Tough Love

  “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.