LATER, IT WAS Petra’s day off, and she was still in bed at half past ten. She didn’t want to get up and end a marathon of dreams about Brady.
Dreams were important to her. Whether they represented fears that bubbled up from the unconscious or were prescient whisperings from magical beings, dreams had a meaning. Why had Brady become the star player in her nighttime dramas? She rolled onto her back, kicked off the forest green comforter and stared up at the ceiling as she considered.
Most of her Brady dreams were as obvious as a twelve-foot-tall neon sign. They involved kissing and caressing and Brady with his necktie hanging loose and his white shirt unbuttoned. His chest heaved with desire as he stalked toward her, grabbed her and dominated her. Oh, yeah, she knew exactly what those dreams were telling her. I need a lover.
The last time she had a serious boyfriend was almost a year ago which wasn’t surprising because, as a rule, midwives don’t come into contact with a lot of eligible men. Any halfway decent guy—even an arrogant, obsessively neat fed—was enough to get her motor revving.
But these weren’t all sexy dreams. In another, she saw him with a baby in his arms. That was how they met, and she might be replaying that moment. But was there another interpretation? Something about fertility? She was twenty-nine and not getting any younger. Because Brady appeared to be a fine healthy sperm donor, he might represent her desire to have a baby of her own.
An old, familiar ache tightened around her heart. Her chances of conceiving a baby were slim to none. Those dreams were unlikely to come true.
She dragged herself out of bed and padded barefoot down the hall to the kitchen where she got the coffeemaker started. Yesterday, she’d been with a mom who was in labor for six hours before she delivered a gorgeous baby girl, seven pounds, six ounces. Petra felt the need to stretch her legs. This would be a good day for a run.
After she washed up and pulled her hair into a high ponytail, she slipped into a pair of shorts and a yellow-and-red Bob Marley T-shirt. With her coffee mug in hand, she went out the back door onto the patio behind the two-bedroom, frame house she was renting. The morning sun warmed her face as she sat on top of the redwood picnic table with her running shoes on the attached bench. From this vantage point, she surveyed the remnants of her vegetable garden. In spite of the early frost in August, she still had zucchini.
Maybe she’d bake zucchini bread and take a loaf to the parents of the new baby. They were a terrific couple, and she had no doubt that this was another family where she’d always be welcomed as Aunt Petra. That kind of friendship was a satisfying feeling, a great feeling. But was it really what she wanted in life?
Staring into her coffee mug, she wondered. She loved being a midwife and appreciated the simple pleasures of baking and gardening, but the action-packed hour she’d spent with Brady reminded her of her time at Quantico. While training to be an FBI agent, she’d scored high on marksmanship, kicked ass on the Yellow Brick Road obstacle course and was at the head of her class. She missed the adrenaline rush.
“Petra?”
She turned her head and saw him. “Brady, where did you come from?”
“I’ve been knocking on your front door.”
He sauntered around the corner of her house and stepped onto the patio. His cargo pants and black T-shirt made a very different impression from the first time she met him—so different that she wasn’t sure he was real. This version of Brady was more like the sexy guy she’d been dreaming about. He looked fit and strong. His uncombed hair seemed to be a lighter shade of blond. He had a few days’ growth of stubble on his chin.
This version of Brady was hot, hot, hot. Looking at him made her heart pump faster. It took an effort to keep the mug from trembling in her hands. “Would you like some coffee?”
“If it’s not too much trouble.”
She climbed off the picnic table and went through the back door into the kitchen. For Brady’s coffee, she chose a handmade mug with a blue-and-green glaze. She turned toward him. “Cream or sugar?”
“I take my coffee plain and hot.”
“Like your women?” She’d blurted the comment without thinking. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to be inappropriate. It’s just that you look different without your black suit.”
“I’m going undercover.”
She poured his coffee and handed the mug to him. “That’s not a typical assignment for a profiler.”
“It’s only my second time,” he said as he took his coffee to the small table in the kitchen and sat. “One of the reasons I came here was to tell you what happened to Consuela and Miguel. You deserve to know.”
“I appreciate that.” She’d been worried about the mother and baby.
“You understand that this is FBI business, and you can’t talk about it.”
“Yes, sir.” She gave him a mocking salute.
“Consuela’s story started in Mexico. She wanted to be with her husband for the birth of their first child, and she paid a coyote to take her to where her husband was working on a construction crew outside Las Vegas. She never got there. Instead, she fell into the hands of a human trafficking gang.”
She winced as though she’d been slapped. Human trafficking was the modern equivalent of slavery. These people were used and abused until the marrow had been sucked from their bones and there was nothing left. When death came, it was a mercy. “That’s what you’ve been investigating.”
“The FBI has a task force in the field. I’ve been working with them for eight months. I thought I was done, but I’ve got to follow up on what I learned from Consuela.”
Petra sat at the small table opposite Brady. “What did she tell you?”
“She gave birth to Miguel in the back of a semi. The other women helped her, and they managed to keep the baby a secret for a while. Two of them were also pregnant.”
“I thought most girls picked up by traffickers were forced into prostitution. Pregnant women wouldn’t do them much good.” The truth hit her. “Oh, my God, they want the babies.”
He gave a terse nod. “One of the men in charge of Consuela’s group figured that out. His name was Escher. He’d been a coyote for years, but the idea of stealing babies and dumping them into a horrible and uncertain future was too much, even for him. He called me.”
“He was your informant.”
“Consuela said that he tried to free them all. He didn’t really think they had much chance and told her to leave Miguel behind. Escher promised to protect the infant.”
“By running away, she thought she was saving her son,” Petra said.
“Instead, Escher was killed. His partner—the suspect we arrested—tried to find the others, but they were gone, everyone but Consuela who stayed behind to find her baby.”
“And now?” she asked. “What’s going to happen to Consuela and Miguel?”
“They’re reunited with her husband and in protective custody. We need her testimony to convict our suspect. After that, I’m not sure what will happen with immigration.
