by Sarah Lovett
"My old man," Lucas murmured with an oddly perverse smile.
Sylvia knew that Duke Watson was the state senator for District 9, which included Bernalillo and Sandoval counties. The man had a flamboyant reputation as a progressive politician who managed to keep the Old Boys happy, even with the adverse publicity caused by having one son in the joint Lucas had drawn his father with a violent, predatory mouth; he wielded a phallic cane. The other two figures in the drawing were smaller—a male and a female—but just as bizarre. They were stick figures with egg-shaped heads and detailed facial features. In each case, the eyes, mouth, and ears were overworked and prominent. Paranoid touches. Those were skeletal bodies supporting swollen thoughts.
"My brother, Billy. And Queeny." He pointed to each.
From the files, Sylvia knew Watson's brother had a criminal record; his sister, Queeny was adopted. She said, "In the drawing, what's your brother doing?" She wanted to probe further, to learn more about the relationship between Lucas and his brother and sister.
Lucas didn't answer her question. Instead, he leaned over the desk and peered intently into Sylvia's eyes. "I read the book you wrote. The one about inmates and their stories."
She had published a single volume two years earlier. It was based on inmate case studies, and it contained some of the most dramatic stories she'd heard from prisoners. Sylvia wasn't surprised he'd brought it up—inmates sometimes did. But why now? She had the strong feeling she'd passed some sort of test She wanted to keep him talking. She said, "I'm flattered."
"Reading your book made me think you know my secrets." Lucas was growing more agitated by the second; his speech was now disjointed. "You know that guy who thought he remembered something wrong from when he was a kid?" Sylvia felt herself drawn into the drama of the moment. She realized she was holding her breath, afraid that the slightest rush of air might break the intimacy.
Instead of words, Lucas offered Sylvia a second drawing. It was a surprisingly accomplished pencil sketch of a woman's face.
Lucas balled up his fists and forced out the words, "My mother—that night, she was in front of the mirror—" He shook his head frantically. "She was so angry—so angry with me—"
He broke off when the alarm on Sylvia's digital watch emitted a high-pitched bleep.
The muscles around his mouth shivered, his hands flew upward involuntarily, and he shot up from the chair. He crumpled the drawing in his fist—"You fucking bitch! You're just like all the rest of them!" he screamed—and slammed it down on the desk.
Blood spattered Sylvia's cheek and hand; the metal edge of the desk had lacerated his wrist. She saw his face tighten into a mask of rage, and she sucked in her breath preparing to defend herself. Her eyes scanned the door, but the shadow on the other side of the window had disappeared; there was no sign of the C.O.
As Watson propelled himself forward, Sylvia's voice tore loose from her throat. "Lucas!"
He shuddered and backed away. Blood marked a thin trail on the floor.
Sylvia inhaled sharply. "Lucas. Sit down."
His breathing gradually slowed over the next thirty seconds as he regained control. He refocused, seemed to take in the room, and finally, Sylvia.
"I'm sorry," he whispered. He started to offer his hand then drew back in dismay as the blood on his arm registered. He released his fist, exposed the paper he held, and worked the ruined drawing flat against the desk. "Please. . . you've got to help me. They're going to take me out."
"Who?" Sylvia demanded as the door opened, and C.O. Anderson barged in.
Anderson said, "I had to handle a ten-code in the hall. You got a problem here?"
"He cut himself," Sylvia said quickly. Her own pulse was racing, the adrenaline rush had left her drained. "He needs medical attention."
"I'm fine," Watson protested, staying wide of the C.O. as he moved to the door.
Anderson glanced at his blood-soaked arm. "You need stitches." He looked at Sylvia. "Are you done? Can I take him to the nurse?"
"Of course," Sylvia said. She knew she sounded angry; the C.O. gave her a pained look.
When they were gone, the pressure in her head became so intense, she felt sick to her stomach. She stared down at the penciled drawing, torn and stained with blood. Suddenly, the lines came into focus and she realized she was looking at a drawing of her own face.
CHAPTER TWO
THE NOISE LEVEL in the gym was deafening: the screech of rubber soles on prefab flooring, explosions of conversation, and the heave of the H-VAC. Inmates—about thirty of them—stood around in tight groups. Most were arranged by color: brown, white, black.
Lucas Watson worked out alone, allowing no one to trespass within striking distance. He had chosen this spot. Without turning his head, he could sense each man's position.
As he pumped iron, he seemed oblivious to the surgical dressing, now blood-soaked, that covered his right wrist. His jaw was rigid, and sweat gleamed off his face as he pumped one hundred and twenty pounds overhead. By the time he had finished the set, his entire body was drenched.
About ten feet away, a beefy Hispanic inmate named Roybal was using the incline press while an Anglo kid spotted for him. Roybal's bald head gleamed and his muscles bulged, swollen and purple. He said something to the kid, who untied a delicately braided leather band—love necklace and crucifix—from the older man's throat. The kid placed the band on the floor next to the bench. Roybal began his next set.
Across the barnlike room, a two-on-one basketball game was under way, the players yelling at each other in Spanish. Three guards and a worker from Physical Plant Services stood on the sidelines examining a pothole in the gym floor.
A shrill whistle echoed throughout the gym. As Watson stood and lowered the barbell, her face filled his imagination: Sylvia.
He grimaced. The meeting hadn't gone right. He needed to make her understand about the others—that for him getting out was life or death. He knew she was different. She was the only one who could understand; that's why he'd chosen her.
So what had gone wrong? He tried to replay the scene, but the memories would not solidify. He caught only bits and pieces. The sound of her voice. The precise color of her hair and the way it curled into her brown chocolate eyes. The full curve of her breasts beneath the blouse. Just picturing her made him feel better. It would all be over soon. When he was out, he'd take her to dinner, and let her know what she meant to him.
Lucas imagined the restaurant. There would be a red rose against the stark white tablecloth. The waiter would wear a tuxedo, serve rare sirloin steak and baked potato . . . he would have to find out if she preferred champagne or wine.
The whistle sounded again and Roybal and the Anglo kid moved toward the door. Watson kept one eye on the exiting inmates, the other surreptitiously on the thin braided band that Roybal had left behind on the floor.
Roybal was one of them—a dangerous neighbor from CB-1—and he had to be handled. Lucas had been looking for an opportunity to take care of Roybal. Maybe this was it.
He put the barbell on its mount, then moved casually across the gym floor to the necklace. When he knelt down to tighten his shoelaces, his fist dosed tightly around the crucifix. He felt the cool and satisfying strength of silver and turquoise. Fist to mouth, he quickly bit the crucifix from the band, slid it under his shirt, and found the opening of his leather pouch. With two fingers he tucked the cross away, now a part of his personal collection. Still keeping a distance between himself and the others, Watson was the last inmate to leave the gym. He stepped out into the east yard and harsh sunlight.
The metal door clanged shut behind Lucas, and C.O. Anderson moved deeper into the shadows of the building. Anderson's eyes had contracted to a squint, his mouth drooped open very slightly. He watched Lucas cross the brown stubble field toward Main's cell blocks, and he knew the bitter taste in his mouth must be hate.
THE FEMALE C.O. didn't speak to Lucas Watson as the metal gate rolled open and he entered cell block one.
She held her breath until he'd gone—not because he smelled—because something about him made her fear contamination.
None of the men in the block acknowledged his existence as he passed their cells, but he felt their hyena eyes on his skin when he climbed the stairs.
He reached the second tier and looked down over the rail; all eyes veered away. He entered his cell, closed the door, and squatted on his bed.
His fingers caressed Roybal's silver crucifix as he removed it from his pouch. The man lived just two cribs down the row. Lucas knew Roybal would begin to watch him with growing fear. Justifiable fear.
Lucas did not fuck around with his enemies.
Roybal and the others understood that. They'd seen what happened to inmate Devane when he'd challenged Watson's power.
Burly, robust Boy Devane had been transferred from Cruces with a bug up his ass. Six months later, Devane was nothing but a sack of shit and bones. The official lie was cancer. Lucas liked that . . . his work being compared to cancer.
He began his whispered chant of clipped sounds, grunts, and the name Roybal, Roybal, Roybal . . . His eyelids fluttered as he visualized rats devouring Roybal's intestines. Watson's fingers tightened around the cross as he felt the presence of his protector, the Madonna. As long as he had his pouch, she would keep him safe until Sylvia freed him from this torture.
Time evaporated behind his throbbing chant—"Rat's going to eat his way out your asshole, Roybal"—and he ignored the increasingly vocal protest along the block, until something metal slammed against his cell door. He heard the whispered threat—the disembodied words—through the grill, "You better stop that evil shit, man."
The speaker hid his face, but Lucas knew the voice belonged to Anderson. He was a hack now, but Lucas remembered when Anderson's father used to work for Duke. Did odd jobs, hauled trash, stuck his hand down the toilet, unclogged a pipe. Menial labor. Anderson had been afraid of Lucas twenty years ago. Now they were all afraid of him; they were all out to get him.
"Fuck you," Watson hissed. He barely heard Anderson's reply.
"In your face, Lucas . . . we'll parole you in a box."
WEDNESDAY DAWNED CLEAR and cold. Thick icicles fringed the roof and draped the windows. The scent of neighboring woodstoves lingered on the air. Sylvia woke with the first light of morning. There was only a fleeting sleep to leave behind, and dreams, none remembered.
Rocko, her runty, wirehaired terrier, eased himself gingerly off the king-size bed and followed Sylvia down the hallway that bisected the house. He'd been named for Johnny Rocko, the gangster who always wanted more in the movie Key Largo. Sylvia thought her dog resembled Edward G. Robinson, the actor who had played Johnny Rocko. Both man and dog were short, stout, and dark. Each had a gravelly voice and a comical sexiness. The terrier stayed close to her heels, and she spoke to him as she walked. "How's it going, big guy?"
On Tuesdays and Thursdays, her days were scheduled around forty-five-minute sessions with her clients. Wednesday was a day when she could often work at home preparing for court cases or completing paperwork.
She showered and dressed and applied light makeup. Then she made the mental shift from her private life to work.
In the small room that served as her study, she adjusted the Tensor lamp until the light shone directly on the papers and books covering her desk. Sylvia moved aside three volumes of the Journal of Forensic Psychology and a half-finished letter to her mother. She picked up the well-worn copy of Allison, Blatt, and Zimet's Interpretation of Psychological Tests and opened the cover to see "Malcolm Treisman, 1969" scrawled in fine black ink. She placed the book on the shelf next to Attached to Violence: A Study of Attachment Pathologies in Adult Inmates. Author: Sylvia Strange, Ph.D.
Over a cup of coffee, she again found herself thinking of Malcolm and their impassioned discussions, fights really, that lasted late into the night. He'd been a pit bull when it came to his theories.
"The madness smorgasbord. Take your choice—organized or very, very messy. Either way, they're more persistent than we are. The truly evil ones do a much better job of hiding behind the mask of sanity." The memory of his voice was as clear as if he stood again in her office wagging an admonishing finger, spouting his theory of evil, endlessly fascinated with the deviant mind.
Sylvia shared that obsession with deviance and evil. She'd stood at the edge of the light; faced enough of her own demons to know the border between normal and deviant was razor thin in places.
While he ranted, Malcolm would pace like an obnoxious caged bear. He had his uniform—a favorite leather jacket, faded jeans, and high-tops—and his arsenal of questions. He took his professorial stance. "Is Kernberg right when he structures malignant narcissism with aggression? Are those patients untreatable?"
"Don't be pompous, Malcolm."
But he'd never back down. "Don't change the subject. Tell me which case studies you'd choose."
"They choose me."
"That's right, Sylvia and her inmates. Only thirty-four, and she has a dark island to keep her fascinated."
She withdrew from the memory. Lately, she'd been losing herself too easily—in the past, in unwelcome dreams, and in her work. It scared her a little, this ability to detach and act by rote.
At ten o'clock, she opened the file on Lucas Watson; she had an in-depth social history, her notes, nothing recent on the Rorschach or the WAIS-III. The Albuquerque firm had already faxed the scores of the MMPI-2. She had just enough information to complete an evaluation for Burnett, but he wasn't going to like it. She closed the folder, deciding to avoid work a bit longer.
She pulled on sweatpants, jacket, wool hat, and hiking boots. Shading her eyes from the glare, she stepped from the warmth of the house into bitter cold. The wind slapped her face as she caught the trail that angled steeply up the saw-back ridge. She'd traveled three hundred yards when Rocko trotted past and took the lead. They walked eagerly, woman and dog, covering ground until Sylvia was breathing almost as hard as Rocko. The icy air tore into her throat and lungs.
From the ridge top, the village of La Cieneguilla spread out below like a board game. Great cottonwoods lined the shallow river. A rancher's windmill stood guard over miniature goats, cows, and horses. The adobe bricks of the ruined colonial church were crumbled, returning to the earth. Sylvia's own house was clearly visible, almost within reach, and at the same time a thousand miles away.
This was a scene she remembered from her childhood—her father standing by her side as he explained the historic significance of the valley. He'd been a plain man, skin weathered by desert and ocean, bones too large for his skin. He stood straighter whenever he told her stories about the land, this place. A small settlement of Spanish families had arrived more than two hundred years ago. The windmill was built at the turn of the century. The original walls of the graceful white adobe—their home—had sheltered weary stagecoach travelers on the old spur trail. Ironically, the red bricks that lined the adobe's long, shady portal had been part of New Mexico's original penitentiary, built in 1885 near the railroad tracks in Santa Fe. When the old pen was torn down in the late 1950s, the used bricks had been abandoned; Sylvia's father had collected several truckloads.
Danny Strange had always loved to work with his hands. The military didn't change that. Building, planting, tending were all part of his basic makeup. When he returned from a tour of duty in Southeast Asia—something rarely spoken of—he seemed to need to dig his fingers into earth. Sometimes Sylvia found him kneeling that way, as if he were holding on. She had been only three when he left, six when he came home. But she knew his eyes were different; they mirrored everything he'd seen.
For the next seven years, her father's spirit had wasted away until he finally disappeared. Absolutely, without a trace. Sylvia had never stopped searching for answers to the questions her father left behind.
SHE COMPLETED MOST of Watson's evaluation by late afternoon, ran a hot bath, and poured a tablespoon of olive oil beneath the spigot. The
yellow globules shivered like mercury. She set a half glass of Merlot on the edge of the tub and lowered herself under scalding water until only her nose, nipples, and knees were exposed to cooler air. Her skin flushed pink, and she felt drugged by the wet heat.
But she couldn't quite let go. Something she'd seen—or more precisely, something she hadn't seen in Watson's file—kept nagging at her. She felt certain that Lucas had suffered some type of childhood trauma in the years that led up to his mother's violent death. Sexual abuse? Severe physical abuse? Abuse was such a common theme among inmates, you could almost consider it a given. But there was no evidence of it in Lucas Watson's file. Not even a hint in the medical or school records. In fact, according to his files, Lucas had a Leave It to Beaver childhood. Except for suicide, all very nice and normal. As if someone had erased even the slightest stain on the past.
She finished her wine. At some point, Rocko's urgent bark broke the stillness—probably a coyote on the prowl—but he quieted after Sylvia called to him. She never saw the stranger's face at the bathroom window. She didn't feel his eyes. Minutes evaporated and she dosed her eyes, almost easing into sleep.
It took her a moment to register the knock at the front door. The bathroom was dimly lit She scraped her hand against tile when she sat up abruptly in the tub.
Rocko growled from the hallway, and Sylvia left a quick trail of water on the Saltillo tile floor as she draped a robe around her body and pulled it tight.
From the living-room window she could see the driveway and a dark blue van parked directly behind her Volvo. She must have been dozing when the van drove up. She considered ignoring the intrusion until she caught sight of its source. Even in late afternoon halflight, she could see a man in a florist's cap, a bouquet of long-stemmed roses clutched in one arm. Shit. She knew who sent roses.
She let the window louvers snap back into place and walked reluctantly to the front door. On the third try, the dead bolt key finally turned. She had intended to replace the lock last week. Since Malcolm's funeral, the smallest tasks had become impossible to accomplish.
