by Rose Beecham
“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 wa
tch 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 ([email protected])
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.
