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.”