Acquired Motives (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 2) (18 page)

     
He thought about his grandfather, who had prayed for hours—days—that Jesse would stop hurting people. Jesse knew that his sins had caused great pain for his grandfather. But he had done so many bad things, the memories flowed together and filled his mind like one vast sea. He prayed now:
If you let me go free
, Madre de Dios,
I will never hurt another girl
. He started to cry.

     
And for a moment, Jesse believed he could honor his side of the bargain.

     
When he was finished crying, he tried to fight the fear. But he wasn't good at it—not without help from marijuana or Four Roses—and fear coursed through his body until he knew he would fail to die like a man.

     
So much had been wrong in his life. He didn't trust that the end could go better. He wished he had known his real mother. He missed his grandmother, his
abuelita
. He missed the voices of women as they chattered in the kitchen over great steaming pots of pinto beans and chile.

     
Dios, ayudame
—help me. But it wasn't God who embraced him with great warm arms; it was his grandmother. She called his name softly:
Jesse, jito
. She told him she was waiting for him.

S
YLVIA FOUND THAT
she was falling into a light hypnotic trance, lulled by the deep voice of Cruz, the incense, the night air. Clouds had covered the moon in gray silk. The light was diffuse and rich with shadow. She lost track of time and simultaneously became hyperalert. The opposing sensations reminded her of adolescent drug-induced states. The first streak of acid coming on when she was sixteen. The trip had been seductive and dangerous.

     
Her eyes caught movement as Velio Cruz rubbed something white over Benji. An egg in its shell. Sylvia heard faint chanting until Cruz finally threw the egg, and it exploded against the cinder-block wall of the death house.

     
The moon freed itself of obscuring clouds, and sudden milky light poured down on the prison yard. Sylvia felt sick to her stomach; a wave of heat rushed under her skin. Her vision blurred until the moon was a watery orb suspended in dark liquid. She reached out to Rosie, touched her arm, and the sick feeling passed.

     
Cruz began to smudge rough lines with charcoal or paste across Benji's high cheekbones, across his chin, and his neck. When the healer was finished, he took Benji's bare forearm in both hands and lowered his head.

     
He began to suck at the soft skin near Benji's elbow.

     
To Sylvia, it looked as if Velio were a wolf pulling and tearing at the flesh of a deer.

     
As Cruz worked, Benji appeared to experience increasing pain. He writhed on the hard earth. Abruptly, he cried out, "Help me!"

     
Answering cries echoed from Housing Unit 3.

     
But Velio Cruz kept his mouth tight on Benji's arm.

T
HE
PANEL
TRUCK
coasted to a stop on a rough forest road just miles from Los Alamos. On either side of the road cut, a wall of ponderosa pines denied trespass. The mature trees—the veterans—stood twenty-five feet. The youngest had grown together, entwined and crippled, in their quest for the sun.

     
The driver's door opened, but nothing emerged from the truck except a thin strand of cigarette smoke. After several minutes, the forest's half silence was broken by the throb of a motorcycle engine. The noise grew louder until a Honda roared into view. Tree branches grazed the biker's arm and thigh. Motorcycle tires crushed infinite pine needles and stirred up fine, powdery earth. The bike drew even and came to a stop next to the truck. The biker climbed off the Honda and slowly removed his helmet. Kevin Chase ran a hand through his damp hair and gazed up at the trees.

     
The forest was alive, breathing, and seemed to take one step toward the road. Kevin closed his eyes as if waiting to be crushed by the dark, hunkering shapes. Maybe he heard them speak:
Tonight, you have the power
.

     
Finally, he walked around to the rear of the truck and opened the double doors. He saw Jesse Montoya curled up like a sick baby in the farthest corner. Kevin ignored the naked, bound man and stripped off his denim shirt. He had things to do.

     
When he opened the toolbox, the small containers of pigment were ready. He unscrewed one bottle and scooped out rust-colored paste with his thumb. Using the index fingers of both hands, he carefully smeared bloodlines along his cheek, forehead, and throat. A canteen of water had been strapped to a metal hook on the truck's left panel. He took the canteen and squatted outside the truck. With his palm, he wore down the earth between his feet. He dripped water into the hollow. Mixed, the dirt and water became mud, which he rubbed over his chest, arms, and face.

     
He hunched over the bike and stared at himself in the mirror. A bloody, aboriginal demon stared back. Good. Killer would approve.

     
When Kevin dragged Jesse Montoya from the bed of the truck, he got a surprise: Montoya was conscious. He heard the pleading whisper of Jesse's voice. The sound made him uneasy.

     
As he dragged Montoya away from the road, he followed spidery strands of moonlight on the forest floor. His feet were cushioned by the carpet of brown pine needles and rotted trees. Montoya's weight slowed him down. He was hot, sweaty, and irritable by the time he reached the clearing. He dropped Montoya, and the man groaned.

     
"Fuckin' rapist." Kevin spat on Montoya's exposed neck. Then he turned and retraced his steps. It was his job to carry the red gasoline can already filled with accelerant.

     
He reached the road just as Killer emerged from the truck in full paint: reddish brown and black covering face and chest. The owl mask was terrible. The grotesque predatory-bird features mesmerized Kevin.

     
Killer reached out one painted arm and flame emerged from between fingers. Like
magic
.

     
And then Kevin saw that Killer also held the video camera. The red light pulsed.

     
Hefting accelerant, Kevin led the way; Killer followed with the camera. By the time they reached Montoya, Killer was moving through the trees in slow motion, red light gleaming, body undulating in a private ritual of death. Wet with sweat, anticipating the coming death, Killer plunged deeper into some altered state.

     
Kevin watched the red light and his pulse began to race. He lifted the gasoline can and poured a mixture of paint thinner and kerosene over Jesse Montoya's bound, naked body. The fumes excited Kevin. He was overwhelmed by the reek of kerosene. He had memorized the explosion, the burst of flames.

     
But this time, he would risk the wrath of Killer. This time, the kill would be
his
. He had to prove he wasn't afraid; that he wouldn't be sick like the last time.

     
He stared down at the rapist. Jesse—coughing, sputtering—looked away and closed his eyes. The accelerant had soaked the tape bindings and glistened on naked flesh.

     
From the corner of his eye, Kevin saw Killer moving his way. The camera was on
him
. He didn't let himself think about his next move. Strutting hollowly for the camera, he pulled matches from his pants pocket. He was surprised at how numb he felt as he deliberately struck a match, let the book ignite, and tossed the tiny inferno in the air. It fell. Kevin saw it drifting in slow motion. Actually, it began in an instant. Jesse Montoya screaming as his body exploded like a fireball. Flames raced hungrily over skin and earth, gobbling up the trail of flammable fluids.

     
Kevin was thrown back by the blowout, his yell fueled by surprise and the rush of panic. But his cry ended abruptly when he felt the brunt of Killer's rage—one boot stroke across his temple.

B
ENJI
M
UÑOZ
Y
C
ONCHA
experienced a moment of intense pain as the dark form of Velio Cruz melted in front of his eyes. The air was so hot it scalded his skin. He cried out, felt his body sucked off the ground until he was hovering above the death house. He looked down and saw Velio Cruz, Rosie Sanchez, and Sylvia Strange. They were huddled around a small dark form on the ground.

     
Benji knew he had become someone else. A stranger. A dying man.

     
For an instant, he thought death might be an eternity of pain, a burning hell like they told you in church. Then, the panic subsided, the smells, sounds, sensations eased off and he was flying. His body glided above the road, across the dark green reservoir, into the first soft rise of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. To the west, the lights of the city shimmered like something alive. Each separate illumination was so intense, so beautiful, he had to turn his eyes away. He looked north and saw the Rocky Mountains stretching forward, the tortured spine of a great beast. He wanted to fly on forever except the sky was afire. Flames climbed one hundred feet above the ground where the air was thin, without taste. He could see sparks in the distance, blowing closer. The muscles in his arms and legs no longer responded to his commands. An owl matched flight with him, wings aflame, flapping in slow motion. When the bird looked his way, it had the eyes of Velio Cruz.

     
He heard the ponderous whoosh of air under the bird's wings. The owl's beak was sharp and black. It stretched out its body, beak tweezed open, and tore the flesh on his arm as it passed.

     
He cried out. Below him, he caught a quick glimpse of swirling gray wings—two witches fighting over a dead fox. No. . . the fox was a man. And he was burning.

     
Suddenly, he could no longer keep himself up, and he was plunging back to earth. As his body gained momentum, the ground flew up in his face.

K
EVIN
WRENCHED
HIS
pant leg away from the flames and rolled. Pain streaked across his cheek and skull. He swore as he slammed into a tree. Dazed, he hauled himself to his knees, then stumbled to his feet. He was overwhelmed by the sickening smell of kerosene smoke and burned flesh. Nausea stopped him. He vomited.

     
When he could, he checked for damage. His fingers felt loose, wet skin on his face—
Hurts like hell
—and came away bloodied. Killer had cut him, knocked him, stunned him good.

     
He looked around, checked out his surroundings. Jesse Montoya's body was still burning—the stink was awful—and Kevin felt sick again. But the man was probably dead. Kevin turned his attention to the fire that had started in the nearby trees. The flames were moving quickly, all business. They darted up branches, danced in the pine needles and dry leaves.

     
He tried to get his bearings—which way was the road? He stumbled forty feet in the wrong direction, turned himself around, started off again. He lunged from tree trunk to trunk. It took forever to reach the road.

     
The truck was gone. So was his bike.
No, wait a minute, the bike is there
. In the stippled shadows he saw metal gleaming. His head had cleared enough so his progress down the road was almost steady. He straddled the Honda. Turned the key. Pressed the starter button and cranked the throttle. The bike roared to life.

     
That's when he saw the headlights in his rearview mirror. They blinded him. Coming from the main road. Killer had come back for him. Kevin balanced on one foot, spun the bike around, and accelerated toward the truck. Adrenaline raced through him. Then panic. It wasn't a panel truck. It was a pickup with metal tanks instead of a bed. Official vehicle. U.S. Forest Service.

     
He heard a man's voice call out. Saw the flash of shiny black metal.
A gun?

     
But it wasn't a gun, it was a spotlight—and they caught him in the beam.

     
He revved the bike's engine and pushed off. The Honda 750 terraplaned over the washboard dirt road, shimmied across a Forest Service cattle guard, and grabbed the blacktop of Highway 4. Kevin kept the bike straight and smooth, his head clearing as the wind tore over his skin. The mountain landscape flew by in a blur of road, speed, adrenaline—and the ultimate thrill.

     
The truck was behind him, but slow. He was losing them.

     
Jesus, I killed a man
. He accelerated to seventy, eighty, ninety.

     
The bike between his thighs was pure power. He saw the curve ahead. Saw the gleaming lights of Santa Fe a few miles in the distance. A hazy glow in a canyon of darkness.

     
Kevin slowed to fifty miles per hour as he approached the turn. He heard faraway sirens; they were after him, made him feel high.
I matter
. The cops were probably waiting at a roadblock. Waiting for him. Not Killer.

     
For all his size, Kevin became one with his motorcycle. He was a fluid and daring driver. He leaned into the turn. The wind stung his wounded face. He saw the lights of Los Alamos, and they looked almost within reach. There were other lights, closer. Red and pulsing, like the video camera, only big. Cops. Coming his way, up the road. He aimed straight for their headlights.

V
ELIO
C
RUZ
RAISED
his wet mouth from Benji's arm. Between white teeth, he gripped a long metal splinter. Rosie gasped. Sylvia caught her breath. Her first thought was that Cruz must have hidden the damn thing in his mouth. Her second thought was that Benji was healed. His clothes were soaked through, his hair lay damp against his skull, his eyes were bloodshot. But he was smiling wanly, and his skin glowed. He was a man reborn.