by Sarah Lovett
Victor said, "I wouldn't mind this so much except these people have robbed my country blind."
Matt shook his head and murmured, "Damn, that wall must've cost a year of my salary." Two rancheros caught his eye; they were wearing dirty, misshapen clothes, smoking small black cigarillos, and walking a groomed and pedigreed miniature poodle.
Victor turned another corner, and Matt saw the greenish-brown sea of a golf course visible behind ornate mansions. "Want to test your handicap?" Victor asked, pointing a finger at an impressive blue-glassed skyscraper in the distance that seemed to loom over the golf course. "Amado Fortuna keeps an office in the penthouse. That way he can watch over his home turf from behind a desk." Victor guided the taxi left as the road forked.
"So we're in Amado's neighborhood?"
"Look up, my friend."
The wall was at least eighteen feet high. It was constructed of plaster in places, stone in others, and it went on and on, curving around acres of land. Twenty acres? Twenty-five? After about a quarter mile, massive wooden gates interrupted the wall. The gates were open, revealing a ten-inch crack of space. Through the opening, Matt saw an old ranchero with a shotgun eyeballing him. Behind the ranchero, a naked gravel yard seemed to stretch for miles. In the distance, low buildings ran parallel to the wall. A stable, maybe? A garage?
"Paco lived here, too?"
"No. He just worked here. At his cousin's city estate. That's the barracks for Amado's private army. He lands his helicopter inside." Victor spoke in a low voice. He kept the taxi moving at a crawl, his eyes locked on the road. "And he's touchy about sightseers." Two minutes later he pulled up at a stop sign. The wall was still to their left. The main boulevard was directly in front of them, and beyond the road an empty lot shimmered with broken glass.
Victor raised the dark muzzle of an automatic and pointed it discreetly at Matt. He said, "Get out."
"Are you fucking crazy?" Matt saw that the curious ranchero was on his way out to the street, drawn toward the idling taxicab.
Victor ordered Matt out of the taxi a second time—in Spanish. "Ya salte o te mato." Get out now, or I'll kill you.
Matt believed Victor Vargas; he didn't know the man well enough to disbelieve him. He opened the door of the taxi and stepped into the street. The ranchero was outside the gates now, standing hesitantly with a cigarillo dangling from between his lips, watching.
Matt stared at the drug lord's fortress. From this vantage point, the wall continued into infinity in either direction. Every three hundred feet, turrets rose into the sky. And now he could see the rooftops of the main house—Moorish domes, finished in turquoise, white shell, and gold mosaic. Above a chapel roof, a gold cross stabbed the sky.
Here lived a man so rich and powerful he could own his own private path to God.
Matt tried to absorb what he was seeing—a billion-dollar fortune, another monument to total corruption. A flash of light caught his eye.
He said, "Those are gun turrets."
Victor Vargas glanced out the driver's window of the taxi. "Sí. I'd say an AK-47 has a bead on you right this minute. Adiós, amigo." He slammed the sedan into gear and accelerated down the street and around the corner.
The ranchero watched the taxi disappear. Then he tossed his cigarillo to the ground, wrapped his fingers around the stock of the shotgun, and began striding slowly toward Matt.
"Fuck," Matt whispered.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
SYLVIA WAS TALL, but she had to lift her chin to address the turbaned security guard who occupied the hospital hallway just outside Serena's room. "Who are you?"
"Khalsa."
Sylvia reached for the doorknob located somewhere behind the guard's substantial waist. He didn't budge. His dark blue uniform was equipped with various clipons: radio, beeper, cellular phone. A holster—with gun—hung off his belt. Sylvia set her hands on her hips.
"Are you keeping me out, Khalsa? Who put you here?"
"You first, ma'am. May I see some I.D.?"
Sylvia shrugged and pulled her hospital badge from her pocket. She clipped it to her cotton sweater. "I'm her doctor."
"I know about you, Dr. Strange." The guard shifted from the door.
"What am I, famous?"
He laughed. "No, ma'am."
Sylvia said, "Noelle Harding, right?" She walked past him without waiting for a response.
Serena was seated in a chair by the window. Cool blue sunlight washed over her face and shoulders, coating her hair with a blue-black sheen, bringing out the olive tones in her brown skin. Her head was bowed, hands clasped in her lap. Her narrow shoulders hunched forward expectantly. She looked scrawny in the new turquoise T-shirt Sylvia had purchased for her. She also looked much older than ten.
The child glanced up at Sylvia, her eyes flickering with recognition. Then she returned her attention to her vigil. Was she waiting for the dark-haired attacker to return and finish what he'd started?
Sylvia remembered an earlier vigil—only four days ago?—when she had found Serena perched in her study window. That night, the tension had been palpably brittle. At this moment, there was a stillness to the child, a concentration that belied fear.
Was she praying? Sylvia suspected Serena's spiritual leaning bordered on the fanatical. It made sense that a child who wasn't talking to humans would establish an intimate dialogue with an archetypal figure—a saint, a goddess, someone who would act as a channel for her emotional energy.
Sylvia supported that dialogue—as long as it didn't overwhelm Serena. From a therapist's standpoint, that was the kicker—judging whether a spiritual experience crossed the line of "normalcy" to become delusional or psychotic.
Sylvia's muscles gave an involuntary shiver. Outside the glass, the Santa Fe sun shone hot and cold; the burning orange globe disappeared behind a blanket of gray clouds. She positioned the only other chair in the room so it was about three feet from Serena and the window.
It would be best to stay in the room for the morning session. The child didn't seem to be bothered by the guard's presence; most likely, she welcomed the protection.
Sylvia had known Serena for one week. Without the benefit of verbal clarification, the child's actions had sometimes appeared bizarre. But in retrospect, Serena had demonstrated irrefutable logic—she had hidden like a hunted animal, she had attempted to bury her trail at Nellie Trujillo's home, she had stowed away in Sylvia's truck—all the while very probably eluding a flesh-and-blood predator.
And, finally, she had led Sylvia to Paco's body—and the photograph of Cash Wheeler and Elena Cruz.
It was only logical to accept a guard outside the door.
Sylvia spoke softly to the child. "Are you praying? Do you have someone you talk to?"
A quick look of acknowledgment crossed the child's features.
"Can you show me who it is?" Sylvia asked. "Can you draw me a picture?"
Seemingly unsure, Serena shook her head.
Sylvia didn't appear fazed. She simply said, "Someday, if you feel like sharing that with me . . . I'd like to know."
She opened her briefcase and pulled out Cash Wheeler's initialed stick-figure drawing. Without offering any explanation, she set the page on the window ledge, directly in the child's view. Serena glanced at the paper but she showed no visible reaction. Sylvia hid any disappointment—what had she expected?—reaching once again into the briefcase to produce her father's copy of Grimms as well as a small tape recorder.
When Sylvia pressed PLAY, the tape began to roll, the whine of gears barely audible. She set the machine on the floor by her feet. And she opened the book. Over several days, Serena had heard the tale of the Six Swans several times. Now they were once again at the story's last act.
The king married the girl, but he had a wicked mother who warned him against his new bride because she was jealous. When the girl gave birth to a son, the king's mother stole the baby away. She smeared blood on the girl's mute mouth, calling the girl "one who eats the flesh o
f her own." But the young queen did not say a word in her own defense.
As Sylvia read the text, she was startled by a very faint sing-song noise. Could it be the child? She looked over—Serena was silent. The only audible sound was the whir of the tape recorder's small gears. After a moment, Sylvia picked up where she had left off.
And she kept silent when her second baby was stolen by the old woman. When the king's third child was also stolen, the grieving king believed his wife must be a murderess, and he sentenced her to die by fire.
There was the sing-song noise again. Sylvia stopped speaking.
Not a sound.
Again, she began to read.
The day of her execution happened to fall on the last day of her sentence of silence. With her, she took six shirts of wildflowers to the wooden pyre.
Sylvia felt her heart gallop. This time, the sing-song noise clearly came from Serena. Sylvia absorbed feelings of amazement and wonder while her mouth kept opening and closing around words. Some part of her continued to read as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred. But now her voice was accompanied by another voice—small, sweet, and musical.
There, she cried out in joy when she saw six swans; they flew so close to her, she tossed the shirts over their feathers . . . her brothers stood . . . as men . . .
Sylvia let her voice fade in and out, ever so gradually.
in their human form once more . . .
Until only Serena's soft voice was audible:
The spell was . . . broken and . . . her brothers gathered . . . around her.
If Serena's face was shining and alert, her voice was matter-of-fact. As she picked up the drawing on the window ledge, she pointed to the initials "C.W."
Then, meticulously, she printed out words in crayon: "I want to see my dad."
MATT SQUINTED AGAINST the harsh sun. Dust stung his skin. He saw the ranchero approaching, perhaps thirty feet away, and then he noticed a second man. This one wore a sombrero with a brim as floppy as a massive tortilla. A holster rode low on his hips. He walked with a low, sloping stride like a movie bandito.
Matt held his hands in clear view and nodded to the closest man as he weighed his options. Should he try to communicate in Spanish or in English? In Mexico his fluent New Mexican Spanish would not blend in—and neither would a six-foot-two-inch Anglo. Too late to think . . .
He kept his eyes straight ahead, walking, calling out, "Voy a la casa de Carmen Miranda."
The ranchero eyed the norteamericano blankly.
Sweat was running off Matt's back, it was beading on his lip. He shook his head—Thanks anyway, I don't need your help—and waved one hand casually.
The ranchero shifted his shotgun.
Matt began rattling off Spanglish. His feet kept pace with his motormouth, moving him in the direction of the main boulevard. All the while he said something like: I can flag a taxi at the corner, you know, never mind, but thanks anyway for your trouble—
The ranchero was following him, dogging him a few paces back. The skin on Matt's back seemed to roll—pyloerection is what scientists call that animal reaction to challenge. If the criminal investigator had fur, it would have been standing on end.
He thought he heard the snap of a shotgun—had the Mexican just checked the load?
Shit. I'm dead.
Now the ranchero began challenging him in rapid Spanish. Who was he? What did he want? Matt thought he could feel the gun aimed between his shoulders. He knew street murders in quiet residential neighborhoods were not unusual in Juárez.
I'm fucking dead.
Anger coursed up Matt's spine—who was the cop here? This was a family neighborhood, and this goddamn little punk wanted to take him out? He wheeled around, took a deep breath, and thought mean and big. Pulled to his full height, he topped the Mexican by six or eight inches, and he outweighed him by seventy-five pounds.
The distant man called out to his buddy—"Hey, Flaco ¿Qué pasa?"
Matt felt the blood pumping behind his eyes. If I'm dead—you're dead, too, motherfucker. He stood his ground, watching Flaco's shotgun waver like a hard snake.
Finally, the Mexican shrugged and tipped the gun dismissively.
Matt was almost to the corner when he saw the taxi—driven by Vargas—pull up at the curb. He scuttled forward, moving in some hybrid lope-lunge. He grabbed the door handle, heaved himself inside, and was thrown halfway across the seat as Vargas accelerated, burning rubber. They were already out on the boulevard by the time Matt got the door shut.
He couldn't speak normally until Amado Fortuna's estate was no longer visible in the distance—his heart kept ramming itself against his ribs. Vargas pulled a pack of Delicados from one pocket and tossed a cigarette over the seat. Matt had given up smoking years earlier. He lit the cigarette anyway, ignoring the tremor in his hands.
Vargas spoke as if they had been in the middle of a conversation—in a way, they had. "Paco's killer is a madrina—a godmother."
"A hit man?"
"More or less—except he works for the federales."
"In addition to working for Amado Fortuna?"
"And he works for Amado. Sí." Vargas accelerated, catching the last gasp of a yellow traffic signal.
"How do you know?"
The only response was a raised eyebrow.
"If you try another trick like that . . ." Matt inhaled cigarette smoke gratefully.
A grin split the cop's face. "Out there on the street, you looked honest."
"I need a drink before I kill you." Matt didn't smile.
"First we'll get you settled at your hotel. Then I've got someone I want you to meet—an important man. Tonight, we'll find him at his office . . . in the blue grass of . . ."
THE KENTUCKY CLUB sat like a grand old lady way past her prime and surrounded by riffraff on Avenida Juárez. Her name—displayed in black deco type lined with a gold pinstripe—was the first hint of her style. Inside, the year was 1940, and regulars sipped spirits, unwinding to the mellow recorded horns of the Glen Miller Band. A gleaming mahogany bar ran the length of the narrow-waisted room—a spitting trough skirted the bar—and patrons occupied most of the eighteen red velvet stools. Behind the rich wood, arched mirrors smoky from age reflected faces. Carved wooden beams braced the high ceiling, and brass-lantern chandeliers lit the room, which was accented with a touch of pink and green neon. Between two beams, a massive Budweiser clock hung like the Sword of Damocles. A wooden eagle the size of half a man—wings unfurled—loomed over it all.
Matt and Victor Vargas took a fading red-leather booth against the wall, away from the entrance; Vargas kept his back to the corner. A man with a long, dark face and a mustache appeared from the shadows to take their order. His tie was neatly tucked into a white shirt. His black slacks disappeared behind a starched white apron.
Victor ordered a whiskey and soda. Matt ordered a cerveza—a Superior on Victor's recommendation. "It comes from my home state," Victor said with pride. "It's one of Mexico's best beers."
Matt glanced past a viejo asleep in one of several upholstered armchairs to the peeling wallpaper behind the old man's head. Over the decades, photographs had faded behind their frames—baseball teams sponsored by the bar's owner, a onetime sports promoter; boxers shaking hands in front of the referee; and above those photographs, hand-painted pictures of matadors draped in embroidered red satin muletas.
The waiter arrived with their drinks. Victor sipped whiskey, dabbed his lips with a napkin, and said, "Tell me about this child who turned up in your state."
Matt pressed his body against the padded leather seat and nodded. That was an appropriate place to start; he was sitting in a bar in Juárez because heavy hitters were after Sylvia's kid. He knew guys like Amado Fortuna didn't go away—ever. Even if you were smart, all you could do was stay one step ahead of them. And pray.
But Matt responded with a question of his own. "Do you remember anything about a torture-murder in Loving, New Mexico—ten years ago—an El
Paso kid named Wheeler did his common-law wife?"
Vargas shrugged, and Matt continued: "A jury put him on death row. At the time, the guy's infant daughter disappeared—presumed murdered. Now a ten-year-old girl turns up with the inmate's photograph in her purse."
Vargas gazed fondly at the amber liquid in his glass while whiskey trickled warmly down his throat. "You mean Noelle Harding's brother? Everybody remembers that case." He ran his tongue neatly over his lips, reminding Matt of a cat. A sly cat.
Vargas said, "Anybody who reads Texas Monthly knows the story. Two dirt-poor, unwanted kids grow up in an El Paso charity school. Ten years later, she's one of the most powerful women in Texas; her brother's on death row. It's a Texas-style tall tale."
Matt sat up straighter. "This kid—Serena—connects some interesting people. Noelle Harding, Cash Wheeler, Bobby Dowd . . . maybe even Amado Fortuna."
The glass door of the Kentucky Club swung open, and Vargas stiffened. The federale watched while a man in a rumpled three-piece suit walked to the bar and straddled a stool.
For a moment Matt had wondered if the man was Victor's important contact. He wasn't sure who to expect. Vargas sure as hell didn't trust his law-enforcement compadres. Corruption had contaminated all branches of the Mexican police; now the national military was in charge. Matt had some idea what that meant to a country like Mexico—a few of her southern neighbors had turned to soldiers in a desperate reach for reform. That solved one problem but created another: once military forces took hold, they didn't like to let go.
