A Desperate Silence (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 3)

by Sarah Lovett

  El demonio, a dark blade of fury racing toward her mother. The demon had stolen Elena's life.

  A cry of pure grief escaped the child. Through tears, she could barely see the third panel—a man trapped behind bars: her father, dying because she wasn't with him.

  Sobs wracked her small body as she traced the image with her fingers.

  She had painted Paco almost flying—with a baby bundled in his arms. He had told her the story so many times. And she had grown up in those arms—this home.

  Then she began to race around the room crying all their names.

  Breathless, from the center of the floor, Serena cried out, "Good-bye, home! Good-bye."

  THE PAINTED VISIONS filled Sylvia with awe. They expressed a level of passionate intensity that was almost frightening. Everything came together on these walls—the child's trances, her prayers, her drawings, her incredible strength of will, her vibrant life-energy. And her isolation.

  Sylvia had almost reached Serena when she stopped abruptly, her gaze on the farthest mural. She saw a very small child, a girl who knelt on bare knees, face raised toward the Virgin. A beam of light arced from goddess to child.

  The child in this story had been chosen.

  SYLVIA FELT A small hand clasp hers. She knelt down and kissed Serena's forehead, wiping tears from the child's face.

  In a voice that cracked with emotion, the child whispered, "Anapra."

  "Home?"

  "Old home. Good-bye, old home."

  Sylvia looked deep into the child's eyes, and she could believe Serena had been chosen; she had been touched by something extraordinary.

  She whispered to the child. "Oh, Serena, you kept your vow of silence."

  Serena blinked, nodding slowly, as if she had just awakened from a dream. "It's time to get my daddy," she said softly.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  "PERDÓNAME, PADRE." Forgive me, Father. Renzo Santos appeared from his nest beneath a fraying blanket. He crept out from behind the wooden pew, leaving a trail of blood as he crawled across the chapel floor.

  His sweat- and blood-soaked clothes clung to his body. His dark hair was slick as sealskin. Blood still oozed from his shoulder, although his vessels should have dried to dust. White powder stained his nose and face. He'd snorted the last of his drug, and the chemicals were galloping horses trampling his brain.

  He crawled past rough wooden pews, approaching the altar and its nimbus of a hundred votive candles, most burned out by now, each flame representing the suffering of man, woman, or child. It took all Renzo's strength to cover two feet, three, four . . .

  He moved through light and dark, hampered only by his half death. The first bullet was poisoning his body. The second bullet was eating away his power like a rat gnaws through cheese. Was he hours or minutes from dying? It was dawn, the time of day when even churches and cathedrals are abandoned except by the truly wretched. Renzo was terrified to leave this earth.

  Death was bad enough—but if he left with a black moon and no confession . . .

  Sacrament . . . absolution . . . blood sacrifice . . .

  He slid his knife from the sheath strapped to his ankle. He flipped the blade; in candlelight it shimmered, alive. He pressed the cutting edge to his left forearm—he pushed down through flesh. He lifted the now bloody blade and moved it down his arm almost an inch, cutting. Finally, he set the blade to his wrist and cut again.

  As he watched the swell of thick red fluid, he hungered for the taste of lifeblood.

  But Renzo let the blood run freely from his arm to the chapel floor, where it soaked darkly into the rough adobe mud.

  His blood offering . . .

  It was a miracle he was alive. He had barely escaped across the river. Once out of the stinking water, he found refuge in a massive concrete pipe that dripped raw sewage into the Rio Bravo. Bloodied, weak, shivering, he had crawled up the pipe like a suckling crawling back into the womb to undo his own birth.

  Now time was moving backward, and he had no idea how long it had taken to reach the other end of the pipe. But eventually, he had fallen back down into the world. And when he landed, he found himself deep inside the barrio of Anapra. His mother-the-puta's womb was a miserable slum where each and every man was invisible.

  Renzo Santos Portrillo was only one among millions of miserable human beings.

  From there, he made his way to sanctuary.

  A violent tremor wracked Renzo's ruined body. He fell to his side, knees clutched protectively to belly. He lay still, his breathing shallow. Even in the haze of blood loss, the fevered dementia, the drug delusions, he knew that certain factions within the federales would work to protect him. After all, he was one of their own. He had tortured and murdered on assignment; he had been paid with federal currency; perhaps the very same money that Amado Fortuna had paid to the federales in bribes.

  His was a world of favors bought and sold—coercion, terrorism, torture, death.

  Other members of the federal judicial police would refuse to admit their failure to apprehend an international criminal. They would refuse to lose face in front of Los Estados Unidos and the F.B.I.

  Which gave him time . . .

  Was someone there? Or was his mind playing tricks? What did the priest say? Renzo could not hear, so he whispered, "Venga del oscuro, Padre." Come out of the dark, Father.

  The tendons in his neck stood out like thick cords as he lifted his head. He gazed upward, expecting to see the face of the priest. Instead, it was a woman who looked down upon him. Sweet face, brown skin, lips kissed by rose petals. Her boundless, deep-lidded eyes sent out rays of light, beams so powerful they froze Renzo where he huddled on hands and knees.

  "La Virgen . . ." Her eyes closed, light fading, and only in her soft glow could he move again. He reached out one trembling arm, fingers straining to touch the hem of her green cloak. Now he saw she radiated sun rays.

  Renzo did not know if his lips moved when he said his prayer. Was he thinking or speaking? It did not matter, because the Virgin heard his every word.

  He felt her hand like a ray of fire scalding his brow. She was burning away his mortal sins. As she leaned down, he heard the rustling of her green cloak. She whispered to him, giving him permission to do what he must do. She warmed him in her boundless light.

  Agonized and weeping, Renzo Santos began the endless walk of absolution.

  When he reached the chapel door, he inched his way through. He thought he wouldn't be able to stand again. Muscles shivered violently.

  The drug state would reach its zenith soon—and then it would fade, the last of his strength draining away with the chemicals.

  Voices brought him back to the world.

  The voice of the child.

  And the voice of Coatlicue—his destroyer.

  He shut his eyes, his body shuddering as a spasm overwhelmed him. He used his fingers as claws. Slick and wet, they found purchase. He stood upright. And now he gripped his knife in one hand.

  Renzo saw the first man standing near the open doors; he was facing the courtyard, speaking quietly to his friend, who must be outside.

  Renzo moved across dirt floors. Twelve, maybe fifteen feet to the kitchen—an ocean to a dying man. Without a sound, he took up position against the wall. And then he brushed the toe of his shoe against newspaper that had fallen to the floor. The rustle was barely audible, faint.

  But it was enough to draw the man. When he stepped into the kitchen, Renzo gripped him from behind, left arm across the throat, right hand thrusting deep and swift with the blade.

  WHEN SYLVIA STOOD, she found herself looking straight into Noelle Harding's impassive face. For an instant, she saw nothing—then the emptiness was replaced with a convincing expression of concern.

  Noelle shifted her focus to Serena and smiled warmly. "You're a brave girl, and we need to get you home."

  Serena refused to relax her grip on Sylvia.

  Noelle turned toward the man who had appeared at the doorway
. "I think we're finished here," she said.

  He nodded, then froze at the sound of a heavy thump. It came from outside, the ground floor.

  "What was that?" Noelle snapped.

  With a low, urgent whisper the man spoke into his radio. At first the only response was silence, then a male voice: I'm here.

  What was that?

  I'll check it out—

  But almost simultaneously, the sound of a single gunshot reverberated in the air. The man moved quickly back along the portal, out of Sylvia's sight.

  She reached for the child, but Serena was gone.

  Both women ran toward the door—and Sylvia gave a startled cry at a second explosion of gunfire. She heard a man yell out—and something clattered down the stairs.

  Sylvia reached the doorway first—she stepped through only to be pushed out of the way by Noelle Harding. Serena was nowhere in sight.

  Harding was calling out for help when the apparition appeared twenty feet away at the top of the stairway. He was no longer the smooth, dangerous man who had stolen Serena across an entire state.

  This thing had just stepped out of the mouth of hell. Bleeding, filthy, crazy written all over his face. He took a step forward, then another, weaving as he moved.

  Noelle was rooted in place. Sylvia called out to the other woman, then she backed away. She hit the wall behind her and felt cool metal against her skin. A hand ladder, ten rungs leading to the rooftop.

  The man was only a few yards from Noelle Harding. He mumbled phrases in Spanish. Prayers? Denials? Sylvia didn't understand the words. But she heard Noelle's response.

  She spit out words as if they were burning her mouth. "You were supposed to kill them both, you bastard!"

  Lorenzo Santos Portrillo blinked as he pulled the trigger. The first bullet went wide. The second hit Noelle in the forehead. The woman's mouth jerked open as her head was forced sharply backward.

  SYLVIA GRABBED THE metal handrail and pulled her body toward the roof. Her foot slipped from the rung, her sweaty hands almost lost their hold. She chinned herself the final two feet. Just out of reach, enclosed by grillwork, Serena was huddled in the farthest corner of the widow's walk.

  When the child saw Sylvia, she skittered forward, reaching out to help.

  Sylvia blinked. The dawn sunlight was brilliant and blinding, draining the color from the world that fell away below. Her fingers clutched at the grill. She hung on, her eyes locked on the child. Her breath tore in and out of her throat, her heart hammering against her chest. She needed one more burst of strength to lift herself up onto the roof—

  Serena screamed, "He's coming!"

  At the same instant, Sylvia heard harsh, labored breathing.

  She twisted just in time to see the demon reaching for her with one bloody hand. She swung her body out, thrusting her legs forward. He dodged impact, and his fingers caught one of her ankles.

  His weight pulled her down, and her hands were quickly losing their grip on the metal grill. She cried out, a soft sound that grew to a growl. When Serena's fingers closed around her wrists, she almost didn't register their warmth. She managed to lift her chin, just enough to see the fierce look on the child's face.

  The demon's fingernails cut through Sylvia's skin, and he tugged like a shark yanking dumbly at its prey.

  Strength fading, Sylvia kicked at him with her free leg.

  I'll never let you have this child—she wasn't sure if she spoke the thought aloud.

  At that moment, she heard Serena cry out.

  "You killed my mamá!"

  Adrenaline ripped through Sylvia—she wasn't going to let the demon hurt Serena again. She managed a last jarring twist, wrenching her body away from the wall. He was forced off balance, and her foot hit him dead on.

  He grunted—a look of surprise crossed his face—then he fell back with arms spread wide, almost flying.

  The fence gave way on impact, and his body dropped over the wall, bouncing off the adobe base, off rocks, then rolling down the cliff to land at the feet of four street urchins who were trailed by a small mangy dog.

  The children had been drawn by the sound of gunfire. While three of them kept their distance, the fourth—who was bolder than his compañeros—raised the sharp stick he used as a cane and prodded the battered body, once, twice, just to make sure the demon was dead.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  THE SUN WAS SHINING when Cash Wheeler left North Facility for the last time. The man walked with an odd hitch to his left leg, eyes squinting in the bright light. He looked pale and naked as a newborn mouse. His arms were held tightly to his sides, as if accustomed to limited space. For an instant, Sylvia saw panic flare in his eyes; she held her breath. The hitch grew more pronounced for a few steps as he regained self-control.

  An hour earlier, in a borrowed office in North Facility, Sylvia had taken a seat next to Cash. She had waited quietly while he pulled himself together. Several times, when the tremors became so intense his teeth chattered, she gripped his arm. Without looking up, he nodded his thanks. It took him minutes, but at last he forced himself to meet her eyes.

  He found his voice, hoarse and half broken. "I can't face her now."

  Sylvia nodded. "Take your time."

  "I threw up this morning." Cash hunched into himself. "I don't know how to be a father . . ."

  "You can learn. Your daughter will help you."

  When the inmate looked up at Sylvia, the pain cleared for a moment, and he took a deep breath.

  After Noelle Harding's death—and the events that followed—Big Jim Teague had worked twenty hours a day to gain Cash's release. In the end, it was granted by a governor who was on his way out—and who had socialized with Noelle Harding.

  DNA had proved Wheeler's paternity of Serena—and an agreement was reached with Child Protective Services. Sylvia would have custody of the child until Wheeler adjusted to freedom and fatherhood.

  Outside, they walked side by side, Sylvia silently counting the paces until they would reach Rosie and Serena. Matt stood off by himself, obviously caught up by the drama, and looking both vulnerable and satisfied.

  She recognized the look on Serena's face. Love. And wonderment. And a touch of terror.

  When less than ten feet separated father and daughter, Cash slowed. Sylvia followed his lead, coming to a standstill. A cold wind scattered dust, grass, feathers from a bird across asphalt. In the distance, a perimeter-patrol vehicle slowly skirted the high metal fence. The C.O. behind the steering wheel had his arm dangling out the window. The regulation shotgun—visible even from sixty feet—was mounted beside him. A jackrabbit dashed past the vehicle, flushed from its lair.

  Serena made the first move. She took four paces forward until she was directly in front of her father. Then she looked up, smiled tentatively, and took the last two fingers of his left hand in hers. Cash moved forward to keep pace beside his daughter, headed anywhere and nowhere in particular. They crossed the parking lot, the big man and his little girl. The other three watched them go.

  At last, when Cash and Serena had almost reached the beginning of the road, the man knelt down, then sat on a rock that had been painted white by prison crews. The child sat next to him—on another rock. He bent his head, his shoulders beginning to shake. Silently, Serena wrapped her arms around her father.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  AT EIGHT-FIFTEEN on a Wednesday night, the Bar-B was deserted except for the bartender and a lone customer who lounged in one of the faux leopard-skin chairs. After a three-month relationship conducted via E-mail and long-distance telephone calls, Sylvia had a firm picture in her mind of Joshua Harold, private investigator: six feet, 185 pounds, fifty-five, gray-blond hair—Crocodile Dundee without the Australian accent.

  The Harry who now stood before her in the bar was in his midthirties, five-eight, two hundred pounds—most of it muscle—and skin with the sheen of dark chocolate.

  The man made Sylvia crave a candy bar.

  She shook
his hand and sat at his table. He was drinking a Santa Fe Pale Ale, and he'd worked an inch off a hand-rolled stogie. Sylvia smiled broadly.

  "What?" Harry's question was friendly.

  "I had you pegged as a natural blonde."

  Harry's laugh was a loose, rumbling baritone.

  Sylvia ordered a French martini from the bartender, and then she focused on Harry. "You have any more of those?"

  The cigar did a three-sixty rotation between his lips, and his eyebrows flicked up, then down. "Sure. I don't let them go to waste." When she didn't retreat, he pulled a cellophane package from his breast pocket. As he gently worked the wrapping loose, the single gold band on his right middle finger caught the light. He was dressed in a dark jacket, light-colored shirt, black jeans.

  The bartender brought Sylvia's martini to the table. She tested the drink—made with premium vodka and Cointreau—and the alcohol brought slow heat to her belly.

  "Good?" Harry nipped the end of the cigar with his pocketknife. He flicked his lighter, and Sylvia drew the blue flame in the direction of her mouth, igniting sharply pungent tobacco. The strong fumes made her skin tingle; she felt the rush—the brief flash of wooziness. She exhaled and washed the taste down her throat with a sip of martini.

  Harry tugged on his beer, all the while watching the psychologist. His smile was just beginning to wear lines around his mouth, his chin had sprouted a few days of beard, and his eyes worked with his face to communicate an almost indecent level of acumen.

  Feeling his assessment, Sylvia was suddenly self-conscious, aware of this stranger who seemed like a friend—a man she hardly knew but who knew more about her family than she did.

  Harry smiled again, glancing away, perhaps to give her time to collect herself without scrutiny. After a few moments, he said, "You called your mother."

  "Yeah." Sylvia hid behind the martini glass. "We had a good talk. She's coming to visit for a week."

  "Bonnie's quite a woman." Smoke escaped his lips; it swirled in oily patterns through the air. "She says you're a foster mom. A little girl?"