Cry Me a River (22 page)

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 …”

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.”