The Never List (26 page)

She took a deep breath.

“So I told my husband that my cousin was sick, and I had to fly that day. He took the girls up to his parents’ in Connecticut, because, you know, he has a ‘crazy’ week next week.” We all smiled at that. “Anyway, I booked the next flight and called Jim from the airport. He told me where you were staying.”

Tracy nodded. “That was the flight you needed to catch.”

“How did Jim …?” I started, but she shrugged before I could
finish the question. He had clearly been watching out for us more than he was letting on.

“I pulled into the hotel parking lot late last night,” Christine continued, “and then sat in my rental car for what felt like an hour, debating whether I could really do this.

“When I finally persuaded myself to open the car door, I saw you two pass behind me, gunning it out of the lot. I followed you, trying to catch up with you enough to get your attention. You were both pretty oblivious, and now I understand why, given where you were going.

“I lost you for a bit and backtracked until I found your car parked beside the road. Tracy had told me about the warehouse, so at that point, I put two and two together. I pulled into the driveway closest to your car—no way was I getting out to walk it—and as I reached the top of the hill, I saw taillights up ahead.

“I was scared, so I turned off my lights and the engine, wondering what to do next. A minute later I watched as those men threw you into the back of their van. I panicked and immediately called Jim. He told me to go back to the hotel, that he’d handle it. But how could he find one van on these back roads in the middle of nowhere? And I had this horrible notion that they were taking you somewhere to kill you.

“Jim grumbled but stayed on the line with me as I followed from a distance. He said he could track me by my cell phone, but it would take a little time to set it up through the phone company. But there was no time.

“Then I remembered the tracking app on my iPhone—the one I use with my sitter.”

She noticed my puzzled expression.

“With this particular app,” she explained, “you can share your GPS location with others in real time. Jim used it to track me as I followed the van.”

I nodded my head appreciatively. Naturally, Christine had the latest, most advanced technology.

“So why were you the one who got us out of that van, then?” asked Tracy.

“Once we got to the farm, the men went into the house. They’d hidden the van behind the barn, so I figured I could get to it without being seen. Jim was still minutes away, and the last thing I wanted was for those guys to come back and shoot you just before he got there. So I went for it.

“When the cargo doors didn’t open, I got into the cab. At first I couldn’t figure out how to work the locks. It’s not exactly a Lexus,” she said.

Tracy rolled her eyes, but Christine just smiled back at her.

“But I found the lever,” she went on, “and heard the doors click.”

“Jesus, Christine,” I said in awe, “I can’t believe you did that. I don’t know what to say.”

She beamed. I would never have expected it, remembering her from our cellar days. Maybe it was true—what she’d told Jim—that she
had
fully recovered. What if, in fact, our horrific past had only made her stronger? I envied her.

Jim’s eyes met mine across the room, and I waved him over. He approached Christine first.

“You understand how dangerous that was, don’t you? Do you know what could have happened to you?” He sounded genuinely upset.

She answered him calmly, with her crisp Upper East Side enunciation, “Yes, in fact, I
do
know exactly how bad it could have been, Jim. That’s why I know better than to wait around for the worst to happen.”

Jim nodded slowly, taking her point, then turned to me. He handed me my phone, which they must have recovered from the warehouse.

“You seem to have left this behind.” He smiled gently. “How are you holding up, Sarah?”

“I’ll live. Again.” I smiled back. “Did you get him?”

For a fleeting moment Jim seemed embarrassed, then rallied, putting on his best professional demeanor. “No, we didn’t, but we’re staking out his compound in Keeler as we speak.”

He moved closer, looking at me earnestly. “Sarah, I’m sorry I didn’t seem to be taking what you’d found seriously enough. But the truth is I
have
been doing my homework. After we spoke, I did some digging. We checked out The Vault. Their ownership records are pretty complex—lots of shell corporations owning other shell corporations. But our accounting forensics guys figured out that the club owners were partnered with one of Noah Philben’s entities. We think they were using it as a distribution hub and running most of their financial operations out of there.”

“What about the brand, the headless man? These girls are all branded. And Noah Philben knew who I was. My real name. There
has
to be a connection with Jack Derber. If we can prove that Jack Derber is in on this trafficking ring, he’ll stay in jail forever, right?”

Jim hesitated. “To tell you the truth, Sarah, I have a theory that Jack might actually be in control of the whole operation. And that he’s using Sylvia as a messenger. I don’t have solid proof yet, but I’m getting closer.”

I stared at him. Could Jack Derber still be controlling so many lives, even under virtual lockdown? The idea made me sick. But before I could respond, one of Jim’s colleagues pulled him away, directing him to a computer screen a few desks over.

I turned, only to see Jenny slowly making her way around the desks and chairs in the room, over to where we stood.

“I just wanted to—to thank you. I’m outta here now, so … you know, thanks.”

“You’re leaving? Don’t they need to take your statement? To make sure they have all the evidence they can get?”

Jenny looked around the room at the other girls, some sitting at desks, others standing in corners, all of them looking dazed.

“They’ve got plenty of stories to go on. I just need to get out of here. This place makes me feel like I’m the one who did something wrong. Who knows, at any minute, they could turn the tables and slap a solicitation charge on us. That’s how it goes. Either way, I know I’ll never be held prisoner again.”

“Where are you going to go?”

“I don’t know. Women’s shelter for the night? Something. It doesn’t matter. I’m free now, and I plan to stay that way.” And with that she slipped out the door, without looking back at us.

By now Jim had been called over by another officer, and the two of them were talking to one of the robed girls from the van. Her long matted hair hid her face, but I could tell from her quivering shoulders that she was crying pretty hard while she told her story.

Both men went pale at her words. When she finished, she sat down and put her head on the desk, oblivious to the papers, binders, and three-hole punch lying there. Jim didn’t waste a second—he turned to the other officer, rattling off orders, even as he pulled out his cell phone and dialed. The younger officer took notes, writing fast, glancing back up at Jim every few seconds, nodding.

Jim made his way over to us in two strides, barking directions into his phone, clicking it off just as he reached us.

“Listen, we’re hearing some pretty disturbing tales from these women. I haven’t seen anything like this in my twenty-three years with the Bureau. This wasn’t an ordinary prostitution ring.” He paused, perhaps thinking we weren’t prepared to hear the worst of it. “They sold girls for torture. As slaves. I’m going to Noah’s compound now. We’re going in.”

I felt sick. This sounded like Jack’s forte.

Jim turned his back to us to take a call, putting two fingers over his other ear to shut out the noise. Then he stepped back over to us, just as officers rushed past and sirens blared outside.

“I’m arranging for you to go to a different hotel—we’ll send someone to pick up your things. And I’ve assigned you a security detail for protection. We’re getting you a new rental car—we’ve impounded the other one as evidence—and Officer Grunnell here will give you a police escort. Stay in your rooms until I give the word.”

We nodded obediently, disoriented by the frenetic activity around us, and watched Jim go out the door.

But despite everything, a tiny part of me didn’t feel finished here. I turned to Tracy and Christine.

“So what do you say? Do we go wait it out in the hotel like dutiful little victims?”

Tracy sniffed. “I don’t think so. I think we’ve wasted enough years in that role.” She turned to me. “Where do we go from here?”

I thought a minute, happy she felt the same way. “It’s time for us to head back to Keeler, too. I think you need to meet Noah’s ex.”

     CHAPTER 31     

Fortunately, Officer Grunnell was swamped and didn’t put up much of a fight when we told him we could make our way to the hotel on our own. He wrote out the address on the back of his card and said he’d see us there in an hour or so. We nodded solemnly and waved to him as we climbed into our new rental car. I hoped he wouldn’t get in too much trouble when Jim found out he’d let us walk out, just like that.

It was starting to show that we hadn’t slept all night and were running solely on adrenaline. We all looked more than a bit ragged around the edges. Still, I was determined to speak to Helen Watson, Noah’s ex, before she heard the news about him from someone else. I hoped the shock of it might cause her to reveal something more to us, something she might not be willing to tell anyone else.

Maybe it was the edge of exhaustion pushing her on, but Tracy
drove faster than usual, certainly faster than I thought strictly necessary. Around every turn I pressed my foot into the floorboard, hitting the imaginary brake on the passenger side of the car. She grinned at me and told me to relax even as she sped up more.

I tried to take my mind off the car accident statistics I wanted to recite by updating Christine about everything we’d learned so far. I could see her turning the facts over in her mind, and they were beginning to have the same impact on her they’d had on us. She was with us now. She called her husband to say her cousin was sicker than she’d thought, and she’d need to stay on a few more days to help out.

As she hung up, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I didn’t recognize the number, but it was local. Adele. And she sounded more agitated than I’d heard her before. Shaken almost.

“Have you seen the news?” she asked, her voice quavering.

“No,” I replied, “but I can guess.”

“Guess? Were you involved? Was this part of your search for Sylvia?”

“You might say that. What was on the news?”

“That this Noah Philben—the pastor at Sylvia’s church—is wanted by the FBI. They won’t say why exactly, but there’s a standoff at his compound right now. It’s live on Channel Ten. Are you
there
?”

“Um, no. We’re … going back to our hotel to wait it out.”

“Should I meet you? Which hotel?”

“We won’t be there for a while. It’s the Hermitage, on—”

“Yes, I know it. Let’s say at nine tonight? The bar in the lobby.”

Just as I hung up, we pulled into the parking lot of the church and looked at one another with dismay. It was nearly full. We had lost all track of time and only now realized it was Sunday morning. Not the ideal time to make our visit. Nevertheless, we knew it had to be now. We pulled into the last empty space, and as we stepped
out of the car, we eyed one another’s filthy black attire from the night before.

“Will they even let us in there?” asked Tracy, looking down at the mud caked on her black Converse sneakers.

“Sure,” I replied, even as I remembered Helen Watson’s less-than-welcoming attitude before. “I don’t think they can turn you away from a church service. I think it’s the rules. We’ll sit in the back.”

We heaved open the huge wooden doors of the church. Strains of stately organ music filtered back toward us as we slowly made our way through the vestibule into the main chapel, where we found row after row of decent, normal-looking families listening attentively to the service.

When the last hymn ended, the congregation sat back down, and the minister gave the final benediction. As people started filing out, smiling and nodding as they greeted their friends and neighbors—and even us—I was struck by the general sense of well-being emanating from the crowd, a sense of genuine community.

I looked up at the tall windows of the church, admiring the long streaks of light streaming beatifically through them, and remembered my first visit. I braced myself, thinking Helen Watson’s welcome would not be quite as warm.

At last the church was empty except for the minister putting away the prayer book at the altar. We approached him with some apprehension, realizing we weren’t exactly wearing our Sunday best. He paused and turned his eyes slowly to us, examining us carefully.

“Can I help you?” he asked, without much enthusiasm, I noted.

“We’re looking for Helen Watson. Is she around?”

“Oh, yes,” he said, clearly relieved to be able to get rid of us so easily. “She’s hosting the coffee and doughnuts over in the reception room. Just through those doors.”

We followed his directions and found ourselves at the entrance
to a crowded room where Helen Watson stood greeting each family as they entered. When the last parishioner passed through the door, we started walking toward her. But the instant Helen Watson spotted me, her brows knit, and she quickly but gently shut the door to the reception room behind her and motioned for us to follow her down the hall.

She led us to a small side chapel that seemed designed for quiet prayer and reflection. She closed the door of the room behind us, standing over us with arms crossed as she waited for us to sit down.

She began with slow, considered words. “I don’t know who you really are, or why you are coming to my church again, but I have already told you I can’t help you find this Sylvia Dunham. I don’t know her. I’ve never met her. I have nothing to say. But if you absolutely must speak to me, I would most appreciate it if you would make an appointment. At another time.” She added, glancing up at the crucifix on the wall, “And place.”