A Desperate Silence (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 3)

by Sarah Lovett

  He tried to make sense of the picture: Was the man in black one of the good guys? If so, let him prove it. Khalsa approached the door cautiously. As he moved, his right hand dusted the weapon riding his hip. Through glass he studied the man's badge and I.D. According to that, the man was a cop, all right—a Mexican cop. A federal. What the hell, didn't he know New Mexico had declared independence a hundred years ago?

  Warily, Khalsa retreated to the admissions desk, where Theo was snoring like a warthog, dead to the world, facedown in his astronomy textbook. The security guard jabbed at the young man, but Theo didn't stir. Khalsa found the main key ring on the desk. He shook the ring, picked out the key labeled MAIN, and returned to the door to unlock the dead bolt.

  Khalsa blocked the open door with his substantial body mass. "What's going on?"

  "Someone's coming after the girl. You're going to need backup. Radio your Dispatch." The Mexican cop stared down the security guard. "I'll patch you through to the feds."

  "You're with the Mexican federales, you're not D.E.A.—"

  "We're working with the D.E.A. and F.B.I." The Mexican set one hand on the guard's shoulder. He didn't push, but he said, "We're running out of time."

  Khalsa gave way grudgingly, and the man brushed past him.

  "DID YOU HEAR something?" Sylvia froze, listening. Peggy had the radio playing in the hospital's staff lounge—the oldies station—and it was hard to hear anything except the chorus of "Under the Boardwalk."

  Peggy shrugged, filling a coffee mug to the brim. "I heard a fire siren. I hear them every shift because the station's so close."

  Sylvia stepped to the door of the lounge and strained her ears, listening closely. The only audible sound was the mundane white noise of the hospital—and Peggy's radio.

  The nurse handed Sylvia the coffee mug with a smile. "You're kind of jumpy tonight, huh?"

  Sylvia nodded; she kept expecting a tall, dark demon to appear around every corner.

  Peggy sat down at the small Formica-topped table, humming the 1960s tune. She patted the chair next to hers. "I get that way sometimes."

  Sylvia sat in the designated chair, sipping gingerly at the scalding coffee.

  The nurse touched Sylvia's arm. "I read the papers today. That story was about your little girl in Twenty-one, wasn't it?" She interpreted the psychologist's silence as confirmation and continued, "What's wrong with her? Why doesn't she speak?"

  Sylvia suddenly felt weary. She really enjoyed Peggy, but she didn't feel like discussing Serena with anyone tonight

  "Is it psychological?" Peggy pressed.

  "Ummmm." Steam wafted into Sylvia's nostrils.

  "She could join the Carmelites." Peggy rolled her eyes at her own joke.

  "What did you say?"

  "I was joking." Peggy looked sheepish. "The Carmelites—the nuns who live up by St. John's College? Don't they take a vow of silence to God?"

  ONCE RENZO HAD gained access to the hospital lobby, he said, "Call your dispatcher—I'll give you the number to verify my involvement—"

  As the security guard activated his radio, Renzo lifted the .22 to the base of the man's neck. He said, "But first, let's go see the girl."

  Khalsa stiffened and glanced toward the young man behind the desk; there would be no help from that quarter: Theo's snores rose and fell with stubborn consistency. Still, Khalsa hesitated. He could yell for help—but he'd be shot along with Theo and whoever responded to his summons. Best to keep silent, to play along and wait for a moment to catch the other man off guard. He yielded to the persuasive prod of a cool metal gun barrel.

  The two men moved as one down the hallway—the guard in the lead, Renzo close behind—past private rooms. Renzo scanned glassed doors for curious feces. But apparently, the inhabitants of Mesa Verde Hospital slept through the night. Maybe it had something to do with the drugs doctors gave crazy people.

  He was prepared for any encounter with additional staff. He knew the hospital kept two nurses on night shift; at this moment, they were probably in the acute-care wing. That was only a few hundred feet away, but the building wings were separated by soundproofed walls and metal designed to keep agitated patients in check.

  Mesa Verde's resident security—separate from Khalsa—was an elderly man who spent most of his time prowling the rear exit of the building.

  When the two men reached the end of the hall, Khalsa paused at the door to the locked ward. Renzo knew that behind this metal-and-glass barrier he would find Serena. He detected a slight increase in his heartbeat—that was all. He prodded his hostage with gunmetal.

  To Khalsa, the smack of the gun echoed in his ear like an explosion. The key ring was clutched in his trembling hands, and when he didn't recognize the metal shapes he suffered a wave of nausea. The sickness passed, and then he remembered that this door opened with a punch-pad code. He entered the code and pushed open the heavy door. Both men entered the locked ward.

  As Renzo approached Room 21, he felt the security guard slow.

  Renzo spoke hoarsely. "Open the door."

  "I don't have the key." Khalsa shook his head, lying badly.

  "Open the fucking door." Renzo's voice dropped to a lethal whisper.

  The guard's fingers shifted over the ring of keys. Before he had a chance to speak, Renzo fired the .22. The explosion, muffled by the silencer, sounded like a very noisily popped top on a beer can. The guard dropped. Renzo stepped over him, stared down. The bullet's exit trajectory had done severe damage to the guard's face. Blood pooled under the dying man's head.

  Renzo dragged the body away from the door to Room 21. The effort awakened new pain in his injured arm. He tried several keys before he found the correct master. Fortunately, the facility hadn't switched over fully to punch pads; he'd still be struggling to find the code. He opened the door. The child was asleep on the bed.

  Renzo kept his eye on her sleeping form as he dragged Khalsa's body into the room. Dead, the man seemed to have gained twice his living mass. A few feet inside the room, Renzo released his grip.

  The child had twisted her body and the sheet into knots. Street lights and shadow added to the confusing effect. Renzo crossed the space in three strides, grabbed bedding—but nothing more.

  There was a soft rustling noise, like the sound of nesting mice. Renzo whirled around just as a shadow darted across the room toward the open doorway. He followed.

  He stepped out of the darkened room, his eyes reacting to the lighted hallway. If he was stunned by the soft glow of fluorescence, the child must be blinded. She hurled her body down the hall toward the ward's exit door. She was barefoot, clad in green pajamas. Her dark hair was loose, flying over her shoulders as she ran.

  She slammed herself against the locked door. Her small body vibrated, her ribs expanding with quickened breath. She responded to the sound of Renzo's approaching footfalls by stiffening. When he had almost reached her, she turned.

  Something fell from her fingers and skidded a few feet across the slick tile—a child's coloring book. The cover was made of cracked blue vinyl decorated with cartoon dogs. Renzo recognized it instantly. Amado Fortuna's first efforts at record keeping.

  Tuna's Diary.

  Renzo bent down to retrieve the small book. He kept his eyes on the child.

  She stared back at him with the face of a little goddess. Silent. Stunned. Huge eyes filled with sorrow and reproach. And fear. There was so much fear, Renzo wondered how she was still able to stand. Abruptly her features went slack, and she seemed to be focused on some floating point above Renzo's head. She was staring that way, trancelike, when he reached for her. His hands closed around her body; he was immediately surprised by how light she felt. He cut off the blood supply to her brain, and she went limp in his arms.

  Then he pressed the snout of the .22 caliber to the back of her skull, and his trigger finger began to contract, slowly, steadily.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  DIANA ROSS WAS belting out "Stop! In the Name of Love" w
hen Sylvia stood abruptly.

  Peggy looked startled. "What's wrong?"

  "This time I know I heard something." Sylvia tossed the half-empty cup in the trash can and headed for the door of the staff lounge. As she strode along the hallway toward the main lobby, she told herself she was overreacting. But hell, there was no law against harmless compulsive behavior.

  As she approached the lobby, she heard the front door swing closed. The sound was wrong—there was almost no traffic this time of night. She broke into a half run, reaching the reception area just in time to see a shadowy shape disappearing down the lighted hospital walkway, then cutting across the lawn.

  Sylvia pushed open the door and stepped outside. There was no one in sight, but she heard the soft sounds of a car door opening. She turned, staring across the lawn past the parking area. The big American car was parked beyond the full arc of a streetlight's glow; but Sylvia saw the man, and she recognized Serena as he shoved the child's limp body into the vehicle's backseat.

  SHE CALLED OUT, but the man was already behind the wheel. Her voice faded on the air just as the engine caught with a deep rumble. The Cadillac pulled away from the curb, and Sylvia turned on her heel and raced back to the hospital.

  The door had locked behind her. She smacked her palm hard against the glass, yelling for help. Her eyes saw a dark smear marring the thick pane—her brain registered blood. Through the door, she could see Peggy half running into the lobby. The nurse's face froze in alarm when she saw Sylvia pounding her fist against glass. Within seconds Peggy had the door open. "What's wrong?"

  Sylvia lunged into the lobby shouting out commands: "Call nine-one-one, tell them there's been a kidnapping—the child in Room Twenty-one!"

  Peggy moved back to the admissions counter just as Theo's head appeared above the desktop—eyes glazed, skin swollen from sleep. The nurse slapped him hard across the face—either to shock him into a fully alert state or to punish him because the child was gone.

  Theo stumbled out of his chair, a blank look on his face, puzzlement in his eyes, and he bumped into Sylvia. She grabbed him by the T-shirt and jerked him hard. She spit out the question—"Did you see anyone?"

  When Theo shook his head dully, Sylvia directed her final words to Peggy. "Tell Dispatch—Serena was taken by an adult male. I'm going to follow the car—it's a Cadillac or an Oldsmobile, dark color, new."

  She shoved Theo backward and yanked car keys from her pocket. "Theo, find out what happened to Khalsa. Now!"

  The last view Sylvia had of the hospital was of Peggy talking into the phone. Then the psychologist was running across the grass toward Matt's battered pickup.

  SHE APOLOGIZED SILENTLY to Matt as she jammed the standard shift into reverse. There was the harsh groan of tortured gears. She backed out of the parking place, rammed the stick into first, then revved out of the lot. She didn't have to worry about keeping distance between vehicles; the other car had disappeared. She prayed he would head east toward the main thoroughfare, St. Francis Drive. She pressed down on the gas, hurtling along the residential streets. Her hands were shaking on the wheel. Automatically, she reached for her cell phone. It was in her briefcase—the one she'd left in Rosie's Camaro. Fuck.

  As she approached the blinking lights of the St. Francis intersection, she saw taillights turning right—south—yes! Sylvia hunkered down in the seat and guided Matt's pickup in the same direction. A station wagon cut into the lane in front of her, and she hit the brakes too fast. The pickup stuttered, then smoothed out She didn't want to get too close to the kidnapper's car. She could see now it was a Cadillac.

  The car was moving as if the driver didn't know anyone was following. Get too close, he'd see her—or feel her on his tail. She knew instinctively he wouldn't hesitate to kill the child.

  Or maybe Serena was already dead.

  Sylvia stared at the upcoming traffic signal at St. Francis Drive and Cerrillos Road. The Cadillac passed through the intersection just as the light danced blearily from green to yellow to red. She braked to a stop, narrowly avoiding a collision with a single car that was crossing the intersection. She watched its slow progress from the idling pickup; the engine missed, the vehicle vibrated, and she could see smoke trailing behind the Ford. She didn't wait for the light to turn green—she checked lanes and then crept on through the intersection.

  Now she passed state buildings, parks, office complexes. She knew he would continue to the interstate. It was less than a minute away. There was one more gas station before the highway entrance ramp. Ahead, the station's lights were glowing like fluorescent islands in a dark urban sea.

  If she pulled off, could she convince a clerk to notify state police? She imagined the conversation—urgent shorthand, minus subtlety. "Call nine-one-one, tell Dispatch it's about the child who was kidnapped from Mesa Verde Hospital. Tell them the kidnapper's headed for the interstate."

  In her mind, the gas-station attendant stared back at her dumbly. Her imagined words were gobbledygook. She could make the call herself—did she have a quarter? She wasn't close enough to read the license plate on the Cadillac.

  A quarter mile ahead, the dark vehicle was accelerating—past the gas station. Her foot refused to ease up on the accelerator. The Cadillac—and Serena—were moving quickly out of reach.

  She couldn't risk stopping. If she lost him, she lost the child. From the corner of her eye, she saw the Shell station pass in a blur of lights. Then there was the darkness of a high-desert evening at the edge of civilization.

  She guided the old pickup onto the interstate, following.

  He was headed north, not south.

  TONIGHT—EXCLUDING THIS brief cut over to Highway 285—Renzo Santos would stay off the main highways. While 1-25 dove down in a semistraight line all the way to Mexico, cops would be swarming the interstate. He figured he had thirty minutes maximum before the security guard's body—and the child's absence—were discovered. Maybe the cops had already been alerted. The trip from Santa Fe to the Mexican border took almost five hours on the fastest roads. His plan meant traveling on two-lanes, gravel, even dirt; back roads would take longer, but they had an advantage—he would make it to the border. He kept one eye on the exit signs as he followed the interstate toward the Lamy turnoff.

  The child was in the backseat under a blanket. If they were stopped by the highway patrol, she was just a sleeping kid.

  He glanced at his wrist—his gaze flicked to the blood staining his glove—then steadied on the watch face: 12:50 A.M. Seven minutes later, he eased the Cadillac off the highway at the exit to Lamy. This was the same road he had followed days before when he was pursuing the shrink and the child. But he would not stop again at the godforsaken spot where Paco died, where he had been attacked by lobo loco.

  Renzo had finally cornered his prey. It was his job to find targets—to kill them if necessary—or to make them give information and then leave them dead.

  This time, his prey had proved a surprisingly worthy opponent. Renzo grunted at the thought of the child's efforts at evasion and resistance—her final fight. He felt something that might just be grudging admiration. She would stay alive—as long as she was useful as his hostage.

  All this time, she'd possessed the one thing that could destroy Tuna—and others as well. But she had delivered the diary straight into his hands.

  Renzo pressed one palm against the pocket of his jacket. He felt the small bulge of the book.

  He'd known the bookkeeper for years, but only days ago had Renzo discovered Paco's secret home in Anapra. The home where the girl had been hidden away for a decade.

  Renzo's thoughts slid back to a hot, sultry afternoon ten years earlier. The first part of the journey was clearest in his mind—the shocking discovery that Elena had fled with the baby. She had run back to Cash, deserting Renzo even after his anguished confession, his vow to change his life for her, his declaration of devotion.

  The shame still burned in Renzo's gut. It had driven him north after Elena
. He had wanted to travel alone, but Amado had insisted that Paco go along: "My cousin needs to prove his loyalty to me. Let him get blood on his hands. Let him learn he can't afford a heart."

  For three hundred miles—and ten years—Paco had remained silent. The bookkeeper had never spoken of that day. But he had watched as Renzo injected liquid courage into his own veins. And he had witnessed what Renzo knew only as a fractured memory of blood, rage, and murder—and, finally, when it was all over—a dark sleep that lasted two days and nights until he regained consciousness.

  Renzo was not aware that his lids had slid down over his yellowed eyeballs—but he blinked—twice.

  "Let him get blood on his hands. Let him learn he can't afford a heart."

  Renzo's thoughts stubbornly refused to let go of Paco, who had stolen the baby in front of them all. Paco, who dropped a bundle of rags in the river. For a fleeting instant, Renzo felt envy for the dead bookkeeper—Paco had died for love.

  But it was over now, and Renzo had won. A picture caught in his mind: the last moments at the hospital, the child's dead weight in his arms.

  Frowning, he guided the Cadillac toward Lamy, accelerating rapidly onto blacktop divided by faded white dashes—they licked under the belly of the big car. The three-hundred-horsepower engine throbbed under his thighs and butt. Nothing in the rearview mirror; no sign of company.

  SYLVIA KEPT SO much distance between vehicles, she almost lost her quarry. She was slowing, navigating the exit to Lamy when she noticed the absence of lights. Headlights. Taillights. Any lights. There was no sign of a car in either direction. The engine whined as she braked hard.

  He was headed south—he had to be.

  She gave the truck gas and picked up speed.

  Matt's Ford had no accurate speedometer. No gas gauge. No radio. No heater. The front end was out of alignment. The engine desperately needed a tune-up. The wheel play was loose, frighteningly flabby. The headlamps were skewed, allowing for claustrophobically narrow illumination of the highway ahead.

  Ten miles southeast of Santa Fe the glow of city lights had dimmed. The moon was waning, hanging now like a yellow petal in the black sky.