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 problemwith 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.
W IND SCOURED THE concrete walls of the penitentiary, and each new gust seemed to gain velocity. Above the
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 problemwith 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.
W IND SCOURED THE concrete walls of the penitentiary, and each new gust seemed to gain velocity. Above the
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