The Call of Bravery

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.