A Desperate Silence (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 3)

by Sarah Lovett

  BOBBY DOWD HEARD the door open as someone entered the warehouse. Amado Fortuna's boys had finished their bullshit session. They'd probably killed a bottle of tequila. Now it was time to kill a cop.

  Screw you, little pig!

  That was it. The "straw house" fell out of some cubbyhole in Bobby's brain, and he remembered. Paco had told him the straw house was made of cash.

  Bobby heard the sound of footsteps. He was still braced in the corner—still in darkness.

  One set of shoes approached, leisurely, accompanied by a mediocre whistle. Bobby identified his soon-to-be-assassin—the kicker with the big feet. The ugly runt who'd taken great pleasure inflicting severe pain.

  Bobby hoisted himself halfway up. One barely functional hand contracted into a fist—a half-assed fist that hurt like hell—but better than nothing. He wasn't going down without a fight.

  The feet came closer—five steps away, four—and then there was the sound of splashing liquid, the reek of gasoline.

  Just when Bobby Dowd took a final breath and shot his fist out hoping for full body contact, something pushed him and he went down.

  More footsteps sounded, furtive, darting across the rough floor. His tormentor was gone—or keeping very still. Bobby reached out blindly. Orange and white spots danced in his retina. He saw a shape, then it dissolved.

  In the midst of his body's own light show, he heard the sound of scuffling. Then a painful crunching—definitely bones breaking—and a loud groan.

  A deep male voice—an Anglo—mumbled, "Got you, motherfucker!"

  And then the lights went on.

  When his vision cleared, Bobby Dowd brought his bloodied, swollen fingers to his nose. He widened his eyes. He stared blankly, focused, refocused.

  He was so crazy he thought he was holding the edge of a hundred-dollar bill. A greenback.

  He ran his fingers over that wall that was holding him up. Paper. Bills. That green color everywhere. Stacks and stacks and stacks.

  Aisles and aisles.

  A Wal-Mart of money.

  It was dry and dusty—now doused with gasoline. And it had probably been stashed here for years. Stuck in a warehouse in the thick of U.S. border territory. Merely another one of Amado Fortuna's stash houses.

  It was dry as straw.

  Then Bobby Dowd saw two angels appear. He recognized one. The other was a new face. But pleasing to view. He opened his mouth—Hey, guys, happy to see you. If you give me a hand, we can talk about Snow White and Tuna's Diary, or we could just sit here a minute—

  What he actually managed to say was, "Hey, Vargas. Beep beep," before he passed out cold.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  SERENA'S EYES SHOT wide open. She sat up in bed and cried out, blinking repeatedly. The room was unfamiliar. Where was she? There was glass along one wall. She saw a glowing nighttime sky. An airplane was streaking across the top of the world.

  Memory returned, stunning her with its force. Yesterday—the demon—her terrible journey. Pain . . . heat and thirst . . . the horrible sound of guns . . . and people everywhere.

  She heard Paco calling to her, Fresa, no puedo descansar, no puedo dormir. Strawberry, I can't rest, I can't sleep.

  ¡Ven aqui, Fresa! Come here.

  Don't stay in that place! Cross the river. Keep your promise.

  And then the room turned white with radiant light. Warmth flowed through the child's body as she gazed up at a face filled with sorrow and comfort . . . green mantle . . . stars exploding . . . a musical voice whispering: Cruza el río, Angelita . . . Cumple con tu manda. Cross the river. Keep your vow.

  The stars exploded, and a wave of heat washed over the child, almost drowning her with its power. She gasped for air. Then the world grew dark.

  Serena heard a soft rustling sound, blinked her way up from the shadows, and saw a nurse standing over the bed. Worry creased the woman's face as she pressed her palm against the child's forehead.

  Serena pulled away, eyes wide with shock. She spoke one word insistently: "Sylvia."

  IN THE BEDROOM next door, Sylvia stumbled from the bed. She'd fallen asleep on top of the spread. It took her seconds to reach Serena. The child clung to her. The dam burst and a flood of tears broke through; great sobs wracked her small body.

  Then came words.

  Serena raised her tear-streaked face to Sylvia. Her eyes were somber, but her pupils were dilated and she was trembling. She spoke haltingly at first. Her voice was high and soft. She whispered, "They're calling me, Sylvia."

  Her words gained strength and speed, breaking into fragments. She was rattling off Spanish and English, mixing up her speech, hiccupping, breathless—as if everything she had been holding inside had to escape at once.

  "I go . . . you take me now . . . cross the river . . . me voy a México ahorita. . . I can't stay here . . . we go now . . . a México. . . to Anapra . . . home . . . I must go now . . . She's calling me—"

  Urgently, Sylvia questioned the child over her raving monologue. "Who's calling you, Serena? Who do you see? Is it Paco? Is it God?"

  "—cross the river . . . prometí. . . She's calling to me—"

  Sylvia gripped Serena's shoulders. "You see the Virgin—"

  Serena nodded wildly, words still tumbling from her lips: "She's calling . . . ¡prometí!. . . can't stay . . . go home . . . I must . . . ahorita mismo me voy . . . Anapra—" The flow went on and on for minutes until the child was exhausted by the effort of communication and Sylvia was exhausted by the work of listening.

  And then—as suddenly as it had begun—Serena's speech slowed to a numbing repetition of two words: home, Anapra, home, Anapra.

  Her brow was feverish-hot, and her skin had broken a sweat. Sylvia tried to lie down beside her on the mattress, but Serena scooted out from under the covers. Her narrow frame almost disappeared beneath too large, brand-new cotton pajamas. Woman and girl were alone in the room; the nurse had retreated to the hallway.

  Sylvia sat on the edge of the bed—fascinated and alarmed—watching while the child went tenaciously about the business of dressing herself in pants, blouse, shoes. Sylvia recognized the behavior—it was an echo of the morning in Santa Fe when Serena had directed her to Paco's body. Then too, the child had been on a trajectory, motivated to reach a specific point in time.

  Sylvia also recognized behavior that was on the brink—the child had pushed outward, exposing secrets, opening herself to terrible vulnerability. She had broken through her silent prison to reach a turning point: move ahead, open even farther. Or step back—and close up again, perhaps forever.

  Sylvia took a deep breath. Serena was still trying to button her shirt when she parked herself in front of Sylvia. She set both her hands on Sylvia's thighs. She leaned forward, and she said, "Home."

  Sylvia couldn't quite get used to the child's lilting voice, which reminded her of a finch's song. She tilted her head and said, "We'll go to Anapra, Serena, but not now."

  Serena shook her head, and her thumb fluttered to her mouth. "Anapra. Home."

  Sylvia held Serena by the shoulders. "We can't go to Mexico tonight. I'm sorry, sweetheart."

  "Anapra, sí." Serena's eyes filled with desperate pleading.

  "It's not possible." Sylvia took the child in her arms and rocked her gently. Minutes passed, and Serena didn't move. When a half hour had passed, Sylvia's muscles began to cramp. Still, she didn't shift her body. But the pain became excruciating. When she eased Serena down on the mattress, she saw the child's face—and she flushed with fear. She was looking at a listless shrunken body, an infant with thumb in mouth. The child had regressed abruptly, closing in on herself like the petals of a dying flower.

  SYLVIA FOUND A small blanket in the closet and wrapped it around Serena as if she were a baby. She groaned when she hefted the child—eighty pounds was pushing it. She stared at the doorway. The nurse was probably standing directly outside, making the hallway impassable. Breathlessly, Sylvia slid the bolt in place. Then she carried Serena
out the sliding glass door to the verandah.

  It was deserted. And the door to her room was open. With a sigh of relief, she entered the room and set Serena on her bed. She was already dressed—like the child, in borrowed clothes—but she put on her shoes and grabbed her small purse.

  This time, when she lifted Serena, she saw that her eyes were open. She whispered in the child's ear, "Anapra, home." She steadied herself for the rest of the journey.

  With the child in her arms, she made her way back across the verandah, through the living room, and into the penthouse elevator. It glided all the way to the ground floor without stopping. Express.

  As the elevator doors opened, Sylvia pressed her back against the wall. The high marble security station was visible just beyond a thick pillar. Bright lights illuminated several video monitors. The station faced the main ground-floor entrance and exit.

  Stepping out of the elevator, Sylvia tightened her hold on the child. From here, she had a clear view across the lobby. The security station was deserted.

  Tentatively at first, then gaining speed, she moved toward the main doors. As she passed the desk, she saw a cigarette burning in an ashtray. For an instant, she could taste the snaking plume of smoke.

  Her hand was already on the massive door handle when she heard echoing footsteps. She pushed her weight against glass, imagining the security guard's approach. The door didn't budge. Panic made her shaky, and she almost dropped the child. She staggered, hip pressing the release bar, and the door swung open with a low, smooth hiss.

  OUTSIDE THE HARDING Building, the street was quiet—it was still an hour shy of dawn. The air was warm and stale, but it felt wonderful. Sylvia kept moving in the direction of downtown and the river. For two blocks, she didn't stop, didn't look back. She turned a sharp corner and collapsed against the side of an old stone building. The child landed on both feet.

  Sylvia said, "I can't carry you the whole way."

  Serena stared numbly forward, her thumb thrust deep in her mouth.

  "If we're going to Anapra, you have to help me. You have to show me the way, Serena. That's part of the deal."

  Still, the child did not respond.

  They managed another few blocks, and then Sylvia saw a dilapidated taxicab turn in their direction.

  THE CABDRIVER SHOWED no interest in his fare, and the drive through downtown El Paso took minutes; traffic signals flashed yellow. They passed impressive and historic stone buildings, a few modest high-rises, and the usual nondescript jumble of a border city. The Santa Fe bridge—to Mexico—was almost deserted. Except for a few pedestrians, a few cars . . . and the customs official who waved the taxi to pull over and stop.

  The cabbie was mumbling angrily, and he shot Sylvia an accusing look. She felt her heart sink. It dropped even further when a black Mercedes pulled up and parked next to the taxi. Three men occupied the German-made car—the Harding insignia was discreetly embossed on the driver-side door. Sylvia guessed they were Noelle's employees—members of her private security force?

  A second Mercedes rolled to a stop on the other side of the cab. The driver—heavily armed and very silent—climbed slowly out. He was big. He opened Sylvia's door.

  She sat for a moment, frozen, trying to figure out an escape route. But there was none. The customs official had turned his back and walked away. The cabdriver was pleading for everyone to leave him alone.

  Sylvia refused the big man's assistance; she carried Serena to the car. Noelle Harding was in the backseat. "Get in," she ordered quietly.

  They didn't turn back toward the U.S.; instead the Mercedes sailed past the border crossing like a ship passing over the ocean. They entered Mexico.

  AND NOW THE child began to point the way home. Even in the kindness of predawn light, Anapra looked like a world out of hell. Paved streets gave way to ruts that climbed the devastated hillsides. It seemed as if a giant beast had traveled each eroding peak, tearing the last remnants of life from the parched dirt. The hills were literally falling in on the homes below. For the most part, the houses were shacks. Some actually had walls and trees. Many were bare of paint, lacking adequate roofs. The worst were cardboard and tire hovels, with plastic and paper for windows, blankets for doors. Chickens scratched earth, eroding it to dust; those scrawny animals wouldn't survive long in Anapra. Starving dogs roamed the streets nosing trash beside the open sewers. Children followed the dogs.

  Sylvia tried to imagine Serena's lifetime, spent on these streets. But it was the child's presence that reminded her that it wasn't so—she had been sheltered above the streets in an adobe fortress. Returning home, Serena was coming back to life. She fidgeted in the seat, silently guiding the car, her mouth set in an anxious frown around her small thumb.

  During the journey, Noelle Harding spoke only once. She turned toward Sylvia, trapping her with piercing blue eyes. "For Serena's sake, I hope you've made the right decision."

  Sylvia swallowed painfully. Had she? Would this journey to Anapra help free Serena from a violent past? Or would it push her past the point of return, triggering an ecstatic experience that verged on madness? Numbly, Sylvia stared out at the desolate landscape.

  At the child's insistence, the Mercedes stopped in front of a corner tienda, a neighborhood store. Signs in the dusty windows advertised LOTTO and PEÑACOLA. The driver of Harding's car stayed put, and the three other men led the way toward the crumbling hacienda; they negotiated the footpath behind the store.

  She saw the house from Serena's first drawing—it rode the cleft of a naked hill in the shadow of the Cristo Rey Monument. It was supported by stacks of tires and rotting wood. The surrounding wall was eroding just like the earth it rested upon. The structure was two stories high, grilled and impenetrable—at least for a child. On the highest roof was a small caged turret—a widow's walk. As Matt had described, the entire structure was an evolution of adobe to cinder blocks to woodwork.

  The child had watched the world from that prison. She would have looked out at Anapra, the river border, and El Paso. At night, she would have seen the lights of Los Estados Unidos. And she would have seen neighbor children playing on the streets below.

  Sylvia took in the child's world as she moved—almost breathed it in, trying to absorb every detail. Colors, smells, sounds. It was all part of the puzzle. The satellite dish meant that Serena had learned English with the help of U.S. broadcasting; microwaves crossed borders with impunity.

  Sylvia noticed several small scruffy boys standing off to one side watching the procession, scared off by the men in dark clothes who packed weapons.

  Serena didn't seem aware of the other children; she was too caught up in the drama of this moment. A moment Sylvia believed must be filled with ghosts.

  The sun hadn't climbed over the hills, but the air was already uncomfortably warm. Perspiration trickled down Sylvia's neck, back, and under her arms. She could only imagine what it would be like in the full heat of the day. The trail led past rotting trash, withered cactus, the glitter of broken glass. They reached the main gate, which hung open on rusty hinges. On the other side of the wall, the courtyard was more night than day, shaded by a massive cottonwood.

  One man stationed himself in the courtyard near a dilapidated well. He pulled cigarettes from his pocket and settled in to keep watch. The taller of the two remaining men entered the house. When Noelle stepped through the double wooden doors, Serena went into action.

  Gripping Sylvia's hand, she pulled with a force that belied a ten-year-old's diminutive mass. The psychologist caught a fleeting glimpse of the living area before she realized that Serena was headed around the front of the house to the exterior stairway.

  As Sylvia climbed higher, she gazed out at the emerging view of slum, river, and the endless city sprawl. With each step, she felt more isolated, more imprisoned.

  Matt had tried to tell her what she would find upstairs.

  SYLVIA STEPPED THROUGH the doorway and stopped in her tracks. She heard footsteps, felt Noel
le Harding's presence, but her attention was riveted on the vision directly before her.

  An explosion of color—vibrant reds, yellows, greens, purples, blues . . .

  Trees, faces, landscapes familiar and exotic . . .

  "My God." It was Noelle who spoke. "What is this?" . . . house paint, watercolors, crayons, pastels . . . murals covering smooth plaster . . . rainbows, sunsets . . . paint spattered on the floors . . . broken crayons, paint cans . . . charcoal . . .

  Sylvia's whisper was hoarse. "Serena's story."

  The child was swaying, dancing around the room—arms spread wide, head back. The energy of the work seemed to flow into her delicate body. She was in a state of possession, of trancelike ecstasy.

  Sylvia moved into the center of the room. Her eyes raced from image to image—from face to figure to building to landscape. And slowly, the mural began to come into focus. The work had been divided into sections—scenes—but the divisions were stylistic, rather than actual borders. The artistic technique grew more sophisticated and skilled as the eye moved clockwise, south to west to north—because the child had grown.

  When Sylvia had turned almost a full circle to her starting point, she saw that the work abruptly stopped. Serena's story in Anapra was not quite finished.

  When her eyes settled on the child, she caught her breath.

  SERENA LET THE light and the color flow into her arms and legs. Heat made her skin tingle, almost burning—she was surrounded by her history. Her story. As Paco had told it to her—with words and pictures and pieces of the past. Just as Serena had let it flow into her skin and out again—from her fingers to the blank walls.

  Trembling, she ran to the first panel. She let her fingers trail along the cool plaster, gazing up at the story of her beginning: her mother—angel pretty—cradling a baby to her breast.

  Tears began to stream from the child's eyes as she stood on tiptoe and kissed Elena's face. For a horrible instant, the room spun around, pulling her toward its swirling center. She gasped for breath, stumbling toward the second panel.