by Sarah Lovett
"It's some sort of communication disorder? Give me a name."
Sylvia pushed a loose strand of hair from her cheek, then adjusted her eyeglasses. With her hair clipped back and the tortoiseshell rims, she resembled a young, very serious professor. She frowned, and spoke with obvious reluctance. "Selective mutism; it's rare—"
"How selective?"
"I can give you diagnostic criteria—failure to speak in specific social settings despite a level of competence with the spoken language, despite normal or above-normal cognitive skills." Sylvia removed her glasses and rubbed her nose gently. "But I don't think it's wise to slap a label—"
Noelle interrupted. "All I want is information."
"Then we want the same thing. And at the moment, I have very little information about this child. From observation, I believe selective mutism is a probable factor, but there are others that may be even more relevant."
Sylvia watched the other woman closely. "Serena said one word when she saw the photograph of your brother."
The weight of Noelle Harding's body pressed against the desk. "I was told she identified Cash, but I had no idea she spoke—"
"She said, 'Dada.' Da is one of the first sounds preverbal children form." She didn't add that she believed Serena had spoken previously . . . two nights earlier, while keeping vigil at the house.
Sylvia hesitated just an instant, then she touched the other woman's arm reassuringly. "Are you all right?"
Noelle didn't answer. Instead, the soft voice of the intern was audible through glass. It had been Sylvia's idea to continue working with the story of the Six Swans; Betsy was reading from Grimms' Fairy Tales. She was in the middle of the story.
After watching her six brothers turn into swans, the young girl ventured deep into the forest where she found the large white birds in a rough wooden hut. The swans shook off their feathers, and for a very brief time, they regained their human form. The boys told their little sister that she could save them only by remaining mute—without giving voice to words or laughter—for six years. And that she would also be obliged to make six tiny shirts of wildflowers, one for each brother. "That would be much too difficult for a little girl like you." And then the girl's brothers turned back into swans once more and flew away. But the girl vowed she would free her brothers; she would remain silent for six years, and she would sew six tiny shirts of wildflowers. And without a word she climbed up into a tall tree deep in the forest, and she began to sew.
Much later, the king of that particular forest was hunting, and his huntsmen came upon the girl perched up in the tree. When they pestered her with questions, she tried to make them go away; she threw down her necklace, her belt, her stockings, everything but her dress. They would not be dissuaded; they climbed the tree and took her back to the king.
The king asked many questions. "Who are you? Why were you sitting so high up in a tree? Why won't you answer me?" He talked to her in different languages, hoping she would understand—but she refused to speak.
The king fell in love with the girl, and he took her to his castle, and he married—
"Her lips are moving! She's talking!''
Sylvia looked through the glass. Noelle was right, Serena's lips were moving—quickly, as if she were whispering urgently into some invisible ear. Was she following the story? Whatever she said was lost; her words—if indeed they were words—were inaudible.
Abruptly, Serena grabbed the picture book from the young woman's hand and flung it at the mirror. When the book thudded off the glass, Noelle Harding flinched and stepped back.
"She saw me." Noelle paused, then shook her head rapidly. "No—of course not . . . what's wrong with me? I know she can't see anything through the mirror."
Sylvia studied Noelle, but she couldn't read her expression. She was aware of the anxious ache in her own stomach, and the question looping through her mind—was the child related to Cash Wheeler? She could only imagine that Noelle was feeling the same anxiety, heightened even, by relationship and circumstance.
At that moment, Serena turned toward the observation glass. Her hair fell away from her heart-shaped face, and her features were plainly visible—wide mouth, broad nose, small chin. The charcoal-dark eyes opened wide as her gaze settled on the mirror. She stared as if she knew other eyes were watching. Not an eyelash flickered as she regarded them stonily. Then she turned away.
Noelle's shoulders slumped, and her chest barely moved beneath the pale silk fabric of her suit. Was her reaction caused by disappointment? Did Serena look like millions of other lost children in Juárez? Noelle walked quickly from the room. Uneasily Sylvia followed.
At the entrance to the hospital, Noelle thrust open the doors and strode outside. Sylvia called to her. When Noelle turned, her blue eyes glistened. The harsh sunlight bleached the warmth from her hair, turned it from blond to bone-white; her voice was low and taut as strung wire. "She doesn't look like Elena."
Sylvia felt her body contract with barely suppressed disappointment. Was the woman saying yes or no?
But Noelle spoke again. "She is Elena. She's my brother's little girl."
BY THE TIME Matt drove off the prison grounds, he had spent three hours dealing with business related to Cash Wheeler. His meetings with Rosie Sanchez had taken up most of two hours; he had been shut up with Wheeler inside a twelve-by-twelve space for another forty-five minutes; then Jim Teague, Wheeler's irritatingly flamboyant lawyer, had waylaid him outside North Facility.
As Matt guided the Caprice along Highway 14, he thought about his own response to the death row inmate. There were some sins the investigator believed pardonable—killing a child wasn't one of them. It had been more than two decades since Matt's wife and young son had died in a car crash. He still felt the loss—most days the pain was a faint ache. Had Cash Wheeler murdered his infant daughter? It seemed believable given the information Rosie had supplied via one of her correctional officers. Sure, some inmates bragged idly about crimes they didn't commit—these guys were cons, they lied about what they'd had for breakfast. Matt didn't believe Cash Wheeler was the "idle type."
But he might lie for other reasons—out of bitterness, as a defense against prison predators, to protect someone else.
Matt braked to avoid tailgaiting a slow driver on the rural road. It had been a very long day; prison always wore at him. He'd promised to catch up with Sylvia by late afternoon, but he had to stop by his office on the way. He followed Highway 14 the few miles to Cerrillos Road, turning off at the Department of Public Safety.
The main building was almost deserted. His office, part of his section's new addition, was pleasant enough. And, to his liking, it was sparsely furnished: a government-issue desk, his swivel chair, a hard metal chair for visitors—facing the window and bright southeastern sun—two filing cabinets, and a bookcase that supported a VCR and monitor.
He had bought a Coke from the vending machine, and he opened the can at his desk. Feet up, Rolodex at his fingertips, he placed a phone call to the Office of the Medical Investigator in Albuquerque; during the brief conversation he scratched notes with a fountain pen on a pad of graph paper. After he hung up, he called the El Paso Information Center.
Dale Pitkin was working on Sunday. Matt wasn't surprised. Pitkin had worked Sundays for the last dozen years; he'd worked them up in Santa Fe when he was with the governor's detail, and he worked them at E.P.I.C. in Texas. He'd always said it gave him two weekdays off when "a man can hunt and fish and spelunker without a goddamn crowd."
Now he answered his phone with his familiar drawl. "Pitkin here."
"Hey, Dale." The toes of Matt's cowboy boots pointed to ten past twelve. "Did you catch your limit last week?"
"Nope. Went caving. Just me, the wife, and the blind scorpions."
"Sounds kinky." The two men spent a few minutes catching up long-distance. Matt's segue to business was a statement. "We've got a homicide: Hispanic male, forty-five to fifty—"
"Good, you can keep him."
Pitkin paused on the line for a moment. Matt imagined the man was cracking his knuckles, a chronic nervous habit. Dale's voice was low, teasing. "You say Paco? Hell, I'll be frank." He chuckled to himself while Matt rolled his eyes. In English, Paco translated to Frank.
Dryly, Pitkin continued. "Besides the fact he's Hispanic like five billion other guys—one billion of them named Paco—why do you think he's one of ours?"
"He's connected to a vehicle, and your computer tracked the El Paso license plates to a business: Hat-Trick. A drop box."
"What do they sell, bunny rabbits?" Pitkin's throaty laugh was beginning to irritate. "Describe that buckle again."
Matt gazed at the Polaroid on his desk. "The grade of silver is excellent. The technique is cutout, overlay. The metal is beaten, pounded, but delicately shaped . . . the design is distinctive . . . the clasp-hinge system is unique."
"What you need is an expert on silversmithing." Pitkin let a beat go by. "Anything else?"
"Yeah. My guess is Taxco. That's what, a hundred miles southwest of Mexico City?" Matt tapped the edge of the Polaroid against the phone. "You know there was a silversmith from Santa Fe—name of Parsons or Larson—he went to Taxco in the 1950s, taught the locals his designs. He had a big influence on the area's silver work."
"What happened to the guy?"
"He died, long time ago. But Taxco is famous. A couple of families have an international reputation. The designs are flavored with Indian, Aztec, Mexican motifs."
"What are you thinking?"
"The area down there—it's not far from Guadalajara."
"And Guadalajara's an infamous drug nest filled with nefarious criminals?" Pitkin cleared his throat. "The only Paco I know who might be missing . . . he's the primo of Amado Fortuna. You eat tuna, don't you, Matt?"
Matt sat up in his swivel chair, and his boots hit the floor. "You eat shit, Dale."
Pitkin snorted and let his voice ride sing-song. "The Holy Grail, Noah's Ark, the Tuna Diaries. You've heard of the Tuna Diaries, haven't you, hombre?"
"The next time you buy the Gold shots, I'll listen to that fusty old wives' tale again."
Dale Pitkin got serious. "You ever work with an El Paso narc named Dowd, Bobby?"
"Rings a bell. Why?"
"He's missing, too." Pitkin's voice dropped. "The thing about Paco Fortuna . . . if he happens to be your guy, he's Amado Fortuna's bookkeeper. If you caught the big pescado, maybe you better throw him back, call the feds. Hey, am I the information officer, or what?"
This time, Matt could actually hear knuckles cracking. Pitkin continued. "But there's someone you should talk to, one crazy hombre—a lone cowboy but a pretty good amigo. You ever met a Juárez fed named Vargas? Victor Vargas?"
CHAPTER NINETEEN
WITH A GRIMY baseball cap pulled low over his eyes, Victor Vargas sauntered along Avenida Paso del Norte toward the bullring. He moved with a sloping gait, hands shoved deep into his pockets, shoulders hunched beneath a grease-stained jacket.
Marking the entrance to the bullring, plastic confetti shimmied in the hot breeze. Twisting on rope ties, the brightly colored signs announced: ¡CORRIDA DE TOROS! ¡HOY! Bullfight today. But there were no crowds, there was no scheduled fight. The banners were optimistic.
He slumped another inch into his heels when he felt the touch of the street. He didn't turn to look but cut his eyes over and caught sight of a funky red van. He hoped it belonged to his associate.
Here the avenida widened to four lanes bordered by additional frontage routes; the complex scheme made motorized navigation almost completely impossible. Traffic merged, diverged, and collided.
Victor heard a quick honk—more accurately, a bleat—once, twice, three times. He tacked over toward the road, moving parallel to the red van, passing the passenger door just as a bag fell into his arms.
He swore violently, ready to explode. Clasping the bag under his arms, he kept moving as if nothing had happened. The clumsy exchange could cost him his life. He was almost beyond the entrance to the bullring now, but he turned sharply right, passing beneath the straining sign, into a parking area.
Victor kept walking, sending a flock of pigeons skyward. He moved between plaster arches, past food stands that were closed until the next fight.
He clutched the bag even tighter. For several anxious seconds, he thought he'd been followed. It turned out to be a dog, a mangy, parasite-ridden street hound desperate for a scrap of food. The animal was so ugly, Victor was tempted to kick it. He shook his head; he liked dogs. But some creatures seemed to beg for abuse.
He found a shaded arch, beyond the parking lot, well beyond the street. He sat, pulled his legs into the plaster lap, and opened the bag. A file was inside. It was thick, accordion-style, and bore the filing-system numbers of the M.F.J.P.—the Mexican Federal Judicial Police.
Inside the first manila folder, he found photographs. One of Amado Fortuna. Others of his associates. Of his staff.
He set the file on his lap, took a deep breath, and glanced around. What he saw was the street hound, crouched just out of kicking range. Pus drained from one of the animal's eyes. An open sore on its belly had attracted flies. Victor shook his head, searched his pockets. He found the last dregs of a bag of chile-dusted peanuts in the pocket of the greasy jacket. He emptied the sack, scattering the nuts in front of the animal, and watched them disappear. The dog offered him a wag of his tail in thanks.
Victor murmured, "De nada."
He found the surveillance photograph he was looking for buried deep in the folders. It pictured undercover narcotics cop Bobby Dowd walking almost shoulder to shoulder with a second man. It had been taken on a Juárez street. If you hadn't been looking for it, you would never know the two men had made contact.
Victor knew the identity of the second man. Out of habit, he turned the photograph over. It was numbered—132-W-95.
It took him fifteen minutes to find the corresponding legend. The number had two names typed carefully alongside: Dowd, E.P.P.D./Fortuna, Paco.
And to the right of the names someone had penciled three words in Spanish—¿Proyecto Nieve Blanca??? Project Snow White???
CHAPTER TWENTY
AFTER NOELLE HARDING left Mesa Verde Hospital in the waiting limo-van, Sylvia had spent the rest of the day with Serena. The child seemed especially withdrawn, hunched over her worn coloring book, drawing intricate abstract patterns—stars and moons linked in ever-expanding chains.
Pale and distant—with dark eyes that had seen everything—Serena reminded Sylvia of an apparition, a child from a distant world. But which world? The question nagged at Sylvia.
Serena was no street urchin. She was thin, a waif, but she had not suffered from long-term malnourishment. If she was from a barrio in Mexico, she was one of its exceptions. If she was related to members of the drug trade, she had been educated, cared for. She was bilingual, and her artistic talents had been nurtured by someone.
The dead man they were calling Paco?
Sylvia would remember to ask Matt about plans for the man's funeral. When the body was released, would it be buried in Santa Fe?
She had pondered these things on her drive to Rosie's house. Now she pulled up and parked the truck on Hopi Street. She jumped when she caught sight of a man walking his dog—an old man with a harmless corgi tugging on the end of a leash.
She recognized her paranoia; in the circumstances it was a normal reaction to yesterday's violence. For several minutes, she watched the streets to see if someone had followed her, searched for any sign of a dark f
our-wheel-drive vehicle. When nothing and no one threatened, Sylvia drove two more blocks and parked directly in front of Ray and Rosie's house.
The sky was smeared with sunset colors: hot orange, turquoise blue, pink, gray. The truck radio was playing Sinead O'Connor singing "Nothing Compares 2 U." She sat back in her seat and closed her eyes, not quite ready to face people, not even friends.
The sky's palette was imprinted in her vision, the colors vibrating behind closed eyelids. Pieces of the day finally settled around her. She thought about her meeting with Noelle Harding and wondered how she was dealing with the day's revelations.
But just behind all her thoughts, like a translucent emotional scrim, she felt her longing to help Serena. It was arrogant to think that she had somehow been chosen to protect the child. Or maybe it wasn't arrogance after all; she felt as if Serena had picked her out. Circumstances continually brought people together from different worlds—the results were sometimes chaotic, occasionally even dangerous.
The sound of a child's laughter brought her out of her reverie. Down the street, a half dozen boys and girls were making the most of twilight, racing from yard to yard, dashing after a large red ball. A rowdy boy tumbled over a hedge; a smaller girl grabbed the ball and whooped. In front of one of the neat, adobe-style homes, a gray-haired man raked leaves into orderly piles. The houses in this small neighborhood had been built in the 1950s and 1960s. The lots were compact, but the tree-lined streets gave an added sense of space and comfort.
Sylvia smiled and sighed. It was time to face the Sanchez family and try to make amends for screwing up yesterday's party—her engagement party. A shrink would say she'd missed it because she was afraid of commitment; a shrink would be half right. She was fully committed to Matt, but the other M word scared the hell out of her.
As she reached over to lock the passenger door, her eyes caught a glint of silver on the floor. She grasped the child's medallion in her hand; the silver work was unusual for its careful detail and ornate overlay. A link in the chain had pulled loose. She pushed the open link over its partner and applied force with her fingers. Instant, if temporary, repair. Without thinking, she slipped the chain around her throat, the medallion settling in the cleft between her breasts. At some point yesterday in the pandemonium, Serena must have lost it.