Acquired Motives (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 2) (25 page)

     
As Sylvia walked toward the Taurus, she saw Roxanne's shoulders sag.

     
Dupont's mother said, "I've talked to so many of you people. But not one of you can begin to tell me what went wrong with my boy." Then she disappeared inside her Spanish mansion.

T
WENTY MINUTES LATER
, as Sylvia passed Punta Gorda on U.S. 101, she realized a state trooper was following her Taurus. He was with her when she reached Ventura. She stayed at the speed limit and maneuvered with care. When he followed her onto Route 126 and was still behind her twenty miles later at Fillmore, she knew he was going to pull her over. Sure enough, his red light began to flash a few minutes later.

     
A deep male voice boomed out of broadcast speakers: "Pull over, turn off your engine, and stay inside your vehicle."

     
Muttering to herself, Sylvia eased the Taurus to the gravel shoulder and switched off the ignition. In her sideview mirror she saw the trooper adjust mirrored sunglasses, but he did not get out of his vehicle. Traffic was heavy on the highway, and the wake of passing cars buffeted the Taurus. With the engine off the air-conditioning didn't function, and the car quickly reached an uncomfortable temperature. Sylvia rolled down the driver's side window. She glanced at her watch and gauged that at least four minutes had passed since the trooper's summons. He was still seated in his vehicle.

     
Sylvia leaned back in her seat and gazed at the rearview mirror. It was beginning to sink in: Garret Ellington was a powerful and well-connected man. He could certainly have a few cops in his back pocket.

     
The trooper had his radio transmitter in front of his face. On the roof of his vehicle, red lights pulsed an unsettling rhythm.

     
She stared at her watch again; six minutes gone. Through her open window she heard the faint chatter of the trooper's radio. By now, state computers would have pulled her name off rental agency computer files. With a little diligence, this trooper could find out if she owed money on her Visa card. He'd certainly know she wasn't an F.B.I. agent. Sylvia fanned herself with the refolded state map and cursed the age of computer technology.

     
When more than twelve minutes had passed, Sylvia had to force herself to stay inside the Taurus. She knew that the balance would shift sharply if she tried to force the trooper's agenda. She jumped when she heard his amplified voice issue a new set of commands.

     
"Remove your driver's license from your wallet, keep both hands in plain view, stay inside your vehicle."

     
Sylvia was fumbling with her leather wallet when the trooper emerged from his sedan. He was burly—in her sideview mirror, he looked huge—and his expression was sour. He kept one hand on his sidearm, and he stayed clear of the Taurus's open window.

     
She held the license out and he slid it from between her fingers. Then he disappeared back inside his car.

     
"Fuck." Sylvia clamped her fingers on the steering wheel. This was psychological warfare.

     
An additional eleven minutes passed before he finally tossed her driver's license through the open window. Then he tipped his hat with robotic precision and said, "Obey state laws, ma'am."

     
She started the Taurus and put some pressure on the gas pedal. The engine gave a snarly roar, a terrific sound.

     
No. . . she wasn't paranoid. Garret Ellington had her under very obvious surveillance. Either that, or California cops just liked to hassle women in rented sedans who drove the speed limit.

     
She shifted into first gear.

     
The trooper was back inside his vehicle, watching her, when she pulled into traffic. Her hands shook for the next fifteen miles, and she did not fully relax even when she reached the gravel turnoff to Devil's Den Ranch—and left the cop behind—about thirty miles east of Palmdale.

     
The terrain had gradually changed from green hills to desert plains. The wind had kicked up, and dust devils raced across the road. The map of California was open on the seat beside her as she guided the Taurus under the welded metal arch. Seconds later the car rattled over a wide cattleguard, past a dingy
FOR SALE
sign. The vegetation was scrub, the road was rough, and the four miles it took to reach the ranch headquarters seemed to take forever. Finally, three wide oak trees rose out of the ground like fanning beacons. The squat buildings were dwarfed beneath the trees. When she looked in her rearview mirror, she saw the Taurus was kicking up a long tail of dust. California had been as dry as New Mexico—inland, the drought was easily apparent.

     
She pulled into a clearing shaded by the oak trees and parked directly in front of a small white farmhouse. A large and faded red barn was situated a few hundred feet farther back. On the opposite side of the clearing was a second, much larger, rambling ranch-style house. Additional outbuildings were scattered around the property. But Sylvia saw no trace of people or animals. She got out of her car, shielded her face from the sun with one hand, and searched for signs of life.

     
Almost instantly she saw one. A large bulldog raced around the corner of the barn. It was charging her, massive head down, spit flying.

     
Sylvia clambered back inside the Taurus and slammed the door just as the dog hurled its body at metal. There was a thud. And then awful scraping sounds as the bulldog scrambled onto the hood of the car. He growled through the windshield and thick globules of drool smeared the glass.

     
"Boomer, git the fuck off the car!"

     
Sylvia flinched as a rock slammed into the Taurus and ricocheted off her door. Boomer yelped and jumped from the rental car's hood. He slunk off toward the barn. Before Sylvia could breathe any relief, she saw the dog's master.

     
He was wiry, mid-fifties, minus most of his teeth, and quite handy with his pitchfork.

     
Sylvia forced a smile.

     
He said, "You can git yourself outa there."

     
She studied the plain, unpolished man and saw a rancher who'd fallen on hard times. When she caught sight of his hook nose, she thought instantly of Cole Lynch, the penitentiary's Counselor; from this vantage point, Cole's Ivy League legalese seemed preposterous and poignant. This had to be his father, Fuller Lynch—caretaker of Devil's Den Ranch.

     
She climbed slowly from the Taurus, introduced herself, and said, "Roxanne White said you could show me around the place."

     
Fuller Lynch's eyes disappeared in a squint. "Why should I do that?"

     
"It's for sale, isn't it?"

     
Fuller Lynch spat in the dirt and raised a tiny puff of dust. "Yeah, but today's not a good day." He started to walk away.

     
Sylvia tried again, letting her speech roughen. "Last week, I visited your son Cole at the penitentiary. He was working in the law library, and he looks real good. Talks smart as a lawyer."

     
There was a long silence while Fuller weighed that information. His calculations were visible on his changing countenance. Finally, he grumbled, "And Cole's a whole lot more honest than most." His eyes softened up one notch. "Why'd you visit my son?"

     
"I'm a doctor, and I'm doing some research on Dupont White."

     
The corner of Fuller's mouth turned up derisively. He shrugged. "Go ahead and look around. There's nothing to find no more. Main house is all locked up." He jerked his head toward the rambling structure, and Sylvia followed his gaze. The sky caught her eye. Wispy clouds soothed a hard blue heaven. The sun had baked away any moisture in the air. The ranch house stood against the horizon like a false front on a movie set.

     
Sylvia's eyes followed a gliding buzzard or hawk. It circled lazily, cresting strong currents. And then it dove toward the earth. This was the place where Dupont White and his cousin had spent their childhood summers.

     
Fuller had been watching her. He said, "F.B.I. been all through the house, then they went and put a padlock on the door. See for yourself." He narrowed his eyes, looked down his beakish nose at Sylvia, then turned to walk away. Over his shoulder he said, "Watch your step. It's dangerous footing."

     
Sylvia waited until Fuller Lynch disappeared inside the barn, but she wasn't alone. Two children had appeared. They were playing hide-and-seek. The high notes of their voices carried easily on the dry air. Sylvia watched them for a moment before she turned and covered the distance to the trees and the ranch house.

     
Concrete steps still led up to the front stoop; they were cracked and overgrown with weeds, and she walked carefully. The front door was intact, but someone—presumably federal agents—had locked it with a heavy hasp and padlock.

     
She walked around to the rear of the house. The back door was locked, but the entrance to the basement gaped open. Sylvia stared at the cellar steps—they were clear and looked navigable—and she followed them down to the darkened doorway.

     
The basement was large, and it rambled like the house. Pipes ran through the foundation. Spiders had spun their webs in corners. Dead, dry leaves were thick underfoot. She thought she saw a rodent scuttling past her legs.

     
She wandered along a central hallway past various small rooms. She entered one that was as close and dark as a tomb. She wished she had a flashlight; it took minutes for her eyes to adjust to the darkness. Finally she began to discern shapes: a bench, a stool, pots and pans—no, they were trays. She was standing in a home darkroom.

     
She could hear a child's voice very faintly coming from outside. It was soft and high and plaintive. The sounds and the dark space spooked Sylvia, and she stumbled back along the hallway and up the steps, eager to reach open air.

     
Outside, clouds had thrown their veil across the sun, and the light had depth and shadows. With care, she made her way back around the ranch house. When she reached a picture window, she peered inside through dust. It was a long, low room, a gallery of some kind. It was all pine veneer, red leather, very masculine. Animal trophies lined the walls. No, they were masks. Sylvia wet her finger with spit and cleaned dust from a small circle of the window. Now she saw they were carved, painted masks that resembled ones she had seen from Mexico or South America.

     
While she stood absorbing the scene, she heard a noise from across the clearing. She turned and saw Fuller Lynch standing in the barn door. He made no bones about staring.

     
Sylvia waited without moving for several minutes—stubbornly, as much to see if the man would look away. He didn't, even when she walked in his direction.

     
Fuller Lynch met her at her car. He worried a stalk of straw between his teeth.

     
Sylvia looked him in the eye. She said, "You were right. . . there's nothing to see."

     
He nodded soberly. Satisfied. Sylvia thought he looked like a fat canary—the one that swallowed that poor old barn cat. Not a good man with secrets, she decided; he would deny anything and everything without finesse. Just a farmer fallen on hard times.

     
She said, "What happened to the little girl that used to come out here with Dupont and his stepfather?"

     
Fuller Lynch said, "Don't know about no little girl."

     
"Really? I just saw a picture of her with your son and Dupont . . . on Halloween, about 1978. That picture was taken here."

     
"Well, I don't remember no little girl."

     
Sylvia nodded. But her eyes widened as she glanced away. She was right—Fuller Lynch was definitely a rotten liar. She said, "So who used the ranch?"

     
"Dupont hid out here sometimes."

     
"When he was running guns with your son Cole?"

     
"When they were practicing the second amendment." Fuller Lynch sounded proud of his son. He eyed her. "But you oughta know all that if you're doing research like you say."

     
"What about before that, when Dupont was young?"

     
"Mr. Roland White, Dupont's stepfather, and his gentlemen friends came out here."

     
"Gentlemen? When Dupont and his cousin were here?"

     
"You ask too many questions." Fuller Lynch turned and walked away.

     
Sylvia reached the Taurus and slid behind the wheel as the caretaker disappeared back inside his barn.

     
The engine turned over, caught. Just then Sylvia saw a flash of color. She looked out the window at wide, blue eyes—a child chasing a clattering can.

     
The child asked, "Is that your car?" She was about seven or eight years old. She stood with tiny hips jutting forward, aggressively curious.

     
Another child appeared out from behind the Taurus, this one a boy who was older than the girl by a year or so. He said, "My daddy's a lawyer."

     
The girl crossed her arms over her concave chest. "He's in New Mexico."

     
These must be the Counselor's children.

     
"What were you doing inside the crazy house?" the boy demanded.

     
Sylvia smiled encouragingly. "Crazy house?"

     
"It's haunted," the girl announced. She kicked at the can. "And now you're haunted."