“You’re lying to me.” He glared at Siobhan. “Do you know what you do?” In rapid Spanish he said to his wife, “I told you not to say anything, do nothing!” He turned to Siobhan and in broken English said, “You take advantage, this old woman.”
“No, señor, I’m leaving now. I’m sorry.”
“And will you be here when they come for us in the night? When they shoot us in our sleep? When my wife cries as they hurt her? Where will you be? Where will God be?”
He was as scared as he was angry. Siobhan understood him; she understood the fear that made good people look the other way.
Maybe Kane was right and she ran tilting at windmills, ignorant, getting herself and others in trouble; but if not her, who? If she didn’t fight to help those who were abused and dying, what right did she have to call herself a daughter of God? Kane didn’t believe; she didn’t know if he ever had. But she did. She had a calling, she knew it as clear as day, and she would never turn her back on those who through no fault of their own were brutalized by evil people.
Siobhan said in Spanish, “God bless you both.”
“Pray for us,” Mrs. Hernandez said. “If they find out, we will be punished.”
“Just go,” Mr. Hernandez said, the veins in his neck enlarged from his barely controlled anger. “Go and never come back.”
“You will be in my prayers every night,” she whispered. She left through the back door.
They slammed it behind her.
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.