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 82
nd
Airborne, as she’d told Jude. But she’d refrained from mentioning her extensive SOF expertise. Many of the 82
nd
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?”