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.
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