He walked away and she went back inside.
It was almost eight before she got away and went home that evening. No Joe. She dialed Joe’s cell five times. Four maddeningly slow rings, followed by “You’ve reached Detective Joe Hammer of the Maddington Police Department. Leave a message.” She yelled at the tone.
Joe was right. Don Juan had to be the source of the money, and the threat. And Joe was taking it personally.
Not good.
She heard a noise from the back of the house. Probably just an echo from her scream. Yeah, definitely an echo. Maybe.
But, she went to the kitchen and pulled out the biggest butcher knife she had. Then, with her left hand, she grabbed her phone and dialed the Maddington Police.
“Bernice, you know where Joe is?”
The dispatcher said, “He’s your husband. Can’t you keep him at home?”
“Obviously not.”
“Well, we haven’t called him in to work tonight. He should have been off-duty a couple of hours ago. He would have checked in with us if he wanted us to know what he was up to. You want to talk to the lieutenant, see if he knows?”
Serenity hesitated. “No.” Then she hung up.
She knew Joe. Joe-the-cop always made sure the police desk knew where he was, in case something went wrong.
“Except,” he had said with a grin, once, years ago, when they discussed his compulsion to make sure someone always knew where he was. “Except when I want to do something that can’t be done officially.”
Like go after Don Juan. Alone.
And that didn’t feel good.
She tried his cell again. No answer.
There it was, that noise again. Jerking her head around, she thought she saw a blur out the window.
She didn’t want to be there alone. Didn’t want Joe to be wherever he was, alone, either. Long list of didn’t wants came to her head.
Didn’t want Joe going after a mobster alone.
Didn’t want Joe getting hurt.
Didn’t want to lose Joe.
Damn Joe.
Didn’t want Joe talking to Don Juan and finding out he hadn’t killed Kendall, which might lead to his finding out that Doom had killed Kendall.
Didn’t want to cover up for Doom anymore.
Damn Doom.
Serenity went to their gun safe and opened it. She was right. Joe had come home for the illegal gun with the serial number filed off that he kept locked in the safe.
Next to where it should have been was the pearl-handled revolver Joe had bought her years ago, mostly as a joke. She had surprised him and taken basic and advanced training, and still kept in practice.
I’ve got to stop this.
She picked up her gun, cracked the cylinder, loaded five shells and threw the rest in her purse. She put the gun in behind them and walked, crouching, through the house to the garage. Just as she hit the garage door remote, she heard footsteps on the concrete.
She took the pistol out and pointed it at the rising door, which showed a growing slice of the outside world.
“This is what you get when you come after my family, sucker,” she said under her breath.
Serenity watched a pair of legs in jeans appear. She cocked the gun, took aim, and waited until she recognized the body.
fifty-eight
amanda knows evvvverything
SERENITY SAID. “I could have shot you.”
Doom put her hands on her hips. “Why on earth would you do that? I’m helping you.”
Serenity put the gun back in her purse.
“How exactly does sneaking around my house qualify as help?”
“I just wanted to see if you were all right.”
Serenity sighed. “Doom, I don’t need your help. And right now, I’m kind of tired of dealing with your idea of help. Go home now. Go back to being a librarian.”
“Like you? I saw you take a gun out of your closet. You’re not just shelving books yourself.”
“Joe needs help.”
“Did Joe ask for your help?”
Serenity hesitated. “He’s a man. They don’t ask for help. It’s up to us to figure out when they’re carrying a load that would be better carried by two than one.”
“So hard-headed people sometimes need other hard-headed people to step in and not take no for an answer?”
“I don’t need your kind of help.”
Doom’s eyes were wet and shining in the glow of the streetlight. “You don’t know. Try me. If I can’t convince you I can help, I’ll go back to shelving books.”
“Joe’s chasing a drug dealer, and I need to find both of them.”
Doom brightened. “Friday night in late August in a small Alabama city. Anyone my age knows there’s only one place to find him on a night like this. If you take me along, I can show you.”
Serenity waved her hand toward the car, and Doom squealed as she scrambled into the passenger seat.
“Buckle up,” Serenity said. “And I don’t want to know how you know about drugs.”
“Librarians,” she said, “know evvvverything.”
fifty-nine
the games people play
LATE SUMMER FRIDAY NIGHTS in Maddington—or anywhere in Alabama—meant crowding into uncomfortable concrete bleachers with five thousand of your best friends, some of whom you only saw on those nights. Then you screamed at your children and your neighbor’s children to kill somebody, anybody. This all followed an opening prayer that asked Jesus to reward their noble efforts, hopefully with a victory. The fact that Jesus had never been seen in the stands screaming for the Maddington Rebels, or even at the concession stand waiting for a corndog, was not taken personally, nor did it prevent the same ritual from being optimistically repeated every week at the Maddington Veteran’s Memorial Stadium—except for visiting weeks when everyone drove hours to try to ruin other people’s Friday night prayers.
The VM, as the stadium was called, was also the place to go for drugs on a Friday night. Kind of one-stop shopping for God, violence, high-fat food, altered consciousness, and good neighborhood fellowship.
“I wish,” said the ticket taker to Serenity, “that your son Joseph was here on the team. Big ole boy like that could sure put a hurt on that arrogant prick who’s playing quarterback for Riverside.”
“Yeah.” Serenity didn’t want to point out that when Joseph was in high school, big as he was, he never had played football. Instead, he had chosen to take out his aggressions by hitting a small sphere of stuffed horsehide with a baseball bat in springtime rituals. On a night like this, though, it felt like admitting that Joseph was either a conscientious objector or a socialist. “Two tickets, please, Joyce.”
“Standing room only this late.” She made change.
“Have you seen Joe down here tonight?”
“Didn’t buy a ticket from me,” she said it like that was a personal insult. “But I thought I saw that big hat of his floating in the crowd a while ago.”
“Whereabouts?”
“Out there.” She waved a hand at the sea of faces. “Somewhere.”
Serenity looked out and saw a couple of dozen cowboy hats floating in the crowd. None of them immediately fit Joe’s height or hat color.
She grabbed Doom as they walked through the gate, just before they were swallowed up by the mob.
“Okay, this was your idea. Let’s split up and find Joe. Have you got your cell phone? Go over that way. Climb up to the top of the stands and if you see him anywhere, call me. I’ll check the concession stand. First place Joe’ll go.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Serenity pushed, shoved and apologized her way through the crowd to the concrete concession stand in the south end zone. The lines stretched across the front of the open counter, winding so far back that they sometimes wound up colliding with players and officials in the end zone. She went to the edge and tried to push through.