his hand bleed.

“"I’'m going to kill those suckahs,”" he hissed. “"Get that gun and blow ’'em away.”"

“"Come with me to the hospital,”" Grace said. “"Come see your grandfather. We can get your hand looked at at the same time.”"

“"Is he awake?”" Jamal asked without looking at her. He flexed his fingers. “"Does he know?”"

“"No,”" she said. “"But when he wakes up, he’'s going to need you, Jamal.”"

“"He hates me.”" He hung his head.

“"He hates that you’'re in a gang. Because he loves you. Come on.”"

She could see him wavering. Then he scowled at her, backing away.

“"You came to my school, man. Everybody saw you. If they saw us talking, they’'ll kill me.”"

“"Then come with me.”" She held out her hand. “"I’'ll protect you.”"

“"Like you protected our place?”" His laugh was bitter, derisive.

“"The Sons of Oklahoma are ramping up,”" she said. “"They’'re going to try to start a war. You can’'t fight a war if you’'re not in the army.”"

“"Tyrell X got my back,”" he informed her. “"We’'re gonna get it done.”"

“"All you’'re going to do is die.”" She walked down the rest of the stairs and held out both hands. “"I am asking you, for your grandfather’'s sake. Get out now.”"

“"If I die, it’'s your fault, because you came here.”" He clamped his mouth.

She kept walking toward him. “"If you kill someone, you’'ll get your Full Patch, am I right? And once you’'re a full member, there is only one way out. It won’'t be like it is now. It’'ll be worse. Much worse. You have to stop.”"

“"You don’'t tell me what to do, you—--you white bitch!”" Spittle erupted from his mouth and he raised his hands, balling them as if he might actually hit her. She gave him a cop’'s hard eye, more to keep him from hurting himself again than anything else. “"Everything I have is gone!”"

“"You’'ve got your grandfather.”"

“"Shut up. You just shut up!”" he screamed at her.

Then he turned and ran into the gray, windy day.

Grace ran her hands through her hair and sighed heavily. She started down the stairs; then something made her turn around.

The security guard was standing still, watching her. He’'d been there the whole time. And when she met his gaze, his eyes were cold and mean; maybe Jamal had a point. Maybe this guy was a gang member. If you were smart you could get through the screening. Guys who got jobs doing security had a lot in common with cops and, weirdly enough, cops had a lot in common with criminals. A fun fact you learned in the academy.

Grace walked to the curb, where she’'d double-parked Connie—--a perk of being a police officer and not a criminal—--climbed into her Porsche, and started looking for Jamal.

She figured he couldn’'t have gotten far. But she must have figured wrong. He had melted into the shadows like an expert. Calculating his walking speed, then running speed, Grace pulled over a number of times and searched.

“"Damn it, come out,”" she called. “"Jamal, don’'t do this!”"

Another day over. It had started raining again, and the holes in their barn roof were spreading like puddles. Maybe Ronnie was right; they should sell before any more things broke.

After Rhetta finished putting the kids to bed, she steeled herself for her nightly meeting with her husband in the kitchen. What would it be tonight? They had already gone over the bank statements and checkbooks-all the things he had been hiding from her. What was left? She was sure she’'d find out soon enough. Then she’'d drink a couple of glasses of wine and wind up crying in the barn.

Only, tonight, Ronnie wasn’'t in the kitchen. She stood alone, caught off guard, and went into their bedroom. He was in bed, and by the sound of his gentle snoring, he was asleep.

Her heart softened. She looked at the lines on his face, the light spilling from the doorway on his hair. For better or worse, and these times were bad.

She could go to him. Be comforted by him …...

She was too angry. And besides, every time they’'d …... tried, nothing had happened. They were both too stressed.

But there was holding each other. Just being together.

No. She just couldn’'t.

Feeling defeated, she shut the door, went back into the kitchen, and mulled what to do next. She thought about going to check on Speckles. She’'d wait five minutes; maybe the rain would die down.

She reached into the fridge to get another glass of white wine, then changed her mind and grabbed a water bottle instead. Unscrewing the cap, she glanced over at the calculator on the counter, sitting on top of the file folders containing the evidence of their financial ruin.

Then the landline phone rang. Rhetta jerked and automatically glanced at the clock. Ten. As she rushed to grab it, she made a mental inventory—--kids safe; Ronnie safe; it might be Grace but she doesn’'t call this late on my landline; maybe it’'s our parents; what if it’'s someone in Grace’'s family, because something has happened to her?

She grabbed the phone.

“"Hello?”" she said, holding her breath as she put the receiver to her ear. The frenetic thump of heavy metal whooshed across the line like horrible static.

“"Mrs….... mmmm …...”" It was a girl’'s voice, very muffled, followed by some sobbing. Rhetta blinked as, just as rapid-fire as before, her mind sought to make connections: a wrong number; one of Mae’'s friends; Grace’'s niece, Sayre—--

“"Missus? Rodriguez?”" The words were barely audible over the music. And very slurred. Whoever had called her was drunk.

Rhetta knit her forehead. The voice was familiar, but she couldn’'t place it, and she was unwilling to identify herself until she knew who it was.

“"May I ask who’'s calling, please?”"

There was a pause. “"Oh, mm so sorry, shouldn’'t a called you—--”"

“"Wait.”" Rhetta blinked. She shifted her weight and laid the water bottle against her chest. “"Is this …... Jeannie?”"

The reply was a heavy sob. “"Shelter’'s all full up. I don’'t even know where I am, lost my shoes an’' my purse.”" She cried some more. “"’'N these bikers’'re asking me if I wanna place to get outta rain.”"

Jesus, Joseph, and Mary. Rhetta blinked.

“"Jeannie,”" she said. “"Can you call someone?”" Then she heard herself and realized that what she meant to say was, someone else?

“"Yeah, s-sorry, sorry, t’' bother you.”" She started crying harder.

“"Wait, wait.”" Rhetta put the cold bottle against her forehead. “"How did you get my home phone number?”"

“"I calla direct’'ry,”" she said. “"Pu’' me through.”"

Rhetta was surprised. Their number was supposed to be unlisted.

“"You gotta husband name Ronnie, right? The lady said Ronnie ’'n’' Rhetta Rodriguez.”"

“"It’'s okay,”" Rhetta said, even though it wasn’'t, and she would have to talk to Ronnie about it. Another item on her list of annoyances.

“"Lissen, I’'m sorry a bother ya. I jus’' …...”"

“"Are you in a bar?”" Rhetta asked. Judging by the decibel level, if she wasn’'t, then she was in somebody’'s car. Rhetta wasn’'t sure which would be worse.

“"I’'m inna bathroom,”" Jeannie said. “"These guys were lookin’' at me funny.”"

“"The bikers,”" Rhetta said.

“"No, ma’'am. Th’' bikers are nice.”"

I gave her my business card. Rhetta figured she had kind of brought this on herself. No good deed went unpunished, and tonight it was her turn to prove it. Driving in the pouring rain to a biker bar …... “"I’'m going to come and get you,”" Rhetta said. “"But I need the address. Are you on a pay phone?”" A few such beasts still existed, especially out in the country, where technology changed more slowly and cell phone coverage was spotty.

“"Yes’'m. Oh, please, come gimme,”" Jeannie pleaded, weeping. “"He beat me up so bad.”"

“"Oh, my God,”" Rhetta said under her breath. “"Hunter? He’'s not with you now, is he?”"

“"No’'m, I ran away.”"

“"And he doesn’'t know where you are?”"

“"Uh-uh. Uh-uh, na now. Oh, God, I love him.”" She began to sob again. Rhetta tried not to roll her eyes but it was very late and she was cranky.

“"Jeannie, I’'m going to call Detective Hanadarko and we’'ll come for you, okay?”"

“"No! No cops, no, no, no, not that scary lady.”" She hiccuped. “"No one but you. You’'re nice.”"

Rhetta pushed up her glasses. “"Detective Hanadarko is nice.”"

“"She wanna know stuffa Hunter’'s. I don’'t know his business, I don’', no, no, no. You come get me, okay?”"

Rhetta sighed. She could call Grace, tell her what she was doing, and have her follow her out there. Jeannie didn’'t need to know.

“"You comin’'?”" Jeannie whined.

“"Yes,”" Rhetta said. “"I’'m coming. So you need to tell me where you are.”"

“"Oh, God bless you, bless,”" Jeannie slurred.

“"Jeannie, please, listen. Look at the face of the phone. It might list the name and address of your location. Where you are.”"

“"Blurry …... oh, Mis Rodgriguez …... he’'s mad at me …...”"

“"Look at the phone,”" Rhetta repeated.

“"’'Kay, ’'kay, yeah …... the Owl Roost …... here’'s a address …...”"

Rhetta wrote it down. “"Let me read it back to you.”"

“"You got it, you got it,”" Jeannie congratulated her.

“"Okay. Now listen. I have to disconnect because I’'m on a landline, too. Give me the number and I’'ll try to call you back on my cell phone. It might not work.”" Some pay phones refused incoming calls; it was an attempt by the phone companies to distance themselves from drug trafficking. But since more and more people had cell phones, it was less of an issue than it once had been.

“"You can’' go, you can’'t,”" Jeannie wailed. “"Don’' leave me.”"

“"I’'ll drive to you. It should take me less than half an hour.”"

Jeannie hiccuped somewhere. There was a terrible retching sound and Rhetta screwed up her face, realizing that Jeannie was vomiting. She’'d be sure to bring extra water.

Finally Jeannie said, “"Okay.”"

“"I’'ll be in a black truck. I’'m not coming into the bar. I’'ll honk my horn and you come out.”" Rhetta made sure she was speaking into the mouthpiece. “"Do you understand? I will honk.”"

“"I come out,”" Jeannie whispered. “"I’'ll go outside now.”"

“"It’'ll take me half an hour,”" Rhetta reminded her.

“"Okay.”"

“"I’'ll try to call you back.”"

“"Okay.”"

She disconnected. Then she attempted to call Jeannie back using her cell phone. As she had anticipated, the call didn’'t go through.

She punched in Grace’'s number but it went straight to voice mail. “"Grace,”" she said, “"I’'m going to a bar called the Owl Roost to get Jeannie Johnson. Hunter beat her up and she’'s been drinking. She doesn’'t want to see you. But I want you to follow me out there, okay?”"

Then she wrote a brief note for Ronnie, gathered her purse, and left.

“"Here we are, seventh circle of Hell,”" Butch told Grace, as Connie the Porsche hugged the mean streets. Grace had spent the rest of the rainy day looking for Jamal and asking Ham to do their in-house work. He ran their cases through ViCAP to see if any other crimes in the database kicked out with similar details, MO. She asked him to call the hospital to see how Mr. Briscombe was. Ham caught the forensics report on the rope used to make the noose on the Survivor’'s Tree. Not the same as that used in the Catlett abduction or whatever it was. Confirmed the APB on Forrest.

And she kept looking for Jamal. She stopped in at Tacoville, to find Butch and Bobby there, preparing to part ways for the night. Butch seemed a bit out of sorts, and Grace invited him to help her look for Jamal. They left his truck in a nicer neighborhood and drove on back to the crib he and Bobby had followed him to.

It was a part of town so bad that it made the bad part look like Beverly Hills. Blasted-out brick buildings, empty lots littered with rusted shopping carts, mountains of trash, and homeless skels—--short for “"skeletons,”" meaning homeless people—--who were lying unconscious or dead in filthy sleeping bags, using cardboard cartons as shelter from the heavy rains.

Diagonally across from the Porsche, there was a building with a boarded-up storefront, the plywood sheets tagged by the Sixty-Sixes. Butch had told Grace that behind that was a narrow alley lined with discarded baby furniture, of all things—--the boarded-up shop had been a consignment store for kids’' stuff, someone’'s dream gone bust—--and on the other side of that alley was a triplex. All three units made up the crib Bobby and Butch had followed Jamal to on the day of his grandfather’'s heart attack.

“"Be it ever so hideous, there’'s no place like home,”" Grace said faintly.

“"It’'s not even as nice as his grandfather’'s apartment. Or didn’'t he notice that?”" Butch drawled.

“"It’'s still standing. It has that in its favor,”" Grace said. “"Jesus, I had him today and I just let him walk away. I was in my car in less than two minutes, and I lost him.”"

“"Sounds like he doesn’'t want to be found.”"

“"I don’'t care what he wants.”" She pulled over to the curb and they got out. Grace had on her sheepherder jacket; she put on a black cowboy hat. Butch did likewise. Umbrellas would just slow them down.

They walked confidently but slowly, looking everywhere. They were going north up the street so they could approach the triplex from the open street, rather than the alley. A dark green Dumpster sat in the middle of a vacant lot, like a turtle on a dirty beach. “"He’'s a dumb shit.”"

“"Can’'t deny that. He’'s also sixteen.”"

She tipped her hat and gazed up at the stars. “"Let’'s see. You were sixteen about the time you decided to defect to UT and become a Longhorn.”" She kicked a syringe out of the way. “"Did Kendra know that report she did on crime was bullshit? Or is she just a bad reporter?”"

“"Ooh, whoa, down, girl,”" he drawled, unaware that those words had been spoken very recently in Grace’'s presence.

“"C’'mon, Butch, you’'re going to marry her.”" Her phone vibrated. “"Oh, a call came in. Rhetta.”" She listened. “"Oh, my God. She’'s gone to pick up Jeannie Johnson. She’'s somewhere drunk in a bar. Jeannie’'s drunk, I mean.”"

Butch stared at her. “"Rhetta? Shouldn’'t one of us being doing that?”"

“"Yeah, I’'ll call Ham,”" she said. “"Give him the address.”"

At that exact moment, someone shot at them. Grace felt the force of the bullet scream past her cheek as she launched herself at Butch and they both fell to the ground. Butch had his gun out before he hit the deck and he rolled and aimed. Grace pushed herself onto her hip so she could get her weapon out of her holster and gave him a nudge. Together they rose and darted, hunched, behind the Dumpster, into mud that stank of garbage and excrement.

“"Well, this sucks,”" Grace said. “"I’'ll call for backup.”" She reached in her pocket. “"Crap. I dropped my phone.”"

Another shot. This time it ripped into the Dumpster with an odd, pingy crack.

“"I’'ll use mine,”" Butch said.

“"Use it fast,”" Grace told him.

CHAPTER          FOURTEEN

No callback from Grace. Now what?

Rhetta blew a sigh between pursed lips and drove on, half fearing and half hoping that Jeannie would go home with the bikers or maybe curl up somewhere and pass out. She began to feel she’'d gone on a fool’'s errand. Grace would be pissed that she’'d done this alone. But Rhetta had reached out to the condemned murderer Leon Cooley, and that had definitely been the right thing to do. It had brought healing and closure not only to Leon, but also to Grace. God’'s hand had clearly guided Rhetta; she had the sense that He was at work here, too. Not that that would impress Grace. It boggled Rhetta’'s mind that despite everything that had happened, all the tangible, concrete evidence of the divine in Grace’'s life, Grace continued to pooh-pooh Earl’'s assertion that Grace had been put on this earth for something grand yet to unfold.

And if Grace’'s best friend felt a clear call to rescue a woman who might turn out to be a prime witness in an important case, Grace ought to trust that the divine could work in Rhetta’'s life, too.

“"So if the divine can work in my life, then maybe we won’'t lose the farm,”" Rhetta muttered as she ducked her head to maintain her line of vision between the warring windshield wipers, trying to figure out where she was. “"We just have to have faith.”"

Then there was a blur of red neon that she hoped was the Owl Roost. It was a stucco shack, really, a dumpy cube with a glass door covered by waving lines of wrought iron; a similarly protected front window; and an amber glow inside, revealing milling shadows and the occasional bright light, as if someone were taking pictures with a flash. It all seemed to be melting in the rain.

Rhetta rolled up slowly and drew down her passenger window, confirming that she was right. Taking a huge breath and a bigger leap of faith, she honked her horn. One short blast. Maybe she wouldn’'t be able to hear that. Two.

She leaned on the horn.

Nothing.

“"Great.”" She looked down at her cell phone.

NO SERVICE.

There was a landline in the bar. So …... what? She would go into the scary biker bar to ask someone to come out and help her get back out of the scary biker bar?

She honked again.

And Jeannie Johnson burst from the door like a waterlogged sprite—--brown hair plastered to her face, rolled-up jeans, and a purple floral babydoll top over a tank top. Good for the summer, maybe, but not March in Oklahoma. Rhetta leaned over and opened the passenger-side door, and Jeannie let out a yelp.

“"Rocks,”" she said, as she climbed inside.

From the doorway, an enormous man wearing riding leathers waved. Jeannie leaned out of the open passenger window, waving at him with both hands.

“"Bye!”" she cried.

Then she flopped against the seat and covered her mouth with her hand. Rhetta touched her teeth together.

“"You’'re not going to be sick, are you?”"

“"Already was.”" She lolled her head toward Rhetta.

“"And I don’' have anything lef’' a puke back up.”"

“"Good to know,”" Rhetta murmured. She put the truck in drive and got the hell out of there.

“"I hate to tell you this, but whoever is shooting at us is in the triplex,”" Butch said to Grace as he slid his phone back into his pocket. They had to speak loudly because of the rain; but because of the rain, they weren’'t too afraid about being overheard. “"Which means they’'re in the Sixty-Sixes. So it could be Jamal.”"

They were still crouched behind the Dumpster. Dispatch informed them that help was on the way with plenty of lights and sirens to scare off their attackers. Grace was counting the seconds. At least the rain was making it a little harder to see the two of them huddled like sitting ducks in the rising swill.

“"That’'s the best news I’'ve had all night,”" Grace retorted. “"Jamal, I mean. We can arrest his sorry ass and then he’'s off the streets.”"

“"Then Jamal’'s got a record.”"

She watched the triplex for more signs of movement. “"He’'s a juvenile. It’'ll fall off his record in two years.”"

“"You’'re dreaming, Grace. The state of Oklahoma that I live in would try him as an adult.”"

She grimaced because he was right. If Jamal wanted to run with the big dogs, he’'d get locked up with them.

Shadows slid down the fire escape, which ran parallel to the cracked, weed-infested sidewalk. Someone was climbing down. Looked to be at least two someones. She saw a glint of metal; it had to be a gun. Maybe today Jamal had gotten his gun.

Tough times.

She felt a cold fire in her stomach as lightning crackled overhead, confirming that the lead guy was Jamal with a gun. He was followed by someone big and hulking, with prison muscles. Tyrell himself? Ready to witness the kid making his bones?

I don’'t want to shoot him. But she held her gun with both hands, following them. Beside her, Butch did the same. If it came down to her or Jamal, Jamal was dying tonight.

She and Butch had cause to shoot. Neither one of them was doing it. She thought about his little brother, and Mr. Briscombe, wheezing for life the way that kid had in the alley. This was one of the ways criminals got made. Bad options led to bad choices. It took a lot of balls to stand your ground while the Four Horsemen galloped toward you. It was also pretty stupid. But there were things you could do, to save yourself. If you couldn’'t plan your future, staying a couple of steps ahead of them, you could just flat-out run. Or ask someone who was already running to carry you.

Here she was.

“"Grace,”" Butch said, “"this Mexican standoff is bullshit.”"

“"You don’'t want to shoot him, either.”"

“"I don’'t want to die today, either.”"

Then she lost the two figures in the accordion slats of the fire escape. Goddamn it, she and Butch needed night-vision goggles to deal with this. She wondered if the Sixty-Sixes had them. Sons of Oklahoma probably did. Her nerve endings were crackling like live wires. People—--armed criminals—--she couldn’'t see lurked just a few yards away. Which way had they gone?

“"I’'m going around the other side of the Dumpster,”" she said.

He nodded.

She flattened herself against the wet metal, planting her feet carefully because it would be easy—--and stupid—--to slip or twist her ankle in a pothole. Taut, she kept her gun at the ready, scanning all around. Adrenaline made her hum inside. She had to redirect it or it would turn into fear, so she did—--into a nearly superhuman attentiveness. She had a cop’'s edge, which was why cops won at these games more often than bad guys. The bad guys lacked the Jedi discipline to move into a place where you weren’'t any emotion at all. Where you were the job and nothing else.

Except …... she couldn’'t ignore the part of her that wanted to spare Jamal Briscombe.

There was a shift in the air. Lightning flashed again, and Grace studied Butch’'s back. Judging by his posture, she knew something was up. Something was about to happen. She took a deep breath and stayed in control of herself. If it came down to her and Jamal, it would be her. If it came down to her and Butch, it would be Butch. She knew he would do the same for her—--take a bullet, go down. After all these years as cops, it was part of their DNA. It was something they could count on.

Earl, take care of Gus, she thought. Then she wondered: If she died, was Earl done with the rest of her family? Maybe none of the other Hanadarkos/Normans needed extra chances.

The rain poured down; her hat was soaked, more of a liability now because it was heavy, constricted her line of vision, and made her head a bigger target. She took it off. It might come in useful later, to deflect attention and confuse the enemy.

She had reached the end of the Dumpster. Slowly she pivoted, facing the expanse of metal, and peered around the side. The hair on the back of her neck stood straight up.

Across the street, someone was directly facing her, and she was pretty sure it was Jamal. He was a silhouette barely discernible in the darkness. Did he see her? Could he shoot her? Shoot a cop, man, and your life was over.

Licking her lips, she steadied her aim.

Then she heard the blare of a squad car. There was no way she could relax now—--it might be now-or-never time across the street—--but she knew there was an end in sight. She hoped it was a good end. Beside her, Butch was just as alert and cautious as ever.

The squad car was joined by a second and a third, cops throwing open their doors and squatting behind them. Then a SWAT team, in a panel van. And last but not least, Ham. He had on a helmet but she knew it was her partner. He was wearing black body armor with POLICE emblazoned in white letters on the back. She didn’'t distract him; in the dark, she and Butch could be mistaken for bad guys. The best thing they could do was stay out of the fracas unless they were needed. But that was also the hardest thing to do.

Ham solved that by jogging backward to the Dumpster. Butch was on the west side and Ham came up to him first, then leaned backward to check on Grace.

“"You’'re okay,”" he said.

“"Yes.”"

“"Why didn’'t you …...,”" he began, but he stopped. Then he said, “"We’'ll get you covered and get a squad car over here.”"

He left them there and rejoined the team. But instead of covering Grace and Butch, Tac gave the word and they surged forward, toward the triplex. Tactical teams split off, sweeping the street.

“"They shouldn’'t do this,”" Grace protested. “"Shouldn’'t confront them here, on their home turf. It’'s raining and it’'s dark. We should get out and go.”"

“"I’'ll lay you odds a chopper’'s on the way,”" Butch said angrily. “"Make that two. One for us, and one for the press.”"

“"Oh, God,”" Grace groaned. “"I hate the mayor.”"

“"Say it louder,”" Butch deadpanned.

Then she heard the voice of Tactical on a bullhorn.

“"We have you surrounded,”" he announced. “"Come out with your hands in the air.”"

“"This is bullshit,”" Grace said. “"This wasn’'t a planned op, was it? Did we just stumble into something?”" She clenched her teeth. “"We don’'t have body armor on. We don’'t know the op. We’'re just sitting here in a puddle of crap.”"

“"Captain Perry’'s probably throwing a fit.”"

“"And calling IA, I hope.”" That was a sore spot with Grace. Kate had had a thing with her biggest nemesis in Internal Affairs. After he sent a spy into their midst, Kate broke it off. But not before. A captain should never have done such a thing to her detectives. Well, they’'d all done goofy shit, but really that had pushed the envelope.

“"We’'re being put in harm’'s way for publicity,”" Grace said. And so was Jamal. “"This is bullshit.”"

“"You got that right,”" Butch said.

“"You have ten seconds to come out,”" Tac said.

Across the street, the flare of a gun announced that someone on the bottom floor—--maybe someone who had just climbed down the catwalk—--had aimed and fired at the cops.

Guns blazed, blam blam blam blam, in a hail of bullets. Grace kept her weapon close and her Dumpster mate closer as they watched from the sidelines. Her anger was getting the best of her. It was a battle that shouldn’'t be. It was dangerous and stupid.

Through the ear-buffeting racket, Grace detected the soft whum-whum-whum of a helicopter. She looked up. POLICE was written on the underbelly, and the copter was sending out a high beam over the triplex. Grace saw two, three, five guys on the balcony. And one girl. Dumb ass. When the light hit her, she fled inside …... just as the window to her right shattered. Two of the guys on the balcony crumpled.

A second helicopter appeared in the sky with the KLAE affiliation visible in the running lights. Grace gritted her teeth.

“"Think your fiancéee’'s up there?”" Grace asked Butch.

“"If she is …...”" Butch trailed off. There really wasn’'t anything he could do to stop her. Reporters went to the stories. And the good stories were about life and death.

Bullets hit the Dumpster, making thudding noises. Grace looked behind herself and saw a couple of lumps of cardboard slowly rising and falling, like geometric worms—--the homeless, defenseless as always. Grace tugged on Butch’'s arm.

“"We gotta do something,”" she said.

He nodded; they bent over as far as they could and headed for the khaki caterpillars. Grace threw her arms around the first one and Butch ran farther into the lot for the second. Protect and serve. Making herself a human shield, she shouted, “"We gotta get you out of here. It’'s dangerous to be out here.”"

“"What’'s happening? What’'s happening?”" her skel cried. He was a leathery man; she had no idea how old he was. He had no teeth. Wait. He was a woman.

Grace had scanned the lot as she ran to the woman; she figured the safest place was directly behind the Dumpster, where she and Butch were bivouacked. Pushing the sleeping bag off the disoriented woman like she was divesting a stack of Styrofoam cups of their sleeve, she made sure the lady was ambulatory before she draped herself around her and half carried, half shepherded her toward the Dumpster. She wanted to check on Butch but she had to stay focused—--Paige would be so pleased—--and besides, the woman was panicking. The bullets were flying toward them, and of course it would seem more logical to duck and cover somewhere else.

“"C’'mon, ma’'am, just a little farther,”" Grace urged the screaming woman.

She didn’'t know if she was even registering. Grace half pushed her down, still shielding her, watching for Butch. Here he came with his homeless guy. He barreled into the Dumpster, dropping the emaciated man like a football, and said, “"There’'s one more.”"

“"Don’'t leave us!”" the woman shrieked.

“"I’'ll go,”" Grace said. “"I’'m smaller. Harder to hit.”"

“"I can run faster.”"

“"Maybe in your prime, Longhorn,”" Grace taunted him. “"You’'re an old man now.”"

“"Then we’'ll both go.”" Butch nodded at her and they took off, charging through the rain and the mud, the litter and the crap, into the darkness. It was too dark, but Grace wasn’'t about to pull out a flashlight.

Then the choppers overhead buzzed the lot and Grace swore under her breath; one or all of them would be misidentified and become victims of friendly fire. Her boots sloshed through mud and she almost lost her balance, but Butch caught her arm. Then he went down …... face-first, into the muck.

She knew she’'d laugh about it later; she knew she’'d wish she had her phone so she could take his picture. If her phone lived through this whole thing—--her phone with Rhetta’'s message on it, telling them her location.

Shit.

Grace ran.

A bullet whizzed past her ear.

No callback from Grace, or Ham, but Rhetta was back in her own yard now, turning off the engine. And Jeannie was more hysterical, and far more belligerent, than she’'d been before. Rhetta guessed she was on something that had kicked in. Rhetta made a long list of possibilities, but all she had to counteract any of them were water, coffee, and a shoulder to cry on.

“"Oh, God, I love him.”" Jeannie was crying over Hunter again.

Rhetta kept an umbrella in the cab of the truck; she grabbed it, opened the door, and stepped in a puddle. Grimacing, she splashed around to Jeannie’'s side. Jeannie hadn’'t yet opened the door. Rhetta tried it. It was locked, and Rhetta was standing there in the pouring rain.

Rhetta pounded on it. “"Jeannie, open up!”" she shouted.

The truck door burst open so fast that it nearly knocked Rhetta over. Then Jeannie tumbled out, pushing Rhetta backward; Rhetta fought to stay on her feet and just managed it.

“"Take me back a him,”" Jeannie pleaded, hanging on Rhetta. Her breath could start a fire, even in this rain.

“"Come on,”" Rhetta said, clasping Jeannie’'s thin wrist and dragging her toward the barn. There was no way she was going to wake her family up with Jeannie’'s dramatics.

“"Hunter,”" Jeannie bawled.

Tight-lipped, Rhetta got the barn door open and hustled Jeannie inside. Jeannie took a few steps forward, then collapsed in a heap. Rhetta stared down at her, then grabbed up the same blanket she’'d used when she’'d spent some time visiting with Buttercup and Speckles—--although she didn’'t remember getting up to fetch it that night—--and draped it over Jeannie.

“"You should take those wet clothes off,”" she said. “"I’'ll get you some fresh clothes and some coffee.”"

“"Don’' leave me,”" Jeannie pleaded.

“"It’'ll just be for a few minutes. Don’'t get the calf’'s straw wet.”" Rhetta picked her umbrella back up.

She left the barn and put down the plank that secured the door. Theoretically she had just kidnapped Jeannie. Blanching, she entered her house via the kitchen and took off her soaked boots, her jeans, and her sweater. She went into the laundry room and slipped on some old corduroy pants and one of her son Todd’'s sweatshirts. She grabbed some sweats and a black turtleneck sweater for Jeannie. Quickly she brewed some coffee and tried Grace, Butch, and Ham again. She didn’'t call Bobby. If he wasn’'t out with them on a call, she wanted him to stay home with his family.

After the coffee was done, she went back into the barn. Jeannie had taken off her clothes, leaving them in a heap, and had wrapped herself in the blanket. She had tottered into Speckles’'s pen, and she was singing to the little calf.

“"Silent night, holy night …...”"

Her voice was sweet and child-like. It was nowhere near Christmas, but the sentiment was timeless. Rhetta warmed a little, admitting to herself how afraid she had been, now that she was home safe and sound. Jeannie was calming down, and Rhetta hoped she could reason with her.

“"Here,”" Rhetta said, handing her the clothes.

“"Thanks.”" Jeannie hesitated, and Rhetta looked away. “"I’'m ne’'er be warm again …...”" She fumbled with the clothes, taking so long to dress Rhetta was afraid the coffee would get cold.

“"Okay,”" Jeannie announced.

Rhetta held out the cup. “"I didn’'t know if you took cream or sugar, so I gave you both.”"

“"Yeah. Thanks.”" Jeannie gazed into the milky coffee as if she could read her fortune there. “"Thanks, Miz Rodriguez.”"

Rhetta sat down beside her in the straw. Jeannie smelled horrible. Her hands shook as she wrapped them around the cup. Her tattoos had tattoos. Rhetta had almost gotten a tattoo the night they’'d busted that serial rapist, but cooler heads—--and the sight of that needle-had prevailed.

“"I don’'t know why y’'all are being so nice to me,”" Jeannie whispered. Then she started to cry again. “"My tooth is loose. He hit me so hard.”"

“"He’'ll never hit you again,”" Rhetta swore.

“"He’'s not a bad man. He jus’' gets stressed out.”"

Rhetta closed her eyes against the stench and embraced the poor, lost woman. Lost soul.

“"Jeannie, listen to me. Men like that, men who hit, that’'s not love. That’'s not someone who is sharing anything but pain with you.”"

“"But …... but pain’'s something. ’'S something.”" Jeannie seemed to hear herself. She pulled back her head and wiped her nose with the back of her hand.

“"Once you’'re sobered up, we’'ll find you a safe haven. There are places he won’'t be able to find you.”" Maybe they could put her in protective custody. Hardly anyone got that kind of treatment—--it was too expensive for the department—--but Jeannie might prove to be a material witness. Maybe a shelter was the best idea anyway—--it was, by definition, a safe house.

“"They’'re full,”" Jeannie said. “"And—--and I don’' like women. Try a steal your man. Ever’'body wanted Hunter. Always tryin’' …... some of them got what they wanted …... bitches.”"

She sniffled. “"He said I’'m too fat. If I lost weight …...”"

Rhetta stroked her hair and adjusted the blanket. “"He’'s lying to you. If you lose the weight, he’'ll find something else that’'s wrong with you. Some other reason that he can be unfaithful.”"

Jeannie drank her coffee. Rhetta wondered when the last time was that she’'d eaten. Fat? She was rail-thin.

“"He don’'t need a reason. He can …... the Sons have a heavy burden to bear and sometimes they need …...”" Her shoulders slumped; she imploded. “"He gimme …...”"

“"What?”" Rhetta took the empty coffee cup from her and wiped a drop of coffee from the corner of her mouth.

“"I’'s runaway,”" Jeannie murmured. “"No food. I was sick. He took me in.”" She covered her mouth. “"Married me.”" She was trembling. “"I’'m gonna barf again.”"

Jeannie covered her mouth and leaned over into the straw. Rhetta reached over and held her head, the way she’'d held her kids’' when they were sick; or Grace, when she was just too drunk to function. Jeannie cried and threw up; cried and threw up.

Rhetta started singing to her: “"Silent night, holy night …...”"

In Grace’'s house, Earl paced. Gus watched, whimpering. He hadn’'t touched his supper.

“"I’'m worried about her, too,”" Earl told Gus. “"Her chosen profession is just so dangerous. You’'d think that the martyrs would be the easy ones, but God can call them in the blink of an eye and then where are you? Up the creek without a paddle.”"

Gus moaned. Earl bent over and gave him a head rub, which became a belly rub.

“"No, I don’'t think God will call her home tonight,”" he said. But after the fact, he realized that that was a kind lie. He was plenty worried about her, out there in the line of fire. As Leon Cooley’'s last-chance angel, Earl had been prepared—--he’'d watched all Leon’'s legal appeals run out; his request for clemency was denied; then Leon made peace with his god, who was Allah. Leon Cooley went to meet his Maker in the literal sense of the word. With a full heart, too. A good death.

But Grace? She hadn’'t made her peace. And he wasn’'t sure she ever would.

CHAPTER          FIFTEEN

There were more bullets—--a huge damn hailstorm of them—--but it was over quickly. No reason to wonder why: There were more cops on the street than people who lived in the Sixty-Sixes’' neighborhood. Once they were clear, Tac’'s van pulled up and they hustled Grace, Butch, and their three evacuees inside. Soon they were joined by half a dozen cops in body armor, including Ham. He sat down next to Grace as the van trundled away from the carnage: three officers wounded, none critically; two Sixty-Sixes off to the hospital, and seven arrested.

Jamal was not among the gangbangers in the sweep. Either he’'d gotten away during the chaos, or he’'d never been there in the first place.

“"Where were you going?”" Ham asked her, flashing Butch a sour look that spoke volumes: And why were you with him?

“"I was worried about Jamal,”" she said. “"Was this thing planned?”"

“"If it was, I wasn’'t in on it, until I heard you two had been shot at. Through Dispatch.”" He took off his helmet and ran his hand through his hair. “"Why didn’'t you call me? I’'m your partner.”" Not Butch.

“"I ran into Butch at Tacoville,”" she said. “"I couldn’'t sleep.”"

“"Well, I wasn’'t asleep,”" Ham groused. “"I was home watching the game.”"

Butch looked on impassively. There was a time the two men would have butted heads over Grace-literally—--but Butch had moved on. Thank God.

“"I wanted to give you the night off,”" she shot back evenly. Okay, maybe it had been kind of thoughtless of her to take a drive with Butch but shit, they were on the same squad and it wasn’'t like she and Ham were married. Much as Ham wished that were the case …...

“"Did anyone find my phone?”" she asked. To cops, losing a cell phone was third on the list of important things: The badge was first, and then the gun. She’'d called Jamal’'s former employer on that phone. Jamal’'s disconnected cell phone number. Connect enough dots and he was easily outted as a CI if that phone fell into the wrong hands.

“"Not so far,”" Ham told her.

“"I have to poop,”" Grace’'s rescued homeless lady announced.

“"I want some string cheese,”" Butch’'s old guy added. He smiled brightly at Butch. “"Can we have string cheese?”"

Ham was looking at his phone. “"Rhetta called me.”"

Grace held out her hand. “"I need to reach her, man.”"

He handed her the phone. It was damn clear that she wasn’'t yet forgiven. Hell with him.

“"Yes, Ham,”" Rhetta said softly.

“"Where the hell are you?”" Grace demanded.

“"I’'m in my barn,”" she said. “"Jeannie Johnson’'s here. She’'s asleep. Or unconscious.”"

“"Damn it, Rhetta,”" Grace said.

“"She called me. I called you but I couldn’'t reach you. So I picked her up. I know. I know. I did try to call you.”"

“"I’'m coming out there,”" Grace said.

“"She doesn’'t like you.”"

“"I don’'t care.”" Grace yawned. She was exhausted. And she had to file a mountain of paperwork and do something with her homeless people.

“"Give her a few hours,”" Rhetta requested. “"He beat her up. She was drunk and high and soaking wet, Grace.”"

“"Sounds to me like you’'ve adopted a new puppy.”" Grace squinted at her own puppies. That old lady was beginning to strain …...

“"No,”" Rhetta assured her. “"Maybe a little.”"

“"She shacked up with a racist bigot who might have murdered three people.”"

“"She had no choice.”"

“"There’'s always a choice,”" Grace said. “"Rhetta …... you’'re just too soft.”" She smiled a little, remembering the awesome prank they’'d pulled on Butch. She couldn’'t even remember the origin of the prank, just that it was good. “"You should take Viagra.”"

“"No, Ronnie should,”" Rhetta said. She sucked in her breath. “"You didn’'t hear me say that.”"

“"You’'re right. I didn’'t. Okay, let her sleep it off and I’'ll come by in a little while.”"

“"I’'ll make you a great breakfast,”" Rhetta promised.

“"And lots of strong coffee.”"

“"Promise. I love you, Grace.”"

“"Love you too, Rhetta. Watch her. She might be belligerent when she wakes up.”"

“"I will. See you soon.”"

“"See, that’'s where you lose me,”" Earl said to Grace, after she came out of the bathroom in her pajamas and bathrobe. It was three a.m., and she was finally coming down off her rush. He handed her some mint tea. She scoffed at him …... and then she took it.

He looked around at her messy living room and picked up one of her many empty bottles of Jack. “"No one’'s forcing you to live like this. You choose to.”"

“"Yeah, so?”" She lit a cigarette.

“"You humans deliberately do things that are harmful to you. And you know it. And you do them anyway. Why is that?”"

She blew out some smoke. “"I don’'t know, Earl. You tell me.”"

“"We’'re all confused. The other last-chance angels and me.”"

She walked into the kitchen. She was starving. “"Then maybe you’'re in the wrong line of work.”" She opened the fridge and looked in. No one had magically gone to the grocery store.

“"You want to play truth or dare?”" she asked him. “"Loser goes to Johnnie’'s to get some Thetas and onion rings?”"

“"I think there’'s a covered dish on the second shelf,”" he ventured.

She looked. There was indeed, a white ceramic dish with an opaque green lid. She gave him a look and took it out of the fridge. “"Did you make something for me?”" She cocked her head. “"Just now?”"

“"No, it’'s some nacho cheese dip you made the other night, remember?”"

“"Oh, God, right.”" She pulled it out, took off the lid, stirred the contents, and stuck it in the microwave. Then she pulled a fresh bag of chips out of the pantry and tore them open.

“"So Jamal’'s still safe,”" he said.

“"I wouldn’'t know.”" She grabbed a handful of chips. “"Would you, Earl?”"

“"Well, he didn’'t die at the OK Corral, anyways. What was that all about?”"

“"Not a damn clue,”" she groused. “"I think the mayor is possessed by Satan. What about you?”"

“"I’'m not possessed by Satan.”" He ducked as she mugged throwing a chip at him. “"He does seem to have some issues. The mayor, I mean.”"

“"If this doesn’'t get him impeached, it sure as hell won’'t get him reelected.”"

The microwave dinged. She grabbed the cheese dip and the bag of chips and sat down on the couch. Earl joined her. She set the dish on the coffee table. She hated not having her phone. Sighing, she got back up and checked the messages on her landline. There were a lot—--a couple from Rhetta, looking for her earlier in the evening; then one from each Hanadarko, including her mother, checking in with her after they’'d heard about the rumble. Paige added that she was serious about getting a gun. Three messages from Ham, sounding worried and angry; and the last one was from Clay, who wanted to know if she’'d made any progress in her search for Forrest.

She flopped back down and opened Malcolm’'s case file. “"I should have gotten a beer while I was up.”"

“"I’'ll get you one.”" Earl went into the kitchen. “"I was watching the news. There’'s a prayer vigil for that little boy.”"

“"What is it with you, Earl?”" she asked him. “"Is this like some kind of religious game show or something? I say the word prayer or I pray, and you get some kind of prize? Or I get slimed?”"

“"You’'ve already got the prize, Grace,”" he said, handing her a beer. “"You just need to see it.”"

“"The only prize I want is the name of the shithead who killed this little boy.”" She crammed a dripping nacho in her mouth and chased it with beer. “"And Haleem, and Ajax.”"

“"Ajax is Chris Jones.”" Earl scooped up cheese sauce and closed his eyes as he savored the taste.

“"Whatever, man.”"

“"I prefer to call him by his Christian name.”"

“"Why? Did you know him? Was he a Christian?”" Grace stared at a video grab of the van with Syndee Barlett’'s sign on it. Studying every pixel, she tried to find something that would set it apart from any other white van. She got up and grabbed her sewing glasses, put them on, kept staring. Was that some kind of decoration on the dashboard?

She read through the forensics reports. There was no mention of anything on the dash. Squinting, she stared harder; then she reached under a pile of magazines and found a magnifying glass. It was a white blob. No, shit, it was a rosary, hanging from the rearview mirror.

She paged through the file. Yeah, there it was on the report, described as dangling cross. But hell, she was a Catholic, even if she was a lapsed one: That sucker was a rosary, with all the beads.

Earl was looking over her shoulder. “"Wonder if anybody in that van copped to murder during confession with their spiritual counselor,”" she said.

“"Might be a lead.”" He took another chip. She had learned long ago that he wasn’'t trying to hint, or throw out some kind of mystical clue about her case. He was very consistent with separating his business from hers—--she was about justice and he was about keeping her from going to hell.

“"Ham and me, we’'re going to talk to Father Alan and the rest of the staff tomorrow.”"

“"He must be dancing a jig.”"

“"Who, Father Alan?”" Grace asked.

“"No. God.”"

She frowned. “"You said I never had to set foot in a Catholic church again.”"

“"Guess I was wrong.”" He grinned at her.

She was miffed. “"You said I could go to a mosque or a temple, or the desert—--”"

“"And all that’'s true. But tomorrow, you got to go to a Catholic church.”"

She eyed him. “"So I can solve my case?”"

“"So you can do the next right thing.”"

“"There’'s a list?”"

“"You tell me.”" He listened. “"Gotta go to Montreal.”"

“"Montreal? That’'s new.”"

“"Only to you.”"

And Earl vanished in a blaze of glory.

“"It was the right thing to do,”" Rhetta said as she and Grace gazed down at the sleeping form of Jeannie Johnson.

“"Well, I’'m glad you didn’'t let her sleep in the house,”" Grace said.

“"You think she might still be unstable?”" Rhetta asked.

“"No, man. I think she should run for mayor. My God, Rhetta, she stinks.”"

“"All she needs is a shower.”"

Grace remembered the brochures she’'d looked through at Dr. Salzman’'s office. “"She might have worms, Rhetta. Or hepatitis. Or twenty-six kinds of VD. Or swine flu.”" Before Rhetta could respond, Grace held up a hand. “"Or a really pissed-off husband she might call around four in the morning and ask him to come pick her up because she can’'t live without him. You got kids, man.”"

“"That’'s what I told her,”" Ronnie said, stern-faced. Dressed in a denim jacket, plaid shirt, and jeans, he looked ready to start his day on the farm. And since it was five a.m. it was past time. The presence of a runaway wife in his manger was messing up his schedule. His arms were crossed over his chest. Brrr. Grace could feel the glacier from where she stood.

“"I’'ll help you move her today,”" Grace said. “"There’'s other shelters. We’'ve got a list. Meanwhile, we’'ll get her out of here, take her into the department. See if maybe we can deprogram her and she gives him up.”"

“"Grace, she called me because she trusted me,”" Rhetta protested. “"You can’'t take her in. She hasn’'t committed any crimes.”"

“"She was drunk and disorderly in public,”" Grace said.

“"I’'ll vouch for that,”" Ronnie chimed in.

“"That would be a huge lie and you know it.”" Rhetta adjusted the blanket over Jeannie’'s shoulders. “"She needs to sleep it off.”"

“"She needs to get the hell out of here.”" Grace eyed Speckles. “"You’'re supposed to keep a newborn calf’'s quarters as germ-free as possible.”"

“"That’'s what I said.”" Ronnie picked up his pitchfork.

“"How about I hang around for a while. When the shelters open, we can get her placed. She will need to shower.”" Grace pinched her nose.

“"After the kids go to school.”" Ronnie bent over and started mucking out the nearest stall. Which contained no animals, and fresh straw. “"I don’'t want her in the house with them.”"

“"What time do they leave?”" Grace asked.

“"Eight.”"

Three hours. Grace yawned. She hadn’'t been to bed yet. “"Okay, tell you what. I’'ll stay with her while you guys do your chores.”" She ambled over to the pen. “"Hey, Speckles.”" She grinned at the big-eyed calf. “"She’'s cute, Rhetta.”"

Rhetta cleared her throat. “"Watch out. There’'s vomit on the straw.”"

“"Christ, Rhetta.”" Ronnie stabbed another forkful of immaculate bedding.

Rhetta pulled a pair of work gloves off a peg, slipped them on, and gathered the dirty straw. “"Well, she wouldn’'t have gotten our home phone number if you hadn’'t unlisted the phone.”"

He froze. “"I didn’'t. There was some kind of mix-up—--”"

“"You got any more coffee?”" Grace chirruped. “"Okay if I go in the house and get some?”"

“"Sure,”" Rhetta said, glaring at Ronnie.

Grace headed for the house. There’'d been no mix-up about the phone number; or if there had been, it wasn’'t the kind of mix-up—--somebody else’'s mix-up—--that Ronnie was trying to imply. Every gesture of his body language screamed duplicity. Maybe he was so stressed out he’'d forgotten. Maybe he was trying to save a few dollars by not paying for keeping their number unlisted, and how scary was that, if they’'d resorted to that level of thrift?

Taking off her muddy boots, she entered the kitchen and poured herself a cup of coffee, her gaze wandering over the piles of bank statements and the calculator. They’'d pull it out. They always did. But she was glad she didn’'t have to pay the mortgage on her place with chicken eggs.

Sipping the coffee, she yawned and cricked her neck. The kids would be up soon. Farm kids got up early. She grabbed the coffemaker’'s glass carafe and found a box of shredded wheat in the cabinet. Sensible Rhetta, with her good breakfasts. Grace carried the box and the carafe back outside, got on her boots, and slipped and slid through the mud back to the barn. She could hear Ronnie and Rhetta arguing, but she could only make out the occasional word—--faith and trust and broke. Big words.

“"Hey,”" she said, announcing herself. She stood in the doorway and the Rodriguezes drew apart. Rhetta was flushed; she looked surprised, as if she’'d realized they’'d been yelling, and crossed over to Jeannie to check on her. Grace gave Ronnie a little grimace as she passed him by; he answered with a frustrated sigh; and she followed Rhetta.

“"Hey,”" Rhetta said, “"Jeannie. Sorry if we woke you up.”"

Still supine, Jeannie was crying silently and running her hand along Speckles’'s back. The little calf lowed and nudged at her. Next door, Mama Buttercup shifted and began to rise. Feeding time. Milking time.

“"My folks. They fought a lot,”" Jeannie said. “"That’'s why I ran away from home.”"

“"How old are you, really?”" Grace said, and Jeannie jerked. Openmouthed, she stared at Grace, then at Rhetta.

“"You said you wouldn’'t get her!”"

“"I had to tell her,”" Rhetta said. “"She’'s going to help me find a safe place for you.”"

“"If she knows where it is, it won’'t be safe.”" Jeannie was scrambling to get up.

“"Watch the straw. Mrs. Rodriguez may have missed some of your vomit,”" Grace told her. “"You’'re underage, aren’'t you. We’'ll have to remand you to a juvenile facility.”"

Jeannie jerked, hard. “"I am not. I’'m eighteen.”"

“"You have to prove it,”" Grace said. “"Do you have a driver’'s license?”"

“"I lost my purse,”" Jeannie said.

“"And her shoes and her jacket,”" Rhetta added.

Grace kept on her game face. “"What’'s your maiden name?”"

Jeannie took a deep breath. “"I was a runaway but now I’'m eighteen. And I don’'t want my parents to know where I am.”"

“"If you’'re eighteen, that’'s up to you.”"

“"I’'m—--I was—--Jeannie Arlington,”" she said. “"I’'m from El Paso.”"

“"Okay,”" Grace said. Now she could check for priors, see if there were any outstanding warrants for Jeannie. Grace hadn’'t found any for her dirtbag husband. A prior might get Grace onto the compound, if she worked it right.

She looked at Rhetta, who understood what she had done. Rhetta stripped off the gloves, took the carafe, and poured herself a little more coffee. Then she checked her watch.

“"I’'m going to let Speckles nurse,”" she announced. The heck with separating them. “"Jeannie, would you like to help?”"

“"Oh, could I?”" Jeannie asked, sounding more like sixteen. Grace eyed her suspiciously.

Rhetta nodded. “"Yes. Then you can help me milk the rest of the cows.”"

Grace left them to it and walked over to Ronnie, who had moved on to mucking one of the horse stalls, which was legitimately gross and disgusting. “"Did you know she was asleep in your barn, man?”"

He shook his head as he angled a load of dirty straw into a rusty wheelbarrow.

“"I would have kicked her out on her butt.”"

That didn’'t sound like the Ronnie she knew—--he was generous to a fault—--but Grace assumed Rhetta had filled him in on the case: the Sons of Oklahoma, the murders. Not a lot there to feel warm and fuzzy about.

Grace spread out the blanket Jeannie’'d been sleeping on and pulled off her boots. Then she rolled herself up like a burrito. Jeannie and Rhetta milked the cows while Grace dozed. They put on the milking machines but there was also a lot of hand-milking going on, as if Rhetta couldn’'t quite bear to enter the nineteenth century. Not a lot of agribusiness at the Rodriguez farm; maybe that was what was causing the financial strain. Of course, you had to have capital to buy equipment, so there was a vicious cycle at work.

After the kids left, Grace, Rhetta, and Ronnie escorted Jeannie into the house and Grace waited in the hall while she took a shower. Rhetta put Jeannie’'s clothes in the washing machine and then the Rodriguezes went into their bedroom to fight some more, and Grace renewed her vows to the single life.

While the dryer ran, Rhetta made eggs, toast, and bacon for everyone. They sat at the kitchen table and Grace suffered through the blessing. Then they all dug in, not speaking. Grace watched Jeannie struggle with hunger versus hangover but she stayed out of Jeannie’'s way. The fact that Hunter’'s wife was so hostile toward her gave Grace hope that she was hiding something very big. Freed from the influence of her abuser, Jeannie might respond to the strongest personality around—--that would be Grace. And spill, because Grace told her to.

Putting that assumption into play, she drove Jeannie to the department in her Porsche while Rhetta followed. Jeannie chewed her fingernails and stared out the window as if she were in a state of shock. Grace gave her little jobs to do—--move all the fast-food bags to the back, take the price tag off Gus’'s bone—--watching to see how compliant she was. Although Jeannie was very anxious, she did everything Grace asked without question or complaint. Then she sat in silence, tears brimming.

Grace said, “"How about some music? What do you like to listen to?”"

Her comment was greeted by more silence; she slid a glance at Jeannie, who probably didn’'t know. “"How about country?”"

Jeannie moved a little closer to outright weeping. Grace punched in KTST but turned it down low. No response from Jeannie.

And that was the way it was for the rest of the trip. When Grace and Rhetta pulled into the police lot, Jeannie hesitated until Grace got out and went around toward her door. Then Jeannie opened the door a crack, as if waiting to see if it was okay if she got out the entire way.

“"Let’'s go check in with Captain Perry,”" Grace suggested. Rhetta stayed neutral, but Jeannie swallowed hard.

“"W-why?”" she asked. She turned to Rhetta. “"Hunter—--”"

Grace knew she had to ease up. If things got too scary, Jeannie would give up and call her big, strong, wife-beating man.

She said, “"Actually, Rhetta, maybe you could show Jeannie some of your cool stuff in your lab. I’'ll bet there’'s some donuts in the break room, too.”" She checked her watch. “"Shelters will start opening soon.”"

“"It’'ll be fun,”" Rhetta said brightly, eliciting a wan little smile from Jeannie. Then Grace’'s best friend forever pivoted around on her cowboy heel and mouthed, Go. Away.

Grace nodded and headed for the squad room. Ham was there; so was Captain Perry. By the looks on their faces, Ham was still frosted at her and Captain Perry was loaded for bear.

“"That idiotic confrontation is all over the news this morning,”" the captain announced, shaking her head. “"The official spin is that Oklahoma City has their criminals in hand and used the resources available to law enforcement to prove it. But I’'m thinking it’'ll just fan the flames of this street war we’'ve got going.”"

Grace raised her hand. “"I second that.”"

“"It might take the wind out of the Sons’' sails,”" Ham suggested. “"Maybe that was the point.”"

“"Well, that’'s just twisted bureaucratic thinking and the next time you want to play Superman, Detective, I’'m saying no.”" She gave Grace a look. “"He hitched a ride when Butch’'s call for backup came through Dispatch.”"

“"Yeah.”" Grace nodded at Ham. “"Thanks again, man.”" Ham inclined his head.

“"So, we’'ve got Jeannie Johnson in the building. She ran away from Hunter last night and slept in Rhetta’'s barn,”" Captain Perry summarized. “"And Rhetta can’'t keep her and she doesn’'t like you.”"

“"She doesn’'t like cops,”" Grace said.

“"And we’'re trying to get her into a shelter.”"

“"She won’'t be able to get hold of Hunter—--shelter rules—--and he won’'t be able to find her. It’'s our civic duty.”" Grace opened the side drawer of her desk, where she kept stacks of business cards for various agencies. It was completely filled with packages of string cheese.

She gave Ham a look. “"Shit. What did you put in Butch’'s desk?”"

He smiled grimly. Then he said, “"We have to go talk to Father Alan.”"

“"I’'ll work with Rhetta on Jeannie Johnson,”" Captain Perry said. “"You know, if she changes her mind and goes back to her husband, we can’'t stop her. And there’'s a good chance she will.”"

Grace nodded. “"I’'m running her through under her maiden name. Maybe we can work a deal with her if she’'s got a skeleton in the closet. It might work to our advantage if she goes back to the compound and we can get a warrant.”"

“"Hell, why don’'t we just grab a chopper and a bullhorn?”" Ham asked. “"The chief gets to do it.”"

“"Well, something tells me he’'s not going to be the chief for much longer.”" Captain Perry acknowledged the arrival of Bobby as he walked in, carrying a plastic bag and a cup of coffee. He put the bag in his desk and said, “"What the hell was going on last night?”"

“"I think that’'s our cue,”" Grace said to Ham. He nodded. “"We have a priest to interrogate,”" she informed Bobby.

“"Let’'s have a working lunch,”" Captain Perry said to the three of them. “"We need a united front and I’'m beginning to feel like we’'re too fragmented.”"

“"I agree,”" Ham bit off.

“"Okay. Make it noon.”" Captain Perry waved them off and turned to Bobby. “"Now, while you were sleeping …...”"

CHAPTER          SIXTEEN

By mutual unspoken consent, Grace and Ham took his truck to go to the church. The tension was thick; Ham was still angry that she’'d taken Butch with her last night, and she just wasn’'t going to go there. She’'d apologized even though she didn’'t really think she needed to. She and Butch had run into each other, period, the end. Ham wouldn’'t be half this bent out of shape if Grace had gone into that lousy stinkin’' neighborhood and gotten shot at alone. Her back was up; maybe it had something to do with observing Jeannie’'s pathetic lack of independence. Now they had to go inside a blasted Catholic church.

And the lot was packed.

“"Damn, is there some kind of service?”" Ham asked. “"Daily Mass?”"

“"That’'s usually earlier, so people can get to work,”" Grace said.

They drove around for a while, but there were cars parked on the streets, too. They finally found a spot about eight blocks away. At least it wasn’'t raining.

“"There must be a service,”" Ham said.

“"Funeral?”" Grace wondered aloud.

They went straight to the parish office. Father Alan was waiting for them in the secretary’'s office.

“"What’'s going on?”" Grace asked.

“"Our community is holding a novena for Forrest,”" Father Alan explained. “"We’'re opening up the sanctuary for an hour each morning and evening so people can pray together.”"

“"You pray for nine days,”" Grace translated for Ham. “"Rhetta did a novena for your brother.”"

He smiled, his first smile of the day, at least aimed in her direction. “"Yeah, that was great of her.”"

“"Would you like to address the congregation?”" Father Alan asked them. “"That would be the quickest way to find out if anyone has information for you.”"

Grace nodded. “"Yes, thanks.”"

“"I can make an office available to you afterward. People could come and talk to you, if that would be helpful.”"

“"Yes, it would,”" Grace said.

Father Alan showed them the office, then led them into the sanctuary, which was quite lovely—--white plaster walls, open beams, stained-glass Stations of the Cross. An organ was playing softly, wafting over the bowed heads of maybe a hundred people, most of them kneeling, many working their rosaries.

Grace looked at all of them, and at the cross behind the altar. She was moved that Forrest had so many supporters, glad for the possibility that some of them might have something useful to offer. Her mind switched from shoot-outs and domestic abuse to insulin and kidnappings.

“"So many prayers,”" Ham murmured. “"Wow, you can just feel it.”"

Grace tried to quiet her busy brain. Be still and know that I am God, went the scripture. She waited for a sensation as palpable as those she had experienced behind the Dumpster. There she had dodged bullets and raced through the rain to save people’'s lives. That was real work. That was practical. But this? She felt nothing. She felt that it was useless. Give everyone in this room a hundred HAVE YOU SEEN FORREST notices to staple to trees and you might get some results. The only purpose this served was to make people feel better about the lack of results.

“"Please,”" Father Alan said, gesturing to the pulpit, two wooden steps leading to a simple wooden box-like structure and a lectern. Ham looked expectantly at Grace.

She blinked. Then she brushed past Ham and waited as Father Alan climbed the stairs.

“"Friends,”" Father Alan said. “"We have two police detectives here. They’'d like to speak to you.”"

He made way for Grace, and she went on up. She felt like a little girl again, called up to recite a scripture she’'d learned in Sunday school, or to do a reading.

“"I’'m Detective Grace Hanadarko, and this is Detective Dewey. We’'re investigating Forrest’'s disappearance. As some of you may know, he has a medical condition that makes it especially important that we locate him as soon as possible. If you have any information that you think might help us—--places Forrest liked to go, people he’'s been seen with, that kind of thing—--we’'d be very grateful if you would come to the office at the end of the hall—--that would be Office B—--and meet with us. We’'ll make every effort to keep anything you tell us confidential.”"

Unless you confess to killing him.

Upturned faces gazed at her. They were counting on her. On the department. See? We prayed, and the cops showed up. It’'s a miracle.

“"Thanks,”" Grace concluded. She walked down the steps as quietly as she could and headed for the exit. About halfway there, she realized she was alone.

Turning back, she watched as Ham entered the pew closest to the pulpit and sat down beside a woman who was kneeling in prayer. He bowed his head. A number of the congregants looked from him to her; Grace suppressed a huff and left.

Grace went into the office, which was simply furnished in oak furniture upholstered in sky blue. Father Alan came in, too.

“"I’'ll be your first interviewee,”" he said. “"I’'ll break the ice.”"

“"Thanks, Father.”" Grace sat behind the oak desk, and he sank into one of the chairs in front of it.

“"We do a lot of Marriage Encounter counseling in here.”"

“"I’'ve heard of it,”" she told him. She got up and shut the door. “"Father Alan, I’'ve got to ask you—--do you think Forrest was the kind of kid who’'d run away?”"

He looked thoughtful. “"I don’'t know. Human nature continues to amaze me.”"

“"Did his family have any enemies? Anyone in the congregation dislike them?”"

“"Well, Mrs. Catlett could be a bit off-putting,”" he said. “"Being so protective of him, as we discussed.”"

“"Did you know he was a diabetic?”"

He nodded. “"Yes. But he asked me not to disclose his condition, so I didn’'t.”"

“"But you gave him wheat communion wafers. You didn’'t come clean about that, either.”"

“"In both cases, I was protecting one of my flock.”"

She processed that. “"What if one of your flock was causing problems for another member of your flock? Would you tell me, or would you protect them, too?”"

“"Well.”" He folded his hands on the desk. “"You have an adversarial approach to the church.”"

“"It shows?”" she asked.

“"Whatever was done, I apologize.”"

“"The pope hasn’'t,”" she shot back.

Enlightenment dawned. “"I am sorry.”"

She waved her hand. “"We’'re not here to talk about me. I want you to tell me if you think anyone in the congregation could have kidnapped Forrest.”"

“"No.”" He was steady.

“"Or helped him run away.”"

He hesitated. Looked down at the desk. She could see him wrestling with his answer and waited. She could outdrink most men and outwait others.

But he was used to listening, too. All that time sitting in a confessional, waiting for people to spill their guts. She sat in silence, and they started a Mexican standoff of another sort.

Then he sat back in his chair and regarded her. What, did he want her to pressure him? She was a bit irritated by his apparent coyness but kept herself in check. This wasn’'t about her. It was about the case.

Finally he said, “"Forrest went through a bad patch about six months ago. His pediatrician suggested a pump. And his mother felt it was a bad idea.”"

“"I talked to Dr. Salzman. He mentioned the pump.”"

“"I’'ve never met him, but I saw him on TV the other night. He seemed like a compassionate man.”" He jerked; she heard the vibration of a cell phone and waited while he checked it. He read something off the faceplate, then put it back in his pocket.

“"Forrest was very unhappy. And he did talk about running away. He concocted a plan, and he shared it with another boy.”" He looked straight at her, like they were playing charades.

“"Shit.”" She raised her brows. “"Clay?”"

“"Clay. This comes as a surprise to you.”"

“"Yeah.”" She didn’'t like admitting it, but she had to. She thought back to how she’'d comforted him on Paige’'s porch and felt a little rush of anger. Why hadn’'t he come clean?

“"I can have him pulled out of class if you’'d like.”"

“"No.”" Then she changed her mind. “"Yeah. Please, Father. Do that.”"

“"All right.”" He pushed back his chair. “"I’'ll send him to this office.”"

He opened the door. A little old lady with curly blue hair and glasses that magnified her eyes until they wound halfway around her head was standing politely in the hall with Ham. Her hands were clutching a large tote bag embroidered with angels—--the kind with big heads and big eyes, and no mouths. The angels not resembling Earl in the least, in other words.

“"Mrs. Moore,”" Father Alan said. He pulled out his phone as he walked down the hall.

“"Hello,”" Grace said, back-burnering the bombshell Father Alan had dropped. She half rose as Ham led the woman—--Mrs. Moore—--into the office. She looked up at Ham, as if to take her cue from him. He pulled out the chair Father Alan had just vacated and Mrs. Moore sat, putting her tote on her lap.

“"I think it’'s wonderful that the police are using prayer to look for that boy,”" she said. “"It gives me hope for the world.”"

“"Good,”" Grace replied, without missing a beat. “"Do you have any ideas about where we might find Forrest?”"

“"Not yet, but I do believe that Saint Aloysius Gonzaga will reveal that in the fullness of time.”" She raised her chin. Her eyes shone.

Grace just looked at her.

“"He’'s the patron saint of teenagers.”" The woman reached in her tote and brought out her copy of The Lives of the Saints. “"I looked him up. I believe the more explicit the prayers for intercession, the more likely they will be answered. So I always find the proper saint for the occasion.”"

Over the old lady’'s head, Ham widened his eyes. Grace ignored him. It was no news to her that Catholicism was weird.

“"That was very thoughtful, Mrs. Moore. Did Forrest’'s mother work with you on any committees, or socialize with you—--”"

“"Never liked them much,”" she said. “"I liked the grandparents, though.”"

Grace waited a beat. “"The grandparents.”"

Mrs. Moore shrugged. “"They moved away a long time ago. Very devout. I don’'t think they liked the daughter-in-law.”" She leaned forward conspiratorially, clasping the cloth handles of her tote. “"Forrest’'s mother.”"

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.

CHAPTER          SEVENTEEN

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.

WE HAVE FOREST. WE WANT SIXTY THOUSAND DOLLARS IN UNMARKED BILLS FOR HIS SAFE RETURN.

“"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.

“"Sorry,”" she said. “"Mr. Catlett, we’'re trying to decide why this happened now. Is there anything else going on in your lives, in his life, that you would care to share with me?”"

“"No. I don’'t know.”" He ran his shaking hands through his hair. “"We already lost one child. Oh, my God, this will kill us. It will kill us.”"

He buried his face in his hands. His shoulders heaved.

“"We want to dump your phones,”" she said. “"Your cell phone, and your wife’'s. We can use the chips inside them to look at the incoming and outgoing calls. Is that okay with you?”" She’'d have to ask Roberta’'s permission, too, of course.

His hesitation intrigued her. Made her take a closer look at him as he lowered his head and covered his face with his hands.

“"Sir?”" she pressed. “"Is there a problem?”"

He began to weep. Then he got up and walked to the front door. Grace followed him. Glancing at his wife, he opened the door and went outside.

Grace stayed with him, shutting the door, watching as he leaned against the wall and looked up at the darkening sky. It was probably going to rain some more.

“"Sir, is there a reason you are uncomfortable giving me your phone?”"

“"Oh, dear God, forgive me.”" He touched his forehead. Grace waited. Waited. Clamped her mouth shut so she wouldn’'t screw it up by saying the wrong thing. By saying anything.

“"When Alex—--that was the baby—--when he died, Roberta asked me if I thought God was punishing us. If we’'d done something wrong. Catholic guilt is unlike—--”"

“"I was raised Catholic,”" she interjected quietly.

“"Then you know what I’'m talking about. I told her God would never do anything like that. Roberta was so sweet when we got married. Such a kind, warm woman. But then Alex died. You don’'t think that’'s going to happen. That someone you love, someone younger than you—--”"

Grace thought of Clay. And then, to her mild surprise, of Paige.

“"—--your child. Oh, my God, what have I done?”"

Her heart pounded. Was she about to hear his confession about what he had done? Was she going to break the case, then and there?

“"Houston,”" he said, and then she knew.

“"You’'re having an affair. With someone in Texas.”"

“"Sue. I called her from the bathroom,”" he said. “"I’'ve been calling her practically nonstop since all this started happening.”" Tears streamed down his face. “"It’'s going to come out, isn’'t it? You’'re checking our phones. You’'ll interview people we know. Roberta will find out. So …... so maybe God is punishing me.”"

“"Have you told Father James about your affair?”" she asked.

“"No. It’'s been eating me up.”" His voice broke. “"Adultery. I can’'t get divorced. I do believe.”" His breath came out ragged. “"I did this to us.”"

“"Did Forrest know?”"

“"God.”" He grabbed on to his hair and yanked. “"If that’'s why he ran away …...”"

“"Do you think he ran away? Do you know anything that can help us?”" She gripped his forearm, forcing him to stop trying to pull his own hair out by the roots. “"Did he run away from home because he found out you’'re having an affair?”"

“"I don’'t know. I was so careful …...”"

She thought about her lost phone, and all the potentially incriminating messages and phone numbers that were on it. If he’'d so much as left it out, and his bright, curious son had taken it, maybe thinking to play video games or look at movies or something …... and heard …...

“"Forrest was unhappy,”" he said. “"Bobbi—--Roberta, his mother …... he’'s fourteen, for God’'s sake. I remember when I was fourteen. I hardly ever saw my parents. I had so much freedom.”"

“"Kids today are a little more protected,”" she ventured.

“"A little? He was practically a prisoner. And she made him that way.”" He doubled his fists and pressed them against his forehead.

“"I was going to get him that pump. I promised him. And Bobbi was punishing me for it. She said I’'d be the death of him.”"

Grace was taking mental notes. In capital letters. Let’'s try this one out: Say the mom actually knows the dad is having an affair. So she figures she’'ll show that cheating bastard. She’'ll scare him half to death …... and punish him for his adultery, all in one fell swoop. The only bargaining chip she has is their kid. She makes the kid weak and dependent not just on herself, but on his dad. So the dad, who is a good guilt-ridden Catholic, won’'t leave his neurotic mother.

But it looks like it’'s gonna happen anyway. So she ups the stakes. Arranges to have him taken …...

“"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.

“"Oh, God, oh, my God,”" Rhetta said, holding on to Mae’'s hand. “"Let’'s get your brother. Todd, Todd! Ronnie, call them!”"

Todd was stumbling out of his room in sweats and a T-shirt. “"Mom, there’'s smoke,”" he said, coughing.

She became aware of the smoke in their house. Holding on to her children, she led them into the kitchen. The door was open, and smoke was pouring over the threshold.

She slammed the door and grabbed the landline. She called 911; she knew that since she was on a landline, her address should be showing up on the dispatcher’'s monitor, but just in case, she gave her name, address, and phone number. Her voice shook, but she forced herself to be rational.

“"It’'s our barn,”" she said. “"Our barn is on fire.”"

“"We’'ll send a truck, ma’'am. Please stay on the line.”"

But she couldn’'t do that, not with the horses, the cows, and the pigs in the barn. And the chickens.

“"Speckles,”" Mae cried, and Rhetta’'s composure broke.

“"Stay on the line,”" Rhetta ordered Mae. “"Talk to the dispatcher. I have to help your father.”"

“"Mommy, no,”" Mae protested, her big brown eyes huge. They were watering. Todd was coughing.

“"I’'m giving you to my daughter. I have a cell phone,”" she told the dispatcher. She whirled around. There it was by the microwave. “"My daughter will give you my number. You can call my cell phone.”"

“"Ma’'am—--”"

Rhetta thrust the landline phone at Mae and raced out the door. She grabbed up her boots and ran.

“"Jesus, Joseph, and Mary,”" she whispered. The barn was ablaze. Tongues of orange and red licked up the sides, and heavy smoke rolled away like dust devils. Cows were lowing. She heard the horses whinnying.

She didn’'t see Ronnie.

Racing along, holding her boots, she slid through the mud and stepped down hard on something smooth that gave way beneath her foot. She ignored it, running as fast as she could, while the smoke grew thicker and she doubled over, coughing.

“"Speckles!”" she heard Mae screaming.

“"Stay back, stay back!”" Rhetta cried, turning around to see her two children huddled on the kitchen stoop.

“"Mommy, get Speckles,”" Mae begged. “"Mommy, please!”"

“"I’'ll try, I’'ll try,”" Rhetta said, but her mind was on Ronnie. I’'m sorry I didn’'t appreciate him, she thought. Please don’'t take him from me.

She ran toward the flaming barn.

*   *   *

“"Oh, my God,”" Grace said as she caught up to Leo’'s fire truck and slammed out of Connie. Ladders were already up; hoses were running. Firefighters stood on either side of the powerful spray, guiding it over the exterior of the Rodriguezes’' barn. Grace didn’'t see Ronnie, or Rhetta.

Her older brother Leo appeared. He was on the younger side of middle age, lean, trim, wearing his protective gear, with more gear in his arms.

“"Thanks for calling me,”" she said, grabbing it from him and beginning to climb into it.

“"You stay out of the way,”" he told her. “"Wear your respirator.”"

Grace caught up her hair and threw on her mask and her helmet. She made sure she had air. That her radio worked.

Then she headed for the barn. A cherry picker had raised three firefighters to the open window, loaded with burning hay. Below, the barn doors were wide open and she could see Rhetta, wearing a bathrobe, trying to lead out Rainbow, one of the horses, by his halter. The panicked creature was rearing and Rhetta was struggling to keep hold. Fire raged all around them in some grotesque tableau. Grace didn’'t see Ronnie.

Then suddenly cows, sheep, and the goat poured through the doorway; the advancing firefighters avoided the stampede of panicking animals. Grace waved her arms at the creatures to keep them from heading for the road. Instinctively they turned, senses attuned to danger from any quarter.

She wished she had a hose or a bucket, anything; she made sure her gloves were on and hurried inside, to Rhetta. Reaching up for Rainbow’'s halter, she grabbed a handful of mane instead and looked at her friend. Rhetta’'s face was red and she was coughing. Grace clutched the halter and turned, dragging the horse toward the door, like a sailor raising the anchor on an old sailing ship. She hazarded a glance upward and saw that the ceiling, thank God, was not on fire. Just the exterior walls, so far; and they were smoking a lot more than they were burning. The rain had soaked the wood, slowing combustion.

She and Rhetta worked together to force Rainbow through the door, where the fire was the worst because of the abundance of oxygen. The horse reared and whinnied. Grace stood her ground, hanging on the horse’'s neck; Rhetta did the same; somehow they got Rainbow through the opening and out into the fresher air. Grace wanted to get him into the riding ring but it was too much to deal with. Besides, Rhetta was doubled over and her feet were a mess. Christ, she was barefoot.

Releasing the horse, Grace draped herself over Rhetta as best she could, just as she had the old lady in the lot during the firefight, and hustled her toward the house. Rhetta was pushing at her; Grace nearly punched her, to make her job easier. Then Mae and Todd ran at Rhetta, throwing their arms around her.

“"Stay,”" Grace said, “"with your children.”"

“"Oh, my God, I couldn’'t see Ronnie,”" Rhetta said. She was crying. “"Oh, Grace—--”"

“"Stay here,”" Grace insisted.

Then she ran back to the battle. Chickens, a cow, another cow, another horse; she got them out. But she couldn’'t find Ronnie. Horrible thoughts started running through her head; images she didn’'t want there—--where the hell was Rhetta’'s husband?

She ran to the fire truck and requisitioned a flashlight, saw her brother and gave him a wave.

He came up to her. He took off his mask. “"We’'re containing it. Start rounding up the animals.”"

“"I can’'t find Ronnie,”" she said. They shared a grim look, and then she said, “"Let me go back inside the barn to look for him.”"

“"I’'ll come with you,”" he told her. “"Get on your radio.”"

They put their helmets on and made sure they could speak to each other. Then together the Hanadarkos dashed inside, and split up by mutual unspoken agreement, Grace taking the right and Leo, the left. The tremendous chaos was receding. Leo’'s guys had beaten this one back.

Oh, God, Grace thought, please.

She tried the feed shed; there was a new latch on the door and it was closed tight. Her heart seized when she thought she heard a pounding inside. She pulled on it, couldn’'t budge it; she looked around for something to hit it with and used the bottom of the flashlight, ramming it down hard. The latch cracked off its hinges, and she threw open the door.

Nothing.

She moved on, past a smoldering hay bale. She found one of Rhetta’'s boots and picked it up. Didn’'t see the other one.

Didn’'t see her husband.

He could have gotten trapped. Maybe he inhaled too much smoke.

Shut up.

She moved on, and forced herself to stop thinking, worrying. To concentrate. To focus.

“"Got him,”" Leo announced in her ear. Grace spared a moment to feel her relief, then looked to the left. Leo was standing beside Mama Buttercup’'s pen, waving his arms.

Grace ran across the barn toward his location. Then she saw Ronnie inside Mama Buttercup’'s pen, his arms around the cow. The terror-stricken animal was lowing wildly.

Ronnie’'s face was scarlet and he was covered in sweat. Dehydrated, for sure. Grace and Leo slung his arms over their shoulders and began to walk him out. But there was such a tremendous difference in height between Grace and Leo that Ronnie was staggering from side to side.

“"Move it, mighty mite,”" Leo ordered his sister. Then he slung Ronnie over his back firefighter-style. Grace contented herself with leading Buttercup out of the barn. Where was Speckles?

“"Daddy!”" Mae cried, and the Rodriguezes raced toward them. Leo grabbed a mask and oxygen bottle, indicating to Ronnie that he should take some breaths. Then Leo dumped a water bottle over Ronnie’'s head and handed him another bottle.

“"Drink it down,”" he ordered.

Ronnie breathed deeply as Todd, Mae, and Rhetta held on to him. Around them, Leo’'s guys worked on rounding up their animals. Everyone knew the Rodriguezes. They were family.

“"Find Speckles!”" Mae cried. “"He’'s my calf!”"

Leo shook his head at Rhetta. “"Next time, stop for clothes. And boots.”"

“"Ronnie was in there,”" she said, holding on to her husband.

“"We’'d better help with the animals,”" Ronnie said. Rhetta frowned. “"I’'m okay. I’'m fine.”"

“"Us, too?”" Todd and Mae chorused.

“"No, not you two.”" Rhetta looked at Grace. “"You’'d better call it in. And …... can you clear the house first?”"

Arson. That was what Rhetta was thinking. There was no reason to second-guess her. Rhetta knew her stuff.

Grace turned to the kids.

“"You two stay out here. I’'m going to make sure it’'s safe to go back in the house.”"

“"Is our house on fire?”" Todd asked anxiously. Mae began to cry.

“"I don’'t think so. But let me check,”" Grace said.

Easing the kids farther away, Grace opened the kitchen door and pulled out her gun. She worked her way through each room, armed, ready, throwing open closet doors, looking under beds. Then she went out back and searched the vegetable garden. When she was finally satisfied that there were no intruders, she called for an arson team and for backup.

Cops heard the dispatch call; within minutes, the Rodriguez barn was surrounded. Ham, Butch, and Bobby; officers were helping to round up the frightened animals, and everyone from Leo on down to Todd were giving statements. Ronnie and Rhetta were seen by a paramedic. Both refused to go to the ER.

Amber sunlight washed the charred barn walls. It was mostly cosmetic, and easy to repair. All animals were accounted for.

Except for Speckles.

Mae was inconsolable, weeping against Rhetta’'s chest, fingers digging into Rhetta’'s shoulders.

“"We’'ll find her,”" Rhetta promised, stroking Mae’'s hair. “"Don’'t worry, baby.”" She pointed to the rest of the squad as they corralled the horses. “"Our friends will help us.”"

Todd patted his sister. “"Speckles is very little,”" he said. “"She can’'t go very far.”"

“"I don’'t think Speckles went anywhere,”" Grace muttered to Leo. “"I think she was taken by the same people who started this fire. The Sons of Oklahoma.”"

“"That’'s that wacko cult out in the country,”" Leo said. Grace inclined her head. “"What do they have against the Rodriguezes?”"

Grace explained.

“"Shit.”" Leo scratched his chin. “"No good deed goes unpunished.”" He looked at her. “"Weren’'t you involved in that little police action the other night? And now this, tonight? You’'re jinxed, Grace.”"

“"Am not.”"

“"Man, what did you do in a past life, kill Gandhi?”"

“"Thanks, Leo.”" She smiled at him. “"Appreciate the empathy.”"

He mugged punching her. “"Yeah, and there’'s a little rain cloud over your head, following you around. I sure as hell am not going fishing with you at Lake Texoma anytime soon. The fish will probably all be dead.”"

She rolled her eyes. Then she left him to go visit with the detectives who were processing the crime scene. The arson specialists were there, too.

Dressed in jeans, boots, and a green sweater, Rhetta walked up. She was wearing a pair of gloves and carrying a brown paper evidence bag, and she looked grim.

“"I think you can sit this one out, Ms. Rodriguez.”" It was the criminalist from the Catlett house. Grace remembered that his name was Hodge.

Rhetta held out the bag. “"You’'ll need this. Unfortunately I stepped on it with my bare foot but …...”"

Grace took a peek inside. It was an empty rubbing alcohol bottle.

“"Jeannie told me they have tons of it,”" Rhetta said to Grace. “"I wondered why.”"

“"That’'s a good accelerant,”" Hodge mused. “"And you found it where?”"

“"Here’'s two more empty bottles,”" another cop said. “"They were behind the barn.”"

“"Don’'t touch them,”" Rhetta ordered. “"Please, I want to help. I need to help.”"

Grace knew the best thing she could do was keep out of the way. She accepted a bottle of water from Leo as he folded up the gear he’'d lent her and finished packing up his truck.

“"Looks like arson to me,”" he said.

“"See you on the witness stand.”" She crossed her fingers.

“"Stay out of trouble.”"

Then he was gone.

“"I found a footprint,”" Rhetta announced, pointing at the muddy ground on the western side of the barn.

“"No,”" Captain Perry said.

“"No?”" Grace echoed, incredulous.

It was nine a.m.—--business hours—--and Grace and Ham had just asked her to let them get a warrant. They had a copy of the footprint; they had fourteen empty bottles of rubbing alcohol.

“"No one will give you a warrant.”" Captain Perry scratched her forehead, then dropped her hand to her side. “"Upstairs wants to continue the polite fiction that everything is OK in OKC. Chief’'s afraid that if you go onto that property without solid proof, we’'ll have another Waco on our hands. Ruby Ridge. And, you will recall, that’'s where the seeds were planted for the bombing of the Murrah Building.”"

“"But he just sent armed police officers into a civilian neighborhood,”" Grace argued. “"What about that?”"

“"That was to protect officers in danger from lawless gangbangers. Maybe you don’'t see the difference, Grace, but the media does.”"

Captain Perry turned to go. Grace followed her. Ham waited and watched.

“"They set Rhetta’'s barn on fire! And stole Mae’'s calf!”"

Captain Perry fixed Grace with her stern-commander look. “"Then get me proof, Detective. Real proof. Last I heard, anybody can buy rubbing alcohol. Unless the Crime Lab can pull prints off those bottles that you can then match with what we already have in the system, you got nothing.”"

Captain Perry went into her office and shut her door. Grace had half a mind to kick it, not because she was mad at Captain Perry, but because she was mad, period.

“"There’'s no justice,”" she bit off.

“"We’'ll get it,”" Ham said. “"Those assholes are going down.”"

“"We should have already had our warrant,”" Grace said. “"I mean a real one, not just for their damn vehicle. Hell, we shake down the gangs all the time.”"

“"Because we’'ve established that they’'re bad guys,”" Ham reminded her. “"Like the captain said. We haven’'t established that the Sons are anything but patriotic citizens who like to live in the country.”"

“"I hate it that you’'re right.”" She blew her hair out of her eyes.

“"Good. Let’'s have angry sex later.”"

She formed a fist, then made as if to punch him. Then, with a crick of his forefinger, he urged her to follow him. Grinning like that kid in The Omen, he opened his desk drawer. Inside lay a doll dressed in a onesie that read SKELLIE. She had big blue eyes and a Cupid’'s bow mouth. Grace remembered the doll from the days when her nieces had them. They ate, drank, peed, pooped. Oh, yeah, and talked.

Creepy.

“"Watch this,”" he said. Then he turned over the doll and showed Grace a red switch. “"Tech made it for me.”" He flipped the switch.

“"I gotta poop.”" Grace blinked. It sounded exactly the old lady from the lot. Exactly. “"I gotta take a dump. I gotta shit. I gotta—--”"

“"I have the safety on, but once I activate it, it’'s motion-sensitive,”" he informed her. “"And there is no way to turn it off. So …...”"

He scooted over to Butch’'s desk and put it in the top right drawer. “"Okay, activitated. Once he so much as jiggles it, it won’'t shut up.”" He very carefully slid the drawer shut and held out his hands like a magician.

“"That’'s cool,”" she said, trying to sound enthusiastic.

He looked hurt, and she shrugged. “"I gotta say, you’'ve done better.”"

“"Short notice, man,”" he said. “"I don’'t see you pulling your weight around here—--”"

“"I had magnet duty, man.”" She darted over to Butch’'s magnet and flipped it upside down.

He just stared at her.

The glass door to the squad room opened and a dark-skinned woman with bad teeth, wearing a pair of jeans and a tank top, walked in slowly, as if she were scared or high or both. Her eyes were swollen and at first Grace thought she had been beaten. Then she realized that she’'d been crying.

And she was Haleem Clark’'s mother.

“"Detective Hanadarko,”" she croaked.

“"Hey.”" Grace came toward her. “"Hello, Ms. Clark.”"

“"Have you found out who killed my son? Have you …...?”"

She burst into tears and stood perfectly still, sobbing from deep down in her belly. Grace reached out a hand to show her to the interview room and Ms. Clark clutched it with both of hers. Her legs gave way, and Grace caught her.

“"Come with me,”" Grace said, leading her to the interview room. Ham caught the door, holding it open, as Grace led her inside.

Ms. Clark sat down hard in a chair. She smelled like dope.

She had lost her son.

“"Do you know who did it?”"

“"Not yet. But we’'re building a case.”" On the beach. At high tide.

“"He …... he was my angel.”"

Grace blinked, wondering why everyone was talking about angels all of a sudden.

“"My babies, all my babies,”" she said. “"All taken away.”"

“"I know,”" Grace said.

“"He was not there to buy my shit. I wouldn’'t do that.”" She buried her face in her hands. “"That dealer …... he wasn’'t my dealer. I didn’'t know him.”"

Was she lying?

“"Where’'s my boy? He in heaven?”" Tears streamed down her face, and snot, and spit. Grief did not have a pretty sound track and soft lighting and nice clothes. Grief was cruel, and ugly.

Grace looked straight at Haleem’'s mama.

“"Yes,”" Grace said. “"I’'m sure that he is in heaven. I’'m a hundred percent sure.”"

Truth, or dare?

CHAPTER          NINETEEN

Enough.

Haleem Clark’'s case was getting cold. Forrest Catlett might be dying at that very moment.

Enough.

Thunder rumbled through the black sky. Klieg lights blazed against the Sons of Oklahoma flag, but elsewhere, there were huge pockets of darkness, and Grace was crouched inside one of them. She was holding on to the chain-link fence—--that cat crawling up the fence had told her it probably wasn’'t electrified, and a glance at the utility bill had verified it—--and taking deep breaths to dilute the adrenaline coursing through her body.

Impatience and her visit from Ms. Clark—--first name Tonya—--had pushed her into action; she was about to commit a crime that could yank her off her cases—--and every case—--for the rest of her life. Breaking and entering, trespass. She wondered what the Sons of Oklahoma would do if they found her on their property. Press charges, or shoot her? They’'d be within their rights to drop her like a bobcat.

She made sure all her hair was tucked inside her black knit cap. Pulled the black balaclava over her face. Checked her utility belt. She had more gadgets and gizmos than Batman.

There were guards in flak jackets holding submachine guns stationed at regular intervals along the chain-link fence. Gone was the more benign show of shotguns and handguns of her previous, more legal visit. No one on her current roster of victims had been murdered with an Uzi, but she wondered if it was only a matter of time.

Piano wire curled along the top of the fence. But there were also large sections where the terrain was uneven and boulders sat on either side of the fence, making it difficult to station a man there …... and easier to climb in. Especially …...

Here, Grace thought as she gazed up at the edge of the trailer hanging just slightly over the fence, shielding anyone who was shimmying up that fence. It was so obvious a way in that she was afraid it was a trap. But she took it, planting her hand on top of the overhang and hoisting herself up. She had on Kevlar and black clothes. Boots.

Then a searchlight buzzed inches above her head and she flattened her upper body on top of the roof. Shake shingles. The searchlight had not been on a minute before. Had she alerted them to her presence? She’'d parked Connie behind some trees over a mile away and trekked in, alert to every possibility from land mines to Dobermans. Maybe it was too easy. Maybe she was about to die.

Suddenly the roar of engines approaching from the road tore up the stillness. She flung herself up onto the roof and willed herself to be an invisible pancake. Her heart thundered and she listened.

Horns blared. Guns shot off blam blam blam. There was a lot of whooping and cheering.

“"Hey, Tommy, how’'d it go?”" That was Hunter. He must have stayed behind and watched the fort.

“"DeWitt got ’'em! He ran like a raccoon but that coon is dead.”"

That was Tommy Miller. Grace gritted her teeth and kept listening.

“"Good on you, DeWitt,”" Hunter said. “"Wish I could have seen it.”"

“"It was a beautiful thing,”" Tommy said. “"One less thing to worry about. What about your tits, Hunter? That little bitch show up yet?”"

“"Don’'t worry, Tommy. She won’'t say nothing.”"

Whoa, Grace thought.

“"Damn right. Because the minute I find her, I’'m shooting her in the mouth.”"

“"Come on, man,”" Hunter protested. “"She’'s my wife.”"

“"If I was you, I’'d try to forget that. Biggest damn mistake you ever made.”"

There was silence. Then more cheering. Grace didn’'t move.

“"You want to do the honors?”" Tommy asked.

“"Sure thing,”" said a new voice. Maybe it was DeWitt.

Grace inched her way along the roof, listening to the voices and laughter as the men walked through the compound. She was in it now, neck-deep. What the hell.

Then she heard the lowing of a calf, bleating, really. Speckles. Oh, God, she had proof that they’'d been in Rhetta’'s barn. She had them now.

I’'m here without a damn warrant.

She remained calm—--or thought she did, as she kept moving herself along. But her hands were trembling and her mouth tasted sour. She heard movement behind and beneath her, at the boulder she’'d used to jump-start her climb. A sentry. Thank God she hadn’'t had to use the wire cutters in her belt.

The report of a weapon ricocheted across the compound. Grace froze. Planned her counterattack. Waited to see if she’'d been the target.

Evidently not. Laughter and cheers rose up; then music started up—--I’'m proud to be an American—--and a lot of hooting. For hours. Grace glanced up at the sky, trying to gauge how long it would be before sunrise. No stars, filmy moon.

She rested her head on the rooftop.

Gradually, the celebration began to die down. The klieg lights went out.

“"Time to wrap it up,”" Tommy declared.

The Sons said good night to one another like normal, civilized men. Doors opened, closed. Then footfalls echoed directly below her, and she realized she was on top of someone’'s home.

Shit.

“"Here to relieve you,”" said a male voice behind and below her.

“"Glad to be relieved,”" another male voice replied. The changing of the guard. So she couldn’'t go back out the way she came.

But she couldn’'t stay here, either.

Carefully, she scooted to the right, where the roof merged with newly created shadows as the moon moved in the sky. She leaned over and looked, seeing nothing but blackness.

Leon Cooley’'s face blossomed in her mind. She remembered that in her dream, he had warned her not to jump without looking. She turned herself around and slithered to the edge. Held her breath, and tried to find toeholds for her boots.

Her boot tip touched something and she almost grunted with relief. She experimentally ran her foot along it—--it seemed to be a level, solid surface, so she lowered her weight onto it.

It held.

She put her other foot down.

That held, too.

She let herself stand on it. It was the top of a shed much like the one in Rhetta and Ronnie’'s barn. Taking a breath, she let go of the roof and made herself as small as possible. Waited a few beats, and shimmied down the side.

Then she crab-walked in the darkness in the direction she had heard the gunshot and the music. An owl hooted. She kept going.

It was a long building with corrugated aluminum siding, like many of the buildings on the property. Grace scanned the area as she sidled up to the door and leaned against it, and then slowly tried the knob. Locked. She ran her hand along the latch and smiled. She had brought a lock-pick kit. She unfastened it from her belt and went to work. Ordered her hands to stop shaking.

Got the lock picked.

Slowly, very slowly opened the door.

A light was on; she stopped, remaining motionless while she ascertained that there was no one else in the room. She chanced flicking on a penlight, and crept inside. What she saw chilled her blood: targets, as in target practice, but with photographs of faces where the dark silhouettes would normally be. Six of them: Haleem, Chris Jones, Malcolm, with bullets right between their eyes, and a fourth guy she had never seen before. Numbers five and six had no bullet. Five was white and middle-aged. Six was young, and black.

They’'re still alive, she guessed.

She whipped out her phone and took pictures, quickly, and sent them to Ham. Then she turned it off, because if it so much as vibrated at the wrong time, she was dead.

Witnesses, she thought. They saw something these guys did.

I’'ve got you, assholes. Not now, but soon.

Jubilant, she edged back to the door. Tested opening it a crack. Went out and crept around the building to the other side. She couldn’'t go out the way she’'d come—--the sentry—--but maybe there was another weak spot along the perimeter.

God, I hope so, she thought.

“"There is,”" Earl whispered from his position on top of the barn. And if, well, he sent a little …... intuition …... her way, he didn’'t think he’'d get in a peck of trouble over it.

“"Hello,”" Rhetta said into the landline phone. She checked the time. Two a.m. Don’'t let it be Mom or Dad. Or Grace.

“"Mooo,”" someone whispered. “"I smell barbecued beef.”"

Oh, God. She rolled over and nudged Ronnie. He woke instantly. She pointed outside; there was a squad car out there, watching their house. And a shotgun in the barn.

He reached for the phone, but she shook her head. She was afraid they would hang up.

“"Who is this?”" she asked.

“"Where is she?”"

“"Who?”"

The phone clicked. Rhetta dropped the phone and threw herself into Ronnie’'s arms.

“"Oh, God,”" she whispered.

“"Good news first,”" Ham said to Grace when they met up the next morning. It was Friday. They were stopping in at a donut shop because it was Ham’'s turn. Grace pointed to all her favorites—--maple bars, chocolate cream filled, lemon custard—--while Ham held out his phone and brought up one of the target pictures she had taken.

“"This white guy? The one without the bullet? I know him. He hangs out with Indian. Sometimes he comes to the diner with us.”"

“"Shit, Ham, are you kidding me?”" Grace cried. Heads turned. She lowered her voice. “"Two French crullers,”" she said to the clerk. “"And that’'ll do it.”" She looked back at Ham. “"Did Indian say anything to you about this guy being a witness to a crime?”"

“"Naw, but he was acting all jumpy last time I saw him.”" Ham whipped out his wallet and paid the clerk. “"He’'s a heroin addict, though, so he acts jumpy a lot.”"

“"God, we have to find him. And Jeannie. We have to pry her loose, make her talk to us.”"

He nodded. “"Bad news. One of the uniforms who’'s been patrolling the area around the Catlett residence found a bunch of insulin bottles. Looks like they were dropped. Rhetta did an inventory and Bobby checked with Dr. Salzman. Forrest doesn’'t have a week’'s worth of insulin with him. He probably doesn’'t have any.”"

Grace’'s jaw dropped. “"That’'s gotta be wrong, Ham.”"

“"It’'s not.”" He took the box of donuts, and they walked toward the door.

“"Shit.”" Grace’'s mind began to race. “"We’'ve got to find him. He’'ll go into diabetic shock. Then a coma. They’'ve got to give him sugar, get him to a hospital.”"

“"Butch is going to talk to Kendra.”" He opened his truck and handed Grace the box of donuts. “"That scumbag in Edmond, Bo Halliford? Local law in Edmond’'s got him. He confessed to sending the note but he doesn’'t have Forrest.”"

“"Of course not.”"

Pieces were both shaking loose and fracturing. They had to hustle it up.

She grunted. They started driving. Then she did something she should have done right away: She dialed her old phone number.

Someone answered on the first ring.

“"Who is this?”" Grace said.

“"I’'ve been waiting for you to call me,”" said a voice.

It was Jamal.

Jamal came to the station, in his gang colors, but one look at the detectives and he pulled off his do-rag and stuffed it in his pocket. Then he took off his stupid-ass huge necklace and threw it in the trash. Grace gave him a donut while Butch carried his “"I have to shit”" doll to the department Dumpster.

“"First, your grandfather,”" Grace said. She’'d thought this through. She needed Jamal’'s help and she didn’'t want to distract him. But she had to be honest about Mr. Briscombe.

“"Daddy D?”" His voice came out choked, scared. His eyes widened. Grace grabbed his hand.

“"He had a stroke. On top of his heart attack. He’'s in bad shape. But he’'s alive.”" She took a deep breath. “"I think he’'s hanging on for you.”"

“"I got to go, to him, now,”" he said.

“"No, please, wait. One minute. Jamal, I need your help. I’'m getting close to the guys who killed your brother. It’'s not a gang. Look at these photographs.”"

She showed him the photographs on Ham’'s phone. One, two, three, four, five, six. He looked visibly shaken.

“"What are these? Where did you get them?”" he asked, holding the phone tightly.

“"We think they witnessed something. Malcolm, too. We want to find the ones who are still alive. They might help us convict Malcolm’'s murderers.”"

“"I know that kid,”" he said. “"That one without the bullet. He’'s a friend of Malcolm’'s.”"

“"Do you have an address?”" she asked him. “"Can you help us find him?”"

He shook his head as he stared at the picture of Malcolm with the bullet in his head. “"They lived near us. Then they moved.”"

She shut her eyes. Opened them. Moved to the neighborhood with the minimart? Moved there?

“"Please give me his full name. And the names of his parents, if you have them. Especially if their last names are different. And give me their old address, please, Jamal.”" She handed him her detective’'s notebook. “"Then I’'ll take you to see your grandfather.”"

“"Okay.”" He wrote slowly. He had beautiful handwriting.

Then he handed it back to her. She carried it to Bobby, who was just hanging up the phone.

“"Can you run this, man?”" she asked him.

“"I’'ve got something,”" he said, taking the notebook from her. “"There was a receipt in the bag with the insulin bottles for KD Supply. It’'s an electronics store and it sells all kinds of remote-control devices, that kind of thing. Turns out someone bought a piece of rocketry equipment called an AT-2B.”" Bobby typed on his keyboard. “"It’'s a transmitter.”"

“"As in …... it sends out a signal,”" Grace said. “"An SOS.”"

Bobby nodded. “"Quite possibly.”"

“"Yeah, you attach the AT-2B to your rocket, and then you have a receiver, and that way it’'s easier to find your rocket,”" Clay told Grace. They were sitting in the same office where she had conducted the interviews with the novena people. Grace had raced to the church and pulled Clay out of class. Her nephew looked like he hadn’'t slept in days.

“"So he has one? Forrest owns an AT-2B?”"

“"I guess,”" Clay said. “"He didn’'t mention it to me but it would be really cool to have.”"

“"So you wouldn’'t know if he had it with him now,”" she said.

“"No, but …...”" His eyes widened. “"But if he did …...”"

“"And if we had a receiver …...”" She took his hand. “"If it was on …...”"

He sighed heavily. “"It’'s only good for five miles.”" Then he started to get excited, hopeful. “"But you could start looking. I mean, it’'s better than nothing. He could even be five miles from right here.”"

She tried to conceal her disappointment. “"Yeah. He could.”" Or five miles away from a different part of the nearly seventy thousand square miles that made up the state of Oklahoma. She wanted to hit something. She’'d thought this was their ace in the hole. They didn’'t have time to look for a needle in a haystack.

“"That’'s a big help, Clay,”" she said.

He looked hard at her. “"No, it’'s not. You think he’'s going to die.”" He started to shake.

“"No.”" She stopped herself. Then she put her arms around the person she loved best in all the world and rocked him. “"I hope I find him in time, Clay. I want to find him.”"

“"I’'ve been praying,”" Clay said.

“"I’'m sure that’'s helping.”" She kissed the crown of his head. “"I have to get back to working on this.”"

“"Okay, Aunt Grace.”" He turned away, turned back. “"Aunt Grace,”" he said, “"praying is working on this, too.”"

She tried to smile. “"Yeah,”" she said.

She cupped his cheek, and Clay headed back to class. Grace watched him go, and then, on impulse, she headed for the sanctuary. Her boot soles brushed the soft carpet.

What the hell am I doing? she thought. I am for sure not going in there to pray.

A second passed. Two.

I’'m not, she told herself.

Nevertheless, she pushed open the door.

Father Alan was kneeling before the altar, hands clasped in prayer. She watched him in silence and saw the rosary between his fingers. Crossing himself, he rose, genuflected, and looked at her.

“"Detective,”" he said. “"Has something …... happened?”"

“"I thought we had something,”" she said. Her shoulders rounded. “"It seems that Forrest or someone he knows bought an AT-2B. A transmitter. And I thought, What if he has it with him, and he’'s trying to send a signal? But Clay told me it’'s only good for five miles. I’'m going to give it a shot, but …...”"

“"It’'s only five miles on the ground,”" he cut in. “"But it’'s fifty miles from the air.”"

“"From …...”" She looked at him. “"Like, in a helicopter?”"

He nodded. Eagerly.

“"If I have the receiver with me in the helicopter—--”"

“"I have the receiver you need.”" He smiled at her. “"I have the answer to your prayers.”"

“"Oh, God, oh, Ham,”" Grace whispered as he pushed against her in the stairwell where she went to smoke. They were fully clothed; there was no actual sex, but Grace wanted, needed, to feel him there while the chopper was fueled up. A department pilot would take them up. Father Alan had given them the receiver and showed her how to use it. In ten minutes, tops, they would be airborne.

“"We gotta find him, Grace. We have to.”"

“"We will, goddamn it.”" She pressed herself against his length as energy surged through her. She felt almost like she had wings. Like she could fly. She felt higher than a kite.

Just as quickly, urgency shot through her. It could end badly. It might.

“"God, please, please, let us find him,”" Ham gasped.

Amen.

CHAPTER          TWENTY

From their vantage point inside the police department building on North Colcord, Rhetta, Butch, Bobby, and Captain Perry watched the chopper lift off from the pad across the street. Inside the bell sat a pilot, Ham and Grace, and a doctor. They had insulin and glucagon. A receiver for the AT-2B transmitter. And guns.

Rhetta whispered a prayer and crossed herself. Captain Perry gave her a nod, and everyone turned away from the window. Captain Perry would assist with ground support. Butch would be driving the roads, with an additional assignment: They’'d gotten a tip about a burning vehicle, and who knew? Grace and Ham would keep a lookout as best they could. But at the moment, Forrest Catlett was their top priority.

After Rhetta secured some evidence so that it wouldn’'t be compromised, she met up with Bobby. Both of them were wearing jeans; he had on a long-sleeved shirt and his black leather vest. She wore her ruffled blouse and a denim jacket she’'d nearly forgotten she owned. She’'d started to go through her family’'s clothes, telling herself she was planning a garage sale, although deep in her heart she was bracing for a move.

Tech gave her a little tape recorder to put in her jacket pocket. They were going to fetch Jeannie Johnson, Rhetta accompanying Bobby because Jeannie trusted her the most of any of them. Bobby because this was a criminal case, and he was an officer of the law.

Bobby and Rhetta left for Shelter Valley in an unmarked department Toyota. The drive seemed to take a lot longer than it had previously; maybe Rhetta was just extra nervous. She looked up at the sky. It wasn’'t raining for once, but the wind was picking up again.

“"No wonder she was so scared,”" Rhetta said, as the truck made its way up the mesa. “"If she knows they’'ve been killing people.”"

“"If she’'s a material witness, we’'ve got something,”" Bobby said. “"But if it’'s just pillow talk, that’'s hearsay.”"

“"Maybe she doesn’'t know the difference.”" She looked over at him. “"You called ahead to Brenda.”"

“"Yes. Jeannie’'s doing pretty well. She had a few shaky moments where she wanted to call Hunter, but she hasn’'t asked to leave.”"

“"Do we have to take her in?”" Rhetta asked. “"Can’'t you just get a statement at the shelter?”"

“"If she’'s really got something, we can offer protective custody. We couldn’'t do that before. If she decides to leave the shelter …... there goes our witness.”"

Rhetta nodded. She looked up at the sky again, wondering where the helicopter might be. Hoping they located Forrest in time.

They reached the shelter. Rhetta tested her little tape recorder and turned it on.

Bobby gave her a thumbs-up.

As she opened the door, Ms. Wyman saw her. It was almost time for lunch, and Rhetta smelled hamburgers. Then Brenda wandered over and said quietly, “"She’'s helping in the kitchen. There’'s a side door and a porch. It’'ll give you the most privacy.”"

“"Thanks.”"

Rhetta took a deep breath and headed into the kitchen. Three women were bustling around, grabbing plates, and running the water in the sink. Jeannie was cooking a grilled cheese sandwich and laughing at something one of the other women said.

Then she saw Rhetta, and she went pale.

“"Is everything all right?”" She held the spatula in her hand like a mallet.

“"Hey, yeah,”" Rhetta replied. She was a terrible liar. She wasn’'t even sure there was any benefit to be gained in lying to Jeannie anyway. “"Well, not exactly.”" She gestured to the side door. “"Can we talk in private?”"

“"Is Hunter …... is he okay?”" She gripped the utensil. Rhetta eased her fingers from around it and set it on a ceramic sunflower spoon rest.

“"Let’'s go outside.”"

It was getting blustery, really building up. Clouds were tumbling end over end, and Jeannie’'s hair whipped around her head. Up this high, the wind was gathering momentum. Rhetta wondered what it would be like in a helicopter.

“"I need to tell you a few things, Jeannie.”"

Rhetta took her hands and told her about the fire, and Speckles. She didn’'t tell her that Grace had been to the compound, but she did make mention of six witnesses, describing Malcolm, and waited to see Jeannie’'s reaction. The wind was buffeting her clothes, and she wasn’'t sure the tape recorder would be able to pick up the conversation.

Jeannie stared off into space for a long time. He profile was soft and her features were delicate. But there was still swelling, and bruises. If he had hit her any harder, she might have sustained a facial fracture. Scars.

“"You have to understand.”" Her voice was whispery, light, otherworldly. “"Tommy got ’'em all drunk. And he told them that those white girls should not be with those boys—--”"

“"Were they African American?”" Rhetta asked, fighting to stay neutral.

“"Some of them. I think one was Mexican or something. And two Asian boys. And they saw them with the girls. So Tommy …...”" She balled her fists. “"Hunter didn’'t do anything. He swore it to me and I believe him.”"

Rhetta was shocked down to her core. “"They killed them? All of them?”"

Jeannie shook her head. “"Tommy tried to say it was okay, because they were a gang. Drug pushers and pimps.”"

The Robertson Hood? Had the Sons killed the missing gangbangers?

Jeannie bit her lip. She winced from the pain, and stared at her hands in her lap. “"But you have to believe me. Hunter had nothing to do with it.”" She stared at Rhetta. “"He was just there when it happened, and he can’'t saying nothing about it or Tommy will kill both of us.”"

Is that what he told you? And you believe it? Or are you just trying to convince us both?

“"Now we can take care of it,”" Rhetta assured her. “"We can protect you and Hunter.”"

Jeannie kept crying. “"Except he tried to burn down your barn.”"

Rhetta fought to sound calm. “"But I can see why. He needed to find you, so you could explain. I get it.”" She swallowed hard. “"I won’'t press charges.”" Surely Jeannie wasn’'t so naïive as to actually believe her.

“"Because—--because now we can tell the judge that he wasn’'t in on it,”" Rhetta went on in a wobbly voice. “"But we have to move you again. To protect you. So you can stand up for Hunter.”"

Jeannie looked panicky. “"Move me …... where? Can I stay with you?”"

“"That’'s not the best place,”" Rhetta said. “"But there are good, safe places. The department will look after you. You and Hunter both.”"

Funny thing about lying: the longer you did it, the better at it you got.

“"Please, no, I’'m so scared. If Tommy finds out—--”"

“"We’'re getting close to arresting him,”" Rhetta promised. And your husband, too.

Time passed. Jeannie stared at her hands, then off into the distance again. Maybe Bobby should have handled this part; Rhetta didn’'t think she was being very persuasive.

“"So …... if you leave me here, Tommy might …... might find me …...”" She caught her breath.

“"Yes, and I understand now that Hunter knew that, and was desperate to find you.”" She was practically choking on her own words. “"Because he loves you.”"

Jeannie smiled uncertainly, and it was heartbreaking. “"If I go …... can we stop along the way? I want to get something …... some makeup and things.”" She grimaced. “"Your things are very nice, but Hunter likes a little more color.”" She gathered up her hair. “"He says I look like a top model.”"

Rhetta didn’'t know what to say about stopping.

Bobby joined them. “"I can’'t get cell reception here,”" he said. “"I want to check in and see how the others are doing.”"

Rhetta relayed Jeannie’'s request. Bobby nodded; it was probably best to keep Jeannie as happy as they could. Jeannie went off to gather her things; Bobby headed for Ms. Wyman’'s closely guarded landline.

“"There’'s a little town about halfway down the mountain,”" Ms. Wyman told them. “"There’'s a couple of outlet stores, a market, and a pharmacy. They ought to have a few things.”"

“"Sounds good,”" Bobby said, rejoining them after his call.

After a few minutes, everyone headed for the car. Jeannie held on tightly to Rhetta’'s turquoise cat bag. The wind blew fiercely; Rhetta fought against it as she climbed into the backseat with Jeannie. Jeannie set the bag on the floor, between her feet. Rhetta felt for her; she was practically hoarding, like a frightened animal.

Bushes rippled like ocean waves as they began their descent. The sky flattened into an angry dark gray. A storm, maybe even a tornado, was getting ready to hit. Rhetta thought of Grace and Ham up in the helicopter, and knit her brows.

About forty-five minutes later Bobby reached the fork in the road that led to the little mall. He said, “"I told Captain Perry we’'d be in a little later. But we probably shouldn’'t take too long.”"

“"Look at the wind,”" Rhetta murmured as newspapers and trash flew across the entrance of a dusty, abandoned-looking strip of stucco buildings.

The three got out. The wind chased them into the drugstore. At the makeup counter, Jeannie dawdled around, and then it dawned on Rhetta that she had no money. Once Rhetta offered to buy, Jeannie gathered up a ton of makeup, and perfume, and some hair elastics.

“"Maybe we can put a little back,”" Rhetta ventured. She was half afraid she didn’'t have enough money on her card.

Buying the makeup chewed up some significant time. Nearly forty minutes had passed before they got back in the car. Jeannie sat behind Bobby, and Rhetta took the right-hand side. The road was level and straight along this section; it would get steep in a little bit.

Rhetta heard a beep. For one heart-stopping moment, she thought it was the tape recorder. But then she realized it was her cell phone. She must be in range again.

“"Oh,”" she said. “"I have a message from Mae.”" She played it.

“"Mom? We’'re at the mall. Mrs. Raimundo dropped us off. And there’'s this weird guy. I think he’'s following us. He has really blue eyes and—--”"

Beside Rhetta, Jeannie yanked something out of her bag and slammed it into the back of Bobby’'s head. He grunted. She did it again. It happened so fast. The car swerved; Rhetta tried to grab Jeannie’'s arm as the car wove out of control. Jeannie turned and thrust something straight at her.

It was a gun.

“"Miz Rodriguez, please, put down your phone,”" she said. “"Drop it now or I-I’'ll shoot you.”"

Rhetta stared at her. “"Jeannie, what?”"

Jeannie wagged the gun at her. “"I mean it, ma’'am.”"

Rhetta set the phone on the seat and raised her hands in the air. Jeannie fumbled at Bobby, who was limp, and pushed him sideways. She half rose and clutched the wheel, keeping the car straight.

I could try to take her, Rhetta thought. But she stayed where she was.

The car rolled to a stop.

“"Miz Rodriguez, you need to get out, please,”" Jeannie said, her voice quavering.

“"Jeannie, don’'t do this.”" Rhetta tried to look over the seat, to see how Bobby was. Jeannie cleared her throat. Her hand was shaking hard.

But not hard enough.

“"Please, just do it.”" Jeannie was tearing up. “"I-I have to do this. I’'m so sorry.”"

Rhetta obeyed. She thought about running but she was standing in a vast plain of nothing. Her mind raced. She’'d had self-defense; what should she do?

Jeannie crawled out, gun in hand.

“"I—--you need to walk around the car,”" Jeannie said. “"And then, I’'m sorry, but you need to lie facedown with your arms and legs spread.”"

“"We need to take care of Bobby.”" Rhetta started to turn around, and Jeannie raised the gun. Rhetta shook her head. “"You won’'t shoot me.”"

A tear ran down Jeannie’'s cheek. “"I’'m desperate, Miz Rodriguez. I know you don’'t believe me about Hunter. I have to fix this, make it right.”"

“"We can talk it over.”"

Jeannie was crying. “"No, ma’'am. People never listen to people like us. That’'s why …... I understand why he gets so mad. Because nobody listens unless we make ’'em listen.”"

“"I’'m listening. I am.”"

“"You think he killed those people. And he didn’'t. Now please do what I say.”"

Rhetta staggered ahead of Jeannie, then lay prone in the dirt. The wind threw handfuls at her cheeks. Her heart pounded. Sweat poured off her, wicking in the wind. Mae, oh, God, was Hunter after Mae? Was Todd all right? He was going to a friend’'s after school. The Handleys.

Hail Mary, full of grace. The Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou amongst women, and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death. Oh, Blessed Mother, protect my child. Protect Bobby. And me.

There was a sickening thud. Jeannie had hit Bobby again.

Then Jeannie said, “"Help me get him out of the car.”"

“"Oh, my God, you didn’'t kill him,”" Rhetta begged. “"Jeannie, Jeannie, listen to me—--”"

Jeannie walked back over to Rhetta; the tips of Rhetta’'s own tennis shoes came eye level as she lay in the dirt.

“"I’'m sorry, ma’'am,”" Jeannie said. “"Sorrier than you’'ll ever know.”"

Rhetta prayed.

Tech had requisitioned a much more sophisticated receiver than the one Father Alan had offered Grace. While it couldn’'t boost the signal, it did load coordinates and maps of the search zone that were more accurate and easier to read. Grace stared at the screen while the pilot, Scott Friesen, soared over the beautiful spare landscape. Ham stared out the window. They were both wearing earphones.

Captain Perry was on the radio, bringing them up to date: Rhetta and Bobby had taken Jeannie shopping and Butch had located a white panel van, on fire. A fire truck was on the scene, and a forensics team had been sent out.

“"Is there a crucifix wrapped around the rearview mirror?”" Grace asked, making a show of bracing for the answer.

“"On the dashboard. Forensics has it. And there’'s something else here, Grace.”" He paused as if for effect. “"A credit card receipt signed by Tommy Miller. Not even scorched.”"

“"Oh. My. God.”" Grace slid a glance at Ham. “"How stupid is that?”"

Grace and Ham shared a moment—--a tight smile, a mental high five. But things were too serious in the cockpit of the helicopter to truly savor the victory.

“"Warrant,”" Grace crowed.

“"This time it looks like we’'ve got what we want,”" Captain Perry affirmed. “"Any luck with the search?”"

“"Not so far.”" Grace looked down at the face of the receiver. It looked like sonar, or radar, with contours of the hills, and the interstate in solid black. Each time they flipped over to a new part of the survey they initiated a new “"circle of confusion.”" Maybe some other time, she would think that was an amusing term. But not now. It would only work if Forrest had his transmitter. If it was on. If it was working. It could have been damaged when he was taken. If no one had stuck it in a tree. There were so many ifs.

If they found him in time.

If he wasn’'t dead already.

“"If what you told me is correct about this boy’'s condition and how long he’'s been without his medication, we need to hurry this along,”" the doctor said tensely. His name was Julio Alcina, and he looked a little green. Not a fan of flying, probably less a fan of being thrown around in the air like wet rags on a windy clothesline; she hoped he knew his business.

“"Sure thing, Doc,”" Ham said affably. “"Hey, Friesen, can you hit the turbo?”"

“"Bad news,”" Friesen replied. “"We’'re going to hit a storm.”"

“"Please, let me call my daughter and see if she’'s okay,”" Rhetta begged as she drove the car. Tears rolled down her face. They were pulling away from Bobby, leaving him exposed to the wind, unconscious on the ground. She hadn’'t seen any blood; if Jeannie hit him hard enough, he could die from bleeding on his brain.

Rhetta willed him to stay alive until she could get help. Gazing down at the odometer, she memorized the last three digits of the readout so that she could retrace their route to where Jeannie had abandoned him.

“"Please let me see if Mae’'s all right.”"

Mae, call the police. Call Daddy. Call someone.

Jeannie sat beside her, training the gun on her. She had told Rhetta it belonged to Brenda Kessel, who had stashed it in her locker. Jeannie had found it while investigating the lockers of the other women. Rhetta remembered that the only prior she had ever had before was petty theft, breaking into the locker of another woman at a health club. Apparently she knew a trick about how to open combination locks.

“"Please,”" Rhetta begged. She was crying so hard she couldn’'t see where she was going. Fierce winds buffeted the car. Large raindrops plopped on the windshield.

“"He wouldn’'t hurt her,”" Jeannie said. “"He really wouldn’'t, Miz Rodriguez.”"

“"Why wouldn’'t he?”" Rhetta shouted. “"He hurt you.”"

“"He—--he lost his temper. But we-we’'re married. Married people get mad sometimes.”" The wind pushed at the car again. “"Maybe we should pull over.”"

I have to get to Mae. I forgot about the mall, or I would have told her not to go. How could I forget? Todd’'s at the Handleys. Todd should be safe. He has to be safe. Ronnie, check on the kids.

“"Hunter stole Mae’'s cow. Speckles—--”"

“"Oh, Miz Rodriguez.”" Jeannie sounded sad. “"You have to know he did that for me.”" She opened Rhetta’'s phone with her free hand.

If she looks away to punch in a number, I’'ll attack her. Rhetta gripped the steering wheel; the skin stretched across her knuckles. Her face prickled with fear. I have to get to my child. I have to save my child.

As if Jeannie had read her mind, she closed the phone.

“"Pull over,”" she said. “"Please, Miz Rodriguez.”"

Oh, God, oh dear God.

“"We’'re going to have to set down,”" Friesen declared as he, Ham, Grace, and the doc stared out the window at the darkening funnel on the horizon. “"This is getting too dangerous.”"

“"Shit, that’'s a damn tornado,”" Dr. Alcina yelled. “"Get us out of the air.”"

Five miles on the ground, fifty in the air. We just hit a new “"circle of confusion.”"

And he’'s dying.

“"Please, no,”" Grace said. “"Just a few more minutes. We’'ve got time. And Forrest Catlett doesn’'t have any time left. C’'mon, man.”"

She looked at Ham, asking for his support. A united front might sway the pilot.

Then the helicopter plummeted twenty feet, and the doctor shrieked. He grabbed on to his seat and bent his head forward as if bracing for impact. Grace stared at Ham. Friesen brought it out and up; everything was fine. Kind of.

“"Get us out of here!”" Dr. Alcina bellowed.

“"Friesen, c’'mon, man,”" Ham said.

They dropped again, hard.

Dr. Alcina turned his head and threw up.

“"I gotta set down,”" Friesen insisted.

Rhetta sat cross-legged in the wind and the rain while Jeannie used her phone. Jeannie was sitting sideways in the driver’'s seat with her feet on the ground, as if preparing to race after Rhetta if she needed to. Soaking wet, Rhetta couldn’'t hear her. She didn’'t know who she was calling—--or if she was going to drive off and leave her when she was done.

Or kill her.

Hail Mary, full of grace …...

I love you, Ronnie. Mae, Todd. I love you, Grace.

“"Okay,”" Jeannie said. “"Please, come back in.”" She looked flushed and excited. “"Everything is going to be okay.”"

“"Why? What did you do?”"

Jeannie licked her lips. “"It’'s going to be okay.”"

“"Okay, I’'m setting down now,”" the pilot insisted.

Grace closed her eyes. She didn’'t exactly pray, but she pictured Earl in her mind. And what she saw surprised her—--he was standing on the ground just below the helicopter, holding a golden string attached to the leg of the chopper—--like a kite string. Like the helicopter was a kite.

“"No, man,”" Ham said.

The receiver blipped. She stared down at it. So did Ham, and the airsick doctor. It was a goddamn blip. They were within fifty miles of Forrest Catlett’'s transmitter.

“"We’'ve got him!”" Grace yelled. “"We need to triangulate!”"

“"We need to land,”" the doctor insisted.

Friesen was silent a moment.

“"Oh, hell,”" he said.

CHAPTER          TWENTY-ONE

The chopper fell, rose again; screamed downward, leveled out. Alcina was shouting about contacting Captain Perry, then about Internal Affairs, and Grace ignored him as she watched the blip. The screens changed and the blip got bigger, then enormous—--

“"Look,”" Ham said, pointed out the window.

There was a trailer down below them, all alone; a nice double-wide, flanked by a Dodge truck. As Grace watched, the trailer door opened and an older man in a long-sleeved green shirt and dark pants emerged, carrying someone in his arms.

Forrest.

“"Set down!”" Grace ordered Friesen. “"He’'s taking him to that truck!”"

The copter hovered for a few minutes as Friesen got his pitch, roll, and yaw under control; then he landed behind the truck, blocking it from leaving.

The man stood in place. Then a woman came out of the trailer. She was wearing a straw hat and a pink jogging suit.

Grace bolted from the helicopter, ducking as the blades slowed down, and pulled her gun. “"Freeze!”" she shouted. “"Don’'t move. Doc, get out here!”"

Armed with a black medical bag, Dr. Alcina jogged toward the man, who was blinking at Grace as if he couldn’'t believe what he was seeing. His resemblance to Stephen Catlett was astonishing.

So it was the estranged grandparents.

“"When was the last time he had insulin?”" Dr. Alcina said as he took Forrest from the man and laid him on the ground.

“"We …... we didn’'t give him any,”" the man replied. The woman stayed where she was, in the background, looking from the man to Grace to the doctor and back again. Her face was dead white.

“"What?”" Dr. Alcina cried. “"What?”"

“"Sugar. Glucagon,”" Grace said.

“"On it.”" Dr. Alcina opened his bag. Inside he had a container loaded with syringes. He uncapped one and jammed it into Forrest’'s arm.

Rain roared down like a waterfall, a wild torrent, gushing over everyone. Grace stood over Forrest as the doctor examined him, checking his eyes, his pulse. Grace remembered working on Haleem. And failing.

“"Not sure about this,”" the doctor muttered. He looked back at the pilot.

“"No way.”" He shook his head. “"Not now.”"

Ham darted forward and scooped Forrest up. “"Get the door open,”" he said to the woman. She complied, and Ham dashed into the trailer. The others followed, Grace last; she slammed the door shut.

They were in a small living room furnished with a couch and two chairs. Ham laid Forrest down, and the old woman began to towel him off. The doctor attended him, checking vitals. Then he whipped out his cell phone. He spoke rapidly in doctorese.

“"How far are we from an ER? Urgent care?”" Dr. Alcina said.

“"About an hour,”" the old man—--Mr. Catlett—--replied.

The doctor shut his eyes tightly. “"We don’'t have that much time. We have to get him out of here. Get the truck.”"

Lightning flashed. Thunder roared. He began to bundle Forrest up.

“"Now.”"

“"It’'s okay, it’'s okay,”" Jeannie said, more to herself than Rhetta. The rain was flooding the road. Visibility was practically nil. Rhetta was covered in icy sweat, trembling uncontrollably, so close to shattering that it took everything in her to stay in control.

She had told Rhetta to drive in “"the back way.”" Rhetta started to argue that there was no back way—--to lie—--but Jeannie seemed to know there really was one. Rhetta had to get out to open the gate, and she thought about running again. If she could just make it to the house …... There was a squad car there, and Ronnie. Through the rain, she stared longingly in the direction of her house. Then a sob burst out of her chest and she opened the gate.

Back behind the wheel, Rhetta forced the Corolla over the muddy road, holding her breath as it sank more deeply, as the wheels spun. She didn’'t think they were going to make it any farther. So much for her other plan, which was to run off the road. She’'d been tempted several times on the long drive, but Jeannie had held the gun too tightly, aiming at Rhetta’'s temple.

“"No one is going to bother us,”" Jeannie said, half to herself. She flashed Rhetta an apologetic smile. “"When I called? I told them we’'d had a car accident. Your husband is probably searching for us now. I’'m sorry. I know he’'ll be upset.”"

She’'s crazy, Rhetta thought. And crazy people do crazy things. Oh, dear God, help me. Please, help me.

“"What the hell were you thinking?”" Grace bit off. She was soaked to the bone. They had just wheeled Forrest into the entrance of the tiniest urgent care facility Grace had ever seen. Dr. Alcina accompanied the gurney, speaking with the on-duty physician. One look at him and Grace did not think there was going to be a happy ending.

“"What were you thinking?”" Grace repeated, lowering her voice as a woman in scrubs passed blankets all around. She threw it over her shoulders, too angry to bother with taking her jacket off first.

“"That they were insane,”" Eunice Catlett said as Delbert’'s arms came around her. They both looked half dead themselves. They’'d ridden in the cab with Forrest; Grace, Ham, and the doctor had sat in the truck bed under tarps that had done very little to keep them dry. Friesen was back with the helicopter, waiting for a break in the weather.

“"We thought,”" Mr. Catlett said, “"that Roberta was killing him with all her neurotic hypochondria. We wanted to save him from whatever it was she was doing to him.”"

“"We were trying to …... to detox him,”" Eunice said. “"We were praying and—--”"

“"Praying?”" Grace interrupted. “"You thought you’'d pray away a life-threatening illness? Would you pray away a forest fire? Pray if there was a bomb underneath that goddamn trailer? Or would you actually do something?”"

“"That’'s what we did,”" Mrs. Catlett said between sobs. “"We hired those men to rescue him—--”"

“"You mean kidnap him?”" Grace said. “"And believe me, that was a kidnapping. And they’'ll be charged, same as you.”"

The old lady shrank against her husband’'s chest. He held her. They looked frail and terrified.

“"So you couldn’'t talk to his doctor? Get a second opinion?”" Ham said.

Speaking over his wife’'s head, Mr. Catlett looked in the direction they had taken his grandson.

“"No. They wouldn’'t let us near him. We didn’'t know his doctor.”"

“"You knew Mrs. Moore, at church,”" Grace said. “"You could have asked her. There was so much you could have done—--”"

“"It was the pump,”" Mr. Catlett murmured. “"They were obsessed with it—--either to let him have it or not. All we could think was that it would pour chemicals into his body. And—--and we weren’'t even sure he actually had diabetes.”"

“"Well, he does,”" Grace said, unable to pity them. “"And thanks to you, he’'s on the verge of dying from it.”"

She looked over at Ham, who was on his cell, calling Captain Perry. She couldn’'t read the expression on his face, which was unusual for her. He hung up and she went over to him.

“"Two things,”" he said. “"We got the warrant. Captain Perry wants us to get with Butch to serve it. As our reward.”" His smile was fleeting.

“"What aren’'t you telling me?”" she said, staring into his eyes, bracing herself.

He didn’'t make her wait. “"Jeannie Johnson called on Rhetta’'s cell phone. They’'re out somewhere in the storm. They had an accident.”"

“"Why didn’'t Rhetta make the call?”" Grace asked, whipping out her cell phone. She punched in Rhetta’'s number.

“"Jeannie told Captain Perry that she and Bobby were trying to get the car out of the mud.”"

“"Her phone’'s ringing,”" Grace said, holding up a hand. “"It’'s going straight to voice mail. Rhetta, call. Let me know you’'re okay.”" She called Ronnie.

“"Did you hear?”" she asked him.

“"Yeah,”" he said. “"We’'re driving all over the place looking for the car but we can’'t see a damn thing. Jeannie said they were okay but no one is answering the phone.”"

“"Shit,”" Grace said. “"Maybe the storm’'s screwed it up.”"

“"Grace,”" he added, “"did you hear about the stalker? Some guy was following Mae at the mall. I’'ve got her with me.”"

Some guy. She went cold. “"You’'ve got her, right? Todd’'s okay?”"

“"We’'re all here. Now if we can just find Mom—--yes, Mae, and Speckles, too—--I’'ll stop holding my breath.”"

“"Copy that,”" Grace said.

She disconnected. Then she turned to the Catletts. “"We’'re going to take your truck,”" she said. “"We’'ll get it back to you later.”" To Ham, “"Let’'s go.”"

Grace and Ham changed into dry clothes even though, given the weather conditions, there didn’'t seem to be much point. Then they met up with Butch at the department and got ready to rumble. Captain Perry had insisted on backup—--lots of it—--and as everyone trundled along the boggy road into the enclave, Grace drawled, “"We got us a convoy.”"

“"Breaker, breaker,”" Ham said. He was driving. They both had their weapons at the ready. Behind them, squad cars with good, armed cops followed with lights flashing. Sirens were off.

They reached the compound gate. The Sons of Oklahoma stood in full paramilitary uniform—--dark green hats, olive-green shirts and jackets, brown pants, boots. Over each breast pocket was a name written in marker; beside it, a Confederate flag.

Across each chest …... ammo. Submachine gun belts. They weren’'t dickin’' around today.

“"Got a warrant,”" Grace said through a bullhorn. “"Tommy Miller, come on down.”"

“"He ain’'t here.”" She recognized that voice: DeWitt, the coon killer.

It didn’'t matter if Miller was there or not. They were serving the warrant on the location, not a person. Still, she liked to know where her main adversaries were whenever possible.

“"What about Johnson?”" she asked.

There was silence.

This is wrong, Grace thought, glancing at Ham. Something’'s up.

“"He’'s on his way,”" Jeannie murmured as they made a pot of coffee in the house. Ronnie and the kids weren’'t there. The squad car wasn’'t there. No one was there, except Jeannie and Rhetta.

And Hunter Johnson was on his way.

Jeannie crossed to the turquoise bag on the table and pulled out the hairbrush Rhetta had packed for her, and the plastic sack from the drugstore that contained all her new makeup. Brenda Kessel’'s gun was in there, too. Rhetta had watched Jeannie place it in the bag when they got out of the Corolla and rushed into the house. Maybe Jeannie figured she didn’'t need it anymore.

“"Jeannie, he might be …... he might not understand what’'s going on,”" Rhetta said. She cast a surreptitious gaze around her kitchen, with all its many potential weapons—--frying pans, knives—--and the lockbox of guns in the bedroom closet. The pot of hot coffee that was nearly finished brewing.

And the shotgun in the barn.

Jeannie looked down. “"I-I’'ll make him see.”"

“"You ran away from him because he hit you,”" Rhetta reminded her. “"You left him. He must be so angry. He might lose his temper again.”"

“"He …...”" Jeannie touched her swollen face. She grabbed the coffee carafe and carried it to the sink. The last drops of the brewed coffee hissed against the heating element.

Taking a deep breath, she turned halfway facing Rhetta. Rhetta kept her attention firmly on her, but mentally, she was seeing the turquoise bag. Reaching for it, grabbing it—--

“"Hey!”" Jeannie shouted.

And then Rhetta was doing it in real life.

With the bag in her arms, Rhetta flew out the front door, racing through the mud, heading for the barn. She had the gun.

There was a shotgun in the barn. If she could grab them and get to the road before he got here—--or maybe it was better to stay in the barn—--she didn’'t know what to do; she raced through ashes and mud, huffing, wheezing, grabbing on to a gatepost to keep herself from falling.

“"No, wait!”" Jeannie yelled.

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 the 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 voilàa. 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

©(c) 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 GraceTM & ©(c) 2010 Twentieth Century Fox Film Corporation

eISBN: 978-0-345-51597-1

www.ballantinebooks.com

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