From there, I opened usacops.com and scanned lists of Utah law enforcement agencies. That brought basic information on the departments, addresses for their headquarters and the names of those in charge. The Hitchins PD page listed Evan as chief. A link took me to the department’s rudimentary website, where I found a small headshot of Evan and a department list with phone numbers and email addresses.
I snipped the photo of Evan, saved it, and then sent it on an email to my cell. I did the same with the phone number list.
That done, I logged on to my account with Dallas PD and went directly to a database the department pays for, one that compiles public records, including property and driver’s information, voter registration, criminal indictments, convictions, and civil suits. I plugged in Evan’s name, but little came up. I thought about how folks in law enforcement often hide their information, getting special permission from state and local governments to keep it off the Internet. This wasn’t going to be easy. I had no better luck when I looked for property and driver’s license records, nothing that included an address.
Then I had another thought.
I found Hannah downstairs in a bedroom with two sets of bunks and three twin beds, all laid out side to side. The new woman leaned over one of the beds, changing her baby’s diaper. Her boy had finally let go of her leg and sat on the floor playing with an old wooden Thomas the Tank Engine.
“Can we talk? I only need a minute,” I asked, peering in the doorway.
“Sure.” Hannah turned back to her new boarder. “You and the children settle in. I’ll find something for the baby to sleep in.”
“What do you need?” she asked as soon as we were out of earshot, but she kept walking, going door to door, knocking, and looking in. “I know there’s an extra crib in one of these rooms. If not, there has to be a playpen.”
“Do you know the family names of Evan Barstow’s wives? Not the first wife, but the others.”
Hannah stopped. She closed her eyes and dropped her head. When she looked up at me, her mouth sank at both corners. “Clara, you’re not investigating him, are you?”
“I just need the wives’ names,” I said. “That’s all.”
Hannah put both hands on my shoulders and stared at me. “Tell me it’s not Evan Barstow you’re researching. He’s not someone you want to fool with. Believe me when I say that it would be a mistake.”
“I understand. But I need his wives’ maiden names.”
“Why do I feel I shouldn’t do this?” she asked.
I shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s a simple question.”
Hannah shook her head. “I think there are three wives. The second and third are Jessica Bradshaw and Flo Jenkins.”
“Thanks.” I turned to go, and when I looked back Hannah watched me, her face a mask of worry.
Back on my laptop, I searched for information on Evan’s second and third wives. The thing with polygamy is that it’s illegal in the United States. It has been since 1862. That makes living the principle a somewhat complicated lifestyle. Over the decades, the problem has been solved by a technical maneuver: husbands only legally marry their first wives. Successive women are sealed to the men in religious ceremonies, but by no civil records filed at county courthouses. While in their day-to-day lives Jessica and Flo went by the last name Barstow, for legal matters most plural wives used their maiden names.
Half an hour later, a search of driver’s license records revealed an address shared by a Flo Jenkins and a Jessica Bradshaw, my guess the house where Evan Barstow’s family resided. When I looked up the property on Google Maps, it was a sprawling ranch near the mountains.
Mission accomplished, I turned off my laptop, just as my phone rang.
“We couldn’t find out much, Detective,” Samantha said. “There’s a boy in one of the group homes who remembers Eliza Heaton, but only from growing up with her in Alber. He hasn’t seen her in Salt Lake.”
“What about Jayme Coombs and Delilah Jefferies?”
“Nothing. But that doesn’t mean the girls didn’t go through here at some point. Like I said, our files are pretty sketchy. They may have stopped at the center, had a meal or two, picked up some materials, and moved on. If they didn’t ask for help finding shelter, we won’t have records.”
“Okay. Thanks.”
Another dead end.
I shouted at Hannah on my way out the door. “Not sure when, but I’ll see you later.”
“Clara!” Hannah bellowed. I glanced back at her. “Be careful!”
Twenty-One
It was still only 9.30 a.m. when I set a course for the Barstow family residence, reasoning that with any luck Evan wouldn’t be there. It was hours before lunch, and I assumed he’d have gone to his office after our early-morning confrontation at Alber PD. I thought again about the way he glared at me as Stephanie Jonas handed me her card. One thing was clear: my presence upset him.
Why? Was he involved in Delilah’s disappearance?
On the drive, I debated what I was looking for and how to find it. I really had no idea. I was playing a hunch. Evan Barstow had caught my interest, and I needed to know more about him. Reasoning it through, I didn’t believe that if Evan had Delilah he would hide her on the farm, surrounded by his family. Evan was smarter than that. Even if he thought he had control of the women, the children might talk. Secrets known by too many are hard to keep. Still, I couldn’t be sure. The thought that my sister could be hidden somewhere in Evan’s house pricked at my nerves.
Reflecting on my situation I also considered that, in a strange twist of fate, being a regular citizen worked to my advantage.
As the sheriff and the Barstow boys had pointed out, I had no jurisdiction in Alber. I certainly had none in Hitchins. Making an official visit, I would have had to abide by the rules and identify myself as law enforcement. Under the current circumstances, I had no more status than any interested party. That meant more freedom.
Yet, I’d embarked on the ultimate fishing expedition. I had no idea what to look for. My only hope: that if there was something on the property tied to Delilah, I’d notice it. But for that to be possible, it had to stand out enough to attract my attention. Admittedly, that was a long shot. After all, I’d had no contact with my sister in a decade.
Evan Barstow’s spread, between Alber and Hitchins, looked like a typical farmhouse—peaked roof, bluish-gray siding, and a broad front porch with four rocking chairs. A circle of pines, maples, and a few oaks buffered the house from the sun creeping higher in the east.
I drove past twice, sizing up the situation and formulating a plan. I didn’t see Evan’s official car, leading me to believe that, as I’d hoped, he wasn’t home. A woman in a long dress rode a mower through the yard, cutting the grass. Children milled around, playing ball and pushing each other on swings, while a second woman watched from one of the chairs on the porch.
On my third pass, I turned my phone off and rubbed my eyes to get them a little red. Cattle and horses grazed on both sides of the long driveway. At the sound of my SUV hitting the gravel, the woman supervising the children stood. Immediately, she shouted at the little ones to rush into the house. The woman on the mower wore headphones to block the engine noise, and apparently didn’t hear my car or her sister-wife’s shouts.
I parked the car, scrambled out, and made a beeline toward the woman on the mower. At that precise moment, she made a 180-degree turn. She jerked a bit in surprise to see me, pulled the mower to an abrupt stop and flipped off the engine. I wasn’t surprised when she scanned the yard for the children and her sister-wife. Families who live in the shadows hide from the outside world. She had to wonder who had come unannounced and what I intended.
To defuse the situation, I deployed my most sociable smile. I waved, as friendly as a next-door neighbor dropping in for cookies and tea. She slipped off her headphones.
“Ma’am, I’m wondering if you can help me. I’m in a pickle,” I said. With that, I brushed at my eyes with the back
of my hand, as if wiping away tears. “Maybe you saw me drive past a couple of times? I’m trying to find my way to St. George. I’m lost. I don’t know how, but I took a wrong turn. And I need to call my sister to tell her that I’m going to be late. I need to get her to the doctor for her treatments. I promised. I just can’t let her down.” I gulped, like I was trying to hold back sobs. “She must be worried sick that I’m not there.”
“Oh, dear, that’s terrible.” A tall woman with a rawboned face and clear blue eyes, she smelled of sweat, dust, and grass as she walked toward me. “Why don’t you use your cell?”
“That’s the problem,” I said, holding up my phone’s blank screen. “I do such stupid things sometimes. I didn’t bring the cord, and it’s out of power. And the car’s navigation system hasn’t worked in more than a year.”
“Well, I…” she said. “I don’t have a cell phone. My husband has one, but he’s not home. All we have is the house phone, but he wouldn’t like it if I let you in.”
“Oh, it would just be a minute. If I could use any phone, it would be such a blessing,” I said. In this world, I understood what people wanted to hear. “I was praying for help when I saw you.”
“Well…”
“Any map would work. My sister lives a few blocks from the downtown temple. If I get there, I can find her house.”
The woman paused, I guessed assessing the situation. I was a woman alone, in my scenario lost on the road. She smiled ever so slightly. When she spoke, she sounded pleased that she could help. “My husband has a map in the kitchen. I think it has a blow-up of St. George. Let’s go inside, and we’ll get you taken care of.”
On the front porch, the screen door rattled, and I was inside. The furniture was aged and worn, the house conspicuously clean. “I’m Jessica,” the woman said.
“I’m Jane,” I said, looking around. I stared at the staircase and wondered about the rooms upstairs. Could Delilah be confined there? Did she see me arrive? Of course, if she had, she wouldn’t know me, or realize that I’d come looking for her. “It’s nice to meet you,” I said to Jessica.
“Stay here,” she said. “I’ll bring the map. It may take me a few minutes to find it.”
She hurried from the room. I waited until she disappeared through a doorway, and then walked toward it. I paused when I heard another woman whisper, “You shouldn’t have brought her in here. If Evan finds out, he’ll be mad.”
“We won’t tell him. Then there isn’t a problem. Take the children upstairs, and don’t come down until I tell you. She’ll be gone in a few minutes,” Jessica said.
A herd of footsteps ran up a back staircase. Frustrated, I realized I couldn’t risk sneaking up the stairs to the second floor to look for Delilah, not with Evan’s wives and children peering from the shadows. Oh, Delilah, where are you? Are you here?
I heard rustling from the kitchen—Jessica rifling through drawers, looking for the map. If I couldn’t get upstairs, I still intended to see as much of the house as I could. Quietly, I stepped back and turned to the right, into the living room. Over the fireplace hung a family portrait, a photo with Evan Barstow in the center, three wives including Jessica beside him, surrounded by thirteen children. The room had couches against three walls and a bulky recliner in one corner, lamp tables and a barren pine coffee table.
I glanced over the room, looking for something, anything out of place, while I listened for Jessica to return. Nothing. From the living room, I turned into the dining room, a long table encircled by seventeen chairs, including two high chairs, a wooden bowl of bright red apples in the center.
“What are you looking for?” Jessica asked. She stood in the doorway with a confused look on her face. She held a folded map.
“The phone,” I said, smiling broadly. “I thought I could call, to tell my sister what happened and that I’m on my way.”
“Oh,” she said. “Well, okay. I’ll take you to the phone. But let’s get the directions figured out first.”
I followed her into another room, a man’s study. Evan had a large carved maple desk in the center, the legs ending in claw feet. Behind the desk a hunting trophy stared down at us—the long-snouted head of a bull moose, its bulky rack of antlers nearly four foot across. Shelves lining the walls strained under the weight of encyclopedias, religious books, math and science texts, and children’s chapter books. Evan’s wives, it appeared, homeschooled.
Jessica spread the map across the desk. I stood a step back, hoping she wouldn’t notice that I wasn’t following her finger as she traced the route from the house to St. George. “It’s really easy,” she said, “You just have to…”
Framed family photos and a stack of bills sat on the desk. I saw a computer hookup where Evan must have plugged in his laptop. Everything looked maddeningly ordinary.
“Do you have it memorized?” Jessica asked. “Can you get to your sister’s house?”
“I think so,” I said, focusing my eyes back on hers. “That’s such a great help. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t helped me. Thank you.”
“You still want to call your sister?”
“Yes, please,” I said. “I’m just so worried. I need to get there fast. But yes, I need to call. I’m sure she’s frantic.”
“Follow me,” Jessica said.
We walked into the kitchen.
“It’s right there,” Jessica said, pointing at an old-fashioned wall phone.
I picked up the handset. She watched while I listened for a dial tone and punched in a Salt Lake area code, 801. Then I turned my back and pushed random keys. I pressed the hang-up button to disconnect. “It’s me. I got lost and my phone’s out of power,” I said into the dead phone. “But a wonderful woman helped me. I’ll leave her house in a minute. I’m about…”
I looked at Jessica and mouthed “an hour?” She held up two fingers.
“I’m about two hours from your house. I know it’ll be tight, but please don’t worry. I’ll be there soon.” I acted as if I listened to someone else talk, and then said goodbye and hung up the phone.
“Thank you again,” I said to Jessica. To stall, I asked, “I’m so dry. May I trouble you for one more thing? A little water?”
“Of course.” Jessica grabbed a glass and filled it out of the faucet. She handed it to me, and I sipped slowly, buying time, while I looked around the kitchen. More children’s books were stacked on the kitchen table, and on the wall hung a whiteboard with simple math problems, addition and subtraction.
As I emptied the glass, I noticed a flashlight on the counter—long, heavy, and neon-orange. The color reminded me of the warning cones I put out at car accidents during my early years as a cop when I worked patrol.
“All set now?” she asked, as I handed her the empty glass. Jessica had been kind, patient with me, but she wanted me to leave.
“Yes. Thank you.”
Once inside the car, I looked back at the house. Jessica stood on the porch, arms folded across her chest. I saw no one else, but in nearly every window curtains were pulled back. Hidden behind them, the sister-wives and their children waited for me to leave. Did anyone else watch? Could Delilah be looking out from behind one of those windows as I pulled away?
“If you’re there, help me find you,” I whispered, as I continued down the driveway. I glanced back one more time in the rearview mirror, but I saw nothing to justify my suspicions. Frustrated, I realized that my quest had been a waste of time. Half a mile up the road, I turned my phone back on. As soon as it booted, a text message popped up from Max.
Clara, come to the sheriff’s office ASAP.
Twenty-Two
The monotony wore on Delilah, leaving her feeling disconnected and weary. She wished he’d unchain her arms. Her legs and chest itched, and it was torture not to be able to scratch. She’d counted four days since he’d taken her, and all she wanted was to be home with her family. When the panic built inside her, she envisioned her mother’s face. That became her safe pl
ace, the memory she called on to blunt her terror.
“I’m here. Can you hear me?”
Although Delilah had hoped to hear it again, when the voice floated up the vent into her room, it startled her.
“Yes,” she whispered. “I can hear you. Where are you?”
Delilah worried that she’d been right and it was all a trick, that the man would come screaming into the room to rebuke and punish her. The prickly lumps her mom called goosebumps erupted on her arms. Delilah waited, dreading the sound of his boots on the floorboards. She tried to think of an excuse to use, so he wouldn’t be mad.
Time passed. Nothing happened. He didn’t come.
“Where are you?” Delilah asked, this time louder.
“Downstairs, locked in the room below you.”
“Who are you?”
“That girl who fed you. I came with the man.”
“Thank you, I—”
“Did he take you?” the downstairs girl asked.
“Yes, I—”
“He grabbed me when I was outside working. My mom had me picking through rags, finding ones to sew into rugs. She sells them.”
“I was outside, too, waiting for my sister by the outhouse.”
“Oh,” the girl said.
“I think he watched me from the cornfield,” Delilah said.
“He watched me, too.”
Delilah thought about that, how they’d both been abducted so close to their homes.
“I’m Delilah. What’s your name?”
The girl didn’t answer. Instead, the next thing Delilah heard came in a whisper.
“He’s coming.”
Twenty-Three
I made good time on the drive to the sheriff’s department until I passed Alber and got stuck behind two trucks, their beds stacked five high with bags of silage. The harvest must have been going well. They’d accomplished a lot in less than half a day, snapping off the cobs, cutting and chopping the stalks. For some reason, an unusual amount of traffic clogged the road. After three attempts, I passed the trucks and sped up.
The Fallen Girls: An absolutely unputdownable and gripping crime thriller (Detective Clara Jefferies Book 1) Page 14
