Page 44 of Badlands (Nora Kelly #5)

T HE B ASTIEN HOME was in Las Campanas, a fancy golf development outside Santa Fe.

As they pulled into the driveway, Nora took it all in: the sleek adobe-and-stone house in contemporary Santa Fe style, the four-car garage, the infinity pool, the tennis court, the sweeping views.

“Not bad,” said Corrie as she parked the car.

They got out. As they came up the flagstone walkway, the door opened, revealing a young blonde woman dressed for riding in breaches, leather boots, a silk shirt, and a vest. In one hand she was carrying a crop and helmet.

Before they could introduce themselves, she turned and called back into the house: “Randolph, the FBI are here.”

She stepped aside to let them in without introducing herself.

A moment later, the man named Randolph arrived, much older, heavyset, with a neatly curated salt-and-pepper beard.

“I’m going riding,” the woman said from the door.

“I’ll leave you to entertain these people.”

“Yes, darling,” he said, turning and gesturing Nora and Corrie inside.

The woman turned and skipped down the walkway, leaving behind a cloud of expensive perfume.

Nora had initially assumed the woman must be Bastien’s sister, but the exchange made it clear she was the wife—of the trophy kind, apparently.

Corrie wasted no time showing her badge.

“Special Agent Corinne Swanson,” she said, “and FBI consultant Dr. Nora Kelly, here to interview Elodie Bastien.”

“Right, right. Have a seat,” said the man, leading them into a vast white living room.

“She’s still not talking.”

“And you are Mr. Bastien?” asked Corrie.

“Randolph Bastien, Elodie’s father,” he said, not offering his hand.

“Could we ask you a few questions, Mr. Bastien, before we see her?”

“Go ahead.”

They settled into several ultra-contemporary, ultra-uncomfortable chairs.

Corrie took out a phone.

“Mind if I record?”

“Go ahead,” said Bastien.

As Corrie set the phone down, microphone pointed at him, Nora took the opportunity to examine the elder Bastien more closely.

He wore a blue blazer with gold buttons, white slacks, black loafers with horse-bit buckles, and a burgundy ascot plumped up around his neck.

His hair was brushed back and his face was fleshy, the cheeks ruddy and varicose.

“And that,” asked Corrie, “was Mrs. Bastien, I assume?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Elodie’s mother is… where?”

“Denver. Divorced. Why is this your business?”

Corrie gave him a cool smile.

“Just getting a picture of the family, that’s all.”

“Elodie’s not talking,” he said brusquely.

“You mentioned that,” said Corrie.

“I have a few questions about her life, education, employment, and state of mind. If I may?”

“Fine.” He glanced at his watch.

“Elodie had a PhD from UNM in archaeology, is that correct? I understand she studied with Professor Oskarbi.”

A curt nod.

“Do you know if she had a relationship with Dr. Oskarbi?”

“What do you mean?”

“A romantic relationship.”

“I don’t know. I don’t vet her boyfriends. How is this relevant?”

“Mr. Bastien,” Corrie said, her voice sharpening, “the FBI will decide what’s relevant or not. Of course, you’re not under any obligation to answer questions.”

“I’ll answer them,” he said with irritation.

“Elodie was a grown woman. She lived her own life. I didn’t interfere.”

“Did she have a history of depression? Was she ever treated for any mental health issues?”

“Not that I know of.”

“But as her father, you would know—wouldn’t you? At least, during the time she was a minor?”

“You’ll have to ask her mother. I was very busy during Elodie’s childhood, and my wife was in charge of family matters.” He fidgeted in his chair.

“And what did you do that kept you so busy?” Corrie asked.

“I managed a hedge fund.”

“I see. Now: after she got her PhD, did she continue to associate with Professor Oskarbi or his former students?”

“I’ve no idea. I didn’t track her life.”

“She owns a small contract archaeology company, correct?”

“That’s right.”

“And how does it operate?”

“It’s just her—a one-woman firm. As I understand it, she does contract work for the New Mexico Department of Transportation. Identifying archaeological sites during road construction projects, that sort of thing. That’s all I know.”

“Did or does she have any boyfriends or romantic partners?”

“I don’t know. I never met any.”

“How often do you see your daughter?”

This question was met with a short silence.

“Since my remarriage, not often.”

“Can you be more specific? When was the last time you saw her? Before now, of course.”

“A year, eighteen months.”

“But you live in the same town.”

“Like I said—she lives her life; I live mine.”

“Do you help support her, give her money?”

“Of course I give her money. You think she makes anything as an archaeologist? I advised her not to go into that profession, but she didn’t listen.”

Nora opened her mouth, thought better of it.

Corrie was peppering the man with questions as it was.

“And Elodie’s relationship with your new wife? How is that?”

“Laurie is ten years younger than Elodie. That didn’t go down well.” He laughed harshly.

This is going nowhere , Nora thought as she listened to the back and forth.

But if nothing else, it illuminated why Elodie might have fallen in with a cult.

What a childhood she must have had, growing up with a distant and uncaring father like this—just the type to be susceptible to the brainwashing of a charismatic, faux-paternal figure.

“Is there anything you can tell me, Mr. Bastien, that might shed light on why Elodie did what she did?”

“Nothing,” Bastien said.

“In that case, may we go in and speak to her?”

“Be my guest. The doctors say nothing’s wrong with her brain—she just refuses to talk.”

He stood up and led them through a succession of more spare, white rooms and corridors, arriving at last in a beautiful room with windows overlooking the Sangre de Cristo Mountains.

Elodie was sitting up in bed—as Corrie had described her in the hospital—staring at a dark flat-screen TV.

“Here she is,” Bastien said, and withdrew.

Corrie sat down in a chair next to the bed, while Nora took a seat on the opposite side.

“Elodie,” Corrie began, in a gentle voice.

“I’m Agent Swanson from the FBI—you remember me, I hope—and I’ve brought Nora Kelly, an archaeologist working as a consultant to us. We’d like to ask you some questions.”

No response.

Corrie then proceeded to make a series of inquiries, but Elodie remained stone-faced throughout, always staring forward, never reacting.

It was almost as if she was catatonic.

After a while, hoping to make a connection, Nora reached out and took Elodie’s hand lying on top of the bedcover.

The hand was ice cold.

The woman didn’t flinch at the touch, but she did slowly withdraw her hand from Nora’s and slide it under the bedsheets.

Corrie glanced at Nora and gave her a subtle nod.

Since nothing had worked, it was now time to try the idea she’d suggested.

Nora reached into her briefcase and removed a small metal box, which contained protective padding around a heavy Ziploc storage bag.

The bag itself held a large, flat piece of stone, its edges roughened and coarse, as if it had been knocked or chipped from its original position.

On its flat side, a design had been inscribed.

Very carefully, she lifted the bag from the box, holding the face of the stone away from the girl in the bed.

“Elodie, I’d like to show you something,” she said.

Cradling the stone within its protective casing, she brought it closer.

No response.

Nora turned the stone around, bringing the design into Elodie’s field of vision.

At first, the girl’s gaze remained straight ahead, staring at the television—but then Nora saw a flicker of movement and the eyes turned toward the stone.

They widened abruptly, and she issued an involuntary gasp.

Her face drained of color, and her lips trembled.

But this reaction lasted barely a moment before her gaze once again swiveled back toward the television set and her near-catatonic composure returned.