The Call of Bravery

by Janice Kay Johnson

  The sound of a car engine outside made her frown. People didn’t drop in on her unexpectedly. Her farmhouse on ten acres was reached by a dead-end gravel road she shared with five other houses. Only one was past hers. There were new neighbors there, renters, Lia thought. She hadn’t tried to get to know them. She’d as soon keep her distance from all her neighbors, and was glad the men she’d seen coming and going weren’t friendly.

  Or nosy.

  This car, though, had definitely turned in her driveway. She touched each of the boys reassuringly and murmured, “I’d better go see who’s here.”

  Walker turned his head enough to gaze blankly at her before looking back at the TV; Brendan kept staring as if she hadn’t spoken.

  Lia left them in the living room and paused at the foot of the stairs, listening. Quiet. Arturo and Julia must still be asleep. Thirteen-year-old Sorrel was most likely lying on her bed listening to her iPod, or prowling the internet on Lia’s laptop. Maybe harmless, maybe not, but Lia couldn’t watch her 24/7. She could and would check later to see what websites Sorrel had visited.

  Outside, a car door slammed. She opened the front door and had a freezing moment of panic. The dark sedan, shiny except for a thin coat of dust from her road, was clearly government issue, as was the man walking toward her, wearing a suit, white shirt and tie. If he was from Immigration, she was screwed. There was no time to hide Arturo and Julia.

  He paused at the foot of the stairs. “Ms. Woods?”

  “Yes.” She stepped onto the porch and drew the door mostly closed behind her. “What can I do for you?”

  He was a large man, in his late forties or early fifties at a guess, with a receding hairline and the beginning of a paunch. “I’m with the United States Drug Enforcement Agency. I’d like to talk to you.”

  Lia knew she was gaping. “To me?”

  He smiled. “You’re not under suspicion, I promise you. I’m hoping that you can help us.”

  “Help you.” She must sound like an idiot, but…wow. She’d never even smoked marijuana. Excessive drinking had been a way bigger problem in her high school than drug use. Her crowd in college hadn’t been into drugs, either. Was there any chance he was lying and really with Immigration after all?

  “May I explain?” he said.

  She blinked. “Yes, sure. Why don’t you— Actually, let’s stay out here on the porch. Give me a moment to check on the kids.”

  He remained politely outside while she dashed in, peeked at Walker and Brendan, then tore upstairs to Sorrel’s room. The teenager was indeed using the laptop.

  “There’s a government type here I have to talk to,” Lia said. “Will you listen for the little ones and take care of them if they wake up?”

  “I guess so.” Sorrel wrinkled her nose. “Unless Arturo’s diaper is gross. I don’t want to do gross.”

  “They should keep sleeping for another hour. But just in case. Okay?”

  She shrugged, her attention returning to the monitor. “Okay.”

  The teenager didn’t know that two-year-old Arturo and eight-month-old Julia were in this country—and being harbored by Lia—illegally; Lia made sure her legitimate foster children never had a clue. Kids came and went here. There was no reason any of them would question why one social worker brought some of them to her door and a different one the others.

  Then Lia bounded downstairs and went out on the front porch, closing the door behind her this time. The man turned to face her.

  He held out his badge. “I’m Special Agent Wes Phillips.”

  She scrutinized the badge, as if she’d know a fake if she saw it, nodded and said, “Please, sit down.”

  He gingerly settled into one of the pair of Adirondack chairs. She took the other one.

  “I’d invite you in, but I’m a foster parent and have kids napping. Plus, I thought maybe you’d rather we weren’t overheard.”

  “I’d definitely rather not be overheard by children.” He hesitated. “This is actually a matter that concerns your neighbors to the south.”

  Her first reaction was relief. It was hard to make herself think, to orient herself. The south? “That nice place? Someone new is in it. I’m afraid I haven’t even met them.”

  “Have you noticed them coming and going?”

  “An occasional car. Either there are several men living there, or else whoever is renting the place has lots of friends.”

  He nodded. “We have reason to believe the house is being used by members of a drug distribution network.”

  “You’re not talking about methamphetamine, are you?” she asked in alarm. “Are they making it there? Can’t it be really volatile? Are my kids in danger?”

  “No, no. We’re frankly not sure what’s up in that house, but don’t believe meth is involved.”

  Wariness returning, Lia straightened her spine. “How is it you think I can help you?”

  “I came out to determine whether the house can be viewed from yours.” He had his back to it currently, although from here woods blocked all but the rooftop and a corner of the enormous garage. “We’d like to place it under surveillance. Yours is the only building within visual range. What we’d like is to, er, rent your house from you for a period of time.”

  “A period of time.”

  “It may be weeks to several months.”

  She didn’t even have to think about it. “No.”

  “I’m sure we could provide you with—”

  “No. This is my home. I’m currently caring for five traumatized children. Two of them lost their mother to leukemia this week. One is a teenager prone to acting out. This is their home, too, the only security they have right now. I will not uproot them.”

  Plainly, he didn’t like that. “You don’t mind that your nearest neighbors may be dealing drugs?”

  “Of course I mind. But what you’re asking is impossible.”

  He studied her. “This is a large house.”

  Oh, damn. “Yes, it is,” she said cautiously.

  He seemed to ponder. “Perhaps it would work best if your neighbors see life continuing as usual here.”

  She waited.

  “Do you use your attic?”

  She’d known that was coming. After a hesitation, Lia admitted, “No. It’s pretty bare-bones up there, though.”

  “Would you consider allowing two agents from the DEA to conduct a stakeout from your attic?”

  She queried what that meant; he explained. Assuming there actually was an adequate view from upstairs, they would use advanced surveillance equipment to watch the nearby home from the attic windows. The agents could sleep up there as well. He did concede that they’d need to use a bathroom if one wasn’t available in the attic.

  “There isn’t,” she said flatly.

  “It would also, er, be convenient if you could be persuaded to provide them with meals. We’d give you reimbursement for groceries and an additional stipend, of course.”

  The entire time he talked, Lia thought furiously. Would the DEA have any reason to investigate which children had legitimately been placed in her home? Perhaps Arturo and Julia could be moved. They were short-term anyway; she didn’t expect to have them for more than a week or two. Their mother had been swept up in a raid on a tulip bulb farm here in the county and immediately deported. Supposedly a family member would be coming for them if the mother couldn’t make her way back quickly.

  Lia might look more suspicious if she refused than if she agreed. And she did hate the idea of something like cocaine or heroin being sold from her next-door neighbor’s house. The whole idea was surreal; she might have expected it in New York City, but not in rural Washington State.

  But…weeks or months?

  “Would these agents be…respectful?” she asked slowly. “I’m a single woman, and I
currently have a thirteen-year-old girl living here.”

  Phillips’s smile held the knowledge that he was about to get what he wanted. “I guarantee you have nothing to fear from our agents.”

  Oh, yes, she did, but she couldn’t say that. Lia sighed and stood. “Then let me show you the attic and you can see if it’s suitable. Please try not to wake the children.”

  She felt nothing but apprehension as she led the way upstairs, shaking her head slightly at Sorrel’s startled look when they passed her open bedroom door. At worst, the resident government agents would discover that she regularly harbored illegal immigrants. At best…well, having two strange men—or maybe a man and a woman?—living in her house, sharing one of only two antiquated bathrooms, expecting to be fed, would be a horrible inconvenience. Never-ending houseguests she hadn’t exactly invited in the first place.

  But…how could she say no?

  She couldn’t. And that’s what, in the end, it came down to, wasn’t it?

  * * *

  CONALL COULD NOT BELIEVE he was here, driving through the town of Stimson where he’d grown up. Out of the twenty-one domestic divisions of the DEA, the Seattle division, covering Washington, Oregon and Idaho, was the only one he would have balked at being assigned to. When he left home, he’d never intended to come back.

  He hadn’t even come home for his brother Niall’s wedding. The pang of guilt was unavoidable; he knew Niall had wanted him to be there. He might even have made it if he hadn’t gotten shot two weeks before the wedding. Yeah, he’d been out of the hospital and could have come anyway, but recuperation seemed like a good excuse.

  A good excuse for him, that is, not his brother. He hadn’t told Niall about his near-death experience. In their every-few-months phone conversations, Conall tended to keep talk about his job light, even though Niall was a cop and would probably be able to handle the grimmer aspects of what Conall did. Maybe.

  His fingers tightened rhythmically on the steering wheel as his attention was arrested by an obviously official, handsome brick building. Oh, damn. That was the new public safety building right there, housing the police station and city government. It was linked to the equally new courthouse by a glass-enclosed walkway.

  The knowledge that Niall and Con’s big brother Duncan might be in there right this minute unsettled him more than he wanted to admit. God. Was he going to have to see Duncan?

  He knew the answer. Yes. This was his operation. He had an obligation to liaise with local law enforcement. Which meant newly appointed Police Chief Duncan MacLachlan.

  The sense of unreality swept over Conall again. Was God playing a nasty prank on him?

  He’d tried to say no to this assignment. The suits upstairs didn’t like the word. Yes, they understood that he’d applied for a position with FAST—the Foreign-Deployed Advisory and Support Teams—that were interjected where needed abroad. The decision would not be made immediately. Even if he was chosen, the transfer could wait.

  Somebody, somewhere, had noticed that he was, apparently, the only agent within the entire DEA from this particular corner of Washington State. Con had no idea why the fact that he’d gone to high school here was considered to be an advantage. He wouldn’t be conducting some kind of deep cover investigation that required him to have to act like a local. Good God, he’d fail if that was the object; he didn’t recognize half the businesses he was passing on the main street of the modest-size county seat.

  The man who had ridden for the most part quietly in the passenger seat beside Conall said now, “Do you have family here?”

  Conall wanted to lie, but knew he wouldn’t get away with it. “Yes,” he said shortly. “Two brothers. One is the police chief.”

  Jeff Henderson looked thoughtfully at him. “Handy.”

  Conall grunted.

  He didn’t know Henderson, had never worked with him, but hadn’t learned anything bad about him, either, when he asked around. Henderson had been dragged in from the El Paso division. Apparently Seattle was currently conducting some major, named operation that had everyone excited and left them understaffed when something new cropped up.

  “We’re not stopping?”

  Oh, crap, Conall thought. They should. Or he should have set up a meet.

  “No. I’ll call Duncan. I don’t want word to get around that a couple of DEA agents are in town.”

  Henderson nodded, apparently satisfied. “You know your way?”

  “Yeah.” He was a little startled to realize how clearly he remembered every byway in the county.

  The town proper fell behind them, although they didn’t leave the city limits, which had been drawn by an optimist. Or maybe, he discovered, a realist after all since they passed several major new housing developments and an elementary school that hadn’t been here in his day.

  They did shortly find themselves on a typical country road, however, with a yellow strip down the middle and no shoulders to separate road from ditches. Homes were on acreage now; animals grazed behind barbed wire or board fences with peeling paint. The countryside was pretty, though, the grass lush, maples and alders bright with spring greenery, a scattering of wildflowers adding cheer to the roadside. Deciduous trees gave way to forests of Douglas fir and cedar in the foothills, above which glimpses of white-peaked Cascade Mountains could be seen.

  Henderson kept his thoughts to himself, although he eyed the scenery with interest. Conall found himself reluctantly wondering about his temporary partner. Normally he tried not to get personal, but this was the kind of job that would have them spending long hours together. They’d get to know each other one way or another.

  “You married?” he finally asked.

  Henderson glanced at him. “Yeah. I have two kids, four and six. You?”

  “No. No wife, no kids.” God forbid.

  “You know this house is stuffed full of kids.”

  That snapped Conall’s attention from the road ahead. “What?”

  “You didn’t know?”

  He frowned. “I got pulled in at the last minute. All I was told was that the home-owner is willing to let us use the attic and will feed us.”

  “She runs a foster home. Records show she currently has three kids, but I guess from what she told Phillips, she has another two on a real short-term basis.”

  “Five children?”

  “That’s the word.”

  Conall groaned. “Does the attic door have a lock?”

  “If not, we may want to install one,” Henderson said, faint amusement in his voice.

  “If we have to deal with kids, you’re the specialist.”

  “Okay.” He leaned forward. “Is that the street?”

  It was. Conall slowed and put on the turn signal, even though he hadn’t passed another car in the past five minutes.

  The road was gravel and made perilous by potholes. Conall drove at the pace of a crawl. The shocks were none too good on this aging Chevy Suburban, borrowed from the fleet of seized vehicles kept for occasions when agents wanted to be inconspicuous. Conall had been assured that, belying the appearance of dents and a few pockets of rust, there was plenty of power under the hood if he needed it.

  A small grunt escaped Henderson when the right front wheel descended with a clunk into a particularly deep crater. “Why the hell isn’t this road paved?”

  “It’s private. Only five houses on it.” Conall had counted the mailboxes out at the corner. “Too expensive to pave, even if the residents could all agree to share the cost.”

  “The least they could do is fill the damn holes.”

  Conall didn’t bother to explain what a headache it could be for residents to coordinate on even such a relatively modest project. A couple of the households might be short on bucks; the home-owners closest to the county road might not feel their share should be equal. Pr
obably the only vehicles that used the road belonged to home-owners or visitors; kids would have to catch the school bus out at the main road, and obviously the post office had declined to deliver off the pavement. Probably even garbage cans had to be hauled out to the main road for pickup.

  Which gave him the idea that, once he knew what day was garbage pickup, he’d wander out here and investigate the neighbor’s cans. If they were smart, they wouldn’t be careless enough to dump anything but kitchen garbage and the like in their cans, but you never knew. Crooks were often stupid, a fact for which law enforcement personnel gave frequent thanks.

  Last driveway on the right, his directions had said. No house number was displayed at the head of the driveway he turned down. Scruffy woods initially screened the house from view; alders, vine maples, a scattering of larger firs and cedars, scraggly blackberries and lower growing salal. At least there were no potholes here, instead a pair of beaten earth tracks separated by a grassy hump.

  They came out of the woods to see fenced pasture and, ahead, a white-painted farmhouse that probably dated to the 1920s or 1930s. Red and white beef cattle grazed the pasture on one side of the driveway, while on the other side a fat, shaggy Shetland pony and a sway-backed horse of well-used vintage lifted their heads from the grass to gaze with mild interest at the passing Suburban.

  As they neared, Conall could see that the house had two full stories with a dormered attic to boot. Several of the wood-framed, small-paned, sash windows on the first floor boasted window boxes filled with bright pink and fuchsia geraniums. The wide, covered front porch with a railing looked welcoming.

  The one outbuilding, probably a barn in its past, apparently served now as garage. The double doors stood open and he could see what he thought was a Subaru station wagon in the shadowy interior.

  The setup was good, he reflected; they’d been lucky to find a neighbor willing to cooperate with a surveillance team, and even luckier given that this one and only suitable house happened to have an unused attic that offered a perfect vantage point. Still, he studied the facade nervously, half expecting children to swarm out like killer bees from a hive. God, he hoped there wouldn’t be babies squalling all night. Although babies might be preferable to kids of an age to be curious.