Acquired Motives (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 2) Read Online Free PDF

hundreds of high-desert miles. For Benji, running connected him to his Spanish and Pueblo ancestors—it was a spiritual exercise. He never lost stride—at least not until he spied the man.
          At first, Benji thought he was one of the other firefighters, maybe injured or smoke-blind. He sat—no, he was propped—against the grandfather of all trees in a stand of old-growth piñon. And he was buck naked.
          Benji veered toward him and called out. Then he stumbled, retching.
          Smoke oozed from the man's pores, flames tickled the bottoms of his feet and turned his skin black; his eyes glowed red like those of a mad dog, he howled, writhing as the fire ate the flesh from his body.
          This man is alive with fire .
          A sharp eruption of light and noise jerked the burning man forward and he teetered in front of the firefighter.
          In that terrifying instant, Benji's mind closed like a door. Locked inside were faint memories of feast days and masked dancers with painted bodies, visions of curanderas and arbularias —healers and those who offered protection against black witchcraft—and all the ugly prison mojo he'd ever seen.
          He was without defenses when he saw the second apparition: a witch.
          It rushed toward him, skin painted with blood and earth. In Benji's eyes, the witch was a two-legged bird of death—an owl that flew directly in his path. He heard a death rattle, felt the owl claw at his soul—and fear clutched his heart, held it between icy fingers, and refused to let go.
    A T EIGHT-THIRTY P.M ., Cerrillos Road was crowded and every motorist in the southbound lane was on a blind collision course with the sun's final rays. Cruising low-riders cut across white lines to sniff rival tailpipes. The heavy beat of car stereos gave a bass rhythm to the stop-and-go traffic and rising tempers.
          Stranded at a red light, Sylvia eased her head out the window. She tasted warm exhaust fumes, and smoke from someone's barbecue; the day's heat settled over the city like a lid.
          Her home was still twenty minutes away, in La Cieneguilla. The adobe house would be surprisingly cool, and dim, except for two automatic security lights. The recently installed alarm system made her feel more secure, but it didn't make the house less lonely. No one waited for her at home, not even her dog. For several months, Rocko, her terrier, had been staying with her former partner's son, six-year-old Jaspar Treisman.
          Sylvia slumped down behind the Volvo's steering wheel. Before her relationship with Matt England, solitude had always been desirable, pleasurable. A relief. Now, nothing was quite so simple.
          At the corner of St. Michael's and Cerrillos she turned right. Matt wasn't coming to her house tonight, but she would go to his. She touched the bag next to her on the seat. Through paper, the thick bottle of Absolut chilled her fingers. In addition to the vodka and some jalapeño-stuffed olives, she had focaccia sandwiches from Portare Via. She wanted to feed her lover, then she wanted to fuck him. She wanted to drink too much vodka. Get stupid. Gain distance from her professional life for a few hours.
          The Volvo's engine whined as the revs slowed in second gear. She patted the steering wheel; the car seemed weary and worn out, and she identified with it. Not a good sign.
          Salazar Elementary was deserted for the summer. The only structure in the illuminated school yard was a white trailer. It sat in the far southwest corner. Tires dotted its roof. Next to the trailer, a small patch of earth had been transformed into a lush garden. Matt's garden. Planted in neat rows, green chiles, tomatoes, and corn thrived. Between rows, giant sunflowers—great floral babushkas—seemed to nod their heads reverently. Mounted on a pole, a big yellow beach ball mimicked a predatory owl with huge black-and-red eyes. It was designed