Midwife Cover - Cassie Miles (2 page)

A hundred yards down the road, the charm faded as quickly as the dusk that spread shadows across the land. Scratchy letters on a rusted mailbox spelled out Escher, the name of his informant. Inside a four-foot-tall chain-link fence was a ramshackle bungalow. At one time, this little house might have been pretty, but the stucco was cracked, weathered and filthy. Weeds reached as high as the windows, many of which were busted. The gate across the driveway hung open as though someone had left in a hurry.

“That’s the address.” Cole drove past without stopping. “How do you want to proceed?”

“The front door was ajar. The place could be abandoned.”

Brady was disappointed that they weren’t closing in on suspects, but he wasn’t surprised. The phone call from Escher had been hasty. His tone was angry but frightened; he was about to bolt.

At a wide spot in the road, Cole turned the SUV around. “I didn’t see any vehicles, but there was the big garage.”

“Like my informant said.”

The three-car garage, a cheap prefab with vinyl siding, would make a good holding pen for human cargo. If there were prisoners, there would also be armed-and-dangerous guards.

Brady considered calling for backup before entering. In a city, he would have done so, but organizing a police presence in the mountains took a hell of a lot more time and effort. He wanted to get this loose end tied up and head back to Quantico.

He drew his Beretta and checked the clip. “Pull up to the front door. We’ll search the house first.”

“You got it.”

Cole drove back, whipped down the driveway and slammed on the brake. Brady was out of the car as soon as it stopped moving. Gun in hand, he charged toward the open door. The interior of the house was dark and dirty. A torn bedsheet hung from the curtain rod across the front window. Tattered furniture crouched on an olive green carpet. Fast food wrappers littered a coffee table along with the remains of fried chicken in a bucket. The still-greasy chicken showed that someone had been here recently.

Brady entered a narrow hallway with a bedroom at each end and a bathroom in the middle. In the front bedroom, he found a bare mattress and ragged blankets. The closet held a pile of stained clothing, both men’s and women’s.

The grime in the bathroom defied description.

The second bedroom had yellowed newspapers duct-taped over some of the windows. On the floor was a body, sprawled on his back with both arms thrown over his head and one leg doubled under him in a grotesque, horizontal pirouette.

Brady turned on the overhead light and called to Cole. “In here.”

There was no point in feeling for a pulse. Half the man’s head had been blown away. Brain matter spattered the peeling gray wallpaper, and blood puddled on the hardwood floor. Brady hunkered down beside the dead man.

Cole entered the bedroom. “Oh, man, that stinks.”

“Rigor hasn’t set in. He hasn’t been dead for long.” Brady breathed through his mouth, not wanting to inhale the stench. He pushed the body onto his side and took the wallet from the back pocket of his baggy jeans. In the cracked leatherette wallet were two fives and a driver’s license. “It’s Escher. My informant.”

“When did he contact you?”

Brady checked his wristwatch. “Three and a half hours ago. He called me in Albuquerque.”

“He might have already been here, chowing down on a bucket of chicken.”

And preparing to die. Brady stood and turned away from the body. He’d only questioned Escher face-to-face once. There wasn’t enough evidence to arrest him, but Brady was sure that the informant had been a coyote for many years, charging exorbitant amounts of money to smuggle illegals across the border from Mexico. That was bad enough, but nowhere near as vicious as the exploitation involved in trafficking where the human cargo was never set free. In two subsequent phone calls, Brady had played on Escher’s sympathies.

Brady wondered aloud, “Why did he call me? Something must have sparked his conscience. But what?”

“Do I need to contact the Denver field office to handle forensics on the body?” Cole asked.

“We can leave the murder investigation to the local sheriff.” The people who had killed Escher were already down the road. Why had the informant called? Why did he want Brady to come to this place? “Let’s take a look in the garage.”

He picked his way through the crap scattered throughout the little house. Looking for evidence, he’d have to paw through this garbage. There wasn’t enough hand sanitizer in the world to make this right.

Outside, he sucked down a breath of fresh air. Even though he didn’t expect to find anything in the garage, both he and Cole held their guns at the ready. He went to a door on the side. There were two padlocks, but the door was standing open.

As he stepped inside, he hoped with all his heart that they wouldn’t find any other victims. He flicked a switch by the door. Light from two bare bulbs showed the detritus of former inhabitants. Clutter and rags. A couple of cardboard boxes. Bare mattresses. Sleeping bags. The stink of urine and sweat was overpowering.

Cole grumbled, “This must be what hell looks like.”

“It’s the end of the road for my investigation,” Brady said. “Escher was my last viable lead.”

He heard a rustling noise coming from the far corner. Raccoons? Rats? Brady moved toward the sound. He looked down into a cardboard box. Inside, swaddled in filthy yellow blanket decorated with sheep, was an infant with round cheeks and a tiny rosebud mouth. This was what Escher had wanted him to find.

The little arms reached toward him, and Brady scooped the baby from the makeshift nest. He snuggled the tiny bundle against his chest. “How old do you think it is?”

“Not more than a couple of weeks,” Cole said.

“You sure?”

“Pretty much. With my wife’s job, I’m around babies a lot.” He reached out and stroked the fine black hair on the infant’s head. “Doesn’t seem to be injured, but we should check it out. I know where to take this little one.”

The baby wriggled. The mouth suckled an invisible teat. Brady had nothing to feed this infant. All he could offer was a promise that he would point the abandoned child toward a better life.

Trafficking in newborns was a new and horrible twist in the ITEP investigation—something he couldn’t ignore. Brady knew he wouldn’t be returning to Quantico today.

Chapter Two

In the front reception area of the Rocky Mountain Women’s Clinic in Granby, Petra Jamison stood on her head with her elbows forming a tripod and her bare feet against the wall for support. She’d propped the front doors open to allow the early evening breezes to waft inside and dispel the faintly antiseptic smell from the examination rooms. In about an hour, a group of pregnant women would arrive for Petra’s class on prenatal yoga breathing, and she’d decided to get in the mood by playing a CD of Navajo wooden flute music and doing meditation exercises.

Even though the room was dimly lit with only one lamp on the desk behind the counter and a three-wick sandalwood candle on the coffee table, she was bathed in the warm glow of positivity. Her mind and body were in balance. The rush of blood to her brain gave her a burst of energy at the end of the day. As if she needed an evening wake-up. Petra had the circadian rhythm of a night owl, maybe because she was born at midnight. Or maybe her preference for the dark had something to do with her fair complexion—people who freckle shouldn’t go out in the sun. Or maybe…

She heard a vehicle pull into the parking lot. A car door slammed. Still upside down, she saw a man in a black suit and white shirt holding a baby in his arms. He strode toward her and leaned over, tilting his head to squint into her face. He had tense eyes and the kind of high forehead that she associated with intelligence, even though she knew hairline was nothing more than a genetically determined growth pattern. Was he smart? Or clever? Did he have a sense of humor? Probably not. This guy didn’t look like Mr. Giggle.

“Back up,” she said.

“What?”

“I need for you to back up so I can put my legs down.”

When he stepped backward, the baby started crying.

Petra lowered her legs, stood and adjusted the long, auburn braid that hung down her back. Before she could say anything, Cole McClure charged into the reception area.

“Hey, lady,” Cole greeted her. “I need your help.”

“Anything for you.” She liked Cole, even though her fellow midwife and friend, Rachel, had moved away from Granby when she married him. “How’s little Emily?”

“Perfect.” He made the introduction. “Petra Jamison, midwife, meet Brady Masters, special agent.”

“Hi, Brady.” She purposely used his first name instead of his title. The clinic was her space, and her protocol applied. In here, it didn’t matter if you were a bank president or a car mechanic—she’d delivered babies for women with both of those occupations. “May I take the baby?”

“Be my guest.”

When he transferred the tiny bundle into her arms, her fingers brushed against his chest. It was hard as a rock. “Are you wearing Kevlar?”

“It’s a protective vest.”

She glanced between the two men. Even though Cole had on a dark blazer, his jeans and blue shirt were casual. Quite the opposite, Brady matched the stereotype for men in black, right down to his body armor. His underpants were probably government-issue. “Do you mind telling me why this baby has an FBI escort?”

“Long story,” Brady said.

The poor thing was filthy, swaddled in a blanket with a sheep design. The baby’s cries were fitful. The little face twisted in a knot.

She blew out the candle and went down the hallway that was covered with hundreds of photos of families who had used the clinic over the past five years.

In a spacious lavender room with sinks, cabinets and a refrigerator, she placed the wailing infant on a changing table and removed the blanket. There was a logo in the corner and a blood stain, but she saw no wounds on the baby as she peeled off a grungy T-shirt and a cloth diaper that looked like it hadn’t been changed in a very long time. “When’s the last time this little boy ate anything?”

“Don’t know,” Brady said.

She shoved the discarded clothing and blanket aside. “You probably need those things for evidence. Trash bags are in that cabinet. Cole, would you prepare a bottle of formula? You know where everything is.”

While the two feds did her bidding, she slid a portable tub into one side of the double sink. Using a soft cloth, she gave the baby a quick wash, inspecting him for cuts and rashes. The warm water soothed his cries until he was only emitting an occasional hiccup.

“Is he okay?” Brady asked.

“I think he’s going to be just fine,” she said. “Nothing wrong with his lungs, that’s for sure.”

After she dried him off, she applied a medicinal salve to his chafed bottom, put on a biodegradable diaper and swaddled him in a clean white blanket. She took the bottle from Cole and teased the nipple into the baby boy’s mouth. After only a few tries, he started sucking.

The whole process had taken less than ten minutes; Petra was an expert. She looked toward Cole who was on his cell phone. Even though she didn’t really want to talk to Special Agent Brady, she spoke to him in a soft voice that wouldn’t upset the feeding infant. “I’d like an explanation.”

“Nothing you need to worry about,” he said. “Thanks for taking care of the, um, immediate problem.”

“Are you referring to the poopy diaper?”

He scowled as though it was below him to discuss poop. This guy was uber-intense. Tight-lipped, he said, “The infant needs to be turned over to Child Protective Services.”

“There’s only one thing this baby needs. His mother. What happened to her? Is she dead?”

“Why would you think—”

“There was blood on the blanket. A big smear right next to the logo for Lost Lamb Ranch, whatever that is. So, what happened? Did you find the baby at a crime scene?”

Even though Brady had already washed his hands, he used a spritz of hand sanitizer. “The short answer is yes. There was a crime. We don’t know where the mother is.”

“I might be able to help. I don’t know all the pregnant women in the area, but I’ve got a pretty good network. Should I ask around?”

“That won’t be necessary.” His gray eyes were cool and distant. “We have reason to believe the mother isn’t from around here.”

“On the run?” she guessed.

His expression gave nothing away.

“Is she a hostage? Or kidnapped?”

“It’s an ongoing investigation. I can’t discuss it. You understand.”

She took his condescending attitude as a challenge to figure out what was going on. The infant she held in her arms had switched on all her protective instincts. She couldn’t just hand him over and walk away.

“It must have been something terrible,” she said, “that separated the mother from her baby. In spite of how dirty he was, he’d been taken care of. Mom didn’t want to abandon him.”

Brady said nothing.

She could only think of two reasons a mother would leave her baby behind. “Either she was forced to run or she thought the baby would be safer without her. If I had to guess, I’d say that mother and baby were being transported illegally.”

“Good guess,” Cole said as he ended his phone call. “I checked in with the sheriff, and he put me through to one of his deputies who picked up an injured woman—an illegal with no green card. She kept saying that her baby was stolen.”

“How badly is she injured?” Brady asked.

“Knife wounds. A lot of blood,” Cole reported. “The deputy took her to Doc Wilson’s house. It was closer to his location than any hospital or clinic. The doc stitched her up. He says she’ll be fine.”

“We need to talk to her,” Brady said.

“I told the deputy to stay with her at the doc’s place. If anybody is after her, she could be in danger.”

Petra listened with rising concern as they discussed their plan to drive to Doc Wilson’s place. Her heart went out to this mother. She wanted to help. “I’m coming with you.”

“I can’t sanction that,” Brady said.

Still holding the baby, she left the room and went down the hall to one of the desks behind the counter. “What I do is my decision. Not yours.”