Tough Love by Nancy Holder
“Think your fiancée’s up there?” Grace asked Butch.
“If she is …” Butch trailed off. There really wasn’t anything he could do to stop her. Reporters went to the stories. And the good stories were about life and death.
Bullets hit the Dumpster, making thudding noises. Grace looked behind herself and saw a couple of lumps of cardboard slowly rising and falling, like geometric worms—the homeless, defenseless as always. Grace tugged on Butch’s arm.
“We gotta do something,” she said.
He nodded; they bent over as far as they could and headed for the khaki caterpillars. Grace threw her arms around the first one and Butch ran farther into the lot for the second. Protect and serve. Making herself a human shield, she shouted, “We gotta get you out of here. It’s dangerous to be out here.”
“What’s happening? What’s happening?” her skel cried. He was a leathery man; she had no idea how old he was. He had no teeth. Wait. He was a woman.
Grace had scanned the lot as she ran to the woman; she figured the safest place was directly behind the Dumpster, where she and Butch were bivouacked. Pushing the sleeping bag off the disoriented woman like she was divesting a stack of Styrofoam cups of their sleeve, she made sure the lady was ambulatory before she draped herself around her and half carried, half shepherded her toward the Dumpster. She wanted to check on Butch but she had to stay focused—Paige would be so pleased—and besides, the woman was panicking. The bullets were flying toward them, and of course it would seem more logical to duck and cover somewhere else.
“C’mon, ma’am, just a little farther,” Grace urged the screaming woman.
She didn’t know if she was even registering. Grace half pushed her down, still shielding her, watching for Butch. Here he came with his homeless guy. He barreled into the Dumpster, dropping the emaciated man like a football, and said, “There’s one more.”
“Don’t leave us!” the woman shrieked.
“I’ll go,” Grace said. “I’m smaller. Harder to hit.”
“I can run faster.”
“Maybe in your prime, Longhorn,” Grace taunted him. “You’re an old man now.”
“Then we’ll both go.” Butch nodded at her and they took off, charging through the rain and the mud, the litter and the crap, into the darkness. It was too dark, but Grace wasn’t about to pull out a flashlight.
Then the choppers overhead buzzed the lot and Grace swore under her breath; one or all of them would be misidentified and become victims of friendly fire. Her boots sloshed through mud and she almost lost her balance, but Butch caught her arm. Then he went down … face-first, into the muck.
She knew she’d laugh about it later; she knew she’d wish she had her phone so she could take his picture. If her phone lived through this whole thing—her phone with Rhetta’s message on it, telling them her location.
Shit.
Grace ran.
A bullet whizzed past her ear.
No callback from Grace, or Ham, but Rhetta was back in her own yard now, turning off the engine. And Jeannie was more hysterical, and far more belligerent, than she’d been before. Rhetta guessed she was on something that had kicked in. Rhetta made a long list of possibilities, but all she had to counteract any of them were water, coffee, and a shoulder to cry on.
“Oh, God, I love him.” Jeannie was crying over Hunter again.
Rhetta kept an umbrella in the cab of the truck; she grabbed it, opened the door, and stepped in a puddle. Grimacing, she splashed around to Jeannie’s side. Jeannie hadn’t yet opened the door. Rhetta tried it. It was locked, and Rhetta was standing there in the pouring rain.
Rhetta pounded on it. “Jeannie, open up!” she shouted.
The truck door burst open so fast that it nearly knocked Rhetta over. Then Jeannie tumbled out, pushing Rhetta backward; Rhetta fought to stay on her feet and just managed it.
“Take me back a him,” Jeannie pleaded, hanging on Rhetta. Her breath could start a fire, even in this rain.
“Come on,” Rhetta said, clasping Jeannie’s thin wrist and dragging her toward the barn. There was no way she was going to wake her family up with Jeannie’s dramatics.
“Hunter,” Jeannie bawled.
Tight-lipped, Rhetta got the barn door open and hustled Jeannie inside. Jeannie took a few steps forward, then collapsed in a heap. Rhetta stared down at her, then grabbed up the same blanket she’d used when she’d spent some time visiting with Buttercup and Speckles—although she didn’t remember getting up to fetch it that night—and draped it over Jeannie.
“You should take those wet clothes off,” she said. “I’ll get you some fresh clothes and some coffee.”
“Don’ leave me,” Jeannie pleaded.
“It’ll just be for a few minutes. Don’t get the calf’s straw wet.” Rhetta picked her umbrella back up.
She left the barn and put down the plank that secured the door. Theoretically she had just kidnapped Jeannie. Blanching, she entered her house via the kitchen and took off her soaked boots, her jeans, and her sweater. She went into the laundry room and slipped on some old corduroy pants and one of her son Todd’s sweatshirts. She grabbed some sweats and a black turtleneck sweater for Jeannie. Quickly she brewed some coffee and tried Grace, Butch, and Ham again. She didn’t call Bobby. If he wasn’t out with them on a call, she wanted him to stay home with his family.
After the coffee was done, she went back into the barn. Jeannie had taken off her clothes, leaving them in a heap, and had wrapped herself in the blanket. She had tottered into Speckles’s pen, and she was singing to the little calf.
“Silent night, holy night …”
Her voice was sweet and child-like. It was nowhere near Christmas, but the sentiment was timeless. Rhetta warmed a little, admitting to herself how afraid she had been, now that she was home safe and sound. Jeannie was calming down, and Rhetta hoped she could reason with her.
“Here,” Rhetta said, handing her the clothes.
“Thanks.” Jeannie hesitated, and Rhetta looked away. “I’m ne’er be warm again …” She fumbled with the clothes, taking so long to dress Rhetta was afraid the coffee would get cold.
“Okay,” Jeannie announced.
Rhetta held out the cup. “I didn’t know if you took cream or sugar, so I gave you both.”
“Yeah. Thanks.” Jeannie gazed into the milky coffee as if she could read her fortune there. “Thanks, Miz Rodriguez.”
Rhetta sat down beside her in the straw. Jeannie smelled horrible. Her hands shook as she wrapped them around the cup. Her tattoos had tattoos. Rhetta had almost gotten a tattoo the night they’d busted that serial rapist, but cooler heads—and the sight of that needle-had prevailed.
“I don’t know why y’all are being so nice to me,” Jeannie whispered. Then she started to cry again. “My tooth is loose. He hit me so hard.”
“He’ll never hit you again,” Rhetta swore.
“He’s not a bad man. He jus’ gets stressed out.”
Rhetta closed her eyes against the stench and embraced the poor, lost woman. Lost soul.
“Jeannie, listen to me. Men like that, men who hit, that’s not love. That’s not someone who is sharing anything but pain with you.”
“But … but pain’s something. ’S something.” Jeannie seemed to hear herself. She pulled back her head and wiped her nose with the back of her hand.
“Once you’re sobered up, we’ll find you a safe haven. There are places he won’t be able to find you.” Maybe they could put her in protective custody. Hardly anyone got that kind of treatment—it was too expensive for the department—but Jeannie might prove to be a material witness. Maybe a shelter was the best idea anyway—it was, by definition, a safe house.
“They’re full,” Jeannie said. “And—and I don’ like women. Try a steal your man. Ever’body wanted Hunter. Always tryin’ … some of them got what they wanted … bitches.”
She sniffled. “He said I’m too fat. If I lost weight …”
&nb
Jeannie drank her coffee. Rhetta wondered when the last time was that she’d eaten. Fat? She was rail-thin.
“He don’t need a reason. He can … the Sons have a heavy burden to bear and sometimes they need …” Her shoulders slumped; she imploded. “He gimme …”
“What?” Rhetta took the empty coffee cup from her and wiped a drop of coffee from the corner of her mouth.
“I’s runaway,” Jeannie murmured. “No food. I was sick. He took me in.” She covered her mouth. “Married me.” She was trembling. “I’m gonna barf again.”
Jeannie covered her mouth and leaned over into the straw. Rhetta reached over and held her head, the way she’d held her kids’ when they were sick; or Grace, when she was just too drunk to function. Jeannie cried and threw up; cried and threw up.
Rhetta started singing to her: “Silent night, holy night …”
In Grace’s house, Earl paced. Gus watched, whimpering. He hadn’t touched his supper.
“I’m worried about her, too,” Earl told Gus. “Her chosen profession is just so dangerous. You’d think that the martyrs would be the easy ones, but God can call them in the blink of an eye and then where are you? Up the creek without a paddle.”
Gus moaned. Earl bent over and gave him a head rub, which became a belly rub.
“No, I don’t think God will call her home tonight,” he said. But after the fact, he realized that that was a kind lie. He was plenty worried about her, out there in the line of fire. As Leon Cooley’s last-chance angel, Earl had been prepared—he’d watched all Leon’s legal appeals run out; his request for clemency was denied; then Leon made peace with his god, who was Allah. Leon Cooley went to meet his Maker in the literal sense of the word. With a full heart, too. A good death.
But Grace? She hadn’t made her peace. And he wasn’t sure she ever would.
CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
There were more bullets—a huge damn hailstorm of them—but it was over quickly. No reason to wonder why: There were more cops on the street than people who lived in the Sixty-Sixes’ neighborhood. Once they were clear, Tac’s van pulled up and they hustled Grace, Butch, and their three evacuees inside. Soon they were joined by half a dozen cops in body armor, including Ham. He sat down next to Grace as the van trundled away from the carnage: three officers wounded, none critically; two Sixty-Sixes off to the hospital, and seven arrested.
Jamal was not among the gangbangers in the sweep. Either he’d gotten away during the chaos, or he’d never been there in the first place.
“Where were you going?” Ham asked her, flashing Butch a sour look that spoke volumes: And why were you with him?
“I was worried about Jamal,” she said. “Was this thing planned?”
“If it was, I wasn’t in on it, until I heard you two had been shot at. Through Dispatch.” He took off his helmet and ran his hand through his hair. “Why didn’t you call me? I’m your partner.” Not Butch.
“I ran into Butch at Tacoville,” she said. “I couldn’t sleep.”
“Well, I wasn’t asleep,” Ham groused. “I was home watching the game.”
Butch looked on impassively. There was a time the two men would have butted heads over Grace-literally—but Butch had moved on. Thank God.
“I wanted to give you the night off,” she shot back evenly. Okay, maybe it had been kind of thoughtless of her to take a drive with Butch but shit, they were on the same squad and it wasn’t like she and Ham were married. Much as Ham wished that were the case …
“Did anyone find my phone?” she asked. To cops, losing a cell phone was third on the list of important things: The badge was first, and then the gun. She’d called Jamal’s former employer on that phone. Jamal’s disconnected cell phone number. Connect enough dots and he was easily outted as a CI if that phone fell into the wrong hands.
“Not so far,” Ham told her.
“I have to poop,” Grace’s rescued homeless lady announced.
“I want some string cheese,” Butch’s old guy added. He smiled brightly at Butch. “Can we have string cheese?”
Ham was looking at his phone. “Rhetta called me.”
Grace held out her hand. “I need to reach her, man.”
He handed her the phone. It was damn clear that she wasn’t yet forgiven. Hell with him.
“Yes, Ham,” Rhetta said softly.
“Where the hell are you?” Grace demanded.
“I’m in my barn,” she said. “Jeannie Johnson’s here. She’s asleep. Or unconscious.”
“Damn it, Rhetta,” Grace said.
“She called me. I called you but I couldn’t reach you. So I picked her up. I know. I know. I did try to call you.”
“I’m coming out there,” Grace said.
“She doesn’t like you.”
“I don’t care.” Grace yawned. She was exhausted. And she had to file a mountain of paperwork and do something with her homeless people.
“Give her a few hours,” Rhetta requested. “He beat her up. She was drunk and high and soaking wet, Grace.”
“Sounds to me like you’ve adopted a new puppy.” Grace squinted at her own puppies. That old lady was beginning to strain …
“No,” Rhetta assured her. “Maybe a little.”
“She shacked up with a racist bigot who might have murdered three people.”
“She had no choice.”
“There’s always a choice,” Grace said. “Rhetta … you’re just too soft.” She smiled a little, remembering the awesome prank they’d pulled on Butch. She couldn’t even remember the origin of the prank, just that it was good. “You should take Viagra.”
“No, Ronnie should,” Rhetta said. She sucked in her breath. “You didn’t hear me say that.”
“You’re right. I didn’t. Okay, let her sleep it off and I’ll come by in a little while.”
“I’ll make you a great breakfast,” Rhetta promised.
“And lots of strong coffee.”
“Promise. I love you, Grace.”
“Love you too, Rhetta. Watch her. She might be belligerent when she wakes up.”
“I will. See you soon.”
“See, that’s where you lose me,” Earl said to Grace, after she came out of the bathroom in her pajamas and bathrobe. It was three a.m., and she was finally coming down off her rush. He handed her some mint tea. She scoffed at him … and then she took it.
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.” S
“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?