Dangerous Attachments (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 1) (3 page)

Lucas did not fuck around with his enemies.

Roybal and the others understood that. They'd seen what happened to inmate Devane when he'd challenged Watson's power.

Burly, robust Boy Devane had been transferred from Cruces with a bug up his ass. Six months later, Devane was nothing but a sack of shit and bones. The official lie was cancer. Lucas liked that . . . his work being compared to cancer.

He began his whispered chant of clipped sounds, grunts, and the name Roybal, Roybal, Roybal . . . His eyelids fluttered as he visualized rats devouring Roybal's intestines. Watson's fingers tightened around the cross as he felt the presence of his protector, the Madonna. As long as he had his pouch, she would keep him safe until Sylvia freed him from this torture.

Time evaporated behind his throbbing chant—
"Rat's going to eat his way out your asshole, Roybal"
—and he ignored the increasingly vocal protest along the block, until something metal slammed against his cell door. He heard the whispered threat—the disembodied words—through the grill, "You better stop that evil shit, man."

The speaker hid his face, but Lucas knew the voice
belonged to Anderson. He was a hack now, but Lucas remembered when Anderson's father used to work for Duke. Did odd jobs, hauled trash, stuck his hand down the toilet, unclogged a pipe. Menial labor. Anderson had been afraid of Lucas twenty years ago. Now they were all afraid of him; they were all out to get him.

"Fuck you," Watson hissed. He barely heard Anderson's reply.

"In your face, Lucas . . . we'll parole you in a box."

W
EDNESDAY DAWNED CLEAR
and cold. Thick icicles fringed the roof and draped the windows. The scent of neighboring woodstoves lingered on the air. Sylvia woke with the first light of morning. There was only a fleeting sleep to leave behind, and dreams, none remembered.

Rocko, her runty, wirehaired terrier, eased himself gingerly off the king-size bed and followed Sylvia down the hallway that bisected the house. He'd been named for Johnny Rocko, the gangster who always wanted more in the movie
Key Largo
. Sylvia thought her dog resembled Edward G. Robinson, the actor who had played Johnny Rocko. Both man and dog were short, stout, and dark. Each had a gravelly voice and a comical sexiness. The terrier stayed close to her heels, and she spoke to him as she walked. "How's it going, big guy?"

On Tuesdays and Thursdays, her days were scheduled around forty-five-minute sessions with her clients. Wednesday was a day when she could often work at home preparing for court cases or completing paperwork.

She showered and dressed and applied light makeup. Then she made the mental shift from her private life to work.

In the small room that served as her study, she adjusted the Tensor lamp until the light shone directly on the papers and books covering her desk. Sylvia moved aside three volumes of the
Journal of Forensic Psychology
and a half-finished letter to her mother. She picked up the well-worn copy of Allison, Blatt, and Zimet's
Interpretation of Psychological Tests
and opened the cover to see "Malcolm Treisman, 1969" scrawled in fine black ink. She placed the book on the shelf next to
Attached to Violence: A Study of Attachment Pathologies in Adult Inmates
. Author: Sylvia Strange, Ph.D.

Over a cup of coffee, she again found herself thinking of Malcolm and their impassioned discussions, fights really, that lasted late into the night. He'd been a pit bull when it came to his theories.

"The madness smorgasbord. Take your choice—organized or very, very messy. Either way, they're more persistent than we are. The truly evil ones do a much better job of hiding behind the mask of sanity." The memory of his voice was as clear as if he stood again in her office wagging an admonishing finger, spouting his theory of evil, endlessly fascinated with the deviant mind.

Sylvia shared that obsession with deviance and evil. She'd stood at the edge of the light; faced enough of her own demons to know the border between normal and deviant was razor thin in places.

While he ranted, Malcolm would pace like an obnoxious caged bear. He had his uniform—a favorite leather jacket, faded jeans, and high-tops—and his arsenal of questions. He took his professorial stance. "Is Kernberg right when he structures malignant narcissism with aggression? Are those patients untreatable?"

"Don't be pompous, Malcolm."

But he'd never back down. "Don't change the subject. Tell me which case studies you'd choose."

"They choose me."

"That's right, Sylvia and her inmates. Only thirty-four, and she has a dark island to keep her fascinated."

She withdrew from the memory. Lately, she'd been losing herself too easily—in the past, in unwelcome dreams, and in her work. It scared her a little, this ability to detach and act by rote.

At ten o'clock, she opened the file on Lucas Watson; she had an in-depth social history, her notes, nothing recent on the Rorschach or the WAIS-III. The Albuquerque firm had already faxed the scores of the MMPI-2. She had just enough information to complete an evaluation for Burnett, but he wasn't going to like it. She closed the folder, deciding to avoid work a bit longer.

She pulled on sweatpants, jacket, wool hat, and hiking boots. Shading her eyes from the glare, she stepped from the warmth of the house into bitter cold. The wind slapped her face as she caught the trail that angled steeply up the saw-back ridge. She'd traveled three hundred yards when Rocko trotted past and took the lead. They walked eagerly, woman and dog, covering ground until Sylvia was breathing almost as hard as Rocko. The icy air tore into her throat and lungs.

From the ridge top, the village of La Cieneguilla spread out below like a board game. Great cottonwoods lined the shallow river. A rancher's windmill stood guard over miniature goats, cows, and horses. The adobe bricks of the ruined colonial church were crumbled, returning to the earth. Sylvia's own house was
clearly visible, almost within reach, and at the same time a thousand miles away.

This was a scene she remembered from her childhood—her father standing by her side as he explained the historic significance of the valley. He'd been a plain man, skin weathered by desert and ocean, bones too large for his skin. He stood straighter whenever he told her stories about the land, this place. A small settlement of Spanish families had arrived more than two hundred years ago. The windmill was built at the turn of the century. The original walls of the graceful white adobe—their home—had sheltered weary stagecoach travelers on the old spur trail. Ironically, the red bricks that lined the adobe's long, shady portal had been part of New Mexico's original penitentiary, built in 1885 near the railroad tracks in Santa Fe. When the old pen was torn down in the late 1950s, the used bricks had been abandoned; Sylvia's father had collected several truckloads.

Danny Strange had always loved to work with his hands. The military didn't change that. Building, planting, tending were all part of his basic makeup. When he returned from a tour of duty in Southeast Asia—something rarely spoken of—he seemed to need to dig his fingers into earth. Sometimes Sylvia found him kneeling that way, as if he were holding on. She had been only three when he left, six when he came home. But she knew his eyes were different; they mirrored everything he'd seen.

For the next seven years, her father's spirit had wasted away until he finally disappeared. Absolutely, without a trace. Sylvia had never stopped searching for answers to the questions her father left behind.

S
HE COMPLETED MOST
of Watson's evaluation by late afternoon, ran a hot bath, and poured a tablespoon of olive oil beneath the spigot. The yellow globules shivered like mercury. She set a half glass of Merlot on the edge of the tub and lowered herself under scalding water until only her nose, nipples, and knees were exposed to cooler air. Her skin flushed pink, and she felt drugged by the wet heat.

But she couldn't quite let go. Something she'd seen—or more precisely, something she hadn't seen in Watson's file—kept nagging at her. She felt certain that Lucas had suffered some type of childhood trauma in the years that led up to his mother's violent death. Sexual abuse? Severe physical abuse? Abuse was such a common theme among inmates, you could almost consider it a given. But there was no evidence of it in Lucas Watson's file. Not even a hint in the medical or school records. In fact, according to his files, Lucas had a
Leave It to Beaver
childhood. Except for suicide, all very nice and normal. As if someone had erased even the slightest stain on the past.

She finished her wine. At some point, Rocko's urgent bark broke the stillness—probably a coyote on the prowl—but he quieted after Sylvia called to him. She never saw the stranger's face at the bathroom window. She didn't feel his eyes. Minutes evaporated and she dosed her eyes, almost easing into sleep.

It took her a moment to register the knock at the front door. The bathroom was dimly lit She scraped her hand against tile when she sat up abruptly in the tub.

Rocko growled from the hallway, and Sylvia left a quick trail of water on the Saltillo tile floor as she draped a robe around her body and pulled it tight.

From the living-room window she could see the driveway and a dark blue van parked directly behind her Volvo. She must have been dozing when the van drove up. She considered ignoring the intrusion until she caught sight of its source. Even in late afternoon halflight, she could see a man in a florist's cap, a bouquet of long-stemmed roses clutched in one arm. Shit. She knew who sent roses.

She let the window louvers snap back into place and walked reluctantly to the front door. On the third try, the dead bolt key finally turned. She had intended to replace the lock last week. Since Malcolm's funeral, the smallest tasks had become impossible to accomplish.

She opened the door a few inches, leaving the safety chain in place, and Rocko strained to fit through the crack. When he was unsuccessful, he made a beeline for the dog door in the kitchen.

The young man shifted crimson roses aside and peered down at a list on a clipboard. His face was hidden behind black sunglasses, a four-day beard, and a baseball hat with the Marcy Florist logo.

"You've got the wrong house," Sylvia said. Her flannel robe felt damp and cold against bare skin. She wished she'd thrown on clothes before answering the door.

"Don't think so." The delivery man turned his gaze on Rocko as the terrier sprinted around the side of the house.

Sylvia studied his profile; even with the glasses he looked vaguely familiar.

Rocko lunged at black boots while the man held out the bouquet like a peace offering. "Sylvia? That's the name on the order. Sylvia Strange."

Roses had to be Herb Burnett. He'd been after her for
years—he had even asked her out in high school—and he never seemed discouraged when she said no. Sylvia sighed as she slid the chain off the catch and opened the door far enough to accept the flowers. A white envelope fluttered to the ground. When the man reached to catch it, Rocko nipped his hand.

"Oops, sorry." Sylvia pulled the terrier back by the collar.

The delivery man offered her the envelope pressed between two fingers, then ducked his chin so brown eyes gazed over the sunglasses. His lips pulled into a smile. "You have a nice afternoon, pretty lady."

"Hold on, let me get my purse," Sylvia said.

He was already halfway down the drive. "Don't worry about it."

Sylvia heard the van pulling away as she tore open the envelope. One sentence had been carefully printed on a plain white card—
Some things are just meant to be
. No signature. Sylvia set the roses on the kitchen counter. Was Herb being cryptic, hackneyed, or both? Jesus, his timing was bad; roses made her think of funerals. She didn't bother to put the stems in water. Instead, she tossed the bouquet on the kitchen counter, flicked through the Rolodex, and dialed. The receptionist asked her to hold and it was three or four seconds before she heard the familiar nasal voice.

"Sylvia? I was just thinking about you."

Sylvia stared at the roses, phrasing her first question, but Herb filled the silence.

"Hey, you got something for me?"

"I'll have Lucas Watson's evaluation ready tomorrow. I'll drop by your office so we can go over it. Eleven all right?"

"Better yet, meet me for lunch at the Santacafé, twelve-thirty."

"I can make it at twelve-forty-five. But Herb, let's get one thing straight."

"What's that?" His voice was careful.

" 'Some things are just meant to be' . . . it's inappropriate."

Herb was silent for several moments. "Am I missing something here?"

Sylvia sighed. "I'll be very clear. I don't feel comfortable with you sending me flowers. As far as I'm concerned, our relationship is strictly professional."

When he didn't respond, it dawned on Sylvia that he might have no idea what she was talking about. "Didn't you send me a dozen roses?"

"Well, hey, you should know me better than that," Herb sputtered. "I don't send flowers, I write love letters. Remember that one in the ninth grade?"

Sylvia bit her lip; she was embarrassed, but more than that, she felt fear spreading out from her abdomen. She closed her eyes and retrieved the face of the delivery man from her memory—his smile, his eyes.

"Hey, maybe it was your ex-husband. I'll never forgive you for marrying someone else."

"I'll talk to you tomorrow, Herb. Sorry for the misunderstanding."

She hung up the phone, scanned the phone book, and dialed again. Her pulse was racing. A woman answered after two rings, "Marcy Florists."

"I just received an arrangement, a dozen roses, and I'd like to know who sent them." Sylvia rattled off her name and route number.

"Hold on a sec and I'll check."

Sylvia drummed her palm against the counter while the woman searched her records. After more than a minute, she came back on the line.

"Jerry said he didn't deliver any roses out your way. Are you there?"

"I'm here," Sylvia said. "What kind of truck does your driver use?" She pictured the blue van parked in her driveway.