A Desperate Silence (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 3)

by Sarah Lovett

  She accelerated, trying to close the distance on the Cadillac—just to be sure it was ahead, not behind her. She believed the child was alive. Why steal a dead body from the hospital? The man—whoever he was—needed Serena alive. The child was his ticket out of the U.S. Sylvia focused hard on that thought as she pushed the Ford.

  There. She caught sight of taillights. She couldn't see a license plate, couldn't even make out the general shape of the vehicle. She had to assume it was the Cadillac.

  Her breath caught when the lights disappeared yet again. Had he pulled off? Had he turned? She slowed, searching for a side road, trying to remember what was out here in all this space.

  There. She saw headlamps illuminating a grade. How the hell had he gained so much distance? He must be traveling ninety-five, a hundred miles per hour. At that speed, he would leave her in the dust.

  Matt's truck had a maximum speed of somewhere around seventy-five, and even that was pushing it. He'd warned her the engine could blow if it was stressed for a long period. How fast was she going? She gritted her teeth, ignoring the whine of the hot engine. Glancing down, she thought it would be nice to have a seat belt. She was cold—dressed in silk for a party, not long-distance pursuit. She was hungry. There might just be half a Snickers in her small purse. And a credit card. What else? Lipstick, powder. A hairbrush in the glove compartment.

  Great. She could give herself a makeover. If she only had her briefcase, her phone, and a map . . . but wishful thinking would not ward off the horrible fear that the child would disappear forever into darkness.

  "Oh, God." Sylvia's voice was barely a whisper inside the cold, dark truck.

  Serena, I'm with you.

  SHE WAS DEAD. All that was left was a blanket of darkness. A foggy quiet.

  This time, Serena knew it was really true. But she felt something stirring from the ground up. Something was rumbling. Was it the death rattle old people talked about? A dark bee buzzing and buzzing. A slap, slap, slapping sound. The vague feeling of moving through space.

  Where had she been before dying? Mexico? The hospital? Through the fog she remembered only twilight snatches—a word, a voice, a face. The effort of remembering made her head hurt. Great waves of pain flowed through her small body. The pain made her shiver.

  She tried to move, to clasp the medallion, but her arm stayed rigid—her wrists were wedged together. Her ankles, too. Pinpricks shot along her limbs, a million tingling messages exploding in muscles and nerves. Her teeth were clacking like a wind-up skeleton jaw.

  Would your teeth chatter after you died?

  Maybe.

  She felt a rush of joy—Paco had flown down from heaven to take her hand. Elena—her own mother—must be missing her up above, in God's world. Serena sighed. Heaven would be warm, misty, and soft.

  But if you were truly dead, would you hurt so much your body felt like it was breaking? If you were on your way to heaven, the Blessed Virgin would not allow you to suffer. Not even a little bit.

  A new thought made the child tremble again.

  What if she weren't going to heaven? What if this was that other place?

  But immediately, she knew the thought was unworthy. The Virgin was so kind, so loving, she took all her children by the hand. She said, "If you love me, I am here . . ."

  If you need me, I am with you.

  If you help the poor, I am with you.

  If you are kind, I am with you.

  If you are loving, I walk with you.

  I am with you.

  Serena rested a moment, nestled in the comfort of those prayers. The Virgin's presence helped her find the courage to return to that place between heaven and hell—earth.

  She was not dying. She was not in safe hands. It was the faint scent of medicine, the rusty smell of blood, that dashed her down from the clouds.

  ¡El demonio! He had come for her. And this time, even Sylvia had failed to protect her. Tears of fright, of desolation, streaked the child's cheeks. She had been abandoned by her mother, by Paco, and finally, by Sylvia.

  Once again, she was all alone in the dark.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  FIVE MILES NORTH of Clines Corners, Sylvia began to pray. Between mumbled invocations, she stared numbly at the Ford's gas gauge. The needle was resting solidly at the half-tank mark. It had stayed in that exact spot for the last forty miles. For that matter, the needle had been at the same mark for the last four thousand miles. The gauge was broken.

  Clines Corners marked the intersection of 285 and 1-40. Café, souvenir shop, gas station, truck stop—if the Cadillac had pulled off at Clines Corners, Sylvia knew she had to risk stopping for gas. The Ford's tank could run dry within the next fifty miles—or the next five miles. She tried to remember what Matt had told her about its capacity. But all she heard was his admonition: "Don't push the engine . . . don't drive it out of town."

  So here she was, pedal to the metal, forty miles from Santa Fe and counting.

  If she came face-to-face with the kidnapper at Clines Corners, at least it would be in a public place. Not that the presence of other people would save her life—or Serena's.

  The truck stop was three miles away.

  She tried to track his logic in her own mind: in his eyes, she might be a pesky fly. Irritating, but not dangerous.

  She posed no real threat; she carried no weapon, no telephone, no radio—but he didn't know that.

  Would he consider her a risk?

  Or would he believe that as long as he had Serena, he held all the power?

  And what about Serena? How would she survive this latest trauma on top of everything else? Faith might anchor her to sanity—it might also tempt her over the edge into madness.

  Then Sylvia remembered the blood on the hospital door, and she prayed the child wasn't already dead.

  When the Ford was roughly a half mile from Clines Corners, Sylvia began scanning for the black Cadillac.

  One-third mile. She squinted through darkness, trying to focus on the lighted parking lot. As far as she could see, it was occupied by a half dozen cars and two or three big rigs.

  What if she missed the Cadillac because it was parked around the corner near the cafeteria? What if he'd pulled onto 1-40? He could head west, then south on 1-25. Or he might continue on the back roads.

  She had to turn right or left or continue straight ahead. She had to decide.

  She pressed down on the gas pedal, and the truck rumbled onto the overpass. She was betting on straight.

  IN SANTA FE, the desk clerk named Theo had been talking nervously to the special agent from the Federal Bureau of Investigation. The lobby of Mesa Verde Hospital was swimming with investigators and forensic technicians from state and federal agencies. They were investigating a murder and a kidnapping. And Theo was a witness. His astronomy textbook lay open and forgotten on the floor. From his chair behind the desk, he eagerly watched all the comings and goings. An avid fan of reality-based TV, he watched Cops and Emergency! every week.

  As a female state police officer approached, he reluctantly turned his bug-eyed gaze back to the F.B.I. agent. "Dr. Sylvia Strange—the psychologist who was treating the girl—she told me to call you guys, yes sir."

  The agent nodded. "She gave you a description of the kidnapper's vehicle. Did you see the vehicle yourself?"

  "No, sir." Theo wagged his head woefully. He'd missed his big opportunity. If he'd saved the girl, he'd be a hero. A wise voice in his head reminded him: You'd be a dead hero, dipshit. Just like Khalsa.

  The state police officer had come to a standstill behind the F.B.I. agent's left shoulder. She smiled encouragingly at Theo.

  The F.B.I. man looked impatient. "Dr. Strange took her own vehicle in pursuit of this man?"

  Theo nodded. "Yes, sir."

  "Can you describe her vehicle?"

  "No, sir."

  The federal agent contained his frustration. "Did you watch her drive off?"

  "I was calling you guys." Theo's voice w
avered to a stop.

  "You were on duty when she arrived tonight, weren't you?"

  Theo nodded mutely. He was afraid to open his mouth.

  "Did you see her vehicle at that time?"

  "Ummm, she parked off to the side, in that lot over there."

  "What kind of vehicle does she normally drive?"

  Theo had turned bright pink, and he was about to break out crying when a woman spoke up. "I know Dr. Strange. She drives a Toyota pickup with a camper shell."

  The federal agent scribbled on his notepad, then looked up at the woman. Her face was familiar. She was blond, thin, intense. "You are?"

  "Noelle Harding. The girl who was kidnapped is my niece." Harding intentionally trespassed on the federal agent's personal space; her manner was direct, her expression all business. "Special Agent . . . Carter. I'm sure the kidnapper is headed to Mexico. I want all relevant law-enforcement personnel alerted. I expect helicopter transport."

  "Ma'am?"

  "Don't 'ma'am' me, Mr. Carter—I've already spoken to the governor of my home state. He has expressed his support."

  "Yes, ma'am."

  FIVE MILES OUTSIDE the pit stop named Corona, Renzo passed a cop. He didn't even bother to slow down. He was going ninety-eight miles per hour. If the cop had clocked him, it was over. Even without radar, the cop had to be an idiot to miss that kind of speed.

  But the cop didn't follow. That made Renzo even more nervous. He'd been listening to the scanners—so far nothing. Nobody knew what kind of car he was driving. But he couldn't assume that. Someone in the hospital might have seen him leave. In that case, there would be a network of cops up and down the state with one thing on their minds: tracking Renzo.

  The cops might be using a scrambled radio frequency—especially if the feds were already in on it.

  He drove through the darkness—his mind racing—for the next thirty miles. He watched the moon disappear. He felt the miles stretch out behind the Cadillac. His wounds were beginning to burn, the stitches itched—but he felt no pain, no fatigue. It was as if a barrier existed between his body and his mind. The drugs? But they were wearing off—he felt their diminishing power as if his blood were thinning. He would need to dose himself again. Maybe in Carrizozo.

  And what about the girl? If the feds were tracking him—and he increasingly suspected they might be—then he needed her more than ever. She was his only insurance. But once he reached the border of Mexico, she would die.

  For an instant, he thought he heard Elena's soft voice. It sent shivers through his body. He remembered his fevered dream from a few nights ago—when the poison from the lobo loco had tainted his body. Elena had come to him that night—she had reached out from her grave.

  He lifted his wrist to his lips and kissed his silver bracelet—the face of Coatlicue. Was the fever returning to weaken his mind? Why else would he think of Elena?

  And then, fifteen miles north of Carrizozo, Renzo felt the child.

  She was staring at him. Her eyes bored into the back of his neck like twin metal screws. He refused to look at her, keeping his gaze on the road ahead. On the gray strip of asphalt, the yellow center line had faded out to sorry, intermittent dashes. Otherwise, just before sunrise, the world was wide open. Potholes and ruts jarred the Cadillac's thirty-thousand-dollar suspension system. He'd hit a rabbit a few miles back. Bad luck.

  He found himself counting the power poles that loomed out of darkness. He looked everywhere but at the child. After a few minutes his mouth tasted like wood. He realized his reaction was foolish. Why should he be spooked by some girl? Even if she was Elena's child, she wasn't a ghost.

  He swallowed painfully, licked his lips. Finally, he tipped his head, pulling his eyes to the mirror to verify his gut instinct.

  She was sitting up, staring with those big black eyes. She met his gaze.

  His eyes slid away. She made no sound, not even a moan. By now, the tape on her wrists and ankles had certainly cut off her circulation. Her hands and feet had to be numb. But she didn't whine, didn't cry out or complain. She just kept staring. He adjusted the rearview mirror so the ghost disappeared.

  He drove like that for another ten miles. He readjusted the mirror. Their gazes met, locked, did not waver. It spooked him.

  His mother-the-puta had dragged him to visit the Virgin when he was a boy. The church had been filled with women, with cripples, with children, with the poor, the infirm, and the sick. The crowds had smelled of sweat and misery and pain—they had frightened a boy of five.

  He'd seen women and girls overcome with the Holy Mother's blessing. They had fallen to their knees, palms up, tears streaming down their dusty cheeks. For hours, for a whole day, they would stay kneeling on bruised and bloodied knees. But they felt no pain, and their faces glowed with radiant peace.

  The Mother's Blessing, they said, Spanish prayers rolling off their tongues.

  She is the Holy Mother. She is always with us. She is Everything, Everywhere.

  She is here.

  His mother, too, had knelt in front of the statues, the paintings, the pictures. She had knelt with the other women, and she had wept. And now Renzo remembered who his mother had prayed for so fervently—her son.

  He gasped. In the darkness of the Cadillac, ghosts fluttered around his face like pecking birds.

  He felt for his gun, his fingers tightening around the butt of the .22 caliber. The cold gunmetal made him feel powerful. With his fingers on steel, he summoned the courage to look in the rearview mirror one more time. And then he knew what had been haunting him.

  The Blessed mother at the shrine . . . Serena looked just like La Virgen.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  MATT ENGLAND HAD been asleep for less than ten minutes when the phone rang in the hotel room of the Juárez Holiday Inn. Must be Vargas, he thought groggily.

  But it was Dale Pitkin at E.P.I.C.—the only other person who knew where to reach the two men. Pitkin's voice was hard. "Bad news," he said. "The girl was kidnapped from Santa Fe. Sylvia went after the guy."

  "Jesus," Matt said. In an instant, he was awake. "The cops know what to look for? Her license plate is . . . T-S-X-three-one-one."

  "Matt, they know."

  "A Toyota truck, green, 1996—"

  "They know. They're cops. You're a cop. Pour yourself a shot of something strong and get dressed—"

  "Give me what you've got." Matt gripped the phone hard.

  "The details are sketchy. They're expecting the kidnapper to hit the border within the next two hours."

  "Who is he?"

  "The Cadillac's registered to a Martin Diaz. A nice upstanding citizen who died two years ago. It's all phony."

  "No description."

  "Just from Sylvia and then the cops along the way. White or Hispanic adult male."

  "It's got to be the same guy who jumped Sylvia and the kid in Santa Fe." Matt gritted his teeth. "Vargas knows who he is—an assassin on the federales' payroll. What do they call them, godmothers?"

  "A madrina." A beat went by before Pitkin said, "You and Victor better get your asses across the border."

  Matt slapped the side of his head. "Shit! Sylvia's in my truck, not the Toyota. She borrowed my Ford. The damn thing doesn't go faster than seventy-five."

  "It does now." Dale Pitkin cleared his throat. "The last report they got was five minutes ago from the highway patrol north of Carrizozo. The Cadillac was clocked doing ninety-nine miles per hour."

  "There's no way she could keep up."

  "When the cops didn't see your gal's Toyota truck, they started noticing a funky pickup. She's only fifteen miles behind him—he keeps slowing down when he hits the towns along Fifty-four."

  "Goddammit, the cops move in, they'll freak the bastard."

  "They know that. They're keeping a distance."

  "What about the feds?"

  "They've got air backup, a SWAT team ready to truck at the border, agents along the way. By now they've probably got a procession going
behind the perp."

  "He'll do the kid without blinking."

  "At the moment she's his only bargaining chip."

  "Sylvia?"

  "In the meantime, your lady's stayed with him." Pitkin laughed. "She's a true American hero, amigo. If I were you, I'd get ready for a rendezvous. I'll keep you informed."

  Matt's last words were, "Shit, she doesn't know how to switch to the second gas tank."

  WITH THE VALLEY of Fire lava flow visible in predawn light, Sylvia saw the highway sign—CARRIZOZO 8 MI.—just as the truck's engine began to sputter. It coughed, caught, held another hundred yards, then coughed again. She swayed the steering wheel from side to side, sloshing the last of the gasoline around the tank. That might coax another two or three miles out of the engine. After that, the Ford would be running on fumes.

  The sun was just beginning to tint a heavy gray sky. Intermittent rain splattered the Ford's grimy, bug-spattered windshield. Thick smoke spewed from the rear of the truck. Hazy-eyed and sleep-deprived, Sylvia shifted in the seat, stretched aching muscles. The fact that she was about to roll to a stop had kicked adrenaline into her veins. It worked better than coffee.

  Facts—meaningless in her present circumstances—raced through her overamped mind: Carrizozo; the town sat smack in the middle of the junction of U.S. 54 and 380, in a corner of Lincoln County; Billy the psychopathic Kid country. Hadn't the town grown up in the late 1800s because of the railroad? There'd been a gold rush around here somewhere . . . near Carrizo Mountain . . . placer gold discovered in the 1880s.

  Something else drifted in and out of her consciousness. It seemed like ages since she'd read through Jim Teague's files, rather than mere hours. Obsessively, she'd gone over the coroner's report on the murders of Elena Cruz and the motel manager. All the time something had nagged at her—some similarity between their murders and the murder of the man Matt called Paco.

  A name kept running through her brain: Jesús . . .

  The weird boy the investigators had never been able to track down. The boy Cash Wheeler claimed had openly admired Elena Cruz. If he was still alive, he'd be in his late twenties, early thirties by now.