Dantes' Inferno

by Sarah Lovett

  He doesn’t look back at the scene of most recent destruction. No need to linger. It is nothing special.

  His inquisitors won’t miss him; they are busy, and it’s been a very big day.

  They have been searching for truth. Along the way, they have discovered a boy, a house, a school.

  In his mind, the boy who lived in that house—the young man who went to Oxford and UCLA, and who died in Europe—was never meant to survive. From the moment of his birth, from the first bawling complaint, that boy had been unfit, a runt earmarked for the drowning sack.

  Those without the fiercest will, the weak, are culled; that is the brutal truth of the world’s order, that is the world of Darwin’s hierarchy of evolution, which itself evolved from Christian theology sprung from the deserts of Negev and Kara Kum, inscribed by feverish monks dodging plague and pestilence, embellished by the poetics of Dante and Milton. That, ladies and gentlemen, is God’s fucking truth.

  Dead boy, Simon. Stupid boy who worshiped blindly.

  A one-eyed, one-armed fool who lost his way in a world where he never belonged. He was put out of his misery many years ago.

  M is another animal altogether. His flesh is encased in chitin. He was born a beast. One who vicariously tasted innocence, found it to his liking, and feasted. His sins are too many to mention, but don’t imagine he fears Dante’s hell.

  The only thing he truly fears is nothing. Emptiness. The void of his existence.

  What keeps nonexistence at bay? The anticipation of revenge.

  He chides himself softly. All these archaic games, this schoolboy bluster, enough.

  Tonight he has work to do close to home.

  Last-minute touches for his pièce de résistance have begun.

  Tomorrow he will take the first step down to the sixth circle of hell.

  Two more lives his soul to take.

  But whom thou hatest, I hate, and can put on

  Thy terrors, as I put thy mildness on,

  Image of thee in all things; and shall soon,

  Armed with thy might, rid Heaven of these rebelled;

  To their prepared ill mansion driven down,

  To chains of darkness, and the undying worm.

  Milton, Paradise Lost

  8:27 P.M. Flanked by Purcell, two other federal agents, and an LAPD investigator, Sylvia covered the last ten meters to room B-103 and John Dantes.

  I’ve come to see a man about a bomb.

  But this time, there were more shields than civilians.

  And Leo Carreras was by her side.

  They’d spent the last seven hours dealing with the aftermath of the latest improvised explosive device. That would teach her not to leave her laptop laying around—not even in the locked trunk of a car.

  As designed, the Mercedes had contained much of the blast. No one had died. Bruises and abrasions, yes, but no one had been seriously injured. Not even Edmond Sweetheart. But his rage had been fueled.

  For that reason, Sylvia was relieved Sweetheart had chosen to monitor this interview with surveillance agents in the room that adjoined B-103. He needed to keep his distance from Dantes. Sylvia wished she could be sure of her ability to contain her own anger.

  She came to an abrupt standstill in front of the door.

  “Hey, champ,” Leo said softly, capturing her attention. “Are you ready for this?”

  Purcell and the other investigators drifted away just enough to offer the illusion of privacy.

  Sylvia waited one second too long before she responded to Leo’s question.

  “Because if you’re not—” Leo frowned. “Let’s not lose our best shot—”

  “I’m ready.”

  But Leo wasn’t convinced; he seemed to sense she needed a few moments to calm herself, to prepare. Gesturing for her to follow, he moved a short distance down the hall. “Keep in mind he’s still under the influence of the sedative.”

  “They gave him enough diazepam to take down a wild horse.” Her muscles ached. The abrasion on her elbow was beginning to burn.

  “Are you planning on using the UCLA psych report?”

  “Any objections?” She paced, too keyed up to land in one spot for any length of time.

  Leo had already briefed her on the basic contents of the fifteen-year-old psychological evaluation; it dated back to Dantes’ first year at UCLA—and a visit to a student health clinic. He’d suffered a series of epileptic seizures. Nobrainer diagnosis: epilepsy. Except there was a problem: the electroencephalograms revealed no organic pathology.

  Leo’s touch brought her back. He began to gently massage her shoulders, speaking in a low voice. “From the description of the presenting problem, Dantes has been through this before—seizures, paralysis, other somatic symptomology—which provides support for a diagnosis of conversion disorder.”

  “Dantes went to the clinic—he sought treatment—less than six weeks after Simon Mole’s house exploded,” Sylvia said, lowering her chin to her chest. Her neck muscles were painfully bound. “If it was conversion disorder, what was the stimulus?”

  “Guilt?”

  “It’s possible.” She raised her head, nodding. “Dantes felt responsible for the death of a young girl, and the near death of his best friend.”

  “Maybe he was responsible,” Leo said.

  “It’s provocative, but it proves nothing.” Sylvia sidestepped away from Leo. It was taking too much effort to keep herself in physical and emotional check. She said, “This could be faking—plain and simple.” Her voice revealed her frustration.

  “You’ve spent the most time with him,” Leo said. “Do you believe it’s that clear-cut?”

  She dug her hands deep into empty pockets. “No. We’re surrounded by smoke and mirrors.”

  She covered the distance back to the room; through a small mesh observation window, she saw a familiar face just inside B-103: Officer Jones. Beyond Jones, Dantes was stretched on a seclusion bed, his features obscured by shadow.

  She backed away, focusing again on Leo. “I should be dead. Today, in that Mercedes, Sweetheart and I were dead.”

  Her fingers worked the threads of her jacket. “But M still wants to play.” She pressed her palms to her temples, easing a headache. She was bruised and battered. “Very soon, he’ll get tired of the game—tired of cat and mouse. We’re left with one alternative: get him—before he gets us.”

  Leo nodded grimly. “If you need me—”

  “I need a cigarette.”

  “—I’ll be right here.”

  But Sylvia had already turned to Purcell. “Let’s do it.”

  Inside the hospital room, shapes were blunted by shadow.

  Officer Jones sat stiffly in a wooden chair, reading by the narrow beam of a Tensor. He looked up from his paperback to give her a nod of recognition. She caught the book’s title: The Green Mile.

  Dantes was in full restraints on the seclusion bed. His face still wore the mask of illness—deep furrows marked his brow and the corners of his mouth; his skin held a gray cast; the stubble on his chin marked a rough beard.

  Sylvia approached, walking slowly around the end of the bed until she was even with his shoulders. She kept her distance.

  “Dantes?” She took a breath, monitoring herself internally; twice, this man had sent her to a close encounter with death. Her emotions would be useful only if they were under her control. So she’d skip the murderous rage for now, she thought, mustering some humor, trying for balance in a very unbalanced situation.

  He tilted his head in her direction; his eyes were open, but his focus was off. She knew that he’d been complaining of a limited field of vision; hospital staff had noted that the paralysis in his arm was more pronounced than it had been just fifteen hours ago, before the anticonvulsive drugs had been administered.

  And she’d been warned, he’d lost some vocal capacity; instead of his deep baritone, he was communicating in whispers.

  If he was acting, he was good.

  From the corner o
f her eye, Sylvia noticed Officer Jones observing her; she was grateful for his familiar presence in the room.

  She pulled a chair toward the seclusion bed, allowing the wooden legs to scrape the floor. The noise was grating, but Dantes didn’t react.

  She positioned the chair so that she and Dantes were head to head. She sat.

  This time his eyes found her face. She saw him register her presence, but she couldn’t read his reaction. Relief, or disbelief?

  “Beatrice,” he whispered. “‘Will you not aid the one whose love for you raised him high above the crowd?’” As he recited the quotation, his speech was sluggish, and tinged with irony. He smiled. “You came back.”

  “Are you surprised?”

  “Less and less, Dr. Strange.” He took a deep breath. “What happened to me?”

  “You were medicated—you had a reaction.”

  With effort he raised his head to examine his body; his gaze traveled carefully from arms to legs, as if he were discovering some stranger in his bed. “I can’t feel my right arm.”

  “Two days ago, at Metro, apparently you had some sort of seizure.” She paused, assessing. “Do you remember?”

  “I think so.”

  “Have you had seizures before?”

  “Doesn’t matter.” His expression was impassive, indifferent.

  “Have you ever blacked out?”

  “No.”

  “The doctors will run more tests—they’ll screen for organic—”

  “No.” His hands became fists. “They’re liars. I want to talk about you. What happened?”

  He read through her silence. “You found M,” he whispered. When she didn’t respond, he said, “I can’t help you unless I have information.”

  “There was another bomb.” She kept very still, struggling for internal control.

  Surprise altered his features for an instant before he recovered. “But you weren’t the target.”

  “How do you know?”

  “‘Do your eyes not see death near him?’” He watched her carefully. “My guess would be Sweetheart.”

  “Why?” When he didn’t answer, Sylvia leaned closer. “Is Sweetheart your target—or Mole’s?”

  “You found the master after all.” A smile played over Dantes’ lips. “How is the sadistic bastard?”

  “Healey told me about Simon.”

  “Obviously.” He blinked. “Sweetheart blames me for Jason’s death.”

  “Should he blame Mole?”

  “He should blame himself.” Dantes closed his eyes.

  “Why?” Sylvia leaned down, and her fingers tightened around his sleeve. The institutional cotton scratched her skin. She said, “It’s time for this to end.”

  She was close enough to see the tiny hairs on his neck. She said, “Dantes—I’m asking you, help me before it’s too late.”

  Dantes turned his face toward hers; his eyes struggled to focus. He nodded, running his tongue over pale lips. “I know—”

  There was a crash as the door flew open and Sweetheart burst into the room. Officer Jones dropped his book, lunging forward to catch the intruder; he was knocked off balance by Special Agent Purcell as she darted past him.

  Leo Carreras and a federal agent entered on Purcell’s heels.

  But Sweetheart already had his hands around Dantes’ throat. He said, “You arrogant, lying son of a bitch. I’ll kill you.” His voice was cold. His body was immovable—only his hands strained, fingers digging into Dantes’ flesh.

  “Back off now!” Purcell ordered.

  Sweetheart didn’t respond.

  Sylvia was close enough to see murder in his eyes. She said, “Let him go.”

  For thirty seconds, they all stayed frozen in violent tableau.

  Then, very slowly, Sweetheart released his grip.

  Dantes said nothing. But he smiled like a fighter who’d won a round.

  9:55 P.M. Sweetheart left the hospital without a word.

  Sylvia waited just outside the front doors of the lobby for Leo Carreras. Purcell kept her company. They stood in silence for several minutes, then Purcell tipped her head, making that familiar birdlike gesture, slipping something from behind one ear. There was a small and sudden burst of flame as she lit up a cigarette. She inhaled, handing it to Sylvia. They shared half the smoke in silence.

  “You’re not going back to Santa Monica tonight,” Purcell said, exhaling smoke.

  Sylvia shook her head. “We’ll stay at a hotel in west LA.”

  The agent nodded. “I’ll follow you over. Use Dr. Carreras’ cards. You have a dog?”

  Surprised, Sylvia nodded. “Two.”

  “What are their names?”

  “Rocko and Nikki.”

  “Cute. Tell them you’ll accept calls for Mr. Rocko. I’ll check in with you in the morning.” Purcell was quiet for several seconds. They could see Leo’s Lexus turning the corner at the end of the block. “We’ve got twenty-four-hour surveillance at Sweetheart’s, in case M decides to go another round.”

  “He’ll go four more rounds. There are nine circles in Dante’s Inferno.” Sylvia took the cigarette from Purcell. It was almost down to the butt. Silently, she inhaled the last hit. “You dragged me into this investigation—don’t leave me out of the loop.”

  “Like I said, I’ll call you tomorrow when I have news.”

  “What happens between now and then?”

  “Simon Mole,” Purcell said. “If he’s M, he’s been up to something for the past fifteen years. We’ll pick up his trail somewhere along the way.” She walked with Sylvia to the curb as the Lexus slowed to a stop.

  “So MOSAIK’s job will be to come up with an empirical match,” Sylvia said. “Simon equals M.”

  “Wrong.” Purcell held the door open. “Officially, after this mess with Dantes, Sweetheart’s out of the game.”

  “Unofficially?”

  “Watch your back.”

  * * *

  11:43 P.M. Edmond Sweetheart felt his soul evaporate. The warm night air brought whispers of bamboo and wind chimes. The paper shades on the open window rustled gently.

  He was at home—sitting lotus on the floor of the library, surrounded by bombs.

  A plain white board ran the entire breadth of one wall. Photographs, arranged in six clusters, had been tacked neatly in place. Above each grouping, stenciled black letters filled a half dozen paper signs.

  Six titles.

  The first reading, HOLLYWOOD FREEWAY.

  The second, ANARCHY, LA TIMES.

  The third, WATER & POWER.

  Fourth, SIERRA SUBDIVISION.

  Fifth, OIL SWINDLES.

  Sixth, GETTY.

  A wormwood table ran the length of the bulletin board. On it were the intricate and detailed models of six explosive devices—representing hours of craftsmanship—each beneath its title.

  Sweetheart let his eyes linger on the models.

  He saw history and civilization. Each one was a historical statement of some injustice committed against the city, against Los Angeles.

  Sweetheart stood slowly, finding center on the soft mat. Air filled his lungs; as he exhaled, he let go, crouching into shiko.

  Moving to a slow rhythm, he lifted one leg high—held it—then he stomped his foot back into the floor, slapping his hands on his knees as he exhaled; the movements flowed, coming full circle to a crouching squat. Two hundred eighty pounds of muscle, intention, focus. He blocked out all physical pain. He ignored the injured muscles, the strained ligaments.

  It began again with the opposite leg. Inhale, lift, hold. Exhale, stomp, slap, crouch. Over and over he repeated the shiko. It is the sumo wrestler’s most basic exercise.

  As he worked, he cleared his mind.

  Last thought: I know what drives a man to destroy—all-consuming hatred; I know because Dantes taught me.

  I would give anything to feel pain again. That right was stolen from me. I want it back.

  Mole’s Manifesto

  Thursday�
�12:13 A.M. M feels the world accelerating.

  Over the next forty-eight hours, his routinely minimal quotient of sleep will drop to mere minutes. Catnaps. That is how he will survive from now until the end.

  He is a busy, busy man.

  His parrot, Nietzsche, keeps him company. He is below ground in the old shipyards in San Pedro—surrounded by concrete and steel and earth and water. His bunker was once a subterranean storage room in a now derelict factory that dates back to World War II.

  It is perfect. The grounds are abandoned. Only a few stray bums come nosing around. Rent is cheap and there’s no view.

  It is like many other spaces he has known over a life-time. Dark. Tight. Enclosed. Some he entered voluntarily, others not.

  Over the past year, he has spent many nights in this concrete womb. He feels safe here. And productive.

  Molly is used to his nocturnal wanderings—“It comes with the job, Angel Face,” he says, “and long hours mean more pay, and somewhere down the line a vacation on a perfectly white beach in Tahiti or Belize.”

  But an entire night away, at this late date, might spook her, might jinx Operation Inferno.

  Don’t want to do that.

  No reason for Angel Face to know he quit the job two months ago. He still leaves for work six days a week.

  So he will dutifully return to the stifling apartment, to that shedding cat, and to Molly. In her sleep, she’ll find him, wrap her body around his, let her mouth touch his most tender places.

  A perk that brings him less and less pleasure.

  He sidesteps the corpse at his feet. Through plastic, he can make out the crude details of her face. Just over an hour ago, she was warm, blond, petite, in her twenties. Now she’s just a prostitute on ice. He’ll move her body tomorrow. She—along with another—will provide the key to the next layer of hell.

  Tidying up, M sweeps around the corpse. She has a part to play—a performance of sorts—to be enjoyed by those who believe they are smart.

  Nietzsche breaks into the chorus of “My Way.”

  M hums along.