Dantes' Inferno

by Sarah Lovett

  She gazed down to see numerical equations covering both pages.

  The lines and graphs were similar—but not identical.

  Leo said, “According to MOSAIK, there’s a point fifty-seven probability that Simon Mole and M are a match.”

  “Is that conclusive?”

  “On a really good match, we get point sixty-five or higher. But this is enough to go on.”

  “A good match. That’s why you don’t sound happy.” Sylvia closed her eyes. “I think our very own Simon Mole has a unique gift for re-creation; he’s restructured himself from the inside out. Psychologically, Simon and M are more like brothers than doubles.

  “Be happy, guys.” She faced the two men. “It’s like I keep trying to tell Sweetheart—the world’s not black-and-white.”

  6th Circle . . .

  Nothing is more despicable than a coward, except perhaps the man who places his faith in a coward.

  Mole’s Manifesto

  Friday—12:01 A.M. In Pershing Square, the earthquake fault line shimmers in the reflecting pond, the grounded constellations catch the moonlight, and minerals burn with lustrous fire among the orange groves and the palm trees. From a rooftop, the faint and achingly magnificent strains of Verdi dance off metal, stone, and glass surfaces.

  Urban landscape, urban wind.

  These are the highest artistic achievements, the most impressive aesthetic representations of man’s supremacy.

  But that is above. Fifty feet below Pershing Square, M watches the Thief vomit into an already foul puddle of stagnant water, trash, and ruined cans of corrosive acids dumped illegally.

  The Thief. That is a man’s name, his identity, here in the bowels of the city.

  The Thief is a compact five ten, 170 pounds, dirty blond, and blue eyed.

  Both eyes are blue, but that’s okay.

  He is filthy, and M has already arranged for a bath and a haircut. Nothing fancy, just get the job done.

  The Thief hasn’t been a mole long enough to have done irreparable damage to his body. And his body is what M needs.

  M has selected the Thief just as this pathetic creature begins his long downhill slide into shit. The fall is slippery, steep—it’s a long way down—and the fall is forever. No way back.

  The Thief crouches like another kind of animal, shivering in the glow of a small fire, his feet slippery on the slick of ash that glazes the ground. Smoke from a thousand fires has blackened these underground girders, these poured concrete pillars that hold up all that beautiful art on the city’s surface. But culture has always lived, fed, thrived on the broken backs of peons, the expendable people, the untouchables.

  Bombay has nothing on Los Angeles.

  M smiles sympathetically at the other man. “Why do they call you the Thief?”

  “Because I steal,” the Thief says harshly. He can’t stop the tremors, his teeth chatter.

  “What do you steal?” M moves closer, careful not to frighten the other man. They have spoken before. This is not a chance meeting.

  “Whatever I can,” the Thief says, beginning to laugh. “I’ll steal your wallet, your clothes, your girlfriend if she’s not half bad.” The laugh turns to a hard, hacking cough.

  “I’ll make you an offer.” M shakes his head. “I’ll give you my clothes—once we get you cleaned up. I’ll pay you, if you do a job for me.”

  “I steal better than I work,” the Thief says, squinting through smoke suspiciously.

  “The job is stealing, my friend,” M says. “That is the job.” M frowns suddenly. “There’s one thing you should know—you can have my clothes, but not my girlfriend.”

  Both men laugh, enjoying the joke.

  M produces a pint of good whiskey from his pocket. “Shall we drink on it?”

  “What do you want me to steal?”

  “Something holy.”

  12:59 A.M. Even though it’s dark on the street above, the Thief squints as if moonlight can blind. He doesn’t say much; he’s the quiet type. But he follows M along the dark streets and into the area known as the garment district.

  The two men could be brothers—of a pair, as people say. Same height, same build, same coloring.

  They pass the street people camped along the sidewalks, the proud owners of cardboard boxes and packing crates. These are the moles who have not yet accepted their fate, who have not surrendered to their place below ground.

  They’ll be there soon enough, M thinks.

  They reach their destination, which is the Gentleman’s Hotel on Sixth, where M has already arranged the room; by the hour, $11 per. Here, the Thief cleans himself up—a scrub and a shave—using the communal bathroom.

  In the dingy, depressing room, the Thief sits on the thin, sagging bed. M cuts his hair, while the Thief is responsible for his own nails. “You sure I don’t get to do your girlfriend?” he jokes, wagging his manicured hands.

  The extra clothes M has brought fit the Thief to perfection. By the look on the Thief’s face, he has suddenly discovered himself in the Ritz. Life is definitely looking up. Prosperity makes him hungry.

  They find food at the flower mart, where the workday is in full swing at 1 A.M. Steaming coffee with lots of cream and sugar, pastries, an order of steak and eggs for the Thief.

  As they leave, they pass through the huge warehouse where flowers overflow buckets and trays, and the fragrances are both as cloying as drugstore cologne and as delicate as the best French perfume.

  The Thief steals a carnation for his boutonniere.

  M’s truck is parked a block away. Now, he feels that the Thief can sit in his vehicle, on his seats, without permanent damage, without soil and stench. M drives, the Thief whistles. In Chinatown, M parks. They will walk the five long blocks from here.

  The Thief balks when they reach the manhole that will provide access to the ladder and their destination. “Can’t we stay on top for a while?” he whines. He doesn’t want to return to the darkness. Not yet.

  “We won’t be long,” M reassures. He can be unbearably smooth, incredibly soothing when he wants to be.

  And so the Thief goes willingly, entering the chimney, descending to a space that is ten feet long by ten feet wide by six feet high. He can stand with the tops of his hairs just brushing the ceiling.

  It is a utility station, abandoned these days, where the air is stale but the light is achingly bright. It illuminates the female corpse that is dressed in borrowed clothes, wrapped in plastic, and laid out on the floor.

  Blinking and curious, the Thief turns to stare at M. “You want me to steal this?”

  M just smiles.

  The Thief’s mouth drops open, and he spits up on his new clothes when M brings the rubber truncheon down on the back of his skull. The blow is professionally delivered; with perfect force. This is followed by an injection.

  M works happily in his hole, forgetting time and space. Deep in the conduits leading from the subterranean room, an echo can be heard by those creatures who thrive in the dark. It is the echo of laughter running like a steady stream beneath the city.

  The Thief will sleep—through the night—through the operation.

  M reaches into the left pocket of his pants, where he feels the hard round ball. He pulls it out, hefts its weight in his palm. A white marble with a design of blue and black.

  He turns back to the Thief and sits, propping the unconscious man’s head between his legs. A spoon works well to pop the eyeball—the right eyeball—from the socket. There is very little blood.

  The marble will fit perfectly in the now empty socket. Of course. It is not a marble; it is a glass eye.

  Before M leaves for the night, he binds the Thief’s arms and legs simply but securely with duct tape; he tapes his mouth shut.

  He props the Thief against one wall.

  He places the severed eyeball in the middle of the floor near the corpse.

  When the Thief opens his remaining eye—the left eye—this is what he will see: his right eye returning
his horrified stare.

  For hours, the Thief will be able to commune with his severed organ.

  As for the rest of the operation, that will wait until I return, M thinks.

  One thing at a time.

  Judging from the style and content of threat demand, the operational methods of the threat actions, device construction and type, we are looking for a male, mid-twenties to mid-forties, solitary, opportunistic in relationships or friendships, who has a background in electronics or engineering, in a “low” or menial capacity versus a capacity that would demand high functioning or levels of high achievement.

  Introduction, FBI profile, UNSUB, alias M

  5:14 A.M. Sylvia heard a door slam. She opened her eyes, slowly taking in reality.

  Room at the Hilton, seventeenth floor. Underpants and T-shirt instead of pajamas. Her lipstick stain on the wineglass by the bed; dregs of fumé blanc. Dimples in her skin where the cell phone had been pressed to her ear. Oh, yeah . . . she’d fallen asleep to the sound of Matt’s voice. She experienced a sharp ache at the thought of her lover a thousand miles away. Then the breath of panic—if I don’t get out of here—

  Abruptly, she sat up, stretching her arms overhead. The quarter hour turned on the digital clockface. The sun was definitely awake, light leaking through the window drapes.

  Sighing, she pushed away the sheet and stood. She sidestepped the room service tray with its leftover Caesar salad, saltines, oily decaf, and green napkin. On the way to the bathroom, she tapped lightly on the door to Leo’s room. He didn’t answer, and she remembered he’d stayed up late, too.

  Let him sleep a few more minutes while she showered and dressed.

  The hot water soothed both muscles and mind, triggering memories of her conversation with Matt.

  Sylvia had been startled by the soft ring of her cell phone.

  “Hey, baby, I’m sorry it’s so late. You all right?”

  “I miss you. How’s Serena?”

  “Better. She’s got a rash. The doc thinks it’s an allergy—not measles.”

  “Is she hurting?”

  “Not bad. She says it’s just itchy.”

  “Pobrecita. God, I miss you guys. I miss the dogs.”

  “They miss you, too.”

  It had felt great to laugh and to share everyday intimacies. They’d barely talked about business—hers or his. Intentionally avoiding the world of criminals and their victims.

  But Matt had eventually touched a nerve: “Sylvia . . . about Mona Carpenter . . . Robert Montoya told me they brought her husband into the DA’s office for questioning.”

  “Mona’s husband? Why?”

  “I’m going to make a few phone calls tomorrow morning. I’ll let you know.”

  And then she’d drifted off to sleep while Matt described Serena’s latest watercolors and an anniversary party for their best friends, Ray and Rosie Sanchez.

  Thank God for long distance.

  In the misty bathroom, she toweled off, applied moisturizer and sunscreen, and wrapped a towel around wet hair. The new Italian jeans would go another day; she dug in her suitcase for a crisp cotton shirt the color of lime sorbet.

  Last night, she and Leo had returned to Santa Monica just long enough to pack suitcases under the watchful eye of two local cops.

  Luke had shut down his computer equipment and returned to the house on Selma; she imagined he and Gretchen had worked much of the night.

  This time, she rapped with her fist on the connecting door. “Leo? Hey! Lee-oh.”

  No answer. He was a light sleeper and an early riser. He must be in the shower.

  She dialed his room and let the phone ring a dozen times in stereo before she hung up.

  She jumped when her cell phone rang seconds later.

  Fumbling for the handset, she kicked over the cold coffee on the room service tray.

  “This is Purcell, Dr. Strange. I’m at City Hospital. Dr. Carreras is with me. How soon can you make it?”

  “I’m leaving now.”

  7:01 A.M. In the truth of daylight, LA City Hospital was another sister of mercy altogether. Gone were her mysterious and moody angles, the black and blue shadows of night; the hospital exterior had flattened to a dull, nondescript gray, presenting an uninteresting profile, a dreary facade to the surrounding city.

  Sylvia pushed through the main doors and stopped. The vast admissions area felt foreign. Patients, their families, and staff occupied the echoing space. A young boy in a wheelchair pushed by an abuelita repeated a plaintive phrase in Spanish.

  Sylvia reached the glassed-in reception area and stuttered at a tired clerk, who just stared at her blankly. Then she heard someone call her name and turned to see Purcell, beckoning with a quick jerk of the head.

  “Do you know how old this is getting?” Sylvia asked.

  “I really do.”

  The special agent guided her quickly down a narrow hallway to a service elevator; they were its only passengers. A mesh grille clanged shut behind thick, pitted doors. The worn metal buttons offered three subterranean destinations, including theirs: B-3.

  “Are you going to explain?”

  “I’ll let Dr. Carreras do that.”

  The ride was slow, and working parts complained all the way down. When they hit bottom, the fifteen seconds before the door finally clattered open stole Sylvia’s breath.

  God, don’t ever leave me locked in an elevator, she thought. Tight spaces, dark places . . . best left to night’s furtive creatures.

  “You all right?” Purcell asked.

  “No.”

  Outside the elevator, traversing the mazelike hallways, the area began to look both oddly amorphous and familiar. They stopped outside Dantes’ room.

  It was empty. The door was locked.

  “Where is he?”

  “This minute?” Purcell glanced at her watch. “They’re just about finished with the sodium amytal interview.”

  “Sodium amytal?” Sylvia shook her head, her voice flat. “Why wasn’t I told?” She knew that sodium amytal, or sodium amobarbital—used in forensic settings—had originally been labeled a truth serum. A misnomer. The drug was mostly effective in reducing substance-induced amnesia. Clinical studies had proven that some subjects could lie very effectively under the drug’s influence.

  She heard footsteps and pivoted to find herself staring into the familiar face of Dr. Carreras.

  In a voice so businesslike it sounded cold, Leo said, “The FBI asked me to supervise the interview. He’s on the IV for another five minutes; they want you there as he comes out.”

  “Why didn’t you just ask for my cooperation?” Sylvia whispered harshly.

  “The interview was voluntary.” Dr. Carreras swallowed, and his Adam’s apple bobbed visibly under taut skin. “You know he’ll recover almost as soon as the IV’s removed.”

  “My connection with Dantes is tenuous. It depends on my being around when he’s vulnerable.” Sylvia felt betrayed and angry. And maybe that was the point of all this manipulation—to keep her off balance.

  “It wasn’t my procedural call,” Leo said.

  “Bullshit.”

  Leo dropped his voice to a level only she could hear. “They called me two hours ago, Sylvia.”

  She brushed past him, focusing on Purcell. “Where is he?”

  “Straight ahead, first door around the corner.”

  “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 ste
ps 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.