by Sarah Lovett
Sylvia mouthed, "I got it." She managed to free her numb right arm from the combined dog weight of 110 pounds. Nikki, the big animal, gazed at her with rueful eyes. Rocko, her terrier mutt, yawned. Sylvia slid off the side of the bed, her baggy pajamas tangling around her legs. From a squatting position on the floor, she managed to reach the telephone receiver. As she placed it to her ear, she caught a glimpse of the digital clock: 4:21 A.M.
"This better be good."
"C.P.S. has a kid at St. Vincent's who needs a psych eval. You're it."
"Wrong." Not for the first time it occurred to Sylvia that her colleague, Dr. Albert Kove, had a truly irritating habit of sounding professional—and awake—at any hour of the day or night. She shook her head, failed to clear the fog of R.E.M. sleep, and mumbled, "Call Roberto, he does kids."
Details of her waking life were starting to seep through the haze. She had stayed up past one o'clock working on a chapter of her book. She was on deadline. She was on sabbatical. She needed sleep.
And Roberto Casias was the Forensic Evaluation Unit's child expert, for Christsake.
As she was about to let the phone slip through her fingers, she heard Albert Kove's command—for an instant his image merged with that of the finger-wagging priest.
"Wake up, Sylvia. In case you don't remember, Roberto is away, and you're on call for his emergencies."
"But—" She blinked rapidly.
"And your sabbatical ended at midnight. Get your butt to the hospital."
Synapses weren't working correctly in her brain; she was sure she had a valid reason to protest this emergency call, but in her groggy state she couldn't remember what it was. Reluctantly, Sylvia asked, "What's the kid's name?"
"She doesn't have a name. She's got the clothes on her back, a coloring book, a necklace, and a stick of bubble gum." Albert's voice softened. "She's ex parte. She's not talking. That's why they want you."
"Did you tell me which hospital?"
"St. V.'s. The social worker says she's got puppy-dog eyes."
Sylvia sighed. "Does your mother know how you behave when she's not around?" She heard Albert's rumbling laugh just before she hung up the phone.
Someone whimpered, and Sylvia tipped her head back, mouth open. Dog eyes were staring down at her, brimming with reproof.
She shook her head. "Have pity, guys."
Matt's sleepy voice drifted out from under the covers. "Take Nikki with you." The Belgian Malinois was all business. Not trained as an attack dog but the closest thing to it.
Sylvia left for the hospital fifteen minutes later with the alert shepherd by her side. Her lover and her terrier stayed behind, soundly and snugly asleep in her bed.
THE CHILD CRIED out in the darkness. The demon was coming for her again—a thin shadow, wearing his pale face and the silver bracelet on his arm. He was far away at first, but always plunging closer with a soft growl more terrifying than any roar.
And for the thousandth time, she froze—unable to fight, unable to run. She was a helpless bundle on the bed, arms and legs as useless as wood. Because she couldn't move, she was afraid to make another sound—perhaps she could hide.
He stank of medicine and blood. And he brought a hot dusty wind wherever he went. His face appeared above her own—his unblinking yellow eyes staring down at her, burning into her skin. His lips curled over thick white teeth. As the child stared up in horror, a drop of blood slid from his mouth over his lower lip; it fell, ever so slowly, to land on her cheek. She wanted to scratch and bite, but she couldn't move.
She heard Paco's voice from such a great distance that it was only a faint, sad whisper. "How did you find us?" And then he pleaded in Spanish: "Don't hurt her! She doesn't know—"
The child moaned. Couldn't she save Paco from el demonio? She tried to jump up, but the demon was on her throat, holding her down—
Suddenly she remembered Paco's secret prize, which he had entrusted to her. Her breathing raced, she trembled. Where was Paco's secret now?
Then the image played in her memory, so bright it seared her mind: the demon hovering over Paco, the sudden spurt of blood.
Turn. Run. Fight!
She woke with a start. She yelled. Her right arm lashed out at the demon's face.
SYLVIA HEARD THE yell but pulled away too late—the child's fist caught her square on the cheek. Thunk.
Safely out of range, she touched her fingers to the skin immediately below her left eye, gingerly inspecting for damage. The area was numb, just beginning to sting; from experience, Sylvia imagined she was going to end up with a respectable shiner.
Roberto Casias would owe her big-time when he returned from his forensic psych conference.
She considered the child. Dwarfed by the hospital room, she looked as young as eight years old. At the moment, she was no longer punching. Instead, she had made herself even smaller by curling up in a fetal position on the bed.
"So we know your vocal cords work," Sylvia said. Her cheek had begun to throb. "And you've got a mean right hook." She knew the social worker had tried speaking to the child in Spanish without results, but Sylvia was looking for any reaction, for the barest flicker of comprehension. "¿Cómo se dice 'fighter' en español?" She wasn't worried about grammatical errors, and she settled on the first nonword that came to mind: "¿Boxador?"
The child turned her face away, and her thumb slipped into her mouth.
The thumb sucking and the fetal position were regressive behavior for an eight-, nine-, or ten-year-old. Sylvia's voice dropped for her version of a movie tough guy—rendered in truly awful Spanglish. "Tienes un mean derecho hook." She stepped five paces from the bed and slapped her hands together.
The child flinched at the sharp clap of sound.
"And your ears seem to be working. Muy bien, we're off to a swell start."
Until they heard from Dr. Strange, the staff at St. Vincent's would defer their decision on whether to transfer the child to a room in Pediatrics. In the meantime, E.R. bays offered opportunities for exploration that might arouse a child's curiosity. Sylvia turned her back on the child and made a show of peering into a cabinet filled with hospital gowns, then searching through a drawer packed with tongue depressors.
Her eyes were drawn to a small pile of clothes strewn on a chair. The child's possessions had been forgotten in the face of pressing medical questions. Sylvia gently folded yellow cotton slacks and set them on top of a faded pink T-shirt. A hospital admissions clerk had provided a plastic Ziploc bag for small items. Albert Kove had confused the facts—there were three sticks of bubble gum. In addition, the baggie contained two broken crayons, three dimes, and a supple plastic coin case, the same kind Sylvia had carried as a kid.
Hadn't Albert mentioned something else? A kid's coloring book? She found it pinned to the inside vest of the child's pink sweater; it was made of cheap, well-worn vinyl, blue background patterned with black-and-white Snoopy dogs, and it was small enough to rest in Sylvia's palm.
Inside, a very childish hand had practiced the alphabet and numbers—on the first page, painstakingly printed capital letters wandered across the page, followed by a line of numbers including a backward 3. The printing was made even more illegible by overlapping colored images: rainbows, suns, flowers . . . drawings made by a little girl. On succeeding pages, the drawings became more adept, demonstrating practice and budding creativity.
Tucked back along the seam of the chair, Sylvia found a necklace—a small silver medallion with an unusual design face; it looked Indian, perhaps Mayan . . . a jaguar?
When she turned, the child was staring directly at her with an intensity so acute it was shocking. Her eyes were tiny dark vortexes alive with fear, intelligence, and fierce longing.
Slowly, Sylvia walked to the edge of the bed. She curved toward the child, and her gaze softened. "Are you going to let me touch you without a one-two punch?"
But she didn't get the chance.
Instead, the child reached out her scraped and batte
red hand and stroked Sylvia's cheek. Just once. Then she closed her eyes and curled her body up like a leaf.
WITH ONE CLEAN slice, Renzo Santos brought his knife across the pale crest of eggshell. He was rewarded by the sight of gelatinous orange yolk nestled in rubbery egg white. Flecks of yolk spattered the hotel's linen tablecloth, and Renzo's mouth pursed in distaste. Without looking at the waiter, he said, "I asked for a three-minute egg."
"I'm sorry, sir. I'll have the kitchen make you another one—"
Renzo shook his head. "Have them broil me a steak, rare. And I want a large orange juice, fresh-squeezed." He wondered if the waiter was staring at the pock scars on his face. Automatically, he dabbed at the corners of his mouth with his napkin, narrowing his attention to the front page of The Wall Street Journal.
He would not let a hotel kitchen in Santa Fe disturb his morning. He'd completed a grueling ninety-minute workout in the facility's gym; he'd allowed himself fifteen minutes in a very hot Jacuzzi while his muscles loosened up like butter. The salon had managed a decent manicure; when he tipped the girl, she'd told him he looked like Antonio Banderas, only taller and thinner and much more interesting.
Perhaps he'd fuck the manicurist tonight. If he felt like it, he would have her. And then he would finish his last errand in el norte. He would track down the Honda, tear it wide open, find the package.
The waiter arrived with a pot of steaming coffee and a tall orange juice. While the man was attending to cups and glasses, Renzo slid The Wall Street Journal off the table. A second newspaper, the local daily, was exposed, and a headline caught his eye: CHILD DRIVER SURVIVES CRASH WITH LAMY TRAIN.
RENZO SANTOS PRESSED the telephone receiver to his ear and waited. Two hours earlier, he had returned to his casita at La Posada hotel—a casita registered to a quiet and respectable Arizona businessman named Eric Sandoval. There he had begun his research, a series of phone calls that eventually led him to an office at Child Protective Services.
Now a C.P.S. secretary had him on hold; thirty seconds passed, then forty. Renzo had a working rule: he never remained on hold for a full minute. Perhaps, in the particular circumstances, his rule bordered on paranoia. He had placed all the morning's calls from his cell phone, a unit equipped with a built-in scanner/EIN decoder. With each new call, the unit was programmed to search out and clone an active number that was not currently in use. The unit made him virtually untraceable. It was all part of his uniform: three passports under three different names (two of which were hidden in a panel of his Vuitton luggage), matching credit cards, and cash. In his business, there was always too much cash.
He glanced at his Rolex—the sixty-second rule still stood—and prepared to hang up. He resolved to try again later, just as a woman came on the line.
"This is Mrs. Delgado. May I help you?"
She was mature, insecure, and felt her position of limited power within the state bureaucracy was beneath her capabilities—Renzo heard that much in her voice. Further information had come from his research: Mrs. Delgado was recently married; she was a fan of the new boss at the state's Department of Children, Youth, and Family; she had been guest speaker at a New Mexico Bar Association child-advocacy dinner just last week.
Renzo set his notes and the clipping from Thursday's New Mexican on the hotel's rust-and-cream-colored bedspread.
He lied smoothly, with a trace of a northern New Mexican accent: "This is Roberto Martinez from the I.N.S. legal department. We've had a query about that female minor who wrecked the vehicle out on Two eighty-five." His manicured fingernails skimmed the text of the newspaper article: ". . . unidentified minor was transported to St. Vincent's Hospital . . ."
"Yes?" The woman didn't hide her impatience.
Renzo pictured her in his imagination: dyed hair cut to the earlobe, sparse makeup except for lipstick, which would be too red. Clip-on earrings. Wedding ring, faux gold chain and locket. She was seated behind a large metal state-issue desk, and the stack of papers by her elbow seemed to pulse before her eyes. It was ten minutes to twelve, and undoubtedly she had a luncheon meeting with an anal-retentive supervisor.
He slowed down. "Chris Palmer, one of our case agents, was at the Bernalillo Detention Center this morning, and he talked to an undocumented woman who claims her daughter ran away three days ago. Says the girl's ten years old—"
"Is the child mute?"
"Mute?" Renzo's body stiffened slightly, and an almost imperceptible flutter of excitement spurred his muscles. It was possible that Paco had told the truth before he died; he'd begged for the girl's life, swearing she couldn't reveal any secrets.
"This one isn't talking." There was a sharp sound as the woman snapped the cover on a tube of lipstick. "But maybe it's worth checking out."
"You never know." Renzo glanced down at the telephone book on the floor. Three of his earlier calls had been made to the offices of Immigration and Naturalization Services; he'd followed a trail of appropriate federal employees. Then it had been just a matter of waiting until it was time for state workers to go to lunch.
He said, "She's on a forty-eight-hour hold. And her court hearing is scheduled for . . ." He rustled papers. "Monday?"
"Tomorrow at ten." She was crisp.
"We've got Roybal listed as the temp foster family."
"As far as I know she's not assigned to a family yet." Suspicion slowed her speech. "And you know I couldn't give you that information—"
"Maybe Chris Palmer should deal with this." Renzo allowed just a hint of intimacy to enter the space between his words. "By the way, I really enjoyed your speech at the bar fund-raiser last week."
"Oh. Thanks. Did we . . . ?"
"I wish we'd had a few more minutes to talk; you were the most intelligent speaker on the roster." Renzo glanced at his watch. "Hey, it's almost noon. I should let you go."
"By my clock it's one minute after twelve." There was a pause while the woman softened up. "Why don't you tell your caseworker to call . . ." She faded away, came back, and recited the name and the phone number of a C.P.S. social worker. Renzo wrote the information neatly on the margin of the newspaper clipping about the girl.
". . . authorities are seeking information from anyone who has knowledge . . ."
He thanked Mrs. Delgado and hung up softly. He had knowledge of the child—he knew her name, her age, and he knew she possessed the power to destroy his world.
He lay back on the hotel bed, resting his head on the pillow. Dancing his fingers across his high cheekbones, he felt the slight indentation of acne scars that were never totally erased, even with repeated injections of collagen. The scars spoiled a face that was otherwise perfect for the camera. He'd been told by more than one woman that he resembled a matinee idol. Bitterly, he blamed his acne-ravaged skin on childhood malnutrition and deprivation.
He let his fingers skim down to his mouth, which was unremarkable except for the small scar that indented the center of his lower lip. The stubble on his chin bothered him. Schedule permitting, he would shave a second time that day. His very straight nose, narrow, then flaring slightly at the nostrils, was a genetic marker of the puta's Nahuatl origins—origins that Renzo considered his pure identity. But he could never quite forgive his Aztec forebears: they had relinquished their birthright, their gods and goddesses, when the brutal Spanish conquerors invaded their lands, stole their riches, and burned their temples.
The Aztecs had given up his birthright.
He knew that his face was impassive; calm was his imprint. He was unaware that the impression of composure he gave was intensified by his pitch-black eyes—eyes that rarely blinked.
It was a face no woman had ever loved. Not even his whoring mother-the-puta.
Renzo stood, stretched his lithe muscles, and walked past the television, which was muted and tuned to CNN. Inside the small bathroom he opened his alligator shaving bag and selected a small velvet case from which he plucked a tiny gold cross. It belonged to a young woman. He knew her features by heart
: the proud tilt of her chin, the bright, wide-set eyes, the sensual mouth. And he knew things that were not part of anyone else's memory. Things a man knew about his woman. Elena.
He pictured her as she had looked on her fifteenth birthday. In Renzo's mind, she was never any other age. Her skin was flawless, the color of coffee rich with cream, the blush of rose on her cheeks and a darker crimson on her lips.
The daughter was pale heir to her mother's Indio-Spanish purity.
Renzo would have to murder Elena's child. Again.
With reverence, he returned the cross to its velvet case. He knew he must be patient even though time was running out. It was the careful hunter who caught his prey.
Renzo's eyes focused on the contents of his bag. In addition to aspirin, codeine, and penicillin, a half dozen pill containers filled small sleeves. Scissors, tweezers, file, and small surgical knife were enclosed in separate plastic cases. Several brushes and a comb made of tortoiseshell rested in the bottom of the bag.
Renzo rolled back the left sleeve of his Armani shirt. Impassively, he noted the myriad white scars that decorated his wrist and forearm. They were set at measured intervals, which could be halved again with new incisions. The scars were paper-thin and perfectly aligned along the median cubital vein.
He lifted out the fine brushes and felt for the smooth leather of a second kit, which fit neatly in the bottom of the case. Unzipped, it held disposable U-100 syringes, alcohol swabs, cotton balls, a specially made silver spoon, and several brown vials that contained very pure heroin, chunked and powdered.
The drug was pure enough to snort, but tonight he needed the intravenous rush. He rarely used his arms or hands to shoot up anymore, but he had already broken several of his rules during the last few days and he didn't want to wait until he had his pants, socks, and shoes off.
He cleaned the spoon with alcohol, then placed a chunk of heroin in its center, adding a measure of water from the syringe. He heated the spoon with his lighter. Cotton, dropped into the mixture, expanded like a tiny sponge. Renzo placed the needle in the center of the cotton, pulled up on the plunger, and guided the milky liquid into the syringe. Expertly he tapped the vein between first and second fingers, then nosed the needle under his skin.
