Acquired Motives (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 2)

by Sarah Lovett

  When C.O. Dillon parked the van by the side of the road, the inmates stepped out and plodded down the highway, bags in hand. They had been given orders to split up and cover the ground in teams. Full trash bags were to be tied off and left for later pickup. Benji and his partner worked the northeast roadside.

  In the ninety-degree heat, they walked, gathered, and loaded assorted items of trash. Single shoes, a baby's T-shirt, used diapers, aluminum beer and soda cans, wrappers, and even a toaster made their way into the bags. Benji was proud of the three loads he and his partner had collected.

  C.O. Dillon sat in the truck while C.O. Dietz walked the line placing sandwich-board signs: MEN CLEANING ROADWAY. Cars whizzed by in a steady stream of traffic. C.O. Dietz passed Tiny Tapia without a second glance.

  Benji kept working, but his eyes were everywhere. On the old gray hawk that perched on the power line; that bird owned every square mile as far as he could see. On the three stray dogs that trotted down the road. The largest dog, a blue tick hound, raised his muzzle to catch a scent on the breeze. Pack leader, four-legged guide, the hound kept his followers from harm's way. Sure enough, when the animal reached the intersection of Arroyo Hondo Road and the highway, he turned east, away from the road, and began trotting up the wide arroyo. Beyond the arroyo, mountains filled a blue-black sky where lightning flashed every couple of minutes. The watershed. Exactly where Benji needed to go.

  As soon as Benji saw a clear shot, he followed the tick hound. This was the way people in New Mexico had traveled cross-country for centuries. Barefoot, on horseback, or on mules—the sandy arroyos were natural roadways.

  Benji began to jog. An observer would have seen a man with a peculiar gait and posture—arms hugging his body, chin tucked, and—if they were visible beneath the bill of his cap—eyes that were almost shut. He traveled that way—like an odd sort of water diviner—across a wide arroyo and up a small rise; his feet found steady purchase on the ground.

  That's how he moved. Until he turned his hat around on his head and felt the rush of adrenaline—giddy, light-headed.

  When Benji passed his first house, he stayed low and kept to the sandy arroyo. Two blond women passed him on huge white horses, but they were busy gossiping, and they failed to glance his way. Children raced a dog across the sand; they only waved.

  The sun was halfway across the western sky, and Benji figured they'd missed him on the crew. But no sirens sounded, no alarms ripped the quiet.

  He was just a nonviolent inmate from the minimum facility. There would be no shotgun roadblocks for Benji Muñoz y Concha. Nevertheless, the authorities would not be pleased with his freewheeling behavior.

  When he gazed around, eyes wide, he saw that he was on a journey that led eventually to the base of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains and the Santa Fe Reservoir. He was a firefighter—the best—and he had a fire to fight, even if no one else knew that it was burning.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  MATT WAS PASSING Cities of Gold Casino on U.S. 285 north just outside Pojoaque when he caught sight of Dan Chaney's Lincoln in his rearview mirror.

  He could see Chaney's shoulders and head, and he caught the small, sharp salute that his friend offered up. He waved a return greeting, then accelerated around an eighteen-wheeler. He caught the rich smell of livestock, saw a few brown and white butts pressed up against the truck's slatted sides.

  Maneuvering smoothly, the brown Lincoln stayed on his tail. Chaney was in a hurry to reach the Cock 'n' Bull. He was also having fun—probably for the first time since the warehouse blowout. The two friends had talked this morning, over coffee and breakfast burritos at Tia Sophia's. Chaney had announced that he was going to leave for Las Cruces the next morning. He'd already called his wife, and he'd notified his S.A.C. of his whereabouts.

  Matt increased his speed to eighty miles per hour as a string of truck stops and eateries faded away in his outside mirror. For the first time all summer, he spotted what he thought could be true thunderheads beyond Black Mesa and Puye Cliffs. He watched the fat, dark clouds take command of the desert sky. They looked so good, he laughed out loud.

  Suddenly, Chaney's Lincoln swerved around him, accelerated, and then turned off the highway in a swirl of dust and gravel.

  "Shit." Matt checked right-lane access, cut in front of the livestock truck, and followed his buddy. Thinking about rain, he'd almost missed the last turnoff to the frontage road.

  He darted past a drugstore and honked at a battered tractor that was nosing into traffic like a blind bull. The tractor's driver, a weathered Hispanic farmer, tipped his head in a half greeting, then shrugged.

  Typically New Mexican.

  Seconds later Matt zigged right onto a dirt road and zagged left into the parking lot of the Cock 'n' Bull. Chaney had already parked the Lincoln perpendicular to the road under a stand of cottonwood and elm trees. Matt pulled the Caprice alongside the empty Town Car and scanned the lot for a sign of his friend. Shit, Dan is already inside.

  The double doors of the bar swung open, and Chaney strode out. He sprinted across the gravel toward Matt. When he reached the Caprice, he rested his elbows on the edge of the window and said, "Your gal Kiki's not working today."

  Chaney dodged his head toward a trailer that was mounted on cinder blocks in the middle of a field adjacent to the bar, about a hundred yards beyond the trees. "That's where she lives. Meet me over there."

  Chaney took off on foot and was already halfway across the lot when Matt guided the Caprice slowly out onto the dirt road.

  As he passed the stand of tall trees, Matt's eyes skipped back to the farthest elm. A huge magpie was dancing on a high branch. Matt counted a flock of five black-and-white birds apparently involved in a family dispute.

  Lightning jagged across the sky above Black Mesa. The air buzzed with electricity. Matt's car bounced onto a rutted dirt trail that meandered toward the trailer. He could see Chaney moving easily across the field, almost even with a narrow, deep arroyo that cut through the property. The closer Matt drew to the trailer, the more his stomach clenched. The last time he'd seen Kiki, she was cooperative. But now, things were different.

  SYLVIA SAID GOOD-BYE to Tom, walked out of Matt's trailer, and locked the door. Before she reached her Volvo she stopped in her tracks. She could smell rain.

  The sky was clear overhead and to the south, but when she turned north, she saw the thunderheads. They were so massive, so powerful, a shiver passed through her body. The arid earth was dusty, the rivers had shriveled to creeks, bears and deer had been drawn down from the mountains for food.

  And the forest fires made everything worse.

  She heard—then saw—two children riding their bikes out on the street. They called to each other in excited voices. A car backfired in the distance. A fast-food plastic lid scuttled across asphalt driven by a gust of wind. Traffic on Cerrillos Road accelerated with a low, urgent hum. The hair on Sylvia's arms stood up—the air was heavy with ozone.

  She hitched her briefcase to her side and continued walking toward her Volvo. She was still feeling frustrated by her conversation with Burt Webster. She felt like a fool. Of course, he hadn't called back. Now her plan was to stop by the office to check in with Albert Kove and deal with some of the work that had piled up. After that, she would head home to La Cienega. She hadn't forgotten that Monica Treisman and her son, Jaspar, were going to drop off Rocko today. Sylvia was eager to see Jaspar, and she had sorely missed her terrier.

  As she approached her car, she thought again about shopping for a new vehicle. The Volvo was trashed from age and accidents. She'd owned it since her return to Santa Fe, years earlier. It really was time for a new car. A pickup truck might do very nicely.

  She unlocked the driver's door, shoved her briefcase across the seat, and settled behind the wheel. She had a moment of panic when she tried to remember where she'd left a stack of confidential psych tests.

  She shoved the key into the ignition then rifled through her briefcase. Sh
e pulled the cell phone out and emptied the entire contents of the briefcase on the seat.

  Well, shit, where are those reports?

  She turned the ignition key, and the Volvo's engine turned over and caught. Sylvia gave the car a spurt of gas. The engine rumbled, rough but steady. She picked up a binder and opened the flap. The tests were stowed inside. Relieved, she shifted the sedan into reverse and backed away from the trailer. Just as her phone rang.

  She stepped on the brake and grabbed her phone. Dr. Burt Webster said one word, and then he hung up.

  Erin Tulley lied to Matt about getting psychiatric treatment.

  In first gear, Sylvia accelerated toward the gates of the Salazar Elementary School grounds. She saw it then, trapped under the windshield wiper—a color Polaroid pressed against the outside of the glass. It was a photograph of a man, a blurred and familiar likeness. She braked the Volvo, jammed the gearshift into neutral, and was out of the car.

  She didn't worry about fingerprints or the destruction of evidence, she just grabbed the photograph and stared down at words scrawled in a trail of thin ink: "Three for the Killers' Doctor. How does it feel to be part of the picture?"

  She instinctively knew what she would find as she flipped the Polaroid over. Matt England smiled for the camera, and there were red and green balloons tacked to the wall behind his head. The D.P.S. Christmas party.

  There was another person in the photograph. Standing behind Matt: Erin Tulley.

  Sylvia climbed back inside the Volvo, clutched her cell phone, and dialed the number she knew by heart: Matt's pager.

  MATT PARKED THE Caprice beside Kiki's trailer. As he stepped out of the car, his beeper began to vibrate, signaling an incoming message. He glanced down—saw the tiny LED numbers scroll by—just as the trailer door swung open. Kiki stood on the metal stoop.

  Matt said, "Tell me about Manny Dunn."

  "Who?" Kiki shook her head and looked blank. "Listen, I knew you'd be back. I mean I'm glad to see you."

  Matt heard a pop. Instantly, he recognized the sound—the report of a firearm. He reached out and pushed Kiki back inside the trailer. Then he sprinted behind the Caprice and squatted down, gun in hand. Another pop gave him the chance to gauge direction—a single shot, coming from the southwest, directly behind where Dan Chaney had been walking.

  Matt couldn't see Chaney in the field. He knew Dan would have taken cover by now—if he could. But the area was flat and open.

  Another shot, and Matt saw the bullet hit the dirt roughly fifteen feet west of his position. At almost the same time he saw the top of Dan Chaney's head at ground level. The agent must have dropped down into the arroyo for cover when the first shot rang out. Or else he'd been hit.

  Pinned behind his car, Matt aimed down the sight lines of his Colt .45. He scanned the parking lot and the trees for signs of the shooter. If he could get to his vehicle, he could radio for backup.

  He heard voices and a group of people walked out the door of the bar. He yelled, "Get back inside! Call 911!"

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  SYLVIA PUNCHED IN the main number for D.P.S. and caught Criminal Agent Terry Osuna as she was about to leave her desk. Quickly, she told Terry about the Polaroid and her attempt to reach Matt. "He was going to drive out to Pojoaque, to the bar where Anthony Randall was kidnapped."

  Osuna said, "The Cock 'n' Bull. We'll find him, don't worry."

  "Find Erin Tulley," Sylvia said bluntly. "She'll know where to find Matt."

  Osuna was speechless for a moment, then she said, "I'll send a car over to Tulley's house, and I'll drive out to Pojoaque. Where can I reach you?"

  Sylvia weighed the odds that Judge Howzer would tell uniformed officers anything about Jayne Gladstone, a.k.a. Erin Tulley.

  They were nil. But she wasn't in the mood to take unnecessary risks.

  She said, "I need to talk to Judge Howzer—he might know something about Erin."

  Osuna cut in: "You're not going alone. Dispatch can get one of our officers over to the courthouse in ten minutes."

  "You've got my number—I'll take my cell phone with me."

  BENJI GOT HIS second wind as he raced over the base of Moon Mountain. He was panting, and he could hear the tiny breath of his life—flowing in and out of his lungs—even above the rush of air.

  To the north lightning shivered, and thunderheads rolled across the blue sea of sky like great black ships.

  For half an instant, Benji glimpsed his ancestors who had covered this same terrain barefoot or in leather moccasins. They carried the news from pueblo to village. They ran in the sacred ceremonies. In an emergency, nothing but death had stopped the ancient runners.

  He pictured Sylvia Strange—his vision of her as a body made of ash. Nothing would stop him from his mission.

  He felt as if great storm winds were surging him forward, but almost at once they washed him back again. Like ocean breakers. He imagined that a swimmer trapped in a riptide must feel exactly as he felt. Lost Without bearing, without direction. Tempted to surrender to the current—or the wind. Benji was terrified that he would lose his way completely.

  He squeezed his eyes shut to stay in touch with his inner compass. Instead of direction, he felt the presence of a great black void. Overhead he heard the roar of a jet plane. The roar increased, growing so loud, so painful, he believed it would rip open his skull and suck out his thoughts.

  He clutched his head with both hands, and his body began to fall. Wind rushed up around his ears. When he was sure he should have hit the ground, he forced his eyes open. And he saw that the jet plane was a bird.

  An owl with wings afire, and eyes that were as old and deep as the earth.

  ANOTHER SHOT RIPPED over Matt's head and raised a puff of dirt behind him. The shooter had to be on high ground, and his—or her—aim was improving. Whatever the weapon, it was powerful. The rhythm of the shots indicated a revolver.

  From the impact point of the bullets, Matt figured the shooter was firing from a spot between a pile of old tires and a big metal trash bin on the northeast corner of the parking lot. If so, he had a good shot at Chaney.

  Matt aimed toward the trash bin, finger on the trigger. From the corner of his eye he could see that Dan Chaney was inching his way along the arroyo toward some scrap two-by-fours and a thicket of chamisa. The federal agent was down on his belly, probably gauging his chances to make a break for cover.

  Kiki yelled out from the trailer, "What the hell's happening?"

  Matt opened his mouth to warn her off when he saw Dan Chaney's body jerked back by sudden impact. At the same time he heard the crack of gunfire.

  Chaney was hit.

  Over the buzz of highway traffic, Matt heard the rumble of a motorcycle. He followed the noise and saw the shooter hotdogging his way from the parking lot onto dirt. The bike almost went down when it jammed into a pothole, but the rider stayed on. Kevin Chase!

  Matt took aim as Kevin pulled his gun from between his thighs. He was roughly fifteen yards away; there was a faint flash as the gun exploded. Matt yelled a warning to Chaney but his words were lost under the sharp report of gunfire. One round whizzed past Matt's ear. He fired just before he threw himself behind the Chevy. His heart was hammering inside his chest.

  The motorcycle accelerated and skidded out of the lot onto the frontage road. Matt vaulted to his feet and sprinted to Chaney. The F.B.I. agent was seated on the ground. He had the palm of one hand pressed against his bicep. Blood had seeped into his shirtsleeve. He was white-faced, breathing rapidly.

  Chaney said, "Go get that asshole!"

  Matt called to Kiki who had cautiously emerged from her trailer: "Get an ambulance."

  Then he raced to the Caprice, spun the car around, and tore out to the frontage road. He switched on his siren. As he passed the Pojoaque Market and Liquor Store, he radioed a Code 30 emergency: Shooting. Officer down.

  Matt was headed north, traveling parallel to the highway; he had a clear line to the motorcycle,
a Honda, two hundred feet ahead. But just beyond the Honda, cars turning off to the Burger King threatened to slow the biker's escape.

  The Honda speeded into the left lane, passing a Cadillac and a flatbed truck. Instead of cutting back into the right lane, Kevin Chase banked the Honda even farther to the left onto the shoulder. A southbound Range Rover blared its horn.

  Three seconds later, the speedometer in the Caprice hovering at sixty-five, Matt saw the reason for Kevin's detour: traffic in the right lane had come to a standstill. Low-riders, high-riders, and family station wagons were treading asphalt bumper to bumper.

  Paper signs announced the reason for the slowdown: GRAND OPENING, BINGO AND SLOTS!

  Matt swore through his teeth as he slammed the wheel to the right.

  Seconds later, he saw an opportunity to escape. He snaked the Caprice into the lot of Tio's Mexican Food Restaurant. He pressed down on the accelerator and raced through the adjacent lot—barely avoiding a collision with a propane tank—then bounced off the edge of asphalt, across an acequia, and onto dirt. The motorcycle had gained another eighth of a mile.

  KEVIN CHASE KNEW the cop wasn't far behind him. He guided the Honda along the shoulder over broken glass, trash, and rocks. He shifted his weight, pulled up, and jumped a drainage culvert.

  He was sweating like a pig; the salt water stung his eyes and ran down his face. But he loved the warm electric wind, the flash of oncoming traffic, and the shrill scream of the cop's siren.

  He'd been working up to this and whatnot; he only wished he hadn't missed his shot at Sylvia's cop. Too much adrenaline, and he'd jerked the trigger on the first three rounds—the rounds meant for Matt England.

  He swerved to avoid a bag of garbage that had fallen from some asshole's truck. A stranded car just ahead seemed to come out of nowhere.

  He had to jam the Honda to the right, cut across both lanes, and wind his way between cars turning into the parking lot of the Bingo Palace. He cut in front of a high-rider and clipped its chrome bumper with his helmet. He heard a horn, even over the scream of the siren.