Acquired Motives (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 2) (15 page)

     
The staff did their best to create a healing environment—brightly colored posters and inmate crafts decorated the walls—but they did not have an easy task.

     
Sylvia found a nurse in the hall between examination rooms. She introduced herself.

     
The woman nodded. She was small and blond and she had a nicely wicked glint in her eye. "I've been expecting you. Rosie Sanchez talked to Dr. Cray, the psychiatrist, about your visit."

     
She beckoned for Sylvia to follow and stepped briskly toward the stairwell. "We've got Benji Muñoz y Concha upstairs, where he'll get some peace and quiet." She took the stairs easily, talking nonstop. "He's really improved, knows where he is, good spirits and all."

     
"So he's talking?" Sylvia reached the top of the stairs behind the nurse.

     
"Some. He started on his own yesterday morning." As the nurse moved, she trailed her fingers along a white stripe painted over green walls. "Dr. Cray thinks it's a cultural thing." She pursed her mouth in disapproval.

     
Sylvia said, "
What's
a cultural thing?"

     
The nurse offered Sylvia an apologetic smile. "You can ask him yourself; Dr. Cray's waiting for you." She stopped and held her arm straight out as if she were directing traffic. Sylvia peered into an open office and saw a man standing by the mesh-covered window. He turned in her direction.

     
A number of psychologists and psychiatrists worked on staff at the penitentiary, and turnover was frequent Sylvia didn't recognize Dr. Cray.

     
He was somewhere in his thirties. Pale and thin with earnest eyes. He wore a cotton dress shirt and a suit coat—in the heat. Sylvia recognized the cropped hair and the black-rimmed glasses as an effort to add maturity to his presentation.

     
She braced herself. At first glance, Dr. Cray appeared to be chockful of learning-by-the-book. He walked toward her, arm extended, and she saw his fingernails were gnawed down to the quick. A job at the penitentiary would quickly test the doctor's mettle; then again, it was less a job than trial by fire.

     
She smiled, introduced herself, and shook his hand. "Welcome to the fray."

     
"Thanks." As he tucked a clipboard under his arm in a gesture that reminded Sylvia of a fledgling bird adjusting its wing, he began a slow walk down the hall. "I know you've come to see Benji Muñoz y Concha."

     
"How's he doing?"

     
Dr. Cray coughed quietly. "I've been observing him pretty closely." He tugged on his ear—the lobe was pink from constant irritation. "I've never seen a case of cultural psychosis before."

     
Sylvia came to a standstill, and the doctor shifted to face her. She said, "Cultural psychosis?"

     
"Well, yes." He puffed up his chest, but his smile wavered when he said, "I don't believe in witches, do you?"

     
Sylvia widened her eyes, tipped her head. She couldn't afford to offend Dr. Cray; he was penitentiary staff, she was the outsider—and the walls at the joint had ears. She kept her mouth shut.

     
Cray looked discombobulated. "I don't think you understand, this inmate believes he was poisoned by a witch. Literally." Dr. Cray's pitch went up a notch on the last word.

     
Sylvia considered her response, then said, "Let's look at it from another angle. What you call cultural psychosis is a physical and emotional reaction to something very
real
—in symbolic terms."

     
"Well, yes. . ."

     
Sylvia began to walk and the psychiatrist kept pace. She said, "Dr. Cray, you're making a judgment of pathology, but I don't see it. I don't think Benji is psychotic."

     
He said, "Fine. So Benji saw a
symbolic
witch." His voice was peevish.

     
Sylvia smiled reassuringly. "Fine. We can agree on that."

     
They had come to a standstill beneath a window at the end of the hall. On the other side of embedded wire and dingy glass, Sylvia caught a glimpse of perimeter fence and guard tower. She turned toward the psychiatrist, who frowned as if he were Silently replaying their recent conversation.

     
She said, "May I stop by your office after I speak with Benji?"

     
Dr. Cray nodded. He pulled a key ring from his belt and unlocked the door to Benji's room. He said, "I'll send the nurse up in five minutes to let you out." He stared at Sylvia's back as she entered the hospital room alone.

     
It felt like a cell. Single bed, bare walls, a small window with a view of the maintenance building. The room smelled of old linoleum and institutional cleansers. The hydraulic door pulled shut with a soft tick as the lock engaged.

     
Seated in a plastic chair, Benji Muñoz y Concha looked younger than his years. Thick black hair was pulled into a long braid. Wrists and fingers were bare. The T-shirt and baggy faded jeans did nothing to hide a wiry body.

     
"I remember you." His voice was soft and low.

     
Sylvia studied him quizzically, watchful for signs of confusion or depression. But when Benji turned toward her, his eyes were alert; they were also the rich hue of burnished walnut.

     
"I remember you from the fire . . . you're Rosie's friend."

     
She smiled. "I'm Sylvia Strange."

     
"A doctor." His voice was guarded.

     
"Psychologist. Sometimes I work at the penitentiary. I'm not on staff with the hospital. Do you mind if I sit?" She perched on the edge of the bed when Benji didn't protest.

     
"Are you here to decide if I can go back to the murf?"

     
The murf was the penitentiary's Minimum Restrict Facility. "I don't have any say about whether you stay or go."

     
Benji shrugged.

     
She said, "I'm amazed at the work you do—fighting wildfires."

     
He pointed at her face. "How did you get that?"

     
Sylvia's fingers went instantly to the small scar at the corner of her left eye. She was surprised to discover she felt self-conscious. She said, "It's old."

     
"Did you win the fight?"

     
For an instant, Sylvia remembered another institutional room, and the painful slap of the angry matron. "No. . . I thought so then, but I was only sixteen."

     
Benji's face settled like a quiet pool of water. "My family has always known about fire, but I'm the only one left to fight." His fingers tapped the smooth skin at the corner of his eye. "Like you. They're wrong about my forgetting. I'm not crazy." He was quiet for a moment. He closed his eyes, and a shadow seemed to fall across his handsome features.

     
"Benji, a man's body was found on the hill."

     
He nodded. "They told me I saw him burn. Owl always brings death."

     
Sylvia waited. She knew the owl was connected with witchcraft in some belief systems. Night predator, raptor, and highly skilled hunter. She reached into the pocket of her shirt and fingered a thin notepad.

     
Dan Chaney had told her there were no recent photographs of Dupont White, but she could still visualize the man on the videotape—his painted face was seared in her brain. She set the pad and pencil on the bed next to Benji. "Can you draw the witch you saw?"

     
It took him a moment to make the decision. He seemed to have a clear sense that the image might affect him strongly. He said, "I saw you . . . in one of my dreams. You know someone who's going to die soon. . . like the other man."

     
Sylvia closed her eyes and thought of Jesse Montoya. When she opened her eyes again, Benji had picked up the pencil. Intently, Sylvia watched a primitive being take shape on the page.

     
She studied Benji's face as he worked; she saw apprehension re-form his features.

     
Abruptly, Benji drew back. "That's him. He poisoned me."

     
Sylvia picked up the drawing. It was rough and childlike—oval-shaped head, shaded circles for eyes and mouth, slashes across the cheeks. The painted face of Dupont White.

     
Benji stood and began to pace. He was clearly agitated, apparently in the throes of making a decision. Finally, he turned to face Sylvia. He stepped toward her, studied her—read her. He said, "I need to see Velio Cruz."

     
Sylvia knew the name. Just as Cole Lynch was the pen's jailhouse lawyer, so Velio Cruz was the joint's inmate shaman, "psychiatrist," all-around healer. Most important, he came from Benji's own culture: not Spanish, not Pueblo, not Anglo. . . but
prison
culture.

     
She asked, "Why Velio?" She heard a soft knock; the nurse was at the door.

     
Benji said, "Because he's the only one who can drive the witch from my body."

     
Sylvia believed Benji was right. She stood, nodded, and said, "I'll see if I can arrange it."

     
Benji's entire aura softened, and a shy smile transformed his face. He murmured his thanks as she left the room.

     
Cray was waiting for Sylvia in his office. He wasn't alone. The deputy warden, a squat, middle-aged man with small eyes and an apostrophe mustache, was by Cray's side. He didn't pause for an introduction.

     
He snapped, "Benji Muñoz y Concha is not under your care. You will not visit him again unless you have permission through
proper
channels. Is that clear?"

     
Sylvia bit her lip and nodded. She didn't say a word. And she didn't mention Rosie Sanchez.

O
UTSIDE THE PEN
, behind the steering wheel of her Volvo, she found herself staring at the cell phone in her lap. She'd placed three calls to Matt; she had left three messages. So where the hell was he? She dialed again and checked her own messages. Finally, after an interminable wait, she heard Matt's voice.

     
He said, "I thought you'd want to know, I checked out a body this afternoon, but it wasn't Jesse Montoya. It was a hitchhiker, a hit-and-run off Old Las Vegas Highway. Listen, I'm sorry about all this—you and me this morning."

     
She was sorry, too, and she regretted her angry outburst. A few seconds passed; she thought Matt's message was complete. But he had added a postscript "I'm working late tonight, so I'll just stay at my place."

     
She heard the sharp beep as the message cut off, but she sat with the phone still clutched in her hand. Overhead, a layer of gray cloud and smoke veiled what should have been a clear summer sky. Sylvia felt as though the pall had blurred her mind. The weather was unnatural; the normal pattern of the winds was shifting.

CHAPTER TEN

S
YLVIA WOKE FROM
a dream while it was still dark outside. The illuminated digital clock showed three-fifteen. She lay in bed under a thin sheet. Her skin was damp, she was uncomfortably warm. In the dream, at twilight, she and her terrier Rocko had hiked up the ridge behind the house. By the time they reached the rocky spine, night had fallen. In the floating time of dreams, they found themselves trapped between two large coyotes who stared with gleamy yellow eyes. The largest coyote lunged at Rocko, but Sylvia fought it off. It bit her hand as she hurled it over a round boulder. Blood poured from the toothmarks on her palm. When she looked to see if the coyote was dead, she saw her father, and he rose up and flew away like an owl.

     
Awake, she couldn't shake the sense of dread that hovered over her like a shadow. Her father had walked out of her life when she was thirteen. She still had no idea whether he was dead or alive. He would be in his sixties now. She thought of the way Anthony Randall had died. Jesse Montoya was missing four days now. Her thoughts and her dreams were occupied with absent or disappeared men.

     
Automatically she whistled for Rocko before she remembered her terrier wasn't staying at the house. She kicked the bedsheet away and switched on the small fan next to the bed. Warm air brushed her skin and brought little relief. When she managed to steer her mind away from Jesse, she found herself picturing Matt. By now he must be sprawled in his bed with Tom the cat. She rolled over and hugged the pillow where Matt usually slept. The whisper of lemon scent made her want to cry. The bed was suddenly depressingly large and unwelcoming. She fought the light-headed panic that came with the fear their relationship had shipwrecked. She felt like someone who was trying to complete a puzzle with missing pieces.

     
It was four-thirty when she gave up on sleep and brewed a pot of espresso. She carried her coffee outside to the deck, stretched in a chaise longue, and watched the sun peek over the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. A ghost of the full moon still hovered in the western sky where the fires had turned gray clouds pink. Liminal time, no longer night, not yet day. An interim she usually loved.

     
She closed her eyes, and her fingers grazed a glossy page; the book lay on the table next to the chaise. It was a museum edition—
Art, Ceremony, and Religion
—from her own shelf. It was just the way she had left it late the night before, opened to a full-color photo of a Papua New Guinea totem mask and a smaller black-and-white inset of a warrior mother kachina doll used in a Hopi Pachavu ceremony.

     
Sylvia found her reading glasses folded in the seam of the pages. She put them on and studied the images once more. In many cultures the mask traditionally expressed an alternate identity. It might transform the wearer into an animal or human spirit, invoke the soul of the dead, or impart transcendent, godlike powers.