by Sarah Lovett
Now Serena wanted him to stay and talk. She needed to ask him questions. How was he doing? Where was he? Did his wounds hurt him very much?
She was sleepy, and she told him so. But she knew he would only wake her if it was urgent. She didn't scold him. Instead she listened to him—just as she had so many times before.
The demon follows the scent of blood. He's looking for you—for something you hold. Remember what I gave you? Do you keep it in a safe place?
Before Serena could answer, Paco began to float away. He was so light, he couldn't walk on the ground. His brown pants billowed out with air, and his suit jacket danced on the soft breeze. His worries settled into familiar crinkled lines around his eyes and mouth. He touched one hand to his heart.
The child reached out, but his rough fingers slipped through hers. The last thing she saw was Paco's face, his sad eyes, his lips moving. Although she could no longer hear his voice, she knew what he was trying to tell her. Lo siento. I'm sorry. El demonio viene. He's coming for you now. ¡Cuidado! Be careful!
Serena heard footsteps on the gravel outside the bedroom window, and her body tensed. He was coming. Why didn't the dogs growl? Why didn't the woman wake? Suddenly alert, she knew what she had to do.
THE NEXT TIME Sylvia woke, me room was misty with predawn light and the other side of the bed was empty. She lurched to her feet and groped her way along the hallway. There was no sign of Serena in the living room, where objects were still swathed in night shadow, or in the kitchen, where the drawing on the wall stood out like satanic graffiti.
Sylvia flipped on exterior lights and started toward the side door to the yard. A ripple of sound stopped her, caught her attention. The night air was soft with murmured voices that bobbed just below the watery surface of her comprehension. For an instant, she thought it must be the television, but the set, which filled one corner of the living room, was mute.
Awareness came slowly—the voice belonged to the child. Serena was speaking.
Suddenly alert, Sylvia turned and tiptoed quickly back toward the one room she had neglected. As she stood outside her study, the whispering tantalized her, but its meaning hovered beyond her grasp. Although the syllables never quite formed recognizable words, the overall impression was one of prayer—a litany.
The door stood ajar, and Sylvia pushed it open. The voice ceased abruptly. She took a breath—only then realizing she had been breathless for several seconds. The room appeared smaller in dim light. The child was huddled on the window ledge, her body lost inside the turquoise T-shirt that belonged to Sylvia. Her thin arms were wrapped around her legs, her chin resting on knobby knees. Her body was rigid with tension. Apparently unaware of anything else, she was gazing intently out at the moonlit landscape of cottonwoods, dirt road, and the softly sloping fields beyond.
When Sylvia put her arms around Serena to guide her from the ledge, the child gave a startled cry. There was a glint of light off metal. In one fist, Serena clutched a pair of scissors. When she recognized Sylvia, she stopped struggling and stumbled from the window ledge.
It was clear that Serena had been keeping watch. The child was holding vigil.
CHAPTER TWELVE
VICTOR VARGAS WAS driving a taxi across downtown Juárez. He'd hidden his face behind huge dark glasses. Half his head had disappeared under the brim of a black felt sombrero that had white pompoms hanging off the brim. The outfit had cost him dos mil pesos at the Mercado Pronto. He changed lanes on Avenida Tecnológico, cut a hard right onto Carretera Juárez-Porvenir, and almost ran down a fare.
For an instant he considered pulling into the Bamboo Palace for some takeout—his stomach was grumbling and pollo moo goo sounded great—but he remembered it wasn't even five-thirty in the morning. Too early for puerco B.B.Q. or Camarón Bamboo. Anyway, if he stopped, he might encounter some drunk trying to wave down a taxi. He wasn't in the mood to drive some pendejo across Juárez.
Avoiding fares was a minor problem. The taxi provided him with cover, wheels, and protection while he figured out what to do with his life. Since yesterday—and the panic call from Bobby Dowd—Victor hadn't been back to his office at federal judicial police headquarters.
He didn't plan to go back to work until he heard from Dowd. Or at least until he'd heard what had happened to him. Victor had managed to make it to the usual spot for a meeting; Bobby Dowd had not That was enough to spook Victor. But there was more.
As Victor slowed for a traffic signal, he mentally replayed his actions of the previous night. Outside the hole-in-the-wall where he and Bobby Dowd always met, he'd come across a "mouth" named Charlie-Sorry.
Out on the streets of Juárez, Charlie-Sorry kept in motion thanks to a rebuilt skateboard. Years earlier, he'd lost both his legs in a collision with a bus. But last night, there was Charlie-Sorry scooting out of a bar with a tourist's sequined purse over his left arm. Victor had taken up pursuit—running two full blocks to catch up with the man—only managing to tackle him because one of Charlie-Sorry's ball bearings went bust.
In exchange for not being rousted, Charlie-Sorry—all the while loudly protesting his innocence—had turned over the purse. As a bonus, he'd given Victor a quick news break on the latest street buzz.
A whorehouse had opened above the Disco-Baile; El Cero was running numbers for the fat man; a cop had been popped by some of Amado Fortuna's boys—
Victor jerked the taxi into first gear. Horns honked all around him. The light was already turning yellow; he'd missed the green. He gunned the taxi through the intersection and then pulled off to the roadside, his heart beating a mile a minute.
Bobby Dowd had been popped by Amado Fortuna's boys. "Popped" could mean shot. It could very easily mean dead. Or it could mean kidnapped, tortured—and you wished you were dead.
Like Enrique "Kiki" Camarena, the D.E.A. agent who'd been brutally tortured by the bad guys in 1994. A nightmare nobody in law enforcement could ever forget—especially if they'd heard the tape recording of Camarena's death.
Last night Victor had slammed Charlie-Sorry into a urine-soaked doorway. He'd leaned in close, keeping his gun in the street snitch's face. Victor wasn't proud that he'd raised fear in Charlie-Sorry's eyes—but it had worked. Charlie-Sorry had added a postscript to his story.
Word on the street had a madrina—one of the godmothers—after Bobby Dowd. And this particular godmother had a nickname: The Chupacabra. People called him that because he had a taste for blood.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
AT FIVE A.M., when Sylvia realized that Serena was not going back to sleep, she filled the bathtub with hot water and bubble bath and produced a new toothbrush from its cellophane wrapper. She wasn't experienced with kids; she'd grown up without siblings, but she'd learned a few tricks from the offspring of her friends. She kept watch while Serena brushed her teeth, wielding the toothbrush with great reluctance. And when the girl finally plopped herself down in the bathtub, Sylvia perched on the rim with a soapy washcloth. She felt like a hygiene cop as she worked over the child's ears, toes, and elbows, scrubbing fiercely.
While she supervised the morning bathroom session, she contemplated the possibilities for Serena's continued therapeutic treatment. She had already considered working with Serena within a scripted verbal format—her reaction to the Grimms' tale had been encouraging. One form of therapy for mute children involved working with songs, poems, stories, or games where verbalizing was scripted and demanded no spontaneity. In many cases—with patience—these children learned to speak outside the home. But Sylvia also knew that Margaret Tompkins had worked with children who would dictate lengthy stories but would not answer free-form questions—not even after months or years of treatment. She prayed that would not be Serena's future.
Although Sylvia couldn't yet express the idea clearly or even consciously, she was beginning to sense an undercurrent to the child's silence that might have something to do with extreme archetypal—
A bar of soap flew from Serena's hands and ricoch
eted off the bathroom sink. Jarred from her thoughts, Sylvia caught the soap one-handed, on the fly. She retrieved a plush terrycloth bath towel from a shelf, reminding herself that deliberation was probably a waste of time. At the very least the child would be placed with another foster family, and Sylvia's therapeutic role might be limited. At the most extreme, Serena might be sent back to Mexico.
Serena stepped from the tub, shivering and dripping suds, and Sylvia bundled her in the towel. While Serena dressed herself, Sylvia focused on the job of producing a pot of drinkable coffee. On her way to the kitchen, she switched on the television, volume low, listening for the early-morning news.
Framed by the kitchen window, the cloudless sky shone a brilliant blue. At the edge of the patio deck, finches were busy collecting seeds from a red-and-white feeder. It was already promising to be a perfect fall day. She measured coffee grounds into the filter, pushed the filter tray into the Mr. Coffee slot, and set the Pyrex pot on the warmer, flicking the switch to ON. Almost immediately, the machine produced sounds of exertion. When it began to gurgle, Sylvia went to check on the child.
She didn't have to go far. Serena was in the living room, standing with her chin pressed flush against the glass of the television. A replay of last night's news report was flashing across the screen: coverage of the upcoming execution at the Penitentiary of New Mexico and footage of Noelle Harding, the inmate's sister, holding a press conference outside the institution. The pale, drawn face of the death row inmate, Cash Wheeler, was inset in the upper right-hand comer of the television.
Sylvia walked forward and gently touched the child. Serena trembled, obviously bewildered and disoriented—eyes glazed, skin damp, her manner sluggish. After a few moments, she pulled away and stood sucking her thumb.
SYLVIA ACCELERATED TOWARD the intersection of Rodeo and Cerrillos. It should take less than fifteen minutes to drive across town to the offices of Child Protective Services. If only the traffic lights would stop turning red just as she approached.
Serena leaned over and made a grab for the steering wheel.
Startled, Sylvia pushed the child away with one hand. "Serena! What are you—"
Serena clutched at the wheel again.
Inhaling sharply, Sylvia just managed to correct the Toyota's course. She pulled into the right-turn lane.
Serena grunted and reached for the wheel; this time, Sylvia was prepared for her interference. With one arm extended, she fought to keep the child at a distance. But it was impossible to drive. She swore under her breath and applied the brakes. Too hard. The truck jerked to a stop and stalled out.
Horns began to blare behind them. "Just let me get over to the side," Sylvia muttered. She started the truck again, this time waiting for an opening to cut across lanes to the shopping center on the northeast corner of the intersection.
As the truck accelerated, Serena lunged for the steering wheel.
"Goddammit, Serena—"
Panicked, Sylvia felt the child's fingernails dig deep into her arm. She managed to guide the Toyota into the parking lot, where she slammed on the brakes. Horns honked, and a driver waved a hand in disgust as he drove by.
Woman and child were so close, they could feel each other's breath. Serena's eyes burned into Sylvia; the black-green flecks in the pupil, the tiny webbed veins in the whites. Did the child sense that she might be beginning a long trip back to Mexico? Sylvia felt her skin flush with guilt.
Upon leaving the house ten minutes earlier, Sylvia had explained to Serena that she would have to spend some time with Dolores Martin, the C.P.S. social worker. The news had been received without visible reaction—until now.
Sylvia reached out to touch the child's warm skin. Serena pulled away.
Goddammit, why did she feel as if she were betraying this kid? The emotion wasn't rational; Sylvia knew she had no choice but to play by the child-welfare rules. But she also had to admit the truth: once she turned Serena over to C.P.S., she might never see her again.
Sylvia whispered the child's name. Except for a brief flicker in her dark eyes, there was no response. She dropped her head, trapping her small coloring book in a chin lock.
In the truck bed, Nikki began to bark. Serena had refused to leave Sylvia's home without the shepherd.
Abruptly, Serena slapped the dashboard hard. She began to rock, jerking back and forth in the small space. She grunted as she rocked, and her face turned pink.
Hoping to soothe her, Sylvia switched on the radio and then immediately selected another station to avoid news. Just as quickly, Serena's fingers punched down on the pushbuttons. The radio began jumping from frequency to frequency. Oldies, classical, gangsta rap, Top 40 all blared from the speakers. Small noises of effort escaped the child's lips, and her breath quickened. After a very long forty-five seconds, Sylvia guided Serena's fingers to the SCAN and SEEK buttons. Now the search began all over again. One station at a time. Until Spanish music filled the truck. Then Serena pulled her hands away from the radio. She pushed her shoulders back against the seat and closed her eyes. Her breathing slowed. Her head began to sway to the melodic ballad.
Although Serena seemed to find some moment of peace in the music, Sylvia was going crazy. But she ignored her own frustration and watched the child, assessing, gauging.
What had Margaret Tompkins said? "The demon may well be inside the child."
RENZO SANTOS WAS in a pensive mood. He'd had a successful meeting with the Child Protective Services social worker. She had explained quite thoroughly where C.P.S. stood on the issue of the girl, the psychologist, the future. If there was any confusion at all, it was not on Renzo's part.
He guided the Suburban down a quiet street past office buildings and vacant lots. By his watch, he had time to reconsider the situation; it was an interesting one.
He could eliminate the shrink. He could eliminate the girl. It would take him less than a minute to end two lives.
Here was the rub: once the child was dead, she couldn't tell him what he needed to know. And while she was alive, she couldn't tell him what he wanted to know. The social worker had confirmed that the girl was mute—at least temporarily.
Renzo thought she could be faking.
Of course, it was possible that the child knew nothing. But Renzo suspected that wasn't the case. In his work, Paco had been so self-contained, so uncommunicative that Renzo had always assumed the man kept a mistress hidden away. That was to be expected.
He had never suspected Paco's confidante would be a child. In fact, Renzo hadn't truly believed a child existed until he'd seen the hideaway in Anapra for himself—and by then Paco was already running north. Even while Renzo was in pursuit, it had never occurred to him that the child would be Elena's.
Renzo had badly underestimated Paco Fortuna. For ten years—ever since their terrible first meeting—he'd watched the rumpled, quiet man go about his business. Ten years. A decade. And all the while Paco had been hiding the child away in an adobe castle.
But now that Paco was a corpse and the girl was fair game, how could Renzo get the information he so badly needed?
He closed his eyes, turning the puzzle in his mind like wine on the tongue. Tasting, absorbing, testing . . . like the Buddhist koans, the puzzles he'd heard about in martial-arts movies.
What is the sound of one hand clapping?
Tuna would answer quickly: That depends upon who it hits.
Renzo wasn't yet sure what his answer would be, but he was working on the solution.
He turned into the parking lot of a restaurant called Little Anita's. He parked near the door. He was hungry, so he would eat.
He had to follow his instinct; he had no alternative. Who would Paco trust? The girl. And who did the girl trust? The shrink.
SYLVIA PULLED INTO the parking lot of the low-slung tan building located on Vivigen Way just off St. Michael's Drive. A short distance behind the offices of Child Protective Services, the roof of the hospital cut oblique angles in the blue sky. The C.P.S. par
king lot was deserted except for one battered Pinto. There was no traffic on Vivigen Way. Saturday was a slow day for area businesses. Sylvia parked next to the Pinto; she thought it might belong to Dolores Martin. She cut the engine and set the brake, leaving the keys in the ignition. She waited without moving for several seconds, then glanced at her watch: 8:38 A.M. The social worker had agreed to meet here at eight-thirty.
Serena was sitting with her hands folded in her lap. She refused to look at Sylvia. Her small body was an express statement of stubborn resistance—or resolute calm. Overhead, a jet thundered across the sky. It looked like a military craft from Alamogordo, flying low and loud. As the plane disappeared from view, the trail dispersed like cotton fluff.
Sylvia rolled down the window of the truck and glanced out at the C.P.S. offices. The front door was shut; the windows were dark. Nobody home, and no sign of the Pinto's driver.
Digging for her small notepad with the C.P.S. phone numbers, she reached for her cellular phone. It wasn't in her purse. Serena!
There was no phone booth in sight, even though common sense allowed that social-service offices were often the place where family dramas played out. Well, they could drive to a pay phone.
She knew better than to leave Serena alone in the truck.
She tapped her fingers on the steering wheel and watched a fat cloud lumber eastward across the sky. Serena eyed her and glanced away again; she was up to something.
Discreetly, Sylvia rechecked her watch. It was ten minutes before nine. She had dealt with Dolores Martin once before; she'd found her to be less than reliable. She sighed, opened the door of the truck, and jumped down. She walked around the front of the vehicle, her fingers grazing the warm hood, and when she reached the opposite door she patted the metal. Serena pulled up the lock and allowed the psychologist to lift her out and set her on solid ground.
A vacant field adjoined the parking lot. Developers were quickly using up the area, but a few acres remained for the use of prairie dogs, rabbits, and other durable animals. Sylvia took Serena's hand, and together they stepped over a concrete barrier into the field.