The Lost Girls

PROLOGUE

Father Sebastian Peña sat up in bed early that morning, mindful of every ache in his arthritis-ridden joints. Disease didn’t care if you were a saint or a sinner or-like most of God’s creatures-somewhere in between.

Sebastian had always been an early riser. The sunrise was his favorite hour, peaceful, unlike any other moment of the day. But it wasn’t quite five, early even for him. A rustling outside had him thinking a wind was picking up. But then he heard nothing. No wind, no cars. What had he heard in that dream state before waking; what had him rising before the sun?

As soon as his feet touched the cold floor he sought his slippers. He turned on the dim light, then wrapped a thin robe around his broad but frail shoulders. Sebastian had once been a large man. He’d played football in college, before he received his calling. He had been a wild young man, but like Saint Augustine, once he was called, he kept his vows. Still, he wondered at times-as inappropriate as it was-if God had afflicted his joints because of the prideful athlete he’d once been.

That sound again, faint but distinct, came from outside. He parted the blinds and peered out the window into the darkness. A small house behind Our Lady of Sorrows served as the parish rectory, which he shared with Father Peter Mannion. Father Peter was a young priest who had taken over the parish when Sebastian retired last year. Sebastian had both longed for and dreaded retirement. He was tired, very tired, but he loved his church. The families he’d seen week after week, from baptisms to weddings to funerals. The joys and the deep, deep sadness. Our Lady resided in a poor, rural community halfway between San Antonio and Laredo. Sebastian had been in the Laredo Diocese for years, but the last thirty he’d spent here, in this small parish, in this impoverished town. He was here only for a few more months, to help with the transition. By January he’d be settled into a retirement home in Tucson, Arizona-a great relief from the Texas humidity, which worsened his arthritis.

But he didn’t want to leave.

A clang of metal on metal made him pause. A chest-high wrought-iron gate circled the property-easy enough to climb over if someone felt compelled to vandalize or rob the church. Perhaps it was the garbage cans, a cat or opposum in the trash again. Father Peter was far too forgetful. How many times had Sebastian told him to secure the lids?

Sebastian walked through the house. The living and dining areas had been converted to the parish secretary’s office and his private office. No, not his anymore… Father Peter’s.

“Forgive me, Lord,” he muttered as he turned on the entry light. Yes, his pride and jealousy were coming through. He had thought he’d conquered those vices decades ago, but turning over his parish to another, younger priest had brought back emotions he thought he’d never feel again. Along with the sick sensation that his life was over.

For seventy-one, Sebastian was a healthy man. He drank in moderation, had never smoked, and exercised regularly-except on days like today when his arthritis would prevent him from doing much more than walking. His life wasn’t over. He could still celebrate Mass during the busy seasons, he could still participate in the church, he could volunteer. Play golf. He almost laughed at the thought. He’d never picked up a golf club in his life. Perhaps he could volunteer at a church high school as a coach. He would enjoy that, working with youths and teaching them. There were options. He wasn’t dead yet.

Sebastian unlocked the door and stepped onto the small porch. It was a chilly morning, the first sign that autumn was approaching. Later that day it would again be hot, but the morning was refreshing.

He looked around. His body may be failing, but his eyesight was not. The streetlights in front of the church didn’t reveal anything suspicious. No one was climbing over the section of the fence he could see. Father Peter was still sleeping: as he’d walked through the kitchen, he’d noticed that the coffee had yet to be made. The young priest would rise by six to prepare for the morning Mass. Sebastian had never acquired the taste for coffee, though he enjoyed tea.

He heard a faint cry-it sounded like a baby. This early in the morning? A parishioner, perhaps, needing solace?

He walked slowly down the porch stairs. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a flash of light in the dark. He turned and looked down. It wasn’t a light; it was a white cloth, left under the statue of Saint Elizabeth.

Sebastian bent down to pick it up. At the same time he noticed there was something moving beneath the cloth, he heard a murmur.

The murmur turned into a weak cry.

Dear Lord, what is this?

Of course he knew.

A baby.

A newborn.

Sebastian ignored the pain and creaks in his joints as he knelt in the dirt and picked the baby and the blanket up from the cold earth. Holding the infant close to his chest with one large hand, he used the statue as leverage to rise again, then walked back to the house. The child’s cries were muted. Sebastian barely gave the mother or circumstances a thought, not then. The poor soul in his arms was his immediate concern.

Headlights approached from the south end of the street. The high beams were on and the car drove slowly. Sebastian hurried back inside and closed the door. He bolted it, not quite certain why his heart was pounding. He didn’t turn on any lights, over and above what he’d already turned on before going outside. He didn’t want to draw attention to the small rectory behind the church.

The baby started crying again, its sound weak and sickly. Or was it? Sebastian knew little about babies. He’d blessed babies, he’d baptised babies and-on sad days-buried babies. Was the child hungry? What did one feed a newborn when there was no mother?

He took the baby across the hall to his room and turned on his nightstand light. He put the baby on the bed and opened the cloth. It was a shirt, not a blanket-and there was a lot of blood. He prayed without realizing the words were coming from his lips as he inspected the infant. The child didn’t appear to be bleeding, though the umbilical cord was still attached. It had been tied off, but looked unusually large and swollen. Was this common?

He took a clean undershirt from his drawer and wrapped the baby. She was a girl, a perfect, small human child. So delicate, so fragile… who would just leave her on the cold ground? Did the blood come from her mother? The umbilical cord was tied, which meant someone had cut the cord, tied it as a doctor or nurse would. But this baby had no wrist or ankle band; this baby hadn’t been born in a hospital. This baby had been born tonight, possibly only hours ago.

“Saint Elizabeth, please pray for this child laid at your feet tonight,” Sebastian said as he picked up the baby. He held her close. He had never had a child, but the protective instincts must have been granted to all God’s creatures, because Sebastian felt that he would do anything for this little soul. “Elizabeth,” he whispered and rocked the baby stiffly in his arms.

Sebastian looked down on the bed. Tangled in the bloody shirt that the child had been wrapped in was a necklace of some sort. He picked it up.

A simple, oblong silver locket hung from a long chain. On the front was a cross, on the back an intricate design. It looked familiar, but Sebastian couldn’t imagine where he’d seen it before.

He opened it. There were two pictures inside. On the right was a photo of two Hispanic girls who looked almost identical standing outside a small church that was unlike any he’d seen in the area; on the left one of the girls had her arm around a tall white girl wearing a wide-brimmed hat. They were in a field somewhere, but the details were lost in the miniature picture.

One of the photos was loose. As he tried to close the locket, it slipped in the catch, and then slipped when he opened it again. Something was written on the back. He searched for his reading glasses.

Ana, Siobhan, me.

Under the names was a phone number, but he couldn’t make out all the numbers. They were faded. Maybe someone with better eyes could read them.

He picked up the phone to call 911. Then he saw that the shirt had writing on it, in the blood.

He spread the shirt out.

Trust no one.

He put the phone down.