Cold Betrayal (28 page)

“Call for you,” he said. “A guy who claims he’s from Interpol is asking to speak to you.”

In his years of running what had become a global cybersecurity company, B. Simpson himself was accustomed to dealing with Interpol, but he was clearly puzzled about why someone from that agency would ask for his wife.

Ali took the phone in hand. “Ali Reynolds,” she said, trying to sound as though she hadn’t just awakened out of a sound sleep. While she had slept, the room around her had changed. The security screen on the nursery was no longer closed. Two new fathers had been added to the mix. Nurses were back on the floor, and Leland Brooks was nowhere to be seen.

“Sean Fergus here,” the caller said. “Sorry to call so early, but this is a matter of some urgency. When Kate Benchley sent over those two profiles last night, it set alarm bells ringing. We have DNA profiles that are similar but not an exact match from over a dozen victims, scattered around the globe. Some of those come from crime scene evidence and autopsies dating back as long ago as the late seventies. Those samples predate DNA profiling and have only recently been brought out of storage to be processed. In other words, there may be more that have yet to be processed. Some of the girls may well be alive, and there may be more dead victims whose bodies have never surfaced. What we do know is this: None of these profiles match up with those of any known missing persons.”

“That’s because they were never reported as missing,” Ali told him. “Just a moment. I’ll need to go into another room to discuss this further.”

Untangling her legs from the blanket someone had put over her, she got up and motioned for B. to follow. The maternity-ward conference room was unoccupied, and they made for that. Once B. was inside, she closed the door behind them.

“What do you mean they weren’t reported?” Fergus was asking. “How is that possible?”

Ali set about answering that question. It was a good thing her phone had spent the night on the charger. The conversation with Sean Fergus took well over an hour. The phone was turned on speaker, so in the process of briefing Fergus, B. learned the rest of the story as well.

“You’re saying we have no idea how many girls might have come through that pipeline or how many more are at risk?” Sean asked.

“That’s correct,” Ali answered.

“I believe you mentioned that the area where this group is located is rather remote. If so, how are the girls being transported?”

“We’ve recently learned that there’s an airstrip located on the property,” Ali answered. “My guess is the first leg of the journey is done by air. As to what comes after that and how they’re smuggled out of the country? I have no idea.”

B. held up his finger, signaling a need to add something. “B. Simpson here. I’m Ali’s husband and also CEO of High Noon Enterprises. One of our security operatives did an aerial survey of the area around the airstrip earlier this morning and located several questionable buildings. Some of them appear to be greenhouses and are evidently being used to grow fresh vegetables for wintertime use. The largest of the buildings, however, is clearly an airplane hangar that is currently unoccupied.”

“How long is the airstrip?”

“We measured it,” B. replied. “It’s long enough to accommodate a small jet. An aircraft as large as a Citation X could probably take off and land there with no difficulty.”

Fergus processed that unwelcome information. “With no idea of when or even if another load of girls is due to be shipped out, I’m urging that we act without delay. I believe the DNA evidence we have in hand is sufficient for us to obtain warrants, but getting things to work across international and jurisdictional boundaries will take time. Before we hand this off to any other agency, I’d like to have more intel than we have now.”

“Pardon the interruption again,” B. offered, “but my company has done work for Interpol on numerous occasions, usually with a guy named Arturo Bernini in the Cyber Fraud Division.”

“You know Bernie?” Sean asked.

“I didn’t know that’s what you called him,” B. answered, “but yes, he’s always been my point of contact. The film footage we have now, taken without benefit of a warrant, is most likely totally useless to you or anyone else. Check us out with Agent Bernini. If you can issue us with appropriately drawn warrants, we can send the drones back in to take another set of films, ones that will be admissible.”

“Your company has drone capability?” Sean asked.

B. winked at Ali before he answered. “Doesn’t everybody?” he said.

“Okay,” Sean said. “I’ll see what I can do. The next step, of course, is to notify local law enforcement agencies about what’s going on and make sure we can count on them for help.”

Remembering Deputy Amos Sellers standing just behind Gordon Tower and nodding at the other man’s every word, Ali shook her head in response, even though B. was the only one to see the gesture.

“I’m concerned about that,” Ali said aloud. “The Family is located in Mohave County. Their deputy, the local one who actually works that area, happens to be a member of The Family.”

“You’re saying we can’t expect any help from that quarter?” Sean asked.

“Not from the local deputy,” Ali answered. “If he’s part of all this and knows an operation is in the works, there goes the element of surprise. I’m sure even folks at Interpol know about what happened at Waco.”

“Indeed we do,” Fergus agreed. “What about the deputy’s superior?”

Ali thought about her phone conversation with Sheriff Alvarado. He hadn’t exactly volunteered information about Amos Sellers’s connection to the cult. The sheriff had also mentioned having spent time policing the area where The Family was located although nothing in his bio hinted that Alvarado himself was in any way connected to the group. Still, Ali had some concerns about him that she wasn’t willing to voice aloud at this point. Instead, she chose to hedge.

“Amos Sellers’s boss, Sheriff Daniel Alvarado, is headquartered in Kingman. That’s a good four hours and more than two hundred fifty miles from where The Family is located.”

“Big county,” Sean murmured.

“Yes,” Ali agreed. “It is. I’ve spoken to Sheriff Alvarado on a slightly different but related matter. When the topic of The Family first came up, he wasn’t exactly forthcoming.”

“What do you mean?”

“He didn’t see fit to volunteer the information that one of his officers is part of The Family. I had to find that out on my own, and that worries me.”

“It would concern me, too,” Fergus agreed. “Are you implying that Alvarado may be connected to all this?”

“I’m not saying that for sure, but I am worried that once his department is notified . . .”

“That the deputy will give away the game. In which case, as you said, we’ll have lost the element of surprise.”

“Yes, so how do these joint operations usually go?” Ali asked.

“The most common scenario dictates that we start by notifying the FBI. An official notification from them will then be passed along to local authorities, apprising them of the operation. This case may call for a somewhat less direct approach. Is there any way you could deal with the sheriff on an informal basis and attempt to feel him out?”

Ali thought about that. “I suppose I could drive over to Kingman and have a chat with him.”

“In my opinion, eye-to-eye contact is always better than over the phone,” Fergus agreed. “Our primary concern is this. Regardless of what action is undertaken, no innocent women and children are to be harmed.”

“Exactly,” Ali said. “That’s my position, too.”

There was a rap on the conference room door, and Sister Anselm poked her head inside. “Enid’s been restless and wakeful most of the night, but now she’s come around enough to be able to identify her pursuer.”

“From the other night?”

Sister Anselm nodded. “She says Deputy Amos Sellers, or, as she calls him, Brother Amos, was about to lay hands on her. That’s what sent her darting into traffic.”

“Amos Sellers?”

“What’s that?” Sean said. “I heard someone else speaking, but I couldn’t quite make out what was said.”

“This is Sister Anselm,” Ali said, beckoning the nun closer to the phone. “Enid Tower’s patient advocate. She says Enid just identified the man who was after her the other night. Deputy Sellers, the man I was just telling you about. Not only did he force Enid into oncoming traffic, he didn’t stop to render assistance, either.”

“Did the incident occur inside his jurisdiction or outside?”

“Outside.”

“He most likely didn’t come forward because he didn’t want anyone to know he was there.”

“That would be my assessment,” Ali answered.

“Was the young woman able to provide any further details?” Sean asked.

Since the question seemed to be directed at Sister Anselm, Ali passed the phone to her.

“She’s been talking off and on all night about someone named Agnes and Patricia. She calls them the ‘Brought Back’ girls. Presumably they’re previous runaways who were caught and returned to the cult. One of them was evidently instrumental in helping Enid make her escape, and she’s worried that they’ll be brought to account for it.”

“What about younger girls?” Sean asked. “Did she make any mention of those?”

“Yes,” Sister Anselm said. “Unfortunately, yes. She calls them ‘Not Chosens.’ ”

“What does that mean?” Sean asked.

“Girls who end up unbetrothed are designated as Not Chosen,” Sister Anselm answered. “Several times a year, those girls simply disappear overnight and are never seen again. When I got a look in one of the family Bibles, I noticed that several names with the letters N.C. beside them were marked through in red ink. I was puzzled about them at the time. Now, with Ms. Benchley’s help, I’m afraid we all have a better understanding of the grim reality of what those letters mean.”

“How many of those marked-through names did you see?” Sean asked when Sister Anselm finished relating that part of the story.

“At least seven or eight, just in the first two pages of Richard Lowell’s family Bible,” Sister Anselm said. “Since there are probably twenty-five to thirty families, that most likely means there are that many more family Bibles.”

“And that many more missing girls,” Sean muttered under his breath. “It just gets worse and worse, doesn’t it? Okay then. Where are we?”

“Ali and I will drive over to Kingman together to try to assess whether or not we should bring Sheriff Alvarado into the picture,” B. offered. “Unless, of course, someone else has already spilled the beans.”

“If so, the leak didn’t come from our end,” Sean insisted. “In the meantime, I’ll be checking in with Bernie and contacting my U.S. counterparts. I don’t have any idea how long all this is going to take, but since you seem to be the one with the most intimate knowledge about the current situation, Ms. Reynolds, is it okay if I have them contact you directly as necessary?”

“Yes, please,” Ali agreed. “Feel free to give them my contact information.”

When the phone call ended, Sister Anselm consulted her watch. “We’ve made arrangements for the patient transfer,” she explained. “The air ambulance is due here any moment. I’d best go make sure all the details are handled.”

When Ali and B. left the conference room, Ali noticed that, except for two new daddies, the waiting room on the maternity floor was empty. “Where’s Leland?” she asked.

“He looked beat,” B. said. “I told him to go home and get some rest. You’re not in such great shape yourself,” he added.

A mirror hung on the wall outside the nurses’ station. A glance in that told Ali that B.’s assessment of her appearance was on the money. Her hair and makeup were a mess. Her pantsuit had been slept in, and it showed.

She shook her head. “You’re right,” she said. “I look like hell, and I’m starving besides. Any chance of getting some breakfast before we head for Kingman?”

“I’ve got a better idea,” B. said. “Knowing you’d been stuck here overnight, I brought along a change of clothing and your traveling makeup kit. They’re out in the car. How about we rent a motel room so you can get showered and changed? Then before we head for Kingman, we’ll stop long enough to have breakfast.”

“You’re a good man,” she said, giving him a peck on the cheek. “In fact, you’re a gem. If we weren’t already married, I’d marry you on the spot!”

28

B
etsy woke up early and pulled on her robe as soon as she got out of bed. The idea that people she didn’t know might be watching her every move was still very disturbing. After walking Princess, she made a careful circuit of the house, checking the windows and doors, making sure nothing was out of the ordinary.

Once Princess was fed and the coffee finished perking, Betsy went over to the kitchen cabinet and opened what she liked to call her “dynamite drawer.” The whole time she and Alton were married, he had carefully balanced the checkbook every single month—without fail. Alton had been a pretty sensible guy. Betsy had generally gone along with his programs without raising much of a fuss, whether the question at the time was about installing a new roof, purchasing a car, or selling off part of the farm. It wasn’t because Betsy didn’t want to voice a countervailing opinion so much as the fact that she had usually agreed with Alton’s assessment of the situation at hand.

Once he was gone, Betsy still did most things his way, with one small exception—balancing the checkbook and savings accounts, and it happened that now there were several of those. Each account had been established to fund and handle some particular purpose. She checked the credit card bills each month when they came in just to be sure there were no oddball charges in addition to the ones that were on automatic or the occasional small purchases she herself made. Once she had surveyed those, she tossed the statements, along with the collection of bank statements that came in month after month, in the bottom drawer—the deepest one—in the kitchen cabinets. Finally, once a year and usually at the beginning of March, she hauled out the ledger—she still used Alton’s old-fashioned ledger—and his calculator and did a year’s worth of bookkeeping all at once before handing the whole shebang over to the accountant to sort out the taxes.