by Sarah Lovett
But that was before Mona Carpenter’s death.
“Do you know the city?” he asked.
Of course, he meant Los Angeles.
“Some,” she said, cautiously. She was aware the sound of her voice was traveling to a man encased in a concrete prison. Maximum security. Lockdown twenty-three hours a day. Maybe a narrow window overlooking ocean, more likely a view of the asphalt prison yard. Plenty of time to think about his most recent crimes, his latest victims: a young woman—a gifted teacher—and a child both killed. Jason Redding had been Serena’s age.
He said, “Dantes’ Inferno is required reading.”
He was living up to his reputation for manipulation. She told him the truth: “I read it when it came out.” She downed the last of her wine. For a moment, she felt dizzy. “I have a question for you.”
“Fine.” But he’d hesitated.
“Your mother’s death was obviously traumatic—and you mention she was a powerful influence in your life—but you didn’t write about—”
“I was nine,” Dantes interrupted. “I watched her swim out past the Santa Monica breakwater. She never came back. End of story.”
In the background, an angry, authoritarian voice was ordering an inmate: “Hands behind your back. Hands behind your back. Put your hands behind your back.”
“Now I have a question for you,” Dantes said. “The day she left me, I replaced my mother. With who, Dr. Strange? With what?”
A series of electronic clicks interrupted the transmission. It took Sylvia a moment to register the thirty-second warning. Unconsciously she tightened her grip on the handset as if muscles and tendons might prevent disconnection.
“—you might be surprised by the changes in LA—all the renovation. I call it ‘quakification.’” Dantes changed tone, leavening his farewell with irony. “The interview is still on. By the way, happy April Fool’s Day.”
And then he was gone, leaving behind the ghostly whispers of dead women and children. She’d remained on the redwood deck, shivering in the desert night until a touch brought her back. As if awakened from a deep sleep, she’d gazed up into the beautiful face of her foster daughter, Serena.
She’d heard a sweet voice asking, “Why are you sad?”
So I descended from first to second circle—
Which girdles a smaller space and greater pain,
Which spurs more lamentation. Minos the dreadful
Snarls at the gate. He examines each one’s sin,
Judging and disposing as he curls his tail:
That is, when an ill-begotten soul comes down,
It comes before him, and confesses all;
Minos, great connoisseur of sin, discerns
For every spirit its proper place in Hell. . . .
The Inferno of Dante, translated by Robert Pinsky
11:35 P.M. In this hellish subterranean maze he hears the primitive language of forgotten men. Here, the earth smells damp and metallic like blood, and the heat oppresses, sneaking down through vents and plates and cracks in the surface of the world. There is a strange humidity, the product of steam and the relentless seepage of a thousand rusting arteries. There is cancer inside this body, beneath the skin of this schizoid, voluptuous city named for angels.
He stands some fifteen feet below ground, below downtown; beneath three inches of asphalt, almost a foot of coarse concrete, and a layer of chemical-soaked soil; beneath a zone of seemingly infinite casings packed with wires feeding telephones, electricity, streetlights, cable televisions, fire alarms.
On the skid row street above him a barrel bonfire glows; its luminescence falls down through a grate and dances skittishly across the muck beneath his feet. Voices, ghostly and laced with hysteria and fortified wine, follow the light down to keep him company. He is trapped here in the dark, in this ten-by-twelve tunnel, in the midst of a vast subterranean network of urban arteries and bones. He is imprisoned in the strata of gas lines, water lines and mains, steam pipes. Below him the massive sewer system angles down into the netherworld, the subway vaults and tunnels traverse hundreds of square miles, the old water tunnels leak their precious cargo into ancient culverts.
Only the devil knows what other treasures and evils have been buried during the life span of the city.
Ah, but he is here to find a tall, skinny ferret of a man, a homeless creature known in this underworld as “the Pope” because of a shadowy former existence as a priest. By day, the Pope panhandles above ground; at night, he preaches in this dark, dank cathedral to a congregation of the lost, the maimed, the damned. His knowledge of corners and hidden rooms and tunnels is rumored to be extraordinary. Over the past months, all through the detailed preparation, the Pope’s knowledge has proved worrisome. It must be dealt with immediately.
I am a mole, blindly nosing my way through hell.
I am M.
The thought tears through his consciousness.
It is the dark that he seeks—no, craves—and the dark that he fears.
It is the haunted whispers, the company of men like himself, men who have crossed the line.
Surely this place is as torturous as any hell he has ever imagined?
M stares down at a half-dead man splayed on the tunnel floor, spent needle still growing from a bruised and scabbed arm. Squatting down, he whispers, “Are you dead yet?” Although he receives no answer, expects none, he sees the man’s chest expand ever so faintly. This one will live at least for tonight.
He does not hunger for the sting of needles. His own madness is a poison recently swallowed. When he gazes into the mirror he has begun to notice a darkening of his reflection, as if his blood is stagnating, as if he is rotting just like the men he stumbles upon in this underbelly of the city—the transients, the hoboes, the lunatics, the criminals. He hasn’t lost all glimmers of his sanity, but this ability to see his own psychic fault lines, these remnants of rational thought processes, only irritates.
And so he acts.
This city is under siege. Blood will spill and the innocent will die. The ruin cannot be stopped.
Can’t stop, can’t stop, can’t stop—the sound of dripping water seems to taunt him.
He’s spent sleepless nights haunting these vaults, drains, pipelines, subway tunnels, until he is a ghostly legend to the transients and indigents who come here to hide or to die.
He steps over the comatose junkie, wading through fetid water, trash, human waste. Somehow, he will find his way. The maps are inside his head. They make his brow burn and his skull ache.
Quick, light footsteps! Is that a shadow? Does he see the peculiar humped silhouette of the Pope?
M follows, picking up speed, ducking through the wide passageway into a narrower pipe. Here, he can’t stand straight but must hunch like an ape, loping on bent knees. He hears the fast tap of feet running forty or fifty feet ahead.
He calls out, “Wait!”
The runner picks up speed, splashing through puddles, tripping over piles of rubble. The rasp of labored breath scrapes the walls.
When he aims his flashlight ahead, the beam bounces off cylindrical, ridged metal. He is breathing heavily now, too, still moving quickly when he almost collides with a low-hanging pipe, almost takes his own head off at the neck. He’s come to a fork in the underground road. Which way did his quarry go?
Clicking off his light, he forces himself to stand in blackness, straining to hear. Beneath the ragged sound of his own breathing he detects the suppressed breath of another living creature.
To his own surprise, he whispers, “Help me, please.”
The words echo in the tunnel, finally fading away. Apparently he is alone with the stench, the warm unnatural drafts, the ghostly voices.
M turns left, walking another thirty feet to yet another bend in the tunnel. His light illuminates unspeakable things. How can human beings choose to live this way?
It happens so fast. Suddenly, he is face-to-face with the Pope, who asks, “Are you all right?”
“I’ve been looking for you,” M whispers.
The Pope is frightened but manages to speak. “I found out what you wanted. I’ve seen the monster. Its tentacles are growing. They’re swollen as malignant vessels and they’re spreading out all around us. The end is near . . . so very near.” He speaks with the urgent flowery tones of a street prophet. His breath carries the sickening stench of disease. His eyes are rimmed with circles. He, too, is going dark with his own blood.
“You say you’ve seen it, then?” M asks slowly.
“In the tunnels, yes.” The Pope nods, pointing up, then down dramatically. “It’s spreading, Satan’s pollution. It lusts for our souls. It is consumed with lust for our goodness.”
“And what do you lust for, holy man? What brought you to the second circle of hell?”
The Pope meets his gaze, unflinching. “In my life, above, out in the world of air and light, I lusted for women . . . and money . . . and the power over men’s souls. I dwelled in the fallen cities of Sodom, Gomorrah, and Babylon.” The Pope blinks, swallowing painfully, aching with this confession. “But my true sin . . . what drove me down into this hell was my lust for righteousness.” A bony hand reaches out. “Forgive me.” He sighs. “I’m hungry.”
“Hungry.” For a long time M stares at the Pope; then he slowly pulls a brown square from his back pocket.
Waiting, the Pope is caught between fear and need. He is afraid of this man—this devilish apparition who wanders the tunnels each night—in the same way he is afraid of plague or murder or the big hungry rats. But he is hungry, too. And he needs money to buy food, maybe a little something to take his mind away from these sewers. He gazes down, expecting to see a few coins or a dollar bill in the other man’s hand.
But in reality, he sees a Mylar bag.
The Pope looks up puzzled, “Who are you?”
“I’m Minos, judge of the dead.” With a wistful smile, M grabs the Pope by his grimy hair, slamming his head into the hard-packed earthen wall, sliding Mylar over skin and skull. Fits like a glove. Made to order, it tightens around the base when he tugs—creating a vacuum effect, molding to the suffocating man’s face.
As the Pope loses consciousness, as he flails, as his eyes go red, he sees a vision: Los Angeles is a burning hell, the sky turns black, the city falls in upon herself, and only dust is left.
“I’m sorry,” M apologizes to the corpse as he lets it sink to earth. Then he whispers to himself: “The city is so beautiful by daylight. It’s only the night that makes her ugly.”
He turns his back and slowly begins his ascent to the world.
Tonight, his job is finished—the second circle is complete.
Tomorrow he has a big day ahead. Tomorrow he will work in daylight.
He is used to destructive premonition. He can see the future as clearly as if it is stretching behind him, a trailing past, already written, book closed. A cataclysm will strike this city. Fire will sear her skin and engulf her features; the force of two atomic bombs will rip out her bones and sever her limbs. She will go blind and deaf and dumb, and her breathing will cease. She will be the sacrifice.
Tomorrow they will all face the third circle.
The Pope was right, a monster is on the loose.
The monster is John Freeman Dantes.
Or is it me? he wonders.
It is us.
Yes.
We are the monster.
3rd Circle . . .
The Three-Headed Hound and a Prophecy
Most of the bombcops I know, they answer the door, open every package with the thought, Shit, this could be it—kaboom.
Edward “Boomer” Toms, Folsom Prison inmate
Tuesday—5:00 A.M. The knock was loud.
Groggy, and emotionally and chemically hungover, Sylvia peered through the peephole in the front door of the bungalow to find herself eye to eye with law enforcement insignia.
“Dr. Strange?” There was some shuffling on the outside stoop; two faces appeared—one, then the other—in front of the peephole.
Groaning, Sylvia cracked the door, safety chain still fastened, taking a closer look: badges advertised the Federal Bureau of Investigation and the Los Angeles Police Department. They were shiny, and they looked real.
“I’m Special Agent Purcell.” The woman wore her hair buzzed, her milk chocolate face squeaky clean, and her affect flat. She looked so buff she’d bounce.
Next to the woman, the man loomed. In order to meet his dead-on gaze, Sylvia had to raise her chin, an action that only made her headache worse. When he introduced himself as Detective Church, LAPD, the words rumbled in his throat. “Yesterday you were at Metro Detention Center,” he told her, voice stalling out on the final syllable.
Sylvia flicked her hair from her face. Her heartbeat slowed a tad—this didn’t concern New Mexico or her family, thank God. She croaked out the beginning of a question: “What’s this a—”
“You had an interview with John Dantes,” Church finished. He smiled without showing teeth; his eyes were sharp. “Do you mind if we step inside?”
“I do mind,” she said slowly. For fifteen seconds, she stood unrelenting. Nobody budged, nobody spoke. Then Sylvia blinked, and they won the first round.
Reluctantly, she released the security chain, watching as they entered; first the agent, then the detective. They couldn’t be more different: Mutt and Jeff. Only their grave expressions were congruent. She was flanked by law enforcement—one five foot five, the other six foot two.
“Dr. Strange, what exactly did you want with John Dantes?” The LAPD detective’s gaze, openly assessing, stayed pinned to her face.
“You just told me what I wanted,” Sylvia answered quietly. She felt as if the detective could see straight through her. “An interview.”
She tightened the belt of her terry robe until her stomach ached. She knew she looked wild; her mouth tasted of sand. “I met with Dantes to complete a series of psychometric inventories—tests—for a federal profiling project.”
“And did you complete the inventories?” Purcell asked.
“No.”
“Did you complete any tests?”
“No.”
“Not even one?” Church crossed his arms, eyebrows raised. Without appearing to do so, he was scoping out the interior of the bungalow.
“Not even one, Detective.” Sylvia was beginning to regain enough sense to feel annoyed. “Maybe that omission is unfortunate, but as far as I know, it’s not a crime.”
“You need to come with us,” Purcell stated firmly.
“Oh, no.” Sylvia raised her index finger and squared her shoulders. “There’s been some mistake—my work in LA is finished.” When neither agent looked convinced, she expelled air in a huff, adding, “I don’t know what’s going on, but I’ve got a plane to catch.” As if on cue, the alarm clock in the bedroom began to shriek.
“Sorry, Doc,” Detective Church drawled. “Your country needs you.”
Eight minutes later Sylvia slid into the back of the dark unmarked Ford while the two investigators took the good seats for the drive over to the FBI’s Wilshire offices.
She still felt like hell—probably looked almost as bad as she felt—but at least her teeth were brushed and she was fully dressed. She tucked her white shirt deeper into the waistband of her jeans. The smell of coffee, the two Starbucks cups on the dash, made her nose itch. No one offered her a sip.
During the drive, she had the opportunity to study her escorts. Behind the wheel, Purcell was doing a passable imitation of a tough guy. The special agent might qualify for that category of female cop obsessed with keeping up with the boys. If Purcell was out to cut some notches on her belt, Sylvia didn’t plan to be one of them.
Filling the passenger seat with a cell phone in his lap, Detective Church was large and rangy, and he had the air of the chronically rumpled; his shiny suit clung to his body like a hungry orphan. His hat, a molded fedora, seemed to have taken root over a thatch of red ha
ir. Freckles dotted his thick nose, turmeric sprinkled on a carrot. If he detoured to central casting they’d hand him a Scottish kilt and bagpipes.
Something had hold of Sylvia thoughts, tugging like a small dog on a sleeve: an LAPD detective who worked on the Getty investigation . . .
“Oh, come on,” Sylvia protested, coming back to reality. Purcell had just cruised past the Westside offices of the Federal Bureau of Investigation, and they were still headed east on Wilshire Boulevard. “Where the hell are we going now?”
Church answered. “Roybal Federal.”
Sylvia plunked back in the seat, arms crossed. Staring out the window, she felt LA’s international airport growing more distant by the mile. “Roybal Federal—that’s right next door to MDC.”
“Right next door,” Purcell said, eyes reflected in the rearview mirror.
“So, what am I doing here? How long will this take?” Sylvia shot out questions, rat-a-tat. “Am I under arrest?”
“For what?”
“You tell me. Jaywalking? If not, I’ve got a ticket back to New Mexico, and I’d like to use it today.” For an instant, she thought Church was going to apologize.
Instead, he said, “We need input on your interview with Dantes.”
“Why didn’t you just say so in the first place?” She ran the back of her hand across her mouth. Her stomach rumbled from hunger, her headache was worsening, and she wished she had her sunglasses to ease the glare. “We could’ve covered this back in Santa Monica. The entire session is on tape if you can straighten out jurisdiction. The profiling project is federal anyway—” She was cut off by the bleat of a cell phone.
Church answered, shifting into listening mode for thirty seconds. He hung up with a casual, “Okay, Sweetheart.”
Sylvia rolled her eyes. “Can’t your girlfriend wait until you’re off the clock?”
Purcell snorted, and Church shot her a dirty look before he returned his attention to Sylvia. “How did you feel about your meeting with Dantes?”
“I wasn’t prepared for him.” Sylvia felt the energy coming from Church—the detective had eyes that penetrated like sharp blue darts. She watched his mind work; he was putting together pieces of a puzzle, matching color, texture, pattern, nuance.