Dangerous Attachments (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 1) (24 page)

He stood suddenly, lurched, caught his balance, and weaved his way through the house to the master bedroom. The buttons on his shirt were hard to manage, but soon he'd scattered every stitch of clothing across the plush carpet. The lights of Santa Fe flashed in his floor-to-ceiling windows. A million-dollar view. In the master bathroom, Herb turned the faucets and began to fill the Jacuzzi tub. One-hundred-degree water—that's how he liked it.

Back in the living room, he put on a CD of Steely Dan,
Aja
, and turned the music up. He wanted to top off his drink, but he couldn't remember where he'd left the gin. He did remember to check the back door; it was open. He locked it and padded down the hall toward the bath.

The wet heat eased the pressure in his neck and head. His body hugged the porcelain of the tub, and the jets massaged aches and pains. Maybe the headache would back off so he could breathe. He let his face muscles go slack. It surprised him to think there might be tears on his cheeks; he dunked his head underwater and came up for air. Maybe he could actually remember back—remember a time before he'd begun to hate himself.
Was there such a time? He should ask his mother if he'd been a happy baby. Right.

The bathroom lights were controlled by a dimmer switch; a warm white glow barely illuminated the blue-tiled sinks. Through the narrow window facing west, he thought he saw stars. Perhaps the clouds were breaking up? He heard Cassie, his youngest daughter, walking in the master bedroom. It was too late for her to be up. It slowly occurred to him that his daughter wasn't really here; she was living with her mother in Albuquerque. He dunked himself underwater again to clear his head. When he came up for air, opened his eyes, the room was dark. For a moment, the man was no more than a shadow arched over the tub. Herb's recognition registered in one word: you.

The shadow pulled back suddenly, arms extended, gripping a solid rod that came rushing down with brutal force. The impact forced air from Herb's lungs and propelled his body underwater. He struggled to reach the surface, air, but the next blow crushed his skull. The water turned dark with blood.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

"G
OOD
K
ING
W
ENCESLAS
looked out on the feast of Stephen. . ."

The Christmas carol—sung in Spanish to a rap beat—echoed through the cell block. The jackal hummed along as he worked. He remembered the real words from elementary school. Ah, the holiday season, a time of reckoning, sacrifice, and redemption.

There was the business of Andre Miller. The man had forced him to strike in the open. He should have ignored the jackal's stash in the freezers. But Miller was nosy, and he'd stolen Angel Tapia's little finger—a tiny yet integral piece of a complex plan.

After so many shared evenings when they'd engaged in spiritual talk, Miller had become a Judas. Well, the jackal had taken care of that Judas in a jiffy.

Nevertheless, this was a very special Christmas because last night the jackal had received another message from the Lord. The Lord said, "The disciple is not
above
her
master, nor the servant above his Lord." The jackal knew he was the Lord's servant, and now he was going to obtain his very own disciple: a female. He was glad he hadn't hurt Sylvia Strange or Rosie Sánchez. In His wisdom, the Lord had held him back. And soon, he could announce himself to the world.

He stared down at the blueprint he was working on and removed a pencil smudge with spit; the sternocleidomastoid needed work—what was a man without laughter?

He compared his efforts with the medical textbook that lay open on his bed. The trapezius would be a breeze, but the cricothyroid was another muscle altogether.

This was no simple design. Compassion, intelligence, creativity, the ability to love, all were crucial to the final product; but the will had to be intact or nothing was created. And it was imperative that
everything
be created.

He ran his tongue over his lips and sang quietly. "God rest ye merry gentlemen, let nothing you dismay, remember Christ our Savior was born on Christmas Day."

C
HRISTMAS MORNING
. S
UN
streaked through cirrus clouds and reflected off a lace coverlet of snow dusting cottonwoods and junipers. Piñon smoke perfumed the crisp morning air. A fat bluejay shared the bird feeder with four sparrows. Sylvia wandered the house in her robe, brewed coffee, and mixed the ingredients for a batch of cookies. She sent Rocko outside with a steak bone and he gnawed contentedly near the deck of the hot tub.

She selected a radio station playing Christmas music and called her mother. No one answered, and she imagined the sound of the telephone reverberating off pastel walls adorned with her mother's oil paintings. Sylvia had seen the condominium just once, three years ago. That visit had ended with harsh words, mother and daughter each blaming the other for past mistakes.

Sylvia hung up the phone. Less than thirty seconds later, it rang.

She dusted flour from her hands and picked up the receiver; she expected her mother. Instead, she heard Matt England's voice.

"Merry Christmas."

Sylvia laughed. "Same to you."

There was a silence before he said, "I'm having dinner at Rosie and Ray's tonight. Rosie said you might be stopping by." Matt England coughed and cleared his throat.

"I plan to," she said.

"I thought you might want to do something after? A drink or a walk or something?"

Sylvia hesitated, then said, "Why not?" Because I can give you fifty good reasons why not, she thought. The sudden aroma of cookies brought her back to reality. "Listen—"

"See you tonight," England said, then he hung up as if he sensed she might change her mind.

A walk was no big deal. Liar, she told herself.

Thirty minutes later, when the doorbell rang, Sylvia was showered and dressed. She opened the door and found Monica and Jaspar with his arms around Rocko. Several days earlier, Sylvia had agreed to spend the holi
day morning with Jaspar while Monica visited her aunt at a rest home north of Santa Fe. It would give Jaspar and Sylvia time to exchange gifts. December 28 marked the two-month anniversary of Malcolm's death; Jaspar had a lot to deal with this holiday.

"Merry Christmas," Monica said. She smiled and held out what was clearly a bottle gift-wrapped in silver foil. "It's not much, really. But I want you to know I appreciate what you're doing."

Sylvia dropped her arms to her sides. It hadn't occurred to her to give Monica a present, but now it seemed like such an obvious gesture of respect. Flustered, she scrambled to recover. But it was Monica who rescued her.

She said, "I have a policy of no gifts between friends, but this year I broke my rule. Forgive me." Monica's smile was charming and warm.

Sylvia took her first real look at her lover's wife.

Dressed in a fur cloche, wool jacket and skirt, and fur-lined boots, Monica Treisman resembled a cossack princess. Sylvia couldn't resist a mental pairing of husband and wife. The vision was incongruous: the big, broad strokes of Malcolm shaded his dark, Russian ancestry, his boundless intellect, and his insatiable ego; in contrast, the delicate brushwork of Monica highlighted pale, delicate features, her attention to the needs of others, her quiet intelligence. For the first time, it occurred to Sylvia that Malcolm had been in love with his wife when he died.

The realization hit her like a blow. It made her feel jealous, naïve, inadequate. It also made her grateful that Monica had been there to care for Malcolm when he was dying.

"Open it," Monica said when they were seated in the living room.

While Sylvia unwrapped the gift, she noticed Jaspar eyeing her intently. She smiled and patted the couch. He plopped down next to her, Rocko in his lap, and waited until the foil was off. The present was a bottle of 1978 Bordeaux.

"Delicious." Sylvia smiled. "Where was I in 1978 . . . in school?"

"Malcolm bought a case years ago. It's been in the basement under cobwebs, dust, and furniture. It's drinkable until 2010."

"How far away is that?" Jaspar asked.

Monica patted his head. "Not very." She glanced at her watch. "I'll pick Jaspar up in about three hours." She kissed her son on both cheeks and squeezed Sylvia's hand good-bye.

Jaspar, Rocko, and Sylvia stood together on the doorstep while the gray Mercedes disappeared in the glare of sun.

"Want to open presents?" Sylvia asked.

Jaspar gave her a slow smile, exposing the gap between his front teeth and led the way inside.

Sylvia pointed to three packages placed on a pile of pine boughs in one corner of the living room. "That's the Christmas tree."

Jaspar sat down quietly and began untying ribbon. Sylvia absorbed the delicate lines of his face, the glow of his skin. What was it like to give birth to such a perfect child? How could anyone bear such vulnerability in their lives?

After Jaspar had unwrapped his presents and browsed through page after page of dinosaur informa
tion, he turned to Sylvia and spoke quickly. "Will you take me to see my papa?"

The request caught her off guard. Jaspar had not been at his father's funeral because Monica felt he was too young. Would she be upset if Sylvia took Jaspar to the grave? When she hesitated, Jaspar prodded, "Please?"

"This instant?" Sylvia extended both hands, palms up, in a gesture of surrender. She collected car keys from the kitchen counter and returned to the living room.

Jaspar held out a package. His present to Sylvia was encased in layers of multipatterned wrapping and great swatches of Scotch tape.

"I wrapped it up all by myself," he said.

When the paper finally slid away, Sylvia stared at the shimmery triangles, squares, and circles of lacquered tissue paper in her lap.

Jaspar said, "Hold it up."

She lifted the hook made from a paper clip, and waxed threads carved silver trails in the air. The paper shapes bobbed in a gentle tangle at the end of the threads. A mobile.

"I made it just for you." Jaspar's face was somber.

Sylvia would have hugged Jaspar, but his expression cautioned her to keep her distance. She said, "Thank you, it's beautiful."

Together, they hung it in the kitchen in front of the window. Through purple, crimson, and aqua shapes, Sylvia saw the jagged prongs of the windmill dancing in the distance. When she looked down at Jaspar, he was holding up a second package.

"This is for Papa," he said.

S
ANTA
F
E
M
EMORIAL
G
ARDENS
cemetery consisted of several acres on the north side of Rodeo Road. Sylvia drove past the iron gates, slowed the Volvo, and rolled to a stop on gravel. The grounds were deserted except for one car and several people tending to a gravestone. Jaspar was staring out the passenger window intently. Sylvia could see the tendons in his neck, but his excitement was contained.

"Do those people know someone's dead?" he asked finally.

Sylvia nodded. "Yes."

"How many dead people will fit here?"

"I don't know."

"Is it full?"

"I don't think so."

"Can Rocko stay here when he dies?"

"This cemetery is just for humans. I'll probably bury Rocko on the ridge behind my house after he dies. Shall we walk to your father's grave?"

Jaspar turned to her and his face was pale. "When you drive past a grave place, you're supposed to hold your breath."

"I used to hold my breath and lift my feet in the air." Sylvia smiled and took his hand. In her other hand, she carried a geranium cutting, bright pink, from the plant in her kitchen. They walked slowly down the road toward the area where Malcolm was buried. "There are lots of superstitions about death."

"Why?"

"Because we don't know what it is. No one is really sure what happens when we die."

"That's when bad people come to find you in the dark." Jaspar's eyes were troubled.

Sylvia brought his coat collar up around his neck and buttoned it. She was squatting in front of him. "What bad people, Jaspar? Tell me about them."

"Bad men come to steal things."

"What do they steal?"

Silence. Jaspar stared at the ground; only his quickened respiration gave away his agitation.

Sylvia spoke gently, "What was your daddy doing when he died?"

"Sleeping."

"And what were you doing?"

"Sleeping," Jaspar said. He began to kick at a pile of snow repeatedly.

"In the dark?" Sylvia asked.

Jaspar nodded.

"Are you scared something might happen to you in the dark?"

Jaspar didn't answer, but he wrapped his arms around his torso and his fingers clutched his shoulders.

"Bad men didn't come to take your daddy away, Jaspar. He was very sick—so sick that he couldn't go on living. He wanted to stay here with you, but he couldn't."

It took almost thirty seconds, but Jaspar finally raised his head to look at her. "Where did he go?"

"I don't know. Everybody dies, and when that happens, I think our souls go free and join all the other atoms and molecules, all the energy in the world—the trees, the sky, the rivers. What do you think?"

Jaspar shook his head, his brow creased with concentration. "I don't know."

She led them along a stone walkway and stopped in front of a simple square of polished granite set in the
earth,
MALCOLM TREISMAN.
Nothing else was carved on the rock face.

"Here we are." She placed the geranium on the grass next to the rock.

They stood for a time, silent, staring at the earth. Jaspar traced the letters with his fingers. He spoke his father's name. Then quietly, he pulled the crumpled package from the pocket of his jacket and set it down on the grave.

"Do you want to unwrap it?" Sylvia asked.

Jaspar kneeled down and carefully opened his package. It was a dough sculpture, brightly painted, a squat creature with four legs. Jaspar set it purposefully on the grass in front of the gravestone. "It's a horse," he said. "Galloping fast."