Dangerous Attachments (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 1)

by Sarah Lovett

  The boy Luke reached out to her, and because he was only five years old, his arms clutched her knees. A sweet smell filled the air. Mama.

  Her laughter washed over the boy like a great wave.

  Mama.

  The boy felt her hands on his tiny shoulders when she pushed him away. He fell backward, his face collapsed into a scowl, and both his arms reached out hungrily.

  Maamaaaa, bed!

  Like a silent actress, she touched her finger to her mouth, and the light reflecting from her wedding band exploded in a dance of gold fire. A bead of moisture spanned the distance from lip to finger; for an instant her spit bridged the space between word and touch. When the boy's mother snapped her finger to the iron and the triangle of hot metal sizzled, he saw the bad word spill from her lips.

  "No."

  A harsh, black rage vibrated through the boy's fragile body. He threw himself against his mother's legs. He clawed, scratched, screamed until the pressure in his skull became too intense and everything turned gray. And quiet.

  When the boy came to, he was in his mother's arms. In her bed. And the warmth, the warmth was heaven . . .

  The pain of a severed synapse stole the memory from Lucas and the claustrophobia of CB-1 intruded once more. But the texture of the pouch kept him from spinning out. It was slick and warm, a reassuring opening for his fingers. He found his mother's wedding ring, tightened his fist, and the gold band cut into his flesh. He closed his eyes. "Mama."

  It took him a moment to realize he'd spoken aloud. After a second exploration of the pouch he found the lock of hair. These were the treasures he massaged against his belly, round and round, until he ejaculated into his other hand.

  So good. The warmth . . .

  He gripped the pouch until his breathing returned to normal. He stretched, so relaxed that he was able to ignore the hard mattress beneath him. When he sat up in the bed, his hand brushed against something sharp: the manila folder.

  This morning, Mr. Lawyer had feinted left and right. "What happened when you talked to Sylvia?" Mr. Lawyer had probed. "Did it go okay? Did something happen? What questions did she ask?" Lucas opened the lip of the folder and slid the pages out until the letterhead was visible.

  Mr. Lawyer didn't really want to let his client see the evaluation. So he said. But Lucas could see the lies as they spilled from Mr. Lawyer's thick lips, and he always got what he wanted from the Herb. All he had to do was mention compliance monitors, the Duran Consent Decree, and prisoners' rights.

  He glanced at the scroll of letters against the page, then held the paper to his face and inhaled. He picked up her scent very faintly. Sylvia—her face merged with his Madonna. He sucked in visions of the woman. He imagined the taste of her and believed he could track her anywhere in the world with only this fragile sensory path as guide.

  Eagerly, he began the work of reading. He hunched over the pages focusing on each word, each line. "The purpose of . . . Tuesday, November 16 . . . critical evaluation." As he worked his way through the report, his breathing became labored and his pulse quickened. Occasional flashes of light exploded in front of his eyes like fireworks. He forced himself to continue, but he was not prepared for the impact of her words:". . . no immediate evidence of organic syndromes . . . probable magical thinking . . . shift from a moderately paranoid state to severely erratic behavior not inconsistent with delusional (persecutory) psychosis . . . although the interview was prematurely terminated . . . seek a transfer to a treatment facility. At this time, I strongly recommend against parole."

  The rage surfaced like a shark. He fought the shuddering emotion until the heels of his feet were lifted from the floor.

  "I'M GLAD YOU could fit me in on such short notice." Mrs. Young smiled nervously and shifted her weight on the rose-colored couch.

  Sylvia returned the smile. "You can adjust those cushions to make yourself more comfortable."

  "Oh, thank you." Mrs. Young fluffed several pillows.

  The woman was an emergency referral from Dr. Albert Kove. Mrs. Young's husband of six months was under indictment by a federal grand jury, and her stepson was in jail for stealing the family car.

  She denied needing therapy, but casually mentioned frequent suicidal thoughts. Albert Kove's notes to Sylvia stated that Mrs. Young had spent several weeks in rehab for substance abuse. By the end of the session, Mrs. Young admitted that she used to have a slight problem with alcohol. She also expressed intense anger at her husband because he was verbally abusive. Sylvia made notes: establishing therapeutic rapport was first on the list, negotiating a treatment contract was next. That was assuming the woman kept her second appointment. At 5:50, Sylvia scheduled Mrs. Young for the following Monday morning and walked her to the stairway that led down to the open courtyard garden and the parking lot.

  The second-story Territorial-style offices appeared to be deserted, but Sylvia had the uncomfortable feeling that she wasn't alone. The hall was cold and drafty and prematurely darkened by the low arc of winter sun. She always found the lonely building disquieting; she'd been surprised by an off-schedule janitor more than once. As she returned to her office to lock up for the day, the ticking of the old radiators sounded like footsteps.

  Sylvia made a mental note to call Albert Kove and thank him for the referral. It was a good excuse to touch base, in case Kove or Casias had any questions about the pending job contract. Sylvia realized how important the possibility of a new professional partnership had become since Malcolm's death. The urge was there—to move on and to forget. Nothing like a little denial.

  Rush-hour traffic on Cerrillos Road was congested as usual. For several blocks, the Volvo was trapped between an old school bus and a U-Haul truck, both belching clouds of black exhaust. Sylvia jumped between radio stations to keep her hands busy. The thought of the roses still made her very uneasy.

  At the suburban mall that marked the south end of Santa Fe, she turned west onto Airport Road. Her thoughts returned to the session with Mrs. Young. Borderline personality disorder? The woman had a history of relationship instability, identity disturbance, and, possibly, self-damaging behavior. Sylvia made a bet with herself: Mrs. Young had attempted suicide at least once in her adult life.

  The Volvo's engine whined as Sylvia shifted belatedly into third gear. Her mind hadn't been on her driving. It was a constant in her profession, a hazard of the psychological trade—the never-ending evaluation of information; weigh, sort, sift. It was a continual distraction from daily tasks. It was a soft light you could never quite turn off; to do so might mean someone's life.

  She did not notice the blue van following a half block behind. Its distance didn't vary as she drove past trailer parks, prefab apartments, a Tibetan stupa with colorful streamers dancing in the wind, and the golf course. Sylvia maintained a speed fifteen miles over the limit until the bump of dirt road marked the home stretch. A ridge cut off the last light of day, and, for an instant, headlights illuminated a windblown tumbleweed before it continued on its violent course.

  The blue van pulled off the road and stopped at a place where high school lovers often parked after sunset.

  WIND SCOURED THE concrete walls of the penitentiary, and each new gust seemed to gain velocity. Above the plaintive sound, C.O. Anderson heard the low growl and stopped in his tracks. Except for the wind and an occasional cough or snore, cell block one had been quiet. But now he heard the moan of a dog. Anderson's skin puckered with goose bumps as he traced the sound through the shadows to Lucas Watson's cell. He walked on the balls of his feet and stopped short of the grill. Anderson squinted, adjusting his vision, and he saw a dark form pressed into one corner. Watson's eyes seemed to glow. Hot fear rose from Anderson's feet and flushed through his body. He clicked on his radio and whispered.

  "Hey, Manny. Anderson. I think we got a problem here. Number eighteen."

  Inside the cell, Lucas Watson shot forward like a bullet, ricocheted off the sink, and hit the wall with a blunt explosion of air.

&n
bsp; "Sonofabitch, get me some backup quick!" Anderson screamed into the radio.

  Watson slammed his head against concrete. There was a damp, solid sound each time flesh met stone.

  Anderson heard footsteps and yelled, "I'm going in!" as C.O. Erwin Salcido lumbered toward him. The door to the cell slid open and Anderson moved in carefully. His stomach heaved when the copper stench of urine hit him full-blast. Watson was still repeatedly drilling his own skull into the wall.

  "Fucking pendejo!" Erwin said, wedging his bulk through the door. "Don't get too close, Jefe."

  Anderson heard the scratch of the radio and then Erwin hollering for medical in CB-1. With one eye on Watson, Anderson took in the condition of the cell. A carpet of cornflakes covered the floor. The box was a chewed mess in the sink. Paper floated in the toilet, the red stamp of CONFIDENTIAL bleeding color. Anderson's foot slid on something wet. He looked down quickly and saw more paper smeared with a film of feces. "Shit," he said stepping over it, inching closer to Watson.

  Inmates in cell block one were shouting now, banging shoes against the bars. The sound almost covered the sickening thud of Watson's head.

  Erwin Salcido stayed just behind and to the left of Anderson.

  "All right, Watson! Take it easy, man!" Anderson moved forward as Watson slumped for a moment, his hands on his bleeding skull. Then Watson raised his eyes until he was staring at Anderson. Flecks of spittle hung from his chin, his lips curled into a snarl. Anderson did not move a muscle. Neither did Erwin Salcido.

  Suddenly, Watson screamed so loud that Anderson's ears rang with pain. All three men crashed to the floor, Anderson carried by the force of Watson's body, and Salcido thrown off balance. An animal smell filled Anderson's nostrils as his head slapped sharply against the pipe beneath the sink. His arm hurt; he kicked away from Watson. Erwin struggled to regain his feet.

  A sharp ache shuddered into Anderson's calf. He hollered, and turned to see Watson with his teeth sunk deep through pants and flesh. "Ah, Jesus," Anderson wailed. He imagined bone hitting bone. He flashed on AIDS and rabies.

  Just then, Erwin landed like a blubbery whale, full force, on top of Watson. There was a sickening snap, and Anderson dragged his wounded leg free.

  Before Anderson pulled himself up, he saw the pouch. It was under his nose. Watson's prized possession. He scooped it into his freckled paw as backup arrived.

  They had to gas Watson before they could get his hands behind his back, put the cuffs on, and pull him from the cell. The din coming from neighboring inmates was deafening as it echoed off the old concrete walls of CB-1. Six tennis shoes, eleven socks, three briefs, and four pairs of pants were flushed down cell block toilets that Friday night.

  After the shakedown, the contents of Watson's cell were listed on a separate sheet and attached to the incident report and use-of-force forms filed by all relevant personnel. Contrary to persistent rumors, Angel Tapia's pinkie was not located anywhere in the cell.

  Erwin Salcido filed his report with Lieutenant Cobar, contents as noted:

  corn flakes

  1 box ritz cakers

  toothpaste + brush

  jergens lochun

  soap

  pills looking like aspiren

  some pages from a doctor report

  some other mail

  P.S. after he bit C.O. Anderson he tried to eat some paper + he did

  Later that night, as Anderson dozed fitfully, alone in the officer's lounge, he remembered those few moments before the bite when Lucas Watson stared back at him with mad dog eyes. Anderson had not been able to move his feet. He had been frozen in place by the malevolent force of Lucas Watson.

  THE PENITENTIARY ADMINISTRATION offices were deserted, the hall lights dim on Saturday morning. In the psych office, Sylvia collected a thick stack of notes and drawings. She'd just finished a two-hour interview with a schizophrenic, a nineteen-year-old convicted rapist, whose functioning was rapidly deteriorating; penitentiary cockroaches were sending him messages with their antennae. His lawyer wanted him reclassified and out of general population. With luck, he was bound for the psych unit at Los Lunas.

  Her mind still on the session, Sylvia left the office. On the stairwell, boots clattered behind her and a hand clutched her shoulder. She turned abruptly to find herself face to face with a C.O. It took her several seconds to register his name: Anderson, the officer who had accompanied Lucas Watson to the evaluation. She was unnerved by his disheveled appearance. Forty-eight-hour shifts were not uncommon at the pen, but this man looked as if he'd been worked over by a grizzly bear.

  She flinched as Anderson pressed a manila envelope into her hands. "You for-for-forgot this," he stammered.

  "This isn't mine," she said. Be careful, jita. The hair on the nape of Sylvia's neck stood up.

  Anderson wouldn't touch the packet. "Keep it. If he gets it back, he'll do more bad things."

  She felt as if she was holding liquid metal the way the C.O. kept backing away from the envelope.

  "You're a doctor," he said.

  Sylvia stared at the towering, dish-faced man. His skin was flushed and rivulets of perspiration ran down fleshy, freckled cheeks. He smelled of fear—acrid and rank.

  She extended her hand, and the envelope. "Whatever this is, give it to the investigations office—"

  "Don't you get it?" Anderson snapped. "Lucas read your report."

  Sylvia stared at the guard, trying to take in his words.

  "It made him crazy."

  "What are you talking about?"

  "You know." Anderson gaped at her, his upper lip tight and paper white. "They didn't tell you?" He jabbed an index finger in the air above the envelope. "You keep it," he whispered. "You're the only one who knows."

  Sylvia watched him turn and limp up the stairs.

  With the bulky envelope in her hands, she stood alone for several seconds deciding what to do. Then, resolutely, she tucked the packet into her briefcase, pivoted, and walked toward one of three gates that would slide open to the world outside the prison. Her curiosity had won out.

  IT WAS LESS than nine miles from the penitentiary to downtown Santa Fe. During the fifteen-minute drive, Sylvia's gaze returned repeatedly to the envelope on the passenger seat.

  The office lot was full, but she outmaneuvered a man in a Porsche and parked on the street near the corner of Chapelle and McKenzie. Sylvia gathered up her briefcase and the envelope and walked the short block to her office. The air had snap and carried the savory punch of a piñon fire. She moved briskly through the dormant courtyard garden and up the stairs of the historic two-story adobe. Her office was the third on the right. She unlocked the door, dropped her briefcase on her desk, and stared at the envelope. Just as she slid an ornate brass blade along the paper seal, the phone rang.

  "Dr. Sylvia Strange? This is Duke Watson."

  Even behind the white noise and static, Lucas Watson's father sounded like a man who was accustomed to being obeyed. Sylvia felt cornered, instantly exposed, as if he'd been spying on her. She dropped the envelope.

  He continued, "Sorry about the connection, but I'm in my car." His voice was inaudible for a moment, then, "—haven't met, I felt I could call—some sort of misunderstanding. I'd like to take you to lunch so we can clear things up."

  "I'm sorry, Mr. Watson, but we don't have anything to discuss."

  Electronic snow obliterated reception for several seconds before the Duke's voice reappeared. "—love my son—a bad mistake four years ago, but—his debt."

  "Mr. Watson, this phone connection is extremely poor, and this conversation is inappropriate. You're familiar with the parole process. The ultimate use of any psychological evaluation is between your son and his legal representative."

  "I hear you just fine, Dr. Strange." The line was silent for a moment before Duke continued. "How's this? Can you hear me now?" He kept his voice as even as a mowed lawn. "You and I both know that you can influence my son's future."

  Sylvia tried to fo
cus from Duke Watson's perspective. He was a political animal. His criminal son had cost him votes, and worse, had stained his name. The fact that Duke had risen as high as he had was a testament to his determination, his savvy, his connections. Now, he was being groomed for the next gubernatorial race. Problem: In political circles, having a son who was labeled "crazy" was worse than having a son who had been convicted of manslaughter.

  "Dr. Strange . . . are you still there?" His voice was soft.

  "I'm here."

  In a new, businesslike tone of voice, Duke said, "I'm asking you to drop the reclassification issue. I'll see that my son gets the care he needs, the best care possible."

  Sylvia paused, considering her words. "I think I understand some of your concerns, Mr. Watson, but your personal wishes are not my business—your son's welfare is."

  There was a pause while Sylvia waited for Duke Watson's response. Instead, she heard the soft click as the receiver was replaced.

  She walked into the bathroom and ran a glass of water from the tap. The face staring back from the mirror looked pale, the eyes were sharp, as she considered the phone call.

  Duke Watson was setting high stakes on her ability to influence his son's fate. True, Santa Fe was a small town, but Herb Burnett could bury her report so that repercussions with the parole board would be minimal. Minimal unless C.O. Anderson was right, and Lucas Watson had flipped out. Sylvia set the glass on the sink, clicked off the overhead light, and stood in the dim light.

  Her heartbeat accelerated. A fine sweat broke out on her skin.

  Within minutes, the anxiety subsided, but two unpleasant thoughts lingered.

  The Watson family was . . .

  In a word: ominous.

  And she could easily get in over her head.

  She crossed her office to her desk, sat, and reached for the half-opened envelope. A small package was tucked inside. Sylvia pulled back the layers of tissue, like the petals of a flower, until a small leather pouch was revealed. It was secured by a ribbon and the leather had an oily sheen from repeated handling.