A Desperate Silence (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 3) (36 page)

     
She wanted to call out, to cry for help. There were people around. But she'd seen something else—she'd seen the man slide his hand under his jacket, his hand grazing the butt of his weapon.

     
He watched her—waiting to see how she would react.

     
She could cry for help—he would shoot the child. He could kill her—but he'd still have to get out of town, away from witnesses. He couldn't shoot
everybody
.

     
She took a step toward the Cadillac.

     
He took a step toward her.

     
Checkmate. They stared at each other, exhausted.

     
Sylvia shook her head and spoke softly. "I won't do anything stupid." She reached out her right hand and pressed her palm to the window of the car. On the other side of glass, Serena reached out two fingers.

     
The man spoke in English with the voice Sylvia remembered. But it was smoother, more refined. He said, "I'm going to drive out of here, and you're going to stay right behind me. In sight. If you do what I say, she lives."

     
Sylvia nodded. Her mouth had gone dry as dust. She licked her lips and tried to swallow.

     
"Do you need some help, lady?"

     
Sylvia almost jumped at the sound of a new voice. That same stupid trucker was asking stupid questions. She barely looked at him. "I'm fine."

     
"You sure you're okay?"

     
"I'm
fine
." Sylvia's voice cracked on the second word. Cutting her eyes away, she saw the kidnapper's fingers close around the butt of his weapon. She turned toward the trucker and forced herself to flash him a wide smile. "Hey, I'm really fine.
Really
. But thanks for asking."

     
The trucker nodded, hips jutting forward aggressively. He shot the other man an ominous look, then walked away with a swagger.

     
Sylvia felt like she was going to melt into the ground. She said, "I need to fill up the Ford."

     
He nodded. "I'll be watching." He shielded his eyes with his hand—a bracelet gleamed on his wrist—and he looked up. The air moved with the sound of heavy blades.

     
Sylvia stared up at the sky. A helicopter dipped low over the station. She felt her stomach drop. The troops had arrived.

M
ATT CAUGHT THE
phone before the first ring was even a bleat. "Talk to me."

     
Dale Pitkin said, "They picked up your truck and the Cadillac at Alamogordo."

     
"Sylvia—"

     
"Seems to be fine. But Matt—"

     
"What?"

     
"It's turning into an O.J."

     
"Shit."

     
"Noelle Harding threw her weight around—called the governor of Texas, the governor called the regional head of the F.B.I. They've got snipers in the air, feds on the ground, at the border. All they're missing is the damn army. These guys get trigger-happy real easily."

     
"What route is he taking?''

     
"He's cutting from Alamogordo straight down Fifty-four to El Paso. By now he should have about ten cops on his tail. He should reach the Rio Grande at oh-six hundred hours."

     
"With the sunrise. We're ready to go on this end." Matt lowered his voice. "Run Renzo Santos Portrillo through your computer. See what you get."

     
"That him?"

     
"Looks like it. That information is courtesy of our mutual friend."

     
"This Renzo—if that's who he is—he's calling himself Jesús."

     
"How the hell do you know that?"

     
"As soon as he saw the choppers in the sky, he made contact with the feds. He's been on his cell with the F.B.I. hostage negotiators."

     
"What's his deal?"

     
"He says he wants to bargain."

     
"He's a goddamn professional assassin for the
federales
. He's probably killed ten, fifteen, twenty men easy. He's not going to fucking bargain unless the chips are on his side." Matt paused, imagining the scene on the highway. He said, "Can the snipers get a bead on him in the vehicle?"

     
"Tinted windows. He says the kid's in his lap."

     
"I believe him."

     
"The command point is I-Ten near the bridge." Pitkin paused a moment. Then he added, "Matt? Your lady's going to need all the help she can get."

R
ENZO FOLLOWED
1-10 as far as Sunland Park's urban sprawl where highways diverged and U.S. 85 cut south below the interstate. The Ford pickup was thirty feet behind him; behind the Ford, a half dozen cop cars kept rush-hour traffic at bay. A space of maybe fifty feet in front of the Cadillac was clear; cops were funneling traffic to the sides of the interstate. A mile or so ahead, the interstate followed a rise, and from there all the way through El Paso, it was bumper-to-bumper.

     
An El Paso P.D. car was parked at the head of the off ramp to U.S. 85. Renzo almost tore paint off the vehicle when he took the ramp. Glancing quickly at his rearview mirror, he watched the Ford swerve—scrape past the police unit taking paint
and
metal—following the Cadillac's lead.

     
Now he was on U.S. 85—divided highway, two lanes each way. Almost immediately, two cop cars passed him on the left, pressing ahead. Renzo kept the space tight. He glanced over and saw the light on his cell phone blinking—hostage negotiators.

     
He held the phone to his mouth, switched it on, and barked, "I changed my mind." He hung up before any of the feds had a chance to reply.

     
The cops slowed in front of him, not responding to orders from the helicopters but because they had no choice; commuter traffic was stacking up. Renzo knew he had two and a half, three miles or so before he reached the heart of El Paso. He'd just passed a small cemetery, and then the industrial waste of Smeltertown north of the highway. This was the triangulated intersection of three states—New Mexico, Texas, and Chihuahua—all rubbing shoulders under the shadow of Cristo Rey Monument, the white cross crowning the Mexican peak. It was territorial hell for law enforcement: city and state cops,
federales
, I.N.S. and border patrol, U.S. Customs, the D.E.A. and the F.B.I., not to mention E.P.I.C.'s U.S. military reinforcements and Mexico's army.

     
Renzo took in the lay of the land: the train tracks running on both sides of the highway met and flowed together on 85's northern flank; the Rio Grande/Río Bravo edged the highway's south side. The highway itself was a chain-link, concrete, and asphalt canyon between river and railroad.

     
One mile to go.

     
The child moaned—maybe she was whispering. Her eyes were half closed. She crouched on the front seat beside him, praying—she reminded him of a crushed flower.

     
Renzo checked his rearview mirror. The Ford was still with him, gaining a few feet perhaps. He tapped his foot on the brake pedal twice in quick succession. The truck backed off, heeding the brake lights. Renzo imagined the woman must be dazed from exhaustion by now—in Carrizozo, he hadn't allowed her to buy food or drinks. He hadn't let her use the rest room.

     
Now he watched the terrain vigilantly. He was coming up on the location where U.S. 85 ran closest to the Rio Grande. It was the last dip before the highway cut north again. The stretch of several hundred feet was a favored location for border jumping. The chain-link fence was continually trespassed by illegals using wire cutters to slice through the metal barrier. The fence was accessed in at least three or four locations on a given week.

     
Cop cars still pushed fitfully against the solid lanes of traffic seventy feet ahead of Renzo. Behind, more cop cars regulated the heavy traffic to a slow-running stream. The Cadillac and the Ford were two ships isolated in a small two-hundred-foot sea of calm.

     
He saw a gap in the fence, passed it, slowing. Forty feet along the road, another gap. He spotted the three-foot-high split when he was thirty feet away. As he lifted his foot from the gas pedal, he heard a roar overhead. A helicopter appeared, swaying, chopping air with its massive rotors. The child's eyes shot open, and she gasped. He reached over a restraining hand as the helicopter disappeared over the roof of the Cadillac. He heard it traveling away from the highway, the roar receding like a wave.

     
Renzo braked. As the Cadillac rolled quietly to a stop, he cut the engine. In a chain reaction, the Ford jerked to a standstill. Then the cops ahead realized what had happened, and they cut sideways and braked. Finally, the cops in the rear sounded sirens, and two lanes of traffic, hundreds of cars and trucks, came to a grinding halt.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

I
N THE MIDDLE
of U.S. 85, Sylvia cut the Ford's engine. Waves of heat rolled off the hood of the truck. The smell of burning rubber and exhaust stung her eyes. She sat immobile in the heavy air, sweat slick on her arms and face. Her window was rolled down, but there was not even a hint of breeze; every other vehicle within her immediate view was enclosed, air-conditioned. Through the windshield, just beyond the divided highway's northern bank, the stacks of an industrial mill belched black smoke into the already hazy sky. Looming in front of the mill, the railroad trestle had cut north, skirting Mexico, bridging New Mexico and Texas. A truncated freight train idled on the tracks.

     
Directly behind the Ford, the highway was clear for several car lengths; beyond the clearing, traffic backed up for miles. Where a trooper on a motorcycle had muscled his way between the two eastbound lanes, Sylvia had a view of asphalt.

     
To the south, she could see a battered and torn chain-link fence bounding the highway and the Rio Grande. Somewhere in the middle of that filthy river, the world became Mexico. On the opposite bank, a small, stooped woman dressed in red and white followed a river path. Behind the woman, slums crawled up the sides of the desiccated mountains.

     
Where the kidnapper was headed.

     
She swallowed—her parched throat aching—as she watched the driver's door on the black Cadillac swing slowly open. The vehicles were so close, the Ford nudged the Seville's bumper. When the Cadillac shifted on its shocks, the Ford rocked sympathetically.

     
No one stepped out of the Seville. Sylvia swallowed again; this time, her dehydrated tongue refused to relax, and she fought off the panic that she would choke to death stalled in traffic at the end of the world.

     
Ten miles in either direction, U.S. 85 was a solid metal zipper of cars, vans, buses, and trucks. The Cadillac and the Ford were wedged together in the eye of a gigantic urban storm. But the road might have been empty; all Sylvia could see was the open door in front of her. Nothing moved.

     
Finally, he emerged—
they
emerged—like a shy blind creature reluctantly stepping from the dark of a cave. The man seemed to be squatting behind Serena—using her as a belly shield; the child's legs hung limply against his thighs. Somehow, he must have tied her over his chest—a blanket was draped over both their heads serape-style so they melded into one amorphous body. There was no way to tell if she was injured or unconscious, alive or dead. Behind a fold of colorful fabric, Sylvia saw a shape that might've been his hand holding a gun.

     
The silence surprised her. She had expected to hear the F.B.I. announce its presence, assert its authority. Instead, she was startled by a shrill ring; it came from the interior of the Cadillac—the kidnapper's cell phone. Sylvia guessed it must be the F.B.I.'s hostage negotiators, who would be working to establish and maintain rapport. The last thing they wanted to do was spook a desperate perp.

     
She realized the Ford's steering wheel had dug an angry welt into her thigh. She took a breath and released her muscles. Without moving her head she could see at least four law-enforcement officers—shielded behind official cars, squatting between the stationary lanes of rush-hour traffic. She heard the roar of the helicopter—more than one; the news crews had smelled the scent of blood—but the noise of the engines faded quickly.

     
Along U.S. 85, a hundred faces peered out from behind windshields: parents driving children to school, men and women headed for the office, Mexican citizens who had just crossed the border for a day's work. They were all frozen together in this surreal montage: kidnapper, child, cops.

     
Sylvia's skin itched, pain shot along the back of her neck. She imagined she could feel the bead of a sniper's rifle, and she knew Serena's kidnapper felt it, too.

     
Reluctantly, she moved, hefting a thousand pounds just to press down on the latch, push the Ford's door open. White light stung her unprotected eyes when she stepped out of the truck. She felt the shift of weapons in the world, the kinetic force of action, reaction. Sights repositioned on a moving target. She licked her lips, inched her arms upward until her palms were level with her face; she pictured the ridiculous image of a mime pressing against an invisible windowpane.

     
She took a first step toward the man and Serena, her knees shaking so badly she thought they might actually knock. She had to pee; that urgent realization hit her, but all she could do was contract her muscles.

     
She took a second step, and a voice boomed out from the heavens: "This is the F.B.I. Stay where you are. Get down on your knees. Put your hands behind your head."