Jude Devine Mystery Series

by Rose Beecham

  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.”

&nb
sp; “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.”