Authors: Nancy Holder
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.”"