by Sarah Lovett
She imagined she could feel eyes touching her skin. Her brain was taking in everything at once—the car, proximity of escape, the child's reactions, her dog—and scrambling to process it all.
Very slowly, she half crouched and peered under both vehicles. No feet, no legs, no sign of a driver in view.
She whispered in Serena's ear. "I want you to stay right beside me. Don't let go of my hand unless I tell you to." The child's grip tightened painfully around Sylvia's fingers.
Woman and girl darted forward, dodging undergrowth and barbed wire. Sylvia grabbed the fence. She pushed Serena under the taut strand, then followed. She was only half conscious of tearing fabric. She figured the distance—eight, seven, six more feet. But what the hell was going on with Nikki? The dog's adrenalized cries were so intense it sounded as if she were being tortured.
Serena froze—she was facing the front end of the truck. Sylvia saw the toe of a shoe protruding just beyond the far tire. A man.
She became aware of the hum of an engine. From the corner of her eye, she saw another car approaching from the south. Instinctively, she rushed toward the road, waving her arm, intending to stop the passing car. As she moved, she lost her grip on the child's hand.
Out on the pavement, she could see the startled look on the faces of the car's driver and passenger, man and woman. She had a fleeting thought—the man resembled her father. And then they were gone.
Sylvia pivoted, reaching out again for Serena, but the world had shifted—the child wasn't there. She heard a scream, turned toward the sound.
The man was tall, thin, and dark-haired. He was dragging the struggling child between the two vehicles. With his left arm he held Serena possessively across the throat. He gripped a gun in his right hand.
He yelled a sharp command in Spanish—words that registered faintly in Sylvia's consciousness. She heard the report—understood he'd fired the weapon—and ducked as a bullet shattered the side window of her truck. She lunged alongside her vehicle, her hands sliding across paint and glass, toward the rear gate.
She was shaking as she slammed her palm down on the latch that would free her dog. Another bullet took the corner off the camper, and plastic shards stung her cheek. The bullet had torn the window's hinges, and sheeted plastic fell askew, making way for Nikki's escape.
A golden mass of fur and muscle flew through space. Nikki hit the ground running—disappearing in a blur around the truck—and a deep, primitive growl cut the air like a blade.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
NIKKI SLAMMED INTO her prey with all the force of a ninety-pound body rocket. In full attack mode, the dog could tear a man's throat from his neck like a ribbon from a package; her massive teeth could cut skin from muscle, muscle and tendon from bone. For the first time in her short life, she intended to do what she'd been bred to do—kill.
The man was the target; the child was in the way. But the shepherd's instincts were taut; she caught the man on his right shoulder, her paws missing the girl by a half inch. The force of the blow was enough to send the man reeling backward onto his butt—he lost his grip on Serena but managed to lock his fingers around her arm before she scrambled away. He still held the gun in his right hand; if he fired, chances were good he'd hit the animal—and blow a hole in his own gut. Instead, he used the weapon to bludgeon the shepherd as she strained to lock her teeth around his throat.
Sylvia scrambled around the truck. As she lunged for the child, she caught a glimpse of the man's face, his features contorted by pain and effort. She registered three things: he might be Mexican; his skin was pocked; his eyes were yellow. The rest of him was obscured by the dog's body.
Sylvia reached out for Serena and pulled, but the man would not release his grip. A horrible cacophony of grunting, growling, and guttural cries filled the air. Sylvia braced herself, using her reserve strength to wrench the man's fingers from the child's arm. As he let go, the gun in his other hand swung wildly in her direction. A bullet shot over Sylvia's head.
"Serena, get in the truck!"
On the ground, dog and man were a mass of furious energy. As far as Sylvia could tell from a quick backward glance, Nikki had the man stranded on his back. His left arm was wrenched around defensively—at an extreme angle; with his right, he was trying to press the muzzle of the gun to the dog's body. The shepherd's head seemed fused to his groin.
Sylvia knew she could never call her dog off. Nikki would never retreat. She had rescued them, and she would sacrifice herself for their safety.
Sylvia pressed Serena around the front of the truck where she strained at the passenger door. Praying the keys hadn't fallen, she fumbled deep in her pockets. Fabric bunched between her shaking fingers, but she found the familiar metal shapes.
Beside her, Serena was screaming. Sylvia heard a gunshot, a shriek of animal pain, the low harsh cries of the man. Then she heard the crunch of gravel, the sound of the man lurching to his feet.
Sylvia jumped into the truck, pulling Serena after her. The door slammed tight. She jammed down the locks and stared out the side window, trying to locate man and dog.
A low moan escaped her throat when she saw the man, bloodstained and battered, lunging toward the pickup. He raised his gun and fired. The bullet went wide, through the camper.
Before he gained a yard, Nikki attacked again. This time coming from behind, twisted, probably injured; the shepherd bit deep into his thigh, and the man's body jerked forward as if it were stuffed with rags or straw. He went down on one knee. While he was vulnerable, Nikki clamped her bloodied jaws deeper, positioning them further along the muscle.
Sylvia turned the ignition and the truck roared to life. When she hit the accelerator, she saw a human form rise from the ground. The man stumbled against the door of his own vehicle just as Sylvia wrenched the steering wheel and pulled too wide across the highway.
Serena was thrown across the seat as the truck's tires cut dirt on the opposite edge of the asphalt. Rigid lines of barbed wire took form. Sylvia heard the squeal of burning rubber and Serena's sharp intake of breath.
She was blinded by sunlight. What was that noise? An oncoming vehicle. Was it one or two? From a great distance, she thought she heard an ear-splitting horn. A prayer flashed through her mind that she and the child would not be killed in a crash after barely escaping a gun.
She heard screeching brakes. Serena screamed, and then Sylvia slammed the truck back across the road, landing twenty feet north of where she'd started. They'd missed a collision with an oncoming semi by a car length.
RENZO STARED DOWN at the red-golden eyes of the dog. He saw the animal's face and its body close to his—the dog's jaw had become part of his thigh—but his mind refused to acknowledge more dangerous information; he was not truly under life-threatening assault.
He felt an intimacy with the beast inspired by the inevitable intersection of their paths. His path had led him to the child; the dog's path had led it to protect the child. Now animal and man seemed to be dancing. If the dance was rough, an embrace that included the scrape of teeth against bone, that was simply what fate had decreed.
As a semi roared past, Renzo considered these things from his place on the ground. He could see the highway stretched out like a blanket—the Toyota pickup truck had swerved off to the side. Dust kicked up from the tires. He would have to follow soon, or he would lose their trail. But he couldn't move.
He felt the tepid sun on his shoulders, the joggling of his leg, the blood in his veins. But he felt no pain, only wetness and a very persistent tugging on his flesh. Renzo's other senses failed. His eyes outright lied to him; he did not see the striations of muscle and fat in his mutilated thigh; his ears denied the grinding of bone.
But he heard the insistent growl.
He was cold. So cold he thought he might be brittle and, in that case, in danger of breaking. While he watched, the dog seemed to gain another inch of thigh. Renzo found this distasteful but not upsetting. He was only conscious of need. The need
to reach the child. For seconds, he'd held her in his arms—her life in his hands. Until the dog had crossed his path.
This shepherd—el lobo—had earned Renzo's respect. He identified with the wolf, with its wild strength; an animal that tracked its prey for hundreds of miles, for weeks, even months. This creature wasn't like the scavenging mutts, the ugly runts that roamed the gutters of Mexico. This beast was fierce and pure in its killing intention. He and the animal were one, merging, sharing blood and air.
Renzo's fingers hit metal; he turned his head and saw that he'd pushed his gun off the asphalt onto dirt. He tried to sit up, noting sadly that his suit was ruined. He had picked out the dark raw silk himself. He had selected the buttons.
If he could move the dog two more inches, reach the gun . . .
But he was too weak. He allowed himself to give in to the tug and drag of the dog's jaws. His body slid across gravel and dirt, inch by inch. The fingers of his left hand reached toward his ankle. He felt the resin handle of his knife snug against his leg. He pulled it free, hit the switch, and the blade shot open. A low moan came from the dog. Renzo took a breath—fought the black haze that was settling over his eyes—and forced the knife deep into the animal's flesh near the throat. He focused on el lobo's life energy—this was the sacrifice of one wild animal to strengthen the soul of another.
The shepherd shuddered, her eyes rolled up until the whites showed, and finally, the great jaws released.
SYLVIA ACCELERATED TO sixty-five, and the truck raced back across the overpass. Her knuckles were white; a tight grip kept her hands from shaking. Serena was huddled in the seat, body twisted, gazing out the back.
The pickup was fast approaching the cutoff to Lamy when Sylvia saw the dark vehicle in her rearview mirror. A cold dread seeped through her muscles: It couldn't be him. Santa Fe was another twelve miles away. What else lay ahead? A landfill, a store, a subdivision set off the main road.
She had almost passed the Lamy turn when she saw the sign: OCTOBERFEST. She turned the steering wheel, and the truck swerved off to the right. It shimmied, scuttling over shiny asphalt, then recovered traction. Now Sylvia was following a narrow, winding two-lane leading to a tiny village that boasted a train depot, a restaurant and saloon, and some scattered homes set back on acreage. And kites. Lots of kites.
She saw cars parked in a field to her right. The truck jumped the pavement as it crested a small rise. Immediately, she had to negotiate an S-curve as the road passed the old Lamy church.
It was still another quarter mile to the center of town. Sylvia downshifted, then pushed the engine into third gear. Serena was pressed against the seat; soft cries escaped her throat.
When Sylvia glanced behind her, the dark vehicle was gone. The road was empty except for a floundering kite that scudded across hot pavement.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE SUN BROKE through early-afternoon clouds, and the hot white rays stood out against a sky darkening by the instant. A localized storm system had settled over the basin like a bad mood. The air smelled of rain.
At the edge of the highway, four people huddled around a small heavy bundle of fur and flesh. Sylvia was crying, tears running down her cheeks as she cradled Nikki's head in her arms. Serena was hunched protectively over the shepherd's body. Matt motioned to the state cop; it was time to load the badly wounded animal into the back of the trooper's vehicle. The officer had offered to transport the dog to Santa Fe for emergency care. Sylvia helped the men move Nikki while a policewoman took Serena's hand, gently guiding her away.
Two reporters had already arrived at the scene, alerted to a story by police scanners. Matt shooed them away when they tried to question Sylvia. They prowled the area, watching, listening, scratching notes on small pads . . . waiting for someone to offer them information.
Beyond the reporters, two state police vehicles, lights flashing, were parked between the medical investigator's van and Matt's Caprice. A black minivan from the state police crime lab was lodged at an angle. Another vehicle—this one F.B.I. or D.E.A.—was parked directly across the highway; it had that intentionally nondescript federal-law-enforcement look.
On the asphalt for three hundred feet in either direction, flares glowed like fiery snakes. The crime-scene crew had set up camp. They would work here processing the scene for hours, perhaps even until well past nightfall.
Sylvia's pickup was angled off the highway; at the moment, a bald and burly cop was examining the driver-side door. Beyond her truck, Sylvia could see Serena slumped in the backseat of a state police car. A female officer was seated beside her.
Sylvia had taken possession of Matt's cell phone. She dialed, pacing along the edge of the highway while the call went through. When Albert Kove answered, she began talking manically. It was Matt England who interrupted the flow of words.
"Sylvia, will you please get off the phone?" The criminal investigator's voice was neutral and controlled, belying his intense expression. "You'll have to go over this again for the feds—"
Sylvia waved her free hand in a demand for time out. She'd already answered too many questions about her trip to the site with the child—about the attack. She was keeping an eye on Serena from a distance—she was sure the policewoman would take custody, isolating the child any minute now.
Impatiently, she repeated the question into the handset. "I want her admitted to Mesa Verde. Do you think that's a problem?"
Albert Kove's response was slow, his voice filled with concern. "She'll be taken to St. Vincent's. If she checks out, Mesa Verde might be an option—"
"I want to go with her."
"You'll have to work it out with the transport officers. At the moment, Child Protective Services isn't likely to support you on anything."
Sylvia felt the sting of Albert's words. "The social worker didn't show this morning."
"That meant you had to go looking for a corpse?" He sighed. "Why didn't you just bring her to the Sanchezes'?"
"Bad judgment call."
"It was your engagement party, Sylvia." Reproach made Kove sound whiny.
Sylvia shook her head, refusing to defend herself. "Albert, will you support me on this?"
Matt stared at the woman he intended to marry. She was standing a few feet away, her clothes wrinkled and coated with blood, her hair hanging in tangled strands. Tears had streaked the dirt on her skin, and an ugly bruise was turning blue-black under her jaw.
Through the phone, Kove's voice softened. "Sylvia, if you want to protect this child, let the experts do their job. They're good at it." He hung up.
Without a word Sylvia gave the small portable phone back to Matt. She walked a short distance off the road. The sun was dipping behind clouds again. When she glanced up at it, the cloud-covered sphere burned orange spots into her eyes.
"Sylvia?"
"What?"
"Give me something I can use to catch the bastard." Matt worked to keep impatience from his voice. "Last night somebody tore your kid's Honda to shreds. We're dealing with a really scary bad guy, so talk to me."
She shook her head, covering her eyes with her hands. She tried to clear her mind, reaching for the remnants of memory, but individual events had blurred into a confusing haze. She groaned in frustration.
"What did you hear?"
"His scream when Nikki hit him."
"What else?" Matt was watching her closely, and he thought he saw something register. "Don't think about it, just tell me."
"His voice. He spoke Spanish. He sounded . . . not exactly refined, but educated."
"Good. What else?"
"Tall, thin . . . maybe Mexican or Indian blood. His face was scarred—acne or smallpox."
Sylvia pressed both hands against her eyes. Her breathing caught. She said, "He drove a dark green four-wheel-drive." She swallowed. "He was a professional—but more than that . . . he went for the child, and he didn't give up even when Nikki had him down."
Her voice rose with excitement. "CZ . . . CZ three. That
was on the license plate."
Matt wrote the symbols on a pad Behind the criminal investigator a man in khakis approached from a distance. Sylvia knew a deputy medical investigator was attending to the corpse while detectives were preserving and processing the scene. She didn't recognize this man, but she saw that he carried something gingerly in one gloved hand.
Sylvia heard Matt ask, "What you got, Ed?"
Ed was wide, flat-faced, and earnest. He tipped his head toward Sylvia. "The buckle she found? It's real fancy silver work, and it goes on the dead guy's belt; one of those decorative jobs—like this one has P-A-C-O stamped into the leather."
Matt nodded, waiting. Ed whispered something in a low voice. Sylvia just heard the words "dust" and "smack."
Ed's voice rose. "You maybe should take another look, sir." The man held up his final offering. "This was jammed behind the body—like he fell back on top of it. It slid out easy. Really. I didn't mess up the rest of the scene."
Sylvia could see a small purse—a woman's clutch, inexpensive vinyl, long past its prime. She walked the few steps to stand beside both men. Matt asked Ed to open the bag. It contained only a few items. A delicate lacy handkerchief. A cheap ballpoint pen. Several coins—pesos, dimes, and nickels. A plastic comb. A snapshot.
The photograph was frayed at the edges and creased with age and handling, but the colors were still somewhat true: two young faces gazed out at the camera. For an instant, Sylvia thought the woman was Serena. The eyes, the mouth, the cheekbones—all the child's features were duplicated. But this face was older, more sensual, already reaching its promise.
Serena's mother looked no older than sixteen. She was wrapped in the arms of a young man. Their cheeks were pressed together, their eyes shining. They smiled shyly, like first-time lovers.