Midwife Cover - Cassie Miles (12 page)

The end goal was to figure out who was behind the baby trafficking operation and to get evidence to arrest them. But she’d start with a smaller objective. If Lost Lamb was a front for a bigger operation, she suspected that there were more than five pregnant women involved. Who were they? Where were they being held?

Behind the main house were two long bunkhouses painted gray with sloping roofs in a rusty red that matched the roof on the two-story main house. Margaret led her along a wide, asphalt path toward the bunkhouse on the left. None of the other pathways around the house were paved. Petra asked, “Is this a road?”

“If one of the women in labor has complications, we need to be able to get an ambulance down here to pick her up.”

A paved road would also be useful for dropping off human cargo. In front of the bunkhouse was an asphalt area with enough room for a truck to make a turnaround. Not a bad setup for a smuggling operation. Vehicles pulling in and out would make aerial surveillance difficult, especially at night.

Petra asked, “How many people live at Lost Lamb?”

“Miss Francine is in the house, of course. Then, there’s me and my little boy—”

“Jeremy,” Petra supplied his name.

“That’s right. Jeremy and I have a bedroom and playroom in the main house. Robert and the other handymen are in that bunkhouse.” She pointed. “The pregnant girls come and go, of course. There are usually three or four of them.”

“And they have bedrooms in the house?”

“That’s right.”

“What about this bunkhouse?” she asked. “Who lives here?”

“The birthing room is at the end, and it’s separate. The other part is arranged like a barrack with cots on both sides. Usually, there’s nobody staying there.”

The windows on the bunkhouse were shuttered. A shiny padlock fastened the door at the far end. Petra would like to get inside and look around.

Margaret opened the door to the separate room, and they walked inside. The birthing suite—consisting of a bedroom, a delivery room and a bathroom—was surprisingly pleasant. In the bedroom, the sunlight from two windows dappled the pale yellow walls and filtered through light blue drapes. The color scheme reminded her of Miguel’s baby blanket.

Dee sprawled in the double bed, sleeping. In a padded chair beside her, a pregnant woman with a long brown braid flipped through a fashion magazine, no doubt dreaming of the day when she could wear skinny jeans again. Disinterested, she looked up. “About time. I’ve been here forever.”

Petra introduced herself, thinking that she might be delivering this woman’s baby within the week. She asked, “How’s Dee been doing?”

“Not so hot. She said she was hungry but didn’t eat any of the breakfast I brought her.” She pointed to a tray by the door with a napkin draped over it. “She didn’t puke, though.”

Petra could smell the grease from sausage patties and congealed eggs. Not appetizing in the least. She went to the bed and lightly stroked the blond hair off Dee’s forehead. Her skin was pinkish and warm but not feverish. “How long has she been sleeping?”

“Half an hour.”

Petra glanced back and forth between the pregnant woman and Margaret. Their faces were blank. They had very little idea about how to take care of a woman in labor or how to make her comfortable. “Who delivers the babies?”

Margaret answered, “Miss Francine is a nurse, but she has somebody she calls.”

“A doctor?”

“He shows up when the contractions are a couple of minutes apart.”

Before this supposed doctor arrived, the expectant mothers were on their own, facing an intense experience with minimal support. Petra’s protective instincts rose to the surface. These women shouldn’t be treated so coldly. Giving birth should be a wonderful experience.

“I can take care of Dee from here,” she said. “If either of you would like to learn about birthing techniques, I’d be happy to show you.”

Margaret held up her palm, warding off the suggestion. “I have other chores to do.”

“Been there, done that.” The pregnant woman pointed to her belly. “This is my third.”

She didn’t look older than twenty. Her arms and legs were thin. Her complexion pale. In an authoritative voice, Petra said, “You should be eating leafy green veggies. Are you taking prenatal vitamins as well as calcium and iron?”

“It’s too many pills. They make me nauseous.”

“The vitamins are as much for you as for the baby.” Hadn’t anyone bothered to talk to her about these things? “Your body is providing fuel for the baby to grow. It’s important to take care of your nutrition. If you don’t have enough calcium, it could lead to problems with bone density.”

“I’m fine.”

A young woman like her wouldn’t be concerned with osteoporosis, but Petra knew how to get her attention. “You could lose your hair. Your fingernails will be brittle, and you could get acne.”

“Okay, okay, I’ll take the pills.”

“And eat the veggies.”

“Whatever.”

She and Margaret fled from the room in a hurry. And Petra turned her full attention to Dee who was sleeping fitfully. No wonder Dee had wanted to see her. Margaret and these other women didn’t know how to take care of her. And Francine—if she really was a nurse—didn’t want to be bothered.

When Dee opened her eyes, a tear slipped from the corner. “I’ve been thinking about my baby. My son. I want to do what’s right for him.”

Earlier, Dee had been anxious to be dosed with drugs, shove the baby out and get on with her life. Being close to the time of delivery had changed her attitude. “You want a more natural delivery.”

“That’s your thing, isn’t it? As a midwife?”

“I want what’s best for you. And for your son.” She sat on the edge of the bed and held Dee’s hand. “Tell me about your contractions.”

“It’s like cramps. Comes and goes in waves.”

“Let’s see what we can do to make you feel better. First, I’ll do a quick examination to see how far along you are in the labor.”

Dee sat up on the bed. “Do you want me on the examination table?”

Adjoining the pleasant little bedroom was a more sterile delivery room and a table with stirrups. Convenient for examinations, but Petra preferred for Dee to be comfortable. “I can examine you right here. Let me get my stuff from the backpack.”

“You’re so nice,” Dee said. “Everybody around here is so mean. If I’d known they were going to be so nasty, I never would have agreed to any of this. It was my boyfriend’s idea.”

“It usually is.”

Petra unloaded some of her equipment on a long countertop against the back wall. In addition to her medical supplies, she had incense and candles, herbal tea, cozy wool socks, a pair of scrubs for herself, a soft blanket for the mom and a player for digital music. The whole idea was to nurture Dee and help her relax into the natural process.

“It’s not his baby,” Dee said.

Petra needed to be careful about what she said. Even though they seemed to be alone, this room could be bugged. “It’s okay, Dee. The only thing you need to think about is having this baby.”

“My baby. Mine. It’s my egg.”

That was an odd phrase. “Are you trying to tell me something?”

“I don’t even know the father.” The whining tone was back in her voice. “I’m a surrogate.”

* * *

B
EING UNDERCOVER WAS
one thing. Not using the resources available to him as an FBI agent was another. In his art studio at the house, Brady hooked up his laptop computer with a wide screen monitor and a laser printer as he considered his options. He could call for a chopper or request backup, thereby ending their undercover operation.

Electronic surveillance was more subtle. If he’d been thinking more clearly this morning, he would have taken a bug with him to leave in Francine’s office or fitted Petra with a two-way communication device that allowed him to hear every word she said. Who was she talking to? What was she saying? Did they suspect her? His gut wrenched when he thought of her inside that place, alone.

How much longer before his two o’clock appointment with Francine? He automatically checked his wrist. No watch, damn it. He logged on to the computer to check the time stamp. Ten thirty-five. Three and a half hours from now until he’d return to the Lost Lamb.

Fighting his rising tension, he inhaled and exhaled a couple of deep breaths, catching a whiff of the burned sage she used in smudging. If anything bad happened to her…

Focus on the positive.
He had three and a half hours, plenty of time to do something. Maybe he should go on foot and explore the terrain surrounding the ranch in case they needed escape routes. But skulking around was risky; Robert or one of the other handymen might notice him. If he was seen, his cover was blown.

Thus far, their plan had worked to perfection. Getting invited into Lost Lamb had been easy. Too easy? Were they falling into a trap? Realistically, he doubted it. Francine had no reason to suspect that she was being investigated. When he and Petra showed up, they appeared to be newcomers to the area who were looking for work. Their story about inheriting a house was believable, and the FBI paperwork validating his ownership would stand up to computer scrutiny.

Brady knew that his plan to introduce a midwife into a supposed home for unwed mothers was solid. Francine
wanted
to believe Petra was who she said she was—Patty Gilliam, his wife.

When Margaret showed up this morning, he realized that their house didn’t exactly fit the cover story. She’d noticed that he didn’t have sketches of Petra—a lapse on his part. He should have thought of that. And they didn’t have photos of themselves together. No wedding photos.

A task presented itself. He wasn’t a computer genius, but he could photoshop digital pictures to create a composite of their life together. Without too much effort, he hacked into Petra’s personal files and started going through her photos.

Lucky for him, there were several pictures of her in San Francisco from a recent trip to visit her family. She wasn’t always laughing or smiling in these snapshots, but her presence was compelling. His eye went directly to her.

One picture caught his eye. She stood alone on a rocky beach. The wind blew her hair back, and her delicate profile was outlined against the dark waters of the Pacific. She seemed to be seeing something remarkable. Carefully, he added a photo of himself to the setting, creating a memory that didn’t really exist.

When his cell phone rang, he jumped. The caller ID said Patty. He answered quickly but was careful to keep his voice calm. “Hi, there, darlin’. How are you doing?”

“Just fine.” She matched his fake calm with her own brand of easygoing serenity. “I wanted to let you know about Dee. She’s twenty percent effaced and dilated to three centimeters.”

He didn’t know if that was good news or bad. “How long until the baby comes?”

“That’s something I need to talk to her about.”

He heard music in the background.
Hello, Dolly?
“Sounds like you’re having a party.”

“You know me,” she said. “Bringing a new life into the world is cause for celebration.”

“I’m going to be there at two. Is there anything I can bring for you?”

“As a matter of fact, there is. Because we don’t have much food in the house, you should go to the diner in Kirkland for lunch. Hold on a second.”

He heard her conferring with Dee.

Petra came back on the phone. “The diner is called Royal Burger. And Dee wants a strawberry milkshake. Could you pick one up and bring it back here?”

“No problem.”

Dee was talking in the background, interrupting. Petra responded to her before she said, “Somebody told Dee that women in labor aren’t supposed to eat anything. Recent studies indicate that it doesn’t make a difference. I mean, I wouldn’t recommend a T-bone and fries, but a milkshake is okay.”

He fought the urge to yell.
Are you all right? Are you safe?
The latest midwife bulletin on diet and birthing wasn’t something he gave a damn about. “See you later,” he muttered.

“Take care, darlin’.”

His frustration at standing outside and watching Petra take all the risk was killing him. Undercover work wasn’t his thing. He needed a straightforward course of action with a clear objective. He needed to be in charge.

Before he left the house, he gathered up the necessary art supplies for his sitting with Francine. In the secret pocket of his backpack, he hid electronic devices—bugs, mini-cams and GPS trackers.
Do I have a plan for what I’ll do with these things? Not a clue, but at least I’m prepared.

Grabbing the keys to the truck, he proceeded onward to his assignment. Go to Royal Burger and get a strawberry milkshake. What a total waste of his FBI training and eight years of experience as a special agent.

The drive to Kirkland took less than fifteen minutes. Although Royal Burger wasn’t on the main drag, he found it easily. A tour of the entire town wouldn’t take more than ten minutes.

Several other vehicles were parked out front. This was his chance to meet the locals.
I’m Brady Gilliam, laid-back artist and car mechanic.
With his stubble, jeans and faded Giants T-shirt, he ought to fit right in.

As soon as he walked through the door, he spotted someone he’d already met. The mountain of a man known as Robert sat at a table with two other guys. Brady waved and went toward him. This trip might prove useful after all.

Chapter Eleven

Petra didn’t know what to make of Dee. After her dramatic announcement that she was a surrogate, she’d clammed up—feigning a desperate need for attention and leaving Petra with a lot of questions. If surrogacy was involved in the baby trafficking operation, Francine was working on a more sophisticated level than they’d originally thought. The fees charged for surrogates could be astronomical, and the legality in some states was questionable. As soon as possible, Brady needed to question the lawyer in Durango who handled Lost Lamb’s business.

In the meantime, Dee was the main source of information, and she was too busy whining to be useful. Petra helped her into the shower and changed the sheets on her bed and found the show tunes music she’d said she liked. After Dee was cozy and calm, Petra did a standard examination. That was when she discovered that Dee the Diva was a liar.