Dangerous Attachments (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 1) (6 page)

Rosie picked up one sunflower with two fingernails and placed it on her tongue. "You think that's what Jeffrey Dahmer was after? Power?"

Sylvia said, "And it's one way to be really intimate with somebody else."

Rosie made another face. "What if someone is just collecting the parts?"

"Then we're talking headhunters. The collecting of trophies is fairly common among modern-day sociopaths; usually the victims are dead."

Both women were startled by a knock. "Yes?" Rosie said, turning abruptly.

The door opened and an inmate peeked inside. His head was bald except for a dark tuft of hair behind each ear. He looked like one of the seven dwarfs, Sleepy or Sneezy . . . or Happy, because he was smiling.

His watery eyes darted back and forth between the two women. "I just wondered if you had any waste in your basket."

When Rosie nodded impatiently, he entered and moved toward an overflowing metal trash can set in the corner of the room. The whisk and rustle of paper was a constant in the background as the inmate carefully, methodically emptied trash into a large black bag. When he moved toward the remaining trash basket under Rosie's desk, Sylvia stood so he could reach his target.

Rosie stared at the man's elflike face. "You're—?"

"Elmer Rivak." He beamed at Sylvia as he carried his load to the door.

"That's right, cell block one. Thanks for your diligence, Elmer." As the man closed the door, Rosie touched Sylvia on the arm and whispered, "Elmer doesn't look like a mass murderer, does he? I think he's got a crush on you."

Sylvia raised both eyebrows and shook her head. "Lucky me."

Rosie sobered suddenly. She chose her next words with care. "What if I found a connection between these incidents and Lucas?" She stared at Sylvia with cat eyes. "Is Lucas capable of dismembering people?"

Maybe
. Sylvia frowned. She was more than curious, but for the moment, she kept her mouth shut. She knew her friend; Rosie would want to trade information. But it was up to Herb Burnett to decide if Sylvia's evaluation of his client would be released to corrections department authorities. She and Rosie walked a constant tightrope where a verbal misstep meant a possible violation of client confidentiality or institutional security.

"I know it's not scientific, but Lucas makes the hair on my head stand up." Rosie shivered. "And the fact that he wasn't here during the riot doesn't eliminate him as a suspect." She pulled a thin file off her desk and waved it in the air. "There have been some incident reports . . . concerning him. Do you know what I'm referring to?"

Sylvia shook her head almost imperceptibly. "Are these reports something his lawyer would know about?"

"Probably. He spooks the other inmates. They don't like to get near him. He's been accused of giving his enemies the 'evil eye.' He put a spell on an inmate named Roybal two days ago, and poor Roybal is in sick bay
shitting himself to death. Doesn't that sound like a man who wants to take the power of his enemies?"

"I'll tell you this much," Sylvia said. "I'm going to push hard to have Lucas Watson reclassified and transferred to Los Lunas where he can get intensive psych treatment." She paused, then said, "If you want, I'll do some 'psycho-magic' and help you find your body snatcher."

"There's something I've got to tell you . . ." Rosie's tone was dead serious.
"Jita
, be careful."

Sylvia waited.

Rosie said, "Someone's been asking about you. My ears tell me that your name is spoken in the yard, in the cell blocks. I don't know who is talking or what they say, but it scares me."

CHAPTER FOUR

T
HE AIR IN
cell block one seemed thick with tedium and desperation. Beneath the spare mattress pad, Lucas felt the concrete slab pressed against his back. The cell walls seemed to swell, visibly shrinking the already claustrophobic space. Through the grill, he saw ten square inches of wall. He heard voices raised, a chorus talking back to the tube. It scared him that he couldn't remember which day it was; he groped mentally for clues. The soaps.
One Life to Live. Days of Our Lives. The Young and the
Fucking
Restless
. The smell of fish . . . Friday.

There was one way he could always escape captivity. He rubbed his pouch over his chest, caressed the Madonna, and with each breath disappeared in his own flesh, deep into the boy named Luke.

His mother smiled at him. She was standing next to the ironing board, and she was barefoot, naked except for a gauzy white slip. In her hands she clutched a child's
cowboy shirt. Her hair fell loose to her shoulders, tendrils damp against high cheekbones.

The boy Luke reached out to her, and because he was only five years old, his arms clutched her knees. A sweet smell filled the air.
Mama
.

Her laughter washed over the boy like a great wave.

Mama.

The boy felt her hands on his tiny shoulders when she pushed him away. He fell backward, his face collapsed into a scowl, and both his arms reached out hungrily.

Maamaaaa, bed!

Like a silent actress, she touched her finger to her mouth, and the light reflecting from her wedding band exploded in a dance of gold fire. A bead of moisture spanned the distance from lip to finger; for an instant her spit bridged the space between word and touch. When the boy's mother snapped her finger to the iron and the triangle of hot metal sizzled, he saw the bad word spill from her lips.

"No."

A harsh, black rage vibrated through the boy's fragile body. He threw himself against his mother's legs. He clawed, scratched, screamed until the pressure in his skull became too intense and everything turned gray. And quiet.

When the boy came to, he was in his mother's arms. In her bed. And the warmth, the warmth was heaven . . .

The pain of a severed synapse stole the memory from Lucas and the claustrophobia of CB-1 intruded once more. But the texture of the pouch kept him from spinning out. It was slick and warm, a reassuring opening for his fingers. He found his mother's wedding ring,
tightened his fist, and the gold band cut into his flesh. He closed his eyes. "Mama."

It took him a moment to realize he'd spoken aloud. After a second exploration of the pouch he found the lock of hair. These were the treasures he massaged against his belly, round and round, until he ejaculated into his other hand.

So good. The warmth . . .

He gripped the pouch until his breathing returned to normal. He stretched, so relaxed that he was able to ignore the hard mattress beneath him. When he sat up in the bed, his hand brushed against something sharp: the manila folder.

This morning, Mr. Lawyer had feinted left and right. "What happened when you talked to Sylvia?" Mr. Lawyer had probed. "Did it go okay? Did something happen? What questions did she ask?" Lucas opened the lip of the folder and slid the pages out until the letterhead was visible.

Mr. Lawyer didn't really want to let his client see the evaluation. So he said. But Lucas could see the lies as they spilled from Mr. Lawyer's thick lips, and he always got what he wanted from the Herb. All he had to do was mention compliance monitors, the Duran Consent Decree, and prisoners' rights.

He glanced at the scroll of letters against the page, then held the paper to his face and inhaled. He picked up her scent very faintly. Sylvia—her face merged with his Madonna. He sucked in visions of the woman. He imagined the taste of her and believed he could track her anywhere in the world with only this fragile sensory path as guide.

Eagerly, he began the work of reading. He hunched
over the pages focusing on each word, each line. "The purpose of . . . Tuesday, November 16 . . . critical evaluation." As he worked his way through the report, his breathing became labored and his pulse quickened. Occasional flashes of light exploded in front of his eyes like fireworks. He forced himself to continue, but he was not prepared for the impact of her words:". . . no immediate evidence of organic syndromes . . . probable magical thinking . . . shift from a moderately paranoid state to severely erratic behavior not inconsistent with delusional (persecutory) psychosis . . . although the interview was prematurely terminated . . . seek a transfer to a treatment facility. At this time, I strongly recommend against parole."

The rage surfaced like a shark. He fought the shuddering emotion until the heels of his feet were lifted from the floor.

"I
'M GLAD YOU
could fit me in on such short notice." Mrs. Young smiled nervously and shifted her weight on the rose-colored couch.

Sylvia returned the smile. "You can adjust those cushions to make yourself more comfortable."

"Oh, thank you." Mrs. Young fluffed several pillows.

The woman was an emergency referral from Dr. Albert Kove. Mrs. Young's husband of six months was under indictment by a federal grand jury, and her stepson was in jail for stealing the family car.

She denied needing therapy, but casually mentioned frequent suicidal thoughts. Albert Kove's notes to Sylvia stated that Mrs. Young had spent several weeks in rehab for substance abuse. By the end of the session, Mrs. Young admitted that she used to have a slight problem
with alcohol. She also expressed intense anger at her husband because he was verbally abusive. Sylvia made notes: establishing therapeutic rapport was first on the list, negotiating a treatment contract was next. That was assuming the woman kept her second appointment. At 5:50, Sylvia scheduled Mrs. Young for the following Monday morning and walked her to the stairway that led down to the open courtyard garden and the parking lot.

The second-story Territorial-style offices appeared to be deserted, but Sylvia had the uncomfortable feeling that she wasn't alone. The hall was cold and drafty and prematurely darkened by the low arc of winter sun. She always found the lonely building disquieting; she'd been surprised by an off-schedule janitor more than once. As she returned to her office to lock up for the day, the ticking of the old radiators sounded like footsteps.

Sylvia made a mental note to call Albert Kove and thank him for the referral. It was a good excuse to touch base, in case Kove or Casias had any questions about the pending job contract. Sylvia realized how important the possibility of a new professional partnership had become since Malcolm's death. The urge was there—to move on and to forget. Nothing like a little denial.

Rush-hour traffic on Cerrillos Road was congested as usual. For several blocks, the Volvo was trapped between an old school bus and a U-Haul truck, both belching clouds of black exhaust. Sylvia jumped between radio stations to keep her hands busy. The thought of the roses still made her very uneasy.

At the suburban mall that marked the south end of Santa Fe, she turned west onto Airport Road. Her thoughts returned to the session with Mrs. Young.
Borderline personality disorder? The woman had a history of relationship instability, identity disturbance, and, possibly, self-damaging behavior. Sylvia made a bet with herself: Mrs. Young had attempted suicide at least once in her adult life.

The Volvo's engine whined as Sylvia shifted belatedly into third gear. Her mind hadn't been on her driving. It was a constant in her profession, a hazard of the psychological trade—the never-ending evaluation of information; weigh, sort, sift. It was a continual distraction from daily tasks. It was a soft light you could never quite turn off; to do so might mean someone's life.

She did not notice the blue van following a half block behind. Its distance didn't vary as she drove past trailer parks, prefab apartments, a Tibetan stupa with colorful streamers dancing in the wind, and the golf course. Sylvia maintained a speed fifteen miles over the limit until the bump of dirt road marked the home stretch. A ridge cut off the last light of day, and, for an instant, headlights illuminated a windblown tumbleweed before it continued on its violent course.

The blue van pulled off the road and stopped at a place where high school lovers often parked after sunset.

W
IND SCOURED THE
concrete walls of the penitentiary, and each new gust seemed to gain velocity. Above the plaintive sound, C.O. Anderson heard the low growl and stopped in his tracks. Except for the wind and an occasional cough or snore, cell block one had been quiet. But now he heard the moan of a dog. Anderson's skin puckered with goose bumps as he traced the sound through the shadows to Lucas Watson's cell. He walked
on the balls of his feet and stopped short of the grill. Anderson squinted, adjusting his vision, and he saw a dark form pressed into one corner. Watson's eyes seemed to glow. Hot fear rose from Anderson's feet and flushed through his body. He clicked on his radio and whispered.

"Hey, Manny. Anderson. I think we got a problem here. Number eighteen."

Inside the cell, Lucas Watson shot forward like a bullet, ricocheted off the sink, and hit the wall with a blunt explosion of air.

"Sonofabitch, get me some backup quick!" Anderson screamed into the radio.

Watson slammed his head against concrete. There was a damp, solid sound each time flesh met stone.

Anderson heard footsteps and yelled, "I'm going in!" as C.O. Erwin Salcido lumbered toward him. The door to the cell slid open and Anderson moved in carefully. His stomach heaved when the copper stench of urine hit him full-blast. Watson was still repeatedly drilling his own skull into the wall.

"Fucking
pendejo!"
Erwin said, wedging his bulk through the door. "Don't get too close,
Jefe."

Anderson heard the scratch of the radio and then Erwin hollering for medical in CB-1. With one eye on Watson, Anderson took in the condition of the cell. A carpet of cornflakes covered the floor. The box was a chewed mess in the sink. Paper floated in the toilet, the red stamp of
CONFIDENTIAL
bleeding color. Anderson's foot slid on something wet. He looked down quickly and saw more paper smeared with a film of feces. "Shit," he said stepping over it, inching closer to Watson.

Inmates in cell block one were shouting now, bang
ing shoes against the bars. The sound almost covered the sickening thud of Watson's head.