The Lost Girls

by Allison Brennan

  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 ha
nds 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.

  CHAPTER THREE

  FBI SSA Noah Armstrong spent the first thirty minutes of their two-hour drive south talking on the phone to Zach Charles, the analyst for San Antonio’s Violent Crimes Squad. Lucy tried not to eavesdrop, though it was difficult considering she was sitting in the passenger seat. Noah was going over active cases with the ease and confidence of someone who’d been running the squad for years instead of two months.

  “Kincaid is with me,” Noah said. “I sent Quiroz a message that I had to pull Lucy from the double homicide they’ve been working with SAPD. I’ve assigned Agent Cook to replace her.” He listened to something Zach said, then continued. “If Agent Cook has an issue with the assignment, she can call me and discuss it.” He hung up a moment later.

  Lucy itched to discuss the case with Noah, but thought better of it. She’d barely spoken to Elizabeth Cook in the nine months she’d been in the San Antonio field office. The only thing Lucy knew about her was that she was divorced, had two daughters, and planned on retiring early at the end of next year at age forty-five, after putting in twenty years. Lucy’d never worked a case with her, and Cook rarely went out into the field. The Violent Crimes Squad handled a variety of crimes, but as their official name—Violent Crimes and Major Offenders—suggested, most of the cases dealt with physical crimes against people. Multi-jurisdictional homicides, kidnappings, special circumstances cases, and similar situations. They worked extensively with other law enforcement agencies to pool resources. Cook tended to assist more than investigate, and primarily from the office. While most agents abhorred desk work and writing reports, Cook preferred it.

  Three months ago, the local DEA and the San Antonio PD—as well as the FBI to a lesser degree—had been decimated after a major corruption conspiracy was uncovered. Five DEA agents and two prison guards were murdered, an SAPD cop arrested for attempted murder and conspiracy, and FBI Agent Barry Crawford’s injuries were so extensive he was still on disability and would likely never return to active duty. Juan Casilla, Lucy’s boss, left on paternity leave after his wife nearly died in childbirth. Nita was still ill, and while he had a month more of official leave, the rumor was he would either be taking a sabbatical or resigning.

  Noah Armstrong had come to San Antonio from Washington, DC, the first week of July as the acting SSA of Violent Crimes, but he was also here to liaise with other agencies as everyone had to clean house and rebuild. Lucy liked working with Noah, who’d been her first training agent last year before she’d entered the FBI academy. They’d become friends and Lucy greatly respected him. But in the ten weeks he’d been here, they hadn’t worked together on a case. Though she didn’t like passing off her current case to another agent, she was glad he wanted her help on this new case in Laredo.

  “Ask,” Noah said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “You’re biting the inside of the your cheek, which tells me you want to say something. But I won’t discuss personnel issues.”

  “It wasn’t that.” Well, yes, in part it was, but she’d never have asked about Elizabeth Cook and why she didn’t work in the field—or why Juan went along with it. “You haven’t told me why we’re going to Laredo.”

  “I’m sorry, I assumed you knew.” Noah passed a slower driver and maintained his speed. It was still early, the sun barely up, and Lucy wanted more coffee.

  “I’m good at my job, but I’m not psychic.”

  He glanced at her with a half smile on his face. “You sure about that?”

  “Pretty sure.”

  “I got a call from Rick Stockton late last night. A photojournalist, Siobhan Walsh, was arrested and is being held in Freer, about an hour from Laredo. He hasn’t been able to get any information out of the locals, and he wasn’t allowed to speak to Walsh. I assumed you knew because Rick said Walsh is tight with the Rogans.”

  “I know of her, I’ve never met her.”

  “There’s more going on than a simple arrest. Rick was alerted to Walsh’s disappearance by a local priest who said she’d given him Rick’s number in case she didn’t return from taking photos—at least that was Rick’s understanding. Though the priest didn’t seem to trust Rick and didn’t want to give too many details over the phone, Siobhan’s arrest may be related to a newborn baby who was left at the church last week.”

  A baby? “Why wasn’t the FBI brought in earlier?”

  “Rick did some research and learned that early Thursday morning, a baby was left at the door of Our Lady of Sorrows, a rural parish between San Antonio and Laredo. The two priests at the parish didn’t call police, but drove the infant to a hospital in Laredo—in another county. The infant is being kept there while the police and Child Protective Services conduct their investigation.”

  “Is this a Baby Moses case?” Different states called their laws different things, but Baby Moses in Texas meant that mothers could leave their infants at designated safe places without reprisal.

  “No—the church isn’t a safe haven. There’s been some jurisdictional issues—the local police want to investigate because the baby was left in their jurisdiction, but the Webb County sheriff’s department is also investigating because the hospital is in their jurisdiction. Our office wasn’t notified or called.”

  “What does this have to do with Siobhan Walsh and her arrest?”

  “I don’t know yet. Once we have Walsh in our custody, we’ll find out if her arrest connects to the infant. She’ll have more answers, at any rate.” Noah glanced at her, then sped up to pass another driver. “Rick wants the FBI to work this case, which is why he didn’t call RCK to get Walsh out. But I sensed he was torn.”

  “Rick isn’t someone torn over difficult decisions.”

  “You’re right, so I want to get him answers today. I need someone who speaks fluent Spanish, which means you, Emilio, or Ryan. But you’re the only female on the squad who’s fluent, and we don’t know exactly what we’re dealing with.”

  He didn’t need to explain that some victims much preferred talking with female agents, and Lucy was well trained in working with victims of sexual assault.

  “If a woman left her baby at a church, she could have feared for her life and her baby,” Lucy said. “Perhaps trying to protect the baby from its father.”

  “I was thinking something along those lines. Rick didn’t ask me to bring you along, but he implied you’d be the most helpful.”

  “I appreciate his faith in me.”

  “It’s not faith, Lucy. You earned it.”

  She didn’t say anything.

  “What?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Hardly.”

  She didn’t want to talk about her place in the office, how awkward it had been over the last three months. She just wanted to do her job and do it well. When she’d first arrived in San Antonio, she felt like she fit in. She’d made friends on her squad, closed tough cases, and had immersed herself in the city.

  She’d grown to love San Antonio and to think of it as her home. She and Sean had settled into their house, and while Sean hadn’t taken a regular job, he had e
nough freelance security assignments to keep him busy. And now they were planning their wedding … or, rather, Sean was planning it. He seemed to enjoy it, so she let him do most of the work—within reason. She didn’t want anything fancy or big, though considering they each had a large family, she couldn’t do much about the size of the wedding.

  But now … nine months after moving here … she felt like she’d lost something. She knew why. People didn’t trust her. Not because they thought she was corrupt, but because they thought she was a magnet for trouble. Maybe she was. Trouble seemed to follow her. Maybe she went looking for it. Some people believed so.

  She’d made mistakes—at least in the eyes of others. And on the nights she couldn’t sleep, she considered other ways she might have been able to do things. There were always options. But in the end, she had to accept that she’d broken rules—and perhaps, made mistakes—because someone was in trouble. She couldn’t sit back and watch a tragedy happen if she could stop it, even if that meant bending—or breaking—the rules.

  It had taken her a long time to get to this point. She believed in the system, she believed in justice. But what happened when the system and justice didn’t align? Which was more important? The system that upheld justice but sometimes faltered or the idea that justice could always be obtained, though sometimes at a price?

  “You’ve never walked an easy road,” Noah said after a minute. “I think you know that.”

  “I do.”

  They drove in silence awhile longer, but it was a comfortable silence. Noah said, “I received your wedding invitation over the weekend.”

  “I hope you’re still in town at the end of October.”

  “Not sure, but if not I’ll fly out. You deserve to be happy. You and Sean have made yourselves a nice life here.”

  “We like it. I love my family, but this is the first time I’ve felt like I’m truly on my own.”

  “I was an only child. I’ve always felt like I was on my own.”

  He sounded a bit sad about it, but before Lucy could ask questions, his phone vibrated. He answered. “We’re almost in Freer,” Noah said. “Ten minutes or so.” He listened. “That’s serious. How—” He stopped talking, listened, then said, “I’ll talk to the priest first. But don’t you think—” He stopped again. “I understand. Can you send her file to Lucy? Thanks.” He hung up. “That was Rick.”