Dangerous Attachments (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 1) (2 page)

"Do you think your caseworker can come up with a feasible plan?" Sylvia asked. Each inmate was assigned a caseworker. When applicable, he or she was responsible for the formulation of a parole plan—the nuts and bolts of parole—including potential living situation, employment, and available treatment programs.

Lucas fixed her with his cloudy eyes and nodded.

"Good. Before we begin, I need to remind you that I can't guarantee confidentiality. Whatever we talk about in this office, I'll be sharing that information with your lawyer and, ultimately, with the parole board."

He nodded again, his body humming with motor tension, fingers drumming the arms of his chair.

Sylvia noted a dark substance under his first and second fingernails. Her guess: dried blood. When he was stressed, Lucas probably scratched the scabs on his scalp.

She said, "Because we only have this one meeting, I want to touch base with you about what's going on in your life. Later, I may ask you to complete some short tests. How did the test go with Dr.DeMaria, by the way?" The Minnesota Multiphasic Personality Inventory, MMPI-2, had been administered by one of the prison psychologists.

Suddenly, Lucas Watson's face darkened with concern. "What did she say about me?"

"Are you worried about what Dr.DeMaria might have said?"

He leaned forward and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "She doesn't like me because I know who she really is."

"Who is she, Lucas?"

"One of
them."
He cocked his head, raised one eyebrow as if they shared a secret, and smiled.

The MMPI raw data were in Albuquerque being scored and analyzed by a firm that specialized in the computer calculation of psychological tests. When the results were faxed to Sylvia, she would use the profile and the report as part of her evaluation. But even without the results, she was beginning to get an idea
where Lucas might show scale elevations. There was an irreverent saying among prison psychs: Two, four, six, eight, who do we incarcerate? On the MMPI those clinical scales measured depression, deviance, paranoia, schizophrenia. Lucas Watson was acting a wee bit paranoid.

For the next hour, the interview confirmed her first impression. He was guarded, hypervigilant, and alert to the most minute power shifts. But to her surprise, he treated her like an ally.

Watson expressed remorse when she asked him about the murder. Perhaps he felt repentant. Or perhaps, she could assume he had certain antisocial personality traits such as narcissism, manipulation, and deception.

When she was silent, it bothered him, and he leaned closer to the desk until Sylvia could smell a faint blend of industrial soap and sweat. "I want to show you who changed my life," he said. He unbuttoned the neck of his prison-issue shirt and worked his way down his sternum. The ceremonial care he took reminded Sylvia of a religious devotee. Slowly, he revealed his chest.

She stared at the tattoo over his heart: an intricate map of blue, red, green. The Virgin floated on a cloud. Red roses crowned her bowed and mantled head. Her hands were clasped in prayer. Her face—dark eyes, aquiline nose, rosebud mouth—was a study in ecstatic joy. The Madonna's ascension.

Sylvia had seen tattoos on inmates. They were part of the uniform, part of the antisocial mask. But this was no prison-issue job.

"Gideon made her."

"Gideon?"

"The artist."

"She's beautiful." As she stared at the tattoo of the Madonna, Sylvia felt Lucas clutch her face with greedy eyes.

He said, "You're like her."

She met his gaze. Light gleamed off the gold cap that covered his left canine. He took her silence for disapproval.

"I didn't mean to offend you." He sank down in the chair and buttoned his shirt.

"I'm not offended." Sylvia's expression remained neutral while she contemplated pieces of the puzzle that was Lucas Watson. Anxiety, fear, guardedness, alliance, devotion, the Madonna . . . She said, "I'm interested in hearing about your mother."

Lucas nodded as if that was the question he'd been waiting for. "I want you to know . . ." his voice dropped to a whisper and he placed his palm on his chest. "This is my mother's face on my heart." His words were laced with hidden meaning, a paranoid's secret language. His eyelids lowered like reptilian hoods, and he refused further comment.

Sylvia let the silence stretch between them. Finally, she said, "I'd like you to do a few drawings." She gave him two sheets of clean white paper, a number two pencil, and asked him to draw a kinetic family—each member in action. On her notepad, she recorded his intense concentration, his excellent visual motor function and pencil dexterity and line flow. Watson labored intently—tip of pencil to mouth then back to paper—and Sylvia's mind wandered for a moment. Since impulse control was a critical issue, she would administer the Bender, and then the Rorschach. Although she
was curious what a complete test battery would reveal, there would not be time for the Thematic Apperception Test or the WAIS-R before the session ended. She heard Watson cough and glanced up in time to notice the twitch near his left eye.

He slid one sheet of paper across the desk. She saw three figures isolated to the sides of the page—one clearly patriarchal and dominant—in triangular relationship.

"My old man," Lucas murmured with an oddly perverse smile.

Sylvia knew that Duke Watson was the state senator for District 9, which included Bernalillo and Sandoval counties. The man had a flamboyant reputation as a progressive politician who managed to keep the Old Boys happy, even with the adverse publicity caused by having one son in the joint Lucas had drawn his father with a violent, predatory mouth; he wielded a phallic cane. The other two figures in the drawing were smaller—a male and a female—but just as bizarre. They were stick figures with egg-shaped heads and detailed facial features. In each case, the eyes, mouth, and ears were overworked and prominent. Paranoid touches. Those were skeletal bodies supporting swollen thoughts.

"My brother, Billy. And Queeny." He pointed to each.

From the files, Sylvia knew Watson's brother had a criminal record; his sister, Queeny was adopted. She said, "In the drawing, what's your brother doing?" She wanted to probe further, to learn more about the relationship between Lucas and his brother and sister.

Lucas didn't answer her question. Instead, he leaned over the desk and peered intently into Sylvia's eyes. "I
read the book you wrote. The one about inmates and their stories."

She had published a single volume two years earlier. It was based on inmate case studies, and it contained some of the most dramatic stories she'd heard from prisoners. Sylvia wasn't surprised he'd brought it up—inmates sometimes did. But why now? She had the strong feeling she'd passed some sort of test She wanted to keep him talking. She said, "I'm flattered."

"Reading your book made me think you know my secrets." Lucas was growing more agitated by the second; his speech was now disjointed. "You know that guy who thought he remembered something wrong from when he was a kid?" Sylvia felt herself drawn into the drama of the moment. She realized she was holding her breath, afraid that the slightest rush of air might break the intimacy.

Instead of words, Lucas offered Sylvia a second drawing. It was a surprisingly accomplished pencil sketch of a woman's face.

Lucas balled up his fists and forced out the words, "My mother—that night, she was in front of the mirror—" He shook his head frantically. "She was so angry—so angry with me—"

He broke off when the alarm on Sylvia's digital watch emitted a high-pitched bleep.

The muscles around his mouth shivered, his hands flew upward involuntarily, and he shot up from the chair. He crumpled the drawing in his fist—"You fucking bitch! You're just like all the rest of them!" he screamed—and slammed it down on the desk.

Blood spattered Sylvia's cheek and hand; the metal edge of the desk had lacerated his wrist. She saw his
face tighten into a mask of rage, and she sucked in her breath preparing to defend herself. Her eyes scanned the door, but the shadow on the other side of the window had disappeared; there was no sign of the C.O.

As Watson propelled himself forward, Sylvia's voice tore loose from her throat. "Lucas!"

He shuddered and backed away. Blood marked a thin trail on the floor.

Sylvia inhaled sharply. "Lucas. Sit down."

His breathing gradually slowed over the next thirty seconds as he regained control. He refocused, seemed to take in the room, and finally, Sylvia.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. He started to offer his hand then drew back in dismay as the blood on his arm registered. He released his fist, exposed the paper he held, and worked the ruined drawing flat against the desk. "Please. . . you've got to help me. They're going to take me out."

"Who?" Sylvia demanded as the door opened, and C.O. Anderson barged in.

Anderson said, "I had to handle a ten-code in the hall. You got a problem here?"

"He cut himself," Sylvia said quickly. Her own pulse was racing, the adrenaline rush had left her drained. "He needs medical attention."

"I'm fine," Watson protested, staying wide of the C.O. as he moved to the door.

Anderson glanced at his blood-soaked arm. "You need stitches." He looked at Sylvia. "Are you done? Can I take him to the nurse?"

"Of course," Sylvia said. She knew she sounded angry; the C.O. gave her a pained look.

When they were gone, the pressure in her head became so intense, she felt sick to her stomach. She stared down at the penciled drawing, torn and stained with blood. Suddenly, the lines came into focus and she realized she was looking at a drawing of her own face.

CHAPTER TWO

T
HE NOISE LEVEL
in the gym was deafening: the screech of rubber soles on prefab flooring, explosions of conversation, and the heave of the H-VAC. Inmates—about thirty of them—stood around in tight groups. Most were arranged by color: brown, white, black.

Lucas Watson worked out alone, allowing no one to trespass within striking distance. He had chosen this spot. Without turning his head, he could sense each man's position.

As he pumped iron, he seemed oblivious to the surgical dressing, now blood-soaked, that covered his right wrist. His jaw was rigid, and sweat gleamed off his face as he pumped one hundred and twenty pounds overhead. By the time he had finished the set, his entire body was drenched.

About ten feet away, a beefy Hispanic inmate named Roybal was using the incline press while an Anglo kid spotted for him. Roybal's bald head gleamed and his
muscles bulged, swollen and purple. He said something to the kid, who untied a delicately braided leather band—love necklace and crucifix—from the older man's throat. The kid placed the band on the floor next to the bench. Roybal began his next set.

Across the barnlike room, a two-on-one basketball game was under way, the players yelling at each other in Spanish. Three guards and a worker from Physical Plant Services stood on the sidelines examining a pothole in the gym floor.

A shrill whistle echoed throughout the gym. As Watson stood and lowered the barbell,
her
face filled his imagination: Sylvia.

He grimaced. The meeting hadn't gone right. He needed to make her understand about the others—that for him getting out was life or death. He knew she was different. She was the only one who could understand; that's why he'd chosen her.

So what had gone wrong? He tried to replay the scene, but the memories would not solidify. He caught only bits and pieces. The sound of her voice. The precise color of her hair and the way it curled into her brown chocolate eyes. The full curve of her breasts beneath the blouse. Just picturing her made him feel better. It would all be over soon. When he was out, he'd take her to dinner, and let her know what she meant to him.

Lucas imagined the restaurant. There would be a red rose against the stark white tablecloth. The waiter would wear a tuxedo, serve rare sirloin steak and baked potato . . . he would have to find out if she preferred champagne or wine.

The whistle sounded again and Roybal and the Anglo kid moved toward the door. Watson kept one eye
on the exiting inmates, the other surreptitiously on the thin braided band that Roybal had left behind on the floor.

Roybal was one of them—a dangerous neighbor from CB-1—and he had to be handled. Lucas had been looking for an opportunity to take care of Roybal. Maybe this was it.

He put the barbell on its mount, then moved casually across the gym floor to the necklace. When he knelt down to tighten his shoelaces, his fist dosed tightly around the crucifix. He felt the cool and satisfying strength of silver and turquoise. Fist to mouth, he quickly bit the crucifix from the band, slid it under his shirt, and found the opening of his leather pouch. With two fingers he tucked the cross away, now a part of his personal collection. Still keeping a distance between himself and the others, Watson was the last inmate to leave the gym. He stepped out into the east yard and harsh sunlight.

The metal door clanged shut behind Lucas, and C.O. Anderson moved deeper into the shadows of the building. Anderson's eyes had contracted to a squint, his mouth drooped open very slightly. He watched Lucas cross the brown stubble field toward Main's cell blocks, and he knew the bitter taste in his mouth must be hate.

T
HE FEMALE
C.O. didn't speak to Lucas Watson as the metal gate rolled open and he entered cell block one. She held her breath until he'd gone—not because he smelled—because something about him made her fear contamination.

None of the men in the block acknowledged his exis
tence as he passed their cells, but he felt their hyena eyes on his skin when he climbed the stairs.

He reached the second tier and looked down over the rail; all eyes veered away. He entered his cell, closed the door, and squatted on his bed.

His fingers caressed Roybal's silver crucifix as he removed it from his pouch. The man lived just two cribs down the row. Lucas knew Roybal would begin to watch him with growing fear. Justifiable fear.