Dangerous Attachments (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 1) by Sarah Lovett Page A

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 walkedon 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.
    "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 neighboringinmates 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