Midwife Cover

Cole said, “She’s a lot prettier than you.”

“As it should be.” He tucked the phone back into his pocket. “How much farther?”

“According to the numbers on the mailboxes by the road, we’re getting close. Maybe a mile or so.”

“Are you wearing a vest?”

“Nope. Are you?”

“I am.” He’d spent extra for a brand of lightweight, concealable body armor developed by the Israelis. In the field, Brady always wore a protective vest under his button-down white shirt and black suit coat. Those were the rules. “We can stop if you want to get into gear.”

Cole shrugged. “I’ll take my chances.”

An interesting choice, Brady thought. Even though Cole had settled down and was a proud papa, he still exhibited the risk-taking behavior of an undercover operative. People could modify their behavior, but few really changed.

The road meandered through a forest that was sparsely settled with what looked like summer vacation cabins. This was a good area for a hideout—close enough to main roads for a quick getaway and secluded enough to be off the radar.

Cole turned left at a nearly indecipherable street marker for Wigwam Way. The house nearest to the corner was a quaint barn that had been remodeled into a house with a large window where the hayloft would have been. On the opposite side was a cheerful log structure with red shutters, plastic flowers in window boxes and a burned wood sign that said Welcome to the Peterson Place.

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 …