by Sarah Lovett
When she spoke to the man, her tone took on an intentional edge of intimacy. "What should I call you?"
Seconds passed. She finally sighed. "I could really use a cigarette."
"Do you know who I am?"
She was startled by the sound of his voice. "I don't know what you call yourself now. Your name used to be Jesús."
He stood silent for such a long time, Sylvia began to think she'd destroyed any chance of negotiation. But eventually he spoke again. "Once I get into Mexico, I'll give you the girl."
"I can't negotiate for the F.B.I."
"You can tell them I don't want to kill her, but I will if they force the situation." He bit off the last word.
Sylvia wasn't sure if she saw the child move or not. She called out sharply, "Serena?" There—she thought she saw the slightest movement. She steadied herself and refocused on the man.
He said, "If I die, so does the girl."
"Look around." Very slowly, Sylvia lowered her hands to her sides; her muscles were putty. She said, "Give me Serena, and I'll tell them to cooperate."
He laughed but stopped suddenly when the child called out in a soft voice: "Sylvia."
Relief flowed through Sylvia. "I'm here. I'm right here, Serena." She glanced around—at the cops, at the helicopter hovering beyond the smokestacks, at the traffic. He had stopped here because the river—and Mexico—were so close. The Rio Grande was shallow, running twenty or thirty feet across. Beyond the link fence, the banks were dirt, rough, screened by shrubs, weeds, scraggy trees, the kind of scrub vegetation that survived even on a diet of chemical waste. Curious onlookers had gathered on the opposite bank. Mexico was just a hop, skip, and a jump away. Once you got past the cops, the hardware, the high-powered rifles . . .
She murmured, "Shit." Then she turned to address the man. She said, "Tell me how you want to do this—this exchange. I'll talk to them. I swear I'll try to get you a deal."
She thought he started to step forward, to bend down, so the child could reach the ground with her feet. Sylvia's body contracted automatically—but she jerked back when she heard the sharp crack. The sound was unmistakable—a rifle shot. Someone screamed—voices exploded in confusion. In the distance to her left she saw cops, stooped over, moving fast across the asphalt.
Under the jumble of blanket, man and child stumbled two paces toward Sylvia. As the man collapsed to his knees on the hard road surface, she saw Serena twist out from under his body, but she was still tangled in the blanket.
Sylvia put it together—gunshot—blood on the ground, on the child. He'd been shot—had Serena? Oh, God. Heart racing, she scrambled forward on her knees, reaching out for the child, calling her name.
She touched Serena just as the man lurched up. Instantly, she heard another crack. A second shot.
The blanket slid to the man's shoulders, and he stared at Sylvia with glazed eyes. His face was contorted in pain—and fury. Blood had smeared the side of his head—it flowed now from his shoulder.
He reached out one hand—his bracelet flashing on his wrist—and something fell to the ground. Sylvia thought it must be his gun.
He opened his mouth and glared straight at her, spitting out the words—"Double-crossing bitch!"—and then he thrust his body away, rolling under the Cadillac.
A cop was bellowing—"Get out of the way!"—over and over. Sylvia stumbled forward on her knees.
The voice coming from the bullhorn blurred to nonsense.
She was suddenly aware of a sharp, repetitive noise. The helicopter. It loomed over the highway like a giant predatory bird, sending waves of heat bouncing down on the asphalt. Sylvia's hair was blown back from her face. She sheltered Serena in her arms.
Gunfire broke out all around her—she cried out. Amid the chaos, she saw with unforgettable clarity the kidnapper's face when he cursed her. It was a second in time that had no meaning, but all Sylvia could think was, I didn't betray you.
RENZO FELT SOMEBODY punch in the side of his head. He heard the explosion—knew it was a long-range weapon.
Sniper.
Red bombs went off behind his eyes. His body jerked forward, and the girl went down with him.
Another sharp sound—the second shot. Shoulder! The blanket was wrenched forward where he and the girl fell.
"Double-crossing bitch!"
The diary hit the ground, skittering out of reach. Renzo used the last of his strength to thrust his body under the Cadillac.
He kept rolling—a man started shouting commands—and gunshots broke out. Renzo hit the fence, and somehow he wedged his feet, his knees, his body through the jagged metal slit. He fell, his hip slamming painfully against concrete, and he hit muddy water. The Rio Grande was boiling. Water popping and snarling like a living thing as bullets broke its filthy surface.
Leaking a thick trail of blood, he slithered through weeds, yellow mud, trash—the stench was poisonous. When he was fifteen or twenty feet downriver, he dove under the rank oily surface—the liquid border. Bullets fell on either side of his wounded body. His lungs were bursting, eyes burning but he swam blindly ahead. The river was less than four or five feet deep, and he scraped the bottom.
SOMEONE KEPT HOUNDING Sylvia—a cop. He was shouting, "Are you injured?"
She would not let go of Serena.
"Ma'am, is the child injured?"
She clutched Serena in her arms, felt small hands grip her tight.
"F.B.I.—are you all right?"
She gazed down into dark eyes, saw sparks of life. She touched the child, searching for injury. While her hands grazed Serena's small frame, she felt something pressing against her knee. She looked down, saw the familiar coloring book—Serena's prized possession. It lay open, spine broken, two pages exposed: colors, scribbles, crude figures—too rough to be the child's work—and faint rows of penciled numbers and letters running underneath the rainbow colors like a subterranean stream.
A large hand reached for the book; startled, Sylvia looked up into Matt's face. He was staring at Serena's book as if he'd heard it speak.
Just as the child's small fingers grasped the pages, a voice said, "That's federal evidence."
Sylvia shaded her eyes, barely aware of the severe visage of a young, uptight federal agent. She heard Matt growl in frustration—he was out of his territory—but he didn't resist the agent who took possession of the book.
Then Matt had his arms around Sylvia—holding her and Serena so tightly they could hardly breathe.
For thirty minutes, everything occurred in a haze. Sylvia vaguely heard Matt arguing with the feds. Their response: "You're way out of your jurisdiction."
Then Matt whispering in her ear: "We've got to talk."
She thought she heard a familiar Texas twang. Big Jim Teague, fringed in leather, tossing his formidable weight around.
From a great distance someone announced, "They've got a floater two hundred yards downriver. A crew's going down."
And another voice: ". . . shooter on the Mexican side."
Sylvia felt the sting as something was injected into her arm. She was too exhausted to argue with the E.M.T. Wrapped in blankets, sipping fruit juice from straws, psychologist and child were finally stowed inside the comfortably dim interior . . . of an ambulance? Or was it a limo-van?
CHAPTER THIRTY
THIRTY FLOORS ABOVE the city of El Paso, Texas, the Harding Building rose to a needle point, its microwave antenna piercing a smoggy sky. The building housed a bank, law offices, AeroChihuahua, a private tourism bureau, and the regional headquarters of the International Children's Rescue Fund. Noelle Harding maintained a five-thousand-square-foot suite on the top floor. Service staff privately referred to it as the Eagle's Nest.
The exterior walls were floor-to-ceiling glass, affording a view of a rusty sun as it set behind Comanche Peak and the Franklin Mountains. At the foot of the mountains—and as far as the eye could see in any direction—the urban sprawl of El Paso and Juárez spread out like a massive living, brea
thing, crazy quilt.
The view awaited Sylvia when she opened her eyes after six hours of solid sleep. The sleep had come only after an interminable session spent answering repetitive questions for the F.B.I. At the end of the debriefing session, she had demanded that she be taken to Serena. She'd expected to find her in a hospital.
But a quiet woman with a starched blue uniform and a lilting Mexican accent had explained: "This is the home of Señora Harding."
A wide verandah rimmed the suite's south and southwestern flanks. So far, Sylvia had discovered six rooms—living, dining, kitchen, library, and bedrooms—all very large. There were at least twice that many.
A hospital bed had been moved into the bedroom where Serena now slept. The space was immaculate and cheerful. The woven rug was patterned with rainbows, the wallpaper was decorated with Disney characters—Bambi, Dumbo, Mickey Mouse and Minnie, Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs. A nursery, ready and waiting.
A private nurse sat in a stiff-backed chair watching over the child. The woman was crisp, efficient, uncommunicative.
Sylvia had stayed with Serena for thirty minutes; she just wanted to be close to the sleeping child, to reassure herself the ordeal was over. But even that short amount of time had been difficult. Whatever sedative the E.M.T. had shot into her arm was quickly wearing off. In its place, emotional overload was setting in; the aftermath of shock.
The main living area of the penthouse was a multilevel expanse of creams, tawny golds, and icy blues. The filtered air was cool and fresh. The carpet felt like an overgrown lawn—four full inches overgrown. Sylvia opened handcrafted cupboards until she found what she was searching for: a fully stocked wet bar. She poured herself a long shot of vodka, fell back into a vanilla linen chair, and stared numbly out at the sister cities—two nations joined together by a watery seam of river.
She knew she'd never fully take in what she'd witnessed this morning on the highway. That would be impossible. Her mind would break the events into fragments, allowing regulated and select recall. For the immediate future, any loud noise, any abrupt flash of light was gunfire. Back in Santa Fe, she'd need her own shrink.
But there was one instant she would never forget—the shockingly intimate moment when the man had been shot—and when he'd cursed Sylvia.
She'd seen that bracelet on his arm—inlaid with Noelle Harding's snake-woman.
Over the past hours, the dangerous memory had battered her like a shark slamming repeatedly into the hull of a boat. Eventually, the shark had broken through her defenses—with a slow and clumsy realization—before it finally plunged her into deep waters.
She raised the glass to her lips, closing both eyes as she swallowed the icy, oily alcohol It wasn't Sylvia who was the double-crossing bitch. She wasn't the one who had shot the kidnapper in the back—it was Noelle Harding.
Once that door opened in her consciousness—connecting a kidnapper known as Jesús to Noelle Harding—door after door swung wide. The possible scenarios were endless—and awful.
She fingered the card in her wallet. Matt had given it to her this morning. He said she could reach him with a phone call; that he'd be close by, but he had some business that couldn't wait.
Screw the F.B.I. and the D.E.A. and the cops in El Paso and Mexico—Sylvia needed Matt. Now.
The private elevator door opened. But it wasn't Noelle Harding or Matt England. Jim Teague greeted her somberly. "Are you all right?"
She shook her head, and he glanced at her drink, then proceeded to pour himself a shot of eighteen-year-old cognac. He foamed the golden alcohol with a blast of soda. Then he walked over to her, his fringed bulk oddly compatible with all the stark modern whiteness, the arctic decor. He touched her shoulder, sat on a couch, and downed two thirds of his drink. "Back in Texas, Grandma Teague used to say, Shit and fall back in it."
Sylvia raised one eyebrow. She realized she was tucked deep into the egg-shaped chair, legs crossed, arms wrapped around her body. Her eyes seemed trapped by the flickering gold and silver light display; sunset over urban landscape.
"The show's amazing when the sun hits the mountain above Juárez." Teague's voice broke like a choirboy's. He coughed, finishing the last of the cognac with a grunt. He heaved himself off the couch, walked unsteadily to the bar, and refilled his snifter. As a snack, he popped a handful of stuffed green olives between his lips.
Sylvia forced herself to make eye contact with the lawyer, noticing for the first time how his graying hair curled around his ears. His skin was tanned with a ruddy cast. Beneath his trademark bead-trimmed leather jacket, his white shirt was missing a button. His bolo tie had slipped askew. She unwrapped her arms and leaned toward him.
She said, "The snake-woman." She slurred the word, and he looked puzzled. She tried again. "Your tie. The Aztec goddess . . ."
He nodded. "You mean Coatlicue? The bloodthirsty lady herself. When the Spaniards conquered Mexico, they really did a job on the Indians. They wiped out the old temples, but"—he overemphasized the conjunction—"they didn't wipe out the beliefs."
"Where did you get it—your tie?"
He shrugged. "A knickknack from Noelle. She's crazy about Coatlicue." He took another pull on his cognac, and a glint flashed in his eye. "Want to go to bed?"
Her eyebrows shot skyward.
He was humoring a tired child. "How long has it been since you've slept, Sylvia?"
She blinked, spoke too brightly. "I just slept for six hours straight."
"Excellent. And before that?"
"Yesterday. No. Two days ago."
"Shouldn't you get horizontal?"
"I am horizontal." She gripped the chair that threatened to swallow her up.
"Try your bed. One thing about the Eagle's Nest—guest accommodations are first-class."
Sylvia stood, swaying in a nonexistent breeze. She turned her back on Teague and carried her glass to the bar. With a flourish, she poured herself a second shot of vodka, then she added another dash. Using silver tongs, she collected two cubes of ice from a sweating silver bucket. It looked like silver. It probably was silver.
Sylvia leaned her hips against the bar. "How the hell do you stand it?"
Teague didn't answer, and she pushed. "How can you work for her?"
"Time to eighty-six you on the martinis."
She sipped vodka, shrugged.
"Right. I'll make this short. Noelle has been granted temporary status as Serena's foster parent."
Sylvia didn't even blink. "That was fast."
"Until the paternity issue is resolved, it's the most logical solution—"
"Is it?" She let her gaze travel the room. She was surrounded by all the trappings of civilized power—aesthetic grace, stateliness, wealth. And absolute control.
Noelle Harding controlled Serena's destiny. The Harding empire was a billion-dollar enterprise. If Noelle wanted press coverage, she got press coverage. If she wanted to take a young, innocent child under her wing—a child who might be her own long-lost niece—then who would stop her?
Teague frowned at her. "Certainly you agree this will serve the child's needs."
"No." Sylvia stood, suddenly rigid. "I don't agree. But Noelle gets what she wants." She turned her back on Teague.
Behind glass, the city was aflame. Beneath the darkening sky, buildings shimmered in dying sunlight. The Rio Grande was a golden ribbon wrapped around El Paso and Juárez and its neighboring barrio of Anapra.
Sylvia's tone bit the evening air. "What's the deal, Big Jim? How does it all work? It's something to do with the drug trade, isn't it? Did Noelle get pulled in when she was too young to know better?"
Teague said, "I can't answer that."
But he knew the answer—Sylvia could hear that admission in his voice. The fight went out of her.
The lawyer watched her for a few moments. Then he walked across the room, stopping only when he was inches from Sylvia. She looked up to see his eyes, and she could smell the cognac on his breath, feel his breath on h
er cheeks. He leaned down, even closer, and murmured, "Does arbitrage ring a bell?"
"What?" Sylvia knew she'd disappointed him because he shook his head and pulled away abruptly.
He said, "Maybe I'll see you up in Santa Fe one of these days."
She closed her eyes. When she opened them again, Big Jim Teague was gone.
SYLVIA SLEPT FOR two more hours. She awoke, stretched on the white couch, in darkness. Her body had stiffened painfully. Her neck ached. She stood unsteadily. Night had closed around the Harding Building. Groggily, she made her way to Serena's room. The nurse greeted her with a finger to moued lips. Sylvia nodded, stood over the sleeping child for several minutes, then retreated to her guest room.
She sat on the bed and studied the telephone's myriad buttons. At the moment Line 2 was blinking; she chose Line 4 and dialed the number Matt had given her. A man answered, "Pitkin here."
Sylvia said, "Dale? This is Sylvia Strange. Matt told me—"
Pitkin interrupted her with anxious questions: Was she hanging in okay? Was the child all right? Did she need anything? After only seconds of his sympathetic inquiries, Sylvia felt better. She asked for news.
Pitkin said, "You didn't hear this from me, but the latest word is the Mexican cops got your guy—Lorenzo Santos Portrillo—Renzo. He's got a hundred aliases."
A.k.a. Jesús. "Who did he work for?"
Pitkin hesitated—just for an instant. Then he said, "Ditto what I said before—he worked for Amado Fortuna. And for the federales."
Sylvia believed he'd also worked for Noelle Harding. But she had no proof—only gut instinct. She spoke slowly. "Dale? Do you know where I am?"
His voice was suddenly wary. "Eagle's Nest. The Harding penthouse—"
"I need to know something—"
"Sylvia, let's talk about this later. You'll be fully debriefed at some point."
She knew the lines might be tapped, and Pitkin did, too. But she pressed. "I've made a connection. I need to know . . . this Lorenzo, was he working for someone else, too?"