Dangerous Attachments (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 1) (36 page)

Normally, escapes attempted from prison interiors present potential escapees with more impediments than attempts originating from exterior prison areas such as yards and sally ports. However, the conditions that existed during the riot, and the evidence collected in North Facility following the riot, show that the possibility of a successful escape effort generated from the interior, not viable under normal conditions, must be thoroughly investigated.

Bound in plastic, the report slid easily off the varnished wood surface of the table into Rosie's lap. She stared at Pat O'Riley and her skin lost its color.

"Are you telling me that someone actually got out that night?"

T
HE CHANGING OF
the guard was in full swing when Rosie entered the pen for the second time on New Year's Eve. As she passed the waiting area for visitors, she saw an old man sitting alone. Something about his posture—perhaps it was his worried expression—stopped her. She tiptoed to his chair.

"Are you being helped?"

"Necesito encontrar mi hijo."

"¿Quién es? ¿Cómo se llama?"

"Se llama Juan Gabaldon."

John Gabaldon. Rosie didn't remember that particular inmate. Perhaps he was new? She asked the old man, but he insisted that his boy had been incarcerated for nine years. When was the last time he had visited his son? Six months before. The old man explained that he'd been hospitalized for a minor stroke. He'd been in a hospital in Las Cruces when the riot occurred.

"¿Cuántos años tiene?"

"Veintiocho."

A twenty-eight-year-old inmate named John Gabaldon was missing. Rosie questioned the man in Spanish for several minutes. She believed him when he said he'd written letters to the governor, the Department of Corrections, the warden. He thought no one had responded because they didn't like his Spanish. She asked him to go home for the day. She promised to have an answer for him by Saturday. She watched him shuffle to the main door. His body was
stooped into a question mark, his pants sagged off bony hips.

Rosie walked past the lounge where a half dozen C.O.s celebrated New Year's Eve in a cluster around a white sheet cake. The sharp smack of pool cues marked a counterpoint to the click of Rosie's heels.

Locking her office door behind her, Rosie switched on the lights but nothing happened. Her digital clock gleamed from the opposite wall, which meant the light bulb had probably blown. There was just enough daylight to illuminate the files. It didn't take long to find; John Gabaldon was released in October 1994.

Had he been released? Or had someone lost track of Gabaldon's release date? It had happened before; guys doing a hitch, and their release date finally rolled around, and they didn't remember and neither did their caseworker.

Reluctantly, she walked toward her desk to phone the deputy warden. When she was almost there, she stepped on the Fed Ex packet that had been slipped under the door. It skimmed the carpet like a skateboard, and Rosie landed hard on the floor. Without moving, she tore open the seal and pulled out the list of names she had been waiting for. The members of Charlie Company. On the second page, she found the jackal. He had served from 1966 through 1969; he'd been at My Lai.

T
RAFFIC WAS SURPRISINGLY
light as Sylvia drove home. She felt tired and relieved; she wanted to sleep in her own bed, and she wanted to find Rocko. When she reached her house she left a message at Rosie and Ray's and then she called her mother in California.

"Sylvia, is that you?"

"I got the package. Thanks." It had been waiting on her front stoop. A Christmas gift. There was a note inside, a smiling Christmas angel with a message: Thought you'd want this. Love, Mom.

Now, embedded deep in Styrofoam snow, her fingers found the silver frame of a family portrait—her mother and father holding the baby Sylvia between them. The picture had dressed the
nicho
in the living room for years. There was something else, a smaller package wrapped in tissue paper and ribbon—her father's Silver Star, awarded by the Army for bravery in battle, and a tiny silver pendant that had been his good luck charm.

She blew particles of Styrofoam from her fingers and fingered the chain.

After the slightest hesitation, her mother said, "I thought you might like them."

"I do." Sylvia shook her head, frustrated, trying to send feelings through the phone lines. "I love them, Mom."

"I'm so glad."

The two women talked for fifteen minutes, catching up, communicating for the first time in years. After they had covered the subjects of various relatives, Sylvia's career, and her mother's social activities, they even touched on the idea of a visit.

After the phone call, she spent forty-five minutes cleaning house. The rooms weren't really dirty, but scrubbing, sweeping, and dusting were all part of a small ritual to reassert her control of territory.

Dinner was toast and soup, and then Sylvia concentrated on reviewing files and preparing for her postholiday push. It felt good to focus on her work. She was beginning to accept the fact that the nightmare of the
past few weeks was finally over. The only thing that bothered her was Rocko's absence. The runty terrier had not shown up since her return, and the bowl of food she'd left behind the day before remained untouched. He'd been known to stay away for several days, but that was usually when the weather was much warmer.

At seven o'clock, Sylvia answered the phone to Monica Treisman's breathless soprano. She could hear Jaspar in the background asking to speak with her, and she smiled with pleasure. When Monica explained that her aunt had lapsed into a coma, Sylvia immediately offered to watch Jaspar.

"Should I come over?"

"Let me drop him off with you. It's just as easy. He's been talking about you and Rocko since Christmas."

Sylvia hung up the phone without mentioning Rocko's absence. She didn't have the heart.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

L
IQUID GREEN LIGHT;
the upper hallway of Main Administration glowed in the semidarkness. Behind their frosted-glass windowpanes, all the offices on the floor were empty. Even Rosie's office was illuminated only by the small Tensor lamp she kept at her desk. Every few minutes, the growl of thunder vibrated against the old institutional walls. Neither Rosie nor Colonel Gonzales said a word. She leaned anxiously against her desk. The colonel sat in a chair and smoked. He had agreed to back Rosie up; she felt a confrontation was necessary to get the information she needed, but her methods for the evening were unorthodox to say the least.

It was Rosie who sensed his presence at her door. He had come at her request. She stood, moved around her desk, then held a finger to her lips and reached for the doorknob. It was time to meet the jackal.

When she stepped out into the hall, Bubba Akins nodded. "Miz Sánchez."

"Mr. Akins." She closed the office door firmly and Rosie dismissed the correctional officer who had accompanied Bubba from North Facility. "We're fine here. Check back in fifteen minutes." The C.O. seemed happy to leave.

"Night of the Jacka'. . . a good nigh' fo' travel," Bubba slurred.

Rosie said, "You'll be on your way soon. The transport vehicle should be here in forty-five minutes."

"I wan' thank you fo' keepin' your word."

They both turned when they heard footsteps on the stairs. C.O. Anderson's skin took on an odd purple cast from the green reflection. Shuffling along beside him, Elmer Rivak's egg-shaped head barely topped the buckle of the C.O.'s belt. Rosie thought of a ventriloquist's act she'd seen recently on television. These two made believable stand-ins for the comedian and his dummy.

When they were within earshot, Rosie said, "That's close enough, gentlemen."

"I thought you wanted to interrogate him?" C.O. Anderson's voice had an unpleasant edge magnified by an echo in the hall.

Rosie nodded. "I do." As she opened her mouth, a crack of thunder exploded overhead. In the electric stillness that followed, Elmer spoke.

"Thunder . . . unusual in winter. The gods are angry tonight."

"I agree with you, Mr. Rivak." She paused, then said, "Elmer, do you know why the gods are angry?"

"Oh, yes."

Rosie raised her eyebrows, folded both arms across her waist, and watched him with interest.

"All the waste," Elmer said.

"I'm not sure I know what you mean."

"Him." He pointed to C.O. Anderson. "And him." To Bubba. "Such a waste."

"He's crazy" C.O. Anderson mumbled, but the words were swallowed up by another crack of thunder. He was stepping from foot to foot like a shadow boxer.

Bubba said, "Wha' make you so nervous, Butt-fuck? This lady, she lookin' for whoeve' kill the devil dog."

It was the first time Rosie had heard the expression, but devil dog seemed an appropriate description of Lucas Watson.

Thunder didn't faze Bubba. "Why don' you tell her 'bout Lucas? Why don' you tell her 'bout all that moola from the senator who wan' a job done?"

C.O. Anderson lurched toward Bubba.

"That's enough, boys." Rosie turned to Elmer. "I understand you were at My Lai."

"Yes."

"You saw a lot of waste in Vietnam?"

Elmer nodded. "Waste. Broken men. Organicity."

Rosie kept her voice so low it was a whisper. "Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?"

"Not at all. The Lord told me you'd contact me soon."

"Why did you need Angel Tapia's pinkie?"

"Ah, because I didn't have one, did I?"

"Did you have a hand but no little finger?"

"Yes."

Rosie shot Bubba a look when he laughed. Although she didn't smoke, she found herself filled with the sudden desire to light up. "What else do you have?"

Elmer looked surprised at the question, as if Rosie
had somehow not lived up to her role as hostess for an otherwise pleasant evening. "Everything."

"You mean arms and legs?"

"Oh, yes."

"How many exactly?"

"Well, actually I have one extra arm. I haven't decided which one to use."

"For what?"

Elmer frowned again and seemed abruptly tired. He spoke to Rosie as if she were a rather slow child. "Construction. Organic architecture."

"Ahhh . . ." Rosie's words were simultaneous with another bolt of thunder. "You're building a body. I mean a person."

"Of course," Elmer said.

"I tol' you," Bubba snorted. "Doc Frankenstein."

"What about the head, Elmer?" Rosie tensed suddenly. "Whose head do you have?"

C.O. Anderson stepped forward but Bubba Akins's meaty hand slapped the guard's belly. Anderson stopped.

The jackal said, "God gave me Lucas Watson's head."

Rosie nodded to Bubba.

"No, he didn'," Bubba announced.

Anderson looked amazed.

"Yes, he did," the jackal said.

"No."

"Yes."

They went on like schoolboys until Rosie said, "Enough. Bubba, whose head does the jackal have?"

Bubba peered at the small man named Elmer Rivak and grinned. "Accordin' to my mouth, ya'll got John Gab'don's head."

Three things happened simultaneously. Bubba exploded in laughter, lightning hit the building and crackled down the hall, and the jackal charged C.O. Anderson.

"You told me I'd get Watson's head!" The jackal's eyes were level with Anderson's neck, and he could watch his own fingers tighten around the hack's throat.

Anderson fell backward; his skull smacked the wall just as the jackal changed gears. He lowered his head and bounced off Bubba Akins's grotesque belly.

The door to Rosie's office flew open and Colonel Gonzales emerged in time to see the jackal and Bubba grappling in the dark hallway like two titans. Their shadows climbed the walls and bounced off the ceiling. Although the jackal was outmuscled, he was amazingly fierce. Before Rosie's eyes, he transformed from a mousy porter into a ferocious combat vet, a guerilla fighter.

The jackal bit off a piece of Bubba's ear and the big man roared. Pain and anger thrust him forward, and he trampled C.O. Anderson's semiprone body. Colonel Gonzales helped Anderson out of the way.

The impact of Bubba's next tackle sent the jackal flying. His torso smacked the door to Rosie's office and glass shattered. When Rosie saw him reach for a glass shard, she stomped on his wrist with her stiletto heel. The jackal howled in pain.

Bubba was wheezing, walking in circles. He glared at Elmer Rivak. "You're not the real jacka'."

C.O. Anderson moaned, "Shut up."

Bubba turned to Rosie. "Senator Duke Watson. He's the King of the Jacka's. He paid these boys to kill Lucas. But you'll never prove it."

At that moment, the guard who had accompanied Bubba from North topped the stairs and turned into the hall. He stopped, and his eyes widened in amazement.

Rosie's head was swimming. She spit out a command. "You know where to take Mr. Akins."

She turned to Jeff Anderson. "We got some talking to do, mister."

Finally, she said, "Elmer Rivak. Help me, and I'll help you, because the Lord talks to me, too. Now take me to this damn head."

Elmer stood carefully. Every vestige of the savage combat fighter was gone. Now, with his flyaway hair and his myopic eyes, he truly appeared to Rosie like an elfin Dr. Frankenstein. Colonel Gonzales stood by, ready for action.

Elmer said simply, "It belongs to Lucas Watson. You'll see."

S
YLVIA TURNED OUT
the lights in the kitchen and balanced a very full cup of cocoa in her hand as she walked toward the bedroom. Several drops of the chocolate mixture slopped over the side and onto the floor, but she managed to keep the cup upright. Jaspar was tucked under the duvet, his eyelashes fringing sleepy blue eyes. He blinked back a tear when he saw her. "I'm sorry."

"Jaspar, you don't have to be sorry; you didn't do anything wrong."

"I made it wet."

"You had an accident. Everyone has accidents, especially when they've been going through such a hard time. I bet you've been really sad and angry."

Jaspar nodded slowly.