Cry Me a River (21 page)

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.