Acquired Motives (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 2) (28 page)

     
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

T
HE 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.

K
EVIN
C
HASE 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?

I
T 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 that 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.

T
HE 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. . .

     
It had taken Matt several hours to convince Captain Elizer Rocha that it was worth a shot at Kevin Chase. Matt had lied about his source. Rocha would not be impressed with a tip from one of Erin Tulley's snitches—not after all the negative fallout on the Randall case.

     
Matt pulled his body back into shadow when Manny Dunn's white Buick appeared in his sightlines. The Buick braked to a stop under another industrial light, almost directly in front of the rest stop facilities. Matt shook his head. Manny Dunn was no genius.

     
The 1-25 rest stop was located just north of the crest of La Bajada. The
bajada
, or descent, a one-thousand-foot drop from mountain to desert, marked the unofficial division between northern New Mexico and the southerly regions of the state. Vehicles heading north from Albuquerque climbed for an hour before they hit the crest of La Bajada, at which point the city of Santa Fe and its surrounds became visible, scattered below like children's toys.

     
Manny Dunn hoisted his bulk from the Buick and slammed the car door. He walked with a slow, rolling stride, hands in pockets, chin low. But Matt knew Dunn was watching everything and everybody around him as he moved toward the men's toilet. Matt and his team would wait for Kevin Chase to show. If he wasn't scared off, they'd have themselves a nice, neat collar. They'd even pop Manny Dunn for buying dirty toys.

     
A skinny guy walked out of the toilet and passed Dunn on the cement walkway. Matt could see Dunn's shoulder blades tighten beneath his cotton shirt, but the other guy kept walking without a word.

     
Matt checked his watch—8:08
P.M
. The deal could go down any time now. Or never.

     
The night air was soft and soothing—the payoff of hot, sticky days. From where he stood he could see the lights of Los Alamos glowing like phosphorescent creatures.

     
More than an hour ago he had turned away from the faraway lights and traveled south across the plateau on foot, leaving the rest area behind. He had ducked under barbed wire, dodged cans, bottles, and other human debris. He had passed a large outcrop of rock. By the time he looked back at the interstate, the traffic had been reduced to a distant glow and a faraway hum.

     
He'd walked long enough for his mind to clear. The terrain, the sense of place, seduced and soothed. It reminded him of Oklahoma. There were antelope a half mile away, and a coyote was surely watching his long stride across earth. Unexpectedly he found himself picturing his wife's face. If Mary's soul was anywhere, it could be here, lured by open space. He still missed her, still felt her absence after all these years.

     
By the time he'd reached the rim of La Bajada, he felt almost peaceful. Out there, the earth dropped away and fell back like a receding wave; it gave him a view of the entire world.

     
Matt instantly put those thoughts from his mind when movement caught his eye; a girl skipped out of the women's bathroom. Her mother called to her from the parking area.

     
Matt glanced back over his shoulder. The D.P.S. surveillance van was parked between highway maintenance vehicles roughly fifty feet behind the row of picnic tables. He could communicate with the van via radio.

     
He looked back to the toilets—Dunn was inside and alone at 8:37
P.M.

     
Matt let a thin arc of tobacco juice squirt from the corner of his mouth. With his tongue, he readjusted the plug of chaw between gum and tooth. Now that Sylvia had smoked a cigarette in front of him, he didn't feel so defensive about his tobacco habit.

     
Another car drove into the parking area. A Jeep. Two kids got out. . . and then a woman. The kids raced over the grass toward the picnic area. The woman followed, calling them back in an irritated tone of voice.

     
Thirty seconds later, a gray truck rolled in and parked next to the Jeep. The low throb of the engine died away, but no one got out. The truck windows were tinted black, and it was impossible to see who was inside. Maybe, just maybe, Matt caught the faint glow of a cigarette behind dark glass.