Dangerous Attachments (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 1) (15 page)

Sylvia folded the note and tucked it under the telephone. She poured kibble into Rocko's dish, and then she put water on the stove for a cup of tea.

She'd left Rocko in a kennel and spent four nights at the Inn on the Alameda. On Monday, after completing an evaluation in Taos, she had not returned to Santa Fe. Instead, the night had been spent without rest at the Sagebrush Inn. She had registered under the name of Norma Jean as if Marilyn Monroe and a false identity could alter past events. At least she had delayed her return for one more night.

She pressed play on the answering machine. The chipmunk song of rewind went on forever. She stood, pencil in hand, jotting notes on the pad of paper she kept tucked in a top drawer. Rosie had called. So had Monica. Albert Kove wanted to touch base about the job contract. A persistent journalist had called three times to request an interview. The last message turned her skin clammy.

The phone line had buzzed and snapped, the static complaint of a bad connection. The recorded voice was a whisper: "Do you feel me?"

In those four words she knew her caller had been Lucas Watson. Her body responded instinctively—pounding heart, sweaty palms, the sensation of oxygen rushing from her lungs to leave her breathless. Lucas Watson was laughing on tape.

"I followed you last night. Did you feel me? I watched you sleep. I walked through walls to find you, be with you."

Sylvia's mind struggled to organize, distance, regain control.

"I figured out what happened," Lucas continued. "The more you sent hate—accused me of crazy things—the more I reacted in hate. But it wasn't you, was it? It was them. They were forcing you to destroy our connection."

A deep breath, as if respiration was a labor. "Sylvia . . . you and I are just instruments . . . remember this when the future happens. Even though I'm trapped behind walls, our future is already decided."

She thought she heard the click, the hang-up. She reached to stop the tape just as he breathed, "Come see me once more . . . you're the only one who can bring me back."

She snapped off the machine and lifted out the message cassette. It had been seven days since she'd walked away from her locked front door, one week since Lucas Watson had destroyed her home and her sense of invulnerability.

Now she had to face the fear, the urge to turn on every light in the house, the sense buried deep in her muscles that he might still be waiting for her. The rational knowledge that he was locked up did nothing to calm her. She sat on a stool, in darkness, and snapped her fingers for Rocko. When he licked her hand, the walls gave way and she began to cry.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

T
HE
P
ACIFIC STORM
stomped and thrashed its way from California, and by the time it reached northern New Mexico, the wind velocity was forty miles per hour.

Rosie stared out her car windshield into a black sheet of blowing snow that nearly obliterated all view of Highway 14. Reluctantly, she had given up on her usual Wednesday morning target practice at the Law Enforcement Shooting Range. Only C.O.s working tower or vehicular perimeter watch were allowed to possess firearms on penitentiary grounds. But Rosie kept a Beretta 9 mm semiautomatic at home and carried it with her in the car; she was thoroughly trained in its use. She had never had to shoot a human being but she was prepared if the worst came to be. She often wondered if New Mexico's wild territorial days—when shootouts, vigilantes, and outlaws ran rampant—were any more dangerous than the contemporary wild West.

The ominous gleam of ice was visible just ahead on
the highway, and she eased her foot off the gas while a radio disc jockey predicted the storm would blow itself out within the next twelve hours. Since they were almost always wrong about New Mexico's weather, Rosie braced herself for the worst.

M
ATT
E
NGLAND SCANNED
the open stretch of road and saw Rosie Sánchez's Camaro emerge from a screen of blowing snow. He walked through the double glass doors to the North Facility lobby after C.O. Elaine Buyers pushed open the lock-bar.

"You back again?" Elaine's henna hair bubbled on the crown and reached her waist in shaggy tendrils. "You still talking to Lucas Watson?" Her New Mexican accent was pronounced, lilting over odd syllables.

Outside, in the parking lot, Rosie was striding toward the doors. She kept her head down and England marveled at her speed in high heels. He was also amazed that she didn't blow away. He turned to Elaine Buyers and smiled. "How you been, Elaine?"

" Eeee. . . my landlady won't fix the heat in my trailer. It's like a hundred and fifty degrees all night."

England nodded sympathetically as Rosie reached the door and gave him a small wave. She shook off snow, greeted C.O. Buyers, and then guided Matt past the security station. "Sorry I'm running late. How's the investigation?"

"I spent five hours with Billy Watson on Monday. The arraignment went as predicted; he's charged with assisting an escape and conspiracy."

"I heard he's out of the detention center?"

Matt gave an ironic laugh. "Thanks to his old man and Burnett, he's been out for two days."

Rosie clucked. "Herb has his hands full with Duke Watson's family."

"So does Duke."

"The esteemed legislator from Bernalillo has the Slick Willy touch." Rosie frowned. "I doubt if he has to worry about Lucas getting more time. Within two weeks, he'll be at the Grants facility for reclassification. I think he'll get the psych transfer that Sylvia recommended. Which reminds me—"

"Hot off the comparison microscope." Matt pulled a baggie from his pocket It contained Lucas Watson's pouch.

"The ear?"

"The ear is human but mummified. This is even better." He tossed the baggie in the air, then caught it.

Rosie eyed the leather pouch warily. "Don't tell me."

"The pouch itself is made out of an organ, probably a stomach," Matt pronounced.

"Jesus
. Human?"

"Let's see if Lucas will tell us who this beauty used to belong to."

They waited in the small attorneys' room tucked between the facility control center and the stair that led to the yard. The room was austere, boxy, and devoid of natural light. After five minutes, Lucas Watson entered followed by a C.O.

"Hello, Lucas. You remember Matt England?" Rosie nodded to the C.O., who left the room.

Watson stood near one of four chairs. He kept his eyes focused on a point level with England's chest. His handcuffed wrists were clasped at his waist. His normally chiseled face was gaunt; it reminded Rosie of a death mask. Beads of sweat gathered on his upper lip and neck, dark hollows obscured his eyes.

Rosie set a tape recorder on the table.

Lucas watched as Matt England sat, stretched his legs, and adjusted the recorder's microphone.

"This is Criminal Agent Matt England of the New Mexico State Police. The time is 0845. Today's date is Wednesday, December 9. Present with me are Rosie Sánchez, Penitentiary Investigator, and inmate Lucas Sharp Watson, NMCD 33397." Matt cupped the back of his head with both hands. "How you doin', Lucas? How've they been treating you here at North? You settling in okay?" He had Watson's attention, and the inmate seemed to relax just slightly. "I want to thank you for your cooperation. Why don't you have a seat?" Matt paused, casually accepting Watson's lack of response, and took an easy breath. "You want to tell us about Thursday night?"

Rosie Sánchez adjusted the cassette recorder. She kept her eye on the small red light as it flickered sporadically.

Lucas said, "I already told you."

Rosie patted one of the chairs invitingly. "You know how these things go, Lucas. It's a slow process. It can drive you crazy sometimes, it takes so long to get things sorted out."

Silence.

England reached into his pocket and pulled out the baggie. He let its contents—the empty leather pouch—slide out on the bare table. They expected a response from Lucas, but not the one they got.

He reacted so suddenly, rushing forward, handcuffs slamming the table, that a gasp escaped from Rosie's mouth.

Aware of the C.O. just outside the door, Matt snatched the pouch from Watson's reach.

Lucas growled, paced a tight half circle, and turned. He faced Matt England. "It's mine."

Rosie said, "We talked to the lab, Lucas. We know the pouch is a stomach. Everything will go easier if you tell us about it."

Watson's eyelids lowered to half-mast, and his lips curled into a slow smile.

They continued their questions for another twenty minutes, but they got little out of Lucas. He became increasingly withdrawn and furtive, and eventually he began an eerie, almost inaudible chant.

Matt and Rosie silently agreed to conclude the interview.

Rosie was the first to leave the room. She stepped into the hall and almost plowed into Sylvia Strange. "What are you doing here?" she asked in puzzlement. She noticed the C.O. who stood beside the door and motioned him inside the attorneys' room.

When they were alone Sylvia said, "Lucas asked me to come."

Rosie grabbed her friend by the arm. "Are you crazy?"

Sylvia's mouth was a resolute line. After the phone call from Lucas the night before, she'd been left with two choices: allow the fear to take root or regain control of her life. She'd dealt with dangerous men before—it was part of the job—but this was the first time since the early days of her internship that she'd doubted her ability to get past her own anger and fear.

Lucas kept reaching out to her, and instinct told her there might be something more to his messages than delusional ideation and transference. She had a nagging dread that perhaps she had dismissed his fears too soon. She also
had an unpleasant and melodramatic sense of foreboding.

"What's going on?" Matt England's voice snapped Sylvia from her racing thoughts.

Rosie ignored Matt "But Sylvia, one of my boys warned me that you could be in danger from the jackal—"

Sylvia interrupted, "Lucas isn't the jackal." She moved past Rosie impatiently. "I'll explain later." "Explain what?" Matt demanded.

Rosie said, "She needs to talk to Lucas."

"Forget it."

Sylvia set her jaw. "He asked for this meeting, and I'm willing to go in, but I damn well want some backup by this door in case something happens."

England exploded, "You're ordering backup? We're here to conduct an investigation, not an encounter therapy session where you get your head torn off!"

"Matt," Rosie warned. She sensed in Sylvia the urgent need to put demons to rest. She touched Matt's arm and said, "It's my ass on the line if something goes wrong. Do it for me . . . as a favor."

After a beat, Matt said, "What if he goes for your throat?"

Sylvia met his gaze. "I'll scream."

W
HEN THE
C.O. left the room, Sylvia found herself alone with Lucas Watson.

"Hello, Lucas," she said softly. She noticed the red light on the tape recorder. She clicked off the machine. "I got your message."

Lucas slammed his manacled fists against the wall. Sylvia forced herself to stay seated, apparently calm; the table separated them. There was a distance of less than eight feet between her and the door.

He inhaled unevenly, extended his fingers, gazed at his palm. She was surprised to see that there were tears in his eyes.

He said, "I could tear you apart." But he sounded like a defeated man.

Sylvia was aware of Matt England's face behind the mesh window. She ignored him, kept all her energy focused on Lucas.

"You left me here to die," he hissed. "You were supposed to get me out."

She said, "I'm going to do that, Lucas. I understand that you're angry, but a transfer takes time—"

He began to move again, shaking his head, mumbling, He didn't look at her when he said, "I chose you. You're supposed to understand . . . about them."

Sylvia inched forward on her chair and said,
"Them
. Who are they?"

He lifted his chin, aware of her every movement. She could almost hear him sniff the air for her scent. It was eerie the way he gazed at her from the corners of his cloudy eyes as if full sight would overwhelm his senses. She waited.

Finally he spoke. "You took away my pouch. It protects me in here."

"Protects you from what?"

"My father wants me dead."

Sylvia stopped breathing in anticipation of what Watson would say next, but almost instantly she was startled by the loud voices outside the door. Lucas turned to stare intently, and Sylvia followed his cue. A C.O.'s face filled the small window, and he mouthed something to Sylvia.

When she brought her eyes back to Lucas, she saw
that he was gazing at her accusingly. He opened his mouth, then managed a half nod before his eyes went dead. Nobody home.

Sylvia tried to bring him back. "Lucas, you said your father wants you dead?"

Nothing but silence. All circuits shut down.

"You left a message for me, and I came. Lucas?"

Sylvia exploded internally; the goddamned C.O. had broken her connection with Lucas. In one instant, the paranoia had again encased him like an airtight shell.

She didn't let her anger reach the surface; her expression remained neutral as she said, "I'll get you out of here as soon as I can."

It was urgent that Lucas Watson get psychiatric care.

He spoke in a lifeless voice. "I'm tired."

Sylvia stood and watched him follow the C.O. out the door. He walked like a condemned man.
My father wants me dead
.

Rosie entered the room and Sylvia spoke abruptly, "What the hell was that about? I had Lucas talking, then all that noise—"

Rosie picked up the tape recorder and said, "Bad timing."

Instantly, Sylvia recognized Herb Burnett's loud voice outside the attorneys' room. He and Matt England were involved in a heated conversation. Both women joined them in the hall.

Herb said, "What is this? Nobody bothers to tell me when they're interrogating my client?"

Rosie said, "Herb, we—"

Burnett cut her off, "What are you doing here, Sylvia?" His eyes shifted to Matt England and back to Sylvia. He was trying to gauge the situation. "Is this
another evaluation? Haven't you done enough damage?"