Dangerous Attachments (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 1) (12 page)

L
UCAS LAY CURLED
on her bed, his face buried in her white silk blouse, his thumb in his mouth. Had he been resting for minutes, hours? He wasn't sure because his thoughts had been lost in the past, back in that other time, back on that other bed. He tasted salt, a tear. He'd been crying.

The shower continued to drip, a maddening, methodic sound. He counted each drop, caught himself, and bit his own arm. His skin was pink from scrubbing, it tasted of soap and powder. The scent made him think of pretty women on TV who worried about their laundry.

Clothes, books, baskets, cosmetics, jewelry, notebooks, pages—all were strewn around the bed. Her dresses were scented with her, a musky perfume. Panties, shoes, sweaters—everything smelled of her.

But no pouch
.

He selected each item with care: black silk panties,
black bra, black stockings. And blood-red fuck-me shoes.

S
HE TURNED OFF
the gravel road onto dirt, maneuvering the car to avoid ruts and ditches. The dark shapes standing so close to the roadside were cows. She could almost reach out to touch them. In the pasture, two horses pressed their heavy flanks against a wire fence. The car hit a pothole and old metal shuddered. Across the river, the Calidros' two-story house was lit up, surrounded by a pool of light from the arc flood suspended thirty feet in the air. Sylvia navigated the Volvo toward the lighted portal of her own house. She set the brake, cut the engine, and listened to the soft ticking of hot steel as it cooled.

The gate sagged open at an angle, and Rocko didn't respond to her whistle.

"Damn mutt," she muttered. As usual, he was out after some bitch in heat. Sylvia avoided the patches of snow that had hardened to ice on the flagstone walkway. She inserted her key in the front lock. From inside, she heard the phone ring.

CHAPTER EIGHT

I
N THE SHADOWS
of semidarkness, he waited. Her key in the lock made a scraping noise that strained his nerves. His mouth filled with saliva, his mind with anticipation—a warm tingling zap of electricity that traveled to his groin.

Lucas Watson jumped at the sudden intrusion of the telephone. Each ring seemed to build in intensity until, abruptly, her voice filled the room. The effect was hypnotic until Lucas was jarred again by the electronic beep.

"Sylvia? Pick up, it's Rosie. Are you there? I've got to talk to you right away. Call me as soon as you get in; it's an emergency." The voice ended as precipitously as it had begun, and the dial tone agitated Lucas Watson. He stepped back several feet expecting the door to open. When it didn't, he jammed his bare foot down and felt glass shatter. There was no pain as the skin of his right heel slid wet against tile. Carefully, he set his cheek to the wood and listened.

T
HE RINGING HAD
stopped. Sylvia tried to turn the key in the lock, but nothing happened. She pressed her ear against the door and strained to decipher words amplified by the answering machine. She felt a splinter from the coarse wood stab her cheek. Her breathing sounded loud in her ears. From inside the house there was a blur of sound and then a low-decibel hum. She glanced down at the key, tried it again. With pressure from her wrist, it caught, bent, and broke.

She held the detached base of the key in her hand; just that morning, she'd stopped at a locksmith shop and had the damn thing reground. She stepped away from the door and stared at the fused lock.

Alcohol and fatigue had combined to dull her senses and increase her frustration. She wanted to climb into bed, pull the covers over her head, and sleep.
Fat chance
. The back door was locked with a dead bolt; that key was inside a drawer in the kitchen.

Rodeo Nites had been a mistake, and she was tired and cold. She frowned and considered breaking a window to climb through. Unfortunately, they were all triple pane and expensive.

Her body tensed. She turned and stared at the door. Had she heard something? An icicle cracked suddenly from the roof gutter and impaled itself in a bush. She turned back toward her car and whistled for Rocko. The only response was a dog barking in the distance.

Enough already. She would drive to Rosie and Ray's, apologize for the late hour, and spend the night on the couch.

L
UCAS BOLTED TO
the small window that offered a view of the portal and the driveway. He saw her back away, and fury and frustration propelled his body toward the door. Driven by emotion and reflex, he didn't feel the pain of impact. The wood trembled but held. He braced to throw himself again, but stopped suddenly. If he acted now, he could reach her.

He sprinted toward the rear of the house where he had broken in; years of pent-up energy suddenly unleashed catapulted him through the gaping glass hole.

The Volvo roared to life and accelerated. At a flat-out-run, Lucas stayed parallel with her car. His fingers scraped across the Volvo's bumper. His breath was coming in ragged gulps. He held on, stumbled, kept pace for another twenty yards. Then he hit the invisible wall and felt his muscles seize up. He veered off, his foot snagged a gopher hole, and he stumbled forward.

The stolen Capri was two hundred yards from her house. Hours ago he'd concealed it between a cluster of salt cedar and a scrub oak. He jumped in.

The engine caught, and Lucas scraped gears and bit his tongue as the sedan slammed over ruts and moguls. He was traveling blind, headlights off, straining to catch sight of her car in the distance. There was a sharp washboard rattle as the car crossed the cattle guard. Her tail-lights came into view a quarter mile ahead.

S
YLVIA DOWNSHIFTED AND
the Volvo slowed to a crawl. Her mouth tasted sour and her clothes smelled smoky. She pushed in the cigarette lighter, and then she reached into the glove compartment in search of a smoke. The rough metal edge of the old dash sliced her finger; it was surprisingly painful.

As she sucked blood from the cut, she remembered to check under the passenger visor. A pack of Marlboros fell to the floor. Sylvia groped under the passenger seat, felt the cellophane pack, and flipped a cigarette loose. The lighter popped up in the dash. She held the glowing tip to the Marlboro and inhaled with nervous pleasure. She accelerated, turned left.

Traffic on Airport Road was light, few cars in either direction. As she shifted into third, she caught a flash of metal in her rearview window; it was gone when she looked again. A bolt of fear traveled her spine.
We're searching for an escaped inmate, ma'am
. The cop had never actually said the escapee was from the state hospital.

The golf course appeared on her right. Unnaturally green turf gleamed under lurid artificial lights. On the other side of the road, the gravel yards, welding shops, and junkyards formed a rural-industrial moonscape. Sweat had broken out on Sylvia's face and she cracked the window for air. Headlights flashed in her rearview mirror. Highbeams. They flashed again. And again.

Sylvia tried to shake her mounting fear. It was probably some drunk or a teenager out for a cruise.

She sped up. Fifty-five. Sixty. Sixty-five. Seventy miles per hour over asphalt and ice patches. The other car stayed right on the Volvo's bumper. The speedometer was edging toward eighty—too fast even for an alert, totally sober driver.

The other car pulled alongside. She glanced over. At first, all she saw was the silhouette of the driver. When the interior of the other car was illuminated momentarily by flashing lights, Sylvia felt sick. The sharp profile, the hollow cheeks, the buzz cut:
Lucas
.

His car veered closer, forcing the Volvo toward the gravel shoulder of the road. To avoid the ditch, she had to pull back onto asphalt. The crunch of scraping metal made Sylvia grit her teeth.

Her hands jerked off the wheel when the sedan smashed into the Volvo's door.

The Volvo careened off asphalt, bounced along the shoulder, and skidded on a patch of ice. Sylvia fought to keep the tires turned in the direction of the skid. The steering wheel shimmied dangerously as the tires hit dirt. A ditch materialized in her headlamps. She screamed and wrenched the car toward the road.

But Lucas forced her Volvo back onto the soft shoulder.

Three times her Volvo took the impact of the speeding sedan. Although the vehicle was built like a tank, it suffered from each blow. Her left headlight was blown, a grinding noise seemed to be centered in the transmission, the steering wheel shimmied steadily, and metal must have torn loose under the hood.

She was racing for the flashing red lights on Cerrillos Road. She gauged the distance to the intersection at a quarter mile now. The sedan cut straight into her fender.

The Volvo spun out in a mad spiral, Sylvia's skull smacked metal, and she felt a sickening flash of pain along her neck.

Lights, a sense of everything happening in slow motion, a glimpse of Lucas Watson's crazed face. For an instant, she thought she really did see him laugh, but that was impossible. It was dark, all happening too fast, and the sedan driven by Lucas was sliding in the opposite direction.

The Volvo completed its three-sixty rotation. It skidded to a stop and Sylvia slumped over the steering wheel.
Oh Jesus
. She took several labored breaths, did a quick mental inventory, and sampled blood; although she'd bitten her lip in at least three places and she had a crashing headache, she seemed to be in one piece.

But what about Lucas?

Sylvia couldn't see his car anywhere. She drove slowly, shakily toward the roadblock.

"Turn off your engine!"

It took Sylvia a few seconds to realize the officer was addressing her. She opened her car door.

"Keep your hands in view!"

She stumbled when she stood. She looked at the young cop and said, "You don't understand."

"Get out of the car!"

W
HEN LUCAS SAW
the flashing lights of the roadblock, he swung the car into a parking lot between a liquor lounge and a trailer park. He wasn't ready for the rush of blood through his carotid arteries. He felt as if the skin over his body was expanding grotesquely, bloating like a balloon from the pressure. He slammed open the car door, collapsed on the icy pavement, and regained his feet slowly.

He wasn't sure if he called out, but a woman answered. Lucas tried to focus. The woman wanted to know if he was all right. Was he all right?

Sylvia had come back for him
.

"Hey, are you sick, mister?"

Lucas fell against the side of the car and wiped a hand across his face. He barely made her out, standing in front of a neon sign.

Sylvia. . . she's such a bad girl
.

"Why don't you come in for a drink, hon?"

Her legs were long, and her voice was husky. He called out, "Sylvia!"

"Who the hell is Sylvia? I'm Lorraine!" She was laughing, moving toward him, weaving slightly as she walked.

Lucas heaved himself up using one arm and the pressure increased in his head until he was certain his skull had cracked. He vomited suddenly.

"Gross!" The woman backed away and fell against the brick steps that led to the lounge. Her face pulsed with the light of flashing neon.

"Bitch!" Lucas bared his teeth and slithered forward like a snake on ice. His fingers closed on the coarse fabric of her skirt. The woman screamed, and she scratched at him, long fingernails scraping skin from his face. For a moment, he loosened his grip, and she galloped on all fours through the door of the lounge.

Lights flashed on in the trailer, and he heard voices behind him. As he turned, three men emerged from the lounge. One of them shouted something and there was an explosion of sound and light. The bullet struck the sedan and Lucas threw back his head and screamed Sylvia's name. Then he shot forward between two trailers, dodged a human form, and kept running. His bare feet left a trail of bloody prints.

CHAPTER NINE

"A
S FAR AS
you know, nothing's missing?" Criminal Agent Matt England sat on the edge of the chair with his arms folded over his chest. He looked like a rock, solid and impenetrable, in a sea of chaos. The overturned couch was flayed and disemboweled, a mass of foam, feathers, and fabric. Tiny bits of blue and white pottery covered the floor like aquamarine sand. A brass standing lamp lay prostrate against an end table. Magazines, books, videotapes, and a rubber dog bone were scattered like flotsam.

Sylvia stared at her living room, held out both hands, then shook her head. Ray Sánchez set one giant hand on her shoulder and squeezed to lend her strength. She glanced at him gratefully, and he felt renewed concern; she was pale as milk, and she was trembling. When Matt sent him a look—a silent command to wait outside—Ray shook his head.

"It's okay, Ray," Sylvia said softly. "I'll be okay."

After a moment, Ray nodded. "If you need me . . ."

"Thanks," she murmured. When she was alone with Matt England she pointed at a dark smear on the floor. "Is that his blood?"

"We'll find out. We've already collected samples," England answered. He fingered the keys on his belt while he spoke.

"I wasn't ready for this." Sylvia's voice dropped. The first sight of the damage had left her stunned and feeling violated.

"Do you know who's responsible?" Matt England asked.

"You don't?" Sylvia heard her anger breaking through. "Lucas Watson walked away from St. Vincent's hospital last night. I know it's not your job to make assumptions, but who the hell do you think did this?"

"Matt?" A uniformed trooper appeared in the doorway. He cleared his throat, kept his eyes on England, and said, "We're ready."

England gave Sylvia an appraising glance. "I'd like you to follow me, but don't touch anything."

Sylvia willed herself forward, but her body resisted. Instead, she slumped against the wall and pressed both hands to the cool plaster. The truth was, she didn't know whether she could cope. She wondered if she was coping now.

"Do you need to sit down?"

Matt England's voice sounded far away. Sylvia felt sick, angry, and on the verge of losing control. Only her rage gave her the energy to follow England down the hall.