Acquired Motives (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 2) by Sarah Lovett Page A

Chaney, it was her own quick inhalation. Nothing else. There was no soundtrack to the homemade video as it became a montage of horrific images: a hand gripping a burning flare, an arm extending over the man's naked body, the flare dropped.
          And then, in an instant, flames exploded from the prisoner's gasoline-soaked belly, chest, face.
          Sylvia put her hand to her mouth, but she couldn't take her eyes from the burning man—not even when the camera pulled in for a blurry close-up. The body became alive and breathing with flames. Chaney leaned forward on the bed.
          Abruptly, the camera pulled back, refocused on a pair of black combat boots, panned up the legs of the killer.
          Sylvia knew this must be Dupont White.
          He was wearing army fatigues. He had his back to the viewer. A dark ponytail spilled over his broad shoulders.
          As he turned toward the camera, Sylvia realized she was holding her breath. Her lungs hurt, she was aware of sharp pain along her ribs.
          His face is smeared with mud or paint . Black pigment circled the whites of his eyes and spread up over his broad forehead. Dark stripes had been smudged along his cheeks. His thick, flat lips—smeared with black—pulled into a grin.
          Like the face of her attacker.
          He was arrogant, grandiose, a dark pagan god.
          Chaney froze the image.
          Sylvia felt numb with fear. She forced herself to speak. "If he's alive, if he's doing this, the authorities—"
          "I am the authorities," Chaney said tersely. "My superiors didn't believe me, and they won't believe you."
          Her fear exploded into anger, and she bolted up from the bed. "That's not good enough! You bring me here to tell me this crazy s.o.b. broke into Matt's trailer after he murdered Anthony Randall? You're telling me I was kicked by a dead man? If you really believe your story, let's talk to Matt, and then we'll go back to the F.B.I. and we'll deal with this in a sane way."
          "It's too late for that."
          "Well, come on, dammit." She was angry and she was scared. It was bad to think that Chaney might be on the run, paranoid, obsessed with a dead man. It was worse to think he might be telling the truth.
          Chaney wiped sweat from his forehead. His eyes were bloodshot. The stubble of his beard shaded the lower half of his face. He shoved a thick manila file folder into Sylvia's hands. "Read this if you want to know more about Dupont White."
          Sylvia stared down at the folder.
          Chaney's voice dropped to a whisper. "Everyone Dupont touches turns up crazy or dead. Violet Miller—his girlfriend—ended up in a California hospital for the criminally insane. His partner—a killer named Cole Lynch—he's at the pen."
          Sylvia shook her head. "Why would Dupont be after me ?"
          "You'll have to answer that one—you're the shrink. But my guess is he doesn't like your clients."
          Chaney grasped Sylvia's hand, and he steered her across the room. When they reached the door, he said, "I brought you here to scare you, to warn you, Sylvia. We tracked Dupont to Santa Fe right before he came to Las Cruces for the deal at the warehouse. He was here—now he's back. He's alive. I hope to God you listen to me."
          Her voice was soft when she asked, "What about you, Dan? Do you need money, a place to stay? You need help."
          "Me?" Chaney stared at her vacantly. "I'm going to find the sonofabitch, and I'm going to kill him."
          Sylvia felt his eyes on her back as she retraced her steps down the motel hall.
          In a daze, she pulled out into traffic on Cerrillos Road. Her car radio was on, playing an old Righteous Brothers tune, but she did not hear the words. She couldn't shake the images of Dan Chaney or Dupont White.
          Five blocks beyond the Rode Inn, she turned into the parking lot of a