Acquired Motives (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 2)

by Sarah Lovett

  She spread peanut butter on an Oreo cookie and stared at the blinking light on her answering machine. Fuck it, she thought, as she jammed the cookie into her mouth. She had urgent business on her agenda: chill out, come down to earth, and water the damn garden. But first she wanted to smoke a cigarette.

  She was in the side yard, barefoot, in shorts and T-shirt, when she heard a car pull into the driveway. She dropped the garden hose and stepped quickly toward the house. Then she recognized the roof of the Caprice and stopped. With both hands she pushed damp hair from her face. A smear of dirt decorated her chin and her shirt was dripping wet from the hose; she wrung water from the thin white fabric.

  She wished Matt had given her another few hours to relax and pull herself together. Or at least enough time to get pleasantly high because that would be fine, too. She found her beer where she'd left it on the deck, drained it, and met Matt at the gate.

  He smiled at her, kept his hands in his pockets, and kissed her lightly on the cheek. That was his compromise between warring instincts: to hold her or to fight. He was angry, and the anger had been building for weeks until his chest felt as though it was encased in concrete. Sometimes it was difficult to breathe. Like now. He knew the feeling of suffocation came from pushing down his emotions, keeping them below the surface, but his knowledge didn't help him. Always, when he tried to let his anger out, it got the best of him.

  He leaned against the sagging coyote fence. After an uncomfortable silence, he asked, "How was Santa Barbara?"

  "Weird." Her resolve to ask Matt about Erin Tulley wavered. She picked up the hose, aimed the nozzle toward the sky, and took a drink. Then she adjusted the spray over the flower bed, and began to speak—too fast.

  She said, "Santa Barbara was very weird. Dupont's mother, Roxanne, is involved somehow with Garret Ellington—the Garret Ellington. And I drove out to Devil's Den Ranch; I found out Dupont had a cousin, a little girl, and both kids were out there in the summers—so were Roland White's cronies, and Fuller Lynch called them Roland's 'gentlemen friends.' Roxanne White left me a message that Judge Howzer is connected to the gentlemen—"

  "Whoa. You're babbling. Slow down a minute." Matt took the hose from her fingers and set it down in a bed of cosmos. The water made a soft urgent sound. "Nathaniel Howzer is involved with Dupont White's family?"

  "That's what I just said." Abruptly, Sylvia tipped her head and sighed. Then she raised both hands, palms out, and stepped away from Matt. "Stop. Wait. This is making me crazy."

  "What?"

  "Did you fuck Erin Tulley?"

  Matt opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. His voice was soft. "Yeah."

  "Jesus." Sylvia shook her head. Then, carefully, she picked up the hose and turned the spray on Matt. He jumped from cold and shock when icy water hit his face and chest. After a few seconds, Sylvia let the hose drop to the ground.

  Matt wasn't sure whether to laugh or get mad. "Sylvia, it happened before you and I even knew each other."

  "She's young enough to be your daughter." Sylvia swallowed hard, then she turned and walked past the salt cedar.

  He followed her, tasting the dusty scent of the bush as he moved. "We saw each other for a few months. She said she was in love with me. . . but I didn't feel that way."

  She stopped, pivoted, and let her eyes burn holes in his skin. Her voice was incredulous. "That's it? That's all that happened?"

  His answer was a fraction too slow. "Almost. That's almost all."

  "Dammit! Will you just give me a straight answer?" She stomped over a flower bed, crushing pastel cosmos underfoot.

  Matt stood his ground. "We got together again in March."

  Sylvia skirted the side of the house and slumped down on the wooden steps of the deck. Matt walked over to her and leaned against the railing. He thought he saw tears on her cheeks.

  Her voice sounded very young, almost tremulous. "Was it after I told you I needed time alone to think about our relationship?"

  "Yeah."

  After a silence, she said, "Please don't make me ask."

  He looked embarrassed. "We had drinks a few times—dinner."

  "Did you have sex?"

  Matt blushed. "Goddammit."

  "Okay." She looked miserable. The crows in the yard were crabbing; loud, heated squawks emanated from tree branches, fence posts, and the power pole. Their cousins, a family of magpies, joined the debate.

  Sylvia barely heard the cacophony. She asked, "Did you sleep with her again?"

  "No."

  "Did you want to?"

  "I wanted you. I love you."

  She took a breath. "Why didn't you tell me when it happened?"

  "I was going to. . . but you and I were back together . . . and there was really nothing to tell." Matt's forehead creased with concern.

  Sylvia sighed. She studied Matt, and thought about the fact that she could have lost him. And she thought about the fact that he was in love with her. And how good that felt.

  She stood slowly and walked over to the hose. It was still running, and water had puddled around the walkway. Sylvia turned the nozzle on herself. Icy needles of water stung her throat and chest. She closed her eyes, let her head fall back until the sun burned a golden fringe around her eyelids. She felt Matt's hands on her shoulders, and she almost shook him off. Instead, she twisted her body, and pressed her cheek against his chin. The shaved bristles of his beard roughed up her skin.

  Above the sound of the spurting water, she barely heard him whisper, "I love you."

  Behind the fabric of his collar, she bit soft skin. His body tensed, and he scooped her breasts in his hands. When she found his mouth with her tongue, she forced his lips apart. Still, the hose gushed cold water between their bodies.

  She pulled back for air, and mumbled, "Water's freezing."

  Matt slid his hands from her nipples, down her belly, to her thighs. He eased one finger between her legs. She moaned, but she pushed him away and pressed the garden hose into his hand. Her voice was a growl. "Get rid of this damn thing."

  Then she knelt down in front of him, unzipped his wet pants, loosened his shorts, and pulled them down around his ankles. He was hard, pressing toward her face, and she took him into her mouth. His body swayed, and then he caught himself, balanced with one hand on her shoulder. Water still poured from the hose in his other hand.

  Matt caught his breath sharply, and he dropped the hose. She had him inside, all the way to her throat, and her teeth were sharp.

  She willed him to relax, ran her fingers gently over his bare butt. Gradually, he let go, gave in to the rhythm of her mouth. And, finally, he let her have her way.

  IN THE KITCHEN, after a long, warm shower, they shared a beer. His muscles had turned into jelly. He leaned up against the counter and watched his lover pour potato chips into a bright blue bowl.

  He said, "If you've got a craving, why don't you just smoke a cigarette?"

  Her eyebrows arched, and she popped a potato chip into her mouth. Then she shrugged, opened the utensil drawer and scavenged a slightly-worse-for-wear cigarette from behind the spoons. She lit it with a kitchen match, inhaled, and exhaled in his face. "If you knew I smoked, why didn't you say something before?"

  "I wanted to see if you'd volunteer the information." He gave a short laugh. "I'm going to stop acting guilty about my bad habits."

  "Be my guest." Sylvia smiled, shook her head.

  Matt eyed her quizzically, wondered how well he knew her, and what other secrets she might have.

  Her fingers drummed the countertop. "Anything on Kevin?" Her voice was edgy. "I keep expecting him to show up."

  Matt considered how much to tell her. He said, "You remember a pedophile named Manny Dunn?"

  Sylvia nodded, then paled. "Don't tell me he's dead?"

  "He's not dead, yet. But we got a tip that Kevin and whoever he's working with have set Manny Dunn up for a kidnapping tonight."

  Sylvia's eyes shot wide. "Where?'' She stepp
ed forward, her body tense. "I want to be there."

  Matt shook his head. "We'll have the place staked out. We'll be waiting when they show. They won't get away."

  "Does Dan Chaney know about this?"

  "Yeah."

  Sylvia hunched forward nervously, and asked, "Will you call me as soon as it happens?"

  "You bet." Matt wrapped his arm around her shoulders. "I'd feel better if you were at Rosie's."

  Sylvia opened her mouth to protest, closed it again. Then she nodded.

  "I'll call you the minute we've got them."

  She stabbed her cigarette out in the sink. "Be careful."

  She walked him to the gate. At the edge of the deck she stopped and stared up at the sawback ridge that sliced jaggedly into the sky behind her home. When she turned back to Matt, her face was soft with emotion.

  SHE PUT ON her running shoes and took off on a jog along her regular makeshift course. It was much too hot for exercise, but she had so much pent-up energy that the run took twenty minutes instead of forty. Her route followed the dirt road, cut up onto the lower flank of the ridge back, and doubled back to the house.

  The phone began to ring as soon as she walked in the back door. She shook her head, bent over to catch her breath, and heard the answering machine click on. The volume was down. She could ignore the world and this message. At the sink, she filled a tumbler with water, and then her fingers moved reluctantly to the machine. She turned up the volume.

  Ray's voice was anxious, as he said,". . . so call me, as soon as—"

  She jerked up the handset. "Ray, what's happened?"

  "Sylvia, I've been trying to find you for days. Rosie was fired."

  "What? Shit." Sylvia set her tumbler on the edge of the sink. It fell off the edge and shattered, spilling water and glass shards. She jerked back, then stared at the mess. "When did it happen?"

  "She heard about it Friday from Colonel Gonzales. The warden picked one of his little gringos to replace her. I thought Rosita called you."

  "She did. But I was in California, Ray." She bit her lip. "Damn, I'm so sorry. Can I talk to her?"

  "She's not here. She took off yesterday for Christ in the Desert Monastery."

  "Alone?"

  "She wouldn't let me come." Ray sounded heartbroken. "I can't help how I feel about her job."

  Sylvia knew that Ray had always wanted Rosie out of the penitentiary. Her termination would not be all negative from his point of view. But Sylvia also knew what being penitentiary investigator meant to Rosie. She had pioneered the position—she'd taken the initiative to learn the forensic and investigative protocol that went with the job. Now, some young, three-piece chauvinist was probably sitting at her desk.

  Sylvia said, "I'm going up to the monastery. I can leave here in ten minutes."

  Ray protested weakly, but there was relief in his voice. "I know how much she needs you."

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  THE MONASTERY OF Christ in the Desert had been built at the end of a breathtaking canyon that was traversed by a rugged Forest Service road. The Benedictine brothers offered travelers room and board for a nominal fee. Next to the chapel, the monks kept an open, unmarked, and empty grave; it served as a steady reminder of death. When Sylvia had visited two years earlier, she found the experience of staring into that deep grave unnerving.

  Now, as she drove past the Santa Fe Opera on 285 north, she realized she felt as if she were on an adventure; the sensation was triggered by memories of childhood camping trips with her parents. The sense of adventure was sharpened by urgency. She was eager to reach Rosie, and the two-and-a-half-hour drive to the monastery was best completed before nightfall.

  As she passed Camel Rock, Tesuque Pueblo land gave way to Pojoaque Pueblo's great clay gullies and gorges, called Los Barrancos, which were abruptly interrupted by the valley of Cuyamungue, a green slash of oasis on the west side of the highway. Beyond, and farther west, thunderheads streaked the sky above the Jemez Mountains. She said a silent prayer for rain.

  She was headed north of Abiquiu, toward Georgia O'Keeffe territory. The artist had visited the region in the 1930s and had stayed for the rest of her life. O'Keeffe's brush and palette—swirls of orange, pink, and ocher—accurately caught the shapes, the hues, the drama of the sandstone cliffs.

  KEVIN CHASE WHISTLED while his fingers strayed to the spot on his nose where a pimple bloomed. It was easy to keep the Volvo in view along the stretch of highway that traversed Pojoaque; traffic was dense but her blue sedan stood out from the pickups, spuvs, and low-riders.

  He clamped both hands on the steering wheel and sank lower into the seat of the white Nissan until the metal springs groaned. He was like a tree stuffed into a flowerpot—much too big to take root. The top of his head brushed the roof of the stolen car. His left shoulder butted up against the driver-side door.

  Kevin stopped whistling, his hands strayed from the wheel, and the Nissan drifted into the next lane.

  A shrill horn brought him back. He glanced at the car passing him in the left lane to see if anyone was staring. When nobody seemed to think he deserved notice, he inserted his thumb between his lips and stared straight ahead. He watched the blue Volvo crest the hill about a half mile to the north.

  He had never liked Sylvia Strange. She was smart—he admitted that grudgingly—and she acted like she cared and whatnot. But he hated her snotty ways, her therapy mumbo jumbo. Do you think you might be angry at your parents because they abandoned you, Kevin?

  As if he could be angry at people who were dead and whatnot.

  Kevin sucked his thumb, and the digit jerked in and out of his mouth while his eyes glazed over. He was oblivious to his own habits; he avoided the burden of introspection. Not surprisingly, he'd dreaded the court-ordered treatment sessions. Killer had insisted it was important. Although Kevin would never say so out loud, he disagreed.

  What does it matter why?

  IT WAS ALMOST EIGHT when Sylvia pulled off in Abiquiu at Bodes General Store, a roadside market that sold gas, groceries, and agricultural goods. Under tall cottonwoods, the air had cooled; now it was a refreshing eighty degrees. She filled the Volvo with unleaded, and then bought Oreo cookies and a cold six-pack of Coke. Before she left Abiquiu, she took a long look at her surroundings: the alfalfa fields, the Chama River basin, and, in the distance, Triassic red beds and Jurassic sandstone cliffs. The sight was good for her soul.

  For the next twenty miles, traffic on U.S. 84 was sparse. At the turnoff to Ghost Ranch, she passed a tour bus spewing diesel fumes. Farther along the highway, a few local farmers and ranchers were trucking goats and tomatoes, and day-trippers towed their speedboats toward Abiquiu Reservoir.

  Two summers had passed since her trip to the monastery. There was no visible marker for Forest Route 151, but there was a new green-and-white sign: CHAMA RIVER CANYON WILDERNESS. She turned sharply and then her tires rumbled over the metal bars of a cattleguard. She remembered the distinct thought from the other time she had traveled this road: You're on your own from here.

  The road was deeply rutted and bone-dry, but a respectable downpour could create an impassable mud slick within minutes. The Volvo passed under a canopy of cottonwoods; the great trees imposed their shadows over the road for thirty feet or so. Although it wouldn't get fully dark until eight-thirty, the deep canyon shut out the sun with unnerving finality. She glanced at her watch: she had another ten minutes of daylight at most

  The Volvo wasn't built for rough terrain. Sylvia kept the speedometer hovering at twenty-five as she ripped open the Oreo package and pulled out a handful of cookies. When she'd finished eating, she popped open a Coke and guzzled cold soda.

  Six miles in, she began to wonder if she'd taken a wrong turn on a road that had no turns at all. She'd been driving forever, for hours, for years. The canyon was its own world, contained, feeding into the limitless, surrounding wilderness. For those humans who tested themselves against the wild country, distances were distorted; a mesa th
at appeared to be five miles away was actually fifty. Those who underestimated the overwhelming power of nature did so at the risk of their lives. People got lost here; they walked away and were never found.

  The radio picked up static. On the north edge of the road the canyon's massive sandstone wall nosed up steadily until it angled more than four hundred feet Pine trees somehow fastened to existence on the sheer rocks. To the south, the Chama River steadfastly continued on its muddy course, deepening the Cañon de Chama as it had for hundreds of thousands of years. The river was now designated wilderness, and launch stations had recently been provided for kayakers and rafters.

  Both river and road appeared deserted. Sylvia gazed through her windshield at the last arms of sunlight as they pulled back behind Dead Man Peak and Capulin Mesa. Beyond those western mountains lay Jicarilla Apache Indian Reservation land and flat, dry fossil beds. And absolute silence.

  Headlights suddenly clouded the Volvo's rearview mirror. She had company.

  The vehicle gradually gained ground, and she adjusted the mirror to cut the glare. As it followed her trail and the curve of the road, it was gone, then reappeared like a ship riding rough waves. Suddenly, the lights were directly behind the Volvo.

  She exhaled with relief when the vehicle pulled out at a widening of the road and streaked past. A rock pelted her windshield, and a tiny pockmark and crack appeared at eye level.

  THE STONE FIT Matt England's palm perfectly, and he sent it spinning toward the industrial light overhead. The stone struck metal, there was a sharp ping, and then it landed somewhere beyond the barbed-wire fence. He picked up another stone from the gravel at his feet. He tested the weight, aimed, and threw an underhand curveball. For an instant, Matt was starting pitcher for the McNamara High Hornets. There was a satisfying pop as glass splintered, and his face disappeared in shadow. Nice work for a cop.

  He was another stone's throw from the D.P.S. surveillance van. From his vantage point on the rise just south of the main rest area, he could watch each vehicle—and its occupants—pull into the Santa Fe Welcome Center. Earlier, a plainclothes cop had swept the entire property to make sure their guy hadn't already shown. Just another stakeout. . .