Janice Johnson - The Call of Bravery

Garcia and Harris checked out the bathroom and office while Conall kept his gun on the pathetic trio in front of him. Within moments, other agents arrived to cuff and arrest.

It was all over but the cleanup. Conall’s experienced eye weighed and measured the packets of cocaine, leaving him disappointed. They wouldn’t be taking anywhere near as much off the street as they’d hoped. Either this operation was more small-time than they’d realized, or a shipment was due and their timing had sucked.

That was life, he thought philosophically, holstering his weapon.

And I’m bored out of my frigging skull.

As he all too often seemed to be these days.

* * *

LIA WOODS SAT on the middle cushion of the sofa, a boy perched stiffly to each side of her, and watched Transformers. She’d seen bits and pieces of it before; Walker and Brendan were addicted. This was the first time she’d sat down with the intention of watching beginning to end.

In her opinion, the movies were too violent for the boys at eight and ten, especially as traumatized as they were. But their mother had given them both the first two Transformers movies on DVD, and Lia couldn’t criticize Mom, even by implication. Not when she’d died only three days ago.

Besides, she could see the appeal of the movies to the boys. Chaos erupts, and regular, nerdy guy seizes control and ultimately triumphs. The fantasy must be huge for two boys who’d now lost both parents, who had no idea what would happen to them. For them, it was a fantasy worth clinging to.

The sound of a car engine outside made her frown. People didn’t drop in on her unexpectedly. Her farmhouse on ten acres was reached by a dead-end gravel road she shared with five other houses. Only one was past hers. There were new neighbors there, renters, Lia thought. She hadn’t tried to get to know them. She’d as soon keep her distance from all her neighbors, and was glad the men she’d seen coming and going weren’t friendly.

Or nosy.

This car, though, had definitely turned in her driveway. She touched each of the boys reassuringly and murmured, “I’d better go see who’s here.”

Walker turned his head enough to gaze blankly at her before looking back at the TV; Brendan kept staring as if she hadn’t spoken.

Lia left them in the living room and paused at the foot of the stairs, listening. Quiet. Arturo and Julia must still be asleep. Thirteen-year-old Sorrel was most likely lying on her bed listening to her iPod, or prowling the internet on Lia’s laptop. Maybe harmless, maybe not, but Lia couldn’t watch her 24/7. She could and would check later to see what websites Sorrel had visited.

Outside, a car door slammed. She opened the front door and had a freezing moment of panic. The dark sedan, shiny except for a thin coat of dust from her road, was clearly government issue, as was the man walking toward her, wearing a suit, white shirt and tie. If he was from Immigration, she was screwed. There was no time to hide Arturo and Julia.

He paused at the foot of the stairs. “Ms. Woods?”

“Yes.” She stepped onto the porch and drew the door mostly closed behind her. “What can I do for you?”

He was a large man, in his late forties or early fifties at a guess, with a receding hairline and the beginning of a paunch. “I’m with the United States Drug Enforcement Agency. I’d like to talk to you.”

Lia knew she was gaping. “To me?”

He smiled. “You’re not under suspicion, I promise you. I’m hoping that you can help us.”

“Help you.” She must sound like an idiot, but…wow. She’d never even smoked marijuana. Excessive drinking had been a way bigger problem in her high school than drug use. Her crowd in college hadn’t been into drugs, either. Was there any chance he was lying and really with Immigration after all?

“May I explain?” he said.

She blinked. “Yes, sure. Why don’t you— Actually, let’s stay out here on the porch. Give me a moment to check on the kids.”

He remained politely outside while she dashed in, peeked at Walker and Brendan, then tore upstairs to Sorrel’s room. The teenager was indeed using the laptop.

“There’s a government type here I have to talk to,” Lia said. “Will you listen for the little ones and take care of them if they wake up?”

“I guess so.” Sorrel wrinkled her nose. “Unless Arturo’s diaper is gross. I don’t want to do gross.”

“They should keep sleeping for another hour. But just in case. Okay?”

She shrugged, her attention returning to the monitor. “Okay.”

The teenager didn’t know that two-year-old Arturo and eight-month-old Julia were in this country—and being harbored by Lia—illegally; Lia made sure her legitimate foster children never had a clue. Kids came and went here. There was no reason any of them would question why one social worker brought some of them to her door and a different one the others.

Then Lia bounded downstairs and went out on the front porch, closing the door behind her this time. The man turned to face her.

He held out his badge. “I’m Special Agent Wes Phillips.”

She scrutinized the badge, as if she’d know a fake if she saw it, nodded and said, “Please, sit down.”

He gingerly settled into one of the pair of Adirondack chairs. She took the other one.

“I’d invite you in, but I’m a foster parent and have kids napping. Plus, I thought maybe you’d rather we weren’t overheard.”

“I’d definitely rather not be overheard by children.” He hesitated. “This is actually a matter that concerns your neighbors to the south.”

Her first reaction was relief. It was hard to make herself think, to orient herself. The south? “That nice place? Someone new is in it. I’m afraid I haven’t even met them.”

“Have you noticed them coming and going?”

“An occasional car. Either there are several men living there, or else whoever is renting the place has lots of friends.”

He nodded. “We have reason to believe the house is being used by members of a drug distribution network.”

“You’re not talking about methamphetamine, are you?” she asked in alarm. “Are they making it there? Can’t it be really volatile? Are my kids in danger?”

“No, no. We’re frankly not sure what’s up in that house, but don’t believe meth is involved.”

Wariness returning, Lia straightened her spine. “How is it you think I can help you?”

“I came out to determine whether the house can be viewed from yours.” He had his back to it currently, although from here woods blocked all but the rooftop and a corner of the enormous garage. “We’d like to place it under surveillance. Yours is the only building within visual range. What we’d like is to, er, rent your house from you for a period of time.”

“A period of time.”

“It may be weeks to several months.”

She didn’t even have to think about it. “No.”

“I’m sure we could provide you with—”

“No. This is my home. I’m currently caring for five traumatized children. Two of them lost their mother to leukemia this week. One is a teenager prone to acting out. This is their home, too, the only security they have right now. I will not uproot them.”

Plainly, he didn’t like that. “You don’t mind that your nearest neighbors may be dealing drugs?”

“Of course I mind. But what you’re asking is impossible.”

He studied her. “This is a large house.”

Oh, damn. “Yes, it is,” she said cautiously.

He seemed to ponder. “Perhaps it would work best if your neighbors see life continuing as usual here.”

She waited.

“Do you use your attic?”

She’d known that was coming. After a hesitation, Lia admitted, “No. It’s pretty bare-bones up there, though.”