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Dark Nights

 

 

 

Chapter One

 

Fear.

The unfamiliar smell surrounding Sydney Rochester was her own bone-deep fear. The odor was pungent, rancid. Mixed with the thick, hot air in the car, the result was sickening. She barely fought off a wave of nauseousness and sped through a yellow light, desperate to get home.

Usually she had all the answers. Suddenly, she stood on the other side of the fence, hoping someone would step in and fix everything, hoping the terror bubbling within her would miraculously disappear.

The trip from her office in downtown Wichita to the house she rented in Riverside took only ten minutes without rush hour traffic. She didn't appreciate, or even notice, the beauty of the eclectic century old homes, or the stately maples, oaks, and elms which formed a canopy over the narrow roads with the vibrant golds, blazing oranges and fiery reds of late October.

She brought her beat-up Cutlass to a bouncing stop in the narrow drive and rushed in the front door. Her long, thin fingers fumbled with the dead-bolt lock. Her dark eyebrows knitted with worry as she hurried through the house, locking all the windows and turning on all the lights, even though the afternoon sun still glowed brightly.

In the living room, Sydney wrapped her arms around herself. Her hands trembled with a painfully familiar need. Her mouth watered at the thought of a glass of Jack Daniels. She could practically taste it, feel its warmth on her throat as it rushed to steady her nerves.

She set her teeth, determined not to lose the ten year sobriety she'd worked so hard to achieve.

Sydney stepped over a pile of newspapers and dropped to the only empty cushion on the sofa. The shrill ring of the phone shattered the silence, and a startled cry leapt from her throat. Her eyes darted around the room until she spotted the phone underneath the coffee table. "Hello?" she croaked.

"Dr. Rochester?"

She fought another wave of nauseousness. "Yes." Her fingers twisted the phone cord.

"This is Lawrence Brown, with the FBI. I suppose you've heard the news and know why I'm calling."

"Max Luden escaped. You want an in-depth report on what I know about him. A profile, I believe, is the term the FBI favors."

"Right. I'm briefing my people at seven in the morning. Have your report to me by six. We've set up temporary headquarters on sub-level two of the courthouse."

"Fine." Still, Sydney wound the phone cord around her fingers.

"Doctor, I don't mean to alarm you, but Max may come after you. I understand you're nearly a perfect match to his preference in women; mid-thirties, tall, dark hair, dark eyes."

Her eyes fluttered shut on their own accord, as if she didn't have the strength to hold them open. A cold shiver shot up her spine. "Yes, I know."

"Because of that, I've stationed four agents near your house to keep an eye on you."

She frowned at the twisted phone cord. She pulled her fingers from its web and let the heavy knot swing in the air. "Can I ask why you're not briefing your people sooner than tomorrow morning?"

"A storm on the east coast has delayed the man who heads up my team."

"It seems like a waste of valuable time. I hope he's worth the wait."

"He is, Doctor. He's the best."

"Good night, Agent Brown." She replaced the receiver. A long, shaky breath escaped her. The FBI was watching her. Why didn't that knowledge bring her comfort?

Because she feared even the FBI wouldn't be enough to save her.

She wrestled that thought to the back of her mind, because she didn't have time to dwell on her feelings. She had a very important job to do. Sydney cleared a space on the cluttered coffee table for her laptop computer and went to work on Max Luden's profile.

* * * * * *

Finally, Sydney finished typing her notes on Max and pushed herself to her feet. She crossed the room in unusually awkward steps, her legs protesting being folded so long. She parted the drapes and stared unseeingly into the darkness of early Tuesday morning.

She'd met Max Luden a year ago. As usual, she was running late and hadn't had time to review his file before meeting him. She'd only received it an hour earlier, with a note from the director of the project asking her to evaluate the inmate for trial competency or admittance into the project.

When the doctors with the research project met with their subjects, they used a small room on sub-level three of the Sedgwick County Courthouse, the same floor that housed the subjects. Three walls of the room were thick glass, the fourth was rough concrete and held an ominous steel door. The floor was bare, smooth cement with a rectangular table bolted to it. Excessive fluorescent lighting cast everything in an unearthly white glow and filled the room with an annoying buzz.

Sydney took the cold metal chair facing the door and opened Max's file. Before she got past his name, the door screeched open.

Maxwell Joseph Luden was short, maybe five foot five, and wiry. He looked at the floor, hiding his face from view. Long, coarse, red hair sprung from his head. A chain hung from his handcuffs, wrapped around his slim waist and connected to the irons on his ankles.

"Uncuff him," Sydney demanded.

The guard escorting him shook his shiny head. "Can't do it. He comes with strict orders." He helped Max into the only other chair in the room and produced another sturdy chain from a pouch on his belt. "I guess he's considered a real threat. One of the FBI's most wanted as a matter of fact." He wound the chain around Max's ankles, then around the legs of the table. He threaded a padlock through the links and snapped it shut. "I'll be right outside, at the glass wall. I got orders not to let him out of my sight."

Sydney sighed. She hated seeing people treated like animals. This man hadn't even been to trial, yet he was shackled like he'd been convicted of hideous crimes. The sound of the metal door closing echoed in her head, which she suddenly realized was throbbing. "Um, Maxwell, I'm Doctor Rochester. Do you prefer to be called Max?"

The head moved up and down. Bright red shocks of hair still concealed his face.

"Okay, Max. Bear with me, please. I haven't had a chance to read your file. As soon as I've read it, we'll talk a little, okay?"

"Doctor Rochester?"

"Yes?" she asked calmly, her voice hiding her surprise at the high pitch of his voice.

"You have a lovely voice."

"Thank you, Max."

He leaned back in the chair, his face pointed towards the ceiling, his eyes closed.

She guessed he was in his early twenties. Under the harsh fluorescent light, his startlingly pale skin was nearly translucent. His complexion was pitted and rough, probably from a bad case of adolescent acne, and his nose was too long and too thin. A wide, jagged cut ran from the outer edge of his left eye to the corner of his mouth. The wound was fresh enough it still had stitches in it.

"Doctor Rochester?"

"Yes Max?"

"I'd love to hear that voice screaming out my name as I peel the skin off your body."

Her heart lurched to her throat. She'd heard a lot of things in the small, glass walled room, but nothing quite so disgusting or disturbing.

"Yeah," Max said, a smile curving his thin lips. "I haven't even seen you, but I already know you'll make a very exciting, very satisfying, meal." He sat up straight and opened his eyes.

Sydney's hand flew to her mouth too late to stifle the startled gasp that left her body.