For a split second Siobhan felt lost and depressed, the kind of lost she’d felt after her mother died, when she didn’t know what she should do; when the simplest of decisions had seemed impossible. Where were these emotions coming from? Lack of sleep? Worry about Marisol and Ana? Frustration that Kane hadn’t even once called her to say he was okay and out of the hospital and she had to hear it thirdhand from a mutual friend?
Stop it, Siobhan.
She couldn’t do Mari or Ana any good if she didn’t have the courage to do what was right. She refocused her attention on the house; the sights and sounds.
She saw no one, heard nothing. No cries, or voices, or movement.
Before she could change her mind, Siobhan pulled a lock pick out of her front pocket and worked on the screen. It was a new lock-odd, for this prewar house-and it took her a couple of minutes to get it open. The door was also locked, but that latch popped easily.
The door creaked as it swung open. She froze, listened. Heard a television somewhere-in a basement? It was low, a sporting event maybe, but she couldn’t make out anything but mumbled dialogue. She closed the door behind her as quietly as she could.
To the left was a small, tired kitchen with an ancient sink and stove, and a refrigerator with rounded corners that looked like it was from the 1950s. The wallpaper had mostly peeled off revealing soot-stained walls. But the counters had been wiped down, and the dishes had been washed and stacked in a drying rack. A bowl of fresh fruit sat in the middle of the table, bright and colorful in the dingy house. The house smelled clean, both lemony and antiseptic, neither pleasant nor pungent.
To the right of the back door was a staircase. Straight ahead she could see the front door, with a room off each side she couldn’t quite see through the wide openings. Two closed doors framed the hall.
The floor creaked when she stepped forward, and she winced. Waited. Didn’t hear anything else, except the television. If the girl was still here, she was upstairs, so Siobhan turned up the staircase, trying to keep her heart from pounding so loud she couldn’t hear what was around her. She kept her feet on the edge of the staircase to minimize sound.
Upstairs there was a small landing with doors to the left and right, and an open door straight ahead into a bathroom, with the same 1950s decor as the kitchen-chipped tile and rusty sink but smelled clean.
Cautious, she opened the door to the left and peeked in.
The room had a single bed neatly made with a worn, handmade quilt. An empty bassinet-clearly new in a room of old furniture-stood against one wall. Neatly folded towels were stacked on the dresser along with one package of newborn disposable diapers and three unopened packages of white infant T-shirts. Two chairs crammed one corner, but the oddest thing was next to the bed in place of a nightstand-a medical tray with sealed, sterile medical instruments and a box of latex gloves.
Everything necessary for a midwife to help birth a child in the comfort of one’s home. Siobhan had helped her mother, a nurse who worked with missionaries in Mexico, deliver more than a dozen babies. This setup was far nicer and cleaner than many of the villages Iona Walsh had been in.
Maybe there was nothing nefarious going on here. What if it was all a mistake? What if Siobhan was wrong, if Mrs. Hernandez was mistaken? What if Marisol had never been in this house?
But there was something odd going on. She had seen the woman crying in the window. Those men and that woman and the girl with the baby…
She left the door open and turned to the other door in the hall. A lock-on the outside. As quietly as possible, she slid the lock open and turned the knob.
This room was three times the size of the other, but there were eight beds set up dorm-style. Siobhan barely noticed the cramped quarters-or the fact that all the beds, except one, were empty. The room smelled clean, but it was an artificial clean, antiseptic, and very warm. A lazy fan blew in the corner. Back and forth. Back and forth.
There was a woman in here; she was sitting on the bed closest to the window. When the door opened, she whirled around, her hands going to her large stomach. She was pregnant.
“No!” she cried.
Siobhan put her hand to her mouth. “Shh!”
She wanted to ask where the other women were-it was clear from the folded clothes and blankets on each bed that other women lived here.
“I can help you,” Siobhan whispered in Spanish.
The woman shrank away from Siobhan and spoke in Spanish, but a dialect that Siobhan didn’t understand. She thought she heard the word baby but she wasn’t positive.
“Let me help you,” Siobhan whispered. “Is there anyone else in the house?”
She wasn’t certain the young woman understood her. Siobhan had lived most of her childhood in Mexico and half of her adult life, and she could understand more dialects than she could speak, but she could usually make herself understood by sticking with the basics. Siobhan said clearly, “Come with me.”
The woman wasn’t a child-she looked to be in her early twenties. She stared at Siobhan with wild, fearful eyes. She looked healthy and clean, if a little thin. She was clearly more than halfway through her pregnancy, probably around seven months.
“My name is Siobhan, I work with the Sisters of Mercy. The sisters can save you and your baby.”
The woman shook her head.
Siobhan took a few steps closer. “I’m a friend of Marisol and Ana. Do you know them?”
The woman scowled, eyes wide, pure rage on her face burying any fear that Siobhan thought she’d seen before. “Go away!” she hissed. “Go away!”
She stood, and that was when Siobhan heard a rattle and looked down.
The woman was shackled to the bed.
The chain appeared long enough for the woman to reach the bathroom. But the sight of the bindings surprised Siobhan.
“Let me untie you,” Siobhan said.
“More problems! More trouble!” the woman cried out. At least that’s what Siobhan thought she’d said. “Satan!”
That was clear.
Siobhan heard movement downstairs. Gut instinct had Siobhan fleeing as fast as she could-there was no way she could unchain and get the pregnant woman out, especially since she was so unwilling to be helped. If only Siobhan had more time!
She ran down the stairs, not caring about noise. She opened the door to the back just as a hall door she’d barely noticed before swung open. A tall, young man emerged and Siobhan didn’t take the time to explain herself. She pushed open the back door and ran.
She had to run down the driveway to get back to the street and her car. She thought she’d make it, but the front door opened and the man ran after her. He was a teenager, she realized as he tackled her.
He slapped her and pinned her arms down. He might look young but he was as strong as a grown man.
Siobhan fought back and kicked him in the balls. He howled in pain. She scrambled up and started running again, but slower-her ankle was sore, maybe sprained, maybe just bruised, but she jogged as fast as she could.
A police car came around the corner and Siobhan immediately thought that Father Sebastian had called them, worried after her call to him. She ran up to the vehicle. “Officer!”
The deputy stopped his car and opened the door, car running. The teenager approached.
“Officer, there’s a woman being held against her will in that house!” Siobhan said.
“Deputy Jackson,” the teenager said, “this woman broke into my house.”
“What’s your name?” the cop asked her.
“Siobhan Walsh.”
“You don’t live in this neighborhood.”
“No, I’m visiting a friend, and I saw a woman crying in the window. She’s chained to a bed.”