Acquired Motives (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 2)

by Sarah Lovett

  Kevin watched the red light and his pulse began to race. He lifted the gasoline can and poured a mixture of paint thinner and kerosene over Jesse Montoya's bound, naked body. The fumes excited Kevin. He was overwhelmed by the reek of kerosene. He had memorized the explosion, the burst of flames.

  But this time, he would risk the wrath of Killer. This time, the kill would be his. He had to prove he wasn't afraid; that he wouldn't be sick like the last time.

  He stared down at the rapist. Jesse—coughing, sputtering—looked away and closed his eyes. The accelerant had soaked the tape bindings and glistened on naked flesh.

  From the corner of his eye, Kevin saw Killer moving his way. The camera was on him. He didn't let himself think about his next move. Strutting hollowly for the camera, he pulled matches from his pants pocket. He was surprised at how numb he felt as he deliberately struck a match, let the book ignite, and tossed the tiny inferno in the air. It fell. Kevin saw it drifting in slow motion. Actually, it began in an instant. Jesse Montoya screaming as his body exploded like a fireball. Flames raced hungrily over skin and earth, gobbling up the trail of flammable fluids.

  Kevin was thrown back by the blowout, his yell fueled by surprise and the rush of panic. But his cry ended abruptly when he felt the brunt of Killer's rage—one boot stroke across his temple.

  BENJI MUÑOZ Y CONCHA experienced a moment of intense pain as the dark form of Velio Cruz melted in front of his eyes. The air was so hot it scalded his skin. He cried out, felt his body sucked off the ground until he was hovering above the death house. He looked down and saw Velio Cruz, Rosie Sanchez, and Sylvia Strange. They were huddled around a small dark form on the ground.

  Benji knew he had become someone else. A stranger. A dying man.

  For an instant, he thought death might be an eternity of pain, a burning hell like they told you in church. Then, the panic subsided, the smells, sounds, sensations eased off and he was flying. His body glided above the road, across the dark green reservoir, into the first soft rise of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. To the west, the lights of the city shimmered like something alive. Each separate illumination was so intense, so beautiful, he had to turn his eyes away. He looked north and saw the Rocky Mountains stretching forward, the tortured spine of a great beast. He wanted to fly on forever except the sky was afire. Flames climbed one hundred feet above the ground where the air was thin, without taste. He could see sparks in the distance, blowing closer. The muscles in his arms and legs no longer responded to his commands. An owl matched flight with him, wings aflame, flapping in slow motion. When the bird looked his way, it had the eyes of Velio Cruz.

  He heard the ponderous whoosh of air under the bird's wings. The owl's beak was sharp and black. It stretched out its body, beak tweezed open, and tore the flesh on his arm as it passed.

  He cried out. Below him, he caught a quick glimpse of swirling gray wings—two witches fighting over a dead fox. No. . . the fox was a man. And he was burning.

  Suddenly, he could no longer keep himself up, and he was plunging back to earth. As his body gained momentum, the ground flew up in his face.

  KEVIN WRENCHED HIS pant leg away from the flames and rolled. Pain streaked across his cheek and skull. He swore as he slammed into a tree. Dazed, he hauled himself to his knees, then stumbled to his feet. He was overwhelmed by the sickening smell of kerosene smoke and burned flesh. Nausea stopped him. He vomited.

  When he could, he checked for damage. His fingers felt loose, wet skin on his face—Hurts like hell—and came away bloodied. Killer had cut him, knocked him, stunned him good.

  He looked around, checked out his surroundings. Jesse Montoya's body was still burning—the stink was awful—and Kevin felt sick again. But the man was probably dead. Kevin turned his attention to the fire that had started in the nearby trees. The flames were moving quickly, all business. They darted up branches, danced in the pine needles and dry leaves.

  He tried to get his bearings—which way was the road? He stumbled forty feet in the wrong direction, turned himself around, started off again. He lunged from tree trunk to trunk. It took forever to reach the road.

  The truck was gone. So was his bike. No, wait a minute, the bike is there. In the stippled shadows he saw metal gleaming. His head had cleared enough so his progress down the road was almost steady. He straddled the Honda. Turned the key. Pressed the starter button and cranked the throttle. The bike roared to life.

  That's when he saw the headlights in his rearview mirror. They blinded him. Coming from the main road. Killer had come back for him. Kevin balanced on one foot, spun the bike around, and accelerated toward the truck. Adrenaline raced through him. Then panic. It wasn't a panel truck. It was a pickup with metal tanks instead of a bed. Official vehicle. U.S. Forest Service.

  He heard a man's voice call out. Saw the flash of shiny black metal. A gun?

  But it wasn't a gun, it was a spotlight—and they caught him in the beam.

  He revved the bike's engine and pushed off. The Honda 750 terraplaned over the washboard dirt road, shimmied across a Forest Service cattle guard, and grabbed the blacktop of Highway 4. Kevin kept the bike straight and smooth, his head clearing as the wind tore over his skin. The mountain landscape flew by in a blur of road, speed, adrenaline—and the ultimate thrill.

  The truck was behind him, but slow. He was losing them.

  Jesus, I killed a man. He accelerated to seventy, eighty, ninety.

  The bike between his thighs was pure power. He saw the curve ahead. Saw the gleaming lights of Santa Fe a few miles in the distance. A hazy glow in a canyon of darkness.

  Kevin slowed to fifty miles per hour as he approached the turn. He heard faraway sirens; they were after him, made him feel high. I matter. The cops were probably waiting at a roadblock. Waiting for him. Not Killer.

  For all his size, Kevin became one with his motorcycle. He was a fluid and daring driver. He leaned into the turn. The wind stung his wounded face. He saw the lights of Los Alamos, and they looked almost within reach. There were other lights, closer. Red and pulsing, like the video camera, only big. Cops. Coming his way, up the road. He aimed straight for their headlights.

  VELIO CRUZ RAISED his wet mouth from Benji's arm. Between white teeth, he gripped a long metal splinter. Rosie gasped. Sylvia caught her breath. Her first thought was that Cruz must have hidden the damn thing in his mouth. Her second thought was that Benji was healed. His clothes were soaked through, his hair lay damp against his skull, his eyes were bloodshot. But he was smiling wanly, and his skin glowed. He was a man reborn.

  Sylvia swayed suddenly. The heat under her skin seemed unbearable.

  Rosie placed her palms against Sylvia's throatand whispered, "You're on fire, jita." She wrapped her arms around Sylvia's shoulder. Velio Cruz walked toward them.

  Sylvia brushed away her friend's arms angrily, and said, "I'm fine."

  Cruz stopped in his tracks when he was three feet from Sylvia's face. He stared at her with his san paku eyes. The whites of his eyeballs were yellowed and bloodshot. He took the spike from between his teeth and held it like a needle.

  He said, "This dark energy, this witch . . . it touched you, too."

  They were face-to-face, neither one moving. Sylvia didn't know how long she stood there, but she was aware that her breathing now matched that of Cruz.

  She whispered, "I'm not your patient, Velio."

  His concentration didn't waver when a sudden shrill sound broke the air. Sylvia jumped, her heartbeat took off. It took her a moment to recognize the sound of her own pager. Relieved, she stepped away from Cruz and peered at the small digital numbers. She caught the last three digits: Matt.

  She felt something pressed into her hand. Rosie's cell phone was cool against her fingers. Rosie shrugged. "I'm not allowed to go anywhere on the grounds without it."

  Matt picked up on the second ring. He said, "I wanted to be the one to give you the news. They just found Jesse Montoya. He was set on fire, like Randall."
/>
  Sylvia pictured Augustine Montoya's weathered face, heard his whisper, Vienen las llamas de juicio. And he'd been right, the flames of judgment had come.

  Matt said, "Deputies pursued a suspect on a motorcycle. He got away, but they ran the plates. Sylvia, it's not Dupont White. It's Kevin Chase."

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CAFÉ ESCALERA WAS filling quickly with the Friday lunch crowd, but there were two empty seats at the bar. Sylvia and Dr. Albert Kove sat on the tall stools, and the bartender set lunch menus in front of them.

  The downtown restaurant was a study in spare elegance. Parallel runners of white canvas draped the ceiling in gently billowing fabric clouds. Tiny capped bulbs glowed like carnival lights. All this in a room that had been part of the old Sears department store a decade earlier.

  Kove decided on a mixed green salad. Sylvia ordered a steak sandwich that came with a mound of Escalera's famous shoestring french fries.

  While she and Kove waited for their food, Sylvia sipped tart lemonade and stared straight ahead into the long mirror that graced the wall behind the bar. The stark white tables, the tiny lights, and the view from the balcony windows on the opposite side of the room were all visible in the glass. Sylvia's gaze was drawn to the reflection of a slender woman with brunette hair and dark almond eyes that swallowed you up. It took her a moment to recognize herself.

  Kove added a spoonful of sugar to his iced tea and gave Sylvia a slow sideways glance. "So, I had a call from the attorney general's office, and another from Probation and Parole. They want to know if we had any 'warning signs' on Kevin Chase?" He kept his voice low.

  "Albert, between you and me, I see warning signs all the time." Sylvia spoke in a furious whisper. "Most of the time, they come to nothing, but I never ignore them. Yesterday, Frankie Reyes agreed to begin Kevin's revocation process. But you and I both know that takes time." She had twisted her lemonade straw into a spiral; now she knotted the plastic ends.

  Kove sank his chin in the palm of one hand. His words were careful. "Your client is a fugitive for two murders. Don't get snippy with me."

  Sylvia shook her head impatiently. "Okay, Kevin's borderline. He's weird, he has bizarre relationships where he's the passive participant." The tortured straw flew out of her fingers and landed on the floor of the bar. "But if Kevin's involved in these murders, he didn't work alone. He doesn't have the aggressive drive to be a solo serial murderer."

  Kove said, "Last night two Forest Service employees witnessed a man who fits Kevin Chase's description fleeing Montoya's murder scene. They were sharp enough to get his license plate number."

  The bartender placed a new straw next to Sylvia's glass.

  "I'm not saying he wasn't there. I'm saying he wasn't alone." Sylvia frowned. "Kevin needs to prove his manhood. That might make him vulnerable to someone like Dupont White." A part of her mind automatically continued the shuffling and evaluation of facts, and she guarded them like cards in a poker hand. Psychology wasn't a hard science: she did her best to understand a client's problems, stressors, cycles, and motivations; she did her best to predict future behavior. Then she made judgment calls that would affect the course of a human being's life. Sometimes, the whole thing was very messy.

  Like now. The thought of a client under her supervision committing brutal murders made her sick.

  She was startled out of her thoughts when Albert Kove patted her hand gently. He said, "Don't look now, but Marty Connor's coming this way."

  Sylvia stared diligently at the mirror and spoke in a low voice. "Bend-over Marty? Marty-who-knows-everything-about-everyone? Marty the governor's bagman?"

  "Be nice."

  She turned and just had time to set a boundary with one hand. The Bagman actually made her skin crawl. She said, "Hello, Marty."

  The Bagman placed his beer on the bar between the two psychologists. He grasped Sylvia's palm. She retained her composure—and extricated her hand. He was a scrawny man with a pink and shiny bald spot that was bordered by longish hair.

  Marty signaled the bartender for another beer. He said, "Anchor Steam on tap. If you haven't tried it, you should." Sylvia noticed that the Bagman wore silver spurs on his cowboy boots—they jingled. His pants were cuffed, the center crease was paper sharp.

  Albert sensed that Sylvia was about to insult the Bagman and he interceded. He tapped Marty on the shoulder, and the man turned, palm extended in a knee-jerk offer to shake. His tiny features worked themselves into a grave expression.

  The Bagman's brows twitched and met above his nose. "So you poor children have a contract coming up for renewal." He noisily sucked the head off his beer. "A little late, I'd say. Me, I'd move at warp speed to put this Kevin What's-his-name thing to bed." He sighed as if to grieve the fact there was only one Marty "the Bagman" Connor in the world.

  Sylvia took a slow sip of lemonade; her heart was down in her shoes. The Forensic Evaluation Unit's contract with the state came due every two years; the performance review for renewal had already begun. If Kove was going to retain the contract with the courts, it would happen by the end of summer. She knew what the contract meant to Albert. Everything. It meant just about that much to her.

  The Bagman dripped beer on his paisley tie. "Since we're all friends here"—he lowered his voice and his lips stayed immobile—"you didn't hear it from me, but Burt Webster smells contractual blood, and he's making his move." He shrugged and his eyes narrowed to malevolent dashes.

  Sylvia grimaced; Burt Webster was a show-off and a snob who wore navy suits with polka-dot ties. He was also a psychiatrist with a thriving forensic practice and demands for his services that took him far from his Albuquerque office. Burt Webster was very good at his job.

  She said, "Burt Webster's a shark who drives a Range Rover."

  The Bagman smiled and said, "He's a very chummy shark when it comes to the governor's wife. We all know she's carrying a torch for mental health in the Land of Enchantment. It's her raison d'être." It sounded like "raisin dooter" after it passed through Marty's lips.

  Sylvia felt angry and mean. She couldn't resist mocking the Bagman, even though he was an octopus with tentacles reaching into every state agency. He was the governor's brother-in-law—and the man who made the midnight deals during the last election campaign. She smiled sweetly and said, "Her raisin dooter?"

  "It's French," the Bagman barked.

  Sylvia nodded seriously, then continued, "So I take it Burt Webster is lobbying for our contract?"

  Sandwich and salad arrived, and Sylvia grabbed a french fry and doused it in ketchup. She was the newest member of the unit, and she was the youngest. And the most expendable. And right this minute, she was the most visible as far as the public was concerned; what she had was way too much negative exposure. She was the team's Achilles' heel, and Marty Connor knew it.

  The Bagman pointed a small finger at Sylvia and gave her a look that said, You fucked up, lady. "Burt Webster claims he has seventy-five percent accuracy when he predicts future violence by offenders. He's got stats to prove it."

  Kove waved his hand in disgust. "Webster's manipulating his numbers or else he's got a crystal ball. That's impossible."

  The Bagman shrugged and extended a finger toward Sylvia's french fries. She wanted to slap his hand away but knew she couldn't afford the display of temper. In the queer and fickle arena of politics, the Bagman wielded enough power to ruin her ass; even worse, he could ruin Albert Kove as far as the state contract was concerned. If Burt Webster had the governor's wife in his pocket, the Bagman had the governor. She turned away from Marty Connor and whispered, "Lambe rosca."

  If the Bagman heard the insult he just smiled, and tucked another french fry between his lips. "I'll do what I can for you, Albert, because you've always been there for me." His pupils were dark and glittery. When he leaned toward Sylvia, he smelled of stale beer and fries.

  He whispered, "Today, this minute, I know several attorneys who won't use you until this mess is cleared up. Their
clients are afraid of the 'killers' doctor.'"

  He leaned even closer. "Malcolm Treisman was the best. Maybe you bit off more than you can chew, trying to walk in his footsteps."

  Sylvia didn't have a comeback for the Bagman's mixed metaphor. Treisman had been her colleague, mentor—and lover—who had died of cancer nine months earlier.

  The Bagman leaned back and smiled. "Go out and get yourself some good press, lady." He winked. "And how about an attitude adjustment, while you're at it?"

  As Marty Connor walked into the dining area, Albert Kove took Sylvia by both shoulders and stared at her Intently. "What the hell is a lambe rosca?"

  Sylvia shrugged. "Ass-licker, ass-wipe, brownnose, whatever."

  Kove stayed perfectly still, but a few seconds later he stifled a laugh.

  In the mirror, Sylvia could see the Bagman in conversation at his table across the room. She said, "That pompous little sonofabitch. I hope he chokes on his polenta." Her fingers worried a bar napkin until it was a damp wad.

  She said, "It would take the heat off the team if I was out."

  Kove was silent, but one eyebrow arched in speculation.

  "I'm not quitting." She shook her head and carefully finished off an especially long fry. She motioned to the bartender. "Could I have another lemonade? And spice it up with a short shot of Absolut." She caught her partner's woeful expression.

  "Don't worry, Albert." She glanced at her watch. "It's after noon."

  He waved his hand, dismissing her words. "You feel you're jeopardizing this team?"

  She cut him off. "Hey, I said I'm not quitting." Sylvia accepted the drink from the bartender. She took a long sip and then said, "But you should be aware of something. I've decided to fly to California for a few days. It's likely that Kevin Chase will be arrested and charged with two murders. I know he didn't work alone. If Dupont White is alive, if he dragged Kevin into this mess, I've got to learn more about him. An old friend of mine, Leo Carreras, works at Atascadero State Hospital, and he's already agreed to let me see Violet Miller."