Dark Alchemy (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 5)

by Sarah Lovett

  Alchemist

  I can read your mind although I don't dare share the depth of my knowledge with you. Not yet.

  There is always the hunger to understand:

  –while poison courses through veins, is absorbed into organs, reaches the cells and synapses of the brain.

  You ask:

  Where does it hurt the most? Are you shivering from heat, or cold? Is that flickering of your eyelids the first sign of convulsions to follow? Is your mouth dry? Is your brain exploding with pain? Is your stomach tied in knots? Are your thoughts fractured? Are you going blind and deaf?

  Do you know death is with you . . . do you know death is with you . . . do you know death is with you?

  Are you afraid?

  CHAPTER

  7

  Moon shadows through the skylight. The room glowing with light. Sylvia pushed herself reluctantly off the bed and away from the warmth of Matt's body. She'd almost fallen asleep in the wake of making love.

  But now to business—the need to tell Matt about the impending trip, the collaborative work with Sweetheart couldn't be postponed.

  "We've got to talk," she said softly. "Babe?"

  "Mmmm."

  She opened her mouth, then shut it again. The words stuck in her throat. Don't be ridiculous, she told herself, jump in. "I left messages on your cell. I need to talk to you about tomorrow."

  "Shhhh. I'm dreaming. Good one." He rolled over, eyelids squeezed tight. "Give me a minute . . . find out how it turns out."

  She sighed. Another minute couldn't hurt—then she heard a truncated snore. Make that another five or ten minutes.

  She slipped into a well-worn terry robe and slippers, retrieved her purse from the top of the dresser, and padded across the room to the bathroom. The door squeaked slightly as it shut behind her. She washed her face, brushed her teeth, and surveyed her image in the mirror—did she look like a liar?

  She opened her purse to retrieve the small pharmacy bag; she'd refilled two prescriptions earlier in the day. From the bag she pulled out the container of antihistamines and set it on the middle shelf of the medicine cabinet. There was one more item in the bag—the pink plastic case of contraceptives.

  Quickly she slid the pink case into a zippered compartment in her handbag, as if out of sight were truly out of mind. Not this time. The guilt had kicked in: she was lying to the man she was about to marry.

  As far as Matt knew, she'd finished her last prescription of birth control pills. With marriage on the agenda, they'd agreed to try to get pregnant. At least she thought she'd agreed. But when it came down to the final few pills, she'd found herself calling in a refill. And she'd done it furtively—horrified by herself, by such a deep untruth.

  She sighed, studying herself in the mirror. She wanted children—most of the time. She pictured Rosie Sanchez, her best friend, sitting on the edge of her desk, wagging tiny feet in very spiky heels, ankle bracelet sparkling: "You'll make a fabulous mother, jita. Trust yourself."

  But each time she believed she'd resolved all remaining childrearing conflicts, some internal beast raised its doubting head. She knew—no matter how much Matt assured her he'd carry fifty percent of the load—that the weight of parenting would fall most heavily on her shoulders. She'd seen it over and over again; her close friends joked that after the first eighteen years it got easier. Despite all the planning and good intentions and political awareness, nature had an ancient and basic agenda.

  But her doubts ran deeper, to more complex issues than child care—issues of suitability and desire.

  The woman gazing back at Sylvia from the mirror looked miserable. She certainly didn't want to put off motherhood until it was too late. And Matt felt time running out even more acutely than she did. He'd survived the death of his first wife and son years ago. And he wasn't one of those men who wanted to be Grandpa to his own child. He didn't want to be too old to keep up with his son or daughter.

  She pulled away from the mirror, crossed her arms under her breasts, and frowned at herself. She knew what she would tell some other woman in the same circumstances, knew what advice she'd give a client who showed up for counseling.

  Be honest. Be truthful. Tell your husband, your lover, your boyfriend about your worries and your conflicts. Don't withhold, don't lie.

  Good advice. The woman in the mirror stood up straight and nodded.

  But the internal voice that whispered in Sylvia's ear—the voice that rationalized, and made deals, and struck bargains—said, Just one more month. By then you'll be ready to commit to motherhood, and you'll spare Matt the needless worry caused by your neurotic doubts.

  She swallowed the first pill in the pink container, dropped it back into her purse, and zipped the compartment shut, ready for travel.

  When she left the bathroom, Rocko followed at her heels. Nikki watched their progress from her favorite spot, a threadbare oversize pillow next to the bed.

  As Sylvia walked downstairs, she ran over a mental list of last-minute wedding details, the numerous favors she would ask of Rosie Sanchez: problems with the florist; the dress (currently with the seamstress for minor alterations) that needed to be picked up; the issue of whether to have the mariachi play before the salsa band or during the meal; and the burning question of whether or not her all-time favorite caterers, Josie's Casa de Comida, should make the enchilada plates with red, green, or Christmas.

  On ground level Rocko took the lead from the hallway to the kitchen. His ears cocked forward and his little tail twitched as he moved with a stiff, tightly sprung gait. Sylvia switched on the light, opened the refrigerator, and gazed blankly at a leftover turkey and green chile sandwich, a quart of milk, strawberry yogurt, black pepper goat cheese, and martini olives.

  She pulled out the milk and let the door thump shut as she took a box of Grape-Nuts from the pantry shelf. She shook the box, gauging from the rustle that there was enough cereal for one bowl.

  At her side, Rocko gave a low growl through his whiskers. He sat up on his haunches, begging shamelessly.

  "You know that's not allowed," she chided gently, nevertheless reaching into the cereal bowl to flip him several hard nuggets. He caught them neatly before they hit the floor.

  At the table she settled down to eat. It was an ordinary moment that had been repeated so many times in her life, she sometimes failed to realize how much it meant—this kitchen, this view of the cottonwood and the salt cedar (a pretty but dangerous interloper in the desert ecosystem), this piece of land that had been in her family for over fifty years.

  Her gaze continued around the room—cheerful and utilitarian at the same time—before settling on a glittery blue-and-green jacket that belonged to her foster daughter. Serena was staying with her father for the next four days. Although Cash Wheeler had legal custody of his daughter, he showed no signs of veering from the shared custody that Serena enjoyed. The back-and-forth arrangement had worked fairly smoothly for the past year. Perhaps trading houses and sharing families suited Serena because her first ten years had been spent in such intense isolation. She'd grown up just across the U.S.–Mexico border, in a barrio in Juarez; human contact had been limited to a handful of people. She'd survived by using her imagination, her incredible talent as an artist, instead of words.

  In exchange, sharing families had allowed Sylvia the pleasure of contact and love without the full responsibility a child of her own would require. She smiled now as she pictured Serena today, at twelve years old: confident, intuitive, filled with light and grace. The transformation had taught Sylvia to believe in miracles.

  She had no doubt that Serena would understand her decision to work with Sweetheart on the profile, but Rosie Sanchez was another matter. She would do all she could to make Sylvia feel guilty, as if she were running away.

  Sylvia sighed, then stood to carry her dishes to the sink. She could see the eyelash moon hovering in a blue-black sky. It was very late, but for some reason she wasn't tired. Perhaps her energy was actually leftov
er adrenaline from the events of the afternoon and evening? For an instant, she was transported back to the dark lab with its dying animals, its deadly toxins; she felt her encounter with Christine Palmer—and a shiver ran from her butt to the top of her head. The dish slipped from her fingers, clattering to the sink.

  "Hey, babe." She heard Matt's voice echoing down the hall, then his arms slid around her waist. He buried his face in her neck and said, "You okay?"

  "Maybe a little bit spooked—fine now." She turned to smile at him. "Love you."

  "And I love the way you wake me up. But it's the middle of the night."

  She offered him a kiss, took her time, and then tilted her head to see into his eyes. "You really awake?"

  "You sound like my grandma Effie: 'Hey, Frank, you awake?'"

  "I am now." Sylvia finished the familiar line with a smile. She kissed Matt again, and then her expression turned serious. "What do you know about that LANL scientist who died up on 285?"

  He took a moment, knowing she wasn't asking an idle question. He said, "He was dead at the scene. The oncoming truck pushed his vehicle three hundred feet past the intersection into a ditch." He shrugged, a wary look in his eye. "Why are you interested?"

  "Promise me you'll listen to what I have to say."

  He stepped back, his hands sliding from her waist to his sides. "Listen before what?"

  "Before you say anything."

  He nodded, watching her, one brow arched in a question mark. His expression had shifted from wary to openly suspicious. "Talk to me."

  "I need to do a little bit of traveling—two, maybe three days tops."

  "Why?"

  "A serial poisoning case at LANL. I've been asked to help put together a profile for investigators. I've got to visit a previous job site, another lab, do some document review, some interviews."

  "Which lab? Sandia?"

  "Porton Down." Sylvia tried to sound casual. "Outside London."

  Matt's jaw tightened, and he spoke slowly. "London."

  "There was another death about six months ago, and it's connected to the case."

  "So it's multijurisdictional—"

  "And the FBI has the case, yes."

  "And who enlisted your help?"

  "Edmond Sweetheart."

  "Sweetheart's consulting for the feds?" Envy darkened Matt's voice—he resented Sweetheart's high-profile connections at the same time he coveted the free agent's ability to pick and choose investigations. It was a sharp contrast to a career with the state police, even at the rank of major, even with his lateral promotion to special operations. These days Matt was much more entrenched in the political arena than ever before. The hostage negotiation team, the dive team, special rescues all came under the umbrella of special ops—which meant time spent lobbying, making sure the governor's office was in the loop, coordinating with narcotics, as well as recruiting and training.

  "This is all connected to the death of the LANL scientist last Friday?" he asked sharply.

  She nodded. "The feds stepped in to begin surveillance after the collision—they believe he was poisoned and that's why he lost control of the car."

  "You said serial poisoning."

  "Apparently the deaths stretch back years—in Europe and the U.S."

  "Then the FBI's facing a jurisdictional nightmare," Matt said. "Unless they've got hard evidence of a murder on U.S. soil, they won't make charges stick."

  "You're right. They need this profile." She crossed the kitchen to check the lock on the sliding glass door. "I'll be back Wednesday night, Thursday at the latest."

  Silently, Matt tracked her restless circuit.

  "Seventy-two hours at most," she said, talking too fast because she felt awkward and because she hated having to rationalize her actions. "Listen, I know the timing isn't perfect."

  "Isn't what?"

  "Okay, okay, the timing sucks," she said quickly. "But it won't interfere with the wedding. I won't let that happen."

  "What time is your flight?"

  She glanced automatically at the big white clock. "I need to leave here by seven-thirty at the latest. The flight isn't until midday, but I've got to finish writing up an evaluation for the courts and drop it off." Rocko followed her gaze; a faint worried whine escaped his jaws.

  "I don't believe this," Matt said.

  The grizzled terrier looked at the man and then back at Sylvia as she said, "Matt, please understand."

  He shook his head, turning away from her, heading back down the hall.

  "Hey, can we not argue about this? We're both adults. If a case comes up—if you have to go to Las Cruces or Denver—I don't give you a hard time."

  "That's big of you." He kept walking.

  "All right. Wait." She followed him, Rocko at her heels, still acting like her shadow. "I know it's short notice."

  "Short? What if I'd stayed in Albuquerque tonight? Were you planning to call me from London?" Matt's voice always grew deeper when he was angry. Right now he was a bass. "You casually mention it's a serial poisoning case—which makes me think there may be some risk involved—Jesus, you just finished going through the Riker ordeal—but who cares what I know, right?"

  "I care. I don't blame you for being upset."

  "I can't believe you're taking on a case right now." He saw that she was about to respond, but he cut her off: "Don't tell me it's a matter of days. I know you, Sylvia. Once you commit to something, you hang in to the bitter end."

  Now she didn't try to interrupt; she knew it was best to let him have his say.

  "If you're too scared to do this wedding, tell me now," he said. "I don't need excuses. Let's hope there's no Leo to keep you distracted—"

  "Leo Carreras isn't connected to this case," Sylvia protested. "You know I wouldn't do anything to jeopardize us, the wedding, our marriage."

  Matt shrugged. "You've done a pretty good job of avoiding the altar up to now."

  "I'm sorry," Sylvia said softly. She knew he'd felt the sting of their on-again, off-again engagement. She watched as he reached the foot of the stairs and stopped. "Don't you understand?" she asked. "I need to put my energy into one last case—it may be a big one—before I retire."

  "You're not retiring."

  "A sabbatical, then. We're getting married. We've decided to try for a baby. Virtual retirement. At least for a while."

  He nodded. Neither of them spoke for several seconds. Rocko whined softly. Finally Matt sighed. "You'll be back by Thursday?"

  "Probably Wednesday."

  "I can work out arrangements with Cash about Serena."

  She took a deep breath, realizing only as she exhaled that she'd been holding air in her lungs. "That would be great."

  "If I have to take off to Albuquerque—"

  "Cash will bring Serena by to pick up the dogs—she loves to have them at her dad's."

  He nodded. Outside, somewhere in the distance, a dog was barking, a hoarse and frustrated repetition of sound.

  Matt started up the stairs, stopping again when he heard her voice.

  "Matt? I'm sorry for the times I hurt you."

  "You ran out on me once," he said as she closed the short distance between them.

  "I love you." She reached out, touching him gently on the temple with one hand. "I'm marrying you one week from Saturday."

  Rocko stood on his hind legs, balancing his front paws on Matt's knees. The terrier let out a quick, demanding bark.

  She watched Matt grapple with conflicting emotions, his internal struggle evidenced in his eyes. She had no doubt he loved her—he'd been far more patient than she would've been if the situation had been reversed.

  He looked into her eyes, searching for fear. "I wish I could say it was fine; I wish I could let you off the hook, but I can't. I don't have the energy to go through another Riker case—or another round of Runaway Bride."

  She began to speak, her voice—faintly pleading—barely rising above a whisper. "If you tell me to stay home, forget this case, I will."
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  "Don't lay that responsibility on me." He shook his head. "You need to go. You said so yourself. So go."

  The glow of the digital clock cast a reddish burn on Sweetheart's half-closed eyelids. He was sitting lotus style in the center of the massive hotel bed. Internally, he had made the transition from full meditation to the next best state, a notch down, still focused on breath but the frontal lobe actively engaged. The way he did his sharpest thinking.

  The day, the night, had triggered old memories. Sonobe, Japan. The rain never stopped the whole time he was there. The Hayashi investigation—a housewife imprisoned for poisoning her fellow villagers during their spring festival. The investigation had been a circus, every international agency wanting in, most getting their wish.

  The fujin-kai, the ladies' league, and Masuma Hayashi, killing everyone with her kaari raisu. All part of the puzzle. The rigid social hierarchy, the drive for prominence, feelings of entitlement. And always—he could hear Sylvia voicing his thoughts—always narcissism. It didn't matter who died or how many, because they were of no consequence. Most normal people found it almost impossible to relate to the worldview of the narcissist. Sweetheart found it too easy.

  The detail that stood out clearest in his mind was the fact that Masuma Hayashi mixed up her cyanide stew and served the village elders and the children first—

  The phone bleated softly, but he didn't react immediately. One, two, three bleats, sounding plaintive by now. Moving only one arm, he connected to the material world.

  "I just got your message," Drew Dexter said.

  "Late night."

  "I had to follow through on tonight's problem." The deputy division director of internal safety and security at LANL paused. In the background the faint chatter of voices was audible. "That little run-in, Dr. Palmer and your gal. Shouldn't have happened."

  Sweetheart said nothing, waiting to hear what Dexter would say next. He was more than curious. Dexter kept himself very well informed; Sweetheart made it a point to look closely at well-informed people.

  He'd run a background check in MOSAIK—updated his files—and knew that Dexter was near the top of the food chain at the lab. He was southern blue-collar stock (hence the accent); both his parents were Louisiana natives. He'd done a tour of duty at the end of Vietnam, when the troops were coming home; upon his return to the States, he'd completed college on the G.I. Bill. Then he had spent most of twenty years with the army's criminal investigation division.