by Sarah Lovett
A deep voice rose from the stage. "How now! What noise is that?"
Sylvia shrank back as a woman brushed past, leaving a faint trail of scent: cosmetics, orange peel, sweat. The actress stepped onstage, moving slowly, holding every eye. She was dressed in white and she moved with an odd grace. "They bore him barefac'd on the bier; hey non nonny . . ."
As Ophelia launched into her song of madness, Sylvia watched, mesmerized. Sweetheart had brought her to this Shakespearean tragedy just as the king, Laertes, and his doomed sister shared the stage. Ophelia gone mad after learning of her father's death by her lover's sword; Laertes wild with grief, hungering for revenge.
But it is the king who is guilty, Sylvia found herself thinking—the murderous king with his poison.
When the scene's final lines were delivered and the actress swept offstage and into the wings, Sweetheart followed. "Hamlet?" Sylvia whispered close on his heels. "Are you serious?"
"Hamlet," he said, knocking softly on the dressing room door, behind which Ophelia had disappeared. A voice called out, "It's open."
They entered the small musty room.
"I was expecting you." The voice drifted from behind a dressing screen. "Make yourselves at home, I'll be just a minute."
They sat. Sylvia was curious to meet the actress. She studied the dressing table, which was cluttered with jars of pancake, gum, spirits, powder, brushes, pencils. A creased rehearsal schedule had been taped to the mirror. A script lay open on a chair, a few lines underlined on the page.
Definitely not Shakespeare.
A man stepped out from behind the curtain. The blond wig had been removed, as had the bodice of his costume, but he was still wearing the flowing white skirt. He smiled, his teeth slightly yellow in contrast to the white pancake makeup and red lipstick.
Sylvia couldn't hide her surprise.
"Did you expect a fetching will-o'-the-wisp?" he asked. "This is a progressive production of Hamlet, darlin'."
"Dr. Sylvia Strange, meet the Honorable Sir Angus Blackmoore," Sweetheart said.
Sir Angus swept an imaginary hat from his head and bowed.
Sylvia sent her associate a dark look before turning her attention to the tall—and now, she saw, quite handsome—actor. "Sir Angus, it's a pleasure, but we're intruding in your dressing room—"
"Angus is fine." He produced a cigarillo from behind one ear. "Dressing room is a falsehood, a fabrication, a deceit, a downright lie. Dressing cupboard, dressing closet, dressing cubbyhole, dressing niche—but not room, never room."
Sylvia picked up a slender gold lighter from the table, flicked a flame, and held it to his cigarillo. Sweet, pungent smoke filled the air. "Thanks, ducks. This is all very telly-glam." His hands circled gracefully through the air, pushing smoke into swirls. "My cubbyhole. Your investigation of the deviant mind. My deviant mind. You've come to the right place." He faced them, hand on hip, heavily lined eyes black against the white pancake.
Sylvia knew she was staring; Sweetheart had told her only that they would be interviewing a longtime associate of Palmer.
Associate meaning what? Friend? Schoolmate? Relative?
"Chrissy and I were an item." Angus winked, enjoying Sylvia's surprise. "Sssthientist and thesspian," he lisped, sounding like Sylvester the cat. "Sstho romantic." Turning toward the mirror, he dipped a sponge in a jar of cold cream, then, starting at his forehead, he began to wipe it across his face. "In spite of the dress, luv, I don't fancy boys."
"It wasn't that," Sylvia sputtered. "Even if—I didn't—never mind." She sighed, and Sweetheart rolled his eyes.
Angus smiled. "I've been head over heels since childhood. We grew up together." He studied his image in the mirror, tugging at nooks and crannies with his sponge. "I knew her father—what an incredible man, more like a god, really. And I was close friends with Avery Winter, the other love of her life."
Sweetheart had hardly moved since entering the dressing room. Just through stillness, he seemed capable of reducing his size. He was paying close attention to the actor.
"Christine and Avery were engaged for centuries, promised to each other in nappies, I fear. But his cancer nixed the wedding. The big C, as you say across the ocean." The corners of his mouth drooped, and the face he made was a parody of Tragedy. "Christine wanted to marry anyway, but Avery refused. Out of pride and manliness and honor—everything that I'm not. I was to be their best man. So excruciatingly sad."
He discarded his sponge, reached for cotton balls and a bottle of astringent. The biting scent of alcohol filled the room. "And how deliciously suspicious. The two most influential men in Christine's life, dead within months of each other." He frowned. "Come to think of it, Avery croaked, and I moved to the head of the line. That doesn't look at all nice, now, does it?" But he seemed quite pleased with himself.
No one said anything for a few seconds, then Angus shrugged. "I never had a head for chemistry. Kicked out of public school. Good for nothing but actin' and fookin'. That's what Chrissy always told me."
"Are you in touch with Dr. Palmer—with Christine?" Sylvia asked.
"Haven't seen her since she left London. About six months?"
"Have you had any other sort of contact?" Sweetheart asked.
Angus nodded, smiling coyly. "She called me last night. Oh, yes, ostensibly to ask how I was doing, but I knew the real reason." He let them wait while he plucked a hair from his eyebrow. "She wanted to know if anyone was curious."
"Curious?"
"About Christine." Angus twisted his mouth into a frown. "I told her no one had been by to see me in ages." He pulled himself up straight in his chair. "Technically, I did not lie. But if she should happen to call again tonight, I'd have to say two Yanks had dropped in to visit."
"Will she call again?"
"That's not her usual style," Angus said. "Once every six weeks is her usual style. Unless you're the hunk of the month."
Sylvia blinked, skipping a beat. "She has regular lovers?"
Angus snorted. "Regular, irregular, obtuse, seduced; loose as a goose is our Christine. She meets a slew of them on the Internet, all very anonymous. I think her amours help her remember who she is." His voice was soft. "She needs them to remind herself she's mortal."
His eyes were on Sweetheart's back, but now he transferred his gaze to Sylvia. "'How all the other passions fleet to air, as doubtful thoughts, and rash-embrac'd despair and shuddering fear, and greeney'd jealousy.'"
"Lear?" Sylvia guessed.
"Tsk, tsk." Angus wagged a finger.
"When you and Christine were lovers," Sweetheart asked quietly, "what project was she working on?"
"Chrissy and I have been doing the nasty for the past thirty years, here and there, off and on. But if you mean the finite period when we pretended we were serious, that spanned less than two years." He stared pointedly at Sweetheart, then made a moue with his mouth. "She was commuting to the Netherlands. Consulting all over the planet: Africa, the Americas, Asia, Japan. If I remember correctly, Japan was special to Chrissy."
This time Sylvia couldn't miss the emphasis, the breath, the beat.
But before she could comment, Angus had taken the floor again. "Back then she was doing what she always did," he said with dramatic flourishes, each gesture designed to draw attention to the man, the performer. He'd been an actor for so long, he probably wasn't even aware of his artifice. "She was researching some horrible, ugly creature and its nasty juices."
"Neurotoxins?" Sylvia had one eye on Angus, the other on Sweetheart.
"Right."
"Was the work funded for the private sector, or was it government?"
"Both. Private, but the government had its finger in the pie." He frowned again. "Christine was disturbed by what the lab was doing with the fruit of her labors."
"Disturbed in what way?"
"Enraged, hysterical, guilt-ridden." He didn't speak for seconds. Without the props of theatrical energy, his face belonged to another man, older, world-weary. "Y
ou see, they were always lying to her, and the work was—well, 'defensive,' 'offensive,' one man's defense is another man's offense, as they say. It's all so confusing, isn't it?"
"What did she do?"
"You'll have to ask her that question."
"Did she ever spend time at a retreat or a hospital?" Sweetheart asked.
"Ah, the loony bin. No knickers left untwisted?" Angus smiled sadly. "It really wasn't much of a secret. After her father's death, and then Avery's so soon after, she needed time . . . " He stared morosely at his hands. "Christine went into retreat, and she came home better."
He seemed to withdraw then, his eyes wistful, his expression distant. "I still love that woman. I'll always love her. She's a marvelous actress, you know. Puts me to shame, she does. Dame Christine Palmer."
"What about trust?" Sylvia kept her eyes from Sweetheart. "Do you trust her?"
"I would trust her with my life."
Sweetheart suddenly stirred. "What sort of shape was Avery in at the end?"
"He wanted to die."
"Did he ask for Christine's help?"
"I don't see why not. After all, he begged me to put a pillow over his face, and I'm hopeless in that sort of situation."
"What about Christine? Do you believe she's capable of murder?"
"'But, soft! methinks I scent the morning air. Brief let me be. Sleeping within mine orchard, my custom always of the afternoon, upon my secure hour thy uncle stole, with juice of cursed hebona in a vial, and in the porches of mine ears did pour the leperous distilment . . .'"Sir Angus Blackmoore's voice faded as he placed his hand over his heart. "I'd never think of loving a woman who wasn't capable of murder."
"You mentioned Christine's other lovers," Sylvia began.
But Sir Angus cupped a hand to one ear and said, "Hark, I hear a curtain call!" Hastily, he settled the blond wig on his head and reached for the top to his costume.
Sylvia heard the door click as Sweetheart turned the knob, felt the swish of air as he pulled it slightly open. She reached out, touching the actor's arm. "It's clear you care about Christine—why are you willing to talk to us?"
"The sickness isn't my Chrissy. It's governments that cover up projects, that use their most brilliant minds, even knowing those minds are breakable. The sickness is bureaucracy, where no one person takes responsibility—where no one person is guilty of anything—because it is the government or the corporation that decides." He turned toward the mirror. "Do you know you have a lovely and very transparent face?"
He held up both hands, cupping air, framing Sylvia's reflection. "'Your face, my thane, is as a book where men may read strange matters.' A little Macbeth for Dr. Strange."
They were late, the last passengers to make their way through intense security checks and board flight 6312, departing Gatwick at 4:15 P.M. Wednesday, arriving Albuquerque via Atlanta at 11:14 P.M. Wednesday.
Fourteen hours and twenty-six minutes of flight time.
When the plane had leveled out at cruising altitude, Sylvia carefully placed her hands in her lap as she turned toward Sweetheart. His eyes were cold and gray, marked by a constant change of color, like the ocean between storms.
"You have an interesting habit, Sweetheart." Her voice was soft, implying casual intimacy. "You don't turn away when you're lying. The more you withhold the truth, the more confrontational you become. You're actually the opposite of Palmer. I find that intriguing." She pulled a magazine from the seat-back fabric slot and began to thumb aimlessly through pages. She bit her lip, spent several moments collecting herself, then began to speak again, very quietly. "I keep being amazed by the fact you treat me as if I'm blind. Is it possible you didn't think I'd figure it out?"
"I don't know what you're talking about." But he couldn't quite mask the unease that narrowed his eyes.
The magazine slipped from her lap to the floor. She ignored it and said, "You fed me that bullshit: 'We're only here to profile Christine—forget anything and everything else—we focus on her, on the murders, on the profile.' Oops, only one problem—that's not what you're doing. You're after something else. This case doesn't stop with Dr. Palmer. She's part of something much bigger—and even more dangerous."
"Keep your voice down." Several passengers glanced over, then away, refusing to stare openly.
"Luke made one mistake when he called this morning," Sylvia said in a whisper. "He was polite—he feigned interest when I mentioned some questions about Palmer's profile. He had information for you, but that information had nothing to do with Christine Palmer. What the hell are you working on, Sweetheart?"
Sylvia pulled her laptop from beneath the seat. She booted up, worrying the corner of a fingernail while the program rolled across the screen. She waited for the blinking cursor, and when she had it, she typed:
you're tracking a spy-someone dealing in illegal bioweapons-sam g/ p lang / dr cray / palmer??-you're like the scientist in iraq who stops publishing in journals when his work becomes classified and everyone knows but nobody says-always look for the one who's nottalking-you got too quiet-tell luke he screwed up
Neither of them spoke for the next hour. The plane was dim, and most passengers were sleeping off their dinner, an airplane meal of pork tenderloin or chicken fettuccine, or they were watching the flickering movie screens mounted from the ceiling every fifth row.
She e-mailed Matt, telling him she couldn't wait to see him, trying to communicate how much she'd truly missed him. Then she closed her eyes and tried transporting herself to the tiny and heavenly beach in Costa Rica where they'd vacationed together a month earlier . . .
She drifted in and out of memory, almost falling into sleep, alternately drowsing or tracking the black velvet world outside the jet, her own face reflected faintly in the thick, scratched pane.
Finally, Sweetheart touched her arm, and she turned to look at him. Her eyes weren't filled with anger, as he'd expected, but with sadness.
"I'm sorry," he said softly. "I've lived this way for such a long time—my life divided, separated, information compartmentalized—it may not be right, but I accept it's the way things are. I forget that it can hurt the people around me."
He faltered, then took another breath. "My work, the secrecy, the intelligence, it bleeds over into my other life." He looked down at his hands. "I grew up with secrets. They filled all the spaces when I was a child. The truth is, I don't know how to live any other way."
Sylvia reached out to take hold of his hand. When he studied her face, all he could see was that same overwhelming sadness.
She leaned her head against his shoulder, almost like a child, and then she whispered, "That's a dangerous way to live. I'm afraid for you. I'm afraid for me."
It wasn't until they were debarking at Houston that she saw the shock of red hair belonging to Dr. Harris Cray. It took her several seconds to put name to face—BioPort and Porton Down seemed like another lifetime.
The molecular toxicologist had been seated on the aisle about fifteen rows back. He nodded when he saw that he'd been recognized.
Outside the jetway, as they were leaving the gate, he walked up to them.
"I'm taking over for Dr. Thomas," he said. "I'll be working with Christine, with Dr. Palmer, on the project at LANL." He shrugged. "I was the obvious choice. But it's always interesting how things turn out, isn't it?"
The flight from Houston to Albuquerque was smooth, uneventful, but Sylvia slept fitfully, and her dreams had her tossing and turning through cloudless skies.
As the plane entered the airspace over New Mexico, she was dreaming about a poisoner who wore a long beaded dress and a mask of la Tragédie. The poisoner held out an offering, a goblet of wine. Sylvia tried to push the goblet away, but the poisoner was strong and the wine spilled. A drop touched Sylvia's cheek. It burned, sizzling a hole in her skin. She cried out.
When the poisoner stepped back, laughing, the mask fell away, and Sylvia saw she had been fooled by a man—but as she watched, the face changed from Pa
ul Lang to Harris Cray.
CHAPTER
15
Sylvia crept into Serena's bedroom just after 1 A.M. on Thursday, (9 A.M. London time). Her foster daughter stirred, stretching under the covers, rubbing her eyes.
"Hi."
"Hey, sleepyhead." Sylvia snuggled next to Serena. "I missed you."
"You, too. I'm a little bit mad at you."
"Because I went to London?"
"Because I was scared something bad would happen."
"I'm back safe and sound. I'm sorry I frightened you, baby. I didn't mean to."
"Sometimes your work is scary."
"What frightens you about it?"
"You go after people who are evil." Serena frowned. "Like that man who killed his family."
"Adam Riker?" The story had made national headlines, but Serena, like most kids her age, didn't make a habit of watching CNN. Sylvia was surprised; her foster daughter had never mentioned the case before. "What do you know about Riker?" she asked.
"He killed lots and lots of people and you worked with the police to catch him."
"And the police did catch him. Now he can't hurt anybody else."
"He's dead," Serena said softly. "But so is his family." She sighed. "He killed his own kids . . . and he killed his wife, too, didn't he?"
"Yes." Sylvia closed her eyes, trying not to remember too much.
"What if he'd tried to kill you, too?" Serena's voice was so soft Sylvia had to strain to hear the words.
"Oh, honey, he never had the chance to get close to me." Sylvia squeezed Serena, lightly kissing her forehead. "You should remember something important—I know how to do my job. I don't put myself in danger. I'm very careful."
"Promise?" Serena asked. Her eyelids were drooping over her luminous eyes, and her breathing had deepened to guide her into sleep.
"I promise."
Fifteen minutes later, when Matt looked in on them, they were both asleep. He adjusted the covers, trying not to disturb them, but Sylvia's eyes opened, and she smiled tentatively, yawning.
"Are you mad at me, too?" she whispered.
"I got over it," he said, brushing his fingers against her cheek. His hair was mussed, his eyes were sleepy, his flannel pajamas were creased. "Then I just missed you."