by Rose Beecham
“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 i
nstructed 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.
