by Sarah Lovett
She froze when the tip of the shotgun jabbed her spine.
"You came." Lucas Watson's voice was cold and flat. "I knew you would come."
He was behind her, maybe three feet away. She saw no sign of Jaspar. God, let him be alive and unhurt.
"Put your arms behind your back."
She followed his orders slowly and deliberately.
He yanked her windbreaker from her shoulders and twisted the slick fabric into a makeshift knot around her hands. She swallowed; her tongue felt swollen. "Lucas," she began.
"Shut up." He thrust the shotgun into her side, right above her kidney. She groaned in pain and stumbled forward.
She whispered, "Where's Jaspar?"
A small voice reached her from inside the wooden structure. "Sylvia?"
Lucas jerked her back by her hair. He put his mouth to her ear and spoke softly. "Shut up and walk."
She stumbled over a wooden doorway; inside, the floor was uneven, half dirt, half rotted planks. The air was sour with the smell of wet ashes. Between slats and missing boards, moonlight poured into the windmill. Her eyes slowly adjusted to the milky light and shadows became a bale of straw, a pile of boards, a child.
Jaspar whimpered. He couldn't move; he was terrified.
Sylvia fought back tears.
The child watched her, then his eyes shifted. Sylvia felt Lucas directly behind her. He said, "Sit right where you are. Get back against the wall."
When she had done what he asked, she looked up at him. He stood in the center of the floor with the shotgun clutched in his right hand. There was a festering wound where his thumb had been. His face was gaunt and yellowed, and his skull was covered with thick, dark scabs. His cloudy eyes had gone almost white.
Jaspar whispered, "The bad man came."
Sylvia locked eyes with Jaspar and saw his courage and his will to survive. She felt oddly reassured.
Lucas moved in front of her and blocked the moonlight with his shoulders. He gazed down at her without emotion. "Tell me what happened. The night she died. Help me wash away the badness."
This was what he'd wanted all along—to know the truth about his mother's death. "I can't do that, Lucas. I wasn't there."
Lucas smiled and tipped the shotgun toward Jaspar. "Talk to me or I'll kill him."
She took a breath, and part of her detached itself from the darkness, the horror, and began the job of gathering details from memory. She knew enough about Lily's death to begin the story. But the details were hers—not his—and the wrong cue could be fatal.
When she saw his finger tighten on the trigger, she began to speak woodenly, forcing the words out. "Your mother was home that night. And so were you. Billy went to stay with your housekeeper, with Ramona."
"Why?" Lucas insisted.
Jaspar tried to change position; his arms were thrust painfully together behind his back.
Sylvia kept her eyes on Lucas, alert for any reaction. "Because your mother—"
"Lily!"
"Because Lily was drinking too much, so Ramona took your brother away. But you didn't go."
"Why didn't I?"
Sylvia thought he sounded tortured and desperate. For an instant, her mind went blank, and she panicked. Then the picture began to coalesce in her mind. She took a guess. "You were working up to one of your tantrums."
Lucas nodded. "I hid her pills. I should be punished. I was born bad."
Sylvia said, "You were afraid you'd lose your mother."
"I wanted to stay with her."
Sylvia spoke slowly, waiting for Lucas to finish the story on his own. "So you went to get the pills. . ."
"That's right," he whispered. "I sat and cried in a corner. I watched her, and the pills and the bourbon did what they always did—they made her go to sleep." He stopped speaking. Anger and confusion flashed across his face.
At that instant, Sylvia had a sickening realization—Duke had not been in the house when Lily died.
Lucas sighed. "I wanted to punish her . . . and my daddy taught me how. I took the High Standard, the .22." His eyes glazed over and he disappeared inside himself. "I walked back to Lily's room, and I stood by her bed. She smelled bad from the nasty drink . . . but her hair was so pretty. I put the .22 against her head, and I pulled the trigger."
Sylvia fought to hide her shock—Lucas had murdered his mother.
Behind her back, she worked one hand free of her jacket.
Tears streamed down Lucas's face. "I took her ring . . . and then I lay down beside her . . . Will you help me, Mama?" he asked in a child's voice.
"I'm not your mother, Lucas." Sylvia knew that in Lucas Watson's mind, she and his mother were merged into one woman that he both worshiped and hated—merged in psychotic transference. She also knew he'd try to kill Jaspar as a sacrificial lamb—to purge his sin.
"But I can help you." She twisted her other hand free of the binding fabric.
For a few seconds, he appeared almost lucid, calm. "You found me," he said. "I knew you'd come back." He pulled the shotgun up and swung the barrel toward Jaspar.
She propelled herself away from the wall to shield the child with her body.
Lucas fired, emptied both barrels, and the shot tore a hole through wood.
Sylvia lunged forward, screaming, "Run, Jaspar, run!" She threw herself at Lucas. Her force knocked them both to the floor, and Lucas flipped her over, pinning her down.
The child streaked toward the doorway and into the darkness.
Lucas kept his lips just inches from Sylvia's mouth. His sour breath poured over her face. He whispered, "Mama?"
"She's dead, Lucas."
His eyes rolled up in their sockets, and his voice turned high and shrill. "Mama!" He raised his torso and brought his fists up.
Sylvia wrenched herself partially free and braced for the shock of impact. She saw his face contort in agony, his hands contract like talons ready to strike.
There was a great report. His throat exploded and he was thrust back by the blast. Where he fell, a widening pool of dark liquid spread across the old wood floor.
For a moment, Sylvia did not recognize Rosie Sánchez. Slowly the other woman's features came into focus. She could smell the acrid scent from the gun in Rosie's right hand.
She forced herself up from the ground, reached for Lucas, and pressed her jacket against the gushing wound that had been his throat. Instantly, the fabric was soaked with blood. She shook her head, gazed up at Rosie, and mouthed, "Jaspar?"
The other woman's face was pale, almost white, and her dark eyes were huge. "He's outside. He needs you. I'll take care of Lucas."
Sylvia stared down at the dying man, then she stood with effort.
She found Jaspar waiting fifteen feet from the windmill. His teeth were chattering, he was shaking, but he reached out to hug Sylvia. She wrapped the child in both arms, and neither of them moved until two men brought a stretcher and the static of official voices surrounded the old windmill.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
WHEN BILLY WATSON walked out of the Santa Fe Judicial Complex, the sun was so bright it seemed to sear his eyes. He pushed dark shades over the bridge of his nose and hunched his shoulders. After nine days in a cell at the Santa Fe Detention Center, he was a free man. He was also a man who was filled with newfound resolve.
The Honorable Judge Cooper had presided at the brief preliminary hearing. The charges included aggravated assault, battery, and three counts of capital murder.
The prosecution presented its case, and the judge heard all the evidence. There was very little to hear. The murder weapon—an Army-issue Colt .45—had disappeared from the evidence locker at state police headquarters. So had the shell casings found at both crime scenes. The hairs and fibers taken from the victims and the scenes were mislabeled—no chain of custody.
Billy's lawyer (a hotshot suit from Ruidoso hired by Duke) smiled sadly when he approached the bench to explain that the validity of the entire investigation was now open to question
.
At the end of the hearing, Judge Cooper had no alternative. He dismissed the murder charges, and set bail on the lesser charges at $200,000.
Duke Watson's lawyer didn't even blink.
Queeny had the Corvette illegally parked next to a red curb. Beastie Boys poured out of the stereo and she was humming along. Her rangy soprano strayed off-key.
Queeny didn't smile at Billy when he opened the door. But he noticed her eyes before she slid over to let him drive. Her pupils were dabs of ink floating in green-gray orbs, and they blazed with an odd sort of respect.
She turned off the music, stabbed out her cigarette in the ashtray, and wrapped her long arms around her bony knees. "Hi."
Billy said, "Where is he?"
"At the capitol."
He drove slowly, but even so, they reached the state capitol Roundhouse in less than four minutes.
They parked in a lot across the street, and Queeny gave him the velvet purse she'd been holding on her lap.
Billy opened it and took out the High Standard single action semiautomatic. He smoothed it gently with his fingers. It was the first gun that Duke had ever owned. It had been a gift from his father passed down to Duke when he turned five years old. Duke had given the very same gun to Lucas on his fifth birthday.
One year later, when Billy turned five, he had received shooting privileges, too. Both boys had cut their teeth on that revolver. It was light enough—had a small enough grip—to accommodate a child's hand nicely.
The Standard took .22 long rifles, but only six because the spring was old and didn't feed properly. Billy loaded it.
The legislature had been in session for five days, and the streets were busy with men who wore dark suits and cowboy hats. They walked stiffly the way men in tight-toed, high-heeled cowboy boots often do.
Billy kissed Queeny on the cheek, climbed out of the 'vette, and watched while she drove away. Then he followed a quartet of the men up the long tree-lined walkway toward the main entrance of the Roundhouse. The sky was beginning to cloud up, but the rays of sunlight still had the strength to melt snow and ice. Three smiling women passed Billy on the steps. Their brightly colored coats reminded him of candy. They looked familiar; maybe one of them worked for the senator. Billy stepped through heavy, eight-foot-tall doors and entered the building's rotunda.
For an instant, he was lost, disoriented by dim light and echoing sound. He regained his bearings and followed the same four men past the information desk toward the Senate chambers. He knew his way—he'd probably been here a hundred times to watch his father at work.
The rotunda was alive, and sound strained up toward the stained-glass ceiling, bounced off the walls, and tumbled back to the floor.
Two of the men suddenly veered off in front of him. He kept going behind the other pair. They opened the narrow doors to the chamber and passed through. Billy was only four paces behind.
His eyes took their time adjusting to the dusky light. Gradually, he recognized the rows of smooth walnut desks and the speaker's podium. And the senators who occupied their assigned seats.
He heard his father's deep voice before he picked out his thickset body. Duke's chin and barrel chest were thrust forward while his butt stuck out just slightly in a way that reminded Billy of a strutting baboon. Duke had the floor, and his voice didn't just carry, it commanded.
"—an impossible task? Some would like to convince us of that, but the fact is, we can't afford to be pessimistic. The children and youth of New Mexico have been cruelly neglected by this body, ladies and gentlemen. The numbers back me up on this—"
Billy heard the words for a few seconds and then he shut them out. He shut out the myriad mundane sounds that human beings are always making: the constant breath and expiration, the movement of muscles, the rustle of papers.
Billy began his walk down the center aisle that would lead him directly to his father. Several faces turned his way with expressions of bland curiosity.
Billy felt as if he'd been launched irrevocably on a course. When he was five yards away, he saw the Duke waving pages in the air.
"Don't cheat the young who will carry on the torch. They are the ones who will be casting votes in 2016," Duke said.
Billy saw laughter on some faces. He slipped the revolver from inside his jacket and let his arm drop to his side. His finger brushed against the trigger.
"—federal funding isn't enough; it's never enough. Nor is the—"
When Billy was seven or eight feet away, he picked up his pace just a bit, extended his arm, got his father in his sight the way he'd been taught, and began the lazy squeeze on the trigger.
Duke turned, saw the man who approached, and a slow look of recognition shifted his features like a light breeze over wild grass.
Could there have been a fleeting sense of coming face-to-face with the unavoidable? There was definitely reproach, but it was the condemnation of a man who has seen everything around him fall too far short of perfection.
Billy squeezed off six rounds. Three bullets lodged in Duke Watson's chest, one penetrated his neck, and two hit the senator in the head. Billy had been well taught.
CHAPTER THIRTY
SYLVIA PULLED ON her sweater, shook out her hair, and glanced at herself in her bathroom mirror. Under the artificial light her skin was wan, and she had deep circles under her eyes, but the bruises were gone. Considering the events of the last month, she thought she looked pretty damn terrific. She switched off the light, and walked into the living room.
Only thirty-six hours had passed since Billy Watson shot and killed his father. He hadn't resisted arrest; he was in custody at the detention center.
It had been almost two weeks since Lucas Watson's death, and the endless questions by investigating officers.
Sylvia wrapped her arms around herself and gazed out the living room window. The sun was just about to crest the Sangre de Cristo Mountains.
"Why don't you come over here and give a guy a break?"
Matt England was stretched out on the couch watching her. "Earth to Sylvia," he said softly.
Sylvia welcomed the strength of his arms around her. "I'm so glad you're here," she said, pressing her body into his. "It's frightening to be so needy."
Matt gripped her tightly, and she settled onto his lap. When she turned her face and pressed her lips to his, he tasted the salt of her tears.
OUTSIDE MAIN FACILITY the sun was shining and the air had bite. Rosie led the way to her car and opened the door for Sylvia. Without explanation, Rosie maneuvered the Camaro over rough asphalt onto dirt. Five minutes later she braked to a stop and switched off the ignition. Sylvia stared out at the large arena directly ahead. Even with the ground frozen solid there was a cloud of dust as several inmates in blue shirts and jeans worked to separate one skinny bay horse from the rest of the herd.
"I'm so glad you came," Rosie said. "How's Jaspar?"
Sylvia took a deep breath. "He's coming out of it slowly. Children are amazingly resilient." "And Rocko?" Rosie smiled.
"Johnny Rocko is an outlaw to the end. He gets his cast off tomorrow, and he never leaves Jaspar's side. They're like this." Sylvia wrapped two fingers around each other. She returned Rosie's smile. "I think I've lost myself a dog."
"I think you've gained yourself a boy. Now, how about a horse? You can adopt." Rosie gestured to the arena. "From the inmates' wild horse program."
One stocky man, the color of carbon, had his halter over the bay's neck when the horse bolted and the man hit the dirt. The other inmates were laughing while they moved to intercept the manic horse.
"I'm glad it's a new year," Sylvia said. She turned to Rosie and smiled. "I wouldn't want to do the last one over again."
Rosie said, "When are you coming back to work?"
"At the pen?" Sylvia shrugged. "Juanita Martinez wants me to evaluate one of her clients next week."
"And will you?"
"Maybe. Probably." Sylvia let her head fall against the glass of the win
dow. She raised her eyebrows and smiled at Rosie. "You know I can't stay away." She watched a chestnut colt scratching the earth with front hooves as steam escaped from its flared nostrils.
Sylvia reached around her neck and removed a delicate chain. She held it out to Rosie.
"What?" Rosie took the hand-carved silver pendant in both hands. There was a miniature unicorn delicately cut into the metal.
"It belonged to my father." Sylvia smiled slowly. "He said it brought him luck in battle. I want you to have it, if you'd like."
"I'm honored." Rosie mouthed a silent prayer in Spanish and squeezed Sylvia's hand. "But you don't owe me a thing, jita."
"Oh, yes, I do."
Rosie held up the glimmering unicorn.
"It's a start," Sylvia said, smiling.
There was a cry of victory as the stocky inmate grasped the trailing end of the halter once again. He dug his feet into the ground and pulled against the bay with all his strength. Rosie heard the small gasp of air as Sylvia held her breath. Both women nodded with satisfaction when the bay lowered its head and kicked rear hooves skyward. The man on the end of the rope landed butt first on dirt as the horse bolted for freedom.
POCKET BOOKS
PROUDLY PRESENTS
THE DR. SYLVIA STRANGE NOVELS
SARAH LOVETT
ACQUIRED MOTIVES
A DESPERATE SILENCE
DANTES' INFERNO
All available soon in paperback from Pocket Books
and
DARK ALCHEMY
Coming soon in hardcover from Simon & Schuster
Turn the page for a preview. . . .
ACQUIRED MOTIVES
When Sylvia's wish for lethal justice comes true in the form of a serial killer who targets rapists, she must find the means to stop him—before he turns on her.
Anthony Randall didn't look like a self-confessed sadistic rapist His large blue eyes were free of guile, his cheeks were tinged pink, his lips habitually worked themselves into a soft frown. He looked younger than his twenty-two years.