A Desperate Silence (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 3) by Sarah Lovett Page A
Authors: Sarah Lovett
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starving, thirsty, dusty, and scared to death. At the appropriate time, Sylvia would call the C.P.S. hotline to let them know the child was safe.
But she wasn't going to move until Serena showed herself.
She didn't have to wait long. Over the soft and steady touch of rain, a furtive rustling signaled that the child was moving. Nikki whined. Then Sylvia felt a small, warm body curl up next to hers.
R ENZO S ANTOS STARED at the small slip of paper for such a long time, the red letters and numbers blurred to a soft gray haze. The name and phone number belonged to the psychologist he'd seen at the courthouse, the tall brunette with the dogs. Where had the tiny stain of blood come from? He focused on the blood, let it blear, then, with effort, brought it back within its boundaries.
Had he tried to find the girl?
The windshield of the Suburban was beaded with water; the road was wet. Renzo had no memory of rain. He peered out at the dark, shining road. A hundred feet away lights reflected off the asphalt of another road—the interstate. So where was he? Parked along a frontage road; that was stupid and dangerous; a cruising cop would pull over to check out a stranded vehicle.
He flicked on his high beams; they illuminated a white highway sign— LA CIENEGUILLA —and an arrow directing traffic west. Had he driven there?
He'd lost himself, but for how long? Minutes? Hours? How long had his mind been gone this time? To regain control of his body, he began to make small movements, testing his senses. He flexed a finger, he stretched his jaw. When he peered in the rearview mirror, he saw dust around his nostrils. He had a foggy memory of snorting a line—hadn't he used the new drug? Yes, he'd opened one of the new vials . . .
And then he'd wandered deep into nightmares.
Renzo was not used to nightmares. As a boy, he'd learned not to dream. The same way he'd learned to deny his mother-the- puta 's drunk ravings. She would wake him late at night, after she'd come home from the streets to their plywood shack on the edge of town. She would climb under the blanket with her son and cry; about the first time she was raped—at seven years old. On those nights, he had hated his mother most of all because she was weak—a victim. On those nights, he banished all thoughts of her from his mind.
Banishment didn't work tonight. For that, Renzo blamed Paco's betrayal and, mostly, the shock of discovery just days ago. The news that Paco had crossed the border and was running north hadn't surprised Renzo. Paco was weak—Renzo had always said as much. How could you trust a man who didn't want to bloody his hands? Paco had always been different—he'd kept himself separate from the others—and that fact alone made him suspect.
When Paco ran, Renzo followed. He'd picked up the bookkeeper's trail almost instantly, and he'd tracked him almost as far as Santa Fe. In the middle of nowhere, he'd cornered his prey.
But then a ghost had walked toward him out of the darkness, so small, a child . . . with her mother's face. A child who refused to die.
Renzo stirred when he felt a tremor. Was that fear? No. Something was vibrating—the car or the earth? Then it became clear: the pager on his belt. He knew who would be paging him: Amado Fortuna. Tuna. The Big Fish.
Ah . . . Renzo nodded. He moved his mouth, waiting for words to formulate, rehearsing what he would recite for Tuna. Found our friend . . . how many nights ago? Another issue to deal with . . . another problem No, I have not found your property. Not yet .
While his eyes strayed around the dark interior of the vehicle, he saw something that revved his heartbeat and shot adrenaline into his bloodstream. The needle of the gas tank showed a quarter tank. He had filled up at noon. And then he'd driven thirty, maybe forty miles
But she wasn't going to move until Serena showed herself.
She didn't have to wait long. Over the soft and steady touch of rain, a furtive rustling signaled that the child was moving. Nikki whined. Then Sylvia felt a small, warm body curl up next to hers.
R ENZO S ANTOS STARED at the small slip of paper for such a long time, the red letters and numbers blurred to a soft gray haze. The name and phone number belonged to the psychologist he'd seen at the courthouse, the tall brunette with the dogs. Where had the tiny stain of blood come from? He focused on the blood, let it blear, then, with effort, brought it back within its boundaries.
Had he tried to find the girl?
The windshield of the Suburban was beaded with water; the road was wet. Renzo had no memory of rain. He peered out at the dark, shining road. A hundred feet away lights reflected off the asphalt of another road—the interstate. So where was he? Parked along a frontage road; that was stupid and dangerous; a cruising cop would pull over to check out a stranded vehicle.
He flicked on his high beams; they illuminated a white highway sign— LA CIENEGUILLA —and an arrow directing traffic west. Had he driven there?
He'd lost himself, but for how long? Minutes? Hours? How long had his mind been gone this time? To regain control of his body, he began to make small movements, testing his senses. He flexed a finger, he stretched his jaw. When he peered in the rearview mirror, he saw dust around his nostrils. He had a foggy memory of snorting a line—hadn't he used the new drug? Yes, he'd opened one of the new vials . . .
And then he'd wandered deep into nightmares.
Renzo was not used to nightmares. As a boy, he'd learned not to dream. The same way he'd learned to deny his mother-the- puta 's drunk ravings. She would wake him late at night, after she'd come home from the streets to their plywood shack on the edge of town. She would climb under the blanket with her son and cry; about the first time she was raped—at seven years old. On those nights, he had hated his mother most of all because she was weak—a victim. On those nights, he banished all thoughts of her from his mind.
Banishment didn't work tonight. For that, Renzo blamed Paco's betrayal and, mostly, the shock of discovery just days ago. The news that Paco had crossed the border and was running north hadn't surprised Renzo. Paco was weak—Renzo had always said as much. How could you trust a man who didn't want to bloody his hands? Paco had always been different—he'd kept himself separate from the others—and that fact alone made him suspect.
When Paco ran, Renzo followed. He'd picked up the bookkeeper's trail almost instantly, and he'd tracked him almost as far as Santa Fe. In the middle of nowhere, he'd cornered his prey.
But then a ghost had walked toward him out of the darkness, so small, a child . . . with her mother's face. A child who refused to die.
Renzo stirred when he felt a tremor. Was that fear? No. Something was vibrating—the car or the earth? Then it became clear: the pager on his belt. He knew who would be paging him: Amado Fortuna. Tuna. The Big Fish.
Ah . . . Renzo nodded. He moved his mouth, waiting for words to formulate, rehearsing what he would recite for Tuna. Found our friend . . . how many nights ago? Another issue to deal with . . . another problem No, I have not found your property. Not yet .
While his eyes strayed around the dark interior of the vehicle, he saw something that revved his heartbeat and shot adrenaline into his bloodstream. The needle of the gas tank showed a quarter tank. He had filled up at noon. And then he'd driven thirty, maybe forty miles
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