Dangerous Attachments (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 1) (9 page)

L
YLE
L
OVETT
crooned a blues ballad at low volume while Sylvia sang harmony. She put the carton of milk back in the refrigerator, grabbed an Oreo from an open package, and wiped crumbs from her mouth. She found a bottle of Stoli in the freezer, and drained the bottle when she poured herself a generous shot. She carried the vodka to her study.

On her desk, the test results for an overdue evaluation were strewn everywhere. She found her reading glasses in a tiny drawer built into the back of the desk and adjusted them carefully on the bridge of her nose. She took a swallow of vodka, and stared at her notes, but she found she couldn't concentrate; she was distracted by a guilty conscience. After a few minutes, she picked up the portable handset and dialed a number.

"Monica?"

"Sylvia? I've been meaning to call you." The slightly breathless tone, the uneven cadence, were typical Monica. Malcolm Treisman's widow hesitated for a moment.

"How are you doing?" Sylvia asked.

Monica sighed. "Oh, all right. No, not really all right, but you know . . . what about you?"

Sylvia pictured the other woman's slender, girlish body, perfectly cut blond bob, pert features. Monica was one of those people who depended on others to keep things running smoothly. Her life always seemed to fall into place—until Malcolm's death. Sylvia stopped herself from her tendency to dismiss Monica; their relationship was different now. Monica had been the one to care for Malcolm in the last months of his illness. "I'm okay," Sylvia said.

"I've thought of you often since the funeral."

"I've been so busy—"

"You don't have to explain," Monica said quietly.

It was the silence that gave her away. She knows, Sylvia thought. She knows about Malcolm and me. There had been no husband's confession from Malcolm, of that Sylvia was certain. Monica and he were already separated when Sylvia began her professional partnership with Malcolm. For all his faults, Malcolm wasn't a man who manufactured drama for its own sake. And Sylvia had taken great care that their affair remain private, unspoken. Still, it was clear Monica Treisman knew that Sylvia had been in love with her husband.

Breathless again, Monica said, "I was going to call you. I need your help."

Sylvia, caught off guard, said, "Anything. What?"

"It's Jaspar." After a quick beat, Monica jumped into the phrase like a person who starts a dance step on her left foot. "He's having such a hard time with his father's death."

Sylvia stood up and paced the few feet the room would allow. She shook her head, saw herself maneuvering mentally, gaining a professional distance. She sat back down. "What exactly? Nightmares?"

"Yes, every night. And he wet his bed last night, too. He's afraid of the dark now,
really
afraid." Monica stopped and started, the anxious tremor punctuating her words. "Oh God, Sylvia, he's all I have . . ." Now the words dangled helplessly.

"Monica, are you and Jaspar seeing anyone? I can recommend a good child psychologist."

"I don't want a good child psychologist." Monica
carefully mimicked the last three words. "I want you to spend some time with him."

"Me?"

"He'll trust you," Monica said.

"It makes much more sense for Jaspar to see a stranger," Sylvia said. "I don't want to get into dual relationships here, and ethically—"

"Don't give me ethics or dual relationships." Suddenly, the wispy voice was replaced by a command. "I know who Malcolm would trust with his only son."

That was it; Sylvia understood there was no way she could refuse. "All right," she said reluctantly. "But if it turns out I think he needs some actual therapy, I'll give you several names of qualified people who work with kids."

"Fine."

They agreed she would stop by the next afternoon. As she hung up the phone, Sylvia remembered the last time she and Malcolm had made love. In this house, on her bed.

For an instant, the sound of his voice replayed in her head. A joke; he'd told a joke, and she'd laughed so hard her stomach hurt.

How's your aptitude for fucking?
She'd said that.

Malcolm had sat up and raised one eyebrow. Then he'd rolled over onto her body, let his weight press her against jade-colored sheets.

He had never once said he loved her.

Sylvia worked at her desk for another hour until the typed lines on the pages blurred into tiny rivers of ink. In an unconscious gesture of concentration, she pulled her dark mane of hair away from her face, then closed her eyes.

Rocko's canine ears picked up a dull thud outside the window, and he gave a low growl. As Sylvia straightened, he let loose a soft woof that exploded into wild barks. She snapped off the Tensor lamp and closed the window blinds. Before last week, she wouldn't have been so easily spooked.

L
UCAS
W
ATSON HAD
a dream that night. Curled up in his cell, he went back to his mother's bedroom and let the sunshine warm him. It poured through the windows like caramel, lending the room its liquid edge. He examined his face in her vanity mirror, touched the half-empty bottle of White Shoulders, ran his fingers over the sheets still bearing her imprint. He thought the house was empty until she whispered his name. A great sadness washed over him, and he realized that she would die a second time. He crawled onto her bed, pulled his knees to his chin, and began to suck his thumb. When he woke, his face was wet.

Three days later, on the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, the three-person parole board, appointed by the state of New Mexico, reviewed sixteen penitentiary inmate cases for possible parole. Lucas Watson was not allowed to leave his padded cell. He could only imagine the wide echoing room furnished with folding metal chairs. The men who wore suits and severe expressions. The proximity to freedom.

After a short conference—with references to the biting incident and certain relevant psychological material—Lucas Watson was denied parole.

CHAPTER SIX

I
T HAD BEEN
snowing for half an hour, thin flakes that left a dull sheen on the ground. Lucas Watson moved away from the window. How long had he been segregated in Main's hospital? He knew Thanksgiving had come and gone, and it seemed like he'd been in this place a very long time.

When he stood, his knees trembled from the effort. He turned right and touched battered knuckles to the wall. Its dirty sheen matched his skin. He returned to the wired window that offered the only view from the tiny padded cell. Moonscape. It was time to find his pouch, time to get out. He was in danger from them, caged, and everything that connected him to the world, and to his mother, was inside that tiny leather bag.

Using two fingers he gently stroked the Madonna on his chest. He caressed her cheeks, her aquiline nose, her hands clasped in prayer.

"Sylvia," he whispered.

The confusion, the pain, the rage increased in steady increments. Why had she fucking betrayed him?

He began his chant for protection—
Mater noster
—but it was no good without the pouch. Lucas groaned and his eyelids shot up abruptly.

At 11:00 that morning, he was returned to his regular cell in CB-1. Two hacks accompanied him through the connecting corridors. C.O. Anderson watched while they removed the cuffs, checked the cell, and locked it down.

When the other guards had gone, Lucas whispered to Anderson through the grill. "You took something that belongs to me." Watson's forehead was a mass of bruises and scabs, one eye was swollen shut, and he had a cold sore in the corner of his mouth.

Anderson stared at a spot behind Watson's head.

"I want it back," Watson spit. Anderson felt saliva strike his face. Finally, he let his gaze settle on the inmate.

"I gave it to the head doctor," Anderson said. Lucas made him feel small and impotent, and it went all the way back to when they were kids. The memories were vivid. Anderson would be playing outside, waiting for his dad to finish work at the Watsons' house, and he would hear the noise coming from inside. It was Lucas having a tantrum, screaming at his mother until he was blue in the face. Then it always got real quiet for a while, and afterward, Luke always had a wicked look in his eye. More than once, he'd chased Anderson down and pelted him with a BB gun.

Anderson said, "The shrink. I gave it to her, and she took it. Now she'll take care of you." His mouth twisted to a sneer as he turned and walked away.

T
HOUGH HE WAS
only six years old, Jaspar Treisman wore the look of a world-weary traveler. His neatly cut fringe of sandy hair erupted in a cowlick over his forehead. His bright blue eyes seemed too large for the delicate features of his face. The faint moustache of milk above his upper lip added a Chaplinesque touch to his serious countenance.

He sat in the front seat of the Volvo next to Sylvia and watched her while she drove. When she glanced his way he avoided eye contact; he pressed his nose to the passenger window and his breath left condensation on the glass. She turned off 1-25 at the Lamy exit and pulled into the Country Store for gas and refreshments. The parking lot was filled with cars, holiday weekend business. Jaspar declined the offer of ice cream or Coke. He was polite, but withdrawn.

"We've still got about ten minutes to go," Sylvia said as she pulled out into traffic.

"Okay," Jaspar nodded. His voice was small and noncommittal. Tucked behind the seat belt and shoulder strap, he looked like a tiny man.

They drove past the new subdivision projects with their signs advertising affordable country living. Jaspar stared at the giant yellow Caterpillars and steamrollers pushing earth. The growl of machinery and diesel fumes filled the car's interior. Even a four-day weekend didn't slow the developers down. Sylvia opened her mouth and then closed it again. She couldn't think of anything to say. When they bounced over the railroad tracks, Jaspar turned in his seat to gaze out the rear window.

"Do you see a train coming?"

Jaspar shook his head. "They don't go as fast as cars."

They were silent as the car rolled past the Lamy overpass and the turnoff to the village of Galisteo. Sylvia had been considering the best approach to open up communication with Jaspar. Although he'd been told his father was dying, Malcolm's cancer was already acute when diagnosed; death had come soon after. Often children Jaspar's age believed their own thoughts or actions had caused the death of a parent. She gazed at the boy, saw Malcolm's style reflected in his son, and decided not to push—let him take his time. She opened the window and breathed in icy air. The sky was cloudless and cobalt blue. Hard, brown earth slid up to the distant horizon and rose suddenly to form jagged ridgebacks and the blunt nose of the Ortiz Mountains.

"Did you know that people hunt for gold in those mountains?" Sylvia asked.

Silence.

"Is it too cold for you, Jaspar?"

This time he responded with a shake of his head. He picked up the small pack at his feet and held it in his lap. "There were Indians here?"

"Un huh. Anasazi, I think. Anasazi Indians."

Jaspar considered this.

"They were ancient people, anyway. I know that for sure," Sylvia said.

"Who told you?" Jaspar's tone was polite, but now there was a note of curiosity.

"My father."

"Oh."

Sylvia searched for the off-road clearing, slack barbed-wire fence, and
NO TRESPASSING
signs that marked the Lamy swimming hole. They came to a stop in a swirl of tire tracks in the dried earth.

Jaspar looked around with a quizzical expression. "This is it?"

"Lock your door, and don't forget your fanny pack." Sylvia put the key in the back pocket of her jeans and buttoned her jacket. Wind intensified the cold outside the car. "Ready?"

"I need my hat on," Jaspar said.

"Where is it?"

Jaspar peered carefully in the pockets of his green mackintosh. "Don't know." After some searching, they discovered the wool hat stuck to a strip of Velcro on Jaspar's sleeve. It was the first time Sylvia had heard Jaspar laugh since his father's death. It was a soft, quick sound that touched her. She joined in with her big laugh then pulled the hat over his ears and buttoned his collar.

"There."

The highway was deserted, no sign of traffic from north or south, and it stretched out to infinity over flat earth. Overhead, a twin-engine plane sketched a lopsided figure eight in the air; it appeared to be exactly the same size as a crow coasting below.

They hiked across the road, slipped through the barbed wire, and negotiated a trail around rocks and trees. Jaspar trekked silently, eyes to the ground. He found some cicada shells and a raven's feather and put these items carefully into his fanny pack. He pointed to three tiny holes in the ground. Sylvia explained that they were left by the cicadas when the insects came out of the ground at the end of their dormant cycle. Jaspar absorbed the information without comment.

As they walked, Sylvia felt the muscles in her legs contract and release. It was a good sensation, freeing, as
if she'd been static for months. She waited while Jaspar added pebbles and some withered purple juniper berries to his collection.

"Keep your head up now."

"Why?" Jaspar looked up at the sky and then at Sylvia.

"We're getting close."

"What is it?"

"You'll see." Sylvia held out her hand. After a moment's hesitation, Jaspar put his fingers inside hers. They walked side by side toward the cluster of giant boulders in the distance.

"There might be arrowheads," Jaspar said.

"We'll find those later. Right now, look up."

At first there were just rocks, thick and gray, broken and tumbled into fantastically massive shapes, but unmarked by humans. Jaspar pointed to a boulder that pressed into the side of the cliff face. Sylvia followed the direction of his small finger and saw
RUDY WAS HERE!
splashed in spray paint

Jaspar tugged on Sylvia's jacket. "Is that it?"

When Sylvia didn't answer, Jaspar turned back to the rocks. He was squinting in the sunlight. He curled his fingers over his eyes like binoculars and stood very still. "There's a hand," he said suddenly.