Jude Devine Mystery Series

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Jude Devine Series

Grave Silence

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Jude Devine Mystery

Series

by

Rose Beecham

Grave Silence

Sleep of Reason

Place of Exile

Grave Silence

“Lying is done with words and also with silence” -Adrienne Rich

Montezuma County Sheriff's detective, Jude Devine doesn't face too many challenges based in remote Paradox Valley, where most of the crime involves hiker assaults, campsite thefts, and cattle rustling. However, when the body of a local teenager shows up with a stake through her heart, Jude finds herself leading an investigation no one wants to touch.

As Jude uncovers the truth about the murder and tries to save a young girl from being forced into a plural marriage, she must decide how much she is willing to risk to see justice done. Further complicating her choices is her torrid entanglement with the golden girl of Southwestern forensic pathology, Dr. Mercy Westmoreland.

Book One in the Jude Devine Mystery Series

Grave Silence

by

Rose Beecham

2005

Grave Silence

© 2005 by Rose Beecham. All Rights Reserved.

ISBN 10: 1-933110-25-2E

ISBN 13: 978-1-933110-25-7E

This electronic book is published by:

Bold Strokes Books, Inc.,

New York, USA

First Printing: Bold Strokes Books 2005

This is a work of fiction. names, characters, places, and Incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

Credits

Editor: Stacia Seaman

Production Design: Stacia Seaman

Cover Design By Sheri (graphicartist2020@hotmail.com)

Acknowledgements

I belong to that species of author for whom writing a novel is a lonely, antisocial affair. Family and friends are excluded, the phone is ignored, and the espresso machine works overtime. My dear ones, especially my partner, put up with all of this and still love me. Puzzling, but I cannot thank them enough.

As I worked on this novel, Shelley, Connie, and JD kept my feet to the fire—thank you. Radclyffe made the publisher/author relationship a rewarding and happy one, and Stacia Seaman took her usual care editing the end results.

I owe a debt of gratitude to several LDS friends—Carrie, John, and Rona, whose experiences and insights added much to my research for this novel. Writing this story would have been immeasurably more difficult without Jon Krakauer’s superb account of Mormon fundamentalism in America, Under the Banner of Heaven, and without the courage of the women who’ve escaped these communities and who refuse to remain silent about the abuses committed within them.

Dedication

For my mother, Wyn

who defines family values for me

Chapter One

On a still afternoon in early August, a couple of gas station robbers fished an old-style Samsonite suiter out of the Dolores River near Slick Rock. Bobby Lee Parker and Frank Horton had been dragging the murky waters under the Highway 141 bridge for the proceeds of a stickup they’d pulled two weeks earlier.

It was not their lucky day.

So far, they’d lost the final round of the watermelon seed spitting competition at the Montezuma county fair. Then Bobby Lee’s mom showed up wanting to get high and helped herself to his last gram of weed. Now it seemed like the plastic garbage bag they’d stashed under some rocks had been washed away during the big storm that had startled locals earlier in the week.

Normally, this time of year, the Dolores between Slick Rock and Bedrock was a muddy trickle. The whitewater crowd abandoned the place by June, taking their kayaks and Discover cards back to Boulder. Soon after, the canyons were overrun with hikers busting their asses to see wildflowers and shit. A couple of these idiots normally got themselves mauled by mountain lions every summer. Then came the annual funeral procession of VWs packed with posers winding down their tinted windows and asking directions to Telluride. Bobby Lee had seen the worst movies of his life trying to get laid at that film festival.

He stared up at the bridge, where yet another dickhead had stopped his SUV so he could peer down at the river. The guy waved and yelled something about “boatable flow.”

Ignoring him, Bobby Lee said, “Fucking perfect. They’ll be down here with their fucking kayaks before we get done.”

Frank let go of the suiter and stood upright, panting and wheezing. His light brown mullet was limp with perspiration, the combed-back sides drooping flaccidly onto his cheeks. “Damn, it’s a heavy mother,” he whined.

Reluctantly, Bobby Lee helped him hump the garment bag further up the bank onto the flat. He figured maybe they’d lucked onto some other guy’s heist. “Open it,” he said and watched Frank plaster his DNA all over the striped canvas like the amateur he was. The zipper wouldn’t budge.

Eventually Einstein remembered he had a knife and used it to slit the thing apart. “Oh, man!” he choked, lurching back. “That stinks worse ’n a dead skunk. We gotta get out of here.”

Bobby Lee took a moment to digest the grisly sight of a decomposing corpse. He weighed his options. His midnight blue Chevy Silverado was parked at the Chuck Wagon Café a few yards from the bridge. The truck was well known in these parts on account of its Super Swampers and the custom-painted flames that licked across the rocker panels. A bunch of cars had gone by while he and Frank were searching the river, mostly tourists headed for the canyons. But tourists were nosey and took photos of every fucking blade of grass. Who knew how many of them had shot video that could later become Exhibit A in the kind of bogus trial Bobby Lee knew all about?

He stared around the riverbanks. They could haul the suiter under the bridge and bury it real quick while the earth was still moist, only he didn’t have a shovel, so they’d be doing it with their bare hands and Bobby Lee had never cared much for manual labor. Or they could do what Frank wanted and shove it back in the river.

The bad news was dead bodies had a habit of showing up. In a few days’ time, the Dolores would be a mud slick again and some dude would spot the lumpy Samsonite shroud. Murders were a big deal in the Four Corners, so the discovery would be plastered all over the front page of the Durango Herald. Someone would remember seeing Bobby Lee’s wheels. Next thing, the cops would come knocking at his door. Who else around here owned a tricked-out show truck like the Midnight Rambler?

Placing his hand over his nose and mouth, he said, “We’re gonna do the Christian thing. Whoever this dead chick is, there’s a family needs closure.”

Frank turned away and sucked in a breath. “You’re gonna call the cops?” He removed his Terminator shades and shook them free of sweat. His pudgy face was incredulous. “They’ll wanna know what we was doing down here. That cross your mind?”

Bobby Lee took a few paces along the bank to escape the stench. Frank was the kind who never saw the bigger picture. He had not graduated from high school. Bobby Lee, on the other hand, had finished two years of college before he had to suspend his education to serve time for an assault that was really self-defense. Unfortunately, the so-called victim was not just any retard who’d gotten antsy when his girlfriend flashed some leg at Bobby Lee, but the son of a Ute Tribal Council member. And seeing as the Ute owned the casino and employed half of Montezuma county, guess whose version of events the jury bought?

Patiently, Bobby Lee explained the psychology of law enforcement officers. “They’ll be real surprised that we’re reporting this, on account of our past histories. So they’ll know we’re not the guys who did it, otherwise we’d have been hightailing it out of here as per your proposal. Now they’d see that as suspicious behavior. Guilty conduct. Know what I’m saying?”

Frank mopped his face and flattened his hair back into place. “So when they ask us what we was doing down here in the first place, we tell them some bullshit about fishing?”

Bobby Lee shook his head. “Call of nature. We were relieving ourselves and that’s when we saw it. You got curious because it looked to contain something large, so you cut it open with your knife.”

Frank chewed this over for several seconds then asked, “Do I bury the knife?”

Bobby Lee did not call his buddy a dumbass, even when he acted like one. It was not Frank’s fault his father was a no-good SOB who beat on his family. Bobby Lee was aware of several head injuries that had sent Frank to the hospital when they were kids, so he made allowances.

“No, Frank,” he said like he took the question seriously. “Burying the knife is felon-thinking. If they ask for it, just give it to them. We got nothing to hide. Okay?”

“Aw, shit.”

Interpreting this as approval, Bobby Lee flipped open his cell phone and dialed 911.

*

Deputy Virgil Tulley hoped he would never get used to real depravity. There was only so long a decent man could stare into the chasm of horror before he got dizzy. On such occasions it was his habit to pick up his cell phone and call his ma in Ohio. Today was no exception.

Ma Tulley had important information to impart. “Your brother Billy lost his right testicle last week while they was dehorning.”

“No kidding.” Tulley crossed his legs.

“They sewed it back on, but Marybeth says that’s just for cosmetic appearance’ sake. He won’t be a Daddy again.”

“They don’t need any more kids, Ma.”

“If I’d took that attitude you’d have never been born.”

Tulley squinted up at the ceiling fan. One of the blades was lose. With each drunken gyration, it clicked like a cricket in the mating season. His skin prickled. Sweaty nausea had dried in a thin film all over his body. Lucky he kept a change of shirt at work.

“I got that Chinese sow,” his ma said. “There’s money in pet pigs nowadays. They walk ’em on a leash in L.A., you know. Get bored and it’s always a good meal, I guess.”

“Ma, people don’t eat their pets.” He glanced at the case file in front of him. “Most people, anyways.”

“They got that Union County grand champion boar servicing gilts over Harper’s place. We’re next. Weighs seven hundred eighty pound.”

“That’s a shitload of bacon.”

“Owner reckons he can do four sows in an hour.”

“Who? The hog?”

A long-suffering sigh. “If you think you’re gonna get a rise out of me with your trash talk, you’re mistaken, boy.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Tulley snickered. He was a grown man. He didn’t have to fear the pig paddle anymore.

“We’re getting them snout coolers,” his ma continued. “Had a farrowing decline last summer. Heat stress. That’s what the vet says. What you got to do to prevent that is keep their noses cold.”

“Like dogs,” Tulley noted.

“What you call for, anyways? I got better things to do than listen to you bragging on that hound of yours again.”

*

A few feet away, Detective Jude Devine cracked open a can of ginger ale and rocked her chair back, legs crossed, feet on the corner of her desk. She surmised Tulley had been reading the Pohlman case file. Made it as far as the dog-burger bit, then called his ma. Nothing like a debriefing on hog husbandry to hustle a sensitive soul back to mundane reality.

Tulley was the youngest of eleven and had something to prove. The impressive trappings of a career in law enforcement were made to order for him. No one polished his badge like this kid. Not so long ago he’d applied to the sheriff’s office for permission to have an exact replica cast in solid fourteen karat gold. Concerned about setting a precedent, they’d turned him down. Jude had to talk him out of taking the matter up in writing with Governor Owen. Gold scratches like hell anyway, she’d pointed out. Why not spend the two thousand bucks on something more practical?

Tulley had taken her advice. Within days he’d plunked his money down on a bloodhound described in the Lawman’s Best Friend as “a true gallant descended from a line of champion cadaver hounds and felon trackers.” The dog was surplus to requirements at Georgia State Penitentiary, where fancy new security was putting fine animals like him out of a job.

Jude had rustled up some not-exactly-kosher cigarette company sponsorship and persuaded her superiors to approve six weeks of handler training for Tulley at the Advanced Canine Academy. When he graduated, a posse of Marlboro executives hit town to stage-manage the occasion. They lured the Channel 9 people out of Denver to cover the story, and the front page of every local rag from Grand Junction to Cortez ran a picture of the suits benevolently awarding Smoke’m a monogrammed collar and five years worth of Purina lamb and rice. In exchange for this largesse and the price of a K-9 vehicle, a Marlboro Man billboard—minus the brand logo—now dominated the vacant lot next to the Montrose & Montezuma County Sheriffs’ outpost in Paradox Valley. The executives called this a “subtle artistic tribute” to their one-time icon, now banned across the land of the free.

Every time Jude looked at the twenty-foot cowboy’s chiseled jaw, she reminded herself that this homage was a small price to pay for the full service status deeply coveted by remote offices. No longer would she and Tulley wait in vain for the deputies of Cortez to mark their dance card. No longer would they be passed over in big-ticket cases because someone supposedly had to be on hand in the canyon area to investigate petty campsite thefts, hiker disputes, and cattle rustling. Jude was a sheriff’s detective, even if she was only a woman, and her substation now operated one of just four K-9 units in the region. As far as the dispatchers were concerned, that meant Paradox could pursue and detain upon their own initiative.

So, when the 911 call came in about a suspicious discovery in a garment bag, Jude tapped Tulley on the shoulder and said, “Tell your ma good-bye and get that hound on a leash. We’re not wallflowers anymore.”

*

By the time they reached the Slick Rock Bridge, an impressive lineup of silver and blue Ford Crowns were parked at the scene, lights flashing. Several state patrol troopers were directing the scant traffic and preventing guys with kayaks from heading down the riverbank. Another was taking statements from two males in their twenties. The shorter of this pair looked like the adult version of the fat kid everyone teased in school. Hands crammed into the pockets of his too-tight jeans, he stared at the ground as his cool-dude companion did the talking.

Jude parked her Dodge Dakota alongside Tulley’s K-9 Durango, located her camera, and bailed out. Gesturing at the flashy Silverado parked in front of the local café, she asked her sidekick, “Recognize that truck?”

“Bobby Lee Parker.” Tulley opened the back of the Durango so Smoke’m could dangle his dewlaps in the fresh air. “DUI. Served eighteen months for assault with a deadly weapon. Suspect in a couple of gas station robberies. Fond of the ladies, ’specially those in uniform.”

Jude looked harder at the cowboy in question and it all came back. Parker had spent last New Year’s Eve in jail after a brawl over someone’s girlfriend. His mom, a local artist and president of the Concerned Citizens for Cannabis Law Reform, had bailed him out. A few days later he showed up at the sheriff’s office in Cortez with a bunch of flowers and a poem for a female deputy. The young woman had actually dated him for a time, sparking a firestorm of gossip that even found its way to Paradox. He was, the deputy told her colleagues, “real suave for ’round here.”

As she and Tulley approached, Parker snapped to and smoothed his frosted blond cowlick, presumably at the sight of a female, even one with shorter hair and more muscles than him. He was barking up the wrong tree, but Jude had no plans to advertise the fact. This was not Boulder, with its liberals and GLBT picnics. This was southwestern Colorado, a few miles from the Utah border, less than a day’s drive from Matthew Shepard’s Laramie.

After identifying herself and Tulley, she sought out the most senior of the troopers, a rangy fortysomething who introduced himself as Henson.

“What have we got?” she asked.

“DOA. Hundred yards thataways.” He pointed down the riverbank.

“Smells real bad, ma’am.” Parker flashed a grin that probably worked on females who had never been to the big city. Even standing still, the guy had a swagger. “Got a clean bandanna in my truck if you need to cover your mouth.”

“What I need is for you to talk to Deputy Tulley, here.” Jude returned her attention to Trooper Henson and invited, “Lead the way.”

They followed a well-worn track through silver-green grasses and gnarled junipers to the banks of the Dolores. The once mighty River of Our Lady of Sorrows meandered north between walls of stratified sandstone, through the open spaces of Big Gypsum, into Slickrock Canyon and on to Paradox Valley. 160 million years of history were etched along its serpentine progress, from dinosaur tracks to the ruins of Anasazi Indian villages, to homesteader graves and the poisonous dust layer that was once Uravan, a uranium mining town bulldozed when its cancer epidemic made the news.

Jude had made it her business to get to know the area since moving out here, and spent most of her leisure time exploring on horseback. It was a world like none she’d ever known, a far cry from D.C. Lack of water kept rapacious developers away, which meant you could look out across a vast, natural landscape unsullied by human presence. Jude loved that. There was nothing like sitting on a horse high on a mesa, alone in this timeless splendor, feeling like a tiny speck on the ass of Mother Nature.

The track leveled out and she stopped and gazed toward the canyon mouth where a large cottonwood stood, impossibly alive and green in a barren sea of rock. From its branches, an owl stared at her, a rare sight in the garish brightness of day. The harbinger of death.

Jude shivered and continued along the riverbank, following the unmistakable hum of feasting insects. A few feet ahead, a squadron of flies hovered drunkenly around a vintage suiter split open to reveal what appeared to be female remains. The hair was long and the bloated facial features still vaguely identifiable. Jude pulled on some latex gloves and covered her nose and mouth with a handkerchief she’d pocketed for the occasion. The victim was young, maybe even a teen, fair haired and Caucasian, at least as far as she could tell.

Time since death was hard to guess. At a glance, Jude thought maybe a week, but submerged bodies decomposed more slowly than those left exposed, so it was more likely two or even three weeks. She did some math. The rains had struck six days earlier, so the body could not have been underwater any longer than that. Even with the August heat, the decomp rate seemed to be out of step with this time frame, which meant the killer must have hidden the body somewhere before he put it in the water. Poor planning, Jude thought.

Maybe it was a spur-of-the-moment killing and the perpetrator had to wait for an opportunity to travel to the dump site. He would probably have wanted to hide his victim some distance away from his home environment. Had he driven for a while, looking for a likely spot, or had he planned on the Dolores all along? He must have put the suiter into the river somewhere near Cahone, Jude calculated, for it to have drifted to its present location. There was no other direct access by road after that, until Slip Rock bridge.

She supposed it was equally possible that he’d dug a shallow grave right here in the muddy riverbed a week or so before the rains. The storm waters would have loosened the earth, and when the river started to flow again, the garment bag would have floated free. As a body dump strategy, it seemed like hard work and a high risk of disturbance, but maybe the killer had wanted this victim to be found. Either way, the body disposal seemed like the work of someone unpracticed.

Jude put a few paces between herself and the putrid discovery, and released the breath she was holding. Trooper Henson offered his Tic Tacs.

“Guess you’ll be wanting that hound down here,” he said.

“Not yet. We’ll have to wait till the forensic team is through.”

It was doubtful Smoke’m would have a role to play. Having been in the water, the bag wouldn’t hold the killer’s scent anymore. Still, it wouldn’t hurt to see if the sniffer hound turned up anything of interest in the general vicinity, and Tulley was desperate for an opportunity to flaunt his K-9 handler skills.

“I better call in.” Henson was clearly keen to go where the air smelled sweeter.

“Sure,” Jude waved him away. “I’ll finish up here.”

She photographed the scene and wandered along the bank a few yards toward the cottonwood. The owl kept tabs on her, its demeanor one of vague affront. She was probably disturbing some rodent it was stalking. Her eyes drifted east toward Disappointment Valley and the adobe badlands skirting McKenna’s Peak. The mountain rose silver and conical above the pomegranate landscape. Wild horses still roamed its slopes, the last survivors of human encroachment that had condemned their kind to near extinction.

The Old West no longer existed and its scars were plain to see. Yet, in the eerie majesty of this place, the untamed spirit of those times remained palpable. With an odd sense that prairie ghosts were watching, Jude returned to the body and lifted the canvas so she could see inside the suiter.

The dead girl was missing her legs below the knees. She was naked and heavily pregnant.

*

Unfortunately for Bobby Lee and his faithful lackey, Frank, the Huntsbergers were so dirt poor they had to apply for assistance to bury Darlene. The only reward offered up was a mute nod from Mrs. Huntsberger when Jude fed her the standard bullshit about how her baby hadn’t suffered and they would catch the scum who did it.

“They got the best tracker hound in the state,” Clem Huntsberger said, as if there were a trail leading directly to the killer just waiting to be sniffed out.

Mrs. Huntsberger glanced nervously across the office at Smoke’m. The dog promptly plodded over and placed his big wrinkled head in her lap. As he gazed up at her, tears welled in the bloodshot perimeters of his eyes and rolled like crystalline pearls down his jowls. Overwhelmed by this show of solidarity from one of God’s dumb creatures, Mrs. Huntsberger lifted her weathered hands to her face and began sobbing like she would never stop.

“I told you that hound was psychic,” Tulley said as the bereft couple’s pickup rattled off toward Highway 90 a half hour later.

“He’s empathetic,” Jude corrected. “That means he senses human emotions and reacts to them.”

“Yes, ma’am. He does that too.” Tulley reached down and caressed the hound’s ears, an intimacy greeted with groans that vibrated up through the animal’s throat folds.

“When you’re done typing the parents’ statements, keep on with those Samsonite dealers,” Jude said briskly.

“Man.” Tulley shook his head and peeled a fresh stick of gum, adding his last to the Wrigley’s stalagmite growing from his ashtray. “That’s another thousand phone calls. Shame her folks didn’t notice anything before she disappeared.”

“They’re just plain decent people. Not the suspicious type.” Jude wandered to the window and stared out at the Marlboro man. “Let’s face it, no one ’round here expects this kind of thing.”

Darlene had vanished two years earlier from the bus station at Cortez, aged sixteen. The Huntsbergers had reported her missing but the Cortez PD pegged her as a runaway. Her family had a run-down farm in Mancos, a two-bit settlement no young woman would elect to live in if she had a choice. There was only one witness statement worth a dime. A local drunk had seen a girl who fitted Darlene’s description getting into a white minivan. The police didn’t set much store by his recollections and instead formed an opinion based on a girlfriend’s statement that Darlene couldn’t wait to graduate from high school and “get a life fifty thousand miles away from this shitheap.”

It was the story of legions of girls like her. Darlene was not a troublemaker. She had average grades at school, helped her mom with the younger kids, and listened to Usher music. Her friends said she was shy and had never had a boyfriend. She made bead jewelry for a hobby and had a Princess Diaries poster on the wall of her tidy bedroom. Would she have gotten into a vehicle with a complete stranger? Everyone the police had questioned doubted it.

Jude was disturbed that they had treated the case like a routine missing person enquiry when the circumstances seemed so suspicious. She returned to her desk and sifted through her notes. How far would a killer drive to get rid of a body in these parts, given the price of gas? Her guess was Darlene Huntsberger had been murdered somewhere within a radius of a hundred miles, probably less. An accomplished killer who knew the area well might have tied concrete to her feet and dumped her in the McPhee Reservoir to get rid of the evidence. But this guy had zipped her into a garment bag to keep his trunk clean and had disposed of her body where it would probably be found. He had also had the courtesy to place her social security card inside the suiter’s ID compartment.

A thoughtful but amateurish sociopath who trawled for a random victim in a remote part of the state? Jude seriously doubted it. More likely, the killer knew Darlene. Which meant there was a motive. In her experience a motive meant a boyfriend or husband. It looked like their victim had picked the wrong guy to dump. Had she left Cortez with a man she’d met somehow? She didn’t have a computer, so it probably wasn’t an Internet romance. How would she have met the guy? In a small-town world like this, how could she have hidden a boyfriend from everyone who knew her?

Jude contemplated the manner of her death. Darlene was eight months pregnant. Her tongue had been severed, but not at the time she was killed. The autopsy suggested four or five months earlier. Her entire body was pockmarked with wounds described in an additional forensic odontologist’s report as “ovoid lacerations consisting of two facing symmetrical arches separated at their bases by open spaces. Along the periphery of the arches are a series of individual abrasions, contusions and lacerations reflecting the size, shape, arrangement, and distribution of the class characteristics of the contacting surfaces of human dentition.” In other words, someone bit the hell out of her.

Many of the bites involved flesh loss but, thanks to her immersion in the river, no saliva evidence remained. As far as the pathologist could determine, the bites were inflicted around the time of death, so it seemed probable that biter and killer were the same individual—a guy whose folks had not prioritized expensive dental work when he was a kid. According to Dr. Claudia Spelman, the odontologist, it was rare these days to see an “irregular mesiodistal width coupled with rare convex labial rotation in #7 causing it to overlap #8,” otherwise known as the kind of teeth that made kissing anyone except your mom unlikely.

Jude felt gloomy about that. If the killer had never had any dental work, there would be no record of the quirky fangs. Hopefully, this wasn’t the only time he’d bitten someone. It would be nice if they could solve this case the clean and simple way, sitting on their butts in air-conditioned comfort, getting a hit on one of the databases. But she had a feeling they would need to come up with some other data to narrow the suspect pool. The obvious starting pace was the killer’s M.O. Unusual, to say the least.

Darlene’s sternum was fractured in two. This had been caused by a large object that had also perforated her heart—a metal spike of the kind logging protesters rammed into trees to prevent felling. Carelessly, the killer had left it embedded in her chest. But this was not the cause of death. Darlene had been silenced permanently when her throat was slashed ear to ear. The stake was a postmortem touch.

Jude wondered where it was from. The nearest logging protests were in the Dolores River canyon, one of the wilderness tracts now being opened up to drilling by gas and oil companies.

“With that fancy luggage and all, maybe he’s white collar,” Tulley piped up. “Bank manager by day, cannibal killer by night.”

“We don’t know if he ate the flesh he removed.”

“Then why not just bite her?”

“Removing the flesh could be symbolic to him.”

“The stake through the heart is symbolic.” Tulley chomped hard on his gum. “The rest is real sick.” His mouth stilled suddenly and his Madeira brown eyes flashed with inspiration. “Know what I think? This creep could be a Russian.”

“What makes you say that?”

“They got themselves a big problem with cannibal killers over there. It’s real common.”

You couldn’t rule out anything in a homicide investigation, so Jude gave the idea some room before she shot it down. “Experts think the cannibalism in Russian homicides is circumstantial, rather than fetishistic. The victim is already dead. The killer is hungry. There’s a food shortage. So…”

“They’re starving in Africa, too, but they’re not eating their neighbors,” Tulley said.

With notable exceptions like Idi Amin Dada and Jean-Bedel Bokassa, but Jude kept that thought to herself. “Yeah well, the Africans aren’t drunk 24/7. Think about it. Russia has the highest alcoholism in the world. Alcohol loosens inhibitions. Societal mores that govern human conduct lose their power. The individual fails to suppress his most basic urges.” She slowed down. This was not Quantico.

“I’ve been reading up on profiling, now that we’re dealing with a psycho.” Tulley indicated a pile of newly purchased volumes chosen from the FBI recommended reading list, also compliments of the tobacco industry. “Seems like the more you find out, the more you know you don’t know, and you never will know. So you wonder what the point is. They’d never put a guy like me in charge of a big investigation, anyway.”

Having met Ma Tulley on the occasion of the Smoke’m presentation, and having endured her dissertation on the hazards of book learning, Jude could understand Tulley’s reservations. He had already amazed family and friends by overcoming the academic hurdles that stood between him and a sworn deputy’s badge. There was no reason why he couldn’t make it to detective. She suspected low self-esteem was what held him back.

“Anyone can fill their heads with facts and figures,” she said. “But you can’t learn gut instinct. The good news is, you were born with that.”

Tulley’s ears turned cranberry. Praise made him nervous. “Why’d you leave the FBI?” he blurted all of a sudden. In the twelve months they’d been working together, he had never asked that question directly.

“It’s a long story,” she said.

“Ain’t none of my business, right?”

“Right.”

“I heard some things, that’s all.”

“What things?”

“Just talk, same as always.”

“Talk, huh?” What was new? A female FBI agent from Washington D.C. is suddenly hired as a sheriff’s detective in Colorado and stationed far from the action in a newly formed remote substation with one deputy and a part-time secretary. The entire staff of the MCSO and the Cortez PD was mystified.

Every now and then, Tulley reported a new theory to her—she’d been sleeping with her FBI boss and had to go when the affair ended; she’d messed up a terrorist investigation so bad she’d resigned and the FBI had to cover it up; the job was too hard on females and she’d only graduated from the Academy because her daddy was “somebody.”

Jude let the gossip circulate unchallenged. Truth was stranger than fiction. For now, she was keeping the facts to herself.

Chapter Two

No one at the Montezuma County Sheriff’s Office or the Cortez PD enjoyed public humiliation. All too often when a big case landed in their laps, the media would sweep into town like a biblical plague and the accusations of incompetence would soon follow.

Who could forget the Fred Martinez murder? The Colorado public still thought the cops had dragged their feet making an arrest because the kid was gay and a Navajo. In fact, all they’d done was build a decent case without the resources available to big-city departments. They’d gotten a conviction, too. How come no one remembered that?

These days, Sheriff Orwell Pratt made a point of sharing the burden and with it the blame if anything went sour. Which was why he hadn’t waited for Montrose to dump the Huntsberger case on his doorstep, with the accompanying bullshit about the resource burden of that goddamned film festival. Instead he’d offered to head up a three-county team as soon as the deceased was identified as a Montezuma girl. Since then, he’d held a press conference every morning. His strategy was simple: throw the TV people the same crap day after day and they’ll lose interest. So far it wasn’t working.

As Orwell glanced around the reporters gathering in the conference room, he was gripped by a fear that the case could become one of those that the public obsessed over. It bore the familiar hallmarks—a wholesome, pretty white girl, her unborn child, a respectable and outraged family, bizarre circumstances, the whiff of police incompetence. The media was always on the lookout for tabloid-type stories they could report over and over so they could avoid the real news, since that was a downer. That had to be why they were still camped out in Cortez, trying to turn this small tragedy into a big story. Orwell only prayed another bride would run away soon, or some cheerleader would vanish at a foreign resort, or there’d be a celebrity assassination at Telluride. Anything to take the heat off him.

This morning, the pathologist who’d performed Darlene Huntsberger’s autopsy was in town to reinspect the body dump site. She had agreed to say a few words to the media, a fact for which Orwell, and the entire law enforcement fraternity of Montezuma, was pathetically grateful.

Dr. Mercy Westmoreland was a regular guest on Court TV and commanded respect, even awe, from knucklehead reporters. Orwell thought her aloof bearing and serene oval face gave her a quiet dignity that announced her as the serious professional she was. The honey blond hair scraped into a no nonsense bun at her nape sent a signal that she had better things to do than check herself out in mirrors. This was a woman who spent most of her time up to her rubber-gloved elbows in human fluids. What she had to look at on a daily basis would make most grown men puke. The sheriff admired anyone with the cojones to do her job.

He also admired the way the lovely doctor put media blabbermouths in their place without raising hackles. He wished he knew how to pull off that feat; he had his reelection to think about and could do with some tame reporters who would make him look good. But he had too much on his mind to watch his mouth, and his back, all the time.

As if by magnetic force, his eyes were drawn to the chief source of his daily indigestion, Detective Jude Devine. The woman had arrived in his bailiwick twelve months earlier, under cover of darkness, with a team of nameless operatives from Homeland Security. No one had bothered to ask if Orwell wanted a substation, least of all under the umbrella of a politically delicate arrangement with the Montrose County Sheriff, whereby they shared costs and responsibility for an unwanted outpost in Paradox, of all the godforsaken places. No, these asswipes just took over an abandoned schoolhouse and converted it into a sheriff’s office, employed a valley woman to be the secretary, doing Lord knows what, then told him to base one of his deputies there. He’d picked Virgil Tulley, who had never quite fit in with the boys in Cortez for reasons Orwell preferred not to delve into.

Next thing, he was informed by the powers that be that Devine would be joining his department as a detective. Period. He was supposed to circulate the official story that she was ex-FBI and make up some bullshit to explain why she wasn’t based in Cortez with the rest of his team. Knowing he would look like a real moron for opening an outpost where there wasn’t enough crime to justify the budget, Orwell had confided in his staff that there was a big tourist development in the offing and the Japanese moneypeople needed to say there was law enforcement on site. He was heroically doing his bit to lure this foreign consortium into the area by establishing a remote office with Montrose, who could not fund it alone.

Ever since word leaked out, he’d been pestered constantly by most of Cortez, who were hanging out for the job bonanza. He only hoped no one would uncover the truth before his reelection, yet another reason media attention made his guts churn.

Devine met his eyes and produced one of her cool half-smiles. You couldn’t warm to a woman like that, Orwell thought. Admittedly, it was not her fault she was too tall and too strongly built to appeal to most guys, not to mention a plain Jane. It was obvious she had not been blessed with the kind of mother who taught females how to make the most of themselves, like his wife did with their three daughters.

Devine’s short dark brown hair was cut all wrong for her face, which was on the square side. And she had the kind of Roman nose that would have suited a guy better. But up close, you could see she had really beautiful gray-green eyes. They weren’t big and pretty, instead they were heavy-lidded and sensual with eyelashes so dense and black Orwell’s wife had commented on them. Most women would have made the most of this one attractive feature with cosmetics, regulations notwithstanding. Orwell had let it be known to his staff that he didn’t consider eye shadow a disciplinary issue. The way he saw it, the fairer sex had a tough enough time retaining their femininity on the job. All he asked was that no one showed up for work looking like a hooker.

But despite the enlightened work environment, Devine didn’t bother plucking her dark eyebrows, and didn’t wear lipstick, let alone mascara. On top of it all, there was her surprising smoke-and-whiskey voice, all wrong for a woman in this line of work. Orwell wondered if she lowered her tone deliberately so she sounded more authoritative. He could only conclude she was one of those career types who thought she had to act like a man and would end up a lonely, frustrated spinster. Women’s lib had a lot to answer for.

*

Jude shifted her gaze away from Sheriff Pratt, who seemed to be fixating on her again. No doubt the media presence had him on edge, reminding him that he was the likely fall guy for some kind of federal government shenanigans. She knew he pictured his career in ruins every time he clapped eyes on her. That was one reason she’d pushed to head up the Huntsberger investigation. It was outside her real brief, but if she could help land a conviction that would bring kudos to the boss, maybe he’d chill.

Mercy Westmoreland had wrapped up the sound bites stage of her presentation and was now taking questions. Jude had one for her: Doing anything tonight?

She’d first met the alluring pathologist soon after starting her assignment in Paradox. They were both at a symposium on the recovery of human remains. Mercy had presented a guest seminar on air disaster victim identification issues. Afterward, she and Jude had exchanged a few words while they stood in line for burritos at the lunch buffet. The words themselves were not memorable, but Jude had had the strangest feeling Mercy was thinking about the two of them having sex the whole time they talked about the program, the bad coffee, and the long dry spell the Southwest was having. Jude herself had been happily distracted by that fantasy, picturing the cool, alarmingly well groomed Mercy in disarray. Hair down. Shirt unbuttoned. Lipstick smudged. She could almost feel that perfect skin smooth beneath her hands, that lissome body hot and damp against her own.

She had caught herself staring at Mercy’s mouth as it shaped words, wondering how it would feel to kiss her. Even as they ate their Mexican food and compared notes with colleagues around their large table, Jude had covertly watched her. Their eyes had met several times and Jude had looked away first, determined not to announce her sexual frustration by acting like she had never seen an attractive woman before and wanted to jump her on the spot.

To her surprise, Mercy remembered their conference encounter when she’d arrived to examine the Huntsberger crime scene, and she’d greeted Jude like an old friend. A day later, Jude had attended Darlene’s autopsy in Grand Junction, and Mercy had singled her out at the water fountain for a smile that seemed downright flirtatious. As the day progressed, this had evolved into the kind of eye contact that could be seriously misconstrued. Mercy had also prolonged their handshake during the farewell civilities at the end of the day.

Jude had since decided that reading anything into Mercy’s manner was plain wishful thinking, the by-product of her reluctant celibacy. The Four Corners area was not exactly overflowing with eligible lesbians, let alone opportunities for discreet no-strings encounters. Jude would have to drive to Denver if she got really desperate. So far, she hadn’t made the trip. Her life was complicated enough.

She permitted herself a long look at the golden girl of Southwestern forensic pathology. Mercy was your typical highly educated knockout, the kind Jude blew it with on dates. She was average height and neatly made with small high breasts and well-toned legs, at least that’s how they looked beneath her beige linen pants. There was no wedding ring; her jewelry comprised a sensible wristwatch and small pearl studs. Jude was not standing close enough to catch her scent, but she could recall a beguiling musky fragrance from those few hours in the M.E.’s office. She could also recall the smattering of tiny cinnamon freckles across Mercy’s nose and the faint scar below her left temple. Then there was her great ass and sexy walk, her slender hands and dancer’s posture, the remarkable blue-jean eyes, and a seductive smile that hinted at a whole different woman beneath the cool reserve.

Yes, Dr. Westmoreland was the complete package. Looks, brains, minor celebrity status, and the X factor. Tons of it. Jude decided she was probably involved with a rocket scientist who grew orchids as a hobby, the kind of guy who didn’t worry about being upstaged by his girlfriend. In a few years’ time she would ask him to marry her and they would have two gifted children, then Mercy would go on Oprah to talk about combining family life with her glittering career. She was not a woman who would ever fade into anonymity, content with the mundane routines of domestic life. She was star material and everyone around her behaved accordingly.

A paunchy man waved his hand as a make-up artist powdered his face. “Gordon Reid. Fox News. Would you describe this as a ritual killing, doctor?”

“I can’t speak for the killer’s motives.”

“There’s talk this is the work of a Satanic cult.” The Fox guy stuck to his game plan. “Is that a possibility?”

“I’m not here to indulge in speculation on faith-based violence. I can confirm that there was no attempt to remove the fetus and no evidence of goat’s blood.”

Another reporter fired off a question. “How was the stake driven through the victim’s heart?”

Mercy rewarded this inquiry with a thoughtful expression. “In the Roman manner, I imagine.”

Jude stifled laughter as the media bozos stared at one another in chagrined confusion, waiting for some intellectual giant to interpret this.

“So you’re saying it was a mafia hit?”

“I’m saying the spike appears to have been hammered, a proclivity made famous by Pontius Pilate.” This biblical reference only seemed to puzzle her audience even more. Without so much as a blink, Mercy translated, “People, she wasn’t whacked by the local godfather.”

A brief silence ensued. Several reporters then started speculating on the identity of said godfather, the Four Corners not being known for organized crime. Jude could see the ludicrous headlines tomorrow: Mafia Link Denied in Vampire Killing.

Mercy answered a few more questions with polite aplomb before pointing to an emaciated newswoman with a blinding platinum dye job. Suzette Kelly, the face of Channel 8, was wearing her signature look, a candy pink suit and a necklace of huge white pearls. Jude wondered what a big name like her was doing miles from Denver on a hick town news beat.

Like a barracuda parting a shoal of goldfish, Suzette carved her way to the front of the pack. “Doctor, would you care to comment on the rumors surrounding your personal relationship with Elspeth Harwood, the British actress.”

Jude’s small gasp was echoed throughout the room.

Mercy raised an eyebrow. “Suzette. You know I’d love to get into girl talk with you about celebrities. But alas,” she flashed a coy smile, “I have an exhumation.” Evading microphones, she stepped behind a couple of Montezuma’s finest and vanished out the side door.

Staring after her, Jude found herself grinning like a fool. She wiped her expression clean of delight as Sheriff Pratt arrived at her elbow. He wasn’t amused.

“Detective Devine, would you drive Dr. Westmoreland to the scene? Take a patrol vehicle. We can’t expect her to ride in that truck of yours.”

“I was planning on getting it washed, sir.”

“You’ll have to do that later. She’s waiting out back.” He hovered like there was something on his mind.

“Sir?”

“We don’t want any trouble with Utah,” he confided.

Mystified, Jude said, “Understood.”

They shared a moment’s stoic reflection.

“Alrighty then.” Pratt tugged on his collar like it was too tight. “You better get going.”

*

“Guess you’re headed back to Grand Junction this afternoon,” Jude remarked after she and Mercy had made it through the mandatory pleasantries and had been driving in silence for a while.

Mercy stopped staring at the passing scenery and took stock of her. “Is that a roundabout way of asking me if I’m free for dinner?”

Jude had met some fast women in her time, but the question caught her napping. Could Mercy really be gay and not just a straight woman under time pressure? She tried not to sound startled. “Er…would you like to have dinner?”

“Business or pleasure?” Mercy said “pleasure” with a hot smile that took the straight-woman option off the table like it had never been there in the first place.

Unable to believe her luck, Jude asked, “What’s your preference?”

“I’m kind of a sucker for pleasure.”

Jude dragged her filthy mind off the word “sucker” and commented politely, “The social opportunities are fairly limited in these parts, aren’t they?”

“No kidding. It’s Denver or self-service.” Mercy took a mint from her purse and popped it into her mouth. She offered the bag to Jude. “Want one?”

“Not for me, thanks.”

“I’m trying to place your accent. Where are you from, originally?”

“Back east. D.C.”

“Of course. I heard you were with the Bureau.”

“Guilty as charged.”

“A casualty of the partisan witch hunt?”

These days it didn’t pay to comment openly about the stifling political atmosphere in the Bureau, so Jude made like she had no idea what Mercy was talking about. She’d requested an assignment out of D.C. anyway, so she said truthfully, “I was looking for a change of pace.”

“Uh-huh.” Mercy’s enchanting blue eyes bored into her.

Jude told her what she wanted to hear. “Okay. So the environment was getting uncomfortable and I bailed.”

“And you came here? Why, for God’s sake?”

Jude tossed the question back. “Why are you here?”

“Because my father is dying and he needs me.”

Jesus. “I’m sorry.”

“Me too. He’s all I have.” As if the simple candor of the statement rocked her, too, Mercy added, “It sounds pathetic to say that. I mean, I have friends, of course. But my mother died a few years ago. She was an immigrant, so all her people are in Scandinavia. And my father’s an only child.”

“You don’t have any siblings?”

“No. Just a few distant cousins in Atlanta.”

Jude thought about her social-climbing older sister with the homophobe hubby and wanted to tell Mercy she wasn’t missing out on a whole lot. But still, family was important, whether you liked them or not.

Her own parents had moved to Mexico recently, to enjoy a retirement where the dollar stretched further. They lived in Sayulita, a seaside fishing village near Puerto Vallarta. Selling their home in D.C. had given them enough cash to buy a luxury villa in the hills overlooking the Pacific Ocean, and have some left to add to their savings. Her dad’s pension as a retired cop was barely enough to maintain a decent standard of living in the U.S., with the cost of health insurance going through the roof. Jude couldn’t blame them for leaving. Money wasn’t the only reason, but in Mexico their income bought a nice lifestyle with cheap medication and a maid service.

“So you’re single?” Mercy cut to the chase.

“Yes. You?”

“Extremely.”

What did that mean?

Before Jude could ask, Mercy said, “I suppose you’re going to tell me you’re shopping for the love of your life.”

“Aren’t we all? I mean, even if it’s not conscious.”

“I guess that’s a yes.”

“I’m trying to be honest.”

“Never met Ms. Right?”

“Only in my dreams. Sometimes I get…entangled.”

“What happens? You rent the U-Haul?”

“No, she does. And I get dumped for backing off.”

“Ah, but you want to be dumped by then anyway, don’t you?” Mercy smiled with the mournful contentment of a blackjack dealer listening to a tale of gambler’s ruin.

How did she know? The pattern irritated the hell out of Jude. She knew she was a chicken when it came to relationships—anything to avoid confrontation. But she was making progress. Lately, she hadn’t done anything really stupid. In fact, she hadn’t done anything at all. No relationship meant no screwups.

“I’m not too successful in that department, either,” Mercy informed her. “I got out of the worst relationship of my life three years ago. What’s your story?”

“Ineptitude,” Jude offered the bald truth. “I have trouble juggling work with a private life. It was a nightmare in both my quote unquote serious relationships. Since then, I’ve just focused on staying out of trouble. Guess you could call it the path of least resistance.”

“Good, then I’d like to sleep with you,” Mercy said, taking her breath away.

“It’s completely mutual,” Jude replied after stifling a choke. In fact, what are we waiting for? She got real. They had a crime to solve. She dragged her eyes away from Mercy’s delicious body to the road ahead. Was this happening?

“Is tonight too soon?” Mercy inquired.

“No, tonight works.” Jude’s mouth was as dry as the dust their tires were kicking up. Unbelievable. They were negotiating a sexual encounter. There was a god after all.

“I know it seems rather forward. But we’re adults, and there’s some chemistry. Why waste time on the pretence of getting to know one another?”

“Agreed. Would you like to come back to my place or check into the Holiday Inn?” Jude wished there were better alternatives, but Cortez was no one’s idea of a romantic getaway destination.

“Your place sounds good. Thank you.” Mercy pondered the scenery anew, then shared, “I’m so horny I could fuck for hours. How about you?”

Jude almost drove off the road. “I haven’t had any in a year.”

“Excellent.” Mercy shifted in her seat, laughing softly. “You’ve got me all wet just thinking about it.”

Jude’s palms slid on the wheel. They reached the Slick Rock Bridge and she swerved into the parking area and cut the motor. For a moment they sat in silence, then they unfastened their safety belts and faced one another.

Jude had a thought. “Who’s Elspeth Harwood?”

“A former fling.” Naked lust glittered in Mercy’s eyes. Her mouth invited Jude’s.

Unable to resist, she moved close enough for the kiss she’d been thinking about ever since they’d met. Mercy tasted of the mint she’d been chewing, her lips still sweetly coated. As far as kisses went, this one was right up there with the first Jude ever had with the first girl she’d ever loved. The gear stick and steering wheel cramped her style as she tried to find a more comfortable position. She reached across Mercy and located the seat lever. Instead of tilting back to a reasonable incline, the seat jerked flat, their combined weights overwhelming the mechanism.

“Oh fuck,” Jude said.

“Exactly my thought.” Mercy caught a handful of Jude’s crotch and bumped hard.

Jude gasped. The backseat was looking pretty good right now.

“How far is your place?” Mercy asked.

“Not very.” Jude could not believe she was seriously considering shirking duty so she could get laid. On the other hand, these were desperate times. “What about the crime scene?” she asked halfheartedly.

“It’s not going anywhere.” Mercy inserted the tip of her tongue beneath Jude’s upper lip and slowly sucked. After a long hot moment, she broke off to confess, “And just so you know, the real reason I came down here was to see you.”

*

In the sack, Mercy was every bit as forthright as she had been in the car. “I’m in the mood for a little rough play. Nothing heavy.”

All things being relative, Jude obligingly cuffed only one of the pathologist’s delicate wrists to the headboard rail. “No marks, right?”

“Nothing visible.”

She slid her hand between Mercy’s supple thighs. Mercy resisted and twisted away.

“Oh, no. You’re not going anywhere.” Jude forced her onto her back. Softly, she said, “Be a good girl and it won’t hurt.”

“Fuck you.” Mercy locked her knees together.

Jude yanked them apart. “If you’re going to talk like a slut, I’ll have to treat you like one.”

“Perfect,” Mercy murmured before slipping back into role. “You and whose army? How’s it going to be when I notify your boss that his new detective forced me into her apartment and fucked me in the ass.”

“And what will that Channel 8 reporter say when I tell her you loved it. You were on your knees, begging for it.”

“Please don’t,” Mercy implored. “It would excite her way too much.”

They started laughing. Helplessly, Jude cradled her forehead in her hand. The whole situation felt surreal.

“Hold me,” Mercy said once they’d settled down. Her smile faded and there was a vulnerability in her face that hadn’t been there before.

Sensing a change in her mood, Jude removed the cuff and gathered her into a firm embrace, kissing her cornsilk hair, wanting suddenly to know her better.

Mercy’s voice was muffled against her chest. “Sometimes I’m so damned lonely I think I could die.”

Jude’s throat constricted and a rush of sadness made her feel ridiculously weepy. She pulled herself together before Mercy could notice. “We don’t have to do this, you know.”

“Oh, yes, we do.” Mercy seemed unruffled once more, her vulnerable self tucked out of sight. She touched Jude’s cheek. “Just this once. And then we have to be professional colleagues again.”

Jude slid a caressing hand over her body. She was a babe. Lithe and silky smooth. Her flesh goose-bumped in reply to fingertips and tongue. They moved together softly, then hard. Mercy gave herself over to pleasure with thrilling abandon, frankly communicating her preferences. All the while, as Jude stroked and licked and fucked her into orgasm, Ms. Forensic Pathology bit and kissed, dug her nails in and talked really dirty.

Sprawled on her back some time later, she patted her chest and invited, “Sit here. I want you to come in my mouth.”

Jude knelt over her and gripped the headboard. She had to hand it to Mercy. Her oral technique was impeccable.

Chapter Three

Tulley was brooding. If he played with his gun anymore his palms would go numb, Jude thought. This had been going on for three days.

“What’s eating you?” she asked.

He paused over the stack of hefty books he was slowly banging his head on. Dark amber eyes peered at her from beneath a coal-black cowlick. Even with his wavy hair cut shorter than usual, his deputy uniform, and the muscles he’d developed on the Bowflex that occupied their holding cell, he looked like an overgrown kid.

“Friday sure came ’round quick,” he said dourly.

“Yep. It sure did.” Jude figured he was stressing about the investigation.

So was she. They hadn’t made a whole lot of progress and Smoke’m had failed to turn up the key evidence Tulley had fantasized about. He had, however, sniffed out a trash bag containing two thousand bucks in cash and checks belonging to a local gas station. No prizes for guessing what Bobby Lee Parker and Frank Horton had been looking for that day at Slick Rock.

“Tell me something,” her gloomy subordinate said. “What would you give to a young lady?”

Jude blinked. Mercy’s face loomed in her mind’s eye, its pale perfection flushed. She could hear her gasping and groaning in the throes of orgasm. Instantly, wetly, she ached for another clandestine assignation. They hadn’t spoken since that day. Jude tried not to conclude she had disappointed Mercy in some crucial way. Should she have kept her handcuffed, after all?

With an air of frustration, Tulley asked, “When you were younger, what kind of gift did you like getting? I read as how women don’t like chocolates because they’re worried about their figures. And flowers could bring on a hay fever attack.”

“You’re trying to choose a gift for a young lady?” Jude kept her face and tone free of astonishment. Tulley had a girlfriend? He’d never mentioned one, and he seemed so excruciatingly shy around women she’d assumed he was single.

“I already chose it. But I don’t want to send the wrong signal.”

“What signal would that be?”

Tulley reached into his desk drawer and produced a book called The Rules of Dating for Clueless Christians. A skirt of torn Post-it notes fluttered around the edges, marking pages for ready reference.

He opened the guide and read aloud, “‘A well brought up young lady is easily spooked by expensive or overly personal gifts. She may think you are trying to buy her favors. Do you want the woman who could one day be your wife to feel cheap?’”

“I see the problem.” Tulley was one of the faithful. Also new information.

“Is this what they’re talking about?” He slid a small box across her desk.

Jude opened it and lifted a wad of perfumed pink tissue. “Nope. This is fine. A scarf is a thoughtful gift. Does she wear scarves?”

“All the time.”

“Then she’ll like this one. The design is very…feminine.”

Tulley ran his forearm across his face. “I got some fancy wrapping but I can’t get it looking right.”

“Let’s see.” Jude made a little space on her desk and found a pair of scissors.

Between them they prettied up the box.

“That’s real nice.” Tulley’s shoulders sagged with relief. He stared at the wall clock. “She’ll be here any minute.”

“She’s coming here?” Jude swung her eyes around the office.

Their secretary, Agatha, had taken vacation this week. The difference her presence made was one of aesthetics. Agatha kept the place tidy and under her sharp, schoolmarm stare, both Jude and Tulley diligently tossed wrappers in the trash, took bottles to the recyle bin, and refrained from piling crap all over their desks.

“She’s real interested to see where I work,” Tulley said.

“Great.” Jude got busy straightening up her desk.

“I took out the trash.”

“Oh, that was a big help. Get the vacuum cleaner and start over there.” She pointed at Smoke’m’s feeding area, a quagmire of ground kibble and rawhide fragments.

“I sure appreciate this,” Tulley said.

“You owe me a beer.”

After they’d done cleaning the floor, stacking their books and files, and hiding their television and DVDs in the mock-cherry console that ran beneath the windows, Jude collapsed into her chair and popped open a can of ginger ale.

“How long have you been dating her?” she asked.

“We’re not dating exactly. A while back she invited me to come to church with her and her folks, seeing as they live nearby and I’ve got no family here.”

“That’s nice. So this gift—you’re planning on asking her out?”

Tulley looked miserable. Lowering his voice, he said, “Last few weeks, I got the feeling they were kind of expecting something. Then Mr. Critch gives me this.” He indicated the dating guide.

“Yeah, that’s definitely a hint.” Jude studied the young deputy. “So, do you like this girl?”

Tulley’s ears glowed like night-lights on either side of his lean face. “She’s—”

A sharp little knock severed his reply and Jude found herself looking at a stocky, pink-cheeked professional virgin in her early twenties. Fluffy blond hair cut chin level, placid blue eyes, white frilly blouse, pink chiffon scarf, knee-length floral skirt, and unsexy sandals, she waited in the doorway, toying with the dainty crucifix at her neck.

Tulley leapt to his feet, sweating like a nervous wreck. “Hey, Alyssa. Come on in.”

“Hey, Virgil.” She swept into their office like she was doing them a favor. Her small nose wrinkled as she came to a halt opposite Jude’s desk.

They’d forgotten to spray the room freshener. The place smelled of dog, desert, and donuts. Too late now, Jude thought, standing up to greet her.

Their visitor stuck out her hand. “You must be Detective Devine.”

“Jude works fine.”

The handshake was limp and ladylike. Jude could see why Tulley was losing sleep over the gift. Alyssa Critch looked like the kind of girl who could take offense.

“I’ve never been inside a police station.” She gazed hopefully around. “Do you have actual prisoners here?”

“Uh. Not at this time.” Tulley shot a mortified glance at the Bowflex.

“We’re awaiting renovations.” Jude made it sound like they would be incarcerating vicious felons as soon as some overdue carpentry had happened. “Until then we’re not taking any chances. In the interests of the community.”

Alyssa made a small wet noise like her mouth was watering. She’d be first in line at a stoning, Jude decided, noting the pro-life pin on her tightly buttoned collar. No contradiction there. The Alyssas of this world had scant compassion to spare for the post-fetal.

With a smug little smile, the girl said, “I know it’s kind of early, but I hope you don’t mind if Virgil leaves now. I made a picnic for us.”

“Sounds great. Knock yourselves out.” Jude glanced sideways at Tulley.

He was trying to hide the gift behind his back. She wanted to slip him a note that said: She’ll never give you any, or perhaps something less subtle: Run!

He whistled for Smoke’m.

“You’re planning on bringing that hound?” the damsel asked.

A new tide of red suffused Tulley’s ears. “He won’t be any trouble.”

Saccharine sweet, Alyssa said, “Okay. So long as he rides in the trunk.” Dogs ranked even lower on the charity chart than post-fetal life, it seemed.

But Tulley settled for the crummy option of going it alone with the possible future wife. “He can stay here,” he said and met Jude’s eyes. His disquiet was palpable.

“Good idea,” Jude affirmed. “Wouldn’t want him drooling on Alyssa’s pretty skirt.”

At that, Alyssa gave her a grateful smile, closely followed by a long assessing look. A pitying expression came over her features and Jude realized she had just been examined as potential competition and found sorely wanting. Naturally she was crushed.

“See you later.” Tulley inched toward the door like a condemned man.

“Take your time,” Jude said generously. “I won’t need you until we interview that pervert at two.”

Predictably, this excited a wide-eyed response from Alyssa. “I’ll see to it he’s back in plenty of time, Detective Devine. No decent woman should have to deal with deviants alone, even one as well qualified and capable looking as yourself.”

“I’d sure appreciate that,” Jude said. “I find Virgil completely indispensable when it comes to handling individuals who offend feminine dignity.”

This lavish praise should have earned gratitude, but as Alyssa delicately pawed his bicep, Tulley cast a tormented look in Jude’s direction. She wiggled her eyebrows suggestively. If he played his cards right, maybe he would get to first base. She’d certainly done her bit to improve his chances.

*

After Tulley’s truck disappeared, Jude changed out of her chinos and shirt into a uniform, took a spare cell phone from her satchel, and made a call.

“I’m in the clear for a couple of hours.”

Her contact said, “Pay him a visit. Something routine.”

“Apart from the homicide, we have several head of stolen cattle and someone took a dump in front of the Our Lady of Fatima monument. Take your pick.”

“Jesus. It’s a crime wave.”

“Any idea where he’s keeping the stuff?”

“Negative.”

“It’s fairly stable, right?”

“As far as military ordnance goes.”

They signed off and Jude locked up the office and stuck a sign on the door that said: Called to an emergency. Back at 2 p.m. Phone 911 if urgent assistance is required.

She drove the twenty miles of dirt road to Black Dog Gulch with her mind lurching from Mercy’s persistent tongue to the subject’s lengthy profile. Harrison Hawke was your common garden white supremacist with a fenced-off compound in the middle of nowhere. His organization, the Christian Republic of Aryan Patriots, served up a smorgasbord of paranoid fantasies on its Web site and treated the mental midgets who subscribed to its newsletter to regular rants about Jews and African Americans. Nothing unusual. The FBI monitored countless domestic hate groups of this ilk.

Hawke’s was small, especially after a falling out within the group over the Identity Church’s position on abortion. In an attempt to claw back supporters lost to the National Alliance, Hawke had recently made boasts about having something big in the pipeline and the Bureau had connected him to several significant purchases of the plastic explosive RDX. They’d been following his movements since Jude arrived in the area, and it was time to start closing in.

His wasn’t the only white supremacist cell operating out of the Four Corners. For some reason fringe organizations were buying up land on the Colorado side of the border with Utah. Jude had been sent into the area on a long-term undercover mission. Her general brief involved keeping tabs on the various players. More specifically, she was charged with gathering intelligence on several targets, including Harrison Hawke. Her masters imagined that by posing as a local law officer, she could gain access to this nutcase on the pretext of conducting routine inquiries. Then, as a woman, she was supposed to lower his guard.

Jude thought this was breathtakingly naïve but according to reliable sources, Hawke had a weakness for feisty women and was eager to recruit female supporters. He was the author of several short works on the role of females in his movement and presented himself as a kind of Klan knight in shining armor. He had publicly upbraided his male colleagues for their “backward attitudes toward our White women causing their political flight to the arms of lesbianism and race mixing.” His Web site ruminations on the topic generally ended with the dire prediction: “Men that treat White women like they are mud will soon find it hard to get a date in the Aryan movement.”

This in mind, Jude applied some lipstick and teased her hair up with mousse so it looked like a fashion cut instead of an advertisement for the lesbian lifestyle. She made a conscious effort to walk like a girl as she approached his house. The uniform was a nice touch, she thought. It fit snugly and even if she didn’t have much of a waist, she had long legs and no flab. Besides, Hawke and his breed seemed to have some kind of uniform fetish. It was her guess that, despite his mistrust and loathing for law officers, he would find her look sexy. Hell, maybe he’d get off on her badge, too. Plenty of people had cop fantasies, herself included. She pictured Mercy in tight-fitting black LAPD regulation attire, a personal favorite, and almost whined.

Hawke lived in a dour concrete dwelling with ostentatious security and barred minimalist windows, the most prominent of which was discreetly stickered with an Othala rune, one of the many racist graphics Jude had encountered in her preparations for this assignment. No doubt these elaborate fortifications were supposed to provide protection come the day his place was under fire by puppets of the government looking to deprive him of his God-given constitutional right to own a rocket launcher.

She pressed the doorbell and a stern voice on an intercom said, “State your business, Deputy.”

Jude held her ID up to the security camera above the steel door and said, “Sir, Sheriff’s Detective Jude Devine. I’m conducting routine enquiries into the recent desecration of a local Christian monument. May I speak with you?”

“I have nothing to say.”

“And that is your right.” Hoping to strike a balance between authority and down-home Southwestern good manners, she continued, “Sir, I would sure appreciate it if you could contact the sheriff’s office in Paradox if you hear anything at all about a group of radical extremist lesbians thought to be operating in this area.”

From inside the house, chains rattled and bolts clunked. The door opened and a man with a shaved head stood in front of her, muscle running to fat, tattoos yawning over his flabby arms. Fish-blue eyes surveyed her with deep suspicion.

“Lesbians?”

“That’s what we’re hearing, sir.”

“You think these deviants damaged the monument?”

“Can’t really say. I’m just following up on any leads I can get.”

“I didn’t know there was a sheriff’s office in Paradox Valley.”

Yeah, right you didn’t. “It’s myself and one deputy, sir. Joint arrangement between Montrose and Montezuma. A requirement of the Japanese consortium.”

“I heard about that.” He muttered a racist epithet.

Jude forced her face to remain impassive. “Yep, seems like before long there’s not going to be much of this country left for Americans.” She manufactured a sigh and stepped back from the door. “Well, thanks for your time. You have a nice day, sir.”

She had only made it three paces when Hawke took the bait, “You new to Colorado, Detective?”

Jude stopped walking and offered a polite smile. “You guessed that right. Originally from D.C.”

“What brought you out West?”

He’d hear the official version sooner or later, if he hadn’t already. May as well use it to her advantage. “I needed a change. I was working for the FBI but I, er…I wasn’t comfortable with certain aspects of my work for personal reasons, so I quit. Figured local law enforcement might be a better place for me.”

Her disenchanted fed act seemed to play pretty well with Hawke. Caution vied with curiosity in his expression. “Those aspects you’re talking about wouldn’t have anything to do with depriving Americans of their right to privacy, would they?”

“I really can’t discuss that. All I can say is recent changes didn’t sit well with my personal views and there comes a time when you have to stand up and be counted.”

“Which is something I pride myself on,” her subject promptly asserted. He ran a hand over his naked head, smoothing back imaginary hair.

Jude blurted, “My dad didn’t fight for this country to have it taken over by—” She broke off in a display of professional prudence. “I need to be getting along now, sir.”

Amazingly, Hawke went for it and actually took a step outside his fortress. Jude couldn’t imagine he would be suckered so easily by a man. But it seemed like a combination of loneliness and sexism was working against him. The guy was obviously starved of female company, not to mention being so damned ugly even the most deluded sycophant in his movement probably wouldn’t get naked with him. It had to get old, sitting out here all day examining your navel lint and trying to come up with astute new ways to sell theories about international Jewish financiers running America. Especially since nowadays anyone who bothered to read the newspapers knew the Chinese funded the deficit and big oil called the shots.

“Detective, listen,” he was emboldened to declare, “you’re not alone.”

Jude greeted this gesture of solidarity with an innocent smile, like his meaning had gone right past her. Guys like Hawke knew their organizations were targeted by undercover agents and were paranoid by nature. She didn’t want to appear too eager to bare her soul.

“I appreciate that, sir. If everyone in the community took such a supportive attitude it would make my job a whole lot easier. Bye now.”

Their subject was full of surprises. He walked her to the Dakota and gallantly opened the door for her.

Acting like she was fighting off a girlish flutter, she touched her hair, checked the buttons at her collar, and said, “Well, thank you. Mr.”—she consulted her notebook—“Mr. Hawke?”

“Correct. Harrison Hawke.” He watched her face closely for a reaction.

Jude gave him a smile she hoped fell somewhere between coy and unaware and got into the truck. “It was a pleasure, Mr. Hawke.” She started the motor.

He bared his teeth in an uneasy version of a smile. “Come by again if you’re in the area, Officer.”

She waved cheerfully and drove off, wondering if it could possibly be this easy. Bureau wisdom held that even the most cynical and unappealing males were easily convinced that a woman might find them irresistible. Hawke, it seemed, was no exception, her badge notwithstanding. But it was equally possible that he had made her as a fed the moment he set eyes on her, and was merely playing along to see what she was up to, keeping the enemy close. Jude smiled. She enjoyed chess, especially with an arrogant opponent. The win was so much more satisfying.

*

When she got back to the station, Smoke’m was howling and Tulley was in tears. Her colleague had hauled out their small television and was watching a film in an apparent bid to distract himself from the source of his upset. Jude pretended not to notice the soggy Kleenex piled on his desk. Clearly, congratulations on a successful date were not in order.

She eyed the TV screen and groaned at the sight of subtitles. Still, it made a change from Fargo, his regular fix. “Foreign movie?” she asked, unbuttoning her shirt and stripping down to her white tee.

As a detective, she spent a fair amount of her time in civilian attire, but she wore a uniform when she wanted to make her presence felt. The canyon residents seemed to appreciate having visible law enforcement for a change.

“It’s called Osama. It’s about this girl in Afghanistan. She had to pretend to be a boy so she could work, otherwise she and her mom were going to starve.” Tulley got all choked up. “Then the mullahs made her go to their weird religious school and chant the Quran and all. But they found out she was a girl because she got her period.”

“Ugly, huh?”

“Now they’ve buried this foreign doctor up to her neck and they’re going to stone her to death.”

“Fucking barbarians.”

“I can’t watch it anymore.” Tulley gathered the used tissues and consigned them to the trash.

Jude turned off the DVD and flipped through the latest stack of movies her sidekick had ordered off Netflix. “For Chrissakes, can’t we get some normal films for a change?” she grumbled. “This stuff is so depressing.”

“I want to learn about other places. Not everyone is like us.”

“What about Kill Bill Volume Two? I bet that’s a blast.”

But Tulley was still hating the mullahs. “We did the right thing going in there. Those guys are evil.”

“Yeah, well, we put them in power. Bin Laden and his asshole buddies got their start on our dime. This is called pigeons coming home to roost. Or, in this case, Stinger missiles.”

Tulley absorbed this fact with the skepticism of a true patriot. “I think you’re mistaken about that.”

“I’m sure you do.” Jude didn’t want to get into it. Why disillusion the guy? She had to work with him. “So, how was the picnic?” It seemed safe to ask now that he’d regained control of his emotions.

“She liked the scarf.”

That was a start. “You’re back sooner than I expected.”

Tulley looked uncomfortable. “She…Something happened.”

Jude pictured an awkward grope and Tulley getting his face slapped. Personally, she wouldn’t be sobbing over the likes of Alyssa Critch, but then she wasn’t a born-again Christian male who thought he’d have to wait until his wedding night to get any. “Want to talk about it?”

“She was very…aggressive.”

“What?”

“I didn’t know what to do, her being smaller and a woman.” He said this with a catch in his voice that emphasized something odd Jude had noticed in his speech pattern, a halting rhythm that seemed almost singsong at times. “If I’d pushed her, I might have hurt her.”

“Are you saying she tried it on?” Jude felt stoned. This had him sobbing in his beer?

Mutely, he opened his collar and pointed to a dark purple mark. It was more than a hickey. The virgin had gnawed on him.

Jude managed not to laugh. “Guess you weren’t expecting that.”

“She handled me. You know—there.” Unlike 99.9 percent of the straight male population, Tulley, it seemed, did not count crotch grabs by young females among his daily fantasies.

Jude reminded herself that unwanted sexual fondling was not a joke, even if the victim was a six foot male. “So how did you deal with these advances?”

“I told her it was too soon for hanky-panky.”

Hanky-panky. The last time she’d heard that expression was from her grandmother, who made pronouncements about teen promiscuity and venereal disease throughout Jude’s childhood.

“Maybe she was just trying to let you know she’s not as uptight as her old man,” she said, finding that hard to believe.

A more likely explanation was some form of entrapment, her suspicious mind suggested. Were there still people who believed a man had to marry a girl he’d “compromised”? In this backwater, anything was possible. Was it her place to warn Tulley? She felt like a big sister to him at times, but this was the kind of situation that called for a man-to-man conversation, a talk with a guy he could look up to. She was puzzled that he seemed to have no buddies. He had plenty of brothers, but none he was close to. From what Jude had observed, his family had issues with him leaving town and getting an education. She had the impression that instead of being proud of him, they felt betrayed on some level.

“So, how did you leave things with her in the end?” she asked, resigning herself to the role of mentor.

“She still wants me to come to church with them on Sunday.”

“And how do you feel about that?”

“Okay, I guess.” He didn’t sound enthusiastic.

“Tell me something. Are you interested in this girl? As in, attracted.”

“Well, she’s decent and from a good family. She’s—”

“I’m not asking about her qualifications as a prospective wife. I’m asking if you want to kiss her.”

The ears changed color. “Not really.”

“Well, I have to tell you, that probably means she’s not the right girl for you.”

“The book says look beyond the flesh.”

“Okay. But it doesn’t say ignore the flesh entirely, does it? Listen, think about other girls you’ve dated. How did you feel about kissing them?”

“It was okay. I’ve never had a steady girlfriend. Guess that would be different.”

“You haven’t? Not even in high school?”

“I was friends with some girls. But we weren’t serious. Then I was at the police academy and then I moved out here.” Tulley shook his head in sober resignation. “There’s a woman shortage. Seems like all the nice girls already have boyfriends.”

Listening to these feeble excuses, Jude tried not to leap to the obvious conclusion. Some people were late starters. Tulley’s lack of interest in women and the odd lilting way he spoke did not have to mean he was gay. And since she wasn’t about to pop that particular question, she said, “You could maybe let Alyssa know you’d like to be her friend but you’re not looking for more than that right now.”

“I don’t think she’ll take that real well.”

“They never do.”

Tulley’s expression said he could buy that. “Why aren’t you married? Never met the right guy?”

“Can’t see that happening, I’m afraid.”

“Ever get lonely?”

Jude contemplated the grinding hollowness she felt fairly often these days. “Sometimes. How about you?”

“It’s been better since I got Smoke’m.”

“Maybe you should think about spending social time with some of the guys. Isn’t there a poker game Tuesday nights?”

He shifted restlessly. “Yeah, but they’re not looking for anyone else.”

Jude wondered what the deal was with Tulley and the other deputies. She’d heard a few remarks about him being a loner and sensed puzzled tolerance rather than hostility in their manner toward him. Come to think of it, they treated her much the same way. Maybe it was do with their unique status as a remote office. The Cortez crowd plainly envied them the perks of a cozy situation away from the sheriff’s eye, not to mention their glamorous new profile, operating the only K-9 unit with a specialist cadaver hound. Some people got all the breaks.

Which was another reason she’d taken the Huntsberger case. She wanted to show the department that she and Tulley were willing to go the distance on a tough investigation. Which was exactly what this had been so far.

The Montezuma sheriff had assigned five deputies and two detectives to the case, under Jude’s control, and six additional staff had been committed by the Cortez PD. Montrose and San Miguel preferred to be left out of the real work, since they had plenty to do getting ready for the Sweet Corn Festival on top of Telluride’s annual shindig, and besides, Darlene was a Montezuma girl. Digging deep, they had helped put up Information Wanted posters.

Jude had the team sifting leads from the public and searching the databases going back twenty years for any other killings involving a biter or a stake through the heart. She and Tulley had been systematically interviewing every householder from Slip Rock to Muleshoe Bend and Big Gypsum. Now they were working their way south to Cahone. No one had seen any unusual activity near the river in the past several weeks.

She’d spent most of the previous day in Towaoc, discussing the facts of the case with several members of the Ute tribal council and cops from the Bureau of Indian Affairs. Helpfully, the council members had informed her that this was a white man’s crime and no one on their reservation had the kind of snaggleteeth she was looking for. They had offered one significant fact. A young woman without a tongue had caught a ride with a local potter named Eddie House six years earlier, around the time of the Bear Dance. She was in a bad way and had stayed with him for several months. One day, while he was working in the pottery factory, she had hanged herself. Now her spirit was free to fly.

Jude had an appointment to speak with Mr. House in a couple of hours’ time. Meanwhile, she wanted to look up the local pottery on the Internet so she could make a couple of educated remarks about his chosen art form.

“Did you get those posters up in Disappointment Valley?” she asked Tulley.

He nodded. “Mr. Huntsberger’s coming in later to help with that some more.”

“I think he’s taken a shine to Smoke’m,” Jude said. Clem Huntsberger usually showed up with a beef bone or a bag of liver treats he could ill afford.

The hound looked up at the sound of his name.

“That’s one intelligent animal,” Tulley said. “He knows that family’s grieving. Every time he sees their truck, he makes a special noise like he’s real sorry for them. It’s the only time he whines like that.”

“You don’t say.” Jude gazed at a pottery bowl on her screen. A band of dull turquoise encompassed the base. Above it a precise geometric pattern was painted in black. The colors made a striking contrast against the fine pale ivory clay. It was actually beautiful.

“I believe one reason his breed makes such fine cadaver hounds is because of their emotional sensitivity,” Tulley said.

“The olfactory receptors probably help too.”

Tulley took her teasing in good humor. “Another great thing about him—animals never lie.”

*

Jude contemplated that fact as she drove to Eddie House’s place, a few miles out of Towaoc. Her own life had been punctuated by liars. Most notable in the recent past was the girlfriend who’d cheated on her and the close buddy on the job who’d spent a year not mentioning that he was the jerk she was cheating with. But top billing belonged to her father, decent in so many ways but unable to tell the truth in his personal life if it meant unpopularity. He wanted to be his children’s hero, the man who promised them the world. When he reneged, he blamed their mother for the broken promises, a habit duly adopted by his offspring. Mary Devine was still held responsible by Jude’s brother and sister for almost everything that went wrong in their lives.

Jude had weaned herself from that particular crutch in her twenties when she finally caught on that her mother’s one big dream in life had also fallen prey to Patrick Devine’s need to look good without having to deliver. Mary had yearned to set up her own business making gourmet chocolates, and as far back as Jude could remember, her father had promised each New Year’s Eve that he would buy her the equipment to get started. Instead he would trade in the car, or the house would require new paint, or they would have a family vacation because he needed time out from the stress of his job, and his wife’s dream would be deferred yet again. Their worst fights were over her wanting to get a job so she could pay for the chocolate project herself. Patrick Devine said he saw firsthand what happened to latchkey kids and he wasn’t going to do that to his own. His wife was a stay-at-home mom. Period.

Not long before they moved to Mexico, he’d commented on the lean retirement they were facing and said what a pity it was that Mary had never done anything about her chocolate idea.

Occasionally, when Jude found herself telling women what they wanted to hear instead of being honest, she thought about her father and felt sick. She still had a way to go with that behavior pattern, which meant she needed to phone Mercy soon and ask to see her again. They had concluded their passionate episode on good terms, both agreeing that it would be better if they didn’t sign up for a repeat performance. Neither could afford to be outed and Cortez was way too small for them to conceal a liaison for long.

But Jude had lied through her teeth about being cool with that. It was not like she imagined love at first sight, or anything. But she thought Mercy was being overly paranoid. Why not arrange the occasional weekend out of town? They were smart enough to see one another every now and then without the locals finding out, weren’t they?

She unclipped her cell phone and dialed Mercy’s office number. No answer. She tried her cell and left a message. “Hey, Mercy, it’s Jude. I’ll be in Lands End one day next week following up on a few leads. Maybe we could have a meal. Hope you’re well. Phone me when you get a minute.”

As she ended the call, she exhaled sharply and realized she had not drawn breath as she made it. She felt like a teenager who’d worked herself up to phoning a crush, only to feel a weird mix of relief and anticlimax that she’d had to talk to a machine instead.

She drove through Cortez and took U.S. 666 south. Soon after she’d arrived in Paradox, Jude had worked an attempted murder at a dude ranch out this way, interviewing Ute Indians and skinny cowboys with leather faces beneath a vast blue sky. She’d been stunned, then, by the contrast between life in these wide open spaces and the torrid city maze that was D.C. That awe, the sense of being remote from the world she had once known, was always present. Even more so on the lonely drive to Towaoc.

The Devil’s Highway didn’t earn its nickname for being pretty. A pothole-ridden band of gray asphalt cutting through a desolate landscape, the route to the casino could easily pass for the road to hell. On either side, broken glass and aluminum cans glinted in the merciless sun and a few sad sagebrush clung to life in the sulfurous yellow earth. No one had bothered to “adopt” this miserable stretch of road, unless you wanted to count Oliver Stone, who’d immortalized it in his movie Natural Born Killers.

The state transportation honchos had recently renumbered it to the less satanic 491 after extensive lobbying by the Ute casino board, the neighboring Navajo, and the state of New Mexico. Locals said the authorities weren’t moved by the guys in suits or the lure of fancy lunches. They’d just gotten sick of replacing all the stolen highway signs.

The change hadn’t caught on yet, or maybe it just wasn’t that easy to transform the “number of the beast” to something innocuous. Even the small chapel run by the Trucking Troubadours for Christ failed to instill peace of mind among either tourists or locals. It was a known fact in these parts that the accident rate for the triple-six was twice the national average. Which said it all about who ruled in this wasteland, at least that was the inference.

Jude had laughed off the superstitions when she’d first arrived in the Four Corners, but every time she drove this route a strange unease crept over her. She wanted to dismiss the grim menace of the place as mere imagining, but as she stared out across the stark, khaki vista of volcanic cones and stunted mesas, she was overwhelmed with gloom.

It had been madness to move all the way out here, she decided. No matter how much distance she put between herself and the past, it would always come crawling after her. She could feel that ghost presence now, unsettling the orderly world she was trying to create for herself. Leave me alone, she thought. I can’t do this anymore.

*

Eddie House had a photograph of the girl he’d picked up that day after the Bear Dance. She was small and slender with long mousy hair and haunted gray eyes. He had also kept a few of the notes she’d written him. The hand was childish and the writer could not spell. Jude guessed she hadn’t seen much schooling.

“Did she ever communicate about the loss of her tongue?” she asked.

House drew a slip of paper from the pile. It said: I did not keep sweet. He spoke slowly and softly, his eyes lowered. “There were things she wanted to forget. But she could not escape from them, even in her sleep.”

“What exactly was the nature of your relationship with her?”

“I gave her a home.”

Jude glanced around the living area. There had to be six dogs, and the large gray one at House’s feet looked like a wolf. One of its hind legs was missing and its tawny eyes tracked Jude’s every move. Eddie House also had a few injured wild birds in lofty enclosures along the front path to his home. He was a man with a weakness for strays, she gathered.

“So you and she weren’t in…an intimate situation.” Catching a look of affront, she added quickly, “I’m sorry. It’s a routine question.”

“She was a child,” House said with dignity. “She needed a parent.”

“Any idea about her family?”

“No.”

“And she never wrote her name on a piece of paper for you? Not even her first name?”

“She was afraid.”

“That’s why you didn’t talk to the police?”

“Yes.”

Which explained why she was unidentified. After she’d killed herself, the police had tried to trace her so a death certificate could be issued. The case was left open. The girl had been buried by House, under the name Poppy Dolores. She liked the flower, he explained, and he had found her near Dolores, hence the last name. She was nineteen. At least that was what she had told House in one of her notes.

“What makes you think she was from Utah?” Jude asked.

House referred her to a note that read: I come from Utah. He added, “I knew it the first time I saw her.”

“Why was that?”

“She was mistreated.” Perhaps sensing he’d lost her on the math, he said. “An old prejudice, Detective. Utah holds bitter memories for my people.”

“The forced march?” Jude referred to the shameful episode in 1881, when the Colorado Ute were evicted from their lands and marched 350 miles to a reservation in Utah. All who had weakened along the way were shot. Women. Children. Old people.

“There are many reasons. Did you know, a greater proportion of our people served in the Second World War than the white men of Utah, but still we couldn’t vote?”

“I think I’d have a problem with that,” Jude acknowledged.

Given the ugly history their races shared, she was amazed that any Native American could tolerate being in the same room as a white person. However, Eddie House had been welcoming and hospitable, if somewhat reserved in his manner. Since living in the Southwest, she’d found that the Native Americans she encountered had quite different body language from most other people she came in contact with, and they did not seem especially talkative.

It was hard to pick Eddie House’s age. Around fifty, perhaps older. His hair was silver-white and dead straight, his face lined but not heavily wrinkled. He wore a thin leather thong around his head. From one of the ties hung several tiny beads of turquoise and coral, a piece of bone, and an unusual banded cream and brown feather.

“Is there anything at all she ever shared with you about her life?” Jude sifted through the other notes. Most were single lines. One stood out. No one will help us. She handed it to House. “Do you know what she meant by this?”

“She had bad dreams. One night, I made her a milk drink and she gave me that note. It was not long before she took her life.”

“I’m very sorry.”

He acknowledged her sympathy with a tranquil smile. “There is no death. Only a change of worlds.”

“Chief Seattle?”

“Yes.” For the first time in their discussion, his dark brown eyes rested on her squarely. After a lengthy scrutiny, he rose from his chair and said, “Walk with me.”

He led her into an airy bedroom overlooking the ochre prairie toward the Mesa Verde, the three-legged wolf at his heel. From the top drawer of a simple pine cabinet, he took a neatly folded stack of garments and handed them to her. “She was wearing these the day I found her.”

Jude unfolded what passed for high fashion in certain parts of the Southwest—white socks, black shoes, a long-sleeved, high-necked, ankle-length pastel gray dress with an over-sized white collar and matching sash. Women in this type of getup could sometimes be seen in Cortez, shopping with their husbands, Mormon fundamentalists from Utah who had recently started buying land in Montezuma County.

“May I take these?” she asked.

“She won’t miss them.”

“Will you?”

“I have this.” He indicated the leather thong at his temple.

“She made that?”

“She was learning crafts for the market.”

“It’s lovely. What kind of feather is that?”

“Mexican spotted owl. I was healing one while Poppy was here. He comes back sometimes and leaves a dead rabbit at my door.”

Jude smiled. “Like he’s thanking you.”

“We have an understanding. I divide the rabbit and cook my part. Then we eat together.”

Jude floundered for something to say that didn’t sound patronizing. “That’s amazing. So he’s quite tame?”

“No.” He didn’t expand on this pronouncement, instead returning to the subject. “I think she could have learned to make pottery. She had patient hands.”

Jude refolded Poppy’s clothes. “Let me tell you something, Mr. House. I believe Poppy may be connected in some way to the murder I’m investigating. Darlene Huntsberger? Do you know her?”

He shook his head.

“I’m going to catch the person who did it. I think he may have hurt Poppy too. And when I do, I promise you, he’ll pay for his crimes.”

A faraway look softened House’s features and he extended a hand to stroke the wolf’s mane. “I would find that satisfying.”

Chapter Four

Naoma Epperson tucked her index finger beneath the chin of the girl standing before her. “Are you ready to be sweet?”

Bold dark eyes blinked at her from a fine-boned face. Naoma could almost swear she glimpsed defiance in their expression. Impatiently, she flicked a glance toward the junior wife standing a few feet away.

Summer was staring at the floor. One of her hands rested on her heavily pregnant belly and her face was as pasty pale as the bread dough rising on the kitchen counter.

“Did you speak with your sister?” Naoma demanded.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Naoma dropped the silent girl’s chin and shook her slightly by the shoulder. “Seems like she still doesn’t understand the honor being given her.”

Adeline Fleming was fourteen and thin for her age, barely a sign of breast or hips. It was beyond Naoma why her husband wished to elevate a girl so lacking in womanly attractions to spiritual wifehood. But it was not Nathaniel’s place to question the prophet’s commands, as absurd as some of them seemed. Neither was it hers.

“I won’t marry Mr. Epperson,” Adeline said. “He’s old.”

Naoma was so outraged by this ungrateful pronouncement, she cuffed the impudent girl across the face. “How dare you speak in that manner about a member of the priesthood. Do you forget you are under the master’s roof?”

Summer rushed forward and took her sister’s arm. “I’ll deal with her, Sister.”

“You are both trying my patience,” Naoma warned. “Do you want to be cast out of this family?”

Summer shook her head emphatically. “No, Sister. I beg your forgiveness.”

“Bake the bread and teach your sister to conduct herself in the appropriate manner. You have two days before the master returns from his business in Texas and she is to be sealed to him immediately.”

Naoma left the room, aggravated. She’d had a feeling that girl was trouble ever since she’d walked in the door a week earlier. The new prophet had awarded her to Nathaniel, whose loyalty had also earned him the promise that he would soon be appointed first counselor. Adeline could consider herself fortunate that not only would she be married to one of the most powerful men in the High Priesthood, she would also be living with her older sister. Had she not been assigned to Nathaniel, her parents had planned to marry her to one of her uncles, a man of lower status in the church who had recently spoken out of turn. Two of his wives had been taken from him as a consequence and given to a cousin of the prophet. Adeline, like most young girls, had no idea how much worse her situation could be.

Naoma paused in the long corridor that led to her private sitting room, yelling at one of the laziest wives in their family. Yet again Fawn Dew’s simple-minded son had fouled the hallway. The only reason Naoma put up with him was that he was a Downs. They were worth more money from the state.

“It’s not his fault, you old bitch,” Fawn Dew yelled back.

Naoma ached to beat the impertinence out of her, but she would have to bide her time. Fawn Dew was the prophet’s daughter and Nathaniel’s current favorite, and no one would cross her while she had more of his pillow than any other wife. The smart-mouthed little slut’s day in the sun would pass, as they always did, and when that time came, Naoma would have her revenge. Anticipation of this pleasure helped her keep her temper.

Patience and self-discipline had served her well in her thirty years of marriage. At first, she’d been too stupid to do anything but accept her lot in silence, hurt and angry when her husband brought a second wife into their home just before Naoma gave birth to their first child. For ten miserable years she had suffered humiliation and insult from a procession of wives who thought they had replaced her in her husband’s esteem as well as his bed. She had been little more than a slave, waiting on those glorified harlots and their revolting brats until the day came when the household was in so much chaos Nathaniel took her to task.

It was probably the only time she had ever been completely honest with her husband. She had told him it was not her fault that his wives thought they had him wrapped around their little fingers. He had made his own bed and could not hold her responsible. She pointed out that any man who allowed his junior wives to show no respect to the senior wife was disobeying God and the prophet, and that everyone outside of their home had noticed he was making a joke of himself. Other men, higher than him in the prophet’s esteem, ran their homes according to Sarah’s law. Hadn’t he wondered why he was not promoted in the church?

She had offered him a deal. She would manage a well-ordered compound with wives and children who behaved themselves. In exchange, he would meet certain conditions. Alternatively, he could continue to live in a zoo and Naoma would no longer compensate for the lazy harlots he kept adding to the household. They could fight over the chores among themselves. It was his choice.

Nathaniel responded by asking what she wanted him to do, and in that moment, Naoma had understood exactly how to survive the hellish life God had condemned her to lead. If she could give her husband what he needed and wanted—relative tranquility and unlimited access to young women—she would have as much power as any woman living the Principle could hope for.

That evening, Nathaniel had lined up his wives and children and instructed them that his home would now be run according to Sarah’s law. That meant they would obey Naoma in all things because she was his blessed wife, the mother of his firstborn. She would determine who was sent to his bed, and any wife who did not keep herself sweet would be deprived of this honor. If anyone failed to show Naoma the respect to which she was entitled, that wife or child would be severely punished.

Naoma had duly delivered on her promise. Wives who misunderstood their situation soon found themselves carrying out the filthiest chores, wearing the oldest garments, and begging her for mercy. Children who cried and made demands discovered their behavior had painful consequences.

Unlike some first wives, Naoma was thrilled that her husband had ceased sharing her bed. Sometimes she thought she must have reached a spiritual plane where she no longer needed the physical attentions of a man. But the truth was, that side of marriage had always repelled her and child-bearing was an affliction she was happy to forgo. Her sole concern was to ensure that Nathaniel would never elevate any other wife above her. To secure her position, she allowed him his favorites for a time, but when it seemed he could be developing a special respect for one of them, she would ensure her conniving sister-wife did something to disgrace him.

Nathaniel seldom pushed his luck. They both knew their accord made it easy for him to have exactly what he wanted: a place in the prophet’s inner circle, community prestige, the toadying obedience of his family, a steady diet of sex with docile young girls. And, of course, freedom from the financial burden of caring for his ever-expanding family. Naoma saw to it that the government shouldered that load, just as the prophet instructed.

*

“You can’t speak to Sister Naoma that way,” Summer hissed as she marched her sister toward the hen house.

Adeline had always been difficult. Even when they were small children, she was the first to get in trouble and the last to run from a fight. Finally, the problem became so serious, their mother couldn’t manage her—not with fourteen other children to take care of. So Adeline had been sent to their aunt’s home in Salt Lake City, supposedly so Aunt Chastity, who was not blessed with children, could teach her how to behave. A terrible thing had occurred some time during the three years she’d spent there. Aunt Chastity had fallen under the influence of Satan and had allowed Adeline to watch television and attend the public school. Out among the heathen of Babylon, she had acquired wrongful thinking. And her clothes!

Their parents had discovered the disaster after Summer’s oldest brother called on Aunt Chastity and found Adeline dancing to devilish music and wearing shameless attire. Naturally, when they heard the news, they rushed to the city to save her from corruption. Aunt Chastity had been shunned ever since and the family no longer spoke of her as a relative. She was Mrs. Young, even if her husband had divorced her for her wicked conduct.

A week ago, the Flemings had arrived at the Gathering for Zion Ranch with the good news that Adeline had been chosen to be the master’s fifteenth wife. They’d made Summer’s duty clear. It was her job to make sure that her sister forgot the evil ways she had learned among the apostates and kept herself sweet. So far, Summer wasn’t having much success.

“He’s an old ugly man,” Adeline said. “I am not marrying him, and no one can make me.”

“They can too.” Summer clasped her belly as the baby kicked. Surely it would be a boy, wriggling about so much. The thought dulled her excitement about her first child. In the Epperson family, girls were more highly prized, and mothers had to let go of their sons sooner.

“I’ll be out of here before they get a chance,” Adeline said. “I’m going back to Aunt Chastity. She wants me to go to college.”

“College is a dangerous place for decent women,” Summer said.

“That’s bullshit. If I go to college I can get a good job and live in Salt Lake. All my friends are there. They’ll be going to BYU.”

“What’s BYU?”

Adeline rolled her eyes. “Duh! Brigham Young University. It’s a good school. I want to be a veterinarian. That’s a doctor for animals.”

Summer had never heard of such a ridiculous thing. “Don’t speak of these ideas to anyone,” she warned. “You’ll get us both in terrible trouble.”

“If that old man comes near me, it won’t be me that’s in trouble. It’ll be him, because I’ll go to the police. He’ll end up in jail, just like the man that kidnapped Elizabeth Smart.”

Fear made Summer’s skin damp and cold. She grabbed Adeline’s arm. “Please don’t say such things. Wives who go to the police are brought back. The master is very angry if that happens.”

“What do you mean, they’re brought back?”

“It is forbidden to speak of this.” Summer picked up one of the shovels propped against the side of the small barn and unfastened the latch. “Bring the wheelbarrow, Addy.”

The pungent odor of chicken manure made her gag as they stepped into the barn. Summer trampled a path through deep hay on the floor and began shoveling litter from beneath the perches. She moved awkwardly. Tasks like this made her back ache.

Adeline took the shovel from her. “I’ll do that. You shouldn’t be doing heavy work.”

“I must keep strong so I can have a healthy baby.” She massaged her lower back. Sister Naoma wanted her to pray for a Downs, like Fawn Dew’s son, and Summer felt guilty that she hadn’t. But one of the other sister-wives had given birth to a dwarf not long ago. Surely Naoma could be content with that.

Adeline continued to talk nonsense as she dumped shovel-loads into the wheelbarrow, finally declaring, “Aunt Chastity says women shouldn’t have babies until they are in their twenties.”

“Mrs. Young is apostate,” Summer stated the obvious. “You should not heed anything she says. She is influenced by the devil.”

Adeline leaned on her shovel and stared incredulously at Summer. “Boy, are you ever brainwashed.”

“No. It is you who has been corrupted,” Summer cried. “You must pass through the refiner’s fire so you are worthy of the celestial kingdom. Please, Addy. Humble yourself. Remember, it is the husband who introduces a woman to Christ. You have to marry or you will not find salvation. This is the path God has chosen for you and—”

“That’s such crap!” Adeline tossed her shovel aside. “I seriously doubt that God thinks any of this is a good idea. I’m leaving this place before old man Epperson gets back here, and you’re not stopping me.”

Summer had barely formed a reply, when a voice boomed from the doorway.

“But I am.” Sister Naoma advanced into the barn carrying the thick belt-strap she kept handy for discipline.

“Just try it, you fat cow.” Adeline quickly stooped and reached for the shovel.

Terrified, Summer did what she knew she had to do. She stamped down hard on her sister’s hand, making her drop the tool. Naoma grabbed Adeline by her hair and dragged her a few feet.

“Leave us, Summer,” the head wife said.

For a moment Summer considered falling on her knees, begging for mercy for her sister, but she knew the look on Naoma’s face. All that would happen if she made such a plea was that she would be beaten also, and she was too frightened for her baby to take that risk.

She lowered her head and said, “Yes, Sister Naoma. Thank you.”

As she hurried away from the barn, she could hear Adeline’s screams. Her sister was a fighter but she was no match for the head wife. Naoma easily weighed two hundred and fifty pounds, and she knew exactly how to inflict punishment with her boots and her belt. Summer had only had to suffer one of those beatings and she had kept herself sweet ever since. Only a foolish wife defied Naoma. It was best Adeline learned that now.

*

Jude poured herself a glass of Glenmorangie and added a splash of water. The setting sun flooded her living room with ruby light, making her blown-glass bowls and vases pulsate color as if lit from within. She sank back into her favorite burgundy leather chair at the window and contemplated the fierce beauty of her environment. The jagged violet of the Uncompahgre Plateau stretched along the horizon beneath an artist’s sky awash with crimson, pink, and flaming orange. She never got used to this view. It changed every day, and each season revealed it differently.

Dragging her gaze away, she opened the file on her knee and reflected on the contents of Darlene Huntsberger’s stomach. The M.E.’s report listed “mucus material without particulate matter”—not exactly a bonanza of useful data. However, the proximal portion of her small intestine had contained shreds of paper and a key. Mercy said these would have been swallowed about six hours before Darlene died. She was supposed to be getting back to Jude if they managed to reconstruct the paper shreds.

Darlene’s death had not come easy. From the autopsy, Jude had been able to reconstruct a scenario for her colleagues at the briefing earlier that day. Darlene had been the subject of repeated physical abuse over a period of two years, presumably at the hands of the individual or individuals who’d abducted her. Multiple, differently aged posterior rib and scapular fractures, broken teeth, and patterned burns were textbook indicators of domestic battery.

Some five or six months prior to her death, she had lost her tongue in a criminal assault almost certainly conducted by the same persons responsible for her long-term battery, and in all likelihood her murder.

The killing itself could be classified as a ritual killing involving sexual sadism. Jude had brought in a criminal psychologist Mercy recommended, Stamer Knutson. His profile of the man they were seeking had even made Pratt sit up. She leafed through the transcript of his presentation, marveling again at the way competent profilers analyzed the psychological fingerprints left by a killer.

Knutson believed that the long-term abuse made it unlikely that the killer was a stranger. Darlene, he stated, was an atypical victim of intimate partner abuse. Find the partner and they would find their killer. Yet there was one problem with that theory. He was convinced that the biter was not the same man who’d been abusing Darlene since her abduction and probably not the killer. There was no evidence of old bites inflicted before the date of her death, and given the depth and intensity of the dentition, there would have been scarring.

Knutson found that the bites were consistent with “a disorganized individual carrying out a frenzied attack on the victim. Whereas elements of control and planning were present in the single, deep throat wound, the spike through the heart, and the method of body disposal. This could indicate partners in the killing.” They were looking for “an older white male who exercises dominance over a younger, more overtly unbalanced companion.” And, Knutson asserted, “The sacrificial aspect to the case indicates that one or both may be extremely religious.”

His profile had been submitted to VICAP, and if the analysts at the FBI’s academy in Quantico found any similarities with other homicides in their databases, Jude would be notified.

She thought about Poppy Dolores, missing her tongue and suffering profound psychological problems. The clothing she’d been wearing when House picked her up was like nothing Jude had ever seen, home sewn and designed to cover the wearer from head to foot. Long sleeves, a large boat collar that seemed more appropriate for a toddler’s outfit than a grown woman’s dress, white knee-high socks…who wore anything like this in twenty-first-century America? Only members of a few religious sects.

Had Poppy Dolores been a victim of Darlene’s kidnapper? Jude wondered how many others like her there were, and where they were now. Was Poppy the only one who had ever escaped?

A familiar, crushing helplessness stifled her breathing and trapped a mouthful of Scotch in her throat. Coughing, Jude dropped the file onto the coffee table and reached for the pitcher of water. No matter what she did, where she went, how far away she got, and how much time passed, she realized she would never escape this despair. Bleakly, she removed her boots, reclined the chair, and forced herself to relax into the deep cushioning.

She knew she couldn’t allow herself to think that way. If ever there was a place where she could make a fresh start, it was this. All she had to do was give herself permission.

*

“Is it nighttime?” Adeline mumbled the question. It hurt to speak. One of the head wife’s blows had cut her bottom lip badly.

“Almost,” Summer whispered. “I’m not supposed to be here.”

“You have to let me out.” Adeline pointed at the bolt that secured the cage she’d been thrown into. It was shielded by a sheet of tin and she couldn’t reach it through the heavy steel mesh.

“I can’t. She’d know it was me. You have no idea what it’s like.”

“I get beat half to death and now I’m locked in a dog cage. You think I don’t know what it’s like!”

“You should be thankful it’s not worse,” Summer retorted.

“What about him? What did he do to end up in here?” Adeline gestured toward a second cage a few yards away. In it a young boy was hunched in one corner. She’d been trying to talk to him, but he wouldn’t speak.

“He is expelled but he keeps trying to come back. We have to keep him here until the master comes home.”

“Why?”

“He might fraternize.”

“What do you mean?”

“With our daughters. That’s why he was cast out. We are not allowed to speak to him.” Summer kept her back to the other cage, not once turning to see the child it housed. In a panicked voice, she begged, “Please don’t listen to the devil’s voice inside of you, Addy. Fight temptation!”

“There’s no devil’s voice inside me,” Adeline scoffed, amazed that her sister still believed everything she was told.

Summer had always been a goody two-shoes, desperate to please their daddy, like he even remembered their names. She was always the one who read an extra hour of scripture and rushed to tell their parents if any of the other kids were disobedient.

“Hush! Listen to me. If you don’t humble yourself, I don’t know what will happen.” Summer clutched the mesh. She was crying. “They will wait for me to have my baby, then I know I’ll be punished. I don’t want to lose my baby.”

“What are you saying? You think they’ll hurt your baby?”

“They could take him from me and give him to someone else. Unfit mothers are punished.”

“Then come with me,” Adeline urged. “Tonight. Let’s get out of here and never come back.”

“Where would we go?”

“I don’t know. We’d hide.”

A small voice piped up. “They’ll find you. Runaway wives never get out.”

Adeline squinted at the bony boy in the cage a few yards away. “Oh yeah?”

Summer shook her arm. “Don’t speak to him. It’s forbidden.”

“Who says? That cretin you call a prophet? Guess what, Summer—he’s a big phony. They all are.”

The boy rattled his cage door. “If you let me out I can take you to a place.”

“What kind of place?” Adeline asked.

“We can hide there for a few days. It’s up Seeds of Cain mountain. No one knows about it.”

“If it’s such a great place, how come you’re back here living in a dog cage?”

“I came to see my mom. I thought she would help me.”

“Your mother is one of the wives?”

Adeline felt sick knowing that this kid’s own mother had allowed him to be locked up in a cage with nothing but a few crusts of bread and a dog bowl filled with water. If that could happen, anything could happen. Was everyone in this place totally insane? She hadn’t believed some of the things Aunt Chastity said about the prophet and his followers, but she knew better now.

The boy said, “She’s the eighth wife. Heavensent.”

Summer’s expression shifted from fearful to completely frantic at the sound of her name. To Adeline, she babbled, “She’s a poofer and it’s his fault, and if they catch me talking to you I’ll be a poofer too.” She cried some more.

“Shush,” Adeline said. “If you keep bawling like that someone will hear you and you will be a poofer, whatever that is.”

“It’s when someone vanishes. She was here, then she was gone. As in, poof!”

“Dead?” Adeline could hear how squeaky her own voice was.

“I don’t know. Sister Naoma says they sent her to Canada to another husband.”

“My mother’s gone?” The boys’ question was more like a strangled wail.

Even Summer turned around. “Yes,” she hissed. “So there’s no point you keeping on coming back. You’re in mighty big trouble, all for nothing.”

“Please, Summer, let us go,” Adeline begged. “ I’ll take him with me and we’ll never come back, I promise.”

Summer hesitated, rocking back and forth on her heels, one hand clutching the small of her back. In the deep shadows of the barn her face was hard to read, but Adeline could sense she was weakening. She reached for the bolt then wavered and fell back.

“I can’t,” she said. “The devil is speaking through you. I cannot be tempted.”

“No, it’s not the devil, it’s me!” Adeline fell onto her knees. “Please. It’s me. Your sister.”

But something hardened in Summer’s face, and Adeline knew in that moment that her big sister was lost to her.

Chapter Five

When Jude got into work the next morning, Bobby Lee Parker was slouched against his fancy truck in the parking area. He wore black jeans, red shirt, and a black Santa Fe hat. This was angled down like he was sleeping standing up.

She pulled up alongside, wondering what could possibly have prompted this visit. Convicted felons did not usually pay social calls on law enforcement. She glanced past him into his lovingly waxed Silverado. The driver’s door was open and Bobby Lee had company. A small fair-haired figure sat hunched in the passenger seat. Twelve years old, maybe. He was asleep.

Jarred by the sight, Jude had to shake herself. Like all slight, fair-haired twelve-year-old boys, this one made her skip a breath or two. Refocusing, she gathered up her satchel and food supplies, climbed out of the Dakota, and locked the doors, aware all the while of Bobby Lee’s gaze sliding over her.

“Mornin’, ma’am.” He sidled around his truck and tipped his hat with ostentatious gallantry. “Allow me to help you with those.”

“There’s no need.” Jude tried not to move too sharply as she unhooked the station key ring from her belt. All she needed now was to drop the lot, proving herself a girl. “What can I do for you, Mr. Parker?”

“That’s a question I could answer a whole different way in different circumstances.” Bobby Lee grinned like this was a toothpaste commercial.

Jude said, “Get to the point.”

Only slightly crestfallen, he pointed to his passenger. “I knew you’d want to see this kid, Detective Devine.” He said it like Dee-Vine. “Picked him up hitching out of Dove Creek. He’s got some information for you.”

“About?”

Bobby Lee extracted a folded sheet of paper from his shirt pocket. It was one of the Information Wanted posters the MCSO had plastered up everywhere, seeking leads in the Huntsberger case.

With patent satisfaction, Bobby Lee announced, “He had contact with the girl.”

“So did half of Cortez.”

“Yeah, but not recently.” He paused for effect. “The kid saw her a couple of months ago.”

Jude peered at him over her sunglasses.

“It’s the God’s honest truth. Least that’s what he says. Figured you’d want to talk to him.”

“I do.” Jude headed for the station. “Bring him in.”

She unlocked the front door and the internal security door, and dumped her stuff on her desk. Through the window she could see Bobby Lee trying to drag the kid toward the station. After a minute or so, she went back outdoors.

“What seems to be the problem, Mr. Parker?”

“He’s real nervous of the police, ma’am. Minute he saw the sheriff badge on your sign, he made a run for it.”

“A feeling I am sure you can relate to,” Jude said dryly.

“If you’re referring to my past, that’s all over now.” Bobby Lee’s tone suggested he was hurt by the implication.

“Son, what’s your name?” Jude asked the boy.

Silence.

“He goes by Zach.” Bobby Lee shook the kid’s shoulder. “Hey. Wake up, pal. There’s a burger and fries when you’re done telling the detective what you told me.”

Jude could almost see the boy drool. He looked starved, bony arms and ankles protruding from filthy overalls a few sizes too small. The flies couldn’t get enough of him either. She could hardly wait to have him cooped up indoors exuding the stench of unwashed body and cat piss.

“Zach, nothing bad is going to happen to you,” she said. “And if you’re hungry, I can rustle up some breakfast in the station.”

Huge, limpid blue eyes stared up at her from a gaunt face. “Please don’t make me go back.”

“Back where?”

He lowered his head and mumbled something.

Bobby Lee removed his hat and swished it to disperse the flies. “He’s real afraid of being sent back to his hometown on account of people there who beat on him.”

Jude was cautious about making promises to a runaway. She would have to take this kid to child services once she’d interviewed him. If family back home were looking for him, he would be returned unless there was proof of abuse and neglect. And it would not be up to Colorado Social Services to make that decision. The first thing they would do is hand his case over to Utah.

“While you’re here with me, no one will hurt you,” she said. “Now come on indoors.”

The fight seemed to go out of him then, and he sagged against Bobby Lee, who uttered a startled yelp and recoiled in dismay, propping him at arm’s length. “Shit,” he told Jude, “he’s fucking unconscious.”

They carried him into the station and put him on the bunk bed in the holding cell. He weighed almost nothing. Maybe eighty pounds.

Jude got a glass of water and gently slapped the boy’s cheeks a couple of times. “Drink this,” she said as he came around.

“Oh, man. Disgusting.” Bobby Lee was sniffing his own hands. “That smell…it transferred itself.”

“You can go,” Jude told him. “Thanks for bringing him in.”

“At your service, ma’am.” The Romeo of Cortez produced a slip of paper from his jeans and handed it to her. “That’s my number if you need me for anything else.”

“Appreciate that.” Jude kept her attention on the task of reviving her smelly visitor. “How about you leave the door open on your way out. We could use some fresh air.”

“Your wish is my command.” The booted feet stayed where they were.

Jude looked up. She could swear he batted his eyelashes. “Was there something else, Mr. Parker?”

A shit-eating grin. “Anyone ever tell you, you have beautiful eyes, ma’am? I just wanted to look into them one more time.”

Jude gave him a long, hard stare. “Get out of here before I arrest you for that gas station heist.”

Bobby Lee held her gaze without flinching. “Don’t suppose you’d care to discuss that over a fine meal?”

“If you have something to say to me, we can talk about it after I’ve read you your rights,” she replied.

“Hard to get. I like that in a woman.” He looked her brazenly up and down. “Give me a call when you need some satisfaction. Doesn’t look like you’re getting a whole lot of that.”

Fresh out of smart replies, Jude could only stare in mild shock as her would-be date sauntered away. Men never hit on her, a state of affairs that made her thankful. There was enough shit to deal with on the job without colleagues trying to into her pants. She figured most guys she met were too intimidated to indulge themselves in fantasies about winning her over with their manly charms. It seemed as if they sensed she was not available, even if they couldn’t be sure why.

Hearing a groan, she returned her attention to the boy on the cot, and asked, “Feeling better?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He eyed the cell door, his expression hunted.

Sensing an imminent bolt, she took one of his clammy hands. “Let’s go sit in the other room and I’ll fix you some breakfast.”

He couldn’t get out of the cell fast enough. Jude sat him at Tulley’s desk, automatically checking the wall clock. The deputy wouldn’t be in for another half hour. She took a can of soda from the fridge, pulled the tab, and set it in front of the boy. A shot of glucose seemed like a good move.

He gulped some down and said, “Much obliged, ma’am.”

Jude pulled a couple of frozen entrees from the freezer, stuck the first of these in the microwave, and set up her tape recorder. “What’s your full name, Zach?”

He looked cagey, a film of perspiration shining on his upper lip and brow. After a beat, he seemed to conclude that neither life nor liberty were in immediate danger and replied, “Zachariah Nephi Carter.”

“And how old are you?”

“Eighteen.”

Jude froze. Eighty pounds. Barely five and half feet. The voice and development of a twelve-year-old. Eighteen could not be possible. She wondered if he was lying for fear of being returned to his family. Careful not to show any sign of disbelief, she asked, “What’s your address?”

He fidgeted. “I don’t have a place right now. Last few months I’ve been doing odd jobs in exchange for meals.”

Apparently not enough of them to put any flesh on his bones. The microwave bleeped and Jude hauled out the dinner and ripped off the plastic. She set it in front of him with some utensils. “We can talk while you eat.”

He hesitated. “You’re not giving me your own breakfast, are you, ma’am?”

“No, it’s going spare. And since you’ve troubled yourself to come help with our enquiries, it’s all yours.”

He fell on it like he hadn’t eaten in weeks, the fork quivering in his hands. With a mixture of anger and sorrow, Jude watched him devour the small serving. Zach Carter was plainly malnourished and he hadn’t got this way overnight. If he was a runaway, maybe he had good reason.

“Where are you from originally?” she asked him.

“Utah.”

Eddie House’s words repeated in her mind. He could tell Poppy was from Utah because she had been mistreated. “You’re not living with your family?”

“I was unworthy.”

Unworthy. It wasn’t just teen-speak. His face wore naked despair. She put the next meal in the microwave, figuring the first wouldn’t make a dent. Setting his unworthiness aside for a later discussion, she said, “So, Bobby Lee was telling me you knew Darlene.”

He paused between mouthfuls. “I didn’t know that was her name. She said it was Diantha.”

“What makes you think Diantha was Darlene?”

“I saw the picture. It’s her, for sure.”

“How did you come to know her?”

“She lived near my family.”

“Where is that?”

He hesitated. “Rapture.”

“You were friends with her?”

An incredulous stare. “No.”

“Then how did you know her?”

“She was kind to me after I was cast out. For a while, I hid in places. She found me and she didn’t tell anyone where I was.”

“Where was that?”

“In a barn on the Gathering for Zion Ranch. She was one of Mr. Epperson’s celestial wives.”

“Come again?”

He stared at her uncertainly. “A man must have three wives to enter the celestial kingdom, but because the government is league with Satan, he can only be legally married to one woman in this country. So the marriages are celestial.”

“Okay. Now I get it.” It amazed Jude how well he could articulate the dogma of his sect. “How many wives does Mr. Epperson have?”

“I’m not sure. Lots. He’s an important man.”

Lots of wives. Jude could hear Pratt losing it. This was the kind of lead detectives prayed would drop into their laps, information that could save months of investigative labor. But for Pratt, it would mean only one thing—trouble with Utah. Yet again, Jude would be associated with a pain in the butt.

Resigning herself to the inevitable, she asked, “What’s Mr. Epperson’s first name?”

“Nathaniel.” Zach cringed as if he fully expected to be struck by lightening.

“When did you last see Diantha?” She took the next meal from the microwave and handed it over.

“Maybe four months ago. It was after the winter.”

“When did you leave your family?”

He shoveled food into his mouth. “The prophet excommunicated me last year, but I didn’t leave town till the dog day.”

“The dog day?”

“The prophet said we couldn’t have dogs anymore. So the Sons of Helaman rounded them up at the drywash and shot them all.”

Stunned, Jude said, “Do you mean stray dogs?”

“No. All dogs. They even had my dog Sam. I tried to get him, but they beat on me with their guns and ran me out of town again.”

“You’re saying they killed every dog in town? Even people’s pets?”

“Yes, ma’am. The prophet says there are no dogs in the celestial kingdom, so we need have no care for them, or any other animal, during our earthly life.”

What kind of outfit was this—Stepford on crack? “Didn’t anyone try to stop the killing?”

He shook his head. “They couldn’t. They would be excommunicated.”

“What exactly does that mean?”

“You won’t be lifted up to heaven. You are banished…cast forth to dwell in Babylon. No one can speak to you.” He burst into tears. “Diantha spoke to me, and she brought food. That’s why she had to atone and be purified. God commanded that she live henceforth in silence.”

“This is why her tongue was cut out?”

He blinked. “How do you know about that? It’s a secret.”

“Not anymore. We noticed when we examined her body.”

He set down his fork and cradled his head in his hands. “It was my fault. I led her into temptation.”

“No, Zach. You didn’t do anything wrong and neither did she. What happened to Darlene was a crime.” She repressed the urge to tell him she was going to hunt down the people who did it and make them pay. It wouldn’t take much to spook him. If he thought the Eppersons could end up in jail, he could stop talking for fear of retribution. She redirected the questioning slightly. “What about your mom? Couldn’t you go to her for help after you were excommunicated?”

Zach looked at her in amazement. “My mother would never disobey the master of holy principles.”

“The master…you mean God?”

“No. My daddy.”

Where was a stiff drink when you needed one? Jude had heard plenty about the Utah polygamists since moving to Montezuma county. It had been all over the local newspapers recently that a bigshot in the FLDS had bought a ranch a few miles out of Mancos. According to the reports, polygamist leaders were selling up holdings in Arizona and Utah now that state prosecutors were finally investigating them for child sexual abuse, welfare fraud, and tax evasion. It seemed like these guys were little more than a gang of criminals hiding behind the mask of religious belief. The strategy had panned out pretty well for them. They’d been molesting young girls and bilking the system with complete impunity for decades.

“What about your friends—kids your own age?” Jude could not imagine a teenager without buddies willing to defy authority figures. “Didn’t they try to help you?”

He paused over a bite. “I didn’t want to make any trouble for them, so I stayed away. It is forbidden for the righteous to associate with me.”

“That’s mighty Christian of them.”

He blinked and focused on her as if seeing her clearly for the first time. His expression was an odd mix of fascination and disapproval.

“Something wrong, Zach?”

“I haven’t seen too many women wearing men’s clothing, is all. Being as it’s harlot’s attire.”

Jude bit back an automatic response. Here was a kid who had probably never seen a television and had been brainwashed since infancy inside a cult. Was it any wonder he had no sense of the real world, his thinking twisted by Taliban-like beliefs. She shuddered to think of him trying to find his way, a stranger in his own country. He would have a hard time fitting in with regular people.

“Most people in this country don’t believe that to be the case,” she said. “They don’t live the way people in your community live.”

“Yes, I understand. That’s why the gentiles will not be admitted to the three degrees of glory.”

Jude was intrigued. Zach’s ability to think for himself seemed to have been erased, yet he could express quite complex ideas. She was reminded of an expression bandied about by the technical support staff at the Bureau to explain the limitations of her computer—dumb terminal: seems smart, but cannot function as an independent entity.

Ignoring the last dumb-terminal response, she asked, “The town of Rapture. Where is that?”

“Near Hildale and Colorado City.”

Huge surprise. The twin towns were only the biggest hotbed of polygamy outside of Saudi Arabia. “You’re a long way from home,” she said.

“I got a ride with a truck driver.” Pensively, he added, “At first I was afraid to be among the gentiles and the seeds of Cain, but folks have been real kind.” He indicated his empty meal trays. “Thank you for the breakfast. I think that was about the best meal I ever tasted.”

Jude pointed at the trash bin. “You can throw the meal containers in there and rinse the utensils in the sink. If you need the restroom, it’s down the hall to your right.”

Lesson one. Don’t wait for women to clean up after you. Zach seemed to catch on easily enough. He tidied his trash away and even asked if there was anything he could fetch for her. Jude could sense an eagerness in him that verged on desperation. Survival was his primary consideration. If that meant doing “women’s work,” she had a feeling he’d get with the program.

“I need to ask you some more questions now that you’ve eaten,” she said when he returned from the restroom. “First up, do you know who murdered Diantha?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Do you know anybody who didn’t like her? Who was maybe real angry with her over something? Apart from her talking to you, I mean. Did she ever mention anything like that to you?”

“Can’t say she did.”

“Tell me about the Eppersons.”

He considered this for a beat, then revealed nervously, “Mr. Epperson is a real important man. He’s a high priest and counselor to the prophet.” He vacillated. “We’re not supposed to talk about the priesthood to gentiles.”

“I understand. I promise no one will ever know you spoke to me about the way your church is organized. Okay?”

Her mind flashed to the press conference a week earlier. Mercy Westmoreland had publicly dismissed the idea of a ritual killing, but it had come up in the subsequent briefing. Stamer Knutson believed that hunting the local Satanists would be a waste of time. The type of brutality inflicted on Darlene was almost entirely the province of the obsessive husband, the lone psychopath, or of foot soldiers for the world’s most virulent strains of religious fundamentalism. Historically, the black-magic crowd had produced a few wackos, but they were rank amateurs compared with their God-fearing counterparts.

“Tell me, Zach, does a high priest like Mr. Epperson follow the prophet’s orders all the time, like everyone else does?”

Apparently, this was a silly question. Eyeing her quizzically, Zach explained, “The prophet is God’s mouthpiece on earth. He is the one man who has the keys of sealing. He must be obeyed or death.”

“Gotcha.”

A decent single malt, she decided. Talisker, or maybe something sweeter like the Caol Ila she kept for special occasions. These happened so seldom she was in danger of turning her twelve-year-old bottle into an eighteen, and thus taming its smoky Islay character. She checked the wall clock again and accepted harsh reality. It would be at least eight hours before she could kick back and think about something other than the bottom feeders of this world. Meantime, she felt like she was interviewing an extraterrestrial. Trying to decode its language so she could make sense of the life being described.

Adding to her sense of the surreal, was a growing awareness that Zach had much more to offer than a useful clue or two. She could not believe her luck. Something the Law & Order–viewing public didn’t realize was that cases could be solved by happy coincidences almost as much as by sheer investigative slog. Posters on mailboxes really worked, triggering memories and shaking clues from a community. This kid had obviously seen one in his travels. He might never have said anything, only the Fates had been kind. What were the odds of the gregarious Bobby Lee being on the spot and giving this bedraggled youngster a ride?

Eventually they would probably have come up with the information about "Diantha" given the direction the investigation was headed, but Jude decided she was owed a break after all the cases she’d ground her teeth over. Zach was a gift from above and she could only be thankful.

“So…” She pulled the interview back onto the domestic track. “How many in your own family?”

“I have fourteen sisters and ten brothers still living. My father has eight spiritual wives.”

“Your father and Mr. Epperson must be a wealthy men to provide for so many people.”

“God blesses the elect.”

“I see.” Which meant the wives and kids were all collecting welfare and food stamps. This was fast becoming an issue in Cortez, with the recent FLDS arrivals. “Tell me about Darlene’s silencing.”

His face returned to its former waxy pallor. “She had to be purified and her demons cast out. The pain was greatest for the servants of righteousness.”

“Are you saying other people had organs hacked off, too? Or did the er…righteous suffer different agonies?”

Some disconcerted blinks. “It was pain of the spirit. God’s work tests the will.”

“Do you think God ordered that Darlene’s tongue had to go?”

“God speaks through the prophet. He is the one who holds the keys.”

“Yes, I got that.” She wondered whose words he was parroting. “So the prophet ordered someone to cut Darlene’s tongue out?”

He shrugged stiffly. “The rules are known to all.”

“And Darlene disobeyed…”

He nodded. “Women must live in perfect obedience and modesty. They must be pure and delightsome.”

“Clear something up for me, Zach. Who are women supposed to obey?”

“The Heavenly Father. The prophet and the priesthood. Their father and their husband. Their uncles and brothers…”

“Okay, I get the picture.”

“And they must obey the head wife.”

Jude could imagine how that particular tyranny would function. Guys like Epperson ran their own private harems. Women competing for favor and resources would have to take their resentment and anger out on someone. Children and junior wives were the obvious targets.

“So who actually carried out the prophet’s command—who cut out Darlene’s tongue? Can you tell me that?”

He fell silent, his hands gripping the edge of the table so hard his knuckles glowed white.

“Don’t be afraid,” Jude said. “You’re safe here. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

“I will be struck down.”

“Zach, who do you think is more powerful? God or the prophet?”

Tough question. Eventually, he replied, “The prophet is the one mighty and strong. He has the power on earth, and the Heavenly Father has the power in the celestial kingdom.”

“What’s the prophet’s name?” At first, she’d assumed he must be talking about Joseph Smith, the guy who founded Mormonism, then she remembered reading references to a present-day “prophet” in newspaper reports about the new compound being built in Mancos.

With hushed awe, Zach said, “It was Warren Jeffs, but now…I’m not sure. He’s gone and they’re saying Mr. Rockwell is the true prophet.”

“Do you know Mr. Rockwell’s first name?”

“Elias.” He drew a ragged breath and confided, “Even Uncle Warren’s Sons of Helaman have gone across to him.”

“When did Mr. Rockwell take over?”

“I don’t think he’s accepted the keys yet. There are others who say they are the one.”

Which meant this Jeffs individual was still in charge when Darlene was silenced. Jude entered his details into the computer. The narrow, pasty face that popped up on her screen belonged to a guy who could have been labeled a nerd, only he didn’t look smart enough. A high forehead, long nose, and weak chin made his round, startled brown eyes seem too close together. This cartoon-character effect was topped off with a wet rodent mouth and an Adam’s apple too big for the scrawny throat it bobbed beneath. In addition to the good-looks deficit, Warren Jeffs had made the criminal big time; he was on the FBI’s Most Wanted list.

Jude read through the description and cautionary notes and smiled. Life had suddenly gotten a whole lot easier. Arizona had issued a state arrest warrant, because--Newsflash!--Jeffs was wanted for sexual assault on a minor. If she crossed paths with him, she could grab him up on the existing indictment and Colorado could put their case together afterward. There had to be a conspiracy charge in there somewhere. It sounded like no one in the twin towns drew breath without the prophet’s say-so.

“Do you have any idea where Mr. Jeffs is?” she asked, covering the obvious base.

Zach reacted to this casual inquiry with a vehement plea, “I don’t want to talk anymore.”

His wet blue eyes begged for understanding, and Jude could sympathize. The kid genuinely believed the gates of heaven had just swung shut in his face. He was also afraid of the thugs who’d already assaulted him. But she sensed something else at work. Even his rank, unwashed odor could not disguise the smell of terror that oozed from him.

“Zach, what are you so afraid of?” she asked gently. “Please tell me.”

“Those who betray the secrets of the priesthood must atone in blood. Obey the prophet and we are blessed. Disobey, and it’s death.” He broke into exhausted sobs. “You don’t know what they’re like. They’ll find me and give me to the demon.”

Jude got up and found a box of tissues. She took these over to him and put an arm around his frail shoulders. “Calm down, and blow your nose. There’s no such thing as demons.”

He mopped his tears with odd, frantic motions, apologizing and assuring her he would stop crying immediately. Watching him, Jude felt a wave of grief rise from her chest to her throat. She wanted to kill someone—for Zach and all the children like him, the ones who didn’t know the meaning of childhood. She wanted ten minutes alone in a room with Epperson or Jeffs.

Intellectually, she knew that the murderous rage she glimpsed in herself at times like this was very old and could never be given an outlet. But there was a part of her that clung to it, reveling in it, dreaming of the day when she would come face-to-face with the man she’d been hunting for almost twenty years. No way would she exercise judgment and restraint. No way would she deny the primal thirst for revenge and dress it up in modern clothing. Justice was a nice ideal, but her quarry did not deserve the civilized ritual of a trial, the fair-minded deliberations of a jury.

Jude was not going to arrest him, she was going to kill him with her bare hands. She would help him discover the limits of his pain threshold. Something touched her arm and she looked down to find Zach staring at her with an odd yearning expression. She realized her fingers were digging into his bony shoulders, and released him.

“You don’t know what it’s like,” he said.

“No, I don’t.” Jude propped herself against the edge of the desk. “But here’s something to think about. The prophet threw you out. I’d say that means you don’t have to obey his rules anymore. You can’t be bound by the rules of an organization that excommunicated you. They made that decision, not you. Do you understand?”

His face became strangely immobile, as if a spanner had just landed in the works of his brainwashed thought process.

“What will I do?” he murmured eventually. It wasn’t really a question, more a stark expression of his disorientation.

Zach Carter had never learned how to think for himself. Without rules to follow, and lacking critical reasoning skills, he was in a limbo, displaced and vulnerable. Jude wondered if there was a help agency that could work a case like this. If he really was eighteen, he was too old to be a ward of the state, so Social Services would not be able to do a thing. Yet he was clearly unequipped to assimilate into the real world. He would need education, therapy, and a safe environment. Protective custody seemed like a reach. But if she could get a statement naming someone in the assault on Darlene, if not the murder, that would make Zach a key witness. She could easily persuade Pratt that any of the nutjobs implicated would pose a threat.

A plan took shape in her mind. “What say you stay here at the station for a while? You could sleep in there.” She indicated the holding cell. “You’d get all your meals. No one is going to come looking for you at the sheriff’s office, are they?”

He looked astonished. “Can I stay tonight?”

“Absolutely. And for the next week or so while we think about what you’re going to do with your life.” She made the offer irresistible. “We do have a few rules you’ll need to follow.”

He nodded eagerly. Rules were something this kid knew all about.

“There’s yard work and this building wants a coat of paint. So you’ll be working in exchange for your food and shelter.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“We’ll arrange some schooling for you.” Agatha was a retired teacher. If they let her loose on this kid, she would be off their backs over sloppy office habits, a win/win for all concerned.

“I liked school,” he said wistfully. “But I had to work on the ranch so I quit in the seventh grade.”

“Well, you have some catching up to do.” Jude invented a couple more rules, since they seemed to comfort him. “You must eat all the food you are given. And you must always wash your hands after using the bathroom.”

“Do I use the soap? I saw it there, but I wasn’t sure. Back home soap was only for my sister-mothers.”

Whatever happened to cleanliness being next to godliness? “In this station everyone uses soap,” Jude said.

“I can get cleaned off right away, if you show me where the hose is.” Zach jumped to his feet.

“You won’t be needing the hose. Did you see the shower stall in the bathroom?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“You’ll wash in there with warm water. I’ll show you how it works.”

Jude took a slow breath, controlling the anger rising from her gut. She supposed, with thirty or so kids, daily hot showers were not practical for polygamist families. Clearly, Zach had spent his life getting clean by hosing himself down outdoors. She was relieved that he seemed eager to wash. His disgusting body odor had given her a headache.

“After we’re done talking, you can take your first shower,” she told him. “Then I’m going to drive you into town and get you some new clothes. We’ll swing by the doctor, too. I want him to take a look at you.”

Zach’s face was instantly pinched with alarm. “I don’t need any doctor. If I deserve to be healed, God will heal me.”

“Yeah, I had a feeling about that.” Jude glanced toward the window, expecting Tulley’s truck at any moment. She wondered if he would have better luck getting Zach to talk about Darlene’s “silencing.” The kid was fading fast, the aftermath of a square meal hitting bottom. He rested his head on one hand, eyelids drooping.

“You look sleepy,” Jude said. “Want to rest up some before we head out?”

He regarded her gravely and she realized that giving him options only made him nervous. “You can lie down for a while after your shower,” she instructed. “I’ll wake you when it’s time to leave.”

He hovered for a moment. “Thank you for being kind to me, ma’am.”

“Isn’t being kind to others what God wants us to do?”

Again his face stilled in concentration, eyes slightly narrowed. Jude saw something new mingle with his fear and weariness. He looked older suddenly.

“I saw it,” he said. “They made me watch.”

Jude listened. This time he didn’t look away.

“It was Mrs. Epperson. The head wife.”

“She had the knife?”

He nodded. “Mr. Epperson had a revelation. He said she was chosen to be God’s instrument.”

How convenient. “So Mr. Epperson told her what to do?”

“Everyone had to read the scriptures and pray. Then he told us what the Heavenly Father revealed.” He lowered his head and cradled his face with both hands. “Diantha tried to run away—” He broke into hoarse sobs. “And I didn’t help her.”

Chapter Six

“Shit.” Sheriff Pratt closed his office door and sagged into his chair, groaning like he had heartburn.

Accustomed to this reaction from her superior, Jude sat down on one of the padded beige vinyl chairs opposite his desk. “So I figured I’d take Tulley with me,” she said. “He could use the experience.”

A small bead of perspiration ran down the side of the sheriff’s nose. He flicked it away with a finger. “I’m not so sure about this. Can’t we work up another approach?”

What did he have in mind, other than dropping the investigation? Trying not to sound impatient, Jude said, “We’ll keep a low profile.”

Pratt plainly wanted to wring his big, tanned hands. Instead he tortured an empty cigarette packet. “Can’t see how that’s possible, given you two are going to stick out like sheep at a rodeo.”

“Obviously we’ll go see the sheriff first, since we’ll need to be sworn in to his jurisdiction. I don’t know how this is going to play out, exactly. We’ll have arrest powers from Arizona, but Rapture is actually on the Utah side of the border.”

“Well, I’m guessing a warrant might be hard to come by. Don’t waste your time asking the judge—three wives and twenty-something kids.”

“I thought Utah was cleaning up its act. Didn’t they sack the last police chief and half the force?”

“Roundy and his crowd…yep. Decertified. Clear case of the fox guarding the henhouse. One of them served a year…unlawful sex with a minor.”

“So maybe this new sheriff will be looking to make a good impression. He has to have a working relationship with Utah, and their attorney general seems to be ratcheting up the pressure on these polygamists.”

Pratt grunted. “I’ll believe that when I see it. Listen, we’re not looking for trouble. You know what I’m saying.”

“No, sir. Not really.”

Pratt sucked his top lip in and chewed briefly in his moustache. He seemed to be considering his words very carefully. “You have to understand something, Devine. You’re not in D.C. anymore. Out here, we don’t have big-city manpower. We cover a large area and we’re right on the border. All of the above means we need to keep a harmonious relationship happening with the different agencies.”

“I’m hearing you.”

“I’ll spell it out. Utah…they’ve got money. A lot more than the rest of us. And they don’t like bad publicity. They have their own ways of dealing with internal situations like this.”

“It’s not an internal situation. Darlene was a Colorado girl.”

“I’m talking about their religion.”

“But these polygamist sects aren’t mainstream Mormons. The church disassociated itself from them a long time ago.”

“Yeah, well. They sure don’t like the public looking into that particular relationship, and you can see their point. Those crazies in Colorado City are a big embarrassment.”

“Because they’re a snapshot of what the Mormon church used to be before they reinvented themselves?”

“In a nutshell, yes. I gotta tell you, there’s not a whole lot of separation between church and state in Utah.”

“The Iran of the Southwest, huh?”

“Some parts more than others, but you got the general idea.”

“Point taken. So, I guess that means they won’t just hand Epperson over if we ask nicely, so we’re stuck with having to make this happen our own way.”

Pratt muttered something. Jude guessed he could see the hole he’d dug for himself. She waited for him to come up with some delay tactics. Instead he grumbled, “What are we supposed to tell those idiots camped out in front of the town hall? The last thing we need is a pack of embedded reporters tagging along for the ride.”

“We don’t have to tell them anything.”

Last she’d heard, they were more interested in the rumors about Mercy and the British actress than the hunt for Darlene’s killer. Half of them had left Cortez and were now sniffing around the medical examiner’s office in Grand Junction.

“I want you back here in three days,” Pratt said.

“So, I have your approval to make an arrest if the evidence is there, sir?”

“Let’s not pretend you need my approval for anything you do, Devine.” Pratt lowered his voice to a harried murmur. “Any idea when you’ll be out of here? I mean, in regards to your real…mission?”

“I wish I could discuss that. I truly do.”

“If it’s a nuclear situation, I don’t want to be the last to know. Is that too much to ask?”

Jude guessed he’d tried to make that sound like dry humor, but fell short of the mark. “I promise you, sir. If I ever think there’s a reason to evacuate this area, I’ll tell you. Protocol or not.”

At this reassurance, he went pale. “So you’re saying there is something going down?”

Damned if you do and damned if you don’t. Jude sighed. “Not that I’m aware of at this time.”

“Nothing would surprise me. We got ourselves some real nuts out here.”

“We surely do. And on that subject, what can you tell me about those Utah folks who bought the ranch outside of Mancos?”

“Lot of money and a lot of womenfolk. You know my position—if they don’t ask for trouble, they won’t get any.”

“They weren’t too cooperative when we called around there last week.” They’d interviewed all the Huntsbergers’ neighbors, in fact, most of Mancos, asking if anyone remembered seeing a white minivan hanging around before Darlene disappeared. The new residents hadn’t been living there at the time but had reacted to the routine questions with extreme paranoia.

“Yeah, I heard,” Pratt said. “The boys thought they must have stumbled onto a methamphetamine lab.”

“Is there anything we can hold over them so they’ll quit with the sons of perdition crap and answer some questions?”

Pratt took time out from mangling his cigarette pack. “They’ve applied for a building permit. Paid the urgent processing fee.”

“I wonder if they made all the necessary disclosures.”

“Insufficient information…yeah, that’s a problem.” Pratt ran with the ball. “Can’t get approval if you’re not telling the whole truth. They wouldn’t let the assessor into any of the existing buildings, so what’s the guy supposed to think?”

“You can bet they’re exceeding occupancy levels,” Jude said. “Maybe approval has to be delayed while additional evidence of purpose is gathered.”

“I’m guessing they won’t be holding a parade once they hear the news. Better free up a couple of deputies to accompany the building inspector, just in case.”

“Wise idea. That’s the kind of situation that can get heated.”

“You bet. So, what do you want from them?”

“Everything they can tell us about Nathaniel Epperson and this power struggle that seems to be going on in the FLDS.”

“Which stands for what?”

“Fundamentalist Church of the Latter Day Saints. That’s the biggest of the polygamist factions that broke away from the Mormon church.”

“Beats me how they manage,” Pratt marveled. “It’s all I can do to make one wife happy.”

“I seriously doubt any of these men give a crap about their wives’ happiness,” Jude said. “This is just white slavery by another name.”

Pratt seemed lost in thought. “Darned if I know what we can do about that kid you brought in,” he said eventually. “We get them drifting through here, panhandling and sniffing substances. Stealing goddamn cars from the Ute, who, by the way, get called Lammanites by our friends in Utah. Whatever that means. Anyway, half of them don’t have birth certificates or social security numbers. No one knows what to do with them.”

“Well, Zach’s a key witness.”

“Not to the murder.”

“If we get this to trial, he’ll testify to the mutilation.”

“What are you proposing?”

“Protective custody without the paperwork.”

“Keep talking.”

“I don’t want his family to know we have him. Tulley has volunteered to accommodate him for a while, and I’m going to see about getting his education started again.”

“I thought you were taking Deputy Tulley to Utah with you.”

“Agatha will keep an eye on Zach while we’re away.”

“You don’t think he’ll get skittish?”

“I think he’ll stay where the food is.” Jude took a few sheets of paper from her satchel and slid them across the desk to Pratt. “This is his medical report. Not for the faint-hearted.”

Pratt skimmed the top couple of pages then slid his chair back to peer through the Venetian blinds to the outer office, where Zach was devouring a pizza. “God damn. Is this for real?”

“Which part? The tapeworm? The old fractures…the starvation…the scars on his back? The semi-castration…”

He faced her again and this time the pained resignation was gone and a grim anger had replaced it. “These people are vermin and we’re going to put some of them behind bars. I don’t know how the heck we’re going to get them extradited, but we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

Jude shared his pessimism. While Zach was sleeping that morning, she’d done some homework and learned that, with a few high-profile exceptions like Tom Green, polygamists were seldom brought to trial in Utah. The state seemed to be run by a small number of genealogically connected men who publicly distanced themselves from the fundamentalists but allowed them to operate unchallenged. In recent times, the new attorney general had signaled an end to Utah’s indifference and had frozen the assets of the FLDS sect. But there hadn’t been the flood of arrests antipolygamy activists were hoping for. If justice was to be done, Epperson and his wife would have to be convicted in Colorado.

“All we need to prove is that they kidnapped Darlene and took her across state lines. Then we can involve the feds,” she said.

“Any idea where she was murdered?”

“We don’t have a crime scene, as yet. If we can get the Eppersons in for questioning based on Zach’s statement about the assault, maybe one of them will make a slipup.”

Pratt made a sound halfway between a laugh and an asthma attack. “You think the Rapture sheriff is going to let you run that interview in his office?”

“I guess I’ll just have to persuade him. They want to keep the polygamy stuff out of the newspapers. That’s a lever we can use.”

“Good luck with that.” Pratt glanced down at the medical report again. “Utah’s not going to like this. Not one little bit.”

“I’m up for it. Are you?”

Pratt sighed. “We already let that family down once. We’re not doing it a second time.” He pushed his chair back and stood up. “When I look Clem Huntsberger in the eye I want to be able to tell him we did everything we could.”

Jude got to her feet, mildly surprised by his determination. She hadn’t been sure if Pratt would have the balls to ride shotgun on this case. He’d been distinctly uneasy when she first briefed him on Zach a few days earlier, insisting that they didn’t have a smoking gun and just because it sounded like Diantha was Darlene, they had no proof. Jude had half expected she would have to sidestep him and take what she had straight to the FBI field office in Denver. It was good to discover he had a spine, after all.

“I’ll keep you posted,” she said. “Thank you, sir.”

He shot her warning look. “Be careful. People like them think they’re above the laws of man. They think they’ve got God on hold. That’s according to my wife.”

“Well, God isn’t going to help them this time.”

If some bunch of child-abusing, dog-massacring wackjobs thought they could hide behind religion to justify their crimes, Jude had news for them.

Chapter Seven

The morning began with a dream, the kind that hovers just out of memory’s reach. The moment Jude awoke, she knew it was about Ben, and almost as soon as she’d acknowledged that, the shutters of her mind closed, leaving her straining to recall what she had glimpsed.

Sometimes, in the days after these dreams, tiny fragments would flutter across her thoughts. She was always quick to trap these in the net of her consciousness, adding them to the disjointed mosaic that never quite became a clear picture. In her idle moments, she would arrange and rearrange every piece of the puzzle, searching for a secret code that would unlock their meaning. She had done the same with the facts of the case a thousand times over.

Ben had vanished three weeks after he turned twelve. Her memories of him were filed as neatly as entries in a Webster’s dictionary, a consequence of her frequent recourse to them. Their reliable sequence comforted her. The memory of wheeling him in his stroller when she could not reach the handles, of climbing into his cot with him. They had been natural allies, separated from their older siblings by five years—an eternity, it seemed back then.

Ben was born in 1970, the year Nixon sent troops into Vietnam and National Guardsmen fired into a crowd of protestors at Kent State. According to the Fifth Dimension it was the dawning of the Age of Aquarius. Jude’s dad always said they were “crazy times” and talked about “damn hippies.” Her mom sounded wistful when she mentioned those days, which was seldom. She couldn’t talk about Ben for more than a minute or two before taking refuge in chatter about something she just saw on the television .

Jude remembered his hair, fine white fluff that smelled of baby soap. She remembered being told off for biting his toes. She remembered taking him to school on his first day, teaching him to ride a bike, going to his Boy Scout events. Together, they had built the tree house they escaped to when their parents were fighting. They had not had time to become enemies. She had never had to put up with a pain-in-the-butt younger brother who humiliated her in front of cool friends. Ben always seemed a little younger than his age, as boys often did before the testosterone kicked in. He was gone before his Adam’s apple appeared.

Jude got out of bed, telling herself not to go there. What was the point in shuffling the same hand of cards over and over? She could change nothing. The facts were the facts. He had vanished. The case was still open. Her single-minded quest to solve it had led her to law enforcement, a degree in criminology, the FBI. She often wondered if she would have made those choices had things been different.

Before Ben disappeared, they had talked about going to school together one day, training to be pilots, having their own plane so any time they wanted they could fly away to some glamorous destination. The pyramids. The Amazon. The Australian outback. Jude still had the dress-up pilot uniforms their mother had made for them. She had never worn hers again after the day that changed everything. It was folded away, along with her childhood. From that moment on, her compass had been fixed on a different pole. On each anniversary of his disappearance, she told her mother the same thing—that she would find him if it was the last thing she ever did. Lately, the promise sounded hollow.

Jude hung over the basin in her bathroom and scrubbed her teeth. There had been times when she’d thought she was close to a breakthrough. But nothing had ever panned out. Ben’s trail was stone cold. She knew she should find some way to let go. That was part of the reason she had left the Crimes Against Children unit and moved into intelligence work, part of the reason she had relocated. She was thirty-six. It was time she came to terms with what had happened and moved on with her life like a rational person. Her older sister and brother had done so long ago. Even her parents seemed to have let go now. Selling the house had been a big step for them.

Jude had thought about buying it, if only for the tree house, but her mom had kicked up a fuss and in the end, Jude had accepted they all needed to let the place go. Her parents had held on to it for almost twenty years, frightened to leave in case Ben came home one day and they weren’t there. Jude supposed they’d finally accepted that the day they’d prayed for was never going to happen—that Ben was dead. She should accept it too, and she’d tried, but hope had a complex root system. No matter how determinedly she hacked away at it, it refused to die. Without a grave to visit, she could not say good-bye and believe it.

She showered, dried, and wandered across the oak floorboards, her damp feet making satiny prints on the polished surface. She stared out the bedroom window for a few minutes, numbly seeking consolation in the view. The FBI had found a house for her a few miles out of Montrose. It was originally someone’s rustic mountain retreat, built before the area was infested with trend-hounds buying up accommodation in what realtors loved to call “the Switzerland of America.” Because of its age, it lacked the pretensions of many newer homes in the area. No hot tub, no marble bathrooms, no cobblestone fireplaces or theater room, or multilevel lofts.

Jude enjoyed its woody simplicity and the inescapable views of the Uncompahgre Plateau, and after ten years in an apartment building in Adams Morgan, she loved the privacy. The house was set back from the road on a few acres of sparse forest. Jude still couldn’t get used to living in a place where you checked for bears and mountain lions before working in the yard.

She moved away from the window and took some underwear from the top drawer of her Welsh chest, making a point of ignoring the picture she kept there—an artist’s rendition of how Ben might look as an adult. There was no need to refresh her memory. She automatically compared every male face she saw, searching for a match.

After she’d dressed, she made coffee and stared at her phone. Mercy had finally returned her last call. Jude replayed the message.

“It’s Mercy.” The voice was tight. “Next week is kind of difficult. My father is having a rough time. But dinner some time sounds like a good idea. I’ll call you.”

Discreet? Lukewarm? I’ll call you. Did that mean: don’t call me? Jude wanted to be a human being and phone back to say she was sorry about her father, and offer help, as people did. Mercy had no one; that’s what she’d said. Yet the tone of her voice seemed discouraging. Jude listened one more time, trying to picture the facial expression that would have accompanied the words. She didn’t know Mercy well enough to guess. The only boxes she could tick with any certainty were: professional, flirtatious, and orgasmic.

Still, only a self-centered jerk would not call a woman she’d slept with whose father was dying. Preparing herself for a frosty reception, she dialed Mercy’s cell phone. To her astonishment, a woman answered in a British accent.

“Hello. Dr Westmoreland’s phone.” The voice was husky from sleep, or who knew what else.

Jude checked her wristwatch and collected her wits. A sexy-sounding foreign stranger was answering Mercy’s phone at 6:30 a.m. It had to be the actress.

She rolled out her serious cop voice. “This is Detective Devine, Montezuma County Sheriff’s Office. Is Dr. Westmoreland available?”

“I’m sorry, she can’t take your call right now. Would you care to leave a message?”

Jude vacillated, wondering if she should make up some work related bullshit, or say something more meaningful. “I work with the doctor and I heard about her father,” she said, hoping to hit a note of polite but impersonal sympathy. “I was calling to let her know she’s in all of our thoughts at this difficult time.”

Mercy was smart enough to interpret that.

“Thank you, Detective. Let me make a note of your name. Devine, was it?”

Jude refrained from replying: Elspeth Harwood, was it? Coolly, she replied, “Yes, that’s right.”

“Thank you for calling. I know Mercy will appreciate it.”

Jude wasn’t so sure about that. She said good-bye and hung up. Ex-flings didn’t fly into town from England when your father was dying. Mercy wouldn’t risk her cover being blown by the tenacious media if this woman was not important to her. Whatever was going on between Mercy and the Brit, it was not past history. She sipped her coffee and tried to figure out if she was angry, disappointed, or jealous. Mercy wasn’t the first woman to lie about being single so she could score, if lying was what she had done. Maybe she and Elspeth had an open relationship, or one of those on-again-off-again situations.

Jude decided it was none of her business. It wasn’t like Mercy had suggested their encounter would be repeated, quite the opposite. Neither did Jude nurture any romantic illusions about the two of them. Far from it. Sure, she’d have sex with Mercy again in a minute. But that’s all it was. Sex. These days, that’s all it ever was, and probably a good thing too. She wasn’t looking for love. Who needed the drama?

Aggravated with herself for letting the phone call get under her skin, she focused her mind on work. In a few hours’ time, she and Tulley would fly into Las Vegas, then drive up to Colorado City and Hildale, the twin border towns otherwise known as Polygamy Central, USA. A few miles east lay Rapture, a satellite town where some of the FLDS elite had ranches, Nathaniel Epperson and his tongue-slasher wife among them.

Jude threw some clothes into an overnight case and phoned Tulley. “You ready?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“How’s Zach?”

“Pigging out.”

Jude could swear the kid had put on ten pounds in the days since he’d arrived. “Is he okay about the arrangements?”

“I told him he has to mind Smoke’m. He’s keen. He had a dog back home that died.”

“Yes.” Jude hadn’t mentioned the dog massacre to Tulley. They didn’t have time for him to get on the phone to his ma right now.

“I was thinking, he should stay at my place,” Tulley said. “He reckons he’ll be okay by himself, and Agatha says she don’t mind picking him up on the way to work and bringing him home later.”

“Fine by me. He’ll probably feel safer up there too.”

“Yeah, he’s petrified these Sons of Whatever are going to come after him. The same ones that beat on him and ran him out of town. He says they’ve killed kids before.”

“He’s witnessed actual killings?”

“Not exactly. It’s just stuff he’s heard.”

“Go on.”

“He says it’s mostly kids like him that aren’t welcome in the town after they get excommunicated. If they keep hanging around, they end up dead. He says they make it look like an accident and say the kid got run over by a car. Or sometimes they just take kids out into the desert and shoot them and bury them out there.

“Ask him for names. We can see if the sheriff knows anything about it, once we get out there. It’s weird,” she mused. “They’re so sexist, you’d think they’d value boys more than girls.”

“Here’s what I think.” Tulley’s voice had a rare gravelly intensity, like this was something that kept him awake in the small hours. “The old guys who run this outfit want a whole bunch of wives, but there’s only so many women to go round. So they get rid of the extra males out of their church and make them leave town. It’s like the cuckoo bird. You know…throwing the others out of its nest.”

“Eliminating younger, better-looking competition,” Jude completed the train of thought. “Yes, that makes sense.”

She called to mind Warren Jeffs’ yokel face. Fiftysomething with prominent front teeth and a bug-eyed stare, he sure looked like he’d washed up at the shallow end of the gene pool. Out in the real world, he’d be lucky to get a date, let alone convince seventy women to join his personal harem.

Tulley was on the same page. “That Jeffs dude—if he wasn’t running that cult, he’d be flipping burgers and taking shit from waitresses.”

“Instead he gets to hole up in the religious version of the Playboy mansion,” Jude added. All that and tax-free status because his little empire was a “church.” Clearly, she was in the wrong business.

“Are we going after him?” her sidekick asked.

Jeffs was on the radar but not as part of the initial plan. Yet Jude could almost feel her trigger finger itching. The thought made her smile. Being out West had rubbed off. She could hear Tulley breathing and sense his hopeful anticipation.

“Much as I’d like to nail his scrawny ass to the wall, Epperson is our priority,” she answered. “If we can get him, I have a feeling we’ll get all of them.”

*

Adeline spat cotton fibers from her mouth and worked a hole in the arm edge of her bra until she could push the underwire through. For once, she was thankful that Aunt Chastity had insisted on buying her old-fashioned bras with cups instead of the sports type she saw at the department store. She hadn’t complained, she was so grateful not to have to wear scratchy full length undergarments anymore.

Of course, her parents had put an end to that devil’s work as soon as they’d gotten her home. Out came the stupid ugly chemise and knee-length underpants, and all they could talk about was how she would no longer feel the burning in her bosom if she didn’t wear modest attire and how she had to remember every man was a snake and she must not allow one near her. Like that would be a problem.

She pulled the underwire from the bra and bent the sturdy half moon of metal to form a hook. Then she removed the long ribbon threaded through her hair and tied it to the hook.

“You have to watch and tell me if I’m close to the hole in that bolt,” she called to Daniel.

Weakly, he lifted his head and pushed some matted brown hair out of his eyes. “Okay, go.” He shuffled around in his cage to get the best view.

Adeline slid her arm out of the cage, stretched as far as she could and probed around with the tip of her wire hook. “We’re getting out of here,” she said loudly and positively, trying to bolster Daniel’s confidence, and her own.

“I don’t think I can walk,” he said.

“You can too. We’re going to Salt Lake City. My Aunt Chastity is a real good woman. She’ll take care of us.”

“Up just a bit more and thataways.” Daniel pointed.

Grunting and sweating, Adeline pushed up until she felt the hook connect with something solid.

“Down some.” Daniel was excited suddenly, both hands gesticulating.

Adeline lowered her arm a fraction and felt the tip of the wire slide into a hole. She strained to feed the hook in, grazing her arm against the cage.

“It’s through!” Daniel’s voice shook.

Adeline fed her ribbon up, praying it wouldn’t catch on anything, jiggling a little so the weight of the hook would carry it down. When the pink painted tip came into view below the tin strip she almost screamed. Fingers trembling, she grabbed it and tied the other end of the ribbon to it, making a pull cord.

“Please God, don’t let this break,” she begged and dragged down with both hands.

The bolt put up surprisingly little resistance. Adeline thought her heart was going to burst from her chest as she gave a final tug and the cage door swung ajar. Telling herself not to do anything dumb, she called to mind the plan she’d spent all last night thinking about. Leave the pull cord, so that bitch Naoma can see Summer didn’t let them out. Get water. Wait until the Sunday morning gong sounds and when everyone is in prayer and scripture reading, get out and walk fast. They planned to take a route no one would expect, away from the road and northeast into the desert.

Daniel’s hiding place was about six miles away on the slopes of Seeds of Cain Mountain. They could stay there until the searchers gave up, then they could walk in the mornings and at nights until they made it to a road. If they could get far enough away from Rapture and the twin towns, they would see cars with people wearing normal clothes. They could flag one down and hitch a ride to Salt Lake City.

Adeline was so excited she could hardly breathe. Shivering, she used the wire to etch an inscription into the earth in front of her cage. It was a saying Aunt Chastity had on the wall of her parlor. Ubi dibium ibi libertas.

“What’s that?” Daniel asked as she unbolted his cage and helped him out.

“It’s Latin. That was the language the Romans used to speak when Jesus was on earth.”

“Before he came to America?”

“Jesus never came to America. That’s a Mog fairy tale.” Adeline giggled just hearing herself say that. It felt really good to call Mormon “Mog” here, of all places.

Daniel was staring at her like she’d just asked Satan to take her to the prom. He said, “Shh,” and looked down at the inscription. “What does it mean?”

“Where there is doubt, there is freedom,” Adeline quoted.

He looked puzzled, but they didn’t have time for her to explain the concept of using your common sense instead of being hooked into Mog-think. She pulled off her long knit underpants and thrust them at him, too serious to laugh at the expression of horror on his face.

“You’re going to get eggs while I get water. Tie them up in this. Not too tight or they’ll break.”

Juggling the pants like they were hot from the fires of hell, Daniel hobbled to the barn door with her and they peered through the cracks to the back entrance of the hen house where a bucket and several large plastic bottles stood beneath an outdoor faucet. On Sundays, no one usually gathered eggs until after prayers.

“I’m scared,” Daniel said.

Adeline gave his hand a brief, hard squeeze then pushed the door open just enough to get through. “Let’s go,” she said, and they hurried across the dusty earth.

While he was in the hen house, Adeline filled the big bottles, terrified that someone would hear the soft hiss of the hose and the wet rattle of water against plastic. Just as she screwed on a cap on the third, Daniel emerged with the pants full of eggs. He was wearing the first smile Adeline had seen on his face in the two days she’d been locked in the cage. They scuttled back to the barn and closed the door once more, both breathing loudly. While they waited for the prayer gong to sound, they rigged up a carry bag for the water bottles, tying together the edges of an old towel they found among the rags Daniel had been sleeping on.

Daniel hoisted the pack over one shoulder and said, “I’m real hungry.”

“We can’t do anything about that now.” Adeline’s mind ran ahead. “Soon as we get clear of this place, we’ll have ourselves an egg.” She had no idea how they were going to cook it, but she figured they could suck it down raw if they had to. She’d seen Fear Factor on Aunt Chastity’s television—or, as her parents called it, that tool of Lucifer.

At the dull clang of the gong, Daniel gripped her arm. She could feel him shaking. For some reason his fear made her feel stronger and braver.

“We’re going to count to a hundred,” she told him. “Then you’re heading for that place you told me about, and I’ll catch up with you.”

He turned fearful eyes on her. “Where are you going?”

“To the laundry.” She handed the eggs to him.

As he began to ask questions, she hushed him and started counting. She had everything planned. All they needed now was a miracle.

Chapter Eight

“Wouldn’t want a breakdown out here,” Tulley said as they drove out of a one-horse town called Fredonia.

“Understatement,” Jude agreed from the passenger seat.

The landscape was a desiccated deep vermilion, its extreme isolation unnerving. Living in canyon country for a year should have prepared her for a place like this, Jude thought, but the Uinkaret Plateau was in a league of its own. A parched strip of badlands straddling the Arizona/Utah border, it was barely inhabitable. You could drive off the road out here and die of exposure before anyone but the local buzzards noticed your overturned vehicle. They’d passed a solitary truck as they left the town and had had the two lane highway to themselves ever since.

“We’re about thirty miles from Hurricane,” she said, refolding the map.

Tulley glanced at the clock on the dash, doubtless calculating how much longer they would be navigating terrain where human life did not belong. “Guess we’ll start running into some traffic soon,” he predicted hopefully.

Jude had her doubts. This was the only highway to the promised land. If there was any traffic in and out of Colorado City and Hildale, they were looking at it. She said, “We’ll be there before you know it.”

Tulley seemed to make a conscious effort not to dwell on their blighted surroundings. “My ma says folks should mind their own business about people that don’t believe the same as them.”

“I can see where she’s coming from.”

“In this country anyone has the right to be a heathen, that’s what she says.”

“Your dad still around?” Jude asked.

“No, ma’am. He was killed by a drunk driver when I was a kid. I don’t remember him real well.”

“I’m sorry.”

“How ’bout your folks?”

“They live in Mexico now.”

“You got brothers and sisters?”

“One of each.” Jude tripped slightly over the half-truth. She usually avoided mentioning Ben, but it seemed wrong to deny him to Tulley. “I had another brother, but we lost him quite a few years back.”

“I’m real sorry to hear that. Were you close?”

“Yes.”

They lapsed into silence. A golden eagle swooped into view, plummeting toward the harsh earth at breathtaking speed. Tulley braked and pulled over to the side of the road, and they watched as the beautiful predator spread its huge wings and extended its feet. It barely struck the ground before rising again with a snake squirming in its talons.

“Raptors are bird royalty,” Tulley murmured breathlessly.

His solemn awe made Jude smile. She could almost hear Ben. He had been eternally fascinated by wildlife. “I have a soft spot for owls,” she said.

“Yes, ma’am. That’s a heck of a bird.” Tulley steered their rental Toyota back onto the highway. “Very mysterious.”

“Explains why I find them interesting.” It was the same with women. She only got stuck on the ones she would never figure out. No wonder she couldn’t make a relationship work. Her mind leapt to Mercy but she immediately redirected her thoughts into less complicated territory, asking Tulley, “By the way, how’s it going with Alyssa?”

“She says I should talk to her dad.”

“About?”

“The future.”

“I see.”

“She’s a nice girl.”

Jude had said exactly the same thing to herself more than once in the course of her own blighted love life, like somehow you weren’t allowed to take a pass on a nice girl in case you never found another one. She had ended up in two really lousy relationships with nice girls because she’d felt so guilty about hurting their feelings that she didn’t back out when she should have. They’d ended up hurt anyway, and one of them had cheated on her because of it. Jude had concluded long ago that she was better off with women who were, to put it bluntly, not so nice. They knew how to take care of themselves.

Wondering how she could give Tulley good advice without referring to her own experiences with women, she asked, “Are you looking for a girl to settle down with right now?”

“I don’t think I’m ready for that.” He lowered his window and spat his gum. Hot air rushed into the car.

“Then you need to find someone who feels the same way. It would be wrong if you let Alyssa think you’re ready for commitment when that’s not true.”

“I tried to tell her. But she says males are slow in that department and everything changes when you have kids.”

“Yeah, no kidding. The divorce statistics make that point loud and clear.”

“I never thought about it like that.” He seemed heartened. “Two of my brothers got divorced when they had little kids. Ma was real mad.”

“The kindest thing you can do is let Alyssa know there’s no chance you’re going to get married any time soon. That way she’s free to find another guy who wants the same thing she wants. Otherwise you’re leading her on.”

“I see what you mean. That would be wrong.”

“Very wrong.”

Jude continued to puzzle over Tulley’s attitude. Most twenty-five-year-old males were not choosy about how they got laid and with whom. Weren’t his hormones talking to him at all? She studied him covertly. By any standards the deputy was handsome, even more so since he’d been working on his muscles. In a town like Cortez, he could probably date anyone. Jude had seen the way cops’ wives looked him up and down. Maybe that explained the cool attitude of his colleagues.

A pair of dark amber eyes met hers and registered faint surprise. Tulley’s long eyelashes descended, and for a moment he could have passed for a disconcerted girl. Jude groaned inwardly. He had completely misinterpreted her stare.

To address any faulty assumptions right off the bat, she said, “I was just wondering what type of woman you’re attracted to, Tulley.”

His unease was transparent. “I don’t rightly know.”

“Are you attracted to me?”

“I…well, I like you.” The driving got erratic as he tried to let her down gently. “I can see that you’re a very intelligent person and I respect you as a fellow peace officer and all. You’re the kind of detective—”

“That’s a no, then?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He wiped his palms on his pants one at a time. “Zero attraction.”

“Good,” Jude said cheerfully. “I’m not attracted to you, either. You’re not my type.”

Tulley was visibly relieved. “I knew it. A woman like you would never want to date me.”

“What makes you say that?” Had Tulley finally figured out she batted for the other team? “The age difference?”

He laughed. “Heck no. The brain difference. You’d get real impatient being with someone who only had an average-type mental capacity.”

“Oh, please.”

“Just telling it like I see it.”

“So, if I stumble on a rocket scientist, I’d better watch out?”

“Not much chance of that in the Four Corners.”

“Between you and me, I can live without the excitement.” Jude toyed with the radio, trying to find a channel that wasn’t a sea of static. Tulley was dead right, of course. The women who made her heart beat faster were those brainy, tastefully slutty types who should carry a surgeon general’s warning: Will likely cause damage to your heart and won’t give a crap about it.

“I’m going to take your advice,” Tulley announced as they lucked onto a Johnny Cash song. “Soon as we get back, I’ll tell her.”

“Good plan,” Jude said, and they both sang glumly along to the corroded baritone of the Man in Black.

“Think if we solve this case there might be a promotion in it?” Tulley asked when the music changed.

Apparently this was Suicide Radio—Leonard Cohen was next up. Jude turned down the dolorous emoting. “Nothing to stop you applying for one even if we don’t make a case.”

“There’s guys with more seniority. But a conviction on this one would look real good.”

“We don’t have a whole lot to go on. I wish there was a goddamned crime scene.”

“I wish we could tie that suiter to the guy.”

“No kidding.” Jude resumed surfing the airwaves for something other than Bible-thumping talk show hosts and wrist-slashing hits of yesteryear. Were they that far from civilization?

Tulley mused, “It’s weird about the social security card.”

Not for the first time it struck Jude that there was something distinctly domestic about that particular act. It seemed like the kind of thing a woman might do. Maybe it wasn’t the killer who was Mr. Neat and Tidy. Maybe he had a female accomplice. Or maybe she wasn’t an accomplice, but was actually the killer. Zipping the body into a bag and tucking the victim’s social security card into the ID pocket seemed somehow more plausible as the actions of a woman.

According to Zach, Mrs. Epperson had cut Darlene’s tongue out about five months ago. Had she also murdered her and disposed of the body? Would she have killed one of her husband’s other wives, acting on her own account? Could it be a crime of passion, one wife jealous of another? Jude had her doubts. It seemed pretty obvious from her research that these polygamist women didn’t do a whole lot of thinking for themselves. She could not imagine one of them committing a murder without her husband’s say so. More likely she’d followed orders. That was the way things worked in polygamy-land. Al Qaeda didn’t have the worldwide monopoly on pumping out brainwashed devotees.

She thought about the Lafferty case, one of those she’d studied before setting off for Utah. Two polygamists had brutally murdered the wife and baby daughter of their youngest brother. Her crime had been to help one of their wives leave her battering husband. Naturally the culprits evaded personal responsibility for their actions by claiming God had commanded them to carry out the crime. Did they truly believe that?

Having worked in child protection, Jude had no illusions about self-deceit. Molesters usually espoused self-serving beliefs that enabled them to get about their lives free of guilt. They blamed their victims and clung to psycho-babble theories about children as sexual beings. They denied the reality of their victims’ pain because it contradicted the belief system that supported their behavior.

It struck Jude that in many ways religious extremists had a similar mindset. They, too, seemed strangely narcissistic and determinedly blind to any fact that could undermine their beliefs. They, too, avoided taking responsibility for their behavior by assigning it to forces over which they had no control.

Was it any wonder that child sexual abuse was widespread in their community? Their lifestyle created the ideal environment for it. Children were brainwashed from birth to obey adults without question, and women were subservient baby-making machines who were not even supposed to laugh. From what Jude had read, they never saw a television or read a newspaper and most had virtually no education. Added to the mix was a fundamentalist version of Mormonism that held that all men were gods in the making and their prophet’s declarations, however banal and self-serving, came direct from the Almighty.

A cult like the FLDS would be a magnet not just for men who wanted multiple wives, but also for would-be child molesters. Talk about hog heaven. Just thinking about it got her so aggravated her skin felt scratchy. What kind of idiot system allowed a bunch of men to get away with crimes any ordinary person would be serving jail time for, all because they called themselves a church and blamed their conduct on God? What was the difference between them and some creep who said “voices” made him do it? Worse still, these fundamentalist wackos received millions of dollars in handouts from the government they despised. It was just plain crazy.

Burning to arrest someone, Jude stared out the window at a tobacco tinted cloud haze looming ahead. A highway sign announced Colorado City & Hildale. The indistinguishable twin towns were sandwiched in a valley between the vast chasm of the Grand Canyon to the south and the towering cliffs of Utah to the north. A barren plateau stretched out on either side, etched starkly against a lapis sky. It was a remarkable backdrop for one of the ugliest towns Jude had ever seen.

Colorado City was a scab on the raw majesty of its surroundings. The place reeked of cow shit, decay, and the acrid smell of chemical smoke. Roaming cattle wandered between abandoned cars and piles of junk, trash blew along unpaved streets, and a grim, heavily polluted stream drifted torpidly through the center. The town had originally been named after this sorry tributary—Short Creek—and it had a sordid history.

For more than a century, the Arizona Strip had sheltered hard-line polygamists, whose numbers swelled when the mainstream Mormon church buckled to government pressure and disavowed plural wives in 1890, claiming God had revealed celestial marriage could no longer be practiced on earth. Although this about-face ensured statehood for the besieged territory of Utah, it contradicted previous doctrine that enshrined polygamy as a “Sacred Principle.” The fundamentalists weren’t buying the new revelation, which they saw as convenient flip-flop and an attempt to mainstream the church. They also wanted the right to keep on marrying their wives’ twelve-year-old sisters. So, they abandoned Salt Lake City and retreated by the hundreds to the boonies where they thought they would be left alone.

For a time they were. Then, in the 1950s, Arizona got fed up with the welfare burden of the isolated community, and cattlemen weren’t happy that their grazing fees were being used to pay for polygamist schools. Expecting to receive public acclamation for taking a stand against child brides and welfare scams, the then governor of Arizona, Howard Pyle, ordered a massive police raid. This appeared in the state budget under “grasshopper control.”

The outcome was a public relations disaster. Howls of outrage greeted front-page pictures of weeping children torn from their mothers’ arms, and the Arizona authorities found themselves accused of religious persecution. Eventually all the arrested polygamists were reunited with their families and thanks to the backlash, the state turned a blind eye to the community for the next fifty years. There were now some forty thousand of them, twelve thousand living in Colorado City and Hildale.

“I was thinking about those bite marks,” Tulley said as he slowed the car to a crawl.

Jude had to think twice before she made the mental leap back to the Huntsberger autopsy. “Did you pack that model?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He stopped the car, reached behind her seat, and produced a plastic bag containing a set of mock teeth the forensic dentist had worked up for them. “You wouldn’t forget if you saw teeth like these when someone smiled.”

“That’s what I’m hoping.”

Zach had assured them old man Epperson wasn’t the proud owner of the exotic fangs. The kid had never seen teeth like them, in fact. Jude couldn’t imagine a woman inflicting those bites, so even if Mrs. Epperson had murdered Darlene someone else had to be involved, someone who needed serious dental work. If it wasn’t her husband, it had to be a relative. Women in her situation didn’t come into contact with the public, so it wasn’t like she could rustle up some lowlife to help her out.

There was also the matter of the body dump. Would a woman be capable of lifting a heavily pregnant woman in and out of a vehicle alone? Highly unlikely, Jude decided. If Mrs. Epperson had managed to slit Darlene’s throat, she had not disposed of the body without help.

“We going direct to Rapture?” Tulley asked.

“Yep. Sounds like the new Mohave County transplants are the only cops ’round here that missed joining the prophet’s fan club.”

She stared out the window at a mountain of junk piled on an empty lot and got irritated thinking about the contents of Darlene’s stomach again. So far, not a word from Mercy, and Jude had been procrastinating over the follow-up call she needed to make. How long did it take some lab technician to glue a few bits of paper together and look at them under a microscope? Jude located her cell phone and dialed the medical examiner’s office while Tulley studied a map of Colorado City. A secretary answered the phone and put Jude through to Mercy, who sounded surprised to hear from her.

Jude said, “Dr. Westmoreland. Thanks for taking my call.”

Mercy replied, “Are you in Utah already?”

“Yes, that’s why I’m calling.”

“Ah…the paper shreds from your legless victim. Didn’t one of my staff speak to you about that?”

Mercy had left the chore of phoning her to an underling. Terrific.

“No,” Jude said coldly.

“Would you hold a minute, Detective.” Paper rustled and Jude heard muffled voices. Then Mercy said, “Yes, we have something for you.”

“Bring it on.”

Unexpectedly, Mercy laughed and her tone oozed desire all of a sudden. “I wish.”

Jude figured whoever had been there with her must have left the room, and apparently Mercy thought it was okay to flirt even though her Brit pal was keeping her bed warm at home. Bothered by the images that leapt to mind, Jude said, “And?”

“We sent the materials to the QDU and they came back to us with a ten-digit number. Got a pen?”

Jude jotted down the number Mercy read, at the same time feeling embarrassed that she’d expected a level of amateurism from the small M.E.’s office. Mercy had sent the paper scraps to the FBI crime lab and the experts in the Questioned Documents Unit had come up with the goods.

“It could be a phone number,” Mercy said.

“I guess she ate it to prevent it being found.”

“Or someone tore it up and forced it down her throat. Can’t have been easy swallowing little shreds of paper without a tongue.”

“And you’re absolutely sure the tongue was cut out, not torn in an accident or something?”

“Yes. Did you turn up anything in the hospital records?”

“Not so far. We’re on it.” Jude transferred the digits into her laptop.

Mercy’s tone switched from crisp to sultry. “How long will you be away?”

“Two days.”

“Maybe we could get together when you come back.”

Jude wanted to sound chilly on that idea, but her breathing betrayed her and her voice came out husky. “Don’t you have company?”

“Ah. Elspeth said you’d called.”

“Yes.”

“Thanks for that, by the way. It was decent of you.” She said it like maybe that was out of character.

Bugged, and conscious of Tulley right next to her, Jude said, “What’s the deal?”

“About?” All innocence.

Jude was silent, signaling she was not at liberty to speak openly.

“Elspeth?” Mercy asked after a beat.

“Yes.”

“You can’t talk right now?”

“That’s correct,” Jude said.

“So, do you want to see me?”

As one of two sexual partners—was that what Mercy was asking? Jude supposed she could get all righteous and indignant, but who was she to tell Mercy how to live her life?

“Yes,” she said finally and was certain she detected a small sigh of relief.

“Good. I think we need to talk.”

“Probably.”

“And in case you were wondering, I do want to sleep with you again.”

“Okay.” Sharing was better than nothing, Jude told herself.

Mercy laughed. “Don’t sound so excited.”

“You’ve been very helpful,” Jude said stiffly. Tulley had the car in gear and was easing them out onto the potholed dustbowl that passed for the main street of Colorado City. “I need to go.”

“I know what you need,” Mercy said sweetly.

“I have no doubt.”

“If you’re good, maybe I’ll let you fist me.”

Jude dropped the phone. The very thought of Mercy gloved around her hand made her light-headed. She groped under her seat and retrieved the device. Mercy was still there.

Perspiring, Jude said, “Thanks for mentioning that, Doctor.”

“My pleasure.”

“I’ll be in touch.”

“Don’t make me wait too long.”

Jude consciously elevated her mind and managed a casual farewell while she could still keep her voice even.

“Rapture?” Tulley asked, pointing at a highway sign.

Jude stifled a high-pitched giggle. Rapture was exactly what Mercy inspired in a poor, simple, sex-starved fool like her. She lowered her voice to one of coplike composure. “Yep. Let’s do it.”

They approached an intersection where several old washing machines almost prevented vehicles from passing through. Everywhere she looked, piles of rusting scrap metal and old appliances chocked the sidewalks. An odd sight was a mound of smashed televisions and satellite receivers in the middle of the road. Various minivans and SUVs jockeyed for position at high speed, as if the main street was an obstacle course built for their own version of NASCAR. Other than the transport, the place could have passed for a nineteenth-century movie set, with the women in pioneer garb and the men wearing plain shirts and long pants with suspenders.

Tulley halted at the stop sign. A woman with several small children stood at the side of the road, looking like she wanted to get across. Jude took in a round ruddy face beneath brass-toned blond hair, the bangs strangely waved so they bobbed high above her forehead. Tulley signaled to the woman to go ahead, but she remained rooted to the spot, glaring balefully at them, her children clutched to her bosom.

One of the youngsters broke away from his mother’s skirts to hurl a stone at their car, yelling, “Apostates.”

They were also attracting a more menacing audience. Several young males armed with shotguns emerged from behind a building and marched purposefully toward the vehicle.

“Think they’ve noticed we’re not from ’round here?” Jude said.

They both unsnapped their holsters.

“Looks like trouble.” Tulley seemed oddly pleased by the fact.

“We’re passing through,” Jude repeated the standard line they had discussed for this exact situation.

A hand thumped the car. Tulley lowered his window. A moon face occupied the gap.

“You folks lost?” The speaker looked about twenty, his beard a carefully combed straggle only an adolescent male would prize. Jude checked out his teeth. Nothing unusual there. But his eyes were a source of fascination, beady and deep set with no space between eyebrows and lids.

Tulley said, “Just passing through, sir.”

The stony little eyes fastened on Jude, and contempt seeped into the youth’s tone. “Keep your wife inside the car in her harlot’s attire. We will not have this town corrupted by immorality.”

Jude reminded herself that decking this little prick would be a good way to have the situation blow up in their faces before they got a single thing they wanted, but it was tempting all the same. She kept her hands in her lap and contented herself with a fantasy of dragging Epperson away from his harem in handcuffs. Maybe kicking him in the balls just once.

“Like I said, we’re just passing through.” Tulley wound the window up.

The youths backed off a few feet, but their shotguns, held casually at the hip, were still trained on the car. One of them spat, and a wad of saliva ran down the windscreen.

“Now, that makes me mad,” Tulley said.

Jude patted his shoulder. “Drive.”

He jammed the car into gear and they left the clothing police standing around the woman at the intersection like dogs guarding a carcass.

*

Summer stared at the grimy wall to one side of Nathaniel, her eyes fixed on a plaque that said: Keep Sweet, No Matter What. These were plastered up all through the house. As if anyone could forget. Summer thought she must have heard that saying every day of her life.

“Perfect obedience produces perfect faith.” Her husband waved the Book of Mormon. “The greatest freedom you will ever enjoy comes from giving yourself to God in complete submission.”

Summer wished she could lie down. Her heart was beating too fast and her skin felt clammy. The family meeting room was hot and smelled of baby shit, throw-up, and the sickly perfume Fawn Dew had on. Summer was shocked by this shamelessness. Even if she herself had been given perfume by the master, she would not boast her good fortune in front of all her sister-wives. Fawn Dew was also parading around in a brand-new, seamstress-made, green plaid dress with a white lace collar and big sash. She was the only wife Nathaniel had returned home with a gift for, and she wanted everyone to know.

Naoma said she wouldn’t be the favorite much longer, but the other sister-wives said it had gone on like this for a year now. Fawn Dew was one of the new prophet’s daughters. She and her Downs toddler had been assigned to the master after Mr. Jeffs took them away from one of the Barlows. He ran most of that family out of town not long after, the mayor included. Fawn Dew thought she was better than all the rest of them, and skipped her tasks. Anyone else would have been beaten till she couldn’t walk.

“Give thanks that you will be lifted up,” Nathaniel declared. “That you alone among the daughters of Eve will attain the celestial kingdom through living the sacred principle. Each of you must make a choice every day to keep yourself white and delightsome, otherwise you open a door to Satan.”

This time Summer could feel his pale blue eyes burning into her. She dared a quick glance at his face and he shoved his index finger into her chest.

“Wife, I am asking you now, in the presence of our Heavenly Father, did you open that door to the devil? Did you release your sister?”

Summer swallowed bile. Fear had her by the throat. Her teeth chattered. She dug the nails of one hand hard into the wrist of the other to prevent herself sobbing. The master didn’t like tears. Wives and children who wept were punished and if there was one thing she couldn’t face at this stage of her pregnancy, that was having to hold her breath while Sister Naoma pushed her head underwater.

“No, I swear. I would never do that,” she said.

“Then why were you in the barn on Saturday evening?” the head wife accused. Her face was aglow with anticipation and she ran a chunky hand up and down the thick leather belt she held.

Spies. Sister Naoma had them everywhere. Summer knew she’d been stupid to risk sneaking off to see Adeline.

Frantically, she said, “I went there to beg Adeline to submit herself. I told her that the only way she could find salvation was by living the principle as I do. I told her how honored she was to be chosen as the master’s next celestial wife. I was trying to make her see sense.”

Sister Naoma snorted, but the master placed his hand on Summer’s head and intoned. “After a lifetime of self purification and sanctification, and of repentance and living the principle, I am now a Christlike man. My faith fills me and I am blessed by revelation, visions, and angelic ministrations. Lord, I your servant ask now for the ability to discern the truth of my wife Summer’s reply.” He paused and several of the wives dropped to their knees, adding their own exhortations to his.

The minutes ticked by with excruciating slowness. Summer felt sweat slithering down her back and her thighs. She wondered if she should mention the hiding place the boy talked about, but she held back. If they found Adeline, Summer could hardly bear to think about what they might do to her. And if Adeline still failed to keep herself sweet after being purified, Summer too would pay a price.

Just as she thought she might faint, Nathaniel flung his arms heavenward and announced as he always did when he received God’s word, “If I dared to deny the Holy Ghost as it works in me, I would be committing an act of infamous perdition. If I trust in the arm of flesh more than in a revelation from the Holy Spirit, if I ignore the spring of living waters rising within me and the burning in my bosom, I will stumble from the paths of truth and righteousness, and I might as well become an apostate!”

Get on with it, Summer thought and shivered instantly, recognizing the tiny, derisive voice as the devil’s, a cunning attempt to lead her away from the promise of salvation. Terror weakened her limbs. What if Nathaniel couldn’t hear God today and decided she was lying? She would be cast out, and without the stewardship of her husband, she would be doomed for all eternity.

She clamped her teeth down on her bottom lip, filled with bleak despair at the thought of losing her home and place in the world. She might not be the master’s favorite, but he had never used her harshly; only Sister Naoma had beaten her. Several of her sister-wives were great friends to her, especially Thankful, the sixth wife. Everything had been fine until Adeline came along with her apostate ideas and immodest ways. Wiping her hands on her dress, she allowed her husband’s words to wash over her and prayed for God to help her hold fast to the rod.

Eventually Nathaniel made the pronouncement she was longing to hear. Patting her cheek, he said, “Summer is a good and obedient wife and a faithful servant of the Lord. Adeline has been led astray by her master, Lucifer. Let us ask in prayer that she may be returned and cleansed of her wickedness.”

As Summer sank gratefully to her knees, she stole a sideways glance at Sister Naoma, who did not look at all pleased by this turn of events. Hastily Summer turned to face the Salt Lake City Temple, as they all did during their thrice-daily prayers. Eyes closed, she began repeating sentence for sentence after her husband.

“Lord, we present ourselves unto thee, thine humble servants on earth. Please hasten the day in which the blood of the prophets is avenged…”

As she mouthed the familiar, comforting lines, she added a prayer of her own. Please God, protect Adeline, wherever she is, however foolish she has been.

Chapter Nine

“Why did you do it?” Daniel asked.

Adeline ran a hand through her short hair, still amazed at how light her head felt with the waist-length braids cut off. “You said runaway wives always get caught. But I look like a boy now.”

Daniel studied her for a moment, then his two front teeth peeped over his top lip. “You’re real smart, Adeline.”

She rolled up the legs of her denim overalls and marveled again at how free and comfortable she felt in men’s clothing. She was never going to wear that sack of a dress and the long prickly underwear ever again. When she’d swapped clothing in the laundry, she’d wanted to burn everything, but she didn’t have time and besides, someone would have seen smoke. Instead, she’d stuck to her plan and stolen the scissors from Sister Naoma’s bedroom. She still couldn’t believe she’d made it in and out of that window without being caught, and that she and Daniel had reached the cave and survived the night.

She’d also stolen a saucer from the head wife’s room and they’d used it to bake a couple of eggs in the sun once they were safe in their hiding place.

“I wonder how long it will be before they come looking,” she said. “We need to get away from here.”

“No.” Daniel was adamant. “We should stay where we are. I don’t think anyone knows about this place. We’ll be safe, and when they stop looking, then we’ll leave.”

Adeline eyed their meager supplies. Daniel had a small stockpile of foods his mother had slipped him on the visits he’d made to the ranch before getting caught. Beans. Dried apple. Cans of soup. He also had a pocketknife with a can-opener tool. If they made everything last, they could probably survive for two weeks. Water was the problem.

“We’ve only got water for a few more days,” she said.

“Once they’ve searched ’round here, we can go find some. They won’t come back again.”

Adeline wished she could feel so certain about that, but she had a feeling Mr. Epperson was not going to take kindly to their vanishing act. She wondered if he would tell her parents. Maybe they would go to Aunt Chastity’s place and wait for her. What if she and Daniel somehow got as far as Salt Lake City only to be caught and brought back? She wished she was eighteen. When you turned eighteen no one could force you to live where you didn’t want to live.

“How’s your leg?” she asked.

“It’s real sore. I prayed but it doesn’t feel any better.”

“Let me see it.”

He looked embarrassed. “I’d have to take off my overalls.”

“I won’t look.” Adeline turned and climbed down toward the rear wall of the cave.

Their hiding place was not a large one. The cave had an entrance like a pair of slightly parted lips. To get in, they had to slide on their bellies. But it was cool and snaked back a ways into the wall of red rock. A fine film of moisture clung to the farthest part, which made Adeline wonder if there was water somewhere. She had felt around the rock and listened intently, without luck.

“You can look now,” Daniel said.

He was lying on his front and Adeline almost threw up at the sight of his right leg. The thigh was dark purple and a long gash was trying to heal, but it had not knitted properly, no doubt because the wound was so swollen.

“What happened?” she asked.

“Some of the elders beat on me with a two-by-four. It had a nail in it. That got dug in and made the rip.”

Cautiously, Adeline touched the messy area. It was hot and sticky with pus. “They punished you because you tried to see your mom?”

His head jerked in a nod and his shoulders started to shake. “She was going to give me money for a bus fare. She was set to steal it from the master. Maybe she got caught.”

“You reckon that could be why she’s—what’d you call it?”

“A poofer?—probably.”

“Seems like anyone who acts half-decent ’round here gets thrown out.”

“God makes the rules. He speaks through the prophet and we must obey or atone.”

Adeline rolled her eyes. “If you believe that, you’re dumber than you act. My Aunt Chastity says the prophet is not Christlike. She says his rightful place is in the state penitentiary.”

A small hiss of air fizzed from Daniel and he snuck a look toward the mouth of the cave like he thought someone could be listening in on them.

“Boy, you’re skinny,” Adeline said. “I’m going to fix you another baked egg after I’m done with this.”

She poured some of their precious water into the saucer and cut a strip from the funny-undie bag they’d carried the eggs in. Cleaning the wound as best she could, she asked, “Do you know if there’s a doctor back in Rapture?”

“Nearest one is in Hildale.”

“Then that’s where we’re going.”

“No!” He seized her wrist. “We can’t. They’ll catch us for sure if we go there.”

“What are we supposed to do? This is infected.”

“Maybe if you pray, too—”

Adeline snorted. “Fat lot of good that will do. I did biology at school because I’m going to be a vet, and there’s only one thing that’ll fix your leg. Antibiotics.”

Daniel propped himself on an elbow and squinted at her like he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “Are you talking about apostate drugs and the like?”

“I’m talking about regular type medicine that you get at the pharmacy.”

He gazed blankly at her.

“Hello? The pharmacy, where they give you the prescription after you go to the doctor.”

He had no idea what she was talking about, of course. He had never seen a doctor in his life. Neither had she until Aunt Chastity took her to one in Salt Lake to get all the shots she’d missed out on when she was little.

“Doctors are Satan’s servants,” Daniel informed her.

“Whatever. I’m still taking you to see one.”

“It’s a real long way to Salt Lake. Where will we go first?”

Adeline had no idea, but she didn’t want to let on about that. Even though she’d discovered Daniel wasn’t as young as she thought, he still didn’t seem like a thirteen-year-old. More like nine or ten. And he acted like she was his big sister—or, now that she was supposed to be a boy, his cousin. That was their story. They’d thought it all up while she was baking their eggs the day before. If anyone asked, she was going to say her name was Dell, like the computer Aunt Chastity had bought her.

As she squeezed out the rag and hung it over a rock, she wondered what Aunt Chastity would do if she was here. Adeline pictured her on the hiking trip they took last fall. She was really pretty, with her curly copper hair bunched up on top in a knot, her big smile, and her eyes so dark they looked almost black. She was so clever and dainty, Adeline felt like a clumsy idiot in comparison. One thing they had in common was they both liked gadgets and when they went on hikes, they always took a compass and fancy pocket knives with all kinds of tools. Aunt Chastity had showed her how to use the stars and the sun to plot their course, and how to make a fire without matches and find water. They’d hiked in some wild places, but nowhere like this.

Adeline peered out of the cave mouth looking for signs of moisture in the huge rocky desert. Creek beds. Cottonwood trees. Even bees had a story to tell. When the light started to fade, she would go gather some pigweed to supplement their food, and she would watch the birds. Most of the time they were just darting here and there, looking for food, but at dusk they went to their watering places, flying low and straight. If she could see where they headed, she’d know there was water in that direction.

Meantime, she had the plastic apron she’d taken from the laundry. She had intended to use it to sleep on, but now she had a better idea. Even in a place like this, the night was much colder than the day and that meant there would be morning dew. As soon as it started to get dark, she was going to set that apron up, hanging between some rocks. The way the temperature dropped in the desert, they could collect maybe a cup of water overnight.

She remembered something else Aunt Chastity liked to say—usually when Adeline was moaning about sleeping on the hard ground or having to remember the Morse code signaling her aunt wanted to use.

“All over the world, people live in difficult places,” she would tell Adeline. “You just have to know how.”

Aunt Chastity would not die out here in a cave, trying to get away from a creepy old man who wanted to marry her. Adeline knew that much. She would say, “When the going gets tough, the tough get going,” and she would survive, no matter what.

That was exactly what Adeline planned to do.

“Chill, okay?” she told Daniel. “I’m going to have my own vet surgery one day and no crazy old man and his head wife are going to stop me.”

Daniel drew his overall straps up and tightened them. “Do you think your aunt will let me stay for a while?”

“Sure she will. She’s a real nice lady. She wants to adopt me.”

“I wish I knew where my mother went.”

“Is she nice, your mom?”

“She didn’t want them to cast me out.”

“Then she should have taken you away. That’s what I would have done.”

Daniel gave her an odd little smile. “That’s what you are doing.”

Adeline laughed. “Yeah. I guess I am.”

*

The Mohave County Sheriff’s Office on the Arizona side of Rapture had been established after most of the Colorado City police lost their badges because they refused to give up their plural wives. It was a small outpost only a step up from the Paradox substation, but its existence demonstrated at least an attempt by the authorities to look like they were getting serious about the abuse problems rife in the polygamist nirvana on their doorstep.

“Child Protective Services cases don’t go to the Colorado City Marshall’s Office anymore,” Sergeant Beau Gossett explained. “They come to me or go direct to CPS in our new building in Colorado City. Got a state attorney there, too.”

“Sounds like an improvement,” Jude said, thankful that even if Utah didn’t have the will to police this area, at least Arizona was stepping up to the plate. “I guess you have your hands full.”

“Not really. Victims are reluctant to come forward. They’ve never had a cop out here who wasn’t part of their system, so they’re suspicious. And afraid, of course.”

“We’re also talking about a class of victims who’ve been programmed to think their victimization is completely normal,” Jude remarked.

“You got that right. Out here, polygamist and pedophile are synonyms. The sex abuse is not the only problem, either. These folks have been living this lifestyle for generations, marrying their own half sisters and what not. So, there’s an issue with birth defects, water on the brain…Downs syndrome…fused limbs…that type of deal. They blame that shit on the mother not being obedient enough.”

“Do they buy that?” Tulley could not hide his amazement.

“It’s all they know. They’ve got no education and no contact with the outside world.”

“Another reason children are easy pickings. Tell me something…” Jude had her mind on the prophet. If they were ever going to nail this creep on conspiracy charges, they were going to need a mountain of hard evidence. “I’ve heard rumors that there are kids murdered but they pass the deaths off as vehicle accidents. Know anything about that?”

“We have maybe the highest rate in the country of kids run over by motor vehicles. It can’t all be bad driving.”

“Are there any doctors I could talk to who would have medical records for these cases?” Jude didn’t want to sound like she was questioning his competence, but if she could prove foul play in a single instance, they could be looking at whole new ball game.

“If you’re thinking about an M.E.’s report, you’re in the wrong town. If they actually report a dead kid, one of their pals writes it up as an accidental death and that’s the end of it. There’s all kinds of unexplained deaths, and that’s not counting infants.”

“What about medical treatment for abuse. Hospital records…”

“The plygs don’t have any use for the medical profession. If a kid is sick or never woke up from the last beating, they pray and lay on hands.”

“Heaven on earth.” Jude shook her head in amazement. How could this be going on under everyone’s noses on such a huge scale without so much as a peep out of the so-called family values lobby? Where was the outrage? Why wasn’t the media camped out and running salacious exposé stories?

“I don’t get it,” she said. “Why isn’t anyone held accountable? I know there’s this hands-off policy in effect, but we’re not talking about religious freedom here, we talking about felonies.”

“You’re preaching to the choir. When Mohave first moved in here, we thought we could start a dialogue. We held a meeting with the mayor.” Gossett’s expression told the rest of the story. “Well, the guy’s out of a job now, anyway. Jeffs expelled him.”

Jude said, “This would be the Warren Jeffs who’s on the FBI’s Most Wanted list? The guy who said 9/11 was a ‘magnificent portent and cause of great hope.’ That freedom-loving American patriot?”

“Yep, that’s our boy. The same one whose nephew just filed a lawsuit against him in Salt Lake, alleging Jeffs sodomized him when he was four.”

Jude was intrigued. “I haven’t heard about that. Is Utah pressing criminal charges?”

Gossett rolled his eyes. “Did I say anything about miracles? They’re looking at him. That’s a start.”

“And it’s put the spotlight on this place.”

“That it has. Jeffs bailed like a rat off a sinking ship, soon as the heat was on. Left the troops in disarray. Last I heard he’s holed up in Florida somewhere. So, we’ve got quite the power struggle going on now. Wannabe prophets up the yazoo. It’s the plyg version of American Idol.” He chuckled at his own joke.

“Where does Elias Rockwell fit in?”

Rockwell led one of the splinter factions in the FLDS sect and had originally proclaimed himself prophet after the death of Rulon Jeffs in 2002. Warren Jeffs had beat him out of the job, but now that Jeffs was a fugitive, Rockwell had stepped into the power vacuum. He had even announced his godlike status to the press.

“He’s leading the charge,” Gossett confirmed. “Got his soldiers out there on every street corner, calling him the One Mighty and Strong. The Lion of Israel. Yadda yadda.”

“I can see why it’s the job everyone wants.” The FLDS sheltered their financial assets in a trust called the United Effort Plan, which owned all the property and businesses in the twin towns, as well as valuable compounds in Canada, Texas, and Colorado. The trust was supposedly worth about $150 million, and the Utah government had recently frozen its assets to try and stop Jeffs and his lieutenants from stripping them. “I mean, we’re not just talking about a spiritual position, are we?”

“No, we are not.” Gossett unclipped a ballpoint from the breast pocket of his gray uniform and slapped it down on the notepad in front of him. “We’re talking about a dictatorship. The prophets owns this town and everyone, and everything, in it.”

He looked like a good ol’ boy, Jude thought as he was talking. Tall and beefy, flat top, football ring, fully optioned belt, God Bless America emblazoned on his wall between a couple of taxidermied bass. And so far, he didn’t seem to be aligned with the Fundamentalist Latter Day Skunks.

Just to be sure, she asked, “Are you a personal acquaintance of Mr. Rockwell’s?”

“If you’re asking me if I have a couple of spare wives stashed away somewhere, the answer is, ’Do I look like a crazy man?’ My missus would cut off my balls—if you’ll pardon the expression—if I started yammering about celestial marriage and the likes. No…” He grinned. “I think Rockwell’s waiting for me to get struck down by lightening. He asked his buddy, God Almighty, to take care of that after I arrested some of his personal militia last month. They were looking to lynch an African American trucker. The guy made an emergency repair stop. Thought he’d stretch his legs while he waited. Damn fool idea.”

Tulley made a small sputtering noise and Jude paused to give him room to speak. He shrugged helplessly and looked so uncomfortable she resumed talking, observing to Gossett, “Nice town you got here.”

“Those jokes about living behind the Zion Curtain…they’re all true.”

She laughed. “Do you see things improving now that Jeffs is out of the picture and we’re finally seeing some action from the state?”

“It’s hard to say. My wife reckons it couldn’t get any worse, but I don’t know about that. The rival prophets could start murdering each other, then we’d have a civil war going on. I can’t see Arizona or Utah wanting a piece of that.”

“Well, we’ll do our best not to rock the boat.”

“Uh-huh.” Gossett gave a small, wry smile. “So, don’t keep me in suspense. What can I do for you, Detective?”

Jude took Darlene’s file from her satchel and slid it across his desk. “We’ve reason to believe a Rapture man—Nathaniel Epperson—abducted this girl in Cortez. She was subsequently murdered. Body showed up back in our jurisdiction.”

“Help yourselves to coffee.” The sergeant indicated a kona machine. “Or there’s soda in the fridge.” He opened the file and scanned the paperwork. Eventually he said, “You’re going after Epperson and that pit bull he calls a wife?”

“Yes, sir.”

Gossett closed the file and said his last big case involved a topless dancer who tried to cut off her husband’s organ. “The thing with the tongue. That’s what put me in mind of her,” he explained.

“Obviously we’ll need a search warrant,” Jude said.

He frowned. “Not a good move. If we initiate a warrant, we’ll be shut down before we can make first base.”

“What are you saying?”

“The judge is a big-time buddy of Rockwell’s, and Epperson’s a key ally. They’ll phone him and he’ll clean house before we get there.”

“Great. So, what do you recommend?”

“You have your witness statement. Naoma Epperson cut this girl’s tongue out. Bring her in.”

“You’re okay with us questioning her here?”

“I’d pay money to watch.”

“What about Epperson?”

“Want my advice?—let him sweat. Most of these first wives hate their old man’s guts. Specially the ones that weren’t reared plyg. He’ll be shitting himself if you’ve got her here and he can’t talk to her.”

“You think we can turn her and cut a deal? Her testimony against Epperson in exchange for reduced charges?” Jude wasn’t counting on it, but she was relieved that Gossett thought they were in with a chance.

“The way things are, that’s your best option.”

“If we can get a confession, they’ll have to give us a warrant.” Jude glanced at Tulley. He was trying on his handcuffs.

Gossett made a noncommittal sound. “You have to get a hold of her first. How would you feel about going in alone? You might get further if I’m not tagging along.”

“Sure, if you’re fine with that.”

“I’m fine with anything that’ll put that jerk-off behind bars where he belongs.”

“I want Jeffs, too,” Jude said.

The sergeant barked a guffaw. “I want box seats at the next Superbowl. No one’s gonna find that shitweasel.”

The phone rang and he picked it up. A few moments into the call, he flicked it onto speaker so they could hear the discussion.

A woman said, “There’s a search party out there now.”

“Who’s the girl?” Gossett asked.

“The sister of one of his wives. Fourteen years old. She was supposed to be sealed to him on the weekend, but they’re saying she ran off with one of his sons.”

“How old is the boy?”

“No idea. Could be Daniel, the one they chased off a while back. He’s maybe thirteen.”

“Okay. Thanks for the call, Brenda.”

He replaced the phone and stood up, straightening his overloaded belt. “We caught a break. Epperson’s wife-to-be ran out on him.”

“She was being forced into the marriage?” Jude asked.

“Round here they’re not big on long engagements, or female consent,” he replied dryly. “The prophet orders a marriage and it happens right away. It’s not like they’re legal marriages. They don’t have to obtain a license or anything.”

“Makes marrying underage girls a whole lot easier. How are these so-called marriages performed?”

“Basically the prophet says a few words and it’s a done deal. They call it a sealing.”

“So what’s happening at the moment--are any of these sealings taking place?”

“In theory they’re on hold because Jeffs is still officially the prophet and president of the church and he’s the only guy who can perform them. But Rockwell isn’t wasting any time. He was supposed to be sealing Epperson and his latest victim.”

“Which would make him an accessory to child molestation.”

“Hey, don’t get me started. The guy has thirty-something wives. Some of them were only twelve when he married them.”

“You have proof of this?”

“Only hearsay. The lady who called—Brenda Barlow—she was forced to marry her uncle when she was thirteen. Got fed up with her situation after eight kids. Nowadays she lives outside the town and helps us out with information.”

“Her uncle,” Tulley noted with distaste.

“Are you in a position to bring charges if I collar Rockwell?” Jude asked.

“We’d need at least one of those underage wives to testify against him. If you can find one, the state attorney would be all over it.”

Jude could imagine how difficult it would be to persuade a brainwashed, terrified, uneducated girl to testify in court. “Well, this runaway bride is underage. So, at least we can detain Epperson on suspicion of attempted child molestation.”

“He’ll claim he wasn’t going to marry her until she turned sixteen, and you won’t get a statement from anyone disputing that.”

“Not even the girl’s sister?”

Gossett’s shrug said it all. If they wanted Epperson, they would have to persuade his wife to implicate him.

“What’s the situation out there?” Jude asked. “Do you know the place?”

“Big compound. Fifty acres. The menfolk will be out searching for her when you show up.”

“Excellent. I take it they’re all armed.”

Gossett laughed. “Oh, yeah. The plygs have been shipping weaponry and ammo into this place by the truckload for the past twenty years.”

Jude unholstered her Glock .22 and inspected it. “Can you let us have a few extra rounds?”

“You got it.” Gossett unlocked his firearms cabinet and took out a box full of .40 S&W magazines. “That all you’re carrying?”

From the tone of the question, Jude surmised they were probably crazy to be going to the Gathering for Zion Ranch short of a SWAT team. On the other hand, they had the element of surprise in their favor.

She said, “I have a backup snubbie and a Model 19 in the vehicle.”

The Smith & Wesson was an old favorite her father had passed on to her when she’d graduated from the Academy. Even now, she seldom went anywhere without it; she preferred it to her Glock, the peace officers’ duty weapon of choice in Montezuma County. The Model 19 handled like a dream and always seemed to lock effortlessly on target. Jude loved the lethal elegance of the six-gun with its four-inch barrel, classic nickel plating, and smooth wood grip. She loved the serrated trigger and the very slight stack at the end of the pull-through, just enough so you could measure each shot. The 19’s action was like buttered silk, and the earsplitting reports would scare most criminals shitless.

Beau Gossett must have caught her small sigh. “Now that’s a real handgun. None of your polymer and titanium crapola.”

They shared a moment’s silence, aficionados contemplating the passing of an era. Was there anything finer than seeing the sky shimmer across your barrel and hearing that magical kiss as the case heads went flush with the cylinder?

Tulley said, “I’m in the market for a Sig P220.”

Gossett considered this. “I could see you with a 1911, a Les Baer maybe.”

“Nice, but they cost,” Jude said. “I looked at a Kimber Tactical a while back. Pretty good and half the price.”

Tulley frowned. “Isn’t the 1911 kind of…old fashioned?”

“If you mean it comes from the days when they designed sidearms to win fights, not avoid product liability lawsuits, sure it’s old fashioned,” Jude responded.

Gossett said, “No kidding. We’re out there with popguns and they lift the ban on assault rifles. Put those morons on Capitol Hill in a peace officer’s uniform for a week in Washington Heights and see if they can keep their pants dry.”

Jude was a little surprised to hear this good ol’ boy criticizing the government. On the other hand, he was surrounded by wackos who carried shotguns in the main street.

“Maybe I’ll try a 1911 on the shooting range before I make my decision,” Tulley said.

“Good plan.” Jude returned her Glock to its holster. “I mean, how often do you buy a sidearm? Might as well be the right one.”

“Are we going to go look for those kids?” Tulley asked.

“Kind of hard to do that officially when they haven’t been reported missing,” Gossett replied. “How about I swear you both in and you go take care of Mrs. Epperson? Then we’ll see about the search.”

“I knew we should have brought Smoke’m along,” Tulley said.

“He’s a K-9 handler,” Jude told Gossett.

“No kidding? What kind of dog you working with?”

Tulley whipped out a photo of Smoke’m. “He’s not top of his class in agility, but he’s one heck of a sniffer hound, sir.”

“I’ll bet he is. Man, those are some jowls.” Gossett examined the picture with the air of a man who knew the real McCoy when he saw it. “We run a few K-9 units ourselves. German Shepherds and Belgian Malinois.”

Tulley slid the picture back into his breast pocket. “Smoke’m could find those kids, no problem.”

Jude said, “Guess you’ll be bringing your own dogs in once the search is official, Sergeant.”

“If we get that far. The plygs used to report their runaway wives to the marshall, and he’d go find them and bring them right on back to the compound. Nowadays they’re supposed to report missing person cases to me. Fat chance.”

Jude gathered up the spare ammo, suddenly impatient with the talking. “We need to be moving along.”

After they were sworn in, the sergeant walked them to their car. “Any trouble, you know where to find me.”

Chapter Ten

“There’s a house full of bored-shitless women out here who’ve never seen a movie and are married to an ugly old fart,” Jude declared as she and Tulley bounced along the narrow, potholed road to the Epperson ranch. “All we need is to entice one of them to agree, and we can take a look around.”

Tulley listened earnestly, but wasn’t getting it.

Jude clarified, “That’s your job, Mr. Smooth Talker.”

A rosy glow illuminated his ears and he hastily moved the discussion along. “You want me looking for the crime scene. Right?”

“Right. I doubt she was murdered this far from the body dump site, but anything’s possible. We’re looking for blood, a hammer, more of those tree spikes, a knife, and the owner of the attractive teeth, of course. We also need to check all vehicles and collect trace.”

“I packed extra latex gloves.”

“Good.” Jude was starting to wish she’d packed an assault rifle.

Gossett’s flip remarks about plygs and their weaponry had come as no surprise. She was already uneasy about the whole scenario. Two officers alone on the property of a group of paranoid lawbreakers who think they are God’s chosen and have the weapons to defend themselves—definitely not a walk in the park. She could see the sense in making a low-key approach, and she could see why Gossett thought they might be better off going in without him. But this was a volatile situation. No question.

They had two big advantages and she didn’t want to squander them. The first was surprise, the second was the search for the missing teenager, which hopefully meant only women and children would be present on the ranch. They would only catch the Epperson clan off guard once, and they needed to capitalize on that. Her primary objective was simple—Naoma Epperson in custody. A thorough search for evidence could happen later if became unwise to proceed this morning.

“I wouldn’t want to be those kids.” Tulley had his window down a notch and a hand out, testing the breeze or lack thereof. “It’s gotta be a hundred out there.”

“Don’t worry, we’ll join the search as soon as we have Mrs. Epperson in a holding cell. They can’t have gotten far on foot. They’re probably sheltering somewhere to stay out of the sun.”

“We could get one of the other deputies to fly down with Smoke’m.”

“Rapture’s maybe not the best place for dogs,” Jude said. “Sounds like they shoot first and ask questions later.”

Tulley blanched. “I’d kill anyone that hurt a hair on my dog’s head.”

“An incident with Utah—Sheriff Pratt would be thrilled.”

Tulley huffed.

“Any more thoughts on that number they found in her stomach?” she asked.

They’d tried phoning it. There was no such number. What else had ten digits? She’d worked her way through all the usual suspects. Bank deposit box—when would Darlene have been able to get to a bank, living out here in the middle of nowhere? Floor safe—most did not have ten-digit codes. Computer password—did these people have computers? The Universal Product Code and Standard Book Numbers had ten digits. Ciphering—if the numbers related to letters of the alphabet, they spelled out: BCBIAEIIAI. Jude had gotten nowhere treating this as an anagram and had so far resisted the urge to phone her boss and hand it over to the cryptologists. She figured she’d take that liberty only if she didn’t get a break on the case by arresting the Eppersons.

Tulley consulted a slip of paper he kept in his pocket. With the measured deliberation of a monk reciting a Gregorian chant, he read, “2329159919.”

They reflected in silence.

“Amazing she could remember that whole string,” Jude said.

“It must have meant something to her.”

“No kidding.” It was bound to end up being something blindingly obvious. In the meantime, they could waste hours gnashing their teeth on a fruitless quest for the esoteric. “We need to put ourselves in her shoes if we’re going to decode this. It has to be linked somehow to her environment.”

“Maybe it’s birthdays,” Tulley suggested. “Important dates.”

Jude hit the brakes. Directly ahead, a huge sign proclaimed Gathering for Zion Ranch in lime green lettering. This was emblazoned above a montage in sunrise hues, which depicted what Jude took to be the faithful assembled for the lift-off to heaven. Puzzled by some odd black blotches on the canvas, she got out of the vehicle for a closer look. Seven of the radiant, upturned faces had been painted out. It also seemed new figures had been added periodically; some looked fresher and brighter than the others.

“Check it out,” she said. “I have a feeling this is meant to be the Epperson family.”

Tulley joined her, camera in his hand, and took several photographs of the painting. “That’s a big family.”

They both counted.

“Looks like fourteen wives and forty-seven kids and that’s not counting the blacked out ones.” Jude was troubled by the faceless few standing among the awestruck throng. “I wonder what’s up with that.”

“Dead people maybe? Or excommunicated like Zach.”

Crossed off the list for the celestial kingdom? “Good theory,” she said. “The question is, how many of them ended up like Darlene?”

“Three of them are women.” Tulley moved closer. “This could be Darlene.”

He pointed to a woman whose hair was silvery blond. Most of the others had hair the same shade of reddish gold Jude had noticed on the woman back in Colorado City. Bummer that the faces were concealed. She studied the other two female figures, trying to discern a likeness to Poppy Dolores in either. It was impossible to say.

“I guess we’ll be wanting to ask Mrs. Epperson who they are,” Tulley said while Jude was taking photographs.

“Indeed.”

“Some of the males are just kids.” Tulley noted darkly. “Wonder how many of them got hit by cars.”

Jude shifted her focus to a man who still had a face, if you could call it that. The mouth was horribly twisted. And that wasn’t his only problem. She asked Tulley, “Does this guy look like a hunchback to you?”

“Sure does. And what’s up with his face? You think maybe he had a stroke?”

“Seems a bit young for that.” Jude called to mind Sergeant Gossett’s comments about birth defects. She had a feeling they were looking at a case of spina bifida and who knew what else. The guy certainly looked like a poster child for dental issues.

Tulley read her mind. “You’re thinking Mr. Snaggletooth?”

“Could be. And if he’s still got his face, maybe that means he’s still around.” She pointed at a white-haired patriarch at the epicenter of the painting. He was taller than everyone else and bathed in a golden glow, arms raised above his head. “Wild guess—Nathaniel Epperson?”

Tulley grinned. “I see how come you made detective.”

“Yeah, well, let’s find out if I’m any damn good.” Jude unfastened the Eppersons’ wide steel gate. “We’ll leave this open. I don’t see any livestock around, and we might want to expedite our departure.”

Tulley looked sideways at her. “You think they’ll do something crazy?”

“The deal in this type of situation is to take precautions, just in case.”

The approach to the Epperson’s house was a long, red dirt road. On either side, a few sad junipers eked out an existence amidst the pigweed and silvery scrub that clung to the hillside. An assortment of barns and outbuildings cluttered the front of the property. Beyond these lay a sprawling, whitewashed stucco structure with various additions that lacked windows. L-shaped, it extended back into what looked like several different dwellings interconnected by walkways.

“Well, it’s not Tara,” she remarked, earning a quick, puzzled glance from her colleague. “That’s the plantation from the movie Gone With the Wind. Just thought I’d flaunt my age.”

“I keep meaning to rent that,” Tulley said in a tone of polite deference. “I’d like to know more about the Civil War.”

“Uh-huh. Where are those binoculars?”

He reached into the backseat. “Got ’em.”

“Okay, take a look around and see if you can spot the search party. We could do without them showing up in the middle of the proceedings.” She halted behind a barn that screened them from the house, and turned off the motor. They got out of the car.

Tulley pointed north and handed the binoculars to her. “That’s gotta be them over there on that hill.”

She aimed the binoculars northwest. Sure enough, twenty or more tiny figures were fanned out across the hills a few miles away. Hopefully Nathaniel Epperson was among them, running his unwilling child bride to ground. With any luck it would be a while before the posse returned to the house. She gazed up at the sky. A delicate cloud cover diffused the sun’s harsh rays, a small blessing for the missing kids. Rain looked unlikely, and she wondered if the runaways had access to water. In this heat, they would not last more than two days if they didn’t.

They were about to get back into the car when a young, heavily pregnant woman emerged from the barn, pushing a wheelbarrow. She stopped and lowered her barrow at the sight of them, staring with startled deer eyes. Like most teenage girls in this neck of the woods, she wore a homemade dress down to her ankles and long braids bound into a bun at her nape. A wisp of snowy hair fluttered from these confines and tangled across her eyes. She tucked it discreetly away and dropped her gaze to a spot somewhere in front of Jude’s feet.

Tulley spared her the immodesty of speaking first to a man she’d never met. “Morning, ma’am. I’m Deputy Sheriff Virgil Tulley, out of Montezuma County, Colorado, and this here is Detective Jude Devine. Would this be the Epperson ranch?”

The girl snuck a disconcerted look at Tulley’s face. A handsome man was almost as much of a novelty in these parts as a woman in pants. And tall, dark, lean Tulley would make any straight woman look twice. Which is exactly what the girl did before blushing wildly. Jude dug her colleague in the ribs. An impressionable young female who mistook him for a Greek god was exactly what they needed.

Tulley caught his cue and flashed a movie-star smile when the girl glanced up again a millisecond later.

“Outsiders are not allowed here,” she asserted, but her tone lacked conviction, and this time she did not lower her eyes, instead gazing transfixed.

Tulley cocked his head slightly and managed a look of such unadulterated country-boy charm that Jude wondered if he practiced it in his bathroom mirror. This certainly worked on the girl, who babbled a breathless justification of her previous pronouncement.

“The gentiles mean us harm, so we are not permitted to talk to anyone that does not share our beliefs.”

“We’re not here to harm you, ma’am,” Tulley said softly. “We need to speak with your father.”

“My father doesn’t live here.”

“Do you know a Nathaniel Epperson?”

“That’s my husband.” Her voice held an odd mixture of pride and defensiveness.

Tulley shot a look at Jude, who refrained from saying: Congratulations on being some dirty old man’s sex slave. Instead she said, “Would you please inform him we’re here to speak with him.”

Silence.

“If he’s busy right now, we’ll wait.” Tulley hit her again with the matinee session smile.

The girl shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “He sleeps in the afternoon.”

“This is important,” Tulley persisted winningly. “We’d sure appreciate it if you’d let him know we’re here.”

“Before you do, could you take a look at this photo for us?” Jude moved a little closer, took Darlene’s picture from her shirt pocket, and held out it.

Without touching the photograph, the girl darted a quick look at it and made a tiny, fractured sound like a suppressed whimper.

“Do you recognize her?” Jude kept her breathing shallow in the face of the wheelbarrow piled high with horse manure.

The girl shrugged and slid a hand over her big, round belly. Jude guessed that by staying silent, she was avoiding an outright lie.

Tulley took another step forward and murmured like he was coaxing a timid cat from a hiding place. “It’s okay. We know you can’t tell us. But, there’s something I want to ask you.”

The girl dared a look at him from beneath her blond lashes.

“Did Diantha ever do anything to hurt you?”

Before she could stop herself, the girl began to shake her head. Flustered, she immediately suppressed the giveaway movement.

“She was a friend to you, wasn’t she?”

After a long moment, the girl nodded very faintly and Jude realized that by enabling her to remain silent, they could get some answers. On a hunch, she asked, “Is it your sister they’re out looking for?”

Another small nod.

“She’s what—fourteen?”

Again, an affirmative. This time her brow creased in worry and she looked close to tears. She rubbed the small of her back and Jude was abruptly conscious that they were keeping a very pregnant teenager outdoors in fierce heat. Shrouded in that all-encompassing pink dress, she had to be miserable.

“I think Mrs. Epperson would like a bottle of water from the car,” Jude told Tulley.

The girl gave her a grateful look. Jude wasn’t sure if that was for the water or the respectful use of her married name. She held out the photo once again, and said, wanting to gauge the reaction, “Diantha is dead.”

The hand resumed its caress of her belly, this time in an agitated tempo. She looked completely terrified.

“You didn’t know?”

She shook her head emphatically. Tulley returned with the water and the girl took it and drank.

“What’s your name?” he asked.

She wiped the excess water from her lips and vacillated for a moment. “Summer.”

“Summer, that’s real pretty. My name’s Virgil but everyone calls me Tulley.”

A nervous smile.

“How about if I wheel that for you?” He indicated the barrow. “Where are you headed?”

She pointed at a fenced-off enclosure twenty yards from the barn, out of sight of the house. They started walking, Tulley pushing the manure.

He said, “I grew up on a pig farm. Eleven kids in my family.”

A quick little nod. A platoon of siblings was obviously something Summer could relate to. She opened the gate and they entered the enclosure. Large piles of horse and chicken manure festered in the heat. Tulley emptied the barrow on the mountain the girl pointed out.

“I used to shovel the pig shit, so I know all about this. Some days I’d skip my chores and go hide out behind the barns to read books.” He grinned and Summer seemed to fight off an answering smile. “My ma always caught me and beat on me with the pig paddle.”

Also something Summer could relate to. She cast another look toward the house, then returned her attention to Tulley, transparently eager to listen. Jude kept silent, intrigued by her colleague’s instincts. He was finding a way to reach out to this girl. She guessed something in his own life enabled him to put himself in her shoes. It was more than Jude could do.

“Oh, boy. She whipped me good,” he said. “Beats me how she knew what I was up to.”

“Sister Naoma always knows,” Summer disclosed in a mumble. “That’s the head wife.”

“Bet you’re in a load of trouble on account of your sister,” he said ruefully.

Her shoulders tensed. “Mmm-hmm.”

They left the foul-smelling enclosure and headed back to the barn.

“I sure hope they find her,” Tulley said. “You must be pretty darn worried.”

“My husband forgave me.”

Jude counted to ten so she wouldn’t say exactly what she thought about that magnanimous gesture.

“Sounds like he’s a real fine man,” Tulley said earnestly.

Apparently taking that at face value, Summer shared, “People say he is one of the most Christlike men they’ve ever met.”

Jude didn’t recall ever seeing it mentioned in the gospels that Jesus Christ married a bunch of schoolgirls and ordered his wives’ tongues to be cut out. But what did she know? She said, “I need something from the car,” and left them talking about what a prince Epperson was.

Back in the car, she located the plaster teeth and slid them into her pocket. She knew Summer would instantly clam up if they pushed their luck, and she wondered how to broach the subject of Darlene’s “silencing.” The girl had to have seen it happen. According to Zach, the whole family was forced to watch. No doubt the example was intended to terrorize anyone who might be tempted to disobey rules. Summer knew she shouldn’t be talking to them, that much was obvious. Yet, despite her well-grounded fears, she was responding to the interest of a handsome young man as any normal teenage straight girl would. Summer was not so completely lost to herself that she functioned as an automaton—not yet, anyway.

Thankful for this, Jude closed the car door and strolled back toward the pair, formulating a plan. “I was thinking about your sister,” she said in a sympathetic tone. “I know you’re worried about her, but maybe it would be easier for you if they didn’t find her.”

Summer clasped her hands together. “Adeline will always be a problem.”

“Are you worried she’ll come back and make things difficult for you?”

A reluctant nod.

“Well, you have to think about your baby.” Jude glanced at the pregnant belly. “When are you due?”

“Next week.”

“That’s wonderful.”

“I think it’s a boy,” Summer volunteered.

Jude detected an ambivalence in her tone and contemplated its source. Any first-time mother would be anxious about the birth, she supposed. And Summer was just a kid. She would also be giving birth without a doctor, not that she would know this nineteenth-century approach was anything unusual.

Carefully, Jude said, “You know, if Deputy Tulley and I found your sister, we would have to take her away from here.”

A flicker of interest registered in Summer’s face.

“Yep. That’s state law,” Tulley added with conviction.

“We live by God’s law, not the law of man,” Summer pointed out.

“Your sister ran away,” Jude said. “So she has to obey man’s law now. Of course, if the folks from your church find her, she’ll be brought back here no matter what.”

“Any idea where she went?” Tulley asked. “’Cos if we knew, maybe we could get to her first. That way, she’d be safe but you wouldn’t have to deal with her coming back here.”

Summer took her time thinking on this. The idea clearly appealed, but the risk of her role being discovered weighed.

“No one will know you told us,” Jude said.

Finally Summer pointed mutely east to a distinctive mesa-like red cliff stratified in black. “They talked about a hiding place up there.”

“Have you told anyone else?”

Summer shook her head.

“Okay, so we’ll do our best to find her. Now will you do something for us?” Jude took the teeth from her pocket and displayed them on the palm of her hand. “Have you ever seen anyone with teeth that look like these.”

Summer lifted a hand to her mouth, muffling a telltale gasp. Agitated, she said, “You must leave now.”

“Summer, wait,” Tulley began, but she was already walking away, signaling for them not to follow.

He called her again and she turned around. Rooted to the spot, she took her full measure of him, then it was as if a terrible realization dawned. Her face crumpled, and frantically wiping tears, she blurted, “Thank you for being nice to me,” and fled toward the house.

Jude placed a detaining hand on Tulley’s arm. “Leave her be.”

“She knows more than she’s saying,” he protested. “She recognized the teeth.”

“Yes. But, if we push her any harder, she’ll fall apart. I don’t want her telling Epperson where her sister is.”

“Do you think he’s really asleep in there?”

“Let’s find out.”

They headed back to the car and waited a few minutes to give her some time to get indoors.

“Did you hear her talking about him like he’s some kind of saint?” Tulley marveled.

“What’s she going to say—that he’s an asshole? No. She has to believe in him or the whole house of cards comes down.” On an impulse, Jude removed her belt and switched her Glock for the Model 19.

Watching her, Tulley said, “I think she likes me.”

“Let’s hope this Sister Naoma individual is equally undone by your charms.” She tucked the Glock into the back of her belt when she was done, then checked the tactical holster on her right leg.

“You expecting trouble?” Tulley released the safety catch on his own sidearm.

Jude shrugged. “Stranger things have happened.”

*

A hand-painted sign hanging above the Epperson’s front door declared: And No Unclean Thing Can Enter Into His Kingdom.

“You sure about me doing the talking?” Tulley asked.

“You’re the man, and these people are programmed to see males as authority figures.” Jude had nothing to prove. Everything was about outcome, and she’d learned a long time ago that ego had no useful role to play in strategic thinking.

Tulley gave an awkward nod and Jude was suddenly conscious of her hands sweating. I am the law, she reminded herself. Sliding her identification into her palm, she signaled Tulley to ring the doorbell, which was quite literally a bell with a string attached. Jude could hear voices inside the house and figured that she and her companion had been inspected, identified as outsiders, and the women of the house were now trying to decide whether the gentiles would leave if ignored.

Eventually the door swung open and to Jude’s dismay a tall, white-haired man in a somber black suit stepped onto the threshold. He was carrying a pump-action Remington and was the spitting image of the patriarch from the montage at the front gate.

“Drop your weapon, sir.” Tulley showed his badge and identified them.

Grandad Moses looked him up and down. “Speak your business, then leave.”

“I said drop it, or I’m going to arrest you for obstruction of justice.”

Jude was impressed with the gritty resolve in Tulley’s voice. Who knew he could channel John Wayne?

“I don’t answer to the laws of the beast.” All the same, the older guy handed the Remington back to someone behind the door.

“Nathaniel Epperson?” Tulley asked.

“What’s it to you?”

“So, you are Nathaniel Epperson?”

“Yes, and I’m ordering you off my land.”

“We’ll be happy to oblige just as soon as you look at this.” Tulley held up Darlene’s photograph. “We’re investigating the murder of this young woman. Do you know her, sir?”

Epperson ignored the picture, instead staring at Jude, eyes glued to her pants. Saliva collected in one corner of his mouth and, muttering something, he spat on her shoes.

“I’d be obliged if you’d look at the photo, Mr. Epperson,” Tulley said. “Have you ever seen this girl?”

Epperson lifted his eyes to the heavens. “Verily, I say unto you, the names of the wicked shall not be mingled with the names of my people.”

Tulley consulted his notepad. “Last count your people would be sixty or so women and children collecting welfare and food stamps, right?”

“I don’t know her,” Epperson snapped. He still hadn’t looked at the photograph.

“Darlene Huntsberger. Colorado girl. Last seen getting into a white minivan just like that one.” Tulley pointed toward the cluster of vehicles parked around the yard.

“I do not know of any woman who goes by that name,” Epperson grated.

“Do you know her by another name?”

“No.”

“We have a witness that says she was your wife, sir.”

“What witness? Name the son of perdition.”

“I’m not obliged to do so at this time.”

“You got any young males here?” Jude interrupted.

As she’d expected, Epperson reacted to her temerity with a nonplussed stare.

She cast a pointed look toward a couple of barns. “Maybe working on the ranch?”

“No.”

“I find that hard to believe. Are you telling me you manage this spread by yourself, a man of your age?”

“I guess he has his womenfolk doing men’s work,” Tulley suggested with amused contempt.

Jude smiled inwardly. They had rehearsed their approach during the flight from Durango to Las Vegas, and the subsequent two-hour drive to Colorado City. Tulley had worried that he would not be able to say the right things when the time came, and he’d been so quiet in the meeting with Sergeant Gossett, she’d more or less expected to find herself alone in the hot seat. But she could sense his growing confidence and guessed he had probably surprised himself.

Epperson’s face took on the same tomato-tinted hue as the landscape. “Be silent! On this ranch we are governed by the laws of God, not the laws of men.”

“Well, that’s good news. We’ll go ahead and take a look around, then.” Jude gave Tulley a nod and he set off toward the outbuildings.

“Wait up, boy.” Epperson descended the verandah steps, eyes wrathfully ablaze. “You have no right. Where’s your search warrant?”

Tulley halted. “But you just said the laws of men don’t apply here.”

Epperson looked like he was ready to explode. “Beware. The Lord is not mocked.”

“We’ll leave when Deputy Tulley has spoken to every male thirteen or older on this ranch,” Jude said. “If you fail to cooperate, I guess I’ll just have to file that welfare fraud report we’re working on, and you can explain your situation to the state and federal government.” Cheerfully, she informed Tulley, “While Mr. Epperson shows you around, I’ll wait here in the shade.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Epperson treated her to a poisonous stare, but could not resist hurrying after Tulley. As soon as the two men vanished beyond one of the outbuildings, Jude knocked loudly on the front door. She heard footsteps and mumbling from inside the house, but no one answered.

“Mrs. Epperson?” she called. “May I trouble you for a glass of water? It’s mighty hot out here.”

The door opened a crack and Summer peeped out, her face tight with apprehension. “You should not have come here,” she whispered.

“I have no choice, ma’am,” Jude said formally. “This is an investigation. The sooner our questions are answered, the sooner we’ll leave your family in peace.”

The door opened a little wider and an older woman wearing a super-sized version of Summer’s pastel frock said, “We’re entitled to everything we receive.”

Had she not overheard her husband being asked about Darlene, or was she so preoccupied with keeping those welfare checks coming, it was all she could think about?

Jude fanned herself for effect. “We can discuss your entitlements once I’ve had something to drink.”

Suspicious blue eyes glinted from a sagging face. There was not a sign of generosity or happiness in the bitter line of the woman’s mouth. She shoved the pregnant teenager next to her. “Get some water, Summer.”

Jude moved slightly closer. “According to our information, a number of single women and their children live at this address. Are you one of them?”

“I’m legally married.” With malicious satisfaction, the woman added, “The rest of them are not.”

“So, you’re Naoma Epperson?”

“If you say so.”

“Do you deny it?”

Naoma shrugged. “I do not answer to you. Only to my husband and the Lord.”

“Neither of whom appear to be providing adequate financial support to the members of this household,” Jude said, briskly bureaucratic. “However, if that’s your position, I can report back to my superiors that you have declined to cooperate with representatives of the taxpayers who put food on your table. I’m sure this ranch will fetch a decent price in the asset sale.”

“What are you talking about?”

Jude smiled. “Defrauding the government and the IRS…Trust me, Mrs. Epperson, they’ll want their money back.” As Summer appeared with the water, she waved it away and backed up like she was about to leave. “Thanks, but I’ll be going. I have a mess of paperwork to complete and since I can’t speak to Mrs. Naoma Epperson to verify her status, I—”

“You are speaking to her and don’t pretend you don’t know it!” Naoma stuck her hands on her hips and declared, “I am the legal wife of Nathaniel Epperson.”

“Tell me something,” Jude said softly enough that Naoma instinctively stepped closer to hear her. “Do you obey your husband in all matters?”

Naoma’s eyes registered confusion. “I submit as God commands.”

“That would be a yes, then?”

Before the big woman had time to respond, Jude caught her off guard, seizing one arm and twisting it behind her back. Pinning her against the wall of the house in an arm lock, she found her cuffs and said, “Naoma Epperson. You are under arrest for assaulting Darlene Huntsberger.”

As she read Naoma her rights, glass smashed in the doorway. Summer stood with her mouth open, the hand that had held the tumbler still outstretched. Several other women appeared next to her, their expressions equally stunned.

One of them, a plump bottle blonde wearing a blue dirndl dress, complete with frilly white apron and petticoats, stepped out onto the stoop and demanded, “What’s going on?”

“What’s your name?” Jude asked.

“Fawn Dew Rockwell Epperson.” She tilted her head. “I am a daughter of the true prophet.”

“You don’t say.”

Jude had several more sets of restraints in the car. It could be interesting to arrest this self-satisfied Swiss Miss as an accomplice. Would Rockwell intervene on behalf of one of his offspring, assuming he could remember who they all were? Probably not. Ignoring Fawn Dew for the moment, she hustled a vociferously protesting Naoma down the steps toward the car and honked the horn, her prearranged signal for Tulley.

As she locked the door on her captive, she heard a distinctive metallic click and dropped automatically to a crouch, scrambling around the car.

“Let go of her!” Fawn Dew wielded the Remington.

Jude grabbed for her weapon, and yelled, “Drop it, or I’ll shoot.”

To her horror, the younger wife fired several rounds into the air and with that, shouted, “Take your posts. They’ve come to destroy us!”

She backed into the house and ten seconds later a manual siren sounded.

Aghast, Jude pictured twenty crazed elders abandoning the search for the runaways to respond to the alarm. Where in hell was Tulley? She climbed into the front seat of the car and trained her gun on Naoma.

“Call them off,” she said.

“Shoot me,” Naoma invited.

“Do you really want to give your life to protect a man who brought his girlfriends into your home?”

Jude peered past Naoma out the back window, seeking Tulley. The seconds were crawling by. A movement in the front windows of the house captured her attention. They were being boarded up. The Eppersons were preparing to shoot it out.

Disbelieving, she tried to reason with Naoma. “Don’t allow this. People are going to get hurt. You have a house full of women and children. Please. Tell them to sound the all clear.”

Naoma laughed. “You think I care about those whores and their brats?”

A figure ran toward the car. Tulley. Alone. He dived for the ground behind it and, keeping her head down, Jude reached across and swung open the door for him. He scrambled into the passenger seat. Blood ran down one side of his face from an open gash.

“Jesus. What happened?” Jude asked.

“He hit me with a shovel and ran off. I can’t find him.”

“Perfect.” Jude started the motor. “Keep your heads down. We’re out of here.” As she jerked the car into motion, a bullet ricocheted off the bonnet. “I said get down!” she yelled at Naoma.

The head wife laughed and began reciting scripture. A hail of bullets fell short of them as they accelerated away from the house. It wasn’t worth shooting back. There was no one to shoot at and Jude wasn’t about to open fire on a house full of innocent civilians.

She swung hard on the wheel and they made a one-eighty, hit the road beyond the gates of the Gathering for Zion Ranch, and laid rubber turning for Rapture.

Chapter Eleven

“Oh, my Lord,” Sergeant Gossett said after they’d locked Naoma in a holding cell. “This is going to get ugly.”

“Tell me about it.” Jude pulled a can of ginger ale from the fridge and tossed a Coke to Tulley. “We need to turn it over.”

Gossett rolled his eyes. “There’s gotta be some way we can defuse the situation. If we bring in the feds, we’ll have another Waco on our hands.”

Jude groaned. So much for her stellar career and unblemished reputation. She’d go down in the annals of the Bureau as an agent who dragged them into a shitstorm. She’d be hauled in front of the Office of Professional Responsibility and she’d never work in the field again, let alone undercover. They would transfer her to a training post at Quantico, or worse, she would be demoted to mindless wiretapping stakeouts for some two-bit field office.

Angry at herself, she took a slug of soda. How could she have misjudged the situation so badly? She’d seen it coming, yet she’d been so focused on bringing Naoma Epperson in, she’d decided the risks were worth it. Picturing, at worst, a few shots fired, she’d underestimated the escalation potential. The targets of her investigation were not just religious extremists who were armed to the teeth and might shoot if provoked, they were actually hoping for trouble. Cults like the FLDS fostered a siege mentality among their members and stockpiled weapons in readiness for the day of reckoning they thought was just around the corner.

The Eppersons would see the arrest of their head wife as the beginning of the end. It was tailor made for their paranoid fantasies. They were expecting the government to attack them at any moment, and not only that, their leader had proclaimed dates for the end of the world on more than one occasion in the past year or so. The true believers had duly maxed out their credit cards and spent money like there was no tomorrow, because that’s what they expected. They had arrived at the place where their prophet said they would be lifted up, only to find themselves up to their ears in debt the next day and told Armageddon had been postponed because they were not faithful enough. They had to be chomping at the bit to get things rolling. She should have taken that into account.

“I blame home schooling,” she said.

This ill-timed levity earned a funny look from Gossett and a worried stare from Tulley, who suggested, “Maybe we should just wait it out. They can’t stay holed up in there forever.”

“I should have taken early retirement,” Gossett said.

“Is there anyone we could ask to go talk some sense into them?” Jude asked. “A local bigwig—the mayor maybe?”

“He’d only encourage them.”

“You’re telling me these people want a bloodbath?”

Gossett pondered this briefly, and confirmed, “Yes.”

“We’ll have to go back for Epperson eventually,” Jude said. “And there’s the missing kids to think about. We need a plan.”

“We need a friggin’ army.”

Jude chewed over their options. There really was only one. Notify the FBI. By now Sheriff Pratt would also be looking for an update. She decided to phone him later, once they’d settled on the plan. Maybe she would have better news then. Maybe she would have a confession.

She signaled Tulley. “I think it’s time we had a chat with Mrs. Epperson. Then we’ll work up a strategy.”

Gossett set about cleaning his guns. “Good luck. You’ll need it.”

*

“When did you first meet Darlene Huntsberger?” Jude asked.

Naoma Epperson didn’t bother to look up. “Never heard of her.”

“We both know Darlene went by the name Diantha and that she was one of your husband’s spare wives, so let’s not play games. He seems to like them very young. Has it always been that way?”

No response.

“Some women would feel pretty uncomfortable having their husband sleeping with girls younger than their own children,” Jude said.

The gray head finally lifted and Naoma smoothed the tidal wave of hair that loomed several inches above her forehead. Jude wondered if this elaborate coiffure was mandatory for polygamist women, or if they’d adopted it because they thought it was captivating. Naoma was staring at her like she would love to practice her tongue excision technique, right here, right now.

Jude referred to her notes for a moment or two so her subject could enjoy the fantasy, then asked, “Is it true that one of your husband’s wives is also his daughter by another wife?”

From all accounts, polygamist family trees were like a bad soap opera, girls marrying uncles who were also their stepfathers, half brothers and sisters marrying, then their progeny marrying the grandfather. The Eppersons were no exception.

Naoma sipped the water she was holding. Her face was stubbornly set, her attitude one of martyred disgust. “The Lord’s elect have a duty to keep our bloodline pure of contamination. Anyone who mingles their seed with the seed of Cain loses all right to priesthood blessings.”

“You’re telling me people of other ethnicities are inferior and God thinks incest is a good idea?”

“I would not expect you to understand the higher goal that we must aspire to as the chosen people.”

Jude realized she was going to get nowhere fast trying to make this woman feel ashamed. Naoma Epperson firmly believed her lifestyle was mandated by God and that she was being victimized by the servants of Satan. Changing direction, Jude took several photographs of the Gathering for Zion montage from her file and laid them out on the table.

“This is an amazing piece of work. Wonderful detail.”

Naoma’s pudding face registered an expression Jude couldn’t quite read. It lay somewhere between embarrassment and gratification.

Hoping she was interpreting this correctly, Jude summoned a trace of awe and asked, “Did you paint it yourself, Mrs. Epperson?”

“Yes.”

Jude’s mind raced. Naoma was proud of her painting. She had an ego. Amazing, given the life she must have led. Wondering how she could best capitalize on this chink in the head wife’s armor, she said, “I’m impressed. You have a real talent.”

“I apply my gift to the glory of God.”

Jude pointed to the white-haired zealot in the center of the image. “Your husband, right?”

It seemed Naoma couldn’t help herself. She followed the progress of Jude’s finger with a faint nod.

“And here’s you when you were younger, holding the hand of a little girl. Is that your daughter?”

“Yes.”

“She’s really beautiful. I suppose she’s married now with kids of her own.”

Jude wondered if she imagined a very slight tremble in Naoma’s hand. The head wife poured some more water into her glass from the plastic pitcher at the end of the table. “She’s far away.”

Shipped off to Bountiful, Jude deduced. According to the material she’d been reading, numerous American girls were dispatched by their families to the large polygamist settlement in British Columbia. The traffic in youthful brides went both ways, with Bountiful girls shipped across the border to marry Utah men. It was one way to freshen up the gene pool, she supposed.

“How many children do you have, Mrs. Epperson?”

“Three.”

Intrigued by this modest number, Jude said, “That’s interesting. You know, most people on the outside have this idea that women in plural-marriage situations usually have many more.”

“God chooses when to bless us with children.”

“You never took birth control?”

Naoma gave her an odd look, doubtless trying to second-guess where this line of questioning was headed. “It’s a sin to interfere in God’s business.”

“So all the members of your church simply trust that God will make the right decision about when babies should be conceived?”

“Of course.”

With slight puzzlement, Jude said, “You see, I’m wondering—if that’s the case, why would your menfolk keep fertility charts for their wives? If conception is entirely in God’s hands, why are they interfering?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Jude shrugged. “I can show you. It’s all over the Internet…men from your lifestyle sharing information about how to be sure they’ll impregnate their wives. Charts. Mucus. Female cycles. You’d think they were talking about cattle breeding.” Laughing, she added, “I guess they don’t trust God to make the decisions about what is right for a woman. They think they know better.”

Naoma blinked.

Deciding she had given her subject something to think about, Jude pointed to the painting again. “This woman. Fawn something…the one in the milkmaid costume.”

“Fawn Dew.” Naoma spat the name. A short, neatly manicured nail stabbed the picture. “And that’s her brat.”

No love lost there. “Downs syndrome?”

Amazingly, his condition was evident from the image. Naoma was no slouch. Out in the real world she could probably have made a decent living painting portraits.

With a short, disdainful grunt, the head wife said, “He’s not my husband’s child.”

“I see.” Jude studied the picture a moment longer, then as if she’d only just noticed the grotesque hunchback, she said, “And this guy. Is he really contorted like this or did the paint melt or something?”

“I paint as I see,” Naoma snapped, clearly affronted by the suggestion of sloppy craft.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend. If he’s your son, I—”

“He’s not.”

“He’s still alive?”

“Yes.”

“Amazing. Does he work or is he an invalid?” When Naoma didn’t answer, she continued, “It must be a terrible burden caring for someone with such disabilities, medical treatment costing what it does. And of course there’s the stress. His mother must be very patient.”

A small sniff. “His mother is mentally handicapped. I brought him up myself.”

Jude processed that information and tried not to leap to any conclusions. Had Naoma trained an obedient and grateful “son” rejected by all but her? Anxious to please? Mommie Dearest’s hit man?

“I guess sharing the load is one of the advantages of the larger family structure,” Jude said. “It must be a relief to know you won’t be missed the way a mother would normally be. In a typical family. I mean, where she’s the one everybody depends on.”

Naoma worked her jaw.

Blithely, Jude directed a question at Tulley. “Deputy, would you say judges tend to be lenient with mothers who commit a first offense because they don’t want to punish the children?”

“I’ve seen it happen. This would be different. For a start, you’ve got all those other wives just waiting to step into her shoes.”

“I think you’re right about that,” Jude said.

“They’re probably in her bedroom right now, dividing up her stuff,” Tulley continued. “Times like this, you see what folks are made of. Anyone with a grudge—man, they’ll be dancing on her bed.”

Jude nodded sagely and leaned a little closer to Naoma, mixing a trace of sympathy with her satisfaction. “They’re going to put you inside and throw away the key, Mrs. Epperson. We don’t even need a confession. We got ourselves an eyewitness, and he can’t wait to testify that he watched you cut Darlene Huntsberger’s tongue right out of her head.”

“You think this will go before a court? You’re sadly mistaken.” Naoma dripped smug disdain.

Jude laughed and turned to Tulley. “Go find out if the sheriff’s faxed over those extradition papers yet.”

Confusion wiped the smugness from Naoma’s face. “What are you talking about? You can’t try me in Colorado for something that happened in Utah.”

“Sure we can,” Jude said cheerfully. “The thing is, we’re bringing kidnapping and conspiracy charges against you, and the kidnapping happened in Colorado.”

“I didn’t kidnap anybody.”

“Know something? I believe you. But my boss—he doesn’t care who we put away, just so long as someone pays. You know how that goes. He needs to get himself reelected, and this case has them all riled up back in Colorado. They’re looking to make an example.”

She paused as Tulley reentered the room. He gave a thumbs-up.

“I was telling Mrs. Epperson what she can expect,” Jude said. “Reckon Sheriff Pratt will go for the death penalty?”

“You bet. He wants that family values vote real bad.”

“Yeah, those pro-lifers are busting for an execution,” Jude said. “It’s been a while in Colorado. Nineteen ninety-seven, I think. Was that the gas chamber?”

“Nah. They hanged him,” Tulley lied cheerfully, playing up their Wild West credentials.

“What?” Naoma sat forward, flushed and breathing heavily.

Jude hoped she wasn’t going to have a heart attack. She contemplated backing off a little, but the clock was ticking. They needed a confession so they could get a search warrant and have a statement that implicated Nathaniel Epperson.

In a businesslike tone, she informed Naoma, “If we’d liberated Darlene alive, the death penalty wouldn’t apply. Unfortunately for you, she turned up dead.”

“But I didn’t kill her,” the denial tumbled out.

“That’s not our problem. I recommend you see a lawyer once we get to Colorado. You’ll be needing the best defense your husband can buy for you.”

“Kidnapping.” Tulley swept his black-Irish bangs away from the plaster on his brow. “That’s a class one felony. A hangin’ offense.”

“Lethal injection, nowadays,” Jude corrected.

“I heard they look quite peaceful afterward,” Tulley said. “That’s nice.”

Naoma could struggle all she liked to keep her face impassive, but fear and fury flashed from her small blue eyes. In a voice like wet gravel, she grated, “I can pay for my own lawyer.”

“Uh-huh.” Jude gave a disbelieving smile.

Like a trapped rat, Naoma insisted, “I have money.” She groped around beneath her skirts and produced a credit card. Slapping this down on the table, she said, “I want my own lawyer. Not one my husband hires.”

“I think you’re making a mistake,” Jude replied like she had no idea why Naoma might not want an attorney who’d be looking after Nathaniel’s best interests instead of hers. “Your church has a ton of money. I’m sure they’ll hire a good defense team for you. I could make a call right now to Mr. Rockwell and let him know of your dire situation.”

“No!” Naoma banged her fist down next to the credit card. “I said I’ll pay.”

“Defense attorneys are expensive,” Jude continued dubiously. “How much money do you have?”

“Over a million dollars.” Naoma bristled. “More…I don’t know.”

“Don’t jerk me around. Where does a woman like you get a million bucks?”

“I manage my husband’s business activities.”

“And he pays you that kind of money? I thought most of the people working in your church earned less than minimum wage.”

“I pay myself.”

“What kind of business activities are we talking about here?”

“We sell investment shares.”

“In what—an oil well?”

“In the ranch. For the gathering. People pay twenty thousand dollars so they can witness the full glory of the Second Coming on the last day.”

Jude glanced sideways in time to see Tulley’s jaw descend. “Wait. You’re telling me Jesus Christ is coming to your ranch, and you’re selling tickets?”

She tried to imagine what kind of person would be taken in by a scam like that. Presumably the same kind who bought that shit about FLDS prophets being immortal and getting advance notice of the date for Armageddon.

Tulley said, “Tickets to the Second Coming. Wait till I tell my ma. She’ll probably want to buy one.”

Satisfied that she’d made her point, Naoma tucked her Visa card away and reiterated her demand for a fancy attorney.

Jude said, “I’ll make some calls for you. But first, because I believe you didn’t kill Darlene, I’m going to do you a big favor. I’m going to offer you a chance to help yourself.”

Naoma folded her arms as if she wasn’t interested, but her eyes were intent.

“After we’re done here, I’ll be heading back to that ranch of yours to arrest your husband. Now, I could be wrong, but I think he’ll bring in those high-price lawyers right away. Then he’ll say whatever it takes to get himself out of here.”

Naoma exhaled slowly and shakily. “My husband is above earthly trials. He is a high priest and can only be judged by God.”

“Be that as it may, he’s not going to want to go to jail in the meantime. In fact, he is going to do whatever his lawyers tell him to do. And guess what? They’re going to tell him to blame everything on you.” As Naoma turned her head away, Jude said, “C’mon, Mrs. Epperson. Don’t pretend you don’t know what I’m saying. How long have you been married to this man? You know exactly who he is.”

“My husband will not speak of these matters.”

“You think he’s going to be loyal to you when he’s got Fawn Dew waiting out there in her pretty dress?” Jude mocked. “You think he’s going to go to jail to save your ass?”

Naoma reached for her glass. Water spilled from one side as she lifted it.

“Listen to me.” Jude softened her tone. “You have one chance to tell your side of the story. If you wait, your husband is going to cut a deal and walk out of here, and you’ll be left facing murder charges. Trust me. I’ve seen it a thousand times.” Leaning on her a little harder, she said, “Once I walk out of here, your chance goes away. I’ll be talking to his lawyers and taking down his statement. If you think he’s going to protect you, then that’s your funeral. Like I said, my boss doesn’t care who gets the needle for this.”

She got to her feet and Tulley unlocked the door. As Jude began to walk away, Naoma blurted, “Wait.”

Jude stood still. “I’m listening.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Everything. For starters, who killed Darlene?”

“Not me.”

“Do you know who did?”

Naoma nodded, tight-lipped.

Jude returned to the table. “Are you willing to give me a statement about what happened without a lawyer present?”

Naoma said she was, and Jude reminded her again of her rights, then slid a waiver form in front of her and read it aloud before handing her a pen. After mentioning again that the interview was being recorded, she said, “Mrs. Epperson, I’m showing you a photograph. Do you recognize this girl?”

“Yes. She was my husband’s twelfth wife. We called her Diantha.”

“Do you know her real name?”

“Darlene Huntsberger.”

Looking past Naoma’s shoulder, Jude met Tulley’s eyes. He was doing his best to act like he routinely extracted murder confessions. Only his strenuous gum-chewing and propensity for rocking back and forth on his heels gave him away. Jude had asked him if he wanted to sit at the interview table, but he’d elected the spot by the door, maintaining that handsome would buy them nothing with Naoma. He was right. All the head wife wanted to do was survive so she could spend some of the cash she’d looted from her husband’s ill-gotten wealth.

“When did you first meet Darlene?” Jude asked.

“Two years ago. My husband came home from a trip to Colorado with her.” Naoma’s face was stony. “He said God had instructed him to take her as a wife.”

“Did Darlene agree to this marriage?”

“No.”

“How old was she?”

“Sixteen.”

“Did she try to leave?”

“Yes. She wanted to go back to her family.”

“What did your husband do?”

“He told us to purify her so that she was worthy to be sealed to him. She was under the influence of Satan.”

“How did you purify her?”

Naoma gulped some water down. “We had to beat the evil from her.”

“I see. Did she then agree to marry Mr. Epperson?”

Something flickered across Naoma’s face. “Yes.”

Jude gave her a hard look. “Well, that’s not the whole story, is it? What are you leaving out?”

Naoma’s eyes darted back and forth from Jude’s face to the tabletop. Like most subjects, she had no idea how transparent her body language and minute facial movements were to a highly trained detective. As a consequence, she was easily disconcerted.

Grudgingly, she said, “God revealed that she should marry one of my husband’s sons instead.”

“And did this marriage transpire?”

“Yes.”

“What was the name of the groom?”

“Hyrum Epperson.” Naoma drew the family portrait closer and stuck a finger on the hunchback with the twisted face. “Him.”

Hello, Mr. Snaggletooth. Jude stole a glance at Tulley. His arms were folded tightly across his chest. No doubt he could smell the ink on his commendation letter.

“But you said Darlene was your husband’s twelfth wife. Was she married to both men at the same time?”

“No. She was assigned to my husband later, once she had a baby on the way. God told him it was time to take her as a wife.”

The father takes the unattractive son’s pregnant wife away from him. No search party needed to find a motive for murder in a sick triangle like that one. “How did Hyrum feel about that?”

Naoma shrugged. “It was the fulfillment of prophecy.”

“What prophecy?”

“Before the end God will choose from among his servants one who takes the burden of his brother’s wife, she who multiplies his brother’s seed.”

Jude renewed her efforts to keep her face and voice free of expression. “We’ll need to confirm your story. Where can we find Hyrum?”

“He lives on the ranch.”

Tulley made a covert hand signal and pointed toward his teeth. Jude shook her head slightly. Flashing the plaster teeth at Naoma would only make her add two and two. If she thought they were in possession of evidence that could pin the murder on this Hyrum individual, they would lose their leverage.

Jude pondered her theory about the well-trained human pet once more. “You were saying you brought Hyrum up because his mother couldn’t manage him. Was this because of his physical disabilities?”

“Yes, but he was also possessed by demons.”

“How did you know that?”

“He could not be still, and when he read the scriptures he went into fits and foamed at the mouth.”

“Was he violent as a child?”

“No more than usual. I knew how to handle him.”

“Did you ever take him to a doctor for his condition?”

Naoma scoffed. “You gentiles think doctors have all the answers. The Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. My husband laid his hands upon Hyrum and our prayers were answered.”

“God healed him?”

“Not on the outside. But my husband received direction and he put Hyrum to work serving God instead of Satan.”

Jude wondered if Naoma really believed this. The woman didn’t strike her as an idiot, more likely a survivor, with a survivor’s adaptability and cunning. “What kind of work?”

“When my husband receives commands, Hyrum helps him carry them out.”

Jude took that to mean Nathaniel used his maimed son to do anything he didn’t want to dirty his hands with. She asked point blank, “Did God command that Darlene should be killed?”

“He must have.”

Jude slowly released a breath and kept her face carefully impassive. “Because your husband carried out the killing?”

“Yes. He received word from the Heavenly Father that Darlene had betrayed us and would have to atone by the spilling of blood. She had to be eliminated before she gave birth to an innocent who would be corrupted.”

“I heard that in your community babies are taken from unfit mothers and raised by others.”

“That happens,” Naoma conceded. “But God wanted this baby returned to him in heaven before Satan claimed it.”

“When did you last see Darlene alive?”

“Sunday, a month ago.”

“Tell me about that day. Where did you see her? What happened?”

“We were in the great room, praying and reading the scriptures together like we always do on the Lord’s day. That was when my husband received the revelation. When he proclaimed it, Darlene rejected God’s word and tried to run away.”

“Too pregnant to get far, I’m sure.”

“Yes. We brought her back so she could pray for the salvation of her soul.”

Jude nodded. What was wrong with these people? “What happened then?”

“After prayers, my husband took her away and I never saw her again.”

“Where was she killed?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Do you know how she was killed?”

Naoma hesitated. “Was her throat cut?”

“I’m asking you.”

“I said I wasn’t there. My husband didn’t tell me what they did.”

They. “Then what makes you think her throat was cut?”

Naoma was suddenly agitated. “You’re trying to trick me into saying something that makes me look like the guilty one.”

Jude studied her in silence. Over the years, she’d learned that amateur criminals were typically unnerved by prolonged scrutiny and would attempt to fill the uncomfortable silence. She played chicken with Naoma for several minutes, the head wife getting increasingly red-faced and restless.

Finally Jude allowed herself a sympathetic smile. “Let’s face it, Mrs. Epperson. You haven’t given me a thing. So far, it’s your word against your husband’s. Who do you think the jury is going to believe? A man prominent in his church, who has a house full of wives—it’s not like he needs to kill one to marry another. Or a head wife jealous of a young, beautiful woman who’s taken her place?”

Breathing hard, Naoma blurted, “I can prove Nathaniel did it. I kept the proof!”

“Go on,” Jude feigned boredom.

“He gave his raiment to me to wash. It was soaked in blood and there was a knife in the pocket. That’s why I thought they cut her throat.”

“What did you do with the clothing and the knife?”

Naoma eyes glittered with malice. “I put them in a trash bag and hid it in one of the barns.”

Jude felt her fingers curl into her palm and, for a moment, she kept the fist closed. A smoking gun. Naoma could parrot the submit-yourself crap all she wanted, but Gossett was right. This first wife hated her husband with a passion, and she was not as brainwashed as she made out. Not only had she siphoned a million bucks from his Armageddon scam, she’d kept herself an insurance policy in case she ever needed something to hold over him. Proof of his involvement in a murder—it didn’t get any better. Like a prisoner investing twenty years in digging a tunnel to freedom, Naoma had her eyes on the future, and she’d done whatever it took to survive in the meantime.

“I’ll need that evidence to prove you’re innocent,” Jude said blandly.

“If you let me go, I’ll tell you where it is.”

“Not an option. I’ll talk to the state attorney about reduced charges. But without that trash bag, I can promise you, you’re going down.”

She hoped Sergeant Gossett could obtain a warrant without going through the prophet’s tame judge. The ranch was on the Utah side of the boundary, and from what she’d ascertained, Mohave County had arrest authority, but who knew what would happen if the Utah powers-that-be caught a sniff of trouble brewing.

“Diantha was better off dead,” Naoma said with a trace of belligerence.

Jude bit back an angry retort and reminded herself that this woman was a victim too. She would serve time, and she would help nail the men who were the real criminals. It had to be enough.

Schooling her expression to one of unruffled tranquility, she slid a notepad across the table and said, “Draw me a map.”

The head wife looked her dead in the eye. “How long will I be in prison?”

“My guess? Five years.” As Naoma began sketching, Jude asked, “Where were you planning to go?”

Naoma didn’t pretend not to know what Jude was talking about. “Mexico.”

Jude summoned Tulley over and said, “Would you bring in some refreshments for Mrs. Epperson. Maybe a sandwich and a soda…”

Naoma looked up. “I’ll take a Turkey sandwich and Pepsi. And fetch me some ice cream. Ben and Jerry’s Karamel Sutra flavor. You can find that at the supermarket in Colorado City. Get two of them.”

Before Tulley could articulate a response, Jude said, “You heard the lady. Karamel Sutra.”

She stared at the bland beige wall as Naoma drew her picture. She would give a month’s pay to slap this woman’s face, but there was prima facie evidence to collect and a pair of handcuffs with Nathaniel Epperson’s name written on them. She could live with that.

Chapter Twelve

“This is a problem,” Sergeant Gossett said. He handed his binoculars to Jude.

They were parked about seventy-five yards from the Epperson house, Gossett standing next to his Ford pickup, Jude and Tulley beside a spare Mohave County black-and-white, and several deputies providing backup. It was not going to be enough. The place was barricaded, wood nailed over the windows, the barrels of rifles protruding from narrow gaps. The door had been fortified with a heavy iron grille bolted into place and, making as much sense as anything else about the cult, a Confederate flag was flying. Said charming touch aimed at the inevitable media, Jude supposed.

Her every instinct screamed. The situation had trouble with a capital T written all over it. “I think we should back off. It doesn’t look good.”

“Epperson won’t hang around,” Gossett said. “If we don’t pick him up now, he’ll be in Canada next time we come knocking.”

“I want to nail him too.” She didn’t add that she also wanted to get out of Utah without a major incident. “But for now, my priority is securing that evidence.”

“This can work as a distraction.” Gossett was full of bright ideas. “We’ll keep them occupied while you search that barn.”

“Let’s just notify Epperson of the search and get on with it. Then we should leave.”

“I hear you,” Gossett said. “But since we’re out here, we might as well try to bring him in. You never know. Sometimes people just want a way out.”

Jude shrugged, unwilling to overstep and risk their ability to do business in Gossett’s jurisdiction. If she was going to screw up their working arrangement, she needed to wait until after she had the murder weapon. She could see where Gossett was coming from. Cops like him spent their whole lives fighting the good fight, invisible and taken for granted, never getting a sniff at a glamour case. If Gossett was looking to make his mark before retiring, this was it. No matter how badly it panned out, there would probably be some fat in it for a guy like him, maybe even a book deal.

“It’s your call,” she said.

Gossett picked up a bullhorn, identified himself, and announced, “Nathaniel Epperson. We have a search warrant for the buildings and vehicles on this ranch. My staff will now proceed with the search. Should you wish to view the warrant, please lay down your arms and step out of the building with your hands on your head.”

The rifles remained in position, their barrels moving slightly until they were trained on the four police vehicles.

Gossett continued, “We don’t want anyone getting hurt here. Come out with your hands on your head. I personally guarantee your safety.”

The tableau remained inert, then, in a crackle of static, Epperson’s reply boomed contemptuously from a bullhorn of his own. “My safety is guaranteed by God. Yea, I will dwell forever in his heavenly sanctuary, where the crown, the heart, the seed, the feet, are unified into the most precious metal, paving the very streets with gold. Thus is the alchemy of the doctrine.”

“I left D.C. for this?” Jude muttered.

“I don’t think he’s coming out.” Tulley fidgeted with his bulletproof vest. Lowering his voice, he murmured to Jude, “What are we doing here? Why didn’t Gossett call the FBI?”

“He’s trying to avoid an escalation.”

“Could have fooled me.” Tulley cast a pointed look at the beefy sergeant.

He was dishing out orders to one of his deputies. “Call the state patrol. We need road blocks before this turns into a circus, ’cos it’s going to.” Catching a frown from Jude, he explained, “Don’t want to take any chances. If this goes out of control, the plygs will swarm in from the twin towns.”

“Terrific.” He had the fever. Jude had seen it before. Adrenaline could divorce the sanest people from their common sense and situations could suddenly gather a momentum of their own. It was on the brink of happening here.

“I’m calling Kingman,” Gossett went on. “We better get the Tactical Operations Unit out here.”

“Good plan.” Jude was aware of the clock ticking. She needed to get that evidence and extract herself and Tulley before this went south in a big way.

She scanned the outbuildings until she spotted the one that met Naoma’s description. Her objective was a small barn in poor repair, the farthest of three southwest of the house. Part of the building was charred from a fire. Jude figured she could make it as far as the large new barn nearest it without being seen. Then there was a stretch of about fifty yards in the open, completely visible to anyone watching from the north-south wing of the house.

There was always the possibility that the outbuildings themselves were staked out. Jude could see no sign of the search party on the surrounding hills. It seemed more than likely that they were holed up with Epperson, busting to defend his right to break any law he wanted on the grounds of “religious belief.”

She said, “That’s the objective. Farthest building to the right.”

“You could take one of the cars,” Gossett suggested.

“No. We need to group the vehicles for a shield.”

Three Ford PLs, a pickup and seven officers. Not exactly a show of force. There had to be at least thirty adults in that house, all of the males armed. And, if Fawn Dew was anything to go by, Epperson’s wives were gun-friendly too.

Jude studied the outbuildings closest to them, looking for protruding rifles or signs of movement. The windows and vents were too high for easy access. Any prospective snipers would have to be hanging from the rafters. But she had a feeling no one was out here. Epperson wanted a Waco. That much was obvious. He would have everyone assembled in that house, so if the whole thing went up in smoke the body count would be as high as possible.

“I’ll come with you,” Tulley said.

Jude sized things up and decided Gossett needed the extra man more than she did. “No. Stay here.” The gentle command earned a whipped-puppy look. Ignoring it, she addressed the sergeant. “How long before the TOU makes it?”

“Assume an hour. The boss says they’ll bring a chopper.”

“We don’t want to be stuck here without a SWAT team for that long,” Jude said. “So I’m going in to collect that evidence, then we’re backing off.”

Gossett seemed to be having second thoughts about his Rambo role at last. “Yeah. We’ll only get our humps busted if these screwballs want to blow themselves up and blame the government.”

Jude thought about a house full of children whose parents would probably be willing to let them die to score points against the authorities. They couldn’t allow this to escalate into a showdown. Once she had her evidence, they could leave and do nothing for a few days. Let Epperson cool off and get distracted wondering what his head wife was saying. Keep the place under surveillance and wait for the plygs to drift away. They could escort Naoma to Cortez and come back for her husband at a later date with the right personnel. There was a sane way to get the desired outcome. All she had to do was collect that trash bag and they could take Epperson when the time was right.

“You’re right about that diversion,” she told Gossett. “How about if you move the vehicles in closer and exchange a few more words with Epperson while I make a run for the barn.”

“You got it.”

They piled into the cars, Tulley looking like his firstborn just died.

Weapon in hand, Jude moved away from the group and skirted the first barn, her back to the wall. The second had a grain silo on top. In a matter of seconds, she covered the distance to take refuge in its shadow. She allowed herself exactly a minute to calm her breathing and survey her surroundings once more for signs of activity. In an odd way it was like a training exercise at Quantico. She felt cold and detached, yet tightly coiled, adrenaline charging her muscles with tension.

Taking a quick, deep breath, she stepped out into the sunlight and ran. Within seconds she heard the familiar pop of a gunshot. She hit the ground and crawled on her elbows, thinking the whole time, it really is like Quantico, only the bullets are real. Her blood group leapt to mind. AB-negative with a few unusual antigens, rare enough that she made extra donations to the blood bank. She kept meaning to freeze some, just in case. Even though she could accept blood from a good proportion of the population, she supposed in a transfusion it was always better to use your own.

Gossett’s voice echoed through the late afternoon torpor. “Hold your fire. Mr. Epperson, you are placing your family in danger. Lay down your weapons.”

Predictably, the reply was a short barrage, but none of the shots came Jude’s way. She scrambled to her feet and bolted the final twenty yards to her target.

The barn was hot and dark and smelled disgusting. Jude tried to codify the choking stench. Urine, feces, putrifying flesh, rotting vegetables, burnt timber. Shafts of light from fissures in the roof cast zebra shadows across the dirt floor. As her eyes adapted, she saw what Naoma had described, a wooden ladder leading to a loft. She was a few feet away from it when she began hearing sounds other than the rush of blood coursing through her arteries. A grunt, low whines, a faint wheezing noise like a chuckle. Animal sounds, their source perhaps ten feet away, coming from the deep shadows beneath the loft. She froze and aimed in their direction. The rasp of rapid, heavy breathing made her fingers tighten on the pistol grip.

Her instincts urged her to shoot. Her mind reasoned that anything could be cowering there in the darkness, a frightened woman, a sick animal, a youngster like Zach. She had not been attacked. There was no justification for her to open fire. The smell was overpowering, burning her nose and throat.

Gagging, she identified herself and said, “I won’t hurt you. Step away from the wall. Put your hands on your head. Come out where I can see you.”

The wheezing grew louder. Something shifted and the outline of a figure came into view. He was virtually naked, hunched and drooling from a terribly misshapen mouth. As far as she could tell, he was also unarmed.

“Hyrum?” Jude asked.

The man made a gurgling sound.

“I’m glad I found you. We need to talk.” Jude reached slowly for her handcuffs and took several steps closer. Gently, she said, “I want you to come with me. I have food and water. First I need for you to lie down on the ground.”

He dropped into a crouch. Feral eyes glimmered a warning at her and between one breath and the next, Hyrum Epperson uttered a low, guttural howl and sprang at her, clasping her around the legs, throwing her off balance. Pain shot through her thigh as his teeth sank in. For such a mangled human being, he moved with power and agility, pinning her down, clawing at her throat, resisting her frantic attempts to throw him off.

The barrel of her gun was wedged to his chest. Jude shouted, “Get off me or I’ll shoot.”

He ripped her radio away and tore at her shirt with his teeth, then found her shoulder, gouging viciously into her flesh. His hands tightened around her throat and Jude understood she was not going to be able to fight him off unless she dropped her weapon to free her right hand. She could not even move the gun away from his heart; it was the only thing stopping his weight from descending completely. One last time, she fought to break his grip and roll him off her, but he was crushing her windpipe.

She had no choice.

Jude pulled the trigger, and the hands around her throat instantly relinquished their grip. His body was thrown back, blood spraying. She hurriedly elbowed herself away and scrambled up, her gun still trained on him. His eyelids fluttered and he released a single deep sigh. Then his gaze was unseeing. Gun gases and smoke stained the air. Jude tapped the barrel of her 19 against her shoe and a small clump of gore plopped onto the hay. Fuck, she thought. The same human tartare was all over her face and through her hair, too.

With one foot, she nudged him. Then she knelt and took his pulse, the 19 hard against his temple. Hyrum Epperson was dead. She had killed a person who belonged in a mental hospital, a suspect she’d hoped would help make the case against Epperson. Shaking violently, she lurched to her feet and leaned against the wooden ladder. Her blood-soaked clothing reeked of iron, and adding to the general foulness of the environment, Hyrum had emptied his bowels. Now she had to climb into the loft and find the trash bag.

“God damn these people,” she croaked, clutching her injured throat. “Fuck you, Nathaniel Epperson. Fuck you and the horse you rode in on.”

*

“That was a gunshot,” Fawn Dew said. “Sounds like it came from over there.” She pointed at the barns on their side of the house.

Standing beside her, Summer clutched her belly. Liquid gushed from between her legs and an agonizing pain made her double up. “I think I’m having the baby,” she sobbed.

“Fetch the master,” Fawn Dew ordered.

One of the women cleaning weapons on the floor scrambled to her feet and ran from the room. Another, Thankful, stood up and came to Summer’s side. “Looks like your waters have broken,” she said, leading her to the bed.

Terrified, Summer lay down and curled onto her side. The pain intensified like a rubber band tightening around her middle.

“What are we going to do?” Thankful asked Fawn Dew, who was looking through binoculars.

Without turning around, Fawn Dew replied, “Get some water and keep her quiet. Birth pain is the price we pay for the blessing of children and the master expects that we bear it sweetly and silently.”

Summer had heard it all before and she wanted to scream anyway. How was this huge baby ever going to get out of her body? Part of her was desperate to be rid of it, another part was eager to see her child after all these months. But mostly she was afraid. And thirsty, so thirsty her tongue felt like it was glued to her teeth.

Thankful placed a hand to her brow and said, “Don’t be afraid, sister. I’ll fetch a cool washcloth.”

“And water. Please.”

Thankful was her best friend among her sister-wives. She was not one of Nathaniel’s favorites, which meant that she seldom shared his bed and was landed with some of the worst chores. She and Summer often helped one another out with their workloads and Summer made sure to watch out for Thankful’s eight kids.

“What’s happening?” she asked Fawn Dew as the pain eased. “Why are the police here again?”

“I knew that fat old bitch couldn’t keep her mouth shut,” Fawn Dew spat. “She’s told them a pack of lies, just like I said she would.”

“I don’t understand.”

Fawn Dew cast a swift, scornful look at her then gazed back out the window. “She’ll pay for it. She will atone in blood for her betrayal.”

As Fawn Dew continued her tirade, Summer felt a tightening just below the hot heavy lump of her belly. Pain amplified from front to back, stealing her breath. She turned her face into the pillow to muffle the sharp cry she could not arrest. How long would this go on? Since she’d been living at Gathering for Zion, four babies had been born. Thankful had popped her newest daughter out in two hours, but one of the other wives had been in labor for almost three days, then the baby was born dead. Everyone said her lack of faith was the cause and that God had found her unfit to be a mother.

Summer felt a crawling fear that she too might be found wanting and punished. With all her heart, she prayed, silently assuring the Heavenly Father that she submitted herself completely unto His will and would keep herself sweet, no matter what.

*

“You hear that?” Tulley asked, frantically zooming the binoculars in on the door of the broken down barn. He reached for the door handle.

In the driver’s seat, Gossett said, “Give it a minute, son.”

“No, sir. I’m going in. That was a single shot.”

He pictured a crazy guy squeezing his trigger, Jude Devine in his sights. He’d probably shot her in the back. That was exactly the cowardly shit you’d expect from people who’d slaughter innocent dogs in cold blood. Zach had told him all about that terrible day when they’d killed his dog, Sam. Tulley wanted to find those guys and see how they liked being rounded up into a pen and shot to pieces. If there was one thing he couldn’t stand, it was animal cruelty. The other thing was the thought of Jude lying wounded in that barn.

Gossett had a hold of his shoulder. “Fifty bucks says that was a model 19 we heard. If she didn’t fire again, that means her target’s down. You ever seen what a .357 Magnum does to a guy?”

“There’s nothing moving out there.” Every second counted if the sergeant was wrong about the gun. “I’m going in.”

“Suit yourself.”

What the heck was that supposed to mean? Tulley gave the guy a look. “Sir, a shot has been fired and we’re not getting any communication.”

Gossett shrugged. “She told you to stay put is all.” But he backed up his truck so they were screened by the other vehicles. “Okay, Deputy. Get in there. We got you covered.”

Tulley didn’t wait around. He dived out of the pickup and made a run for it, reaching the first barn in Olympic record time. Nothing was moving and he glanced back toward the truck. The sergeant waved him on and he sprinted to the next big barn, holding his gun extended in front of him with both hands. This made running kind of awkward and when he reached the corner of the barn, he paused for a few seconds to catch his breath and take a look around.

Ahead of him lay the open expanse of dirt he would have to cross. They could see it from the house, that’s if they were looking. He wondered if he should crawl across it instead of running. Or maybe he should run crouched with his pistol in one hand. It wasn’t like he was under fire. Not yet, anyway.

He peered around the corner of the barn trying to make out if there were rifles jutting from the boarded up windows along the south facing elbow of the house. He was too far away to be sure. An image flashed into his mind--himself standing in front of the entire Cortez PD and Sheriff’s Office at the annual ceremony, getting the medal for valor. That would mean a promotion, for sure.

He darted across the open space, but only made a few strides when something whizzed past him and he heard the pop pop of shooting. Dust sprayed at his foot where a bullet hit the ground. The barn door swung open and Jude stood there drenched in blood.

“Get down!” she yelled.

Which was exactly what happened. He fell. Flat on his face. But it wasn’t an intentional dive. His legs were knocked out from under him. Pain erupted and he grabbed his left thigh. Blood spurted between his fingers.

“I’m hit!” Did that squeal belong to him?

Jude pointed to the large barn behind him and shouted, “Go back! Go!” She picked up a black trash bag. Clutching it to her, she ran.

“No! Get down,” he begged, but she wasn’t listening.

Tulley tried to shuffle backward toward the barn, hanging on to his leg. Dust sprayed in his face where another bullet earthed. His heart pounded in his ears and he hurled himself around and managed to get to his feet, balancing on his good leg. Bullets zinged and hissed. A laser pierced his side, and he felt his flesh curdle. Pain and sweat blinded him and he sagged to his knees.

He heard Jude yelling like a slave-driver, “Move!” and “Go, Tulley!” then a stampede of feet.

The trash bag soared past him and landed somewhere ahead. A hand caught hold of his arm beneath the shoulder and the wind was knocked out of him as Jude hauled him into a fireman’s lift and staggered the remaining yards.

Seconds later they were both on the ground in the shade of the barn and she had her shirt off, ripping at it with a pocket knife. Underneath it, her white T-shirt was glued to her body, soaked in blood.

Panicking, Tulley asked, “Where’d he get you?”

“I’m not hit. But you should see the other guy.”

Tulley didn’t have the strength to laugh like a normal person. His teeth were chattering, and a sound like a girly hiccup rose from his throat. He covered his mouth, frightened he was about to throw up.

Jude touched his shoulder. “Okay, buddy?”

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

“I’m going to fucking kill him,” she announced with dark calm as she fastened a tourniquet around his leg.

“I thought you already did.” Tulley craned to see the barn. Was there a second assailant?

Jude took the radio from his shoulder and got Gossett on the other end, “Officer down. I repeat, officer down. Get your truck over here. Now.”

Her voice was scratchy and uneven and she placed a hand to her throat. It was red and purple with bruises.

Tulley stared at the injury. He could make out the imprint of fingers. “Your neck…what happened?”

“I behaved like an amateur. We need to get this off.” She unbuttoned his shirt and helped him shrug out of it. The whole time she was mumbling the kinds of cusswords Tulley could only say in his head. “If I have to use my bare hands, I’m going to take him apart,” she noted as she drew Tulley’s T-shirt up and examined the wound to his side. Her hands dripped blood. She stared down at his midriff with a frown.

Embarrassed, Tulley said, “I got bullied real bad in school.”

“Are those from cigarette butts?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He touched a familiar scar above his heart. “And this one is where a guy carved his initials.”

“I see.” Her expression didn’t change. “How’s the pain?”

“Pretty bad.”

The Ford pickup jerked to a halt a few yards away and Gossett jumped out. He was carrying an HK MP5 like he knew how to use it. Amazed to see a peace officer with the kind of close-quarters battle weapon you’d normally expect to find in the hands of a SWAT team member, Tulley said, “I don’t think he won that in a poker game.”

Jude placed Tulley’s hand firmly against his ribs and instructed with grim humor, “Try not to bleed too much.” She stood up and greeted Gossett. Indicating the submachine gun, she asked, “Got another one of those in the truck?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. You tactical weapons trained?”

“Yep.”

He grinned. “I kinda guessed that.”

“We need to get him to the hospital.”

“No point waiting for a bus. Deputy Gonzales better take him.”

“Where’s your first aid kit?”

“I got it.” He headed back to the truck, talking into his radio.

Jude crouched down next to Tulley and said, “They both look like flesh wounds. You’ll be fine.”

He glanced down at his wet red hand, surprised at how composed he felt now that the urge to vomit had passed. “Do you think I’ll get a promotion?”

Jude’s sleepy stone moss eyes swept his face and she cocked her head like she hadn’t heard right. “Okay. Now I get it. You weren’t rushing to my assistance like Sir Galahad. You were shopping for a bullet so you could increase your take-home pay.”

She was teasing, Tulley decided. Sometimes it was hard to tell with her. She kept a straight face like she meant every word. The eyes were flat, the mouth hard and not too feminine either. She had a mulish look about her—that’s what his ma said after they met at the ceremony for Smoke’m. Tulley wasn’t sure if he’d go that far, but the detective wasn’t soft or pretty and she didn’t wear lipstick. Some of the guys said she was probably a lesbian, but they only made their dumb remarks behind her back. Too scared to say it to her face was Tulley’s guess. She had that effect on people. He saw it all the time.

He thought maybe it was because she didn’t smile that much, and Steve Abbott down at the shooting range said she shot like she was born with a six-shooter in one hand and a Winchester in the other. She could put three bullets in the same hole at 300 yards and never went over 0.5 MOA. Abbott said she must be sniper trained. No one at the MCSO had a scorecard like hers.

She didn’t say a whole lot, either, and Tulley didn’t ask too many questions, even though the boys in Cortez were busting their asses to know why she’d left the FBI and who she talked to on her cell phone. Since Tulley had gotten himself assigned to Paradox, he’d gone up in the popularity stakes, which wasn’t that big of a deal. When you’re at rock bottom, things can only get better. The sheriff’s office reminded him of school sometimes, only these days no one called him a faggot or stole his clothes, and he didn’t get beat up in the john.

He had thought everything would be different if he moved to a place where no one knew him and no one would ever hear about his humiliations in high school. He didn’t stutter anymore; he’d spent a year curing himself of that before he went to the police academy. Yet he wondered if people still heard some trace of his speech defect. He spoke slowly and sang any complicated sentences in his head first, but sometimes he caught them staring at him all weird or smirking when they thought he couldn’t see. He never knew if it was his imagination or not.

He felt his hand pulled away from his ribs and Jude poured some medical-smelling fluid into his wound, then taped gauze over it front and back. She sat him up and wrapped a bandage around his middle, saying, “I want your abs, pal.”

Tulley laughed then winced, and Jude ran a gentle hand over his hair, moving it back off his face with the absent-minded tenderness of a mom like the ones on TV. The gesture took him by surprise.

“I’m real sorry to have put you in harm’s way, Detective. You shouldn’t have rescued me like that.”

She said, “Jesus, Tulley, I was rescuing myself. I just happened to haul your ass out of there at the same time.”

He looked at her damaged neck again. It was even more purple. “What happened in the barn?”

“I met Hyrum.”

“Mr. Snaggletooth?” Tulley wished he could go see.

“Otherwise known as the deceased.” She looked at his leg wound but let it be, then took his pulse.

“You took him out?”

“He got up close and personal. I don’t appreciate that in any man, let alone one who stank like him.”

Tulley wanted to say something about the attempted strangulation that wasn’t insulting. Obviously she was sensitive about what had happened and was playing it down. Her pride was at stake, he thought. Best thing he could do was make like it was no big deal.

Cheerfully, he said, “Guess the dust was the last thing that mutant’ll be biting.”

This drew one of her rare smiles. “Think you can walk to the truck?”

*

“Sounded like gunshots,” Adeline said.

They both hung out of the cave mouth and stared around the valley. The figures they’d seen drawing closer that morning had retreated to the ranch a few hours back. Daniel said maybe they’d given up, but Adeline wasn’t so sure. In the distance she could make out the same cluster of vehicles parked in the Epperson’s yard. No one had gone home. Maybe they were just resting up in the heat of the day.

“You want to get going?” Daniel asked.

Adeline had been trying to decide whether this was the time to make their move. They couldn’t stay in the cave forever with Daniel’s leg the way it was. But it would be crazy to leave if the searchers were going to come back at any moment.

“If they don’t come back, we’ll leave tomorrow morning,” she said.

“Where will we go?”

“We have to find a road. Then we’ll follow it north and when we’re clear of this place, we’ll hitch a ride.”

Daniel looked uncertain. “Everyone’s looking for us.”

“Everyone’s looking for me. A girl. Two boys trying to get a ride out of this place—you think they’ll try and stop us? I doubt it.”

Several more of the distinctive cracks sounded in the distance and Daniel said, “I reckon they’re coming from the ranch. Look, there’s lights flashing.” He pointed slightly away from the house.

“They’ve called the cops.” Adeline said, shocked.

“Go!” Daniel urged. “I’ll stay here and when they find me I’ll tell them we split up and you went the other way.”

She tried to decide. Without Daniel slowing her down she could probably hike ten miles by nightfall. She had no idea how far they were from the road she’d traveled along a week ago, but it couldn’t be more than a couple of days’ walk. But what if the police didn’t find Daniel? What if he waited another day, then tried to make it out of here alone?

“Let’s wait and see what happens.” She shielded her eyes against the light. If old man Epperson had called in the cops to look for her, why weren’t they out here already? Why were they parked away from the house with their lights flashing? Who was shooting?

She had an idea. “I think there’s something going on down there. Maybe I’ll go see.”

“Are you crazy?”

She fidgeted with the pocketknife. He was right. It was a dumb idea. “I had my own cell phone when I lived with Aunt Chastity,” she said, knowing he’d be impressed. Women and kids weren’t allowed to use phones in any plyg family she knew. “My daddy took it off me when they brought me back here. Wish I had it now.”

She slid back down into the cave and worked open a can of beans with the attachment on Daniel’s knife. She was about to discard the lid when a shaft of light hit the metal and beamed onto the rear wall of the cave. Adeline stared at the illuminated spot, then wiped the lid clean and placed it on the cloth bundle that held her most important possessions. Once she and Daniel started their long hike, they would need a way to signal one another if they got separated for any reason. That was something else she’d learned from Aunt Chastity. A tin can lid could act like a mirror. She scavenged the litter pile in the corner of their hideaway and located another one.

As she cleaned it off, Daniel moved gingerly down from the lip of the cave and settled on the cool rock next to her. They shared the can of beans in silence.

Adeline couldn’t stop thinking about her phone. It was the obvious answer to their problems. How come she hadn’t thought about it sooner? Irritated, she mumbled, “I am so dumb.”

Daniel said, “What?”

“We don’t have to hitch rides all the way to Salt Lake City. All we have to do is find a phone and call Aunt Chastity, and she’ll come pick us up!”

Daniel’s forehead crumpled into a puzzled frown like this was a really bizarre idea. “Where can we find one?”

“I don’t know, but I need to go see.”

Daniel’s expression grew nervous. “You want me to wait here?”

She took his hand. “I promise I’ll come back for you. Okay?”

“Take the knife.”

“No. You need it to open cans.” Adeline assessed their dwindling water supply. “You remember how to get water from the dew?”

He nodded, and she took their last full bottle, leaving him with one that had enough in it to get him through the night. She packed the water in her cloth kit along with a few eggs she’d left out in the sun to cook inside their shells the day before. Then she started back up to the cave mouth.

“Good luck,” Daniel called after her.

He sounded so worried, she stopped and turned around. He was crying, his hands over his face. Adeline put her kit down and went back over to kneel next to him.

It was forbidden to hug a boy, but she held him tight anyway and said, “When all this is over, we’ll have as much food as we can eat and we’ll get to sleep in beds with soft pillows made of feathers.”

He drooped against her, making her shoulder moist. “I’ll pray for you.”

Adeline wished she could feel comforted by that, but she knew it wasn’t God who was going to save her. She had to do that for herself.

Chapter Thirteen

After Gonzales drove off with Tulley, Jude stowed the evidence in a cooler in the back of Gossett’s truck, climbed into the passenger seat and retrieved the spare MP5 from behind it. She and the sergeant shut their doors, hit the aircon, and sat in silence as the adrenaline tide washed out.

“You better get those bites seen to,” Gossett said after a time. “They give you a rabies shot when the biter’s human?”

“Right now, I’m more interested in morphine.” Jude studied the painful dentition on her shoulder. It looked like a pretty good match for the marks on Darlene’s swollen body. “Could you take a photograph of this, Gossett?”

Not that it mattered anymore. Hyrum wouldn’t be standing trial. Even if he had lived, he would have been found mentally incompetent; she was certain of that. But he could have led them to the murder scene and given his version of events. He could have testified against Nathaniel Epperson, and any jury would have been able to draw some conclusions about a man who had never sought medical help for his disturbed son and had instead used him as an attack dog.

Again Jude berated herself for failing to take appropriate precautions. What in hell was wrong with her? It was not like she hadn’t added two and two the moment she set eyes on the drooling hunchback. He was obviously the man who had semi-cannibalized Darlene. Did she think he was going to behave rationally and allow her to cuff him without putting up a fight? Had she lost her edge living in the slow lane—playing the part of a small-town sheriff’s detective, was she now thinking like one?

No, Jude realized. She had pitied Hyrum. She had seen a tortured soul and for a lethal split second she had thought: what if it were Ben? Angry with herself, she located her viscera-coated shirt and fished around in the breast pocket, retrieving the small Olympus camera she kept there. Gossett aimed it at her shoulder. Incredibly, it still took photos after its baptism in blood.

He said, “Want the one on your leg, too?”

“Sure. Why not.” Jude ripped her pants away a little more and held her leg where he could get an angle on the wound.

“Make sure they test for HIV,” he advised after handing the camera back. “You look like you partied with a vampire.”

“Sure feels like it.” She opened her cell phone and bleakly reviewed her options. It was time to call Sheriff Pratt and fill him in on the good news that the case was pretty well solved. Admittedly, she had killed one of the lead suspects, almost lost a deputy, and was now involved in an armed standoff, but hey!

Jude winced as she pulled her T-shirt sleeve back over her shoulder. Maybe she should put off talking to Pratt until after they’d notified the FBI.

Gossett read her mind. “What do you reckon? Time to bring in the big guns?”

She nodded. “Want to make the call?”

They would need to follow protocol and go through Kingman. She could just imagine how that was going to play out. A couple of Colorado cops show up and cause all kinds of trouble then head home, squeaky clean, leaving the Mohave County Sheriff to take the media heat and explain himself to the Utah cadre after calling in the FBI. This was exactly the kind of potential career-destroyer no cop in his right mind wanted to deal with.

Reading Gossett’s faint hesitation, she said, “We can’t delay until the TOU gets here. These people aren’t going to play by the rulebook.”

Gossett picked up the radio. “One thing I don’t understand. What the heck is it about religion that makes people pull this crazy shit?”

“Answer that, and they’ll give you the Nobel Peace Prize.”

Jude wondered how long it would take Gonzalez to get to the hospital. She wished she could have gone, but Tulley’s wounds were not critical and she could not leave Gossett here to deal with a problem that was largely of her making. She had to call Pratt. But first, she would need to speak with her FBI handler.

“I need to make a call,” she told Gossett and cautiously got out of the truck, heading for the deep shadows behind the barn. A few yards from the vehicle, she crouched down with her back to the wall of the building and rehearsed a calm statement as she dialed.

Her contact said, “What’s happening?”

“It’s coming down.”

“Utah?”

“Yeah. It’s a standoff. Subjects barricaded in a domestic dwelling. Maybe twenty armed adults plus an unknown number of civilian women and children.”

“Who’s dealing?”

“We’re calling in federal support now.”

A faint pause. “Get your ass out of there.”

“Sir, I can’t leave until support arrives. We only have five officers present.”

“Copy that. But Hawke watches TV. As soon as the situation is under control, you’re back in Paradox.”

“Got you.”

There was no way Harrison Hawke would take her to his saggy bosom if he thought she was involved in an operation like this. At the first sniff of another Waco, he and his buddies would be wetting themselves in anticipation of a federal government screw-up. Surrounding the home of some white, Christian patriots who were merely exercising their constitutional right to bear arms and exercise religious freedom was an act of tyranny and treason as far as the Aryan nation was concerned.

She said, “I’ll lay low and keep you apprised of any developments. Can we run some interference?”

“Got it covered.”

Jude let go of the shallow breath she’d held too long. Her masters would see to it that her name never hit a newspaper. The sheriff at Kingman would receive some mysterious orders and instruct Gossett accordingly. So long as she didn’t get her face splattered across the TV screen, she could slide out from under this with her cover intact and her disheartened ex-fed story unblemished.

As she signed off, she realized this mattered to her. She didn’t want to leave Paradox. She’d invested a year in this surveillance op and things were getting interesting. The FBI could no longer check the names of gun purchasers against terror watch lists thanks to changes that pandered to the gun lobby—one of the major success stories in the white militia movement. Thanks to former Attorney General John Ashcroft, sales records for guns were not kept for ninety days anymore; they were now pegged at a laughable twenty-four hours. So much for national security.

Despite this hurdle, the team investigating Hawke had tied him, via Internet transactions, to the purchase of twenty semiautomatic 82A1 rifles. The Barrett .50 caliber battlefield weapon was in a class by itself. David Koresh had turned one on the FBI at Waco. The sucker had a 2,000 yard range and, even using standard ball ammo, it could take out a vehicle and destroy an aircraft with a single well-placed hit.

In their wisdom, the authorities treated these as hunting rifles, so Hawke’s purchase was not illegal, merely suspicious. What would anyone want with a stack of BMG armor-piercing sniper rifles? Hawke had never so much as hunted a chicken, unless you counted his midnight drives to the KFC in Montrose. There was nothing unusual about a neo-Nazi hoarding weapons. What had the Bureau interested was the nature and quantity of Hawke’s purchases, and how they were being funded. They were now almost certain Saudi money was involved, top-secret intelligence that could see their investigation shut down.

Disturbing whispers of links between extreme right militias and Islamic terrorists were growing louder. Since 9/11 several neo-Nazi websites had listed links to Islamic sites, and the American Front and a few other hate groups had lauded Osama bin Laden as an enemy of Zionism. To complicate matters, the dangerous Central American crime gang the Mara Salvatrucha was thought to be smuggling al Qaeda operatives into the U.S. from across the Mexican border. A few intelligence reports were suggesting neo-Nazi involvement in hiding these sleepers.

Over the past several months, Hawke had been trying to obtain illegal Raufoss high-explosive rounds, and Jude’s masters were now toying with the concept of a sting operation. First, they wanted to know what he was up to. If he had a target in mind and had started planning, there were probably other domestic terrorists involved. They could not risk shutting him down before they knew enough to thwart the attack.

Jude wanted to see this one out. She also wanted to put some roots down. Having cut herself adrift from her past, she felt strangely unanchored, yet out here, far from the world she had once inhabited, she could also breathe easier, and she wanted to stay awhile.

There was also Mercy. She rejected the thought instantly. Mercy was not a consideration. None of her casual encounters had ever figured into her thinking and Mercy Westmoreland was no exception. They were two adults who had engaged in a mutually gratifying physical transaction. Period. There was no relationship, and no pretense that the desire for one existed. They would never be more to each other than occasional sexual partners. Mercy had made that abundantly clear and Jude appreciated her honesty. In a situation like theirs it was important to be on the same page or someone could get hurt.

She swapped to her work cell phone and fortified herself with rationalizations in readiness for her next call. She had nothing to apologize for. They’d found Darlene’s killer and had evidence that would hopefully tie him to the crime. All she had to do now was bring him in. Admittedly that might require the National Guard, but in the end, Sheriff Pratt would be able to look Clem Huntsberger in the eye, just like he wanted.

She hit her speed dial and told herself to keep her cool. Pratt was not going to be happy about one of his deputies getting wounded and that was understandable. Jude wasn’t happy either. He was also going to hear from her boss and that would make him jumpy. Jude decided to give him a heads-up about that, so he wouldn’t be taken by surprise.

“Jude?” The voice was not Pratt’s.

“Mercy?” Jude lowered her phone and stared at the pad. She must have mis-keyed. “I’m sorry. I meant to call the sheriff.”

“He can wait. It’s good to hear from you. Are you still in Utah?”

“Yes.”

“Any progress?”

“One arrest. One dead. And Deputy Tulley is wounded.”

“Damn. Is he okay? Are you okay?”

“He’s going to be fine. He took one in the leg and one in the side. Both bullets exited.”

“You must be feeling like shit.”

Jude didn’t want to go down that track in case she burst into tears like a rookie. She glanced across at the truck. Gossett was still talking into his radio. “How are things with you?”

“I’m at the hospice. It won’t be long, now.”

What was there to say that wasn’t completely trite? Mercy was about to lose a parent. “I can’t imagine how hard that is.”

“He’s ready, I think. We’ve said our good-byes.” Mercy’s breath seemed to catch in her throat. “He’s been a great father to me and he was a good husband to my mom.”

Jude could believe that. Mercy exuded the confidence of a person whose parents had nourished her in every way and the self-esteem of a woman cherished and encouraged by her father. In the very best sense, she seemed like a daddy’s girl. This loss was going to be a huge blow to her. Jude’s first instinct was to get in her car and drive nonstop until she reached Grand Junction, just so she could be there for her. As if Mercy would want that.

Feeling foolish, she said, “I’m so very sorry.”

“Thank you.” A long pause. Jude heard her blow her nose. When she started talking again, she changed the subject, asking with a brittle edge, “So, when will you be back?”

“Pretty soon. Maybe tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

Wondering if she’d imagined trace of relief in that reply, Jude asked, “Is your friend still with you?”

“Yes. Why?” A teasing note entered her voice. “Are you jealous?”

Yes. Jealous as all hell. Jude remained silent for a beat, getting a grip. She had no right to be jealous. Apart from being irrational, it was immature. All the same, she said, “I don’t like sharing.”

Mercy laughed. “How frank of you to admit it.”

“What do I have to lose?”

“You tell me,” Mercy said softly.

“That’s another conversation.”

“Perhaps we could have it some time.”

What was Mercy saying? Jude frowned. This was not the time or place to ask. She got to her feet, shuffled along the wall to the far end of the building and peeped around the corner. There was nothing moving. The Epperson house was so still, it looked almost unoccupied, yet there was a brooding menace about it. Jude shivered. She needed to get back in the vehicle, not stand out here delaying the inevitable good-bye.

“Are you still there?” Mercy asked.

“Yes, but I need to get going.”

“You didn’t answer me.”

“What was the question?”

“It was more of an invitation.”

Dryly, Jude said, “I don’t do love triangles. Or threesomes.”

“And I don’t do jealous partners.”

“Well, I’m glad we got that out of the way.”

“You have a temper,” Mercy said.

“And you’re a tease.”

“Will you come see me when you get back?”

Jude rolled the dice. “That depends.”

An audible intake of breath. Eventually, Mercy said, “I can’t change who I am.”

“No one is asking you to. You’re…perfect.”

“I bet you say that to all the girls.”

“Give me some credit.”

“I wish you were here. Tonight…now.” Mercy sounded drained suddenly.

Me too, Jude thought, sliding her way back along the barn wall toward Gossett’s truck. Mercy Westmoreland’s delicious, if elusive, self versus a house full of religious extremists hoping for Armageddon. No contest, really.

“I wish I could do something to help,” Jude said in neutral tone.

“That wasn’t what I meant.”

Pushing the envelope a little more, Jude replied pointedly, “Give me a call after your friend leaves.”

Mercy was silent for a long moment, then she said, “Pass my best wishes on to Deputy Tulley.”

“I’ll do that.” Jude had a feeling this was Mercy blowing her off. She looked up at the sound of a chopper approaching and heaved a sigh of relief when she saw the dark figures within. The Tactical Ops Unit hadn’t wasted any time.

Mercy lingered. “Take care of yourself.”

“You, too.”

“Jude…” The tone was regretful. A bad sign. “I really do like you.”

“I like you, too, Mercy.” Jude vacillated, unwilling to end it there.

But by the time she came up with some suitable wording, Mercy had ended their call with a wistful good-bye.

*

“It’s a helicopter.” Fawn Dew aimed her rifle higher and fired a couple of shots, then instructed a boy standing next to her, “Go tell the master it’s time to get that grenade launcher set up.”

Summer groaned and tried to see if Thankful was in the room, but she could barely lift her head. Pain squeezed her like a giant hand until she could feel fluid dripping from her pores. She was drenched, her nightdress clinging to her skin, the bedding soaked with sweat and blood. The spells between her contractions were so short now, she could hardly catch her breath before her body was trapped once more in that merciless grip.

Sobbing, she called Thankful’s name and Fawn Dew turned to her with a look of irritation. “Thankful is busy.”

“Please. I need some water.”

“You’ll keep.”

“Why won’t God help me?”

“Ask him.”

Summer wept anew. “I think I’m going to die.”

“Every woman thinks that when she’s having a baby.”

Something tore at her and Summer screamed and reached down between her legs. Her fingers met a smooth foreign wet lump. “There’s something there,” she cried. “Please, Fawn Dew. Help me.”

With a loud sigh, Fawn Dew left her post at the window and flounced across the room, her stiff petticoats bristling against her pink gingham dress. Summer would know that sound anywhere. She was the one who had to starch and iron Fawn Dew’s clothes.

Her husband’s favorite swept back the bedclothes, lifted Summer’s nightgown and inspected her. Something in her face changed and Summer could tell she was shocked. “What is it?” she asked in a panic.

“I think it’s your baby’s foot.”

“So he’s coming? Oh, praise the Lord.”

But Fawn Dew said nothing. She looked under Summer’s nightgown once more then marched to the door and yelled, “Thankful! Get your fat ass in here!”

One of the children hanging around the doorway, a girl of around ten, pointed at a sign on the wall and said, “Keep yourself sweet, Sister-Mom.”

Fawn Dew cuffed the girl around the head and yelled for Thankful again. This time a man stuck his head in the door, informing them, “We need this room.”

“Yes, sir,” Fawn Dew simpered. All eyelashes and coy smiles, she stuck her bosom out and said, “I’d be so grateful and I know the Heavenly Father would guide you, if you could come over right now and deliver this baby. Then we could be out of your way in a minute.”

“Er…” He cleared his throat. “We can wait a bit longer.”

Even as he backed out into the hall, she followed him, insisting sweetly, “Please, Brother. The birth is slow and there is a problem.”

“Then we must speak with Brother Epperson,” he said.

“Yes, my husband will know what to do.”

Several minutes later, they returned with the master, who laid his hands upon Summer’s head. At his touch, a warm tide washed through her and her pain was miraculously relieved.

“The spirit is with me,” she breathed, filled with hope. God spoke through her husband and she trusted He would now save her.

Nathaniel continued in prayer for a little longer, then announced, “I will speak to the prophet,” and took out his cell phone, moving to the window.

A hushed awe descended on the room, broken only by the moans and gasps Summer tried to stifle. When Nathaniel returned he stood in the middle of the room, surrounded by his wives and the men who had been out on the search party, each with a rifle in his hand.

He raised his arms and said, “God has spoken. We will wait for Summer to bring forth her child. If she has not done so by dawn, that will be a sign from God that she must atone for the grave sins she has committed.”

Summer’s head spun. What was he saying? She caught Thankful’s eye and made a silent plea. Pale faced, Thankful came to her bedside and stroked the hair back from her face.

They both listened as Nathaniel concluded with some good news. “The child is blameless and he is worth ten of the mother. When the time comes, he will be spared.”

Chapter Fourteen

Chastity Young surfaced from a deep sleep and squinted at the digital display next to her bed. Two in the morning and someone was banging on her door. She turned on the lamp and swung her legs over the side of the bed, sliding her feet into a pair of fluffy mules. The doorbell rang some more, followed by a volley of loud knocks. She stumbled to her bedroom window in panicky confusion, assuming there had been an accident nearby or maybe something terrible had happened at a neighbor’s house. Lifting, her blackout shade, she peeped out at the front driveway and frowned at the sight of an old Chevy pickup.

Her thoughts instantly jumped to Adeline. Could her niece have run away and come back home? Had she caught a ride with a stranger? Elated at the possibility, Chastity hurried from her room to the front door. Through the peephole she saw a young man in his twenties wearing the plyg uniform of dark pants with suspenders over a plaid shirt. He looked vaguely familiar, and it seemed safe to assume he was one of her sister’s many offspring, but she made sure her security chain was secure before she opened the door.

Her nocturnal visitor did not waste any time on small talk. “Mrs. Young?”

“And you are?”

“Woodruff Fleming.”

Chastity tried to place him. “The fourth son?”

“The third, ma’am.” The reply was courteous but barren of warmth. “My daddy sent me. Is Adeline here?”

Chastity’s heart leapt but she was careful not to show her emotions. Schooling her tone to one of bland indifference, she said, “Your father took Adeline away about a week ago, remember?”

He craned past her to see into the house. “Has she been here since yesterday?”

“Why would she be here?” Chastity had to bite her lip not to spit the next question out like she was ready to punch someone. “Isn’t she married?”

“She went missing.”

“Missing?” Chastity caught her breath.

With an impatient snort, he said, “Thanks to you, she desecrated the good name of our family by running away before she could be sealed.”

“Nice of you to drop by and let me know.”

He was speechless for a few seconds. “If you take her in, you will atone.”

“Oh, I see.” Her temper got the better of her. “Your father was too chicken to come and threaten me himself so he sent you? What a piece of work.”

Woodruff handed her a piece of paper with a phone number scrawled on it. “If she comes here, call this number.”

Chastity laughed. “Your sister won’t be coming here. This is the first place your father would come looking for her, so she’ll be headed in the opposite direction. She always used to talk about California, come to think of it. If I were you, I’d look there.”

He surveyed her dubiously.

“Seriously, er…Woodruff.” Chastity adopted a sincere, almost sympathetic tone. “Even though your family and I don’t see eye to eye on a lot things, I don’t like to think of Adeline out there by herself. A fourteen-year-old girl should be at safely at home where she can’t come into harm’s way. You know—end up molested by some disgusting pervert five times her age…that type of thing. Who did you say she was supposed to be marrying?”

Woodruff’s face was frozen in self-righteous affront. “God is watching you,” he warned, and strode off toward his pickup.

“Hey, Woodruff,” Chastity yelled after him. “God is watching you, too. And guess what? He said you shall have no other gods before Him. Think about that next time you break a commandment following orders from that self-appointed prophet you all worship.”

After she’d made this announcement to the entire neighborhood, she slammed her door and slid the security chain in place with shaking fingers. She should have felt a sense of satisfaction about making her point, but her older sister Vonda’s family was a lost cause. The Flemings had broken away from the mainstream Mormon church a few years after they married. Tucker, her sister’s husband, had started reading polygamist literature and decided that the only way to the celestial kingdom was through plural marriage. He duly announced a revelation from the Heavenly Father that Chastity should become his second wife, which, given he could barely keep his hands off her ass, seemed remarkably opportune. When she declined this honor, he moved his family to Hildale where he could find more submissive young women.

In the fifteen years since then, he and Vonda had added ten more kids to their brood and he’d married two other women, the minimum to ensure his place as a god in the celestial kingdom. Chastity often wondered how Vonda coped without the antidepressants she’d been addicted to before the move. The last time they saw one another was when she’d showed up with Adeline three years earlier. Chastity had been shocked to open the door to a prematurely ageing woman unrecognizable as the funny, adventurous big sister she grew up with. Vonda was a mere shell of herself. She had a chronic cough and a bladder infection and said she could not cope with Adeline. Somehow she’d talked Tucker into handing her over to Chastity instead of marrying her off on her twelfth birthday to one of his brothers.

Despite the rationalizations Vonda trotted out about her illness and the need to make Adeline more feminine so she didn’t disgrace them when she was married—an argument that had apparently won the day with her husband—Chastity sensed an underlying desperation. Her sister had not yet surrendered the final vestiges of her own decency; she didn’t want her prepubescent daughter to be raped by her own uncle.

This small act of rebellion was the only sign Chastity could find of the woman she had once looked up to. She played her role in the necessary farce, assuring Vonda that she would help ready Adeline for decent wifehood at some later date, and there would be no dating, no haircuts, and plenty of scripture reading. The entire time they spoke, Adeline was silent and downcast, one hand toying with her tight braid, her gaze never leaving the floor.

As soon as the Flemings had left, Chastity said, “The first thing we’re going to do is get you out of those ridiculous clothes.” She led Adeline upstairs. “Let’s find something more comfortable for you to wear tonight. Tomorrow we’ll go to the mall and you can choose some new clothes.”

Within minutes, Adeline was standing in her closet with her, looking through racks of pants and tops. In the end she picked out a pair of old Levis and said, with trepidation, “Am I allowed to wear these?”

“I wear pants most of the time. And God hasn’t struck me down yet.”

Adeline wavered, glancing back at forth between a row of skirts and the jeans she obviously found more appealing. In the end the jeans won and she chose a rugby shirt to go with them.

After she’d taken a shower, she emerged, wrapped in a toweling robe, and nervously asked, “Sister, do you have a hairbrush I could use? I left mine behind.”

Chastity pulled out the chair from in front of her dressing table and said, “Sit down. I’ll comb out the knots for you. And I’m not your sister, I’m your Aunt Chastity. Okay?”

Halfway through the painful process, Adeline said, “I wish I had hair like yours. It’s really beautiful.”

“Thank you.” Chastity smiled. “I don’t know where the auburn came from. Everyone in the family is blond like you.”

“I’m not a proper blond. You should see my sister, Summer. Her hair is almost white.”

“Is Summer older or younger than you?” Chastity felt sad to think she knew only the oldest of her nieces and nephews, those born before Tucker Fleming had latched onto the perfect way to justify his infidelities.

“She’s thirteen. But I’m taller than her.”

Chastity smiled, remembering how important that once was to her. She’d been the shortest in her family until she was twelve, then she’d shot up four inches almost overnight. She still had long legs, no hips, and almost no breasts. Adeline had the same coltish build. Something about the girl reminded Chastity of herself as a kid, and it wasn’t just her physique. Adeline had an air of defiance even her nineteenth-century clothing could not disguise. It announced itself in the stubborn set of her jaw and the piercing intelligence of her gaze.

Her dark brown eyes sought Chastity’s and she said, “How long will I be staying with you?”

“Quite some time. Perhaps a year or so.”

“Where’s Uncle Orrin?”

“I threw him out a year after we were married.”

Adeline quickly lowered her head but not before she’d emitted a startled giggle. “Do my parents know?”

“I suspect not.”

The Flemings had attended her wedding seven years before, and the funerals of both her parents, but had not been in contact since. Chastity knew they would not have been so quick to leave Adeline with her had they known she’d not only divorced Orrin but had left the church, as well. Her temple recommend was automatically rescinded after her marriage ended, a fact that had rankled much more than Chastity expected. It bugged her that a blameless divorced women was deemed unfit to enter the temple, but a lousy ex-husband could come and go as he pleased.

She was so irritated by this that she refused to obtain a cancellation of sealing so she could get her recommend back. Instead, she started thinking about the way women were treated in the church, her anger giving way to an exploration. She’d spent months reading and thinking about the beliefs she’d taken for granted her whole life. The more she learned, the less she clung to the familiar, until the time came when she realized she was happier outside of the church than in it.

She stopped feeling angry and became aware of a strange sense of relief. For many people the church provided security, comfort, support, and certainty, and she could respect that. But she wanted to discover who she could be unfettered by the fear of failure that had dogged her adult life.

She didn’t discuss her journey of discovery when Vonda and Tucker arrived with Adeline. Her sister and brother-in-law saw mainstream Mormonism as lacking the fullness of the gospel, and the LDS leadership as traitors to the priesthood, but it was still better than living entirely outside the church. Chastity had the impression they expected her to see the error of her ways momentarily and catch the first Greyhound to Hildale, eager to abandon her business and her freedoms for life as a baby factory.

“Why did you throw him out?” Adeline asked, plainly fascinated by this radical concept.

“He was an arrogant, cheating maggot and he hit me.”

Chastity figured she’d just described what passed for acceptable behavior in her niece’s world, so it was little wonder that Adeline processed this information with a confused frown. The very idea of a woman holding a man accountable had to be a novelty.

“You threw him out of his own house?”

“The house is mine.”

Barely a day passed that she didn’t thank her parents for this blessing, and the sizeable nest egg they’d left behind for their two daughters. Vonda’s share had gone straight to her husband and the coffers of the FLDS. But for Chastity, financial independence and the absence of children had made ending her marriage a relatively painless process.

“Where did he go?” Adeline asked.

“I don’t know and I don’t care.” Chastity still marveled that she had married Orrin Young at all. What had she been thinking?

Lately she’d been working on forgiving herself for that decision, able to see how skewed her judgment had been at the time. Orrin had shown up when she was feeling increasingly guilty about being a dreaded single adult. A woman unmarried at twenty-five was almost unheard of in Salt Lake City. To compound matters, her parents had been in a serious road accident, leaving her father in a wheelchair and her mother in poor health. Unable to return to the activities and joys of their normal life, and with nothing to do all day but worry, they obsessed over finding a prospective husband for Chastity.

She could understand their anxiety, even if she didn’t share it. They lived in fear that some accident would befall her and, without a husband to assure her admission to the highest levels of heaven, she would be lost to them for eternity. Chastity had always had trouble buying official Mormon doctrine on that subject. The idea that a wise and loving God would admit any nitwit who married at eighteen, yet would turn away an unmarried woman like Mother Teresa, simply didn’t hold water. All the same, she’d found the relentless pressure hard to cope with.

She had not fallen in love with Orrin; rather, she had succumbed to the imperatives of her upbringing and the stress of trying to deal with her parents’ situation alone. Chastity remembered feeling a weird sense of resignation the day she’d agreed to Orrin’s proposal. It was as if in that moment she had folded her true self away, understanding she might never feel whole again. Even before the wedding ceremony, she’d known she was making a huge mistake, but she was determined to go through with it, to prove herself worthy of her parents’ love.

They deserved that much. They had been good and generous and kind their whole lives, and she could not bear to disappoint them. She wanted to give them a reason to live and something to look forward to. A wedding to plan. The promise of grandchildren they would see grow up. Vonda had caused them great anguish by isolating herself and her children from them when she and Tucker moved south. Chastity could never forgive her for that. She could not understand how her sister could have shut them out after the childhood they had given her.

She and Vonda had never wanted for anything. Chastity was aware that many people on the outside thought Mormons were narrow, humorless, and authoritarian. Her father had been the opposite. He was an erudite, sweet-natured man with an insatiable curiosity about the world and a great sense of fun. At the same time, he was immensely faithful and proud to belong to what he called “the one truly American religion.” He had married Chastity’s mother after returning from a mission overseas, and they were made for each other. Like him, she was good hearted, hardworking, and gentle. She adored her children and had made their family’s home life as close to perfect as Chastity could imagine.

A great deal had changed since then, but looking back, Chastity could not honestly say she would have wanted it any different. She felt extremely fortunate. And bereft. She had many aunts, uncles, and cousins, but not a day passed that she didn’t feel the loss of her parents keenly. They’d been so thrilled by her marriage they’d put her name on the title of their house as a wedding present. Ten months later they were both dead and she was living with a man she loathed.

In retrospect, she could see she’d made Orrin just as miserable as he’d made her. Just like her, he had struggled to do what was expected of him. She couldn’t stand him in her bed, and had been relieved when he started secretly drinking alcohol and cheating on her. The trouble was, he had still expected his matrimonial “rights” and seemed hell bent on getting her pregnant.

She had tried to be understanding about this obsession, aware that the status of Mormon men, on earth and in heaven, depended on the number of children they fathered. Her uncooperative womb cast Orrin into a deep depression which alternated with rages in which he would shove her to her knees, ordering her to recite her sins and ask the Heavenly Father’s forgiveness. When she could think of little to admit to, he would seem almost mad with frustration, insisting that God was punishing her and she needed to make herself white and delightsome once more.

After tolerating a year of this, Chastity had finally lost her temper one evening and suggested he could be the infertile half of the equation. Orrin had lashed out at her, an act for which he’d since apologized profusely. But that was the day she’d ended their marriage.

“Let me tell you something, Adeline,” she said. “In life there are choices. My husband thought I would put up with his bad behavior because a wife is supposed to obey and accept. But I chose not to be with someone who did not love or respect me. Do you understand?”

Adeline nodded. “I chose too. Daddy told me I was going to marry Uncle Loudell but I said no.”

“Good. You did the right thing.”

“Daddy says he doesn’t want a daughter that’s Satan’s whore.”

Disgusted, Chastity didn’t comment on Tucker Fleming’s moral compass. Instead, as she combed and blow-dried Adeline’s long hair, she said, “In this house we don’t use the word “whore.” It’s disrespectful. Okay?”

“Okay, Aunt Chastity.” Adeline indicated a photograph on the dressing table. “Is that you?”

Chastity smiled and handed her the framed picture for a better look. “Yes, that’s me climbing in the Himalayas. The mountain behind me is Annapurna.”

“Is that in Canada?”

“No, Nepal.” At Adeline’s blank expression, Chastity crossed to her bookcase and took an atlas from the shelf. She opened it at a map of the world and invited, “Come see. It’s just a little country but it’s famous because it has the highest mountain in the world. Mount Everest.”

Adeline pored over the map. After a moment, she said, “One day, I’d like to go to a faraway place like that.”

“Then one day you will. It’s your life and you can do anything you want with it.”

Like her, Adeline had a sense of adventure, and over the next two years they’d made the most of it. Every time Chastity could take a few days’ vacation from her job in geriatric nursing, they’d gone to the countryside. Recently, she’d moved into private care, starting up her own agency. It was hard work but she had more flexibility as her own boss. She’d been planning their first overseas trip when Vonda and Tucker arrived unannounced, demanding that Adeline accompany them and telling Chastity that their daughter’s celestial marriage had been arranged by the prophet.

In the few moments they’d had to hug before Tucker dragged her away, Adeline had whispered, “I won’t do it. I’d rather die.”

“I’ll find you. Don’t worry,” Chastity murmured in her ear. “Don’t give up.”

“Everest,” Adeline called as Tucker bundled her toward the waiting SUV.

Chastity blew her a kiss, then went around to the passenger widow and told her sister, “You don’t have to do this, Vonda. Get out of the car now. You and Adeline can stay with me. Please.”

Vonda would not look at her. She seemed even more shrunken, and this time there was no flicker of rebellion. She had given up, Chastity thought. She had accepted the unacceptable and had traded her spirit in doing so.

One last time, Chastity tried to get through to her. “Please Vonda. Don’t allow your husband to pimp your child.”

Tucker got into the car and started the motor. He looked past Vonda with ill-concealed glee and informed Chastity, “Pray for direction from God. Your salvation is at stake, Sister.”

Each day since had dragged by with no word from her niece and a frustrating series of calls to the authorities who said they needed proof of a crime before they could investigate. After making a fruitless trip to Hildale, she’d started looking into hiring a private detective or one of those cult rescue guys. It hadn’t crossed her mind that Tucker would inadvertently end up giving her exactly what she needed--hope and new direction. What now? With so much adrenaline in her system, Chastity knew she would never get back to sleep. Mind working overtime, she strode down the hallway to the kitchen and made a cup of strong coffee, thankful as she often was that she no longer abstained from caffeine. Hildale was a five-hour drive. If she got on the road now, she could be there around eight in the morning. Someone had to know about a missing girl. Tucker and his buddies must be organizing the search. All she had to do was take a drive near her sister’s house and look for the action. She carried her coffee upstairs, got dressed, threw some clothes together for Adeline, then stared at herself in the mirror.

A woman in jeans and a T-shirt would attract way too much attention where she was headed. She went to her closet and rifled through her most conservative outfits. By contrast with the pioneer chic seen on the Arizona Strip, the mid-calf length skirts and twinsets she’d kept from her church-going days looked like the trappings of a scarlet woman. She closed the closet door despondently, then pulled it open again, struck by a brainwave. She hauled an old suitcase down from one of the storage shelves. Inside it were the drab garments Adeline had been wearing the day she arrived.

Thrilled, Chastity peeled off her clothing and buttoned herself into the shapeless gray dress. It was only slightly too small for her, having been far too big for eleven-year-old Adeline, but no one was going to notice the extra few inches of leg and the slight tug across her chest. Hastily she French plaited her hair, pinned it up at the back, and tied a headscarf on. No one would know she didn’t have the long, tight braids every woman in Southern Utah seemed to wear. At a glance she looked just like any other young plyg wife.

She drained her coffee, wrote a note with her cell phone number on it and stuck it on the fridge just in case Adeline made it to the house before she got back. Then she put a spare key inside the carved-out rock a few feet from the main entrance, looked around to make sure no one was watching, and opened the garage doors. It was almost four and the air was at its coolest. Heady with relief that she could finally do something, she opened the back of her minivan, threw her overnight bag in, and checked that her new off-road Honda CRF450X was tightly secured.

This time she would not come back without Adeline. She didn’t care what the lawyers said. She should never have let Tucker and Vonda drive off with her niece. That had been her biggest mistake since her marriage. With a shock, she realized that she had been an idiot and a coward. She was always worrying that she would never find a man she could truly love, and never have the kind of partnership her parents had, yet she had placed at terrible risk the one relationship really mattered to her. She had allowed the most important person in her life to be taken away as if neither she nor Chastity had any rights in the matter.

The fact that, legally, they didn’t was beside the point. By any moral standard, and according to the Declaration of Independence, Adeline was endowed with certain unalienable rights, among them liberty and the pursuit of happiness. That the law failed to reflect this in her case was a failure of the law. As such, was there any obligation to respect it?

Feeling resolved about what she was about to do, Chastity got into the van and backed out of her driveway. As she accelerated down the quiet suburban street, she made a solemn promise to herself. Whatever it took, she would find Adeline and keep her safe.

Chapter Fifteen

The six-man Mohave County Tactical Ops Unit staking out the Epperson place had been joined in the middle of the night by an FBI crisis management team from Denver, comprising hostage negotiators, SWAT and SOR teams, and various support staff. They hadn’t brought in the Bradley fighting vehicles yet, but they were on the way. This was now a Bureau-led operation, the objective to negotiate, watch, and contain. The shift that came on at six a.m. was commanded by a quietly spoken man with duck down blond hair and gray eyes too flinty for his closely shaved baby face. Special Agent in Charge Trent Farrell from the Phoenix division treated Jude and Sergeant Gossett with the patient disdain his breed reserved for small-town law enforcement.

He referred to the events of the previous day as a “failed tactical effort,” and said he would have to put on record his concern that they had delayed calling in the FBI, who were now saddled with the unenviable task of “coming in backward to salvage the situation.” Endearing himself even more to the Mohave County team, he had immediately stood down the deputies who’d been at the scene since the beginning, effectively denying them the chance to be associated with the positive outcome everyone hoped for.

They now had the house completely surrounded. Farrell had set up the command post inside the northernmost barn, having his team remove hay bales and farm equipment from the wooden platform that ran below the high ventilation windows. From this vantage point, they had a bird’s eye view of the house and its surroundings, which, during the strategy briefing that was underway, Farrell had termed “an operational advantage that will enable us to avoid unfortunate errors during this little picnic outing, gentlemen.” He had positioned snipers at key junctures along the platform.

“See why I held off,” Gossett muttered. “You realize if this goes sideways, they’re going to point the finger at us.”

“I’m not hanging around. My boss wants me out of here today,” Jude responded, adjusting her bulletproof vest.

Gossett rolled his eyes. With good-humored sarcasm, he said, “Sure he does. Come on my turf, raise some Cain, then haul ass back home leaving you know who to take shit from the er…elite, here.”

“Yeah, we sure livened things up. You’ll be thanking me in your retirement speech. Just wait and see.”

Gossett snorted. “I’ll be thanking the big guy upstairs if I get out of this without being demoted.”

“We have the most capable men and women in the business,” Farrell wrapped things up on a positive note. “We have the tactical advantage and the firepower, and we have all the time in the world to sit these individuals out. No one acts in haste. Deadly force is a last resort. An all-out assault is a last resort. Do I make myself clear? You will all play a vital role in keeping this operation disciplined, strategic, and lawful.”

No one mentioned Waco. They didn’t need to. It hovered in the ether, an unspoken presence grating on nerves like ghostly fingernails sliding down a pane of glass.

The negotiator was about to commence phase one of their plan, an attempt to engage Nathaniel Epperson in dialogue over the bullhorn since he wouldn’t answer his cell phone. The initial aim was to defuse the hostility by asking if everyone in the house was safe and well and offering to send in any food or other supplies needed. Meantime, they had dispatched a couple of senior agents and one of the sheriff’s people to Elias Rockwell’s compound in Colorado City, hoping to persuade him to instruct his followers to put their weapons down. The negotiator claimed this had all the makings of a protracted standoff. If they wanted a good outcome they would have to be patient and gradually shrink their perimeter.

This seemed like the right time to get out of Dodge. The first thing Jude wanted to do was document and submit the evidence, ensuring integrity and a continuous chain of custody were preserved. She got a headache thinking about it sitting in Gossett’s truck, even though the cooler was locked and, as custodian, she held the only key. She would only rest easy once everything was packaged and labeled and transported to Grand Junction for examination.

The nearest lab was in Cedar City, not far from the hospital where Tulley was being treated. She could visit him, then return to Rapture and escort their prisoner to the Four Corners. With any luck, by the time she was back, Gossett and his team would have located the two missing kids and she would be able to take their statements. She cleared her departure with Farrell and left the barn, heading for the brace of vehicles parked beyond the exterior perimeter. She had barely made twenty feet when a flash blinded her momentarily and an explosion shook the ground. Diving for cover, she gazed back over her shoulder to see what was hit and whether anyone was down. Frantically, she crammed the speaker back in her left ear and elbowed her way to a group of agents taking cover behind an armored car.

“Rocket-propelled grenade!” someone yelled, and Farrell’s voice issued instructions over the radio in a steady stream.

I am never getting out of this goddamned place, Jude thought.

*

Summer felt a hand slapping her cheek and opened her eyes. She no longer had the strength to push or the energy to pray. A numbing despair had taken hold of her. God had found her unworthy, and had not answered her prayers. She had no idea what she had done to disappoint Him so greatly that He would punish her this cruel way.

“Wake up.” Thankful shook her. “You have to come with me.”

“Come? Where?”

Loudly, Thankful said, “We are going to a different room where we will not be in the way. Can’t you see, Sister, that there are more important things going on than your childbirth?”

Summer blinked and gazed over toward the window where several men stood with Fawn Dew. All around them, on the floor, rifles were stacked.

Fawn Dew turned and said, “Good idea. You can put her in Naoma’s room until Nathaniel is ready to deal with her.”

“Thank you, Sister.” Thankful slid her arms beneath Summer’s shoulders and lifted her. “Swing your legs over and get up.”

“I can’t.” She had barely uttered the protest when Thankful slapped her face, earning an approving look from Fawn Dew.

Thankful’s low, urgent voice hissed in Summer’s ear. “Listen to me. Once all this shooting is over, they are going to exorcise you to get rid of your demons, then cut your throat. You need to come with me now or you will die and so will your baby.”

As Summer started to speak, Thankful placed a washcloth over her mouth and hauled her to her feet. Arms through Summer’s, she half dragged her from the room and they shuffled down the hall until they reached the walkway that led to some half-built rooms at the back of the house. Thankful rushed Summer even faster along the unfinished wood floor until they came to a room at the far end, blocked off by a large timber board. Only then did Thankful release her and ease her to the floor.

Gasping for breath, Summer wailed, “What are you doing?”

“Be quiet,” Thankful said.

With a stifled grunt, she lifted the large board and propped it against the wall, then she hurriedly pulled Summer inside and deposited her on the floor. The room was without drywall or glass panes in the windows, and in the corner nearest the window frame, Thankful’s children sat in a tight little knot, their arms around one another, big frightened eyes gazing from pale faces. Fawn Dew’s son, Jareph, peered out from behind the oldest girl.

After Thankful had dragged the board in front of the doorway once more, she summoned a couple of the children, saying, “Each of you pick up a leg and I’ll take the other end.” Between them they carried Summer to a quilt on the floor below the window.

Summer felt strangely cold and her heart was beating so fast she thought she was going to pass out. “Why are the children here?” she asked.

“Because we’re all leaving.”

“What?” Fear clamped her throat together.

“You heard me. I’m not letting our husband kill my children so he can get his picture in the newspaper.”

Shaking violently, Summer grabbed Thankful’s skirt. “No! We can’t. We will be cast out. We will reap eternal damnation.”

Thankful dropped to her knees and seized Summer by the shoulders. “I trust in the Heavenly Father, and he sent me a vision last night. In it, my children and I were safe and I saw this house. It was lifted up and sitting in the palm of the devil’s hand.”

“What if that’s a false vision? What if it’s Satan, testing your faith?”

Thankful brushed tears away. “What’s happening here is not about faith. I’ve taken all I’m going to take, Summer. This is just too much.”

“They’ll come after us. We’ll never get out of here. Remember what they did to Diantha?”

“Do you think God wants you dead?” Thankful shook Summer hard and gestured toward her kids. “Do you think he wants them dead? They’re just babies.”

“I don’t know.”

“He doesn’t. And that’s why He is going to lead us out of here.”

“I can’t do this. I’m in so much pain.” Summer buried her face in Thankful’s large bosom. “Go without me. I’ll only hold you back.”

“You’re coming.” Thankful let go of Summer and moved to the window, standing to one side and peering out. “I think they’re going to be shooting out front for a while. The prophet wants them to keep the government agents pinned down until the Colorado City militia gets here.”

“Is this Armageddon?” Summer asked, stunned by her bad luck.

Of all the days to have been found lacking, why did it have to be the day of Christ’s return? There was still time for her to repent and be purified. The prophet said if a women told her priesthood head—her husband—everything, and he forgave them and punished them as he saw fit, they would be resurrected and live forever as his celestial wife on a far-off planet.

Thankful snorted. “Let me tell you something. If the prophet says this is going to be the last day, then we know for sure it isn’t, since that’s one prediction those idiots get wrong every time.”

Summer did not get a chance to react to this heresy. She clutched her lower body and moaned in pain as a powerful contraction tore through her.

Thankful squatted next to her and took her hand, signaling the children to draw closer. Once everyone was in a tight huddle, she said, “Listen carefully. As soon as I tell you, we’re going out that window and we’re running. There’s a white minivan not too far from the house. Run to it and hide behind it. Everyone understand?” Thankful tapped her oldest daughter on the shoulder and said, “You’re in charge of Jareph.”

“Are we going to live among the gentiles?” The girl seemed mortified.

“We can worry about that later. Right now, all I want you to do is get to the white van. Okay?”

The children nodded and Thankful hugged each one. “I love you very much, and one day all of you will tell your children about this,” she said. “Now let’s pray.”

*

If anyone wanted to know where the middle of nowhere was, this was it, Chastity thought. No one gets to Hildale and Colorado City by accident. It’s not on the way to some bigger, better place, unless you wanted to count heaven like the locals did.

This was her second visit in as many weeks. She’d hired an attorney the day after the Flemings took Adeline, paying a lot of money to find out that there was nothing she could do. Adeline was only fourteen. If Chastity wanted guardianship she would have to go before a judge and prove her sister and brother-in-law were unfit parents. If she took Adeline against their wishes, she would be breaking the law, no matter what her niece wanted. It went without saying that an arrest would not help her cause.

The attorney had advised her to wait until Adeline was forced into the marriage, then report the case to Child Services so she could be legally removed from her home. She would have to testify against all the adults involved. He didn’t think much of their chances. The authorities in Utah had spent fifty years ignoring the activities of their polygamist hatchlings.

Frustrated, Chastity drove to Hildale with all her savings—twenty thousand dollars—in a locked briefcase. This she’d offered to Tucker in exchange for legal guardianship of Adeline. All he and Vonda had to do was sign the papers she’d brought with her.

She could tell he was tempted, but in the end he backed off, claiming the marriage was God’s will. The One Mighty and Strong had spoken and Tucker had to show his allegiance. Adeline had already been taken to the home of her chosen husband. Tucker wouldn’t give the groom’s name and after Vonda had refused to see her, Chastity had returned home, afraid to be gone too long in case Adeline tried to contact her.

She shifted in her seat, impatient with the cars in front of her. Everyone had slowed down to drive through the town of Hurricane, a small hamlet that felt like the last outpost of modern civilization before the steep two-lane highway overshadowed by the cliffs of Canaan Mountain. The route was like a passage to another world, another time. Chastity had never been on drugs but she thought it probably felt like this—weirdly disorienting. Every time she came here she worried that she might somehow be sucked into the vortex of irrationality and doomsday thinking that kept her sister blindly obedient to an amoral dictator.

It astounded her that no one seemed to reevaluate their beliefs in the face of reality, as she had after her divorce. For as long as she could remember, Tucker and Vonda had cited the immortality of the last prophet, Rulon Jeffs, as proof that theirs was the one true faith. Jeffs had claimed not only that he would he never die, but he would live to see the return of Christ. He had picked various dates for the lifting up, none of which came to pass. Undeterred, he gathered his flock in a field in the year 2000 to await the parting of the clouds. When Jesus stood them up yet again, Jeffs blamed lack of faith, the usual explanation for prophecies that failed to transpire. He died two years later, not immortal after all.

Chastity could not understand how anyone could still believe the various FLDS prophets were the mouthpieces of God when none had turned out to be immortal and their most lofty prophecies were nonevents. Was the Heavenly Father really so quixotic and petty-minded that He would plan to end the world, inform His elect of the date and time, then change His mind on the day because a few individuals didn’t feel that burning in the bosom? It made no sense.

She had tried to have this discussion with Vonda, pointing out that Jeffs was just another emperor with no clothes. But her sister clung to the fairy tale that justified her painful existence. The prophet had to be right and her beliefs had to be true or that made her a gullible fool who had thrown her life away on a scam. Impossible. Chastity supposed ego had to play a role in such determined self-deceit. True believers would rather ignore reality than accept they were wrong. Some people called this “having the courage of their convictions.” Chastity thought it was cowardice. How any mother could sell her own children down the river for the sake of a senseless and evil mutation of religion was beyond her comprehension.

Hildale and Colorado City loomed ahead and Chastity slowed down to take in the depressing sight of the strangely barnlike half-built plywood houses and unpaved streets, and the dull sienna pall that hung over the town from the wood-burning stoves. High above this, plumes of black smoke rose from the asphalt plant that employed the last vestige of child labor in the country.

She would never change Vonda’s mind, she thought sadly. Obeying rules and not thinking for herself was easier than having to take full responsibility for her life. Cults counted on people like her, and certainly the FLDS would disintegrate if women began to question their indoctrination. That’s why they pulled girls out of school before eighth grade, if they ever went at all, and prevented their members having radio, TV, the Internet, and any books other than scripture and doctrine.

It was amazing that Adeline had still had a functioning mind at eleven, she reflected. She doubted that her niece would have run away had she not known there was a bigger world out there, one that offered so much more than the circumscribed existence FLDS girls endured. Adeline knew she would not be denied salvation simply because she chose a different path from her mother. She had discovered that her dreams and hopes were nourished by the so-called Babylon her church decried, and she’d discovered how it felt to be happy. She would never surrender that willingly.

It had taken Chastity herself a long time to accept that the sky would not fall if she stopped going to temple, to step back from the beliefs she took for granted and examine them for what they were—religion. No better or worse than any other, but no substitute for life in the real world with all its joys, risks, and uncertainties. She could never go back, and she knew it would be the same for Adeline.

Once in Colorado City, she headed for the supermarket. Of all the places in town, this was virtually a male-free zone and the one where she would be most likely to overhear useful gossip. A runaway wife was hot news, and if it had reached anyone in the town, the women shopping for groceries would be talking about it. Chastity straightened her headscarf and practiced the look of dopey innocence Vonda wore perpetually. Lowering her head, she followed a woman through the entrance doors, picked up a shopping basket, and wandered past bulk containers of beans and dried apple.

Signs around the walls advertised fresh milk and various nutritional aid programs for women and children. Chastity paused at a vast assortment of lubricant jellies and pregnancy testing kits and listened carefully to a quiet conversation between two other women. As they spoke and herded their children, she lifted tubes of cream and read the ingredients as if engrossed.

“…I haven’t heard anything since yesterday,” one of the woman said.

“They’ll find her. Stupid girl.”

Chastity did not allow her head to pop up. Instead she dropped a pregnancy test into her basket, moved a pace closer to the women, and said in the most timorous tone she could muster, “My cousin says she ran off with a boy.”

The women stared at her for a moment and the older of the two said, “I haven’t seen you at a meeting.”

Chastity smiled guilelessly. “I came down from Bountiful with my husband only a few weeks ago, just before the prophet cancelled Sunday meetings.”

Their faces lifted. The younger one said, “Welcome. Will you be staying?”

“With the prophet’s permission.”

“Who are you visiting with?”

“Tucker Fleming,” Chastity lied. “His second wife is my double-cousin.” Lowering her voice to a fretful whisper, she added, “It’s difficult there right now…with the trouble. That girl’s embarrassed the whole family.”

This earnest disclosure was accorded sage nods. Eyes glinting, the older woman said, “My husband is going this morning to join the search.”

“I’m on my way over there now with some extra food.” Chastity heaved a sigh. “I’ll have to go back and ask my cousin for directions again. I don’t know this area.”

“Oh, Gathering for Zion is easy to find,” the older woman said. “Once you get through Rapture, there’s a right turn onto a one-lane road. The ranch is about two miles along. You can’t miss it. Just look for the sign.”

Chastity smiled. “Thank you. I’m sure I’ll see you both when meetings begin again.”

She headed for the counter where a notice at the register instructed shoppers to have their welfare cards ready. She paid in cash and brushed past a group of men gathered around a pickup truck not far from where she’d parked. Acting like she was fumbling around for her keys, she stopped a few feet away and tuned in to the raised voices.

“Only way past the roadblocks is on foot through the canyon,” one man said. “The area is swarming with the servants of Lucifer.”

“The day is upon us,” cried another.

“What does Uncle Elias say?” asked a young man carrying a shotgun.

“The prophet has spoken with God,” a man with a bushy salt and pepper beard answered. “We are commanded to organize. Your wives and children must remain in the home. Assemble every able-bodied man. This is the moment we have been awaiting. We will seize back the kingdom of God and avenge the blood of the prophets.”

No wonder laughter was forbidden for FLDS women, Chastity thought. If she had to listen to baloney like that all the time, she’d crack up. Head lowered, she moved past the men and got into her minivan. When she pulled away from the curb, she let her tires spin long enough to throw a cloud of red dust over the zealots.

*

Adeline buried herself in the cool sand in the shadow created by a north facing overhang in the canyon wall. It was slightly damp there, the rock wall at least thirty degrees cooler than the air. When you were stuck in a dangerous environment, the thing to do was watch how wildlife behaved. Small mammals didn’t try to move, they sought shadows, content to wait out the extreme heat in the middle of the day. To survive, Adeline knew she would have to do the same thing.

She spat the pebble she’d been sucking and took a small sip of water, then she gazed across the shimmering red desert to the Gathering for Zion Ranch and wished she’d stolen binoculars while she was in the house. There was no sign of a search party and she was beginning to think she’d made a terrible mistake leaving Daniel alone in the cave. She’d been traveling west, toward the area where they’d last seen the searchers, convinced they would not return to ground already covered.

While she’d been hiking that morning, she’d seen helicopters land near the compound and she kept wondering when the police would start fanning out. She was so hungry and thirsty she almost wanted them to find her. Naoma could whip her all she wanted; she would escape again. She stared at the pale buildings glittering in the distance, still puzzled over the gunfire.

What if the police weren’t there because of her and Daniel? What if something else was going on? They would have phones. Maybe she could steal one while they weren’t looking. Adeline checked the level in her water bottle. She could make it to the ranch in about two hours if she started now. And if everyone was cooped up indoors because the police were parked outside, no one would notice her, and even if they did, she looked like a boy now.

The more she thought about it, the more it seemed like a good idea. Adeline was sure she didn’t have sunstroke or such bad dehydration her mind was affected and she was making a stupid decision. She felt okay. Taking her time, she wriggled back out of her damp sanctuary and scrambled to her feet. She was going to do it. She would find a phone, call Aunt Chastity, and she and Daniel would be saved.

Chapter Sixteen

“Holy cow!” Gossett swung around as a sleek red motorcycle emerged from the scrub northwest of their position. Ignoring the swarm of agents in assault gear who converged on it, the driver bounced up the steep slope and halted behind the police vehicles.

“Hold your fire,” Farrell commanded, as if anyone was doing more than stare in shock at the sight of a plyg woman, in Little House on the Prairie drag, climbing off a trail bike. She kicked out the side stand, propping the bike like she did it in her sleep.

“It’s one of them,” Gossett said as the young woman removed her helmet, hitched up her skirt, and strode purposefully past her stupefied audience, making a beeline for Farrell.

“Perhaps they’ve sent an emissary,” Farrell murmured.

Somehow Jude couldn’t see the patriarchs of Rapture dispatching a young woman to negotiate on their behalf, but she was willing to keep an open mind. The shooting had slowed down to the occasional stray bullet; maybe they were out of ammo and wanted to discuss surrender terms. She took a mental snapshot of the rider: burnished copper hair, a small oval face and a confident white smile. Even her unflattering dress could not fully disguise a slender, athletic body. How depressing, Jude thought, she was probably married to her own grandfather.

Surprisingly, the woman made direct eye contact with Farrell. “Are you in charge here?” she demanded.

He nodded curtly. “SAC Trent Farrell of the FBI, Phoenix. How may I be of help, ma’am?”

Piercing dark eyes swept their small group. “I’m Chastity Young. I’m here about my niece, Adeline Fleming. Are you conducting the search?”

The SAC cast a silent query in Jude’s direction, and she reminded him, “The two children thought to have escaped on Sunday.”

“I’ve come to take her home,” Chastity Young asserted.

Startling the troops even more, she began to undress, stripping down to a white T-shirt and khaki hiking shorts. She kicked her discarded dress, petticoats, socks and sandals into a small pile, and said, “Could you add these to your trash, please.”

Gossett glanced sideways at Jude and raised his eyebrows.

“What can you tell us about the circumstances of your niece’s disappearance?” Jude asked when it seemed Farrell was lost for words.

“Only that she was living with me in Salt Lake City until a week ago.” Chastity took a pair of hiking boots from her backpack. “Then her parents came and took her. They said she was going to be married. She’s fourteen.”

Jude said, “We met her older sister yesterday. Summer.”

“You met her here?” Chastity sat down and set about methodically getting into her boots.

“She’s one of Mr. Epperson’s wives.”

Chastity shook her head, clearly shocked. “I had no idea.”

“She thinks your niece may be hiding in those hills.” Jude indicated the towering red and black rock formations about ten miles northeast of the ranch.

“Ah. The Seeds of Cain.”

Puzzled, Jude said, “I’m sorry?”

“That’s what they call those hills ’round here.” Chastity was on her feet again. “I don’t think you’ll find that on any of the maps…in the interests of good taste.”

Jude finally got it. The Mormon church had been a whites-only club for most of its history, asserting that African Americans were cursed with dark skin so that they could be identified as a caste apart. Referred to as the seed of Cain, they were excluded until the late seventies when Africa became a target for missionaries. At that stage, the president of the church recanted the racist doctrine, claiming to have received new instructions from God.

Since then, the mainstream church had worked hard to dissociate itself from its past. However, the breakaway fundamentalist sects rejected this abandonment of the original doctrine and still saw African Americans as “inferior.” This pronouncement coming from a bunch of people who married their own siblings and had most of their wives and children living on welfare.

“Ma’am, you can’t remain here,” Farrell told Chastity.

“I’m not planning to. And by the way, those plygs back in Colorado City are forming some kind of army and they’re on their way out here to have a showdown with you people. Just thought you should know.”

Farrell’s eyes narrowed. He seemed to be torn between patronizing disbelief and stunned speculation when he asked, “How many men would you say are forming this vigilante squad? And what kind of weaponry did you see?”

Chastity shrugged. “I don’t know anything about guns, but ’round here, if it shoots they want to own it.” She fell silent and gazed slowly around. Comprehension filtered into her eyes. “You’re not here to search for my niece, are you?”

“No, ma’am,” Farrell said.

“Then what’s going on?”

“We’re not at liberty to discuss the operation.”

“Well, it looks like you have your hands full.” Chastity headed back to her bike. “I need to get moving while the sun is still low.”

“You cannot remain in the area,” Farrell said. “Sergeant Gossett will escort you to Rapture.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Chastity fired up her bike and rocked it off the stand. “I’ll be sure to stay out of range. If you see a flare, don’t worry. It means I’ve found them. Two flares, and I need help at the location. Okay?”

“Ms. Young. I really must insist—”

“No. I must insist.” Chastity was completely unmoved by the voice of authority. “I am here to find my niece. Period. Stay out of my way, and I’ll stay out of yours.” She put her bike into gear and negotiated a path around the cars.

“Wait.” Jude ran after her. She scribbled her cell phone number on a piece of paper and handed it to the feisty woman. “If you need to communicate, call me.”

She wasn’t sure how she was going to help, given she was planning to make her getaway now that the guns had fallen silent. But she’d promised Tulley she would follow through on the missing kids and she wanted to interview them once they were found.

“Thanks.” Chastity smiled broadly and glanced down at the number. “You didn’t give me your name.”

“Jude Devine. I’m a detective with the Montezuma County Sheriff’s Office.”

“Colorado?” Chastity’s dark eyes swept her up and down with interest.

“Yes.”

“I love hiking in that area. Your wildflowers are just spectacular.”

“Well, if you’re ever in Paradox, stop in at the sheriff’s office there. That’s where I’m based.”

“Be warned, I’m the kind who takes people up on offers like that.”

Jude grinned. “And I’m the kind who never expects that to happen.” Now that they had established a rapport, she said, “Oh, and by the way, would you mind leaving your contact details with the sheriff’s office in Rapture? I may need to talk to Adeline. I’m investigating the murder of a young woman.”

“By these people?” Chastity gestured in the general direction of the Epperson home.

“Yes.”

“About time. I’d be happy to help.”

“Good luck with your niece,” Jude said.

Chastity thanked her and turned the bike toward the desert. “Good luck with the crazy people,” she called and with a brief wave, she kicked off down the slope handling the off-road like a professional.

Jude managed about ten paces toward the forward staging area when Farrell flagged her down. “Hold up, Devine. We need all available personnel. Looks like they’re releasing a bunch of civilians at the rear of the dwelling.”

“Want me at ten o’clock?”

“Yes. I’ve issued instructions to give the civilians any cover necessary and facilitate extraction.”

As they walked briskly, she asked, “Do we have telephone contact with anyone inside yet?” There was no land line in the house, and Epperson had not been answering his cell phone.

“He’s still not picking up.”

They parted company at the barn and Jude ran along a barricade of hay bales, shields, and SUVs, then down the slope to the exterior perimeter, heading for the rear of their northeast position. As she moved toward a group of agents staked out behind a rock formation, she could see several small children standing at the corner of a half-built extension to the rear of the house.

Ten agents were grouped around the rock and a support team was situated on the exterior periphery well below the position, surrounded by banks of ammunition, tear gas canisters, def-tec grenades, and additional weaponry.

Jude joined the agent at the point farthest north and said, “Detective Jude Devine, Montezuma County Sheriff’s Office.”

“Special Agent Patrick Kelly.” He eyed her MP5 dubiously. “Ever handled one of those before, Devine?”

“I’m FBI sniper and tactical weapons trained,” Jude replied without expanding.

“In that case.” Kelly indicated a foothold a couple of feet up the rock formation. “Wanna take up position there? I have a more suitable weapon for you.”

He spoke into his headset and a support staffer showed up with a hefty M40A1. Jude had encountered the sniper rifle at Quantico; it was a lot like a Remington 700. She could make a clean shot dead on target at a thousand yards. Their rock barrier was a little over a hundred from the house, the closest point on the interior perimeter. The weapon was overkill for a scenario like this one.

“Child’s play,” she mumbled.

“Poor visibility and brief windows of opportunity.” Kelly flagged the significant issues just in case she hadn’t noticed.

Jude surveyed the SWAT team members around her. Each held an MP5 in gloved hands, the stocks tucked against their shoulders, their right thumbs resting on the safety selector switches above the pistol grips, index fingers just outside their trigger guards. Every weapon was mounted with retina-searing gun lights and loaded and bracketed with thirty-round magazines. In their left ears, tiny radio speaker buds conveyed their orders. The pockets of their tactical vests were weighed down with spare magazines, each filled with 10 millimeter bullets designed to stop any opposition within seconds.

They were ready to storm, if the order was given. Each had practiced the maneuvers a hundred times at Quantico, yet no situation was ever the same as another and there were real people inside the house, and the pale faces peering from behind the stucco wall belonged to real children.

Jude could measure the adrenaline hitting her system by the sudden increase in lung capacity, the urge to run, the sharpening of perception. She could feel her heart pumping blood harder, her muscles tensing, time slowing down. The children started running, heading for a white minivan parked about thirty yards from the house. It was a mistake.

“Oh fuck,” Jude muttered. “They should have gone straight out the back.”

Through the telescopic sight, she watched barrels shift along the north-facing flank of the house. The people inside were aiming at the fleeing figures. In disbelief, Jude heard the pop of gunfire. A child fell. Another crouched over him, her hands covering her head.

In her ear, Farrell’s voice ordered, “Cover them!” and the agents opened fire.

Jude dropped to the ground, swapped the M40A1 for the MP5 Kelly had left propped against the base of the rock. Grabbing a shield from the spares stacked next to it, she yelled, “Kelly, let’s roll!” and darted along the base of the rise until she could see the white minivan looming. Bullets whizzed over her head.

“Extract!” Farrell ordered. “Get in there and carry them out if you have to.”

She and Kelly shimmied up the rise until they could see over. There were two women and about eight kids pinned down at the edge of the house. Jude was stunned at the sight of Summer, wearing a bloodied nightdress and looking like she was in a state of near collapse.

“That woman’s giving birth,” she told Kelly.

The plygs were returning fire, hitting the rock position with everything they had.

“You take the two kids,” Kelly said. “I’ll get to the group.”

Jude looked back over her shoulder. Agents were streaming along the exterior perimeter toward their position. “Go!” she cried and she and Kelly bolted over the rise, to the rear of the minivan.

They had only seconds before the plygs caught on. She could hear Kelly yelling at the women and children to get down as she ducked in front of the two children huddled on the earth. Bullets struck her shield and she fired back. A steel hailstorm infused the air with the smell of gunpowder. She knew from the deafening rat-tat that reinforcements had arrived and they were doing their best to draw the plygs’ fire. Jude snatched the wounded boy into her arms. He was maybe three years old. The little girl with him looked six or so and gazed at Jude like she was an apparition.

“Stay with me,” she said, tucking the girl’s hand in hers, horribly aware that she had no way of firing with any accuracy while trying to hang on to a gun, a shield, and two small children.

She sent a message to Ben—if you’re already an angel, please help me. Then she sprang up and ran. She felt weirdly light and fast, the world passing her by in a rush of blue sky and red earth. The ridge loomed faster than she’d expected, and she threw herself and the little girl over, rolling and hugging the bleeding boy to her. They landed in a heap at the feet of several fully armored men who instantly seized the children and ran them down the line.

Panting, Jude checked herself out for wounds, almost unable to believe she hadn’t sustained any. She realized she was being clapped on the shoulders and an agent was handing her a water flask. She took a single, rapid slug and checked in with Farrell.

“Are we going in, sir?”

“No. I want minimum casualties.”

This had to be a tough call. They had enough firepower to storm the building. Sledgehammer the windows, drop in a few flash-bang grenades with delayed fuses, breach the front door with charges—a battering ram wouldn’t cut it. They could be inside within ten seconds, but the body count would be high.

She watched Kelly lower Summer to the ground and thought, poor bastard. FBI SWAT training did not include delivering babies in the middle of a siege. Over the radio, Farrell ordered a couple of vehicles in as a diversion, a high risk strategy. These people had a rocket propelled grenade launcher and they knew how to use it. They’d already taken out a car.

“Kelly, when you see them coming, you are go.”

“Roger that.”

“B team. I want four men in there to replace him.”

“Roger that,” a woman replied, apparently next in the chain of command.

Jude glanced around, trying to spot her. She didn’t have to try too hard. A gloved index finger pointed her way. She was being ordered into position as one of the four going in.

They flattened out along the rise and waited for the command. Farrell was pulling out the stops. He had a chopper overhead, drawing fire away from the two approaching vehicles, black SUVs with the windows tinted. Gunfire flashed from the house. They were aiming at the chopper. Jude wondered if they knew there were more civilians out back. It didn’t look like it.

“Go!” Farrell commanded.

Jude stopped thinking and started running just as the two SUVs screeched to a halt in a cloud of dust, providing a workable screen between the white minivan and the house. As the plygs unloaded into the vehicles, their occupants bailed fast and ran to the back of the house spraying fire along the white stucco.

“We have about twenty seconds to get out of here,” Jude said. By now, the plygs had to be on their way to the rear of the dwelling. She tapped two of the guys and pointed into the empty room behind them. “Stay here and pin them down if they come through that door.”

The rest of the team picked up a child each, leaving the biggest to run alongside. A young teenage girl had a Downs Syndrome child in her arms. He was the only one not weeping.

The woman with the group clutched the infant she was carrying to one shoulder and seized Jude’s arm. “Her baby’s coming out the wrong way.”

“Don’t worry. We have doctors standing by,” Jude told her. Addressing Kelly, she asked, “Can you carry her?”

“Sure.” He lifted Summer into his arms and called, “Go!”

The first SUV was ten feet away and they made it without incident. The firing had stopped. Even these people were not going to kill innocent women and children. An electronic buzz hurt Jude’s eardrums and Nathaniel Epperson’s voice boomed out.

“And the Lord sayeth, I shall bring a scourge upon my people to purge the ungodly from among you. And those that are righteous shall suffer with the wicked.”

Jude signaled the agents at the front of their group, waving them on. One at a time, they ran to the next SUV. Smoke was rising from the vehicle, creating useful cover. But Jude was uneasy. The thing could go up in flames at any moment. She met Kelly’s eyes and knew he was thinking exactly the same thing.

The litany continued. “And those transgressors who seek forgiveness shall beg their brethren to spill their blood in atonement for their sins, as ye would so do now if only the wrath that is kindled against ye were known.”

As Epperson poured down hate, they shuffled out from behind the first vehicle, crossing five or six yards to the next. The two agents at the head of their little band were already at the white minivan, about to run the final stretch to safety, when a light flashed from the house.

Jude shouted, “Grenade! Run! Take cover.”

She and Kelly didn’t get far enough from the SUV targeted by the plygs. The blast threw them off their feet, well clear of the vehicles. Ears ringing, she lifted her head. Kelly and Summer lay inert a few feet away. Next to them, the teenage girl with the Downs Syndrome child was trying to crawl, blood streaming down her face from a head wound. They were completely exposed, too far away from the vehicles to use them as cover. The plygs opened fire at random through the haze of smoke, smashing the boards off the nearest window so they could find better sightlines.

“Engage,” Farrell commanded. “Shoot to kill.” A swarm of FBI agents cleared the ridge, grouping at the white minivan in an offensive formation.

Jude could hear gunfire but it was as if her ears were under water. She scrambled toward the girl with the head injury and realized that Kelly was hit and unconscious. Yelling for support to bring Summer and the small boy in, she grabbed the girl around the middle, hooked Kelly beneath one arm, and dragged them both toward the minivan. She had barely made six paces when several agents reached them and three more ran by, exchanging heavy fire with the men shooting from the windows.

Handing Kelly and the girl over, Jude turned automatically to go back. But even as she willed her feet to move, her body froze. It was too late. Out in the open, unprotected, the little boy hunkered next to Summer, his hands over his face. The image froze in Jude’s mind as bullets rained down on the helpless pair before they could be rescued. Their bodies bounced, blood sprayed, and dust rose in a dense cloud.

Someone yanked her into a run and she hurtled toward the minivan. She could hear Farrell giving orders but could not make out the words, her ears still ringing from the explosion. The gunfire seemed far away and was becoming sporadic. Agents ran toward the rear of the house, joining the two already positioned there. Jude was familiar with the drill. They would capture any subject trying to exit. The fact that they had left Summer and the child unattended could mean only one thing.

As the dust settled, Jude felt tears crawls down her face. All that was left of the lives that might have been were two rag dolls in a crimson pool.

*

After the shooting stopped, a dark silence descended. In that time, Elias Rockwell arrived under escort. He was not at all what Jude had expected. Early thirties, no sign of the genetic traits that would make walking through a crowd of Colorado City polygamists a déjà vu experience. He wore an expensive three-piece suit, aviator sunglasses, and designer loafers. His hair was blond and fashionably cut to disguise the thinning around his temples. When he wasn’t marrying schoolgirls, Jude had the impression he was probably on a yacht or playing golf.

Farrell showed him the scene. They were watched by Rockwell’s retinue, six rent-a-goons in cheaper versions of his suit. A few genetic similarities were evident in their ranks.

“This is a shocking tragedy,” Rockwell said, as if the unfolding events had nothing to do with him. “These actions are the actions of a few deeply confused individuals, and in no way reflect the philosophy and aims of the new FLDS.” He walked a few paces away and got on his cell phone, speaking in an undertone.

Moments later weapons were dropped from windows and a white flag appeared. On closer inspection, it was a pair of long underpants.

“They’re ready to surrender,” Rockwell informed Farrell and they proceeded to the front of the house.

The plygs emerged, their hands on their heads, and walked quietly down the front steps to assemble in the yard. Jude scanned the faces, seeking Epperson’s. She moved to Farrell’s side and said, “I have an arrest warrant for Nathaniel Epperson on charges of kidnapping and criminal homicide.”

“He’s ours,” Farrell said. “We can quibble over jurisdictional matters later.”

Nauseous, Jude walked around the side of the house once more.

Over the ridge, agents were processing the women and children who had filed from the house, patting them down for weapons and taking their details. The small party rescued under fire were seated under a makeshift canopy, being examined by a doctor. Beyond the white minivan and the smoking wreck of the SUV, the two bodies lay uncovered as yet. Kneeling over them was a slightly built teenage boy in overalls. As Jude approached, he looked up, tears rolling down his face.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Jude said. “If you go down to the officers, they’ll take your information and give you something to eat and drink.”

The boy didn’t move.

Jude extended a hand. “Come on. I’ll walk down with you.” This was not a sight for a child.

He shook his head and bent low over Summer. Gently, he lifted her head onto his lap. “She never liked her hair this way,” he said, and began unfastening her braids.

Jude watched the tender ritual in silence and understood what she was seeing. After a time, she asked, “Adeline?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“I’m very sorry.”

A pair of eyes as dark as Chastity Young’s met hers. “Why did they do this to her?”

Jude’s throat hurt and she blinked away tears. “In life, some things make no sense at all. This is one of them.”

Adeline smoothed her sister’s snow blond hair and leaned over, placing a kiss on her cheek. “I wanted her to come with me but she wouldn’t.”

Jude removed her bulletproof vest and stripped off her shirt, folding it to make a pillow. She handed this to Adeline, who eased her sister’s head onto it and stroked her eyes closed. They did not move the little boy, who had his face resting on Summer’s nightgown.

“Your aunt is looking for you,” Jude said.

“She’s here?” Adeline got to her feet.

Jude pointed toward the mountain. “She went over that way on her bike.”

Adeline wiped her eyes and picked up a makeshift backpack. Out of this she took the lid of a tin can. “I need to signal her,” she explained.

They walked to the edge of the rise and Adeline bounced sunlight off the lid.

“Do you know her cell phone number?” Jude asked after a minute or two.

“Why do I always forget about phones?” Adeline gave a ragged little grin.

Jude handed hers over. “Do you know how it works?”

“Aunt Chastity says I might as well super glue mine to my ear.” She dialed and waited. Then her face lit up and she said, “It’s me.”

Jude took a few steps away and stared out across the merciless plateau as Adeline cried into the phone. She should go get someone to take the bodies, she thought. But she didn’t move. Numbly, she watched an eagle soar high above, riding a thermal. She imagined herself up there, floating in the cool tranquility, divorced from the tragedy below, hearing nothing but the wind rushing through feathers and her own mournful cries.

“She’s coming.” Adeline returned the phone and thanked her. “I told her where Daniel is and she’s going to go pick him up first. ”

“That’s great. Would you like me to wait with you?”

“Do you have time?”

“Absolutely.”

“Got any water?”

“No, but I can get some. Come on.” Jude offered a hand and Adeline took it.

Chapter Seventeen

A month later, Jude sat on the front porch of the Epperson house and watched the FBI forensic team load the last of their gear into the backs of a fleet of vans. They’d owned the place since the shootout, and Jude had stayed well clear. Pratt had given permission for her to return for a walk-through once they received the okay from the FBI crime lab. This was supposedly aimed at straightening out a few details missing from her account of the shooting. Jude had a feeling he knew she just needed to come back.

She’d been unsettled since that day, and not just because people had died needlessly. There was so much they would never know; she almost regretted that the Huntsberger case had all but solved itself once Zach walked into the Paradox station. On investigations where clues came slowly and detectives had to create their own luck, there was time to accumulate knowledge and develop theories. The work was methodical, detail oriented, and detached. There was order. And a sense of satisfaction when months of effort led to a good arrest.

By contrast, Jude felt like she’d been swept into a situation that went completely out of her control almost before she could process exactly what was going on. With the benefit of hindsight, she thought she could have made some better decisions. She tried not to feel that she had shortchanged Darlene, and Poppy Dolores—all of Epperson’s victims.

Sheriff Pratt was riding high. Shaking hands, kissing babies, appearing in photo opportunities with the Huntsbergers. He’d told the media justice had been done and he truly seemed to believe it, as did most of Cortez. Jude wanted to go after Jeffs and Rockwell, but Pratt said they’d bought themselves enough trouble and her FBI masters said it was someone else’s fight. Jude needed to wrap up the final paperwork and get on with her life.

“Done?” she asked a bored-looking technician who emerged from the house.

“Help yourself.” The guy strode away like a man who’d been waiting two weeks for a cold beer.

Jude got up and stepped indoors. The place was whitewashed inside and out, consistent with the way the case had been handled in the press. A pack of religious nuts opens fire on women and children trying to flee for their lives. The FBI had everything on video, so there couldn’t be sticky questions left unanswered. Jude had seen the footage they released a hundred times over, trying to make certain she was unrecognizable. They’d done a good job of blurring her features and it was comforting to see herself anonymously referred to as a “Denver detective at the scene on an unrelated investigation.”

She entered the northeast-facing bedroom that had had the windows knocked out on the day. The bloodstains were still tagged. The splatter on the wall to her right belonged to Nathaniel Epperson, who had died of chest wounds at the scene, robbing them of answers to countless questions, but making his wife Naoma a happy woman, perhaps for the first time.

Jude wanted to spit in his face, but she wouldn’t have that satisfaction and spitting on a man’s grave was not her style. Feeling cheated, she wandered through the rest of the house. It wasn’t like they didn’t know what had happened. A fairly clear picture had emerged from the statements given by those of the other wives who were willing to talk, Thankful in particular. Encouraged by a community of former plural wives living in Colorado, she had decided to make the state her home.

After being condemned by Nathaniel Epperson, for reasons unclear to all, Darlene had been taken to her first husband, Hyrum, and told to seek his forgiveness as part of her purification. He had flown into a rage as he sometimes did and mauled her like a dog. Eventually Nathaniel and several of the older sons had managed to drag him off. One of them, Thankful’s oldest boy, had told his mother everything, even though they were sworn to secrecy. No one knew exactly what had happened after that, except that Naoma and Nathaniel had been heard shouting at each other, then Fawn Dew and Nathaniel drove off with Darlene and returned without her eight days later.

Jude had been trying to interview Fawn Dew ever since, but she was holed up in Rockwell’s compound and it appeared the new prophet had struck a deal with Utah and Arizona. He had agreed to a gradual “modernization” of his flock, including public school education, in exchange for an injection of government funding to tidy up the twin towns and fund community development. His daughter was “unavailable for comment” and Jude had been referred to his attorneys.

Adeline’s story had made headlines, and she and Chastity had appeared on a few television talk shows, putting a face to the countless women whose lives were destroyed by the so-called “sacred principle” of plural marriage. Jude had seen them again at Summer’s funeral in Salt Lake City. The Flemings had wanted to avoid publicity, so they’d allowed their daughter to be buried with her grandparents. They’d also signed over guardianship. Chastity said she’d paid her brother-in-law twenty thousand dollars for this. Child Protection Services had placed Daniel Epperson in a foster home where another of the “Lost Boys” of Utah was thriving, and it sounded like he was doing fine.

Jude paused opposite a small plaque on the wall of what was once Naoma Epperson’s bedroom. Keep Sweet, No Matter What. Just reading it made her feel depressed and overwhelmed. Thankful had talked about being brought up in a home where crying was forbidden and children who did were badly beaten.

Something she’d said played again and again in Jude’s mind. “I had to learn to be silent. It was the only way I would survive.”

She’d been embarrassed talking about her past, as if she should have known better.

Jude returned to the front porch and gazed out at the barns and the scraggly junipers, trying to imagine how the women living here must have felt. It had been too much for Poppy and somehow she had gotten away. Most of the wives admitted she’d been one of them, but seemed afraid to talk about her. Thankful said she was the ninth wife and that her real name was Valerie. She claimed to know nothing about her and Jude could sense that she was uncomfortable. Valerie had been a poofer, she said. There one day, gone the next. Everyone thought she was probably in Canada. Naoma was equally unhelpful. Valerie was one subject she was not willing to discuss and her plea bargain did not require her to do so.

Jude took a plastic bag from her pocket and examined the key and ten-digit code. In their extensive search of the premises and outbuildings, the FBI had found nothing the small key would fit. The number made no sense to anyone. 2329159919. Jude reminded herself to look for the obvious. Living here, staring out at the surroundings, yearning to escape, what must Darlene have been thinking? What secret did the numbers represent? Why had she been singled out by Nathaniel for torture and murder? According to Naoma, God said Darlene had “betrayed” them. Clearly, this was Nathaniel’s opinion dressed up as a message from the Almighty.

Jude paced back and forth in the shade, trying to put herself in Darlene’s shoes. Pregnant. Helpless. Desperate to contact someone from the outside world and let them know who she was. Had she stolen money and concealed it somewhere, imagining she could get to a town and buy a ticket out? There had to be a reason why Nathaniel lost his temper that day. He must have discovered something. If Darlene had physically hidden money or some other item, it had to be within walking distance of the house. There was nowhere else she could go.

Jude studied the digits again and remembered something she had seen in Darlene’s room. A note pinned to her mirror that instructed her younger sister “leave my lipstick alone.” Every L in the note had been written l and in Darlene’s hand, the letter was stunted. To a lab tech in Quantico who thought he was dealing with a phone number, it would be easy to mistake the letter for the number one.

In her mind’s eye, she replaced the ones with an L, and for a moment the revised code still didn’t make any sense, then she knew exactly what she was looking at. It was dead simple. Jude began counting her paces from the doorstep, walking in as straight a line as she could.

Half an hour and two left turns later, she was staring at smooth boulder with a small trowel jammed deeply into the earth next to it. Jude dug her way around the boulder until the tip of the trowel struck something metallic. Scraping the dirt away, she eased a small locked metal box from the ground.

The key slid into the lock and turned. Inside the box, a notebook was wedged on top of a pile of papers. Jude lifted it out and opened it at the first page. The owner had drawn a flower. Beneath this was written in a child’s hand, “My Story by Valerie Epperson.”

Jude flipped the page and found herself staring at a photograph of Naoma as a young woman. On her knee sat a prettily dressed little girl. The caption under the photo read, “Me with my Mom.”

Poppy Dolores was Naoma’s daughter. Nathaniel Epperson had taken his own child as his ninth wife. But that was not the ugliest secret Darlene had uncovered. Folded in the center of the notebook was a carefully drawn map in the distinctive turquoise ink Nathaniel Epperson used in his fountain pen. It showed the graves of seventeen people buried on the Epperson ranch. Each grave was numbered and a legend appeared on the back of the map. Beside each number was a name and next to that a brief statement of the individual’s sin and the method of “elimination.” The list was headed up “Atonement.”

Nathaniel Epperson was a mass murderer.

*

“That’s fascinating,” Mercy said, glancing around the restaurant as she sipped her wine. They were in Denver, but she was still paranoid. “She must have found the box somewhere on the property, seen the value it could have, and hidden it while she tried to figure out how she could use it.”

“I think she tried to blackmail him,” Jude speculated, mildly distracted by the outline of Mercy’s hard little nipples beneath her white shirt. “I think she told him that if he drove her back to Colorado, she would tell him where to find it. That’s why she had the note and the key. But then, at some point, she must have realized he was going to kill her, and she swallowed the information. Got the last word, in a sense.”

“You think Epperson and Fawn Dew planned it all along? Drove all the way to Colorado intending to kill her?”

“Probably. Then I think they buried the body somewhere, but had second thoughts. They were away for about eight days, according to Thankful.”

“They dug her up…yes, that figures with the decomposition rate. But why?”

“My guess is that they came up with a dopey plan to make it look like she’d been in Colorado all along. I think they found the stake when they were looking for a dump site and hammered it into her heart to try and make this look like the work of a psycho killer.”

“Which it was,” Mercy chipped in.

“They wanted her to be found and identified so we’d focus on locals in the investigation. Hence the social security card. They were just trying to hide the fact that she had been in Utah.”

“But she vanished two years earlier. Didn’t they realize we’d know she hadn’t been dead that long?”

“I doubt forensic science or even basic biology formed part of their education,” Jude said.

Mercy smiled. “Basic biology. Now that’s a topic we should discuss in private.” Her hand drifted across the table and her fingers lightly stroked the inside of Jude’s wrist. “Want to get a room?”

Jude did. In the worst way. But she was still bothered about Elspeth. “You already have a girlfriend.”

“She’s only here every few months. And we just sleep together for old time’s sake.”

“So the next time she comes, you’ll relive those happy memories again?”

Mercy shook her head, half laughing, half serious. “You’re being a Neanderthal about this.”

“You haven’t answered my question.”

“I don’t owe you an explanation.” Impatience seeped into Mercy’s voice. “It’s my business if I choose to have sex with Elspeth or not.”

Jude stared down at the table, wanting to agree and get out of the restaurant and escape to a hotel. “Okay. I’m sorry. You’re right. It’s none of my business.”

“Jude,” Mercy said softly, “we can’t do this if we’re not on the same page. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I’m not hurt.”

“I don’t mind if you see other people.”

For some reason, that was no consolation. Jude said, “I know.”

That was exactly what she should do, she told herself. See other people. The fact that she only wanted to “see” Mercy was her problem. She signaled the waiter for the check and changed the subject.

“As I was leaving the place I went to the baby graveyard. One of the local women took me. She wants the FBI to investigate the place. There are about two hundred children buried there and in the big cemetery next to it. A lot of the graves are unmarked.”

She broke off when Mercy took her hand firmly and stared into her eyes. “Jude, you can’t dig up every dead child. It’s too late to save them.”

They left the restaurant and walked to Mercy’s car. In silence, they got in and put on their seat belts. Jude told herself to lighten up. She’d done nothing but talk about the case ever since Mercy picked her up from the airport. She’d had a feeling the whole time that Mercy had something on her mind she wanted to talk about. Not that she’d had the opportunity. They might as well have been sitting in her office talking shop. If Jude wanted Mercy as a girlfriend, she had to do better than this.

Before she could come up with an innocuous conversation starter, Mercy said, “I’m going to drop you at the hotel and go stay with friends in Boulder for a couple of days.”

Jude’s throat cramped. “Why?”

“Because this is getting too complicated for me.”

“No one saw us.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about.” She lifted a caressing hand to Jude’s face. “I think you need more than I can give you right now.”

Jude covered Mercy’s hand with her own, then turned it over so she could kiss the palm. “You can’t imagine how much I want you.”

Mercy leaned into her, the flimsy silk of her shirt shifting across her breasts with every breath. Her mouth was against Jude’s ear. “That’s just the problem,” she murmured. “I can.”

Jude lowered her mouth to the base of Mercy’s throat and kissed a path down, unbuttoning Mercy’s shirt as she went. She wore a sheer camisole instead of a bra. Her nipples rose against the fine fabric, their dark peach color darker in the shadowed interior of the car.

“We can’t do this here,” she gasped as Jude bit down softly.

“I don’t want your Boulder friends listening while I fuck you,” Jude replied.

“You want me to check into a hotel like…this?” Mercy stared down at her camisole. It was glued wetly to her nipples where Jude’s mouth had been. She buttoned her shirt.

“I’ll check us in. You can sit in the lobby with your legs crossed.”

“Gallant to a fault.” Mercy slid her arms over Jude’s shoulders and cusped her hands behind Jude’s neck. “Kiss me.”

Jude forgot to be gentle. She kissed Mercy the way she wanted to take her, forcing her lips roughly apart, pushing inside, ignoring her resistance. Pressed to her, Mercy’s body felt firm and damp beneath the gossamer barrier of her clothes. Jude drove deeper into her mouth and slid a hand between her thighs. Wet flesh kissed her fingers. Mercy groaned.

Brilliant light flooded the car and someone honked their horn.

Jude lifted her mouth from Mercy’s and looked out the back window. “I think they want our space.”

“They can wait,” Mercy said. But she started the car and bunny-hopped out of the parking spot.

“Want me to drive?” Jude offered.

“No. I have other plans for you.”

“I’ll save my strength, then.”

“Good idea.”

They stopped at a set of lights and stared at one another.

“God, you make me hot,” Jude said.

Mercy smiled the way she did in Jude’s regular fantasies. “Well, we’re on the same page with that.”

“Drive faster,” Jude said.

And Mercy did.

Chapter Eighteen

Tulley came into work late. He had a black eye.

“It didn’t go well?” Jude asked.

“She cussed me out.”

“You’ll find a nice girl one day.” And so will I, she thought. Maybe not nice. But smart and kind-hearted. Also on the wish list—hot and monogamous in her inclinations.

Smoke’m stuck his head in Tulley’s lap, feeling his pain if the subsequent whines were any indication.

“I’m not in any hurry.” Tulley massaged the hound’s jowls and lifted his ears one at a time, kissing them lavishly.

Jude was curious but decided Tulley’s reasons for bachelorhood were his own. It was rare to meet a male who was not hormone driven, quite a relief, especially in the light of the bouquet of flowers flaunting itself on the cherry console where anyone looking in the station window could see it. Agatha wanted the world to know Jude was not the lonely, unwanted old maid people thought.

“Is he still waiting out there?” she asked.

Tulley nodded. She could tell from the quivering line of his mouth that he could barely control his mirth. This made the rhythm of his speech more halting than usual.

“That’s one womanizing horndog you got chasing your tail, detective,” he squeezed out before lowering his head to the papers in front of him and howling with laughter.

“Very funny,” Jude said and went to the window.

Bobby Lee Parker was leaning up against his Chevy, reading East of Eden, a fact he’d impressed her with when he came calling the day before. Today he was wearing faded Levis and a sleeveless white T-shirt that showed off his perfect tan and tasteful tattoos. His truck windows were open and a Garth Brooks love ballad announced the presence of Jude’s impassioned suitor to the entire valley yet again. He tipped his hat at her. Jude marveled at his persistence. Didn’t the guy have a job to go to?

Tulley brought his laughing fit under control long enough to suggest, “Maybe you should go on one date so it seems like you gave him a chance.”

“I don’t want to give him a chance.”

“Because of his past?” As if genuinely mystified, Tulley said, “He’s college educated.”

“Have you been talking to Agatha?”

“She says it couldn’t do any harm.”

“Tulley, I don’t want a boyfriend. Just like you don’t want a girlfriend.”

“But you’re a lot older than me.”

“Take it easy.”

Jude willed the phone to ring. Now that Naoma’s arraignment was over, things were settling back to normal. Last week they’d arrested a man for putting a goat in his cheating wife’s red lace underwear and parading the wretched animal in front of the workplace of the guy she was bonking. The goat was fine, but Jude had to explain the hazards of elastic; the thong had already rubbed some hair off. Colorado had serious animal cruelty legislation, she’d pointed out to the offender, and she would see to it personally that he paid the maximum fine if he took his marital problems out on a four-legged friend again. She let him go after he donated a hundred bucks to the Humane Society.

This debacle was followed by a snake scare, when a local python breeder rolled his SUV en route to a reptile convention in Durango. Youths stole the cage from the crash site and let the pythons loose in the Cortez Safeway, causing mayhem. Smoke’m had sniffed the embarrassed creatures out, ending their reign of terror and earning Tulley a front-page photo in the Cortez Journal and a brief appearance on Channel 9 news. The TV reporters had caught him off duty, shirtless, and washing his car. The ensuing footage of him playing fetch with Smoke’m was described by Sheriff Pratt as “more porno than promo.” Nonetheless they’d seen a gratifying flood of e-mails from an admiring public, even if most of them were from women who wanted to cook Tulley dinner.

The real excitement of the past month, however, was off the record. Harrison Hawke, apparently inspired by the Gathering for Zion incident, was organizing a series of training sessions on his land and had invited rival white supremacist organizations to attend these “Aryan Defense Days.” He’d applied for the requisite permit to shelter two hundred patriots in a tent village, and last week he’d asked Jude if he could meet with her in person to discuss logistics. He wanted to make sure the event was not subjected to harassment because “some liberals can’t allow their fellow Americans to exercise their constitutional rights and freedoms.”

Jude’s handler was wetting himself and wanted her to suck up to Hawke by arranging a police presence to prevent civil rights activists from throwing eggs and waving placards. She could hardly wait. She was supposed to be driving out to Black Dog Gulch for the promised face-to-face in a few hours’ time. But first she’d have to get rid of Hawke’s competition. She was about to go break the bad news to Parker when the phone signaled a reprieve, and, speak of the devil, it was none other than the would-be architect of a “cleansed America” himself.

Tulley’s gag-me-now expression was priceless. His hand over the mouthpiece, he announced, “It’s Mr. Hawke from the Christian Republic of Aryan Patriots. He desires to speak to you in person.”

Jude picked up the phone and sank down in her chair. Her last conversation with Hawke had claimed an entire afternoon, but he seemed to think they had bonded.

He returned her polite greeting with, “Just checking in. This afternoon still good for you, Detective?”

“Looking forward to it.” Jude mustered all the warmth she could. “We have a lot to talk about.”

This inspired a sharp intake of breath and Hawke eloquently shared what was on his mind. “There’s something I want to say before we meet, to set the tone as it were.”

Jude mumbled some encouragement and he launched into one of his monologues.

“Before your time, there was a moment in our nation’s history when law enforcement officers stood shoulder to shoulder with patriots like myself in the one great fight white Israel must win. Some present-day activists have forgotten that, and mistakenly believe our former brothers—and sisters—have forsaken us. But I’m here to tell you I know that’s not true. Detective, you speak for a silent majority, and I’m here to extend that invitation once again. This will be a moment you look back on, a moment for which your children’s children will revere you in the ages to come.”

He had prepared that impressive speech in advance, Jude surmised. An excess of solitude, paranoia, and time on one’s hands was bound to amplify passions. Or, as in his case, fixations.

Meaning every word, she replied, “Sir, I’ve always believed that my uniform should stand for something.”

“If I had my way, you’d be wearing another uniform,” he all but simpered. “A uniform that truly befits a woman of your caliber. You know the one I’m talking about.”

Recognizing this as something akin to a marriage proposal, Jude produced a small choked-up sigh. “You’ve no idea what it means to me to hear you say that, sir.”

“Please. Call me Harrison. When we’re speaking in private, of course.”

“Of course. I’m very excited about the plans…Harrison.” This breathless confession earned an incredulous look from Tulley.

“I’m aware that in offering your support, you do so at considerable risk to your reputation in certain quarters. So, I want to thank you.” His tone let her know that he was up for much more than thanks.

Courted by two losers on the same day. How did she get so lucky? Falling back on her straight and susceptible routine, Jude said, “One day, I’d like to introduce you to my father. I think you two would have a lot in common.” Not least hair loss and a pathological dislike of Vietnamese people.

“I’m honored you feel that way.” Hawke paused, evidently needing to collect himself. “This afternoon, then.”

“This afternoon,” Jude said softly and hung up.

“Do you know who that maniac is?” Tulley demanded.

“I certainly do.”

“Then why are you being so nice to him?”

Because my masters think he’s Richard Butler’s natural successor and I’m supposed to become the object of his unrequited lust. The Bureau was convinced Hawke was trying to rally the fragmented, rudderless neo-Nazi movement—still reeling from Pierce’s “freaks and weaklings” speech—by having a get-together along the lines of the legendary Estes Park conclave of 1992.

That gathering had seen the birth of an alliance between neo-Nazis, Klansmen, Posse Comitatus, antiabortion militants, and the Gun Owners of America, all united around a common goal to build “an all-White Christian republic.” By 1995, they were urging their loyalists to forge ties with the extreme right at large, in particular Christian fundamentalists. The strategy was notably successful in remaking the gun lobby, adjusting its single-issue focus away from recreation and the right to hunt, to a broader right-wing platform around which every militia in the country could rally.

Lately, despite its spectacular under-the-radar political gains, the movement had seen a rash of in-house fighting and petty power struggles. Various notables had died or been convicted of crimes, including stealing from their own membership. The Aryan Nations had gone bankrupt and since the death of its leader, Richard Butler, the organization had splintered. The National Alliance had just expelled half its leadership cadre, who had regrouped as the National Vanguard. And the KKK had been steadily falling apart for the past decade. All in all, these were worrisome times for rank-and-file neo-Nazis, and humiliating, too. How could Jews and African Americans be blamed for the internal chaos in a movement entirely operated by the “racially superior”?

Tulley was still waiting to find out why she was being a sweetheart to Hawke, and Jude produced a slippery answer. “Because I’m here to protect and defend the rights of all citizens, not just those cut from the same political cloth as me.”

“You don’t like him, do you?”

“My personal feelings about Mr. Hawke are irrelevant. This is work.”

Tulley peeled a stick of fresh gum. “If you had to choose between the two of them, who would you pick?”

“I have no idea what you are talking about.”

“Hawke or Bobby Lee?”

Jude rolled her eyes. “Like I said, I’m not looking for a boyfriend.”

“But if you had to.”

Guessing he was uncomfortable with the idea that a creep like Hawke could even be in the running, she conceded, “Bobby Lee. Okay?”

“Mighty pleased to hear it.” From the doorway, Bobby Lee Parker drawled a greeting and strolled into the office like he owned the patent on cool. When he reached Jude’s desk, he removed his hat and placed it tenderly on top of the nearest filing cabinet.

She said, “That was a figurative question, Mr. Parker. I wouldn’t read anything into the answer.”

“All the same, do I need to speak with this Hawke dude, man to man?” He cocked his head in Tulley’s direction. “Know where he drinks, Deputy?”

Tulley snickered. “In his bedroom, I reckon.”

Bobby Lee flashed his white, perfect teeth. To Jude, he said, “That’s not the kind of man who’ll put a smile on your face.”

“Get out of here,” she ordered. “And take your posy.”

Strangely undeterred, he said, “Man, you’ve got it going on. Anyone ever tell you, you have the sexist voice since Marlene Dietrich?”

Jude got up. Normally the sight of her--5’ 10,” built, armed, and annoyed--terminated male overtures without so much as a whimper. Not in Parker’s case.

The guy stuck out his arm out and said, “Come on. Make a man happy. Take a walk with me, Detective Dee-Vine.”

Why couldn’t Mercy show up at her office with flowers and sweet talk? For a few seconds, Jude indulged herself in a pity party, then she laughed at her own lapse into romantic yearning, hooked her arm into Bobby Lee’s, and resigned herself to having to be blunter than usual. “Okay,” she said. “Let’s have a conversation.”

Grinning, Bobby Lee picked up his hat and pulled her close. He even smelled good. As they passed Tulley’s desk, he paused and offered his condolences.

“The face. That’s unacceptable. Was she drunk?”

“Nope.” Tulley touched his purple eye. “Just pissed.”

“I can tell you’re not a man who hits a woman.” Bobby Lee tightened his grip on Jude like he knew she was already regretting the impulse to talk with him. “But listen up, my friend. A chick who takes advantage of your fine manners is not worth having. Get some self-respect and dump her.”

“I did.”

“Good to know.” Bobby Lee seemed lost in thought for an instant. Then he asked, “Hey, pal. Want to get a beer later?”

“Sure,” Tulley said.

Jude could tell he was pleased. Did Parker think he could win her over by making friends with her associates? He already had Agatha eating out of his hand, after fixing a flat tire for her and carrying her parcels to the door. Jude tried to tug her arm free, but he kept a firm hold and started walking.

As soon as they got outside, he released his grip and she stepped away from him, demanding, “What are you playing at, Mr. Parker?”

“I like it better when you call me Bobby Lee.”

“Well, don’t get used it. Stop flirting and listen to me. You’re wasting your time. I am never going to date you.” She offered the excuse she thought would make the most sense to this hormonal cowboy. “The fact is, you’re too young for me. None of us can change the way attraction works. I choose lovers in their thirties.”

Bobby Lee opened his truck and held the passenger door. “Care to continue in air-conditioned comfort?”

“So long as this doesn’t take more than five minutes.” Jude got in the truck, thinking: I need my head examined.

“You’re a hard woman,” Bobby Lee mourned.

“So I’m told.”

He took the seat next to her and started the motor. The vents threw hot air ahead of cold. Jude was already perspiring, which made her uniform feel like it was hugging way too closely for a situation like this.

She said, “I’m flattered. Really, I am. But there’s just no way. Do you understand?”

“That butch, huh?”

Her heart stopped in her chest, then began galloping at double time. Was this what she thought it was? Had the rules just changed in a split second? Coldly, she said, “Call it what you want.”

Bobby Lee’s brilliant blue eyes wandered lazily over her. “People think they know their own demarcation lines,” he said softly, “but I’ve found there’s a lot of slack between no and yes.”

Jude knew exactly what he was talking about. She was surprised. Who would have taken Bobby Lee Parker for the philosophical type? In another time or place, she might have allowed herself to be drawn into a conversation beyond the superficial. There was obviously more to him than met the eye. But this was not an anonymous bar somewhere in a big city.

Damply, she said, “That’s something we see in my line of work, too.”

“Mine changed in prison,” he replied, making her willful detachment feel cheap. “A man learns a lot about himself in a situation like that.”

“If you don’t quit robbing gas stations you’ll be having another learning experience soon.”

The dark center of each eye dilated, consuming the blue. He said, “I went through a rough patch when I got out. That’s in the past now.”

“You’ve found work?” He was probably growing weed for his mother and her pothead pals.

Another surprise. “I’m going back to school.”

“Good for you. I really hope it pans out.”

“There one thing I’m gonna miss real bad.”

Jude thought gloomily: here it comes.

“Love at first sight,” he mooned. “Never happened before.”

“You’ll get over it. College is wall to wall…attractive women.”

He wasn’t letting up. “I gotta tell you something—that place between no and yes is real familiar to me.”

Jude wasn’t sure how to translate this statement. Bobby Lee spared her brain cells.

“What I’m saying is I don’t limit myself like most folks. So, if you were interested, we could party. But the fact is, it’s your deputy that’s on my mind.”

Jude’s first thought was: no fucking way! Her voice hit a rare treble. “Tulley?”

“I prefer to call him Adonis.” Bobby Lee acknowledged this poeticism with a wry grin. “First moment I saw him, it was exactly like they say. A lightning bolt. Thought I could scope him out if everyone got the idea I was hot for you.”

“You sure had me fooled.”

“Disappointed? Just say the word and I’ll make it up to you.”

“I thought you were in love.”

“Doesn’t affect my competence with others, and for you…I’d go the extra mile.”

Jude burst out laughing. “Slut.”

“There’s no need to be unkind.”

Jude wanted to dislike him, but their conversation was refreshingly uncomplicated. Amazed that in a place like this, a young male would come out as bisexual or gay to anyone, she said, “You’re taking quite a risk talking to me like this,”

“There’s only been two females ever turned me down. The other one was a lesbian. So, I figured…”

“Tulley’s straight.”

“Poor taste in women, too.” Bobby Lee seemed unfazed.

Jude had no idea what to say. She consulted the desolate Uravan landscape and came up with a lame response. “I don’t think he shares your feelings.”

“That’s why I’ve decided to make friends with him, and hit on you instead.”

“Are you trying to make him jealous?”

“No. Just buying myself some access and doing us both a big favor. The Four Corners is not a good place to be gay. Or bi.”

Then leave Tulley alone, Jude thought. “There’s something I’m not seeing. Who says anyone knows?”

“You’re a single female under fifty in a town where guys outnumber chicks three to one. You’ve been here awhile and you’ve turned down every guy who’s dropped a hint. They’re talking about you.”

Jude shrugged. “Talk is just talk.”

“This works for both of us,” he said. “’Specially in your situation.”

Jude frowned. Just how closely had the unexpectedly serious-minded Parker been watching her?

“Dr. Westmoreland’s a classy lady,” he said.

“We’re just friends.” Anger quickened her limbs. “Are you making some kind of threat?”

“Jesus. Chill. It’s not healthy to be wound up like you are. All I’m saying is there’s talk. Even my mom’s heard.”

Jude felt squeamish. This would mean curtains. No more 4.30 a.m. drives back from Grand Junction. No more checking in to separate rooms at the Hotchkiss Inn, miles from anywhere.

She said, “I don’t suppose it could do any harm to give them something else to gossip about.”

“That was my thinking.”

“I seriously doubt you’ll get anywhere with Tulley.”

“Me too.”

Who would buy her dating Bobby Lee Parker? Jude shook her head in disbelief that she was even considering this desperate measure. It wasn’t like her affair with Mercy was a star-crossed lovers situation. They were strictly about getting laid. All the same, good sex in this neck of the woods was nothing to be sneezed at, and if Mercy got wind that there was talk, their exhausting evenings would be over in a heartbeat.

She said, “What’s the big date in Cortez?”

“If you get lucky I’ll take you to Blondie’s.”

Also a popular outing for cops and their wives. Jude could see them now. “Christ,” she said.

Bobby Lee moved closer and dropped a tame kiss on her cheek. “No need to thank me, sweetheart.”

*

Jude lifted a handful of Mercy’s hair and kissed the smooth curve where neck met shoulder. Several small dark moles nestled in the hollow above her collarbone, as if Mother Nature had flicked some paint on the immaculate almond canvas of Mercy’s skin. A scant haze of ultra-fine blond hair was visible on her forearms, picked out by the morning sun. Her hands lay folded over her midriff, their fine-boned perfection thrown into relief, a latticework of pale blue veins visible beneath the pale translucence of her skin.

Jude tried to frame the words she wanted to say. They’d seen each other on and off ever since their evening in Denver. Jude’s feeble resistance to sharing Mercy crumbled every time she set eyes on her. Mercy only had to look at her and she was putty. Was she in love? She didn’t think so. She was in lust, but love hovered as a possibility. Sometimes she wanted to say that to Mercy, to check in and see if it was still too complicated.

She decided now seemed like a good time to revisit that, but before she could speak, Mercy moved closer and faced her. Playfully, she said, “We should do this again some time. You’re a truly accomplished lover.”

It seemed like a compliment, only Jude found herself hearing what Mercy didn’t say. Feelings were not mentioned. She didn’t say she wanted to see more of Jude, that maybe they could start including each other in their lives, not just in their beds. It was always like this. Sometimes they barely spoke, other than to voice their desires. Their dialogue was almost entirely sexual.

“Thank you. I’m glad I pass muster.” Jude could not miss the edge in her own voice. It was not lost on Mercy, either.

“Is something wrong?” She stroked Jude’s cheek.

“No.” Jude told herself to do better, to take a shot at saying what was really on her mind. “I was thinking. Maybe we could see a bit more of each other. It doesn’t always have to be about sex.”

“You mean date?”

“Why not? We don’t have to be obvious about it. We could meet after you finish work sometimes. Have a drink. Have dinner at each other’s houses like a normal couple.”

“We’re not a couple, and I’m not ready for that.”

“I’m not suggesting we get married.”

“Aren’t you?” Mercy’s eyes chilled a little.

“Give me a break.” Jude said softly. “We’re both grown-ups. I don’t suffer from romantic delusions any more than you do. But I think we’re being overly paranoid. We like each other’s company. All I’m saying is why don’t we accept that and make the most of it. You’ve said you’re lonely.”

“Yes, but it’s not so bad anymore. It makes a big difference knowing that you’re there.”

Jude rolled onto her back and stared up at the ceiling. Did she really want to be nothing but a convenient port in a storm, a lover who, like a toy, could be picked up and put down at will? Restive, her mind working, she asked, “Mercy, what exactly do you want from me?”

Mercy trailed a hand over Jude’s breasts to her stomach and down to the wet parting of her flesh. Slowly, deliberately, she aroused her. “I want this. I want someone I can let go with. I want there to be one place in my life where I don’t have to be careful all the time. You give me that.”

Jude could barely hold a coherent thought together. Catching Mercy’s hand by the wrist, she arrested its distracting pressure and took a risk. “I could give you more than that. I don’t want us to be closed to other possibilities.”

“This isn’t enough for you?” Mercy picked up her strokes with the other hand. With an intent expression, she got to her knees and moved over Jude, lowering her mouth to her throat, biting slightly harder than usual. “The way I see it,” she lifted her head, bright blue eyes challenging Jude, “Why mess with a good thing?”

Why indeed? There were people who’d kill for what they had. Jude wanted to discuss this some more, but it could wait. For the moment, her body had another agenda. Ignoring the part of her that craved a deeper connection, she drew Mercy down and kissed the breath from her.

Chapter Nineteen

Eight hundred years ago, the Anasazi abandoned their pueblo villages in the Dolores valley and built a city beneath the massive overhangs of the Mesa Verde 8,000 feet above sea level. They lived in the canyon walls for a century, then vanished without trace, leaving only abstract designs and a few petroglyphs. Little remained of their cliff dwellings now. The Ute, the Navajo, and the Apache had left them undisturbed in the centuries that followed, but time took its toll.

Jude stood on the rim of the mesa and allowed her eyes to drift slowly along the canyon sandstone ledges. In the harsh sunlight, it was easy to miss the shadow of a doorway or a window tucked into a niche or shrouded by a rocky overhang. But eventually, the eroding remnants of walls and buildings took shape, almost miragelike in the afternoon haze, and she could make out the telltale indentations the Anasazi had gouged into the cliffs as hand and footholds. These, more than anything else, whispered to her of the people who had once clung to them, driven by some unknown fear or yearning.

She wondered what had happened to them. They had cultivated their corn and squash on the mesa top, building dams and irrigations channels; one of their reservoirs, the Mummy Lake, was still visible from the Far View pueblo. They had hunted deer and buried their dead infants wrapped in rabbit skins. They constructed hundreds of miles of roads, but for what purpose? There was no sign that they used wheels or pack animals. Without a written language, they could leave no explanations for the curious latecomers to this land. The evening before, she had strolled along the Knife Edge trail to watch the sun set over the Montezuma Valley. A few decades earlier, some optimists had built a road along the western face of the mesa, but the gods that ruled this ancient kingdom had rained down boulders and torn at it from below until it was inaccessible. Before long, it would vanish completely, the lost evidence of another civilization. Watching the sun sink behind Sleeping Ute Mountain, drowning the canyons in red, Jude had felt as insignificant as any human was in the greater scheme of things. It was just the feeling she was seeking. Her mom would call it getting things in perspective.

She had made the journey days earlier, through the Dolores rift to the ruins of Chapin Mesa, unable to shake from her mind the image of Summer and the little boy who died with her. She felt responsible, snared by the what ifs she’d been taught to let go of. Hindsight was a rod any detective could use to beat herself up. In the split second when she’d grabbed Kelly and the teenage girl, she’d made a choice to leave the others. Had she chosen differently, they might still be alive. The team would have reached Kelly and the girl first.

Everyone said she’d done the right thing, and that had she gone back alone for the two who died, she would probably have been killed as well. Jude could follow their reasoning but it didn’t help. She would always see those two innocents, trapped in that moment before their lives were stolen. She would always feel that terrible powerlessness. The best she could hope for was to reach an accommodation with the events of that day, to forgive herself for not being able to arrest time and entice a different outcome from the Fates.

Jude left the mesa rim and took a circuitous route back to her truck at the Morfield Campground, halting at a cairn one of the guides had pointed out during the walking tour she’d taken soon after she first arrived. It was an ancient shrine near a yellow-leaved cottonwood tree, a mound of gray river cobbles caressed smooth and round by eons of water. The Navajo still prayed and left offerings there—small turquoise beads, feathers, obsidian, and twigs. They only did this on their way to a destination, the guide said; never on the return trip.

Jude broke a twig from a pine tree nearby and placed it with the other offerings, making a wish for luck on her journey. In theory, she was on her return trip, but somehow it didn’t feel like that. It felt like she was moving forward, heading into the unknown, trusting in the promise and possibility of tomorrow.

She strolled the rest of the way to her tent and packed up, one of several campers watched warily by a group of deer wandering through the high grass, then drove slowly between the piñon pines and junipers, down the winding, treacherous road toward U.S. 160. Ahead of her lay the Mancos Valley, once Darlene Huntsberger’s home. Her parents had raised a small stone monument to her on their farm, just below a tree she liked to climb. They had invited Jude and Tulley out to see it, and Mrs Huntsberger had made a pie for them. The family seemed to think justice had been done, even if it came without the niceties of a trial. This was the general sentiment about town. Little was known about Jude and Tulley’s role beyond the official story—two MCSO officers were dispatched to arrest the prime suspect in the Huntsberger homicide, only to find themselves caught up in a confrontation between the FLDS sect and the FBI. Tulley said he didn’t care if their story was not going to end up on TV. He was still getting his promotion.

At Towaoc, Jude took the turnoff to Eddie House’s place and pulled into the driveway as the late afternoon light was fading. The air had a chill in it, the first whisper of the coming winter. It would be a relief to see snow, she thought, as she fished around in the back of the Dakota and found her backpack. She slung it over her shoulder and headed for the house, pausing opposite one of Eddie House’s bird enclosures. A peregrine falcon studied her from its feeding platform. She whistled and it hopped down and bounced across the ground toward her. One of its wings was extensively taped, but Eddie was hoping it would fly again. The bird remembered her from last time—the visitor with the dead rodent in her coat pocket. It waited expectantly and Jude offered a few pieces of jerky. These the peregrine husbanded in a corner of its cage, apparently planning for lean times ahead.

Waiting at Eddie’s door, Jude opened her backpack and removed a plastic binder. “This is for you,” she said when he answered her knock. “I’m sorry it’s not the original.”

Eddie invited her in, asking, “Beer?”

“No, I won’t stay, thanks. I just wanted to drop the book by.”

Eddie didn’t pay this much attention. Waving her indoors, he led her to the living room at the back of the house. Ranch sliders faced onto a small patio with some cedar furniture.

They sat down outdoors and Jude smiled at the sight of Zach and the ghost gray wolf rolling and growling on the small square of lawn Eddie had coaxed from the sullen earth. She’d been visiting a couple of times a week since bringing Zach to him. The kid must have put on ten pounds over the past month, and he was taller. The young man was suddenly emerging from the child.

“Is this the diary?” Eddie asked.

“Yes.”

He opened it and read a few pages. “How did she get here?”

Jude took her time answering. She’d learned that replying to Eddie after a normal interval denied him the option to converse at his own pace. Which was why Sheriff Pratt described him as “the strong silent type,” she supposed. Their conversations were punctuated by long silences, the kind most people felt the need to fill. Once she’d grown used to this pattern, she found it relaxing.

“I’m not sure,” she said, “but it seems as if her mother might have been instructed to kill her, but instead drove her out of the area and told her never to come back.”

“Her name was Valerie?”

“Yes.”

“Poppy is better.”

“I think so, too.”

He flipped to the final pages in their plastic envelopes and read the one that had disturbed Jude perhaps more than any. Poppy had drawn a picture of herself with liquid spilling from her mouth, and written, “Mom says I talk too much.”

“I think she must have known about the murders for a long time, and her father suddenly decided she was a risk,” Jude said.

She pictured a little girl, silently witnessing crimes, knowing there were bodies buried, amassing information until, as a young woman forced to marry her own father, she started questioning what she’d seen and the life she was leading. Perhaps she’d said something to one of the other wives and Nathaniel heard about it. Naoma had remained uncooperative, insisting that her daughter Valerie was in Canada.

“It’s good you shot him,” Eddie said.

Jude accepted the credit for it. One of her bullets had hit Epperson, one of the eight the M.E. dug out of him. She watched the antics on the lawn as Eddie continued to examine the diary.

“What’s your wolf’s name?” she asked eventually.

“Hinhan Okuwa. It means Chased By Owls. That’s how he came to cross my path. He was a cub. An owl was attacking him.”

Jude mused on that, and half a minute later said, “He eluded the harbinger of death.”

“The owl gave him to me.” More silence. “A Two Kettle Sioux warrior called Hinhan Okuwa fought at Little Big Horn. He did not elude death.”

“Ah. So, you decided his name would live on?”

Eddie studied her. As always his expression was hard to read. “Your ancestors…no Native American?”

“Not as far as I know. Irish on my father’s side and Scottish on my mother’s.”

He nodded. “Warrior people.”

“Yes, very tribal. One of my ancestors, a Cameron, fought the English at the battle of Culloden. I guess you could say that was the Wounded Knee of my people.”

“I know of it.”

“The circumstances were very different, of course. My people were armed men who died on the battlefield. They had a fighting chance.”

The comparison lay in what each event symbolized—the systematic destruction of a people and a way of life. She had visited Inverness the year she turned thirty and had driven out to the site of Culloden, expecting an innocent field like any other, sluiced of its history by the passage of time. But Drumrossie moor was an eerie place, the air heavy, the sound of the wind uncannily like distant weeping. Even at the scenes of unimaginably brutal crimes, Jude had never allowed her imagination to run away with her, yet Culloden seemed haunted.

Standing in silence at the tall stone commemorative cairn, she’d felt the hair on her neck prickle. It was as if the blood that had soaked the earth that day could never be washed away. The dead were present in every blade of grass, in the bark and branches of every tree, in the purple heather that stained the field, as if all that was living had been nourished by the broken, bleeding hearts of the fallen.

The names of the Highland clans were etched on rough-hewn stone slabs marking the spot where their clansmen were buried together in mass graves, along with the few women who had fought beside their husbands. Gazing down at these, Jude had felt a leaden sorrow, a despair so profound she wondered if she had somehow tapped into a chord of grief that echoed through time.

Thinking out loud, she told Eddie, “It was the death of hope, the death of a people more than the death of the individuals.”

“Yes. Our voices were silenced.”

“I’ve learned something,” Jude said. “Beyond silence, the truth waits. It reaches out.”

Eddie’s expression softened. “The spirits of the dead seek their honor in the eyes of the living. They must not be denied.”

Jude met his gaze and saw compassion mixed with something else. Respect?

“Yes,” she said. “Denial…complicity…that’s the gravest silence of all.”

She looked past Poppy’s headstone, across the heartless earth, beyond the mesa to the far horizon. She thought about Ben. Was this why she had never believed him dead—that she could not feel him reaching out to her? That delving into the silence around his disappearance had yielded nothing.

His face glowed in her mind’s eye, golden with the setting sun, and she realized that she would never cease her search. She would not go quietly into the night. She would not say good-bye and fall silent.

Her brother deserved more, and so did she.

Sleep of Reason

When toddler Corban Foley vanishes from his home in the dead of night and a goat's head left on the front lawn, most of Montezuma County turns out for the search. But nothing is at it seems with this case, and Detective Jude Devine soon finds herself caught up in a small-town soap opera whose players seem more interested in their fifteen minutes of fame than in the fate of little Corban.

With the media snapping at her heels, Jude can barely conduct the investigation let alone have a private life, not that it's going well. Jude never liked time-sharing Dr. Mercy Westmoreland with English actress Elspeth Harwood, and when Elspeth buys land locally, Jude has to make some choices. The unexpected arrival in town of Chastity Young and her niece Adeline adds a new complication to Jude's life when she finds herself drawn to Chastity who is far from her usual type.

Book Two in the Jude Devine Mystery Series

Sleep Of Reason

by

Rose Beecham

2006

Sleep of Reason

© 2006 by Rose Beecham. All Rights Reserved.

ISBN 10: 1-933110-53-8E

This trade paperback original is published by:

Bold Strokes Books, Inc.,

New York, USA

First Edition, September 2006

This is a work of fiction. names, characters, places, and Incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

Credits

Editor: Shelley Thrasher

Production Design: J. Barre Greystone

Cover Graphic: By Sheri (graphicartist2020@hotmail.com)

Acknowledgements

I belong to that species of author for whom writing a novel is a lonely, antisocial affair. Family and friends are excluded, the phone is ignored, and the espresso machine works overtime. My dear ones, especially my partner, put up with all of this and still love me. Puzzling, but I cannot thank them enough.

I worked on this novel with the support and encouragement of the women who make my life make sense: Fel, Sophie, and JD. In particular, I thank my mother, Wyn, who spent the first part of her big overseas vacation looking after me and my home so I could write much of this work without disturbance.

Lori L. Lake has my thanks for being unfailingly generous with her advice and skills, and only letting me stay precious for twenty-four hours at any time. Shelley Thrasher edited this book with insight and sensitivity, for which I am extremely thankful because it was extremely late to her desk. And Radclyffe, as usual, was the perfect publisher—a patient tyrant and a writers’ friend, without whose mentoring and encouragement I would be a lesser author.

Dedication

To the memory of Jaidyn

and all the children who share his fate.

Author’s Note

When I was living in Melbourne, Australia, a toddler named Jaidyn Leskie vanished in bizarre circumstances, sparking the biggest manhunt in the history of that nation. After Jaidyn’s body was found, his mother’s boyfriend was tried for his murder, acquitted, and was recently alleged to have made a jailhouse confession to the crime.

This novel is not a fictionalized account of Jaidyn’s story, but I was inspired to write it because of that sad case. There are a few superficial similarities to his story, for many common elements can be found in the stories of countless children who die every year at the hands of those supposed to protect them.

Chapter One

At ten in the evening on a freezing Saturday in Cortez, Colorado, Tonya Perkins was chugging a beer and planning to fuck a total stranger when her night on the town was interrupted by a phone call from her boyfriend, Wade Miller.

Wade had bad news. Tonya’s two-year-old son Corban had burned his hand on the stove, and Wade had to take him to the hospital.

“Shit,” said Tonya. She never went out drinking with her friends anymore. She couldn’t pay for a sitter. Now, finally, she had a boyfriend who said he’d mind Corban, and this happened. “Okay. I’ll come home.”

“Nah. You don’t have to. Just thought you should know what happened.”

Tonya heaved a sigh of relief. If Corban was okay then she could stay at the bar. She gave her sister Amberlee a thumbs up and checked out a hot guy across the room. “You sure you don’t need me there?” she asked as someone shoved another pitcher of beer in front of her.

“Yeah. Don’t worry. He’s got himself a sore hand, that’s all.”

“I don’t get it. I just hit him yesterday for reaching up on the stove.”

Wade mumbled something that sounded like, “This time he learned.”

A tightness in his voice registered with Tonya. Guessing at the reason, she took a swig of beer and asked, “What’d you have to pay them at the hospital?”

“It’s fine. I got some extra work.”

Didn’t sound like the Wade Miller Tonya knew. Since he’d started saving up for his new car, he was even stingier than usual. That’s why he didn’t care about missing Amberlee’s party. He acted like he was a hero for babysitting Corban, but Tonya knew he just wanted to avoid buying a round.

“You sure?” She gave him a last chance.

“No sweat. You’re my old lady.”

“I love you, ding dong.” Tonya let her eyes return to the man-meat across the room. She tried to remember his name. Something foreign. Andre. No, Vincente. The guy had his own car repair shop. He looked like Ricky Martin. She decided if she couldn’t get him, she would check out one of the salesmen in town for the agricultural show. They were always married, so no one would make annoying phone calls the next day and start calling himself a boyfriend like Cortez males were in the habit of doing.

“You gonna be much longer?” Wade asked.

“We’re going back to Amberlee’s after this.”

“Right. I forgot. Want me to pick you up later? Like in a few hours or something?”

The stud was looking her way. Tonya sucked in her stomach. “Yeah, okay,” she remembered to answer. She was already fucked up, and she’d only been drinking since eight. Laughing, she said, “I can’t drive. No way. I’d take a wrong turn and end up in the reservoir.”

*

Sitting at a table a few yards away, Matthew Roache had a pitiful look on his face, and his eyes were glued to Tonya. His sister, Heather, felt sorry for him, but this had gone on long enough. He’d been living at her place since he broke up with that slut, and Heather had had it. She was fed up with him and his loser buddies camped on her sofa and eating her food with the TV blaring day and night. And she was fed up with that dirty goat tied up in her yard, causing a problem with the neighbors.

When the heavy snows came a few days back, Matthew brought the disgusting animal into the house, and he was keeping it in the guest bathroom now. He never cleaned up after it. Heather had to scrape droppings off the soles of her best boots on her way out the door tonight.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she asked. “She dumped you and she’s with someone else. Forget her. Just walk away and forget her. She’s not worth it.”

“I love her.”

“Well, she doesn’t love you.”

Heather had decided recently that you had to be cruel to be kind. Matthew was her little brother and she loved him, but he was letting Tonya Perkins ruin his life. He’d even lost his job. His boss got fed up with him calling in so-called sick. Heather knew exactly where he was on those supposed sick days—parked outside of that bitch’s house.

Unable to help herself, she stared past a sea of bodies to the peroxide blonde perched on a bar stool and thought, I hate that woman. I hope she dies. Normally she would feel ashamed of herself for thinking such a thing, but as Tonya dropped her cell phone into her purse and leaned back against the bar trying to look sexy, Heather could only marvel at the stupidity of males. How could they be sucked in by such a whore?

Tonya wore fuck-me pumps and a denim miniskirt no one a size XXL should wear. Black fishnet stockings strained over her fat thighs. They couldn’t hide the cellulite, and she must have spent hours with the curling iron, getting her big hairdo coiled into long ringlets. Someone should tell her strawberry blond wasn’t her color.

As if anyone could possibly miss her double Ds, Cortez’s number-one home wrecker tugged her pink crop top down so her staunch, pale breasts bobbed over. This drew attention to the tidemark at the base of her throat where her tan foundation began. She wore candy pink lipstick, baby blue eye shadow, and eyeliner flicked up slightly in the corner of each eye.

Heather almost laughed. How yesterday was that look? Turning away before Tonya caught her staring, she could barely stop herself from slapping Matthew upside the head. He was slouched over his beer, sniffing noisily.

“We were supposed to be getting married today,” he choked out.

“As if I could forget. I was supposed to be in Cancun, remember? Has she given you back that ring yet?”

“I don’t care about the ring,” he blubbered.

“Well I do. You owe me four hundred dollars.” By rights that engagement ring belonged to her. Matthew had been paying her back the seven hundred she lent him to buy it, but after he lost his job the payments dried up. “I worked hard for that money,” she reminded him.

“I know. “ Matthew snatched her hand and flattened it over his pounding heart. “I’ll pay, I swear. God’s honest truth.”

“Even if you just got the ring back, I could live with that,” she said generously. “I could sell it on eBay.”

“How am I supposed to do that?”

“Try asking. If she says no, then stop by her place when she’s not expecting you and get it off the dresser in her bedroom. She keeps it in that music box I gave her for the engagement.”

“How do you know?”

Heather rolled her eyes. “Duh. I only organized her bachelorette party. I’ve been in her room.”

Matthew seemed to be thinking. He gave a small harsh laugh. “While I’m there, I’m gonna take back that stuffed panda I gave her, too.”

“Oh, that’s smart. You walk out with your hood over your face and carrying a big, huge stuffed animal. Just in case no one noticed you burglarizing the house.”

“I never thought of that.” He snuck another look at Tonya and rifled his fingers frantically through his hair as if that might dislodge the trashy slut from his brain.

“Lovely,” Heather said. “Now you’ve got dandruff in your beer.” Why she bothered trying to make him think with his brain instead of his dick was a mystery. He was never going to ask Tonya for the ring, and if he tried to steal it he would probably get caught. At this rate, she would be spending her next vacation in Kansas, not Cancun.

Predictably her brother acted like everything was settled, promising, “I’ll get a job and pay you back. Twice as much. You’ll be able to go to Mexico just like you planned.”

Heather had heard it all before. The fact was, that woman had cast a spell on Matthew, and until he snapped out of it, he would be unemployed and eating everything in her fridge. “That’s all well and good, but I’ll tell you something you can do for me now. Okay?”

Her brother dragged his arm across his face. “Okay.”

“I want that goat gone by tomorrow. I refuse to have it polluting my home for one more day.”

“He doesn’t hurt anyone. And we don’t have to mow the yard with him chewing on the grass. You’ll be glad when it’s summer.”

“Oh, really? You think I enjoy listening to the neighbors complaining about their kids putting goat poop in their mouths because they think it’s raisins? The joke’s over. It’s you or him.”

“A week,” Matthew begged. “Jason’ll be in town next weekend. He’ll take him.”

“No.”

Their older brother, Jason, hadn’t shown up for months. He had some land in Jackson County, and he was always promising to drive down and visit, but he never got around to it. Heather seriously doubted he’d want the goat anyway. Matthew was kidding himself. He thought he was so funny when he got the animal after 9/11, telling everyone how he was naming it after My Pet Goat, the children’s book the President was reading when he was told about the terrorist attack. He just made himself look stupid calling it Bush’s Homeland Security adviser and asking it what color the terror alert should be.

Heather didn’t see the big joke, and she didn’t appreciate her brother disrespecting the President. She’d voted Bush/Cheney both times because she didn’t believe in abortion. She’d tried to talk to Matthew about the unborn and about how the gay lifestyle was being taught in schools as close as Boulder. But even with the sanctity of marriage in direct peril, he’d been too busy running around after Tonya to get to a polling place. That woman had lowered his IQ, which—let’s face it—wasn’t right up there to begin with.

Leaning closer to him, she said, “Listen to me. I’m trying to help you, but you have to start doing stuff for yourself. Get rid of that goat. Get a haircut. I’ll buy you some new pants and a shirt, and you can start applying for jobs. That’s the best revenge you’ll ever get. Show her you don’t care and you’re a success. My boss is looking for guys to help out with a big roofing contract in the spring. That’s good money.”

“Roofing? Oh, man. It’ll be all Mexicans and me. I don’t speak Mexican.”

“It’s better than laying around all day watching the soaps. And think about it, you’d be one of the only white guys so you’d be boss of your own gang pretty quick. Mr. McAllister needs men who can communicate with the client.”

Matthew whined, “Do we have to talk about it now?”

“Yes, we do!” Heather seized his chin and forced his head in Tonya’s direction. “Look at her pawing Vinnie Russo when she’s supposed to be with Wade Miller now. She’s a slut, Matthew. She stole her sister’s husband, and then he left her—guess why?”

Matthew looked guilty. “It was love at first sight. We couldn’t help it.”

“Oh, that explains why she seduced Wade off of Brittany Kemple while you two were engaged. If you had gotten married, trust me, she’d be cheating on you right now.”

Her brother stiffened. His light brown eyes glittered with fury, and his chest rose and fell like he was palpitating. “I’ll fix her.” He stood up and shoved his chair back.

Heather grabbed his arm. “You can’t fight Vinnie Russo! He’ll kill you.”

“I’m not going to fight Vinnie.” Matthew looked her dead in the eye. He was pale and his mouth shook. “I’m going to do what you said. I’ll show her. I’ll take that job and get a decent car and my own place, and she’ll wish she’d never dumped me for that asshole Wade fucking Miller. And when you get home later, no goat. Okay?”

Before Heather could say thank you, he stalked out of the bar.

Chapter Two

Sheriff’s Detective Jude Devine untangled herself from her sheets, groped for the phone, and peered at her digital clock. 4:30 a.m. Normally, she got up at 5:30 so she could work out for an hour before she drove to work. A phone call this early meant she wouldn’t be bench-pressing anything bigger than a coffee mug.

“Get in here, Devine,” her boss demanded as Jude licked her furry teeth and tried to formulate a greeting.

Dragging herself upright, she located the bottle of water she kept on her nightstand. After two years away from Washington, D.C., she was used to dealing with the Colorado altitude. Anyone who didn’t drink plenty of water could expect a permanent headache.

“What’s up, sir?” she asked after a few protracted gulps.

“We have a situation.” Sheriff Pratt’s grim delivery made it clear she would not be staying in her nice warm bed much longer.

“How bad?”

Pratt coughed wetly into the phone. “Bad enough for me to be freezing my balls off down here instead of doing what the doctor ordered and staying in my goddamned bed for another week.”

“Bummer.”

Jude slid her feet into the chill air and groaned. She turned the heating down when she went to bed, so her room wasn’t even fifty degrees. Shivering, she stumbled across her cold floorboards to the window and twitched the curtain aside. It was still dark, but her yard glowed winter white with the first serious snowfall of the season.

No one could believe they’d had to wait until March to see the usual high country snowpack. Even the most earnest devotees of denial, of which the Four Corners had more than its fair share, were suddenly wondering aloud if global warming was not just a liberal fiction invented to destroy the American way of life. Hurricane Katrina and the cost of gas had unleashed a rare storm of doubt about the wisdom and pronouncements of the demigods on Capitol Hill.

“Snow’s coming down pretty heavy out here,” she told Pratt, gloomily resigning herself to shoveling her driveway in darkness so she could get her Dodge Dakota out.

“Weather report says we’re expecting another nine inches,” he said unsympathetically. “The sooner you leave, the less you’ll have to shovel.”

Jude hit the lights and squinted until she could relax her eyes. “I hear you. So, what have we got?”

“Hard to say exactly. Just do me a favor and haul ass, Detective.”

Surprised by this masterful directive, Jude juggled the phone as she located underwear and warm clothes. The sheriff seldom took that kind of tone with her. Although he had never wanted her on his staff and was antsy around her at the best of times, he usually managed to conceal his feelings behind a mask of professional respect. Whatever was going on had to be big for him to drag her in right off the bat.

Intrigued, Jude asked, “Sir, any special equipment requirements?”

No answer. She surmised Pratt had his hand over the phone while he was coughing. He’d caught a bad case of the flu a week earlier and was so feverish at work he collapsed on a bed in one of the detention cells. The staff panicked, imagining a terrorist attack, maybe anthrax in the mail. Homeland Security closed the office for a day and sent in a team in hazard suits while doctors ascertained the cause of Pratt’s symptoms. He’d been at home in bed ever since.

Jude could hear nose-blowing in the background. Finally her boss croaked, “We’ll be needing the K-9 unit. There’s a kid missing.”

“A kid. Now? In this weather?”

“Looks like it. And we have a felony animal-cruelty incident tied in, so you might want to prepare yourself before you get to the scene.”

What he really meant was for her to prepare Tulley. Her deputy at the Paradox Valley substation was stoic in the face of crimes against persons and property, but anything involving a four-legged friend derailed him.

Jude buttoned her shirt. “I take it we’re talking about a search-and-rescue op.”

“Yep, assuming we don’t find the little guy on the property. I got a team down there now combing the neighborhood, and I’ve called out the posse. Everyone’s asking for that hound.”

Tulley would be ecstatic. He’d taken their bloodhound, Smoke’m, on a course recently to learn new techniques for tracking in snow. Pratt had bitched about the cost.

“Is it an abduction?” Jude asked.

“Too soon to say for certain. We’re not getting a whole lot of sense out of the mother. I don’t want to guess at her blood-alcohol level.” His voice became a thin, breathless rasp as he added, “Of course, if you want to call your buddies in right now, I can’t stop you.”

Jude sighed. If a nonfamily child abduction was indicated, the Feds would have to be involved and Pratt would want her to make that call, given what he liked to refer to as her “secret goddamn identity” as an FBI agent working undercover. Jude had been gathering intelligence on domestic terrorist groups based in the Four Corners region for two years now, and Pratt seldom let her forget her “real mission.”

For some reason her masters at the Bureau had thought that sending her into the area as a sheriff’s detective was a stroke of genius. They hadn’t bothered to consult Pratt about their brilliant plan, but had simply converted a schoolhouse in Paradox Valley to a substation, hired a secretary, and ordered Pratt to appoint Jude to head up this remote outpost.

The Valley was not even in Pratt’s jurisdiction, so he was forced to enter into an unwelcome joint arrangement with the Montrose sheriff, who knew nothing about the real rationale but was happy to score some extra guns in the canyon region. In most of the surrounding counties, the big preoccupation for local law enforcement was the annual Telluride Film Festival. As long as Jude didn’t start busting celebrities, no one cared what she got up to. But Pratt never missed a chance to whine about the invidious position he was in, thanks to her. He clearly expected her to unearth a vast conspiracy at any moment, one that would play right into the hands of his chief opponent in the forthcoming elections.

“I’ll see you in an hour, sir. We can discuss other agency involvement once we know what we’re dealing with.” She slid her belt through the loops of her black wool pants. “We’ll probably want to go the CBI route right off, then bring in the Bureau. That would be diplomatic.”

Pratt audibly released a breath. Like a lot of local sheriffs, he was queasy about bringing federal agents into any investigation in his jurisdiction. Even aside from his personal gripe with the Bureau, Jude knew he pictured the usual scenarios—slickly dressed Feds take over, state and local law enforcement get cut out of the loop, the Feds claim the credit for any success and blame the locals for every failure. Jude had heard the same complaints time after time when she worked in the Bureau’s Crimes Against Children Unit. But when a child went missing there was no gain in playing politics. Most serious cases went multi-agency from day one.

In recent times, the Amber Alert system had helped iron out a few problems, giving state and local response a higher profile and more media attention. The Colorado Bureau of Investigation coordinated the system statewide and worked closely with all the national and local clearinghouses for missing-children information. They would send in a Major Crimes Unit, if requested, and once they knew what they were dealing with, they could call in the FBI. The simple fact was no small regional police or sheriff’s department could fully resource a major investigation, and everyone knew it.

Jude was about to end the call when Pratt asked, “Detective, would it be fair to say you’re familiar with tactical interrogation techniques?”

Cautiously, Jude said, “Federal agents get some extra training.”

These days, the “tactical interrogation” methods employed by the military and intelligence communities were gaining traction in law enforcement, and the term was being tossed around by training providers like it was a magic bullet. Forget the standard time-consuming behavior analysis and interrogation techniques that had worked for decades—there was now a shortcut, a fast-food approach to getting confessions. Jude wasn’t sure what was new about police officers beating information out of a suspect; it had been a pretty popular “tactic” until the eighties. But Iraq had breathed new life, and new euphemisms, into disgraced ideas, and all of a sudden departments could send their staff for training so they would know how not to drown a prisoner or leave DNA all over an interview room. No one used the word “torture” for any of this; it made a poor impression.

Sheriff Pratt got to the point. “Can you tell when a subject is lying?”

“No one can be sure about that, sir, and I doubt my instincts are any better than yours.” She pulled on two layers of socks and shoved her feet into snow boots. “Got a subject in mind?”

“There’s a boyfriend in the picture. Wade Miller. One prior for misdemeanor assault. Had a protective order served on him a couple of years back.”

“And he’s not the missing kid’s biological father?”

Jude automatically ran the odds as she loaded her duty revolver, a Glock 22. The statistics were all too familiar from her years in the CACU. Eighty percent of violent crimes against young children were committed by a parent. If a baby made it through the first day of her or his life without being murdered by the mother, the father then posed the greater risk. A stepfather was about fifty times more likely to kill a small child than a biological father. Missing-baby-plus-mother’s-boyfriend was an equation well-known to anyone in law enforcement.

“The real dad is on an oil rig,” Pratt said. “We put a call in to his employer as soon as the missing-child report was filed.”

“How’s the boyfriend acting?”

“Like he got lobotomized at birth.”

“Keep them apart.” Jude stated the obvious. “And get his clothes off him and bag them. I don’t care what you have to tell him. Get him clean ones and make him change.”

She felt bad telling Pratt his job, but small town law enforcement sometimes tried to be human in cases like this. A panicky mother could be left with her partner for comfort. If Pratt was expecting any reliable data from interviewing this couple, she didn’t want them getting their stories straight before she talked to them.

“Don’t worry.” Pratt sounded pleased with himself. “We’ve had Miller in his own interview room since they walked in the door with their bullshit story. I’ll see about his clothes.”

Jude holstered the Glock and gazed out into the lethal cold once more. “How old is the kid?”

“Not even two. A baby.”

“So, we’re looking for a body.” She spoke her immediate thought aloud.

“Worst-case scenario, yes.”

She started assembling her blizzard gear. “I’ll be in as soon as I can. Don’t let the boyfriend use the bathroom.”

“You got it.” Pratt hung up.

Jude collected her car keys and called Tulley on her cell phone. “Harness that hound of yours,” she instructed, “and get down to Cortez.”

Tulley’s voice came back fuzzy, and something crashed in the background. He said, “Hang on, Detective. Knocked the lamp over.”

She heard him mumble something to whoever was in bed next to him. It sounded like: How many times I gotta tell you? Don’t slobber on the phone.

“Hurry it up,” she said. “There’s a toddler that’s missing.”

“You got it.” Jude could make out the sounds of drawers opening and closing. “I’ll take Smoke’m out hungry. That’ll make him keen.”

“Good thinking. Oh, and something else. The sheriff says we have an animal-cruelty issue, but I’ll handle it. Okay?”

“Have they arrested someone for that?” Tulley’s voice went up a few notches.

“I don’t have any details. I’m just warning you.”

“I want five minutes alone with the guy that did it,” her subordinate said darkly.

Jude picked up a snow shovel from next to the garage door. “We both know that isn’t going to happen. See you down there, Deputy.”

*

“The seductively clad female is the boy’s mother,” Sheriff Pratt informed Jude as they both observed several people seated in the beige waiting area at the recently built Montezuma County Sheriff’s Office.

Unlike most mothers of missing toddlers, Tonya Perkins was not pacing the floor, weeping uncontrollably, or verbally abusing cops who could not join the search for her baby. She had discarded her black high-heel pumps and was lolling back in her chair, snoring. Someone had draped a blanket over her lap.

“Where’s the boyfriend?” Jude asked.

Pratt indicated the interview rooms along the hallway. “Locked up and pestering to use the facilities.”

“What’s he been saying?”

“He claims he collected Ms. Perkins from a party at the home of her sister, Mrs. Amberlee Foley, at two and some time after that discovered the boy was missing.”

“He reported this when?”

“Four fifteen. Just before I called you in.”

“What took him so long?”

“Good question. He said he couldn’t wake Ms. Perkins up. He also said he thought the kid had wandered out of his bed, at first. Maybe fallen asleep somewhere in the house. Later, he notices the front windows have been vandalized and the boy is missing.”

“He didn’t hear this vandalism happening?” Jude marveled.

“He claims it must have transpired earlier in the night when he was picking Ms. Perkins up from the sister’s place, but he didn’t see the damage when they arrived home. Too busy getting the mother of the year into bed after her drinking binge.”

Jude went over to Tonya Perkins and woke her up. The woman smelled like a bar.

“What am I doing here?” Perkins gazed at her dully. “I want to go home.”

“Ms. Perkins, you’re here because your son Corban is missing.”

Perkins began to laugh. The sound was slurred and uneven. “No, he’s not. Ding dong’s just playing games. Where is he?” She cast a wavering glance around the room.

“Where is who?”

“Wade.”

“Your boyfriend is being interviewed.”

“Tell him I want to go to bed. This is stupid.”

“Do you know where your son is?” Jude asked.

Perkins squinted at her like she was a figment of a bad dream. “Isn’t he at home?”

Jude summoned patience. There was no point getting frustrated with a confused, drunk woman. “No, he’s not, Ms. Perkins. If your boyfriend was playing a trick on you, where do you think he might take Corban?”

Slowly an idea registered on Tonya Perkins’s face. “He’s in the hospital,” she announced.

“Why would he be in the hospital?”

“He burnt his hand. Wade took him to the hospital last night.”

“First we’ve heard,” Pratt murmured from a few feet away. “Which hospital?”

Perkins shrugged. “I don’t know. Hey, where can I get a cup of coffee round here?”

Pratt waved a deputy over and ordered the refreshment. Jude glanced at the wall clock. 6:30 a.m. Corban had been missing for at least three hours, maybe longer, depending on whether this woman or her boyfriend were telling the truth or covering up a crime.

“I’ll call the hospital,” she said.

Pratt met her eyes. The doubt in his own was transparent.

*

Southwest Memorial had no record of Corban Foley. It had been a slow night, and no one could remember a man coming in with a small child. A couple of deputies were analyzing the security tapes.

So far, there was no sign of the toddler in his own neighborhood, either. The preliminary canvass had generated only a few leads worth a dime. At 2 a.m. when Wade Miller claimed he’d left to pick up his intoxicated girlfriend, the residents of Malafide Road were tucked in their beds sound asleep. No one could say with any certainty that they’d heard a vehicle drive past their home.

Earlier that same evening, they’d been snugly ensconced in front of their TVs watching Nancy Grace and Deal or No Deal while the snow came down outside. No one had noticed Wade Miller’s truck arrive or leave the Perkins house. Everyone whined about the price of gas and the amazing March snowfall that had terminated their dry, warm winter. An elderly man several doors down shared his unflattering views on Tonya Perkins’s appearance and morality. And Tonya’s next-door neighbor, a single mother of three, said Tonya had “bad taste in men.” She’d seen “that loser she’s dating” shouting at the missing child, calling him names like “retard” and telling him to shut up.

According to her, they’d been out in the yard one day just before Christmas playing with Miller’s big dogs, and Corban was howling up a storm and trying to escape from the animals. Miller kept calling him a “dumb little faggot” and looked like he was going to start belting the kid. The neighbor went to the fence and made her presence known. Miller called off his dogs then, and took Corban into the house.

The woman concluded her comments with the statement, “If anything’s happened to that poor little kid, he did it.”

“Only problem is,” Pratt told Jude as they approached the Perkins house, “her sister was dating Miller before he took up with Perkins, and there’s some bad blood there. Girl named Brittany Kemple. We’re bringing her in.”

Jude crunched her way through a foot of fresh snow to Tonya Perkins’s driveway. The Perkins house was a fixer-upper no one had bothered to fix up. It stood out, even among the surrounding low-priced real estate, as the one house in its street with paint so badly flaked that the timber beneath was exposed. It also stood out because the front yard was secured by crime scene tape and in the dead center the snow had been blown aside to reveal a gory crimson halo surrounding the decapitated head of a goat. Compounding this macabre spectacle, the goat wore a baseball cap emblazoned with the slogan Don’t Blame Me! I Didn’t Vote For Him. Someone had tried to cross out “For Him” with a black marker pen. The goat’s ears were fed through a couple of holes cut in the cap.

“This sick ticket thinks he’s a funny guy,” Pratt wheezed.

“Sir, I can walk the scene,” Jude offered. “Why don’t you go back home and get warm. I’m sure Mrs. Pratt must be worried sick knowing you’re out here.”

Pratt seemed genuinely torn. “You’re right, but the way this is shaping up, I should be at the scene.”

Jude knew what he was saying. With elections looming in less than nine months and the political climate being what it was for Republican incumbents, the race for sheriff was heating up. It hardly seemed possible that a Democrat former deputy was looking like a real contender, but Pratt was as neurotic as Jude had ever seen him. He wanted his face plastered all over the TV screen at every possible opportunity, and he saw every open case in the county as a personal slight. Arrests, even dubious ones, were the order of the day.

“The broken windows,” she asked, “these happen last night?”

“So we’re told. One of them belongs to the kid’s room.” Pratt singled out a narrow casement-type window about four feet from ground level. They ducked under the yellow tape and padded carefully around the perimeter of the yard to inspect it.

“No one got in or out of that hole,” Jude said.

The entry point smashed in the window wasn’t big enough for a child, let alone an adult kidnapper in winter clothing. There was no sign of fiber or blood on the deep jagged shards and no way anyone could have squeezed past them without leaving part of their anatomy at the scene. The pane had been smashed from the outside, and some kind of dust coated the tips of the shards.

“Brick through the window.” Pratt gave voice to Jude’s immediate conclusion.

She pulled on a pair of latex gloves. The sensation was like sliding her hands into a second skin of frigid Jello. She allowed her eyes to roam slowly around the scene and realized she wasn’t the only intent observer. A solitary raven, wings held low and close against the cold, was perched on the guttering of the house next door, wearing its sleek black feathers like a mourner’s cloak. It angled its head quizzically, as if in response to Jude’s gaze, and took several slow sideways steps in her direction. Staring pointedly down at the goat’s head, it released a soft, guttural “quork” that sounded like a question.

“I guess you’re hungry,” Jude said. Winter in the Four Corners was usually harsh, and most Colorado birds flew south. They started returning to their nesting territories in March. The raven had probably made the flight from Mexico some time in the past few days, reaching its destination just in time for the worst blizzard of the year.

Jude examined the torpid sky. There was no sign of sunlight through the snow squall. Drifts of big feathery snowflakes had replaced the wind-driven deluges of the past twenty-four hours. Falling snow had long since covered any footprints or tire tracks on the Perkins property, and the white hush of morning was broken only by the sounds of voices, car engines, and horses snorting.

A few yards down the road, the sheriff’s posse had assembled, ten riders in black felt cowboy hats, black bandannas, and heavy snow vests. Surrounding them, members of the SAR team coordinated a steady stream of volunteers. News spread quickly in a small town like Cortez. By noon half the town’s able-bodied adults would be involved in the search-and-rescue operation.

Uncomfortable with the foot traffic milling about, Jude said, “We need to relocate everyone. They’re already compromising the scene.”

“It’s in hand. As soon as we’ve combed the neighborhood again, we’re shifting the command center to the posse hall,” Pratt said. “Maybe the town hall if we get a big turnout.”

Jude began photographing the surroundings. “We’ll want pictures of the crowd, too,” she said.

As Pratt relayed these instructions over his radio, several members of the Crime Scene Unit emerged from the house. One of them waved Jude and Pratt in, saying, “You gotta see this.”

They traipsed indoors to the entrance of a cheaply furnished living room. A green Formica dining table was jammed into the corner behind the door, and a dated sofa was parked about six feet from a television that was too big for the room. Between the two, a plain mint-toned rug lay across the floor. Standing to one side was a CSU technician Jude had worked with a few times, Belle Simmons, one of several Montezuma County deputies trained in crime scene processing.

“Must have been a heck of a drive for you this morning, Detective,” Simmons said. Her drawl was pure Louisiana. She’d married a Mancos man who ran an online shoe sales business. He seemed to do okay and was held up as a big success story in the Four Corners, where not too many people lived the American Dream.

“Made me think fondly of the D.C. commute,” Jude remarked.

She liked what she’d seen of Belle Simmons. The deputy was mature, intelligent, and methodical, and she had a warm way about her. This morning, her manic red curls were restrained in a ponytail, and she wore her customary makeup—foundation, coral lipstick, carefully applied eyeliner and mascara, subtle bronze blusher across the cheekbones. Jude had her pegged for the kind of woman whose husband had never seen her without the works. However, Simmons’s job mattered to her. Everyone knew she’d sacrificed her acrylic nails for it. That was the kind of commitment that made the front page of the Durango Herald. A celebratory puff-piece was pinned to the staff bulletin board at the sheriff’s office in Cortez.

Jude took a few careful steps into the room. “What have we got?”

“Blood splatter.”

Radiating out from the rug was a low-velocity pattern. The trajectories indicated a source of origin roughly at the rug’s center, but there was no sign of anything on the pale green pile. It looked brand-new.

Jude snapped a few mid-range images, then asked, “Have you lifted the rug yet?”

Simmons shook her head. “Thought you’d want to take a look first.”

“I appreciate that.”

Jude was pleasantly surprised that the scene had been so well preserved. In a situation like this, where the initial investigation was macroscopic and its focus still uncertain, it was not unusual to find a scene virtually ransacked by the first responders. This was especially true in small town environments where the local police and sheriff’s departments didn’t have a wealth of experience dealing with serious crimes.

However, Jude had discovered that law enforcement personnel in Colorado were sensitive about any shortcomings in this regard. Crime scene mishandling had been a significant factor in the still-unsolved Jon Benet Ramsey murder, and no one wanted their officers accused of incompetence if a big-deal slaying like that one ever happened in their bailiwick. From the faces Jude could see, a missing two-year-old and a boyfriend with a history of violence had set off serious alarms bells in the MCSO.

She crouched on her heels and shone a flashlight across the underside of the rug and the heavily scratched wood floor. Even with some smudging and fiber transfer, a wipe pattern and a couple of shoe prints were evident on the boards. Transfer marked the underside of the rug.

“We need a blood-pattern analyst in here,” Jude said. “Seal the room.”

“I’ll call Grand Junction.” Simmons took out her cell phone. “It’ll take a while.”

Jude almost offered to do it herself, but stifled the impulse. “No problem,” she told Simmons and wondered if the strain in her voice was audible.

Yes, she could phone Grand Junction; it would give her an excuse to talk to Mercy for the first time in a month. Was that what she wanted as a major case was unfolding—to exchange pointless civilities with a girlfriend whose idea of commitment was that she was faithful to both her lovers? Jude couldn’t think about that sordid reality without wanting to kick something across the room.

She should phone Mercy some time soon, she thought, if only to prove she wasn’t sulking because Elspeth Harwood was in town. Mercy only slept with one of them at a time, and because Elspeth had to travel from England, Jude was expected to be considerate during her visits. Every time these happened she would tell herself not to tolerate this crazy situation for another day. Then, a prisoner of her hormones, she would slink back to kiss the hand that maimed her. Already, she was counting the days until Elspeth was due to leave and she could yet again nourish her self-abasing passion.

Not this time, Jude promised herself beneath her breath. This time she was going to tell Dr. Mercy Westmoreland to find herself another lonely, weak-willed stud.

“Ready to bag this?” Simmons asked, indicating the bloodstained rug.

“Go ahead,” Jude said, hoping her lapse in concentration wasn’t obvious. “And once the analyst has been in here, lift the boards whole. I want those footprints intact.”

“Size nine. Male,” Simmons noted with impressive accuracy. Jude guessed the same, and she’d had years of practice. “I’ll confirm that once we have exact measurements.”

“Do you have a Hexagon OBTI kit nearby?” Jude asked, taking notes. “There’s one in my truck if you don’t.”

“As a matter of fact, that was one thing I did remember to pack.” Simmons slipped out of the room and returned with the test cassette and reagent bottle, which she passed to Jude.

“Can’t beat instant gratification,” Jude remarked heartily. She lifted some blood with the collection stick, then returned it to the bottle.

Simmons administered the test, slowly shaking the contents before depositing a couple of drops into the small cassette. A few minutes later a single blue bar showed in the result window.

“It’s not human.” Simmons sounded both relieved and puzzled.

They would have to wait for a full lab analysis to determine the origins of the sample, but Jude had a species in mind. “Capra hircus,” she murmured.

Both Simmons and Pratt stared at her blankly.

“Goat.” Jude swung her attention to the shattered windows. “That head was in here before it was ever out there.”

Chapter Three

Seven hours had elapsed since Corban was reported missing by the primary suspects in his disappearance. That was a problem. Three-quarters of the children murdered in stranger abductions were killed in the first three hours.

Tonya Perkins, sober at last and a credit to the TV makeup people, was all set to plead for her son’s life. Fluffy booms hovered like so many drunken moths around her big hair. For the occasion she wore tight low-rise jeans and a white knit crop top she kept pulling down over her navel. That was the good news. The bad news was sitting in the chair next to her, combing a jet black mullet that was teased over the balding center of his head. The rest of his hair was growing out mouse brown at the roots. Wade Miller. The boyfriend.

Miller had a gift for crying on cue when the reporters asked him how he felt about little Corban. At least that’s how every law officer in the room saw it, if their hard eyes and locked jaws were anything to go by. Jude was no exception. She’d interviewed Miller for two hours, so far. The guy couldn’t give a straight answer. And his feet were size nine.

On first impression, he seemed dim as a ten-watt bulb, but after a while, when he got impatient waiting to be taken to the bathroom, he’d dropped the ingenuous routine and revealed flashes of a more aggressive, cunning personality. He seemed conscious of these lapses and would immediately take cover behind a whiny, apologetic outburst. During such melodramatic interludes, he would invariably proclaim his love of little kids, Corban especially. Jude wasn’t the only interviewing detective who thought an innocent man would not need to make the point so emphatically.

Miller’s story had already changed. He’d signed an initial statement saying he was looking after the baby while his girlfriend was at her sister’s party. Around ten that night he’d phoned Tonya to tell her Corban had accidentally burned himself but was okay. Later, Corban was in his bed asleep when Wade went out to pick up Tonya. That was the last time he saw him.

The trip there and back to Amberlee Foley’s house took thirty minutes. Wade’s theory was that whoever abducted Corban must have been watching the place and they struck while he was out. When he returned, he was so busy getting the drunk Tonya into the house that he didn’t notice the broken windows or the goat’s head in the front yard. After he’d got her settled, he had a quick look in Corban’s door and saw he wasn’t in his bed. But Corban often went into the living room in the middle of the night and fell asleep in front of the fireplace, so Wade was not concerned.

That was version one.

In version two, after Jude read aloud Tonya’s statement about Wade taking Corban to the hospital, Wade acted like the stress of the moment had made him forget all about that journey to Southwest Memorial through heavy snow in the dead of night not long before he made the call to Tonya. He amended his statement, saying the doctor just took a quick look at Corban and said there was nothing to worry about. The burn was minor. Wade stuck a Band-Aid on it when they got back home and gave Corban a few teaspoons of Jim Beam to help him get to sleep.

What he didn’t mention in any of his statements was that he had left the house some time after his phone call to Tonya. His truck had been spotted by the state patrol slightly after 11:00 p.m. about fifteen miles north of Cortez on the Devil’s Highway near Cahone. Things were so quiet, they’d run the registration for something to do. So far, Jude hadn’t confronted Miller with this information.

“What do you think?” Pratt murmured in her ear as Tonya outpoured to the cameras.

“He’s got to be the worst liar I’ve ever interviewed.”

“Look at him. All that weeping and gnashing of teeth.” Pratt sounded disgusted. “Who does he think he’s kidding? He’s only known the kid for a couple of months.”

“Most people are going to buy it,” Jude said. “The media’s eating it up. Just watch—this is going to be a big story.”

They’d agonized over the TV plea, but even with Miller’s suspicious behavior, they could not afford to make assumptions. He could simply be feeling guilty because his girlfriend’s child had vanished while in his care. If a stranger had, in fact, taken Corban, there was no time to be lost.

Tonya swept a cluster of brassy blond ringlets back from her face and leaned forward just enough so that the viewer’s eye would be riveted to her fulsome cleavage.

“So please,” she begged with every sign of genuine distress. “My baby needs his mom. It’s real cold out there and I’m afraid for him. Please, if you know anything at all or if you have Corban. Please. Phone the number on the screen.”

As she broke down, Wade took her in his arms and they sobbed on each other’s shoulders. Reporters immediately started shouting questions, and Pratt moved away from Jude’s side to take the microphone. A deputy walked them backstage and Jude followed, wanting to resume her interviews before the two of them got a chance to compare their stories. Wade was mumbling into Tonya’s ear while they were embracing. Jude took his arm and propelled him a few steps away toward a stern-faced deputy.

“I need to speak to Ms. Perkins,” she said firmly. “The deputy will take you back to the interview room and bring you some lunch, Mr. Miller.”

Tonya pointlessly wiped mascara from around her eyes and protested over shaky sobs. “I’ve told you all I can tell you. I want to go and look for him like everyone else. He’s my baby.”

“I understand,” Jude said gently. “I know you’re worried sick. But I need to go over your statement again to be sure we didn’t miss any important details. You were intoxicated during the first interview, so some things might have been kind of fuzzy.”

Tonya flushed and lifted both hands to her face. “Why is this happening to me? I haven’t been out in weeks, and the first time I have some fun…”

Jude walked her back to an interview room. “Would you like something to eat? Coffee?”

“Just a Diet Pepsi. Oh, God. Where is he?”

Jude asked a deputy to bring the soda and showed Tonya into the room. “I’m going to read you your rights again,” she said as a second detective set up the interview to record. The woman had been virtually catatonic the first time they spoke and didn’t seem to understand her son was really missing until she saw the first television reports.

“I don’t know why you’re wasting time talking to me.” Tonya sniffled. “I wasn’t even there. You should be out looking for Corban. It’s freezing. What chance does he have—he’s so little.”

Before she could work herself into another emotional free fall, Jude touched her arm and said, “Ms. Perkins. The best way you can help Corban is to answer my questions as fully as you can.”

Tonya blinked at her. “I don’t understand how he got hurt anyway.” Her puzzled frown suggested she was starting to fret over Miller’s account of events. “He can’t even reach the burners. How’d it happen?”

Good question. Jude Mirandized her and reminded her the interview was being filmed on video, then asked, “What was Wade talking about with you back there?”

“He said he loves me and he didn’t mean for anything like this to happen. He thinks I blame him.”

“What does he think you blame him for?”

“Not being there when they took Corban.” She sobbed anew. “It wasn’t his fault he had to pick me up from Amberlee’s.”

“What time was that again?”

Jude gestured for Detective Pete Koertig to join her at the table as he had during her first interview with Tonya. Koertig had recently been promoted to detective and was very much one of the boys. He seemed mystified that Sheriff Pratt had chosen Jude to lead the interviews. When he sat down, he shuffled in his seat and ran a hand over his sandy buzz cut, making it clear he thought it was time for a real investigator to take over.

“I don’t know,” Tonya said. “About two.”

“How did he seem when he arrived?”

Tonya shrugged. “He was wet and dirty from being out in the snow. He had to park the truck down the road some.”

“Anything else?”

“I don’t remember.”

“What happened then?”

“Next thing I woke up in bed. He was taking off my shoes and everything.” She smiled. “He’s good like that. Sensitive.”

Koertig rolled his eyes.

“You don’t remember arriving home?” Jude asked. “Pulling into the driveway? Seeing the house?”

Tonya shook her head. “I was out of it.”

“You didn’t go check on Corban?”

“No.”

“Even though you knew he’d been burned and Wade had taken him to the hospital, you didn’t look in on him?”

“I didn’t think about it. I mean, Wade said he was okay.”

“So you went to sleep right away, without going anywhere else in the house?”

“I went to the bathroom is all.”

“Your bathroom is directly across the hall from Corban’s bedroom, isn’t it? You didn’t just open his door a crack and look in on him?”

Tonya’s cheeks bloomed dark red, and she stared at Jude as if it had just dawned on her that most mothers would have wanted to reassure themselves that their injured toddler was really all right.

Defensively, she said, “I was drunk, okay? I couldn’t even stand up. Wade had to hold me on the toilet seat. Anyway, everything was quiet. I didn’t want to wake Corban up.”

“So it did cross your mind to wonder how he was?” Jude asked softly.

“What kind of a mother do you think I am?”

Jude refrained from giving an opinion; she also tried hard to resist a rush to judgment. Tonya Foley had a well-equipped bedroom for her son, with inexpensive but carefully thought-out nursery décor, plenty of toys, a musical mobile of angels suspended from the ceiling, and a clean, comfortable bed. Pictures of the little boy around the house showed a smiling baby who looked healthy. He was a beautiful child with a mischievous Cupid’s smile, big dark blue eyes, and a mop of white-blond curls. There was no question a certain type of pedophile would consider him a prize, certainly enough to have targeted him.

It was too soon in the interview to make Tonya defensive; Jude didn’t want her to clam up or suddenly demand a lawyer. So, in a soothing tone, she said, “I know this is a nightmare for you, Tonya. Please understand, we’re only asking you all these questions in case there’s something in the back of your mind that might give us a vital clue, something you might have forgotten all about. We want to find Corban, just as much as you do.”

Tonya nodded and wiped her eyes. The door opened and a deputy brought in a couple of cans of Diet Pepsi and a sub. Tonya took one of the cans and cracked it open.

As she gulped down the contents, Jude said, “Tell me about your relationship with Corban’s dad.” She referred to her notes. “Dan Foley—correct?”

“Yes.”

“And Mr. Foley was previously married to your older sister Amberlee?”

“They’re divorced now.” Tonya pushed the sub aside without inspecting it.

“When did Dan and Amberlee separate?”

“They weren’t happy from the start. Ambam…that’s what I call her from when we were kids. She was only sixteen when they got married. ”

Jude did some quick math. Corban was nineteen months old. Tonya was only twenty-one. She would have been pregnant at eighteen with the child of her sister’s husband.

“I understand Dan is suing you for custody of Corban.”

Tonya gasped. “Do you think he took him?”

“Do you?”

Tonya concentrated on her Pepsi can. “He would never hurt Corban. If he’s got him, that means my baby’s okay.” Hope could not quite displace the doubt in her tone.

“We’re still trying to contact Mr. Foley using the number you gave us,” Jude said.

Tonya’s mouth shook. “He doesn’t have him. He’d never do that to him…break windows… and that goat’s head. Dan’s a vegetarian. ”

She fell silent and glanced sideways as Sheriff Pratt knocked and entered the room. He signaled Jude and she strode over, leaning close so they could speak quietly.

“Just finished interviewing the rest of the night shift at Southwest Memorial,” he said grimly. “Miller’s story is bullshit. No one remembers him bringing Corban in, and he’s not on any of the security tapes.”

Jude steered Pratt outside the interview room. “Why in hell make up a story like that in the first place? And why tell the mother?”

“Not the sharpest crayon,” Pratt suggested.

“Something obviously happened,” Jude thought aloud. “And he was trying to tell her, but he chickened out. The guy seems to make everything up as he goes along, so maybe he started down the track toward telling the truth, then realized he’d be in trouble and backed off.”

“Wanted to make it seem like things were under control…but it’s a psychological slip,” Pratt suggested. “I’m guessing the baby was injured by then and Miller was looking to cover his ass so she wouldn’t think he was negligent when she got home.”

“But something went wrong with his plan…something else happened, and he had to hide what he’d done.”

“Highly likely.” Pratt sounded keyed up. He could smell a big arrest, Jude thought. One that would involve saturation media.

“Do we have results back for the clothes yet?” she asked.

“I’ll chase it,” Pratt said. “Want us to take another run at him while you work on the mother?”

Jude shook her head. “He’ll keep. But turn up the pressure.” She glanced around until she spotted the meanest-looking simian-built deputy in the department. “Deputy Linebacker over there…send him in. Tell him to make Miller nervous.”

“Gotcha.”

“Miller’s truck. What kind of state is it in?”

“Looks like your Dakota,” Pratt replied. “Packed with fresh snow underneath.”

“So he took it out of town around eleven, then didn’t do much driving once he got back—not enough to shake off the new snow.”

A drive in the mountains during a big snow fall packed heavy but relatively clean snow in every hollow beneath a vehicle. Around town, the roads were shoveled and the pack was dirtier and wetter, spraying up beneath a vehicle in layers over days.

Pratt’s cell phone rang and he took the call. Putting his hand over the mouthpiece, he told Jude, “Gotta go.”

She took a moment to gather her thoughts. If Miller had lied about taking Corban to the hospital, what did that mean? Did Tonya know something she wasn’t saying? Had the two of them come up with a story to hide a crime?

Jude stalked back into the interview room and summoned Koertig. In a low, rapid murmur, she told him, “The boyfriend definitely lied about the hospital. Let’s see if she knows more than she’s letting on.”

“Want me to take over for a bit?”

“Have at it.”

Predictably, Koertig marched up, banged on the table, and leaned over Tonya. “Your shithead boyfriend lied about taking your kid to the hospital. Did you know that?”

Tonya’s head jerked up. “What are you talking about? He phoned me when he got back. Corban saw the doctor.”

“So what you’re saying is, the doctors and nurses at the hospital got it all wrong. They said they never saw Corban, but they’re lying. Why do you suppose they’d do that?”

“I don’t know.” Tonya’s voice wobbled. “Maybe there’s been a mistake.”

“You bet there’s been a mistake. You made a huge mistake when you went out drinking and left your baby with a violent man.”

Tonya’s eyes widened with dismay. “You’re wrong. Wade would never hurt Corban. He took him to the hospital. Maybe it’s another hospital. I don’t know.”

“Listen, Ms. Perkins. Every hospital in this state has surveillance cameras and fancy computer systems with records of every single person a doctor breathes on so they can ring up those charges. Do you seriously think anyone walks in there they don’t know about?”

“But why would he say he took him if he didn’t?” Tonya cast a pleading look toward the door where Jude leaned casually against the frame.

“Well, that’s the question, isn’t it?” Koertig said. “What do you think?”

“I don’t know,” Tonya answered meekly.

Wanting to capitalize on her uncertainty, Jude moved toward the table and asked, “Tell me something, Tonya. How does Wade discipline your son?”

Tonya’s rapid blinks gave her away. “He doesn’t hit him, if that’s what you’re thinking. Just spanking when he’s naughty.”

“When he’s naughty?” Koertig maintained his intimidating proximity. “How often would that be?”

“I don’t know.” Tonya fought a losing battle with her tears. The mascara applied for the TV cameras coursed down her cheeks. “He’s good with Corban. You can ask anyone.”

“Oh, we will,” Koertig promised darkly.

“So, if Corban was naughty and burnt his hand,” Jude conjectured, “he must have been in pain and crying. Maybe even screaming. That would have been stressful. Is Wade the patient type?”

Tonya fell silent, staring into space, her expression a painful testimony to the direction of her thoughts.

“That would be a ‘no,’” Koertig surmised.

“If Wade didn’t take Corban to the hospital, what do you think happened?” Jude asked.

Tonya seemed to grapple with the question, then her focus sharpened. “He put a Band-Aid on Corban’s hand. He told me about that. Maybe he just made up a story about the hospital so I wouldn’t worry. That’s typical. He’s really considerate. Not like most guys.”

Chapter Four

“What were you thinking?” Heather Roache cuffed her brother Matthew around the ear. “If you took that little kid and did anything to him, so help me I’ll—”

“I didn’t, I swear.” Matthew seized her wrist before she could strike him again. “I don’t know anything about it. Jesus Christ, what do you think I am?”

“An idiot. A fucking unbelievable idiot.” Heather stared at the television as the cameras zoomed in on Tonya Perkins’s house. “That goat is wearing your baseball cap. Think no one’s going to remember seeing him in our yard with that same cap on all summer?”

Matthew dropped her arm and studied the screen, slack-jawed. “What the fuck…It’s in the yard? Oh, man, what are we going to do?”

“We?” Heather picked up her purse from the coffee table and fished out her car keys. “You are coming with me to see the sheriff.”

Matthew shook his head rapidly. “Nah-uh. No way. I’m not getting involved in this shit.”

“You are involved, and if you don’t tell the cops first, they’re going to hear it from someone else. How’s that going to look?” Heather watched Law & Order; she knew her brother’s only chance was to come forward and help with inquiries. If they waited for the detectives to find him, he’d be a suspect. “Go take a shower and shave that fuzz off your face,” she ordered. “I’m not taking you in there looking like America’s Most Wanted.”

“I didn’t do anything to that kid,” Matthew reiterated as Heather dragged him to his feet. “You gotta believe me.”

“It’s not me you need to convince.” Heather shook him hard, furious that he’d been so stupid and that their family name was about to be dragged through the mud all over again. Like it wasn’t bad enough that their mom ran off with a high school kid and their dad made a public spectacle of himself by dying in the act with a hooker.

Heather was eighteen when that happened, so she could handle it. But Matthew was four years younger. He’d had a rough time of it. Heather often thought that was why he’d flunked out of high school and ended up parked on her sofa, watching reruns of Friends.

Well, she wasn’t ready to write him off yet, and she believed him about the missing toddler. If Matthew had taken a baby, it would be here in her home, waiting for her to feed it; Heather had no doubt about that. No—her little brother might be many things, but he wasn’t a child kidnapper. People like that wanted ransoms or were filthy perverts. Heather had seen the porno magazines Matthew kept under his mattress. They were the normal kind with naked women in crude poses.

Close to tears herself, she marched him along the hallway and deposited him outside his bedroom. He was crying, repeating over and over that he was sorry and he never touched that little boy.

In the end, she took pity and hugged him, saying just like she did when they were younger, “Everything’s going to be okay. You made a stupid mistake, that’s all.”

Sniffling into her shoulder, he mumbled, “It wasn’t my idea.”

Heather suspected as much. It was impossible to imagine Matthew coming up with anything as creative, or nasty, as killing his pet goat, smashing up an ex’s house, then leaving the goat’s head in the yard like a Satanic symbol.

“Then whose bright idea was it?” Not that she needed to ask. She already knew exactly which of her brother’s loser buddies would come up with a crazy scheme like this one.

Matthew confirmed her suspicions. “Gums said I needed to teach her a lesson.”

“You know better than to pay attention to Gu…Hank Thompson. He’s crazy, or did you forget that?”

Matthew stared at the TV screen. “Maybe people will think a biker gang did it.”

“A biker gang is going to ride their Harleys into town in the middle of a snowstorm, come here, kill your goat, then go vandalize Tonya’s house, and leave the goat’s head as a warning like with the horse in the Godfather?”

Matthew nodded as if the cops might actually buy this ridiculous story. “We can say someone stole him from out back.”

Right out of patience, Heather shoved him in his bedroom door. “You are going to tell the sheriff the truth. And you’re going to tell him it was all Hank’s idea and you just went along with it.”

“Fuck. He’ll kill me with his bare hands.”

“You should have thought about that before you left a whole mess of evidence on that slut’s property.”

*

Wade Miller took out his comb and ran his thumb slowly along the prongs. “You gotta understand. I couldn’t tell Tonya. She’d go nuts.”

“So there never was a hospital visit?”

“It was her sister’s party. I didn’t want to spoil it.”

“How did Corban burn his hand?”

“I was cooking his dinner. Had him up next to me on a stool. He goes and touches the skillet. Dunno how many times I told him not to do that, but he always has to learn the hard way.”

Jude remained silent, just to see if he was going to embellish this account any further. So far, it was the longest answer they’d had from him.

“What time did that happen?”

He picked a pimple on his chin as he contemplated the question. “Maybe nine.”

“You were cooking a baby’s dinner at nine o’clock?”

“Could have been eight, I suppose. Don’t wear a watch.” Miller flashed his hands as evidence.

“And what happened then?”

“He cried some but I fixed him up. Put on a bandage.”

“Did he stop crying?”

Miller hesitated. “Not for a while.”

“You must have been worried,” Jude said sympathetically. “In charge of your girlfriend’s baby and he hurts himself. How big was the burn area? Can you draw it for us?”

She slid a sheet of paper and pen across the desk, and Miller sketched out an image about an inch long and quarter of an inch wide.

Jude gave a low whistle. “Pretty nasty on a little hand like his. It would have stretched right across his palm.”

Miller’s mouth tightened, and for a split second a flash of anger displaced the dopey solemnity of his manner. He said, “Yeah, well, it wasn’t deep. Nothing serious.”

“It didn’t bleed?”

“No.”

“Well, that’s puzzling,” Jude said. “Because I was just told that our lab found blood on your clothing. Is it Corban’s?”

He blinked. “Guess it could be. He’s always getting nose bleeds and shit.”

Jude stared at him. As the seconds passed, he grew restless and picked up the comb he’d dropped on the table a few minutes earlier. His stringy black mullet didn’t need the extra attention, but he worked on it anyway.

In a town like Cortez, Wade Miller was what passed for tall, dark, and handsome, Jude supposed. Lean and well built, he wore boot-cut jeans, a flashy belt buckle, and a flannel shirt. A dark stubble shadowed his jaw; clearly he hadn’t shaved that morning. He dealt with a surefire unibrow, probably by plucking, and he seemed self-conscious of both his balding head and his teeth, which were uneven and slightly discolored. Jude figured his mumbling speech pattern was a habit he’d cultivated to avoid displaying them.

Looking uneasy, he wiped his comb on his pants, then dropped it on the table. “So, you guys through with me now?”

Jude smiled pleasantly. “Actually, I was wondering why you didn’t take Corban to the hospital? You must have thought about it or you wouldn’t have made up that story for Tonya.”

Miller avoided looking at her. “I was going to. But they were parked outside. I heard them. Tonya’s ex and his buddies. They’re always pulling stunts like that.”

“Like what?”

“They follow me sometimes, like they’re trying to get into something. You know, to make me mad. Road rage. Shit like that. And they’ve done stuff to my place. Painted obscenities on the wall, left dog turds on my doorstep… Matt Roache was real pissed that Tonya dumped him. They were engaged.”

“I’ll need some names,” Jude said. Obviously Miller was expecting her to construe from these subtle hints that this ex and his pal were principal suspects in the window smashing and goat’s head symbolism, and, by inference, Corban’s disappearance. “What time did you notice them out there?”

“Ten thirty, maybe.” Miller finished jotting names on the notepad she’d provided and added, “If I didn’t have the kid to look after, I’d have gone out there and taken care of it.”

“So, you saw these men parked outside Ms. Perkins’s home before or after you called her at the bar?”

“After.”

“Was Corban still crying then?”

Miller frowned like he was straining to remember. “Can’t say exactly. He calmed down after I gave him the Jim Beam.”

What would it take to put a two-year-old in a coma—a few ounces of 80 proof? Jude’s mind ran with the scenario. Corban crying relentlessly after burning his hand. Miller dosing the child with bourbon a few times until he falls asleep. Eventually he realizes Corban is unconscious. He panics…

“How much bourbon did you give him?” She kept her tone bland.

“Dunno. A few spoonfuls.”

“When was the last time you saw Corban?”

“I told the other deputy.”

“And now you can tell me.”

Miller looked restless. “Right about when I phoned Tonya.”

“Which makes it around ten?”

“If you say so.” He didn’t lift his voice to reply, but Jude sensed it was a close thing.

“How was he then?” she asked.

“Asleep.”

“You sound very sure about that. A moment ago you couldn’t be certain if he was crying at ten thirty. Yet now you’re telling me he was asleep at ten, when you called Tonya. Which one is it?”

Again a brief flare of anger sharpened his dopey stare, and his mouth compressed. “He was asleep.”

Jude produced a slightly puzzled smile. “You seem tense with this line of questioning, Mr. Miller. Is there something you’re not telling us?”

“No.” A belligerent glare.

“Mr. Miller,” Jude prompted softly. “We know things can go wrong with kids through no fault of the adults caring for them…tragic, unintentional accidents. If something happened to Corban, now is the time to tell us.”

Miller stared down at the desk for several seconds, and when he lifted his head Jude could not read his expression. Blank blue eyes met hers and Miller said, with disingenuous confusion, “Are you accusing me of something? Do you think I hurt him?”

“Did you?” Jude asked, watching for the fleeting, quickly suppressed microexpressions that could betray what Miller was really feeling.

“Why would I do a thing like that?”

“You tell me,” Jude said mildly. “I heard you don’t like him much.”

“That’s bullshit.”

Jude growled softly, “Let’s not play games, Mr. Miller. You live in a small town. You think people don’t notice things? We have Brittany Kemple in the next room giving us a statement right now. Telling us all about your violent temper and how you once told her the only thing Corban Foley was good for was feeding to your dogs.”

Miller lurched to his feet. “Brittany Kemple’s a fucking crazy woman and so are you if you believe anything that bitch tells you.”

Jude rose instantly and ordered him to sit down. For a few seconds it seemed Miller might actually take a swing at her. If he’d had a gun in his hand, he’d have used it. Or tried to.

She almost hoped he would try to land a punch, but if Brittany Kemple was any indication, the women he liked to slap around were former cheerleaders who weighed 100 pounds soaking wet. At 5’ 10” with muscle she didn’t bother to hide, a badge, and a large colleague standing a few feet away just waiting for a nod from her, Jude was a whole different ball game.

She stared him down, noting with interest that all trace of dopey innocence had left his eyes. Miller looked downright menacing when he let the harmless hick veneer slip. But, apparently, he could control his hotheaded impulses when he needed to.

His mouth twisted faintly, and he dropped his butt back onto the seat. “Hey, dude, I get it,” he announced. “You’re the cop and I’m the witness. You gotta know if I’m for real, so you wind me up and wait and see what happens.”

“He watches TV,” Jude commented to Koertig. It was her cue for him to join the interrogation. Facing Miller again, she set up the topic. “That goat’s head. When did you first see it?”

“After I noticed Corban was missing.”

“You went outside at that point?” She gave Pete Koertig a nod.

He read ponderously from Miller’s earlier statement, “I walked around the house looking for him, but he likes hiding in places. I thought he’d gone to sleep in a cupboard or something, so I went back to bed.”

Koertig bent down next to Miller and said with mocking disbelief, “Now you’re telling us you went outside and saw that goat’s head, then you went back to bed?”

“No. I saw it after I got up again.” Tiny beads of perspiration gathered across their subject’s forehead.

“What time was that?”

Miller pointed at the statement Koertig was holding. “I already told you.”

“I want to hear it again.” Koertig spoke slowly and patiently, like he was talking to the learning-challenged.

He did pleasant menace very well, Jude reflected. Koertig was a stocky, well-scrubbed, Nordic-looking man whose youth and single-minded preoccupation with his wife’s marathon training program prevented him from declining into the pink and white chubbiness that seemed to prevail in his family. Two of his siblings ran a local bakery Jude patronized. Both looked like they sampled the wares too frequently.

Most days Koertig ran at least six miles with his wife before he showed up to work. This feat engendered awe at the Montezuma County Sheriff’s Office, where folks found something odd about any guy organizing his life so he could throw wet sponges at his spouse during the Bolder Boulder race. Certainly if Jude had to pick from among the MCSO officers the man most likely to be his wife’s chief coach and support crew, Pete Koertig would have been at the bottom of her list.

Miller had reverted to whiny defensiveness once more. He said, “Guess it must have been around four when I saw it.”

“What were you wearing?” Koertig asked.

With a bemused frown, Miller said, “T-shirt and shorts.”

“So, what you’re saying is you woke from a deep sleep and decided maybe the kid wasn’t hiding in a cupboard after all. You went outdoors in minus twenty degrees wearing your Jockeys, walked around to the front of the house, and saw the goat’s head?”

“Yeah.”

“Now see, that doesn’t make any sense to me.” Koertig glanced toward Jude. “How much snow did we have last night, Detective?”

“Here in Cortez, it must have been a foot. Enough to cover that goat’s head.”

“So you saw a lump in the snow,” Koertig concluded. “You went out there and dug the snow away with your bare hands. Is that how it went down, Mr. Miller?”

“Yeah.”

“What did you do then?”

“I saw the broken windows, and I went in the house and woke Tonya up.”

“You left the goat’s head where it was?” Jude asked.

“Yeah.” Miller’s eyes flickered. Smugly, he said, “I knew it was evidence.”

“Evidence of what?”

“That fucking Matt Roache and Gums Thompson were there and they did something.”

“Something to Corban?” Jude prompted.

“What else? He’s gone, isn’t he?” Miller grabbed a tissue and blew his nose, overwhelmed with emotion all of a sudden.

The tears could easily be genuine, Jude conceded. He could be feeling sorry for himself, aware he was in deep and seeing no way out. Or he was innocent, exhausted, and genuinely distressed over the child’s disappearance and the stress of being interrogated for hours. But she doubted it. Although Miller presented as an emotional subject, she had a sense that he was much more calculating than that.

She deliberated on his reply for a few seconds. They had just caught him out in a lie. The blood evidence from Tonya Perkins’s living room showed that the goat’s head had been in the room, probably hurled through the broken window. Someone with Miller’s foot size had subsequently removed it and covered the bloody area with a rug. Trace suggested that the rug was previously situated in front of the dresser in Tonya’s bedroom. The head was then transported outdoors and placed in the middle of the yard.

No one could have gained access through the broken windows, and the doors showed no signs of forced entry. Who else but Miller could have moved the goat’s head and rearranged the scene? Jude concluded he’d staged what he hoped would come across as sinister and symbolic. Did he imagine the police would speculate that Devil worshipers killed a goat and stole a baby for some kind of sick ritual?

She decided to hold back what they knew about the goat’s head and see how many more lies Miller would tell. Signaling Koertig to work with her, she softened her tone and said, like she was buying the Satanic angle, “It sure sounds like these individuals are mixed up in something nasty.”

She watched Miller closely and caught a faint relaxation in the line of his mouth and jaw. He tapped a name on the list he’d written. “Talk to him first. He’s the ringleader.”

“Gums Thompson. Do you know him, Detective?” she asked Koertig.

“Local mental patient,” he confirmed.

This seemed to please Miller, who got cocky all of a sudden and announced in the manner of a man who’d just added two and two, “Come to think of it, he made some threats a while back. I told Tonya to ignore him. But now…”

“Could you be more specific?” Jude asked like she’d taken the bait.

“He told her to stop seeing me or she’d be sorry, and so would her kid.”

“When was that?”

“Dunno. Three weeks ago, maybe.”

Jude nodded sagely and told Koertig, “Get these individuals brought in. I want them dragged out of their beds and scared shitless.”

Miller seemed to be trying to keep the glee off his face as Jude and Koertig got to their feet and made a show of losing interest in him.

“We’ll continue this interview later, Mr. Miller,” Jude said, moving toward the door.

“Can I get a burger or something?”

“No problem.” Like it was an afterthought, she added, “One more question. We have a report from state patrol that your truck was seen on Highway 666 at around eleven last night. Care to explain that?”

She waited for an outright denial, but Miller said, “Oh, yeah. Right. I forgot about that. Tonya was out of disposables so I went to pick some up from the late-night gas station.”

“You needed to change Corban?”

“No, but Tonya would have been pissed at me. She asked me to get some at the supermarket before I came over to her place, but I forgot.”

“Why travel so far?”

“Couldn’t find anything open in Cortez, so I thought I’d try Dove Creek.”

“I see. And did you find the diapers in the end?”

He shook his head solemnly. “No, but I tried. That’s gotta count for something.”

Jude managed to keep her tone completely bland. “Would you mind if we searched your truck?”

“Sure. Corban rides with me all the time. He loves that truck.”

Jude smiled faintly. Miller was letting them know that any evidence they found would mean nothing. All the same, Jude was amazed he’d agreed to let them take a look. If he had something to hide, the guy was either genuinely stupid or arrogant enough to believe he’d covered his ass.

She wondered if arrogance had factored into his acknowledgement about the Triple Six. Whatever the motivation, if they uncovered anything in the vicinity of Cahone, Miller had just put himself there by his own admission. It was probably his biggest mistake yet. She could tell Koertig was thinking exactly the same thing as they left the interview room.

He said, “Ate a bowl of stupid for breakfast.”

“We need to know everything about this guy,” Jude said. “Interview all his buddies. I want behavior patterns, a full history of acts of rage, a record of every word he ever spoke about Corban. And find out if he’s ever had a girlfriend with kids before Ms. Perkins. If he has, bring her in.”

Pratt collared her as she and Koertig exited the hallway into the main office area. “What do you think?”

“Opportunity and motive,” Jude mused. “Plus statistical likelihood and odd behavior. And Cahone…that’s in close proximity to several bodies of water. ”

“I got three teams lined up to search the Dolores and the reservoir up there first thing in the morning,” Pratt said, hot on the case. “Your boy and his hound ready to start in again at first light?”

“No problem. Are you considering divers?”

“Not if I can help it.” Pratt pulled a man-sized tissue from the box beneath his arm and grumbled, “Ka-ching, ka-ching.”

After he’d turned aside and blown his nose, Jude asked, “Think there’s any chance he’s alive?”

Pratt chewed it over for a few seconds. “Times like this, I get to thinking what the job does for your mental outlook.”

“I know what you’re saying.”

“You jump to negative conclusions.”

“It’s hard not to.”

“What’s wrong with people?” Emotion altered Pratt’s voice. “He’s just a baby.”

“Do you want me to arrest Miller, sir?” It had crossed Jude’s mind that the pressure of charges being filed could net a confession. It often did with domestic offenders who hadn’t been in the system. They tended to believe what they were told about getting a better deal if they came clean, and the guilt-stricken ones were usually desperate to unburden themselves.

“What have we got on him?” Pratt asked.

“It’s all circumstantial so far.”

“I don’t want him lawyering up.”

“Then we’ll have to send him home some time soon, and we need for Perkins to play ball. I want her to wear a wire.”

Pratt looked startled. “Can we do that?”

“He’s a suspect in a child abduction and possible homicide. If he’s going to confess anything to his girlfriend, it’s probably going to happen as soon as they’re back together alone.”

“Think you can talk her into it?”

“Let’s give it twenty-four hours,” Jude said. “He’s told enough lies for us to hold him a while longer.”

“He’s going to ask for a lawyer,” Pratt warned.

“I’m not so sure.” Jude was still trying to get a fix on Miller’s psychology. “I think he’s holding off so he can paint himself as a poor dumb schmuck caught up in events outside his control. He’s arrogant enough to believe he can pull off an act like that. Maybe he thinks a lawyer might make him look smart. And guilty.”

Pratt barked a hoarse laugh. “Like he isn’t.”

Chapter Five

“Are you going to join the search?” Debbie Basher asked the woman at the opposite end of her sofa.

Lonewolf, whose real name was Sandy Lane, took a break from cleaning her twelve gauge to reply, “I thought about it.”

“I’ll come, too, if you want.”

“I’m not sure what the point is. My money says the kid’s dead.” Lonewolf set the shotgun aside and returned her attention to the evening news. “Check out the boyfriend. That’s one guilty sonofabitch.”

Debbie tried to imagine how she would feel in his shoes. “He must be a wreck. I mean, he was supposed to be looking after the baby and now this.”

“My point exactly. Two-year-olds don’t just up and wander off in the middle of the night,” Lone said. “And when something like this happens it’s almost always the stepfather or the boyfriend.”

“He doesn’t seem very bright.”

Lone’s eyes came to rest on Debbie, and her expression softened. “Do you always think the best of people?”

“I try to.”

“That must get pretty disappointing.”

“Sometimes.” Debbie looked away, wanting to hide the emotion she knew was written on her face. Lonewolf could read her with disturbing accuracy. It had been that way since they first met.

Debbie liked to think about that early fall day because it reminded her that life could deliver gifts as unexpectedly as blows. She had been hiking in the LaSal Creek Canyon, on the Utah side of the state line, stopping every so often to take photos of the astonishing red rock formations. When she first heard the terrible screams, she panicked, running this way and that, trying to fathom their direction. She wanted to persuade herself she’d only heard the shrill delight of a young woman cavorting with friends along the trail, but another more bloodcurdling shriek pierced the still mountain air, and this time the woman was screaming for help.

Debbie threw off her backpack and started running. The sound was close, just past a rock formation and down into a gully off the track. Terrified, her mind swapping one scenario for the next—a bad fall from the rocks, a rape in progress—Debbie almost tumbled over a mountain bike lying across the track. At the same exact moment she saw a sight she would never forget as long as she lived. A mountain lion was dragging a woman by one foot up toward a rocky overhang.

Debbie had been warned about wilderness hazards like this before she’d moved to the Southwest, but she’d never expected one to happen to her.

The woman saw her, too, and they shared one frozen instant of horror before she sobbed, “Help me! For God’s sake, help me. Oh, Jesus.”

Debbie grabbed the bike and plunged down the slope, yelling at the top of her lungs, “Get off her, you monster. Go!”

She struck the big cat a clumsy blow across the head with the front wheel of the bike. It growled at her from deep in its chest, but kept hold of the woman’s foot. Debbie hit it again as hard as she could and started yelling for help in case anyone could hear her.

The woman was sobbing and begging her not to leave. The lion’s mouth was red with blood.

Debbie threw the bike down and was looking frantically around for something that would make a better weapon, when a low, emphatic voice commanded, “Stand where you are and don’t move.”

Adrenalin and terror made it almost impossible for Debbie to do as she was told, yet the sight of a figure in army fatigues, standing atop the outcrop, a rifle trained on the lion, rooted her to the spot.

“Now back away,” she was ordered. “One step at a time and keep looking at the cat, dead in the eye.”

Debbie hadn’t taken two steps when the soldier opened fire. Several shots in rapid succession echoed across the red wilderness, and the mountain lion slumped over the woman.

Telling Debbie to stay back, the soldier quickly descended. It was only then that Debbie realized the rescuer was a woman. She was not as tall as she’d seemed, standing high above with the rifle braced against her shoulder, but she was strongly built and radiated the kind of controlled power and confidence Debbie couldn’t imagine ever possessing.

She probed the lion with her foot as she kept her rifle trained towards its head. “It’s dead.”

Debbie didn’t know what to say. She felt frozen with shock. She bent down and touched the lion’s flank, horrified, yet sad for the creature. Humans had intruded so far on its habitat that it had lost most of its usual prey. Now it had been killed for doing what its nature dictated.

“Stay calm.” A firm hand landed on Debbie’s shoulder. “I need your help.”

Debbie’s teeth were chattering but she managed a timid smile. “What do you want me to do?”

A pair of glittering Windex-blue eyes locked with hers. “Take off your T-shirt. We need to see to her leg so she doesn’t lose any more blood. ”

Debbie didn’t think twice. She pulled her top over her head and handed it to the woman, who tore it effortlessly into strips. The lion’s victim was unconscious, which was a blessing, Debbie thought, as they extracted her mangled leg.

“Oh, my God,” she said, gazing down at the hamburger mess of blood and bone. “How are we going to get her out of here?”

But the soldier was already on her cell phone, calling for a search-and-rescue chopper. She even gave coordinates. Squatting down, she removed her camouflage shirt, folded it, and placed it beneath the injured woman’s head. Underneath, she was wearing a close-fitting khaki tank that revealed powerful, deeply tanned arms and muscular breasts that barely gave contour to the cotton fabric. Several chains loosely encircled her neck with various medallions suspended from them. Debbie recognized a St. Christopher, a gold wedding ring, and what looked like dog tags.

“It’s the shock that’ll kill her,” she told Debbie. “I think they can save the foot.”

Debbie promptly burst into tears and blabbed out her thanks. She was shaking all over, and her teeth chattered so badly she couldn’t even finish a sentence. The soldier took her firmly by the shoulders and shook her once. “Listen to me.” The voice was laced with authority. “We have a job to do until the medics get here. This woman is counting on us. Do you understand?”

Debbie wasn’t sure if she was just too terrified to do anything but obey, or if she had some steely inner core she’d never known about. Squeaking, “Yes,” she pulled herself together and asked, “What do you want me to do?”

Ten minutes later, the woman was still alive and Debbie had learned that the soldier was not National Guard as she’d assumed, but a veteran who’d recently been honorably discharged after her second tour of duty in Iraq. By sheer good luck she happened to be in the vicinity keeping herself combat-ready when the attack happened. Her name was Sandy Lane.

She said, “You can call me Lone. All my buddies do.”

“Lone?”

“Short for Lonewolf.” The terse line of her mouth relaxed a little. This was, Debbie guessed, her version of a smile. “I got the nick because I’m the one always living on the edge.”

“Do you miss it?” Debbie asked. “The army?”

“I miss my buddies.”

“When did you leave?”

“A year ago.”

Debbie wanted to ask why, but she sensed a contained emotion in this woman that she couldn’t interpret and guessed the subject was sensitive. She asked, instead, “What’s it really like over there in Iraq?”

“Well, let’s see. You don’t know who’s a friend and who’s an enemy. You see your best friend blown to pieces in front of you when he’s trying to carry a child to safety. Nothing makes any sense. Not to them and not to us.” Her face registered a flicker of surprise, as if her emphatic response had taken her aback. She fell silent.

“I think you’re very brave,” Debbie whispered. “I could never do what you did.”

Lone gave her a long hard look. “Yes you could. You proved it when you were whacking that lion over the head with your bike. You were defenseless, yet you took on an enemy twice your size. You risked your life for a complete stranger. If that isn’t courage, what is?”

Heat rushed to Debbie’s cheeks. “I guess no one knows what they’re really capable of until something like that happens.”

The intensity left Lone’s gaze and she seemed to be looking straight through Debbie. In a tone that was flat and detached, she said, “People are capable of almost anything. Good, and bad.”

It struck Debbie then that Lone was damaged. Over the six months they’d been friends since then, she’d glimpsed the same injured spirit a few times in sharper focus and realized that she didn’t know Lone at all; she only knew the part of her she chose to show the world.

Theirs was a strange friendship. Debbie thought it probably filled a gap for both of them. When she’d moved to the Four Corners region from Denver two years earlier, she’d assumed some of her city friendships wouldn’t survive the distance. But as it turned out, the breakup of her relationship was the factor that changed everything. Her friends were really Meg’s, she’d learned, and when they’d had to choose, they chose Meg.

In a way, it made sense. Meg had a new partner to share in the couples outings they’d always enjoyed. Whereas Debbie was single and lived in the middle of nowhere. Paradox Valley. Who could even find it? No one from her former life had bothered to try.

Meg was still living in their house in Park Hill; Debbie had walked out when she discovered Meg was cheating on her. They’d had a couple of conversations about Meg buying her out, but so far nothing had happened. Whenever Debbie mentioned it, Meg said she needed time to get in a position to pay the higher mortgage. Debbie knew her excuse was weak, but she didn’t have the money or the stomach to go to a lawyer and fight. She was depressed, and that sapped her energy and confidence. She’d promised herself that when she felt better she would do something about her financial situation. But time had passed and she had drifted along, feeling kind of lost.

How did you get to be thirty-five and suddenly find you were friendless? For a time, Debbie had determinedly kept up the phone calls and emails, but then she embarked on one of those experiments that reveal more than you want to know. She stopped writing and phoning and waited to see who would contact her. After a year, when the silence got truly deafening, she gave up making excuses for everyone and faced reality. Nobody cared. She was more alone than she’d ever realized.

Her mother would call it poetic justice. Debbie had let her former friends drift away in her midtwenties when she left her job and apartment in Greenville to move to Denver and be with Meg. Now, a decade later, she had no lover, and, apart from her parents, no one gave a damn if she was dead or alive. Only Lonewolf.

They spoke almost every day and Lone often showed up unannounced, sometimes in the middle of the night. She would always have some plausible reason for stopping by—there was a bear in the area, or the snow was going to be extra heavy, and she would stay over and help Debbie shovel the driveway the next morning. That had been her pretext tonight.

Debbie thought the real reason for most of her visits was that she liked home cooking and wasn’t gifted in the kitchen herself. Tonight she had slapped a couple of packs of meat on the counter as she came in the door, premium fillets, the kind Debbie’s budget didn’t stretch to. Debbie worried about accepting these gifts, but she appreciated the gesture and didn’t want to insult Lone by turning her down. Besides, Lone ate at her table often enough that it was only fair she contributed. Debbie would have done the same.

With a quick sideways glance at her guest, she asked, “Is that a new sweater? It looks homemade.”

“Yeah. My mom sent it. She bought it from an old lady she knows who knits for extra income.”

“You should invite her out here in the spring.” Lone was an only child with divorced parents. She seemed close to both of them.

Debbie envied that. Her own mother lived for her grandchildren and regarded Debbie as a failure for her lackluster breeding performance. Maternal phone calls revolved around Debbie’s older brother, Adam, and his ever-expanding family. Not only was he heterosexual and fertile, he was also a pastor at the Harvest of Hope Evangelical Church in Greenville. It just didn’t get any better than that, and Debbie’s mom needed to remind her of this fact at every opportunity.

She had always stopped short of insulting Debbie over her sexuality, preferring to ignore the topic entirely, and to be fair, she told Debbie she loved her “no matter what your father would have thought.” Debbie sent her flowers on Mother’s Day and drove home to South Carolina once a year for Thanksgiving, otherwise known as purgatory, where she got to see proof of Adam’s procreative talents firsthand. She couldn’t even remember the names of all her nieces and nephews, and she’d lost count of how many there were. Ten, last Thanksgiving, or was it eleven counting the newest baby? None of them was named after her. Huge surprise.

“Mom’s not big on wide-open spaces,” Lone said. “She gets antsy if there’s no shoe stores nearby.”

Debbie laughed. From the descriptions she’d heard, Lone’s mom was the glamorous type. She’d dumped two husbands so far and was now dating a personal fitness trainer half her age who had his own workout video. Lone’s dad had been a drinker and a wife beater, and he was gone before Lone was even born. Husband number two was the man Lone called “Dad.” He had managed to stay married to her mom for almost twenty years. After he retired from the military, he bought a car dealership in Abilene. Lone got all her vehicles from him at cost. She said if Debbie ever wanted to trade up, she’d get her a deal.

Lone raised the TV volume when the Montezuma County sheriff started talking about the missing child. They were going to pull out all the stops tomorrow, according to the news anchor. The search would kick off at first light to take advantage of a break in the weather.

“I am making a personal plea to every able-bodied man or woman in this and surrounding counties to join us,” the sheriff said. “Little Corban Foley is out there somewhere, and I have personally promised his mom we are going to bring him home.”

“He thinks the kid is dead,” Lone said. “And he thinks the boy-friend did it.”

“How do you know?” Debbie protested. “He says he’s going to bring him home.”

“Notice how he didn’t say the word ‘alive.’”

“You’re being paranoid.”

“Doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”

“I’m going to join the search,” Debbie announced after thinking things through for a few seconds. “I don’t think I could ever forgive myself if they found that little boy too late…if extra people would have made all the difference.”

“Okay, we’ll both go.” Lone sounded resigned. She ran one of her sinewy hands over her hair and Debbie imagined, as she often did, how good she would look with blond highlights.

Debbie couldn’t understand why anyone would put up with boring old mouse brown if they didn’t have to. Bleached streaks would make Lone’s unusually blue eyes even more arresting than they were. The thought unsettled her and she stared at Lone more intently than usual, trying to figure out if she felt queasy because she found her sexually attractive, even though they were just friends, or because going on the search meant she would have to be outdoors. Since the mountain lion incident, Debbie wanted to throw up every time she was in an open space.

She let her eyes wander from Lone’s attractive profile down her body to her thighs. Even the heavy khaki of her pants could not hide their muscularity. Lone kept herself fighting fit. She told Debbie it was essential to be prepared—you never knew when you could be called upon to take action. The mountain lion was proof.

Debbie pictured Lone as she’d looked that day, stripped down to her T-shirt, a fine sheen of perspiration accentuating the play of muscles beneath her smooth, tanned skin. Debbie wished she was in such great shape herself. She had a treadmill in the spare room, but she only used it after she saw heavy women on TV talking about their weight. She wondered what Lone would think of her pale, ordinary body, naked. The idea made her draw a jittery breath.

Lately she’d been going down that path too often, imagining how it could be, making love with Lone. She fought off the idea. Sex changed everything, and their friendship meant too much to risk destroying it. She lifted her eyes and gave a small start to find Lone watching her. Embarrassed that she’d been caught staring, Debbie gave a nervous giggle.

Lone’s expression held the usual mix of wariness and concentration. “Everything okay,” she asked, and for once Debbie wished there was something in her eyes other than gentle regard.

But she didn’t know if Lone was even a lesbian; she’d made an assumption about that based on her looks and the fact that she’d been in the military. Feeling awkward, she blurted out, “I was just wondering…” The words eluded her.

This was not the right part of the country to ask someone about their lifestyle preferences. What if Lone took offense? What if she was straight and then wondered about Debbie? Her part-time hairdresser job was already precarious in the tough economic conditions; she’d have no customers if people knew she was a lesbian. It was hard living in the closet after so many years being out in Denver, but she wasn’t going to take a stand if it meant throwing her one source of income away. Political statements were for those who could afford the consequences.

Lone angled her head and gave a small encouraging nod. “What were you wondering, Debbie doll?”

Debbie couldn’t help but smile over the pet name Lone had taken to using for her. “It’s not important.” A roundabout approach occurred to her then, and she added, “I was just wondering if you were ever married.”

“Do I look like the marrying type?”

Debbie caught her hands together in her lap so her nerves wouldn’t show. “Not really. I was just curious.”

“Are you asking if I’m gay?” Lone inquired with a directness that startled Debbie.

She blushed and risked a darting glance at Lone’s face. What she saw there made her mouth even drier than it already was. The kindly regard had been replaced by a frank, sensual gaze. Debbie found herself held captive by those eyes, fascinated by the mosaic of blue and green studding each iris, and the way the pupils pulsed, pooling limitless black into the tiny oceans that encircled them.

“It’s none of my business,” she said weakly.

Lone reached for one of Debbie’s hands and lifted it to her mouth. With surprising softness she brushed her lips over the knuckles. “Does that answer you?”

“Yes.” Debbie thought her lungs were going to burst. “Me, too. I mean, I’m a lesbian, as well.”

“I know.”

“You do?” Alarmed, Debbie stared down at her dusty rose corduroy pants and floral shirt. She’d always thought she was the last person anyone would mistake for a lesbian.

“Don’t worry. No one would guess unless you had it tattooed on your head.”

“But you did.”

“I pay attention and I’ve been in your house.” At Debbie’s frown, Lone said, “Two cats. Crystals in the kitchen window. Melissa Etheridge and the Indigo Girls in the CD rack. Desert Hearts inside the Sleepless in Seattle case on your DVD shelf. Copies of Lesbian Connection facedown under the trash basket in your bathroom—”

“You searched my house.” The accusation fell out before Debbie could think twice.

Lone released her hand. “I didn’t have to. You left it all out there.”

“I’m not used to hiding.”

“I can tell.” Lone seemed very serious all of a sudden. “Look, I don’t want to scare you, but these days even our basic liberties are under attack. If you don’t think a minority could ever be rounded up in this country, think again. People like us need to take some basic precautions.”

“But we haven’t done anything.”

“That’s not the point. The point is, the signs are already there. The military industrial complex doesn’t want the American public noticing what’s really going on in Iraq, so their flunkies at the White House are blowing smoke up our asses every day. They own the media, remember.”

Debbie thought that was an overstatement, but she didn’t want to argue. Besides, what did she know about politics? As far as she was concerned everyone in Washington was equally disinterested in the lives of ordinary people. She had registered Republican, like her parents, when she first voted, but these days she supported Independents or Democrats. Meg had been the one who was interested in politics.

Lone was still talking, mostly about oil, the dollar, and OPEC. Debbie only understood every third word until the conclusion, “So, you see, homosexuals are the perfect target.”

“You’re right,” Debbie agreed. “But the Marriage Amendment Bill won’t pass. It’s just a political stunt.”

“That’s not the point,” Lone said patiently. “The point is that propaganda feeds the social climate. We are at greater risk because the government is sending a message that it’s okay to discriminate against us. Hitler didn’t declare war on the Jews overnight. He softened the public up first with propaganda and changes to the law. Sound familiar?”

“I never thought about it that way.”

Debbie felt a little defensive. She and Meg had volunteered at Pride events sometimes and had gone to a few fundraisers, but most of the people they knew thought the gay marriage debate was a phony issue and the government would let go of it when they found something else to scare conservative voters with. Meg always said the best way to deal with prejudice was to set a good example and don’t look for trouble.

Trying to lighten up the conversation, she said, “I can’t believe it took us six months to come out to each other.”

This raised a faint smile. “There had to be trust.”

A lightbulb flicked on in Debbie’s head, and she suddenly understood why she’d avoided seeing Lone as anything but a friend. The breakup with Meg had damaged her trust so badly she didn’t want to be vulnerable again. Another thought intruded. Lone had known she was a lesbian all along, and yet she’d never tried to change the footing of their relationship. Why? Wasn’t she interested?

Filled with apprehension, Debbie asked, “Lone, do you think I’m attractive.”

“You’re beautiful. Inside and out.”

The answer wasn’t exactly what Debbie wanted to hear. She took another stab at the question. “I guess I’m trying to ask if you’re attracted to me.”

Very romantic. Debbie sighed. She’d never been any good at chatting up women; she hadn’t had much opportunity to practice. Meg was her very first girlfriend, the only lover she’d known. Even now, she couldn’t allow herself a mild fantasy about Lone without feeling guilty.

To her surprise, Lone got to her feet and extended a hand. “Come here.”

When Debbie allowed herself to be drawn up, she was immediately in Lone’s arms, and a bewildering flood of emotion engulfed her. She wanted to laugh and burst into tears all at once; it had been so long since anybody held her like she mattered. She felt very small against Lone’s powerful body, and even smaller when she was lifted from her feet and Lone held her in the air so their faces were level.

Lone looked her dead in the eye and asked gravely, “Permission to kiss my Debbie doll.”

Debbie giggled. She felt breathless and giddy, flabbergasted by this turn of events. “Permission granted.”

The kiss was everything she’d imagined and more. And every passionate caress that followed reminded Debbie that she was not only a woman, but a desirable one. Lone took her to bed and made love to her with such hungry intensity, Debbie had no idea how she’d managed to hide her cravings for so long. She couldn’t imagine having that much self-control, but she supposed it was something the army must have taught.

That, and astonishing stamina.

For which she silently thanked the U.S. government as she lay cradled in Lone’s arms in the still of predawn. More exhausted than she’d been in her life, she trailed a hand over the hard contours of Lone’s torso and belly, down her hip and thigh, and marveled that they’d begun the day in one relationship and ended it in another. And it felt so right that her fears seemed silly. Tilting her head back, she looked up, wanting to see her new lover asleep. But a pair of night-dark eyes drew hers.

Lone asked, “Can’t sleep, baby?”

“I was just laying here thinking how everything can change so fast.”

Lone rolled onto her side and cupped Debbie’s chin with her hand. “I promise I’ll take good care of you.”

Debbie sighed contentedly. “I’ll take care of you too, Lone.”

A knee parted her thighs, and yet again she was on her back with Lone’s weight descending on her. Debbie managed a half-hearted protest, “I’m sore.”

In her ear, Lone said, “Tell me to stop and I will.”

Debbie lifted her hips and clasped her hands behind Lone’s neck. Faking a big sigh, she murmured, “Stop.”

“Too late,” Lone said and kissed her into heaven once more.

*

“Thank you for coming in, Mr. Roache. I’m sorry we kept you waiting so long.”

Jude sat down opposite a nerdy-looking, slightly built man of twenty-three whose older sister claimed he was involved in the goat’s head incident. She’d read him his rights, then had to provide him with several Kleenex after nerves made him throw up. The guy was a basket case and the interview hadn’t even begun.

He said, “You can call me Matt.”

“Okay, Matt.”

“I didn’t do it,” he feverishly declared. “I never touched that kid.”

“Okay.” Jude decided to adopt a narrative interrogation method, letting him unload whatever was on top before she moved into more structured questioning. With an emotional individual like Matthew Roache, the best way to get results in an interview was to build empathy. By having him repeat his story several times over, various different ways, she could compare the versions and catch him on any lies.

Sympathetically, she said, “You must feel terrible about all this. People are going to think you took that little boy.”

“I know. Jesus.” His shoulders shook, and he distracted himself by combing his fingers through his nondescript brown hair. “Man, what are the odds? So, we did a dumb thing, no question about it. But that kid disappearing…that’s got nothing to do with us.”

“Your sister seems very angry.”

“Fuck, she’s like…lost her mind. I don’t know what else I can tell her. Like we’d ever take a little kid and…do stuff. Fuck. We’re not animals.” He paused, lost in self-pity. “I’ll never get a job now. It wasn’t even my idea. I didn’t want to kill My Pet Goat. That was Gums. Him and his fucking crazy ideas. I’d have never listened to him if I hadn’t been drinking.”

“People make mistakes under the influence,” Jude said, intentionally letting him off the hook. “They do things that are out of character.”

He nodded emphatically. “That’s exactly what happened. I just wanted to break into the place and get back this ring I bought her, but no. We had to make a fucking statement. Gums was like…scare the bitch. Show her she can’t mess with you. God hates faithless whores…shit like that.”

“Gums” certainly sounded like a person of interest, so far. “You were engaged to Tonya, weren’t you?” Jude asked.

“Yeah. Until she started screwing that asshole Miller. I broke up with her soon as I found out. But she wouldn’t give back the engagement ring, and the problem is, I borrowed the money to pay for it off Heather in the first place.”

Jude nodded. “Sounds like Tonya caused a problem between you and your sister.”

“No kidding.”

“Matt, I can see you didn’t mean for anyone to get hurt. Or for the animal cruelty.”

“No way. Fuck no! I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.” He started sobbing noisily again and rambling on about his goat and 9/11.

Jude let it run for a while, then steered him back on track, “Your sister says you and she had some words in the bar and you left. What time was that?”

“Maybe twenty past ten.”

“What did you do then?”

“I went and picked up Gums, and we drove around town drinking tequila for a while. That’s when he got his bright idea about smashing Tonya’s place up and leaving blood or something to scare the shit out of her. We went round there, but Wade’s truck was in the driveway, so we just shouted some shit and left.”

So far the story confirmed Wade Miller’s. Jude asked, “You kept driving around?”

“Not for long. I was telling Gums how Heather was all pissed about the goat and everything, and he had one of his fucking brain waves. So we went back to my place and…you know…dealt with the goat. A couple of our other buddies got back from the bar then, and they wanted to join in. So Gums wrapped up the head in a towel, and we got some bricks and drove back to Tonya’s.”

“What time did you get there?”

“Maybe half past eleven.”

“Half past eleven.” Jude kept her voice very even, not wanting to reveal how important the next questions were to the investigation. “Was Mr. Miller’s truck in the driveway then?”

“No.”

“What did you do?”

“We got out of the car and got the bricks and smashed the front windows.”

“What did you do with the goat’s head?”

“After we broke the windows Gums took the towel off it, and we threw it in the front room.”

“You threw the goat’s head into the living room?”

“Yeah.”

“What then?”

“One of the neighbors was turning on lights so we got the fuck out of there.”

“Which neighbor?”

“Across the road.”

“I hope you’re not lying to me, Matt,” Jude warned.

“No. This is the God’s honest truth, I swear. I don’t know how the fuck that head ended up in the yard, but we didn’t put it there.”

“Did you go inside the house to get the ring?”

He shook his head, bemused. “Weird thing about it…I forgot. With all that was happening and I was upset about my goat and all, I just plain forgot.”

“That’s perfectly understandable.” Casually, she asked, “While you were there, did anyone happen to look inside the middle room?”

“That’s the kid’s bedroom, right?”

“Yes.”

Roache shook his head. “The curtains were closed in that room. I looked in Tonya’s room, right at the end. Don’t know why. You’d have thought I’d remember the ring then. But I didn’t.”

“I’ll need to speak with all your friends.” Jude pushed a notepad and pen across the desk toward him and asked him to jot down their names. “Casting your mind back, is there anything else you remember seeing? Anything unusual?”

Roache frowned. The demands of this open-ended question clearly strained his limited imagination. “Like what?” he asked finally.

“Anything that made you look twice.”

He dug deep. “A hat. One of those elf-type ones little kids wear.”

“Where was it?”

“In the driveway, lying in the snow.”

“What did it look like?”

“Hard to say. It had snow on it.”

“A lot of snow?”

“No. It wasn’t buried or anything. Just covered with flakes. Looked like Denver Broncos colors. Dark blue and yellow.”

“You’re certain this was a child’s hat?”

“Well, I sure wouldn’t wear it.”

“Any idea who it belongs to?”

“No. Sorry.” With agonized expectancy, Roache asked, “Am I under arrest?”

“Not right now. You did the right thing by coming forward. You’ll probably face felony charges for criminal mischief and animal cruelty, but because you’re a witness assisting us in our inquiries, I’ll wait and see what the sheriff says about that.”

With a huge sigh, he sagged forward, cradling his head in his hands. “I wish I’d never got involved with Tonya Perkins. She’s a piece of work.” He raised his head. “Fuck, this is exactly the kind of stunt she’d pull just to get attention.”

“Why would you say that?”

“She was always going on about getting a job doing the weather on TV in Denver or trying out for American Idol. She blames that kid for ruining her life.”

Chapter Six

Agatha Benham had almost removed her snow boots, out front of the sheriff’s office in Paradox Valley, when one of those climate-warming SUVs crunched through the snow and rolled to a halt beneath the huge Marlboro Man sign that dominated the parking area. The car windows fogged within seconds, so Agatha couldn’t see inside. But she knew who the driver was. Dr. Mercy Westmoreland from the medical examiner’s office in Grand Junction, a woman far too elegant for her repugnant occupation.

The pathologist descended from her gas-hog car and raised a kid-gloved hand to Agatha in a pretty greeting. She looked like Grace Kelly from Rear Window, a film Agatha would have liked better if James Stewart had not been stuck in a wheelchair. She thought his morbid voyeurism gave the disabled a bad name.

“Miss Benham. Good morning.”

The full-cut ivory cashmere coat she was bundled into only made her skin seem more flawless. Her cheeks glowed pink, stung no doubt by the cold. Her honey-silver hair was contained in a tight chignon, and a black beret clung at a jaunty angle to her head. She belonged in Paris.

“Good morning, Doctor. What a pleasant surprise.” Agatha un-locked the front door and the security door.

She was usually the first to arrive on the days she worked. Detective Devine and Deputy Tulley came in after seven, which gave her time to make coffee and straighten up the office. Like most law enforcement personnel, the officers she took care of were incapable of neatness in the workplace. They hid mess exactly the way children did, crammed in the bottom drawers of their desks, stuffed into the cherrywood wall console, and piled high in important-looking stacks of files on their desks.

Agatha had spent thirty-eight years working in this schoolhouse before it was converted to a joint substation for the Montezuma and Montrose county sheriffs. She still couldn’t see the sense in that initiative, despite the employment it provided her. There wasn’t enough crime in the canyon area to keep a detective busy, and Devine was always being called into Cortez to work on this or that case, leaving Agatha to mind the station and make sure Deputy Tulley kept his weapon holstered when the occasional misguided felon poked fun at Smoke’m, the bloodhound.

“How are things out here?” Dr. Westmoreland asked, kicking her boots against the steps to dislodge snow.

“We’re doing fine apart from this weather.” Agatha was about to continue the chitchat with an equally trivial remark when her jaw locked and her concentration faltered as a second woman emerged from the SUV and picked her way across the crushed snow toward them.

Tall and willowy, brilliant Titian red hair tumbling about her shoulders, she walked with a silver-topped ebony cane. As she reached the bottom step up to the porch, she clutched her black leather trench coat to her and exclaimed in a perfectly modulated British accent, “Where in God’s name are we? Fargo?”

Agatha’s laughter rose like vomit. Tears splashed the lenses of her reading glasses. In her seventy-one years, she could not have imagined the day would ever dawn when she would stand on the schoolhouse porch next to one of the great actresses of the generation, for that’s what Elspeth Harwood was destined to become. Agatha could hardly believe the star was right here in Paradox Valley, looking even more luminous than she did on the big screen.

“Miss Harwood,” she squeaked. “What an honor.”

“You remember my name—how sweet.” The radiant one pressed Agatha’s quivering hand in hers. “I’m always amazed when anyone across the pond knows who I am.”

Agatha laughed over this absurdly modest comment. She could not have felt more giddy if she were meeting the President. “I’ve followed your career since you played the psychopathic nun in Unveiled.”

“Oh, dear God. You saw that?”

“I have it on video. And I bought a signed photo of you in the nun’s habit on eBay last year. That’s on the wall in my living room.”

Dr. Westmoreland said, “Elspeth broke her leg shooting in Wyoming, and she decided to recuperate here. We just spent a few days in Moab.”

“A broken leg. How terrible. I hope you’re feeling better.” Agatha suddenly became aware of the freezing air and urged belatedly, “Please, come in out of the cold. My goodness, what was I thinking?”

She could already hear herself recounting the anecdote at the next Paradox film circle meeting—how she kept Elspeth Harwood standing on the front porch while she gushed over her like a starstruck adolescent. Mortified, she led her visitors indoors and showed them to seats in front of Detective Devine’s desk.

Miss Harwood unfastened her leather coat and slung it over the back of her chair before sitting down. Agatha could not stop staring at her. She had always imagined screen beauty to be nine-tenths mirage; everyone knew lighting, makeup, and camera angle could hide the flaws in a face. But sitting right in front of her was an actress whose skin looked well scrubbed and who was not even wearing lipstick. If anything, Elspeth Harwood was even lovelier in person than she was on camera.

Awed, Agatha confided in an embarrassed rush, “They should have given you the role of Elizabeth in Shekhar Kapur’s film. Cate Blanchett has that voice, but her face is horsy, don’t you think?”

At this, Dr. Westmoreland stifled a giggle. Agatha guessed that she probably shared the opinion but, being a personal friend of Miss Harwood’s, would not want to seem like a cheerleader.

Miss Harwood modestly said, “I respect Cate enormously. She is utterly dedicated to her craft.”

Agatha knew this was code for She only does nudity for the art. “Well, it’s just my opinion,” she said. “But you look like the real thing…like you have genuine royal blood.”

“We should visit you more often. It’s good for my ego.” The star gave a warm smile that was so natural, Agatha could almost see her as just anybody.

Sweeping this ludicrous idea aside, she asked, “May I offer you both a refreshment? I’m making coffee.”

“Excellent. Thank you.” Miss Harwood ran her hand cautiously over the leg stretched before her and asked, “Would you happen to have a couple of aspirin?”

“Will Advil suffice?” Agatha rushed to the medicine chest, thrilled to be of help to the star in a time of need.

“When are you expecting Detective Devine?” Dr. Westmoreland asked. “I thought we might catch her on our way back to Grand Junction.”

“I’m not sure if she’s coming in this morning.” Agatha shook pills into a small paper cup and poured a glass of water. She handed these to Miss Harwood and noticed, with a small flutter of delight, that she could smell the star’s perfume. It was a heady but subtle floral, so appropriate for her English beauty. “You probably haven’t heard the news if you’ve been in Utah. There’s a little boy missing, and Detective Devine was in Cortez all yesterday conducting the investigation.”

“There’s no body yet?” The doctor looked pensive. “I wonder if I should go down there and make myself available.”

“It might spare you the longer drive when they find him,” Agatha said.

It seemed only right to encourage her for Detective Devine’s sake. Although the detective did not share Agatha’s passion for the art of cinema, she had recently remarked on the media excitement that surrounded Miss Harwood’s purchase of a ranch in Taos. Agatha could picture her disappointment once she learned the actress had graced the station house in person, and she’d missed the occasion. How often did anyone get an opportunity to shake hands with a woman who would get an Oscar one day? Agatha didn’t have any grandchildren to tell, but if Detective Devine ever accepted Bobby Lee Parker’s marriage proposals, maybe she would.

Dr. Westmoreland took out her cell phone. “I assume they suspect homicide.”

“I’m not sure,” Agatha said. “There’s a big search-and-rescue operation today. Our K-9 was called in.”

Miss Harwood indicated one of the framed pictures on the wall. “Is that Detective Devine?”

Agatha took it down, happy that someone appreciated one of the small touches that made the station house less impersonal. She’d framed the photograph herself. It showed Detective Devine ready to ride out with the sheriff’s posse the previous summer. What a day that was. After three women hiking alone in the canyon area had almost been raped, they finally had a suspect and he’d made a run for it, trying to hike across state lines into Utah. The posse had run him to ground north of Dove Creek, and they brought him back to town the old-fashioned way, walking roped behind a horse. Detective Devine said it was the kind of thing that would never fly in Washington, D.C., which explained a lot about the state of the union, Agatha thought.

“She looks good in uniform,” Miss Harwood observed with a brittle edge.

Agatha instantly regretted her constant chatter. Celebrities had to listen to people like her all day every day. Miss Harwood probably came to this remote part of the country for anonymity and a break from playing the role of herself. Now she was being forced to admire snapshots of law enforcement officers.

Self-consciously, Agatha took the picture back and was about to hang it when Dr. Westmoreland strode over and said, “Let me see that.”

She swiped the picture from Agatha’s hands and stared down at it. Then, without a word, she gave it back, her face drawn. The wind chimes on the back stoop sounded like warning bells between rounds of boxing. Agatha clasped her hands so they wouldn’t shake. She sensed she’d aggravated the doctor somehow and was not sure what she’d done wrong.

“More coffee?” she offered anxiously.

“No, thanks, Miss Benham. We should get going.” Dr. Westmoreland helped her friend to her feet and handed the ebony cane to her.

Elspeth Harwood was several inches taller than the doctor, almost the same height as Detective Devine. Agatha was sorry again that her boss wasn’t here. She could have taken a photograph of the three women to add to their small gallery. In her mind’s eye, she composed the ideal portrait—the fair pathologist in the center because she was shorter, Detective Devine on one side with her dark hair and her square face, and Miss Harwood on the other in ethereal red-haired contrast. Quite the threesome.

“Are you driving down to Cortez?” she asked as Dr. Westmoreland straightened her beret and guided Miss Harwood down the steps.

“I think I should,” the pathologist replied. “I’m sure Detective Devine has all the excitement she can handle, but she’s always very good at exceeding limits.”

Agatha thought about that comment as her two breathtaking visitors got into the doctor’s crime-against-the-environment vehicle and drove shamelessly into the flurrying snow. Dr. Westmoreland was right. The detective had no idea what it meant to stop and smell the roses.

*

“You’re saying there was a dead body on the backseat of this truck?” Jude asked Tulley.

“The whining and the ear flapping…that’s his alert for residual scent.”

The deputy gave his bloodhound a liver treat and led him away from Wade Miller’s pickup. His expression was one of determined dignity and embarrassed pride, a look he wore when he wanted to wax lyrical about Smoke’m’s accomplishments but was worried he’d be mocked by the boys for his devotion to his dog. At such times he liked to display his grasp of impressive forensic terminology.

Lifting his voice so the officers a few yards away could make no mistake about his K-9 credentials, he told Jude, “That signal indicates preputrefaction essence, ma’am.”

“So we’re talking about what—a body less than twelve hours deceased?”

“Correct. In the event there was decomposing remains, he’d paw the ground and bark.” With a covert glance toward the crime scene technicians, he added, “He can tell the difference. That’s how come he was the champion cadaver hound and best in his year. Juries—they believe a dog like him.”

“I want that truck taken apart,” Jude told the forensic team. “Look under the paint if that’s what it takes. And get that hound on video making his signal. Can he do the same thing again?” she asked Tulley.

“Sure can.” With a smug expression, he walked Smoke’m back a few more yards and adjusted the dog’s working harness. “Soon as you’re ready with that video camera, I’ll set him loose.”

“You did fear-scent work with him on that last training course, didn’t you?” Jude asked once the video was rolling and Smoke’m was performing for the camera.

“I see what you’re getting at.” Tulley whistled and Smoke’m froze in position, standing on the backseat of the truck, a mournful whine rising from his flabby throat. “The problem is, we have to figure out what the fear is about. He can’t do that for us.”

“So, you could walk him by a suspect and he could detect adrenalin, but that could mean anything. The suspect could be innocent, and just stressed about being questioned?”

“Yes, ma’am. Only time I think the fear-scent detection is real useful is right after a crime is committed and the perpetrator is trying to make his getaway. A good dog can smell that fear and track him.” Tulley stared past Jude to the patient hound. “Only thing gets Smoke’m more excited is the smell of roses. Can’t say what that’s about. If he had to choose between going after human remains or shoving his nose in a bouquet, I sure wouldn’t want my money riding on the DOA.”

At that moment, Smoke’m lifted his head and sucked in the breeze. His tail wagged.

“Settle,” Tulley commanded, walking toward the truck. “Go to work.”

The dog seemed to be having a dilemma. He backed out of the truck and descended, staring eagerly toward the doorway. Tulley told him to sit and asked the guy with the video if he had all he needed. The whole time drool descended like icicles from Smoke’m’s dewlaps. Jude thought someone outside probably had a burger. The idea distracted her, too. She was starving, and she couldn’t face another slice of cold pepperoni pizza.

“I think we’re done here,” she told Tulley.

“Can I get back to the search now?”

“Yep.” Tulley had been trolling the banks of the Dolores since first light and wasn’t happy when Jude ordered him to the garage.

“The sheriff’s thinking the McPhee reservoir, right?” he asked.

“I’d say it’s a no-brainer. Miller’s truck was sighted in the vicinity, and he admitted to being in Cahone.”

Smoke’m howled. Tulley told him, “Quiet, boy.”

A crisp English voice cut across the room, “My God. Is that a genuine bloodhound?”

Jude wasn’t sure who looked more stupefied: she, Tulley, or Smoke’m. The dog immediately dropped to his belly and tracked the progress of the two women who entered the garage and carefully traversed the plastic-covered floor. The Brit who’d spoken was walking with a cane. Jude only needed a single glance to confirm her identity. Elspeth Harwood a.k.a. The Other Woman.

Tulley had the presence of mind to answer the actress’s question. “Yes ma’am. He’s purebred. A hundred million olfactory receptors. That’s a whole lot more than a salamander.”

Jude’s breathing grew hopelessly uneven. The sight of Mercy Westmoreland invariably made her gulp air like a stranded fish, and today the pathologist looked so hot Jude had trouble assembling a sentence.

“Doctor,” she said, conjuring the smell of rotting flesh so she wouldn’t blush.

Mercy looked her up and down and smiled the smile of a woman who knew the body beneath the clothes. Mischief flashed in her blue-denim eyes. “Detective Devine, I thought I should drive down in case you locate the missing child’s body.”

“He’s not presumed dead, yet,” Jude said coolly.

Mercy smiled. “You know as well as I do that we’ll be lucky to find him rotting in a shallow grave.”

Jude detected a faint start in the glamorous redhead standing a foot away. Evidently Elspeth was accustomed to a gentler side of Dr. Westmoreland.

“Do you have a suspect in the disappearance?” Mercy asked, staying on point.

“We’re looking at the mother’s boyfriend.” Jude congratulated herself for keeping a straight face. The redhead was actually fidgeting, no doubt waiting to be the center of attention. Instead her work-obsessed girlfriend hadn’t even introduced her.

“Huge surprise,” Mercy responded. “What’s with the mother? She makes an appeal for her son looking like she’s auditioning for a porn movie?”

“Excited to be on TV, maybe,” Jude said blandly, loving that Mercy was displaying her judgmental side. The English girlfriend looked like she’d just found a snail in her salad.

Mercy chose that moment to make introductions. “Oh, by the way, this is Elspeth Harwood.”

Jude got the mandatory handshake out of the way like it was nothing to touch fingers that had been between Mercy’s legs. She even managed a polite remark about the weather. Beyond that, she didn’t have to worry about making nice. Tulley was all over it.

His ears turned cranberry as he shook Elspeth’s hand. “Ma’am. It’s a privilege. If you don’t mind my saying so, you were awesome in White Orphans. I’ve seen it six times.”

Jude called to mind a wooden film with gray skies up the ying yang and characters who never smiled. Tulley periodically insisted she would enjoy this foreign masterpiece if she concentrated on the plot and the symbolism instead of griping about the subtitles. She hadn’t even realized one of the stars was Elspeth Harwood. Who could tell with the weird white paint everyone had on their faces?

The actress looked thrilled. “Thank you. It’s such an underrated film. Really, I think the semiotics are lost on today’s audience. Nuance is wasted on some people.”

Tulley responded to this arcane pronouncement like he’d just found his soul mate. “World cinema’s my hobby,” he said happily. “I’ve got maybe three hundred foreign-language DVDs.”

It wasn’t a boast Jude would use to impress girls, but it seemed to go over big-time with Elspeth. She looked like she’d have kissed him if no one was around. Instead she draped a pale hand over his arm and said, “We simply must have coffee, darling. Tell me, who’s your favorite director of all time?”

Tulley pondered. “That’s hard. Sometimes I watch everything by Fritz Lang. Other times it has to be Kieslowski.”

They both sighed and, almost in unison, pronounced with mock swoons, “The Double Life of Veronique,” then laughed like they had just invented a secret language of their own.

Jude muttered, “Oh, Christ.”

Even Mercy seemed a little rattled. With a defensive edge, she told Jude, “It’s not like there’s anyone she can talk to around here once Telluride is over.”

“Us being such hicks, you mean?”

“That’s not what I’m saying.”

“Uh-huh.”

Jude could tell that Mercy wanted to slap her. Instead they both stared as the culturally deprived girlfriend stepped even closer to Tulley and touched his cheek with the air of an artist appraising a model.

“You know, you have an incredibly photogenic face, Deputy Tulley,” she said, patently appreciative of his black-Irish good looks. “Have you ever been screen tested?”

Jude almost gagged. Was her competition bisexual, too? She didn’t know whether to be disgusted or perversely pleased. Grimly, she drew Mercy aside and walked with her to the far end of the garage, leaving Tulley and the actress to their mutual lovefest.

“What were you thinking?” she demanded once they were out of earshot. “I haven’t seen you in a month and you come in here with her?”

“I didn’t plan it that way.” Mercy’s irritation showed. “We dropped by the schoolhouse and Miss Benham told me what was happening, so there didn’t seem much point driving back to Grand Junction.”

“Do you have any idea how much media we have in town? I thought your…guest was trying to keep a low profile.”

“Elspeth thought she might be able to help.”

“Help?” Jude laughed without humor. “Oh, yeah. I can see it now. The search party has to turn back because she’s worried about her hair.”

“She’s not like that at all.”

“I don’t want to know.” Jude stared past Mercy. The crime technicians had converged on Elspeth, forming an eager audience that hung on her every word. Jude wanted to yell Suckers! She’s a dyke!

“You have to get beyond this primitive jealousy,” Mercy hissed. “You can’t keep pretending she doesn’t exist. She’s bought property here. She’s going to be around much more.”

“Oh, that’s just perfect.”

“I was hoping the three of us could be friends.”

“Are you crazy?”

“I care for you, Jude.” Mercy struggled on. “I don’t think it’s healthy for you to be so angry about this.”

“I don’t think it’s healthy for you to have two girlfriends.”

“Let’s not play tit for tat. Elspeth was fine about coming here. She wanted to meet you.”

“Well, I didn’t want to meet her,” Jude said tersely. “But you didn’t bother to find that out. How did you expect I’d react to this…ambush? Don’t you know me at all?”

“I expected you to behave like an adult.” Mercy’s voice shook.

“Define adult. If it’s a passive butch plaything you want—and, for the record, that doesn’t seem to be the case when we’re fucking—then you picked the wrong person.”

“This is not about how we have sex.” Mercy’s face was a study in frustration. “And please keep your voice down. I’m not ready to take out a public notice about my love life just yet.”

“And I’m not ready to pretend this is okay with me just to make you comfortable.”

Mercy sighed. “I knew this was a mistake.”

“Then why come?”

“I don’t know. I guess I thought if you met her, you’d see how wonderful she is and you’d understand why I can’t just let her go.”

Jude felt like someone had just slammed a baseball bat into her gut. “Are you telling me you’re in love with her?” Not once had Mercy ever mentioned the L-word to her. Not even in the throes of passion. Jude thought she was allergic to it.

“I’m not sure.” Color rushed to Mercy’s cheeks. “She’s been so good to me. I had a hard time when my father died. It made all the difference knowing she was there for me.”

Was Mercy trying to hurt her? Jude was assailed with memories of her own futile attempts to offer support and consolation during that time of loss. Mercy had kept her at a distance, not once opening up. Jude had respected her privacy. Was she now condemned for that? A suspicion flashed across her mind: Mercy found Elspeth safe. Jude had long ago learned to respect these whisperings from the unconscious, so she gave the thought some room, and the anger drained away.

Trying to build some kind of bridge, she asked gently, “What do you want that I’m not giving you?”

Mercy’s face showed nothing, but her pupils gave her away. The question had hit home. She skirted around it, all the same. “Jude, you’re an excellent lover.”

“That wasn’t what I asked.” Jude moved closer, shielding Mercy from the room. She ran her fingertips over the inside of Mercy’s wrist. It was as close to a kiss as she dared in public. “Please talk to me.”

Mercy looked pointedly past her to the others in the room. “This is not the time or place. We both have work to do.”

Jude swallowed her frustration. There was never a time when Mercy was willing to discuss where their relationship was going. Every time Jude raised the topic, she found a way to avoid it. Yet, apparently she had the intimate, personal connection with Elspeth that she denied Jude.

It dawned on Jude that this was a form of fidelity. Mercy could be sexually intimate with two partners, but she was only emotionally intimate with one…with Elspeth. Something raw and hot rose from deep inside, and for several seconds she couldn’t breathe. She felt stricken. Blood rushed in her ears. Tears prickled and she looked down at her boots, humiliated and willing herself to get a grip. No one had hurt her like this for a long time.

“Let’s meet.” Mercy’s code for getting together to have sex.

Jude’s hands shook. She shoved them into her pockets and said casually, “That would be pleasant, but I don’t have the time right now.”

Mercy looked her dead in the eye. “I don’t desire anyone the way I desire you. Isn’t that enough?”

Jude wanted it to be enough. She let herself think about Mercy naked and slippery, rocking against her, begging for release. Her body immediately let its needs be known, flesh and skin at odds as a chill of desire spread goose bumps over the heat of her limbs. She wanted Mercy desperately. She ached for her, and she hated how it weakened her resolve. This yearning was like an illness. The more she tried to treat it by giving in, the more barren she felt every time they said good-bye. She loathed her helplessness. She hated that she’d allowed Mercy to dictate the terms of their relationship from day one. What was that about?

Angry at herself as much as Mercy, she said, “Whatever,” a response she knew infuriated her fickle lover.

Predictably, Mercy responded, “That’s not an answer!”

Jude shrugged. “As you said, this is not the time or place. We’re investigating a possible homicide, and Ms. Harwood is not authorized to be here. I need for you to escort her out.”

She started walking. Mercy kept pace with her.

“Don’t do this,” she implored in a harsh whisper.

“Do what?” Jude asked.

“End us.”

Jude stopped, far enough from the others that they would not be heard clearly. Facing Mercy, she rolled the dice one last time. “Does it matter?”

The question hung between them, imposing a leaden calm the way an earthquake did before the tremors began.

Tears sparkled in Mercy’s eyes. “This is pointless. You’ll never understand.”

“You’re right,” Jude conceded bitterly. “I never will.”

Chapter Seven

Known to his buddies as Gums, owing to party tricks involving his false teeth, Hank Thompson was older than the other losers he ran with, a man whose claim to fame was that he had been struck by lightning and lived to tell the tale. He wasted no time sharing this God-given reprieve with Jude, whose luck it was to be taking down his statement at 7:30 a.m. when she hadn’t had coffee.

“The Big Guy strikes you down—you sit up and take notice,” he announced with blinding logic. “Right after that, I made a pledge.”

Jude could hardly wait.

“I live a monastic existence,” her subject confided. “No worldly distractions. Neither of the flesh, nor a material nature.”

Jude interpreted this to mean he was unemployed, lived in a dump, and couldn’t get laid. She said, “So, you’re on welfare?”

Gums sucked a breath noisily past the thinnest lips Jude had ever seen. “The Big Guy sees to it that I have the time needed to study on His word.”

“Where does the tequila drinking fit in?”

“The elixir helps me receive my visions.”

Jude pictured the defense wetting themselves when they got their first look at this witness. Inwardly groaning, she went with the flow. “Did you have a vision on the evening of Saturday, March tenth?”

“I was tasked with a foul duty.” He smoothed his thinning salt-and-pepper hair. “The slaying of a minion of Satan himself. I speak of a goat that caused offense to a virtuous lady.”

“I see.” Jude flipped through her notes, buying a little time to think about her line of questioning. She needed to confirm Matthew Roache’s story and find out if Thompson had an agenda of his own that could have led him to kidnap a small child from a woman who had no money. “Who is this virtuous lady?”

“Heather, sister of Matthew. He is unworthy, but she is radiant in God’s eyes.”

Jude contemplated the possibility that this witness had abducted and probably murdered Corban Foley and was busy setting up his insanity plea. On the other hand, it seemed plausible that someone who’d survived being struck by lightning might be missing some key brain cells.

“Why did you vandalize Tonya Perkins’s home?” she asked.

He got worked up and started along a deeply nutty track in which all women, with the exception of the fair Heather, were sent to tempt weak mankind, and Tonya was a demon in disguise. When he got really loud and flecks of foam began to gather in the corners of his mouth, Jude handed him a glass of water, insisting, “Calm down and drink this, Mr. Thompson.”

He took the water and lifted his gaze heavenward. “The Big Guy has his eye on me,” he said with satisfaction. “I thirsted and He sent water.”

Once his breathing had slowed down, Jude asked, “Mr. Thompson. Are you on any medication? Pills?”

“I can’t take those. God stops talking to me.”

“I see.” A delusional individual off his meds is at the home of a missing child on the evening of his disappearance. Reasonable doubt didn’t get any better than that, assuming they could make a case against Wade Miller in the first place.

Gloomily, Jude surveyed her subject. Every instinct she had told her Miller was responsible for whatever had happened to Corban Foley, but she knew better than to conduct an investigation with an attachment to any one theory of the crime. Foregone conclusions spelled trouble; it was fatally easy to overlook important clues if you couldn’t see past your own beliefs. Twenty years ago, a guy like Thompson wouldn’t have made it out of an interview room without signing a confession. Death row had seen plenty like him over the years. She had to find some way to rule him out unequivocally, or back up any confession they extracted with a mountain of hard evidence.

“Tell me, how do you think God feels about a woman like Tonya rearing an innocent child,” she asked in a conversational tone. “Do you think he might be concerned?”

“Certainly.”

She framed a hypothetical; these often yielded insights, especially from offenders deep in denial. “If you were God, what would you do about that?”

Thompson grew restless, wringing his hands and shifting in his seat. “I don’t know. I’m not God.”

“Mr. Thompson, did God ask you to take Corban Foley from his mother’s home?”

His wild eyes stilled momentarily and he said with conviction, “No.”

“Tell me what you did when you arrived at Ms. Perkins’s house.”

“We smashed the windows, and I cast forth the head of Satan’s minion.”

“Where did you cast it?”

“Into that she-devil’s lair. I threw the hat in there, too.”

“What happened then?”

“We drove away and I took more of the elixir of truth. Then God delivered a message unto me.”

“What was that message?” Jude prompted.

“I wrote it down.” He reached into his pants pocket and produced a grubby piece of paper folded into an origami swan.

Jude unfolded it and flattened it out on the table as best she could. The note said, Admit yourself.

Hank Thompson stared down at it, apparently mystified. “Do you know what it means?”

Jude felt sad. What it meant was that her subject, once a successful builder and candidate for local office, as described by the deputy who’d briefed her earlier, was still in there somewhere. Lost. Trying to find a way back to his sanity.

She took one of the hands he could not keep still and said, “Hank?”

Something calmed once again in Thompson’s eyes, and for a split second Jude thought she glimpsed a rational being.

He said, “Heather calls me Hank, too.”

Jude smiled at him. “Listen, Hank. I think God wants you to go to a peaceful place where you can rest. I have a feeling that’s what the message means. If you like, one of the deputies can drive you to a place I know about. A hospital.”

Alarm jammed his expression. “Is Heather there?”

“No, but l can speak to her about visiting you.” Trying once more to reach the part of him that could still reason, she said, “Hank, please think carefully. Do you know where Tonya’s little boy is?”

He shook his head. “Want me to ask God?”

Why not give the troops something to snicker about when they reviewed the interview tape? “Knock yourself out,” she invited.

Thompson got down onto the floor and prayed in the sudjood position of a Muslim, his forehead on the floor. The deputy standing at the door mumbled something about domestic terrorists. Jude thought, Not even close.

When their subject had communed with the Big Guy long enough, he scrambled back up and sat at the table once more.

“Well?” Jude asked.

“I need elixir.”

“God only answers your prayers when you’re drunk?”

Thompson gave her a look. “He said you’ll find him.”

“Did he say where?”

“God doesn’t answer for the Devil,” Thompson informed her snippily. “Make no mistake. This is Satan’s work.”

*

“Tell them to go away,” Tonya complained. Media vans and reporters waving big fluffy microphones had her sister’s place surrounded. She wished she’d never come here after the police sent her home, but she couldn’t afford a motel.

“Are you crazy?” Amberlee poured herself into her tightest black jeans, tucked in her white stretch lace top, and started trying on different pumps. “Everyone’s out there. Channel Nine News. Channel Four. CNN. MSNBC. No way are you hiding in here for the rest of the day. Get dressed.”

“What for? I’m not going out there.”

Amberlee fastened the ankle straps of the cherry red platforms she’d picked out. “You can blow this chance if you want, but I’m not that stupid.”

“What are you talking about?”

Amberlee wobbled over to the bed and dragged the covers off Tonya. “Don’t you get it? They’re here to see you. This is a big story.”

Tonya stared at the phone. Any minute it would ring and someone would say Corban was safe and they were bringing him home. There was still time for him to be okay. She started crying again. She was a mess. She only had to think about her baby and she couldn’t control herself.

“I should be out there looking for him,” she sobbed. “It’s been a whole day. What if he’s hiding somewhere like in a log or a cave. Maybe he’ll get scared if he hears the searchers. He’s shy. Sometimes he only answers to me.”

Amberlee looked impatient. “You’re getting yourself all worked up over nothing. He’ll answer.”

“Oh, God. Why did I leave him?” Tonya rolled onto her stomach and hugged one of the pillows against her. “I shouldn’t have left him.”

“I suppose you’re going to blame me next.” Amberlee plugged in the flat iron and set about straightening her hair.

She’d spent most of the morning with Saran Wrap around her head to make her home bleach kit work faster. Her hair was now the exact shade of platinum Tonya had wanted for her own hair, only she’d been afraid to use an extreme lightener in case her hair broke off at the roots. So she ended up with a color Amberlee said was light strawberry blond, but was really a pinkish yellow that made her skin look weird no matter what foundation she used.

“Why would I blame you?” Tonya wiped her face and thought about taking a shower. She didn’t know what to do with herself. One minute she felt like throwing up, the next she was crying, then she felt far away. And in between all of those, she got so panicked all she could do was walk up and down the house so she wouldn’t lay in a ball and scream.

“Well, it was my birthday party,” Amberlee pointed out. “I starved myself for months and lost forty pounds so I’d look good. How do you think I feel?”

Tonya hadn’t thought about it. She supposed she should have. Amberlee was her sister and she hadn’t even noticed the weight loss. Forty pounds. Tonya wished she could take off the weight she’d put on having Corban. Last time she looked, the scale said 180. She didn’t even want to think about it.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“I’m gonna be down to two hundred by Thanksgiving.”

“You don’t even look fat, Ambam. Guys think you’re hot.”

“Thanks, baby sis.” Amberlee was quiet for a few seconds, then she said with a frown, “What’s taking them so long down at the sheriff’s office? I thought Wade would be here by now.”

So did Tonya. “Well, he was the one looking after Corban. The detective said they have to rule him and me out first.”

Amberlee opened the flat iron and stared down at her hair. “Fuck. My hair’s fried. It’s snapping off. Oh, God. This is a nightmare.”

“I told you not to leave that thirty volume on so long.” Tonya got out of bed and found a sweater. “Sit down. Let me see.”

Obediently, Amberlee plunked herself on the velvet-covered stool in front of the dressing table. She met Tonya’s gaze in the mirror and said, “Your eyes are all puffy. You better put some ice on them before we go out there.”

Tonya turned down the heat and slowly worked a strand of her sister’s hair through the flat iron. “Keep it on this setting,” she announced. “Then it won’t break.”

“Thanks. I love you.” Amberlee smiled. “Now go take a shower. You’ll feel better once you’re dressed.” As Tonya headed out the door, she called after her, “I’ll do your makeup so you look good for the cameras.”

Chapter Eight

Debbie gazed out across a white world pockmarked with dark blotches—the tracks of SAR team members. Hundreds of searchers were spread out along the entire route from Cortez to Dove Creek, and to the reservoir, and helicopters were conducting an aerial search. Lone said that although nobody was calling it a search-and-recovery operation yet, anyone with a clue knew they were looking for a body.

Debbie didn’t want to believe that. She imagined happier scenarios—the child taken as a prank, then left safe and wrapped against the elements somewhere he would be found, or abandoned alive by kidnappers who had a change of heart. She kept waiting for that triumphant shout, the thrill of hearing a soft cry and seeing a little one held high in the air and rushed to open ground where one of the helicopters would swoop down to carry him to the hospital. She wanted to see the mother weeping on TV, thanking everyone who had braved the snow and freezing cold to bring her baby back.

That morning, as they’d assembled at the staging area in Cahone, the Montezuma County sheriff had announced that this was the most extensive search operation ever mounted in the Four Corners. Debbie warmed with pride to be a part of something bigger than herself. Most of the time, she never felt as if her life amounted to anything. Today was different. She was filled with energy and determination. She felt good about herself and not as shy around people as she normally did.

Although they were among strangers, everyone seemed to be a friend. It happened at times like this, when a community had to pull together. Barriers broke down and people understood that their shared humanity meant more than their differences. No one had given her and Lone a second glance, even when Lone took her hand to help her over difficult terrain.

An hour earlier, when an SAR leader noticed Lone’s equipment and Lone mentioned her military experience, she and Debbie were reassigned to the crew searching upstream along a ten-mile shoreline of the Dolores River between Bradfield Bridge and Lone Dome. They were with three K-9 units from Dolores, German Shepherds and their handlers and navigators, plus fifty searchers including a Nordic rescue team on skis.

This part of the Dolores was one of those places you’d never find unless you knew exactly where to look. The River of Sorrows meandered through a remote canyon in the Mesa Verde country. Snow hung over the sandstone walls on either side of the river basin and clung to the spindly junipers that straggled along the riverbanks. The water’s silent, sluggish progress was oddly hypnotic.

As she stared down at it, Debbie gulped in the dry Colorado air and tried not to picture a child’s body drifting by. The mere fact that they were searching here meant this was a possibility. The police had to have suspicions. She probed the snow with her pole, this way and that, feeling for what lay beneath and placing her feet where the ground felt level. She had snowshoes in her backpack, but for now wore heavy snow boots and gaiters that kept her feet and legs dry.

Apart from her nose and cheeks, the only parts of her face not covered by her muffler and goggles, she was warm and damp with sweat. They were moving slowly, scouring every square foot, but it was still hard work, and with every hour that passed, a daunting inevitability clawed at her resolve. It was hard to sustain hope, yet the searchers did. That morning, as they waited at the staging area, Debbie had heard various stories of unbelievable survival. Just a few years earlier, a small boy had made it after forty-eight hours lost in this area, in winter conditions. It could happen.

“I’ll take the bottom of this rise, at the river.” Lone headed down a sharp incline. “Carry on and I’ll join you when it levels out again.”

“Okay. Be careful,” Debbie called after her.

She stopped to pull up her gaiters after a few minutes and looked back when she heard the sound of panting. A Montezuma County deputy halted his bloodhound a few feet from her. The dog was wearing boots and a snow jacket. To Debbie’s astonishment this garment was emblazoned on both sides with a Marlboro logo.

“How come your dog is advertising cigarettes?” she asked. “I thought tobacco sponsorship was illegal.”

“No one else came up with the cash.” The deputy, a young man with coal black hair flattened by his helmet, lifted his goggles. “The Marlboro people have been good to Smoke’m and me.”

“Your dog’s name is Smoke’m?” Debbie almost fell over. Literally.

The deputy caught her arm and helped her find her balance. His face was so handsome, she couldn’t help but stare. Where was the justice in men getting the best eyelashes? This guy had the longest she had ever seen, and they framed eyes the rich golden brown of caramelized sugar.

He smiled at her with the sweet shyness of a girl, and Debbie thought if she’d been straight and impressionable, she’d have fallen at his feet. While she was trying to assemble some coherent words, Lone marched briskly back up the slope and introduced the both of them.

They all shook gloved paws and the deputy said, “I’m Virgil Tulley. I’m with the MCSO, based in Paradox Valley.”

“In the old schoolhouse?” Debbie asked.

“Yes, ma’am. There’s just the two of us. One detective and myself. It’s a remote substation, you understand.”

“My place is right down the road.” Debbie smiled. “Small world, huh?”

“Sure is. It’s real community-minded of you both coming down here, by the way.” Tulley lifted his field glasses and signaled to a figure some way ahead of them.

Debbie was immediately embarrassed that she was distracting a K-9 handler from his duties, not to mention staring at a man, even though she’d never found one attractive. Lone had warned her about losing focus. It was easy to let her mind drift in the sprawling white expanse. The glare from the snow was strangely mesmerizing, and she was also tired. She glanced sideways at Lone and smiled at the thought. They’d had so little sleep the previous night, she was amazed either of them could stay upright.

Her heart jumped as she met Lone’s eyes. A jolt of raw awareness passed between them, and Debbie’s knees almost buckled. She might appreciate Deputy Tulley’s looks the way she would admire any beautiful creature, but Lone aroused a completely different reaction. Debbie felt hot, stifled in her layers of cotton and wool. If they’d been by themselves here she would have torn off her clothes and rolled naked in the snow, just to wallow in sensation.

Thinking her feelings for Lone must be written all over her face for the whole world to see, she was grateful when Deputy Tulley moved a few paces ahead and urged his dog on. They exchanged a wave with the deputy as he hastened away and Debbie reached for Lone’s hand, marveling all over again at her good fortune. Apart from making her feel incredibly sexy, Lone made her feel special. She did all those little things that people laughed at these days. She opened doors, helped Debbie into the truck, got things down from high places for her, unscrewed caps and lids, got rid of creepy crawlies.

“Take some water, Debbie doll.” Lone handed her a bottle.

Dehydration was the enemy of alpine rescuers, and Lone had packed all the water they would both need in her own backpack so that Debbie would not be weighed down. They stopped where the contour of the riverbank rose sharply and Debbie drank. The water was so cold it hurt her teeth. She stared at the aqua-gray reservoir in the distance and out across the unforgiving plateau. Winter had vanquished the red and blue of the Four Corners landscape, bleeding the painted hues of all vibrancy until what remained was a mere negative of the summer glory, a colorless infinity with no discernable horizon.

For the first time since they’d started out that morning, Debbie felt a sick chill of apprehension as she gazed around. Lowering her eyes to the icy waters below, she burst into tears and mopped pointlessly at her face with her waterproof gloves.

Lone immediately gathered her close and reassured her, “Everything’s okay, baby. You’re perfectly safe. I’ll never let anything, or anyone, hurt you.”

“It’s not that.” She’d told Lone she found wide-open spaces scary these days.

“Then what?” Lone kissed her cheek. “You can tell me.”

Shocked by her own sudden despair, Debbie whispered, “He’s dead. I know it.” She could just make out the sound of Lone’s heart through her dense clothing.

Lone rocked her slowly, letting her take comfort. “I’m sorry, Debbie doll,” she said eventually. “I know it hurts.”

Debbie played the words over. In Lone’s shoes, having insisted from the start that the little boy was dead, Meg would have said I told you so. Being right would have mattered more to her than being supportive.

Lone’s reaction told Debbie something important. She knew how to love.

*

“Thought I’d find you out here,” a man’s voice carried damply in the snow-burdened air.

Tulley peered back over his shoulder. “Hey, Bobby Lee.”

This was a surprise. Bobby Lee Parker wasn’t the type to hike voluntarily. He kept fit with Pilates for men. He said grunt exercise was for yesterday’s insecure macho man.

Bobby Lee took some long strides to catch up. “How’s it going?”

“Nothing so far.” Tulley whistled Smoke’m to heel and checked the Velcro that secured his mush boots. “You been out long?”

“An hour, tops.”

Which was about all he was dressed for, Tulley thought. Who else but Bobby Lee would show up for a big SAR operation wearing a black cowboy hat, jeans, and a fashionable snow vest over a wool plaid shirt. His only concession to the task at hand was gaiters, like that was all it took. Tulley knew what this was about. Bobby Lee was so vain he couldn’t bring himself to be seen in goggles and a helmet. He’d rather look good than behave responsibly.

Not for the first time Tulley wondered what Jude saw in the self-satisfied cowboy. Admittedly he was a smooth talker who could charm a hog gone wild, and he had what one of the female deputies called bad boy pheromones. Agatha was always harping on about his James Dean charisma and how as Jude should count herself lucky he didn’t mind her being taller than him. Tulley didn’t see what the fuss was all about. He had a better six-pack than Bobby Lee, and he could shoot straight.

Only a few weeks back, Bobby Lee had got down on his knees and proposed to Jude in Nero’s restaurant, while the staff was all standing around with champagne and one of those French desserts they set fire to. Tulley would have paid fifty bucks to see that. But Jude told Bobby Lee she needed time to think about the proposal, an answer that made everyone at the MCSO lose their minds once the story got around. No one had expected the relationship to last a week, let alone four months, and now there was a marriage offer. Tulley couldn’t set foot in the Cortez stationhouse without everyone pestering him to spill.

People had trouble picturing Jude in a wedding dress and were always asking Tulley if she was going to get married in her uniform instead. That’s if she went for the offer, which a lot of folks thought would be wise, since a woman like her probably didn’t meet too many males who would overlook her job and her lack of feminine qualities. There was also talk that Jude wouldn’t do it because she’d be marrying beneath her. She was a decorated detective and college educated, and Bobby Lee had a rap sheet and a pothead artist mother who went to that antiwar protest in Crawford, Texas.

But Tulley couldn’t imagine those differences in background would factor in; Jude wasn’t snooty. No, he thought the problem was something else besides that. Jude and Bobby Lee had been dating for the past four months, but they were the least affectionate couple Tulley had ever seen. He suspected the difficulty lay with Jude, since Bobby Lee was always bragging on his conquests and the special talent he had for pleasuring his ladyfolk. Maybe it was job-related. Maybe she was scarred. Before she took a step down to work in a two-bit sheriff’s office, she was an FBI agent working in child protection. That had to leave its mark.

Any rate, she had intimacy issues. That’s what Tulley had learned from reading magazines with sealed sections on relationships. He found these helpful because he had issues himself. After his last girlfriend, Alyssa Critch, decided to give him a black eye when he broke up with her, he thought it was time he got to the bottom of his bad luck with the ladies. Since then, he’d discovered how little he knew from his parents or his schooling. It had been quite a shock to find out he’d been lied to by the people he trusted. In the end, he wrote to The Answer Man for advice about his extreme nervousness around the female sex. His letter and the answer got featured on the Web site.

He showed this to Bobby Lee the night of the marriage proposal, after he arrived wanting to unload his hard-luck story over beer and pretzels. Bobby Lee agreed with The Answer Man that the only way for Tulley to get beyond these crippling social handicaps was to practice with women he would never see again. They were planning a trip to Denver where Bobby Lee knew some nice ladies who would not talk about Tulley behind his back, ask embarrassing questions about the scars all over his torso, or make him do stuff unless he wanted to. Sure, they were paid for their services. But Bobby Lee said, sometimes a professional was exactly what the situation called for. Tulley had been saving for the trip.

They’d watched Gladiator that night, which was one of the two DVDs Bobby Lee ever picked out when he came by. The other was Terminator 2. This taste for action movies was, at least, one thing he had in common with Jude. Neither of them could watch Dancing at Lughnasa all the way through, and if they were visiting and Tulley wanted to get rid of them, he’d put on The English Patient and it was run, don’t walk. They fidgeted with their popcorn so much during The Hours that Tulley and Agatha had to move to a different part of the theater so they wouldn’t be humiliated. Later Jude said the movie was a downer and she wished they’d gone to The Recruit instead.

“Looks like he’s caught a whiff of something.” Bobby Lee indicated Smoke’m.

He had his head back and was taking in the faint southerly breeze so keenly his jowls were vibrating.

Tulley tightened the K-9 harness, a sign to Smoke’m that he was working. “Good boy,” he praised. “Go to work.”

Smoke’m needed no encouragement. He gave a short howl and set off swinging his head slightly from side to side like an elephant, velvet ears flapping.

“He’s fanning the scent to his olfactory receptors,” Tulley explained.

The area they were searching was a stretch of the Dolores local fly fishermen liked to keep secret. A couple of them involved with the search had already told Tulley they hadn’t seen a brown in these waters for ten years and the cutthroats weren’t worth the price of a lure. Smoke’m bayed and Tulley’s mouth went dry with excitement. He scanned the snow ahead seeking a suspicious-looking mound or a stain that didn’t belong.

“You think he can smell the kid?” Bobby Lee asked.

“Can’t tell till he signals.”

“Man, we’ll be all over the news if we’re the ones who find him.”

“I hope he’s alive.”

“I’m not real optimistic about that,” Bobby Lee said flatly. “You better prepare yourself, buddy.”

Tulley glanced sideways and read the warning in Bobby Lee’s sleepy blue eyes. He wanted to keep an open mind and stay positive, but he had no idea how he would react if they found a body. The only time he had ever seen a dead kid was when he attended a traffic accident once and a paramedic had carried a limp six-year-old from the wreckage.

Smoke’m screeched to a halt about thirty feet from the forest road, where it started cutting in toward the reservoir. Whining, he pawed a patch of snow and gazed at Tulley with mournful dignity, waiting for the next command.

Tulley gave him one of the treats he coveted most, half a knockwurst sausage, and said, “Dig.” He took Bobby Lee’s advice and prepared himself. He could hardly bear to look. If Smoke’m had to dig, the news was going to be bad.

Bobby Lee clapped him on the shoulder. “Whatever it is, think about this—at least we’ll all know.”

“Yep.” Tulley’s mind strayed to Jude’s brother, the one that went missing when they were kids.

Jude had never said a word about him until the dust settled after the Darlene Huntsberger homicide the previous year. Then one day she just up and told him the whole story. How Ben was twelve, and one day he didn’t come home from school. How close they were and how she’d spent most of her life trying to find out what happened to him, becoming an FBI agent so she could work in the Crimes Against Children Unit. The not knowing had done her head in.

She’d showed him a picture of the two of them dressed up in home-sewn pilot uniforms. Ben had blond waves, big gentle eyes, and a sweet smile. He looked more like a girl than she did.

Gone, Tulley thought, vanished without a trace. How did that happen? He could see how it affected Jude, even now. She had moved all the way out here so she could leave the past behind, but geography only changed the view from your truck window. He knew that himself.

He thought everything would change when he left Ohio. No one knew him in Colorado. He wasn’t going to run into any of the guys who picked on him all through school. And what if he did? He was the one with the gun and the badge. He’d only been back to visit his ma once since he graduated from the police academy. That visit was for Thanksgiving a few months back, and he made sure to show up in town wearing his uniform. That wiped the grins from a few faces.

He felt like a million bucks the day he was at old man Gleeson’s gas station filling up the truck and who should pull in behind him but Mr. Star Quarterback, Greg Helms. You’d think a guy who called you faggot all through high school and held you down in the john so he could put out his cigarettes on your chest would remember your name. But Helms walked right on by before he even recognized Tulley, then he turned around and his face went dark red.

He said, “Fuck, is that you…uh…uh…”

The guy was slightly shorter than Tulley, and his football jock muscles had been replaced with a big gut. Bobby Lee would have said he’d gone from fab to flab.

Tulley rested his hand on his gun and drawled in his deepest voice, “Yeah, it’s me. Virgil Tulley.”

Helms looked like he was about to spew. “Hey, pal. That shit back in school—I never meant nothing by it. Okay?”

Here was the moment he’d fantasized about most of his life. Face to face with one of the bullies who made his life hell, and the guy was shitting himself. Tulley had a feeling if he told Helms to kneel down and lick the oil stains off of the concrete, he’d do it.

Instead, he said, “That was a long time ago. What are you up to these days, Greg?”

Helms flicked sweat away from his nose with his chubby fingers. “Not much. Still bumming around here.”

They talked for a few minutes more. Turned out he was a loser living in his mom’s basement and bagging groceries part-time. He’d married a girl from his senior year, and she’d taken their kid and left him for another man. He was taking Zoloft.

They said good-bye and Tulley drove off slapping the steering wheel and singing “We Don’t Need Another Hero” from that underrated masterpiece Mad Max Beyond Thunderdome. Not once had he stuttered during the encounter. Greg Helms couldn’t even look him in the eye. Who was the tough guy now?

Tulley pumped a few muscles and reminded himself that he’d missed a day on the Bowflex thanks to the unfolding drama of Corban Foley’s disappearance. He called encouragement to Smoke’m, who had dug a hole so deep all you could see was snow spraying up over the edges.

Finally he gave a low whine and the snow stopped flying. Tulley and Bobby Lee moved to the edge of the hole and stared down. Smoke’m was on his haunches next to a plastic Safeway shopping bag knotted at the top.

“Want me to get it out?” Bobby Lee offered.

Tulley dropped his backpack and took a camera from the front pocket. “I have to photograph it first.”

He wasn’t entirely sure what to do after that, whether to open it or call the mobile command post and wait for them to send the right people. The procedure had been explained, but now that he wanted to remember he couldn’t. The bag wasn’t big enough to hold a child so there was no rush to look inside. Tulley took photos, including several of Smoke’m standing in his alert pose over the hole.

Then he phoned the powers that be and they told him to mark the site and carefully extract the bag, then open it. Tulley exchanged his Kevlar gloves for latex and extracted the bag. It weighed almost nothing.

Relieved he said, “At least it’s not body parts.”

Bobby Lee crouched down, watching closely as Tulley photographed, then loosened, the knot. They both peered into the bag.

“Kid’s clothes,” Bobby Lee said.

Tulley studied the dark stain around the neckline of a blue sweater. He pointed it out to Bobby Lee. “That’s blood.”

They looked at each other.

Bobby Lee said, “Jude’ll want to hear about this. Like, now.”

Chapter Nine

Tonya tugged at the hem of her black Lycra dress, trying to pull it down so it covered her legs better. All she succeeded in doing was lowering the neckline. She wished she’d spent more than two seconds looking in the mirror before she walked out onto the front door step and all the cameras started clicking and popping. The dress was Amberlee’s idea. She said it was slimming, being black, and the color was appropriate since she was the grieving mother. Tonya was too exhausted to point out that Corban was missing, not dead.

Shivering with the cold, she fended off microphones and started to read the short statement she’d been practicing. But her throat tightened so much she had to stop. The cameras loomed like vultures. Everywhere she looked big black glass eyes gleamed at her and flashes popped.

Amberlee said loudly, “My sister will take a few questions,” and shoved an elbow into her ribs.

A TV reporter shouted, “The police are still questioning your boyfriend, Wade Miller. Do you think he had something to do with your son’s disappearance?”

“No.” Tonya was angry that anyone would even suggest it. “Wade loves Corban. He loves little kids.”

“Do you think Corban’s alive?” a woman asked. Tonya recognized Suzette Kelly from Channel 8.

The reporter was everything Tonya would choose to be if she could dial a new life. Size 2 but with implants. A narrow face with a cute little nose. Perfect blond hair flicked softly back in a layered Jennifer Anniston style. The kind of pink designer suit you’d have to leave Cortez to buy. Normally Tonya thought pearl necklaces were ridiculous, but Suzette looked classy in hers. It was the expensive kind with the really big pearls. Over the top of her outfit, she had on a pale pink coat with a white fur collar that made her look like a fashion model. Tonya thought it probably cost more than Wade’s truck.

She tried to answer Suzette’s question. “I don’t know. I—”

Before she could put her feelings into words, Amberlee cut in and said, “We’re praying our little angel will come home soon, Suzette.”

“And you are?”

“Mrs. Amberlee Foley, Tonya’s big sister. Corban’s my nephew.”

“Corban is your ex-husband’s son with your sister, the half brother of your daughter. Do I have that right?”

“Yes.” Before Suzette had time to ask another awkward question, Amberlee pointed to a man with the whitest teeth Tonya had ever seen.

“Brendon Bailey, Channel Four,” he announced. “Tonya, sources close to the inquiry have alleged that your boyfriend has a history of domestic violence, yet you left your baby with him. Weren’t you concerned?”

Tonya floundered. The only domestic violence she knew about was Brittany Kemple giving Wade a nose bleed. She said, “Wade’s really good with Corban.” It sounded feeble. She started to frame a better response when Suzette Kelly cut in.

“You were in a bar celebrating your sister’s birthday while this man was with your child. Do you blame yourself?”

Tonya gasped. She wanted to say something dignified, but all that came out was a soft grunting sound.

Amberlee said, “My sister’s upset. That’s all for now, folks. I’ll be available for more comments later.” She offered a big smile and placed her arm around Tonya’s shoulder, leaning into her so their heads were level. In Tonya’s ear, she whispered, “Make another plea.”

Tonya prayed for the strength to pull herself together for Corban’s sake. Her voice shook and she felt light-headed as she said, “I’d like to thank all of you for covering this story. I have a message for the person who took Corban. Please, bring him back. I miss my baby. Please. I just want to hold him.”

Shouts erupted as Amberlee steered her back into the house, but only one of them penetrated the fog in her head. She turned at exactly the same time Amberlee did, and a fist connected with her face. Tonya reeled back against the door frame and lost her balance. As she fell in the center of the doorway, the scene around her turned instantly into chaos. It was like something from the Jerry Springer show. People shouting and grabbing one another. Amberlee screaming at the man who’d landed the punch, Dan Foley, Corban’s dad. He was yelling back at her and trying to reach Tonya.

A group of reporters struggled to hold him back. He looked past them to Tonya and hollered, “Satisfied now? You gave my son to a fucking killer, you stupid, lazy bitch.”

Tonya tried to block the words out, but they kept coming.

“Call yourself a mother? Fucking useless, that’s what you are.” He tore himself away from the reporters and lunged past Amberlee, who seemed frozen on the spot. Standing over Tonya, he screamed at her, “I’m going to destroy you. And I’m going to kill that animal for what he did.”

Tonya huddled against the door frame, sobbing and begging him to stop. As she peered out from beneath the arm protecting her face, she was stunned by a strange sight. The crowds of reporters were hard at work shooting the whole incident, some of them standing in front of cameras talking nonstop. Amberlee was smoothing her hairstyle and talking to the reporter with the extra-white teeth. No one was coming to help her. They were all just watching like this was happening on TV, not in real life.

Dan swung his foot like he was going to kick her, but instead said, “You’re not even worth it,” and spat in her face.

The crowd parted as he walked through them, then they were running after him, hurling questions and crowding around his car. Suzette Kelly had stayed behind. She hurried up the steps with her crew.

Crouching next to Tonya, she said to the camera, “I’m with Corban’s mom. She was just knocked to the ground by Corban’s enraged dad. Tonya, are you okay?”

Fluff from a microphone tickled Tonya’s mouth. Her face ached. She was freezing. All she could say was, “Yes.”

“Your ex-husband said some terrible things to you just then. How do you feel?”

“I don’t know,” Tonya whispered. She was too shocked to cry. All she could think was this had to be a dream, the worst dream of her life. Silently, she prayed, “Please God, let me wake up now.”

“It sounds like Corban’s dad blames you for what happened.”

Tonya stared at the spectacular white fur around Suzette’s neck. “Is that fox?” she asked.

“No.” Suzette looked affronted. “Channel Eight.”

Tonya laughed, and as the sound rose, so did a loud wailing sob.

Suzette positioned a comforting arm around her and glanced up at her cameraman. “Are you getting this?”

*

Jude marched into the interview room with Pete Koertig and placed a series of evidence bags on the table in front of Wade Miller. Each contained an item of baby clothing recovered by the searchers.

“Recognize these garments?”

Miller shrugged.

“Yes or no, Mr. Miller?”

“Corban might have had a top like that.”

“You talk like he’s dead,” Jude said coldly.

Koertig taunted, “Something you want to share with us?”

Miller was silent.

Jude lifted one of the bags. “His mother says these are the clothes Corban was wearing when she left him in your care.” She pointed to a stain around the neckline of the light blue sweatshirt. “This is Corban’s blood. How did it get there?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Don’t waste my time. Did his clothes get blood on them when he injured himself?”

“I didn’t see any.”

“This clothing was found on the banks of the Dolores not far from where your truck was sighted the night Corban disappeared. Can you explain that?”

“No, ma’am.”

“We’re combing that area right now with scent dogs,” Jude continued. “One of them is a specialist cadaver hound that can detect a body, even in water.”

Miller sipped from the can of Coke he was holding, apparently unmoved. “I appreciate everyone giving up their time. It’s mighty generous.”

He was one cool customer, Jude thought, an accomplished liar who cultivated a flaky, harmless demeanor because it suited him to be underestimated. If she was hoping to rattle him by producing hard evidence, she’d misjudged his nerve.

Looking for a way to get under his skin, she said, “Not everyone likes small children. It might surprise you how many people actually sympathize with a parent figure when an accident occurs. People know how easy it is to take your eyes off a kid at the wrong moment.”

He absorbed this with an expression of patient incomprehension, then replied, “I guess you guys see that kind of thing all the time.”

Jude gave Koertig a nod. Her colleague had already suggested that they consider aiming a shotgun at Miller’s balls to make him give up where he’d dumped the body. She’d brought him into the interview to frighten Miller, if that was even possible. The more she saw of this suspect, the more convinced she was that he had not just caused a child’s death accidentally and covered it up. He was a cold-blooded killer.

Koertig loosened his tie and rolled up his shirt sleeves to reveal muscular, bronzed forearms that were a perfect foil for his sky blue eyes and straight blond buzz cut. Sixty years ago, he would have been recruited by Goebbels for master-race propaganda.

“We see plenty,” he responded to Miller’s disingenuous remark. “Wanna know something about these lowlife chickenshits that hurt little kids? They’re always the first to give it up in the pen. Real fucking sissies.”

“You’d have to expect that.” Jude directed her remark to Koertig. “It’s a certain type of coward who hurts a child. I read somewhere a lot of them are impotent or they have other sexual performance problems.”

Koertig sneered. “They can’t satisfy a woman so they take it out on a kid?”

“That’s one theory. Shrinks say they’re basically immature, so they get jealous of their girlfriend’s kids and bully them.”

“You mean like sibling rivalry?”

“Pretty pathetic, huh? A grown man acting like he has to compete with a baby.”

Koertig jerked a thumb at Miller. “Looks like our friend here can relate.”

Miller’s face didn’t register a flicker of emotion, but Jude could hear a soft rapping beneath the table and knew the barbs had struck home. Miller was aggravated but concealing it well. She pushed a little harder.

“Your ex, Brittany Kemple, had some pretty unkind things to say about your bedroom skills.”

Koertig started laughing, then made a show of smothering it. The table tapping grew louder and more erratic. Miller was on the brink of losing it and Jude wanted to see him go there, so they’d have something to show a jury. Miller wouldn’t fool anyone in a courtroom with his laid-back halfwit act if they had video of him out of control.

Jude grinned up at Koertig. “Nothing like a disappointed woman to spill the beans.”

“Oh, she was harsh. The size issue.” Koertig’s attempt at sympathy was undermined by the snicker he choked back. “That must be hard on you, pal.”

“I don’t know what lies that fucking little tramp told you.” Miller’s voice rose. “But I measure up okay and I can prove it.”

“That won’t be necessary.” Jude smirked. “We believe you, Mr. Miller.”

Koertig adopted a conciliatory tone. “Yeah, women make up stories to explain why they dump a guy. That stuff about not even feeling it…we thought that was pretty far-fetched. I mean even if it is just four inches and the girth is what she said…well she’d feel it. Probably.” He looked at Jude as if seeking confirmation.

She shrugged. “I can’t honestly say. I’ve never seen one that sm…of those dimensions.”

Miller was red in the face. He’d stopped tapping. Jude guessed he had his fists clenched so he wouldn’t throw a punch. “You think you’re so fucking smart,” he ground out. “I know what this is. Cop tricks to get me all riled up so I make myself look bad.”

“I think we hurt his feelings,” Koertig said.

Miller’s eyes glittered with venom. “You got nothing on me.”

It was not a response they heard too often from an innocent man. Watching him intently, Jude realized he was not going to reveal himself. They’d come close, but he was self-aware enough not to blow it. Miller had a temper, but self-preservation came first. Along the track, when they had more against him than his own constantly changing stories, she would find a way to take advantage of that.

She said, “We have a warrant to search your home, Mr. Miller.”

“Be my guest.”

“Is there anything you want to mention before we begin?”

“Such as?”

She wanted to backhand the arrogant half-grin off his face and yell don’t fuck with me, you murdering piece of shit. Instead she delivered a routine answer. “The presence of illegal substances. Any bloodstains you might care to explain.”

Miller shrugged. “No.”

Cautioning herself again to keep her temper in check, Jude opened the case file she’d brought in and flipped through the typed sheets of notes. “Mr. Miller. In your last statement you described finding the goat’s head on Ms. Perkins’s front yard. According to the physical evidence in the house and the statement of the individual who confessed to the vandalism, the head was originally thrown into the living room. What can you tell us about that?”

Miller took a moment, then his face crumpled and he was suddenly outpouring, “It was dumb. I know that. You gotta understand something. She’d have gone hysterical on me. So I took it outside and made it look like a joke. I did it for her.”

“So, you lied in your earlier statement?”

“Only about finding it in the yard. Everything else was true.” He had the passionate self-righteousness of a man who believed his own fiction.

Unimpressed, Jude said, “It doesn’t look good, Mr. Miller. The lies. The baby clothes we found exactly where you admitted you drove that night. Who knows what we’ll discover when the divers start work in the reservoir. I think it’s time we heard the whole story, don’t you?”

Wade buried his head in his hands, the personality change complete. His shoulders shook convincingly. He said, “I fucked it all up. I should have told you, but I knew what she’d think.”

“Of you?”

“What the fuck do you think? I was supposed to be looking after him, and there’s bricks through the windows and blood everywhere and a fucking goat’s head. And he’s disappeared. Jesus.”

“Is there anything else you’d like to change about your last statement?”

“I didn’t go out to get diapers. The crying was making me nuts.”

“Corban was awake and crying when you left to drive in the direction of Dove Creek?”

“Yeah. I couldn’t shut him up. I gave him Jim Beam and then some pills I found, and then I went out.”

“Pills.” Jude repeated this new information. “What pills?”

“I dunno. I thought they were for her headaches or something.”

“I see.”

“I know what you’re thinking, but you’re wrong. He was there when I left, and the next time I looked he was gone.”

“I’m still not clear how his clothes ended up in the middle of nowhere a few miles from where your truck was seen,” Jude said.

Miller shrugged. “You’re the detective, not me.”

*

In tourist literature Cortez was described as the “gateway to the Mesa Verde National Park.” Visitors passing through thought the place looked like a quaint Southwestern backwater. Its olde worlde charm was enhanced by historic signage and the careful preservation of the original bank buildings and trading posts. People from back East tended to get excited when they saw horses tethered in the main street, so the city council offered incentives for this, and the local dude ranches routinely drove a few head of cattle along the roads out of town so their clients, in full cowboy getup, could add to the general vibe.

Wade Miller lived in a part of town no visitor saw unless they were dealing drugs. His was a low-rent mobile home, one of a cluster crammed on a small dusty lot. There wasn’t a blade of grass to be seen. The area reverberated with nerve-shattering barking.

“He’s got dogs,” the supervisor noted. Speech barely budged the cigarette that hung off his lower lip. He seemed smug about unlocking Miller’s door so the police could execute a search warrant. “Guy’s a real fuckwad.”

Pete Koertig engaged him in discussion about this observation while Jude escorted a couple of animal control officers in to remove the dogs while the search was conducted. Their water bowls still had puddles in the bottom. Wade Miller hadn’t been home since early Sunday morning, when he’d arrived at the police station, but the dogs seemed fine so they must have been fed before he went to Tonya’s on Saturday evening.

“When did you last see Mr. Miller?” Jude asked the smoke-shrouded super.

He scrunched his eyebrows and scratched his freckled head, destroying a glued-down comb-over. “Saturday night.”

“At what time?”

“I wanna say twelve thirty midnight.”

“Midnight,” she repeated.

“Fucking dogs start carrying on soon as they hear his truck. I was awake anyways. Can’t sleep more than five hours on account of my prostate.”

Jude offered the appropriate sympathetic nod. Koertig was chafing his hands together behind his back, keeping a lid on the high-five impulse. Yet again, they’d caught Wade Miller out in a lie, and this one was important. He had come back to his apartment after his supposed diaper quest, a piece of information he hadn’t volunteered. There had to be a reason he stopped by. He would cite the dogs, of course, and from all accounts he treated them better than his girlfriends. But Jude had a hard time believing that a guy who was only planning to be away for one night would have to check on his pets after only a few hours.

“Did you actually see Mr. Miller arrive?” she asked blandly.

“Oh, yeah.” The super was rearranging his stringy hair. “I got a door scope. The deluxe model. That’s a security measure. You can see who’s coming and going in the parking lot.”

Jude asked one of the detectives on the search team to accompany the guy to his trailer, photograph the door scope, and take a statement. Animal control had the three dogs on leashes, and Jude waited for them to be led out before motioning to the search team.

They didn’t have a lot of area to cover. The trailer was your basic single man’s sty, the kind that only saw a vacuum cleaner when female company was anticipated. They examined every square inch, progressively taking the place apart, looking for a hair, smudge of blood, a child’s fingerprint. They got into the plumbing, lifted the carpets, emptied every cupboard. Eventually they reached Miller’s bed and inspected it with the same methodical deliberation, collecting yet more trace.

So far, there was no murder weapon, no bloodstained clothing conveniently piled in the laundry basket, no sign of a methodical cleanup. If this place had ever seen bleach Jude would be surprised. She lifted the mattress, ignoring Koertig’s half-hearted offer to do it for her.

“Anything?” She was about to lower it when she realized her companions were not silent because they hadn’t heard her. They were staring at the box base, completely transfixed. She craned down. Wade Miller kept his money under his mattress. Laid out flat, in row after orderly row.

“There must be five hundred bucks here,” Koertig said.

Jude handed the mattress on to him and took several photographs of the cash, then she picked up a twenty-dollar bill by one corner. There was something odd about the way it hung. She peeled a glove away with her teeth and cautiously felt the bill.

“It’s wet.”

Koertig moved the mattress away and propped it against the wall. They inspected Miller’s cache more closely. Every bill was wet.

“It can’t have been under the mattress for long,” Jude said. “In this weather it could take three or four days to dry out, I guess.”

“He’s going to say his wallet fell in the toilet,” Koertig said.

“And we’re going to say every body of water has its own special diatom profile.”

For the first time ever, Koertig stared at her like he was impressed. With a wry smirk, he said, “This is why they pay you the big bucks.”

Jude grinned. “Nope. It’s because I’m good-looking.”

This raised howls of laughter from the entire search team, not exactly a vote of confidence for her feminine charms.

Feigning chagrin, she muttered, “You think I’m kidding.”

“Not at all,” Koertig gallantly announced. “What we think—and I hesitate to use the word ‘think’—is that you are surrounded by dickbrains who are not fully evolved. Let me put that another way. We lack the sophistication to appreciate a woman of your Amazonian attributes.”

“You’re saying I could beat you at arm wrestling?”

Koertig’s big pink face was doleful. “No comment.”

*

“What do you think?” Pratt asked as they headed for the meeting room.

“It’s too soon to charge him.”

“What if he tries to skip town?”

“We’ll be waiting.”

“Twenty-four-hour surveillance.” Pratt was the picture of gloom. Jude could hear him calculating the resource commitment in his head.

She said, “We need to build a case against him. He’s not going to confess, and everything we have right now is circumstantial.”

Pratt paused at the door to cough into a Kleenex. Jude took a step back. A dose of the flu was all she needed. Pratt waved her on, and she left him in the hallway to wheeze in peace.

There were probably sixty people waiting for the afternoon meeting, all members of various agencies now involved in the case. Ten FBI agents had joined the investigation that morning, and additional detectives had been sent from each county as far up as Grand Junction. As Jude faced the room, she could feel the terse anticipation. There was none of the usual jocular chatter, the undercurrent of mumbling that typically provided background noise on these occasions.

The discovery of the bloodstained garments had cemented one hard fact. Corban Foley was dead. Their top priority now was to recover his body.

After getting the greetings and kudos out of the way, Jude kicked off her summary with the announcement everyone was anticipating. “This is now a criminal homicide investigation. Our primary suspect is Wade Miller, the boyfriend of Tonya Perkins, mother of the missing child.”

She signaled one of the deputies and he dimmed the lights. Jude projected a photograph of Miller onto the screen for ID purposes.

“As yet, we do not have a confession from Mr. Miller. He has provided us with several statements, all of which are contradictory, and has routinely lied to police since the commencement of this inquiry. An examination of Mr. Miller’s vehicle by Montezuma County’s K-9 cadaver dog produced a positive alert for residual scent. It is our contention that Mr. Miller’s truck was used to transport the body of Corban Foley to a site in the vicinity of the Dolores River and the McPhee reservoir, where evidence was disposed of and the body concealed.”

She brought up the first of several pictures of the clothing just discovered. “These are Corban Foley’s garments. The blood is human and male. We are awaiting DNA results to confirm if it belongs to the victim. Note the concentration around the neck area and the lower torso. A knife may be our murder weapon.”

Jude switched to the next image, but was interrupted by the shrill of an alarm siren and Sheriff Pratt yelling from the back of the room, “Clear the doorway!”

He was on his radio, waving his arm for quiet. After a few seconds, he cursed and said, “Folks, we have a situation out front. Corban Foley’s father is armed and in the building. He’s taken a female deputy hostage. Juanita Perry.”

The FBI agents looked like someone had just announced a lottery win for them. Almost in unison they unholstered their weapons and headed for the door. “We’ll handle this, sir,” the one in the lead informed Pratt.

They hadn’t made it into the hallway when a voice yelled, “Get back or I’ll shoot her.”

The agents fell back and waved for everyone in the room to get down and take cover. Jude ducked past the clamor of cops turning tables on their sides and made it to the door. “Sir, get down,” she told Pratt.

A few seconds later a man in his late twenties loomed into view dragging a terrified young deputy. He had a gun to her temple.

“Where’s the sheriff,” he bellowed.

“Drop your weapon, Mr. Foley,” Jude yelled. “This isn’t helping your son.”

“My son is dead.”

Jude signaled the FBI agent nearest her and gestured toward one of the side doors that expanded the meeting room. Out of Foley’s view, several agents waved some deputies to join them and filed silently from the room.

“Sir, I’m asking you to release the deputy.” Jude kept her voice calm.

“Not until I see the sheriff.”

Pratt stepped out from his spot against the wall and moved into the hallway. “I’m Sheriff Pratt, son.”

Jude glanced across to the agent waiting at the middle door. He signaled an affirmative. They had Foley covered from the rear.

“Where are you keeping him?” Foley demanded.

“We don’t have Corban, sir.”

“Not my son. That murdering filth, Miller. Where is he?”

“We can discuss Mr. Miller when you release the deputy.”

“I have a better idea,” Foley said. “I’ll swap her for him.”

Jude edged out into the hall to shield Pratt. “At least lower your gun, Mr. Foley. You’re not a killer. If something goes wrong and you shoot Deputy Perry by accident, how will you live with yourself? She has a baby the same age as Corban. She’s a good mom.”

Foley’s expression grew even more anguished, but he lowered the gun and instead pointed it at the deputy’s back. “Don’t try anything,” he warned. “Bring him out. Now!”

Jude took a step closer, this time getting directly between Pratt and the gunman. Past Foley, she could see several FBI agents crouched at the far end of the hallway. They had a clean shot. She only had to signal and they would take it.

Behind her, Pratt whispered, “Don’t.”

Jude knew exactly what he was thinking. The distressed father of a missing child gets shot dead by police in a hostage incident. Tragic, yes. But also a public relations disaster.

She said, “I’m laying my weapon down, Mr. Foley. And I’m going to swap places with Deputy Perry.” Slowly she lowered the Glock to the floor. “Now let her go.”

When Foley hesitated, Jude rose and moved toward him, her arms in the air. Indecision flashed across his face, then he pushed his hostage forward and trained his gun on Jude.

As Pratt steered the dazed deputy into the meeting room, Jude took rapid stock of Foley. She had the height advantage, and he was stressed and emotional. The combination was dangerous because it made him unpredictable. Yet, from all she had read, Foley was a decent guy who had left Cortez so he could improve himself and build a better life. He was ambitious and loved his son. He’d applied for sole custody of Corban, claiming Tonya was unfit to be a full-time parent. He was not about to destroy everything he’d worked for. At least that’s what she chose to gamble on.

“Mr. Foley, I’m the detective in charge of this case. I know where Mr. Miller is and I’m willing to take you to him, but I need you to put your weapon down first.”

“I’m not stupid.” Foley was pointing the gun half-heartedly now, wavering in his aim at her chest. He was plainly uncomfortable playing the vigilante. “I know you’re going to arrest me as soon as I drop it.”

“That’s true. We will arrest you. But you could still walk out of here in one piece tonight. You haven’t hurt anyone. You are in a state of emotional distress, and we understand that. If you put it down, you have my word I’ll make sure you get to talk to Mr. Miller.”

Foley was panting. His eyes swung to Pratt, then back to Jude. She could take him, she thought. But if he fired a shot, even accidentally, he would be a dead man. She didn’t want to risk it.

“How do I know you’re not lying,” he demanded.

“You don’t. But frankly, your options aren’t looking too good.” She indicated the rear of the hall. “That’s the FBI back there, and you know they want to shoot you. And on my left, there’s maybe fifty cops in that room. They’ll make sure you’re carried out of here on a stretcher if you fire that weapon. You can come see Mr. Miller with me now, or take your chances here. I’m walking away.”

Jude turned her back on him. She hadn’t taken two paces when the wind hissed out of him, the gun clattered onto the floor, and he choked out, “I’m sorry. I never meant for things to turn out this way. I just wanted to speak to someone.”

Jude kicked the weapon back into the meeting room and took her handcuffs from her belt as officers swarmed from all directions to restrain him. “You’re under arrest, Mr. Foley. Place your hands behind your back.” As she cuffed him, she said, “I’m very sorry about your son. We all are.”

“You know he did it, don’t you?”

Jude said neutrally, “Mr. Miller is helping us with our inquiries.”

“He’s not helping, trust me. I know the guy. He’s playing you.”

She took Foley by the arm and started walking. Catching a look of consternation from Sheriff Pratt she said, “Stand everyone down, sir. I’ll bring Mr. Foley to booking once we’re done.”

“I wasn’t going to shoot you,” Foley said as they walked. A couple of deputies followed them.

“I know. But plans can go wrong and people can get hurt.”

“Have you arrested him?”

“Mr. Foley,” Jude said patiently, “we haven’t found Corban yet. We have no idea what really happened that night. We can’t make an arrest unless we have hard evidence that Mr. Miller committed a crime. I know you don’t want to hear this, but Wade Miller is probably going to walk out of here tonight.”

“Jesus H. Christ.”

“All I can promise you is that we are watching him. If he has something to hide, we are going to find out what it is. But we need time.”

“He killed my son, and he’s dumped him somewhere like trash. You want me to back off?”

“I’m asking you to let us do our job.” Jude knew he felt helpless and wanted to give him a sense of purpose. “You could help us. Talk to Tonya. We need to know if she’s telling us everything.”

“I think I blew that already. I went round to Amberlee’s place and they were out there talking to the reporters, dressed like hookers. I don’t know what happened. I went crazy and hit her.”

Great. The father beats up the mother in front of the whole world, then takes a deputy hostage at gunpoint, just in case anyone thought the only guy with a temper was Miller.

“She used to be nice,” Foley said wistfully. “When she was a kid. Real sweet.”

So nice, you had sex with her while you were married to her sister. Jude kept her thoughts to herself.

Foley stopped walking and turned bewildered eyes to her. “Why would she have left Corban with him? How could she trust that guy?”

Tempting the Fates? Had Tonya unconsciously placed her child at risk because on some level she wanted him gone? Did she want her life back the way it was before, but without the guilt of being a bad mother who gave her child up willingly to the father who thought she was unfit? She had to know there was a risk in leaving Corban with Wade. If he had been violent or even threatening with the child at any time when she was present, she could not pretend she thought her son would be safe.

“Mr. Foley, why apply for custody now?” Jude asked.

“I went to a lawyer the minute I heard she was with that jerk. I know stuff about Wade Miller—I went to school with him. I knew he’d hurt Corban.”

“Has anyone said anything to you about how he treats your son?”

Foley gave a short, bitter laugh. “He’s been on his best behavior. They only got hooked up a couple of months ago. But there’s something Amberlee said—”

“About Mr. Miller?”

“Yeah. He cut Corban’s hair. Did it himself. But he shaved out the center so Corban was bald on the top of his head. Amberlee said it was like he meant to make Corban look ugly, just like him.”

“This was just a few days ago?” And Tonya hadn’t thought it was worth mentioning?

“Tuesday, I think.”

Jude frowned. “We were hoping to get a statement from you before all…this.”

With a pained grimace, Foley said, “I guess nothing I tell you guys is worth shit now.”

“We’ll still need to interview you. We have to clear you as a suspect in Corban’s disappearance.”

“About Miller…can we drop it?”

Jude was surprised. She’d never intended to do anything more than confront Wade Miller with the enraged Foley and threaten to leave them alone. But she was reluctant to take advantage of this man’s desperation.

“Why?” she asked.

“I’d have to kill him and I’m in enough trouble. Why should I go to prison when he’s the criminal.”

“Smart thinking.” Jude instructed the deputies, “Book Mr. Foley, and when you’re done let me know.”

“The hair.” He looked ill. “That was weird, right?”

Jude met his eyes. “Very weird.”

Chapter Ten

“Aunt Chastity! Come see!” Adeline stuck her head around the door of Chastity’s office. “Guess who’s on TV.”

“Is it really important?” Chastity Young completed a column of figures before she turned to face her fourteen-year-old niece. It was time she hired someone to do her accounts for the business. Her home health care company was growing so quickly the administration, coupled with the nursing hours she put in, was becoming more than she could handle.

Adeline heaved a teenage sigh. “You’ve been stuck doing that boring stuff all night.”

“Okay.” Chastity allowed herself to be hauled out of her chair and down the hallway. “But only for five minutes.”

“I’ll wind it back.” Adeline, a TiVo junkie, snatched up the remote and smugly returned the picture to “play.”

Chastity stood behind an easy chair, wearily resting her elbows on the back. “Tell me it’s not MythBusters,” she mumbled.

To Chastity’s surprise, they were watching CNN. The face on the screen was a little thinner than she remembered, and slightly drawn. But Detective Jude Devine did exactly what she did the very first time Chastity set eyes on her. She made her very uncomfortable.

“There’s a little boy missing where Detective Devine lives,” Adeline said. “It looks like he got kidnapped.”

Jude was introduced as the detective leading the investigation. The camera zoomed in, and Chastity was struck anew by the languid gray-green beauty of her eyes. They seemed an odd fit with features that were almost severe. Her face was lean, her jaw sharply defined and squarish, the chin as stubborn as any Chastity had seen. She had the kind of classic Roman nose plastic surgeons across the nation bobbed into pert inanity. It lent her profile a granite authority few women possessed. With her boyishly cut black-brown hair and her tall, powerful build, she had an androgynous quality Chastity found disconcerting. Yet there was a vulnerability to her as well.

Chastity had seen it that day in Rapture, after the shooting, when Jude walked Adeline across the desert toward her. On her trail bike, the injured child Daniel clinging to her, Chastity had rolled to a halt a few feet away from them. The moment was etched in her mind’s eye, perpetually replaying itself even when she attempted to dwell on something else. She had tried to distance herself from what happened in various ways, rationalizing it in the context of extreme circumstances, determinedly referring to Jude as “Detective Devine”—which only made matters worse because that came out as “divine”—and dismissing her own behavior as unsurprising, given her relief to see Adeline alive and well.

She’d kicked her side-stand out, dismounted, and helped Daniel slide down from behind her. Adeline squealed his name, opened her arms out wide, and the two children ran into a frantic embrace. Chastity dropped her helmet on the seat and faced Jude. Automatically, they took a few tentative steps toward one another, but there was such naked grief in the detective’s face, Chastity reached for her automatically. She was not even surprised that Jude stepped into her arms without hesitation. She was taller, stronger, harder. Yet Chastity sensed a need in her so intense she answered it the only way she knew how—by giving. By holding her and murmuring soothing words, stroking her hair, gentling her. She could remember wanting desperately to give her back the morning, changed. She wanted to evict from memory whatever had gouged away at the cool confidence that seemed so much a part of the detective the first time they met.

The strength of those feelings still startled her; that she could have them for a stranger startled her even more. She wasn’t sure how long they’d stood there washing into one another, ignoring the constraints of unfamiliarity. She could still feel the weight of Jude’s hands resting below the small of her back, the shape of her head, the press of her thighs. How strange it was, she’d thought since, that even naked she’d never felt so connected to another person. When finally they drew back to stare at each other, she knew Jude felt the same connection.

She took Chastity’s face between her hands as if cupping a butterfly she was afraid to hurt, and Chastity found herself mesmerized. Helplessly, she imprinted the dark-fringed eyes, the firm nose and straight but sensual mouth, on the canvas of her mind.

“You have no idea,” Jude said. Then she lowered her head and brushed her lips across Chastity’s.

The kiss was so swift, so cautious, Chastity had barely closed her eyes when she was released and suddenly Adeline was in her arms, weeping for the loss of her dead sister and begging to go home. When Chastity looked up from ministering to her a few minutes later, Jude had gone.

That day seemed like a long time ago, now, yet barely six months had passed. Chastity had meant to call Jude at least once to say how thankful she was. Instead she wrote a letter and had Adeline do the same. She sent them together. A few weeks later, Jude replied, also in writing. She invited them to drop by if they were ever in Paradox Valley.

“We could go down there and join the search,” Adeline said.

“It’s nice of you to think about that.” Chastity couldn’t stop her eyes from lingering once again on Jude’s mouth as she spoke to the reporter.

What had happened in that moment out in the Utah desert belonged to the emotional terrain of that day only, she told herself. People did uncharacteristic things at such times. She understood the kiss as a recognition of the human frailty they shared and a thank you from Jude for the brief escape from horror witnessed. Likewise those mystifying words: You have no idea.

“How far is it to Cortez?” Adeline asked.

“About four hundred miles.”

“Then it will only take us a day to get there.” Adeline bounced in her seat. “Can we?”

“You have school.”

Chastity knew how ineffectual that argument was. Adeline was easily two years ahead of her age group academically. Attempting to assess her learning needs, the school had just given her an SAT. Out of 2400, she’d scored an impressive 2300. In other words, her dean said, she would be able to pick her school when the time came. In fact, she could start college now if she wanted. But at fourteen, Adeline had led such a sheltered life she seemed very young for her age.

Her upbringing was responsible for that. Adeline was one of Chastity’s older sister’s many children. Vonda had married a man who, only a few years into their marriage, decided polygamy was the lifestyle he wanted. Tucker Fleming had offered Chastity the honor of becoming his second wife and, when she’d foolishly declined, packed up his family and moved south to the polygamist stronghold of Hildale/Colorado City. He’d since acquired a harem of three other “celestial wives,” another ten children, and the sister Chastity loved and looked up to had all but vanished.

Adeline was brought up in this nightmare until she was eleven, at which time Tucker started planning her “sealing” to a friend of his, who thought marrying children was the Heavenly Father’s plan for all right-thinking males of forty. Somehow Vonda had persuaded her husband that Adeline was not going to make a good enough wife for the chosen pedophile and that they should hand her over to Chastity. She was supposed to see to it that Adeline acquired the necessary feminine attributes to serve a husband appropriately in the future.

They’d returned for Adeline when she was fourteen, with Tucker hell-bent on marrying her to his brother Loudell, another convert to the child-bride fraternity. In the end, they were ordered by their “prophet” to give Adeline to Nathaniel Epperson, the seventy-something they’d pimped another of their daughters to. It was at the Epperson compound in Rapture that Chastity first encountered Jude Devine.

The detective was investigating the slaying of one of Epperson’s wives and had just arrested Naoma Epperson, the head wife. This set off a chain of events Chastity had never fully pieced together. All she knew was that after the dust had settled, Adeline’s older sister Summer was dead. And so was the baby she was giving birth to. Gunned down by the “family” they were part of as they tried to run to safety.

Chastity had legally adopted Adeline a few months later.

“School.” Adeline snorted. “Like I’m going to learn anything. This is important. They said it’s the biggest search they’ve ever had.”

“By the time we get there they’ll probably have found him already,” Chastity warned lamely.

“Then we can go see the Anasazi ruins.” Adeline had it all figured out. “And maybe do some climbing. We can take the snowmobile.”

Chastity sighed. “I can’t leave the business.”

“What about Mrs. Smith? You said she was trained now so she can take over if anything happens.” For good measure, she cranked up the emotional blackmail. “How are we ever going to climb to Everest Base Camp next year if you can’t leave this place for a day?”

“Okay, you can cease and desist.” Chastity refocused her attention on the screen. Jude looked…bleak. “I’ll phone Mrs. Smith. But we’ll have to leave tomorrow morning if we’re going to help.”

Adeline’s dark eyes flashed wayward delight. “Don’t worry. I’m ready now.” At Chastity’s frown, she explained, “They ran this on CNN a few hours ago. I figured you’d be up for it since you feel indebted to Detective Devine. So I got packed. I’ve put your hiking gear in the car.”

“Remind me…” Chastity muttered. “Why did I adopt you?”

*

Jude parked just inside her driveway so she wouldn’t have to shovel her way out of her garage the next morning. The lights were on thanks to an electronic timer. A motorist passing would assume someone was home, which was the general idea. Jude quickly swept a glance around the house and yard, then focused automatically on a small dark shape on her front porch, the one thing that was not as she’d left it that morning.

Unholstering her Glock, she took a circumspect path toward her front door, eyes sweeping the surrounding trees for any movement. Not that she could see anything but her yellow outdoor light bouncing off mounds of snow. She reached the house, flattened her back to the wall, sidled quickly to the corner, and peered around.

A small black cat lay inert on her doormat.

Jude mounted the steps uncertainly. Was this some kind of sick joke? A message from crazy Hank Thompson, maybe? Back to the wall, she darted constant looks around, alert to any shaft of light or crunch of snow or crack of a twig. She didn’t feel as though she were being watched, but that could just be tiredness.

From the shadowed corner by the front door, she gazed down at the animal, then crouched, moving slowly so she didn’t spook it if it was actually alive and just sheltering where it could find some scant protection from the elements. She was filled with pity when she saw how thin it was. Emaciated.

A perfect end to a perfect day. She gets home and has to bury a fellow creature robbed of its life by a quirk of fate that has one of its kind starve and the next dine daily on Fancy Feast. She’d read once that black cats were the least adoptable. Some shelters euthanized them automatically because they would never find homes.

“I’m so sorry,” she said and ran her hand over the thin, dry fur.

The feline quickened and two huge gold green eyes gazed up at her from a pinched face. It could barely lift its head, but it offered a silent meow that cut Jude to the heart. The little cat was asking for its life.

“Don’t move,” she commanded.

She got up quickly, jammed her key into the lock, and shoved the front door open. The cat weighed nothing. She carried it indoors and laid it on the nearest soft chair, frantically wondering what she should do and whether there was enough time left to make it to a veterinarian. The nearest were in Montrose, but none would be open at this hour, and the emergency animal hospital in Grand Junction was over an hour away.

Jude ran upstairs to her linen closet and found a soft towel and a face cloth. She wet the cloth, swaddled the cat in the towel, picked up a sofa cushion, and headed out the door once more.

“I’ll make a deal with you,” she told her dying visitor as she carried it back down to the Dakota. “Hang on for an hour and thirty minutes, and you’ll have a home for the rest of your life.”

She slapped the cushion onto the passenger seat, punched a hollow in the center, and laid the cat there. Then she squeezed some water from the face cloth into the side of its mouth.

“You can do this,” she said. “Don’t give up.”

The cat stared up at her for a beat, then seemed to relax. Jude pushed the door almost closed and hurried around to the driver’s side. Once she was in her seat, she leaned over to pull the passenger door swiftly shut, talking soothing nonsense to the cat the whole time.

She headed north on Highway 50, her headlights bouncing off the snowbanks on either side of the road. The drive was more familiar than her own backyard, but in these conditions the road was iced over and so treacherous she could take no risks. Fresh snow was no longer coming down to provide something for her tires to grip.

When she came to a straight stretch that still had a powder snow surface, she phoned ahead to tell the vet who she was and that she was bringing in an animal that would probably die. The woman she spoke to told her to drive carefully so she didn’t get herself killed trying to be a hero.

It felt like the longest drive of her life, and when she finally saw the Welcome to Grand Junction sign, she stopped the Dakota for a moment to slow her heart rate.

The roads around the town had been plowed, creating trenches wide enough for two vehicles. No one was out driving. Jude followed the directions to North Road and felt sick with relief when she finally spotted the veterinary emergency hospital. The cat was still alive and put up no resistance when she rushed it indoors bundled against her body, her overcoat wrapped around the two of them.

She was greeted by a wispy-haired brunette vet tech who looked slightly older than twelve and slightly taller than five feet. When she saw the cat, she hustled Jude directly into an examination room and ran through the Staff Only door yelling, “Dr. Gordon!”

Not a good sign, Jude thought.

The veterinarian entered the room a moment later and briefly examined the cat. He said, “I can euthanize her humanely or we can fight for her.”

When Jude said, “Fight,” he rushed the cat away.

The young vet tech came back and announced, “This is going to take a while. Would you like to wait or call us in the morning?”

Jude contemplated driving back to Montrose, exhausted, in extreme conditions and decided she’d like to stay alive. “I’ll wait,” she said. “Any chance of coffee?”

The vet tech, whose name badge said Courtney, smiled. “That sounds like a really good idea. Maybe I’ll join you.”

She showed Jude back to the waiting room and turned up shortly after with a pot of coffee and a real mug. “I know I should be giving you a plastic cup, but I thought you might like this better, Detective.”

She sat with Jude for a short while, answering the phone occasionally. Between times, Jude tried to read magazines with pretty but vacuous-looking women on the covers. In the end she phoned Eddie House, one of the few people she was close to in the Four Corners. Eddie was an expert at rehabilitating sick and maimed creatures. He was pretty effective with injured people, too.

She said, “It’s Jude. I’m sitting in the vet clinic in Grand Junction.”

“You hit an animal with your truck?” Eddie asked.

“No. I found a stray cat on my doorstep when I got home. Starving. Almost dead.” She didn’t expand. With Eddie, she found herself cutting the excess from her conversation almost as much as he did. Right now, it was easier, too. She was exhausted.

As usual, Eddie’s mind worked in different ways from hers. He asked gravely, “Have you named her?”

“Not yet. I thought I’d wait and see if she makes it first.”

Eddie took his time answering, also the norm. “I name all my animals when they are sent to me.”

“It’s easy for you,” Jude muttered. “But I don’t have your hookup to the Great Spirit.” These days she understood Eddie’s sense of humor well enough to tease him sometimes. All the same, she was relieved when he laughed.

“What does this cat look like?”

“Small and black with big golden eyes. And it meows without making any sound.”

Eddie said, “She will live. Or she would not have come to you.”

“I don’t know if it’s a female.”

He said, “I bet five dollars.”

“Done.” Jude laughed. “How’s Zach?”

Zachariah Carter had been a key prosecution witness in the Huntsberger case. Another casualty of the FLDS polygamists, he’d been expelled by his community after a life of beatings and brainwashing. Jude had asked Eddie to take him in, and the kid was barely recognizable after six months of care and good food. He was now working toward his high school diploma and planning to become an army medic.

“He speaks of going back,” Eddie surprised her by saying.

“To his family?”

“Only to shoot a man.”

Jude rolled her eyes. “What did you tell him?”

“There are many paths.”

“And?”

“A gun gives you the body, not the bird.”

“Navajo wisdom?”

“No. Henry Thoreau.”

“And what else?” Jude waited.

“Why go to jail for scum?”

“Thank you.”

“He won’t make that journey,” Eddie said with conviction.

“And you know this how?”

“I have the car keys.”

“Great. I feel confident.”

“It could be worse,” Eddie said.

“How? How could it be worse than him going back to the people who half-killed him?”

“I could be Apache. Then I would go with him.”

Jude groaned. “I don’t know why I called you expecting comfort and peace of mind.”

“Me either.”

“You’re a big help,” Jude said.

“You, too.”

Jude laughed. “Does that mean you want me to come talk some white folks’ sense into him?”

“Yes.”

“Then why not say so in the first place?”

“Because I am letting you make the offer.”

Jude wasn’t going to rise to the bait. Eddie was always hinting about her being a control freak. She said, “I’ll come by later in the week.”

“Good.” He hung up.

An hour went by, and just as Jude felt herself falling asleep sitting up, the vet came out and announced, “We managed to get an IV in. I need to tell you she may not make it.”

Jude said, “Just do the best you can. I don’t care how much it costs.”

“You got it.” Dr. Gordon hesitated. “I guess you’re up to your neck down there with that kidnapping. Terrible thing. Taken from his bed.” He shook his head, a bewildered bystander in a world gone mad.

Jude hadn’t seen any television that evening. Obviously the media had chosen their angle; a child abducted from the safety of his bed was the scariest spin they could place on the story. “They are such asses,” she said.

Dr. Gordon gave her an odd look. “There’s a sofa out back. You ought to get some sleep.” He led the way.

Mercy’s house was only a mile from the clinic, Jude thought, but she was going to sleep on a ratty old sofa in a place that smelled of antiseptic and reverberated with the cries of frightened animals. What else was there to say about the nature of their relationship? Sure, she could call Mercy and be invited over and given the spare bedroom, free occupancy of the special hell that came with knowing her girlfriend was on the other side of the wall, sleeping with another woman. If she got really lucky, maybe she would hear them having sex. Yep, that was how she wanted to end the day.

Jude winced. What did it say about her that she’d invested the past six months trying to build a relationship with a woman who would never love her and never be there when she needed anything more than sex? Jude took the blanket Dr. Gordon offered, said good night, and lay down on the lumpy cushions. Shafts of light infiltrated the room through various portals, the perfect recipe for restlessness. Her mind drifted to something Mercy had said a couple of months back, after they were lolling, sated, against their pillows.

“It’s going nowhere, but the going is really good.”

She was always dismayed when Mercy talked like that, writing off all possibility of a future as though they had no choice in the matter. “Why is it going nowhere?” she’d demanded.

“Because love requires more than either of us can give. We both need other people for that.”

“Are you saying we’re inherently selfish?”

“That’s a value judgment I wouldn’t make.” Mercy seemed genuinely thoughtful. “I’m saying we have to own up to who we are. I know my nature, and I think you know yours. But you keep making decisions as if you’re a different kind of person.”

“You’re the one who tells me not to be a jealous Neanderthal,” Jude said.

“Because if you make choices a jealous Neanderthal can’t live with, you’ll never be happy,” Mercy pointed out reasonably. “Either you have to change, or your choices have to change.”

Jude watched a pair of feet move past the door and heard Dr. Gordon’s voice in the hallway. Maybe Mercy was right. Maybe she kept herself in situations that would doom her to dissatisfaction. Why? Was that how she avoided tying herself down? Was it easier to blame her flunk record in relationships on bad luck than self-sabotage? Did she want to be alone?

She rolled over and studied the wall. No, she didn’t want to be alone. Alone was not all it was cracked up to be. But she had no idea how she was going to change that state of affairs.

Meantime, it was Mercy or nothing. And she’d just chosen nothing.

Chapter Eleven

Tonya stared at Wade across the kitchen table and said, “It’s late. I think you should go.”

“Go? Go where? The cops have torn my place apart.”

“I don’t know why you came here.” Over and over, Tonya saw Corban’s sweatshirt with the bloodstains around the neck. He was dead. The sheriff had said the case was now a homicide investigation and Wade was the main suspect.

Tonya had to sit there listening to that mean bitch detective telling her how Wade murdered Corban, and almost everything he’d said to her and the police was a lie. They’d found Corban’s clothes where Wade’s truck was seen by the state patrol. He even admitted he’d gone to Cahone when they said. According to the detective, that meant he was out getting rid of Corban’s body when he’d told Tonya he was at home.

They said he’d tried to make it look like the goat’s head boys took Corban. They’d thrown that goat’s head into her living room, but Wade had moved it to the front yard and taken the rug out of her bedroom to hide the bloodstain. The detective, who Wade said must be a lesbo because look at her muscles, went on about a police dog that could smell where dead bodies had been and how dogs like that didn’t make mistakes. She showed Tonya a video of the dog making its special signal in the backseat of Wade’s pickup.

What Tonya couldn’t stop thinking about was that Wade had brought her home to an empty house, but told her Corban was asleep in bed. And she hadn’t looked. She would never know for sure what was true because she hadn’t even thought about going into Corban’s room to check. All the detectives said she’d given her baby to a killer. How could she live with that?

Now she had the chance to make up for it. She was wearing a tape recorder, and the police were listening in on her conversation. She was supposed to act natural and try to get Wade to confess. But how did you act natural with the person who’d killed your son?

They said start out reluctant. Make him do the work.

“This is so fucked up,” she mumbled.

Sitting a few feet away, Amberlee gave Wade a dirty look and said, “This is my home and you’re not welcome in it.”

Tonya hadn’t told Amberlee about the tape recorder, but one of the TV people had said it would look bad if they let Wade stay after he was let out. Amberlee didn’t want to piss them off. She had an agent now and was going to do an exclusive interview on TV. She said they could make five times as much if Tonya used her brains and agreed to be on the show as well.

Wade said, “I got nowhere else to go.”

“What about your buddies?” Tonya asked.

“Come on, babe.” He reached for her hand, but Tonya snatched it away and covered her face.

“I saw the clothes. God, Wade. What did you do? He’s just a baby.”

“I didn’t do anything. You have to believe me. I know how it looks, but I swear. I never touched a hair on his head.”

Tonya lifted her head. “Why did you tell all those lies?”

“You gotta understand something. When he hurt himself, I got scared. Real scared.” Sobs rattled their way from Wade’s chest to his throat. “I thought you’d never marry me then, because I’d be a useless dad that let his kid get hurt.”

“Marry you?” Even though she was feeling devastated, Tonya’s heart gave a small joyful leap.

Wade had always had a lot of girlfriends, and he never stayed with any of them for more than a few months. She had no idea he was serious about her, and it changed something. She thought, what if they’re wrong? The police made mistakes all the time. Men were in prison for crimes they never committed. Now that there was DNA testing, they were letting out innocent people all the time.

“I was going to ask you this weekend,” he said hoarsely. “I’ve been looking for a job in Denver. I was going to get us a place of our own.”

“You never said anything.”

“It was gonna be a surprise. Now our whole life is ruined because they let Gums Thompson out on the streets and that fucking nutjob doesn’t take his meds.”

“The police say he didn’t do it,” Tonya said nervously.

“How do they know? You think he’d confess? He’s a fucking psycho, and I’m your boyfriend that loves you. Who do you trust, me or him?”

When he put it like that, Tonya couldn’t argue. She could see why he was upset. He had a job and was making plans for the future, then all this happened. Gums Thompson should be locked up. Tonya felt angry then, and realized the police had already made their minds up and they wanted her to help them send Wade to prison. She was being used.

She said, “I wish you’d just told the truth right from the start.”

“Who would have believed me?”

“Don’t you trust me?” Tonya felt hurt. She looked over at Amberlee, but she could tell she wasn’t going to get any support there.

Amberlee glared at her and said, “What about the clothes?”

“Did it ever occur to you two silly bitches that I’m getting framed,” Wade whined. “I’ll tell you what really happened. Those guys were watching your house, and they waited till I went out, then one of them followed me. There was a car behind me the whole way out there. The reason I stopped in Cahone was to see who it was. But he drove away before I got a look at him. They knew I was in Cahone, and that’s why they dumped the clothes out there.”

“Did you tell the cops about that?”

“What’s the point? They’ve been out to get me from the second we walked in the door. They always think the boyfriend did it.”

“But you could clear your name,” Tonya objected.

“I tried telling them about Gums.” Wade looked like a dog someone had kicked. “They weren’t interested. They want a scapegoat.”

“Why should we believe you?” Amberlee ranted. “If you had nothing to hide, why all the bullshit? Why’d you make up that story about the hospital? It doesn’t make any sense.”

“Yeah, well you would say that.” Wade sneered. “It pissed you off when I started going out with your sister. Did you tell her you were trying to get me in bed before that?”

Amberlee shook her head. “He’s lying again,” she told Tonya. “He thinks he can turn us against each other.”

Wade stared into Tonya’s eyes and said, “She told me she’d pay you back one day for taking Dan off her. Maybe you should be asking her where Corban is.”

“Is that true?”

“Don’t be stupid. You’ve known me your whole life and you believe him?”

Tonya stared down at her hands, miserably aware of the recording device inside her clothes. The police were hearing all this family bickering, and they’d probably take it the wrong way. She thought about the blood on Corban’s clothes. Something awful had happened to him. Whoever took him had hurt him.

A sob rose inside of her and she said, “He’s out there somewhere. I just want him found. I want to bury him properly, with his toys and everything.”

It was hard to say that when she kept hoping it wasn’t true and praying there would be a miracle. But she knew deep inside that it was too late for miracles. Her son was dead, and all she wanted was for this nightmare to end. She tried to see herself in a year’s time, all of this behind her. But the only image she could make out in the fog of her thinking was one of her in a wedding dress. She was not going to wear white. It made her look fat.

Wade took her hand. “Listen to me, baby. If I was guilty do you think I’d have told the cops I was in Cahone? Do you think I’d have let them search my truck? Fuck no. I’d have got myself a lawyer and I’d be taking the fifth. Instead I cooperated. Big mistake.”

He looked like a frantic puppy dog, just wanting her to pat him. He wasn’t the perfect male, but he had a job and he wanted to marry her. Most of the guys she dated were losers. Tonya weighed things up for a few seconds and realized that if she didn’t have Corban anymore, even though that was an unbelievable nightmare, she could move to Denver and start a whole new life. If she couldn’t get a job in television, she would go to beauty school and learn makeup. Cortez sucked. She could hardly wait to leave.

Standing up, she reached a decision and said, “Gotta go potty.”

Once she got inside the bathroom, she pulled the wires out and tore away the tape that hugged the device to her body. This had gone far enough. Until the police proved something, she owed Wade her support, and he was going to get it. She sat down on the toilet and peed. These days she was going all the time. It had to be nerves. After she flushed and washed her hands, she went into the spare room and threw the tape recorder under the bed.

When she got back to the living room, Amberlee had one of her arms around Wade’s shoulders, comforting him. Tonya knew it was innocent, but she felt jealous anyway, especially after the stuff Wade had said about Amberlee trying to seduce him. Tonya made a point of standing between the two of them so Amberlee had to back off.

“I’ve got an idea,” she said, wiping the tears that kept popping from the corners of her eyes. “I’m going out there to show my support in public. I’m going to tell them my fiancé had nothing to do with it and if there’s any more harassment by the police, we’ll get a lawyer.”

Wade’s eyes glowed at her, soft with love. “Are you for real?”

“I love you, ding dong,” Tonya choked.

“I love you too. You know I didn’t do it, don’t you, babe?”

“Yes,” Tonya said softly. They were both crying.

“I think we should go out there as a family,” Amberlee said. “All together, supporting each other.”

Wade nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah. Get that on TV instead of the false allegations.”

Amberlee grabbed Tonya’s arm and pulled her into the master bedroom. She opened her top drawer and foraged in a trinket box. “Here. Put this on.”

“What is it?” Tonya couldn’t see what she was holding.

Amberlee opened her hand triumphantly. “Your engagement ring. Remember I took it for safekeeping when Matt was making all those threats.”

Tonya didn’t, but she’d been binging on Southern Comfort at the time, so she took Amberlee’s word for it. She rubbed the ring against her skirt to shine it up and slid it onto her finger.

“I hope Wade’s okay about it being another man’s ring,” she said as they stepped back into the living room.

Wade was on his feet. He looked happier than she’d ever seen him. “I’ll buy you a new one soon as this blows over,” he said, dismissing her worries. “With a bigger diamond.”

Tonya slid her arm into his and they kissed just as Amberlee threw open the front door. The three of them stood together, Wade in the middle.

Feeling more confident than she had in two days, Tonya announced as loudly as she could, “There’s a man with mental health problems that has a personal vendetta against my family. It’s him the police should be talking to. My fiancé was released today, and as far as I am concerned, he had nothing to do with my son’s kidnapping.”

Someone shouted above the din, “Have the police ruled you out as a suspect, Mr. Miller?”

“I’m here, aren’t I?” Wade said.

“Tonya referred to you as her fiancé. Is that official?”

Wade lifted Tonya’s hand and showed off the ring. “I just asked her and she said yes.”

Tonya could hear Suzette Kelly talking to the camera no more than a foot away. “This evening Tonya Perkins is standing by her man. The newly engaged couple have just appeared in front of Amberlee Foley’s residence to make the announcement.”

She pushed the microphone under Tonya’s nose and asked, “Tonya, what made you say yes to a man the police have named as their primary suspect in the homicide of your son?”

“They don’t know Wade like I do. I love him and…” Tonya hesitated, giving room finally to a suspicion that had hovered in the back of her mind over the past few days. “I’m carrying his baby.”

This met with a loud gasp followed by the first hush Tonya could remember since everything began.

“You’re pregnant?” Amberlee’s voice sounded weak. She seemed as shocked as the reporters.

Tonya leaned into Wade’s embrace and lowered her hand to rest on her belly. She caught his eye, and he gave her the hot, bad-boy grin that always made her heart beat faster.

Placing his hand over hers, he said proudly, “I fucking knew it. I’m gonna be a dad.”

Chapter Twelve

A pink pallor bloomed across the pewter sky. Shafts of light pierced the cliff tops, finding every fissure and carving out deep rivers of bright pink and gold. The sun floated higher until it could cast half an eye over the earth’s body, painting each contour with the bright transient halo of dawn, the pledge of a newborn day.

The sight filled Jude with hope and foolish optimism. Yesterday was done. Today was hers; she’d earned it by waiting out the night with all its fears and gloom. She continued to watch the sun slowly climb above the mountains, assembling its fractured beams all at once into a perfect whole. Below, the world emerged from shapeless shadow to form and beauty. Snow sucked light until it glowed along the mesa ridges and ran like shimmering treacle down to the land below. There it massed in a heavy quilt unstirred by the body beneath, that of Mother Earth.

Still as a painting in morning repose, the canyon lands stretched out in an unclaimed wilderness as close to eternal as Jude could conceive. Could humanity ever sully this perfection beyond recognition? No, Mother Earth would fight back. She already was, and climate change could be her ultimate revenge, the retaking of her body from those who abused it.

“Detective Devine?” Footsteps intruded on her musings.

Jude turned reluctantly, almost certain the news would be bad. If so, she had done the best she could, and at least in its final moments, the cat had known kindness, perhaps the only kindness in its sad life.

But the young vet tech’s face told a more hopeful story.

“How is she?” Jude dared.

“You won’t believe it.” Courtney clapped her hands together at her breast. “She’s on her feet.”

Astonished, Jude took off her gloves and followed the bearer of good tidings into a room at the back of the surgery center where several animals were housed in large recovery cages. The little black cat sat on a folded towel staring curiously through the wire. Her head lifted slightly as Jude approached, and her golden eyes widened. Jude poked a finger through one of the gaps and let the cat take her scent. She was greeted with a purr.

“Oh, wow,” Courtney grinned. “I wasn’t sure if we’d ever hear one of those from her.”

“Do you think she’s feral?” Jude asked.

“No. She was probably someone’s pet once. She knows to use the litter box.”

“Lost, I guess. Or abandoned.”

“If you want to find a home for her, there’s a shelter off D Road.”

“No. I’m keeping her.” So much for her no-pets rule. Jude had decided a few years earlier that it wasn’t fair to have animals; she was never at home enough to pay attention to them.

“Well, we’ve done blood work and a dental, and checked everything out. She’ll need another day or two on IV fluids, then you can take her home.”

Jude stroked her new roommate’s bony head. “Okay. Call me when she’s ready to be picked up.”

And what then? The cat was so weak she would need love and care for at least a week before she was completely well. Instead she was going to be left at home alone to fend for herself. Was that the right thing to do? Jude thought about the animal shelter option again. It wasn’t as though she and the cat knew each other, or that the cat had understood Jude’s promise of a home for life.

“I don’t know how she pulled through,” Courtney said. “The vet gave her a twenty percent chance.”

“Quite a fighter.”

“She would have died last night if you hadn’t brought her in. She’ll make a great companion for you.”

Jude groaned inwardly. Emotional blackmail, just in case she thought she could back out of her pledge. “I hope I make a decent one for her.”

“You saved her life and she knows it.”

Jude met the cat’s relentless stare and had the oddest sense that Courtney was right. “Yes, maybe she does.”

Half an hour later, on the way back home, she called Eddie House again.

“Okay?” he asked, not a man of many words.

“The vet thought she didn’t have a chance, but she fought. We both made it through the night.”

“Ah.” His satisfied sigh was audible. “Then her name is chosen for you. Yiska.”

“Is that Navajo?”

“Yes. It means the night has passed.”

*

“Someone in your neck of the woods just took delivery of two hundred pounds of C-4, and it wasn’t your man Hawke.”

Jude raised her eyebrows. “Jesus. That’s enough to blow Telluride off the map.”

“Funny you should say that.” Her FBI handler sounded strangely perky for a high-level intelligence officer. “There’s some chatter about an attack on the next Telluride festival. Not from the C-4 buyer.”

“The film festival?”

“Uh-huh. I guess the sweet-corn parade doesn’t do it for them.”

Jude thought the cachet-deficit was pretty similar for both events. Who cared if a bunch of pretentious slackers in dark glasses wanted to crawl up each other’s asses for a week? There had to be more meaningful targets for domestic terrorism. What kind of point were they hoping to make by attacking a film festival: Enough with the subtitles?

She moved farther around the side of her Dakota, trying to shield herself against the icy winds. She could have taken the call inside the office, she supposed, but she liked to keep the two worlds she moved between separate when she could.

“I don’t get it,” she said. “Why would they waste their time?”

“Think about it, Devine. We’re talking wall-to-wall celebrities. Saturation media coverage for any incident. That kind of publicity could tempt a wannabe group looking to make a name for themselves.”

“Okay, you’re scaring the crap out of me now.” Jude could only imagine the hysteria among the local enforcement if they actually had a real problem to deal with at festival time instead of the usual cokehead-drives-his-Beamer-off-the-road incidents.

“The Telluride threat involves a C/B agent,” Arbiter said.

Which changed everything. Chemical/biological agents weren’t funny, and the people who trafficked in them weren’t playing. Jude was still having trouble believing that any self-respecting terrorist would see Telluride as a high-value target, when there was Disneyland or even that ridiculous Holy Land park in Florida. Any place where you could pay to watch a faux Christ performing faux miracles had to be a fruitcake-bomber magnet.

“Do we have any specifics?” Jude asked.

“We’ve had a spike in communications between several individuals calling themselves the Aryan Sunrise Stormtroopers, and they’ve been mouthing off around some of the neo-nazi blogs. Seems they may have their hands on a supply of abrin or ricin.”

“Aryan Sunrise…yeah, I know them.”

The fledging white supremacist organization was on Jude’s radar as well. A handful of disgruntled former members of the Christian Republic of Aryan Patriots, they’d set themselves up as a rival group soon after Republic leader, Harrison Hawke, ran his infamous “Aryan Defense Days” the previous November. Philosophical differences had blighted these unity rallies, and while the various different militias and national socialist groups quarreled with one another, the Sunrise faction had attempted to depose Hawke in an internal coup. He’d fought off the takeover bid and blamed the minor stroke he suffered in December on the stress of this power struggle.

Just before he abandoned his bunker in Black Dog Gulch to recuperate on vacation with friends in Buenos Aires, he’d expressed his dismay to Jude in one of their heart-to-heart conversations. The schisms in the Aryan movement were almost as big an enemy as the Zionist Occupied Government. How would progress for the white race ever be anything but tenuous unless there was unity? Some brothers and sisters had asked him if he would consider running for President in 2008. Hawke wanted to know what Jude thought about that idea.

As she did every time they spoke alone, she wondered if he had blown her cover and wanted to keep the enemy close, or if he had truly bought her story—the one-time FBI agent who traded a big career for life in the slow lane because she was disenchanted with the political climate. Whatever his reasons, he continued to seek out her company, a fact that thrilled her masters at the Bureau, who saw in the unappealing eugenicist the future leader of a united, reborn Aryan Nations—a vision Jude thought was as naive as it was depressing.

At their behest, she’d been building intelligence on Hawke ever since she’d moved into the Four Corners, and she’d struck up a rapport with him the previous fall. He seemed to have a thing for women in uniform, her in particular. In a touching parting gesture on his way to the airport he’d dropped by the Paradox Valley station house to entrust her with his latest writings on the role of white women in a “cleansed” America, headed up Smart White Females Make Yesterday Thinkers Shape Up.

On a Post-it note stuck to the front of the folder, he’d written extravagantly:

As yet you cannot know what an inspiration you are to me, Fraulein, but there will come a tomorrow when we will share the mantle of glory bestowed upon the few racially aware Aryans whose courage and race honor determine the fate of the many. Our White brothers and sisters are depending on us.

This he signed off with one of his oft-quoted Nazi maxims:

“In the hand and in the nature of woman lies the preservation of our race.”

He concluded this note with the warm and fuzzy sentiment, “At your side, Bruder Hawke.”

The Post-it was as close as he came to writing a love letter, and Jude had since received a couple of sneakily worded postcards from Argentina. Hawke was nothing if not paranoid, and firmly believed his every communication was inspected by the government. Jude hoped the Office of Homeland Security was that efficient, but she doubted it.

“Is it confirmed that these Aryan Sunrise individuals are in possession of the agent at this time?” she asked, wondering how in hell a few amateurs could lay their hands on toxins that were not exactly available over the drugstore counter.

“That’s your job, Devine. Verify the status.”

“And if they are?”

“Sayonara. They’re a single-cell operation only.”

Jude allowed a doubt to surface. The arrest of a group of domestic terrorists planning a biological attack would provide exactly the kind of political capital the Administration was looking for in the lead-up to the midterm elections.

“Tell me this is not just part of another bullshit Ministry for Propaganda scam,” she said. “Because if I wanted to work for Karl Rove, I’d apply formally for one of those pathological liar positions. Remind me of the qualifications: no moral compass, will commit treason if it puts a buck in Halliburton’s pocket—”

“It’s for real,” Arbiter said dryly.

The handler’s word was good enough for her. And it made sense in a twisted race-hate-think kind of way, now that she’d had time to consider it. A film festival, in the minds of these white supremacists, was little more than a celebration of Jewish “control” of Hollywood and the media. Attacking one would not only net vast publicity for their group in a horrified mainstream media, it would also elevate them to warrior status among rank and file neo-nazis.

“So, you’re saying the C-4 purchase is unrelated to the white power dipshits and the Telluride plot?”

“Different informant,” Arbiter said. “The timing is pure coincidence.”

“This place is kook central,” Jude muttered. “Do you have an ID for the buyer?”

“The name is Debbie Basher. Age thirty-five. Part-time hairdresser. Registered Democrat. No known connections with dissident or terrorist organizations. She was intermittently active in a Denver gay rights organization between 1998 and 2004, then left the area and relocated to Paradox Valley. It appears the loss of a domestic partnership prompted the change of venue.”

Jude had trouble absorbing what she was hearing. A lesbian hairdresser was purchasing plastic explosive on a big enough scale to attract Bureau attention? Something was wrong with that picture.

“Doesn’t exactly mesh with the lone-operative profile,” she said.

“We’re assuming she’s hooked up with someone. The ALF or ELF, maybe.”

“Not all lesbians are radical vegetarians.”

“No, but stats show overrepresentation among animal rights extremists, and since there are no known gay domestic terrorism groups…” Arbiter paused. “Surprising, isn’t it, all things considered?”

“I guess the homosexual agenda doesn’t include telling everyone else how to live their lives and blowing up people who prefer to think for themselves,” Jude remarked.

Arbiter murmured something noncommittal and kept focus. “The ELF is a priority target at this time.”

“I thought we had an agent in there.”

“He was blown after a failed chicken-farm operation.”

Jude frowned. The FBI had successfully infiltrated PETA, Greenpeace, and most of the animal rights-lite crowd. But the Earth Liberation Front and Animal Liberation Front had dumped the Kumbaya mindset a while back. They were deeply paranoid and modeled their structure on that of terrorist organizations, operating as a network of anonymous cells. This made them tough to penetrate.

When Jude switched from Crimes Against Children to counterterrorism, she’d narrowly missed being sent on a long-term undercover gig in Portland, Oregon, a hub for ALF/ELF activists. Instead she’d received her present choice assignment, keeping tabs on the extreme right in the Four Corners region of Colorado.

“There must be a way in,” Arbiter said. “She has a few financial problems.”

“You want me to flip her?” Jude surmised.

“That would be ideal.”

“I’ll check her out.”

“Call me as soon as you have something on the ASS.”

“Roger that.”

Jude couldn’t help a small chuckle. In the heat of the moment, some genius had come up with “Aryan Sunrise Stormtroopers,” and he and his sieg heil buddies were so swept up in the Third Reich imagery and potential for new arm patches that no one had stopped to consider the acronym.

“For people who take themselves pretty seriously, that’s a strange handle to choose,” Arbiter remarked.

“Yep. These guys don’t call themselves the master race for nothing.”

“Their leader. Pure West Virginia,” Arbiter noted. “Couldn’t drown a rat in that gene pool.”

He signed off, and Jude stared up at the Marlboro Man. Even on a dull day he seemed to glow with rugged individualism, a free spirit sharing the open range with his horse and the setting sun. The emblem of a simpler time.

Or maybe not.

*

Debbie Basher was a small, slender brunette woman with a shy demeanor and the apprehensive smile of someone who expected bad news when there was a knock at her door. She looked Jude up and down and blushed, her gaydar evidently functional.

Jude identified herself and asked, “May I come in?”

“Yes. Please do.” She seemed a little tense. “I can’t believe this weather.”

“But there’s no global warming. Yeah, right.”

Debbie laughed. It was a polite, lukewarm laugh, the reaction of someone who strived to please others.

“You look like you’re about to go out,” Jude said. “Is this a convenient time to talk?”

“Sure.” Debbie indicated the snow boots and orange gaiters standing by a backpack on the kitchen floor and explained, “I was just getting ready to join the search again.”

“You’ve been out?” Jude could hear a shower running in a room along the short hallway. Someone had spent the night.

“A friend and I were at Lone Dome yesterday.” She gave a rueful laugh. “We were so worn out—well, at least I was—we thought we’d start a bit later today.”

“You earned it,” Jude said. “Search and rescue is hard work.”

“It was our team that found the evidence,” Debbie said a little breathlessly.

“That was an important find.”

Debbie blushed a deeper shade of ruby pink, clearly proud of herself. Jude tried to picture her running fuse to a detonator and a slab of plastic explosive and blowing up a building. She had a hard time believing Debbie Basher would even know what a detonator looked like.

“Oh. Wow. Duh! I just realized who you are.” Debbie seemed wildly impressed. “You were on TV. You’re the detective in charge of the whole case, aren’t you?”

“Yes, I’m leading the sheriff’s part of the investigation,” Jude confirmed. The shower had stopped and she could hear someone moving around.

“I saw what happened, on the news. With the baby’s father and the hostage. Oh, my God. That must have been so scary.”

Empathy for others—not the most sought-after personal trait for terrorists. Jude said, “These things happen. It’s an emotional situation.”

“He must be desperate, the poor guy. I was shocked that they got engaged after you let the boyfriend go.”

Jude raised her eyebrows but said nothing so she wouldn’t sound startled. Wade and Tonya were engaged? It was a sorry state of affairs when you had to find out what was going on with your primary suspects by hearing secondhand television reports from the subject of an unrelated investigation.

“Here I am chattering away.” Debbie hurried into the kitchen. “I just made fresh coffee. Would you like a cup, Detective.”

Jude smiled. “You read my mind.”

She took in the surroundings as Debbie added a third mug to the two standing on the counter. The cottage was compact and plainly furnished. Thin, dated carpets. Freshly painted walls and ceilings. Jude guessed Debbie had done the work herself to brighten the place up. It wasn’t the home of a person who had prospered in life, yet it was welcoming and very clean. Two satisfied cats snoozed on cozy pet beds next to the gas heater, and the walls were lined with bookcases.

While Debbie bustled about in the kitchen, Jude scanned the contents. Photograph albums. Biographies. Assorted self-help books about relationship breakup and low self-esteem. No pretentiously titled novels. No animal liberation classics. No conspiracy literature. No Anarchist’s Cookbook.

“Cream and sugar?” Debbie asked.

“No, thanks. Just black for me.”

“I know I should feel sorry for her, you know…the mother,” Debbie confided as she poured cream into two of the mugs. “And I do. But, I have to tell you, I think she’s crazy getting engaged to him. I suppose she doesn’t want to believe the worst and she’s trying to make a statement.”

“Yeah. It goes like this—I’m so dumb I’ll stand by my man even if he killed my kid.”

The cynical remark came from a narrow hallway leading to the rear rooms of the dwelling. Jude felt the speaker’s hard-eyed gaze before she looked at her directly. She was maybe five eight but held herself taller. Her bearing and presence announced her as military even more than the khaki fatigues she wore.

She walked into the room with an owner’s casual authority and swept astoundingly blue eyes over Jude, then looked harder, subjecting her to the measuring scrutiny of a fighter sizing up an opponent. Her pupils dilated slightly. It was the only indication that something had registered with her.

“I’m Sandy Lane.” No handshake. “Is this a social call or do you have business here, Detective?”

Jude noted the play of expressions on Debbie’s face. Happiness. Lust. Startled dismay. She hastily picked up a mug and handed it to Jude. “I was just telling Detective Devine about us being on the search yesterday. She’s in charge of the case.”

Sandy continued with the authoritarian questioning. “Are you here in connection with the investigation?”

Her manner suggested she expected answers when she asked questions. An officer, Jude decided. Maybe a marine. If this woman didn’t know what C-4 was and how to work with it, Jude would resign from intelligence work and begin a new career flipping burgers. She had a story concocted to explain her early morning visit and ran it by her dubious audience.

“It’s probably a wild-goose chase, but a car matching the description of Ms. Basher’s was seen on Highway 666 on Saturday evening, the evening Corban disappeared. We’re trying to locate the driver.”

“It wasn’t me.” Debbie sounded disappointed not to be a sought-after potential witness.

“Where were you that evening between ten p.m. and midnight?” Jude asked. “Just a routine question.”

“At home. It was snowing too much to go out.”

“Can anyone confirm that?”

Debbie shook her head. “I was by myself.”

“Would you mind if I took a look inside your vehicle?”

“Sure. I’ll get the keys.”

Debbie’s antisocial companion didn’t share her eagerness. “Is that really necessary?”

“It’s strictly routine,” Jude replied with good humor. “And no one’s going to impound the vehicle if Ms. Basher declines to cooperate.”

Debbie giggled nervously. “I don’t mind. I have nothing to hide.” Hardly the response of a would-be domestic terrorist. “I hope I can find the damn keys. I was so tired I put them somewhere weird last night.”

Jude finished her coffee and contemplated how she might strike up a friendly rapport with this couple—which they obviously were—given that the dominant half was totally unreceptive. She didn’t buy for a second that Debbie Basher was in the market for serious explosives. But it was conceivable that her name had been used by the real purchaser. No prizes for guessing who that might be.

As Debbie roamed around the kitchen mumbling to herself about the keys, Jude opened her coat and made a show of finding her notepad and pen. All the while, she studied Sandy covertly. The woman was built; she probably worked out more in a week than Jude managed in a month, and Jude was no slouch. Every move she made was economic and deliberate, her physical self-awareness so innate it spoke of years of rigorous conditioning. She had nothing to prove and she knew it.

Jude recognized that hard-won confidence; she possessed it herself. Which was one reason Sandy’s assessing stare unsettled her. Very few men, and no women, ever sized her up as if evaluating how to cut her throat if necessary. Jude’s body prickled its primal awareness of menace, yet she had a sense that Sandy was taken aback by her as well. A cold respect had entered her expression.

In opening her coat, and all but removing it as she looked for her writing materials, Jude had intentionally displayed her physique. Even in a bulky shirt and wool pants it was obvious to anyone who undertook hard physical training that she was in peak condition. The point hadn’t been lost on Sandy.

She caught Jude’s eye and they stared at each other for several taut, calculating seconds.

“Here they are.” Debbie waved the keys, and for the first time Jude glimpsed a softening in Sandy’s expression.

An Achilles heel. Finally. Sandy Lane loved this woman and it appeared to be mutual. So why would she expose Debbie to risk by using her name during an explosives purchase, if indeed she had? Maybe she hadn’t and this was a simple case of identity theft by a stranger.

Jude took the keys. “If you’d like to be present while I search, that’s okay.”

Sandy touched Debbie’s arm. “Stay here. I’ll take care of it.”

Jude gave Debbie a smile. “I’m sorry to have interrupted you, Ms. Basher. We may be close to an arrest, so we’re trying to build the strongest case we can. Thanks for the coffee.”

“You’re welcome. It was good to meet you.” Debbie returned the smile with a trace of awe.

With ill-concealed irritation, Sandy asked Jude, “It’s the boyfriend, right?”

“I’m not free to comment on that. But Mr. Miller is a person of interest.”

As they stepped outside into a shock of frozen air, Sandy demanded, “What’s this really about? Did her ex make a complaint?”

Jude kept her expression impassive, but she knew she’d just been given an opening. All she had to do was find a way to use it. “I can’t discuss any details,” she said vaguely and motioned toward a Subaru that had seen better days. “Is that the car?”

“Yes.” Sandy folded her arms as Jude unlocked the rear door and took a long hard look at the neat interior. “That woman is a piece of work,” she returned to her topic. “I finally talked Debbie into taking legal action to claim her half of their house, and the ex comes back with threats that she’ll out Debbie to her boss and make a complaint that Debbie sexually abused a niece who used to stay with them.”

Jude smiled inwardly. Sandy had just handed her the perfect means to befriend Debbie Basher. She took a few swabs and bagged them to be tested for explosive residue. Pensively, she said, “I don’t think Ms. Basher has much to worry about. The burden of proof is high in cases like that, especially where money and property can motivate false allegations.”

“That won’t help her keep her job. I know you know what I am saying.”

Jude conceded the observation with a yes-I’m-gay nod. “It’s not San Francisco out here.”

She had contemplated coming out to the people she worked with most closely, and if she had no other role than sheriff’s detective, she would—at the very least in a don’t-ask-don’t-tell sense. But she didn’t have that luxury. If Harrison Hawke or any other of her targets knew she was a lesbian, she could kiss her undercover assignment good-bye, not a risk she was willing to take after investing two years building a deep-cover identity. Instead she’d created a smoke screen.

Late the previous year she’d agreed to date Bobby Lee Parker, a compulsive flirt who wanted an excuse to chat up Virgil Tulley, the true object of his desires. A bisexual former gas-station robber, Bobby Lee had a reputation as a ladies’ man and had left a trail of female conquests around the Four Corners, including a couple at the sheriff’s office. Jude’s and his unlikely coupling had ended growing speculation about her sexuality, replacing it with puzzled acceptance and relentless teasing.

Bobby Lee had recently come up with a plan to cement their deception, asking her to marry him in a spectacle so public no one would ever dream it could have been driven by anything but foolhardy passion. Jude’s heartless non-answer had lent a poignancy to their situation that had captured the imaginations of locals who had nothing better to do than read the gossip pages in the Cortez Journal.

Bobby Lee thought they could let this soap opera run for most of the year before Jude would have to break his heart, by which time no one would care that she was tall and cut her hair too short for a woman. Instead they would be whispering behind her back that she was a callous ball-breaker who’d dumped the only half-decent male ever likely to propose to her.

Jude could live with that.

She closed the hatch and took a cursory look inside the front of Debbie’s SUV. As she moved from the front seat to the back, she said, “If this ex is determined to play dirty, maybe Ms. Basher can come up with something she can use as emotional blackmail herself. Everyone has secrets. If she thinks about it, she probably knows a thing or two the ex would rather keep to herself.”

“I’ll work on it,” Sandy said in a tone of grudging thanks.

Jude closed the driver’s door. “I’m all done here.”

Sandy accepted the keys from her. “I hope you nail that jerk.”

“Finding Corban would help.” Jude offered a professional smile. “By the way, thanks for getting involved in the search.”

Sandy shrugged. “It’s a good workout.”

“You think you need one?”

The subtle compliment garnered a hint of satisfaction. With a faint grin, she murmured, “Old habits…”

“When were you discharged?” Jude put her best guess out there.

“That obvious, huh?” Sandy glanced down at herself in wry appraisal. “I was wounded during my second tour of duty in Iraq. I completed my tour, but after that I decided not to roll the dice anymore.”

“Was it an IED?”

“Funny, that always sounds so clean.”

Jude took that for a “yes.”

“I wasn’t in the vehicle that took the hit. We were back a ways, but there was a mortar exchange. We took the position out. Another day, another martyr.” The comment was cold and bitter, and Jude could see in the stiffness of Sandy’s mouth and the shuttered lowering of her gaze, the strain of holding back emotion.

Carefully—wanting to get an inside track with this woman—she said, “I never served. In my job there’s the occasional shoot-out and you have to deal with dangerous situations, but you’re not under constant random attack. I can’t even imagine what it was like for you over there.”

“Be thankful for that.” Sandy’s expression grew distant. Jude could feel her slipping out of reach, finding the place she went, mentally, to escape.

“Friends of my family lost a son in Iraq recently,” she said, rebuttoning her coat against the cold. Her face felt numb, but she wanted to keep Sandy talking. “He was in Tikrit.”

“4th Infantry Division?”

“Yes. First Lieutenant Carl Sandler.”

“That’s tough,” Sandy said. “You never know who the bad guys are over there.”

“Where else have you served?”

“Kosovo and Afghanistan.” Sandy hesitated. “I was with the 82nd Airborne.”

“The maroon berets?” Jude was intrigued. There weren’t too many female paratroopers in the armed forces, and Sandy couldn’t resist letting her know she was one of that elite. “I didn’t realize we still had paratroopers in Iraq.”

“The eighty-deuce is usually deployed for offensive combat operations. We were in Iraq for the start of Operation Iraqi Freedom. Later we redeployed on a support mission for the elections.”

“No picnic, huh?”

Sandy fell silent, blinking rapidly. She shoved her hands into the pockets of her jacket and glanced back toward the house. Everything about her seemed strangely still, and Jude sensed she was exerting tremendous control. Something had welled inside, an inner rage that frayed at the edges of her control, making her eyes dark and fierce and her bottom jaw so tight, she had to have her teeth painfully clamped. Almost anything could push her over the edge, Jude decided, and she would explode.

Aware that this was a tricky moment, Jude weighed her options and suggested in an impulsive manner, “We should have a drink some time.”

Sandy stared at her like she’d taken leave of her senses. During the long silence that followed, Jude had plenty of time to observe the paratrooper’s train of thought as her tense expression shifted from surprise to puzzled incredulity, then stark paranoia.

“You’re not my type, Detective,” she responded eventually.

“You’re not my type either.” Jude offered a grin to lighten things up. “Good we got that out of the way.”

Sandy gave herself a moment, perhaps to regroup, then said, “I’ll take a rain check.”

“Your girlfriend’s invited too,” Jude coaxed.

A pause. “Why? Is she your type?”

Jude took this for Sandy’s version of humor and ran with it. “No. I prefer them fickle and high maintenance.”

This self-effacing irony raised a faint grin. Her voice warming by a few degrees, Sandy commiserated, “Us simple types can’t seem to leave the princesses alone.”

They both shook their heads, sharing a moment of morose introspection. Then Jude said, “Okay, I’m out of here. Nice talking with you, Sandy. Thanks again for participating in the search.”

“No sweat. Good luck.”

Jude felt Sandy’s eyes on her all the way to the Dakota. She couldn’t help but wonder which one of them, in hand-to-hand combat, would walk away.

Chapter Thirteen

Heather Roache sat down at her desk in the tiny cubicle her boss liked to refer to as the Accounts and Administration department, dropped her purse next to her chair, and opened the Durango Herald, which she always read while she was drinking her morning coffee before work.

At the sight of the front page, she realized today was going to be a bad day. They should have sold the paper with a free barf bag like the ones they had on airplanes. The headline said Mom To Marry Suspect Boyfriend. Staring down at a photograph of Tonya Perkins and Wade Miller smooching for the camera, she almost threw up her low-carb snack bar.

Mr. McAllister crowded into the closet-sized space with her, donut box in one hand, two take-out caffè lattes in the other. These were from the Silver Bean, a small trailer that served the only good espresso in Cortez. Heather couldn’t bring herself to set foot in a place where there were still Kerry/Edwards posters all over the walls from the last election and people mocked Vice-President Cheney over that quail-shooting accident.

The café was run by Wendy Mimiaga, the crazy chairwoman of the Montezuma County Green Party, so who could be surprised that it was always full of liberals and they showed Michael Moore movies over and over. If there was any other place that made good coffee, Heather would have insisted Mr. McAllister go there, but the Four Corners was not known for its high-class restaurants and European coffee, and Starbucks had recently passed Cortez by, instead opening its long-awaited franchise in Durango.

Desperate times called for desperate measures, and if there was one thing Heather couldn’t stand, that was weak, lukewarm coffee with grounds floating around on a surface scum of flavored coffee creamer. She sometimes wished she’d never accepted Mr. McAllister’s offer of eight months at Covenant Bible College in Windsor. She’d gotten used to the cafés of Fort Collins with their espresso and foreign foods, and when she came back to Cortez she brought with her these newfound city tastes.

“I can’t believe Orwell let that asshole go.” Mr. McAllister planted a sticky finger on Wade Miller’s face, leaving a blob of chocolate frosting behind when he resumed work on the donut he was munching.

Heather dabbed the spot clean with a paper towel. “I always knew Tonya Perkins was stupid about men, but this is incredible.”

“You see what they’re up to, don’t you?” Mr. McAllister paused in his chewing. “Their theory is that we’ll all be so distracted by the wedding and all, we won’t notice they killed a kid.”

Heather snorted softly. “They’re assuming everyone else is as dumb as them.”

“I don’t think they’re as dumb as they look.” Mr. McAllister opened the donut box and extracted another, this time jelly, his favorite. “He did it. No doubt about it. Her…I’m not so sure.”

Of course not, you’re a man. Heather said, “She has to know something. But she’s kidding herself. She wants to get married so she’s going to believe what she wants to believe.”

“Like O.J.’s kids.”

“The difference being she’s an adult and it’s her baby that’s gone missing.”

“Look what it says here.” Again the sticky finger, this time dusting the newspaper with powdered sugar. Mr. McAllister read aloud, “Montezuma County Sheriff, Orwell Pratt, on Monday told the Durango Herald that two members of the goat’s head gang, Gums Thompson and Matthew Roache, are persons of interest to the authorities. So far Mr. Thompson and Mr. Roache have been interviewed by detectives and remain at large in the community.”

“At large!” Heather gasped. “What are they saying? They’re acting like Matt did something.”

She read on. The article seemed strangely distorted. Tonya and Wade were called the “newly engaged couple,” and the reporter said they were “understandably distressed over allegations about Mr. Miller’s role in Corban’s disappearance.” The paper cautioned against “trying this young couple in the court of public opinion” and urged readers not to “destroy reputations before all the facts are available.” The reporter wasn’t half so considerate of Matt and Hank.

“This is unbelievable,” Heather complained. “The sheriff told me Matt’s an important witness. Now he gets treated like a criminal.”

“Donut?” Mr. McAllister offered her the box.

Heather was so stressed she chose a bear claw and tore into it automatically. How much worse could this nightmare get? She’d just spent five years making the Roache name respectable in Cortez again, and now this had to happen.

“I don’t know what to do,” she hiccupped, tears collecting around her nose. She read a little further and gasped, “Oh, my God. She’s pregnant.”

It raised the matter of abortion, Heather thought. Maybe exceptions should be made in some cases.

Mr. McAllister put his non-sticky hand on her shoulder and said, “There, there. We’ll think of something. Those fools at the Herald need a good talking to. Leave it to me.”

Somehow that didn’t inspire confidence. Her boss was shaped like a tree, tall and stout of trunk with spindly limbs. At first glance, he could be mistaken for a tough guy, but it was Heather who had to bully people into paying their accounts on time. Mr. McAllister was always promising to “tear them a new one,” but she was the one who terrified the team leaders when they screwed up. He owned the company, but you’d never know it from his clothes or his attitude.

He’d stepped into his dad’s boots six years earlier, after Randolph McAllister had a heart attack and fell off a roof. Ever since then, Heather and the building contracts manager had been in the business of making it seem like he fired off orders and had no time for fools, just like his old man. They’d been so effective he seemed to believe this propaganda himself.

Heather had no problem with that. Mr. McAllister and his wife had no kids, and they treated her almost like she was their own. They sent her to bible college, then they paid for her to study accounting part-time, and when she bought her house they helped her get it financed. She had the best health insurance money could buy, and any time she needed a day off, all she had to do was ask. She was lucky and she knew it.

If Matt was willing to put in a fair day’s work he could walk into a well-paid job at McAllister’s Roofing and Restoration. But Heather wasn’t going to let him sign on unless he got his act together. She owed Mr. McAllister more than that.

Wiping her tears, she said, “My brother had nothing to do with the kidnapping, and I’m going to see to it that he doesn’t get the blame.”

“That’s the spirit.” Mr. McAllister gave her a fatherly squeeze and reached once more for the donuts, but Heather closed the box.

“Only two at a time. Remember what the doctor said.”

“I should have known you were counting.” He grinned. “Now just say the word if there’s anything I can do to help you and your brother.”

Heather hesitated. She had an idea, but she wasn’t sure if it would just complicate matters. “Mr. McAllister, maybe there is something. That lawyer of your daddy’s who made those weirdoes in Mancos pay their bill. Do you think we could get some advice from him?”

“Griffin Mahanes.” Her boss pronounced with distaste. “A jackal, like the rest of them. But I’ll call him.”

“I can pay,” Heather said. “I have savings.”

“Keep your money in the bank. I’ll take care of it.”

Heather smiled awkwardly. Normally she would have said no, but she knew she couldn’t afford pride at a time like this. “I just want Matt to get a chance to tell his side of the story,” she said. “I don’t want them to destroy his life over one stupid mistake.”

“That’s not going to happen.” Mr. McAllister was already dialing the “jackal.” Pointing at the donut box, he said, “I’ll take a coconut cream. You know how I get, talking to city boys with Viagra in their pockets.”

*

Jude headed north, taking the long way out of Paradox Valley. The paved highway soon ran out, and she was bumping her way along the narrow gravel road that discouraged tourists and locals alike from making the climb up to Carpenter Ridge. From the top, the valley spread out 2500 feet below, offering a desirable-if-dangerous photo op. When it wasn’t covered in snow and veiled by low clouds, you could look out across the red and ochre rock formations west to the La Sal Mountains in Utah.

Jude usually came up here on horseback in the summer, roaming the dusty paths over rainbow layers of sandstone and red rock, studded with fossils. Dried mudflats flaked in chunks, and pebbles spun like ball bearings beneath her horse’s hooves. The temperatures got high, upwards of 110 degrees.

She loved the canyon. It felt holier than a church, infinitely closer to the divine, more ancient than life itself. A billion years old and bearing the footprints of species long extinct, clans of people long departed, wild horses, and warriors. Their spirits lingered in wind and echo, in the globs of light that bounced across the castellan walls as if the ancients were hurling snowballs.

Jude was trying to enjoy the moment without picturing her Dakota rolling down into the valley when her cell phone rang. She stared at the caller ID and vacillated. When she could not hold out any longer, she pulled over where the road widened and picked up.

Mercy’s voice poured into her ear. “Hello? Is that you?”

“Well, I don’t have a spare girlfriend who picks up the phone for me, so I guess it must be,” Jude said pleasantly.

Mercy ignored the sarcasm. “I’m calling to apologize about bringing Elspeth to town the other day. You were right. I should have checked with you first.”

“Apology accepted.”

Jude waited. For what, she had no idea. It wasn’t like Mercy would now announce that she’d been a fool and she was going to dump Elspeth and live with Jude forever in a secluded log cabin where they could have noisy sex all they wanted and no one would pound on the wall. It would be good-bye to seedy far-flung motels and hello to domestic bliss.

She edged the Dakota farther into the pull-off and killed the engine.

Mercy said, “I wanted to let you know...Elspeth and I have decided to get married. We’re flying to New York for an exclusive interview with Paula Zahn next week.”

“Married,” Jude repeated flatly.

“Yes, we’re going to Canada after the interview.”

“You’re coming out on TV?”

“Everyone’s going to know in the end, anyway. We thought it would make sense to get in first.”

“I don’t know what to say.”

“Congratulations?” Mercy suggested.

Jude’s mouth refused to form the word. “I thought you weren’t interested in long-term commitment.”

“Things have changed. When Elspeth and I had that break from each other last year we both realized that everything works better when we’re together.”

“That break—you mean the one when you started sleeping with me?” Jude wondered why she was prolonging the conversation. She loosened the collar of her shirt. Her skin felt hot and damp.

“Yes.” Impatience crept into Mercy’s tone.

“Back then you said she was an ex.”

“It’s what I believed at the time. Jude, is this postmortem really necessary?”

“I guess I’m trying to understand why you picked her and not me.” The words were out before Jude could come up with a more sophisticated way to express her bewilderment.

Mercy sighed. “How am I supposed to answer? I don’t know why I love her and not you.”

Well, she’d asked for that one. Jude flinched.

“Before you start reinventing everything, you might want to be honest with yourself for a change,” Mercy said. “The fact is, it suits you not to share your life with a partner. You work all kinds of hours, you have weird phone calls on that spare cell phone of yours—I have no idea what that’s about. And you don’t like explaining yourself to anyone. You might think you want a full-time relationship, but trust me, you don’t.”

“Free therapy,” Jude remarked dryly. “This is an unexpected bonus.”

“Jude, I’m not the enemy.”

“Then what is?”

“Loneliness.” Softly, Mercy explained, “We got together because we were lonely.”

“And sex starved,” Jude recalled.

Mercy laughed. “Yes. That, too.”

“It was good.”

“Extremely good.”

“I miss you,” Jude said.

“You miss someone,” Mercy replied after a long pause. “And for a while I’ve been your someone.”

“Yes, you have.”

“It’s not enough. I’m Elspeth’s everything.”

Jude’s mouth was as dry as dirt. She forced out a poorly formed, “Congratulations.”

She wanted Mercy to be happy and maybe she would be, married to an actress who, Jude suspected, had never met a mirror she didn’t like. Perhaps they understood one another well enough to make the compromises a long-term relationship demanded, the ones Mercy didn’t think Jude was capable of.

“I know you won’t want to come to the wedding,” Mercy said in a strained voice. “But I hope you’ll visit with us for dinner after we’re back and the reporters have lost interest.”

Jude would rather poke a stick in her eye, but she forced nonchalance. “Sure. I hope you’ll be happy.”

“Thank you.” Mercy’s soft breathing made Jude feel weak. And sad. “I care for you, Jude. You know that, don’t you?”

Was this supposed to soften the blow? “I know. Take care of yourself, Mercy.”

“I won’t say good-bye. We’ll still be working together.”

Jude could hardly wait. “Sure. It’s not good-bye. It’s just see ya.”

“Good luck with the search.”

“Thanks. I’ll try to have a body for you before you leave.”

Jude closed her cell phone and stared out at the knee-shaking view of Paradox Valley. The Dolores River slithered like a silver-green ribbon along the canyon floor, cutting a path through a pristine postblizzard canvas. Clumps of snow fell from the branches of the few firs along the ridge. The vast sky was Colorado blue again, a deep intense lapis that made the snow so white it burned Jude’s eyes. Copper ridges layered the valley in every shade from claret to rose gold, spilling in folds baked solid over millennia.

The sight purged Jude of her self-pity, supplanting it with a strange yearning to melt into the earth, to inherit its memories and lose her own. She felt hollow and directionless, stranded in a no-man’s-land between hope and resignation, between living life or letting it slip by. She had no idea if everyone felt this way, or if it was some kind of existential angst she ignored most of the time, maybe even a pining for the certainty of a belief system. She’d never been religious. It was hard to accept that there was a loving God ordering events when you dwelled by necessity on the evil men do.

In Mercy, she’d taken sanctuary from thoughts like these. Now she was alone with them, and with all the doubts that galloped in their wake. She would henceforth be deprived of the transient solace of skin and flesh unless she found a stranger to sleep with. She’d never had a problem with that, yet the idea made her queasy right now. It was only natural, she supposed; she’d just broken up.

Jude draped her arms over the steering wheel and lowered her head to rest. In a few weeks, she’d take a drive to Denver and hook up with some eye candy for the weekend. She forced herself to imagine an unknown head on the pillow next to hers, a new body to explore. What was so bad about that?

She sat up straight and started the truck. The windshield blurred in front of her and she lifted her hands to her eyes, appalled to find tears. Worse still, she realized something. She didn’t want to sleep with strangers anymore. Mercy was wrong. She didn’t want someone, just anyone. She wanted her person. The one who would be her everything.

*

“That body has to be in the reservoir,” Jude told Orwell Pratt. “And we can’t nail him without it.”

The FBI agents attending the briefing agreed. One of them said, “The goat’s head is the problem. We can make the case that he moved it, but it’ll be a mental patient’s word against his in the courtroom. We need more.”

“That elf hat Matt Roache says was in the driveway. We found it inside the house in Corban’s room,” Jude said. “Either Miller or Perkins put it back in there. It seems odd they would have noticed it on the driveway when they returned from Ms. Foley’s party.”

Pratt coughed for a few seconds and mopped his forehead. “Who knows what goes on in the minds of pond scum? We’ve got the clothing and the wet cash. And we’ve got him lying every time he opens his mouth.”

“But the amount of blood on the clothing indicates we don’t have a murder scene,” Jude pointed out. “All we have is the scene of an abduction and an act of vandalism. The two may or may not be related. We need to know where Corban was killed. And we need to search the homes of all the people closest to Miller in case he hid evidence elsewhere.”

A Cortez PD detective observed, “The small amount of blood on Miller’s clothing is inconsistent with the quantity on the baby’s clothing.”

“Correct,” Jude said. “So if Miller is our guy he must have changed out of the clothing he was wearing, washed himself, and disposed of the garments. If we can find those, he’s ours.”

The FBI agents conferred for a moment, then one of them said, “We’ll stay focused on the background check. We’re running down everyone he’s known since elementary school. If there’s any dirt on him, we’ll find it.”

“What about motive?” Pete Koertig said. “If he just lost his temper with the kid, the DA might plead him down to manslaughter.”

“Well, we now find out that Perkins is pregnant, and it seems as if he suspected she was.” Jude responded. “Perhaps that factored into a rejection of Corban.”

“Like a baby bird pushing another one out of the nest,” Pratt remarked before sneezing into a tissue.

“More like rats,” Jude said. “An adult male sometimes kills another male’s young so he can sire a litter of his own. It happens in quite a few species actually. Maybe the urge exists in human beings, too.”

In the midst of the general revulsion, Pete Koertig poked his head in the door and said, “Devine, you have visitors out in the waiting area.”

“Who?” Jude asked.

Koertig shrugged. “The sergeant just asked me to pass it on. Want me to get rid of them?”

Jude shook her head and said dryly, “Maybe it’s our lucky day. Five bucks says it’s an eyewitness who saw Miller carry the body to his truck. Anyone?”

“Yeah, while we’re placing bets, twenty says I’m running for President in 2008.” Pratt checked his mustache for shreds of Kleenex.

“Let’s reinterview every neighbor,” Jude said as she got up. “Someone has to have seen something. Gums Thompson talked about a neighbor turning on lights. We need to find the guy.”

She stalked down a labyrinth of hallways to the main entrance of the station house and caught her breath as she reached the final glass security door. Through it she could see the backs of two heads, one ash blond, the other burnished copper. As she entered the area the copper head turned and a small, perfectly formed oval face reacted to the sight of her with such naked joy, Jude felt shy.

Chastity Young seemed happy to see her.

“Hey, Detective Devine.” Adeline leapt to her feet and bounded around the modular seating.

Jude gave her a hug. “If you get any taller, I’m going to feel inadequate.” Looking past her to Chastity, she said, “This is a surprise.”

“I should have called, but it was a spur-of-the-moment thing.”

“We saw you on the news,” Adeline said. “Have you guys found the baby yet?”

“Unfortunately not.” Jude found herself remembering the feel of Chastity, her unexpected tenderness. She’d almost lost that moment in the daze that followed the Rapture shootout.

Adeline looked back toward her aunt. “See, I told you we’d get here in time.”

“Adeline wanted to help with the search,” Chastity explained. She looked a little embarrassed, hanging back, her expression hard to read. “I told her you’d probably stopped accepting volunteers by now.”

“No,” Jude said. “We’ll take all the help we can get. Where are you staying?”

“I was hoping you’d be able to recommend something. I didn’t have time to organize accommodations before we set off.”

“I have a spare bedroom,” Jude offered. “It’s not the Holiday Inn, but you’re very welcome. In fact, I insist on it.”

“We won’t be in the way?” Chastity began. “I mean, I’m sure you’re just flat-out with—”

“I have an idea.” Jude put an end to the protestations. “I’m starving and I bet you are after that drive. Let’s go get dinner, then I’ll take you back to my place. If you’re joining the search you’ll need to be at the command center before seven tomorrow morning, so we should all get an early night.”

“No sweat.” Adeline gazed around the room. With an air of disappointment, she said, “I thought there’d be wanted posters all over the walls.”

“It’s not the Wild West,” Chastity said.

“As a matter of fact, we do have wanted posters. I’ll show you.” Jude walked Adeline over to the bulletin board and singled out the FBI Ten Most Wanted list. “Recognize anyone?”

“No way!” Adeline stabbed a finger into Warren Jeff’s weasel face. “Aunt Chastity, look. It’s the prophet.”

Chastity picked up the down jacket beside her seat and strolled over, which gave Jude an excuse to appreciate her slender athleticism. She looked good in a dark green cardigan sweater and bone-colored chinos.

Staring at the mug shot, she said with prim disdain, “Not the kind of immortalization that asshole had in mind, I’m sure.”

Adeline instantly burst into smothered laughter. “Straight to hell,” she chortled, explaining to Jude, “We don’t say asshole in our house.”

Jude nodded sagely. “Well, we say it plenty in this place. So, when in Rome—”

“Oh please,” Chastity protested. “Don’t encourage her.”

“Asshole. Asshole. Asshole,” Adeline chanted maturely, then whipped out her cell phone and announced, “Daniel’s texting me. Hang on.”

As she moved away, Chastity lifted her unforgettable dark eyes to Jude and said, “It’s good to see you.”

Surprised to find her pulse accelerating, Jude said, “I’m really happy you came.”

“How are you?” The way Chastity asked, it wasn’t just a meaningless conversation starter. She looked at Jude like she really cared, like she could see past the face she showed the world. She’d done exactly the same thing in Rapture.

Disconcerted, Jude answered honestly. “I’ve had better weeks.”

“I thought so.” She searched Jude’s eyes with such piercing intensity, Jude wasn’t sure how to hide the feelings she wanted no one to glimpse. But Chastity didn’t pry. Touching Jude’s arm, she said, “Let’s get out of here.”

Chapter Fourteen

Lonewolf stared with satisfaction at the white blocks of C-4 plastic explosive arranged along her workbench. The quality was better than she’d hoped for. She picked a block up and squeezed it. The waxy, rubbery texture always amazed her. C-4 was happy to stick to any surface, it didn’t care about temperature, it didn’t explode in your face while you were trying to stuff it into a canister, it had a long shelf life, and it was fairly inexpensive. In fact, it was the perfect weapons-grade explosive in so many ways she wondered why people bothered with less stable alternatives.

She’d lucked out on the deal for this initial quantity. For the past year, since her lover Madeline’s suicide, she’d been hanging around survivalist groups on the Internet until she struck pay dirt. A militia member in Texas who had a connection with William Krar was taking some heat and had decided to unload his arsenal. His son knew a methamphetamine dealer and had made an arrangement for his father that would conceal the money trail.

This suited Lone fine. If her Texan connection was picked up by the authorities, she didn’t want anyone noticing a cash withdrawal from her bank account for the same amount received by the militia man and connecting the dots. She’d purchased the meth he wanted from a couple of lowlifes near the Mexican border and paid peanuts, which meant she was ahead of her financial target. The next few hundred pounds would be harder to come by, but she was patient and C-4 was easy to store.

She’d been accumulating cash by withdrawing small increments over time and hiding the money under a loose floorboard in her cabin. Within a couple more months she would be ready to buy again, and the operation would enter the next phase.

Lone glanced up at the wall above her workbench, where she had an official picture of Madeline’s only son, Private First Class Brandon Ewart. Next to this was a wooden plaque Lone had lettered herself with the quotation “Surrender is not in my creed.” A Marine, Brandon had been deployed to Iraq straight out of training and was killed in Baghdad four months later. The usual story. Inadequate armor on the Humvee. Standard-issue helmet instead of the padded kind the army had switched to.

After their vehicle was blown up, Brandon, seriously injured, was captured by insurgents watching the explosion from a nearby building. They cut his throat later that day and left his mutilated body on the banks of the Tigris.

Madeline had always been high-strung and had been treated for depression in the past. Brandon’s death put her in a tailspin, understandably, but Lone finished her tour of duty shortly after and took the honorable discharge she’d earned, so she could be at home to take care of family for a change. She had busted her ass and spent a pile of her savings to get Madeline the help she needed, to take her on vacations to Europe, to get her mind moving in new directions.

Just when she thought things were improving, Madeline pinned a note on the fridge one day, locked herself in the garage, and left the car engine running. Carbon monoxide killed her.

Her note said:

Lone,

I can’t go on. What did my son die for? They say freedom, but I don’t believe that.

Thank you for loving me. I wish I could feel something for you but I’m dead inside and I don’t want to be here anymore.

Madeline

Lone made a solemn promise the day she watched them put Madeline in the ground. She was going to find out exactly what Brandon had really died for, and she was going to avenge him if she found he’d been sent into harm’s way for any reason but the defense of his country.

What she’d discovered over the past year was that Brandon died a horrible death, and Madeline took her own life, because an evil alliance of men in government and industry had renamed their despicable ethos patriotism and marketed their indefensible acts to a gullible public as a noble fight against terrorism. It served their political and economic interests to keep Osama Bin Laden at large, so they made sure not to capture him. It was good news for them that the Middle East was unstable—it kept oil prices way up there and made them all a pile of money. Money that dripped with the blood of the fallen, the real heroes who made the real sacrifices.

Lately, Lone had begun to wonder if the evil alliance actually knew 9/11 was going to happen and chose to allow it. The loss of thousands of lives meant nothing to them. 9/11 had given them the ultimate propaganda tool, and they had profited from it every day since.

There was a time when contemplating ideas like these would have been unthinkable for her. She would have presented herself at the combat stress unit and obtained appropriate counseling from a division psychiatrist. She would have seen her refusal to accept official explanations as bordering on treason, conduct unbecoming. That was how successfully they’d brainwashed her.

Not anymore. She had joined the ranks of those who took the time to discover the facts, study the data, and draw intelligent conclusions. As a consequence, she knew what she had to do; she owed nothing less to her brothers and sisters in arms. Her mission was the elimination of the sniveling chicken hawks responsible for sending Brandon and thousands just like him to their deaths.

For starters, she was going to eliminate the Vice-President.

*

“She’s finally run out of juice,” Chastity said.

They stood in the doorway of the spare room, looking in on the teenager asleep in one of the twin beds. Jude thought about the trauma of Adeline’s experiences in Rapture. It was a relief to see her so lively and outgoing.

“How is she doing?” she asked on a serious note.

“Amazingly well. I found a good therapist for her. In fact, we’ve both been seeing the same woman.” Chastity smiled. “Different issues, of course.”

Jude couldn’t imagine why a woman as together as Chastity seemed would need to spend time on a shrink’s couch, but she supposed it couldn’t have been easy helping Adeline come to terms with what had happened to her and her sister.

“I think one of the hardest things for Adeline was that she couldn’t help Summer,” Chastity reflected. “She blamed herself for not making Summer leave with her and Daniel when they escaped.”

“Summer would never have gone,” Jude said. “I met her before it went down. She was completely brainwashed.”

“I know. They specialize in crushing the spirit.” Chastity’s tone flooded with bitterness. “My sister is a case in point. She used to be a person and now she’s a robot. It hurts…I only understood recently—I’ve lost her. It’s like I don’t have a sister anymore.” She flushed and broke off. “Forgive me. I forgot you’re not Dr. Phil.”

“Don’t apologize. You can talk to me.” Jude gestured toward the living room. “Can I get you a drink?”

Chastity walked with her and took the corner of the leather sofa nearest the gas fire. “I think I’d like that.”

“Wine? Liqueur?”

“Surprise me.”

Belatedly, Jude remembered Mormons didn’t drink alcohol or anything with caffeine in it. Trying for host-of-the-year after the fact, she said, “I can make hot chocolate, if you’d prefer.”

Chastity shook her head, sending a riot of copper curls bouncing around her shoulders. Her eyes gleamed warmly at Jude. On a teasing note, she said, “I’d rather be corrupted.”

Jude dropped her gaze from the broad, full bow of Chastity’s mouth directly to her breasts then looked away, about ready to kick herself. This was a straight woman sitting on her couch. A guest. A Mormon who had been brought up in Salt Lake City and had probably never heard of homosexuality, let alone contemplated experimenting with it.

Get a grip, Jude thought. This was rebound disease rearing its make-an-ass-of-yourself head. An attractive woman was in her home. Whoa! It was late in the evening, that lonely sad-sack time when desperate people flipped to adult cable and didn’t crack up over hilariously named programs like Lord of the G-Strings. Celibacy was not working out for her, and she’d had her feelings hurt by a heartless sex-goddess.

Naturally she was afflicted with futile lust.

“You might like Frangelico,” she suggested as casually as she could. “That’s an Italian hazelnut liqueur.”

Her next thought was how good it would taste on Chastity’s lips, not that she would get an opportunity to explore that sensation unless she was shopping for a black eye. She couldn’t resist another look at Chastity’s mouth. It was really beautiful, sweetly turned up in each corner like a smile was always a mere breath away. Her small, straight nose and neat but strong chin were very feminine, but also hinted at the stubborn streak in her Jude had seen firsthand. She smiled, picturing her petite companion hitching her skirt and marching up to the FBI swat team that day in Rapture, so she could tell them exactly where to get off.

“Is something wrong?” Chastity asked.

Jude wanted not to blush, but it was too late. Embarrassed by her hot cheeks, she said, “No. I’ll get that drink.” She didn’t even know if Chastity had said she wanted it.

Thankful to escape to the liquor cabinet, Jude spent an unnecessary amount of time pouring a shot of Frangelico, then sloshed some Talisker into a scotch glass with a dash of water. It was reprehensible to gulp a single malt down in one hit, but she gave in to her baser impulses, telling herself she would make up for it by sipping her second glass like the aficionado she was.

The scotch roared down her throat with a medicinal fire that made her temples burn and restored her thinking to that of a responsible adult. As she caught her breath and composed herself, she saw on Chastity’s face the kind of wholesome smile that spelled out Don’t even think about it.

“Can I ask you something?” Chastity inquired softly as she extended a hand for the Frangelico.

Jude passed the glass over and invited, “Shoot.”

“Do you think there’s such a thing as soul mates?”

A philosophical question; she could almost feel the headache sprouting. Jude quipped, “If there is, I’m in real trouble. I’ve never found one.”

“Me either. I had a husband but that was a train wreck. We tried marriage rejuvenation and so on. But that was never going to work. Then he started hitting me, and that was all she wrote.” Chastity sipped her drink, slowly licked her lips. “This is yummy. Thank you.”

“My pleasure.” Jude didn’t want to think about Chastity with a husband. She preferred the self-torture of wanting to help lick away the Frangelico.

“I keep wondering why I never meet anyone,” Chastity said. “My friends try to fix me up but it’s a waste of time.”

Jude wanted to say Why are we having this conversation? But she figured they’d built up to it over dinner. Chastity and Adeline had asked all kinds of questions about Jude’s family and how she became a detective, and she’d answered fairly frankly. Chastity was probably the kind of person who thought it was only right to engage in turnabout disclosures. Hence the personal stuff now.

Jude took a slow sip of her Talisker, normally a religious experience with that fine malt’s memorable peat-and-salt-air character. But tonight she was having a hard time settling back in her chair to cherish the lingering notes of oak and pepper. Her mouth felt unpleasantly dry and she was weary. Talking was an effort.

Suppressing a yawn, she said, “My friends gave up on me a long time ago. My job makes it hard to have a long-term relationship, anyway.”

“Because work comes first?”

“Yes.”

“Same here. I run my own business. It’s not like you can just take a day off whenever you feel like it. I don’t think partners understand that very well.”

“Are you happy alone?” Jude asked.

Chastity frowned as if entangled by this thought. “I’m not unhappy. I suppose the word is…disappointed. I pictured myself settling down. Being with someone.”

“We all get sucked into thinking we’re failures if we don’t have that,” Jude said. “I don’t try anymore. If it happens, it happens.”

“I’d settle for a few really close friends,” Chastity said, compounding Jude’s discouragement. “I had a lot of friends when I was still going to the temple, but when I got divorced we kind of…lost touch.”

Jude detected unmistakable hurt in her tone and instantly wanted to hold her and tell her the world was full of assholes and not to take things so personally. She said, “People get threatened when someone leaves the fold. It happened to me when I left D.C. A lot of my old colleagues acted like I’d abandoned them. I get treated like an outsider these days.”

It was true. Even though her friends in the CACU knew she’d taken an undercover assignment in counterterrorism, a bunker mentality tended to prevail in the different divisions of the Bureau. When an agent moved sideways, some saw it as jumping ship.

Chastity sipped some more of her Frangelico and said, “I suppose you think I’m weird, being brought up Mormon.”

“Why should I?” Among the whackjob religions and cults Jude had examined, regular Mormons weren’t exactly vying for pole position. “You seem pretty normal.”

Chastity smiled. “Other than being unversed in cocktails.”

“I like your innocence.” The words were out before Jude had time to think about them. That’s what two glasses of Talisker did for a person.

Chastity’s cheeks went rosy and she concentrated on her drink. “I like your worldliness,” she said after a moment.

Jude wasn’t sure if it was a compliment, but she was happy Chastity could find something to like about her other than the fact that she’d shot the dirty old man who planned to “marry” Adeline. “More Frangelico?” she offered.

“I don’t think so. It’s making me a little light-headed.” Chastity set her glass aside. Tucking her feet beneath her, she sank farther into the deep cushions and regarded Jude with a dark, languid gaze. “I’m curious about something. What’s a woman like you doing working in a one-horse town like this? It can’t be for the career opportunities.”

“I wanted to get out of the city for a while,” Jude said. There was truth in her answer. She had needed a break from the life she was leading. “Living in a place like D.C. can wear you down. The traffic. The crime. The intensity. I suppose I was looking for a change of pace.”

“You picked the opposite extreme.”

“That was the general idea.”

“Were you a detective in Washington?”

“I was with the FBI, in the Crimes Against Children Unit.”

Chastity’s expression altered from friendly interest to dismay. “I can’t imagine how people do a job like that—how you stay sane. What made you go into that field?”

Jude hesitated. A plausible half-truth presented itself, as they did when the chitchat got personal. “An opening came up and I thought it would be a good career move.”

Chastity tilted her head to one side and slid a hand behind her head, an action that tightened her cardigan sweater across her breasts and made her neck look unfairly kissable. Jude forced her gaze elsewhere so she wouldn’t come across the way she felt—like a dog eyeballing a hamburger. She felt too hot in her clothes.

“A good career move,” Chastity repeated, plainly skeptical. “Why do I get the feeling that’s not the whole story.”

“Because it’s not?” Jude suggested.

“We’re strangers,” Chastity said. “It won’t leave these four walls.”

“Why do you want to know?”

“Why is it so hard for you to answer?”

“I hate that,” Jude grumbled.

“Answering a question with a question?”

“Yes.”

Chastity looked her in the eye. “Here’s what I think. You’re not going to let me know you past a certain point. You’ve already decided we’ll have pleasant, meaningless conversation tonight, and I am going to leave in a day or two, and then we won’t talk again until the next time I bring Adeline back here for some hiking.”

“You have a problem with that?” Jude asked.

“It may sound strange, but yes. I think you came into my life and I came into yours in extraordinary circumstances. I believe that means something—I just don’t know what.”

Unsettled because she’d entertained the same thought herself, Jude allowed herself a long look at her companion. Chastity stared right back. They sat motionless, intent on one another. Something passed between them, just as it had once before. The memory of that moment crowded Jude’s head—herself, like a raw thing bereft of its skin. Chastity, soothing her. Shielding her. No one ever did that.

“What are you thinking?” Chastity asked, adding as Jude groped for a socially acceptable answer, “The truth. Please.”

“The unvarnished truth?” Jude sighed. End of a beautiful friendship. “I’d like to sleep with you.”

The dark in Chastity’s eyes blossomed. Emotion played across her features. Faint shock. Happiness. Confusion.

Jude said dryly, “You asked.”

“So I did.” A small frown tugged her neatly shaped eyebrows together. She looked like a child struggling to fathom the rules of an adult game. “I’m trying to understand what you mean.”

Here it was: the chance to finesse this rebound-driven lapse in judgment with observations about loneliness and a craving for company once the lights were out. Grown-up sleepover. Platonic pillow talk. Naturally Jude bypassed the sensible escape option to plunge straight down the rat hole.

“I’m saying I’d like to make love to you.” She almost winced. By all means scare the bejesus out of a straight woman who probably thought homosexuality could be caught off toilet seats.

Chastity’s hand slipped from behind her head to mesh with its counterpart in front of her body. Color careened up her neck and stained her face hot pink. Something else happened, too. Beneath her sweater her chest rose and fell at double time, and her nipples made themselves known. This unexpected development struck Jude as promising.

“We’re strangers.”

“Not really,” Jude said.

“You’re a woman.”

Jude nodded. “Yep.”

“We’re both women.” Another stunning disclosure, and articulated with such breathless incomprehension Jude couldn’t help but smile.

“Is that a no I’m hearing?”

Chastity took a long time answering and managed to confound Jude when she said, “Not exactly.”

Jude waited, sensing there was more.

“I’d like to kiss you.” Mouth softly parted, she drew a nervous breath.

She would change her mind by the time they got there, Jude thought. All the same, she got up and went over to the couch and, taking Chastity’s hands, pulled her to her feet.

“Are you sure?” she asked her guest. It was always good to avoid the face slap straight women needed to deliver at times like this to prove they weren’t as curious as they might have seemed.

Chastity stepped into her arms and with a fetching shyness that made Jude want to carry her across the nearest threshold, she whispered, “Just a kiss.”

Jude didn’t spoil the moment by making an uncouth grab for her. Delicately she brushed her lips across Chastity’s, tasting sweet hazelnut and scary temptation. Releasing Chastity’s small, firm hands, she drew her into a lover’s embrace and kissed her again. This time it wasn’t delicate.

And this time Chastity kissed back.

*

Lone finished storing the C-4 in the underground bunker she’d built during the previous summer. She kept an assortment of provisions down here. It had crossed her mind to be prepared for trouble if necessary, so she’d stockpiled enough food and water to survive for three months. She also had body armor and a sensible collection of weaponry—an AK-47, an M-4, several spare .50 caliber assault rifles, an array of 12 gauges, and about ten thousand rounds of ammunition. It bothered her that some of her weapons were illegal, but she was a responsible gun owner and made sure her arsenal was secure. No child would ever find a way into her bunker and be able to do harm to himself or others.

She bolted the trapdoor and activated the shed alarm system, then carefully reviewed the tapes of her security cameras before returning to the cabin. When you undertook a mission like hers, you could not take any chances. The men who ran the evil alliance were smart. They had co-opted the major law enforcement agencies throughout the nation, systematically ridding them of independent thinkers and replacing competent leadership with yes-men.

Homeland Security. Lone almost choked over that oxymoron. The evil alliance didn’t want the homeland to be secure. They wanted fear and confusion so they could expand their powers without a nervous public noticing until it was too late. There was no question that they would come after her if they knew what she was planning, so Lone took no chances.

When she traveled to Texas to collect her purchase, she’d checked into the motel using Debbie’s name and paid for everything in cash. If anyone tried to trace her, the trail would lead to someone so obviously innocent the agents on the case would have egg on their faces and assume their information was flawed. She felt bad about doing that without Debbie’s permission, but keeping her in the dark was the best way Lone could think of to protect her. If Debbie knew absolutely nothing and had never been on Lone’s property, she could not be seen as an accessory.

Knowing Debbie as she did, knowing how pure of heart she was, and how honorable, Lone felt one hundred percent confident she would understand why this mission was essential once the time came to tell her. Debbie was very naive about politics but she had an open mind.

Lone locked the shed and strode across the walkway to her cabin, casting a quick glance around the strip of land that separated the two. This was fenced off because it was booby-trapped and she didn’t want someone innocently triggering a device. She made sure nobody ever came up here, but there was always the chance that a motorist would get lost on the back roads around this part of the valley and stumble on the cabin, seeking directions.

Collateral damage was an acceptable consequence if it were completely unavoidable and occurred in the execution of an operation. But Lone could control this environment to avoid needless risk to civilians. There was no excuse for laziness or behaving like a hothead, even when national security was under direct threat. She didn’t fool herself that she would be able to arrest the decline single-handed. But Operation Houseclean would be an important first step.

She went to her room, stripped off her clothes, and hung them in the closet. Her hand brushed the plastic storage bag that held Madeline’s favorite blue silk robe, and Lone lifted it down from its hanger. Unzipping it a few inches, she parted the plastic and lowered her face to the fabric, inhaling deeply.

She could still smell Madeline, and the sense memory triggered a rush of sorrow, mixed with guilt. That was about the recent changes. Lone hadn’t planned on becoming Debbie’s lover, even though she’d desired her nonstop almost since the day she saw her smacking that mountain lion over the head with a bike. However, she had a feeling Madeline would understand. It was hard to do what she was doing without a hand to hold in the dark, without the sound of another heart and the feel of a body accepting hers.

It wasn’t wrong to love Debbie just because she’d loved Madeline so deeply all of the years they were together. “I still love you,” she said as she zipped the bag closed on the scent of her past.

She owed Madeline so much for all she’d sacrificed: her marriage and financial security, the family and friends who’d disowned her when she divorced her husband for a woman, the life she’d left behind to live in foreign places so she could be near Lone.

Yet, in the most fundamental way, Lone had failed her. Madeline had not trusted her with the truth about how she felt, and Lone had not read between the lines. She should have known. She should have added the countless tiny clues together and seen the whole picture. But she’d seen what she wanted to see, just as America did. She’d kept her blinders on rather than be challenged by the truth.

Well, it was now time to resign from the ranks of the lemmings and confront the truth. The only way she could serve Madeline and truly serve her country was to take the fight to the enemy. A patriot was not silent in the face of power run amok; she was not complicit in the slow but sure erosion of everything her beloved land stood for at the hands of men who served only their own interests.

She refused to allow the death of Brandon Ewart to count for nothing. She refused to let her lover’s suffering and suicide go unanswered. She would complete her mission or die trying. There was no alternative.

Chapter Fifteen

Anasazi legend tells of a Spirit Horse that appears in dreams. Like a flashing beacon, it gallops ahead of the dreamer, then slows down, but not enough to be caught. The horse will stop only for a rider as untamed and honorable as he, so they can journey together through the unfathomable world of the unconscious.

Jude awoke with a thud, convinced she had shared her dreams with this elusive creature. She felt exhausted, almost stunned. Eyes closed against the remorseless tread of the sun, she rolled onto her side and let her mind slide back down toward the watery unconscious once more.

The rules of dreaming defied explanation. Wingless flight for humans was unremarkable. A fall from a great height broke no bones, but usually ejected the dreamer from her magical realm and she would find herself awake and staring at the dull walls of her bedroom, thankful for her survival but strangely disappointed. Jude often woke that way, wondering what she was chasing and why she leapt from buildings and cliffs.

She took a deep breath and sank below the surface. Sleep, seductive as a sea anemone, waited to enchant and paralyze her. Jude almost let go, but her eyelids were tickled open by the light dawning beneath them. She tried to remember her dream more fully, but only fragments remained—the faint drumming of hooves and the rush of wind in her face.

Just as she resigned herself to another half-formed memory, there was something else. A shimmer in the trees, a slender, pale-haired boy who waved as she went by. The dream took form as she called it to mind. She and the spirit horse had slowed and wheeled around. Then they went back for him.

“Ben,” she whispered with a jolt of knowing.

She lay there while the sun threw small patches of light on her wall until it resembled a page from a collector’s album, littered with gaps where postage stamps belonged. She’d seen the same pattern play over Mercy’s body on the rare mornings she stayed over, but Jude didn’t want to think about that now. She focused on the pillow next to hers. She could make out the impression of a head. Sliding her hand over the sheet, she detected warmth.

It wasn’t her imagination. Chastity had slept in her bed last night. With an odd shock of guilt, she threw the bedclothes off and padded to the window, raising the blind that carved the morning light into tiny sections to match its latticed border. The day was sunny and the surface of the snow glistened as it began to melt. The divers would go in again this morning, and the sunshine would help.

Jude had a feeling about today. The dream was an omen, she decided, the kind of dream Eddie House would consider significant. A tapping sound permeated her consciousness, and she crossed her room to crack the door. The smell of cooking assailed her, and she retreated and found a robe. Guilt prodded her again. There was no reason for it. So what if she and Chastity had fallen asleep in one another’s arms? They didn’t make love.

All they did was kiss. For quite a long time. Then, when the intensity had them both breathing hard, Jude moved Chastity onto her back and set about getting rid of the nightshirt. And it was over, just like that. She felt a telltale stiffening in the compact body beneath hers. A hand pressed against her chest.

“I can’t,” Chastity whispered in her ear. She was shaking. It wasn’t a tease. She was upset.

“What’s wrong? Tell me,” Jude whispered back.

For a long time Chastity didn’t answer and Jude could feel her fighting sobs. Her face was wet. Eventually she said despondently, “I think I’m like this because my husband used to rape me. I’m sorry. I thought it might be…different, with you.”

“You have nothing to apologize for.” Jude stroked her hair and kissed her forehead. “I’m sorry you went through that. I hate that what we did made you think of him. Even for a second.”

“He didn’t mean it abusively,” Chastity said in a sad little voice. “He was doing what was expected of him by the church. But it seems to have left me…messed up.”

“That can change. I promise you. Past experience doesn’t have to ruin intimacy.”

“It just did.” Chastity moved back a little and turned on her side to face Jude. Caressing Jude’s cheek, she said, “I liked kissing you.”

“I had a feeling about that.” Jude made her tone playful, wanting to reassure Chastity that everything was all right.

“I guess it’s a start. Thank you for not being angry with me.”

Saddened by the comment, Jude drew Chastity into her arms and bent to kiss the soft curls that tickled her cheek. The fact that Chastity, who was so confident and assertive on the outside, actually expected to be treated badly at a time like this was very telling. She was in her thirties, yet she had never been loved as she deserved; she had no idea what good sex was. And it sounded like she’d decided to experiment with Jude because she thought a female partner might not take her to that unhappy place. Jude could understand that, but she was not a sex therapist. Chastity needed help.

After that, they’d fallen asleep and Jude didn’t even hear Chastity slip out of bed. Pondering on the twist of fate that had seen Chastity arrive just as Mercy was making an exit, she leaned against her bedroom door, briefly enjoying the unexpected but delicious breakfast aroma, then retreated to her shower.

As she turned on the jets and adjusted the temperature, she felt pessimistic all of a sudden. How did this happen? All she wanted was for something to be simple. There was chemistry between her and Chastity; she wasn’t imagining that. Her body still felt tender from unrequited arousal, and every time she touched her clit as she washed, she wanted to come. Common sense had prevailed the night before, and she’d refrained from getting herself off while Chastity slept in her arms.

She supposed their odd sense of connection might be nothing more than the attraction of two hardworking women who were lonely and seeking a friend. Before they could consider the possibility of anything more than that, they needed to know whether Chastity was a lesbian. She kissed like one. But, given her issues, that could mean anything.

The soap bar shot from Jude’s fingers and slithered around the shower floor as she tried haplessly to pick it up. Her fumbling, she decided, came down to the edginess of her unfulfilled state. Maybe she would take care of herself before she got out of the shower. That way she would be able to spend all day in her jeans without whimpering over seam pressure.

“Do you need help?”

Jude jumped guiltily and resisted the urge to gasp, Yes.

Chastity stood on the other side of the glass door regarding her with placid good humor. In one hand she had a mug of coffee, in the other a towel.

“I knocked,” she said, blithely unaware, “but I guess you didn’t hear.”

Jude decided she had two choices: turn her back like an affronted nun and stick her hand through a gap on the shower door for the towel, or act like this was a locker room and she didn’t give a rat’s ass who saw her stark naked. She had a good body. More pertinently, a juvenile part of her wanted Chastity to see exactly how good a body. Maybe if she saw what she was missing out on, she would go home with something to think about. If she noticed.

“You work out,” Chastity said, rewarding Jude’s nonchalant exit from the shower with a candid interest that was encouraging, to say the least.

Jude took her time wrapping herself in the towel. She had a feeling from the dark gleam in Chastity’s eyes that every inch of her body had been recorded for later review. The thought converted her arousal to a hot longing she knew she couldn’t hide. She stared at Chastity and caught her breath sharply, stunned that she could be so turned on by a woman whose lack of experience was second only to a virgin’s.

Not her usual type at all.

“I’m sorry to intrude on your privacy.” Chastity handed Jude the coffee and started edging toward the door.

Jude said, “There’s no need to rush off now that I’m decent. Sleep well?”

“Very happily. You?”

“I overslept. That’s unusual for me.”

“You probably needed it.” Chastity toyed with the door handle. “Oh, there was a phone message for you. From the animal hospital in Grand Junction. Your cat is ready to be picked up.”

“Great.” Jude set the coffee down next to the wash basin and finished toweling off.

Chastity didn’t seem in any hurry to leave, now.

“Is Adeline up yet?” Jude wondered what the teenager was thinking, having awakened to an empty bed where her aunt should have been sleeping.

“Amazingly, she’s cooking breakfast. I think she’s trying to impress you.”

Jude laughed. “She said she wants to come out to the reservoir with me this morning to watch the divers.” They’d spoken about that, driving home the previous night. Adeline had insisted on riding with her, while Chastity followed.

“I’m not so sure about that.” Chastity frowned with adorable concentration.

She wasn’t beautiful, Jude decided; she was captivating. Neatly muscled. Physically confident. Petite and not especially curvaceous. She could have been dainty, but her grace and agility were underpinned by a sinewy strength that made her seem more solid than she was. She carried herself with the straight back and squared shoulders of a dancer. Basically, Jude felt like a big lug next to her.

“I suppose if she really wants to, there’s no reason why she shouldn’t.” Chastity finally resolved the parental dilemma. “It was her idea to come here.”

“You know, you don’t have to come with us,” Jude said. “It’s cold and not very exciting.”

“I’ll come.” Chastity’s chin lifted just enough to suggest she thought Jude might be implying she was a wimp.

Jude gave an it’s-your-funeral shrug and said, “We’ll go get my cat before we head out.”

“What was the problem?”

“Starvation and who knows what else. She was a stray. Arrived on the doorstep a couple of nights ago.”

“And you took her in. That’s so sweet.”

“Her name’s Yiska,” Jude said. “It’s Navajo for getting through the night.”

“I like that.” Chastity stared at Jude as if she wanted to say something, then gave a small awkward laugh and seemed to change her mind. “Well, I better go help Adeline. Scrambling eggs is not one of her gifts.”

“Wait.” Jude took a couple of steps toward her. “We don’t have to behave like strangers, you know.”

Chastity searched her face quizzically. “What are we, exactly?”

“Do we have to decide that today?”

Chastity gave a shy smile. “I’d rather not.”

“Good. Then let’s take a rain check and see what happens.”

A short while later, watching Chastity and Adeline at the table laughing and chatting and passing food around, Jude felt intensely aware of her solitary state. An odd yearning hit her hard in the belly. She missed family.

*

“There’s only one Sandy Lane and he’s male,” Arbiter said. “Honorably discharged from the First Infantry Division six months ago.”

“So we have a false name,” Jude concluded. “Or she’s making it up about the 82nd Airborne.”

“Do you think she’s the real deal?” he asked.

“If not, she could be with the Company.” It had crossed Jude’s mind that if she had to guess Sandy’s day job, CIA operative would be next in line after the military.

“We’ll go back three years and profile every female discharged,” her handler replied.

“She says she was in Kosovo and Afghanistan, and served two tours of duty in Iraq. That should narrow it down.”

“Are you inside her place yet?”

“I haven’t been able to locate it, sir. She’s flying below the radar. We could fit a GPS device to her vehicle but this is a paranoid subject. She’d find it, and I don’t want her spooked.”

“Low tech, then?”

“I’m afraid so.” Jude hoped she wouldn’t have to resort to dumpster diving, but even though the war on terrorism was conducted largely according to a high tech/low legality model, the average domestic terrorist used low-tech methods. Sometimes you had to beat them using their own game, so it made no sense to rule these methods out for intelligence gathering.

“Anything on the Stormtroopers?”

“Not as yet. The target dwelling is pretty well snowed in.”

“Just say when. We can have a SWAT team in there in two hours.”

“Roger that.” Jude glanced toward the veterinary clinic. She’d told Chastity and Adeline to wait in there where it was warm, while she made the call.

“How’s the kidnapping investigation coming?”

“We’re still a body short of a capital case.” Jude was surprised Arbiter had taken an interest. He saw her MCSO work as a necessary evil and seldom showed an interest in the cases she worked.

“Obviously it’s the boyfriend.”

“Obviously.” Was this a new national pastime?—guess which loser killed Corban Foley.

“Quite a creep show you’ve got going on,” Arbiter remarked. “You need that kook with the false teeth locked up before he muddies the waters any more.”

“You’ve lost me, sir.”

“Last night’s interview. Him and the village idiot, plus several of the dumbest hominids walking upright, trying to clear their names.” He actually let loose a laugh. “You better hope they never take the stand.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Put it this way—their lawyer’s the type who files his canines.”

Jude cursed and kicked some snow off the Dakota’s tires. Gums Thompson and Matt Roache had hired a lawyer. She knew that had to be coming, but she’d hoped for a slower response time from a pair of lost souls who weren’t exactly the local intelligentsia. She wanted to take another run at Thompson. He knew more than his mind was freeing up; she was convinced of that.

By now, Miller and Perkins would have lawyered up, too. Pratt could hardly contain himself over their engagement and Tonya’s baby announcement. Jude had needed to hold the phone several inches from her ear when they’d touched base before she set out for Grand Junction. People magazine was set to run Tonya’s triumph-over-tragedy cover story as soon as Corban’s body turned up. They were planning a big photo shoot at the funeral.

Pratt had been caught off guard when they phoned him to get a few comments on the record. He’d wanted to tell them to take a walk, he informed Jude, but instead he talked his way into his own insert with a head shot. She could tell he was feeling plugged-in.

Before he hung up, he warned her that reporters were hanging around the reservoir like maggots on roadkill. Everyone was expecting that body.

*

The reservoir was the biggest show in town, and Lonewolf had a front-row seat. One individual’s insular act of violence had served up the latest in a long line of real-life soap operas that would obsess the nation until a satisfactory climax was served up, preferably a death sentence.

Today’s juicy installment, the breathlessly anticipated discovery of a battered child’s body, was exactly the kind of spectacle that would send old-hat news stories packing. Who would want to know about Iraq, Katrina, or Dafur when they could wring their hands over an event that had everything going for it: no wider social consequences, no important lessons to teach, and no meaningful impact on anyone but the few players involved.

The Corban Foley Tragedy would occupy a thousand percent more airtime than the not-civil war in Iraq. After all, who gave a damn if Islamic fundamentalists would probably end up controlling the untapped Iraqi oil reserves that were earmarked to become America’s filling station in the coming oil crunch—the 2010 oil crunch the public wasn’t meant to hear about.

More to the point, who would buy advertising if news shows were reduced to discussing serious issues that involved numbers and politics and other such channel-surfing prompts? It would be the end of news broadcasting, and all those overpaid anchors would have to become reality-TV producers, which was, after all, what their skill sets equipped them for.

Lone didn’t have a problem with that idea. No one would know any less about the convergence of events that would soon send the American economy into free fall—a disaster wasn’t news until after it happened. Ask anyone if they knew how much of the world’s fast-diminishing oil reserves the Iraqis were sitting on. They had no idea and were usually amazed when Lone told them most of Iraq’s oil was still in the ground.

Of course, that didn’t mean anything unless you knew Iraqi oil represented fifty years of production and five trillion dollars in company profits. Annually, that was more than the biggest five oil companies made right now, combined. A motivation for invasion? Not according to evil-alliance propaganda.

Lone thought invasion priorities had to be fairly obvious when troops weren’t dispatched to the National Museum to secure the priceless artifacts of the cradle of civilization. Hell, the first building U.S. soldiers occupied was the Iraqi Oil Ministry, the place with the thousands of seismic maps that showed where Iraq’s oil was. It made perfect sense when you understood that the war had nothing to do with freedom or WMDs. Given that only twenty percent of Iraq’s oil wells had been drilled at all, and the big oil men had already agreed on how the concessions were going to be carved up between them, it was kind of important that they knew where the undrilled eighty percent were at—duh.

Lone sometimes thought everything would have been so much better if the evil alliance had simply told the truth. She, and most every soldier she knew, would still have followed orders from their commander in chief. If her superiors had said the mission in Iraq was to convert the nation into an American military base sitting on top of the world’s biggest oil reserves, she would have seen the sense in that.

She might have had a come-to-Jesus over whether it was worth dying so that a few oil billionaires could get richer, but orders were orders. She would have done her duty. But she knew Brandon Ewart would not have joined up for that. Brandon wanted to fight a noble fight that was about freedom for oppressed people and candy for grateful children. He was willing to die for his high ideals, and he was betrayed by men who had no ideals at all.

Once Madeline had realized that, she couldn’t live with it.

Lone jumped slightly as a hand touched her cheek.

“You look so sad,” Debbie said.

Lone focused on a diver emerging from the freezing water. They had to limit their immersion times so they weren’t exposed to hypothermia. Organizing her thoughts, she said, “I wish the world was a better place.”

Debbie’s small, trusting face lifted to hers, sweetly framed with chestnut brown waves. “You make my world a better place.” Her voice was husky with emotion.

“That’s what I’m here for.” Lone smiled tenderly at her and rearranged the muffler that protected her throat.

“I wonder if they’ll find him.” Debbie consulted the heavens. “It’s warming up and the snow is melting. That should make it easier.”

“Tell me something,” Lone allowed herself the question that had bugged her ever since they’d embarked on the search, “why do you care?”

Debbie’s bright hazel eyes widened with shock, then she frowned as if she’d been asked a trick question. Finally a sunny contentment settled on her features. “Because I’m part of the human race, and we’re all in this together.”

Lone thought about that as another diver went in, risking his health, and possibly his life, to search for the body of a child he didn’t know. She stared around at the crowds, not the media but the people. Deputies. FBI agents. Police. SAR teams. Volunteers who’d now spent three days combing a vast area, enduring extreme conditions, on the slim chance of finding this child.

They must all feel that way, she thought. Why didn’t she?

Gazing into Debbie’s eyes, she lost herself for a moment in the tranquil forest hues, then asked, “Do you hate anybody, Debbie? Really hate them?”

Debbie considered the question with obvious unease. “No. I guess I don’t hate anyone that much. Do you?”

Lone wanted to answer truthfully, but she knew Debbie would find the honest answer disturbing. She really did hate some people, so much that she wanted to watch them die. And she felt completely neutral about everyone else except Debbie. She wished others no ill, but she did not share Debbie’s sense of connection to strangers. She had once, but that seemed so long ago she could no longer recapture the emotion. Even if she could, it had no place to reside.

Noticing her lover had started to shiver, Lone drew her close, holding her from behind. Debbie rested back against her with a happy murmur.

In her ear, Lone said, “I love you, Debbie doll.”

Debbie wriggled so she could look up at her. “I love you, too,”

Lone could not resist stealing a quick, daring kiss. She needn’t have worried about anyone noticing this reckless public lesbianism. At the very moment her lips found Debbie’s, the crowd surged forward and shouts went up. Like a huge, self-cloning, armored centipede, the media crawled all over the banks of the reservoir, sunlight gleaming off cameras and tripods.

Everyone stared, transfixed, as a tow truck slowly hoisted a mesh basket from the murky water. Lone could make out a sledgehammer peeping through the webbing and what might be a black trash bag. A bloodhound standing on the bank emitted a long, low howl and lay down on its haunches next to its handler.

Debbie said, “That’s the dog we met, remember.”

How could Lone forget? Debbie had seemed enchanted by the K-9 handler, making Lone worry briefly that she’d fallen for a woman with bisexual tendencies. After a while, she understood that Debbie had seen something feminine in the deputy, and that’s what she’d reacted to. The man was ridiculously good-looking and oozed an innocent country-boy charm that made him impossible to dislike.

But that night as soon as she held Debbie in her arms once more, Lone knew she had nothing to worry about in that department. She’d found the perfect woman. Sweet and gentle, kind, honest, passionate, and loyal.

Once she’d completed her mission, she planned to take Debbie somewhere far away and build them a house where they would live happily ever after. She owned a hundred acres on a lake in Canada and had a large trailer on the property. No one would come looking for her there.

“It must be him,” Debbie said as the police herded the crowd back behind the barricades erected earlier, and an elegant blond woman was ushered through. Debbie seemed excited to see her, announcing, “That’s Dr. Mercy Westmoreland from Court TV.”

Sheriff Pratt then climbed onto a portable platform and read a statement he’d obviously prepared in advance, thanking the searchers and law enforcement professionals and asking everyone to go home. “I can confirm that we have located the body of a child,” he said. “But until formal identification is carried out, that’s all I can say, folks.”

Lone released Debbie as people started moving around them. “It’s over,” she said. “Let’s leave the experts to do their job.”

“Okay.” Debbie fell in step next to her and they started the long walk back to the parking area.

After a few minutes of silence, Lone asked, “Are you okay, baby?”

Debbie turned her head just enough so that Lone could see tears pouring down her face. “Why do people do these things?” she sobbed. “I don’t understand.”

“Of course, you don’t. How could you?” Lone reached for her and rocked her in a tight embrace.

Waiting for the weeping to subside, she thought about Canada some more. There was extra planning to do now that she had Debbie to take care of. Lone had already set up a second false identity for herself and even had a bank account in Toronto. She would need to do the same for Debbie. It was probably wise to take her across the border ahead of time.

Lone wondered how she was going to explain all that without disclosing sensitive information. It wasn’t as if Debbie would be leaving anything important behind. She wasn’t close with her family and she was in a go-nowhere job. They would pack up the cats and Debbie’s personal effects, and Lone would rent a van. If everything went according to plan, this time next year, they would be sitting on a patio overlooking a pristine wilderness and the FBI Director would be appearing in front of Congress to explain how come no one saw the assassination coming.

Chapter Sixteen

The death of children made no sense. Accidents happened. Lives were snuffed out as if the Fates demanded daily sacrifices and spun a roulette wheel to determine who would make them. Parents paid a terrible price for a moment’s carelessness or distraction, dooming themselves to an eternity of self-blame if they lost their child as a consequence.

Murder was something else. To kill a child was to steal so much future, to destroy so many dreams and hopes, to end innocence in the cruelest way. Every child’s body she saw filled Jude with despair, and the bodies of murdered children corroded her spirit in ways she could not fully comprehend. To weep for them was never enough; she had discovered that a long time ago. Revenge, the capturing of their killers, brought an end of sorts, yet no resolution. Justice was never done.

Jude knew survivors who had gone to executions believing the gnawing at their souls would end once they saw the death grimace of a man who’d killed their loved one. But they still awoke each day to a world haunted by the person their child could have been, by the unborn grandchildren they might have had, of infinite possibilities extinguished. Jude supposed she understood their pain better than most because of Ben.

Her brother had vanished when he was twelve. One day he was there and everything was normal; the next day he was gone and she was evicted from her world, never to return. From that day on, she’d occupied a new and different normality. Over the years, especially when she saw the remains of a child, Jude longed for Ben’s body to be found. At least with the finality of death came the legitimacy of formal grieving. A funeral. A place to go and leave flowers. A name inscribed on stone to wear over time, as she would.

Jude wanted bones to touch. She wanted to see eyes closed forever to this world and tell herself they were open to another, the better place people talked about. The problem with dead children was the utter senselessness of a life given, only to be taken before it could bear fruit.

She lifted the evidence sheet that covered the body of Corban Foley. There was no point fighting it, so she allowed her tears to fall. Soon, anger would come and displace this helplessness. Once more she would focus on the mechanics of the investigation, the goal of seeing a man in handcuffs awaiting the verdict of his peers, as if a child killer had peers among ordinary citizens who led ordinary, honorable lives. But in this moment all she could think about was how cold and alone Corban Foley was. Neatly arranged on the steel gurney, wrapped in the sheet, he looked like a forlorn gray doll.

Strangely, she could almost feel him in her arms, alive and warm, heavy with sleep and trust. She could smell freshly washed hair, milk, and baby skin. These were the earliest smells she could remember, the scent of her baby brother on their mother’s lap. She could still feel the curl of his tiny fingers and see his dark startled eyes, gray-blue like a storm on a lake.

Ben had been small for his age and Jude was tall. The last time she’d held him, she was ten and he’d fallen off his bike. She picked him up and carried him to the nearest patch of grass. It was weird—she’d thought then that it would be the last time she ever carried him, and she was right. His increasing size and boyish dignity meant he never let her baby him again after that day. Then he was gone.

Jude refastened the robe she was wearing and stretched latex gloves over her hands. She lifted a strand of hair from Corban’s right cheek and stared down at the wound it had clung to. There was blotchy bruising and loss of skin below the eye across the cheekbone. Someone had struck the child.

“Ready, Detective?”

Jude heard the swinging doors open, but she didn’t turn around. She had hoped the Montezuma County coroner would assign a pathologist from Durango to conduct the autopsy, but he’d been out at the site of a small plane crash when Corban’s body was discovered, and Sheriff Pratt had called the Grand Junction M.E.’s office for help. They could have sent someone whose voice would not make Jude’s heart beat faster, but instead they sent Mercy.

“Not in Canada yet?” Jude remarked. She had no idea why she said it. Mercy had told her she wasn’t going right away.

“I said I’d wait for that body.” As usual, Mercy could make scrubs and rubber gloves look sexy. “Besides, we’re not in any rush.”

“You seemed to be the last time we spoke.” Jude wanted the remark to sound flippant and good-humored. Instead her voice shook just enough for Mercy to direct a long, hard look at her.

“I wanted to tell you before you heard it from anyone else, that’s all,” she said. “I think I owed you that.”

Jude didn’t answer. All she could see of Mercy’s expression was an untroubled brow and a pair of arresting blue eyes gazing at her without a trace of languid sensuality. In the worst way, she wanted to drag Mercy out of the room and shake her. Kisses. She wanted those, and Mercy’s sounds and smells and reckless full-tilt surrender. Where had she gone?

The woman a few feet from her was not her lover; she was a stranger. It was as if they’d never touched, as if they knew little more than each other’s names. Was this how it would be? Jude suppressed the urge to yell Look at me! Remember how it was.

Didn’t Mercy miss her at all? She hunted for a sign, a softening of that cool gaze, a hint of the throaty tone that spoke desire, the subtle unnecessary brush of her body. Nothing.

Mercy glanced past her toward the diener, a lanky African-American man who worked in expressionless silence. He wheeled the gurney closer, drew the sheet back, and removed the bags from Corban’s hands. Mercy gave Jude a look of resignation and slowly paced around the body taking photographs.

Corban wore a pair of pajamas. His killer had put him into a black trash bag and dumped it in the reservoir weighed down with a sledgehammer.

Mercy glanced up at Jude and said, “Someone dressed him in the pajamas postmortem.”

She removed the garments, taking close-ups as she went. The diener bagged and tagged these and placed them on a nearby table. He then assisted Mercy as she took hair and nail samples, and they continued the painstaking collection of external evidence under an ultraviolet light. All the while Mercy spoke crisply into her voice recorder.

As they hovered like birds intent over their young, Jude stared up at the Latin inscription on the plaque above the door. Taceant colloquia. Effugiat risus. Hic locus est ubi mors gaudet succurrere vitae. Let idle talk cease. Let laughter depart. This is the place where death delights to help the living. The same maxim, or part of it, was to be found in almost every autopsy room she’d ever seen.

Eventually Corban’s body was x-rayed, weighed, measured, washed, and transferred to the autopsy table. Only then did Jude see that his right arm was splinted and bandaged from wrist to elbow and his body was covered with bruises. Corban Foley’s life had ended painfully and violently.

“It wasn’t a knife,” she noted flatly.

“No.” Mercy lifted his head a little and turned it away from Jude. The base of his skull seemed to have a hole in it. “It’s too soon to determine cause of death conclusively, but this is a fatal head injury. Fracture of the right occipital bone, extending medially into the foramen magnum.”

“That’s where the spinal cord goes?”

“Yes.” Mercy repositioned the body. “From the X-rays, it looks like he was beaten severely. The right arm is fractured in a couple of places, likewise several ribs. No callus formation. There’s extensive bruising to the trunk. In a child that age, there would have been internal bleeding. The skull fracture would have been associated with significant brain injury.”

Mercy’s attempt to put into laymen’s terms the nature of Corban’s injuries somehow failed to capture their true horror. Wanting to confirm her initial observations, Jude asked, “How would he have sustained injuries like these? An adult couldn’t do this with his bare hands, could he?”

“No. The nature and site of the head injury could only be caused by a direct blow. Probably a blunt instrument. I’ll be able to make some suggestions once we’re done here.”

“He suffered, then?”

Mercy stiffened as if the question jarred her from her clinical detachment. After a short pause, her brow was smooth once more and her voice even. “The bones of his forearm would have moved against each other and caused extreme pain. The splinting was the work of an amateur. Completely pointless for such a fracture.”

“A doctor didn’t do it?”

“Certainly not.”

Jude met her eyes. “I have to nail this monster. Do you understand?”

“You’ll have my report on your desk tonight. Allow a few days for toxicology, fiber, and DNA, as usual.”

Mercy picked up her scalpel, and the diener placed a small rubber body block beneath Corban’s back. His fragile chest lifted and his arms and head fell limply away from his body, as if an invisible thread had just tightened high above him, connected directly to his heart. In a moment he would be opened out like a book, for the story of his death to be read in his flesh.

Jude left the room before the Y-cut was made. She wanted to remember him exactly like that, like an angel had just plucked his soul from his body and would not let go until they reached the sweet hereafter.

*

People magazine paid for Corban’s funeral. In exchange for a premium burial package and impressive stone-angel monument, they had received exclusive print-media rights and a reserved area at the front of the church and next to the graveside so they could capture every compelling moment.

They’d also paid for the new outfits Tonya and her sister wore, and both women had received a makeover so they would look their best in the close shots. This had transformed the color of Tonya’s hair to albino white, and she was wearing it shorter and dead straight. Amberlee had gone with a radiant strawberry blond, in the same straight, layered style.

“CNN is in on the deal, too,” Dan Foley told Jude. He was out on bail and seeing a psychiatrist as a condition of his release. “They’ve got something going with People.”

“You’re not planning to do anything unwise, are you?”

“So long as I’m there when you guys put the handcuffs on that scum-sucker, I can behave myself. Just promise me you’re gonna wipe that shit-eating grin right off his face if you can’t shoot his balls off. While you’re at it, see if you can break every bone in his body.”

Jude said mildly, “I’m the law, not the Terminator.”

They both looked toward the doors of the Montezuma Valley Presbyterian Church where Wade Miller, in a rented suit, was accepting condolences like a grieving parent. Next to him, Tonya stood with her head down and a gold-embossed white prayer book clutched in her hands. The dress wasn’t what Jude would have chosen for a funeral. Close fitting, it was midthigh length and had a plunging V-neckline. Her sister had gone with a scoop necked, long-sleeved Gothic style velvet gown. She had tiny white rosebuds in her hair.

These were a theme.

For the viewing, Corban’s casket had lain several inches deep in them. As funeral service attendees filed in to the church, each was handed one to pin on a lapel. Corban’s face was printed on the ribbon that was used to fasten them. Tonya had her rosebuds artfully arranged around the wide-brimmed hat she was wearing. A filmy black veil hung from this, which seemed to annoy her. She couldn’t stop lifting it and glancing at herself in the huge polished brass urn on a pedestal by the door.

“Amberlee says they’re going to be in a TV movie about the case,” Dan said. “Can you believe it?”

“What else is she saying?”

Jude had sent Dan in to check out the lay of the land with Tonya’s sister, who seemed less than happy that she was not the center of attention in this media circus. Rekindling the tender feelings he and Amberlee had once shared, he’d proven very useful. Hearsay wouldn’t be much help in a trial, but it was good to know exactly what was going on in Tonya’s private life, and Jude needed to keep track of Wade Miller’s ever-changing versions of events.

“They hired the same lawyer Gums Thompson’s using.”

“Who’s paying for that?” Jude asked.

“Old man McAllister from the building depot. Heather Roache got him to hire the guy to clear Matt’s name.”

“Seems like there’s a conflict of interest.”

“Not any more. After Matt and Gums went on TV he got them another lawyer. He’s not charging Tonya and Wade a dime.”

Jude wasn’t surprised. Griffin Mahanes was a big-time criminal defense attorney from Denver. He would have arranged the People magazine deal and taken a piece of the action. No doubt he was content to wait and see what happened, poised to claim center stage if Miller ended up in a media-event trial.

“The funeral home did a good job fixing up Corban’s face,” Dan said.

He’d identified the body to spare Tonya. The first time she saw her dead son was at the viewing where he looked like a sleeping cherub, thanks to the embalmer’s art. Pratt hadn’t been happy about that decision, but he’d accepted that it was bad public relations to haul a weeping mother into the morgue to see firsthand how her child had died.

“You better get in there,” Jude said.

She was thankful Dan wasn’t going to be sharing a pew with Miller. He’d arranged to sit with Amberlee in the front row on the opposite side of the aisle, along with People and CNN.

Jude followed him into the small church to the strains of that infant-funeral standard, “Tears in Heaven.” She sat down in the back pew next to Pete Koertig and the sheriff.

Koertig leaned over and said, “Thanks.”

“My pleasure.”

“It means a lot.”

“You earned it.” Jude said.

Koertig wasn’t done. He got poetic. “You bust your chops and someone else always gets the glory. I don’t resent it. But when it’s a big-deal situation like this, you gotta know there’s some pride involved.”

“Damn straight,” Jude agreed.

“Guess what I’m saying is it was big of you.” He got choked up. “My wife and I want to invite you to our home for dinner.”

Jude kept the wince off her face. “That’s really thoughtful.”

“How’s next Sunday? She’s got a half-marathon on Saturday.”

“Sunday is good for me.” Jude wondered what she was going to talk about over a meal with two of the squarest people she’d ever met.

“Your fiancé is also welcome,” Koertig said awkwardly.

“We’re not engaged,” Jude said. “But I’ll certainly see if he can make it. Thanks, Pete.”

He nodded. “Fiancé—that was out of politeness. I know you haven’t said yes. Hell, the whole town knows.”

Because he obviously thought he’d been cute, Jude produced a small chuckle and tried for a coy shrug. “It’s a big decision,” she confided, knowing every word would be reported verbatim to the entire MCSO staff. She could tell from Pratt’s body language that he was listening in, too. She gave them something to think about. “Strictly between the two of us, I have a fertility issue. As you can imagine, that’s a concern.”

To her shock, Koertig shuffled his burly body around in the cramped space of the pew to face her earnestly, then seized hold of her hand. “I hope you don’t think I’m being forward.” His head went scarlet through the sparse blond of his buzz cut, and he lowered his voice to a fraught whisper. “But you can’t let that stand in the way of your happiness. My wife and I…” The whisper got even lower. “We’re similarly afflicted.”

Nothing if not resourceful in a crisis of deep-cover credibility, Jude said, “Then you understand my position. Bobby Lee wants children.”

“You haven’t told him?” Koertig let go of her hand so he could bite his nails, a habit he tried to temper with Control-It! Jude had noticed bottles of the nasty-tasting formula on his desk and in his truck.

“No,” she confessed. “Somehow, there never seems to be a good time.”

“Well, that’s getting off on the wrong foot.” Sheriff Pratt pushed Koertig back so that he could render his opinion. “Give the guy a chance. You don’t know how he’s going to react.”

“You’re right, sir.” Jude offered him the words he seldom got to hear from her. “I guess I’ve been putting it off.”

“If you want to talk to an understanding woman about this, my wife is a school counselor. Just part-time. She makes sure to be home for the girls.”

“That’s a very nice offer. I appreciate it.”

“Funny…” He shook his head in wonderment. “You can get it all wrong about people. I had you picked for one of those women who’d never have kids by choice.”

“It’s my height.” Jude said seriously.

“And the physique,” Pratt observed. “You’re not built like a…motherly type.”

This man was in politics.

Even Koertig looked embarrassed. “My wife is not voluptuous either, but she loves kids. She’s heartbroken thanks to our problem.”

Pratt gnawed on his mustache. “And then you see bozos like that, breeding by accident. Makes you sick. Is it my imagination or do those two women have different hair every time we see them?”

“It’s for the cameras.” Jude tried to shine a less judgmental light on the young women. They were two twenty-somethings swept up in a maelstrom they had lost control over. She couldn’t blame them for trying to look more sophisticated than they were. “I’m sure they must feel exposed having so much attention on them during this difficult time.”

Pratt snorted. “They’re sucking it up.”

“She won’t be posing like that after I drag her boyfriend away in handcuffs,” Koertig noted darkly. “While I think about it, are we all set for the cemetery?”

“I think it’s the best option,” Jude said. “If he makes a run for it, then we won’t have these crowds to deal with.

“If you want, we could work the arrest together,” Koertig said, clearly feeling the burden of his arresting-officer role. “I could restrain him while you cuff him.”

However it went down, it was Jude’s call. She was entitled to the glory-hog role if she wanted it. But the fact that she’d taken a pass in favor of her subordinate made Koertig walk tall. It sent the signal that he’d played a major role in putting the case together and was now getting the respect he’d earned.

Sure, Jude would have liked to shove Miller against a car and make the arrest painfully memorable for him, but they had national media rolling footage, so it had to be tidy. She didn’t feel bad. This wasn’t the only case she would ever see, but small town law enforcement officers didn’t get a big slice of the fame pie, and she wanted the whole team to bask in the moment.

“I’ll stay on the outer perimeter,” she said. “If he runs, I’ll take him.”

Someone in the pew in front of them craned around and said, “Shush.”

It was standing room only in the church, and the music got loud as the minister approached the pulpit.

“Don’t forget about dinner,” Koertig said.

Jude shook her head. “I can see we’ll have a lot to talk about.” That’s if she didn’t shoot herself first.

*

After the funeral service, close family departed in a fleet of black limousines the funeral director had brought in from Grand Junction and Durango. Jude and Koertig bypassed the funeral procession so they could get out to the Cortez Cemetery before they took retirement.

Corban’s final resting place was a premium plot surrounded by neatly manicured grass and softly waving trees. Media without the exclusive deals had the place staked out well ahead of time, forming a caravan of trucks with satellite dishes and cameras mounted on their roofs. Jude and Koertig picked their way across a snarl of cables past a set of makeshift platforms and squeezed between various crews. Spotting Tulley, Jude waved and he jogged over.

“Detective Koertig is going to make the arrest,” she said. “I want you close by to provide backup with several of the other deputies. Go talk to Belle Simmons. She was at the briefing you missed.”

Jude had assigned Tulley to take Chastity and Adeline sledding in the hills while the funeral service was underway. They were now back at her place, where Adeline was taking care of Yiska. The cat had assumed immediate ownership of Jude’s house from the moment they walked in the door three days earlier, and insisted on sleeping right on top of Jude every night.

Her presence brought with it another unexpected bonus. Chastity and Adeline had been so touched by her brush with death, they offered to extend their visit so they could care for her while Jude completed the vital stages of the homicide investigation. She had enough on her hands, Chastity said; this was one small thing they could do to help her bring Corban’s killer to justice.

Having them in her home was surprisingly comfortable. Jude had always had trouble sharing her living space with another person. In many ways she was happy in her solitary state, and she had the living habits to show for it. An empty refrigerator. Mismatched sets of cooking utensils. An oven that was never used and had a spider living in it.

Chastity had said very little about any of this. But when Jude arrived home after midnight, the day of Corban’s autopsy, there was hot homemade soup waiting for her. Afterwards, Chastity poured her a glass of scotch and sat with her in companionable silence, reading a book while Jude unwound. They didn’t sleep together that night, but had cuddled for a while in Jude’s bed until her frenetic exhaustion gave way to drowsiness.

The next day, Jude pulled an all-nighter with most of the team, collating and evaluating all the evidence and making the decision to arrest Wade Miller. Chastity and Adeline had happily occupied themselves exploring the Mesa Verde and spending time with Tulley, who showed them everything they would ever need to know about cadaver dog training.

Jude called Chastity periodically to make sure they were doing fine. She felt bad about neglecting her guests, and she also wanted to spend more time alone with Chastity, but it was impossible while they were putting the case against Wade Miller together. She’d napped for a few hours at the MDSO that night, not going home at all until the next morning.

When she got in, Chastity ran a hot bath for her and gave her a massage. This was a skill she’d acquired in her overseas travels, she told Jude, and she’d attended a couple of classes in Salt Lake City. She had good hands, firm and unhesitant.

“You could make money at this,” Jude said.

“Then I’d have to massage people I don’t care for.”

That made sense, and Jude had to admit, she wasn’t wild about the idea of Chastity touching the naked flesh of strangers. This jealous thought immediately triggered alarms. They weren’t even lovers and she was already getting possessive. The Neanderthal gene wasn’t going anywhere.

Later that morning, before Jude returned to work, they’d discussed Chastity and Adeline’s departure. They were planning to leave the day after the funeral. Yiska was doing well, Chastity needed to get back to her business, and Adeline thought it was time she made an appearance at school.

“Will you come visit?” Chastity asked.

“Would you like me to?”

“Yes.” As if she had to rush the words out before she changed her mind, Chastity said, “Jude…I’m going to see someone. I have a therapist, but we’ve never talked about my…problem.”

Jude marveled that she was paying a shrink to listen to her avoid her main issue. They probably had clients who did that all the time. Would she, herself, tell a guy in a white coat about her sexual-performance problems if she had any? Forget it. She frowned as it crossed her mind that Chastity might be doing this for some screwed-up reason like wanting to please her.

Apparently able to read her like a book, Chastity said, “I’m doing this for me. It’s time.”

“I hope it works out.” Jude felt she should say something more touchy-feely, but there was only so far down that track you could go without sounding like you belonged in California.

“I haven’t had a relationship since my divorce.” Chastity gave an ironic little smile. “Things can only get better.”

Jude watched the corners of her mouth quirk into tiny dimpled hollows. She had a feeling Chastity knew she was finding the conversation awkward. Struggling with squeamishness, she lurched into the deep and meaningful. “I’m happy you’re doing this. You matter to me, and I’d hate to see you cheated of a part of life that has so much joy to offer.”

“You’re saying I might like sex once I get beyond this?” Chastity interpreted.

Jude certainly hoped so. “You’re a sensual woman.”

“I was turned on when we were kissing.”

“That’s a start.”

“I think we should try again,” Chastity said.

“You mean, now?” Jude had been known to amend her priorities on carnal grounds, but it was out of the question today.

Chastity laughed softly. “No. A quickie on your sofa wasn’t what I had in mind.”

“Care to explain.”

“Let’s sleep together tonight and you can show me second base.”

“That won’t be onerous.”

Chastity grew serious. “I don’t know if I’m homosexual.”

“We can work on finding out.” Having had her ability to concen-trate obliterated, Jude said, “I have to go.”

Chastity walked her to the garage door and kissed her cheek. “Good luck.”

Feeling like a husband sent off to work by the little woman, Jude replied, “Call me if you need anything.”

There were worse things than coming home to someone, she re-flected. Today, after they had Wade Miller locked in a cell, she would head up a long, winding mountain road to a house that had the lights on because people were in it. She would eat a nice meal, tell Adeline a colorful version of the arrest, then take Chastity to bed and second base.

Which was not something she could afford to dwell on at this time. She focused on her surroundings as a steady line of black limos with tinted windows glided along the inner road to the parking area. The media had roused themselves from their coffee-drinking, casting disposable cups in all directions and talking into their headsets. Tulley and his team maintained a somber vigil about twenty feet from the grave, as if entirely as a gesture of respect. Around the wider perimeter, officers from the MCSO and Cortez PD kept order among over-eager reporters and defused incidents between competing television crews.

The minister proceeded slowly to the head of the grave, escorting Tonya. The coffin bearers followed, just two: Dan Foley and an older man Jude took to be his father. Everyone else gathered around in a semicircle. There were probably fifteen people, all dressed in black. As the minister read verses from the scriptures, Tonya stood with her head bent and her shoulders shaking. A few feet away, Amberlee constantly scanned the media crews to see if she was on camera.

They sang a hymn as the small coffin was lowered. It was, Dan had told Jude, the best children’s casket money could buy. He had expected to pay for it, but People picked up the tab. This was the moment. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust. Jude signaled Koertig, who moved around the back of the mourners to a spot just a couple of feet behind Wade Miller.

A terrible sob tore from Tonya as the minister uttered his final blessing. She began to sway, crying, “Oh, my God. What did I do?”

Someone yelled, “She’s fainting.”

The media swarmed, but before she could hit the deck, Amberlee released a shrill cry and took a dramatic dive after the coffin. In hog heaven, media anchors swept the mourners aside and nabbed key positions around the grave, yelling for their crews to capture the money shots of the day.

Behind the fray, the minister and several shocked family members dragged Tonya under a tree and set about reviving her. No one was filming her. On what was surely the worst day of her life, and the pinnacle of her fifteen minutes of fame, she had been upstaged by her sister.

Chapter Seventeen

Predictably, Wade Miller did not respond well to being arrested at the funeral. With the media already in a state of bliss over the coffin dive, he made sure they took home the added bonus of a grief-stricken, falsely accused man struggling with brutal police thugs.

Pete Koertig had done everything exactly to plan. He took Miller’s arm and told him he was under arrest and to behave like a man and avoid making a scene. At that time, the cameras were still trained on Amberlee, as she writhed on a casket too small to prop up 250 pounds of woman. This unhappy situation meant that her arms and legs were covered in earth by the time she was extracted from the grave.

Chagrined, she yelled at Tonya, “I hope you’re happy now.”

Tonya, equally distraught, responded, “You’ve spoiled everything. This was meant to be beautiful.”

Handcuffed, Miller broke away from Koertig and rushed to console her, hollering at Koertig, “You’ve arrested the wrong guy, you fucknut faggot.”

Koertig took Miller’s arm once more and said, “Please come with me, Mr. Miller. Your fiancée will be taken care of.”

“I didn’t do it,” Miller wailed, falling to his knees instead of walking.

Koertig tried to drag him upright without using undue force, but Miller let fly a volley of profanities and hunched into a fetal position. Koertig waved to Tulley and the other deputies, and they hurried over. The recent snowmelt had rendered the winter-brown grass wet and slippery, and by the time Jude reached them, the struggle looked like a hog-wrestling event.

Slathered in mud, Miller was yanked to his feet and dragged toward a police car, screaming about his innocence, protesting damage to his suit, and claiming police brutality. Jude didn’t even try to intervene. She figured Sheriff Pratt would seize the moment.

Tulley told her later that Miller cussed them out using words he’d never heard of all the way to the detention cells. He was now talking to his lawyer, who had been present at the funeral but had allowed events to take their course, doing nothing to advise his client. Jude had seen the guy, standing a few feet away in his shiny Italian suit and dark glasses, watching the unfolding events with reptilian anticipation. She figured he was hoping the police would rough Miller up.

The district attorney was planning a sit-down with Griffin Mahanes later in the day. He had assembled the primary investigators in a meeting room at the MCSO for a general debriefing in anticipation. They’d just watched the goat’s head gang, as they were now described by the media, proclaiming their innocence in the TV interview they gave in the preceding week.

The DA, Carl Schrott, said, “What you’re seeing here is a classic setup. Mahanes was hired to clear Matthew Roache’s name. He did so by having Hank “Gums” Thompson implicate himself. We can be certain this tape will be produced at trial.”

“It’s going to be obvious to the jury that Thompson is an unreliable witness,” Jude said. “Both the tape and his statements to police will be called into question, so I don’t see how this is a problem.”

“It wouldn’t be, normally,” Schrott replied. “But Griffin Mahanes makes his living distorting facts and selling juries. Trust me, he’s going to work this angle.”

“Are you saying we don’t have a death-penalty case?”

“Our first offer to the defense will be life without parole. We can ask for the death penalty, but there isn’t a judge in Colorado who’ll buy it. There’s no indication that the murder was premeditated.” Schrott fingered his modest gray tie while he waited for the unrest to die down.

He wasn’t a good-looking man, and his wavy brown hair was cut in a style straight out of a fifties high school yearbook, but he came across well to juries in the Four Corners. Locals tended to be suspicious of slick defense attorneys from far-flung cities, and Jude hoped this would buy them something at the Miller trial. One look at Griffin Mahanes and you knew Satan wouldn’t want his soul if he offered to sell it.

“I know how you all feel,” Schrott continued. “We’d have more to work with if there was evidence of long-term abuse, but the autopsy makes it pretty clear that the attack was not part of a pattern.”

Jude glanced around the eight lawmen present, detecting a mixture of anger and resignation. The DA was making sense, but everyone had read the autopsy report. Emotion was inevitable.

“I’ll be interviewing Mr. Thompson again today,” she said, wondering if it was even worth the risk of adding another bizarre statement to the mounting proof of his insanity. “Can I see that video again. The part where he’s talking about the hat.”

They all watched in moribund silence as Suzette Kelly asked in her whispery, sorority-girl voice, “Did you ever see Corban Foley, Mr. Thompson?”

“Only when it happened.”

“When what happened?”

“When I took the hat.”

“Which hat?”

Thompson became agitated. “I forget.”

“When did you see the hat?” Suzette pressed him, but his attention was wandering, and she had to swat his hand away when he reached for her pearl necklace.

At that point, Matt Roache interrupted, announcing, “That engagement ring she’s wearing—that’s the one I gave her. What does that tell you?”

Thompson picked up on the rhetorical question with a display of righteous disgust. “She’s a whore, and God doesn’t forget those who transgress.”

Suzette immediately jumped in, like the prime-time heavy hitter she was. “Have you transgressed, Mr. Thompson?”

“Yes.” He seemed to shrink in his chair. “And I was punished.”

“What did you do?” Suzette asked softly.

“I can’t speak of my wickedness without the elixir.”

The interview continued along these lines for several more minutes before Suzette seemed to realize she was never going to get the hoped-for murder confession from a man who seemed to be missing his frontal lobe.

Schrott turned off the recording and remarked laconically, “It’s almost worth getting the guy to confess so that we can prove why he couldn’t have done it and clear the air before Miller faces trial.”

“That seems like a desperate strategy,” Sheriff Pratt said.

“I wasn’t serious, sir.”

“Okay,” Pratt conceded, “but assuming you were, for the sake of a hypothetical discussion, would it work?”

“Let’s not go there. The people have a good case against Miller. We don’t need to play games.”

“I don’t suppose we can keep Thompson off the stand,” Jude said morosely.

“Not when Mahanes wants him for a star witness.”

“Perfect. We get a statement that proves Wade Miller is a liar and staged the crime scene, and they get a witness who makes Miller seem credible.”

“Yep. It sucks.” Schrott got to his feet. “I’ll keep you posted.”

Pratt waited until the DA had closed the door then muttered, “That sonofabitch Mahanes thinks he can laugh at us. Get out there and find us a star witness we can put on the stand. Make that sucker wish he’d never been born.”

*

Jude’s interview with Gums Thompson started out like a waste of time. He reacted with bewilderment to the “hat” questions and marveled when Jude showed him the relevant parts of the Suzette Kelly interview.

He didn’t remember talking to the emaciated anchor and wondered out loud if she had special arrangements with Satan by which men were rendered impotent if they touched her pearl necklace. Lately he’d noticed a malfunction in his member that made self-gratification impossible.

Jude offered a suggestion. “When you appear in court, you don’t need to mention that to the jury.”

“Am I guilty?” he asked, eyes darting to the door.

“No.” Jude said calmly. “Wade Miller has been charged with murder. You are going to be asked some questions at his trial.”

Comprehension dawned, and he ran his big pink tongue over his spaghetti-thin lips. “Because of the baby.”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t take him.”

“I know that, Hank.”

A flash of lucidity froze his wandering gaze. “He wasn’t there.”

Jude’s heart jolted. “What do you mean?”

“When I went back for the hat, he wasn’t there.”

Jude was almost afraid to ask another question in case she sent his train of thought careening away from its temporary stopover in sanity-ville. Cautiously, kindly, she echoed, “He wasn’t there?”

Thompson’s brow collapsed into tight furrows. “I took the hat then.”

Jude waved the deputy at the door over and instructed him to go get the two hats they had in evidence. She had shown Thompson the photographs previously and drawn blank looks.

While she was waiting, she said, “Stay with me, Hank. You’re doing fine. Just a few more questions.”

The deputy returned with the two bagged hats, and Jude placed them in front of Thompson. He snatched up the ball cap the goat had been wearing and cried, “You found it.”

“Yes.”

“He wanted to keep it to remember that goat by,” Thompson blurted. “But I had already cast it in. Now, Heather won’t talk to me.” He clutched the evidence bag to his chest. “Can I take it to her so she knows of my service?”

“I can give you a photograph of the cap, if you want. Heather likes photographs.”

Mollified, he set the cap back on the table and proceeded to poke around inside his mouth, extracting food from his false teeth.

Piecing his ramblings together, Jude asked, “Is that why you went back? You wanted to get the goat’s cap for Matt because he was angry at you?”

Thompson nodded weepily. “He threw my elixir out the window. He said I was undeserving.”

“What a wicked thing to do.” Jude humored him without mockery. “Is that when you went back?”

“No. He wanted to go home.”

“I see.”

“He wouldn’t let me in. He said, no hat, no Heather.”

“What did you do?”

“I tried to find the elixir, then I went back to the she-devil’s house to seek the minion’s hat.”

Jude ran the timeline. Miller and Thompson vandalized the house at around 11:30 p.m. then drove back to Heather Roache’s home, about twenty minutes away. Thompson then spent time looking for the discarded tequila. By her estimates he must have been back at Tonya’s place at around 12:30 a.m.

“What happened at the she-devil’s house?” she asked.

“I went inside.”

“Did you climb in a window?”

He shook his head and confided, “I found the magic rock that conceals the keys.”

“So you opened the door with a key?”

“I was fearful, but I asked the Big Guy to shine his light upon me and the house was filled with radiance.”

Jude recalled that the hall lights came on automatically when the front door was opened. “Where did you go then?”

“To the bathroom. I couldn’t hold it any longer.”

Jude pictured the befuddled Thompson relieving himself, then wandering directly across the hallway. To Corban’s bedroom. Did she really want to put him in there on the record, by his own admission? “And after that?”

“I looked in the first room. It wasn’t there.”

“Can you tell me about that room?”

“It had a small bed and,” he wiggled his fingers above his head, “music from the angels.”

The baby mobile that hung from Corban’s ceiling. “Did you see who was in the bed, Hank?”

With a quick nod, he said, “Nobody. I was going to lie down on it, but that’s when he came back.”

“Who did?”

“Wade Miller, the jerkoff. I heard his truck, so I ran.” He pointed at the elf hat on the table next to the cap. “This was on the ground, and I wanted to have it so I could show Heather. But he stole it from me and reviled me with his demon’s tongue.”

Jude thought she followed his twisted reasoning. He was trying to get the ball cap back for Matt because Matt was threatening him with limited access to Heather if he didn’t. Then, having failed, he thought the elf hat he stumbled on in the driveway would at least serve as a souvenir of his brave entry into the she-devil’s home. He imagined the adored Heather would be impressed by this.

“What did you do then?”

“I went far away and cleansed myself of his unclean touch.”

“Smart move.” Jude rested back in her chair and studied her star witness, the man who could testify that Corban was not in his bed when Miller claimed he’d left him there. The man who made it impossible to believe that Wade hadn’t seen the vandalism until much later that night.

He’d chased Thompson from the property. He must have seen the damage at the time. But he’d said nothing about encountering Thompson. Jude found that puzzling. He was bound to have told Griffin Mahanes, and now Gums Thompson had put himself in Corban’s room.

Her heart sank. This was going to come down to the word of a mental patient against the word of a violent loser. She knew who she believed. But by the time Mahanes was done making Thompson twist in the wind, she had no idea what a jury would think.

*

Tulley removed his gum and was about to stick it in the ashtray on his desk when Miss Benham waved her forefinger at him. Meekly, he wrapped it in a shred of paper and flipped it into the trash. Hugging the phone against his shoulder to free his hands, he set about cleaning his sticky fingers with a Wet Wipe.

At the other end of the phone, his ma said, “I was thinking, if I had one of them vacuum machines I could package up our bacon with a fancy label and sell it at the farmers’ market.”

“Ma Tulley’s home cured,” Tulley mused. “Your own brand. That’s smart thinking.”

“Since your brother had his accident last year, we gotta come up with something. That missing testicle’s ruining his marriage.”

Tulley wasn’t sure what the branded bacon had to do with his brother’s marriage, but he figured his ma would get to that. “What’s the problem?”

“Well, turns out it didn’t take when they sewed it back on, and now they’ve had one of them prosthetic ones made specially. But Marybeth says it’s too hard and she don’t care for it in the act of love.”

“Can’t he take it off when they’re going at it?” Tulley gave Miss Benham an apologetic look.

“It’s an implant. Damn fool I brought up for a son.”

“Tell him I’m real sorry.”

Miss Benham tapped her watch.

Tulley said, “Ma, I gotta go.”

But as usual, she was planning to hang up in her own good time. “Think they’re gonna hang that baby killer?”

“Not so far as I heard. For a killing to be a hanging offense there has to be premeditation.”

“An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, and that’s all I’m gonna say about it.”

Tulley thought, praise the Lord.

She said, “You getting out here again some time before the Second Coming?”

It was the first time his ma had invited him home so warmly. Amazed, Tulley said, “I got some vacation owing to me. I can come if you want.”

“Don’t do me any favors.”

Something in her tone made Tulley forget himself and ask, “You okay, Ma?”

“What the heck are you implying?”

“Nothing. Just asking.”

“Never been better,” she sniffed.

“Alrighty then.” Tulley wanted to ask her if she’d been to the doctor recently for a checkup. At her age it seemed like a good idea. But he knew what she’d have to say about that.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” she said. “Get on back to work.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

The dial tone hummed before he could say good-bye, and Miss Benham asked, “How is she doing?”

“Okay, I think.” Tulley put a harness on Smoke’m and fed him a couple of liver treats. “My brother and his wife are having marriage troubles, and that’s got her all worked up.”

Miss Benham handed him his hat and coat. “You’d best get going. You know the detective doesn’t care to be kept waiting.”

Tulley could immediately feel Jude’s sleepy greenish eyes boring holes in him. Even after two years of working with her, he could never tell exactly what she was thinking. She kept a straight face most of the time, and she didn’t smile much. These days he didn’t get nervous around her like he used to, but he saw the effect she had on others. He hoped she wouldn’t be in a pissy mood this afternoon. He was still feeling stoked after grabbing hold of Wade Miller’s ankles so he couldn’t go anywhere, during the arrest.

With a grin, Tulley headed for his Durango and loaded Smoke’m into the back. Happy to have another assignment so soon after they made the front page during the Corban Foley search, he said, “Okay, boy. Let’s go kick some felon butt.”

*

“You’re ten minutes late,” Jude said when her subordinate finally rolled up. “And we don’t have much time. The snow’s melted and someone’s going to find our evidence. Probably Griffin Mahanes.”

Tulley bailed out of his vehicle, looking like he was in a daydream. It had gone to his head to have a television producer come up to him after the brawl with Wade Miller in the cemetery. The guy told Tulley how pretty he looked on camera, and asked him if he wanted to audition for an exciting new series.

Jude said, “I hope you’re not planning to call that producer. He’s just trying to get into your pants.” It was time Tulley learned how the world worked.

He slid his hand over his coal black cowlick and stared at her blankly. “What producer?”

“Forget it.” Jude stared past the police tape to Tonya Perkins’s house, aware that she was aggravated and taking it out on him. She softened her tone. “You’re looking for two things. A key and a bottle of tequila. Mr. Thompson believes he may have discarded both of these items somewhere in the immediate vicinity.”

She handed him a piece of Gums Thompson’s shirt, which he’d helpfully agreed she could cut off. Tulley promptly sniffed it.

“You might want to try that out on him,” Jude suggested dryly, motioning toward Smoke’m. As usual, the hound looked like he’d been rudely awakened from the sleeping state he preferred.

Snickering, Tulley tightened the harness and let Smoke’m take the scent. “Chastity and Adeline still visiting with you?” he asked.

“They’re leaving tomorrow,” Jude said without inflection.

“That’s a shame.” He looked thoughtful. “Chastity’s real nice.”

“Yes.”

“If she was staying longer, I was going to ask her out on a date. We’ve got some things in common.”

Jude kept a straight face. Tulley was always talking about dating some woman or another, and then did nothing about it. Bobby Lee, who had all but given up on the idea of seducing the deputy himself, called him a disgrace to handsome men.

“Things in common,” she repeated. “I’m afraid to ask.”

Tulley looked a little huffy. “She loves dogs.”

“That’s it?”

With a noisy sigh, Tulley gave Smoke’m another hit of eau de Gums Thompson and said, “You expect a lot from people, ma’am.”

She clapped him on the shoulder. “Tulley?” She did her best to reproduce Arnold Schwarzenegger’s accent, “Talk to the hand.”

Chapter Eighteen

“Detective Devine, what a surprise.” Debbie Basher opened her door wide and invited warmly, “Please come in.”

Jude smiled. “I was on my way back to work and I thought I’d drop by and say hello, since we’re almost neighbors.”

“Well, that’s nice of you.” Debbie clasped her hands together at her chest like a happy child. “Congratulations on the arrest. We thought he was the one, at least Lone did. Right from the start.” Observing Jude’s slight incomprehension, she said, “Sorry, that’s Sandy’s nickname. Lonewolf. Lone, for short.”

Lonewolf. Jude could almost hear Arbiter’s mind working. The nickname was a favorite of extremists all over the country.

Debbie gestured toward the sofa. “Have a seat. Can I get you something? Coffee?”

“Just what I was hoping you’d say.” Jude gave her a look of warm appreciation. “Sandy not here today?”

“No, she had some work to do. The blizzard brought a tree down on her property.”

“I thought she lived here.” Jude made as if she were surprised. “Easy mistake. You two seem so much at home with one another.”

Debbie blushed. “So, you know…I mean, you’re…”

“Uh-huh,” Jude admitted. “But in my line of work, in this part of the country, I don’t advertise it.”

“Me, either.” Debbie moved into the kitchen and started making their coffee. “I’d lose my job, for sure. My boss is a nice lady, but you know how it goes—gay is an abomination.”

“Yeah, there’s plenty of that attitude round here. Good folk, but knee-deep in fear and ignorance.”

“It’s funny, at the search, people were so nice to us.” Debbie sounded wistful. “I started thinking maybe I’m being too careful. But then I realized—it was because everyone thought Lone was a man.”

Jude could see how that might happen. Lone would get called “sir” wearing a dress. She said, “Well, I’m sorry she’s not here right now. I was hoping to talk with her about something we were discussing the other day.”

Debbie brightened. “I have an idea. Why don’t you come have dinner with us one night? I’ll cook up a storm, and you and Lone can talk about whatever butches talk about when you’re by yourselves with an unlimited amount of beer.”

Jude laughed with genuine pleasure. It made a nice change not to have to be guarded about her sexuality. She wished she could get to know a few more lesbians around the area, but showing up at the local chapter of GLAD would attract more attention than she needed, and in this close-knit community, gossip traveled like wildfire. She wasn’t willing to jeopardize her FBI assignment by being outed.

“Dinner sounds like a great idea,” she said. “Want to pick a night now?”

“Sure.” Debbie poured their coffee. “I’ll call Lone and see when she’s free.”

Jude got to her feet and offered, “I’ll take those.” She made a point of looking Debbie up and down, just enough to communicate a sensual awareness of her.

Debbie got flustered and dropped her cell phone. Jude picked it up and stood just close enough so that Debbie would be aware of her height and strength, but not so close she would come across as disrespectful. Reaching past her, she picked up the coffee mugs.

Debbie gave a nervous laugh like a hiccup and focused on her phone once more, but instead of retreating politely while she dialed Lonewolf, Jude took a sip of coffee like she couldn’t wait. Then she put one of the mugs back on the counter and distractedly patted her pockets as if her pager was going off.

With an apologetic smile, she produced her cell phone and mouthed in an undertone, “Excuse me a moment. I need to pick up a couple of messages.”

As she moved away, she entered the number she had just observed Debbie dial and hit “save.” Then she went through the motions of clearing her messages while Debbie spoke to her paranoid partner.

Sure enough, Debbie’s tone started out animated, then she sounded a little startled and said, “She’s right here, having coffee.”

Jude put her cell phone away and said, “Want me to talk to her?”

Debbie hesitated, but she was the kind of woman who respected authority figures so she caved right away, blurting chirpily, “She wants to say hello, honey.” She quickly passed the phone to Jude.

“Sandy. Hey,” Jude said. “How are you doing?”

“Good.” Sandy wasn’t giving much away. “I saw you arrested the boyfriend.”

“If you could call it that.”

Sandy thawed slightly. “Don’t you want to smack guys like him in the mouth?”

“In the worst way. I guess you’ve seen your share of them, too.”

“It’s one thing when they don’t speak the language and get themselves confused. But your baby butcher was working it.”

“Wall-to-wall TV reporters,” Jude remarked. “I’ll tell you all the details next week. Your lady is mighty persuasive, by the way.”

Sandy was trapped and she knew it. “Yes. She said something about dinner.” She couldn’t have sounded less enthusiastic.

“I don’t get home cooking very often,” Jude continued, acting oblivious. “So it’ll be a real pleasure to share a meal with you folks. Thanks for the invitation.”

Try getting out of that one. She waited for Sandy to find an excuse not to break bread with her, but after a beat, their subject said, “How’s next Friday?”

“I’ll be here.”

They said perfunctory good-byes, and Jude returned the phone to Debbie. “We’re on for next Friday.”

“That’s great.” Debbie beamed.

She was one of those women who glowed from inside, Jude thought. She wasn’t good-looking in an obvious way, but she had the same appeal as a baby animal, all sweetness and vulnerability. She would never be able to hide her fear or guilt if she was involved in something illegal or if she knew her lover was. In either scenario, she would not have invited a cop to dinner.

Jude felt angry with Sandy, then. What was she thinking placing this woman at risk? Foraging in the recesses of her mind, she tried to come up with alternative explanations for the C-4 purchase. It could be entirely innocent. The woman had property. Maybe she was planning to blast an unwanted building or part of a hillside. Maybe she was simply a survivalist with a thing for weaponry.

Whatever she was up to, Jude was determined to be certain of her facts before she made a move. She wasn’t going to jump to conclusions just because Sandy Lane was an intense individual with the kind of profile that could fit a domestic terrorist—ex-military, a loner, paranoid, antisocial. She had more pressing priorities, like finding out if the ASS was ninety percent hot air and wishful thinking, or if they posed a serious threat.

Now that the snows were melting and March was moving toward April, it would be viable to access the remote location their operations had been traced to. Jude anticipated a rundown shack complete with a stockpile of anti-Semitic literature, Nazi memorabilia, and unsophisticated half-built bombs.

Meanwhile, she would take her time getting to know Sandy and Debbie. She would build trust and gain access to the lives of these two women so that she could observe patterns. That way she could detect the tell-tale signs that signaled a plan underway. Now that she had a cell phone number for Sandy, she would be able to track her location and conduct some basic surveillance.

Sandy didn’t strike her as a woman who rushed into anything, so Jude felt time was on her side. This mattered, because if the couple was involved in something stupid, she wanted the chance to change their minds. Maybe she could steer Sandy in a different direction before she could destroy what they had with each other.

*

Quietly, Chastity closed the door to the guest room. “She’s asleep.”

Jude glanced at the suitcases next to the garage door, a gluey sensation in her stomach. Tomorrow she would be by herself again, and she was kidding herself if she thought it was going to feel good to watch Chastity and Adeline drive away. Yet part of her was relieved.

She had so much to think about in preparing for Miller’s trial, she would be lousy company. Even Yiska would probably abandon her bed in disgust.

“It feels strange to be leaving,” Chastity said as she moved across the living room toward Jude.

“Come back any time you want,” Jude invited. “Next week is open.”

Smiling, Chastity reached up and pulled the bands from her hair, allowing her copper curls to tumble down around her face. “Has it really been okay?”

“It’s been better than okay.” Jude allowed herself an eyeful of Chastity’s breasts. The thought that she would soon get to caress them made her breathless. In fact, the thought of touching Chastity anywhere made her feel like a high school kid fantasizing about the class hottie she would never have.

“So, it’s just us, now.” Chastity advanced on Jude. Her dark eyes gleamed and her expression was playful. “Feeling the pressure?”

Jude hooted with laughter, then forced a solemn tone. “Well, I’m aware there’s a lot riding on my performance. If it all goes south you could be scarred for life, and I’ll spend yet another horny night feeling sorry for myself. No pressure.”

“I’ve been worrying that I set my sights too low,” Chastity confided. “Second base. It’s not very adventurous, is it?”

Jude couldn’t resist. “Well, that depends on who you’re playing with.”

Chastity’s small gasp made her mouth part deliciously. “Come here and say that.”

Jude grinned. Chastity was right in front of her, so close that her jeans were brushing against Jude’s legs. All Jude had to do was reach out and she could unbutton her neat dove gray shirt. While she was contemplating that possibility, Chastity pushed her firmly into the sofa cushions, slung one leg over Jude’s, and lowered herself to sit astride her.

“I can see that you’ve given this some thought,” Jude said, impressed by the seductive move.

“Only all day.” Chastity brushed her fingertips slowly past Jude’s lips. “I did some reading.”

“Really?”

“You have some very informative books.”

“You checked out my bedroom bookshelves?”

Jude tried not to be horrified. Somehow, the thought of Chastity flicking through lesbian erotica was far more disturbing than it should have been. She wondered why. Chastity was not a child. If she was alarmed by something she read, she could close the book.

“You sound shocked.”

“No. Just surprised.” Jude was aware of an increasing ache in her groin and the tantalizing pressure of Chastity’s weight. Huskily, she inquired, “Is this your norm? You don’t do things by halves?” A compelling thought, on many levels.

“I was a late starter,” Chastity murmured, her breath dampening Jude’s cheek, “So I have this thing about making up for lost time.”

Jude placed her hands around Chastity’s waist and drew her firmly down, spreading her legs a little wider. The stifled gasp she heard made her ache even more, and she slid a hand between them, easing it beneath Chastity’s crotch. Slowly she worked the knuckles back and forth.

“Does that feel good?”

Chastity’s night-dark eyes met hers. She whispered, “Kiss me.”

They moved together, their mouths caressing, gently teasing, not really going there. Jude had no idea how long she could keep this up. Holding herself in check was going to make her crazy. She thought maybe two more minutes would be a safe bet, then she would have to take a cold shower or she would totally blow it.

She kissed Chastity with a little more intensity and moved her hands down over her hips and around to her great little ass, exactly the kind she liked to spank occasionally. Trying not to go there she continued the gentle caresses, waiting for a cue from Chastity that she wanted more.

But slow, subtle buildup didn’t seem to be working as it should. Chastity was returning her kisses and she seemed aroused, yet Jude had the impression she’d be happy if they made out on the sofa for the rest of the evening.

Experimentally, she parted Chastity’s mouth with her tongue and lifted a hand to one of her breasts, taking its modest weight in her palm and squeezing. Chastity responded by kissing her more urgently and bucking slightly against Jude, and in that moment the second base plan was off the menu entirely. Months without sex had made gradual exploration torture instead of the erotic fun it was meant to be. All Jude could think about was standing up with Chastity’s legs wrapped around her, finding the nearest wall, and fucking her senseless. What happened to finesse?

Jude’s legs felt weak, but she stood up anyway, holding Chastity close until her feet hit the floor. She was promptly flooded with uncertainty instead of arousal. If she made love to Chastity now, in this state, she would scare her.

“What is it?” Chastity touched her face. “Did I do something wrong?”

“No.” Jude took a step back. “I think we’re going too fast.”

Chastity’s hand slipped into hers and she tugged Jude toward the bedroom. “We can slow down.”

They made it inside the door. Chastity reached for the waistband of Jude’s pants and unbuckled her belt. Jude cursed the tiny buttons that kept the gray shirt closed. She couldn’t believe she was fumbling, trying to squeeze them through the holes. Chastity saved her the trouble, pulling the shirt up and over her head in a single fluid motion.

They stared at each other, both breathing hard.

Jude said, “I can’t do the second-base thing.”

“I don’t care.” Chastity was so close Jude felt her shiver. “I just want you.”

They systematically discarded their clothes until they stood naked before one another. Chastity placed a fingertip on the hollow at the base of Jude’s throat and tentatively stroked. Then she drew Jude’s head down to hers and they kissed again, this time with greedy intensity.

As she lost herself in Chastity’s mouth, Jude walked her to the edge of the bed and lowered her onto the pale sheets. “You’re beautiful,” she said. “And I have to make love to you. Please don’t say no.”

Chastity gazed up at her and opened her arms. “Come here.”

Chapter Nineteen

“We should be selling tickets to this,” Sheriff Pratt grumbled as he and Jude fought their way through a swarm of reporters to the relative haven of the Montezuma County Courthouse.

Wade Miller’s trial had now occupied the court for two weeks, which was a long time by local standards. Jury members were complaining about the heat and the food. The judge had thrown various people out of the courtroom: friends of the accused who tried to slip him a bottle of beer, outraged citizens calling for a hanging, and vocal supporters of the goat’s head gang who kept leaping to their feet with placards that announced Gums Is Innocent. Jude thought Griffin Mahanes had probably hired these groupies.

Mahanes held court with the media on a daily basis, making the usual accusations: that police had a vendetta against his client and had ignored witnesses who might have implicated other potential killers; his client had been framed by planted evidence; and no one knew where Corban had been murdered.

Which was, as far as Jude was concerned, the biggest weakness in the people’s case. They hadn’t located the crime scene or clothing that would conclusively tie Miller to the killing. They also had no murder weapon. The sledgehammer used to weigh Corban’s body down was not the weapon, and its owner was unidentified.

To get a conviction, they had to win the jury because they were relying on a combination of circumstantial evidence and the obvious guilt of the defendant. If the jury believed Miller, they would not convict. If they believed Gums Thompson, they would. And today was the day Jude and the sheriff would know. Thompson was taking the stand, the star witness for the prosecution. They hadn’t found the key or the tequila bottle that would support his story, and  Jude hoped this would not prove too costly.

Jude had heard that Mahanes was planning to put Miller on the stand when the defense presented their case, a decision that surprised her. She’d been fairly certain he wouldn’t risk exposing his client to a probing cross-examination that was bound to expose him as lying through his teeth. But she figured he would want the jury to compare both men. Miller would be coached extensively, of course. He already looked like a blind date most women wouldn’t hide from. The mullet was gone and so was the black hair dye. Mahanes had dressed him like a schoolteacher.

Jude cast a sideways glance at Pratt and found him looking distinctly ill at ease. “You were right,” he said. “We should have waited.”

Jude didn’t comment. She was still seething over the rush to trial. Pratt had used all his considerable political muscle to obtain an early court date so they could get a guilty verdict in time for his re-election. Griffin Mahanes had played ball, falling over himself to make it easy for them. Jude would have done the same in his shoes. Why give the prosecution time to build a stronger case?

Throughout the trial, she and every other detective working the case had continued to chase every lead that could lead them to a murder site. This meant investigating the tips of half the crazies in the region, interviewing everyone they could track down who had ever had a beer with Miller, and canvassing door to door through most of the streets in Cortez. They had found more dead dogs and sorted through more bags of discarded clothing than she wanted to think about.

It confounded her that in a small town environment like this one, where every member of the public was obsessed with the case, a child could have been murdered bloodily and no one heard or saw a thing. She supposed there were a million places Wade Miller could have gone to do it. The Four Corners was a wilderness. One day, in years to come, hikers would probably find the rusted crowbar Mercy had flagged as the most likely murder weapon, and they would get the proof they needed long after the fat lady had sung.

Pratt mumbled something and stared past her toward a small crowd of people sweeping through the foyer. At their center was Griffin Mahanes, a man who dyed his light brown hair silver for added gravitas when he was appearing in the courtroom. This morning he was wearing a high quality but unpretentious navy blue suit and a conservative, almost dated, striped tie. He’d swapped his usual black cowboy boots for a pair of brown ones that had seen better days.

“His own family couldn’t trust him to play Santa on Christmas Eve,” Pratt commented in disgust.

Jude said, “I hope to Christ Gums can remember what he’s supposed to say.” Her cell phone was vibrating and she excused herself to take the call.

“I called to wish you luck.” It was Chastity, sounding calm and happy.

“Hey, how are you?”

“We’re doing fine. Adeline wants a tattoo.”

Jude laughed. “Welcome to fifteen.”

“You’re still coming, aren’t you?”

“Of course. Just as soon as this fiasco is over.”

Despite their best intentions, they hadn’t seen each other since the visit in March. Four months felt like a long time. They spoke often, and Jude felt they were building a real friendship, but she had no idea where it was headed. And on some level, it hurt that Chastity hadn’t come back to the Four Corners to see her.

She knew it was impossible for Jude to get away. The investigation had consumed her, and she’d been preoccupied with her ongoing investigation into Sandy Lane. Arbiter was also on her tail about the ASS. So far, she had covertly entered two properties owned by the men in question, and the only biological agent she’d uncovered was a few sacks of chicken shit. With the Telluride film festival only six weeks away, they were no closer to confirming the credibility of the threat, and Arbiter had just ordered a bunch of agents into the area to focus on the case.

To be fair, Chastity had planned to make the trip several times, but something always came up. Jude wanted to believe that they were simply trapped by difficult circumstances and these would change once the Miller trial was over. She had promised to make the trip to Salt Lake City, and they had agreed to behave like adults in the meantime.

But Jude couldn’t shake the lingering suspicion that Chastity had backed off the moment their connection became sexual. She was trying to be patient, reasoning that any woman who had been brought up the way Chastity was and had spent her whole life assuming she was straight could not suddenly discover her true sexuality and adjust overnight. There would have to be a period of doubt and self-questioning like the one Jude had experienced when she was thirteen and fell in love with her softball coach. She had tormented herself for an entire week. It was bound to be worse for a woman of thirty-three.

Her other unhappy suspicion centered on their lovemaking. After a promising start, it hadn’t exactly gone to plan. There was no happy, mutually orgasmic conclusion. Chastity had become self-conscious all of a sudden, and they couldn’t recapture the erotic connection that had driven them to the bedroom in the first place. Jude then got anxious about hurting her, or making her feel uncomfortable, and Chastity expressed some strange feelings about “leading you on, then disappointing you.” All in all, it was a memorable sexual encounter, but for the wrong reasons. Jude wasn’t surprised Chastity wasn’t breaking down any doors to repeat it.

She felt a queasy uncertainty about the Salt Lake City visit. In her experience, you could only have disastrous sex so many times with someone before a pattern of negative expectations was established. If it didn’t work early on, Jude had learned it probably never would. She had feelings for Chastity, and a sense of possibility with her that she seldom felt with anyone. She really liked the woman, and that mattered. But was it enough? If they were doomed never to have sex, or only to have careful sex, the kind where Jude could never be who she was, what was the point?

Gloomily, she tuned into Chastity’s happy chatter about Adeline and the surfing holiday she’d just had with friends. God, she missed Mercy. Seeing her in court was wrenching. Knowing she had married Elspeth made her physically sick. They spoke to each other like two professionals, but Jude was incapable of neutral feelings. Some days she hated her. Other days she felt consumed with anger and betrayal. Then there were days like today, when all she could think about was her skin, her scent, her lithe elegant femininity. Their perfect sexual accord.

That was it, she thought. In Mercy her erotic self found a home, and she knew it was exactly the same for Mercy. They were so alike. They shared the same sexual vocabulary. There was no need for translation or interpretation. When they made love, it was as if they were two bodies within a single skin.

Did Mercy have that with Elspeth? Jude knew the answer; she’d read it in her eyes on the rare occasions when Mercy let her guard slip.

“Jude? Are you there?” Chastity sounded confused.

“I’m sorry. The reception is lousy in here,” Jude disgusted herself by prevaricating.

“I was just saying my therapy is going pretty well.”

“That’s good. I’m proud of you.”

Was she insane? Jude thought. How could she stand here with Mercy Westmoreland on the brain when she had an adorable, real, honorable woman at the other end of the phone. A woman who genuinely cared about her.

“They’re going in now,” she said. “I’ll talk to you later.”

“I’ll be thinking of you,” Chastity replied warmly.

Jude truly wished that did it for her.

*

Griffin Mahanes knew how to make the most of a crazy witness. He didn’t offend the jurors’ sense of fair play by making fun of Gums Thompson or browbeating him. He was solicitous and respectful throughout the cross-examination, ensuring that by the end of Thompson’s testimony, the entire courtroom would be sickened that the prosecution had placed this pitiful basket case on the stand.

When it came time to discuss Thompson’s presence in Tonya’s house, Mahanes said, “Mr. Thompson, you told the court you stood inside Corban Foley’s bedroom. Did you speak?”

“I talked to the Big Guy.”

“What did you say?”

“I asked for guidance so Heather would be pleased with my service.”

“Heather Roache?”

“Yes.”

“You are fond of Heather, are you not, Mr. Thompson?”

“She is radiant among women.”

“What is your relationship to her?”

“I am not worthy to eat the worms she treads on.”

When the snickering in the courtroom had desisted, Mahanes continued, “Does Heather like children?”

“Yes, sir. She loves children.”

“What else does she like?”

Gums warmed to the topic. “Small white dogs, espresso coffee from the Silver Bean, Bush’s maple baked beans, Matt, Beautiful by Estee Lauder, pictures of Jesus—”

“Yes, thank you. Mr. Thompson, you were arrested for shoplifting in December, weren’t you? You had stolen a gift box of products from the ‘Beautiful’ range. Who was this for?”

“Heather.”

“Is it true that in August 2004, you were charged with the theft of a Maltese terrier?” Mahanes asked.

“I gave it back,” Gums protested.

Directing a meaningful stare at the jurors, Mahanes asked, “You stole that small white dog from inside its owner’s home, did you not?”

“It was scratching at the window.”

“How did you get into the house?”

“I found the keys under a magic stone.”

“So you knew God meant for you to go inside?”

DA Schrott rose immediately. “Objection. He’s leading the witness, Your Honor.”

The judge agreed. “Sustained. Get to the point, Mr. Mahanes.”

Mahanes nodded, apparently lost in earnest reflection. “Why did you try to steal the Maltese?”

“To offer it to Heather.”

“Of course. Because Ms. Roache loves small white dogs. And ‘Beautiful’ perfume. Have you taken other items to offer Heather?”

“Yes.”

“You mentioned Ms. Roache loves children. If you had a child, would you offer it to her?”

Gums looked at Mahanes like he was a loser if he even needed to ask the question. “Yes.”

Mahanes took a couple of steps closer to him. “Have you ever stolen a child to offer to Heather Roache?” When Gums hesitated, Mahanes wheedled with a sucrose smile, “Please tell the court. You’ve promised God you would be truthful.”

Gums’s eyes darted back and forth until they landed on Jude. Her heart sank.

He mumbled, “Yes.”

“That was a yes, my friends.” Mahanes paced before the jury, letting this answer sink in. “When did you do that?”

“I don’t know.”

The courtroom erupted into avid speculation. The judge demanded order.

Mahanes lifted his mellifluous voice above the din. “You stole a child, but you don’t know when?”

Shamefaced, Gums said, “I transgressed and God punished me.”

“What happened to the child you stole?”

“I buried it.”

Heather Roache fainted.

Jude said, “Oh, Christ.”

Pratt was ashen.

Their case was over. It was that simple.

*

No one was entirely sure how Mahanes had managed to decode Gums’s ramblings, but everyone agreed that the next time they committed a class-one felony, he was their guy.

Gums took the police to a sad little grave in the Mesa Verde, and they found the body of a child who had disappeared from an Arizona trailer park three years earlier. Cause of death was choking. Gums had left the child eating a hamburger in his truck, at a rest stop on the way back to Cortez, and had panicked when he returned to find him dead.

Jude spent a long, discouraging week in Cortez finalizing the police reports on the Arizona child. On her last day, she was heading for her truck when she heard footsteps approaching. Somehow, Miller had managed to give his dwindling media entourage the slip and found his way into the MCSO parking garage. She was amazed by the nerve of the guy, but she supposed getting away with murder made a person feel invincible.

With soft menace he taunted, “You forgot to congratulate me, Detective.”

The seductive weight of the gun at her hip drew Jude’s hand. “Get out of here before I blow your brains out,” she advised.

“You’re not gonna do that.” Miller drew closer, tempting her. His pupils were tiny black holes that seemed to suck the life from his pallid blue eyes.

Jude glanced around the parking garage, making automatic calculations. How would it play out? He threatened her. Assaulted her. She defended herself. He grabbed her gun from its holster. She disarmed him. The gun went off. No one would buy it. She would lose her badge and do time. Over this amoeba.

“You’re right, I’m not,” she said dismissively. She didn’t want to give Miller the satisfaction of seeing how incensed she was. “I wouldn’t waste a bullet on you.”

As she moved toward the driver’s door, he taunted in a voice so low she had to strain to hear, “What if I tell you right now, I killed the little shit and there’s nothing you can do about it?”

“Is that what you are telling me, Mr. Miller. Or are you playing games again?”

He got cocky and pulled a comb from his top pocket. As he slid it through his lank tendrils, he said, “I’ll give you a big fat clue, since you geniuses couldn’t even figure out where it happened.”

“I’m all ears.”

“There’s a buddy of mine with a boat parked out back of his place in Cahone. That was his cousin, Howie, on the jury.”

Three seconds, Jude thought. That’s all it would take. Point-blank. Straight between the eyes. She slid her balled fist into her pocket and met his gaze levelly. “So you took Corban out there after you’d broken his arm and used him as a punching bag?”

“Hey, I tried to fix up his arm. But he wouldn’t shut up.”

“I’m thinking I should break yours the same way, so you can understand why that was,” Jude said.

“Yeah, right. That’s gonna happen.”

“So you took him onto the boat.” Jude wanted the rest of the story. Several cars had come and gone while they were standing there, and it was only a matter of time before someone stopped to ask if there was a problem.

Apparently, Miller wanted to get it off his chest. He said, “I sleep out there sometimes, since my buddy is away most all the time. The plan was, I put the kid there and tell him when he shuts up I’ll take him home. But he’s not listening, is he? Fucking Mommy’s boy.”

“So you smashed his head in?”

“It was just a knock. Most people would have got up and walked away. But he’s just lying there and there’s blood all over the fucking place.”

“Where was your buddy while this was taking place?”

“Last I heard, he was driving trucks for Halliburton in Iraq. Big bucks if you want your fucking head cut off.”

“Not a risk you would take, being the coward you are,” Jude noted.

His eyes glittered. “You think you’re such a smart fucking bitch, but you weren’t that smart this time, were you?”

Jude stepped right up, in his face, challenging him to take his best shot. “Go ahead.” She tapped her chin in invitation. “Make my day.”

“I saw that movie,” Miller blustered. “And you aren’t even close.”

“Ouch, that hurt.” She sneered at him, wanting to push his buttons.

If she couldn’t put him inside for the crime he’d committed, a consolation prize was better than nothing. First-degree assault of a law enforcement officer was a felony that carried a ten to thirty-two-year prison term in the state of Colorado. Add obstruction and resisting arrest, and with any luck, Miller would serve most of his worthless life. Even second-degree assault would see him inside for a fourteen-year stretch.

“It must make you proud,” she said. “Knowing you killed a child that was thirty-two inches tall and weighed twenty-seven pounds. What a hero.”

He sidled edgily around her. “You can’t prove anything.”

“I already did. No one believes you’re innocent, Mr. Miller. You’re just another creep who got away with murder because a blindsided jury stopped thinking.”

“I can live with that.” He leaned deliberately against her door so she’d have to make him move before she could open it.

“Step away from my vehicle,” she said.

“Make me.”

He was trying to play her at her own game, pushing for a reaction. Like an alcoholic who presses drinks on others, he needed the affirmation of a shared weakness. He wanted to see her lose control just as he had. Only he thought he knew how far it would go. He thought she wouldn’t really hurt him, but that there would be just enough contact for him to press charges and bleat about police harassment.

Jude almost laughed. Miller wouldn’t be so cocky if he knew what she knew about her temper. That killing him would come easy. That with men like him, she had to fight the urge to inflict serious pain. Intellectually, she was aware that the dark places inside her had to remain shuttered. She had the self-discipline to keep herself in check, so she used it. But she was always conscious of a bomb ticking inside and a sense that when it exploded one day, she might not be able to hold herself back.

They stared at each other and Jude saw the violence in him, contorting the bland veneer of his features, straining for release. But he wasn’t going to attack her. He was smart enough to know which one of them would end up without a pulse if things got serious.

“I was just thinking,” she said coldly. “Every time you look in a mirror…every day for the rest of your life…you’re going to see the face Corban saw that night. Ugly. Brutal. A disgrace to humanity.”

“Fuck you.”

Jude laughed. “Is that the best you’ve got? Jesus, you really are pitiful.”

She swung the door open and got in her truck, allowing herself to picture him spread over her tires. She started the motor and backed around sharply, missing him by inches, forcing him to jump out of her way.

“I know what you are,” he shouted.

Jude rolled her window down and granted the darkness inside some room. “Watch your back, Mr. Miller,” she returned with chill threat. “Because one day—and you won’t know when it’s coming—you’ll answer for Corban Foley. And you better hope it’s not me with the knife to your throat.”

Chapter Twenty

“They’re leaving town,” Tulley said, poring over the Durango Herald.

Agatha topped up Jude’s coffee. “You mustn’t blame yourself, Detective. The prosecutor did everything he could after that shocking revelation.”

“They’re saying two guys on the jury bullied everyone else.” Tulley fed a forkful of his scrambled egg to Smoke’m. “Shit like that happens. We do our job and the system lets us down.”

Jude supposed she would be putting up with these assurances for the next six months until her colleagues convinced themselves that she wasn’t planning to blow her brains out anytime soon.

“I’m okay,” she told them.

“Everyone knows he did it,” Tulley declared. “They know we had him fair and square.”

Agatha sat down and stretched her feet out. She was wearing the UGG boots Jude had given her for her seventy-first birthday. Her extremities got cold even in the summer, she’d told Jude. “We can blame falling educational standards,” she said. “Individuals are placed in a position beyond their mental capacity. I think at least three members of that jury were semiliterate at best.”

“You got that right, Miss Benham.” Tulley mopped egg from Smoke’m’s jowls with a napkin. “Howie Nelson. He’s a retard. How he made it through jury selection is a goddamned mystery.”

“Language,” Agatha chided. “As a matter of fact, I taught Howie. Now there was a child with learning challenges. The family environment didn’t help. Cultural pygmies—that’s what we’re talking about.”

Jude said, “We should have found Miller’s buddy in Cahone.”

“The guy hasn’t lived around here for ten years,” Tulley said. “No one knew he even had that boat anymore.”

“Howie Nelson did.”

“Like I said, Howie’s ma dropped him on his head.”

“Howie isn’t the issue. We are. We investigated this case.”

“You know what I don’t understand,” Tulley anguished. “That’s how come the judge let Gums on the stand, anyways. He’s bat-shit crazy.”

“I think that was the point,” Jude said. “His testimony spoke to reasonable doubt. And the fact is, he could have done it. He had the opportunity. And Griffin Mahanes knew how to imply that he had the motive and practice, too.”

“Yeah, but he didn’t do it.” The buzzer sounded, and Tulley flipped his dark bangs away from his brow and angled his head expectantly toward the door.

The morning just got worse. Jude sighed as Bobby Lee Parker sauntered in. He tipped his fedora to Agatha, gave Tulley a broad wink, and placed a gift basket of fruit and nuts in front of Jude. He followed this with an ostentatious kiss that made Agatha beam and look away, then he relocated to the mirror where he removed his hat and rearranged his tousled blond hair.

“Don’t tell me…you folks are still talking about the trial. Am I right?” he asked.

“What else has happened round here recently?” Tulley tossed back.

Bobby Lee shrugged off his buckskin jacket, arranged it carefully on a hanger, then took a small package from the breast pocket. He whistled for Smoke’m and the hound plodded over with more speed than usual.

“That dog sure loves you,” Tulley said.

Bobby Lee unwrapped a few strips of bacon. “He’s easy. Unlike some.”

Tulley snickered.

“It’s high time you gave the man an answer,” Agatha reminded Jude indignantly.

“Don’t you worry about me, Miss Agatha. I like a woman who’s hard to get.” Bobby Lee sniffed his hands. “Bacon grease and dog mouth. Oh, man.”

Jude got to her feet and said, “I’m not going to sit here and listen to lectures about my personal life from a woman of seventy who made sure not to get tied down herself, a deputy who only sleeps with his dog, and a boyfriend who admits he’s more faithful to his truck than to his women.”

Her three companions stared.

“You’re taking this trial too personally,” Agatha said.

“Leave her be.” Bobby Lee gave Jude a roguish smile. “She needs her space.”

“And that’s why I am taking the day off.” Jude slid on her sunglasses and headed for the door.

“Where are you going?” Bobby Lee called after her.

Jude glanced back. “Hiking.”

Predictably, he lost interest. Bobby Lee didn’t see the point in scaling hills on foot when you could hire a horse for thirty bucks.

As she left the office she heard Tulley say, “Want to see White Orphans again?”

This was followed by a pathetic whine from Bobby Lee, who shared Jude’s unease over movies with subtitles.

Before her official suitor could come after her with offers of better ways to spend the day, Jude got into her new purchase, a Land Rover LR3 she’d been promising herself all year, and hastily backed around. The sun was hot, the skies were blue, the earth was red again. Highway 145 had little traffic. Jude drove over the speed limit, as any cop was entitled to do, especially when in pursuit of nothing but the wind in her hair.

The morning sun glowed orange across the Uncompahgre Plateau behind her, and the San Juans rose ahead dappled pink and purple. In the months since Corban was found, the kayakers had returned to the Four Corners to take advantage of the snow-melt. Summer hikers were routinely getting lost again, or assaulting one another in campsite brawls. Telluride would soon be crawling with movie people and waiters who wanted to be movie people. There would be cattle missing from the Canyon Echo dude ranch roundup, and everyone would blame itinerant Mexican illegals. Then the cattle would be found and the locals would smirk over city slickers so busy listening to their iPods on the trail they can’t keep a few large, slow-moving animals in sight.

“Life goes on,” she said to the empty passenger seat. Chastity would look good sitting there, she thought and immediately swept the topic from her mind. She was not going to waste this day among gorgeous days agonizing over her personal life.

She cut across to Ridgeway and took the 550 south toward Silverton until she found the route to Mineral Creek. The gravel road she hit was easy until the turnoff to Clear Lake, which took her on a tortuous ascent over what passed for a road, but was only navigable if you were in a four-wheel drive. Fortunately there were no other vehicles making the climb, so she didn’t have to worry about getting stuck behind a driver who would lose his nerve and roll backwards. The parking area at the switchback was empty. Jude reversed in carefully so that there was room for two or three more cars.

On weekends at this time of year, it wasn’t unusual to find a line of Jeeps and Land Rovers from the trailhead back down the road. The Ice Lake Basin was a two-mile-wide valley encircled by sprawling ridges and 13,000 foot peaks. By late July it was idyllic, and the forested camping sites around the lower basin often had a constant population of six or seven tents.

She always came here early in the day so she could enjoy a long hike before the weather closed in, if it was going to. The afternoon storms across the mountains were thrilling to watch, in all their elemental fury, but Jude thought she’d save being struck by lightning for another life.

She followed a series of switchbacks higher and higher until it seemed there was no place to go but up, and then she found herself in a vast field of waist-high wildflowers—columbines, larkspur, and cow parsnip, rioting blues and yellows. The first time she’d ever ventured up here, this was as far as she got. She’d spent hours contentedly wandering through the aspens and spruce, then sprawling on her back in the meadows, cushioned by flowers and gazing up at the perfect blue sky and the shining white peaks.

She’d returned often after that, taking the time to explore the lush, wild beauty of the lower basin, with its waterfalls and astonishing views of the surrounding mountains. Only recently had she made the killer climb to the upper basin. There she’d waited the sun out, gazing at the brilliant apricot and gold of Fuller Peak and the Golden Horn, reflected in the dark sapphire blue of a tiny lake.

Ice Lake itself was just over the tundra shelf. Jude reached it after a solid ascent of almost two hours. Her calf muscles were beginning to burn and she was questioning her fitness level. Panting and wiping her face with her bandanna, she trod gingerly down toward the water, not even noticing at first that she’d stumbled into paradise.

The upper basin was a starker world than the slopes below. It spent most of the year under snow, but when the alpine flowers finally saw the sun, they blossomed furiously, carpeting the high tundra with every hue. Almost as soon as this happened, the ravens came. Hundreds of them, like envoys from another world, settling on rocks and terraces to wait and guard until called home. She could see none yet; perhaps it was too soon and they were still nesting below somewhere, teaching their young how to fly.

Jude lifted her head and slowly turned full circle, absorbing the perfect stillness and surrendering herself to a drunken splendor that defied description. The air was cold and chilled the sweat on her face and body. She climbed back up to the lake rim, dropped her backpack, and extracted a fleecy sweater. Everywhere she looked, small tarns dotted the undulating red and gray landscape. Many were ringed with snowbanks all year round.

Huge boulders and precipitous rock faces loomed above. Jude picked up her pack and wove a convoluted path along charcoal crags until she reached a high meadow awash with ivory flowers. Cloud misted around her and she stood there for a long while, gazing down on the crystalline perfection of Ice Lake, thankful that all this was on her doorstep and wishing she could stay here forever. Taking deep, controlled breaths, she felt something lift from her body and realized it was rage that had driven her up the mountain so fast, she thought she might have a heart attack if she didn’t slow down.

Her legs felt weak suddenly and she sank down into the flowers, closing her eyes against the slight spinning of her head. As she lay, unmoving and exhausted, her tension draining away, something tugged at the belt of her hiking shorts. Blinking herself fully conscious again, Jude stared down at a large raven perched on a stone next to her.

Dark, nerveless eyes bored into hers, and Jude felt herself drawn to the bird by their shared presence in this otherworld between heaven and earth. They were the only two living creatures she could see.

Struck by the sinister wisdom of the visitor’s black diamond gaze, she said, “Hello.”

The raven replied, “Quork.”

Moving slowly, Jude opened her pack and took out some provisions. She and the raven ate a ham sandwich, then occupied a placid silence.

Eventually, Jude said, “I have something for you.”

She took a small tissue parcel from her breast pocket and unwrapped a strand of fair hair. Like a thief in the night, she had stolen this from Corban, lying to the funeral director about needing additional DNA samples.

She placed the silken lock in the palm of her hand and extended her arm toward the bird. It inspected the offering carefully, first studying it for several seconds, then moving it by a few degrees with its beak.

“Take it somewhere beautiful, far from here,” she said.

Her companion made a soft sound in its throat, collected the curl, and left the earth with a rush of wings. Jude watched the sleek bird fly, until she could see only a black speck high above the shimmering bronze peaks.

Far in the distance, the San Juan Mountains stood watch over Cortez, and the angel on Corban’s grave cast a shadow over dead floral tributes and faded teddy bears. The gods could not shelter him in life, and neither could his mother. For in the sleep of reason, monsters are made.

Place of Exile

The Four Corners is the perfect place for people escaping from something, and Sheriff's Detective Jude Devine is no exception. But Jude can't afford to dwell on her past—she has too much to think about in the present.

Local benefactor and reclusive millionaire Fabian Maulle has been found murdered. The Aryan Sunrise Stormtroopers are planning a ricin attack on the Telluride Film Festival. The feds have hit town and the sheriff wants Jude to liaise with Aidan Hill, the Special Agent in Charge. But Hill is a straight arrow who thinks Jude is a slacker. Their working relationship is only made worse by a mutual lust neither is willing to acknowledge. Jude is also losing sleep over a friend, Sandy "Lonewolf" Lane. Sandy, a former paratrooper, is stalked by her past. She's called the Four Corners home since the suicide of her lover, whose son was killed in Iraq. Sandy is planning to assassinate the vice president of the United States, and her determination to carry out her mission, and Jude's to stop her, draws the two women into a lethal game of cat and mouse.

If all that weren't enough, Jude faces a personal dilemma when Dr. Mercy Westmoreland's marriage to actress Elspeth Harwood gets shaky, and Mercy comes looking for consolation.

Book Three in the Jude Devine Mystery Series

Place of Exile

© 2007 by Rose Beecham. All Rights Reserved.

ISBN 10: 1-933110-98-8E

ISBN 13: 978-1-933110-98-1E

This electronic book is published by:

Bold Strokes Books, Inc.,

New York, USA

First Edition: December 2007

This is a work of fiction. names, characters, places, and Incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

Credits

Editor: Stacia Seaman

Production Design: Stacia Seaman

Cover design by Sheri (graphicartist2020@hotmail.com)

Acknowledgements

I work with all the support an author could hope for, especially one who is perpetually late turning in her manuscripts. My family always steps up with love, practical help, and hot dinners. My daughter Sophie helped me this time with intelligent feedback and proofreading. My partner Fel kept me technically functional and stopped me from having a meltdown when my computer died.

Stacia Seaman copy edited with her usual precision and exhibits remarkable patience with my sometimes whimsical approach to style and syntax. Thanks to her, my flaws are not exposed to all. My publisher Radclyffe has allowed me to explore content that is not exactly typical for the LGBT mystery tradition, and for that, and her unconditional support, I thank her sincerely.

Dedication

For Kim, lupus in fabula

“We all carry within us our places of exile, our crimes, and our ravages. But our task is not to unleash them on the world; it is to fight them in ourselves and in others.”

—Albert Camus

Acronyms

ADD |  |  |  | Aryan Defense Day(s) (fictional)
ASS |  |  |  | Aryan Sunrise Stormtroopers (fictional)
CIA |  |  |  | Central Intelligence Agency
CPA |  |  |  | Christian Patriots Alliance (fictional)
CPOC |  |  |  | Compartmented Plannings & Operations Cell (U.S. Northern Command)
CRAP |  |  |  | Christian Republic of Aryan Patriots (fictional)
DEA |  |  |  | Drug Enforcement Administration
DIA |  |  |  | Defense Intelligence Agency
FBI |  |  |  | Federal Bureau of Investigagtion
MCSO |  |  |  | Montezuma County Sheriff's Office
NORTHCOM |  |  |  | U.S. Northern Command
NIC |  |  |  | National Intelligence Council
NSC |  |  |  | National Security Council
NSM |  |  |  | National Socialist Movement
P2OG |  |  |  | Proactive Preemptive Operations Group
PNAC |  |  |  | Project for the New American Century
SAC |  |  |  | Special Agent in Charge (FBI)
SSA |  |  |  | Supervisory Special Agent (FBI)

Chapter One

It’s two weeks till these douche bags hit town, and we’re on the front line,” Sheriff Orwell Pratt said. He was visibly relieved to reach the end of his hour-long PowerPoint presentation.

Jude hauled herself up in her chair. Friday, mid-afternoon, midsummer, and they had to be crammed into an airless conference room listening to Pratt’s assessment of the joint resource burden for this year’s Telluride Film Festival. The Montezuma County Sheriff’s Office wasn’t really at the front line but they stepped up when their colleagues in adjoining counties needed extra manpower. This year, the festival coincided with the Four Corners Biker Rally, a national get-together that drew thousands of potential law-breakers. Today’s briefing was a strategy session aimed at establishing communication protocols, cohesion, and calm as the twin-event “perfect storm” unfolded.

“They got those free screenings at Elks Park again?” some optimist asked.

Everyone wanted that gig in case there were foreign films with kinky sex.

“You bet,” Pratt said. “They call that ‘giving back to the community.’” Dourly, he added, “Needless to say, there’s still not a single traffic signal anywhere in that goddamn town. Certain so-called celebrities throw their weight around, and here we are. You know what I’m saying.”

Jude didn’t, but from the snorts of laughter around her she concluded the traffic signal issue was another black mark against the Telluride council, a body that could pass an ordinance to impeach Bush and Cheney, yet balked at the idea of twenty-first-century traffic control. Pratt had a bug up his ass about Telluride, which he variously referred to as “that enclave of overprivileged pinkos” and “a bad joke looking for a bar mitzvah, no disrespect intended.” In his opinion, the San Miguel sheriff had handed his balls in at the door to get elected in that county.

As for the staff of that emasculated colleague, Pratt liked to point out that you could hardly refer to them as a law enforcement detail. Most deputies were reserve volunteers, members of the public who wanted to swagger around wearing a badge on weekends. They spent their lives picking up dead birds as part of the avian flu precautionary campaign, real crime being scarce in Telluride. The place saw about seven violent incidents per year. The murder rate was zero, with only one significant blip on the radar.

Fifteen years earlier, the town’s pristine record had been besmirched when a wealthy socialite was shot dead during a robbery at her fancy log cabin. Eva Shoen’s family owned the U-Haul empire and was infamous for avarice, feuding, and shameful business practices. Eva possessed the class and kindness lacked by the clan she’d married into and seemed to have no enemies. The Shoens spent years blaming their patriarch and one another for having her hit, and the case remained unsolved. Finally a big reward brought in some tips and a drifter was convicted. Conspiracy theorists still believed his confession was phony and that another filthy rich family had gotten away with murder.

The residents of Telluride didn’t appreciate the spotlight that came with the Shoen case. They saw their town an oasis of sanity in a world that had lost its way, and themselves as ordinary folk even though no ordinary person could afford to live there. The median house price in that Beverly Hills in the mountains was well over two million bucks.

It wasn’t always so. Before the place began to crawl with celebrities and instant-money refugees from the dotcom boom, it was a ghost town taken over by hippies and dreamers who lived a counterculture fantasy. A few hold-outs from that wistful era still refused to sell their cottages to developers. There were rumors that they were bribed to stay put, their presence contributing to the town’s carefully preserved aura of egalitarian rusticity.

The film festival crowd loved the idea that Telluride was “the real thing.” Unfortunately for local law enforcement these visitors didn’t just invade the town itself, which would have been a manageable proposition. No, they thought anyplace ten miles from the nearest low-fat latte was the wilderness and were in hog heaven at the prospect. On either side of the festival they set out to explore the entire Four Corners. Well-meaning flakes stumbled into the mountains in their three-hundred-dollar sandals, gaga over the wonders of nature. It was only a matter of time before they got themselves in a heap of trouble. A happy couple posing for the camera would fall down a ravine and get lost trying to walk out. Or some idiot swimming naked in a waterfall would drown himself. Or he’d do drugs and see Bigfoot. A couple of years ago a dispatcher made a tape of the wildest 911 calls from successive festivals. She sold downloads on the Internet and pulled in enough money to buy a car.

Then there were the sons and daughters of the wealthy, dabbling in filmmaking on daddy’s dime and expecting the cognoscenti to be awestruck by their efforts. When their self-promotion gambits didn’t pan out, they found ways to console themselves. They stole Anasazi artifacts or broke into a director’s chalet so they could leave their screenplay next to his bed. Failing that, they got drunk and pushed to the head of the line so they could nab a gondola ride with Werner Herzog and his bimbo wife. When Herzog didn’t talk to them, they left in a huff and assaulted a parking attendant who caught them tampering with Herzog’s car. No festival was complete without some disgruntled wannabe in a holding cell, threatening, “Do you know who my father is?”

Jude couldn’t believe it was that time of year again. They’d survived the sweet-corn festival, the annual Bear Dance and Pow Wow, the county fair, and the herpetologists’ convention, and they would also survive a thousand bikers who were too old and successful to rape and pillage, and who poured money into local businesses. The Telluride crowd was another matter, not only lousy tippers but difficult to wrangle.

The sheriff checked his timepiece. “Devine. You’re up next.”

“Maybe we should take a break first, sir. It’s pretty warm in here.” She made a gesture to indicate that she needed to speak to him alone.

Pratt acted like he didn’t notice her hand signals. “Let’s just get on with it.” He plunked himself down in a plastic chair.

Jude considered whispering in his ear but decided to rattle his cage instead. She strolled to the front of the room, picked up a fat red marker, and wrote two words on the whiteboard. As the silence got heavy, she read aloud, “Terrorist Threat.”

Pratt gave her a What the fuck? stare.

Jude jotted a few words on a piece of paper and handed it to him. She’d been instructed to brief local law enforcement on what they could expect now that the FBI had confirmed the chatter they’d been hearing since last year. Originally, they’d expected the 2006 festival to be targeted but the subjects couldn’t get themselves organized in time. This year, however, they’d advanced their plans beyond posturing on the Stormfront blog.

Jude had tried to give Pratt a heads up ever since she arrived in Cortez a few hours ago, but he was too busy eating lunch with Colorado’s new governor, Bill Ritter. A Democrat, Ritter was reaching out to Republicans in the state’s small towns, and Pratt was eager to be seen as reaching back. His sliding support since reelection had raised the scepter of the unthinkable: voters in the Four Corners might turn into wimpo liberals and elect the other guy next time.

Pratt thought global warming was the issue that could bridge the political divide. No one in the state of Colorado rejoiced over diminishing annual snowpack and water restrictions, and the Four Corners depended on the annual injection of money from ski-season visitors. No more snow would spell disaster, so Pratt was all about reducing the carbon footprint. He had just put out a declaration that the MCSO was going “green” and all lightbulbs were to be replaced by the CFL variety. With any luck the governor would inject money into local environmental initiatives and Pratt would take the credit.

Jude watched him read her brief mea culpa. He folded the note pensively and slipped it into his top pocket like he’d just received sensitive information. With the serene sang-froid of a man in the loop, he said, “Go ahead, Detective.”

Pratt was the only person in the room who knew Jude hadn’t left the FBI, as the official version went, but was working undercover in the Four Corners to keep tabs on domestic terrorist cells in the area. As far as everyone else was concerned, she’d left the Bureau under a cloud, swapping a prestigious career in the Crimes Against Children Unit for a slow-lane gig in Nowheresville. Speculation as to “the real story” behind her arrival in the Four Corners was still intense even after almost three years. It wasn’t often that an FBI agent took the downward step of joining a sheriff’s department but for some reason her masters thought this was an ingenious cover. Pratt was in on the deal and never stopped reminding her of the additional burden he carried as a consequence.

Jude swept a quick look around her audience. Senior personnel from the surrounding counties had gathered for the planning meeting. Pratt got competitive about combined operations and liked to host gatherings like this one so he could show off the impressive new MCSO headquarters and cell block.

“Let me emphasize that what I’m about to tell you has to stay in this room,” Jude said, shaking up her sleepy audience once more.

“If this leaks out,” Pratt interjected. “I promise you, heads will roll.”

“Thank you, sir.” Jude wrote on the whiteboard, “Telluride Film Festival.”

“The film festival?” Virgil Tulley gasped from the back of the room. He covered his mouth like he’d just swallowed his own vomit.

Her only deputy at the Paradox substation, he was lurking near the rear exit, self-conscious of his junior rank and poised to make a quick escape. A fan of exactly the kind of movie they insisted on showing at the festival, he’d forked out almost seven hundred bucks for an all-events pass this year. He and Agatha Benham, the secretary at the substation, were supposed to be going together. They’d invited Jude but she told them she’d rather jump out of a plane. She’d brought Tulley to the briefing as a festival “expert.”

When the noise level dropped, Jude said, “The FBI has confirmed a credible threat. They’re sending a team to Cortez to establish a joint terrorism task force and discuss logistics. They’ll hold their first briefing on Monday, next week. Meantime there’s an ongoing investigation, and it’s essential that the terrorists don’t know they’re under surveillance.”

“Who are these knuckleheads?” Pratt demanded.

Jude wrote a few more words on the board. “The Aryan Sunrise Stormtroopers, also known as the ASS, are white supremacists who endorse an ideology of violence against Jews and other minorities. Three local men are involved, all with priors, and several others from out of state are thought to be co-conspirators. There may be more.”

“Any names?” Pete Koertig asked.

Jude had partnered with Koertig on several investigations and also had dinner with him and his wife occasionally. They had bonded over the Corban Foley case, sharing each other’s pain over the outcome of that memorable trial. Any cop hated watching a killer walk, and that particular killer had gotten under everyone’s skin. Jude still had fantasies about slitting his throat.

She replied, “I’m not at liberty to identify the suspects today. We’ll receive that information from the FBI.”

“Harrison Hawke,” a Montrose lieutenant said. “That freak with the compound in Black Dog Gulch. You can bet he’s the mastermind.”

Hawke was well known to Four Corners law enforcement. His organization, the Christian Republic of Aryan Patriots, hosted what he called “Aryan Defense Days.” Every time one of those white power unity rallies was underway, protestors caused a traffic hazard, which pissed off the Colorado State Patrol. Troopers would then gripe to the county sheriffs and PD, who would step in to control the scene. Hawke would duly claim his freedom of speech was under assault by the forces of “Zionist Occupied Government” and his organization hadn’t broken any laws.

Aryan Defense Days participants were careful to stay on the right side of the law. They were all legally licensed to own firearms and if they wanted to paint swastikas on their vehicles, that was their choice. To improve their public image they repaired the houses of old white ladies and military widows, and took time out from the shooting range to attend church on Sundays. Occasionally the local newspaper ran a feature on their good works as though they were visiting Rotarians. The words “Christian” and “Patriot” in the title of their organization seemed to induce a suspension of intelligence in reporters.

Jude needed to steer the discussion away from Hawke. She’d been nurturing a relationship of cautious trust with him for two years. Her handler thought if she couldn’t recruit Hawke, she could at least seduce him into becoming an unwitting informant, “seduce” being the operative word. Hawke had been pissed when the ASS bozos broke away from the fold after trying to depose him. Already he’d let slip sensitive information, and the last thing Jude needed was to have her long-term operation blown by some overeager cops in the name of Homeland Security.

Cautiously, she said, “It’s certainly possible that Hawke has relevant information, but we can’t afford to sound the alert by confronting him. The FBI will determine how this is handled.” To further dampen enthusiasm, she explained, “Last year the ASS broke away from Hawke’s organization after attempting an internal coup. I don’t think he’s talking to them right now.”

“So, what are we looking at here?” Pratt asked. “A car bomb?”

Jude had been of two minds about going into detail about the type of threat they were facing. It would only take one person in this room to leak the information and there could be a major panic. On the other hand, letting people have their reactions now instead of next week when they would need to be focused was probably a good move.

“The plot involves a biological agent known as ricin.”

Noise erupted around her. Pratt leapt to his feet, his face the color of putty. “Ricin? Deadly-poison-no-antidote ricin?”

“Twice as deadly as cobra venom,” Tulley said, abandoning the back of the room to claim a seat. “They make it out of castor beans.”

A couple of female officers craned around. Jude figured she’d be talking to the backs of their heads for the next five minutes while they swooned over the man chosen as Mr. January for the next Southwestern law officers beefcake calendar.

She tried to quell the rising panic level. “Just so everyone knows, the U.S. Army has a vaccine for ricin.” She didn’t mention its limited effectiveness and the continuing lack of inhibitors to slow the effects of the bio-agent. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Biochemical agents are notoriously difficult to weaponize. Ricin dispersal has to be by aerosol, injection, or ingestion.”

“Food contamination,” Pete Koertig interpreted.

“That’s the most likely possibility. Let’s face it, this isn’t the movies and these guys aren’t Jason Bourne. They’re not going to fire syringes at anyone, and for a credible attack they’d have to release gallons of aerosol. That’s not going to happen. They’ll run with the easiest method, poisoning hamburgers or something like that.”

“My God, that’s plain un-American.” Sheriff Pratt shook his head in disappointment that a bunch of race-hate extremists might desecrate the national dish. “Does Cortez have anything to fear?”

“Sir, they’re not coming after a whole town, not even Telluride. This is all about buying themselves publicity and hero status among their peers. I’m sure they expect a lot of Jewish people to attend the festival.”

Sheriff Pratt looked to Tulley. “Deputy, you’re the expert. Is that true?”

Tulley jumped to his feet, a response that elicited audible sighs from several areas of the room. “Sir, I’m guessing Noah Baumbach, Etgar Keret, and maybe Sacha Baron Cohen, the Borat guy.” Tulley paused. “Sean Penn and Werner Herzog usually show up, but I don’t think they’re Jewish. I heard Huang Lu, the actress is coming. Those white power types don’t like Asians either.”

“All the minorities you can eat,” Pratt noted sourly. “I don’t suppose the organizers will step up with a list of names.”

The Telluride lineup was always kept secret until opening day, a policy that burned those tasked with ensuring security for the celebrities who showed up. Jude wished she could be there to see the startled faces of the nerds who ran the festival when the FBI came calling. Their precious cultural event under siege by morons who’d never watched a movie with subtitles—oh, the horror.

She said, “I’m sure the FBI will secure their full cooperation. If not, they’ll be arrested.”

When the cheers and hoots died down, Tulley waved his hand. “There’s a film.” His speech danced up into the decibels Jude recognized as his anxious range. “My Enemy’s Enemy. If it’s on the program, the terrorists might want to target that screening.”

“Why? Does it make fun of Hitler?” Jude asked.

“No, it’s about Klaus Barbie.” At the generally blank stares, Tulley explained, “He was a real Nazi who ended up working for the CIA. They protected him.”

“Until he outlived his use-by date,” Jude noted.

Barbie was routinely held up by counterintelligence boffins as an example of the moral dilemmas their community faced. Yes, he was a sadist sentenced to death for war crimes, but the “Butcher of Lyon,” as he was colorfully known, wasn’t the only Gestapo officer recruited by the West after World War II. Worried about the emerging threat of communism, the U.S. Counter Intelligence Corps had helped numerous high-ranking Nazis escape via their infamous rat line. These grateful former enemies became CIA assets in Latin America. Evidently this unsavory fact was what the Barbie film was about.

“Why would these skinhead creeps care if one of their heroes is starring in a movie?” Pratt asked with a puzzled frown.

Good question. “What do you know about this film?” Jude asked Tulley. “Was it made by a Jewish director or something?”

“No. Kevin Macdonald. That’s the guy who did The Last King of Scotland.”

“Then what makes you think it could be a target?”

Jude would have expected opposition to an exposé movie about Barbie and the CIA to come from more illustrious quarters than the neo-Nazi movement. The Bush family would keep their distance for obvious reasons, but there were others who wouldn’t welcome a spotlight on their roles. Lt. Governor David Dewhurst of Texas sprang to mind, but Jude had a hard time believing Dewhurst would be stupid enough to involve himself with amateurs like the ASS just to stop a movie being aired. The lieutenant governor had political ambitions and a carefully constructed public image to maintain. Besides, much bigger fish than he were responsible for the sleazy bloodbath that was Latin America under the military dictatorships of Operation Condor. The same official silence that protected them also provided cover for Dewhurst.

“I think it’s a target because every Jew at the festival will go see it,” Tulley said with a trace of embarrassment. He glanced at Jude as if he knew she was expecting a more Machiavellian rationale.

She almost laughed. Sometimes her job and her training made her overlook the obvious in favor of darker explanations. But very few felons were Mensa candidates. Most often their crimes and motivations were banal. The seven deadly sins pretty much covered all the bases. In this case her deputy had flagged those most often connected to hate crimes: wrath and envy.

“Good thinking, Tulley,” she said. “I’ll inform the FBI and they can check with the organizers to see if that film is on the program. Meantime, people, our job is to coordinate and assemble everything we know about this event. Venues. Access. Catering. Accommodations. You name it.”

She glanced around the faces, reading a mix of excitement and stunned dismay. Apparently it was just sinking in that she wasn’t kidding and the Four Corners really was at the epicenter of a domestic terrorism plot.

An officer new to the area suggested, “Maybe we could set up checkpoints. Pretend it’s for drug prevention or something.”

“Telluride PD tried that a few years ago,” Sheriff Pratt said. “Camouflaged officers along the road. Signs saying Narcotics Checkpoint and so forth. There was a lawsuit.”

“Which we won,” a San Miguel undersheriff pointed out. “We conducted the operation during the bluegrass festival. You should have seen what those bozos threw out their car windows. It was the littering that gave us probable cause to stop the vehicles.”

Pratt shuffled his feet and looked at his wristwatch. “Problem was, you guys couldn’t make anything stick. What it all boils down to is we can’t make random checks. Although that might be different in this scenario. Devine, I take it the new Homeland Security regulations will apply.”

“We’ll know on Monday,” Jude said. “In an antiterrorism operation, federal agents have extremely broad powers but state and local law enforcement still have to work within constraints. The FBI will explain everything. In the meantime, we have an intelligence-gathering operation to conduct. When the feds step in, we want to own a piece of the pie.”

This sentiment, she knew, would strike a chord. If a plot to kill a bunch of celebrities was foiled, no one would want the FBI grabbing all the glory. She signaled Pratt, who rose and wrapped up the presentation, pointing out which undersheriffs would be in charge of leading teams from the various counties.

As soon as everyone filed out of the room, he dragged Jude aside. “How come I have to hear about this in a briefing?”

“Because I was only just told myself, and we have to move quickly.”

“Are you sure Harrison Hawke’s not in on this?”

“No, but don’t worry, I’ll find out.”

Jude had been avoiding her increasingly ardent suitor for most of the summer, trying to cool things down. She’d broken her ankle in May, so she had a good excuse. But her ankle was back to normal now, and she could not longer avoid visiting Hawke’s little corner of the Aryan nation.

Chapter Two

Black Dog Gulch wasn’t a town, it was the site of a frontier camp on the banks of a creek that had dried up eons ago, in the middle of nowhere, in canyon country. Jude usually drove past it, missing the faded red arrow nailed to the stump of a long dead tree on the winding dirt road. The isolation suited its one inhabitant just fine. Harrison Hawke wasn’t looking to be found except by true believers.

Recently a team from his organization had erected an impressive stone monument near the tree stump. This was adorned with a black Othala rune, a symbol especially favored by Hawke. A brass plaque above the rune was inscribed with:

In Memoriam

David Lane

2 November 1938–28 May 2007

We must secure the existence of our People

and a future for White children.

Below this quote, known by white supremacists as the 14 Words, were directions to Hawke’s compound.

The place had expanded since the first Aryan Defense Days, with various outbuildings occupying the zone around a bunkerlike concrete dwelling. New eight-foot security fencing encompassed the compound perimeter. The razor wire along the top was a source of pride to Hawke, who cherished this echo of forgotten glory. His security fence served as a reminder of other such fences, like the ones surrounding Auschwitz and Dachau, those jewels in the crown of the Third Reich.

Hawke was not among the ranks of the Holocaust deniers, as were many in his movement. He was more of a Holocaust downsizer, quibbling over the final tally of the dead. Outright denials of the Final Solution struck him as offensive to the loyal Germans who’d taken pains to keep official records of their accomplishments. Auschwitz commandant Rudolf Höss had written his own firsthand account. Who were soft, modern-day Nazis to call him a liar?

Hawke saw no shame in the existence of concentration camps; in fact, he considered them a testament to the will of the master race. In the interests of the entire Volk a few individuals had been called upon to carry out distasteful tasks, and they had manfully stepped up to the plate. He teared up thinking about those race heroes.

Jude honked her horn and a member of Hawke’s newly established personal security unit—named the Hakenkreuz Commando—rushed from an outbuilding to open the gates for her. With expressionless fervor, he raised his right arm in the Roman salute as she drove the MCSO Dodge Dakota into the “VIP” parking area in front of Hawke’s house. She was now unofficially acknowledged as the CRAP commander’s girlfriend, a fact greeted with rare emotion by her FBI handler. Arbiter viewed Hawke as the leader most likely to unite the fragmented white power movement, and the Bureau expected him to make his move soon.

So far, it had been a lousy year for American neo-Nazis. Reeling from deaths and imprisonments, they were ripe for muscular leadership. A lawsuit had bankrupted the Aryan Nations several years ago, and the movement was now punch-drunk from a fresh series of scandals. The National Vanguard was no more. Its leader was facing child pornography charges and the organization’s powerful Boston unit collapsed when its head honcho was arrested for statutory rape. Another white power outfit, the National Socialist Movement, had been thrown into disarray when chairman Cliff Herrington was driven from the fold. Amazingly, he wasn’t tossed out because of his notorious body odor, rages, or sexual harassment of Aryan women. He and his wife were discovered to be running a Web site called the Joy of Satan and having its mail sent to the NSM’s address. Another demoralizing problem surfaced at the same time. Upon closer inspection, Herrington’s wife turned out to be less than Aryan. They both had to go.

Since Satan-gate, the NSM had been controlled by Jeff Schoep, a reformed small-time criminal who beat out a rival, Bill White, for the top job. White subsequently resigned, taking his supporters with him. He showed up at white power events, sulking on the sidelines and exchanging insults with Schoep loyalists. The NSM had been on a membership drive lately. So had another notable, Billy Roper of White Revolution, a man attempting to present himself as a thinker and a face of reason within the movement. Hawke saw Roper and Schoep as his main rivals and frequently speculated on how he could obtain their fealty or, failing that, have them run out of the movement.

The Bureau had its money on a Hawke-driven unification, so Jude’s femme fatale role wasn’t going to end anytime soon. Her subject didn’t like to be seen as a loser with women, so it suited him to have her around. Jude found him fairly easy to manage. Other than the occasional hint or lapse into innuendo after a couple of schnapps, he didn’t hit on her. Hawke subscribed to the notion of white women as the bearers of racial honor, and Jude’s refusal to move beyond the platonic only seemed to enhance her appeal. Instead of being depressed by her rejection, Hawke waxed on about the purity of Aryan womankind and how the desires of the individual had to be subordinated in the interests of race survival.

As Jude waited for her Wodanist suitor to emerge from his lair, she removed her sunglasses, touched up her lipstick, and fluffed her short hair. Hawke didn’t seem to care that she was five foot ten and built more like a bruder than a cheerleader, but she made sure to behave as if there was an inner girl buried beneath the muscles, just clawing to get out.

The guard from the gate opened her door and said, “Good morning, Fräulein.”

He looked spiffy in his Hakenkreuz Commando uniform of black shirt and pants, black boots, and emblem armband. Jude greeted him politely and stepped down from the Dakota. As he waited at stiff attention, she ran her hands slowly over her close-fitting MCSO uniform like she was overwhelmed with a girlish need to impress some hot guy. Her efforts weren’t wasted on Hawke, who looked her up and down with pathetic gratification as he strode out to greet her. He had a fetish for women in uniform.

Jude extended her hand. “Good to see you, sir.” In private she got to call him Harrison.

He drew her hand into the crook of his elbow so they could walk arm in arm. Baring his teeth in what, for him, was a tender smile, he said, “You could not have chosen a more auspicious day to visit, Fräulein.”

Jude was afraid to ask.

“I’m preparing to make an announcement,” he confided. “This comes at a critical moment in our struggle.”

“You’ve changed your mind?” Jude allowed a convincing quiver of hope to infiltrate her voice.

Hawke had been vacillating over the idea of a presidential run, but since the NSM had put forward a candidate, he’d decided to wait until 2012. By then, he hoped, America would have woken up and the time would be ripe for a new order.

“No. There’s another matter,” he said. “I want you to be the first to know.”

He ushered her into a living room that was the last word in neo-Nazi chic, the walls festooned with swastika flags, SS memorabilia, photographs, and posters. Jude unholstered her service weapon, a Glock 22C, and placed it on the modest sideboard below Hawke’s favorite reproduction oil painting of Adolf Hitler. Hawke had never asked her to remove her sidearm, but her choice sent a signal. The gesture was more than just good manners, it was a sign of respect and womanly submission, and it worked. Hawke immediately regarded her with sappy indulgence.

Jude sat down in one of two matching leather club chairs opposite the fireplace. To her left a wall-mounted video surveillance monitor displayed the front entrance of the compound.

“I have some news for you, too, Harrison,” she said.

He angled his shaved head attentively.

“No. Please,” Jude insisted. “Your announcement first.”

Hawke leaned against the stone fireplace surround, a thumb hooked in his belt. He’d been dieting and working out since his return from a vacation in Buenos Aires, a fact that intrigued Jude. He’d shown no previous concerns about being seen as a doughboy by CRAP recruits. His more streamlined physique wasn’t the only change. Whatever had happened in Argentina, he suddenly had enough money to drill another well, build a small barracks and mess, put a few of Hakenkreuz Commando on his payroll for round-the-clock security, and set up a state-of-the-art Web site.

When Jude commented on these expensive advances, Hawke would only say that an old friend had done well in Miami property development and they’d made a few investments together. He claimed to have made out like a bandit on these and said he was now cashing in to fund his dream. Jude had passed the information to Arbiter, and the FBI had traced a few property sales that bore Hawke’s name. Oddly, each property had been purchased via a Swiss funds transfer only a few months prior to resale. Arbiter thought cash was being laundered and wanted to know where it came from.

As Hawke’s pale blue eyes devoured her, Jude fingered her shirt buttons, making sure nothing had popped. She didn’t have much going on in the breast department so, on visits to the compound, she tried to maximize her questionable charms with a shirt that was a size too small.

Licking his lips appreciatively, Hawke said, “April twentieth, two thousand eight.” He stroked his fingertips back and forth across his Totenkopf buckle as he waited for this significant date to register.

Jude glanced up at the portrait on the wall, knowing what was coming.

“Yes, the Führer’s birthday.” Hawke was instantly choked up and fell silent for a moment, collecting his thoughts as he always did when he was about to launch into a monologue.

“Shall I make coffee?” Jude inquired before he could wind himself up.

“Not for me.” In a pensive tone, he said, “I’ve been waiting for the opportunity to present itself and I believe the moment has arrived.” He cupped his head in his hands for a few seconds, then looked up with fiercely flashing eyes. “A leadership cadre must be established or our movement will fail. A Kristallnacht is called for.”

“Killings?” Jude asked.

“No, the spilling of blood will be figurative. We can no longer saddle our movement with leaders who advertise their social incompetence on a daily basis. The very existence of the white race is in peril. It’s time to act.”

Jude nodded sympathetically. “Most people think neo-Nazis are crazy extremists and violent bullies.”

“Precisely,” Hawke conceded without expression. “And if we have any chance of winning the war against extinction, we must attract unawakened whites. More than ever we need a leader who can unify the white racialist movement politically and take the struggle forward.”

No doubt he had the very man in mind. Prodding a sore spot, Jude said, “Isn’t the political route the Knights Party strategy?”

Hawke narrowed his eyes. He thought the KKK had sold out when they reinvented themselves and adopted another version of their “invisible empire” shtick, instructing members to infiltrate both major political parties and seek influence from within.

“The awakening will come too late for their plan to pay off,” Hawke said. “And a few Pioneer Little Europes in the Northwest won’t save us. It’s up to the radical wing of the movement to take control.”

“I thought that was happening,” Jude said innocently.

Hawke snorted. “We can’t fund a new world order by robbing banks and stealing credit cards from old ladies.” He was warming up, his brow aglow with perspiration. “I would not say this outside these four walls, but since Pierce and Butler passed to Valhalla, our movement has lost its way. What are we now but a social club for white trash and prison inmates?” Bitterly he added, “That fiasco in Kalamazoo was a new low. What was the turnout? Ten? Maybe twenty?”

Jude nodded. “What an embarrassment.”

“A public face-off between factions! Bill White in his brown shirt and swastika armband behaving like a child because he wasn’t invited to speak. Is that what we want the unawakened to see?”

“What are you suggesting?” Jude asked.

“The Christian Patriots Alliance. A new political organization.”

“You’re dissolving the CRAP?”

“No, we’ll have two arms. One political, one security. I intend to implement the Führer principle.”

Jude hoped she looked suitably impressed. “I thought the NSM tried that.”

Hawke dismissed this idea with a faint sneer. “Those amateurs. No, I’m going to hire experts and pay for an advertising campaign.”

“Won’t it take a lot of money to get this off the ground?”

Smugly, he replied, “I have that taken care of.”

Jude could tell he longed to let slip the name of his benefactor. With a note of disappointment, she said, “It’s better that I don’t know any details.”

Hawke responded to her reticence with a hint. “Let’s just say we have the support of a man who understands firsthand what we’re dealing with.” In case she didn’t follow his meaning, he added, “This is a man familiar with blood and honor, the grandson of a Third Reich hero.”

Wondering which SS criminal he was referring to, Jude prompted, “And you think the timing is right?”

“I do. I’ve handpicked my leadership cadre and I’ll organize a rally in April. That’s when I’ll make the unification announcement.” He crossed the room to stand before her. “With you at my side, we could set an inspiring example. The Aryan leader and his Valkyrie. The future of a cleansed America.”

Wincing inwardly, Jude braced herself for a marriage proposal. She couldn’t get a girlfriend, but the crazy men were lining up. It was time to change the conversation. Before Hawke could continue she said, “Oh, Harrison. If only we lived in a different time where none of this was necessary and all the peoples of the world could live in peace.”

He patted her shoulder, and struck an avuncular note. “Your compassion is a virtue, Fräulein. Even though you know it’s impossible, you still yearn for all races to share your noble spirit. That steadfast heart of yours longs for a safe place in which to rear your children.” He stared up at the Hitler portrait once again, drawing strength. “Yours is the hope of all Aryan women and the driving inspiration of our struggle. A future for white children.”

Jude touched his hand before he could continue with the speech. “I’m worried for your safety, Harrison.”

Her soft tone made him flush. “Every true leader must accept the risks that come with his destiny.”

“I understand, but there’s something I have to tell you.”

Hawke sat down next to her and seized both her hands. His palms felt clammy. “Don’t be afraid to confide in me. Every word spoken is strictly between us.”

As if she could hardly wait to unburden herself, Jude said, “I was at a briefing yesterday about the Telluride Film Festival. You won’t believe this, but there’s some kind of plot to attack the festival. The ASS is behind it.”

At the mention of these CRAP traitors, Hawke released her hands and brought a fist down on his thigh. “What kind of plot?”

“It involves a chemical weapon. That’s what they’re saying. We’re on a Homeland Security alert. I just wanted you to know because you’ll be—”

“Under close scrutiny,” he completed in disgust. “A suspect.”

She nodded sympathetically.

“Those morons,” Hawke ranted, leaping to his feet. “They’re going to spoil everything. An attack on a few Jews and their commie elite friends. Very smart.” He paced back and forth.

“It means I won’t be able to come out here during the investigation,” Jude said. “I shouldn‘t be here now, actually.”

Hawke stopped pacing and searched her face intently, no doubt seeking signs of betrayal. Jude held his gaze steadily, thinking, Arbiter, you owe me a pay raise.

Finally, with a quick flash of relief, Hawke said, “Your loyalty at this critical time means more than I can say.”

Jude fidgeted like she was stressed out. “What are you going to do?”

“I’ll tell you what I’m not going to do,” he said coldly. “I’m not going to allow a few retards to destroy this movement. We are not going to play into ZOG hands this time.” He stomped over to the barred window and stared broodingly toward the desert. “Timothy McVeigh set the racialist agenda back by fifty years. It can’t happen again.”

“Do you think this could be some kind of setup?”

Hawke’s gleaming head spun her way. “What are you saying? Do you know something?”

“I used to work for the Bureau, remember? I know how they do business. Maybe they have a mole in the ASS. Someone they’ve turned. Think about it. How did they get their information?”

Hawke stared into space, his Adam’s apple bobbing in his thick neck. Purple blotches appeared on his angry red face. “I see your point. The feds instigate the plot, then look like heroes for stopping it. No one gets hurt, but we’re publicly disgraced and half our movement is arrested.”

“They’ll blame you,” Jude said. “You’ll be guilty by association.” She played the card Arbiter had insisted upon. “This is all about you. Don’t you see? The government doesn’t want you to lead. They know you’re a threat.”

Hawke’s face went rigid with shock before settling into the fatalistic frown of a man who realized he had a choice to make in his own dramatic destiny. He stalked to Jude’s side and bent to kiss her cheek. “Rest easy, mein Schatz. I’ll take care of this.”

Ushering her from her seat, he led her to the sideboard to collect her weapon. As they walked to the Dakota, Jude said, “If I can, I’ll update you on the briefing.”

“Take no risks on my behalf.” He opened the door for her. “One day, God willing, I will be in a position to show you the full extent of my gratitude.”

Not a prospect Jude wanted to dwell on. She glanced at the underling standing a few feet away, as if his presence was a factor in her reserve. Hawke clutched her hand to his chest in a rare public display of devotion.

“Be careful,” she told him. “Call me if there’s anything else I can do.”

Hawke returned her hand and stepped back. To the young man in uniform he said, “Take note, Oberschütze. This is how a proud Aryan woman conducts herself.”

“Yes, Herr Oberst.”

Jude put on her sunglasses, thankful to screen her gaze. As she waved good-bye, both men saluted. She waited until she was ten miles from the compound before she moved to the shoulder of the road and called Arbiter. “He went for it,” she said. “What now?”

“We find out how smart he is.”

“Don’t hold your breath.”

“I think you underestimate him.”

Scary thought. “We’ll see. Are you going to bring him in?”

“Hell, no. We need him.”

“I’m never going to turn him into a cooperating subject,” Jude warned. “He’s hardcore.”

“That’s okay, we have other assets. Hawke is going to plug us into a laundering op out of Argentina. Al Qaeda uses the same network.”

“I’m not making any headway in that department,” Jude said. Hawke was fond of mouthing off about the future of the white race, but he knew how to shut up when it came to his support network.

“On the contrary,” Arbiter said with silky satisfaction. “He now trusts you completely. It’s only a matter of time before he starts talking.”

“This isn’t about Telluride, is it?” Jude supposed she should have guessed her masters had a larger agenda.

“Telluride’s a win for us no matter what happens,” Arbiter said. “If the place goes up in smoke, we can name our terms for Patriot Three. If it doesn’t, we come out smelling of roses for arresting a bunch of terrorists.”

“I have a feeling Hawke is going to take the law into his own hands.”

“Still a win,” Arbiter said. “Because if he does, you’ll be the loyal girlfriend who helps him get away with it.”

A debt of gratitude Hawke would want to repay very personally. Jude cringed. “If that’s how it ends up shaking down, I want your orders in writing. On the record.”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.”

“Just so you know, I won’t be hung out to dry. If I go down, it’ll be noisy.”

Arbiter chuckled softly. “Relax. You’re in good shape.”

“And I plan to stay that way.”

Jude ended the call and deleted the record on her disposable cell phone. She didn’t want to be part of a screwup. If this operation went south, she would be given a security transfer to another location, far from the Four Corners. The thought troubled her. She wasn’t ready to leave.

*

“Miss Harwood is having a soirée next Saturday,” Tulley said as soon as Jude’s shadow fell across his desk. “We’re invited.”

As he’d expected, his boss received the news with a pained expression. She was unmoved by independent cinema unless Bruce Willis was in it, and she thought Elspeth Harwood was overhyped.

“That thing is about to fly off its bracket,” she said like she had more important things to worry about than the social event of the year. She took off her sunglasses and stared up at the ceiling fan. “I suppose if I don’t fix it myself one of us is going to get decapitated. Remind me—why do I have a big, strong twenty-seven-year-old deputy sitting around this office? Other than feeding pig ears to his dog, of course.”

Tulley said, “I put in a maintenance call to Montrose. They said it’s on the fall schedule.”

They also said the Paradox Valley substation was low priority being as it was a fully renovated building, unlike some of theirs that were about to fall down on the heads of female deputies. Was that what Tulley wanted? No sir, he told the supervisor.

The stationhouse used to be a school until the Montezuma and Montrose sheriffs’ joint initiative. Now it consisted of an office, an interview room, a couple of holding cells, and a utility room out back. Jude kept her Bowflex in one of the cells since her house was too small for serious gym equipment. Tulley was thankful about this because having the Bowflex in plain sight gave him the motivation to improve himself. He worked out every day and could press two hundred pounds, a weight most MCSO deputies would never lift unless they had to rescue their wives from a burning building.

Tulley smoothed his shirtsleeves over his biceps and wondered if he should buy a bigger size uniform now that his was getting really tight. His best buddy, Bobby Lee Parker, said ladies like to see shirt buttons popping across a man’s chest instead of his gut. Tulley could accept that, but he wasn’t sure if he looked professional with his shirt all stretched.

“No one ever filled out a T-shirt like Marlon Brando,” Miss Benham said from the counter in their tiny kitchen. She must have noticed him feeling his muscles. “Women fainted in Streetcar Named Desire, did you know that?”

“Yes, ma’am. But ladies were shy back in the old days. Not any more.” To make his point, he said, “They weren’t fainting in 300, they were panting.”

“300 indeed,” Miss Benham sniped. “They should have gotten their historical facts in order before they made a film about Sparta.”

“It ain’t supposed to be a documentary.” Tulley was surprised that Miss Benham didn’t appreciate the film for its artistic visual style even if she thought the men were too naked.

“It’s pro-war propaganda,” she said with a delicate sniff.

“It’s a legend,” Tulley argued.

“You’ve been duped.”

“You sound like a schoolteacher.” That always got her. Miss Benham had taught right here in this room for about fifty years before she retired.

“I liked that movie,” Jude said. “I got it on DVD. Big screen would have been better.”

“Oh, man, it was awesome at the Regal,” Tulley told her. “Me and Bobby Lee went three times.”

“Why doesn’t that surprise me?” Jude zapped hairs off her seat with a sticky tape roller. “Has that hound been sitting on my chair again?”

Tulley patted his thigh and Smoke’m got up from his bed and plodded across the office for a smooch. “It’s mostly from his ears. He was laying his head there.”

“I don’t care where it’s from. I’d appreciate not having dog hair all over my butt every time I walk out of here.”

“Coffee, Detective?” Miss Benham already had the mug in her hand. She placed it in front of Jude along with the invite they’d received that morning.

Miss Benham said she was going to keep the card for a souvenir since Dr. Westmoreland had handed it to her. Tulley couldn’t see as that was fair. The envelope was addressed to him, too. It was handmade. That was one of Miss Harwood’s hobbies. A gifted actress like her, always in the public eye and working on two movies at once, longed for time out. Miss Harwood relaxed by squishing rags and paper into a pulp and making her own cards and envelopes. Only special people received them. Everyone else got whatever the publicist sent out. That’s what it said in the latest Vanity Fair magazine. Bobby Lee brought in his copies for Tulley when he was done reading them. He subscribed.

Now that Miss Harwood had moved here from England, she was in all the magazines. The fact that she’d just married Dr. Westmoreland from the ME’s office in Grand Junction was big news. No one in the Four Corners would have guessed they’d have a famous lesbian couple living here, of all places. Some people around the area had come out of the closet to show their support. Tulley thought they’d probably regret their noble impulses. It was all very well to flaunt your personal preferences when you were rich and famous. Regular people had to think about their paycheck.

Miss Benham said Dr. Westmoreland was a self-defining woman and Miss Harwood was a creative artist from London and therefore had Bohemian sensibilities and fluid taste in partners. She wouldn’t expect the Philistines in the Four Corners to understand such things. But she sure had that wrong. No one Tulley knew was offended by idea of Miss Harwood and Dr. Westmoreland together. Most guys at the MCSO said it was hot. Live and let live.

Tulley glanced over at Jude. She had a strange look on her face as she read the invite, and she’d had her hair cut again. Miss Benham thought it made her look too stern, but she about lived at the Le Paradox hair shop. Bobby Lee said with unique looks like hers, fancy hairdos and lipstick were pointless. Miss Benham said Bobby Lee was biased because he was her boyfriend. She thought the people who cared about Jude should encourage her to make more of her attributes. Tulley could see her point. It was one thing for a guy to be tall, dark, and handsome, but people wondered about a woman who looked like that. Things being the way they were, however, Miss Benham was dreaming if she thought Jude would ever wear a dress.

“I guess you two can hardly wait to rub shoulders with the Hollywood crowd.” Jude dropped the invite on a stack of files like it smelled bad.

Miss Benham snatched it up. “We’re one of the select few to receive this invitation, I’ll have you know.”

“I wish that did it for me,” Jude said.

“Philip Seymour Hoffman will be there,” Tulley said. “And they’re going to do a computer uplink to Lars von Trier.”

Miss Benham sighed. “All those phobias of his. If he could only bring himself to get on an airplane and leave Denmark, he could come out here and find out what this country is really like. Generalizations are the province of the uninformed.”

“Von Trier’s the director of Dogville,” Tulley informed Jude. He didn’t think much of the USA Trilogy so far, either. He wasn’t surprised when he found out von Trier was brought up by nudist, communist parents.

“I don’t watch animal movies,” Jude said.

Tulley caught Miss Benham’s eye and they both kept quiet. He fed Smoke’m some Zuke’s PowerBones, a treat Bobby Lee’s mom had told him about. She was a pothead, but she sure loved her dogs and she knew plenty about canine health. She was the one who told him that there was way too much stuff from China in dog food. She said they still ate dogs over there so why would they care if our pets got sick? That was before the recalls. Ever since then Tulley had been shipping Smoke’m’s food from a natural pet store run by hippies in Boulder.

“I’m going to Montrose to buy a new dress for the soirée,” Miss Benham said. “Something bright. Why should women of my age have to settle for mauve?”

“You don’t look a day over sixty,” Jude said.

Tulley had seen old photos of Miss Benham when she ran the schoolhouse. She looked exactly the same now as she did back then in the dark ages. He wasn’t sure how to turn that observation into a compliment, so he kept quiet.

The phone rang and Jude picked up. After a short silence, she asked, “When did she leave?”

Tulley recognized the tone. Normally Jude’s voice was low and husky. He and Miss Benham argued over who she sounded like most, Kathleen Turner or Barbara Stanwyck. When something came up, her tone flattened out and she seemed to bite the ends off her words. From the few things she said, he could tell there was a problem, so he got to his feet and combed his hair in the wall mirror just in case they’d been called out. He could do with a haircut, he thought, moving his thick black waves first in one direction, then the other. Sometimes he went to Le Paradox, but only if that weirdo friend of the hairdresser’s wasn’t around.

He wasn’t sure what he’d done wrong, but Sandy Lane had taken a dislike to him. She called him “Pretty Boy,” which, despite Floyd Mayweather’s accomplishments in the boxing ring, was not a nickname most guys would appreciate. Tulley thought she was deliberately egging him on, but he wasn’t about to pick a fight with her. If there was one thing his ma taught him, it was to never lay a hand on a woman.

Jude asked a couple more questions, then said, “Okay, I’ll be over in ten minutes.”

Miss Benham poured coffee in a paper cup to go. As she squeezed the lid down over the rim, she asked, “Shall I accept Miss Harwood’s invitation for all three of us? We’re invited to bring a guest each, as well.”

“Count me out,” Jude said. “Tell her I have a headache.”

“It’s a week away. You can’t predict headaches in advance.”

“Trust me, in this case I can guarantee it.”

“It’s not because of their sexual orientation, is it?” Miss Benham asked. “No one worries about that type of thing anymore. Besides, creative people have always explored boundaries and defied social mores.”

Jude rolled her eyes. “Agatha, I don’t give a rat’s ass about anyone’s sexuality. Bobby Lee will drive you. He can go in my place.”

Miss Benham stared at Tulley like he knew why their boss got irrational every time Miss Harwood’s name was mentioned. He said, “Dr. Westmoreland asked for us to tell you she hopes you’ll come.”

“Yeah, I’ll bet she does.” Jude swapped her uniform shirt for plain clothes.

Tulley checked out her muscles. His were bigger these days. In comparison to both of them, Bobby Lee look like a weakling with his Pilates for men.

“Will you be needing me and Smoke’m?” he asked.

“No, that was Debbie at Le Paradox,” Jude said. “Some kind of security issue. I’ll go take down the details and check the locks. That’ll keep her happy.”

“Your hair’s short enough,” Miss Benham said.

Jude smiled. It wasn’t much of a smile, but the sun lines crinkled around her eyes. Over time, Tulley had gotten used to her serious look, but when they first started working together he always thought she was mad at him. Jude didn’t put on a happy face like most people. Folks that didn’t know her wouldn’t see the little changes that gave her thoughts away, but Tulley had learned to recognize them. Her mouth was straight and hard-looking, and when she pressed her lips together in anger her chin tightened slightly. When she thought something was funny, the small hollows at each corner of her mouth deepened a fraction.

Tulley had a theory that most people didn’t notice Jude’s mouth because they were too busy staring at her eyes, which were flat-out beautiful. He wished he could stare right into them for as long as he wanted, but he only got to do that with Smoke’m. All the same, he took advantage when she didn’t realize she was being watched. It wasn’t just their mossy granite color that was unusual. She had a mess of eyelashes most females would flutter all the time, but that wasn’t her style. Instead she watched everything with a sleepy gaze that gave no clue as to her thoughts. Bobby Lee said she had bedroom eyes. Tulley had never understood that expression until he met Jude.

After she left the stationhouse, he said, “What’s with her and Miss Harwood?”

“It’s that dark side of hers,” Agatha said. They often talked about Jude’s silences and her tendency to go off into the mountains alone. “I suppose she has things on her mind.”

Tulley considered telling Miss Benham about the terrorists, but Jude said there was no reason to worry a woman of seventy-two with frightening information. Miss Benham was looking forward to the Telluride film festival and Jude was damned if a few cretins planning a bio-attack would spoil it for her.

“Deputy, that dog bed is filthy.” Miss Benham frowned at him across her glasses. “Take it outside and shake it right now before it gives me hives.”

Tulley said, “Yes, ma’am.”

He never argued about doing the chores. His ma had taught him better than that. He picked up the denim-covered beanbag and whistled to Smoke’m. Once they got out into the parking lot, he shook the bed into some bushes and gazed up at the huge Marlboro Man sitting on his horse, overlooking the station. That, Tulley thought, was a real man. Tough guys like him were the bedrock the West was built on. While Smoke’m lifted his leg at the base of the billboard, Tulley struck a pose like that of the bronzed cowboy. He couldn’t help wondering what the Marlboro Man would say to someone like Crystal Sherman.

Every time he saw that female, Tulley got embarrassed. She always pretended to flirt with him, saying she wanted to watch when they took his picture for the fund-raising calendar and such. Tulley wished she’d quit. Her husband was a buddy of his. Deputy Gavin Sherman had a seven-thousand-dollar Belgian Malinois detection dog from Adlerhorst International. That was one super-smart animal. He’d never track a felon like Smoke’m and he wasn’t a cadaver dog, but he could get around an agility ring like he was on banned substances.

Tulley was helping Gavin train him for the canine world games in Scottsdale in a couple of months’ time, so he stayed at their house when he was in Cortez. He wasn’t sure if that was such a good idea. Crystal had a habit of walking around in little tiny shorts when they were working the dogs. She was always bending down to pick up throwtoys and leaning seductively against the ramps and weave poles. The last time Tulley stayed overnight she walked in on him when he was taking a shower. He didn’t think it was an accident.

Taking another look up at the billboard, he tried to guess what the Marlboro Man would say if Crystal Sherman ran her hand over his butt while he was flipping burgers on the grill. The ideal brush-off came to mind and Tulley rehearsed the words in a convincing cowboy drawl.

“Darlin’, while I’m flattered, I think it’s time you ran along back to your husband.”

Chapter Three

The midsummer sun burned a hole in the afternoon sky, its molten glare too much even for Pippa Calloway’s high-tech sunglasses. Squinting, she rested her head on the steering wheel and contemplated her situation. She was parked at the side of the road in the middle of nowhere, her cell phone was almost out of juice, and she was low on water. This was truly the road trip from hell.

A deep voice over the windshield repeated, “Recalculating.”

“Hal,” the voice of her Garmin GPS unit, liked to point out the error of her ways. Pippa extracted a fresh bottle of water from her cooler, took a few gulps, and then splashed some on her face. All she could think about was sleep. She’d left Connecticut five days earlier for her two-thousand-mile odyssey to the Southwest. Her Mazda CX7 looked like it belonged to a homeless person, with personal possessions piled to the roof. Pippa had crammed five years of her life into the car, forcing herself to throw away everything she hadn’t worn or looked at for a long time.

She pictured Uncle Fabian’s smooth, tanned face as she lugged all this crap into his spare room. He always rolled his eyes over her pack-rat habits, but he never made her feel unwelcome. Pippa had an open invitation to come to him anytime, for any reason, and stay as long as she liked. Usually, when family life got unbearable, she fled to Maulle Mansion, his home in the Garden District of New Orleans. This time, however, she wanted to put several thousand miles between herself and her parents.

She’d never been to the log cabin in the San Juan Mountains and had the impression that her uncle preferred to have the place to himself. Still, she had a front door key, one of the four he’d given her to his various homes. Earlier in the month Uncle Fabian had suggested she fly to London to chill out in his pied à terre near St. James Park. But her parents thought nothing of “hopping across the pond,” as her mother put it, to shop and go to the theatre. If Pippa wanted to avoid them, she would have to hole up some place her mother wouldn’t be caught dead in. Looking around, she knew she’d found that exact place.

As she left Farmington, she turned off the GPS and slid a couple of old Rolling Stones CDs into her player. The route was depressing, lined with a succession of pawn shops, junked cars, decrepit mobile homes, scrawny dogs, and scenery that was nothing like a western movie. She had expected red canyons, tall cactus plants, and cowboys on horseback. Such vistas were the norm somewhere around here, if Uncle Fabian’s e-mails and photos were any indication. Meantime she was driving toward an ochre-toned netherworld beneath a vast blue sky, a place where time and human foibles made only a transient impression on nature.

To her left loomed Shiprock, a dark bluish gray monolith that seemed to float above the desert plain. According to a brochure she’d picked up at a trading post en route. The Navajo had named the landmark Tse’Bit’Ai, or Rock with Wings. Pippa pulled over and found her camera. As she took photos, she thought she could almost see the wings of a celestial being struggling to break free of the volcanic stone. The illusion sent a small thrill of pleasure through her body and she squeezed her hands closed, imagining the feel of clay between her fingers. It had been months since she modeled or sculpted. She could hardly wait to get started again.

Wiping perspiration from her forehead, she got back in the SUV and set off once more. If she hadn’t driven through Kansas before detouring through New Mexico, she might have mistaken the benighted vista around her for the worst hellhole in the galaxy. But having endured hour after hour of highway hypnosis in the flat monotony of the Sunflower State, she had a whole new perspective on the meaning of doom. The distance markers never seemed to change, and she’d even started to suspect Hal of some kind of robotic revenge: force the know-nothing human to drive in a daze, seeing nothing but white lines, until she drifts into the path of an approaching semi.

A shattering horn evicted Pippa from her fugue state and she swung her gaze from a saw-toothed zigzag of sunburned rock to a sign that announced “Entering the Navajo Indian Reservation.” A few cars parked along the highway offered kneel-down bread from their open trunks. Pippa wasn’t hungry but the poverty around her made her sad, and she wanted to buy something from the people who lived in this miserable place.

She stopped under the shade of a twisted tree and requested some of the delicious-smelling bread. As the Navajo woman wrapped the filled corn husks, Pippa asked, “Do I just stay on this highway to get to Cortez?”

The woman turned her head to the right and seemed to point with puckered lips, her hands still busy.

Not sure if she’d been given directions or the brush-off, Pippa said, “Thank you,” and overpaid for the bread.

“Highway 491,” the woman said. “Hágoónee’.”

Pippa repeated the Navajo farewell. Her version sounded weirdly mechanical and unmelodic. She took some lip balm from her top pocket and applied it as she returned to the CX7. The afternoon heat was intense, 104 degrees outside, according to the temperature reading on her radio display. She was ready for her trip to be over, but it would take another two hours to reach her destination.

She drove until a sign directed her to H-491, a lonely two-lane road through a cratered landscape. A procession of power pylons followed the highway, providing an incongruous but welcome reminder that civilization lay somewhere beyond this desolation. Strange square rimrocks rose ahead, and far beyond them a mountain range undulated in the haze like a violet mirage. She passed broken bottles, torn tires, and occasional wreaths at the side of the road until finally she cracked up over a shabby wood sign that proclaimed “Welcome to Colorful Colorado.”

She could see why this dismal stretch of road, once Highway 666, was known as the Devil’s Highway. A waitress on the New Mexico side of the state line had told her it had been renamed to ward off a satanic curse. When she heard this superstition, Pippa thought the girl was kidding. Now, as an odd waywardness entered her steering, she was not so sure. A few hundred yards past a sign that read “Toad Porter’s Haysales,” Pippa pulled over onto the gravel shoulder and got out of the SUV. A quick look at her back tires confirmed her worst fear. She was stranded in the desert with a flat tire.

She stared at the hay sales sign in puzzlement. There was no evidence of hay, or fields it could grow in, or a store that might be operated by a man called Toad Porter. The only other vehicle on the road was a truck with tinted windows, slowing down as it approached. Pippa didn’t know if that was a good thing or a bad thing. She tried to look like she had everything under control as the vehicle stopped and a tall man with straight silver-white hair to his shoulders got out.

He approached the SUV in a casual gait. At his heel loped a gray dog with a heavy mane and a hind leg missing. The man wore jeans and a dark red shirt with a silver bolo tie engraved with a bird. His broad-brimmed black felt hat had a turquoise-studded leather braid around the crown. A cream and brown striped feather hung from a leather thong at the side of his face.

“Flat tire?” he asked.

“Yes.” Pippa waited for an offer of help.

The stranger looked past her into the back of her car, then returned his quiet-eyed stare to her face. His expression was unchanging. “Got a spare?”

Pippa hesitated. How many times had her father told her what to do in the event of a breakdown? She was supposed to call AAA roadside service and wait for them to arrive. Who knew how long that would take? She would probably be a skeleton picked clean by buzzards when they finally showed up.

“Yes, it’s in the back.”

“My name is Eddie House.”

The man seemed to expect her to trust him. Irrationally, she did. She stretched her hand out into the golden glow of the late afternoon sun and shook his briefly. “I’m Phillipa Calloway. I’ll get my stuff out so we can reach the spare.”

As she opened the rear hatch, a second person emerged from Eddie House’s truck, a gangly fair-haired youth in cargo pants and a T-shirt. The three-legged dog nuzzled him.

“My boy, Zach,” Eddie said. “This lady is Ms. Calloway. We need to change her tire.”

“Want me to fetch the tools, sir?” Zach patted the animal’s pale lupine mane and smiled tentatively at Pippa.

Eddie gave the young man a nod and helped unload boxes from the back of the Mazda.

“I can’t believe I got a flat.” Pippa sighed. “I’ve been driving for five days and I’m so close now, it’s insane.”

Eddie lifted the floor panel to extract the spare. He didn’t ask where she was headed.

Feeling the need to let this stranger know that she wasn’t just a lost tourist no one cared about, she said, “I’m on my way to the mountains. I have family past Dolores.” She fished her cell phone from the side pocket of her jeans as Eddie wheeled the spare alongside the SUV. “I should let them know where I am.”

She took a few steps away, avoiding broken glass and discarded soda cans. She’d called Uncle Fabian earlier in the day to warn him about her imminent arrival, and he’d told her to drive carefully once she reached the mountain roads. He sounded really happy that she was coming. She waited for him to pick up but the phone cut over to voicemail. He was probably out buying her favorite foods. He always did that just before she arrived. There didn’t seem much point leaving a message, but she wanted Eddie to see her talking to someone. Just a simple precaution.

Cheerfully, she said, “I’m just a few miles south of Cortez on the Devil’s Highway and a man called Eddie House is helping me with the tire. I guess I’ll reach your place in about an hour.”

Zach returned with a jack and a steel toolbox and the two men set about swapping the wheels. For family members they bore no resemblance.

Pippa said a few farewell pleasantries to the imaginary person at the other end of the phone. “My uncle offered to drive out here,” she informed her rescuers. “But I said everything was fine.”

Zach grinned at her. “We’ll have you all set in no time.”

“What’s your dog’s name?” Pippa asked, disconcerted by the pet’s intense tawny-eyed stare.

“He’s a wolf.”

Pippa froze the hand she was about to extend. Laughing nervously, she said, “Well, that explains the big teeth.”

“He won’t harm you.” Eddie made a hand signal and mumbled something guttural in another language. The wolf crouched to rest on its belly. “His name is Hinhan Okuwa. I told him you’re a friend.”

Pippa decided Eddie was a Native American and his son must be some kind of albino. She asked, “Do you folks live on the reservation?”

Eddie didn’t answer for so long that she thought she must have offended him. Was it wrong to ask?

Zach said, “Our house is a ways out of Towaoc going toward Cortez.”

Not exactly an answer, but Pippa nodded as if everything was now perfectly clear. Feeling the need to explain herself, she said, “It’s just that I’ve been driving through the Navajo Nation. I wasn’t sure if I’m still on tribal land.”

“This is the Ute Nation,” Eddie said.

Zach explained, “The Weeminuche live here, in the Four Corners, and the White Mesa people have their lands in Utah. There’s about two thousand Ute left.”

Pippa gazed around at the barren plateau extending east to west. What would two thousand people do on land like this? She couldn’t see many signs of habitation, only litter and abandoned cars. “Where does everyone live?”

The men got to their feet and Eddie lowered the jack. As they gathered their tools, he said, “There was no water on the reservation for a hundred years, then we made a deal with the government for water, so the people can return.”

With a note of pride, Zach said, “Most everyone can get a job. There’s the casino, and the ranch project, and the construction company. Dad makes pottery. He’s famous.”

“You’re an artist?” Pippa smiled. Uncle Fabian had a huge collection of Native American pottery. He displayed stunning examples in each of his homes. “I’m familiar with some of the Southwestern styles. Santa Clara. Acoma. San Ildefonso. My uncle is a collector. Perhaps you’ve met him. Fabian Maulle.”

Eddie’s gaze was suddenly more personal. “Yes, I know him.” He glanced down at her hands. “Are you the sculptor?”

“He told you about me?”

“He showed me one of your heads.” Eddie peered deeper into the vehicle, his face concerned.

“Don’t worry, I didn’t try to move any of my works. If I decide to stay, I’ll have them shipped out here.”

“You’re coming to live in the Four Corners?” Zach sounded astonished.

“Possibly. It depends.” Pippa started lifting her stuff back into the SUV.

Eddie helped her, then handed her a card. “Come to the pottery factory. I’ll show you my work.”

“I’d like that.” Pippa smiled. “Thank you for your help. It was very nice of you.”

Eddie and Zach farewelled her solemnly.

Zach advised, “It’s best you don’t drive out here at night in the future, ma’am. We get a lot of accidents on the triple six.”

“Drunk drivers.” Eddie’s voice was very flat. “It’s a problem.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” Pippa got back in the CX7 and lowered her window, allowing a rush of warm air to invade the SUV. She started the motor and turned the a/c up high.

Eddie and Zach waited until she was on the road before getting in their truck. She gave them a wave and turned on the GPS.

With gloomy disapproval, Hal said, “Recalculating.”

“Knock yourself out,” Pippa told him.

Staring at a bizarre chimney-shaped rock formation ahead of her, she hit the random setting on her CD player and cranked up the volume. As she drove toward the future, she sang along to one of those maddening White Stripes tunes that would lodge in her brain until something genuinely compelling drove it out.

*

Lonewolf watched a group of black helicopters buzz overhead as she mouthed the lyrics to yet another moonbat anti-war song. As the final off-key notes faded, she offered her “War Profiteers” placard to a protester standing in the shadow of the ten-foot-tall Dick Cheney effigy. He looked about twenty. Sierra Club ballcap on back to front, souvenir T-shirt from a Washington peace march, shoulder bag weighed down with peacenik buttons.

He thanked her for the placard and offered her a bottle of Gatorade in exchange, saying, “If I drink any more I’ll have to go pee again.”

“Yeah, me, too,” she said, declining the drink. They joined the chant of “Down with the dictator.”

Around her, so many people were recording the event on cell phone cameras and videocams that it was hard to identify the professionals. But Lone had no doubt that the Secret Service and the FBI had plants standing out in the sun in disguise, pretending to care that their country was becoming a fascist dictatorship right under their noses. She’d been surprised by the turnout for the peace rally. Over two hundred. Quite a showing for Jackson Hole, Wyoming, the summer golf retreat of the man she intended to neutralize.

She’d arrived two days earlier and had spent some time getting the lay of the land and experimenting with different looks. After several dry runs she found she attracted the least attention dressed as a man in baggy khaki shorts and a tee. The red Nike ballcap she’d chosen for the rally was emblazoned with “OU” and “Sooners,” identifying her as a misguided Oklahoman to the hirelings who would later analyze event footage.

She’d dyed her short, nondescript mouse hair dark brown and tinted her eyebrows a few shades darker. The color was temporary and she planned to get rid of it before she drove back to the Four Corners. She kept her Oakley photochromic sunglasses on at all times. Anyone in a security detail paid close attention to eyes in a crowd. No one would notice anything special about hers even if the glasses came off. Contact lenses had dulled her distinctive bright blue to a mundane shade of gray.

Lone had distorted her muscular build with fake flab around the middle, but she couldn’t do much about her height. She had lifts in her hiking boots and walked tall, trying to give the impression of five ten instead of five eight. She wore an iPod and made a point of tapping her feet and looking lost in her music, so she didn’t seem as focused as some of the rally-goers. That was another thing agents watched for—the stillness of the predator, an unconscious byproduct of intense concentration. To blend in, she needed to move, but not with any obvious sense of direction. As she drifted toward the gates of the poncy Teton Pines Resort and Country Club, she kept her head down and her iPod in her hand, as if her playlist was more interesting than the events unfolding around her.

“Hey, is that the Nano?” A guy with designer stubble and artfully tousled brown hair sidled up to her. Beneath the baggy pants and T-shirt, he was built. The backpack slung across his shoulder looked new. So did his sneakers.

“Yeah, it’s fucking awesome,” Lone replied in the deepest version of her unfeminine voice. “Hey, pal, have you seen a blond chick in a pink top?”

The guy gazed around, bringing his backpack into view. The peace sign in the center was a recent addition and the patches were extremely clean. He pointed to a young female waving a sign. “Over there?”

“No, that’s not her. Damn.”

“Girlfriend?”

“Fuck, no.” When the guy looked confused, she said, “Get with the program, man. Look around. It’s Babe Central and we’re in the minority. Know what that means?”

Her companion acted cool. “Oh, yeah, you gotta love the peace movement.”

Lone angled her head a little. “Check it out. Yellow placard. ‘Bring My Brother Home.’ Don’t let her see you looking.”

As her companion took a moment to ogle the braless female, Lone checked out his ankles for a concealed weapon. One hem lifted slightly, telling her all she needed to know. Anyone who had worked in covert ops developed certain instincts. Most often, she had no idea how she made someone. Her mind seemed to process the subtle clues unconsciously, and by the time she carried out a closer inspection she was simply working through a checklist, making sure she wasn’t mistaken. For this operation, agents were fair game, innocent civilians were not. She wondered which branch of Big Brother this faux peacenik took his orders from.

“Do you think the Democrats will impeach?” he asked in an unsubtle attempt to place her on the threat assessment spectrum. Liberal tree-hugger, crazy commie, or neurotic screwball with a martyrdom complex.

Lone hoped she would fall into that other category: horny loser. She wondered why she’d been tagged for closer inspection and decided she was just a statistic, one of the twenty percent of this crowd identified as a male between eighteen and forty-five. No one looked Middle Eastern enough to have earned instant arrest.

“Impeach?” She let a disgusted sneer show. “No way. Those pussies aren’t gonna strap on balls anytime soon.”

“I guess.” Her new best friend glanced around. “Do you know which house is the VP’s?”

“Nope, but if you find it let me know. That’s one doorstep begging for a steaming pile of dog turd.” Snorting with laughter, she continued, “Hey, Cheney steps out for another day at the golf course and ‘Fuck—what’s this on my shoes? Call the feds. Shoot some old guy in the face. It’s a fucking terrorist attack!’”

Her comedy skit raised a phony laugh from her companion and he glanced past her, no doubt lining up his next target. Lone could tell she’d been dismissed as a dork who should have auditioned for American Pie. All those years in high school drama had paid off.

The protestors wheeled the effigy closer to the stone-pillared gates of the tony country club and tied a rope around its neck. Lone stared up at the papier-mâché face of evil. Here in the midst of a beautiful, natural wilderness lurked the draft dodger who had cynically sent thousands of servicemen and women to their deaths. He knew all along that Iraq would be a quagmire. That’s what he told ABC news in 1991, explaining why we didn’t occupy Iraq in the first Gulf War. He repeated the same opinion over the years until he became VP of the Bushdom, then suddenly his rhetoric changed.

Lone knew why, and it wasn’t because Iraq was any different. The men of the evil alliance knew the American public had a short memory. They figured, after 9/11, they could sell anything with enough patriotic spin—invading counties, sidelining army generals who disagreed with them, torturing prisoners, suspending habeas corpus. Of course the decision to invade Iraq had been made long before the Twin Towers came down. Anyone who bothered to inform themselves could ascertain that fact. Not that the so-called “news” media would ever join the dots and ask tough questions. Those lackeys knew the truth, but they would never print it. They were in the propaganda business.

The simple fact was, war profiteers didn’t get to walk away with billions during peacetime. Lone’s family was dead because bloated fat cats didn’t have enough money. They needed to play golf on immaculate greens beneath majestic mountains while soldiers on extended tours of duty swallowed dust and sand with their jerky. Cheney “had other priorities” when his country was at war with Vietnam and had obtained five deferments. Nothing had changed. He was still out to lunch while heroes were paying for his comfort with their lives. He was eating lamb chops when Private First Class Brandon Ewart was being dragged out of a poorly armored Humvee by insurgents before they cut his throat.

Lone thought about her partner’s suicide note. Madeline wrote: What did my son die for? The answer she and every mother deserved was that her child had given his life for a noble cause. That he was defending his country, and there was no higher calling for a patriotic American. Brandon had died a Marine, and proud, and no one could take that away from him. But the truth was unspeakably banal. Brandon had died because war was good business and a few corrupt men were drunk on power.

Lone hadn’t always known what she knew now. She used to laugh at conspiracy theorists. She thought Iraq naysayers were deluded fools who refused to accept post-9/11 reality, misguided liberals who didn’t understand what was in their own best interests. People like her were trained to protect American interests even when they received no thanks for doing so. They were the active patriots, the bulwark between a free society and the external forces of hate that sought its undoing. She was proud to wear the uniform. She could look anyone in the eye and defend her beliefs, knowing she was right.

When Madeline started spouting left-wing rhetoric about blood for oil, Lone had tried to make her see sense. Back then, the commander in chief had her loyalty, and she gave him credit for knowing what he was doing. She couldn’t believe that a president would take the country to war without an imminent threat. Even if the bullshit about WMDs was just a smokescreen and the real reason they were there was to secure oil resources, Lone could have accepted that. She just wanted to be told the truth, to know what she was risking her life for.

Soldiers like her obeyed their commanders’ orders without question, but mutual trust was fundamental to that equation. The commander had to rely on the loyalty and obedience of his troops, and the troops had to believe their commander would only send them into harm’s way if there was no other choice. The idea of an elective war, a war to make money for friends in big business, was such a dire breach of trust that Lone had refused to entertain the possibility. Even after she lost Brandon and then Madeline, she thought if she got to the truth of the matter her beliefs would be vindicated. She simply couldn’t accept that she’d been duped and that the weak-kneed liberals she despised had been right all along.

A sob closed her throat as she thought about the facts she’d uncovered. The truth was hard to accept not only because it made a fool of her but because it changed everything. Ego was not an indulgence an honorable soldier could afford when her country was at risk. An evil alliance of men had stolen America out from under the feet of her citizens, using lies and propaganda to hide their real agenda. Now that she understood what was really happening, she saw evidence of their strategies wherever she looked.

There had to be a war so the big donors to the Bush presidential campaign could get their payday. The “plan for a post-Saddam Iraq” memo laid it out right there six months before 9/11—troop requirements, war crimes tribunals, and divvying up the oil assets. According to Paul O’Neill, the memo was all they could talk about at the National Security Council meeting that February. Screw the information about an imminent terrorist attack; they had more important things to think about, like which of their pals would get the Iraqi oilfield contracts.

Besides, back in 2000 Cheney and his neocon friends in the PNAC had lamented that American world dominance would progress slowly unless there was “some catastrophic and catalyzing event––like a new Pearl Harbor.” Would they stand in the way of the dream-come-true scenario they hoped for? Lone seriously doubted it.

Every time she thought about the real reasons her country was at war, she was consumed with a wintry rage that made her physically ill. Some days she felt so angry she wanted to harm herself. She couldn’t believe she’d stayed in her brainwashed bubble for so long. Like others who’d drunk the Kool-Aid, she reacted like a wind-up doll to the familiar refrain: patriotism, American values, fight them over there so we don’t have to fight them here. Her adamant beliefs had blinded her to Madeline’s despair. She’d read into her lover’s angry words nothing more than the grief of a mother who’d lost her child. She had kidded herself that time would heal and Madeline would come to terms with her loss.

Lone felt sick and her hands began to sweat. In her arrogance and blindness, she had invalidated Madeline’s feelings and left her terribly alone in her unbearable knowledge. The day she’d killed herself, Madeline left her diary open on the nightstand at Lone’s side of the bed. A quote was penned in the middle of the page:

Nothing is so unworthy of a civilized nation as allowing itself to be “governed” without opposition by an irresponsible clique that has yielded to base instinct.

—White Rose Society. Germany, 1942

Several weeks after she dropped dirt into Madeline’s grave, Lone finally Googled the source of the quote, a leaflet written by a handful of Germans who resisted Nazi ideology and dared to say so. They were executed, of course. Beheaded. Kids who dared to question the corrupt beast of National Socialism. Their story made her think about how an entire nation could be coopted and coerced into accepting the unacceptable. Her country could not be compared to Nazi Germany, but the lessons of history were undeniable. People could rationalize almost anything, even act against their own interests, when they buried their common sense under layers of fear, self-deception, obedience, and misguided patriotism.

Lone had done exactly that, and she had failed the woman she loved. She was not going to make the same mistake twice. She had Debbie to think about now, innocent, trusting Debbie Basher, who knew nothing about politics and saw only the good in people. Whatever happened, Lone was going to keep her safe. She would never let Debbie down. When she was done, Debbie would be proud of her. And so would Madeline, if she was looking down from heaven.

A loud cheer rose around her, calling her thoughts to order. Lone added her voice absently to the chants as the Dicktator effigy was pulled, Saddam-style, off its pedestal. She pictured the real VP there, toppled from his lofty perch, facing the fury of the little people whose lives he trampled as he pleased. Would he expect mercy, or would he concede that criminal conduct should have consequences? Even Nixon had finally understood that America was a precious idea and that the office he held should not be defiled by the dirty dealings of corrupt men. He’d had enough shame to resign.

Aware that she was standing too still, Lone followed a young woman dawdling away from the rally. She’d seen enough to know that this was not the right place for the delivery phase of Operation Houseclean. Jackson Hole was deceptively open and tranquil, but now that the millionaires had been driven out by billionaires, the area was knee-deep in private security. Of the three Cheney residences she’d scoped out, this one offered the easiest access but it wouldn’t suffice. The chances of getting her target close enough to a van packed with C-4 to be killed by the explosion seemed poor and the opportunities to get a clean head shot were extremely limited.

She considered the option of rigging a golf cart to explode. She could gain access to the eighteenth hole via one of the upscale houses that backed onto the green in that area, but escape would be impossible and she needed to get away so she could move quickly to the next name on her list of first-wave targets.

Talk about shock and awe.

Americans thought Republican sex scandals were shaking things up. They were startled by the departures of Donald Rumsfeld, Karl Rove, and Alberto Gonzales. Well, she had news for them. They hadn’t seen anything yet. The evil alliance would thrive with impunity no more. Their days of gluttony at the trough of greed, amorality, and excess were numbered.

The men leading this country toward doom so they could wallow in wealth thought they were entitled. For them, the means always justified the end, when the end was about their wealth, power, and privilege. Screw the other ninety-nine percent of the population, they were just there to be used. The cabal that had stolen the country slept like babies. They threw sticks for their dogs and bounced their grandchildren on their knees. They could look at themselves in the mirror and ignore the blood on their hands.

Well, not for much longer. When she was done, the blood would be their own.

Chapter Four

Debbie Basher hung the Closed sign on the door of Le Paradox and gazed up at Jude. Her hazel eyes were bright with tears. “Thanks for coming.”

They both heard the tremble in her voice. Looking embarrassed, Debbie tucked her wavy chestnut hair behind her ears and clasped her hands together. She was not one of those women who could hide emotional turmoil behind a placid veneer.

“What’s wrong?” Jude asked.

Debbie’s mouth trembled. “Where are my manners? Coffee?”

Jude lifted the paper cup Agatha had placed in her hand as she left the stationhouse.

“Oh, silly me.” Debbie’s eyes darted left and right.

Jude always had the urge to hold her and stroke her hair, as one would a frightened child. “Let’s sit down,” she said.

Over the past months she’d befriended the sweet-natured hairdresser, hoping to get a fix on her taciturn lover, Sandy Lane aka Lonewolf. Debbie’s name had popped up on the FBI radar when someone purchased two hundred pounds of C-4 plastic explosive in her name. It wasn’t rocket science to figure out who made the buy. Jude was still amazed that Sandy had implicated her girlfriend. She probably thought anyone following up on the purchase would take one look at Debbie and assume identity theft. This woman wouldn’t know plastic explosive from tofu.

Debbie had no idea that she and her beloved were under surveillance, and Jude had no plans to tell her. She wanted to find out what Sandy Lane was up to and talk her down before she did something she would regret. So far, she hadn’t come close to gathering any hard intelligence. The woman was a survivalist with a cabin somewhere in the San Juans. Jude had attempted to followed her down there on several occasions, but Sandy wasn’t stupid.

It wasn’t easy to hide a Dakota with patrol markings in a single, slow-moving lane of traffic on the narrow, winding mountain highway, and Sandy always seemed to know when she was being followed. Last time, she’d stopped at a rest area and waved as Jude approached. Jude had pulled over to greet her as if the encounter was mere coincidence. She said she was on her way to Cortez for a meeting. She could tell Sandy didn’t buy it.

The FBI kept files on thousands of antisocial loners. Admittedly most weren’t building C-4 stockpiles. But Sandy seemed to be lying low, and since she could not be tied to any watch-list organization, all Jude could do was wait for her to make a move.

“Would you like a donut?” Debbie asked as Jude followed her to the tiny staff area out the back of the shop.

“No, thanks.” Jude sat at one end of the scuffed leather love seat that took up most of the room. “You said you haven’t heard from Sandy for a couple of days?” she prompted.

Debbie perched on the edge of the cushion next to Jude’s like she might have to flee at any moment. Jude wondered what kind of childhood could have left her so painfully vulnerable and lacking in confidence.

“I feel silly calling you.” Debbie give a jittery shrug. “I’m sure she’s perfectly fine and I’m worrying for no reason.”

“You’re entitled to be concerned.”

“It’s just…” Uncertainty pinched Debbie’s small face. “This isn’t the first time. It’s been going on for months.”

Jude waited, wanting her to work through all the usual rationalizations until she arrived at the gut fear that made her seek help in the first place.

“She goes away for days at a time and never tells me where, and she doesn’t call till she gets back. She keeps changing her cell phone number.” Debbie covered her mouth with both hands, smothering a sob. “Do you think she’s having an affair?”

An affair was probably the best scenario. “What do you think?” Jude asked.

“I don’t think she’s seeing anyone. I think she loves me. But everyone says this kind of thing is a sign.” Debbie gave a self-deprecating smile. “I’m probably just being paranoid because of what happened with Meg.”

Before moving to the Four Corners three years earlier, Debbie had lived with a woman in Denver. She’d walked out when she discovered her partner had been cheating on her for months. Meg had promised to buy her out of their house, but that never happened and Debbie struggled along in rented accommodation, trying to make ends meet by working part-time in another woman’s hair shop. In the meantime, her father had died and she wasn’t close to her mother. Her only sibling, an older brother, was pastor of an evangelical church in Greenville. He had numerous children, but Debbie, the “homosexual sinner,” was not allowed near them for reasons of family values.

Jude wasn’t surprised by her dependency on Sandy. Who else made her feel loved? An ugly thought unsettled Jude. What if the relationship was just an expedience for Sandy? Could she be using Debbie, even setting her up?

With deep unease, Jude said, “Let’s assume she’s not having an affair. What else could she be doing? Does she have a hobby she wants to keep to herself? Is she going away to visit a sick relative?”

“Not that I know of. I was hoping she might have said something to you.”

Jude stifled a laugh. The last thing Sandy Lane said to her was, “If anything ever happens, make sure Debbie’s okay.” Not the words of a woman whose partner was nothing more than a convenience, surely.

That was six weeks ago, at a community cookout Agatha organized for the Fourth of July. Jude had dragged Sandy aside later and asked her point-blank what she thought might “happen.” She had fobbed off the question, saying she was just feeling gloomy after she saw a collision on the highway.

“There’s something else.” Debbie’s voice tightened. “This time, before she left she said we’re moving to Canada when she gets back.”

“Canada?” Jude’s pulse jumped. Sandy was planning an exit strategy that involved vanishing across the border. And she was taking Debbie.

“I don’t want to live in Canada,” Debbie said, wringing her hands. “My boss and her husband have an alpaca farm and they’re expanding. She wants to sell the shop. I’d get it for peanuts. Nobody wants to buy a business out here.”

“That sounds like a good opportunity if you think you could make a living.”

“I thought I could add some other services. Manicures. Facials. I’m a trained aesthetician as well as a hairdresser.”

“You’d probably do okay,” Jude said. “Have you talked to Lone about it?”

“No. I was planning to and then she started with this Canada idea. She’s acting like it’s definite.”

“What’s in Canada?”

“She has a property there. She bought it after her partner died.”

“Where is it?” Jude asked casually.

“I don’t exactly know.” Debbie met Jude’s eyes, as if seeking understanding. “She’s such a private person. You know, she really needs her space. I respect that, so I don’t ask a lot of questions.”

“But this is not just about her.” Jude spoke evenly, keeping incredulity out of her tone. “She wants you to go live in another country with her. I think you have every right to ask questions.”

“I tried to talk with her. I mean, what am I supposed to do for a job? But she said I don’t have to think about any of that. She can take care of both of us.”

“How’s she going to do that?”

Debbie looked embarrassed. Jude had already concluded that she was afraid of driving her lover away and avoided any kind of confrontation. Sandy didn’t seem abusive toward her, quite the opposite. As far as Jude could determine she was very tender and devoted. But she also treated Debbie like a child. A possession.

“Does she ever talk about her time in the military?” Jude asked.

Arbiter had finally tracked down Sandy’s service records, only to find most of her file content was unavailable. “Alexandra Lane Cordell” was indeed known as Sandy Lane to her buddies and had served in the 82nd Airborne, as she’d told Jude. But she’d refrained from mentioning her extensive SOF expertise. Many of the 82nd had been deployed to special ops forces in Afghanistan, waging unconventional warfare alongside elite Green Beret units. Sandy was among them and, according to her commanding officer, she was a brilliant tactical operative and explosives expert. He’d noted in a report that if she were a man, he would have put her name forward as a Delta recruit. That could only mean one thing. Sandy Lane was smart, highly skilled, and a competent killer. Jude had guessed all of those things the first time they met.

Arbiter had since raised the idea that she was now selling her services in the private sector. If so, her C-4 purchase could be tied to a domestic plot. The possibilities were endless. A scare tactic. A hit. Blackmail. Organized crime. Perhaps even a terrorist strike, if it could be believed that she would act against her own country. They’d discussed another possibility, too—that Sandy had been recruited by the Company or the NSA and was active in an operation the Bureau knew nothing about. If so their investigation could conceivably compromise her.

“I think it makes her depressed, talking about Iraq and Afghanistan,” Debbie said. “So she keeps things to herself.”

“Did something happen there, a particular incident that bothers her?”

Debbie hesitated. “Has she told you about Madeline and Brandon?”

“No.”

“Well, I didn’t want to say anything. It’s not my place. But her partner committed suicide after her son was killed in Iraq. Lone still has nightmares about it.”

Holy shit. Jude’s gut reacted. So far, Arbiter hadn’t been able to verify details of Sandy’s personal history beyond information about her parents and upbringing. Because she was gay, the dead ends weren’t surprising. The Bureau had tried the usual quasi-legal mail and cell phone intercepts, but their subject didn’t seem to receive mail and she barely used her disposable cell phones. Every time Jude wheedled a number from Debbie, it went out of use before they could trace it. Arbiter got antsy about that. Civilians, unless they were criminals, tended to leave a big, clumsy footprint. They did nothing to guard their privacy and were easy to monitor. Sandy knew better. She behaved like a spook. Arbiter was reluctant to put her under heightened scrutiny for that reason; the Bureau found it wise to avoid blundering into other intelligence agencies’ operations.

He would rethink his assessment now. The new information brought Sandy’s profile into focus for the first time. The deaths could be precipitating stressors. Combined with her personality, military background, and social isolation, the personal losses could trigger a volatile response. Sandy, whatever her status, was a walking time bomb.

“I’m sorry I didn’t say anything before,” Debbie continued. “I thought she might tell you about Madeline once she got to know you better.”

“How would you describe her mental state?”

Debbie paled and her mouth shook. “What do you mean?”

“Listen to me.” Jude took Debbie’s hands. “I care about you and I care about her. I think Sandy could be…unwell. With all she’s been through personally, and her experiences in battle, she might have PTSD or at the very least, she needs counseling. Do you know if she’s seeing anyone?”

Debbie blinked in alarm. “Do you mean a psychiatrist? I don’t think she’d ever go for that.”

“She won’t accept help?”

“She thinks it’s weak.” Forlornly, Debbie said, “She gets in these moods. It’s hard to explain. I can tell she’s angry. Not at me, but there’s something deep down inside.” A shrill laugh died as quickly as she released it. Tears sprang to her eyes. “I know, it sounds silly. But I know something’s wrong. I just know it.”

“I believe you.” Jude sipped her coffee while she contemplated how to handle the situation. If she was going to escalate, she had to know Sandy’s whereabouts. “This trip. Was she planning to drive or fly?”

“She was driving.”

Naturally. And she would be using cash, not credit cards. Jude hadn’t taken the risk of planting a GPS device under Sandy’s pickup; her subject was sufficiently paranoid that she would anticipate the obvious. “Did she say where she was going?”

“No, but one evening I saw her on the Internet looking at accommodations. I didn’t pay much attention.”

“She was on your computer?”

“Yes, she left her laptop power cord at home accidentally and her battery got low. Normally she never uses my computer.”

Something in her tone suggested she found this odd. Jude suspected it was one of many little things she would start piecing together, attempting to make sense of behavior that made her uneasy.

“Can I see your computer?” Jude stood.

“Yes, of course.” Debbie took her purse from the counter and fished out a set of car keys. “I don’t have another appointment until late. Would you like to stay for an early dinner?”

“Sounds like a plan. Thank you.” Debbie was a great cook and Jude figured she was going to need some time at the computer. She would have to search everything Sandy stored at her girlfriend’s place.

As Debbie locked the shop, she said, “It’s not just me, is it?”

Jude could feel the anxiety radiating from her. “No. It’s not just you.”

A sense of dread washed over her as they walked away from the hair shop. She’d been in a funk ever since the Corban Foley case was wrapped up almost a year ago. It was one thing trying to move beyond the acquittal of the toddler’s killer, but dealing with the foibles of her fickle ex had preoccupied her far more than was acceptable. And while she was feeling pissed at the world in general, and Mercy Westmoreland in particular, she had allowed Sandy Lane to slip out of focus.

How had she not known about the trips out of town until now? She should have noticed the absence of Sandy’s truck, which was a fixture outside Debbie’s home most evenings. She’d been hanging out for an opportunity to search Sandy’s mountain hideaway, assuming she could find it. Sandy’s trips away offered the ideal opportunity. The thought that she’d already missed several chances aggravated her.

“Debbie, where does Sandy live?”

“I don’t know.”

“You must have some idea.” Jude could hear her own impatience. Softening her tone, she said, “I’m worried about her. I think we should check to see if she’s at home.”

Debbie hugged herself, plainly mortified. “I thought she was ashamed because she doesn’t have a nice place. So I stopped asking if I could visit with her. I know I should have pushed harder.”

They stopped at Debbie’s car, a beat-up Toyota.

“If she says she’s coming over, how long does it normally take for her to arrive?” Jude asked.

“More than an hour.”

“Okay.” Jude backed off. She didn’t want to pressure Debbie too much in case she relayed their conversation to Sandy.

She waited for Debbie to start her car before getting into the Dakota. She wished she’d tried harder to talk to Sandy, but very few women unsettled her as the former paratrooper did and she’d been reluctant to push her luck during their private interactions. They always seemed to be circling each other in an unspoken ritual of dominance, sniffing out weaknesses, testing will.

By stepping back and letting Sandy move out of reach, Jude had blinked first.

*

“Finally.” Pippa honked her horn and almost fell out the driver’s door.

The car bays in front of Uncle Fabian’s log cabin—more of a log mansion, really—were arranged in a semicircle and were all on an incline. She hoped her SUV wouldn’t roll down the hill onto the main road. Her mouth watered at the prospect of a long, cold drink. The kneel-down bread, with its sweetcorn and green chilies, had made her so thirsty she’d even guzzled a can of warm Diet Coke that had been rolling around under her seat since she left Boston.

Pippa bounced up the front steps, marveling over the turquoise-inlaid handrail. She paused on the front verandah and turned around to take in the view. On the other side of the highway, the Dolores River ran through mountain meadows and tall pines. Above her, the San Juan Mountains loomed like silent guardians of a hidden world. She felt incredibly lucky to be here.

There was no doorbell, just a cast-iron knocker. Pippa tapped it out of good manners. She had a set of keys, but it seemed rude to barge in when she’d never visited before. There was no answer to her knock and no barking from her uncle’s poodle, Coco. She called out a couple of times, then wandered along the verandah and looked in the windows. Her uncle was probably out shopping. Coco would be with him.

Pippa tried the door and was surprised to find it unlocked. Uncle Fabian tended to be paranoid about security because he had so many valuable art works. Pippa stepped into a slate-tiled entry hall and called, “Uncle Fabian, it’s me.”

She stared around a great room to her right with a wall of floor-to-ceiling windows. Pippa took the steps down to this huge L-shaped entertainment area. A moss stone fireplace occupied the center of the room, above it a huge portrait of Geronimo her uncle had commissioned when Pippa was just a kid. She could still remember an argument over dinner between Uncle Fabian and her father about Geronimo. Uncle Fabian said Prescott Bush and several other members of Yale’s Skull and Bones society desecrated the chief’s grave and stole his skull and other relics. Her father, a Yalesman, said the story was just a myth.

Pippa listened for the sound of her uncle’s voice from somewhere in the huge home. Logs were stacked on either side of the fireplace, which was shielded on all sides by decorative guards. High above, a second-story mezzanine stretched the length of the great room. A few armchairs stood in one corner, arranged around a low table. Pippa heard a slight thud and recalled her uncle mentioning his office was upstairs. She strolled over to the wide staircase and began climbing, gazing down into the incredible room.

Her mother would have dismissed the décor as “basic.” She’d crammed their home in Chestnut Hill with antiques and Persian rugs. But Pippa could see why her uncle had chosen simplicity. With such majestic views, it would be silly to clutter the room with ostentatious furnishings. A few rugs were scattered around the timber floors, various Ute and Navajo artifacts hung from the walls, and the sofas and chairs were upholstered in leather or fabric, in earthy colors. The sensibility was perfect for the location.

For a few seconds, Pippa thought about phoning her parents to let them know she’d arrived safely, but she decided to spare herself. They’d probably forgotten she was even on the road, and she couldn’t stand the thought of another conversation with her mother about the mistake she was making. Her parents blamed Fabian for her decision not to accept the job they’d arranged for her even though she hadn’t told him until after she’d rejected the offer.

Fabian was the black sheep of the family, and no one would tell her why. Pippa once asked him and he said her mother thought a gay man shouldn’t have inherited Maulle Mansion in New Orleans. It had been passed from father to son for over two hundred years and since he wasn’t going to have children, she thought the house should be hers. The place was falling apart and Pippa knew her parents planned to sell it if they could overturn the will. Their lawsuit had been thrown out and Fabian spent the next fifteen years restoring the home to its former splendor.

No one knew exactly where he got all his money. Her dad said he’d made a fortune in real estate and venture capital, and even more in hedge funds. He was a philanthropist, which peeved Pippa’s parents because it meant, in the end, he’d leave everything to the poodle rescue or some foundation for orphans in Darfur. They thought her brother Ryan should get everything.

As she reached the top of the stairs, Pippa almost tripped over her uncle’s antique ebony cane. Ever since a skiing accident, he’d had a knee problem and used the cane. She reached down for it but froze, her fingers hovering inches from the smooth silver ball head. Her heart raced at double time. Even as she registered the wet, red smear over the silver, her mind only foggily interpreted what she saw. Blood.

Pippa clamped her hand over her mouth, stifling her instinctive cry and listening intently. Something crawled from the eerie stillness, stealing the air from the upstairs hallway. She tried to breath but all she could do was gasp. Panic jerked her into motion. She rushed along the hallway. Her foot slid on something. More blood.

A wail rose in her throat. There’d been an accident. “Uncle Fabian, I’m here,” she cried, pushing the nearest door wide, expecting to see her uncle wrapping his hand in a bandage.

A voice croaked, “Pippa?” and she stumbled across the room to the man sprawled on the floor.

“Oh, God. What happened? Oh, my God.” She didn’t know where to look, what to touch. She lifted her uncle into her arms.

A wet groan rose from him. “They killed Coco.”

“Who? Who did this?”

He forced out the words, “They don’t know anything.”

Her mind screamed Help! Someone, please help! She had to call 911. What was she doing holding him instead of getting an ambulance? She freed a hand and pulled her cell phone from her jeans. Her mouth shook so much she had trouble speaking.

“Don’t try to talk, Uncle Fabian. I’m calling 911. You’re going to be fine.”

“It’s too late.” He lifted a hand but it fell back. Blood ran from the corners of his mouth. His shirt was soaked. “I’m dying, sweetheart.”

Pippa jabbed the numbers. “No, you’re not. Don’t say that.”

“Ask Oscar,” he choked. A violent tremor shook his body.

“Uncle Fabian,” Pippa wailed.

She dropped the phone and bent over him, trying to hear his heart. The position was too awkward. He was slipping away. His face was chalk white beneath the blood and bruising. Frantically, she laid him flat on the floor, desperate to revive him. She didn’t know where to start. She tore open his soaked shirt. Blood welled slowly from several different places on his torso.

She snatched up her cell phone again. Thank God. Someone was waiting at the other end. “Hello,” Pippa gasped.

“Dispatch. Can I help you?”

“Send an ambulance. Oh, God. I can’t remember the address. It’s on Railroad Avenue, near Stoner. A big log home on the left. Please hurry.”

“Calm down,” the operator said. “Tell me what’s happened.”

Fabian shuddered and Pippa juggled the phone so she could hold him again.

“Ma’am?”

“Someone’s hurt my uncle,” Pippa sobbed. “I think he’s been stabbed.”

She bent low over the bloody man in her arms and urged, “Just hold on, Uncle Fabian. The ambulance is coming.”

Her uncle blinked through the blood that coated his eyes. He spoke in short bursts. “Ask him…where the box is…”

“Don’t worry.” Pippa glanced up at the birdcage near the windows. Her uncle’s beloved African Grey cowered where the cover formed a shadow. “I’ll take care of Oscar till you’re better.”

Fabian’s mouth moved in what seemed like a smile. “I love you, Pip.”

“I love you, too.” Tears poured down her cheeks.

The dispatcher said, “Ma’am. Talk to me. Is the person who attacked your uncle still on the premises?”

Pippa stifled a scream of fright and stared toward the door. “I don’t know.”

A wet, soft gurgle sounded in her uncle’s chest. “Ask Oscar,” he said one more time, then his eyes rolled back and he relaxed in her arms.

Pippa sank down over the one person in the world she felt truly close to. Through a web of tears and snot, she cried, “He’s dead. Oh, God. He’s dead.”

Chapter Five

“That’s the niece?” Jude asked, indicating a chalk-faced young woman wrapped in a blanket and sitting on the front step with a female paramedic.

“Yeah, Phillipa Calloway. She’s the one called it in.” The state patrol trooper handed her ID back.

Jude wasn’t first on scene, by far. The driveway leading up the log home was lined with black and white Dodge Durangos, the patrol vehicles used by the MCSO. The house was taped off and the surrounding area crawled with deputies and state troopers. Sheriff Pratt had summoned her, as he did for any homicides out of the ordinary. This one promised to be a high-profile case. The dead man was not just wealthy, he was a respected benefactor of local causes. Fabian Maulle purchased state-of-the-art medical equipment for Southwest Memorial, paid the college fees of several Ute kids nominated by the Tribal Council, and supported police charities. Around the Four Corners, the very private millionaire was seen as a real philanthropist, a man in a different league from the hedge-fund honchos who threw their weight around every ski season.

Sheriff Pratt stepped away from a group of detectives at the command post. Approaching Jude, he said, “Looks like a robbery gone bad. They broke in thinking the place was empty and Maulle interrupted them. Wrong place, wrong time.” He pointed to a sheet-covered shape in the parking area. “Poodle took one to the head. Point-blank. Slice of bologna in its throat.”

“The burglar fed it a treat, then shot it? Jesus, that’s cold.” Most times the family pooch was shut in a laundry room or let loose on the property.

“Yeah, tell me about it,” Pratt said grimly. “What happened to honor among thieves?”

“Where was the dog shot?” Jude asked.

“Out back.” Pratt pointed. “There’s just some cats and a parrot in there now. We put a call in to animal control.”

Jude glanced at the young woman once more. Phillipa Calloway was just a kid. Eighteen, or maybe a little older, but so slight she could pass for a high school kid. “Was she on the premises at the time?”

“First responders arrive and she exits the house, covered in blood. Says she found Maulle wounded.”

“Who conducted the field interview?”

Pratt glanced toward a tall man with a black handlebar mustache. “Sergeant Pavlic took down her details. She’s too shaken up to give a full statement. The victim died in her arms.”

“Do we have a cause of death?”

“I’m gonna say multiple stab wounds. The coroner isn’t here yet.” Pratt rolled his eyes expressively.

Until the official pronouncement was made, no one could move the body or start processing the scene in any comprehensive way. Dr. Norwood Carver, the Montezuma County coroner, was usually the last to arrive at a scene. He liked everyone to remember who the real star was. Carver was one of those rare birds, an elected county coroner who was also a forensic pathologist, thus unusually well qualified for his job. If he couldn’t attend a scene when it was necessary, he arranged for someone from Durango or Grand Junction to stand in for him. That could take hours.

“Any sign of the murder weapon?” Jude asked.

“Not yet. We put out a BOLO for a male acting suspiciously.”

Long shot, but fact was stranger than fiction. Suspects did stupid things, like stopping at a gas station for cigarettes before they remembered to change their bloodstained garments.

Jude glanced toward the other detectives, “Who’s the primary?”

“That would be you, Devine.”

“Sir, with all due respect. I’m going to be tied up with the Telluride operation once the FBI arrives.”

“You’re the one with major crime experience,” Pratt said. “And we’re not talking about your average Joe here.”

“I can see that, but—”

“No, what I’m saying is Maulle had juice. He knew the governor. I’m going to have bigwigs on the goddamn phone every day until we get a result.”

“So partner me up with the primary. How about Pete Koertig? He’s earned it.” Jude lowered her voice. “Media-wise, it could be a good move to have a local man lead this one.”

Pratt hesitated for a split second before conceding, “Good thinking.”

“Have we ruled out Ms. Calloway?”

Pratt regarded her like she was crazy. “There’s no way she did it. Look at her. Ninety pounds wet. Hysterical with grief. They had to give her a shot to calm her down.”

None of which proved anything. Patiently, Jude said, “We’re going to need her clothing. When is she being transported to headquarters?”

“We’re not going that route tonight. I want her taken to the hospital. We can get her statement tomorrow.”`

“Sir, she’s probably the last person to see the victim alive.”

“Which is why we should show some sensitivity.” Pratt sounded protective. He was the father of several girls, one of whom looked a little like their witness. “She’s not a suspect. But if you want a quick word with her, I’ll go give Koertig the good news.”

Relieved, Jude took the steps onto the verandah and strode over to Phillipa Calloway. After identifying herself, she said, “I’m very sorry for your loss, Ms. Calloway.”

Upon closer inspection, the young woman was probably in her twenties. Corkscrews of auburn hair framed the face of a dreamer. Even puffy from crying, her eyes were a beautiful almond shape, their shade a dark aqua blue that reminded Jude of the Colorado spruce trees around her house. Her coloring was Celtic, the skin a milky tone that would never tan. Red blotches marred its translucent perfection. From the tear-ravaged look of her, she was every bit as innocent as Pratt claimed.

“Who would do this?” She directed her anguished question at Jude.

“We want to find out as much as you do,” Jude replied.

The answer was standard, but she always meant what she said. Her sincerity seemed to calm Calloway. The paramedic seized the opportunity, jumping up like she was relieved to escape.

“I need to check on a couple of things,” she said, patting their witness’s shoulder. “Can I leave you here with the detective, Pippa?”

Calloway nodded vaguely and Jude took the responder’s place. “This must have been a terrible shock,” she said.

“I had a flat tire. Otherwise I’d have been here. Oh, God. Maybe I could have done something.”

Or maybe they would be taking two bodies to the morgue. Jude kept the thought to herself. “Where did the flat tire happen?”

“On the Devil’s Highway. There was a sign. Toad Porter’s Haysales.”

“Not far from Towaoc?” Jude knew the area well. She drove out that way to visit her friend Eddie House.

“Yes. A couple of guys stopped to help me. A father and son. They mentioned they lived somewhere nearby.”

Jude was relieved that someone would be able to verify Calloway’s story. Piecing together the rest of the alibi, she asked, “Do you remember what time that was?”

“Yes. I saw it on my cell phone while they were working on the tire. 3:26 p.m.”

“Ms. Calloway—”

“Please, call me Pippa.”

“Thank you, Pippa. Did you get the names of the men who fixed your tire?”

“Yes.” She frowned as if she’d been about to speak but the words had slipped from her mind. With a dismayed “Oh” she stared at Jude in confusion.

“Don’t worry if you can’t remember right now,” Jude said gently. “You’ve had a terrible shock. Do you remember anything about them?” If they lived around Towaoc, it would be pretty easy to track them down.

Pippa frowned. An edge of frustration lifted her dull tone. “Why does it matter? Shouldn’t you be thinking about who did this?”

“I am,” Jude said. “But one of the first things we have to do is rule out the people closest to your uncle. I know it’s upsetting to have to think about all this now, but you were the last person to see Mr. Maulle alive.”

Pippa’s frown gave way to comprehension. “So I need an alibi for when he was attacked?”

“In a nutshell, yes.”

“The father looked Native American, but the son was blond. They had a three-legged wolf.”

Jude veiled her astonishment. “Is the name ‘Eddie House’ familiar?”

Pippa looked startled. “Do you know him?”

Jude kept their personal acquaintanceship to herself. “Mr. House is a famous Ute pottery-maker.”

“He knew my uncle,” Pippa said. “Uncle Fabian collected pottery. It sounds like he bought some of Mr. House’s pieces.”

“Did you happen to notice if any items are missing from your uncle’s collection?” Jude couldn’t imagine a burglar killing a rich collector and walking away empty-handed.

“I didn’t look. And this is my first time here. I don’t know what he kept in this house.”

Her tone was so weary and despondent, Jude said, “We can talk again later, Pippa. I’ll need to take a statement from you about finding your uncle. For now, can you confirm what time you arrived here?”

“Around 4:40. I kept phoning once I reached the mountains, but he didn’t answer. The last time I called was just a few minutes before I found the house.”

“Thank you, that’s helpful.” Jude stood. “I need to go talk with the other detectives now. Do you have some clean clothes to change into?”

“All my stuff’s in there.” Pippa pointed toward the Mazda SUV parked below the house. “I didn’t even bring my bags up.”

“I’ll have someone fetch a change of clothing so you can get more comfortable. Is there a family member we can call?”

“My parents are in Boston. Uncle Fabian is all the family I have…had, out here.”

“Then we’ll help you get situated until you decide what you want to do.”

“Thank you. Everyone’s been very kind.” Pippa stared out at the mountains. Wistfully, she said, “It’s so beautiful here, I can’t believe this could happen.”

“I’m very sorry,” Jude said once more. “People thought highly of your uncle.”

Before Pippa could give into tears once more, Jude moved away and signaled a female deputy to sit with Pippa. Stepping under the tape, she stepped into the house, acknowledging several members of the Crime Scene Unit. They’d set up a portable workstation near the entrance for their equipment and evidence inspection and were milling around waiting for the coroner to arrive. Jude pulled on latex gloves and a pair of boot protectors, and picked up a bunch of evidence pouches and security strips so she could offer an extra pair of hands. Pratt, already garbed, fell into step with her as she moved farther into the house.

“What’s your take on the niece?” he asked.

“Same as yours. Innocent family member. She has an alibi. We’ll have to confirm her story, but that shouldn’t be difficult. I’ll take a full statement once they’re done with her at the hospital?”

“Let’s give her some time to get over the shock. Maybe she’ll remember more.”

“I’ll be in town for a while.” Jude had expected to stay in Cortez for several days after the Telluride briefing. She was thankful she’d packed extra clothing. With the homicide landing in their laps as well, she could be stuck down here for a week.

“Your FBI friends arrive tomorrow, don’t forget about that,” Pratt said.

Jude wasn’t sure if Arbiter intended to inform the left hand what the right hand was doing. He’d been cagey when she asked, saying if too much was divulged they would know he had an asset in the mix. It was better for all parties if her cover remained intact. She wondered how long it would take the task force to discover that she was a “friend” of Harrison Hawke. Once they made the connection, what then?

She took a few cautious steps into the living room and absorbed the million-dollar view. Even in the fading light the panorama held her spellbound. The San Juans rose dark purple against a red-streaked sky, stretching north toward Telluride. She could imagine the owner of this house sitting in the single black leather armchair opposite the windows, soaking up the splendor. She picked up a book from the occasional table next to the armchair and checked the cover. The Dance of Anger. Yep, that made sense. Who wouldn’t want to dive between the covers of a self-help bestseller when they had this house and this view?

She slowly absorbed the rest of the room. Nothing seemed out of place. Fabian Maulle’s log home was photo-perfect and belonged in a ritzy real estate show on TV.

“Nice life,” she said.

“I met the guy a couple of times. Not your typical loud mouth fat cat.” Pratt picked up the book and thumbed through it, pausing occasionally like the contents spoke to him.

Jude picked a careful path toward a display cabinet in the adjoining dining area. The contents had to be worth a fortune, but there was no sign of a smash and grab or even an attempt to force the door. Either the burglar was in a hurry to leave, or he had no clue what antique Pueblo pottery was worth.

“The attack occurred in Maulle’s office upstairs.” Pratt placed the self-help book back where he found it. “The place was ransacked. They were probably looking for cash. A safe, maybe.”

They climbed the stairs, avoiding photo evidence markers and tape barriers. Deputy Belle Simmons met them at the top where a large area of blood spray and bloody footprints had been marked. Belle was in charge of the MCSO crime scene technicians and was one of the few officers with major crime scene experience. As usual, her makeup bore testimony to hours in front of a mirror. Jude had never seen her without the works. She was still in her summer shades: bronze foundation, frosted copper lipstick, and green eye shadow. In winter, she favored coral lips and more dramatic eyeliner. Her bold red curls were scraped into a bun and adorned with a spangled pink hair net.

“How’s it coming?” Pratt asked.

“Well, it’s quite a blood scene. Everything’s taped off and we’ve taken the wide-angle views. Just waiting on the coroner now.” Belle gave Jude a smile. “Good to see y’all, Detective.”

“You, too. How are the kids?”

“I’m about ready to send them back where they came from.” To Pratt, Belle said, “Count yourself lucky you just got those gorgeous little girls to worry about, Orwell.”

The sheriff looked smug. He and his wife had daughters so sweet and well-behaved that Belle wondered if they were quite right in the head, at least that’s what she’d confided to Jude. She and her mild-mannered husband, refugees from Louisiana, had two boys who didn’t know the meaning of discipline. One of them, the twelve-year-old, had recently driven the family car onto the street and rear-ended a neighbor’s BMW. Luckily, he wasn’t injured and they could afford the repairs. Belle’s husband had an Internet shoe business and did okay.

Jude was always surprised when good people had monsters for children. There was a time when she blamed parents for every failing of their children, but that didn’t explain all the creeps who came from good homes, or the responsible adults who had shitty childhoods. The more homicides she investigated, the more she believed in the idea of evil in its many facets. What else could explain the brutal banality of the Menendez brothers, or the calculated sadism of a child killer?

She hoped Belle’s boys were just going through a phase. She was a good woman and a good cop. She deserved kids she didn’t have to apologize for.

“Are you hanging around after you finish with the scene?” Belle asked.

“I can if you need an extra pair of hands.” If there weren’t enough technicians, Jude sometimes helped out, labeling bags and sorting evidence.

“No, we’re okay,” Belle said. “Three more deputies finished their CSI certificates this year, and one of the guys added a bloodstain analysis course.”

“There’s plenty for him to do here,” Jude remarked.

Pratt excused himself to answer his cell phone, returning a moment later to announce, “If you’ll excuse me, ladies, the media’s here, and the coroner is on his way up.”

Jude’s stomach stopped curdling when she heard the word “his.” She would have been surprised if Mercy Westmoreland attended a Montezuma County crime scene at this time of day unless no one else could be found. But the Maulle killing would be a high-profile case, and the sheriff liked to involve Mercy in those. Thanks to regular stints on Court TV, her name had courtroom cachet, a state of affairs that bugged other hardworking but unglamorous forensic pathologists in the Four Corners.

She and Belle stepped back as the wiry figure of Norwood Carver came into view downstairs. Jude knew exactly what he was wearing under his bunny suit: high-priced cycling apparel he didn’t care to sully on the job. No doubt he’d pedaled up here on his carbon-framed racing bike, complete with support crew bringing up the rear in an SUV with a spare bike strapped to the roof. The sides of Carver’s vehicle bore the legend I Brake for Cadavers, his idea of sophisticated wit.

Sure enough, a red-faced dweeb Jude recognized as a pathologist’s assistant from Carver’s office came panting up the stairs after his master, weighed down with body bag and field kit. Carver occasionally glanced back at him with the cheerful disdain of a man accustomed to leading the meek.

“Dr. Carver. Good evening. Thank you for coming so quickly,” Belle said deferentially. “This way please.”

Carver marched toward the room at the end of the hallway. Jude always had the impression that he was driven by a mental stopwatch that never stopped counting off the seconds until he could return to the real work of fitness training.

He called over his shoulder, “Step on it, Fritz, or that’s your brain in the next jar on my desk.”

The coroner called all his assistants “Fritz” in honor of the only one he thought was worth a dime, a minion who had laid down his life on the altar of science, stung to death by a wasp colony at a crime scene.

Picking his way across the ransacked office to the man lying in a dark pool of blood on the floor, Carver said, “I understand we have a positive identification.”

“Yes, the victim is Fabian Maulle,” Jude said. “His niece ID’d him and recorded time of probable death at 4:46 p.m. She was with Mr. Maulle when he stopped breathing but did not attempt resuscitation.”

“Has the body been moved?” Carver asked.

“The victim was dying when his niece discovered him,” Belle said. “She held him in her arms. This is the position she placed him in after he appeared to be deceased.”

Carver took Maulle’s pulse, tested for rigor, examined the torso wounds and what appeared to be blunt force trauma to the head, looked down his throat and up his nose, then crisply announced, “It would seem money doesn’t buy happiness. Wrongful death.”

He rose and moved away from the body, signaling “Fritz” to complete the initial tasks. The ruddy underling took a series of in situ photographs, then rolled Maulle on his side, arranging his clothes to obtain his core temperature.

“He’s still warm. Rectal is ninety-six point two degrees and room temperature is sixty-eight.”

Jude did the math. In an air-conditioned room like this, the normal body temperature of 98.4F would drop at slightly less than one degree per hour. Maulle’s temperature was consistent with the time of death Pippa Calloway claimed. At the postmortem they would get an estimate of how long exsanguination had taken. Depending on which internal organs were affected and which arteries were severed, stabbing deaths often occurred in a minute or less.

While Fritz scraped beneath Maulle’s nails, fingerprinted him, and bagged his hands, Carver admired a parrot staring from a birdcage near the desk. “African Grey. Smart bird. Thinks like a four year old, so they say. Which makes him roughly the equivalent of Fritz here.”

“Great,” Jude muttered. “Our eyewitness has feathers.”

“All yours, Detective.” Carver waved a hand expansively around the blood splattered scene, indicating they could complete their processing. “I’ll notify the sheriff.”

As soon as Carver departed, the photographer took over the crime scene and began setting up his tripod and lights. Jude and Belle issued some instructions and left him to it. The fewer people in the scene at any one time, the more likely that evidence would be preserved. Jude glanced toward Fritz, who was roaming the hallway with his body bag. A couple of paramedics trudged up the stairs with a stretcher, ready to cart Maulle off to the morgue as soon as the detectives had seen all they wanted to see.

Pete Koertig followed them, his ruddy face scrunched with the effort of containing his glee. “Meet your primary,” he told Jude.

With his scalp aglow beneath the fuzz of short blond hair, and his big white grin, he looked more like a college football player than a detective. His heavyset build made him intimidating, and his general clumsiness gave the impression of a guy who wasn’t the sharpest crayon in the box. As a consequence he was often underestimated, a factor in his impressive confession record. When suspects thought they were smarter than the cop doing the interview, they lowered their guard.

Jude had worked several cases with Koertig, and once they got beyond first impressions, they’d settled into a productive camaraderie. She found him methodical and hardworking. He was also self-aware enough to capitalize on his own strengths and weaknesses, something more egotistical males found difficult.

“I thought you’d catch this one for sure,” he said. “All the guys did.”

Jude shrugged. “I’m not the only show in town. Congratulations, boss.”

Chortling, Koertig dragged on a pair of gloves, which promptly split. “Shit.” He grimaced. “Excuse my French.”

Belle took a spare pair from her pocket and checked the sizing on the bag. “These are extra large.”

Koertig peered into the office. “Burglary? I don’t think so.”

“No, the place was tossed.” Jude studied the chaos. Papers spilled from the filing cabinet. Every bookshelf had been emptied onto the floor. Expensive looking paintings were stacked carelessly behind the door. No burglar would have walked out of Fabian Maulle’s house empty-handed if he knew enough to target it in the first place.

“No sign of forced entry,” Koertig said. “I checked all the outside windows and doors.”

This wasn’t Washington DC. Violent crime was rare enough that people felt safe in their own homes. Maulle probably didn’t lock his front door while he was at home. Jude made a mental note to ask Pippa about her uncle’s habits.

“The killing seems personal,” she said.

Stabbings usually were. Aside from serial offenders whose crimes were sexually motivated, it was rare for a stranger to invade someone’s home and kill him with a knife. Guns or blunt instruments were the norm, and Maulle’s killer had coldly shot a dog, execution-style. How did such a calculated act jive with the messy killing of Maulle himself? Had the gun jammed when he tried to shoot Maulle?

She considered the burglary-gone-wrong theory carefully. It was conceivable that a robbery had been interrupted. The intruder could have picked up a knife at the scene. Perhaps he’d been near the kitchen and Maulle confronted him. There was no sign of a struggle downstairs, but she and Koertig would walk the scene over the next hour and come up with an initial theory. The next day, once Belle and her team had collected all the forensic evidence, they would return for a more thorough search of the house, looking for anything that could suggest a motive for the crime.

“We’ll need a warrant,” Jude said.

While a warrantless search could keep things simple, she always thought ahead to courtroom challenges. The defense invariably raised questions about the competence of investigators, evidence collection, and chain-of-custody issues. The legality of the search could become an issue. Obtaining a warrant with the broadest possible scope was a good way to sidestep at least one hurdle. Prosecutors appreciated when detectives dotted the i’s.

Belle gave the photographer a few more instructions, then looked toward Jude and Koertig. “Why don’t y’all make your notes before I get started in there.”

A couple of flash pops were followed by a raucous squawk, and the African Grey shook the bars of his cage.

“We ought to remove the bird,” Jude said. “If he keeps flapping around all kinds of crap is going to fly out of his cage. Let’s get animal control up here.”

“I can carry him out,” Koertig said. “That cage lifts off the stand.”

“Put the cover over it,” Jude suggested. “I think that’s supposed to calm birds down.”

“Hang on. Let me dust it first.” Belle picked up her glass fiber brush. “If only he could talk. He saw everything.”

*

“Check this out,” Koertig said, moving to the far end of the kitchen.

After they’d taken a close look at Maulle and left the body to be removed, they started their assessment downstairs, examining possible points of entry. As they worked, the forensic crew dusted for prints and collected trace.

“These French doors are deadlocked, but there’s a pet door in the laundry.” Koertig pointed to custom double swing doors. “Someone could crawl right on in.”

Jude looked out the laundry window. A fenced dog run occupied most of the backyard, a sensible precaution in the mountains, where pets were often attacked by wild animals. “Maulle’s poodle was out back when the killer arrived. And no one carries a pile of bologna in their pocket because they like the smell. He came prepared to deal with the dog.”

“He must have cased the place ahead of time,” Koertig said.

“Or he knew about the poodle because he and Maulle were already acquainted.”

“Do you think Maulle let the guy in?”

“If he did, why shoot the dog? No, I think our perp entered via the pet door and exited out the front.”

“So the dog barks, he feeds her bologna and whacks her, then he comes in the pet door on his hands and knees—”

“By which time, Maulle is on his way down with his walking cane,” Jude said. “He must have heard the barking and the shot.”

“So the killer takes a knife from the block on the kitchen counter,” Koertig said.

From the looks of the block, each slot was usually occupied. There were two knives missing. The larger one was in the sink.

“Why take a knife when he already has a gun?” Jude asked.

“He’s freaking out because Maulle caught him. Something goes wrong with the gun, maybe.”

“That’s a possibility. Or he had a change of heart. His plan was to execute Maulle just like he executed the dog, but for some reason he got angry. A shooting would have been too quick.”

“He chased Maulle up the stairs,” Koertig mused aloud. “They wrestled for control of the knife. Maulle took a stab wound.”

“I think he hit the killer with the head of the cane first,” Jude said. “Then the killer got mad and stabbed him.”

“So, Maulle staggers along the hallway to his office—”

“Accounting for the blood and the sets of bloody footprints.” There were three, from what Jude could see. One set was significantly smaller than the others. Pippa’s.

“Why did Maulle make a run for the office instead of the bathroom?” Koertig asked. “He could have locked himself in there and called 911.”

“Self-defense,” Jude said. “He keeps a gun in the top drawer of his desk.”

“You looked already?”

“Yes, and there’s a bloody handprint on the desk and blood on the drawer handle. Maulle was clutching his abdomen. He put his left hand down to steady himself while he opened the drawer with his right hand.”

“But the killer aimed his gun and told him to freeze,” Koertig conjectured. Maybe he convinced Maulle that if he cooperated he wouldn’t be shot.”

“Or it could be the other way around,” Jude said. “Maybe Maulle reasoned with the killer. A rich guy like him could offer money.”

“Why didn’t the perp cut a deal?” Koertig strolled through the kitchen once more. “Either this hump is the dumbest burglar alive, or robbery definitely wasn’t the motive.”

It was too soon to rule anything out entirely, but Jude thought they were pretty safe excluding the burglary angle. As they analyzed the evidence, their theory of the crime would evolve, but for now, she was pretty sure the killer had some kind of connection with Maulle.

“I don’t think this was random,” she said. “Maulle had an enemy. So, we’re looking for a motive.” Murder 101: motive plus opportunity equals suspect.

Koertig stared around. “No one gets this rich without trampling on a few toes.”

“How do you want to do this?” Jude asked, reminding herself that she wasn’t the primary this time. “We’ll need to interview Pippa Calloway and get the search started ASAP.”

“You take the girl. She might be more comfortable with a female.” Koertig checked his watch. “Belle’s going to be on scene all night. I’ll pick up the warrant first thing tomorrow after the briefing and meet you here when you’re through with the niece.”

“Works for me.”

They walked through the huge living room once more before heading out the front door. The outdoor lights were on and people were leaving. Animal control had caged Maulle’s three cats and were loading them into the back of a van. The K-9 units had found no sign of the assailant in the heavily wooded vicinity. They’d be back in the morning to resume searching for evidence. The few reporters who’d shown up for a statement from Pratt had left with breaking news to report.

A gust of wind stirred the treetops, causing mournful creaks. Night birds cried. The thin, waxing moon was obscured by a drift of cloud cover. Around the staging area, the temporary lighting seemed garishly overbright. Jude shivered slightly. Fall was in the air, making the temperature drop sharply at night. She was puzzled to see Pippa Calloway sitting on the verandah where she’d left her.

Approaching Sergeant Pavlic, she asked, “Why haven’t they taken Ms. Calloway to the hospital yet?”

“She won’t leave the bird, and they wouldn’t take it in the ambulance with her.”

“Well, she can’t stay here all night.”

“We’re waiting on the grief counselor,” the sergeant said, plainly thankful that a caring professional would soon show up to deal with the stalemate.

Jude watched Pippa Calloway press her cheek to the cage and stroke the bird’s cloud-colored breast feathers. In response, the parrot leaned into her and ran its beak across her lips.

Jude wasn’t the only one staring in astonishment when it crooned in a soft masculine voice, “I love you, Pip.”

Chapter Six

Jude escorted Pippa Calloway to Southwest Memorial in Cortez and waited while the doctor examined her. She sent a deputy out to Eddie House’s place with the parrot. Eddie was an expert in rehabilitating birds. When she called him he seemed excited, or that was Jude’s interpretation when he said something long and pensive about the mysterious telepathy of the African Grey and its single-minded devotion to its humans.

Jude planned to escort Pippa to the Holiday Inn once the she was cleared by the doctor. She was staying at the same hotel, her usual accommodation when she had work to do at the MCSO headquarters in Cortez. Pippa would have to remain there until her uncle’s house could be occupied or she made other arrangements. Sheriff Pratt had called her mother, Maulle’s next-of-kin. Mrs Calloway was planning to fly to Durango with her husband tomorrow. According to Pratt she was “the snooty type.”

Jude hoped Pippa would be comforted to hear that her folks would be in town soon. After she’d signed off on the paperwork and picked up a sleep aid prescription, they strolled out to the parking lot and she told Pippa the good news.

“Your parents are flying in tomorrow.”

Pippa’s reaction was interesting. She said, “Of course they are, the vultures.”

“You don’t sound pleased.”

“I just escaped from them.” With the melodrama of youth, Pippa added, “They ruined my brother’s life by making him marry my sister-in-law. I’m not letting them ruin mine.”

Jude wondered how bad it could be. During the conversation with the grief counselor before they left for the hospital, Pippa had described graduating from Harvard and realizing, after a few trips abroad to various European capitals, that she could never face being a dentist. Her parents had arranged a cushy job for her and were angry that she was throwing her training away. Not that she needed to work, anyway, she’d pointed out. She had a small annual allowance from her grandfather’s estate, enough to scrape by on if she lived somewhere inexpensive and grew her own vegetables.

Her plan had been to stay with her uncle for a while and pursue a career as a sculptor. Obviously she wouldn’t have to worry about ending up on the street if that didn’t pan out.

“Your uncle never married?” Jude asked as they climbed in the Dakota and set off for the hotel.

“He was gay.”

“Is there a partner?”

“Years ago he was with someone. That didn’t work out and since then I don’t think there’s been anything serious.”

“It sounds like you were close to your uncle.”

“Yes.” Pippa’s voice was husky. “He’s the only person who really cared about me. I mean I know Mom and Dad love me, it’s just that it feels totally conditional. They want me to be a certain way, to have certain people as my friends. My first serious boyfriend was African American. You wouldn’t believe what happened.”

“Try me,” Jude prompted.

She could sense that Pippa was chattering to distract herself from all she’d been though. In this state, she could reveal quite a lot in an interview. Jude was tempted to drive direct to headquarters and make the most of the opportunity. On the other hand, just talking like this would establish a rapport and build trust.

“Dad got him into Vanderbilt and paid his tuition for a year,” Pippa said in disgust. “That was the deal. We break up, he gets ahead.”

“Well, if he agreed to that—”

“I made him agree. Things weren’t going to work out anyway.” Anger sharpened her tone. “Not that my parents could see that. I thought he may as well get a parting gift at Dad’s expense.”

“Pippa, I’m going to ask you this question again down at the station tomorrow, but do you have any idea who killed your uncle?”

“I wish I did.”

“Even a vague suspicion. Just a feeling.”

Pippa shook her head. “I really don’t know any of Uncle Fabian’s friends. He kept family separate. I mean, I met people sometimes if we were out and ran into them. But honestly, I don’t know much about his life outside of home.”

“You spent time with him regularly?”

“Usually a couple of vacations each year and some long weekends.”

“Did you ever notice anything odd? Phone calls late at night. People dropping off parcels to the house, and your uncle acting strangely. Anything like that?”

Pippa was silent for a long while. “I don’t know if this counts, but after Katrina, something happened at the house in New Orleans and all of a sudden Uncle Fabian hired a security guard.”

“Do you know what occurred?”

“No. It was in November. He said I didn’t need to worry about it.”

“When Detective Koertig and I were examining your uncle’s office, we found his computer was dismantled and the hard drive removed. Do you know when that occurred?”

“No, but Uncle Fabian would never have done that,” Pippa said with certainty. “He was the ultimate technophobe. He wouldn’t have known what a hard drive looked like.”

“Would he have backed up his computer onto a CD or a memory stick?”

“No, I did that for him when I stayed. I showed him how, but he never got organized about that stuff.”

“He had computers in both his homes?”

“In all four houses. And he had a laptop. I helped him buy that around Christmas.”

Four homes. What was he, head of a drug cartel? Jude decided to leave that intriguing question unanswered for the moment. She turned into the Holiday Inn parking lot and took her bag and Pippa’s from the back of the pickup. After the exhausted young woman had settled into her room, Jude handed her one of the sleeping pills with a glass of water.

“I don’t do drugs,” Pippa said.

“You need to rest so I can pick your brain in the morning. I want to catch the guy who killed your uncle.”

Pippa took the pill and flopped dejectedly onto one of the armchairs in front of the TV. “I keep thinking I’ll wake up and this will all be a horrible nightmare.”

“Take a shower before that pill makes you woozy, then get into bed and close your eyes,” Jude instructed, surprised at herself. She sounded like someone’s mother.

The young woman nodded absently. “He spoke to me before he died. I asked him who did it but he didn’t say. All he talked about was Oscar.”

“You were there with him at the end.” Jude soothed her as best she could. “The last thing he saw was the face of someone he loved. I know it’s not much, but most victims of violent crime are not so fortunate. I’m sure it was a comfort to him.”

Tears drenched Pippa’s deep-sea eyes. “Yes, I hadn’t thought of that. Thanks, Detective Devine. You’ve been really nice.”

Amazing, Jude thought cynically, some of us are human beings. “Is there anything else you need before I go?”

“No, thank you. I’ll be fine.”

Jude wrote her room number on the hotel notepad and said, “Just in case.”

As she left, she glanced back before closing the door. Pippa was hugging herself like a hurt child, tears rolling down her face.

*

“What does it take for you to answer your phone?” Mercy’s throaty tease made Jude’s skin prickle. “I’ve been calling all day.”

Jude deleted the voicemail message without listening to the rest of it. She wasn’t in the mood to deal with her ex. Not today, and probably not tomorrow, either. Mercy had been phoning her and stopping by the stationhouse on flimsy pretexts ever since she returned from her honeymoon in March. Jude wasn’t sure why Mercy wanted to pretend they could be friends. She’d never been suckered into that lesbian daydream, herself. When it was over, it was over. Whatever “it” was.

By any definition, she and Mercy didn’t have a “relationship.” A relationship implied emotional connection, a togetherness that existed on more than one plane. Jude didn’t know how to categorize their liaison. She supposed the term “hookup” could be applied to a series of nonexclusive sexual encounters with the same person. Zero commitment. Fun while it lasted. Anyway, she was a free agent now.

Unenthralled by the thought, Jude tossed her cell phone on the bed and stalked into the tiny bathroom. She turned on the shower, stripped, and stuffed her dirty clothes into the laundry bag she’d brought with her. She always felt disgusting after walking a crime scene, as if death had soaked into her pores. For that reason she kept a scrubbing brush and loofah mittens in her overnight bag.

After she’d gone through the motions of cleaning her body, she toweled off and checked out her physique in the mirror, a habit she ascribed to common sense, not vanity. If she wasn’t well toned, she was vulnerable, and Jude didn’t like feeling subpar. She turned slowly and saw powerful shoulders and arms, but a belly and hips that needed work. Since her broken ankle she’d slacked off and it showed.

Irritated, she scrubbed her teeth. She needed to get back into her old routine, taking long hikes whenever she had a couple of days off. That was one thing she loved about living in the Southwest. There was always something new and wonderful to explore. She could always find solitude and silence.

Her cell phone rang, and she spat the foamy toothpaste and rinsed hastily. It was probably Koertig or Pratt calling to see how things were going with Pippa Calloway. She rushed to the bed and flipped the phone open before voicemail could pick up.

“Jude?” came a soft query.

Horrified, Jude lowered the phone from her ear and peered at the caller ID. In her haste to take the call, she hadn’t checked before answering.

“Is this work related?” she asked, just in case the Fates had decided to torture her and Mercy had been assigned to conduct the autopsy on Fabian Maulle.

“If I say yes will you talk to me?”

Jude hated Mercy’s habit of answering a question with a question. “I don’t have time for this. What do you want?”

“Why won’t you come to the soirée?”

“Oh, for crying out loud.” Jude plunked herself down on the bed. “Is that what you’re calling about?”

“Jude, we have to move beyond this. It’s been months since the wedding. Your behavior only draws attention and makes people wonder.”

“Like attention is a problem for you. Was I on drugs or did you and Elspeth go on TV to announce your wedding?”

“I wasn’t referring to myself,” Mercy said. “You’re the one who’s paranoid about being outed.”

“Funny, that’s not how it seemed when we were seeing each other.”

Mercy had flatly refused to go on social outings in case they were spotted together. Jude had respected her wishes. After all, they didn’t live in San Francisco. This was the Four Corners, right next to Utah, not exactly a bastion of tolerance and diversity. The few gays and lesbians Jude encountered were not out publicly, although friends and family usually knew. Durango had a visible LGBT community and a PFLAG branch, adding fuel to the widely held view that the place was a hotbed of liberals and rich lefties, destined to become just like that hippy-infested Sodom in the east, Boulder.

Jude didn’t have a problem with being discreet, and besides, it suited her agenda. Being open about her sexual orientation would compromise her undercover operation. There was no way Harrison Hawke would bare his soul with a lesbian, so Jude had gone to some trouble to establish heterosexual credentials, including a bogus boyfriend. The mutual “beard” arrangement she had struck with Bobby Lee Parker was in part to help her cover, but she had also gone that route to shield Mercy. Not that it made any difference. Mercy still wouldn’t share even the kinds of social outings that were normal for women whose paths crossed professionally. Now, all of a sudden, she was out and proud. Married, no less, to the woman she’d been sleeping with throughout her nonmonogamous unrelationship with Jude. Elspeth Harwood, phoniness personified.

“Elspeth and I are willing to let bygones be bygones,” Mercy said.

Jude was ready to puke. “I’m going to hang up now.”

“No! Please. Wait.”

A soft rush of breath poured into Jude’s ear, filling her with unbearable longing. She still missed Mercy so badly she could forget to breathe. Hating that sorry fact, she forced her lungs to process air and said, “Could we just let this go? I’m not coming to your party. I’m not into the movies your wife makes. I have nothing in common with her or her friends. Why would I torture myself by spending a whole evening with those people?”

“To see me,” Mercy said.

“Are you serious? You think I’m that desperate?”

“Yes.”

Infuriated, Jude said, “Fuck you.”

“Yes, fuck me.”

The husky reply made the blood rush to Jude’s head. She sagged back against the pillows, willing herself not to hear Mercy repeating those very words as their bodies danced in carnal rhythm. She wanted to hang up, but the sound of Mercy’s breathing stopped her. Thanks to a marvel of technology, their voices could bounce from earth to space and back again. Yet they still weren’t communicating.

Jude forced herself to lower the phone before Mercy could speak again. Staring at the display, she placed her finger on the End button and severed the electronic pulse that connected them.

*

Lone turned in her rental Toyota at Provo, took a cab to one of several Starbucks in the vicinity, and walked for twenty minutes to reach the garage she’d leased for the past year under the name “Houseclean Enterprises.” She swapped the plates on the Honda Accord she’d left there on Thursday, then drove to Monticello, not stopping at any time during the four-hour trip. As she approached Madeline’s tidy suburban house, she checked her wristwatch. Taking this route, the trip home from Jackson Hole was around seven hundred miles, just over twelve hours on the road, counting the stopover in Provo. It was now 0320 hours. With the final leg to Rico, she would be home before six in the morning, exactly according to plan.

She parked in the garage and closed the door by remote. At this time of night the neighbors were all asleep. Hopefully no one would notice her arrival and even if they did, they wouldn’t think twice about it. She made a point of visiting the house at least once a month, like any absentee owner, staying for a couple of days to make sure her property was in order. During that time, she would come and go occasionally, including late at night. Routines were important. People paid no attention when they seemed familiar.

The house was silent and had a musty, unoccupied smell. Lone turned on the kitchen light, took a bottle of juice from the fridge, and sat down at the table. As she drank, she reviewed her decision to execute the first phase of her mission at an event instead of at one of the three Cheney residences.

The drawbacks were obvious. Heightened security. Greater risk of collateral damage. Late notice—most Cheney appearances weren’t announced publicly until close to the date, so last-minute logistics hassles were inevitable.

Yet there was an upside. Security would be tight. It always was when the VP left a secure location for one of his carefully orchestrated glimpses of the outside world. Yet the Secret Service’s successful record in protecting vice presidents could create a chink. Cheney’s detail thought they had the threat assessment formula down. They believed they could single out the kind of individual who could be gunning for their man. Audiences were handpicked and subject to intense screening. Only the party faithful and big donors were allowed up close.

By controlling access, the Secret Service had the battle half won. Their man would never veer off script and break through the perimeter of his protection on some random whim to speak to a veteran in a wheelchair, or kiss a baby. Such impulses were driven by curiosity or an innate empathy for others—human sentiments that would never afflict the Dicktator. This was a man who shot captive quail from the safety of his car: why not stalk hamsters? If there was one thing Lone could count on, it was that Cheney’s actions in a crisis would be driven by self-interest, cowardice, and paranoia. He was completely predictable, and that made her planning easier.

To neutralize him, she intended to exploit the one vulnerability all high-profile targets shared. Arrival and departure. The Secret Service could control access in a contained space, but out in the open the environment was unpredictable. Massive advance planning was always undertaken and plans were made for all kinds of contingency. Routes were kept secret and streets and buildings around the venue were cleared. But there was no way to guarantee security. The unexpected could happen and Lone planned to make sure it did.

She knew exactly how to create the opportunity she needed. Chaos would be a factor. Wherever Cheney went, there would always be protestors, and in certain cities the turnout would be optimum. A frightened crowd could be counted upon to create a commotion. A van full of plastic explosive would deliver mayhem, even if no one was hurt. Lone had spent the past year observing the security measures at Cheney appearances and making advance plans of her own for five potential venues. By her calculations, he would appear at one of these in the near future, and she would be ready. She even knew where she would park the van and which building she would hide in ahead of time.

Lone poured the rest of the juice down the drain and walked through the house, making sure all the doors and windows were secure. She paused in the bedroom she’d shared with Madeline and picked up a framed photo from the dresser. Madeline and Brandon, heads tilted close. From each face, the same serious brown eyes regarded her with deep affection. Mother and son smiled with the joyful surprise of people whose lives hadn’t been easy and who cherished the good times when they came along. Lone dusted the picture against her T-shirt and replaced it on the wood surface. Despite her lack of faith, she believed they were together now, in heaven. Surely, if there was a higher being, they had been granted peace.

Sitting on her side of the bed, Lone dwelled on her undertaking. She knew it was wrong to take the law into her own hands. But the men of the evil alliance did not respect the law or the constitution. They were bereft of honor or conscience, and entirely corrupted by power. Their stranglehold on the country had to end, and surely it was the duty of any true patriot to see that it did. Lone took that duty seriously. Operation Houseclean was now in transition. Her planning was complete, her rehearsal phase was in its final stages. Within weeks, she would be ready to execute.

There were eight names on her list. Nothing excessive, and all extremely deserving.

*

“What’s the time?” Debbie blinked and rubbed the sleep from her eyes, almost dropped the phone.

“Just after six. Hey, Debbie doll, how are you?”

“I was worried about you.”

“Why?”

“Wouldn’t any woman be worried if her partner went away for days and never called?”

She felt guilty for talking to Jude about her relationship and for letting her go through files on the computer. If only Lone communicated more, she wouldn’t have involved their detective friend.

“I told you I’d be out of range. I can’t keep trying my phone just in case there’s a signal.”

Debbie didn’t believe Lone had tried her phone once. “Where were you?”

“In the mountains.” Lone’s voice softened. “Sweetheart, I told you not to worry. Don’t I always comes back?”

“Yes, but what if you didn’t? What if you were lost? Imagine how stupid I’d feel trying to report you missing, not knowing a thing about where you were hiking.” Feeling like a nag, she said, “It doesn’t help that you keep changing your cell phone number. What if I lost the new one? Not that you ever answer my calls anyway.”

Lone sighed. “You’re angry.”

“Yes.”

“Then I’d better make it up to you.”

Debbie’s stomach dropped. Lone knew exactly how to reduce her to putty. It happened every time they had words, and what they usually fought about was Lone’s obsession with privacy. Debbie felt incredibly shut out. It occurred to her that she would trust Lone with her life, yet she didn’t trust her completely as a partner. What was wrong with her? After all Lone had done to help her and make her feel good about herself, it didn’t make sense.

She came right out with her worst fear. “Is there another woman?”

“No.” The denial was swift and emphatic. A soft chuckle followed. “Is that why you’re upset? You think I’m seeing someone?”

There was a patronizing note in her voice, like she thought Debbie was being ridiculous and had no right to question her. Debbie had heard the same tone before. From Meg. Her ex had always gotten self-righteous when Debbie challenged her. She’d hidden her cheating behind lies and guilt trips, making Debbie feel like a bad person for being untrusting. Lone was completely different from Meg, and Debbie couldn’t believe she was fooling around. But when your partner keeps on disappearing and not answering the phone, what other explanation is there?

She knew Lone was waiting for her to crumple like she always did, and she knew how this conversation would end. Lone would be in her house and in her bed, and she would push her concerns to the back of her mind yet again. Well, she was fed up with that game. Lone felt far away, even in their most intimate moments. The distance between them made Debbie question everything. Did Lone even love her?

“I don’t know what to think,” Debbie said, adding wordlessly, Because you don’t talk to me.

“Don’t you trust me?” Lone sounded hurt and genuinely shocked.

Normally Debbie would be apologizing by now, she was such a sucker. With a flash of anger, she said, “I think I’m the one who should be asking that question. If I went away for days without telling you where I was and never phoned, wouldn’t you want an explanation?”

“Debbie doll—”

“Don’t,” Debbie said sharply. “You always turn things around as if I’m the one who’s being unreasonable. You act like I’m silly because I want you to tell me what’s going on.”

“I don’t think you’re silly. I love you.”

“Then how can you talk about us moving to Canada without even telling me where we’re going? What if I have other plans? Are you just going to go without me?”

“I’m coming over,” Lone said stiffly.

“Don’t bother,” Debbie flung back, furious that Lone still hadn’t answered a single question. “I won’t be home.”

“Okay, I’ll come to Le Paradox.”

“I won’t be there, either.”

“Calm down, baby. This isn’t helping.”

Debbie wasn’t sure what had possessed her, but suddenly she wanted to make Lone walk a mile in her shoes. Lone thought she could come over and make love just to avoid the issue. Well, not this time. Forcing a flippant note, Debbie repeated the words Lone casually threw at her every time she went away. “I’ll call you when I get back.”

Lone still wasn’t hearing her. “I think we should talk. How about if I bring over a couple of steaks and put them on the grill.”

Debbie’s hands shook. “Do what you like. You’re welcome to use the house while I’m away, if you want.”

“Away?”

“That’s right.” Using the same excuse she’d heard from Lone on several occasions, she said, “Something came up and I have to be out of town.”

“It’s not Meg, is it?” Irritation drove the tenderness from Lone’s voice. “I told that lawyer of hers if she ever hassles you again you’ll take her to court.”

“This isn’t about Meg.” Debbie got out of bed and took clean clothes from her drawers.

“Then what’s up? Where are you going?”

Debbie laughed. “I can’t believe you’re asking me to explain myself. Haven’t you heard anything I just said?”

A stony silence followed, then Lone bit out, “So, this is some kind of tit for tat?”

Tears blurred Debbie’s vision, but she kept control of herself. “Lone, you know everything about my life, and I know nothing about yours. You know where I am every hour of the day, but I never have a clue where you are unless we’re together. You sleep in my house, but I don’t even know where you live. You tell me we’re moving to Canada. You don’t even ask if I want to. And you accuse me of not being trusting?” She gulped in a breath. “You’re the one who doesn’t trust. You’re the one keeping secrets, and I’ve had enough. Do you understand?”

A heavy silence stretched between them. Debbie watched the digital clock count down the seconds. When it became clear that Lone didn’t intend to meet her halfway, she said, “Just so you know, the silent treatment is getting old and it’s childish. I’m going to take a shower now.”

Still no reply.

Debbie gathered her clean clothes despondently. “I love you, Lone, and you’re hurting my feelings. Think about that when you shut me out.”

This time she didn’t wait for a reply. Dropping the receiver into its cradle with a sharp thud, she stared at the pillow Lone slept on. They’d been sharing a bed for more than a year, but it only dawned on her now that she didn’t really know who her lover was. She just hoped she did.

Chapter Seven

The interview room smelled powerfully of chemicals and lemon deodorizer, the scent having built up overnight after the cleaners shut the door. Pippa sneezed and blew her nose. She looked like she’d cried all night.

Jude took the seat across the table from her and said, “Are you sure you don’t want to speak with your lawyer before we begin?”

“I don’t have a lawyer. Do I need one?”

“That’s entirely up to you. We don’t have to do this now. If you’d rather wait for your parents—”

“God, no. Let’s get it over with.”

Jude went through the formalities, explaining that the interview was being taped and that Pippa could be asked to give evidence in court.

“That’s fine,” Pippa said. “I don’t know anything. But whatever.”

“I want you to relax and think back to yesterday afternoon,” Jude said. “Just tell me everything you remember. Even the little things that don’t seem important. Let’s start with driving to the house. In your 911 call, it seemed like you weren’t sure of the address.”

“I’d never been there. I overshot twice trying to find it,” Pippa said. “I turned around at Stoner and came back down the road. But by the time I saw the house I’d already gone past it again, so I pulled into a driveway. I remember the ranch. A River Runs Through It. Very original.”

Jude smiled. “I know the place. Did you have to wait for any cars to pass before you could make the turn?”

Pippa stared into space for a moment. “Yes, there was a white family car heading north, and two other cars passed on the other side going toward Cortez. One was an old Cadillac with a wobbly back wheel. The other was a Lexus. An LS 460. Dark gray with tinted windows. I thought it was going to smash into the back of the Cadillac.”

“It was in a hurry?”

“Yes, it was trying to pass the Cadillac. The driver was pissed and flipped the bird.”

“Are you sure it was a Lexus?”

Pippa nodded. “My sister-in-law has the same model. Dad says it’s a status car made for dummies. She’s a terrible driver.”

“Do you remember anything else about either car?”

“The Cadillac had all kinds of bumper stickers. Nascar. Playboy. Immature stuff. The Lexus had a Colorado plate. I looked at it because I thought if there was an accident I might have to come forward.”

“Did you get the number?”

“I was going to write it down when I got to Uncle Fabian’s but with everything that happened I forgot. There might have been an ‘X’ in it.”

“That’s helpful.” There couldn’t be too many of the luxury sedans registered in Colorado. The color and plate details would narrow down the search. “So, you drove up to your uncle’s house, arriving at around four forty p.m. on the afternoon of Saturday, the eighteenth of August. How were you feeling?”

Pippa blinked, as though she’d anticipated a different question. Jude deliberately tapped into different areas of memory during a cognitive interview with a witness. If a person got into a pattern of describing only what she saw, she could forget to mention something she heard or smelled. Asking Pippa to recall her feelings would keep her from settling into a groove. With most witnesses it also helped build rapport.

“I was happy. Incredibly relieved. I’d been driving for days.”

“I’m sure you couldn’t wait to get inside,” Jude affirmed.

“I knocked. I guess I waited a minute, then I looked in the windows and I couldn’t see anyone so I went in. Coco wasn’t there.” Her face contracted. “Why do that? Why kill a sweet old dog like her?”

Jude passed Pippa a tissue, agreeing, “It’s unforgivable. I really want to catch the creep who did this.”

“I called out and walked around and then I went upstairs. I thought I heard something. A thud. It must have been my uncle. When I got to the top of the stairs I saw his cane and I knew something was wrong. There was blood on it.”

“Did you pick it up?”

“No, all I could think about was finding him. There was blood on the floor. I stepped in it.” She paused. “I probably ruined evidence. When I saw him I just grabbed on and held him. Was that the wrong thing to do?”

“Not at all. You did what anyone would do.”

“I called 911. He was trying to talk to me.”

“Please think very carefully, Pippa. You were right there, holding him. What were his exact words?”

“He said they killed Coco.”

They.

“I asked him who hurt him and he said something like ‘nobody knows.’ And then he told me he was dying and he got worried about Oscar. He was talking about his food box, like I’d let him starve. He was…going. I could feel it.”

“Did he say anything else?”

“Only that he loved me.” Pippa buried her face in her hands. “I should have tried to stop the blood, but I panicked.”

“Pippa, you did all you could. Your uncle died because a criminal stabbed him.”

“The sheriff said it might have been a robbery and my uncle interrupted the burglars.”

“It’s too soon to guess at what really happened. But it’s certainly important for us to examine every possibility. If fingerprints and DNA are present we might get a match in our databases.”

Pippa seemed buoyed by this idea. She took another tissue from the box.

Jude waited for her to blow her nose and calm her breathing, then asked, “Another possibility is that the killer was known to your uncle. Going back to that incident in New Orleans you mentioned last night. What can you tell me about it?”

“Uncle Fabian was worried. And he was angry. I could tell.”

“Do you know which security company he hired?”

“Yes, Counter Threat Group. I remember because it was weird. You should have seen those guys. They carried machine guns.”

Jude didn’t comment. She recognized the name. CTG was one of the more prestigious global private security firms specializing in close protection. Why would Maulle have hired heavy hitters like these guys? And why weren’t they still with him? Did he think he’d dealt with the threat, whatever it was?

“Do you have any theories about what happened?”

Pippa looked pained. “I wish I’d paid more attention. There was one night…I heard Uncle Fabian talking on his cell phone. That was just before the CTG guys arrived. All I can remember was something about Anton’s people and how Anton could crawl back under his rock.”

“Do you know who Anton is?”

“Human slime. That’s according to one of the guards. Hugo. I don’t know his other name. He was South African.”

“Do you remember anything else?” Jude would have to track Hugo down. Hopefully, he hadn’t joined the countless mercenaries in Iraq.

“I know Uncle Fabian was upset,” Pippa said. “Normally we went out a lot when I stayed, but not that time. I had to drag Hugo if I wanted to go anywhere, and Uncle Fabian wanted me to stay at home, so it was a pretty boring vacation.”

“Did he tell you anything else about Anton? Like a last name, for example?”

“No. I was kind of distracted. My final year and so on. I wasn’t paying much attention.”

“Actually, what you’ve remembered is very useful.” Jude took a sip of water while she gathered her thoughts. “Your uncle was a wealthy man. What line of work was he in?”

“I think some of his money came from investments, although he was always making jokes about hedgies. He said they would still get to keep their fifty-million-dollar houses even if they lost all their clients’ money, and that’s why he didn’t do business with them.”

“So he wasn’t involved in hedge funds?” If any other form of legalized gambling returned the kind of cash Maulle appeared to have, Jude wasn’t aware of it.

“Not anymore. All I know is that he traveled overseas a lot on business, but he never told me what kind of business he was in.”

“What were his interests?”

“He collected art, mostly paintings and pottery. He was into opera and ballet. I guess you could say he was an elitist. But he wasn’t a snob, not like my mother.”

“You mentioned his former partner when we spoke last night. What was his name?”

“I’ll write it down. The spelling is weird.”

She took the pen and notepad Jude passed her and wrote “Yitzhak Eshkol.”

“They were together for ages. At least ten years.”

“When did the relationship end?”

“Maybe 2000 or 2001.”

“Did your uncle have casual partners?”

“Yes, but I never met any of them.”

“Did your uncle live with Mr. Eshkol?”

“Yes, at his London house. I think he did that deliberately so he wouldn’t have to put up with shit from my parents. Bad enough gay, but a Jewish boyfriend? Ohmigod.”

“Your mom and dad are anti-Semites?”

“They wouldn’t see it that way. You know, it’s fine to have dinner with one, but we don’t marry them.” Perhaps reading something into Jude’s steady gaze, she said, “It seems so yesterday, doesn’t it?”

Jude kept her opinion to herself. She was never surprised by anything people did or thought. “So your parents and your uncle didn’t see eye to eye?”

“That’s an understatement.”

“Any idea who’s likely to benefit financially from his death?”

Laughter broke through Pippa’s melancholy, brightening her eyes. She was immediately contrite. “God, listen to me. It’s not funny, is it? I mean, you have to ask about family. They’re the usual suspects.”

“It’s strictly routine,” Jude said. “We start with the people closest to the deceased and work our way out.”

“Now that you ask, I guess he might have left Mom some money, and he always said he’d leave me his pottery collection. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with it since I don’t have a house.”

“Your brother?”

“Mom thinks Ryan will get Maulle Mansion, but I seriously doubt that’s going to happen. I think he’ll get a car or a painting. Something token. Uncle Fabian was okay with Ryan, but he called my sister-in-law a grasping shrew and she called him a fag, so there was a rift between them.”

“Families, huh?” Jude commiserated. “Any idea what your uncle planned to do with most of his estate?”

“If I had to guess, I’d say he left everything to charity.” She glanced toward the door as a sharp knock interrupted their conversation.

A metrosexual in a shiny Italian suit and black cowboy boots sauntered past a deputy. “Detective Devine, what a pleasure.” Griffin Mahanes removed his dark glasses and offered Jude the tiger-eyed stare that captivated female jurors.

Mahanes was a criminal defense attorney with an upmarket practice in Denver. Occasionally he showed up in the Four Corners if there was a high-profile case he thought he could win. Mahanes proclaimed a passion for the west, and had even packed a Colt six-shooter for his recent appearance on Suzette Kelly’s Colorado Connoisseurs, a celebrity gossip show on Channel 8. Whenever he honored Cortez with his presence, he made sure to tone down his city accent.

Jude rose, puzzled by his presence when they hadn’t made an arrest. “Mr. Mahanes, how can I help you?”

Mahanes sauntered to the table and set his briefcase down on top of Jude’s notes. “If I may, I’d appreciate a word with my client.”

Pippa stared at him blankly. “Do you mean me?”

“Ms. Calloway is not under arrest,” Jude said. “Neither is she a suspect. She’s helping us with our inquiries.”

Mahanes gave Jude a superior smile, and stuck out a well-groomed hand to Pippa. “Ms. Calloway. My deepest condolences on your loss. I’m Griffin Mahanes. Your parents retained my services.”

“What for? I don’t need a lawyer. I haven’t done anything wrong.”

“Of course you haven’t, and that’s why I’m here. Detectives are always eager to pin a crime on a family member if they can.”

Jude shoved his case aside and extracted her notes.

“Have my parents even arrived yet?” Pippa demanded.

“They’ll be here in a few hours. Now, we have some important things to discuss, Ms. Calloway, and I know Detective Devine will agree with me that you should be fully briefed on the situation before answering any more questions.”

Pippa cast a helpless glance toward Jude. “Do I have to?”

Careful not to sound like she was discouraging a witness from talking to a lawyer, Jude said, “It’s your choice, Pippa.”

She didn’t want to pressure her. They’d verified her alibi that morning and Jude was sure she had nothing to do with her uncle’s death.

Pippa’s uncertainty showed on her face. “I suppose it’s the sensible thing to do.”

Touching her shoulder, Jude said, “I’ll see you later.”

Mahanes walked her to the door. “You know the drill, Detective. Henceforth, you don’t talk to my client. You talk to me.”

*

Jude managed to avoid Sheriff Pratt as she left the MCSO headquarters. She drove past the modern gray Cortez PD building and stopped at Centennial Park. Leaving the Dakota unlocked, she strolled across the springy lawn toward the duck pond. The heat was already building and most of the ducks couldn’t be bothered leaving the water to see if she had food they could beg for.

She sat on the bench opposite the murky expanse of water and cleared her voicemail.

Tulley: How come he and Smoke’m hadn’t been called to the murder scene when Smoke’m was the best tracker dog in the entire state? Also, please reconsider the soirée.

Debbie, in half sentences: Sandy was back and they’d quarreled. She wanted Jude to call her.

The pet-sitter: she couldn’t look after Yiska tonight or tomorrow.

Agatha Benham: She’d asked Bobby Lee to come to the soirée. He had other plans. She thought Jude should put her foot down and make him come.

Jude decided to ignore the messages that felt like emotional blackmail, and make other arrangements for her cat. That left just one call she needed to return.

Not surprisingly, Debbie was upset. She wasn’t the type who thrived on drama and confrontation. After recounting a garbled version of her conversation with Sandy, she said, “So, now I don’t know what’s going to happen. She hasn’t called back.”

“Where are you?” Jude asked, figuring that by now Sandy would be looking for her.

“I’m at the station. Agatha was just telling me about the soirée. It sounds incredible. Elspeth Harwood. She’s so stunning. Oh, my God.”

Jude resisted the urge to hurl the phone into the duck pond. “You should go,” she said. “Agatha would take you. Just ask.”

Debbie giggled. “Oh, I couldn’t. I’m shy at parties and with all those celebrities, I’d probably get tipsy and make a fool of myself.”

Sticking to the subject at hand, Jude said, “Are you really planning a trip somewhere?”

“No, I just said that because I was mad at her. She was acting like I’m the one being unreasonable, so I thought I’d give her a taste of her own medicine.”

“Fair enough.” Jude could imagine how that went over. “You’ve been putting up with her bullshit for months. Maybe going away isn’t such a bad idea.”

“That’s what I thought,” Debbie said. “The problem is I can’t afford it and I wouldn’t know where to go anyway. So I feel a bit stupid now.”

Jude thought quickly. “I have an idea. My pet-sitter can’t take care of Yiska after today and I’m going to be stuck in Cortez until Tuesday at least. Want to stay at my place?”

“Are you sure?”

“You’d be doing me a favor. Tulley will take you over there, and if you give him a key to your place, he’ll feed your cats.”

“That would be wonderful,” Debbie sniffed into a tissue. “I’ve just rescheduled all my hair appointments. I can pick up some extra clothes and leave right away.”

“She’ll call you, of course.” Jude needed the latest cell phone number so she could throw something to Arbiter. “Let me take down her number.”

Debbie hesitated. “She won’t like that one bit.”

“This is just between you and me,” Jude said. “I’m concerned for her well-being, Debbie. It’s a precaution, that’s all.”

“Are you going to call her?”

“No. It’s better if she doesn’t know I’m involved.”

Reluctantly, Debbie supplied the number. “She’ll probably change it again soon. You know how that is.”

“Have you spoken to her again since the argument?”

“No, I haven’t picked up.” Anger infused Debbie’s voice with strength. “Now it’s her turn to wonder where I am.”

Jude worked quickly through her options, seeking a way to exploit the situation. If this was Debbie’s attempt at leaving a relationship with a controlling partner, Jude would help. But if Debbie wanted to work things out, Jude would also do what she could, including getting Sandy to a shrink before she imploded. Whatever the scenario, she needed information, and the situation was now even more delicate. She wasn’t sure how Sandy would react to the quarrel with her girlfriend. Would the extra stress trigger a response? Jude needed to locate her hideaway.

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” she told Debbie, taking a calculated risk. “Don’t talk to her today. Not in person and not on the phone. Will you promise me that?”

“I promise.” Debbie sounded determined, but she would cave the moment Sandy turned up on her doorstep with flowers. That was their pattern. Jude had heard all about it during haircuts.

“If you want things to change, you need leverage. Right now, you don’t have any. She’s been pulling this shit for months and you’ve enabled her.”

Not an unfamiliar concept. Jude didn’t want to think about Mercy. It still blew her mind that she’d put up with being one of two lovers, pathetically waiting her turn while Mercy saw who she wanted when she wanted. Was she nuts?

“I’m speaking from experience,” she said, masking her bitterness with an aura of calm common sense. “If you want a different outcome you can’t keep doing the same thing.”

“Oh, God. What if she leaves me?”

“Trust me, she’s not the type to walk away.” Jude framed her next question carefully. “Debbie, are you sure you want to this relationship to continue?”

“I love her. I just want us to be closer.”

“That’s only going to happen if she starts letting you in more. Give her a chance to realize that she has to make some changes. Then, tomorrow, pick up one of her calls and tell her you’ll see her but there are terms.”

She could picture the puzzlement on Debbie’s face. “Terms?”

“Tell her you’re not ready to spend a night with her, but the two of you should talk and it has to be at her place. Period. Not negotiable.”

“Why?”

“It’s symbolic. She’s shut you out of her life and her home. You need to be invited in.”

“She won’t do it.”

“Fine, then tell her there’s no meeting. Say it like you mean it.”

Debbie uttered a strangled sound.

“You have nothing to lose,” Jude said in her most reassuring tone. “If it doesn’t work, you can go back to how things were. But if it does, you’ll have broken down a big wall.”

After a long pause, Debbie said, “I’ll try. I really will.”

“Good. As soon as you’ve arranged the meeting, let me know.”

Jude wished her luck and ended the call. She watched a couple of ducks circle, then went back to the Dakota and located her latest Bureau cell phone. For a few seconds she deliberated, then she called Arbiter and requested the trace.

“What’s cooking?” he asked.

“It’s hard to say, but I don’t think she’s a Company asset. That’s just my gut talking.”

She knew Arbiter was equally concerned about other members of the alphabet soup, the NSA, NIC, DIA, and DEA, not to mention the offshoots that didn’t exist officially. Even if Sandy was exactly what Jude thought she was—a dangerous loose cannon susceptible to external stressors—she could still be working for a government agency at the more clandestine end of the spectrum. Those folks weren’t picky about the mental stability of their operatives if they were getting results.

“NORTHCOM has to be a candidate given her background,” Arbiter said. “They just asked the Pentagon to formalize CPOC as a separate subcommand and they’ve been recruiting special ops commandos.”

Jude frowned. U.S. Northern Command was the Pentagon’s Homeland Security arm. They were supposed to respond to threats, not carry out independent black ops on American soil. As far as she knew, their Compartmented Planning & Operations Cell was a top-secret planning committee inside NORTHCOM.

“What are they up to?”

“Good question,” Arbiter said. “They’ve been running sensitive operations here and in Canada and Mexico for the past few years. We liaise with them, but it sounds like they want more independence.”

“So it’s some kind of turf war?”

“Our friends at the Pentagon don’t like the current accountabilities,” Arbiter said. “They’ve been trying to dump their dependency on the CIA ever since 9/11, and they’re not thrilled with the Bureau either.”

“Because we’re the lead agency? Just a wild guess.”

Jude had trouble getting her head around the web of government agencies involved in homeland security, but no one except the FBI was authorized to direct military antiterror operations on U.S. soil. The Domestic Emergency Support Team was a combined Bureau and military special ops strike force formed for that purpose.

“There’s buzz that Joint Special Operations Command has something major on the horizon,” Arbiter said.

“An exercise?”

Arbiter didn’t respond immediately. “So rumor would have us believe. It’s hard to confirm since we’ve been left out in the cold so far.” His voice held an edge of irony.

The skin around Jude’s hair line prickled. If she was reading her handler correctly, he was telling her that the Pentagon was up to something terror-related and the Bureau knew nothing about it.

“Remember Don’s folly?” Arbiter said in a conversational tone.

The euphemism made Jude aware that they were normally less explicit in their cell phone communications. “Don’s folly” was Arbiter’s code for a new espionage organization proposed by Donald Rumsfeld five years earlier. Among its various functions, the P2OG was supposed to provoke terrorist attacks, or fake them, in order to justify US “responses.” The plans were leaked and no one had said much about the P2OG since then, but organization was up and running, having morphed into the Strategic Support Branch. As far as Jude knew, they ran their black ops offshore.

She picked up Arbiter’s cue with a phony laugh. “Who could forget Don?”

“I was talking with my farmboy friend last week.” For the first time since she’d known him, Arbiter sounded anxious. “He’s off-loading some real estate. One of his Mayflower holdings.”

Jude felt chills. “I see.”

“Farmboy” was a euphemism for graduates of Camp Perry, where the CIA trained its assassins and saboteurs. Reading between the lines, Jude surmised Arbiter’s contact had warned him about the Plymouth Rock area. She couldn’t come right out and ask why. Their call was probably being surveilled by a rival agency. Joining the dots, she concluded Arbiter was dropping a big hint. He suspected there was a Pentagon plan to instigate a domestic terror incident.

“Do you think our subject could be interested in that real estate?” she asked, thinking about Sandy’s mysterious trips away.

“Do us both a favor and find out.”

*

Lone tried to catch a short nap after her phone call with Debbie, but her mind refused to slow down. Her first thought was to drive out to Paradox Valley and make Debbie see sense. She hated hurting the woman she loved, but she had no choice until her primary objective was achieved. There had to be some way to make Debbie happy and to show herself worthy of trust. The answer came to her in a flash. Canada. Debbie resented being kept in the dark about the details, and thinking about it, Lone could see she’d taken too much for granted.

She had tried to introduce the subject over time, talking about moving there and reassuring Debbie that she wouldn’t have to earn a living. But she’d missed the perfect opportunity to make Debbie feel included without having to tell her what was really going on. She would be blown away once she saw the property. A hundred acres on a lake, a tricked-out double-wide trailer, and a beautiful log cabin, now half built. Lone was going to sell the Monticello house to pay for the rest of the building as soon as things quieted down after the assassination.

But why wait? She could take Debbie up there soon and convince her to make the move. She would hire a truck and empty Debbie’s house, pack up the cats, and it would be a done deal. Debbie would have plenty to do working on plans for the new kitchen of her dreams and shopping online for furnishings. She loved that shit.

Eventually, when the time was right, Lone would tell her about Operation Houseclean. It was tempting to disclose a few general details now, just to test the waters, but she couldn’t afford to jeopardize her mission at this critical point. Civilians couldn’t be expected to appreciate the necessity of a plan like hers. Debbie had no understanding of politics and Lone was reluctant to destroy her naïveté by explaining how the world really worked. Gentle souls like Debbie made life worth living for warriors like Lone. She refused to imagine a future without that sweet companionship.

Debbie just needed some time to cool off. Her threat to go away was as hollow as it was unlikely. Where would she go? She didn’t have close friends, and she had no money for a hotel, or airfare, or the cost of gas for a long trip. She had her cats to consider, and she couldn’t just take time off work. No, she would be holed up in her house with the curtains closed, watching that damn Sleepless in Seattle DVD.

By this evening she’d be desperate to hear from Lone and regretting every word of that pointless conversation. Lone would head over there with a pizza and Debbie’s favorite ice cream, and a bunch of flowers. She would grovel and take full responsibility for being thoughtless and inconsiderate. She’d learned long ago that butches had no other choice after a quarrel. They were always wrong and the girlfriend was always right. The details were irrelevant.

Feeling in control once more, Lone deactivated her close perimeter alarms and traversed the buffer zone to her workshop. She dropped down through the concealed trapdoor into her secure bunker and added her notes and sketches from Jackson Hole to the file on the VP’s residences. She then consulted her shortlist of likely event venues for the rest of 2007. The men of the evil alliance were writhing under the bright lights of scrutiny. They had to maintain a stranglehold on power in case the unthinkable happened and they lost the presidential election as well as the house and senate.

Lone felt certain Cheney would soon start raising campaign dollars as he had in 2006, holding thousand-dollar-a-plate chicken dinners to boost the war chests of the most vulnerable GOP candidates. Helpfully, before Karl Rove’s departure, his office had released a “priority defense” list. Most candidates were trying to distance themselves from Bushdom and would avoid making a big deal out of a visit by either Bush or Cheney. But they wouldn’t say no to money, so there would be discreet events at private homes and hotels.

Lone had compiled a list of the most likely beneficiaries and the locations where Cheney events were normally held in their respective cities. In addition, she’d donated to the campaigns of the top five prospects so she would receive advance notice of fund-raisers. As she did every day, she logged on to the Internet and checked to see if any of her targets was about to benefit from the Dicktator’s legendary fund-raising mojo. She wasn’t expecting a hit until September, but she was ready to roll anytime.

Smiling, she glanced at the MK-153 SMAW rocket launcher on the bottom shelf of her dedicated Operation Houseclean wall unit. Lined up alongside it was a collection of HEDP and CS rockets, ideal for taking out an armored town car. On the shelves above, Lone stored her sniper rifles and .300 Win Mag rounds, stun devices, assorted tactical weapons, and disguises.

Ideally, she hoped to carry out her mission from an indoor space. She’d purchased several confined-space rockets to eliminate backblast from the equation. But most of the venues she’d scouted would involve an outdoor strike and, regrettably, the killing of the Secret Service sniper whose position she would take over. Lone hated that idea. She didn’t want to clip some working stiff who was just doing what he had to do. But as the Dicktator himself said, “There comes a time when deceit and defiance must be seen for what they are. At that point, a gathering danger must be confronted directly.”

She agreed.

Chapter Eight

“Griffin Mahanes is here? On a Sunday?” Koertig’s pie-dough face was mashed in disbelief.

“Tell me about it.” Jude stepped into Maulle’s office. The confined space smelled metallic.

“Rich people always go for the cover-up, even when they’re innocent,” Koertig said. “That’s their instinct.”

“Her parents retained him.” Jude supposed the Calloways were only trying to make sure their daughter didn’t implicate herself. In their position she might do the same if a family member stepped from the scene of a murder, covered in blood.

“You get any sense of a motive from the niece?” Koertig asked.

She handed him a copy of the report she’d typed up after the interview. “The family sounds pretty typical. Dysfunctional. Alienated from each other. Just a whole more money than the rest of us.”

“Any idea who’s likely to benefit from the death?”

“We won’t know until we see the will, but Pippa thought her uncle would leave his money to charity.” Jude emptied the contents of Fabian Maulle’s trash basket onto the floor in an area free of blood. “He only had the one sister. Pippa’s mom.”

Scanning her report, Koertig remarked, “The vic was gay, huh? That’s what I thought.” He ran through his reasons. “Closet bigger than my family room. Everything color coded. Kitchen right out of a magazine. And the dog. Your regular single male doesn’t have a poodle.”

“Which reminds me.” Jude deferred the discussion on stereo-typing. “Do we have the necropsy report yet?”

They’d sent Coco’s body to a veterinary pathologist in Durango. Time of death was always difficult to estimate precisely, but it would help to know roughly when the killer entered the property and shot the dog. They could then calculate the window between that event and Pippa’s arrival at 4:40 p.m. There was also the possibility that ballistic evidence could play a role. They’d recovered a 9mm shell casing from the scene, and if the bullet taken from Coco could be matched to a weapon they would have something to take to trial when that day came. Jude was surprised that it wasn’t a through and through, but placement was everything. even at point-blank range.

“The vet tech says we can expect it Tuesday.” Koertig peered into the gutted computer. “Why take the hard drive? Passwords for bank accounts?”

“Maybe. Or incriminating correspondence. E-mails. Et cetera.”

“I guess blackmail’s a possibility with him being a homosexual,” Koertig said.

“I don’t think so,” Jude responded. “It’s not like he’s a pastor or a family-values politician blowing smoke. According to Pippa, he didn’t care who knew. He had a couple of long-term relationships, but nothing recently. We need to track down any casual partners.”

“Personal motive?” Koertig posited. “Disgruntled ex knows Maulle is loaded and thinks he should have a piece. He shows up and makes threats. Maybe he just meant to scare Maulle, not kill him.”

“Four stab wounds doesn’t seem like an accident.” Jude stared at the desk. “Was his laptop taken into evidence?”

“No.”

“He owned one. Pippa said she advised him on the purchase last Christmas.”

“That tallies with a warranty in the files. An Apple about eight months old.”

“So, the killer took it or it’s in another house.”

Koertig shook his head. “He’d have it with him. Why bother owning one, otherwise?”

“Apparently he wasn’t technically inclined,” Jude said. “Pippa did backups for him.”

“There’s no sign of a zip drive, memory key, or CDs,” Koertig said.

Jude found it odd that Maulle was sloppy in that department. He kept his house in perfect order. She inspected the smoothed-out papers he’d discarded. Most were “to do” lists and phone messages.

“Got anything good there?” Koertig asked.

“Plumber, eight thirty a.m. Gym. Pick up cleaning.” Jude switched to reading from the grocery list. Maulle had the basic food groups covered. “Asparagus, button mushrooms, basil, cantaloupe, oysters, prosciutto.”

“I had that once. Proscuitto. Give me Canadian bacon any day.” Koertig set about opening and shaking every book he picked up from the floor. “The guy’s fridge is a work of art. Fully loaded, stainless steel. Computer that tells you when the caviar’s running low.”

Jude conceded this attempt at humor with a brief smile. She’d inspected the glamorous appliance when she arrived, unwise on an empty stomach. Maulle had obviously stocked up for his niece’s arrival. Along with the sophisticated delicacies that fit with his discarded shopping lists were various items from the fast food spectrum. Jude had been tempted to sample the shrimp salad. It seemed like a shame to let it go bad.

Koertig was similarly concerned about perfectly good food going to waste. “Did you see the cheese drawer? You wouldn’t get an aged Gouda like that in a five-star restaurant.”

Jude got a flash of Griffin Mahanes in court describing detectives washing down Brie and caviar with fancy wine purloined from the victim’s cellar, said shameless contamination of the scene taking place after they finished disrespecting the man’s personal possessions. Could such people be trusted to give evidence?

She said, “I’m sure the family will appreciate the supplies once the house is released.”

“You think they’ll stay out here awhile?”

“Not if Mahanes has anything to do with it. He’ll want them far away and out of reach once we’ve taken their statements.”

Koertig handed Jude an inventory of the desk drawer contents. “So far no date book and no list of telephone contacts.”

“He probably used his computer as an organizer.”

“Big help.”

“Is someone handling the phone dump?” Jude asked.

“Yeah, and we’re tracing the Caddy and the Lexus.”

“Anything off IAFIS?”

“Not so far.”

“Sorry I didn’t make it to the briefing.”

“You didn’t miss much. Belle did the reconstruction. It went down like we thought. Maulle tried to fight off the assailant at the top of the stairs. Hit him with the cane.”

“So there’s a different blood group on the cane head?”

“Yeah. We won’t have DNA results for a few days, but the blood on the floor looks to be Maulle’s and the head spray on the banisters belongs to an unidentified male.”

“So the assailant is hit on the head, then comes at Maulle with the knife,” Jude said. “Why not shoot him?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it?”

Almost any bullet was far more likely to be lethal than a stab wound. The killer must have made a conscious choice not to kill Maulle immediately.

“She said the perp walked Maulle backward to the office. The rest of the stab wounds occurred there. Plus the blunt force trauma.”

“What size feet?” Jude asked. “Eight for the assailant and nine for Maulle?”

“You’re good.” Koertig grinned. “Maulle’s shoes are custom, one foot slightly bigger than the other. Made in London. Same as his suits.”

“This is interesting.” Jude handed a slip of paper to Koertig. It was dated early in August and was addressed to Pippa.

He read aloud, “‘Dear Pip, for unforeseen reasons I need to be in London for the next few weeks. I’ve reserved a flight for you with British Airways. Put your stuff in storage and come spend a few weeks in Europe before you travel to the Four Corners. We’ll discuss future plans once you’re in town. You have my support, no matter what.’”

Jude bagged the note. It was the only item from the trash worth following up on.

They spent the next hour searching every crevice of Maulle’s office. His paper records were limited to receipts, which he filed methodically according to their type, tax deductible or not. Donations. Tradesmen’s quotes. Insurance. Medical. There were newspaper clippings relating to events he attended, a few photographs of himself with politicians and celebrities. Souvenir menus and place cards from meals at embassies and even the White House. His correspondence included letters from charities thanking him for his support, matters relating to his four homes, and a collection of birthday and Christmas cards from Pippa dating back twenty years. These were housed in a file marked “Pip,” which was crammed with photos, letters, printed e-mails, cards, poems, school reports, and keepsakes she must have given him. Jude opened a small box.

“It’s a tooth and a lock of Pippa’s hair.” She turned the box over. The inscription read “Pippa 7 yrs.”

“No file for her brother,” Koertig noted.

“I guess he’s chopped liver.”

“Sounds like my family. My sister was always the favorite.”

“Mine, too,” Jude said. She wondered how Pippa’s brother felt about being excluded. “That portrait in the formal dining room. It’s Pippa, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, I just realized.”

They exchanged an uneasy look.

“Do you think it’s…normal?” Koertig asked.

“I think we need to ask Pippa.”

“She’s really cut up about the death.”

“That could mean anything.” Jude leafed through the photos more intently.

Most featured the studied poses of childhood. First day of school. Santa’s knee at a department store. Patting a dog. Halloween costumes. Summer camp. Prom. Graduation. The candid shots were equally innocent: Pippa wearing Mickey Mouse ears at Disneyland or running into the surf with a board under her arm. Jude was familiar with the photo collections of abusers from her time in the Crimes Against Children Unit. They were quite different from this assortment of milestone moments.

“I’ll speak with Pippa some more,” she said. “Just to be sure. But I doubt Maulle was abusing her.”

If he was, that would change everything. For a start, Pippa would have a motive and they would have to rethink their theory of the crime. Male blood and footprints were found at the scene. Pippa could have brought an accomplice. Anything was possible.

Koertig returned the last book to its pile and said, “Nada.” He ran a finger over the spines. “Normally, your highbrow-type books are just for show, but I think our vic actually read these. Some of them are dog-eared.”

“Which ones?”

Koertig handed her a volume, noting, “There’s plenty more where that came from.”

Jude read the title and glanced at the back cover. Merchant of Death: Money, Guns, Planes, and the Man Who Makes War Possible. A book about a notorious arms dealer called Viktor Bout. She glanced at the other titles. Stuff about smugglers and global economics. Apparently Maulle had a lively interest in the politics of globalization. Her mind leapt to Hugo, the South African from the private security firm.

“You’d think a smart guy like him would have had some kind of contingency plan for a home invasion,” she mused aloud. “When a guy contracts CTG to get his back, he’s not kidding around.”

“Yeah, I saw that in your report.” Koertig scratched behind his neck. He was always sunburnt there from standing on the sidelines supporting his wife when she ran marathons. “Why let go of the hired muscle when he came out here?”

“False sense of security,” Jude replied. “Or he did something to make the problem go away and thought the threat was over.”

“This Anton individual Maulle seemed to have a beef with, the human slime. Any thoughts?”

“We’ll need to track down that CTG guy, Hugo. I have a few people I can call.” Jude reflected that Arbiter had his uses. “So far it’s the only wrinkle we have.”

“There’s always something.” Koertig picked a parrot feather off his shirt. His expression was pensive. “Looking around, you’d say Maulle had the perfect life. But someone decided to take everything away from him. This wasn’t random.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Jude agreed. “So there has to be a clue in this house. We’re just not seeing it yet.”

“The boss is never gonna let us travel.”

“I know.” Searches of Maulle’s other homes would have to be conducted by detectives in the respective jurisdictions.

“Pity the niece was never here before,” Koertig said. “It would be a help if she knew what was missing.”

“I don’t buy that Maulle did his own housework,” Jude said. “Let’s check out the maid services. Someone knows this place pretty well.”

“I’m on it,” Koertig said. He slid a photo of Pippa back in the file. “You have to feel sorry for the kid. She’ll be scarred for life.”

“After we’ve interviewed the parents, I’ll talk to them about getting some help for her.” Jude finished bagging items she wanted from the filing cabinet and crossed to the door. “You didn’t find anything in the bedroom?”

“He was a very tidy guy.”

“There has to be a safe somewhere. I didn’t see any receipt from a home security system company, so it must have been installed when the house was built. Let’s get the plans.”

Koertig followed her to the master bedroom, another sprawling interior with stunning views. Jude lifted every picture and tapped her knuckles along the wood panels and drywall. The room had a wood floor, like most of the house. The closet was carpeted. It looked like Koertig had already lifted the edges to check beneath.

“Let’s move the bed,” Jude said.

They squeezed every pillow for foreign objects, then hoisted the mattress followed by the base and lugged them to the nearest wall. The bed was a solid hardwood design like the rest of the hefty bedroom furniture. It had been stripped by Belle’s team and the bedding removed for the usual tests. They wrestled the frame onto its side and Jude searched for anything taped underneath while Koertig balanced the weight. She then crouched and tested the floorboards for one that could be lifted. The thought of going through the entire house doing the same thing was daunting. That was a job for junior staff.

“There’s nothing in here,” she said with frustration.

They lowered the bed and replaced the base and mattress. Puffing, they sat down on opposite sides. Their efforts had dislodged a parrot feather, which fluttered across the satiny floorboards.

“Brains of a four-year-old,” Jude said.

Koertig gave her a sympathetic look. “Don’t be so hard on yourself. If there was anything to find, we’d have found it.”

“I was referring to the parrot.”

Koertig regarded her blankly.

“Our eyewitness,” she said with grim humor.

“Plus the three cats,” he reminded her.

“Yes, and we know how felines love to cooperate with figures of authority.”

“Did you hear that bird talking to Pippa?” Koertig asked. “I know they just copy what they hear, but it’s still incredible.”

“Even supposing that’s all they do. What if we could get it to repeat what it heard in the office?”

Koertig didn’t respond immediately. “You ever interviewed a bird?”

Jude met his quizzical gaze. “You’re right. My neurons aren’t connecting. I need to eat something.”

“There’s this new burger at Sonic. Hot chili with bacon and guacamole.”

The merits of that combination spoke for themselves. Jude worked through the rationalizations. They’d searched the most important rooms. Why go quietly insane working through the remaining five thousand square feet of luxury real estate when there were rookie detectives twiddling their thumbs back at headquarters? The outdoor team was still at the scene, gradually fanning out, searching for the murder weapon and any other evidence. The primaries didn’t need to hang around.

She peeled off her gloves and got to her feet. “I’d hate for us to fade away while we’re snipe hunting.”

Koertig sprang up like a man half his size. “I’m supposed to be on a diet,” he belatedly recalled.

“Guacamole is health food,” Jude said.

They went through all the bagged evidence from the upstairs area, checking that the labels were complete and initialed. In any investigation the paperwork was second nature, but Jude always double-checked her work because autopilot was no guarantee of accuracy. They carried their haul out to Koertig’s Durango and unloaded it into a secure storage box ready to be handed over to the evidence clerk back at headquarters.

“Got that knife yet?” Koertig hassled the officers moving slowly up the ridge behind the house.

Jude grinned. She knew he’d enjoy being in charge.

*

Jude knocked on the door of Pippa Calloway’s room at the Holiday Inn. “Do you have a few minutes?” she asked when Pippa’s wan little face appeared in the crack.

“Of course.” She swung the door wide and invited Jude to sit down.

“I haven’t called your lawyer.”

Pippa snorted. “He’s hideous. Totally reptilian. I don’t know where my parents find these people. They’re bringing another one with them, did you know that?”

“No.” Jude was curious that the Calloways thought they needed an entire legal team.

“The family estate attorney. Because that’s what you do at a time like this, you think about money.”

Jude wasn’t sure how to respond. She’d had family ask if an autopsy was really necessary because they’d heard it could slow down probate. Sticking to her game plan, she said, “I was thinking maybe you’d like to visit with your uncle’s parrot.”

An elfin smile transformed Pippa’s face, carving ten more years off her age. Just looking at her, Jude felt like a decrepit has-been. It crossed her mind that plenty of cops thought about prepaid funeral arrangements. Maybe it was time she looked into the options. She’d contemplated the idea in the past but always felt weird about choosing a casket. If she was iced on the job, wouldn’t the people she left behind know better than to bury her in something called the Pink Lady Magnolia?

“I’d love to see Oscar,” Pippa said. “Do I have to ask Mr. Mahanes?”

“No, but I’d appreciate if you keep him informed. Call it ego management.”

Pulling a face, Pippa located a business card and entered the number into her cell phone. “Mr. Mahanes? I just wanted to let you know I have Detective Devine with me. She’s kindly arranged for me to see my uncle’s pets.” After a few beats, she put her hand over the phone and told Jude, “I’m supposed to say ‘no comment’ if you ask me any questions, and have a conference call if you want to talk.”

“Tell him I’m in awe of his lawyerly prowess and will play by his rules because I can’t remember my own.”

Giggling, Pippa repeated the words verbatim. As she listened to Mahanes’s closing arguments, she gathered up her wallet and room keys and whispered, “Lead the way.”

Jude took the phone from her when they reached the Dakota. “Mr. Mahanes? If you want to come visit with the bird, you’re welcome.”

“That won’t be necessary.” He signed off with a slick warning about fruit of the poisonous tree.

Jude handed the phone back and opened the passenger door. “I have a question to ask you. Off the record.”

“Okay.” Pippa climbed up into the seat.

Jude got in the driver’s side, leaving her door open to release the heat from inside the vehicle. She turned on the engine and got the a/c running. As they drove out of the parking lot, she said, “The portrait of you in your uncle’s dining room is really wonderful.”

“Oh, the Susan Ryder?” Pippa sounded surprised. “I didn’t know he’d brought it over from London.”

“Did you know your uncle kept all the cards and letters you sent him over the years?”

Pippa was obviously touched. “Oh, that’s so sweet of him.”

“Sometimes when we find a large collection of photographs of a child in a relative’s home, we’re suspicious.” Jude let the comment hover between them.

“You want to know if Uncle Fabian ever touched me inappropriately?” Pippa’s tone was lifeless.

“I’m sorry. I have to rule that out.”

“He would not have dreamed of it. Uncle Fabian was disgusted by attacks on children. Anything like that on TV, he was always upset.”

“He sounds like a good person,” Jude said.

“I suppose in your job you only see the worst,” Pippa remarked.

“Unfortunately, that’s often true.” Jude felt a twinge of sorrow. She wasn’t sure if she could remember innocence, it left her so long ago.

“Well, my uncle was a gentleman in every sense of the word,” Pippa said with dignity. “I’m not suffering from the Stockholm Syndrome or anything like that. If he was an asshole I wouldn’t have been planning to live here for the next year.” She stared out the window. “Jesus, what am I supposed to do now?”

“What were you planning to do out here?”

“I’m a sculptor. Not professionally. I haven’t sold anything yet. But Uncle Fabian believed in me. He thought I should explore my talent away from negative outside influences.” She gave a bitter little laugh. “By that I mean my parents. They hate that I’m artistic. That’s how come I just graduated in dentistry. As if I would ever do that for a living.”

Jude thought it must be nice to be a Harvard dental school graduate who could afford to despise the high-paid profession she’d trained for. “I noticed a letter to you among your uncle’s possessions, suggesting a delay to your trip to the Four Corners. He said he’d booked a flight to London for you. What can you tell me about that?”

“We spoke on the phone. He said there was a problem he had to handle and he didn’t want me to be stuck in the mountains by myself.”

“What happened?”

“He called me back a few days later and said everything was fine, so I packed my stuff and got in my car.”

“I see.” Jude changed course. If she was going to dig any deeper, she wanted Pippa’s answers on the record, and that meant scheduling another interview with Mahanes present. “Tell me about your uncle’s parrot. Oscar, isn’t it?”

“Oh, he’s a doll.” Pippa livened up instantly. “Incredibly sensitive and loving. I can tell he’s devastated.”

“This might sound like a stupid question. But do you think he remembers things?”

“Are you kidding?” Pippa laughed. “I’ll never have another fight with a boyfriend on the phone in front of him.”

Encouraged, Jude said, “There’s something I’d like us to focus on during the visit.”

Pippa stared expectantly at her.

“Oscar is our only eyewitness.”

The sound of a softly expelled sigh reached Jude’s ears. “He was hiding in the bottom of his cage, picking out his feathers, when I got there,” Pippa said. “And you want to make him remember?”

Jude felt like one of those animal exploiters who sent not-so-funny videos of pet pranks in to Animal Planet. She said “Imagine how proud your uncle would be if Oscar provided important evidence.”

Pippa considered this sleazy sales pitch. “Here’s the deal. I’ll see what I can do to help him connect, but he’s not testifying in court. I won’t put him through that.”

Jude didn’t get into discussion about the unlikelihood of a parrot taking the stand. She turned off before Towaoc and bumped along the driveway that led to Eddie House’s place. “I can promise you Oscar won’t go before a judge. I would never do that to an animal.”

“Okay, then.” Pippa offered her hand once Jude had parked. “Deal?”

Meeting her determined eyes, Jude agreed solemnly, “Deal.”

Chapter Nine

While Oscar the parrot repeatedly professed his love for Maulle, Pippa, and nuts, Jude took a call from the sheriff. The feds were in town and she’d drawn the short straw. It was her job to take Special Agent in Charge Aidan Hill to dinner. Pratt thought this would cement mutual respect. Failing that, Jude might be able to get the agent drunk and influence the way chain of command would function. Pratt was gnashing his teeth over the turf issues already.

“You’re our interface,” he reminded her. “You know how they think.”

Jude didn’t bother to object. As far as her boss was concerned, she was in the loop. She stared out the window, across the prairie toward the Mesa Verde. The ancient Puebloans had once wandered the lowlands stretched before her. Wild horses had found grazing. Buffalo roamed. This year the fire-scorched mesas bloomed with yellow rabbitbrush and purple tansy after unusual rains. Montezuma County saw more lightning than almost any other place in the nation, but the storms often passed without leaving a drop of water.

Jude glanced up at the bruised clouds rolling in from the east. Today would be no exception.

“Don’t ask me to believe this terror plot was all new information to you,” Pratt said, letting her know he wasn’t stupid. “Ricin. My God.”

“You’re right, sir. I’ve been monitoring the ASS for some time now. I guarantee you, these individuals will be in custody before they even make it to Telluride.”

“Tom Cruise is building a bunker under his place, you hear about that? Ten million bucks. Some shelter, huh?”

“A lot of wealthy people build secure rooms.”

“It’s for protection against an alien invasion. That’s what they think, the Scientologists.” Pratt let go of a barren snort. “The evil Lord Xenu is supposed to attack any day. Instead it’s going to be a bunch of Jew-hating dipshits.”

“Which is exactly my point,” Jude said. “We’re talking about a few losers driven by an agenda of hatred.”

“Containment,” Pratt said. “That’s all I’m asking for. How far does it travel by air?”

“Sir, it’s not going to come to that. Like I said, airborne contamination is well beyond a bunch of amateurs.”

“What if they found someone with brains?”

“Let’s wait and see what the FBI can tell us.”

“Here’s the thing. If it comes down to a choice, that town gets cut off.”

“What are you saying?”

“Lock it down,” Pratt manfully insisted. “In dire situations, we’re mandated to make the tough choices. The loss of a few hundred lives, while terrible, could be a necessary sacrifice to protect the rest of the population. Do you understand me?”

Jude decided Pratt had been overdoing the antihistamines again. They made him fixate on negative outcomes. She said calmly, “I get the picture.”

“I was thinking it through last night. You know those movies when the doctor asks the husband to choose if he wants to save the mother or the baby?” Pratt didn’t wait for her thoughts on that regrettable patriarchal quandary. “You save the mother, of course.”

“I’m not sure how that relates to the Telluride scenario.”

“She can always have more babies,” Pratt explained. “And there will always be more actors. But if no one’s left to pay for movie tickets because they all died from ricin poisoning, what then?”

Jude watched the African Grey rest his head beneath Pippa’s chin. “Fortunately, we’re not facing such a dilemma.”

Pratt huffed. “I made certain promises when I was reelected.”

Jude remembered them well. A crackdown on public shirtlessness. The upgrading of the posse’s saddles and tack. Extra deputies for the greased-pig event at the county fair. “I can see this is weighing heavily on you,” she said.

“Our community counts on its leaders to lead when the need arises.”

“If my colleagues had any doubts about a positive outcome, the bad guys would be under arrest now. I’m sure they’re just building a strong case before conducting a raid.”

It entered Jude’s mind that her boss could go off half-cocked. If he ignored FBI instructions and rushed in to make arrests and look like a hero, he could blow the lid off a lengthy operation. In the scheme of things the ASS counted for little. They were simply an untidy loose end. Arbiter thought they’d probably poison themselves trying to figure out how to disperse their stock of ricin.

“Sir,” Jude said in a soothing tone. “I promise you, I’ll personally tear the VIP parking passes from the cold dead hands of every man, woman, and child in Telluride before I allow a whiff of that chemical to choke a gnat in Montezuma County.” She met Pippa’s startled gaze and placed her hand over the phone, whispering, “Cop joke.”

Pratt said, “This is no time for jackass comments, Devine.”

“I hear you,” Jude said.

Eddie and Zach came back into the room, trailed by Hinhan Okuwa. The gray wolf came over to her, wagging his tail, ears slightly flattened. Jude lowered her head so he could lick her mouth. In the two years she’d known Eddie, she’d reached an understanding with most of his animal companions. Hinhan Okuwa was not an alpha by nature or experience. His demeanor was serious and watchful, but he loved to play. He deferred to Eddie and Jude, and seemed to see Zach and other friendly adults as pack equals. He lifted his tawny gaze to Oscar and the two creatures inspected each other.

“Don’t get too close,” the parrot warned in an astonishing imitation of Eddie’s voice.

Zach grinned. “That’s what Dad says when Hinhan Okuwa tries to sniff Oscar.”

Jude was impressed. Any parrot that could repeat verbatim what it heard would make a more reliable witness than half the public. It was time to choke Pratt off. “Sir, I have a witness to interview,” she said diplomatically.

“Just remember what I said,” her boss insisted.

“Got it.” Jude closed her cell phone and set it on the table.

Oscar crowed, “What’s happening, baby?”

“Human stuff,” she replied dismally. “You wouldn’t believe it if I told you.”

Eddie asked, “Beer?”

“I wish.” It had been a long day and the end wasn’t in sight. “But make it a ginger ale for me, thanks.”

Zach took several sodas from the fridge and handed them out. He and Eddie sat a few feet away in the adjoining room. Jude had asked Eddie to be present. He took in injured wildlife and restored them to health in a small-scale sanctuary on his property. His success with birds had made him famous among protection agencies. Rangers were always showing up with orphaned baby raptors and adults with broken wings.

Jude had told him what she was hoping for from Oscar. Eddie, highly sensitive to the moods of birds, said the parrot was traumatized and had hardly spoken since the deputy dropped him off. They needed to relax him and reassure him that he was not going to be left alone. Bringing Pippa out had been a good move. Oscar was excited to see her and had started talking immediately. Jude wondered if the parrot understood that Fabian Maulle was dead. Or was the concept of death only comprehensible to human beings?

She set up her tape recorder and flicked it on. Nothing would ever be admissible or even accepted as evidence, but if the parrot said anything useful she would be able to listen again. “Pippa, you’ve known Oscar since he was a baby, haven’t you?”

“Yes, Uncle Fabian bought him and his mother from a breeder. Unfortunately she died when Oscar was five.” She addressed the bird. “Sad about Loulou.”

The parrot made a low sound in his throat. “Loulou can’t come back.”

“Where’s Fabian?” Jude asked.

Oscar bobbed his head and made sounds like he was about to spit up. After a few seconds he stared straight at her and said, “Sad about Fabian.”

Jude gazed into the flat, pale yellow eyes. “Fabian can’t come back.”

“He knows,” Pippa murmured. “I can feel how upset he is.”

“I wish there was some way to access his memories.” Even if he started talking about a person or repeating words from a conversation, they couldn’t be sure he was recalling the day of the killing and the people involved.

“He remembers his toys,” Pippa said. “And he always remembered where Uncle Fabian put his keys and pens. Things like that. Even a week later, he would remember.”

“That’s great.” Jude got up slowly so she didn’t startle him, and went into the kitchen. She found a knife that fitted Carver’s description of the murder weapon and returned, holding it behind her back. “I don’t want to scare him, but I can’t think of any other way to tie his recollections to the scene. I have a knife.”

“Keep your distance,” Eddie said. “Otherwise he’ll see you as a predator.”

Jude halted a few feet away and displayed the knife, lying flat on her open palms. Oscar screeched and flapped his wings, then huddled into Pippa.

“Maybe we should forget this,” Jude said. “It seems cruel.”

Pippa shook her head. “No, let’s try for a few more minutes. If he’s still distressed we’ll stop.” She took a bag of nuts from her pocket and Oscar brightened up immediately.

Eddie wheeled Oscar’s cage over from the corner of the living room, positioning it a few feet away and leaving the door wide open.

“Good idea,” Pippa said. “If he wants, he can go in there. Want cage?” she asked Oscar.

He nestled against her and crooned, “Want purée.”

“Dad made some sweet potato for him,” Zach said. “He went crazy for it.”

Eddie took a Tupperware container from the fridge and set it on the table with a spoon. Oscar hopped down onto the table and wobbled from one foot to the other.

“A hungry parrot is a dead parrot,” Pippa said. “That’s how they think in the wild. It can make them greedy.”

When Oscar had sucked down some sweet potato, he stared intently at the knife, then at Jude’s face before announcing, “Wrong one.”

“Where’s the right one?” Jude pictured herself explaining how she located the murder weapon: There’s this parrot, see…

But Oscar had no answer. He was suddenly engrossed with Jude’s cell phone and burst into speech she couldn’t decipher.

Pippa stifled a gasp. “Oh, my God. He’s speaking Russian. Something like ‘Shall I finish him off?’ I could be wrong. It’s not my best language, but I recognize grokhnut. That’s Russian for kill or shoot.”

“Did your uncle speak Russian?”

“Not really. Just a few words. He traveled there sometimes.”

Jude had always been amazed by people who could pick up foreign languages. The only one that stuck in her mind was Latin, not the most useful for twenty-first-century law enforcement. She’d spent ten years trying to become fluent in Spanish, but Latinos at a crime scene still looked like they wanted to crack up when she said, “Policía. Había algunos testigos?” Jude had no idea why a request for witnesses would engender instant hysteria. Her attempt to vault the language barrier no doubt led to mispronunciations. She hated to think what she was really saying in her attempts at conversation with the local Hispanic population.

“I speak a few different languages,” Pippa said. “We always had household staff from other countries and I just started picking up words. Once they knew I was interested, they taught me. I knew Spanish and Italian before I started elementary school.”

“That’s amazing,” Zach said. If his red face and darting glances were any indication, he was smitten.

Jude figured Pippa had to look pretty good to a nineteen-year-old who’d grown up in a nutty polygamist sect where normal dating was unheard of. Zach had been run out of town, like many FLDS boys. The sixty-year-olds who wanted new brides didn’t welcome competition from young males who didn’t need Viagra. Zach was a starving, abused misfit when Jude had first asked Eddie House to take him in. Two years later, he called Eddie “Dad” and no one would recognize him. A local teacher had been tutoring him after school and he was ready to take the SAT this year.

Oscar let out a raucous scream and repeated over and over in heavily accented English, “Where is it?” He followed this with, “Talk. Want to live? Talk.” He then made a strange sound like chimes.

“I’m sorry, baby boy,” Pippa burst into tears. “He’s not coming back.”

She sagged over the table, her head resting on her arms. Oscar stroked her hair with his beak.

“Okay, we’re done with this,” Jude said.

Pippa sat up and wiped her face. “I’m sorry. It’s just, that was his call for Uncle Fabian. He learned it when he was a baby. It’s the sound the old microwave used to make. Whenever the bell went off, Uncle Fabian would go over there.”

“So he thinks your uncle will come to him if he makes the same sound?” Jude was astonished.

Tulley would lose his mind if he could see this. She decided to arrange for her animal-crazy deputy to visit with Oscar next time he was in Cortez. He drove down once a week to work with one of the other deputies. They’d entered their K-9s in a dog competition with a $10,000 prize. Tulley had visions of making a stud dog out of Smoke’m. People would pay a lot of money for bloodhound puppies from a champion.

Pippa blew her nose in a tissue. She looked exhausted, her face taut with grief. “Wait,” she said as Jude reached out to turn off the tape recorder. “There’s something Uncle Fabian said to me before he died. I thought he was talking about Oscar’s food. This is probably stupid. I mean—”

“I’m interviewing a parrot in a homicide case,” Jude said. “Do you think ‘stupid’ is a problem for me?”

Pippa gave a teary giggle and carried Oscar to his cage. He sidled across his perch to stare at her with something close to tenderness. “I love you, Pip.”

“I love you, too.” She blew him a kiss and said, “Question for the parrot.”

“How many?” he responded promptly.

Pippa took a couple of nuts from her bag and showed them to him, “Two nuts.” Having secured his rapt attention, she asked, “Where’s the box?”

Oscar mulled this over, bobbing his head and mumbling to himself in parrot-speak.

Pippa repeated, “Where’s the box? Please.”

With a satisfied puff of the chest, Oscar replied, “God’s in his heaven. All’s right with the world.”

“Browning.” Pippa looked disconcerted. She fed Oscar the nuts.

“Does it mean something to you?” Jude asked.

“Kind of.” With a puzzled frown, Pippa said, “Uncle Fabian used to recite that verse to me when I was little. I don’t get it. Why would Oscar say that now?”

Pippa was obviously tired and emotional. If there was some meaning in the quotation, it would probably elude her until she’d had some rest.

“Sleep on it,” Jude said gently. “Something will come to you.”

She slid the cassette recorder into her pocket and picked up her keys and cell phone. Leaving Pippa to say good-bye to Oscar, she walked out to the front of the house with Eddie. They ambled along the pathway between the aviaries and stopped in front of a large enclosure that housed a peregrine falcon with a permanently damaged wing. A gust of wind caught at Eddie’s hair, twirling a few straight silver strands around the banded feather he always wore. He adjusted the leather thong that secured it, freeing the beaded ties. Turquoise. Coral. Silver. Jude noticed something new, a pair of silver-capped elk teeth swinging from a braid.

Catching her curious gaze, Eddie said, “Zach went on a hunt. My friends in Craig took him.”

Detecting the pride in his voice, Jude said, “His first big game?”

“Yes. Last time he went for five days. Only hit trees. This time a bull elk. Eight hundred pounds. Single shot.”

“Sounds like you’re out of a job, pal.” Jude smiled.

Eddie took his hunting seriously, going out several times a year to bring home the meat that would feed his family and the animals and birds that depended on him. He didn’t like buying beef and chicken from the supermarket. The idea of slaughterhouses offended him.

“You want some elk steak?” he said. “I cut a few pounds of strip loin for you.”

“Sure beats rabbit.” He usually sent her home with something for the pot whenever he successfully hunted smaller game. Jude had gotten past her initial dismay pretty quickly. Anyone who ate commercially farmed meat was on thin ice getting holier-than-thou about others who hunted for the table.

Eddie took a few slivers of meat from the pouch at his waist and fed the falcon. He’d taught it to fly again but it could only manage short distances. The beautiful raptor would never survive in the wild.

As it sucked down the treats, he said, “You’ve been inside too much.”

“That obvious, huh?” Jude sighed. She had full strength in her ankle again, but summer was almost over and she had two major cases to work. At this rate she would be stuck inside 24/7 for the next two weeks and have cabin fever before winter even began.

“Want to come on a cattle drive?” Eddie asked.

“Are you kidding?” Jude had intended to volunteer for a drive ever since she’d been in the Four Corners. “Did you get that gig with that dude ranch?”

City slickers paid handsomely for a few days’ relentless toil on a working cattle ranch, and twice a year the local dude ranches moved their cattle to or from their summer grazing pastures. It wasn’t unusual to see hundreds of animals marching through the center of town in October. Eddie worked for one of the rangers occasionally.

“Sales are slow at the gallery,” he explained, which was his way of saying he needed the money.

“You can sign me up,” Jude said.

“It’s time for you to get your own horse.”

“I know.”

Jude hired from the same outfit whenever she went riding. She could stable a horse of her own there if she wanted, but something stopped her from making the commitment. In the back of her mind lurked the knowledge that she could be ordered to leave the Southwest anytime and who knew where the Bureau would send her? She didn’t want to gain the trust of a horse and then have to abandon it.

That was the trouble with her life. She couldn’t put down roots knowing she’d only have to tear them up again. Yet without roots she was adrift, marking time in a bleak limbo between past and future. The Four Corners was a place of exile, a self-imposed retreat from all that had held her hostage. She had wondered who she could be if she cut herself loose. The last thing she expected was to become little more than a fugitive from the ghosts she’d left behind.

She had failed to reach an accommodation with the past. Its tendrils refused to surrender their hold on her dreams and her conscience. Ben was unfinished business. Walking away was not an option. She had tried, and failed. Yet there was no real alternative. She could sift through the evidence around her brother’s disappearance a thousand times over—and she had—but there were no new leads. The case was more than cold, it was mummified. There was no direction to take because each led to the same dead end. No matter how many times she explored the familiar paths, her conclusions were always the same. Ben had been abducted at age twelve by an unknown subject, no body had ever been found, and chances were, after twenty-five years, it never would be. The man who had taken Ben would never be brought to justice. Jude’s entire life had been little more than a hopeless quest for the impossible.

A dark inertia gripped her every time she tried to accept that fact, a bleak mood that probably explained the desolate state of her love life. Since her breakup with Mercy and her failure to make something happen with Chastity Young last year, she hadn’t dated anyone. And while hookup opportunities weren’t boundless in the Four Corners, a determined woman could get laid. Jude hadn’t even tried. It wasn’t like her libido had gone on holiday, either. She was in a state of pent-up frustration most of the time.

The situation could easily be remedied. She went to conventions, those sex-fests for cheats and desperates. Someone always hit on her. If she wasn’t picky she could have an orgy at the next advanced law enforcement seminar series if she wanted.

Jude sighed, and the sound of her own expelled breath called her back to the present. Zach and Pippa stood next to Eddie, chatting about Oscar. Zach placed a package of meat in Jude’s hands. She thanked him and praised him for making a clean kill. Eddie said he’d let her know about the cattle drive.

As Pippa got in the passenger door and fastened her belt, she said, “Thank you for bringing me out here.”

“You’re welcome.”

That was something, Jude thought, as she started the engine a few seconds later. For all her failings, she was a good sheriff’s detective.

Chapter Ten

The woman on the doorstep had probably never spent a moment of her life wondering if she was pretty. Debbie knew the type from high school. They were the ones who dated the boys with late-model cars, married a doctor right after college, and had an affair with the pool guy when they got bored taking their kids to soccer.

Eyes the color of forget-me-nots focused on Debbie. “Who are you?” the visitor asked.

She was beautiful, Debbie decided, not pretty. She wasn’t sure what made the difference. The cheekbones, maybe. After years as a hairdresser, Debbie was used to hiding “flaws,” but this woman’s face was so perfectly structured and her features so lovely, she could shave her head and still stop traffic. When makeup artists raved about porcelain skin, hers was the kind they were talking about. In beauty magazines, her looks were classified as “Nordic.” Clients wanted hair like hers, pale honey shot through with platinum and gold, but it would take hundreds of foils to come close to the natural color. She wore it drawn back tightly into a chignon. Very elegant. She couldn’t possibly be from around here.

Debbie remembered to answer her blunt question. “I’m a friend of Jude’s. Debbie Basher.”

The woman didn’t offer her name. “Is Jude home?”

“No, she’s in Cortez.”

“But you’re staying in her house?”

Debbie decided she’d had enough of the twenty questions. “I’m sorry, who did you say you are?”

A wintry blue gaze settled on Debbie’s face. “Dr. Mercy Westmoreland. I’m with the ME’s office in Grand Junction.”

Debbie felt instantly foolish. This woman hadn’t married a doctor, she was a doctor. Brainy as well as beautiful. It didn’t seem fair. And she was a professional colleague of Jude’s, helping solve crimes. Her job was the gruesome one, cutting up bodies to explain how people died. In that moment, Debbie knew where she’d seen Dr. Westmoreland before.

“Oh, my God. Are you Mercy Westmoreland from Court TV?” Flustered, she backed up a few steps. “I’m sorry. I didn’t recognize you. On the program you look more…made up. Please, come in.”

The lovely doctor didn’t move. Debbie’s head spun. Not only was Dr. Westmoreland on TV, she was half of the Four Corners’ most famous lesbian couple. She’d married a British actress. They were the ones whose soirée Agatha and Tulley were losing their minds over. How could Debbie have been so dumb she didn’t know all this immediately?

Dr. Westmoreland seemed to be weighing something in her mind, then she stepped past Debbie and marched into the house like she owned it. Glancing around the living room, she asked, “When are you expecting Jude?”

“Not tonight. She’s tied up with a big murder investigation. The one on the news.”

Debbie took in the doctor’s appearance. Some women were born to wear narrow-fit cream pants with a white shirt tucked in. Mercy Westmoreland had completed her casual chic with a light sweater slung loosely around her shoulders. Debbie had the strange impression that under the sensible outer layer, she wore sexy French lingerie.

“How long have you known her?” Dr. Westmoreland asked bluntly.

Debbie supposed it was only reasonable that a professional colleague of Jude’s would want to make sure the person answering the door had a right to be in the house. “For a year. I’m her hairdresser.”

“Really?”

Debbie wasn’t sure how to read her guest’s expression, or lack thereof. Feeling uncomfortable, she offered, “Would you like something to drink, Dr. Westmoreland?”

“It’s Mercy, and no thank you.” With a long, hard look that felt like an inspection for flaws, she asked, “Are you involved with Jude?”

Debbie wasn’t sure how to answer that. Did Mercy know Jude was a lesbian? Very few people did, and Jude obviously had her reasons for keeping it that way. As for herself, Debbie couldn’t afford gossip. If her born-again boss discovered her sexual orientation, she would be out of a job.

Sidestepping a direct answer, she said, “Jude’s letting me stay here while the exterminators are in my house. I love Yiska.”

To illustrate her point, she stroked the adorable black cat curled on the burgundy leather recliner near the window. Mercy strolled over and they stood in silence for a few minutes, taking in the crimson-rimmed Uncompahgre Plateau. The view was wonderful, but Debbie wouldn’t swap it for hers. She loved being nestled in the red sandstone cliffs that rose up around Paradox Valley. That was another reason she didn’t like the thought of moving to Canada—all those trees and lakes, far from the desert and the big blue Colorado sky.

She didn’t want to be hidden away in a forest somewhere in the cold north. She was used to stepping out each morning into the still of the canyons. She was used to the faded silver cottonwoods and the roll of pebbles beneath her feet. The whisper of the dry wind. The cries of coyotes on moonlit nights. On her days off she wandered familiar paths along the canyon walls, leaving her fingerprints where others had left theirs, tracing the faint stick figures carved into the sandstone. The archaeologists called them petroglyphs, the graffiti of the people whose land she now called home.

“I’m surprised Jude’s still living out here,” Mercy remarked. “I told her she should move to Grand Junction. There are so few places in this region that are remotely civilized. Santa Fe is a long drive. So is Denver.”

“I guess you travel a lot,” Debbie said. “With your TV career and everything. Do you go to the movie sets when your…when—”

“Elspeth prefers not to have me around. It cramps her style.” Mercy ran her hand over a multicolored glass vase on the window ledge. “And I must admit, I find the filmmaking process excruciating. So much wasted time.”

“Well, it must be nice when you can just be at home together like normal people.”

“We manage domestic bliss for a few weeks. After that, I want my house back and she wants a director telling her how to breathe.”

Debbie didn’t know whether to laugh or not. She tried for an intelligent comment. “I suppose she’s going to be busy with the Telluride Festival coming up.”

With a slight edge, Mercy said, “She’s counting the days. And she’ll be leaving for another shoot as soon as the festival’s over.”

What a life that must be, Debbie marveled, jetting around the world to exotic locations to act in movies. Being recognized by waiters in restaurants and having people want your autograph. It would also be pretty bizarre to watch a movie with your partner in it.

“What’s it like?” she asked impulsively. “I mean seeing her on the big screen being someone else.”

Mercy moved her attention from the evening sky. Regarding Debbie with a mix of amusement and patience, she said, “Actors aren’t the gods and heroes they play. The words they speak are not their own. Their gift is in illusion, in making us believe they’re not just faking it.”

“I haven’t seen any of Elspeth’s movies, but I’ve heard she’s a wonderful actress.”

“Oh, she is,” Mercy said mildly. “She’s so good, I can’t tell when she’s for real or just acting.”

“That must be really weird.” Fearing she’d put her foot in her mouth, Debbie fell silent.

“Yes.” Mercy moved away from the window. She glanced along the hallway to Jude’s bedroom before returning her gaze to Debbie. “I should get going.”

“Is there a message I can pass on?”

“Yes, tell Jude I’m sorry I missed her.”

There was an undercurrent in her tone. Anger? Bitterness? Debbie should have shut up while she was ahead. They walked to the door. It was dark outside and the trees around Jude’s small house rustled. The air felt heavy, like it might rain overnight. But that probably meant they’d get one of those desert storms, all thunder and lightning but not a single drop of water. Debbie picked Yiska up and the little cat clung to one shoulder as if she was afraid of the open doorway and all that lay beyond.

“I didn’t know Jude had a pet,” Mercy said.

“She saved Yiska’s life.” Debbie loved the story of Yiska’s brush with death. She and Jude often talked about their cats. “I don’t know if you remember the search for that little boy last year, Corban Foley.”

“Yes, I performed the autopsy.”

Debbie winced at the thought. She and Lone had volunteered for the search-and-rescue operation. Everyone in the Four Corners seemed to be involved, hoping for a miracle. Debbie would never forget the day they pulled that poor little baby from the reservoir.

Avoiding the digression into a subject that still upset her terribly, she continued the happier story of Yiska’s rescue. “Jude found her one night during the blizzards back then. She was almost dead and Jude had to drive to Grand Junction in a snowstorm because the Montrose vet clinic wasn’t open. They said Yiska wouldn’t have made it if she didn’t. The weather was so bad she couldn’t drive back home so she spent the night on a couch in the vet’s office.”

“In Grand Junction?” Mercy echoed.

“That’s how Yiska got her name,” Debbie concluded with the detail she found most fascinating. “It’s Navajo for ‘the night has passed.’ Jude says it was apt because for a while, she didn’t think either of them would make it back alive.”

“Remarkable.” Mercy seemed restless. She stepped onto the porch. The bright lamp overhead bled the color from her face.

Despite a sense that Mercy didn’t approve of her, Debbie had enjoyed the unexpected visit and the interesting conversation, and wanted to show her appreciation without sounding gushy. “Thank you for spending a few minutes talking to me. It’s lonely out here.”

“Have you been staying long?”

“No, just today.”

Mercy brushed a speck from her crisp white shirt. “Elspeth and I are having a soirée next Saturday. You’re welcome to come if you’re free.”

Debbie couldn’t remember the last time she’d gone to a social event on a Saturday night. She never got invited to anything except potlucks and barbecues. Agatha and Tulley had said she could go with them to the soirée, but it was a different matter to be invited by the hostess herself.

Suppressing giggles of pleasure and nerves, she said, “I’d love to come. Thank you.”

“See if you can talk Jude into it.” Mercy gave her a smile that belonged in Vogue magazine. “Heroes who save small animals deserve time out occasionally.”

“I’ll try.” It crossed Debbie’s mind to ask if she could bring her partner, but Lone would never go to a soirée. Getting her to Agatha’s Fourth of July barbecue took a solid week of tears and pleading.

Mercy said good night and Debbie waited on the front porch until she got in her big SUV and backed around. The whole time they were talking, she’d felt nervous. Her imagination often ran away with her when she was with sophisticated people. She always had the feeling they looked down on her. For a few minutes she’d even had the impression Mercy might slap her. It was hard to tell what she was really thinking. She seemed arrogant, but Debbie decided that was just her manner. Doctors could be like that, and Mercy had warmed up in the end. Anyway, she’d invited Debbie to her home. She wouldn’t do that with someone she took a dislike to.

As she locked the front door, Debbie wondered what she could say to make Jude change her mind about the party so she didn’t have to go alone. She wondered what Lone would think if she went with Jude. Probably not much.

Her partner must have picked up her thoughts by telepathy, because the cell phone rang and Debbie knew it was her. For a few seconds, she stared at the phone on the coffee table like it was a grenade, then she rushed over and grabbed it. The caller ID showed no name and a number she didn’t recognize, which always meant it was Lone. This was the call she wasn’t supposed to answer. Her heart jammed her throat.

“Hello.” Her voice came out in a squeak. She took a deep breath and sagged down on the sofa.

“I was expecting a machine.”

“No, it’s me. How are you?”

“I’m standing on your doorstep feeling kind of stupid,” Lone said.

“Why?”

“Because it looks like I’ll be eating this pizza and ice cream by myself.” There was no anger in her tone, just disappointment.

Debbie felt terrible. Maybe she’d been unfair. Jude was probably right. Lone was suffering from some kind of trauma and that’s what made her so detached and secretive. She was probably afraid to open up. “I said I wouldn’t be there.”

“I was hoping you’d changed your mind. I don’t want to fight with you, Debbie doll.”

“I don’t want to fight, either.”

In fact, all she wanted was to be in Lone’s arms again and for everything to be the way it was in their first few months together. Nowadays, she only experienced that magical bliss when they were making love. The rest of the time, no matter how hard she tried, she didn’t feel close to Lone. Tears started to form as she realized Jude was right. Unless she made changes, her relationship was doomed.

“I’ll come get you,” Lone said. “I see you left your car behind.”

Disconcerted to think of Lone walking around behind the house to peer in the shed where the car was locked out of sight, Debbie wondered how to answer. She couldn’t possibly admit she was at Jude’s house. Awkwardly, she said, “That’s not necessary.”

“We need to talk.”

“Yes, but I’m tired tonight. Let’s see each other tomorrow.”

“If that’s what you want.” Lone sounded completely calm.

Normally, when things didn’t go her way, she got tense and her voice altered just enough to warn Debbie that she was crossing a line. At those times she always backed down. Relieved that this conversation was going better than she’d expected, she said in a rush, “Lone, I’d really like if we could meet at your place.”

In the long silence that followed, Debbie’s mouth went dry and she broke into a cold sweat. Needing to do something other than clutch the phone, she got up to find a drink. As she opened the fridge, Yiska slithered around her legs in a happy feline dance. Debbie poured some special cat milk from the box on the pet food shelf and set the bowl on the floor.

She had cracked up when Tulley first showed her the contents of Jude’s fridge. All kinds of fancy food for Yiska. Organic beef. Sliced chicken breast in gravy. Whole sardines. And for Jude: milk, spring water, ginger ale, and a series of plastic containers with heating instructions taped to them. Agatha made home-cooked dinners for her. Twice a week she showed up at the station with a box full of Jude’s favorites. The plan was a win/win. Jude didn’t have to live on take-out and Agatha earned extra cash, which was a big help.

Debbie took a bottle of spring water from the door and went back into the living room. Balancing the phone, she removed the bottle cap. Lone still wasn’t talking. Debbie knew what was going on. Lone would simply wait for her to change the subject, then they would both pretend she’d never suggested meeting at Lone’s house in the first place.

Angry with her for refusing to make this one small compromise to improve their relationship, Debbie said, “Well, I guess you’re not willing to meet me halfway. Enjoy your pizza.”

Before Lone could answer, if she was even going to, Debbie hit End and placed the cell phone back on the coffee table. Lone wouldn’t be expecting that. She was used to Debbie apologizing, crying, and blaming herself. Well, new rule: If Lone didn’t want to talk, fine—she could have all the peace and quiet in the world.

Debbie turned on the TV and rubbed her tears away so she could focus on the screen. She was hurt. She thought their relationship mattered as much to Lone as it did to her. Apparently not. She turned up the volume and tried to figure out what was going on. The movie was an older one, the colors kind of hazy. Debbie wanted to switch the channel but the TV wouldn’t let her. Tulley had warned her about that. Jude had TiVo. When the little red light came on that meant she was taping a program.

Debbie resigned herself to watching and was pleasantly surprised that she started to get involved in the story once she came to grips with the plot. An assassin was hired to kill the president of France for reasons to do with the Algerians. The film wasn’t exciting, but it was nerve-racking and Debbie wasn’t sure how it would end. She didn’t know if it was based on fact and whether Charles De Gaulle was a real man who actually did get assassinated. The security around him was tight, but the Europeans allowed De Gaulle to do risky things so they could avoid arguing with him. Debbie thought an American president would know better.

Sill, the detective trying to track down the assassin was very clever and the cat-and-mouse contest between the two men had her hooked. In the end, she was shocked to find herself half hoping the Jackal would succeed, he’d gone to such elaborate lengths to plan the killing. Of course she was relieved when the plot failed, but she found herself wondering what happened later, who the Jackal really was, and how he ever became such a cold-blooded killer. That was the mystery, she supposed: why people do terrible things.

*

“Sheriff Pratt says you were with the Bureau before you moved out here.”

Special Agent in Charge Aidan Hill moved forward a couple of steps. They were waiting in line for a table at one of the better Mexican restaurants in town.

“Yes, the CACU,” Jude said.

“Quite a change of pace.”

Jude shrugged. “I was ready to get out.”

Hill stared like Jude had just thrown up a hairball on a valuable rug.

A waitress summoned them. “You want a table by the mariachi band or a window booth?”

“The window.” Jude glanced sideways at Aidan Hill. They’d given the same reply in unison.

As the SAC strode after the waitress, Jude took full advantage of the view. The agent’s butt was firm and toned, even if Hill moved like she had something prickly up there. The walk was familiar. Female agents made an effort to lose their natural hip sway, along with other signs of their gender, in the drive to avoid the “nutty or slutty” label applied routinely to Bureau women. And fraternization was tantamount to career suicide, so no one wanted to be seen as a flirt.

Jude decided no agent who wanted to keep his manhood intact would attempt to grope Hill in an elevator. Her vibe was all work and no play, and she backed up that first impression with a communication style that could only be described as libido-numbing. Pity. Jude could have been tempted regardless of butt tautness. Lately she’d been looking twice at any female under ninety who smiled at her. Not that she would act on her primal urges. For all she cared, Hill could be a half-dressed hottie who only packed a 9mm for the kink factor, and Jude still wouldn’t go there. The part of her that wanted to get laid was diametrically at odds with another part that felt physically sick at the thought of any woman getting under her skin again.

Besides, the zone under her skin already had a tenant. Mercy Westmoreland lived there, causing an itchy awareness that Jude could not escape. What would it take to end her fixation? She imagined driving past Mercy and Elspeth’s house and seeing Mercy in the yard screaming at a bunch of kids, a cigarette hanging off her lip, saggy breasts, lank hair, and jeans that didn’t fit anymore.

Dream on.

Jude ran her eyes over Hill as she slid into the opposite side of the booth. If the brunette was sending any covert sexual cues, she would spot them, and just in case she’d misread her as a sexless drone, Jude sent a subtle signal herself, letting her gaze linger on Hill’s shirtfront. She waited for the nipples to react. Nada. Perhaps Hill was wearing those silicone gel nipple covers some of Jude’s colleagues in the CACU used. Breast petals. The name made her smile.

Hill gave her a quizzical look. Like everything else about her, the coffee brown eyes transmitted a “hands off” signal. And there was something else, too. Jude’s downhill career path didn’t sit well with this over-achiever. That she could have traded the Bureau for a two-bit gig in a sheriff’s office in Bumfuck, Colorado, was incomprehensible to a straight arrow like this woman. Jude resisted an immediate urge to invite Hill to the shooting range so she could show her how a loser handles a 1,000 yard benchrest in shifting winds. A five-shot group in less than three inches—would that earn a little respect? Or maybe, to even up the odds, they could face off at 600 yards. See who came closest to a sub-inch. Or there was always hand-to-hand combat. Hill had a nice body, very fuckable. But she looked soft. Jude could take her. Ten seconds, maybe twenty if Hill managed a couple of moves.

“Devine?” The tone was sharp. Hill closed her plastic-covered menu with a thwack.

“Something to drink?” the waitress inquired, tapping her pen and sighing like she needed to be somewhere else.

“Go ahead,” Jude politely invited her dinner guest.

“She ordered already,” the waitress said.

“Okay, I’ll have what she’s having.”

The waitress got perky. “Two frozen strawberry-fuzz-coladas coming right up.”

Jude squirmed. She wasn’t sure what shocked her more, that SAC Hill had just signed up for a girl drink that would arrive in a huge glass with a slab of pineapple dangling from cherry-studded toothpicks, or that she had not been paying enough attention to dodge that unseemly bullet herself.

“Both virgins, right?” the waitress asked.

A nonalcoholic drink, that’s what she was talking about. Insult after injury.

“Want to change your mind, Detective?” Hill asked blandly. Something in her tone suggested she thought this was funny.

“No, I can handle a virgin,” Jude said. Take that.

The unsubtle innuendo was lost on both women. The waitress announced that tortilla chips would arrive momentarily, and Hill asked for an order of guacamole without garlic. Maybe she was planning to kiss someone. Jude almost laughed out loud at that idea. She watched a prom-queen type suck on a straw at a nearby table. In front of her a bowl-sized glass brimmed with icy pink gloop.

“Wait,” Jude called the waitress back. There was a fine line between stubbornness and outright stupidity. “Make that a beer after all. Fat Tire, thanks.”

“Do you want ice with that?” came the helpful suggestion. “Our beer fridge isn’t working that great in the heat.”

No, I’ll just have Agent Hill blow on it. Jude kept that sentiment to herself. “Sure,” she said. “What could be more alluring than warm beer on the rocks?”

As the waitress left them to talk among themselves, Hill said the magic words, “Doing anything later, Devine?”

“What?”

She must have looked dazed because Hill slowed her speaking voice to a village-idiot pace. “I thought we could grab some take-out coffee after dinner and go over the briefing for tomorrow afternoon in my room. Just a preliminary pass. See if I have all the bases covered.”

You’re shitting me. Jude gave a feeble nod. “Sounds awesome.”

And the night was just beginning.

Chapter Eleven

“My deputy has an angle.” Jude thought she may as well throw it out there.

She and Hill had spent the past mind-numbing hour discussing the facts that had emerged from the FBI probe into the ASS. Everyone seemed to agree that the men involved were the dregs of the white power movement, none with an IQ over 90. Someone smarter had to be running the operation. The question was who, and what was the agenda?

“He thinks the attack could target a film called My Enemy’s Enemy. It deals with Klaus Barbie.”

“Ah, a Holocaust movie,” Hill latched on immediately. “The ASS are Holocaust deniers. They’ll assume a Jewish audience. Not a bad theory.” With a humorless laugh, she added, “Wait till I tell the team we’ve been outbrained by a hicktown cop.”

“Well, it wouldn’t be the first time,” Jude said mildly. “I’m curious, are you planning to wait for a body count before you show us some respect and listen to our views, or are we only on board so we can take the heat for screwups?”

Hill didn’t bat an eyelash.

Jude thought, Arrogant bitch. As usual, that made her look twice at the woman concerned. Hill had gotten comfortable after they adjourned to her room, dumping her shoulder holster and exchanging her crisp shirt and tailored slacks for a faded college sweater and sloppy tracksuit pants. The look had a certain youthful, tousled sexiness that made Jude think fondly back to the FBI Academy.

She’d had crushes on a couple of New Agent Trainees who were probably a lot like Hill. They were deadly serious about their careers even then, putting in extra physical training for the PT tests and practicing defensive tactics with other NATs outside of classes. The only reason Jude got her hands on various lust objects was because she was the NAT to beat in hand-to-hand, so they all wanted to spar with her after hours. Jude had the sense that Hill would like to take her on now just to see how long it would take to disarm her.

She let her gaze drift from Hill’s determined face to her sensibly manicured hands. She was the pride of her family, Jude speculated. Her dad was on the job, and one of her brothers was probably a firefighter.

Looking to confirm her guesswork, she said, “My dad was a cop.”

Hill drew the wrong conclusion from the remark. “Mine, too, so I have no prejudices in that department, I can assure you.”

“Are you an only child?” Jude asked casually.

“No, I have two brothers.”

“Cops?”

“Neither of them. One owns a restaurant and the other is a firefighter.” Hill tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ears impatiently. “You know, I don’t care if we don’t become friends for life, so we can bypass the getting to know each other bullshit.”

Jude shrugged. “Works for me.” She decided Hill was sex starved. She emitted the same tightly coiled frustration Jude detected in herself.

“I’ll check in with the festival liaison about that film,” Hill said. “It’s a definite contender.”

“For the record, I don’t think Holocaust denial is the issue,” Jude said. “If we’re looking at an outside party working with the ASS, the film could give us an angle but it’s not the usual.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“If it’s about Barbie and the CIA, you know it has to be about the Cocaine Coup.”

Hill gave her such a blank stare Jude had to assume she was new to the counterterrorism division. Apparently it hadn’t crossed her mind to explore the intelligence tradition she was now a part of. Maybe that was the norm now that the “war on terror” was sucking up so many agents with limited experience. Jude thought about the chats she and Arbiter sometimes had, just shooting the breeze. The guy was an encyclopedia of counterintelligence history and rumor. She’d learned a lot from him that she never knew when she was working in the CACU.

“Operation Condor?” Jude prompted. Even the general public had heard of that.

Finally, a hit. “Way before my time,” Hill noted. “Anyway, that’s CIA.”

“Yes, but it could clue us into who wants that film shut down, if that turns out to be the agenda.” Jude served up a few salient facts. “Barbie’s militia brought down the Torres government in Bolivia. They were called the Fiancés of Death, about six hundred Nazis and neo-Nazis.”

Disbelief clouded Hill’s face. “You’re telling me we sponsored an army of Nazis to bring down a government?”

Jude wanted to ask, Are you that naïve? Unable to mask her incredulity fully, she said, “Sure we did. It was a big CIA success story. Torres was a problem. He was nationalizing the holdings of big U.S. companies like Gulf Oil.”

“Well, we know that’s an outrage,” Hill said dryly.

“Oh, there’s more. He thought he could stop the Argentinean cartels that ran the cocaine trade, and cocaine is how we funded Condor. So the guy had to go.”

“Okay, now you’re going to tell me he was a democratically elected saint trying to do something about poverty in his country.”

Jude grinned. “Did I forget to mention that? I guess it just seemed so goddamn obvious.”

“This all went down while George H.W. Bush was head of the CIA?” Hill actually sounded disillusioned.

Jude could have rubbed it in with other horror stories from the black ops playbook, but that seemed harsh, so she settled for a simple “Yes” and continued with the coup story. “Barbie’s goon squad slaughtered every dissenter they could find. Journalists, intellectuals, nuns, priests, aid workers, children, housewives. It was a bloodbath. Afterward, they marched through the capital wearing swastika armbands and shouting Heil Hitler.”

“That’s what my grandfather died for in the war,” Hill said without expression. “Lovely.”

“No one ever said counterintelligence was a bakeshop.”

Hill’s sharp brown eyes bored into Jude’s. “You know a lot about all of this.”

Jude responded flippantly, “I’m a big reader.”

Hill and her team knew only the thinnest details about the Bureau’s long-term intelligence gathering operation in the Four Corners. They’d simply received the word from above to deal with the threat. Jude wanted to tread carefully so she didn’t blow her own cover with another agent, but she couldn’t resist needling Hill a little. A dose of reality never hurt anyone.

“Well, it’s nasty stuff, but I don’t see how the ricin plot is connected,” Hill said.

“Motive,” Jude reminded her. “If we want to find the brain quotient, we need to know why he got onboard. I don’t know if the film names names, but I can think of one person who doesn’t like explaining why he was in La Paz back then. David Dewhurst.”

“The lieutenant governor of Texas?” Hill shook her head. “He’d never link himself to morons like the ASS. Are you saying he had something to do with Barbie?”

“The coup was a hands-on CIA op and it happened four months after Dewhurst arrived in town. Do the math.”

“No way,” Hill said, clearly thrown. “It would be crazy for him to do something like this.”

“That’s probably true, but we can’t rule him out,” Jude said, teasing Hill with the unhappy prospect of a sensitive circumstances probe.

Hill wasn’t going there. “Who else can we look at?”

“The cocaine trade angle could give us something,” Jude said. She’d been thinking about money-laundering operations ever since her uneasy discussion with Arbiter. “Before you fall off your chair, let me just say this. I’m not really a conspiracy theorist.”

Laughing, Hill invited, “Come on. Thrill me with your insights.”

“The Moon organization was laundering money for the drug cartels back then. Moon was an investor in the Cocaine Coup and he’s bought off a lot of people over the years.”

“It’s past history,” Hill said. “Who cares anymore?”

“Do you think it’s a coincidence that Carlton Sherwood made the swift-boat video about John Kerry?”

“Oh, God.”

“Hear me out. Years ago the very same Carlton Sherwood wrote a book called Inquisition about how Moon was being victimized by federal investigators because of his race and religion. The book was part of a strategy to halt inquiries into Moon’s operation.”

“Moon’s evil,” Hill said. “We all know that.”

“Strange how nothing ever sticks to him, don’t you think?”

It was common knowledge that Moon was untouchable. He had served a year behind bars for tax fraud in 1982. Since then he’d continued his illegal activities with impunity.

“He has friends in high places,” Hill said.

“John Kerry investigated the contra-cocaine cover up back then and came up with a heap of incriminating facts,” Jude said. “The report went nowhere, of course.”

“And we ended up with that joke, the ‘war on drugs.’” Hill’s expression was reflective. “A smokescreen, of course?”

“Is that a rhetorical question?”

“No, I’m just talking to myself. That’s how I deal with panic. I’m following your reasoning and it makes sense. I wish it didn’t.”

“Moon and his pet politicians couldn’t let John Kerry get elected and gain control of the Justice Department,” Jude said.

“So he was swift-boated by the same stooge who defended Moon,” Hill completed.

“Makes you wonder what he would have unearthed, doesn’t it?”

“I’m not sure if I really want to think about that. It’s so goddamn depressing.”

Jude felt the same way. But now that Afghanistan was fast becoming the next narco-state, al-Qaeda was moving a lot of cash and opium. They had to be using experienced money-laundering networks. There were already ties between Muslim extremists and neo-Nazis. Maybe Arbiter was right and Hawke could lead them right to the door of a major network. Jude understood suddenly why he wanted to keep a tight lid on the investigation and behave as though it was completely domestic. If the CIA took over, they would shut it down. The folk who invented contra-entities weren’t about to imperil a promising new source of dirty, invisible money.

As far as the Company was concerned, the citizens they protected failed to understand that freedom did not come free. Counterintelligence agencies had to weigh moral dilemmas on a daily basis. The American public could only see things in black and white. Mention tortured nuns thrown from high windows and they lost their minds.

“You think Moon is behind the Telluride plot?”

“His organization could be lending a hand indirectly.”

“Interesting,” Hill said. “You know we’re investigating that NSM crazy, Bill White, at the moment. He has ties to Moon via the Washington Times. He used to write for them.”

“Out racism seems to be a Times hiring parameter.” Jude remarked. “The place could be mistaken for a white supremacists’ social club.”

Hill subjected her to a long, hard look. “You’re full of surprises, Detective. I thought we’d spend the whole evening talking about perimeter security and on-the-spot hamburger testing.”

“You seemed to have the logistics covered.”

“What kind of reading do you do that makes you think like an intelligence operative?”

Jude smiled with breezy innocence. “I get everything off the Internet.”

“Bullshit.”

“Didn’t you know? That’s what us hicktown nobodies do in our spare time. We live vicariously through the triumphs of people like yourself.”

Hill stood up, stretched, then settled on the one small sofa in the room. Jude remained at the table. She could feel Hill’s eyes.

“What the hell are you doing wasting yourself out here?” Hill asked. “What happened? Divorce?”

“Burnout,” Jude said. “Just another CACU casualty. There are plenty of us.”

Hill was silent for a few seconds. “Want to talk about it?”

“Not really.”

“I read your file.”

“You what?”

“Your name came up when we started the investigation. The supervisor said we’d be liaising with a former agent. I wanted to find out if that was a good thing.”

Jude would probably have done the same thing, but still. She waited for what was coming.

Undoing the single braid that held back her hair, Hill said, “A suspension and FFD examination is no joke. What happened?”

“It’s all in there,” Jude said coldly.

“Yes, but I’m asking you.”

“What do you want to hear—that I shot dead a suspect and regret it on a daily basis?”

“Do you?”

“Yeah, it’s almost as bad as missing out on genital warts.”

“You have quite a temper, don’t you, Detective?”

“Does it say that in my psych evaluation?”

“I’m sensing a certain hostility in you.”

Jude stood and gathered up her notes. “If you’re done testing me, I need to get some sleep. I have an autopsy first thing tomorrow.”

“Was it about your brother?” Hill probed. “The child you found in that apartment bore some resemblance. Twelve years old. Blond.”

“What do you want from me, Hill?”

Hill abandoned the sofa and approached her in stocking feet. She was shorter than Jude by several inches. Standing just out of reach, she said, “I’m sorry if I touched a sore spot.”

“No, you’re not.”

Jude had almost forgotten what it was like having to respond to inquisitions from briefcase-holders. She made brief eye contact with Hill and felt almost sorry for her. Hill’s mission was as much about making the Bureau look good as protecting the public. If she put a foot wrong she could forget advancement. She would spend the rest of her career in a dead-end job like media spokesperson. In the priesthood of the Bureau, a female agent couldn’t afford to make mistakes. Something in Hill’s eyes told Jude she thought she was looking at one.

“Listen,” Jude said without rancor. “If you want me off the team, just say the word. Plenty of cops round here would love to take my place.”

“How many of them are FBI trained snipers?” Hill replied.

“You really did your homework.” Jude tried to show unconcern. Arbiter said anyone checking up on her would find nothing in her personnel file. Officially, she was just another former agent.

“Why didn’t you simply take a leave of absence?” Hill pressed. “You had cause. If you wanted out of Crimes Against Children, you could have transferred.”

“If you must know, Bureau politics make me sick,” Jude said. In a way, it was true. If she hadn’t found a home in counterterrorism, she would have quit. “Stand-up agents die the death of a thousand paper cuts if they rock the boat, while C-graders ass-lick their way into senior management. Big bonuses, no accountability.”

“You’re a maverick.” Hill bit off the remark as if she’d given accidental voice to a thought.

“And you’re to the Bureau born,” Jude replied. The phrase was often used by agents, sometimes ironically.

Hill took it for a compliment, which it was in a way. “I like to think so.”

In the poor lighting of the room, her features seemed softer than they were at the restaurant. Or perhaps it was late and she wasn’t guarding herself so rigidly. Her eyelids drooped, the lashes slowly fanning down as she blinked. When she forgot to compress her mouth, her lips were full and tempting. Jude watched a slight change-up in her breathing and knew Hill was aware of her, too.

Oddly, she couldn’t tell if the awareness was sexual or if she just made Hill nervous. She wondered if the SAC saw her as a threat, perhaps even unconsciously. There weren’t a lot of female agents, less than twenty percent last time she checked, and instead of being natural allies, they were often competitive, struggling for approval in an organization that still couldn’t shake off Hoover’s legacy.

Jude suspected that, in her, Hill saw a woman who had let down the side. She’d left the Bureau, proving the conventional wisdom that women couldn’t take the heat. Agents like her had questionable loyalties. They were not worthy. True believers like Hill made all kinds of sacrifices to prove themselves capable of the positions they held. To become an SAC, Hill had no life, that went without saying.

Jude toyed with the idea of coming clean with her, just to make her feel better. If Hill knew she was an undercover agent and not a slacker who’d jumped ship, maybe she would chill. Or maybe she would get even more competitive. Jude got a headache thinking about it. Besides, there was nothing to think about. Her cover was intact and had to stay that way. Already, Hill was suspicious of her. She needed to convince the agent that she had nothing to hide.

“I’ll tell you something that isn’t in the file,” Jude said.

Hill was instantly alert, no doubt congratulating herself that she’d broken through and they were now talking honestly. “Yes?”

“After I shot that predator, I knew I’d do it again. I started stalking a subject we were investigating, planning on how I was going to take him out.” She paused. “I’m not a vigilante, but if I’d stayed in DC that’s how it would have played out. And I’d probably be serving time now.”

Hill nodded. She seemed genuinely sorrowful. “Are you seeing anyone?”

Jude knew she wasn’t talking about a lover. “For a while I did.”

It was the truth. She had discreetly seen shrinks about her nightmares, not that therapy made any difference.

Hill stepped in a little closer, until her physical heat warmed the air around Jude’s body. She touched Jude’s arm. “I appreciate your honesty, and you did the right thing. It looks pretty bad when an agent goes postal.”

Yep, that’s what it was all about—protecting the Bureau’s reputation. Jude nodded with appropriate shame. She could the relief flooding Hill’s body. The agent was happy now that she knew they were on the same page where it really counted. FBI interests came first.

Jude met Hill’s eyes and told her what she wanted to hear. “The job I have now is a cakewalk. I catch some decent homicides, but the beat is strictly small town. It’s not the Bureau.”

“I’m sure it must have its compensations.” Hill sought a silver lining. “I got the impression that you’re looked up to.”

A feeling the SAC would not be familiar with. Females in her position at the FBI were tolerated, not respected.

Jude smiled. “Actually, you’re right about that.” Disingenuously, she rubbed it in. “Most of my colleagues assume I’ll make the calls. They appreciate good leadership. It doesn’t seem to matter who provides it, a man or a woman.”

“That’s good to hear.” Hill had probably tried for a patronizing note, but her voice was wistful.

Jude wasn’t quite done. “If you get any shit from the locals, come and talk to me. I’ll sort it.”

Just for the hell of it, she looked Hill up and down appreciatively, before focusing on her mouth. Hill’s lips parted. Okay, so fifty percent of the awareness between them was sexual. She still couldn’t tell which team Hill batted for, but it didn’t really matter. Jude had always been able to make straight women blush, too.

“I’m sure that won’t be necessary,” Hill said. “I can handle myself.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re used to that,” Jude replied with soft irony.

She watched Hill’s eyes flicker as she registered the innuendo, then discounted it as a figment of her imagination. “Thank you for your time, Detective.”

“It was a pleasure.”

They walked to the door. Hill fumbled with the handle. Jude thought, I could have you right now. She took over from her, briefly tempted. The brush of their fingers made her catch her breath and she knew Hill had done the same.

“See you tomorrow,” Hill said. Her voice was thin.

Jude said a nonchalant good night. She was a long way down the hotel corridor before she heard the door close behind her.

Chapter Twelve

“How long would it normally take for someone with these wounds to bleed out?” Jude asked. Her guess was no more than five minutes. In fatal stabbings, hypovolemic shock could kill within sixty seconds.

Norwood Carver’s gimlet eyes lifted momentarily from the pale inertia of Fabian Maulle’s body. He’d been inspecting the mottled skin surface for several minutes. “Exsanguination was not as rapid as these injuries might suggest at first blush. Of course, two of the wounds are perpendicular to Langer’s lines so there’s more gaping, and this one is diagonal.” He directed their attention to a wound near the center of Maulle’s torso. “Note the semilunar curve.”

Jude imagined a knife entering across the lines of cleavage. Maulle could have been bending to one side when that one was inflicted. “Single-edged blade?” she asked.

“Yes, very good, Detective. The blunted margin and opposing V-margin are most apparent on the central wound because it’s parallel.”

“Could it be a kitchen knife?”

“Highly likely. Note the bruising on either side of each incision.” Carver gestured with the skull chisel he liked to tap against his thigh during the external examination. “They’re not guard imprints. These were inflicted pre-mortem and the configuration is identical for each.”

Both Jude and Koertig bent low to squint at the linear discoloration. Each mark was slightly more than an inch in length. Jude had never seen anything like them.

“Possibly an attempt to clamp off the wounds,” Carver said. “My guess is bulldog clips. Exsanguination would continue, of course, but death may have been delayed.”

“So there was no fatal wound as such?”

“Well, the fellow is dead, so the wounds were fatal. However, I suspect his life could have been saved if he’d received immediate treatment.”

Jude would avoid telling Pippa that. “What about hesitation marks or defensive wounds?”

“We took some skin from beneath the nails, or should I say foreign epithelials.” He snickered. “Better sound like I know what I’m talking about.” Carver routinely mocked the jargon embraced by TV CSIs. “And by the way, Mr. Maulle received regular manicures. He was particular. Take a look.”

Jude and Koertig inspected the hands.

“Clear nail varnish,” Jude noted. “Trimmed cuticles. Yes, very particular.”

“Gay,” Koertig said.

“Wealthy,” Carver added dispassionately. “Men of a certain status are more likely to be manicured. That’s a statistic. Add the homosexual component and we have a formula. Cash plus queer equals kempt.”

Koertig haw-hawed. Jude didn’t waste her breath pointing out that stereotyping had never solved a crime yet. She noticed something else as she lowered Maulle’s hand back onto the stainless steel table.

“Is that a ligature mark on the wrist?” The faint pink discoloration formed a distinctive band.

Carver said, “Fritz, you photographed the wrists, didn’t you?”

“Yes, sir.”

“It would appear the victim was bound before death, but not with excessive pressure. I’ll confirm that in the autopsy report.” Carver measured the width and depth of each knife wound and said, “The murder weapon is probably five inches in length. Only one of the wounds indicates any use of force and it’s an upward thrust.”

“He took that one standing.”

“Classic face-to-face. There was some momentum, so the assailant was probably coming toward the victim.” Carver probed a wound in the ribs area. “Left side of the body, so your killer is right-handed. The other three wounds are relatively shallow downward thrusts.”

“Maulle was sitting or lying down,” Jude concluded.

“Sitting for two and probably lying down for the incision parallel with Langer’s lines.”

“Looks like someone kicked his face in while he was down there?” Koertig said gingerly.

“Multiple blunt force injuries consistent with blows from a fist.” Carver took a moment out of the layman’s discussion to dictate into his voice recorder. “Abrasion on left lower forehead above eyebrow. Nose fracture. Multiple contusions on left cheek, left upper forehead, back of head.” He peered inside the victim’s mouth. “Multiple contusions, lacerations, and hemorrhage on mucosal surfaces.”

“The killer has to have cuts and abrasions on his hands,” Jude murmured to Koertig.

“Any strangulation?” Koertig asked.

“No petechial or posterior neck hemorrhaging,” Carver said. “I can’t confirm fractures to hyoid bone and thyroid cartilages until dissection. But it would appear your killer had plenty to keep him busy without throttling the victim as well.”

He signaled Fritz, who scuttled up and placed a rubber body block under Maulle’s back in preparation for the Y incision. Overqualified for the role of diener, Fritz was apparently indispensable to his master and pathetically grateful for his own exploitation.

“Sir?” he asked with the breathless reverence of a dullard in the presence of genius.

“Unzip him,” Carver said.

Jude took a few steps back while Fritz wielded a large scalpel. Maulle had been dead for thirty-six hours, so the decomposition process had begun, but refrigeration had slowed it. As his flesh was drawn back it gave off the scent of raw lamb. Jude glanced at Koertig, who was pale but stoic. He had only attended a handful of postmortems and had already taken a whiff of the smelling salts Jude carried.

“Do you think he was stabbed by someone familiar with anatomy?” she asked, steering Koertig’s concentration away from the more gruesome stage of the procedure.

“Was this the work of a know-nothing amateur or a student of human anatomy?” Some forensic pathologists kept their opinions to themselves, but Carver enjoyed bathing in his own glory. He pitied mortals not blessed with his dizzying intellect, and was always willing to share his godlike wisdom. “One could form that impression, bringing simplistic reason to bear. However, the depth of penetration, the careful placement…suggest control, not stupidity. He didn’t slash, or hack.”

“Are you saying there was no anger?”

“A flawed deduction.” He extended his hand toward Fritz to receive the pruning shears that doubled as rib cutters. “The wounds were ultimately fatal, but the process of death was slow and painful. Whoever killed Maulle wanted him to feel his life ebbing away. That suggests a good deal of anger, wouldn’t you say?”

“Very nasty,” Jude agreed.

A possibility took shape in her mind, but she kept it to herself since Carver didn’t welcome competition. The bulldog clips intrigued her. Would Maulle have had the presence of mind to pinch each wound closed? Nothing in his background suggested he would behave any differently from most victims. Wounded people panicked. They staggered around, clutching themselves. Their first instinct was to grab a towel or garment and hold it to the wound while they called 911. No emergency call had been made until Pippa arrived. Why?

Assuming the killer had already departed by that time, why didn’t Maulle save his own life? He had a cell phone in his pocket. Even lying on the floor dying, he could have made the call. He had fought to stay alive with bulldog clips keeping each wound closed, but then gave up while he was still breathing. It made no sense.

She felt Koertig sway at the sound of the ribs being separated from the sternum. Leaning toward him, she whispered, “Did anyone bag bulldog clips?”

As he turned his pallid face toward her, she waved the salts under his nose. “I don’t think so,” he said.

Fritz took a phone call and interrupted the proceedings. “Sir, the combine harvester casualty arrived. Shall I tell Freddie to weigh the pieces and check if he’s all there?”

Carver glanced at the second autopsy table in the room. “No, stick him in the cadaver keep. We’ll do him this afternoon. Speaking of harvest.” He finished cutting cartilage and lifted the heart-lung tree aloft for inspection. “Premium quality if he was a donor and if this wasn’t a homicide. Damn waste.”

“The knife didn’t penetrate that deep?” Jude asked.

“Remarkably, it did not.” He set the organs down and carefully examined the heart. “Very clean. Your man was not an endurance athlete like myself, but he worked out and he ate lean.”

“He appreciated living,” Jude noted.

“Who wouldn’t with his advantages?”

“And yet he didn’t call 911,” she said softly. Blood loss clouded the mind pretty quickly. Perhaps shock could account for Maulle’s behavior after his killer left the house. “After he was stabbed, for how long would he have been lucid?”

“Mr. Maulle was in peak fitness for a man of his age. He could have moved, spoken, and thought clearly enough to act until very close to the end.”

Jude walked Koertig to the wall farthest from the autopsy table. As Carver continued his dissection, she said, “Something was going on at the scene that we don’t know about. The killer kept him alive for a reason.”

“Sadism?” Koertig suggested.

Jude shook her head. “We know the guy was looking for something. Maybe he thought Maulle would tell him where it was. Maybe he was playing chicken. ‘If you tell me, I’ll call 911, otherwise you’ll just die slowly while I sit here.’”

“I checked the plans,” Koertig said. “No safe.”

“We need to take the place apart. There has to be somewhere a man like Maulle would have kept his most important items.”

“His sister’s got to know something about him.”

“They weren’t exactly close. Not according to Pippa, anyway.” Jude watched Carver pick up the Stryker saw and go to work on Maulle’s skull. When he lifted the top section away, the sucking sound made her wince.

Koertig dry retched and stuck his hand out for the salts.

“I’m ravenous,” Carver announced as he cut the spinal cord and removed the brain. Suspending it tenderly in a jar of formalin, he asked, “Anyone want to join me for a steak after this?”

*

“You did great.” Jude gulped some lukewarm coffee. She was due at the MCSO for show and tell in a half hour, then Pratt wanted her to take Aidan Hill to dinner again afterward, since it went so well last time. “So, are you meeting her?”

“Yes.” Debbie sounded pleased with herself. “At her place. I didn’t think she was going to phone after last night, but she must have realized I meant what I said.”

Sandy had caved. Elated and relieved that her gamble had paid off, Jude set her coffee aside. “How far away is she?”

“In Rico.”

“That’s quite a drive from Paradox Valley.” Almost two hours, in fact. No wonder Sandy stayed overnight whenever she visited.

“I didn’t realize she was coming so far to see me.” Debbie sounded contrite.

“It’s beautiful there,” Jude said. “You’ll love it.”

“That’s if I can find it. She gave me instructions but it sounds pretty convoluted.”

“I know the area,” Jude said. “What’s the address?”

“There isn’t one exactly. You know that old mining road north of the town? The one that’s closed?”

“Daisy Creek?” Jude had never hiked in the dense forest up that way. She’d heard there was nothing to see, just a few abandoned miners’ shacks. What was left of the steep, treacherous dirt road had washed out a few years ago.

“She says you go as far as the Beware sign, then there’s an arrow to Pariah. That was a ghost town. It doesn’t even exist anymore. She says I can leave my car in a turnoff and walk on up. She’ll meet me on the trail at four this afternoon.”

Pariah? Jude had never heard of it. She wondered where Sandy got her mail sent. Did she have a false identity and a mailbox somewhere? These days it wasn’t easy to live completely under the radar. She was working pretty hard not to be found.

Jude checked her wristwatch. 12:15 p.m. “I’ll send Tulley to pick you up.”

“Don’t worry,” Debbie said. “I’ve got it all under control. Bobby Lee’s bringing my car over, and Tulley’s following. He has to go down to Cortez for dog training.”

“Okay, so you’ll all drive to Rico from my place, then they’ll continue on to Cortez?”

“That’s the plan.”

“How do you feel about seeing her?”

“A bit nervous. I hope she won’t be angry at me.”

“Well, this is a pretty big step for her,” Jude said.

“For both of us.”

“Just on that.” Jude kept her tone even. “It’s probably better if Sandy doesn’t know I’ve played a role in this. She’s reaching out to you now, so she’ll need to feel she can trust you completely.”

“I see what you mean.”

“I want things to work out for the two of you, Debbie. She’ll need to feel safe about opening up to you.”

“I’ll be careful,” Debbie said. “And maybe you shouldn’t say anything about knowing where she lives.”

“That’s probably wise.”

“Thanks for the advice. Oh, I nearly forgot. Mercy Westmoreland stopped by your place last night. She said to tell you she’s sorry she missed you.”

“Yeah, me, too. Debbie, will you hold a second?”

Jude couldn’t think about Mercy now. She rapidly worked up a course of action. Her first priority was a black bag job, searching and bugging Sandy’s home. Under the Patriot Act, the FBI could search a residence without the owner’s knowledge. They also had the right to obtain personal and financial records without appearing before a judge. All it took was a national security letter, and they had already issued a few NSLs on Sandy Lane. She was up for grabs.

Jude could take her into custody now if she wanted, just on suspicion of being involved in terrorist activity. Sandy could then be held indefinitely while the Bureau figured out if there were any charges to bring. They didn’t even have to disclose her name. Basically, she would disappear. No one who knew her needed to be informed that she was under arrest, and she would have no right to legal counsel.

If Jude didn’t act soon, someone else would. She couldn’t delay telling Arbiter much longer. She’d rolled the dice, hoping to hell that Sandy’s love for Debbie would outweigh her paranoia, even briefly, and not inflame it. She had to get into her hideout as soon as possible. Given her workload, she would be stuck in Cortez all of tomorrow.

“I have an idea. Let’s all have a potluck at your place on Wednesday night. Watch a silly movie or something. I’ll get Tulley to pick up some burgers for the grill.”

“That sounds great.”

“I was thinking about what you told me. After everything she’s gone through, Lone needs support. She has you, but other people care about her, too. Maybe she needs to see that right now.”

Sandy wasn’t going to drive back to Rico in the dead of night after a few beers and a barbecue. And she and Debbie would be making up. She would probably spend all of Wednesday in Paradox Valley. Jude could nap at the stationhouse for a few hours, then drive down to Sandy’s place. By early morning, she could start her search.

“She has such a hard time relating to people.” Debbie sighed. “I hope she wants to come.”

“We’ll keep it casual. I’ll try to find out what she’s been up to on her trips away. It’s probably something she’s embarrassed to tell you about and that’s why she’s keeping it to herself. There’s usually a silly explanation for things like that between partners.”

“You think maybe she’d be more comfortable talking with a friend about it?”

“That’s possible. So far she hasn’t been willing to tell you, has she? Maybe that’ll change after you visit. We’ll see.”

“I’d really like if you’d talk to her,” Debbie said. “Jude, I appreciate everything you’re doing for us. It feels really good to know I can count on you.”

Feeling like a jerk, Jude said, “People can make it through rough patches. Good luck this afternoon. Let me know how it goes.”

*

“She wants you.” Bobby Lee tousled his bangs in the passenger mirror.

Tulley slowed down with the traffic flow as they reached a line of cars stuck behind a semi. The drive down to Cortez was always like this on the mountain route, which was why he normally went the boring way through La Sal Junction. He didn’t know how Jude put up with it on the days she had to drive to the MCSO instead of across to Paradox. She lived in the wrong location, too far from everywhere. She said she was trying to be an equal distance away from both the substation and headquarters, and she couldn’t stand to live in Dove Creek, so Montrose seemed liked a reasonable compromise. Lately she’d been looking at places in Norwood. Tulley wished he could afford to rent there.

He slowed down to a 27 mph crawl and thought about hitting his overheads and siren, but people noticed cops rushing to an emergency situation and expected to see all the details in the Cortez Journal or the Durango Herald the next day. Some troublemaker would remember the K-9 unit and call in and report his misuse of authority.

“She’s a married woman,” Tulley repeated.

“A hot MILF,” Bobby Lee corrected. “I’ll take a piece of that action anytime.”

“No wonder Jude won’t get engaged. She’s waiting for you to change your horndog ways.”

Bobby Lee looked at him sideways. “She knows who I am.”

No clarification was needed. Tulley had heard Bobby Lee’s theories about the natural order of things and how as mankind was not genetically designed to be faithful to one woman. How hormones drove the male to fulfill the destiny of the species by spreading his seed, and Bobby Lee was fighting the power of Mother Nature herself if he denied his urges. It was testosterone that prevented inbreeding and made the human race gods of the universe.

Tulley said, “If she walks in on me one more time, I swear I’m gonna tell Gavin what’s going on.”

“I wouldn’t do that.”

“Why the heck not?”

“Because he’ll fucking kill you.”

“Me?”

Tulley put his hand on the horn. The guy in the pickup in front of him kept braking and slowing down, half crossing the yellow lines, positioning to overtake the car in front of him. Like that would gain something. Tulley knew if he was driving an unmarked vehicle, the guy would have flipped him the bird.

“The husband is going to blame the OM first,” Bobby Lee said with the certainty of firsthand experience. “In his eyes you’re the problem.”

Tulley concentrated on the road as yet another retard with a death wish tried to pass the semi. “What’s the OM?”

“The other man. That’s you, buddy.”

“Shit! I never even look at her.”

Bobby Lee cradled his head in his hand. “You worry me.”

“He thinks she’s so perfect. And behind his back she’s flirting and all. It ain’t right. I can’t respect a woman like that.”

“She ain’t asking you to respect her.” Bobby Lee angled his head around. “And take it from me, you’re not the first. Chicks who come on like that make a habit of it. This Crystal, she’s a bona fide S.L.U.T. The old man’s out busting his nuts so she has the nice house and the nice car. She’s got him right where she wants him, pussy-whipped and too goddamn busy to notice her extracurricular pursuits.”

“I’m sleeping over tonight.” Tulley was filled with anxiety. “What if she comes in the guest room? She did that one other time and sat on the bed.”

“Man, that’s so uncool. You do not want to go there with the hubby in the next room.”

“You got that right.”

“Pay attention, my friend. This is an opportunity.”

“No, it’s a goddamn nightmare.” Tulley stared straight ahead. He should have known Bobby Lee wouldn’t understand. “I’ll tell her to quit.”

“Good luck with that.”

“Thanks, you’re a big help.”

“Dude, the problem here is you’re not handling the situation like you should.” Bobby Lee got back to fixing his hair. “Be cool. Get a piece of that ass. Give her what she wants till she loses interest, then she’ll dump you and there’s no hard feelings.”

Tulley shook his head. “I’m not getting shot by a pissed-off husband.”

“I can respect that,” Bobby Lee said. “Hey, did you ever nail that deputy? What’s her name? Serenity or something?”

“She’s too aggressive. I want to go back to Denver again.”

Recently Bobby Lee had decided to display his tricked-out Chevy Silverado at a custom car show, and they’d spent a few days in Denver. During the vacation, Bobby Lee introduced Tulley to several ladies who made their living in the professional escort business. He spent the night with the one he liked best. It was a positive experience and Tulley was ready to practice his bedroom skills some more now. But not with Crystal Sherman.

“Here’s the thing,” Bobby Lee said. “You’re a good-looking dude. You don’t have to pay for it.” He stabbed his thumb toward the caged area behind their seats where Smoke’m was drooling. “And that animal is a major chick magnet.”

“I’ve saved up enough for two more nights with Stormy,” Tulley said.

“Oh, man.” Bobby Lee put his comb away and got to work with the lip balm. He said soft lips were mandatory if you wanted to make out with chicks.

Tulley accelerated. The truckie had finally found a place to pull over. No one else tried to pass. They had to make way for Tulley. He was the law.

“Like I’ve been telling you,” Bobby Lee said. “I know all the cute chicks in Durango. I can get you hooked up.”

Tulley cringed at the thought of sleeping with girls from his best friend’s reject pile. He wished he could find someone as pretty and kindhearted as Stormy. After they were finished having sex that night, they cuddled together and got talking about their dogs. She was a big-time animal lover just like him. They agreed that Michael Vick should get death by lethal injection, even though a swift end was more mercy than he deserved.

“Here’s what I’ll do for you,” Bobby Lee said. “I’ll take Crystal off your hands.”

“Yeah? How do you plan on doing that?”

“Take me over there and tell your friend Gavin some BS about how I’m real eager to see those dogs of yours going though their paces. I’ll handle it from there.”

“Oh, that’s just swell.” Tulley decided Bobby Lee was messing with him. He was a mite too casual about going behind Jude’s back. If it was him planning to cheat on the detective, Tulley would be terrified.

“Considering I only have your word that this chick’s a hottie, that’s a generous offer,” Bobby Lee said.

“You are actually for real,” Tulley marveled.

“I never kid about getting laid.” Bobby Lee picked fluff off the black Stetson on his lap. “And don’t get yourself worked up on Jude’s behalf. I promise you, I could bang every horny housewife in the Four Corners and she wouldn’t care.”

Tulley kept his opinion to himself. Their relationship was in worse shape than he thought.

Chapter Thirteen

“We found the Lexus in Durango,” Koertig said.

“That was quick.” Jude poured herself a cup of coffee and they took over an interview room for a quick catch-up before they briefed the team.

“It was reported stolen in Animas Valley on Saturday morning. The owner left it idling on the street while she dropped off her kid for a birthday party.”

“Where was it located?”

“It’s been sitting at an expired parking meter downtown since Saturday evening. We towed it to the garage. Belle’s processing it now.”

“Anyone see the driver?”

“Eight witnesses so far. They all report seeing two Caucasian males.” Koertig consulted his notepad. “Driver is over six feet, 170 pounds, shaved head, goatee beard, pale suit, plain silk shirt open at the neck, cross on a thick gold chain. Passenger shorter, thinner, blond, leather jacket and casual shirt. Neck chains and cross. Rings. Diamond ear stud.” He handed Jude a statement. “Waitress at Ariano’s. She’s our best witness.”

Jude scanned the details. The two men ordered veal, paid cash, big tip. Departed around ten. Both spoke with an accent. The waitress thought it was Serbian, Russian, Czech. Something like that. They told her they were from Miami. She described one of the men as having a lot of gold in his teeth and saw tattoos on the fingers and chests of both. The man in the leather jacket had cuts on his knuckles.

“The rose on the shorter guy’s chest is Russian mafia,” Jude remarked. “The symbols the witness saw on the fingers are probably Cyrillic.”

She’d seen a few examples of Russian prison tattoos when she worked in the CACU. Jude didn’t know much about them except that they were highly symbolic, a coded language that revealed the wearer’s criminal history and gang status.

“Russian mafia in the Four Corners?” Koertig marveled.

Equally amazed, Jude said, “Not exactly their kind of holiday destination. How are the composites coming along?”

“One of the guys is working on FACES now with the waitress.”

The men she described would have stood out among the casual Saturday night crowds. Shorts and T-shirts were the norm on warm Southwestern evenings. “Did anyone see them after they left the restaurant?” Jude asked.

“We got a couple of homeless juveniles,” Koertig said. “They claim they saw the men getting into a silver Mercedes SUV in the parking lot on Camino del Rio.”

“Security cameras? License plate?” A faint hope.

“No, but Durango PD had two patrol cars parked near the lot. They were responding to another son of God incident.”

“I thought they sent that guy to the state mental hospital months ago,” Jude said.

The offender was a fixture on the streets of Durango. Most of the time he harmlessly panhandled outside restaurants, proclaiming his messianic status to passersby. When he struck a bad patch he got aggressive about wanting to perform miracles and tried to pull people out of wheelchairs.

“They let him out last week,” Koertig said. “He stole a mule from the petting zoo. He was riding it through town Saturday night, yelling ‘Hosanna.’ The homeless kids tagged along for a laugh.”

“Where was he arrested?” Jude asked.

“Corner of the 800 block. The boys took off through the parking lot to avoid police. That’s when they saw the suspects getting into the Merc. One of the officers also saw the vehicle leave.”

“Any idea which highway they took?”

“He thinks they were headed for 160.”

“Which would eventually get them onto I-25 and south to I-40,” Jude concluded. “So Miami sounds like the truth.”

“Do you want to talk to the waitress before I round up the team?”

“No, you did great with her. We better get rolling. The Calloways will be here soon.”

“Oh, yeah, and then the joint terrorism task force.” Koertig looked her in the eye. “Is it for real or just a practice exercise?”

Jude sipped her tasteless coffee and reminded herself to bring another mug down here next time she made the trip. Her last one got broken and she hated Styrofoam. “I can’t say for sure, but it sounds like the real thing.”

“What the hell are they thinking?”

“They’ve brainwashed themselves,” Jude said absently. “They lost their way. The blue-collar world is disintegrating around them and they need to blame someone. It’s really not surprising that they’ve latched onto an ideology that makes them feel important and gives them a role to play in something bigger.”

Koertig treated this analysis with the solemnity it deserved, concluding, “Numbnuts looking for their fifteen minutes.”

“In a word, yes.” Jude returned to the topic at hand. “Those two kids. Where are they?”

“Durango PD located them this morning after the Lexus was called in. I sent one of the rookies to take their statements. They’re with Child Protective Services now.”

Jude sighed. Durango hosted a permanent population of homeless kids drawn by the town’s laid-back atmosphere and prosperity. Most had already been through foster homes and skipped town as soon as they were placed in another one. Koertig handed the witness statements to her. They tallied, and the descriptions of the men were reasonable for the time of night and weird lighting. One of the boys had also noticed the tattoos.

“Nice work,” Jude said.

Koertig shook his head, still confounded by the idea of Russian hoodlums in their sleepy corner of the universe. “So this was a hit?”

“It’s looking that way. If we want to make a lot of assumptions.”

“The parrot was talking Russian.” Koertig located Jude’s notes from the interview with witness “Oscar Maulle.”

“Yes, and he used the word grokhnut. It means shoot or kill.”

“Maulle had friends in low places. The bulldog clips on the wounds. Is that a Russian thing? I heard they’re sadistic.”

“I think if they wanted to torture Maulle, they could come up with something more gruesome than that,” Jude said.

“Anton…the human slime,” Koertig mused. “Is that a Russian name?”

It wasn’t Petya, Kostya, or Sasha, but the playwright Chekhov was Anton. Jude remembered that much from high school. “Could be,” she said.

“Any progress on the South African security guard?”

Jude had called in a favor with Arbiter. Hugo wouldn’t be hard to find. “Not yet, but I should have his details tomorrow.”

“I almost forgot, we found the Cadillac, too,” Koertig said. “The driver’s a moron. They arrested him in Mancos last night. He set himself up under a parachute at the camping ground, smoking weed. It caught fire.”

“Jesus.”

“Could have been a conflagration, but that old guy who runs the taxidermist shop emptied his waste bucket on the flames.”

Jude grimaced. “Striking presence of mind.”

“They’re enemies,” Koertig said. “The moron plays loud music all night so the taxidermist calls the marshall. Last week the moron calls in a complaint about the old guy peeping in the ladies’ bathroom block.”

Jude drained her coffee and got to her feet. “He’s a stellar witness, in other words?”

“Oh, yeah. The kind that makes your Russian mafia psychos look credible.”

As they tromped out of the room, Jude said, “You know we’re going to have to search that goddamn house again tomorrow.”

Koertig slapped the file against his leg. “I had a bad feeling about that.”

*

The Calloways coped better with the death of their relative than the shortcomings of their accommodations. Jude had suggested they interview the family as a whole since they weren’t making the cut as suspects.

“I hope we can expedite this,” Jim Calloway said. “I have a summit in Dallas starting Thursday, and the bed in our hotel is giving me a neck problem.”

“He’s talking about a golf summit,” Pippa said. “Important stuff.”

“You know how long your father’s had his name down for this,” Delia Calloway chided her. To Jude and Koertig, she explained, “It’s a Chuck Cook intensive.”

“Three Hall of Famers are doing demos,” her husband added.

“You people make me sick,” Pippa said.

Jim Calloway continued undeterred. “Inspiration, that’s what it’s all about.”

“Tiger Woods is a guest,” Delia Calloway added, tweaking the modest string of pearls at her throat.

“Have you ever met him?” Koertig asked them.

“I’ve been at the same table.” Calloway spoke with the awe of a man who’d broken bread with the Almighty Himself. “Talk about charisma. Talk about class. And his wife. Gorgeous.”

“She’s European,” Delia said as if this explained something.

“He’s going to play nine holes with the top five amateurs at the clinic.” Calloway practiced his swing sitting down. He was dressed for the part in a mint green and white striped polo shirt and green Bermuda shorts. These showed off a deep tan and a paunch Jude guessed he kept in check with a daily half hour on the treadmill.

Koertig continued with his serious-faced rapport building. “Think you’ve got the right stuff?”

This foolhardy question was greeted with a detailed account of Calloway’s swing evolution and the angst that afflicted him over his shoulder turn. Griffin Mahanes was smugly silent throughout. Jude thought he was probably fondling the calculator in his pocket.

“Are you aware of anyone who had a quarrel with your brother, Mrs. Calloway?” she asked.

“He was disgusted with the company that did the marble for the guest bath at Maulle Mansion,” Delia replied dutifully. “He had words with the manager.”

“When was that?”

“Three years ago.”

“Does the name Anton mean anything to you?”

Delia glanced toward Mahanes, who benevolently invited, “Go ahead.”

“Fabian once told me that if anything ever happened to him, the party responsible would be Anton,” she said with the same mild distaste that underpinned the bathroom décor revelation. Evidently this disclosure was no more significant in her mind.

“Did he tell you Anton’s full name?” Jude asked.

“Yes, but I’m simply dreadful with names. I didn’t think anything of it at the time.”

“You didn’t find it unusual for your brother to speculate on harm being done to him?”

“Fabian was prone to melodrama.”

“He was gay,” Jim Calloway translated. “Good looking, women all over him, and what do you know? There’s your proof.”

“Proof of what?” Koertig asked.

“They’re born that way. You can’t tell me a grown man has beautiful women throwing themselves at him and he chooses a scrawny Jewish geek who plays the goddamn oboe. That’s a lifestyle choice? I don’t think so, my friend. I call that crossed wires. Genetic malfunction.”

“My brother was always artistic,” Delia said. “And obsessed with personal grooming. Even as a child he could not abide a crushed shirt.”

Jude thought, Are these people for real? “He certainly maintained a beautiful home here. Did you ever visit?”

Delia Calloway shook her head, sending a few carefully coiffed strands of ash blond into disarray. She smoothed them immediately. “I didn’t even know he owned a log cabin until last Thanksgiving. He said he couldn’t join us because he was having some work done and wanted to supervise personally.”

“What kind of work?”

“A new concrete floor in his garage.”

He poured concrete in late fall, in the mountains? The winter of 2006 was a tough one in Colorado, with the first huge blizzards dumping snow in the mountains in October. Jude glanced at Koertig and knew he’d picked up on this curious fact also. Perhaps Maulle was just trying to concoct an excuse for skipping a Thanksgiving occasion, but as far as bullshit went, the story was an odd choice. He could simply have said he was snowed in. Her first instinct was to dig up the concrete but they would need good reason before they vandalized someone’s property. Maulle was a victim, not a perpetrator.

“I understand Mr. Maulle had a relationship with an Israeli, Yitzhak Eshkol.”

“That’s the oboe player I was talking about,” said Jim Calloway.

“Do you have an address for him?”

“He lives in Tel Aviv these days,” Delia said.

Her husband looked surprised. “You keep in touch?”

Delia gave him a bad-dog look, like he’d just defecated in the corner. “He knows Ingeborg Rennert.”

“In case you’re wondering who that is,” Pippa said, “she’s a lady with a hairdo straight out of Dangerous Liaisons and a truckload of diamonds. Her husband buys companies that raise untold money from investors and bank loans, he helps himself to as much as he wants, then the companies file chapter eleven because they can’t repay what they borrowed. The investors lose everything but Mr. Rennert lives in the world’s biggest mansion. He’s also the worst toxic polluter in the country, according to the EPA.”

“My daughter is a snob,” Delia informed Jude. “She suspects all arrivistes of criminal conduct.”

“No,” Pippa said sweetly. “Just the ones that belong in prison.”

“If you paid this much attention to your future, perhaps we wouldn’t be sitting here right now,” Delia retorted. “You’d be home where you belong, enjoying a rewarding career.”

Ignoring the family squabbles, Jude set out several photographs they’d found among Maulle’s papers. “Do you recognize any of these men?”

“That’s Yitzhak.” Delia selected one of a very young man. He looked about eighteen. “He’s put on some weight since then.”

“You’ve seen him?” Jim Calloway seemed stunned that his wife led a life he knew little about.

“Yes, in Paris last year. He plays for the Israel Philharmonic.” Delia glanced at Jude. “I’m sure you can find him through the orchestra, although I can’t imagine what you could possibly want to ask him. He hasn’t seen Fabian in years.”

“We have some routine questions,” Jude said. “When was that photograph of Yitzhak taken?”

“Ten or twelve years ago.”

“And he was in a relationship with Fabian at that time?”

Delia sighed. “I told Fabian the age difference was absurd. Yitzhak was eighteen and my brother was forty.”

“How did they meet?”

“I have no idea. Fabian put him through school and introduced him to the right people. Once Yitzhak had struck out on his own, they parted.” Delia paused, and for the first time in the interview Jude glimpsed a flash of genuine emotion. “I didn’t agree with my brother’s lifestyle, Detective, but one thing I can tell you is he loved Yitzhak very deeply. I think that counts for something, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do,” Jude said.

Pippa stared suspiciously at her mother. “Why did they break up?”

“There was someone else. That’s all I know. Fabian even said he thought it was for the best.”

With an uneasy frown, Pippa picked up one of the other photographs. “I’ve seen him. He was a business associate of Uncle Fabian’s.”

“Recently?” Jude asked. The dark-haired man in question was weasel-faced and freakishly long-legged. He wore an unflattering burgundy velour jogging suit with cream trim.

“Last year.” Pippa twirled a ballpoint pensively between her fingers. “I’d completely forgotten. He came up to us in a restaurant. Uncle Fabian excused himself and they went outside.”

“Do you know what they talked about?” Jude asked.

“Zimbabwe. Uncle Fabian was angry when he came back to the table. He said the Russians could have it.”

Jim Calloway snorted. “Five thousand percent inflation. Trust me, the Russians wouldn’t want it.” Plainly bored with the interview, he asked Koertig, “Do you play golf, Detective?”

“I go out with the old man sometimes. He’s pretty keen.”

“Well, then, you’ll appreciate my dilemma being stuck here dealing with this when I should be preparing for the clinic.”

Delia patted him. “You’ll be fine.”

“You think personal situations like this can’t affect your game, think again,” Calloway said for the benefit of anyone who cared. “First up, you have to keep that tension out of your shoulders or your backswing is screwed. Soon as I get to the resort, I’m signing up for the hot stone massage.”

Koertig asked, “Do you own a gun, sir?”

“My client owns a collection of antique pistols,” Griffin Mahanes replied.

“And a .45 ACP,” Calloway quickly added. “Springfield Armory. Same as the SWAT teams.”

“When was the last time you fired that weapon?” Koertig asked.

Calloway sustained the tough-guy act with a halfhearted swagger. “It’s not like we have varmints roaming the yard.”

“Varmints…” Delia mouthed the word as if sampling a peculiar food.

“Dad doesn’t know how to shoot,” Pippa said, earning a crestfallen glare from her father.

“You can verify my client’s alibi,” Mahanes intervened slickly. “Mr. Calloway was on the twelfth hole at Brae Burn Country Club when his brother-in-law was slain.”

“Returning to Anton,” Jude said. “What exactly did Mr. Maulle say about this individual?”

“They did business. My brother trusted this man and was let down by him. He made some discoveries that poisoned their relationship and I had the impression Anton was making a nuisance of himself.”

“So there was no personal relationship?’

“Not that I know of. I can’t imagine my brother forming a…liaison with a man from a background like that.”

“Please go on.” From the corner of her eye, Jude saw Pippa staring in astonishment at her mother. It must have come as a shock that Delia knew so much about her brother.

“He was from one of those Eastern bloc countries.” Delia consulted her elegant fingertips. “Russia. Serbia. Liberia.”

“Liberia’s an African nation,” Pippa said.

“They’re all communists, aren’t they?”

“You’re incredible.” Pippa stood abruptly. “I need some air.”

“Do you know what kind of business your brother was involved in?” Jude asked.

“Oh, yes,” Delia said with blithe unconcern. “Military hardware.”

Her husband stopped dead in the middle of a lustrous commentary on his best ever personal performance at Pinehurst no. 2. “What did you say?”

“Uncle Fabian was an arms dealer?” Pippa gasped from the doorway.

“Hardware,” Delia corrected impatiently. “I assume all those soldiers need a great many tents and toilet seats.”

“Excuse me a moment.” Griffin Mahanes whipped a buzzing cell phone from the inside pocket of his costly suit and stepped toward the door. He walked Pippa out.

Jude felt light-headed. “Military hardware?”

“That’s what he said.” Delia sighed. “Of course, he had other business interests in real estate and so forth. But the problem with Anton had something to do with one of the military shipments.”

“Did you ever see a photograph of Anton or meet him personally?” Jude asked. She could see Koertig’s eyes glazing over as Calloway maintained a steady drone of golf-speak between his occasional contributions to the interview.

“No, he wasn’t a friend of the family.”

“Can you tell us anything about him?”

“He was too cheap to get his teeth fixed. Fabian mentioned that.” Delia stroked her hair back. Her look was deceptively casual, the expensive common-sense attire of the genteel matron. “I formed the impression that he wasn’t a people person.”

“What gave you that idea?”

“Fabian said he was a liability dealing with the French.”

“The French are jerks,” Calloway said.

“What was Anton’s role?” Jude checked her wristwatch. It would be four soon. Debbie would be meeting Sandy.

“He was some kind of middle man. He flew planes, too. That’s all I know.”

“Did you ever encounter a security guard of your brother’s called Hugo?”

“No, although I recall the name.”

“Your brother employed him after an incident at his home in New Orleans. Do you know anything about that?”

Again, Delia surprised her husband. “Someone broke in and defaced several of his favorite paintings. Appalling.”

“Looters?” Koertig asked.

“They didn’t steal anything,” Delia replied as Pippa slipped back into the room. “But Fabian was very shaken.”

“Did he say anything else about the break-in?” Jude asked.

“You know about that?” Pippa asked her mother.

“Naturally. Fabian called me in case I thought you should come home. He was worried.” Delia adjusted her pearls again. “I don’t know if this is relevant now, but the intruders made a threat against you.”

“Against me?” Pippa sagged down in a chair.

“What type of threat?’ Jude asked.

“I don’t know, but Fabian assured me he would take care of it.”

“He knew the people who made the threat?”

“It had something to do with Anton.” Abashed, Delia said, “I didn’t take it seriously until…now.”

Jude met Koertig’s eyes and signaled that she wanted to end the interview. There was only so much they could cover in one session. When they knew more, they would talk to the Calloways again, Delia especially.

Working her way toward a conclusion, she said, “I just have one other question. The individual who murdered Mr. Maulle seemed to be looking for something. He stole a computer hard drive and a laptop and we think he may have used violence to try to obtain answers from Mr. Maulle.”

“Are you saying my brother was tortured?” Delia lifted a shaking hand to her mouth.

Pippa burst into tears.

Wishing she’d been more tactful, Jude said, “I’m sorry. Please understand this is all just guesswork for us right now. Can you think of anything your brother might have had in his possession…even information?”

Belatedly, Jim Calloway demanded, “Do we have reason to fear for our safety, Detective?”

“Can you think of a reason?” she asked mildly.

“I have no idea.” Delia placed a hand firmly on Pippa’s arm. “And until we know what this is all about, you’re coming home with us.”

Pippa had the wisdom not to argue. Wiping her eyes, she asked, “Is this something to do with me?”

“Not directly, as far as I can tell.” It was too soon to give firm assurances, but the New Orleans incident had occurred two years ago. If there was a threat to Pippa, surely something would have happened in the meantime.

“Should we consider hiring private security ourselves?” Delia asked.

“Hell, no,” Jim Calloway declared, sparing Jude an answer. “There’s a problem when a man can’t take care of his own family.”

Jude pictured him shooting himself in the foot as he tried to come to grips with his .45 ACP. “If you think of anything, please call us,” she said, getting to her feet. “We really appreciate your time.”

“Are you saying we can go?” Calloway bounded up.

“We have your contact details,” Koertig said.

They walked the Calloways out into the entrance foyer where Griffin Mahanes was still on the phone. He ended the call and said, “I take it my clients are free to return back East.”

Pippa murmured under her breath, “The sooner the better.”

Everyone shook hands and Koertig said, “Good luck with your swing.”

As Calloway herded his wife and daughter out the doors into the late-afternoon sun, he yelled back over his shoulder, “Hey, I’ll send you a postcard of me and Tiger.”

“Wonderful.” Koertig waved.

Jude said, “Nice people skills.”

“Just tell me one thing,” her colleague gloomily responded. “Am I like him?”

Straight-faced, Jude nodded. “Talk about charisma.”

“Yeah, I was hoping you’d say that.”

*

Jude couldn’t sleep. The air-conditioning in her hotel room was noisy and Debbie hadn’t called. Jude reasoned that no news was good news. If she was in any trouble she would have sent a text message even if she couldn’t talk.

At least Sandy would be distracted for the next day or so. If she’d invited Debbie to her lair, she must be serious about keeping their relationship alive. Hopefully she would see the potluck as something simple she could do to make Debby happy, and Jude would gain access to her cabin in Rico on Thursday morning.

Once she’d ascertained Sandy’s status, she would turn the problem over to Arbiter. Her masters were paid to deal with interagency politics. She didn’t want to find herself tangled up in a turf war, or worse, in the middle of an incident everyone would officially deny. A disturbing thought crossed her mind. When she found out who Sandy was and what she was doing, and fed back the data, Arbiter would go up the chain of command and word would reach Sandy’s brass that she was blown. What then? Would they simply extract her and continue with their plans? Would she become a zombie, an agent who “dies” and is set up with a whole new identity? Or would she be seen as disposable?

Jude considered the ramifications. If Sandy was a deniable person in a covert military unit involved in a black op on U.S. soil, she would be looking at a 9mm pension plan, not a transfer. Did Jude want that on her conscience? Sweating suddenly, she shoved her covers aside and reached for the lamp. She could see why Arbiter hadn’t pushed her for results sooner. He obviously hadn’t wanted her to stumble into a sensitive situation when he was in the dark himself.

No wonder the Bureau couldn’t get a fix on her. The Pentagon would have made most of her records vanish, and Sandy had done the rest herself, making sure she cast no shadow. Her secrecy about Canada suddenly made sense. Maybe she knew exactly how this could play out and had arranged her own disappearance in advance. If Arbiter’s worst suspicions were a reality, the government wouldn’t want anyone left alive to tell the story. Sandy had probably covered every base. New identity and legend. Offshore back account. The works.

Her one weak spot was Debbie. She had not expected to fall in love, Jude concluded, and doing so had driven her out in the open more than she’d intended. Now that her lover was suspicious, what would Sandy do—cash in her chips and disappear before completing her mission?

Jude got out of bed and pulled on a T-shirt. Several options took shape in her mind. She could tip Sandy off. Let her know she was about to be blown. Or she could delay her search, find some reason why she couldn’t gain access to Sandy’s house. Or she could carry out the search and tell Arbiter they were wrong and Sandy was just another veteran with mental health issues. Maybe that’s exactly what she would discover, anyway. It seemed like a leap to assume Sandy was involved in this NORTHCOM scenario, even if they were recruiting commandos for a domestic operation. Jude had already concluded Arbiter had to have a basis for his suspicions. He just wasn’t sharing it with her, especially not over the phone. But still, he could be wrong.

She splashed some water on her face. She had to switch her train of thought or her mind would circle endlessly around the maddening unknowns. Without knowing who Sandy really was, she could make no decisions, so there was no point in futile speculation. Jude rested her face in a towel, unable to shake a strange feeling that there was something missing from her mental calculations, something she wasn’t seeing. She supposed a part of her just didn’t buy that Sandy would sign up for a crazy operation like the one Arbiter was hinting at.

If there was one thing she’d noticed about her taciturn subject over the past year, it was her mistrust of the government. She didn’t mouth off, and she avoided political discussions, but Jude had picked up on the little things. Sandy was deeply patriotic. She despised politicians. She thought everything on the news media was propaganda. Once, at Debbie’s place, Jude had overheard her call the White House and the Pentagon “evil.” Would she really work for them?

Jude made herself a cup of herb tea because it was crazy to drink coffee at 2:00 a.m. and she needed to get some sleep tonight. She and Koertig were meeting early tomorrow to search Fabian Maulle’s house again. She sat on the sofa and opened her laptop. Her e-mail included one from Mercy. As usual, Jude selected it and hit Delete. She scanned the others. None deserved an intelligent reply at this time of night.

For want of anything better to do, she picked up her cassette recorder and wound it back to the Oscar interview. She hadn’t found the time to listen to it again since she wrote up the transcript, and she wondered if she’d missed any other clues about the Russian suspects. She played the parrot’s Russian chatter and Pippa’s comments a few times, then let the tape run. At the quotation from Browning’s poem she rewound and played the passage again.

Oscar, when asked where “the box” was, had answered unhelpfully, “God’s in his heaven. All’s right with the world.”

Pippa said her uncle used to recite that verse to her as a child.

Jude entered the text in Google and up came the title: Pippa Passes. The coincidence of the name was too stark and too obvious to be unintentional. Jude jumped up and located the inventory of books Koertig had prepared. The Browning title wasn’t listed. She read down the page more slowly, looking for general poetry collections. Nothing. She paused as another detail struck her. The self-help book she’d seen Maulle’s living room wasn’t there either. Koertig had only listed the titles thrown around Fabian’s ransacked office.

She reached for her cell phone, then changed her mind and plopped back down on the sofa. What was she going to do—wake up the primary in the middle of the night and ask him if he saw a book of poems at the house? Jude sipped the musty-tasting tea and resigned herself to reading the complete verse on her computer. There was no accounting for taste, she thought, as she digested line after line of what appeared to be a play in which a girl called “Pippa” sang awful songs, got dressed, and went for a stroll. Jude doubted this had been a bestseller, even when the author was alive.

Yawning, she persevered and located the line Oscar had quoted. It appeared in the middle of a scene in which a woman and her lover were talking, having murdered the woman’s husband. The language was so murky and confusing, Jude gave up trying to find a clue and skimmed the rest of the story. Thoroughly sedated by the time she reached the unsatisfying conclusion, she closed her computer and stumbled back to bed.

Killing the lamp, she closed her eyes and repeated, “God’s in His heaven. All’s right with the world.” Did anybody really believe that?

Chapter Fourteen

Jude found Pippa Passes in one of the spare bedrooms. She could see from the lush decor that Maulle had probably intended this to be his niece’s room.

“Bring in a team,” she told Koertig, forgetting who was in charge, “and tear this space apart. Walls, ceiling, floorboards. Everything.”

“What are we looking for?”

“A box. That’s all I can tell you.”

They’d spent an hour searching the house and Jude was certain if anything was here they would find it where Maulle had placed the book. She opened the slim leather volume, a first edition, and froze at the inscription inside the cover:

To Fabian,

For saving my life.

Yitzhak

September, 1995

Jude flipped through the pages until she found the strange murder scene. “Jesus,” she said.

“What have you got.”

“Some basic encryption.” The kind a technophobe could cope with. Maulle, she assumed, had underlined words through the Ottima and Sebald scene.

She handed the book to Koertig, who pulled out his notebook and sat down on the bed.

“He didn’t even scramble the words,” he reported after a few seconds.

Jude read over his shoulder. “‘Under noisy washing garments foul proof. A lie that walks, and eats, and drinks! Discovery of the truth will be frightful. Break the secret, little girl.’”

“Under noisy washing garments,” Koertig repeated.

“Okay, so we tear the laundry room apart, too,” Jude said. “First, let’s go lift that washing machine.”

*

“What are you saying?” Pippa stared down at the paper the family attorney slid across the table. The legalese made as little sense as the information she’d just heard.

“He’s saying your uncle couldn’t resist stabbing this family in the back,” her mother replied. “Maulle Mansion is to become, of all things, an art school for disadvantaged young people who—”

“For punks who think ‘motherfucker’ is a normal form of address,” her father completed.

“Everything else goes to you except the London house, which comes to me.” It was hard to tell if her mother was pleased that Uncle Fabian’s loot would remain in the family, or aggravated that Pippa was the one getting most of it.

“Minus the fifty million endowment for the Maulle school of art,” the attorney pointed out. “And miscellaneous bequests to charity, individuals, and so forth. Mr. Maulle was very generous with several long-term staff.”

“What in the world was he thinking?” her father mourned.

“I don’t want his money,” Pippa said.

“Then you can sign it over to us,” her mother snapped.

The attorney glanced at her as if assessing whether she was serious. Returning his even gaze to Pippa, he said. “I would recommend you retain independent counsel, Ms. Calloway.”

“And she has done so,” Griffin Mahanes announced. “My client would like to see a rough estimate of the estate’s value if one is available at this time.”

“I’m not your client,” Pippa said. “My parents hired you.”

“No money has changed hands, and let me say this, if ever there was a client more in need of representation than yourself, I haven’t met one.”

For the first time since they’d met, Pippa thought he was probably telling the truth. “Don’t I have to give you a dollar or something?”

He stroked his gray and pink silk tie. “Yet again I owe that hack a debt of gratitude.”

“Who, John Grisham?” Delia Calloway looked askance. “I adored The Client.”

“You’re a criminal defense counsel, Griffin,” Pippa’s father said. “Isn’t this a matter for an estate attorney?”

“Probate’s the least of your daughter’s problems,” came the silky reply. “She still hasn’t been cleared of suspicion in a homicide.” A pair of hazel-gold eyes sought Pippa’s. “What do you think, Ms. Calloway? Me or the lapdog your folks will choose for you?”

Pippa took a one dollar note from her pocket and slid it across the table. Someone had defaced it with a marker, giving Washington big pink lips. “You’re officially hired, Mr. Mahanes. Does this mean I can go to Uncle Fabian’s house and unpack my stuff?”

“Absolutely. I understand the sheriff intends to release the house for occupancy on Friday.”

Her mother fidgeted with the pearls at her throat. “You can’t possibly intend to stay in that house. Be sensible, darling. Come back to Boston with me.”

“Why?”

“You can’t stay all alone in the home where Fabian was murdered,” her mother replied. “What if the killer comes back? Did you think about that?”

“I hope he does. I’d like to blow his brains out.”

“You’ve never even held a gun,” her father said.

“Neither have you,” Pippa flung back. She felt immature bickering with her parents, but she still couldn’t keep her mouth shut.

“Any moron can learn how to shoot.” Griffin Mahanes glanced through some papers the other attorney passed to him. “I should know. I defend them all the time.”

“I told you I was going to live out here,” Pippa said.

Her parents shared perplexed frowns, as though they hadn’t been present during the row when she told them she wasn’t going to be a dentist. They also seemed to have forgotten telling her she couldn’t expect a cent of financial support from them if she embarked on an art career.

“You can turn the conservatory into a studio for your sculpting,” her mother said. “We never use it.”

“I know.” Pippa had been begging to convert that space since she was fifteen.

She glanced down at a note Griffin Mahanes held in front of her. It read, You are disgustingly wealthy. Rough guess $250 million after tax and my fees. And that’s only what this sap knows about. She lowered her head to rest in one hand. For a few seconds she thought she was going to faint.

“Are you all right?” her mother asked. “You’re very pale.”

“Is there anything I need to sign or can I go now?” Pippa stood.

Griffin Mahanes stood with her, sliding his papers into a briefcase. “Ms. Calloway is tired. We can continue this discussion at a later date.”

“You can’t just leave,” her mother said indignantly.

“What else is there to talk about?” Pippa dropped a kiss on her father’s cheek. “Watch your putting.”

He beamed happily. All she had to do was mention his first love and he forgot to be angry with her. Ignoring her mother’s cold stare, she gave Griffin Mahanes a quick nod and he accompanied her from the room.

As they reached the lobby, he said, “Well done, and remember something—you no longer ask, you tell.”

A giggle curdled with the heartburn rising in Pippa’s throat. “I wasn’t joking, you know. I don’t want all that money. I wouldn’t know what to do with it.”

“Spoken like a true child of privilege.”

Pippa gave him a look.

“You’re paying handsomely for my advice, so let me give you some,” her new attorney said. “Spend the next year trying to make it on your own without touching that cash, then tell me you don’t care.”

With mild embarrassment, Pippa reflected on all she took for granted. The need to earn her own living hadn’t factored into her decisions about her life. Her parents had paid for her education and Uncle Fabian had promised to support her while she discovered if she could make it as an artist. Most people didn’t have her choices.

“You’re right,” Pippa acknowledged. “I’ve never had to think about it.”

“It’s not a crime to be rich,” Mahanes said. “I make no apologies for earning more than anyone should. The crime is when money is wasted on morons. Maybe your uncle thought you were better than that.”

Pippa was silent, remembering conversations when her uncle had asked her what she would do about various problems if she had the power to make change. She’d always felt that her opinions mattered to him. None of the other adults in her life had ever bothered to find out what she really believed in.

“Let’s face it,” Mahanes said. “If he wanted to leave his money to a bimbo fashionista, he made a big mistake.”

Pippa laughed. “You’re not as creepy and amoral as I thought.”

Griffin Mahanes lowered his sunglasses and regarded her with mock dejection. “Don’t tell anyone.”

*

“Where are you?” Jude asked, sandwiching her phone between ear and shoulder as she lugged a floorboard out into Maulle’s backyard.

“I’m still at Lone’s. I can’t talk for long.”

“How’s it going?”

“Wonderful.” Debbie sounded elated. “I feel like she’s really listening to me. She apologized for being secretive. The thing is, she’s been going to the house she and Madeline lived in, just taking care of it. But she thought I’d be upset if I knew, so she didn’t tell me.”

Christ. She had a second property, no doubt in her deceased partner’s name. Jude felt like an idiot. “Where’s the house?”

“In Utah,” Debbie said vaguely. “She’s going to take me to see it, so I know she’s telling me the truth.”

“That’s wonderful,” Jude said. “When are you going?”

“Probably on Sunday.” Debbie sighed. “I’m so relieved. You’ve got no idea.”

“Me, too,” Jude said. If she couldn’t get to Rico on Thursday, she would have the place to herself on the weekend. Thank God.

Koertig staggered out of the house with a stack of planks. Jude helped him prop them against the fence.

“There’s a false floor,” he panted. “I’m going round to the garage to check out the tools.”

Jude covered the mouthpiece. “Take a break. I’ll be with you in a few.”

“I’ve got a better idea.” Koertig said, wiping his face. “I’m calling in a team. Why should we break our backs?”

“You’re the man,” Jude said. As he vanished back into the laundry room, she said, “Sorry about that, Debbie.”

“It’s okay, I have to go anyway. I’m out back in the privy. It’s not exactly pleasant.”

“Holy shit, no wonder she likes staying at your place.”

Debbie laughed. “This place is definitely primitive. Although the views are amazing.”

“Is it just the one cabin or is there actually a whole ghost town?”

“She’s got a couple of sheds,” Debbie said. “But there’s nothing else up here except trees.”

“That’s a shame. I thought it might be fun to explore.”

“I don’t think hikers make it up here very often.”

“The access sounds like a pain,” Jude said, like she’d just lost interest. “Hey, are you coming back to Paradox tomorrow for the potluck?”

“Yes!” Debbie squealed softly. “I told her friends are important to me and they should be important to her, too.”

Amazed that Sandy wasn’t putting up more opposition, Jude said, “Great, so I’ll see you then. Don’t fall down a mine shaft or anything.”

Debbie giggled softly, then said, “Jude. Thanks. This means a lot to me.”

“I’m happy for you,” Jude said, thinking, Jerk.

They said good-bye and she poked the cell phone into her back pocket. Sticking her head in the back door, she surveyed the damage. They’d shifted the washing machine into the kitchen, and the laundry room no longer had a floor. Jude picked her way across the joist framing to the kitchen. Koertig was right. She couldn’t see girders, just another floor about eight inches below.

She found her colleague on the front verandah talking to a couple of the rookie detectives assigned to the case.

“They were on their way out here already,” Koertig said, handing her a document. “The necropsy report came in. You want to read it while we lift the rest of that floor?”

“Knock yourself out.”

The men collected up various tools Koertig must have found in the garage and traipsed into the house. A few minutes later, Jude heard the sounds of sawing and torn timber. She took her time reading the report. Coco had died instantly from a single shot to the head. Time of death was estimated at 4:00 p.m., which ruled Pippa out completely. Her tire was still being repaired at 3:36 p.m. She could not have made it from Towaoc to her uncle’s home in under half an hour.

Maulle’s killers had spent almost forty minutes at the property. The bloody footprints suggested only one of them was upstairs with the victim. Was one man responsible for the hit while the other waited in the car, keeping a lookout? Oscar the parrot had recited what could have been a cell phone conversation in Russian.

“Detective?” One of the rookies interrupted her. “You might want to see this.”

Jude followed him to the laundry room, where Koertig was poised over a recess in the floor taking photographs. Blinking against the flash pops, Jude stared down at a dust-covered stainless steel box the size of a small file drawer. It was padlocked. She handed her car keys to the detective she’d followed inside.

“You’ll find bolt cutters in the back of my Dakota.”

Koertig and the other rookie hauled the box out and carried it into the living room.

“This had better be good,” Jude said.

She needed to return to Paradox by this evening. It was time she visited Harrison Hawke for an update, and she wanted to help Agatha get organized for the potluck tomorrow. On her way out of town, she needed to drag her deputy away from dog training and send him to Telluride. SAC Hill wanted someone who knew the festival present at the first meeting with the organizers.

“Go ahead,” Koertig told the young detective who’d returned with the bolt cutters.

The lock fell to the floor a few seconds later and everyone stared at the box. Koertig, enjoying the prerogative of the primary, lifted the lid. A cloudbust of white Styrofoam packing peanuts floated out. Jude picked up a stack of evidence bags from a coffee table and pulled on a pair of fresh latex gloves. The young detectives fished around their pockets. Koertig referred them to a stack of gloves the forensic team had helpfully left on the dining room sideboard. A few pairs he’d split lay nearby along with a pile of spilled fingerprint powder. The crime scene cleanup crew would be in on Thursday to return the house to its pristine pre-murder condition, a service paid for by Maulle’s insurance company.

Jude scooped the peanuts from the box, pausing to enable Koertig to photograph the contents as she lifted them out. “Looks like our vic backed up his computer after all.”

She pulled out a couple of zip drives and a storage box of CDs, all labeled with dates.

“Floppy discs,” one of the detectives marveled. “You don’t see these anymore.”

“Old home movies.” Jude bagged several Super 8mm reels, then dug down to a set of notebooks. She held them up for Koertig, scooped away the last of the peanuts, and lifted out a heavy stack of large yellow business envelopes.

She opened the first and withdrew a set of glossy photographs. They had the heavily saturated hues of 1980s Kodacolor. She only had to glance at the subjects and poses to know why Maulle had hidden this stash away.

“Child pornography,” she said, sliding the pictures back into their envelope.

“Jesus,” Koertig said. “Why would he want his niece to find this shit?”

“I’ll leave you to figure that out,” Jude said. “I need to get going.”

Koertig walked out to the pickup with her. She could see he’d picked up on her mood. “You okay?”

“When I left Crimes Against Children, I hoped I’d never see that stuff again.”

“I’ll take care of it,” Koertig said.

“Record everything,” Jude told him. “Copy all the images and send them to CVIP for analysis and victim identification.”

Koertig shoved his hands in his pockets as though he wasn’t sure what to do with them. “I thought Maulle was an okay guy.”

“So did his family,” Jude said. “Let’s hold off breaking the news for a few days. They have enough to deal with, and we need to process all the evidence before we leap to conclusions. There’s a lot more to this case than porn.”

“You got it.”

“I’ll check in later.” She had a thought. “You might want to start with the notebooks. They could help put everything else in context.”

“Great,” said Koertig. “Diaries of a sicko.”

*

Jude walked around the side of Deputy Sherman’s house and crossed the long back yard to the wire mesh fence that surrounded the dog-training area. As she’d expected, Tulley was there living his dream, hanging upside down on a climbing frame while Smoke’m licked his face. Gavin Sherman had his K-9 poised on a teeter-totter. Jude had the impression the Belgian Malinois thought the exercise was child’s play and only tolerated these puerile games to indulge his human.

Sherman gave Jude a proud wave and called, “Afternoon, Detective. Beer’s in the fridge. Help yourself.”

Tulley lost his balance and fell off the frame trying to greet her. Yelling, “Watch this, ma’am,” he flailed a padded arm and encouraged Smoke’m to attack.

The hound sat down next to him and yawned. Jude could not foresee them bringing home a $10,000 prize. She followed the concrete path to the back door and located the kitchen. The Shermans were remodeling. Drawers were stacked on the kitchen counter next to a belt sander, and various tools were strewn around.

As Jude hunted for a bottle opener, she realized she wasn’t alone in the house. At first she thought the sounds she could hear were coming from a TV, then she listened more carefully and froze. Small shrill moans were punctuated with thuds, as if a woman in the back of the house was tied up and struggling to free herself.

For a split second, Jude considered rushing outside to get help, but the sounds were getting louder and she couldn’t take the risk. She unholstered her weapon, flipped the safety, and crept rapidly along the hallway toward the back of the house. Her mind raced through possible scenarios. Sherman had a wife. Had she been accosted in her own home while her husband was out back teaching his dog to climb ladders?

“Oh, God. Stop. Please. I can’t take any more.” Frantic female cries came from behind the door a few feet away.

Jude closed the distance, soft-checked the handle, then kicked the door open and stepped back, yelling, “County Sheriff. Show me your hands.”

She advanced into the room in a semicircle, checking over her shoulder to make sure there were no other assailants. Two adults occupied the bed. Both had their backs to her, the male kneeling over the female.

He raised his hands and said, “Oh, man.”

The “victim” he was having sex with craned around to demand, “Who are you? What are you doing in my home?” She was red-faced and panting.

Jude stalked over to the bed to get a better look at the “offender.” She lowered her weapon. “Bobby Lee?”

“Do you two know each other?” The victim pulled a sheet around her breasts.

“Tell her,” Jude invited.

“This is Tulley’s boss,” Bobby Lee said.

“Oh, crap. Please don’t say anything,” the blonde begged.

“Are you Mrs. Sherman?”

“Yes, I’m Crystal.” A panicky whine. “Where’s Gavin?”

Jude was incredulous. “You two are fucking while her husband is out in the yard?”

Crystal gave her a sulky look. “If he didn’t live out there, this wouldn’t be happening.”

“Don’t you have a day job?” Jude asked.

“I sell male enhancement products on eBay.”

Bobby Lee asked, “Do those work?”

“You don’t need any help in that department, sugar,” Crystal said, placing a purposeful paw beneath the sheets.

Jude groaned. “What were you thinking?” she asked Bobby Lee.

Before he could reply, the thud of footsteps in the hallway was followed by a shrill bleat of dismay. Tulley stepped into the bedroom, his ears cranberry red. In disbelief, he stared at Jude, then at the gun she still held loosely at her side.

“Don’t shoot,” he squeaked. “It’s all my fault.”

“You two, get dressed, for Chrissakes.” She holstered the Glock, took Tulley’s arm, and escorted him out into the living room. “You knew this was going on?”

“Bobby said it wouldn’t matter none to you,” Tulley whined. “If I would have known—”

“I’m not the problem.” Jude marched him to the kitchen and pointed out the window. “That’s the problem.”

Even as she said the words, she realized she was looking at an opportunity. Being “cheated on” by Bobby Lee meant she could terminate their “relationship” and receive sympathy. Her hetero credentials would remain intact but she could get rid of the “boyfriend” who legitimized them. She and Bobby Lee had been trying to find a way to close down their “beard” operation, mostly because it cramped his style. But Jude also disliked the deception. It was one thing to leave assumptions uncorrected, another to have to lie blatantly to the few people she felt close to.

Backtracking slightly, she said, “What I’m saying is, of course I’m upset, but I’m not going to go crazy and risk my career over a no-good, cheating boyfriend. But out there is a husband who’s a law officer.”

“I told Bobby Lee this was a darn fool idea.”

“Well, he’s not a big listener when it comes to chasing skirt.”

“Ain’t that the truth?” Tulley gave her a sickly grin. “I mean—”

“It’s a bit late to spare my feelings,” Jude said.

“You have to understand something.” Tulley’s tone took on a frantic quality. Predictably, he tried to paint his best friend in a rosier light. “That Crystal, she’s a man chaser. She can’t keep her hands to herself. Bobby Lee said she’s processing something and acting out inappropriately.”

“Please tell me you’re not sleeping with her, too.”

“No, she laid off of me soon as she saw Bobby Lee.”

“Well, that’s lovely.”

Tulley studied the floor. “Sorry.”

“It was bound to happen sooner or later.” Jude gave his shoulder a poke. “Now, listen carefully. You can’t tell anyone about this. If Sherman found out, well, I’d hate to think what he might do. You don’t want a colleague ruining his career over a cheating wife, do you?”

“No, ma’am.”

“This unfortunate situation calls for a creative approach. Obviously, I’m going to dump Bobby Lee’s ass.”

Loyally, her deputy said, “He’s sure asking for it.”

“So, we have an opportunity.”

Tulley squinted. “How’s that?”

“You’re going to circulate the story that I came around here all riled up and tore him a new one because I found out he’s been seeing a woman in Durango.”

“That’ll work. Everyone already knows about her.”

Jude produced a shocked expression. “Do you mean to tell me Mrs. Sherman isn’t the only one?”

Tulley gulped. “I thought you knew.”

“Apparently I’m the last person to find out my boyfriend’s still up to his old tricks.” Jude heaved a loud, self-pitying sigh. “How embarrassing.”

“I know for a fact those women don’t mean a thing to him,” Tulley blurted.

Jude treated this thin consolation with the contempt it deserved. “I’ve had about all I can take. I’m going back in there.”

Tulley hurried to stand in her path, his dark amber eyes flashing in panic. “Don’t do something you’ll regret. He’s not worth it, boss.”

“Get out of my way,” Jude said. “It’s time he learned his lesson.” She shoved Tulley aside, noting, “You’ve packed on some muscle, Deputy.”

As he beamed into the mirror at the end of the hall, she threw open the door to the master bedroom and pointed at Crystal Sherman. “You, get out of here and go make nice to your husband before he finds out he married a slut. As for you”—while Crystal looked on in horror, she spun Bobbie Lee around and handcuffed him—“you’re coming with me.”

“What are you going to do to him?” Crystal whined.

“Want to find out?” Jude produced a spare set of handcuffs and waved them in front of the nympho wife’s startled face. “These are for you if you’re not out of my sight in five seconds.”

As Crystal scuttled from the room, Bobbie Lee said, “I guess this is gonna be all over town and I’ll be a hunted man.”

“Relax,” Jude told him. “We can leave Crystal out of this. It’s that woman in Durango I’m pissed about.”

He craned around at her, his blond cowlick falling across his eyes. “The waitress or the teacher?”

From the doorway, Tulley said, “There’s this program at the United Church. Sexaholics Anonymous.”

“How would you know?” Bobby Lee asked, not unreasonably.

Tulley chose to ignore the question, instead negotiating on his friend’s behalf, asking Jude, “If he promises to join the program, will you let him loose?”

“No.” She hustled Bobby Lee out into the living room and through the front door.

As they reached the Dakota, Gavin Sherman strode out from behind the house, Crystal hanging off his arm. Her breasts heaving beneath her snugly fitting crop-top, she planted her hands on her hips and shrilly informed Bobby Lee, “I bet you’re sorry now, asshole!”

Before Bobby Lee could utter a bemused word, Sherman’s fist connected with his jaw and he sagged against Jude.

“That’s for trying to grope my wife,” the deputy said. With a respectful nod at Jude, he added, “You can consider that a blow in defense of your honor, too, Detective. If there’s one thing I can’t tolerate, that’s a cheat.”

“Fair enough.” Jude signaled Tulley. “Wrap up whatever you’re doing with that hound and meet me at headquarters in an hour. You’re wanted in Telluride.”

“Me? Why?”

“Because none of the FBI agents are handsome enough to charm the organizers.”

Tulley studied her face uncertainly.

Jude said, “That was a joke, Deputy.”

Fidgeting, he asked, “Where are you taking Bobby Lee?”

“Somewhere I can beat him up without witnesses.”

Sherman clapped Tulley across the shoulder. “Hell hath no fury” was his cheerful verdict. “Come on, buddy. Let’s go work that A-frame before you head back.”

As soon as they were out of sight, Jude removed the handcuffs from Bobby Lee and helped him up. “Are you okay?”

He cradled his face. “I’m ruined.”

Jude lifted his hand away to inspect the damage. “You’ll live. Apart from the bloody nose, you’ll just have puffiness and bruising.”

“Oh, that’s just perfect. Did you plan this?” he asked suspiciously.

“No. Did you?”

He shook his head. “Tulley couldn’t handle her, so I intervened.”

“I appreciate that. Sorry about your face.”

“It’s not the first time.” Bobby Lee held out his hand. “Friends?”

“Absolutely.” Jude dropped a quick kiss on his undamaged cheek after the handshake. She’d grown fond of her phony boyfriend in the two years of their fictional relationship. “Stay away from Crystal.”

“You bet your ass I will.” He tried to flash his teeth but winced in pain. “Stay away from Dr. Westmoreland.”

“I’m working on it. Are you going to that goddamned soirée?”

“Yeah, Agatha sweet-talked me into it. Are you?”

“Uh-huh.” Jude had arrived at a brilliant plan. She was going to invite Hill on the pretext that they would be seeing various Telluride Film Festival luminaries and could gather intelligence. In reality, she planned to flaunt Hill in front of Mercy to prove that she’d moved on.

Bobby Lee said, “Unbelievable. I’m going to have a black eye when I meet the beautiful people.”

“You’ll look like a bad boy.”

He grinned crookedly. “Aren’t you tempted by that, my darling?”

Jude laughed. “Get out of here before I blacken the other one.”

Chapter Fifteen

Jude pulled into the CRAP compound slightly after 8:00 a.m. For a Wednesday morning, the place buzzed with frenetic activity. Weary from the past several days, she leaned against her pickup and fought off a yawn. She needed coffee.

“My Valkyrie.” Harrison Hawke strode toward her from amidst a group of fellow fanatics, all in black uniform. They stared as he applied his dry lips delicately to her hand. “I wasn’t expecting to see you.”

“I hope this isn’t a bad time.”

His response came creepily close to a simper. “I am entirely at your disposal, Fräulein, regardless of the hour.”

He escorted her toward his barricaded dwelling, acknowledging heel clicks and salutes with sharp nods.

“Are you holding a training day?” Jude asked as soon as they were alone in front of the surveillance monitors in the Nazified living room.

“In a manner of speaking.” Hawke removed his black visor cap and dropped to his knees in front of her.

Staring down at his shiny bullet head, Jude thought, Oh, shit. Here it comes.

“Actions speak louder than words,” her suitor intoned. “The pages of the pan-Aryan struggle will be stained in blood and anointed with the honor and courage of those who sacrificed all. Among the names of those who founded the new White Homeland, yours will be emblazoned directly below mine.”

Jude said, “Harrison, what about your knee surgery? We could sit down.”

He gave a sharp, grateful nod and got to his feet with a grunt. They sat in the club chairs opposite the stone fireplace. As though to draw inspiration, Hawke gazed up his painting of Adolf Hitler for several revitalizing seconds. He then clutched Jude’s hand.

“Crucial decisions have been made since we last spoke. A new banner has been erected. The bell tolls and an initiative is underway to eliminate the false obstacles that divide us. We must shake loose the Manchurian candidates draining the lifeblood from our movement.”

So far, the strangest marriage proposal Jude had ever heard.

“The gauntlet has been thrown down.” His voice rose. “Petty dissent and ego-politics must be crushed if we are to usher in a new era. The cop-out of leaderless resistance must be strangled at birth.”

“You’re going to meet with the ASS,” Jude deduced.

Hawke’s fingers poked between hers. They felt like lukewarm breakfast links. He said, “This Sunday. On neutral territory.”

“Where?”

“They proposed Ghost Canyon. I haven’t sent my response yet.”

Jude shook her head. “No, you’re too far from help out there. Access is via a bottleneck. And cell phone signal drops out in the canyon. Sounds like a trap to me.”

She knew the area well, spending at least half her time on calls relating to campsite thefts and missing cattle. The canyons had provided a haven for rustlers and outlaws for the past 150 years. If you wanted to disappear, or make someone else disappear, the opportunities were infinite.

“I have the greatest respect for your feminine instincts.” Hawke finally released her hand so he could fondle the reproduction SS dagger at his side. “Do you have a suggestion?”

“Lone Burro, the old mining camp just outside of Bedrock.”

“I’m not familiar with it.”

“Secluded but accessible. You can Jeep in and out. Close to a main highway. Excellent sniper positions. You can own this venue, Harrison.” She tossed the baited hook. “Perhaps there’s some advice I can offer, since I know the location. I’m willing to accompany you and your men. In plain clothes, of course.”

Hawke’s head flushed pink along with his face. His voice filled with emotion. “Fräulein, how can I ask you to take such a risk?”

“There is too much at stake for me not to.”

As she feared, this declaration spurred Hawke to pick up where he’d left off earlier. This time he stood to attention before her.

“Your noble idealism would be an inspiration to any man. For me, it fuels a flame that devours all doubt. In his darkest hours, der Führer reached out to the woman who shared his destiny throughout the greatest struggle of the century. He honored her sacrifice as I honor yours. Geliebte Fräulein, I—”

“Harrison, we serve a higher goal and must never lose sight of that,” Jude interrupted. “The personal cannot be permitted to eclipse the political.”

Hawke drew her to her feet. “And when the two coincide?”

With a sigh, Jude placed a firm hand to his cheek. “The time will come when we can indulge ourselves in dreams, but that time is still in the future.” Allowing a catch to enter her voice, she said, “Sometimes I feel despair.”

He covered her hand with his own. Rare softness infiltrated his watery gaze. “Why, mein Schatz? Tell me what’s troubling you.”

“It will take more than words to organize the movement. I know you have the backing of a wealthy donor, but it won’t be enough. Even if you can change the mind of the ASS leader and the April unity meeting goes well, how will we finance growth?”

Hawke tucked her arm into his and steered her toward the front door. “Put your mind at ease. We’re not alone. The vision of a White Homeland has mobilized many across the globe, and a network of supporters is now channeling funds to my organization.”

Jude gave him an uncertain smile.

Hawke couldn’t resist a boast. “The CRAP is going to enter a business arrangement with my contacts in Argentina. The profits we earn will support our growth and fund the CPA.”

“Your new political party?”

“Yes, the Christian Patriots Alliance.”

Jude asked no more questions. She didn’t want to pressure Hawke into making disclosures. He had a suspicious turn of mind. As if she’d already lost interest, she said, “Well, it sounds like you have everything in hand. I should have known.”

Preening, he said, “I built the best organization in the racialist movement from nothing. Imagine what I can do with fifty million dollars.”

Jude wasn’t faking her surprise. “Fifty million,” she breathed. “Is a donation like that legal?”

“No, but that’s the beauty of the arrangement,” Hawke said. “The money is invisible. No IRS. No tax. No paper trail.”

“Don’t tell me anything.” Jude covered her ears. “For your own protection.”

Hawke flashed his small, pointy teeth. “I feel safe, my dear. Perfectly safe.”

As they stepped out into the brilliant sunlight, his men rushed to form ranks, standing at stiff attention. Jude could feel their eyes on her. She wasn’t close enough to read each facial expression but she could sense the distrust. Height, muscles, clean-shaved faces, and prevalence of blond dye jobs distinguished Hawke’s fighting force. They were also smarter than their kindred in the ASS.

The man of the hour, Hawke made a solemn announcement. “Brothers, we will soon be called upon to act. In the struggle for white self-determination, unity is essential, but our enemies are bent on dividing us. With its unlimited money and spying power, the government has infiltrated our movement, creating a cauldron of chaos where there should be order. As we stand here, they are fomenting a plot to discredit us.

“In the approaching days, I will call upon each man among you to join with me in crushing this threat.” Hawke paused, seemingly weighed down all of a sudden. “Brothers, because of the sense of honor that is our genetic birthright, it is naturally repugnant to us to fight our own kindred. But make no mistake, a larger ideal is at stake here and every white patriot must make a choice. Unity or death.”

In one voice, his men bellowed, “Unity or death.”

Jude felt like she’d stumbled onto the set of a movie. Its title was What the Fuck Am I Doing Here?

*

“Hello, stranger,” Jude greeted Sandy Lane like they were old friends.

She had half expected a no-show at the last minute, but Sandy had apparently decided her relationship was important and she had to make an effort. Her eyes bored into Jude’s. Debbie called them Windex blue. She was right.

Sandy indicated a steak. “That’s overcooked.”

Jude poked the guilty party with her fork. Yes, indeed, the perfect sirloin for the wimp who gagged on medium rare. She flipped it onto the platter next to the grill and remarked in a conversational tone, “Debbie tells me you’ve been on vacation.”

Sandy was only five-eight, but she made Jude feel physically threatened. The sensation unsettled her. She rarely felt at a disadvantage, even with men taller and heavier than she was. But around Sandy, she was acutely aware of every vulnerability.

As if she could read Jude’s mind, Sandy asked, “How’s that ankle coming along?”

Jude produced a chagrined shrug. “Things heal a whole lot faster when you’re twentysomething.” It suited her if Sandy thought she was off her game.

“That shit about heating pads. Don’t buy it,” Sandy advised. “Long term, ice works better.”

“Funny you should say that. I feel like the anti-inflammatories aren’t helping.”

“Is it still painful.”

Wouldn’t you like to know? Jude made a show of tough talk, as though she was covering the truth. “Not so much. Walking and driving are okay. I still can’t ride a horse.”

“That’s a drag.” Sandy tucked her thumb in her belt and propped herself against the pillar at their end of the stationhouse verandah. She took a slug of beer and ran the back of her hand across her lips.

Jude found herself fascinated by the corded muscles of her neck and the swell of her shoulders and biceps. Sandy hadn’t slacked off over summer. If anything, she’d stepped up her physical conditioning. She was a little leaner, like she’d added some distance running, and her movements were more fluid, probably thanks to martial arts. Jude decided she’d also been pain training. She was combat ready and focused, her muscles not just for show. Jude had never seen her so calm. A scary composure supplanted the tense urgency she often exuded. Whatever she was planning, the transition phase was underway, Jude decided, and her lethal serenity was a sign of confidence in her mission.

“If you keep looking at me that way,” Sandy drawled, “I’ll think you want to fuck me.”

Jude dropped the steak she was trying to transfer. Controlling her breathing, she glanced swiftly around the friends and locals who’d shown up for the potluck and barbecue. No one was paying any attention. The music and laughter had drowned out Sandy’s voice. She and Jude were the only people standing near the grill. Everyone had gathered around Tulley and Smoke’m. He’d just arrived back from his Telluride assignment and wanted to show off.

“Is that your cute way of telling me I’m so sex-starved it shows?” Jude asked casually.

“Still striking out?”

Jude forced a self-effacing grin. “Just lucky, I guess.”

Sandy swept her up and down, eyes glinting. “You’re looking kind of soft, but you’ve still got the right stuff. If I were a ninety-pound weakling with a thing for women in uniform, I’d date you.”

“Coming from you, that’s a real lift.” Jude slid a couple more steaks onto the plate. “So, enough with the foreplay. Where were you hunting?”

Sandy set her beer down on the table. “What makes you think I went hunting?”

“That fact that you won’t tell Debbie where you’ve been.” She watched Sandy register the reply. Like a co-conspirator, she said, “If I were you, I wouldn’t tell her either. Killing Bambi? No, you’d have to be nuts.”

Sandy gave a noncommittal shrug.

“Friends of mine just brought home an eight-hundred-pound bull elk.” Jude pressed forward with the hunt narrative. “Debbie might change her mind about your vanishing acts if you showed up with enough meat to fill her freezer.”

“Debbie doesn’t want for anything.” Sandy sounded a little stung.

“Don’t tell me you just take the rack.” Jude showed her distaste. “That’s depraved.”

Sandy moved away from the pillar. She took the fork from Jude and stabbed a steak. “You’re not concentrating. This is beyond well done.” She was so close, her skin brushed Jude’s. As she rearranged everything on the grill, she said, “I don’t kill for fun.”

Jude caught her scent. Sharp, clean, just salty enough to suggest a trickle of sweat down her spine. “I had a feeling about that.”

Sandy stayed close, asking softly, “What’s with all the questions?”

“I told you, I’m the one your girlfriend talks to. She’s been asking me if you’re having an affair.”

“What did you tell her?”

“The truth. I’m a detective. Frequent unexplained absences aren’t a good sign.”

“You never heard of minding your own business?”

“Maybe if you talked to your partner a bit more, she wouldn’t drag other people into your domestic dramas.”

Sandy stiffened. She oozed danger. “Debbie knows she can trust me.”

Refusing to be intimidated, Jude reclaimed the fork and added the rest of the cooked meat to the plate. She decided to push. “Not so long ago, you asked me to take care of her if anything happened to you. I’ve been thinking about that.”

“And?” Sandy reached past her for her beer.

Jude’s stomach plummeted, and every sense quivered its awareness of the hard body close to hers. An ache spread through her. She felt weak for a moment as blood rushed to her extremities. Her heart was noisy in its work, pumping and pounding. The barbecue was ready. She should wave everyone over. Her arm refused to comply.

“Is there something I should know?” She looked Sandy in the eye. “If you’re tangled up in a problem situation, you can tell me. I’m not a blabbermouth.”

Sandy lowered her beer bottle to her side, suspending it casually from the neck. She stepped in even closer. Her breath warmed Jude’s neck. One of her nipples rolled like a warm marble across Jude’s arm. “What are you suggesting?”

That you’re full of shit, Jude thought. She watched Sandy’s pupils dilate and contract in a split second, inky droplets haloed in radiant blue. “I guess I’m asking if you’re okay.”

“You care? I’m touched.” Sandy lifted the beer bottle, lightly moving the glass lip over Jude’s hard nipples. “For me?”

“Don’t flatter yourself.” Jude took a step back, colliding with the table. The plates wobbled and a tall glass fell off.

As it smashed, Sandy said, “Loosen up, Detective. I’m just messing with you.”

Shocked to find herself damp-skinned and breathing quickly, Jude said, “You didn’t answer my question.”

Sandy’s mouth quirked, like she was laughing at a private joke. “Do I seem okay to you?”

“How the fuck would I know?”

“You wouldn’t.”

Aggravated by her placid unconcern, Jude turned off the grill. The more she thought about her conversation with Arbiter, the likely it seemed to her that Sandy was involved in something covert. If so, she would do whatever it took to complete her mission, including using the people around her. Jude wondered if the story about her lover and stepson was true, or whether Sandy had invented a convenient fiction to excuse her odd behavior.

“Hey, you two.” Debbie approached with flushed cheeks and a large salad bowl. She looked delighted to see them in conversation. “Are the steaks ready?”

“Sure are,” Jude said.

Debbie hollered to the guests to come eat. “Want me to fix you a plate?” she asked Sandy.

“Thanks, baby.” Sandy kissed her lover’s cheek as a friend might, respecting Debbie’s desire not to broadcast her sexual orientation.

She met Jude’s eyes. “I’m going to take Debbie back to my place for a couple of days after this. Could you feed the cats?”

Jude knew exactly what was going on. Sandy was going to play house with a happy hostage. She’d just raised the stakes, adopting countermeasures in anticipation of an external threat. With Debbie in her home, she would seem less suspicious and she could also use Debbie as a shield. Jude would have to find a way to get them both out of there.

“I’m driving down to Cortez again tomorrow, but I’ll make arrangements for the cats,” she said pleasantly.

“How’s the case going?” Debbie asked. “You must be exhausted driving backward and forward.”

“We have some good leads,” Jude said.

“Is it someone from around here?”

“Between us, I don’t think so.”

“A tourist.” Debbie’s relief was tangible. “That makes sense.”

Sandy chuckled. “No one’s any safer because he’s not from ’round here.”

“Yes, we are. That’s one less evildoer living among us.”

“Who am I to argue with a beautiful woman?” Sandy handed Jude a beer and knocked her own bottle lightly against the side. “Good hunting.”

Filled with unease, Jude echoed the genial toast. She had a feeling Sandy was laughing, and the joke was on her.

Chapter Sixteen

“Hugo Debroize of Counter Threat Group?” Jude asked.

The response came in a deep South African drawl, the vowels broad and flat. “I’m your man. How can I help you?”

“This is Detective Jude Devine with the Montezuma County Sheriff’s Office in Colorado.”

“Don’t tell me. Fabian Maulle?” He added, “CTG notifies us when clients are hit. I was expecting this call.”

“Hit?” Jude repeated. “You think Mr. Maulle was executed?”

“It’s an assumption in our line of work. Most clients are at-risk individuals.” Debroize spoke so rapidly Jude had to concentrate to follow his speech pattern. A faint rise on the final syllables reminded her of Tulley. When he was nervous, his voice took on an unusual sing-song lilt.

“I understand you were employed by Mr. Maulle last year,” she said.

“Yes, for six months.”

“Could you tell me about that assignment?”

“Why don’t I save us both time and tell you who killed him?”

“Go ahead,” Jude invited. “But I’ll still need answers to my questions.”

Debroize barked a brief, resigned laugh. “Anton Voronov had Mr. Maulle killed, but you won’t pin anything on him. Even if you catch the skebengas who pulled the action, they won’t give him up. He has special punishments for idiots who rat him out.”

Not wanting to sound like she knew very little, Jude said, “We have information that Mr. Maulle and Mr. Voronov had a business relationship.”

“Ah, so you know who I’m talking about.”

“Of course,” Jude lied smoothly. If Debroize thought the police already had the facts and he wasn’t a sole source, he would speak more freely.

“Mr. Maulle hired CTG when Anton decided to blackmail him. He sent in a couple of goons to vandalize Mr. Maulle’s property, then threatened a family member.”

“Pippa Calloway?”

“You know the girl?”

“She found Mr. Maulle as he was dying.”

“Yissus, that’s rough. Nice young lady. Is she okay?”

“Yes, shaken up, of course. What was the blackmail about, Mr. Debroize?”

He became cagey with exact detail, testing to see how much she knew. “Mr. Maulle had class, but he did business with some real animals.”

“I guess when you deal arms to the highest bidder, that’s inevitable,” Jude remarked. “Anton piloted for him, didn’t he?”

“They both flew. But Mr. Maulle stopped when he didn’t need to skivvy anymore. Anton gets a rush from playing the big man, so he’s still running shipments himself.”

“I heard they argued.”

“Mutual loathing, but Anton went too far. Mr. Maulle said he was cleaning house before the New Orleans incident and told Anton he was out. The blackmail was retaliation, and Anton wanted back in, so he threatened to have Miss Calloway killed.”

“The break-in at Maulle Mansion was a calling card?” Jude queried. “Proof that he could get to her.”

“Yes, the warning shot.”

“How did Mr. Maulle resolve the threat in the end?”

“He gave Anton what he wanted,” Debroize said without emotion. “You have to understand something. Vermin like Anton Voronov don’t let go. Mr. Maulle had no choice. He knew what they would do to his niece.”

“So he believed he’d dealt with Anton.”

“Strange, hey? Anton’s busting his knaters to stay in the game, then he takes Maulle out anyway. Insane.”

“Very weird,” Jude agreed.

And why would Maulle have put up with an associate he hated for so long? She thought about the photographs. Maybe Anton knew about Maulle’s “hobby” and had used it as a lever to keep their business connection alive. Then Maulle got fed up and tried to cut him off, so he had to raise the stakes.

“Is there anything else you can tell me?” Jude asked.

“I’ll ask around. Give me your number.” After Debroize had taken her contact details, he said, “Please tell Miss Calloway I’m sorry. Also, if she needs security, CTG can take care of everything. She can ask for me personally.”

Jude felt a prickle at her nape. “Are you implying that Pippa’s still at risk?”

“Ek sê. That’s the problem. I don’t know what I don’t know.”

“Well, I appreciate your help. One more thing, why did Anton want to stay in business with Maulle?”

“Mr. Maulle was the one with the government contacts, and he never included Anton in that side of the operation.”

“So without those contacts, Anton would be frozen out?”

“Dead in the water. Scum would deal with him, but what’s he going to sell? Small arms like everyone else.” He was quiet for a few seconds, perhaps weighing how much to say. “Mr. Maulle was world class. Jet fighters. Submarines. Maybe even nukes.”

Jude’s heart raced. How did Debroize know all this? They’d googled Maulle and all they found was this or that charity awarding him medals. “Was his business common knowledge?”

Hugo Debroize chuckled. “No, strictly to insiders. But we have to know what we’re contending with when we provide close protection. Most CTG clients provide a detailed profile.”

“What was Maulle’s beef with Anton before the threats to Pippa?”

“Can’t help you there. Mr. Maulle never talked about it.”

“Okay. Thanks for your time, Mr. Debroize.”

Jude wasn’t sure if she was happy they’d talked or depressed. The more she found out about Fabian Maulle, the more bizarre this case got. It was already way beyond the scope of a standard homicide investigation.

She was about to end the call when Debroize said, “Something you might want to know… The Solntsevo crime syndicate put a contract out on Anton about a month ago.”

“They want him dead?” Jude scrawled down the name. “Why?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. But it’s interesting, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yes, very.”

Jude ended the call and strolled to the window, her mind racing. As she watched whirls of dust rise from the ochre plain beyond the headquarters building, a motive for the crime took shape. Anton thought Maulle was going to have him hit as payback for the threat against Pippa, so he sent in a couple of thugs to scare him into canceling the contract. Only they took things too far and Maulle died. That explained Coco’s murder and the bizarre attempt to clamp Maulle’s wounds with the bulldog clips. They weren’t supposed to kill him, Anton needed him alive.

To prove her theory, she needed to catch one of Anton’s men. Even if he wouldn’t cut a deal and give up his boss, maybe he would provide a few answers. So far there’d been no response to their composite drawings, although a couple of detectives in Miami said they had an angle on a Russian pimp and might get an ID.

As she left the undersheriff’s office she’d borrowed for her overseas call, Jude wondered how much longer they could run the case without involving the feds.

Koertig raced up to her as soon as she showed her face. “This isn’t what we thought.”

“Yeah, no kidding.” Her cell phone vibrated against her hip and she said, “Hang on, pal.”

She stepped away to check an incoming text message, hoping for something from Debbie. At Wednesday night’s potluck, she’d tried to get some time alone with her, but Sandy made sure that didn’t happen. Jude had gone on to spend most of yesterday stuck in Telluride with a team of FBI agents trying not to draw attention to themselves. The first film festival arrivals were already in town and being greeted with open arms by those about to endure a long winter at the mercy of the hedge-fund crowd.

The people who worked for wages at the Mountain Village resort and local restaurants couldn’t afford to live close to Telluride. Instead they commuted along suicidal snowbound roads throughout winter only to find they could work all day without a tip from jerks who expected their shoelaces to be tied for them. The general consensus was that the film festival crowd might not have lots of new money, but they did have some class.

Having heard the bad news, the festival organizers were frantic, trying to decide if they should call the whole thing off and look like pawns in a phony government terror alert or let it roll and discover, via a theater full of dead celebs, that the FBI was telling the truth. Their position could best be described as one of mordant pragmatism. Amidst dark rumblings about the McCarthy era and outbursts over police-state tactics, they had handed over their VIP lists, festival program, and the names of anyone Jewish or any film that might attract a Jewish audience. The Klaus Barbie feature was among them.

Jude had left Hill and the team poring over risk-reduction options last night so she could get to Cortez in time for dinner with Koertig and his wife and an early start on the Maulle case this morning. Between times, she’d had a conversation with Arbiter and they’d agreed that she would search Sandy’s property first thing Monday and confirm whether she was a friendly or not. Arbiter had a heavy squad on stand-by in case the situation went south. The same applied to the ASS op on Sunday. Jude had her orders, and he’d even forwarded them in writing.

Having sown seeds of doubt in Hawke’s mind about a mole in the ASS, she was now supposed to spin some bullshit to Aidan Hill at the soirée tomorrow, giving her a last minute heads-up about the meeting at Lone Burro. Jude’s mission was to extract Hawke the moment the feds arrived. If they didn’t arrive, she had to use her judgment. Arbiter didn’t care if there was a body count so long as she didn’t compromise long-term objectives.

No pressure.

Jude read the text on her cell phone a second time: Won’t be at soiree. Going Utah late Sat. Home Tues. XX Deb

Jude keyed a quick reply: Cats fine. Have fun. Keep in touch.

As Debbie signed off, Jude looked up to find Koertig had migrated to a huddle at another detective’s desk. She joined him and asked, “What’s up?”

“It’s Miami PD.”

“I think you better take this.” The detective passed the phone up to him.

Jude watched the excitement drain from Koertig’s face as he listened. He was silent for a while, then said, “Yeah, we’ll send someone. Thanks, Lieutenant.” He replaced the receiver and took a few seconds before announcing, “Listen up, everyone. That was Special Investigations Section in Miami. There’s two DBs in their morgue that fit the descriptions of our suspect males. Both died of gunshot wounds thought to be sustained during an altercation over a prostitute. No arrests have been made.”

He glanced toward Jude. “Devine will brief you shortly on her conversation with the security guard. This could shed light on the motive for the homicide.”

“Do you still want us working the Mercedes SUV trace?” someone asked.

“Yeah, it’s business as usual,” Koertig said. “We still have to prove these guys are the killers.”

“We have DNA, a shell casing, and a bullet,” Jude said. “If we get a match, or if the Miami PD find that Apple laptop or other property that ties the dead men to Maulle, we have our killers.”

She told the team to assemble for the briefing in fifteen minutes, and drew Koertig aside. After filling him in on her conversation with Hugo Debroize, she said, “If these are our guys, this was an inside job. Probably Anton having his own troops murdered for screwing up.” She gave him a beat or two to absorb the ramifications, then suggested, “Maybe take the waitress down to Miami with you and have her ID them in person.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s them,” Koertig said. “They’ve got the tattoos, and the lieutenant says they’re Russian and known to the Organized Crime Detail.”

He sounded deflated. Jude knew the feeling. Adrenaline fueled a homicide investigation like this one, and when the primary would never get the chance to try for a confession or even interview the suspect, because he was deceased, the case suddenly became much more clinical and the drive faded away.

“If they’re our guys, you’ve closed a major case,” she reminded him. “It wasn’t just good luck.”

“What about everything else?”

“Maulle is dead,” Jude said flatly. “If he was a pedophile, the FBI will eventually investigate him and determine whether or not to make the case public. I doubt they will. What’s the advantage in humiliating his family?”

“I’m not convinced that he was,” Koertig said. “I just got through the first notebook. It’s not sex fantasies or anything like that. You should take a look.”

“I don’t need to,” Jude said. “And neither do you. In another few days, this case will probably be history. Just have someone pack it all up and I’ll see it gets to the right people. We can also pass on what we know about Anton Voronov to the FBI.”

Koertig managed a glum nod. “I wanted the perp walk.”

“You’ll get to stand next to the sheriff at the press conference.” Teasing him gently, Jude said, “If you’re lucky he might even let you say something.”

“First I have to squeeze him for the Miami trip.”

Jude pointed toward Pratt’s door. “Go break the good news. He’ll be all over it.”

*

“Thanks for helping me with this,” Pippa told the handsome deputy carrying her boxes into the log house.

Jude had said she would send someone, and Pippa was half expecting a stringy, middle-aged trooper who would spit in the shrubbery every time he came up the steps. She felt bad about checking out a hot guy in the house where her uncle was murdered not even a week ago, but it was hard not to notice six feet of gorgeous male standing right in front of her with a smile that made her heart pound in her chest.

Pippa wished she’d remembered to put on antiperspirant or bothered to wear a decent top. Instead she smelled of pizza and had a tomato stain in the center of her T-shirt where her cleavage was supposed to be. She also had greasy hair because the shampoo in her hotel room had run out and housekeeping had replaced it with conditioner by mistake.

“Where would you like this one, ma’am?” Again that old-fashioned sideways glance and shy flash of white teeth.

Pippa pointed anywhere, knowing she was blushing. She reminded herself that she was now a stupidly rich millionaire who could buy handsome men like she bought purses, and throw them away when she got bored. She wondered if her parents knew how much she was going to inherit. Was that why her mom had suddenly wanted her to come home and had even offered the conservatory for her sculpting?

She thought about Ryan and his bitch wife who always put her down. Pippa wanted to share the money with him, but not while he was married to that. Besides, Griffin Mahanes could say what he wanted, but she wasn’t going to keep it for herself. There was so much good she could do with a fortune like that, Pippa got emotional thinking about it. She loved animals and the environment. If she was smart, she could put the money to work and help make the world a better place. In her heart she knew that was why Uncle Fabian had left his fortune to her. He knew she cared about the things that really mattered.

Pippa let herself look at the deputy again. Tulley. The name suited him. His coal black hair dropped over his forehead, tempting her to slide it back between her fingers. She wondered whether he would act differently toward her if he knew she was rich. Probably. The thought made her uncomfortable, and she was glad no one knew except her family and the attorneys. The detectives all thought she was just staying in the house temporarily. Pippa had let them make assumptions. She had the impression they thought her mother was in charge now. Naturally Delia had encouraged that idea.

Pippa decided if anyone asked, she would say what she’d said all along, that her uncle had left a lot of money to charity. It wasn’t a lie. She would just leave out the other half of the story. If she was going to live here for a while, she wanted to make real friends who liked her for who she was.

“I never saw a log cabin like this one.” Deputy Tulley stood in front of the windows gazing out at the splendor of the mountains.

Pippa could sense his awe. He wasn’t just talking about the house but also the matchless perfection around it. She let her gaze slide over him again, taking in his long legs and slim hips. The gun rested on his right, a little lower than his waist. His torso was lean, rising to a chest and shoulders that filled out his shirt without making him look like a hulk.

If she had to find a word to describe him, it was “beautiful.” He reminded her of the marble gods she’d seen in Italy one summer. She wished she could run her hands over him. Warm living flesh as smooth as cool stone. He would make the perfect model, supposing she could concentrate enough to sketch him. She caught her breath as he turned, and for an awful moment she thought her fascination must be obvious. His expression was almost skittish, his eyes screened by long black eyelashes.

“Are you going to be okay here, by yourself?” he asked.

“I’m not sure. I thought I’d just close up his rooms and try not to think about it. I guess I’ll just see how it goes.”

Tulley didn’t look at her directly. Tucking a thumb in his belt, he said, “I was thinking, if you want I could fix you up with a dog. I’d let you borrow Smoke’m for a couple of nights, except that he’s a duty animal and we have to be on call at all times.”

“Don’t worry.” Pippa tried for a lighthearted tone. “I have Oscar, and I’m going to pick up the cats tomorrow morning, once I’ve finished unpacking.”

She felt uneasy and a little confused for the second time that day. Earlier, when Jude had called her about moving her stuff into the house, she’d mentioned Hugo. They’d spoken and Jude said he’d offered to provide security if Pippa wished. Because they weren’t face-to-face, Pippa wasn’t sure if the concern in Jude’s tone was just sympathy or if she was worried. Now, here was Deputy Tulley suggesting she got a dog.

“Deputy?” she asked. “Do you think I should get a security guard in case those men come back?”

Tulley rested his right hand on his holster. He seemed to be considering his next words carefully. “Talk at headquarters is that won’t be a problem. There’s a couple of dead bodies down in Florida that look a whole lot like those composite pictures you saw.”

“Really? You caught them!” Pippa felt light-headed with relief. “Oh, my God. And they’re dead?”

“We don’t know for sure it’s them, and don’t tell anyone I said so. Okay?”

“That’s fine. I won’t say a word.” Impulsively, Pippa asked, “Are you off-duty now, Deputy Tulley?”

He checked the solid stainless steel watch at his wrist. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Want to have dinner with me?”

For several noisy heartbeats she thought he was going to say no, but a broad, slow smile creased the corners of his mouth. “I sure would like that, Ms. Calloway.”

“That’s Pippa,” she said, not for the first time.

“My name’s Virgil,” he responded. “But I answer to Tulley…and darned near anything else a lady wants to call me.”

The line would have been hokey from another guy, but from Tulley it seemed too sweet and sincere to be anything but the bald truth.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Pippa said. “I’ll go change and be back in a few.”

As she climbed the stairs, a chill crept over her and she caught hold of the banister, suddenly overcome. Images danced before her eyes. Blood. Uncle Fabian’s gray face. Her legs shook and sweat broke across her forehead. She took a step back and glanced behind her.

Before she could say a word, Tulley took the stairs two at a time. When he reached her, he said, “It’s okay. Take a breath. Real easy.”

He placed his arm behind her, barely brushing her waist, and walked her up the stairs like a partner in an old-fashioned dance. When they reached the top, Pippa let herself lean against him for a moment.

Tilting her head, she said, “Thank you.”

Their eyes met and this time he didn’t look away.

Chapter Seventeen

“This house has an elevator,” Tulley whispered in Jude’s ear.

They were just inside the doorway of a contemporary living room that opened onto a slate-paved terrace. People roamed the outdoor entertainment area, carrying cocktails and converging around the pool. Mercy’s home on High Desert Road was what realtors would term a “luxury retreat.” She and Elspeth had bought the place soon after their wedding. Jude had given the housewarming party a miss.

“That’s Portia di Pazzesco.” Tulley tilted his beer glass toward a conical-breasted blonde. “She’s in the new Rupert Palmer-Forbes film. The one about the movie star whose girlfriends all look the same.”

“In art as in life,” Elspeth Harwood cooed from behind them. “Portia’s real name is Mary Stubbs and she’s a total slapper. Be warned.”

Jude stepped sideways to avoid the kisses Elspeth was doling out to party arrivals. Tulley stayed where he was and went pink beneath his tan when Elspeth brushed her lips against each of his cheeks.

Jude had to admit Elspeth had pulled out the big guns tonight. Her incredible red hair cascaded in natural ringlets over her milk-white shoulders. The ivory dress she wore was a filmy, strappy thing that made her look naked underneath, which upon closer inspection, was possible. Her ingénue-pink lipstick probably matched her nipples. It would have been easy to find out since the front of her dress barely covered her breasts. On some women this look might have seemed slutty, but Elspeth looked like a wood nymph who’d strayed into the realm of mortals. It seemed pointless to hate her just because she was absurdly beautiful.

“What’s a slapper?” Tulley asked, gazing at the actress in breathless adoration.

“That’s British for a vulgar flirt who’ll shag anyone if it will help her career. Or even if it won’t. Which reminds me,” Elspeth hooked her arm in Tulley’s, “there’s a favor I want from you, sweetie-darling.”

Eager as a puppy, Tulley asked, “Do you want me to light the fire pit?”

“Not yet.” Elspeth patted him indulgently. “See that woman, the one with the trout pout and the diamonds? She’s executive producing my next movie and she wants to meet you.”

“Me?” Tulley fidgeted with his belt buckle. He got anxious talking with strangers at social gatherings. That was one of the reasons he didn’t have a girlfriend, at least that was a theory he’d shared with Jude. “Why?”

“She enjoys handsome young men and you’re the handsomest in the room, silly boy.”

“I don’t want to be an actor,” Tulley said.

“I know. But that won’t matter to her, trust me.” With a radiant smile at Jude, Elspeth said, “Do excuse us. Must go schmooze.”

Jude couldn’t resist watching as her deputy was fed to the she-wolf. Elspeth must have told him to say nothing and smile. He did his best but could not quite hide his alarm as the bejeweled fingers trailed down the front of his shirt. Jude ignored his “rescue me” stare. Her thought was You wanted to come to this shindig, pal.

She strolled to the bar and observed the activity out on the terrace while she waited her turn. This was clearly an upscale party. Instead of the usual potato salad, hot dogs, and scorched steaks off the grill, platters of sushi and froufrou finger food were being toted about by crisply dressed waiters who looked like models. Jude hadn’t eaten since breakfast. She flagged down a pretty boy and scooped a handful of edibles onto a napkin. Everything tasted of spinach, a vegetable that had never inspired rapture in her.

The long-bodied brunette ahead of her in the line dropped a ten-dollar tip on the bar and sashayed away with a couple of cocktails. Jude asked the bartender if there was a decent Scotch to be had.

“Ms. Devine?” he replied.

“That’s me.” Jude gave him a sharp second glance, expecting to recognize a local parolee trying to make a go of it on the outside.

The man produced several of her favorite single malts. “Dr. Westmoreland got these in for you.”

Instantly flustered, Jude picked up a bottle of twenty-four-year-old Caol Ila. Mercy had really gone the extra mile tracking down this rare dram. Jude enjoyed the delicacy of the younger Caol Ila bottlings when she could find one. They were almost like Lowland malts, except for the peat and brine character that was so distinctly Islay. She’d never expected to sample a twenty-four-year-old.

“Good choice,” the bartender said. “Water?”

“Just a dash.”

“If I’m not here when you want a refill, tell the other guy it’s in the cabinet with your name on it.”

Jude thanked him and carried her drink to a spot near the tiled main entrance. She wished Debbie had been able to make it. No doubt she thought it wouldn’t be diplomatic to come now that she and Sandy were rediscovering their passion and were leaving shortly for Utah. Jude wasn’t really expecting Aidan Hill to show, but she thought she’d wait where she could be seen, just in case.

“You came.” A hand slipped into hers. An unmistakable perfume taunted her senses. L’Heure Bleue, Mercy’s choice the last few times they made love.

In a bid to expel the scent, Jude exhaled sharply. It didn’t help. Mercy’s presence washed over her like acid rain. “Nice place,” Jude said.

“Would you like the tour?”

“Maybe later. I don’t want my date walking into a room full of strangers and wondering if she’s crashed the wrong party.”

Mercy’s registered this information with a flicker of tension that made it as far as her eyes and froze in a slow blink. “I didn’t realize you were planning to bring someone.”

“The invitation was for two.”

Mercy sipped her cocktail and cast gracious smiles around her guests. “Who is she?”

“No one you know. And she might not make it anyway. She’s working a case.”

“She’s a cop?”

“An FBI agent.”

“Are you sleeping with her?”

“What do you think?”

Mercy swept Jude with a faux-disinterested gaze. Jude returned the favor. Mercy wore a silky midnight blue shirt tucked into a black pencil skirt. Her waist looked smaller and her exquisite facial bones a little more pronounced than last time Jude saw her up close. She’d lost weight. Had she been pining, or was her hairdo to blame? Sculpted blond waves framed her face, but beyond the illusion of glamour, they lent an air of vulnerability that surprised Jude. She looked a little harder, and for a fleeting moment she thought Mercy was going to cry.

“You’re full of shit,” Mercy said. “You’re not getting any. Or if you are, it’s second rate.”

“Well, you’d know, or have your lovely bride’s bedroom skills improved?”

“Keep your voice down.”

“Not denying it, I notice.”

“Love is not just about sex,” Mercy hissed.

Jude sipped her Scotch. “We’ve had this conversation.”

Mercy’s gaze darted toward Elspeth. “So change the subject. You’re good at that.”

“Jesus, what’s your problem?” Jude was genuinely puzzled. “Look around. Don’t you have everything? The big house. The hip crowd. The famous wife. Isn’t this everything you wanted?”

Mercy was silent. Her plush lips moved a tight response to the greetings of guests who brushed by. Her chest rose and fell too quickly. She lowered her eyes to her empty glass.

Jude pried it from her fingers. “What are you drinking?”

Mercy’s hand strayed to the front of Jude’s shirt. “Jude, please. I can’t bear that we’re so—”

“There you are.” SAC Aidan Hill squeezed Jude’s shoulder like they were tough-girl sorority sisters. “You didn’t tell me I needed night goggles to find this place.”

Jude squeezed out the smile that was called for. “Aidan Hill, meet Mercy Westmoreland, one of our hosts and a forensic pathologist from the ME’s office in Grand Junction.”

They shook hands. Mercy’s expression never shifted from socially appropriate, but Jude sensed something dark beneath the serenity. Hill’s pupils dilated just a fraction. She’d picked up on it, too.

She looked good, Jude thought, still uptight, but she’d done something to her medium brown hair that made hints of copper shine through. Her khaki knit top flattered a body well worth a second glance, and her dark green pants hugged her nicely. She probably felt naked without her shoulder holster, although she was carrying all the same. Jude could relate. She never set foot out of the house without a collection of weaponry concealed on her person. She got distracted for a moment thinking about the two of them stripping down, dropping their guns, knives, wrist restraints, Tasers. She’d seen something like that in a movie, when two assassins were trying to get naked and have sex.

Did she want to have sex with Aidan Hill? As she asked herself that question, her eyes locked with Mercy’s and after several long, hot seconds she knew the dismaying answer.

Hill said, “You have a beautiful home, Mercy.”

As they exchanged a few meaningless comments, Jude pretended to be caught up watching sparks fly from the fire pit. She forced her jaw and eye muscles to relax, wiping her face clean of pining and frustration.

“Oh, look at the time,” Mercy said. “We have a video hookup to Lars von Trier starting any minute. Excuse me.”

“Who’s Lars von Trier?” Hill asked as they watched Mercy cut a path toward her seminaked wife.

“He directs animal movies.” Jude tried to remember the film Tulley and Agatha had talked about. “Dogville?”

Hill grimaced. “I can’t stand when cartoon animals talk like they’re just as moronic as people.” She pointed to a reddish blond head bobbing between designer styles like an old tennis ball in a barrel of well-polished apples. “Is that Philip Seymour Hoffman?”

“I don’t know. Is he related to Dustin Hoffman?”

Hill wasn’t sure about that. “Let’s get some food and sit outside. I want to talk about tomorrow.”

“What about tomorrow?” Again Jude noticed that the SAC was attractive. Not stunning. Not beautiful. Just a good body and plenty of confidence. Nothing wrong with that. She didn’t seem straight, but Jude had been wrong before. Lately she was wrong about women most of the time. She made eye contact. Hill dropped her gaze.

“Cocktail sauce,” she said and wiped something from Jude’s lapel.

Awareness stirred between them, proving Jude could lust after Mercy relentlessly but still sustain nipple tension for another woman. Surely that was a good sign.

Watching Elspeth sashay in front of a large video screen, she nudged Hill and said, “Let’s get out of here.”

Agatha scurried past them, making a determined bid to nail one of the remaining chairs. Tulley hurried after her carrying a crocheted shawl decorated with red satin roses.

“Isn’t that your deputy?” Hill asked.

“Yes, Virgil Tulley. He’s also a K-9 handler.”

“He’s cute.”

“And single,” Jude felt obliged to report, just in case Hill was straight and shopping for a boytoy. According to Bobby Lee, Tulley would benefit from a few uncomplicated romantic encounters with experienced women other than those married to deputies. He would also save the money he planned to spend on a prostitute in Denver.

“I’ll keep his availability in mind,” Hill said blandly.

Jude wasn’t sure if she was kidding. She found a couple of plates and loaded them up with more tiny food. “We could grab a burger somewhere after this,” she said once they’d found a place to sit.

“Now you’re talking,” Hill said.

“Is there anyone here you need to speak with?” Jude asked. “About Telluride?”

“No, we’ve got it covered. The organizers are on board. Actually, that’s an understatement. They’re our slaves, mostly thanks to your deputy.”

Pratt must be eating it up. In his fantasies, he probably imagined overpaid celebrities clinging to one another in a panic when they smelled chemical during the screening of a movie about Romanian goatherds. Reality was another matter. Everyone wanted a happy ending. The Four Corners needed Telluride.

Trying not to be obvious about cruising Hill as she slid snack food into her mouth, Jude tuned in to a conversation a few feet from their picnic table.

“An ACME pass?” the woman said. “No way. You’ll be stuck at the Chuck Jones theater all weekend. Get an upgrade.” When her companion grumbled about the cost, she said, “Obviously we have different priorities. I want to experience everything, everywhere. You want to wear a neon sign announcing that you’re cheap.”

“I’m broke,” the guy protested.

The woman picked up her purse. “I’m so not seeing that line in the script of my life.”

Hill choked on an oyster. Jude reached over and thumped her gently between the shoulders. They both burst out laughing.

“Are you single?” Hill asked.

“Everyone has a talent,” Jude replied like a flirtation pro. “Mine is for avoiding domestic bliss.”

This disclosure was met with a discreet smile that made Aidan Hill seem much more human. “Want to buy me a drink?”

“Sure.” If this was a proposition, Jude wished she could feel excited.

Hill must have read something into her hesitance. “You’re right. It’s improper and professionally reprehensible for us to have a one-night stand. Interested?”

Jude prevented her gaze from wandering into the next room. Injecting some enthusiasm into her tone, she answered, “Yes.”

The drought had to break some time. She wondered what had warmed Hill to her. Perhaps the prospect of that burger.

“That drink you’re going to buy me,” Hill prompted, “piña colada.”

Jude thought, I’m going to sleep with a fed who drinks fluffy cocktails. Waiting in vain for her heart to beat faster, she retreated to the bar.

While she killed time in the short line, she let herself watch Mercy chatting and laughing with plastic ease. Finally, taking in the phony scene in front of her, she understood something she’d refused to see all along. Mercy hadn’t chosen Elspeth because she loved her more. Or felt closer to her than to Jude. She’d simply married the lover who could offer her a different world.

*

Hill rested her chin on Jude’s stomach. “Is there something else you want?”

Jude thought her fake orgasm was right up there with one you’d see on television, but apparently Hill knew an unresponsive clitoris when she sucked on it. Jude had let the stimulation go on far too long and now she was numb. She scrambled around, trying to think of something hot that would get her interested in trying again. A quick flash of Sandy Lane caught her off guard. Dismayed that she couldn’t stop thinking about work, she reached down for Hill and drew her alongside.

“You don’t have to explain,” Hill said. “It’s just one of those nights. I have them, too.”

“I guess I’m more distracted than I thought, working this homicide as well as being on the task force.” Very plausible.

“How long were you with Mercy Westmoreland?”

“Jesus, is it that obvious?”

“I recognize the symptoms. I was in love with another agent for three years. Unrequited.”

“That’s serious self-torture.”

Hill rolled onto her back and fell against the pillows with a small defeated huff. “I was an idiot.”

“What happened?” Jude tugged the sheets up and covered them both.

“It’s strange.” Hill sounded sad and disillusioned. “For a while I thought she felt the same way I did. We kept dancing around each other, getting close, then pulling away. In the end nothing happened. We both let go and the connection died.”

“Do you still work with her?” That would have to be awkward.

“No. She switched to another division.”

“I didn’t know if you were gay or straight,” Jude confessed.

“That’s good. I knew you were queer the minute I saw you.”

“Also good. Why did you decide to sleep with me?” Jude asked.

“You’re hot.”

“Albeit a disappointment.”

“It’s okay.” Hill laughed. “I know you can do better.”

“Yep.” Jude stared at the ceiling. An uneasy certainty gripped her. “Did you fake it, too?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Shit.” Jude propped herself on one elbow and traced a hand over Hill’s pleasantly full breasts. “It may not seem that way, but I’m technically proficient. Tell me what gets you off, and this time you won’t have to pretend.”

“Tempting offer, but I’m not wet thinking about it.”

“We’re talking too much,” Jude said. “Getting into our heads.”

“Maybe that’s it,” Hill conceded.

Jude glanced around. The lighting wasn’t right. She should have burned candles instead of leaving the night-light on. And the room was chilly. Then there was Yiska. It was hard not to be aware of a cat sitting on the ottoman a few feet away, eyes glazed with disgust.

“I have a lot on my mind.” Jude almost talked herself into self-pity. But what was she thinking? Finally she had a woman in her bed and they were navel-gazing.

“The Maulle homicide?”

Jude nodded. “We’re waiting on DNA results, but it looks like our killers could be in the morgue in Miami. Meantime the case has split wide open. Arms dealing. Child pornography. The Russian mafia.”

“You’ve got the guys who killed him. Your job’s done. Hand the loose ends on to the Bureau.”

“Good advice.” Jude refrained from mentioning that she’d already come to the same conclusion. “There’s something I need to run by you, another reason I’ve underperformed.”

“Wow, you’re really on a roll.”

“Harrison Hawke has a meeting planned with the ASS.”

“Really?” Hill put a little more space between them, her stare intent. “When were you going to tell me about this?”

“I wasn’t.”

“So Hawke’s involved?”

“No, not in the plot.”

“And you know this how?’

“We’re acquainted.” Jude played the local law enforcement card. “He holds these so-called Aryan Defense Days at his compound and I got stuck with the liaison job, dealing with him and the protesters. For some reason that convinced him I’m a secret sympathizer.”

“Are you?”

“Jesus, was my oral sex technique that bad?”

“I’m not crazy about racists. Blame it on my African American grandma.” Hill narrowed her eyes. “Are you saying Hawke told you about the meeting?”

“No,” Jude lied earnestly. “I was at his compound discussing his request for increased protection for an event in a few months’ time. I overheard him talking to one of his men.”

“What’s the deal? Is he trying to muscle in on the attack for kudos?”

“No, he’s trying to stop them from going ahead with it. He thinks it’ll set the white power movement back fifty years.”

“Like they’re not living in 1950.” Hill was silent for a few seconds, her fingers drumming an impatient beat against the bedcover. “When is this happening?”

“Tomorrow,” Jude said. Arbiter wanted last minute. It didn’t get any better than this.

Hill bolted out of bed. “Jesus, why didn’t you tell me?”

“We were otherwise engaged.”

“Sex? That’s your reason?” Hill started getting dressed.

“What are you doing?” Jude asked.

“My job,” Hill replied scornfully. “You were right about Moon, by the way. I think one of his people has ties with the ASS. It seems possible that they’re behind this plot.”

“You’re kidding me?”

“You should have more confidence in your analysis.” Hill combed her hair. “You could kick ass in counterintelligence.”

Jude spluttered a laugh that made Hill look at her twice.

As the unsatisfied agent left the bedroom, she called over her shoulder, “If this operation goes well, I’ll be sure to mention your contribution.”

“Thanks,” Jude replied. “You could leave out the flunk grade for the orgasm detail.”

She heard Hill laugh. Seconds later the front door slammed shut.

Chapter Eighteen

The bed dipped with the weight of another person. Lured from her snug morning doze, Debbie drifted toward full awakening as Lone’s hard body moved against hers. A husky murmur warmed her ear. “I have a surprise for you.”

Debbie rolled over and opened her eyes.

“I’m not sure if I can handle too many more of those.”

“Sore?” Lone chuckled.

“I’m fine so long as I’m not walking or sitting down.”

“That doesn’t leave many options. Are you saying you’ll have to spend the next two days laying flat on your back?”

Debbie gazed into Lone’s remarkable blue eyes. Running a finger over her no-nonsense mouth, she said, “Gee, now that you mention it, isn’t that how I got into this state? Not that I’m complaining.”

Far from it. In fact, Debbie couldn’t believe how wonderful this week had been. From the moment she’d set foot in Lone’s cabin on Monday, she’d gotten to know her lover on a whole new level. The discoveries were amazing. Lone had talked about her childhood and shown Debbie photographs of her family and her comrades in the 82nd Airborne. She’d answered questions and listened to Debbie’s opinions. They’d discussed the future, even the possibility of having a baby one day.

Debbie had always seen the tender side of Lone, but she’d also been aware of a constant tension in her. She understood that Lone’s moodiness probably came from stress and anxiety related to her experiences in combat. She’d grown so accustomed to the way things were, she didn’t realize how many allowances and compromises she made, and how often she felt hurt and excluded. Until now.

Like magic, something had lifted the weight of the past from Lone. The hair-trigger anger had gone and she was calm and happy. Debbie had to believe the change in their relationship was the key factor in this transformation. Lone had finally let her in, and now that she didn’t keep so much hidden the strain between them had disappeared. They were connected as never before.

Planting a contented kiss on Lone’s lips, Debbie said, “I love you.”

“I love you, too, Debbie doll. Very much. Do you believe me?”

“With all my heart.”

Lone kissed her deeply. “There’s something I want to share with you.”

“You can tell me anything.”

“I know.” Lone’s expression was full of trust and devotion. “You have no idea what it means to hear you say that.”

Debbie melted. “Is this the surprise? That you really love me?”

“No, there’s a little more to it than that.” Lone held a photograph in front of her. She ran her fingers in a loop across the image. “All this land is ours. I’ve put your name on the title.”

Debbie gasped. “You didn’t need to do that.”

“You’re my partner. Everything I have is yours.”

The place was beautiful. A partially built cabin stood on a rise overlooking a sapphire blue lake. There was also a luxury trailer home parked nearby.

“It’s amazing,” Debbie said. She wondered if there was a supermarket nearby. The property looked to be in the middle of nowhere, with no other houses in sight.

Lone stroked her hair and kissed her softly on the forehead. “I know you’re worried about moving, so I have a plan.” She unfolded a sheet of paper, a printed-out e-ticket. “We’re flying up there today.”

“But we just drove here.”

“Baby, this is the house I lived in with Madeline. I want to take you to a place that’s only ours, yours and mine. I promise you, if you don’t like it up there, that’s fine. We’ll stay in Colorado.”

“Really? You really mean that?”

Debbie was assailed with guilt. She knew Lone wanted to move permanently, and having seen the glorified shack in Pariah, she wasn’t surprised. The fabulous setup in Canada was infinitely more appealing. Debbie studied the picture again. The least she could do was make the trip up there and keep an open mind. Even if they didn’t move there, it would probably be a lovely place to take a vacation.

“I should have packed warmer clothes,” she said. “If I’d known—”

Lone looked embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I just decided on the spur of the moment.”

“Whoa. You made a spur-of-the-moment decision?” Debbie giggled.

“I know.” Lone laughed with her. “I guess we better get used to it. With everything so…different between us now, I kind of lost my mind. I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for.”

Debbie felt close to tears. She’d been so afraid everything would slip away that she’d behaved like a coward in their relationship. Her fear of being alone in the world had almost created the very reality she dreaded. She was so clingy Lone had to find space and had excluded her. Now that she was acting like a real partner, things had changed. Debbie promised herself she wasn’t going to let baggage from the past rule her again.

“So, what do you think?” There was a hint of nervousness in Lone’s voice, proof that she wasn’t taking Debbie’s agreement for granted.

“I’d love to go,” Debbie said wholeheartedly. “Thank you for inviting me.”

*

Harrison Hawke deactivated his elaborate alarm system and led Jude into a secure room at the back of the house. The space had been expanded recently and was fitted out as a weapons room.

Jude scanned the shelves and storage racks, amazed by the huge cache of special forces weaponry. An array of MP5 submachine guns occupied a lockable cabinet. Numerous M4 carbines were ranked along one wall, with various optics and accessories like M203 grenade launchers. Arranged next to these were Heckler & Koch G3s, AK-47s, and a sniper rifle collection that included a heavy-duty Barrett M107 .50-caliber, several SR25s, and a short-range G3 SG1. Jude noticed specialized tear-gas rounds next to a bunch of Remington 870 pump-action shotguns.

“Wow, I’ve never seen one of these.” She picked up an XM8 assault rifle, a lightweight modular weapon barely out of the experimental phase.

“It was a gift from my friends in Buenos Ares,” Hawke said. “Don’t be deceived because it looks like a toy.”

Jude picked up a handgun. Beretta M9s were standard issue for Hawke’s men, and in addition to these, he kept a range of other sidearms including the SIG Sauer P226 and the Kimber Custom. Magazines and boxes of ammunition were stored along the top shelves above various mortars, fuses, primers, detonator cords, standard and flash-bang grenades. She assumed Hawke stored his explosive compounds somewhere other then the house he slept in.

“How many men do you have here?” she asked.

“Twenty present today.”

“And the ASS?”

“No more than six.” Hawke opened a security door that led to a concrete entry hall. Beyond this lay an armored exterior exit. He opened this, inviting, “Fräulein.”

A Hakenkreuz Commando unit stood to stiff attention in the dusty yard. One of them saluted and snapped forward. Jude could feel the sneaky appraisal from the ranks but sensed a more respectful reception than usual, perhaps in response to her attire. In deference to Hawke, she’d chosen black pants and top and a black ballcap, and she wasn’t carrying her usual Glock. Instead she wore her favorite six-gun on a low-slung belt, a neat line of .38 ammo gleaming from the cartridge loops.

The Model 19 was a gleaming nickel-plated tribute to days gone by. It had been her father’s revolver, passed to her when she graduated from the FBI Academy. Jude loved its the elegant lines and custom wood grips. The Smith & Wesson also had wonderful balance and a smooth, classic action. Shooting from the hip wasn’t exactly a guarantee of accuracy, but she could blow a few tin cans off a fence, playing gunfighter. This being the twenty-first century, her shootout chic was spoiled by sunglasses, hiking boots, and a cell phone, but Jude could still daydream.

“We’ll need a reconnaissance team and a tactical assault group,” Hawke commanded the troops, rudely interrupting her nostalgic contemplation of Old West traditions.

While the neo-Nazis busied themselves preparing for their version of a showdown, Jude strolled around the compound perimeter, stopping occasionally to practice her draw. She would be glad when today’s unfolding drama was over and she could clear another objective from the clutter of her mind. Returning the 19 to its holster, she glanced back at Hawke, who was demonstrating the MP5.

Whatever happened at Lone Burro, Jude hoped she would be firmly cemented in Hawke’s trust and affection and could extract the information her masters sought. They would want her to keep stringing him along, but the day was approaching when he would expect bedroom perks. Jude was only willing to take the “personal sacrifice” ethos so far. If making a graceful exit meant leaving the Bureau, she would.

Sheriff Pratt would offer her a real job if she asked, and life would be a lot less complicated. She could buy herself a little house on a few acres, get a horse, adopt one of the shelter mutts Bobby Lee’s mom was always hinting about, and find a real girlfriend. She wasn’t getting any younger. It was time to stop obsessing over Mercy and accept that some things weren’t meant to be.

Jude blinked as a needle of intense light pierced her peripheral vision. In the same split second a sharp, distinctive whiz carved the air a few feet ahead of her and a bullet careened into the yellow earth.

She hit the deck, yelling, “Get down!”

A couple more shots ricocheted off a storage shed about twenty feet away. Jesus. Had Aidan Hill summoned the big boys to take Hawke out so no one could stand in the way of the ASS attack? If so, she was taking career advancement way too seriously.

Jude stared around. She was hopelessly exposed on flat terrain with no place to duck for cover. The men at the rear of the compound were taking positions. Most had stampeded into the house. There was no sign of Hawke. So much for gallantry.

Cursing beneath her breath, she belly-crawled toward the shed. The way things were going, it was probably the explosives repository. Several more bullets skittered around her. Jude spotted one of them and scraped it into her hand. It was a .243. FBI snipers typically fired .308 Winchester rounds.

She made it behind the shed and hunkered there, trying to get a sense of the situation. The shots only seemed to be coming from one area. Jude got to her feet and brushed herself off. She drew her pistol, although there didn’t seem to be much point. She couldn’t see who was shooting at her. Wiping dust off the barrel, she thought about calling the sheriff for assistance, but her presence on the compound would take some explaining.

She peered around the corner of the shed. At that moment, she heard someone running and Hawke fell in next to her carrying a Kevlar vest.

“Thank God you’re alright.” He was pale. “Here, put this on, Fräulein.”

“Do you have some binoculars?” she asked.

“Inside the house. We can’t stay here. This shed has a gasoline storage tank in it.”

“Wonderful.”

“My men are ready to cover us.”

He flicked a hand around and Jude realized he knew how to defend his compound. Shooters were in position in most of the rooms inside the house. None made easy targets.

“You first,” he said. “I’ll cover you from behind.”

Jude nodded. “Ready when you are.”

Seconds later she was running toward the front of the house in a deafening storm of gunfire. It occurred to her that if Hawke wanted to take her out, this was his opportunity. The fact that she made it in the door alive spoke highly of her undercover skills. Evidently he trusted her.

Catching her breath, she holstered the 19 and said, “Who in hell is attacking us?”

One of the men checking assembling weapons and ammunition in Hawke’s living room answered, “The ASS, Fräulein.”

Hawke waved his cell phone. “Another text message from those traitors. They’re demanding we submit to their leadership.”

“Or they’re going to shoot everyone?” Jude was incredulous.

“They want this compound,” Hawke said. “Preemptive strike”

A young Hakenkreuzer scurried in. “There’s a Hummer approaching, Herr Oberst.”

Hawke continued to study his phone. “They want a meeting.”

“And the negotiations begin with gunfire?”

Hawke paused to gaze up at the Führer portrait, probably wondering, What would Hitler do? He made his decision and announced, “I’ll speak to them, but a leader doesn’t allow compromises that harm the movement.”

He sent a text message, summoned a handful of men, and moved to the door. To Jude, he said, “Stay in the house, Fräulein.”

With that he stepped outside and a couple of the men opened the gates. A Hummer swept into the compound and disgorged the ASS leadership. Jude felt deeply uneasy as she watched the discussion from a viewing shaft in the front windows. The Hakenkreuzer standing next to her had his M4 trained on the men.

“We’re meant to be fighting for the same thing,” he said grimly. “But these chickenshits don’t know the meaning of loyalty.”

Their voices were raised and every man had his hands on his sidearm. Jude checked her watch. By now Hill was probably staking out Lone Burro. It was time to let her know that the situation was fluid.

No sooner had the thought crossed her mind when a shot rang out and the scene in front of her devolved into chaos. Hawke was down. Men ran in all directions, trading gunfire. The Hakenkreuzers in the house started yelling and shooting. A man tried to drag Hawke to cover, but he was hit.

Jude thought, Christ, Arbiter’s going to fucking kill me.

Resigned to the inevitable, she grabbed an MP5 submachine gun, shouldered it, and charged out the front door. Firing continuously, she ran to Hawke, hooked her free hand in the shoulder of his vest, and dragged him back toward the house. The distinctive thwack-thwack-thwack of the MP5 resounded in her ears along with volleys from Hawke’s men. A couple of Hakenkreuzers emerged from the doorway and hauled their leader the final few feet inside. She backed up after them, spraying the Hummer with fire.

As the front door slammed closed, she dropped to her knees next to Hawke, took his pulse, and ripped away his vest.

“We’re calling 911,” she said to gasps of consternation. “Second thought, the ambulance won’t find this place.”

Hawke said weakly, “You have my absolute devotion and—”

“Not now, Harrison,” she interrupted, throwing her car keys to one of the faithful. “Bring my Dakota around to the back door. The rest of you, provide cover until I get Mr. Hawke out of here. Then it’s time for all of you to vanish. I’m calling the feds.”

*

“Well, this is just lovely.” Aidan Hill marched back and forth in the hospital waiting area. “I have four bodies. No ricin. And the Telluride Film Festival will probably sue us.”

“On the bright side, you look really hot in your SWAT gear,” Jude said.

“What were you doing out there?” Hill regarded her with narrow-eyed suspicion.

“I told you. MCSO liaison.”

“Dressed for the gunfight at the OK Corral?” Hill threw up her hands. “Please. Don’t insult my intelligence.”

“You’ll find the ricin,” Jude said wearily. “I think it’s in a storage pod at one of their houses.”

“Something else you overheard?”

“Yes.”

Hill dragged her hand dramatically through her hair. “Something smells bad.”

“What’s the problem?” Jude asked. “You’ve arrested all the ASS who weren’t dead. The Bureau didn’t kill anyone. The film festival is safe from terror. You can go public with an announcement about foiling the plot. Everyone gets what they want.”

“This situation went completely out of control,” Hill said.

“The glass half empty,” Jude mumbled.

“I expected more of you.”

“Well, we both know what a disappointment that can be,” Jude said.

Hill stomped around some more, and Jude considered the idea of sleeping with her again. Maybe there was enough anger to make for passion.

“Don’t even think about it.” Hill glowered at her.

“I can’t help myself. You have a very attractive ass.”

“God, I wish I could arrest you.”

Jude turned on the charm. “That might be fun.”

“Do you think this is some kind of joke?”

“If you must know—”

“Don’t try me. I’m not a patient woman.” Hill fell silent as a doctor approached.

He said, “I’m Dr. Samuel Bettelheim.”

A coughing fit overcame Hill. Bright red, she apologized.

Jude managed an expression of polite interest. She did not ask So, how’s your neo-Nazi patient doing?

“Mr. Hawke is in stable condition,” the doctor informed them. “He’s asking for Ms. Devine.”

“Thanks, Doctor. I’ll ask one of the nurses to show me in.” With a sweet smile at Hill, Jude said, “I guess you’ll be packing up and heading home soon.”

Still brooding, Hill promised, “This is not over. I’m looking into your story, Devine.”

“Whatever. I have to go now.” Jude took the agent by both hands, jerked her forward, and kissed her on the mouth. “Take care of yourself.”

As she walked away, Hill came after her.

“Jude?” She hesitated. “Whatever you’re doing out here, be careful.”

Chapter Nineteen

Jude forced open her eyes. At first nothing came into focus. Her disorganized senses relayed pain. A pounding, leaden headache, sharp bolts of agony when her neck moved an inch. Plastic restraints bit into her wrists. As she tried to elbow herself into a sitting position, a hand was planted solidly on her chest.

“Not so fast.”

Jude groaned as her head reconnected with the floor. She stared up at Sandy Lane’s face. Her mouth hurt when she spoke. “I thought you were in Utah.”

“We were until I checked Debbie’s cell phone. Text messages, for God’s sake.”

Jude watched her load a hypodermic. “Sandy, we need to talk.”

“We will, once I shoot you full of babble juice.”

“You don’t need that shit,” Jude said. “I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

Sandy laughed. “Okay, surprise me.”

“I’m FBI undercover.”

“I said surprise me. I made you the first time we met.” She set the syringe aside and sat down in the sole armchair in her one-room cabin. Her brilliant blue eyes bored into Jude. “What’s your assignment?”

“White supremacists and other domestic terror cells.” Jude shuffled around until she reached the table. Using the leg for support, she pulled herself upright. Everything ached. Her jaw. Her shoulders. Her gut.

Sandy had been waiting for her. They’d fought hand to hand for a half hour or more before she was knocked out. Jude still had no idea how that had happened. She’d arrived late in Rico, held up by the aftermath of yesterday’s incident. The Montrose sheriff wanted a meeting since Hawke’s compound was in his jurisdiction. True to her word, Hill had made Jude a special focus. She would be answering stupid questions from paper pushers for the next six months. Arbiter had told her to sit tight and wait for the heat to die down.

It was dusk when she reached Pariah, negotiating her way between booby traps and dead-end hiking trails. She’d gained access to the house without too much difficulty. The reason was obvious as soon as she dropped down from the window.

“Your turn,” Jude ventured. “Are you CIA?”

Sandy give her an odd look. “Why would you ask that?”

“You don’t exactly blend in.”

“I’m not CIA and you’ve entered my home illegally,” Sandy said. “Why?”

“Because you purchased a few hundred pounds of plastic explosive in Debbie’s name.”

“That was a mistake,” Sandy acknowledged.

“Where’s Debbie now?” Jude asked.

“In Canada.” Reading something into Jude’s reaction, she seemed to take offense. “Do you really believe I would hurt her?”

“You already have. She has no idea who you are.”

Sandy lit a cigar. Contemplating the glowing tip, she said, “She knows all that’s worth knowing.”

“Do you love her?”

“Yes.” Her face softened. Something philosophical and sad entered her tone. “Whatever you think, don’t ever doubt that. Or let her doubt it.”

“Be there for her.” Jude worked at the plastic around her wrists. “Then she won’t have a reason to doubt.”

“If I can, I will.” Sandy puffed on the cigar. “You looked in my personal files on Debbie’s computer, didn’t you?”

“Yeah, riveting stuff,” Jude said dryly. “My favorite was your galley of mullet hairdos.”

Sandy offered a cynical bow. “Did you enjoy aphid control or the stuff about the best boy bands?”

“Come on, Sandy.” Jude wasn’t getting anywhere with the restraints, which was the general idea. “I don’t care who you work for. Just give me a name so my boss can verify your status, and we’re done.”

“I can’t do that.”

“What’s the explosive for?”

“If I told you, I’d have to kill you,” Sandy said pleasantly.

“You’re right. That’s a deal breaker.”

Sandy lapsed into silence for a few minutes. With a note of regret, she said, “It’s a problem that you’re here.”

“I’d be happy to leave. All I need is a couple of answers and we’re good.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“Let’s make it that simple,” Jude wished she could stop the deafening pounding of her heart in her ears. It was making her headache even worse. “We’re two adults. We work for the same government.”

Sandy puffed slowly on her cigar. Seemingly to herself, she quoted, “Quis custodiet ipsos custodies?”

Jude translated, “Who guards the guards?”

With a tight smile, Sandy stood. “I have stuff to do before I leave. Who else knows you’re here?”

“Just my handler.”

“Get up.” She reached down and hitched Jude by one elbow.

“You could cut me loose.”

“Not a bondage fan?” Sandy jerked her toward the bed.

Jude didn’t resist this curious turn of events. She felt groggy and nauseous. Sandy arranged her so that she was as comfortable as possible with her arms secured behind her.

“What do you know about my mission?” she asked.

“Nothing.”

Sandy slid her fingers into Jude’s hair and angled her aching head so she could look into her eyes. “Sodium Pentothal?”

“I’m telling you the truth.”

“What does the Bureau think I’m involved in?”

“NORTHCOM,” Jude said.

Sandy’s face showed no emotion. “Which project?”

“We’re not sure. All we’ve heard is rumor about a special op on U.S. soil.”

“Could have seen that coming,” Sandy said.

She released Jude’s head, then padded around the room, stuffing items into a duffel bag. For a while, she was out of sight, and Jude heard soft noises. When she approached the bed again, she had a needle.

“Don’t fight me,” she said. “If I wanted to kill you, you’d already be dead.”

“What are you giving me?”

“A sedative. You’ll wake up fresh as a daisy.”

“Sandy,” Jude pleaded, “don’t do this. There’s no need.”

She watched the plunger move down the glass tube. Her mind began to fog almost immediately and her limbs flopped. Sandy cut the restraints from her wrists and rubbed her flesh to get the circulation going.

Jude wanted to speak but her voice drifted away from her. The last thing she remembered was Sandy bending over her, kissing her on the lips and saying good-bye.

*

Lone had parked her white Ford E150 van into the rear section of the parking lot nearest the Qwest Building in downtown Denver. It joined several others, all with the same cleaning company logo on the sides. Hers had a different logo, but on her trial run the only people who noticed that fact were employees of the cleaning company who almost mistook the van for one of their own. They knew better now.

From the top of the Qwest Building, the view along Stout Street and Eighteenth was sweeping, so the Secret Service had the building staked out well ahead of time. The MCI Building and the Marriott, where Cheney would be pressing the flesh for money, also offered desirable rooftops. These formed part of the Vice Presidential Security Zone, real estate occupied by sharpshooters who would report in to their command center constantly.

Various rooms in the surrounding buildings also formed part of the protective web. In one of these, in the former office of a recently bankrupted corporation, Lone had hidden the equipment she would need. Her MK-153 SMAW rocket launcher and Confined Space rockets, and her submachine gun. The leasing agent had been very helpful, mentioning that she could probably take her time making a decision since there was plenty of space available downtown and the owners were asking more than the market would bear.

Lone was pleased that she wasn’t going to be hiding in plain sight on a rooftop. She’d planned for either contingency, but this office suite only freed up two weeks ago, a long while after her first advance assessment. She’d expected a Denver fund-raiser sometime soon. Marilyn Musgrave’s shameful record had made her a shaky candidate for reelection, and she was an eager recipient of GOP largesse. She was also proud to be seen with the president and with Cheney, unlike most candidates worried for their political survival.

She entered the offices of the defunct Verminax Corporation the easy way, by sliding a credit card in the door. From the window she watched police and Secret Service coming and going as they planned for tomorrow. First thing in the morning, buildings would be cleared and roads blocked off. Her space had already been cleared, but they would send someone back, just in case.

The protestors would assemble on the corner of Welton Street and Eighteenth at 10:00 a.m.. Lone had been interested to hear that a Disabled Persons organization intended to participate. Sidewalks jammed with wheelchairs would add something to the flavor of the chaos.

She rolled out her sleeping bag and removed a layer of clothing. She had eighteen hours to kill. Hopefully she would sleep through the night. She called Debbie and told her she loved her and that everything was under control. Then she thought about Jude Devine, drugged into inertia on her bed in Pariah. The detective-cum-FBI agent was probably awake by now. She have no idea what was going on. Lone hadn’t left a paper trail.

Lone chuckled to think that she’d probably been given a pass for a long time because they mistook her for a friendly. That was the great thing about Homeland Security. The left hand didn’t know what the right hand was doing.

*

“Where the hell have you been?” Arbiter demanded. “Jesus, I thought you were burned.”

“She’s in the wind,” Jude said. “And she’s not a friendly. I need that team in here ASAP.”

“You’re rock solid on her status.”

“She left me a note. But if someone in the alphabet soup thinks an assassination would be the perfect fake flag operation, she could be their shooter. Who the hell knows?”

“Okay, who’s her target?”

“That’s why I need the team,” Jude said. “It’ll take me days to make a thorough search here.”

“Where is she?”

“I called her girlfriend. She hasn’t seen her since first thing Monday morning. I was attacked Monday night.”

“Any injuries?”

“Nothing I want to discuss.” She’d found some Motrin in a first aid kit and her headache had abated a little.

“Nice work in the Hawke business, by the way.”

“Thanks.” Jude wasn’t going to run with the ball. “Call me when the team’s due.”

She climbed back down into Sandy’s bunker. In front of her, taunting her from the message board above the worktable, was the note Sandy had left for her.

Jude,

I don’t work for NORTHCOM. You’ll hear about my mission in a couple of days. Thanks for being a friend.

Lonewolf

*

When the van exploded, there was panic on the streets below. The protestors rushed the police lines, tearing through the yellow tape. Cops fired warning shots and tried to keep the crowd back from the Marriott. Lone could picture the scene inside the banquet room, Cheney in the middle of another salute to the heroes in uniform, hustled out and raced down the stairs to await his car. A quick escape from a side exit.

Lone removed the glass she’d cut, rested the rocket launcher on the window sill, and waited for the motorcade. She didn’t care which car she hit. If she got lucky, it would be his. If not, there was still enough time to get down onto the street. In her uniform, carrying a gun and looking like she was in an official capacity, who would stop her?

Like long black bullets, the armored limos glided along the artery below. They halted to a crawl as protestors poured into the security zone. City, county, and state police pounded down the streets, trying to drag people out of the melee. But they were far outnumbered and the situation went crazily out of control.

Lone checked her earplugs and took aim. She heard the whoosh and thunder as she fired. She scored a direct hit. Not waiting around to watch, she crammed her gear in a trash bag and headed for the fire exit. She took the stairs at a fierce run, making it out onto the street in less than ninety seconds. She dropped the trash bag and joined everyone else rushing toward the cars.

Members of the security detail had converged on one limo alone, their brief to guard the man inside. Lone lifted her MP5, but people scrambled in front of her, pounding the windows and yelling abuse. She ran to the front of the car and lifted the submachine gun again. But her arms were jolted and her aim went wild. Bullets sprayed. People shrieked.

Something hit her with tremendous force and she was down. Blood fountained from her neck. She felt no pain. She heard sirens. She tried to move but couldn’t. Debbie’s face passed across her mind, then everything collapsed into a dark spiraling abyss. She felt a hand stroke her cheek like a farewell caress. She sensed Madeline and Brandon close to her, talking to her. The noise and smells receded. The light behind her eyelids faded. And she surrendered to a stillness so blissfully peaceful she smiled.

*

Debbie stared at CNN. Breaking news. There had been an assassination attempt on the vice president’s life in Denver where he was at a fund-raising dinner for Marilyn Musgrave. Just looking at the screen, it was hard to tell what was going on, except that he’d survived. Thank God for that, Debbie thought.

The reporter was standing on the street with lights flashing all around him. Protestors with placards were milling round noisily. He described how the Secret Service had to chase the shooter across rooftops before

They switched to Wolf Blitzer in the Situation Room and he announced the story all over again. Her cell phone rang and Debbie snatched it up, expecting another update from Lone about the movers and the cats. She still couldn’t believe Lone had just deposited her by the lake and left almost immediately, promising to return in a few days.

“Debbie?”

“Jude, did you get my message?”

“No, I lost my cell phone.” Jude sounded tightly wound.

“Is everything okay?” Debbie asked.

“Are you watching TV?”

“Yes, isn’t it terrible?”

Jude was quiet for a long time, then she said, “Debbie, I’m sorry to have to tell you this. There’s been a serious incident involving Lone.”

Debbie sat very still, her blood pumping like ice in her veins. “Is she all right?”

“No.” Jude was having trouble speaking. “I’m so sorry. She’s dead.”

Debbie got up. She dropped the phone and staggered to the bathroom, cold sweat running off her face and down her back. She threw up into the toilet, then sat down on the cold tile floor, shaking violently. She had no idea how long she stayed there. When she crawled back into the living room on her hands and knees and picked up the phone, Jude had hung up and a text message was waiting.

It read You’re not alone. Come back to Paradox.

Chapter Twenty

“What are you doing here?” Jude asked.

Mercy’s expression was one Jude couldn’t remember seeing before, a mixture of naked desire, tender amusement, and sadness so profound it silenced her.

“I’ve been waiting for you. I heard about your hairdresser’s girlfriend.”

Jude’s head pounded. Words floated just out of reach, tantalizing her with their potential. If she could just summon the right sentence, she would be completely in control. Staunch. Stoic in her sense of duty. Untroubled by doubt.

“Invite me in,” Mercy said.

Jude released her hold on the door and marveled that she could stand upright without its support. She stepped to one side. Mercy walked past her, smelling of damp mountain air and beautiful skin.

“Where’s Elspeth?” Jude asked.

“Don’t.” Mercy slid her jacket off and dropped it over the back of a chair. “Pour me a Scotch, Jude.”

“You could have just left me a note.” Jude took two glasses from the sideboard and poured a shot of Talisker and a dash of water into each.

“A note. Yes, very appropriate,” Mercy said with cool irony.

Jude tapped their glasses. “Here’s looking at you.”

They both drank. Mercy sat down at one end of the sofa and crossed her long slender legs. She was dressed for work in a plain coffee-colored shirt and dark brown tailored pants.

“Did you come straight from the office?” Jude asked inanely, like this was just another day and they were going to chat politely for a few minutes, then Mercy would leave.

“When I heard the name announced, I had a feeling you might need me..”

Jude finished her drink and set the glass down on the sideboard. “Thanks for coming.” She pretended to be preoccupied, putting the bottle away. “I don’t want to seem rude, but I’d rather be alone.”

“Liar,” Mercy said softly.

“Let me rephrase. I’d rather not be with a married woman.”

Mercy placed her glass on the coffee table on front of the sofa and said, “What if it was over?”

“You looked very married the last time I saw you.”

“Appearances can be deceptive. We both know that.”

Too drained to stay standing, Jude sank down at the other end of the sofa. “I don’t have the energy for this. Please, just go.”

Mercy removed the bobby pins from her hair and shook it out of its tight chignon. She sagged back against the deep cushions, eyes closed. “Here’s what I’m thinking. When Elspeth gets back from Poland, I’ll tell her things have to change.”

“She’s in Poland?” The pieces fell into place.

“They needed to capture the pathos of an Eastern European village for her new film, but they didn’t want to be too far from a decent hotel.”

Jude propped her head in her hands. “Pathos? I could show her pathos, right here in Colorado.” Her shoulders shook. She started laughing and couldn’t stop. “What do you think? Too real?”

“Jude.” Mercy reached out, then let her hand fall.

Jude gazed down at the curl of her fingers, the soft hollow of her palm. Anger dragged at her heart like an anchor.

“Is that what you saw in her?” she demanded. “The safety of illusion? Is that what you need—an exile from death and ugliness?”

Jude could almost understand. Like her, Mercy needed to escape. For a while they’d escaped together, into one another. But Jude had always wanted something more real. Was that why Mercy rejected her?

Jude lifted her gaze at the sound of a strangled breath.

“Stop.” Tears shimmered in Mercy’s eyes. “You win, okay?”

“It’s not a competition.” Jude stood up. She didn’t know what to do with herself. Pacing to the window, she said, “You really hurt me.”

“I know.” Mercy got up and joined her.

They stared out into the black oblivion for a while.

“I wish it was snowing,” Jude said.

“Yes. Everything is new. Starting over clean.” Mercy slipped her hand into Jude’s. “I’m sorry.” She drew closer, insistently lifting Jude’s hand to the home between her gossamer breasts. “I love you.”

She seemed vulnerable. Younger. Her eyes were bright with emotion. Her mouth parted and the wet pink line beyond her faded lipstick emerged just enough to draw Jude closer.

“I love you, too,” Jude murmured. Their lips brushed with each word.

Mercy’s heart accelerated beneath her hand. She said, “I missed you so much I thought I would die.”

Jude slid her tongue delicately beneath Mercy’s upper lip. As their mouths flirted, she said, “Stay with me.”

“That’s why I’m here.”

Jude walked her backward across the living room and into the hallway, helplessly kissing her. Tugging at her clothes. Aching for her with a burning, gut-wrenching hunger like nothing she’d ever known. A wild creature strained inside her, the darker self Mercy had always invited.

As they stumbled toward the bedroom, they knocked over the file box she’d brought home from headquarters, spilling Fabian Maulle’s secrets all over the floor. Jude kicked the papers aside and carried Mercy the rest of the way. When she banged into the side of the bed, she dropped Mercy down onto the mattress and fumbled messily with her clothes, pushing her hands away when she tried to help. It wasn’t right to destroy a perfectly good shirt, but Jude ripped it open and pulled it away. The bra came with it. Jude dropped them on the floor.

“Leave her,” she said as she unzipped Mercy’s trousers and dragged them off, along with her panties. “She can’t touch you ever again.”

Mercy caught Jude’s face between her hands. Sweetly, she insisted, “No rules.”

A fiery thrill ran from Jude’s mouth to her groin. She knew that tone. “You don’t make the rules anymore,” she said, stepping back to remove her T-shirt.

With shaking hands, she unfastened her belt and jeans. The room was very dark.

When she reached for the light, Mercy said, “No. I don’t want to see anything. I just want to feel you.”

Which was perfect, Jude thought, because she wanted Mercy to feel her as she never had. She wanted to cradle Mercy’s heart and soul, not just her body. A tiny doubt gnawed at her, and she cupped Mercy between the thighs and squeezed.

“Are you with me now?” she asked. “Only me.”

“Yes.” Mercy gasped.

“Tell me again.”

“I’m with you. Only you.”

Mercy opened to her, and Jude sank her fingers deep inside. They rolled onto their sides, facing each other, legs scissored. For a long while, they lay still, lost in a kiss. Then Mercy whispered in Jude’s ear, “Make me come.”

“I will,” Jude promised.

“I love you,” Mercy told her again.

“Okay, now I’ll make you come.”

*

Hours later, as Mercy slept, Jude got tired of staring up at the ceiling wondering if she’d done the right thing. Mercy was married and Jude had steadfastly resisted her overtures for months. Now, in a moment of weakness, she’d broken the rule she made to protect her own heart. She desperately wanted to believe that Mercy meant what she said and her marriage was over, but she would believe it when she saw it.

Jude slipped out of bed, pausing for a moment to stare at the woman she’d made love with all night. Her heart quaked in her chest. What if Mercy left her again? She couldn’t stand to think about that possiblity.

Silently, she closed the door behind her and started along the hallway. She promptly fell over the file box. She shuddered as her bare feet connected with the contents. The thought of these photos and notebooks in her house, especially now, made her flesh crawl. The sooner she dispatched the evidence to the FBI, the better. Distracted, she hadn’t done her job. In the half-light of dawn, she gathered up every item and created stacks on the dining table. As she arranged the photographs according to size, something puzzled her and she turned on the light in her dining area so she could see more clearly.

In successive photographs one boy after the next sat on the same bed, in the same pose, in the same room, with the same vapid yellow décor. The back of each photograph bore a year and a classification number that linked the set together.

Jude lifted a different set from another envelope and found photographs once again taken in the same setting, this time a room with different features from the yellow one. Once more, boys of similar appearance were grouped together. Each envelope had an index of the contents on its front. The name Yitzhak Eshkol jumped out from one envelope.

Jude hastily tipped its contents onto the table and found several photographs of boys with dark hair. Among these was Yitzhak. His wrists were bound in front of him and he sat on a bed wearing only his briefs. Jude thought about the inscription he’d written to Fabian in Pippa Passes. “For saving my life.” Were those the words of a grown man to a pedophile who’d abused him as a boy?

She turned Yitzhak’s photo over and stared at the date. 1982. A cold fist gripped her gut and her body was instantly clammy. She sat down at the table, her breathing shallow. Frantically, she worked her way though the envelopes, fishing out the photos for 1982. Four bundles, around forty pictures. It was crazy to think she would find anything, but she looked anyway, at one face after the next. She felt physically ill as she struck a sequence of blond boys.

Her heart pounded. Yitzhak was in Maulle’s files and he was still alive. She put the photos down, afraid of what she wouldn’t find. She’d been down so many dead ends she expected nothing else, yet she still hoped.

Her mind was playing tricks on her, she thought, as one photo called her attention from the rest. Jude turned on extra lights and held the image up to the glare, doubting everything. Her eyes. Her memory. Her sanity. A fair, slightly built boy gazed out at her through time, beckoning her from the darkness and silence at the edges of her nightmares. For twenty-five years she had waited for this moment.

Jude burst into tears.

Ben.

Author’s Note

Like any work of fiction set against a backdrop of real political events, Place of Exile names real people and mixes fictional events with real ones. To serve the timeline of the novel, I’ve occasionally taken license with the timing of a real event, such as the anti-war protest at Jackson Hole. That event takes place in my text a week later than it did in real life. A real Marilyn Musgrave fund-raiser in which Dick Cheney’s motorcade was disrupted by protestors occurred in 2004; the similar event depicted in the novel is entirely fictional.

We live in a time when fear and paranoia play an increasing role in the national psyche, and moral dilemmas abound over where lines should be drawn between individual liberties and privacy versus the collective interests of society. To a small extent this terrain is explored in Place of Exile. Moral ambiguities offer authors interesting opportunities for plot and character, while simplistic black-and-white portrayals of heroes and villains can be less intriguing to write (and, possibly, to read). I hope readers will indulge my forays into the gray areas.

A subplot in this novel involves a fictional assassination attempt on the vice president. This subplot forms part of a broader theme of the work, that of the threat faced when extreme views give rise to acts of violence. This theme also finds reflection in a fictional bio-attack plot against the Telluride Film Festival. It should go without saying that the inclusion of such content per se is not an endorsement of the actions of the fictional characters depicted; neither should the opinions of these characters be mistaken for the author’s personal views.

As always, I write to entertain and I make the assumption that I’m writing for intelligent readers who know they are reading a work of fiction. I hope you enjoy my latest effort.

About the Author

New Zealand born, Jennifer Fulton resides out West with her partner and daughter and a menagerie of animals. Her vice of choice is writing; however, she is also devoted to her wonderful daughter, Sophie, and her hobbies fly fishing, cinema, and fine cooking.

Jennifer started writing stories almost as soon as she could read them, and never stopped. Under pen names Grace Lennox, Jennifer Fulton, and Rose Beecham, she has published seventeen novels and a handful of short stories. She received a 2006 Alice B. award for her body of work and is a multiple GCLS “Goldie” Award recipient and Lambda Literary Award Finalist.

When she is not writing or reading, she loves to explore the mountains and prairies near her home, a landscape eternally and wonderfully foreign to her.

Rose can be contacted at: jennifer@jenniferfulton.com