Acquired Motives (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 2)

by Sarah Lovett

  To calm himself he closed his eyes and let his mind slip through the eyes of the chain-link fence, ascend over the security T-line, glide across no-man's-land, float once again through fencing, this time parallel panels topped by razor ribbon.

  To find guidance. To find an answer.

  Now he was a blue-white orb of energy hurtling through air. Past the National Guard armory, where the weekend trainees jogged the frontage road; across four lanes of 1-25; over the racetrack where the first race of the day had just begun—and they're off! He didn't stop to place a bet on a white-legged filly named Run in Her Stockings, even though he knew she'd pay off fifteen to one.

  He eased north, caught an air current and soared over the Caja Del Rio Plateau, past Bandelier National Monument, to choppier air currents above the Jemez Mountains. To his right the Valle Grande gaped. To his left he saw what the Dark Canyon fire had left in its wake. He knew this land, this earth—he'd been cradled here as a child.

  He hovered over the ridge where he had seen the burning body. If the killer was human, he had driven in on the forest road; only a ten-minute drive from State Highway 4, it had been a good choice for a drop spot. It was the place Benji would have chosen. Somebody had known his way around . . . and there was nothing left now but scorched and smoking earth.

  Benji glided directly across the mouth of the caldera over the peak of Cerro Grande, at 10,199 feet, and Pajarito Mountain, where the skiers would be busy next winter. San Ildefonso Pueblo was below him now. And then Pojoaque, Nambe, and the Rio en Medio.

  As he approached Little Tesuque, he began to feel the first twinge of heat.

  Fire.

  But there was no smoke, there were no flames visible. There was no fire here, only the ashy remains of some past inferno. The ashes stretched as far as Benji could see. All the way to the tops of the mountains.

  Some evil force reached out to probe Benji's soul as he soared over the Santa Fe Reservoir. His heart caught in his throat, but still he soared. And then he saw the ash begin to move. Here and there it stirred, shifted, pressed itself into a new shape. A human form. A corpse.

  When Benji was directly overhead, the corpse sat up suddenly. It turned to stare at him, and he knew that it was a woman. It was Sylvia Strange.

  THE BELLY OF THE 737 skidded over invisible crosscurrents while the ocean fifteen thousand feet below the aircraft stayed as smooth and still as blue glass. The pilot completed the wide, banking turn, and corrected the plane right, then left. Sylvia's stomach churned, her knuckles were white.

  This trip to California had begun at five-thirty A.M. that morning. The phone call from Dupont White had scared her; it had also mobilized her into action. On the drive to Albuquerque she tried to reach Matt from her cell phone. She'd called him again from the airport terminal. When she couldn't track him down, she found herself wondering if he was with Erin Tulley.

  With a sigh Sylvia snapped the airplane handset from the seat in front of her. She was careful to tuck in her elbows; the plane was full, and she was wedged between a "window" who overflowed his chair and an "aisle" who had managed to carry on and was now devouring a New Mexican meal, including tamales, enchiladas, green chile, and sopaipillas with honey.

  Air-bus time.

  So far Sylvia had managed to avoid a lapful of chile, but she didn't want to tempt the gods. Carefully she ran her phone card through the slot and dialed Matt's office. She could barely hear it ring under the deep throb of the airplane's engines.

  She was startled when he answered.

  "Sylvia? Where are you?"

  "Coming out of the clouds over Santa Barbara." Sylvia pressed the handset tightly to her ear. Mr. Window was staring at her. She shifted forward in the seat. On the other end of the line she heard a faint, unfamiliar voice say, "Time to go, Matt."

  She asked, "What's going on?"

  "A photo lineup . . . Forest Service got a look at the fire setter at Tsankawi."

  "I'll keep this short because we're about to land. Last night, Dupont White called me at home." She felt Matt's astonishment.

  "He identified himself?''

  "Yes." The engine noise increased. Sylvia squeezed her eyes shut, trying to hear.

  "—get him on tape?"

  "No. Listen, I'll be back on Monday—"

  "Hold on."

  "I can't—" But Matt was gone. Sylvia imagined she heard voices, doors slamming, a phone ringing twelve hundred miles east, in Santa Fe. But in truth, she could barely hear herself think. She shifted her body toward the aisle and narrowly escaped a spoonful of cheese and chile.

  Claustrophobia washed over her, and a sweat broke out on her forehead. When she lowered her head, she caught the compulsive jerky action of Mr. Window's thigh.

  Suddenly Matt was talking again. "—going over to your house—want you to be careful—damn, hold on." After long seconds he came back on the line.

  She said, "Let's do this later."

  "Sylvia, come home."

  "Soon. I miss you." She pressed OFF and snapped the phone back into its cradle.

  The kelly green seat-belt sign blinked.

  "Ladies and gentlemen, we will be landing in Goleta–Santa Barbara shortly. . . ."

  For a moment Sylvia's thoughts settled on Benji Muñoz y Concha; she was still intrigued by his history, his spirit, his visions. She remembered a discussion with Malcolm Treisman about a client who made an excellent living as a psychic. Malcolm had described the man as a "well-informed intuitive." Did that describe Benji as well? She shrugged—she hoped the session with Velio Cruz had helped him. Then the 737 banked again, and she swallowed and turned her head to glance out the windows on the opposite side of the airplane. The sky was veiled by cirrus clouds. As the wing dipped lower, a picture came into focus: a sandy beach crowned by palm trees. Paradise on a postcard. Judging from the statuelike stillness of the trees, there was hardly any ocean breeze in this new world.

  She exhaled as the plane's wheels slapped the runway. She was the sixth passenger to exit. As soon as she stepped into the quaint Spanish-style terminal, she saw Leo Carreras.

  He stood in the center of the walkway. His smooth, dusky skin set off rich brown, keen eyes and chalk-white teeth. He was lean and tall and easy to look at, hands shoved deep in the pockets of his linen suit. Sylvia noticed that several women cast lingering glances at her old friend. When she'd last seen Leo, five years before, he'd carried a few extra pounds and been minus the startling streak of silver just above his left temple. The wire-rimmed glasses were a new addition, too. No doubt they served him well when he was testifying in court. Professorial specs earned "smart" points with juries.

  His smile widened as he walked over to her and kissed her cheek. "I'm still wondering how I got you here after five years of groveling."

  It was her turn to smile. She pinched the sleeve of his jacket and shook her head. "Come on, I need fresh air."

  Leo pushed open the glass door, and her first impression was of soft, salty air scented with camphor—her second impression was how deeply the humid warmth seemed to penetrate her pores. In New Mexico, high-desert light heightened visual perceptions; here, at sea level, the primary sensory experiences were touch and smell.

  The golden flecks in her brown irises darkened a tad, and she said, "I'm here, Leo."

  HIS SEA-GREEN LEXUS was parked at the curb in a no-parking zone. Sylvia raised her eyebrows, but Leo just laughed. He used a remote to deactivate the alarm and unlock the car. The Lexus bleated a plaintive greeting, then Leo opened the passenger door and offered Sylvia his hand.

  She sat and eased her long legs gingerly into the car. The Lexus smelled heady, of warm leather and sandalwood. It was spotless, and Sylvia smiled when she thought of her own dusty, battered Volvo. She ran her fingers over the gray leather interior, and they came away free of even the faintest smudge. She noticed a thumb-size carved wooden crucifix resting in the compartment between bucket seats. She knew Leo's mother was a devout Catholic; Leo used to be a ded
icated atheist.

  He stowed her garment bag in the trunk and slid behind the steering wheel. A security vehicle pulled up next to the Lexus, and the uniformed driver motioned to Leo to clear the curb. The Lexus engine purred, and Leo eased the car into airport traffic.

  Sylvia waited until they were safely away, then she held up the cross, which dangled from a beaded strand. Each small bead was smooth, nut brown, delicate. Together, they gave off the faintest trace of sandalwood.

  "Did you change your mind, Leo?" She was surprised when he answered her seriously.

  He said, "I find faith comforting after particularly grueling days at the hospital."

  Sylvia studied her friend. Dr. Leo Carreras had published extensively and his most recent book was considered a landmark text, an integration of data—psychobiological and social—on human predatory agression. In a nutshell, Leo theorized that modern American society incubates its psychopaths. The lack of a resilient maternal bond combined with the shape of our image-obsessed, media-crazed, nonlinear society results in high anxiety and low levels of empathy.

  In short, we are growing our very own monsters.

  Leo said, "I made some calls. Atascadero State Hospital, and Dupont White's criminally insane girlfriend, Violet Miller, are on this afternoon's agenda." He glanced at his watch.

  Sylvia exhaled her impatience.

  Leo laughed. "Still the same impatient Strange. I hate to disappoint you, but we're in the sight-seeing portion of today's schedule."

  Sylvia looked contrite.

  "That's better." Leo pulled back into the right lane. "Where to?"

  "My toes are craving ocean."

  "We can satisfy your toes."

  Sheltered by palm trees, they ate mozzarella, tomato, and basil sandwiches while waves nuzzled the long creamy beach. Sylvia had left her suede pumps in the Lexus; she dug her naked toes deep into the sand beyond the edge of the blanket Leo had provided. A Route 66 baseball cap shaded her face. She loved the coconut scent of suntan lotion that radiated from nearby sunbathers. When she had finished her sandwich and two fat dill pickles, she lay back on the blanket and stretched her arms overhead. She must have dozed off for a few minutes; she was surprised to feel a tickling sensation. Eyes open, she saw Leo was trailing a thread of sand across the inside of her upper arm.

  He smiled and brushed off the tiny particles. "We have an appointment at the hospital at one forty-five."

  Sylvia glanced at her watch: eleven-fifteen.

  He said, "I thought you might want to talk."

  Business. She sat up, surprised to register how sleepy and relaxed she felt. When he handed her a bottle of mineral water, she drank gratefully.

  Her sunglasses slid down to the tip of her nose; she pushed them back so they were square against her face. "I've got files in the car. I thought you might want to look them over. I could use your read on this whole thing. It's making me a little bit crazy. I told you about Dan Chaney, the special agent. . . ." Her voice trailed off when she saw that Leo had one eye closed. He was shaking his head.

  He leaned back on both elbows. "Why don't you tell an old friend what's bothering you?"

  A gull on a reconnaissance mission swooped overhead. Sylvia wrapped her arms around both knees. "I misread a client and now he's wanted for two murders."

  "Is that all?"

  "And I don't know if Matt is having an affair."

  She told Leo about the events of the past week and a half, filled in details, including the Randall case, Kevin Chase, and her weird encounter with Erin Tulley. He let her stop and start and work her way around difficult thoughts. He didn't respond immediately when she was finished speaking. In the stillness, she watched his smooth tapered fingers sift sand.

  Leo said, "You want some simple advice? This stuff with Matt is throwing you off balance. Talk to him, Sylvia. When you get back to Santa Fe, find out the truth."

  ATASCADERO STATE HOSPITAL, which housed the acutely mentally ill and the criminally insane, was located several miles off Highway 101. The squat three-story main building was surrounded by ten-foot-high walls; barbed wire rimmed each face. Beyond the walls, the beige façade of the hospital had blackened at the edges. Small windows, gray and opaque, dotted the building like eyes. The wire grids embedded in the panes were invisible under layers of grime.

  A uniformed officer stepped out of the security booth and waved Leo's Lexus through the main gate. They parked in a lot and walked across dirt and asphalt to the acute-care facility, where all intake was done. Another officer nodded to them as they entered.

  "Good afternoon, Dr. Carreras."

  Leo had already clipped on his photo-I.D. badge. He spoke to a woman at the reception desk and she produced a bright red temporary pass for Sylvia. Sunshine streaked through a high window and spotlighted the dust motes that swirled above the receptionist's auburn hair. Fascinated by their surreal motion, Sylvia stared at the tiny dancing particles as she fastened the pass to her collar.

  "We're running late," Leo said.

  They took a grim, tight elevator to the third floor. The building contained a maze of hallways extending off a central corridor, and Leo led the way through metal security doors, and past a series of treatment rooms and day areas.

  Here, patients wearing institutional green wandered the halls or occupied day rooms. A young man spouting a schizophrenic word salad—verbs and nouns incomprehensibly diced, shredded, and tossed—stared at Sylvia through glassy eyes. A hyperthin woman with jaundiced skin directed traffic.

  Finally, Leo ushered Sylvia into a soundproofed room that wasn't much bigger than a closet. She sat in one of three chairs and faced the tinted glass panel. Leo spoke into an intercom, "Hi, Mark. Mind if we watch?"

  A young, pink-cheeked doctor in the next room waved cheerfully at the glass. His voice crawled through the speaker: "I always knew you were kinky, Leo."

  "That's Mark Chism. He's been working on a project with violent female offenders for six months. He kindly agreed to let us observe this session. You'll get a chance to talk with him afterward."

  Sylvia had just produced a pad and pencil for notes when the door to the treatment room opened. An orderly escorted a female patient inside and left her alone with Mark Chism.

  Leo said, "Dr. Strange, meet Violet Miller."

  Sylvia thought Violet must be about twenty years old. She was delicate, and so pale that her blue eyes overpowered her face. She might have been a fashion model except for her unkempt, oily hair, and the pain and stress that eroded her features.

  Violet's wrists were secured at her belly by padded restraints. For the moment, she seemed to have surrendered herself to external controls.

  "She's not medicated, not on neuroleptics," Leo said. "She's been here about six weeks. We're still eliminating organic disorders. She's had several violent episodes since intake."

  Both clinicians kept their voices modulated even though they could not be heard or seen by anyone on the other side of the glass.

  "Acute schizophrenia?" Sylvia asked.

  Leo shook his head. "I think she's a borderline personality with severe periods of psychotic dissociation. Apparently, over a two-year period she was participating in ritual murders with her lover. At least she claims she was. We don't believe she actively assaulted victims, but again she says she took videotapes like the one you told me about."

  Sylvia asked, "What does the F.B.I. have to say about all this?"

  "Nothing. They refuse to talk about it." Leo frowned. "We believe that only a few months ago, Violet was a high-functioning borderline; the deterioration was acute."

  Sylvia nodded slowly. "Leo, I'll give you my guess—the most critical stressor in her criminal career was Dupont's alleged death. This is a woman who could not handle the loss of her dominant partner, especially when he was a killer."

  Leo raised his eyebrows. "I think you're right. She flipped when the F.B.I. began questioning her—right after that Las Cruces debacle."

  "How does she ac
t out?"

  "Violet's with us because, when she was at the county jail, she tried to stomp out a guard's heart. Literally."

  Sylvia was mesmerized by Violet Miller's angelic countenance. The young woman's beauty was a startling contrast to her circumstances. Sylvia didn't look away from the glass when she asked, "Did she do much damage?"

  "Other guards intervened."

  Sylvia experienced a moment of relief until she heard Leo's addendum.

  "And failed. The jailer died."

  Thinned by the intercom, Violet's voice communicated pain and confusion. She was mumbling to Dr. Chism; three or four words seemed to hold a thought before her speech changed direction in a course only she could fathom.

  Sylvia looked at Leo. "Why the restraints?"

  "If we take them off, she tries to claw out her eyes."

  What do we teach you, Dr. Strange? What do you see in us?

  Leo said, "Mark Chism tried to interview her last Friday, but she deteriorated too quickly; the session had to be aborted."

  On the other side of the glass, Chism was speaking softly. He said, "Violet, I know you're having a hard time—that a part of you is gone." Both patient and clinician were seated, facing each other across a rectangular table.

  Sylvia was about to ask about Violet Miller's premorbid functioning, but her words died in her throat.

  Violet began to nod her head arrhythmically as she spoke. "He was my killer, he was my killer, my killer, my killer, my killer." The woman closed her eyes and shivered.

  Sylvia felt the tingling rush of fear—the first taste of the natural and potent chemical adrenaline. She wiped sweat from her forehead.

  Chism continued softly, "One of the things I'm curious about is what you're doing now, and its relationship to the killer. One possibility is that he gets to be the bad part of you, and you get to be the good part of him.''

  Violet's initial reaction to Chism's words was to stomp both feet in a bizarre, seated clog dance. The force of her action reverberated up her body to her face.

  Violet Miller threw back her head, opened her mouth like a wound, and emitted a terrible nonstop screech. Sylvia watched the young woman's throat muscles contract under the strain; they pulled tight like ropes. Violet's blue eyes bulged, her cry reached glass-shattering intensity.