A Desperate Silence (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 3) (2 page)

     
The child raised her hand to grasp the silver medallion around her neck; her fingers closed around warm metal.

     
The harsh lights buoyed her toward consciousness just long enough so she could breathe the smell of medicine, hear the distant howl of more sirens, and feel the fleeting panic of loss.

A
T TWO-TWENTY A.M
., the child was wheeled into the emergency room at St. Vincent's Hospital in Santa Fe. The triage nurse on duty spoke with the ambulance attendants, discovering only that the child had been thrown from a wrecked car. There were no other known occupants—no driver to be found—no victims except the girl. A train crew had witnessed the collision of automobile and iron horse.

     
One of the ambulance attendants pulled the nurse aside and handed her a plastic bag with the child's few possessions. "We got the call; first they told Dispatch the kid was dead," he said. "Frigging E.M.T. trainee and he couldn't even find a pulse. It's kind of a miracle she survived."

     
The nurse took a long look at the injured, semiconscious child. Hispanic. Preadolescent—nine or ten years old. About eighty-five pounds, not small but scrawny. Wide forehead, high cheekbones, she'd be a knockout when she grew into that face. Bruises, old and new. Scratches on her hands and knees. A large bruise on her thigh. Scalp injury. Maybe there'd been abuse. Triage priority: serious, but not life-threatening.

     
The first rescue worker on the scene had thought she was dead . . . in an accident that bad, she
should
have died. The nurse knew the little one was this week's miracle.

     
The child was moved to Cubicle 5, where one of the emergency-room doctors began a physical examination. Bent over the gurney, hands working expertly: abrasion on the forehead, blood pooled in the left eye but originating from the scalp wound. No other obvious external injuries. There were still internal injuries to rule out. For that they would need cervical spine film and a CT scan.

     
The child felt hands on her face, her skin. Some emotion flickered into her consciousness—fear, sorrow? Someone was tugging her back to the world—she didn't want to wake up, and she didn't like the hurt or the butterflies of terror in her stomach. She went down like a rock through water.

     
One hour and forty-two minutes later, Dolores Martin, a social worker from New Mexico Children, Youth, and Family's Child Protective Services Division arrived at the hospital to deal with the unidentified child.

     
Ms. Martin, a woman in her midtwenties, had neglected to comb her hair, and her clothes looked slightly rumpled. She briefly interviewed E.R. staff and was informed that the child had regained consciousness. Seated on a stool next to the bed in Cube 5, the social worker spoke in English. "Hello, little one. You don't have to be frightened; I'm here to help you. Can you tell me your name?"

     
After several seconds of silence, the social worker repeated her short speech in Spanish. Then she touched the child's arm gently, and whispered, "
Jita, estás sana y segura
."

     
If the child felt safe and sound, she did not say so. Her velvety brown eyes slid away from the woman. Her sigh was almost inaudible. She turned her face to the wall. She wished Paco were with her, holding her hand in his rough fingers, smelling nicely of pencils, paper money, and tobacco. These people were a sea of green, and their voices were big and jumbled. She clutched the silver medallion. Pictures flashed through her head—the hours of sleep and travel, noise and motion jarring her awake as the Honda was forced off the road, the demon's soft angry voice, Paco falling in his own blood.

     
Worst of all, the way the demon stared at her—never once blinking—as if he could kill her with his yellow eyes.

     
Without a sound, she bit through the skin on her knuckle.

     
Outside the curtained cubicle, Ms. Martin cornered the E.R. doctor, who was probably in his early thirties, with an athletic build and a brusque manner.

     
The doctor waved a chart and said, "Nothing abnormal showed up on the CT scan, and there was no evidence of spinal injuries on the film. She's mute because she has preexisting organic problems—or because she's scared out of her wits." As he spoke, his manner softened, becoming a mixture of fatigue and sympathy. "We can admit her to Pediatrics for a day, or you can use your department's resources. It's up to you."

     
At about that time, a reporter from the
New Mexican
gathered a basic description of the accident for a short column in the next day's edition; he recognized an eye-catching headline when he saw one—
CHILD DRIVER SURVIVES CRASH WITH LAMY TRAIN.

     
The officer who had written up the single-vehicle accident arrived at the hospital. Ms. Martin asked the stolid officer to take custody of the unidentified minor and transfer custodianship to C.P.S. with a forty-eight-hour hold.

     
Ms. Martin sighed.
An unidentified child had run a car into a train on Highway 285. When that mute child was admitted to the hospital, no one claimed her
.

     
As she pulled aside the curtain of Cube 5 to gaze at the child, her words were barely audible. "Oh,
jita
. . . let's hope the gods are traveling with you."

     
When she had signed off on the custody paperwork, the social worker checked her watch: 3:59
A.M
. She decided to request an emergency preliminary psychological evaluation for the child.

CHAPTER TWO

T
HE PRIEST OPENED
his huge black mouth and squawked. Sylvia Strange was about to tell him to go to hell—he was hurting her ears—but he waggled one long, scolding finger at her and pointed to the telephone.

     
Shit, the priest in her dream was right—it
was
the phone.

     
Sylvia tried to sit up in bed, but something held her down. As she elbowed her way toward consciousness, she registered the fur tickling her mouth and the hot weight crushing her chest.

     
Both her dogs had sneaked into bed again.

     
She was fairly certain she managed to groan, "Off!"

     
Nobody moved, but a voice mumbled, "Phone."

     
Except for a thatch of dark hair, Matt England, the man in Sylvia's bed, was obscured by duvet and dogs. He had been asleep for less than twenty minutes, and he was already exhausted by a run of fourteen-hour days courtesy of the New Mexico State Police.

     
Sylvia mouthed, "I got it." She managed to free her numb right arm from the combined dog weight of 110 pounds. Nikki, the big animal, gazed at her with rueful eyes. Rocko, her terrier mutt, yawned. Sylvia slid off the side of the bed, her baggy pajamas tangling around her legs. From a squatting position on the floor, she managed to reach the telephone receiver. As she placed it to her ear, she caught a glimpse of the digital clock: 4:21
A.M.

     
"This better be good."

     
"C.P.S. has a kid at St. Vincent's who needs a psych eval. You're it."

     
"Wrong." Not for the first time it occurred to Sylvia that her colleague, Dr. Albert Kove, had a truly irritating habit of sounding professional—and awake—at any hour of the day or night. She shook her head, failed to clear the fog of R.E.M. sleep, and mumbled, "Call Roberto, he does kids."

     
Details of her waking life were starting to seep through the haze. She had stayed up past one o'clock working on a chapter of her book. She was on deadline. She was on sabbatical. She needed sleep.

     
And Roberto Casias was the Forensic Evaluation Unit's child expert, for Christsake.

     
As she was about to let the phone slip through her fingers, she heard Albert Kove's command—for an instant his image merged with that of the finger-wagging priest.

     
"Wake up, Sylvia. In case you don't remember, Roberto is away, and you're on call for his emergencies."

     
"But—" She blinked rapidly.

     
"And your sabbatical ended at midnight. Get your butt to the hospital."

     
Synapses weren't working correctly in her brain; she was sure she had a valid reason to protest this emergency call, but in her groggy state she couldn't remember what it was. Reluctantly, Sylvia asked, "What's the kid's name?"

     
"She doesn't have a name. She's got the clothes on her back, a coloring book, a necklace, and a stick of bubble gum." Albert's voice softened. "She's ex parte. She's not talking. That's why they want you."

     
"Did you tell me which hospital?"

     
"St. V.'s. The social worker says she's got puppy-dog eyes."

     
Sylvia sighed. "Does your mother know how you behave when she's not around?" She heard Albert's rumbling laugh just before she hung up the phone.

     
Someone whimpered, and Sylvia tipped her head back, mouth open. Dog eyes were staring down at her, brimming with reproof.

     
She shook her head. "Have pity, guys."

     
Matt's sleepy voice drifted out from under the covers. "Take Nikki with you." The Belgian Malinois was all business. Not trained as an attack dog but the closest thing to it.

     
Sylvia left for the hospital fifteen minutes later with the alert shepherd by her side. Her lover and her terrier stayed behind, soundly and snugly asleep in her bed.

T
HE CHILD CRIED
out in the darkness. The demon was coming for her again—a thin shadow, wearing his pale face and the silver bracelet on his arm. He was far away at first, but always plunging closer with a soft growl more terrifying than any roar.

     
And for the thousandth time, she froze—unable to fight, unable to run. She was a helpless bundle on the bed, arms and legs as useless as wood. Because she couldn't move, she was afraid to make another sound—perhaps she could hide.

     
He stank of medicine and blood. And he brought a hot dusty wind wherever he went. His face appeared above her own—his unblinking yellow eyes staring down at her, burning into her skin. His lips curled over thick white teeth. As the child stared up in horror, a drop of blood slid from his mouth over his lower lip; it fell, ever so slowly, to land on her cheek. She wanted to scratch and bite, but she couldn't move.

     
She heard Paco's voice from such a great distance that it was only a faint, sad whisper. "How did you find us?" And then he pleaded in Spanish: "Don't hurt her! She doesn't know—"

     
The child moaned. Couldn't she save Paco from
el demonio?
She tried to jump up, but the demon was on her throat, holding her down—

     
Suddenly she remembered Paco's secret prize, which he had entrusted to her. Her breathing raced, she trembled.
Where was Paco's secret now?

     
Then the image played in her memory, so bright it seared her mind: the demon hovering over Paco, the sudden spurt of blood.

     
Turn. Run. Fight!

     
She woke with a start. She yelled. Her right arm lashed out at the demon's face.

S
YLVIA HEARD THE
yell but pulled away too late—the child's fist caught her square on the cheek. Thunk.

     
Safely out of range, she touched her fingers to the skin immediately below her left eye, gingerly inspecting for damage. The area was numb, just beginning to sting; from experience, Sylvia imagined she was going to end up with a respectable shiner.

     
Roberto Casias would owe her big-time when he returned from his forensic psych conference.

     
She considered the child. Dwarfed by the hospital room, she looked as young as eight years old. At the moment, she was no longer punching. Instead, she had made herself even smaller by curling up in a fetal position on the bed.

     
"So we know your vocal cords work," Sylvia said. Her cheek had begun to throb. "And you've got a mean right hook." She knew the social worker had tried speaking to the child in Spanish without results, but Sylvia was looking for any reaction, for the barest flicker of comprehension. "
¿Cómo se dice
'fighter'
en español?
" She wasn't worried about grammatical errors, and she settled on the first nonword that came to mind: "
¿Boxador?
"

     
The child turned her face away, and her thumb slipped into her mouth.

     
The thumb sucking and the fetal position were regressive behavior for an eight-, nine-, or ten-year-old. Sylvia's voice dropped for her version of a movie tough guy—rendered in truly awful Spanglish. "
Tienes un
mean
derecho
hook." She stepped five paces from the bed and slapped her hands together.

     
The child flinched at the sharp clap of sound.

     
"And your ears seem to be working.
Muy bien
, we're off to a swell start."

     
Until they heard from Dr. Strange, the staff at St. Vincent's would defer their decision on whether to transfer the child to a room in Pediatrics. In the meantime, E.R. bays offered opportunities for exploration that might arouse a child's curiosity. Sylvia turned her back on the child and made a show of peering into a cabinet filled with hospital gowns, then searching through a drawer packed with tongue depressors.

     
Her eyes were drawn to a small pile of clothes strewn on a chair. The child's possessions had been forgotten in the face of pressing medical questions. Sylvia gently folded yellow cotton slacks and set them on top of a faded pink T-shirt. A hospital admissions clerk had provided a plastic Ziploc bag for small items. Albert Kove had confused the facts—there were
three
sticks of bubble gum. In addition, the baggie contained two broken crayons, three dimes, and a supple plastic coin case, the same kind Sylvia had carried as a kid.