Dantes' Inferno (34 page)

“By the way.” She spun around. “How did it go?”

“His symptoms abated,” Leo said flatly.

“Which reinforces a diagnosis of conversion disorder,” Sylvia said. Under the influence of sodium amytal, true conversion-disordered subjects tended to recover from their symptoms, at least temporarily. Those who were manufacturing symptoms often exaggerated their pain, their afflictions.

“That's right,” Leo cut into her thoughts. “The blind man could see again. But don't forget, he's probably read as much of the literature as you or me.”

“He probably has.” She took two steps toward Leo. “Did the serum work?”

“Yes.” His voice dropped, his tone flattened until it was sober and cautionary. “Don't let him make a fool of you. He may not use a knife or a gun, but he's a stone killer.” Leo
shook his head sharply, and light glinted off the lenses of his gold wire rims. “He sold out Simon Mole, aka M—signed, sealed, delivered. He did it because it serves his purpose. He's trading a bomber for a ticket out of LA with privileges. His lawyer had already drawn up the terms.”

Sylvia stared at him, confusion altering her features. “That doesn't make any sense,” she whispered. “Why would he give up Simon now? The timing's not right. He has nothing to gain. He doesn't want to leave LA.”

“Really?” Leo watched her closely. “The Feds are already on their way to a warehouse in LA Harbor—where, according to Dantes, they'll find M's workshop.”

“I hope they find their bomber,” she said slowly.

She entered the room by herself. The distant sounds of city, the noises of a working hospital penetrated the walls. Her focus was on Dantes.

She sat next to the seclusion bed, watching him breathe. His skin was achromatic, with the dull sheen of someone suffering a fever. His mouth was chapped, caked at the corners. It was almost as if he was surrounded by a shadowy mist, as if his features had blurred. The last of the amytal dripped from the IV bag into the antecubital vein in his elbow; his brain teetered on the verge of unconsciousness.

Was it a trick of the light, or had his eyes just flickered open, lids closing again? She spoke softly. “Dantes?”

She felt herself pull back, retreating emotionally, refusing to empathize. Jason Redding, Detective Church, and others were dead because of this man. For an instant, she longed to surrender to the simple clarity of black-and-white thinking, the polarity of absolute good and total evil.

But she wasn't made that way. For better or worse, she
saw the world in complex layers, in grays, with the nuance of multiple points of view. That was her weakness—and her strength.

Sylvia took a deep breath, registering the internal shift as she let her prejudices and preconceptions fade, at least temporarily; she blanked out the faces of the victims, she blocked thoughts of the exchange with Leo, thoughts of M. For these moments, she would allow herself to think of Dantes as a man who was a prisoner—of himself
and
the state.

His voice startled her. “I told them about it . . .” He swallowed with difficulty, running his tongue over dry lips. “About Simon.”

She recognized the confusion that was caused by the drug and by stress. But there was something else—something underlying the chemically induced disorientation. She couldn't put her finger on what it was; not yet.

“I told them . . . worked together . . . that's what . . . they want.”

A nurse was preparing to remove the IV. Sylvia knew she had a very small window with the drug; she wanted to make use of the time, but she could feel the gulf that had opened up between them.

“Why are you lying to them, Dantes?”

“Not up . . . to this one . . . are we, Dr. Strange?”

“The Getty bombing was a calculated massacre—it targeted civilians.” She shook her head. “I don't believe you killed those children.”

“It went . . . wrong.”

“Tell me the truth.” She gripped the metal rails of the seclusion bed. “You owe me that.”

“Because you kept . . . the faith?” He closed his eyes and took a slow, deep breath. “Nobody listens . . . until children die.”

“I know you're lying,” Sylvia whispered. The room suddenly felt cold and very dark. “But I don't know why.”

His eyes were on her, reading her thoughts—and the eerie sense returned that another animal, calculating and predatory, was hiding inside the skin of this man.

“Dr. Strange . . . wants . . . a fallen . . . hero.”

The nurse, who had been hovering nearby, pulled the needle from his arm.

Sylvia leaned toward Dantes, whispering, “What's M got on you?”

He closed his eyes. “It's over.”

7:49
A.M
.
The sharp tang of chemicals permeated the bomber's workshop.

This is the lair of Simon Mole, of M, Sweetheart thought, but it feels like a prison.

He stood dead center, still as a tree, while forensics experts worked around him.

He was aware that the choppy gray sea of LA Harbor was lapping at the footings of the factory, perhaps a hundred yards away.

But for all the silence a man could be in the middle of the Sahara
.

The fourteen-by-twenty-foot space was neat to the point of sterility; anal retentiveness was a good trait for a bomber who wanted to stay alive.

It occurred to Sweetheart that he was looking at the outer skin of the bomber. Next to a pair of goggles, a heavy welding hood rested on one of two wooden tables. A sleeved apron of thick leather hung from a hook. The rubber boots that fishermen wear were side by side on the floor beneath the apron. Gloves—thick leather gloves; rubber gloves; an unopened box of surgical gloves—lined one small shelf.

This paraphernalia was sized to fit a man of medium height, average weight.

Another shelf was stocked with vials and beakers of various shapes and sizes. When Sweetheart carefully sniffed the top of one, he recognized sulfuric acid.

Bags of Kitty Litter had been stacked along the base of two walls.

Another shelf hosted rolls of string: inflammable fuse cord, detonating cord, nylon and cotton cord. And wire—both insulated and bare—of various thickness.

The contents of drawers could have come from any kitchen: baking soda, baking powder, sugar, potassium chlorate, aluminum wrap, and wax paper, and countless plastic bags. White plastic mixing tools were hung from a rack.

A fume hood and a flue had been installed; the job was carefully executed, by a man who knew what he was doing, a man who knew how to stay alive.

Then there was the hardware: miscellaneous pipes, joints, nails, screws, vises, wrenches, sharp knives, and other tools.

The investigators hadn't been lucky enough to stumble upon bombs in midconstruction. That's because Simon—or M—was smart. He would complete one job and then clean up after himself.

And although there were agents posted surreptitiously outside, Sweetheart doubted M would return—the bomber's instincts were too sharp.

He found himself feeling grudging respect.

He closed his eyes, struggling to catch elusive thoughts darting here and there in his mind. He could feel M's presence—but there was very little of the schoolboy they called Simon in this space.

Sweetheart took the steps up to ground level. At the
edge of the basement door, a flash of color caught his eye. He reached down and captured one blue-green feather.

When he straightened he saw Sylvia standing a few feet away. He wasn't surprised; he felt relief, and perhaps pleasure, at her presence. “What do you think?” he asked, tipping his head toward the room.

“I believe it's M.” She frowned. “But he's evolved way beyond Simon Mole.”

“This is no
deshi
,” Sweetheart said, nodding. “No apprentice. This is the home of a
makuuchi
—a master.”

Sylvia nodded toward the feather that Sweetheart held delicately between two fingers. “A master with a parrot.”

“There's a speed limit in this state, Mr. Neff. Forty-five miles per hour.”

“How fast was I going, Officer?”

“I'd say about ninety.”

From the screenplay
Double Indemnity

7:50
A.M
.
M is at the wheel of a two-and-a-half-ton bomb.

He maintains a sedate fifty miles per hour in the right lane of I-10, the San Bernardino Freeway. As he drives, he's surrounded by city—the urban she-devil who devours open space the way the tide eats sand.

An hour ago, he'd stopped just east of San Berdu. The flat brown terrain reminded him of other deserts, always at
the edge of the world. An apt spot to trade in his loner for this shiny silver food service truck.

He checks his bearings; he's about thirty miles from downtown LA, which is excellent. No time to check on his friends—the Thief and the hooker. Doesn't matter; they'll keep.

He
does
have time to drop off the truck. Later a man who needs a few bucks will drive it to its final destination.
No questions asked
.

Only a fool would want to know that this load of ANFO is primed with commercial-grade explosives that come all the way from New Mexico; a hitch in the state's antiquated blasting laws encourages a healthy trade in stolen explosives. Pick up the right form at your local county office. One page printed up courtesy of the Land of Enchantment. Fill it out, smile at the clerk, banter around a few names of folks in the business, and you walk out with permission to buy yourself a truckload of death—“all nice and legal like.”

Exhausted miles and minutes evaporate behind the truck. The landscape fills in like a jigsaw puzzle until the whole board is covered—with urban condensation: malls piled on outlets on industrial parks on condos on apartments on high-rises on barrios.

I-10 pierces downtown LA and then it's a straight shot to the 101 north, the Hollywood Freeway.

M's bright and shiny snack truck will end up parked in the middle of an underground garage, shades of the WTC.

Jesus, those jerk-offs came so close to taking down the Twin Towers, blowing them to kingdom come . . . Piece o' cake and they blew it . . . Guess that's what you get when the blind lead the dumb
.

To keep the security guards from getting too nosy, a little paper sign will decorate the truck's windshield:
BROKE DOWN, BACK ASAP, MANNY
.

Manny, the regular driver of the real lunch truck, will take the day off.

But M is getting ahead of himself.

He changes lanes now to snig-snag onto the Hollywood.

After a mile or so, he takes Echo Park to Sunset—too bad there's no time to cruise Elysian Park and wave to Dodger Stadium; he's an avid baseball fan.

Just across Sunset, he slows, turning left into the parking lot of Ralph's. Grocery shoppers are out in full force, and the lot is full. He parks the truck in a shaded slot. A kid walks by, his radio blasting angry bass: “
Going back to Cali, Cali, Cali, I'm going back to Cali—I don't think so
.”

M walks the two blocks to his own truck.

Once inside, he snaps open his laptop, boots up, types in a brief e-mail message, and sends it off to his sweetheart in cyberspace.

That should whet their appetites.

He's been up all night and he feels great. Primed. Ready.

Soon it will be time to step down to the seventh circle.

To do that, M must shut down operations in one of downtown's busiest buildings.

At least we know the famous triad—fire setting, bed-wetting, cruelty to animals—doesn't hold up.

Special Agent Mackavoy, FBI Crime Lab

10:03
A.M
.
It was Gretchen who discovered the cyber-message that had landed on Sweetheart's mainframe.

*  *  *

lost yr way? new city stnds on ruins old dust to dst 7th crcle awatz—M