Dangerous Attachments (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 1) (32 page)

She checked the back door, the windows. Everything was shut tight. Sleet tapped out a staccato rhythm against the windowpane.

She had to prepare herself before she could face the bedroom. In an effort to gain entrance, Rocko had left vertical scratches on the closed bedroom door. Perhaps he was attracted by the blood.

She turned the knob and pushed. It looked like it had on Sunday night except the bloody duvet had been
stripped off the bed and some of the spatters had been scraped off the wall.

Quickly, she changed into jeans and a T-shirt and began the job of packing. She had two suitcases filled when a low rumble began in Rocko's throat. He cocked one ear toward the living room, then he barked, and skittered down the hall. Matt had arrived.

She lugged her suitcases to the living room, where Rocko was woofing excitedly. Through the sliding glass door that opened onto her patio, she saw that the snow had become a whirling mass. At four o'clock, night had already fallen.

"Quiet!" Sylvia snapped.

She took her hand off the cold glass of the door and switched on the outside light. A man was staring in at her.

For one instant, she saw the waxy features, the clouded eyes, the matted hair, and scabbed skin. His face was clearly visible, then just as suddenly it disappeared, completely obliterated by snow.

Rocko began to claw at the glass, and Sylvia ran to the hall closet where she kept a loaded shotgun. She hefted the gun, and snapped off the safety as she darted back into the living room. She pressed the stock against her shoulder and aimed squarely through the glass.

She screamed at her dog, "Rocko, get back!"

She heard a voice calling, "Sylvia!"

Again, the man materialized behind glass.

Rocko's tiny body bounced against the sliding door like a tennis ball, and Sylvia's finger tightened as she lowered the barrels and fired a warning shot. The blast tore a fist-sized hole in the adobe wall next to the door. The explosion made her ears ring.

"Shit! Sylvia, it's Matt!"

She recognized his voice and staggered to the door to release the lock. Sleet pelted her skin when Matt slammed it open. He knocked her backward as he entered the room.

He caught her and she dropped the shotgun. His leather jacket was cold and wet next to her skin, and she trembled violently. He shut the door with one arm and moved her toward the couch.

"It was Lucas." Her teeth chattered and she could hardly speak. She saw the disbelief on Matt's face.

He spoke deliberately as if she were a small child. "Someone was in your house?"

"No, outside. In the snow." She picked up the shotgun.

"Wait here, lock the door. I'm going out to check," Matt commanded. "Where was he?"

"There." Sylvia pointed toward the patio. "Didn't you see him?"

Matt shook his head and eyed her curiously. "That was me. I tried the front door, but you didn't answer." "No, before. Lucas was there."

Matt slid the door open and stepped out. Rocko darted between his legs. Sylvia locked the door after them. While she anxiously waited for Matt's return, she reloaded the shotgun.

A few minutes later, he was back. When he shook his head droplets of water sprayed off his hair. "Your back gate was open. That's all."

"You didn't see anyone? No footprints?"

"The wind's blowing so hard there's nothing on the ground. It's gathering in drifts." He pulled his coat collar from his neck.

"I'm telling you it was Lucas." Sylvia could see it written all over him, the worry, the embarrassment, the concern for her, and the uncertainty.

"Maybe it was Billy." Matt didn't sound convinced.

"You think I'm over the edge." Sylvia imagined what she looked like—a crazed, overwrought woman. A woman who had lost touch with reality. One of her own clients.

She was suddenly aware of the thin T-shirt she wore over mud-stained jeans. No doubt her face was as pale as paper. She tucked foot behind knee and balanced on her right leg.

England said, "How could it be Lucas?"

"Maybe he didn't die in the riot?"

"Then who did? A body was buried. And how did he escape from the pen? North was crawling with guards, the National Guard, our guys, the press. In spite of that, let's say he managed to get out alive. Where is he now?"

Sylvia bit back the anger and shook her head. "He could be hiding out in the Calidros' house. They're out of town until New Year's."

"Fine. I'm going to call a unit and have them search the area thoroughly." Matt ran his fingers through his hair. "Are you ready to go?"

Sylvia stared out the sliding glass door.

"Don't open it," Matt said, but she had already unlocked and opened the door. She felt Matt's hand on her arm as Rocko ran inside and shook snow off his wiry fur.

Matt reached over her head and closed the door.

Sylvia dropped her chin to her chest.

Matt sighed. "If it was Lucas . . . if he rose from his grave . . . why would he be doing this?"

"Because he's delusional. He believes I love him." Rocko began to sniff around Matt's legs.

Sylvia snapped, "Rocko, stop!" The terrier sat and fixed her with his black eyes. His head moved with her; she was pacing now and she continued, "Letters, calls, spying, stalking—you're my destiny sort of stuff."

Rocko yawned, thumped his stub-tail against the floor.

"John Hinckley and Jodie Foster. Erotomania. Hinckley worshiped her. He fixated on her to the point he believed they belonged together, they were made for each other. Psychotic transference is a basic element of erotomania." She finally looked directly at Matt. "I think I was supposed to be his savior. I think he witnessed his mother's murder."

Matt frowned and said, "I want to make sure the house is locked up tight."

Sylvia followed him as he checked every window and every door. When they were in the hall and he was satisfied the house was secure, he said, "I can get someone to keep an eye on the property if you don't come back for a while."

Sylvia nodded mutely. She let her weight slump back against the wall, and Matt took her gently by both shoulders.

He whispered, "You're exhausted."

Her face belonged to a stranger. For an instant, he felt he couldn't breathe. The intensity of her gaze, the depth of the mahogany pupils seemed to pull him under.

He ran his fingers through her disheveled curls. His gaze dropped to her breasts, her nipples erect against the thin fabric of the silk T-shirt.

Sylvia lifted her mouth to his and tasted coffee. Her
arms dropped to her side as if paralyzed by fatigue, fear, grief, and the intensity of her need.

He let his hand follow her arm, tracing the elbow, then down to her wrist. He pressed his palm against her belly, waiting for resistance. When he didn't sense it, he slid his fingers under the T-shirt along her skin until he reached the soft weight of her breasts. His tongue touched hers lightly and then with more insistence.

Sylvia ran her hand up the rough nap of England's jeans until she reached the zipper. Her fingers labored with the metal until he reached down to guide her. She bit his ear with sharp teeth and they both stumbled.

Rocko growled and Sylvia pulled away. "Wait."

Matt's body stiffened.

"Not here." She took a blanket from the linen closet and led Matt to the study. There was a moment when they both stood watching each other in the dim light. Then Sylvia slowly pulled her shirt over her head. She felt the scratch of his whiskers as his mouth brushed her skin. His tongue circled her nipples, then his teeth delicately closed over the erect flesh.

Together, they dropped down onto a slightly threadbare Navajo rug. Light from the doorway cast shadows overhead. Matt pushed Sylvia gently back against a small, embroidered pillow, and he reached for the waistband of her pants. He fumbled for a moment with the snap, and then slid her pants down her legs. The tips of his fingers brushing against the inside of her thighs almost made her skin burn.

She opened her mouth to whisper his name and then caught herself. Malcolm; she had almost called for her old lover. She took a deep breath, but the thought was
chased away by the immediate sensation of skin, hair, and heat.

She heard Matt make a sound that was closer to a growl than a moan, and his tongue flicked lightly against her clitoris. Sylvia caught her breath. She could smell the scent of both their bodies as she drifted into the languid inertia of sensuality. Her body met his in a rhythm all its own until she was teetering on the verge of orgasm, suspended by pleasure.

She came with a rush, suddenly under water, every inch of her body sensitized to the point of pain. While her muscles were still caught in the contractions of orgasm, Matt plunged deeply into her, his breath escaping in short gasps, his face slack with abandon. When he reached climax, his teeth chattered, he arched his body, until finally all tension left his muscles.

They lay with limbs intertwined like roots growing into each other. Minutes later, when Sylvia stirred, she heard Matt's breath deep and regular, and she saw that they had moved to opposite sides of the rug. She had her mouth over him, kissing, caressing, before he was fully conscious, and he seemed to slide from half-sleep to sex without waking. This time, she climbed on top.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

H
E WAS THE
watcher—a different person now—hiding behind air so cold, his breath left his mouth in ghostly clouds. He stood at the window, every cell absorbing information, and his muscles twitched methodically in the twenty-degree temperature. He saw them through the slatted blinds.

She rode the cop like a horse, her body twisting and thrusting, her head thrown back, her mouth open wide. Her hair tangled and curled in the wet heat. Beads of sweat glistened on her olive skin. The warmth of both their bodies steamed the windows and he viewed them through a soft mist. But he heard when she cried out.

And the sight of what she did to the cop after that made him sick.

He stumbled away from the window and vomited.

When he looked up again, the house loomed like an obscure monolith behind the shelter of two giant cot
tonwoods. It had eyes and it seemed to speak to him. It whispered,
Wait. Be patient. You are the watcher
.

His eye was on the front door when it opened. He saw them both. The sound of their voices reached his ears. His hands gripped the club.

She said something and walked back into the house. England carried a suitcase down the porch steps and walked toward the two cars parked in the drive. His Chevy was behind her Volvo.

His own breath came in ragged spurts now. He forced it back down his throat and kept it prisoner in his belly. He crouched low, the club in his hand. The dead lawyer's blood had dried black against wood. He could not see it in the darkness, but he knew the taste. He would do to this man what he had done to the lawyer—teach him to stay away.

He took four steps, raised the weapon, and heaved it downward with all his strength just as England turned instinctively toward his attacker. The club grazed flesh and England stumbled to his knees. Again, he raised the club, but he was thrust off balance by the force of the cop's elbow back-jabbed at his belly. Something small and black hurled itself at his ankle. He let a growl surge up from his gut, tried to shake the thing off: her dog. He could feel its teeth break his skin.

He saw the cop swaying in front of him. He kicked England—sent the dog flying instead—but the cop retaliated with a left elbow to his face. He raised his club for a third time, swung and missed. England faced him now, kicked, and shoe connected with groin. The dog was back, lunging. He felt himself weaken, knew that he had to finish it all with his last blow. He heaved the club upward.

Just as his motion reached its apex, he heard her voice. She was running down the steps with the shotgun in her arms. There was a blast and pellets stung his shoulder. He screamed in pain and smashed his weapon down. He felt the club crush bone, and the cop crumpled to the ground.

He turned, faced her, saw her backlit by the artificial light cascading through the open door.

"Matt!"

He was torn between the desire to finish the job and the need to avoid her eyes. Like a racer thrust forward at the crack of a pistol, he sprinted toward the icy river where he could cut back to the road and safety.

D
R.
T
URNER HELD
out a hairy hand. "Mrs. England?" His eyes were bloodshot like the liquid globes of a bassett.

"Sylvia Strange."

"Ah. It's a serious concussion, but his vitals are strong, and I hear he's a fighter." The doctor shrugged and patted his pockets. "He's doing as well as anybody can do after getting bashed. I'm waiting for the neurologist to get here. We'll know more later." They were both silent for a moment until the doctor said, "Look, we can't let you see him, so go on with your day, keep yourself busy." As he turned away, he smiled gently and the skin crinkled around his face. He already had a good start down the hall when he said, "We may have some news in a few hours."

Sylvia nodded to his back.

"Dr. Strange? I'm Agent Osuna."

Sylvia found herself staring blankly into the intelligent eyes of Terry Osuna. "Yes, I remember you. Did you see him?"

"No. They couldn't tell me much. He sustained a heavy blow to the head, but his shoulder took some of the force, thank God."

Osuna's dark brown eyebrows rose. She stared down at the polished toes of her boots and then continued, "Our guys haven't located the weapon at the scene, but the doctors picked some rough wood splinters out of the wound." She lowered her voice. "I'm not forgetting that Herb Burnett was clubbed."

Sylvia swallowed and her mouth was dry. "I saw him."

"Was it a man?"

"Yes."

"Anglo? Hispanic?"

"White."

"Did you see his face?" Agent Osuna kept her eyes on Sylvia. "It was dark. What makes you think the assailant was a white male?"

"I saw his face for an instant, in the light."

"What did you see?"

Sylvia's voice was low. "Lucas Watson."