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combination."
    "That sounds like everybody in the joint." Herb thrust his napkin on the table.
    "I want Lucas Watson transferred to the psych unit in Los Lunas. The man needs help. I intend to collect more data, spend more time with him—then I can come up with a valid treatment plan. I'll do a complete test battery, comprehensive physical and mental—"
    "We don't have time." Herb tapped his index finger against the cocktail glass. "Let's keep it simple. After he's out, then maybe Lucas can get some counseling." He winked.
    Sylvia shook her head. "Lucas is a time bomb, and there's no telling when he'll explode. I'm recommending a psych transfer, not parole."
    "A transfer!" A purple crayon disappeared into Herb's lap.
    "He's been incarcerated for three years. We're talking an extremely stressful environment. His scores have deteriorated. A certain amount of paranoia is normal for inmates, but Watson's scores aren't even close," Sylvia said
    "I think
you're
the one who's paranoid," Herb said. "You spent a few hours with my client and you got spooked."
    Sylvia pressed one hand on the folder. "If I'd never met Lucas, if I'd worked completely from the MMPI, my recommendations wouldn't change. Any professional in my field would come to the same conclusions. Raw scores aren't subjective."
    "Bullshit. He's no more crazy than any of those guys."
    She snapped a fork against the table. "Lucas thinks everyone's trying to kill him."
    Herb shut down. "You're making a mistake."
    Sylvia didn't answer.
    He took a deep breath and maneuvered his jaw like a man who had just taken a punch. "It's ironic . . . Lucas was convicted because he wasn't crazy. Now you're telling me he's too crazy to make parole."
    "Listen, Herb, during the evaluation, the man flipped out, sliced his wrist, and almost attacked me." Sylvia stood. "My evaluation is clear; Lucas needs help. If you have questions, call me at my office. But whatever you do, I recommend you get a complete battery on Lucas."
    As Sylvia stood, the waiter delivered Herb's second Absolut on a tray. She reached for the glass, drank, set it down half-empty in front of the lawyer, and walked away.
    R OSIE FOLLOWED A NGEL Tapia's gurney down the hall, her left hand grasping the cold metal. Now that his fever had broken, Angel was on his way to protectivecustody at North Facility, a five-minute trip from Main by van. It was a question of safety—in case whoever had amputated his finger decided to cut off another one—and a new environment seemed like the healthy choice.
    She glanced down at the thick bandage covering Tapia's hand. His naturally tawny skin—now covered with peppery red spots—had gone gray. His eyes were protruding black marbles.
    "Angel, just try to remember for me. If you close your eyes, think back."
    "Nada,"
Angel whispered.
    "¿Tiene miedo?"
    "I don't remember."
    Rosie sighed and touched his shoulder. "Was it a rival?" she asked quietly. Angel wasn't a hard-core gang member, but if he'd gotten in between something, Rosie knew he'd never break his silence.
    "I'm sick," he said.
    Actually, Angel's "contagious" quarantine for measles was over as of today; he was no longer considered dangerous to others, but Rosie didn't think he would appreciate the irony of the situation.
    The young nurse pushing the gurney from behind mumbled a complaint about inmates and their overactive imaginations. Angel Tapia tried to raise his head and then groaned with the effort.
    He ran his coated tongue over chapped lips and whispered,
"El chacal,"
his voice so faint Rosie had to lower her head and hold her hair off his face.
    They had reached the end of the hallway and the door to the medical sally port. The nurse stepped away from the gurney and stared through the thick square of window cut into the exit.
    "What, Angel?" Rosie prodded gently. "I couldn't hear you."
    "El chacal."
    Rosie squinted in concentration.
"¿Qué ¿Chacal?
You saw a jackal?"
    Angel shook his head and pressed his cheek with