Sounds Of Silence

Eli was standing in the doorway looking at her.

“Okay.” She smiled and tried to see around him. Maybe he had a new partner, although why he’d have Isabel come all the way over here for that—

“Come here, Susie-Q,” Eli said, reaching behind his back. He tugged a small child into view by the hand—a little girl so beautiful it made Isabel’s eyes sting. She looked at Eli for an explanation.

“She’s deaf and doesn’t speak, Isabel, but she showed up at the orphanage yesterday with nothing but the clothes on her back and one shoe. And this.”

He lifted his other hand to show her a sealed plastic bag containing a closed switchblade knife.

THE TEXAS GATEKEEPERS:

Protecting the borders…and the women they love.

ELIZABETH WHITE

As a teenager growing up in north Mississippi, Elizabeth White often relieved the tedium of history and science classes by losing herself in a romance novel hidden behind a textbook. Inevitably she began to write stories of her own. Torn between her two loves—music and literature—she chose to pursue a career as a piano and voice teacher.

Along the way Beth married her own Prince Charming and followed him through seminary into church ministry. During a season of staying home with two babies, she rediscovered her love for writing romantic stories with a Christian worldview. A previously unmined streak of God-given determination carried her through the process of learning how to turn funny mushy stuff into a publishable novel. Her first novella saw print in the banner year 2000.

Beth now lives on the Alabama Gulf Coast with her husband, two high-maintenance teenagers and a Boston terrier named Angel. She plays flute and pennywhistle in a church orchestra, teaches second-grade Sunday school, paints portraits in chalk pastel and—of course—reads everything she can get her hands on. Creating stories of faith, where two people fall in love with each other and Jesus, is her passion and source of personal spiritual growth. She is always thrilled to hear from readers c/o Steeple Hill Books, 233 Broadway, Suite 1001, New York, NY 10279, or visit her on the Web at www.elizabethwhite.net.

Sounds of Silence

Elizabeth White

MILLS & BOON

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The Lord protects the foreigners among us. He cares for the orphans and widows, but He frustrates the plans of the wicked.

—Psalms 146:9

This book is dedicated to the missions ministry

of First Baptist North Mobile. Keep on

serving and sharing the Good News!

I’m grateful for my critique partners—

Scott, Tammy and Sheri—and my editor,

Diane Dietz. You make me a better writer.

Thanks as well to several people who lent their expertise as I researched details for this book. Glenda Perkins, teacher of hearing impaired students in Mobile County Public Schools, read the manuscript and gave great suggestions. ATF agent and former Border Patrol Agent Michael Knoll answered about a million questions with great patience and clarity. Cena Goff helped with nursing issues, and Ken Foster—firefighter extraordinaire—answered questions regarding, well, fires. Susan Howell answered a couple of horse questions. All mistakes are mine.

My friend and fellow author Jane Myers Perrine

helped once more with Spanish translation.

Thanks for your time, señora.

I would never have been able to give this book

the richness of detail it deserved, without observing

and interviewing several of God’s choice servants

who minister on the Texas/Mexico border.

Rosie, Aurora, Pastor Pablo, Dennis, Terry and

others involved with Texas River Ministries—

I pray for you regularly. Thank you for letting

me share Christ in your corner of the world.

Dear Reader,

Last year I eagerly accepted a spot in the van during my church’s annual trek to south Texas. I knew I was going to set my next book there and could simultaneously research and “do ministry.” I didn’t know it was going to change my heart.

The poverty, heat and dust were no surprise. But I also found warm hearts, bright smiles and the universal language of kinship in Christ. I discovered how richly blessed we are in the U.S. and that sharing my faith brings unspeakable joy.

Visiting Mexico prepared me to write Sounds of Silence, as I tried to put myself inside the skin of people not like me. How would it feel to be a traumatized, hearing-impaired orphan? What would it be like to violently lose your husband and then fall in love with a man in his same profession? Going to Mexico helped me to see that all of us experience seasons of deep need and loneliness—and that those in Christ have something to share, whether you’re a Spanish-speaking child or a Texas construction worker or an Alabama housewife.

Much of this story is filled with the starkness of the Mexican hills and border slums. But often in the greatest deprivation, God reveals Himself to be our true and faithful refuge. I encourage you to go to His Word, the Bible, to find strength and encouragement. If you have questions or if you have something to share with me, I would love to hear from you via my Web site, www.elizabethwhite.net. Or you may write to me at Steeple Hill Books, 233 Broadway, Suite 1001, New York, NY 10279.

In the meantime, I hope you enjoy the story! Stay tuned for On Wings of Deliverance, the third book in the Texas Gatekeepers series.

Blessings,

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Prologue

Ciudad Acuña, Mexico

Mercedes woke up when something nudged her in the ribs. By the reddish light coming through the beaded curtain, she could see her sister Lupe’s slender feet in scarlet high-heeled sandals. She sat up, rubbing her eyes and yawning.

Lupe had on a black leather miniskirt and a white blouse that glowed like neon in the dark storeroom. She’d let Mercedes try on the skirt yesterday, but it had reached to her knees. Laughing and showing all her beautiful white teeth, Lupe had clipped the waistband with a clothespin so that Mercedes could walk in it without tripping.

One day she would be beautiful, too, and men would buy her presents like the earrings that dangled against Lupe’s neck.

But not Pablo. She’d stay away from that bad hombre. He was handsome, with slick black hair and nice teeth, but he was mean. He gave Lupe a white powder that made her silly. Pablo had also given Lupe the black scab that cut across one of her fine eyebrows, and the bruises on her back.

Mercedes gasped when Lupe reached down and yanked her to her feet. She could tell Lupe was upset, moving her red lips in patterns too sloppy to follow, without trying to sign with her hands. Repeating herself, she shook Mercedes so hard her head snapped back.

No! Mercedes signed, jerking out of Lupe’s hands. That hurts.

Lupe’s kittenish face crumpled, tears streaking her makeup and leaving black mascara tracks under her eyes.

Get out, Lupe signed. Danger.

Mercedes shook her head. I don’t want to—

Lupe suddenly shoved Mercedes to the floor and glanced at the doorway. The beads swung as something bumped against them. Lupe’s face wrinkled in panic, and her lips moved—“Run!”

She turned to peer through the curtain.

Mercedes was pretty scared, but curiosity won over fear. Better to keep an eye on things than to run away like one of the chickens behind Hector’s bar. She crept toward Lupe on her hands and knees, feeling odd, thumping vibrations through the tile floor.

Kneeling beside her sister, Mercedes blinked against the sudden light of the neon signs above the bar. As her eyes adjusted, she scanned the scene. In the center of the room, surrounded by empty tables—it must be close to daybreak if there were no customers—two men were fighting. One was Pablo, dressed in tight black trousers and a black silk shirt. A sneer curved one side of his handsome mouth. He had both fists knotted at the throat of a tall, skinny Americano man whom Mercedes had seen a couple of times. She didn’t know the white man’s name, but figured he was rich. He gave Lupe money for soft drinks and cigarettes, and he’d bought her the black leather skirt.

Mercedes sucked in a gasp. The gringo was about to stick a pearl-handled switchblade into Pablo’s gut.

Then the fight quickly ended when Pablo reached down and yanked the knife from the other man. Twisting it, he thrust upward. The gringo sagged as Pablo stepped away.

Lupe grabbed Mercedes, who watched in horror as Pablo calmly wiped the knife clean and folded it shut. But as he stooped to lift the victim’s body under the arms, the knife slipped out of his hand and fell to the floor. Cursing, Pablo dragged the body outside, leaving the door open.

Shuddering as if she might fall apart, Lupe pulled Mercedes to her feet. Run! Danger! Lupe signed. Through the hole. I’ll be right there. She tried to shove Mercedes toward the back wall of the tiny room.

Mercedes started to obey, but when Lupe darted into the empty barroom, she followed. She watched through the beads as her sister snatched up the knife with the tail of her blouse. Nearly mowing Mercedes down on the way back, Lupe grabbed her by the arm and shook her roughly. Go through the hole! she signed. Hurry!

Frightened by the knife still clutched in Lupe’s other hand, Mercedes started to cry. Come with me, she signed. I’m scared.

Lupe calmed a bit, and Mercedes could see she was thinking hard. Getting down on her hands and knees, Lupe reached under the cot and found a plastic grocery sack. She dropped the knife in it and knotted the handles. I’m right behind you, she signed. Go!

Mercedes nodded. Maybe it would be all right.

Taking a deep breath, she scrambled under the bench against the wall, which was made out of a splintery two-by-four and a couple of cinder blocks. Behind the bench was a loose flap in the tar paper wall, which she used in the middle of the night when she needed to visit the outhouse.

She was about to go through the flap, when she felt heavy thumping footsteps against the floor. Pablo. He was coming. Peeking from under the bench, she saw his expensive shoes and Lupe’s red sandals. They were grappling hard, almost like a crazy kind of dance.

Mercedes’s heart jumped when the bag holding the knife fell to the floor right in front of her face. Without stopping to think she grabbed it and pulled it toward her. Obviously Lupe didn’t want Pablo to have it.

She should leave now. But what about Lupe? Was there anything she could do to help her sister? Flattening herself against the floor, she looked up and saw Lupe’s trembling knees, the flashing jewels in her ears. And Pablo’s evil face, contorted in rage. He had Lupe by the neck, choking her.

A wrenching silent scream tore her throat muscles.

Pablo flung Lupe to the floor just as Mercedes dove for the opening in the wall. She wriggled through head first, and had made it out to the waist before she felt Pablo toss the board aside.

She crawled madly, gashed her knee on a loose nail, and the pain stopped her.

Mistake. Pablo grabbed her heel.

She jerked her foot out of his fingers, pulling off her shoe, and shoved her hands hard against the wall. She burst into the open night air, tumbled down the rocky hill, and sat up when she reached the bottom.

Bruised and panting, she scrambled to her feet clutching the bag with the knife in it. Pablo would come after her, but it was a moonless night, and she knew the alleys of the colony better than he did. She had hidden herself many times when necessary.

She knew a place to hide that he’d never think of.

Mercedes took off running toward the hill where the Americans had built that big tin building last summer. She dodged from building to building, zigzagging so that Pablo couldn’t follow her.

Looking up, she saw the cross on the church at the top of the hill. Funny that it glowed so brightly, as if it were lit from within. No other light anywhere. The shape of the cross eased her fear.

She’d be safe when she got there.

Chapter One

Eli Carmichael was doing the Chicken Dance in a Mexican orphanage when God got his attention.

Encircled by children, he spun around with little Dulce Garcia clinging to his back. Despite two noisy floor fans, sweat was dripping off his nose and his T-shirt stuck to his chest. It was about 10:00 a.m. on this Cinco de Mayo morning, and impressive drafts of sunshine poured through the open windows onto the concrete floor. Had to be around a hundred and twelve degrees in here.

Even courting heat exhaustion, Eli knew what he’d seen: a mop of long black hair and two big dark eyes peeking around the doorway of the half wall between the dining hall and the chapel. As an experienced Border Patrol agent, he was used to noticing details. Furtive movements. Odd sounds and smells.

Eli blinked when he came around again. The little girl had disappeared.

The children dissolved in giggles as Dulce pointed over Eli’s shoulder at his younger brother Owen, who was in the kitchen flirting with the pretty young housemother, Bernadette Malone, better known as Benny.

“O-wen! O-wen! O-wen!” the children chanted, clapping and stomping in unison. Eli grinned, set Dulce down and headed toward the kitchen.

“You’ve got to be kidding.” But Owen good-naturedly allowed himself to be dragged into the game. As the children held hands and skipped, Eli watched his brother execute a barely recognizable Macarena.

“Who’s that little girl hiding back in the chapel?” Reaching around Benny, who was drying dishes in front of the sink, he snagged a bottle of water out of the refrigerator.

“What little girl?”

“About this high.” Eli measured at his waist. “Long black hair and big brown eyes.”

Benny gave him an amused look. “You just described every girl in the room.”

“I didn’t get a good look at her. She ducked when she caught me looking at her.”

Benny turned to count the children. “Ten,” she finished aloud. “They’re all right there, Eli.”

“I guess I was mistaken.” But he knew he wasn’t. Something fearful in those eyes made him ease back into the dining hall.

Skirting his brother and the circle of children, Eli slipped down the side of the Quonsetlike building. He ducked below the chest-high partition, beyond which rows of old-fashioned wooden theater seats faced a homemade lectern.

There was not much to steal here at Los Niños de Cristos Orphanage, but Eli didn’t like the fact that Benny and the children were vulnerable to intruders. Like many areas along the border, the crowded colony around the orphanage lacked sanitation, clean water and law enforcement. It was full of unsupervised children whose parents worked in the American-owned factories on the outskirts of the city. Teenaged boys ran in packs, stealing anything that wasn’t tied down.

The children’s singing and the roar of the fans covered any noise his sneakers might have made as he approached. At the doorway of the partition, Eli quickly stepped around the wall.

She cowered under the folding table against the wall, both hands covering her face, knees drawn up under her chin. Honey-colored forearms were mottled with bruises, one knee gashed open. Dried blood ran down that leg into a blue flowered tennis shoe. The other foot was bare, the toes scraped and the sole black with dirt.

He’d seen it a hundred times and never got used to it. Eli shut his eyes to get himself together before he acted.

Lord, give me Your strength and wisdom. This little one’s Yours. Help me not to scare her.

He got down on one knee. Except for a rhythmic shuddering, she didn’t move. He waited, taking in more details. She wore a pair of baggy purple gym shorts with a pink halter top. A string of multicolored plastic beads encircled one skinny wrist. Her fingers were delicate, perfectly formed. She was small, about the size of Eli’s five-year-old neighbor, Danilo Valenzuela.

The boy’s mother, Isabel, would melt if she saw this one.

After a moment of watching the little girl, his heart splintering into painful shards, Eli reached out a cautious hand. Ready to grab her when she bolted, he touched her bare foot.

As expected, the hands came down, but the expression on that flowerlike face struck him like a fist in the stomach. The eyes were fearless, narrowed in challenge, leaving Eli measured and found wanting. The tender mouth squared to reveal a set of clenched white baby teeth, missing the two upper front ones.

Which told him she was around seven years old.

He had no idea what he expected her to do, but it certainly wasn’t to reach behind her and flick open a pearl-handled switchblade knife.

Eli froze.

“Hey, sweetie, I’m Eli,” he said hoarsely in Spanish. “I’m not gonna hurt you. What’s your name?”

She continued to stare at him with fierce concentration, right in the eyes.

He smiled and dropped his gaze to the knife. There was dried blood on it. “Where’d you get that, baby? You need to give it to me before you cut yourself.”

Her knuckles whitened. He could hear her breath hissing between her teeth.

“Is that how you hurt your knee?” He turned his hand palm-up. “Come on…”

The knife shook in her fist. Eli looked up to find dark eyes, the color of sunflower centers, focused on his mouth. Her lips began to tremble.

“Thank You, Jesus,” Eli whispered when he felt the heavy coolness of the knife handle in his palm. “What’s your name?” he asked again.

She shrugged and knuckled her eyes.

Helpless, he looked around. If he went to get Benny, his little housebreaker might vanish. Absently he closed the knife and stuck it in the pocket of his jeans. He was on his own.

“We’re playing a game over there.” He tipped his head in the direction of the children’s laughter. “Wanna play?”

Big Eyes shook her head. But she leaned toward Eli.

“Okay, then we’ll just watch.” He extended his hand again, curling the fingers upward. “Come on.”

There was a long pause. To Eli’s relief, she laid her dirty little hand in his and let him help her out from under the table. She craned her neck looking up at him, and he smiled, but her expression remained serious.

Now what?

Isabel Valenzuela knew trouble when she saw it coming.

It had knocked on her door with alarming regularity since the day her son made his noisy entrance into the world. Five trips to the Del Rio Hospital ER and a standing appointment with the kindergarten teacher at Bethany Christian school had left her with no illusions about her parenting skills.

And when Eli Carmichael walked around the side of her house in full Border Patrol uniform at ten o’clock on a Monday morning, she knew she was in for it.

Mean Green. Big Trouble.

“Hey, Isabel, where’s Danilo?” Eli braced both hands on the endpost of the clothesline as if he had all day.

“He’s in school.” She continued to peg tiny spider-web-design briefs on the line. “What’s he done now?”

Eli gave her one of his slow grins, and Isabel suddenly wished she’d done more than twist her hair into a knot and stick a pencil in it this morning. Which was ridiculous. This was just Eli.

“He hasn’t done anything,” Eli said. “That I know of. I just need you to come with me to the station.” When Isabel’s eyes widened, he added hastily, “I need a favor. Nothing to do with Danilo.”

She frowned. As one of her late husband’s colleagues, Eli had for over a year taken it upon himself to help her and Danilo whenever they needed a man’s hand. He lived in an apartment down the street, and he was single, unattached and apparently lonely. So she’d humored him, letting him mow her grass and take Danilo fishing. Occasionally she baked him a plate of brownies in return.

That was it. Had he suddenly decided to change the game plan?

“Come with you to the station,” she repeated, stalling. “I’m pretty busy.” She kicked a bare foot at the wicker basket full of clothes.

“I’ll help.” Before Isabel could protest, he’d grabbed a couple of clothespins out of the cloth bag hanging on the line and reached into the basket.

Isabel worked beside Eli in silence for a full minute before she couldn’t stand it any longer. “So what do you need me at the station for?” She hadn’t been there since a week after Rico died, when she’d gone to pick up the stuff from his desk and locker.

Eli stopped whistling and looked at her over the top of a pale blue sheet. It was just about the color of his eyes. “I’m gonna let you take a look for yourself.” He leaned in to sniff the sheet. “This smell reminds me of my grandma’s house. She always let me hang clothes with her.”

“Bleach,” Isabel said. “I wondered why a single man would be so good at this.”

“See, you never know about people,” he said obscurely. “You had any bites on the house lately?”

He was talking about the For Sale sign in her front yard. Isabel beamed at him. “The agent called this morning. She’s bringing a couple by this afternoon. Sounds promising.”

Eli pursed his lips. “Oh.”

“I really need to sell,” Isabel reminded him. “I want to get settled in San Antonio before Danilo starts first grade. Wouldn’t be good to move him in the middle of the school year.”

“Yeah, I know.” He still didn’t sound particularly happy. “Maybe you should consider staying here.”

“Eli, we’ve been over this. My parents are dying to have us back in San’tone. Danilo’s their only grandson. Besides—” she pinned a washcloth with vicious energy “—the memories in this house are getting to me. Everywhere I look I see…” She hid behind the sheet, embarrassed to inflict such personal angst on a guy who was, after all, just a neighbor. It had been a year and a half since Rico died. Time to move on.

To her astonishment, Eli pushed the sheet aside and ducked under the line. He stood less than a foot away, tall and masculine in that crisp green uniform that reminded her so achingly of Rico. Then Eli took off his hat, revealing curly, sun-streaked hair and those sky-colored eyes. Isabel looked away.

This man wasn’t at all like Rico. Rico had been the life of any party, talking and joking and introducing anything that breathed to his Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Eli, she knew, was only thirty or so, but seemed older. Quiet, almost taciturn. She got the feeling he was afraid of her, which in turn made her very uncomfortable.