Acquired Motives (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 2) (5 page)

     
If she had a problem sharing territory, Matt was the opposite. Shirts, undershorts, books, gardening catalogs—these were the prized possessions he kept in abundance at her house. She was constantly finding his strays: fountain pen in the washing machine, bolo tie under the bed, one sock in the toolshed.

     
She yawned and stretched just as her briefcase emitted a quick series of chirps. Her cell phone. She retrieved the handset and greeted a woman from her answering service. Kevin the Terrible, her court-ordered client, was on the line. Sylvia's eyebrows rose in surprise. He'd missed his appointment that afternoon. Unless Kevin had a note from home signed by God, his probation officer would almost certainly begin the revocation process.

     
She said, "Put him on."

     
"Hey, Dr. Strange? Listen, I know I messed up." There was a rumble of traffic in the background. The noise became louder, then it was suddenly muffled, and Sylvia imagined Kevin had cupped the mouthpiece with his hand.

     
He continued, excited, really full of himself. "I had something I had to do."

     
"You know the deal, Kevin. If you miss a session, you may be revoked." Sylvia examined the remaining stuffed green olive in the bottom of her glass. "I have one bit of advice: be in my office tomorrow. Twelve o'clock sharp. We'll talk about this."

     
Suddenly, Jackie Madden, Kevin's legal guardian, was on the phone. She sounded distressed. "Dr. Strange. I'm really sorry Kevin missed his session. He had a job interview for a dishwasher at El Comal. But I'll make sure he gets to your office tomorrow."

     
"I'll see him at noon." Sylvia disconnected, let the phone slide out of her fingers.

     
Tom landed suddenly on her stomach; sharp claws began to knead flesh. Startled, Sylvia moved the cat aside, stood, and walked into the kitchen. She wanted another drink. She needed food. She looked longingly at the focaccia sandwiches—she had no idea when Matt would return, but she was determined to wait. She stole a quick bite of provolone cheese and closed the refrigerator door firmly. In a small cupboard she found a bag of pretzels and a squeeze-bottle of mustard. With a fresh shot of vodka, she reclaimed her position on the couch next to the cat.

     
Two of three network affiliates had the same lead story on the ten o'clock news: "Anthony Randall walks in sensational turnaround."

     
On Channel 7, against the background of the Santa Fe Judicial Complex, reporter Mike McPeavey summed up the half-day hearing and the intense community reaction to Randall's release. McPeavey told his anchor, "Apparently, there have been threats of vigilante justice in this case."

     
Anthony Randall faced the camera with his lawyer to say, "Somewhere out there, the real rapist is free."

     
Sylvia drained the last of the martini and used the remote control to turn off the television. Anthony Randall's cocky smile stayed with her, and she tightened her fingers on the cat's fur until Tom yelped indignantly.

     
She left her empty glass in the kitchen sink and switched off all the lights in the living room. She stood in the dark. Anger, blame, frustration—acute and discordant reactions. She felt them all.

O
UTSIDE,
K
ILLER CROSSED
the dark school yard, moving from shadow to shadow. The trailer stood out like a big, ugly rock. Or a stranded ship. The windows were dark eyes. Empty eyes. Wind buffeted the trailer's aluminum walls. It knocked about the ceramic wind chime on the back porch, and the pottery chips made a soft, urgent sound. Wind prowled through the corn and tomato plants like a hungry animal.

     
Killer saw the doctor's car parked in front of the trailer, near the front door. The cop's Caprice was gone. Good. That was just the way it should be.

     
Words played through Killer's mind on a loop:
You see it all behind their eyes—evil thoughts, evil lies
.

S
YLVIA PULLED ON
her wrinkled skirt and stepped barefoot from the trailer. Outside, the low howl of the wind overlaid the steady hum of traffic from Cerrillos Road. Horns honked in the distance, followed by the screech of brakes and a siren. She walked to her car, opened the door, and began her search.

     
Glove compartment. Visors. Ashtray. She turned away empty-handed, but before she closed the door, she remembered to check under the front seat. A lonely Marlboro had rolled around on the floor for weeks. The car lighter glowed red in seconds. She inhaled gratefully, with illicit pleasure. She welcomed the bite the smoke took from her lungs.

     
On the trailer steps, she sat and drew the cigarette down to the quick. The wind had picked up, and it slapped her face with a warm, dry palm. In the garden, cornstalks danced and whispered. She felt someone's presence, eyes on her skin, and she looked up at the moon. The fine hairs on her arms stood up. She was edgy as hell.

     
With great care, she tapped the cigarette butt against asphalt, then she pressed the tip together with finger and thumb. She slipped the butt under one of the cinder-block supports beneath the trailer skirt and took a last look at the garden. When she was back inside the trailer, she locked the door.

     
Sylvia lit three scented candles. Earlier in the evening, she had craved sex as a frenzied antidote to her anger and frustration. Now, she would gladly accept sleep. But her body and mind refused to relax.

     
She dimmed the lights and left the first candle burning in the kitchen, the second in the bedroom, and carried the third to the bathroom. The flame sent shadows scurrying up bathroom walls to escape the confining space. She dropped her clothes in a pile, reached into the shower stall, and opened the cold spigot.

     
When she stepped in, the water was frigid and goose bumps instantly dimpled her skin. She gasped and dipped her head under the flow. It hurt. She forced herself to stay under the water even after her head began to throb with pain. Finally, she turned on the hot water, full force. The spurt warmed, became hotter. The bathroom overflowed with steam and the scent of jasmine from the candle. Her body polarized, then centered itself. The heat began to work its magic, and a deep sense of relaxation lulled her senses.

K
ILLER HEARD THE
message like an internal whisper:
You are the wings of vengeance and death, vengeance and death, vengeance and death
.

     
A three-quarter moon highlighted silky tassels and slender leaves. The earth felt cool and cushioned, and it filled the air with loamy scents.

     
Killer skimmed gloved fingers over the white painted surface: siding, vent, drain spout. The exterior of the trailer was home to tiny beetles and spiders; an orb-weaver had spun its complex web in the corner of an air vent beneath a window. The web glistened in the restless night air. A moth struggled in vain to free itself from silken chains. Flickering candlelight escaped through the screened window and danced on the web with the spider.

     
Window, siding, door, handle. The dried blood on Killer's hands and arms gleamed dully in the moonlight. The crowbar fit neatly between door and jamb; it took steady pressure—prying the area below the knob—before the lock popped and the door swung open.

S
YLVIA RINSED OFF
shampoo suds and reached for soap. The bar was thin and hard—she remembered seeing a bar of Ivory in the sink. If she worked fast, she could reach out and grab the soap and her toothbrush without flooding the floor. She snapped the shower curtain open.

     
The Ivory was there, within reach. She gripped the smooth bar in one hand. As she retreated behind the curtain again, a shadow passed the open bathroom door.

     
Sylvia's heart stuttered. She caught her fear instantly, held it back, and rationalized:
Matt's home
.

     
She called his name.

     
The silence stung. She left the water running but stepped out of the shower. Another shadow across the doorway. This time, candlelight. She allowed herself a full breath. But still she moved quickly. She pulled her T-shirt over her head; it clung to her wet body. Telling herself she was overreacting, she checked the hall and moved into the bedroom. The walls seemed to slant inward; the room appeared smaller than usual. She perched on the edge of the bed and reached across the Pendleton blanket. Matt's off-duty revolver was in the bed holster—loaded. She used a two-handed grip and started back toward the hall. Something caught her eye. The back door had been forced. It hung ajar on its hinges.

     
Someone was inside.

CHAPTER FIVE

S
YLVIA FROZE IN
her tracks. Her heart was pounding against her chest, her breath caught in her throat. A voice in her brain kept screaming,
Get out
.

     
She shifted the revolver and pivoted to escape through the door. A shadow hovered, disappeared, just as sharp pain raced across her right side. No shadow could deliver such a blow. Heat followed pain. Her eyes filled with tears. She stumbled from the force of the kick, her torso twisted, knees buckled. The air had been knocked out of her lungs. The room swam.

     
Candlelight caught the side of her attacker's face, and Sylvia cried out.

     
Teeth white against the wide, blackened mouth. Skin coated with a muddy pigment. No eyes, just dark holes the size of fists. Reddish stripes smeared across both cheeks.

     
Before Sylvia could react defensively, a gloved hand shoved her against the bed. Metal cleats on a black boot tore through her T-shirt and her skin. The pain was searing.

     
The fingers of her left hand closed around the butt of the revolver. She shifted her body, transferred the gun to her right hand and raised it to defend herself. Her attacker was gone.

     
She stayed there, numb, unable to move even when she felt the blood ooze across her abdomen.

M
ATT CUT THE
turn sharp, and the Chevy's bumper scraped the fence that bordered Salazar Elementary. An S.F.P.D. patrol car was parked behind Sylvia's Volvo. Two uniforms were bent toward the Volvo's passenger window. The cops looked tense. One of them tried the door handle.

     
It was midnight, but Matt's beeper had gone off thirty minutes earlier when he happened to be trekking an arroyo by moonlight a half mile from his vehicle, in search of a stolen U-haul. To cover the eighteen miles between Budaghers and his trailer, Matt topped one hundred miles an hour up the interstate. Cars in the right lane were buffeted by the wake of the Caprice. Bumpers pulsed red. He only slowed when he exited I-25 at Cerrillos Road.

     
Matt parked the Caprice next to the Volvo. One of the uniforms raised a hand in recognition. Manny Ruiz was the shortest law enforcement officer in the state; rumor had it he perched on a telephone directory when he drove. Matt knew him from the academy; Manny had aced Criminal Procedure.

     
"She locked herself in the car," Manny said.

     
The second uniform was a woman. She pressed both hands to her hips as she spoke. "We got her statement, checked out your trailer. We can dust, but she told us the guy wore leather gloves." She nodded toward the Volvo. "She wouldn't let us in—"

     
"Shock," Manny Ruiz explained to the night air.

     
"The bleeding slowed down," the female uniform said.

     
Matt brushed past the officers. He leaned against the Volvo's flank and pressed his hand to the windshield.

     
Sylvia was seated behind the steering wheel. Her eyes flicked upward and focused on his. She unlocked the door. He opened it, bent down. He saw his revolver clutched in her right hand. Blood was smeared on her oversize T-shirt.

     
He said, "Slide over."

     
He did not try to touch her at first. He signaled Manny Ruiz and friend to take off. In the rearview, Sylvia watched the blue Buick roll out of the school grounds. A moment later she said, "He got in when I was in the shower. I don't think he took anything." Her voice was flat.

     
Matt said, "You're bleeding."

     
Sylvia shook her head. "I'm all right." Gingerly, she released the revolver and let her fingers trace her rib cage. She flinched in pain. "I bet I have a cracked rib." Matt kept his hands off. He would move at her pace.

     
Sylvia sighed. "He kicked me with his boot." Finally, she turned to look directly at Matt. Her eyes stayed on his for seconds; tears welled up. She blinked them back and let her head rest against his chest.

     
Her voice was muffled when she said, "Tomorrow, this is going to hurt like hell."

     
Matt found a five-milligram Valium in a bathroom drawer. Sylvia swallowed the sedative. He helped her clean the abrasion on her ribs. It was a little more than four inches across, deep in places where boot cleats had penetrated. The skin around the wound had already begun to darken; it was purplish and swollen. Because she refused to go to the emergency room, he smeared the area liberally with antibiotic ointment. Hopefully that would ward off infection.

     
He found a way to rig the back door so no one could get in—or out. It would do until tomorrow.

     
With the television providing white noise, they both stretched on the couch, their bodies arranged for maximum contact. It took another twenty minutes before Sylvia's breathing became deep and steady.