A Desperate Silence (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 3) (25 page)

     
"Cash is expecting you tomorrow morning at nine o'clock. I know you're never late." Noelle perched briefly on the chair next to Sylvia, flashed a smile, and glanced at her wristwatch. "Before you meet with my brother, you'll have questions for Jim about the case, so I'll leave you two alone." She stood and walked toward the door. Her stride was light and agile. She set one hand on the doorknob and said, "I want you to come up to the house tomorrow night; I'm having a get-together. A fund-raiser, but we'll find some time to talk. I want to hear how it goes with my brother."

     
Noelle raised her eyebrows, and her face held a hint of the coquette. "You're welcome to bring your friend—Matt England?" And then she was out the door, leaving a void in her wake.

     
Sylvia raised her eyebrows. A get-together? She'd just been invited to the Rescue Fund Gala—at the Frank Lloyd Wright house. She turned back to Jim Teague.

     
He was bent over a faded orange file folder, effectively masking any response to Harding's demand that he cooperate with Sylvia. He said, "For the most recent appeal my best paralegal produced an abstract of the entire case to date. You're welcome to look at it."

     
Behind the file and Teague's mass, a four-paned window offered a view of the Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe Railway spur. At the moment, a shiny silver locomotive occupied the track. Sylvia recognized it as the American Orient Express, the local that carried tourists the twenty-odd miles to Lamy for dinner and drinks.

     
The same train that had collided with a Honda just a few nights ago.

     
She said, "I'd prefer a brief summary from you."

     
Teague lowered the file; his face looked slightly pink. He cleared his throat and said, "I don't think you appreciate how brutal the crimes were. Especially Elena's murder. From the forensic evidence, the stab wounds were inflicted in a manner that caused suffering." He coughed. "The pathologist reconstructed a rough chronology. She did not die quickly."

     
"She was tortured?"

     
"In the pathologist's opinion."

     
"What did the prosecution use for motive?"

     
"Cash was under extreme stress. Unmarried father of an unwanted child. A marital crisis."

     
"Was that true? Was the baby unwanted?"

     
"Cash Wheeler was nineteen years old," Teague said. "I think he experienced deep conflict over the child's birth, but I have never doubted his love of Elena Cruz."

     
"Now you're a shrink?"

     
Teague laughed, caught off guard. "I always put my client's needs first." He began again with a deep sigh. "Cash Wheeler and Elena Cruz met at St. Sebastian's School in El Paso. They grew up together, fell in love, and eventually, they became lovers. In the fall of 1984, when Cash was barely nineteen and Elena was sixteen, she got pregnant. She gave birth to a baby girl in a Catholic charity hospital; the nuns tried to convince her to give the child up for adoption. She insisted she wanted to marry Cash."

     
"Noelle says that Elena called the baby Angelina."

     
The lawyer nodded, fingering the fringe on his jacket sleeve. His voice settled into its honeyed stride. "Cash left Texas after the baby was born and ended up in Loving, New Mexico, looking for work. Loving's a town of roughly eight thousand; in 'eighty-five, the population was approximately half that number. Cash took a room at the Sunshine Motel. It's been torn down since, but at that time it was located about three miles outside of town. When they redid the interstate back in 'eighty, it was a motel for road workers. But times change, and on that particular Thursday, Cash was the only customer."

     
Sylvia realized she had shifted in the chair, tilting forward, and her back was uncomfortably stiff. She could hear the faint noise of the railroad and motor traffic coming from outside.

     
Teague didn't seem to notice, continuing with the story of the murders: "The motel owner's wife was at the desk that afternoon when Elena Cruz arrived, dusty and exhausted from buses and hitchhiking. She'd run away from the nuns, and she'd been traveling all day with a colicky baby."

     
"Was Cash at the motel when Elena arrived?"

     
"No. He'd started the day looking for work but ended up in a bar. Drank enough to get loaded, then the bartender threw him out." Teague took a breath. "Meanwhile, the owner's wife let Elena into the room, closed up the office, and drove into town to run errands. She left her husband napping in his room behind the office.

     
"Three hours later, she found his body in the parking lot. He'd been hacked to death." His voice wavered. "Elena had been stabbed thirteen times."

     
Sylvia was startled by the shrill blast of a whistle; outside, the train . . . Her concentration swayed for a moment, then settled again on the lawyer.

     
"The prosecution had a field day. Cash Wheeler was found in the motel room with Elena's body. He was covered in both victims' blood." Pause. "His prints were on the knife." Teague took another audible breath, and the silence stretched. "The baby's body was never found."

     
Sylvia said nothing, but the images were vivid in her mind. "Did Cash confess?" she asked.

     
"His story was this. He claimed he didn't know Elena was coming that day. After he was tossed out of the bar he wandered around by the river, fooled around, smoked some marijuana. He was depressed about not getting work. When he arrived at the motel, drunk and stoned, someone attacked him. He doesn't remember who—or anything else, until he heard the motel owner's wife screaming."

     
"What about the baby?"

     
"The Pecos River runs deep and fast about a quarter mile east of where that motel stood. It's actually a good fishing river. Two witnesses, fishermen, saw a man standing on the middle of a wooden bridge that spans the river. They said the man dropped a small bundle into the water. Later, searchers found a blanket but no body. They never found a body."

     
"So they couldn't accuse him of murdering the child."

     
"They didn't need to. They got him for Elena's murder and the murder of a witness. Under the state's new death-penalty statutes." Teague shrugged "Public opinion branded Cash guilty of the baby's murder, too."

     
"The case was tried in Hubbs?"

     
"Cash had a public defender. He and his sister had no money—until she married 'oil' a few years later. That's when I got involved."

     
"Was it a fair trial?"

     
"The witnesses were reliable—as witnesses go. There were no obvious procedural errors. It was straightforward. That's made it difficult to gain a foothold on the appeals." Teague hesitated, seemed to be debating something, then apparently made up his mind to continue. "Due process was served—unless you don't like the idea that a district attorney made his career on the conviction."

     
Sylvia leaned back in the leather chair and allowed the story to settle into her bones; there was a lot to absorb. The silence didn't seem to bother Teague. He sat quietly with his own thoughts. On one wall, a fine old train clock ticked comfortably.

     
When Sylvia finally asked a question, Teague seemed to have forgotten she was still in the room. She said, "I've got plenty of questions, but let's start with one. If Cash Wheeler didn't murder Elena Cruz, who did?"

     
"Ah, that's the pickle, isn't it?" The lawyer twined his fingers and set his elbows on his massive desk. His small eyes sparkled with intelligence.

     
"We were never able to get far on our only other lead. It seems there was a weird kid named Jesús. He was in love with Elena and sick with jealousy—or so Cash has always claimed. There was some evidence that Jesús disappeared in Mexico." Teague sighed. "It didn't sit well with the jury."

M
ATT FLIPPED A
chicken breast over the hot flames and said, "State police found a Chevy Suburban, license plate KCZ 310, bloodstains on the driver's seat."

     
Sylvia sat up abruptly in the lawn chair. "Where?"

     
"Outside Columbus, near the Santa Theresa border crossing into Mexico. It was abandoned."

     
"So he's gone?"

     
"Maybe." Matt was cautious.

     
"You think he's still around?"

     
"His vehicle is four hundred fifty miles from Santa Fe. He probably is, too. From your description—and the amount of blood in the vehicle—he was in bad shape. He'd have to be superhuman to present a threat in the near future."

     
"But if this is about drugs, there might be other guys—"

     
"There might. That's why the child is where she is. For the moment, she's safe."

     
Sylvia sighed. Ten minutes earlier, she'd arrived home from Jim Teague's office to find Matt tending the barbecue. Now Rocko pushed his cold, wet muzzle against the palm of her hand. She scratched the terrier's head, murmuring a half-truth, "The vet says Nikki might come home soon, Mr. Rock. You'll have your sweetheart back."

     
What the veterinarian had actually said could be interpreted in several ways: Nikki was still in critical condition, but she was an exceptionally strong animal. There was a good chance she would recover.

     
The wiry mutt grunted. His muzzle quivered and his nostrils flared as he picked up the scent of grilling chicken and green chiles. The smells were too tantalizing to resist; Rocko trotted over to sit beside Matt and the rusty, well-worn barbecue. One short bark, and Sylvia saw her lover slip the terrier a tiny scrap of meat. Matt's absolute rule for dogs: no rewards for begging. He broke it all the time.

     
Matt prodded the cooking chicken with the tip of a long fork. "How did it go with the kid today?"

     
"It's getting pretty interesting." Sylvia took a sip of a very pleasing cabernet. "I told you I'm working with the scripted narrative form, using the Grimms? I think Serena's responding." She saw his eyebrows raised in query, and she shook her head, anticipating the question. "She hasn't started speaking aloud. Not yet. But she will."

     
"Isn't Grimms too
grim?
" Without appearing to, Matt watched Sylvia transform—when she went into her abstract shrink-think mode, whatever
that
was, she came up with some amazing stuff.

     
"The Brothers are fabulously gruesome and perfect for kids. The tales deal with separation anxiety, death anxiety, all the mortal fears children experience so deeply—they deal with these fears directly, offer solutions, and they work on different levels."

     
"If I sit in your lap, will you read me a story?"

     
But Sylvia was on a roll; she held up fingers, listing facts: "Serena was kept in an enclosed space, some type of controlled environment—when she's outside, she hides, she buries, her actions are obsessive. Her internal mythic motif is highly developed—it's clear in her artwork and in her response to fairy tales and bedtime stories. She's religious, spiritual—even mystical.

     
"I'm wondering about Serena's primary caregiver. Was it the man? Serena responds easily to maternal attention—the bathtub routine, the milk and cookies, the story." Consternation twisted Sylvia's mouth. "What if she's completely alone—"

     
"Then she has you." He was matter-of-fact. "One thing about you, Sylvia. You won't let her down."

     
Sylvia's eyes were wide with worry, but she smiled, letting the weak rays of October sunshine soak into her skin. Ivory Joe Hunter's version of "Since I Met You Baby" began to play on the portable CD player. She closed her eyes, tapping her fingers to the lazy rhythms, and suddenly the tang of green chile drifted in front of her face. Opening her eyes, she saw Matt's hand—and an edible offering. She accepted, tasting the rich flavors of wood smoke, grilled meat, and the hot bite of Hatch chile. The very last of the fresh crop for another year. There would be snow and ice, holidays, rain, mud, and one-hundred-degree temperatures before New Mexico's chile was ready for another harvest.

     
"Can we forget about work for a few minutes?" Matt kept his eyes on her face.

     
She yawned, smiled, shrugged. "Already done. I was thinking how much I love you." The aftertaste of chile was beginning to burn on her lips.

     
"Liar." Matt grinned. "If I know anything, you were still thinking about the kid. Or food."

     
She stood slowly and stretched. "I'm lucky."

     
"I know." He watched suspiciously as she moved slowly toward him. "Why?"

     
"I've got a man who's a terrific cop, a fabulous fuck, and a gourmet cook."

     
"Grilled chicken and chile, that's gourmet?" Matt slid his arms around Sylvia.

     
"Absolutely."

     
"Whaddaya know." He let Sylvia take his right hand in hers. She pressed against him and began to lead him in a slow dance. Matt groaned—embarrassed, secretly pleased—but he didn't resist.

     
For a minute, neither of them spoke. Just the two of them, alone and slow-dancing on the small wooden deck, sheltered by a coyote fence and isolation. Two lovers, a mutt, and some curious ravens on the power pole.

     
When the song was almost over, Matt began to talk in a soft voice that was almost a whisper. He was talking to the top of Sylvia's head, but she heard him. He said, "I want you to know something. I'm the lucky one. I know you love me." His fingers pressed against the ring she wore on her left hand—the ring that had belonged to his great-grandmother. "And you're committed to our relationship."