Acquired Motives (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 2) (39 page)

     
They came to a wall of trees, and Sylvia stopped.

     
Erin spoke in a soft voice. "Go on." She pointed to a small opening at ground level between branches. Sylvia squatted down and forced her way through the natural entrance. Needles and twigs left welts on her skin and scratched her face. She expected to enter a small, tight space. Instead, she moved into a clearing roughly a hundred feet square. It looked like a squatter's camp. As Erin followed, Sylvia stared out at the view of Santa Fe in the distance, and closer, the river valley and Judge Howzer's house.

     
Here the wind blew fiercely, and streaks of lightning punched the sky. The ground was nothing but match-sticks—the shavings and needles of pines. For a moment, Sylvia wondered about the branches, dead and downed wood, that had been piled on either side of the entrance to the clearing—and the metal gasoline can—but something else seized her attention. On the far edge of the area, a white panel truck was parked beside an outcrop of rocks. She felt new fear.

     
She faced Erin, and said, "Matt?"

     
"Go on, look." With her free hand, Erin clicked open a metal cigarette lighter and held the flame arrogantly in front of her face.

     
Sylvia turned and crossed the clearing, breaking from a walk to a run as she neared the truck. Before she reached the rear of the vehicle, the wind shifted. The air spun around from the north like a cornered beast. Sylvia tasted grit and gasoline, then the sharp smell evaporated. Her hands closed around the metal truck handles. She yanked the doors wide.

     
The truck was empty.

     
Rage washed over Sylvia, she cried out in frustration, then swung around. She yelled at Erin, "Where is he?" The wind tugged the words from her mouth.

     
Erin didn't answer, she just stood planted on the other side of the clearing. Behind her the cigarette lighter lay on a pile of dry brush and a new fire sputtered, crackled, then whooshed for a moment when it encountered a green piñon branch. It died back almost instantly, retreating like a timid snake along the forest floor.

     
Sylvia's rage propelled her, and she lunged toward the other woman. When she had covered several yards she shifted direction, sliding sideways to a stop. She found herself transferring her weight from foot to foot. A primitive need to destroy overwhelmed her—just as it had in the canyon with Kevin Chase. She wanted to kill Erin Tulley.

     
Erin raised her revolver, clasped left hand over right, and aimed directly at Sylvia's heart.

     
Sylvia stopped in her tracks. It wasn't only the weapon that held her back. She had reached a threshold, a line she would not cross.

     
Erin saw it, too. In that instant of recognition the fury went out of her body. She raised the .38 until it was pointed at the clouds. She stood that way, as if the life had drained out of her limbs.

     
But Sylvia knew it was the will to kill that had deserted Erin—and, along with that, the will to live with all that she had done.

     
Almost drunkenly, Erin drew the revolver to her mouth, bit down on the muzzle, and fired. But nothing happened.

     
Incredulous, Erin pulled the revolver from between her teeth. She jerked herself into action. Her feet cut a track in the duff, just inches from the place where she'd started the fire.

     
Erin heard the flames before she saw them. There was life in her fire yet. She turned, watched yellow blades eat their way across the ground. A weed sizzled and caught. Another burned. And another.

     
Beyond Erin, the forest stretched green, untouched by flames. The trees looked pristine and vulnerable. The winds could spread a fire in minutes.

     
Leery, Erin circled the tiny flames. And then her eyes settled on the metal can just a few feet away. She moved toward it, all the time aware of Sylvia.

     
Sylvia called out. "I can help you."

     
"The way you helped Anthony Randall? And Jesse Montoya?" Erin drew her fingers down her paint-smeared face. The gesture made her look as though she was wiping away contamination.

     
Sylvia inched forward. She was now roughly twenty feet from Erin. She said, "You asked for my help."

     
Erin shook her head vehemently, pacing like a barefoot child on hot sand. With each pass, she came a little bit closer to the metal gas can. Her damp hair was plastered to her head, the greasepaint on her cheeks had smeared into mud, her eyes glittered dangerously.

     
Abruptly, she stood her ground and hefted metal. She raised the container over her head, and the liquid bubbled to the end of the spout. Then, sluggishly, gasoline dribbled onto her hair and down her chest.

     
"Put it down." Sylvia worked to keep her voice steady.

     
Erin stared at Sylvia and nodded. Carefully, she lowered the can and set it on the ground.

     
Sylvia raised one hand and reached out to Erin. Only fifteen feet separated the two women.

     
Erin seemed to become aware of the .38, still clutched in her right hand. She gazed at it dreamily, as if she was unsure of its use, its purpose. This time, when she squeezed the trigger, a bullet razed the ground six feet in front of Sylvia.

     
And then, Erin kicked out abruptly with her boot. The gas can toppled, and fluid ran from its supple nozzle. The scent of gasoline hung thick on the air. A dark puddle nosed its way toward the low flames.

     
"Don't do this." Sylvia brushed hair from her eyes. She tasted grit and salt. She knew that Erin had touched someplace deep in her shattered psyche—a place that gave her refuge from her need to kill others—but it wasn't strong enough to protect her from self-destruction.

     
The flames of the spot-fire were still low, just the skirt of a blaze, but they were only a few yards away from the steady flow of gasoline from the can. Even before the fire encountered the liquid, it shivered and grew, tasting flammable fumes with its myriad yellow tongues.

     
Sylvia flinched, and she saw that Tulley had stopped to gaze out at the growing flames with new fear. The gun fell from Erin's fingers, and Sylvia lunged forward. But before she could cover the short distance, the metal can exploded, and she was thrown to the ground by the terrible concussion of fire, alloy, and gasoline. The air was sucked from her lungs. Dumbfounded, she gasped for breath. Sticks and rocks bit into her hands and knees. Gasoline stung her skin.

     
Sylvia heard her own name—and screams—as the fire found Erin. She stood, stumbled forward, fighting against the vertigo.

     
She saw Erin's muscles contract as flames ate their way up the legs of her pants. Her boots were lost in a dense, black smoke.

     
Sylvia's feet felt the scalded earth. Fire seemed to enter her body through the soles of her shoes. Just as another burst of exploding fire engulfed Erin, Sylvia reached out.

     
She grabbed Erin's arm—fought the pull of the flames—and stumbled backward.

     
Sylvia felt herself sinking into a numb inertia, and she cried out. Someone called her name. Then a man hovered over her. At first she wondered who he was—then she knew: the firefighter, Benji Muñoz y Concha. He pulled her clear of the fire then stripped off his shirt to smother the flames on Erin's legs.

     
Sylvia tried to breathe, but there was no air, just gray swirling smoke and ash. She felt weak and faint.

     
Matt's voice brought her back to consciousness. He yelled, "We've got to get out of here!"

     
She found herself on the ground near the van. She looked up and saw Matt coming toward her; he was carrying Erin.

     
Sylvia asked, "Where's Benji?"

     
"Start the van, we've got to get away."

     
She mustered herself and jerked open the driver's door. Hot pain shot up her arm. The keys were in the ignition, and she whispered a prayer when the engine caught and held steady.

     
The back doors of the van opened, and Matt placed Erin on the metal floor.

     
Sylvia saw that the fire was turning, preparing to gather force and momentum. She slid over as Matt jumped into the driver's seat. She asked again, "Where's Benji?"

     
"I don't know. We can't wait."

     
Matt drove, escaping smoke and burn, following a rough road down the back of the mountain. They were almost to the Santa Fe Reservoir when they heard the sirens of the fire trucks.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

I
T
WAS
LIKE
standing on the spine of a great beast. The ridge back scratched the sky and fell away to the plateau below. Sylvia and Matt stood on a flat chunk of granite that jutted out of the earth. From the narrow trail, Rocko, Sylvia's spike-haired terrier, stared up at the man and woman.

     
The breeze felt like water—cool and clean. On the northeastern horizon, the Sangre de Cristo Mountains, true to their name, were tinged pink. There was no sign of fire where thirty acres had burned ten days earlier.

     
To the west of the ridge back, black thunderheads shifted shape, rapidly approaching the Santa Fe basin. The air smelled of rain. A raven caught a current and sailed over the ridge. Rocko barked at the bird.

     
Sylvia felt tiny drops of water hit her skin—it was starting to rain. She thought about Erin, lying now in the hospital's burn ward. The doctors thought she would survive. If they were right, she would be sent to a private hospital. Judge Nathaniel Howzer's estate would easily cover Erin's expenses for life.

     
Sylvia hadn't been surprised to learn of Howzer's bequest. The man had lived with his own demons. She believed that in the end, the secrets he kept had killed him.

     
As for Erin . . . eventually, she would be evaluated by psychiatrists to decide whether she was competent to stand trial for murder. It was possible that the case would go to trial—but not probable. Either way, Sylvia would be a witness, but not an expert. This time, she would not be the Killers' Doctor.

     
Rocko yipped, tail at attention.

     
Matt watched the terrier's frantic action. The rain felt good after all these months of dryness. Rain washed away all the dust and allowed for a fresh start. He was thinking about the photograph he'd found at Nathaniel Howzer's house. Matt nodded, unconscious of the gesture. Garret Ellington was one presidential hopeful who'd seen his aspirations wither and die.

     
Sylvia brought Matt out of his reverie. She said, "Garret Ellington should rot in prison."

     
"You a mind reader?" Matt took Sylvia's arm. He said, "At least Dan Chaney's having a hell of a time; he's going to testify before Congress at the hearings on Las Cruces. Dan's like a bear shaking a hornet's nest. I have a feeling the whole damn thing will come tumbling down." Matt's fingers grazed Sylvia's bandaged hand; the burn would leave a scar.

     
She took a breath, tasted rain, and pressed her head into his shoulder. "Matthew, there's something we have to settle. About kids . . ."

     
Down the ridge, Rocko barked excitedly as a lizard skittered across rock. The terrier lunged and darted at the air. The lizard was long gone.

     
"Don't you think we should get married first?"

     
Matt stared at her in surprise. Finally he said, "Yeah, I really do."

     
The silence between them stretched to minutes. After a time, she pointed down the rocky hill to a cluster of trees where some moss rock had flourished. She said, "My father tended those trees. He hauled in that moss rock. He always said he wanted to plant a garden there."

     
Matt smiled. "It's a fine spot."

W
HEN
S
YLVIA
STEPPED
into the small yard next to Dormitory A at the murf, Benji Muñoz y Concha had his back to the world. He and two other inmates were each perched on stepladders, dabbing silver and yellow paint on the foam tips of a great wave. The wave began as a flat blue-green plate in the distant ocean; it built speed and weight until it finally came crashing toward the viewer.

     
In a wide-legged stance, Sylvia stood in the center of the yard. She was dressed in Levi's and a crisp cotton blouse that buttoned at the collar. She had a secret smile on her face as she considered the mural.

     
She stood for several minutes and watched as the waves took on a very realistic foamy hue. While Benji painted, he kept his nose to the mural and never acknowledged her presence.

     
The other two inmates stared at her from time to time.

     
Finally, Benji set his brush on the ladder. Without turning he said, "Yo, Strange."

     
She said, "You're psychic."

     
He backed down the ladder, reached the bottom, and turned slowly. He was grinning, eyes hidden behind black plastic sunglasses. In one hand he clutched a small mirror.

     
Sylvia laughed, and then her smile died away.

     
Benji glanced down. He said, "How's your hand?"

     
"It still hurts sometimes."

     
Benji nodded slowly.

     
"Let's sit down." Sylvia led the way to the bench that ran along one wall. Except for the two painters, they had the small yard to themselves. They sat side by side. "Smoke?"