The Lost Girls

CHAPTER TWO

Siobhan debated for five minutes what she should do-go back to the rectory, go back to Laredo, or help the girl in the window.

Okay, she debated for five seconds. She had to help. If she didn’t, she’d never forgive herself if something bad happened. And the girl might know Marisol and Ana.

But Kane’s training-wanted or not-kicked in. She needed a backup plan. After locking her bag in the trunk of her rental car, she called Father Sebastian.

“Our Lady of Sorrows, Father Sebastian Peña speaking.”

“Father, it’s Siobhan Walsh.”

“My child, are you okay?”

“Yes. Mrs. Hernandez’s husband came home, I had to leave. But I saw something at the house. I need to find out what’s going on.”

“I do not think that is a good idea.”

“A young woman may be in danger. If you don’t hear from me in an hour, I need you to call a friend of mine. He’s in the FBI, I trust him. Do you have a pencil?”

“Siobhan, I don’t think-”

“Please, Father, I need you to take down his name and number.”

He sighed. “I have a pencil.”

She gave him the private cell phone of Rick Stockton, then hung up before Father could argue with her anymore. Rick was one of the few people she trusted explicitly, and unlike Kane and RCK, he would always answer his private phone. He was dependable that way.

Why couldn’t you have fallen in love with Rick? Loyal. Dependable. Brave. A decorated war veteran. As solid as they come.

But he wasn’t Kane. It was as simple as that.

She locked her rental vehicle and walked back down the street, silently approaching the intersection. Flat, no sidewalk, few trees. In the heat of the summer, it would be unbearable, but now that it was nearly fall, the evening was comfortable.

No one was out tonight. Yellow lights behind closed blinds. Dogs barking in the distance. Chickens already hiding in their pens from four-legged predators.

There were no other cars at the house except the truck in the back. The goons had left, as well as the older woman and the well-dressed man. Plus the scared young girl with the infant. A mother and child?

The mother. Marisol and Ana were young-nineteen and eighteen now-and one of them had given birth, Siobhan knew it the moment Father Sebastian had called her three days ago. Her number, on the back of a photo in Mari’s locket. Siobhan couldn’t help but think that all the flyers, the interviews, the energy spent following leads that led nowhere for two years were a waste. That it was the locket Siobhan had given to Mari all those years ago that had led Siobhan to here and now.

The baby had been born three days ago, left at Our Lady of Sorrows. Father had taken her directly to the hospital, then contacted the police. He and his fellow priest, Father Peter, claimed they didn’t know anything for certain, but Siobhan suspected they didn’t trust the local authorities. The hospital was in the adjoining county. Siobhan had tried to talk to the police, but they wouldn’t give her anything, other than telling her it was an active investigation. She’d almost called Rick then, but knew what he’d say.

I can’t send in agents unless I have something tangible. It’s a local case.

He’d also tell her to be careful, and she was trying, but since she’d arrived yesterday she’d run against brick wall after brick wall. Father Sebastian was scared but determined to find the mother of the child he’d called Elizabeth, and this house-this woman-was her best lead.

Siobhan couldn’t stand on the street too long; she didn’t want anyone to notice her. Even though she’d stuffed her long curly red hair under a baseball cap and wore faded jeans and a black T-shirt, it was clear that she was a stranger.

She touched the old crucifix beneath her shirt. It had been her mother’s; she’d wanted to bury her mother with it, but her father had said Iona wanted her to have it.

“She lives in your heart, she lives in your compassion and hope. Don’t let her death lead to your despair.”

Her mother should never have died; her mother was stubborn and strong and had the biggest heart in the world. Siobhan knew she’d been sick, and still she’d gone to the States because her mother had promised her father that when Siobhan was fourteen, she could choose. Siobhan chose high school in America. The chance to spend a few years with the father she barely knew, but loved with all her heart.

A year later her mother was dead.

Siobhan shook away the memories. Now wasn’t the time or place.

She walked around to the back of the house, past the old truck that looked inoperable, sticking to the shadows as best she could, easier now that it was nearly full dark. All the windows were nailed shut from the outside, Siobhan noted. Dark curtains covered them. The two doors, front and back, had security screens that looked more like prison bars.

Father Sebastian was right-this mission was foolhardy at best and dangerous at worst-but that girl was in trouble. If there was any sign of another person inside, Siobhan would leave. But if it was just the girl, she had to try to help her.

Siobhan wasn’t a novice in rescuing girls from the sex trade, but she wasn’t as experienced as those who actually worked in the field. She was aware that some girls were so brainwashed that they would do nothing to help themselves and, in fact, might even resist a rescue. Some had been threatened with the lives of their families if they left their captors. Some were convinced that this was the only way of life. But Siobhan had to try. She had to do something, because doing nothing was not an option.

She walked almost entirely around the house, except for the side yard piled high with junk, metal pipes, and moldy furniture. She stood in the back and listened.

Silence.

Then she heard something. A faint sob? Maybe. Or was that wishful thinking?

Siobhan tried the back door; locked. She bit her lip and considered her options. She didn’t know how long she had before the people returned; could be an hour, could be days. She didn’t know if someone else was inside, other than the woman. But if she left to find help, whom would she ask? She didn’t know any of the police here; they were in a small county, an hour from the border town of Laredo. Father Sebastian seemed to think there was corruption in the small sheriff’s department but wouldn’t discuss it with her. What about the deputy she’d spoken to in Laredo yesterday? He seemed aboveboard, though he hadn’t shared anything with her.

For a split second Siobhan felt lost and depressed, the kind of lost she’d felt after her mother died, when she didn’t know what she should do; when the simplest of decisions had seemed impossible. Where were these emotions coming from? Lack of sleep? Worry about Marisol and Ana? Frustration that Kane hadn’t even once called her to say he was okay and out of the hospital and she had to hear it thirdhand from a mutual friend?

Stop it, Siobhan.

She couldn’t do Mari or Ana any good if she didn’t have the courage to do what was right. She refocused her attention on the house; the sights and sounds.

She saw no one, heard nothing. No cries, or voices, or movement.

Before she could change her mind, Siobhan pulled a lock pick out of her front pocket and worked on the screen. It was a new lock-odd, for this prewar house-and it took her a couple of minutes to get it open. The door was also locked, but that latch popped easily.

The door creaked as it swung open. She froze, listened. Heard a television somewhere-in a basement? It was low, a sporting event maybe, but she couldn’t make out anything but mumbled dialogue. She closed the door behind her as quietly as she could.

To the left was a small, tired kitchen with an ancient sink and stove, and a refrigerator with rounded corners that looked like it was from the 1950s. The wallpaper had mostly peeled off revealing soot-stained walls. But the counters had been wiped down, and the dishes had been washed and stacked in a drying rack. A bowl of fresh fruit sat in the middle of the table, bright and colorful in the dingy house. The house smelled clean, both lemony and antiseptic, neither pleasant nor pungent.

To the right of the back door was a staircase. Straight ahead she could see the front door, with a room off each side she couldn’t quite see through the wide openings. Two closed doors framed the hall.

The floor creaked when she stepped forward, and she winced. Waited. Didn’t hear anything else, except the television. If the girl was still here, she was upstairs, so Siobhan turned up the staircase, trying to keep her heart from pounding so loud she couldn’t hear what was around her. She kept her feet on the edge of the staircase to minimize sound.

Upstairs there was a small landing with doors to the left and right, and an open door straight ahead into a bathroom, with the same 1950s decor as the kitchen-chipped tile and rusty sink but smelled clean.

Cautious, she opened the door to the left and peeked in.

The room had a single bed neatly made with a worn, handmade quilt. An empty bassinet-clearly new in a room of old furniture-stood against one wall. Neatly folded towels were stacked on the dresser along with one package of newborn disposable diapers and three unopened packages of white infant T-shirts. Two chairs crammed one corner, but the oddest thing was next to the bed in place of a nightstand-a medical tray with sealed, sterile medical instruments and a box of latex gloves.

Everything necessary for a midwife to help birth a child in the comfort of one’s home. Siobhan had helped her mother, a nurse who worked with missionaries in Mexico, deliver more than a dozen babies. This setup was far nicer and cleaner than many of the villages Iona Walsh had been in.

Maybe there was nothing nefarious going on here. What if it was all a mistake? What if Siobhan was wrong, if Mrs. Hernandez was mistaken? What if Marisol had never been in this house?

But there was something odd going on. She had seen the woman crying in the window. Those men and that woman and the girl with the baby…

She left the door open and turned to the other door in the hall. A lock-on the outside. As quietly as possible, she slid the lock open and turned the knob.

This room was three times the size of the other, but there were eight beds set up dorm-style. Siobhan barely noticed the cramped quarters-or the fact that all the beds, except one, were empty. The room smelled clean, but it was an artificial clean, antiseptic, and very warm. A lazy fan blew in the corner. Back and forth. Back and forth.

There was a woman in here; she was sitting on the bed closest to the window. When the door opened, she whirled around, her hands going to her large stomach. She was pregnant.

“No!” she cried.

Siobhan put her hand to her mouth. “Shh!”

She wanted to ask where the other women were-it was clear from the folded clothes and blankets on each bed that other women lived here.

“I can help you,” Siobhan whispered in Spanish.

The woman shrank away from Siobhan and spoke in Spanish, but a dialect that Siobhan didn’t understand. She thought she heard the word baby but she wasn’t positive.

“Let me help you,” Siobhan whispered. “Is there anyone else in the house?”

She wasn’t certain the young woman understood her. Siobhan had lived most of her childhood in Mexico and half of her adult life, and she could understand more dialects than she could speak, but she could usually make herself understood by sticking with the basics. Siobhan said clearly, “Come with me.”

The woman wasn’t a child-she looked to be in her early twenties. She stared at Siobhan with wild, fearful eyes. She looked healthy and clean, if a little thin. She was clearly more than halfway through her pregnancy, probably around seven months.

“My name is Siobhan, I work with the Sisters of Mercy. The sisters can save you and your baby.”

The woman shook her head.

Siobhan took a few steps closer. “I’m a friend of Marisol and Ana. Do you know them?”

The woman scowled, eyes wide, pure rage on her face burying any fear that Siobhan thought she’d seen before. “Go away!” she hissed. “Go away!”

She stood, and that was when Siobhan heard a rattle and looked down.

The woman was shackled to the bed.

The chain appeared long enough for the woman to reach the bathroom. But the sight of the bindings surprised Siobhan.

“Let me untie you,” Siobhan said.

“More problems! More trouble!” the woman cried out. At least that’s what Siobhan thought she’d said. “Satan!”

That was clear.

Siobhan heard movement downstairs. Gut instinct had Siobhan fleeing as fast as she could-there was no way she could unchain and get the pregnant woman out, especially since she was so unwilling to be helped. If only Siobhan had more time!

She ran down the stairs, not caring about noise. She opened the door to the back just as a hall door she’d barely noticed before swung open. A tall, young man emerged and Siobhan didn’t take the time to explain herself. She pushed open the back door and ran.

She had to run down the driveway to get back to the street and her car. She thought she’d make it, but the front door opened and the man ran after her. He was a teenager, she realized as he tackled her.

He slapped her and pinned her arms down. He might look young but he was as strong as a grown man.

Siobhan fought back and kicked him in the balls. He howled in pain. She scrambled up and started running again, but slower-her ankle was sore, maybe sprained, maybe just bruised, but she jogged as fast as she could.

A police car came around the corner and Siobhan immediately thought that Father Sebastian had called them, worried after her call to him. She ran up to the vehicle. “Officer!”

The deputy stopped his car and opened the door, car running. The teenager approached.

“Officer, there’s a woman being held against her will in that house!” Siobhan said.

“Deputy Jackson,” the teenager said, “this woman broke into my house.”

“What’s your name?” the cop asked her.

“Siobhan Walsh.”

“You don’t live in this neighborhood.”

“No, I’m visiting a friend, and I saw a woman crying in the window. She’s chained to a bed.”

“How do you know that?”

“Deputy,” Siobhan said, her worry returning. Father told you he didn’t trust the police. “I know what I saw.”

“Deputy Jackson, I don’t know what she’s talking about,” the teen said. “My sister is upstairs. The house was locked, and I heard something and saw this woman running out the back. I don’t know how she got in. She must have broken in. I’ve never seen her before.”

“Ms. Walsh, please put your hands on the car.”

This was all wrong. Dammit!

But she complied. The deputy had a gun; she did not.

“We had a call about someone lurking in the neighborhood,” Jackson said. He frisked her, patting her breasts heavily. She wanted to hit him and fisted her hands, but resisted the urge to lash out.

He chuckled in her ear. “You like that, don’t you?” he said and pinched her nipple.

“Touch me again and I will file a report against you.”

He laughed out loud this time. “What’s this?” He pulled her lock pick from her pocket. “I’m inclined to believe young Pete here.” He took her wallet from her back pocket and flipped through it. “Siobhan Walsh from Chantilly, Virginia. You’re a long way from Virginia, missy.”

She didn’t speak. She already knew what was going to happen, and was so glad she had locked her camera in her trunk.

He continued to flip through her wallet. Found some money, her credit card, her press credentials. He frowned. “Who do you work for?”

“I’m a freelance photographer.”

“Where’s your camera?”

“I didn’t bring it with me.”

“Stay here. If you move, I will arrest you.”

He moved away-along with the teenager. They walked far enough off that Siobhan couldn’t hear what they were saying, then Deputy Jackson got on his cell phone.

This was all wrong. Damn her red hair, she hadn’t kept a low profile since she’d arrived. She’d been at Mass this morning when Father talked about the infant left at his door. Any number of people could have seen her; someone would eventually connect her with Father Sebastian. She itched to call him and tell him to be careful, but the deputy had taken her phone as well as her car keys.

What had she been thinking? Of course, Kane Rogan would have said she wasn’t thinking, but what was she supposed to do, turn her back on someone who needed help? It wasn’t in her nature.

A pregnant woman… and a baby carried by a young girl… what was going on? Most of the time when a girl in the sex trade got pregnant, they forced her to have an abortion.

Siobhan’s stomach fell. What if these girls weren’t forced to have abortions, because the babies were being sold? She didn’t know much-okay, she knew next to nothing-about illegal adoptions, only that they existed.

But even that didn’t make sense to her-there was money in illegal adoptions, but there was more money in human trafficking and the sex trade, with less risk.

Still… something was different about that house and these people. The location? Maybe… this wasn’t an ideal place to house girls working in the business, voluntarily or not. It was in the middle of nowhere. A way station of sorts? Maybe… but why here where they’d stand out? Why not in downtown Laredo or a big city where they could blend in? Why in the middle of a poor, rural Texas community?

Jackson was talking to someone… and he kept glancing over at her. They wouldn’t kill her, would they? She didn’t think so… more likely they’d tell her to get out of town.

The conversation went on for several minutes, making her even more nervous. Finally, he hung up and walked over to her. “Ms. Walsh, you’re under arrest for breaking and entering.”

“I didn’t!” Yes, she was lying, but they couldn’t prove anything. Even the kid hadn’t seen her in the house. Well… he did see her leaving. “I heard someone crying and I thought they were hurt. The door was open.”

Shut up, Siobhan! Don’t talk without a lawyer.

Amazing that everything she knew went out the window when she was stuck between a rock and a hard place.

“Put your hands on top of your head. Now, Ms. Walsh.”

She didn’t want to spend the night in jail, but it was after nine and there was no way they’d let her out if this was the route they were going. She would have to make the best of it. Jail was better than the morgue. They’d give her a call, right?

She slowly put her hands on her head. Deputy Jackson took one wrist and pulled it behind her back and cuffed it. He stood so close behind her that she could feel his breath on the back of her neck. She grimaced. “I’m just playing with you, missy, lighten up and enjoy it,” he said.

He reached around the front of her shirt and squeezed her breasts again. She wasn’t expecting it and swung out with her free arm, catching the deputy in the face with her elbow.

“Shit! Fuck!” he screamed. He pushed her to the ground and roughly cuffed her. Blood dripped from his nose. “We’ll add resisting arrest and assault of a peace officer to the charges. You’ll be doing some serious time, missy.”

Siobhan closed her eyes. She was so screwed.

Okay, Kane, you were right this time.

I always am, sugar.

She heard Kane’s voice as clear as day and glanced around to see if he was standing there.

He wasn’t.