Dantes' Inferno

by Sarah Lovett

  “Because he was better than me, better than MOSAIK. His forensic signature was almost untraceable . . . he never used the same method twice.” Sweetheart sighed. “We didn’t stop him.”

  “What did?”

  “Luck.”

  Sylvia closed her eyes; cold leather pressed against her back; in her monkey mind, restless thoughts chased their tails. Ben Black’s death had been an anticlimax for Sweetheart—after all those years of pursuit, they had killed him by chance.

  Wasn’t it Molly Redding who had talked of her uncle’s demons?

  And then, soon after Black was gone, Sweetheart had transferred his obsession to John Dantes. The linking event? Jason Redding’s death; the child had been a random target, a victim of chance and coincidence.

  At least that’s what everybody wanted to believe.

  “All the terrorists you’ve pursued,” Sylvia whispered. “What do they mean to you, Sweetheart? Where’s the synergy? Is it their twisted ideology? Their nihilism? What do you want them to prove? Or is it just that you look at them and see yourself?”

  She caught the rhythm of her own breath, and for an instant that sound was the only thing holding her to earth. She pictured Sweetheart standing outside M’s workshop, a feather in his hand: This is the home of a makuuchi—a master.

  The words escaped her lips. “You don’t believe Ben Black is dead.”

  “We had intelligence confirmation.” Sweetheart stared back at her, his eyes shining dangerously—and then they went flat and closed, as if the man no longer inhabited his body.

  “The final circle of hell is reserved for traitors,” he murmured, rocking slightly. His breathing was labored and harsh. “Judas Iscariot, Cassius, Brutus . . . the traitors. Dantes had the intelligence, the charisma, the gift; he had the chance to help the world. Instead he chose destruction. I won’t let you take away Dantes’ sins. Now, get out.”

  Sylvia stumbled from the house, pushing open French doors, fearing she might break the glass. Outside, she forced herself back to the present. Talking. Walking. Slowly coming down. In truth, she didn’t think she could stand to be enclosed inside that house a minute longer.

  The walled garden was filled with the fragrance of night-blooming jasmine. Moonlight polished the sculpture of the Fallen Angel so its bronze glowed with a milky patina, and the decidedly human seraph calmly surveyed the softening dark.

  Faint sounds of traffic drifted up the canyon from Sunset Boulevard. And then, a distant coyote sent a primal message echoing off the urban mountains behind the house on Selma. Her skin raised goose bumps. For a moment, she tasted New Mexico and its crisp arid spaces.

  In the high desert around her home outside Santa Fe, the coyotes went crazy on chosen nights. During a kill, there was a terrible wildness to their cries; she thought it must resemble the manic laughter of African hyenas. Always, the day after these orgiastic deaths, Sylvia would discover on her walks the matted feathers from a blue jay, or the barely bloodied puffs of a rabbit’s fur. All that remained of the natural and fatal dance between efficient predator and available prey.

  Under the spell of midnight she let the stillness of that remembered desert fill her cells, expand her lungs, lure her thoughts to a higher plane where the air was thin and rarefied.

  Now, inside her, she discovered an ache created by absence; she was homesick for damn molecules. For that intangible mixture of tropospheric gases at seven thousand feet. She craved comfort. She was homesick, but she couldn’t go home.

  Behind longing lay something deeper and much more frightening: the sense that she, Molly Redding, Sweetheart, even M had all been drawn into a vortex—Dantes’ Inferno.

  She squeezed her eyes tight, shivering in warm air.

  The demons stirred, raising their grotesque heads, sniffing the air for a scent.

  Move. Don’t let them take possession.

  She heard whispering voices: an abuelita who talked to brujos, a magical child with uncanny vision, an inmate who flew with the night creatures.

  A walk on crazy ground . . .

  It took her too long to restore any sense of safety. She found herself pacing, jumping at the slightest sounds of night. Everything was wrong. She was going over the edge. She was missing something. Something very dangerous.

  She heard the rustling of branches and she looked up. To see the sky—to look for the stars that weren’t there. An empty celestial ocean . . .

  She took one ragged breath. In New Mexico the stars were so bold and bright a person could safely navigate the deepest, darkest night. Arcturus, Antares, and the Corona Borealis in June; Cassiopeia and Perseus and Polaris in December. Standing out like hot jewels against ebony skin.

  Here, in this hellish city, there was nothing to show the way . . . not if you were lost. God help you if you were lost.

  At the turn of the nineteenth century, urban anarchists went on bombing sprees in Paris and New York, claiming hundreds of victims. At a time when the new sciences of psychology and psychiatry were exploding with theories—by James, Wundt, Titchener, Kraeplin, Breuer, Freud, Watson—bombers, free of the stigma of psychopathology and reveling in the heroics of revolution, were exploding their infernal devices.

  Leo Carreras, M.D., Ph.D., and Sylvia Strange, Ph.D.,

  Terrorism in the 21st Century

  * * *

  3:33 A.M. John Dantes woke from a nightmare, and he lashed out, his hands forming fists.

  “Take it easy, man,” a voice said. “It’s tomorrow. You’re shipping out.”

  Dantes shivered, gazing up at Officer Jones—but seeing the ghost of the boy.

  “Looks like you’re doing better with that arm,” Officer Jones said slowly.

  Jason Redding had visited again in the dream. Dark holes where his eyes should be. Such sadness in his heart. There were no secrets between child and man.

  You’re killing yourself with hate, the boy had whispered.

  Dantes tried to answer but he couldn’t breathe. Disgust lodged in his chest, blocked his throat, until he couldn’t suck any air to his lungs.

  Dying, he thought. I’m dying, he said in the dream. Dying because I failed them . . . first Bella, then Laura, then Simon, then you. He gazed at the boy, imploringly.

  “C’mon, man, are you okay?” Officer Jones asked.

  “No,” Dantes whispered.

  Coal eyes glowing, Jones stared down at the inmate, who made no attempt to respond.

  Dantes remembered a passage from somewhere in the chaos of his feverish brain:

  “There are times I believe I’m going mad, not psychotic, not schizophrenic, but mad in some banal way. I have no use for the pseudosciences of the mind; when I touch my madness, I know psychology has failed to explain the darkness of the human spirit, those quiet corners of despair that never see the light of day. That’s when I turn to the city, civilization, a maze of streets always leading me somewhere, even when I’m lost, even when I’m blinded by the loss of faith.”

  He stared up at the white peeling plaster on the ceiling. No sky, no heaven, no peace. He tried to save what he loves most, but his actions have led to coward’s hell.

  “Dantes, man, didn’t you hear me? You’re shipping out. Time to move you to the transfer station. Last stop before Colorado.”

  It was as if those words finally woke him from the darkness.

  He sat up, shaking off the sleep, the dream.

  “I hear you,” he said, his voice hoarse but audible.

  “You can’t take much,” Officer Jones said, kindly. “But you don’t got much anyway. You want to take your books?”

  Dantes mustered a smile. “Yes, thank you, Officer Jones. I would like to take my books. You ever been to Colorado?”

  “Never have. Heard it’s nice, though. Lots of trees and all those mountains.”

  With no help, Dantes stands. He straightens his clothes, he runs his hands through his hair. He needs a shave. And a bath. He stinks of hospital and sweat.

  He wonders if t
he Feds are satisfied now that he has given them M’s cave. He can picture the abandoned warehouse just across the water from Terminal Island. No accident it had been visible from his prison cell; M leaves little to chance.

  Mackie’s back in town.

  “I could use a good meal,” he said to Jones. “What day did you say it is?”

  “Saturday, by a couple hours.”

  As the officer gathered together the few possessions in the hospital room, Dantes closed his eyes. He waited to see if he could feel the presence; they’ve always had that connection; over the years, the miles, they’ve never lost that.

  “I know you’re coming,” he whispered.

  Officer Jones looked up from his work. “You talking to me, Dantes?”

  “Yes, Jones,” Dantes said, eyes still shut.

  “What you say? I couldn’t hear you, man.”

  “I said, ‘This time, I’m ready to meet you halfway.’”

  There was nothing to it. The Super Chief was on time, as it almost always is, and the subject was as easy to spot as a kangaroo in a dinner jacket.

  Raymond Chandler, Playback

  3:43 A.M. M has come to worship darkness.

  Only in her soft arms does he find fleeting peace.

  Darkness and pain. His life—all that’s left.

  Dantes has betrayed him, sending the Feds.

  And they have done their bootjack swagger, pissing all over his workshop; they have violated his last sanctuary.

  He watches bitterly from his truck, which is parked on the hill a half mile from the derelict factory. He sees the two Feds who are waiting for a stupid bomber to show himself. Well, M isn’t stupid—he knows you can’t go home again.

  So he sits, tracking images on the monitor of his laptop.

  This visual and spatial representation of the world represents more than two decades of work. True, it bears faint resemblance to its schoolboy inspiration, but nevertheless, the seeds that grew this creation were planted when he was a gawky love-struck teenager.

  With the press of a key, lines overlay images, layers upon layers, worlds upon worlds.

  Map of heaven. Map of earth. Map of hell.

  A three-dimensional construct.

  The blueprint; his master plan.

  It’s part of the job of charting geographic information systems, mapping miles of conduit, recording a city’s infrastructure, both above and below ground. There is a vault where steel pipes—originating from the transformer station—carry enough volts to blow half a city sky high.

  Cables, wrapped in oil paper and lead, and sealed in neoprene, are fed through ducts. Each duct bears electricity produced at major generating plants; the plants supply transformers; the transformers lead to underground rooms.

  Tap into the power of a cable and you can connect to a power station, an airport, a harbor, a dam. Let the infrastructure work for you. Stage one: the crucial interconnection of neurons from the spine—the simplest of remote dialing systems. Phone it in—blow it up.

  He is touching nerves that lead directly to the nerve center, the brain . . .

  Bottom line. He has a very simple plan to stop the heartbeat of Dantes’ greatest lover: Los Angeles.

  Time to move the operation along.

  The Thief and a hooker have been prepared to meet their maker.

  And the woman—she will serve as the bait.

  By possessing her, he will initiate a reaction similar to an explosive chain. Molecules expanding, splitting, combusting. All to end in one big bang.

  His fingers work the keys; the screen goes blue, then white again.

  M begins to type:

  it is time for the next tier

  we tire of waiting, dont kare if the end

  we sacrifice what false prophet values most

  the “she” he loves

  can be found at the mouth of hell

  already wating

  No question they will follow her scent, travel down to his burrow, his territory, where the world is a quiet, insulated place. Even before Dantes, M craved the comfort of dark hidden spaces. After the accident, he found himself slipping below the surface of the world at any opportunity.

  The surgeons in Europe made him whole again—at least skin-deep whole. But the sun irritates his scars, ferreting out memories of pain. And then there is the pain of torture always fresh in his mind.

  “Goodbye, LA. Farewell, Angel Face.”

  He studies the message, finally deciding that it isn’t what he wants to say.

  Don’t give it all away, he thinks with a smile.

  He begins again.

  She lives in the red world of death . . .

  Nope. Torch song with violins.

  You fucking bastard you didn’t even come to our funeral!

  You didn’t call, you didn’t write.

  I want to rip your head off your neck and stuff it up your asshole.

  * * *

  Over the top.

  there is a hell for those who ignore the cries of the innocent . . .

  That’s more like it.

  Subtle, yet with a hint of gusto.

  There’s so little time to spend in the seventh circle.

  And yet that is where the violent drown in a river of their own blood and dead men die again and again and again.

  George Metesky, the Mad Bomber of New York, had a seventeen-year career, and signed his work F.P.; the Unabomber maimed and killed for eighteen years, and marked his bombs F.C. John Dantes left poetry. What’s with these assholes?

  Officer Robert Macias, LAPD bomb squad

  4:07 A.M. “Jase?”

  Molly Redding sat up in bed. Confused by sleep, half blinded by tears, she saw a ghost where white curtains billowed in the fourth-story window; she saw the face of a small boy instead of the calico cat.

  She moaned, catching the damp sheet between her teeth, rolling over and folding herself into fetal position. If only she could stay enclosed forever—without moving, without breathing. It didn’t ease the pain, it simply allowed a less excruciating numbness to tone her existence.

  Please, God, bring Jason back and take me.

  Stop. The bargaining would kill her; she couldn’t let the loop begin to play.

  Please, God, torture me, but give me back my son.

  Please God, his life is not over—it’s just beginning.

  A trade: one life for another; my life for my son.

  The scale won’t tip and no one will be the wiser.

  Oh, dear God, please . . .

  This small corner of night was the time when dying seemed wise. Death was the cool breeze. Death was the woman with the soft, sweet voice. Death was the straight road to Jason. Death was the ticket.

  Molly reached out, fingers sliding into the table drawer beside the bed, encountering cool metal. The sharp edge of the razor gave her a taste of what was to come. She withdrew the blade, holding it to the light, while blood beaded on her injured thumb. Molly felt warmth rush through her muscles as she placed the blade across her pale bluish skin. Her weariness ran so deep she knew she had just enough energy left to strike deep with the blade—once across each wrist.

  Metal began to bite . . . she heard Jason cry out . . . and then a white butterfly drew her eye.

  Molly turned her head to track the small ivory business card fluttering from the bedside table. Unconsciously she released the pressure on the razor blade against her skin.

  A face filled her thoughts: Sylvia Strange. She pictured the warm brown eyes, the kind mouth, the face alive with intelligence. An energy flowed from the woman, and it was Sylvia’s strength that Molly needed so desperately at this moment.

  She rolled over, clutching the blade in her palm, reaching down for the card—

  But this dark night was taking on a different shape.

  Molly didn’t react when she heard the noise. The swollen heart of her pain told her maybe the universe had finally listened. Perhaps Jason would shuffle in from the kitchen, barefoot, tousled,
and smelling of sleep and milk. Her baby would snuggle beside her on the bed. She would press the curls away from his forehead. She would kiss his cheek before he could squirm away.

  Another sound. A footfall. It did not belong to a child.

  The sound came from the real world, not from one of her nightmares. A presence. Someone in the room with her—not the cat. Not her dead child.

  An emergency that demanded her response. In real time. She sat up, completing the action in slow motion. But she had no desire, no fight left in her, no reason to live.

  Not until Einstein meowed and propelled herself from the ledge. Not until Jason, her ghostly child, took her by the shoulders and shook her hard. He gripped her hand and refused to let go. Not even when Molly saw who was in the room.

  “Michael,” she whispered calmly, thinking he’d brought solace, knowing he’d brought evil, all in the same instant.

  The pain had not been complete until now. Betrayal cut a heart that Molly had believed was dead. No, there was life there.

  Enough to make her want to laugh at her lover. At the hypodermic needle in his hand.

  Then she saw that it wasn’t Michael—not her angel—it wasn’t the man she loved. This man had the same blond hair and blue eyes, the same youthful face, the same scar on his arm. But the eyes—one real, one glass—belonged to nobody, to nothing at all.

  She lunged from the bed, darting across the room. Einstein shrieked as Michael caught Molly by the ankle. She fell hard to the floor, bruising bone; Michael huffed, not expecting a fight, and fending off cat claws.

  Molly felt a sharp sting in her butt, and she kicked out, arms flailing. Her rage against the world, against a God who had taken everything, finally found a home. A ragged cry tore loose from her throat; she thrust out her legs again and again.

  He answered with a hard fist to her face.

  As Molly dropped off the ledge of consciousness, falling hard toward a huge, dark hand, she remembered the blade in her fingers. Guided by something much more powerful than self, she mustered her strength and sliced the blade deep across Michael’s soft flesh. He cried out, enraged.