Dangerous Attachments (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 1) (33 page)

Osuna gazed unblinking at Sylvia. After a silence, she said, "Lucas Watson's dead, Dr. Strange. We have an A.P.B. out on William Watson."

A woman's voice, paging a party to emergency, interrupted the normal hum of sound. Osuna stretched her neck in a gesture of irritation. "It's not a good idea for you to stay in your house right now. Not for a few days."

Sylvia bit off her next words. "I've already packed. I need to find my dog."

"I'll drive you back," Agent Osuna said on her way out the door. She seemed relieved that Sylvia hadn't pressed the subject of Watson.

Skirting exhaust-stained patches of ice, they crossed the road to the parking lot, and Sylvia saw a familiar figure approaching. Rosie Sánchez was shivering in high-heeled boots, a wool skirt and short jacket, and a scarf. Her normally meticulous makeup was askew. She immediately hugged Sylvia and held her for several seconds. When she stepped back, Rosie's eyes were filled with tears.

"They've called in a specialist," Osuna said.

Rosie spoke quietly. "The man is a lion. He'll pull through."

Agent Osuna kept her head turned away and mumbled, "I just want to nail the sonofabitch who did this." She walked angrily across the lot to her car and Sylvia began to follow.

Rosie reached out and caught Sylvia's sleeve with her fingers. "You'll stay at the house with Ray and me until they catch the guy."

Sylvia nodded. "Was there an escape from North the night of the riot?"

Rosie stared at her.

"It was Lucas Watson." Sylvia turned and walked back toward Agent Osuna's car. As they drove out of the lot, she saw Rosie still standing in the cold, staring open-mouthed.

Sylvia was grateful that Osuna kept the volume on her police radio aggressively loud during the drive to La Cieneguilla. She didn't feel like talking.

At the house, a small fleet of cars was parked on the road near the driveway. Uniformed and plainclothes officials were at work.

Inside, Sylvia sat down to answer Agent Osuna's questions. She told the woman that someone had been
outside her house before the attack on Matt. But she didn't mention Lucas Watson's name again.

When Osuna had almost exhausted her questions, a uniformed officer arrived at the door.

"I wrote down the number where I'll be," Sylvia said, handing Osuna a business card. "Rosie Sánchez's."

The officer cleared his throat and said, "We checked the house across the river. There was a broken window with some cardboard taped over the glass, but no sign of occupants."

"That's the Calidros' house," Sylvia said.

The young officer shuffled his feet and frowned at the interruption. "We did search the outbuildings in a thorough manner."

Agent Osuna nodded. "Anything?"

"No, ma'am."

"What about the windmill?" Sylvia asked.

"Uh." The officer looked uncertainly at Agent Osuna. "We checked that, too."

"And?" Osuna's voice was sharp.

"There's some bottles like Thunderbird and stuff, like winos maybe hang out there."

The officer scraped the heel of his boot against the floor and said, "We did find this by the mailbox." He carefully held out a torn piece of paper.

Osuna used her thumb and middle fingernails to take the page. She scanned it, said, "Jesus," and set it on the table.

Sylvia read the scrawled words.

I think about this every waking second
.

As if I'm preparing for some turn
.

A reunion in the catacombs
.

You of all people should know

it will cause you pain to regain yourself
.

We should accept pain and surrender
.

Do you know what it's like to breathe

here in darkness?

"You better watch your back until we get this bastard," Osuna said. "Stay close to your friends."

"S
HIT. "
D
OWNTOWN, AT
her office desk, she had to try three times before she punched in Lucille Gutierrez's number correctly. Her movements were jerky, and her heart still pumped too fast. The room had a glare, a painfully bright aura, and she recognized the beginning of a migraine.

Her mind refused to settle and her thoughts tumbled over themselves until she didn't think she was capable of speech. It had almost killed her to leave Matt lying in the snow—blood gushing from his nose, mouth, and scalp—while she called for help. She feared that the minute she left, he'd be attacked again. She'd packed snow on his wounds, and cradled him until the ambulance arrived. The wait had been endless.

So many people were dead. And Sylvia was convinced that all the violence around her had its genesis in Lily Watson's death. If she understood more about the woman who had been Lucas Watson's mother, perhaps she could put an end to the nightmare.

She thought of Ramona Herman in her bed at St. Claire's. She wondered if Lucille had inherited her mother's strength of will. After a dozen rings, Sylvia was going to hang up when she heard a child's voice.

"Hi."

"Hello. Is your mom at home?"

"Hi. Hi."

"May I speak to your mother?"

The child's rhythmic breath grazed the receiver for several seconds and then there was a click.

At first, Sylvia thought the child had hung up, then she heard voices in the background. Moments later Lucille Gutiérrez reached the phone.

"Yeah?"

"Lucille Gutiérrez?"

"Un huh. Who's this?"

"I spoke to you last week. I'm a doctor, and I visited your mother at St. Claire's. She asked me to get in touch with someone for her: Belle Nash? Your mother used to work for her sister many years ago."

After a lengthy silence, Mrs. Gutiérrez spoke again, suspicion clouding her tone. "What kind of doctor are you?"

"I'm a psychologist."

"Who hired you? Does this have anything to do with the will?"

Sylvia was about to deny any connection when she changed her mind. "Probably not, but it will make things flow more smoothly if we can reach Ms. Nash." It was possible that Albert Kove and the Board of Psychologist Examiners would have quite a bit to say to her in the future, but she didn't give a damn at the moment.

"Why?"

"You know how complicated legal matters can become, and since Mrs. Herman expressed this desire, it might be in your interest to speed the details along, however routine they may be."

"Yeah, right. So what do you need from me then?"

"I need an address for Ms. Nash."

"Look in the phone book!"

"She's not listed. Is Belle Nash married?"

"No." Lucille Gutiérrez screamed at a child named Ruby without removing her mouth from the receiver. "Why should she get married? She seems to be happy with what she's got."

"Excuse me?"

"She's a housekeeper."

Sylvia was puzzled by the information. Somehow domestic helper did not fit her image of Belle Nash. "Do you know where I can reach her?"

"Sure." Lucille Gutierrez spit the words out. "Try Duke Watson. She lives with him."

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

T
HE WOMAN NAMED
Emma clutched her small vinyl handbag to her stomach and stared up at the thick round tower ahead. This was not her first trip to the penitentiary, but it always felt that way. The huge tower was one of the reasons visits were unpleasant. That, and the wire that topped the steel fence like a giant slinky with razor blades. And the guards who sneered as she passed by. And the sight of her brother. Emma couldn't lie to herself. It had become too much after so many years. Reform school had stunted his spirit at sixteen, then the Army, and now prison was draining his soul. Emma's mother had stopped visiting her son after her stroke. Two years later she died, and Emma had come to tell her brother the news. After that, she took her mother's place, but the visits were becoming difficult. Only something very urgent could induce Emma to enter the Penitentiary of New Mexico today.

At the security desk, she explained to the guard; she
had not come to visit her brother; she needed to see Ms. Rosie Sánchez.

It took fifteen minutes to track Ms. Sánchez down by phone, and the guard was angry by the time he let Emma pass through the electronic gate and back into daylight. A plump black-and-white cat meowed from behind the parallel fence and Emma murmured hello. Inside Main Facility, the air warmed considerably with each step she took.

Ms. Sánchez was waiting just behind the gate to the right. Although it had been years, Emma recognized the other woman immediately and thought how pretty she was. They shook hands after the gate opened, and Ms. Sánchez touched Emma gently on the shoulder.

"It's very nice to see you again."

"You remember?" Emma was so used to being invisible, she could hardly believe a woman as important as Ms. Sánchez would retain a nobody in her memory.

Rosie Sánchez smiled. "Of course. How are you doing these days?"

"So-so, Ms. Sánchez. That's why I'm here."

"Rosie."

"Rosie." The halls and stairs disappeared in a blur of dull green as Emma allowed herself to follow the efficient click and swish of Rosie Sánchez.

Inside the office, Emma sat low in a big chair while Rosie made tea in the lounge next door. For several minutes, Emma examined the office through the thick lenses of her glasses and clucked appreciatively at two paintings by inmates of statuesque women dressed only in snakes. She found them innovative.

Rosie entered with a mug and a Styrofoam cup and saw Emma almost enveloped within the folds of her
heavy woolen coat. Emma smiled timidly as she accepted the tea; her eyes blinked myopically behind glasses. Both women sipped the steaming beverage for several minutes. Emma spent the time allowing herself to relax in Rosie Sánchez's presence now that her mind was made up. Rosie disciplined her curiosity and let the other woman unwind.

"I thought of you because you were so helpful when Mother died," Emma said finally.

"I'm glad you felt free to come," Rosie said. "I'll do anything I can to help you again."

Emma nodded. "Have you seen my brother recently?" Her voice communicated interest and dread simultaneously.

"Actually, I may see him today," Rosie said.

"Ahh." The syllable escaped as a poignant whisper. "About anything in particular?"

Rosie let her index finger trace the rim of her tea mug but kept her eyes on Emma. The woman was becoming increasingly upset although she struggled to maintain a calm exterior. "Why don't you tell me why you came here today?"

Emma took a sip of tea, and her hand shook as she lowered the cup and set it on the desk. She opened the clasp of her purse. Her gray hair obscured her face for several moments while she hunched over her handbag and reached inside. She retrieved what appeared to be a packet of neatly tied envelopes and handed them to Rosie.

"Letters from your brother?" Rosie asked after examining the bundle. Emma nodded, and Rosie took that as a sign to read the first letter, which was neatly written on the penitentiary's inmate stationery.

My dearest Em,

      
I hope this letter finds you in excellent health. It is always an extreme delight to read the fine literature, such as the magazines, you send me. Sister Em, your thoughts are marked by a worldly outlook, an abundance of faith. I only pray that my science will put the world at your doorstep. One is impressed by the frenzied dance of organisms within their natural environment. If we increase our knowledge of biology, ecology, and Supreme Responsibility, we will discover the Glory and the Truth and the Perfection of God's Architecture. The Holy Spirit of science is at work, even as you sleep. This is my mission. I need not tell you when this happens. The
New Mexican
will carry the story.

      
Your devoted brother

The letter was dated December 20, and it was the most recent. Rosie skimmed through the others. There were nine total dating back through the last year. The message in every one was similar but the heat and passion of delivery intensified like a fever when the letters were arranged chronologically.

Rosie looked at the woman's worried, frowning face and said, "I'm very glad you brought these to my attention. Do you have any idea what his 'mission' might be?"

She shook her head solemnly.

"Can I keep these for now?"

Emma seemed to sink even deeper in the folds of her coat as she nodded. "I know . . ." She hesitated, reached toward the Styrofoam cup with its tepid con
tents, and then returned her hand to her lap. "My brother is a gentle man, Rosie. He would never do harm to anyone."

Rosie enjoyed the irony of the description. She glanced at the packet of letters, fingered the red twine that bound them, and returned her gaze to Emma.

"Why did you come?" Rosie asked softly.

Emma looked down at her handbag and swallowed as if her throat hurt. She couldn't bring herself to mention the $3,500—folded in brown paper—that had arrived in her mailbox. Her brother had told her it was from a friend, an Army debt finally repaid. Emma didn't believe him, but the money was so helpful. It would allow her to finally make a pilgrimage to India. For almost thirty years, she'd dreamt of visiting the erotic temples of India. She said, "Mildred Spoon always tells me what her son tells her."

Rosie raised her eyebrows searching her memory for clues. She had no idea who Mildred Spoon or her son were.

As if reading her thoughts, Emma added, "Joseph Spoon's mother. Well, they call him 'Greasy' Spoon, he works in the kitchen, I think. Mildred Spoon?"

"Ahhh." Rosie nodded with understanding.

"She's very old, older than me, and I visit her because she has no one else and I'm good with old people."

Comprehension was dawning, but Rosie kept her face neutral. "Yes," she said.

"Mrs. Spoon says that Greasy thirds—" She paused to look left and right as if some eavesdropper previously undetected might be hiding behind file cabinets or paintings. "He thinks my brother is doing some things that aren't healthy, and besides, Greasy says there's no
more room." Emma rushed through the last sentence breathlessly.