Dangerous Attachments (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 1) (27 page)

"I thought we could go to the mall and check out paint at Sears."

Rosie cocked an eyebrow and chewed thoughtfully on her toast.

"Maybe take in a matinee. Tomás might even let his parents sit next to him." Ray sloshed hot coffee into both mugs and spooned sugar from the bowl. "What do you think?"

"Tomás hasn't let his parents be seen in the same theater with him since he turned thirteen."

"So maybe he's grown out of it."

"Un huh." Rosie's response was noncommittal.

"Did you have something else in mind for today?"

She squared her shoulders and stared back at him. "I have to go in to work. For a few hours, Ray." She tried unsuccessfully to keep the defensive tone from her voice. When Ray carried his dishes to the sink with a stony look in his eyes, Rosie said, "You know I can't take the day off unless things are really under control." She cringed at the sound of dishes assaulted in sudsy water.

Ray turned suddenly. "Since the riot. . . I'm not sure you know what's important."

Rosie set her mug on the table next to her half-eaten breakfast. She smoothed her hair from her face, caught
her lip between her teeth, and stood. Each movement was totally contained. She walked from the room, leaving Ray with soapsuds on his arms and an angry frown on his face. When he was alone, his face fell as anger was replaced by sadness.

Rosie was almost out the front door when the call came from PNM Main; Bobby Jack Hall had been involved in an incident. And so had the jackal,
el chacal
. Rosie acknowledged the inference with dread. One of Hall's arms was missing.

She raced the Camaro's engine and reviewed what she knew about Bobby Jack Hall. He was young and pretty, maybe twenty, serving a fifteen-year sentence for armed robbery, and he was a member of the Aryan Brotherhood. Most pertinent of all, he had been Bubba Akins's "slave" when Bubba was still at Main. Rosie burned rubber coming out of the driveway.

When she reached the penitentiary, she learned that Bobby Hall was already in surgery at St. Vincent's having his right arm reattached. A search of the warehouse was under way, but his left arm was still missing. She notified the captain to let C.O. Maggie Donner do the preliminary interview with Barela; she would get to Juan and friends later. She wasn't about to get stonewalled by the homies when she had leverage she could use on someone else.

Rosie drove quickly along the narrow road that led from Main to North Facility. She glanced off to the right when she reached the turnoff for the new sewage treatment plant. Dormant equipment rimmed the leach pond like giant, parasitic insects. The stench of human waste and chemicals trespassed the tight seal of the Camaro's windows. Rosie pressed a little harder on the
gas pedal. She passed just one utility truck on the half-mile stretch to North's parking lot.

C.O. Elaine Buyers welcomed Rosie into North. "Cold out there, huh?"

Rosie responded with a cursory nod. "Colonel Gonzales?"

Buyers's radio emitted a sharp burst of static and she reached for it with a scowl. "I just saw him go back to his office."

Rosie left Buyers trying to decipher a garbled radio message and marched through the door that led to the colonel's office. In this hallway, the blue carpeting remained, but the walls showed severe damage from acetylene torches and various battering tools.

Knocking twice with her knuckles, Rosie opened the door and José Gonzales's hefty form filled the space.

"I was just leaving," he said as one arm scooted her into reverse.

Rosie maneuvered skillfully on her high heels and her brown eyes grew wide. "First, we need to talk."

Gonzales raised an eyebrow. "No need, someone wants to talk to you."

"Bubba?"

"The same. He heard about Bobby Hall ten minutes after it all went down. He asked for you." As the colonel spoke, the stale scent of cigarettes hovered around his mouth. His wife's anti-smoking campaign seemed to be losing ground.

Gonzales led the way to the C.O.s' lounge ,where he let a quarter clang into a bright-blue vending machine. He whisked out the package of white powdered doughnuts and retraced his tracks down the hall. As he tossed the doughnuts into the air and caught them again, he
said, "These are a goodwill offering. Bubba loves his doughnuts. And now he loves you, too."

They took the hall that led past Administration's control center. Behind the glass, Rosie saw an unfamiliar face staring up at six closed-circuit television screens. In the background, the bright green-and-yellow screen of the computer looked like a baseball diamond on a child's video game. Rosie knew the image would flash an alert if there was any penetration of North Facility's chief barrier.

Colonel Gonzales passed the base of the guard tower and unlocked the door that opened out to North's largest yard. The door was made of unmarred steel, replaced immediately after the riot.

Cold stung Rosie's nose and mouth. In the northwestern sky, sullen clouds loitered over the Jemez Mountain Range. She wondered if the temperature could have dropped several degrees in the few minutes she'd been inside North. The door clanged shut behind her. Colonel Gonzales stood by her side, his hands in his pockets. They surveyed the yard in silence.

There was little change since Rosie's last visit before Christmas. Some debris had been cleared from the area near the bleachers, but the yard was unused. Housing unit one faced this yard—the only H.U. in North that was currently functional. Thirty-eight maximum security prisoners had been moved here and remained under twenty-three-hour lockdown. Other state facilities had been reluctant to accept the worst of the bad.

Without a word, Gonzales strode across the dried grass and dirt to the asphalt walkway skirting Town Center—law library, chapel, education center, and visitor's center—and the gym. He still gripped the dough
nuts in his hand, presenting an absurd picture, Rosie thought. Again, Gonzales used his keys to unlock the door. When Rosie stepped into the gym, her skin tightened in the frigid air.

"No heat yet," Gonzales muttered.

"It feels like a freezer," Rosie said. It took her eyes several minutes to adjust to the dim interior. "I trust we have a reason for staying in here."

Colonel Gonzales nodded. After a beat, Rosie realized he was acknowledging a presence. Bubba Akins. The huge man sat casually on a bench, staring back at them with a faint smile on his round face.

"Bubba preferred an informal meeting," Colonel Gonzales said. He tossed the packet of doughnuts into the air and Bubba caught them without moving anything but two fingers and a thumb.

"Get the bull out of here," Bubba said.

"McKevitt?" The colonel raised his voice and sent it out into the gloom. Another shape materialized, this time a guard standing about ten feet behind Bubba. "You can leave us alone for five minutes."

They waited until C.O. McKevitt closed the door quietly, and then Bubba ripped open cellophane and bit deeply into sugar. As he ate, he made the slushy sounds of hogs at the trough. He grinned up at Rosie and stuffed the last doughnut between thick wet lips. Pink skin was peeling from his nose and there were pronounced bruises shading his cheek, eye, and forehead.

"Bobby Jack been treated worse than 'n animal." Bubba spoke so low that Rosie leaned forward in an effort to hear. "Since that riot, been nothin' but shi' for my family." He smiled politely at Colonel Gonzales and
nodded his head. "Thank you, Colonel, for the refreshmen'."

Rosie kept plenty of space between herself and Bubba. He loomed larger than she remembered, but his face looked battered and his eyes projected a dull weariness.

Rosie said, "So what are we going to discuss?"

Bubba shook his head and his skull swung slowly on the axis of his thick neck. "Un. I ain't discussin' to nobody. I'm doin' my studies in the library."

Colonel Gonzales spoke easily. "Bubba's got some big complaints, and he's filing with the court
pro se."

"Tha's right. Defend myself this time."

"What complaints?" Rosie asked.

The big man waved his fleshy hand in dismissal. "Abou' my personal comfort and safety . . . but don' need to go into it now. I'll send you a copy fo' sure."

Rosie exchanged a fleeting glance with Gonzales and let out her breath. "What do you want, Bubba?"

Bubba raised his eyebrows and shook his head as if excusing Rosie's lack of social graces. "An exchange."

"What for what?"

"I wan' out of hea'."

Rosie scoffed. "I can't get you paroled."

"I didn't say parole. I jus' want to enjoy a different environmen'. I want Bobby Jack to enjoy somethin' different, too." He paused and rubbed a finger against the darkest part of his bruised face. "Texas, mebbe. Or Tennessee."

"Why?"

" 'Cause I kinda figured I'd like to live to be thirty- three."

Rosie said, "It's a nice age."

Bubba cut her off with an explosion of sharps and flats that passed for laughter. "My friends ain't gonna wait for the birthday party. We havin' a disagreement—payback time. They take care of me like tha'." Bubba snapped his fingers with a final sound. "Like they almost take care of Bobby."

Rosie waited, watching his eyes, the canny gleaming dots. "Who did it?"

"Right. You want to play or not?"

"If the game's right. . ."

"Cut me a deal."

Rosie's eyes narrowed. "What is it you've got to trade?" She held her breath waiting for the answer.

Bubba grinned as if Rosie were a hundred-pound bass dangling at the end of his hook. He worked up to words with several wheezing breaths. "You still lookin' for the jacka'?" He nodded. "Yeah, I see you are."

"He's alive, isn't he? Did he do Bobby Jack?"

"We got us a deal yet?"

Rosie tipped her head. She could see the toes of Colonel Gonzales's shoes, boot black and streaks of dust. The shoes moved.

"I think I better find C.O. McKevitt. He's been gone so long he probably got lost somewhere." The door opened briefly and a thin arm of sunlight reached in only to be severed when the door slammed shut.

"Well?" Bubba leaned on the syllable, denting it in three places.

"We have a deal."

Bubba strained forward on the bench, and for a moment Rosie feared he might be coming at her, but he was only shifting his weight. "I got your word of honor as a lady." His tone was only half ironic.

"You've got it."

"And Bobby Jack?" Bubba's voice was barely audible.

"And Bobby Jack."

Bubba seemed to study his belly for several seconds, then he ran a meaty palm along the side of his neck.

Rosie couldn't wait for the fat man to speak. "So which of the guys who cut Bobby Jack is the jackal?" Bubba shook his head. "None."

"Bubba, I need to know who did the cutting. We have a deal."

"The deal is I tell you who's the jacka.' The jacka' jus' happen to be in the right place to pick himself up another piece of meat."

Rosie asked, "Why would he take an arm?" Her voice was a whisper.

"Maybe he thinks he's Doc Frankenstein . . ." Bubba said. He scratched his chin, and white sugar dust rose in the air. "After the riot, you sure you matched up all those arms and legs?"

Rosie's eyes widened and she swallowed carefully. She remembered the scene from the movie where the mad scientist applied electric currents to his creation—smoke, lightning, and then the monster's eyes opened.

She ran a quick mental inventory: right hand, right pinkie, left arm, penis, nose . . . She was startled by the sound of Bubba's laughter; she could see his face turning red.

"You look like you believe me," Bubba said when he caught his breath.

Rosie lifted her chin. "You said the jackal had a
job
to kill someone."

"Yeah, I said that. Mebbe you talk to Anderson."

"Anderson?" Rosie scanned a mental file of inmates—several Andersons came to mind.

"Correctional Officer Anderson." Bubba grinned. "He might help you find Doc Frankenstein before the monster comes a callin' on you."

"Who is the jackal?"

"Charl' Co. My lie. That's where you'll find you a jacka'." His eyes disappeared behind fatty flaps of skin. "I can't say no more," he murmured hoarsely.

It took her a minute, but Rosie got it.
My Lai
. Vietnam.

"An" when you find that jacka'—give Bobby Jack his arm back."

"Y
OU'RE TOO LATE."
Criminal Agent Terry Osuna thunked her fist on the roof of Matt England's Chevy Caprice. She leaned into his open window and plunked both elbows on the frame. "Captain Rocha and I just spent thirty stimulating minutes with Senator Watson." Osuna fluttered her eyelashes. She was standing on the sidewalk in front of the four-story Schumacher Building where Duke Watson maintained his Santa Fe offices. Matt's Caprice was parked in a loading zone.

Osuna said, "Basically we got zip. He says Billy's out of town with friends, but he doesn't know their names. He says he'll give us his utmost cooperation. He says Burnett didn't have an enemy in the world." This time she rolled her eyes and she reminded Matt of Betty Boop.

He said, "Didn't your mother ever tell you you'd go cross-eyed?" He pulled a tin of Copenhagen tobacco off the dash and popped the lid. "I had a talk with an old friend, a renowned Albuquerque P.I. who shall remain
nameless. When the legislature's in session, he's been known to work as an analyst. His hobby is watching politicos screw each other from behind."

Matt sifted tobacco between his fingers and packed a wad into his mouth. "The buzz is that some members of the party think Duke may be a little hot to handle right now. They say good riddance to one son, but hello, he's got another one. One top of that, his lawyer got whacked." Matt climbed out of the Chevy and locked the door. "So I thought I'd stop by to cuss and discuss."

"Rocha isn't going to like the idea of you going after Duke alone." Osuna started to walk away, then she flashed him a smile. "But I do."

The offices in the Schumacher Building were arranged off short and thickly carpeted corridors; footfalls were prohibited. Breathing a little too heavily from the three-floor walk up, England scanned the doors on the third floor of the west wing. Number 306 was stained mahogany as were all the others. A tasteful gold plaque with black lettering and a longhorn logo had been attached at eye level: Duke Land and Cattle Co.