Dantes' Inferno

by Sarah Lovett

  Her internal engine was speeding faster than the machine she navigated through the unsettling urban landscape. Steel and glass high-rises shimmered with ghostly light. Blinking traffic signals lent the impression of an abandoned city. Like the devil’s breath, steam fumed from gutter vents.

  An absurd snatch of dream floated to consciousness: a young woman standing on the crest of a white dome, staring up at huge cutout stars suspended in a painted pitch black sky; a godlike voice commanding, Come back when you’ve lost your mind.

  Sylvia in Griffith Park . . . God, she’d been a miserable lost child, a runaway in Los Angeles. A girl searching for a father, searching for herself . . . back in time when the craziness of the city matched the mania of her psyche. Back when she believed she’d die if she didn’t escape.

  Why did LA always mirror the more psychotic moments in her life?

  Sylvia accelerated along the overpass, noticing distant head lamps in her rearview mirror. She kept tracking the other vehicle. It trailed her for two blocks before it turned into an alley. She was aware that Dantes—this case—had left her vulnerable. She was wide open in more ways than one.

  On the west side of the freeway, the neighborhood changed; the buildings, less structurally imposing, seemed diminished.

  A man wearing slacks—no shirt, no shoes—darted across the intersection of Lucas and Fifth; a woman in a skin-tight dress and stiletto heels followed, her movement more indolent sax riff than walk.

  Sylvia guided the Lincoln past the crumbling facade of City Hospital, circling the block. When she was back where she’d started, she slowed to a stop.

  She heard the shrill and plaintive whistle of a freight train in the distance. No sign of Purcell, but high beams flashing briefly in her rearview mirror caused a burst of adrenaline. The truck raced past, and she watched the red taillights until they disappeared.

  Sylvia turned down a narrow alley, cruising slowly, scanning the dark building for another loading area. Nothing. No one. Had she been hallucinating? Purcell had called, hadn’t she?

  Once more around the block.

  This time, when she passed the south-side dock, she caught the angry red flare of a cigarette. It illuminated the ghostly shape of the federal agent stepping out of shadow.

  She parked, locked the car, and covered the shadowy distance at a walk-run. The night had her spooked.

  “Where’s Dantes?” she started to ask Purcell.

  “Cream, no sugar.” The special agent greeted her with one hand thrust out, offering coffee in Styrofoam. “I didn’t know how you take it.” Her voice was slow and Southern as molasses. “I’ve still got your briefcase, by the way.”

  Thrown by the sudden downshift, Sylvia said, “I got over here as fast as I could.” She accepted the cup, took a sip, and lukewarm coffee dribbled down her chin. Restlessly, she pressed the heel of her hand to mouth and chin, then she returned her full attention to Purcell, and asked, “Where the hell are we?”

  “Knocking at the back door.”

  Sylvia thought the special agent looked awful. Even by the glow of cigarette and distant streetlights, she had the stunned look of an injured animal. The woman was ten years older than yesterday. Then there was the curious lethargy—what had happened to the urgent command to show up within minutes?

  “Hurry up and wait,” drawled Purcell, the mind reader. “We should get the go-ahead anytime.”

  “Is this an authorized visit?”

  “You’ll only have a few minutes with him.”

  “Sure.” Sylvia nodded, wary, feeling her pulse flip-flop, allowing the night air to slow her down. Purcell wouldn’t, or couldn’t, meet her eye.

  Sylvia took a few moments to study their surroundings. They were sheltered in a loading area behind the old brick hospital. The faint stink of trash hovered in the warm air; the temperature was the coolest it would be for the next twenty-four hours.

  She kept expecting the big red-haired LAPD detective to appear from the shadows. Disbelief, outrage, grief were all part of the emotional package he’d left behind; and this for a man she’d known less than eight hours.

  Sylvia said, “I’m sorry about Detective Church.”

  Purcell shook her head, closing dark, velvety eyes. She held her body stiff and still, as if something dangerous passing in the night might be blind to her presence.

  She took a labored breath, turning to Sylvia. “Do you believe in fate—” Her words died away, punctuated by the abrupt, birdlike twill of an electronic pager. The agent tossed her Styrofoam cup into an open Dumpster. “Follow me.”

  Sylvia did. Right down the throat of the subterranean corridor to the basement of City Hospital. Fluorescent lights flickered, footsteps echoed on tile, the faint stench of mildew reached her nostrils. She was actually stepping on the soft debris of peeling paint, the tunnel sloughing off its own skin.

  Where were the Feds keeping Dantes? Where the hell were she and Purcell, underneath how many tons of earth and concrete? Uneasily, she quashed thoughts of restless geologic faults—the discovery of hundreds of new and unsteady seams below the city, the fact that the LA basin experienced thousands of invisible shocks each and every day.

  The passage ended at a heavy steel-lined door. Using her muscled weight for leverage, Purcell crossed the threshold, guiding the way into yet another corridor, a near replica of the previous one, except the angle of trajectory was up, not down.

  This subterranean section of the old hospital had probably been condemned after the most recent quake. Twice, Sylvia was certain she felt the ground vibrate; overactive imagination, she told herself.

  They stepped through another door, this time entering an institutional-looking hallway.

  When someone gripped her arm, Sylvia jumped.

  “Sorry,” Dr. Mendoza murmured, her name tag prominently displayed over her left breast pocket. She was a plump, dusky woman with pert features that sharply contrasted with melancholy wide-set eyes. “Dr. Strange?” Mendoza caught Purcell’s confirmation—a quick nod of the head. She said, “Dantes has been asking for you.”

  “I was told he’s here for security—” Sylvia stopped speaking when she saw Mendoza emphatically shaking her head. She turned to confront Purcell, but the special agent had evaporated. The halls were deserted.

  Mendoza handed her a white hospital coat complete with identification tag.

  As Sylvia shrugged into the coat, she asked, “Where are all the guards? LAPD, FBI?”

  “There’s LAPD outside that corridor—there’s one officer in the room with Dantes—and you’ve already seen Agent Purcell. Normally, this wing of the hospital is completely closed off,” Mendoza added quickly.

  The doctor blinked her stubby lashes nervously. “I want this clear, I had nothing to do with his current condition.”

  “What condition?”

  “Orders came down the pike—and I’ve only been on since midnight—”

  “Who authorized . . . ?” Sylvia let her voice fade, stopping short of asking this beleaguered doctor questions best answered by the FBI. “Take me to him,” she said.

  Mendoza pointed toward swinging doors, presumably leading to working areas of the hospital. She touched her finger to her thin lips, stepping around a corner, out of view of anyone who happened to glance through the small windows.

  She said, “For your information, you came down a supply tunnel that’s been closed for years.” The doctor shook her head, looking puzzled and disturbed. “Somebody doesn’t want you attracting attention.”

  A hard knot was forming in Sylvia’s stomach as she moved around the corner with the other woman. Mendoza said, “You’ll see—his body sustained minimal trauma during the seizure.”

  “What seizure?”

  “I thought . . . didn’t Agent Purcell tell you?” Mendoza shot Sylvia a quizzical look. “Apparently, when Dantes heard about the bombing, he became—upset.”

  “Upset can mean worried; it can also mean psychotic,” Sylvia said, trying to co
ntain her impatience. “It doesn’t usually mean seizure.”

  Dr. Mendoza paused, mouth drawn into a moue, as if she were tasting words. “We got the neurologist’s preliminary report,” she volunteered finally. She saw the question in Sylvia’s eyes. “He’s exhibiting symptoms inconsistent with his physical condition—symptoms with no obvious organic basis, no evident neurological explanation.”

  “I need to see him.”

  “Follow me.” As Mendoza walked, she lobbed questions at Sylvia: “Yesterday, did you notice problems with his vision? Photophobia?” Her hand sliced from the tip of her nose toward the wall. “Diplopia—double vision?”

  Holding back her stride to stay even with the doctor, Sylvia caught a loose strand of hair and tugged it behind one ear. She fingered the bracelet on her wrist nervously. “Maybe light sensitivity—but he seemed to be focusing. You said minimal trauma.”

  “As far as we can tell, he mimicked an epileptic seizure.” Dr. Mendoza lifted her hands, palms to the ceiling. “No sign of spinal or cerebral trauma. No evidence of organic defect: A clean E.E.G. He’s exhibiting some symptoms, including paralysis of the limbs.” Mendoza tipped her head, her eyes growing round. “I read about it in medical school.”

  “Read about what?” Sylvia pressed tensely.

  “Conversion disorder.”

  Unconsciously, Sylvia shook her head. Conversion disorder was one of the somatoform disorders, a controversial diagnosis formerly known as conversion hysteria. The appearance of physical neurological symptoms unexplainable by any known medical condition. The diagnosis made some psychiatrists and psychologists very nervous—in part because it harkened back to the end of the nineteenth century, to Freud and Charcot.

  In plain speak—it was what happened when the body exposed the secrets of the mind.

  Both women had come to a standstill in front of a metal door that was coated with eroding white paint: B-103. Dr. Mendoza gestured toward a small window. “See for yourself.”

  Sylvia peered through dull glass. The room was square and plain, and its institutional paint was faded with age and grime. The one chair was currently occupied by a uniformed LAPD officer, who stared back at Sylvia without blinking.

  She had a pretty good idea that Purcell hadn’t gone through normal channels to arrange this visit.

  “That’s Officer Jones,” Mendoza said under her breath. “Stay out of his way, we’ll be fine.”

  Dr. Mendoza stepped forward wielding an O-ring crammed with innumerable keys. The lock turned with a groan. Sylvia entered the room—and stopped in her tracks.

  The overhead fluorescent lights were off, and the only illumination (other than the television) was provided by moon and street lamps, a milky wash spilling through a high, narrow window.

  The TV was mounted on the wall, and it cast out a flickering seasick haze. Two security cameras suspended on either side of the TV recorded activity around the center of the room.

  There was no bed; instead a gurney—raised to a forty-five-degree angle—faced away from the window.

  She heard Mendoza greeting the cop—careful, casual chatter about early-morning rounds and a change of shift. Sylvia approached the gurney just as the overheads flickered on.

  Oh, dear God . . .

  John Dantes was strapped down, immobilized, his arms and legs clamped tight with leather braces. Thick gauze covered his eyes. But the most bizarre element of the tableau was the rigid arch of his body as it strained against the gurney like a tautly strung bow. The man looked as if an electric current was shooting from his head to his toes, forcing extreme muscle contraction.

  Conscious of the cameras, Sylvia stepped forward, softly calling his name.

  He shuddered.

  “Dantes,” she repeated. She touched his arm, feeling the feverish heat of his skin through cotton.

  “Doctor Strange,” he whispered through parched lips. His attempt to speak again failed.

  Sylvia felt a firm hand on her shoulder. When she looked up, Mendoza was eyeing her warily. “Be careful of the patient, Doctor,” Mendoza cautioned slowly. “Let’s avoid security issues.”

  Sylvia nodded. “Can we do something about the bandages?” she asked quietly.

  Mendoza glanced back at the officer, then said, “You’re right; we should remove the gauze to check pupil responses.” Quickly, she pulled away the sterile dressing.

  Dantes’ skin was pale, only slightly bruised. There were no obvious signs of injury or trauma. Nevertheless, he presented a disturbing image.

  As much as his bizarre physical pose, it was his eyes that caught Sylvia’s attention; they stared out at the world unseeing; they might have been empty holes.

  She held two fingers in front of his pupils. Dantes didn’t blink, nor did he focus or exhibit any motor response whatsoever. He stared straight ahead, his gaze fixed high on the barren wall.

  He whispered, “Water.”

  Mendoza raised a plastic cup to his lips. Most of the liquid dribbled down his chin, but he managed to swallow a few sips.

  His body went slack abruptly; he seemed to be coming out of a state of extreme disorientation. Mendoza stepped away from the gurney, returning her attention to Officer Jones, engaging him in conversation; she complained mildly about long nights and sore feet.

  Keeping her back to Jones and Mendoza, Sylvia leaned closer to Dantes. For a moment, she was mentally transported back inside the house, staring at the bomb in the floor, the handwritten Italian scorched across wood.

  “I found your message,” she said, reciting the verse in an undertone: “‘ . . . angels who were not rebellious, nor were faithful to God; but were for themselves.’”

  Abruptly, Dantes went rigid again; his fingers clamped metal, his veins stood out like ropes against his skin—but the spasms were fleeting. “Not my message!” he hissed.

  “You sent me to find the bomb.”

  “You’re stupid,” he whispered. “So was Church.” He took a deep, shuddering breath. “Why should I trust you?”

  Sylvia didn’t move. She had to work to control the anger. She said, “Because I’m here.”

  She wasn’t ready for his response.

  He said, “Karen knows.” His voice dropped so low it was barely audible. “Ask the master.”

  The convulsion hit him like electricity. His eyes rolled back in his head, he gagged, and his body stiffened, bowing upward in a rigid arc.

  Mendoza reached the gurney in three strides. “I need to get him sedated,” she said sharply. Pressing the panic button on her pager, she signaled for assistance. Under her breath, she whispered, “Leave. Now.”

  When Sylvia didn’t move, Mendoza said, “Now, get out of here.”

  With a last look at Dantes, Sylvia left the room, running head-on into Purcell.

  The agent gripped her by the arm, leading her forcefully around the corner. “He didn’t give you a damn thing but gibberish.”

  Sylvia leaned heavily against the cold cement wall. She felt a gulf opening up in front of her, as if Dantes had separated her from the rest of the world.

  She shook off the eerie sensation, focusing on the federal agent. “You force me to work with you, but you don’t tell me what’s going on—you feed me bullshit—you disappear so you can listen in—”

  “The bastard forgot to mention this.” Purcell thrust out her hand.

  Sylvia took the single sheet of paper, scanning the message.

  dear john, prodigal son . . .

  message received

  will follow orders to the letter

  on our journey to 4th

  they shall be punishd for sins of other

  sacred city seen sacifice

  remember our relentless thoughts bk 9, M

  The words blurred on paper. “Your threat communication analysts—”

  “They’re working on it now,” Purcell said. “We got it from Dantes—the COs found it in his hand when he had the seizure.”

  Footsteps sounded from around the
corner; Sylvia heard voices speaking in low, urgent tones; she heard the door to room B-103 close and lock.

  But her attention was on the page. The visual pattern encasing the message took shape: it was an irregular rectangle, traversed by a faint and flowing linear delta, and marked in several places with small triangles.

  “What are those lines, those marks?” she asked Purcell hoarsely. “Some kind of crude map?”

  Nodding warily, the agent said, “They may be coordinates.”

  Moving fast, Sylvia retraced her steps toward Dantes’ room. Her fingers closed around the handle; she looked through the small window in time to see Mendoza plunge a needle into Dantes’ arm.

  “Oh, no . . .,” she whispered.

  But the drug Mendoza had given him was already flowing in his veins. He was beyond reach. His head lolled back, his body became deadweight, the living image of one of Francisco Goya’s doomed lunatics.

  And so, in the end, ladies and gentlemen, it’s best to do nothing at all! Conscious inertia is the best! A toast to my hole under the floor!

  Dostoyevsky, Notes from Underground

  6:33 A.M. M is psychic.

  As he watches the psychologist leave LA City Hospital, he knows that she is upset, angry, and afraid. She’s in way over her head. Pulled one way by the Feds, pulled another way by Dantes.

  M predicts the future.

  He’s not worried about losing track of Dr. Strange. He knows exactly where she came from—he’s quite familiar with Leo Carreras and the bungalow in Santa Monica.

  He can also tell you in a heartbeat where she’s headed: to Edmond Sweetheart’s lair. No denying the professor took a shine to Miss LA yesterday at Beaudry Street. That much was clear, even from a distance.

  M knows where Sweetheart lives.

  He’s put in the tedious hours of surveillance—the very best way to get to know a human target, its habits and tastes, its likes and dislikes, its natural habitat, its world.

  In his line of business, he depends upon his predictions. He has to know what a target is thinking before the target knows.