Authors: Nancy Holder
“"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.