Cold Betrayal (31 page)

“He’s an Interpol agent,” Ali explained. “He’s operating on the assumption that The Family is engaged in some kind of human trafficking operation. He’s looking for any information you can provide on how you made it in and out of the compound this morning.”

“Human trafficking?” David repeated. “Are you serious?”

“Very,” Ali told him.

“Okay then,” David said. “I’ll give him a call.”

As David set off to return the minivan, Ali rang the shelter’s doorbell. After identifying herself over the intercom, the door buzzed open. She found a receptionist seated at a desk just inside. “May I help you?”

“My name is Ali Reynolds. I’m looking for Andrea Rogers.”

“She’s expecting you, Ms. Reynolds, but she’s busy right now. You’re welcome to take a seat.”

“Thanks.”

Ali had just settled down on a nearby sofa when Andrea hurried out into the waiting room through a door controlled by a keypad. Ali was relieved to see that Irene’s Place was serious about security. Considering the dire circumstances surrounding some of the shelter’s clientele, security was essential.

Andrea sank onto the seat next to Ali, shaking her head. “I’m sure it’s been years since either one of those poor girls has had a hot shower. Scrubbing off years of grime takes time. I gave them each a bag filled with toiletries, led them to the shower room, and told them not to rush. I also found a couple of pairs of sweats and scuffs they can put on until we locate something more suitable for them to wear. They’re both terrified, of course, afraid someone’s going to come charging in here to drag them back. They mentioned somebody by name. Amos, I believe.”

“That would be Amos Sellers,” Ali told her.

Andrea looked surprised. “You’ve met him?”

“I’m afraid so. He’s The Family’s chief enforcer.”

“Well,” Andrea continued, “it seems Agnes and Patricia tried running away once before—a long time ago. Amos was sent out to find them and bring them back, which he did, and none too gently, either.”

“Did they come here?” Ali asked. “To the shelter?”

“This happened years ago, long before the shelter existed in its current form. All they had was Irene’s name and phone number. Unfortunately, they were caught before they made contact. When they came here today, they fully expected to find Irene herself. I had to explain that Reenie was gone and that I had taken her place.”

“How did they even know about Irene?” Ali asked.

Andrea shook her head. “I have no idea.”

The doorbell rang. When the receptionist opened the entryway door, a delivery guy came in carrying a bag of Subway sandwiches.

“I sent out for some lunch,” Andrea explained. “I asked what they wanted to eat. They said something soft. They both have severe dental problems. Once we get them decent clothing and have them settled into one of our apartment units, that’s the next thing we’ll tackle—getting them in to see a dentist. Fortunately, we have several who volunteer their services, but if these two are any indication of the kinds of difficulties people from that place are going to be dealing with . . .” She shook her head.

“I suspect there will be a lot more of same,” Ali said. “Have you had any luck finding potential places to stow them if they do show up?”

Andrea sighed. “There’s been such an influx lately. Many of the shelters are full of dumped-off women. They’re not victims of domestic violence per se, but when they’re stranded and penniless in a foreign country with no English, no money, no work skills, and no way to feed their children, what are you going to do, let them starve? Nobody I know in the shelter business is going to turn up their noses and tell them to come back when someone does them the favor of giving them a black eye.”

Ali knew that Arizona and Texas were favorite dumping grounds for impoverished migrant women who were caught in limbo, with no way to return home and no way to survive in the United States without someone stepping up to help them. Andrea Rogers and women like her were the ones who did.

A door leading into the interior of the building cracked open. A woman poked her head out and peered cautiously around the room. “Is it okay if we come out? We’re not really dressed.”

“You’re fine, Patricia,” Andrea assured her, “but if you’d be more comfortable, we can go into my office. It’s a little more private.”

Self-conscious and tentative, the woman edged into the room. There was no way to determine her age. She might have been thirtysomething; she might have been fifty. Streaks of gray shot through dark blond hair that, still dripping wet, had been skillfully braided into a single plait that hung down beyond her waist. The fact that she was missing several teeth made her look older than she was. Years of living outside in all kinds of weather had tanned her skin to the shade of saddle leather and given her a permanent squint.

Ali held out her hand. “I’m Ali Reynolds,” she said. “Irene was a good friend of mine. And your name is?”

Patricia looked down at the proffered hand as if unsure what to do about it. When she finally took it, Ali noticed that the skin was chapped, callused, and tough. This was the hand of someone accustomed to doing hard physical labor.

“Patricia Glenn,” she muttered.

A second woman, one with equally worn and roughened features, stepped into the room. “And I’m Agnes—Agnes Gray,” she said shyly, keeping her eyes downcast and without offering her hand.

Agnes and Patricia were similar enough in looks that they might have been sisters, although Ali thought it more likely that they were cousins of some kind. Like Patricia’s, Agnes’s hair was braided into a single long plait, and she, too, was missing enough teeth that her cheeks sank in on themselves, making her look far older than she was.

Andrea hurried into her small office. Unloading sandwiches from the paper bag, she offered them to Patricia and Agnes as they followed her into the room. Ali, bringing up the rear, was about to close the door behind them when the receptionist buzzed David Upton into the waiting room. Ali beckoned him into the office as well.

“Did you reach Fergus?” she asked as he went past.

David’s reply was a curt nod. Once Patricia caught sight of David, she scrambled around Agnes and grabbed one of his hands in both of hers.

“Thank you,” she murmured. “Thank you for bringing us here. It’s like heaven. We even got to take a hot shower.” Then, seemingly embarrassed by having said too much, she moved away and sat down abruptly on one of the visitor’s chairs.

“I wouldn’t go so far as to say it’s heaven,” Andrea said briskly, “but it’s the best we can do. Just be assured that we all stand prepared to offer our help to you and to anyone else who may be interested in leaving The Family behind.”

Patricia’s eyes widened. “You’d help other people leave if they wanted to?”

“Yes,” Andrea said. “Are there some of those—people who would like to leave?”

“Maybe.” Patricia spoke warily, as if afraid of saying too much.

“What we need is information,” Ali said, stepping into the conversation. “How many people are involved in all this—how many families and how many women and children?”

“I’m not sure,” Patricia answered. “Once we were brought back, we weren’t allowed to go to church or to any of the gatherings, so it’s hard for us to know exactly how many. I’d guess there are about twenty-five families, maybe more.”

“How are you related to Gordon Tower?” Ali asked.

“My older sister, Margaret, is one of his wives,” Patricia answered. “After Agnes and I ran away, her family wouldn’t take her back and my family wouldn’t have me. Margaret convinced Gordon to let us stay as long as we took care of his pigs and didn’t make any trouble.”

“Which we have, now,” Agnes said quietly. “Made trouble, I mean. If they figure out we helped Enid, we can’t ever go back.”

“You don’t have to,” Andrea assured them.

“What can you tell us about the girls who are called the Not Chosen?” Ali asked.

Agnes and Patricia exchanged a wordless glance. “They go away,” Patricia said finally with a shrug. “Usually in the middle of the night. You wake up in the morning and they’re gone. No one ever sees them again.”

“It happened to my little sisters,” Agnes added in a whisper. “Christina and Donna Marie. Christina was sweet and never caused any trouble, but her eyes were crossed. Boys teased her and told her that her strange eyes made her ugly. She was six when they took her.”

“They?” Ali asked.

Agnes nodded. “Three men came out onto the sleeping porch. One held the door while the other two collected Christina and Donna Marie. They took them out of their beds while they were sleeping. Someone came back later, stripped off their bedding, and gathered up their stuff. I knew about Disappearing Nights—I’d heard about them from the other kids, but that was the first time I’d seen it happen on my sleeping porch. I was already betrothed, so I thought I was safe, but I didn’t dare move or say a word. I stayed like that for a long time after they left, afraid they’d come back for me, too.”

Agnes broke off while two tears dribbled out of her eyes.

“Was there something wrong with Donna Marie, too?” Ali asked gently.

Agnes nodded. “She wouldn’t talk or else she couldn’t. I never knew for sure which it was. I hoped that wherever they went that they were together. Donna Marie could see better than Christina could and Christina did the talking for both of them.”

“How was Donna Marie related to Christina?”

“We’re all half sisters,” Agnes said. “We all had the same father but different mothers. I was older, so I was in charge of looking after them. I cried for days after they went away. My father caught me crying and slapped me silly. He told me that it was God’s will and that the Not Chosens went to a better place. I thought that meant they were dead and had gone to heaven.” She added quietly, “I hope that’s true—that they are in heaven.”

Not prepared to address that issue, Ali turned to Patricia. “Why did you and Agnes run away the first time?”

“We were friends,” Patricia said simply. “She was betrothed to Jack Adams. One day his first wife, Martha, claimed Agnes had sassed her. Most of the time first wives handle those things on their own, but Jack said he’d take care of it himself. He beat Agnes until she could barely move. The next week, Aunt Martha made Agnes go along to the grocery store, even though she was still black and blue all over. There was a woman in the store—someone from Outside—who told her about a woman who would help her if she needed it. She jotted a name and a telephone number on a scrap of paper.”

“Irene’s name?” Ali asked.

Patricia nodded. “We decided to run away together and ask Irene for help. Amos caught us while we were still on the highway.”

“So that’s Amos’s job?” Ali asked. “To bring back runaway kids?”

“To bring back runaway girls,” Patricia corrected. “Boys can leave whenever they want, and most of the time they don’t come back. Unless they’ve been promised a place on the council or as one of the Elders, there’s no reason to.”

“How long has Amos been doing that?”

Patricia shrugged. “A long time. He gets paid for being a deputy, but he also gets paid for catching girls and bringing them home.”

“He’s a bounty hunter, then,” Ali concluded. Patricia frowned as though the terminology was beyond her. Ali rephrased her comment. “What I’m asking is does he get a reward for bringing girls back—a cash award maybe?”

This time Patricia nodded.

“And how many are there?” Ali continued.

“How many Brought Back girls?” Patricia shrugged. “I suppose every household has one or two. After all, everyone has pigs that need looking after.”

“Are there some that Amos misses?” Ali asked. “Some runaway girls who actually get away and don’t come back?”

“A few, I suppose,” Agnes said wistfully.

With every question and answer, a few more pieces of the puzzle shifted into place. Ali was about to ask another question when her phone buzzed in her pocket. With another unfamiliar number on the screen, Ali excused herself and left the office to answer.

“Alison Reynolds?” a voice asked.

“Yes.”

“This is the governor’s office. Would you please hold the line for a call from Governor Dunham?”

31

O
ut in the lobby, a police officer was in the process of delivering a woman with two toddlers and a baby into the care of the receptionist. The woman was crying and so were all three kids. Barely able to hear over the din, and despite having left her coat on the chair inside Andrea’s office, Ali stepped outside. A frigid breeze had kicked up, blowing down off the mountains to the west. Ali huddled against the building while she waited for the governor to come on the line.

Ali knew Virginia Dunham’s name, of course. Although Ali hadn’t voted for the woman either time, Governor Dunham was in the last year of her second term in office. She was, by all reports, a woman with the reputation of being painfully direct.

“Ms. Reynolds?”

“Ali, please,” Ali said into the phone. “Just call me Ali.”

“And you’re welcome to call me Virginia. Now that we have all the name business out of the way, I understand that you and your friend Sister Anselm have set off something of a firestorm up around Colorado City.”

“That wasn’t our intention,” Ali answered, “but it’s what happened.”

“So far this morning I’ve had conversations with people from Interpol and from the FBI. I’m hearing stories about human trafficking, about people being run down on the highway, and about someone else threatening to bodily remove a seriously injured patient from a hospital room against doctors’ orders. All told, it sounds like a hot mess, and you seem to be smack in the middle of it. So tell me, if you will, what the hell’s going on up there?”

It wasn’t a simple story to lay out, but Ali did the best she could.

“Sean Fergus mentioned that you didn’t want the local sheriff’s department informed about any of this,” Governor Dunham said once Ali finished. “I have a stack of warrants here on my desk—thirty in all—that call for the collection of any and all of The Family’s family Bibles, which may or may not include the names of some of the alleged human trafficking victims. The warrants also specify that we can take cheek swabs from all the adult residents in the community in order to conduct DNA comparisons of the people in The Family with the profiles of human trafficking victims.