by Sarah Lovett
The shepherd had been a "gift." Of a dubious sort. More than a year ago, Sylvia's closest friends had presented her with the Malinois, a dropout from the Penitentiary of New Mexico's canine/contraband program. Nikki had spent her first night chez Sylvia growling at the world from a kitchen corner. A hundred dog-obedience hours later, Sylvia and Nikki maintained an uneasy truce. There were days when Sylvia still believed Nikki was too aggressive to keep—she'd come this close to calling the trainer. But the shepherd was loyal and smart, and Rocko the terrier was sweet on her.
"All right, go out and stay out. Sleep in your doghouse and see if I care." She opened the door and watched both dogs disappear into the darkness of the side yard.
Something drew her outside. It wasn't the taste of winter on the night air, or the sprinkling of stars in the sky. It was the incredible stillness. The wind had stopped, no sign of lightning, and yet the air felt charged. Sylvia felt it. The dogs did, too.
CHAPTER NINE
AT THE FENCE, Nikki planted her feet and began to bark. Within seconds, Rocko was at the shepherd's side, growling, fur erect. Just outside the gate, the motion-sensor light flashed on. Nikki bared sharp teeth—ninety pounds of dog in attack mode. Sylvia's body reacted, tightening with fear. Had someone been in her yard? She froze, then forced herself to take two steps away from the light.
Seconds passed. The frenzied barking shattered the night's stillness.
And just below the animal sounds, there might have been the soft whine of a car engine.
Now Nikki was racing back and forth along the coyote fence, sniffing, searching for access. Rocko followed like a small, dark shadow. There was no way for either dog to escape. Abruptly, the light went black, responding to an automatic timer.
Sylvia ordered Nikki to her side. The dog ignored the command. Sylvia called again; this time Nikki obeyed, bounding across the yard, sitting alert and trembling with energy. A low growl rumbled from her throat.
Rocko would have no part of discipline. He changed focus and began to prance near the doghouse. The ruff on his neck bristled. His short, high-pitched yips signaled quarry; the terrier had cornered something inside the yard.
Sylvia glanced around for a weapon to wield and grabbed the closest object at hand—a rake. She pictured the skunk that had doused Rocko days earlier. She stepped forward, wary, in case her dogs had ferreted out a rabid animal.
A sudden gust of wind stirred the salt cedar's branches. A raindrop hit Sylvia's cheek. She stepped down from the deck and started across the yard. Nikki heeled at her side, whining but controlled.
The doghouse cast a shadow along the coyote fence and the chamiso that grew at the foot of the posts. Sylvia didn't see any sign of a cornered animal, but now both her dogs were intent on the small shelter. Whatever it was must be inside. She said a quick prayer that it wasn't a porcupine—that would be worse than a skunk.
Nikki sat down suddenly, threw back her head, and howled. Clearly, the shepherd was no longer in attack mode. Her tail was wagging. Sylvia squatted down beside her dogs. She saw pale fingers curled around the opening of the doghouse.
She let out a yelp of surprise, and the fingers disappeared inside the plastic shelter like a turtle into its shell. Realization hit—a hand, an arm, the outline of a face. Relieved, Sylvia held out her arms to the huddled child and said, "It's okay, Serena."
While she waited to see if the child would appear, she tried to make sense of events. Somehow the child had managed to end up here, hiding inside the dog's—Sylvia's chain of thought broke as Nikki knocked against her and she fell back on her butt abruptly. She wrapped her arms around her dogs. She could feel Serena's fear. She knew the child was watching from the darkness like a small, frightened ghost.
Sylvia kept still, trying to read her next move. After a minute of puzzling, she lay back on the grass and stared up at the stars. Another raindrop hit her cheek, and another. Rocko immediately scrambled onto his mistress's belly. Worried, Nikki pushed a cool nose against Sylvia's cheek but kept her attention focused on the child.
Sylvia listened for any sign that the child was going to come out into the open. She knew Serena must be starving, thirsty, dusty, and scared to death. At the appropriate time, Sylvia would call the C.P.S. hotline to let them know the child was safe.
But she wasn't going to move until Serena showed herself.
She didn't have to wait long. Over the soft and steady touch of rain, a furtive rustling signaled that the child was moving. Nikki whined. Then Sylvia felt a small, warm body curl up next to hers.
RENZO SANTOS STARED at the small slip of paper for such a long time, the red letters and numbers blurred to a soft gray haze. The name and phone number belonged to the psychologist he'd seen at the courthouse, the tall brunette with the dogs. Where had the tiny stain of blood come from? He focused on the blood, let it blear, then, with effort, brought it back within its boundaries.
Had he tried to find the girl?
The windshield of the Suburban was beaded with water; the road was wet. Renzo had no memory of rain. He peered out at the dark, shining road. A hundred feet away lights reflected off the asphalt of another road—the interstate. So where was he? Parked along a frontage road; that was stupid and dangerous; a cruising cop would pull over to check out a stranded vehicle.
He flicked on his high beams; they illuminated a white highway sign—LA CIENEGUILLA—and an arrow directing traffic west. Had he driven there?
He'd lost himself, but for how long? Minutes? Hours? How long had his mind been gone this time? To regain control of his body, he began to make small movements, testing his senses. He flexed a finger, he stretched his jaw. When he peered in the rearview mirror, he saw dust around his nostrils. He had a foggy memory of snorting a line—hadn't he used the new drug? Yes, he'd opened one of the new vials . . .
And then he'd wandered deep into nightmares.
Renzo was not used to nightmares. As a boy, he'd learned not to dream. The same way he'd learned to deny his mother-the-puta's drunk ravings. She would wake him late at night, after she'd come home from the streets to their plywood shack on the edge of town. She would climb under the blanket with her son and cry; about the first time she was raped—at seven years old. On those nights, he had hated his mother most of all because she was weak—a victim. On those nights, he banished all thoughts of her from his mind.
Banishment didn't work tonight. For that, Renzo blamed Paco's betrayal and, mostly, the shock of discovery just days ago. The news that Paco had crossed the border and was running north hadn't surprised Renzo. Paco was weak—Renzo had always said as much. How could you trust a man who didn't want to bloody his hands? Paco had always been different—he'd kept himself separate from the others—and that fact alone made him suspect.
When Paco ran, Renzo followed. He'd picked up the bookkeeper's trail almost instantly, and he'd tracked him almost as far as Santa Fe. In the middle of nowhere, he'd cornered his prey.
But then a ghost had walked toward him out of the darkness, so small, a child . . . with her mother's face. A child who refused to die.
Renzo stirred when he felt a tremor. Was that fear? No. Something was vibrating—the car or the earth? Then it became clear: the pager on his belt. He knew who would be paging him: Amado Fortuna. Tuna. The Big Fish.
Ah . . . Renzo nodded. He moved his mouth, waiting for words to formulate, rehearsing what he would recite for Tuna. Found our friend . . . how many nights ago? Another issue to deal with . . . another problem No, I have not found your property. Not yet.
While his eyes strayed around the dark interior of the vehicle, he saw something that revved his heartbeat and shot adrenaline into his bloodstream. The needle of the gas tank showed a quarter tank. He had filled up at noon. And then he'd driven thirty, maybe forty miles maximum. Where the hell had he been?
Abruptly, a face appeared on the other side of the windshield. Renzo was reaching for a weapon when he realized it was just his own reflection in the glass—bu
t for an instant he'd seen the lean muzzle and the mean fangs of a dog, a yellow shepherd.
To clear his head, he lowered the window for air. As he pulled his arm away from the power button, he saw blood tracing a miniature river over his skin. It had stained his silver bracelet, obscuring the face of the Nahuatl goddess Coatlicue.
He had no memory of cutting himself. He sucked the liquid, drawing solace from its warmth.
WITH ONE HAND, Sylvia held the portable phone set to her ear; she listened to a low hum and waited while the state police dispatcher tracked down Matt. With the other hand, she searched her kitchen cupboard for something to feed a child.
Serena was seated at the kitchen table, watching every move Sylvia made. Her luminous brown eyes traveled right and left while Sylvia roved anxiously around the small room. Sylvia's free hand settled on a box of Cheerios just as Matt came on the line.
She turned away from the child and spoke in a low voice. "Can you stay at your place tonight? I've got Serena here." She walked out of the kitchen, into the living room—safely out of the child's earshot.
It took a moment for the name to register with Matt. "The kid? Why?"
"She hitched a ride in the back of my truck when I was visiting her foster home, she must have smuggled herself in with the dogs." Quickly, Sylvia related her take on the afternoon's events. "I tried the foster home, but there was no answer, so I left a message on the machine. The husband called me back two minutes ago. The whole family's been out searching the neighborhood."
Matt was silent for several seconds before he said, "You've notified Protective Services?"
"I called the hotline and left a message for the social worker, said I'd meet her first thing tomorrow morning."
"Can't you take the kid back tonight—"
Sylvia cut off Matt's protest with a flood of words. "I'm feeding her, I'll put her to bed, she needs rest. She does not need to spend the night in the back of a cruiser."
Matt sighed. "Just don't start acting like Ripley in Aliens."
"Hey, the alien's a piece of cake compared to Social Services." Sylvia glanced over her shoulder to make certain she was still out of the child's hearing. "Listen, this kid spilled a quart of milk, a half gallon of juice, a box of cookies—and that's just in the last thirty minutes. We're down to a bowl of Cheerios with chocolate milk. Next she'll probably blow up the house."
As she paced, Sylvia automatically straightened Serena's sweater—the coloring book was still pinned to the inside. She flipped the pages, catching a glimpse of the multicolored drawings, and continued. "Serena will go back to C.P.S. tomorrow. I'm going to recommend she be placed in a private hospital until we can get things sorted out."
She heard Matt blow air softly between his teeth. "It might be better—"
"It would be better if she had a foster home to go to, but she doesn't. This afternoon Nellie Trujillo told me she couldn't handle Serena. Whether I like it or not, I've got a connection with this child. At the moment I'm the only person who does."
The silence lasted a few seconds, but it was enough to alert Sylvia to a problem. Matt said, "I heard something from an old buddy at the A.G. investigations office. Something about your kid."
"She's not my kid," Sylvia corrected him automatically.
"The A.G.'s office got a call from the federales in Juárez. The Mexican cops had a description of a missing child. Apparently, it matches the girl."
Sylvia's muscles went slack. "What will that mean?"
"She may get sent back. She's a temporary ward of the court; there'll be some red tape, some back-and-forth—"
"But what about her family in Mexico?"
"I don't have the details—"
"Who are they? Where are they? If she matches this description, why aren't they here now?" Sylvia walked across the room away from the kitchen, lowering her voice so Serena wouldn't hear the conversation. "How do we know she'll get the treatment she needs if she goes back to Mexico?"
"We don't."
"Well, shit." Sylvia tensed, caught up in her thoughts. She wanted more time with the child. And the last thing Serena needed was to become the pawn of feuding state, federal, and international agencies. It could set her progress back weeks, even months. But something else nagged at her—she couldn't shake the growing sense of urgency she'd felt for the past twenty-four hours, the notion that Serena's time was running out. Now that sense had been confirmed by a query from Mexico.
The silence between them stretched until Sylvia asked, "How was it at the prison?"
Matt's grunt was noncommittal, a signal that he didn't want to elaborate. After a beat, he asked, "You know anything about Noelle Harding?"
Sylvia thought for a moment. "I know she's been on the news recently, pushing her brother's cause. And she's hosting a charity thing. Why?"
"On my way out, she was holding a press conference."
"I saw something about it on the news tonight."
"The woman knows how to get press coverage."
"She's trying to save her brother's life." Sylvia made a wry face. "I don't think she's just some empty person with a crusade. Harding heads up an international fund for homeless kids. She's connected. Big Texas money."
"Well, I guess money can't buy everything." Matt's tone was intentionally provocative. He and Sylvia differed in their opinions of the death penalty. He was satisfied to rid the world of scumbags—his word—while Sylvia believed in life imprisonment for hard-core criminals; for the less hard-core, she still believed in treatment. Maybe because she couldn't write off the million-plus inmates incarcerated in the U.S.
"We should go to her fund-raiser," she said. "You've got an extra five grand in your pocket, don't you?" To her surprise, Matt didn't laugh.
He asked, "When is it?"
"Why?"
"I met her brother today. Hey"—Matt sounded as if he'd just snapped awake—"don't forget you've got an engagement party tomorrow morning—eleven o'clock sharp."
"Of course not." But for a moment Sylvia had forgotten.
"I love you." Matt hung up softly.
She switched off the handset, aware for the first time that she had paced herself into the living room. She tiptoed back toward the kitchen, freezing at the sight of the ruined wall, the brutal face.
Serena had drawn a demon. She was still working feverishly, crayons in hand, nose inches from plaster. Small sighs of effort escaped her lips as she guided color over the wall's surface. Wild lines quickly formed details on the face: seeds for eyes, a beaklike nose, sharp cheekbones. The mouth was a hole, a gaping wound.
Sylvia started forward but stopped when she realized the child appeared oblivious to everything except her work. Within seconds, the demon's face had grown a body. The dark form was tall and lean, walking upright. His body was crisscrossed with slash marks.
As Serena drew the monster, her skin darkened with an infusion of blood—she was visibly distraught, breathing rapidly. She looked as if she had a tornado trapped inside her body.
Suddenly, she slapped her hand against the wall. Again and again her palm struck plaster, and then her hand curled into a fist. Sylvia lunged forward and caught the child's arm before impact. Serena collapsed. The only sound of her rage was the harsh staccato rhythm of her breath.
RENZO'S GLOVED HANDS glowed inside the telephone booth. Outside, car headlamps flashed off glass and asphalt. Red lights reflected in Renzo's eyes when he glanced up at the Circle K sign.
Patrons at the gas station passed the pay phone on their way in and out of the convenience store. They avoided eye contact, but Renzo could see that their skins were bleached by fluorescence; their faces were blank, soulless. These were people who could die tonight and they would leave no trace.
A young woman walked past the phone booth. Idly, Renzo imagined inserting a knife into her brain.
He slipped the twenty-dollar disposable phone card into the slot and dialed. The distant ringing went on for six, seven, eight repetitions, then there was a ho
llow electronic click; Renzo recognized that the call had been forwarded to a new number. That new routing was answered on the first ring.
Amado Fortuna offered his customary greeting: silence.
Renzo imagined language—wondering if his lips and tongue would form the complex mix of Spanish, Indio, and slang—watching his own eyes reflected in the metal surface of the pay phone. Perhaps those two unblinking eyes would tell him who he was tonight.
He spoke very slowly. "I found our friend three nights ago. He did not offer an adequate explanation for his recent behavior. I severed our business relationship."
With care, Amado posed a question.
Renzo answered. "I can't come back yet. There's another, smaller problem I must address while I'm up north."
In answer to Amado's next question: "No, it will not take long. I think the issue will be settled permanently."
He brought his thoughts back to the words traveling from Mexico; Amado had offered no protest. When he asked about Snow White, he did so without direct reference.
Renzo took a moment to answer; he found he'd left his body again—just for an instant. But he had to pull himself back into flesh and blood. "I did not find the item we wanted."
For a few moments Amado turned away from the phone. He did not hang up. He was talking to someone in the room, in his home in Juárez. A child laughed. Amado had a six-year-old son, a nine-year-old son, and a twelve-year-old daughter. Renzo decided the laughter belonged to the youngest child.
Renzo knew that Amado Fortuna was controlling his rage. To do so, he would focus on his children, on the treasures in his home, on the possessions unlimited money could buy. The elegance of Fortuna's surroundings helped to remind the patrón how far he'd come in this life. His surroundings convinced him that he had risen far above the rest of the world.
Renzo also knew that Amado Fortuna was very unhappy to hear that the item was still unaccounted for. The item was a reminder of life before wealth, before elegance, before privilege. The item was dangerous.
When Amado returned his attention to the phone conversation, he expressed polite—but quite serious—dissatisfaction.
